It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation is sometimes pleasant of course, and sometimes severe, according to the circumstances of the case, and character of the person, or rather of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt and feels in his own bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers, who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades the charge.
All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel, (some persons may think,) who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half peasant half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking post-chaise, towards the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without reading them over twice--Nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were suffered to flow, hardly interrupted--for the young sailor was still in a dozy, half lethargic state--and the two spirits, though the good one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom.
"I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am about," and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader, that he was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued the next moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care for but myself?"
That was one point gained at least! It was settled, thenceforth and for ever, that there was no reason on earth why he should not fall in love with Blanche Delaware, if he liked it. By the way, men very seldom get so far as that without being somewhat in love already. Few people think of attacking a fort without being in the army. The next step to be taken by a reasonable man--and Burrel was one of those people whose natural inclination to act by impulse was so strong, that he was very anxious, on all occasions, to give impulse a good reason, lest she should act without one, and then laugh at him for his pains--The next step to be taken was to find some good and legitimate cause, altogether independent of passion, why such a cool and considerate person as Henry Burrel looked upon Henry Burrel to be--and which he really was by habit, though not by nature--should fall in love with Blanche Delaware; and as it is not very easy mathematically to find a sufficient cause for falling in love at all, Burrel was obliged to proceed cautiously in the matter, from axiom to postulate, and so on.
He accordingly set himself to think over all he had seen of Blanche Delaware; and he did not find it in the least difficult to imagine, to assume, to demonstrate, that she had plenty of virtues and high qualities, (independent of her beauty,) to make her a desirable wife for any man. He next considered the question of marriage in the abstract, and was naturally led to conclude, with St. Paul, as cited by the Book of Common Prayer, that it is a state honourable among all men. All these steps being taken, he next looked into his own condition, and found that marriage might do him a great deal of good, and could do him very little harm. Then putting the points already gained in relative position with his own situation, he deduced the following: Marriage is good and honourable in all men--marriage in his own case was peculiarly advisable--and Blanche Delaware was peculiarly eligible for any man as a wife.
So far all was fair and prosperous, and he was like a ship with full sails and a favourable wind, dancing over a sunny sea towards the port of matrimony; and a very comfortable port, too, let me tell you. However, there was still one little obstacle to be got over, which the reader unless he be an under-graduate, will never divine. The fact is, that no man who has been long at either of the two learned universities, can bear the idea of falling in love. He looks upon it as a sort of disgrace; and Burrel, who was Christ Church, would not admit for a moment that he was the least little bit in love in the world. At the the time, with that sort of odd perversity, which, on some subject or another, is to be found in the breast of every one, he had no idea of any one marrying without being in love, unless, indeed, some point of honour or propriety required it. This latter opinion came of course from reading novels and romances, plays, poetry, and such trash; and, in his course through the world hitherto, these contending principles, always in opposition to each other, had kept him safe, sound, and unmarried, up to the respectable period of seven-and-twenty years. His Master of Arts degree, had acted as a shield to his heart from the many arrows which had been directed against it; and a romantic disposition had guarded him against that sort of abstract matrimony which is undertaken without love.
"He was an odd man this Mr. Henry Burrel!"
"He was so, sir! Just such another bundle of contrarieties as you or I, or any one else. We are all odd men, if you look at us closely."
The simple fact of Burrel's situation at that moment was merely this--He was not over head and ears in love with Blanche Delaware. He had not had time, sir! A man does not fall in love by steam! No; but he had at least advanced two or three steps in that quagmire, and he was not very likely to get out of it in a hurry. If any one who reads this book--and pray heaven they may be many!--have ever ridden a thorough-bred horse over a shaking moor, he will have seen that the animal, at the first two or three steps over the boggy ground, trembles at every limb, and if you let him, he will sink to a certainty. Your only way is to stick your spurs into his sides, keep a light hand and his head up, and gallop as hard as you can till you get upon firm ground. Now Burrel felt very much inclined to gallop. He got a little frightened at his situation, especially when he found himself stringing together so many reasons for marrying Blanche Delaware, and it was even betting, whether he staid to fall in love, or got into the ten o'clock stage, and dined in London.
The way that Love got over it was as follows: Burrel began to think about the events of the foregoing night, and the remembrance of saving the life of Blanche Delaware; and carrying her out through the flames in his arms, was, of course, too pleasant a little spot for memory, not to pause upon it agreeably. The flickering blush, also, which had risen in her cheek when she had seen him afterwards, rose up sweetly; and his next thought was to consider whether it would be more delicate again to apologize for entering her chamber in the middle of the night, or to leave it in silence, and never mention it at all. That was soon settled; but he then thought, "The story will, of course, be told about the country--ay, and with additions and improvements, which may very likely injure that sweet girl, and will, at all events, hurt her feelings if she should hear them. I would not have it so for a world--and yet what can one do to prevent it?"
At that moment, connecting itself with the blush, by one of those fine invisible links of thought, which defy all grasp, for who can
"Trace to its cloud the lightning of the mind?"--
At that moment, the few words he had spoken, at the top of the stone staircase, when he first found they were in safety--the outpouring of joy which had sparkled over the lip of the cup--the "Dear girl you are safe!"--were gathered up by memory and held up to his sight; and Burrel, who was a gentleman, and considered the point of honour more sacred and more delicate towards a woman than even towards a man, believed that he had said too much, not to say more, if he found that to say it, would not offend.
"Doubtless she will forget it!" he said to himself; "Doubtless she will never think of it more; but yet I have spoken what was either an insult or a declaration, and for my own honour's sake I cannot quit the country till I have pursued it farther."
Well done, Maître Cupidon! Strangely well managed for a little blind gentleman, strongly suspected of being lame in one leg! But 'tis time to give over gossiping, for I have a long story to tell, and very little space to tell it in; and if we stop investigating every thing that passes in the mind of all the principal personages in this tale, we shall never get half through all the perils, and dangers, and hairbreadth escapes, which have not yet begun.
Well, the chaise rolled on; but as, for the sake of his hurt companion, Burrel had ordered it to roll slowly, his own thoughts rolled a considerable deal faster, and he had got happily over the above cogitations, and a great many more to boot, before the vehicle entered the little town of Emberton. All the good folks in the place were agog with the joy and excitement of a fire, and the misfortunes of their fellow-creatures; and although it had been discovered, by the arrival of Mrs. Darlington's carriage, that unfortunately no one had been killed, yet every body looked out anxiously for the next comers from the scene of action, in order to have the pleasure of hearing a detailed account of the property destroyed. Good Lord! what a pleasure and satisfaction it was to the ladies of Emberton to commiserate Mrs. Darlington! There is certainly no affection of human nature half so gratifying as commiseration! It raises us so infinitely above the object we commiserate; and, oh! if that object have been for long years a thing or person to be envied!--Ye gods! quit your nectar, for it is not worth a sup, and learn to commiserate one another!
"Poor Mrs. Darlington! Only think how unfortunate to have her fine place entirely destroyed!" cried Commiseration.--"She that was so smart and gay, and held her head so high!" observed Envy.--"No great harm; it will lower her pride!" said Hatred.--"They say all her title-deeds are burned, and she is likely to lose the whole estate!" whispered Malice.--"It was ill enough got, I dare say!" added All Uncharitableness; "for no one could tell how her father made his money!"--And thus the matter being settled to the satisfaction of every one who had lungs to cry out, "Poor Mrs. Darlington!" the good people of Emberton waited anxiously for the next arrival, to see whether it would afford them any thing equally new and pleasant to say upon the subject.
The next arrival, as we before hinted, was that of Henry Burrel, Esq., carrying in the post-chaise along with him, "Poor Wat Harrison," as the surgeon had called him; and this conjunction of two such very opposite planets in one post-chaise, was wonderfully prolific of agreeable speculations to the folks of Emberton. Some declared that Poor Wat Hanison, or Sailor Wat, as he was called, had been detected in plundering the house, and had been brought down in irons. Some vowed that he had insulted Mr. Burrel, and had been knocked down by that gentleman with a blow which had fractured his skull. One little boy, who saw him pass with a bloody handkerchief round his head, ran across to his father on the other side of the way, crying out, "Oh, papa, they have brought home the widow's son, at the end of the lane, with his throat cut! You used always to say he would be hanged!"
Besides this gentle vaticination of his ultimate destiny, various were the reports that his appearance in Burrel's post-chaise produced. Nevertheless, the chaise rolled on, and, passing through the town, turned up the lane leading by the park wall towards the mansion-house, and, after proceeding about a couple of hundred yards, stopped at the door of a neat cottage, humble and small, but clean and decked with flowers.
"Stay, and let me help you out!" said Burrel to his companion, as the postilion opened the door.
"No, no!" cried the lad, rousing himself from the sort of dozing state in which he had hitherto continued. "It will frighten her.--Let me get out myself.--She has had frights enough already."
He was next the door, and he staggered down the steps with an effort; but, before his foot touched the ground, a female figure appeared at the entrance of the cottage. It was that of a woman of about forty years of age, with traces of considerable beauty, less withered apparently by time than by sorrow; for the braided hair upon her forehead was but thinly mingled with gray, the teeth were fine and white, the eye clear and undimmed. But there was many a line about the mouth which seemed to hold every smile in chains, and there was an expression of deep, habitual anxiety in the eyes, fine as they were, that can only be fixed in them by care. They seemed always asking, "What new sorrow now?" She was dressed in the garb of a widow--not deep weeds--but those habiliments which might still be worn as marks of the eternal mourning of the heart, after time and the world's changes had banished the memory of her loss from every bosom but her own. They were neat and clean, but plain and even coarse; and her appearance--and it did not belie her state--was altogether that of a person in the humbler class of life; but with a mind, and perhaps an education, in some degree superior to those of her own station.
As the young man got out of the chaise, she took two or three quick steps forward to meet him, exclaiming, with an anxious gaze at his face, "Oh, my boy! what has happened now?"
"Nothing mother, nothing!" answered the young man, "A knock on the head! That's all! Nothing at all! It will be well to-morrow;" and he strove to pass into the house, as if to hide himself from the anxious eyes which were scanning his pale face, dabbled as it was with blood.
Burrel sprang out of the chaise; and, putting his right hand under the lad's elbow, so as to support him steadily, he gently displaced his mother's hand by taking it in his own, and leading her on with them into the cottage, saying, as he did so, "Your son, my good lady, has had a severe blow on the head, from the falling of a beam, as he was aiding gallantly to extinguish the fire at Mrs. Darlington's. We have been obliged to bleed him; but, as you see, he is much better now; and I doubt not, with care and good medical advice, will soon be quite well."
By this time he had got the young man into the cottage, and seated him on a wooden chair near the door; but the words of comfort that he spoke seemed to fall meaningless on the ears of the widow, who stood and gazed upon her son's face, with an expression of anxious care which we must have all seen at some time or another, but which is hardly describable. It was not only the sorrow and the anxiety of the moment, but it was the crushed heart, prophesying many a future woe from long experience of grief,--it was the waters of bitterness, welling from the past, and mingling its gall with all things present or to come.
Her son was her first thought, but she marked Burrel's words, though she answered them not; for the next moment she said, as if speaking to herself--for distress had done away with courtesy, for the moment--"Where am I to get good medical advice?"
"That shall not be wanting, my good lady," replied Burrel kindly. "Come, come, the matter is not so bad as you think it. Get your son to bed, and as soon as Mr. Tomkins the surgeon returns, he shall have my orders to give him every attention. He will soon be better, so set your mind at ease."
"Oh sir!" answered the widow, looking, for the first time, at the person who spoke to her, "I have not known what a mind at ease is, for many a long year. But you are very good, sir, and I ought to have thanked you before."
"That you ought mother," said the young man, "for he got me out of the fire, and saved my life. God bless you, sir! I can be thankful enough for a good turn, in spite of all that the people of this place may say against me. They first drove me to do a wrong thing, and then gave me a worse name for it than I ever deserved."
"I believe it is too often so," answered Burrel, laying his hand with a gentle motion upon his arm; "and many a man like you, my poor fellow, may be driven from small faults to great ones. But it is never too late to correct one's mistakes; and as I will bear witness to your gallant exertions to save Mrs. Darlington's property, you will now have a good foundation to raise a better name for yourself than you seem to say, you have hitherto obtained. Let this make a new beginning for you, and I will take care you shall not want encouragement."
The young sailor suddenly grasped his hand, and wrung it tight in his own. "God bless you, sir!" he said, "God bless you!" and Burrel fully understood that the words of hope he had spoken, had found their way straight to a heart that might have gone astray, but was not entirely corrupted. After a few more kind words to the widow and her son, he got into the chaise again, and returned to his lodging. His first care was to provide medical aid for the young sailor, and he sent immediately for Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon, who had by this time returned. After giving full orders and authority to see the young man, God willing, completely restored to health, with all the necessary attendance and medicaments to be charged to his account, Burrel learned from the apothecary the history of the young sailor, which is as simple a one as ever was told.
His father and mother had married young, principally upon the strength of that camelion fricasee--hopes and expectations; and his father had settled in a small shop in Emberton, became bankrupt, and died. There is nothing wonderful in that; for oxalic--nay, prussic acid itself, has no advantage over broken hopes, except in being a quicker poison. If one takes up the Gazette, and looks at the names of the great bankers and merchants that have figured in its sad list during the last twenty years, we shall find that two out of three, have not survived their failure three years. Well, he died; and his widow did hope that the liberal creditors would allow her the means of carrying on her husband's trade again, or at least supporting herself and her child. But no. The world is a very good world, and a liberal and generous world,et cetera, et cetera, et cetera; but let no one, as they value peace, count upon its kindness or generosity for a moment. The liberal creditors left her not a shred on the face of the earth that they could take, and turned her and her beggar boy into the street. To the kindness of Sir Sidney Delaware she owed the small cottage in which she dwelt; but Sir Sidney, God help him! had hardly enough for himself; and though many a little act of comforting kindness was shown by the poor family of the park to the poor family in the cottage, yet that was not enough for support, and want was often at the door. As the boy grew up, his heart burned at his mother's need; and in an evil hour he became connected with a gang of poachers--plundered the preserves of Sir Timothy Ridout--was detected--resisted. The gamekeeper was struck and injured in the affray, and poor Wat Harrison, as he was called, was nearly finding his way to Botany Bay; when, by some kind management, he was allowed to go to sea, and remained in Captain Delaware's ship till she was paid off, a few months before the time of which I now write.
It has before been shown, however, that Wat Harrison had established for himself a bad character in the little town which saw his birth. To such a degree even had he done this, that the peculiar class of wiseacres, who have a prepossession in favour of hanging, uniformly agreed that poor Wat Harrison would be hanged. Such a reputation once established, is not easily shaken off; and although, at his return, he bore a high character from Captain Delaware, who reported him--what he really was--a brave, active, gallant lad, somewhat rash and headstrong, and with a disposition that, in good guidance, might be led to every thing good and noble--still the wiseacres shook the knowing head, and declared that all that might be very true, but that bad company would soon make him as bad as ever.
Burrel listened to the story with some attention; but by this time he had resumed his impenetrability, which had been a little shaken within the last four-and-twenty hours, and the good doctor could by no means discover what Henry Burrel intended to do in favour of poor Wat Harrison, or whether he intended to do any thing.
It is not improbable that, as the surgeon was really a kind-hearted man, he would have given what medical aid was required by the widow's son, even had no pecuniary remuneration brightened with its golden rays the horizon of a long attendance; but the unlimited order he received to do every thing that was necessary for the youth's complete recovery, inspired a new alacrity into all his movements; for there is no charity which is half so active as that which is paid for. Away, then, hied worthy Mr. Tomkins, undivided surgeon to the whole little township of Emberton and its dependencies, to attend poor Wat Harrison, with as much eager zeal as if the lad had been a Calender, a king's son, instead of a poor widow's; and his prompt appearance, as well as several mysterious "nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles," which he joined to some mysterious words about her son having secured a powerful protector, served greatly to soothe the heart of poor Widow Harrison. In good truth, much did it need soothing; for her only child had soon fallen into the same fearful drowsy state again, from which his first arrival at her humble dwelling had roused him, and either left her questions unanswered, or answeredà tort et à travers. This had terrified and alarmed her to a dreadful degree; and the assurances of the surgeon, that her son would do well, joined to the hints he gave, that her future prospects were brightening, brought the first rays of the blessed daystar of joy to shine in upon her heart, which had found their way through the casement of her cottage for many a-year.
The lad was by this time in bed, and a second bleeding relieved him; but it was now discovered that the beam had struck his side as well as his head, and there appeared some reason to fear inflammation from the feverish state of his pulse. Cooling drinks and refrigerants of all kinds were recommended; and as Mr. Burrel's orders had been dictated in a spirit of liberality, to which the mind of the village surgeon was averse to set bounds, yet afraid to give full course, he deemed it best to wait upon that gentleman, and state what he thought necessary.
"In regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, my dear sir," replied Burrel, who was found with half a dozen half-written letters before him; "in regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, I must let him trust to you. As to diet, thejuvantiaandlædentiamust be explained to my man, who shall have full orders to provide all that is necessary for him."
The letters on the table were a sufficient hint to a man, a part of whose profession it is to understand hints quickly; and after the words of course, he took leave once more, and departed.
A short time after, Burrel's silent servant, Harding, appeared at the cottage, bringing with him all that could make a sick man comfortable. He himself was active and attentive; and, considering his wonted reserve, Master Harding might be looked upon as loquacious. He showed none of those airs which the servants of fine gentlemen sometimes affect, when called upon to attend the poor or sick, in any of those cases in which their masters find it convenient to do the less pleasant parts of charity by deputy; but, sitting down by the bed of the sick man, he asked kindly after his health--talked over the accident which had occasioned the injury from which he suffered--turned up his nose at his own master, when Widow Harrison called down blessings on Burrel's head--declared that the time was fast coming when such men would find their right level--and hoped in his days to see the national debt wiped away with a wet spunge, and a reasonable limit fixed to the fortunes of private men, so that no such unequal distribution, of things that were naturally in common, should take place.
Widow Harrison was silent from astonishment, and her son was ill, and not logical; so that the oration of silent servant passed unquestioned, and he returned to his master's lodging, where, to do him all manner of justice, although he was perfectly respectful, his lips did not overflow with any of those warm professions of attachment and devotion which used to characterize the determined rascal in days of old. It is to be remarked here, that the character of the scoundrel, the pickpocket, and the thief, has changed within the last five or six years most amazingly; and that the leaven of liberal sentiments, of one kind or another, which has been so industriously kneaded up with the dough-like and ductile minds of Englishmen, has been naturally communicated in a greater proportion to the thieves, pickpockets, cheats, and valets-de-chambre, than to any other class in the state.
Far from finding fawning and cringing in the knavish valet--far from meeting courtesy and gentleness in the highwayman--far from being treated with urbanity and persiflage by the swindler--the first, when about to steal his master's silver spoons, discusses the origin of the idea of property; the second, when he lays you prostrate with a club, or blows your brains out with a pistol, swaggers about the rights of the people, while the swindler is sure to cheat you under the guise of a lecture on political economy; and the man who meditates cutting your throat in your bed, views you with cool indifference--reads Cato before he goes to rest--and, ere he sets to work, lies down to take an hour or two of sleep, and dream of Brutus. Oh, ye gods, it is a goodly world! and those who see most of the march of intellect, begin to suspect that its progression is somewhat like that of a crab.
About three o the clock of the day at which we are still pausing, the sky began to show a strong disposition to weep. A heavy shower came on, and if there were a spark left till then unextinguished amongst the blackened remains of Mrs. Darlington's house, there certainly now came down from above the wherewithal to drown it out effectually. The whole heavens became black and gloomy, and for about an hour there was nothing to be seen but a scanty allowance of prospect, half obscured by the gray drizzle. Shortly after, however, a yellow break made its appearance on the south-western edge of the horizon, and the rays of a September sun, mingling with the falling shower, poured through the streaks of rain, and seemed to fringe the cloud with an edging of spun glass. Moving slowly onward, the heavy mass of vapours left room for the evening sun to burst forth, and, while the rainbow waved its scarf of joy in the air, the whole world sparkled up refreshed and brightened by the past rain.
It was just about the same moment that Henry Burrel, rising up from a desk at which he had been writing, closed it, rang the bell, and, giving two letters to his servant for the post, ordered him to bring his hat and stick.
It happened, of course, that at the very same time the whole of the most gossiping heads in Emberton were at the windows of their several dwellings, endeavouring to ascertain if it were going to turn out a fine evening, and, of course, their speculations were soon confined to Burrel, who was seen to walk slowly along the street, to stop for ten minutes at the principal inn, either--as it was conjectured by the spectators--for the purpose of giving some orders, or of enquiring after the health of Mrs. Darlington, and then to proceed leisurely across the bridge, turn the corner of the park, and approach the widow's cottage.
The cottage itself being, as I have before said, two or three hundred yards removed from the town, in the turnings of a narrow road, was out of sight. But there was a house, which stood at the corner of the bridge, on the opposite side to the park, commanding a view of a considerable part of the grounds; and---from the windows of the first floor, a female figure having been seen walking quickly down amongst the trees on the left, while Burrel was pausing at the inn--Miss Mildew, the fair tenant of that story--a lady of about fifty-nine, who had exercised millinery, and had had her heart broken several times by the perfidy of man--put on her bonnet, and ran across the street to tell a congenial spirit, from whom she concealed nothing, that Miss Delaware was just going down to give the strange gentleman a meeting at the widow's cottage. Both held up their hands, and sighed mournfully over the depravity of the world, and the sad decline of female modesty in this latter day.
In the meanwhile Burrel pursued his way, and, entering the open door of the cottage, knocked at that of the room in which he had before seen the widow. Another door opposite, however, was immediately opened by Widow Harrison, and Burrel, entering the room with that pleasant and unpretending easiness of demeanour, which is always received as a kindly compliment by the lower classes, found himself, to his surprise, in the presence of Miss Delaware.
Although her mind was too little acquainted with evil in any shape to lead Blanche Delaware to fancy for a single instant that any one would put a wrong construction on her actions, yet there was something, she knew not well what, in all that had passed between Burrel and herself since their first meeting, that called up into her check a slight blush, unconnected with any unpleasant feelings, as soon as she beheld him--Those blushes are great tell-tales, and will often let out the secret of a woman's heart, before she herself knows that there is any secret in it; but we shall have more to say of them hereafter.
The blush instantly passed away, however; and, as Burrel advanced to speak to her, it was all gone.
"I am delighted to see you, Miss Delaware," he said; "for I really had hardly time to convince myself this morning that you had neither suffered from cold nor from alarm in all the terrible adventures of last night."
"Not in the least," answered Miss Delaware; "and I have to thank you, Mr. Burrel, for life. For, certainly, had it not been for your prompt and generous assistance, I must have perished by a miserable death. As it was," she added with a smile, which was followed by a blush again, "As it was, your assistance was so prompt, and I was so sound asleep, that I had not time to be frightened till I was safe. However, I must trust the expression of my gratitude to those who are more capable of doing justice to it. My brother, I believe is now gone to call upon you."
Widow Harrison had stood by, listening respectfully, but there was many a shade of care removed from her face since the morning; and as soon as Miss Delaware had ended, and there was a pause--for Burrel, feeling that he would a thousand times sooner be thanked by her own lips than by those of her brother, halted at his reply--the poor woman joined in to express her gratitude too. A degree of embarrassment, however, as to the manner, made her do it somewhat obliquely, and she exclaimed, addressing Blanche Delaware:--"Oh, ma'am! this gentleman is good and kind to every one! This is the gentleman I was telling you brought home my poor boy, and sent Doctor Tomkins and his own servant too; and has been so kind!"
Blanche Delaware looked up in Burrel's face with one of those sparkling smiles--as brilliant and more precious than a diamond--the beaming approbation of a good heart, at the sight of a good action.
Now, the good-natured world may say, if it list, that this chapter is all about blushes and smiles; but let me tell it, that, rightly valued and rightly read, there are not such beautiful or interesting things on the earth. A dimple is fair enough on a fair face, but it means little or nothing; but the smiles and the blushes of a fine and bright mind, are lovely in all their shades and expressions: they are the first touching tones of nature in her innocence--the sweet musical language of the heart.
And Blanche Delaware's smile was the sweetest that it is possible to conceive, and none the less so because it beamed upon as fair a countenance as the eye of man ever rested upon. Altogether, it was like the sunshine upon a beautiful country--lovely in itself, and lovely by that over which it played. "I thought it was the same, Margaret," she replied to the widow; "I thought it was the same, because--because--there was no other stranger at the fire, that I heard of at least."
Burrel might well ask his heart what it was about!--though it was a day too late; for by this time it was determined to have its own way. However, he knew more of the world than Blanche Delaware, and the knowledge of good and evil has always the same effect that it had at man's first fall. "And they knew that they were naked," says the Book of Genesis; and in that simple record, the main motive and hidden cause of all that class of weaknesses and follies is to be found which teach man to conceal his actions, his thoughts, and his feelings--to shrink from public censure, or fear the opinion of the world. The knowledge of the good and evil that is in the world, teaches even the noblest mind to know the proneness of all nature to wickedness, and makes it hasten to clothe itself in a seeming not its own. Burrel knew the world and its evil, and felt that, however pleasant it might be to stay where he was, and enjoy the conversation of Blanche Delaware for an hour, for her sake it would be better for him to refrain; and therefore, after visiting the young sailor, who was in bed in the next room, and bidding his mother ask frankly for every thing that was necessary for his comfort or recovery, he took leave of Miss Delaware, telling her that he would bend his steps homewards, in the hope of meeting her brother.
Ere he had crossed the bridge, his hand was clasped in that of Captain Delaware, who was, in fact, infinitely glad of an opportunity of drawing closer the acquaintance which he formed with his stage-coach companion. He thanked him animatedly and warmly for his gallant conduct in saving his sister, and apologized for the fact of his father not calling on him that night, on account of slight indisposition, adding, however, that it was his purpose to do so on the following morning.
To the latter annunciation Burrel merely bowed; but to the first he replied, with a smile, that he believed he owed Miss Delaware an apology more than she owed him thanks, for having so impudently walked into her room in the middle of the night; although, he believed, they would have been both burned if he had paused much longer to consider of proprieties or improprieties.
Captain Delaware laughed. "Blanche," said he, "though even I, her brother, cannot help owning that she is a verywitchinglittle person in her way, when she likes it, has no great desire to pass through such a fiery ordeal as that from which you relieved her; but if you will come with me to Widow Harrison's cottage she will thank you herself."
"I have already had the pleasure of seeing her, and have been thanked far more than necessary," replied Burrel; "for I certainly did no more than I would have done to serve any lady in similar circumstances; though I cannot deny that the merit of the action was greatly decreased by the object of it being Miss Delaware."
Captain Delaware paused for a moment, and then, catching his companion's meaning, replied, smiling at his momentary dulness, "Oh! I understand you! I understand you! But indeed, my dear sir, you must give me notice next time you intend to leave the complimentary part of your speech implied rather than understood; for, at first, I understood your meaning to be, that you would rather have served any other person than my sister."
"Quite the contrary," replied Burrel. "The pleasure I felt in serving your sister, took away all merit from the act--but compliments at all times are very foolish things, so I will have done with them; and only say most truly, that I was delighted to serve your sister.'"
"I understand you now," said Captain Delaware; and then added, laughing, "but you are accustomed to fine speeches, and I am not; so, forgive my first stupidity. I take your compliment at its proper value; and will--as the merchants tell us when we put into a strange port--discount it to my sister at the current exchange."
"Do not give her less than the amount," answered Burrel; and he spoke so seriously, that even Captain Delaware, though he was not very quicksighted in such matters, thought it better to let the subject drop. However, there was something in Burrel's tone, that for the first time made him think seriously of his sister's situation, and made him feel a pang, which he had never before felt, at the low ebb to which his house's fortunes had been reduced. Had there been in Burrel's conversation one tittle of presumption--had the pride of riches or of station shown itself by a word, by a very tone--pride, irritated by poverty, might have risen up in his bosom, and taught him to hold the stranger at arms-length, even though he had sacrificed what he believed would prove one of the most agreeable acquaintances he had ever made. But, on the contrary, though every thing in Burrel's appearance, manners, and establishment, showed habitual affluence, such a total disregard of the idle world's prosperity in others, evinced itself in his whole conversation--he seemed so thoughtful of wealth of mind and manners, and so disregardful of the poorer wealth, that Captain Delaware, feeling himself by nature, education, and habit, that noble thing--a gentleman--would not have hesitated to have introduced Burrel to a cottage, and said, "This is my home;" convinced that his companion would hardly see what was around him, provided some weak vanity on his own part did not call his attention irresistibly to the painful spectacle of pride endeavouring to hide poverty.
While such conversation had been passing between them, and such thoughts had been busy in Captain Delaware's bosom, Burrel, without any definite purpose, made a wheel upon the bridge; and, in a moment after, they were walking through the town together, towards the lane which led to the widow's cottage. Captain Delaware remained silent, as he continued meditating for two or three minutes, till remembering that the name of his sister--for whom he had a fund of deep love and respect, which influenced all his actions, even without his knowing it--had been the last upon their lips; and, feeling that some inference of deeper moment might be drawn from his silence than he could desire, he changed the subject, abruptly enough indeed, to make his sudden fit of thoughtfulness more liable to remark than if it had continued twice as long.
"Your servant," he said, "is certainly a descendant, not of Œdipus, but of his friend the Sphinx--which, by the way, our sailors, when we were at Alexandria, used always to call the Minx. I did not think I showed any very impertinent curiosity, but he could neither tell me where you had gone--which way you had turned when you left the door--when you were to be back--or, in short, any other fact concerning your movements this evening: for, feeling deeply indebted to you on poor Blanche's account, I wished to unload my bosom of its thanks."
"Oh, he is a discreet and sober personage, Master Harding," answered Burrel. "One of those men who have a great idea of not committing themselves; and I like him infinitely better than a plausible, fair-spoken knave that I had lately, who would not, or could not, loose my horse's girths, if the groom were out of the way, and who left me because I did not allow my servants Madeira."
"I hope you threw him out of the window?" cried Captain Delaware, giving way to a burst of honest indignation.
"Oh dear, no!" answered Burrel, "I saw him depart through the usual aperture, with a degree of coolness and fortitude he did not expect; and after trying another, whom Ididkick out, I was soon supplied with the present rascal, who is useful, silent, and circumspect. He cheats me in about the same proportion as the others, or rather less; is so far more honest, that he never pretends to honesty; and I have never yet discovered that he lets any other person cheat me besides himself."
"No very high character, either!" answered Captain Delaware.
"I beg your pardon!" cried Burrel. "Sufficient for a prime minister, and more than sufficient for a member of parliament.--But here we are at the cottage; I wonder if I dare intrude again upon Miss Delaware's presence?"
Captain Delaware made no difficulty, and a few minutes afterwards the whole party were observed--with Blanche hanging upon her brother's arm, and Burrel walking by her side, his handsome head bent down to speak and hear with the more marked attention--walking slowly along the lane under the park wall, till they reached the small door nearest to the mansion. There Burrel raised his hat, and took his leave; and while Miss Delaware and her brother entered the park, he drew up his head, threw wide his shoulders, and, resuming his usual gait, returned to the town.
The person who had observed all this, and who declared positively that she had not walked that way on purpose, reported it all fully to the honest folks of Emberton, who instantly prognosticated a marriage. How desperately they were mistaken, remains to be shown.
Burrel returned to his house, dined without the slightest symptoms of love being discernible in the removed dishes; and ended the day by sleeping as devotedly as if he had been a sworn votary of Somnus, first telling his servant to see that all the fires were put out, as he had not the slightest inclination to be woke from his rest again. A fire on two consecutive nights, however, is not a piece of good fortune that happens to every man; and Burrel, after having slept one third of the round dial undisturbed, woke the next morning, and sat down to breakfast, asking himself, what was to occur next?
Every man must find that there come moments in the dull lapse of life, when---as we feel that nothing can stand still--we are certain that something must happen, however small and trifling in itself, to change the monotonous course in which things are proceeding, and lead us to a new train of events. Did you ever trace the current of a small stream, reader, from its earliest gush out of the green swampy turf, or the little rugged bank, to its confluence with some other water? Do! It is amusing and instructive. At its first burst into existence, you will find it generally rushing on in gay and bounding brightness, fretting at all that opposes its course, and dashing over every obstacle that would retard its progress. Gradually as one obstruction after another meets and impedes its onward flow, slower and more slow becomes its current, till a mere molehill will divert its course, and send it wandering far in the most opposite direction to that which it originally assumed. But, after all, I am stealing an image; for some poet--I forget who--has said something very like it. Nevertheless, I make no apology for the robbery. The illustration suits my purpose, and I take it. Let every man steal as much as he likes; but put it in inverted commas, and it is all according to act of parliament.
It matters not that the thought be old: the figure is fully as appropriate as if it were new; and any one who has watched the progress of a stream, must have said in his own heart--"This is life!"
Well, Burrel, as he sat down to breakfast, had just come to one of those slow spaces in the current of existence, where he felt that some bank, or stone, or molehill, must turn the stream; and, as I have before said, his first thought was, What is to happen next?
Oh, that curious question, which has puzzled the wisest from the beginning of the world, and will puzzle them still, till the last day solves it for ever! What is to happen next?
It had scarcely passed, through Burrel's brain, when the door opened, and Sir Sidney Delaware was announced. He entered the room slowly, as was his custom; but, as he did enter, Burrel at once perceived that a certain air of coldness--which, like the mithridate of the ancients, defied all analysis from the multitude of ingredients that composed it--was altogether gone, and in its room there was a frank bland smile, as he greeted him, which unloaded the baronet's brow of the wrinkles of full ten years.
"I have come to visit you, Mr. Burrel," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "at an unusual hour, solely because I wished to see you; and, if you will give me leave, I will take my coffee with you," Burrel rang the bell, and the necessary additions to his breakfast-table were soon completed, while he expressed politely, but neither coldly nor cordially, his pleasure at the visit of Sir Sidney Delaware.
"My first task, Mr. Burrel," said the baronet mildly and kindly, "is to express my gratitude for the salvation of my dear child; and allow me to say, that no one who does not love her as I do, can feel what that gratitude is."
When a poor man and a proud man condescends to pour forth his feelings to his equal in mind and station, and his superior in more worldly wealth, it is a compliment which deserves instant return, and Burrel--though he had been unwilling to risk for a moment a fresh advance, to be again repulsed--felt, from the whole tone and manner of his companion, that the barrier was broken down between them. To have held back would have been an insult, and he instantly replied, not in the set form which means no more than a copy-line to a schoolboy, but in those words and accents that conveyed fully to Sir Sidney Delaware, that he had felt a real and personal pleasure in serving his daughter in the manner that he had done. He spoke frankly, though guardedly, of the charms and graces of Miss Delaware's conversation and demeanour--he spoke more boldly and feelingly of the impression that the blending of sailor-like candour with, gentlemanly feeling, in Captain Delaware, had produced upon his mind--and although Burrel alluded to these things in the tone of a man of the world, who had found out a treasure in pure nature that he had never before discovered, he did so without the slightest assumption of superiority; and both his words and his manner expressed alone unfeigned pleasure in the acquaintance he had made, and the service he had rendered.
"Enough, enough!" cried Sir Sidney Delaware, interrupting him as he was going on in his encomiums. "I came here to thank you for what you have done for one of my children, not to hear praises of both, that might perhaps make my old eyes overflow. But, as you speak of my son, I must not only confess that I owe you thanks, but an apology which I have promised him to make you, for not calling on you before. In that voluminous catalogue of lies, which, like hackney-coaches on a stand, are ready at the beck of every one, I might find a hundred excuses ready made to my hand, which you would be bound to receive as current; but my principles do not admit of my making use of them, and when I apologize at all, it must be by telling the truth. Unfortunate circumstances, Mr. Burrel," he added in a grave and somewhat sad tone, "have placed a painful disparity between the fortune and the station of my family. For myself, I do not covet wealth, neither do my children; but we have never sought, or even admitted, the society of any one who was likely to differ from us in our estimation of our own situation."
"Although such an apology is far more than I either deserve, or could expect," replied Burrel; "yet I own I am glad to find that you did not at all hate me for my own sake. As to my feelings and principles--if, as I hope, this acquaintance stops not here--you will soon find, my dear sir, that I am far too aristocratic in my own nature to dream that wealth can make any addition to rank--far too liberal in my own sentiments to dream that either wealth or rank can make any addition to gentlemanly manners and a gentlemanly mind. Do not mistake me, Sir Sidney Delaware," he added, seeing a slight shade come over the baronet's countenance; "I have every reverence for the institutions of society, and for those grades, which society can never be deprived of, without sinking gradually into barbarism of manners, if not barbarism of mind. All I mean to say, is, when I pay reverence to rank, it is a tribute I render to society--when I pay reverence to the individual, it is a tribute I offer to virtue, and that tribute will be offered to either, under all circumstances, and at all times; but I have no idea of bowing low to the purse in a man's pocket, or fawning upon the bottle of Lafitte that graces his sideboard."
Sir Sidney Delaware smiled. "I am afraid, then," he replied, "you are unlike the majority of our young men at present. The worst kind of aristocracy--because it must always be too new a garment to sit easily--the aristocracy of wealth, is springing up each day as the idol for worship; and I am afraid every one who may be said to have a golden calf in their house, will find plenty of our Israelites willing to commit idolatry, though to the worship of wealth in others may be applied the memorable words with which Sallust stigmatizes avarice itself--'Ea quasi veninis malis imbuta, corpus animumque virilem effæminat, semper infinita insatiabilis est; neque copiâ, neque inopiâ minuitur.' My own race have been too little followers of the blind god--I mean Plutus, not Cupid--and the effects you will see, if you do me the favour of dining in my poor house to-morrow."
"If I see yourself and family there, Sir Sidney Delaware, I shall certainly see nothing amiss, and probably nothing else; though," he added, feeling that the subject was one which had better be led into some other, as soon as possible, "though the house appears to be a very perfect and beautiful specimen of the peculiar kind of architecture to which it belongs."
"It is, indeed," replied the baronet, instantly mounting the hobby that Burrel set before him; "it is, indeed, perhaps the most perfect specimen of the architecture of the early part of Henry VIII. now in existence. It shows the first step from the pure Gothic to the pure Vandal, if I may so call it, which succeeded."
"Without pretending to be a connoisseur," replied Burrel, "I am certainly a great lover of architectural antiquities of all sorts; and I must endeavour to seduce you into pointing out all the peculiar characteristics of the place."
"I shall be delighted!" exclaimed Sir Sidney Delaware. "Let me beg you to come to-morrow early--come to breakfast--and give us your whole day, if you can spare so much of your time, which is doubtless valuable.
"Perfectly worthless!" replied Burrel. "So, remember if you find that I take you at your word, and bestow my whole day of tediousness upon you, it is your own fault; for you have invited me; and I shall look jealously for every yawn."
"No fear, no fear, my dear sir!" said the baronet. "I do not know how, Mr. Burrel, or why, but something in your aspect and manner makes me feel as if you were an old friend."
"May you always feel so!" replied Burrel, with a smile of pleasure, which vouched that the words were more than mere form.
"Even your face," continued Sir Sidney, "comes upon me like a dream of the past, and I feel, in speaking with you, as if I had just got my studentship at Christ Church, and were in those bright days again when the boy, standing on the verge of manhood, grasps at the crown of thorns before him, as if it were a diadem of stars. However, I feel towards you like an old friend, and shall treat you as such, which means--as one of the flippant books of the present day asserts--that I shall give you a very bad dinner."
"Do! do!" cried Burrel, shaking the hand his guest held out to him as he was about to depart. "Do! do! and I will find a way to avenge myself without difficulty."
"How do you mean?" demanded the baronet, pausing.
"By coming for another very soon," answered his companion. "So, I dare you to keep your word."
"I certainly shall," rejoined Sir Sidney Delaware, "if such be the penalty;" and they parted with feelings entirely changed on both sides since their meeting at the house of Mr. Tims.