CHAPTER XVIII.
Several day, passed, and the time elapsed which was requisite to bring an answer from London to Smeaton's letter addressed to Lord Stair. But none arrived, and rumours were thick and busy in the country, of dangerous proceedings in the north of England, and in Scotland. In the immediate neighbourhood of Ale Manor, however, the public mind seemed more quiet and tranquil. Some of the magistrates had relapsed into that careless indifference from which the intelligence of great dangers had aroused them; those of a firmer and more consistent character were tranquil from a sense of readiness and preparation for any event; and others, more keen, astute, and active, were vigorously carrying on the measures which they had previously resolved to take, but with as much quiet secresy as decision.
In the interior of Ale Manor House, the days passed almost without incident. Both Emmeline and Smeaton saw that they were watched, and put the greatest restraint upon their actions, words, and looks, that was possible with a courteous and kindly demeanour to each other.
Mrs. Culpepper glided about as usual; was seen here and seen there, when nobody expected her; and, by her quiet and demure manner, satisfied even Sir John Newark that she was obeying his orders implicitly.
Richard Newark was the only one who enlivened the scene with little agitations. From time to time, in his rash wild way, and with his figurative but not very choice language, he would touch so close on the well-concealed feelings of the lovers as to alarm them both, and then, darting gaily away to some other theme, leave them scathless. He kept his father in some anxiety too; for a greater portion than ever of his careless, almost reckless, spirit seemed to have entered into him. He contrived to tumble out of a boat into the water far out in the bay, and might have been drowned, as there was nobody in the skiff with him, had not swimming been acquired so early, and practised so continually, that it was almost as natural to him as walking. He burst a fowling-piece, also, by putting in a double charge in a moment of forgetfulness. But he escaped without injury, and only mourned over his shattered gun.
It is not to be supposed, however, that the restraint to which they were obliged to submit was otherwise than very painful to Smeaton and Emmeline. They did not see where it was likely to terminate. It was natural that the male lover should bear this state of things with more impatience than the lady; for women, even in very early life, have a sort of prescience that their portion is to endure without murmuring. Smeaton was almost tempted to cast off all reserve and follow what he felt to be a rash and even a dangerous course. None know, but those who have experienced it, how unbearable it is to be constantly in the presence of a beloved object without the opportunity, even by a whispered word or a glance of love, to tell the feelings that are busy in the heart.
How this might have ended, and whether he might or might not have been hurried into any rashness had this state continued much longer, I cannot say; for, although he had been well drilled by adversity, by difficulties, and by dangers, and was competent to deal as calmly as any man with most of the ordinary things of life, yet he was impetuous by nature, and the sensations which he now experienced were so new and strange to him, that he could not bring them under any rule obtained from experience of the past. That state, however, was not destined to last long; for, on the fourth day after Sir James Mount's visit, as he sat in his room very early in the morning enjoying the splendid rising of the sun, and indulging the thoughts with which lovers vivify the morning beans, he heard a gentle tap at his door. No sound had previously disturbed the silence which had reigned throughout the house during the night; no housemaid's pail had been heard clattering; no ancient serving-man of matutinal habits had unbarred windows and opened doors; and, without venturing to say aloud, "Come in," Smeaton rose to ascertain with his eyes who was his early visitor. He found good Mrs. Culpepper herself standing in the passage without; but, as soon as she saw that he was up and dressed, she entered in silence with her noiseless step, and quietly closed the door behind her.
"I have wanted to see you, sir, for some time," she said; "but Sir John Newark is all eyes; and I dare not let him perceive that I know anything at all of you for fear of spoiling everything. But I thought that old Nanny might very well come to see her boy, even in his bed-room, and so I got myself up early. There are strange stories running about the country, sir. They say, people are actually in arms in the north. Oh, Harry, have nothing to do with them; for this thing will never succeed, depend upon it. More than one half of the gentry, and most men of the middle station, are against it."
"I have not the slightest intention, my dear Nanny, to take any part in these rash movements," replied Smeaton. "I am quite as well aware of their hopelessness as you can be."
"But I fear Sir John," said the old woman. "I fear him very much. He is just the man to keep out of all perils himself, and to put other people in for the purpose of seeing what he can get out of the spoil. I wish to Heaven you were away, pleasant as it is to see you. I wish you were in France again. Can you not go, and keep yourself quiet there?"
Smeaton shook his head with a faint and somewhat melancholy smile.
"I cannot go at present, Nanny," he said. "That is impossible. I have ties to this land now, more hard to break than those which bind me to any other."
"Can you not take her with you?" enquired the old woman, in a low tone. "Listen what I have devised for you. You love her. I know you love her, and she loves you. Take her with you; marry her under my lady's eye, and with her sanction; keep perfectly quiet, whatever takes place in England; and, when all is still again, demand to return and resume your rights, and I will so work here, while you are gone, that that dear child shall have her rights too, in spite of all the cunning of the cunningest man within the four seas."
"But how can it be managed?" asked Smeaton. "And will she go upon so sudden and unexpected a proposal?"
"Have you said nothing to her?" returned the housekeeper, with a look of surprise. "Have you not told her all your heart? I thought--I fancied--I felt sure, on that day that you were so long alone together, that you must have spoken all that need be said. Why, besides the ride in the morning, you were walking up and down the terrace in the evening for more than two hours, with Dick sitting, whistling, upon a stone at a distance."
"She knows that I love her," replied Smeaton; "and I trust that she loves me; but it is a very different thing to promise me her hand at some future period, and to agree to fly with me to a foreign land at a very short notice. The motives, the objects, her own state and condition here, the very necessity of her going, even if she did not go to be my wife, must all be explained to her, and I have no opportunity of explaining. I see her not for a single instant during the day without witnesses; and, though I pass up and down the stairs more frequently, perhaps, than is prudent, for the purpose of catching one stray passing word, I have never met her."
"That is because it is another staircase," observed the old woman. "You pass close by her every day; but there is no door open on this side. Let me see," she continued, pressing her hand upon her eyes. "I think I can manage it for you; but you must be very discreet. You know, I dare say, every corner of your sitting-room there beyond, and you must have remarked a door, like a closet-door, always locked. It is a closet--a mere slip. It leads out into the passage close by the state room--behind which is the priest's chamber. The priest's chamber is close to that of Emmeline, and she can come out of her own room into the same passage. To-night, when you come to bed, you shall find somewhere or another--let me see where I will put it--yes, that will do--you will find, on the upper shelf of that cupboard, there in the corner, the key of the closet which leads to the passage. To-morrow morning early, before any one else is up, rise and go through the closet to the state room. You shall find Emmeline there--or she will come very soon. But mind you do not linger long together, and do not make any noise. Speak low--tread softly--and, on no account, open the way into the priest's chamber; for that would be heard to a certainty by him who sleeps below. You must get her to decide speedily; for the clouds are gathering fast, and I would fain you were gone."
"If I am not to stay with her long," replied Smeaton, "it is very probable that I may not be able to explain all at once."
"Then you must get her to come back the the next morning," said the old housekeeper; "for you must not stay long together--half an hour at the utmost--even if you rise at five. Remember, there are people up in the house always before six; and no one can tell where they may wander. This is a strange household, sir, where every servant is a spy upon the other, and the master a spy upon all. It needs skilful doings; but I so contrive that often, in reporting to him what I do, the other people do just what I desire. They tell him that I am prying here and prying there, whenever he is absent, and am in all sorts of rooms and places, as if I was mistress of the house. That is just what he wants; and though, now and then, when he catches me creeping about, and any one is present, he speaks sharply as if he were angry--it is but a pretence, which no one knows better how to make. I do tell him almost everything that happens; but that almost covers all I wish to hide. I do him no wrong, because he has no right in this house; and I always keep the means in my own hands of baffling him when I please. If he knew it, I dare say I should soon be found down the deep draw-well in the garden; but he shall not know it till I am safe beyond his reach."
"Then I may trust to find Emmeline there," said Smeaton, with a joyful heart.
"Yes, I think so," replied the housekeeper, in a more doubtful tone than he liked. "She will never refuse to go, surely. I will persuade her, somehow; and love will take part with me. Oh, yes, she will come, I am sure. But now I will go; and, before to-morrow morning, I must contrive to have the locks well oiled and the key placed for you.--Good-bye, my dear boy. Be upon your guard against whatever Sir John proposes; for you cannot tell what scheme may be at the bottom of anything he says or does."
I must not pause to notice all the mingled feelings which occupied the heart of the young nobleman after the old housekeeper had left him. They were agitating enough; and, though her words were well calculated to encourage hope of the speedy fulfilment of his warmest desires, yet they plunged him in thoughtful reveries during the day, which did not escape the keen eye of Sir John Newark. Smeaton saw, however, that his absent mood, and grave and thoughtful countenance, were remarked; and he turned suspicion from the course he feared it might take, by expressing much surprise that he had received no answer from Lord Stair. Emmeline, too, marked change in his demeanour, and was somewhat anxious, if the truth must be told; but, for her an explanation was coming very soon.
I wish that I could, but fear that I cannot, convey to the mind of the reader the feelings with which she listened to the words of the old housekeeper when Mrs. Culpepper visited her that night. I dread that I may suggest, even in the least degree, an idea that she was unwomanly, forward, or bold, when I say that the thought of seeing Smeaton on the following morning in private imparted no other emotion than joy; yet so it was. Emmeline's character, however, was eminently feminine, in the finest, noblest signification of that word. The idea of a clandestine interview with her betrothed made her whole heart thrill; it agitated, almost overpowered her; but it was all with joy. Her education had involved none of the conventional restraints of women in her class of society; restrained, tied down, she had been, though in a different way. She knew not, she could not conceive, that anything was wrong, anything that could be even construed into wrong, in thus meeting him she loved. Her spirit sprang to meet his, to tell him all she felt, to pour into his bosom the pent-up thoughts of the last week. She could as much have fancied that a skylark could be blamed for trilling his glad song in air over the nest of his feathered mate, as she could be by the good and wise for that which she was about to do. The world is full of conventionalities, which have ever been accumulating since the creation; they are the fetters of the fallen. Adam and Eve found them out as soon as they had tasted the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil; and the green leaves which they twined to cover them formed the first sophistication. But dear Emmeline was in some sort like Eve before she suffered herself to be beguiled by the serpent. She had not tasted of that fruit. She knew little of evil, and had not a heart to imagine it; and, as I have said, the idea of meeting her lover, and enjoying one quiet hour of tranquil conversation with him, suggested nothing but thoughts of joy.
Some vague words, indeed, which the old housekeeper dropped, before she left her, in regard to the coming interview and the influence it was likely to have upon all her future fate, produced a certain feeling of timidity, though not great; and she was up and dressed before Mrs. Culpepper presented herself on the following morning. Her timidity, however, had by this time increased; and she besought the old lady to come with her and be present; but Mrs. Culpepper knew more of love and lovers' feelings than Emmeline, and was quite well aware that she would be one too many at their meeting.
"No, my dear child, no," she said. "Young gentlemen, when they speak to young ladies whom they love, do not like to have old women listening. I will wait in the passage, however, and give you notice when it is time to part; but, as to everything else, you had better be alone."
In her heart perhaps Emmeline agreed with the old housekeeper; at all events, she submitted readily; and, with a faltering step and somewhat agitated air, followed to the place of interview. Smeaton was there before her; and he took care to close the door.
I will not dwell upon what passed between them. Many important things were proposed, discussed, and settled; much was to be told, explained, and listened to; yet nothing was settled, and very little discussed. Marvellous how the time ran on in the words of love and the feeling of happiness! They forgot the future in the present; and they were just approaching the very object of their meeting, when the old housekeeper quietly opened the door and told them it was time to part. Then came the hurried and whispered engagement to meet again on the following morning, with a pledge to each other to act more wisely and providently, and use their time to better purposes.
Thus they parted; and Emmeline, agitated and confused with the inebriating taste of early love, returned to her chamber to dream dreams of happiness. Her head had rested on his bosom; his arms had clasped her to his heart; his lips had been placed on hers. It was all for the first time; and that first time works an eventful change in woman's heart.
They met again upon the following day; and, though strongly tempted as they had been before, they were wise and remembered that much had to be determined. Neither upon this conversation will I dwell any more than upon that which preceded. The reader can easily imagine what were the feelings of a young, innocent, inexperienced girl, when a proposal was placed before her to quit the dwelling in which she had been brought up--to leave the protection to which she had been accustomed--and to go in silence and in secresy to a distant land with one whom she loved dearly, but had not long known. She doubted him not; she trusted him entirely; she felt sure that he would take no base advantage of her confidence; she believed him fully when he told her that she should be to him as a sister till she became a bride; but yet her heart sank and her limbs trembled; and it was with difficulty that her lips could be brought to utter the promise.
Smeaton took every pains to reassure and comfort her. Perhaps the first might seem a strange way; but yet it was a very effectual one. According to a custom which he had seen in other lands, he bound her to himself, and himself to her, by a simple form of betrothal. With her hand in his, he pledged himself to her for ever, and made her repeat the same promise towards him; then they mutually called upon God to bless them as they kept that vow; and then he placed a small jewelled ring upon her finger--an ancient gem of his house--and after leaving it there for a moment, and pressing a kiss upon the hand that bore it, he told her to fasten it round her neck with a ribbon, and keep it always in her bosom.
Still, however, he found her agitated, perhaps I may say alarmed; but then he whispered a few words in her ear, and all irresolution was at an end. Emmeline's bright eyes grew brighter as they fixed upon his face with a look not fuller of surprise than of joy; and, clasping her hands together, she said--
"Then I go safely, rightly. It is a duty. I no longer fear."
"You shall have the paper to-morrow," said Smeaton; "but as soon as you have read it, it had better be destroyed. I have kept it concealed where nobody could find it, even when my baggage was searched in London; but now, in justice to you, my beloved, I must show it, that you may feel yourself justified in all that you do."
Again they were forced to part. Little more remained to be settled, and that they thought would easily be done. The hour, the manner, the means of flight, were to be arranged; but flight was determined, and they parted happily.
When Emmeline was in the solitude of her own chamber, however, and when all she had promised, all she was about to perform, came upon her mind like a dream--she was moved deeply. Dangers, difficulties, she thought of little; but the strange newness of all that was before her alarmed and agitated her. The very thought of quitting the wild lonely scenes round Ale, quitting them perhaps for ever, produced a very melancholy impression on her mind. There was not a rock or hill, a towering cliff, an indentation of the coast--hardly a tree all around--that she did not know as a familiar friend. They had been the companions of her youth and of her infancy; she had held more communings with them than with human beings; she had peopled them with her thoughts; they had linked themselves to her heart by the strong ties of association; they had been as brothers and sisters to her in the solitude of her own meditations; and, in the absence of other objects of affection, she had clung to them as if they had been living things. Love must be very powerful, to break through all such bonds, and to make the heart yield up, with no other portion of regret than a passing melancholy, all that we have attached ourselves to for many years. Emmeline was going to quit them all, as she thought--to quit them all in a few days, and it was not to be expected that she should do so without some grief; but love had by this time the full mastery, and she did not and would not repent of the promise she had given. Its fulfilment, however, was far more distant than she anticipated; and, before nightfall of that same day, the relation of almost all things round her had been changed.