On the second morning after the events I have described, a note was brought to me whilst I was dressing. With trembling fingers I tore open the envelope, and read as follows:—
“I promised to inform you of what occurred on my return here, and I must therefore do so, though what I have to communicate will only give you pain. All that my fears pointed at has come to pass, and my doom appears irrevocably sealed. Late on the evening of my return to Barstone, Mr. Vernor and his nephew arrived. I shall never forget the feeling of agony that shot through my brain, as Richard Cumberland's footstep sounded in the hall, knowing, as I too well did, the purpose with which he was come. I fancied grief had in great measure deadened my feelings, but that moment served to undeceive me—the mixture of horror, aversion, and fear, combined with a sense of utter helplessness and desolation, seemed, as it were, to paralyse me.
“But I know not why I am writing all this. The evening passed off without anything particular taking place. Mr. Cumberland's manner towards me was regulated by the most consummate tact and cunning, allowing the deep interest he pretends to feel in me to appear in every look and action, yet never going far enough to afford me an excuse for repulsing him. This morning, however, I have had an interview with Mr. Vernor, in which I stated my repugnance to the marriage as strongly as possible. He was fearfully irritated, and, at length, on my repeating my refusal, plainly told me that it was useless for me to resist his will—that I was in his power, and, if I continued obstinate, I must be made to feel it. Oh! that man's anger is terrible to witness: it is not that he is so violent—he never seems to lose his self-control—but says the most cutting things in a tone of calm, sarcastic bitterness, which lends double force to all he utters. I feel that it is useless for us to contend against fate: you cannot help me, and would only embroil yourself with these men were you to attempt to do so. I shall ever look back upon the few days we spent together as a bright spot in the dark void of my life—that life which you preserved at the risk of your own. Alas! you little knew the cruel nature of the gift you were bestowing. And now, farewell for ever! That you may find all the happiness your kindness and generosity deserve, is the earnest prayer of one, whom, for her sake, as well as your own, you must strive to forget.”
“If I do forget her,” exclaimed I, as I pressed the note to my lips, “may I——Well, never mind, I'll go over and have it out with that old brute this very morning, and we'll see if he can frighten me.” And so saying, I set to work to finish dressing, in a great state of virtuous indignation. “Freddy,” inquired I, when breakfast was at length concluded, “where can I get a horse?”
“Get a horse?” was the reply. “Oh! there are a great many places—it depends upon what kind of horse you want: for race-horses, steeple-chasers, and hunters, I would recommend Tattersall's; for hacks or machiners, there's Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane; while Dixon's, in the Barbican, is the place to pick up a fine young carthorse—is it a young cart-horse you want?”
“My dear fellow, don't worry me,” returned I, feeling very cross, and trying to look amiable; “you know what I mean; is there anything rideable to be hired in Hilling-ford? I have a call to make which is beyond a walk.”
“Let me see,” replied Freddy, musing; “you wouldn't like a very little pony, with only one eye and a rat-tail, I suppose—it might look absurd with your long legs, I'm afraid—or else Mrs. Meek, the undertaker's widow, has got a very quiet one that poor Meek used to ride—a child could manage it:—there's the butcher's fat mare, but she won't stir a step without the basket on her back, and it would be so troublesome for you to carry that all the way. Tomkins, the sweep, has got a little horse he'd let you have, I daresay, but it always comes off black on one's trousers: and the miller's cob is just as bad the other way with the flour. I know a donkey—”
“So do I,” was the answer, as, laughing in spite of myself, I turned to leave the room.
“Here, stop a minute!” cried Freddy, following me, “you are so dreadfully impetuous; there's nothing morally wrong in being acquainted with a donkey, is there? 1 assure you I did not mean anything personal; and now for a word of sense. Bumpus, at the Green Man, has got a tremendous horse, which nearly frightened me into fits the only time I ever mounted him, so that it will just suit you; nobody but a green man, or a knight-errant, which I consider much the same sort of thing, would patronise such an animal—still, he's the only one I know of.”
Coleman's tremendous horse, which proved to be a tall, pig-headed, hard-mouthed brute, with a very decided will of his own, condescended, after sundry skirmishes and one pitched battle, occasioned by his positive refusal to pass a windmill, to go the road I wished, and about an hour's ride brought me to the gate of Barstone Park. So completely had I been hurried on by feeling in every stage of the affair, and so entirely had all minor considerations given way to the paramount object of securing Clara's happiness, with which, as I now felt, my own was indissolubly linked, that it was not until my eye rested on the cold, grey stone of Barstone Priory, and wandered over the straight walks and formal lawns of the garden, that I became fully aware of the extremely awkward and embarrassing nature of the interview I was about to seek. To force myself into the presence of a man more than double my own age, and, from all I had seen or heard of him, one of the last people in the world to take a liberty with, for the purpose of informing hint that his nephew, the only creature on earth that he was supposed to love, was a low swindler, the associate of gamblers and blacklegs, did not appear a line of conduct exactly calculated to induce him, at my request, to give up a scheme on which he had set his heart, or to look with a favourable eye on my pretensions to the hand of his ward. Still, there was no help for it; the happiness of her I loved was at stake, and, had it been to face a fiend instead of a man, I should not have hesitated.