Frank Fairlegh

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"Ah! yes," she replied, in a half-absent manner, "I knew they were too
happy to last;" then seeing, from the flush of joy which I felt rise to
my brow, though I would have given worlds to repress it, that I had put
a wrong construction on her words, or, as my heart would fain have me
believe, that she had unconsciously admitted more than she intended,
she added hastily, "What I mean to say is, that the perfect freedom from
restraint, and the entire liberty to--to follow one's own pursuits, are
pleasures to which I am so little accustomed, that I have enjoyed them
more than I was perhaps aware of while they lasted".

"You are out of spirits this evening. I hope nothing has occurred to
annoy you?" inquired I.

"Do you believe in presentiments?" was the rejoinder.

"I cannot say I do," returned I; "I take them to be little else than the
creations of our own morbid fancies, and attribute them in great measure
to physical causes."

"But why do they come true, then?" she inquired. "I must answer your
question by another," I replied, "and ask whether, except now and then
by accident, they do come true?"

"I think so," returned Miss Saville, "at least I can only judge as one
usually does, more or less, in every case, by one's own experience,--my
presentiments always appear to come true; would it were not so! for they
are generally of a gloomy nature."

"Even yet," replied I, "I doubt whether you do not ~276~~ unconsciously
deceive yourself, and I think I can tell you the reason; you remember
the times when your presentiments have come to pass, because you
considered such coincidences remarkable, and they made a strong
impression on your mind, while you forget the innumerable gloomy
forebodings which have never been fulfilled, the accomplishment being
the thing which fixes itself on your memory--is not this the case?"

"It may be so," she answered, "and yet I know not--even now there is
a weight here," and she pressed her hand to her brow as she spoke, "a
vague, dull feeling of dread, a sensation of coming evil, which tells
me some misfortune is at hand, some crisis of my fate approaching. I
daresay you consider all this very silly and romantic, Mr. Fairlegh; but
if you knew how everything I have most feared, most sought to avoid,
has invariably been forced upon me, you would make allowance for me--you
would pity me."

What answer I should have made to this appeal, had not Fate interposed
in the person of old Mr. Coleman (who seated himself on the other side
of Miss Saville, and began talking about the state of the roads), it is
impossible to say. As it was my only reply was by a glance, which, if
it failed to convince her that I pitied her with a depth and intensity
which approached alarmingly near the kindred emotion, love, must have
been singularly inexpressive. And the evening came to an end, as all
evenings, however long, are sure to do at last; and in due course I went
to bed, but not to sleep, for Clara Saville and her forebodings ran riot
in my brain, and effectually banished the "soft restorer," till such
time as that early egotist the cock began singing his own praises to his
numerous wives, when I fell into a doze, with a strong idea that I had
got a presentiment myself, though of what nature, or when the event
(if event it was) was likely to "come off," I had not the most distant
notion.

The post-bag arrived while we were at breakfast the next morning; and
it so happened that I was the only one of the party for whom it did not
contain a letter. Having nothing, therefore, to occupy my attention, and
being seated exactly opposite Clara Saville, I could scarcely fail to
observe the effect produced by one which Mr. Coleman had handed to her.
When her eye first fell on the writing she gave a slight start, and a
flush (I could not decide whether of pleasure or anger) mounted to her
brow. As she perused the contents she grew deadly pale, and I feared
she was about to faint: recovering herself, ~277~~ however, by a strong
effort, she read steadily to the end, quietly refolded the letter, and,
placing it in a pocket in her dress, apparently resumed her breakfast--I
say apparently, for I noticed that, although she busied herself with
what was on her plate, it remained untasted, and she took the earliest
opportunity, as soon as the meal was concluded, of leaving the room.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me till after lunch, old fellow,"
said Coleman, "you see we're so dreadfully busy just now with this
confounded suit I went down to Bury about--'Bowler _versus_ Stumps';
but if you can amuse yourself till two o'clock we'll go and have a jolly
good walk to shake up an appetite for dinner."

"The very thing," replied I; "I have a letter to Harry Oaklands which
has been on the stocks for the last four days, and which I particularly
wish to finish, and then I'm your man, for a ten-mile trot if you like
it."

"So be it, then," said Freddy, leaving the room as he spoke.

As soon as he was gone, instead of fetching my half-written epistle I
flung myself into an arm-chair, and devoted myself to the profitable
employment of conjecturing the possible cause of Clara Saville's strange
agitation on receiving that letter. Who could it be from?--perhaps
her guardian;--but if so, why should she have given a start of
surprise?--nothing could have been more natural or probable than that he
should write and say when she might expect him home--she could not have
felt surprise at the sight of his handwriting--but if not from him, from
whom could it come? She had told me that she had no near relations, no
intimate friend. A lover perchance--well, and if it were so, what was
that to me?--nothing--oh yes! decidedly nothing--a favoured lover of
course, else why the emotion?--was this also nothing?--yes, I said
it was, and I tried to think so too: yet, viewing the matter so
philosophically, it was rather inconsistent to spring from my seat as if
an adder had stung me, and begin striding up and down the room as though
I were walking for a wager. In the course of my rapid promenade, my
coat-tail brushed against and nearly knocked down an inkstand, to which
incident I was indebted for the recollection of my unfinished letter
to Oaklands, and, my own thoughts being at that moment no over-pleasant
companions, I was glad of any excuse to get rid of them. On looking
about for my writing-case, however, I remembered that, when last I made
use of it, we were sitting in the boudoir, and that there it had ~278~~
probably remained ever since; accordingly, without further waste of
time, I ran upstairs to look for it.

As good Mrs. Coleman (although she most indignantly repelled the
accusation) was sometimes accustomed to indulge her propensity for
napping even in a morning, I opened the door of the boudoir, and closed
it again after me as noiselessly as possible. My precautions, however,
did not seem to have been necessary, for at first sight the room
appeared untenanted; but as I turned to look for my writing-case a
stifled sob met my ear, and a closer inspection enabled me to perceive
the form of Clara Saville, with her face buried in the cushions,
half-sitting, half-reclining on the sofa, while so silently had I
effected my entrance that as yet she was not aware of my approach. My
first impulse was to withdraw and leave her undisturbed, but unluckily
a slight noise which I made in endeavouring to do so attracted her
attention, and she started up in alarm, regarding me with a wild,
half-frightened gaze, as if she scarcely recognised me.

"I beg your pardon," I began hastily, "I am afraid I have disturbed
you--I came to fetch--that is to look for--my--" and here I stopped
short, for to my surprise and consternation Miss Saville, after making
a strong but ineffectual effort to regain her composure, sank back upon
the sofa, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a violent
flood of tears. I can scarcely conceive a situation more painful, or
in which it would be more difficult to know how to act, than the one
in which I now found myself. The sight of a woman's tears must always
produce a powerful effect upon a man of any feeling, leading him to wish
to comfort and assist her to the utmost of his ability; but, if the fair
weeper be one in whose welfare you take the deepest interest, and yet
with whom you are not on terms of sufficient intimacy to entitle you
to offer the consolation your heart would dictate, the position becomes
doubly embarrassing. For my part, so overcome was I by a perfect chaos
of emotions, that I remained for some moments like one thunder-stricken,
while she continued to sob as though her heart were breaking. At length
I could stand it no longer, and scarcely knowing what I was going to
say or do, I placed myself on the sofa beside her, and taking one of her
hands, which now hung listlessly down, in my own, I exclaimed:--

"Miss Saville--Clara--dear Clara! I cannot bear to see you so unhappy,
it makes me miserable to look at you--tell me, what can I do to
help you--to comfort you--something must be possible--you have
no brother--let ~279~~ me be one to you--tell me why you are so
wretched--and oh! do not cry so bitterly!"

When I first addressed her she started slightly, and attempted to
withdraw her hand, but as I proceeded she allowed it to remain quietly
in mine, and though she still continued to weep, her tears fell more
softly, and she no longer sobbed in such a distressing manner. Glad to
find that I had in some measure succeeded in calming her, I renewed my
attempts at consolation, and again implored her to tell me the cause of
her unhappiness. Still for some moments she was unable to speak, but at
length making an effort to recover herself she withdrew her hand, and
stroking back her glossy hair, which had fallen over her forehead,
said:--

"This is very weak--very foolish. I do not often give way in this
manner, but it came upon me so suddenly--so unexpectedly; and now, Mr.
Fairlegh, pray leave me; I shall ever feel grateful to you for your
sympathy, for your offers of assistance, and for all the trouble you
have kindly taken about such a strange, wayward girl, as I am sure you
must consider me," she added, with a faint smile.

"So you will not allow me to be of use to you," returned I sorrowfully,
"you do not think me worthy of your confidence."

"Indeed it is not so," she replied earnestly; "there is no one of whose
judgment I think more highly; no one of whose assistance I would more
gladly avail myself; on whose honour I would more willingly rely; but
it is utterly impossible to help me. Indeed," she added, seeing me still
look incredulous, "I am telling you what I believe to be the exact and
simple truth."

"Will you promise me that, if at any time you should find that I could
be of use to you, you will apply to me as you would to a brother,
trusting me sufficiently to believe that I shall not act hastily, or
in any way which could in the slightest degree compromise or annoy you?
Will you promise me this?"

"I will," she replied, raising her eyes to my face for an instant with
that sweet, trustful expression which I had before noticed, "though I
suppose such prudent people as Mr. Coleman," she added with a slight
smile, "would consider me to blame for so doing; and were I like other
girls--had I a mother's affection to watch over me--a father's care to
shield me, they might be right; but situated as I am, having none to
care for me--nothing to rely on save my own weak heart and unassisted
judgment--while those who should guide and protect me ~280~~ appear only
too ready to avail themselves of my helplessness and inexperience--I
cannot afford to lose so true a friend, or believe it to be my duty to
reject your disinterested kindness."

A pause ensued, during which I arrived at two conclusions--first, that
my kindness was not altogether so disinterested as she imagined; and
secondly, that if I sat where I was much longer, and she continued to
talk about there being nobody who cared for her, I should inevitably
feel myself called upon to undeceive her, and, as a necessary
consequence, implore her to accept my heart and share my patrimony--the
latter, deducting my sister's allowance and my mother's jointure,
amounting to the imposing sum of L90 14s. 6d. per annum, which,
although sufficient to furnish a bachelor with bread and cheese and
broad-cloth, was not exactly calculated to afford an income for
"persons about to marry". Accordingly, putting a strong force upon
my inclinations, and by a desperate effort screwing my virtue to the
sticking point, I made a pretty speech, clenching, and thanking her for
her promise of applying to me to help her out of the first hopelessly
inextricable dilemma in which she might find herself involved, and rose
with the full intention of leaving the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI -- THE RIDDLE SOLVED

"Think'st thou there's virtue in constrained vows,
Half utter'd, soulless, falter'd forth in fear?
And if there is, then truth and grace are nought."
_Sheridan Knowles_.

"For The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
It is no contract--none."
_Shakspeare_.

"Who hath not felt that breath in the air,
A perfume and freshness strange and rare,
A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,
When young hearts yearn together?
All sweets below, and all sunny above,
Oh! there's nothing in life like making Love,
Save making hay in fine weather!
_Hood_.

UPON what trifles do the most important events of our lives turn! Had
I quitted the room according to my intention, I should not have had
an opportunity of seeing Miss Saville alone again (as she returned to
Barstone ~281~~ that afternoon), in which case she would probably have
forgotten, or felt afraid to avail herself of my promised assistance,
all communication between us would have ceased, and the deep interest I
felt in her, having nothing wherewith to sustain itself, would, as years
passed by, have died a natural death.

Good resolutions are, however, proverbially fragile, and, in nine
cases out of ten, appear made, like children's toys, only to be broken.
Certain it is, that in the present instance mine were rendered of none
avail, and, for any good effect that they produced, might as well never
have been formed.

As I got up to leave the room Miss Saville rose likewise, and in doing
so accidentally dropped a, or rather the, letter, which I picked up,
and was about to return to her, when suddenly my eye fell upon the
direction, and I started as I recognised the writing--a second glance
served to convince me that I had not been mistaken, for the hand was a
very peculiar one; and, turning to my astonished companion, I exclaimed,
"Clara, as you would avoid a life of misery, tell me by what right this
man dares to address you!"

[Illustration: page281 The Discovery]

"What! do you know him, then?" she inquired anxiously.

"If he be the man I mean," was my answer, "I know him but too well,
and he is the only human being I both dislike and despise. Was not that
letter written by Richard Cumberland?"

"Yes, that is his hateful name," she replied, shuddering while she
spoke, as at the aspect of some loathsome thing; then, suddenly changing
her tone to one of the most passionate entreaty, she clasped her hands,
and advancing a step towards me, exclaimed:--

"Oh! Mr. Fairlegh, only save me from _him_, and I will bless you,
will pray for you!" and completely overcome by her emotion, she sank
backwards, and would have fallen had not I prevented it.

There is a peculiar state of feeling which a man sometimes experiences
when he has bravely resisted some hydra-headed temptation to do anything
"pleasant but wrong," yet which circumstances appear determined to force
upon him: he struggles against it boldly at first; but, as each
victory serves only to lessen his own strength, while that of the enemy
continues unimpaired, he begins to tell himself that it is useless to
contend longer--that the monster is too strong for him, and he yields at
last, from a mixed feeling of fatalism and irritation--a sort of ~282~~
"have-it-your-own-way-then" frame of mind, which seeks to relieve itself
from all responsibility by throwing the burden on things in general--the
weakness of human nature--the force of circumstances--or any other
indefinite and conventional scapegoat, which may serve his purpose of
self-exculpation.

In much such a condition did I now find myself; I felt that I was
regularly conquered--completely taken by storm--and that nothing was
left for me but to yield to my destiny with the best grace I could. I
therefore seated myself by Miss Saville on the sofa, and whispered, "You
must promise me one thing more, Clara, dearest--say that you will
love me--give me but that right to watch over you--to protect you, and
believe me neither Cumberland, nor any other villain, shall dare for the
future to molest you".

As she made no answer, but remained with her eyes fixed on the ground,
while the tears stole slowly down her cheeks, I continued--"You own that
you are unhappy--that you have none to love you--none on whom you can
rely;--do not then reject the tender, the devoted affection of one who
would live but to protect you from the slightest breath of sorrow--would
gladly die, if, by so doing, he could secure your happiness".

"Oh! hush, hush!" she replied, starting, as if for the first time aware
of the tenor of my words; "you know not what you ask; or even you, kind,
noble, generous as you are, would not seek to link your fate with one
so utterly wretched, so marked out for misfortune as myself. Stay,"
she continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "hear me out. Richard
Cumberland, the man whom you despise, and whom I hate only less than
I fear, that man have I promised to marry, and, ere this, he is on his
road hither to claim the fulfilment of the engagement."

"Promised to marry Cumberland!" repeated I mechanically, "a low,
dissipated swindler--a common cheat, for I can call him nothing better;
oh, it's impossible!--why, Mr. Vernor, your guardian, would never permit
it."

"My _guardian_!" she replied, in a tone of the most cutting irony: "were
it not for him this engagement would never have been formed; were it
not for him I should even now hope to find some means of prevailing upon
this man to relinquish it, and set me free. Richard Cumberland is Mr.
Vernor's nephew, and the dearest wish of his heart is to see us united."

"He never shall see it while I live to prevent it!" ~283~~ replied I,
springing to my feet, and pacing the room with angry strides.

"Oh, it was all plain to me now! when I had fancied her guardian's
features were not unfamiliar to me, it was his likeness to Cumberland
which had deceived me; his rudeness on the night of the ball; the
strange dislike he appeared to feel towards me;--all was now accounted
for. His opinion of me, formed from Cumberland's report, was not likely
to be a very favourable one; and this precious uncle and nephew were
linked in a scheme to destroy the happiness of the sweetest girl living,
the brightness of whose young spirit was already darkened by the shade
of their vile machinations: but they had not as yet succeeded; and if
the most strenuous and unceasing exertions on my part could serve to
prevent it, I inwardly vowed they never should. Let Master Richard
Cumberland look to himself; I had foiled him once, and it would go hard
with me but I would do so again."

Having half thought, half uttered the foregoing resolutions, I once more
turned towards Miss Saville, who sat watching me with looks of interest
and surprise, and said: "This is a most strange and unexpected affair;
but remember, dear Clara, you have appealed to me to save you from
Cumberland, and, to enable me to do so, you must tell me exactly how
matters stand between you, and, above all, how and why you were induced
to enter into this engagement, for I hope--I think--I am right in
supposing--that affection for him had nothing to do with it".

"Affection!" she replied, in a tone of voice which, if any doubts still
lingered in my mind, effectually dispelled them; "have I not already
said that I hate this man as, I fear, it is sinful to hate any human
being? I disliked and dreaded him when we were boy and girl together,
and these feelings have gone on increasing year by year, till my
aversion to him has become one of the most deeply-rooted instincts of my
nature."

"And yet you allowed yourself to be engaged to him?" inquired I. "How
could this have been brought about?"

"You may well ask," was the reply; "it was folly; it was weakness; but
I was very young--a mere child in fact; and they made me believe that it
was my duty; then I hoped, I felt sure that I should die before the time
arrived to fulfil the engagement; I fancied it was impossible to be so
miserable, and yet to live: but Death is very cruel--he will not come to
those who pine for him."

~284~~ "Clara," interrupted I, "I cannot bear to hear you say such
things; it is not right to give way to these feelings of despair."

"Is it wrong for the unhappy to wish to die?" she asked, with a calm
child-like simplicity which was most touching. "I suppose it is," she
continued, "for I have prayed for death so often, that God would have
granted my prayer if it had been a right one. When I closed my eyes last
night, oh! how I hoped--how I longed--never to open them again in this
miserable world--for I felt that evil was at hand: you laughed at my
presentiment: it has come true, you see."

"Believe me, you do wrong in giving way to these despairing thoughts--in
encouraging these morbid fancies," returned I. "But time presses; will
you not tell me the particulars of this unhappy engagement, that I may
see how far you stand committed to this scoundrel Cumberland, and decide
what is best to be done for the future?"

"It is a long story," she replied; "but I will tell it you as shortly as
I can."

She then proceeded to inform me, that her mother having died when she
was an infant, she had become the idol of her surviving parent, who,
inconsolable for the loss of his wife, lavished all his tenderness upon
his little girl. She described her childhood as the happiest part of
her life, although it must have been happiness of a tranquil nature,
differing greatly from the boisterous merriment of children in general;
its chief ingredient being the strong affection which existed between
her father and herself. The only guest who ever appeared at the Priory
(which I now for the first time learned had been the property of Sir
Henry Saville) was his early friend, Mr. Vernor, who used periodically
to visit them, an event to which she always looked forward with
pleasure, not so much on account of the presents and caresses he
bestowed on herself, as that his society appeared to amuse and interest
her father. On one of these occasions, when she was about nine years of
age, Mr. Vernor was accompanied by a lad some years older than herself,
whom he introduced as his nephew. During his visit, the boy, who
appeared gifted with tact and cunning beyond his years, contrived so
much to ingratiate himself with Sir Henry Saville, that before he left
the Priory, his host, who had himself served with distinction in the
Peninsula, expressed his readiness to send him, on attaining a fit age,
to one of the military colleges, promising to use his interest at
the Horse Guards to procure a commission for him. These ~285~~ kind
intentions, however, were fated not to be carried out. An old wound
which Sir Henry had received at Vimiera broke out afresh, occasioning
the rupture of a vessel on the lungs, and in the course of a few hours
Clara was left fatherless. On examining the private papers of the
deceased, it appeared that Mr. Vernor was constituted sole executor,
trustee for the property, and guardian to the young lady. In these
various capacities he immediately took up his residence at Barstone, and
assumed the direction of everything. And now for the first time did his
true character appear--sullen and morose in temper, stern and inflexible
in disposition, cold and reserved in manner, implacable when offended,
requiring implicit obedience to his commands; he seemed calculated to
inspire fear instead of love, aversion rather than esteem. The only
sign of feeling he ever showed was in his behaviour towards Richard
Cumberland, for whom he evidently entertained a strong affection. The
idea of a military career having been abandoned at Sir Henry Saville's
death, much of his time was now spent at the Priory. Although he was
apparently fond of his little companion, and endeavoured on every
occasion to render himself agreeable to her, all his habitual cunning
could not conceal from her his vile temper, or the unscrupulous means of
which he was always willing to avail himself in order to attain his own
ends. He had been away from the Priory on one occasion more than a
year, when he suddenly returned with his uncle, who had been in town on
business. He appeared sullen and uncomfortable, and she imagined that
they must have had a quarrel. She was at that time nearly fifteen, and
the marked devotion which Cumberland (who during his absence had greatly
improved both in manner and appearance) now paid her, flattered and
pleased her; and, partly for this reason, partly because she had already
learned to dread his outbreaks of temper, and was unwilling to do
anything which might provoke one of them, she allowed him to continue
his attentions unrepulsed. This went on for some weeks, and her old
dislike was beginning to return as she saw more of her companion, when
one morning Mr. Vernor called her into his study, and informed her
that he considered she had arrived at an age when it was right that
she should become aware of the arrangements he had made for her, in
accordance with the wishes of her late father. He then showed her a
letter in Sir Henry Saville's handwriting, dated only a few weeks before
his death, part of which was to the following effect; "You urge ~286~~
the fact of your nephew's residing with you as an objection to my
scheme for your living at Barstone, and assuming the guardianship of my
daughter, in the event (which, if I may trust my own sensations, is not
very far distant) of her being left an orphan. From what I have seen of
the boy, as well as on the score of our old friendship, my dear Vemor,
that which you view as an objection, I consider but an additional reason
why the arrangement should take place. A marriage with your nephew
would ensure my child (who as my sole heiress will be possessed of
considerable wealth) from that worst of all fates, falling a prey
to some needy fortune-hunter; and, should such a union ever be
contemplated, let me beg of you to remember, and to impress upon
Clara herself, that had I lived it would have met with my warmest
approbation."