CHAPTER LI — FREDDY COLEMAN FALLS INTO DIFFICULTIES
“I am he that am so love-shaked,—
I pray you, tell me your remedy.”
—As You Like It.
“I am sprighted with a fool, frighted, and angered worse.”
—Cymbeline.
OH! that tedious half-hour! I should like to know, merely as a curious matter of calculation, how many minutes there were in that half-hour—sixty-five at the very least; the hands of my watch stuck between the quarter and twenty minutes for full a quarter of an hour, and as for the old Dutch clock in the bar, that was worn out, completely good for nothing, I am certain, for I ordered my horse round to the door above ten minutes too soon by that, and I'm sure I didn't start before my time,—it would have been folly to do so, you know, because it was possible old Peter might send at any moment before the expiration of that half-hour. But at last even it came to an end—and no message had arrived; so, burning with impatience, I sprang into the saddle, and with difficulty restraining myself from dashing off at a gallop, I reined in the mare, and proceeded at a foot's pace up the lane.
After riding about a quarter of a mile, I perceived a small hand-gate just under a magnificent oak, which I at once recognised as the tree old Peter had described. Unwilling to attract the notice of the gamekeeper and his myrmidons by loitering about in the lane, I discovered a gap in a hedge on the other side the road, and, after glancing round to see that I was unobserved, I rode at it, and leaped into the opposite field, where, hidden behind a clump of alders, I could perceive all that passed in the road. But for a long time nothing did pass, save a picturesque donkey, whose fore-feet being fastened together by what are called “hobbles,"{1} advanced by a series of jumps—a mode of progression which greatly alarmed the sensitive nerves of my mare, causing her to plunge and pull in a way which gave me some trouble to hold her.
After I had succeeded in quieting her, I dismounted, and, tightening the saddle-girths, which had become loosened during her struggles, got on again; still no one came. At length, just as I was beginning to despair, I heard the
1 Query, whether so called because they oblige the wearer to
hobble ?
sound of horses' feet, and old Peter, mounted on a stout cob, rode to the wicket-gate, and heldit open, while Clara on a pretty chestnut pony cantered up, and passed through it.
Oh! how my heart beat, when, reining in her pony, she glanced round for a moment, as if in search of something, and then, with a slight gesture of disappointment, struck him lightly with her riding-whip, and bounded forward. Old Peter seemed still more puzzled, and looked up and down the road with an air of the most amusing perplexity, before he made up his mind to follow his mistress. About a hundred yards from this spot, the lane turned abruptly to the left, skirting a second side of the square field in which I had taken up my position; by crossing this field, therefore, I conceived I should cut off a great angle, and regain the road before they came up.
Setting spurs to my horse then, I rode off at speed, trusting to find some gate or gap by which I might effect my exit. In this calculation, however, I was deceived; instead of anything of the sort, my eyes were greeted by a stiff ox-fence, with a rather unpleasantly high fall of ground into the lane beyond,—a sort of place well fitted to winnow a hunting-field, and sift the gentlemen who come out merely to show their white gloves and buckskins, from the “real sort,” who “mean going,” and are resolved to see the end of the run. However, in the humour in which I then was, it would not have been easy to stop me, and holding the mare well together, I put her steadily at it. Fortunately, she was a first-rate fencer, and knew her work capitally, as she proved in the present instance, by rising to the leap, clearing the fence in beautiful style, and dropping lightly into the lane beyond, without so much as a stumble, just as Clara and her attendant turned the corner of the road and came in sight. My sudden appearance frightened Clara's pony to a degree which justified me in riding up and assisting her to reduce it to order. Having accomplished this not very difficult task, I waited for a moment, hoping she would be the first to speak, but finding she remained silent, I began, “Really, I am most unfortunate; I had no idea you were near enough for me to startle the pony,—I hope I have not alarmed you”.
“How can you risk your life so madly,” she replied, in a tone of reproach, “and for no reason, too?”
“Is my safety indeed an object of interest to you?” inquired I; then, unable to restrain myself any longer, I continued, “Clara, dearest Clara, have you forgiven me? Indeed, I have been punished sufficiently; I have been so utterly, so intensely miserable.”
“And have I been happy, do you think? Frank, it was cruel of you to doubt me—you, to whom I have told everything—you, who of all the world should have been the last to mistrust me; I never could have doubted you.”
“It was cruel; it was ungenerous in the extreme, I own it—and yet, believe me, dear Clara, I did not doubt you lightly; proofs, that to my short-sightedness appeared incontrovertible, were brought against you; the letters I wrote, entreating you if but by a line or message to relieve, my anxiety, remaining unanswered—letters which I was assured you had received—your sudden intimacy with that hateful Wilford—”
“Stay!” she exclaimed, interrupting me, “let me explain that at once; it is easy to show you how that is to be accounted for—”
“Indeed, Clara, it is unnecessary,” I began.
“If not for your satisfaction, at least for my own, let me explain how this sudden good understanding with one so lately a stranger to me arose:” she continued, “Richard Cumberland, on his return, seemed resolved to throw off all disguise, and determined to make me feel that I was in his power; his attentions became most intolerable, and all my endeavours to repulse him appeared but to increase the evil. This went on till I was obliged to remain in my own room the greater portion of every day, and actually dreaded the approach of dinner-time, when I knew I should be forced to endure his society. The arrival of Mr. Fleming, or Wilford, as you say his real name is, was therefore a great relief to me. Cumberland, for some reason or other, appears most anxious to keep on good terms with him—why, I cannot tell, for I am much mistaken if he does not both hate and fear him. Mr. Wilford, who, whatever his real character may be, possesses great tact and penetration, and can behave like a most refined and polished gentleman, appeared to discover by intuition that Cumberland's attentions were distasteful to me, and contrived in a thousand different ways to relieve me from them, always doing so with the most perfect sang-froid and apparent unconsciousness. Although, from the first moment I saw him, I felt an instinctive mistrust and fear of him, I could not but feel grateful for the delicate tact with which he came to my assistance; and as the only effectual way to distance Richard Cumberland appeared to be conversing with Mr. Wilford, I can well understand even a more intelligent observer than my faithful old Peter fancying that I gave him encouragement. I was further induced to admit his society from the fact, that he never attempted in the slightest degree to take unfair advantage of the unusual intimacy which circumstances had produced between us. He had never even alluded to Cumberland's attentions (though he must have been long aware of them, and of the annoyance they occasioned me) till that unfortunate morning when the encounter took place between you in the Park.
“At the breakfast-table that day, some scheme had been proposed which would have involved my riding alone with Mr. Cumberland; on my endeavouring to avoid doing so, provoked beyond endurance, he forgot his usual caution, and made some brutal allusion to the time when his will, and not my caprice, would be the law, doing so with such coarse violence that I left the room in tears. Mr. Vernor summoned me shortly afterwards to walk with him, in order, as I believe, to lecture me; but his purpose was frustrated by Mr. Wilford's joining us. Just before we met you, my guardian was accidentally called away, when Mr. Wilford expressed his indignation at the scene which had taken place at breakfast, and his surprise that I found it possible to endure such insolence, adding, that he had ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Cumberland on the subject, but had been angrily repulsed. I really felt obliged to him for what I deemed his disinterested kindness; and, in the course of conversation, allowed him to elicit from me an account of my early engagement to Richard Cumberland; and the words which you so strangely overheard, referred, as you may easily believe, to that.”
“Of course they did,” exclaimed I. “What a self-tormenting idiot I have made of myself! However, I was only rightly served for ever having doubted your faith; but, dearest Clara, you must be subject no longer to the insolent attentions of Cumberland, or the sinister designs of Wilford; and it is at length my happiness to possess the power, as well as the will, to save you from further molestation; strange things have come to light.”
I then informed her of the existence of Mr. Frampton, and his relationship to her; told her of his generous intentions in my behalf, and how, thanks to these circumstances, her consent was the only thing wanting to our immediate union. With mingled surprise and pleasure she listened to my recital; and with downcast eyes and most becoming blushes, gave ear to my entreaties for pardon, and hopes that she would not throw any unnecessary delay in the way of our marriage. Before I left her, I had received full forgiveness for my unjust doubts and suspicions, and was allowed to indulge in a not unfounded hope that Mr. Frampton's recovery of his niece would only prove the precursor to my obtaining a wife. It was agreed that, on the following day but one, Mr. Frampton—who had to go to London to consult with his lawyer touching the legalities of the affair—should come to Barstone, and, bearding Mr. Vernor in his den, establish his claim. As Wilford was not to return till the same day, and as I proposed accompanying Mr. Frampton, I thought I should be alarming Clara unnecessarily if I were to inform her of Wilford's designs. I therefore merely cautioned her against him generally, begging her never to trust herself with him alone, and adding, that I hoped she would see nothing more of him before she was placed under the protection of her uncle, of whom I drew—as he so well deserved at my hands—a most favourable picture, though I did not attempt to conceal his eccentricities either of manner or appearance, considering it better she should be prepared for them beforehand. So we rode on side by side, happy in each other's society, the bright sunshine, which threw its golden mantle over the gnarled limbs and wide-spreading branches of the old trees beneath which we passed, being scarcely brighter or more genial than the joy which shed its sunlight on our hearts, replacing the dreary shadows of the past with fair hopes and gladsome prospects for the future; and when we parted, which was not till we had ridden a circuit of some miles, and exercise had brought back the rose to Clara's pale cheeks, and joy the smile to her lip, we did so in the full assurance that, after our next meeting, man's self-interest and injustice should be powerless to interfere further with our happiness. Were these bright hopes ever fated to be realised?
After cautioning old Peter to watch over his young mistress as a mother over her child, telling him I should return in time to frustrate any plan Wilford might devise, and begging him, if anything unexpected should occur, instantly to despatch a messenger to me, I took leave of Clara with one of those lingering pressures of the hand which tell, better than words, of full hearts, to which it is indeed grief to separate; and setting spurs to my horse, I rode back to Heathfield as different a being from what I was when I left it, as though I had literally “changed my mind” for that of some other individual.
My first care on reaching the Hall was to relieve Mr. Frampton's anxiety, and when he learned that his niece was not the jilt he had deemed her, but quite perfection (for that was what I stated, with the same quiet certainty of promulgating an incontrovertible fact, with which I should have declared twice two to be four), his delight knew no bounds, and the way in which he shook my hands, and slapped me on the back, and told me, with many grunts, that I should “marry the girl,” even if he had to thrash old Vernor with his own hand in order to obtain possession of her for me, was enough to do any one's heart good to witness. I had no lack of talking to get through myself either; first Harry Oaklands had to be told the successful issue of the day's adventure, then Fanny was to be taken into our confidence; and next, the greatest caution was to be observed, and many deep and politic schemes concocted, in order to bring my mother to a proper comprehension of the whole matter without completely overwhelming her—all which cunning devices were frustrated by Mr. Frampton, who got at her surreptitiously, and told her the entire affair in a short, sharp and decisive harangue, which completely upset her for the rest of the evening, and left a permanent impression on her mind, that somehow or other I had behaved very ill. Early on the following morning Mr. Frampton went off to town to consult his lawyer, promising to return in time for dinner, if possible, but at all events so as to be ready to start on our Barstone campaign the first thing the next day, that no time might be lost in freeing Clara from the disagreeables, if not positive dangers, which surrounded her. As I was crossing the hall after seeing Mr. Frampton off, Lawless seized me by the arm, and drawing me on one side, began: “I say, Frank, I want a word with you; there's something gone wrong with Freddy Coleman. I never saw him so down in the mouth before; there's a screw loose somewhere, depend upon it.”
“Something wrong with Freddy,” repeated I, “impossible! why I was laughing with him a quarter of an hour ago; he was making all sorts of quaint remarks on the chaise that came for Mr. Frampton, and poking fun at the post-boy. Where is he?”
“Eh? wait a bit, I'll tell you directly; he had a letter brought him just as Governor Frampton started, and as he cast his eye over it, he first got as red as a carrot, then he turned as pale as a turnip, and bolted off into the library like a lamplighter, where he sits looking as if he had been to the wash, and come back again only half-starched.”
“That's better than if he were 'terribly mangled,' to carry on your simile,” returned I; “but didn't you ask him what was the matter?”
“Eh? no, I've made such a mess of things lately, that I thought I'd better leave it alone, for that I was safe to put my foot in it one way or other, so I came and told you instead.”
“Well, we'll see about it,” replied I, turning towards the library; “perhaps he has received some bad news from home: his father or mother may be ill.”
On entering the room we perceived Coleman seated in one of the windows, his head resting on his hand, looking certainly particularly miserable, and altogether unlike himself. So engrossed was he that he never heard our approach, and I had crossed the room, and was close to him, before he perceived me; consequently, the first word I uttered made him jump violently—an action which elicited from Lawless a sotto voce exclamation of, “Steady there, keep a tight hand on the near rein; well, that was a shy!”
“Freddy,” began I, “I did not mean to startle you so; but is anything the matter, old fellow?”
“You've frightened me out of six months' growth,” was the reply; “matter! what should make you think that?”
“Well, if you must know,” returned Lawless, “I told him I thought there was a screw loose with you, and I haven't changed my mind about it yet either. Any unsoundness shown itself at home, eh? I thought your governor looked rather puffy about the pasterns the last time I saw him, besides being touched in the wind, and your mother has got a decided strain of the back sinews.”
“No, they're well enough,” replied Freddy with a faint smile.
“Then you've entered your affections for some maiden stakes, and the favourite has bolted with a cornet of horse?”
“That's more like it,” returned Coleman, “though you've not quite hit it yet—but I'll tell you, man, if it's any satisfaction to you to hear that others are as unlucky as yourself, or worse, for what I know. I'm not greatly given to the lachrymose and sentimental, in a general way, but I must confess this morning to a little touch of the heartache. You see, Frank,” he continued, turning to me, “there's my cousin Lucy Markham, the little girl with the black eyes—”
“You forget that she was staying with us last week,” interrupted I.
“To be sure she was,” resumed Freddy; “this vile letter has put everything out of my head—well, she and I—we've known each other since we were children—in fact, for the last four or five years she has nearly lived with us, and there's a great deal in habit, and propinquity, and all that sort of thing. 'Man was not made to live alone,' and I'm sure woman wasn't either, for they would have nobody to exercise their tongues upon, and would die from repletion of small-talk, or a pressure of gossip on the brain, or some such thing; and so a complication of all these causes led us in our romantic moments to indulge in visions of a snug little fireside, garnished with an intelligent household cat, and a bright copper tea-kettle, with ourselves seated one in each corner, regarding the scene with the complacent gaze of proprietors; and we were only waiting till my father should fulfil his promise of taking me into partnership, to broach the said scheme to the old people, and endeavour to get it realised. But lately there has been a fat fool coming constantly to our house, who has chosen to fancy Lucy would make him a good fooless; and although the dear girl has nearly teased, snubbed, and worried him to the borders of insanity, he has gone on persevering with asinine obstinacy, till he has actually dared to pop the question.”
“Well, let her say 'no' as if she meant it,” said Lawless; “women can, if they like, eh? and then it will all be as right as ninepence. Eh! don't you see?”
“Easier said than done, Lawless, unfortunately,” replied Coleman; “my fat rival is the son of an opulent drysalter, and last year he contrived to get rid of his father.”
“Dry-salted him, perhaps?” suggested Lawless.
“The consequence is,” continued Coleman, not heeding the interruption, “he is as rich as Croesus; now Lucy hasn't a penny, and all her family are as poor as rats, so what does he do but go to my father, promises to settle no end of tin on her, and ends by asking him to manage the matter for him. Whereupon the governor sends for Lucy, spins her a long yarn about duty to her family, declares she'll never get a better offer, and winds up by desiring her to accept the dolt forthwith; and Lucy writes to me, poor girl! to say she's in a regular fix, and thinks she'd better die of a broken heart on the spot, unless I can propose any less distressing but equally efficient alternative.”
“What does your governor say? that she'll never have a better offer?” asked Lawless.
“Yes,” replied Freddy, “and, in the common acceptation of the term, I'm afraid it's a melancholy truth.”
“Hum! yes, that'll do,” continued Lawless meditatively. “Freddy, I've thought of a splendid dodge, by which we may obtain the following advantages. Imprimis, selling the governor no end; secundis, insuring me a jolly lark—and 'pon my word I require a little innocent recreation to raise my spirits; and, lastly, enabling you to marry your cousin, and thus end, as the pantomimes always do, with a grand triumph of virtue and true love over tyranny and oppression! So now, listen to me!”