Strange morning doings.—Dr. Rowel returns to view the ruins of his house.—The mysterious chest, and what was in it.
NOTWITHSTANDING the personal violence which, it was to be feared, Doctor Rowel might receive by making his appearance upon the scene of his former crimes, he no sooner was informed of the total destruction of his establishment, and of nearly all the property it contained, as related in the preceding chapter, than he grew half frantic, and immediately declared his resolution to visit the place, be the consequences of his temerity what they might.
Accordingly, in a state of excitement bordering closely on absolute derangement, he set off from York on the following morning, in as private and unobserved a manner as possible. The alertness, however, of the public eye was too great to suffer him wholly to escape; and as he was driven at a rapid pace through the streets of the city, the scornful hisses and execrations of many of the people trebly increased his excitement, by making him feel that most bitter of all feelings in its bitterest form—that he had become despicable and odious in the eyes of his fellow men, and henceforward could no longer hope to dwell amongst them, save as one liable to be continually pointed at, to be shunned, perhaps plainly and openly insulted, without any living creature looking upon him as worthy of receiving pity.
On arriving at his late residence, he beheld only a black ruin in the midst of desolation, with but one solitary object near it which had survived the general destruction—and that was the old yew-tree under which James Woodruff had passed so many weary years, and which now brought back to the Doctor's eye, suddenly and completely, as might the drawing up of a curtain, a perfect picture of all the past that had led to this sad scene. The tree used to look black before, but now amidst greater blackness and the smoke and ruin of the place it grew in, it looked green; gaily green in the sunshine, as though even it rejoiced and felt glad over the wild justice that had overtaken one guilty of so many crimes as was he who once oppressed the helpless there unopposed. He could have hewn that tree by the roots, for the thoughts it awoke in his mind, and wished it burnt to a pillar of charcoal along with all else that was blasted and calcined about it.
Outside was a throng of gazers, kept off partly by the rural constabulary, and partly by some of the yeomanry of the district. These he hated for their idle curiosity, their prying into other people's business; and could he have had his will, would have swept the ground clear of them at one stroke of his arm.
Standing on a rising knoll at some little distance, he recognised Squire Lupton and James Woodruff, with his daughter Fanny, gazing over the ruins, and watching with deep interest the progress of the workmen, who were busily employed in recovering from the hot ruins as much of the property on the premises as might have escaped with only partial or no damage. At that sight—
“each passion dimm'd his face,Thrice chang'd with pale ire, envy, and despair.”
He would have got out, but he dared not. He felt as though the people would murder him, and cast him into the mouldering heaps of his own house.
Unrecognised in his carriage he was secure; and having drawn up pretty closely to the spot where the last-named little party stood, he gazed with an intensity of look almost indescribable upon the operations going on amongst the ruins. It was plain that some strange idea had come into his mind; it seemed written in his very features that something might be found there which he would have no man know: a thing for his eyes only, and not to be seen by such men as those.
“But it was a wooden box,” thought he again, “and it must be burnt. It could not escape—it is not likely—not possible. No, no; not possible.”
And yet, as he comforted himself thus, that possibility was still standing on his brow as plainly as did the mark on Cain's:—the mark that told ineffaceably before heaven and earth his guilt, and warned every man he met to shun him.
Still the workmen worked, and he still gazed. At last they carried out on a hand-barrow a heap of broken furniture, of partly destroyed boxes, and pictures shrivelled like a parched scroll. Somebody standing by now observed to his neighbour that the face of that man in the carriage was frightful.
“'Tis it!—'t is it!” exclaimed the Doctor, fiercely, madly, with hysteric passion, unconscious of what he said and did. At the same time he dashed his fist with the force of a stone through the glass of the window; and having rapidly opened the door, rushed distractedly past all impediments up to the men in question.
This sudden apparition,—for scarcely less even in the midst of daylight did it seem,—so completely astonished and alarmed the people that all those along the course he took fled backwards in fear; while those beyond the scene of action as earnestly pressed forwards to ascertain what was amiss.
Mr. Lupton, James Woodruff, and Fanny, besides many others amongst the crowd, almost instantly recognised the person of the Doctor; while the first-named gentleman as instantly hastened after him in order at once to know the cause of this wild proceeding, and to prevent, by the interference of his magisterial authority, that mischief which else he feared might soon ensue.
“That 's it!—it's mine—my own!” cried the Doctor, as he literally threw himself upon a box of considerable dimensions, deeply scorched but not burnt through, which the workmen carried. At the same time he clasped his arms about it as though he would strain to carry it away. The workmen interfered.
“Molest him not!” said Mr. Lupton, and they desisted.
“I swear it is mine!” again exclaimed Mr. Rowel, on hearing the voice of the Squire, “and no man shall open it while I live. I'm innocent, for they judged me so last night. People will destroy me, if it 's seen. They 'll swear it ishisbody, if they see it.”
“What body?” demanded Mr. Lupton in astonishment.
“Him!——no, no; I did not do that! Him that died. You know, you know. Everybody over the world knows now! They shall not open it; I 'll die first. I defy them all!” And again the insane Doctor endeavoured as though to hide it out of sight with his arms and body.
Mr. Lupton saw in all this something more than exactly appeared upon the surface; and accordingly, both as better for the Doctor himself, and more consistent with his own duty in so remarkable a case, he commanded the constabulary to seize and protect Mr. Rowel back to the carriage from which he had come, and then to convey the mysterious box safely down to Kiddal Hall.
In the execution of these orders, the Doctor made such a desperate resistance, and raved so furiously and incoherently,—repeatedly declaring he should be hanged to-morrow,—that they wanted to murder him,—that the body was not distinguishable,—and that he was haunted by a horrible spectre,—as pretty clearly evinced that his mind had overshot the firm ground of reason, and had fallen into that same fearful abyss of insanity from which it had been his profession to rescue others; and on the plea of his having fallen into which, he had also so cruelly practised, during many years, upon the unfortunate James Woodruff, his relation.
Great forcewasrequired to secure and get him into the carriage; and after that object had been successfully achieved, it was found necessary to bind him strongly with such materials, applicable to the purpose, as chanced to be within reach, before his conveyance in such a vehicle could be considered safe. This having been done, he was, after some delay, eventually driven off to the residence of his brother, on Sherwood forest;—a place to which those friends who had attended him on his trial, considered it most proper, in the present state of affairs, to convey him.
During these transactions the excitement of the assembled multitude was so great, that, but for the presence of the yeomanry, and the judicious measures adopted by Mr. Lupton, it is to be feared the disorders of the previous night would have been concluded by a yet more horrible catastrophe, in the murder of the Doctor, in open day, upon the memorable site of his own destroyed and now for eyer vanished establishment at Nabbfield. This fearful consequence was, however, happily avoided: and all danger being now passed, Mr. James Woodruff and his daughter Fanny again joined company with Mr. Lupton, and followed, with agitated and anxious feelings, in the wake of the great crowd that accompanied the conveyance of the mysterious box to the Squire's own residence.
A short time after their arrival at the Hall, the three above-named individuals, along with one or two other persons, whom Mr. Lupton purposely admitted as witnesses on the occasion, retired into a private room, situate in a remote part of the building, whither the chest had already been carried, under the care of several officers, and remained present while a heavy lock upon it was broken, and the uplifted lid for the first time displayed, to other eyes than those of Mr. Rowel, a sight so horrible, that even the strongest-nerved man present recoiled with sudden fear, while Fanny uttered a loud shriek of terror, and fell insensible into her father's arms.
Before them, huddled up, to make it fit into its otherwise too short habitation, lay a corpse, the body and limbs of which had undergone dissection, while the head and face, by some process of preparation and injection, yet remained sufficiently perfect to exhibit such a distinct resemblance to what must have been its appearance while alive, as left upon the minds of the spectators not the slightest doubt but that they now assuredly looked upon the remains of the unfortunate Lawyer Skin well!
By what motive the Doctor could possibly have been actuated in taking the body from its grave could only be conjectured; and the most probable conjecture made upon the occasion was, that he had done so in order so far to destroy all traces of the poison which had been administered to him, as to render any subsequent investigation—presuming such should chance to be made—wholly useless for any purpose of crimination.
But why, having done this, he should still preserve so horrible an object,—and to him, it might be presumed, one so particularly horrible,—few seemed willing to attempt to divine. Perhaps, what Shakespeare has said of sorrow, we may best, in this instance, say of conscious guilt:—
“'T was one of those odd thingscrimeoften shootsOut of the mind.”
Whatever the cause, however, the fact itself was there most plainly proved; since the remains in the box were subsequently identified, not only by Fanny Woodruff and Mr. Sylvester, the deceased's former clerk, but also by many persons in the village, who had known him intimately when alive.
As no object could now be attained by keeping the body, it was, some time afterwards, placed in its old coffin and re-interred, amidst the marvellings and the pity of numerous rustic spectators.
Another most remarkable circumstance, however, remains to be recorded, in connection with this event, before I conclude this chapter; as it may also serve, with the above, in some degree, to illustrate Doctor Rowel's strange conduct and exclamations touching the chest, in the scene recently described.
Placed immediately beneath the head of the corpse, and forming, in fact, a rest for it, was found a much smaller, though far more antique and curiously ornamented box than the one already described; and which, eventually, proved to be the identical one wherein the title-deeds of the estate of the Woodruffs of Charnwood had been kept during many generations. On being opened, it was found still to contain them precisely in the same state in which Mr. Rowel had so many years ago possessed himself of them, after securing the person of their legitimate owner. The effects of Mr. Skinwell's conduct in resisting the Doctor's solicitations to co-operate dishonestly with him in altering or destroying those writings, (as previously recorded,) now became apparent; and deep, indeed, was the regret of all, that through such conduct he had, in all human probability, come to such a frightful end.
Mr. Woodruff having then taken them again into his own custody, all matters connected with the affair were settled in the best manner circumstances would allow; and after a brief interval from the period now spoken of, he and his daughter set out on their first journey, again to behold and to take possession of their hereditary home.
On their arrival, however, they found it inhabited, under rent of Doctor Rowel, by tenants whom the reader will feel no less surprised than was Fanny to find there.
A meeting, and a parting. Being one of the most agreeable, pathetic, and loving chapters to be found in this great history.
NO long period of observation was required after Colin's arrival at Mr. Calvert's, to enable him to discover that deep anxiety, and care, and watchfulness, now reigned throughout that house touching her, his own beloved, who so lately was as its life-spring and delight. The absence of joy, if not the positive presence of melancholy, was visible in every countenance. The voices that spoke, spoke in a lower tone than formerly; while those of Mr. and Mrs. Calvert were seldom heard at all. The blinds of the windows seemed to be permanently kept more than usually low;—unconsciously, perhaps, on the part of the inmates of the place; but, then, that little circumstance agreed with the general tone of their feelings, and so it became as it were natural. He also observed, that though it was that precise time of day when a canary bird that hung in the sitting-room usually sang so gladly as to make itself heard nearly over the whole house, the singing bird was now mute. A piece of white muslin that had been thrown over his cage many hours ago to keep off the sun, had ever since been forgotten. It kept him silent; yet strange enough, nobody appeared to miss his singing, nor to think a moment of the little ruffled and discontented heap of living music that fretted in gloomy silence beneath.
At length, Jane, who, he had previously been informed, had lately confined herself almost wholly to her own chamber, was introduced by her sister; the latter having, with careful consideration, already cautiously communicated to her the fact of the arrival of her brother Roger, and of Colin.
“How changed!” thought Colin as his spirit absolutely shrank at the first sight of her. “How like a creature whose heart is gone,—all whose ties to the world are rapidly loosening, and who soon must be caught back to the earth, or the chance will be lost for ever.” In her face was written, as all might read, thatthe pastwas all of a pleasant existence she should ever look upon.
Yet when she saw him,—though all the family was around,—though all eyes were upon her,—though the father looked solemn, and the mother half chidingly; she at once flew towards him with the joy of a lark upwards. For what was all the world besides,—its thoughts, and sayings, and opinions,—what were they now to her? Nature was nature in her bosom,—pure, frank, and virtuous; and her feelings those which Heaven had planted there for the wisest, the best, and the happiest purposes.
At this affecting sight her mother sobbed aloud; Mr. Calvert turned away, and pressed the tears back into his eyes in silence. Her sister seized her hands in hers, and as she pressed them with a loving pressure entreated her to be composed. Her elder brother sat mute, looking seriously on the floor; while honest Roger, himself, with the tears bursting from his eyes, struck his hand upon the table, in a sudden agony of goodwill, and exclaimed,
“Sheshallhave him, I say!”
The plainness and oddity of this declaration contrasted so comically with the occasion upon which it was made, that scarcely a single person present could forbear smiling; while, certain it is, that every one, not excepting even the most obstinately opposed to that event, felt a sudden conviction that Roger's words would somehow or other eventually come true.
But as suddenly as that conviction flashed across the mind, so, with respect to Mr. and Mrs. Calvert, did it as suddenly again cease. For though, during some few brief moments of promise which the temporary excitement of their feelings had produced, they felt half inclined to relent, and to endeavour to make the best of those circumstances which it seemed in vain any longer to oppose; yet, as the cause of that sudden conversion lost its temporary influence, they fell back upon former old objections with almost increased prejudice; just as in many other cases people will adopt a new doctrine for awhile, but when the particular circumstances that caused them to do so are removed, will as surely return with additional liking to their old and familiar opinions.
Long and curiously did these two afterwards discuss the matter, and how finally it should be settled; while Colin and Jane, with a far less expenditure of sage remarks and clever suggestions, were rapidly settling it in good earnest without any discussion at all. There were no “pros” and “cons” with them; no question about conventional proprieties; nor any considerations as to what the world might, or might not think, in reference to them. Enough for Jane that Colin was, in his own person and mind, all that a young man should be, to be loveable and deserving of love; and for Colin, that Jane seemed to merit more than the utmost of what it was possibly in his power to bestow.
While the last named pair regarded the question as altogether one of the heart, and into which no other conceivable interest should be allowed to intrude, the parents of Jane held it as totally a question of the head, or imagined right or wrong, and of propriety or impropriety, so far as the maintenance or the sacrifice of their own peculiar opinions might possibly be involved. But inasmuch as even the worst philosopher may venture most safely to back the heart against the head in any contention of the kind here spoken of, the reader will not feel surprised to learn that Colin and Jane would certainly have triumphed, had it not unluckily happened that some time before their forces could be brought perfectly to bear, Mr. Calvert one day sent a message to Colin, requesting his company in the former gentleman's study, and on his appearance delivered to him the following very disheartening and painful speech:—
“After what has occurred, Mr. Clink, since your return to town, and from the scene it was our painful fortune to witness between you and my daughter on your arrival here, I feel a firm conviction, which every day serves to strengthen, that the time has arrived when it becomes my duty as a father to come to some positive and decisive determination in this matter. Much as I respect Mr. Lupton, for notwithstanding his deep indiscretions, upon which it is not my duty to pronounce any judgment, I yet know him to be in many respects most highly deserving of esteem; and worthy and deserving a young man as I certainly think you yourself to be, yet there are causes which from the first made me fearful, when I found your preference for Jane, that a continued acquaintance between you could not lead to any happiness. I shall not allude to those causes in any more direct manner, for you probably can judge sufficiently what I mean, without the necessity for any more explicit statement.”
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Poor Colin here blushed crimson and bowed his head down, as Mr. Calvert proceeded:—
“But with my habits of thinking, and the principles I have always cherished from my boyhood, it would be inconsistent with my usual practice, were I to hold those causes as too light to be regarded as an obstacle to your ultimate views. To me they are of every importance: I might more properly call them insurmountable difficulties. And though I am perfectly aware that such matters are too frequently regarded with careless, and, as I take it, with criminal indifference, yet I hold them as so far affecting in themselves the moral principles of society, as so far contrary to the dictates of religion, and to the obligations due to the more correct portions of the community, that I feel, painful and bitter as is the task, I feel compelled thus plainly and distinctly to declare my sentiments to you in the hope that, after having so done, nothing more will be required in order to assure you of the course which it is most necessary for me to wish you at once and immediately to adopt.”
“Sir!” said Colin, as his heart seemed to swell into his throat and almost prevent him speaking, “I cannot, sir, but respect your motives, and feel more deeply how muchIshall lose if I am under the necessity of quitting this house and seeing those who are in it no more. I know what your objections are,—they are not to be removed, and are irremediable. I am what I am; and for myself I have no apology to offer,—no excuse to make.”
He would have spoken more, but at that moment he could not.
“Stay!” observed Mr. Calvert, “do not mistake me. It is your misfortune, not your crime: and for misfortune which no power of yours could ever remedy, apology or excuse can never be demanded. It was my hope some time ago that Jane and yourself might possibly dissolve this acquaintance yourselves, when my sentiments and those of her mother and family were made known to you both; and thus render such an explanation as the present needless. But I have been mistaken: and in permitting that farther communication which I foolishly hoped would terminate itself, we have only fastened the bands more tightly, and increased the probabilities of pain on that after-separation, which, difficult as the words are to me to speak, I still am compelled to say,mustbe effected. We cannot go on thus any longer. Even now it is a question of every importance to you both. To my poor dear daughter it may soon become a question of life or death. The possibility of such a result must be averted. The step must be taken in time. Though the blow be painful it must be struck. Nevertheless, when you are gone, carry with you the assurance that I still continue, along with all my family, to think honourably of you,—to remember your worthiness,—to look with melancholy pleasure upon the time when we could entertain you personally under our roof,—and to regret to the last hour of our lives that so unhappy an ending should have come to the young affection of one whom it would have been our delight, if possible, to have blessed with the good creature—for such my Jane is—the good and worthy creature he had sought.”
So saying, Mr. Calvert pressed Colin's hand energetically during several minutes.
“Bless you, my friend!” added he, as he gazed upon the heart-broken youth beside him,—“Bless you!—Even now I cannot part with you without betraying more than becomes me as a father in such a case.”
And as he falteringly uttered these words, his eyes confirmed them with nature's purest token of severed friendship.
“Your worthiness,” at length replied Colin, “makes me, sir, lost what to say. Had you treated me harshly I could have replied; but as it is, I feel still the more bound by the very efforts made to shake me off. If you will have it so, sir, I know not how to oppose: though certainly it is impossible for me ever to comply. Not by that, that I mean to say the wishes of so worthy a man shall not be carried out as far as Heaven will give me power to do it: but thoughIgo away never to return more, believe me, sir, my heart will be left with those I leave,—I shall do my best to forget where I am,—to inhabit this place still in imagination, and live out my life at least with the memory of her whom I am forbidden to know in any other manner.”
“Endeavour to be reconciled,” observed Mr. Calvert; “and remember that even the most favoured cannot say that this world was made for happiness.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed Colin bitterly,—“it is not indeed.”
“I am afraid,” rejoined his worthy friend, “that on neither side shall we ever cease to feel pain on this subject; but it will be our duty to bow with humility before those decrees which we cannot escape, and to endeavour to persuade ourselves that everything may possibly be after all for the best.”
“It cannot, sir,” replied Colin in the agony of his spirit; “it can never be for the best that we should be separated for ever! It is impossible. For however well it may be for others, to us it can be nothing but inevitable misery.”
“Do not speak thus, my young friend,” answered Mr. Calvert; “I am myself an old man, and have many times found in the course of a long and not uneventful life, that out of those circumstances which at the time of their occurrence promised nothing but unhappiness, the unseen agency of Providence not unfrequently deduced consequences the most important to our future welfare. Just as, on the contrary, we often find that the fairest promise of happiness ends in the least practical result; and at the bottom of the sweetest cup we find the bitterest dregs.”
Colin was about to reply, but Mr. Calvert waved his hand as significant that he would add a few more words.
“Who knows,” he asked, “but that under this, to you, most dire of disappointments may lie hidden the cause of all your future happiness? Unseen, it doubtless is to you now, and difficult perhaps of being even imagined. But inasmuch as no man can foresee what is in store for him, nor predicate from things present of things to come, it is at once the wisest way and the most in accordance with our faith and dependence upon Providence, to make ourselves willing to accept as the best possible good, with reference to our future welfare, those fatalities of life which no endeavours of ours can possibly avert. Be comforted; and strive both to forget the past and to believe the present and the future more rife with satisfaction than, under the influence of your existing excitement of feeling, they else might appear.
“And now, having, as I hope, settled this matter in the best manner it will allow of, let me add one more observation, and I have done. Under every possible view of the case, and considering that no conceivable good could come of a formal parting, I must beg of you to regard your interview, this morning, with Jane asthe last. It is better that you do not see each other again.”
“Oh no, sir, no!” exclaimed Colin, “you cannot mean that. It is impossible. When I left her but now to come to you, I had not half told her what I intended to say, and I promised to be back again as soon as I had seen you. She begged of me not to be long, because with all her grief she could not bear to be alone. I must go, sir; if it be only to say one good-b'ye,—just one,—and no more!”
“Better not,” faltered Mr. Calvert, half between a smile and a tear.
“Yes, sir,—yes,—you will 'not deny us that.”
Mr. Calvert's lips quivered, but he said nothing.
“I am made unhappy for ever, now!” added Colin.
After a pause Mr. Calvert replied, “Then you must see her in my presence, if at all.”
“Anywhere!” exclaimed our hero gladly; “but let me see her again.”
Jane was now sent for. When she entered the room, Colin could no longer restrain himself. The sight of her made him burst into tears.
“Jane, my girl,” began the father as he took her hand, and led her gently beside his own chair; “I hope you will sustain yourself for a few moments, while I simply explain to you that Mr. Clink and I have had some conversation upon the same subject as that upon which your mother has already spoken to you. The matter is now finally settled. But Mr. Clink wished, before he went, to bid you a good-b'ye for the last time; as you part friends with him, the same as, from my heart, I can sayIdo; and not for myself alone, but in the name of all the family.”
Jane could not speak, but her pretty throat swelled like that of a nightingale that dies, as poor Keates describes it, “heart-stifledin its dell.”
“Father!” at length she whispered, “it is not—is not—true!”
Mr. Calvert remained fixed and mute as a statue.
“It cannot be true!” continued Jane; “you would never—never make me so miserable! I do not believe it—I cannot!”
At length her father spoke.
“My dear girl,” said he, with a solemnity which he could not help, and of which he was not himself conscious; “youmustendeavour to be resigned. As you love me, let me beg of you to calm yourself, and endeavour to seek in prayer to Heaven that comfort which I never thought to see a child of mine so much in need of. You want peace of mind, child.”
“Ido, father!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands; “no poor soul more than I.”
Another pause ensued here, during which Colin clasped Jane's other hand, as though when that one grapple was over, the world would be lost, and he should sink for ever. His eyes were on her face, but he could not see.
“And now,” added Mr. Calvert, half-chokingly; “do not prolong this scene. We can do no more. Bid each other a loving good-b'ye, and be that kiss the last.”
“I cannot!” exclaimed Jane, hysterically; “Icannot!Father! I love him, andshalllove him everlastingly. You will not part us, I know. He will never leave me—never! Oh no! no, no, no!”
And poor Jane fell into a fearful convulsion, that made all cheeks pale and eyes wet for mere pity at her trouble.
This event brought others of the family into the room, and amongst them Colin's best friend, Roger. No sooner did he see what had happened, than his spirit and his feelings were at once aroused.
“I tell you,” he exclaimed passionately, though without addressing any one in particular,—“I tell you, you will kill the girl if you go on in this way with her!”
And then Jane was carried away and placed on her pretty white bed, and tended carefully by her mother and her sister and her waiting-maids, until life came reluctantly back again, and she waked once more into the consciousness of misery.
“Is he gone, mother?” she demanded in the first faint tones that conscious animation supplied to the tongue; “is he gone?”
“No, my dear, he is not gone; nor is he going yet,” replied Mrs. Calvert.
“That's right!—that's right!” she exclaimed. And then, as she looked her parent earnestly in the face, she asked—“Mother! do you remember howyouever loved my father?”
That little simple appeal was irresistible, as a world of tears soon testified.
After that Jane grew calmer, and sat up with her mother and sister to catch the air from an opened window that looked through a nest of vine leaves into the garden.
Meantime Roger Calvert, his father, and Colin, had further conversation below stairs, which ended in producing a determination on the part of Colin and his friend of great interest as well as importance in our history, but which will be farther explained in another chapter.
Reveals various curious particulars; of which the mysterious disappearance of Jane is not the least.
IN the desperate state of things implied by the proceedings last recorded, it will not be marvelled at that measures equally desperate should have been projected by Colin in conjunction with his friend Roger; though eminently calculated, provided they could but be carried out, to bring him that final satisfaction which it appeared impossible for him to attain through any other more moderate course.
Roger's general conduct towards Colin, throughout the affair, had inspired the latter with every confidence in him, and the certainty of being able to command his services in any enterprise which had the happiness of Jane and himself for its object. Nothing indeed but that confidence could possibly have induced Colin to take the earliest opportunity that offered, after the scenes described in the preceding chapter, to draw Mr. Roger Calvert into an unobserved part of the house, and propose to him that they should settle the matter at once and for ever in a manner already suggested,—that is, through the medium of an elopement during the night. Colin argued that it was now sufficiently evident he had no chance of succeeding unless by resorting to that gentle violence just alluded to. He contended that Mr. and Mrs. Calvert would never give way without it,—that if once done it would afford them a capital excuse for reconciling themselves to the match, when such reconciliation had become a matter of necessity, without involving them in any of that unpleasant compromise of principle, as they supposed it, which at present constituted the great obstacle to their union.
He even ventured to suggest, that very possibly if theycouldbe made aware of his projected attempt, they would secretly feel inclined to connive at it,—seeing that at least Jane's happiness would be for ever destroyed, if even her very life were not sacrificed, were not something done to avert those consequences of parental opposition which now seemed to hang over them. As for himself—without her, happiness for him in any situation, or under any circumstances, was totally out of the question. He felt assured of the impossibility of his living other than a miserable life, and dying a death at last which disappointment and misfortune had rendered welcome. He concluded by beseeching his friend, as he knew his honourable intentions, as he recognised the justice of his suit, and felt at once for his sister's unhappiness and his own, to give him his support and assistance in carrying out such a project.
“I should decidedly say,” replied Roger, “you have good cause for eloping under the circumstances—that is, supposing Jane herself has no objection; and I assure you it is what I myself should do in the same situation.”
Thus supported, Colin entered on his design with increased alacrity and spirit; but as his final leave of Jane was now understood to have been taken, he had no ready means of communicating with her upon the subject, except through the agency of her brother Roger. He, however, very readily undertook the task of informing his sister of the design, as he considered it absolutely scandalous that the happiness of two young people's lives should be utterly blighted simply because her parents entertained notions which, however conscientious, by no means (in his opinion) could justify for a moment their perseverance in measures of so important and violent a character.
It was, therefore, agreed between them, that, in order the more successfully to carry on their plan, Colin should that night take a respectful leave of the family under the impression, on their parts, of never seeing him again; but that, instead of quitting London, he should only retire to some hotel, or to a friend's house, where he could remain until such time as matters were arranged for his and Jane's departure together. This accordingly he did, quitting Mr. Calvert's house not without considerable grief on the part of all who dwelt beneath the roof, except Roger himself, though, on Colin's own part, with such a poor, miserable exhibition of sorrow, considering the unfortunate situation in which he was placed, that the good Calverts were quite astonished thereat, and, after he was gone, began very strongly to suspect that, after all, there was not half the feeling and excellence in him they had previously been led to believe. He had not produced even a single tear on the occasion; while Mrs. Calvert spoke almost positively to a certain something like a smile lurking about his mouth, which she had observed at the very moment when her husband had so feelingly remarked to him that, while he wished him well on earth, perhaps the next time they met it would be in heaven. Yet the hard-hearted young man did not seem so much as to think of crying even at that, but actually took it as coolly as though he were going to meet them all again in the course of two or three days from that identical night. These things certainly had a strange look, though they might possibly be the result, not so much of indifference, as of an heroic determination, on his part, to disguise his sorrows until the painful trial was over. Roger was appealed to for judgment in the case, but he professed to have no power over other men's bosoms, nor ability in discovering the profundities of their springs of action. But the truth of the matter was, that while Roger enjoyed excellent reasons within himself for keeping the secret, he also felt materially disinclined for conversation. The departure of his friend had put a seal upon his tongue; while it had likewise rendered him uncommonly anxious to see how his sister Jane bore it, and to offer her such consolation under the circumstances as might chance to lie in his power.
When, at length, Roger went to see her, he found her sitting alone, as she had particularly begged to be left, looking more like a spirit in the twilight than an embodied creature.
“Jane!” said he, as he entered the room and advanced towards her. She started astonished—almost affrighted. That one word had come upon her like a thunder-clap. It had awakened her from a reverie or a dream—suddenly snatched her, as it were, from a world of her own sad imagination back to the still sadder world of nature about her.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “who is it?”
“Only I,” replied Roger. “Dry your eyes directly, there's a good girl. I have something to tell you that I hope will make you glad. I told you before that you should have him, after all.”
“Oh—” cried Jane clasping her hands, “has my father——”
“No, no; not that,” rejoined her brother; “but something that will do quite as well. Only you must speak low and let nobody hear, or else we shall spoil the whole business. Colin and I have settled it altogether between us. Youmustdo it, you know, for your own sake as well as his, and do not hesitate a moment about it. I'll tell you plainly what it is,—you must give your consent for Colin to run away with you.”
Jane shook her head.
“Youmust,” repeated Roger; “there is no other mode of managing it:Iwill go with you, and we will all three fly down to Mr. Woodruff's house, where we will have a parson to marry you directly, so as to make the matter safe; and then father and mother, and everybody else may make the best of the matter they can!”
“Do not play with me,” said Jane; “I cannot indeed bear it now!”
“I never was more in earnest in my life!” exclaimed Roger, emphatically; “I tell you it is all settled, and youmustdo it, whether you like it or not. I won't see your happiness sacrificed for the want of a little spirit on your part when it is so much required. Look here—”
And Roger drew forth a letter which Colin had hastily indited before taking his leave, and confided to him to deliver to his sister at the earliest opportunity.
“Here,” he continued, “is a note from Colin upon the subject, which I dare say you will not refuse to read.”
“It is too dark,” answered Jane; “besides I dare not. Whatwouldthey all think of me if I were to listen to such a proposal as this?”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Roger; “they would think a great deal better of you after it was all over, than ever they could think of themselves, if they should have to put up for you a tablet in the church, with an inscription that you had died of disappointment brought on by their own rigour. Here, take it, and I will fetch you a lamp to read by.”
Jane took the letter, and her brother hastened out to fulfil his intention.
The moment he was gone, Jane rose with uncommon alacrity and hastened to the window. Yes, there was yet light enough to make most of it out, although she thought it dark not a minute ago. The letter said a hundred sweet and happy things, such as she felt certain no man had ever said before; such as evenhehad not ever thought of saying on any other occasion. It promised as certain an easy reconcilement with all parties; it told her he was sure of it, and bade her feel no fear. It visioned a world of delight for the future, and represented its writer as lost utterly, if she would not listen to her brother's advice and consent to act upon it. And then it concluded with more love signified in half a dozen little words than anybody else, she believed, could express in half a volume.
When Roger returned, which he did speedily, with a lamp, “I do not want it,” observed Jane, blushing to the forehead to be thus seen in the light, though it was only by her brother and best friend.
“What! won't you read it?” demanded he.
“It was light enough at the window,” faltered Jane.
“That's right!” exclaimed Roger; “I'll kiss you for that.”
And so saying, he caught his sister in his arms, and told her how good a girl she was for taking advice; at the same time promising not only to steer her safely through, but to ensure the good will of her parents as early after the business was concluded as possible.
But Jane still held out, and protested she dared not do it. And though her brother brought all his powers of oratory to bear in the endeavour to extort a promise from her, she persisted in her refusal, and at length told him it was quite useless to say anything more to her upon the subject.
Roger went away both puzzled and mortified; but within a few days afterwards it was remarked by all the family that Jane seemed quite astonishingly recovered from her melancholy. There was really a surprising difference in her manners; and hope began to be confidently entertained that in the course of a short time longer, she would have perfectly recovered her painful disappointment, and become once again that same pleasant creature she was before her eyes met those of Colin, but which almost ever since she had so unhappily ceased to be. However, at the very time when everybody expected and prognosticated that this desirable consummation would be effected, at that precise period when all happy eyes were again to be turned upon her with renewed gladness, then it was discovered, to everybody's amazement, that she was missing; Roger too had disappeared in a manner equally mysterious; nor wasJane Calvertever found again. A fact more remarkable than all.
A scene in a lady's chamber.—Before the Elopement, and after it.—Arrival at Charnwood, and who was found there.
WHEN our friend, Roger, first observed the change in his sister's spirits more particularly alluded to above, he regarded it as an omen so much more to be relied upon for its real significance than any words, that thereupon he wrote to Colin at the place where he was waiting in expectation,—stating the circumstances that had occurred, at full length; and insinuating that if Colin felt inclined to adopt a bold course and prepare everything in readiness for the expedition, he would engage, without any further delay, to persuade his sister to fly with them about day-break on a certain morning which he named. Mr. Clink, as may well be imagined, most eagerly seized upon the opportunity. His heart was on fire. Now was everything to be risked, and everything to be won. After the receipt of that letter he could not sleep nor rest until the arrival of the eventful morning.
Roger had already contrived to get Jane's maid into his favour, and to her was to be confided the duty of awakening her mistress and communicating to her the first intelligence of the arrival of a carriage at the gate; while, with his own hand, during the previous night, he not only secured all the members of the family fast in their rooms, by tying the doors outside, but also crippled the bell-wires in a manner so effectually, that an alarm of the servants by those means was rendered impossible.
At the latest possible hour he communicated to his sister the fact that everything was in readiness, and that Colin would be near the house before sunrise on the following morning to set off with her and himself on their journey to the house of Mr. Woodruff; that gentleman having already been communicated with on the subject, and his consent obtained;—partly, because he could refuse nothing to Colin, and partly, because his own daughter had used her influence in persuading him there could not possibly be any harm in affording such a refuge to the fugitives. This announcement, together with the prospect it held out to her, made Jane tremble all over and look full of fears; but Roger would not allow her to protest anything against it, as he stopped her as the first words escaped her lips, with the remark that nothing could possibly be said about it now,—the time was come—the thing settled—all arrangements made,—and she could not now do anything but prepare herself for compliance at the perilous moment when she should be summoned in the morning. So saying, he bade her good night, with an additional declaration that he could not hear a word of denial.
If the truth were told, I should tell how all that night poor Jane's heart throbbed incessantly, and sometimes, in correspondence with her thoughts, leaped suddenly as if it would go out of its place, I should tell how she never slept a single wink;—how earnestly she said her prayers, and how long! How, after many hesitations, and at last with many tears, she eventually put her trembling hand to the reluctant, yet loving, task of putting up such trinkets and jewellery as could not be dispensed with,—while her maid, as busy and as pleased as a summer bee, employed herself in a similar task with her dresses. And then, when all was over, how she stood silent awhile, looking on those places and around that room, which to-morrow her mother should find empty, and which now for the last time beheld her who had tenanted and adorned it from her childhood. That glass might never look upon her face again, which had seen her beauty grow up from pretty girlishness to perfect womanhood. That window would never more have the same eyes through it that had become familiar there—nor those leaves any more be put aside by the fingers that had so often saved them unbruised, when the little casement was closed for the night. I should tell how, as these and similar thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, the tears stole silently down her cheeks until she sank upon her chair, and declared, while she did so, that she should never have the heart to go!
But the heart has a way of its own sometimes, and sudden courage on occasion which it has not resolutions to contemplate beforehand. So, after the night had worn away, and when the time came for flight,—before yet the stars were gone, or any light more than a first dim gleam on a black ground, was seen in the east,—she plucked up resolution to be firm, but lost it again immediately, for the sound of a carriage wheels—thecarriage that was to whirl her away from her old home to a new life in a new place—faintly but distinctly came upon her ear.
“'Tis he!” she exclaimed.
“Truly, ma'am, I hope so,” replied the maid, “for I want to see you safe off and happy.”
“Hush!” said Jane, in a whisper; “listen, listen!”
In the next minute her brother Roger gently tapped at the door. It was true. She must go, and no delay be made—not a moment's waiting. And go she did; but in such a way, that when half an hour after she found herself sitting beside her maid, with Roger and Colin opposite, and being driven at a tremendous pace on the north road, out of the metropolis, she could not remember how she had got down stairs, or walked to the carriage, or who had helped her, or whether she had done so without any assistance at all. But there she was, and of little else did she seem conscious. With her lover matters were considerably different. Full of self-possession, and elated in the highest degree, he felt then as though but one idea existed to him in the world, and that one which may best be expressed in the exclamation of one of Moore's angels—