Frank Fairlegh

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"Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but
I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her." "And
Frank?"

"Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think
he said he was going to the Hall--he wanted to find some book in the
library, I fancy--I wonder you did not meet him."

"I have not been at home since the morning; my father carried me off to
look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will
not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back.
Good--good-morning!"

So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room.
Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came
across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood
irresolutely for a ~372~~ moment, with the handle in his hand, and
then returned, saying in a low voice, "No, I cannot do it!--Fanny," he
continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, "I am
going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for
life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world
no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother
and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye--without
expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself
you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so
well deserve."

"Going abroad?" repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this
unexpected intelligence.

"Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am
always alarmingly hasty in my movements," he added, with a faint attempt
at a smile.

"It must be on account of your health," exclaimed Fanny quickly. "Ah!"
she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her,
"the fearful leap you took to save me--the exertion was too much for
you; I knew--I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had
I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your
valuable life."

"Indeed, it is not so, Fanny," replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking
her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was
evident she could scarcely stand; "I am regaining strength daily, and
Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best
thing for me."

"Is that really all?" inquired Fanny; "but why then go so suddenly?
Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John."

"I cannot stay here," replied Harry impetuously, "it would madden me."
The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to
perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself,
he added quickly, "You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an
invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago
I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get
away from it--"

He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for
which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, "But
I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or
disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day
has opened before you. You must allow me," he ~373~~ continued, in a
calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must
have been extreme--"you must allow me the privilege of an old friend,
and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank
and station which will one day be yours--rank which you are so well
fitted to adorn--may bring you all the happiness you imagine."

"Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr.
Oaklands?" replied Fanny, colouring crimson. "I may have been premature
in my congratulations," replied he; "I would not distress or annoy you
for the world; but under the circumstances--this being probably the only
opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always
feel in everything that relates to your happiness--I may surely be
excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this."

"You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands,"
rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; "pray
let this subject be dropped."

"You trifle with me," replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly
deserting him, "and you know not the depth of the feelings you are
sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced
bride of George Lawless?"

As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression
which must have pierced him to the very soul--it was not an expression
of anger--it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which
wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible,
was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The
former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself
up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to
her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them
capable, she replied, "Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy
to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so;
therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering
me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour
which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank
and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness.
You will, perhaps, excuse me," she added, rising to leave the room;
"these events have annoyed and agitated me much."

"Stay!" exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, "Fanny, for
Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I ~374~~ dreaming? or did I hear you
say that you had refused Lawless?"

"I have already told you that it is so," she replied: "pray let me pass;
you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend."

"Bear with me for one moment," pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely
audible from emotion. "You have not refused him out of any mistaken
notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word--for
I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you--do you love
him?"

"Really--" began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning
first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her
and the door.

"Oh! pardon me," he continued in the same broken voice, "deem me
presuming--mad--what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or
hereafter, answer me this one question--Do you love him?"

"No, I do not," replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his
emotion.

"Thank God!" murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong
man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in
his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that
of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent
in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we
deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the
sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man,
and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and
intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all
before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman
if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands'
agitation.

Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood
with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and
alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in
vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:--

"Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?" Then,
finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued,
"Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak
to me; tell me, are you angry with me?" and laying her hand gently on
his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous
entreaty.

~375~~ Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and uncovering
his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which, after
a moment or two, appeared attended with success; and taking her hand
between his own, he said, with a faint smile:--

"I have frightened you--have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my
mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what
pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has
effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear
Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own
feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the
night of that hateful charade--Fanny, did it never occur to you that I
loved you with a love different to that of a brother?"

As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, faint
as the earliest glance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he
continued, "Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood,
and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the
strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I frankly confess,
that till the idea of your loving another occurred to me, I was blind to
the nature of my own affection. To be with you, to see and talk to you
daily, to cultivate your talents, to lead you to admire the beauties
that 1 admire, to take interest in the pursuits which interested me, was
happiness enough--I wished for nothing more. Then came that business of
the duel, and the affectionate kindness with which you forestalled my
every wish; the delicate tenderness and ready tact which enabled you to
be more than a daughter--a guardian angel--to my father, in the days of
his heavy sorrow--sorrow which my ungoverned passions had brought upon
his grey head--all these things endeared you to me still more. Next
followed a period of estrangement and separation, during which, as I now
see, an undefined craving for your society preyed upon my spirits, and,
as I verily believe, retarded my recovery. Hence, the moment I felt
the slightest symptoms of returning health, my determination to revisit
Heathfield. When we again met, I fancied you were ill and out of
spirits."

"It was no fancy," murmured Fanny in a low voice, as though thinking
aloud.

"Indeed!" questioned Harry; "and will you not tell me the cause?"

"Presently; I did not mean to speak--to interrupt you."

~376~~ "My sole wish and occupation," he continued, "was to endeavour
to interest and amuse you, and to restore your cheerfulness, which
I believed the anxiety and fatigue occasioned by my illness to have
banished; and I nattered myself I was in some degree succeeding, when
Lawless's arrival and his openly professed admiration of you seemed to
change the whole current of my thoughts--nay, my very nature itself. I
became sullen and morose; and the feeling of dislike with which I beheld
Lawless's attentions to you gradually strengthened to a deep and settled
hatred; it was only by exercising the most unceasing watchfulness
and self-control that I refrained from quarrelling with him; but so
engrossed was I by the painful interest I felt in all that was passing
around me, that I never gave myself time to analyse my feelings; and
it was not until the night of the charade that I became fully aware
of their true character; it was not till then I learned that happiness
could not exist for me unless you shared it. Conceive my wretchedness
when, at the very moment in which this conviction first dawned upon
me, I saw from Lawless's manner that in his attentions to you he was
evidently in earnest, and that, as far as I could judge, you were
disposed to receive those attentions favourably. My mind was instantly
made up; I only waited till events should prove whether my suspicions
were correct, and in case of their turning out so, feeling utterly unfit
to endure the sight of Lawless's happiness, determined immediately to
start for the Continent. Prank, who taxing me with my wretched looks,
elicited from me an avowal of the truth, told me Lawless was about to
make you an offer; Coleman (probably in jest, but it chimed in too well
with my own fears for me to dream of doubting him) that it had been
accepted. The rest you know. And now, Fanny," he continued, his voice
again trembling from the excess of his anxiety, "if you feel that you
can never bring yourself to look upon me in any other light than as a
brother, I will adhere to my determination of leaving England, and
trust to time to reconcile me to my fate; but if, by waiting months,
nay years, I may hope one day to call you my own, gladly will I do
so--gladly will I submit to any conditions you may impose. My happiness
is in your hands. Tell me, dear Fanny, must I go abroad to-morrow?"

And what do you suppose she told him, reader? That he must go? Miss
Martineau would have highly approved of her doing so; so would the late
Poor-law Commissioners, and so would many a modern Draco, who, with
~377~~ the life-blood that should have gone to warm his own stony
heart, scribbles a code to crush the kindly affections and genial
home-sympathies of his fellow-men. But Fanny was no female philosopher;
she was only a pure, true-hearted, trustful, loving woman; and so she
gave him to understand that he need not set out on his travels, thereby
losing a fine opportunity of "regenerating society," and vindicating
the dignity of her sex. And this was not all she told him either; for,
having by his generous frankness won her confidence, he succeeded
in gaining from her the secret of her heart--a secret which, an hour
before, she would have braved death in its most horrible form rather
than reveal. And then her happy lover learned how her affection for
him, springing up in the pleasant days of childhood, had grown with her
growth, and strengthened with her strength; until it became a deep and
all-absorbing passion--the great reality of her spirit-life; for love
such as hers, outstripping the bounds of time, links itself even with
our hopes beyond the grave;--how, when he lay stretched upon the bed of
suffering, oscillating between life and death, the bitter anguish that
the thought of separation occasioned her, enlightened her as to the true
nature of her feelings; how, as his recovery progressed, to watch over
him, and minister to his comfort, was happiness beyond expression to
her;--how, when he left the cottage, everything seemed changed and dark,
and a gulf appeared to have interposed between them, which she deemed
impassable;--how, in the struggle to conceal, and, if possible, conquer
her attachment, she studiously avoided all intercourse with him, and how
the struggle ended in the loss of health and spirits;--how, during his
absence, she felt it a duty still to bear up against these feelings
of despair, and to endure her sad lot with patient resignation, and
succeeded in some degree, till his return once again rendered all her
efforts fruitless;--and how she then avoided him more studiously than
before, although she saw, and sorrowed over the evident pain her altered
manner caused him;--how, always fearing lest he should question her as
to her changed behaviour, and by word or sign she should betray the deep
interest she felt in him, she had gladly availed herself of Lawless's
attentions as a means of avoiding Harry's kind attempts to amuse and
occupy her--attempts which, at the very moment she was wounding him by
rejecting them, only rendered him yet dearer to her;--and how she had
gone on, thinking only of Harry and herself, until Lawless's offer had
brought her unhappiness to a climax, by adding self-reproach to ~378~~
her other sources of unhappiness. All this, and much more, did she
relate; for if her coral lips did not frame every syllable, her
tell-tale blushes filled up the gaps most eloquently.

And Harry Oaklands?--Well, he did nothing desperate; but after his first
transports had subsided into a more deep and tranquil joy, he sat, with
her little white hand clasped in his own, and looked into her loving
eyes, and for one bright half-hour two of the wanderers in this vale of
tears were perfectly and entirely happy.

CHAPTER XLVII -- A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE

"One woman's fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am
well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces
be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich
she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous,
or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her;
mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of
good discourse, and an excellent musician."
--_Much Ado About Nothing_.

"YES! they were very happy, Fanny and Oaklands, as they revelled in the
bright certainty of their mutual love, and entranced by the absorbing
contemplation of their new-found happiness, forgot in the sunshine of
each other's presence the flight of moments, whilst I, involuntarily
contrasting the fair prospect that lay open before them with the dark
cloudland of my own gloomy fortunes, had soon traversed in thought
the distance to Barstone Priory, and become immersed in fruitless
speculations as to what might eventually be the result of Mr. Vernor's
sordid and cruel policy. It was now longer than usual since I had heard
from Clara; suspense and impatience were rapidly increasing into the
most painful anxiety, and I had all but determined, if the next day's
post brought no relief, to disobey her injunctions to the contrary, and
once again make an attempt to see her. Oh! it is hard to be banished
from the presence of those we love--with an ear attuned to the gentle
music of some well-remembered voice, to be forced to listen to the cold,
unmeaning commonplaces of society--with the heart and mind engrossed by,
and centred on, one dear object, to live in a strange, unreal fellowship
with those around us, talking, moving, and acting mechanically--feeling,
as it ~379~~ were, but the outward form and shadow of one's self, living
two distinct and separate existences, present, indeed, in body, but in
the only true vitality--the life of the spirit--utterly and completely
absent. From reflections such as these, I was aroused by observing the
deepening shades of evening, which were fast merging into night; and
collecting my ideas, I remembered that there were many things which must
be said and done in consequence of the unexpected turn events had taken.
No human being is so completely isolated that his actions do not in some
degree affect others, and in the present instance this was peculiarly
the case. Sir John and my mother must be let into the secret, and poor
Lawless must learn the unsuccessful termination of his suit. But now,
for the first time, the somewhat equivocal situation in which chance
had placed me presented itself to my mind, and I felt a degree
of embarrassment, almost amounting to shame, at having to make my
appearance, and confess that I had been lying _perdu_ during the whole
of the preceding scene. Accident, however, stood my friend.

"I wonder where Frank is all this time!" exclaimed Harry, in reply to a
remark of Fanny's referring to the lateness of the hour: "I want to see
him, and tell him of my happiness; I made him almost as miserable as
myself this morning; he must be at the Hall, I suppose, but I'm sure
your servant told me he was at home."

"She only spoke the truth if she did," said I, entering the drawing-room
as coolly as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Fanny started up with a slight shriek, and then, glancing at me with a
countenance in which smiles and tears were strangely commingled, ran out
of the room to hide her confusion, while Harry Oaklands--well, I hardly
know what Harry did, but I have some vague idea that he hugged me, for I
recollect feeling a degree of oppression on my breath, and an unpleasant
sensation in my arms, for the next five minutes.

"So you have heard it all, you villain--have you?" he exclaimed, as soon
as his first transports had a little subsided. "O Frank! my dear old
fellow, I am so happy! But what a blind idiot I have been!"

"All's well that ends well," replied I, shaking him warmly by the hand;
"they say lookers-on see most of the game, but in this case I was as
blind as you were; it never for a moment occurred to me that Fanny cared
for you otherwise than as a sister. Indeed, I have ~380~~ sometimes been
annoyed that she did not, as I considered, properly appreciate you; but
I understand it all now, and am only too glad that her pale looks and
low spirits can be so satisfactorily accounted for."

"Frank," observed Oaklands gravely, "there is only one thing which
casts the slightest shade over my happiness; how are we to break this
to Lawless? I can afford to pity him now, poor fellow I I know by my own
feelings the pang that hearing of a rival's success will cost him."

"I don't think his feelings are quite as deep and intense as yours,
Harry," replied I, smiling involuntarily at my reminiscences of the
morning; "but I am afraid he will be terribly cut up about it; he was
most unfortunately sanguine: I suppose I had better break it to him."

"Yes, and as soon as possible too," said Oaklands, "for I'm sure my
manner will betray my happiness. I am the worst hand in the world at
dissimulation. Walk back with me and tell him, and then stay and dine
with us."

"Agreed," replied I; "only let me say half a dozen words to my mother;
"and, rushing upstairs, I dashed into her room, told her the whole
matter on the spot, incoherently, and without the slightest preparation,
whereby I set her crying violently, to make up for which I kissed her
abruptly (getting very wet in so doing), pulled down the bell-rope in
obedience to the dictates of a sudden inspiration that she would be
the better for a maid-servant, and left her in one of the most fearful
states of confusion on record, flurried into a condition of nerves
which set camphor-julep completely at defiance, and rendered trust in
sal-volatile a very high act of faith indeed.

While Oaklands and I were walking up to the Hall, we overtook Coleman
returning from shooting wild-fowl. As we came up with him, Oaklands
seized him by the shoulder, exclaiming:--

"Well, Freddy, what sport, eh?"

"My dear Oaklands," returned he gravely, removing Harry's hand as he
spoke, "that is a very bad habit of yours, and one which I advise you to
get rid of as soon as possible; nobody who had ever endured one of your
friendly gripes could say with truth that you hadn't _a vice_ about
you."

"For which vile pun it would serve you right to repeat the dose,"
replied Oaklands, "only that I am not in a vindictive mood at present."

"Then you must have passed the afternoon in some ~381~~ very mollifying
atmosphere," returned Freddy, "for when I met you three hours ago,
you seemed as if you could have cut anybody's throat with the greatest
satisfaction."

The conscious half-cough, half-laugh, with which Oaklands acknowledged
this sally, attracted Coleman's attention, and mimicking the sound,
he continued, "A--ha--hem! and what may that mean? I say, there's some
mystery going on here from which I'm excluded--that's not fair, though,
you know. Come, be a little more transparent; give me a peep into the
hidden recesses of your magnanimous mind; unclasp the richly bound
volume of your secret soul; elevate me to the altitude of the Indian
herb, or, in plain slang--Young England's chosen dialect--make me 'up to
snuff'."

"May I enlighten him?" asked I.

"Yes, to be sure," replied Oaklands; "I'll go on, for I am anxious
to speak to my father. Freddy, old boy! shake hands; I'm the happiest
fellow in existence!" so saying, he seized and wrung Coleman's hand with
a heartiness which elicited sundry grotesque contortions, indicative
of agony, from that individual, and, bounding forward, was soon lost to
sight in the deepening twilight.

"And so, you see," continued I, after having imparted to Coleman as much
as I considered necessary of the state of affairs, a confidence which he
received with mingled exclamations of surprise and delight--"and so, you
see, we've not only got to tell Lawless that he is refused, poor fellow
I but that Fanny has accepted Oaklands; very awkward, isn't it?"

"It would be with anybody else," replied Coleman; "but I think there
are ways and means of managing the thing which will prevent any very
desperate consequences in the present instance; sundry ideas occur to
me; would you mind my being in the room when you tell him?"

"As far as I am concerned, I should be only too glad to have you,"
returned I, "if you do not think it would annoy him."

"I'm not afraid of that," was the rejoinder; "as I wrote the offer
for him, it strikes me I'm the very person he ought to select for his
confidant."

"Do you think," he added, after a moment's thought, "Harry would sell
those phaeton horses?"