CHAPTER IX.
In all ages of which we have record, England has been unlike any other country in the world; nor has it been alone in the character of the people, their political institutions, and their religious feelings, that it has differed from all others; but the very aspect of the land has been totally apart, shadowing forth in its very look the mind of the people. We see forests and mountains, rocks, rivers, and cataracts, wide fields and waving corn in other countries; but where else would you see a green bowery lane like that, canopied with boughs and tapestried with flowers, down which those two figures are now walking slowly on? It is England all over--sweet, peaceful, pleasant-looking England. Though the age is remote from that in which we live; though the costume both of the man and woman is very different from our own; though the plumed hat, and the hanging cloak, and the slashed sleeve, might lead one to suppose one's self amongst Spaniards; yet look at the trees with the ivy creeping up them, the yellow banks, the small fields, the trim hedgerows, and not a doubt remains that the scene is English.
But we must just listen to their conversation, too; and that, alas! is very un-English. We must remember, however, that the age was one when a number of events had tended to corrupt society generally, and the court in particular; when the tone of the human mind, both in Britain and in France, had become debased by the conduct and example of the highest personages in the realm; when the monarch on the throne of England, at least, though learned and witty, presented to his people the pattern of all that is despicable, low, and vicious in a man, all that is hateful and contemptible in a monarch; a tyrant without energy or courage; a debauchee without fire or passion; a tricky politician, without perspicuity or judgment; vain of his religion, yet wavering in his doctrines, irreligious in his conduct, and blasphemous in his discourse; proud of his cunning, yet always deceived and frustrated; assuming the tone of command, yet led like an infant or a fool; governed by others, though a despot himself; and only perfect in grossness, selfishness, and treachery. With such a sovereign; with minions imitating and despising him; with a court hungry of gold and avaricious of vice; with the scaffold and the prison offered as rewards for virtue, energy, and genius; can we be surprised that the poison spread, more or less, through all classes; and that the nobles, brought more immediately within the pestilential atmosphere of the court, were peculiarly affected by the moral malady of the time? Can we wonder that every kind of wickedness which the perverse heart of man can conceive or generate was rife; that corruption of all kinds was too common to excite attention; that brawls and murders were heard of every day; and that the enemy or the rival, whom the knife could not reach, found death in the platter or cup? Can we wonder that such conversations as the following were heard by the ears of the air?
"He must be disposed of," said the gentleman, speaking to a lady of extraordinary beauty who walked by his side; "he must be disposed of, that is very clear."
"Ay, but how is it to be done?" asked the lady. "It is very well for you to counsel me, but give me no help."
"Nay, sweetest Kate," replied her companion, "I am willing to give you every help in the world; but I have heard that, during my long and tedious absence from your fair side, you did not fail to console yourself by reasonable tenderness for this same object of your present hate."
"And do you believe such tales?" she exclaimed, turning her flashing eyes upon him. "You do not, William, you do not! I am the creature of your hands; you have made me what I am. From infancy till now you have tutored and led, guided, commanded me--no, not commanded, but at least directed; and you should know--"
"For that very reason I do know," he replied, "that it is the most natural and likely thing in the world, dear Kate, that you should seek a little consolation for a lover's absence. I say no more, I imply no more; for I know that, if real love were in the case, the bold, brave spirit in your heart, guided and directed as you say it has been by me, would even to myself avow the fact, and daringly set all my rage and jealousy at nought. Is it not so, sweet Kate?"
"Ay," she answered with a smile, "even so."
"Well then," he continued, "as you see I understand you fully, and neither suspect nor doubt, but only think that in a vacant hour, dull, and for mere idleness, you have trifled with a growing passion in this great lord, till it has risen into a flame which has somewhat scorched the fingers of the kindler--I say it must be by some means drowned out. The only question is how, and that we must consider. But in order to judge of the best means, I must know fully the provocation he has given my fair love.--Nay, knit not your white brows, dear Kate, with such a puzzled look: I will help you to explanations."
"You cannot," she said; "there can be no explanations, William Ifford. It suffices to me, and should suffice to you, that he has offended and insulted me--her whom you say you love."
"And do love," answered he whom we have hitherto seen under the name of Lovet, "ay, better far than all the thousand I have loved and been loved by before. But yet it matters much, my Kate; for, if the injury and the insult,--as from something you let drop a day or two ago I do suspect,--touches me in the slightest possible degree, my course is very plain, and I will cut his throat ere the moon be an inch broader. But if it refer to you alone, it might be dangerous to take the step of the duello on such a topic, as giving point to certain rumours of our close friendship which would mar all our plans."
The lady looked down, bending her large, dark, haughty eyes sternly upon the ground; but she murmured in a low tone, "He treated me as he might treat a common harlot; and when I mortified his vanity by cold repulse, he spoke of you, called you my paramour, vowed he could prove the facts and make my shame public to all the world. Now, though I would break, by any means--at any risk, that idle tie to your cold hypocritical cousin Hillingdon, yet I would fain do so without having the finger of every smooth, well-concealed, mock-virtuous woman of the court pointed at me in scorn. He said he could prove it, I tell you.--You start, William, and turn pale: that is not as if your blood fired up like mine."
"My blood has something else to do, bright Kate," answered her cousin. "Why I started was, because your tale awakens a strange doubt in my mind. There was safe in my house, when I left England, a little agate casket with a secret lock, which kept good guard over your dear, long-preserved letters.--Here is the key hanging ever round my neck; but yesterday, when I sought for that casket, I could not find it; and, thinking that it had been mislaid, I left the search, trusting to meet with it another day. Can any one have stolen those letters?--At all events that man must not live much longer; but, my dear Kate, it will not do to fight on such a cause of quarrel. Nay, moreover, if I seek occasion against him, he will judge rightly of the cause, and spread his tale of scandal to the world,--perhaps produce his proofs, if he really have any. We must employ quieter means, wear a smooth face towards him, and, as we do with a wild beast that we fear, lure him into a trap well prepared beforehand. How did you part, in enmity or calmly?"
The lady had turned very pale as he spoke of the loss of the casket; and some time passed ere she answered his question. He repeated it, however, in a quiet, tender tone; and, looking up she said, "He cowed me--rage sank beneath fear, and I smoothed my brow--nay, even smiled and laughed, in order to gain time, till I could speak with you. But you were long ere you arrived, and now it is too late to perfect any plans. He comes to-morrow evening, and has promised to bring the proofs he spoke of with him."
"Not too late, not too late," answered her companion. "I will speed home like lightning, search for these letters, be with you again to-morrow early; and then, if you have courage and resolution, we will find means to rid us of one whom we cannot deal with openly. I will have all prepared if you will but second me. Where will my lord your uncle be tomorrow?"
"A hundred miles hence and more," replied the lady. "He and my good aunt, do not return for two days to come."
"Then all will go easily," rejoined the other. "The man must die--he must not reach Royton alive."
"But blood is soon traced," she said, in a tone of hesitation.
"We will have no blood," replied her lover, with a smile: "men die occasionally of very rapid diseases. I will plan it all--you must execute."
"But how shall we get the papers from him," asked the lady, "without--"
"That must be cared for," answered Lovet. "You must be tender, my fair Kate, till you have got him to produce his proofs; give him fair hopes, and lead him on. He will sup here, of course; and after supper, when he has trifled with somewhat dangerous viands, bid him show the weighty evidence he spoke of. When they are all spread forth, I will come in, to your surprise and his, and take my own again. Then, if he be inclined to quarrel, one hasty thrust, given ere any one has time to hear his tale, will settle all, and I shall pass blameless, for despatching one whom I found insulting my sweet cousin. It will be a claim, too, on her love--a fair motive in the world's eyes for her (in gratitude) to give me her soft hand."
The lady smiled with a meaning look. There was no surprise; there was no horror; there seemed hardly to be any fear. Had her mind been conversant with those ideas before? Who can tell? Such deeds were assuredly common in that day, and, at all events, they were commonly reported. The rumour of crimes always generates fresh ones of the same character. There is an infection in the very sound of such deeds, and the mind that hears it often catches the moral pestilence and dies. As she thought--and for some moments she did not reply--a look of triumph rose in her glittering eyes. "Ay!" she repeated, "ay! he shall rue it! Yes, he shall rue it!--William, you are right. It would not do to raise a clamour about this man's death, by taking your usual mode of settling such affairs; but against one thing you must guard right carefully, that his death be not traceable to us--unless, indeed, it be in hasty brawl, where weapons are soon out, and execution done ere men have time to think. I mean, if he quits my house alive, they must not be able to show that it was in the cup, or in the food which he there partook, that he found his fate."
"I will take care," said her cousin, significantly; "but you must be both ready and resolute, my sweet Kate,--no doubt--no hesitation--no weak remorse."
"I have none!" replied the lady, lifting her hand boldly; "we kill a wolf or a tiger, a snake or a shark. It is the first principle of nature and of right to destroy that which would destroy us. His death is needful to my life. He dies, or I die.--Nay, more; I feel the hunter's spirit within me, and life, for life, I would rather die myself with him, than not see him die."
"His offence must have been bitter," answered her cousin; "though it was very needful to our happiness that Hillingdon should be out of our way, you never thought of using such means with him."
"I may have thought of it," answered the lady, musing; "but I would not have done it, William. In moments of eager impatience, I may have wished him dead--nay, have said so, I think, to you; but yet I would have practised nought against his life. Hillingdon never offended me. He loved me not; but, as I loved him not, that was no offence. His tone was courteous, too, when he did write to me or to my uncle. Plainly and boldly he said he wished the contract dissolved; but I wished it too, and therefore it was a kindness, not an injury. His very absence, that he might never see me, had--as he turned it, and I believe as he felt it--a certain courtesy. Nay: Hillingdon, though cold and stiff, and opposite in almost everything to my nature and my wishes, is still a high and noble-minded man, a gentleman in heart and spirit."
Her companion bit his lip, for he loved not to hear his cousin's praises from that lady's tongue. He was silent, however, and she proceeded: "But this man has, indeed, offended me bitterly, as you say. Encouraged by a light smile, and perhaps some idle freedom--I will not deny it--he thought I had become his slave, assumed the air of triumph, boasted, I doubt not, of his conquest amongst drunken comrades, and thought mine was a heart that would bear the insolent tone, the rude assumption of success, the air and words of conquest. Fool! I taught him better; and then he threatened to turn my bold contempt to burning shame--he did more than threaten, William. He it is, and he alone, who has staid the dissolution of my infant marriage with Hillingdon.--The judges were all agreed--the king himself was won, when this man stepped in. The minion persuaded the king, by his cringing arts, to pause.--Nay, look not doubtful! He told me so himself; with scornful triumph vowed my fate was in his hands; and said, if I had not treated him so disdainfully I should have been now as free as air. Do not the facts bear out the assertion? All that was required by any one was Hillingdon's oath in open court that he had never seen me since I was ten years old. He came and gave it. Then suddenly the king paused and prevaricated, and Algernon returned disgusted and despairing. Have I not cause to say this man is a viper in my way? Have I not a right to set my heel upon his head?"
"Assuredly!" replied William Ifford; "and the sooner the better, my sweet Kate. I see that your mind is made up and your courage equal to the task. He sups here; he will dine at Hertford, at the inn there. I will take care--though the deed cannot be done there on account of the many eyes upon us--that some circumstance of suspicion shall occur at Hertford to direct the doubts of men afterwards away from your house. I have a powder brought from Italy, which I have heard has been most serviceable in the great house of Medici. May it prove as useful to us! And now farewell, my Kate. I will not go up to the mansion with you, as I must return to-morrow morning. Do not pause and ponder on our plans, lest your resolution fail."
"No fear!" she answered, with a calm look; "my courage is firmer than you think, William. Adieu!"
Sir William Ifford left her, and walked back to a village about half a mile distant, where he had left his horse. At first he went quick, as if in haste; but after he had turned out of the lane his pace became slower, and he meditated, murmuring a part of his thoughts as he proceeded. "A dangerous housekeeper!" he said; "and yet a glorious creature--not the most faithful in her loves, I fear--yet how can I blame her? I have not been right faithful myself--and she was alone. We will both do better when we are wedded.--There must be more in this affair than she thinks fit to own--she could not hate so strongly had she not somewhat loved. Well, when he is dead that will be wiped out; her own hand will avenge both herself and me. Yet it is hardly politic to teach her tricks which she may practise hereafter on myself.--I am a bold man to link myself to one so well tutored; but for such a woman, and for such a fortune, who would not be bold? All that will be needed is care for the future,--and a sure antidote in my doublet pocket."
Full of such reflections, he reached the village, and, mounting his horse, rode on to a house which, with the small estate around it, had descended to him from his mother. His patrimonial property had been long spent, and even this was not unencumbered. Springing to the ground, he mounted the six steps which led up into an arched porch covered with ivy, opened the door, and went in. A servant was called and ordered to bring a fresh horse, and then William Ifford paused a moment in the hall, bending his eyes upon the marble pavement in deep meditation. It seemed of a very gloomy character too. Perhaps it was remorse that moved him; for the heart, however sunk in vice and folly, shrinks from the touch of a new crime. Rarely does it happen that it is so corrupted that there is not some sound spot left somewhere; and so long as there is, that part will tremble at the first touch of the corroding poison which has destroyed all the rest. His brow became very cloudy, and gathered thick over his deep, keen eye; his lip quivered; and the fingers of the hand which had fallen by his side were seen to move slowly together, till they were clenched firmly in the palm. The light, the scoffing, and the scornful will have their moments of thought, of doubt, and of depression, as the vicious of regret. There comes upon us all, against our will, we know not how, we know not whence, a shadow as from the gloomy, inevitable rock before us, clouding the sparkling sunny path in which we sported, rendering the gay dreams gloomy, and the clear future obscure. It is the time to ask ourselves, whither that path tends, where those sports may end. But still the counteracting power of evil, waging his eternal war against all good, suggests some reason, presents some excuse for following the impulse of the wilful heart along the course of error; till at length, when all warnings have been given, and every opportunity neglected, the toils of our own acts close round us; and, in the inextricable net which we ourselves have aided to weave, we struggle in vain; till death takes us forth, and an unknown state begins.
Slowly and even sadly Sir William Ifford raised his eyes and cast a melancholy glance around the dim old hall. There was an air of desolation and neglect about it, very different from the gay and splendid scenes in which he was accustomed and loved to move. The look of poverty was stamped upon it; and in an instant flashed before his eyes the image of a long future of care and penury, and forced self-denial and niggardly restraint. "It must be," he cried, "it must be done;" and, hurrying to an old oaken cabinet, which he opened with one of the keys he wore about him, took out an extremely minute vial filled with some white substance, and gazed at it attentively for an instant; then, placing it in his pocket, he entered his bed-chamber, and drew forth from a large chest a masker's beard, nearly white, and several separate locks of silver hair. With these, put safely up, he rode away towards the town of Hertford, which he reached shortly after nightfall; but, before he entered the street, he fastened the false locks to the lining of his hat and brought them over his forehead and his neck. The beard completed a disguise sufficiently close to prevent any eyes, but such as knew him very well, from recognising him; and then, entering the town, he dismounted at a small public house, and walked on foot towards the principal inn in the great street. About half an hour after, he might be seen speaking in the court-yard to a man in a white night-cap and apron. Their conversation seemed merry, too; for few even knew better how to assume familiar courtesies towards the lower classes, when he liked it, than William Ifford.
"You foolish dog," he cried, at length; "will you lose a good gold piece just for your vanity in your art? I tell you it is for a bet with him. I vowed I would make him eat bitter pottage ere a week were over; and I ask you not to do aught that can hurt him. There's many an innocent herb, and salutary too, that tastes like soot in the mouth. Take your choice of them, and stuff his pottage and the first two dishes full of it. Go out into the garden and get some bitter endive, or any other purifier of the blood. So will you be sure that no harm can come of it. I must have it done, however; and here is a gold piece for your pains."
The man seemed still to hesitate; but William Ifford doubled the offered bribe, and the cook's virtue could not resist the temptation.
"Keep your own counsel," said the gentleman, as he left him, "and all is safe. I shall laugh heartily to-morrow night, when I hear him curse the bitter soup he had at Hertford."
Thus saying, he turned away, mounted his horse again and rode back. On the following morning early he was once more by the Lady Catherine's side; and for two long hours they talked eagerly with meaning looks, but in low tones, as if they feared to be overheard, although they well knew that no ear was near to hear them. But there is a consciousness in crime of an ever open eye, an ear that is never closed.