I know no more delightful sensation upon earth, than when a being whom we love, acting beneath our eyes, but unconscious that we are watching, fulfils to the utmost the bright expectations that we have formed; while in the deed, and the tone, and the manner we see the confirmation of all that we had supposed, or dreamed, or divined of excellence in heart and mind. Charles Dudley loved Eda Brandon, and all she did or said was of course a matter of deep interest to him; and although I will not say he watched, yet he observed her conduct during the morning of which I have been writing, and especially during their visit to the Grange, as Mr. Clive's house was called. He thought it was perfect; and so perhaps it was, as nearly as anything of the earth can be perfect; and perhaps, although there was no great event to call strong feelings into action, although there was nothing which would seem to an ordinary eye a trial of character or demeanour, yet there was much which, to a very keen and sensitive mind, showed great qualities by small traits. Helen Clive was in an inferior position of life to Eda Brandon. It may be said that the difference was very slight: that her father cultivated his own land; that she had evidently received the education and possessed the manners of a lady; but yet the very slightness of the difference might make the demeanour of the one towards the other more difficult--not, perhaps, to be what the world would call very proper, but to be perfect. It might be too cold, it might be too familiar; for there is sometimes such a thing as familiarity which has its rise in pride, and the object of it is more likely to feel hurt by it than even by distance of manner. But there was nothing of the kind in the conduct of Eda Brandon. She treated Helen in every respect as an equal: one with whom she had been long on terms of intimate affection, and who required no new proof that she saw no difference between the position of Mr. Clive's daughter and that of the heiress of Brandon and all its wealth. There was no haughtiness; there was no appearance of condescension: the haughtiest mark of pride. It was easy, kind, unaffected, but quiet and ladylike; and although Helen herself felt a little nervous, not at the station, but at the number of the guests who poured in, Eda's manner soon put her completely at ease, and the only thing which seemed at all to discompose her, was a certain sort of familiar gallantry in the manners of Lord Hadley, which even pained another present more than herself.
But it is with Eda and Dudley that I wish particularly to deal just now; and one thing I may remark as seemingly strange, but not really so. It was with delight, as I have said, that Dudley observed the demeanour of Eda Brandon towards Helen Clive; but a saddening sensation of despondency mingled with the pleasure, and rendered it something more than melancholy. It was like that of a dying parent witnessing the success and growing greatness of a beloved child, and knowing that his own eyes must soon close upon the loved one's career of glory. He said to himself, "She never can be mine: long years of labour and toil, struggles with a hard and difficult profession, and fortunate chances with many long lapses between, could alone put me in a position to seek her love or ask her hand; and in the mean time her fate must be decided."
As they had walked down from the house, Lord Hadley had been continually by her side. He had evidently been much struck and captivated. A vague hint had been thrown out that a union between himself and the heiress of Brandon had been contemplated by kind and judicious friends; and a meaning smile which had crossed the lip of young Edgar Adelon, when he saw Lord Hadley bending down and saying something apparently very tender in his cousin's ear, had sent a pang through the heart of Dudley, which his young companion would not have inflicted for worlds had he known the circumstances. Again and again Dudley repeated to himself, "It is impossible. How can I--why should I entertain any expectation? The warrior goes into the strife armed; the racer is trained and prepared for the course: I have no weapons for the struggle, no preparation for the race, although the prize is all that is desirable in life. I will yield this all-vain contention; I will withdraw from a scene where everything which takes place must give me pain. It is easily done. The term of my engagement with Lord Hadley is nearly at an end; and I can easily plead business of importance for leaving him here, now that our tour is finished, and once more betaking myself to my books, wait in patience till the time comes for that active life in the hard world of realities, which will, I trust, engross every feeling, and occupy every thought."
Such were his reflections and resolutions as the party, after taking leave of Helen and Mr. Clive, walked out of the door of the Grange to return to Brandon House. I often think that all reflections are vain, and all resolutions worse than vain. The first are but as the games of childhood--the construction of gay fabrics out of materials which have no solidity; the second are but shuttlecocks between the battledoors of circumstances. So, at least, Charles Dudley found them both.
It is necessary, however, before I proceed farther, to say something of the exact position of the parties as they quitted the house. Eda and her uncle went first; Dudley followed half a step farther back; and Lord Hadley and Edgar came next. As Dudley was walking on, with his eyes bent on the ground, he heard the voice of Sir Arthur's son exclaim, "Eda, Eda, we are going down by the stream, Lord Hadley and I, to see the ruins of the priory. Let us all go."
"No, dear Edgar," answered Miss Brandon, "I can't indulge your wandering propensities to-day. I shall be tired by the time I get home, and have got a letter to write."
"I can't go either, Edgar," said his father; "for I have a good deal of business to do."
"Well, Mr. Dudley, at all events you will come," said Edgar Adelon; but Mr. Dudley replied by informing him that he had passed some time at the priory already that morning.
"Well, come along, Lord Hadley, then," said Edgar, in a gay tone; "I never saw such uninteresting people in my life, and you shall have the treat and the benefit of my conversation all to yourself. I will tell you the legend, too, and show you what a set of people these Brandons have been from generation to generation."
Lord Hadley did not decline, and they walked away together down the course of the stream, whilst Sir Arthur and his niece, accompanied by Dudley, pursued their course towards Brandon. They were about halfway between the Grange and the gates of the park, when a quick but heavy step was heard behind them, and Dudley, turning his head, saw a stout farm-servant following, somewhat out of breath. The man walked straight up to Sir Arthur Adelon, and presented a note, saying, "I was to give you that directly, your honour."
Sir Arthur took the note, and looked at the address without any apparent emotion; but when he opened it, his aspect changed considerably, and he stopped, saying, in a hesitating manner, "I must go back--I must go back."
"Oh! it is but a short distance," said Eda; "we can return with you."
"No, my dear, no," answered her uncle, with what seemed a good deal of embarrassment in his air; "you had better go on to Brandon. Mr. Dudley will, I am sure, escort you."
"Assuredly," replied Dudley, gravely; and Sir Arthur adding, "I may not, perhaps, be back to luncheon, Eda, but do not wait for me," turned, and with a quick step hurried along the road towards Mr. Clive's house.
It seemed as if everything had combined to leave Charles Dudley and Eda Brandon alone together. If he had laboured a couple of years for such a consummation it would not have occurred. He did not offer Eda his arm, however; and although his heart was beating very fast with feelings that longed for utterance, he walked on for at least a hundred and fifty yards, without a word being spoken on either side. Ladies, however, feel the awkwardness of silence more than men; and Eda, though she was shaking very unaccountably, said at length, "I am afraid, Mr. Dudley, that what you find here is not so beautiful and interesting as the scenes you have lately come from. You used, I remember, to be a very enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of nature."
Dudley raised his fine eyes to her face, and gazed at her for a moment with melancholy gravity. "All I admired then," he said at length, "I admire now. All I loved then, dear Miss Brandon, I love now. It is circumstances which have changed, not I."
"I did not know that circumstances had changed," said Eda, in a low and sweet tone, as if she really felt sympathy with him for the grief his manner implied. "I had heard that a sad, a terrible change of circumstances had occurred some time before; but I was not at all aware that any new cause of grief or disappointment had been added."
Dudley again thought before he answered; but it was not the thought of calculation, or if it was, it was but the calculation of how he should answer calmly; how he should speak the true feelings of his heart with moderation and gentleness: not at all a calculation of whether it were better to speak those feelings or not.
"You are right, Miss Brandon," he said, "the change of circumstances had taken place before; but all things have their consequences; and the results of those material alterations in fortune and station which had befallen me, were still to be made manifest to, and worked out by, myself. When first we met, you were very young--not sixteen, I think--and I was not old. Everything was in the spring-day with me. It was all full of promise. I had in those days two fortunes: worldly wealth, and even a greater store of happy hopes and expectations--the bright and luxuriant patrimony of inexperienced youth. From time to time we saw each other; till, when last we met, prosperity had been taken from me, the treasure of earthly riches was gone, and though not actually beggared, I and my poor father were in a state of absolute poverty. Still the other fortune, that rich estate of youthful hope and inexperienced expectation, though somewhat diminished, was not altogether gone. I fancied that, in the eyes of the noble and the good, wealth would make no difference. I had never found it make any difference to me in my estimation of others. I imagined that those qualities which some had esteemed and liked in me, would still at least retain my friends. I never for an instant dreamed that it could or ought to have an influence on the adamant of love. I had almost said and done rash things in those days; but you went away out of London, and I soon began to perceive that I had bitterly deceived myself."
"You never perceived any difference in me," cried Eda, her voice trembling with emotions which carried away all discretion. "You do not mean to say, Mr. Dudley, that you saw, or that you thought you saw, such base weakness in my nature as would render of the slightest value in my eyes a change of fortune in those I--I----" And extending her left hand, as if to cast the idea from her, she turned away, and shook her head sorrowfully, with her eyes full of tears.
"No, no, Miss Brandon!" answered Dudley; "no, no, Eda! I said not so. It was the world taught me the world's views. Nay, more, I laid the blame of misunderstanding those views upon myself, not others. I saw some reason even in those views which debarred me from happiness; I felt the due value of station and fortune when I had lost them, which I never felt while they were my own. But listen to me still with patience for one moment. Expectation was not yet fully tamed. I said to myself, I will make myself a station, I will regain the fortune which has been lost; and then, perhaps, love may re-illumine the torch of hope at its own flame, and all be light once more."
"Love!" murmured Eda, in a low tone, as he paused for an instant; but Dudley went on:--
"The hardest lesson of all was still to learn: how slow, how hopelessly slow, is man's progress up the steep hill which leads to fame and emolument in this world: how vain is the effort to start into eminence at once! I had to learn all that consuming thought, and bitter care, and deep disappointment, and hopeless love, and the anguish of regret, can do to wear the strongest frame, and wring the firmest heart, and quell the brightest expectations, and batten down the springs of life and hope beneath the heavy load of circumstances."
"Oh! Dudley, Dudley," cried Eda, "why, why should you yield to such dark impressions?"
"Eda," said Dudley, "would you have had me hope?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, with her cheek glowing and her eyes full of tears, as they passed the park gates and entered the avenue. "Hope ever! ever hope! and let not adverse circumstances crush a noble spirit and a generous heart. See, there is Mr. Filmer coming down towards us; I must wipe these foolish tears from my eyes. But let me add one warning. I have said a generous heart, because, indeed, I believe yours to be so; but yet, Dudley, it was hardly generous enough when you imagined that those whom you judged worthy of love and esteem could suffer one consideration of altered fortunes to make even the slightest change in their regard or in their conduct. You should never have fancied it, and must never, never fancy it again. I can hardly imagine," she said, turning, and looking at him with a bright smile, as she uttered words of reproach which she knew were not quite justified, thus qualifying with that gay look the bitter portion of her speech: "I can hardly imagine that you know what true love is, or you would be well aware that it is, indeed, as you said yourself, a thing of adamant: unchangeable and everlasting. On it no calumny can rest, no falsehood make impression; the storms and tempests of the world, the labour of those who would injure or defame, the sharp chisel of sarcasm, the grinding power of argument and opposition, can have no effect. Such is strong, true love. It must be love founded on esteem and confidence, but then, believe me, it is immoveable. If ever you love, remember this."
"If ever I love, Eda?" answered Dudley, gazing at her; "you know too well that I do love; that I have loved for years."
"I once thought so," replied Eda, in a low tone; "but hush! Dudley, hush! let us compose ourselves: he is coming near."
"He does not see us," said Dudley; "his eyes are bent upon the ground. Can we not avoid him by turning through the trees?"
"No, no," answered Miss Brandon; "he sees everything. Never suppose at any time that because his eyes are bent down they are unused. He is all sight, and never to be trusted. Is my cheek flushed? I am sure it ought to be," she added, as her mind reverted to the words she had spoken: "I am sure it ought to be, for I feel it burn."
"A little," replied Dudley, gazing at her with a look of grateful love; "but he will not remark it."
"Oh! yes, he will," answered Eda, giving a timid glance towards Dudley's face, and then drawing down her veil. "Yours is quite pale."
"It is with intense emotions," replied Dudley; "emotions of gratitude and love."
"Hush! hush!" she said; "no more on that score; we shall be able to talk more hereafter. What a beautiful day it has been after such a stormy night. One could almost fancy that it was spring returned, if a bird would but begin to sing."
"Ah! no," answered Dudley, somewhat sorrowfully; "though there be browns in both, the colours of the autumn are very different from those of the spring; the hues of nascent hope are in the one, of withering decay in the other; and though the skies of autumn may be glorious, they are the skies of spring which are sweet."
They were now within some twenty or thirty paces of Mr. Filmer, who was still walking on, calmly and quietly, with his eyes bent upon the ground, as if absorbed in deep and solemn meditation. The light and shadow, as he passed the trees, fell strangely upon him, giving a phantom-like appearance to his tall dark figure and pale face; and there was a fixed and rigid firmness in his whole countenance which might have made any casual observer at that moment think him the veriest ascetic that ever lived.
Eda, who knew him well, and had read his character more profoundly than he imagined, led the way straight up to him, though they had before been on the other side of the avenue, as if she were determined that he should not pass without taking notice of them, and when they were at not more than three yards' distance, he started, saying, "Ah! my dear young lady, I did not see you. Why, your party has become small." And his face at once assumed a look of pleasing urbanity, which rendered the whole expression as different as possible from that which his countenance had borne before.
"Edgar and Lord Hadley," answered Eda, "have gone to see the priory, and my uncle was coming home with us, when somebody stopped him upon business and carried him off."
"Mr. Dudley and I visited the priory this morning," replied Mr. Filmer; "and he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, I am happy to say."
"I was very much so, indeed," said Dudley. "In truth, my reverend friend, I feel a great interest in all those remnants of former times, when everything had a freshness and a vigorous identity which is lost in the present state of civilisation. I forget who is the author who compares man in the present polished and artificial days to a worn shilling which has lost all trace of the original stamp; but it has often struck me as a very just simile. I like the mark of the die; and every object which recalls to my mind the lusty, active past, is worth a thousand modern constructions. Even the university in which I have been educated I love not so much for its associations with myself as for its associations with another epoch. There is a cloistral, secluded calm about some of the colleges, which has an effect almost melancholy and yet pleasurable."
Mr. Filmer replied in an easy strain, as if he had remarked nothing; but, nevertheless, he had perceived, somehow, without even raising his eyes, that Eda had dropped the veil over her face as he came near, and he saw that there were traces of agitation both on her countenance and on that of Dudley. He remarked, too, that Dudley spoke more and more eloquently upon many subjects during the rest of the day; that, in fact, there was a sort of relief apparent in his whole manner, and in all his words; and he formed a judgment not very far from the truth. Such a judgment, from indications so slight, is not unusual in men who have been educated as he had been, to mark the slightest peculiarities of manner, the slightest changes of demeanour, that occur in their fellow-men, in order to take advantage of them for their own purposes. In the present instance he continued quietly his observations, without letting any one perceive that he was watching at all; but not a word, nor a look, nor a tone of Eda Brandon and Charles Dudley escaped him during the day.
Turning back with Miss Brandon and her lover towards the house, Mr. Filmer, or Father Peter, as he was sometimes called by Sir Arthur's servants, accompanied them to the door, and then proposed that they should cross the park to a little fountain, covered with its old cross and stone, which he described as well worthy of Dudley's attention. Eda confirmed his account of its beauty, but said that she must herself go in, as she was a good deal fatigued, and had also to write a letter. She advised Dudley, however, to go and see it; and if the truth must be told, she was not sorry to avoid the priest's society, for in his presence she felt a restraint of which she could not divest herself, even at times when she could detect no watching on the part of Filmer. She knew that he was observing with the quiet, shrewd eyes of Rome, and the very feeling embarrassed her.
Dudley had no excuse for staying behind, and he accompanied the priest on his walk, conversing on indifferent subjects, and not yet fully aware that every word and even look, was watched by one who let nought fall to the ground. For nearly a couple of hundred yards the two gentlemen walked on in silence; but then Mr. Filmer, in pursuit of his own investigations, observed, in a sort of meditative tone, "What a sweet, charming girl that is! I think I understood that you had known her long, Mr. Dudley."
"For many years," replied his companion. "When first I knew her she was quite a girl, I had almost said a child, and very lovely even then; but I had no idea that she was the niece of Sir Arthur Adelon."
"Her mother was his sister," replied Mr. Filmer; "and the way in which she became Sir Arthur's ward was this:--Her father died when she was quite young, leaving her entirely to the control of her mother, as her sole guardian and his executrix. She was a very amiable woman, Mrs. Brandon, though, unfortunately, her husband had converted her to your church. I believe she was very sorry for her apostacy before her death, and, at all events, she left Miss Brandon to the guardianship of her brother, Sir Arthur, with the entire management of her property."
"Till she comes of age, I suppose?" Dudley replied, as the other made a short pause.
"Yes; but before that time she will be probably married," answered the priest.
"To Lord Hadley, perhaps you think?" rejoined Dudley, with very different feelings from those with which he would have pronounced such words some two or three hours before.
"Oh, no!" answered Mr. Filmer, calmly; "I do not think that Sir Arthur would ever consent to her marriage with a Protestant. I know that he would sooner see her bestow her hand upon the humblest Catholic gentleman in England."
Dudley was somewhat puzzled. If the assertion of the priest could be relied upon, why had Sir Arthur Adelon so ostentatiously asked Lord Hadley there. The priest said it in a natural, easy tone; but Dudley felt that in some degree he had himself been trying to extract information from Mr. Filmer, and that the attempt was somewhat dangerous with a Roman Catholic priest. He did not feel quite sure, indeed, that he had not betrayed a part of his own secrets while endeavouring to gain intelligence of the views of others. "I should have thought that the feelings of Sir Arthur Adelon were more liberal, especially as he has always yourself beside him," said Dudley, with a slight inclination of the head.
"You do me more than justice, my young friend," replied Mr. Filmer; "it is very natural in these times, when there is a persecuting and oppressive spirit abroad, that we should wish to see an heiress of great wealth, and whose husband must possess great influence, bestow her hand upon a person of our own religious creed. I may say this can be felt without the slightest degree of bigotry, or any view of proselytism. I have none, I can assure you; and indeed you may judge that it is so when you know that one of my best friends and most constant companions is the clergyman of the little church the spire of which you see rising up there just above the hill. My feeling is that there is not sufficient difference between the two churches--although yours, I feel, is in some points a little heretical--to cause any disunion between honest and well-meaning men; and moreover, though anxious myself to see others adopt what I conceive to be just views, yet I confess the object of their conversion does not appear to me so great a one as to hazard the slightest chance of dissension in order to obtain it."
"Those are very liberal opinions, indeed," said Dudley; "and though I know that a good many of the laymen of the church of Rome entertain them, I was not aware that they are common amongst the clergy."
"More common than you imagine, my young friend," answered the priest; "in fact the heads of the church, itself are not so intolerant as you suppose. Rules have been fixed, undoubtedly; definitions have been given; but it is always in the power of the church to relax its own regulations; and when sincere and devout Christianity, a feeling of that which is orthodox, and a veneration for those traditions which, descending from generation to generation through the mouths of saints and martyrs, may be considered as pure and uncorrupt as the Scriptures themselves, are perceived in any one, the church is always willing to render his return to her bosom easy and practicable, by relinquishing all those formal points of discipline which may be obnoxious to his prejudices, and by relaxing the severity of those expositions, the cutting clearness of which is repugnant to a yet unconfirmed mind."
Dudley paused in great surprise, asking himself, "What is his object?" This is a question which is rarely put by any man to his own heart without some strong doubt of the sincerity of the person he has been conversing with.
"What is his object?" thought Dudley. "Does he really hope to convert me by the mingled charms of his own eloquence, and the fascination of my dear Eda's fortune?" He resolved, however, not to display his real opinion of the arguments used, but to suffer the worthy priest to pursue his own course and expose his own purposes. "He must do it sooner or later," he said; "and then I shall discover what is the meaning of this long discourse. In the mean time, he cannot shake Eda's confidence in me, nor my love for her."
"I am happy to find," continued Dudley, aloud, "that such very just and liberal views are entertained; for undoubtedly the definitions of the Council of Trent have been one of the great stumbling-blocks in the way of those persons who would willingly have abandoned doctrines of which they are by no means sure, to embrace others emanating from a church, the principal boast of which is its invariable consistency with itself."
The priest looked at him with a doubtful and hesitating glance. He was apprehensive, perhaps, of showing too much of the policy of the church of Rome; and he stopped, as it was his invariable custom to do when the expression of his opinions might do injury to the cause he advocated, and no great object was to be obtained. He thought, indeed, in the present instance, that something more might be ventured; but yet he judged it more prudent to wait awhile, calculating that if he managed well, growing passion might do the work of argument; and after viewing, with Dudley, the little fountain, he turned back to the house, directing his conversation to subjects of a totally different character, grave but not ascetic, round which he threw a peculiar and extraordinary charm. It was very strange the fascination of his manner and conversation. When first its power was felt by any keen and quick mind, one strove to grasp and analyze it, to ascertain in what it consisted; but like those subtle and delicate essences which chemists sometimes prepare, and which defy analysis, something, and that the most important, that which gave efficacy and vigour to the whole, always escaped. The words seemed nothing in themselves: a little subtle, perhaps, somewhat vague, not quite definite. The manner was calm and gentle, the look was only at wide distant moments emphatic; but yet there was a certain spirit in the whole which seemed to glide into the heart and brain, unnerving and full of languor, disarming opposition, persuading rather than convincing, wrapping the senses in pleasing dreams rather than presenting tangible objects for their exercise. It was like the faint odours of unseen plants, which, stealing through the night air, visit us with a narcotic rather than a balmy influence, and lull us to a deadly sleep, without our knowing whence they come or feeling the effect till it is too late.
Sir Arthur Adelon, after leaving Eda and Dudley together, hurried back as fast as he could go to the house of Mr. Clive, passing by the way the man who had brought him the note, which he still held clasped firmly in his hand. He was evidently a good deal agitated when he set out; the muscles of his face worked, his brow contracted, and muttered sentences escaped his lips. From this state he seemed to fall into deep thought. The emotions probably were not less intense, but they were more profound; and when he came near the house he stopped and leaned for a moment against the gate, murmuring, "What can it be?" After a pause of a moment or two he rang the bell, and asked the maid who appeared, where the gentleman was who had sent him that letter. The woman seemed somewhat confused, said she did not know anybody had sent him a letter, but that Mr. Clive was in the drawing-room with his daughter. Her embarrassment, and that of the baronet, however, were removed, almost as she spoke the last words, by a voice calling down the stairs and saying, "Sir Arthur Adelon, will you do me the honour of walking up hither?"
The baronet instantly obeyed the invitation, but it was with a very pale face, and the next instant he was in the room with Norries. The latter had withdrawn into the chamber where his conference had taken place with Clive, and he fixed a steadfast gaze on the baronet as he entered; then turning towards the door, he closed it and waved his visitor to a seat, taking one himself at the same time, and still keeping his bright gray eyes fixed firmly upon the baronet's face. Hitherto not a word had been spoken, and Norries remained silent for some instants; but at length he said, "I perceive, both by your coming and your demeanour, Sir Arthur Adelon, that you have not forgotten me."
"Oh, no! Mr. Norries," replied the baronet; "I remember you quite well, and am happy to see you. But is it not somewhat dangerous for you to visit England just now?"
"Not in the least, I think," said Norries. "I am obliged to you for your solicitude, Sir Arthur. If it had shown itself materially twelve months ago, it might have kept me out of York Castle."
"I really do not see how I could have served you," answered Sir Arthur Adelon; "indeed, I never knew that you were in York Castle."
"For three days," replied Norries, laconically. "But this is irrelevant; let me speak of more important affairs. As your memory is so good, you have probably not forgotten yet what took place eight and six years ago, in regard to transactions affecting Charles Dudley, Esquire, since dead."
"Well, sir, well!" cried Sir Arthur, "what of that?"
"You inquired once," said Norries, "for the correspondence respecting that affair; I think I could give you some information concerning it."
"Was it not burnt?" exclaimed Sir Arthur. "You told me it was burnt."
"Pardon me, Sir Arthur," replied Norries; "I never told you any such thing. My partner did, but he lied in this case as in many others, and I, who knew little of the transaction at the time, found the papers after his death, and have them safe in my possession."
There was some writing paper lying on the table, clean and unsullied; but without knowing what he did, Sir Arthur Adelon took it in his hands, and in two minutes it was twisted into every conceivable shape. Norries gazed at him with the slightest possible smile; and in the end he said, "I am afraid, Sir Arthur, that paper will not be very serviceable; however, we can get more."
"Paha!" cried Sir Arthur Adelon; "let us think of serious things, Mr. Norries. Those letters must be destroyed. Do you mean to say they were all preserved?"
"Every one," answered Norries; "nay, more. I have spoken of eight and of six years ago, but amongst the documents there are several of a much earlier period, which show that the schemes then executed had been long devising, that the purpose then accomplished had been long nourished. The motives, too, are very evident from certain passages; and I now tell you, Sir Arthur Adelon, that if I had been made aware of the facts--of the whole facts--those schemes would never have been accomplished, that purpose would have been frustrated."
And he gazed sternly at the baronet, setting his teeth hard.
"My partner, Mr. Sherborne," continued Norries, after a pause, during which his companion uttered not a word, but remained with his eyes bent down, and his teeth gnawing his nether lip; "my partner, Mr. Sherborne, was a great scoundrel, as you know, Sir Arthur. In fact, you knew it at the time you employed him."
"No, sir, I did not," exclaimed Sir Arthur, catching at the last word.
"Yes, Sir Arthur, you did," replied Norries, firmly; "or you never would have employed him in so rascally a business."
"He suggested to me everything that was done," replied the baronet, eagerly.
"In consequence of a private conversation, of which he made a note," rejoined Norries, "and of a letter, still preserved, so confirmatory of the memorandum, that there can be no doubt of its accuracy."
The face of Sir Arthur Adelon flushed. He was a man of one sort of courage, and he replied, haughtily, "I think you intend to insult me, sir. Beware what you are doing."
"I am quite aware," answered Norries, slowly inclining his head; "neither do I intend at all to insult you, Sir Arthur. I speak truth in plain terms, having learned in sorrow and adversity that such is the only right course to pursue. In justice and in good faith I ought to place the whole of those papers in the hands of a gentleman nearly related to that Mr. Dudley--his son, I mean."
"It could do him no good," exclaimed the baronet; "the thing is past and gone; he ruined and dead; nothing can by any farther means be recovered. This Mr. Dudley, could not regain a shilling, nor an acre of his father's property, as you well know."
"True," replied Norries; "there are some things in law which have no remedy, as I do well know; but it is right that the son should learn who ruined his father, and he should have known long ago, but for one circumstance which may perhaps operate still farther."
"What is that?" demanded the baronet, quickly; "I have no objection whatsoever to give a considerable sum for the possession of those papers. They can be of no use to any one but myself. Come, let us talk reasonably, Mr. Norries--let us say a thousand pounds."
"Money will not do, here, sir," answered the other, in a contemptuous tone; "it had its effect upon Mr. Sherborne, who was a rascal; but it will have no effect upon his partner, who is an honest man."
"Then what, in heaven's name, do you want?" demanded Sir Arthur Adelon.
"To see you act up to your professions, Sir Arthur," replied Norries. "At the election which began poor Mr. Dudley's ruin, and which I had some share in conducting on your part, you professed, and I really believe entertained--for I think that, in that at least, you were sincere--principles of firm and devoted attachment to the cause of the people. You declared that if they did but return you to parliament, you would advocate all measures in favour of their rights and liberties; you were more than what is called a Radical--you were a Reformer in the true sense of the word; you gloried in being descended from the old Saxon race; you pointed out that your name itself was but a corruption of that of one of our last Saxon princes; and you promised to do your best to restore to the people that perfect freedom which is an inalienable inheritance of the Saxon blood. You called your son Edgar, in memory of Edgar Atheling, and you promised, in my hearing, to maintain those principles at all times and under all circumstances, with your voice, with your hand, with your heart's blood. Now, Sir Arthur, I call upon you to redeem that promise; and if you do, in the way I shall point out, you shall have those papers. I have kept them back from the person to whom, perhaps, they ought justly to have been given, because I would not blacken the name of one whom I believed to be a true patriot. I found excuses for you in your own mind to excuse to myself my retention of them. I knew you to be a man of strong passions under a calm exterior; I knew that strong passions, whenever they become masters, are sure to become despots; and I thought that you had acted to the man we have mentioned, under an influence that was overpowering--the influence of the strongest and most ungovernable of all the passions: the thirst for revenge."
"Revenge!" exclaimed Sir Arthur. "Who told you I was moved by revenge?"
"No one told me," answered Norries; "I knew it. I might have read it in every line of those letters; I might have seen it in every deed you did; but there was a portion of your previous history, Sir Arthur, which I knew from my connexion with that part of the country, and which when once the machinations were exposed to my view, afforded the key to all. I ask you, Sir Arthur Adelon, whether some six or seven-and-twenty years ago, Mr. Charles Dudley did not carry off from your pursuit, the lady on whom you had fixed your heart?"
Sir Arthur Adelon's usually placid face assumed the expression of a demon; and no longer averting his eyes from the fixed, stern gaze of Norries, he stared full in his face in return, and slowly inclined his head. He said not a word, but that look and that gesture were sufficient reply. They said, more plainly than any words could have spoken, "You have divined it all; you have fathomed the dark secret of my heart to the bottom."
"Well, Sir Arthur," continued Norries, with a softened air, "I can excuse strong passions, for I have them myself, and I know them at times to be irresistible. In your case, I was sure you had been thus moved. I looked upon you as a man devoted to the service of your country; and I thought that, in a case where all other considerations should give place to the interests of my country, it would be wrong to damn for ever the name of one who might do her the best and highest of services. There was but one thing that made me doubt your sincerity."
"You should not doubt it," said Sir Arthur; "I am as sincerely devoted to the service of my country as ever."
"It is your general sincerity to which I allude," said the plain-spoken Norries; "and the reason why I doubted it is this. When you had effected your purpose--when you had ruined an honest and good man, though a Norman and an aristocrat--you did not boldly and fearlessly leave him to his fate; you afforded him assistance to save a pitiful remnant of his property, and affected benevolence and kindness to a man you hated. I understand it all, Sir Arthur; it was not unnatural, but it was insincere."
"We had been upon good terms for many years," replied the baronet, who had now resumed his usual demeanour.
"Good terms!" repeated Norries, with a laugh; "well, be it so. You are now keeping up the appearance of good terms with the government which you then opposed, and of which you spoke in language certainly seditious, as it is called, and perhaps treasonable. These things have created a doubt. That doubt must be removed, not by words and professions, not by appearances and pretences, but by acts."
"Speak plainly," said Sir Arthur Adelon. "What is it that you want?"
"There is a meeting to be held at twelve o'clock this night in the little town of Barhampton," said Norries, "where several gentlemen, entertaining precisely the same sentiments which you expressed some eight years ago to the people of Yorkshire, are to take into consideration what decisive measures can be adopted for obtaining those objects which you then professed to seek. I require that you should then join us, and be one of us."
"Impossible!" cried Sir Arthur Adelon, with a look of consternation and astonishment. "Would you have me attend a seditious meeting at midnight with a man who has fled from the course of justice--I, a magistrate for the county?"
A bitter smile came upon the lip of his companion; but he replied immediately, "Even so! I would, indeed, Sir Arthur. The spirit of patriotism is not so strong in you, it would seem, as the spirit of revenge, or you would not hesitate. But thus much, to end all, one way or the other: you either come, and, if you do come and frankly join us, without any insincerity, receive the papers I have mentioned; or you stay away, and Mr. Edward Dudley receives them."
"This is unfair!" exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon.
"Unfair!" replied Norries; "how unfair, sir? I acting according to my conscience, however you may be acting. My only reason for withholding these letters from the person who would have a right to possess them, if their suppression were not necessary to the service of my country, is because I trust that you, whose name and station may be an infinite advantage as a leader of the people hereafter, will put yourself in that position in which no want of moral courage, no vacillating hesitation can be shown, or would be possible. If you refuse to do so, you will take from me my only motive for not giving them to him who will know how to use them rightly. You will show yourself as insincere in your professions of patriotism as you were insincere in your professions of friendship; and I shall then regard you with contempt, and treat you without consideration."
There was a stern and commanding energy in his manner which crushed down, as it were, in the breast of Sir Arthur Adelon the angry feelings which his impetuous words aroused. He felt cowed in the presence of the bold, fearless man who addressed him. He remembered, in former times, several traits of his decision and unhesitating vehemence; and he felt sure that he would do as much or more than he said. At first, indeed, anger was predominant; he gathered himself up, as it were, for a spring; but his heart failed him, and he said in a mild tone, "You are too fierce--you are too fierce! Let me consider for a moment how this can be arranged. I am as willing as any one to make sacrifices for my country's advantage; but first you take me by surprise, next you use words and proceed in a manner which are little likely to induce me to trust to your guidance."
He thought he had got an advantage, and he was proceeding, gradually resuming a tone of dignity, when Norries stopped him, saying, "Sir Arthur Adelon, there are times and circumstances which of themselves, and in their own pressing nature, abridge all ceremonies. If your house were on fire, and you in danger of perishing by the flames, I should not wait for the punctilios of etiquette, but should wake you roughly, saying, 'Run, run, save your life and your family!' Sir, I tell you England is on fire, and the time is come for all men to choose their part. The days of weak indifference are over. Now is the time for decision and action; but nevertheless, I will not leave you any excuse, but humbly entreat you to come to our meeting to-night, and support with your presence, and your voice, and your influence, those principles which you have asserted warmly on other occasions."
"But it may be very difficult to manage," said Sir Arthur Adelon; "I have guests in my house, whom I cannot in courtesy leave without some exceedingly good excuse. I am not accustomed to go out at such hours of the night, and to do so will certainly appear very suspicious, especially under existing circumstances."
"All that will be easily arranged," answered Norries. "You are a magistrate, you say, and may consequently be called upon at any hour on pressing occasions. You do not, of course, communicate to your family or your guests the exact business which calls you forth, or the motives for going at one hour rather than another; but should anything more be wanting to smoothe the way for you, I will presently write you a note, calling upon you to be at Barhampton to-night at twelve, on matters of importance. I do not think," he added, with a sneering smile, "that even your confessor will venture to cross-question a gentleman of your independence upon a business with which he has nothing to do."
"Certainly not," replied Sir Arthur Adelon; "and I have no objection to come; but I cannot bind myself to anything till I hear upon what measures your friends decide."
"Nor can I bind myself to anything, then, till I hear upon what you do decide," rejoined Norries. "The papers are yours whenever you act up to your professions. I shall ask nothing more, Sir Arthur. I have a copy of your speech upon an occasion which you well remember; I will require nothing more of you than to fulfil the pledges therein given, and the moment you prove you are ready so to act, I resign into your hands those letters, of which others might not judge so favourably as I am inclined to judge. Do you promise to come?"
"I do," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, in a firmer tone than he had hitherto used, but with a certain degree of bitterness too. "Yet, Norries, there are various other thoughts and considerations of deep moment, which our conversation of to-day suggests. It revives in me the memories and feelings of past years. You should have considered that these matters had passed away from my mind for a long time; that of the plans, and hopes, and schemes, and passions of those times, some have been accomplished or gratified, and have been well nigh forgotten; some, from the utter hopelessness of seeing them accomplished, have faded away, and become more like a vision than a reality. What will not a man do when he is eager and excited with the vehement impulse of fresh feelings and sharp discussions, and the enthusiasm of those who surround him? But take those accessories away, and the purposes themselves fall into a sleep from which it requires some time and preparation to arouse them into active and energetic being again. You should have considered this, and not pressed me so eagerly without some preparation."
"Perhaps I should," replied Norries; "but, Sir Arthur, you have known me long, and have known me to be a brief and abrupt man.Mypurposes never sleep;myobjects never fade: the one engrossing object of my country's fate and the welfare of my fellow-men is never a passing vision to my eyes, but a stern reality ever present, so that I am little able to comprehend the hesitations of other men."
Sir Arthur Adelon, while the other spoke, had cast down his eyes thoughtfully, as if little attending to the words of his companion; but when he ceased speaking, he said, in an abstracted manner, "This Dudley, too, he has intruded himself into my family. He is now at Brandon, as you have doubtless heard. The cold, icy hand seemed to seize my heart again when I saw him. I felt as if the spawn of the viper were before me, and as if it were destined that the race were to survive and poison my peace, even when the reptile that first stung me was crushed."
Norries gazed at him steadfastly, with his brow contracted with a steady, contemplative, inquiring look; and then he replied, "I do beseech you, Sir Arthur Adelon, to banish such thoughts, to let the faults of the dead, if faults there were, rest with the dead. I think you believe in a God, do you not? Well, sir, there is a God who will judge him and you. He is gone to receive his judgment; the time will come, ere long, for you to receive yours. In the mean while, injure not one who has never injured you, and pursue this fell and heinous vengeance no further against the son of one whom you once loved----"
"And of one I always hated," answered the baronet, finishing the sentence for him. "But do you not know, Norries, that as the sweetest wine turns soonest to vinegar, so love, wronged and despised, changes to the bitterest hate; as for the rest, I purpose pursuing no vengeance against the young man. I wish he would quit my dwelling, for the very feeling of being obliged to maintain a courteous and soft demeanour towards him, increases the loathing with which I regard him. That is all--that is all, I assure you; I would do him no harm--but I love him not, nevertheless."
"I can see that, Sir Arthur Adelon," answered his companion; "and I see, moreover, a dark and sinister fire in your eyes, which I observed once before, when first in my presence you mentioned the name of Mr. Dudley to my partner. There were deeds followed that mention, which I need not call to your mind. I trust there will be none such now--nay, nor any attempt towards them; if there be, I will prevent it. I am not so good a lawyer--indeed, I know but little of the trade--I am not so good a lawyer as Mr. Sherborne, but I am a bolder, more resolute, and more honest man. However, I shall see you to-night. Is it not so?"
"Undoubtedly," answered Sir Arthur Adelon; "but you have not yet told me where I shall find you in Barhampton."
"You had better go to the little inn--the Rose, I think it is called," replied Norries; "there is but one. There some one shall come to lead you to us; for we are upon our guard, Sir Arthur, and resolute neither to be taken unawares, as some men have been, nor to act rashly, and bring down destruction on our own heads, as those thoughtless, weak, and poor-spirited men did in Yorkshire."
"I am very happy to hear it," said the baronet, in a tone of sincerity. "I will be there somewhat before twelve; till then, farewell." And shaking Norries by the hand with every sort of apparent cordiality, he left him, and returned to Brandon. But when he had re-entered the house, he retired for some time to the library, not to consider his future conduct, not to review the past. It was, in truth, that the conversation of that morning had aroused within him feelings dark, bitter, and deadly, which had slept for years; and he felt he could not see Mr. Dudley without calming himself, lest sensations should appear which he wished studiously to conceal from every eye.