Thus speaking, with little ceremony, he drew the penknife sharply across the artery, much to the wonder of the bystanders, some of whom thought him a fine, bold gentleman; some concluded that he was but little troubled with that civil understrapping virtue of discretion. The effect, however, soon become visible. The blood at first hardly flowed, but, in a moment after, it burst forth with rapid jerks. A deep sigh followed from the hurt man, and in an instant after he looked faintly round.
"I thought I was gone!" he cried, raising himself, and looking toward the fire. "My head's bad enough still; but I rather think I owe you my life, sir. Well, there is an old woman down in the village will pray God bless you!"
Burrel now endeavored to stanch the blood; but, like many other persons, he had not previously calculated all the consequences of what he was going to do; and he might have found the undertaking somewhat difficult, had it not fortunately happened that the flames of Mrs. Darlington's villa had alarmed the whole of the little town and neighborhood of Emberton, and thus people were flocking up both on foot and on horseback. Among the first that arrived was, of course, her late guest, the village surgeon--one at least of the learned professions being more peculiarly and unhappily obnoxious to Rochefaucault's sneering assertion, that there is always something pleasant to ourselves in the misfortunes of our friends. The surgeon, then, was among the first, of course, sparing not his horse's breath, in order to condole and sympathize, and look grave, and set a limb or tend a bruise, or dress a burn, or, in short, perform any of those small acts which are the sources of emolument, present or future, to a country apothecary. His arrival happened at a fortunate moment for Burrel's patient; and, after having ascertained that no one of more consequence was hurt, he complimented the young stranger highly on his prompt and skillful treatment of poor Wat Harrison, as he called him, suffered the bleeding to continue for another moment, merely to show how much he approved of what had been done, and then proceeded to stop it.
The adventures of the night were now soon concluded. By Burrel's directions, and the exertions of the peasantry, stimulated at last to some degree of activity, one wing of the house, as well as the stabling and offices, was saved; and from the part thus preserved, apparel was procured sufficient to clothe the half-naked bodies of those who were its late denizens. This apparel, indeed, was of somewhat an anomalous description, and the metamorphoses produced were rather strange; for though Miss Delaware came out most beautifully as a pretty dairymaid, and Mrs. Darlington did not look ill as a housekeeper, yet Dr. Wilton had a somewhat fantastic air when a footman's greatcoat was added to his black breeches, silk stockings, and shovel hat. Burrel himself adhered to his own dressing-gown, though many a hole was burnt in the gay flowers that covered it, and many a stain and scorch obscured the original colors. A general smile, which even the serious calamity that had reduced them to that state could not repress, played upon the lips of the whole party, as they met in such strange attire at the door of the cottages, just as the pale light of the morning was pouring faint and bluish through the air. On the countenance of Blanche Delaware, however, that smile mingled with a flickering blush as she answered Burrel's inquiries concerning her health; and Burrel, though he could not but think it as beautiful a thing as ever the eyes of the morning rested on, hastened, by quiet and easy words of deep but unceremonious respect, to remove the glow, with the embarrassment that caused it.
By this time all sorts of chaises and vehicles had arrived from Emberton, and Mrs. Darlington's own carriage and horses had been brought up from the stables. Burrel handed the two ladies in to proceed to the village, the inn of which place, Mrs. Darlington declared, should be her abode for the next day or two. He declined, however, a seat beside them; and bidding his servant take care of his horses, and bring them down afterward, he himself--the fire having nearly expended itself--got into a hack chaise for Emberton, and, accompanied by the young sailor who had been hurt, drove slowly down into the valley.
Dr. Wilton, whose living lay at a considerable distance in a different direction, had before taken leave of him, with many a pressing invitation to the rectory, and had preceded him in departing. One by one, the people of the town returned, and the peasantry dropped away; and, with one man left to keep watch, the ruins of Mrs. Darlington's house remained smoldering in silent solitude, like the history of a battle, which, full of fire, confusion, and destruction while it lasts, leaves, after the lapse of a few years, nothing but vacancy, ruin, and the faint smoke of fame.
CHAPTER VI.
It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation is sometimes pleasant, of course, and sometimes severe, according to the circumstances of the case and character of the person, or rather of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt or feels in his own bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers, who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades the charge.
All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel (some persons may think), who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half peasant, half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking post-chaise, toward the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without reading them over twice--nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were suffered to flow, hardly interrupted (for the young sailor was still in a dozy, half lethargic state), and the two spirits, though the good one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom.
"I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am about;" and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader that he was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued, the next moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care for but myself?"