Frank Fairlegh

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[Illustration: page338 Lovers Leap]

Unlooked for happiness! Fanny is saved, and Harry Oaklands is her
preserver!

My first act on joining them was to spring from my horse and lift Fanny
out of the saddle. "Are you really unhurt, my own darling?" exclaimed I;
"can you stand without assistance?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, "it was only the fright--that dreadful
river--but--" and raising her eyes timidly she advanced a step towards
Oaklands.

"But you would fain thank Harry for saving you. My dear Harry,"
continued I, taking his hand and pressing it warmly, "if you only knew
the agony of mind I have suffered on her account, you would be able to
form some slight idea of the amount of gratitude I feel towards you for
having rescued her. I shudder to think what might have been the end had
you not so providentially interposed; but you do not listen to me--you
turn as pale as ashes--are you ill?"

"It is nothing--a little faint, or so," was his reply, in a voice
so weak as to be scarcely audible; and as he spoke, his head dropped
heavily on his shoulder, and he would have fallen from his horse had not
I caught him in my arms and supported him.

~339~~ Giving the horses into the custody of a farming lad (who had
seen the leap, and run up, fearing some accident had occurred), I lifted
Oaklands from the saddle, and laying him on the turf by the roadside,
supported his head against my knee, while I endeavoured to loosen
his neckcloth. Neither its removal, however, nor the unfastening his
shirt-collar, appeared to revive him in the slightest degree, and being
quite unaccustomed to seizures of this nature, I began to feel a good
deal frightened about him. I suppose my face in some degree betrayed
my thoughts, as Fanny, after glancing at me for a moment, exclaimed,
wringing her hands in the excess of her grief and alarm, "Oh! he is
dead--he is dead; and it is I who have killed him!" Then, flinging
herself on her knees by his side, and taking his hand between both her
own, she continued, "Oh, Harry, look up--speak to me--only one word;--he
does not hear me--he will never speak again! Oh! he is dead!--he is
dead! and it is I who have murdered him--I, who would gladly have died
for him, as he has died for me." As she said this, her voice failed
her, and, completely overcome by the idea that she had been the cause of
Harry's death, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

At this moment it occurred to me that water might possibly revive him,
and rousing Fanny from the passion of grief into which she had fallen, I
made her take my place in supporting Oaklands' head, and running to the
stream, which was not above fifty yards from the spot, filled my
hat with water, sprinkled his face and brow with it, and had the
satisfaction of seeing him gradually revive under the application.

As consciousness returned, he gazed around with a bewildered look, and
passing his hand across his forehead, inquired, "What is all this? where
am I? Ah! Frank, have I been ill?"

"You fainted from over-exertion, Harry," replied I, "but all will be
well now."

"From over-exertion?" he repeated, slowly, as if striving to recall what
had passed; "stay, yes, I remember, I took a foolish leap; why did I do
it?"

"To stop Fanny's mare."

"Yes, to be sure, the water was out at the brook, and I thought the mare
might attempt to cross it; but is Fanny safe? Where is she?"

"She is here," replied I, turning towards the place where she still
knelt, her face hidden in her hands. "She is here to thank you for
having saved her life."

~340~~ "Why, Fanny, was it you who were supporting my head? how very
kind of you! What! crying?" he continued, gently attempting to withdraw
her hands; "nay, nay, we must not have you cry."

"She was naturally a good deal frightened by the mare's running away,"
replied I, as Fanny still appeared too much overcome to speak for
herself; "and then she was silly enough to fancy, when you fainted, that
you were actually dead, I believe; but I can assure you that she is not
ungrateful."

"No, indeed," murmured Fanny, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion.

"Why, it was no very great feat after all," rejoined Harry. "On such a
jumper as the Cid, and coming down on soft marshy ground too, 1 would
not mind the leap any day; besides, do you think I was going to remain
quietly there, and see Fanny drowned before my eyes? if it had been
a precipice, I would have gone over it." While he spoke, Harry had
regained his feet; and, after walking up and down for a minute or so,
and giving himself a shake, to see if he was all right, he declared
that he felt quite strong again, and able to ride home. And so, having
devised a leading-rein for Rose Alba, one end of which I kept in my
own possession, we remounted our horses, and reached Heathfield without
further misadventure.

CHAPTER XLIII -- A CHARADE--NOT ALL ACTING

"And then, and much it helped his chance--
He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance--
Perform charades, and proverbs of France."
--_Hood_.

"I have often heard this and that and t'other pain mentioned
as the worst that mortals can endure--such as the toothache,
earache, headache, cramp in the calf of the leg, a boil, or
a blister--now, I protest, though I have tried all these,
nothing seems to me to come up to a _pretty sharp fit of
jealousy_."
--_Thinks I to Myself_.

LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been
placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere
that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at
first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to
confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he
was really sorry for it, ~341~~ nothing remained but to forgive and
forget it. And so everything fell into its old train once more, and the
next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a
note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was
much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still
absent, and Mr. Vernor so constantly occupied that she saw very little
of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request
in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although
feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I felt bound
to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that
Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality,
had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom
were to stay at the Hall for a few days; amongst others Freddy Coleman,
who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for
charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the
arrangement of these saturnalia of civilised society, or, as he himself
expressed it, he was "up to all the dodges connected with the minor
domestic enigmatical melodrama". By Harry's recommendation I despatched
a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at
Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his doing so immediately,
that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz.,
Oak-lands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's
arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to
decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses,
and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realising a few of
the very strong and original, but somewhat vague, ideas, which everybody
appeared to have conceived on the subject.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," began Freddy, who had been unanimously
elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole
affair, "in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all
those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold
up their hands."

Lawless, Coleman, and I were the first who made the required signal, and
next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman
had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the
number.

"Harry, you'll act, will you not?" asked I.

"Not if you can contrive to do without me," was the ~342~~ reply. "I did
it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to
have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one
has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory
always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way
that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable."

"Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at
home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless?" returned Coleman, with
a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs
twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort
with the most delightful unconsciousness.

"Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty," rejoined Lawless; "what are
you laughing at?--my legs? They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if
they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to
business, I want to know what I'm to do?"

"The first thing is to find out a good word," returned Coleman.

"What do you say to Matchlock?" inquired I. "You might as well have
Blunderbuss while you are about it," was the reply. "No, both words are
dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original, if
possible."

"Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what do you say to
Steeplechase?" suggested Lawless.

"Original, certainly," returned Freddy; "but there might be difficulties
in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?"

"Eh? never thought of that," rejoined Lawless; "I really don't know,
unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like
one."

"Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused," replied Harry,
smiling. "I've got an idea!" exclaimed I. "No, you don't say so? you
are joking," remarked Freddy in a tone of affected surprise. "Stay a
minute," continued I, musing. "Certainly, as long as you and Sir John
like to keep me," rejoined Coleman politely.

"Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy," added I, and, drawing him on
one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which,
after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was
graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader
will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present ~343~~ to add, that
Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being
necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the
character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say
obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to
the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.

For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one continual scene of
bustle and confusion. Carpenters were at work converting the library
into an _extempore_ theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily
occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing
up and down the billiard-room, reciting his part, which had been
remodelled to suit him, and the acquisition of which appeared a labour
analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of
his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a
state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something--nobody
exactly knew what; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was
wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up-
and down-stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so
terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a
bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching
beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of
conduct which reduced the head-carpenter to the borders of insanity.

On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr.
Frampton made his appearance in a high state of preservation, shook my
mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood,
and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme
astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual
soliloquy, "Just like me!") did not tend to diminish. A large party was
invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the
guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that
the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in
readiness to appear when called upon.

The entertainments began with certain _tableaux-vivants_, in which both
Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the
assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and
be looked at--an occupation which even he could not consider very hard
work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the
curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of
_Kenilworth_; the ~344~~ magnificent dress setting off his noble figure
to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier
and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various _tableaux_
were in turn presented, and passed off with much _eclat_, and then
there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening,
commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having
coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have
performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she
would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors
success, and came in front to join the spectators.

After about ten minutes of breathless expectation the curtain drew up
and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn; and here I shall
adopt the play-wright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their
own tale:--

Scene I.

Enter Susan Cowslip, the Barmaid (Fanny) and John Shortoats, the Ostler
(Lawless).

John. Well Susan, girl, what sort of a morning hast thee had of it?
how's master's gout to-day?

Susan. Very bad, John, very bad indeed; he has not got a leg to stand
upon; and as to his shoe, try everything we can think of, we can't get
him to put his foot in it.

[Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if lie doesn't, for he's
not half up in his part, I know.]

John. Can't thee, really? well, if that be the case, I needn't ask how
his temper is?

Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor
thing!

John, Indeed she has, and she be too young and pretty to be used in
that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she be
uncommon pretty, to be sure; I only knows one prettier face in the whole
village.

Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that
be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones?

John. No, it ain't either of them.

Susan. Who is it then?

John. Well, if thee must needs know, the party's name is Susan.

Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is
there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! ~345~~ one of Darling the
blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!

John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan, darling,
certainly; yes, thee be'st about right there--Susan, darling.

Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A
foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery;
a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed--charming!

John. Now, don't thee go and fluster thyself about nothing, it ain't
that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a-making fun of thee.

[Illustration: page345 A Charade Not All Acting]

Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wouldn't keep teasing of me so; I
don't care anything about it--I dare say I've never seen her.

John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to thee--come along.
(Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the
Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day. Hasn't she got a
pretty face? and isn't she a darling? (Susan looks at him for a minute,
and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice
calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!)

Susan. Coming, sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.)

John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!--John
Ostler, I say!) Coming, sir; yes, sir. Sir, indeed--an old brute; but
now, Susan, what do'st thee say? wilt thee have me for a husband? (Takes
her hand.)

(Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter Mr. Frampton,
dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a
sling.)

Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come
when you're called--eh?

Susan. Oh, sir! John was just coming, sir; and so was I, sir, if you
please.

Landlord. You, indeed--ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in
corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending
to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is
all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and
I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put
that in, I wonder? just like me--umph.') There's my wife, too--pretty
hostess she makes.

John. So she does, master, sure-ly.

Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool--what do you know about it? (Bell
rings.) There, do you hear that? run ~346~~ and see who that is, or
I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of
servants--oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan
and John before him. Curtain falls.)

As the first scene ended the audience applauded loudly, and then began
hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what
they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest,
Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an undertone, what I
thought of Lawless's acting. "I was agreeably surprised," returned I, "I
had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have
acted with so much spirit."

"He did it _con amore_, certainly," replied Oaklands with bitterness;
"I considered his manner impertinent in the highest degree, I wonder you
can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her--I
feel sure of it--he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing
altogether--I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such
annoyance."

"Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would
be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him,"
rejoined I.

"Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you," replied
Oaklands with a scornful laugh; and, turning away abruptly, he crossed
the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing
with a degree of recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him.
While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered

Scene II.--Best room in the inn.

Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (Coleman), dressed as
a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves,
staring-patterned trousers, sporting-coat, etc.

Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, sir. Hyacinth (fixing
his glass in his eye, and scrutinising the apartment). This is the
settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen--can't mean that, I
imagine--provincial idiom, pwobably--aw--ya'as--I dare say I shall
be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary--ar--let me have
dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady.

Susan. Yes, sir. What would you please to like, sir?

~347~~ Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem!
pwetty gal--ar--like, my dear, like?--(vewy pwetty gal!)

Susan. Beg pardon, sir, what did you say you would like?

Hyacinth. Chickens tender here, my dear?

Susan. Very tender, sir.

Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear?

Susan. Susan, if you please, sir.

Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed--(aside, Gal's worth
cultivating--I'll do a little bit of fascination). Ahem! Chickens,
Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and
attempts to take lier hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against
Hyacinth, apparently by accident.)

Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh?

John. Beg parding, sir, I was a-looking for you, sir. (Places himself
between Susan and Hyacinth.)

Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar?

John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, sir, and I was a wishin' to know
when you would like him fed. (Makes signs to Susan to leave the room.)

Hyacinth. Fed?--aw!--directly to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.)
Ar--don't you go.

John. No, sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, sir?

Hyacinth (aside, Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of
mignonette). Ar--you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his
dinnaar.

John. Werry good, sir; and how about hay, sir?

Hyacinth (aside, What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself
off). Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession.

John. Werry well, sir; couldn't do a better thing, sir. How about his
clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes
out laughing.)

Hyacinth. Yaas! You can keep a cloth on--ar--and--that will do. (Waves
his hand towards the door.)

John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, sir?

Hyacinth. Ar--I leave all these points to my gwoom--ar--would you go?

John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-brushing his mane?

Hyacinth (angrily). Ar--weally I--ar--will you go?

John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off.

~348~~ Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar--leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes,
sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I
should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir.
(Goes out grinning.)

Hyacinth. Howwid fellar--I thought I should never get wid of him--it's
evident he's jealous--ar, good idea--I'll give him something to be
jealous about. I'll wing the bell and finish captivating Susan. (Rings.
Re-enter John.) John. Want me, sir? Here I am, sir--fed the horse, sir.

Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar--go away,
fellar, and tell the young woman to answaar that bell. (John leaves the
room, muttering, If I do I'm blessed. Hyacinth struts up to the glass,
arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt-collar, and rings again. Re-enter
Susan.) Hyacinth. Pway, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan
(colouring). No, sir--a--yes, sir--I can't tell, sir.

Hyacinth. No, sir--yes, sir--ar--I see how it is--the idea has occurred
to you--it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, sir--it's John,
sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well--ar--perhaps I don't exactly please.
Now, listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich
(aside, Wish I was)--lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort
of thing. I only want a wife, and--a-hem--captivated by your beauty, I'm
wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La!
sir, you're joking.

Hyacinth. Ar--I never joke--ar--of course you consent! Susan. To marry
you, sir? Hyacinth. Ar--yes--to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John?
Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice.

Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love; deceive a poor
lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to
take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants?
No, sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you.

Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good
style; but now, having welievedyour feelings, you may as well do a
little bit of nature, and own that, womanlike, you have changed your
mind.

Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. ~349~~ (Aside. A
dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in
with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed
with astonishment.']

Scene III.--Front of inn.

Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's
carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great
plague to everybody, and it's one's duty to be resigned--he's been dead
more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to
Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house--ah! it was
very pleasant--we was so comfortable. Now, if in a year or two mistress
was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy
it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as
the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though--for last
Monday--no, last Saturday--that is, the Saturday before last, John went
for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody
at home but me and the cat--I can't think what ailed him before he went
away, he seemed to avoid me like; and when he bid me goodbye, he told me
if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would
not be jealous--what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said
it to tease me. I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is
coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan, and exit.]
Well, that is curious--it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark.
Why, bless me, it's in John's handwriting--he can't be at Broadstairs,
surely--I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) "My dear
Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, I thort i should not ave time to go hall the
way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor
Mrs., who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being
dead, which is human natur cut down like grass, Seusan, and not having a
creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel
friend, Seusan--and--do not think me guilty of hincon-stancy, which I
never felt, but the long and short of it is that we was married "(the
wretch!)" yesterday, and is comin' home to-morrow, where I hopes to
remian very faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs.