The wind had blown away the clouds which lay so heavy on the sky the night before. The morning rose bright and sparkling, with a brisk gale stirring the air, and a clear, fresh, frosty look over the whole earth. At an early hour--for matutinal habits had become inveterate--Mr. Dudley rose, and going to the window, gazed out upon a scene of which he had been able to discover little at the dark hour of his arrival.
I will not pause to describe all that he beheld, for the public taste is as capricious in matters of composition as in regard to mere dress; and the detailed description of scenery, the pictures with the pen, which please much at one time, weary at another. It is a railroad age, too: all the world is anxious to get on, and we hurry past remorselessly all the finer traits of mind and character which were objects of thought and study to our ancestors, just as the traveller, in the long screaming, groaning, smoking train, is hurried past those sweet and beautiful spots in which the contemplative man of former days was accustomed to pause and ponder.
On one small portion of the landscape, however, I must dwell, for I shall have to speak of it presently, and must recur to it more than once hereafter. The house was situated in an extensive park; and a long avenue of beech trees, not perfectly straight, but sweeping with a graceful curve over the undulations of the ground, led down to the park gates and to the lodge. At a short distance from that lodge, a little thicket of wood joined on to the avenue, and ran along in irregular masses till it reached the park wall: and these objects, the avenue, the wavy green slopes of the park, the thicket beyond, and the top of the park wall, were those upon which Mr. Dudley's eye first rested. Beyond the limits of the park, again, in the same direction, he caught a glimpse of a varied country, apparently tolerably fertile and well-cultivated, close to the park, but growing rapidly wilder and more rude, as it extended into some high and towering downs, which Dudley conceived to be those he had traversed the night before.
As the reader well knows, some kinds of beech tree retain their leaves longer than almost any other tree or shrub, except the tribe of evergreens; and even through frost, and wind, and rain, they hang yellow upon the wintry boughs, till the coming of the new green buds, like ambitious children, forces their predecessors down to the earth. The avenue was thus thickly covered, so that any one might have walked there long unseen from most parts of the house or park. But when Lord Hadley, on his way back to London from the Continent, had accepted a kind, though not altogether disinterested invitation to Brandon--for so the place was called--he had merely mentioned that his tutor was with him, and to the tutor had been assigned a room considerably higher in the house than the apartments of more lordly guests. Dudley did not feel at all displeased that it should be so; and now as he looked forth, he had a bird's-eye view, as it were, of the avenue, and a fine prospect over the distant country. Thus he was well contented; and as he had been informed that the family did not meet at breakfast till half-past nine, and it was then little more than six, he determined to dress himself at once, and roam for an hour or two through the park, and perhaps extend his excursion somewhat beyond its walls.
One of the first operations in a man's toilet--I say it for the benefit of ladies, who cannot be supposed to know the mysteries thereof--is to shave himself; and an exceedingly disagreeable operation it is. I know not by what barbarous crotchet it has happened that men have tried to render their faces effeminate, by taking off an ornament and a distinction with which nature decorated them; but so it is, that men every morning doom themselves to a quarter of an hour's torture, for the express purpose of making their chins look smug, and as unlike the grown man of God's creation as possible. Dudley's beard was thick and black, and required a good deal of shaving. He therefore opened a very handsome dressing-case--it was one which had been a gift to him in his days of prosperity; and taking out a small finely-polished mirror, he fastened it--for the sake of more light than he could obtain at the looking-glass on the toilet-table--against the left-hand window of the room; then with a little Naples soap, brought by himself from the city of the syren, a soft badger's-hair brush and cold water--for he did not choose to ring the servants up at that early hour of the morning--he set to work upon as handsome a face as probably had ever been seen. The brush and the soap both being good, he produced a strong lather, notwithstanding the cold water; and turning to put down the brush and take up the razor, which he had laid down on a little table in the window, his eyes naturally fell upon that part of the park grounds beneath him, where the avenue terminated close to the house. As they did so, they rested upon a human figure passing rapidly from the mansion to the shade of the beech trees; and Dudley instantly recognised Edgar Adelon, the son of his host. There was nothing very extraordinary in the sight; but Dudley was a meditative man by habit, and while he reaped the sturdy harvest of his chin, he went on thinking of Edgar Adelon, his appearance, his character, his conversation; and then his mind turned from the youth to another subject, near which it had been fluttering a great deal both that morning and the night before, and settled upon Eda Brandon. Whatever was the course of his meditations, it produced a sigh, which is sometimes like a barrier across a dangerous road, giving warning not to proceed any further in that direction.
He then gazed out of the window again, and following with his eyes the course of the avenue, he once more caught sight of the young gentleman, he had just seen, hurrying on as fast as he could go. He had no gun with him, no dogs; and a slight degree of curiosity was excited in the tutor's mind, which he would have laughed at had it been anything but very slight. Shortly after, he lost sight of the figure, which, as it seemed to him, entered the thicket on the right hand of the avenue; and Dudley thought to himself, "Poor youth! he seemed, last night, though brilliant and imaginative enough at times, sadly absent, and even sad at others. He is gone, perhaps, to meditate over his love; ay, he knows not how many more pangs may be in store for him, or what may be the dark turn of fate near at hand. I was once as prosperous and as fair-fortuned as himself, and now--"
He would not go on, for it was a part of his philosophy--and it was a high-minded one--never to repine. As he passed to and fro, however, in the room, he looked from time to time out of the window again; and just as he was putting on his coat, he suddenly saw a figure emerge from the thicket where it approached closest to the park wall, beheld it climb easily over the boundary, as if by a stile or ladder, and disappear. At that distance, he could not distinguish whether the person he saw was Edgar Adelon or not; but he thought the whole man[oe]uvre strange, and was meditating over it, with his face turned to the window, when he heard a knock at his door, and saying, "Come in," was visited by the Reverend Mr. Filmer.
The priest advanced with a calm, gentlemanly smile and quiet step, saying, "I heard you moving in your room, Mr. Dudley, which adjoins mine, and came in to wish you good morning, and to say that if I can be of any service in pointing out to you the objects of interest in this neighbourhood, of which there are several, I shall be most happy. Also in my room I have a very good, though not very extensive, collection of books, some of great rarity; and though I suppose we are priests of different churches, you are too much a man of the world, I am sure, to suffer that circumstance to cause any estrangement between us."
"It could cause none, my dear sir," replied Dudley, "even if your supposition were correct; but I am not an ecclesiastic, and I can assure you I view your church with anything but feelings of bigotry; and, indeed, regret much that the somewhat too strict definitions of the Council of Trent have placed a barrier between the two churches which cannot be overleaped."
"Strict definitions are very bad things," said the priest; "they are even contrary to the order of nature. In it there are no harsh lines of division, but every class of beings in existence, all objects, all tones, glide gradually into each other, softened off, as if to show us that there is no harshness in God's own works. It is man makes divisions, and bars himself out from his fellow men."
Dudley did not dislike the illustration of his new acquaintance's views; but he remarked that he did not touch upon any definite point, but kept to generals; and having no inclination himself for religious discussions, he thanked Mr. Filmer again for his kindness, and asked him if there were any objects of particular interest within the limits of a walk before breakfast.
"One which for me has much interest," replied the priest: "the ruins of a priory, and of the church once attached to it, which lie just beyond the park walls. I am ready to be your conductor this moment, if you please."
Dudley expressed his willingness to go; Mr. Filmer got his hat, and in a few minutes they issued forth into the fresh air.
Taking their way to the right, they left the avenue of trees upon the other hand; and, by a well-worn path over the grassy slopes of the park, they soon reached the wall, over which they passed by a stone style, and then descended a few hundred yards into a little wooded dell, with a very bright but narrow stream running through it. A well-trimmed path, through the copse brought them, at the end of five minutes more to an open space bosomed in the wood, where stood the ruin. It was a fine specimen, though much decayed, of that style of architecture which is called Norman; a number of round arches, and deep, exquisitely chiselled mouldings, were still in good preservation; and pausing from time to time to look and admire, Dudley was led on by his companion to what had been the principal door of the church, the tympanum over which was quite perfect. It was highly enriched with rude figures; and the tutor gazed at it for some time in silence, trying to make out what the different personages represented could be about. Mr. Filmer suffered him, with a slight smile, to contemplate it uninterruptedly for some time; but at length he said, "It is a very curious piece of sculpture that. If you remark, on the right-hand side there is represented a hunt, with the deer flying before the hounds, and a number of armed men on horseback following. Then in the next compartment you see dogs and men again, and a man lying transfixed by a javelin."
"But the third is quite a different subject," said Dudley: "a woman, seemingly singing and playing on a harp, with a number of cherubim round her, and an angel holding a phial; and the fourth compartment is different also, showing two principal figures embracing in the midst of several others, apparently mere spectators."
"It is, nevertheless, all one story," said the priest; "and is, in fact, the history of the foundation of this church and priory, though connected with a curious legend attached to three families in this neighbourhood, of each of which you know something. I will tell it to you as we return; but first let us go round to the other side, where there is a fragment of a very beautiful window."
Dudley was not content without exploring the whole of the ruin; but when that was done they turned back towards the park again, and Mr. Filmer began his tale:--
"Nearly where the existing house stands," he said, "stood formerly Brandon Castle, the lord of which, it would appear, was a rash, impetuous man, given much to those rude sports which, in the intervals of war, were the chief occupations of our old nobility. In the neighbourhood there was a family of knightly rank, of the name of Clive, the head of which, in the wars of Stephen and Matilda, had saved the life of the neighbouring baron, and became his dearest, though comparatively humble friend. The lord of Brandon, though not altogether what may be called an irreligious man, was notorious for scoffing at the church and somewhat maltreating ecclesiastics. He had conceived a passion for a lady named Eda Adelon, the heiress of some large estates at the distance of about thirty miles from this place, and had obtained a promise of her hand; but upon one occasion, he gave her so great offence in regard to an abbey which she had aided principally in founding, that she refused to ratify the engagement, and entered into the sisterhood herself, telling him that the time would come when he, too, would found monasteries, and perhaps have recourse to her prayers. Five or six years passed afterwards, and the baron himself, always irascible and vehement, became more so from the disappointment he had undergone. The only person who seemed to have any power over him, and that was the power which a gentle mind sometimes exercises upon a violent one, was his companion, the young Sir William Clive. Hunting was, as I have said, his favourite amusement; and on one occasion he had pursued a stag for miles through the country, always baffled by the swiftness and cunning of the beast. He had thrown a number of javelins at it, always believing he was sure of his mark; but still the beast reappeared unwounded, till at length it took its way down the very glen where Brandon Priory stands, and then entered the thicket, just as the baron was close upon its track. Fearing to lose it again, he threw another spear with angry vehemence, exclaiming, with a fearful oath, 'I will kill something this time!' A faint cry immediately followed, and the next instant Sir William Clive staggered forth from the wood, transfixed by his friend's javelin, and fell, to all appearance dying, at the feet of the baron's horse. You have now the explanation of the first two compartments; I will proceed to give you that of the two others. The great lord was half frantic at the deed that he had done; the wounded man was taken up and carried to the castle; skilful leeches were sent for, but employed their art in vain; the young knight lay speechless, senseless, with no sign of life but an occasional deep-drawn breath and a slight fluttering of the heart. At length one of the chirurgeons, who was an ecclesiastic, ventured to say, 'I know no one who can save him, if it be not the Abbess Eda.' Now, Eda Adelon had by this time acquired the reputation of the highest sanctity, and she was even reported to have worked miracles in the cure of the sick and the infirm. Filled with anguish for his friend, and remorse for what he had done, the baron instantly mounted his horse, and rode, without drawing a rein, to the abbey, where he was admitted to the presence of the abbess, and casting himself upon his knees before her, told the tale of his misadventure. 'Kneel to God, and not to me, Lord Brandon,' said the abbess; 'humble your heart, and pray to the Almighty. Perchance he will have compassion on you.'
"'Pray for me,' said the baron; 'and if your prayers are successful, Eda, I vow by Our Lady and all the saints, to lead a new and altered life for the future, and to found a priory where my poor friend fell, and there twelve holy men shall day and night say masses in commemoration of the mercy shown to me.'
"'I will pray for you,' replied the abbess; 'wait here awhile; perchance I may return with good tidings.'
"While left alone the baron heard a strain of the most beautiful and solemn music, and the exquisite voice of the Abbess Eda singing an anthem; and at the end of about an hour she returned to him, carrying a phial of precious medicine, which she directed him to give to his friend as soon as he reached his castle. The legend goes that the phial had been brought down to her by an angel, in answer to her prayers; but certain it is, the moment the medicine was administered to the wounded man his recovery commenced, and he was soon quite restored to health. The baron did not forget his vow, but built the priory where you have seen the ruins; and in commemoration of the event caused the tympanum you have examined to be chiselled by a skilful mason. We find, moreover, that he bestowed the hand of his only sister upon the young Sir William Clive; and the malicious folks of the day did not scruple to affirm that the young lady had been walking in the wood with the gallant knight at the very moment when he received the wound."
The priest ended with a quiet smile, and Dudley replied with that sort of interest which an imaginative man always takes in a legend of this kind, "I do not wonder that where there are such tales connected with a family, it clings to the old faith with which they are bound up, in spite of all the changes that go on around."
"Alas! in this instance, my dear sir," replied the priest, "such has not been the case. The Adelons and the Clives, it is true, have remained attached to the church; the Brandons have long abandoned her. Even this fair girl, Sir Arthur's niece, has been brought up in your religion;" he paused a moment, and then added, with a sigh, "and continues in it."
Dudley could not say that he was sorry to hear it; but he was spared the necessity of making any reply by the approach of another person, in whom he instantly recognised the father of the girl whom he had aided to rescue from extreme peril the evening before. "Ah! Mr. Clive," he said, as the other drew near, "I am very happy to see you; I should have come down during the morning to inquire after your daughter. I trust that she has not suffered much, and that you got a surgeon speedily."
"In about two hours, my lord," said Clive; "country doctors are not always readily to be found; but the delay did no harm; the broken arm was set easily enough, and my poor girl is none the worse for what has happened, except inasmuch as she will have to go one-handed about the world for the next month or so."
"You have mistaken me for the gentleman who was with me, Mr. Clive," said Dudley; "he was Lord Hadley; I am a very humble individual, having neither rank nor honours."
"The nobility of the heart, sir, and the honours which are given unasked to a high mind," replied Clive. "I know not why, but both my daughter and myself fancied that you were the nobleman, and the other was a friend."
"The very reverse," answered Dudley; "he is the nobleman, I am merely his tutor."
The old man mused for a minute or two very profoundly, and said at length, "Well, I suppose it is all just and right in the sight of the great Distributor of all gifts and honours; but I beg your pardon, sir, for giving you a title that is not your due, which I know is a greater offence when it is too high than when it is too low. Against the one offence man is sheltered by his pride; to the other he is laid open by his vanity. Mr. Filmer, I should like to speak a word with you, if possible."
"Certainly," said the priest, "certainly; if you will walk on, Mr. Dudley, for a very short way, I will talk to Mr. Clive, and overtake you immediately. I beg pardon for our scanty expedition; after breakfast, or in the evening, we will take a longer ramble."
Dudley bowed and walked on, with very little expectation, to say the truth, of being rejoined by the priest before he reached the house; but he miscalculated, for five minutes had hardly passed when, with his peculiarly quiet step, rapid but silent, Mr. Filmer rejoined him. Dudley had clearly comprehended from the first that Mr. Filmer was a man likely to be deeply acquainted with the affairs of all the Roman Catholic families in the neighbourhood. There is one great inconvenience attending the profession of the Roman Catholic faith, in a country where the great bulk of the population is opposed to it. The nearest priest must be the depositary of the secrets of all; and it must depend upon the honesty with which they are kept, whether the private affairs of every family are, or are not, bruited about through the whole adjacent country. In lands where the population is principally papistical, such is not the case; for the numbers of the priesthood divide the secrets of the population, and it rarely happens that one man has enough to make it worth his while to talk of the concerns of the families with which he is connected, even were not his lips closed upon the weightier matters by the injunctions of the church. Dudley was somewhat curious to have an explanation of the circumstances in which he had found both Clive and his daughter on the preceding evening; but a feeling of delicacy made him forbear from putting any question to Mr. Filmer upon the subject, and as they walked on to the house he merely remarked, "I suppose this gentleman whom we have lately seen is a descendant of the person mentioned in your legend?"
"From father to son direct," replied the priest. "It is but little known how much noble blood there is to be found amongst what is called the yeomanry of England. If the old Norman race were still considered worthy of respect, many a proud peer would stand unbonneted before the farmer. But Mr. Clive cultivates his own land, as was done in days of yore."
"I should almost have imagined," said Dudley, with a laugh, "from the spot and manner in which I found him last night, that he added other occupations, probably, if less noble, not less ancient."
Mr. Filmer turned and gazed at him with a look of some surprise, but he made no reply; and as they were by this time near the house the conversation dropped entirely.
With a quick step Edgar Adelon pursued his way along the avenue, through the thicket, by the paths which he knew well, and over the wall of the park by the stones built into it to form a stile; but it was the eager beating of his heart which made his breath come fast and thick, and not the rapidity with which his young limbs moved. He knew not that he was observed by any one; and with that intensity of feeling which few are capable of, and which, perhaps, few for their own happiness should desire, his whole mind and thoughts were filled with one subject, so that he could give no heed to anything that passed around him. He walked on down a very narrow, shady lane, which led by a much shorter way than had been taken by the carriage of Lord Hadley the night before, to the house of Mr. Clive, and was entering a meadow upon the side of the hill, without observing that any one was near, when suddenly a voice called him by name, and turning he beheld the tall old man himself, and instantly advanced towards him and grasped his hand eagerly.
"How is Helen?" he said--"how is Miss Clive? Lord Hadley and Mr. Dudley told us of the accident last night, and I have been in a fever to hear more of her ever since. They said she was not much hurt; I hope it is so, but I must go down and see her."
The old man had gazed at him while he spoke with a fixed, steadfast look, full of interest, but in some degree sad. "She is not much hurt, Edgar," he answered; "her arm is broken, but that will soon be well. Otherwise she is uninjured. But, my dear boy, what are you doing? This cannot go on. You may go down to-day and see her, for you would not pain her, or injure her, I know; but you must tell your father that you have been. That I insist upon, or I do not let you go."
"I will, I will!" answered Edgar Adelon; "surely that will satisfy you. Injure her! I would not for the world; no, not for anything on earth."
"Well, if your father knows it, Edgar, I have nought to say," rejoined the old man; "and I will trust to your word that you do tell him. That which he does with his eyes open is his fault, not ours. All I say is, I will have no deceit."
"You will hear from himself that I have told him," replied the young man, with a glowing cheek; "but mark me, Clive, I do not always say when I go to your house any more than when I go to other places. If the occasion requires it I speak; but if not, I am silent."
Clive again looked at him steadfastly, as if he were about to add something more in a grave tone; but then suddenly laying his hand upon his shoulder he gave him a friendly shake, saying, "Well, boy, well!" and turned away and left him.
Edgar Adelon pursued his course with a well-pleased smile and a light step. His conversation with Clive was a relief to him; it was something which he had long seen must come, which he had dreaded, and it was now over. Five minutes brought him in sight of the house towards which his steps were bent; and he paused for a moment, with joyful beating of the heart, to look at it, as it stood rising out of its trees upon the opposite side of the dell, as if it were perched upon the top of a high cliff overhanging the valley; though, in truth, beneath the covering of the wood was stretched a soft and easy descent, with manifold walks and paths leading to the margin of the little stream.
It is no unpleasant thing to pause and gaze into the sparkling wine of the cup of joy before we quaff it: and such was the act of Edgar Adelon at that moment, although his whole heart was full of those tremulous emotions which are only combined with the intense and thirsty expectation of youth. Then with a wild bound he darted down the road, crossed the little bridge, and ran up the opposite slope. He entered the yard of the building at once, and no dogs barked at him. A small terrier came and wagged his tail, and the great mastiff crept slowly out of his kennel, and stretched himself in the morning sunshine. Edgar Adelon must have been often there before. He walked into the house, too, without ceremony, and his question to the first woman-servant he met was, "Where is Helen?" but he corrected it instantly into "Where is Miss Clive?"
The woman smiled archly, and told him where she was; and a moment after, Edgar was seated beside her on a sofa in the little drawing-room which I have described. I do not know that it would be altogether fair or just to detail all that passed between them; but certainly Edgar's arm stole round the beautiful girl's waist, and he gazed into her dark eyes and saw the light of love in them. He made her tell him all that happened, that is to say, all that she chose to tell; for she refused to say how or why she was out watching upon the road at a late hour of the evening. He was of a trustful heart, however; and when she first answered, with a gay look, "I went to meet a lover, to be sure, Edgar," he only laughed and kissed her cheek, saying, "You cannot make me jealous, Helen."
"That is, I suppose, because you do not love me sufficiently," said Helen Clive.
"No, love," he replied, "it is because I esteem you too much." And then he went on to make her tell him when the surgeon had arrived, and whether the setting of her arm had pained her much, and whether she was quite, quite sure that she was not otherwise hurt.
"My foot a little," replied his fair companion; "it is somewhat swelled; don't you see, Edgar?" And he knelt down to look, and kissed it with as much devotion as ever a pilgrim of his own faith kissed the slipper of the pope.
Then came the account of her deliverance from the perilous situation in which she had been found. "Do you know," she said, "if I had not been a great deal frightened and a little hurt, I could have laughed as I lay; for it was more ridiculous than anything else, to feel one's self half buried in that way, and not able to move in the least. Luckily it was the earth fell upon me first, and then the stones upon that, so that I could only move my arms; and when I tried to do that, it instantly set some of the stones rolling again, by which my poor arm was broken; so then I lay quite still, thinking some one must come by, sooner or later, till I heard a carriage coming up the hill, and saw by the light of the lamps two gentlemen walking fast before it. I called to them as loud as I could, and they both ran up. The one was kind enough, and was going to pull me out at once; but if he had done so, most likely he and I and his companion would have been all killed, or very much hurt. The other, however, stopped him, and kindly and wisely and gently, secured all the fragments of the wall that were still hanging over, so that he could get me out without danger; and then he lifted off the stones one by one, and he, and the servants, and the other gentleman removed the weight of the earth and lifted me up; and all the time he spoke so kindly to me, and comforted and cheered me, so that I shall always feel grateful to him till the last day of my life."
"And so shall I, my sweet Helen," said Edgar Adelon, eagerly; "but which was it, the dark one or the fair one?"
"Oh! the dark one," replied Helen Clive; "the tallest of the two. I think the post-boy told my father that it was Lord Hadley."
"No, no," said her lover; "the fair one is Lord Hadley, the dark one is Mr. Dudley, his tutor, and I am glad of it; first, because I like him best, and secondly, because I am more likely with him to have an opportunity of showing my gratitude for what he has done for you, dear girl. If ever I have, I shall not forget it, Helen."
"You must not, and you will not, I am sure, Edgar," answered Helen Clive. "I think that men's characters and nature are often shown more by the manner in which they do a thing, than by the act itself; and though I felt grateful enough for deliverance, yet I will confess I felt more grateful still for the kind and gentle way in which he spoke to me, asked if I were much hurt, told me not to be frightened, that they would soon release me; and still, while he used the very best means of extricating me, kept talking cheerfully to me all the time."
"God bless him!" said Edgar Adelon; "I shall love that man, I am sure."
"Then, too," continued Helen, "when they had put me in the carriage, and we had gone about half a mile over the down, I asked them to stop and let one of their servants go and tell my father what had happened to me; and the young light-haired one called to a servant he named 'Müller,' to go; but the other said, 'No, no! I will go myself. The man might only frighten your father;' and he opened the carriage door and jumped out, as if he had a real pleasure in doing all he could do for a poor girl whom he had never seen before, and a man whom he had never seen at all."
"That is the true spirit of a gentleman," said Edgar; "a better coronet, my Helen, than gilded leaves and crimson velvet can make. But now tell me more about yourself. When does the surgeon say your arm will be well, and when can you come out again to take a morning's walk?"
"I can walk quite well," answered Helen Clive; "my foot and ancle are a little bruised, but that is all. As for my arm, it may be six weeks, or two months, Mr. Sukely says, before I can use it; so no more playing on the guitar, Edgar, for a long time."
"Well, we must have patience," answered Edgar Adelon. "It is pleasant, my Helen, to hear you make sweet music, as the poet calls it, and warble like a bird in spring; but yet I do not know that the best harmony to my ear is not to hear the spoken words of that dear tongue in the tones of love and confidence. But come, we will have our morning walk; the brightest hour of all my day is that between seven and eight."
"I will get my bonnet on and come," answered Helen; and she left the room for the purpose she mentioned.
Edgar, in the meanwhile left alone, gazed for a moment or two at the pages of the book she had been reading, and was writing a lover's comment in the margin, when one of the doors of the room opened, and he started up, thinking that Helen had returned prepared. He was surprised, however, to see a tall, powerful, broad-shouldered man of about forty, well dressed, and having the appearance of a gentleman. His face, however, though intelligent, was not altogether pleasant in expression; the head was round, the forehead square-cut and massive, the jaw-bone large and angular, the eyes gray, but sharp and flashing, the eyebrows bushy and overhanging, and the grayish red hair cut short, and standing stiff and bristly, while enormous whiskers of the same hue almost concealed each cheek. The young gentleman, it is true, got but an imperfect view of him, for the intruder withdrew as soon as he saw that there was any one in the room, and closed the door. Edgar felt somewhat surprised and curious, for he had never before seen any one in Mr. Clive's house at that hour of the morning but himself, his servants and labouring men, and Helen; and with the rapid divination of thought, he at once connected the appearance of this stranger with the events of the night before. He had not much time for reflection before Helen Clive returned; but then he instantly told her what had occurred, and inquired who the visitor was.
"Ask no questions, Edgar," replied Helen, "or put them to my father; but at all events, do not mention to any one else, I beseech you, that you have seen such a person here."
Edgar mused, and walked out with her, perhaps in a more meditative mood than he had ever experienced in the society of Helen Clive before. It soon passed away, however; and they wandered on, side by side as usual, in conversation too deeply interesting to them to be very interesting to a reader of a work like this. But all bright things will come to an end, and that sweet hour, which perhaps they too often indulged in, terminated all too soon; and the impassioned boy took his way back to Brandon full of wild and glittering visions of love and happiness. He had somewhat outstayed his time; and when he reached the house, he found the whole party sitting down to breakfast.
"Why, why, where have you been, Edgar?" asked Sir Arthur; "you have been an early wanderer."
"Oh! I often am," answered Edgar; but remembering his promise to Mr. Clive, he added, "I have been down to Knight's-hyde Grange, to see poor Helen Clive after the accident of last night."
Sir Arthur Adelon seemed neither surprised nor displeased. "How is she?" he inquired. "Not much hurt, I hope?"
"Not much," replied Edgar, encouraged by his father's manner; "the dear girl's arm is broken, and her foot a little bruised, but that is all." His cheek flushed a little as he ended, for he saw not only the deep blue eyes of his beautiful cousin fixed upon him, but those of the priest also.
Sir Arthur took no notice, however, but merely said, "Did you see Mr. Clive, also?"
"Yes, I met him," replied the young man; "he was coming up this way."
"I must see him to-day, myself," said the baronet; "and I suppose, in gallantry, I ought to go down and ask after your fair playfellow, too, Edgar;" and turning towards Lord Hadley, he added, "they were children together, and many a wild race have they had in the park, when my poor brother-in-law Brandon was alive. Clive and he were related; for there is no better blood in the country than that which flows in the veins of this same farmer-looking man whom you met last night."
"Let us all go down and visit them, my dear uncle," said Eda Brandon. "I have not seen Helen for a long time."
The party was agreed upon, and the breakfast proceeded; but to one at least there present, the cheerful morning meal seemed not a pleasant one. Mr. Dudley ate little, and said less; and yet there seemed to be no great cause for the sort of gloom that hung upon him. Everybody treated him with the utmost courtesy and kindness; he was seated next to Sir Arthur Adelon, between him and Mr. Filmer. Lord Hadley, in big good-humoured way, never seemed to look upon him as the tutor, but called him on more than one occasion, 'My friend Dudley;' and there was a warmth, mingled with reverence, in the manner of young Edgar Adelon, when he spoke to him, which must have been gratifying.
Could the cause of the sort of melancholy which affected him, be the fact that Lord Hadley was seated next to Eda Brandon, and that his eyes and his manner told he thought her very beautiful?
However that might be, as soon as breakfast was over, and the party rose, Dudley retired at once to his room, and when he had closed the door, he stood for a moment with his hands clasped together, gazing on the floor. "This is worse than vain," he said at length; "this is folly; this is madness. Would to God I had not come hither; but I must crush it out, and suffer myself to be no longer the victim of visionary hopes, which have no foundation to rest upon, and feelings which can never be gratified, and which it is madness to indulge." He sat himself down to read, but his mind had lost its usual power, and he could not bend his thoughts to the task. Perhaps three quarters of an hour had passed, when some one knocked at his door, and Edgar Adelon came in.
"They are all ready to go, Mr. Dudley," he said. "Will you not come with us?"
"I think not," replied Dudley; "I am not in a very cheerful mood. This day is an anniversary of great misfortunes, Mr. Adelon, and it is not fair to cloud other people's cheerfulness with my grave face."
"Oh! cast away sad thoughts," said Edgar; "if they are of the past, they are but shadows; if they are of the future, they are morning clouds."
"Clouds that may be full of storms," replied Dudley, sadly.
"Who can tell?" cried the young man, enthusiastically; "and if they be, how often do the rain-drops of adversity water the field, and advance the harvest of great future success. I have read it, I have heard of it, I am sure that it is true. Come, Mr. Dudley, come; for the man who gives himself up to sorrow makes a league with a fiend when there is an angel waiting for him. Hope is energy, energy is life, life is happiness if it is rightly used. We wound the bosom of the earth to produce fruits and flowers, and heaven sometimes furrows the heart with griefs to produce a rich crop of joys hereafter."
Dudley grasped his hand warmly. "Thanks, thanks, my young friend," he said; "I will come. I certainly did not think to receive such bright lessons, and such wise ones, from one so young."
"The philosophy of youth," answered Edgar, with a laugh, "is, I believe, the best, for it is of God's implanting. It is an instinct to be happy; and where is the reason that is equal to instinct?"
"Nowhere," answered Dudley, taking his hat, with a smile; "and I will follow mine."
I will beg leave with the reader to precede the party which was just setting out from Brandon, and to give one more scene at the house of Mr. Clive, which took place shortly before their arrival.
About a quarter of an hour after Edgar had turned his steps homeward, Mr. Clive entered the room where Helen was sitting, and placed himself in a chair opposite to her. But upon Helen's part there was nothing like a bashful consciousness; she had been accustomed to her lover's coming and going for years; their mutual affection had sprung up so gradually, or rather had developed itself so easily, that she could hardly mark the time when they had not loved; there had been none of those sudden changes which startle timid passion, and neither her father nor Sir Arthur Adelon had ever shown any of that apprehension, in regard to their frequent meeting, which might have created anxiety, if not fear, in her own breast. She therefore looked up frankly in her father's face, and said, "Edgar has been here, my dear father, and unfortunately Mr. Norries opened the door and came in while he was in the room; but I am sure there is no cause for apprehension, for I begged Edgar not to speak of it to any one, and he gave me his word that he would not."
Mr. Clive cast down his eyes, and thought for several minutes without reply. But he then murmured some words, more to himself than to his daughter, saying:--"That is bad; that is unfortunate: not that I doubt Edgar, my Helen; but I must speak with Norries about it; for he is somewhat rash, and he may show himself to others not so much to be trusted. That I do trust Edgar you may well judge, my dear child, otherwise he would not be so often here."
He spoke, gazing at his daughter with a look of some anxiety, and with the white eyebrows drawn far over the eyes. "I know not that I am right, my Helen," he added; "I almost begin to fear not. I feel I should only be doing right if I were to bid this youth make his visits fewer and shorter; and yet I would not pain him for a great deal, for he is kind, and good, and honest; but it must come to that in the end, Helen."
"Oh! no, my father, no," cried Helen Clive, imploringly. "Why should you do that?"
"Listen to me, Helen," said her father; "you have not thought of these things fully. He loves you, Helen."
"I know it," cried Helen Clive, with the ingenuous blood mounting into her cheek; "I know it, and I love him; but why should that prevent him from coming? Why should that deprive us of the very happiness which such love gives?"
"Because it cannot be happy, my Helen," answered her father; "because he is a gentleman of high degree, and you the daughter of no better than a yeoman."
"My father," said Helen, rising, and laying the hand that was uninjured on her father's arm, "have I not heard you say that the blood of the yeoman Clive is as pure as that of the noble house of Adelon, and perhaps of older strain? Is not the land you cultivate your own, as much or more than his that he farms to others? There is not that difference between us that should be reasonably any bar; but even suppose it were so, what could you seek by separating us?"
"Your own happiness, my child," answered Clive, gravely.
"By making us both miserable some years, months, or weeks, before we otherwise might be so," rejoined Helen, eagerly; "that is all that can be done now. We love as much as we can love, and so long as we are doing nought that is wrong, violating no duty to you, nor to his father, surely we may enjoy the little portion of happiness that is sure, and leave to the future and God's good will the rest."
She spoke eagerly, and with her colour heightened, her eye full of light, and her beautiful lips quivering in their vehemence; and Clive could not help feeling a portion of a father's pride rise up and take part with her. He could not but say to himself, as he gazed at her in her beauty, "She is worthy to be the bride of the greatest lord in all the land."--"Well, Helen, well," he said, using an expression which was habitual to him, "I must trust you both; but remember, my child, in making over to you the care of your own happiness, I put mine under your guardianship also, for mine is wrapped up in yours. But hark! there is Norries pacing to and fro above. I must go and speak with him. That wild spirit will not brook its den much longer." And walking to the door, he mounted the stairs to the room which was just over that where he had been sitting.
"Ah! you are come back at last, Clive," said the strong, hard-featured man whom I have before described. "Well, what have you heard? Were all those movements that alarmed you so much last night but mere idle rumour?"
"No," answered Clive; "but I find you were not the object. A party of smugglers was taken farther down the coast, and the intimation which the officer so mysteriously hinted to me they had received, referred to that affair."
"To be sure," replied his companion; "they all think me in the United States. No one but yourself has ever known that I was in France the while."
"I can't help thinking, my good friend," replied Clive, "that it might have been better for you to have stayed there. You know you are in jeopardy here, and may be recognised at any moment."
"Well, well, Clive!" answered his companion, "I will not jeopardise you long; it is my intention to go on this very night, so do not be alarmed. I thank you much for what you have done, which is as much or more than I could expect, and am only sorry that poor Helen has been injured in my cause."
Clive looked at him steadfastly for a moment or two, with his usual calm, steady, grave expression of countenance, and then replied, with a faint smile, "It is curious, Norries, how, whenever men are blamed by their best friends for a foolish action when it is committed, or warned against a rash action which they are determined to commit, they always affect to believe that there is some personal feeling actuating their counsellor, and persuade themselves that his advice is not good, not by trying it on the principles of reason, but by their own prejudices. I have no personal fears in the matter; I anticipate no danger to myself or to my family; neither should you think so. Last night I was ready to have shed my blood to insure your safety, which I certainly should not have been likely to do if I were a man full of the cold calculations you suppose----"
"Well, well, well, Clive!" said Norries, interrupting him, "I was wrong, I was wrong: think of it no more; but one meets so much cold calculation in this life, that one's heart gets chilled to one's best friends. My coming might, indeed, as you say, be what the world would call rash; but every attempt must be estimated by its object, and till you know mine, do not judge me hastily. Where I was wrong, was in not giving you sufficient intimation of my intention, that you might have prepared and let me know when I could land without risk; but the man I sent over to you was delayed one whole day for a passage, and that day made a great difference."
"It did," answered Clive; "for I had barely time to send my own two men away to a distance, and get others, in whom I could better trust, to help me. I had no means either of giving you warning that there was a great movement at Barhampton, and that the officers were evidently on the look-out for some one on the coast. You only said that you would land in the cove between nine and ten, and that I must show a light due east of the cove mouth to guide you, as there was no moon. I had nothing for it, therefore, but to make ready against attack, in order that you might get back to the boat if you were the person these men were looking for. But now, Norries, I am very anxious to hear what is your object, for it should be a great one to induce you to undertake such a risk."
"It is a great one," answered Norries, with his gray eyes flashing under his contracted brow: "no less than the salvation of my country, Clive. In that last affair, the rash fools of the manufacturing districts hurried on, against all persuasion, before matters were half ripe, with the light spirit of the old Gauls: firm in the onset, daunted by the first cheek, and tame and crouching in defeat. Had they behaved like men, I would have remained with them to the last, to perish or to suffer; but there was no shame in abandoning men who abandoned their own cause at the very first frown of fortune. Now there is a brighter prospect before me and before England. There are sterner, calmer, more determined spirits, ready and willing to dig a mine beneath the gaudy fabric of corruption and tyranny, which has been built up by knavish statesmen in this land, and to spring the mine when it is dug. The boasted constitution of England, which protects and nurses a race of privileged tyrants, and refuses justice--ay, and almost food--to the great mass of the people, is like one of the feudal castles of the old barons of the land, built high and strong, to protect them in their aggressions upon their neighbours, and in their despotic rule over their serfs. But there have been times in this and other lands when the serfs, driven to madness by unendurable tyranny, have, with the mattock and the axe of their daily toil, dug beneath the walls of the stronghold, and cast it in ruins to the ground. So will we, Clive; so will we!"
Clive crossed his arms upon his chest, and gazed at him with a thoughtful and a melancholy look; and when he had done he shook his head sadly, as if his mind could take no part in the enthusiastic expectations of his companion.
"Why do you shake your head, Clive?" demanded Norries, impatiently.
"Because I have lived long enough, my good friend," replied Clive, "to see some hundreds of these schemes devised, perfected, executed, and every one has brought ruin upon the authors, and worked no amelioration in the institutions of the land."
"Simply because men are tame under injuries; simply because they submit to injustice; simply because, out of every ten men in the land, there is not one who has a just notion of the dignity of man's nature, or a just appreciation of man's rights," was the eager reply of Norries. "But their eyes have been opened, Clive; the burden is becoming intolerable; the very efforts that have been made, and the struggles that have been frustrated, have taught our fellow countrymen that there is something to struggle for, some great object for endeavour. They have asked themselves, what? and we have taught them. One success, only one great success, and the enormous multitude of those who are justly discontented with the foul and corrupt system which has been established, but who have been daunted by repeated failures, will rise as one man, and claim that which is due to the whole human race, sweeping away all obstacles with the might and the majesty of a torrent. You, Clive, you, I am sure, are not insensible to the wrongs which we all suffer."
"I am neither unaware that there are many evils tolerated by law, nor many iniquities sanctioned by law," replied Clive, "nor insensible to the necessity of their removal; but at the same time, I am fully convinced that there is a way by which they can be removed--and that the only way in which they ever will be removed--without violence or bloodshed, or the many horrors and disasters which must always accompany anything like popular insurrection. When the people of England think fit to make their voice heard--I mean the great mass of the people--that voice is strong enough to sweep away, slowly but surely, every one of the wrongs of which we have cause to complain."
"But how can it make itself heard, that voice of the people of England?" demanded Norries; "where can it make itself heard? The people of England--the many, the multitude, the strength of the land, the labouring poor--have no voice in the senate, at the bar, on the bench. The church of the majority is the rich man's church, the law of the land is the rich man's law, the parliament of the country is the rich man's parliament. But it is vain talking with you of such things now; but come and hear us for one single night--hear our arguments, hear our resolutions, and you will not hesitate to join us."
"No," replied Clive, in a firm tone, "I will not, Norries; I would rather trust myself to calm deliberate thought than to exciting oratory or smooth persuasions. In fact, Norries, as you well know, and as I have known long, I am of too eager and impetuous a nature, too easily moved, to place myself willingly in temptation. When I argue tranquilly with myself, I am master of myself; but when I go and listen to others, the strong passions of my young nature rise up. I keep myself free from all brawls; I enter into disputes with no man, for in my past life the blow of anger has too frequently preceded the word of remonstrance, and I have more than once felt occasion to be ashamed of myself as an impetuous fool, even where I have not had to reproach myself as an unjust aggressor."
"You have had enough to bear, Clive," replied Norries; "as I know from my poor lost Mary, your dear sister--'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes.' With the old Saxon blood strong in your veins, the old Saxon freedom powerful in your heart, have not you and yours, from generation to generation, been subject to the predominating influence of the Norman usurpers, and are you not still under their sway? But hark! there are people at the door, and many of them. Perhaps they have come to seek me."
Clive strode hastily to the window, and looked out, but then turned round, saying, "No, it is the people from Brandon House--Sir Arthur Adelon and all the rest--come down, I dare say, to inquire after Helen, for they are very fond of her, as well they may be."
"Sir Arthur Adelon!" repeated Norries, with a slight smile, "that is well; let me look at him;" and he too approached the window. "He is much changed," he continued, as he gazed out, "and perhaps as much changed in mind as in person--but yet I must have him with us, Clive. He must give us his support, for it is necessary to have some gilding and some tinsel even on the flag of liberty."
Clive laughed aloud. "You mistake, you mistake, Norries," he said; "if you calculate thus rashly, your schemes are vain indeed. Sir Arthur Adelon is a mere man of the world; kind and good-humoured enough, but with no energy or resolution such as are absolutely necessary in those who join in great undertakings."
"It is you who mistake, Clive," replied Norries; "you see but the exterior. Underneath it there are strong things mingled with weak ones--passions powerful enough and persevering; and you shall see that man, with his high station, wealth, and name, shall go with me in that which I undertake, and shall prove a shelter and defence in case of need, should anything discover a portion of our schemes before they are matured. I must see him this very day before I go to Barhampton, for thither I shall certainly proceed to-night."
"Well, Norries, well, you know best," answered Clive, with a faint smile; "when I see these wonders, I may have more confidence. Till then, I tell you fairly, all your plans seem to me to be rashness approaching to madness. I must go down and receive them, however, for I hear they have come in. Shall I tell Sir Arthur that you wish to see him, Norries?"
"No," answered the other, thoughtfully; "I will take my own opportunity." And Clive departed, leaving him alone.