CHAPTER XLIX — MR. FRAMPTON MAKES A DISCOVERY
“In a tandem I see nothing to induce the leader to keep his
course straightforward, but an address on the part of the
charioteer as nearly as can be supernatural.... And, for my
own part, I think leaders of tandems are particularly apt to
turn short round. And the impudence with which they do it,
in some instances, is past all description, staring all the
while full in the faces of those in the carriage, as much as
to say, 'I must have a peep at the fools behind that are
pretending to manage me'.”
—Thinks I to Myself.
“But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so.
Lonely he felt at times as Robin Crusoe.”
—Beppo.
ALL that passed immediately after the events I have described left but a succession of vague and confused images on my memory. I have some dim recollection of seeing them raise Cumberland from the ground, and of his showing symptoms of returning animation; but I remember nothing distinctly till I again found myself a tenant of the little sanded parlour in the village inn. My first act was to ring for a basin of cold water and a towel, with which I well bathed my face and head; in some degree refreshed by this process, I sat down and endeavoured to collect my scattered senses.
I had succeeded in my immediate object, and suspense was at an end. I had obtained certain proof of Clara's falsehood; with her own lips I had heard her declare that she repented her engagement, and wished to be freed from it; and the person to whom she had confided this was a man whose attentions to her were so marked that even the very servants considered him an acknowledged suitor. What encouragement could be more direct than this? Well, then, she was faithless, and the dream of my life had departed. But this was not all; my faith in human nature was shaken—nay, destroyed at a blow. If she could prove false, whom could I ever trust again? Alas! the grief—the bitter, crushing grief—when the consciousness is forced upon us that one with whom we have held sweet interchange of thought and feeling—with whom we have been linked by all the sacred ties of mutual confidence—with whose sorrows we have sympathised, and whose smiles we have hailed as the freed captive hails the sunshine and the dews of heaven—that one whom for these things we have loved with all the deepest instincts of an earnest and impassioned nature, and for whose truth we would have answered as for our own, is false and unworthy such true affection—oh! this is bitter grief indeed! Deep sorrow, absorbing all the faculties of the soul, leaves no room for any other emotion; and in the one idea, that Clara Saville—Miss Clara Saville, whom my imagination had depicted the simple, the loving, the true-hearted—was lost to me for ever, I forgot for somç time the existence of Wilford or the fact that in my anger I had stricken down and possibly seriously injured Cumberland. But as the first agony of my grief began to wear off, I became anxious to learn the extent of the punishment I had inflicted on him, and accordingly despatched a boy to Peter Barnett, requesting him to send me word how matters stood.
During his absence it occurred to me that, as Wilford had been introduced to her under a feigned name, Clara must be utterly ignorant of the evil reputation attaching to him, and that—although this did, not in any way affect her heartless conduct towards me—it was only right that she should be made aware of the true character of the man with whom she had to deal; therefore, painful as it was to hold any communication with her after what had passed, 1 felt that the time might come when my neglect of this duty might afford me cause for the most bitter self-reproach. Accordingly, asking for pen, ink, and paper, I sat down and wrote the following note:—
“After the occurrences of this morning, I had thought never, either by word or letter, to hold further communication with you; by your own act you have separated us for ever; and I—yes, I can say it with truth—am glad that it should be so—it prevents all conflict between reason and feeling. But I have what I deem a duty to perform towards you—a duty rendered all the more difficult, because my motives are liable to cruel misconstruction; but it is a duty, and therefore must be done. You are, probably, as little aware of the true character of the man calling himself Fleming as of his real name; of him may be said, as of the Italian of old, that 'his hate is fatal to man, and his love to woman'; he is alike notorious as a duellist and a libertine. My knowledge of him arises from his having in a duel wounded, almost unto death, the dearest friend I have on earth, who had saved an innocent girl from adding to his list of victims. If you require proof of this beyond my word, ask Mr. Stephen Wilford—for such is really his name—in your guardian's presence, whether he remembers Lizzie Maurice and the smart of Harry Oaklands' horsewhip. And now, having warned you, your fate is under your own control. For what is past I do not reproach you; you have been an instrument in the hands of Providence to wean my affections from this world, and if it is His good pleasure that, instead of a field for high enterprise and honest exertion, I should henceforth learn to regard it as a scene of broken faith and crushed hopes, it is not for me to rebel against His will. And so farewell for ever!—F. F.”
I had not long finished writing the above when the boy returned, bringing the following missive from old Peter:—
“Honoured Sir,
“The topper as you've give Muster Richard ain't done him no more harm, only lettin' hout a little of his mad blood, and teachin' 'im when he speaks to a gemman to haddress 'im as sich; 'is face is swelled as big as too, and he'll 'ave a sweet pair of black hyes to-morrer, please goodness, which is a comfort to reflect on. Touchin' uther matturs, I've got scent of summut as may make things seeme not so black as we thort, but it's honly in the hegg at present, and may never come to a chickin, so don't go settin' too much on it; but if you've nothin' better to do, ride over agen the day arter to-morrer, by which time I may have more to communicate, “Your humbel servent to command,
“Peter Barnett.”
I pondered for some minutes on what this enigmatical document might portend; but a little reflection served to convince me that neither Peter nor any one else could discover aught affecting the only feature of the whole affair which deeply interested me; on that point I had obtained the information of my own senses, and there was nothing more to hope or fear. I had learned the worst; the blow had fallen, and it only remained for me to bear it with what fortitude I might. Accordingly I enclosed my note to Clara in one to Peter Barnett, telling him I could see no reason for coming there again, and that in all probability I should not take the trouble of doing so, adding that if he had anything new to communicate he had better do so in writing; and then, ordering my horse, I rode slowly home, feeling more thoroughly miserable than I had ever done before in the whole course of my life.
The next morning was so fine that all kinds of pleasurable schemes were proposed and acceded to. Oaklands and Fanny rode out together in all the unrestrained freedom of an engaged tête-à-tête. The new dog-cart had arrived, and the chestnuts were to make their début; consequently, Lawless spent the morning in the stable-yard, united by the closest bonds of sympathy with the head-groom and an attendant harness-maker, the latter being a young man whose distinguishing characteristics were a strong personal savour of new leather, hands gloved in cobbler's wax and harness-dye, and a general tendency to come off black upon everything he approached. Sir John and the rest of the party were to fill a britchska, and the place of rendezvous was the ruins of an old abbey about eight miles distant.
Feeling quite unfit for society, I had excused myself on the plea (not altogether a false one) of a bad headache, and having witnessed their departure from the library window, I drew an easy-chair to the fire, and prepared to enjoy the luxury (in my then state of feeling an unspeakable one) of solitude. But I was not fated to avail myself of even this small consolation, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when the library door was opened, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance.
“Umph! eh! umph!” he began; “I've been seeing that young fool Lawless start in his new tandem, as he calls it. A pretty start it was too; why, the thing's as high as a stage-coach—ought to have a ladder to get up—almost as bad as mounting an elephant! And then the horses, fiery devils! two men at each of their noses, and enough to do to hold 'em even so! Well, out comes Master Lawless, in a greatcoat made like a coal-sack, with buttons as big as five-shilling pieces, a whip as long as a fishing-rod in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. 'There's a picture!' says he. 'A picture of folly,' says I; 'you're never going to be mad enough to trust yourself up there Behind those vicious brutes?' 'Come, governor, jump in, and let's be off,' was all the answer I got. 'Thank ye,' says I; 'when you see me jumping in that direction, pop me into a strait-waistcoat, and toddle me off to Bedlam.' 'Eh! won't you go? Tumble in then, Shrimp!' 'Please, sir, it's so high I can't reach it.' 'We'll soon see about that!' cries Lawless, flanking him with the long whip. Well, the little wretch scrambled up somehow, like a monkey; and as soon as he was safely landed, what does he do but lean back, fold his arms, and winking at one of the helpers, squeak out, 'Oh, crickey! ain't this spicy, just!' 'You're never going to take that poor child?' says I; 'only think of his anxious mother! 'Well, sir, if you'll believe it, they every one of 'em burst out laughing—helpers, brat and all—as if I'd said something very ridiculous. 'Never mind, governor,' says Lawless; 'depend upon it, his mother knows he's out,' and catching hold of the reins, he clambers up into his seat, shouting, 'Give 'em their heads! Stand clear! Chut! chut! 'As soon as the brutes found they were loose, instead of starting off at a jog-trot, as reasonable, well-behaved horses ought to do, what do you suppose they did? The beast they tied on in front turned short round, stared Lawless in the face, and stood up on its hind legs like a kangaroo, while the other animal would not stir a peg, but, laying down his ears, gave a sort of a screech, and kicked out behind. 'Pretty, playful things,' said Lawless, flipping the ashes off the end of his cigar. 'Put his head straight, William. Chut! chut! 'But the more he chutted the more they wouldn't go, and began tearing and rampaging about the yard till I thought they'd be over me, so I scrambled up a little low wall to get out of their way, missed my footing, and tumbled over backwards on to a dung-heap, and before I got up again they were off; but if that young jackanapes don't break his neck some of those days, I'm a Dutchman! Umph! umph!”
“Lawless is a capital whip,” replied I, “and the chestnuts, though fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger.”
“Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you and give you good advice.—And that puts me in mind that I want to have half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to me now?”
“I am quite at your service, sir,” replied I, resigning myself to my fate with the best grace I could command.
“Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.—By the bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?”
“Often and often,” replied I, “have I longed to know to whose disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an advantage.”
“Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't very unlike me in the face. Umph!”
“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it warmly, “and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How can I ever thank you?”
“I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but now you've left college, what are your wishes—what do you think of doing? Umph!”
“I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr. Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion.”
“Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers—gentlemen that eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However, I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me, Frank, I—umph!—your sister's going to be married, to be married to a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However, I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter, and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!”
“Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible claim upon your liberality.”
“Yes, you have, boy—yes, you have,” replied Mr. Frampton, “the strongest claim that can be; you have saved me from falling a victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under—you have saved me from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well and honourably, I would make you my heir.—Don't interrupt me,” he continued, seeing that I was about to speak, “let me finish what I have to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of another—waiting for dead men's shoes—umph! and so, Frank, as I feel pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God, another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living. For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction, for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!”
What did I say?—what could I say? I got up, and having once again pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have been—as I then fondly imagined—the only thing wanting to secure my happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand—nor could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy, she had placed a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter. Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following interrogatory, “Umph! eh? why, Frank—umph! anybody would think you had just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a fortune given you—Umph!”
“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, “forgive me. Your unparalleled liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active employment.”
I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in thought, and then said, “And you are quite sure she is false? Are you certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest point) referred to you?”
“Would I could doubt it!” replied I, shaking my head mournfully.
“Umph!—Well, I dare say—she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,—what is her name?—a jilt!”
“Her name,” replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to her—for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me little short of profanation—“her name is Clara Saville.”
“Umph! eh? Saville!” exclaimed Mr. Frampton. “What was her mother's name? Umph!”
“I never heard,” replied I. “Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor—”
“Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and told me—Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I—eh!—umph! umph! umph!”
And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless jilt? A jilt—how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we love—a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.
“The ways of God are indeed inscrutable,” he said. “Information, which for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan child of my sister!”
In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea. A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his boyhood; but on carrying his project into execution, he learned that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise, therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read the following chapter.