Frank Fairlegh

F >> Frank E. Smedley >> Frank Fairlegh

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45

"Lawless is a capital whip," replied I, "and the chestnuts, though
fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger."

"Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how
you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you
and give you good advice.--And that puts me in mind that I want to have
half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to
me now?"

"I am quite at your service, sir," replied I, resigning myself to my
fate with the best grace I could command.

"Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've
taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy
and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished
yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.--By the
bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?"

"Often and often," replied I, "have I longed to know ~404~~ to whose
disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an
advantage."

"Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well
know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't
very unlike me in the face. Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it
warmly, "and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How
can I ever thank you?"

"I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came
out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all
praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but
now you've left college, what are your wishes--what do you think of
doing? Umph!"

"I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which
a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable
exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr.
Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the
profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should
not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you
wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am
very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion."

"Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers--gentlemen that
eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However,
I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and
it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me,
Frank, I--umph!--your sister's going to be married, to be married to
a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John
Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and
his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher
character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However,
I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little
money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter,
and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to
take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!"

"Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible
claim upon your liberality."

"Yes, you have, boy--yes, you have," replied Mr. Frampton, "the
strongest claim that can be; you have ~405~~ saved me from falling a
victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under--you have saved me
from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me
something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we
are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in
regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the
wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when
I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well
and honourably, I would make you my heir.--Don't interrupt me," he
continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "let me finish what I have
to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not
only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and
I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is
stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are
passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all
his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest
aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of
another--waiting for dead men's shoes--umph! and so, Frank, as I feel
pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God,
another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make
you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any
profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country
gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one
thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall
know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living.
For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction,
for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I
die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!"

What did I say?--what could I say? I got up, and having once again
pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite
overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of
my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have
been--as I then fondly imagined--the only thing wanting to secure my
happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could
at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand--nor
could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when
what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was
thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy,
she had placed ~406~~ a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter.
Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was
totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of
astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following
interrogatory, "Umph! eh? why, Frank--umph! anybody would think you had
just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a
fortune given you--Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, "forgive me. Your unparalleled
liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a
father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such
an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short
week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining
anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active
employment."

I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular
acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which
had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the
greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford
and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had
seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara
as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor
as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in
thought, and then said, "And you are quite sure she is false? Are you
certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest
point) referred to you?"

"Would I could doubt it!" replied I, shaking my head mournfully.

"Umph!--Well, I dare say--she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's
a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,--what is her
name?--a jilt!"

"Her name," replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to
her--for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me
little short of profanation--"her name is Clara Saville."

"Umph! eh? Saville!" exclaimed Mr. Frampton. "What was her mother's
name? Umph!"

"I never heard," replied I. "Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted
for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an
heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor--"

"Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and
told me--Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I--eh!--umph! umph!
umph!"

~407~~ And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect
paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so
most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be
so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her
guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted
with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I
had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless
jilt? A jilt--how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when
that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the
heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless
tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we
love--a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from
it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and
scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such
as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As
he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his
countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.

"The ways of God are indeed inscrutable," he said. "Information, which
for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my
wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place
of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has
thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan
child of my sister!"

In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me
that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland
counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a
sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's
love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his
father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again
unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his
high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own
inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea.
A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native
country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at
Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a
large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish
to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his
boyhood; but on carrying ~408~~ his project into execution, he learned
that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while
his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever
entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having
accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any
offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a
Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise,
therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be
imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences
of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read
the following chapter.

CHAPTER L -- A RAY OF SUNSHINE

"When you shall please to play the thief for a wife, I'll
watch as long for _you_."
--_Shakspeare_.

"Hold! give me a pen and ink! Sirrah, can you with a grace
deliver a supplication?
--_Titus Andronicus_.

THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to
ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old
Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars
concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the
possibility of doubt the fact of her relationship to Mr. Frampton, who,
in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined
to assert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and
endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage
either with Wilford or Cumberland. The only stipulation I made was, that
when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the
affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to
attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between
Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she
had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from
the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could
possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should
wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.

After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train
of circumstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them)
which occur in a ~409~~ man's life--how events which change the whole
current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles--the
strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each
other--how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or--break it.
It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur--(I
quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):--

"Perchance our very souls
Are in each other's hands."

Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing--doubly fearful when we
reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to
blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr.
Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pass without reflection,
recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the
words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment
I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain?
might they not equally well apply to Cumberland? was there a chance, was
it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it!
gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her--gladly
would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of
faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her
presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but
then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and
unanswered--the confidential footing she was on with Wilford--the--But
why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned
the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere
phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my
heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers
returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party
upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and
quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after
the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering
opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains,
if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting
relieved their minds by the little _ballet d'action_ which had excited
Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that
Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that "they
~410~~ was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on," determined
(wishing to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of
the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman
had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However,
"the victim," as he termed himself, escaped without anything very
tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of
running away across a common, rushing through a flock of geese, thereby
bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals
of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and dashing
within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting
than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking,
allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.

When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called Fanny on one
side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's
order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it--a new instance of my
kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified
me.

During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much
anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I
could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.

"My poor Frank!" exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished
the recital, "to think that you should have been suffering all this
sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had
not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner."

"Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a
strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I
have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I
must beg you not to mention it to Fanny, at all events till my last act
in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his
own hands."

"After all," rejoined Oaklands, "I feel there must be some mistake; she
never can be false to you--never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank!
how can you bear to doubt her?"

"It is indeed misery to do so," replied I, sighing deeply; "and yet,
when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the
suggestions of feeling."

"If Fanny were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die,"
exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.

"You might wish to do so," replied I; "but grief does ~411~~ not always
kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness."

A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.

Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached
the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger
to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then,
determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be
disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to
demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping
to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second
mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that
Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was
by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be
careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and
all the sentries had been doubled.

"What does he mean by that?" inquired I of the boy who delivered the
message--an intelligent little urchin, who was evidently well up in the
whole affair, and appeared highly delighted at the trust reposed in him,
to say nothing of the harvest of sixpences his various missions produced
him.

"Vy, sir, he means that the gamekeeper has had two extra assistants
allowed him since you vos there the other day, sir, and they has strict
orders to take hup anybody as they finds in the park, sir."

"They need not alarm themselves," replied I; "I shall not intrude upon
their domain again in a hurry. Now look out, and let me know when Peter
Barnett is coming."

So saying, I gave him the wished-for sixpence, and with a grin of
satisfaction he departed.

With leaden feet the hours crawled along, and still old Peter Barnett
did not make his appearance; when, about twelve o'clock, a horseman
passed by, followed by a groom. As he rode at a very quiet pace, his
face was easily recognised, and I saw at a glance it was Mr. Vernor.
Fortunately he never looked towards the window at which I was standing,
or he must have seen me. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, when old
Peter arrived, breathless from the speed at which he had come; his
grotesque but expressive features gleaming with delight and sagacity,
while his merry little eyes danced and twinkled as if they would jump
out of their sockets. Reassured, in spite of myself, by his manner, I
exclaimed, as I closed the parlour ~412~~ door behind him, "Well, Peter;
speak out, man--what is it?"

"Oh! my breath!" was the reply, "running don't suit old legs like it
does young uns. I say, sir, did ye see _him_ go by?"

"I saw Mr. Vernor pass a few minutes since," replied I.

"Ah! that's what I've been a-waiting for; we're safe from him for the
next four hours: he didn't see you, did he?"

"No," returned I, "he was fortunately looking another way."

"Well, it's all right then, everything's all right; oh! lor, I'm so
happy."

"It's more than I am," replied I angrily; for feeling convinced that
nothing could have occurred materially to affect the position in which
Clara and I stood towards each other, the old man's joy grated harshly
on my gloomy state of mind, and I began to attribute his excessive
hilarity to the influence of the ale-tap. "You will drive me frantic
with your ridiculous and unseasonable mirth. If you have anything to
communicate likely to relieve my sorrow and anxiety, in the name of
common sense speak out, man."

"I beg your pardon, sir; I was so happy myself, I was forgetting you:
I've got so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin rightly; but,
however, here goes--to the right-about face! March!" He then proceeded
to give me, with much circumlocution, which I will mercifully spare the
reader, the following account. After he had left me at the conclusion of
our last interview, feeling, as he said, "more wretcheder" than he had
ever done before, in going through the park, he observed two persons, a
man and a woman, in close conversation; on his approach they separated,
but not until he had been able to recognise Wilford, and one of the
female servants, Clara's personal attendant. "This," as he continued,
"set him a-thinking," and the result of his cogitations occasioned the
mysterious hint thrown out to me in his note. On receiving my letter for
Clara, he found an opportunity of delivering it in person, inquiring,
when he did so, both when she had last heard from, and written to, me;
at the same time informing her that he had a very particular reason
for asking. He then learned what he had more than suspected from the
interview he had witnessed in the park, namely, that since Wilford had
been in the house, she had not only never received one of my letters,
but had written to me more than once to ascertain the ~413~~ cause of
such an unaccountable silence. These letters she had, as usual, given to
her maid to convey to Peter Barnett; and the girl, cajoled and bribed by
Wilford, had evidently given them to him instead. This induced Peter,
as he expressed it, "to open his heart to his young mistress," and with
deep contrition he confessed to her the suspicions he had entertained
of her fickleness, how he had communicated them to me, and how
circumstances had forced me to believe them. Clara, naturally much
distressed and annoyed by this information, blamed him for not having
spoken to her sooner, assured him that he had wronged her deeply in
imagining such things, and desired him somewhat haughtily to lose no
time in undeceiving Mr. Fairlegh. He then inquired whether she wished
to send any answer to my note; on which she read it through with a
quivering lip, and replied, "Yes, tell him, that as he finds it so
easy to believe evil of me, I agree with him that it will be better our
acquaintance should terminate". She then motioned to him to leave the
room, and he was obliged to obey; but, glancing at her as he closed the
door, he perceived that she had covered her face with her hands, and was
weeping bitterly. He next set to work with the waiting-maid, and by
dint of threats of taking her before Mr. Vernor, and promises, if she
confessed all, that he would intercede with Clara for her forgiveness,
he elicited from her the whole truth--namely, that by the joint
influence of bribes and soft speeches, Wilford had induced her to hand
over to him her mistress's letters, and that he had detained every one
either to or from me. "Well, sir," continued he, "that was not such a
bad day's work altogether, but I ain't been idle since. Mr. Fleming, or
Wilford, as you says he is, started off the first thing this morning for
London, and ain't cumming back till the day after to-morrow; so, thinks
I, we'll turn the tables upon you, my boy, for once--that ere letter
dodge was very near a-ruining us, I wonder how it will hact the t'other
way: and a lucky thought it was too, Muster Fairlegh, for sich a scheme
of willainy as I've descivered all dewised against poor dear Miss
Clara--"