Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scans provided by Google Books,
https://books.google.com/books?id=OAQiAAAAMAAJ
(Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.)
2. "This work was published many years ago anonymously, and received the name of 'Delaware; or, The ruined family.'"--Introd., p. [v], to London, 1848, ed.
THIRTY YEARS SINCE;
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.
A Tale.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,
AUTHOR OF
"A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES," "GOWRIE," "SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON,"
"BEAUCHAMP," "LAST OF THE FAIRIES," "MARGARET GRAHAM," ETC., ETC.
NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1860.
THIRTY YEARS SINCE:
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.
CHAPTER I.
Most cities are hateful; and, without any disposition to "babble about green fields," it must be owned that each is more or less detestable. Nevertheless, among them all, there is none to be compared, as a whole, to London--none which comprehends within itself, from various causes, so much of the sublime in every sort. Whether we consider its giant immensity of expanse--the wonderful intricacy of its internal structure--the miraculous harmony of its discrepant parts--the grand amalgamation of its different orders, classes, states, pursuits, professions--the mighty aggregate of hopes, wishes, endeavors, joys, successes, fears, pangs, disappointments, crimes, and punishments, that it contains--its relative influence on the world at large--or the vehement pulse with which that "mighty heart" sends the flood of circulation through this beautiful land--we shall find that that most wonderful microcosm well deserves the epithet _sublime_.
To view it rightly--if we wish to view it with the eye of a philosopher--we should choose, perhaps, the hour which is chosen by the most magnificent and extraordinary of modern poets, and gaze upon it when the sun is just beginning to pour his first red beams through the dim and loaded air, when that vast desert of brick and mortar, that interminable wilderness of spires and chimneys, looks more wide and endless, and solemn, than when the eye is distracted by myriads of mites that creep about it in the risen day.
It may be asked, perhaps, who is there that ever saw it at that hour, except the red-armed housemaid washing the morning step, and letting in the industrious thief, to steal the greatcoats from the hall; or the dull muffin-man, who goes tinkling his early bell through the misty streets of the wintry morning? Granted, that neither of these--nor the sellers of early purl--nor the venders of saloop and cocoa--nor Covent Garden market-women--nor the late returners from the _finish_--nor he who starts up from the doorway, where he has passed the wretched night, to recommence the day's career of crime, and danger, and sorrow--can look upon the vast hive in which they dwell with over-refined feelings; and, perhaps, to them may come home unhappy Shelley's forcible line--
"Hell is a city very much like London!"
The valetudinarian, too, who wakes with nervous punctuality to swallow down the morning draught, prescribed by courtly Henry's bitter-covering skill, may curse the cats that, perched upon the tiles, salute their lady-loves with most discordant cries, and keep him from repose; and with all the virulence of Despréaux, may exclaim upon the many hateful sounds of a town morning. But, besides all these, there are sometimes persons who, rising five hours before their usual time, come forth in all the freshness of the early day, stimulated by the vast effort that roused them from their beds, proud of a successful endeavor to get up, and excited by the novelty of the circumstance and the scene, and who rush on, admiring all the beauties as they go to take their places in the gay stage-coach.
Fully double the extent of ancient Athens, in its days of greatest splendor--at least, if the calculation of Aristides be correct--London lies in circuit more than one day's journey, and many a day's journey may be taken in the interior, without ever threading the same streets. It would not matter much, therefore, in what corner of the town was placed the coach-office whence, at an early hour of every lawful day, set forth a smart-looking vehicle, drawn by four fiery bays, for a distant town in ----shire; but nevertheless, as it may be a satisfaction to the reader's mind, it is but fair to state, that the aforesaid four-inside light coach took its departure daily from that wild scene of bustle and confusion, which, within the last century or two, has usurped the site of what a modern writer of ancient romance terms "the sweet little village of Charing," and which is now popularly called the Golden Cross, Charing Cross.
As the things that were, are now no more, and even three short years have made sad havoc amidst the brick antiquities of dear Pall Mall, it may not be amiss more particularly to commemorate the appearance--at the time our tale commences--of that agglomeration of street-corners, Charing Cross, from which--on account, I suppose, of its beautiful vagueness--all rogues and insolvent debtors were wont to date their letters. But this commemoration had best be given in describing the effect of the whole upon a young and unsophisticated mind.
From a place that they call a hotel, in Piccadilly--think of a man taking up his abode at a hotel in Piccadilly!--but he knew no better--from a hotel, in Piccadilly, at about half-past five o'clock, on the morning of the last day of August, one thousand eight hundred and something, set out a hackney coach, containing within its sphere of rotten wood, and rusty leather, a small portmanteau on the front seat, and the portmanteau's master on the other. He was a well-made youth, of about five-and-twenty years of age, with firm, graceful, and yet powerful limbs, and a fresh, clear complexion--not villainous red and white, but one general tone of florid health. His eye was blue and bright, and the clustering curls of fair hair--as pure Saxon as Sharon Turner's last new book--might have looked somewhat girlish, had it not been for the manly features and the free, dauntless look that they overshadowed. At the same time, be it remarked that there was something of melancholy, if not of gloom, in his aspect; but that did not prevent him--after the chambermaid had been satisfied, and the waiter had been paid, and boots had had his fees, and the porter had claimed more than his due, and, in short, all the exactions of an inn had been played off upon him in succession--that did not prevent him, when fairly rolling away toward the top of the Haymarket, from gazing out upon the scene around him with a sufficient degree of open-eyed curiosity to make the waterman stick his tongue into his cheek and mentally denominate him "_a raw_."
It may be necessary to inform the unlearned reader, that the sun rises, in the end of August, a few minutes after five in the morning, and at the time I speak of the great luminary was pouring a flood of radiance through the loaded air of the vast city, filling the long empty perspective of the streets with the golden mistiness of the morning light. Closed within the dull boards which defend the precious wares of many a careful tradesman from the cosmopolite fingers of the liberal Many, the shops exhibited nothing but the names and occupations of their various owners; but the wide streets, with all their irregular buildings, in the broad light and shade, were not without beauty of their own peculiar kind, distinct from all the mighty associations connected with their existence.
The coach rolled at the statute pace along Piccadilly, unobstructed by any thing, and, indeed, unencountered by any thing but two slow market carts, wending heavily toward Covent Garden, and another fac-simile of itself, just overcoming--in order to take up some other early passenger--the _vis inertiæ_ which had held it on the straw-littered stand for the last hour. In the Haymarket, however, the progression was more difficult; for there already had congregated many a loaded cart, the drivers of which, as usual, had, with skillful zeal, contrived to place them as a regular fortification, obstructing every step of the way. Gin and purl, too, were reeking up to the sky from the various temples of the rosy god that line the west side of the street; and, amidst the bargainings of some early dealers, and the pæans of the gin-drinkers, no one attended to the objurgations of the embarrassed coachmen. Nevertheless, all these difficulties were at length removed by one means or another; and Cockspur-street opened wide before the traveler, exposing at the end, black with the smoke of fires innumerable, the famous statue and the girthless horse. On one side, wide and open, lay Whitehall, with all those offices, whence many a time has issued the destiny of the world; on the other hand, dark and dingy, wound away the Strand, with the house of the Percys maintaining still the last aspect of a feudal dwelling to be found in London. The King's Mews, on which a violating hand had hardly yet been laid, occupied all the space to the left; and the flaming ensign of the Golden Cross, stuck up in front of a tall, narrow-fronted house, told that the place of many coaches was before the traveler's eyes.
He found, on alighting, that he had arrived at least ten minutes before the time; and after having been cheated, as usual, by the hackney-coachman, and gazed about the dull, desolate yard, shut in by the high houses round, in the far shadows of which stood two or three red, blue, and yellow vehicles, all unpacked and unhorsed, he once more sauntered out through the low-browed arch which gave admission to the court, and amused himself with the wider scene exhibited by the street.
At that hour, one-half of Murillo's pictures find living representatives in the streets of London; and when the young traveler had moralized for a minute or two on some groups of beggar-boys playing round the statue--had marked the sage and solemn pace with which an elderly waterman brought forth his breakfast to a coachman on the stand--and had listened to the Solon-like sayings of each upon the weather and the state of the nation--he was looking back to see whether the coming of the coach was hopeless, when the rushing noise of rapid wheels caught his ear, and he turned his eyes in the direction of the sound.
If people would but remark, they would find that they have presentiments of little events a thousand times more often than they have presentiments of great ones; and the feeling of the gallant Nelson was not more strong, that the sun of Trafalgar was the last that was destined to shine upon his glory, than was at that moment the conviction of the young traveler that those rolling wheels were about to bring him a companion for the stage-coach. Nor, let me tell you, gentle reader, is it a matter of small importance, who is to be brought in such close contact with one for the next ten hours. What is life but a chain of those brief portions of eternity which man calls hours, so inseparably linked together that the first and the last, and every link throughout the series, have a mutual dependence and connection with each other! Oh, let no one despise an hour! It is fully enough to change dynasties, and overthrow empires--to make or mar a fortune--to win high renown, or stain a noble name--to end our being, or to fix our destiny here and hereafter, in time and through eternity. So awful a thing is one hour--ay, one moment of active being!
The companion of the three hundred and sixty-fifth part of one out of seventy years, is a person to whom we may well attach some importance; and the young traveler looked with no small eagerness to see who was about to fill that station in relation to himself. The first thing that his eyes fell upon, as he turned round, was a dark-brown cabriolet, whirled along with the speed of lightning, by a tall bay horse, full of blood and action, and covered with harness, which, though somewhat elaborate and evidently costly, was guarded by scrupulous good taste from being gaudy. Behind the vehicle appeared a smart, active boy in groom's apparel, but with no distinctive livery to designate him as the tiger of Colonel this, or the Earl of that, though a cockade in his hat told that his master pretended either to military or naval rank. Where the young traveler stood, the appearance of the driver was not to be discerned; but, from the style of the whole turn-out, he began to doubt that his anticipations in regard to their approaching companionship were fallacious, when, dashing up to the pavement, the horse was suddenly drawn up, the groom sprang to the head, and the person within at length made his appearance.
He was a young man of about seven-and-twenty, tall, and rather gracefully than strongly made; but still with a breadth of chest, and a sort of firm setting on his feet, which spoke a greater degree of personal strength than appeared at a casual glance. His clothes were all of that peculiar cut which combines the most decided adherence to the prevailing fashion, with a very slight touch of its extravagance. Every thing, however, in the whole of his apparel, was in good keeping, as the painters call it; and though the colors that appeared therein were such as no one but a man of rank and station in society would have dared to wear, the general hue of the whole was dark.
"He's a dandy!" thought the young traveler, with a somewhat contemptuous curl of the lip, as the other descended from the cabriolet; but the moment after, hearing him bid the boy tell Swainson not to forget to give Brutus a ball on Wednesday night--and to walk Miss Liddy for an hour twice every day in the park, he concluded that he was a gentleman horse-jockey--a thing, in his unsophisticated ideas, equally detestable with a dandy. Scarcely had he come to this conclusion--and his conclusions, be it remarked, were formed very quickly--when the stranger strode rapidly past him. The cabriolet drove away, and its owner, with a quantity of glossy black hair escaping from under his hat, and mingling with whiskers more glossy still--entered the inn-yard, and proceeded to the coach-office.
The other traveler followed, in hopes of seeing some signs of approaching departure; and, as he did so, he heard the reply of the book-keeper to something which the owner of the cabriolet had asked. "No room outside, sir;--very sorry, indeed--got our full number,"--he had got three more, by the way--"plenty of room inside. That 'ere gentleman's going inside, 'cause he can't get room out."
"Well, inside be it then," replied the other.
The book-keeper began to write. "What name, sir?"
"Burrel!" replied the stranger.
"Any luggage?"
"None," answered Burrel.
"One pound, ten shillings, and sixpence, sir, if you please!" said the book-keeper; and, as Burrel paid the money, the coachman's cry of "Now, gentlemen, if you please!" sounded through the yard.
In another minute the horses were dashing through that antique and abominable arch, which, in days of yore, gave egress and regress to the Golden Cross, while Burrel and the other traveler, seated side by side, held their breath as the rough vehicle clattered over the London stones. It has often been remarked, that it is wonderful how much shaking together two Englishmen require before they speak to each other; and, in setting out from a town like London, there is scarcely an individual who has not too much to think of--either in parting from well-loved friends--in quitting scenes of pleasure or of pain--in self-congratulations on escaping from smoke and noise--in anticipation of quiet and repose, of joyful meetings, and smiles of welcome--not to court a few minutes' calm reflection, as they leave behind them that great misty den of feelings and events. Our two travelers then leaned back in their respective corners, without the interchange of a word--the one, Burrel, apparently buried in deep thought; and the other too proud, if not too shy, to begin any conversation himself, even had he not had memories enough in his bosom to furnish him, also, with food for meditation. Such, however, he had; and--seeing that his companion appeared wrapped up in that sort of gentlemanly reserve which so often covers over a man's eyes, ears, and understanding, as he goes through life, and leaves him, like the Grand Lama, with nothing to speculate upon but his own perfections--the younger traveler gave way also to his thoughts, and, ere they had reached Brentford, had forgotten that there was any being in the coach but himself.
His reflections did not seem very pleasant; for at Hounslow, what appeared to be the first act thereof, ended in a sigh so long and deep, that it attracted the notice of his fellow-traveler, who turned his head, and, for the first time, examined him somewhat attentively, as he sat looking out of the windows, with the objects as they passed, skimming hardly noted before his eyes. The second act of the young man's thoughts did not seem quite so abstracted as the first; for when the coach stopped for a few minutes at Staines, he put his head forth from the window, and demanded the name of the place, addressing Mynheer Boots, who gazed in his face, and answered nothing.
"This is Staines," replied his hitherto silent companion, in a mild and gentlemanly tone, in which there was not the slightest touch of _coxcombry_ or affectation; "perhaps you have never traveled this road before?"
"I have, indeed," replied the other; "but the first time was many years ago; and when last I passed, I had various things to think of, which prevented my noting particularly the places through which I traveled."
"Oh, any thing on earth to think of," replied Burrel, "of course renders traveling out of the question. It is no longer traveling, it is locomotion. It becomes the act of a stage-coach, a steam-engine, or any other machine, as soon as a person has one thought occupied by either business or memory, or any one of the troublesome things of the world. Before one sets out on a journey, one should shake out one's mind, as the ancient pilgrims did their wallets, and leave no trace of friends, or relations, or feelings, or prejudices, or remembrances of any kind, in short, to hang about it; but make all void and clear for the new stock of ideas that are to be placed in it."
"Yours is a strange doctrine," replied his companion, "though I believe it might be as well to practice it."
"Why, if a man carries about in his mind," continued Burrel, "his uncles and aunts, and sisters and brothers, and all the luggage of associations that they bring along with them, he might as well jog on in the old family coach at the rate of forty mortal miles per day, from the town house in Berkeley-square to the country house in Staffordshire. But let a man resolve to forget every thing on earth but the scenes through which he is passing, and he will find as much to interest, and amuse, and excite him--ay, and as much to the purpose of real information, too--between London and Dorchester, as between Paris and the Dardanelles."
His companion smiled, perhaps as much from surprise at the very unexpected tone of his fellow-traveler's tirade, as from any acquiescence in the tirade itself. "Nay, nay," he said, "surely you won't deny that--putting all other advantages out of the question between the two journeys you mention--there is still much more picturesque beauty to be found between Paris and the Dardanelles than between London and Dorchester?"
"I do not know that," replied Burrel. "There may be newer scenery, and perhaps more sublime scenery; but whether the more sublime be calculated to produce a finer or sweeter effect upon a man's heart and mind than softer and gentler pictures, I much doubt, There is something in an English landscape to be found nowhere else--an air of rich, sweet, happy repose--of safe tranquillity and successful industry, that is in itself almost sublime. Let your eye now run over that view as the coach climbs the hill. Where did you ever behold a scene on which sight can so pleasantly repose? The rich scattered wood in front, full of old England's grand primeval oaks. Then look how, bending over a thousand slopes, in the true lines of beauty, the hedgerows wind along, dividing wealthy field from field--now giving skips and glances of fair towns and uplands, and now massing together, till the eye believes them to be deep groves; then that catch of the river, glistening under the hill, while the sunshine streams through the valley, and that broad shadow of some cloud we do not see, passes slowly on--at every change that it effects in the light and shade of the landscape, bringing out some new beauty, as if it itself delighted in the loveliness it produces. Then again cast your eyes up yonder to the village church hanging half way down the hill, with its neat parsonage embowered in tall elms; and looking, as it is, the abode of peace and virtue. As good a man dwells there as the whole world can produce, and a true representative of the great majority of the much-belied English clergy. But say, did you ever see a fairer scene?"
"Seldom, indeed," replied his companion, whose attention, called to the principal points of a purely English picture, found more beauties in it than custom suffered him to see before. "But still," he added, "I am fond of mountain scenery."
"And so am I," replied Burrel. "I am fond of every kind of scenery, from the bold blue mountain, with its purple heath, as bare, as naked, and as wild as the banks of Loch Awe itself can show, to the rich and undulating plains of Champagne, where soft line beyond line of faint and fainter shadows, vanishing away in Claude-like sunshine, are all that mark the wide extent over which the eye can roam. There is such a thing as the economy of admiration; and by husbanding that faculty properly, you will not find a scene in all the world on which you can not afford to bestow some small portion thereof."
The other traveler replied, not a little pleased to find that all the fine sketches which he had been making of his companion's character, during the earlier part of their journey, were as empty as a protocol; and, with the very natural jump which man's heart takes when it finds itself agreeably disappointed in the estimation it had formed of another, perhaps the stranger now felt as much inclined to over-admire his companion, as he had before been disposed to undervalue him. A growing remembrance of his features, too, for some time made him fancy that he had met with an old friend, whose face, like a worn piece of money, though half obliterated by time, was still sufficiently plain to tease memory--one of those provoking recollections, as tenacious as remorse, and intactible as a soufflet. After some further conversation, and one or two thoughtful pauses--in which memory was so busy in digging among the ruins of the past, to see if she could find the name of Burrel, that she would not even let the young traveler's loquacious powers go on, for fear of disturbing her search--he suddenly exclaimed, with that degree of frank simplicity which at once spoke him but little a child of the great world, "Oh! now I remember where it was I saw you before!"
"Where?" demanded Burrel, with a slight smile, which he instantly repressed, lest he should give pain.
But the young stranger was not of a nature to think there could be any thing wrong or absurd in acknowledging whatever he felt, if what he felt were pure and natural. "It was at the door of Lord Ashborough, in Grosvenor-square," he replied, at once. "You were coming out as I was going in to call for his lordship. It was but yesterday; and yet I have been searching through many long years to find out where it was I had seen you before."
"Memory is like the philosophers," replied Burrel, "and often sends out far to seek what she might stumble over at her own door. I now remember your face also, and think I heard you give your name as Captain Delaware."
"The same," answered his companion, with somewhat of a sigh. "Do you know Lord Ashborough well?"
"I have known him long," replied Burrel; "but to know a man well is a very different thing: for I am afraid that all men have learned nowadays what Sallust regrets in the decline of the Romans--_magis vultum quam ingenium, bonum habere_. Not that I mean to say it is so with Lord Ashborough; far from it. He bears a high character in the world, and is esteemed upright, honorable, and talented, though somewhat stern and haughty."
A grave and rather melancholy expression came over the countenance of the other; and he replied, changing the subject abruptly, "You were speaking of the Dardanelles. Were you ever there?"
"Never," answered Barrel, "though once within little more than a hundred leagues. I should have been well pleased to have gone on, but circumstances called me back to England."
"I have been there," replied the other; "and there is nothing more delightful than the sail from Corfu to Constantinople--except, indeed, some parts of the coast of Sicily."
"You are a naval man, then, I presume!" said Burrel. The other answered in the affirmative, and his companion proceeded:--"For nothing on earth could be more disagreeable to me, and I suppose to most landsmen, than a sail from any one given point of the globe's surface to another. When you speak of Sicily, however, you speak of a land that I, too, know well; and in regard to which I can enter into your enthusiasm. There are few lands more fertile in beauties of nature and association than Sicily, and epicurean Calabria, and the old Etruscan groves! You have of course visited Italy, if you so well know Sicily."
"I have done little more than cruise along the coast," replied Captain Delaware; "but in Sicily I was landed, and remained some months for the recovery of my health."
"Oh, the sweet coasts of the Mediterranean Sea!" said Burrel, "where at every league there is some beauty and some memory--some pleasant dream of the present or the past--from the Imperial City and its wolf-suckled founder, to the gray majesty of Pæstum and the Calabrese peasant with his long gun and his Mother Goose hat, caroling his gay ditty as cheerfully as a pickpocket. In every other corner of the world I feel earth stuffed with stern realities; but in Italy I can fully enter into the feeling of Metastasio, and exclaim, '_Sogno della mia vita e il corso intero?_"
"You are an enthusiast, I see," replied the other, with a smile.
"When I am in company with one," answered Burrel, laughing. His companion colored slightly, but good-humoredly, and the conversation went on in the same easy manner in which it had commenced, through the rest of their journey. It is unnecessary to give any farther details thereof; for such light nothings, though very pleasant to while away the hours in a stage-coach, are most excessively tiresome in the small pages of an octavo. Let it suffice that Captain Delaware, surprised and pleased with his companion, found the journey far shorter than he had expected. Indeed, so captivated was he, that in the whole of Burrel's deportment there was but one thing which he thought might have been altered to advantage, which was a certain air of taking every thing as a matter of course--a tone of indifference which men of the world acquire they know not well how, and which, in the present instance, blended in an extraordinary manner with the high feeling of the beautiful and the excellent, which his conversation breathed throughout.
That tone, however, is not without its advantages also; and the young sailor found that it might be serviceable, when, at Hartford Bridge, a person of a very different description was intruded upon them. He was a short, broad-made man, with long, baboonish arms, and a face on which nature had so plainly written the class to which it was to belong, that, had fortune, in some of her freaks, covered it either with the coronet of a peer, or a peasant's straw hat, his mother, or fortune, or nature, would have had much to answer for. Some of the features were good, however--the eyes were very tolerable, for instance; and the nose was not bad. But then the cheek-bones! good heavens, such cheek-bones! From Crim Tartary to Banff there is nothing to be seen like them. The mouth, too, was worse--one of those fearful mouths, whose broad, fat, wide-parted, irregular lips seem to vaticinate the fate of the owner with such distinctness, that no person of common foresight can see them without at once picturing the person who possesses them--not as about to be hanged, but as actually hanging. The skin that was over all was of that reddish, coarse, mottled kind, which puts one in mind of a gross strawberry; and although, as before said, the eyes in themselves were _goodish_, blue, meaningless eyes enough, yet the place where there should have grown eyelashes, being alone furnished with a red, knotty line in their room, gave them a ferret-like sharpness, without which they would have signified nothing at all.
This worthy, "_passant à joints pieds_," as Madame de Sevigné calls it, over all ceremonies, was inclined to make himself so much at his ease, that Captain Delaware, disgusted and offended, yet without any absolute pretext for anger, felt strongly inclined to quarrel with, and eject from the window, a person who interrupted a pleasant conversation to substitute vulgar impertinence in its place. Burrel, on the contrary, with cool indifference, amused himself for a moment or two with the other's vulgarity, and then trode him into silence by contempt. He then calmly resumed the conversation with his first companion, from which there was something in his tone and manner that irresistibly excluded the other, who, to revenge himself, looked out of the window, and like my Uncle Toby, whistled _lillebullero_.
Thus passed the remaining hours of their journey--Burrel every moment increasing upon the esteem of his traveling companion, till at length they approached, about six o'clock, a little village, which, though it may bear a different name in the county map, we shall take the liberty of calling Emberton. The sun had so far declined from the meridian, that the shadows were getting long and blue; but still the sheeny splendor of the summer's day was not at all decreased, though the approach of evening had cleared away the hazy brightness which hangs ever about a very hot and sunny noon. The coach wound along the road, every now and then passing various objects which gave notice that it was approaching some place where the busy and improving emmets that lord it over this ant-hill world had congregated together, and adorned their place of sojourn. Now came a neat gate and a detached cottage, too miniature in all its proportions, from the little Turkey-carpet garden to the rustic porch, to be the country mansion of any man of large property; and yet too neat, and one might, perhaps, say too elegant, to be the dwelling of the poor. It was evidently the house of the doctor or the lawyer, or the retired maiden lady of some village near at hand, and it, again, was succeeded by a long, clean, whitewashed wall, belonging to garden, or shrubbery, or semi-park, between which and the coach road ran a fair gravel footpath, defended by green posts and iron chains. The manifold paths and roads branching to the right and left, clean and well kept, told the same tale of man's habitation; and in a moment after, winding over a slight rise, the coach reached the brow of the hill, from which the whole village or little town of Emberton was visible.
It lay in a country slightly undulating, but backed by some high hills at the distance of about fifteen miles, and between them and the elevation which the coach had reached, the expanse might rather be called a plain than a valley. The village was close beneath the slope, and had little to distinguish it from any other English country town, having all that peculiar air of cleanliness, of regularity, and of the spirit of industry and cultivation, which is only to be seen in England. Its greatest ornament was the river, which, clear, smooth, and tranquil, ran through the town very nearly at the middle, and was itself spanned over by a neat stone bridge of about fifty yards in length. That bridge, however, was to be remarked for something more than its light and elegant construction: its balustrade formed the continuation of a low stone wall which separated the village from a wide park on the right hand side, full of majestic trees, scattered, in groups of four or five, over a fine undulating piece of ground. Through the midst, the river flowed gently on, reflecting the evening sky and two or three swans that floated on its bosom, the clear light of which was only broken here and there by a fall of a few feet, which scarcely increased the flow of the current. As one looked up the park from the bridge--at the distance of about a third of a mile on either hand--might be seen a grove of tall, graceful trees, sufficiently extensive to take the appearance of a forest, in some of the glades of which the eye caught occasionally the remains of old summer-houses, in the Charles the Second taste; and in the central point was seen the mansion itself, built of mingled gray stone and red brick, with small innumerable windows. It bore the aspect of what it really had been--a monastery erected early in the reign of Henry VIII. by a wealthy community of friars. From them it was afterward wrested by that pink of reforming monarchs, tyrants, and plunderers, and bestowed upon some minion of the day. The buttery of their time had become the lodge now, and was a detached, building in the same fashion as the house, projecting into the high road, and flanked by two large iron gates, which, to say sooth, were somewhat rusty for the want of paint. In what state of repair the dwelling-house itself was kept, could hardly be discerned at that distance; but no kinds of deer were seen sporting in the park, and sheep had evidently taken their place, as affording, probably, a more profitable manner of employing the land.
"That seems a splendid park!" said Burrel, as his eye first lighted on it. "Do you know what it is called?"
"Emberton Park," replied the young sailor, briefly.
"And belongs to--?" said Burrel.
"Sir Sidney Delaware--my father," answered the young man, with so deep a sigh that Burrel asked no further questions.
After dragging the wheel, the coach ran rapidly down the descent, and then rolling on, stopped at a neat, clean house, with a small garden in the front. At the little white gate were four fine setters, with a servant out of livery, who instantly touched his hat to Burrel, and, approaching the door, said, "This is the house, sir."
"Very well," answered Burrel; "and now farewell, Captain Delaware," he said, turning to his companion, and giving hint his hand with as much frank good humor as if he had addressed an old acquaintance; "I doubt not we shall meet again."
Delaware grasped his hand without reply, and the other alighted. All his dogs sprang up to greet him with evident joy, much to the detriment of his clothes, but little to that of his good humor, and after gazing up and down the road for a moment, as one does in a strange place, he walked through the little gate, and entered the house, at the door of which stood a tidy old lady, evidently courtesying to a new lodger.
The coach drove on, and then again stopped at the lodge of the park, where Captain Delaware alighted also. His portmanteau was given to the woman at the lodge; and he himself, with a quick step, walked up the path which led to the mansion.
CHAPTER II.
Whether there be something inherent in the nature of things which renders any object that man very much desires, thenceforth very difficult to be obtained, or whether it be that, by a certain perversity in man's nature, he only desires those things that _are_ difficult to be obtained, I can not tell; but one point is very clear in every body's experience, that whenever we fix our heart upon one particular object, and strive for it very ardently, however easy it might seem before, we find a thousand difficulties and obstacles start up upon our path, and overrule our wishes. Nevertheless, as there is nothing upon earth half so tiresome--ay, and half so useless, too--as a disquisition upon causes and effects, we will proceed with the events which gave rise to the above sage observation, which, by rights, should have followed this chapter as a corollary upon it, instead of a sort of epigraph at its head.
The person who has figured before the reader during a long day's journey in a stage-coach under the name of Burrel, entered the small, neat house we have before described; and, after having considered attentively with his eyes all the proportions and dimensions of the little parlor which was to be his sitting-room, he seated himself before the antique, and somewhat obscure mahogany table that it contained, and addressed his servant--who had followed into the room, together with the decent, respectable landlady--pronouncing those two important, but somewhat laconic words, "Get dinner!"
The man bowed, and left the room without reply; and Barrel proceeded, speaking to the landlady, who was beginning to fear, from certain symptoms that she saw, that both master and man were equally taciturn--"Well, my good lady," he said, "my man has doubtless arranged every thing with you, and I hope you are satisfied with the bargain he has made?"
"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" replied Widow Wilson, as the good dame was denominated. "There was but one word to that bargain, I can assure you."
"I suppose so," said Barrel, dryly, "if Harding concluded it. But tell me--that is a beautiful park opposite the window; who does it belong to?"
"Bless you, sir, that is Emberton Park!" replied the landlady, looking unutterable things at Barrel's ignorance. "You must have heard tell of Sir Sidney Delaware, Bart., of Emberton Park, surely?
"I think I have heard the name," replied Barrel. "What family has he!"
"Why, Lord bless me, sir! you came down with his own son," answered the old lady, more and more surprised at her lodger's ignorance of village facts, and beginning greatly to undervalue his understanding. "Why, I saw the captain's head as plainly as possible when you got out of the coach."
"Indeed!" said Burrell, with gravity not to be shaken; "and is he an only child?"
"Oh, no, sir, no!" answered Mrs. Wilson. "Sir Sidney has a young lady, too. Himself, his son, and his daughter--that is all of them, poor people!"
"Poor people!" exclaimed Barrel; "I should think they were rich people, with such a fine estate as that!"
"Ah, sir, things that show best are not always as they look!" replied the good woman. "They are as poor as church mice, sir, and that's poor enough. I wish to God they were richer--much good would they do! But I have heard Lawyer Johnstone say, that, with all the fine estate, Sir Sidney, when all is paid, has not four hundred a year of his own; and gentility without ability is like a pudding without plums! Then there is the captain's half-pay you know; and if they could let the house and park, it might bring something more. They tried one year, and went and lived at a cottage down at Sidmouth--but it did not let, and the place was going to ruin--and so they came back; for, though there are not many of them, yet two or three in a house are better than none at all."
"That is very true," said Barrel; "very true, indeed; and now, my good lady, see if my man has taken up the hot water to the dressing-room."
The good woman took the hint, and retired; and here it may be as well to mention one or two circumstances which preceded the arrival of Henry Burrel, Esq., at the neat little village of Emberton. These circumstances were simply as follows:--Two days before that on which we have thought fit to begin our tale, arrived by the coach--together with four portmanteaus, four dogs, and a gun-case--the servant whom we have seen waiting the traveler at the door of Mrs. Wilson's house. After a few inquiries at the inn, all conceived in very laconic style, he proceeded at once to Mrs. Wilson's, and, in words inexpressibly brief, concluded a bargain for her apartments, as they were called, for one month from that period, in the name of his master, Henry Burrel, Esq. As soon as the important fact was generally known that a gentleman possessing four portmanteaus, four setters, a gun-case, and a man out of livery, was about to take up his residence for one month in the village of Emberton, the wise may imagine the commotion that was created. The object of his visit was evidently to shoot, otherwise what could he do with four setters and a gun-case; but there were various other matters to be ascertained by the young and old ladies of the village; first, and foremost, whether the shooter might not be shot by Cupid's shaft--next, whether he were rich--next, whether he were young or old--next, whether he were a bachelor or a widower--and next, whether he had ever been in India. All these points, with the various branches into which they spread, were matters of consideration to the three classes of ladies who inhabit a small country town; namely, those who will not or can not marry at all, or any more--those who will marry when it suits them--and those who, at any time, will marry any thing or any body. However, not to enter into disagreeable particulars, the surgeon and apothecary, well knowing the importance of the case, the immense increase of influence he might acquire by learning the whole facts, and all the concomitant advantages which might thence accrue, was the first to watch the servant out of the house, after the rumor had spread, and--accosting him in an easy and familial way--to propound to him what the law people call leading questions. But the servant was as taciturn and as guarded as a thrice-convicted old Bailey witness is, or the embassador's private secretary's valet-de-chambre _should_ be and nothing could the doctor make of him. The lawyer tried him next, and then the innkeeper, but all equally failed; and the consequence was, that at the hour the coach was expected to arrive on the two subsequent days, all Emberton was in a flutter. There were the Misses this and the Misses that, as fine as--but there is no word for it--all taking their afternoon walk along the line of road--and there was Mrs. the-other-thing, the fair young widow, in such becoming weeds--buying some gray silk at the mercer's opposite, which she found it necessary to examine by the broader light of the street-door--just as the wheels came rattling down the hill. The coach at length was seen to stop; and Burrel, who had noticed no one on the face of the earth, but his own servant at the door of Mrs. Wilson's, walked into the house as we have before described, while the fact spread like lightning through the place that the gentleman at Mrs. Wilson's was young, handsome, dark, tall, and exquisite, and undoubtedly unmarried--for, by a peculiar test, or sort of instinct, which heaven has bestowed upon womankind, among their many other excellences, the fair sex have an extraordinary gift of discovering whether any male thing be married or single, at the distance of a hundred yards.
There was but one subject of conversation throughout Emberton during the course of that evening. The old topic--the unhappy poverty of the people at the Park, and the absurd pride which prevented them from giving tea-parties, because they could not give dinners, with all the little malice and tittle-tattle thereunto attached--was forgotten for the time, and nothing was spoken of but Mrs. Wilson's lodger and his silent man-servant. Indeed, the latter, with his extraordinary and unaccountable taciturnity, divided with his master the anxious curiosity of the two tea-parties given that evening; and one lady even went so far as not to doubt that he was a foreigner, and could not speak English, in proof of which she adduced his heavy black brows and egregious whiskers--an argument which, combined with the man's reserve, left one half of her hearers nearly convinced.
In the mean while, however, Henry Burrel sat down to his dinner, which he concluded with an excellent appetite, and in perfect silence, totally unconscious of the restless moments he was giving to the tongues of Emberton. This state of meditation continued unbroken till the cloth disappeared, and the silent servant, placing the inviolate bottle of comet claret before him--a supply of which, by the way, had been sent down to the coach-office ten days before, arguing, the lawyers would infer, a predetermination to lodge at Emberton--was about to retire, when he was arrested by his master's voice.
"Have you yet," demanded Burrel, musing, "made the inquiries I directed you, Harding!"
"Yes, sir," replied the man, and was again silent.
"Where does he live, then--this Mr. Tims?" asked his master. "How far is it from the village?"
"About a mile and a half, sir," answered Harding, "down a back lane at the end of the park--a very retired place, but easily found."
"And what else did you discover!" continued his master, "I mean in regard to the Delawares?"
"They visit no one, sir--in the village at least," replied the man, "and receive no one."
"Do any of the family shoot?"
"None, sir; and they have often given leave to gentlemen staying at the inn, for the mere asking."
"Very well," answered his master. "Now bring me my writing-desk, and some books from the library--the greatest trash you can find."
The man disappeared, and returned with the desk, from which, while he was again absent bringing the trash, in quest of which his master had dispatched him, Burrel took out some notes and accounts, and apparently went over the latter with the accurate attention of a man of business. He then wrote a brief note, which he folded and sealed, and, giving it to Harding on his return, bade him deliver it the next morning early, and wait an answer. All this being completed, he took up the first volume that had been brought him, cast himself back in his chair, and skimmed the pages till bedtime.
The breakfast table was laid out by the neat hands of Mrs. Wilson, exactly at eight o'clock the next morning--the white table-cloth, the jug of rich yellow cream, the two smooth rolls, somewhat browner than the same article of food in London, but doubtless much more the children of the corn--all bespoke a comfortable country breakfast; and when, in about half an hour after, Burrel descended in shooting guise, he looked round with that air of satisfaction which a man feels, after a long London season, on waking and finding himself really in the country. The hot water, not in the accursed lukewarm urn, but in a kettle hissing hot from the fire, was brought in by Mrs. Wilson; but in about ten minutes Harding himself appeared, and, with his usual silence, presented his master with an answer to his note of the evening before. It ran as follows, and explains both itself and the one to which it replied:
"Emberton Park, Wednesday Morning.
"Sir Sidney Delaware is happy to have the power of affording Mr. Burrel any gratification; and begs to say, that he is at perfect liberty to shoot over any part of his property with the exception of the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the house, the game on which he wishes to preserve."
"Hum!" said Burrel, shaking his head as he read the note. "Whom did you see, Harding?"
"A maid-servant, air," replied the man, "and the old gentleman himself."
"Did he say nothing about calling on me!" demanded Burrel; "or being happy to see me!"
"Nothing, sir," replied the man; and, with an injunction to get his gun ready, and see that the old lady did not give the dogs any thing to eat before they went out, his master dismissed him.
"We must find some means," said Burrel to himself, when the servant was gone; "but I'm afraid it will be more difficult than I thought--but the young man will call, of course."
Now, though it would be very easy to look into the mind of Henry Burrel, Esq., as he there stands pondering, with his hand leaning on the table, yet it may be better to pursue him a little farther ere we take such a liberty, and see him set forth upon his shooting expedition, in the course of which he approached as near to the mansion of Emberton Park as he decently could. His expedition was solitary, however; and if he expected or hoped to meet any of the family, he was disappointed. No one did he see but an occasional shepherd, and a hedger and a ditcher; and at three o'clock he returned home, with nothing to repay his walk but ten brace of birds.
The following morning it was no better; but Burrel seemed resolved upon another line of conduct, and, at the risk of seeming to intrude. he called at the house itself as he passed, and, on finding that its owner was from home, left a card with his compliments and thanks for the permission which had been granted him. "They will perhaps think me a presuming coxcomb," he thought; "but I care not." The next day, in crossing the fields with his dogs and his gun as usual, he suddenly, met his stage-coach companion, Captain Delaware, with a young lady leaning upon his arm, whom, from a certain family likeness, he at once concluded to be the sister of his acquaintance. Her dress was as plain as possible; but the model was good, and no one could have doubted that she was a lady, though it is probable that the walking-dress of the mercer's daughter at Emberton was, beyond comparison, more fashionable--in price. Her figure was extremely good, though, Heaven be praised, not at all sylphlike; and all that Burrel remarked was, that she was a very pretty girl, and had a very pretty foot. Her brother stopped for a moment; and with a countenance in which various emotions, strangely mingled, of pleasure and pain, called up an eloquent glow, he hoped that Burrel had met with good sport, introduced him to his sister, Miss Delaware, and then, in a manner somewhat abrupt and embarrassed, bade him good-by, and turned away.
Burrel walked on with his gun under his arm; and for a minute, as he did so, he bit his nether lip, and his brow slightly contracted. The moment after, however, he laughed, lightly murmuring, "Well, I must have recourse to the old miser, after all, though I hate his instrumentality;" and, turning on his heel, he sauntered back toward his own abode.
He was suffered to enter in peace; but his Manton was scarcely laid on the table, and his dogs given into the charge of his servant, when, to his horror and astonishment, Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon of the village, was announced, and a smart, dapper little man, of pale and gentlemanly aspect, made his appearance. Burrel was cool and civil; for it was a part of his code to be civil to every one till they were insolent; and, after the usual symphony concerning the weather, Mr. Tomkins proceeded to the chief motive of his visit.
"He had always," he said, "proposed to call upon Mr. Burrel as soon as his manifold occupations would permit; but he had that day been charged with a commission, which gave so much additional pleasure to his proposed visit, that he, of course, determined to pay it immediately. The fact was," he added, "that he had that morning been visiting Mrs. Darlington, the lady to whom that beautiful house and those sweet grounds upon the hill belonged, and who, having heard of Mr. Burrel's arrival in Emberton, though she could not, of course, call upon him herself, had begged the identical Mr. Tomkins, then before him, to say how much pleasure she would have to see him, if he would do her the honor of dining with her on the following day."
She was a widow lady of a certain age, Mr. Tomkins implied, who had all her life moved in the best society, and was the most charming and good-tempered person in the world--"Draws beautifully; has a great taste for music; sees a good deal of company at her house, where the cookery is excellent; does a great deal of good, and takes a vast deal of interest in every thing that is doing in the village."
"What a disagreeable person!" thought Burrel. "Nevertheless, I may as well amuse myself with her and hers, as walk about these fields from breakfast till dinner-time, or read these idiotical romances from dinner till bedtime." He replied, however, according to the letter of the law of civility, "Mrs. Darlington does me a great deal of honor, my dear sir," he said; "and I will do myself the pleasure of accepting her invitation, which I will notify to her forthwith by my servant. Pray, how far may be her house?"
"Oh, not above five miles, certainly," replied the worthy chirurgeon.
"Five miles!" said Burrel; "that is a tremendous way to roll in any thing but a cabriolet after eating. I shall certainly die of an indigestion if I trust myself to a hack post chaise in a state of repletion."
The man of medicines grinned at what in his ears sounded something very like a professional joke, but assured Burrel, at the same time, that his apprehensions were vain, for that Mrs. Darlington's invitations always implied a bed at her house.
"That alters the case," replied Burrel; "for I expect some horses down to-night, and will ride over, and dress before dinner."
The doctor, who felt that a vast accession of dignity would accrue, if he could expose himself to the wondering eyes of Emberton, in close companionship with the young and fashionable stranger, proposed to drive him over in his pony chaise; but this honor Burrel declined, replying quietly, that he would prefer riding; and, after one or two faint efforts toward discovery of all the hidden things appertaining to the young traveler, the surgeon, finding that the conversation began to fall continually to the ground, took the hint, and retired; and Burrel proceeded to change his shooting-dress for one better suited to the town.
Leaving him, however, to make this alteration, and to send off his answer to Mrs. Darlington's invitation, we shall now beg leave to follow home Captain Delaware and his sister; and, as every thing in a tale like the present should be as clear as possible, without the slightest mystery or absurd concealment, shall explain a few things that may have hitherto appeared strange in the conduct of that family.
The spot at which Burrel had that morning met his traveling companion was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and the brother and sister walked on directly toward one of the smaller doors in the park wall, and, passing through, turned their steps homeward. They proceeded, however, in silence; for there was something evidently in their rencounter with Burrel unpleasant to them both, nor was that unpleasant sensation, perhaps, relieved by the aspect of their paternal dwelling, or the grounds that surrounded it. Without entering into the painful details of a family's decay, it is sufficient to say, that the whole place bore the character--not of neglect--but of means incompetent to ward off the constant, unremitting, insidious assaults of time. They passed a temple in the park, which had been built in imitation of some famous specimen of Grecian architecture, and now came nearer still to the original by its decay. A large mass of the frieze had fallen and over the green and disjointed steps the brambles were shooting their long thorny arms. The path itself, too, which wound on toward the house, was half overgrown with grass; and where an effort to hoe it up had been begun, it had speedily been abandoned, from the necessity of employing the man in some more useful service. The mansion, too, more than half closed, had about it all--not the aspect of ruin, for it had by no means reached that pitch--but a look of desertion and of poverty which contrasted painfully with the splendor of the original design.
To the eye of Miss Delaware and her brother all this was customary; but yet it struck them both, after their meeting with Burrel, perhaps more forcibly than it had ever done before; and there was something like a sigh escaped the lip of each, as, opening the large door, they passed on into what had once been a splendid vestibule. The day was a sultry one, and the door of a rooms entering immediately upon the hall, was open when Captain Delaware and his sister entered. The step of Miss Delaware, as she walked on, caught the ear of some one within, and a voice, in the tone of which there was the slightest possible touch of impatience, was heard exclaiming, "Blanche, is that you, my love?"
The young lady, followed by her brother, immediately turned her steps into the fine old library from which the sound proceeded, and found reading, at a small table near one of the long, many-paned windows, a person who--however contrary to rule--deserves a more particular sketch of his mental and corporeal qualities, and of his previous history, than we may find it convenient to give of any other person connected with this book.
Sir Sidney Delaware had set out in life a younger son. His father, Mr. William Delaware, had been a man of great talents, and very little common sense, who, by the help of his abilities, and considerable family influence, had been raised to offices in the state, conferring large revenues, which he squandered profusely. Mr. William Delaware, however, kept up the appearance of a man of fortune; and as his uncle, the then possessor of Emberton Park, was unmarried and advanced in life, his prospects were admitted on all hands, even by Jews and money-lenders, to be good. Be it remarked, nevertheless, that though he was the direct male heir to his uncle's property, there were two other persons who more than equally shared in his uncle's favor--his own first cousins, and equally the nephews (though by the female line), of the Sir Harcourt Delaware who then held the lands of Emberton. These were Lord Ashborough and his brother, the Honorable Henry Beauchamp. However, he did not let any thing disturb him, but continued to live splendidly and well--gave his eldest son a commission in a crack regiment of cavalry, and sent his second son, Sidney, to Christ Church.
At Christ Church there were two or three peculiarities observed in Sidney Delaware. With his scholastic education we shall have nothing to do, being no scholars ourselves. The first of these peculiarities was an uncommon degree of accuracy in paying his bills, and living within his income; and his elder brother was wont to say, that Sidney was so sick of seeing nobody paid at home, that he was resolved to pay every one to the uttermost farthing. The next trait remarked by his fellow-collegians was his extraordinary good-nature; for was any one in difficulty or distress, Sidney Delaware would help them to the very utmost of his power, though in many instances he was known to hate and contemn the very men he assisted; and the third quality was a talent for satire, and a faculty of vituperation, which might have been envied by Gifford among the dead, and two or three we could name among the living.
The secret of his character, perhaps, was the combination of an extraordinary sensibility of the absurd, with a high and severe moral feeling. He studied for the church, however; and as he did so, many of the injunctions of that divine book, to which his mind was naturally turned continually, appeared so contrary to the asperity of his sarcastic disposition, that he determined to make a powerful effort to restrain the bitterness of speech and writing to which he had before given way. Time and years, too, had their effect, and the biting satire that used to hang upon his lip remained bidden in silence, or only broke forth casually, when he was off his guard. He tried to banish from his heart that feeling of contempt and scorn which he experienced whenever any thing mean, or false, or base, met his eyes; and perhaps the very good-natured facility with which he could be induced to assist any one, might spring from an apprehension lest the scorn he felt for all that was pitiful in others, might affect his own actions, and render him uncharitable himself. His elder brother died before he himself was ordained; and, on the persuasion of his father, he abandoned his purpose of entering the church; traveled for several years, and then studied for the bar. His next step was to marry, and he was a widower with two children at the time his father succeeded to Sir Harcourt Delaware. The baronet, however, in dying, had given to his two nephews, Lord Ashborough and Mr. Beauchamp, who had been very constant in their attentions, a far larger share of his fortune than he left to him who was to inherit the baronetcy; and thus, the latter, having counted largely on his future fortune, found himself more embarrassed than relieved by the death of his uncle. The estate that was left to him was also entailed by the will of the last possessor; and his only resource to free himself from the most pressing difficulties, was to engage his son to join him in raising money upon annuity. Sidney Delaware consented with a heavy heart, and the money was borrowed, much against his will, from his father's cousin, Lord Ashborough, between whom and the young heir of Emberton a quarrel had previously taken place, of a nature not likely to admit of reconciliation. For the pitiful sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, the estate of Emberton was charged with an annuity of two thousand per annum; and scarcely had that sum been swallowed up by his father's debts, when Sidney Delaware succeeded to a splendid name and a ruined property.
Griefs and disappointments had impaired his health, had broken his spirit and crushed his energies; and, dwelling almost in solitude, he had given himself up to the education of his children, forgetting that a time would come when the acquaintances which he was losing every day, would become necessary to his children in the world. In bitterness of heart, too, he often thought that his friends were neglecting him, when in fact he was neglecting them; and exclaiming, "Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos!" he shut his doors against the world, believing that his poverty would meet with nothing but contempt.
As time wore on, however, he found that he erred in not exerting his abilities, in order to remove the incumbrances which his father had incurred. His son grew up and entered the navy, and half the interest of a small sum, which had been his wife's fortune, afforded sufficient to maintain the boy in that service. But it was when his daughter also grew toward womanhood that Sir Sidney Delaware felt most severely that he had committed an error. His son, he thought, had an honorable profession, and, by his own high merits and activity, was making rapid progress. At the death of Lord Ashborough, too, the annuity which swallowed up almost the whole rents of his estate would lapse, and his heir would have enough. But Lord Ashborough was scarcely an older man than himself; and when he gazed upon his daughter, and saw her growing up with all her mother's beauty and grace, with every quality fitted to charm and to attach, and at the same time remembered that she was to live cut off from society, during all those brighter days of youth and hope which lie between sixteen and five-and-twenty, he would have given his right hand to have recalled the years which, by active exertion, he might have employed to remove the difficulties that held him down. Now however, he felt, or persuaded himself, that it was impossible to seek society. He could not mingle with persons in his own rank of life upon an equality, and he would not mingle with any other class, or, with them in any other manner. Few of these old friends existed for him, on whose generous feelings he could fearlessly rely, and feel certain, from a knowledge of their nature, that no thought even would ever cross their minds, which could have wounded him if spoken. Thus, he had no old channel of communication with the world still open, and pride, rendered irritable by disappointment, as well as the circumstances in which he was placed, prevented him from seeking any new connection with society. Could he in any way have given his son and daughter the means of mingling with the world, while he himself shunned it altogether, he would have snatched eagerly at the opportunity; but that of course was out of the question, and day went by after day, and found them all in the same situation.
Such was still the case, at the time of my present tale; and when Miss Delaware and her brother entered the library in which their father was, as usual, driving away thought by reading, they found him seated near the open window with Pope's Essays in his hand. His hair, which had once been dark brown, was now nearly white--in fact, much whiter than his years would warrant. Yet, though the body was in some degree broken _curis et laboribus_, still temperance and fine air had done much to counteract even grief. His countenance was florid, his eye was clear, and he appeared a hale healthy man, though looking six or seven years older than he really was.
Long conversations being, like love and marriage, excessively tiresome to every one but those concerned, a summary of what followed will be better than a chapter; and it is quite sufficient to say, that the rencounter of the brother and sister with Mr. Burrel soon became the principal topic of conversation. Captain Delaware, whose loves were very first-sighty, dashed at once into such an encomium of his stage coach companion, that an arch smile, at this pouring forth of his well-known enthusiasm, played for a moment on the lip of Blanche Delaware. Her father, however, looked grave, and said he was sorry that they had met him at all. "This young man," he went on, "seems to be a person of fortune and station, whom, in happier times, we might have been delighted to see; but you are well aware, William, that under our present circumstances, it is perfectly impossible to invite a man of horses and dogs, and guns and servants, to this house. Did he seem so charming to you, Blanche!"
Miss Delaware replied, that her brother's acquaintance had not appeared either quite so handsome or quite so fascinating in his shooting-jacket as her brother had described him in his traveling costume,--"But at all events," she added, "his appearance savored nothing of arrogance or presumption."
"Alas! my dear Blanche," said her father, "you do not know what a man of the world is. Every point in the situation of a poor gentleman is painful, but none so much so, as the having to endure the compassion of fools and puppies."
Captain Delaware turned to the window, and after looking out for a moment or two left the room. Blanche remained, but dropped the subject, and it was no more resumed.
CHAPTER III.
After having undergone the visit of the surgeon, Burrel, as we have stated, changed his dress; and, having given some directions to his servant, strolled out alone upon an expedition, in which it may be necessary to follow him. Crossing the bridge--upon which he paused for a moment to gaze up the long vista of the park--he proceeded to the extremity of the wall which formed the inclosure, and then, turning through a shady lane, formed by that boundary on one side, and a steep bank and hedge on the other, he strolled on with an air of absent thoughtfulness, that made more than one milkmaid, whom he met returning with her brimful pails from the neighboring fields, conclude with the true sentimentality of a Molly, "that the gentleman must be in love!"
Sad, however, to say, Burrel was not the least in love in the world; and though of a somewhat enthusiastic and Quixotical character, he would probably have been obliged, like the hero of La Mancha himself, to think some time before he could possibly have discovered any one in the sphere of his acquaintance whom he would have considered worthy of the honor and the trouble of falling in love with. Still more melancholy to relate, so far from any fair image filling his mind with dreams ambrosial, and making him stumble over the stones in his way, he was at that moment thinking of money--base, unwholesome money. His meditations were of Cocker; and many a sum, both of addition, multiplication, and subtraction, together with various computations of interest, and now and then a remote flash of vulgar fractions, passed across his mind, in all of which he displayed a talent for accounts somewhat more clear and accurate than that of Joseph Hume, thank God!--though not quite so neat and rapid as that of ever-lamented Windham.
Thus he walked along under the wall of the park till the park wall ended, and then taking a narrow and overhanging road, which descended into a sweet, wild valley--through which a brook meandered on, till it lost itself in the sands upon the sea-shore, about five miles to the east--he proceeded on his way without doubt or question, as if he had known the whole country from his boyhood. The opposite bank of the valley was thickly covered with trees and shrubs; and about half a mile from the spot where the road entered it, the summit of what seemed a tall old fashioned farm house, of cold gray stone, rose above this sort of verdant screen. Within a few hundred yards of this building, the road climbed the bank, and passed before the door, which was painted of a bluish gray, like that of a French country house, and offered an aspect of untidiness and discomfort not often seen in an English dwelling. No roses decorated the porch, no clematis festooned the windows; stone walls surrounded that which was, or had been intended for a garden; and the gruntings and squeaks which echoed from within that boundary, spoke the character of the domestic animals chiefly cultivated at Ryebury.
Undeterred, however by the inhospitable appearance of the building, or by the wailings of the beast that never chews the cud, Burrel approached the door, and, laying his hand upon a bell, made sure that if any one was within half a mile, he must be heard; and then, turning round to gaze upon the prospect, continued to hum "Dove sono," with which he had been beguiling the way for the last ten minutes. While thus employed, one of the high windows almost immediately above his head was thrown open, and the upper part of a woman-servant, who would have been pretty enough had she not been disguised in indescribable, filth was protruded to reconnoiter the stranger's person. The moment after, another head was added, almost as dirty, but neither pretty nor young, being the dingy white superstructure of an old man's person, who looked not at all unlike Noah, unwashed since the flood.
A long and careful examination did these two respectable persons bestow upon him who so disturbed the quiet of their dwelling, while Burrel, though perfectly conscious, from the groaning of the upheaved window-frame, that he was undergoing a general inspection, continued indefatigably to hum "Dove sono," till, opining that the inquisition had continued sufficiently long, he again applied himself to the bell, which once more responded to his will with "most miraculous organ."
"Run down, Sarah! run down!" cried the elder phantom, "and open the door. Ask him who he is, and what he wants, and then come and tell me. But stay, I will go down with you to the parlor!"
The bell was once more in Burrel's hand, when the door yawned, and displayed to his view a great part of the person and adjuncts dependent upon the female head which had been criticising him from above. It is scarcely necessary to say more than that she was a slut of the first quality, with dirt, _ad libitum_, spread over the whole person--various triangular tears in the printed cotton that covered her--much white lining protruding through the chasms in her shoes--and a cap as yellow as a pair of court ruffles. Without waiting for the categories that were to be addressed to him, Burrel at once walked into the house; and, telling the dirty maid to inform her master that Mr. Burrel desired to speak with him, approached the door of the parlor, where the person he sought--not confiding in his servant's powers of recapitulation--was listening with all his ears to the catechism he proposed that the stranger should undergo. As soon, however, as he caught the name of Burrel, he emerged and met that gentleman in the passage with many a bow. His dress was clean enough, and in style and appearance was upon a par with that of a country attorney's of about twenty or thirty years ago--black, jet-black, from head to heel, except the worsted stockings, which were dark gray. The whole was well and economically worn, but his face evinced small expense of soap, and his beard that he wore out no razors--upon his chin at least. In person he was a short thin man, of about sixty-five or six, with a reddish tip to a long nose, set on upon a pale many-furrowed face. He stooped a little toward the shoulders, and there was that sort of bending droop about the knees which betokens a decrease of vigor. His clear gray eye, however, had something in it both eager and active, and the heavy penthouse of long black and white hair that overhung it, gave a sort of fierce intensity to its glance.
"Your name, sir, is Tims, I presume?" said Burrel, eyeing him with a good deal of that cool nonchalance which is no doubt very disagreeable. The other bowed to the ground, and his visitor continued--"My name is Burrel, and Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, my solicitors, have doubtless written to you concerning--"
"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the other, in a subdued voice, at the same time raising his eyebrows, and opening his eyes with a stare of wondering deprecation. "We will speak about it presently, sir, if you please. I received theirs in due course, and expected to have heard of your coming sooner, sir; but shall be very happy, indeed, if we can do business together. Do me the honor, sir, to walk in. Sarah, bring this gentleman a glass of--of--wine," he added, after a moment's hesitation and a glance at the stranger's dress; "but perhaps you would prefer ale, Mr. Burrel, alter your walk?"
"I take nothing, sir," answered Burrel, evidently to the great satisfaction of the other; "and having but a few minutes to stay, merely wish to speak with you concerning--"
But his host again cut across him, appearing to think that all matters in which the very name of money was to be mentioned, had better be talked of in private; and hurrying Burrel forward into the parlor, he begged him to be seated, adding almost in the same breath--"Sad times, indeed, sir, as you say--rate of interest falling terribly--hardly four per cent. to be got on good security--sad times, indeed, sir, as you say!"
"I do not say the times are bad at all, sir," replied Burrel, gravely, "nor that four per cent. can not be got for money on good security. You must mistake me, I believe, for some more plaintive person. But to the point, Mr. Tims. I think my solicitors wrote to you that I had twenty-five thousand pounds lying uninvested, which I was willing to lend at five or four and a-half per cent. This sum they had heard you were seeking for some gentleman in this neighborhood who could give good security--Sir Sidney Delaware, I think, was his name."
"Oh, but, sir, I am afraid," answered Mr. Tims, shaking his head, "I am afraid that business is off. It won't do, sir, I am afraid--it won't do--can't manage matters there, I am afraid!"
"And pray why not, sir!" demanded Burrel. "I shall not feel very well pleased if I have been brought down here by your report to examine the matter myself, and am disappointed."
"Oh! no fear of that, sir," replied the other: "no fear of finding plenty of others. Besides, I should think, with submission, that you might make Sir Sidney pay--as you say--your expenses, loss of time, &c., &c. He gave me full powers--and as you say--"
"I do not say any thing of the kind, sir," replied Burrel, sternly. "Be so good as not to put words into my mouth which I have never spoken. Rather let me hear why, and how, the proposed arrangement can not have effect, and then we will consider other matters after we have fully canvassed the first."
"Quite right, sir! quite right!" replied Mr. Tims, not in the least discomposed by Burrel's rebuke. "Quite right, indeed! Always right to have every thing clear by itself! Why, you must know the simple fact is this. The property of Emberton, as you say, is burdened with an annuity to the amount of two thousand pounds per annum on the life of the present Lord Ashborough, the sum given for which was only twenty-five thousand pounds--and that nearly twenty years ago, when Lord Ashborough was about forty, and his life was worth at least twenty years' purchase. Well, having to speak with Sir Sidney some time ago on some road business, the transaction came up, and I asked him why he did not pay off the annuity, by raising money on mortgage, which he could do at five per cent. His son, the captain, too, was present; and, as the entail ends with the captain, the matter would be easily done--though it had never struck them--always provided, nevertheless, that the annuity was redeemable. The arrangement would save them a thousand a year, you see, sir, and so they agreed to give--"
"To give you how much, sir, for the job?" demanded Burrel.
"Only a fair commission for raising the money," replied the other; "and as Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, your worthy and excellent solicitors, had been making inquires about this very estate, as it would happen--I can not think how or why--I wrote to them about it, and the matter was soon arranged; but then Captain Delaware was obliged to go to London to speak with my Lord Ashborough--an excellent gentleman--and on his return it was found that the annuity deed, by some strange accident, contained no clause of redemption. Indeed, none could have been stipulated, for I know the person who drew it, and who is as accurate as Duval."
"And pray, sir, who did draw it?"
"My own nephew, sir--my own nephew--Peter Tims, Esq." replied his companion; "Peter Tims, who succeeded me in my chambers at Clement's Inn; and who was fortunate enough to secure the patronage and friendship of Lord Ashborough."
"Ha!" replied Burrel, dryly; "so then you think the annuity can not be redeemed?"
"Afraid not, sir! Afraid not!" replied the retired lawyer, or, as he was commonly called by the villagers, the miser. "Afraid not; but as I was saying, there are plenty of other properties susceptible of mortgage in this neighborhood, and some," he added, closing one eye, and fixing the other on Burrel's face with the look of a tame raven that has just hidden a silver spoon, "and some where there is a strong ultimate prospect of a foreclosure and sale at excessive reduction. There is the estate of Sir Timothy Ridout--who wants now to borrow twenty thousand pounds--well worth a hundred. By a little management, one might get hold of it, and--"
"I have no such views, sir," replied Burrel, gravely; "and as the other business can not apparently be arranged, I shall invest the money in other property. But, tell me, did Lord Ashborough refuse to redeem?"
"Yes, sir! Yes, flat, downright!" replied the miser; "and very right, too. He could not get near the interest even now. But you had better think of the business of Sir Timothy Ridout. Such a thing is not to be got hold of every day."
"I shall never give it another thought," replied Burrel, coldly; and, rubbing his boot with his cane, unconscious of what he was about, he remained for several minutes thinking deeply, while the miser sat upon the edge of his chair, marveling that any human being could let slip the tempting bait of Sir Timothy Ridout's estate, and beginning to entertain strong doubts as to whether Burrel was really a wealthy man, from the indifference he showed to the prospect of increasing his wealth. "I am sorry," he thought, "that I told that servant of his that he might shoot over the Ryebury fields: I will write to Peter by the next post, and make him fish out of Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson whether he really has money. I might have made a cool five hundred by that Ridout business."
While he thus thought, and Burrel's meditations continued, though of a very different nature, a sudden ring of the bell roused them both from their reveries; and, after a short _reconnoissance_ through the window, the miser exclaimed, "It is Sir Sidney Delaware, I declare!"
"Then you will be so good, Mr. Tims," said Burrel, in a tone sufficiently peremptory, "not to refer or allude to me, in any shape or way, as the person who wished to lend the money."
"Oh, certainly not! certainly not!" replied the miser, with a shrewd glance; "it is a bad speculation that--but the Ridout business, if you will but think over it--will you see this Sir Sidney!"
"I have no objection," answered Burrel; and the miser, bidding his dirty maid show the gentleman in, Sir Sidney Delaware was ushered into the parlor the moment after.
As soon as he saw that there was a stranger present, the baronet paused, and for an instant seemed as if he would have drawn back, saying, "You are engaged, Mr. Tims; I was not aware you had any one with you."
"Not at all; not at all, my dear sir!" said Mr. Tims. "Sir Sidney, Mr. Burrel--Mr. Burrel, Sir Sidney Delaware!"
"I am happy to have an opportunity, sir," said Burrel, "of returning to you my personal thanks for the permission to shoot over your grounds, which you were kind enough to grant me."
"Where there is no obligation conferred, sir," replied the baronet, somewhat distantly, "there can be no occasion for thanks. I do not shoot--my son has not this year taken out a license; and it is quite as well that the game should be shot by you, who ask permission, as by those who do not ask at all." He paused for an instant, while the color deepened in Burrel's cheek; but the baronet's heart instantly reproached him for an uncourteous reply, and he added, "I hope you have found sport."
"Plenty of game," answered Burrel; "but the birds are very wild."
"That is a very natural consequence," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "of the immense number of persons whose notions of property are daily growing more limited."
"I trust, indeed, that something may soon be done," replied Burrel, "to correct the extensive system of poaching."
"Probably we shall soon have one of those beautiful pieces of legislation on the subject," replied Sir Sidney, "which will prevent people from committing the crime, by rendering it none in the eye of the law. But, Mr. Tims, as I have a little business of a private nature on which I must speak with you, I will probably call upon you to-morrow, if you are likely to be disengaged."
"No delay must take place on my account," said Burrel, rising. "My business with this gentleman is over; and therefore I will leave you."
Thus saying, he turned, and, wishing the baronet good morning, quitted the house, ushered to the door by Mr. Tims; who, though still doubtful as to the young stranger's wealth, followed him with a many a lowly bow, fearful of losing, by any indiscretion, the sums that might accrue from the good management of the Ridout business. Burrel, in the mean time, took his way once more through the valley, musing, as he went, upon his late interview with Sir Sidney Delaware, with somewhat more deep and curious speculation than entered into the thoughts he bestowed upon the old miser, of whose general character he was before aware.
In the manner and tone of Sir Sidney Delaware, however, there was something that he felt to be repulsive and unpleasant, which to a man of Burrel's character, was extremely painful. His first determination--if that can be called a determination, which, formed upon impulse, does not last ten minutes--was to set out for London, and forget that such a place as Emberton, or such a person as Sir Sidney Delaware, was upon the face of the earth. Burrel, however to use Sterne's expression, was a great motive-monger, but with this peculiarity, that he was fully as fond of examining his own motives as those of other people; and, in the present instance, the small still voice whispered something about offended pride, which made him inquire into his own heart a little more strictly.
He found, then, upon reflection, that however much he might fancy himself perfectly indifferent, he was in fact angry, and the primary cause of this anger was, as usual, mortified vanity. He, accustomed to be courted and sought, to choose at will his acquaintances, and to keep at arm's length all those he did not particularly like, by a cool tone of indifference, which had something in it of scorn, had come out of his stronghold, and, as he could not but acknowledge, had gone as far as he well could, to seek the acquaintance of Sir Sidney Delaware. That gentleman was evidently not disposed to give it him; and though Burrel felt in some degree the motives which might and did actuate him, yet, a knowledge of the degree of scorn which mingled with his own coolness toward others, would not let him believe that some portion of contempt did not also exist in the indifference with which Sir Sidney Delaware treated his advances.
It is in general the natural refuge of mortified vanity, to persuade itself that it retorts contempt upon those who show it, and to pass off upon itself the anger it feels for the more dignified passion of scorn. A slight touch of this sort of feeling had been experienced by Burrel: for there are few bosoms of whose passions we may not say, _castigata remordent_; but his nature was too generous to entertain such feelings long, and, before he had reached the door of good Mrs. Wilson, in Emberton, his first angry resolution was changed, and a more firm determination adopted, to remain in the village the time he had at first proposed, and without seeking any more an acquaintance which was evidently withheld intentionally, to see whether chance might not furnish him will some opportunity of gratifying a more generous purpose.
"For the sake of that gallant lad," he thought, "I will not give it up so easily."
CHAPTER IV.
On his return home, Burrel found that the horses which he expected from London had arrived in high condition, having performed the journey by slow and careful stages. The appearance of this new accession to his dignity was not, of course, without its effect upon the good people of Emberton, and, "Have you seen Mr. Burrel's beautiful horses?" was a general question among the male part of the inhabitants; while all the ladies of the place, of course, were not in the least anxious to see the tall, dark, handsome, mysterious stranger ride forth upon some one of those three steeds whose fame already filled the town.
Those who had such expectations, however, were long disappointed, for, during the whole of the following morning, Mr. Burrel never set foot beyond his door; and it was near four o'clock when his servant, on horseback, proceeded toward Mrs. Darlington's, with a small traveling portmanteau, thus giving notice that the master himself was soon to follow. About half-past four, or a quarter to five, a groom appeared at the door with a splendid dark bay horse, and a moment after, Burrel himself came forth, looked at the girths, the stirrups, and the curb, and then putting his foot in the stirrup, swung himself easily into the saddle. The horse stood as still as marble till it felt its master's heel, and then, as if cut out of one piece, away went both--without the slightest regard to high-road--straight across the country toward Mrs. Darlington's house, which was seen crowning the distant hill.
"Happy Mrs. Darlington!"--thought the ladies of Emberton, as they gazed out, and saw the horseman clear the fence at a bound, and then canter lightly over the sloping fields that led away toward her dwelling. "Happy Mrs. Darlington!" and Mrs. Darlington was a happy woman; but as there are at least a thousand ways, in this intellectual world, of being happy, we shall take leave to give a slight sketch of _Mrs. Darlington's way_.
Mrs. Darlington was a widow, and her happiness was farther increased by being a widow with a large fortune. Nor was her fortune alone derived from her ci-devant husband, for she had passed through all the three stages of female felicity--that of co-heiress, heiress, and rich widow, with a very slight taste of the necessary purgatory preceding the last happy climax. Who was her father, matters not to this book; he was dead, and his ancestors had him in the dust--for, as the Spectator says, "He had ancestors just as well as you and I, if he could but have told their names." This, however, it was supposed, from some defect in the family memory, he could not do; but in regard to his daughter, who was neither very handsome, nor very ugly, the defect was soon remedied. She had every sort of instruction that the known world could produce; her father luckily died early; she had no relations to make her vulgar; she married Mr. Darlington, a man of rank and station--easily acquired the slang and ease of fashionable life; and adopted boldly, and without remorse of conscience, the whole of her husband's relations. Her husband found that his wife brought him fortune, good luck, and no family. His affairs, to use the seaman's term, righted, and after four years' marriage, he died, leaving her, out of pure gratitude, widowhood, fortune, and his relations.
Mrs. Darlington, having penetrated into the arcana, and got all she wanted--an introduction and a station in society--determined to taste no more of matrimony herself; though with laudable zeal she was ever willing to promote it among her friends and neighbors. She was naturally somewhat of a sentimental turn, but mingled and kept down by so sufficient a portion of small sensualities--I mean the eating, and drinking, and soft lying, and, in short, the comfortable sensualities, nothing worse--that the sentimentality never became vulgar or troublesome. Nay, indeed, I might say, it never became apparent, and showed itself rather as a convenient sort of tender consideration for the wishes and feelings of young people of suitable ages and descriptions, and likely to fall in love with each other, than as any thing personal. In most other things, she was one of those very ordinary persons, perfectly ladylike and at their ease, with a small degree of taste in the fine arts--drew tolerably, liked music, and would sometimes play on the piano--was fond of fine scenery--spoke French well, with the exception of a slight confusion in the genders--had an idea or two of Italian, and had sketched the Colosseum. Added to all these high qualities, she was extremely good-natured, very fond of her friends, and of herself; quiet, in no degree obtrusive, with a sufficient share of vanity never to fancy herself neglected, and yet not enough to run against the vanity of any one. A little tiresome she was, it is true, from a potent mixture of insipidity; but who is there so splenetic as not to forgive the only evil quality over which one can fall sound asleep and wake without a headache?
Mrs. Darlington's common course of life was to travel during six months of the year, accompanied by as many young marriageable friends as she thought might do credit to her taste and kindness; and as she had a very extensive circle of acquaintances, at whose dwellings she was always welcome, these journeys were generally pleasant, and sometimes fortunate. Of the other six months, two were spent in London, where Mrs. Darlington, dressed by Carson, in a manner at once the most splendid and the most becoming her age, figured at dinner and evening parties, and was exceedingly useful, both as a chaperon and a fill-up; while the other four months were passed at her estate near Emberton, with a house seldom entirely vacant, and dinner-parties renowned for the delicacy of the _manger_.
Such was the lady to whose house Henry Burrel, Esq., had received an invitation, solely upon the strength of the gossip of the village, and a vague report, that Captain Delaware had met him at the Earl of Ashborough's. The fact indeed was, that Mrs. Darlington's house was completely vacant at the time, or she might have felt some scruples as to asking a stranger, without some farther information regarding his station in society than could be derived from the panegyric of the doctor, whose knowledge of him went no farther than the cut of his coat. She did, indeed, feel a little apprehensive after she had dispatched the invitation, but the appearance of Burrel's servant, who brought her his reply, the form of the note that contained it, and the very handwriting, all convinced her that Henry Burrel must be a gentleman, though it was in vain that she racked her imagination to find out which of all the Burrels it could be.
When, about half-past four, Mr. Burrel's servant arrived, and proceeded to prepare the room assigned to his master, with a sort of ceremonious accuracy which argued the constant habit and custom of ease and care, the footman, feeling for the anxiety of his mistress--for footmen and ladies' maids know every thing--communicated to Mrs. Hawkins, his mistress's maid, the result of his own observations; and Mrs. Darlington sat down, with a composed mind, to finish a sketch of the west shrubbery walk, till Mr. Burrel should arrive; while of the rest of the guests she had invited, some had not appeared, and some had retired to dress.
At length her eye caught, from the window, the apparition of some person on horseback approaching the house, and in a few minutes Mr. Burrel was announced. Graceful, easy, _posé_, Burrel's whole appearance carried its own recommendation with it. He was one of those men who, in speaking little, say much, and in a very few minutes he was in high favor with Mrs. Darlington.
It now became necessary for him to dress, as he well knew that a lady whose fondness for the good things of this life was so admitted as Mrs. Darlington's world not brook the spoiling of her dinner; and accordingly he rang, and was shown to his room. His toilet, indeed, was not very long; and a few minutes after six, the hour named, found him entering the drawing-room.
There were four persons already assembled, of whom Mrs. Darlington herself was one. The face of the young lady who sat by her on the sofa was, he thought, familiar to him; but it cost him more than one glance, ere he recognized in the beautiful girl he now beheld, and who was certainly as lovely a thing as ever the female part of creation produced--it is saying a great deal, but it is true, nevertheless--it required more than one glance, I say, before he recognized in her the lady he had seen hanging upon the arm of Captain Delaware on the preceding day.
Burrel, however, never looked surprised; and his claim upon Miss Delaware's acquaintance was immediately admitted with a degree of frank and smiling kindness, which arose partly, perhaps, from the high character her brother had drawn of his stage-coach companion, but more still, in all probability, from feeling that her father's reserve might have given pain and offense. While he was still speaking with Mrs. Darlington and Miss Delaware, and was just at one of these before-dinner pauses in which the conversation flags, some one laid his hand upon Burrel's arm, and turning round, he confronted a thin, but hale elderly man, dressed in black, on whose fine gentlemanly countenance was playing a smile, which had as much archness in its composition as habitual gravity of expression would allow.
"My dear Henry," said the clergyman--for no one could look in his face for a moment and doubt that he was a clergyman--"my dear Henry, what have you been doing with yourself this many a day?"
The first look had shown Burrel an old and dear friend, and he shook his hand heartily as Dr. Wilton. "I am still, I believe, acting as one of what Tillotson calls '_fools at large_,'" replied the young stranger, "and wandering about the world doing nothing."
"Nay, nay, Henry!" replied the other, "your report of yourself was always less favorable than you deserved. You are not one to wander about the world doing nothing--but speak to me a moment," and he drew his younger companion gently toward the hollow of the bay window, where they conversed for a few moments in a low tone, while one or two of the neighboring gentlemen and ladies were announced, and entered the room.
The dinner-bell rang immediately after; and the doors being thrown open, Burrel advanced and took in Mrs. Darlington, though he would, perhaps, have preferred a nearer place to Miss Delaware. But Dr. Wilton took the end of the widow's table, and laughingly secured the younger ladies to himself; so that Burrel was obliged to content himself with talking elaborate nonsense to Mrs. Darlington, which to do him all manner of justice, he executed with great gravity and success.
"I do not like this Mr. Burrel," thought a sensible, middle-aged county woman, who sat next to him on the other hand. "He's a coxcomb!" thought a rough, shrewd, wealthy proprietor opposite. The shy young fox-hunter, who sat a little farther down, and whose ideas were strangely confined to horses, and dogs, and fences, and five-barred gates, was inclined to cry, with Mungo, "D--n his impudence!" and, in short, at the end of the table at which he himself sat, Burrel most perversely contrived to give very general dissatisfaction to every one but Mrs. Darlington. With her he ran over the slang of cookery, and criticism, and ton, with the most wonderful emptiness.
There is certainly some strange perversity in the human heart, which renders it so pleasant sometimes to make one's self disagreeable--ay, and, for the express purpose of doing so, to assume a character totally different from one's own. So, however, it is; and perhaps Burrel was especially giving himself forth as a fop at the one end of the table, because he very well knew that Dr. Wilton would not fail to portray him differently at the other.
Such, indeed, was the fact. Blanche Delaware was a sort of pet of the worthy clergyman; and he used to declare that he was always the proudest man in the county when in company with her, for that he was the only man she ever was known to flirt with. The affectionate term, "My dear," which he always applied to Miss Delaware, was felt by her as he intended it; and she looked up to him as, in some degree, a second parent. His conversation with her almost immediately turned to Burrel, whose appearance there had evidently surprised him.
"You seem an old friend of his?" said Miss Delaware, as soon as the soup was gone, and a general buzz suffered her to ask the question without particular notice. "Pray, is he so very admirable and charming as he has convinced my brother he is, in a short journey of a hundred miles?"
"He is something better than charming, my dear," replied Dr. Wilton. "He is one of the noblest-hearted, finest-minded men in England."
At that very moment there was one of those unhappy breaks which make low voices loud; and Burrel was heard descanting upon the merits of Madeira after soup. "For Heaven's sake, never think of taking Sherry, my dear madam!" he exclaimed. "After soup or macaroni, Madeira is the only thing bearable."
Blanche Delaware looked up in Dr. Wilton's face with a smile full of playful meaning. "Do not judge him by that," replied the clergyman, speaking to the smile's purport--"do not judge him by that; I have known him from his boyhood. He was my pupil as a youth, and has been my friend as a man--and--"
"And that is evidence beyond rejection that he is all that is good and amiable?" said Miss Delaware, seriously.
"Ay, and though he can talk her own kind of nonsense to a worthy lady like that," replied Dr. Wilton, determined to revenge himself on Miss Delaware for her smile, "he can talk nonsense equally agreeable to younger and fairer ladies, my dear Blanche. So take care of your little heart, my pretty dame."
Miss Delaware laughed gayly, in the full, ignorant confidence of a heart that had known no wound; and the conversation dropped as far as it regarded Burrel. He himself prolonged the idle gossip with which he was amusing himself for some time; but finding, or fancying, that the elder lady who sat next to him possessed a mind that could appreciate better things, he gradually led the conversation to matters of more general interest than _pieds de cochons à la St. Menehould_, or the portraiture of gravel walks.
It is the most difficult manœuvre in the tactics of conversation, and shows greater skill, when executed neatly, than any other evolution whatever, to change at once from the flimsy and the foolish to the substantial and the good, without deviating into the heavy--to slide down the diapason from the high notes of common-place chatter, to the fine tenor of calm and sensible discourse, touching each semitone and enharmonic difference as one goes, till the change is scarcely felt, though the music may be richer. Burrel could do it when he liked; but now he overdid it. From French dishes he speedily got to France and the French people, and thence to the difference between the French and English character, with an easy facility that made the alteration of the subject seem nothing strange; but then he went a little beyond.
"The French," he said, in answer to a question from his neighbor, "have nothing of that sort of thing that we would call 'national modesty.' They would look upon it as _mauvaise honte_, and each Frenchman thinks himself fully justified in praising his own country to the skies. It is they who believe it, that are foolish. They, the French, call themselves the most civilized, well-informed people in the world; and yet go into the provinces, and you will find a peasantry more generally ignorant than perhaps any other country can show. I myself resided for many months in a part of one of the most cultivated departments of France, where the farmer on either hand of the house in which I dwelt during the hunting season--each renting many hundreds of acres of land--could neither read nor write. Where could such a thing be found in England?"
"Ay, sir," cried the wealthy country gentleman, opposite; "but their laws, sir, their laws--their wise and equitable courts of justice--their civil and political liberty, sir--a model for all nations; and which I hope some day to see fully adopted in this country."
"May God forbid!" cried Burrel. "As to their political liberty, we can not speak of it; for a thing that has never existed for ten years together, without deviating into anarchy on the one hand, or sinking into tyranny on the other, is something very like a nonentity. As to civil liberty they have no such thing; and may Heaven avert the day when an Englishman's house will be open to domiciliary visits at the caprice of any man or body of men, or when he can not ride twenty miles without being subjected to interruption, and a demand for his passport!"
He now found that his conversation was getting too heavy, and would fain have dropped it; but the other urged him somewhat warmly with, "Their laws, sir--their laws! their courts of justice!" and Burrel resolved that he should not rest even upon that.
"As to their courts," he replied, "I have been in many, and never did I see the forms of justice so completely mocked. The judge renders himself a party, and that party the accuser. The unhappy man who is to be tried, placed on an elevated station in the face of all the court, is himself cross-examined, and tortured by interrogations without end; every tittle of the evidence against him is urged upon him by the judge: he is obliged to answer and to plead to the accusation of each witness on the adverse part, and woe be to him if he trip in the smallest particular! If ever there was a plan invented for condemning the innocent and the timid, and letting the guilty and the daring escape, it is that of a French trial. The only security is in the individual integrity and discrimination of the judges--in general most exemplary men."
"That may be all very true, sir," replied the other, who, like many of our countrymen, had been talked into believing the French system very fine, without ever taking the trouble of examining accurately what the French system is--"that may be all very true; but yet their laws, sir--their laws!"
"I think," replied Burrel, more calmly than he had before spoken; for the common-place absurdity of the other's commendation of what he did not understand, had thrown even his cool mind off its guard--"I think, if you will take the trouble of reading the book which contains their codes, you will find that it is confined both in scope and detail; and to show how iniquitous as well as absurd their laws are, we have only to look at their law of succession, which prevents a man from disposing of his property at his death, according to his own judgment and inclination, whether he have acquired it by his personal labor or by inheritance."
"A foolish law it is, indeed," said Dr. Wilton, who had been listening attentively; "and would be a disgrace to the common sense of any nation under the sun."
"Already," continued Burrel, "although the time since its enactment has been so short--it is beginning to paralyze industry and commerce in France--to degrade the higher orders, and to starve the lower."
"They must repeal it!" said Dr. Wilton; "they must repeal it, if they be sane!"
"But there are some points, my dear sir, on which whole nations become insane," replied Burrel, laughing, "and none more than the French. One thing, however, is evident. They must either repeal it, or it will effect the most baleful change that country ever underwent. Already one sees every where fields no bigger than a handkerchief, which in the next generation will have to be divided again between three or four sons. Every thing else is split in the same way; and the argument which the French hold, that commerce and industry will remedy the effects of this continual partition, is a vain absurdity; for the natural tendency of the partition itself is, by want of capital, to ruin the commerce and paralyze the industry which they think will remove its evils. Under its influence, the French must gradually decline till they become a nation of beggars--universal beggary must beget universal ignorance--and thus from a nation of beggars they must become a nation of barbarians, with a country too small to support their increased numbers, a fierce necessity of conquest, and the concomitant hatred of better institutions than their own. Then woe to Europe and the world! but beyond doubt--at least it is to be hoped--they will change a law, the glaring absurdity of which strikes every person of common understanding even in France."
"Why not let each individual control his property as he pleases?" demanded Dr. Wilton. "Though I can not but feel that entails are often beneficial, let them be done away if they will, but at least leave each man to dispose of his property as he judges best in its immediate transmission from himself to another."
"Nay, Mr. Burrel!" cried Mrs. Darlington, seeing him about to reply--"nay, nay! have pity, I beseech you, upon us poor women."
"I must indeed apologize," answered Burrel, laughing; "but in truth, we live in such a scientific age, that railroads and steam-engines, geology and legislation, now form the staple chit-chat of society; and mathematics is the food of babes and sucklings."
"The matter has become perfectly absurd," said Dr. Wilton: "and whether from ignorance or design, I know not, but those who cater for the lower orders in these things, instead of giving them those instructions which may be useful to them in their station, which would make them better, wiser, and more contented, choose for them alone that species of knowledge which may make them discontented with their state, without aiding to raise them honestly to a better."
"I will not be tempted any more to grave discussions, my dear sir," said Burrel, laughing, and looking toward Mrs. Darlington; "yet I can not help adding, that the new-fashioned education of children is just as ill adapted to children as the instruction forced upon mechanics is unfitted for them. Lord deliver us from the little pragmatical race of half-learned pedants that are springing up! I understand that they have been obliged to dissolve one infant school in London, because it was divided into two such furious parties of Neptunists and Vulcanists; and the son of a cousin of my own talked to me upon reform the other day so like Sir Francis Burdett, that I asked when the little legislator was to be breeched."
The conversation soon became more general, though the party consisted of ten--that most inconvenient of all numbers; and Burrel soon regained that middle strain, half playful, half serious, which was calculated to be more generally pleasing. This continued till the ladies rose; and the few minutes that ensued ere the gentlemen followed them, were passed by Burrel and Dr. Wilton in calling up remembrances of old times, when they had lived together as pupil and preceptor.
"Well, my dear doctor," said Burrel, "I always thought that your head was fitted for a miter; and I doubt not that we shall see it so adorned ere long."
"Not for a world!" cried Dr. Wilton; "and you, my dear boy, do nothing toward it, I insist. I would not change my present state, with all the blessed sufficiency that attends it--its opportunities of doing some good to my fellow-creatures in quiet and unassailed obscurity--for the painful, anxious, ill-requited life of a bishop, whom every rude, unprincipled, and vulgar churl dares to attack, solely because he knows that the churchman can neither rail again, nor chastise him as other men would do. I would not change it, I say, on any account whatever. I am happy as I am here in the country, and I want nothing more."
"Now I could understand that, Dr. Wilton," said the young fox-hunter, "if you ever mounted a red coat and followed the hounds. But you never hunt nor shoot; and, unless your magisterial capacity affords you some amusement, I can not conceive how you can like the country, which, without hunting or shooting, is dull enough."
"Never dull to me!" replied Dr. Wilton; "never dull, and always tranquil; and in it I shall be well contented to pass my life away, saying with Seneca,
'Sic cum transiêrint mei Nullo cum strepitu dies Plebeius moriar senex!'"
A Latin quotation was of course enough to put an end to the session, and the whole party rose.
It would seem that the purpose of assembling to dine together--the mere act and fact of which assimilates one to the hog, as somebody has said before me--is solely with a view to familiarize people with each other by the open submission to a general infirmity--teaching the most conceited that he must gulp and guzzle like the rest, and showing the most diffident that the brightest and the best he can meet with, is but a beast of prey like himself. Men therefore assemble at dinner, and then generalize best. After dinner--when the tea and the coffee, and the various tables laid out with their various calls upon attention, prompt people to break into smaller parties--then is the time to choose your own little knot, and individualize.
It matters very little how or why--though the arrangement was made by the simplest process imaginable--but after dinner, Henry Burrel found himself seated, in the far part of the room, with a sofa-table, and innumerable books of drawings and prints upon it before him, and by the side of Blanche Delaware. It is wonderful what stepping-stones prints, and drawings, and annuals are to pleasant conversation, even though the first be not quite so well handled as the pictures of Prout or Stanley, and the latter contain nothing half so beautiful as Liddell's "Lines upon the Moors."
Burrel had managed his approaches well, though he did it unconsciously. He first stooped over the book of drawings that Miss Delaware was examining, to look at one of those fair Italian scenes where the long sunshine seems to stream forth from a spot beyond the picture, and pour onward, till one can absolutely see its wavy softness skip from point to point in its advance. He then spoke a few words, in a quiet, every-day tone, upon Italian scenery. Miss Delaware said that she had never had an opportunity of visiting Italy, but had often heard her brother speak of it, with all his own wild rapture. Burrel instantly took up the topic of her brother, well knowing that it was one, round which that tender-footed thing, a woman's heart, could play at ease; and while he spoke of Captain Delaware, he glided quietly into the vacant place by her side, and proceeded with a conversation which was destined to wander far and wide before it ended.
There was a kindly gentleness in Burrel's tone as he began, a sort of dreamy enthusiasm, slightly touched by a more gay and laughing spirit, as he went on, together with a general leaven of the gentlemanly feeling that springs from a noble heart, softening and tempering the whole--which, united, addressed to Miss Delaware the most flattering compliment that woman can receive, by showing that he knew her to be worthy of very different conversation from that which he held with any one else. Such conversation is the adulation of respect, esteem, and admiration, expressed but not spoken.
Burrel's words were uttered with no particular emphasis--his eyes, fine and expressive as they were, gave no peculiar meaning to his sentences--the vainest beauty that ever grew old and ugly, could never have persuaded herself that he was making love to her; and yet Blanche Delaware could not but feel that there was a charm in the manners of Henry Burrel, which might turn the head of many a one with a heart less cold and indifferent than her own. A cold and indifferent heart in a girl of nineteen! Ye gods! Such, however, she fancied it to be; and, consequently, she talked with Henry Burrel of poetry, and painting, and beautiful scenes, and sweet music, and noble deeds, and generous feelings, and all those whirling spots of brightness that dance unconnected through the sunshine of enthusiastic minds, with all the ardor of innocence and youth, and unblighted feelings, and never dreamed of its becoming any thing more. Mrs. Darlington, for her part, had soon perceived that Burrel and Miss Delaware were deep in what seemed interesting conversation. She did not pretend to divine what might happen--she prognosticated nothing; she took no notice, and let things take their course--but she carefully abstained from giving any interruption; and, by a few slight but skillful turns, prevented their little _tête-à-tête_ from being broken in upon so soon as it otherwise would have been.
It was Dr. Wilton, who, in the simplicity of his heart, dissolved it for the night; for, after having been talking earnestly for a few minutes with the little surgeon of Emberton, about some of his poor parishioners who were sick, his eye met that of Blanche Delaware, as she still sat beside Burrel on the sofa, and it lighted up for a moment with a glance of gay meaning, that called the blood into her fair cheek. Burrel marked it all; and the next two answers which Miss Delaware made to what he was saying, were sufficiently _à travers_ to show him that the conversation, on her part, at least, rolled no longer at its ease. To prolong it, under such circumstances, would be a crime, as he well knew; and therefore he soon furnished her with an excuse to join Mrs. Darlington.
The evening then proceeded as such evenings usually do, partly in music and partly in idle gossip. Some stupid people played at whist; and at ten o'clock the carriages of those who returned home were announced. Dr. Wilton, who lived at twelve miles distance, and Blanche Delaware, who lived at five, remained with Mrs. Darlington and Henry Burrel; and the worthy clergyman, who felt himself in some degree bound to prove his former pupil as charming as he had depicted him, took care to lead the conversation to those subjects on which he well knew Burrel would shine.
He did shine, too, but without striving to do it; and the evening wore on, for another hour, as pleasantly as moments could fly. There is something in the last hour of the day, if it have been itself a happy one, which seems to concentrate all the pleasant things of the past. It is like a fine evening sky, calm and sweet, and full of rays, that are all the rosier because they are the last.
I do not know whether it would be fair or proper to follow Blanche Delaware to her bed-room, and investigate what were her thoughts while she was undressing and falling asleep; but as no such considerations forbid with regard to Burrel, we may for a moment intrude upon his privacy, first premising, that the door of his room opened very nearly at the top of the great staircase, the landing-place of which formed a sort of balustraded gallery, with a corridor running to the right and left. His first thought, as he sat down for his silent servant to pull off his shoes and stockings, it must be allowed, was of Blanche Delaware, and he internally pronounced her a very charming girl. "It is not her beauty," he thought, "though she is very beautiful; but it is that freshness of mind, that fine unsophisticated heart, whose rapid emotions, sparkling up unchecked to that sweet face, and animating every movement of that fair form, give a thousand graces and lovelinesses that art could never reach. One might very well fall in love with such a girl as that. I must take care what I am about."
With this resolution to take care, Burrel would have dismissed the subject; but still he thought of Blanche Delaware a good deal more than was necessary; and, after having detained his servant full half an hour longer than usual; went to bed, thinking of her still.
CHAPTER V.
Although there was a good deal of noise in the house for some time, Burrel fell sound asleep in the midst of it. Whether he dreamed or not, I can not tell; but after he had been in the arms of slumber for a long while, as it appeared to him, he awoke, and heard still some sounds of moving to and fro, although less loud than before. Moralizing upon that strange thing, sleep, and its power of taking from us all consciousness of time's passing, he turned himself round to court the drowsy god again; but though the slight noises that had roused him ceased in a moment altogether, the charm was dissolved, and he could not close an eye. His only resource was to think of Miss Delaware; and although he was obliged to own that the blessing of Heaven--in keeping her out of London and London life--had brought forth all those natural graces and charms which he so much admired, yet he could not but think it hard that such a flower should be born to blush unseen; neither could he help fancying that it would be no very unpleasant thing to transplant her to a more happy soil. Feeling all this, and feeling that he was feeling it, Burrel saw better than ever that it was necessary to take care what he was about; and, as the first step, he applied himself vigorously to go to sleep again. The night was oppressively warm, however, and it would not do. He began also to fancy that there was a marvelous smell of wood smoke; and he thought that, if Mrs. Darlington's housekeeper had begun already to provide for the _manger_ of the next day, Mrs. Darlington's cook must have a hard place of it. So, stretching out his hand, he reached his watch, struck it, and found that it was just half-past two.
He now began to think the smell of smoke odd as well as disagreeable; and, raising himself on his arm, he found that it was more potent than he had at first perceived. There was also a sort of faint rushing sound, as of a draught of wind through long passages, and Burrel thought he heard a crackling noise also, which, after listening for a moment or two, determined him to rise and make a voyage of discovery. To guard against all contingencies, he partly dressed himself, put on his dressing-gown, and then opened the door. A loud roaring sound, and a still greater volume of smoke, immediately met him; but he found that there was yet another door between him and the corridor; and, as he was seeking for the lock, it was thrown open, by his own servant, so violently as almost to knock him down.
It wanted not the man's cry of "Sir, sir, the house is on fire!" to show Burrel what had happened. A red fearful glare of bright flame, shining through dense volumes of smoke, was seen below, from the edge of the sort of gallery on which he stood, while along the cornices and moldings a number of detached spots of fire appeared running on before the great body of the conflagration, like light troops thrown forward to skirmish. The roaring and crackling, too, which, as well as the suffocating smoke, had been, in a great measure, excluded from his bed-room by the double door, was now sufficiently distinct; and at one glance he perceived that the whole foot of the great oak staircase, near the top of which his apartment opened, was in flames. At the same time, as he looked along the corridor to the left, he saw another door open, which seemed to lead to the top of a different flight of steps; for he could distinctly see two or three figures, in every state of dishabille, running down as fast as possible, while his servant pulled him that way, begging him to come to the stone stairs.
All this was gathered in a moment, and Burrel demanded, "Have you seen any of the family?--Mrs. Darlington--"
"I saw her this moment, sir, running down with Dr. Wilton," replied the man.
"And Miss Delaware?" demanded his master.
"I don't know, sir--I don't know!" replied the man, hastening away himself. "The house will be down, sir, if you don't make haste."
A good sturdy housemaid, however, hurrying away from some of the up-stair rooms, caught Miss Delaware's name, and cried out--without stopping in her flight, however--"Oh, dear! oh, dear! poor young lady--she will be burned to a certainty!"
"Which is her room?" demanded Burrel. But it was not till he had repeated his question in a still louder tone that the woman paused to point with her hand, exclaiming, "Up there, at the end of the wing?--she will be burned!--oh, dear, she will be burned!"--and off ran the housemaid.
Burrel ran along the corridor like light. It was evident that--as is always the case in houses on fire--all the inhabitants had lost their wits for the time, and no one had even thought of Miss Delaware. Without ceremony, Burrel threw open the last door that he came to, in the direction which the servant had pointed out, but the glare of the flames was quite sufficient to show him that it had not been slept in that night. He tried the next, and instantly perceived all the little articles of a lady's toilet spread upon the table, while, by the drawn curtains of the bed, he doubted not that the sleep of its fair tenant had been undisturbed by the sounds which had awoke himself.
The violence with which he threw open the door woke Blanche Delaware from the first sweet sleep of innocence and youth; and her voice demanding in alarm, "Who is there?" immediately struck his ear.
He knew that not a moment was to be lost; and though he approached her bedside with a feeling of real pain, from the shock he was about to give her, there was but one course to be pursued: and, springing forward, he drew back the curtains. "Forgive me!" he cried, "but the house is on fire--not a moment is to be lost! Your life is at stake, and you must pardon me if I use but scanty ceremony!"
"Leave me! Leave me, then, Mr. Burrel, and let me rise!" she exclaimed, gazing in his face with all the wild surprise natural to one wakened from their sleep by such tidings.
"Miss Delaware, moments are life!" replied Burrel, hastily. "Even while I speak our only chance may be cut off."
The gathering smoke and the rushing sound of the flames bore to his own ear, as well as to that of the fair girl who lay pale and trembling before him, the certainty that he spoke no more than truth; and, without farther pause, he stooped over her, wrapped the bedclothes round her as tenderly and delicately as a mother would wrap her young infant from the wintry wind, and, catching her up in his arms, he bore her out into the corridor. All before them was a scene of mingled smoke and flame. The wainscoting of the corridor, the balustrades, the cornices, were all charred, blackened, and catching fire in a thousand places. The blaze was rushing up from below, toward the skylight, which had unfortunately been left open, and gave an additional draught. Wherever an open door presented itself, the flames were seen rushing in, licking the door-posts and the wainscoting; the heat was scorching; the smoke was suffocating; and every step that Burrel took forward, he felt uncertain whether the beams over which he trod would not give way beneath his feet. Still, however, he strode on, till he reached the spot where the flames were rushing up the great staircase more furiously than any where else, from the additional mass of fuel that there supplied the fire. His foot was on the edge of the landing, to cross over toward the stone stairs, and he had just time--warned by a sudden crash--to draw back, when the whole staircase and part of the corridor above it gave way, and fell into the vestibule below. It was a fearful sight; but he was not a man to leave any chance of safety to be snatched from him by terror. The rest of the corridor beyond the gap appeared more sound than that he had already past. He remembered having seen a side-door in his own room, which he had just left behind; and re-treading his steps, he entered the chamber, drove in the door he had remarked--which was but weakly fastened--with a single kick, and running through a room, the tenant of which had made his escape, he passed on into a dressing-room, and thence regained the corridor, beyond the point where it had been connected with the great staircase.
The fall of so much lime-rubbish had in a degree deadened the fire; and, striding on, Burrel reached the door which opened on the stone staircase. The rush of cool air and the joy of escape revived him, almost suffocated as he was with the heat and smoke; and, bending down his head over his fair burden, he said--the most natural thing in the world--"Dear girl, you are safe!"--Ay, though he had only seen her twice in all his life!
Though they were now in comparative security, the fire had made sufficient progress even there to render haste imperative, and Burrel lost not a moment till he reached a small door which led out upon the lawn by some ascending steps. At about the distance of fifty or sixty yards were assembled the whole of the late inmates of the dwelling--mistress, visitors, and servants, with twenty or thirty country men and women--all engaged in the laudable occupation of seeing the house burn.
Dr. Wilton was the only one in a state of activity; and he, in his shirt and breeches, which, with the exception of his shovel hat, were the only articles of apparel he had saved, was endeavoring to instigate some of the servants and peasantry to get up a ladder to the window of Miss Delaware's room, which--what between fear, wonder, and stupidity--they were performing with extraordinary slowness. At the same time, one of the Molly Dusters was corroborating to the rest of the company the assertion of Burrel's servant, who informed them that his master had gone to fetch Miss Delaware; and the very likely consummation that they would both be burned together was prophesied manfully, just as he was making his way across the green toward them, to prove that he did not intend to participate in such a holocaust.
On seeing Burrel, and guessing what it was that he carried in his arms, Mrs. Darlington, who was really a good-tempered woman, gave way a great deal more to her feelings than her usual _bienseance_ permitted, and literally screamed for joy. Since her escape she had found time to get cool in body if not in mind and, indeed, the latter part of the mixed whole was by this time sufficiently tranquillized to admit the vision of a pretty little quiet romance to cross her mind concerning Burrel and Blanche Delaware, and to suggest the propriety of letting her house burn away in peace, while she took shelter, and guarded against taking cold, in the cottages just below the lodge. Thither, too, she requested Burrel, who would give up his fair burden to no one, to follow her; and she herself led the way, with a thousand encomiums on his heroic gallantry, mingled with thanks to Heaven that all her title-deeds were at the banker's, and manifold aspirations concerning the fire-resisting powers of the plate-chests.
Burrel thought of nothing but her he carried in his arms. It was not love he felt, but it was intense interest; and I will defy any man to carry a beautiful girl that he has already admired and liked, though dangers such as those, pressed close to his own bosom, and with her heart beating against his, without feeling very differently toward her from what he ever did before. He had, however, a quality which few young men possess much of--considerable delicacy of mind; and, as soon as he had placed Miss Delaware in safety in the cottage, he left her with Mrs. Darlington, without any of the troublesome inquiries about her health and comfort which some foolish people might have made.
He then hastened back as fast as possible toward the house, with a determination of doing all that he rationally could to save whatever portion of it remained, but without the slightest intention in the world of bringing his life into jeopardy, or enacting wonders worthy of a demi-god, either to preserve the property of a rich old widow lady, about whom he did not care a sixpence, or to astonish worthy Dr. Wilton and half-a-dozen lackeys and cowherds who were looking on. When he arrived at the spot, however, he found that the occupation which he had proposed to himself had been already seized by a stout agile young fellow, in a sailor's jacket and trowsers, who had arrived on the ground during his absence, and had inspired one or two of the peasantry with some activity.
The efforts of this young man were energetic, bold, and cleverly executed; but, from being ill-directed, did little comparative good, while his own life was every moment hazarded. Indeed, personal security seemed the last thing that he considered; and perhaps this somewhat superabundant display of daring might do some good, if only by stirring up the more slothful to a tolerable degree of activity. Burrel paused and looked on for an instant, but not from either over-prudence or laziness. What is best to be done may be always better considered before doing any thing than after, provided too much time is not bestowed upon it; and, in the single moment that Burrel gave to consideration, he perceived that the young sailor was not only doing no good, but running himself and others into certain destruction, by continuing to labor at the center of the house--the interior of which was completely consumed, and the roof of which threatened to fall--while, by cutting off the communication between the _corps de logis_ and the wings, a considerable part of the building might be saved. The moment his mind was made up, he entered the principal door, and catching the young sailor by the arm, as he stood in what had been the vestibule, he called upon him to desist.
The lad, for he was scarcely a man, turned round upon him for a moment with a countenance, which haste, heat, and impetuosity of disposition, rendered somewhat furious at the interruption; but a few calm, reasonable words from Burrel, at once showed him the rationality of what he proposed, and after a single oath, escaping, as it were, by the safety valve of his tongue, he agreed to follow. Burrel then hastened to get out of the stifling heat and smoke; but finding that the other still lingered, he turned again at the door. The sailor had paused to recover a bucket, and was at the very instant taking his first step after Burrel, when a small quantity of heated rubbish came pattering from above, and then, with a considerable crash, a thick beam detached itself from the roof, caught upon the ruins of the staircase, and swung blazing for a single instant above the vestibule. The young man sprang forward toward the door; but he was too late to escape entirely. The beam came thundering down--it struck him, and he fell.
Something more was now at stake than the bed and table linen of an old woman. A life is always worth the peril of a life, and Burrel at once plunged in again, and dragged him out, though certainly at the risk of much more than he would have hazarded to save Mrs. Darlington's abode, or any inanimate thing it ever contained. He was scarcely clear of the doorway when the roof fell in, and the rush and the roar, and the subsequent silence, and the suddenly smothered flame, showed him what he had escaped, and made him pause for an instant with a thankful exclamation to that Being, before whose eyes a sparrow falls not to the ground unheeded.
Henry Burrel then drew the man he had rescued forward, beyond the influence of the heat. I say drew, because he evinced a strange inaptitude to voluntary locomotion, from which Burrel did not augur very favorably; and being within an inch of six feet high, with a very tolerable proportion of sinew and muscle, he was not quite so portable in one's arms as Blanche Delaware.
"Now, my good friends," said Burrel, laying the lad down upon the smooth turf of the lawn, and addressing those who crowded round, "if you want really to render any assistance, get what axes, picks, crows, and other things of the kind you can, and break down entirely yon little gallery which lies between the house and the right wing. You run no risk; for the fire has not yet caught the gallery, and you will save the wing. Never mind this young man, I will attend to him. Here, Harding," he added, speaking to his servant, "you are a cowardly--. Take care of yourself, the next time I meet you in a house on fire, that I do not throw you into the flames, to prevent your running away when I want your assistance."
The man replied nothing, as usual, and his master proceeded, "Have you a penknife in your pocket?"
"No, sir," answered the servant; but Dr. Wilton supplied the deficiency.
"Here is one!" he cried, groping in his breeches pocket; "what are you going to do, my dear Harry? The poor lad seems dead."
"Only stunned, I hope," replied Burrel, "but, at all events, the best thing one can do for him is to cut the artery in the temple, and let him bleed freely. If he be dead, it can do him no harm; if there be any life left, it will recall it."
Thus speaking, with little ceremony, he drew the penknife sharply across the artery, much to the wonder of the bystanders, some of whom thought him a fine, bold gentleman; some concluded that he was but little troubled with that civil understrapping virtue of discretion. The effect, however, soon become visible. The blood at first hardly flowed, but, in a moment after, it burst forth with rapid jerks. A deep sigh followed from the hurt man, and in an instant after he looked faintly round.
"I thought I was gone!" he cried, raising himself, and looking toward the fire. "My head's bad enough still; but I rather think I owe you my life, sir. Well, there is an old woman down in the village will pray God bless you!"
Burrel now endeavored to stanch the blood; but, like many other persons, he had not previously calculated all the consequences of what he was going to do; and he might have found the undertaking somewhat difficult, had it not fortunately happened that the flames of Mrs. Darlington's villa had alarmed the whole of the little town and neighborhood of Emberton, and thus people were flocking up both on foot and on horseback. Among the first that arrived was, of course, her late guest, the village surgeon--one at least of the learned professions being more peculiarly and unhappily obnoxious to Rochefaucault's sneering assertion, that there is always something pleasant to ourselves in the misfortunes of our friends. The surgeon, then, was among the first, of course, sparing not his horse's breath, in order to condole and sympathize, and look grave, and set a limb or tend a bruise, or dress a burn, or, in short, perform any of those small acts which are the sources of emolument, present or future, to a country apothecary. His arrival happened at a fortunate moment for Burrel's patient; and, after having ascertained that no one of more consequence was hurt, he complimented the young stranger highly on his prompt and skillful treatment of poor Wat Harrison, as he called him, suffered the bleeding to continue for another moment, merely to show how much he approved of what had been done, and then proceeded to stop it.
The adventures of the night were now soon concluded. By Burrel's directions, and the exertions of the peasantry, stimulated at last to some degree of activity, one wing of the house, as well as the stabling and offices, was saved; and from the part thus preserved, apparel was procured sufficient to clothe the half-naked bodies of those who were its late denizens. This apparel, indeed, was of somewhat an anomalous description, and the metamorphoses produced were rather strange; for though Miss Delaware came out most beautifully as a pretty dairymaid, and Mrs. Darlington did not look ill as a housekeeper, yet Dr. Wilton had a somewhat fantastic air when a footman's greatcoat was added to his black breeches, silk stockings, and shovel hat. Burrel himself adhered to his own dressing-gown, though many a hole was burnt in the gay flowers that covered it, and many a stain and scorch obscured the original colors. A general smile, which even the serious calamity that had reduced them to that state could not repress, played upon the lips of the whole party, as they met in such strange attire at the door of the cottages, just as the pale light of the morning was pouring faint and bluish through the air. On the countenance of Blanche Delaware, however, that smile mingled with a flickering blush as she answered Burrel's inquiries concerning her health; and Burrel, though he could not but think it as beautiful a thing as ever the eyes of the morning rested on, hastened, by quiet and easy words of deep but unceremonious respect, to remove the glow, with the embarrassment that caused it.
By this time all sorts of chaises and vehicles had arrived from Emberton, and Mrs. Darlington's own carriage and horses had been brought up from the stables. Burrel handed the two ladies in to proceed to the village, the inn of which place, Mrs. Darlington declared, should be her abode for the next day or two. He declined, however, a seat beside them; and bidding his servant take care of his horses, and bring them down afterward, he himself--the fire having nearly expended itself--got into a hack chaise for Emberton, and, accompanied by the young sailor who had been hurt, drove slowly down into the valley.
Dr. Wilton, whose living lay at a considerable distance in a different direction, had before taken leave of him, with many a pressing invitation to the rectory, and had preceded him in departing. One by one, the people of the town returned, and the peasantry dropped away; and, with one man left to keep watch, the ruins of Mrs. Darlington's house remained smoldering in silent solitude, like the history of a battle, which, full of fire, confusion, and destruction while it lasts, leaves, after the lapse of a few years, nothing but vacancy, ruin, and the faint smoke of fame.
CHAPTER VI.
It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation is sometimes pleasant, of course, and sometimes severe, according to the circumstances of the case and character of the person, or rather of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt or feels in his own bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers, who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades the charge.
All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel (some persons may think), who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half peasant, half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking post-chaise, toward the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without reading them over twice--nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were suffered to flow, hardly interrupted (for the young sailor was still in a dozy, half lethargic state), and the two spirits, though the good one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom.
"I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am about;" and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader that he was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued, the next moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care for but myself?"
That was one point gained, at least! It was settled, thenceforth and forever, that there was no reason on earth why he should not fall in love with Blanche Delaware, if he liked it. By the way, men very seldom get so far as that without being somewhat in love already. Few people think of attacking a fort without being in the army. The next step to be taken by a reasonable man--and Burrel was one of those people whose natural inclination to act by impulse was so strong, that he was very anxious, on all occasions, to give impulse a good reason, lest she should act without one, and then laugh at him for his pains--the next step to be taken, was to find some good and legitimate cause, altogether independent of passion, why such a cool and considerate person as Henry Burrel looked upon Henry Burrel to be--and which he really was by habit, though not by nature--should fall in love with Blanche Delaware; and as it is not very easy mathematically to find a sufficient cause for falling in love at all, Burrel was obliged to proceed cautiously in the matter, from axiom to postulate, and so on.
He accordingly set himself to think over all he had seen of Blanche Delaware; and he did not find it in the least difficult to imagine, to assume, to demonstrate, that she had plenty of high qualities (independent of her beauty) to make her a desirable wife for any man. He next considered the question of marriage in the abstract, and was naturally led to conclude, with St. Paul, as cited by the Book of Common Prayer, that it is a state honorable among all men. All these steps being taken, he next looked into his own condition, and found that marriage might do him a great deal of good, and could do him very little harm. Then putting the points already gained in relative position with his own situation, he deduced the following:--Marriage is good and honorable in all men; marriage in his own case was peculiarly advisable; and Blanche Delaware was peculiarly eligible for any man as a wife.
So far all was fair and prosperous, and he was like a ship with full sails and favorable wind, dancing over a sunny sea toward the port of matrimony; and a very comfortable port, too, let me tell you. However, there was still one little obstacle to be got over, which the reader, unless he be an undergraduate, will never divine. The fact is, that no man who has been long at either of the two learned universities can bear the idea of falling in love. He looks upon it as a sort of disgrace; and Burrel, who was of Christ Church, would not admit for a moment that he was the least little bit in love in the world. At the same time, with that sort of odd perversity which, on some subject or another, is to be found in the breast of every one, he had no idea of any one marrying without being in love, unless, indeed, some point of honor or propriety required it. This latter opinion came, of course, from reading novels, and romances, plays, poetry, and rich trash; and in his course through the world hitherto, these contending principles, always in opposition to each other, had kept him safe, sound, and unmarried, up to the respectable period of seven-and-twenty years. His Master of Arts degree had acted as a shield to his heart from the many arrows which had been directed against it; and a romantic disposition had guarded him against that sort of abstract matrimony which is undertaken without love.
"He was an odd man, this Mr. Henry Burrel!"
"He was so, sir! Just such another bundle of contrarieties as you or I, or any one else. We are all odd men, if you look at us closely."
The simple fact of Burrel's situation at that moment was merely this--He was not over head and ears in love with Blanche Delaware. He had not had time, sir! A man does not fall in love by steam! No; but he had at least advanced two or three steps in that quagmire, and he was not very likely to get out of it in a hurry. If any one who reads this book--and pray heaven they may be many!--have ever ridden a thorough-bred horse over a shaking moor, he will have seen that the animal, at the first two or three steps over the boggy ground, trembles at every limb, and if you let him, he will sink to a certainty. Your only way is to stick your spurs into his sides, keep a light hand and his head up, and gallop as hard as you can till you get upon firm ground. Now Burrel felt very much inclined to gallop. He got a little frightened at his situation, especially when he found himself stringing together so many reasons for marrying Blanche Delaware, and it was even betting, whether he staid to fall in love, or got into the ten o'clock stage, and dined in London.
The way that Love got over it was as follows: Burrel began to think about the events of the foregoing night, and the remembrance of saving the life of Blanche Delaware; and carrying her out through the flames in his arms, was, of course, too pleasant a little spot for memory not to pause upon it agreeably. The flickering blush, also, which had risen in her cheek when she had seen him afterward, rose up sweetly; and his next thought was to consider whether it would be more delicate again to apologize for entering her chamber in the middle of the night, or to leave it in silence, and never mention it at all. That was soon settled; but he then thought, "The story will, of course, be told about the country--ay, and with additions and improvements, which may, very likely, injure that sweet girl, and will, at all events, hurt her feelings if she should hear them. I would not have it so for a world--and yet what can one do to prevent it!"
At that moment, connecting itself with the blush, by one of those fine invisible links of thought which defy all grasp, for who can
"Trace to its cloud the lightning of the mind?"--
At that moment the few words he had spoken, at the top of the stone staircase, when he first found they were in safety--the outpouring of joy which had sparkled over the lip of the cup--the "Dear girl you are safe!"--were gathered up by memory, and held up to his sight; and Burrel, who was a gentleman, and considered the point of honor more sacred and more delicate toward a woman than even toward a man, believed that he said too much not to say more, if he found that to say it would not offend.
"Doubtless she will forget it!" he said to himself; "doubtless she will never think of it more; but yet I have spoken what was either an insult or a declaration, and for my own honor's sake I can not quit the country till I have pursued it further."
Well done, Maître Cupidon! Strangely well managed for a little blind gentleman, strongly suspected of being lame in one leg! But 'tis time to give over gossiping, for I have a long story to tell, and very little space to tell it in; and if we stop investigating every thing that passes in the mind of all the principal personages in this tale, we shall never get half through all the perils, and dangers, and hairbreadth escapes, which have not yet begun.
Well, the chaise rolled on; but as, for the sake of his hurt companion, Burrel had ordered it to roll slowly, his own thoughts rolled a considerable deal faster, and he had got happily over the above cogitations, and a great many more to boot, before the vehicle entered the little town of Emberton. All the good folks in the place were agog with the joy and excitement of a fire, and the misfortunes of their fellow-creatures; and, although it had been discovered, by the arrival of Mrs. Darlington's carriage, that unfortunately no one had been killed, yet every body looked out anxiously for the next comers from the scene of action, in order to have the pleasure of a detailed account of the property destroyed. Good Lord! what a pleasure and a satisfaction it was to the ladies of Emberton to commiserate Mrs. Darlington! There is certainly no affection of human nature half so gratifying as commiseration! It raises us so infinitely above the object we commiserate; and, oh! if that object have been for long years a thing or person to be envied!--Ye gods! quit your nectar, for it is not worth a sup, and learn to commiserate one another!
"Poor Mrs. Darlington! Only think how unfortunate to have her fine place entirely destroyed!" cried Commiseration. "She that was so smart and gay, and held her head so high!" observed Envy. "No great harm; it will lower her pride!" said Hatred. "They say all her title-deeds are burned, and she is likely to lose the whole estate!" whispered Malice. "It was ill enough got, I dare say!" added All Uncharitableness; "for no one could tell how her father made his money!" And thus the matter being settled to the satisfaction of every one who had lungs to cry out "Poor Mrs. Darlington!" the good people of Emberton waited anxiously for the next arrival, to see whether it would afford them any thing equally new and pleasant to say upon the subject.
The next arrival, as we before hinted, was that of Henry Burrel, Esq., carrying in the post-chaise along with him "Poor Wat Harrison," as the surgeon had called him; and this conjunction of two such very opposite planets in one post-chaise, was wonderfully prolific of agreeable speculations to the folks of Emberton. Some declared that Poor Wat Harrison, or Sailor Wat, as he was called, had been detected in plundering the house, and had been brought down in irons. Some vowed that he had insulted Mr. Burrel, and had been knocked down by that gentleman with a blow which had fractured his skull. One little boy, who saw him pass with a bloody handkerchief round his head, ran across to his father on the other side of the way, crying out, "Oh, papa, they have brought home the widow's son, at the end of the lane, with his throat cut! You used always to say he would be hanged!"
Besides this gentle vaticination of his ultimate destiny, various were the reports that his appearance in Burrel's post-chaise produced. Nevertheless, the chaise rolled on, and passing through the town, turned up the lane leading by the park wall toward the mansion-house, and, after proceeding about a couple of hundred yards, stopped at the door of a neat cottage, humble and small, but clean and decked with flowers.
"Stay, and let me help you out!" said Burrel to his companion, as the postillion opened the door.
"No, no!" cried the lad, rousing himself from the sort of dozing state in which he had hitherto continued. "It will frighten her. Let me get out myself. She has had frights enough already."
He was next the door, and he staggered down the steps with an effort; but, before his foot touched the ground, a female figure appeared at the entrance of the cottage. It was that of a woman about forty years of age, with traces of considerable beauty, less withered apparently by time than by sorrow; for the braided hair upon her forehead was but thinly mingled with gray, the teeth were fine and white, the eye clear and undimmed. But there was many a line about the mouth which seemed to hold every smile in chains, and there was an expression of deep, habitual anxiety in the eyes, fine as they were, that can only be fixed in them by care. They seemed always asking, "What new sorrow now?" She was dressed in the garb of a widow--not deep weeds--but those habiliments which might still be worn as marks of the eternal mourning of the heart, after time and the world's changes had banished the memory of her loss from every bosom but her own. They were neat and clean, but plain and even coarse; and her appearance--and it did not belie her state--was altogether that of a person in the humbler class of life; but with a mind, and perhaps an education, in some degree superior to those of her own station.
As the young man got out of the chaise, she took two or three quick steps forward to meet him, exclaiming, with an anxious gaze at his face, "Oh, my boy! what has happened now!"