Frank Fairlegh

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Having shown her this letter, Mr. Vemor went on to say that he had
noticed with pleasure Richard's growing attachment, and the marked
encouragement she had given him, and that, although they were too young
to think of marrying for some years, and, as a general principle, he
was averse to long engagements, yet, under the peculiar circumstances in
which they were placed, he had yielded to his nephew's importunity, and
determined not only to lay his offer before her, but to allow her to
accept it at once, if (as from her manner he could scarcely be mistaken
in supposing) her inclinations were in accordance with his.

Taken completely by surprise at this announcement, overpowered by
the idea that by the encouragement she had given Cumberland she had
irretrievably committed herself--strongly affected by her father's
letter--having no one to advise her, what wonder that the persuasions
of the nephew, backed by the authority of the uncle, prevailed over
her youth and inexperience, and that the matter ended in her allowing
herself to be formally engaged to Richard Cumberland.

Little more remained for her to tell; reckoning that he had gained his
point, Cumberland became less careful in concealing the evil of his
disposition, and her dislike to him and fear of him increased every
day. At length this became evident to Mr. Vemor, but it appeared only
to render him still more determined to bring about the match; and when
once, nearly a twelvemonth before, she had implored him to allow her to
break off the engagement, he had exhibited so much violence, declaring
that he possessed the power of rendering her a beggar, and even
threatening to turn her out of doors, that she had never dared to recur
to the ~287~~subject. For many months, however, she had seen nothing
of her persecutor, and she had almost begun to hope that something had
rendered him averse to the match, when all her fears were again aroused
by a hint which Mr. Vemor had thrown out as he took leave of her at
Mrs. Coleman's, desiring her to exercise great circumspection in her
behaviour, and to recollect that she was under a solemn engagement,
which she might before long be called upon to fulfil. The letter from
Cumberland, she added, spoke of his immediate return to claim her hand,
and a few lines from Mr. Vemor ordered her to await their arrival at
Barstone.

"And now," she continued, looking up with that calm hopeless smile which
was so painful to behold, "have I not cause to be unhappy, and was I not
right in telling you that no one could be of any assistance to me, or
afford me help?"

"No!" replied I warmly; "I trust and believe that much may be done--nay,
everything; but you are unequal to contend with these men alone; only
allow me to hope that my affection is not utterly distasteful to you.
Would you but give me that right to interfere in your behalf!"

"This is ungenerous--unlike yourself," she interrupted. "Have you
already forgotten that I am the promised bride of Richard Cumberland?
Were I free, indeed----"

"Oh! why do you pause?" exclaimed I passionately. "Clara, hear
me--you deem it ungenerous in me to urge my suit upon you at this
moment--perhaps think that I would take advantage of the difficulties
which surround you, to induce you to promise me your hand as the price
of my assistance. It is true that I love you deeply, devotedly, and the
happiness of my whole life is centred in the hope of one day calling
you my own; but I would use my utmost endeavours to save you from
Cumberland, even though I knew that by so doing I forfeited all chance
of ever seeing you again. Tell me, would you wish this to be so--am I to
believe that you dislike me?"

As she made no reply, merely blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes,
I ventured to continue: "Clara, dearest Clara, do you then love me?"

Well, reader, I think I've told you quite as much about it as you have
any business to know. Of course she did not say she loved me--women
never do upon such occasions; but I was just as well contented as it
was. Mendelssohn has composed songs without words (_Lieder ohne Worte_),
which tell their own tale very prettily, and there have been many
eloquent speeches made on a like silent system. ~288~~ Suffice it to
add, that the next ten minutes formed such a nice, bright, sunshiny
little piece of existence as might deserve to be cut out of the book
of time, and framed, glazed, and hung up for the inspection of all true
lovers; whilst no match-making mamma, fortune-hunting younger brother,
or girl of business on the look-out for a good establishment, should be
allowed a glimpse of it at any price.

CHAPTER XXXVII -- THE FORLORN HOPE

"--Cumberland seeks thy hand;
His shall it be--nay, no reply;
Hence till those rebel eyes be dry."
_The Lord of the Isles_.

FREDDY COLEMAN was cheated of his walk that afternoon; for an old maiden
lady in the neighbourhood, having read in a Sunday paper that the plague
was raging with great fury at Constantinople, thought it as well to be
prepared for the worst, and summoned Mr. Coleman to receive directions
about making her will--and he, being particularly engaged, sent Freddy
in his stead, who set out on the mission in a state of comic ill-humour,
which bid fair to render Mrs. Aikinside's will a very original document
indeed, and foreboded for that good old lady herself an unprecedented
and distracting afternoon.

I had assisted Mr. Coleman in conducting Clara Saville to the carriage
which arrived to convey her to Barstone, and had received a kind glance
and a slight pressure of the hand in return, which I would not have
exchanged for the smiles of an empress, when, anxious to be alone with
my own thoughts, I started off for a solitary walk, nor did I relax my
pace till I had left all traces of human habitation far behind me,
and green fields and leafless hedges were my only companions. I then
endeavoured in some measure to collect my scattered thoughts, and to
reflect calmly on the position in which I had placed myself, by the
avowal the unexpected events of the morning had hurried me into. But so
much was I excited, that calm reflection appeared next to impossible.
Feeling--flushed with the victory it had obtained over its old
antagonist, Reason--seemed, in every sense of the word, to have gained
the day, and, despite all the ~289~~ difficulties that lay before
me--difficulties which I knew must appear all but insurmountable,
whenever I should venture to look them steadily in the face--the one
idea that Clara Saville loved me was ever present with me, and rendered
me supremely happy.

The condition of loving another better than one's self, conventionally
termed being "in love," is, to say the least, a very doubtful kind of
happiness; and poets have therefore, with great propriety, described
it as "pleasing pain," "delicious misery," and in many other terms of
a like contradictory character; nor is it possible that this should
be otherwise: love is a passion, wayward and impetuous in its very
nature--agitating and disquieting in its effects, rendering its votary
the slave of circumstances--a mere shuttlecock alternating between the
extremes of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, confidence and mistrust--a
thing which a smile can exalt to the highest pinnacle of delight, or
a frown strike down to the depths of despair. But in the consciousness
that we are beloved, there is none of this questionable excitement; on
the contrary, we experience a sensation of deep calm joy, as we
reflect that in the true affection thus bestowed on us we have gained
a possession which the cares and struggles of life are powerless to
injure, and which death itself, though it may interrupt for awhile,
will fail to destroy. These thoughts, or something like them, having
entrenched themselves in the stronghold of my imagination, for some time
held their ground gallantly against the attacks of common sense; but at
length, repulsed on every point, they deemed it advisable to capitulate,
or (to drop metaphor, a style of writing I particularly abominate,
perhaps because I never more than half understand what it means) in
plain English, I, with a sort of grimace, such as one makes before
swallowing a dose of physic, set myself seriously to work to reflect
upon my present position, and decide on the best line of conduct to be
pursued for the future.

Before our conference came to an end, I had made Clara acquainted
with my knowledge of Cumberland's former delinquencies, as well as the
reputation in which he was now held by such of his associates as had
any pretension to the title of gentlemen, and added my conviction, that,
when once these facts were placed before Mr. Vernor, he must see that
he could not, consistently with his duty as guardian, allow his ward to
marry a man of such character. Cumberland had no doubt contrived to keep
his uncle in ignorance of his mode of life, ~290~~ and it would only be
necessary to enlighten him on that point to ensure his consent to her
breaking off the engagement. Clara appeared less sanguine of success,
even hinting at the possibility of Mr. Vernor's being as well informed
in regard to his nephew's real character as we were; adding, that his
mind was too firmly set on the match for him to give it up lightly. It
was finally agreed between us, that she was to let me know how affairs
went on after Mr. Vernor's return, and, in the meantime, I was to give
the matter my serious consideration, and decide on the best course
for us to follow. The only person in the establishment whom she could
thoroughly trust was the extraordinary old footman (the subject of
Lawless's little bit of diplomacy), who had served under her father in
the Peninsula, and accompanied him home in the character of confidential
servant. He had consequently known Clara from a child, and was
strongly-attached to her, so that she had learned to regard him more
in the light of a friend than a servant. Through this somewhat original
substitute for a confidant, we arranged to communicate with each other.

As to my own line of conduct, I very soon decided on that. I would
only await a communication from Clara to assure me that Mr. Vernor's
determination with regard to her remained unchanged, ere I would seek
an interview with him, enlighten him as to Cumberland's true character,
acquaint him with Clara's aversion to the match, and induce him to allow
of its being broken off. I should then tell him of my own affection for
her, and of my intention of coming forward to demand her hand, as soon
as, by my professional exertions, I should have realised a sufficient
independence to enable me to marry. As to Clara's fortune, if fortune
she had, she might build a church, endow an hospital, or buy herself
bonnet ribbons with it, as she pleased, for not a farthing of it would
I ever touch on any consideration. No one should be able to say, that it
was for the sake of her money I sought to win her.

Well, all this was very simple, straightforward work;--where, then, were
the difficulties which had alarmed me so greatly? Let me see--Mr. Vernor
might choose to fancy that it would take some years to add to the
L90 14s. 6Ld. sufficiently to enable me to support a wife, and might
disapprove of his ward's engaging herself to me on that account. What if
he did? I wished for no engagement--let her remain free as air--her own
true affection would stand my friend, and on that I could rely, ~291~~
content, if it failed me, to--to--well, it did not signify what I might
do in an emergency which never could arise. No! only let him promise not
to force her inclinations--to give up his monstrous project of wedding
her to Cumberland--and to leave her free to bestow her hand on whom she
would--and I should be perfectly satisfied. But suppose, as Clara
seemed to fear, he should refuse to break off the engagement with his
nephew--suppose he should forbid mo the house, and, taking advantage
of my absence, use his authority to force on this hateful marriage! All
that would be extremely disagreeable, and I could not say I exactly saw,
at the moment, what means I should be able to employ, effectually to
prevent it. Still it was only a remote contingency--an old man like him,
with one foot, as you might say, in the grave (he could not have been
above sixty, and his constitution, like everything else about him,
appeared of cast-iron), must have some conscience, must pay some little
regard to right and wrong: it would only be necessary to open his eyes
to the enormity of wedding beauty and innocence such as Clara's to
a scoundrel like Cumberland--aman destitute of every honourable
feeling--oh! he must see that the thing was impossible, and, as the
thought passed through my mind, I longed for the moment when I should be
confronted with him, and able to tell him so.

And Clara, too! sweet, bewitching, unhappy Clara! what must not she have
gone through, ere a mind, naturally buoyant and elastic as hers, could
have been crushed into a state of such utter dejection, such calm,
spiritless despair! her only wish, to die--her only hope, to find in the
grave a place "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest!" But brighter days were in store for her--it should be my
ambition to render her married life so happy, that, if possible, the
recollection of all she had suffered having passed away, her mind should
recover its natural tone, and even her lightness of heart, which the
chill atmosphere of unkindness for a time had blighted, should revive
again in the warm sunshine of affection.

Thus meditating, I arrived at Elm Lodge in a state of feeling containing
about equal parts of the intensely poetical and the very decidedly
hungry.

On the second morning after the events I have described, a note was
brought to me whilst I was dressing. With trembling fingers I tore open
the envelope, and read as follows:--

"I promised to inform you of what occurred on my ~292~~ return here, and
I must therefore do so, though what I have to communicate will only give
you pain. All that my fears pointed at has come to pass, and my
doom appears irrevocably sealed. Late on the evening of my return to
Barstone, Mr. Vernor and his nephew arrived. I shall never forget the
feeling of agony that shot through my brain, as Richard Cumberland's
footstep sounded in the hall, knowing, as I too well did, the purpose
with which he was come. I fancied grief had in great measure deadened my
feelings, but that moment served to undeceive me--the mixture of horror,
aversion, and fear, combined with a sense of utter helplessness and
desolation, seemed, as it were, to paralyse me.

"But I know not why I am writing all this. The evening passed off
without anything particular taking place. Mr. Cumberland's manner
towards me was regulated by the most consummate tact and cunning,
allowing the deep interest he pretends to feel in me to appear in every
look and action, yet never going far enough to afford me an excuse for
repulsing him. This morning, however, I have had an interview with Mr.
Vernor, in which I stated my repugnance to the marriage as strongly as
possible. He was fearfully irritated, and, at length, on my repeating
my refusal, plainly told me that it was useless for me to resist his
will--that I was in his power, and, if I continued obstinate, I must be
made to feel it. Oh! that man's anger is terrible to witness: it is not
that he is so violent--he never seems to lose his self-control--but says
the most cutting things in a tone of calm, sarcastic bitterness, which
lends double force to all he utters. I feel that it is useless for us
to contend against fate: you cannot help me, and would only embroil
yourself with these men were you to attempt to do so. I shall ever look
back upon the few days we spent together as a bright spot in the dark
void of my life--that life which you preserved at the risk of your own.
Alas! you little knew the cruel nature of the gift you were bestowing.
And now, farewell for ever! That you may find all the happiness your
kindness and generosity deserve, is the earnest prayer of one, whom, for
her sake, as well as your own, you must strive to forget."

"If I do forget her," exclaimed I, as I pressed the note to my lips,
"may I----Well, never mind, I'll go over and have it out with that old
brute this very morning, and we'll see if he can frighten me." And so
saying, I set to work to finish dressing, in a great state of virtuous
indignation. ~293~~ "Freddy," inquired I, when breakfast was at length
concluded, "where can I get a horse?"

"Get a horse?" was the reply. "Oh! there are a great many places--it
depends upon what kind of horse you want: for race-horses,
steeple-chasers, and hunters, I would recommend Tattersall's; for hacks
or machiners, there's Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane; while Dixon's,
in the Barbican, is the place to pick up a fine young carthorse--is it a
young cart-horse you want?"

"My dear fellow, don't worry me," returned I, feeling very cross,
and trying to look amiable; "you know what I mean; is there anything
rideable to be hired in Hilling-ford? I have a call to make which is
beyond a walk."

"Let me see," replied Freddy, musing; "you wouldn't like a very little
pony, with only one eye and a rat-tail, I suppose--it might look absurd
with your long legs, I'm afraid--or else Mrs. Meek, the undertaker's
widow, has got a very quiet one that poor Meek used to ride--a child
could manage it:--there's the butcher's fat mare, but she won't stir a
step without the basket on her back, and it would be so troublesome
for you to carry that all the way. Tomkins, the sweep, has got a little
horse he'd let you have, I daresay, but it always comes off black on
one's trousers: and the miller's cob is just as bad the other way with
the flour. I know a donkey--"

"So do I," was the answer, as, laughing in spite of myself, I turned to
leave the room.

"Here, stop a minute!" cried Freddy, following me, "you are so
dreadfully impetuous; there's nothing morally wrong in being acquainted
with a donkey, is there? 1 assure you I did not mean anything personal;
and now for a word of sense. Bumpus, at the Green Man, has got a
tremendous horse, which nearly frightened me into fits the only time I
ever mounted him, so that it will just suit you; nobody but a _green_
man, or a knight-errant, which I consider much the same sort of thing,
would patronise such an animal--still, he's the only one I know of."

Coleman's tremendous horse, which proved to be a tall, pig-headed,
hard-mouthed brute, with a very decided will of his own, condescended,
after sundry skirmishes and one pitched battle, occasioned by his
positive refusal to pass a windmill, to go the road I wished, and about
an hour's ride brought me to the gate of Barstone Park. So completely
had I been hurried on by feeling in every stage of the affair, and so
entirely had all minor considerations given way to the paramount object
of ~294~~ securing Clara's happiness, with which, as I now felt, my
own was indissolubly linked, that it was not until my eye rested on
the cold, grey stone of Barstone Priory, and wandered over the straight
walks and formal lawns of the garden, that I became fully aware of the
extremely awkward and embarrassing nature of the interview I was about
to seek. To force myself into the presence of a man more than double
my own age, and, from all I had seen or heard of him, one of the last
people in the world to take a liberty with, for the purpose of informing
hint that his nephew, the only creature on earth that he was supposed to
love, was a low swindler, the associate of gamblers and blacklegs, did
not appear a line of conduct exactly calculated to induce him, at my
request, to give up a scheme on which he had set his heart, or to look
with a favourable eye on my pretensions to the hand of his ward. Still,
there was no help for it; the happiness of her I loved was at stake,
and, had it been to face a fiend instead of a man, I should not have
hesitated.

My meditations were here interrupted by a cock-pheasant, which, alarmed
at my approach, rose immediately under my horse's nose; an unexpected
incident which caused that brute to shy violently, and turn short round,
thereby nearly unseating me. Having by this manoeuvre got his head
towards home, he not only refused to turn back again, but showed very
unmistakable symptoms of a desire to run away. Fortunately, however,
since the days of "Mad Bess," my arms had grown considerably stronger,
and, by dint of pulling and sawing the creature's apology for a mouth
with the bit, I was enabled to frustrate his benevolent intentions, and
even succeeded in turning him round again; but here my power ceased--for
in the direction of the Priory by no possibility could I induce him to
move a step. I whipped and spurred, but in vain; the only result was a
series of kicks and plunges, accompanied by a retrograde movement and
a shake of the head, as if he were saying, No! I next attempted the
soothing system, and lavished sundry caresses and endearing expressions
upon him, of which he was utterly undeserving; but my attentions were
quite thrown away, and might as well, for any good they produced, have
been bestowed upon a rocking-horse. At length, after a final struggle,
in which we were both within an ace of falling into a water-course which
crossed the park in that direction, I gave the matter up as hopeless;
and with a sigh (for I love not to be foiled in anything I have
attempted, and, moreover, I could not help looking upon it as an unlucky
omen) dismounted, ~285~~ and leading my rebellious steed by the rein,
advanced on foot towards the house. As I did so a figure abruptly turned
the corner of a shrubbery walk, which ran at right angles to the road,
and I found myself face to face with Richard Cumberland!

For a moment he remained staring at me as if he scarcely recognised me,
or was unwilling to trust the evidence of his senses, so confounded was
he at my unexpected apparition; but as I met his gaze with a cold, stern
look, he seemed to doubt no longer and advancing a step towards me
said, in a tone of ironical politeness:--"Is it possible that I have the
pleasure of seeing Mr. Fairlegh?"

"None other, Mr. Cumberland," returned I, "though I could hardly
have flattered myself that my appearance would have recalled any very
pleasurable associations, considering the last two occasions on which we
met."

"Ah! you refer to that unfortunate affair with Wilford," replied
Cumberland, purposely misunderstanding my allusion to Dr. Mildman's. "I
had hoped to have been able to prevent the mischief which occurred,
but I was misinformed as to the time of the meeting--I trust our friend
Oaklands feels no ill effects from his wound."

"Mr. Oaklands, I am sorry to say, recovers but slowly; the wound was a
very severe one," returned I coldly. "Well, I will not detain you any
longer, it is a lovely morning for a ride," resumed Cumberland; "can I
be of any assistance in directing you? the lanes in this neighbourhood
are somewhat intricate--you are not perhaps aware that the road you are
now following is a private one." "Scarcely so private that those who
have business with Mr. Vernor may not make use of it, I presume,"
rejoined I. "Oh! of course not," was the reply--"I did not know that you
were acquainted with my uncle; though now I come to think of it, I do
recollect his saying that he had met you somewhere. He seldom receives
visitors in the morning;--in fact, when I came out, I left him
particularly engaged. Perhaps I can save you the trouble of going up to
the house; is there any message I can deliver for you?" "I thank you,"
replied I, "but I do not think the business which has brought me here
could be well transacted through a third person; at all events, I will
take my chance of being admitted:"--I paused, but could not refrain from
adding, "besides, if my memory fails not, you were a somewhat heedless
messenger in days of yore."

This allusion to his embezzlement of Oaklands' letter stung him to the
quick: he turned as white as ashes, and ~296~~ asked, in a voice that
trembled with passion, "Whether I meant to insult him?"

"I spoke heedlessly, and without deliberate intention," I replied; "but
perhaps it is only fair to tell you that for the future there can be
no friendly communication between us; we must either avoid each other
altogether, which would be the most desirable arrangement, or meet as
strangers. The disgraceful conduct of the boy I could have forgiven and
forgotten, had not its memory been revived by the evil deeds of the man.
Richard Cumberland, I know you thoroughly; it is needless for me to add
more."

As I spoke his cheek flushed, then grew pale again with shame and anger,
while he bit his under lip so severely that a red line remained where
his teeth had pressed it. When I concluded, he advanced towards me with
a threatening gesture, but, unable to meet the steadfast look with which
I confronted him, he turned abruptly on his heel, and muttering, "You
shall repent this," disappeared among the shrubs.