Our journey to town was common-place. The “whips” kept sober, and hence we had not the exciting incident of “a spill.”—
Robbery being obsolete and utterly unfashionable even in the novels of these Boetian days, though we crossed “a blasted heath,” none called “Stand and deliver!”—and the passengers, one and all, seemed so apathetic regarding life and property, that one would have thought such heroic personages as Dick Turpin and Jerry Aberhaw had either not existed or that they were utterly forgotten.
Nearly three months had passed since letters reached me from England. The immediate advance of the army, the quick and constant series of events which followed it, my detention at Vittoria first, and my captivity afterwards, rendered it almost impossible that communications, addressed as they would be to the head-quarters of the fourth division, to which I had attached myself, should reach me during this short and adventurous passage in a life of “marvellous uncertainty” while it lasted. Brief as the season was that intervened since I had heard aught from those I was most interested about, how many “changes and chances” in that small circle might not have occurred? I envied the philosophy of the fosterer and his brother-in-law elect. Neither harboured a doubt that all “at home were well.” At home!—What does not that simple phrase embody? For a time I took courage from the example; but, when we reached the White Horse Cellar, whence the fosterer, “with lover’s haste,” set out to claim a bride, and the sailor to embrace a parent and sister, to whom he seemed ardently attached—then, left alone, I felt all the dark forebodings of one who dreams of nought but happiness and yet tremble lest fortune, in some capricious humour, may have already dashed the untasted cup away. Thanks to the gods! these sombre doubts were nothing but “idle phantasies.”
If ever the director of “a leathern conveniency”—cabs, gentle reader, were then unknown—was put regularly to the pin of his collar to keep time with an impatient gentleman, the unhappy wight who drove me was that person. At last we readied the street—I jumped out—paid honest jarvey double—inasmuch as he averred that his “near-side un,” a roarer before, was ruined for life by desperate driving—and “the outsider” would not be worth a bean for a fortnight. I knocked piano at the door—an old woman opened it—“Was Mr. Hartley at home?” She could not answer the question, for Mr. Hartley had not lived there these two months. Saints and angels! what misery! It was brief. A young lady-looking personage unclosed a parlour-door, and acquainted me that the arrival of some Irish relations had rendered it necessary for Mr. Hartley to take a larger house; that, for the benefit of country air, he had selected one some ten miles distant from the city,—adding, that the family were well, as a servant had called that morning with some message, from the ladies. She gave me my uncle’s address, and in half-an-hour 1 was speeding to Bromley Park, as fast as a light post-chaise would carry me.
Some seven miles from town, the last village was passed, and the remainder of the drive ran partly through shaded lanes, and partly over open commons. At a roadside hostelrie, within a gunshot of my uncle’s dwelling, I discharged my carriage, committed the light portmanteau which contained my wardrobe to the safe keeping of the landlady, and set out, under proper directions, to find the place where love and duty alike urged me to proceed.
I easily discovered the abode of “my fair ladie.” The exterior bore all the appearance of respectability; and, though the light was but indifferent, the entrance-lodge, palings, and close-clipped hedges, announced it to be a gentleman’s retreat. The mansion stood upon a lawn not far removed from the highway; lights flared from the lower windows, probably those of the apartment where the family were collected, and, by a singular impulse, I determined to escalade the enclosure, and have a sly peep, incog. at those within.
I turned from the high road into a grassy lane which skirted the palings of a shrubbery—and tried them once or twice, but they were confoundedly high, and in excellent preservation. I pushed on—not a practicable breach to be discovered—and my uncle’s mansion seemed as difficult of entrée as San Sebastian itself. Should I proceed, or abandon the attempt as hopeless? “Turn back!” said Common Sense,—“Go on!” and Adventure, jogged my elbow. I hesitated—a circumstance kicked the doubtful balance.
Within an open gateway to a field, I perceived a horse placed in the keeping of some low-sized personage evidently seeking concealment under the deep shelter of the hedge. I spoke; none answered. Why was this horse in waiting? It looked suspicious. Some felony was intended; burglary, or, more probably, exhumation. I strolled on a few yards farther—three or four railings had been recently sawn through, affording sufficient room to creep in by, and, without a second’s consideration, in I went.
I crossed the soft green turf, and proceeded in a straight direction towards the mansion, guided by the lights which had first attracted my attention on the road. A clump of evergreens suddenly shut them from my view, and I paused to determine whether I should turn to the right or to the left. While still uncertain, I thought something moved within the trees—I listened—whispers fell upon my ear, and next moment two figures glided from the clump, and crossed into what appeared in the darkness to be a belt of young plantations, stretching along the lawn and reaching to the lane from which I had effected my entrance. Who might these men be? Poachers, in pursuit of game, or keepers, on the look-out to prevent their preserves from being spoliated. When I recollected the horse I had detected concealed beneath the hedge, I came to the first conclusion—the men, no doubt, were poachers; and the animal had been left in charge of some confederate, to enable them to carry up to town the produce of their night’s marauding. In this belief, I proceeded cautiously to the hall, determined to apprise mine honoured uncle that knaves had “broke his park,” and possibly, might “beat his keepers.” But another scene, and one to me of deeper interest, drove hares, pheasants, and poachers from memory altogether.
When I cleared the clump of evergreens I found myself directly in front of the mansion, and as the windows reached nearly to the level of the lawn, the interior of the apartment was seen from without distinctly. All within bore the appearance of luxury and elegance.