All things have their several stages; and, without a knowledge of the preceding one it is impossible to judge accurately of any event which is the immediate subject of our contemplation. The life of every one, the history of the whole world that we inhabit, is but a regular drama with its scenes and acts, each depending for its interest upon that which preceded. I therefore judge it necessary, before going on to detail the events which took place in Mr. Croyland's house during his absence to visit the dwelling of his brother, and give some account of that which produced them. On the same eventful morning, then, of which we have spoken so much already, the inhabitants of Harbourne House slept quietly during the little engagement between the smugglers and the dragoons, unaware that things of great importance to their little circle were passing at no great distance. I have mentioned the inhabitants of Harbourne House; but perhaps it would have been more proper to have said the master, his family, and his guest; for a number of the servants were up; the windows were opened; and the wind, setting from Woodchurch, brought the sound of firearms thence. The movement of the troops from the side of High Halden was also remarked by one of the housemaids and a footman, as the young lady was leaning out of one of the windows with the young gentleman by her side. In a minute or two after they perceived, galloping across the country, two or three parties of men on horseback, as if in flight and pursuit. Most of these took to the right or left, and were soon lost to the sight; but at length one solitary horseman came on at a furious speed towards Harbourne House, with a small party of dragoons following him direct at a couple of hundred yards' distance, while two or three of the soldiery were seen scattered away to the right, and a somewhat larger body appeared moving down at a quick pace to the left, as if to cut the fugitive off at Gallows Green.
The horse of the single rider seemed tired and dirty; and he was himself without a hat; but nevertheless, they pushed on with such rapidity, that a few seconds, from the time when they were first seen, brought steed and horseman into the little parish road which I have mentioned as running in front of the house, and passing round the grounds into the wood. As the fugitive drew near, the maid exclaimed, with a sort of a half scream, "Why, Lord ha' mercy, Matthew, it's young Mr. Radford!"
"To be sure it is," answered the footman; "didn't you see that before, Betsy? There's a number of the dragoons after him, too. He's been up to some of his tricks, I'll warrant."
"Well, I hope he wont come in here, at all events," rejoined the maid, "for I shouldn't like it, if we were to have any fighting in the house."
"I shall go and shut the hall door," said the footman, drily--Richard Radford not having ingratiated himself as much with the servants as he had done with their master. But this precaution was rendered unnecessary; for the young man showed no inclination to enter the house, but passing along the road with the rapidity of an arrow, was soon lost in the wood, without even looking up towards the house of Sir Robert Croyland. Several of the dragoons followed him quickly; but two of them planted themselves at the corner of the road, and remained there immovable.
The maid then observed, that she thought it high time the gentlefolks should be called; and she proceeded to execute her laudable purpose, taking care that tidings of what she had seen concerning Mr. Radford should be communicated to Sir Robert Croyland, to Zara, and to the servant of Sir Edward Digby, who again carried the intelligence to his master. The whole house was soon afoot; and Sir Robert was just out of his room in his dressing-gown, when three of the soldiers entered the mansion, expressing their determination to search it, and declaring their conviction that the smuggler whom they had been pursuing had taken refuge there.
In vain Sir Robert Croyland remonstrated, and inquired if they had a warrant; in vain the servants assured the dragoons that no person had entered during the morning. The Serjeant who was at their head, persisted in asserting that the fugitive must have come in there, just when he was hid from his pursuers by the trees, assigning as a reason for this belief, that they had found his horse turned loose not a hundred yards from the house. They accordingly proceeded to execute their intention, meeting with no farther impediment till they reached the room of Sir Edward Digby, who, though he did not choose to interfere, not being on duty himself, warned the serjeant that he must be careful of what he was doing, as it appeared that he had neither magistrate, warrant, nor Custom-House officer with him.
The serjeant, however, who was a bold and resolute fellow, and moreover a little heated and excited by the pursuit, took the responsibility upon himself, saying that he was fully authorized by Mr. Birchett to follow, search for, and apprehend one Richard Radford, and that he had the colonel's orders, too. Certainly, not a nook or corner of Harbourne House did he leave unexamined before he retired, grumbling and wondering at his want of success.
Previous to his going, Sir Edward Digby charged him with a message to the colonel, which proved as great an enigma to the soldier as the escape of Richard Radford. "Tell him," said the young baronet, "that I am ready to come down if he wants me; but that if he does not, I think I am quite as well where I am."
The breakfast passed in that sort of hurried and desultory conversation which such a dish of gossip as now poured in from all quarters usually produces, when served up at the morning meal. Sir Robert Croyland, indeed, looked ill at ease, laughed and jested in an unnatural and strained tone upon smugglers and smuggling, and questioned every servant that came in for further tidings. The reports that he thus received were as full of falsehood and exaggeration as all such reports generally are. The property captured was said to be immense. Two or three hundred smugglers were mentioned as having been taken, and a whole legion of them killed. Some had made confession, and clearly proved that the whole property was Mr. Radford's; and some had fought to the last, and killed an incredible number of the soldiers. To believe the butler, who received his information from the hind, who had his from the shepherd, the man called the Major, before he died, had absolutely breakfasted on dragoons, as if they had been prawns; but all agreed that never had such a large body of contraband traders been assembled before, or suffered such a disastrous defeat, in any of their expeditions.
Sir Edward Digby gathered from the whole account, that his friend had been fully successful, that the smugglers had fought fiercely, that blood had been shed, and that Richard Radford, after having taken an active part in the affray, was now a fugitive, and, as the young baronet fancied, never to appear upon the stage again. But still Sir Robert Croyland did not seem by any means so well pleased as might have been wished; and a dark and thoughtful cloud would frequently come over his heavy brow, while a slight twitching of his lip seemed to indicate that anxiety had as great a share in his feelings as mortification.
Mrs. Barbara Croyland amused herself, as usual, by doing her best to tease every one around her, and by saying the most malapropos things in the world. She spoke with great commiseration of "the poor smugglers:" every particle of her pity was bestowed upon them. She talked of the soldiers as if they had been the most fierce and sanguinary monsters in Europe, who had attacked, unprovoked, a party of poor men that were doing them no harm; till Zara's glowing cheek recalled to her mind, that these very blood-thirsty dragoons were Sir Edward Digby's companions and friends; and then she made the compliment more pointed by apologizing to the young baronet, and assuring him that she did not think for a moment he would commit such acts. Her artillery was next turned against her brother; and, in a pleasant tone of raillery, she joked him upon the subject of young Mr. Radford, and of the search the soldiers had made, looking with a meaning smile at Zara, and saying, "She dared say, Sir Robert could tell where he was, if he liked."
The baronet declared, sharply and truly, that he knew nothing about the young man; but Mrs. Barbara shook her head and nodded, and looked knowing, adding various agreeable insinuations of the same kind as before--all in the best humour possible--till Sir Robert Croyland was put quite out of temper, and would have retorted violently, had he not known that to do so always rendered the matter ten times worse. Even poor Zara did not altogether escape; but, as we are hurrying on to important events, we must pass over her share of infliction.
The conclusion of Mrs. Barbara's field-day was perhaps the most signal achievement of all. Breakfast had come to an end, though the meal had been somewhat protracted; and the party were just lingering out a few minutes before they rose, still talking on the subject of the skirmish of that morning, when the good lady thought fit to remark--"Well, we may guess for ever; but we shall soon know more about it, for I dare say we shall have Mr. Radford over here before an hour is gone, and he must know if the goods were his."
This seemed to startle--nay, to alarm Sir Robert Croyland. He looked round with a sharp, quick turn of his head, and then rose at once, saying, "Well, whether he comes or not, I must go out and see about a good many things. Would you like to take a ride, Sir Edward Digby, or what will you do?"
"Why, I think I must stay here for the present," replied the young baronet; "I may have a summons unexpectedly, and ought not to be absent."
"Well, you will excuse me, I know," answered his entertainer. "I must leave my sister and Zara to amuse you for an hour or two, till I return."
Thus saying, and evidently in a great bustle, Sir Robert Croyland quitted the room and ordered his horse. But just as the three whom he had left in the breakfast-room were sauntering quietly towards the library--Sir Edward Digby calculating by the way how he might best get rid of Mrs. Barbara, in order to enjoy the fair Zara's company undisturbed--they came upon the baronet at the moment when he was encountered by one of his servants bringing him some unpleasant intelligence. "Please, Sir Robert," said the man, with a knowing wink of the eye, "all the horses are out."
"Out!" cried the baronet, with a look of fury and consternation. "What do you mean by out, fellow?"
"Why, they were taken out of the stable last night, sir," replied the man. "I dare say you know where they went; and they have not come back again yet."
"Pray, have mine been taken also?" demanded Sir Edward Digby, very well understanding what sort of an expedition Sir Robert Croyland's horses had gone upon.
"Oh dear, no, sir!" answered the man; "your servant keeps the key of that stable himself, sir."
The young baronet instantly offered his host the use of one of his steeds, which was gratefully accepted by Sir Robert Croyland, who, however, thought fit to enter into an exculpation of himself, somewhat tedious withal, assuring his guest that the horses had been taken without his approbation or consent, and that he had no knowledge whatsoever of the transaction in which they were engaged.
Sir Edward Digby professed himself quite convinced that such was the case, and in order to relieve his host from the embarrassment which he seemed to feel, explained that he was already aware that the Kentish smugglers were in the habit of borrowing horses without the owner's consent.
In our complicated state of society, however, everything hinges upon trifles. We have made the watch so fine, that a grain of dust stops the whole movement; and the best arranged plans are thrown out by the negligence, the absence, or the folly of a servant, a friend, or a messenger. Sir Edward Digby's groom could not be found for more than a quarter of an hour: when he was, at length, brought to light, the horse had to be saddled. An hour had now nearly elapsed since the master of the house had given orders for his own horse to be brought round immediately: he was evidently uneasy at the delay, peevish, restless, uncomfortable; and in the end, he said he would mount at the back door, as it was the nearest and the most convenient. He even waited in the vestibule; but suddenly he turned, walked through the double doors leading to the stable-yard, and said he heard the horse coming up.
Mrs. Barbara Croyland had, in the meantime, amused herself and her niece in the library, with the door open; and sometimes she worked a paroquet, in green, red, and white silk embroidery--a favourite occupation for ladies in her juvenile days--and sometimes she gazed out of the window, or listened to the conversation of her brother and his guest in the vestibule. At the very moment, however, when Sir Robert was making his exit by the doors between the principal part of the house and the offices, Mrs. Barbara called loudly after him, "Brother Robert!--Brother Robert!--Here is Mr. Radford coming."
The baronet turned a deaf ear, and shut the door. He would have locked it, too, if the evasion would not have then been too palpable. But Mrs. Barbara was resolved that he should know that Mr. Radford was coming; and up she started, casting down half-a-dozen cards of silk. Zara tried to stop her; for she knew her father, and all the signs and indications of his humours; but her efforts were in vain. Mrs. Barbara dashed past her, rushed through both doors, leaving them open behind her, and caught her brother's arms just as the horse, which he had thought fit to hear approach a little before it really did so, was led up slowly from the stables to the back door of the mansion.
"Robert, here is Mr. Radford!" said Mrs. Barbara, aloud. "I knew you would like to see him."
The baronet turned his head, and saw his worthy friend, through the open doors, just entering the vestibule. To the horror and surprise of his sister, he uttered a low but bitter curse, adding, in tones quite distinct enough to reach her ear, "Woman, you have ruined me!"
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Barbara; "why, I thought----"
"Hush! silence!" said Sir Robert Croyland, in a menacing tone; "not another word, on your life;" and turning, he met Mr. Radford with the utmost suavity, but with a certain degree of restraint which he had not time to banish entirely from his manner.
"Ah, Mr. Radford!" he exclaimed, shaking him, too, heartily by the hand, "I was just going out to inquire about some things of importance;" and he gazed at him with a look which he intended to be very significant of the inquiries he had proposed to institute. But his glance was hesitating and ill-assured; and Mr. Radford replied, with the coolest and most self-possessed air possible, and with a firm, fixed gaze upon the baronet's countenance.
"Indeed, Sir Robert!" he said, "perhaps I can satisfy you upon some points; but, at all events, I must speak with you for a few minutes before you go. Good morning, Sir Edward Digby: have you had any sport in the field?--I will not detain you a quarter of an hour, my good friend. We had better go into your little room."
He led the way thither as he spoke; and Sir Robert Croyland followed with a slow and faltering step. He knew Richard Radford; he knew what that calm and self-possessed manner meant. He was aware of the significance of courteous expressions and amicable terms from the man who called him his good friend; and if there was a being upon earth, on whose head Sir Robert Croyland would have wished to stamp as on a viper's, it was the placid benign personage who preceded him.
They entered the room in which the baronet usually sat in a morning to transact his business with his steward, and to arrange his affairs; and Sir Robert carefully shut the door behind him, trying, during the one moment that his back was turned upon his unwelcome guest, to compose his agitated features into the expression of haughty and self-sufficient tranquillity which they usually wore.
"Sit down, Radford," he said--"pray sit down, if it be but for ten minutes;" and he pointed to the arm-chair on the other side of the table.
Mr. Radford sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand, looking in the baronet's face with a scrutinizing gaze. If Sir Robert Croyland understood him well, he also understood Sir Robert Croyland, heart and mind--every corporeal fibre--every mental peculiarity. He saw clearly that his companion was terrified; he divined that he had wished to avoid him; and the satisfaction that he felt at having caught him just as he was going out, at having frustrated his hope of escape, had a pleasant malice in it, which compensated for a part of all that he had suffered during that morning, as report after report reached him of the utter annihilation of his hopes of immense gain, the loss of a ruinous sum of money, and the danger and narrow escape of his son. He had not slept a wink during the whole of the preceding night; and he had passed the hours in a state of nervous anxiety which would have totally unmanned many a strong-minded man when his first fears were realized. But Mr. Radford's mind was of a peculiar construction: apprehension he might feel, but never, by any chance, discouragement. All his pain was in anticipation, not in endurance. The moment a blow was struck, it was over: his thoughts turned to new resources; and, in reconstructing schemes which had been overthrown, in framing new ones, or pursuing old ones which had slumbered, he instantly found comfort for the past. Thus he seemed as fresh, as resolute, as unabashed by fortune's late frowns, as ever; but there was a rankling bitterness, an eager, wolf-like energy in his heart, which sprung both from angry disappointment and from the desperate aspect of his present fortune; and such feelings naturally communicated some portion of their acerbity to the expression of his countenance, which no effort could totally banish.
He gazed upon Sir Robert Croyland, then with a keen and inquiring look, not altogether untinged with that sort of pity which amounts to scorn; and, after a momentary pause, he said, "Well, Croyland, you have heard all, I suppose!"
"No, not all--not all, Radford," answered the baronet, hesitating; "I was going out to inquire."
"I can save you the trouble, then," replied Mr. Radford, drily. "I am ruined. That is to say, in the two last ventures I have lost considerably more than a hundred thousand pounds."
Sir Robert Croyland waved his head sadly, saying, "Terrible, terrible! but what can be done?"
"Oh, several things," answered Mr. Radford, "and that is what I have come to speak to you about, because the first must rest with you, my excellent good friend."
"But where is your son, poor fellow?" asked the baronet, eager to avoid, as long as possible, the point to which their conversation was tending. "They tell me he was well nigh taken; and, after there has been blood shed, that would have been destruction. Do you know they came and searched this house for him?"
"No, I had not heard of that, Croyland," replied Mr. Radford; "but he is near enough, well enough, and safe enough to marry your fair daughter."
"Ay, yes," answered Sir Robert; "that must be thought of, and----."
"Oh dear, no!" cried the other, interrupting him; "it has been thought of enough already, Croyland--too much, perhaps; now, it must be done."
"Well, I will go over to Edith at once," said the baronet, "and I will urge her, by every inducement. I will tell her, that it is her duty, that it is my will, and that she must and shall obey."
Mr. Radford rose slowly off his seat, crossed over the rug to the place where Sir Robert Croyland was placed; and, leaning his hand upon the arm of the other's chair, he bent down his head, saying in a low but very clear voice and perfectly distinct words, "Tell her, her father's life depends upon it!"
Sir Robert Croyland shrank from him, as if an asp had approached his cheek; and he turned deadly pale. "No, Radford--no," he replied, in a faltering and deprecatory tone; "you cannot mean such a horrible thing. I will do all that I can to make her yield--I will, indeed--I will insist--I will----"
"Sir Robert Croyland," said Mr. Radford, sternly and slowly, "I will have no more trifling. I have indulged you too long. Your daughter must be my son's wife before he quits this country--which must be the case for a time, till we can get this affair wiped out by our parliamentary influence. Her fortune must be his, she must be his wife, I say, before four days are over.--Now, my good friend," he continued, falling back, in a degree, into his usual manner, which had generally a touch of sarcastic bitterness in it when addressing his present companion, "what means you may please to adopt to arrive at this desirable result I cannot tell; but as the young lady has shown an aversion to the match, not very flattering to my son----"
"Is it not his own fault?" cried Sir Robert Croyland, roused to some degree of indignation and resistance--"has he ever, by word or deed, sought to remove that reluctance? Has he wooed her as woman always requires to be wooed? Has he not rather shown a preference to her sister, paid her all attention, courted, admired her?"
"Pity you suffered it, Sir Robert," answered Radford; "but permit me, in your courtesy, to go on with what I was saying. As the young lady has shown this unfortunate reluctance, I anticipate no effect from your proposed use of parental authority. I believe your requests and your commands will be equally unavailing; and, therefore, I say, tell her, her father's life depends upon it; for I will have no more trifling, Sir Robert--no more delay--no more hesitation. It must be settled at once--this very day. Before midnight, I must hear that she consents, or you understand!--and consent she will, if you but employ the right means. She may show herself obstinate, undutiful, careless of your wishes and commands; but I do not think that she would like to be the one to tie a halter round her father's neck, or to bring what I think you gentlemen of heraldry and coat-armour call a cross-patonce into the family-bearing--ha, ha, ha!--Do you, Sir Robert?"
The unhappy gentleman to whom he spoke covered his eyes with his hand; but, from beneath, his features could be seen working with the agitation of various emotions, in which rage, impotent though it might be, was not without its share. Suddenly, however, a gleam of hope seemed to shoot across his mind; he withdrew his hand; he looked up with some light in his eyes. "A thought has struck me, Radford," he said; "Zara--we have talked of Zara--why not substitute her for Edith? Listen to me--listen to me. You have not heard all."
Mr. Radford shook his head. "It cannot be done," he replied--"it is quite out of the question."
"Nay, but hear!" exclaimed the baronet. "Not so much out of the question as you think. Look at the whole circumstances, Radford. The great obstacle with Edith, is that unfortunate engagement with young Leyton. She looks upon herself as his wife; she has told me so a thousand times; and I doubt even the effect of the terrible course which you urge upon me so cruelly."
Mr. Radford's brow had grown exceedingly dark at the very mention of the name of Leyton; but he said nothing, and, as if to keep down the feelings that were swelling in his heart, set his teeth hard in his under lip. Sir Robert Croyland saw all these marks of anger, but went on--"Now, the case is different with Zara. Your son has sought her, and evidently admires her; and she has shown herself by no means unfavourable towards him. Besides, I can do with her what I like. There is no such obstacle in her case; and I could bend her to my will with a word--Yes, but hear me out. I know what you would say: she has no fortune; all the land that I can dispose of is mortgaged to the full--the rest goes to my brother, if he survives me.--True, all very true!--But, Radford, listen--if I can induce my brother to give Zara the same fortune which Edith possesses--if this night I can bring it you under his own hand, that she shall have fifty thousand pounds?--You shake your head; you doubt that he will do it; but I can tell you that he would willingly give it, to save Edith from your son. I am ready to pledge you my word, that you shall have that engagement, under his own hand, this very night, or that Edith shall become your son's wife within four days. Let us cast aside all idle circumlocution. It is Edith's fortune for your son, that you require. You can care nothing personally which of the two he marries. As for him, he evidently prefers Zara. She is also well inclined to him. I can--I am sure I can--offer you the same fortune with her. Why should you object?"
Mr. Radford had resumed his seat, and with his arms folded on his chest, and his head bent, had remained in a listening posture. But nothing that he heard seemed to produce any change in his countenance; and when Sir Robert Croyland had concluded, he rose again, took a step towards him, and replied, through his shut teeth, "You are mistaken, Sir Robert Croyland--it is not fortune alone I seek.--It is revenge!--There, ask me no questions, I have told you my determination. Your daughter Edith shall be my son's wife within four days, or Maidstone jail, trial, and execution, shall be your lot. The haughty family of Croyland shall bear the stain of felony upon them to the last generation; and your daughter shall know--for if you do not tell her, I will--that it is her obstinacy which sends her father to the gallows. No more trifling--no more nonsense! Act, sir, as you think fit; but remember, that the words--once passed my lips--can never be recalled; that the secret I have kept buried for so many years, shall to-morrow morning be published to the whole world, if to-night you do not bring me your daughter's consent to what I demand. I am using no vain threats, Sir Robert Croyland," he continued, resuming a somewhat softened tone, "and I do not urge you to this without some degree of regret. You have been very kind and friendly; you have done me good service on several occasions; and it will be with great regret that I become the instrument of your destruction. But still every man has a conscience of some kind. Even I am occasionally troubled with qualms; and I frequently reproach myself for concealing what I am bound to reveal. It is a pity this marriage was not concluded long ago, for then, connected with you by the closest ties; I should have felt myself more justified in holding my tongue. Now, however, it is absolutely necessary that your daughter Edith should become my son's wife. I have pointed out the means which I think will soonest bring it to bear; and if you do not use them, you must abide the consequences. But mark me--no attempt at delay, no prevarication, no hesitation! A clear, positive, distinct answer this night by twelve o'clock, or you are lost!"
Sir Robert Croyland had leaned his arms upon the table, and pressed his eyes upon his arms. His whole frame shook with emotion, and the softer, and seemingly more kindly words of the man before him, were even bitterer to him than the harsher and the fiercer. Though he did not see his face, he knew that there was far more sarcasm than tenderness in them. He had been his slave--his tool, for years--his tool through the basest and most unmanly of human passions--fear; and he felt, not only that he was despised, but that at that moment Radford was revelling in contempt. He could have got up and stabbed him where he stood; for he was naturally a passionate and violent man. But fear had still the dominion; and after a bitter struggle with himself, he conquered his anger, and gave himself up to the thought of meeting the circumstances in which he was placed, as best he might. He was silent for several moments, however, after Mr. Radford had ceased speaking; and then, looking up with an anxious eye and quivering lip, he said, "But how is it possible, Radford, that the marriage should take place in four days? The banns could not be published; and even if you got a licence, your son could not appear at church within the prescribed hours, without running a fatal risk."
"We will have a special licence, my good friend," answered Mr. Radford, with a contemptuous smile. "Do not trouble yourself about that. You will have quite enough to do with your daughter, I should imagine, without annoying yourself with other things. As to my son, I will manage his part of the affair; and he can marry your daughter in your drawing-room, or mine, at an hour when there will be no eager eyes abroad. Money can do all things; and a special licence is not so very expensive but that I can afford it, still. My drawing-room will be best; for then we shall be all secure."
"But, Radford--Radford!" said Sir Robert Croyland, "if I do--if I bring Edith at the time appointed--if she become your son's wife--you will give me up that paper, that fatal deposition?"
"Oh, yes, assuredly," replied Mr. Radford, with an insulting smile; "I can hand it over to you as part of the marriage settlement. You need not be the least afraid!--and now, I think I must go; for I have business to settle as well as you."
"Stay, stay a moment, Radford," said the baronet, rising and coming nearer to him. "You spoke of revenge just now. What is it that you mean?"
"I told you to ask no questions," answered the other, sharply.
"But at least tell me, if it is on me or mine that you seek revenge!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland. "I am unconscious of ever having injured or offended you in any way."
"Oh dear, no," replied Mr. Radford. "You have nothing to do with it--no, nor your daughter either, though she deserves a little punishment for her ill-treatment to my son. No, but there is one on whom I will have revenge--deep and bitter revenge, too! But that is my affair; and I do not choose to say more. You have heard my resolutions; and you know me well enough, to be sure that I will keep my word. So now go to your daughter, and manage the matter as you judge best; but if you will take my advice, you will simply ask her consent, and make her fully aware that her father's life depends upon it; and now good-by, my dear friend. Good luck attend you on your errand; for I would a great deal rather not have any hand in bringing you, where destiny seems inclined to lead you very soon."
Thus saying, he turned and quitted the room; and Sir Robert Croyland remained musing for several minutes, his thoughts first resting upon the last part of their conversation. "Revenge!" he said; "he must mean my brother; and it will be bitter enough, to him, to see Edith married to this youth. Bitter enough to me, too; but it must be done--it must be done!"
He pressed his hand upon his heart, and then went out to mount his horse; but pausing in the vestibule, he told the butler to bring him a glass of brandy. The man hastened to obey; for his master's face was as pale as death, and he thought that Sir Robert was going to faint. But when the baronet had swallowed the stimulating liquor, he walked to the back door with a quick and tolerably steady step, mounted, and rode away alone.
Before I follow him, though anxious to do so as quickly as possible, I must say a few words in regard to Mr. Radford's course. After he had reached the parish road I have mentioned,--on which one or two dragoons were still visible, slowly patrolling round Harbourne Wood,--the man who had exercised so terrible an influence upon poor Sir Robert Croyland turned his horse's head upon the path which led straight through the trees towards the cottage of Widow Clare. His face was still dark and cloudy; and, trusting to the care and sure-footedness of his beast, he went on with a loose rein and his eyes bent down towards his saddle-bow, evidently immersed in deep thought. When he had got about two-thirds across the wood, he started and turned round his head; for there was the sound of a horse's feet behind, and he instantly perceived a dragoon following him, and apparently keeping him in sight. Mr. Radford rode on, however, till he came out not far from the gate of Mrs. Clare's garden, when he saw another soldier riding slowly round the wood. With a careless air, however, and as if he scarcely perceived these circumstances, he dismounted, buckled the rein of his bridle slowly over the palings of the garden, and went into the cottage, closing the door after him. He found the widow and her daughter busily employed with the needle, making somewhat smarter clothes than those they wore on ordinary occasions. It was poor Kate's bridal finery.
Mrs. Clare instantly rose, and dropped a low curtsey to Mr. Radford, who had of late years frequently visited her cottage, and occasionally contributed a little to her comfort, in a kindly and judicious manner. Sometimes he had sent her down a load of wood, to keep the house warm; sometimes he had given her a large roll of woollen cloth, a new gown for her daughter or herself, or a little present of money. But Mr. Radford had his object: he always had.
"Well, Mrs. Clare!" said Mr. Radford, in as easy and quiet a tone as if nothing had happened to agitate his mind or derange his plans; "so, my pretty little friend, Kate, is going to be married to worthy Jack Harding, I find."
Kate blushed and held down her head, and Mrs. Clare assented with a faint smile.
"There has been a bad business of it this morning, though," said Mr. Radford, looking in Mrs. Clare's face; "I dare say you've heard all about it--over there, in the valley by Woodchurch and Redbrook Street."
Mrs. Clare looked alarmed; and Kate forgot her timidity, and exclaimed--"Oh! is he safe?"
"Oh, yes, my dear," answered Mr. Radford, in a kindly tone; "you need not alarm yourself. He was not in it, at all. I don't say he had no share in running the goods; for that is pretty well known, I believe; and he did his part of the work well; but the poor fellows who were bringing up the things, by some folly, or mistake, I do not know which, got in amongst the dragoons, were attacked, and nearly cut to pieces."
"Ay, then, that is what the soldiers are hanging about here for," said Mrs. Clare.
"It's a sad affair for me, indeed!" continued Mr. Radford, thoughtfully.
"I am truly sorry to hear that, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Clare, "for you have been always very kind to me."
"Well, my good lady," replied her visitor, "perhaps you may now be able to do me a kindness in return," said Mr. Radford. "To tell you the truth, my son was in this affray. He made his escape when he found that they could not hold their ground; and it is for him that the soldiers are now looking--at least, I suspect so. Perhaps you may be able to give a little help, if he should be concealed about here?"
"That I will," said Widow Clare, "if it cost me one of my hands!"
"Oh, there will be no danger!" answered Mr. Radford; "I only wish you, in case he should be lying where I think he is, to take care that he has food till he can get away. It might be better for Kate here, to go rather than yourself; or one could do it at one time, and the other at another. With a basket on her arm, and a few eggs at the top, Kate could trip across the wood as if she were going to Harbourne House. You could boil the eggs hard, you know, and put some bread and other things underneath. Then, at the place where I suppose he is, she could quietly put down the basket and walk on."
"But you must tell me where he is, sir," answered Mrs. Clare.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Radford--"that is to say, I can tell you where I think he is. Then, when she gets near it, she can look round to see if there's any one watching, and if she sees no one, can say aloud--'Do you want anything?' If he's there he'll answer; and should he send any message to me, one of you must bring it up. I shan't forget to repay you for your trouble."
"Oh dear, sir, it isn't for that," said Mrs. Clare--"Kate and I will both be very glad, indeed, to show our gratitude for your kindness. It is seldom poor people have the opportunity; and I am sure, after good Sir Robert Croyland, we owe more to you than to any body."
"Sir Robert has been kind to you, I believe, Mrs. Clare!" replied Mr. Radford, with a peculiar expression of countenance. "Well he may be! He has not always been so kind to you and yours."
"Pray, sir, do not say a word against Sir Robert!" answered the widow; "though he sometimes used to speak rather cross and angrily in former times, yet since my poor husband's death, nothing could be more kind than he has been. I owe him everything, sir."
"Ay, it's all very well, Mrs. Clare," replied Mr. Radford, shaking his head with a doubtful smile--"it's all very well! However, I do not intend to say a word against Sir Robert Croyland. He's my very good friend, you know; and it's all very well.--Now let us talk about the place where you or Kate are to go; but, above all things, remember that you must not utter a word about it to any one, either now or hereafter; for it might be the ruin of us all if you did."
"Oh, no--not for the world, sir!" answered Mrs. Clare; "I know such places are not to be talked about; and nobody shall ever hear anything about it from us."
"Well, then," continued Mr. Radford, "you know the way up to Harbourne House, through the gardens. There's the little path to the right; and then, half way up that, there's one to the left, which brings you to the back of the stables. It goes between two sandy banks, you may recollect; and there's a little pond with a willow growing over it, and some bushes at the back of the willow. Well, just behind these bushes there is a deep hole in the bank, high enough to let a man stand upright in it, when he gets a little way down. It would make a famoushideif there were a better horse-path up to it, and sometimes it has been used for small things such as a man can carry on his back. Now, from what I have heard, my boy Richard must be in there; for his horse was found, it seems, not above two or three hundred yards from the house, broken-knee'd and knocked-up. If any one should follow you as you go, and make inquiries, you must say that you are going to the house; for there is a door there in the wall of the stable-yard--though that path is seldom, if ever used now; but, if there be nobody by, you can just set down the basket by the stump of the willow, and ask if he wants anything more. If he doesn't answer, speak again, and try at all events to find out whether he's there or not, so that I may hear."
"Oh, I know the place, quite well!" said Mrs. Clare. "My poor husband used to get gravel there. But when do you think I had better go, sir? for if the dragoons are still lingering about, a thousand to one but they follow me, and, more likely still, may follow Kate; so I shall go myself to night, at all events."
"You had better wait till it is duskish," answered Mr. Radford; "and then they'll soon lose sight of you amongst the trees; for they can't go up there on horseback, and if they stop to dismount you can easily get out of their way. Let me have any message you may get from Richard; and don't forget, either, if Harding comes up here, to tell him I want to speak with him very much. He'll be sorry enough for this affair when he hears of it, for the loss is dreadful!"
"I'm sure he will, sir," said Kate Clare; "for he was talking about something that he had to do, and said it would half kill him, if he did not get it done safely."
"Ay, he's a very good fellow," answered Mr. Radford, "and you shall have a wedding-gown from me, Kate.--Look out of the window, there's a good girl, and see if any of those dragoons are about."
Kate did as he bade her, and replied in the negative; and Mr. Radford, after giving a few more directions, mounted his horse and rode away, muttering as he went--"Ay, Master Harding, I have a strong suspicion of you; and I will soon satisfy myself. They must have had good information, which none could give but you, I think; so look to yourself, my friend. No man ever injured me yet who had not cause to repent it."
Mr. Radford forgot that he no longer possessed such extensive means of injuring others as he had formerly done; but the bitter will was as strong as ever.
The house of Mr. Zachary Croyland was not so large or ostentatious in appearance as that of his brother; but, nevertheless, it was a very roomy and comfortable house; and as he was naturally a man of fine taste--though somewhat singular in his likings and dislikings, as well in matters of art as in his friendships, and vehement in favour of particular schools, and in abhorrence of others--his dwelling was fitted up with all that could refresh the eye or improve the mind. A very extensive and well-chosen library covered the walls of one room, in which were also several choice pieces of sculpture; and his drawing-room was ornamented with a valuable collection of small pictures, into which not one single Dutch piece was admitted. He was accustomed to say, when any connoisseur objected to the total exclusion of a very fine school--"Don't mention it--don't mention it; I hate it in all its branches and all its styles. I have pictures for my own satisfaction, not because they are worth a thousand pounds apiece. I hate to see men represented as like beasts as possible; or to refresh my eyes with swamps and canals; or, in the climate of England, which is dull enough of all conscience, to exhilarate myself with the view of a frozen pond and fields, as flat as a plate, covered with snow, while half-a-dozen boors, in red night-caps and red noses, are skating away in ten pairs of breeches--looking, in point of shape, exactly like hogs set upon their hind legs. It's all very true the artist may have shown very great talent; but that only shows him to be the greater fool for wasting his talents upon such subjects."
His collection, therefore, consisted almost entirely of the Italian schools, with a few Flemish, a few English, and one or two exquisite Spanish pictures. He had two good Murillos and a Velasquez, one or two fine Vandykes, and four sketches by Rubens of larger pictures. But he had numerous landscapes, and several very beautiful small paintings of the Bolognese school; though that on which he prided himself the most, was an exquisite Correggio.
It was in this room that he left his niece Edith when he set out for Woodchurch; and, as she sat--with her arm fallen somewhat listlessly over the back of the low sofa, the light coming in from the window strong upon her left cheek, and the rest in shade, with her rich colouring and her fine features, the high-toned expression of soul upon her brow, and the wonderful grace of her whole form and attitude--she would have made a fine study for any of those dead artists whose works lived around her.
She heard the wheels of the carriage roll away; but she gave no thought to the question of whither her uncle had gone, or why he took her not with him, as he usually did. She was glad of it, in fact; and people seldom reason upon that with which they are well pleased. Her whole mind was directed to her own situation, and to the feelings which the few words of conversation she had had with her sister had aroused. She thought of him she loved, with the intense, eager longing to behold him once more--but once, if so it must be--which perhaps only a woman's heart can fully know. To be near him, to hear him speak, to trace the features she had loved, to mark the traces of Time's hand, and the lines that care and anxiety, and disappointment and regret, she knew must be busily working--oh, what a boon it would be! Then her mind ran on, led by the light hand of Hope, along the narrow bridge of association, to ask herself--if it would be such delight to see him and to hear him speak--what would it be to soothe, to comfort, to give him back to joy and peace!
The dream was too bright to last, and it soon faded. He was near her, and yet he did not come; he was in the same land, in the same district; he had gazed up to the house where she dwelt; if he had asked whose it was, the familiar name--the name once so dear--must have sounded in his ear; and yet he did not come. A few minutes of time, a few steps of his horse, would have brought him to where she was; but he had turned away,--and Edith's eyes filled with tears.
She rose and wiped them off, saying, "I will think of something else;" and she went up and gazed at a picture. It was a Salvator Rosa--a fine painting, though not by one of the finest masters. There was a rocky scene in front, with trees waving in the wind of a fierce storm, while two travellers stood beneath a bank and a writhing beech tree, scarcely seeming to find shelter even there from the large grey streams of rain that swept across the foreground. But, withal, in the distance were seen some majestic old towers and columns, with a gleam of golden light upon the edge of the sky; and Hope, never wearying of her kindly offices, whispered to Edith's heart, "In life, as in that picture, there may be sunshine behind the storm."
Poor Edith was right willing to listen; and she gave herself up to the gentle guide. "Perhaps," she thought, "his duty might not admit of his coming, or perhaps he might not know how he would he received. My father's anger would be sure to follow such a step. He might think that insult, injury, would be added. He might imagine even, that I am changed," and she shook her head, sadly. "Yet why should he not," she continued, "if I sit here and think so of him? Who can tell what people may have said?--Who can tell even what falsehoods may have been spread? Perhaps he's even now thinking of me. Perhaps he has come into this part of the country to make inquiries, to see with his own eyes, to satisfy himself. Oh, it must be so--it must be so!" she cried, giving herself up again to the bright dream. "Ay, and this Sir Edward Digby, too, he is his dear friend, his companion, may he not have sent him down to investigate and judge? I thought it strange at the time, that this young officer should write to inquire after my father's family, and then instantly accept an invitation; and I marked how he gazed at that wretched young man and his unworthy father. Perhaps he will tell Zara more, and I shall hear when I return. Perhaps he has told her more already. Indeed, it is very probable, for they had a long ride together yesterday;" and poor Edith began to feel as anxious to go back to her father's house as she had been glad to quit it. Yet she saw no way how this could be accomplished, before the period allotted for her stay was at an end; and she determined to have recourse to a little simple art, and ask Mr. Croyland to take her over to Harbourne, on the following morning, with the ostensible purpose of looking for some article of apparel left behind, but, in truth, to obtain a few minutes' conversation with her sister.
There are times in the life of almost every one--at least, of every one of feeling and intellect--when it seems as if we could meditate for ever: when, without motion or change, the spirit within the earthly tabernacle could pause and ponder over deep subjects of contemplation for hour after hour, with the doors and windows of the senses shut, and without any communication with external things. The matter before us may be any of the strange and perplexing relations of man's mysterious being; or it may be some obscure circumstance of our own fate--some period of uncertainty and expectation--some of those Egyptian darknesses which from time to time come over the future, and which we gaze on half in terror, half in hope, discovering nothing, yet speculating still. The latter was the case at that moment with Edith Croyland; and, as she revolved every separate point of her situation, it seemed as if fresh wells of thought sprung up to flow on interminably.
She had continued thus during more than half an hour after her uncle's departure, when she heard a horse stop before the door of the house, and her heart beat, though she knew not wherefore. Her lover might have come at length, indeed; but if that dream crossed her mind it was soon swept away; for the next instant she heard her father's voice, first inquiring for herself, and then asking, in a lower tone, if his brother was within. If Edith had felt hope before, she now felt apprehension; for during several years no private conversation had taken place between her father and herself without bringing with it grief and anxiety, harsh words spoken, and answers painful for a child to give.
It seldom happens that fear does not go beyond reality; but such was not the case in the present instance; for Edith Croyland had to undergo far more than she expected. Her father entered the room where she sat, with a slow step and a stern and determined look. His face was very pale, too; his lips themselves seemed bloodless, and the terrible emotions which were in his heart showed themselves upon his countenance by many an intelligible but indescribable sign. As soon as Edith saw him, she thought, "He has heard of Henry's return to this country. It is that which has brought him;" and she nerved her heart for a new struggle; but still she could scarcely prevent her limbs from shaking, as she rose and advanced to meet her parent.
Sir Robert Croyland drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly enough; for, in truth, he loved her very dearly: and then he led her back to the sofa, and seated himself beside her.
"How low these abominable contrivances are," he said; "I do wish that Zachary would have some sofas that people can sit upon with comfort, instead of these beastly things, only fit for a Turkish harem, or a dog-kennel."
Edith made no reply; for she waited in dread of what was to follow, and could not speak of trifles. But her father presently went on, saying, "So, my brother is out, and not likely to return for an hour or two!--Well, I am glad of it, Edith; for I came over to speak with you on matters of much moment."
Still Edith was silent; for she durst not trust her voice with any reply. She feared that her courage would give way at the first words, and that she should burst into tears, when she felt sure that all the resolution she could command, would be required to bear her safely through. She trusted, indeed, that, as she had often found before, her spirit would rise with the occasion, and that she should find powers of resistance within her in the time of need, though she shrank from the contemplation of what was to come.
"I have delayed long, Edith," continued Sir Robert Croyland, after a pause, "to press you upon a subject in regard to which it is now absolutely necessary you should come to a decision;--too long, indeed; but I have been actuated by a regard for your feelings, and you owe me something for my forbearance. There can now, however, be no further delay. You will easily understand, that I mean your marriage with Richard Radford."
Edith raised her eyes to her father's face, and, after a strong effort, replied, "My decision, my dear father, has, as you know, been long made. I cannot, and I will not, marry him--nothing on earth shall ever induce me!"
"Do not say that, Edith," answered Sir Robert Croyland, with a bitter smile; "for I could utter words, which, if I know you rightly, would make you glad and eager to give him your hand, even though you broke your heart in so doing. But before I speak those things which will plant a wound in your bosom for life, that nothing can heal or assuage, I will try every other means. I request you--I intreat you--I command you, to marry him! By every duty that you owe me--by all the affection that a child ought to feel for a father, I beseech you to do so, if you would save me from destruction and despair!"
"I cannot! I cannot!" said Edith, clasping her hands. "Oh! why should you drive me to such painful disobedience? In the first place, can I promise to love a man that I hate, to honour and obey one whom I despise, and whose commands can never be for good? But still more, my father,--you must hear me out, for you force me to speak--you force me to tear open old wounds, to go back to times long past, and to recur to things bitter to you and to me. I cannot marry him, as I told you once before; for I hold myself to be the wife of another."
"Folly and nonsense!" cried Sir Robert Croyland, angrily, "you are neither his wife, nor he your husband. What! the wife of a man who has never sought you for years--who has cast you off, abandoned you, made no inquiry for you?--The marriage was a farce. You read a ceremony which you had no right to read, you took vows which you had no power to take. The law of the land pronounces all such engagements mere pieces of empty foolery!"
"But the law of God," replied Edith, "tells us to keep vows that we have once made. To those vows, I called God to witness with a true and sincere heart; and with the same heart, and the same feelings, I will keep them! I did wrong, my father--I know I did wrong--and Henry did wrong too; but by what we have done we must abide; and I dare not, I cannot be the wife of another."
"But, I tell you, you shall!" exclaimed her father, vehemently. "I will compel you to be so; I will over-rule this obstinate folly, and make you obedient, whether you choose it or not."
"Nay, nay--not so!" cried Edith. "You could not do, you would not attempt, so cruel a thing!"
"I will, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed Sir Robert Croyland.
"Then, thank Heaven," answered his daughter, in a low but solemn voice, "it is impossible! In this country, there is no clergyman who would perform the ceremony contrary to my expressed dissent. If I break the vows that I have taken, it must be my own voluntary act; for there is not any force that can compel me so to do; and I call Heaven to witness, that, even if you were to drag me to the altar, I would say, No, to the last!"
"Rash, mad, unfeeling girl!" cried her father, starting up, and gazing upon her with a look in which rage, and disappointment, and perplexity were all mingled.
He stood before her for a moment in silence, and then strode vehemently backwards and forwards in the room, with his right hand contracting and expanding, as if grasping at something. "It must be done!" he said, at length, pressing his hand upon his brow; "it must be done!" and then he recommenced his silent walk, with the shadows of many emotions coming over his countenance.
When he returned to Edith's side again, the manner and the aspect of Sir Robert Croyland were both changed. There was an expression of deep sorrow upon his countenance, of much agitation, but considerable tenderness; and, to his daughter's surprise, he took her hand in his, and pressed it affectionately.
"Edith," he said, after a short interval of silence, "I have commanded, I have insisted, I have threatened--but all in vain. Yet, in so doing, I have had in view to spare you even greater pain than could be occasioned by a father's sternness. My very love for you, my child, made me seem wanting in love. But now I must inflict the greater pain. You require, it seems, inducements stronger than obedience to a father's earnest commands, and you shall have them, however terrible for me to speak and you to hear. I will tell you all, and leave you to judge."
Edith gazed at him in surprise and terror. "Oh, do not--do not, sir!" she said; "do not try to break my heart, and put my duty to you in opposition to the fulfilment of a most sacred vow--in opposition to all the dictates of my own heart and my own conscience."
"Edith, it must be done," replied Sir Robert Croyland. "I have urged you to a marriage with young Richard Radford. I now tell you solemnly that your father's life depends upon it."
Edith clasped her hands wildly together, and gazed, for a moment, in his face, without a word, almost stupified with horror. But Sir Robert Croyland had deceived her, or attempted to deceive her, on the very same subject they were now discussing, more than once already. She knew it; and of course she doubted; for those who have been once false are never fully believed--those who have been once deceived are always suspicious of those who have deceived them, even when they speak the truth. As thought and reflection came back after the first shock, Edith found much cause to doubt: she could not see how such a thing was possible--how her refusal of Richard Radford could affect her father's life; and she replied, after a time, in a hesitating tone, "How can that be?--I do not understand it.--I do not see how----"
"I will tell you," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a low and peculiarly-quiet voice, which had something fearful in it to his daughter's ear. "It is a long story, Edith; but you must hear it all, my child. You shall be your father's confidant--his only one. You shall share the secret, dreadful as it is, which has embittered his whole existence, rendered his days terrible, his nights sleepless, his bed a couch of fire."
Edith trembled in every limb; and Sir Robert, rising, crossed over and opened the door of the drawing-room, to see that there were none of the servants near it. Then closing it again, he returned to her side, and proceeded, holding her hand in his: "You must have remarked," he said, "and perhaps often wondered, my dear child, that Mr. Radford, a man greatly below myself in station, whose manners are repulsive and disagreeable, whose practices I condemn and reprobate, whose notions and principles I abhor, has exercised over me for many years an influence which no other person possesses, that he has induced me to do many things which my better sense and better feelings disapproved, that he has even led me to consent that my best-loved daughter should become the wife of his son, and to urge her to be so at the expense of all her feelings. You have seen all this, Edith, and wondered. Is it not so?"
"I have, indeed," murmured Edith. "I have been by no means able to account for it."
"Such will not be the case much longer, Edith," replied Sir Robert Croyland. "I am making my confession, my dear child; and you shall hear all. I must recur, too, to the story of young Leyton. You know well that I liked and esteemed him; and although I was offended, as I justly might be, at his conduct towards yourself, and thought fit to show that I disapproved, yet at first, and from the first, I determined, if I saw the attachment continue and prove real and sincere, to sacrifice all feelings of pride, and all considerations of fortune, and when you were of a fit age, to confirm the idle ceremony which had passed between you, by a real and lawful marriage."
"Oh, that was kind and generous of you, my dear father. What could make you change so suddenly and fatally? You must have seen that the attachment was true and lasting; you must have known that Henry was in every way calculated to make your daughter happy."
"You shall hear, Edith--you shall hear," replied her father. "Very shortly after the event of which I have spoken, another occurred, of a dark and terrible character, only known to myself and one other. I was somewhat irritable at that time. My views and prospects with regard to yourself were crossed; and although I had taken the resolution I have mentioned, vexation and disappointment had their effect upon my mind. Always passionate, I gave way more to my passion than I had ever done before; and the result was a fatal and terrible one. You may remember poor Clare, the gamekeeper. He had offended me on the Monday morning; and I had used violent and angry language towards him before his companions, threatening to punish him in a way he did not expect. On the following day, we went out again to shoot--he and I alone together--and, on our way back, we passed through a little wood, which lies----"
"Oh, stop--stop!" cried Edith, covering her eyes with her hands. "Do not tell me any more!"
Her father was not displeased to see her emotion, for it answered his purpose. Yet, it must not be supposed that the peculiar tone and manner which he assumed, so different from anything that had been seen in his demeanour for years, was affected as a means to an end. Such was not the case. Sir Robert Croyland was now true, in manner and in words, though it was the first time that he had been entirely so for many years. There had been a terrible struggle before he could make up his mind to speak; but yet, when he did begin, it was a relief to him, to unburthen the overloaded breast, even to his own child. It softened him; it made his heart expand; it took the chain off long-imprisoned feelings, and gave a better spirit room to make its presence felt. He did not forget his object, indeed. To save himself from a death of horror, from accusation, from disgrace, was still his end; but the means by which he proposed to seek it were gentler. He even wavered in his resolution: he fancied that he could summon fortitude to leave the decision to Edith herself, and that if that decision were against him, would dare and bear the worst. But still he was pleased to see her moved; for he thought that she could never hear the whole tale, and learn his situation fully, without rushing forward to extricate him; and he went on--"Nay, Edith, now the statement has been begun, it must be concluded," he said. "You would hear, and you must hear all. You know the wood I speak of, I dare say--a little to the left of Chequer Tree?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Edith, "where poor Clare was found."
The baronet nodded his head: "It was there, indeed," he said. "We went down to see if there were any snipes, or wild fowl, in the bottom. It is a deep and gloomy-looking dell, with a pond of water and some rushes in the hollow, and a little brook running through it, having tall trees all around, and no road but one narrow path crossing it. As we came down, I thought I saw the form of a man move amongst the trees; and I fancied that some one was poaching there. I told Clare to go round the pond and see, while I watched the road. He did not seem inclined to go, saying, that he had not remarked anybody, but that the people round about said the place was haunted. I had been angry with him the whole morning, and a good deal out of humour with many things; so I told him to go round instantly, and not make me any answer. The man did so, in a somewhat slow and sullen humour, I thought, and returned sooner than I fancied he ought to do, saying that he could see no trace of any one. I was now very angry, for I fancied he neglected his duty. I told him that he was a liar, that I had perceived some one, whom he might have perceived as well, and that my firm belief was, he was in alliance with the poachers, and deserved to be immediately discharged. 'Well, Sir Robert,' he said, 'in regard to discharging me, that is soon settled. I will not stay another day in your service, after I have a legal right to go. As to being a liar, I am none; and as to being in league with the poachers, if you say so, you yourself lie!' Such were his words, or words to that effect. I got furious at his insolence, though perhaps, Edith--perhaps I provoked it myself--at least, I have thought so since. However, madly giving way to rage, I took my gun by the barrel to knock him down. A struggle ensued; for he caught hold of the weapon in my hand; and how I know not, but the gun went off, and Clare fell back upon the turf. What would I not have done then, to recal every hasty word I had spoken! But it was in vain. I stooped over him; I spoke to him; I told him how sorry I was for what had happened. But he made no answer, and pressed his hand upon his right side, where the charge had entered. I was mad with despair and remorse. I knew not where to go, or what to do. The man was evidently dying; for his face had grown pale and sharp; and after trying to make him speak, and beseeching him to answer one word, I set off running as fast as I could towards the nearest village for assistance. As I was going, I saw a man on horseback, riding sharply down towards the very place. He was at some distance from me; but I easily recognised Mr. Radford, and knew that he must pass by the spot where the wounded man lay. I comforted myself with thinking that Clare would get aid without my committing myself; and I crept in amongst the trees at the edge of the wood, to make sure that Mr. Radford saw him, and to watch their proceedings. Quietly and stealthily finding my way through the bushes, I came near; and then I saw that Radford was kneeling by Clare's side with an inkhorn in his hand, which, with his old tradesmanlike-habits, he used always at that time to carry about him. He was writing busily, and I could hear Clare speak, but could not distinguish what he said. The state of my mind, at that moment, I cannot describe. It was more like madness than any thing else. Vain and foolish is it, for any man or any body of men, to argue what would be their conduct in trying situations which they have never been placed in. It is worse than folly for them to say, what would naturally be another man's conduct in any circumstances; for no man can tell another's character, or understand fully all the fine shades of feeling or emotion that may influence him. The tale I am telling you now, Edith, is true--too true, in all respects. I was very wrong, certainly; but I was not guilty of the man's murder. I never intended to fire: I never tried to fire; and yet, perhaps, I acted, afterwards, as if I had been guilty, or at all events in a way that was well calculated to make people believe I was so. But I was mad at the time--mad with agitation and grief--and every man, I believe, in moments of deep emotion is mad, more or less. However, I crept out of the wood again, and hastened on, determined to leave the man to the care of Mr. Radford, but with all my thoughts wild and confused, and no definite line of conduct laid out for myself. Before I had gone a mile, I began to think what a folly I had committed, that I should have joined Radford at once; that I should have been present to hear what the man said, and to give every assistance in my power, although it might be ineffectual, in order to stanch the blood and save his life. As soon as these reflections arose, I determined, though late, to do what I should have done at first; and, turning my steps, I walked back at a quick pace. Ere I got half way to the top of the hill which looks down upon the wood, I saw Radford coming out again on horseback; but I went on, and met him. As soon as he beheld me he checked his horse, which was going at a rapid rate, and when I came near, dismounted to speak with me. We were then little more than common acquaintances, and I had sometimes dealt hardly with him in his different transactions; but he spoke in a friendly tone, saying, 'This is a sad business, Sir Robert; but if you will take my advice you will go home as quickly as you can, and say nothing to any one till you see me. I will be with you in an hour or so. At present I must ride up to Middle Quarter, and get down men to carry home the body.' With a feeling I cannot express, I asked, if he were dead, then. He nodded his head significantly, and when I was going to put further questions, he grasped my hand, saying, 'Go home, Sir Robert--go home. I shall say nothing about the matter to any one, till I see you, except that I found him dying in the wood. His gun was discharged,' he continued, 'so there is no proof that he did not do it himself!' Little did I know what a fiend he was, into whose power I was putting myself."
"Oh, Heaven!" cried Edith, who had been listening with her head bent down till her whole face was nearly concealed, "I see it all, now! I see it all!"
"No, dear child," replied Sir Robert Croyland, in a voice sad and solemn, but wonderfully calm, "you cannot see it all; no, nor one thousandth part of what I have suffered. Even the next dreadful three hours--for he was fully that time ere he came to Harbourne--were full of horror, inconceivable to any one but to him who endured them. At length, he made his appearance; calm, grave, self-possessed, with nought of his somewhat rude and blustering manner, and announced, with an affectation of feeling to the family, that poor Clare, my keeper, had been found dying with a wound in his side."
"I recollect the day, well!" said Edith, shuddering.
"Do you not remember, then," said Sir Robert Croyland, "that he and I went into my writing-room--that awful room, which well deserves the old prison name of the room of torture! We were closeted there for nearly two hours; and all he said I cannot repeat. His tone, however, was the most friendly in the world. He professed the greatest interest in me and in my situation; and he told me that he had come to see me before he said a word to any one, because he wished to take my opinion as to how he was to proceed. It was necessary, he said, that I should know the facts, for, unfortunately they placed me in a very dangerous situation, which he was most anxious to free me from; and then he went on to tell me, that when he had come up, poor Clare was perfectly sensible, and had his speech distinctly. 'As a magistrate,' he continued, 'I thought it right immediately to take his dying deposition, for I saw that he had not many minutes to live. Here it is,' he said, showing his pocket-book; 'and, as I luckily always have pen and ink with me, I knelt down, and wrote his words from his own lips. He had strength enough to sign the paper; and, as you may see, there is the mark of blood from his own hand, which he had been pressing on his side.' I would fain have taken the paper, but he would not let me, saying, that he was bound to keep it; and then he went on, and read the contents. In it, the unfortunate man charged me most wrongfully with having shot him in a fit of passion; and, moreover, he said that he had been sure, beforehand, that I would do it, as I had threatened him on the preceding day, and there were plenty of people who could prove it."
"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Edith.
"It was false, as I have a soul to be saved!" cried Sir Robert Croyland. "But Mr. Radford then went on, and, shrugging his shoulders, said, that he was placed in a very delicate and painful situation, and that he did not really know how to act with regard to the deposition. 'Put it in the fire!' I exclaimed--'put it in the fire!' But he said, 'No; every man must consider himself in these things, Sir Robert. I have my own character and reputation to think of--my own duty. I risk a great deal, you must recollect, by concealing a thing of this kind. I do not know that I don't put my own life in danger; for this is clear and conclusive evidence against you, and you know, what it is to be accessory in a case of murder!' I then told him my own story, Edith; and he said, that made some difference, indeed. He was sure I would tell him the truth; but yet he must consider himself in the matter; and he added hints which I could not mistake, that his evidence was to be bought off. I offered anything he pleased to name, and the result was such as you may guess. He exacted that I should mortgage my estate, as far as it could be mortgaged, and make over the proceeds to him, and that I should promise to give your hand to his son. I promised anything, my child; for not only life and death, but honour or disgrace, were in the balance. If he had asked my life, I would have held my throat to the knife a thousand times sooner than have made such sacrifices. But to die the death of a felon, Edith--to be hanged--to writhe in the face of a grinning and execrating multitude--to have my name handed down in the annals of crime, as the man who had been executed for the murder of his own servant,--I could not bear that, my child; and I promised anything! He kept the paper, he said, as a security; and, at first, it was to be given to me, to do with it as I liked--when the money coming from the mortgage was secretly made over to him; but then, he said, that he had lost one great hold, and must keep it till the marriage was completed: for by this time the coroner's inquest was over, and he had withheld the deposition, merely testifying that he had found the man at the point of death in the wood, and had gone as fast as possible for assistance. The jury consisted of his tenants and mine, and they were easily satisfied; but the fiend who had me in his power was more greedy; and, by the very exercise of his influence, he seemed to learn to enjoy it. Day after day, month after month, he took a pleasure in making me do things that were abhorrent to me. It changed my nature and my character. He forced me to wink at frauds that I detested; and every year he pressed for the completion of your marriage with his son. Your coldness, your dislike, your refusal would, long ere this, have driven him into fury, I believe, if Richard Radford had been eager for your hand himself. But now, Edith--now, my child, he will hear of no more delay. He is ruined in fortune, disappointed in his expectations, and rendered fierce as a hungry beast by some events that have taken place this morning. He has just now been over at Harbourne, and used threats which I know, too well, he will execute. He it was, himself, who told me to inform you, that if you did not consent, your father's life would be the sacrifice!"