JACK STUART'S BET ON THE DERBY, AND HOW HE PAID HIS LOSSES.
Cotherstone came in amid great applause, and was the winner of the poorest Derby ever known. Whilst acclamation shook the spheres, and the corners of mouths were pulled down, and betting-books mechanically pulled out—while success made some people so benevolent that they did not believe in the existence of poverty any where, and certainly not in the distress of the wretched-looking beggar entreating a penny—whilst all these things were going on, champagne corks flying, the sun shining, toasts resounding, and a perfect hubbub in full activity on all sides, Jack Stuart drew me aside towards the carriage, and said, "'Pon my word, it must be a cross. How the deuce could one horse beat the whole field?"
"Oh, you backed the field, did you?"
"To be sure. I always go with the strongest side."
"And you have lost?"
"A hundred and fifty."
No wonder Jack Stuart looked blue. A fifth part of his yearly income gone at one smash—and in such a foolish way, too.
"If the excitement could last three or four days, it would almost be worth the money," he said; "but no sooner do you hear the bell—see the crush of horses at the starting-post—bang—bang—off they go!—and in a minute or two all is over, and your money gone. I will have a race of snails between London and York. It would be occupation for a year. But come, let us leave the abominable place." He hurried me into the stanhope, gave the rein to his active grey mare, and making a detour towards Kingston, we soon left the crowd behind us.
"I will never bet on a horse again," said Jack, ruminating on his loss. "Why should I? I know nothing about racing, and never could understand odds in my life; and just at this moment, too, I can't spare the coin."
At the same time he did not spare the whip; for you will always observe, that a meditative gentleman in a gig is peculiarly impressive on his horse's shoulder. The grey trotted along, or burst into an occasional canter.
"I'll back this grey against Cotherstone for fifty pounds."
"To stand flogging? I think you would win."
"No, to jump. See how she springs."
Hereupon Jack touched the mare in a very scientific manner, just under the fore-arm, and the animal, indignant at this disrespectful manner of proceeding, gave a prodigious rush forward, and then reared.
"You'll break the shafts," I said.
"I think she is going to run away, but there seems no wall near us—and I don't think any coaches travel this road. Sit still, for she's off."
The mare, in good truth, resented her master's conduct in a high degree, and took the bit in her teeth.
"If she doesn't kick, it's all right," said Jack.
"She has no time to kick if she goes at this pace," I answered; "keep her straight."
The speed continued unabated for some time, and we were both silent. I watched the road as far in advance as I could see, in dread of some waggon, or coach, or sudden turn, or even a turnpike gate, for the chances would have been greatly against an agreeable termination.
"I'll tell you what," cried Jack, turning round to me, "I think I've found out a way of paying my losses."
"Indeed! but can't you manage in the mean time to stop the mare?"
"Poh! let her go. I think rapid motion is a great help to the intellect. I feel quite sure I can pay my bets without putting my hand into my pocket."
"How? Pull the near check. She'll be in the ditch."
"Why, I think I shall publish a novel."
I could scarcely keep from laughing, though a gardener's cart was two hundred yards in advance.
"You write a novel! Wouldn't you like to build a pyramid at the same time?"
"We've given that old fellow a fright on the top of the cabbage," said Jack, going within an inch of the wheels of the cart. "He'll think we've got Cotherstone in harness. But what do you mean about a pyramid?"
"Why, who ever heard of your writing a novel?"
"I did not say write a novel—I said publish a novel."
"Well, who is to write it?" I enquired.
"That's the secret," he answered; "and if that isn't one of Pickford's vans, I'll tell you"——
The mare kept up her speed; and, looming before us, apparently filling up the whole road, was one of the moving castles, drawn by eight horses, that, compared to other vehicles, are like elephants moving about among a herd of deer.
"Is there room to pass?" asked Jack, pulling the right rein with all his might.
"Scarcely," I said, "the post is at the side of the road."
"Take the whip," said Jack, "and just when we get up, give her a cut over the left ear."
In dread silence we sat watching the tremendous gallop. Nearer and nearer we drew to the waggon, and precisely at the right time Jack pulled the mare's bridle, and I cut her over the ear. Within a hairbreadth of the post on one side, and the van on the other, we cut our bright way through.
"This is rather pleasant than otherwise," said Jack, breathing freely; "don't you think so?"
"I can't say it altogether suits my taste," I answered.
"Do you think she begins to tire?"
"Oh, she never tires; don't be the least afraid of that!"
"It's the very thing I wish; but there's a hill coming."
"She likes hills; and at the other side, when we begin to descend, you'll see her pace. I'm very proud of the mare's speed."
"It seems better than her temper; but about the novel?" I enquired.
"I shall publish in a fortnight," answered Jack.
"A whole novel? Three volumes?"
"Six, if you like—or a dozen. I'm not at all particular."
"But on what subject?"
"Why, what a simpleton you must be! There is but one subject for a novel—historical, philosophical, fashionable, antiquarian, or whatever it calls itself. The whole story, after all, is about a young man and a young woman—he all that is noble, and she all that is good. Every circulating library consists of nothing whatever but Love and Glory—and that shall be the name of my novel."
"But if you don't write it, how are you to publish it?"
"Do you think any living man or any living woman ever wrote a novel?"
"Certainly."
"Stuff, my dear fellow; they never did any thing of the kind. They published—that's all. Is that a heap of stones?"
"I think it is."
"Well, that's better than a gravel-pit. Cut her right ear. There, we're past it. Amazing bottom, has't she?"
"Too much," I said; "but go on with your novel."
"Well, my plan is simply this—but make a bet, will you? I give odds. I bet you five to one in fives, that I produce, in a week from this time, a novel called 'Love and Glory,' not of my own composition or any body else's—a good readable novel—better than any of James's—and a great deal more original."
"And yet not written by any one?"
"Exactly—bet, will you?"
"Done," I said; "and now explain."
"I will, if we get round this corner; but it is very sharp. Bravo, mare! And now we've a mile of level Macadam. I go to a circulating library and order home forty novels—any novels that are sleeping on the shelf. That is a hundred and twenty volumes—or perhaps, making allowance for the five-volume tales of former days, a hundred and fifty volumes altogether. From each of these novels I select one chapter and a half, that makes sixty chapters, which, at twenty chapters to each volume, makes a very good-sized novel."
"But there will be no connexion."
"Not much," replied Jack, "but an amazing degree of variety."
"But the names?"
"Must all be altered—the only trouble I take. There must be a countess and two daughters, let them be the Countess of Lorrington and the Ladies Alice and Matilda—a hero, Lord Berville, originally Mr Lawleigh—and every thing else in the same manner. All castles are to be Lorrington Castle—all the villains are to be Sir Stratford Manvers'—all the flirts Lady Emily Trecothicks'—and all the benevolent Christians, recluses, uncles, guardians, and benefactors—Mr Percy Wyndford, the younger son of an earl's younger son, very rich, and getting on for sixty-five."
"But nobody will print such wholesale plagiarisms."
"Won't they? See what Colburn publishes, and Bentley, and all of them. Why, they're all made up things—extracts from old newspapers, or histories of processions or lord-mayor's shows. What's that coming down the hill?"
"Two coaches abreast"—I exclaimed—"racing by Jupiter!—and not an inch left for us to pass!"
"We've a minute yet," said Jack, and looked round. On the left was a park paling; on the right a stout hedge, and beyond it a grass field. "If it weren't for the ditch she could take the hedge," he said. "Shall we try?"
"We had better"—I answered—"rather be floored in a ditch than dashed to pieces against a coach."
"Lay on, then—here goes!"
I applied the whip to the left ear of the mare; Jack pulled at the right cheek. She turned suddenly out of the road and made a dash at the hedge. Away she went, harness, shafts, and all, leaving the stanhope in the ditch, and sending Jack and me flying, like experimental fifty-sixes in the marshes at Woolwich, halfway across the meadow. The whole incident was so sudden that I could scarcely comprehend what had happened. I looked round, and, in a furrow at a little distance, I saw my friend Jack. We looked for some time at each other, afraid to enquire into the extent of the damage; but at last Jack said, "She's a capital jumper, isn't she? It was as good a flying leap as I ever saw. She's worth two hundred guineas for a heavy weight."
"A flying leap!"—I said; "it was a leap to be sure, but the flying, I think, was performed by ourselves."
"Are you hurt?" enquired Jack.
"Not that I know of," I replied; "you're all right?"
"Oh! as for me, I enjoy a quiet drive, like this, very much. I'm certain it gives a filip to the ideas, that you never receive in a family coach at seven miles an hour. I believe I owe the mare a great sum of money, not to mention all the fame I expect to make by my invention. But let us get on to the next inn, and send people after the stanhope and the mare. We shall get into a car, and go comfortably home."
We did not go to the Oaks on Friday. We were both too stiff: for though a gentleman may escape without breaking his bones, still an ejectment so vigorously executed as the one we had sustained, always leaves its mark. In the mean time Jack was busy. Piles of volumes lay round him, scraps of paper were on the table, marks were put in the pages. He might have stood for the portrait of an industrious author. And yet a more unliterary, not to say illiterate, man than he had been before the runaway, did not exist in the Albany. "Curriculo collegisse juvat"—are there any individuals to whom their curricle has been a college, and who have done without a university in the strength of a fast-trotting horse? Jack was one of these. He had never listened to Big Tom of Christchurch, nor punned his way to the bachelor's table of St John's, and yet he was about to assume his place among the illustrious of the land, and have his health proposed by a duke at the literary fund dinner, as "Jack Stuart, and the authors of England;" and perhaps he would deserve the honour as well as some of his predecessors; for who is more qualified to return thanks for the authors of England than a person whose works contain specimens of so many? Your plagiarist is the true representative.
Jack's room is rather dark, and the weather, on the day of the Oaks, was rather dingy. We had the shutters closed at half-past seven, and sat down to dinner; soused salmon, perigord pie, iced champagne, and mareschino. Some almonds and raisins, hard biscuit, and a bottle of cool claret, made their appearance when the cloth was removed, and Jack began—"I don't believe there was ever such a jumper as the grey mare since the siege of Troy, when the horse got over the wall."
"Is she hurt?"
"Lord bless you," said Jack, "she's dead. When she got over the hedge she grew too proud of herself, and personal vanity was the ruin of her. She took a tremendous spiked gate, and caught it with her hind legs; the spikes kept her fast, the gate swung open, and the poor mare was so disgusted that she broke her heart. She was worth two hundred guineas; so that the Derby this year has cost me a fortune. The stanhope is all to atoms, and the farmer claims compensation for the gate. It's a very lucky thing I thought of the book."
"Oh, you still go on with the novel?"
"It's done, man, finished—perfect."
"All written out?"
"Not a word of it. That isn't the way people write books now; no, I have clipped out half of it with a pair of scissors, and the half is all marked with pencil."
"But the authors will find you out."
"Not a bit of it. No author reads any body's writings but his own; or if they do, I'll deny it—that's all; and the public will only think the poor fellow prodigiously vain, to believe that any one would quote his book. And, besides, here are the reviews?"
"Of the book that isn't published?"
"To be sure. Here are two or three sentences from Macauley's 'Milton,' half a page from Wilson's 'Wordsworth,' and a good lump from Jeffrey's 'Walter Scott.' Between them, they made out my book to be a very fine thing, I assure you. I sha'n't sell it under five hundred pounds."
"Do you give your name?"
"Certainly not—unless I were a lord. No. I think I shall pass for a woman: a young girl, perhaps; daughter of a bishop; or the divorced wife of a member of parliament."
"I should like to hear some of your work. I am interested."
"I know you are. We have a bet, you know; but I have found out a strange thing in correcting my novel—that you can make a whole story out of any five chapters."
"No, no. You're quizzing."
"Not I. I tell you, out of any five chapters, of any five novels, you make a very good short tale; and the odd thing is, it doesn't the least matter which chapters you choose. With a very little sagacity, the reader sees the whole; and, let me tell you, the great fault of story-writing is telling too much, and leaving too little for the reader to supply to himself. Recollect what I told you about altering the names of all the characters, and, with that single proviso, read chapter fifteen of the first volume of this——"
Jack handed me a volume, turned down at the two-hundredth page, and I read what he told me to call the first chapter of "Love and Glory."
THE WILDERNESS.
"A tangled thicket is a holy place
For contemplation lifting to the stars
Its passionate eyes, and breathing paradise
Within a sanctified solemnity."
Old Play
["That's my own," said Jack. "When people see that I don't even quote a motto, they'll think me a real original. Go on.">[
The sun's western rays were gilding the windows of the blue velvet drawing-room of Lorrington Castle, and the three ladies sat in silence, as if admiring the glorious light which now sank gradually behind the forest at the extremity of the park. The lady Alice leant her cheek upon her hand, and before her rose a vision the agitating occurrences of yesterday. The first declaration a girl receives alters her whole character for life. No longer a solitary being, she feels that with her fate the happiness of another is indissolubly united; for, even if she rejects the offer, the fact of its having been made, is a bond of union from which neither party gets free—Sir Stratford Manvers had proposed: had she accepted him? did she love him? ay, did she love him?—a question apparently easy to answer, but to an ingenuous spirit which knows not how to analyze its feelings, impossible. Sir Stratford was young, handsome, clever—but there was a certain something, a je ne sçais quoi about him, which marred the effect of all these qualities. A look, a tome that jarred with the rest of his behaviour, and suggested a thought to the very persons who were enchanted with his wit, and openness, and generosity—Is this real? is he not an actor? a consummate actor, if you will—but merely a great performer assuming a part. By the side of the bright and dashing Manvers, rose to the visionary eyes of the beautiful girl the pale and thoughtful features of Mr Lawleigh. She heard the music of his voice, and saw the deep eyes fixed on her with the same tender expression of interest and admiration as she had noticed during his visit at the Castle. She almost heard the sigh with which he turned away, when she had appeared to listen with pleasure to the sparkling conversation of Sir Stratford. She had not accepted Sir Stratford, and she did not love him. When a girl hesitates between two men, or when the memory of one is mixed up with the recollection of another, it is certain that she loves neither. And strange to say, now that her thoughts reverted to Mr Lawleigh, she forgot Sir Stratford altogether. She wondered that she had said so little to Mr Lawleigh, and was sorry she had not been kinder—she recalled every word and every glance—and could not explain why she was pleased when she recollected how sad he had looked when he had taken leave one little week before. How differently he had appeared the happy night of the county assembly, and at the still happier masked ball at the Duke of Rosley's! Blind, foolish girl, she thought, to have failed to observe these things before, and now!——
"I have written to Lorrington, my dear Alice," said the Countess, "as head of the family, and your eldest brother, it is a compliment we must pay him—but it is mere compliment, remember."
"To write to William?" mamma.
"I presume you know to what subject I allude," continued the Countess. "He will give his consent of course."
"Oh, mamma!" cried Alice, while tears sprang into her eyes, "I was in hopes you would have spared me this. Don't write to William; or let me tell him—let me add in a postscript—let me"——
"You will do what I wish you, I conclude—and I have told Sir Stratford"——
"Oh, what? what have you told him?"
"That he is accepted. I trust I shall hear no more on the subject. The marriage will take place in two months."
"But I don't love him, mamma—indeed."
"I am glad to hear it," said the mother, coldly. "I rejoice that my daughters are too well brought up to love any one—that is—of course—till they are engaged; during that short interval, it is right enough—in moderation; though, even then, it is much more comfortable to continue perfectly indifferent. Persons of feeling are always vulgar, and only fit for clergymen's wives."
"But Sir Stratford, mamma"——
"Has twenty thousand a-year, and is in very good society. He almost lives with the Rosleys. The Duke has been trying to get him for his son-in-law for a whole year."
"And Lady Mary so beautiful, too?"
"I believe, my dear, Lady Mary's affections, as they are called, are engaged."
"Indeed?" enquired the daughter, for curiosity in such subjects exists even in the midst of one's own distresses.
"May I ask who has gained Lady Mary's heart?"
"I believe it is that young Mr Lawleigh, a cousin of the Duchess—old Lord Berville's nephew; you've seen him here—a quiet, reserved young man. I saw nothing in him, and I understand he is very poor."
"And does—does Mr Lawleigh—like—love—Lady Mary?" enquired Alice with difficulty.
"He never honoured me with his confidence," replied the Countess—"but I suppose he does—of course he does—Sir Stratford, indeed, told me so—and he ought to know, for he is his confidant."
"He keeps the secret well," said Lady Alice with a slight tone of bitterness; "and Mr Lawleigh could scarcely be obliged to him if he knew the use he makes of his confidence—and Lady Mary still less"—she added.
"Why, if girls will be such fools as to think they have hearts, and then throw them away, they must make up their minds to be laughed at. Lady Mary is throwing herself away—her inamorato is still at Rosley House."
It was lucky the Countess did not perceive the state of surprise with which her communication was received.
Lady Alice again placed her cheek upon her hand, and sank into a deeper reverie than ever.
"Sir Stratford also is at Rosley, and if he rides over this evening, I have given orders for him to be admitted. You will conduct yourself as I wish. Come, Matilda, let us leave your sister to her happy thoughts."
Her happy thoughts! the Lady Alice was not one of those indifferent beings panegyrized by the Countess; she had given her whole heart to Henry Lawleigh—and now to hear that he loved another! She gazed along the magnificent park, and longed for the solitude and silence of the wilderness beyond. There, any where but in that sickening room, where the communication had been made to her, she would breath freer. She wrapt her mantilla over her head, and walked down the flight of steps into the park. Deeply immersed in her own sad contemplation, she pursued her way under the avenue trees, and, opening the wicket gate, found herself on the little terrace of the wood—the terrace so lonely, so quiet—where she had listened, where she had smiled. And now to know that he was false! She sat down on the bench at the foot of the oak, and covered her face with her hands, and wept.
A low voice was at her ear. "Alice!"
She looked up, and saw bending over her, with eyes full of admiration and surprise, Harry Lawleigh. Gradually as she looked, his features assumed a different expression, his voice also altered its tone.
"You are weeping, Lady Alice," he said—"I scarcely expected to find you in so melancholy a mood, after the joyous intelligence I heard to-day."
"Joyous!" repeated Alice, without seeming to comprehend the meaning of the word. "What intelligence do you allude to?"
"Intelligence which I only shared with the whole party at Rosley Castle. There was no secret made of the happy event."
"I really can't understand you. What is it you mean? who communicated the news?"
"The fortunate victor announced his conquest himself. Sir Stratford received the congratulations of every one from the duke down to—to—myself."
"I will not pretend to misunderstand you," said Lady Alice—"my mother, but a few minutes ago, conveyed to me the purport of Sir Stratford's visit." She paused and sighed.
"And you replied?" enquired Lawleigh.
"I gave no reply. I was never consulted on the subject. I know not in what words my mother conveyed her answer."
"The words are of no great importance," said Lawleigh; "the fact seems sufficiently clear; and as I gave Sir Stratford my congratulations on his happiness, I must now offer them to you, on the brightness of your prospects, and the shortness of your memory."
"Few can appreciate the value of the latter quality so well as yourself—your congratulations on the other subject are as uncalled for as your taunts—I must return home." She rose to depart, and her face and figure had resumed all the grace and dignity which had formerly characterized her beauty.
"One word, Lady Alice!" said Lawleigh; "look round—it was here—one little year ago, that I believed myself the happiest, and felt myself the most fortunate, of men. This spot was the witness of vows—sincerer on one side than any ever registered in heaven—on another, of vows more fleeting than the shadows of the leaves that danced on the greensward that calm evening in June, when first I told you that I loved you: the leaves have fallen—the vows are broken. Alice!—may you be happy—farewell!"
"If you desire it, be it so—but before we part, it is right you should know all. Whatever answer my mother may have given to Sir Stratford Manvers, to that answer I am no party. I do not love him: and shall never marry him. Your congratulations, therefore, to both of us, were premature, and I trust the same description will not apply to those I now offer to Mr Lawleigh and Lady Mary Rosley."
"To me?—to Lady Mary?—what does this mean?"
"It means that your confidential friend, Sir Stratford, has betrayed your secret—that I know your duplicity, and admire the art with which you conceal your unfaithfulness by an attempt to cast the blame of it on me."
"As I live——Alice! Alice! hear me," cried Lawleigh, stepping after the retreating girl; "I will explain—you are imposed on."
A hand was laid on his arm——
"He!—fairly caught, by Jupiter! whither away?" said Sir Stratford Manvers. "Thou'st sprung fair game i' the forest, 'faith—I watched her retreat—a step like a roebuck—a form like a Venus"——
"Unhand me, villain, or in an instant my sword shall drink the blood of thy cowardly heart."
"Fair words! thou'st been studying the rantipoles of Will Shakspeare, Hal. What is't, man? Is thy bile at boiling heat because I have lit upon thee billing and cooing with the forester's fair niece—poh! man—there be brighter eyes than hers, however bright they be."
"Now then, we have met," said Lawleigh, in a voice of condensed passion—"met where none shall hear us—met where none shall see us—met where none shall part us—Ha! dost thou look on me without a blush—the man you have injured—the friend who trusted—the enemy who will slay?—draw!"
"This is sheer midsummer madness—put up thy toasting-fork, Hal. This is no time nor place for imitations of Ben Jonson's Bobadil. Zounds! man, you'll startle all the game with your roaring—and wherefore is all the disturbance?"
"'Tis that you have traduced me, and injured me in the eyes of one, for a smile of whose lip thou well knowest I would lay down my life—for a touch of whose hand thou well knowest I would sell me to the Evil One—thou hast blackened me, and I will be avenged—ho! chicken-hearted boaster before women, and black-hearted traitor among men, will nothing rouse thee? Hear this, then—thou hast lied."
"Thou mean'st it?" said Sir Stratford, and drew back a step or two.
"I do—art thou man enough to cross points on that provocation?"
"Oh, on far less, as thou well knowest, in the way of accommodating a young gentleman anxious to essay a feat of arms. Thou hast said the word, and we fight—but let me ask to what particular achievement of mine thou hast attached so ugly an epithet. I would fain know to what I am indebted for your good opinion so gallantly expressed."
"I will but name two names—and between them thou wilt find how dastardly thy conduct has been."
"Make it three—'twere pity to balk the Graces of their numbers; add the young lady who so lately left thee. The forester's fair daughter deserves a niche as well as a duke's daughter."
"The names I mention," said Lawleigh, "are Lady Alice Lorrington, and Lady Mary Rosley."
Sir Stratford lifted his cap. "Fair ladies," he said, "I greet you well; that I have sunned me in the bright blue eyes of one, and the dark lustrous glances of the other, is true—yet, 'tis but acting in love as people are justified in doing in other things. When health begins to fail, physicians recommend a change of climate—when admiration begins to decay, I always adopt a different style of beauty; when the cold climate is too severe, I fly to the sunny plains of Italy—when Lady Alice frowns, I go to bask in the smiles of Lady Mary."
"And are a villain, a calumniator, and boaster in all—defend thyself."
"As best I may," replied Sir Stratford, and drew his sword. It was easy for him to parry the rapid thrusts of his enraged adversary—and warily and slowly he was beginning the offensive in his turn, when a sudden flash was seen, a loud report took place, and the baronet was stretched upon the ground, weltering in his blood. Rapid steps ere heard retreating in the direction of the thicket in the park, and Lawleigh hurried to the paling, and saw the form of a tall man, in a dark velvet coat, disappear over the hedge."
["How good that is!" said Jack Stuart, as I came to the end of the chapter, and laid down the volume. "How good that is! Did you perceive where the joining took place?"
"No—I saw no joining."
"Why, you stupid fellow, didn't you see that the first part was from a novel of the present day, and the other from a story of the rebellion—who the deuce do you think talks of thees and thous except the Quaker?"
"I didn't notice it, I confess."
"Glad to hear it; nobody else will; and in the next chapter, which is the seventeenth of the second volume of this romance, you will see how closely the story fits. Recollect to change the names as I have marked them in pencil, and go on.]
CHAPTER II.
"Hope springs eternal in the human mind,
I would be cruel only to be kind;
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
Survey mankind from Indus to Peru;
How long by sinners shall thy courts be trod?
An honest man's the noblest work of God."
MS. Poem—(original.)
Night, thick, heavy, deep night!—No star visible amid the sulphureous blackness of the overcharged clouds; and silence, dreadful as if distilled from the voicelessness of the graves of a buried world! Night and silence, the twins that keep watch over the destinies of the slumbering earth, which booms round in ceaseless revolution, grand, mystic, sublime, but yearns in the dim vastness of its sunless course, for the bright morning-hour which shall again invest it with a radiance fresh from heaven! Darkness, and night, and silence! and suddenly rushing down, on whirlwind wings, the storm burst fearfully upon their domain—wind and rain, and the hollow sound of the swaying branches! And Lawleigh pressed onward. His horse, which for several miles had shown symptoms of fatigue now yielded to the difficulties it could no longer encounter; and after a few heavy struggles, fell forward, and did not attempt to rise. Thirteen hours had elapsed from the time the chase on that day commenced, and unless for a short minute, he had seen nothing of the fugitive. Yet he had dashed onward, feeling occasionally his holsters, and satisfied that his pistols were in serviceable condition. He was now nearly as much exhausted as his horse; but determining to yield to no obstruction, he seized the pistols, and proceeded through the wood, leaving his gallant charger to its fate. Lawleigh was strong and active beyond most men of his day; and, when excited, more vigorous and determined than could have been supposed from the ordinary equanimity of his character. But here a great murder had been committed!—before his very eyes!—accusations had been hazarded!—and one soft voice dwelt for ever on his ear—"Find out the murderer, or see me no more." Had Lady Alice, indeed, allowed a suspicion to invade her mind, that he had been accessory to the death of Sir Stratford Manvers? But no!—he would pursue the dreadful thought no further. Sufficient that, after many efforts, he had regained a clue to the discovery of the tall man he had seen escape into the thicket. He had tracked him unweariedly from place to place—had nearly overtaken him in the cave of Nottingham Hill—caught glimpses of him in the gipsy camp at Hatton Grange—and now felt assured he was close upon his track in the savage ranges of Barnley Wold. Barnley Wold was a wild, uncultivated district, interspersed at irregular intervals with the remains of an ancient forest, and famous, at the period of our narrative, as the resort of many lawless and dangerous characters. Emerging from one of the patches of wood, which, we have said, studded the immense expanse of the wold, Lawleigh was rejoiced to perceive a faint brightening of the sky, which foretold the near approach of the morning. He looked all around, and, in the slowly increasing light, he thought he perceived, at the top of a rising ground at some distance, a shepherd's hut, or one of the rough sheds put up for the accommodation of the woodmen. He strove to hurry towards it, but his gigantic strength failed at length; and, on reaching the humble cottage, he sank exhausted at the door. When he recovered consciousness, he perceived he was laid on a rough bed, in a very small chamber, illuminated feebly by the still slanting beams of the eastern sun. He slowly regained his full recollection; but, on hearing voices in the room, he shut his eyes again, and affected the same insensibility as before.
"What could I do?" said a voice, in a deprecating tone.
"Leave him to die, to be sure," was the rough-toned answer. "I thought thee had had enough of gentlefolks, without bringing another fair-feathered bird to the nest." There was something in the expression with which this was said, that seemed to have a powerful effect on the first speaker.
"After the years of grief I've suffered, you might have spared your taunt, George. The gentleman lay almost dead at the door, and you yourself helped me to bring him in."
"'Twould have been better, perhaps, for him if we had led him somewhere else; for your father seems bitter now against all the fine folks together."
"Because he fancies he has cause of hatred to me—but he never had," answered the girl.
"And the gentleman had pistols, too," said the man. "You had better hide them, or your father will maybe use them against the owner."
"I did not move them from the gentleman's breast. We must wake him, and hurry him off before my father's return—but, hark! I hear his whistle. Oh, George, what shall we do?"
Lawleigh, who lost not a syllable of the conversation, imperceptibly moved his hand to his breast, and grasped the pistol. The man and the girl, in the mean time, went to the door, and, in a minute or two, returned with a third party—an old man dressed like a gamekeeper, and carrying a short, stout fowling-piece in his hand. His eyes were wild and cruel, and his haggard features wore the impress of years of dissipation and recklessness. "Does he carry a purse, George?" said the new-comer, in a low whisper, as he looked towards the bed.
"Don't know—never looked," said George. "Where have you been all the week? We expected you home three days ago."
"All over the world, boy—and now you'll see me rest quiet and happy—oh, very! Don't you think I looks as gleesome, Janet, as if I was a gentleman?"
The tone in which he spoke was at variance with the words; and it is likely that his face belied the expression he attributed to it; for his daughter, looking at him for the first time, exclaimed—
"Oh, father! what has happened? I never saw you look so wild."
"Lots has happened, Janet—sich a lot o' deaths I've been in at, to be sure—all great folks, too, none o' your paltry little fellows of poachers or gamekeepers, but real quality. What do you think of a lord, my girl?"
"I know nothing about them, father."
"You used, though, when you lived at the big house. Well, I was a-passing, two nights since, rather in a hurry, for I was a little pressed for time, near the house of that old fellow that keeps his game as close as if he was a Turk, and they was his wives—old Berville—Lord Berville, you remember, as got Bill Hunkers transported for making love to a hen pheasant. Well, thinks I, I'll just make bold to ask if there's any more of them in his lordship's covers, when, bing, bang goes a great bell at the Castle, and all the village folks went up to see what it was. I went with them, and there we seed all the servants a rummaging and scrummaging through the whole house, as if they was the French; and, as I seed them all making free with snuff-boxes, and spoons, and such like, I thought I'd be neighbourly, and just carried off this gold watch as a keepsake of my old friend."
"Oh, father! What will his lordship do?"
"He'll rot, Janet, without thinking either about me or his watch; for he's dead. He was found in his bed that very morning when he was going to sign away all the estate from his nephew. So that it's lucky for that 'ere covy that the old boy slipt when he did. People were sent off in all directions to find him; for it seems the old jackdaw and the young jackdaw wasn't on good terms, and nobody knows where he's gone to."
"They would have known at Rosley Castle," said the girl, but checked herself, when her father burst out—
"To the foul fiend with Rosley Castle, girl! Will you never get such fancies out of your head. If you name that cursed house to me again, you die! But, ha! ha! you may name it now," he added, with a wild laugh. "We've done it."
"Who? Who have done it?"
"She and I," said the ruffian, and nodded towards the fowling-piece, which he had laid upon the table; "and now we're safe, I think; so give me some breakfast, girl, and ask no more foolish questions. You, George, get ready to see if the snares have caught us anything, and I'll go to bed in the loft. I'll speak to this springald when I get up."
"Done what, father?" said the girl, laying her hand on the old man's arm. "For mercy's sake, tell ne what it is you have done—your looks frighten me."
"Why, lodged a slug in the breast of a golden pheasant, that's all—a favourite bird of yours—but be off, and get me breakfast."
While waiting for his meal, he sat in an arm-chair, with his eyes fixed on the bed where Lawleigh, or, as we must now call him, Lord Berville, lay apparently asleep. What the ruffian's thoughts were we cannot say, but those of his involuntary guest were strange enough. His uncle dead, and the fortune not alienated, as, with the exception of a very small portion, he had always understood his predecessor had already done—his life at this moment in jeopardy; for a cursory glance at the tall figure of the marauder, as he had entered, had sufficed to show that the object of his search was before him—and too well he knew the unscrupulous villany of the man to doubt for a moment what his conduct would be if he found his pursuer in his power. If he could slip from the bed unobserved, and master the weapon on the table, he might effect his escape, and even secure the murderer; for he made light of the resistance that could be offered by the young woman, or by George. But he felt, without opening his eyes, that the glance of the old man was fixed on him; and, with the determination to use his pistol on the first demonstration of violence, he resolved to wait the course of events. The breakfast in the mean time was brought in, and Janet was about to remove the fowling-piece from the table, when she was startled by the rough voice of her father, ordering her to leave it alone, as it might have work to do before long.
The girl's looks must have conveyed an enquiry; he answered them with a shake of his head towards the bed. "I may have business to settle with him," he said, in a hoarse whisper; and the girl pursued her task in silence. The old man, after cautioning her not to touch the gun, turned to the dark press at one end of the room, and in about half a minute had filled his pipe with tobacco, and re-seated himself in the chair. But Janet had seized the opportunity of his back being turned, and poured the hot water from the teapot into the touch-hole, and was again busy in arranging the cups and saucers.
"Where's George?" enquired the father; "but poh, he's a chicken-hearted fellow, and would be of no use in case of a row"—— So saying, he went on with his breakfast.
"He's awake!" he said suddenly. "I seed his eye."
"Oh no, father! he's too weak to open his eyes—indeed he is."
"I seed his eye, I tell ye; and more than that, I've seed the eye afore. Ha! am I betrayed?"
He started up, and seized the fowling-piece. His step sounded across the floor, and Berville threw down the clothes in a moment, and sprang to his feet.
"You here?" cried the ruffian, and levelled the gun, drew the trigger, and recoiled in blank dismay when he missed fire, and saw the athletic figure of Berville distended to its full size with rage, and a pistol pointed with deadly aim within a yard of his heart. He raised the but-end of his gun; but his daughter, rushing forward, clung to his arm.
"Fire not—but fly!" she cried to Berville. "Others are within call, and you are lost."
"Villain!" said Berville, "miscreant! murderer! you have but a moment to live"—and cocked the pistol.
"Let go my arm, girl," cried the old man, struggling.
"I have saved your life—I hindered the gun from going off—all I ask you in return is to spare my father." She still retained her hold on the old man's arm, who, however, no longer struggled to get it free.
"What! you turned against me?" he said, looking ferociously at the beautiful imploring face of his daughter. "You, to revenge whom I did it all! Do you know what I did? I watched your silken wooer till I saw him in the presence of this youth—I killed Sir Stratford Manvers"——
"And shall die for your crime," cried Berville; "but the death of a felon is what you deserve, and you shall have none other at my hands. In the mean time, as I think you are no fit companion for the young woman to whom I am indebted for my life, I shall offer her the protection of my mother, and take her from your house. If you consent to let us go in peace, I spare your life for the present; and will even for three days abstain from setting the emissaries of the law in search of you. After that, I will hunt you to the death. Young woman, do you accept my terms? If you refuse, your father dies before your face."
"Shall I accept, father?"
"If you stay, I lodge a bullet in your brain," said the old savage, and drew himself up.
"Come, then," said Berville, leading Janet to the door. She turned round ere she quitted the cottage, but met a glance of such anger and threatening, that she hurried forward with Berville, who pursued his way rapidly through the wood."
["That fits in very nicely," said Jack Stuart; "and you may be getting ready the five pound note, for I feel sure you know you back the losing horse. Can any thing be more like a genuine, bona fide novel, the work of one man, and a devilish clever man too? Confess now, that if you didn't know the trick of it, you would have thought it a splendid original work? But perhaps you're throat's dry with so much reading? Here's another bottle of Lafitte; and we can miss over a volume and a half of foreign scenes, which you can imagine; for they are to be found in every one of the forty novels I sent for. Just imagine that the Countess takes her daughters abroad—that Berville encounters them in the Colosseum by moonlight—quarrels—doubts—suspicions—and a reconciliation; finally, they all come home, and you will find the last chapter of the last volume in this."
Jack handed me a volume, evidently popular among circulating library students, for it was very dirty; and I was just going to commence when Jack interrupted me.
"Stay," he said; "you must have a motto. Do you know Italian?"
"Not a word."
"Or Spanish, or German?"
"No."
"Well, you surely can recollect some Greek—for next to manuscript quotations and old plays, you can't do better than have some foreign lines at the beginning of the chapter. What Greek do you remember?—for, 'pon my honour; I've forgotten all mine."
"My dear Jack, I only know a line here and there."
"Out with them. Put them all in a row, and never mind the meaning."
Thus urged, I indited the following as a headpiece.]
"Deinè de clangè genet' argurioio bioio,
Be d'akeion para thina poluphlosboio thalasses,
Thelo legein Atreidas, thelo de Cadmon adein,
Ton d'apomeibomenos prosephè podas-ocus Achilleus."
HOMER, Iliad, 1. I.
["Excellent! bravo!" said Jack; "they'll see at once the author is a gentleman and a scholar; and now go on.">[
The crimson and gold drawing-room of Lorrington Caste was filled with company, the court-yard crowded with carriages, and the coachmen and footmen in gorgeous liveries, with a splendid white satin favour at the side of their hats. The view from the window——
["Stop," said Jack Stuart, "here's a better description. I cut it out of the Times"——]
The view from the window involved a spacious assemblage of all the numerous beauties and illustrations that cast a magnificent air of grandeur over one of
ENGLAND'S NOBLEST MANSIONS.
The extensive shrubberies clothed the verdant meads, and threw a shade of deep green tints over an
EXTENSIVE ARTIFICIAL LAKE,
on which floated, like a nymph or naiad, a beautiful
SAILING BOAT,
painted bright green, and fit for instant use. Further off, in one of those indistinct distances immortalized by the pencil of Turner—now softened into sober beauty by "the autumnal hue, the sear and yellow leaf," as an immortal bard expresses it, in language which the present writer does not imitate, and could not, without great difficulty, excel, was an
IMMENSE DAIRY FARM,
fit for the accommodation of
THIRTY MILK COWS,
of a peculiar breed, highly approved of by the
RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SPENCER.
In other portions of the landscape rose statues which might have raised the envy of
PRAXITELES, THE GRECIAN SCULPTOR,
or attracted the love of the beautiful "Maid of France," who "sighed her soul away" in presence of
THE APOLLO BELVIDERE,
a figure, in the words of a living author,
"Too fair to worship, too divine to love."
The drawing-room of the mansion was of the amplest size, and contained some of the finest specimens of the taste and workmanship of
JACKSON AND GRAHAM,
enumerating Or-molu tables—escritoires—rosewood chairs richly inlaid—richly coloured
AXMINSTER CARPET,
and sofas covered with figured satin.
["That will do," said Jack. "Now go on with the book.">[
But while the company were engaged in detached groups, waiting the signal for proceeding into the great hall, where the ceremony was to be performed by special license, Lord Berville sent a message to the Countess, that he wished to say a few words to Lady Alice, in the library, before the commencement of the ceremony that was to make him the happiest of men. He waited impatiently, and in a few minutes the bride appeared, radiant in joy and beauty. She started, when she saw seated beside him a beautiful young woman, plainly, but richly drest. They rose when Lady Alice appeared.
"Dearest Alice," said Berville, "I have told you that there was a person in this neighbourhood to whom my gratitude was unbounded, and who, I hope, has now an equal claim on yours, for she is the saviour of my life."
"Indeed?"
"Let it be a secret between us three," continued Berville; "but you agree with me, my friend," he said, turning to the stranger, "that there should be no reserve between a man and his wife. I told you, Alice, when we were at Rome, the story of an adventure I had on Barnley Wold, and of the heroic conduct of a young girl. In this lady you see her. She is now the wife of the vicar of my parish, and I trust will be a friend of both of us."
Lady Alice threw her arms round Janet's neck, and said, "I know it all; we shall be friends; and nothing makes one so happy as to know we shall be so near each other."
"Ah, madam, you know not how deeply I am indebted to his lordship's mother, for all her kindness, or how overpaid all my services are by the happiness of this moment."
"And now, having made you thus acquainted, I must ask you, my kind friend, to hurry Lady Alice to the great hall, where your husband, I trust, is waiting to tie the indissoluble band."
A joyous shout from the tenants assembled in the outer court, who became impatient for the appearance of the happy pair, gave evidence of the near approach of the happy moment, and Janet and Lady Alice hurried from the room. Lord Berville rang the bell. His servant appeared, being no other than our old acquaintance George, now softened by a year's sojourn in a foreign land.
"George," said Lord Berville, "no one in the earth knows your position; from this hour, therefore, you cease to be my servant, and are the steward of my Lincolnshire estate. Your uncle's fate is unknown?"
"His fate is known, my lord, that he died by his own hand in the hut on Barnley Wold; but his crimes are undiscovered."
"Be it so; let them be alluded to between us no more. Your cousin Janet is the happy wife of my friend and chaplain; and I am delighted to show my appreciation of her nobleness and purity, by all the kindness I can bestow on her relations. Go down to Lincolnshire, Mr Andrews," said his lordship, shaking hands with George, "and when you are installed in the mansion-house, write to me; and now, farewell."
It is difficult to say whose heart was most filled with joy on this eventful day. Lady Matilda, now happily married to Lord Merilands of the Guards, and the lovely Lady Mary Rosely, (shortly to be united to the young Earl of Gallowdale,) were pleased at the happiness of their friends; and certainly no prayer seemed to be more likely to receive its accomplishment than that which was poured forth, amidst the ringing of bells and the pealing of cannon, for the health and prosperity of Lord and Lady Berville.
Jack Stuart sat, with his eyes turned up to the ceiling, as if he were listening to the music of the spheres.
"The best novel I have ever read!" he exclaimed; "and now, all I have got to do is to get it copied fairly out, dedicate it to Lord William Lennox or Mr Henry Bulwer, and get my five or six hundred guineas. It is a capital thing to lose on the Derby; for unless I had been drawn for the hundred and fifty, I don't think the dovetail novel would ever have come into my head."
INSCRIPTION ON THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE NEW DINING-HALL, &c.,
NOW ERECTING FOR THE HON. SOCIETY OF LINCOLN'S INN.
Stet lapis arboribus nudo defixus in horto
Fundamen pulchræ tempus in omne domûs.
Aula vetus lites legumque ænigmata servet,
Ipsa nova exorior nobilitanda coquo.
FREE TRANSLATION.
No more look
For shady nook,
Poor perspiring stranger!
Trees for bricks
Cut their sticks,
Lo! our salle-à-manager!
Yon old hall,
For suit and brawl,
Still be famed in story;
This must look
To the cook
For its only glory!
O.O.