As Barstone was out of our way from M——to Heath-field, and as Clara was too much overcome by all she had gone through to bear any further agitation, we determined to proceed at once to my mother's cottage, and despatched Peter Barnett to inform Mr. Vernor of the events of the day, and communicate to him Mr. Frampton's resolution to leave him in undisturbed possession of Barstone, for a period sufficiently long to enable him to wind up all his affairs and seek another residence.
The return to Heathfield Cottage I shall not attempt to describe. Clara's tears, smiles and blushes—Fanny's tender and affectionate solicitude—my mother's delighted, but somewhat fussy, hospitality—and my own sensations, which were an agreeable compound of those of every one else—each and all were perfect in their respective ways. But the crème de la crème, the essence of the whole affair, that on which the tongue of the poet and the pen of the romance-writer must alike rejoice to expatiate, was the conduct of Mr. Frampton; how he was seized, at one and the same moment, with two separate, irresistible, and apparently incompatible manias, one for kissing everybody, and the other for lifting and transporting (under the idea that he was thereby facilitating the family arrangements) bulky and inappropriate articles which no one required, all of which he deposited, with an air composed of equal parts of cheerful alacrity and indomitable perseverance, in the drawing-room, grunting the whole time as man never grunted before; a wild and unlooked-for course of proceeding which reduced my mother to the borders of insanity. Finding that argument was not of the least avail in checking his rash career, I seized him by the arm, just as he was about to establish on my sister's work-table a large carpet-bag and an umbrella, which had accompanied him through the adventures of the day, and, dragging him off to his own room, forced him to begin to prepare for dinner, while I turned a deaf ear to his remonstrance, that “It was quite absurd to—umph! umph!—prevent him from making himself useful, when there was so much to be done in the house. Umph!” Having promulgated this opinion, he shook me by the hand till my arm ached, and, declaring that he was the happiest old man in the world, sat down and cried like a child.
Worn out by the fatigues and anxieties of the day, we gladly followed my mother's suggestion of going to bed in good time, although I did not retire for the night till I had seen Harry Oaklands, and given him an account of our adventures. Wilford's fate affected him strongly, and, shading his brow with his hand, he sat for some moments wrapped in meditation. At length he said, in a deep low tone, “These things force thought upon one, Frank. How nearly was this man's fate my own! How nearly was I being hurried into eternity with a weight of passions unrestrained, of sins unrepented of, clinging to my guilty soul! God has been very merciful to me.” He paused; then, pressing my hand warmly, he added, “And now, good-night, Frank; to-morrow I shall be more fit to rejoice with you in your prospects of coming happiness; to-night I would fain be alone—you understand me”. My only reply was by wringing his hand in return, and we parted.
Reader, such thoughts as these working in a mind like that of Harry Oaklands, could not be without their effect; and when in after years, having by constant and unceasing watchfulness conquered his constitutional indolence, his voice has been raised in the senate of his country to defend the rights and privileges of our pure and holy faith—when men's hearts, spell-bound by his eloquence, have been turned from evil to follow after the thing that is good, memory has brought before me that conversation in the library at Heathfield; and, as I reflected on the effect produced on the character of Oaklands by the fearful death of the homicide Wilford, I have acknowledged that the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable.
I was roused from a deep sleep at an uncomfortably early hour on the following morning, by a sound much resembling a “view halloo,” coupled with my own name, shouted in the hearty tones of Lawless; and, flinging open the window, I perceived that indefatigable young gentleman employed in performing some incomprehensible manouvres with two sticks and a large flint stone, occasionally varying his diversion by renewing the rough music which had broken my slumbers.
“Why, Lawless, what do you mean by rousing me at this unreasonable hour? it's not six o'clock yet. And what in the world are you doing with those sticks?”
“Unreasonable, eh? well, that's rather good, now! Just tell me which is the most unreasonable, to lie snoring in bed like a fat pig or a fatter alderman, such a beautiful morning as this is, or to be out and enjoying it—eh?”
“You have reason on your side, so far, I must confess.”
“Eh? yes, and so I always have, to be sure. What am I doing with the sticks, did you say? can't you see?”
“I can see you are fixing one in the ground, taking extreme pains to balance the stone on the top of it, and instantly endeavouring to knock it off again with the other; in which endeavour you appear generally to fail.”