CHAPTER XLVIII — PAYING OFF OLD SCORES
“'Oh most delicate fiend!
Who is't can read a woman?
Is there more?'
'More, sir, and worse.'”
—Cymbeline.
“The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and sturdily said he—
'Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take this rede from
me, That woman's faith's a brittle trust. Seven twelve-
months didst thou say? I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
beyond the seventh day.'”
—Ballad of the Noble Moringer
IT is a weary thing to lie tossing restlessly from side to side, sleepless, through the silent watches of the night, spirit and matter warring against each other—the sword gnawing and corroding its sheath. A weary and harassing thing it is even where the body is the aggressor—when the fevered blood, darting like liquid fire through the veins, mounts to the throbbing brow, and, pressing like molten lead upon the brain, crushes out thought and feeling, leaving but a dull consciousness of the racking agony which renders each limb a separate instrument of torture. If, on the other hand, it be the mind that is pestilence-stricken, the disease becomes well-nigh unbearable, as it is incurable; and thus it was with me on the night in question. The suspense and anxiety I had undergone during the preceding day had indisposed me for sustaining any fresh annoyance with equanimity, and now, in confirmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old Peter's note, warning me of treachery in the quarter where I was most deeply interested, rose up before me like some messenger of evil, torturing me to the verge of distraction with vague doubts and suspicions—fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned at once that he must be labouring under some delusion, and disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her above a week before—in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not having heard from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half a dozen lines. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received any answer, by the supposition that Mr. Vernor had, by some accident, detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have mentioned in his note such an easy solution of the difficulty. Yet, to believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection of her simple, child-like confession of affection—the happiness my love appeared to afford her—the tender glance of those honest, trustful eyes—who could think of these things and suspect her for one moment? But that old man's letter! What did it—what could it mean? His allusion to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger—ha!—and as a strange, improbable idea glanced like lightning through my brain—like lightning, too, searing as it passed—I half sprung from the bed, unable to endure the agony the thought had costume. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing—I scarcely know what—something desperately impracticable, which should involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach to any formed scheme. Oh! that night—that weary, endless night! Would morning never, never come! About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle, dressed myself, and then, sitting down, wrote a short note to my mother, telling her that an engagement, formed the previous evening, to meet a friend, would probably detain me the greater part of the day; and another note to Oaklands, saying that I had taken the liberty of borrowing a horse, begging him to speak of my absence as a thing of course, and promising to tell him more when I returned. I then waited till a faint grey tint in the eastern sky gave promise of the coming dawn; when letting myself noiselessly out, I took my way towards the Hall. It was beginning to get light as I reached the stables, and, arousing one of the drowsy helpers, I made him saddle a bay mare, with whose high courage, speed, and powers of endurance I was well acquainted, and started on my expedition.
As it was nearly eighteen miles to the place of meeting, I could scarcely hope to reach it by seven o'clock, the time mentioned in old Peter's note; but action was the only relief to my anxiety, and it may easily be supposed I did not lose much time on the road, so that it was but ten minutes after seven when I turned down the lane in which the little alehouse appointed as our rendezvous was situated. I found old Peter waiting to receive me, though the cloud upon his brow, speaking volumes of dark mystery, did not tend to raise my spirits.
“Late on parade, sir,” was his greeting—“late on parade; we should never have driven the Mounseers out of Spain if we'd been ten minutes behind our time every morning.”
“You forget, my friend, that I have had eighteen miles to ride, and that your notice was too short to allow of my giving orders about a horse over night.”
“You do not seem to have lost much time by the way,” he added, eyeing my reeking steed. “What a slap-up charger that mare would make! Here, you boy, take her into the shed there, and throw a sack or two over her, wash out her mouth, and give her a lock of hay to nibble; but don't go to let her drink, unless you want my cane about your shoulders—do ye hear? Now, sir, come in.”
“What in the world did you mean by that note, Peter?” exclaimed I, as soon as we were alone; “it has nearly driven me distracted—I have never closed my eyes all night.”
“Then it's done as I intended,” was the satisfactory reply; “it's prepared you for the worst.”
“Nice preparation!” muttered I, then added, “Worst! what do you refer to? Speak out, man—you are torturing me!”
“You'll hear it sooner than you like; try and take it easy, young gentleman. Do you feel yourself quite prepared?”
I am afraid my rejoinder was more energetic than correct; but it appeared to produce greater effect than my entreaties had done, for he continued:—
“Well I see you will have it out, so you must, I suppose; only if you ain't prepared proper, don't blame me. As far as I can see and hear—and I keeps my eyes and ears open pretty wide, I can tell you—I feels convinced that Miss Clara's guv you the sack, and gone and taken up with another young man.” As he delivered himself of this pleasant opinion, old Peter slowly approached me, and ended by laying his hands solemnly on my shoulders, and, with an expression of fearful import stamped on his grotesque features, nodded thrice in my very face.
“Nonsense!” replied I, assuming an air of indifference I was far from feeling; “such a thing is utterly impossible—you have deceived yourself in some ridiculous manner.”
“I only wish as I could think so, for all our sakes, Mr. Fairlegh; but facts is like jackasses, precious stubborn things. Why are they always a-walking together, and talking so loving like, that even the old un hisself looks quite savage about it? And why ain't she never wrote to you since he cum—though she's had all your letters—eh?”
“Then she has received my letters?”
“Oh, yes! she's always had them the same as usual.”
“And are you sure she has never written to me?”
“Not as I know on; I've never had one to send to you since she's took up with this other chap.”
“And pray who or what is this other chap, as you call him, and how comes he to be staying at Barstone?”
“Well, sir, all as I can tell you about him is, that nigh upon a fortnight ago Muster Richard come home, looking precious ill and seedy; and the wery next morning he had a letter from this chap, as I take it. I brought it to him just as they rung for the breakfast things to be took away, so I had a chance of stopping in the room. Direc'ly he sot eyes on the handwriting, he looked as black as night, and seemed all of a tremble like as he hopened it. As he read he seemed to get less frightened and more cross; and when he'd finished it, he 'anded it to the old un, saying, 'It's all smooth, but he's taken it into his head to come down here. What's to be done, eh? 'Mr. Vernor read it through, and then said in an under tone,' 'Of course he must come if he chooses'. He then whispered something of which I only caught the words, 'Send her away'; to which Richard replied angrily, 'It shall not be; I'll shilly-shally no longer,—it must be done at once, I tell you, or I give the whole thing up altogether'. They then went into the library, and I heard no more; but the wery next day come this here hidentical chap—he arrived in style too—britzska and post-horses. Oh! he's a reg'lar swell, you may depend; he looks something like a Spaniard, a foreigneering style of physiography, only he ain't so swarthy.”
“Don't you know his name?” inquired I.
“They call him Mr. Fleming, but I don't believe that's his right name; leastways he had a letter come directed different, but I can't remember what it was: it was either—let me see—either a hess or a W; I think it was a hess, but I can't say for certain.”
“But what has all this to do with Miss Saville?” asked I impatiently.
“Fair and easy; fair and easy; I'm a-coming to her direc'ly—the world was not made in a day; you'll know sooner than you likes, I expects, now sir. Well, I didn't fancy him from the first; he looks more like Saytin himself than any Christian as ever I set eyes on, except Boneypart, which, being a Frenchman and a henemy, was not so much to be wondered at: however, he was wery quiet and civil, and purlite to Miss Clara, and said wery little to her, while Muster Richard and the old un was by, and she seemed rather to choose to talk to him, as I thought, innocent-like, to avoid the t'other one; but afore long they got quite friends together, and I soon see that he meant business, and no mistake. He's as hartful and deep as Garrick; and there ain't no means of inweigling and coming over a woman as he don't try on her: ay, and he's a clever chap, too; he don't attempt to hurry the thing; he's wery respectful and attentive, and seems to want to show her the difference between his manners and Muster Richard's—not worreting her like; and he says sharp things to make Muster Richard look like a fool before her. I can't help larfing to mysolf sometimes to hear him,—Muster Dickey's met his match at last.”
“And how does Cumberland brook such interference?”
“Why, that's what I can't make out; he don't like it, that's clear, for I have seen him turn pale with rage; but he seems afraid to quarrel with him, somehow. If ever he says a sharp word, Mr. Fleming gives him a scowling look with his wicked eyes, and Muster Richard shuts up direc'ly.”
“And you fancy Miss Saville appears disposed to receive this man's advances favourably? Think well before you speak; do not accuse her lightly, for, by Heaven! if you have not good grounds for your insinuations, neither your age nor your long service shall avail to shield you from my anger! every word breathed against her is like a stab to me.” As, in my grief and irritation, I threatened the old man, his brow reddened, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth. After a moment's reflection, however, his mood changed, and, advancing towards me, he took my hand respectfully, and pressing it between his own, said:—
“Forgive me this liberty, sir, but I honours you, young gentleman, for your high spirit and generous feeling; your look and bearing, as you said them words, reminded me of my dear old master. It can't be no pleasure to me, sir, to blame his daughter, that I have loved for his sake, as if she had been a child of my own—but truth is truth;” and as he uttered these words, the big drops stood in his eyes, unfailing witnesses of his sincerity. There is something in the display of real deep feeling, which for the time appears to raise and ennoble those who are under its influence; and as the old man stood before me, I experienced towards him a mingled sentiment of admiration and respect, and I hastily endeavoured to atone for the injustice I had done him.
“Forgive me, Peter!” exclaimed I; “I did not mean what I said,—sorrow and annoyance made me unjust to you, but you will forgive it?”
“No need of that, sir,” was the reply; “I respects you all the more for it. And now, in answer to your question, I will go on with the little that remains to tell, and you can judge for yourself. Miss Clara, then, avoids Mr. Richard more than hever, and talks kind and pleasant like with this Mr. Fleming—walks out with him, sometimes alone—rides with him—don't seem so dull and mopish like since he's been here, and has never hanswered your letters since she took up with him.” As he concluded his catalogue of proofs, I threw myself into a chair, and sat with my hands pressed tightly on my brow for some minutes; my brain seemed on fire.
At length, starting up abruptly, I exclaimed: “This is utterly unbearable! I must have certainty, Peter; I must see her at once. How is that to be done?”
“You may well ask,” was his reply; “better wait till I can find an opportunity, and let you know.”
“Listen to me, old Peter,” continued I, laying my hand on his shoulder; “there is that within me this day which can overcome all obstacles—I tell you I must see her, and I WILL!”.
“Well, well, don't put yourself into a passion; the only chance as I knows of is to ketch Miss Clara out walking; and then ten to one Mr. Fleming will be with her.”
“Let him!” exclaimed I; “why should I avoid him? I have not injured him, though he may have done me foul and bitter wrong; it is for him to shrink from the encounter.”
“I know what the end of this will be,” returned Peter Barnett; “you'll quarrel; and then, instead of off coats and having it out like Britons, there'll be a purlite hinvitation given, as kind and civil as if you was a-hasking him to dinner, to meet as soon as it's light to-morrow morning, and do you the favour of putting a brace of bullets into you.”
“No, Peter, you do not understand my feeling on this subject; should you be right in your suspicions (and, although my faith in your young mistress is such that nothing but the evidence of my own senses can avail to shake it, I am fain to own circumstances appear fully to warrant them)—should these suspicions not prove unfounded, it is her falsehood alone that will darken the sunshine of my future life. Fleming, or any other coxcomb who had taken advantage of her fickleness, would be equally beneath my notice. But enough of this; where shall I be most likely to meet her?”
“You knows the seat in the shrubbery walk under the old beeches, where you saw Miss Clara the first time as ever you cum here?”
“Only too well,” answered I, as the recollection of that morning contrasted painfully with my present feelings.
“Well, you be near there about eleven o'clock; and if Miss Clara don't walk that way, I'll send down a boy with hinformation as to the henemy's movements. Keep out of sight as much as you can.”
“It shall be done,” replied I.
Old Peter paused for a moment; then, raising his hand to his forehead with a military salute, turned away and left me.
Eight o'clock struck; a girl brought me in breakfast; nine and ten sounded from an old clock in the bar, but the viands remained untasted. At a quarter past ten I rang the bell, and asked for a glass of water, drained it, and, pressing my hat over my brow, sallied forth. The morning had been misty when I first started, but during my sojourn at the inn the vapours had cleared away, and as, by the assistance of an old tree, I climbed over the paling of Barstone Park, the sun was shining brightly, wrapping dale and down in a mantle of golden light. Rabbits sprung up under my feet as I made my way through the fern and heather; and pheasants, their varied plumage glittering in the sunlight, ran along my path, seeking to hide their long necks under some sheltering furze brake, or rose heavily on the wing, scared at the unwonted intrusion. At any other time the fair scene around me would have sufficed to make me light-hearted and happy, but in the state of suspense and mental torture in which I then was, the brightness of nature seemed only to contrast the more vividly with the darkness of soul within. And yet I could not believe her false. Oh, no! I should see her, and all would be explained; and as this thought came across me, I bounded eagerly forward, and, anxious to accelerate the meeting, chafed at each trifling obstacle that opposed itself to my progress. Alas! one short hour from that time, I should have been glad had there been a lion in my path, so that I had failed to reach the fatal spot.
With my mind fixed on the one object of meeting Clara, I forgot the old man's recommendation to keep out of sight; and flinging myself at full length on the bench, I rested my head upon my hand, and fell into a reverie, distorting facts and devising impossible contingencies to establish Clara's innocence. From this train of thought I was aroused by a muffled sound as of footsteps upon turf, and in another moment, the following words, breathed in silvery accents, which caused my every pulse to throb with suppressed emotion, reached my ear:—
“It is indeed an engagement of which I now heartily repent, and from which I would willingly free myself; but—”
“But,” replied a man's voice, in the cold sneering tone of which, though now softened by an expression of courtesy, I had almost said of tenderness, I instantly recognised that of Stephen Wilford,—“but, having at one time encouraged the poor young man, your woman's heart will not allow you to say 'No' with sufficient firmness to show that he has nothing further to hope.”
“Indeed it is not so,” replied the former speaker, who, as the reader has doubtless concluded, was none other than Clara Saville; “you mistake me, Mr. Fleming; if a word could prove to him that his suit was hopeless, that word should soon be spoken.”
“It is not needed!” exclaimed I, springing to my feet, and suddenly confronting them; “that of which the tongue of living man would have failed to convince me, my ears have heard, and my eyes have seen! It is enough. Clara, from this moment you will be to me as if the grave had closed over you; yet not so, for then I could have loved your memory, and deemed that an angel had left this false and cruel world to seek one better fitted to her bright and sinless nature!—Farewell, Clara! may you be as happy as the recollection (which will haunt you at times, strive as you may to banish it), that by your falsehood you have embittered the life of one who loved you with a deep and true affection, will permit!” and overcome by the agony of my feelings, I leaned against the bench for support, my knees trembling so that I could scarcely stand.
When I appeared before her so unexpectedly, Clara started back and uttered a slight scream; after which, apparently overwhelmed by my vehemence, she had remained perfectly silent; whilst her companion, who had at first favoured me with one of his withering glances, perceiving that I was so completely engrossed as to be scarcely conscious of his presence, resumed his usual manner of contemptuous indifference. He was, however, the first to speak.
“This gentleman, whom I believe I have the pleasure of recognising,” and here he slightly raised his hat, “appears, I can scarcely suppose, a friend, but, at all events, an intimate of yours, Miss Saville; if you wish me—that is, if I am at all de trop——” and he stepped back a pace or two, as if only awaiting a hint from her to withdraw, while with his snake-like glance riveted upon her features, he watched the effect of his words.
“No, pray do not leave me, Mr. Fleming,” exclaimed Clara hurriedly; “Mr. Fairlegh must see the impossibility of remaining here. I am momentarily expecting Mr. Cumberland and my guardian to join us.”
“I leave you,” replied I, making an effort to recover myself; “I seek not to pain you by my presence, I would not add to your feelings of self-reproach by look or word of mine;” then, catching Wilford's glance fixed upon me with an expression of gratified malice, I continued, “For you, sir, I seek not to learn by what vile arts you have succeeded thus far in your iniquitous designs; it is enough for me that it should have been possible for you to succeed; my happiness you have destroyed; but I have yet duties to perform, and my life is in the hands of Him who gave it, nor will I risk it by a fruitless quarrel with a practised homicide.”
The look of concentrated hatred with which he regarded me during this speech, changed again to scornful indifference, as he replied, with a contemptuous laugh, “Really, sir, you are labouring under some singular delusion; I have no intention of quarrelling; you appear to raise phantoms for the pleasure of combating them. However, as far as I can comprehend the affair, you are imputing to me an honour belonging rather to my friend Cumberland; and here, in good time, he comes to answer for himself. Cumberland, here's a gentleman mistaking me for you, I fancy, who seems labouring under some strange delusions about love and murder; you had better speak to him.” As he concluded, Cumberland, attended by a gamekeeper leading a shooting pony, came up, looking flushed and angry.
“I should have been here sooner,” he said, addressing Wilford, “but Browne told me he had traced poachers in the park; the footsteps can be otherwise accounted for now, I perceive.” He then made a sign for the keeper to approach, and, turning towards me, added, “You are trespassing, sir”.
His tone and manner were so insolent and overbearing, that my blood boiled in my veins. Unwilling, however, to bring on a quarrel in such a presence, I restrained my indignation, and replied, “I know not what devil sent you here at this moment, Richard Cumberland; I have been sorely tried, and I warn you not to provoke me further”.
“I tell you, you are trespassing, fellow; this is the second time I have caught you lurking about; take yourself off instantly, or—” as he spoke he stepped towards me, raising his cane with a threatening gesture.
“Or what?” inquired I, at length thoroughly roused; and, drawing myself up to my full height, I folded my arms across my chest, and stood before him in an attitude of defiance.
As I did so, he turned deadly pale, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail him; but catching the sound of Wilford's sneering laugh, and relying on the assistance of the gamekeeper, who, having tied the pony to a tree, was fast approaching the scene of action, he replied, “Or receive the chastisement due to such skulking vagabonds!” and springing upon me, he seized my collar with one hand, while with the other he drew the cane sharply across my shoulders.
To free myself from his grasp by a powerful effort was the work of a moment, while almost at the same time I struck him with my full force, and, catching him on the upper part of the nose, dashed him to the ground, where he lay motionless, and apparently stunned, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.