With a quiet, cat-like watchfulness, Mr. Filmer remarked everything which passed between Eda Brandon and Charles Dudley. It was not words that he laid in wait for, but looks and gestures, the involuntary as well as the voluntary, the trifling as well as the important. Nothing escaped him, not even the accidental trait or the slightest possible indication of a passing emotion. Not the quick glance of the eye, withdrawn as soon as given, not the trembling hand nor the quivering lip, not the irrepressible sigh; not the fit of absence and the sudden raising of the look to the loved one's face, was unremarked by one who knew human nature well, and had made a trade of observation. "They love," was his conclusion, "and they understand each other. That walk home has concluded what seems to have been begun long ago. Now, then, what good is to be derived from this affair?"
It is a common calculation which he made, but one very apt to mislead. Men who see others labouring for the gratification of their passions, are often tempted by the opportunity to endeavour to rule them for their own purposes, and then, whatever event occurs, they ask, "What good is to be derived from this affair?" But they often miscalculate, because they do not ask themselves also, "Is there anything to be made of it, with honour and honesty?" If they did they might succeed where they every day fail.
Mr. Filmer, however, had his own particular views, which led him upon one peculiar course. His very position gave a direction to all his actions. The Roman priest stands alone amidst the world, separated from all the dearest ties of our nature by an irremovable barrier. He may have sympathies, but they are curtailed and restricted; he may have affections, but they are limited and enthralled. One predominant object is ever before him: one career is fixed for his efforts. He stands alone in the world, I repeat, not so much the servant of God as the servant of a hierarchy, to the interest and advancement of which all his energies must be devoted, and for whose purposes all his talents must be employed. As long as he can bring the satisfaction of affections, and the gratification of any passions, within the circle to which the whole course of education from his earliest years has restricted his consciousness of duty, perhaps they may be more strongly--I had almost said more fiercely--exercised, from the very fact of their narrow range; but the moment they would go beyond that limit, the petrifying influence of an engrossing church comes in, and changes the man into the mere representation of a system.
Such was the situation of Mr. Filmer. He was by no means without passions: fiery, eager, impetuous; but they were subdued to the one strict rule, and setting out with that mighty conquest, it was in general more easy for him to subdue the minds of other men also. He was not without considerable abilities--abilities approaching genius. He might have been a great man, in short, if he had not been compelled to be an artful man. But for a priest of that church, in the midst of an adverse population, it is impossible to be otherwise. It is not a religion of openness and candour; and its means must be covert, its course tortuous and indirect. Even in the very case of Mr. Dudley, his passions were not quiescent; but he was prepared to sacrifice all personal feeling for the one great object of his existence, and he watched, as I have said, asking himself, "To what uses the events taking place could be applied?"
It was not, however, Dudley alone whom he watched, nor Dudley and Eda. Sir Arthur Adelon was also an object of attentive consideration during the evening. There was something in his manner which showed the keen eye of the priest that the mind was not at ease: that there was something working within the baronet's bosom; and he was surprised that it was not revealed to him at once, for the secret of Sir Arthur Adelon's thoughts was not often concealed from him. The whole of his past life had been displayed before Filmer's eyes, and much which had been taking place had been discussed again and again between them. So far there was nothing to be concealed; and the priest marvelled that, if anything had gone wrong in the course of Sir Arthur's morning expedition, he could sit for several hours without communicating the fact to him.
Sir Arthur, however, paused and hesitated; not that he feared at all to recur to the past, but it was his yet unconfirmed purposes for the future which he hesitated to reveal. He knew that Filmer was a firmer, more resolute man than himself; he doubted that he would approve any, even the slightest, concession to fear. That he was politic and skilful he knew, and that his policy and skill would be exercised in his patron's behalf he was also fully convinced. But there was a dread upon him; and he apprehended that the priest would advise measures too bold for his nerves at that time. If he had been forced into vigorous defence, Sir Arthur would have sought his advice at once; but there was a choice of courses before him; he hesitated: hesitation is always a weakness, and as such is sure to take the weaker course. Twice, however, during the evening, he caught Filmer's eye resting upon him with a very inquiring look. He judged that he suspected something, and therefore he resolved in the end to tell him a part; to show him a half-confidence; deceiving himself, as all men in such circumstances do deceive themselves, and believing that he could to a certain extent deceive Mr. Filmer also, although he had known that clear-sighted and penetrating man for seven-and-twenty years.
The dinner passed most cheerfully with all but Sir Arthur Adelon. Lord Hadley was in great spirits; and, seated next Eda, he made himself as agreeable as moderate talents, gentlemanly manners, and no very decided character would admit. Dudley was calm, by no means so gay as his young companion; but yet the happiness that was in his heart, like a lamp within an alabaster urn, spread light and cheerfulness over all. Mr. Filmer was, as usual, composed and tranquil in his manner; at times impressive in his language, but often adding to the gaiety of others by a quiet jest or epigrammatic reply, which derived additional force from his seeming unconscious of its possessing any. Eda left the table very soon after the dessert had appeared. There were those things in her bosom which made her feel happy in the solitude of her own chamber. Thought, calm, uninterrupted thought, was at that moment very sweet to her. She loved and was beloved; and she had the grand satisfaction of feeling that she had it in her power to raise one to whom her affections had been given for years, who possessed her highest esteem, and who she knew well deserved high station, from unmerited misfortunes to the position which he was born to ornament. It was indeed a blessing, and Eda went and pondered upon it till her eyes filled with pleasant tears.
For about a quarter of an hour after she had gone, Sir Arthur Adelon continued at the table, passing the wine with somewhat nervous haste, and keeping up a broken conversation from which his thoughts were often absent. At length he said, speaking across the table, "Filmer, my reverend friend, I wish to speak with you for a few minutes: Lord Hadley, Mr. Dudley, you must not suffer the wine to stand while we are absent; I shall be back almost immediately." And he led the way out of the room.
Filmer followed him with a quiet smile, saying to himself, as he walked along towards the library, "What men do timidly they always do awkwardly; in that they are different from women, in whom timidity is grace. Adelon has had twenty opportunities of speaking to me, and has of course chosen the worst."
"Well, Filmer," said the baronet, almost before the door was closed, "I have something to talk to you about of great importance."
"I thought so, Sir Arthur," answered Mr. Filmer. "What is it?"
"Why did you think so?" inquired his friend, somewhat surprised, and somewhat apprehensive.
"Because it seemed to me that you had been annoyed at something," replied Filmer. "When you are uneasy, Sir Arthur, it is soon perceived; too soon, indeed. The young and unobserving may not remark such things, but one who has been, I trust I may say, your friend for so many years, can perceive when you are uneasy in a moment; and a very shrewd judge of men's feelings and actions, which I do not pretend to be, would, I doubt not, discover the uneasiness, even without having had the advantage of such long acquaintance."
These words, as he intended, added to the embarrassment which Sir Arthur already felt; but nevertheless he pursued his course, endeavouring, as far as possible, to conceal that he had any concealment. "Well, Filmer, well," he said, "men cannot alter their natures, you know; and the matter is one which might well cause uneasiness. You recollect that affair of Charles Dudley? You do not at all doubt that this is his son who is here?"
"No," answered Mr. Filmer, drily; "but we knew that last night. I certainly did, from the moment I saw the back of his head, and your face left no doubt that you had made the same discovery."
"The very first sight of him," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, bitterly, "and the feelings which that sight produced, left me no doubt of who it was that stood before me. But listen a moment, Filmer--listen a moment. There is much more behind. You remember well that business of Charles Dudley, I say, of him who was my friend and companion, my rival and my enemy, and last, my acquaintance----"
"And your victim," murmured Filmer, in so low a tone that Sir Arthur Adelon did not remark the words, but added, "and my debtor. You doubtless also remember the election which we contested, and my lawyers, Messrs. Sherborne and Norries?"
"Perfectly," answered Filmer; "the one the soul of policy and intrigue; shrewd, penetrating, subtle, and faithless; the other, the incarnation of republican energy and determination, rash and inconsiderate, though full of vigour and ability. He was implicated a short time ago in the Chartist insurrection, apprehended with his fellows, if I remember right, and thrust into York jail----"
"Whence he made his escape in two or three days," rejoined Sir Arthur Adelon. "It would be a strong prison that would keep him in. However, Sherborne is dead; Norries alive, well, and in this country."
"That is no great matter, then," answered Mr. Filmer. "Sherborne was the dangerous man, and he is gone. All your communications were with him, my good friend; at least as far I know, and I think I saw every letter."
The words, "I think," were spoken in a somewhat doubtful tone, as if he did not feel quite sure of the extent of Sir Arthur's confidence; but the baronet replied, eagerly, "Every one, Filmer; and indeed, as you well know, many of them were dictated by yourself."
"True!" said the priest--"true! I am happy to say they were; I say I am happy, Sir Arthur, because it was but right that that man should receive a check. Not contented with marrying a lady of the only true church, who was promised by her relations to one of their own just and reasonable belief, he perverted her from the path of truth into that of error, and in twelve months had filled her mind with all the foulest doctrines of that heresy in which he had himself been brought up. It was just and right, Sir Arthur, that he should not be permitted to go on in such a course, and that he should feel even here the consequences of those acts."
"Yes; but my dear friend," replied Sir Arthur Adelon, "those papers are of much importance, let me tell you. Both your character and mine are compromised if they should ever see the light----"
"But you told me they were burned," said Mr. Filmer, with a countenance less firm and tranquil than usual.
"Yes; so Sherborne assured me most solemnly," replied Sir Arthur Adelon; "but nevertheless it is not the truth. They are all in the hands of this Norries, and he is using every possible means to render them available for his own purposes."
This was, as the reader knows, substantially true; for Sir Arthur Adelon was one of those men who do not like to tell a direct falsehood, even when it is their intention to deceive; and he intended his words to convey to the mind of the priest a very different impression of Norries' intentions, while he could always fall back upon the precise terms he had employed, and put a larger interpretation upon them than Mr. Filmer was likely to do at the moment.
The priest mused. "Why what can he do with them?" he demanded, at length, still in a thoughtful tone. "They can be of little service to him. The time is long past; the circumstances altogether forgotten. Charles Dudley, of St. Austin's, is dead----"
"But his son is living," replied the baronet, quickly, impatient that his companion did not see the importance of the documents at once--"his son is living; Norries knows that he is here, and he threatens to place the whole of the papers in his hands."
"That might be unpleasant, certainly," answered Filmer; "although you had every right to act as you did act, at least such I humbly judge to be the case; yet one would not like to have all one's private and confidential communications to a solicitor exposed to the eyes of an adversary's son."
"Like!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, vehemently; "Filmer, you use wonderfully cold terms to-night! Why, it would be ruin and destruction! Call to mind, I beg of you, all the particulars of the transaction. Remember what was done to lead him on from expense to expense in that business. Remember all which that man Sherborne suggested, and which we executed. The matter of the petition, too, against his return, and what was arranged between our people and his own agents, and the business of the flaw in the title. You must have forgotten, I think."
"Oh! no," replied the priest; "I have not forgotten, Sir Arthur, and I say it would be unpleasant, very unpleasant. What does this person Norries ask for the papers?"
"Oh! a great deal," answered Sir Arthur Adelon, still speaking with that sort of mental reservation which he had learned betimes; "more than I am inclined to grant: a great deal more; but I shall see him to-night. I have an appointment with him at Barhampton, and shall there learn what is the real extent of his demand."
The priest meditated for several minutes with a grave and somewhat anxious countenance. "Norries," he said, at length, "was a wild and somewhat eccentric man, but as far as I could judge, a just and honest one. His views, too, though somewhat extreme, as his acts were occasionally ill-timed, were all in a right direction. I am afraid, Sir Arthur, we have fallen back from the ground we then occupied. The truth is, my excellent friend, the Church of Rome, as it is called, the Catholic Church, as it really is, has not that tendency which men suppose towards the aristocratic distinctions which have risen up in this land. It might place upon its banner the words 'Civil liberty, spiritual submission.' It reverences all ancient things: amongst the rest, ancient blood; but is certainly opposed to an aristocracy springing from the people, and founded upon wealth; although in itself it may be termed a spiritual republic, in which every man, according to his genius and ability, can, with the grace of God, rise to the very highest of its grades, even to the chair of St. Peter itself. We have often seen it. But, as is the case in all republics, the utmost submission is required to the ruling power, although there is always a corrective for the misuse of power in the synods and councils. It is a hierarchy, indeed, but a hierarchy open to all men; and as a hierarchy it is opposed to the domination of all lay powers, which are ever inclined to resist the milder influence of spiritual powers."
"But what has all this to do with the question?" exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon, not comprehending what the reader has perhaps perceived, that the priest was carrying on in words one train of reasoning, very loosely connected with the immediate subject, while in thought he was revolving more pertinently all the difficult points that were before him.
"What I mean to say is this," replied Mr. Filmer. "Men consider it strange that Roman Catholics should, from time to time, give their support to movements savouring of republicanism; and that persons whose views tend to republicanism should often link themselves closely with Catholics; but as I have shown, the connexion is not at all unnatural, and the views of this good man Norries might well be, as they were, supported by ourselves; even were it not perfectly right and justifiable, in the pursuit of a great and all-important object, to combine even with men the most opposed to us in the minor points of politics, when by so doing we see the probability of advancing the truth."
"What! would you have me, then, join with him now?" exclaimed Sir Arthur, in considerable surprise; for the arguments of Father Peter went so directly to support the inducements held out by Norries, that the baronet could hardly persuade himself there had not been some communication between the Chartist and the priest.
"I did not exactly say that," answered Filmer. "Men's views frequently undergo a change in a few years. I know not what this man's opinions may now be. He was then an eager advocate for perfect freedom of religious opinions; he was then for sweeping away altogether what they call here the Church of the State, and leaving every man to follow what creed he thinks best."
"But, surely, my reverend friend," exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon, "such are principles you would never support or even tolerate? It was in his religious views alone that I differed from Norries."
The priest smiled with one of those calm, sagacious smiles that have a certain though moderate portion of triumph in them, the triumph of superior astuteness. "I would support them for their hour," he said. "I remember hearing of a wise stratagem practised by a great general who was besieging a refractory city. The inhabitants had dammed up a river which ran on one side of the town, and thus had defended their walls on that side from all attack. The dam or barrier which they had constructed was immediately under the fire of one of their strongest works, so that it was unassailable; but the general of whom I speak, by a week's hard labour, turned the course of a still larger river into that which served for their defence, and the mighty torrent, rushing down, swept away the barriers altogether. The river resumed its equal flow, and the attacking army, marching on, took the town by storm on the very side where it had been judged impregnable. Now, my dear friend, the Catholic religion is the attacking army; the revolted and besieged city is this country of England; the overflowed river which defends us is moderate toleration of opinion; the barrier which keeps the waters up is the heretical church of this country, and we have nought to do but to pour the torrent of licentious freedom against that barrier till it is quite overthrown, in order to have a clear way for our march, and to secure our ultimate triumph."
The baronet paused and mused for several moments, partly considering the new views which his companion had propounded, partly debating with himself as to whether he should make his confidence more complete than he had at first intended, and before he replied Mr. Filmer went on again. "I do not mean to say, Sir Arthur," he continued, "that I would advise you to take any rash or dangerous step; and indeed, on the contrary, I think you had a great deal better, while you give encouragement to the moral movement, oppose most strongly all appeal to force, till the country is far more prepared for it than at present. To show yourself upon their side may give vigour to their proceedings, may gain many adherents to range themselves openly with them who are merely restrained by fear and timidity, and may assist them in raising that prestige of power, numbers, and respectability, which, if it can be maintained, conquers in the end all opposition; for as you are well aware, so curiously constituted is the mind of this nation, that no question, however absurd, no view, however false, no measure, however evil and detrimental, will not gain the adherence of the great multitude if they can once be taught to believe, by truth or falsehood, that it is supported by numbers and by respectability. I have no doubt that, if I could show, or rather, if I could persuade, the people of England that there are a million or two of atheists in the land demanding the abolition of all religious worship whatsoever, the great body of the people would be easily induced to renounce their God, and endeavour to sweep away every trace of religion from the land. There is no being on the face of the earth so susceptible of moral contagion as an Englishman."
"It is a dark view of the case," said Sir Arthur Adelon.
"But a true one," answered Filmer; "otherwise England would have been still Catholic. However, to return to these papers. You say you will see Norries again tonight; you must then discover what is the extent of his demand. I would make him no promises, were I in your place, till I had had time for thought and deliberation; neither would I refuse anything that he might demand, that is to say, not absolutely, till we have consulted together. I will go with you, if you like, to speak with him."
"I do not think he would open his views before another," said Sir Arthur, hastily; "but as it is well, my reverend friend, to be prepared against the worst, let us consider what must be done should this man's views be very exorbitant, and should he refuse all time for deliberation."
"Then you must say 'No,' of course," replied Filmer; "and we will take measures against his measures."
"I see none that we can take," answered the baronet, gloomily. "He would instantly place the papers in this young man's hands, and then ruin, and destruction, and disgrace, would be the consequence."
"Should you find that there is danger of his doing so suddenly," was Mr. Filmer's reply, "we must deal with Mr. Dudley ourselves, either in attaching him to us by bringing him over to the true faith again, or----"
"There is no chance of that; there is no chance of that!" exclaimed the baronet, interrupting him, and waving his hand impatiently. "Filmer, you think your eloquence can do everything; but you could as soon move the church of St. Peter, and set it down in the capital of England, as you would bring back to the true faith one of that stubborn race of heretics!"
"You are prejudiced, my friend," replied Filmer, calmly; "but do not suppose that I rely upon my own eloquence. It can do nothing but by strength from on high, and the voice of the true church is powerful. Still, temporal means must be employed as well; and I see a way before me of so completely rendering it his interest, notwithstanding every cause of enmity he may have, to bury all past deeds in oblivion, to seek your friendship rather than your hate, and, I trust, even to return to the bosom of the church, that I am not without very great hopes of success. Should those hopes prove vain, however, my dear Sir Arthur, should he show himself deaf to the voice of truth, obstinate in error, revengeful and rancorous in disposition, we must use the right of self-defence, which every creature has, and in a firm, determined spirit, but with prudent skill, retort upon him any attack he may make upon you, and without hesitation or fear, aim blow after blow, till he either sinks beneath the assault, or is driven to flight for safety."
His brow gathered into a stern and determined frown as he spoke; and Sir Arthur Adelon so well knew his unflinching resolution in the hour of danger, and his keen and subtle policy in the time of difficulty, that he gained courage from the courage of his companion, and smiled with some bitter satisfaction at the thought of pursuing the vengeance he had already heaped upon the father to the destruction of the son likewise. He only ventured to observe, "How either of these two objects is to be accomplished, I do not see."
"Leave that to me," answered Filmer, in a confident tone. "I think you have never known me fail, Sir Arthur, in that which I promised you to perform. I will mature my plans, prepare my ground for either course; and though there may be difficulties which would startle a weak, irresolute, or unpractised mind, they alarm not me. On the contrary, I often think it is a blessing of God that I am placed in a calm and tranquil position of life, and have embraced a sacred profession, which rules and regulates the turbulent impulses of our nature; for I feel a sort of expansion of mind and rejoicing of heart when circumstances compel me to struggle with intricate and perilous difficulties, and overcome stubborn and apparently insurmountable obstacles, which might have led me, had I not been excluded from mundane things, into the strife and toil and degrading greatness of mere earthly ambition."
It is probable that he really believed what he said; for there is no man who does not deceive himself more or less; and those who from passion, or interest, or education, or any other evil inducement, fall into the darkest errors, are those who are in most need of self-deception. He thought deeply for a moment or two after he had spoken, and there was a gloomy look of pride upon his countenance, too, as if he even regretted that in which he pretended to rejoice: a shadow from the fallen archangel's wing. But then again he roused himself with a start, and said, in an ordinary and composed tone, "We will talk over our old plans early to-morrow, Sir Arthur; you had better now go to your conference."
"Not yet," said Sir Arthur, rising. "It is not to take place till twelve. But we must rejoin those young men, or they may think our prolonged absence strange." Thus saying, he led the way to the door, and Filmer only detained him to add one sentence:--
"Remember," he said, "do not commit yourself!"
The town of Barhampton--or rather, that town which it suits me so to denominate--is one of no great importance in point of size, and of no great commerce, for railroads have not yet reached it; and the nearest point which had been attained by any of those strange contrivances for hurrying man through life and through a country, lay at the distance of nearly fifty miles at the time of which I speak. Nevertheless, it was a sea-port; and had it been near the capital, near any important town, or situated in a thickly-populated district, it possessed several considerable advantages, which would have secured to it, in all probability, an extensive and lucrative trade. It had a very nice small harbour, for which man had done something and nature much. The water was deep therein; and had there been room for one of the unwieldy monsters of the deep, a three-decker might have lain at anchor there with six fathom under her keel. But the harbour was very small, and had a line-of-battle ship attempted it, her boom would probably have knocked down the harbour-master's office at the end of the little jetty, while her bowsprit entered the Lord Nelson public-house by the windows of the first floor. Boats and coasters, of from thirty to ninety tons, could come in at all times of tide, but nothing larger was seen in the harbour of Barhampton.
Outside the harbour, however, in what was called the bay, especially when the wind set strong from the southwest, a very different scene was displayed, for there nature seemed to have laboured alone on a far grander scale. Two high and rocky promontories, at some points about a mile and a half apart, stretched forth from the general line of the coast into the sea, like two gigantic piers. One, following the line of the high ridge which crowned it, was nearly straight; the other swept round in the arc of a large circle, projecting considerably farther into the ocean than the other, but gradually approaching, in its sweep, the opposite promontory; so that, at the entrance of this magnificent bay, the passage was not more than half a mile in width. Few winds, of all those to which mariners have given name, affected in any great degree the deep still waters within that high and mountainous circle; and there, when tempests were raging without, might be seen riding, in calm security, the rich argosie and the stately ship of war. No cargoes, however, were now disembarked at Barhampton, except those of the small vessels which entered the harbour, and which supplied the town and the neighbouring country with a variety of miscellaneous articles of ordinary use.
Nevertheless, in former times, the town, it would appear, must have been a place of some importance. Rising up the slopes of the hills, from the brink of the harbour, its narrow, tortuous, ill-lighted, unswept, and dilapidated-looking streets reached the summit of the high ground, where a number of superior houses were to be found, somewhat stately in appearance, antique in form, and cold and formal in aspect, except, indeed, where a cheerful little garden interposed, blushing with china-astres, dahlias, and other autumnal flowers. Yet even these could not give it an air of life, or if they did at all, it was an air of vegetable life. There was no movement, there was no activity in it. It seemed as if everybody in the place was dead, except a few men who had come in to bury the rest. Beyond these houses of the better classes, as rich people are called, were some poorer dwellings, descending the slope on the opposite side of the ridge; and beyond these again, came the ancient walls of the town, built and perfected when Barhampton was a place of strength.
The town had not, indeed, been dismantled even yet, but it had been disarmed; and now, instead of large cannon, and soldiers 'bearded like pard,' the broad ramparts displayed the nursery-maids and the little children of the citizens flirting with apprentices, or peeping out of empty embrasures; or, on the Sunday, the great mass of the inhabitants of the town walking in gay attire, enjoying the fine air, and gazing over the wide prospect. Round about, nearly in the shape of a horse-shoe, from one point of the harbour to the other, enclosing the whole city, if it could be so called, within their area, swept those old walls, time-worn, and lichen-covered, and loaded with snapdragon. No mason's trowel, no busy chisel, had been employed upon them for more than two centuries, and the hard knocks of Oliver Cromwell's cannon had left traces still unobliterated even by the equalizing hand of time.
The external appearance of the place was not at all deceptive. The march of improvement was not a quick march in Barhampton. In fact, in the space of fifty years, but one improvement had been made in the town, and the audacious and reforming mayor, who had sanctioned, recommended, and successfully carried out this act of innovation, had been held in execration ever since by a considerable portion of his fellow-townsmen. The deed I speak of was the enlargement of the High-street, and the giving it as near as possible a straightforward direction. It would now admit two carriages, or even waggons, abreast in every part; formerly only one could pass, except at particular places, where a greater expansion had been purposely given to the road, in order to prevent the comers up and goers down from jamming each other together immovably. In previous times, also, this street had pursued a sort of zigzag direction, which nearly doubled its length, and this had evidently been done, not for the purpose of avoiding the acclivities, but rather for that of finding them out; for even in going down the hill, carriages had to mount as often, though not so far at any one time, as they had to descend; and in coming up, one rise seemed only to be overcome in order to go down and seek for another.
The same innovating magistrate who had committed the heinous act of straightening and widening the street, had expressed an antipathy to the old town gates, and their heavy oaken doors, with portcullis and draw-bridge; but the whole town rose as one man to resist his rash and horrible proceedings. In vain he showed that more than one horse had taken fright in going over the clattering, rickety, old bridge; in vain he pointed out that a very respectable old lady had broken her neck at the same spot, by a fall into the ditch. The people said that the horses were mad and the lady drunk, to do such things; and the mayor died, like all great patriots, before he saw his schemes for the improvement of his native place carried into full accomplishment.
Thirty years had passed since the reign of this potentate, and a change had come over the spirit of the people of Barhampton. There were many great reformers in the place--men who sighed for a complete change in all things--who stood up for the rights and liberties of the people; who would have all men permitted to sell gin and cordial compounds from any hour at which they chose to begin, to any hour at which they chose to end; who corrected municipal abuses, and castigated corrupt parish officers; who worried the mayor, tormented the aldermen, bored the county magistrates and members of parliament, abused the overseers, and set even the beadle at nought. But in the mending of their ways they still forgot to mend the ways of the city: that did not come under their notions of reform. They refused a church-rate, and therefore could not be expected to vote a paving and lighting rate. They objected to all taxes of all kinds, and most of all they objected to tax themselves. They evaded imposts wherever they could; paid grumblingly those they were compelled to pay; cheated the customs by prescription, and the excise by cunning; and thought themselves pure and immaculate if they only defrauded the state and escaped the law. How often is it with men, that punishment rather than crime is considered disgraceful!
But I must not moralize upon the little community of Barhampton. Things went on increasing and prospering with the reformers. At first they were moved apparently by nothing but the pure spirit of innovation; but there were some men of more mind amongst them than the rest; and having all agreed upon the necessity of great and sweeping changes in church, state, and municipality, they proceeded to inquire what sort of changes were desirable. They instructed themselves in what other people demanded, and thus the reforming part of the population divided itself into three distinct portions, consisting of Whigs, Radicals, and Chartists. Amongst the former were some of the most respectable and dullest men of the town: the Radicals comprised the great body of the mob-ocracy. The Chartists were men of enthusiastic temperaments, sincere and eager characters, and in many instances, of considerable powers of mind. They saw great social evils, magnified their extent by the force of imagination, and, unaccustomed to any of the details of public business, perceived but one remedy for the sickness of the state, and imagined that remedy to be a panacea for all ills. Moral force was a good thing in their eyes, but physical force they thought a better. They believed themselves prepared for all contingencies; they imagined themselves ready to shed their blood in support of that which they never doubted to be good; they dreamed of the crown of martyrdom in their country's service; and, in short, they were political fanatics, though not a small portion of true patriotism lay at the bottom of their yearnings for revolution. On most occasions the Radicals would join with them, and therefore the Chartists looked upon them for the time as brothers; but the union was not solid, and in more important matters still, the Radicals were disposed to support the Whigs. This fact began to be felt a little before the period at which my tale opens. The Chartists imagined that they perceived a greater sympathy in many points between themselves and the Tories, than between themselves and the Whigs; that there was more real philanthropy, a greater wish to see the condition of the lower classes materially improved, amongst persons of Tory principle, than in any other class. But there were also fundamental differences, which rendered perfect assimilation with them impossible, and though they regarded the Tories with a kindly feeling, they could not unite with them for any great object.
Such was briefly the state of the town, physical and moral, when the carriage of Sir Arthur Adelon rolled through the gates, which had not been closed for half a century; and a drag having been put on, it began to descend slowly the principal street of the place. In that principal street was situated the small inn called the Rose, which, though there were numerous public-houses, was the only place which kept post-horses, and honoured itself by the name of hotel. The streets were miserably dark, and nearly deserted, and Sir Arthur Adelon felt a little nervous and uneasy at the thought of what was before him.
In the heat of blood and party strife, men will go boldly and straight-forwardly towards objects pointed out by principles in their own mind, and will seek those objects and assert those principles at the risk of life and fortune, and all that makes life and fortune desirable. But they proceed upon the same course with very different feelings when, in calmness and tranquillity, after a long cessation of turmoil and contest, they return to the same paths, even though their general views may remain unchanged, and they may think their purposes as laudable as ever.
Such was the case with Sir Arthur Adelon. Perhaps, if one looked closely into his heart, and could see, not only what was in it at the present moment, but what I may call the history of his sensations, we should find that his having embraced the extreme views which he entertained had originated in mortified vanity and an embittered spirit. An early disappointment, acting upon a haughty and somewhat vindictive temper, had soured his feelings towards society in general; and when, shortly afterwards, he had met a check, by the refusal of a peerage which he thought he had well merited, a bitter disgust succeeded towards institutions in which he was excluded from the high position he had coveted, and he became anxious to throw down other men from a position which he could not attain. It was by no regular process of reasoning from these premises that he arrived at the extremely democratical opinions which he often loudly proclaimed; but the events of his early life gave a general bias to his thoughts, which led him step by step to the violent views which he announced in two contested elections in Yorkshire; and at the present time, though he had sunk into temporary apathy, his notions were not at all moderated even by years and experience. He was not inclined, indeed, to risk so much, or to engage in such rash enterprises, as he might have done in the hasty days of youth; but the long-buried seeds were still in his mind, and it only required warmth and cultivation to make them spring up as green and fresh as ever. Nevertheless, he approached discussions in which he felt he might be carried beyond the point where prudence counselled him to stop, with a great degree of nervous anxiety; and he almost hoped, as his carriage stopped at the inn door, and no signs of waking life appeared but the solitary lamp over the little portico, that some accident might have prevented the meeting. The next instant, however, a light shone through the glass door, and a waiter appearing, approached the step of the carriage, saying, "The gentleman told me to tell you, Sir Arthur, that he would be back in a few minutes."
The baronet bit his lip--there was now no escaping; and following the waiter to a sitting-room, he ordered some sherry, and took two or three glasses, but they did not raise his spirits. All was silent in the town; not a sound was heard but the sighing of the breeze from the bay, and a faint sort of roar, which might be the wind in the chimney, or the breaking of the sea upon the shore. Solemn and slow, vibrating in the air long after each stroke, the great clock of the old church struck twelve, and Sir Arthur Adelon muttered to himself, "I will not wait, at all events; they cannot expect me to wait." One, two, three minutes passed by, and the baronet rose, and was approaching the bell, when the foot of the waiter was heard running up the stairs, and the door was opened.
"The gentleman, sir," said the waiter; and entering more slowly, a stout, hard-featured, red-haired man appeared, well dressed, and though clumsily made, not of an ungentlemanly appearance. Sir Arthur had never seen his face before, and gazed on him with some surprise; but the stranger waited till the door was closed again, and then advancing, with a slight bow, he said, "Sir Arthur Adelon, I believe?"
"The same, sir," replied the baronet. "I expected to find another gentleman here. May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"My name, sir, is Mac Dermot," replied the stranger; "and my friend, Mr. Norries, who is probably the person you allude to, would have been here to receive you, but being detained with some preliminary business, he requested me to come hither, and be your guide a little farther in the town."
The name given was information sufficient to Sir Arthur Adelon regarding the person before him. He saw one of the chief leaders of the great, though somewhat wild and ill-directed movement, in which he himself had taken, as yet, a very inconsiderable part. He felt that his very communication with such a man compromised him in a high degree; and he was anxious to ascertain how much Mac Dermot really knew of his affairs before he proceeded farther. He therefore slowly drew on his gloves, and took up his hat, saying, "I am very happy to see you, Mr. Mac Dermot. I suppose my old acquaintance, Mr. Norries, has made you acquainted with the various circumstances in which he has been connected with me?"
"Not particularly," replied his companion. "He has informed us that he acted for some time as your solicitor, when you were residing in Yorkshire; and he has laid before us the report of several speeches which you made at that time, with which, I may add, I was myself well acquainted before; but which has given great satisfaction to every one present, from the prospect of seeing a gentleman of such rank and influence, and one who can so eloquently express our own exact sentiments, likely to be united with us once more in advocating the cause of the people against those who oppress them. Will you permit me to lead the way?"
Sir Arthur Adelon had marked every word that was spoken with peculiar attention, and Mac Dermot's reply was a great relief to him. Norries had not mentioned the power he had over him, and moreover the words 'advocating the cause of the people' seemed to him to imply that nothing of a violent or physical nature was intended; and that all the leaders of the movement had in view was to endeavour to strengthen themselves in public opinion by argument and by moral force.
He therefore followed with a lighter step, and was conducted through several narrow and tortuous streets and back lanes, to a house which presented no very imposing appearance, as far as it could be discovered in the darkness of the night. The door was low and narrow, and stood ajar; and when Mac Dermot pushed it open, and Sir Arthur saw the passage by a light which was at the other end, he said to himself, "There can be no very formidable meeting here, for there does not seem to be room for a dozen men in the whole house." He was conducted through the passage to a staircase as narrow, which led to a long sort of gallery, running round what seemed a stable-yard, at the end of which was a door, which Mac Dermot held open for his companion to pass. When Sir Arthur had gone through, his guide closed the door and locked it, and then saying, "This way, sir," led him to another door, at which a man was standing immoveable, with a lamp in his hand. There Mac Dermot knocked, and the door was unlocked and opened from within.
The next moment Sir Arthur Adelon found himself in a very large, low-ceilinged, ill-shaped room, with a long table in the midst. There were several tallow candles round about, emitting a most disagreeable odour, and casting a red, glaring, unsatisfactory light upon the faces of between thirty and forty men, seated at the board in various attitudes. At the head of the table, in an armchair, appeared Norries, such as I have described him before; but any attempt to paint the other groups in the room would be vain, for every sort of face, form, and dress which England can display, was there assembled, from the sharp, shrewd face of long-experienced age, to the delicate features of the beardless lad; from the stout and stalwart form of the hardy yeoman, to the sickly and feeble frame of the over-tasked artisan of the city. Here appeared one in the black coat and white neck-cloth usually worn by the ministers of religion; there a man in the garb of a mechanic: in one place a very spruce blue satin handkerchiefed gentleman, with yellow gloves, and close by him another who was apparently a labouring blacksmith, with his hands brown and sooty from the forge. An elderly man, in a well-worn flaxen wig, and large eyes like black cherries, might have passed by his dress for a very small country attorney, and opposite to him sat a broad-shouldered man of six foot two, in a blue coat, leather breeches, and top-boots, probably some large farmer in the neighbourhood of the town.
Two seats were reserved on each side of the chairman; and while Mac Dermot locked the door again, and every person present rose, Sir Arthur Adelon, with his stately step and aristocratic air, but, if the truth must be told, with a good deal of disgust and some anxiety at heart, walked up to the head of the table, shook hands with Norries, and took one of the vacant chairs. The other was immediately occupied by Mac Dermot, and then rising, the chairman said, "Gentlemen, I have the honour of introducing to you Sir Arthur Adelon, whose station and fortune afford the lowest title to your esteem. Far higher in mind than in rank, far richer in generous qualities and in mental endowments than in wealth, he has ever shown himself the friend of that great and majestic body, the people of this country; he has always professed and undauntedly maintained the same opinions which we conscientiously entertain; and he is ready, I am sure, to go heart and hand with us in all just and reasonable measures for the defence of our rights and liberties."
The whole party assembled gave the baronet a cheer, and the sensations with which Sir Arthur had entered began already to wane, even in the first excitement of the moment. Here, however, I must drop the curtain over a scene of which the reader has probably had enough, and proceed to other events of no less importance in this tale.