About a quarter of an hour before the time appointed, Mr. Scriven entered the door of his sister's house in ---- Square. The door was opened by a maid-servant, for Lady Fleetwood always took her own man with her: one of Maria's had also gone with the carriage, and the rest were at Bolton Park. Mr. Scriven was generally as taciturn and dry towards servants as towards associates; but on this occasion, as he was going a little out of his usual track, he thought fit to say--
"I know your mistress is absent; but she desired me to speak with a man who is coming to see her this morning at twelve."
"Yes, sir--I know," replied the maid, with a curtsey; "her ladyship told me before she went away."
"More fool she," thought Mr. Scriven, as the maid opened the door of the dining-room and showed him in; but he judged that a rejoinder was requisite, and therefore he said--
"When the man comes, you will be so good as not to say that your lady is out, but merely ask him to walk straight in here. Are the drawing-room window-shutters open?"
"No, sir; we don't open them when my lady is out of town," said the maid, dropping another curtsey; "but I'll go and do it directly."
"Do so," replied Mr. Scriven. "Have you got the key of the library?"
"No, sir," said the girl, looking towards a door which led into a small apartment behind the dining-room: "perhaps it's open, though my lady generally locks it when she goes away;" and she went forward and tried the door, but it was locked.
"Go and open the shutters," said Mr. Scriven; and sitting down, he looked attentively at his boot, which was exceedingly well polished.
Just as twelve o'clock struck--it might be a minute or two before--two men entered the square, and approached direct towards the house. They did not ring, however, for some minutes; but one of them looked up and passed it. They then paused, and seemed to consult for a minute or two; gazed round the square; looked one way and then another; waited a minute, till two men who were carrying along a large looking-glass, like a dead man on a stretcher, had got to some distance; and then, turning back, they knocked and rang at the street door.
In answer to their inquiry for Lady Fleetwood, the maid said--
"Pray walk in. Her ladyship expected you, I think."
"Yes, yes," replied the taller man, who looked upon this announcement of the lady's punctuality to her appointment as a very favourable indication. "Yes, yes, she expects us;" and he strode into the hall, followed by Mr. Mingy Bowes.
The maid shut the door, and then led the way to the dining-room; but much was the surprise, and not a little the consternation, of the two worthy personages, when, instead of a respectable old lady with a very delicate complexion and a fine lace cap, they saw the tall, thin, gentlemanly person of Mr. Scriven standing exactly before them, and looking straight in their faces. They both paused for an instant, as if not well knowing whether to turn tail and run away or not; but Mr. Scriven decided the matter by saying--
"Come in, gentlemen. Lady Fleetwood was obliged to go out of town, and she therefore begged me to confer with you upon the business which one of you mentioned to her a day or two ago. I am a relation, as much interested in the matter as herself, and perhaps more. Pray be seated."
The maid shut the door, and the two men sat down, Mingy Bowes on the very edge of his chair, his body inclined forward at an angle of forty-five, his hands upon his knees; and his huge companion, Sam, casting himself at once into a seat, throwing his long arm over the back of his chair, and gazing upwards round the cornice, as if he were a plasterer or an architect. Both kept silence.
"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Scriven, who had also seated himself, "will you be good enough to explain your business?"
"Why, as to that," said Sam, in his usual rude and abrupt manner, "I thought you knew d--d well what my business is. Didn't you tell the old girl, Mingy?"
"Yes, I told her exactly what you said," replied Mingy Bowes.
"Well, didn't she tell you?" asked Sam, addressing Mr. Scriven.
"She gave some explanations," replied that gentleman; "but you know ladies' heads are not very clear, and therefore I would rather hear the whole particulars from yourself. She said you had got a pocket-book, which contained papers affecting the honour, and perhaps the life, of a gentleman who may probably be closely connected with my family."
"Ay, that's it," cried Sam; "and I told him to tell her that if she liked to come down handsome I'd say nothing about it; but if she didn't, I'd go and blow the whole to Scriven and Co. Those are the people whose names were forged."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Scriven, in his usual calm and deliberate tone: "well, the matter is worthy of some consideration."
"Devilish little time will I give for consideration," replied the brute. "I'll have the money down this very day, and a promise of it before I go, or else I'll be off to Scriven and Co. at once."
"Well, well," answered Mr. Scriven, "don't be impatient. I have no doubt we shall come to terms of some sort before we part. As a man of business, however, I must know what you can prove and what you cannot, before I agree to anything."
"There, you fool!" whispered Mingy Bowes, in a low tone; "I told you what you would do when you threw the pocket-book into the fire."
"You're the fool," answered Sam, fiercely; "and a d--d fool too!" And then, turning to Mr. Scriven, he added, "What you say is all fair--two sides to every bargain. So I'll tell you what I can prove, and then you can let me prove it or not. I can prove that a man going about here, calling himself Colonel Middleton, is the very same man who ten years ago went by the name of Henry Hayley, and that he was then accused of committing a forgery upon Scriven and Co. Now, I said the papers in the book would either hang or save him; for in it was jotted down his own account of the whole matter, showing that this Colonel Middleton is just the same man; and that, if he had not run away as he did, he would have been tried for the forgery, and been hanged for it too, perhaps, had it not been for another paper that was in the book."
"Pray, what was that?" asked Mr. Scriven.
"Why, a paper in a different hand," replied the man, "written by the young man's father, who calls himself Stephen Hayley, I think, and says that he himself committed the forgery, and got the young man to take the bill to the bankers' to be changed, without his knowing that it was forged. It's a long story; but then he goes on to say that he persuaded the young man to run away and take the blame, to save his father's life; and that he gives him that paper to show his innocence, in case he's caught."
Mr. Scriven mused for a moment or two with a frowning brow. For once in his life, the first impression was a right one; and had he acted upon it, he would have done justly and wisely.
There was so much probability in the story that he felt a difficulty in disbelieving it, though he might wish to do so, and a repugnance to pursuing plans incompatible with that belief; but, as he paused and thought, selfishness mastered conscience; the wishes grew more strong, and overpowered belief.
"That paper must be a fabrication," he said, aloud; and then, addressing the man more directly, he added, "Have you got it? Let me see it. I will return it to you again, upon my honour."
"Why, no--I haven't got it," replied Sam. "I burned it: I threw it, and the pocket-book too, into the fire, because I thought the d--d fellow they sent wanted to nab me."
"Then, how do you dare to come here," asked Mr. Scriven, "when you've nothing to show as proof of your story?"
"Come, come--none of that," exclaimed the man, looking at him fiercely. "I've got enough to show that this Henry Hayley and Colonel Middleton are the same man. I didn't burn them in the pocket-book. I was resolved to keep some hold on him; so I took them out first, while Mingy was gone into the shop for the man he sent. So, if, without any more palaver, you don't strike a bargain, and tell me what you or he will give, I shall be off to Scriven and Co. directly, and let them know all about it. He may then prove his innocence or let it alone; but he'll find that a devilish difficult matter, now the other paper's burned to a cinder in Mingy's grate."
"Can you show me those papers you have got?" said Mr. Scriven, in a much more placable tone.
"Here they are," replied the man, taking a little roll from his pocket; "but, unless I get a thousand pounds for them, I won't show them to any one till I show them to Scriven and Co."
"Well, then, show them to me," replied the gentleman. "My name is Scriven, and I am the person whose name was forged."
The fellow gazed in his face with a look of horror and consternation, and demanded, with a terrible imprecation--
"Then are you Scriven and Co.?"
"I am the head of that house," replied Mr. Scriven, "and the 'Co.' has long ceased to exist."
"Well, then, you have done me in a d--d unhandsome manner," said the man, "and I should like to twist your neck about for your pains."
"I have done no such thing," answered Mr. Scriven. "I told you that I am Lady Fleetwood's relation, which is true, and that I am here to act for her, which is true also. Moreover, if you will listen to me for a moment, you will see that, although you will not get a thousand pounds from me upon any pretence whatever, you may make a reasonable profit by this business notwithstanding. First, understand that I do not care one pin whether this Henry Hayley, alias Middleton, be hanged or not, except merely for the sake of justice. He showed himself exceedingly ungrateful to me, and forged my name for a large sum; for that paper, pretending to be his father's confession, is all a fabrication--but I did not lose anything. It was the bankers who lost, and they offered a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension, which offer is still in force. I offered the same sum; perhaps it was foolish to do so, for in truth I had nothing to do with it, but still I will not go back from my word; and if you will follow out exactly what I tell you, I may add a hundred pounds more, in order to open my niece's eyes, and save her from the snare that this man has laid for her. That will make five hundred pounds, which is all you will get. Will you do it or not?"
"What do you say, Mingy?" said the one scoundrel, turning to the other.
"Here, Sam--let me talk with you a bit," said Mingy Bowes, walking towards the window. The other followed him, and for nearly ten minutes they conferred together, very eagerly and in a low tone, while Mr. Scriven coolly took some tablets from his pockets, and amused himself with making notes and adding up sums. At length they returned again to the table, and Sam began to speak; but Mr. Scriven waved his hand for silence, and went on with his calculations, saying--
"Five and two are seven, and nine are sixteen, and six are twenty-two, and seven are twenty-nine. Nine, and carry two.--Now, what is it?"
"Why, you see, sir," said Sam, in a very deferential tone, greatly impressed with the merchant's coolness, "I'm afraid I can't."
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Scriven.
"Because, sir, I suppose you'd want me to give evidence," said Sam, "and that might be rather ticklish for me. I don't want to put my own neck into a noose, nor to take a swim in a ship at the expense of government."
Mr. Scriven thought for a moment or two.
"I understand you," he said at last. "In fact, you knocked the young man down and took the pocket-book and other things from him. He mentioned the fact. Did he see you?"
"No, that he didn't," replied Sam, promptly; "and he can't prove that I had any other things but the book."
"Then it seems to me the matter's very easy," said Mr. Scriven. "Let us be frank with each other, my good friend. The case stands thus:--You got the pocket-book, and he can prove it; so you won't help yourself a bit by holding back that fact, for the officers are after you by this time, depend upon it. Now, by coming forward and first proving a crime against him, you help yourself very much; for if he's convicted of felony first, he can't give evidence against you, and he would have to prove that he was robbed of the pocket-book before he could punish you for taking it."
"The only thing to do is, to get up a good story as to how you came to have the book," said Mingy Bowes. "Can't you say you found it upon the common that same night?"
"I dare say you've put away all the other things by this time," said Mr. Scriven.
"Ay, they are safe enough," answered Sam.
"Well, then, your having nothing else but the pocket-book, which would be valueless to any who did not examine the papers, will corroborate your story," observed Mr. Scriven; "for people may naturally conclude that those who took the things threw away the pocket-book on the common when they found there was no money in it."
Sam looked at Mingy Bowes, and Mingy nodded his head approvingly, saying--
"That'll do, I think, Sam."
"The only way of saving yourself and getting the money," said Mr. Scriven, "is to go at the thing boldly. The very fact of your making the charge will be a presumption in your favour. People will all say, of course, that you would not have ventured to do so if you had taken the thing unlawfully, and I will do what I can to help you, you may depend upon it; but remember, you must act according to my directions, and I will answer for it that no harm shall happen to you."
"Hang it, sir!" said the man, "one so often hears it said, 'No harm shall happen to you,' and then a great deal does, that I am half afraid."
"What else have you to propose?" asked Mr. Scriven, in his driest tone. "If you reject good counsel, you must have some scheme or plan already formed. I know not what it is, but think it somewhat more than dangerous, whatever it may be; for I can see no way of extricating yourself but that which has been named."
"Lord bless you! I've no scheme, sir," said the man, who, to say the truth, was a good deal bewildered by the new point of view in which the question had been placed before him. "What do you say, Mingy?"
Mingy Bowes shook his head doubtfully, without venturing a reply; and Mr. Scriven, seeing clearly that the unexpected discovery of his name, together with the disclosure of all their secrets, had, as it were, left the men no choice but to follow his plan or to fly, thought he might as well throw in the last inducement--as he would have done, in selling one or two thousand bales of goods, by giving a bale or two over and above the bargain.
"You will remember, sir," he said, addressing Mingy, "that in advising your friend, I myself have no choice in this matter. If he enables me to break off the match between this man and my niece by coming frankly forward, it will, of course, be a duty and a pleasure for me to help him to the utmost of my ability; but if, on the contrary, he holds back, I must take part with Colonel Middleton, and must do what I can to prove my niece's husband worthy of her affection."
"That's to say, you'd hang me if you could," replied Sam.
"Undoubtedly," answered Mr. Scriven, in his usual dry manner.
"Well, that's hard," said the man; "but you seem to have got me in a cleft stick, and so I suppose I must do what you please."
"Ay, that's right," replied Mr. Scriven. "I tell you conscientiously, and upon my honour, that I think it the only way to save yourself; and then you get five hundred pounds into the bargain, you know."
"I'll do it, or I'll be hanged!" said the man, warming enthusiastically at the thought of the money. "They can but give me what they call a life-interest in the colony, and I don't much care for that. Come, it's a bargain. I'll help you to fix the young man so that the beaks can't have the least doubt in the world that he is the chap; and whenever he's fixed, I'm to have the five hundred."
"There's the offer of a reward by Messrs. Stolterforth and Co. the bankers who cashed the bill," said Mr. Scriven; "so you see that it will be necessary to do what we propose, as soon as possible. Now let me see the papers, because there can be no use in concealing them."
"There they are," replied Sam. "Look you here. He has been careful enough; but he says in this one, which looks like a sort of day-book, that he determined at a certain time to go back to England, under theassumedname of Colonel Middleton."
Mr. Scriven looked over the papers carefully, and as great an expression of satisfaction appeared upon his countenance as he ever suffered to take possession of his usually inanimate features.
"That's all right," he said, turning one down: "now, if there's nothing to upset the scheme, you'll get your five hundred pounds to a certainty; and though that is not a thousand, it is better than nothing."
"A devil of a deal," said the man, delighted with the notion of the money; "but you haven't looked at the one next to it. It's got something in it too. That is something. But I think now, Mingy, as this is settled, we had better pack up our tools and be off."
"No, no, stay," said the other; "there are two or three things more to be settled. You must come to me at six o'clock this evening, when we can finally arrange all our plans; and, if you take my advice, you will not go to any coffee-shop, nor to any of your usual haunts; for depend upon it this Colonel Middleton, as he is called, has set many a trap for you."
"I don't think he dare," said the man, "being quite sure I know such a deal about him."
"Oh, he'll try to have the first word as well as you," replied Mr. Scriven; "but we must prevent him. He is gone down to Northumberland for a day or two, perhaps to keep out of the way rather than anything else; and the best plan for us to follow will be to go after him at once, pounce upon him in the country, give him in charge, and if possible get the country magistrates, who know nothing about him, to commit him. You come to me at six, as I have said, and in the mean time I will go away to the police-office, and get the notes of the former proceedings. Now, good-bye for the present; but do not think that you can bolt and leave me in the lurch, by going away out of town or out of England; for I shall have one or two sharp hands looking after you, and depend upon it, wherever you went they would find you out."
"Oh, I shan't bolt," replied Sam. "You have got me under the pitchfork, and must do what you like. I'll be at your house by six, if you tell me where it is."
"Willingly," answered Mr. Scriven, writing the name of the street and the number of the house down in pencil. "You'll find me there at six o'clock precisely; but remember, I'm very punctual, and I do not wait for any one."
"I'll be there to the minute," answered the man, "for I've nothing else to do; but I suppose I come upon honour, and that nobody will try to stop me from coming away again."
"Neither by any fault nor any indiscretion of mine," answered Mr. Scriven; "but you must take care in the mean time for fear they should shut you up. If you and I can set off to Northumberland at once, while the iron is hot, you will be out of the way yourself, and we shall take this lad quite unprepared, and have him before a justice ere he knows what he's doing. It must depend upon circumstances, however--I mean, from what I see in the city. If all's right, and if I can go away, we will set out this very night or to-morrow morning."
"That's all right, sir; that's all right," said Sam. "I'll be there to the minute; and now I suppose we had better go away, for I see you've got your hat in your hand, and I suppose your time's short."
"Very, considering all I have to do," replied Mr. Scriven; "and as I know this matter is important, the sooner it is got through the better."
"Certainly, sir, certainly," answered Sam; "you shan't wait for me. So, good morning to you."
Mr. Scriven did not half like to let him go, but there was no help for it. He had once thought of giving him in charge to a constable; but that, he saw, might spoil all his plans, and he abandoned the idea directly. There were no securities to be taken of such a man except his fears or his interests; and both of these, Mr. Scriven imagined, he had to a certain degree enlisted on his side. Nevertheless, when he saw him depart, he felt a good many unpleasant doubts as to whether he should ever see his face again, unless at the bar of some police-court.
There was a morning of longings at Milford Castle: something--somebody--was evidently expected. It began at the breakfast-table. Lady Anne was down first, but Maria had been up earliest; and when she at length entered the cheerful little room, she found her fair hostess gazing thoughtfully out of the window. A heavy dew had fallen during the night, and it was lying filmy and bright upon the lawns and slopes of the park, like the misty radiance with which fancy invests the unseen things of life. Was it at that dewy silvering Lady Anne was gazing so intently? or at that deep shadowy wood, the tops of whose ancient trees were just seen above the rise, the road dipping down into them as if to take a bath in their cool verdure? It was the road towards Belford, and her eyes were anxiously turned in that direction--perhaps her thoughts also.
Maria went up to her and kissed her; and then, twining their arms together, they both stood at the window, and both thought for nearly five minutes without speaking a word.
At length Lady Anne said--
"It will be a hot day," and then she laughed at herself for talking so wide of her thoughts; and gazing into Maria's lovely eyes with a faint smile, she added, "Henry cannot be here till the day is at the hottest."
Maria smiled in return, but it was a faint, fluttering smile, in which fear and hope were blended; for she was very, very anxious about him she loved. His confident and hopeful manner had not communicated courage to her woman's heart, and many an uneasy and apprehensive hour had she passed when thinking of the difficulties of his situation. Oh! how we love that which excites our anxiety! How the chasing hopes and fears, the cares, the watchfulness, bind the object of them to our heart!--and all these, during the last few days of her short existence, had Maria felt intensely for Henry Hayley. Whenever he was absent from her for any time, she was full of apprehensions for him: she expected to hear that he had been arrested, that the struggle which she dreaded had commenced, that the game of life or death was staked; and though she might preserve the external appearance of calmness, yet was the poor girl sadly moved within.
Maria would not reply to her friend's words, for she feared her own self-possession; but nevertheless she was apparently calmer during that morning than Lady Anne herself. Her manner was composed; she spoke, she answered quietly; and it was only by an anxious look or a slight start, when she thought she heard the sound of carriage wheels, that she betrayed how much she felt at heart.
Lady Anne, on the contrary, though her usual April mood was still present, was assuredly more inclined to be on the showery side of the sweet month than on the sunshiny. Sometimes she would talk wildly and laugh gaily; but at others she would sink into profound fits of thought, gaze forth into the vacant air, and answer questions quite astray.
Even Lady Fleetwood seemed in a degree to feel the irritating effects of expectation. Once, in the middle of breakfast, without a word having been uttered regarding travels or travellers, she suddenly lifted her head and said, "I wonder at what hour they will arrive;" and some time afterwards, when walking for a moment on the terrace with Maria, she observed, in the same abrupt manner, "They will have a fine day for their arrival, at all events."
As the day wore on, and the hour at which they might be expected passed, Maria grew more thoughtful, more anxious, more grave; and Lady Anne, after watching her friend's face for a moment, said, "Come, Maria; this will not do. Let us go and amuse ourselves in some way. We will walk down to the steward's, see the hens and chickens, talk about lambs, and be quite pastoral. Nay, we shall not be absent when they arrive; for I will set a boy upon the tower to watch the road, and whenever he sees a carriage coming he shall run up my grandfather's old flag. The top of the tower can be seen from the steward's house, they tell me; and as it is only half-a-mile, and the carriage can be seen two miles off, we shall get back in time."
Maria made no objection. They went down to the steward's house; and they did talk about chickens and lambs, and were quite pastoral. But time wore on. No flag was displayed, and they returned to the house somewhat sadly. They found Lady Fleetwood seated in the drawing-room, working at the purse--her Penelope's web: but the old lady's face was very grave, too; and, to tell the truth, her imagination had gone careering in the same direction as Maria's. When she looked up, then, and saw all the anxiety that was written in her niece's fair face, the milk of human kindness in her bosom overflowed, and she must needs comfort her.
"My dear Maria," she said, "do not make yourself so uneasy. I know what you are thinking about and what you fear; but there is really no cause for alarm. My brothers conduct towards Colonel Middleton was very strange that day at dinner--I suppose, because he thought we had shown a want of confidence in him; but I saw him just before we left town, and he was quite kind about the whole business, assuring me he would do the best he could for our friend, even if it should turn out that he is the person whom we all suspect he is, for I told him all I knew, and all I fancied."
"Good heaven!" exclaimed Lady Anne.
"To him? To my uncle?" demanded Maria, with a look of consternation, clasping her hands together. "To him did you tell all?--the very last man to whom a word should have been spoken till all was settled!"
"Well, my dear child," said Lady Fleetwood, very much distressed, "I did it, I am sure, with the best intentions."
"Oh, your best intentions--your best intentions, my dear aunt!" exclaimed Maria, judging her uncle's character better than her aunt, and seeing with anguish all the fatal consequences which might ensue. But, almost as she spoke, the roll of carriage wheels was heard, and then some vehicle or vehicles dashed up to the doors.
It could not be resisted, under the circumstances in which they were: all proprieties and decorums were forgotten, and the three ladies, by one impulse, ran to the windows. There were two travelling carriages on the terrace, and the first person who sprang out was Henry Hayley.
Maria had resisted strongly. Expectation, anxiety, even the terror of her aunt's communication, had not drawn a tear from her; but when she saw him whom she loved and feared for, there before her safe and well, the bright drops rose up in her eyes.
Was it wonderful that she should feel so? Perhaps not: and yet the most wonderful things that I know of in the world are the emotions of the human heart--surpassingly mysterious. We are habituated to them; we feel or we mark them in others every day, and our wonder ceases; but who can account for them?--whence do they arise?--in what deep well of the soul have they their source? Take any emotion you will and drive it home--you will be puzzled to trace it to the end. We say, it is natural for man to have a fondness for this, a repugnance to that; but in so saying we assume the whole groundwork--we assert, but do not explain. Why did Maria so feel for the man before her? Why had she feared for him as she was incapable of fearing for herself? Why would she at that moment have willingly sacrificed her life for him? Why was the sense of rejoicing so overpowering, when the immediate anxiety for him was at an end? How had he contrived, in so short a space, to change the whole current of her feelings--to concentrate, as it were, every thought and affection, which had previously ranged wide and far, diffused over all things that surrounded her, upon himself alone--to transmute his interests into her interests, and to bind their future fates together by a strong and indissoluble tie, inseparable for ever?
So it was, however; and at that moment, as Maria stood at the window and saw him spring from the carriage, she felt that it was so, more than she had ever felt before. In a few moments the whole party were assembled in the drawing-room; but these few moments had been enough to calm the minds of those who had been waiting, to that point, at least, where joy is unmingled with agitation. Lady Fleetwood was delighted to see everybody, but especially Colonel Middleton, to whom she was now profuse in kindness and attention, in order to make up for the littlefaux paswhich her niece's words showed her she had committed. She was the best-hearted, kindest woman in the world; but she did not see, or she would not see, that Colonel Middleton's whole thoughts were upon Maria, and that the first five minutes were in some sort Maria's due. Lady Fleetwood talked to him; she inquired after his journey, as if he had been a sick man or lame; she assured him more than once how glad she was to see him in Northumberland, as if she had utterly despaired of seeing him there at all; and she effectually contrived to prevent him, for a full quarter of an hour after his arrival, from doing more than merely shaking hands with her he loved.
Poor Maria bore it with the fortitude of a martyr; and even Lady Anne did not venture to interfere, lest by coming to her rescue she should only make matters worse. She was like the man who saw his companion carried away by a tiger, and did not dare to fire lest he should kill his friend instead of the brute.
Mr. Winkworth still had his sleeve cut open and his arm in a sling; but he looked exceedingly brisk and gay, and, with his mixture of odd eccentricity and old-fashioned courtesy, paid his compliments to Lady Anne, congratulated her upon having so fine a park, in which, to use his own expression, her deer, her horse, and her wits might range about at liberty; and then, turning to Mrs. Brice, who was by this time in the room, left his fair hostess to converse with Charles uninterrupted.
At length, however, compassion moved him; and in order to draw the fire from Colonel Middleton, he advanced, and began chatting to Lady Fleetwood in a gay and easy strain.
"I feel what it is to be old, my dear madam," he said: "here you have not spoken two words to me, while this gay young gentleman monopolises you entirely. Now, that is not right. I claim my share, and here I come to take possession of it;" and he seated himself beside her on the sofa.
Henry instantly turned to Maria; and how they managed it I do not know, but in the space of less than a minute they were standing talking to each other at one of the windows. It was a difficult man[oe]uvre to effect, in the presence of such an active adversary as Lady Fleetwood; but it was accomplished, nevertheless, with such skill and precaution that dear Lady Fleetwood did not remark what they were doing, nor make any attack upon either flank as they retreated. Had she seen them, there were a thousand chances to one that she would have done so. She would have asked Colonel Middleton some question, or called Maria to talk with Mr. Winkworth, or, worse than all, would have whispered to her niece to explain to her niece's lover that what she had said to Mr. Scriven was said entirely with the best intentions.
Five or six pleasant minutes did Henry and Maria pass in low, earnest conversation; but at length the latter said aloud--
"Oh, yes--I dare say we can; we have only been a very little way." And then, turning towards the spot where Lady Anne stood, she said, "Colonel Middleton is proposing a walk in the park, if you are not tired, Anne."
"Not at all," replied Lady Anne; "let us all go and take a ramble. It is nearly as new to me as to any of you, for I have not been here before since I was three years old; and, to say truth, I don't remember much about it. Come--bonnets and shawls, and let us go. Gentlemen, the butler will show you the apartments prepared for you, which I trust will be found tolerably comfortable, although, when I arrived here myself, I felt almost in despair lest that epithet should never be applicable to the house again. Of one thing, however, I can assure you, namely--there are no rats, for they were starved out two years ago, and emigrated to some other country."
Thus saying, she tripped away. Maria followed. Lady Fleetwood, too, declaring that a walk would be very delightful, went to get ready.
"Do you come, Mr. Winkworth?" asked Colonel Middleton, in a somewhat anxious tone.
Mr. Winkworth looked at him ruefully.
"I had not meditated such a feat," he said; "but I'm of a self-sacrificing disposition, and the most gallant man in nature, as you all know. Therefore, as our excellent friend Lady Fleetwood is going, and as without me there would be but two gentlemen to three ladies, I must ensure that one is not without an attendant. Pray, Charles, can you tell me whether Fox, who wrote the 'Martyrology,' was not a Northumberland man? I think, at all events, I should be added to his book as a sort of supplementary martyr. But here is the butler to show us our rooms, and I will hasten to get ready."
The chamber to which Colonel Middleton was shown was a large, old-fashioned room, hung with tapestry, through which protruded several gilt iron brackets, supporting old family pictures. Some were very good, and some in an inferior style of art, though probably the best which could be found at the period when each picture was painted. There were two Vandykes, and the rest were by Kneller, Lely, and their disciples; but they all had an interest for Colonel Middleton, who went round from the one to the other, stopping a moment or two before each, and gazing on the mute and motionless countenances. To me, and I believe to many other men, there is a strange fascination about old family portraits. I could gaze upon the effigies of the dead for many an hour, striving to read in the lines and features the life, the fate, the character of the being there represented. Such seemed to be the feelings of the young officer as he walked round. He commented, however, in his thoughts, upon the countenances before him.
"They have been a handsome race," he said to himself, "with a strong family likeness in all the men--all more or less like Lady Anne, too; here in one feature, there in another, and then again in the expression. This one in the formal dress of the last century is perhaps less like than any, and yet he must have been nearer in relationship than the rest. He looks stern and harsh, a man of a strong will and fiery temper."
As he thus thought, his eye rested upon a little gilt scroll at the bottom of the frame; and he there saw written--
William Earl of Milford, born 1754, died 18--
It was the year during which he himself had come down to Milford Castle in search of the son of that very man. The inscription awakened another train of thought; and seating himself in a chair, he leaned his head upon his hand and gave way to meditation.
He was roused the moment after by some of Lady Anne's servants bringing up his luggage, and raising his head he asked--
"Pray, has my servant arrived? He was to come down by the mail."
"No, sir," replied the man; "he has not come yet. Shall I put these in the dressing-room?"
"If you please," said Colonel Middleton. "Where is the dressing-room?"
"It is here, sir," said the servant, turning up a corner of the tapestry, and opening a small door, which displayed a little room into which the sun was streaming warm and bright.
It is strange what trains of thought very insignificant circumstances will produce. The sight of that small but cheerful chamber, compared with the large and gloomy one in which he stood, struck the young officer much; and he said to himself--
"Thus it is often with human fate. The narrow and confined sphere of humble life is often gay and happy, while the wider and loftier one of wealth and station is cold, gloomy, and cheerless." The next moment he heard the voice of Charles Marston calling him; and, going down-stairs, they set out upon their walk.
Mr. Winkworth managed admirably. One would almost have supposed him a daughter-marrying dowager, so admirably did he keep Lady Fleetwood in play, while the younger party roamed on before. He walked slowly, too, which is a great faculty in such circumstances; and as Lady Fleetwood herself was not generally disposed to walk fast, it suited her very well.
"Colonel Middleton is an old friend of yours, I find, Mr. Winkworth," said Lady Fleetwood as they went on. "Have you known him many years?"
"Not many, according to the almanac, my dear madam," replied the old gentleman, "but a great many according to the computation of the mind. I look upon it, my dear Lady Fleetwood," he continued, in a moralising tone, "that thoughts, words, and actions are the real measures of time; and that the sun's rising or setting, the mere whirling round of the great peg-top on which we creep about, has nothing in the world to do with it. According, therefore, to my way of computing, I have known Colonel Middleton a great many years, and ten times as long as I have known some men with whom I was hand-in-glove before he was born. You understand me?"
She did not in the least; but she replied, "Oh, yes: you mean that you have known him many years, but that you have lost sight of him."
"Not so," replied Mr. Winkworth. "It is not many months since I first made his acquaintance; but I have seen a good deal of him in that time, have heard much of him from friends of longer standing; and a more honourable, high-spirited, gentlemanly man does not exist."
"Oh, dear! I am glad to hear you say so."
"Why so?" demanded Mr. Winkworth: "did you doubt it?"
"Oh, no; not in the least," replied Lady Fleetwood: "I never did, I can assure you, not even when----"
For once in her life, Lady Fleetwood checked herself in full career. She was on the highway to tell Mr. Winkworth everything she knew of Henry Hayley's history; and all the present, as well as all the past, was about to be detailed for the benefit of his companion, when she recollected herself and held her tongue, though the bridle was hardly strong enough to keep in that very hard-mouthed horse.
Mr. Winkworth did not seem to have much curiosity, for he instantly changed the subject, saying--
"What a beautiful park this is! One does not expect to find such a spot in so remote a part of the country. Lady Anne's fortune must be very large."
"Oh, dear, yes!" replied Lady Fleetwood. "Her mother had nearly eight thousand a-year of her own, and Lord Milford had a very large property. His father was a strange, recluse sort of man--spent very little himself, and allowed his son a small income for a young nobleman. Until he married a rich banker's daughter, I believe he had not more than fifteen or sixteen hundred a-year allowed him; and he was rather extravagant, too, in his habits, so that he was a good deal in debt. At one time, people thought the old earl would have left everything he could away from him; for he was a sad tyrant, and quarrelled with his son very often; but then the young lord pleased him by his marriage, and everything went well after that. They say the old man saved at least three-quarters of his income every year, living down here amongst these hills the whole year long, like an old rook in the top of an elm-tree. He died of some disease of the heart, it is said."
"I should think so," replied Mr. Winkworth, drily; "but it does not seem, to have been hereditary, or at all events it became extinct in that branch."
The excellent lady would, in all probability, have contrived to be puzzled with this reply, had not a little man[oe]uvre of the advance-guard attracted her attention and interested her feelings.
Hitherto, Maria and Lady Anne had been walking on arm in arm, with Colonel Middleton by the side of the former and Charles Marston by the side of the latter, when suddenly, to Lady Fleetwood's infinite surprise, Lady Anne disengaged herself from her fair friend, went round, and took Colonel Middleton's arm. Then, pointing with her parasol to the right, she walked away with him, leaving Charles Marston sauntering on by Maria's side.
"Dear me!" said Lady Fleetwood; "Lady Anne is really very strange. Let us go on and overtake them. I am afraid Maria will feel hurt."
"Hurt!--why?" asked Mr. Winkworth, quietly, and Lady Fleetwood, feeling the difficulty of explanation, did as all weak and many cunning people do--insinuated what she did not choose to say, by replying with a meaning look--
"Oh, there may be reasons, Mr. Winkworth."
At the same time she walked on at a pace which was very quick for her, but which failed to overtake Charles and Maria, who, talking together earnestly, and apparently very confidentially, took their way in a direction quite opposite to that which had been followed by their fair hostess and Colonel Middleton.
Upon observing these indications, Lady Fleetwood paused and hesitated. A new solution of many difficulties presented itself to hope and imagination.
"What if Charles and Maria were to marry after all?" she thought. "It might not be quite fair, indeed, to Colonel Middleton; but still, here he had voluntarily gone away with another lady, almost as if to avoid Maria and her cousin;" and the worthy aunt gradually slackened her pace, saying--
"Well, it does not much matter."
Oh, Lady Fleetwood! Lady Fleetwood! Had you but been contented in everything to take all matters as easily as you did in this instance, how much better it would have been for you and all your friends and relations!
Soon after, the excellent lady and her companion reached the top of a small hill, perhaps a barrow, from the summit of which a great part of the park was visible, and there she saw Lady Anne and Colonel Middleton walking slowly along towards the deep pines through which the private road to Milford Castle from Belford passed in its way up to the house.
Suddenly, just emerging from the trees upon the road, appeared two men, who, as soon as they perceived Lady Anne and her companion, quitted the road, as if to meet the two others; and, if such was their intention, they succeeded; for the lady of Milford and her guests went straight forward towards them, and one of the strangers advanced, pulling off his hat with a low bow. A moment or two after, the young lady left her companion with the two men, and walked leisurely away towards the house.
Lady Fleetwood was puzzled. She could not make out what it all meant, and she expressed her surprise to Mr. Winkworth, saying--
"I wonder what's the matter. Had we not better go and see?"
"I think not, my dear lady," replied Mr. Winkworth: "there can be nothing of any importance the matter, or Lady Anne would not leave the party so quietly. Besides, if I am not very much mistaken, one of those men is Colonel Middleton's valet. The figure is just of his height and appearance."
As the next best step, Lady Fleetwood judged it would be better to return to the house immediately, thinking that there at least she should get information, but she was disappointed; for, though she sought Lady Anne as soon as she reached Milford Castle, the young lady had betaken herself to her own room, and the elder did not venture to intrude upon her privacy.