He paused for an answer; for he was strongly tempted to tell his young companion how indissolubly his own fate and that of Emmeline were now bound together; but he hesitated on the very point of uttering the words. Richard was so wild, so rash--there might occur so many events to render the safe keeping of that secret important, and there seemed so many chances of his letting it escape him in one of his thoughtless moods--that a moment's reflection decided the Earl to be silent on the subject, at least for the time.
"Well, what more?" cried Richard, impatiently.
"I have tried the question with myself a dozen times," replied the Earl; "and, though I need not tell you I love her dearly, I do not believe that that love has been suffered to interfere at all in the decision I have come to."
"Well, well," said Richard Newark, shrugging his shoulders, "when we march into London and proclaim King James, you shall have her; and I will give away the bride. A pretty father I shall make! I suppose I must hire a white beard for the occasion. You act as you like; and I must take my chance, as you will not lead me to draw the sword which you have taught me to use. I will take our King's side, and stay by it. I am sick of seeing people wavering between two parties--my father, from policy, and you from scruples. There, I don't mean to offend you, noble friend. I doubt not you are quite right, and that your head was made for something better than being run against a wall, which was evidently Nature's intention when she furnished me with this noddle of mine; but you will own that, having seen all I have seen, I may well say, 'No time-serving for me.' I have heard people tell that my father has got together a great estate by now running with one party and now with another. It is but right that his son should break it to pieces again by sticking tight to one, be it fortunate or unlucky. And now I shall go to bed. Don't you dream of Emmeline, or you'll go ever to Lord Stair to a certainty."
Thus saying, he rose and left the room; and Smeaton remained some time longer in thought.
CHAPTER XXX.
The morning was bright and beautiful; the clouds of the preceding day, although they had not passed off entirely, had broken into detached masses, soft, white, and buoyant, but low down, moving slowly across the blue sky, and leaving large intervals for the rays of the sun to stream through, and paint the brown moors in all the magic colouring of autumn. A faint aerial mist was seen softening the distant parts of the landscape, as Smeaton rode slowly over the solitary hills which lay tumbled about in large rounded masses, marking the frontier line of England and Scotland. The alternation of shadow and of gleam brought forth as varied and as beautiful colours as those which paint the dolphin at his death. The free pure air, the rich changing prospect, the wide expanse of view, all seemed to breathe hope, if not happiness; and that strange mysterious sensation, that elevated and expansive feeling, to which I can give no name, but which takes possession of the heart when first we quit the busy haunts of men to plunge into a wide solitude, came strongly upon the young Earl as he strained his sight along the distant hills and valleys. Not a soul was to be seen, not a living creature but a large bird of prey floating slowly in vast circles over his head. It was the early morning.
His servant had gone forward about half an hour before; the road which they had both to follow had been clearly pointed out; and Smeaton expected a ride of some twelve or thirteen miles before he could meet the messenger on his return. He gave himself up to thought, but not to that train of thought which perhaps might seem the most natural in his circumstances. He entered into no vain speculations as to the reply he should receive from the Earl of Stair. He suffered not his mind to rest upon the state of parties in the country, or upon the probabilities of the success or failure of the insurrection. He did not even dwell for a moment upon the various rumours of the day before, nor try to free himself, by reason, from any of those impressions--not exactly new but revived--which had been produced in him by the zeal and enthusiasm of all those by whom he had been lately surrounded. His thoughts were of Emmeline, and Emmeline alone. That wonderful thing, association, had called up her image almost as strongly, as distinctly, as if her beautiful face and fair form had been before his eyes. The brown heath, the rounded hills, the gleams of sunshine, the floating clouds, the free elastic air, all brought back to memory the morning of his ride to the old church at Aleton; and Emmeline was the principal object in all that remembrance painted.
His thoughts and feelings, however, were his own, and peculiar. I do not believe that there are any two moments in a man's life in which he is exactly the same being, however well the general harmony of the character may be maintained. Years make a difference; months, days, events, circumstances, experience. The changes may be very sudden, or they may be so gradual as to be imperceptible at the time they are taking place; yet, fix any lengthened period, and we find them marked and distinct in the mind as well as in the body. There is as much difference between the sensations of forty and of twenty, as between the face or form of the man and of the boy. Whether for better or for worse, we change them. They are things of the day, which pass from us and return no more.
Smeaton's love for Emmeline was intense, powerful, enthusiastic; but it was the love of a man, not of a boy. Ten years before, his thoughts would have been very different when turned towards her; more agitating, perhaps, but not so deep and strong. He dwelt, as a lover might dwell, on the beautiful memory of her look, the symmetry of her person, the music of her voice, the wild untutored graces of her mind, the heart-breathing spirit which pervaded everything she said and did; and the longing to hold her to his bosom again came upon him very strongly. He thought, too, with pain, of what must be her sensations, what her distress of mind, to be torn from him and carried away against her will, at the very moment when their happiness seemed almost secure; but it was not with that impulsive rashness which, a few years before, might have led him to fly to her in spite of obstacles, and without taking means to remove any of the difficulties which beset their path. He was old enough to struggle with his impulses, and generally to overcome them when he felt them to be rash.