more of my early history, about which there seems to me to be some mystery.”
“Is there?” said the stranger, in a careless tone. “Whether anything will be explained to you or not, I cannot say. At all events, you must meet me there; and, in the meantime tell me, have you seen Sir John Fenwick since last we met?”
“No, I have not,” replied Wilton. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” replied the other, “Sir John Fenwick is a dangerous companion, and it were better that you did not consort with him.”
“That I certainly shall not do,” replied Wilton, “knowing his character sufficiently already.”
“Indeed!” replied the other. “You have grown learned in people’s characters of late, Master Brown: perhaps you know mine also; and if you do, of course you will give me the meeting to-morrow at the Green Dragon.”
He spoke with a smile; and Wilton replied, “I am by no means sure that I shall do so, unless I have a better cause assigned, and a clearer knowledge of what I am going there for.”
“Prudent! Prudent!” said the stranger. “Quite right to be prudent, Master Wilton. Nevertheless, you must come, for the matter is now one of some moment. Therefore, without asking you to answer at present, I shall expect you. At six of the clock, remember–precisely.”
“I by no means promise to come,” replied Wilton, “though I do not say that I will not. But you said that you wished to tell me something which might be useful to others. Pray what may that be?”
“Why,” answered the stranger, “I wish you to give a little warning to your acquaintance, the Duke of Gaveston, regarding this very Sir John Fenwick and his character.”
“Nay,” said Wilton, “nay–that I can hardly do. My acquaintance with the Duke himself is extremely small. The Duke is a man of the world sufficiently old to judge for himself, and with sufficient experience to know the character of Sir John Fenwick without my explaining it to him.”
“The Duke,” replied the other, “is a grown baby, with right wishes and good intentions, as well as kind feelings; but a coral and bells would lure him almost anywhere, and he has got into the hands of one who will not fail to lead him into mischief. I thought you knew him well; but nevertheless, well or ill, you must give him the warning.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Wilton, drawing himself up coldly: “but in one or two points you have been mistaken. My knowledge of the Duke is confined to one interview. I shall most probably never exchange another word with him in my life; and even if I were to do so, I should not think of assailing, to a mere common acquaintance, the character of a gentleman whom I may not like or trust myself, but who seems to be the intimate friend of the very person in whose good opinion you wish me to ruin him.”
“Pshaw!” replied the stranger–“you will see the Duke again this very night, or I am much mistaken. As to Sir John Fenwick, I am a great deal more intimately his friend than the Duke is, and I may wish to keep him from rash acts, which he has neither courage nor skill to carry through, and will not dare to undertake, if he be not supported by others. I am, in fact, doing Sir John himself a friendly act, for I know his purposes, which are both rash and wrong; and if I cannot. stop them by fair means, I must stop them by others.”
“In that,” replied Wilton, “you must act as you think fit. I know nothing of Sir John Fenwick from my own personal observation; and therefore will not be made a tool of, to injure his reputation with others.”
“Well, well,” replied his companion–“in those circumstances you are right; and, as they say in that beggarly assemblage of pettifogging rogues and traitors called the House of Commons, I must shape my motion in another way. The manner in which I will beg you to deal with the Duke, is this. Find an opportunity, before this night be over, of entreating him earnestly not to go to-morrow to the meeting at the Old King’s Head, in Leadenhall-street. This is clear and specific, and at the same time you assail the character of no one.”
Wilton thought for a moment or two, and then replied, “I cannot even promise you absolutely to do this; but, if I can, I will. If I see the Duke, and have the means of giving him the message, I will tell him that I received it from a stranger, who seemed anxious for his welfare.”
“That will do,” answered the other–“that will do. But you must tell him without Sir John Fenwick’s hearing you. As to your seeing him again, you will, I suppose, take care of that; for surely the bow, and the smile, and the blush, that came across the house to you, were too marked an invitation to the box, for such a gallant and a courteous youth not to take advantage of at once.”
Wilton felt himself inclined to be a little angry at the familiarity with which his companion treated him, and which was certainly more than their acquaintance warranted. Curiosity, however, is powerful to repress all feelings, that contend with it; and if ever curiosity was fully justifiable, it surely was that of Wilton to know his own early history. Thus, although he might have felt inclined to quarrel with any other person who treated him so lightly, on the present occasion he smothered his anger, and merely replied that the stranger was mistaken in supposing that there was any such acquaintance between him and Lady Laura as to justify him in visiting her box.
Even while he was in the act of speaking, however, Lord Sherbrooke entered the lobby in haste, and advanced immediately towards him, saying, “Why, Wilton, I have been seeking you all over the house. Where, in Fortune’s name, have you been? The Duke and Lady Laura have both been inquiring after you most tenderly, and wondering that you have not been to see them in their box.”
The stranger, whom we shall in future call Green, turned away with a smile, saying merely, “Good evening, Mr. Brown; I won’t detain you longer.”
“Why, who the devil have you got there, Wilton?” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke: “I think I have seen his face before.”
“His name is Green,” replied Wilton, not choosing to enter into particulars; “but I am ready now to go with you at once, and make my apologies for not accompanying you before.”
“Come then, come,” replied Lord Sherbrooke; and, leading the way towards the Duke’s box, he added, laughingly, “If there had been any doubt before, my good Wilton, as to my future fate, this night has been enough to settle it.”
“In what way?” said Wilton; but ere the young nobleman could answer, otherwise than by a smile, they had reached the box, and the door was thrown open.
Wilton’s heart beat, it must be confessed; but he had sufficient command over himself to guard against the slightest emotion being perceptible upon his countenance; and he bowed to the Duke and to Lady Laura, with that ceremonious politeness which he judged that his situation required. Lady Laura at once, however, held out her hand to him, and expressed briefly, how glad she was of another opportunity to thank him for the great service which he had rendered her some time before. The Duke also spoke of it kindly and politely; and the other persons in the box, who were several in number, began to inquire into the circumstances thus publicly mentioned, so that the conversation took a more general turn, till the curtain again arose.
A certain degree of restraint, which had at first affected both Wilton and the lady, soon wore off, and the evening went by most pleasantly. It was not strange–it was not surely at all strange–that a young heart should forget itself in such circumstances. Wilton gave himself up, not indeed to visions of joy, but to actual enjoyment. Perhaps Lady Laura did the same. At all events, she looked far happier than she had done before; and when at length the curtain fell, and the time for parting came, they both woke as from a dream, and the waking was certainly followed by a sigh on either part. It was then that Wilton first recollected the warning that he had promised to give, and he was considering how he should find the means of speaking with the Duke alone, when that nobleman paused for a moment, as the rest of the party went out of the box, and drawing Wilton aside, said in a hasty but kindly wanner, “Lord Sherbrooke informs me that you are his most intimate friend, Mr. Brown; and as it is very likely that we shall see him frequently, I hope you will sometimes do us the favour of accompanying him.”
Wilton replied by one of those unmeaning speeches which commit a man to nothing; for though his own heart told him that he would really be but too happy, as he said to take advantage of the invitation, yet it told him, at the same time, that to do so would be dangerous to his peace. The Duke was then about to follow his party; but Wilton now in turn detained him, saying, “I have a message to deliver to you, my lord duke, from a stranger who stopped me as I was coming to your box.”
“Ha!” said the Duke, with a somewhat important air, “this is strange; but still I have so many communications of different kinds–what may it be, Mr. Brown?”
“It was, my lord,” replied Wilton, in a low voice, “a warning which I think it best to deliver, as, not knowing the gentleman’s name who gave it to me, I cannot tell whether it may be a mere piece of impertinence from somebody who is perhaps a stranger to your grace, or an intimation from a sincere friend–“
“But the warning, the warning!” said the Duke, “pray, what was this warning?”
“It was,” replied Wilton, “a warning not to go to a meeting which you proposed to attend in the course of tomorrow.”
“Ha!” said the Duke, with a look of some surprise–“did he say what meeting?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Wilton–“he said it was a meeting at the old King’s Head in Leadenhall Street, and he added that it would be dangerous for you to do so.”
“I will never shrink from personal danger, Mr. Brown,” said the Duke, holding up his head, and putting on a courageous look. But the moment after, something seemed to strike him, and he added with a certain degree of hesitation, “But let me ask you, Mr. Brown, does my lord of Byerdale know this?–You have not told Lord Sherbrooke?”
“Neither the one nor the other, my lord,” replied Wilton–“I have mentioned the fact to nobody but yourself.”
“Pray, then, do not,” replied the Duke; “you will oblige me very much, Mr. Brown, by keeping this business secret. I must certainly attend the meeting at four to-morrow, because I have pledged my word to it; but I shall enter into nothing that is dangerous or criminal, depend upon it–“
The nobleman was going on; and it is impossible to say how much he might have told in regard to the meeting in question, if Wilton had not stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said; “but allow me to remind you that I have no knowledge whatsoever of the views and intentions with which this meeting is to be held. I shall certainly not mention the message I have brought your grace to any one, and having delivered it, must leave the rest to yourself, whose judgment in such matters must be far superior to mine.”
The Duke looked gratified, but moved on without reply, as the rest of his party were waiting at a little distance. Wilton followed; and seeing the Duke and Lady Laura with Sir John and Lady Mary Fenwick into their carriages, he proceeded homeward with Lord Sherbrooke, neither of them interchanging a word till they had well nigh reached Wilton’s lodgings. There, however, Lord Sherbrooke burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming–
“Lack-a-day, Wilton, lack-a-day! Here are you and I as silent and as meditative as two owls in a belfry: you looking as wise as if you were a minister of state, and I as sorrowful as an unhappy lover, when, to say the truth, I am thinking of some deep stroke of policy, and you are meditating upon a fair maid’s bright eyes. Get you gone, Wilton; get you gone, for a sentimental, lack-a-daisical shepherd! Now could we but get poor old King James to come back, the way to a dukedom would be open before you in a fortnight.”
“How so?” demanded Wilton, “how so? You do not suppose, Sherbrooke, that I would ever join in overturning the religion, and the laws, and the liberties of my country–how so, then?”
“As thus,” replied Lord Sherbrooke–“I will answer you as if I had been born the grave-digger in Hamlet. King James comes over–well, marry go to, now–a certain duke that you wot of, who is a rank Jacobite, by the by, instantly joins the invader; then comes King William, drives me his fellow-king and father-in-law out of the kingdom in five days, takes me the duke prisoner, and chops me his head off in no time. This headless father leaves a sorrowful daughter, who at the time of his death is deeply and desperately in love, without daring to say it, her father’s head being the only obstacle in the way of the daughter’s heart. Then comes the lover to console the lady, and finding her without protection, offers to undertake that very needful duty. Now see you, Wilton? Now see you?–But there’s the door of your dwelling. Get you in, man, get you in, and try if in your dreams you can get some means of bringing it about. By my faith, Wilton, you are in a perilous situation; but there’s one thing for your comfort,–if I can get out of all the scrapes that at this moment surround me on every side, like the lines of a besieging enemy, you can surely make your escape out of your difficulties, when you have love, and youth, and hope, to befriend you.”
“Hope?” said Wilton, in bitter sadness; but at the moment he spoke, the door of the house was opened, and, bidding Lord Sherbrooke “Good night,” he went in.
CHAPTER XIV.
During the greater part of the next day Wilton did not set eyes upon Lord Sherbrooke. The Earl of Byerdale, however, was peculiarly courteous and polite to his young secretary. There was much business, Earl was obliged to be very rapid in all his movements; but the terms in which he gave his directions were gentle and placable, and some letters received in the course of the day from Ireland seemed to please him well. He hinted even in a mysterious tone to Wilton that he had something of importance to say to him, but that he had not time to say it at the moment, and he ended by asking his secretary to dine at his house on the following day, when he said the Duke of Gaveston and Lady Laura were to be present, with a large party.
He went out about three o’clock: and Wilton had not long returned to his lodgings when Lord Sherbrooke joined him, and insisted on his accompanying him on horseback for a ride into the country.
Wilton was at that moment hesitating as to whether he should or should not go to the rendezvous given him by his strange acquaintance, Green. He had certainly left the theatre on the preceding night determined so to do; for the various feelings which at this time agitated his heart had changed the anxiety which he had always felt to know the circumstances of his birth and family into a burning thirst, which would have led him almost anywhere for satisfaction.
A night’s thought, however–for we cannot say that he slept–had again revived all the doubts which had before prevented him from seeking the stranger, and had once more displayed before his eyes all the many reasons which in those days existed for holding no communication with persons whose characters were not known; or were in the least degree suspicious. Thus before Lord Sherbrooke joined him, he had fully convinced himself that the thing which he had so great an inclination to do was foolish, imprudent, and wrong. He had seen the man in a situation which left scarcely a doubt of his pursuits; he had seen him in close communication with a gentleman principally known as a virulent and unscrupulous enemy of the reigning dynasty; and he had not one cause for thinking well of him, except a certain off-hand frankness of manner which might easily be assumed.
All this he had repeated to himself twenty times, but yet he felt a strong inclination to go, when Lord Sherbrooke’s sudden appearance, and invitation to ride out with him, cast an additional weight into the opposite scale, and determined his conduct at once. It is wonderful, indeed, how often those important acts, in regard to which we have hesitated and weighed every point with anxious deliberation, are ultimately determined by the most minute and trifling circumstance, totally unconnected with the thing itself. The truth is, under such circumstances we are like a man weighing fine gold dust, who does it to such a nicety that a hair falling into the scale turns it one way or the other.
In the present instance, our friend Wilton was not unwilling that something should come in aid of his better judgment; and ordering his horse t was soon beyond the precincts of London, and riding through the beautiful fields which at that time extended over ground where courtiers and ministers have now established their town dwellings.
From the whole demeanour of his companion, from the wild and excited spirits which he displayed, from the bursts of merriment to which he gave way, apparently without a sufficient cause, Wilton evidently saw that there was either some wild scheme working in Lord Sherbrooke’s brain, or the knowledge of some happy event gladdening his heart. What it was, however, he could not divine, and the young nobleman was evidently determined on no account to explain. He laughed and jested with Wilton in regard to the gravity which he could not conquer, declared that he was the dullest companion that ever had been seen, and vowed that there could be no more stupid and tiresome companion for a long ride than a man in love, unless, indeed, it were a lame horse.
“Indeed, my dear Sherbrooke,” replied Wilton, “you should prove, in the first place, that I am in love, which I can assure you is not the case, before you attempt to attribute my being grave to that reason. My very situation in life, and a thousand things connected therewith, are surely enough to make me sad at times.”
“Why, what is there sad in your situation, my dear Wilton?” demanded Lord Sherbrooke, in the same tone of raillery: “here are you a wealthy young man–ay, wealthy, Wilton. Have you not yourself told me that your income exceeds your expenses; while I, on the other hand, have no income at all, and expenses in abundance? Well, I say you are here a wealthy young man, with the best prospects in the world, destined some day to be prime minister for aught I know.”
“And who, at this present moment,” interrupted Wilton, “has not a relation upon earth that he knows of; who has never enjoyed a father’s care or a mother’s tenderness; who can only guess that his birth was disgraceful to her whom man’s heart is naturally bound to reverence, without knowing who or what was his father, or who even was the mother by whose shame he was brought into being.”
Lord Sherbrooke was immediately grave, for he saw that Wilton was hurt; and he replied frankly and kindly, “I beg your pardon, my dear Wilton–I did not intend to pain you, and had not the slightest idea of how you were circumstanced. To tell the truth, I took it for granted that you were the son of good Lord Sunbury; and thought that you were, of course, well aware of all the particulars.”
“Of none, Sherbrooke, of none,” replied Wilton. “Suspicions may have crossed my mind that it is as you supposed, but then many other things tend to make me believe that such is not the case. At all events, one thing is clear–I have no family, no kindred; or if I have relations, they are ashamed of the tie that binds me to them, and voluntarily disown it.”
“Pshaw! Wilton,” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke–“family! What matters a family? Make yourself one, Wilton. The best of us can but trace his lineage back to some black-bearded Northman, or yellow-haired Saxon, no better than a savage of some cannibal island of the South Sea–a fellow who tore his roast meat with unwashed fingers, and never knew the luxury of a clean shirt. Make a family for yourself, I say; and let the hundredth generation down, if the world last so long, boast that the head of the house was a gentleman, and wore gold lace on his coat.”
Wilton smiled, saying, “I fear the prospect of progeny, Sherbrooke, will never be held as an equivalent for the retrospect of ancestors.”
“An axiom worthy of Aristotle!” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke; “but here we are, my dear Wilton,” he continued, pulling up his horse at the gates of a house enclosed within walls, situated about a quarter of a mile beyond Chelsea, and somewhat more from the house and grounds belonging at that time to the celebrated Earl of Peterborough.
“But what do you intend to do here?” exclaimed Wilton, at this pause.
“Oh! nothing but make a call,” replied his companion.
“Shall I ride on, or wait till you come back?” demanded Wilton.
“Oh, no!–come in, come in,” said Lord Sherbrooke–“I shall not be long, and I’ll introduce you, if you are not acquainted.”
While he was speaking he had rung the bell, and his own two servants with Wilton’s rode up to take the horses. Almost at the same moment a porter threw open the gates, and to his companion’s surprise, Lord Sherbrooke asked for the Duke of Gaveston. The servant answered that the Duke was out, but that his young lady was at home; and thus the hero of our tale found himself suddenly, and even most unwillingly, brought to the dwelling of one whose society he certainly liked better than that of any one else on earth.
Lord Sherbrooke looked in his face with a glance of malicious pleasure; and then, as nothing on earth ever stopped him in anything that he chose to do or say, he burst forth into a gay peal of laughter at the surprise which he saw depicted on the countenance of his friend.
“Take the horses,” he continued, turning to his own servants–“take the horses round to the Green Dragon, in the lane behind the house, wet their noses, and give them a book to read till we come to them. Come, Wilton, come! It is quite fitting,” he said, in a lower tone, “that in execution of my plan I should establish a character for insanity in the house. Now that fat porter with the mulberry nose will go and report to the kitchen-maid that I order my horses a book to read, and they will decide that I am mad in a minute. The news will fly from kitchen-maid to cook, and from cook to housekeeper, and from housekeeper to lady’s maid, and from lady’s maid to lady. There will be nothing else talked of in the house but my madness; and when they come to add madness to badness they will surely give me up, if they haven’t a mind to add sadness to madness likewise.”
While he spoke, they were following a sort of groom of the chambers, who, after looking into one of the rooms on the ground-floor, turned to Lord Sherbrooke, saying, in a sweet tone,
“Lady Laura is walking in the gardens I see, my lord. I will show your lordship the way.”
“So you have the honour of knowing who my lordship is, Mr. Montgomery Styles?” said Lord Sherbrooke, looking him full in the face.
“I beg your lordship’s pardon,” said the man, in the same mincing manner–“my name is not Montgomery Styles–my name is Josiah Perkins.”
“Well, Jos. Perkins,” said the young nobleman, “I PRAE SEQUOR, which means, get on as fast as you can, Mr. Perkins, and I’ll come after; though you may tell me as you go, how it was you discovered my lordliness.”
“Oh! by your look, my lord: I should have discovered it at once,” replied the groom of the chambers; “but his grace told me that your lordship was likely to call.”
“Oh, ho!” cried Lord Sherbrooke, with a laughing look to Wilton. But the next moment the servant threw open a glass door, and they issued forth into the gardens, which were very beautiful, and extended down to the river, filled with fine old trees, and spread out in soft green terraces and gravel walks. Lord Sherbrooke gazed round at first, with a look of criticising inquiry, upon the gardens; but the eyes of Wilton had fixed immediately upon the figure of a lady who was walking slowly along on the terrace, some way beneath them, at the very edge of the river. She did not remark the opening of the glass door in the centre of the house, which was at the distance of about two hundred yards from the spot where she was at the time; but continued her walk with her eyes bent upon the ground, and one hand playing negligently with the bracelet which encircled the wrist of the other arm. Her thoughts were evidently deeply busied with matters of importance, at least to herself. She was walking slowly, as we have said–a thing that none but a high-bred woman can do with grace–and though the great beauty of her figure was, in some degree, hidden by the costume of the day, yet nothing could render its easy, gliding motion aught but exquisitely graceful, and (if I may use a far-fetched term, but, perhaps, the only one that will express my meaning clearly,) musical to the eye. It must not be understood that, though she was walking slowly, the grace with which she did so had anything of the cold and stately air which those who assume it call dignity. Oh no! it was all easy: quiet, but full of youth, and health, and life it was the mere movement of a form, perfect in the symmetry of every limb, under the will of a spirit harmonizing entirely with the fair frame that contained it. She walked slowly because she was full of deep thought; but no one who beheld her could doubt that bounding joy might in its turn call forth as much grace in that young form as the calmer mood now displayed.
Wilton turned his eyes from the lady to his young companion, and he saw that he was now gazing at her too, and that not a little admiration was painted in his countenance. Wilton was painfully situated, and felt all the awkwardness of the position in which Lord Sherbrooke had placed him fully. Yet how could he act? he asked himself–what means of escape did there exist? What was the motive, too? what the intentions of Lord Sherbrooke? for what purposes had he brought him there? in what situation might he place him next?
All these, and many another question, he asked his own heart as they advanced across the green slopes and little terraces towards that in which the young lady “walked in beauty.” There was no means for him to escape, however; and though he never knew from one moment to another what would be the conduct of Lord Sherbrooke, he was obliged to go on, and take his chance of what that conduct might be.
When they were about fifty yards from Lady Laura, she turned at the end of the walk, and then, for the first time, saw them as they approached; but if the expression of her countenance might be believed, she saw them with no great pleasure. An expression of anxiety, nay, of pain, came into her beautiful eyes; and as they were turned both upon Lord Sherbrooke and Wilton, the latter came in for his share also of that vexed look.
“You see, Wilton,” said Lord Sherbrooke in a low voice, “how angry she is to behold you here. It was for that I brought you. I want to tease her in all possible ways,” and without waiting for any reply, he hurried his pace, and advanced towards the lady.
She received him with marked coldness and distance of manner; but now the difference in her demeanour towards him and towards Wilton was strongly marked–not that the smile with which she greeted the latter when he came up was anything but very faint, yet her lip did relax into a smile.
The colour, too, came up a little into her cheek; and her manner was a little agitated. In short–though without openly expressing any very great pleasure at seeing him–it was evident that she was not displeased; and the secret of the slight degree of embarrassment which she displayed was, that for the first moment or so after she saw him, she thought of her mistake of the night before, and of her feelings while she had imagined that the Duke had pointed him out to her as one who, if she thought fit, might be her future husband.
The lady soon conquered the momentary agitation, however; and the conversation went on, principally maintained, of course, between herself and Lord Sherbrooke. Wilton would have given worlds indeed to have escaped, but there was no possibility of so doing, Lady Laura signified no intention of returning to the house; and they continued walking up and down the broad gravelled terrace, which of all things on earth affords the least opportunity for lingering behind, or escaping the embarrassment of being the one too many.
Wilton had too much good taste to suffer his annoyance to appear; and though he strove to avoid taking any greater part in the conversation than he could help, still when he joined in, what he did say was said with ease and grace. Lord Sherbrooke forced him, indeed, to speak more than he was inclined, and, to Lady Laura, there seemed a strange contrast between the thoughts and language of the two. The young nobleman’s conversation was light, witty, poignant, and irregular. It was like the flowing of a shallow stream amongst bright pebbles which it causes to sparkle, and from which it receives in return a thousand various shades and tints, but without depth or vigour; while that of Wilton was stronger, more profound, more vigorous both in thought and expression, and was like a deeper river flowing on without so much sunshine and light, but clear, deep, and powerful, and not unmusical either, between its banks.
It was towards the latter that Lady Laura turned and listened, though she could not but smile at many of the gay sallies of him who walked on the other side: but it seemed as if the conversation of Lord Sherbrooke rested in the ear, while that of Wilton sunk into the heart.
It would not be very interesting, even if we had times to detail all that took place upon that occasion; but it must be confessed that, though once or twice Lord Sherbrooke felt inclined to put forth all his powers of pleasing, out of pique at the marked preference which Lady Laura showed for Wilton, he in no degree concealed the worst points of his character. He said nothing, indeed, which could offend in mere expression: but every now and then he suffered some few words to escape him, which clearly announced that the ties of morality and religion were in no degree recognised by him amongst the principles by which he intended to guide his actions. He even forced the conversation into channels which afforded an opportunity of expressing opinions of worse than a dangerous character. Constancy, he said, was all very well for a turtledove, or an old man of seventy with a young wife; and as for religion, there were certain people paid for having it, and he should not trouble himself to have any unless he were paid likewise. This was not, indeed, all said at once, nor in such distinct terms as we have here used, but still the meaning was the same; and whether expressed in a jesting or more serious manner, that meaning could not be misunderstood.
Wilton looked grave and sad when he heard such things said to a pure and high-minded girl; and Lady Laura herself turned a little pale, and cast her eyes down upon the ground without reply.
At length, after this had gone on for some time, Lord Sherbrooke inquired for Lady Mary Fenwick, saying that he had hoped to see her there, and to inquire after her health.
“Oh, she is here still,” replied Lady Laura; “but she complained of headache this morning, and is sitting in the little library. I do not know whether she would be inclined to see any one or not.”
“Oh, she will see me, beyond all doubt,” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke–“no lady ever refuses to see me. Besides, her great-grandmother, on old Lady Carlisle’s side, was my great- grandfather’s forty-fifth cousin; so that we are relations. I will go and find her out. Stay you, Wilton, and console Lady Laura, till I come back again. I shall not be five minutes.”
Thus saying, away he darted, leaving Lady Laura and Wilton alone in the middle of the walk. The lady seemed to hesitate for a moment what she should do, whether she should follow to the house or not, and she paused for an instant in the walk; but inclination, if the truth must be said, got the better of what she might consider strictly decorous, and after that momentary pause, she walked on with Wilton by her side. In saying that it was inclination determined her conduct, I did not mean to say that it was solely the inclination to walk and converse with Wilton Brown, though that had some share in the business, but there was besides, an inclination to be freed from the presence of Lord Sherbrooke, who had succeeded to a miracle in making her thoroughly disgusted with him.
As they walked on, there was a certain degree of embarrassment hung over both Wilton and Laura; both felt, perhaps, that they could be very happy in each other’s society, but both felt afraid of being too happy. With Wilton, there were a thousand causes to produce that slight embarrassment, and with Lady Laura several also. But one, and a very principal cause was, that there was something which she longed exceedingly to say, and yet doubted whether she ought to say it.
It does not unfrequently happen that a person of the highest rank and station, possessing every quality to secure friendship, with wealth and every gift of fortune at command, surrounded by numerous acquaintances, and mingling with a wide society, is nevertheless totally alone–alone in spirit and in heart–alone in thought and mind. Such was the case with Lady Laura. It is true she had yet but very little experience of the world, and her search for a congenial spirit had not been carried far or prosecuted long; but she was one of those who had learned to think and to feel early. Her mother, who had died three years before, had taught her to do so, not alone for her own sake, but also for that of her father; for the Duchess had early felt the conviction that her own life would be brief, and knew that the mind and character of her daughter must have a great effect upon the Duke, whom she loved much, though she could not venerate very highly.
With a heart, then, full of deep and pure feelings, with a mind not only originally bright and strong, not only highly cultivated and stored with fine tastes, but highly directed and fortified with strong principles, with an enthusiastic love of everything that was beautiful and graceful, generous, noble, and dignified–it is not to be wondered at that, in the wide society of the capital, or amongst all the acquaintances who thronged her father’s house, Lady Laura had seen no spirit congenial to her own, no heart with the same feelings, no mind with the same objects. In every one she had met with, there had still been some apparent weakness, some worldliness, some selfishness; there had been coldness, or apathy, or want of principle, or want of feeling; and the bright enthusiasms of her young nature had been confined to the tabernacle of her own heart.
She had seen Wilton Brown but seldom, it is true, but nevertheless she felt differently towards him and other people. There were several causes which had produced this; and perhaps, as Lady Laura was not absolutely an angel, his personal appearance might have something to do with it, though less than might be supposed. His fine person, his noble carriage, his bright and intelligent countenance, the rapid variety of its expressions, the dignified character of the predominant one to which it always returned, after those more transient had passed away–all gave the idea of there being a high heart and mind beneath. In the next place, Wilton had, as we have told, commenced his acquaintance with her by an act of personal service, performed with gallantry, skill, and decision, at the risk of his own life. In the third place, in all his conversation, as far as she had ever known or remarked, there were those small casual traits of good feelings, fine tastes, and strong principles, expressed sometimes by a single word, sometimes by a look or gesture, which are a thousand-fold more convincing, in regard to the real character of the person, than the most laboured harangue, or essay, or declaration.
Thus it was that Laura hoped, and fancied, and believed, she had now seen one person upon earth whose feelings, thoughts, and character might assimilate with her own. Pray let the reader understand, that I do not mean to say Laura was in love with Wilton; but she did believe that he was one of those for whose eyes she might draw away a part of that customary veil with which all people hide the shrine of their deeper feelings from the sight of the coarse multitude.
There was something, then, as we have seen, that she wished to say–there was something that she believed she might say, without risk or wrong. But yet she hesitated; and she and Wilton went on nearly to the end of the walk in perfect silence. At length she cast a timid glance, first towards the house where Lord Sherbrooke was seen just entering one of the rooms from the upper terrace, and then to the face of Wilton Brown, whose eye chanced at that moment to be upon her with a look of inquiry. The look gave her courage, and she said–
“I am going to say a very odd thing, Mr. Brown, I believe; but your great intimacy with Lord Sherbrooke puzzles me. He told my father last night that you were his dearest and most intimate friend. I always thought that friendship must proceed from a similarity of feelings and pursuits, and I am sure, from what I have heard you say, at least I think I may be sure, that you entertain ideas the most opposite to those with which he has just pained us.”
Wilton smiled somewhat sadly; but he did not dare deny that such opinions were Lord Sherbrooke’s real ones; for his well-known conduct was too much in accordance with them.
“Would to Heaven, dear lady,” he said, “that Sherbrooke would permit me to be as much his friend as I might be! I must not deny that he has many faults–faults, I am sure, of education and habit alone, for his heart is noble, honourable, and high”
“Nay,” cried Lady Laura–“could a noble or an honourable heart entertain such sentiments as he has just expressed?”
“You do not know him, nor understand him yet, Lady Laura,” replied Wilton. “Most men strive to make themselves appear better than they really are: Sherbrooke labours to make himself appear worse–not alone, Lady Laura, in his language–not alone in his account of himself, but even by his very actions. I am confident that he has committed more than one folly, for the sole purpose, if his motives were thoroughly sifted and investigated, of establishing a bad reputation.”
“What a sad vanity!” exclaimed Lady Laura. “On such a man no reliance can be placed. But his plain declaration, a few minutes ago, is quite sufficient to mark his character, I mean his declaration, that he considers no vows taken to a woman at all binding on a man. Is that the principle of an honourable heart, Mr. Brown?”
Wilton was silent for a moment, but Lady Laura evidently looked for a reply; and he answered at length, “No, it is not, Lady Laura; but I fully believe, ere taking any such vows, Sherbrooke would openly acknowledge his view of them, and, having done so, would look upon them as mere empty air.”
Lady Laura laughed, evidently applying her companion’s words to her own situation with Lord Sherbrooke; and Wilton, unwilling that one word from his lips should have a tendency to thwart the purposes of the Earl of Byerdale, in a matter where he had no right to interfere, hastened to add, “Let me assure you, Lady Laura, however, at the same time that I make this acknowledgment with regard to Sherbrooke, that I am fully convinced, if he were to pledge his word of honour to keep those voles, he would die rather than violate that pledge.”
“That is to say,” replied Lady Laura, somewhat bitterly, “that he has erected an idol whose oracles he can interpret as he will, and calls it honour, denying that there is any other God. But let us speak of it no more, Mr. Brown; these things make one sad.”
Wilton was glad to speak of something else; for he felt himself bound by every tie to say all that he could in favour of Lord Sherbrooke; and yet he could not find in his heart to aid, in the slightest degree, in forwarding a scheme which could end in nothing but misery to the sweet and innocent girl beside him. He changed the topic at once, then, and exerted himself to draw her mind away from the matter on which they had just been speaking.
Nevertheless, that subject, while they went on, remained in the mind of each; and Lady Laura might have discovered–if she had been at all apprehensive of her own feelings–that it is a dangerous thing to do as she had done, and raise, for any eye, even a corner of that veil which bides the heart, unless we are inclined to raise it altogether. Her subsequent conversation with Wilton took its tone throughout, entirely from what had gone before. Without knowing it, or rather, we should say, without perceiving it, they suffered it to be mingled with deep feelings; shadowed forth, perhaps, more than actually expressed. A softness, too, came over it–we insist not, though, perhaps, we might, call it a tenderness the ceremonious terms were soon dropped; and because the speakers would have been obliged to use those ceremonious terms, if they had spoken each other’s names, they seemed by mutual consent to forget each other’s names, and never spoke them at all. Lady Laura did not address him as Mr. Brown, and Wilton uttered not the words, “Lady Laura.” From time to time, too, she gazed up in his face, to see if he understood what she meant but could not fully express; and he, while he poured forth any of the deep thoughts long treasured in his own bosom, looked often earnestly into her countenance, to discover by the expression the effect produced on her mind.
Lord Sherbrooke was absent for more than half an hour; and, during that half hour, Wilton and the lady had gone farther on the journey they were taking than ever they had gone yet.–What journey?
Cannot you divine, reader? When Wilton entered those gardens, we might boldly say, as we did say, that he was not in love. When he left them, we should have hesitated. He would have hesitated himself! Was not that going far upon a journey?
However, Lord Sherbrooke at length joined them; and after a moment more of cold and ceremonious leave-taking with Lady Laura, he turned, and, accompanied by Wilton, left the house.
Lady Laura remained upon the terrace, walking more rapidly than before, and with her eyes bent upon the ground. Two minutes brought Wilton to the gates of the court-yard; but oh, in those two minutes, how his heart smote him, and how his brain reeled!
“Shall I run for the horses, my lord?” cried the groom of the chambers–“Shall I go for the horses, my lord?” exclaimed one of the running footmen who was loitering in the hall.
“No,” said Lord Sherbrooke–“we will walk and fetch them,” and taking Wilton’s arm, he sauntered quietly on from the house.
“Sherbrooke, Sherbrooke, this is all very wrong,” said Wilton, the moment they were out of hearing.
“Very wrong, Solon!” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke–“what do you mean? Heavens and earth, what a perverse generation it is! When I expected to be thanked over and over again for the kindest possible act, to be told that it is all very wrong! You ungrateful villain! I declare I have a great mind to turn round and draw my sword upon you, and cut your throat out of pure friendship. Very wrong, say you?”
“Ay, very wrong, Sherbrooke,” replied Wilton. “You have placed me in an unpleasant and dangerous situation, and without giving me notice or a choice, have made me co-operate in doing what I do not think right.”
“Pshaw!” cried Lord Sherbrooke–“Pshaw! At your heart, my dear Wilton, you are very much obliged to me; and if you are not the most ungrateful and the most foolish of all men upon earth, you will take the goods the gods provide you, and make the best use of time and opportunity.”
“All I can say, Sherbrooke,” replied Wilton, “is, that I shall never return to that house again, except for a formal visit to the Duke.”
“Fine resolutions speedily broken!” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke: and he was right.
CHAPTER XV.
Had Wilton Brown wanted an immediate illustration of the fragile nature of man’s purposes, of how completely and thoroughly our firmest resolutions are the sport of fate and accident, it could have been furnished to him within five minutes after he left the gates of the house where he had paid an unintended visit.
Lord Sherbrooke seemed perfectly well acquainted with the house and its neighbourhood, and led the way round through a green lane at the back, which presently, in one of its most sequestered spots, offered to the eyes a somewhat large old-fashioned public-house, standing back in a small paved court: while planted before it, on the edge of the road, was a sign-post, bearing on its top the effigy of a huge green dragon.
Now, whether it be from some unperceived association in the minds of the English people between the chimerical gentleman we have lately mentioned and the patron saint of this island, who, it seems, if all tales were told, was not a bit better than the dragon that he slew; or for what other reason I know not, yet there is no doubt of the fact, that in all ages English vintners have had a particular predilection for green dragons; and that name was so commonly attached to a public-house, in those days, that it had not at all struck Wilton Brown that the Green Dragon to which Lord Sherbrooke ordered the horses to be led, was that very identical Green Dragon where his acquaintance Mr. Green had given him the rendezvous.
He might not, indeed, have heard Lord Sherbrooke’s order at all; but it is still more probable, that he only did not attend to it, as all his thoughts were taken up at the moment by the discovery of what place Lord Sherbrooke had brought him to. It now, however, struck him–when he saw the Green Dragon standing in the Green Lane, precisely as it had been described by Green–that it might very likely be the identical house to which he had been directed; and on asking Lord Sherbrooke what was the name of the mansion they had just visited, the matter was placed beyond doubt by his replying, “Beaufort House. The Duke only hires it for a time.”
Brown hesitated now for an instant, as to how he should act. His watch told him that it was close upon the hour to the appointment: curiosity raised her voice: the natural longing after kindred had also its influence; and if the society of Lord Sherbrooke was any impediment, that was instantly removed by the young nobleman saying, “Come, Wilton, as you are an unsociable devil, and seem out of temper, I shall leave you to ride home by yourself–The truth is,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “I am going upon an expedition, that the character I have given myself to my fair Lady Laura may be fully and completely established on the day that it is given.”.
“Nay, Sherbrooke, nay!” cried Wilton–“I hope and trust such is not the case.”
The other only laughed, and called loudly for his servants and horses.
Well disciplined to his prompt and fiery disposition, his grooms led the horses out in a moment, and the young nobleman sprang into the saddle. Before his right foot was in the stirrup, he had touched the horse with the spur, and away he went like lightning, waving his hand to Wilton with a light laugh.
Wilton’s horses and groom had appeared also, but he paused before the door without mounting; and the next moment, a fat, well-looking host, as round, as well fed, and as rosy, as beef, beer, and good spirits, ever made the old English innkeeper, appeared at the door in his white night-cap and apron, and approaching the young gentleman, invited him in with what seemed a meaning look.
“Perhaps I may come in,” replied Wilton, “and taste your good ale, landlord.”
“Sir, the ale is both honoured and honourable,” replied the host. “I can assure you many a high gentleman tastes it at the Green Dragon.”
Bidding his servant lead the horse up and down before the door, Wilton slowly entered the well-sanded passage, and passed through the doorway of a room to which the landlord pointed. The moment he entered, he heard voices speaking very loud, there being nothing apparently between that and the adjoining chamber but a very thin partition of wood-work. The landlord hemmed and coughed aloud, and Wilton made his footfalls sound as heavily as possible, but all in vain: the person who was speaking went on in the same tone; and before the landlord could get out of the room again and down the passage to the door of the next chamber, which was some way farther on, Wilton distinctly heard the words, “Nonsense, Sir George! don’t attempt to cajole me! I tell you, I will have nothing to do with it. To bring in foreigners is bad enough, when we are quite strong enough to do it without: but I will take no man’s blood but in fair fight.”
“Well!” exclaimed the other, in the same loud and vehement manner–“you know, sir, I could hang you if I liked!”
At that moment the door was evidently opened, and the landlord’s voice, exclaiming, “Hush! hush!” was heard; but he could not stop the reply, which was,–
“I know that! But I could hang you, too; so that we are each pretty safe. This is that villain Charnock’s doing. Tell him I will blow his brains out the first time I meet him, for spoiling, by his bloody-minded villany, one of the most hopeful plans–“
But the landlord’s “Hush! hush!” was again repeated, and the voices were thenceforth moderated, though the discussion seemed still to endure some time.
Wilton’s curiosity was now more excited than ever; and when the landlord brought him a foaming jug of ale, together with a long Venice glass having a wavy pearl-coloured line up the stalk, he asked the simple question, “Is Mr. Green here?”
On this the landlord put down his head, saying, in a low voice, “The Colonel will be with you directly: he expects you, sir.”
“The Colonel!” thought Brown–“this is a new dignity. However, with his state and station I have little to do, if I could but discover my own.”
At the end of about five minutes the conversation in the other room ceased, and in a moment or two more the door was opened, and Green made his appearance. We have so accurately described him before that we should not pause upon his appearance now, had there not been a great change in his dress, which had such an effect as to render it scarcely possible to recognise him.
Now, instead of a military-looking suit of green, he had on a long-waisted broad-cut coat of black, with jet buttons; a light-coloured periwig filled full of powder; black breeches and silk stockings, and a light black-hilted sword. In fact, he bore much more the appearance of a French lawyer of that day than anything else. The features, indeed, were there; but it was wonderful what the highly-powdered wig had done to soften the strong-marked lines of his face, and to blanch the weather-beaten appearance of his complexion.
The suit of black, too, made him look thinner and even taller than he really was; and on his first entrance into the room, Wilton certainly did not know him.
“You have come before your time,” he said, “though perhaps it is as well, for I must go out as soon as it is dusk;” and as he spoke he cast himself into a chair, fixed his eyes upon some scanty embers which were smouldering in the grate, and fell into a deep and apparently painful fit of thought. His broad but heavy brow was knitted with a wrinkled frown; the muscles of his face worked from time to time; and Wilton could see the sinews of his large powerful hand, as it lay upon his knee, standing out like cords, though he uttered not a word.
After pausing for a moment or two, his companion thought it time to recall this strange acquaintance to the subject of his coming, and said, “You told me I might see some of my old friends here, Mr. Green. Let me remind you it grows late.”
“Don’t be impatient, my good boy,” replied the other, abstractedly, at the same time rising and drinking a deep draught of the ale–“you SHALL see some of your old friends! Don’t you see me?”
“Yes,” replied Wilton, “you are an acquaintance, certainly, of some months, but nothing more that I know of.”
“Well, well, do not be impatient, I say,” answered Green “you shall see some one else, if I don’t satisfy you. But you are before your time, as I said.”
He had scarcely spoken, when the door of the little room opened once more, and a woman apparently of no very high class, and considerably advanced in years, so as to be somewhat decrepit, came in. She was dressed in a large grey cloak of common serge, with a stick in her hand, and mittens on her hands, while over her head was a large black wimple or hood, which covered a great part of her face.
The moment Green saw her, he crossed over, and said in a low but not inaudible voice, “Not a word, till all this business is over! They will ruin the cause and themselves, and all that are engaged with them, by committing all sorts of crimes. It will plunge him into the greatest dangers, if you say a word.”
Much of what he said was heard by Brown; and in the meantime Green aided the woman to disembarrass herself of her hood and cloak, taking the staff out of her hand, and at the same time turning the key of the door. The moment that he did so, his female companion drew herself up; the appearance of bowed decrepitude vanished; and she stood before Brown a tall graceful woman, apparently scarcely forty years of age, with a countenance still beautiful, and a demeanour which left no doubt of the society with which at one time she must have mingled.
Of Wilton himself the lady had as yet had but once glance, as she first entered the room; for, ever since, Green had stood between them so that she could not see. When she did behold him fully, however, she gazed upon him earnestly, clasping her hands, and exclaiming, “Is it–is it possible?”
The next moment her feelings seemed to overpower her–“Oh yes, yes,” she cried, advancing “it is he himself–the same dear, blessed likeness of the dead!” and casting her arms round the young gentleman’s neck, she wept long and profusely on his bosom.
Wilton was surprised and agitated, as may well be conceived. He was not sufficiently ignorant of the world not to know that there are a thousand tricks and artifices daily practised, which assume such appearances as the scene now performing before him displayed. He might, indeed, have entertained suspicions of all sorts of transformations and disguises; but there was an earnestness, a truth, in the lady’s manner that was in itself convincing, and there was something more, also–there was a most extraordinary resemblance in her whole face and person to the picture which we have before mentioned in the house of the Earl of Sunbury. The features were the same, the height, the figure: the eyes were the same colour, there was the same peculiar expression about the mouth, and the only difference seemed to be the difference of age. The picture represented a girl of eighteen or nineteen: the person who stood beside him must have seen well nigh forty summers.
Though the likeness was complete, there was a certain difference. Have we not all beheld a beautiful scene spread out in the morning light, full of radiance, and sparkling, and glorious sunshine? and have we not seen a grey cloud creep over the sky, leaving the landscape the sauce, but taking from it the resplendent beams in which it shone at first? So did it seem with her. All appeared the same as in the bright being whom the painter had depicted in her gay day of youth; but that Time had since brought, as it were, a grey shadow over the loveliness which it could not take away.
All these things took from Wilton every doubt; and after he had suffered the lady for a moment to give way to her feelings without a word: even throwing his arm slightly round her, and pressing her towards him, he said, “Are you–are you my mother?”
“Alas! no, my dear boy,” she replied, raising her head and wiping away the tears, while the colour rose slightly in her cheek. “I am not your mother, but one who has loved you scarcely less than ever mother loved her son; one who nursed and fondled you in infancy; one who has now come from another land but for the sake of seeing you, and of holding once more to her heart the nursling of other years, even more sad and terrible than these.”
“From another land!” said Wilton, thoughtfully, while through the dim and misty vista of the past, strange figures seemed to move before his eyes, as if suddenly called up out of the darkness of oblivion by some enchanter’s voice. “Another land!” he said, thoughtfully–“Your face and your voice seem to wake strange memories. I think, I remember having been with you in another land, and I recollect–surely I recollect, a pretty cottage with a rose-tree at the door–a rose-tree in full bloom; and tying the knot of an officer’s scarf, and his holding me long to his heart, and blessing me again and again–“
“Before he went to battle!” said the lady, “before he went to death!” Her voice became choked in suffocating sobs, and she wept again long and bitterly.
“Nay, but tell me more,” said Wilton–“in pity, tell me more. Do I not surely recollect his face, too?” and he pointed to Green, “and the sparkling sea-shore? and sailing long upon the ocean? Tell me more, oh, tell me more!”
“I must not yet, Wilton,” she replied–“I must not yet. They tell me it is dangerous, and I believe it is. Struggles must soon take place, changes must inevitably ensue, and I would not–no, not for all the world, I would not that your young life should be plunged into those terrible contentions, which have swallowed up, as a dark whirlpool, the existence of so many of your race. If our hopes be true, the way to fortune and rank will be open to you at once: or there is no such a thing as gratitude in the world. If not, you will have the means of living in quiet and tranquillity, and if you will, of struggling for higher things; for within six months the whole shall be told to you. Ask me not! ask me not!” she added, seeing him about to speak–“I have promised in this matter to be guided by others, and I must say no more.”
“But who is he?” continued Wilton, pointing to Green. The lady looked first at him, and then at their companion, with a faint, even a melancholy, smile.
“He is one,” she replied, “whom you must trust, for he has ever guided others better and more successfully than he has guided himself. He is one who has every title to direct you.”
“This is all very strange,” said Wilton, “and it is painful, too. You do not know–you cannot tell, how painful it is to live, as it were, in a dark cloud, knowing nothing either of the future or the past.”
The lady looked down sadly upon the ground.
“There are, sometimes,” she said, “certainties which are far more terrible than doubts. Be contented, Wilton, till you hear more: when you do hear more, you will hear much painful matter; you will have much to undergo, and you will need courage, determination, and strength of mind. In the meanwhile, as from your earliest years, careful, anxious, zealous, eyes have watched over you, marked your every movement, traced your every step, even while you thought yourself abandoned, forgotten, and neglected: so shall it be till the whole is explained to you. Thenceforth you will rule your own conduct, judge, determine, and act for yourself. We know, we are sure, that you will act nobly, uprightly, and well in the meanwhile, and that you will do no deed which at a future period may not befit any station and any race to acknowledge.”
Wilton mused deeply for several moments, and then raising his eyes to the lady’s face, he demanded, in a low tone–
“Answer me only one question more. Am I the son of Lord Sunbury?”
The blood rushed violently up into the lady’s countenance.
“Lord Sunbury was never married,” she exclaimed–“was he?”
“I know not,” replied Wilton–“all I ask is, am I his son? I ask it, because he has shown me generous kindness, care, and consideration; and at times I have seen him gazing in my face, when he thought I did not remark it, as if there were some deeper feelings in his bosom than mere friendship. Yet I cannot say that he has ever taught me to look upon myself as his son.”
“Your imagination is only leading you into a labyrinth, Wilton,” replied the personage calling himself Green, “from which you will find it difficult to extricate yourself. Be contented with what you know, and ask no more.”
“I much wish, and I do entreat,” replied Wilton, “that you would give me an answer to the question I have asked. There might be circumstances–indeed, I may say, that circumstances are very likely to occur, in which it would be absolutely necessary for me to know what claim I have upon the Earl of Sunbury. I have never yet asked him for anything of importance; but I foresee that the time may soon come when I may have to demand of him what I would not venture to demand, did I consider myself but the claimless child of his bounty.”
The lady looked at Green, and Green at her, and they paused for several minutes. At length she answered, “I will give you a claim upon Lord Sunbury;” and she took from her finger a large ring, such as were commonly worn in those days, presenting on one side a shield of black enamel surrounded with brilliants, and in the centre a cipher, formed also of small diamonds. “Keep this,” said the lady, “till all is explained to you, Wilton, and then return it to me. Should the Earl’s assistance be required in anything of vital importance, show him that ring, if he be in England, or if he be abroad, tell him that you possess it, and beseech him by all the thoughts which that may call up in his mind, to aid you to the utmost of his power.–I think he will not fail you.”
Wilton was about to answer; and though it was now growing dusk, he might have lingered on much longer, striving to gain more information, but at that moment there came a sound of many feet at the passage, and the voice of some one speaking apparently to the landlord, and demanding,–“Who the devil’s horses are those walking up and down there?”
Almost at the same time, a hand was laid upon the latch of the door, and it would have been thrown open, had not Green previously taken the precaution of locking it. He now partially opened it, however, and spoke a few words to those without.
“Go into the next room,” he said; “go into the next room–I will be with you directly.” He then closed the door again, and turning to Wilton, took him by the arm, saying, “Now mount your horse, and be gone instantly: your time for staying here is over; make the best of your way home, without delay; and only remember, that whenever we meet in future, you do not appear to know me, unless I speak to you. Should you want advice, direction, and assistance–and remember, that though poor and powerless as I seem, I may know more, and be able to do far more, than you imagine–ask for me here; or the first time you see me, lay your finger upon that ring which she has given you, and I will find means to learn your wishes, and to promote them instantly–Now you must go at once.”
Wilton saw that the attempt to learn more, at that moment, would be vain: but before he departed, he took the lady by the hand, bidding her adieu, and saying, “At all events, I have one consolation. Since I came here, I feel less lonely in the world; I feel that there are some to whom I am dear; and yet I would fain ask you one thing more. It is, how, when I think of you, I shall name you in my thoughts. Your image will be frequently before me; the affection which you have shown me, the words you have spoken, will never be forgotten. But there is a pleasure in connecting all those remembrances with a name. It seems to render them definite; to give them a habitation in the heart for ever.”
“Call me Helen,” replied the lady, quickly. “Where I now dwell they call me the Lady Helen. I must not add any more; and now adieu, for it is time that both you and I should leave this place.”
Green once more urged him to depart; and Brown, with his curiosity not satisfied, but even more excited than ever, quitted the house, mounted his horse, and rode away slowly towards his own dwelling, meditating as he went.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Onward! onward!” cries the voice of youth; whether it may be that the days are bright, passing in joy and tranquillity, and we can say with the greatest French poet of the present day–ay, the greatest, however it may seem–Beranger,
“Sur une onde tranquille,
Voguant soir et matin,
Ma nacelle est docile
Au souffle du destin.
La voile s’enfie-t-elle,
J’abandonne le bord.
(O doux zephir, sois-moi fidele!) Eh! vogue, ma nacelle;
Nous trouverons un port”–
or whether the morning is overcast with clouds and storms, still “Onward! onward!” is the cry, either in the hope of gaining new joys, or to escape the sorrows that surround us. It is for age to stretch back the longing arms towards the Past: the fate of youth is to bound forward to meet the Future.
Wilton reached his home, and bending down his head upon his hands, passed more than an hour in troublous meditation. All was confused and turbid. The stream of thought was like a mountain torrent, suddenly swelled by rains, overflowing its banks, knowing no restraint, no longer clear and bright, but dark and foaming and whirling in rapid and uncertain eddies round every object that it touched upon. The scene at Beaufort House, the thought of Laura, and all that had been said there, mingled strangely and wildly with everything that had taken place afterwards, and nothing seemed certain, but all confused, and indistinct, and vague. But still there came a cry from the bottom of his heart: the cry of “Onward! onward! onward! towards the fated future!”
Nor was that cry the less vehement or less importunate because lie had no power whatsoever to advance or retard the coming events by a single hour: nor had it less influence because–unlike most men, who generally have some lamp, however dim, to give them light into the dark caverns of the future–he had not even one faint ray of probability to show him what was before his footsteps.
On the contrary, the yearning to reach that future, to pass on through that darkness to some brighter place beyond, was all the more strong and urgent. In short, excited imagination had produced some hope, without the slightest probability to foster it. He had even been told that he was to expect information of a painful kind. Not one word had been said to give him the expectation of a bright destiny: and yet there was something so sweet, so happy, in having found any one whose tenderness had been bestowed upon his infant years, and whose affection had remained unchanged by time and absence, that hope–as hope always is–was born of happiness; and though that hope was wild, uncertain, and unfounded, it made the natural eagerness of youth all the more eager.
When he lay down to rest he slept not, but still many a vision floated before his waking eyes, and thought made the night seem short. On the following morning he was early up and dressed; but by seven o’clock a note was put into his hand, in a writing which he did not know. On opening it, however, he found it to contain a request, couched in the most courteous terms, from the Duke of Gaveston, that he would call upon him immediately, and before he went to the house of Lord Byerdale. There was scarcely time to do so; but he instantly ordered his horse, and galloped to Beaufort House as fast as possible. He was ushered immediately into a small saloon, and thence into the dressing-room of the Duke, whom he found in a state of considerable agitation, and evidently embarrassed even in explaining to him what he wanted.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Brown,” he said,–“I have sent for you to speak on a matter that may be of great consequence:–not that I know that it will be–not that I have heard anything–for I would not hear, after I found out what was the great object; but–but–“
Wilton was inclined to imagine that some unexpected obstacles had occurred in regard to the proposed alliance between the families of the Duke and of the Earl of Byerdale, and he certainly felt no inclination to aid in removing those obstacles. He replied, therefore, coldly enough, “If there is anything in which I can serve your grace, I am sure it will give me much pleasure to do so.”
His coldness, however, only seemed to increase the Duke’s eagerness and also his agitation.
“You can, indeed, Mr. Brown,” he said, “render me the very greatest service, and I’m sure you are an honourable and an upright man, and will not refuse me. If you had explained yourself more clearly the night before last, I am sure I would have taken your advice at once, and would not have gone at all; but, as it is, I stayed not a moment longer than I could help, and have now broken with Fenwick and Barklay for ever. They vow that I am pledged to their cause, and must take a part, but they will find themselves mistaken.”
Wilton now found that the good nobleman’s fancy had misled him, and that his agitation arose from something that had taken place at the meeting at the Old King’s Head, in regard to which he certainly knew nothing, nor indeed wished to know anything. He replied, however, somewhat more warmly,–
“In regard to these transactions, my lord duke, I know nothing, as I before informed you: but if you will tell me how I can serve you, I will do it with pleasure.”
“I was sure you would, Mr. Brown, I was sure you would,” said the Duke. “You can do me the greatest service, my dear young friend, by promising me positively upon your word of honour never to mention to any one that I went to this meeting at the Old King’s Head, or, in fact, that I knew anything about it. I especially could wish that it be not mentioned to the Earl of Byerdale; for I know that he is a very fierce and vindictive man, and I do not wish to put myself in his power, just at present, above all times. Nobody on earth knows it but you and the people engaged in the affair, whose mouths are stopped, of course. We left the carriage on this side of Paul’s, and I sent the two running footmen different ways, so that, if you give me your honour, I am quite safe.”
“I give you my honour, most assuredly, my lord duke,” replied Wilton, “that I will never, under any circumstances, or at any time, mention one word of that which has taken place between us on the subject. Rest perfectly sure of that. Indeed, I know nothing; I therefore have nothing to tell. But, at all events, I will utter not one word.”
“Thank you, thank you!” cried the Duke, grasping his hand with joy and enthusiasm–“thank you, thank you a thousand times, my dear young friend!” and in the excitement of the moment, in his dressing-gown and slippers as he was, he led Wilton out to the room where his daughter was seated, and without any explanation informed her that he, Wilton, was one of his best and dearest friends. He then rushed back again to conclude the little that wanted to the labours of his toilet, leaving Wilton alone with her at the breakfast-table.
“Oh, Mr. Brown,” exclaimed Laura, with her face glowing with eagerness, “I hope and trust that you have settled this business, for I have been most anxious ever since last night. Sir John Fenwick behaved so ill, and quitted the house in such fury, and that dark-looking man who accompanied him back, used such threatening language towards my father, that indeed–indeed, I feared for the consequences this morning.”
Wilton evidently saw that her fears pointed in any direction but the right one, and that she apprehended some hostile rencontre between her father and the two rash Jacobites with whom he had suffered himself to be entangled. Knowing, however, that it could be anything but the desire of such men to call public attention to their proceedings, he did not scruple to give her every assurance that no duel, or angry collision of any kind, was likely, to take place: at which news her face glowed with pleasure, and her lips flowed with many an expression of gratitude, although he assured hex again and again that he had done nothing on earth to merit her thanks.
The smiles were very beautiful, however, and very grateful to his heart; but he found that every moment was adding to feelings which it was madness to indulge; and, therefore, as soon as the Duke had returned, he took his leave, and turned his steps homeward. He knew, indeed, that he should have to encounter the same pleasant danger again that very afternoon; that he should have to see her, to be in the same room, to sit at the same table with her, to speak to her, even though it were but for a moment; but then it would be all under restraint; the eyes of the many would be upon them; there would be no open communication, no speaking the real feelings of the heart, no freedom from the dull routine of society.
He was perhaps five minutes behind his time, but the Earl was all complaisance: the arrangements that he had made for his son; the unexpected facility with which Lord Sherbrooke had apparently entered into those arrangements; the political importance of the alliance with the Duke; the immense accession of wealth to his family; the aspect of public affairs, were all sufficient to mellow down a demeanour which, to his inferiors at least, was generally harsh and proud. But yet Wilton could not help believing that there was a peculiar expression in the Earl’s countenance when that nobleman’s eyes turned upon him; that there was a smile which was not a smile of benignity, that there was a courtesy which was not of the heart. Why or wherefore Wilton could hardly tell, but he fancied that the Earl’s conduct was what it might be towards a person who had suddenly fallen completely into his power, and whom he intended to use as a tool in any way that he might think fit. He pictured to his own imagination the Earl bidding his victim perform some action the most revolting to his feelings in the sweetest tone possible; the victim beginning to resist; the cold blooded politician calmly showing his power, and exercising it with bitter civility.
However, the courtesy lasted all day: there was nothing said to confirm Wilton in this fancy; and when he took leave, the Earl reminded him of the dinner hour, adding, “Be punctual, be punctual, Mr. Brown. We shall dine exactly at the hour; and my cook is a virago, you know.”
Wilton did not fail to be to the moment, and he, the Earl, and Lord Sherbrooke, were some time in the great saloon before the guests began to arrive. At length the large heavy coaches of those days began to roll into the court-yard, and one after another many a distinguished man and many a celebrated beauty of the age appeared. Still, however, the Earl evidently looked upon the Duke and his daughter as the principal guests, and waited in anxious expectation for their coming.
They arrived later than any one, Laura herself looking grave, if not sad, the Duke evidently embarrassed and not at ease. Nor did the particular attentions paid by the Earl to both remove in any degree the sadness of the one or the embarrassment of the other. This was so marked that the Earl soon felt it; and though the sort of determined calmness of his manner, and habitual self-command, prevented him from showing the least uneasiness, yet, from a particular glance of his eye and momentary quiver of his lip, Wilton divined that he was angry and irritable.
It must be admitted, also, that Lord Sherbrooke did not take the means to put his father more at ease. To Lady Laura he paid no attention whatsoever, devoted himself during the greater part of the evening to a beautiful woman of not the most pure and unsullied character in the world, and showed himself disposed to flirt with everybody, except the very person to whom his father wished him to pay court. The dinner party was followed by an entertainment in the evening; and still the same scene went on; till at length the Earl came round to Wilton, and said, in a low voice, “I wish, my dear young gentleman, you would try your influence upon Sherbrooke.”
The Earl was going on, but Wilton rose immediately, saying, “I understand you, my lord,” and approaching the place where Lord Sherbrooke was seated, he waited till the laughter which was going on around him was over, and then said in a low voice, “For pity’s sake, Sherbrooke, and for decency’s sake, do pay some attention to the Duke and his daughter; remember, they are new guests of your father’s, and merit, at all events, some respect.”
The young Lord looked up in his friend’s countenance with a malicious smile, replying, “They do, my dear Wilton, they do! and you see I keep at a respectful distance. But I will do anything to please.”
He accordingly rose from his seat, and Wilton saw him first approach the Duke, speak a few words to him, and then take a seat beside Lady Laura. Her air was evidently cold and reserved, but what passed more, Wilton, of course, did not know. The young lord, however, seemed suddenly struck by something that she said, turned quickly towards her, and made a rejoinder; she answered, apparently, with perfect calmness. But the instant after, Lord Sherbrooke rose from his chair, made her a low bow, and was crossing the room. His father, however, met him half-way, and they spoke for a moment or two. The Earl’s cheek became very red, and his brow contracted; but Lord Sherbrooke passed quietly on, and came up to where Wilton stood.
“She has just told me what she thinks of my character, Wilton,” said the young nobleman, “and I have transmitted the same to my father, who must settle the matter with the Duke as he likes.”
“The Earl’s plans are certainly in a prosperous condition,” thought Wilton; and though he could not, of course, approve of the unceremonious means which Lord Sherbrooke took to defeat his father’s intentions, and to cast the burden of refusal on Lady Laura, yet he could not grieve, it must be admitted, that she should determining for herself.
During the whole evening her conduct towards Wilton Brown had been exactly what he had expected–kind, gentle, and courteous. She evidently treated him more as a friend than any one else in the room; and though he purposely spoke to her but seldom, and then merely with the terms of formal respect, yet whenever he did approach her, she greeted him with a smile, which showed that his society was not at all unpleasant to her.
To the eyes of Wilton it was very evident that Lord Byerdale was extremely irritated by what he had heard. No one else perceived it, however, for, as was usual with him, the irritation of the moment, though likely to produce very serious effects at an after period, clothed itself for the time in additional smiles and stately courtesies, only appearing now and then in an additional drop of sarcastic bitterness mingling with all the civil things that he said. As usual, also, he was peculiarly soft and reverential in his manner towards those with whom he was most angry, and the Duke and Lady Laura were more the objects of his particular attention than ever. He sat beside her; he talked to her; he paid her that marked attention which his son had neglected to offer; and at length, when the Duke proposed to retire, he himself handed her to the carriage, paying her some well turned compliment at every step, and relieving his heart of its bitterness by some stinging sneer at the rest of womankind.
Thus passed over the evening; and Wilton, it must be acknowledged with a mind more at ease on account of the decided part that Lady Laura seemed to have taken, slept soundly and dreamt happily, though he still resolved, sooner or later, to crush feelings which could only end in misery.
On the following morning he went to the house of Lord Byerdale at the usual hour, and proceeded at once to the cabinet of the Earl. It was already occupied by that nobleman and his son, however; and though there were no loud words spoken, no angry tones audible, yet there were sufficient indications of angry feeling, at least on the part of the Earl, to make Wilton immediately pause and draw back a step.
“Come in, come in,” said the Earl–“you know all this affair, and I believe have done what you could to make this young man reasonable.”
Wilton accordingly entered the room, and Lord Byerdale again turned to his son, laying his finger upon the letter before him. “I repeat, Sherbrooke,” he said, “that you yourself have done all this. I did not ask you, sir, to be virtuous, I did not ask you to be temperate, I did not bid you cast away the dice or abandon drunkenness and revelling, or turn off three or four of your mistresses, or to give over going to the resort of every sort of vice in the metropolis. I asked you none of these things, because it would be hard and ungenerous to require a man to do what his nature and habits render perfectly impossible. I turn to his vomit again, or the sow to refrain from wallowing in the mire.”
“Savoury similes, my lord,” said Lord Sherbrooke–“most worthy of Solomon and your lordship. May I ask what it is you did demand then?”
“That you should assume a virtue if you had it not,” replied Lord Byerdale; “that you should put a certain cloak of decency over your vices, and that you should at least be commonly courteous to the person selected for your future wife: especially when I pointed out to you the immense, the inconceivable advantages of such an alliance not only to you but to me.”
“Well, but, my dear father,” said Lord Sherbrooke, “I will grant all that you say. It is altogether my fault; I have behaved very stupidly, very wildly, very rudely, very viciously. But there is no reason that you should be so angry with the young lady, or with my good lord duke.”
“Ay, sir! think you so?” said the Earl–“you are mighty wise in your own conceit. You have had your share, certainly; but I do not avenge myself on my own son. They have had their share, however, too. Their pride, their would-be importance, their insufferable arrogance, which makes them think that kings or princes are not too good for her–these have all had no light share; and if I live for six months I will bring that pride down to the very lowest pitch. I will degrade her till she thinks herself a servant wench.”
Wilton certainly did feel his blood boil, but he knew that he had neither any right nor any power to interfere; and he turned to some papers that were upon the tables, and hid the expression which his thoughts might communicate to his countenance, by apparent attention to something else.
Some more words passed between the father and son, but they were few. Lord Sherbrooke, upon the whole, behaved better than Wilton could have expected. He neither treated the subject lightly and jocularly as he was accustomed to do in most cases, nor bitterly and sarcastically, which his father’s evident want of principle in the whole business gave him but too fair an opportunity of doing. He acknowledged fairly and straight-forwardly his errors and his vices; and all that he said in regard to the offence he had given his father was, that he imagined he could not in honour suffer Lady Laura to decide without letting her know the character at least of the man who was proposed for her husband.
“Well, sir,” replied his father, sharply, “you have convinced her of your character very soon. Mine, she may be longer in finding out; but she shall not fail to be made equally well aware of it in the end.”
Thus saying, he turned and quitted the room, giving some casual directions to Wilton as he passed.
“Well, that business is so far done and over,” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke, as soon as his father was gone; “and, as it is pleasant, my dear Wilton, to do a good action now and then, by way of a change, you and I must enter into a conspiracy together, to prevent my worthy, subtle, and revengeful father from executing a this poor girl, who has only done her duty to herself, and to me, and to her father.”
“I trust,” replied Wilton, “that the Earl’s threat was but one of those bursts of disappointment which will pass away with time. I cannot imagine that, after a little consideration, he will have any inclination really to injure either the Duke or his daughter; nor, indeed, do I see that he could have the means either.”
Lord Sherbrooke shook his head with a gloomy air, and answered, “He will make them, Wilton–he will make the means; and as to inclination, you do not know him as well as I do. He will not forget what has occurred this day, as long as he remembers how to write his own name. This same goodly desire of revenge is henceforth a part of his nature, and nothing will ever remove it, unless self-interest or ambition be brought into action against it.”
“But what sort of revenge think you he will seek?” demanded Wilton–“situated as the Duke is, I see no opportunity that your father can have of injuring him.”
“Heaven only knows,” replied Lord Sherbrooke. “The fire will go on smouldering for months, perhaps for years, but it will not go out. He said, just before you came in, that because she had refused to marry me, he would make her marry a footman; and, as I really believe his lordship is occasionally endowed with superhuman powers of executing what he thinks fit, it would not surprise me at all to see my Lady Laura led to the altar by John Noakes, our porter’s son, dressed up for the occasion as a foreign prince.”
“I do not fear that,” replied Wilton with a smile; “I should rather apprehend that he may entangle the good Duke, who does not seem overburdened with sense, in some of these sad plots which are daily taking place. Should we find out that such is the case, we may indeed aid in preventing it.”
Lord Sherbrooke shook his head. “It is the poor girl he will aim at first, depend upon it,” the young nobleman answered. “I wish to Heaven she had told me her intention of refusing me in such a formal manner; I would have shown her how to manage the matter without calling down this storm. But, instead of that, she sits down and deliberately writes him a letter, which, just in the proportion that it is honest, true, and straightforward, is the thing best calculated to excite his wrath. Yet, as if she had some idea of his character, and wished to shield her father, she takes the whole responsibility of the thing upon herself, telling him that the Duke had pressed her much upon the subject, but that she felt it would be utterly impossible to give her hand to your very humble servant. All this has, of course, brought the storm more directly upon herself, though her father will be screened thereby in no degree. I doubt not he has gone there now.”
“Do you think there is any chance of an actual and open quarrel between them?” demanded Wilton.
“Not in the least,” answered Lord Sherbrooke with a scoff: “my dear Wilton, you must be as blind as a mole, if you do not see that my father, though as brave as a lion, is not a man to quarrel with any one. He is a great deal too good a politician for that; he knows that in quarrelling with any one he hates, he must suffer something himself, and may suffer a good deal. No, no, he takes a better plan, and contrives to make his enemies suffer while he suffers not at all. In general, if you see him particularly civil to anybody, you may suppose that he looks upon them as an enemy, and is busy in getting them quietly into his power. Quarrel with the Duke? Oh no, a thousand to one, ere half an hour be over, he will be shaking him cordially by the hand, putting him quite at his ease, begging him to let the matter be forgotten altogether, saying that it was natural he should seek so illustrious an alliance, which, indeed, he had scarcely a right to hope for. Then he will see the lady herself, and say that he perfectly enters into her feelings, that a person so richly gifted as herself, and having already all that wealth and rank can give, has a right to consult, before all other things, the feelings of her own heart. It would not surprise me at all if he were to offer to send me abroad again, lest my presence in London, after the pretensions which have been formed, should prove, in any degree, annoying to her.”
The conversation continued for some time longer in the same strain: and Wilton could not but feel that Lord Sherbrooke gave an accurate though a terrible picture of his father’s character.
At length, the young nobleman rose as if to depart; but standing ere he did so before the table at which his young friend was seated, he gazed upon his face earnestly and silently for a minute or two, and then said,–
“I don’t know why, Wilton, but I have a great and a strong regard for you, and I have been dreaming dreams for you, that I see you are unwilling to dream for yourself: However, you must have the same regard for me; and–even if you are not inclined, in any degree, to take advantage of what I must say is evident regard on the part of this young lady towards you–yet, for my sake, you must let me know, aid me, and assist me, if you should see any scheme forming against her happiness or peace. I am not so bad, Wilton, even as I seem to you. I am sorry for this girl–really sorry for her. I ought to have taken the burden upon my own shoulders, instead of casting it upon hers; for I could have removed all these difficulties by speaking one single word. But that word would have cost me much to speak, and I shrunk from saying it. If, however, I find that through my fault she is likely to suffer, I will speak that word, Wilton, at all risks, so you must give me help and support, at least in doing what is right.”
“That I will, Sherbrooke,” replied Wilton, grasping his hand, “that I will most zealously. But in regard to what you say of Lady Laura’s kind feeling towards me, depend upon it you are wholly mistaken. The only reason, be you sure, why she makes any difference in her manner towards me, and towards men of higher rank than myself; is, that she knows the difference of our station and fortunes must ever prevent my entertaining any of those hopes which others might justly feel.”
Before Wilton concluded, Lord Sherbrooke had cast himself into a chair; his eyes were fixed on the ground, his brow had become contracted. It was one of those moments when, as he said, his evil spirit was upon him; and seeing that such was the case, Wilton left him to his own meditations and proceeded to write the letters which the Earl had directed him to despatch.
In about half an hour, the young nobleman roused himself from his reverie, with a light laugh, apparently causeless; and without speaking another word to Wilton, quitted the room.
Wilton only saw the Earl for a few minutes during the rest of the day, and with him the statesman was so captious, irritable, and sneering, that, reading his feelings by the key his son had given, Wilton had every reason to believe himself to be in high favour. Various matters of business, however, occurred to keep him late at the Earl’s house, and night had fallen when he returned to his own lodgings.
In about an hour after, however, one of the Earl’s servants brought him a note in Lord Sherbrooke’s handwriting, and marked “In haste.” Wilton tore it open immediately, and read,–
“MY DEAR WILTON,
“My father directs me to request your immediate return. The Duke is now here. Lady Laura has been carried off, or, at all events, has disappeared; and we want your wise head to counsel, perhaps your strong hand to execute. Come directly, for we are all in agitation.
“Yours, SHERBROOKE.”
Written below, in smaller characters, and marked “Private,” two lines to the following effect:–
“This business is not my father’s doing. It is too coarse for his handiwork. He may, perhaps, take advantage of it, however, if he finds an opportunity. Burn this instantly.”
CHAPTER XVII.
Having now run on for some time, following almost entirely the course and history of one individual, painting none but the characters with whom he was brought into immediate contact, and making him, as it were, a lantern in the midst of our dark story, all the characters appearing in bright light as long as they were near him, and sinking back into darkness as soon as they were removed from him, we must follow our old wayward and wandering habits; and just at the moment when we have contrived to create the first little gleam of interest in the reader’s breast, must leave our hero entirely to his fate, open out new scenes, introduce new personages, and devote a considerable space to matters which have APPARENTLY not the slightest connexion whatsoever with that which went before.
About thirty miles from London, towards the sea-coast, there then stood a small ancient house, built strongly of brick. It was not exactly castellated in its appearance, but yet in the days of Cromwell it had endured a short siege by a small body of the parliamentary troops, and had afforded time, by the resistance which it offered, for a small body of noblemen and gentlemen attached to the cause of King Charles to make their escape from a superior party of pursuers. It was built upon the edge of a very steep slope, so that on one side it was very much taller than the other. It was surrounded by thick trees also; and though by no means large, it had contrived to get into a small space as many odd corners as a Chinese puzzle. The walls were very thick, the windows few and small, the chimneys numerous, and the angles innumerable.
Into one of the small rooms of this house, at about eleven o’clock at night, I must now introduce the reader.
In that chamber, with her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed upon a wood-fire that was burning before her, one small and beautiful foot stretched out towards it, while the other was concealed by the drapery of her long robe; and with the whole graceful line of her figure thrown back in the large arm-chair which she occupied–except, indeed, the head, which was bent slightly forward–sat a very lovely young woman, perhaps of two or three and twenty years of age, in meditations evidently of a somewhat melancholy cast. The hand on which her head leaned, and which was very soft, round, and fair, was covered with rings, while the other was quite free from such ornaments, with the exception of one small ring of gold upon the slender third finger. In that hand she had been holding an open letter; but, buried in meditation, she had suffered the paper to drop from her hold, and it had fallen upon the ground beside her.
We had said that she was very beautiful, but her beauty was of a different sort and character altogether from that of the lady whom we have described under the name of Lady Laura Gaveston. Her hair was of the richest, brightest, glossy black, as fine as silk, yet bending, wherever it escaped, into rich and massy curls. There was one of these which fell upon the back of her fair neck, and another upon either temple. Upon the forehead, as was then customary, the hair was divided into smaller curls, and cut much shorter, which fashion was a great disfigurement to beauty, and certainly left her less handsome than she otherwise would have appeared. Still, however, she was very, very lovely; and the fine lines of her features, the clear rich brown of her complexion, the glorious light of her large dark eyes, softened by the long thick lashes that overshadowed them, the full and rounded beauty of every limb, left it impossible even for human heart to do away what nature’s cunning hand had done.
There are certainly moments in which, as every one must have remarked, a beautiful human countenance is more beautiful than at any other period, when it acquires, from some accidental circumstance, a temporary and extraordinary degree of loveliness. Sometimes it is the mere disposition of light and shade that produces this effect–the background behind it, the objects that surround it. Sometimes it is that the tone of the mind at the moment gives the peculiar expression which harmonizes best with the lines of the features and the colouring of the complexion, and which is in perfect accord with all those expectations which fine, indistinct, but sweet associations produce in our mind from every particular style of beauty that we see. Associations are, in fact, the bees of the imagination, and, wandering through all nature, may be said to distil honey from every fair object on which they light. Why does a rich and warm complexion, and a glowing cheek, call up instantly in our mind the idea of joyous health and pleasant-heartedness? Less because we have been accustomed to see that complexion attended by such qualities than because it connects itself with the idea of summer, gay summer and all its fruits and flowers, and merry sports and light amusements, and a thousand memories of happy days, and thousands upon thousands still of other things of which we have no consciousness, but which are present to sensation though not to thought, all the while that we are gazing upon a ruddy cheek, and thinking that the pleasure is derived from the white and red alone.
When the expression is perfectly suited to the style of beauty, it is natural to suppose that it will add to the charm; but there is a case where the cause of the increase is not so easily discovered–I mean when the mind gives to the countenance a temporary-expression totally opposed to the style of beauty itself. Yet this is sometimes the case: for how often do we see high and majestic features soften into playful smiles, and seem to gain another grace. In the lady we have mentioned, the whole style of the countenance and of the form gave the idea of joyous gaiety, of happy, nay, exuberant life and cheerfulness; but the expression was now all sad; and from the contrast–which produced deeper associations than perfect harmony would have called forth–her beauty itself was heightened. It was like some gay and splendid scene by moonlight.
She had remained in this meditating attitude for some time, when the door quietly opened, and a personage entered the room, of whom we must say a few words, though he is not destined to play any very prominent part in our tale. Monsieur Plessis was a Frenchman, a soi-disant Protestant. One thing, at all events, is certain, that his father had been so, and had been expelled from France many years before by persecution. The gentleman before us exercised many trades, by which, perhaps, he had not acquired so much wealth as his father had by one. His father’s calling had been that of cook and major domo to a fat, rich, gluttonous, careless English peer; and as he employed his leisure time in distilling various simples, he had classed his noble patron under that head, and distilled from him what he himself would jocosely have called “Golden Water.”
Amongst the various trades which, as we have said, were carried on by the son, was smuggling, under which were included the conveyance of contraband men, women, and children, as well as other sorts of merchandise; swindling a little, when occasion presented itself; clipping the golden coin of the kingdom, which at that time was a great resource to unfortunate gentlemen; not exactly forging exchequer tallies, and other securities of the same kind, but aiding by a certain dexterity of engraving in the forging, which he did not choose actually to commit; and over and above all these several occupations, callings, and employments, he was one of the best reputed spies which the French court had in England, as well as the most industrious agent which England had in obtaining intelligence from France. In fact, he sold each country to the other with the greatest possible complaisance. The great staple of the intelligence that he gave to both was false; but he took care to mingle a sufficient portion of truth with what he told, to acquire a considerable degree of reputation. He was, indeed, much too well versed in the practices of coiners, not to know that a bad piece of money is best passed off between two good ones; and though he was a sort of bonding warehouse, where an immense quantity of manufactured intelligence lay till it was wanted, yet he had means of obtaining better information, which he did not fail to make use of when he judged it needful.
Strange, however, are the perversities of human character: this practical betrayer of trust was not without certain good points in his character. The cheating a king or a statesman had a touch of grandeur in it, which suited his magnificent ideas; a little robbery on the King’s Highway seemed to him somewhat chivalrous; and he could admire those who did it, though he did not meddle with the business himself: but there was a certain class of persons whom he would as soon have cheated, betrayed, or deceived, even to keep himself in practice, which he considered one of the most legitimate excuses for anything he liked to do, as he would have cut his hand off. These were the poor French emigrants in England, and the unfortunate adherents of the House of Stuart in France.
As is now well known, though it was only suspected at the time, thousands of these men were daily coming and going between France and Britain, in the very midst of the war; and they were always sure to find at the house of Plessis kind and civil treatment, perfect security, and the most accurate intelligence which could be procured of all that was taking place.
In cases of danger he had a thousand ways of secreting them or favouring their escape. If ever, as was frequently the case, they wished to communicate with some kind friend, who was willing to relieve them, or to frighten some timid enemy upon whom they had some hold, Plessis could generally find them the means; and in cases where some one in danger required to be brought off speedily and secretly, Plessis had often been known to spend very large sums, and risk even life itself, rather than suffer an enterprise to fail in which he had taken a part.
The Duke of Shrewsbury and Trumbull, while they were secretaries of state, employed Plessis actively, and overlooked not a few little peccadilloes for the sake of the intelligence they obtained; and Torcy, though he had been known to vow more than once that he would hang him if he set his foot in France, held two or three long conferences with him at Versailles, and dismissed him with a present of several thousand livres.
His apparel was very peculiar, as he generally wore above his ordinary dress a large long waisted red coat, hooked round his neck at the collar, somewhat in the manner of a cloak, without his arms being thrust into the sleeves; his shoes were very high in the instep, and buckled with a small buckle over the front; but as he was a little man, and of a somewhat aspiring disposition, the heels of those shoes were enormously high, sufficient to raise him nearly two inches from the ground, and make his foot in external appearance very like that of a calf or a Chinese lady. Indeed, in body and in mind likewise, he was upon tiptoes the whole day long.
His entrance into the room where the lady was, roused her at once from the reverie into which she had fallen; and taking up the letter from the ground, she turned to see who it was that came in.
“Madam,” he said, speaking in French, which, be it remarked, was the language used between them during the whole conversation, “were it not better for you to retire to rest? You spoil your complexion, you impair your beauty, by these long vigils.”
“Beauty!” she said, with something of a scoff. “But why should I retire, as you call it, to rest, Plessis? You mean to say, retire to think more deeply still, in darkness as well as in solitude.”
“Madam,” replied Plessis, “you take these things too heavily. But the truth is, I have a fair company coming here, by whom you might not well like to be seen. Far be it from me, if you think otherwise, to disturb you in possession of the apartments. But they come here at midnight to consult, it would seem, upon business of importance; whereof I know nothing, indeed, but which I know requires secrecy and care.”
“Business of importance!” said the lady, somewhat scornfully–“to seat a bigoted dotard on the throne of England! That is what they come to consult about. Are they not some of those whom I saw yesterday morning from the window? that dark Sir George Barkley, who used to walk through the halls of St. Germain’s, in gloomy silence, till the profane courtiers called him the shadow of the cloud? and that sanguinary Charnock, whom I once heard conferring with the banished queen, and vowing that there was no way but one of dealing with usurpers, and that was by the dagger? If these are your guests, Plessis, I know the business that they come for full well.”
“I neither know, beautiful lady,” replied Plessis, “nor do I seek to know. So pray tell me nothing thereof. Many a grown man in his day has been hanged for knowing too much, and nobody but a schoolboy was ever punished for knowing too little. These gentlemen come about their own business. I meddle not with it; and I must not shame my hospitality so much as to say, ‘Good gentlemen, you shall not meet at my house!'”
“You are a wise and prudent man, Plessis,” replied the lady: “bid the girl take a light to my chamber; I will go there and muse–not that I fear their seeing me; but the Lady Helen, perhaps, might wish it otherwise.”
With a bow down to the very ground, Plessis retired, and the lady paused for a minute or two longer, leaning upon a small table in the middle of the room, and apparently thinking over what had passed.
“It is a strange thing,” she said to herself, after a moment, “a most strange thing, that the customs of the world, and what we call honour, so often requires us to do those things that every principle of right and justice, truth and religion, commands us not to do. God’s word tells us not to murder, yet men daily do it, and women think them all the nobler for trading in blood. If we violate the law, and do what is really wicked, we risk punishment on earth, and incur punishment hereafter; yet if we do strictly what honesty and justice tells us, in all cases, how many instances would be found, where men would shun us, and where our own hearts would condemn us also. Here I have it in my power to stop the effusion of much blood, to prevent the commission of many crimes, to strangle, perhaps, a civil war in its birth, merely by discovering the presence of these men in a land from which they are exiled–I have it in my power thereby to spare even themselves from evil acts and certain punishment: and yet my lips must be sealed, lest men should say I dealt treacherously with them. ‘Tis a hard-dealing world, and I have suffered too much already by despising it, to despise it any more.”
As she thus came to the conclusion, which every woman, perhaps, will come to sooner or later, she turned and left the room; and while her foot was still upon the staircase, there came a sound of many horses’ feet from the small paved esplanade in front of the house.
“Ay, there they are,” murmured the lady in a low voice–“the men who would use any treacherous art whatever to accomplish their own purpose, and who would yet call any one traitor who divulged their schemes. Would to God that Helen would come back! I am weary of all this, and sick at heart, as well I may be.”