The most capricious gift of heaven is sleep--That is a very bad expression--unphilosophical--not logical; but yet it expresses what I mean, perhaps, better than any other form I could have used. A gift can not be capricious, though the giver may; and yet, in this instance, the giver is never capricious, and the gift, as if instinct with life, and will, and perversity itself, seems to have no rule, no regularity, no consequence of effect.
One is always inclined to repeat or copy the opening of Young's Night Thoughts when one speaks of sleep; and yet the owl-poet, soft and solemn as he was, did not always direct his thoughts aright. Sleep does not always "his ready visit pay where Fortune smiles;" nor does he always forsake the wretched to light on lids unsullied by a tear. Far, far from it. Shakspeare knew the world, waking and sleeping, better than Young; for sleep does often "knit up the raveled sleave of care," and bestows his balmy blessing, as the gift of Heaven, upon wearied eyelids, and aching hearts, and care-worn brains, which naught of earth earthly could ever soothe. Ay, and he does so, too, in circumstances where the blessed boon could never be expected; unless man could calculate finely, and to the utmost nicety, all the varied shades of the heart's feelings, all the different hues of the mind's thoughts, all the delicate outlines of the body's sensations, and balance the harmonies existing through the whole as in a goldsmith's scale.
Ralph Woodhall lay down to rest--to rest, mark me, I say--not to sleep. Sleep he never calculated upon. His mind was as busy and as active when his head touched the pillow as his body had been during the four or five days preceding. But his body was weary; there was a dull numbness in his limbs, an oppressive weight upon his corporeal energies that pressed them down, and he thought he could find repose, though not slumber. In a moment, however, there came a vacancy of thought--a dead leaden lapse in mind's existence--a space in which intellect and feeling were still and silent. Suddenly the mind or the heart, I know not which, woke up, and the body itself was roused by the start of its companions. He raised himself upon his arm, gazed wildly round upon the darkness, half remembered, half forgot where he was, sunk slowly back upon his pillow, and slept profoundly.
His sleep was long as well as deep. The morning sun rose and shone into the room; the summer birds began their song, and caroled at his window all unheard; his servant came in, gazed at, but would not wake him, and retired, saying to himself, "Would that I could sleep so;" the breakfast table was laid in the small room below; the church clock even struck nine, and Ralph was sleeping still.
It was not exhaustion of body, for he was accustomed to hard and robust exercise, often repeated, long continued; but it was exhaustion of body and mind together.
The immortal spirit, bound up in the fleshy clay, partakes of the infirmity of its fellowship; and that which, liberate from earth, must necessarily be unconscious of weariness or needful of repose, when linked in the bond of life with dust, feels a part of the weight which hangs upon its mortal brother. Both were weary with Ralph Woodhall--both slept. There was an utter vacancy of all things in that dull, leaden repose. There was no movement--no tossing to and fro--no murmuring of the lips--no dream--no thought--no feeling, waking. All was still. The beating of the heart went on--the mere mechanism of life was there: the wheel was not still, the silver chain was not broken; there was existence without life--without the living life, deprived of which existence is but a gap in time.
It was nearly ten when he awoke; but then, the shortened shadow on the floor, the brightness of the sunshine as it streamed through the window with its warm, yellowish, unempurpled light, showed him how long he had slept; and he proceeded to dress himself eagerly and in haste.
As he stood by the window at the toilet table, bestowing no great pains upon his attire--for mind had by this time recovered the full mastery of her mortal ally--he saw a horseman crossing with speed the open space of the park which lay between the house and the little bridge that spanned the river some half a mile further up The man was dressed in the livery of Lady Danvers, which, as most liveries were in those days, was somewhat gay, if not gaudy; and the horse seemed tired enough to require frequently the whip and spur.
Ralph took no great heed, for his mind was busy within its own peculiar sphere of thought, and sent forth few scouts to notice what was passing without. He saw the man gallop up to the terrace and pass round to the back of the house, without any comment, even merely mental. He did not ask himself who he could be, why he rode so fast, or what intelligence he brought. It was but to him that a something had arrived at the mansion--that a horse and man had passed rapidly before his eyes, and that they were gone. He was still absorbed in the thoughts of the preceding day, when a gentle knock at the door roused him, and, turning round, he saw Mr. Drayton entering with some letters in his hand.
"I beg pardon for intruding, sir," said the steward, with a bow of profound respect; "but a servant has brought some letters from my lady, among which is this one for yourself, marked, 'with the utmost speed.' I therefore made bold to break in upon your rest, for your servant told me you were still sleeping."
"I thank you, Mr. Drayton," replied Ralph; "I have a good deal overslept myself. What says your lady?"
"But little to me, sir," replied the steward, "except to give you this letter immediately, and to send the other to Lady Di Fullerton, who often stays here; but I thought this needed immediate notice, and therefore, as I have said, I brought it up."
Ralph took the letter with more indifference than Mr. Drayton thought altogether proper toward the hand and seal of his fair influential mistress, and then, having opened it, he read as follows:
"I write to you in haste, dear friend, for since you left me I have heard much which requires to be spoken of between you and me immediately. Some mistakes have evidently been committed--where or how I can not stop to inquire; and it is needful, before you take any step whatever, that you should consult with some one, even though it be so humble a counselor as myself. There are more dangers surrounding you than you at all imagine, very different from those which alarmed me on the day that you left me, and which have now passed away from my mind. These can not be explained by letter; but you must now--I enjoin and require you, by courtesy and gallantry, which I know you possess, if you would but show them--to remain a close prisoner in my house till you see me without doing act or deed which can bring any one to know where you are concealed. I may add that there are warrants out against you for crimes less merciable than the simply fighting of a duel, and that you must not be found at present, till the doubts and fears which shake men's minds have passed away. Do not suppose that I will keep you long waiting, although I do not choose to commit the facts of which I am cognizant to the peril of a letter; but I am following you as rapidly as may be, bold in my independence, and, I trust, in my right purposes. Nevertheless, to escape the world's forked tongue, I have written to an amiable but antique cousin--married and widowed--to come over to Danvers's New Church. Should she arrive before myself, show her all courtesy and kindness, and believe me, if you will let me be so, your kind sister,
"Hortensia Danvers."
Ralph studied the letter with much attention; read and re-read every sentence several times, and ultimately resolved to abide by the counsel it contained, and to await the coming of his fair hostess ere he took any step whatever. It was evident--so he argued--that Lady Danvers was disabused of the idea that he had killed his cousin Henry in a duel; but what were the circumstances of peril to which she alluded, he could not divine.
Could it be, he asked himself, that the influence of Lord Woodhall, attributing to him his son's death, had been exerted with such effect as to have a factitious accusation of some other offense against the laws brought against him to secure vengeance? Such an idea would never occur to any Englishman in the present day, and the very mention of it would be laughed to scorn. But we must recollect that this was no vain and improbable fancy in the times of which we are speaking. Trumped-up charges, for the purpose of destroying a political adversary or a private enemy, had been for more than twenty years, and still were, as common as daisies; nor had such villainy yet reached its height; for the three succeeding years displayed an amount of villainous practices of this kind which probably never before, and certainly never after, stained the history of any Christian country. Courts of law, too, were notoriously corrupt; judges were bought, sold, and influenced. Scroggs and Jeffries had befouled the judgment-seat; attorneys general were at the beck and call of every political enmity or court intrigue; and corrupt sheriffs selected, packed, and instructed the juries of the day on the basest motives for the most infamous purposes. It was no chimera of the imagination, then, that Ralph Woodhall dreaded, but a real and substantial danger, which might affect any man who had incurred the enmity of power and influence.
There could be no great harm done, he thought, by delay; and he determined not to send the letters which he had written on the preceding evening till Lady Danvers had arrived.
On questioning the man who had brought her letters, he found that she might be expected in two days more; and, to follow her directions exactly, he took a strong resolution to confine himself to the house till after he was made more fully aware of the peril that menaced him.
But alas for human resolutions, and for the young man's above all! Ralph was uneasy and restless. The anxiety of his mind left him no repose. He tried to read, and the fine library of Danvers's New Church afforded ample opportunity; but he soon found that the delight in books was for the time gone. He thought of Margaret, and of his poor cousin Henry, and, with a feeling of sympathy and pity, of old Lord Woodhall himself. He knew well that the first effect of his son's violent death would be to produce rage and a thirst for vengeance, which might be turned against him by the slightest accident; but he knew also that this would subside, and that profound grief would take the place of anger, and very probably affect the old man's health, if not his intellect.
He paced up and down the room. He gazed forth from the window, full of thought. He tasted very little of the dinner set before him. He looked at his watch often to see how the dull day went. In fact, to use a vulgar but significant expression, "he could settle to nothing."
At length, as the sun began to go down, he felt that longing for the free, open air which is so hard to be resisted. He persuaded himself that there could be no harm in wandering out into the park. He would go no further, he thought; and, as he had seen no one throughout the whole livelong day but the servants coming to and fro, or a game-keeper, with a gun on his shoulder, crossing the wide expanse within the walls, his walk, he fancied, was likely to be solitary and uninterrupted. Resolution soon gave way under such reasoning, and out he went, wandering quietly along, and soon losing himself amid the scattered trees and undulations of the ground. It is very pleasant to lose one's self sometimes, to shake us free from every thing habitual, to lose sight of houses and men, and the busy scene of mortal coil, to comrade with nature, and see naught but nature's handiwork around; and Ralph certainly had ample opportunity of doing so; for, quitting the path, and taking his way across the green turf, he was soon out of sight of the house, and wandering on among the old fantastic hawthorns, with the fern waving its plumes up to his knees, and here and there a chestnut or an oak spreading its green branches over his head. Every now and then a rabbit or a hare would dart away from his foot, and cunningly gallop through the tall, concealing fern, marking its course by a long wavy line. A herd of deer, here and there, would stand and gaze at him as he passed, keeping him at a fearful distance, or trot away with increasing speed if he came suddenly near. A solitary doe, too, started up as he approached her lair among the longest leaves, and scampered off in a different direction from the herd; and Ralph would moralize upon her somewhat in the vein of Jacques, asking himself what she had done to be thus shut out from fellowship with her kind--what offense she had committed against the laws and proprieties of the deer.
There were all these things around him, but there was no trace of man. If the scene had ever been embellished by man's hand, the vestiges of his handiwork had passed away, and it all seemed Nature's doing. Clouds, too, were flitting over the sky--large, grand, fleecy summer clouds, low down in the air, and looking like the island of the Laputan sages. Ralph's fancy played with them too. He made flying thrones of them, and winged chariots, and longed to have some enchanter's spell to call one down to receive him and float away upon that soft, calm coach till he could step gently down at Margaret's side.
This pleasant amusement of the mind--this refreshing solitude had no long time to last. After walking about half a mile through the fern, the wall of the park appeared in sight, and Ralph, turning a little to the left, resolved to follow its course and return to the house by the other side. He soon heard voices speaking beyond the wall, however, and judged rightly that beyond it lay some public road. An instant after, as he looked on, he saw a figure leap the wall at the distance of about a hundred yards further up the hill, and immediately crouch down among the fern and long grass which was there particularly tall. Ralph paused for a moment to watch what would follow, and, standing under an old chestnut-tree, could see without being seen. Running feet were heard immediately after, and then the head and shoulders of a man appeared above the wall. After gazing quickly round, the last comer exclaimed, "He has run on! he has run on! he must have either taken down over the bridge, or among the cottages by old Mother Diamond's."
Thus saying, he let go his hold of the wall and disappeared; and Ralph could hear the sound of many persons running fast and calling to each other as they went. His curiosity was excited by the scene he had witnessed, and he connected it in his own mind with some vague information which Gaunt Stilling had brought him in the morning of a rising on the sea-board of Dorsetshire, which Ralph had judged from the man's account to be of no greater importance than a riot in a country town. He walked straightforward, then, toward the spot where the man who had leaped the wall lay concealed, when the stranger started upon his feet with a large horse-pistol in his hand, warning him to stand back: "I will not be taken by a single man," he said; "I will die first, with arms in my hand."
"I do not seek to take you, my good friend," replied Ralph, in a calm tone; "I have no commission for such a thing. But you had belter put up your pistol; for, if you should be foolish enough to fire it, it would bring back to the spot those who apparently are seeking you, and servants and game-keepers enough to render your other arms useless."
"Then will you swear not to touch me if I do put it up--not to attempt to take me, I mean," said the stranger, after having eyed him attentively for a moment.
"I will give you my honor," replied Ralph, "and that must satisfy you; but I should much like to know, if you please, what you are doing here within the walls of this park, where I imagine you have no business, and where you are exceedingly likely to be apprehended as a deer-stealer?"
"I am the most unfortunate of men," cried the other, "and only escaped one peril to fall into another. Sir, I assure you I came not to steal your deer, but merely to escape from those bloodhounds of a tyrant who are following me to death."
Lamentable as his reply was, there was something almost ludicrous in the tone in which it was delivered, and Ralph smiled slightly as he replied, "The deer are not mine, my good friend, nor am I the proprietor of this park, but merely a guest at the house."
He was going on, when the other interrupted him with a theatrical gesture, saying, "Then I beseech you, sir, if you have any generosity or chivalry in your disposition, aid an unfortunate stranger, who is only persecuted on account of his political and religious opinions. I have committed no crime. They can charge me with no other fault but that of hating tyranny and popery."
"If that be all your offense," replied Ralph, "there is many a man in the land who would be chargeable with the same, and myself among the rest. But I really know not how to serve you, unless it be by leading you to a way out of the park, in a different direction from that which your pursuers have taken. I saw a gate a few minutes ago, up the stream. They have gone down below toward the bridge, and will very likely search the park when they find themselves disappointed there. You had better follow me, therefore, as fast as possible, in order to have a fair start."
"Without delay--without delay," replied the stranger, waving his hand in what he conceived a very graceful manner; and, pursuing his course onward by the wall, Ralph conducted him toward a gate of the park, which was visible from the house. As they went, the stranger, who seemed somewhat given to babble, entered into more conversation than the young gentleman perhaps desired. Nor was the style exactly well suited to compensate for the defects of the manner. His language was a mixture of bad French and somewhat vulgar English, with the assistance, every now and then, of a word or two of Low Dutch; and in this jargon he went on to inform Ralph of a variety of particulars which, had our young friend's loyalty been very rampant, might have induced him to cause his arrest upon the spot. He boasted that a fortnight would not pass before the crown of England was upon the head of a good, true Protestant king; that the whole land was rising in favor of the legitimate heir to the throne, and that the army itself was full of disaffection to the reigning monarch.
Ralph interrupted him as soon as he could, half inclined to believe that he was insane, and only anxious to get rid of him as soon as possible; but, before they reached the gate toward which their steps were directed, they were encountered by a game-keeper, who stopped full in their way, looking at them both sternly as they approached.
Suddenly, however, the man's face changed, and he exclaimed with a laugh, "Ah, Tom Dare! when did you come back from beyond sea? I thought you dared not venture. Why, do you know, man, you are proclaimed, and all the lads of Taunton are looking for you?"
Tom Dare, as the keeper called him, had at first shrunk into himself in evident consternation; but the last words seemed to rouse him, and, resuming his high-flown tone, he answered, "They shall soon find me, for I am going there tout droit."
"But who is this gentleman?" asked the keeper, looking at Ralph with some degree of suspicion, and addressing his question to the man he called Tom Dare.
Ralph, however, took upon himself to answer, saying, "I am a guest of Lady Danvers, my good friend, and finding this person in the park, I undertook to show him the way to the gate."
"Oh, sir, you are the gentleman staying at the house," said the keeper, doffing his hat; "as to Tommy Dare here, the sooner he is out of the park the better--indeed, I don't know what he does here at all."
To this uncivil speech Mr. Dare only replied by a rueful shake of the head, and by some muttered words in regard to a certain lady of Babylon who had a very unpleasant reputation. In the mean time he sped on, however, the game-keeper turning in the direction of the gate also, as if to see him out of the park. There was an air of doubt and hesitation about the keeper's face, and once or twice he muttered to himself, "I don't know--I'm not sure but I ought--but, hang it, one's own townsman! No, no, I can't do it."
As soon as they came in sight of the gate at the upper part of the park, both Ralph and the keeper stopped, and the latter said, "There's the gate, Master Dare; and I'll give you a word of advice: take care of your neck if you get to Taunton. I don't believe you'll find the folks bide any nonsense there, especially when there are riots going on in the country."
Mr. Dare, who was a step or two in advance, waved his hand solemnly, and Ralph thought he could hear the word "Fool" uttered in a low tone. The fugitive hurried on, however, and passed the gates, and Ralph turned back with the game-keeper on his way to the house.
"Who is that man?" he asked, as they proceeded.
"He is a bad fellow, sir," replied the game-keeper, somewhat abruptly; "his name is Thomas Dare, who had at one time a little money in Taunton, my native town, but he could not keep himself quiet, for he was a great talker and orator, as they call them, and got a number of folks into a scrape in the last king's reign, then left them to shift for themselves, and ran away to Holland. I am not at all sure that I ought not, by rights, to have apprehended him, for he is a proclaimed outlaw, and is here for no good, depend upon it."
Ralph made no comment, but strolled back again toward the house, feeling a little dissatisfied with himself for not having adhered to his resolution of the morning. The sun was setting when he reached the door, purpling the slopes of the park, and making the river glow like a ruby. Another day had passed; and as he stood there and looked for a moment round, he could not help thinking of how different was the scene, and the spot, and the circumstances in which that day had gone by, from any thing he could have anticipated but a few weeks before.
The mansion of Danvers's New Church, when Ralph entered it, seemed silent and solitary enough. It was too large for a small household, such as now tenanted it. The steward's apartments were far away, the rooms of the inferior servants still further distant, and, entering the small saloon in which he had passed the morning, Ralph felt as if he were the only inhabitant of the house. The evening light, now tinged with the gray of night, shone in at the window; the paintings on the walls had become dim and indistinct; shade after shade came melancholy over the sky; and the ticking of a clock upon the stairs would have been the only sound that broke the stillness, had it not been for the note of a distant blackbird singing from beneath a bush. Ralph felt his spirits depressed, and was not sorry when one of the old servants entered the room, bearing two letters in his hand.
"This is for you, sir, I suppose," he said; "Harry has just brought it back from Lady Di Fullerton, with this other for my lady against her return."
Ralph took the letter which the man handed to him--a small, delicate note, perfumed and sealed; but it was too dark by this time even to read the address, and he had to wait till lights were brought. When they had been set upon the table, he bade the good man send his servant to him.
"He borrowed a horse from Mr. Drayton, sir," replied the man, "and rode away about twelve o'clock. He has not come back yet, I believe."
"I remember--I remember," replied Ralph: "he asked leave to go to see some of his friends;" and then, turning to the note, he examined the back, which bore,
"To the Honorable Gentleman at present residing at Danvers's New Church."
Within were written a few complimentary lines in the French language, expressing the regret of Lady Diana Fullerton that she could not have the extreme pleasure of doing the honors of her relative's house to Lady Danvers's guest, as she had been for some time too seriously unwell to venture out of her own dressing-room. Plenty of polite and courtly expressions were employed; but the main fact was, that there was no chance of Lady Fullerton being able to give her society and countenance to Hortensia during Ralph's stay at Danvers's New Church.
To say the truth, Ralph did not very much embarrass himself with reflections upon this derangement of Lady Danvers's plans. He was young, inexperienced in the world, and a college life of those days was not at all likely to open the eyes of a young man to the proprieties of society. He saw no more reason why he should not stay in the same house with Hortensia than stay in the same street; and it must be remembered, also, that that horrible cloak of decorum, which but too frequently covers, like charity, a multitude of sins, was a thing hardly known in those days, when the phrensied license of the Restoration was but just giving place to the colder and more covert debaucheries which succeeded. He quietly tore to pieces Lady Diana Fullerton's note with very little reverence, and, casting the subject from his mind, let his thoughts rest again, with some of that impatience for action which is peculiar to youth, upon the death of his poor cousin Henry, and the anguish which he knew Margaret must be feeling both for her brother and for himself, if she believed him guilty. He longed to fly to her, to console her, to comfort her, to assure her of his innocence, and of his ever-enduring affection; but how rarely is it that Fate allows us to do any thing that we long to do. Had not even the warning of Lady Danvers kept him in inactivity, he would not have dared either to visit or to write to her whom he so much loved. He did not know if their attachment to each other had been really made known or not; for, although he had at first imagined that the anxiety of the Duke of Norfolk and Hortensia to remove him from the vicinity of Lord Woodhall was occasioned by a discovery which he knew would excite the old lord's highest indignation, even without any of those insinuations which Robert Woodhall was too likely to add, yet that anxiety was now explained in another manner, and his and Margaret's mutual love might be still unknown, and their happiness periled by any indiscreet act.
Thought, so rapid in itself that it can girdle the great earth ere the leviathan can swim a mile, makes time often pass rapidly along with it. The evening wore away insensibly, broken by only one solitary ramble through the galleries and rooms which he had visited the night before. That ramble, indeed, occupied some time, because there were many of the pictures which interested him; and more than once he stood with the light in his hand gazing at the face of departed greatness or beauty, and comparing what he knew of the life passed away with the permanent expression of the countenance.
It has always given me a strange sensation to go through an ancient portrait-gallery, and see the faces of the dead looking down at me from the wall--living, as it were, again in the spiritual world of art. Their acts may be recorded on the page of history--their thoughts, their words transmitted to us even in their own hands; but these are voices without substance, vague shadows of a name. It is only the hand of the painter or the sculptor, that can give us the definite and the clear. On the broad brow, in the liquid eye, in the curl of the lip, in the dimpled cheek, in the poise of the figure, in the very fall of the hand, we read more of men's character, or more of its truths, than in all that they have written--even, than in all that they have done. Men write for the world, and often act for the world. Circumstances control them--events rule them. Few, if any, are not at some time, if not at all times, acting a part; and even where passion has spurned all governance, and the fiery deed of love or hate has seemed in its bright glare to reveal the very inner secrets of the heart, still no one can tell how that heart may have been affected by events of which we know nothing--how many motives, sensations, feelings, passions, accidents, may have prompted and mingled with the deeds which we only see in their harsh whole. But, upon the face and form, we are fond to think that Nature has herself written the description of her handiwork. There, with some experience, and but very little skill, by indications as small as the letters of a book, we can read much of the mind, the heart, the character, which no other page can ever display; and, at the same time, the likeness of the fleshly tabernacle of the spirit stands before us, so that all which can be known of the mixed being is at once in presence.
Oh, great Lavater! every one is more or less a physiognomist.
Ralph gazed, then, upon those faces with association very busy in his mind. Or, again, he would pause before a sunny landscape, and let the eye rest upon the golden skies, or wander through the far-prolonged vales, or pause among the deep groves of trees, watching the nymph bathing in the limpid stream, or the ancient armament sailing up, amid columns, and trophies, and palaces, to an imagined city; and the poetry of painting would wake in his heart as many bright images as ever were called up by verse or the lyre.
Again, he would go on, and, feeling free in the solitude, he ventured once more into Hortensia's own apartments. But this time he got no further than her picture. It had certainly something fascinating in it, for he stood and gazed on that bright face, bursting through the branches, in its wild, gay youth, and comparing it, line by line, with the features which memory preserved; and as he did so, imagination was busy too. He asked himself, what were the events, what the course of life, which had subdued and chastened the light hilarity there displayed--what was it that, like Undine's love, had given a soul to the wild spirit sparkling there? He did not puzzle, though he did not satisfy himself; he enjoyed the wanderings of his own imagination round the pleasant theme, and when at length he turned away to retire to rest, he said to himself, "She must always have been very lovely."
Let us not ask if Hortensia shared his dreams with Margaret. We have no right to lift up sleep's shadowy curtain, and see the fairy sports of fancies freed from the control of will and reason. He slept, and doubtless he dreamed too; but he woke early, ere the sun had so far climbed the eastern hill as to overtop the wood, and while the slant rays were still pouring in golden splendor through the branches of the trees.
As he paused to look through the open window after having dressed himself, his eye passed over the park to the valley beyond, and, where the open ground stretched out from the banks of the stream up the sides of the hills, he was surprised to see a number of horsemen, in groups of two or three together, cantering lightly hither and thither, as if in sport. It was no season for hunting; but he thought that perhaps they might be flying a hawk, and he watched them with some interest till he convinced himself that that supposition was incorrect.
A moment after he saw a single figure on horseback riding up the broad road from the great gates to the house, and as it came nearer he recognized his servant, Gaunt Stilling, who had been absent since noon of the day before.
"Perhaps he brings me some intelligence," thought Ralph; and, descending to the small saloon, he ordered his breakfast to be brought. Still Gaunt Stilling did not come; and at length, after having waited ample time for him to tend his horse, his young master sent for him. When he appeared, Ralph was a good deal struck with something strange in the man's looks. He seemed worn, fatigued, and thin, and his apparel was dusty with the road; but that was not all. He was gloomy, abstracted, more taciturn than usual. Even in the midst of a sentence he would fix his eyes upon the ground, and seemingly fall into a deep revery.
"Do you know who those horsemen are, whom I saw just now riding down in the valley?" asked Ralph, after a few other questions of no moment.
"No, sir," replied Stilling; "I saw them, but did not heed them."
"They seemed at one time to be hawking," said Ralph. "Have you heard any further intelligence from Lyme, Stilling!"
"None, sir," answered the servant; "I have been forty miles the other way. I met that scoundrel, Thomas Dare, this morning, who might have told me, perhaps, but--" and he left the sentence unconcluded, remaining, as it were, lost in thought.
"But what?" asked his master.
The man started and looked up. "Oh, merely that I was busy with other thoughts, sir--that the man is a rascal, and that we passed each other with only 'Give you good-day, Master Stilling'--'Go to the devil, Thomas Dare.'"
Something had evidently gone wrong with Stilling; but, as he did not seem inclined to speak of it, Ralph, though he felt interested, merely said, "I hope you had good news of your family, Stilling?"
"The worst in the world," replied the man, abruptly. "I thought the worst had come some time ago, yet this is worse; but, so help me Heaven--" and again he broke off his speech and relapsed into silence. This time, however, his silence was not without significance, for he clinched both his hands tight, as if struggling with some strong passion.
"I am very sorry to hear this," replied Ralph, in a feeling tone. "Can I do any thing to assist you, Stilling? I need not tell you that I am most willing, if it be possible."
The man looked up more brightly, and replied, "Not at present, sir, but the time may come--Hark! there is Lady Danvers, I suppose; I heard of her upon the road."
The sounds which had attracted his attention were produced by horses' feet upon the gravel, and the moment after the great bell rang out loud. Without taking note of the fact that there had been no sound of carriage wheels, Ralph rose hastily and ran through the hall to the door, in order to assist his beautiful hostess as she alighted. He was surprised to see, however, when he opened the door, a party of some ten or twelve horsemen, three of whom had dismounted, while another, far taller and much handsomer than any of the rest, was in the act of alighting also. One groom held his horse; another supported his stirrup; and there was something dignified and graceful in his whole air which instantly attracted Ralph's chief attention toward him. He wore a star and broad ribbon, and over his heavy riding-boots a pair of golden spurs, and his whole dress was splendid, though subdued in coloring by good taste.
Before any questions could be asked, the steward and two or three of the old servants were by Ralph's side, and finding that he had been mistaken in his expectations, the young gentleman retired into the house, leaving Mr. Drayton to reply to any inquiries. Ralph heard a fine melodious voice, however, ask if Lady Danvers were then in Dorsetshire, and Mr. Drayton replied in the negative.
"I have a letter for her from an old friend," replied the stranger, "and would wish to add a few lines myself, if you will furnish me with materials for writing. Nay, more, I am inclined to tax your hospitality so far, sir, as to ask for some refreshment for my men and horses, and some breakfast for myself--you know me, I presume?"
"I do, your grace," replied Mr. Drayton, "and, of course, whatever the house affords is at your service."
"Well, then, I will walk in here and write," replied the other, advancing toward the room in which Ralph then was.
Mr. Drayton seemed puzzled how to act; but, before he could decide, the stranger had entered the room, and stood face to face with Ralph Woodhall. He bowed courteously, but with a look of some surprise; and the good steward thought fit to take upon himself the task of introducing Ralph as "Mr. Woodhall, a friend of my lady's family, sir, who is staying for a time at the house."
He did not mention the name of the new visitor; but while he hurried away to procure pen, ink, and paper, the gentleman who had come in seated himself calmly at the table, and entered easily into conversation. His very appearance was a recommendation; and his demeanor was so graceful, that, even had his conversation been less happy than it was, there would still have been an irresistible charm about it; but his words were well chosen; his expressions what I may call picturesque, if not poetical; and there was a touch of that vivacity which often passed for wit at the court of the second Charles. He asked a number of questions, but none of them impertinent or intrusive. He spoke of the house, and the grounds, and the beauty of the park; said he had been there when he was a boy, but had nearly forgotten it, and expressed a wish, before he went, to walk over the house.
"I shall have much pleasure in conducting you, sir," replied Ralph, "for during the short time of my stay here, I have more than once wandered over the building, and felt much interest in all that it contains."
"Then you are not well acquainted with the place?" said the other; but, without waiting for a reply to what was in reality a question, he added, "Let us go. Doubtless they will be a long while in finding pen, ink, and paper. I have always found it so, here in Dorsetshire, since my return."
They walked out into the hall together, where two or three gentlemen stood booted and spurred. They uncovered their heads as soon as the other appeared; and one of them, advancing a step, addressed him, saying, "It is all clear, your grace, on the way to Taunton, and the intelligence in that quarter is satisfactory."
"Good," replied the other. "This want of cavalry is inconvenient. What says Mr. Dare as to the levies about Taunton?"
"He had not yet reached the town, my lord duke, when his messenger came away," was the reply; "but he promises much--more, I fear, than he will perform; for his reception in some of the small villages by the way has been so good, that he looks upon it as a conquered country already. He is a braggadocio, if ever there was one."
"He is a good creature, notwithstanding," replied the duke; "light and gay in danger, and cheerful in all circumstances--a little given to boast and assume, perhaps; but still his gayety and confidence throw a light upon our expedition, which I wish we had a little more."
"Shall I give any orders regarding the march to-morrow?" inquired the other gentleman.
"I think not," said Ralph's companion; "we must wait for these Taunton levies, or some surer information. It will not do to leave all resources behind us till we have the certainty of support in advance. But make yourself easy, gallant friend; time, I trust, will be our ally, and not our enemy."
There was something uncommonly easy and placable, though confident in the speaker's tone and manner; and Ralph, though he had divined from the first that he was speaking with the Duke of Monmouth, began to doubt whether his supposition was correct, for he had not calculated accurately how far adversity can tame both the highest and the lightest spirit.
After this brief conversation, they passed on through the house, speaking calmly and cheerfully of the various objects which it presented to their eyes, as if there were no such thing as strife, and warfare, and bloodshed in the world. The duke walked the suites of splendid rooms and the long-drawn-out lines of corridors as if he were treading the drawing-rooms of some peaceful palace, with a calm sort of meditative gentleness, not unmixed with dignity, which beseemed him well. In his whole demeanor, carriage, and appearance, he was every inch a prince; and his very abstinence from all reference to political topics seemed to Ralph a recommendation of his cause. He appeared as tranquilly confident of his rights as if nothing more was required than to show himself to win all hearts in his support. Had he always maintained this happy trust, he would have been a greater, a happier, perhaps a more successful man.
The duke asked several questions, however, tending to elicit his young companion's opinions; and, finding him a stanch Protestant, though of the Episcopal Church, and a strong enemy of all tyranny, civil or religious, he ventured gradually to allude distantly to his own enterprise, and to hint--without asking it--that the assistance of every gallant gentleman was an object he desired.
Ralph was silent, from very many varied motives. He gave neither encouragement nor the reverse, judging more sanely than the duke of the circumstances which surrounded them, and entertaining many doubts whether, if Monmouth, by one of those strange accidents which sometimes influence the course of great events, should succeed in dethroning James, his own elevation to sovereignty would be acceptable to the great body of the people of the realm. To himself, notwithstanding the fascination of Monmouth's manner, he felt that such would not be the case; and he knew that in the hearts of Englishmen there is a fund of steady, determined loyalty, a hereditary love for an ancient line of kings, which it requires the insanity of great oppression to shake or overthrew.
The Duke of Monmouth (for he it was) did not press the subject by any means far, seeming to feel it beneath him to canvass for the aid of any individual. He might know, too, that much eagerness displays small confidence; and at this moment of his career it was a part of Monmouth's policy to appear full of good assurance.
He returned to the small room below, then, after commenting in the tone of a connoisseur upon some of the pictures, and in that of a gay courtier upon others, and finding writing materials ready, sat down and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, in which he inclosed another letter he had brought with him. He sealed and then addressed the whole to "Hortensia, Baroness Danvers;" and then placing it in Ralph's hand, he said, with a gay smile, "I will trust this to your good care for speedy delivery, sir. If you be a lover, it comes from no rival; if you be a friend, it comes from a friend no less sincere; if you be a relation, there are lines within it from one who has loved the person addressed as sincerely as any relative could love. Nay, my good sir," he continued, turning to Mr. Drayton, who entered, followed by several servants bearing food in a rich service of plate, "you treat my humble state too royally; but the time may come when I can acknowledge your courtesy better. Mr. Woodhall, will you partake?"
The duke's breakfast was not half concluded, when one of his followers, from without, came in suddenly and without ceremony, and spoke a word to Monmouth in a low tone over the back of his chair.
The duke started up, and gazed at him for an instant with a look of horror and consternation.
"What!" he exclaimed; "what did you say? shot Thomas Dare--in the streets of Lyme--on a dispute about a horse?"
"Too true, indeed, your grace," replied the other; "shot him dead; the ball passed through his brain."
"By the Lord that lives!" cried Monmouth, "these turbulent men shall find that he who claims to rule a realm like this, can at least rule a handful who pretend to obey. Have out the horses there! I must not lose a moment."
Ever energetic, and often right, in purpose, Monmouth hurried to depart, only to show how weak he could be in act, how amenable to the weak counsels of others. Brave as a lion in the field--often timid in the council--not without skill as the general--ever misled as the politician and the man.
As, about to mount his horse, he turned away from the door, he looked round to Ralph with a pleasant smile, saying, "Remember my commission--I trust to you."
"I will not fail, your grace," replied Ralph.
They were few and simple words, but their effects were more important.