PGCC Collection: The King's Highway, by G.P.R. James




	

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Title: The King's Highway

Author: G. P. R. James

Release Date: February, 2003  [eBook #3780]

[Posted:  09/04/01]





PGCC Collection: The King's Highway, by G.P.R. James
eBook File: knghw10.htm or knghw10.zip*

Corrected EDITIONS, knghw11.htm
Separate source VERSION, knghw10a.htm

This eBook was produced by Jim Tinsley 








This eBook was produced by Jim Tinsley 






THE KING'S HIGHWAY

by G.P.R. JAMES ESQ.




CHAPTER I.

Though the weather was hot and sultry, and the summer was at its height,
yet the evening was gloomy, and low, angry clouds hung over the distant
line of the sea, when, under the shelter of some low-browed cliffs upon
the Irish coast, three persons stood together, two of whom were talking
earnestly. About four or five miles from the shore, looking like a
spectre upon the misty background of clouds, appeared a small brig with
her canvas closely reefed, though there was little wind stirring, and
nothing announced the approach of a gale, unless it were a long, heavy
swell that heaved up the bosom of the ocean as if with a suppressed sob.
The three persons we have mentioned were standing together close at the
foot of the rocks; and, though there was nothing in their demeanour
which would imply that they were seeking concealment by the points and
angles of the cliff,--for they spoke loud, and one of them laughed more
than once with the short but jocund laugh of a heart whose careless
gaiety no circumstances can repress,--yet the spot was well calculated
to hide them from any eye, unless it were one gazing down from the
cliffs above, or one looking towards the shore from the sea.

The party of which we speak comprised two men not quite reached the
middle age, and a fine, noble-looking boy of perhaps eight years old or
a little more; but all the conversation was between the two elder, who
bore a slight family likeness to each other. The one had a cloak thrown
over his arm, and a blue handkerchief bound round his left hand. His
dress in other respects was that of a military man of the period; a
long-waisted, broad-tailed coat, with a good deal of gold lace and many
large buttons upon it, enormous riding boots, and a heavy sword. He had
no defensive armour on, indeed, though those were days when the
soldierly cuirass was not yet done away with; and on his head he only
wore an ordinary hat trimmed round with feathers.

He seemed, however, to be a personage perfectly well able to defend his
own, being not much short of six feet in height; and though somewhat
thin, extremely muscular, with long, bony arms, and a wide deep chest.
His forehead was high and open, and his eye frank and clear, having
withal some shrewdness in its quick twinkle. The countenance was a good
one; the features handsome, though a little coarse; and if it was not
altogether prepossessing, the abatement was made on account of a certain
indescribable look of dissipation--not absolutely to say debauchery,
but approaching it--which mingled with the expression of finer things,
like nightshade filling up the broken masses of some ruined temple. His
hair was somewhat prematurely grizzled; for he yet lacked several years
of forty, and strong lines, not of thought, were marked upon his brow.

He was, upon the whole, a man whom many people would have called a
handsome, fine-looking man; and there was certainly in his countenance
that indescribable something, which can only be designated by the term
engaging.

While conversing with his companion, which he did frankly and even
gaily, laughing, as we have said, from time to time, there was still a
peculiarity which might be supposed to show that for some reason he was
not perfectly at his ease, or perfectly sure of the man to whom he
spoke. In general, he did not look at him, though he gazed straight
forward; but, as is very frequently the case with us all, when we are
talking to a person whom we doubt or dislike, he looked beyond him, from
time to time, however, turning his eyes full upon the countenance of his
comrade, and keeping them fixed upon him for several moments.

The second personage of the party was a man somewhat less in height than
the other, but still tall. He was two or three years younger; handsome
in features; graceful in person; and withal possessing an air of
distinction which the other might have possessed also, had it not been
considerably diminished by the certain gay and swaggering look which we
have already noticed. His dress was not so completely military as that
of the first, though there was scarf and sword-knot, and gold-fringed
belt and leathern gloves, with wide cuffs, which swallowed up the arms
almost to the elbows.

He laughed not at all, and his tone was grave, but smooth and courtly,
except when, ever and anon, there mingled with what he was saying in
sweet and placid words, some bitter and sarcastic tirade, which made his
companion smile, though it moved not a muscle of his own countenance.

We have said that there was a third in the group, and that third was a
boy of about eight years of age. It is scarcely possible to conceive
anything more beautiful than his countenance, or to fancy a form more
replete with living grace than his. His hair swept round his clear and
open countenance in dark wavy curls; and while he held the taller of the
two gentlemen by the hand, he gazed forward over the wide melancholy
sea, which came rolling up towards their feet, with a look full of
thought, and perhaps of anxiety. There was certainly grief in that gaze;
for the black eyelashes which surrounded those large blue eyes became,
after a moment or two, moistened with something bright like a tear; and
apparently utterly inattentive to the conversation between his two
companions, he still turned away, fully occupied with the matter of his
own thoughts.

It is time, however, for us to take notice of that to which he did not
attend.

"Not a whit, Harry, not a whit," said the taller of the two: "there are
certain portions of good and evil scattered through the world, and every
man must take his share of both. I have taken care, as you well know, to
secure a certain portion of the pleasures of this life. It was not
natural that the thing should last for ever, so I have quite made up my
mind to drinking the bitters since I have sipped the sweets. On this
last business I have staked my all, and lost my all; and if my poor
brother had not done the same, and lost his life into the bargain, I
should not much care for my part. On my honour and soul, it does seem to
me a strange thing, that here poor Morton, who would have done service
to everybody on earth, who was as good as he was brave, and as clever as
he was good, should fall at the very first shot, and I go through the
whole business with nothing but this scratch of the hand. I did my best
to get myself killed, too; for I will swear that I was the last man upon
our part that left the bank of the Boyne. But just as half a dozen of
the fellows had got me down, and were going to cut my throat because I
would not surrender, there came by the fellow they call Bentinck, I
think, who called to them not to kill me now that the battle was over. I
started up, saying, 'There is one honest Dutchman at least,' and made a
dart through them. They would have caught me, I dare say, but he laughed
aloud; and I heard him call to them not to follow me, saying, 'That one
on either side made no great difference.' I may chance to do that fellow
a good turn yet in my day."

"That may well be," replied the other; "for since your brother's death,
if you are sure he is killed, you are the direct heir to an earldom, and
to estates that would buy a score of German princes."

While he thus spoke, the person be addressed suddenly turned his eyes
full upon his face, and looked at him intently for a minute. He then
answered, "Sure he is dead, Harry? Did I not tell you that he died in my
arms? Would it not have been a nice thing now, if I had been killed too?
There would have been none between you and the earldom then. Upon my
life, I think you ought to have it: it would just suit you; you would
make such a smooth-tongued, easy courtier to this Dutch vagabond, whom
you are going over to, I can see, notwithstanding all your
asseverations;" and he laughed aloud as he spoke.

"Nonsense, Lennard, nonsense!" replied his companion: "I neither wish
you killed, my good cousin, nor care for the earldom, nor am going over
to the usurper, though, Heaven knows, you'll do no good to any one, the
earldom will do no good to you, and the usurper, perhaps, may do much
good to the country. But had either of the three been true, I should
certainly have given you up to the Prince of Orange, instead of sharing
my last fifty guineas with you, to help you off to France."

His companion gazed down upon the ground with a grim smile, and remained
for a moment without answering; he then looked up, gave a short laugh,
and replied, "I must not be ungrateful, cousin mine; I thank you for the
money with all my heart and soul; but I cannot think that you have run
yourself so hard as that either; you must have made mighty great
preparations which have not appeared, to spend your snug little
patrimony upon a king who did not deserve it, and for whom you did not
fight, after all."

"I should have fought if I could have come up in time," replied the
other, with his brows darkening. "I suppose you do not suspect me of
being unwilling to fight, Lennard?"

"Oh, no, man! no!" replied his cousin: "it does not run in our blood; we
have all fighting drops in our veins; and I know you can fight well
enough when it suits your purpose. As for that matter, I might think
myself a fool for fighting in behalf of a man who won't fight in his own
behalf; but it is his cause, not himself, Harry, I fought for."

"Bubbles, bubbles, Lennard," replied the other, "'tis but a mere name!"

"And what do we all fight for, from the cradle to the grave?" demanded
his cousin--"bubbles, bubbles, Harry. Through England and Ireland, not
to say Scotland, there will be tomorrow morning, which I take it is
Sunday, full five thousand priests busily engaged in telling their
hearers, that love, glory, avarice, and ambition are nothing
but--bubbles! So I am but playing the same game as the rest. I wish to
Heaven the boat would come round though, for I am beginning to think it
is as great a bubble as the rest.--Run down, Wilton, my boy," he said,
speaking to the youth that held him by the hand--"run down to that
point, and see if you can discover the boat creeping round under the
cliffs."

The boy instantly darted off without speaking, and the two gentlemen
watched him in silence. After a moment, however, the shorter of the two
spoke, with his eyes still fixed on the child, and the slight sneer
curling his lip--"A fine boy that, Lennard!" he said. "A child of love,
of course!"

"Doubtless," answered the other; "but you will understand he is not
mine.--It is a friend's child that I have promised to do the best for."

"He is wondrous like your brother Morton," rejoined his companion: "it
needs no marriage certificate to tell us whose son he is."

"No; God speed the poor boy!" replied the other gentleman, "he is like
his father enough. I must do what I can for him, though Heaven knows
what I am to do either for him or myself. It is long ere he can be a
soldier, and I am not much accustomed to taking heed of children."

"Where is his mother?" demanded the cousin: "whatever be her rank, she
is most likely as rich as you are, and certainly better able to take
care of him."

"Pshaw!" replied the other--"I might look long enough before I found
her. The boy has never known anything about her either, so that would
not do. But here he comes, here he comes, so say no more about it."

As he spoke, the boy bounded up, exclaiming, "I see the boat, I see the
boat coming round the rock!" and the moment after, a tolerable-sized
fishing boat was seen rounding the little point that we have mentioned;
and the two cousins, with the boy, descended to the water's edge. During
the few minutes that elapsed before the boat came up to the little
landing-place where they stood, the cousins shook hands together, and
bade each other adieu.

"Well, God speed you, Harry!" said the one; "you have not failed me at
this pinch, though you have at many another."

"Where shall I write to you, Lennard," demanded the other, "in case that
anything should happen to turn up to your advantage?"

"Oh! to the Crown, to the Crown, at St. Germains," replied the elder;
"and if it be for anything to my advantage, write as quickly as
possible, good cousin.--Come, Wilton, my boy; come, here's the boat!
Thank God we have not much baggage to embark.--Now, my man," he
continued, speaking to one of the fishermen who had leaped out into the
water, "lift the boy in, and the portmanteau, and then off to yonder
brig, with all the sail you can put on."

Thus saying, he sprang into the boat, received the boy in his arms, and
waved his hand to his cousin, while the fishermen pushed off from the
shore.

The one who was left behind folded his arms upon his chest, and gazed
after the boat as she bounded over the water. His brow was slightly
clouded, and a peculiar sort of smile hung upon his lip; but after thus
pausing for a minute or two, he turned upon his heel, walked up a narrow
path to the top of the cliff, and mounting a horse which was held for
him by a servant, at a distance of about a hundred yards from the edge,
he rode away, whistling as he went, not like Cimon, for want of thought,
but from the very intensity of thought.



CHAPTER II

The horseman of whom we have spoken in the last chapter rode slowly on
about two hundred yards farther, and there the servant advanced and
opened a gate, by means of which the path they were then upon
communicated with a small road between two high banks leading down to
the sea-side. The moment that the gentleman rode forward through the
gate, his eyes fell upon a figure coming up apparently from the
sea-shore. It was that of a woman, seemingly well advanced in life, and
dressed in the garb of the lower orders: there was nothing particular in
her appearance, except that in her gait and figure she was more decrepit
than from her countenance might have been expected. The tears were
streaming rapidly down her face, however; and though she suddenly paused
on perceiving the stranger, she could not command those tears from
flowing on, though she turned away her head to conceal them.

The stranger slightly pulled in his horse's rein, looked at her again,
and then gazed thoughtfully down the road towards the sea, as if
calculating what the woman could have been doing there, and whether she
could have seen the departure of his two late companions.

The servant who was behind him seemed to read his master's thoughts; for
being close to him shutting the gate, he said in a low tone, "That's the
old woman with whom the young gentleman lodged; for I saw her when the
Colonel went there this morning to fetch him away."

The moment the man had spoken, his master pushed forward his horse
again, and riding up to the woman, accosted her at once.

"Ah, my good woman," he said, "you are grieving after your poor little
boy; but do not be cast down, he will be taken good care of."

"God bless your honour," replied the woman, "and thank you, too, for
comforting me: he's a dear good boy, that's true; but the Colonel has
taken him to France, so I shall never see him more."

"Oh yes, you may, my good lady," replied the stranger: "you know I am
his cousin--his father's first cousin; so if you want to hear of him
from time to time, perhaps I could put you in the way of it. If I knew
where you lived, I would come and call upon you to-night, and talk to
you about it before I go on to Dublin."

"Your honour's going to Dublin, are you?" said the woman, suddenly and
sharply, while the blood mounted into the cheek of her companion, as if
from some feeling of embarrassment. She continued, however, before he
could reply, saying, "With a thousand thanks to your honour, I shall be
glad to see you; and if I could but hear that the poor boy got well to
France, and was comfortable, I think I should be happy all my life."

"But where do you live, my good woman?" demanded the horseman: "we have
not much time to lose, for the sun is going down, and the night is
coming on."

"And a stormy night it will be," said the woman, who, though she had
very little of the Irish accent, seemed to have not a little of that
peculiar obliquity of mind, which so often leads the Irishman to follow
the last idea started, however loosely it may be connected with the main
subject of discourse. "As to where I live," she continued, "it's at the
small neat cottage at the end of the lane; the best house in the place
to my mind, except the priest's and the tavern; and for that matter,
it's my own property, too."

"Well, I will come there in about an hour," said her companion, "and we
will talk it all over, my good lady, for I must leave this place early
to-morrow."

Away went the stranger as he spoke, at a rapid pace, towards an Irish
village or small town of that day, which lay at the distance of about a
mile and a half from the sea-shore. It was altogether a very different
place, and bore a very different aspect, from any other collection of
houses, of the same number and extent, within the shores of the Sister
Island. It was situated upon the rise of a steep hill, at the foot of
which ran a clear shallow stream, from whose margin, up to the top of
the acclivity, ran two irregular rows of houses, wide apart, and
scattered at unequal distances, on the two sides of the high road. They
were principally hovels, of a single story in height; a great proportion
of them formed of nothing but turf, with no other window but a hole
covered with a board, and sometimes not that. Others, few and far
between, again, were equally of one story, but were neatly plastered
with clay, and ornamented with a wash of lime; and besides these, were
three or four houses which really deserved the name--the parish
priest's, the tavern, and what was called the shop.

These rows of dwellings were raised on two high but sloping banks, which
were covered with green turf, and extended perhaps fifty yards in width
between the houses and the road: this long strip of turf affording the
inhabitants plenty of space for dunghills and dust-heaps, with
occasional stacks of turf, and a detached sort of summer-house now and
then for a pig, in those cases where his company was not preferred in
the parlour.

Here, too, the chickens used to meet in daily convocation; and here the
priest's bull would occasionally take a morning walk, to the detriment
of the dunghills and the frailer edifices, to the danger of the
children, and the indignation of the other animals, who might seem to
think that they had a right prescriptive to exclusive possession.

Between these two tracts of debatable land was interposed a paved high
road, twice as broad as it needed to have been, and furnished with a
stone gutter down the centre, into which flowed, from every side,
streams not Castalian; while five or six ducks, belonging to the master
of the shop, acted as the only town scavengers; and a large black sow,
with a sturdy farrow of eleven young pigs, rolled about in the full
enjoyment of the filth and dirt, seeming to represent the mayor and town
council of this rural municipality.

At the top of the hill two or three lanes turned off, and in one of
these was situated the cottage which the old lady had indicated as her
dwelling. The stranger, however, rode not thither at once, but, in the
first place, stopped at the tavern, as it was called (being neither more
nor less than a small public-house), and throwing his rein to the
servant, he dismounted, and paused to order some refreshment. When this
was done, he took his way at once to the house of the priest, which was
a neat white building, showing considerable taste in all its external
arrangements. The stranger was immediately admitted, and remained for
about half an hour; at the end of which time he came out, accompanied as
far as the little wicket gate by a very benign and thoughtful-looking
man, past the middle age, whose last words, as he took leave of the
stranger, were, "Alas, my son! she was so beautiful, and so charitable,
that it is much to be lamented that she was in all respects a
cast-away."

The stranger then returned to the tavern, and sat down to a somewhat
black and angular roasted fowl, which, however, proved better to the
palate than the eye; and to this he added somewhat more than a pint of
claret, which--however strange it may seem to find such a thing in an
Irish pot-house--might, for taste and fragrance, have competed with the
best that ever was found at the table of prince or peer: nor was such a
thing uncommon in that day. This done, and when five or six minutes of
meditation--that kind of pleasant meditation which ensues when the inner
man is made quite comfortable--had been added to his moderate food and
moderate potation, the stranger rose, and with a slow and thoughtful
step walked forth from the inn, and took his way towards the cottage to
which the old woman had directed him.

The sun was by this time sinking below the horizon, and a bright red
glow from his declining rays spread through the atmosphere, tinging the
edges of the long, liny, lurid clouds which were gathering thickly over
the sky. The wind, too, had risen considerably, and was blowing with
sharp quick gusts increasing towards a gale, so that the stranger was
obliged to put his hand to his large feathered hat to keep it firm upon
his head.

In the meantime, the old woman had returned home, and her first
occupation was to indulge her grief; for, sitting down at the little
table in her parlour, she covered her eyes with her hands, and wept till
the tears ran through her fingers. After a time, however, she calmed
herself, and rising, looked for a moment into a small looking-glass,
which showed her face entirely disfigured with tears. She then went into
a little adjacent room, which, as well as the parlour, was the image of
neatness and cleanness. She there took a towel, dipped it in cold water,
and seemed about to bathe away the traces from her cheeks. The next
moment, however, she threw the towel down, saying, "No, no! why should
I?" She then returned to the parlour, and called down the passage,
"Betty, Betty!"

An Irishwoman, of about fifty years of age, clothed much in the same
style, and not much worse than her mistress, appeared in answer to her
summons; and, according to the directions she now received, lighted a
single candle, put up a large heavy shutter against the parlour window,
and retired. The mistress of the house remained for some time sitting at
the table, and apparently listening for every step without; though from
time to time, when a heavier and heavier blast of wind shook the cottage
where she sat, she gazed up towards the sky, and her lips moved as if
offering a prayer.

At length, some one knocked loudly at the door, and starting up, she
hurried to open it and give entrance to the stranger whom we have
mentioned before. She put a chair for him, and stood till he asked her
to sit down.

"So, my good lady," he said, "you lived a long time with Colonel and
Mrs. Sherbrooke."

"Oh! bless you, yes, sir," replied the woman, "ever since the Colonel
and the young lady came here, till she died, poor thing, and then I
remained to take care of the boy, dear, beautiful fellow."

"You seem very sorry to lose him," rejoined the stranger, "and,
doubtless, were sadly grieved when Mrs. Sherbrooke died."

"You may well say that," replied the woman; "had I not known her quite a
little girl? and to see her die, in the prime of her youth and beauty,
not four-and-twenty years of age. You may well say I was sorry. If her
poor father could have seen it, it would have broke his heart; but he
died long before that, or many another thing would have broken his heart
as well as that."

"Was her father living," demanded the stranger, "when she married
Colonel Sherbrooke?"

The woman, without replying, gazed inquiringly and steadfastly on the
stranger's countenance for a moment or two; who continued, after a short
pause--"Poo, poo, I know all about it; I mean, when she came away with
him."

"No, sir," replied the woman; "he had been dead then more than a year."

"Doubtless," replied the stranger, "it was, as you implied, a happy
thing for him that he did not live to see his daughter's fate; but how
was it, I wonder, as she was so sweet a creature, and the Colonel so
fond of her, that he never married her?"

The woman looked down for a moment; but then gazed up in his face with a
somewhat rueful expression of countenance, and a shake of the head,
answering, "She was a Protestant, you know."

The stranger looked surprised, and asked, "Did she always continue a
Protestant, my good woman? I should have thought love could have worked
more wonderful conversions than that."

"Ah! she died as she lived, poor thing," replied the woman, "and with
nobody with her either, but I and one other; for the Colonel was away,
poor man, levying troops for the king--that is, for King James, sir; for
your honour looks as if you were on the other side."

The stranger was silent and looked abstracted; but at length he
answered, somewhat listlessly, "Really, my good woman, one does not know
what side to be of. It is raining very hard to-night, unless those are
the boughs of the trees tapping against your window."

"Those are the large drops of rain," replied the woman, "dashed against
the glass by the south-west wind. It will be an awful night; and I think
of the ship."

"I will let you hear of the boy," rejoined the stranger in an
indifferent tone, "as soon as I hear of him myself;" and taking up his
hat from the table, he seemed about to depart, when a peculiar
expression upon the woman's countenance made him pause, and, at the same
time, brought to his mind that he had not even asked her name.

"I thought your honour had forgotten," she replied, when he asked her
the question at length. "They call me Betty Harper; but Mrs. Harper will
find me in this place, if you put that upon your letter: and now that we
are asking such sort of questions, your honour wouldn't be offended,
surely, if I were to ask you your name too?"

"Certainly not, my good lady," he replied; "I am called Harry
Sherbrooke, Esquire, very much at your service.--Heavens, how it blows
and rains!"

"Perhaps it is nothing but a wind-shower" replied the woman; "if your
honour would like to wait until it has ridden by."

"Why, I shall get drenched most assuredly if I go," he answered, "and
that before I reach the inn; but I will look out and see, my good lady."

He accordingly proceeded into the little passage, and opened the door,
followed by his companion. They were instantly saluted, however, by a
blast of wind that almost knocked the strong man himself down, and made
the woman reel against the wall of the passage.

Everything beyond--though the cottage, situated upon a height, looked
down the slope of the hill, over the cliffs, to the open sea--was as
dark as the cloud which fell upon Egypt: a darkness that could be felt!
and not the slightest vestige of star or moon, or lingering ray of
sunshine, marked to the eye the distinction between heaven, earth, and
sea.

Sherbrooke drew back, as the wind cut him, and the rain dashed in his
face; but at that very moment something like a faint flash was seen,
apparently at a great distance, and gleaming through the heavy rain. The
woman instantly caught her companion's wrist tight in her grasp,
exclaiming, "Hark!"--and in a few seconds after, in a momentary lull of
the wind, was heard the low booming roar of a distant cannon.

"It is a signal of distress!" cried the woman. "Oh! the ship, the ship!
The wind is dead upon the shore, and the long reef, out by the Battery
Point, has seen many a vessel wrecked between night and morning."

While she spoke, the signal of distress was seen and heard again.

"I will go down and send people out to see what can be done," said the
stranger, and walked away without waiting for reply. He turned his steps
towards the inn, muttering as he went, "There's one, at least, on board
the ship that won't be drowned, if there's truth in an old proverb! so
if the vessel be wrecked to-night, I had better order breakfast for my
cousin to-morrow morning--for he is sure to swim ashore." It was a
night, however, on which no hope of reaching land could cheer the
wrecked seamen. The tide was approaching the full; the wind was blowing
a perfect hurricane; the surf upon a high rocky beach, no boat could
have lived in for a minute; and the strongest swimmer--even if it had
been within the scope of human power and skill to struggle on for any
time with those tremendous waves--must infallibly have been dashed to
pieces on the rocks that lined the shore. The minute guns were
distinctly heard from that town, and several other villages in the
neighbourhood. Many people went to the tops of the cliffs, and some down
to the sea-shore, where the waves did not reach the bases of the rocks.
One gentleman, living in the neighbourhood, sent out servants and
tenantry with links and torches, but no one ever could clearly
distinguish the ship; and could only perceive that she must be in the
direction of a dangerous rocky shoal called the Long Reef, at about two
miles' distance from the shore.

The next morning, however, her fate was more clearly ascertained; not
that a vestige of her was to be seen out at sea, but the whole shore for
two or three miles was covered with pieces of wreck. The stern-post of a
small, French-built vessel, and also a boat considerably damaged in the
bow, and turned keel upwards, came on shore as Harry Sherbrooke and his
servant were themselves examining the scene. The boat bore, painted in
white letters, "La Coureuse de Dunkerque."

"That is enough for our purpose, I should suppose," said the master,
pointing to the letters with a cane he had in his hand, and addressing
his servant--"I must be gone, Harrison, but you remain behind, and do as
I bade you."

"Wait a moment, yet, sir," replied the man: "you see they are bringing
up a body from between those two rocks,--it seems about his size and
make, too;" and approaching the spot to which he pointed, they found
some of the country people carrying up the body of a French officer,
which afterwards proved to be that of the commander of the brig, which
had been seen during the preceding day. After examining the papers which
were taken from the pockets of the dead man, one of which seemed to be a
list of all the persons on board his vessel, Sherbrooke turned away,
merely saying to his servant, "Take care and secure that paper, and
bring it after me to Dublin as fast as possible."

The man bowed his head, and his master walked slowly
and quietly away.

 

CHAPTER III

Now whatever might be the effect of all that passed, as recorded in the
last chapter, upon the mind of Harry Sherbrooke, it is not in the
slightest degree our intention to induce the reader to believe that the
two personages, the officer and the little boy, whom we saw embark for
the brig which was wrecked, were amongst the persons who perished upon
that occasion. True it is that every person the ship contained found a
watery grave, between sunset and sunrise on the night in question. But
to explain how the whole took place, we must follow the track of the
voyagers in the boat.

As soon as they were seated, Lennard Sherbrooke threw his arms
affectionately round the boy, drew him a little closer to his bosom, and
kissed his broad fair forehead; while the boy, on his part, with his
hand leaning on the officer's knee, and his shoulder resting confiding
on his bosom, looked up in his face with eyes of earnest and deep
affection. In such mute conference they remained for some five or ten
minutes; while the hardy sailors pulled away at the oars, their course
towards the vessel lying right in the wind's eye. After a minute or two
more, Lennard Sherbrooke turned round, and gazed back towards the shore,
where he could now plainly perceive his cousin beginning to climb the
little path up the cliff. After watching him for a moment with a look of
calculating thought, he turned towards the boy again, and saw that there
were tears in his eyes, which sight caused him to bend down, saying, in
a low voice, "You are not frightened, my dear boy?"

"Oh no, no!" replied the boy--"I am only sorry to go away to a strange
place."

Lennard Sherbrooke turned his eyes once more towards the shore, but the
form of his cousin had now totally disappeared. He then remained musing
for a minute or two, while the fishermen laboured away, making no very
great progress against the wind. At the distance of about a mile or a
mile and a half from the shore, Lennard Sherbrooke turned round towards
the man who was steering, and made some remarks upon the excellence of
the boat. The man, proud of his little vessel, boasted her capabilities,
and declared that she was as sea-worthy as any frigate in the navy.

"I should like to see her tried," said Sherbrooke. "I should not wonder
if she were well tried to-night," replied the man.

For a moment or two the officer made no rejoinder; but then approaching
the steersman nearer still, he said, in a low voice, "Come, my man, I
have something to tell you. We must alter our course very soon; I am not
going to yon Frenchman at all."

"Why, then, where the devil are you going to?" demanded the fisherman;
and he proceeded, in tones and in language which none but an Irishman
must presume to deal with, to express his astonishment, that after
having been hired by the other gentleman to carry the person who spoke
to him and the boy to the French brig of war, where berths had been
secured for them, he should be told that they were not going there at
all.

The stranger suffered him to expend all his astonishment without moving
a muscle, and then replied, with perfect calmness, "My good friend, you
are a Catholic, I have been told, and a good subject to King James--"

"God bless him!" interrupted the man, heartily; but Sherbrooke
proceeded, saying, "In these days one may well be doubtful of one's own
relations; and I have a fancy, my man, that unless I prevent any one
from knowing my course, and where I am, I may be betrayed where I go,
and betrayed if I stay. Now what I want you to do is this, to take me
over to the coast of England, instead of to yonder French brig."

The man's astonishment was very great; but he seemed to enter into the
motives of his companion with all the quick perception of an Irishman.
There were innumerable difficulties, however, which he did not fail to
start; and he asserted manfully, that it was utterly impossible for them
to proceed upon such a voyage at once. In the first place, they had no
provisions; in the next place, there was the wife and children, who
would not know what was become of them; in the third place, it was
coming on to blow hard right upon the coast. So that he proved there
was, in fact, not only danger and difficulty, but absolute
impossibility, opposed to the plan which the gentleman wished to follow.

In the meanwhile, the four seamen, who were at the oars, laboured away
incessantly, but with very slow and difficult efforts. Every moment the
wind rose higher and higher, and the sun's lower limb touched the
waters, while they were yet two miles from the French brig.

A part of the large red disk of the descending orb was seen between the
sea and the edge of the clouds that hung upon the verge of the sky,
pouring forth from the horizon to the very shore a long line of
blood-red light, which, resting upon the boiling waters of the ocean,
seemed as if the setting star could indeed "the multitudinous sea
incarnadine, making the green one red."

That red light, however, showed far more clearly than before how the
waters were already agitated; for the waves might be seen distinctly,
even to the spot in the horizon where they seemed to struggle with the
sun, heaving up their gigantic heads till they appeared to overwhelm him
before he naturally set.

The arguments of the fisherman apparently effected that thing which is
so seldom effected in this world; namely, to convince the person to whom
they were addressed. I say SELDOM, for there have been instances known,
in remote times, of people being convinced. They puzzled him, however,
and embarrassed him very much, and he remained for full five minutes in
deep and anxious thought.

His reverie, however, was brought to an end suddenly, by a few words
which the fisherman whispered to him. His countenance brightened; a
rapid and brief conversation followed in a low tone, which ended in his
abruptly holding out his hand to the good man at the helm, saying, "I
trust to your honour."

"Upon my soul and honour," replied the fisherman, grasping his proffered
hand.

The matter now seemed settled,--no farther words passed between the
master of the boat and his passenger; but the seaman gave a rapid glance
to the sky, to the long spit of land called the Battery Point, and to
the southward, whence the wind was blowing so sharply.

"We can do it," he muttered to himself, "we can do it;" and he then gave
immediate orders for changing the boat's course, and putting out all
sail. His companions seemed as much surprised by his change of purpose,
as he had been with the alteration of his passenger's determination. His
orders were nevertheless obeyed promptly, the head of the boat was
turned away from the wind, the canvas caught the gale, and away she went
like lightning, heeling till the little yard almost touched the water.
Her course, however, was not bent back exactly to the same spot from
which she started, and it now became evident that it was the fisherman's
intention to round the Battery Point.

Lennard Sherbrooke was not at all aware of the dangerous reef that lay
so near their course; but it soon became evident to him that there was
some great peril, which required much skill and care to avoid; and, as
night fell, the anxiety of the seamen evidently became greater. The wind
by this time was blowing quite a hurricane, and the rushing roaring
sound of the gale and the ocean was quite deafening. But about half an
hour after sunset that peculiar angry roar, which is only heard in the
neighbourhood of breakers, was distinguished to leeward; and looking in
that direction, Sherbrooke perceived one long white line of foam and
surf, rising like an island in the midst of dark and struggling waters.

Not a word was said: it seemed as if scarcely a breath was drawn. In a
few minutes the sound of the breakers became less distinct; a slight
motion was perceivable in the arm of the man who held the tiller, and in
about ten minutes the effect of the neighbouring headlands was found in
smoother water and a lighter gale, as the boat glided calmly and
steadily on, into a small bay, not many hundred miles from Baltimore.
The rest of their voyage, till they reached the shore again, was safe
and easy: the master of the boat and his men seemed to know every creek,
cove, and inlet, as well as their own dwelling places; and, directing
their coarse to a little but deep stream, they ran in between two other
boats, and were soon safely moored.

The boy, by Sherbrooke's direction, had lain himself down in the bottom
of the boat, wrapped up in a large cloak; and there, with the happy
privilege of childhood, he had fallen sound asleep, nor woke till danger
and anxiety were passed, and the little vessel safe at the shore.
Accommodation was easily found in a neighbouring village, and, on the
following day, one, and only one, of the boat's crew went over to the
spot from which they had set out on the preceding evening. He returned
with another man, both loaded with provisions. There was much coming and
going between the village and the boat during the day. By eventide the
storm had sobbed itself away; the sea was calm again, the sky soft and
clear; and beneath the bright eyes of the watchful stars, the boat once
more took its way across the broad bosom of the ocean, with its course
laid directly towards the English shore.



CHAPTER IV.

Those were days of pack-saddles and pillions--days certainly not without
their state and display; but yet days in which persons were not valued
according to the precise mode of their dress or equipage, when hearts
were not appraised by the hat or gloves, nor the mind estimated by the
carriages or horses.

Man was considered far more abstractedly then than at present; and
although illustrious ancestors, great possessions, and hereditary claims
upon consideration, were allowed more weight than they now possess, yet
the minor circumstances of each individual,--the things that filled his
pocket, the dishes upon his table, the name of his tailor, or the club
that he belonged to,--were seldom, if ever, allowed to affect the
appreciation of his general character.

However that might be, it was an age, as we have said, of pack-saddles
and pillions; and no one, at any distance from the capital itself, would
have been the least ashamed to be seen with a lady or child mounted
behind him on the same horse, while he jogged easily onward on his
destined way.

It was thus that, about a quarter of an hour before nightfall, a, tall
powerful man was seen riding along through one of the north-western
counties of England, with a boy of about eight years of age mounted on a
pillion behind him, and steadying himself on the horse by an
affectionate embrace cast round the waist of his elder companion.

Lennard Sherbrooke--for the reader has already divined that this was no
other than the personage introduced to him in our first chapter--Lennard
Sherbrooke, then, was still heavily armed, but in other respects had
undergone a considerable change. The richly laced coat had given place
to a plain dark one of greenish brown; the large riding boots remained;
and the hat, though it kept its border of feathers, was divested of
every other ornament. There were pistols at the saddle-bow, which indeed
were very necessary in those days to every one who performed the
perilous and laborious duty of wandering along the King's Highway; and
in every other respect the appearance of Lennard Sherbrooke was well
calculated neither to attract cupidity nor invite attack.

About ten minutes after the period at which we have again introduced him
to our readers, the traveller and his young companion stopped at the
door of an old-fashioned inn, or rather at the porch thereof; for the
door itself, with a retiring modesty, stood at some distance back, while
an impudent little portico with carved oak pillars, of quaint but not
inelegant design, stood forth into the road, with steps leading down
from it to the sill of the sunk doorway. An ostler ran out to take the
horse, and helped the boy down tenderly and carefully. Sherbrooke
himself then dismounted, looked at his beast from head to foot, and then
ordering the ostler to give him some hay and water, he took the boy by
the hand and entered the house.

The ostler looked at the beast, which was tired, and then at the sky,
over which the first shades of evening were beginning to creep, thinking
as he did so that the stranger might quite as well put up his beast for
the night. In the meantime, however, Sherbrooke had given the boy into
the charge of the hostess, had bidden her prepare some supper for him,
and had intimated that he himself was going a little farther, but would
soon return to sleep at her hospitable dwelling. He ordered to be
brought in and given into her charge also a small portmanteau,--smaller
than that which he had taken with him into the boat,--and when all this
was done, he kissed the boy's forehead tenderly, and left him, mounting
once more his weary beast, and plodding slowly along upon his way.

It was a very sweet evening: the sun, half way down behind one of the
distant hills, seemed, like man's curiosity, to overlook unheeded all
the bright and beautiful things close to him, and to gaze with his eyes
of light full upon the objects further from him, through which the
wayfarer was bending his way. The line of undulating hills, the masses
of a long line of woodland, some deep valleys and dells, a small village
with its church and tower on an eminence, were all in deep blue shadow;
while, in the foreground, every bank and slope was glittering in yellow
sunshine, and a small river, that wound along through the flatter part
of the ground, seemed turned into gold by the great and glorious
alchymist, as he sunk to his rest.

The heart of the traveller who wandered there alone was ill, very ill at
ease. Happily for himself, as he was now circumstanced, the character of
Sherbrooke was a gay and buoyant one, not easily depressed, bearing the
load lightly; but still he could not but feel the difficulties, the
dangers, and the distresses of a situation, which, though shared in by
very many at that moment, was rather aggravated by such being the case,
and had but small alleviation even from hope.

In the first place, he had seen the cause to which he had attached
himself utterly ruined by the base irresolution of a weak monarch, who
had lost his crown by his tyranny, and who had failed to regain it by
his courage. In the next place, for his devotion to that cause, he was a
banished and an outlawed man, with his life at the mercy of any one who
chose to take it. In the next he was well nigh penniless, with the life
of another, dear, most dear to his heart, depending entirely upon his
exertions.

The heart of the traveller, then, was ill, very ill at ease, but yet the
calm of that evening's sunshine had a sweet and tranquillizing effect.
There is a mirror--there is certainly a moral mirror in our hearts,
which reflects the images of the things around us; and every change that
comes over nature's face is mingled sweetly, though too often unnoticed,
with the thoughts and feelings called forth by other things. The effect
of that calm evening upon Lennard Sherbrooke was not to produce the
wild, bright, visionary dreams and expectations which seem the peculiar
offspring of the glowing morning, or of the bright and risen day; but it
was the counterpart, the image, the reflection of that evening scene
itself to which it gave rise in his heart. He felt tranquillized, he
felt more resolute, more capable of enduring. Grief and anxiety subsided
into melancholy and resolution, and the sweet influence of the hour had
also an effect beyond: it made him pause upon the memories of his past
life, upon many a scene of idle profligacy, revel, and riot,--of talents
cast away and opportunity neglected,--of fortune spent and bright hopes
blasted,--and of all the great advantages which he had once possessed
utterly lost and gone, with the exception of a kind and generous heart:
a jewel, indeed, but one which in this world, alas! can but too seldom
be turned to the advantage of the possessor.

On these things he pondered, and a sweet and ennobling regret came upon
him that it should be so--a regret which might have gone on to sincere
repentance, to firm amendment, to the retrieval of fortunes, to an utter
change of destiny, had the circumstances of the times, or any friendly
voice and helping hand, led his mind on upon that path wherein it had
already taken the first step, and had opened out before him a way of
retrieval, instead of forcing him onward down the hill of destruction.
But, alas! those were not times when the opportunity of doing better was
likely to be allowed to him; nor were circumstances destined to change
his course. His destiny, like that of many Jacobites of the day, was but
to be from ruin to ruin; and let it be remembered, that the character
and history of Lennard Sherbrooke are not ideal, but are copied
faithfully from a true but sad history of a life in those times.

All natural affections sweeten and purify the human heart. Like
everything else given us immediately from God, their natural tendency is
to wage war against all that is evil within us; and every single thought
of amendment and improvement, every regret for the past, every better
hope for the future, was connected with the thought of the beautiful boy
he had left behind at the inn; and elevated by his love for a being in
the bright purity of youth, he thought of him and his situation again
and again; and often as he did so, the intensity of his own feelings
made him murmur forth half audible words all relating to the boy, or to
the person he was then about to seek, for the purpose of interesting him
in the poor youth's fate.

"I will tell him all and everything," he said, thus murmuring to himself
as he went on: "he may drive me forth if he will; but surely, surely, he
will protect and do something for the boy. What, though there have been
faults committed and wrong done, he cannot be so hard-hearted as to let
the poor child starve, or be brought up as I can alone bring him up."

Such was still the conclusion to which he seemed to come; and at length
when the sun had completely gone down, and at the distance of about
three miles from the inn, he paused before a large pair of wooden gates,
consisting of two rows of square bars of painted wood placed close
together, with a thick heavy rail at the top and bottom, while two
wooden obelisks, with their steeple-shaped summits, formed the gate
posts. Opening the gates, as one well familiar with the lock, he now
entered the smaller road which led from them through the fields towards
a wood upon the top of the hill. At first the way was uninteresting
enough, and the faint remains of twilight only served to show some
square fields within their hedge-rows cut in the most prim and
undeviating lines around. The wayfarer rode on, through that part of the
scene, with his eyes bent down in deep thought; but when he came to the
wood; and, following the path--which, now kept with high neatness and
propriety, wound in and out amongst the trees, and then sweeping gently
round the shoulder of the hill, exposed a beautiful deer park--he had
before his eyes a fine Elizabethan house, rising grey upon a little
eminence at the distance of some four or five hundred yards,--it seemed
that some old remembrance, some agitating vision of the days gone by,
came over the horseman's mind. He pulled in his rein, clasped his hands
together, and gazed around with a look of sad and painful recognition.
At the end of a minute or two, however, he recovered himself, rode on to
the front of the house we have mentioned, and dismounting from his
horse, pulled the bell-rope which action was instantly followed by a
long peal heard from within.

"It sounds cold and empty," said the wayfarer to himself, "like my
reception, and perhaps my hopes."

No answer was made for some time; and though the sounds had been loud
enough, as the traveller's ears bore witness, yet they required to be
repeated before any one came to ask his pleasure.

"This is very strange!" he said, as he applied his hand to the bell-rope
again. "He must have grown miserly, as they say, indeed. Why I remember
a dozen servants crowding into this porch at the first sound of a
horse's feet."

A short time after, some steps were heard within; bolts and bars were
carefully withdrawn, and an old man in a white jacket, with a lantern in
his hand, opened the heavy oaken door, and gazed upon the stranger.

"Where is the Earl of Byerdale?" demanded the horseman, in apparent
surprise. "Is he not at home?"

The old man gazed at him for a moment from head to foot, without
replying, and then answered slowly and somewhat bitterly, "Yes, he is at
home--at his long home, from which he'll never move again! Why, he has
been dead and buried this fortnight."

"Indeed!" cried the traveller, putting his hand to his head, with an air
of surprise, and what we may call dismay; "indeed! and who has
discharged the servants and shut up the house?"

"Those who have a right to do it," replied the old man, sharply; "for my
lord was not such a fool as to leave his property to be spent, and his
place mismanaged, by two scape-graces whom he knew well enough."

As he spoke, without farther ceremony he shut the door in the stranger's
face, and then returned to his own abode in the back part of the house,
chuckling as he went, and murmuring to himself, "I think I have paid him
now for throwing me into the horsepond, for just telling a little bit of
a lie about Ellen, the laundry maid. He thought I had forgotten him! Ha!
ha! ha!"

The traveller stood confounded; but he made no observation, he uttered
no word, he seemed too much accustomed to meet the announcement of fresh
misfortune to suffer it to drive him from the strong-hold of silence.
Sweeter or gentler feelings might have done it: he might have been
tempted to speak aloud in calm meditation and thought, either gloomy or
joyful; but his heart, when wrung and broken by the last hard grasp of
fate, like the wolf at his death, was dumb.

He remained for full two minutes, however, beneath the porch, motionless
and silent; then springing on his horse's back, he urged him somewhat
rapidly up the slope. Ere he had reached the top, either from
remembering that the beast was weary, or from some change in his own
feelings, he slackened his pace, and gave himself up to meditation
again. The first agony of the blow that he had received was now over,
and once again he not only reasoned with himself calmly, but expressed
some of his conclusions in a murmur.

"What!" he said, "a peer without a penny! the name attainted, too, and
all lands and property declared forfeit! No, no! it will never do! Years
may bring better times!--Who knows? the attainder may be reversed; new
fortunes may be gained or made! The right dies not, though it may
slumber; exists, though it be not enforced. A peer without a penny! no,
no!--far better a beggar with half a crown!"

Thus saying he rode on, passed through the wood we have mentioned,--the
dull meadows, and the wooden gates; and entering the high road, was
proceeding towards the inn, when an event occurred which effected a
considerable change in his plans and purposes.

It was by this time one of those dark nights, the most propitious that
can be imagined for such little adventures as rendered at one time the
place called Gad's Hill famous alike in story and in song. It wasn't
that the night was cloudy, for, to say sooth, it was a fine night, and
manifold small stars were twinkling in the sky; but the moon, the sweet
moon, was at that time in her infancy, a babe of not two days old, so
that the light she afforded to her wandering companions through the
fields of space was of course not likely to be much. The stars twinkled,
as we have said, but they gave no light to the road; and on either side
there were sundry brakes, and lanes, and hedges, and groups of trees
which were sufficiently shady and latitant in the mid-day, and which
certainly were impervious to any ray of light then above the horizon.

The mind of Lennard Sherbrooke, however, was far too busy about other
things to think of dangers on the King's Highway. His purse was
certainly well armoured against robbery; and the defence was on the
inside and not on the out; so that--had he thought on the matter at all,
which he did not do--he might very probably have thought, in his light
recklessness, he wished he might meet with a highwayman, in order to try
whether he could not rob better than be robbed.

However, as I have said, he thought not of the subject at all. His own
situation, and that of the boy Wilton, occupied him entirely; and it was
not till the noise of a horse's feet coming rapidly behind him sounded
close at his shoulder, that he turned to see by whom he had been
overtaken.

All that Sherbrooke could perceive was, that it was a man mounted on a
remarkably fine horse, riding with ease and grace, and bearing
altogether the appearance of a gentleman.

"Pray, sir," said the stranger, "can you tell me how far I am from the
inn called the Buck's Horns, and whether this is the direct road
thither?"

"The inn is about two miles on," replied Sherbrooke, "on the left-hand
side of the way, and you cannot miss it, for there is no other house for
five miles."

"Only two miles!" said the stranger; "then there is no use of my riding
so fast, risking to break my neck, and my horse's knees."

Sherbrooke said nothing, but rode on quietly, while the stranger, still
reining in his horse, pursued the high road by the traveller's side.

"It is a very dark night," said the stranger, after a minute or two's
silence.

"A very dark night, indeed!" replied Sherbrooke, and the conversation
again ended there.

"Well," said the stranger, after two or three minutes more had passed,
"as my conversation seems disagreeable to you, sir, I shall ride on."

"Goodnight, sir," replied Sherbrooke, and the other appeared to put
spurs to his horse. At the first step, however, he seized the
traveller's rein, uttering a whistle: two more horsemen instantly darted
out from one side of the road, and in an instant the well-known words,
"Stand and deliver!" were audibly pronounced in the ears of the
traveller.

Now it is a very different thing, and a much more difficult thing, to
deal in such a sort with three gentlemen of the road, than with one; but
nevertheless, as we have before shown, Lennard Sherbrooke was a stout
man, nor was he at all a faint-hearted one. A pistol was instantly out
of one of the holsters, pointed, and fired, and one of his assailants
rolled over upon the ground, horse and man together. His heavy sword was
free from the sheath the moment after; and exclaiming, "Now there's but
two of you, I can manage you," he pushed on his horse against the man
who had seized his bridle, aiming a very unpleasant sort of oblique cut
at the worthy personage's head, which, had it taken effect, would
probably have left him with a considerable portion less of skull than
that with which he entered into the conflict.

Three things, however, happened almost simultaneously, which gave a new
aspect altogether to affairs. The man upon Sherbrooke's left hand fired
a pistol at his head, but missed him in the darkness of night. At the
same moment the other man at whom he was aiming the blow, and who being
nearer to him of course saw better, parried it successfully, but
abstained from returning it, exclaiming, "By Heavens! I believe it is
Leonard Sherbrooke!"

"If you had asked me," replied Sherbrooke, "I would have told you that
long ago: pray who are you?"

"I am Frank Bryerly," replied the man: "hold your hands, hold your hands
every one, and let us see what mischief's done! Dick Harrison, I
believe, is down. Devilish unfortunate, Sherbrooke, that you did not
speak."

"Speak!" returned Sherbrooke, "what should I speak for? these are not
times for speaking over much."

"I am not hurt, I am not hurt!" cried the man called Harrison; "but hang
him, I believe he has killed my horse, and the horse had well nigh
killed me, for he reared and went over with me at the shot:--get up,
brute, get up!" and he kicked the horse in the side to make him rise. Up
started the beast upon his feet in a moment, trembling in every limb,
but still apparently not much hurt; and upon examination it proved that
the ball had struck him in the fleshy part of the shoulder, producing a
long, but not a deep wound, and probably causing the animal to rear by
the pain it had occasioned.

As soon as this was explained satisfactorily, a somewhat curious scene
was presented, by Leonard Sherbrooke standing in the midst of his
assailants, and shaking hands with two of them as old friends, while the
third was presented to him with all the form and ceremony of a new
introduction. But such things, alas! were not uncommon in those days;
and gentlemen of high birth and education have been known to take to the
King's Highway--not like Prince Hal, for sport, but for a mouthful of
bread.

"Why, Frank," said Sherbrooke, addressing the one who had seized his
horse's rein, "how is this, my good fellow?"

"Why, just like everything else in the world," replied the other in a
gay tone. "I'm at the down end of the great see-saw, Sherbrooke, that's
all. When last you knew me, I was a gay Templer, in not bad practice,
bamboozling the juries, deafening the judges, making love to every woman
I met, ruining the tavern-keepers, and astounding the watch and the
chairman. In short, Sherbrooke, very much like yourself."

"Exactly, Frank," replied Sherbrooke, "my own history within a letter or
so: we were always called the counterparts, you know; but what became of
you after I left you, a year and a half ago, when this Dutch skipper
first came over to usurp his father-in-law's throne?"

"Why, I did not take it quite so hotly as you did," replied the other;
"but I remained for some time after the King was gone, till I heard he
had come back to Ireland; then, of course, I went to join him, fared
with the rest, lost everything, and here I am--after having been a
Templer, and then a captain in the king's guards--doing the honours of
the King's Highway."

"Stupidly enough," replied Lennard Sherbrooke; "for here the first thing
that you do is to attack a man who is just as likely to take as to give,
and ask for a man's money who has but a guinea and a shilling in all the
world."

"I am but raw at the trade, I confess," replied the other, "and we are
none of us much more learned. The truth is, we were only practising upon
you, Sherbrooke, we expect a much better prize to-morrow; but what say
you, if your condition be such, why not come and take a turn upon the
road with us? It is the most honourable trade going now-a-days. Treason
and treachery, indeed, carry off the honours at court; but there are so
many traitors of one gang or another, that betraying one's friend is
become a vulgar calling. Take a turn with us on the road, man! take a
turn with us on the road!"

"Upon my soul," replied Sherbrooke, "I think the plan not a bad one; I
believe if I had met you alone, Frank, I should have tried to rob you."

"Don't call it rob," replied Frank Bryerly, "call it soliciting from, or
relieving. But it is a bargain, Sherbrooke, isn't it?"

Lennard Sherbrooke paused and thought for a moment, with the scattered
remains of better feelings, like some gallant party of a defeated army
trying still to rally and resist against the overpowering force of
adverse circumstances. He thought, in that short moment, of what other
course he could follow; he turned his eyes to the east and the west, to
the north and the south, for the chance of one gleam of hope, for the
prospect of any opening to escape. It was in vain, his last hope had
been trampled out that night. He had not even money to fly, and seek, on
some other shore, the means of support and existence. He had but
sufficient to support himself and his horse, and the poor boy, for three
or four more days. Imagination pictured that poor boy's bright
countenance, looking up to him for food and help, and finding none, and
grasping Bryerly's hand, he said, in a low voice, "It is a bargain.
Where and how shall I join you?"

"Oh!" replied the other, "we three are up at Mudicot's inn, about four
miles there: you had better turn your horse and go back with us."

"No," replied Sherbrooke, "I have some matters to settle at the little
inn down there: all that I have in the world is there, and that, Heaven
knows, is little enough; I will join you to-morrow."

"Sherbrooke," said Bryerly, drawing him a little on one side and
speaking low, "I am a rich man, you know: I have got ten guineas in my
pocket: you must share them with me."

Pride had already said "No!" but Bryerly insisted, saying, "You can pay
me in a day or two."

Sherbrooke thought of the boy again, and accepted the money; and then
bidding his companions adieu for the time, he left them and returned to
the inn.

The poor boy, wearied out, had once more fallen asleep where he sat, and
Sherbrooke, causing him to be put to bed, remained busily writing till a
late hour at night. He then folded up and sealed carefully that which he
had written, together with a number of little articles which he drew
forth from the portmanteau; he then wrote some long directions on the
back of the packet, and placing the whole once more in the portmanteau,
in a place where it was sure to be seen, if any inquisitive eye examined
the contents of the receptacle, he turned the key and retired to rest.
The whole of the following day he passed in playing with and amusing
little Wilton; and so much childish gaiety was there in his demeanour,
that the man seemed as young as the child. Towards evening, however, he
again ordered his horse to be brought out; and, having paid the landlady
for their accommodation up to that time, he again left the boy in her
charge and put his foot in the stirrup. He had kissed him several times
before be did so; but a sort of yearning of the heart seemed to come
over him, and turning back again to the door of the inn, he once more
pressed him to his heart, ere he departed.



CHAPTER V.

Journeys were in those days at least treble the length they are at
present. It may be said that the distance from London to York, or from
Carlisle to Berwick, could never be above a certain length. Measured by
a string probably such would have been the case; but if the reader
considers how much more sand, gravel, mud, and clay, the wheels of a
carriage had to go through in those days, he will easily see how it was
the distances were so protracted.

At all events, fifty or sixty miles was a long, laborious journey; and
at whatever hour the traveller might set out upon his way, he was not
likely to reach the end of it, without becoming a "borrower from the
night of a dark hour or two."

Such was the case with the tenant of a large cumbrous carriage, which,
drawn heavily on by four stout horses wended slowly on the King's
Highway, not very far from the spot where the wooden gates that we have
described raised their white faces by the side of the road.

The panels of that carriage, as well as the ornaments of the top
thereof, bore the arms of a British earl; and there was a heavy and
dignified swagger about the vehicle itself, which seemed to imply a
consciousness even in the wood and leather of the dignity of the person
within. He, for his own part, though a graceful and very courtly
personage, full of high talent, policy, and wit, had nothing about him
at all of the pomposity of his vehicle; and at the moment which we refer
to, namely, about two hours after nightfall, tired with his long
journey, and seated with solitary thought, he had drawn a fur-cap
lightly over his head, and, leaning back in the carriage, enjoyed not
unpleasant repose.

To be woke out of one's slumbers suddenly at any time, or by any means,
is a very unpleasant sensation; but there are few occasions that we can
conceive, on which such an event is more disagreeable than when we are
thus woke, to find a pistol at our breast, and some one demanding our
money.

The Earl of Sunbury was sleeping quietly in his carriage with the most
perfect feeling of security, though those indeed were not very secure
times; when suddenly the carriage stopped, and he started up. Scarcely,
however, was he awake to what was passing round, than the door of the
carriage was opened, and a man of gentlemanly appearance, with a pistol
in his right hand, and his horse's bridle over the left arm, presented
himself to the eyes of the peer. At the same time, through the opposite
window of the carriage, was seen another man on horseback; while the
Earl judged, and judged rightly, that there must be others of the same
fraternity at the heads of the horses, and the ears of the postilions.

The Earl was usually cool and calm in his demeanour under most of the
circumstances of life; and he therefore asked the pistol-bearing
gentleman, much in the same tone that one would ask one's way across the
country, or receive a visitor whom we do not know, "Pray, sir, what may
be your pleasure with me?"

"I am very sorry to delay your lordship even for a moment," replied the
stranger, very much in the same tone as that with which the Earl had
spoken; "but I do it for the purpose of requesting, that you would
disburden yourself of a part of your baggage, which you can very well
spare, and which we cannot. I mean, my lord, shortly and civilly, to
say, that we must have your money, and also any little articles of gold
and jewellery that may be about your person."

"Sir," replied the Earl, "you ask so courteously, that I should be
almost ashamed to refuse you, even were your request not backed by the
soft solicitation of a pistol. There, sir, is my purse, which probably
is not quite so full as you might desire, but is still worth something.
Then as to jewellery, my watch, seals, and these trinkets are at your
disposal. Farther than these I have but this ring, for which I have a
very great regard; and I wish that some way could be pointed out by
which I might be able to redeem it at a future time it may be worth some
half dozen guineas, but certainly not more, to any other than myself. In
my eyes, however, it only appears as a precious gage of old affection,
given to me in my youth by one I loved, and which has remained still
upon my finger, till age has wintered my hair."

"I beg that you will keep the ring," replied the highwayman; "you have
given enough already, my lord, and we thank you."

He was now retiring with a bow, and closing the door, but the Earl
stopped him, saying, in a tone of some feeling, "I beg your pardon; but
your manner, language, and behaviour, are so different from all that
might be expected under such circumstances, that I cannot but think
necessity more than inclination has driven you to a dangerous pursuit."

"Your lordship thinks right," replied the highwayman "I am a poor
gentleman, of a house as noble as your own, but have felt the hardships
of these times more severely than most."

He was again about to retire; but the Earl once more spoke, saying,
"Your behaviour to me, sir, especially about this ring, has been such
that, without asking impertinent questions, I would fain serve you.--Can
I do it ?"

"I fear not, my lord; I fear not," replied the stranger. Then seeming to
recollect himself, with a sudden start, he approached nearer to the
carriage, saying, "I had forgot--you can, my lord!--you can."

"In what manner?" demanded the peer.

"That I cannot tell your lordship here and now," replied the highwayman:
"time is wanting, and, doubtless, my companions' patience is worn away
already."

"Well," replied the Earl, "if you will venture to call upon me at my own
house, some ten miles hence, which, as you know me, you probably know
also, I will hear all you have to say, serve you if I can, and will take
care that you come and go with safety."

"I offer you a thousand thanks, my lord," replied the other, "and will
venture as fearlessly as I would to my own chamber." [Footnote: It may
be interesting to the reader to know that the whole of this scene, even
to a great part of the dialogue, actually took place in the beginning of
the reign of William III.]

Thus saying, he drew back and closed the door; and then making a signal
to his companions to withdraw from the heads of the horses, he bade the
postilions drive on, and sprang upon his own beast.

"What have you got, Lennard? what have you got?" demanded the man who
was at the other door of the carriage: "what have you got--you have had
a long talk about it?"

"A heavy purse," replied Sherbrooke; "what the contents are, I know
not--a watch, a chain, and three gold seals.--I'm almost sorry that I
did this thing."

"Sorry!" cried the other; "why you insisted upon doing it yourself, and
would let no other take the first adventure out of your hands."

"I did not mean that," replied Sherbrooke "I did not mean that at all!
If the thing were to be done, and I standing by, I might as well do it
as see you do it. What I mean is, that I am sorry for having taken the
man's money at all!"

"Pshaw!" replied the other: "You forget that he is one of the enemy, or
rather, I should say, a traitor to his king, to his native-born prince,
and therefore is fair game for every true subject of King James."

"He stood by him a long time," replied Sherbrooke, "for all that--as
long, and longer than the King stood by himself."

"Never mind, never mind, Colonel," said one of the others, who had come
up by this time; "you won't need absolution for what's been done
to-night; and I would bet a guinea to a shilling, that if you ask any
priest in all the land, he will tell you, that you have done a good deed
instead of a bad; but let us get back to the inn as quick as we can, and
see what the purse contains."

The road which the Earl of Sunbury was pursuing passed the very inn to
which the men who had lightened him of his gold were going; but there
was a back bridle-path through some thick woods to the right of the
road, which cut off a full mile of the way, and along this the four
keepers of the King's Highway urged their horses at full speed,
endeavouring, as was natural under such circumstances, to gallop away
reflection, which, in spite of all that they assumed, was not a pleasant
companion to any of the four. It very often happens that the
exhilaration of success occupies so entirely the portion of time during
which remorse for doing a bad action is most ready to strike us, that we
are ready to commit the same error again, before the last murmurs of
conscience have time to make themselves heard. Those who wish to drown
her first loud remonstrances give full way and eager encouragement to
that exhilaration; and now, each of the men whom we have mentioned,
except Sherbrooke, went on encouraging their wild gaiety, leaping the
gates that here and there obstructed their passage, instead of opening
them; and in the end arriving at the inn a full quarter of an hour
before the carriage of the Earl passed the house on its onward way.

The vehicle stopped there for a minute or two, to give the horses hay
and water; and much was the clamour amongst the servants, the
postilions, and the ostlers, concerning the daring robbery that had been
committed; but the postilions of those days, and eke the keepers of
inns, were wise people in their generation, and discreet withal. They
talked loudly of the horror, the infamy, and the shamefulness, of making
the King's Highway a place of general toll and contribution; but still
they abstained most scrupulously from taking any notice of gentlemen who
were out late upon the road, especially if they went on horseback.



CHAPTER VI.

It was about two days after the period of which we have spoken, when the
Earl of Sunbury, caring very little for the loss he had met with on the
road, and thinking of it merely as one of those unpleasant circumstances
which occur to every man now and then, sat in his library with every
sort of comfort and splendour about him, enjoying in dignified ease the
society of mighty spirits from the past, in those works which have given
and received an earthly immortality. His hand was upon Sallust; and
having just been reading the awful lines which present in Catiline the
type of almost every great conspirator, he raised his eyes and gazed on
vacancy, calling up with little labour, as it were, a substantial image
to his mind's eye of him whom the great historian had displayed.

The hour was about nine o'clock at night, and the windows were closed,
when suddenly a loud ringing of the bell made itself heard, even in the
Earl's library. As the person who came, by applying at the front
entrance, evidently considered himself a visitor of the Earl, that
nobleman placed his hand upon the open page of the book and waited for a
farther announcement with a look of vexation, muttering to himself,
"This is very tiresome: I thought, at all events, I should have had a
few days of tranquillity and repose."

"A gentleman, my lord," said one of the servants, entering, "is at the
gate, and wishes to speak with your lordship."

"Have you asked what is his business?" demanded the Earl.

"He will not mention it, my lord," replied the servant, "nor give his
name either; but he says your lordship told him to call upon you."

"Oh! admit him, admit him," said the peer; "put a chair there, and bring
some chocolate."

After putting the chair, the man retired, and a moment after returned,
saying, "The gentleman, my lord."

The door opened wide, and the tall fine form of Lennard Sherbrooke
entered, leading by the hand the beautiful boy whom we have before
described, who now gazed about him with a look of awe and surprise.

Little less astonishment was visible on the countenance of the Earl
himself; and until the door was closed by the servant, he continued to
gaze alternately upon Sherbrooke and the boy, seeming to find in the
appearance of each much matter for wonder.

"Do me the favour of sitting down," he said at length "I think I have
had the advantage of seeing you before."

"Once, my lord," replied Sherbrooke, "and then it must have been but
dimly."

"Not more than once?" demanded the Earl: "your face is somewhat familiar
to me, and I think I could connect it with a name."

"Connect it with none, my lord," said Sherbrooke: "that name is at an
end, at least for a time: the person for whom you take me is no more. I
should have thought that you knew such to be the case."

"I did, indeed, hear," said the Earl, "that he was killed at the Boyne;
but still the likeness is so great, and my acquaintance with him was so
slight, that--"

"He died at the Boyne, my lord," said Sherbrooke, looking down, "in a
cause which was just, though the head and object of that cause was
unworthy of connexion with it." The Earl's cheek grew a little red; but
Sherbrooke continued, with a slight laugh, "I did not, however, come
here, my lord, to offend you with my view of politics. We have only once
met, my lord, that I know of in life, but I have heard you kindly spoken
of by those I loved and honoured. You, yourself, told me, that if you
could serve me you would; and I come to claim fulfilment of that offer,
though what I request may seem both extraordinary and extravagant to
demand."

The Earl bent down his eyes upon the table, and drew his lips in
somewhat close, for he in no degree divined what request was coming; and
he was much too old a politician to encourage applications, the very
proposers of which announced them as extravagant. "May I ask," he said,
at length, "what it is you have to propose? I am quite ready to do any
reasonable thing for your service, as I promised upon an occasion to
which I need not farther refer."

Three servants at that moment entered the room, with chocolate, long cut
slices of toast, and cold water; and the conversation being thus
interrupted, the Earl invited his two guests to partake; and calling the
boy to him, fondled him for some moments at his knee, playing with the
clustering curls of his bright hair, and asking him many little kindly
questions about his sports and pastimes.

The boy looked up in his face well pleased, and answered with so much
intelligence, and such winning grace, that the Earl, employing exactly
the same caress that Sherbrooke had often done before, parted the fair
hair on his forehead, and kissed his lofty brow.

When the servants were gone, Sherbrooke instantly resumed the
conversation. "My request, my lord," he said, "is to be a very strange
one; a request that will put you to some expense, though not a very
great one; and will give you some trouble, though, would to God both the
trouble and expense could be undertaken by myself."

"Perhaps," said the Earl, turning his eyes to the boy, "it may be
better, sir, that we speak alone for a minute or two. I am now sure that
I cannot be mistaken in the person to whom I speak, although I took you
at first for one that is no more. We will leave your son here, and he
can amuse himself with this book of pictures."

Thus saying he rose, patted the boy's head, and pointed out the book he
referred to. He then threw open a door between that room and the next,
which was a large saloon, well lighted, and having led the way thither
with Sherbrooke, he held with him a low, but earnest conversation for
some minutes.

"Well, sir," he said at length, "well, sir, I will not, and must not
refuse, though it places me in a strange and somewhat difficult
situation; but indeed, indeed, I wish you would listen to my
remonstrances. Abandon a hopeless, and what, depend upon it, is an
unjust cause,--a cause which the only person who could gain by it has
abandoned and betrayed. Yield to the universal voice of the people; or
if you cannot co-operate with the government that the popular voice has
called to power, at all events submit; and, I doubt not in the least,
that if, coupled with promises and engagements to be a peaceful subject,
you claim the titles and estates--"

"My lord, it cannot be," replied Sherbrooke, interrupting him: "you
forget that I belong to the Catholic church. However, you will remember
our agreement respecting the papers, and other things which I shall
deposit with you this night: they are not to be given to him till he is
of age, under any circumstances, except that of the King's restoration,
when you may immediately make them public."

As he spoke, he was turning away to return to the library; but the Earl
stopped him, saying, "Stay yet one moment: would it not be better to
give me some farther explanations? and have you nothing to say with
regard to the boy's education? for you must remember how I, too, am
situated."

"I have no farther explanations to give, my lord," replied Sherbrooke;
"and as to the boy's education, I must leave it entirely with yourself.
Neither on his religious nor his political education will I say a word.
In regard to the latter, indeed, I may beg you to let him hear the
truth, and, reading what is written on both sides, to judge for himself.
Farther I have nothing to say."

"But you will understand," replied the other, with marked emphasis,
"that I cannot and do not undertake to educate him as I would a son of
my own. He shall have as good an education as possible; he shall be
fitted, as far as my judgment can go, for any station in the state, to
enter any gentlemanly profession, and to win his way for himself by his
own exertions. But you cannot and must not expect that I should accustom
him to indulgence or expense in any way that the unfortunate
circumstances in which he is placed may render beyond his power to
attain, when you and I are no longer in being to support or aid him."

"You judge wisely, my lord," replied Sherbrooke, "and in those respects
I trust him entirely to you, feeling too deeply grateful for the relief
you have given me from this overpowering anxiety, to cavil at any
condition that you may propose."

"I have only one word more to say," replied the Earl, "which is, if you
please, I would prefer putting down on paper the conditions and
circumstances under which I take the boy: we will both sign the paper,
which may be for the security of us both."

Sherbrooke agreed without hesitation; and on their return to the
library, the Earl wrote for some time, while his companion talked with
and caressed the boy. When the Earl had done, he handed one of the
papers he had written to Sherbrooke, who read it attentively, and then
signing it returned it to the Earl. That nobleman in the mean time, had
signed a counterpart of the paper which he now gave to Sherbrooke; and
the latter, taking from his pocket the small packet of various articles
which we have seen him make up at the inn before he went out on the very
expedition which produced his present visit to the Earl, gave it into
the peer's hands, who put his seal upon it also.

This done, a momentary pause ensued, and Lennard Sherbrooke gazed
wistfully at the boy. A feeling of tenderness, which he could not
repress, gained upon his heart as he gazed, and seemed to overpower him;
for tears came up, and dimmed his sight. At length, he dashed them away;
and taking the boy up in his arms, he pressed him fondly to his bosom;
kissed him twice; set him down again; and then, turning to the Earl,
with a brow on which strong resolution was seen struggling with deep
emotion, he said, "Thank you, my lord, thank you!"

It was all he could say, and turning away hastily he quitted the room.
The Earl rang the bell, and ordered the servant to see that the
gentleman's horse was brought round. He then turned and gazed upon the
boy with a look of interest; but little Wilton seemed perfectly happy,
and was still looking over the book of paintings which the Earl had
given to him to examine.

"What can this be?" thought the Earl, as he looked at him; "can there be
perfect insensibility under that fair exterior?" And taking the boy by
the hand he drew him nearer.

"Are you not sorry he is gone?" the nobleman asked.

"Oh! he will not be long away," replied the boy: "he will come back in
an hour or two as he always does, and will look at me as I lie in bed,
and kiss me, and tell me to sleep soundly."

"Poor boy!" said the Earl, in a tone that made the large expressive eyes
rise towards his face with a look of inquiry: "You must not expect him
to be back to-night, my boy. Now tell me what is your name?"

"Wilton," replied the boy; but remembering that that was not sufficient
to satisfy a stranger, he added, "Wilton Brown. But how long will it be
before he comes back?"

"I do not know," replied the Earl, evading his question. "How old are
you, Wilton?"

"I am past eight," replied the boy.

"Happily, an age of quick forgetfulness!" said the Earl, in a low tone
to himself; and then applying his thoughts to make the boy comfortable
for the night, he rang for his housekeeper, and gave her such
explanations and directions as he thought fit.



CHAPTER VII.

There is a strange and terrible difference in this world between the
look forward and the look back. Like the cloud that went before the
hosts of the children of Israel, when they fled from the land of Egypt,
an inscrutable fate lies before us, hiding with a dark and shadowy veil
the course of every future day: while behind us the wide-spread past is
open to the view; and as we mark the steps that we have taken, we can
assign to each its due portion of pain, anxiety, regret, remorse,
repose, or joy. Yet how short seems the past to the recollection of each
mortal man! how long, and wide, and interminable, is the cloudy future
to the gaze of imagination!

Many years had passed since the eventful night recorded in our last
chapter; and to the boy, Wilton Brown, all that memory comprised seemed
but one brief short hour out of life's long day.

The Earl of Sunbury had fulfilled what he had undertaken towards him,
exactly and conscientiously. He was a man, as we have shown, of kindly
feelings, and of a generous heart: although he was a politician, a
courtier, and a man of the world. He might, too--had not some severe
checks and disappointments crushed many of the gentler feelings of his
heart--he might, too, have been a man of warm and enthusiastic
affections. As it was, however, he guarded himself in general very
carefully against such feelings; acted liberally and kindly; but never
promised more, or did more, than prudence consented to, were the
temptation ever so strong.

He had promised Lennard Sherbrooke that he would take the boy, and give
him a good education, would befriend him in life, and do all that he
could to serve him. He kept his word, as we have said, to the letter.
During the first six weeks, after he had engaged in this task, he saw
the boy often in the course of every day; grew extremely fond of him;
took him to London, when his own days of repose in the country were
past; and solaced many an hour, when he returned home fatigued with
business, by listening to the boy's prattle, and by playing with, as it
were, the fresh and intelligent mind of the young being now dependent
upon him for all things.

It is a false and a mistaken notion altogether, that men of great mind
and intense thought are easily wearied or annoyed by the presence of
children. The man who is wearied with children must always be childish
himself in mind; but, alas! not young in heart. He must be light,
superficial, though perhaps inquiring and intelligent; but neither
gentle in spirit nor fresh in feeling. Such men must always soon become
wearied with children; for very great similarity of thought and of
mind--the paradox is but seeming--is naturally wearisome in another;
while, on the contrary, similarity of feeling and of heart is that bond
which binds our affections together. Where both similarities are
combined, we may be most happy in the society of our counterpart; but
where the link between the hearts is wanting there will always be great
tediousness in great similarity.

Thus the Earl of Sunbury, though, Heaven knows, no man on earth could be
less childish in his keen and calculating thoughts, or in all his
ordinary habits and occupations, yet found a relief, and an enjoyment,
in talking with the boy, in eliciting all his fresh and picturesque
ideas, and in marking the train and course which thought naturally takes
before it is tutored to follow the direction of art. His own heart--for
a man of the world--was very fresh; but still the worldly mind ruled it
when it would; and the moment that he began to find that the boy might
become too much endeared, and too necessary to him, he determined to
deprive himself of the present pleasure, rather than risk the future
inconvenience.

He accordingly determined to send the boy to school, and little Wilton
heard the announcement with pleasure; for though by this time he had
become greatly attached to the Earl, he longed for the society of beings
of the same age and habits as himself. When he was with the Earl he saw
that nobleman was interested with him, but he saw that he was amused
with him too; and in this respect children are very like that noblest of
animals, the dog. Any one who has remarked a dog when people jest with
him, and speak to him mockingly, must have seen that the creature is not
wholly pleased, that he seems as if made to feel a degree of
inferiority. Such also is the case with children; and little Wilton felt
that the Earl was making a sort of playful investigation of his mind,
even while he was jesting with him. I have said felt, because it was
feeling, not thought, that discovered it; and, therefore, though he
loved the Earl notwithstanding all this, he was glad to go where he
heard there were many such young beings as himself.

The Earl did not think him ungrateful on account of the open expression
of his delight. He saw it all, and understood it all; for he had very
few of the smaller selfishnesses, which so frequently blind our eyes to
the most obvious facts which impinge against our own vanities. His was a
high and noble mind, chained and thralled by manifold circumstances and
accidents to the dull pursuits of worldly ambitions. One trait, however,
may display his character: he had practised in regard to the boy a piece
of that high delicacy of feeling of which none but great men are
capable. He had learned and divined, from the short conversation which
had taken place between himself and Lennard Sherbrooke, sufficient in
regard to the boy's unfortunate situation to guide his conduct in
respect to him; and now, even when alone with him in his own
drawing-room or library, he asked no farther questions; he pryed not at
all into what had gone before; and though the youth occasionally
prattled of the wild Irish shores, and the cottage where he had been
brought up, the Earl merely smiled, but gave him no encouragement to say
more.

At length, Wilton Brown went to school; and as the Earl gradually lost a
part of that interest in him which had given prudence the alarm, time
had its effect on Wilton also, drawing one thin airy film after another
over the events of the past, not obliterating them; but, like the effect
of distance upon substantial objects, gathering them together in less
distinct masses, and diminishing them both in size and clearness. When
the time approached for his holidays, which were few and far between, he
was called to the Earl's house, and treated with every degree of
kindness; though with mere boyhood went by boyhood's graces, and the lad
could not be fondled and played with as the child. The Earl never did
anything to make him feel that he was a dependant--no, not for a single
moment; but as the boy's mind expanded, and as a certain degree of the
knowledge of the world was gained from the habits of a public school, he
explained to him, clearly and straight-forwardly, that upon his own
exertions he must rely for wealth, fame, and honour. He told him, that
in the country where he lived, the road to fortune, dignity, and power,
was open to every man; but that road was filled with eager and
unscrupulous competitors, and obstructed in many parts by obstacles
difficult to be surmounted.

"They can be surmounted, Wilton, however," he added; "and with energy,
activity, and determination, that road can be trod, from one end to the
other, within the space of a single life, and leave room for repose at
the end.--You have often seen," he continued, "a gentleman who visits me
here, who rose from a station certainly not higher, or more fortunate
than your own,--who is called, even now, the Great Lord Somers, and
doubtless the same name will remain with him hereafter. He is an example
for all men to follow; and his life offers an encouragement for every
sort of exertion. He rose even from a very humble station of life,
outstripped all competitors, and is now, as you see, in the post of Lord
Keeper, owing no man anything, but all to his own talents and
perseverance. The same may be the case with you, Wilton. All that I can
do, to place you in the way of winning fortune and station for yourself,
I will do most willingly; but in every other respect you must keep in
mind, that you are to be the artisan of your own fortune, and shape your
course accordingly."

Such was the language held towards Wilton Brown by the Earl, upon more
than one occasion; and the boy took what he said to heart, remembered,
pondered it, and after much thought and reflection formed the great and
glorious resolution of winning honour and renown, by every exertion of
his mind and body. It is a resolution that may, perhaps, have often been
taken by those who ultimately have never succeeded in the attempt. It is
a resolution from which some may have been wiled away by pleasure, or
driven by accident. But it is a resolution which no man who afterwards
proved great ever failed to take, ay, and to take early. On the head of
mediocrity: on the petty statesmen who figure throughout two thirds of
the world's history; on the tolerable generals who conduct the ordinary
wars of the world; on the small poets and the small philosophers who
fill up the ages that intervene between great men, fortune and accident
may shower down the highest honours, the greatest power, the most
abundant wealth; but the man who in any pursuit has reached the height
of real greatness, has set out on his career with the resolution of
winning fame in despite of circumstances.

Such was the resolution which was taken, as we have said, by Wilton
Brown, and the effect of that very resolution upon him, as a mere lad,
was to make him thoughtful, studious, and different from any of the
other youths of the school, in habits and manners.

The change was beneficial in many respects, even then. It made him
strive to acquire knowledge of every sort and kind that came within his
reach, and he always succeeded in some degree. It made him cultivate
every talent which he felt that he possessed, and an accurate eye and a
musical ear were not neglected as far as he could obtain instruction. He
not only acquired much knowledge, but also much facility in acquiring;
and his eager and anxious zeal did not pass unnoticed by those who
taught him, so that others contributed to his first success, as well as
his own efforts.

That first success was, perhaps, unexpected by any one else. The period
came, at which he was barely qualified by age to strive in competition
with his schoolfellows, for one of those many excellent opportunities
afforded by the kindness and wisdom of past ages, for obtaining a high
education at one of the universities. He had never himself proposed to
be one of the competitors on this occasion, as there was a year open
before him to pursue his studies, and there were many boys at the school
far older than himself.

The Earl had not an idea that such a thing would take place, as Wilton
himself had always expressed the utmost anxiety to pursue a military
career. He had never, indeed, even pressed him to adopt another pursuit,
although he had pointed out to his protege, that his own influence lay
almost entirely in the political world; and his surprise, therefore, was
very great, when he heard that Wilton, at the suggestion of the head
master, had presented himself for examination on this very first
occasion, and had carried off the highest place from all his
competitors.

On his arrival in London he received him with delight, showered upon him
praises, and fitted him out liberally for his first appearance at the
University.

Here, however, Wilton's first fortune seemed to abandon him. About six
months after his matriculation, he had the grief to hear that the Earl
had been thrown from his horse in hunting, and received various severe
injuries. He hastened to one of his country seats, where that nobleman
had been sojourning for the time, but found him a very different man
from that which he had appeared before. He was not ill enough to need or
to desire nursing and tendance, but he was quite ill enough to be
irritable, impatient, and selfish; for it is a strange fact, that the
very condition which renders us the most dependent on our
fellow-creatures too often renders us likewise indifferent to their
comfort, in our absorbing consideration of our own. Although he could
sit up and walk about, and go forth into his gardens, yet he suffered
great pain, which did not seem to diminish; and a frequent spitting of
blood rendered him impatient and querulous, whenever his lowest words
were not instantly heard and comprehended.

It was a painful lesson to the youth he had brought up; and when the
time for Wilton's return to Oxford arrived, and the Earl, with seeming
satisfaction, put him in mind that it was time to go, the young
gentleman, in truth, felt it a relief from a situation in which he
neither well knew how to satisfy himself, or to satisfy the invalid,
towards whom he was so anxious to show his gratitude.

He returned, then, to the university, where the allowance made him by
the Earl, of two hundred per annum, together with the little income
which a successful competition at school had placed at his disposal,
enabled him to maintain the society of that class with which he had
always associated in life, and to do so with ease to himself; though not
without economy. [Footnote: I think that the same was the college
allowance of the well-known Evelyn.] The Earl had asked him twice, if he
had found the sum enough, and seemed much pleased when Wilton had
replied that it was perfectly so. But from that expression he easily
divined, that had it been otherwise, the Earl might have said nothing
reproachful, but would not have been well satisfied.

Wilton did not mistake the motives of the Earl: he knew him to be
anything but a penurious man; and he had long seen and been aware of the
motives on which that nobleman acted towards him. He knew that it was
with a wish to give him everything that was necessary and appropriate to
the situation in which he was placed, but by no means to encourage
expensive habits, or desires which might unfit him for the first
laborious steps which he was destined to tread in the path of life. He
felt, indeed, that there was an ambitious spirit in his own heart, and
it cost him many a struggle in thought, to regulate its action: to guide
it in the course of all that was good and right, but resolutely to
restrain it from following any other path. "Ambition," he thought, "is
like a falcon, and must be trained to fly only at what game I will. Its
proud spirit must be broken, to bend to this, and to submit to that; to
yield even to imaginary indignities, provided they imply no sacrifice of
real honour, and to strive for no false show, while I am striving for a
greater object."

Thus passed a year, but during that time the Earl's health had been in
no degree improved; and a number of painful events had taken place in
his political course which had left his mind more irritable than before,
while continual suffering had brought upon him a sort of desponding
recklessness, which made him cast behind him altogether those things
which he had previously considered the great objects of existence, and
desire nothing but to quit for ever the scene of political strife, and
pass the rest of his days in peace, if not in comfort.

Such had been the state of his mind when Wilton had last seen him in
London, towards the beginning of the year 1695; but the young gentleman
was somewhat surprised, about a month afterwards, to receive a sudden
summons to visit the Earl in town, coupled with information, that it was
his friend's design immediately to proceed to Italy, on account of his
health. The summons was very unexpected, as we have implied; but the
Earl informed him in his letter that he was going without loss of time;
and as the shortest way of reaching him, Wilton determined to mount his
horse at once, and ride part of the way to London that night. Of his
journey, however, and its results, we will speak in another chapter.



CHAPTER VIII.

That there are epochs in the life of every man, when all the concurrent
circumstances of fortune seem to form, as it were, a dam against the
current of his fate, and turn it completely into another direction, when
the trifling accident and the great event work together to produce an
entirely new combination around him, no one who examines his own
history, or marks attentively the history of others, can doubt for a
moment. It is very natural, too, to believe that there are at those
moments indications in our own hearts--from the deep latent sympathies
which exist between every part of nature and the rest--that the changes
which reason and observation do not point out are about to take place in
our destiny: for is it to be supposed, that when the fiat has gone forth
which alters a being's whole course of existence--when the electric
touch has been communicated to one end of the long chain of cause and
effect which forms the fate of every individual being--is it to be
supposed that it will not tremble to its most remote link, especially
towards that point where the greatest action is to take place?

There come upon us, it seems to me, in those times, fits of musing far
deeper and more intense, excitability of feeling--perhaps of imagination
too--more acute than at any other time. Perhaps, also, a determination,
an energy of will is added, necessary to carry us through, with power
and firmness, the struggle, or the change, or the temptation that awaits
us.

When Nelson stood upon the quarter-deck of his ship, but a few minutes
before the last great victory that closed a career of glory, he felt and
expressed a sense that his last hour was come, that the great and final
change of fate was near, and that but a few moments remained for the
accomplishment of his destiny. But the indication was given to a mind
that could employ it nobly; and he to whom the foreshadowing of his fate
had been afforded, even as a boy--when he determined that he would, and
felt that he could, be a hero--in that last moment, when he knew that
the hero's life was done, determined to die as he had lived, and used
the prescience of his coming death but to promote the objects for which
he had existed.

There may be some men who would say these things are not natural; but if
we could see all the fine relationships of one being to another, if the
mortal eye refined could view the unsubstantial as well as the
substantial world, could mark the keen sympathies and near associations,
and all the essences which fill up the apparent gaps between being and
being, we should see, undoubtedly, that these things are most natural,
and wonder at the blindness with which we have walked in darkling
ignorance through the thronged and multitudinous universe.

It was somewhat late in the afternoon when Wilton Brown put his foot in
the stirrup, and set off to ride towards London. He did not hope to
reach the metropolis that night, but he intended to go as far as he
could, so as to insure his arrival before the hour of the Earl's
breakfast on the following morning. He had ridden his horse somewhat
hard during the morning before he had received the summons to town, and
he consequently now set out at a slow pace. Not to weary the noble beast
was, in truth, and in reality, his motive; but there was, at the same
time, in his mind, a temporary inclination to deep and intense thought,
which he could by no means shake off, and which naturally disposed him
to a slow and equable pace.

The sudden announcement of the Earl's determination to go abroad,
without any intimation that the young man whom he had fostered from
youth to manhood was to accompany him, or to follow him to the
continent, might very well set Wilton musing on his circumstances and
his prospects; but that was not the cause of his meditative mood on the
present occasion, though it was the immediate cause of his giving way to
it. In truth, the inclination which he felt to low, desponding, though
deep and clear thought, had pursued him for the last four-and-twenty
hours, and it was to cast it off that he had in fact ridden so hard that
very morning. Now, however, he found it necessary to yield to it; and as
he rode along, he gave up his mind entirely to the consideration of the
past, of the present, and the future.

The Earl had announced to him at once in his letter, that he was about
to leave England, but he had made no reference whatsoever to the future
fate of him whom he had hitherto protected and supported. Was that
protection and support still to continue? Wilton asked himself. His
friend had told him that he was to win his way in the world, and was the
struggle now to begin? The next question that came was, naturally, Who
and what am I, then? and his thoughts plunged at once into a gulf where
they had often lost themselves before.

His boyhood had passed away unheeding, and he had attached no importance
to his previous fate, nor made any effort to impress upon his own
recollection the circumstances which preceded the period of his
reception into the Earl's house. Indeed, he had never thought much upon
the matter, till at length, when he had reached the age of fifteen, the
Earl had kindly and judiciously spoken with him upon his future
prospects; and in order to stimulate him to exertion, had pointed out to
him that his fortunes depended on himself. He had then, for the first
time, asked himself, "Who and what am l?" and had striven to recollect
as much as possible of the past, in order to gather thence some
knowledge of the present. His efforts had not been very successful.

Time, the great destroyer, envies even memory the power of preserving
images of the things that he has done away or altered; and he is sure,
if possible, to deface the pictures altogether, or to leave the lines
less clear. With Wilton he had done much to blot out and to confuse. At
first, memory seemed all a blank beyond the period of his schoolboy
days; but gradually one image after another rose out of the void, and
one called up another as they came. Still they were clouded and
indistinct, like the vague phantoms of a dream. It was with great
difficulty that he recollected any names, and could not at all tell in
what land it was, that some of the brightest of his memories lay. It was
all unconnected, too, with the present, and from it Wilton could derive
no clue in regard to the great change that was coming. Between him and
the future there appeared to hang a dark pall, which his eye could not
penetrate, but behind which was Fate. He tried to combat such feelings:
he tried long, as he rode, to conquer them; to put them down by the
power of a vigorous mind; to overthrow sensation by thought.

When, however, he found that he could not succeed, when, after many
efforts, the oppression--for I will not call it despondency--remained
still as powerful as ever, he mentally turned, as if to face an enemy
that pursued him, and to gaze full upon the inevitable power itself; all
the more awful as it was, in the misty grandeur which shrouded the
frowning features from his view. He nerved his heart, too, and resolved,
whatever it might be that was in store for him, whatever might be the
change, the loss, the adversity, which all his sensations seemed to
prophesy, that he would bear it with unshrinking courage, with resolute
determination; nay, with what was still more with one of his
disposition, with unmurmuring patience.

In the meanwhile, however, he strove, as he went along, to persuade
himself that the presentiment was but the work of fancy; that there was
nothing real in it; that he had excited himself to fears and
apprehensions that were groundless; that the expedition of the Earl to
Italy was but a temporary undertaking, and that it would most probably
make no change in his situation, no alteration in his fortunes.

Thus thought he, as he rode slowly onward, when, at the distance of
about a quarter of a mile, he perceived another horseman, proceeding at
a pace perhaps still slower than his own. The aspect of the country
between Oxford and London was as different in that day from that which
it is at present as it is possible to conceive. There is nothing in all
England--with all the changes which have taken place, in manners,
morals, feelings, arts, sciences, produce, manufactures, and
government--which has undergone so great a change, as the high roads of
the empire during the last hundred and fifty years. No one can now tell,
where the roads which lay between this place and that then ran. They
have been dug into, ploughed up, turned hither and thither, changed into
canals, or swallowed up in railroads. The face of the country, too, has
been altered, by many a village built, and many an old mansion pulled
down, long tracts of country brought into cultivation, and deep
plantations of old trees shadowing that ground which in those days was
unwholesome marsh, or barren moor. Even Hounslow Heath, beloved by many
of the frequenters of the King's Highway, has disappeared under the
spirit of cultivation, and left no trace of places where many a daring
deed was clone.

However that may be, the road which the young traveller was following,
lay not at all in the direction taken by either of the present roads to
Oxford; but at a short distance from High Wycombe turned off to the
right--that is, supposing the traveller to be going towards London--and
approached the banks of the Thames not far from Marlow. In so doing, it
passed over a long range of high hills, and a wide extent of flat,
common ground upon the top, which was precisely the point whereat Wilton
Brown had arrived, at the very moment we began this digression upon the
state of the King's Highways in those times.

This common ground of which we speak was as bleak as well might be, for
the winds of heaven had certainly room to visit it as roughly as they
chose; it was also uncultivated, and yet it cannot be said to have been
unproductive; for, probably, there never was a space of ground of equal
size, unless it were Maidenhead Thicket, which could show so rich and
luxuriant a crop of gorse, heath, and fern. For a shelter to the latter,
appeared scattered at unequal distances over the ground a few stunted
trees--hawthorns, beeches, and oaks. The beech, however, predominated,
in honour of the county in which the common was situated; for though,
probably, if we knew the origin of the name bestowed on each county in
England, we should find them all significant, yet none, I believe, would
be found more picturesque or appropriate than that given by our good
Saxon ancestors to the county in question--being Buchen-heim, or
Buckingham: the home or land of the beeches.

The gorse, fern, and heath, besides a small quantity of not very rich
grass, and a few wild flowers, were the only produce of the ground,
except the trees that I have mentioned; and the only tenants of the
place were a few sheep, by far too lean to need any one to look after
them. On the edges of the common, indeed, might be found an occasional
goose or two, but they were like the white settlers on the coast of
Africa: venturing rarely and timidly into the interior. A high road went
across this track, as I have shown; but it being necessary, from time to
time, that farmers' carts, and other conveyances, horses, waggons,
tinkers' asses, and flocks of sheep, should cross it in different
directions, and as each of these travelling bodies, in common with the
world in general, liked to have a way of its own, the furze and fern had
been cut down in many long straight lines; and paths for horse and foot,
as well as long tracks of wheels, and deep ruts, crossed and recrossed
each other all over the common. To have seen it--nay, to see it now, for
it exists very nearly in its primeval state--one would suppose, from all
the various tracks, that it was a place of great thoroughfare, when, to
say truth, though I have crossed it some twenty times or more, I never
saw any travelling thing upon it but a solitary tax-cart and a gipsy's
van.

It was just about the middle of this common, then, that Wilton Brown, as
I have said, perceived another horseman riding along at the same slow
pace as himself. Their faces were both turned one way, with a few
hundred yards between them; and it appeared to the young gentleman, that
the other personage whom we have mentioned was coming in an oblique line
towards the high road to which he himself was journeying. This
supposition proved to be correct, as the stranger, riding along the path
that he was following, came abreast of Wilton Brown upon the high road,
just at the spot where a comfortable direction-post pointed with the
forefinger of a rude hand carved in the wood, along a path to the left,
bearing inscribed, in large letters, "To Woburn."

The young traveller examined the other with a hasty but marking glance,
and perceived thereby, that he was a stout man of the middle age,
between the unpleasant ages of forty and fifty, but without any loss of
power or activity. He was mounted on a strong black horse, had a quick
and eager eye, and altogether possessed a fine countenance, but there
was some degree of shy suspicion in his look, which did not seem to
indicate any very great energy or force of determination.

It now wanted not more than a quarter of an hour to sunset, and there
was a bright rich yellow light in the western sky, which gave each
traveller a fair excuse for staring into the face of the other, as if
their eyes were dazzled by the beams of the declining sun.

When he had satisfied himself, Wilton Brown turned away his eyes, and
rode on, gazing quietly over the wide extent of bleak common, which, to
say sooth, offered a picturesque scene enough, with its scrubby trees,
and its large masses of tall gorse, lying in the calm evening air; while
deep blue shadows, and clear lights resting here and there in the
hollows and upon the swells, marked them out distinctly to the view.

In a moment after, however, Wilton's ears were saluted by the stranger's
voice, saying, "Give you good evening, young gentleman--it has been a
fine afternoon."

Now this might appear somewhat singular in the present day--when human
beings have adopted a particular sort of mysterious ordinance, by which
alone they can become thoroughly known and acquainted with each
other--and when no man, upon any pretence or consideration whatsoever,
dare speak to a fellow-creature, until some one known to both of them
has whispered some cabalistic words between them, which, in general,
neither of them hear distinctly. At the time I speak of, however,
acquaintance was much more easily made, so far, at least, as common
civility and the ordinary charities of life went. A man might speak to
another at that time, if any accidental circumstances threw them close
together, without any risk of being taken for a fool, a swindler, or a
brute; and there was, in short, a good-humoured frankness and simplicity
in those days, which formed, to say the truth, the best part about them;
for the good old times, as they are called, were certainly desperately
coarse, and a trifle more vicious than the present.

Such being the case then, Wilton Brown was not in the least surprised at
the address of the stranger, but turned, and replied civilly; and being,
indeed, somewhat dissatisfied with the companionship of his own
thoughts, he suffered his horse to jog on side by side with the beast of
the stranger, and entered into conversation with him willingly enough.
He found him an intelligent and clever man, with a tone and manner
superior, in many points, to his dress and equipage. He seemed to speak
with authority, and was conversant with the great world of London, with
the court, and the camp. He knew something also of France, and its
self-called great monarch. He spoke with a shrug of the shoulder and an
Alas! of the court of Saint Germain, and the exiled royal family of
England; but he said nothing that could commit him to either one party
or the other; and though he certainly left room for Wilton to express
his own sentiments, if he chose to do so, he did not absolutely strive
to lead him to any political subject, which formed in those days a more
dangerous ground than at present.

Wilton, however, had not the slightest inclination to discuss politics
with a stranger. Brought up by a Whig minister, educated in the
Protestant religion, and fond of liberty upon principle, it may easily
be imagined, that he not only looked upon those who now swayed, and were
destined to sway, the British sceptre as the lawful and rightful
possessors of power in the country, but he regarded the actual sovereign
himself--though he might not love him in his private character, or
admire him in those acts, where the man and the monarch were too
inseparably blended to be considered apart--as a great deliverer of this
country, from a tyranny which had been twice tried and twice repudiated.
At the same time, however, he felt for the exiled monarch. But he felt
still more for his noble wife, and for his unhappy son. His own heart
told him that those two had been unjustly dealt with, the one
calumniated, the other punished without a fault. Nor did he blame the
true and faithful servants whom adversity could not shake, and who were
only loyal to a crime, who still adhered to their old allegiance, loved
still the sovereign, who had never ill-treated them, and were ready
again to shed their blood for the house in whose service so much noble
blood had already flowed. He did not--he did not in his own heart--blame
them, and he loved not to consider what necessity there might be for
putting down with the strong and unsparing hand of law the frequent
renewal of those claims which had been decided upon by the awful
sentence of a mighty nation.

But upon none of these subjects spoke he with the stranger. He refrained
from all such topics, though they were with some skill thrown in his
way; and thus the journey passed pleasantly enough for about half an
hour. By that time the sun had gone down; but it was a clear, bright
evening with a long twilight; and the evening rays, like gay children
unwilling to go to sleep, lingered long in rosy sport with the light
clouds before they would sink to rest beneath the western sky. The
twilight was becoming grey, however, and the light falling short, when,
at about the distance of half a mile before they reached the spot where
the common terminated, the two travellers approached a rise and fall in
the ground, beyond which ran a little stream with a small old bridge of
one arch, not in the best repair, carrying the highway over the water
with a sharp and sudden turn. Scattered about in the neighbourhood of
the bridge, and on the slope that led down to it, perched upon sundry
knolls and banks, and pieces of broken ground, were a number of old
beeches, mostly hollowed out by time, but still flourishing green in
their decay. These trees, together with the twilight, prevented the
bridge itself from being seen by the travellers; but as they came near,
they heard a sudden cry, as if called forth by either terror or
surprise, and Wilton instantly checked his horse to listen.

"Did you not hear a scream?" he said, addressing his companion in a low
voice.

"Yes," answered the other, "I thought I did: let us ride on and see."

Wilton's spurs instantly touched his horse's side, and he rode quickly
down the slope towards the bridge, which he well remembered, when a
scene was suddenly presented to his view, which for a moment puzzled and
confounded him.

Just at the turn of the bridge lay overturned upon the road one of the
large, heavy, wide-topped vehicles, called a coach in those days, while
round about it appeared a group of persons whose situation, for a
moment, seemed to him dubious, but which soon became more plain. A
gentleman, somewhat advanced in life--perhaps about fifty-eight or
fifty-nine, if not more--stood by the door of the carriage, from which
he had recently emerged, and with him two women, one of whom was a young
lady, apparently of about seventeen years of age, and the other her
maid. Three men--servants stood about their master; but they had not the
slightest appearance of any intention of giving aid to any one; for,
though sundry were the situations and attitudes in which they stood,
each of those attitudes betokened, in a greater or a less degree, the
uncomfortable sensation of fear. One of them, indeed, had a brace of
pistols in his two hands, but those hands dropped, as it were, powerless
by his side, and his knees were bent into a crooked line, which
certainly indicated no great firmness of heart.

To account for the trepidation displayed by several of the persons
present, it may be necessary to state that round the overthrown vehicle
stood five personages, each of whom held a cocked pistol in his hand,
and, in two instances, the hands that held those pistols were raised in
an attitude of menace not to be mistaken. In one instance, the weapon of
offence was pointed towards the gentleman who appeared to be the owner
of the carriage; in the other, it was directed towards the head of the
poor girl, his daughter, who seemed to have not the slightest intention
of resisting.

This formidable gesture was accompanied by words, which were spoken loud
enough for Wilton to hear, as he pushed his horse down the hill; and
those words were, "Come, madam! your ear-rings, quick: do not keep us
all night with your hands shaking. By the Lord, I will get them out in a
quicker fashion, if you do not mind."

Before we can proceed to describe what occurred next, it may be
necessary to state one feature in the case, which was very
peculiar--this was, that at about forty yards from the spot where the
robbery was taking place, upon the top of a small bank, with his horse
grazing near, and his arms crossed upon his chest, stood a man of
gentlemanly appearance and powerful frame, taking no part whatsoever in
the affray; not opposing the proceedings of the plunderers, indeed, but
gnawing his nether lip, as if anything rather than well contented. He
fixed a keen, even a fierce eye upon Wilton as he rode down; but neither
the young gentleman himself, nor the other traveller, who followed him
at full speed, took any notice of him, but coming on with their pistols
drawn from their holsters, they were soon in the midst of the group
round the carriage.

Wilton, unaccustomed to such encounters, was not very willing to shed
blood, and therefore--the chivalrous spirit in his heart leading him at
once towards one particular spot in the circle--he struck the man who
was brutally pointing his pistol at the girl, a blow of his clenched
fist, which hitting him just under the ear, as he turned at the sound of
the horse's feet, laid him in a moment motionless and stunned upon the
ground.

The young gentleman, by the same impulse, and almost at the same
instant, sprang from his horse, and cast himself between the lady and
the assailants; but at that moment the voice of his travelling companion
met his ear, exclaiming, in a thundering tone, "That is right! that is
right! Now stand upon the defensive till my men come up!"

Wilton did not at all understand what this might mean; but turning to
the servants already on the spot, he exclaimed, in a sharp tone, "Stand
forward like men, you scoundrels!" and they, seeing some help at hand,
advanced a little with a show of courage.

The gentlemen of the King's Highway, however, had heard the words which
Wilton's companion had shouted to him; and seeing themselves somewhat
overmatched in point of numbers already, they did not appear to approve
of more men coming up on the other side, before they had taken their
departure. There was, consequently, much hurrying to horse. The man who
had been knocked down by Wilton was dragged away by the heels, from the
spot where he lay somewhat too near to the other party; and the sharp
application of the gravel to his face, as one of his companions pulled
him along by the legs, proved sufficiently reviving to make him start
up, and nearly knock his rescuer down.

Wilton--not moved by the spirit of an ancient Greek--felt no
inclination to fight for the dead or the living body of his foe; and the
whole party of plunderers were speedily in the saddle and on the
retreat, with the exception of the more sedate personage on the bank.
He, indeed, was more slow to mount, calling the man who had been knocked
down "The Knight of the Bloody Nose" as he passed him; and then with a
light laugh springing into the saddle, he followed the rest at an easy
canter.

"Ha! ha! ha!" exclaimed Wilton's companion of the road, laughing, "let
me be called the master of stratagems for the rest of my life! Those
five fools have suffered themselves to be terrified from their booty,
simply by three words from my mouth and their own imaginations."

"Then you have no men coming up?" said Wilton.

"Not a man," replied the other: "all my men are busy in my own house at
this minute; most likely saying grace over roast pork and humming ale."



CHAPTER IX.

The events that happen to us in life gather themselves together in
particular groups, each group separated in some degree from that which
follows and that which goes before, but yet each united, in its own
several parts, by some strong bond of connexion, and each by a finer and
less apparent ligament attached to the other groups that surround it. In
short, if, as the great poet moralist has said, "All the world is a
stage, and all the men and women in it only players," the life of each
man is a drama, with the events thereof divided into separate scenes,
the scenes gathered into grand acts, and the acts all tending to the
great tragic conclusion of the whole. Happy were it for man if he, like
a great dramatist, would keep the ultimate conclusion still in view.

In the life of Wilton Brown, the scene of the robbers ended with the
words which we have just said were spoken by his travelling companion,
and a new scene was about to begin.

The elderly gentleman to whom the carriage apparently belonged, took a
step forward as the stranger spoke the last sentence, exclaiming,
"Surely I am not mistaken--Sir John Fenwick, I believe." The stranger
pulled off his hat and bowed low. "The same, your grace," he replied:
"it is long since we have met, and I am happy that our meeting now has
proved, in some degree, serviceable to you."

"Most serviceable, indeed, Sir John," replied the Duke, shaking him
warmly by the hand; "and how is your fair wife, my Lady Mary? and my
good Lord of Carlisle, and all the Howards?"

"Well, thank your grace," replied Sir John Fenwick, "all well. This, I
presume, is your fair daughter, my Lady."

"She is, sir, she is," interrupted the Duke: "you have seen her as a
child, Sir John. But pray, Sir John, introduce us to your gallant young
friend, to whom we are also indebted for so much."

"He must do that for himself," replied Sir John Fenwick: "we are but the
companions of the last half hour, and comrades in this little
adventure."

Although accustomed to mingle with the best society; and, in all
ordinary cases, free and unrestrained in his own manners, Wilton Brown
felt some slight awkwardness in introducing himself upon the present
occasion. He accordingly merely gave his name, expressing how much
happiness he felt at the opportunity he had had of serving the Duke; but
referred not at all to his own station or connexion with the Earl of
Sunbury.

"Wilton Brown!" said the Duke, with a meaning smile, and gazing at him
from head to foot, while he mentally contrasted his fine and lofty
appearance, handsome dress, and distinguished manners, with the somewhat
ordinary name which he had given. "Wilton Brown! a NOM DE GUERRE, I
rather suspect, my young friend?"

"No, indeed, my lord," replied Wilton: "were it worth anybody's while to
search, it would be found so written in the books of Christchurch."

"Oh! an Oxonian," cried the Duke, "and doubtless now upon your way to
London. But how is this, my young friend, you are in midst of term
time!"

Wilton smiled at the somewhat authoritative and parental tone assumed by
the old gentleman. "The fact is, my Lord Duke," he said, "that I am
obliged to absent myself, but not without permission. The illness of my
best friend, the Earl of Sunbury, and his approaching departure for
Italy, oblige me to go to London now to see him before he departs."

"Oh, the Earl of Sunbury, the Earl of Sunbury," replied the Duke: "a
most excellent man, and a great statesman, one on whom all parties rely.*
That alters the case, my young friend; and indeed, whatever might be the
cause of your absence from Alma Mater, we have much to thank that cause
for your gallant assistance--especially my poor girl here. Let me shake
hands with you--and now we must think of what is to be clone next, for
it is well nigh dark: the carriage is broken by those large stones which
they must have put in the way, doubtless, to stop us; and it is hopeless
to think of getting on farther to-night."

[*Footnote: Let it be remarked that this was not the Earl of Sunderland,
of whom the exact reverse might have been said.]

"Hopeless, indeed, my lord," replied Sir John Fenwick; "but your grace
must have passed on the way hither a little inn, about half a mile
distant, or somewhat more. There I intended to sleep to-night, and most
probably my young friend, too, for his horse seems as tired as mine. If
your grace will follow my advice, you would walk back to the inn, make
your servants take everything out of the carriage, and send some people
down afterwards to drag it to the inn-yard till to-morrow morning."

"It is most unfortunate!" said the Duke, who was fond of retrospects.
"We sent forward the other carriage about three hours before us, in
order that the house in London might be prepared when we came."

The proposal of Sir John Fenwick, however, was adopted; and after giving
careful and manifold orders to his servants, the Duke took his way back
on foot towards the inn, conversing as he went with the Knight. His
daughter followed with Wilton Brown by her side; and for a moment or two
they went on in silence; but at length seeing her steps not very steady
over the rough road upon which they were, Wilton offered his left arm to
support her, having the bridle of his horse over the right.

She took it at once, and he felt her hand tremble as it rested on his
arm, which was explained almost at the same moment. "It is very foolish,
I believe," she said, in a low, sweet voice, "and you will think me a
terrible coward, I am afraid; but I know not how it is, I feel more
terrified and agitated, now that this is all over, than I did at the
time."

The communication being thus begun, Wilton soon found means to soothe
and quiet her. His conversation had all that ease and grace which,
combined with carefulness of proprieties, is only to be gained by long
and early association with persons of high minds and manners. There was
no restraint, no stiffness--for to avoid all that could give pain or
offence to any one was habitual to him--and yet, at the same time, there
was joined to the high tone of demeanour a sort of freshness of ideas, a
picturesqueness of language and of thought, which were very captivating,
even when employed upon ordinary subjects. It is an art--perhaps I might
almost call it a faculty--of minds like his, insensibly and naturally to
lead others from the most common topics, to matters of deeper interest,
and thoughts of a less every-day character. It is as if two persons were
riding along the high road together, and one of them, without his
companion remarking it, were to guide their horses into some bridle-path
displaying in its course new views and beautiful points in the scenery
around.

Thus ere they reached the inn, the fair girl, who leaned upon the arm of
an acquaintance of half an hour, seemed to her own feelings as well
acquainted with him as if she had known him for years, and was talking
with him on a thousand subjects on which she had never conversed with
any one before.

The Duke, who, although good-humoured and kindly, was somewhat stately,
and perhaps a very little ostentatious withal, on the arrival of the
party at the inn, insisted upon the two gentlemen doing him the honour
of supping with him that night, "as well," he said, "as the poorness of
the place would permit;" and a room apart having been assigned to him,
he retired thither, with the humbly bowing host, to issue his own orders
regarding their provision. The larder of the inn, however, proved to be
miraculously well stocked; the landlord declared that no town in
Burgundy, no, nor Bordeaux itself, could excel the wine that he would
produce; and while the servants with messengers from the inn brought in
packages, which seemed innumerable, from the carriage, the cook toiled
in her vocation, the host and hostess bustled about to put all the rooms
in order, Sir John Fenwick and Wilton Brown talked at the door of the
inn, and Lady Laura retired to alter her dress, which had been somewhat
deranged by the overthrow of the carriage.

At length, however, it was announced that supper was ready, and Wilton
with his companion entered the room, where the Duke and his daughter
awaited them. On going in, Wilton was struck and surprised; and, indeed,
he almost paused in his advance, at the sight of the young lady, as she
stood by her father. In the grey of the twilight, he had only remarked
that she was a very pretty girl; and as they had walked along to the
inn, she had shown so little of the manner and consciousness of a
professed beauty, that he had not even suspected she might be more than
he had first imagined. When he saw her now, however, in the full light,
he was, as we have said, struck with surprise by the vision of radiant
loveliness which her face and form presented. Wilton was too wise,
however, and knew his own situation too well, even to dream of falling
in love with a duke's daughter; and though he might, when her eyes were
turned a different way, gaze upon her and admire, it was but as a man
who looks at a jewel in a king's crown, which he knows he can never
possess.

Well pleased to please, and having nothing in his thoughts to embarrass
or trouble him on that particular occasion, he gave way to his natural
feelings, and won no small favour and approbation in the eyes of the
Duke and his fair daughter. The evening, which had begun with two of the
party so inauspiciously, passed over lightly and gaily; and after
supper, Wilton rose to retire to rest, with a sigh, perhaps, from some
ill-defined emotions, but with a recollection of two or three happy
hours to be added to the treasury of such sweet things which memory
stores for us in our way through life.

As the inn was very full, the young gentleman had to pass through the
kitchen to reach the staircase of his appointed room. Standing before
the kitchen fire, and talking over his shoulder to the landlord, who
stood a step behind him, was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man,
dressed in a good suit of green broad cloth, laced with gold. His face
was to the fire, and his back to Wilton, and he did not turn or look
round while the young gentleman was there. The landlord hastened to give
his guest a light, and show him his room; and Wilton passed a night,
which, if not dreamless, was visited by no other visions but sweet ones.

On the following morning he was up early, and approached the window of
his room to throw it open, and to let in the sweet early air to visit
him, while he dressed himself; but the moment he went near the window,
he saw that it looked into a pretty garden laid out in the old English
style. That garden, however, was already tenanted by two persons
apparently deep in earnest conversation. One of those two persons was
evidently Sir John Fenwick, and the other was the stranger in green and
gold, whom Wilton had remarked the night before at the kitchen fire.

Seeing how earnestly they were speaking, he refrained from opening his
window, and proceeded to dress himself; but he could not avoid having,
every now and then, a full view of the faces of the two, as they turned
backwards and forwards at the end of the garden. Something that he there
saw puzzled and surprised him: the appearance of the stranger in green
seemed more familiar to him than it could have become by the casual
glance he had obtained of it in the inn kitchen; and he became more and
more convinced, at every turn they took before him, that this personage
was no other than the man he had beheld standing on the bank, taking no
part with the gentlemen of the road, indeed, but evidently belonging to
their company.

This puzzled him, as we have said, not a little. Sir John Fenwick was a
gentleman of good repute, whom he had heard of before now. He had
married the Lady Mary Howard, daughter of the Earl of Carlisle, and,
though a stanch Jacobite, it was supposed, he was nevertheless looked
upon as a man of undoubted probity and honour. What could have been his
business, then, with thieves, or at best with the companions of thieves?
This was a question which Wilton could no ways solve; and after having
teased himself for some time therewith, he at length descended to the
little parlour of the inn, and ordered his horse to be brought round as
speedily as possible. He felt in his own bosom, indeed, some inclination
to wait for an hour or two, in order to take leave of the Duke and his
fair daughter; but remembering his own situation with the Earl, as well
as feeling some of his gloomy sensations of the day before returning
upon him, he determined to set out without loss of time. He mounted
accordingly, and took his way towards London at a quick pace, in order
to arrive before the Earl's breakfast hour.

There are, however, in that part of the country, manifold hills, over
which none but a very inhumane man, unless he were pursued by enemies,
or pursuing a fox, would urge his horse at a rapid rate; and as Wilton
Brown was slowly climbing one of the first of these, he was overtaken by
another horseman, who turned out to be none other than the worthy
gentleman in the green coat.

"Good morrow to you, Master Wilton Brown," said the stranger, pulling up
his horse as soon as be had reached him: "we are riding along the same
road, I find, and may as well keep companionship as we go. These are sad
times, and the roads are dangerous."

"They are, indeed, my good sir," replied Wilton, who was, in general,
not without that capability of putting down intrusion at a word, which,
strangely enough, is sometimes a talent of the lowest and meanest order
of frivolous intellects, but is almost always found in the firm and
decided--"they are, indeed, if I may judge by what you and I saw last
night."

The stranger did not move a muscle, but answered, quite coolly, "Ay, sad
doings though, sad doings: you knocked that fellow down smartly--a neat
blow, as I should wish to see: I thought you would have shot one of
them, for my part."

"It is a pity you had not been beforehand with me," answered Wilton:
"you seemed to have been some time enjoying the sport when we came up."

The stranger now laughed aloud. "No, no," he said, "that would not do; I
could not interfere; I am not conservator of the King's Highway; and,
for my part, it should always be open for gentlemen to act as they
liked, though I would not take any share in the matter for the world."

"There is such a thing," replied Wilton, not liking his companion at
all--"there is such a thing as taking no share in the risk, and a share
in the profit."

A quick flush passed over the horseman's cheek, but remained not a
moment. "That is not my case," he replied, in a graver tone than he had
hitherto used; "not a stiver would I have taken that came out of the
good Duke's pocket, had it been to save me from starving. I take no
money from any but an enemy; and when we cannot carry on the war with
them in the open field, I do not see why we should not carry it on with
them in any way we can. But to attack a friend, or an indifferent
person, is not at all in my way."

"Oh! I begin to understand you somewhat more clearly," replied Wilton;
"but allow me to say, my good sir, that it were much better not to talk
to me any more upon such subjects. By so doing, you run a needless risk
yourself, and can do neither of us any good. Of course," he added,
willing to change the conversation, "it was Sir John Fenwick who told
you my name."

"Yes," replied the other; "but it was needless, for I knew it before."

"And yet," said Wilton, "I do not remember that we ever met."

"There you are mistaken," answered the traveller; "we met no longer ago
than last Monday week. You were going down the High-street in your cap
and gown, and you saw some boys looking into a tart shop, and gave them
some pence to buy what they longed for."

The ingenuous colour came up into Wilton Brown's cheek, as he remembered
the little circumstance to which the man alluded. "I did not see you,"
he said.

"But I saw you," answered the man, "and was pleased with what I saw; for
I am one of those whom the hard lessons of life have taught to judge
more by the small acts done in private, than by the great acts that all
mankind must see. Man's closet acts are for his own heart and God's eye;
man's public deeds are paintings for the world. However, I was pleased,
as I have said, and I have seen more things of you also that have
pleased me well. You saw me, passed me by, and would not know me again
in the same shape to-morrow; but I take many forms, when it may suit my
purposes; and having been well pleased with you once or twice, I take
heed of what you are about when I do see you."

Wilton Brown mused over what he said for a moment or two, and then
replied, "I should much like to know what it was first induced you to
take any notice of my actions at all--there must have been some motive,
of course."

"Oh, no," replied the other--"there is no MUST! It might have been
common curiosity. Every likely youth, with a pair of broad shoulders and
a soldier-like air, is worth looking after in these times of war and
trouble. But the truth is, I know those who know something of you, and,
if I liked, I could introduce you to one whom you have not seen for many
a year."

"What is his name?" demanded Wilton Brown, turning sharply upon the
stranger, and gazing full in his face.

"Oh! I name no names," replied the stranger; "I know not whether it
would be liked or not. However, some day I will do what I have said, if
I can get leave; and now I think I will wish you good morning, for here
lies my road, and there lies yours."

"But stay, stay, yet a moment," said Wilton, checking his horse; "how am
I to hear of you, or to see you again?"

"Oh!" replied the stranger, in a gay tone, "I will contrive that, fear
not!--Nevertheless, in case you should need it, you can ask for me at
the tavern at the back of Beaufort House: the Green Dragon, it is
called."

"And your name, your name?" said Wilton, seeing the other about to ride
away.

"My name! ay, I had forgot--why, your name is Brown--call me Green, if
you like. One colour's just as good as another, and I may as well keep
the complexion of my good friend, the Dragon, in countenance. So you
wont forget, it is Mister Green, at the Green Dragon, in the Green Lane
at the back of Beaufort House; and now, Mister Brown, I leave you a
brown study, to carry you on your way."

So saying, he turned his horse's head, and cantered easily over the
upland which skirted the road to the left. After he had gone about a
couple of hundred yards, Wilton saw him stop and pause, as if
thoughtfully, for a minute. But without turning back to the road, he
again put spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a few moments.

Wilton then rode on to London, without farther pause or adventure of any
kind; but it were vain to say that, in this instance, "care did not sit
behind the horseman;" for many an anxious thought, and unresolved
question, and intense meditation, were his companions on his onward way.
Fortunately, however, his horse was not troubled in the same manner; and
about five minutes before the hour he had proposed to himself, Wilton
was standing before the house of the Earl in St. James's-square. The
servants were all rejoiced to see him, for, unlike persons in his
situation in general, he was very popular amongst them; but the Earl, he
was informed, had not yet risen, and the account the young gentleman
received of his health made him sad and apprehensive.



CHAPTER X.

IN about an hour's time, the Earl of Sunbury descended to breakfast; and
he expressed no small pleasure at the unexpected appearance of his young
protege.

"You were always a kind and an affectionate boy, Wilton," he said; "and
you have kept your good feelings unchanged, I am happy to find. Depend
upon it, when one can do so, amongst all the troubles, and cares, and
corrupting things of this world, we find in the feelings of the heart
that consolation, when sorrows and disappointments assail us, which no
gift or favour of man can impart. I believe, indeed, that within the
last six months, with all the bodily pains and mental anxieties I have
had to suffer, I should either have died or gone mad, had not my mind
obtained relief, from time to time, in the enjoyment of the beauties of
nature, the works of art, and the productions of genius. Nor have my
thoughts been altogether unoccupied with you," he added, after a
moment's pause, "and that occupation would have been most pleasant to my
mind, Wilton, inasmuch as through your whole course you have given me
undivided satisfaction. But, alas! I cannot do for you all that I should
wish to do. You know that my own estates are all entailed upon distant
relatives, whom I do not even know. I am not a man, as you are well
aware, to accumulate wealth; and all I can possibly assure to you is the
enjoyment of the same income I have hitherto allowed you, and which, in
case of my death, I will take care shall be yours."

Wilton listened, as may be supposed, with affection and gratitude; but
he tried, after expressing all he felt, and assuring the Earl that he
possessed as much as he desired, to put an end to a conversation which
was rendered the more painful to him by the marked alteration which he
perceived in the person of his friend since he had last seen him.

The Earl, however, would not suffer the subject to drop, replying, "I
know well that you are no way extravagant, Wilton, and maintain the
appearance of a gentleman upon smaller means than many could or would;
but yet, my good youth, you are naturally ambitious; and there are a
thousand wants, necessities, and desires still to be gratified, which at
present you neither perceive nor provide for. You are not destined,
Wilton, to go on all your life, content in the seclusion of a college,
with less than three hundred a year. Every man should strive to fulfil
to the utmost his destiny--I mean, should endeavour to reach the highest
point in any way which God has given him the capability of attaining.
You must become more than you are, greater, higher, richer, by your own
exertions. Had my health suffered me to remain here, I could have easily
facilitated your progress in political life. Now I must trust your
advancement to another; and you will perhaps think it strange, that the
person I do trust it to should not be any of my old and intimate
political friends. But I have my reasons for what I do, which you will
some day know; and before I go, I must exact one promise of you, which
is to put yourself under the guidance of the person whom I have
mentioned, and to accept whatever post he may think the best calculated
to promote your future views. As he now holds one of the highest
stations in the ministry, I could have wished him to name you his
private secretary, but that office is at present filled, and he has
promised me most solemnly to find you some occupation within the next
half-year. Your allowance shall be regularly transmitted to you till my
return; and, until you receive some appointment, you had better remain
at Oxford, which may give you perhaps the means of taking your first
degree. And now, my dear boy, that I have explained all this, what were
you about to say regarding the adventures you met with in your journey?"

"First let me ask, sir," replied Wilton, "who is the gentleman you have
so kindly interested for me?"

"Oh! I thought you had divined: it is the Earl of Byerdale, now all
potent in the counsels of the King--at least, so men suppose and say.
However, I look upon it that you have given me the promise that I ask."

"Undoubtedly, my lord," replied Wilton: "in such a case, I must ever
look upon your wishes as a command."

The conversation then turned to other and lighter matters, and Wilton
amused his friend with the detail of the adventures of the preceding
night.

"Sir John Fenwick!" exclaimed the Earl, as soon as Wilton came to the
events that succeeded the robbery--"he is a dangerous companion, Sir
John Fenwick! We know him to be disaffected, a nonjuror, and a plotter
of a dark and intriguing character. Who was the Duke he met with? Duke
of what?"

"On my word, I cannot tell you, sir," replied Wilton; "I did not hear
his name: they called his daughter Lady Laura."

"You are a strange young man, Wilton," replied the Earl; "there are
probably not two men in Europe who would have failed to inquire, if it
were no more than the name of this pretty girl you mention."

"If there had been the slightest probability of my ever meeting her
again," replied Wilton, "I most likely should have inquired. But my
story is not ended yet;" and he went on to detail what had occurred
during his ride that morning.

This seemed to strike and interest the Earl more than the rest; and he
immediately asked his young companion a vast number of questions, all
relating to the personal appearance of the gentleman in green, who had
been the comrade of his early ride.

After all these interrogatories had been answered, he mused for a minute
or two, and then observed, "No, no, it could not be. This personage in
green, Wilton, depend upon it, is some agent of Sir John Fenwick, and
the Jacobite party. He has got some intimation of your name and
situation, and has most likely seen you once or twice in Oxford, where,
I am sorry to say, there are too many such as himself. They have fixed
their eyes upon you, and, depend upon it, there will be many attempts to
gain your adherence to an unsuccessful and a desperate party. Be wise,
my dear Wilton, and shun all communication with such people. No one who
has not filled such a station as I have, can be aware of their manifold
arts."

Wilton promised to be upon his guard, and the conversation dropped
there. It had suggested, however, a new train of ideas to the mind of
the young gentleman--new, I mean, solely in point of combination, for
the ideas themselves referred to subjects long known and often thought
of. It appeared evident to him, that the question which the Earl had put
to himself in secret, when he heard of his conversation with the man in
green, was, "Can this be any one, who really knows the early history of
Wilton Brown?" and the question which Wilton in turn asked himself was,
"How is the Earl connected with that early history?"

Many painful doubts had often suggested themselves to the mind of Wilton
Brown in regard to that very subject; and those doubts themselves had
prevented him from pressing on the Earl questions which might have
brought forth the facts, but which, at the same time, he thought, might
pain that nobleman most bitterly, if his suspicions should prove
accurate.

The Earl himself had always carefully avoided the subject, and when any
accidental words led towards it, had taken evident pains to change the
conversation. What had occurred that morning, however, weighed upon
Wilton's mind, and he more than once asked himself the question--"Who
and what am I?"

There was a painful solution always ready at hand; but then again he
replied to his own suspicions--"The Earl certainly treats me like a
noble and generous friend, but not like a father." The conclusion of all
these thoughts was,--

"Even though I may give the Earl a moment's pain, I must ask him the
question before he goes to Italy;" and he watched his opportunity for
several days, without finding any means of introducing such a topic.

At length, one morning, when the Earl happened to be saying something
farther regarding the young man's future fate, Wilton seized the
opportunity, and replied, "With me, my dear lord, the future and the
past are alike equally dark and doubtful. I wish, indeed, that I might
be permitted to know a little of the latter, at least." "Do not let us
talk upon that subject at present, Wilton," said the Earl, somewhat
impatiently; "you will know it all soon enough. At one-and-twenty you
shall have all the information that can be given to you."

But few words more passed on that matter, and they only conveyed a
reiteration of the Earl's promise more distinctly. On the afternoon of
that day another person was added to the dinner table of the Earl of
Sunbury. Wilton knew not that anybody was coming, till he perceived that
the Earl waited for some guest; but at length the Earl of Byerdale was
announced, and a tall good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, or
perhaps less, entered the room, with that calm, slow, noiseless sort of
footstep, which generally accompanies a disposition either naturally or
habitually cautious. It is somewhat like the footstep of a cat over a
dewy lawn.

Between the statesman's brows was a deep-set wrinkle, which gave his
countenance a sullen and determined character, and the left-hand corner
of his mouth, as well as the marking line between the lips and the
cheek, were drawn sharply down, as if he were constantly in the presence
of somebody he disliked and rather scorned. Yet he strove frequently to
smile, made gay and very courteous speeches too, and said small pleasant
things with a peculiar grace. He was, indeed, a very gentlemanly and
courtly personage, and those who liked him were wont to declare, that it
was not his fault if his countenance was somewhat forbidding. By some
persons, indeed--as is frequently the case with people of weak and
subservient characters--the very sneer upon his lip, and the
authoritative frown upon his brow, were received as marks of dignity,
and signs of a high and powerful mind.

Such things, however, did not at all impose upon a man so thoroughly
acquainted with courts and cabinets as the Earl of Sunbury, and the
consequence was, that Lord Byerdale, with all his coolness,
self-confidence, and talent, felt himself second in the company of the
greater mind, and though he liked not the feeling, yet stretched his
courtesy and politeness farther than usual.

When he entered, he advanced towards the Earl with one of his most
bright and placid smiles, apologized for being a little later than his
time, was delighted to see the Earl looking rather better, and then
turned to see who was the other person in the room, in order to
apportion his civility accordingly. When he beheld Wilton Brown, the
young gentleman's fine person, his high and lofty look, and a certain
air of distinction and self-possession about him, though so young,
appeared to strike and puzzle him; but the Earl instantly introduced his
protege to the statesman, saying, "The young friend, my lord, of whom I
spoke to you, Mr. Wilton Brown."

Lord Byerdale was now as polite as he could be, assured the young
gentleman that all his small interest could command should be at his
service; and while he did so, he looked from his countenance to that of
the Earl, and from the Earl's to his, as if he were comparing them with
one another. Then, again, he glanced his eyes to a beautiful picture by
Kneller, of a lady dressed in a fanciful costume, which hung on one side
of the drawing-room.

Wilton remarked the expression of his face as he did so; and his own
thoughts, connecting that expression with foregone suspicions, rendered
it painful. Quitting the room for a moment before dinner was announced,
he retired to his own chamber, and looked for an instant in the glass.
He was instantly struck by an extraordinary resemblance, between himself
and the picture, which had never occurred to him before.

In the meanwhile, as soon as he had quitted the room, the Earl said, in
a calm, grave tone to his companion, pointing at the same time to the
picture which the other had been remarking, "The likeness is indeed very
striking, and might, perhaps, lead one to a suspicion which is not
correct."

"Oh, my dear lord," replied the courtier, "you must not think I meant
anything of the kind. I did remark a slight likeness, perhaps; but I was
admiring the beauty of the portrait. That is a Kneller, of course; none
could paint that but Kneller."

The Earl bowed his head and turned to the window. "It is the portrait,"
he said, "of one of my mother's family, a third or fourth cousin of my
own. Her father, Sir Harry Oswald, was obliged to fly, you know, for one
of those sad affairs in the reign of Charles the Second, and his estates
and effects were sold. I bought that picture at the time, with several
other things, as memorials of them, poor people."

"She must have been very handsome," said Lord Byerdale.

"The painter did her less than justice," replied the Earl, in the same
quiet tone: "she and her father died in France, within a short time of
each other; and there is certainly a strong likeness between that
portrait and Wilton.--There is no relationship, however."

Notwithstanding the quiet tone in which the Earl spoke, Lord Byerdale
kept his own opinion upon the subject, but dropped it as a matter of
conversation. The evening passed over as pleasantly as the illness of
the Earl would permit; and certainly, if Wilton Brown was not well
pleased with the Earl of Byerdale, it was not from any lack of
politeness on the part of that gentleman. That he felt no particular
inclination towards him is not to be denied; but nevertheless he was
grateful for his kindness, even of demeanour, and doubted not--such was
his inexperience of the world--that the Earl of Byerdale would always
treat him in the same manner.

After this day, which proved, in reality, an eventful one in the life of
Wilton Brown, about a week elapsed before the Earl set out for the
Continent. Wilton saw him on board, and dropped down the river with him;
and after his noble friend had quitted the shores of England, he turned
his steps again towards Oxford, without lingering at all in the capital.
It must be confessed, that he felt a much greater degree of loneliness,
than he had expected to experience on the departure of the Earl. He knew
now, for the first time, how much he had depended upon, and loved and
trusted, the only real friend that he ever remembered to have had. It is
true, that while the Earl was resident in London, and he principally in
Oxford, they saw but little of each other; but still it made a great
change, when several countries, some at peace and some at war with
England, lay between them, and when the cold melancholy sea stretched
its wide barrier to keep them asunder. He felt that he had none to
appeal to for advice or aid, when advice or aid should be wanting; that
the director of his youth was gone, and that he was left to win for
himself that dark experience of the world's ways, which never can be
learned, without paying the sad price of sorrow and disappointment.

Such were naturally his first feelings; and though the acuteness of them
wore away, the impression still remained whenever thought was turned in
that direction. He was soon cheered, however, by a letter from the Earl,
informing him of his having arrived safely in Piedmont; and shortly
after, the first quarter of his usual allowance was transmitted to him,
with a brief polite note from the Earl of Byerdale, in whose hands Lord
Sunbury seemed entirely to have placed him. Wilton acknowledged the note
immediately, and then applied himself to his studies again; but shortly
after, he was shocked by a rumour reaching him, that his kind friend had
been taken prisoner by the French. While he was making inquiries, as
diligently as was possible in that place, and was hesitating, as to
whether, in order to learn more, he should go to London or not, he
received a second epistle froth the Earl of Byerdale, couched in much
colder terms than his former communication, putting the question of the
Earl's capture beyond doubt, and at the same time stating, that as he
understood this circumstance was likely to stop the allowance which had
usually been made to Mr. Brown, he, the Earl of Byerdale, was anxious to
give him some employment as speedily as possible, although that
employment might not be such as he could wish to bestow. He begged him,
therefore, to come to London with all speed, to speak with him on the
subject, and ended, by assuring him that he was--what Wilton knew him
not to be--his very humble and most obedient servant.

On first reading the note, Wilton had almost formed a rash
resolution--had almost determined neither to go to London at all, nor to
repose upon the friendship and assistance of the Earl of Byerdale. But
recollecting his promise to his noble friend before his departure, he
resolved to endure anything rather than violate such an engagement; and
consequently wrote to say he would wait upon the Earl as soon as the
term was over, to the close of which there wanted but a week or two at
that time.

In that week or two, however, Wilton was destined to feel some of the
first inconveniences attending a sudden change in his finances.
Remembering, that, for the time at least, more than two-thirds of his
income was gone, he instantly began to contract all his expenses, and
suffered, before the end of the term, not a few of the painful followers
of comparative poverty.

He now felt, and felt bitterly, that the small sum which he received
from his college would not be sufficient to maintain him at the
University, even with the greatest economy; so that, besides his promise
to the Earl, to accept whatever Lord Byerdale should offer him, absolute
necessity seemed to force him as a dependent upon that nobleman, at
least till he could hear some news of his more generous friend.

It is an undoubted fact, that small annoyances are often more difficult
to bear than evils of greater magnitude; and Wilton felt all those
attendant upon his present situation most acutely. To appear differently
amongst his noble comrades at the University; to have no longer a horse,
to join them in their rides; to be obliged to sell the fine books he had
collected, and one or two small pictures by great masters which he had
bought; to be questioned and commiserated by the acquaintances who cared
the least for him;--all these were separate sources of great and acute
pain to a feeling and sensitive heart, not yet accustomed to adversity.
Wilton, however, had not been schooling his own mind in vain for the
last two years; and though he felt as much as any one, every privation,
yet he succeeded in bearing them all with calmness and fortitude, and
perhaps even curtailed every indulgence more sternly than was absolutely
necessary at the time, from a fear that the reluctance which he felt
might in any degree blind his eyes to that which was just and right.

A few instruments of music, a few books not absolutely required in his
studies, his implements for drawing, and all the little trinkets or
gifts of any kind which he had received from the Earl of Sunbury, were
the only things that he still preserved, which merited in any degree the
name of superfluities. With the sum obtained from the sale of the rest,
he discharged to the uttermost farthing all the expenses of the
preceding term, took his first degree with honour, and then set out upon
his journey to London.

No adventure attended him upon the way; and on the morning after his
arrival, he presented himself at an early hour at the house of the Earl
of Byerdale. After waiting for some time, he was received by that
nobleman with a cold and stately air; and having given him a hint, that
it would have been more respectful if he had come up immediately to
London, instead of waiting at Oxford till the end of the term, the Earl
proceeded to inform him of his views.

"Our noble and excellent friend, the Earl of Sunbury," said the
statesman, "was very anxious, Mr. Brown, that I should receive you as my
private secretary. Now, as I informed him, the gentleman whom I have
always employed cannot of course be removed from that situation without
cause; but, at the same tune, what between my public and my private
business, I have need of greater assistance than he can render me. I
have need, in fact, of two private secretaries, and one will naturally
succeed the other, when, as will probably be the case, in about six
months the first is removed by appointment to a higher office. I will
give you till to-morrow to consider, whether the post I now offer you is
worth your acceptance. The salary we must make the same as the allowance
which has lately unfortunately ceased; and I am only sorry that I can
give you no further time for reflection, as I have already delayed three
weeks without deciding between various applicants, in order to give you
time to arrive in London."

Wilton replied not at the moment; for there was certainly not one word
said by the Earl which could give him any assignable cause of offence,
and yet he was grieved and offended. It was the tone, the manner, the
cold haughtiness of every look and gesture that pained him. He was not
moved by any boyish conceit; he was always willing, even in his own
mind, to offer deep respect to high rank, or high station, or high
talents. He would have been ready to own at once, that the Earl was far
superior to himself in all these particulars; but that which did annoy
him, as it might annoy any one, was to be made to feel the superiority,
at every word, by the language and demeanour of the Earl himself.

He retired, then, to the inn, where, for the first time during all his
many visits to London, he had taken up his residence; and there, pacing
up and down the room, he thought bitterly over Lord Byerdale's proposal.
The situation offered to him was far inferior to what he had been led to
expect; and he evidently saw, that the demeanour of the Earl himself
would render every circumstance connected with it painful, or at least
unpleasant. Yet, what was he to do? There were, indeed, a thousand other
ways of gaining his livelihood, at least till the Earl of Sunbury were
set free; but then, his promise that he would not refuse anything which
was offered by Lord Byerdale again came into his mind, and he
determined, with that resolute firmness which characterized him even at
an early age, to bear all, and to endure all; to keep his word with the
Earl to the letter, and to accept an office in the execution of which he
anticipated nothing but pain, mortification, and discomfort.

Such being the case, he thought it much better to write his resolutions
to the Earl, than to expose himself to more humiliation by speaking with
him on the subject again. He had suffered sufficiently in their last
conversation on that matter, and he felt that he should have enough to
endure in the execution of his duties. He wrote, indeed, as coldly as
the Earl had spoken; but he made no allusion to his disappointment, or
to any hopes of more elevated employment.

He expressed himself ready to commence his labours as soon as the Earl
thought right; and in the course of three days was fully established as
the second private secretary of the Earl.

The next three or four months of his life we shall pass over as briefly
as possible, for they were chequered by no incident of very great
interest. The Earl employed him daily, but how did he employ him?--As a
mere clerk. No public paper, no document of any importance, passed
through his hands. Letters on private business, the details of some
estates in Shropshire, copies of long and to him meaningless accounts,
and notes and memorandums, referring to affairs of very little interest,
were the occupations given to a man of active, energetic, and cultivated
mind, of eager aspirations, and a glowing fancy. It may be asked, how
did the Earl treat him, too?--As a clerk! and not as most men of
gentlemanly feeling would treat a clerk. Seldom any salutation marked
his entrance into the room, and cold, formal orders were all that he
received.

Wilton bore it all with admirable patience; he murmured not, otherwise
than in secret; but often when he returned to his own solitary room, in
the small lodging he had taken for himself in London, the heart within
his bosom felt like a newly-imprisoned bird, as if it would beat itself
to death against the bars that confined it.

Amidst all this, there was some consolation came. A letter arrived one
morning, after this had continued about two months, bearing one postmark
from Oxford, and another from Italy. It was from the Earl of Sunbury,
who was better, and wrote in high spirits. He had been arrested by the
French, and having been taken for a general officer of distinction, bad
been detained for several weeks. But he had been well treated, and set
at liberty, as soon as his real name and character were ascertained.
Only one of Wilton's letters, and that of an early date, had reached
him, so that he knew none of the occurrences which placed his young
friend in so painful a situation, but conceived him to be still at
Oxford, and still possessing the allowance which he had made him.

The moment he received these tidings, Wilton replied to it with a
feeling of joy and a hope of deliverance, which showed itself in every
line of the details be gave. This letter was more fortunate than the
others, and the Earl's answer was received within a month. That answer,
however, in some degree disappointed his young friend. Lord Sunbury
praised his conduct much for accepting the situation which had been
offered; but he tried to soothe him under the conduct of the Earl of
Byerdale, while he both blamed that conduct and censured the Earl in
severe terms, for having suffered the allowance which he had authorized
him to pay to drop in so sudden and unexpected a manner. To guard
against the recurrence of such a thing for the future, the Earl enclosed
an order on his steward for the sum, with directions that it should be
paid in preference to anything else whatsoever. At the same time,
however, he urged Wilton earnestly not to quit the Earl of Byerdale, but
to remain in the employment which he had accepted, at least till the
return of a more sincere friend from the Continent should afford the
prospect of some better and more agreeable occupation.

Wilton resolved to submit; and as he saw that the Earl was anxious upon
the subject, wrote to him immediately, to announce that such was the
case. Hope gave him patience; and the increased means at his command
afforded him the opportunity of resuming the habits of that station in
which he had always hitherto moved. In these respects, he was now
perfectly at his ease, for his habits were not expensive; and he could
indulge in all, to which his wishes led him, without those careful
thoughts which had been forced upon him by the sudden straitening of his
means. Such, then, was his situation when, towards the end of about
three months, a new change came over his fate, a new era began in the
history of his life.



CHAPTER XI.

How often is it that a new acquaintance, begun under accidental
circumstances, forms an epoch in life? How often does it change in every
respect the current of our days on earth--ay! and affect eternity
itself? The point of time at which we form such an acquaintance is, in
fact, the spot at which two streams meet. There, the waters of both are
insensibly blended together--the clear and the turbid, the rough and the
smooth, the rapid and the slow. Each not only modifies the manner, and
the direction, and the progress of the other with which it mingles, but
even if any material object separates the united stream again into two,
the individuality of both those that originally formed it is lost, and
each is affected for ever by the progress they have had together.

Wilton Brown was now once more moving at ease. He had his horses and his
servant, and his small convenient apartments at no great distance from
the Earl of Byerdale's. He could enjoy the various objects which the
metropolis presented from time to time to satisfy the taste or the
curiosity of the public, and he could mingle in his leisure hours with
the few amongst the acquaintances he had made in passing through a
public school, or residing at the University, whom he had learned to
love or to esteem. He sought them not, indeed, and he courted no great
society; for there was not, perhaps, one amongst those he knew whose
taste, and thoughts, and feelings, were altogether congenial with his
own. Indeed, when any one has found such, in one or two instances,
throughout the course of life, he may sit himself down, saying, "Oh!
happy that I am, in the wide universe of matter and of spirit I am not
alone! There are beings of kindred sympathies linked to myself by ties
of love which it never can be the will of Almighty Beneficence that
death itself should break!"

If Wilton felt thus towards any one, it was towards the Earl of Sunbury;
but yet there was a difference between his sensations towards that kind
friend and those of which we have spoken, on which we need not pause in
this place. Except in his society, however, Wilton's thoughts were
nearly alone. There were one or two young noblemen and others, for whom
he felt a great regard, a high esteem, a certain degree of habitual
affection, but that was all, and thus his time in general passed
solitarily enough.

With the Earl of Byerdale he did not perhaps interchange ten words in
three months, although when he was writing in the same room with him he
had more than once remarked the eyes of the Earl fixed stern and intent
upon him from beneath their overhanging brows, as if he would have asked
him some dark and important question, or proposed to him some dangerous
and terrible act which he dared hardly name.

"Were he some Italian minister," thought Wilton, sometimes, "and I, as
at present, his poor secretary, I should expect him every moment to
commend the assassination of some enemy to my convenient skill in such
affairs."

At length one morning when he arrived at the house of the Earl to pursue
his daily task, he saw a travelling carriage at the door with two
servants, English and foreign, disencumbering it from the trunks which
were thereunto attached in somewhat less convenient guise than in the
present day. He took no note, however, and entered as usual, proceeding
at once to the cabinet, where he usually found the Earl at that hour. He
was there and alone, nor did the entrance of Wilton create any farther
change in his proceedings than merely to point to another table, saying,
"Three letters to answer there, Mr. Brown--the corners are turned down,
with directions."

Wilton sat down and proceeded as usual; but he had scarcely ended the
first letter and begun a second, when the door of the apartment was
thrown unceremoniously open, and a young gentleman entered the room,
slightly, but very gracefully made, extremely handsome in features, but
pale in complexion, and with a quick, wandering, and yet marking eye,
which seemed to bespeak much of intelligence, but no great steadiness of
character. He was dressed strangely enough, in a silk dressing-gown of
the richest-flowered embroidery, slippers of crimson velvet
embroidered with gold upon his feet, and a crimson velvet nightcap with
gold tassels on his head.

"Why, my dear sir, this is really cruel," cried he, advancing towards
the Earl, and speaking in a tone of light reproach, "to go away and
leave me, when I come back from twelve or fourteen hundred miles'
distance, without even waiting to see my most beautiful dressing-gown.
Really you fathers are becoming excessively undutiful towards your
children! You have wanted some one so long to keep you in order, my
lord, that I see evidently, I shall be obliged to hold a tight hand over
you. But tell me, in pity tell me, did you ever see anything so
exquisite as this dressing-gown? Its beauty would be nothing without its
superbness, and its splendour nothing without its delicacy. The richness
of the silk would be lost without the radiant colours of the flowers,
and the miraculous taste of the embroidery would be entirely thrown away
upon any other stuff than that. In short, one might write a catechism
upon it, my lord. There is nothing on all the earth equal to it. No man
has, or has had, or will have, anything that can compete with it. Gold
could not buy it. I was obliged to seduce the girl that worked it; and
then, like Ulysses with Circe, I bound her to perform what task I liked.
'Produce me,' I exclaimed, 'a dressing-gown!' and, lo! it stands before
you."

Wilton Brown turned his eyes for an instant to the countenance of the
Earl of Byerdale, when, to his surprise, he beheld there, for the first
time, something that might be called a good-humoured smile. The change
of Wilton's position, slight as it was, seemed to call the attention of
the young gentleman, who instantly approached the table where he sat,
exclaiming, "Who is this? I don't know him. What do you mean, sir," he
continued, in the same light tone--"what do you mean, by suffering my
father to run riot in this way, while I am gone? Why, sir, I find he has
addicted himself to courtierism, and to cringing, and to sitting in
cabinets, and to making long speeches in the House of Lords; and to all
sorts of vices of the same kind, so as nearly to have fallen into prime
ministerism. All this is very bad--very bad, indeed--"

"My dear boy," said the Earl, "you will gain the character of a madman
without deserving it."

"Pray, papa, let me alone," replied the young man, affecting a boyish
tone; "you only interrupt me: may I ask, sir, what is your name?" he
continued, still addressing Wilton.

"My name, sir," replied the other, slightly colouring at such an abrupt
demand, "is Wilton Brown."

"Then, Wilton, I am very glad to see you," replied the other, holding
out his hand--"you are the very person I wanted to see; for it so
happens, that my wise, prudent, and statesmanlike friend, the Earl of
Sunbury, having far greater confidence in the security of my noddle than
has my worthy parent here, has entrusted to me for your behoof one long
letter, and innumerable long messages, together with a strong
recommendation to you, to take me to your bosom, and cherish me as any
old man would do his grandson; namely, with the most doting,
short-sighted, and depraving affection, which can be shown towards a
wayward, whimsical, tiresome, capricious boy; and now, if you don't like
my own account of myself, or the specimen you have had this morning, you
had better lay down your pen, and come and take a walk with me, in order
to shake off your dislike; for it must be shaken off, and the sooner it
is done the better."

The Earl's brow had by this time gathered into a very ominous sort of
frown, and he informed his son in a stern tone, that his clerk, Mr.
Brown, was engaged in business of importance, and would not be free from
it, be feared, till three o'clock.

"Well, my lord, I will even go and sleep till three," replied the young
man. "At that hour, Mr. Brown, I will come and seek you. I have an
immensity to say to you, all about nothing in the world, and therefore
it is absolutely necessary that I should disgorge myself as soon as
possible."

Thus saying, he turned gaily on his heel, and left the Earl's cabinet.

"You must excuse him, Mr. Brown," said the Earl, as soon as he was gone;
"he is wild with spirits and youth, but he will soon, I trust, demean
himself more properly." Wilton made no reply, but thought that if the
demeanour of the son was not altogether pleasant, the demeanour of the
father was ten times worse. When the three letters were written, Lord
Byerdale immediately informed Wilton that he should have no farther
occupation for him that day, although the clock had not much passed the
first hour after noon; and as it was evident that he had no inclination
to encourage any intimacy between him and his son, the young gentleman
retired to his own lodgings, and ordering his horse to be brought round
quickly, prepared to take a lengthened ride into the country.

Before the horse could be saddled, however, a servant announced Lord
Sherbrooke, and the next moment the son of the Earl of Byerdale entered
the room. There was something in the name that sounded familiar in the
ears of Wilton Brown, he could not tell why. Ile almost expected to see
a familiar face present itself at the open door; for so little had been
the communication between himself and the Earl of Byerdale, that he had
never known till that morning that the Earl had a son, nor ever heard
the second title of the family before. He received his visitor, however,
with pleasure, not exactly for the young nobleman's own sake, but rather
on account of the letters and messages which he had promised from the
Earl of Sunbury.

Lord Sherbrooke was now dressed as might well become a man of rank in
his day; with a certain spice of foppery in his apparel, indeed, and
with a slight difference in the fashion and materials of his clothes
from those ordinarily worn in England, which might just mark, to an
observing eye, that they had been made in a foreign country.

His demeanour was much more calm and sedate than it had been in the
morning; and sitting down, he began by a reproach to Wilton, for having
gone away without waiting to see him again.

"The fact is, my lord," replied Wilton, "that the Earl, though he did
not absolutely send me away, gave me such an intimation to depart, that
I could not well avoid it."

"It strikes me, Wilton," said Lord Sherbrooke, familiarly, "that my
father is treating you extremely ill; Lord Sunbury gave me a hint of the
kind, when I saw him in Rome; and I see that he said even less than the
truth."

"I have no right to complain, my lord," answered Wilton, after pausing
for a moment to master some very painful emotions--" I have no reason to
complain, my lord, of conduct that I voluntarily endure."

"Very well answered, Wilton!" replied the young lord, "but not
logically, my good friend. Every gentleman has a right to expect
gentlemanly treatment. He has a right to complain if he does not meet
with that which he has a right to expect; and he does not bar himself of
that right of complaint, because any circumstances render it expedient
or right for him not to resist the ill-treatment at which he murmurs.
However, it is more to your honour that you do not complain; but I know
my father well, and, of course, amongst a great many high qualities,
there are some not quite so pleasant. We must mend this matter for you,
however, and what I wish to say to you now, is, that you must not spoil
all I do, by any pride of that kind which will make you hold back when I
pull forward."

"Indeed, my lord," replied Wilton, "you would particularly oblige me by
making no effort to change the position in which I am placed. All the
communication which takes place between your lordship's father and
myself is quite sufficient for the transaction of business, and we can
never stand in any other relation towards each other than that of
minister and private secretary."

"Or CLERK, as he called you to me to-day," said Lord Sherbrooke, drily.

"The name matters very little, my lord," replied Wilton; "he calls me
SECRETARY to myself, and such he stated me to be in the little
memorandum of my appointment, which he gave me, but if it please him
better to call me clerk, why, let him do it."

"Oh! I shall not remonstrate," replied Lord Sherbrooke; "I never argue
with my father. In the first place, it would be undutiful and
disrespectful, and I am the most dutiful of all sons; and in the next
place, he generally somehow gets the better of me in argument--the more
completely the more wrong he is. But, nevertheless, I can find means to
drive him, if not to persuade him; to lead him, if not to convince him;
and having had my own way from childhood up to the present hour--alas!
that I should say it, after having taken the way that I have taken--I do
not intend to give it up just now, so I will soon drive him to a
different way with you, while you have no share in the matter, but that
of merely suffering me to assume, at once, the character of an old
friend, and not an insincere one. On the latter point, indeed, you must
believe me to be just as sincere as my father is insincere, for you very
well know, Wilton, that, in this world of ours, it is much more by
avoiding the faults than by following the virtues of our parents, that
we get on in life. Every fool can see where his father is a fool, and
can take care not to be foolish in the same way; but it is a much more
difficult thing to appreciate a father's wisdom, and learn to be wise
like him."

"The latter, my lord, I should think, would be the nobler endeavour,"
replied Wilton; "though I cannot say what would have been my own case,
if I had ever had the happiness of knowing a father's care."

Lord Sherbrooke for a moment or two made no reply, but looked down upon
the ground, apparently struck by the tone in which Wilton spoke. He
answered at length, however, raising his eyes with one of his gay looks,
"After all, we are but mortals, my dear Wilton, and we must have our
little follies and vices. I would not be an angel for the world, for my
part; and besides--for so staid and sober a young man as you are--you
forget that I have a duty to perform towards my father, to check him
when I see him going wrong, and to put him in the right way; to afford
him, now and then, a little filial correction, and take care of his
morals and his education. Why, if he had not me to look after him, I do
not know what would become of him. However, I see," he added in a graver
tone, "that I must not jest with you, until you know me and understand
me better. What I mean is, that we are to be friends, remember. It is
all arranged between the Earl of Sunbury and myself. We are to be
friends, then; and such being the case, I will take care that my lord of
Byerdale does not call my friend his clerk, nor treat him in any other
manner than as my friend. And now, Wilton, set about the matter as fast
as ever you can. There is my letter of recommendation from the Earl of
Sunbury, which I hope will break down some barriers, the rest I must do
for myself. You will find me full of faults, full of follies, and full
of vices; for though it may be a difficult thing to be full of three
things at once, yet the faults, follies, and vices within me seem to
fill me altogether, each in turn, and yet altogether. In fact, they put
me in mind of two liquids with which I once saw an Italian conjurer
perform a curious trick. He filled a glass with a certain liquid, which
looked like water, up to the very brim, and then poured in a
considerable quantity of another liquid without increasing the liquid in
the glass by a drop. Now sometimes my folly seems to fill me so
completely, that I should think there was no room for vices, but those
vices find some means to slip in, without incommoding me in the least.
However, I will leave you now to read your letters, and to wonder at
your sage and prudent friend, the Earl of Sunbury, having introduced to
your acquaintance, and recommended to your friendship, one who has made
half the capitals of Europe ring with his pranks. The secret is, Wilton,
that the Earl knows both me and you. He pays you the high compliment of
thinking you can be the companion of a very faulty man, without
acquiring his faults; and he knows that, though I cannot cure myself of
my own errors, I hate them too much to wish any one to imitate them.
When you have done reading," he added, "come and join me at Monsieur
Faubert's Riding School, in the lane going up to the Oxford Road: I see
your horse at the door--I will get one there, and we will have a ride
in the country. By heavens, what a beautiful picture! It is quite a
little gem. That child's head must be a Correggio."

"I believe it is," replied Wilton: "I saw it accidentally at an auction,
and bought it for a mere trifle."

"You have the eye of a judge," replied his companion.

"Do not be long ere you join me;" and looking at every little object of
ornament or luxury that the room contained, standing a minute or two
before another picture, taking up, and examining all over, a small
bronze urn, that stood on one of the tables, and criticising the hilts
of two or three of Wilton's swords, that stood in the corner of the
room, he made his way out, like Hamlet, "without his eyes," and left his
new acquaintance to read his letter in peace.

In that letter, which was in every respect most kind, Wilton found that
the Earl gave a detailed account of the character of the young nobleman
who had just left him. He represented him, very much as he had
represented himself, full of follies, and, unfortunately, but too much
addicted to let those follies run into vices. "Though he neither gambled
nor drank for pleasure," the Earl said, "yet, as if for variety, he
would sometimes do both to excess. In other respects, he had lived a
life of great profligacy, seeming utterly careless of the reproaches of
any one, and rather taking means to make any fresh act of licence
generally known, than to conceal it. Nor is this," continued the Earl,
"from that worst of all vanities, which attaches fame to what is
infamous, and confounds notoriety with renown, but rather from a sort of
daringness of disposition, which prompts him to avow openly any act to
which there may be risk attached. With all these bad qualities," the
Earl proceeded, "there are many good ones. To be bold as a lion is but a
corporeal endowment, but he adds to that the most perfect sincerity and
frankness.

"He would neither falsify his word nor deny an act that he has committed
for the world. His mind is sufficiently acute, and his heart
sufficiently good, to see distinctly the evils of unbridled licence, and
to condemn it in his own case; and he is the last man in the world who
would lead or encourage any one in that course which he has pursued
himself. In short, his own passions are as the bonds cast around the
Hebrew giant when he slept, to give him over into the hands of any one
who chooses to lead him into wrong. The consecrated locks of the
Nazarite--I mean, purity and innocence of heart--have been shorn away
completely in the lap of one Delilah or another; and though he hates
those who hold him captive, he is constrained to follow where they lead.
I think you may do him good, Wilton; I am certain he can do you no harm:
I believe that he is capable, and I am certain that he is willing, to
make your abode in London more pleasant to you, and to open that path
for your advancement, which his father would have put you in, if he had
fulfilled the promises that he made to me."



CHAPTER XII.

A few weeks made a considerable change in the progress of the life of
Wilton Brown. He found the young Lord Sherbrooke all that he had been
represented to be in every good point of character, and less in every
evil point. He did not, it is true, studiously veil from his new friend
his libertine habits, or his light and reckless character; but it so
happened, that when in society with Wilton, his mind seemed to find food
and occupation of a higher sort, and, on almost all occasions, when
conversing with him, he showed himself, as he might always have
appeared, a high-bred and well-informed gentleman, who, though somewhat
wild and rash, possessed a cultivated mind, a rich and playful fancy,
and a kind and honourable heart.

Wilton soon discovered that he could become attached to him, and ere
long he found a new point of interest in the character of his young
companion, which was a sort of dark and solemn gloom that fell upon him
from time to time, and would seize him in the midst of his gayest
moments, leaving him, for the time, plunged in deep and sombre
meditations. This strange fit was very often succeeded by bursts of
gaiety and merriment, to the full as wild and joyous as those that went
before; and Wilton's curiosity and sympathy were both excited by a state
of mind which he marked attentively, and which, though he did not
comprehend it entirely, showed him that there was some grief hidden but
not vanquished in the heart.

Lord Sherbrooke did not see the inquiring eves of his friend fixed upon
him without notice; and one day he said,

"Do not look at me in these fits, Wilton; and ask me no questions. It is
the evil spirit upon me, and he must. have his hour."

As the time passed on, Wilton and the young lord became daily
companions, and the Earl could not avoid showing, at all events, some
civility to the constant associate of his son. He gradually began to
converse with him more frequently. He even ventured, every now and then,
upon a smile. He talked for an instant, sometimes, upon the passing
events of the day; and, once or twice, asked him to dine, when he and
his son would otherwise have been tete-a-tete. All this was pleasant to
Wilton; for Lord Sherbrooke managed it so well, by merely marking a
particular preference for his society, that there was no restraint or
force in the matter, and the change worked itself gradually without any
words or remonstrance. In the midst of all this, however, one little
event occurred, which, though twenty other things might have been of
much more importance and much more disagreeable in their consequences,
pained Wilton in a greater degree than anything he had endured.

One day, when the Earl was confined to his drawing-room by a slight fit
of gout, Wilton had visited him for a moment, to obtain more particular
directions in regard to something which he had been directed to write.
Just as he had received those directions, and was about to retire, the
Duke of Gaveston was announced; and in passing through a second room
beyond, into which the Earl could see, Wilton came suddenly upon the
Duke, and in him at once recognised the nobleman whom he had aided in
delivering from the clutches of some gentlemen practitioners on the
King's Highway. Their meeting was so sudden, that the Duke, though he
evidently recollected instantly the face of Wilton Brown, could not
connect it with the circumstances in which he had seen it. Wilton, on
his part, merely bowed and passed on; and the Duke, advancing to Lord
Byerdale, asked at once, "Who is that. young gentleman?--his face is
quite familiar to me."

"It is only my clerk," replied the Earl, in a careless tone. "I hope
your grace received my letter."

Wilton had not yet quitted the room, and heard it all; but he went out
without pause. When the door was closed behind him, however, he stood
for a moment gazing sternly upon the ground, and summoning every good
and firm feeling to his aid. Nor was he unsuccessful: he once more
conquered the strong temptation to throw up his employment instantly;
and, asking himself, "What have I to do with pride?" he proceeded with
his daily task as if nothing had occurred.

No consequences followed at the moment; but before we proceed to the
more active business of our story, we must pause upon one other
incident, of no great apparent importance, but which the reader will
connect aright with the other events of the tale.

Two mornings after that of which we have spoken, the Earl came suddenly
into the room where Wilton was writing, and interrupted him in what he
was abort, by saying, "I wish, Mr. Brown, yon would have the goodness to
write, under my dictation, a letter, which is of some importance."

Brown bowed his head, and taking fresh paper, proceeded to write down
the Earl's words, as follows:--

    "Sir,--Immediately upon the receipt of this, you will be
    pleased to proceed to the village of ------, in the county
    of ------, and make immediate inquiries, once more, in
    regard to the personages concerning whom you instituted an
    investigation some ten or twelve years ago. Any additional
    documents you may procure, concerning Colonel Sherbrooke,
    Colonel Lennard Sherbrooke, or any of the other parties
    concerned in the transactions which you know of as taking
    place at that time, you will be pleased to send to me forthwith."

Wilton perceiving that the Earl did not proceed, looked up, as if to see
whether he had concluded or not. The Earl's eyes were fixed upon him
with a stern, intense gaze, as if he would have read his very soul.
Wilton's looks, on the contrary, were so perfectly unconscious, so
innocent of all knowledge that he was doing anything more than writing
an ordinary letter of business, that--if the Earl's gaze was intended to
interpret his feelings by any of those external marks, which betray the
secrets of the heart, by slight and transitory characters written on
nature's record book, the face--he was convinced at once that there was
nothing concealed below. His brow relaxed, and he went on dictating,
while the young gentleman proceeded calmly to write.

"You will be particular," the letter went on, "to inquire what became of
the boy, as his name was not down in the list found upon the captain's
person; and you will endeavour to discover what became of the boat that
carried Lennard Sherbrooke and the boy to the ship, and whether all on
board it perished in the storm, or not."

The Earl still watched Wilton's countenance with some degree of
earnestness; and, to say the truth, if his young companion had not been
put upon his guard, by detecting the first stern, dark glance the
minister had given him, some emotion might have been visible in his
countenance, some degree of thoughtful inquiry in his manner, as he
asked, "To whom am I to address it, my lord?"

The words of the Earl, in directing an inquiry about the fisherman,
the boy, the boat, and the wreck, seemed to connect themselves with
strange figures in the past--figures which appeared before his mind's
eye vague and misty, such as we are told the shadows always appear at
first which are conjured up by the cabalistic words of a necromancer.
He felt that there was some connecting link between himself and the
subject of the Earl's investigation; what, he could not tell: but
whatever it was, his curiosity was stimulated to tax his memory to
the utmost, and to try by any means to lead her to a right
conclusion, through the intricate ways of the past.

That first gaze of the Earl, however, had excited in his bosom not
exactly suspicion, but that inclination to conceal his feelings,
which we all experience when we see that some one whom we neither
love nor trust is endeavouring to unveil them. He therefore would not
suffer his mind to rest upon any inquiry in regard to the past, till
the emotions which it might produce could be indulged unwatched; and,
applying to the mechanical business of the pen, he wrote on to the
conclusion, and then demanded, simply, "To whom am I to address it?"

"To Mr. Shea," replied the Earl, "my agent in Waterford, to whom you
have written before;" and there the conversation dropped.

The Earl took the letter to sign it; but now that it was done, he
seemed indifferent about its going, and put it into a portfolio,
where it remained several days before it was sent.

As soon as he could escape, Wilton Brown retired to his own dwelling,
and there gave himself up to thought; but the facts, which seemed
floating about in the dark gulf of the past, still eluded the grasp
of memory, as she strove to catch them. There was something, indeed,
which he recollected of a boat, and a storm at sea, and a fisherman's
cabin, and still the name of Sherbrooke rang in his ears, as
something known in other days. But it came not upon him with the same
freshness which it had done when first he heard the title of the Earl
of Byerdale's soil; and he could recall no more than the particulars
we have mentioned, though the name of Lennard seemed familiar to him
also.

While he was in this meditative mood, pondering thoughtfully over the
past, and extracting little to satisfy him from a record which time,
unfortunately, had effaced, he was interrupted by the coming of the
young Lord Sherbrooke, who now was accustomed to enter familiarly
without any announcement. On the present occasion his step was more
rapid than usual, his manner more than commonly excited, and the
moment he had cast himself into a chair he burst into a long loud
peal of laughter. "In the name of Heaven," he exclaimed, "what piece
of foolery do you think my worthy father has concocted now? On my
honour, I believe that he is mad, and only fear that he has
transmitted a part of his madness to me. Think of everything that is
ridiculous, Wilton, that you can conceive; let your mind run free
over every absurd combination that it is possible to fancy; think of
all that is stupid or mad-like in times present or past, and then
tell me what it is that my father intends to do."

"I really do not know, Sherbrooke," replied his friend "but nothing,
I dare say, half so bad as you would have me believe. Your father is
much too prudent and careful a man to do anything that is absurd."

"You don't know him--Wilton, you don't know him," replied Lord
Sherbrooke; "for the sake of power or of wealth he has the courage to
do anything on earth that is absurd, and for revenge he has the
courage to do a great deal more.  In regard to revenge, indeed, I
don't mind: he is quite right there; for surely if we are bound to be
grateful to a man that does good to us, we are bound to revenge
ourselves upon him who does us wrong. Besides, revenge is a
gentlemanlike passion; but avarice and ambition are certainly the two
most ungentlemanlike propensities in human nature."

"Not ambition, surely," exclaimed Wilton.

"The worst of all!" cried his friend--"the worst of all!  Avarice is
a gentleman to ambition! Avarice is merely a tinker, a dealer in old
metal; but ambition is a chimney-sweep of a passion: a mere
climbing-boy, who will go.  through any dirty hole in all Christendom
only to get out at the top of the chimney. But you have not guessed,
Wilton--you have not guessed. To it; and tell me, what is the absurd
thing my father proposes to do?"

Wilton shook his head, and said that he could in no way divine.

"To marry me, Wilton--to marry me to a lady rich and fair," replied
the young lord: "what think you of that, Wilton?--you who know me,
what think you of that?"

"Why, if I must really say the truth," replied Wilton, "I think the
Earl has very naturally considered your happiness before that of the
lady."

"As well gilded a sarcasm that," replied Lord Sherbrooke, "as if it
had come from my father's own lips. However, what you say is very
true: the poor unfortunate girl little knows what the slave merchants
are devising for her. My father has dealt with hers, and her father
has dealt with mine, and settled all affairs between them, it seems,
without our knowledge or participation in any shape. I was the first
of the two parties concerned who received the word of command to march
and be married, and as yet the unfortunate victim is unacquainted
with the designs against her peace and happiness for life."

"Nay, nay," replied Wilton, almost sorrowfully, "speak not so lightly
of it. What have you done, Sherbrooke? for Heaven's sake, what have
you done? If you have consented to marry, let me hope and trust that
you have determined firmly to change your conduct, and not indeed, as
you say, to ruin the poor girl's peace and happiness for life."

"Oh! I have consented," replied Lord Sherbrooke, in the same gay
laughing tone; "you do not suppose that I would refuse beauty, and
sweetness, and twenty thousand a year.  I am not as mad as my father.
Oh! I consented directly. I understand, she is the great beauty of
the day. She will see very little of me, and I shall see very little
of her, so we shall not weary of one another. Oh! I am a very wise
man, indeed. I only wanted what our friend Launcelot calls 'a trifle
of wives' to be King Solomon himself. Why you know that for the other
cattle which distinguished that great monarch I am pretty well
provided."

Wilton looked down upon the ground with a look of very great pain,
while imagination pictured what the future life of some young and
innocent girl might be, bound to one so wild, so heedless, and
dissolute as Lord Sherbrooke. He remained silent, however, for he did
not dare to trust himself with any farther observations; and when he
looked up again, he found his friend gazing at him with an expression
on his countenance in some degree sorrowful, in some degree
reproachful, but with a look of playful meaning flickering through the
whole.

"Now does your solemnity, and your gravity," said Lord Sherbrooke,
"and your not yet understanding me, almost tempt me, Wilton, to play
some wild and inconceivable trick, just for the purpose of opening
your eyes, and letting you see, that your friend is not such an
unfeeling rascal as the world gives out."

"I know you are not, my dear Sherbrooke--I am sure you are not,"
replied Wilton, grasping warmly the hand which Lord Sherbrooke held
out to him; "I was wrong for not seeing that you were in jest, and
for not discovering at once that you had not consented. But how does
the Earl bear your refusal?"

"You are as wrong as ever, my dear Wilton," replied his friend, in a
more serious tone--"I have consented; for if I had not, it must have
made an irreparable breach between my father and myself, which you
well know I should not consider desirable--I must obey him sometimes,
you know, Wilton--He had pledged himself, too, that I should consent.
However, to set your mind at rest, I will tell you the loophole at
which I creep out. Her father, it seems, is not near so sanguine as
my father, in regard to his child's obedience, and he is, moreover,
an odd old gentleman, who has got into his head a strange antiquated
notion, that the inclinations of the people to be married have
something to do with such transactions. He therefore bargained, that
his consent should be dependent upon the young lady's approbation of
me when she sees me. In fact, I am bound to court, and she to be
courted. My father is bound that I shall marry her if she likes me,
her father is bound to give her to me if she likes to be given. Now
what I intend, Wilton, is, that she should not like me. So this very
evening you must come with me to the theatre, and there we shall see
her together, for I know where she is to be. To-morrow, I shall be
presented to her in form, and if she likes to have me, after all I
have to say to her, why it is her fault, for I will take care she
shall not have ignorance to plead in regard to my worshipful
character."

Wilton would fain have declined going to the theatre that night,
for, to say the truth, his heart was somewhat heavy; but Lord
Sherbrooke would take no denial, jokingly saying that he required
some support under the emotions and agitating circumstances which he
was about to endure. As soon as this was settled, Lord Sherbrooke
left him, agreeing to call for him in his carriage at the early hour
of a quarter before five o'clock; for such, however, were the more
rational times and seasons of our ancestors, that one could enjoy the
high intellectual treat of seeing a good play performed from
beginning to end, without either changing one's dinner hour, or going
with the certainty of indigestion and headache.



CHAPTER XIII.

Far more punctual than was usual with him. Lord Sherbrooke was at the
door of Wilton Brown exactly at the hour he had appointed; and,
getting into his carriage, they speedily rolled on from the
neighbourhood of St. James's-street, then one of the most fashionable
parts of the metropolis, to Russell-street, C however, though
evidently anxious to be early at the theatre, could not resist his
inclination to take a look into the Rose, and, finding several
persons whom he knew there, he lingered for a considerable time,
introducing Wilton to a number of the wits and celebrated men of the
day.

The play had thus begun before they entered the theatre, and the
house was filled so completely that it was scarcely possible to
obtain a seat.

As if with a knowledge that his young companion was anxious to see
the ill-fated lady destined by her friends to be the bride of a wild
and reckless libertine, Lord Sherbrooke affected to pay no attention
whatsoever to anything but what was passing on the stage. During the
first act Wilton was indeed as much occupied as himself with the
magic of the scene: but when the brief pause between the acts took
place, his eyes wandered round those boxes in which the high nobility
of the land usually were found, to see if he could discover the
victim of the Earl of Byerdale's ambition.

There were two boxes on the opposite side of the house, towards one
or the other of which almost all eyes were turned, and to the
occupants of which all the distinguished young men in the house
seemed anxious to pay their homage. In one of those boxes was a very
lovely woman of about seven or eight and twenty, sitting with a
queenly air to receive the humble adoration of the gay and fluttering
admirers who crowded round her. Her brow was high and broad, but
slightly contracted, so that a certain haughtiness of air in her
whole figure and person was fully kept in tone by the expression of
her face. For a moment or two, Wilton looked at her with a slight
smile, as he said in his own heart, "if that be the lady destined for
Sherbrooke, I pity her less than I expected, for she seems the very
person either to rule him or care little about him."

The next moment, however, a more perfect recollection of all that
Lord Sherbrooke had said, led him to conclude that she could not be
the person to whom he alluded. He had spoken of her as a girl, as of
one younger than himself; whereas the lady who was reigning in the
stage-box was evidently older, and had more the appearance of a
married than a single woman.

Wilton then turned his eyes to the other box of which we have spoken;
and in it there was also to be seen a female figure seated near the
front with another lady; while somewhat further back, appeared the form
of an elderly gentleman with a star upon the left breast. Towards that
box, as we have before said, many eyes were turned; and from the space*
below, as well as from other parts of the house, the beaux of the
day were gazing in evident expectation of a bow, or a smile, or a mark
of recognition. Nevertheless, in neither of the ladies which that box
contained was there, as far as Wilton could see, any of those little
arts but too often used for the purpose of attracting attention, and
which, to say the truth, were displayed in a remarkable manner by the
lady in the other box we have mentioned. There was no fair hand
stretched out over the cushions; no fringed glove cast negligently down;
no fan waved gracefully to give emphasis to that was said; but, on the
contrary, the whole figure of the lady in front remained tranquil and
calm, with much grace and beauty in the attitude, but none even of that
flutter of consciousness which often betrays the secrets of vanity. The
expression of the face, indeed, Wilton could not see, for the head was
turned towards the stage; and though the lady looked round more than
once during the interval between the acts to speak to those behind her
in the box, the effect was only to turn her face still farther from his
gaze.

[*Footnote: I have not said "the pit," because the intruders of fashion
had not then been driven from the STAGE itself, especially between the
acts.] 

At length, the play went on, and at the end of the second act a
slight movement enabled Lord Sherbrooke and Wilton to advance further
towards the stage, so that the latter was now nearly opposite to the
box in which one of the beauties of the day was seated. He
immediately turned in that direction, as did Lord Sherbrooke at the
same moment; and Wilton, with a feeling of pain that can scarcely be
described, beheld in the fair girl who seemed to be the unwilling
object of so much admiration, no other than the young lady whom he
had aided in rescuing when attacked, as we have before described, by
the gentry who in those days frequented so commonly the King's
Highway.

Though now dressed with splendour, as became her rank and station,
there was in her whole countenance the same simple unaffected look of
tranquil modesty which Wilton had remarked there before, and in which
he had fancied he read the story of a noble mind and a fine heart,
rather undervaluing than otherwise the external advantages of beauty
and station, but dignified and raised by the consciousness of purity,
cultivation, and high thoughts. The same look was there, modest yet
dignified, diffident yet self-possessed; and while he became
convinced that there sat the bride selected by the Earl of Byerdale
for his son, he was equally convinced that she was the person of all
others whose fate would be the most miserable in such an union.

At the same moment, too, his heart was moved by sensations that may be
very difficult accurately to describe. To talk of his being in love
with the fair girl before him would, in those days as in the present,
have been absurd; to say that he had remembered her with anything
like hope, would not be true, for he had not hoped in the slightest
degree, nor even dreamed of hope. But what he had done was this--he
had thought of her often and long; he had recollected the few hours
spent in her society with greater pleasure than any he had known in
life; he had remembered her as the most beautiful person he had ever
seen--and indeed to him she was so; for not only were her features,
and her form, and her complexion, all beautiful according to the
rules of art, but they were beautiful also according to that
modification of beauty which best suited his own taste. The
expression, too, of her countenance--and she had much expression of
countenance when conversing with any one she liked--was beautiful and
varying; and the grace of her movements and the calm quietness of her
carriage were of the kind which is always most pleasing to a high and
cultivated mind.

He had recollected her, then, as the most beautiful creature he had
ever seen; but there was also a good deal of imaginative interest
attached to the circumstances in which they had first met; and he
often thought over them with pleasure, as forming a little bright
spot in the midst of a somewhat dull and monotonous existence. In
short, all these memories made it impossible for him to feel towards
her as he did towards other women. There was admiration, and
interest, and high esteem.--It wanted, surely, but a little of being
love.  One thing is very certain: Wilton would have heard that she
was about to be married to any one with no inconsiderable degree of
pain. It would have cost him a sigh; it would have made him feel a
deep regret. He would not have been in the slightest degree
disappointed, for hope being out of the question he expected nothing;
but still he might regret.

Now, however, when he thought that she was about to be importuned to
marry one for whom he might himself feel very deep and sincere
regard, on account of some high and noble qualities of the heart, but
whose wild and reckless libertinism could but make her miserable for
ever, the pain that he experienced caused him to turn very pale. The
next moment the blood rushed up again into his cheek, seeing Lord
Sherbrooke glance his eyes rapidly from the box in which she sat to
his countenance, and then to the box again.

At that very same moment, the Duke, who was the gentleman sitting on
the opposite side of the box, bent forward and whispered a few words
to his daughter: the blood suddenly rushed up into her cheek; and with
a look rather of anxiety and apprehension than anything else, she
turned her eyes instantly towards the spot where Wilton stood. Her
look was changed in a moment; for though she became quite pale, a
bright smile beamed forth from her lip; and though she put her hand
to her heart, she bowed markedly and graciously towards her young
acquaintance, directing instantly towards that spot the looks of all
the admirers who surrounded the box.

The words which the Duke spoke to her were very simple, but led to an
extraordinary mistake. He had in the morning communicated to her the
proposal which had been made for her marriage with Lord Sherbrooke,
and she, who had heard something of his character, had shrunk with
alarm from the very idea. When her father, however, now said to her,
"There is Lord Sherbrooke just opposite," and directed her attention
to the precise spot, her eyes instantly fell upon Wilton.

She recollected her father's observation in regard to the name he had
given at the inn being an assumed one: his fine commanding person,
his noble countenance, his lordly look, and the taste and fashion of
his dress, all made her for the moment believe that in him she beheld
the person proposed for her future husband. At the same time she
could not forget that he had rendered her an essential service. He
had displayed before her several of those qualities which peculiarly
draw forth the admiration of women--courage, promptitude, daring, and
skill; his conversation had delighted and surprised her; and to say
truth, he had created in her bosom during the short interview, such
prepossessions in his favour, that to her he was the person who now
solicited her hand, instead of the creature which her imagination had
portrayed as Lord Sherbrooke, was no small relief to her heart. It
seemed as if a load was taken off her bosom; and such was the cause
of those emotions, the expression of which upon her countenance we
have already told.

It was not, indeed, that she believed herself the least in love with
Wilton Brown, but she felt that she COULD love him, and that feeling
was quite enough. It was enough, while she fancied that he was Lord
Sherbrooke, to agitate her with joy and hope; and, though the mistake
lasted but a short time, the feelings that it produced were
sufficient to effect a change in all her sensations towards him
through life. During the brief space that the mistake lasted, she
looked upon him, she thought of him, as the man who was to be her
husband. Had it not been for that misunderstanding, the idea of such
an union between herself and him would most likely never have entered
her mind; but once having looked upon him in that light, even for
five minutes, she never could see him or speak to him without a
recollection of the fact, without a reference, however vague,
ill-defined, and repressed in her own mind, to the feelings and
thoughts which she had then entertained.

Lord Sherbrooke remarked the changing colour, the look of recognition
on both parts, the glad smile, and the inclination of the head.

"Why, Wilton," he said in a low voice--"Wilton! it seems you are
already a great deal better acquainted with my future wife than I am
myself; and glad to see you does she seem!  and most gracious is her
notice of you! Why, there are half of those gilded fools on the other
side of the house ready to cut your throat at this moment, when it is
mine they would seek to cut if they knew all; but pray come and
introduce me to my lovely bride, I had no idea she was so pretty.
I'm sure I am delighted to have some other introduction than that of
my father, and so unexpected a one."

All this was said in a bantering tone, but not without a shrewd
examination of Wilton's countenance while it was spoken. What were
the feelings of the young nobleman it was impossible for Wilton to
divine; but he answered quite calmly, the first emotion being by this
time passed--"My acquaintance with her is so slight, that I certainly
could not venture to introduce any one, far less one who has so much
better an introduction ready prepared."

"By heavens, Wilton," replied his friend, "by the look she gave you
and the look you returned, one would not have judged the acquaintance
to be slight; but as you will not introduce me, I will introduce you;
for, I suppose, in common civility, I must go and speak to her father,
as the old gentleman's eye is upon me. There! He secures his point by
a bow. Dearly beloved, I come, I come!"

Thus saying, he turned to proceed to the box, making a sign to Wilton
to follow, which he did, though at the time he did it, he censured
his own weakness for yielding to the temptation.

"I am but going," he thought, "to augment feelings of regret at a
destiny I cannot change--I only go to increase my own pain, and in no
degree to avert from that sweet girl a fate but too dark and
sorrowful."

As he thus thought, he felt disposed, even then, to make some excuse
for not going to the Duke's box; but by the time they were half way
thither, they were met by several persons coming the other way,
amongst whom was a gentleman richly but not gaudily dressed, who
immediately addressed Lord Sherbrooke, saying, that the Duke of
Gaveston requested the honour of his company in his box, and Wilton
immediately recognised his old companion of the road, Sir John
Fenwick. Sir John bowed to him but distantly; and Wilton was more than
ever hesitating whether he should go on or not, when some one touched
him on the arm, and turning round he beheld his somewhat doubtful
acquaintance, who had given himself the name of Green.

Sir John Fenwick and the stranger looked in each other's faces
without the slightest sign of recognition: but to Wilton himself
Green smiled pleasantly, saying, "I very much wish to speak a word
with you, Mr. Wilton Brown. Will you just step aside with me to the
lobby for a moment?"

The recollection of what had passed when last they met, together with
the wish of avoiding an interview with the Duke and his daughter,
from which he augured nought but pain, overcame Wilton's repugnance
to hold any private communication with one whom he had certainly seen
in a situation at the least very equivocal; and merely saying to Lord
Sherbrooke, "I must speak with this gentleman for a moment, and
therefore cannot come with you," he left the young lord to follow Sir
John Fenwick, and turned with the stranger into the lobby. There was
no one there at the moment, for at that time the licensed
abomination, of which it has since been the scene, would not have
been tolerated in any country calling itself Christian. Wilton was
indeed rather glad that it was vacant, for he was not anxious to be
observed by many people in conversation with his present companion.
Not that anything in his appearance or manner was calculated to call
up the blush of idle pride. The stranger's dress was as rich and
tasteful as any in the house, his manner was easy and free, his look,
though not particularly striking, distinguished and gentlemanly.

The stranger was the first to speak. "Do not alarm yourself, Mr.
Brown," he said: "Mr. Green is a safe companion here, whatever he
might be in Maidenhead Thicket. But I wanted to speak a word to you
yourself, and to give you a hint that may be beneficial to others. As
to yourself, I told you when last we met that I could bring you into
company with some of your old friends. I thought your curiosity would
have carried you to the Green Dragon long ago. As, however, you do
not seem to wish to see your old friends, I have now to tell you that
they wish to see you, and therefore I have to beg you to meet me
there to-morrow at six o'clock."

"You are mistaken entirely," replied Wilton, "in regard to my not
wishing to see my old friends. I very much wish it. I wish to hear
more of my early history, about which there seems to me to be some
mystery."

"Is there?" said the stranger, in a careless tone. "Whether anything
will be explained to you or not, I cannot say.  At all events, you
must meet me there; and, in the meantime tell me, have you seen Sir
John Fenwick since last we met?"

"No, I have not," replied Wilton. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," replied the other, "Sir John Fenwick is a dangerous
companion, and it were better that you did not consort with him."

"That I certainly shall not do," replied Wilton, "knowing his
character sufficiently already."

"Indeed!" replied the other. "You have grown learned in people's
characters of late, Master Brown: perhaps you know mine also; and if
you do, of course you will give me the meeting to-morrow at the Green
Dragon."

He spoke with a smile; and Wilton replied, "I am by no means sure
that I shall do so, unless I have a better cause assigned, and a
clearer knowledge of what I am going there for."

"Prudent! Prudent!" said the stranger. "Quite right to be prudent,
Master Wilton. Nevertheless, you must come, for the matter is now one
of some moment. Therefore, without asking you to answer at present, I
shall expect you.  At six of the clock, remember--precisely."

"I by no means promise to come," replied Wilton, "though I do not say
that I will not. But you said that you wished to tell me something
which might be useful to others.  Pray what may that be?"

"Why," answered the stranger, "I wish you to give a little warning to
your acquaintance, the Duke of Gaveston, regarding this very Sir John
Fenwick and his character."

"Nay," said Wilton, "nay--that I can hardly do. My acquaintance with
the Duke himself is extremely small.  The Duke is a man of the world
sufficiently old to judge for himself, and with sufficient experience
to know the character of Sir John Fenwick without my explaining it to
him."

"The Duke," replied the other, "is a grown baby, with right wishes
and good intentions, as well as kind feelings; but a coral and bells
would lure him almost anywhere, and he has got into the hands of one
who will not fail to lead him into mischief. I thought you knew him
well; but nevertheless, well or ill, you must give him the warning."

"I beg your pardon," replied Wilton, drawing himself up coldly: "but
in one or two points you have been mistaken.  My knowledge of the
Duke is confined to one interview. I shall most probably never
exchange another word with him in my life; and even if I were to do
so, I should not think of assailing, to a mere common acquaintance,
the character of a gentleman whom I may not like or trust myself, but
who seems to be the intimate friend of the very person in whose good
opinion you wish me to ruin him."

"Pshaw!" replied the stranger--"you will see the Duke again this very
night, or I am much mistaken. As to Sir John Fenwick, I am a great
deal more intimately his friend than the Duke is, and I may wish to
keep him from rash acts, which he has neither courage nor skill to
carry through, and will not dare to undertake, if he be not supported
by others. I am, in fact, doing Sir John himself a friendly act, for
I know his purposes, which are both rash and wrong; and if I cannot.
stop them by fair means, I must stop them by others."

"In that," replied Wilton, "you must act as you think fit. I know
nothing of Sir John Fenwick from my own personal observation; and
therefore will not be made a tool of, to injure his reputation with
others."

"Well, well," replied his companion--" in those circumstances you are
right; and, as they say in that beggarly assemblage of pettifogging
rogues and traitors called the House of Commons, I must shape my
motion in another way. The manner in which I will beg you to deal
with the Duke, is this. Find an opportunity, before this night be
over, of entreating him earnestly not to go to-morrow to the meeting
at the Old King's Head, in Leadenhall-street. This is clear and
specific, and at the same time you assail the character of no one."

Wilton thought for a moment or two, and then replied, "I cannot even
promise you absolutely to do this; but, if I can, I will. If I see
the Duke, and have the means of giving him the message, I will tell
him that I received it from a stranger, who seemed anxious for his
welfare."

"That will do," answered the other--"that will do. But you must tell
him without Sir John Fenwick's hearing you.  As to your seeing him
again, you will, I suppose, take care of that; for surely the bow,
and the smile, and the blush, that came across the house to you, were
too marked an invitation to the box, for such a gallant and a
courteous youth not to take advantage of at once."

Wilton felt himself inclined to be a little angry at the familiarity
with which his companion treated him, and which was certainly more
than their acquaintance warranted. Curiosity, however, is powerful to
repress all feelings, that contend with it; and if ever curiosity was
fully justifiable, it surely was that of Wilton to know his own early
history. Thus, although he might have felt inclined to quarrel with
any other person who treated him so lightly, on the present occasion
he smothered his anger, and merely replied that the stranger was
mistaken in supposing that there was any such acquaintance between
him and Lady Laura as to justify him in visiting her box.

Even while he was in the act of speaking, however, Lord Sherbrooke
entered the lobby in haste, and advanced immediately towards him,
saying, "Why, Wilton, I have been seeking you all over the house.
Where, in Fortune's name, have you been? The Duke and Lady Laura have
both been inquiring after you most tenderly, and wondering that you
have not been to see them in their box."

The stranger, whom we shall in future call Green, turned away with a
smile, saying merely, "Good evening, Mr.  Brown; I won't detain you
longer."

"Why, who the devil have you got there, Wilton?" exclaimed Lord
Sherbrooke: "I think I have seen his face before."

"His name is Green," replied Wilton, not choosing to enter into
particulars; "but I am ready now to go with you at once, and make my
apologies for not accompanying you before."

"Come then, come," replied Lord Sherbrooke; and, leading the way
towards the Duke's box, he added, laughingly, "If there had been any
doubt before, my good Wilton, as to my future fate, this night has
been enough to settle it."

"In what way?" said Wilton; but ere the young nobleman could answer,
otherwise than by a smile, they had reached the box, and the door was
thrown open.

Wilton's heart beat, it must be confessed; but he had sufficient
command over himself to guard against the slightest emotion being
perceptible upon his countenance; and he bowed to the Duke and to
Lady Laura, with that ceremonious politeness which he judged that his
situation required.  Lady Laura at once, however, held out her hand
to him, and expressed briefly, how glad she was of another
opportunity to thank him for the great service which he had rendered
her some time before. The Duke also spoke of it kindly and politely;
and the other persons in the box, who were several in number, began
to inquire into the circumstances thus publicly mentioned, so that
the conversation took a more general turn, till the curtain again
arose.

A certain degree of restraint, which had at first affected both
Wilton and the lady, soon wore off, and the evening went by most
pleasantly. It was not strange--it was not surely at all
strange--that a young heart should forget itself in such
circumstances. Wilton gave himself up, not indeed to visions of joy,
but to actual enjoyment. Perhaps Lady Laura did the same. At all
events, she looked far happier than she had done before; and when at
length the curtain fell, and the time for parting came, they both
woke as from a dream, and the waking was certainly followed by a sigh
on either part. It was then that Wilton first recollected the warning
that he had promised to give, and he was considering how he should
find the means of speaking with the Duke alone, when that nobleman
paused for a moment, as the rest of the party went out of the box,
and drawing Wilton aside, said in a hasty but kindly wanner, "Lord
Sherbrooke informs me that you are his most intimate friend, Mr.
Brown; and as it is very likely that we shall see him frequently, I
hope you will sometimes do us the favour of accompanying him."

Wilton replied by one of those unmeaning speeches which commit a man
to nothing; for though his own heart told him that he would really be
but too happy, as he said to take advantage of the invitation, yet it
told him, at the same time, that to do so would be dangerous to his
peace. The Duke was then about to follow his party; but Wilton now in
turn detained him, saying, "I have a message to deliver to you, my
lord duke, from a stranger who stopped me as I was coming to your
box."

"Ha!" said the Duke, with a somewhat important air, "this is strange;
but still I have so many communications of different kinds--what may
it be, Mr. Brown?"

"It was, my lord," replied Wilton, in a low voice, "a warning which I
think it best to deliver, as, not knowing the gentleman's name who
gave it to me, I cannot tell whether it may be a mere piece of
impertinence from somebody who is perhaps a stranger to your grace,
or an intimation from a sincere friend--"

"But the warning, the warning!" said the Duke, "pray, what was this
warning?"

"It was," replied Wilton, "a warning not to go to a meeting which you
proposed to attend in the course of tomorrow."

"Ha!" said the Duke, with a look of some surprise--"did he say what
meeting?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Wilton--"he said it was a meeting at the old
King's Head in Leadenhall Street, and he added that it would be
dangerous for you to do so."

"I will never shrink from personal danger, Mr. Brown," said the Duke,
holding up his head, and putting on a courageous look. But the moment
after, something seemed to strike him, and he added with a certain
degree of hesitation, "But let me ask you, Mr. Brown, does my lord of
Byerdale know this?--You have not told Lord Sherbrooke?"

"Neither the one nor the other, my lord," replied Wilton--"I have
mentioned the fact to nobody but yourself."

"Pray, then, do not," replied the Duke; "you will oblige me very
much, Mr. Brown, by keeping this business secret.  I must certainly
attend the meeting at four to-morrow, because I have pledged my word
to it; but I shall enter into nothing that is dangerous or criminal,
depend upon it--"

The nobleman was going on; and it is impossible to say how much he
might have told in regard to the meeting in question, if Wilton had
not stopped him.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," he said; "but allow me to remind you
that I have no knowledge whatsoever of the views and intentions with
which this meeting is to be held. I shall certainly not mention the
message I have brought your grace to any one, and having delivered
it, must leave the rest to yourself, whose judgment in such matters
must be far superior to mine."

The Duke looked gratified, but moved on without reply, as the rest of
his party were waiting at a little distance.  Wilton followed; and
seeing the Duke and Lady Laura with Sir John and Lady Mary Fenwick
into their carriages, he proceeded homeward with Lord Sherbrooke,
neither of them interchanging a word till they had well nigh reached
Wilton's lodgings. There, however, Lord Sherbrooke burst into a loud
laugh, exclaiming--

"Lack-a-day, Wilton, lack-a-day! Here are you and I as silent and as
meditative as two owls in a belfry: you looking as wise as if you
were a minister of state, and I as sorrowful as an unhappy lover,
when, to say the truth, I am thinking of some deep stroke of policy,
and you are meditating upon a fair maid's bright eyes. Get you gone,
Wilton; get you gone, for a sentimental, lack-a-daisical shepherd!
Now could we but get poor old King James to come back, the way to a
dukedom would be open before you in a fortnight."

"How so?" demanded Wilton, "how so? You do not suppose, Sherbrooke,
that I would ever join in overturning the religion, and the laws, and
the liberties of my country--how so, then?"

"As thus," replied Lord Sherbrooke--"I will answer you as if I had
been born the grave-digger in Hamlet. King James comes over--well,
marry go to, now--a certain duke that you wot of, who is a rank
Jacobite, by the by, instantly joins the invader; then comes King
William, drives me his fellow-king and father-in-law out of the
kingdom in five days, takes me the duke prisoner, and chops me his
head off in no time. This headless father leaves a sorrowful
daughter, who at the time of his death is deeply and desperately in
love, without daring to say it, her father's head being the only
obstacle in the way of the daughter's heart. Then comes the lover to
console the lady, and finding her without protection, offers to
undertake that very needful duty. Now see you, Wilton? Now see
you?--But there's the door of your dwelling. Get you in, man, get you
in, and try if in your dreams you can get some means of bringing it
about. By my faith, Wilton, you are in a perilous situation; but
there's one thing for your comfort,--if I can get out of all the
scrapes that at this moment surround me on every side, like the lines
of a besieging enemy, you can surely make your escape out of your
difficulties, when you have love, and youth, and hope, to befriend
you."

"Hope?" said Wilton, in bitter sadness; but at the moment he spoke,
the door of the house was opened, and, bidding Lord Sherbrooke "Good
night," he went in.



CHAPTER XIV.

During the greater part of the next day Wilton did not set eyes upon
Lord Sherbrooke. The Earl of Byerdale, however, was peculiarly
courteous and polite to his young secretary. There was much business,
Earl was obliged to be very rapid in all his movements; but the terms
in which he gave his directions were gentle and placable, and some
letters received in the course of the day from Ireland seemed to
please him well. He hinted even in a mysterious tone to Wilton that
he had something of importance to say to him, but that he had not time
to say it at the moment, and he ended by asking his secretary to dine
at his house on the following day, when he said the Duke of Gaveston
and Lady Laura were to be present, with a large party.

He went out about three o'clock: and Wilton had not long returned to
his lodgings when Lord Sherbrooke joined him, and insisted on his
accompanying him on horseback for a ride into the country.

Wilton was at that moment hesitating as to whether he should or
should not go to the rendezvous given him by his strange
acquaintance, Green. He had certainly left the theatre on the
preceding night determined so to do; for the various feelings which
at this time agitated his heart had changed the anxiety which he had
always felt to know the circumstances of his birth and family into a
burning thirst, which would have led him almost anywhere for
satisfaction.

A night's thought, however--for we cannot say that he slept--had
again revived all the doubts which had before prevented him from
seeking the stranger, and had once more displayed before his eyes all
the many reasons which in those days existed for holding no
communication with persons whose characters were not known; or were
in the least degree suspicious. Thus before Lord Sherbrooke joined
him, he had fully convinced himself that the thing which he had so
great an inclination to do was foolish, imprudent, and wrong. He had
seen the man in a situation which left scarcely a doubt of his
pursuits; he had seen him in close communication with a gentleman
principally known as a virulent and unscrupulous enemy of the
reigning dynasty; and he had not one cause for thinking well of him,
except a certain off-hand frankness of manner which might easily be
assumed.

All this he had repeated to himself twenty times, but yet he felt a
strong inclination to go, when Lord Sherbrooke's sudden appearance,
and invitation to ride out with him, cast an additional weight into
the opposite scale, and determined his conduct at once. It is
wonderful, indeed, how often those important acts, in regard to which
we have hesitated and weighed every point with anxious deliberation,
are ultimately determined by the most minute and trifling
circumstance, totally unconnected with the thing itself. The truth
is, under such circumstances we are like a man weighing fine gold
dust, who does it to such a nicety that a hair falling into the scale
turns it one way or the other.

In the present instance, our friend Wilton was not unwilling that
something should come in aid of his better judgment; and ordering his
horse t was soon beyond the precincts of London, and riding through
the beautiful fields which at that time extended over ground where
courtiers and ministers have now established their town dwellings.

From the whole demeanour of his companion, from the wild and excited
spirits which he displayed, from the bursts of merriment to which he
gave way, apparently without a sufficient cause, Wilton evidently saw
that there was either some wild scheme working in Lord Sherbrooke's
brain, or the knowledge of some happy event gladdening his heart.
What it was, however, he could not divine, and the young nobleman was
evidently determined on no account to explain. He  laughed and jested
with Wilton in regard to the gravity which he could not conquer,
declared that he was the dullest companion that ever had been seen,
and vowed that there could be no more stupid and tiresome companion
for a long ride than a man in love, unless, indeed, it were a lame
horse.

"Indeed, my dear Sherbrooke," replied Wilton, "you should prove, in
the first place, that I am in love, which I can assure you is not the
case, before you attempt to attribute my being grave to that reason.
My very situation in life, and a thousand things connected therewith,
are surely enough to make me sad at times."

"Why, what is there sad in your situation, my dear Wilton?" demanded
Lord Sherbrooke, in the same tone of raillery: "here are you a
wealthy young man--ay, wealthy, Wilton. Have you not yourself told me
that your income exceeds your expenses; while I, on the other hand,
have no income at all, and expenses in abundance? Well, I say you are
here a wealthy young man, with the best prospects in the world,
destined some day to be prime minister for aught I know."

"And who, at this present moment," interrupted Wilton, "has not a
relation upon earth that he knows of; who has never enjoyed a
father's care or a mother's tenderness; who can only guess that his
birth was disgraceful to her whom man's heart is naturally bound to
reverence, without knowing who or what was his father, or who even
was the mother by whose shame he was brought into being."

Lord Sherbrooke was immediately grave, for he saw that Wilton was
hurt; and he replied frankly and kindly, "I beg your pardon, my dear
Wilton--I did not intend to pain you, and had not the slightest idea
of how you were circumstanced.  To tell the truth, I took it for
granted that you were the son of good Lord Sunbury; and thought that
you were, of course, well aware of all the particulars."

"Of none, Sherbrooke, of none," replied Wilton. "Suspicions may have
crossed my mind that it is as you supposed, but then many other things
tend to make me believe that such is not the case. At all events, one
thing is clear--I have no family, no kindred; or if I have
relations, they are ashamed of the tie that binds me to them, and
voluntarily disown it."

"Pshaw! Wilton," exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke--"family!  What matters a
family? Make yourself one, Wilton. The best of us can but trace his
lineage back to some black-bearded Northman, or yellow-haired Saxon,
no better than a savage of some cannibal island of the South Sea--a
fellow who tore his roast meat with unwashed fingers, and never knew
the luxury of a clean shirt. Make a family for yourself, I say; and
let the hundredth generation down, if the world last so long, boast
that the head of the house was a gentleman, and wore gold lace on his
coat."

Wilton smiled, saying, "I fear the prospect of progeny, Sherbrooke,
will never be held as an equivalent for the retrospect of ancestors."

"An axiom worthy of Aristotle!" exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke; "but here
we are, my dear Wilton," he continued, pulling up his horse at the
gates of a house enclosed within walls, situated about a quarter of a
mile beyond Chelsea, and somewhat more from the house and grounds
belonging at that time to the celebrated Earl of Peterborough.

"But what do you intend to do here?" exclaimed Wilton, at this pause.

"Oh! nothing but make a call," replied his companion.

"Shall I ride on, or wait till you come back?" demanded Wilton.

"Oh, no!--come in, come in," said Lord Sherbrooke--"I shall not be
long, and I'll introduce you, if you are not acquainted."

While he was speaking he had rung the bell, and his own two servants
with Wilton's rode up to take the horses.  Almost at the same moment
a porter threw open the gates, and to his companion's surprise, Lord
Sherbrooke asked for the Duke of Gaveston. The servant answered that
the Duke was out, but that his young lady was at home; and thus the
hero of our tale found himself suddenly, and even most unwillingly,
brought to the dwelling of one whose society he certainly liked
better than that of any one else on earth.

Lord Sherbrooke looked in his face with a glance of malicious
pleasure; and then, as nothing on earth ever stopped him in anything
that he chose to do or say, he burst forth into a gay peal of
laughter at the surprise which he saw depicted on the countenance of
his friend.

"Take the horses," he continued, turning to his own servants--"take
the horses round to the Green Dragon, in the lane behind the house,
wet their noses, and give them a book to read till we come to them.
Come, Wilton, come!  It is quite fitting," he said, in a lower tone,
"that in execution of my plan I should establish a character for
insanity in the house. Now that fat porter with the mulberry nose
will go and report to the kitchen-maid that I order my horses a book
to read, and they will decide that I am mad in a minute. The news
will fly from kitchen-maid to cook, and from cook to housekeeper, and
from housekeeper to lady's maid, and from lady's maid to lady. There
will be nothing else talked of in the house but my madness; and when
they come to add madness to badness they will surely give me up, if
they haven't a mind to add sadness to madness likewise."

While he spoke, they were following a sort of groom of the chambers,
who, after looking into one of the rooms on the ground-floor, turned
to Lord Sherbrooke, saying, in a sweet tone,

"Lady Laura is walking in the gardens I see, my lord. I will show
your lordship the way."

"So you have the honour of knowing who my lordship is, Mr. Montgomery
Styles?" said Lord Sherbrooke, looking him full in the face.

"I beg your lordship's pardon," said the man, in the same mincing
manner--"my name is not Montgomery Styles--my name is Josiah
Perkins."

"Well, Jos. Perkins," said the young nobleman, "I PRAE SEQUOR, which
means, get on as fast as you can, Mr. Perkins, and I'll come after;
though you may tell me as you go, how it was you discovered my
lordliness."

"Oh! by your look, my lord: I should have discovered it at once,"
replied the groom of the chambers; "but his grace told me that your
lordship was likely to call."

"Oh, ho!" cried Lord Sherbrooke, with a laughing look to Wilton. But
the next moment the servant threw open a glass door, and they issued
forth into the gardens, which were very beautiful, and extended down
to the river, filled with fine old trees, and spread out in soft
green terraces and gravel walks. Lord Sherbrooke gazed round at
first, with a look of criticising inquiry, upon the gardens; but the
eyes of Wilton had fixed immediately upon the figure of a lady who
was walking slowly along on the terrace, some way beneath them, at
the very edge of the river. She did not remark the opening of the
glass door in the centre of the house, which was at the distance of
about two hundred yards from the spot where she was at the time; but
continued her walk with her eyes bent upon the ground, and one hand
playing negligently with the bracelet which encircled the wrist of
the other arm. Her thoughts were evidently deeply busied with matters
of importance, at least to herself.  She was walking slowly, as we
have said--a thing that none but a high-bred woman can do with
grace--and though the great beauty of her figure was, in some degree,
hidden by the costume of the day, yet nothing could render its easy,
gliding motion aught but exquisitely graceful, and (if I may use a
far-fetched term, but, perhaps, the only one that will express my
meaning clearly,) musical to the eye. It must not be understood that,
though she was walking slowly, the grace with which she did so had
anything of the cold and stately air which those who assume it call
dignity. Oh no!  it was all easy: quiet, but full of youth, and
health, and life it was the mere movement of a form, perfect in the
symmetry of every limb, under the will of a spirit harmonizing
entirely with the fair frame that contained it. She walked slowly
because she was full of deep thought; but no one who beheld her could
doubt that bounding joy might in its turn call forth as much grace in
that young form as the calmer mood now displayed.

Wilton turned his eyes from the lady to his young companion, and he
saw that he was now gazing at her too, and that not a little
admiration was painted in his countenance.  Wilton was painfully
situated, and felt all the awkwardness of the position in which Lord
Sherbrooke had placed him fully. Yet how could he act? he asked
himself--what means of escape did there exist? What was the motive,
too? what the intentions of Lord Sherbrooke? for what purposes had he
brought him there? in what situation might he place him next?

All these, and many another question, he asked his own heart as they
advanced across the green slopes and little terraces towards that in
which the young lady "walked in beauty." There was no means for him
to escape, however; and though he never knew from one moment to
another what would be the conduct of Lord Sherbrooke, he was obliged
to go on, and take his chance of what that conduct might be.

When they were about fifty yards from Lady Laura, she turned at the
end of the walk, and then, for the first time, saw them as they
approached; but if the expression of her countenance might be
believed, she saw them with no great pleasure. An expression of
anxiety, nay, of pain, came into her beautiful eyes; and as they were
turned both upon Lord Sherbrooke and Wilton, the latter came in for
his share also of that vexed look.

"You see, Wilton," said Lord Sherbrooke in a low voice, "how angry
she is to behold you here. It was for that I brought you. I want to
tease her in all possible ways," and without waiting for any reply,
he hurried his pace, and advanced towards the lady.
 
She received him with marked coldness and distance of manner; but now
the difference in her demeanour towards him and towards Wilton was
strongly marked--not that the smile with which she greeted the latter
when he came up was anything but very faint, yet her lip did relax
into a smile.

The colour, too, came up a little into her cheek; and her manner was
a little agitated. In short--though without openly expressing any
very great pleasure at seeing him--it was evident that she was not
displeased; and the secret of the slight degree of embarrassment
which she displayed was, that for the first moment or so after she
saw him, she thought of her mistake of the night before, and of her
feelings while she had imagined that the Duke had pointed him out to
her as one who, if she thought fit, might be her future husband.

The lady soon conquered the momentary agitation, however; and the
conversation went on, principally maintained, of course, between
herself and Lord Sherbrooke. Wilton would have given worlds indeed to
have escaped, but there was no possibility of so doing, Lady Laura
signified no intention of returning to the house; and they continued
walking up and down the broad gravelled terrace, which of all things
on earth affords the least opportunity for lingering behind, or
escaping the embarrassment of being the one too many.

Wilton had too much good taste to suffer his annoyance to appear; and
though he strove to avoid taking any greater part in the conversation
than he could help, still when he joined in, what he did say was said
with ease and grace.  Lord Sherbrooke forced him, indeed, to speak
more than he was inclined, and, to Lady Laura, there seemed a strange
contrast between the thoughts and language of the two.  The young
nobleman's conversation was light, witty, poignant, and irregular. It
was like the flowing of a shallow stream amongst bright pebbles which
it causes to sparkle, and from which it receives in return a thousand
various shades and tints, but without depth or vigour; while that of
Wilton was stronger, more profound, more vigorous both in thought and
expression, and was like a deeper river flowing on without so much
sunshine and light, but clear, deep, and powerful, and not unmusical
either, between its banks.

It was towards the latter that Lady Laura turned and listened, though
she could not but smile at many of the gay sallies of him who walked
on the other side: but it seemed as if the conversation of Lord
Sherbrooke rested in the ear, while that of Wilton sunk into the
heart.

It would not be very interesting, even if we had times to detail all
that took place upon that occasion; but it must be confessed that,
though once or twice Lord Sherbrooke felt inclined to put forth all
his powers of pleasing, out of pique at the marked preference which
Lady Laura showed for Wilton, he in no degree concealed the worst
points of his character. He said nothing, indeed, which could offend
in mere expression: but every now and then he suffered some few words
to escape him, which clearly announced that the ties of morality and
religion were in no degree recognised by him amongst the principles
by which he intended to guide his actions. He even forced the
conversation into channels which afforded an opportunity of
expressing opinions of worse than a dangerous character. Constancy,
he said, was all very well for a turtledove, or an old man of seventy
with a young wife; and as for religion, there were certain people
paid for having it, and he should not trouble himself to have any
unless he were paid likewise. This was not, indeed, all said at once,
nor in such distinct terms as we have here used, but still the
meaning was the same; and whether expressed in a jesting or more
serious manner, that meaning could not be misunderstood.

Wilton looked grave and sad when he heard such things said to a pure
and high-minded girl; and Lady Laura herself turned a little pale, and
cast her eyes down upon the ground without reply.

At length, after this had gone on for some time, Lord Sherbrooke
inquired for Lady Mary Fenwick, saying that he had hoped to see her
there, and to inquire after her health.

"Oh, she is here still," replied Lady Laura; "but she complained of
headache this morning, and is sitting in the little library. I do not
know whether she would be inclined to see any one or not."

"Oh, she will see me, beyond all doubt," exclaimed Lord
Sherbrooke--"no lady ever refuses to see me. Besides, her
great-grandmother, on old Lady Carlisle's side, was my great-
grandfather's forty-fifth cousin; so that we are relations. I will go
and find her out. Stay you, Wilton, and console Lady Laura, till I
come back again. I shall not be five minutes."

Thus saying, away he darted, leaving Lady Laura and Wilton alone in
the middle of the walk. The lady seemed to hesitate for a moment what
she should do, whether she should follow to the house or not, and she
paused for an instant in the walk; but inclination, if the truth must
be said, got the better of what she might consider strictly decorous,
and after that momentary pause, she walked on with Wilton by her
side. In saying that it was inclination determined her conduct, I did
not mean to say that it was solely the inclination to walk and
converse with Wilton Brown, though that had some share in the
business, but there was besides, an inclination to be freed from the
presence of Lord Sherbrooke, who had succeeded to a miracle in making
her thoroughly disgusted with him.

As they walked on, there was a certain degree of embarrassment hung
over both Wilton and Laura; both felt, perhaps, that they could be
very happy in each other's society, but both felt afraid of being too
happy. With Wilton, there were a thousand causes to produce that
slight embarrassment, and with Lady Laura several also. But one, and
a very principal cause was, that there was something which she longed
exceedingly to say, and yet doubted whether she ought to say it.

It does not unfrequently happen that a person of the highest rank and
station, possessing every quality to secure friendship, with wealth
and every gift of fortune at command, surrounded by numerous
acquaintances, and mingling with a wide society, is nevertheless
totally alone--alone in spirit and in heart--alone in thought and
mind. Such was the case with Lady Laura. It is true she had yet but
very little experience of the world, and her search for a congenial
spirit had not been carried far or prosecuted long; but she was one
of those who had learned to think and to feel early. Her mother, who
had died three years before, had taught her to do so, not alone for
her own sake, but also for that of her father; for the Duchess had
early felt the conviction that her own life would be brief, and knew
that the mind and character of her daughter must have a great effect
upon the Duke, whom she loved much, though she could not venerate
very highly.

With a heart, then, full of deep and pure feelings, with a mind not
only originally bright and strong, not only highly cultivated and
stored with fine tastes, but highly directed and fortified with
strong principles, with an enthusiastic love of everything that was
beautiful and graceful, generous, noble, and dignified--it is not to
be wondered at that, in the wide society of the capital, or amongst
all the acquaintances who thronged her father's house, Lady Laura had
seen no spirit congenial to her own, no heart with the same feelings,
no mind with the same objects. In every one she had met with, there
had still been some apparent weakness, some worldliness, some
selfishness; there had been coldness, or apathy, or want of
principle, or want of feeling; and the bright enthusiasms of her
young nature had been confined to the tabernacle of her own heart.

She had seen Wilton Brown but seldom, it is true, but nevertheless
she felt differently towards him and other people.  There were
several causes which had produced this; and perhaps, as Lady Laura
was not absolutely an angel, his personal appearance might have
something to do with it, though less than might be supposed. His fine
person, his noble carriage, his bright and intelligent countenance,
the rapid variety of its expressions, the dignified character of the
predominant one to which it always returned, after those more
transient had passed away--all gave the idea of there being a high
heart and mind beneath. In the next place, Wilton had, as we have
told, commenced his acquaintance with her by an act of personal
service, performed with gallantry, skill, and decision, at the risk
of his own life. In the third place, in all his conversation, as far
as she had ever known or remarked, there were those small casual
traits of good feelings, fine tastes, and strong principles,
expressed sometimes by a single word, sometimes by a look or gesture,
which are a thousand-fold more convincing, in regard to the real
character of the person, than the most laboured harangue, or essay,
or declaration.

Thus it was that Laura hoped, and fancied, and believed, she had now
seen one person upon earth whose feelings, thoughts, and character
might assimilate with her own. Pray let the reader understand, that I
do not mean to say Laura was in love with Wilton; but she did believe
that he was one of those for whose eyes she might draw away a part of
that customary veil with which all people hide the shrine of their
deeper feelings from the sight of the coarse multitude.

There was something, then, as we have seen, that she wished to
say--there was something that she believed she might say, without
risk or wrong. But yet she hesitated; and she and Wilton went on
nearly to the end of the walk in perfect silence. At length she cast
a timid glance, first towards the house where Lord Sherbrooke was
seen just entering one of the rooms from the upper terrace, and then
to the face of Wilton Brown, whose eye chanced at that moment to be
upon her with a look of inquiry. The look gave her courage, and she
said--

"I am going to say a very odd thing, Mr. Brown, I believe; but your
great intimacy with Lord Sherbrooke puzzles me. He told my father
last night that you were his dearest and most intimate friend. I
always thought that friendship must proceed from a similarity of
feelings and pursuits, and I am sure, from what I have heard you say,
at least I think I may be sure, that you entertain ideas the most
opposite to those with which he has just pained us."

Wilton smiled somewhat sadly; but he did not dare deny that such
opinions were Lord Sherbrooke's real ones; for his well-known conduct
was too much in accordance with them.

"Would to Heaven, dear lady," he said, "that Sherbrooke would permit
me to be as much his friend as I might be! I must not deny that he
has many faults--faults, I am sure, of education and habit alone, for
his heart is noble, honourable, and high"

"Nay," cried Lady Laura--"could a noble or an honourable heart
entertain such sentiments as he has just expressed?"

"You do not know him, nor understand him yet, Lady Laura," replied
Wilton. "Most men strive to make themselves appear better than they
really are: Sherbrooke labours to make himself appear worse--not
alone, Lady Laura, in his language--not alone in his account of
himself, but even by his very actions. I am confident that he has
committed more than one folly, for the sole purpose, if his motives
were thoroughly sifted and investigated, of establishing a bad
reputation."

"What a sad vanity!" exclaimed Lady Laura. "On such a man no reliance
can be placed. But his plain declaration, a few minutes ago, is quite
sufficient to mark his character, I mean his declaration, that he
considers no vows taken to a woman at all binding on a man. Is that
the principle of an honourable heart, Mr. Brown?"

Wilton was silent for a moment, but Lady Laura evidently looked for a
reply; and he answered at length, "No, it is not, Lady Laura; but I
fully believe, ere taking any such vows, Sherbrooke would openly
acknowledge his view of them, and, having done so, would look upon
them as mere empty air."

Lady Laura laughed, evidently applying her companion's words to her
own situation with Lord Sherbrooke; and Wilton, unwilling that one
word from his lips should have a tendency to thwart the purposes of
the Earl of Byerdale, in a matter where he had no right to interfere,
hastened to add, "Let me assure you, Lady Laura, however, at the same
time that I make this acknowledgment with regard to Sherbrooke, that
I am fully convinced, if he were to pledge his word of honour to keep
those voles, he would die rather than violate that pledge."

"That is to say," replied Lady Laura, somewhat bitterly, "that he has
erected an idol whose oracles he can interpret as he will, and calls
it honour, denying that there is any other God. But let us speak of
it no more, Mr. Brown; these things make one sad."

Wilton was glad to speak of something else; for he felt himself bound
by every tie to say all that he could in favour of Lord Sherbrooke;
and yet he could not find in his heart to aid, in the slightest
degree, in forwarding a scheme which could end in nothing but misery
to the sweet and innocent girl beside him. He changed the topic at
once, then, and exerted himself to draw her mind away from the matter
on which they had just been speaking.

Nevertheless, that subject, while they went on, remained in the mind
of each; and Lady Laura might have discovered--if she had been at
all apprehensive of her own feelings--that it is a dangerous thing to
do as she had done, and raise, for any eye, even a corner of that
veil which bides the heart, unless we are inclined to raise it
altogether. Her subsequent conversation with Wilton took its tone
throughout, entirely from what had gone before. Without knowing it,
or rather, we should say, without perceiving it, they suffered it to
be mingled with deep feelings; shadowed forth, perhaps, more than
actually expressed. A softness, too, came over it--we insist not,
though, perhaps, we might, call it a tenderness the ceremonious terms
were soon dropped; and because the speakers would have been obliged
to use those ceremonious terms, if they had spoken each other's
names, they seemed by mutual consent to forget each other's names,
and never spoke them at all. Lady Laura did not address him as Mr.
Brown, and Wilton uttered not the words, "Lady Laura." From time to
time, too, she gazed up in his face, to see if he understood what she
meant but could not fully express; and he, while he poured forth any
of the deep thoughts long treasured in his own bosom, looked often
earnestly into her countenance, to discover by the expression the
effect produced on her mind.

Lord Sherbrooke was absent for more than half an hour; and, during
that half hour, Wilton and the lady had gone farther on the journey
they were taking than ever they had gone yet.--What journey?

Cannot you divine, reader? When Wilton entered those gardens, we
might boldly say, as we did say, that he was not in love. When he
left them, we should have hesitated.  He would have hesitated
himself! Was not that going far upon a journey?

However, Lord Sherbrooke at length joined them; and after a moment
more of cold and ceremonious leave-taking with Lady Laura, he turned,
and, accompanied by Wilton, left the house.

Lady Laura remained upon the terrace, walking more rapidly than
before, and with her eyes bent upon the ground.  Two minutes brought
Wilton to the gates of the court-yard; but oh, in those two minutes,
how his heart smote him, and how his brain reeled!

"Shall I run for the horses, my lord?" cried the groom of the
chambers--"Shall I go for the horses, my lord?" exclaimed one of the
running footmen who was loitering in the hall.

"No," said Lord Sherbrooke--"we will walk and fetch them," and taking
Wilton's arm, he sauntered quietly on from the house.

"Sherbrooke, Sherbrooke, this is all very wrong," said Wilton, the
moment they were out of hearing.

"Very wrong, Solon!" exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke--"what do you mean?
Heavens and earth, what a perverse generation it is! When I expected
to be thanked over and over again for the kindest possible act, to be
told that it is all very wrong! You ungrateful villain! I declare I
have a great mind to turn round and draw my sword upon you, and cut
your throat out of pure friendship. Very wrong, say you?"

"Ay, very wrong, Sherbrooke," replied Wilton. "You have placed me in
an unpleasant and dangerous situation, and without giving me notice
or a choice, have made me co-operate in doing what I do not think
right."

"Pshaw!" cried Lord Sherbrooke--"Pshaw! At your heart, my dear
Wilton, you are very much obliged to me; and if you are not the most
ungrateful and the most foolish of all men upon earth, you will take
the goods the gods provide you, and make the best use of time and
opportunity."

"All I can say, Sherbrooke," replied Wilton, "is, that I shall never
return to that house again, except for a formal visit to the Duke."

"Fine resolutions speedily broken!" exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke: and he
was right.
 


CHAPTER XV.

Had Wilton Brown wanted an immediate illustration of the fragile
nature of man's purposes, of how completely and thoroughly our
firmest resolutions are the sport of fate and accident, it could have
been furnished to him within five minutes after he left the gates of
the house where he had paid an unintended visit.

Lord Sherbrooke seemed perfectly well acquainted with the house and
its neighbourhood, and led the way round through a green lane at the
back, which presently, in one of its most sequestered spots, offered
to the eyes a somewhat large old-fashioned public-house, standing
back in a small paved court: while planted before it, on the edge of
the road, was a sign-post, bearing on its top the effigy of a huge
green dragon.

Now, whether it be from some unperceived association in the minds of
the English people between the chimerical gentleman we have lately
mentioned and the patron saint of this island, who, it seems, if all
tales were told, was not a bit better than the dragon that he slew;
or for what other reason I know not, yet there is no doubt of the
fact, that in all ages English vintners have had a particular
predilection for green dragons; and that name was so commonly
attached to a public-house, in those days, that it had not at all
struck Wilton Brown that the Green Dragon to which Lord Sherbrooke 
ordered the horses to be led, was that very identical Green Dragon
where his acquaintance Mr. Green had given him the rendezvous.

He might not, indeed, have heard Lord Sherbrooke's order at all; but
it is still more probable, that he only did not attend to it, as all
his thoughts were taken up at the moment by the discovery of what
place Lord Sherbrooke had brought him to. It now, however, struck
him--when he saw the Green Dragon standing in the Green Lane,
precisely as it had been described by Green--that it might very
likely be the identical house to which he had been directed; and on
asking Lord Sherbrooke what was the name of the mansion they had just
visited, the matter was placed beyond doubt by his replying,
"Beaufort House. The Duke only hires it for a time."

Brown hesitated now for an instant, as to how he should act. His
watch told him that it was close upon the hour to the appointment:
curiosity raised her voice: the natural longing after kindred had
also its influence; and if the society of Lord Sherbrooke was any
impediment, that was instantly removed by the young nobleman saying,
"Come, Wilton, as you are an unsociable devil, and seem out of
temper, I shall leave you to ride home by yourself--The truth is," he
added, after a moment's pause, "I am going upon an expedition, that
the character I have given myself to my fair Lady Laura may be fully
and completely established on the day that it is given.".

"Nay, Sherbrooke, nay!" cried Wilton--"I hope and trust such is not
the case."

The other only laughed, and called loudly for his servants and
horses.

Well disciplined to his prompt and fiery disposition, his grooms led
the horses out in a moment, and the young nobleman sprang into the
saddle. Before his right foot was in the stirrup, he had touched the
horse with the spur, and away he went like lightning, waving his hand
to Wilton with a light laugh.

Wilton's horses and groom had appeared also, but he paused before the
door without mounting; and the next moment, a fat, well-looking host,
as round, as well fed, and as rosy, as beef, beer, and good spirits,
ever made the old English innkeeper, appeared at the door in his
white night-cap and apron, and approaching the young gentleman,
invited him in with what seemed a meaning look.

"Perhaps I may come in," replied Wilton, "and taste your good ale,
landlord."

"Sir, the ale is both honoured and honourable," replied the host. "I
can assure you many a high gentleman tastes it at the Green Dragon."

Bidding his servant lead the horse up and down before the door,
Wilton slowly entered the well-sanded passage, and passed through the
doorway of a room to which the landlord pointed. The moment he
entered, he heard voices speaking very loud, there being nothing
apparently between that and the adjoining chamber but a very thin
partition of wood-work. The landlord hemmed and coughed aloud, and
Wilton made his footfalls sound as heavily as possible, but all in
vain: the person who was speaking went on in the same tone; and
before the landlord could get out of the room again and down the
passage to the door of the next chamber, which was some way farther
on, Wilton distinctly heard the words, "Nonsense, Sir George! don't
attempt to cajole me! I tell you, I will have nothing to do with it.
To bring in foreigners is bad enough, when we are quite strong enough
to do it without: but I will take no man's blood but in fair fight."

"Well!" exclaimed the other, in the same loud and vehement
manner--"you know, sir, I could hang you if I liked!"

At that moment the door was evidently opened, and the landlord's
voice, exclaiming, "Hush! hush!" was heard; but he could not stop the
reply, which was,--

"I know that! But I could hang you, too; so that we are each pretty
safe. This is that villain Charnock's doing.  Tell him I will blow
his brains out the first time I meet him, for spoiling, by his
bloody-minded villany, one of the most hopeful plans--"

But the landlord's "Hush! hush!" was again repeated, and the voices
were thenceforth moderated, though the discussion seemed still to
endure some time.

Wilton's curiosity was now more excited than ever; and when the
landlord brought him a foaming jug of ale, together with a long
Venice glass having a wavy pearl-coloured line up the stalk, he asked
the simple question, "Is Mr. Green here?"

On this the landlord put down his head, saying, in a low voice, "The
Colonel will be with you directly: he expects you, sir."

"The Colonel!" thought Brown--"this is a new dignity.  However, with
his state and station I have little to do, if I could but discover my
own."

At the end of about five minutes the conversation in the other room
ceased, and in a moment or two more the door was opened, and Green
made his appearance. We have so accurately described him before that
we should not pause upon his appearance now, had there not been a
great change in his dress, which had such an effect as to render it
scarcely possible to recognise him.

Now, instead of a military-looking suit of green, he had on a
long-waisted broad-cut coat of black, with jet buttons; a
light-coloured periwig filled full of powder; black breeches and silk
stockings, and a light black-hilted sword. In fact, he bore much more
the appearance of a French lawyer of that day than anything else. The
features, indeed, were there; but it was wonderful what the
highly-powdered wig had done to soften the strong-marked lines of his
face, and to blanch the weather-beaten appearance of his complexion.

The suit of black, too, made him look thinner and even taller than he
really was; and on his first entrance into the room, Wilton certainly
did not know him.

"You have come before your time," he said, "though perhaps it is as
well, for I must go out as soon as it is dusk;" and as he spoke he
cast himself into a chair, fixed his eyes upon some scanty embers
which were smouldering in the grate, and fell into a deep and
apparently painful fit of thought. His broad but heavy brow was
knitted with a wrinkled frown; the muscles of his face worked from
time to time; and Wilton could see the sinews of his large powerful
hand, as it lay upon his knee, standing out like cords, though he
uttered not a word.

After pausing for a moment or two, his companion thought it time to
recal this strange acquaintance to the subject of his coming, and
said, "You told me I might see some of my old friends here, Mr.
Green. Let me remind you it grows late."

"Don't be impatient, my good boy," replied the other, abstractedly, at
the same time rising and drinking a deep draught of the ale--"you
SHALL see some of your old friends!  Don't you see me?"

"Yes," replied Wilton, "you are an acquaintance, certainly, of some
months, but nothing more that I know of."

"Well, well, do not be impatient, I say," answered Green "you shall
see some one else, if I don't satisfy you. But you are before your
time, as I said."

He had scarcely spoken, when the door of the little room opened once
more, and a woman apparently of no very high class, and considerably
advanced in years, so as to be somewhat decrepit, came in. She was
dressed in a large grey cloak of common serge, with a stick in her
hand, and mittens on her hands, while over her head was a large black
wimple or hood, which covered a great part of her face.

The moment Green saw her, he crossed over, and said in a low but not
inaudible voice, "Not a word, till all this business is over! They
will ruin the cause and themselves, and all that are engaged with
them, by committing all sorts of crimes. It will plunge him into the
greatest dangers, if you say a word."

Much of what he said was heard by Brown; and in the meantime Green
aided the woman to disembarrass herself of her hood and cloak, taking
the staff out of her hand, and at the same time turning the key of
the door. The moment that he did so, his female companion drew
herself up; the appearance of bowed decrepitude vanished; and she
stood before Brown a tall graceful woman, apparently scarcely forty
years of age, with a countenance still beautiful, and a demeanour
which left no doubt of the society with which at one time she must
have mingled.

Of Wilton himself the lady had as yet had but once glance, as she
first entered the room; for, ever since, Green had stood between them
so that she could not see. When she did behold him fully, however,
she gazed upon him earnestly, clasping her hands, and exclaiming, "Is
it--is it possible?"

The next moment her feelings seemed to overpower her--"Oh yes, yes,"
she cried, advancing "it is he himself--the same dear, blessed
likeness of the dead!" and casting her arms round the young
gentleman's neck, she wept long and profusely on his bosom.

Wilton was surprised and agitated, as may well be conceived. He was
not sufficiently ignorant of the world not to know that there are a
thousand tricks and artifices daily practised, which assume such
appearances as the scene now performing before him displ entertained
suspicions of all sorts of transformations and disguises; but there
was an earnestness, a truth, in the lady's manner that was in itself
convincing, and there was something more, also--there was a most
extraordinary resemblance in her whole face and person to the picture
which we have before mentioned in the house of the Earl of Sunbury.
The features were the same, the height, the figure: the eyes were the
same colour, there was the same peculiar expression about the mouth,
and the only difference seemed to be the difference of age. The
picture represented a girl of eighteen or nineteen: the person who
stood beside him must have seen well nigh forty summers.

Though the likeness was complete, there was a certain difference.
Have we not all beheld a beautiful scene spread out in the morning
light, full of radiance, and sparkling, and glorious sunshine? and
have we not seen a grey cloud creep over the sky, leaving the
landscape the sauce, but taking from it the resplendent beams in
which it shone at first? So did it seem with her. All appeared the
same as in the bright being whom the painter had depicted in her gay
day of youth; but that Time had since brought, as it were, a grey
shadow over the loveliness which it could not take away.

All these things took from Wilton every doubt; and after he had
suffered the lady for a moment to give way to her feelings without a
word: even throwing his arm slightly round her, and pressing her
towards him, he said, "Are you--are you my mother?"

"Alas! no, my dear boy," she replied, raising her head and wiping
away the tears, while the colour rose slightly in her cheek. "I am
not your mother, but one who has loved you scarcely less than ever
mother loved her son; one who nursed and fondled you in infancy; one
who has now come from another land but for the sake of seeing you,
and of holding once more to her heart the nursling of other years,
even more sad and terrible than these."

"From another land!" said Wilton, thoughtfully, while through the dim
and misty vista of the past, strange figures seemed to move before
his eyes, as if suddenly called up out of the darkness of oblivion by
some enchanter's voice.  "Another land!" he said, thoughtfully--"Your
face and your voice seem to wake strange memories. I think, I
remember having been with you in another land, and I
recollect--surely I recollect, a pretty cottage with a rose-tree at
the door--a rose-tree in full bloom; and tying the knot of an
officer's scarf, and his holding me long to his heart, and blessing
me again and again--"

"Before he went to battle!" said the lady, "before he went to death!"
Her voice became choked in suffocating sobs, and she wept again long
and bitterly.

"Nay, but tell me more," said Wilton--"in pity, tell me more. Do I
not surely recollect his face, too?" and he pointed to Green, "and
the sparkling sea-shore? and sailing long upon the ocean? Tell me
more, oh, tell me more!"

"I must not yet, Wilton," she replied--"I must not yet.  They tell me
it is dangerous, and I believe it is. Struggles must soon take place,
changes must inevitably ensue, and I would not--no, not for all the
world, I would not that your young life should be plunged into those
terrible contentions, which have swallowed up, as a dark whirlpool,
the existence of so many of your race. If our hopes be true, the way
to fortune and rank will be open to you at once: or there is no such
a thing as gratitude in the world. If not, you will have the means of
living in quiet and tranquillity, and if you will, of struggling for
higher things; for within six months the whole shall be told to you.
Ask me not! ask me not!" she added, seeing him about to speak--"I
have promised in this matter to be guided by others, and I must say
no more."

"But who is he?" continued Wilton, pointing to Green.  The lady
looked first at him, and then at their companion, with a faint, even
a melancholy, smile.

"He is one," she replied, "whom you must trust, for he has ever
guided others better and more successfully than he has guided
himself. He is one who has every title to direct you."

"This is all very strange," said Wilton, "and it is painful, too. You
do not know--you cannot tell, how painful it is to live, as it were,
in a dark cloud, knowing nothing either of the future or the past."

The lady looked down sadly upon the ground.

"There are, sometimes," she said, "certainties which are far more
terrible than doubts. Be contented, Wilton, till you hear more: when
you do hear more, you will hear much painful matter; you will have
much to undergo, and you will need courage, determination, and
strength of mind. In the meanwhile, as from your earliest years,
careful, anxious, zealous, eyes have watched over you, marked your
every movement, traced your every step, even while you thought
yourself abandoned, forgotten, and neglected: so shall it be till the
whole is explained to you. Thenceforth you will rule your own
conduct, judge, determine, and act for yourself. We know, we are
sure, that you will act nobly, uprightly, and well in the meanwhile,
and that you will do no deed which at a future period may not befit
any station and any race to acknowledge."

Wilton mused deeply for several moments, and then raising his eyes to
the lady's face, he demanded, in a low tone--

"Answer me only one question more. Am I the son of Lord Sunbury?"

The blood rushed violently up into the lady's countenance.

"Lord Sunbury was never married," she exclaimed--"was he?"

"I know not," replied Wilton--"all I ask is, am I his son?  I ask it,
because he has shown me generous kindness, care, and consideration;
and at times I have seen him gazing in my face, when he thought I did
not remark it, as if there were some deeper feelings in his bosom
than mere friendship. Yet I cannot say that he has ever taught me to
look upon myself as his son."

"Your imagination is only leading you into a labyrinth, Wilton,"
replied the personage calling himself Green, "from which you will
find it difficult to extricate yourself. Be contented with what you
know, and ask no more."

"I much wish, and I do entreat," replied Wilton, "that you would give
me an answer to the question I have asked.  There might be
circumstances--indeed, I may say, that circumstances are very likely
to occur, in which it would be absolutely necessary for me to know
what claim I have upon the Earl of Sunbury. I have never yet asked
him for anything of importance; but I foresee that the time may soon
come when I may have to demand of him what I would not venture to
demand, did I consider myself but the claimless child of his bounty."

The lady looked at Green, and Green at her, and they paused for
several minutes. At length she answered, "I will give you a claim
upon Lord Sunbury;" and she took from her finger a large ring, such
as were commonly worn in those days, presenting on one side a shield
of black enamel surrounded with brilliants, and in the centre a
cipher, formed also of small diamonds. "Keep this," said the lady,
"till all is explained to you, Wilton, and then return it to me.
Should the Earl's assistance be required in anything of vital
importance, show him that ring, if he be in England, or if he be
abroad, tell him that you possess it, and beseech him by all the
thoughts which that may call up in his mind, to aid you to the utmost
of his power.--I think he will not fail you."

Wilton was about to answer; and though it was now growing dusk, he
might have lingered on much longer, striving to gain more
information, but at that moment there came a sound of many feet at
the passage, and the voice of some one speaking apparently to the
landlord, and demanding,--"Who the devil's horses are those walking
up and down there?"

Almost at the same time, a hand was laid upon the latch of the door,
and it would have been thrown open, had not Green previously taken
the precaution of locking it. He now partially opened it, however,
and spoke a few words to those without.

"Go into the next room," he said; "go into the next room--I will be
with you directly." He then closed the door again, and turning to
Wilton, took him by the arm, saying, "Now mount your horse, and be
gone instantly: your time for staying here is over; make the best of
your way home, without delay; and only remember, that whenever we
meet in future, you do not appear to know me, unless I speak to you.
Should you want advice, direction, and assistance--and remember, that
though poor and powerless as I seem, I may know more, and be able to
do far more, than you imagine--ask for me here; or the first time
you see me, lay your finger upon that ring which she has given you,
and I will find means to learn your wishes, and to promote them
instantly--Now you must go at once."

Wilton saw that the attempt to learn more, at that moment, would be
vain: but before he departed, he took the lady by the hand, bidding
her adieu, and saying, "At all events, I have one consolation. Since
I came here, I feel less lonely in the world; I feel that there are
some to whom I am dear; and yet I would fain ask you one thing more.
It is, how, when I think of you, I shall name you in my thoughts.
Your image will be frequently before me; the affection which you have
shown me, the words you have spoken, will never be forgotten. But
there is a pleasure in connecting all those remembrances with a name.
It seems to render them definite; to give them a habitation in the
heart for ever."

"Call me Helen," replied the lady, quickly. "Where I now dwell they
call me the Lady Helen. I must not add any more; and now adieu, for
it is time that both you and I should leave this place."

Green once more urged him to depart; and Brown, with his curiosity
not satisfied, but even more excited than ever, quitted the house,
mounted his horse, and rode away slowly towards his own dwelling,
meditating as he went.



CHAPTER XVI.

"Onward! onward!" cries the voice of youth; whether it may be that
the days are bright, passing in joy and tranquillity, and we can say
with the greatest French poet of the present day--ay, the greatest,
however it may seem--Beranger,

   "Sur une onde tranquille,
       Voguant soir et matin,
    Ma nacelle est docile
       Au souffle du destin.
    La voile s'enfie-t-elle,
       J'abandonne le bord.
   (O doux zephir, sois-moi fidele!)
    Eh! vogue, ma nacelle;
       Nous trouverons un port"--

or whether the morning is overcast with clouds and storms, still
"Onward! onward!" is the cry, either in the hope of gaining new joys,
or to escape the sorrows that surround us.  It is for age to stretch
back the longing arms towards the Past: the fate of youth is to bound
forward to meet the Future.

Wilton reached his home, and bending down his head upon his hands,
passed more than an hour in troublous meditation. All was confused and
turbid. The stream of thought was like a mountain torrent, suddenly
swelled by rains, overflowing its banks, knowing no restraint, no
longer clear and bright, but dark and foaming and whirling in rapid
and uncertain eddies round every object that it touched upon.  The
scene at Beaufort House, the thought of Laura, and all that had been
said there, mingled strangely and wildly with everything that had
taken place afterwards, and nothing seemed certain, but all confused,
and indistinct, and vague.  But still there came a cry from the
bottom of his heart: the cry of "Onward! onward! onward! towards the
fated future!"

Nor was that cry the less vehement or less importunate because lie
had no power whatsoever to advance or retard the coming events by a
single hour: nor had it less influence because--unlike most men, who
generally have some lamp, however dim, to give them light into the
dark caverns of the future--he had not even one faint ray of
probability to show him what was before his footsteps.

On the contrary, the yearning to reach that future, to pass on through
that darkness to some brighter place beyond, was all the more strong and
urgent. In short, excited imagination had produced some hope, without
the slightest probability to foster it. He had even been told that he
was to expect information of a painful kind. Not one word had been said
to give him the expectation of a bright destiny: and yet there was
something so sweet, so happy, in having found any one whose tenderness
had been bestowed upon his infant years, and whose affection had
remained unchanged by time and absence, that hope--as hope always
is--was born of happiness; and though that hope was wild, uncertain, and
unfounded, it made the natural eagerness of youth all the more eager.

When he lay down to rest he slept not, but still many a vision
floated before his waking eyes, and thought made the night seem
short. On the following morning he was early up and dressed; but by
seven o'clock a note was put into his hand, in a writing which he did
not know. On opening it, however, he found it to contain a request,
couched in the most courteous terms, from the Duke of Gaveston, that
he would call upon him immediately, and before he went to the house
of Lord Byerdale. There was scarcely time to do so; but he instantly
ordered his horse, and galloped to Beaufort House as fast as
possible. He was ushered immediately into a small saloon, and thence
into the dressing-room of the Duke, whom he found in a state of
considerable agitation, and evidently embarrassed even in explaining
to him what he wanted.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Brown," he said,--"I have sent for you to
speak on a matter that may be of great consequence:--not that I know
that it will be--not that I have heard anything--for I would not
hear, after I found out what was the great object; but--but--"

Wilton was inclined to imagine that some unexpected obstacles had
occurred in regard to the proposed alliance between the families of
the Duke and of the Earl of Byerdale, and he certainly felt no
inclination to aid in removing those obstacles. He replied,
therefore, coldly enough, "If there is anything in which I can serve
your grace, I am sure it will give me much pleasure to do so."

His coldness, however, only seemed to increase the Duke's eagerness
and also his agitation.

"You can, indeed, Mr. Brown," he said, "render me the very greatest
service, and I'm sure you are an honourable and an upright man, and
will not refuse me. If you had explained yourself more clearly the
night before last, I am sure I would have taken your advice at once,
and would not have gone at all; but, as it is, I stayed not a moment
longer than I could help, and have now broken with Fenwick and
Barklay for ever. They vow that I am pledged to their cause, and must
take a part, but they will find themselves mistaken."

Wilton now found that the good nobleman's fancy had misled him, and
that his agitation arose from something that had taken place at the
meeting at the Old King's Head, in regard to which he certainly knew
nothing, nor indeed wished to know anything. He replied, however,
somewhat more warmly,--

"In regard to these transactions, my lord duke, I know nothing, as I
before informed you: but if you will tell me how I can serve you, I
will do it with pleasure."

"I was sure you would, Mr. Brown, I was sure you would," said the
Duke. "You can do me the greatest service, my dear young friend, by
promising me positively upon your word of honour never to mention to
any one that I went to this meeting at the Old King's Head, or, in
fact, that I knew anything about it. I especially could wish that it
be not mentioned to the Earl of Byerdale; for I know that he is a
very fierce and vindictive man, and I do not wish to put myself in
his power, just at present, above all times. Nobody on earth knows it
but you and the people engaged in the affair, whose mouths are
stopped, of course. We left the carriage on this side of Paul's, and
I sent the two running footmen different ways, so that, if you give me
your honour, I am quite safe."

"I give you my honour, most assuredly, my lord duke," replied Wilton,
"that I will never, under any circumstances, or at any time, mention
one word of that which has taken place between us on the subject.
Rest perfectly sure of that.  Indeed, I know nothing; I therefore
have nothing to tell.  But, at all events, I will utter not one
word."

"Thank you, thank you!" cried the Duke, grasping his hand with joy
and enthusiasm--"thank you, thank you a thousand times, my dear young
friend!" and in the excitement of the moment, in his dressing-gown and
slippers as he was, he led Wilton out to the room where his daughter
was seated, and without any explanation informed her that he, Wilton,
was one of his best and dearest friends. He then rushed back again to
conclude the little that wanted to the labours of his toilet, leaving
Wilton alone with her at the breakfast-table.

"Oh, Mr. Brown," exclaimed Laura, with her face glowing with
eagerness, "I hope and trust that you have settled this business, for
I have been most anxious ever since last night. Sir John Fenwick
behaved so ill, and quitted the house in such fury, and that
dark-looking man who accompanied him back, used such threatening
language towards my father, that indeed--indeed, I feared for the
consequences this morning."

Wilton evidently saw that her fears pointed in any direction but the
right one, and that she apprehended some hostile rencontre between
her father and the two rash Jacobites with whom he had suffered
himself to be entangled.  Knowing, however, that it could be anything
but the desire of such men to call public attention to their
proceedings, he did not scruple to give her every assurance that no
duel, or angry collision of any kind, was likely, to take place: at
which news her face glowed with pleasure, and her lips flowed with
many an expression of gratitude, although he assured hex again and
again that he had done nothing on earth to merit her thanks.

The smiles were very beautiful, however, and very grateful to his
heart; but he found that every moment was adding to feelings which it
was madness to indulge; and, therefore, as soon as the Duke had
returned, he took his leave, and turned his steps homeward. He knew,
indeed, that he should have to encounter the same pleasant danger
again that very afternoon; that he should have to see her, to be in
the same room, to sit at the same table with her, to speak to her,
even though it were but for a moment; but then it would be all under
restraint; the eyes of the many would be upon them; there would be no
open communication, no speaking the real feelings of the heart, no
freedom from the dull routine of society.

He was perhaps five minutes behind his time, but the Earl was all
complaisance: the arrangements that he had made for his son; the
unexpected facility with which Lord Sherbrooke had apparently entered
into those arrangements; the political importance of the alliance
with the Duke; the immense accession of wealth to his family; the
aspect of public affairs, were all suffi which, to his inferiors at
least, was generally harsh and proud.  But yet Wilton could not help
believing that there was a peculiar expression in the Earl's
countenance when that nobleman's eyes turned upon him; that there was
a smile which was not a smile of benignity, that there was a courtesy
which was not of the heart. Why or wherefore Wilton could hardly
tell, but he fancied that the Earl's conduct was what it might be
towards a person who had suddenly fallen completely into his power,
and whom he intended to use as a tool in any way that he might think
fit. He pictured to his own imagination the Earl bidding his victim
perform some action the most revolting to his feelings in the
sweetest tone possible; the victim beginning to resist; the cold
blooded politician calmly showing his power, and exercising it with
bitter civility.

However, the courtesy lasted all day: there was nothing said to
confirm Wilton in this fancy; and when he took leave, the Earl
reminded him of the dinner hour, adding, "Be punctual, be punctual,
Mr. Brown. We shall dine exactly at the hour; and my cook is a virago,
you know."

Wilton did not fail to be to the moment, and he, the Earl, and Lord
Sherbrooke, were some time in the great saloon before the guests began
to arrive. At length the large heavy coaches of those days began to
roll into the court-yard, and one after another many a distinguished
man and many a celebrated beauty of the age appeared. Still, however,
the Earl evidently looked upon the Duke and his daughter as the
principal guests, and waited in anxious expectation for their coming.

They arrived later than any one, Laura herself looking grave, if not
sad, the Duke evidently embarrassed and not at ease. Nor did the
particular attentions paid by the Earl to both remove in any degree
the sadness of the one or the embarrassment of the other. This was so
marked that the Earl soon felt it; and though the sort of determined
calmness of his manner, and habitual self-command, prevented him from
showing the least uneasiness, yet, from a particular glance of his
eye and momentary quiver of his lip, Wilton divined that he was angry
and irritable.

It must be admitted, also, that Lord Sherbrooke did not take the
means to put his father more at ease. To Lady Laura he paid no
attention whatsoever, devoted himself during the greater part of the
evening to a beautiful woman of not the most pure and unsullied
character in the world, and showed himself disposed to flirt with
everybody, except the very person to whom his father wished him to
pay court. The dinner party was followed by an entertainment in the
evening; and still the same scene went on; till at length the Earl
came round to Wilton, and said, in a low voice, "I wish, my dear
young gentleman, you would try your influence upon Sherbrooke."

The Earl was going on, but Wilton rose immediately, saying, "I
understand you, my lord," and approaching the place where Lord
Sherbrooke was seated, he waited till the laughter which was going on
around him was over, and then said in a low voice, "For pity's sake,
Sherbrooke, and for decency's sake, do pay some attention to the Duke
and his daughter; remember, they are new guests of your father's, and
merit, at all events, some respect."

The young Lord looked up in his friend's countenance with a malicious
smile, replying, "They do, my dear Wilton, they do! and you see I keep
at a respectful distance.  But I will do anything to please."

He accordingly rose from his seat, and Wilton saw him first approach
the Duke, speak a few words to him, and then take a seat beside Lady
Laura. Her air was evidently cold and reserved, but what passed more,
Wilton, of course, did not know. The young lord, however, seemed
suddenly struck by something that she said, turned quickly towards
her, and made a rejoinder; she answered, apparently, with perfect
calmness. But the instant after, Lord Sherbrooke rose from his chair,
made her a low bow, and was crossing the room.  His father, however,
met him half-way, and they spoke for a moment or two. The Earl's
cheek became very red, and his brow contracted; but Lord Sherbrooke
passed quietly on, and came up to where Wilton stood.

"She has just told me what she thinks of my character, Wilton," said
the young nobleman, "and I have transmitted the same to my father,
who must settle the matter with the Duke as he likes."

"The Earl's plans are certainly in a prosperous condition," thought
Wilton; and though he could not, of course, approve of the
unceremonious means which Lord Sherbrooke took to defeat his father's
intentions, and to cast the burden of refusal on Lady Laura, yet he
could not grieve, it must be admitted, that she should determining
for herself.

During the whole evening her conduct towards Wilton Brown had been
exactly what he had expected--kind, gentle, and courteous. She
evidently treated him more as a friend than any one else in the room;
and though he purposely spoke to her but seldom, and then merely with
the terms of formal respect, yet whenever he did approach her, she
greeted him with a smile, which showed that his society was not at
all unpleasant to her.

To the eyes of Wilton it was very evident that Lord Byerdale was
extremely irritated by what he had heard. No one else perceived it,
however, for, as was usual with him, the irritation of the moment,
though likely to produce very serious effects at an after period,
clothed itself for the time in additional smiles and stately
courtesies, only appearing now and then in an additional drop of
sarcastic bitterness mingling with all the civil things that he said.
As usual, also, he was peculiarly soft and reverential in his manner
towards those with whom he was most angry, and the Duke and Lady
Laura were more the objects of his particular attention than ever.
He sat beside her; he talked to her; he paid her that marked
attention which his son had neglected to offer; and at length, when
the Duke proposed to retire, he himself handed her to the carriage,
paying her some well turned compliment at every step, and relieving
his heart of its bitterness by some stinging sneer at the rest of
womankind.

Thus passed over the evening; and Wilton, it must be acknowledged
with a mind more at ease on account of the decided part that Lady
Laura seemed to have taken, slept soundly and dreamt happily, though
he still resolved, sooner or later, to crush feelings which could
only end in misery.
 
On the following morning he went to the house of Lord Byerdale at the
usual hour, and proceeded at once to the cabinet of the Earl. It was
already occupied by that nobleman and his son, however; and though
there were no loud words spoken, no angry tones audible, yet there
were sufficient indications of angry feeling, at least on the part of
the Earl, to make Wilton immediately pause and draw back a step.

"Come in, come in," said the Earl--"you know all this affair, and I
believe have done what you could to make this young man reasonable."

Wilton accordingly entered the room, and Lord Byerdale again turned
to his son, laying his finger upon the letter before him. "I repeat,
Sherbrooke," he said, "that you yourself have done all this. I did
not ask you, sir, to be virtuous, I did not ask you to be temperate,
I did not bid you cast away the dice or abandon drunkenness and
revelling, or turn off three or four of your mistresses, or to give
over going to the resort of every sort of vice in the metropolis. I
asked you none of these things, because it would be hard and
ungenerous to require a man to do what his nature and habits render
perfectly impossible. I turn to his vomit again, or the sow to
refrain from wallowing in the mire."

"Savoury similes, my lord," said Lord Sherbrooke--"most worthy of
Solomon and your lordship. May I ask what it is you did demand then?"

"That you should assume a virtue if you had it not," replied Lord
Byerdale; "that you should put a certain cloak of decency over your
vices, and that you should at least be commonly courteous to the
person selected for your future wife: especially when I pointed out
to you the immense, the inconceivable advantages of such an alliance
not only to you but to me."

"Well, but, my dear father," said Lord Sherbrooke, "I will grant all
that you say. It is altogether my fault; I have behaved very
stupidly, very wildly, very rudely, very viciously.  But there is no
reason that you should be so angry with the young lady, or with my
good lord duke."

"Ay, sir! think you so?" said the Earl--"you are mighty wise in your
own conceit. You have had your share, certainly; but I do not avenge
myself on my own son. They have had their share, however, too. Their
pride, their would-be importance, their insufferable arrogance,
which makes them think that kings or princes are not too good for
her--these have all had no light share; and if I live for six months
I will bring that pride down to the very lowest pitch. I will degrade
her till she thinks herself a servant wench."

Wilton certainly did feel his blood boil, but he knew that he had
neither any right nor any power to interfere; and he turned to some
papers that were upon the tables, and hid the expression which his
thoughts might communicate to his countenance, by apparent attention
to something else.

Some more words passed between the father and son, but they were few.
Lord Sherbrooke, upon the whole, behaved better than Wilton could
have expected. He neither treated the subject lightly and jocularly
as he was accustomed to do in most cases, nor bitterly and
sarcastically, which his father's evident want of principle in the
whole business gave him but too fair an opportunity of doing. He
acknowledged fairly and straight-forwardly his errors and his vices;
and all that he said in regard to the offence he had given his father
was, that he imagined he could not in honour suffer Lady Laura to
decide without letting her know the character at least of the man who
was proposed for her husband.

"Well, sir," replied his father, sharply, "you have convinced her of
your character very soon. Mine, she may be longer in finding out; but
she shall not fail to be made equally well aware of it in the end."

Thus saying, he turned and quitted the room, giving some casual
directions to Wilton as he passed.

"Well, that business is so far done and over," exclaimed Lord
Sherbrooke, as soon as his father was gone; "and, as it is pleasant,
my dear Wilton, to do a good action now and then, by way of a change,
you and I must enter into a conspiracy together, to prevent my worthy,
subtle, and revengeful father from executing a this poor girl, who
has only done her duty to herself, and to me, and to her father."

"I trust," replied Wilton, "that the Earl's threat was but one of
those bursts of disappointment which will pass away with time. I
cannot imagine that, after a little consideration, he will have any
inclination really to injure either the Duke or his daughter; nor,
indeed, do I see that he could have the means either."

Lord Sherbrooke shook his head with a gloomy air, and answered, "He
will make them, Wilton--he will make the means; and as to
inclination, you do not know him as well as I do. He will not forget
what has occurred this day, as long as he remembers how to write his
own name. This same goodly desire of revenge is henceforth a part of
his nature, and nothing will ever remove it, unless self-interest or
ambition be brought into action against it."

"But what sort of revenge think you he will seek?" demanded
Wilton--"situated as the Duke is, I see no opportunity that your
father can have of injuring him."

"Heaven only knows," replied Lord Sherbrooke. "The fire will go on
smouldering for months, perhaps for years, but it will not go out. He
said, just before you came in, that because she had refused to marry
me, he would make her marry a footman; and, as I really believe his
lordship is occasionally endowed with superhuman powers of executing
what he thinks fit, it would not surprise me at all to see my Lady
Laura led to the altar by John Noakes, our porter's son, dressed up
for the occasion as a foreign prince."

"I do not fear that," replied Wilton with a smile; "I should rather
apprehend that he may entangle the good Duke, who does not seem
overburdened with sense, in some of these sad plots which are daily
taking place. Should we find out that such is the case, we may indeed
aid in preventing it."

Lord Sherbrooke shook his head. "It is the poor girl he will aim at
first, depend upon it," the young nobleman answered. "I wish to
Heaven she had told me her intention of refusing me in such a formal
manner; I would have shown her how to manage the matter without
calling down this storm. But, instead of that, she sits down and
deliberately writes him a letter, which, just in the proportion that
it is honest, true, and straightforward, is the thing best calculated
to excite his wrath. Yet, as if she had some idea of his character,
and wished to shield her father, she takes the whole responsibility
of the thing upon herself, telling him that the Duke had pressed her
much upon the subject, but that she felt it would be utterly
impossible to give her hand to your very humble servant. All this
has, of course, brought the storm more directly upon herself, though
her father will be screened thereby in no degree. I doubt not he has
gone there now."

"Do you think there is any chance of an actual and open quarrel
between them?" demanded Wilton.

"Not in the least," answered Lord Sherbrooke with a scoff:  "my dear
Wilton, you must be as blind as a mole, if you do not see that my
father, though as brave as a lion, is not a man to quarrel with any
one. He is a great deal too good a politician for that; he knows that
in quarrelling with any one he hates, he must suffer something
himself, and may suffer a good deal. No, no, he takes a better plan,
and contrives to make his enemies suffer while he suffers not at all.
In general, if you see him particularly civil to anybody, you may
suppose that he looks upon them as an enemy, and is busy in getting
them quietly into his power. Quarrel with the Duke? Oh no, a thousand
to one, ere half an hour be over, he will be shaking him cordially by
the hand, putting him quite at his ease, begging him to let the
matter be forgotten altogether, saying that it was natural he should
seek so illustrious an alliance, which, indeed, he had scarcely a
right to hope for. Then be will see the lady herself, and say that he
perfectly enters into her feelings, that a person so richly gifted as
herself, and having already all that wealth and rank can give, has a
right to consult, before all other things, the feelings of her own
heart. It would not surprise me at all if he were to offer to send me
abroad again, lest my presence in London, after the pretensions which
have been formed, should prove, in any degree, annoying to her."

The conversation continued for some time longer in the same strain:
and Wilton could not but feel that Lord Sherbrooke gave an accurate
though a terrible picture of his father's character.

At length, the young nobleman rose as if to depart; but standing ere
he did so before the table at which his young friend was seated, he
gazed upon his face earnestly and silently for a minute or two, and
then said,--

"I don't know why, Wilton, but I have a great and a strong regard for
you, and I have been dreaming dreams for you, that I see you are
unwilling to dream for yourself: However, you must have the same
regard for me; and--even if you are not inclined, in any degree, to
take advantage of what I must say is evident regard on the part of
this young lady towards you--yet, for my sake, you must let me know,
aid me, and assist me, if you should see any scheme forming against
her happiness or peace. I am not so bad, Wilton, even as I seem to
you. I am sorry for this girl--really sorry for her. I ought to have
taken the burden upon my own shoulders, instead of casting it upon
hers; for I could have removed all these difficulties by speaking one
single word. But that word would have cost me much to speak, and I
shrunk from saying it. If, however, I find that through my fault she
is likely to suffer, I will speak that word, Wilton, at all risks, so
you must give me help and support, at least in doing what is right."

"That I will, Sherbrooke," replied Wilton, grasping his hand, "that I
will most zealously. But in regard to what you say of Lady Laura's
kind feeling towards me, depend upon it you are wholly mistaken. The
only reason, be you sure, why she makes any difference in her manner
towards me, and towards men of higher rank than myself; is, that she
knows the difference of our station and fortunes must ever prevent my
entertaining any of those hopes which others might justly feel."

Before Wilton concluded, Lord Sherbrooke had cast himself into a
chair; his eyes were fixed on the ground, his brow had become
contracted. It was one of those moments when, as he said, his evil
spirit was upon him; and seeing that such was the case, Wilton left
him to his own meditations.  and proceeded to write the letters which
the Earl had directed him to despatch.

In about half an hour, the young nobleman roused himself from his
reverie, with a light laugh, apparently causeless; and without
speaking another word to Wilton, quitted the room.

Wilton only saw the Earl for a few minutes during the rest of the
day, and with him the statesman was so captious, irritable, and
sneering, that, reading his feelings by the key his son had given,
Wilton had every reason to believe himself to be in high favour.
Various matters of business, however, occurred to keep him late at
the Earl's house, and night had fallen when he returned to his own
lodgings.

In about an hour after, however, one of the Earl's servants brought
him a note in Lord Sherbrooke's handwriting, and marked "In haste."
Wilton tore it open immediately, and read,--

    "MY DEAR WILTON,

    "My father directs me to request your immediate return.
    The Duke is now here. Lady Laura has been carried off,
    or, at all events, has disappeared; and we want your wise
    head to counsel, perhaps your strong hand to execute. Come
    directly, for we are all in agitation.

    "Yours, SHERBROOKE."

Written below, in smaller characters, and marked "Private," two lines
to the following effect:--

    "This business is not my father's doing. It is too coarse for his
    handiwork. He may, perhaps, take advantage of it, however, if he
    finds an opportunity. Burn this instantly."



CHAPTER XVII.

Having now run on for some time, following almost entirely the course
and history of one individual, painting none but the characters with
whom he was brought into immediate contact, and making him, as it
were, a lantern in the midst of our dark story, all the characters
appearing in bright light as long as they were near him, and sinking
back into darkness as soon as they were removed from him, we must
follow our old wayward and wandering habits; and just at the moment
when we have contrived to create the first little gleam of interest
in the reader's breast, must leave our hero entirely to his fate,
open out new scenes, introduce new personages, and devote a
considerable space to matters which have APPARENTLY not the slightest
connexion whatsoever with that which went before.

About thirty miles from London, towards the sea-coast, there then
stood a small ancient house, built strongly of brick.  It was not
exactly castellated in its appearance, but yet in the days of
Cromwell it had endured a short siege by a small body of the
parliamentary troops, and had afforded time, by the resistance which
it offered, for a small body of noblemen and gentlemen attached to
the cause of King Charles to make their escape from a superior party
of pursuers. It was built upon the edge of a very steep slope, so
that on one side it was very much taller than the other. It was
surrounded by thick trees also; and though by no means large, it had
contrived to get into a small space as many odd corners as a Chinese
puzzle. The walls were very thick, the windows few and small, the
chimneys numerous, and the angles innumerable.

Into one of the small rooms of this house, at about eleven o'clock at
night, I must now introduce the reader.

In that chamber, with her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed
upon a wood-fire that was burning before her, one small and beautiful
foot stretched out towards it, while the other was concealed by the
drapery of her long robe; and with the whole graceful line of her
figure thrown back in the large arm-chair which she occupied--except,
indeed, the head, which was bent slightly forward--sat a very lovely
young woman, perhaps of two or three and twenty years of age, in
meditations evidently of a somewhat melancholy cast.  The hand on
which her head leaned, and which was very soft, round, and fair, was
covered with rings, while the other was quite free from such
ornaments, with the exception of one small ring of gold upon the
slender third finger. In that hand she had been holding an open
letter; but, buried in meditation, she had suffered the paper to drop
from her hold, and it had fallen upon the ground beside her.

We had said that she was very beautiful, but her beauty was of a
different sort and character altogether from that of the lady whom we
have described under the name of Lady Laura Gaveston. Her hair was of
the richest, brightest, glossy black, as fine as silk, yet bending,
wherever it escaped, into rich and massy curls. There was one of
these which fell upon the back of her fair neck, and another upon
either temple. Upon the forehead, as was then customary, the hair was
divided into smaller curls, and cut much shorter, which fashion was a
great disfigurement to beauty, and certainly left her less handsome
than she otherwise would have appeared. Still, however, she was very,
very lovely; and the fine lines of her features, the clear rich brown
of her complexion, the glorious light of her large dark eyes,
softened by the long thick lashes that overshadowed them, the full
and rounded beauty of every limb, left it impossible even for human
heart to do away what nature's cunning hand had done.

There are certainly moments in which, as every one must have
remarked, a beautiful human countenance is more beautiful than at any
other period, when it acquires, from some accidental circumstance, a
temporary and extraordinary degree of loveliness. Sometimes it is the
mere disposition of light and shade that produces this effect--the
background behind it, the objects that surround it. Sometimes it is
that the tone of the mind at the moment gives the peculiar expression
which harmonizes best with the lines of the features and the
colouring of the complexion, and which is in perfect accord with all
those expectations which fine, indistinct, but sweet associations
produce in our mind from every particular style of beauty that we
see. Associations are, in fact, the bees of the imagination, and,
wandering through all nature, may be said to distil honey from every
fair object on which they light. Why does a rich and warm complexion,
and a glowing cheek, call up instantly in our mind the idea of joyous
health and pleasant-heartedness?  Less because we have been
accustomed to see that complexion attended by such qualities than
because it connects itself with the idea of summer, gay summer and
all its fruits and flowers, and merry sports and light amusements,
and a thousand memories of happy days, and thousands upon thousands
still of other things of which we have no consciousness, but which are
present to sensation though not to thought, all the while that we are
gazing upon a ruddy cheek, and thinking that the pleasure is derived
from the white and red alone.

When the expression is perfectly suited to the style of beauty, it is
natural to suppose that it will add to the charm; but there is a case
where the cause of the increase is not so easily discovered--I mean
when the mind gives to the countenance a temporary-expression totally
opposed to the style of beauty itself. Yet this is sometimes the
case: for how often do we see high and majestic features soften into
playful smiles, and seem to gain another grace. In the lady we have
mentioned, the whole style of the countenance and of the form gave
the idea. of joyous gaiety, of happy, nay, exuberant life and
cheerfulness; but the expression was now all sad; and from the
contrast--which produced deeper associations than perfect harmony
would have called forth--her beauty itself was heightened. It was
like some gay and splendid scene by moonlight.

She had remained in this meditating attitude for some time, when the
door quietly opened, and a personage entered the room, of whom we
must say a few words, though he is not destined to play any very
prominent part in our tale.  Monsieur Plessis was a Frenchman, a
soi-disant Protestant.  One thing, at all events, is certain, that
his father had been so, and had been expelled from France many years
before by persecution. The gentleman before us exercised many trades,
by which, perhaps, he had not acquired so much wealth as his father
had by one. His father's calling had been that of cook and major domo
to a fat, rich, gluttonous, careless English peer; and as he employed
his leisure time in distilling various simples, he had classed his
noble patron under that head, and distilled from him what he himself
would jocosely have called "Golden Water."

Amongst the various trades which, as we have said, were carried on by
the son, was smuggling, under which were included the conveyance of
contraband men, women, and children, as well as other sorts of
merchandise; swindling a little, when occasion presented itself;
clipping the golden coin of the kingdom, which at that time was a
great resource to unfortunate gentlemen; not exactly forging
exchequer tallies, and other securities of the same kind, but aiding
by a certain dexterity of engraving in the forging, which he did not
choose actually to commit; and over and above all these several
occupations, callings, and employments, he was one of the best
reputed spies which the French court had in England, as well as the
most industrious agent which England had in obtaining intelligence
from France. In fact, he sold each country to the other with the
greatest possible complaisance. The great staple of the intelligence
that he gave to both was false; but he took care to mingle a
sufficient portion of truth with what he told, to acquire a
considerable degree of reputation. He was, indeed, much too well
versed in the practices of coiners, not to know that a bad piece of
money is best passed off between two good ones; and though he was a
sort of bonding warehouse, where an immense quantity of manufactured
intelligence lay till it was wanted, yet he had means of obtaining
better information, which he did not fail to make use of when he
judged it needful.

Strange, however, are the perversities of human character:  this
practical betrayer of trust was not without certain good points in
his character. The cheating a king or a statesman had a touch of
grandeur in it, which suited his magnificent ideas; a little robbery
on the King's Highway seemed to him somewhat chivalrous; and he could
admire those who did it, though he did not meddle with the business
himself: but there was a certain class of persons whom he would as
soon have cheated, betrayed, or deceived, even to keep himself in
practice, which he considered one of the most legitimate excuses for
anything he liked to do, as he would have cut his hand off. These
were the poor French emigrants in England, and the unfortunate
adherents of the House of Stuart in France.

As is now well known, though it was only suspected at the time,
thousands of these men were daily coming and going between France and
Britain, in the very midst of the war; and they were always sure to
find at the house of Plessis kind and civil treatment, perfect
security, and the most accurate intelligence which could be procured
of all that was taking place.

In cases of danger he had a thousand ways of secreting them or
favouring their escape. If ever, as was frequently the case, they
wished to communicate with some kind friend, who was willing to
relieve them, or to frighten some timid enemy upon whom they had some
hold, Plessis could generally find them the means; and in cases where
some one in danger required to be brought off speedily and secretly,
Plessis had often been known to spend very large sums, and risk even
life itself, rather than suffer an enterprise to fail in which he had
taken a part.

The Duke of Shrewsbury and Trumbull, while they were secretaries of
state, employed Plessis actively, and overlooked not a few little
peccadilloes for the sake of the intelligence they obtained; and
Torcy, though he had been known to vow more than once that he would
hang him if he set his foot in France, held two or three long
conferences with him at Versailles, and dismissed him with a present
of several thousand livres.

His apparel was very peculiar, as he generally wore above his
ordinary dress a large long waisted red coat, hooked round his neck
at the collar, somewhat in the manner of a cloak, without his arms
being thrust into the sleeves; his shoes were very high in the
instep, and buckled with a small buckle over the front; but as he was
a little man, and of a somewhat aspiring disposition, the heels of
those shoes were enormously high, sufficient to raise him nearly two
inches from the ground, and make his foot in external appearance very
like that of a calf or a Chinese lady. Indeed, in body and in mind
likewise, he was upon tiptoes the whole day long.

His entrance into the room where the lady was, roused her at once
from the reverie into which she had fallen; and taking up the letter
from the ground, she turned to see who it was that came in.

"Madam," he said, speaking in French, which, be it remarked, was the
language used between them during the whole conversation, "were it
not better for you to retire to rest? You spoil your complexion, you
impair your beauty, by these long vigils."

"Beauty!" she said, with something of a scoff. "But why should I
retire, as you call it, to rest, Plessis? You mean to say, retire to
think more deeply still, in darkness as well as in solitude."

"Madam," replied Plessis, "you take these things too heavily. But the
truth is, I have a fair company coming here, by whom you might not
well like to be seen. Far be it from me, if you think otherwise, to
disturb you in possession of the apartments. But they come here at
midnight to consult, it would seem, upon business of importance;
whereof I know nothing, indeed, but which I know requires secrecy and
care."

"Business of importance!" said the lady, somewhat scornfully--"to seat
a bigoted dotard on the throne of England!  That is what they come to
consult about. Are they not some of those whom I saw yesterday
morning from the window? that dark Sir George Barkley, who used to
walk through the halls of St. Germain's, in gloomy silence, till the
profane courtiers called him the shadow of the cloud?  and that
sanguinary Charnock, whom I once heard conferring with the banished
queen, and vowing that there was no way but one of dealing with
usurpers, and that was by the dagger?  If these are your guests,
Plessis, I know the business that they come for full well."

"I neither know, beautiful lady," replied Plessis, "nor do I seek to
know. So pray tell me nothing thereof. Many a grown man in his day
has been hanged for knowing too much, and nobody but a schoolboy was
ever punished for knowing too little. These gentlemen come about
their own business. I meddle not with it; and I must not shame my
hospitality so much as to say, 'Good gentlemen, you shall not meet at
my house!'"

"You are a wise and prudent man, Plessis," replied the lady: "bid the
girl take a light to my chamber; I will go there and muse--not that I
fear their seeing me; but the Lady Helen, perhaps, might wish it
otherwise."

With a bow down to the very ground, Plessis retired, and the lady
paused for a minute or two longer, leaning upon a small table in the
middle of the room, and apparently thinking over what had passed.

"It is a strange thing," she said to herself, after a moment, "a most
strange thing, that the customs of the world, and what we call
honour, so often requires us to do those things that every principle
of right and justice, truth and religion, commands us not to do.
God's word tells us not to murder, yet men daily do it, and women
think them all the nobler for trading in blood. If we violate the
law, and do what is really wicked, we risk punishment on earth, and
incur punishment hereafter; yet if we do strictly what honesty and
justice tells us, in all cases, how many instances would be found,
where men would shun us, and where our own hearts would condemn us
also. Here I have it in my power to stop the effusion of much blood,
to prevent the commission of many crimes, to strangle, perhaps, a
civil war in its birth, merely by discovering the presence of these
men in a land from which they are exiled--I have it in my power
thereby to spare even themselves from evil acts and certain
punishment: and yet my lips must be sealed, lest men should say I
dealt treacherously with them. 'Tis a hard-dealing world, and I have
suffered too much already by despising it, to despise it any more."

As she thus came to the conclusion, which every woman, perhaps, will
come to sooner or later, she turned and left the room; and while her
foot was still upon the staircase, there came a sound of many horses'
feet from the small paved esplanade in front of the house.

"Ay, there they are," murmured the lady in a low voice--"the men who
would use any treacherous art whatever to accomplish their own
purpose, and who would yet call any one traitor who divulged their
schemes. Would to God that Helen would come back! I am weary of all
this, and sick at heart, as well I may be."

A sound in the hall below made her quicken her footsteps; and in two
or three minutes more the room she had just quitted was occupied by
five or six tenants of a very different character and appearance from
herself.



CHAPTER XVIII.

The first person that entered the room after the lady quitted it was
Monsieur Plessis himself, who, with a light in his hand, came quickly
on before the rest, and gave a rapid glance round, as if to insure
that no little articles belonging to its last tenant remained
scattered about, to betray the fact of her dwelling in his house.

He was followed soon after by a tall, thin, gloomy-looking personage,
dressed in dark clothing, and somewhat heavily armed, for a period of
internal peace. His complexion was saturnine, his features sharp and
angular, his eyes keen and sunk deep under the overhanging brows; and
across one cheek, not far below the eye, was a deep gash, which drew
down the inner corners of the eyelid, and gave a still more sinister
expression to the countenance than it originally possessed. He was
followed by two others, both of whom were much younger men than
himself. One was gaily dressed, and had a fat and somewhat heavy
countenance, which indeed seemed unmeaning, till suddenly a quick
fierce glance of the eye and a movement of the large massy lower jaw,
like that which is seen in the jaws of a dog eager to bite, showed
that under that dull exterior there were passions strong and quick,
and a spirit not so slow and heavy as a casual observer might
imagine.

Besides these, there were one or two other persons whose dress
denoted them of some rank and station in society, though those who
had seen them in other circumstances might now have remarked that
various devices had been employed to disguise their persons in some
degree.

One of these, however, has been before introduced to the reader,
being no other than that Sir John Fenwick whom we have more than once
had occasion to mention. He was now no longer dressed with the
somewhat affected neatness and coxcombry which had marked his
appearance in London, but, on the contrary, was clad in garments
comparatively coarse, and bore the aspect of a military man no longer
in active service, and enduring some reverses. He also was heavily
armed, though many of the others there present bore apparently
nothing but the ordinary sword which was carried by every gentleman
in that day.

The first of the personages we have mentioned approached with a slow
step towards the fire, saying to Plessis as he advanced, "So the
Colonel has not come, I see?"

"No, Sir George," replied Plessis with a lowly inclination of the
head, "he has not arrived yet; but I had a messenger from him at noon
to-day, saying that he would be here to-night."

"Ha!" exclaimed Sir George Barkley, "that is more than I
expected--But he will not come, he will not come! Make us a bowl of
punch, good Plessis--make us a bowl of punch--the night is very
cold.--But he will not come, I feel very sure he will not come."

"I think I hear his horse's feet even now," replied Plessis--"at all
events, there is some one arrived."

"Keep him some minutes down below, good Plessis," exclaimed Sir
George Barkley hastily. "Run down and meet him. Make up some story,
and delay him as long as possible; for I have got something to
consult with these gentlemen upon before we see him."

Plessis hastened away; and as soon as the door was closed, Barkley
turned to the gaily dressed man we have mentioned, saying, "Charnock,
tell Sir John Friend and Captain Rookwood what we were saying as we
came along; and all that has happened in London."

The dull countenance of Charnock was lighted up in a moment by one of
those quick looks we have mentioned.  "Listen, Parkyns, too," he
said, "for you have not heard the whole."
 
"Be quick, be quick, Charnock," said Sir George Barkley.

"Well, thus it is then, gentlemen," said Charnock--"matters do not
go so favourably as we could have wished.  Sir John Fenwick, here,
the most active of us all, had got the Duke of Gaveston to join us
heartily, to concur in the rising, or, at all events, to hear all
that we propose, with a promise of perfect secrecy; but most
unfortunately, at the meeting at the Old King's Head, some one
unwisely suffered it to slip out that we were to have thirty thousand
French troops, forgetting that what is good to tell the lower classes
and those who are timid and fearful of not having means enough, does
not do to be told to the bold and high-minded, who are apt to be
foolishly confident. The Duke cried out at that, and vowed that if
his opinion were to have any weight, or if his co-operation was of
any import, not a foreign soldier should come into the land. This was
bad enough; but we might have smoothed that down, had not Lowick
chanced to hint the plan for getting rid of this Prince of Orange as
the first step. Thereupon both the Duke and the Earl of Aylesbury,
who were present, flew out like fire; and the Duke, vowing he would
hear no more, took up his hat and sword and walked away, in spite of
all that could be said. The Earl, for his part, stayed the business
out, saying, that he would have nothing to do with the affair, but
that he remained to show us that he would not betray anything."

"That is to say," exclaimed one of the others, "that the Duke will
betray all."

"Not exactly," said Sir John Fenwick, with a grim smile.  "We have
taken care of that, and perhaps may compel the Duke to join us
whether he likes it or not, when once the matter's done. However, Sir
George and I have determined that it is absolutely necessary and
needful for us all to understand, that we, who take the deeper part
in the matter, must keep our own counsel better for the future. Of
course, we must still endeavour to enrol as many names as possible;
but to all ordinary supporters we must tell nothing more, than that
the general rising is to take place, and that we have the most
perfect certainty of success by means which we cannot divulge."

"You will remark, gentlemen," said Sir George Barkley, "that the
assistance of the French troops is to be mentioned to no one at all,
without the general consent of the persons here present."

"And the execution, or putting to death, or call it what you will, of
the Prince of Orange," added Charnock, "is to be told to nobody on
any account whatever. We have quite sufficient hands to do it
ourselves without any more help; and if you and your men will take
care of the guards, I will undertake the pistoling work with my own
hand."

"But the Colonel," said one of the others, "you forgot to mention
about the Colonel, Charnock."

"Why, that is the worst spot in the whole business," said Sir George
Barkley. "No one expected his stomach to be queasy; but by heavens
he's worse than either the Duke or the Earl. He did not so much seem
to dislike the idea of foreign troops--though that did not please
him--but one would have thought him a madman to hear how he talked
about that very necessary first step, the getting rid of the usurper.
He said, not only that he would have nothing to do with it, but that
it should not be done; and he used very high and threatening language
even towards me--at present his Majesty's representative. He used
words most injurious to us all, and which I would have resented to
the death if it had not been for consideration of the high cause in
which we are all here engaged."

"What did he say? What did he say?" demanded two or three voices.

"In the first instance," answered Sir George Barkley, "he would not
come to the last meeting at the King's Head; and his first question,
when I went to seek him, was, whether the King knew of what we were
about to do? I said, certainly not; that I had a general commission,
which was quite enough, and that we had not told the King of an act
which was very necessary, but might not be pleasant for him to hear.
With that he tossed up his head and laughed, in his way, saying that
he thought so; and that the King did not know what bloody-minded
villains he had got in his service.--Bloody minded villains was the
word.--It is rather impudent, too, and somewhat strange, that he, of
all men, should talk thus--he who, for many a year now, has lived by
taking toll upon the King's Highway."

"Ay; but I insist say, Sir George," replied one of the others, "he
has always been very particular. I, who have been with him now these
many years, can answer for it, that in all that time he has never
taken a gold piece from any one but the King's enemies, nor I either:
and he vows that the King's commission which he still has, justifies
him in stripping them."

"Ay, so it does," replied Sir George Barkley, "and the King's
commission, too, justifies us in killing them. This gentleman only
makes nice distinctions when it suits him.  However, we are taking
means to get all his people away from him. Byerly won't be such a
stickler, no doubt, and five or six of the others we can bribe."

"Ay, but will he not betray us," said Sir William Parkyns.

"I think not," said Sir George Barkley; and unwittingly he paid the
person he spoke of the highest compliment in his power, saying, "I
rather fancy the same sort of humour that prevents him from going on
in the business with us will keep him from betraying what he knows.
But we shall soon see that; and now having said all we have to say,
you had better go down, Fenwick, and see if he be come or not."

During the time that this conversation had been going on, there had
been various sounds of different descriptions in the house; and when
Sir John Fenwick rose and opened the door to seek the person last
spoken of, he was met face to face by Monsieur Plessis, and a
maid-servant, carrying an immense bowl of punch, at that time the
favourite beverage of a great part of the English nation.

"Was that the Colonel?" demanded Fenwick, as soon as he beheld
Plessis.

"Yes," replied the Frenchman; "but he is busy about his horses and
things, and said he would be up immediately."

"Has he got anybody with him?" demanded Sir John Fenwick in a low
voice, for Plessis had left the door partly open behind him.

"Only two," rejoined the other.

"Put down the punch, Plessis," said Sir George Barkley--"run down
and see if you cannot stop the others from coming up with him."

Before Plessis could do as he was bid, however, the door was flung
farther open, and our old acquaintance Green entered the room alone.
He was dressed as upon the first occasion of his meeting with Wilton
Brown, except that he had a sort of cloak cast over his other
garments, and a much heavier sword by his side. Plessis, who did not
seem very much to like the aspect of affairs, made his exit with all
speed, and closed the door; and Green, with a firm step and a
somewhat frowning brow, advanced to the table, saying, "I give you
good evening, gentlemen."

Sir John Fenwick, who was nearest to him, held out his hand as to an
old friend; but Green thrust his hands behind his back, and made him
a low bow, saying, "I must do nothing, Sir John, that may make you
believe me your comrade when I am not."

"Nay, nay, Colonel," said Sir John Fenwick, still holding out his
hand to him, "at least as your friend of twenty years' standing."

"That as you please, sir," replied Green, giving him his hand coldly.

"We have requested your presence here, Colonel," said Charnock, "to
speak over various matters--"

"Mr. Charnock," interrupted Green, "I have nothing to do with you. It
is with this gentleman I wish to have a word or two more than we
could have the other afternoon," and he walked directly up to Sir
George Barkley.

"Well, sir, what is it that you want with me?" said Sir George. "I
hope you have thought better of what you said that night."

"Thought, sir," answered Green, "has only served to confirm
everything that I then felt. In the first place, Sir George Barkley,
you have dealt with me in this business uncandidly; and if I had not
had better information than that which you gave me, pretending to be
a friend, I should have been smuggled into a transaction which I
abhor and detest."

"How mean you, sir? How mean you? I was perfectly candid with you,"
said Sir George Barkley.

"Ha, ha, ha!" exclaimed Green, laughing scornfully.  "Perfectly
candid! Yes, when you could not be otherwise. You told me, sir, that
you wanted my assistance with ten men well armed for a service of
great honour and danger; but until I put the question straightforward
to you--having already obtained a knowledge of your proceedings--you
did not tell me that the service you required was the cold-blooded
murder of William, wrongly called King of England."

"That, sir, was to be explained to you afterwards," said Sir George
Barkley.

"Afterwards!" exclaimed Green: "ay, sir, how soon afterwards? After
the deed was done, ha? or after I was so far committed that I could
not retract? And let me ask you, why it was that I was not to be
informed till afterwards, when every other person here present knew
it long before--I, who remained by the bloody waters of the Boyne
when you acted as the King's running footman, and heralded him back
to France? Nay, nay, you shall hear me out, sir, now. I believe not
that you would ever have told me, had it not been that this
intercepted letter fell into my hands, and informed me of all your
proceedings, when you thought I knew them not."

And as he spoke he held the letter out before him, and struck his
hand fiercely upon the paper.
 
The others looked round, each in his neighbour's face, with a
doubtful, and disconcerted look, and Green went on before any one
could answer.

"Why was all this, Sir George Barkley?" he said. "Why was this
concealment? I will tell you why: because you dared not for your life
propose such a thing to me, till you thought I was so far committed
that I could not escape you; and if I had not asked you myself the
question, I should never have heard the truth till this day."

Dark and darker shades of passion had come over the countenance of
Sir George Barkley while Green had been speaking; and he, Charnock,
and one of the others, during the latter part of their new
companion's somewhat vituperative address, had been exchanging looks
very significant and menacing. At length, however, Sir George Barkley
exclaimed, "Come, come, Colonel--this language is too much. You have
been asking questions and answering them yourself.  We have now one
or two to ask you, and we hope you will answer them as much to our
satisfaction as you have answered the others to your own."

"What are your questions, sir?" demanded Green, fixing his eye upon
him sternly. "Let me hear them, and if it suits me I will reply; if
not, you must do without an answer."

"To one question, at least," replied Sir George Barkley, "to one
question, at least, we must compel an answer!"

"Compel!" exclaimed Green, "compel!" and he took a step back towards
the door.

"Look to the door, Fenwick!" exclaimed Sir George Barkley. "Parkyns,
help Sir John! I should be sorry to take severe measures with you,
Colonel; but before you stir a step from this room you must pledge
yourself by all you hold sacred that you will not betray us."

Green heard him to an end without any further movement than the step
back which he had taken, and which placed him in such a position that
he could front either Barkley and the rest on the one side, or those
who were at the door upon the other, without the possibility of any
one coming upon him from behind without being seen. The moment the
other had done, however, he shook back the cloak from his shoulders,
and took from the broad horseman's girdle which girt him round the
middle, a pistol, the barrel of which was fully eighteen inches long,
while its counterpart appeared on the other side of the belt, in
which also were two more weapons of the same kind, but of less
dimensions. He leaned the muzzle calmly upon his hand for a moment,
and looking tranquilly in the face of Sir John Fenwick he said, in a
quiet tone, "Sir John Fenwick, you are in my way. You will do wisely
to retire from the door, and take your friend with you."

"Rush upon him!" cried a man named Cranburne; and as he spoke he
sprang forward himself, while Sir George Barkley and the rest came
somewhat more slowly after.  The pistol was in a moment transferred
to Green's left hand, and with a back-handed blow of the right, which
seemed in fact but a mere touch, Cranburne was laid prostrate on the
ground, with his whole face and neck swimming in blood from his mouth
and nose. In his fall he nearly knocked down Sir George Barkley, who
took it as a signal for retreat towards the fire-place, and at the
same moment Green, who had not moved a step from the spot where he
stood, repeated in a louder voice, "You are in my way, Sir John
Fenwick!  Move from the door!" and at the same instant, in the
silence which had followed the overthrow of Cranburne, the ringing
sound occasioned by a pistol being suddenly cocked made itself
distinctly heard.

"Move, move, Sir John Fenwick!" cried one of the others, a Captain
Porter--"this is all very silly: we risk a great deal more by making
a fracas here, than in trusting to the honour of a gentleman, such as
the Colonel."

Sir John Fenwick did not require two recommendations to follow this
suggestion, but he and Parkyns drew back simultaneously, leaving the
way free for Green to go out.  He advanced, in consequence, as if to
take advantage of this movement; but before he quitted the room, he
turned and fronted the party assembled.

"Sir George Barkley," he said, looking at him with a scornful smile,
"you are, all of you, afraid of my telling what I know; but now that
the way is clear, I will so far relieve you as to say, that nothing
which any of you have told me shall ever pass my lips again. The
knowledge that I have gained or may gain by other means is my own
property, with which I shall do as I like; but there are one or two
pieces of information which I carry under my doublet, and which you
may not be sorry to hear. As for you. Sir George Barkley, the secret
I have to reveal to you is, that you are a white-livered coward. This
I shall tell to nobody but yourself--Ha, ha, ha!--because your
friends know it already, and to your enemies you will never do any
harm. Fenwick, you are just sufficient of a fool to get yourself into
a scrape, and sufficient of a knave to drag your friends in too, in
the hopes of getting out yourself. Sir William Parkyns and Sir John
Friend, knights and gentlemen of good repute, with full purses and
with empty heads, you are paving a golden road to the gallows.
Charnock, you are a butcher; but depend upon it, you were not made to
slaughter any better beast than a bullock. The rest of you,
gentlemen, good night.  As for you, Porter, I wish you were out of
this business.  You are too honest a man to be in it; but take care
that you do not make a knave of yourself in trying to shake yourself
free from a cloak that you should never have put on."

It may easily be conceived that this speech was not particularly
palatable to any of the parties present. But Sir George Barkley was
the only one who answered, and he only did it by a sneer.

"Oh! we know very well," he said, "my good Colonel, that you can turn
your coat as well as any man. We have heard of certain visits to
Kensington, and interviews with the usurper; and, doubtless, we shall
soon see a long list of our names furnished by you, and stuck up
against Whitehall."

"He who insinuates a falsehood, sir," replied Green, turning sharply
upon him, "is worse than he who tells a lie, for a lie is a bolder
sort of cowardice than a covered falsehood. I have never been but
once to Kensington in my life, and that was to see Bentinck, Lord
Portland--whom I did not see. William of Nassau I have never spoken
to in my life, and never seen, that I know of, except once through a
pocket-glass, upon the banks of the Boyne. All that you have said,
sir, you know to be false; and as to my giving a list of your names,
that you know to be false also. What I may do to prevent evil actions
I do not know, and shall hold it over your heads. But of one thing
you may be quite sure, that no man's name would ever be compromised
by me, however much he may deserve it."

Thus saying, he turned upon his heel and quitted the room, still
holding the pistol in his hand. After closing the door, he paused for
an instant and meditated, then thrust the pistol back into his belt,
and walked along one of the many passages of the house, with the
intricacies of which he seemed perfectly well acquainted.

The scene of dismay and confusion, however, which he left behind is
almost indescribable. Every person talked at once, some addressing
the general number, not one of whom was attending; some speaking
vehemently to another individual, who in turn was speaking as
vehemently to some one else. The great majority of those present,
however, seemed perfectly convinced that their late companion would
betray them, or, at all events, take such measures for frustrating
their schemes, as to render it perilous in the extreme to proceed in
them. Sir John Friend was for giving it all up at once, and Parkyns
seemed much of the same opinion.  Rookwood, Fenwick, and others
hesitated, but evidently leaned to the safer course.

Sir George Barkley and Charnock were the only persons who, on the
contrary, maintained the necessity and the propriety of abandoning
none of their intentions. To this, indeed, after great efforts, they
brought back the judgment of the rest; but it required all their
skill and art to accomplish that object. In regard to the general
question of proceeding, they urged, at first, that they might as well
go on, though cautiously, inasmuch as they were all committed to such
a degree, that they could not be more so, let them do what they
would. They were already amenable to the law of high treason, which
was sure not to be mitigated towards them, and therefore they had
nothing farther to fear but discovery.  This having been conceded,
and fear beginning to wear away, after a little consideration, it was
easily shown to some of those present who proposed to abandon the
idea of calling in foreign troops, in the hope of bringing back the
Duke and the Earl of Aylesbury, with others, to their party, that
their great hope of security lay in the actual presence of those
foreign troops, who would, at all events, enable them to effect their
escape, even if they did not insure them success in their design. The
assassination was the next thing touched upon: but here Sir George
Barkley argued, that what had occurred should only be considered as a
motive for urging on their proceedings with the utmost rapidity.

"Let us leave it to be understood," he said, "by the great multitude
of King James's loyal subjects, that the matter of aid from France is
a thing yet to be considered of. In regard to the death of the
usurper, whatever it may be necessary to say to others, none of us
here present can doubt that it is absolutely necessary to our
success. The whole of the information possessed by the man who has
just left us is evidently gained from a letter which I wrote to Sir
John Hubbard in the north, which has somehow unfortunately fallen
into his hands. In that letter, however, I stated that the usurper's
life would come to an end in April next, as we at first proposed. If 
the man have any design of betraying us--"

"No, no, he will not betray us," said several voices; "he has
pledged himself not to disclose our names; and when his word is once
given, it is sure."

"But," said Sir John Fenwick, "he straight-forwardly said that he
would frustrate our scheme, and in so doing, it is a thousand chances
to one that he causes the whole to be discovered."

"Then the way," exclaimed Sir George Barkley, "the only way is to
proceed in the business at once. This letter to Hubbard is what he
goes upon; he has no suspicion of our being ready to accomplish the
thing at once. Let us then take him by surprise; and while he is
waiting to see what April will produce, let us, I say, within this
very week, execute boldly that which we have boldly undertaken. We
can easily have sharp spies kept constantly watching this good friend
of ours in the green doublet, who seems to fancy himself a
second-hand sort of Robin Hood. Half of his people are mine already,
and the other half will be so soon. Let the thing be done before the
year be a week older; and let us to-morrow night meet at Mrs.
Mountjoy's in St. James's-street, and send over to hurry the
preparations in France.  Gentlemen, it is time for action. Here
several months have slipped by, and nothing is done. It is high time
to do something, lest men should say we promised much and performed
little."

Gradually all those who were present came round to the opinion of Sir
George Barkley, and everything was arranged as he had proposed it.
Some farther time was then spent in desultory conversation; and it
seemed as if every one lingered, under the idea that they were all to
go away together.  Sir George Barkley, however, and Fenwick, seemed
somewhat uneasy, and whispered together for a moment or two; and at
length the latter said, "It may be better, gentlemen, for us to go
away by two or three at a time. You, Parkyns, with Sir John Friend,
had better take along the upper road; three others can take the low
road by the waterside; and Sir George with Charnock and myself will
wait here till you are safely on your way."

This proposal was instantly agreed to; but still some of the
gentlemen lingered, evidently to the discomposure of Sir George
Barkley, who at length gave them another hint that it was time to
depart.

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, as soon as they were all gone, "I thought
they would have hung drivelling on here till the boat came down. The
tide served at ten o'clock, and before one they must be off the end
of the garden. How far is it from Erith?"
 
"Oh, certainly not four hours' sail," answered Charnock.  "But had I
not better now write the letter we talked of to the Duke? I can
conceal my own hand well enough, and then if Fenwick is asked
anything about it, he can swear most positively that it is not his
writing."

"Oh! I care nothing about it," replied Fenwick. "The foolish old man
cannot betray me without betraying himself; and you will see he will
soon come round. In the meantime, however, I will go down and talk to
old Plessis about the ship. I should think it could be got ready two
days sooner easily; and as this that we have in view is a great
object, we must not mind paying a few pounds for speed."

Thus saying, he left the room; and Charnock, taking paper out of a
drawer, proceeded to write a letter according to the suggestions of
Sir George Barkley. Presently after, there was a sound of several
voices speaking, which apparently proceeded from some persons
approaching the front of the house. Both Sir George Barkley and
Charnock started up, the first exclaiming, "Hark! there they are!"

"Yes," exclaimed Charnock, "there's a woman's voice, sure enough! Why
the devil don't they stop her talking so loud?"

"You write out the letter, Charnock," said Sir George.  "I must go
down and see that all is right."

Charnock nodded his head, and the other left the room.



CHAPTER XIX.

When Wilton Brown reached the house of the Earl of Byerdale, he found
that nobleman, the Duke of Gaveston, and Lord Sherbrooke, sitting
together in the most amicable manner that it is possible to conceive.
The countenance of the Duke was certainly very much distressed and
agitated; but making allowance for the different characters of the
two men, Lord Byerdale himself did not seem to be less distressed.
Lord Sherbrooke, too, was looking very grave, and was thoughtfully
scribbling unmeaning lines with a pen and ink on some quires of paper
before him.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, I am very glad to see you," exclaimed the Duke.

"My dear Wilton," said the Earl, addressing him by a title which he
had never given him in his life before, "we are particularly in need
of your advice and assistance. I know not whether Sherbrooke, in his
note, told you the event that has occurred."

"He did so, to my great grief and surprise, my lord," replied Wilton.
"How I can be of any assistance I do not know; but I need not say
that I will do anything on earth that I can to aid my lord duke and
your lordship."

"The truth is," replied Lord Byerdale, "that I am as greatly
concerned as his grace: it having happened most unfortunately, this
very morning--I am sorry, through Sherbrooke's own fault--that Lady
Laura found herself compelled to break off the proposed alliance
between our two families, which was one of my brightest day-dreams.
The Duke knows well, indeed, that however high I may consider the
honour which I had at one time in prospect, I am perfectly incapable
of taking any unjustifiable means, especially of such a rash and
desperate nature, to secure even an alliance such as his. But other
people--the slanderous world at large--may insinuate that I have had
some share in this business; and therefore it is absolutely necessary
for me to use every exertion for the purpose of discovering whither
the young lady has been carried. At the same time, the circumstances 
in which we are placed must, in a great degree, prevent Sherbrooke
from taking that active part in the business which I know he could
wish to do, and I therefore must cast the burden upon you, of aiding
the Duke, on my part, with every exertion to trace out the whole of
this mysterious business, and, if possible, to restore the young lady
to her father."

The Earl spoke rapidly and eagerly, as if he feared to be
interrupted, and wished, in the first instance, to give the matter
that turn which seemed best to him.

"I am very anxious, too, Mr. Brown," said the Duke, "to have your
assistance in this matter, for I am sure, you well know I place great
confidence in you."

Wilton bowed his head, not exactly perceiving the cause of this great
confidence at the moment, but still well pleased that it should be
so.

"May I ask," he said, in as calm a voice as he could command, for his
own heart was too much interested in the subject to suffer him to
speak altogether tranquilly--"may I ask what are the particulars of
this terrible affair, for Lord Sherbrooke's note was very brief? He
merely told me the Lady Laura had disappeared; but he told me not
where she had last been seen."
 
"She was last seen walking on the terrace in the garden," said the
Duke, "just as it was becoming dusk. The afternoon was cold, and I
thought of sending for her; but she had been a good deal agitated and
anxious during the day, and I did not much like to disturb her
thoughts."

"On which terrace?" demanded Wilton, eagerly.

"On the low terrace near the water," replied the Duke.

"Good God!" exclaimed Wilton, clasping his hands, "can she have
fallen into the river?" and the horrible image presented to his mind
made his cheek turn as pale as ashes. In a moment after, however, it
became red again, for he marked the eye of the Earl upon him, while
the slightest possible smile crept round the corners of that
nobleman's mouth.

"My apprehensions, at first, were the same as yours, my young
friend," replied the Duke. "I was busy with other things, when one of
the servants came to tell me that they thought they had heard a
scream, and that their young lady was not upon the terrace, though
she had not returned to the house. We went down instantly with
lights, for it was now dark; and my apprehensions of one terrible
kind were instantly changed into others, by finding the large
footmarks of men in the gravel, part of which was beaten up, as if
there had been a struggle. The footsteps, also, could be traced down
the stone steps of the landing-place, where my own barge lies, and
there was evidently the mark of a foot, loaded with gravel, on the
gunwale of the boat itself, showing that somebody had stepped upon it
to get into another boat."

This intelligence greatly relieved the mind of Wilton; and at the
same time, Lord Sherbrooke, who had not yet spoken a word, looked up,
saying, "The Duke thinks, Wilton, that it will be better for you to
go home with him, and endeavour to trace this business out from the
spot itself. One of the messengers will be sent to you immediately
with a warrant, under my father's hand, [Footnote: It may be as well
to remark here, that much of the business which is now entirely 
entrusted to police magistrates was then carried on by the 
secretaries of state and high official persons; and a "secretary's
warrant" was an instrument of very dangerous and extensive power.] to
assist you in apprehending any of the participators in this business.
Do you think anything can be done to-night?"

Wilton was accustomed to read his friend's countenance with some
attention, and, from his whole tone and manner, he gathered that Lord
Sherbrooke was somewhat anxious to bring the conference to an end.

"Perhaps something may be done to-night," he replied, "especially if
no inquiry has yet been made amongst the watermen upon the river."

"None," replied the Duke, "none! To say the truth, I was so
confounded and confused, that I came away here instantly--for advice
and assistance," he added; but there was a pause between the words,
which left his real views somewhat doubtful. The rest of the business
was speedily arranged. The Duke's coach was at the door, and Wilton
proceeded into the Earl's library to write a note to his own servant,
containing various directions. He was followed in a minute or two by
Lord Sherbrooke, who seemed looking for something in haste.

"Where are the blank warrants, Wilton?" he said: "my father will sign
one at once."

As he spoke, however, he bent down his head over Wilton's shoulder,
and then added, "Get away as fast as you can, or you will betray
yourself to the keen eyes that are upon you.  Go with the Duke,
rescue the girl, and the game is before you. I, too, will exert
myself to find her, but with different views, and you shall have the
benefit of it."

"Sherbrooke, Sherbrooke," said Wilton, "what madness is it that you
would put into my head?"

"It is in your heart already, Wilton," replied Lord Sherbrooke. "But
after all, it is no madness, Wilton; for I have this very night heard
my father acknowledge to the Duke that he knows who you really are;
that the blood in your veins is as good as that of any one in the
kingdom; and that your family is more ancient than that of the Duke
himself, only that on account of some of the late troubles and
changes it has been judged necessary to keep you, for a time, in the
shade. Thus, you see, it is no madness--Nay, nay, collect your
thoughts, Wilton.--Where are these cursed warrants?  I say the game
is before you.--There is my father's voice calling. He has an
intuitive perception that I am spoiling his plans. Look to Sir John
Fenwick, Wilton--look to Sir John Fenwick. I suspect him strongly.
Hark how that patient and dignified father of mine is making the bell
of the saloon knock its head against the wall! By heavens, there's
his step! Fold up your note quickly! Where can these cursed warrants
be?--My lord," he continued, turning to his father, who entered at
that moment, "before you sent me for the warrants, you should have
given me a warrant to discover and take them up, for I can neither do
one nor the other."

The warrants were soon found, however; the Earl signed one and filled
up the blanks; one of the ordinary Messengers of State was sent for,
in order to follow Wilton and the Duke as soon as possible; and the
young gentleman, taking his place in the carriage, was soon upon the
way to Beaufort House, conversing over the events that had occurred.

What between agitation, grief, and apprehension, the Duke was all
kindness and condescension towards his young companion. He seemed,
indeed, to cast himself entirely upon Wilton for support and
assistance; and it speedily became apparent that his suspicions also
pointed in the direction of Sir John Fenwick, and the rash and
violent men with whom he was engaged.

"I could explain myself on this subject," said the Duke, "to no one but
you, my dear young friend, as you are the only person acquainted with
the fact of my having been at that unfortunate meeting, except, indeed,
the people themselves. Of course I could not say a word upon the subject
to Lord Byerdale or Lord Sherbrooke; but in you I can confide, and on
your judgment and activity I rely entirely for the recovery of my poor
girl."

"I will do my best, my lord," replied Wilton, "and trust I shall be
successful. Perhaps I may have more cause for anticipating a fortunate
result than even your grace, as I have means of instantly ascertaining
whether the persons to whom you have alluded have any share in this
matter or not; means which I must beg leave to keep secret, but which I
shall not fail to employ at once."

"Oh, I was sure," replied the Duke, "that if there was a man in England
could do it, you would be the person. I know your activity and your
courage too well, not to have every confidence in you."

The coachman had received orders to drive quick; and the hour of nine
was just striking on the bell of an old clock at Chelsea when the
carriage drove into the court-yard. Wilton sprang out after the Duke;
but he did not enter the house.

"I will but go to make some inquiries," he said, "and join your grace in
half an hour. I may learn something tonight, and under these
circumstances it is right to lose no time. I should be well pleased,
however, to have a cloak, if one of your grace's servants could bring me
either a common riding cloak or a roquelaure."

One was immediately procured; and, somewhat to the surprise and
admiration of the Duke, who was, as the reader may have perceived, one
of those people that are expressively denominated SLOW MEN, he set off
instantly to pursue his search, animated by feelings which had now
acquired even a deeper interest than ever, and by hopes of the
extraordinary circumstances in which he was placed proving the means of
attaining an object well worth the exertion of every energy and every
thought.

It was a fine frosty night, with the stars twinkling over head, but no
moon, so that his way amongst the narrow lanes which surrounded Beaufort
House at that time, was not very easily found. As he walked on, he heard
a sharp whistle before him, but it produced nothing, though he proposed
to himself to stand upon the defensive, judging from one or two little
signs and symptoms which he had seen, that the Green Dragon might
protect under the shadow of its wings many persons of a far more fierce
and dangerous description than it had itself proved, either as an
adversary of St. George, or as an inhabitant of the marshes near
Wantley.

He walked on fast, and a glimmering light in the direction from which he
had heard the sound proceed at length led him to the hospitable door of
the Green Dragon. One sign of hospitality, indeed, it wanted. It stood
not open for the entrance of every one who sought admission; and a
precautionary minute or two was suffered to pass before Wilton obtained
one glance of the interior.

At length, however, a small iron bolt, which prevented any impertinent
intrusion into the penetralia of the Green Dragon, was drawn back, and
the lusty form of the landlord made its appearance in the passage. He
instantly recognised Wilton, whose person, indeed, was not very easily
forgotten; and laying his finger on the side of his nose, with a look of
much sagacity, he led Wilton into a little room which seemed to be his
own peculiar abode.

"The Colonel is out, sir," he said, as soon as the door was closed; 
"and there are things going on I do not much like."

Wilton's mind, full of the thought of Lady Laura, instantly connected
the landlord's words with the fact of her disappearance, but refrained
from asking any direct question regarding the lady. "Indeed, landlord,"
he said, "I am sorry to hear that. What has happened?"

"Why, sir," answered the landlord, "nothing particular; but only I wish
the Colonel was here--that is all. I do not like to see tampering with a
gentleman's friends. You understand, sir--I wish the Colonel was here."

"But, landlord," said Wilton, "can he not be found? I wish he were here,
too, and if you know where he is, I might seek him. I have something
important to say to him."

"Bless you, sir," replied the landlord, "he's half-way to Rochester by
this time. He went well nigh two hours ago, and he is not a man to lose
time by the way. You'll not see him before to-morrow night, and then,
may be, it will be too late. I'd tell you, sir, upon my life," he
continued, "if you could find him, for he bade me always do so; but you
will not meet with him on this side of Gravesend till to-morrow night,
when he will most likely be at the Nag's Head in St. James's Street
about the present blessed hour. I've known him a long time now, sir, and
I will say I never saw such another gentleman ON THE WAY, though there
is Mr. Byerly and many others that are all very gentlemanlike--but bless
you, sir, they do it nothing like the Colonel, so I do not wish him to
be wronged."

"Of course not," answered Wilton; "but tell me, landlord, had he heard
of this unfortunate business of the lady being carried off, before he
went?"

"Lord bless you, no, sir," replied the man--" I only heard of it myself
an hour ago. But one of our people was talking with a waterman just
above there, and he said that there was a covered barge--like a
gentleman's barge--came down at a great rate, about six o'clock; and he
vowed that he heard somebody moaning and crying in it; but likely that
is not true, for he never said a word till after he heard of the Duke's
young lady having been whipped up."

Wilton obtained easily the name and address of the waterman, and finding
that there was no chance whatever of gaining any further intelligence of
Green, or any means of communicating with him at an earlier period than
the following night, he took his leave of the good host, and rose to
depart. The landlord, however, stopped him for a moment.

"Stay a bit, Master Brown," he said. "You see, I rather think there are
one or two gentlemen in the lane waiting just to talk a word with my
good Lord Peterborough, who is likely to pass by; and as the Colonel
told me that you were not just in that way of business yourself, you had
better take the boy with you."

"No, indeed," replied Wilton, somewhat bitterly, "I am not exactly, as
you say, in that way of business myself. I am being taught to rob on a
larger scale."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the landlord, not at all understanding Wilton's
allusion to his political pursuits, "all these gentlemen keep the
highway a horseback too. This foot-padding is only done just for a
bit of amusement, and because the Colonel is out of the way. He would
be very angry if he knew it.--But I did not know you were upon the
road at all, sir."

"No, no," replied Wilton, smiling, "I was only joking, my good friend.
The sort of robbery I meant was aiding kings and ministers to rob and
cheat each other."

"Ay, ay, sir!" said the landlord, now entering into his meaning, and
taking as a good joke what Wilton had really spoken in sadness--"you
should have called it miching, sir--miching on a great scale. Well,
that's worse than t'other.  Give me the King's Highway, I say! only
I'm too fat and pursy now."

This said, he went and called a little boy well trained in bearing
foaming pots from place to place, who soon conducted Wilton back in
safety to the house of the Duke, and then undertook to send up the
waterman with all speed. By this time the Messenger from the Earl of
Byerdale had arrived; but although the good gentlemen called
Messengers, in those days, exercised many of the functions of a
Bow-street officer, and possessed all the keen and cunning sagacity of
that two-legged race of ferrets, neither he nor Wilton could elicit
any farther information from the waterman than that which had been
already obtained.

"I think, sir, I think, your grace," said the Messenger, bowing low
to the statesman's secretary, and still lower to the Duke, "I think
that we must give the business up for tonight, for we shall make no
more of it. Tomorrow morning, as early as you please, Mr. Brown, I
shall be ready to go down the river with you, and I think we had
better have this young man's boat, as he saw the barge which he
thinks took the young lady away. Hark ye, my man," he continued,
addressing the waterman, "you've seen fifty guineas, haven't you?"

"Why, never in my own hand, your honour," replied the man, with a
grin.

"Well, then, you'll see them in your hand, and your own money too, if
by your information we find out this young lady; so go away now, and
try to discover any one of your comrades who knows something of the
matter, and come with a wherry to the Duke's stairs tomorrow morning
as soon as it is daylight."

"Ay, ay, we'll find her, sir, I'll bet something," said the man; and
with this speech, the only consolatory one which had yet been made by
any of the party, he left them. The Messenger having now done all
that he thought sufficient, retired comfortably to repose, shaking
from his mind at once all recollection of a business in which his
heart took no part. Nothing on earth marks more distinctly that the
Spirit or the Soul, with all its fine sensibilities and qualities,
both of suffering and acting, is of distinct being from the mere
Intellect, which is, in fact, but the soul's prime minister, than the
manner in which two people of equal powers of mind will act in
circumstances where the welfare of a third person, dear to the one,
and not dear to the other, is concerned. A sense of what is right,
some accidental duty, or mere common philanthropy, may often cause
the one to exert all his powers with the utmost activity to obtain
the object in view; but the moment that he has done all that seems
possible, the soul tells the mind to throw off the burden for the
time; and, casting away all thought of the matter, he lays himself
down comfortably to sleep and forgetfulness. The other, however, in
whose bosom some more deep interest exists, pursues the object also
by every means that can be suggested; but when all is done, and the
mind is wearied, the soul does not suffer the intellect to repose,
but, still engaged in the pursuit, calls the mind to labour with
anxious thought, even though that thought may be employed in vain.

For some hours after the Messenger was sound asleep, and had
forgotten the whole transaction in the arms of slumber, Wilton sat
conversing with the Duke, and endeavouring to draw from him even the
smallest particulars of all that had taken place during the last few
days, with the hope of discovering some probable cause for the event.
The Duke, however, though disposed to be communicative towards Wilton
on most subjects, showed a shyness of approaching anything connected
with the meeting in Leadenhall-street.

It was evident, indeed, that all his suspicions turned upon Sir John
Fenwick, and he admitted that a violent quarrel had occurred after
the meeting; but he showed so evident an inclination to avoid
entering into the subject farther, that Wilton in common delicacy
could not press him. Finding it in vain to seek any more information
in that quarter, Wilton at length retired to rest, but sleep came not
near his eyelids. He now lay revolving all that had occurred,
endeavouring to extract from the little that was really known some
light, however faint, to lead to farther discovery. In the darkness
of the night, imagination, too, came in, and pictured a thousand
vague but horrible probabilities regarding the fate of the beautiful
girl with whom he had so lately walked in sweet companionship on the
very terrace from which it appeared that she had been violently taken
away.  Fancy had wide range to roam, both in regard to the objects of
those who had carried her off, to the place whither they had borne
her, and to the probability of ever recovering her or not. But Fancy
stopped not there--she suggested doubts to Wilton's mind as to the
fact of her having been carried off at all. The terrible apprehension
that she might, by some accident, have fallen into the river returned
upon him. The feet-marks upon the gravel, he thought, might very
naturally have been produced by the servants in their first search;
and it was not at all improbable that some one of them, thinking that
his young mistress had fallen into the water, might have placed his
foot upon the gunwale of the barge to lean forward for a clearer view
of the river under the terrace.

As he thought of all these things, and tortured his heart with
apprehensions, the conviction came upon the mind of Wilton, that,
notwithstanding every difference of station, and the utter
hopelessness of love in his case, Laura had become far, far dearer to
him than any other being upon earth; had produced in his bosom
sensations such as he had never known before; sensations which were
first discovered fully in that hour of pain and anxiety, and which,
alas! promised but anguish and disappointment for the years to come.

There was, nevertheless, something fascinating in the conviction,
which, once admitted, he would not willingly have parted with; and it
gradually led his thoughts to what Lord Sherbrooke had told him
concerning his own fate and family. That information, indeed, brought
him but little hope in the present case, though we should speak
falsely were we to assert that it brought him no hope. The gleam was
faint, and doubting that it would last, he tried voluntarily to
extinguish it in his own heart. He called to mind how many there
were, whose families, engaged in the late troubles during the reigns
of Charles and James, had never been able to raise themselves again,
but had sunk into obscurity, and died in poverty and exile. He
recollected how many of them and of their children had been driven to
betake themselves to the lowest, and even the most criminal courses;
and he bethought him, that if he were the child of any of these, he
might think himself but too fortunate in having obtained an inferior
station which gave him competence at least. The cloud might never be
cleared away from his fate; and he recollected, that even if it were
so, there was but little if any chance of his obtaining, with every
advantage, that which he had learned to desire even without hope.  He
knew that the Duke was a proud man, proud of his family, proud of his
wealth, proud of his daughter, proud of his rank, and that he had
judged it even a very great condescension to consent to a marriage
between his daughter and the son of the Earl of Byerdale, a nobleman
of immense wealth, vast influence, most ancient family, and one who,
from his power in the counsels of his sovereign, might, in fact, be
considered the prime minister of the day. He knew, I say, that the
Duke had considered his consent as a very great condescension; and he
had remarked that very night, that Laura's father, even in the midst
of his grief and anxiety, had made the Earl feel, by his whole tone
and manner, that in the opinion of the Duke of Gaveston there was a
vast distinction between himself and the Earl of Byerdale. What
chance was there, then, he asked himself, for one without any
advantages, even were the happiest explanation to be given to the
mystery of his own early history?

Thus passed the night, but before daylight on the following morning
he was up and dressed; and, accompanied by the Messenger, he went
down the river with two watermen; both of whom declared that they had
seen the covered barge pass down at the very hour of Lady Laura's
disappearance, and had heard sounds as if from the voice of a person
in distress.

We shall not follow Wilton minutely on his search, as not a little of
our tale remains to be told. Suffice it to say, that from Chelsea to
Woolwich he made inquiries at every wharf and stairs, examined every
boat in the least like that which had been seen, and spoke with every
waterman whom he judged likely to give information; but all in vain.
At that time almost every nobleman and gentleman in London, as well
as all merchants, who possessed any ready means of access to the
Thames, had each a private stairs down to the river, with his barge,
which was neither more nor less than a large covered boat, somewhat
resembling a Venetian gondola, but much more roomy and comfortable.

Thus the inquiries of Wilton and the Messenger occupied a
considerable space of time, and the day was far spent when they
turned again at Woolwich, and began to row up the stream. Wilton, on
his part, felt inclined to land, and, hiring a horse, to proceed to
the Duke's house with greater rapidity--but the Messenger shook his
head, saying, "No, no, sir: that wont do. We must go through the same
work all over again up the river. There's quite a different set of
people at the water-side in the morning and in the evening.  We are
much more likely to hear tidings this afternoon than we were in the
early part of the day."

Wilton saw the justice of the man's remark, and acquiesced readily.
But he did so only to procure for himself, as it turned out, a bitter
and painful addition to the apprehensions which already tormented
him. In passing London bridge, one of the heavy barges used in the
conveyance of merchandise was seen moored at a little distance below
the bridge, and in the neighbourhood of the fall. A great number of
men were in her, rolling up various ropes and grappling irons, while
a personage dressed as one of the city officers appeared at their
head. Ile was directing them at the moment to unmoor the barge, and
bring her to one of the wharfs again; but the boatmen of Wilton's
boat, without any orders, immediately rowed up to the barge, and the
Messenger inquired what the officer and his comrades were about.

The officer, who seemed to know him, replied at once, "Why, Mr.
Arden, we are dragging here to see if we can get hold of the boat or
any of the bodies that went down last night."

"Ay, Smith," replied the Messenger, "what boat was that? I haven't
heard of it."

"Why, some stupid fools," replied the officer, "dropping down the
river in a barge about half-past eight last night, tried to shoot the
arch at half tide, struck the pier, got broadside on at the fall, and
of course capsized and went down. If it had been a wherry, the boat
would have floated, but being a covered barge, and all the windows
shut, she went down in a minute, and there she sticks; but we can't
well tell where, though I saw the whole thing happen with my own
eyes."

"Did you see who was in the barge?" demanded the Messenger.

"I saw there were three men in her," the officer replied, "but I
couldn't see their faces or the colour of their clothes, for it was
very dark; and if it had not been for the two great lamps at the
jeweller's on the bridge, I should not have seen so much as I did. We
are going home now, for we have not light to see; but we got up one
of the bodies, drifted down nearly half a mile on the Southwark side
there."

"Was it a man or a woman?" demanded Wilton, eagerly.

"A man, sir," replied the officer. "It turns out to be Jones, the
waterman by Fulham."

Wilton did not speak for a moment, and the Messenger was struck, and
silent likewise. When they recovered a little, however, they
explained to the officer briefly the object of their search upon the
river, and he was easily induced to continue dragging at the spot
where he thought the boat had disappeared. He was unsuccessful,
however; and, after labouring for about half an hour, the total
failure of light compelled them to desist without any farther
discovery.  Wilton then landed with the Messenger; and with his brain
feeling as if on fire, and a heart wrung with grief, he rode back, as
soon as horses could be procured, to carry the sad tidings which he
had obtained to Laura's father.



CHAPTER XX.

A spirit--though rather of a better kind than that which drags too
many of our unfortunate countrymen into the abodes of wickedness and
corruption, now called Gin Pal--es, so liberally provided for them in
the metropolis--abodes licensed and patronised by the government for
the temptation of the lower orders of the populace to commit and
harden themselves in the great besetting vice of this country--a
spirit, I say, of a better kind than this, drags me into a house of
public entertainment, called the Nag's Head, in St. James's Street.

The Nag's Head, in St. James's Street!!!

Now, though nobody would be in the least surprised to have read or
heard of the Nag's Head in the Borough, yet there is probably not a
single reader who will see this collocation of the "Nag's Head" with
"St. James's Street" without an exclamation, or at least a feeling of
surprise, at it being possible there should ever have been such a
thing in St. James's Street at all--that is to say, not a nag's head,
either horsically or hobbyhorsically speaking, but tavernistically;
for be it known to all men, that the Nag's Head here mentioned was an
inn or tavern actually in the very middle of the royal and
fashionable street called St. James's.  One might write a whole
chapter upon the variations and mutations of the names of inns, and
inquire curiously whether their modification in various places and at
various times depends merely upon fashion, or whether it is produced
by some really existing but latent sympathy between peculiar names,
as applied to inns, and particular circumstances, affecting
localities, times, seasons, and national character.

Having already touched upon this subject, however, though with but a
slight and allusive sentence or two, in reference to our friend the
Green Dragon, and being at this moment pressed for time and room, we
shall say no more upon the subject here, but enter at once into the
Nag's Head, and lead the reader by the hand to the door of a certain
large apartment, which, at about half-past nine o'clock, on the night
we have just been speaking of, was well nigh as full as it could
hold.

The people whom it contained were of various descriptions, but most
of them were gentlemanly men enough in their appearance, and these
were ranged round little tables in parties of five or six, or
sometimes more. It cannot, indeed, be said that their occupations
were particularly edifying. Dice, backgammon-boards, and cards were
spread on many of the tables; punch smoked around with a very
fragrant odour; and whatever might have been the nature of the
conversation in general, the oaths and expletives, with which it was
interlarded from time to time, spoke not very well for either the
morality or the eloquence of our ancestors: for such, indeed, I must
call these gentlemen, forming as they did part of the great ancestral
body of a hundred and fifty years ago; though I devoutly hope and
pray that none of my own immediate progenitors happened to be amongst
the number there assembled. The smell of punch and other strong drink
was, to the atmosphere of the place, exactly what the dissolute and
swaggering air of a great number of the persons assembled there was
to the natural expression of the human countenance. The noise, too,
was very great; so that the ear of a new comer required to become
accustomed to it before he could hear anything that was taking place.

Gradually, however, as habit reconciled the visitor to the din, the
oaths and objurgations, together with the words "cheat, liar, knave,"
&c. &c., separated themselves from the rest of the conversation, and
swam like a sort of scum upon the top of the buzz. Though all were
met there for enjoyment, too, it is worthy of remark, that many of
the countenances around bore strong marks of fierce and angry
passions, disappointment, hatred, revenge; and many a flushed cheek
and flashing eye told the often-told tale, that in the amusements
which man devises for himself he is almost always sure to mingle a
sufficient quantity of vice to bring forth a plentiful return of
sorrow.

While all this was proceeding in full current, the door, which opened
with a weight and pulley, rattled and squeaked as it was cast back,
and our often-mentioned friend Green--or the Colonel, as he was
called--entered the room. Giving a casual glance around him, he
proceeded to the other end of the saloon, where there was a small
table vacant, and called in a loud but slow voice for a pint of
claret. Whether this was his habit, or whether it was merely an
accidental compliance with the tavern etiquette of taking something
in the house which we visit, the claret was brought to him instantly,
as if it had been ready prepared, together with a large glass of the
kind now called a tumbler, and a single biscuit.

Green took no notice of any one in the room, for some minutes, but
ate the biscuit and drank the claret in two drafts of half a pint at
a time. When this was done, he gazed round him gravely and
thoughtfully; after which he walked up to one of the tables where
some people were playing at hazard, and spoke a word or two across it
to the man who was holding the dice-box. The man looked up with a
frank smile, and for his only reply nodded his head, saying, "In five
minutes, Colonel."

Green then went on to the next table, and spoke in the same low voice
to a person on the left-hand side, but the man looked down doggedly,
shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I can't leave my game now,
Colonel. If you had told me half an hour ago, it might have been
different."

"Oh! you are very busy in your game, are you?" said Green.  "And so I
suppose are you," he added, turning to another who was sitting at the
same table.

That man answered also in the same tone; and Green, muttering to
himself "Very well!" went on to two more tables at little distances
from each other, from one of which only, he received a nod in answer
to what he said, with the words, "Directly, Colonel--directly."

He was just going on to another, when the door again opened, and a
tall, graceful young man, APPARENTLY of one or two and twenty years
of age, entered the room, and advanced towards the table which Green
had left vacant. His whole manner and appearance was totally
different from that of the persons by whom the room had been
previously tenanted, and a number of inquiring eyes were naturally
turned towards him. Green looked him full in the face without taking
the slightest notice; nor did the stranger show any sign of remarking
him, except by brushing against him as he passed, and then turning
round and begging his pardon, while at the same time he laid the
finger of his right hand upon a diamond ring which he wore upon the
little finger of the left.  He then advanced straight to the vacant
table, as we have said, and sat down, looking towards a drawer who
stood at the other end of the room, and saying--

"Bring me some claret."

At the same moment, Green advanced to the table, and bowing his head
with the air and grace of a distinguished gentleman, said--

"I beg your pardon, sir, for saying that this is my table; but there
is perfectly room at it for us both, and if you will permit me the
honour, I will join you in your wine. Shall we say a bottle of good
Burgundy, which will be better than cold claret on this chilly
night?"

"With all my heart," replied Wilton Brown, for we need hardly tell
the reader that it was he who had last entered the room at the Nag's
Head; and Green, turning to the drawer, said, "This gentleman and I
will take a bottle of Burgundy.  Let it be that which the landlord
knows of."

"I understand, sir--I understand," replied the drawer, "last Monday
night's;" and Wilton and his companion were soon busily discussing
their wine, and talking together, upon various indifferent things, in
a voice which could be heard at the neighbouring tables. Green spoke
with ease and grace, and had altogether so much the tone of a
well-bred man of the world, that he might have passed for such in the
highest society in the realm. Wilton found the task a more difficult
one, for his mind was eagerly bent upon other subjects. He laboured
to play his part to the best, however; and Green, laughing, showed
him how to drink his wine out of goblets, as he called it; so that
the matter was brought to a conclusion sooner than he had ventured to
hope.

As the bottle drew to its close, Green took an opportunity of saying,
in a low voice, "Come with me when I go out."

Wilton answered in the same tone, "Must you not make some excuse?"

"Oh, I will show you one--I will show you one!" exclaimed Green,
aloud--"if you have never seen one, I will show you one within five
minutes from this time. I have but to speak a word to some of my
friends at these different tables, and then you shall come with me."

This was heard all through the room; and Wilton seeing that the
excuse was already made, said no more, but, "Very well, I am ready
when you like."

Green then rose, and went round those to whom he had before spoken,
addressing each of them again in the same order.

"I will meet you, Harry," he said to the first, who had so readily
made an affirmative answer, "in three quarters of an hour. Don't be
longer, my good fellow, if you can help it.  Master Williamson," he
added, when he came up to the other, speaking in as low a tone as
possible, "I think you would have given up your game at cards, if you
had known what I had to tell you and Davis there, opposite."

There was something dark and meaning in Green's look as he spoke, a
knitting of the brows, a drawing together of the eyelids, and a tight
shutting of the mouth between every three or four words, which made
the man turn a little white.

"Why, what is the matter, Colonel?" he said, in a much civiler tone
than before. "Cannot you tell me now?"

"Oh, yes," replied Green, in the same low tone, "I can tell you now,
if you like. It is no great matter: only that there are warrants out
against you and Davis; and against Ingram there at the other table,
for robbing the Earl of Peterborough last night in the Green Lane,
behind Beaufort House. They have got hold of Jimmy Law, poor fellow,
already, and he will be hanged to a certainty. It was discovered who
you all were by Harry Brown, who was one of your party when you went,
without my knowledge, to do business between Gravesend and Rochester.
He's one of my Lord Peterborough's led captains now, and was in the
carriage with him, though you didn't see him to know him. He gave all
your names, and they have sent down to the Green Dragon after you,
and have also people on the Rochester road. Tell Davis, and I will
tell Ingram; for it is better you should all get out of the way for
awhile."

This was said in so low a tone, that none of those around could hear
distinctly; but the worthy gentleman to whom the words were addressed
did not seem near so cautious as the Colonel; for, after having
suffered his eyes and his mouth to expand gradually with a look of
increasing horror at every word, he started up from the table as
Green concluded, exclaiming, "By--!" and dashed the cards down upon
the board before him, scattering one half of them over the floor.
Green gave him one momentary look of sovereign contempt, and then
proceeded to the opposite table, where he told the same story to the
personage named Ingram, whose attention had been called by the
vehement excitement of his comrade.  The effect now produced seemed
fully as deep, though not quite so demonstrative; for Master Ingram
sat in profound silence at the table for at least five minutes, with
his face assuming various hues of purple and green, as he revolved
the matter in his own mind.

It is probable, that very seldom any three men, except three sailors,
have ever thought so much of a rope at the same moment; and before
Green could finish his tour round the room and rejoin Wilton, those
to whom he had spoken were all hastening up St. James's Street as
fast as they could go. Green returned to the table where he had been
seated, called the drawer to receive the money for the Burgundy, and
then bowing his head to Wilton, with somewhat of a stiff' air, he
said, "Now, sir, if you please, I am ready to show you the way; and
as I have not much time-"

"I am quite ready," replied Wilton; and turning to the door, he and
Green left the house together, while those who remained behind,
immediately they were gone, gathered into two or three little knots,
discussing the scene which had just taken place.

In the meantime, Green led Wilton into St. James's Square, the centre
of which was not at that time enclosed, as now, by iron railings; and
walking to and fro there, he demanded eagerly what was the matter,
and heard with surprise all that his young companion had to tell him
of the sudden disappearance of the Duke's daughter, of which he had
previously received no intelligence.

We need not recapitulate the whole of Wilton's account to the reader;
but will only add, to that which is already known, one fact of some
importance with which the young gentleman concluded the detail of his
inquiries during that very day.

"When I arrived at Beaufort House," he said, "fully and painfully
impressed with the notion that this poor young lady was drowned, I
was met by the Duke at the very door of his library with a letter in
his hand. His eyes were full of tears of joy, for the news of a boat
having been lost had, by this time, reached him; and the letter,
which was dated from a distant part of the country, informed him of
his daughter's safety, in these words:-'Lady Laura Gaveston will be
restored to Beaufort House as soon as her father can make up his mind
to behave with spirit and patriotism, and follow out the only plans
which can save his country. This must be done by actions, not by
words; but a positive engagement under his hand will be considered
sufficient. In the meantime, she remains a hostage for his good
faith.' At the bottom was written, in a hand which he says is that of
Lady Laura herself--'My dear father, I am well; but this is all
they will let me write.'"

"Whence was it dated?" demanded Green sharply.

"Newbury," replied Wilton; "and the letter was brought by a person
who spoke with a foreign accent."

"This is strange," said Green: "I should think it was some of that
troop of--I know not well whether to call them villains or madmen. I
should think some of them had done this, were it not that I had seen
them all--I may say all the principal ones--last night, and they
certainly had not a woman with them then."

"The Duke's suspicions turn principally upon Sir John Fenwick," said
Wilton.

"It could not well be him," replied Green: "he was there, and none
but men with him. It is very strange! I wish I could see that letter.
Perhaps I might recognise the hand."

"That is evidently feigned," answered Wilton; "but I should think the
date of Newbury must be false, too."

"To be sure, to be sure," replied Green--"the exact reverse most
likely. They must have taken her towards the sea, not
inland--Newbury!--More likely towards Rochester or Sheerness; yet I
can't think there was any woman there.  Yet stay a minute, Wilton,"
he continued, "stay a minute. I expect tidings to-night, from the
very house at which I met them last night. There is a chance, a bare
chance, of there being something on this matter in the letters; it is
worth while to see, however. Where can I find you in ten minutes from
this time ?-I saw the boy waiting near the palace when we came out."

"I will go into the Earl of Sunbury's, on that side of the square,"
replied Wilton, "where you see the two lights.  There is nobody in it
but the old housekeeper, but she knows me and will admit me."

"She knows me, too," replied Green, drily; "and I will join you there
in ten minutes with any intelligence I may gain."

Green left him at once, with that peculiar sharpness and rapidity of
movement which Wilton had always remarked in him from their first
meeting. The young gentleman, on his part, went over to the house of
the Earl of Sunbury, and telling the old housekeeper, and the girl
who opened the door to him, that a gentleman would soon be there to
speak with him on business, he went up to the saloon, and as soon as
he was alone, raised the light that was left with him, to gaze upon
the picture which we have mentioned more than once, and to compare it
by the aid of memory with the lady whom he had seen but a few days
before. The likeness was very strong, the height was the same, the
features, examined strictly one by one, presented exactly the same
lines. The complexion, indeed, in the picture, was more brilliant;
and it was that, perhaps, as well as a certain roundness, which
marked a difference of age; but then the expression was precisely the
same--a depth, a tenderness even approaching to melancholy--in the
picture, as in her whom he had seen; and though he gazed, and
wondered, and wearied imagination for probabilities, he found none,
but could only end by believing that, in the facts connected with
that picture, lay the mystery of his fate, and of the link between
him and the Earl of Sunbury.

He was still gazing, when Green was ushered into the room, and
setting down the light, Wilton turned to meet him.  There was a dark
and heavy frown upon the countenance of him whom we have so often
heard called the Colonel, as he entered: an expression of bitterness
mingled with sadness; but, nevertheless, he took up the light, and
walking up to the picture, gazed upon it for a minute or two, as
Wilton had done.

"It is wonderfully like," he said, after pausing for a moment or
two--"how beautiful she was!" However, I have no time to think of
such things now. I have here tidings for you, Wilton. I know not yet
rightly what they are, for I caught but a glance of them; and had
other things to think of bitter enough, and requiring instant
attention. Here, let us look what this epistle says."

Setting down the lamp upon the table, he opened the letter and held
it to the light, reading it attentively, while Wilton, who stood
beside him did the same. It was written in fine small hand, and in
French; but the page at which Green had opened the sheet, after a few
words connected with a sentence that had gone before, went on as
follows:--I should not have sent this till we were safe across, but
that circumstances have induced us to delay our departure; and you
would scarcely think that it is I who have urged Caroline to remain
for yet a little while: I, who some days ago was so fearful of 
remaining, so anxious to depart. Nor is it solely an inclination to
linger near that dear boy, although I own the sight of him has been
to me like the foretaste of a new existence. Bless him for me, my
friend--bless him for me! But I found that the dear wild girl who is
with me had neither ceased to love, nor ceased entirely to hope. In
the last letter she received, mingled with reproaches for coming
hither, there was every now and then a burst of tenderness and
affection which made her trust, and me almost believe, that all good
and honourable feeling is not extinct. She thinks that if she could
see him, the better angel might gain the dominion, and I have not
only counselled her to remain yet a little while, but also even to go
to London should it be required. While we were talking over all these
things," the letter proceeded, "just after you were gone, we heard a
fresh arrival at this house, and, as I thought, a woman's voice
speaking in tones of remonstrance and complaint. I have this morning
learned who it is, and now write in great haste to ask you if these
things are right in any cause, or if you can have anything to do with
it. I will not believe it, Lennard--I will not believe it. Rash as
you have been in choosing your own fate--hasty as you have been in
all things connected with yourself--you would not, I am sure,
countenance a thing that is cruel as well as criminal."

Green laughed bitterly. "I am forced," he said, "to bear much that I
would not countenance. But look here--she goes on to say that it is
the daughter of the Duke. 'Young, and beautiful, and gentle,' she
says--that matches well, does it not, Wilton, ha?--I Who has been
torn from her father, the Duke of Gaveston, in this daring and
shameful manner, and brought hither by water with the intention, as I
believe, of sending her over to France in the ship that we have
hired.  I have seen her twice, and spoken with her for some time, and
I beseech you, if it be possible, find means of setting her
free.'--Ay, but how may that be?" continued Green. "If they have got
her, and risk their necks to have her, they will take care to keep
her sure. They have men enough for that purpose, and they have taken
care to render me nearly powerless."

"I should have thought," replied Wilton, whose joy at the discovery
of where Laura really was had instantly blown up the flame of hope so
brightly, that objects distant and difficult to be reached seemed by
that light to be close at hand--, I should have thought, from what I
have seen and what I suspect, that you could have commanded a
sufficient force at any moment to set all opposition at defiance,
especially when you were engaged in a lawful and generous cause."

"I should have thought so, too," replied Green, "two days ago. But
times have changed, Wilton, times have changed, and, like the wind of
a tropical climate, turned round in a single moment. On my soul, he
continued, vehemently, "one would think that men were absolutely
insane. Here a set of people, whose lives are all in my own hand,
dare to tamper with my friends and comrades, to bribe them, to hire
them away from me, ay, and to do it so openly that I cannot fail to
see it, and that too, at the very moment when they know that I hate
and abhor their proceedings, and when they have just reason to
suppose that I will take means to frustrate their base and cowardly
designs, and only waver between the propriety of doing so, and the
wish not to give them over to the death they well deserve."

"If they have so acted," replied Wilton--"if they have shown such
base ingratitude towards you, as well as designs dangerous to the
country--for I will not affect to doubt or misunderstand you--why not
boldly, and at once, give them up to justice? Understand me, I wish
to hear nothing more of these men. I wish to be perfectly ignorant of
their whole proceedings. I wish to have no information whatsoever,
except my own suspicions, for if I had, I should feel myself bound
immediately to cause their arrest. But from what you have said in
regard to Sir John Fenwick; from what the Duke has said on various
occasions; and from what I myself have remarked, I am strongly
inclined to believe that there are matters going on which can but end
in ruin to those engaged in them, if not in all the horrors of a
civil war."

"That I should not mind--that I should not mind!" cried Green--"let
us have a civil war; let every man lay his hand upon his sword and
betake him to his standard. That is the true, the right, the only
right way to get rid of an usurper. It has been with the very view of
that civil war you talk of that I have banished myself from the
station in which I was born, that I have walked by night instead of
by day, and that I have kept in constant preparation, throughout the
whole of the south of England, the seeds, as it were, of a future
army.  And now what have they done? Not only trusted the command of
all things to others, but given that command to men who would do, by
the basest and most dastardly means, that which I would do by open
force and bold exertion: men who have mixed up crimes of the blackest
die with the noblest aspirations that ever led on men of honour to
the greatest deeds; who have soiled and sullied, disgraced and
degraded, the cause for which I have shed my blood, ruined my
fortune, and seen all the fair things of life pass away like a dream.
By heavens, I could cry as if I were a girl or a baby," and he dashed
away a tear from his eye which he could not restrain; "and now," he
continued, "and now if I do not prevent them they will put a damning
seal to all their follies and crimes, which will render that holy and
noble cause horrible in the eyes of all men, which will brand it for
ever with infamy and shame, and leave it blighted and loathsome, so
that men will shrink from the very thought thereof."

"But why not prevent them?" cried Wilton why not give up such
traitors and villains to justice at once?" "Why not?" replied Green;
"because there are men amongst them who have fought side by side with
me in the day of battle; because there are some foolish when others
are wicked; because that there are many who abhor their acts as much
as I do, but who would be implicated in the consequences of their
crimes. These are all strong reasons, Wilton, powerful, mighty
reasons, and I find now, alas I--I find now, most bitterly--that he who
seeks even the best ends, in dark and tortuous ways, is sure, sooner
or later, to involve himself in circumstances where he can neither
act nor refuse to act, neither speak nor be silent, without a crime,
a danger and a punishment. In that situation I have placed myself;
and I tell you that even now, since I have entered this room, I have
determined to call upon my own head those dangers, if not that fate,
which the mistake I have committed well deserves. I will frustrate
these men's designs.  They shall not commit the act they purpose. But
yet I will betray no man; I will give no man up to death. They shall
not wring it from me; but they shall be sufficiently warned. Now,
however, let us leave all this, and only inquire how this girl can be
saved from their hands. You, Wilton, must be the person to rescue
her, for I feel sure that your fate and hers are bound up together. I
feel sure, too," he added with a faint smile, 11 that she would
rather it were your hand saved her than that of any one else. I have
seen you together more than once, remember. But how it is to be done
is the question. My time must be given to other things, for from
tidings I have received not a moment is to be lost. They have taken
such means that I find there are only two whom I can trust out of
very many who were with me near London.  I have no time to send
either into Dorsetshire or Sussex, and the people there may have been
tampered with also. Besides, as we cannot call in the power of the
law upon our side, it would need a number to effect our purpose."

"But I will call in the power of the law," replied Wilton.  "I have a
Messenger with the Secretary of State's warrant at my command; and
wherever this place may be, I can in a moment raise such a force in
the neighbourhood as will enable me to rescue her, and capture those
who have committed so daring an outrage.

"Ay, but that is what must not be, Wilton," replied Green. "There is
not one of those men whom you would capture whose head would be worth
ten days' purchase, were he within the walls of Newgate or the Tower.
No, no!  to that I cannot consent. Her freedom must be effected
somehow, but their liberty not lost. I must think over it this night.
Where can I find you to-morrow morning early?"

"At my own lodgings," replied Wilton, "not four streets off."

"No, no!" answered Green; "I never enter London in the day. I might
risk much by doing so, and must not do it except in case of great
need."

"Then let it be at Beaufort House," replied Wilton: "I sleep there
to-night. But why should we not settle and determine the whole at
once? Tell me but where is this place to which they have taken Lady
Laura, and I will undertake to rescue her."

"You alone, Wilton?" said Green.

"Aided by none but the Messenger," replied Wilton:  "armed with the
force of the law, I fear not whom I encounter."

"Armed with the force of love!" answered Green, after looking at him
for a moment with eyes in which affection and admiration were equally
evident. "You want not the spirit of your race; and it will carry you
through. If you will promise me to take none but the Messenger with
you, you shall have some one to guide you to the house, and to aid
you on my part. I need not tell you what you have to do. Demand the
young lady's liberty simply and straightforwardly; say to all those
who oppose you, that the task of investigating what have been the
causes, and who the perpetrators of the outrage committed, must fall
upon the Duke; that you have no authority to meddle with that part of
the business. Say this, I repeat, and I doubt not that you will be
fully successful. They dare not--I am sure they dare not--resist you,
if you do not attempt to arrest any of their own number."

"I promise you most faithfully," replied Wilton, "to act as you have
said. I will go with the Messenger and the person you send only. But
where am I to meet this person?  When, and how, and where, am I to
find the house?"

"You would find it with difficulty," replied Green; "for it lies far
off from the high road, not many miles from Rochester; and the lanes
and woods about it are not arranged for the purpose of making it
easily discovered. You must not, therefore, attempt to find your way
alone. However, set out early to-morrow with strong fresh horses, and
ride on till you come to the village of High Halstow. Should you
reach that place before nightfall, remain there till it turns dusk.
As it begins to become grey, ride out again, taking the way towards
Cowley Castle. As you go along that road, you will find some one to
show you the way. He will ask you what colour you are of. Answer him
'Brown,' but that 'Green' will do as well. I would be there myself if
I could; but that, I fear, cannot be. Let me hear of you and of your
success, however--though I will not doubt your success; and now, are
you going back to Beaufort House? If so, I will bear you company on
the way."

Wilton replied in the affirmative, and they accordingly left the
house of the Earl of Sunbury. Wilton, however, had to procure his
horse; and Green also was delayed, for a moment, by the same piece of
business. When all was prepared, he seemed to hesitate and pause
before he mounted; and while he yet remained speaking, with his foot
in the stirrup, a boy ran up, saying, "I have just been down, sir,
and seen him go in."

Green gave him a note which he had held in his hand during the whole
conversation at Lord Sunbury's, saying, "Take him that note! Tell the
servant to deliver it immediately. If Lord Sherbrooke asks who sent
it, tell him it was the gentleman who wrote it, and who hopes to meet
him at the appointed place." The boy ran off with the note as fast as
he could go, and Wilton and his companion turned their horses' heads
towards Chelsea.

What he had heard certainly did surprise Wilton a good deal; and he
did not scruple to say, "You seem acquainted with every one, I think,
and to have an acquaintance with many of whom I did not know you had
the slightest knowledge."

"It is so," answered Green, in a grave and thoughtful tone, "and yet
nothing wonderful. It is with a man like me as with nature," he added
with a smile, "we both work secretly. Things seem extraordinary,
strange, almost miraculous, when beheld only in their results, but
when looked at near, they are found to be brought about by the
simplest of all possible means. You, having lived but little in the 
world, and not being one half my age, yet know thousands of people in
the highest ranks of life that I do not know, though I have mingled
with that rank ten times as much as you have done: and I know many
whom you would think the last to hold acquaintance with me in these
changed times. You could go into any thronged assembly, a theatre, a
ball-room, a house of parliament, and point me out, by hundreds,
people with whose persons I am utterly unacquainted, and these would
be the greatest men of the day.

But I could lay my finger upon this wily statesman, or that great
warrior, or the other stern philosopher, and could tell you secrets
of those men's bosoms which would astonish you to hear, and make them
shrink into the ground;--and yet there would be no magic in all
this."

Wilton did not answer him in the same moralizing strain, but strove
to obtain some farther information in regard to his proceedings
proposed for the following day. But neither upon that, nor upon the
subject of the note to Lord Sherbrooke, would Green speak another
word, till, on arriving at the gates of Beaufort House, he said--

"Remember High Halstow."



CHAPTER XXI.

It was night, and the large assembly of persons who had thronged the
palace at Kensington during the day had taken their departure.
Silence had returned after the noise and bustle of the sunshine had
subsided; scarcely a sound was heard throughout the whole building,
except the porter snoring in the hall. The King himself had taken his
frugal supper, and was sitting alone in his cabinet with merely a
page at the door; his courtiers were scattered in their different
apartments; and his immediate attendants were waiting in the distant
chambers where he slept, for the hour of his retiring to rest.

Such had been the state of things for some little time, when the
great bell rang, and the porter started up to open the door. A
gentleman on horseback appeared without, accompanied by two others,
apparently servants; and the principal personage demanded, in a tone
of authority, "Is the Earl of Portland in the palace?"

The porter, though not well pleased to be roused, replied, with every
sort of deference to the air and manner of the visitor, saying that
the Earl was in the palace, but be believed was unwell.

"I am afraid I must disturb him," said the stranger. "My business is
of too much importance to his lordship to wait till to-morrow
morning."

The porter then gave the speaker another look: the dress, the
demeanour, the horses, the attendants, were all such as commanded
respect, although he did not recollect the stranger's face. "Well,
sir," he said, "if you will come in, I will have his lordship
informed."

The stranger nodded his head, and turning to his followers, bade them
take away the horses. "I will walk back," he said, and then following
the porter, entered the palace.  The janitor led him onward through
some large folding doors to a room where two or three servants were
sitting, into whose hands he delivered him, bidding one of them
conduct him to the page in waiting. This was speedily done; and the
page, on being informed of the stranger's desire, again examined him
somewhat curiously, and asked his name.

"That matters not," replied the stranger. "Tell him merely that it is
a gentleman to whom he rendered great service many years ago, and who
has now important intelligence to give him."

"I fear, sir," replied the page, "that my Lord Portland would not
like to be disturbed without some clearer information than that."

"Do as you are ordered, sir," replied the gentleman, in a tone of
stern authority, which seemed not a little to surprise his hearer.
"Tell Lord Portland it is a gentleman whose life he saved at the
battle of the Boyne."

The page retired with the air of one who would fain have been sullen
if be had dared; and the stranger remained standing with his hand
upon the table in the middle of the room, the doors closed round him
on all sides, and no one apparently near.

His first thought was one not often indulged in that place, though by
no means an unnatural one. It was a thought, for merely expressing
which, not less than twelve people were once committed to a severe
and lengthened imprisonment by a king of France. "How easy would it
now be," the stranger said mentally, "to kill a king, were one so
minded!  Now, God forbid," he added, "that even the attempt of such
an act. should ever stain our loyalty to our legitimate sovereign!
Those Romans, those splendid but most barbarous of barbarians, were
certainly the greatest cheats of their own understandings that ever
lived. There was scarcely a crime, a vice, or a folly upon earth,
that they did not hug to their hearts, when they had once gilded it
with a glorious name."

As he thus paused, moralizing, he laid down his hat upon the table,
and brushing back his grey hair from his brow, pressed his hand upon
his forehead as if his head ached, and then dropping it again, mused
for several minutes with his eyes fixed upon the floor. He was only
roused from this deep fit of thought by the door opening suddenly. A
gentleman rather below the middle height, with strong marked
features, and a keen but steadfast eye, entered the room with a paper
in his hand. His eyes were fixed upon the ground as he came in, and
he walked with a firm but somewhat heavy step, as if his limbs did
not move very easily, though he was by no means a man far advanced in
life.

The stranger gazed at him for a moment with a look of inquiry, and
then advanced immediately towards him, bowing with a stately air, and
saying, "My Lord of Portland, since I last saw you, you are somewhat
changed, but perhaps not so much as I am, and therefore I may have to
recall myself to your remembrance; especially as those who confer a
benefit in a moment of haste and tumult, are more likely to forget
the person they obliged, than that person to forget his benefactor."

He spoke in French, as it was generally known that Lord Portland was
unwilling to speak English, though he understood it.

The other heard him out in perfect silence, and without the slightest
change of countenance; but looked him in the face attentively, as if
endeavouring to recollect his features.

"I have seen you somewhere before," he said at length, "but where I
really do not know. It must have been a long time ago. Pray what do
you want?"

"It is a long time ago, my lord," replied the visitor, "and the place
where we met is far distant. It was upon the banks of the Boyne, just
when the battle was over."

"Oh, I think I remember now," replied the other: "did I not come up
just as one of our people had got his knee upon your throat, and was
going to fire his pistol into your head, because you would ask no
quarter, while another was wrenching your broken sword out of your
band?"

"You did," answered the stranger, "you did: you saved my life; and
when I jumped up and got to a horse, you would not let them fire
after me. It was not to be forgotten, my lord; but--"

At that moment the door was again thrown open, and the page
re-entered the room, speaking in a somewhat harsh and authoritative
tone as he came in, so as to cut. across what the stranger was about
to say, with "My Lord of Portland--;" but the gentleman who had
entered just before waved his hand, saying, in a stern voice, "Leave
the room! and wait without."

The man obeyed immediately, and the other turning to the visitor,
added, "I am at this moment not very well, and extremely busy--even
pressed for a moment, so that I must leave you just now. If you will
sit down and write what you wish, it shall have favourable attention,
or if you would rather say it, and explain it more fully by word of
mouth, I will send an intimate friend of mine to you to whom you can
tell what you think proper. I will hear what it is, and give every
attention to it; but at this moment it is impossible for me to
remain. These papers in my hand require instant reply, and I was
seeking for some one to answer them when I came here."

"What I have to say," answered the stranger, "requires also instant
attention; that is to say, it must be told to your lordship before
to-morrow morning, and I will therefore, if you will permit me,
remain here till you are ready to hear.  When once told to you, the
burden of it will be off my shoulders."

"I could have wished to have gone to bed," replied the other, with a
faint smile, "without any farther burden upon mine. But if it so
please you to wait, do it; but I fear I shall be long."

The visitor, however, signified his acquiescence by bowing his head;
and the other left him without saying anything more.

"Somewhat of the insolence of office!" he said to himself, as his
acquaintance quitted the room: "however, I must not forget the
obligation;" and seating himself, he fell into deep thought, which
seemed of a painful kind; for the muscles of his face moved with the
emotions of his mind, and one or two half-uttered words escaped him.
At length, he seemed weary of his own thoughts, and turning round as
if to look for some occupation for his thoughts, he said, "It matters
not!"

There were no books in the room, nor any pictures; there was nothing
that could attract the eye or amuse the mind, except the beautiful
forms of some of the gilded panel-frames, and the spots of the carpet
beneath his feet. The visitor began to grow weary, and to think that
Lord Portland was very long in returning.

At length, however, when he had been there about half an hour, a
somewhat younger man entered, splendidly dressed according to the
costume of the day, and advancing directly towards the stranger, he
said in very good English--

"My name is Keppel, sir, and I am directed to say that Lord Portland
will really be hardly able to see you to-night, as he is anything but
well; but as it would appear that what you have to say is important,
I wish to know whether it is important to the King or to the Earl
himself. If to the latter, the Earl will see you at two o'clock
to-morrow; if to the King, I am directed to request that you would
communicate it to me, by whom it shall be most faithfully reported,
both to Lord Portland and to the King himself."

"Sir," replied the stranger, "the motive of my coming is on no
private business. It is on business of importance to the state
generally--of the very utmost importance. I had wished to communicate
it to Lord Portland, because that gentleman once performed an act of
great kindness and generosity towards me, and I wished to give him
the means of rendering a great service to his master."

"The King and Lord Portland are both indebted to you, sir," replied
Keppel, better known as the Earl of Albemarle, with a grave smile;
"but in those circumstances, as the greatest favour to all parties,
you will be pleased to communicate anything you have to say to me.
From your whole tone and demeanour, I am perfectly sure that what you
have to say is none of the unimportant things with which we are too
often troubled here; and I may therefore confidently add, that, after
you have given me a knowledge of the business, either the King or
Lord Portland, as you may think fit, will see you to-morrow."

"Well, sir," replied the visitor, "I have no right to stand on
ceremony, especially at such a moment as this. What I have to say
would have been much more easily said to Lord Portland himself, as he
knows under what circumstances we met, knows probably who I am, and
would make allowances for my peculiar views. YOU may think it next to
high treason for me to call that Personage, who was not long ago
William Prince of Orange, by any other name than King of England"

"Oh no! oh no!" said Keppel with a smile--" names are but names, my
good sir; and in this boisterous land of England we are accustomed to
see things stripped of all ornaments. The difficulty you mention is
easily obviated, by calling him of whom you just have spoken, 'The
High Personage.'"

"Names, indeed, are nothing," said the other with a smile.  "What I
have got to say, sir, is this, that I have undoubted reason to know
that the life of the High Personage we refer to is in hourly danger;
that there are persons in this realm who have not only designed to
kill him, but have laid with skill and accuracy their schemes for
effecting that purpose.  I have heard that he is very apt--for I have
never seen the royal hunt--to go out to the chase nearly alone, or
rather, I should say, very slightly attended; and I came to tell Lord
Portland that if this were continued, that High Personage's life
could not be counted upon from day to day. Let him be well guarded;
let there be always some one near him as he rides; and, as far as
possible, let some of his guards be ready to escort him home on his
return."

"Your information," said Keppel, "is certainly very important, and the
precaution you recommend wise and judicious; but yet I fear you must
give us some more information to render it at all efficient--I say
this, not at all from doubting you, but because we have had,
especially of late, so many false reports of plots which never
existed, that the King has become careless and somewhat rash. Nor
would it be possible for either Lord Portland or myself to persuade
him to take any precautions unless we had some more definite
information. If you know that such a plot really exists, you must
also know the names of those who laid it."

"But those names I will never give up," replied the other:  "it is
quite sufficient for me, sir, to satisfy my own heart and my own
conscience, that I have given a full and timely warning of what is
likely to ensue. It matters not to me whether that warning be taken
or not; I have done what is right; I will tell no more. Lord Portland
knows that I am neither a, coward, nor a low born man. I expect
not--I ask not for favour, immunity, reward, or even thanks. All I do
ask is, in the words of the poet, 'that Caesar would be a friend to
Caesar.'"

"But you are doubtless aware," answered Keppel, after a pause, "that
by concealing the names, and in any degree the purposes of persons
guilty of high treason, you bring yourself under the same
condemnation."

"I both know the fact, sir," replied the other, "and I knew before I
came that it might be urged against me here; but I did not think that
Lord Portland would urge it. However that may be, I came fully
prepared to do what I think right, and as nothing, not even the cause
to which I am most attached, would induce me to become an assassin or
to wink at cold-blooded murder, so, sir, nothing on earth will induce
me to betray others to the death which I do not fear myself.  At all
events, the truth of what I have told may be positively relied upon;
and that I ask no reward or recompence of any kind, may well be
received to show that the warning I have given is not vain."

Keppel again mused for a moment or two, and then said, "Well, sir, I
must not urge you by any harsh menace, nor was such my intention in
what I said. But there are other considerations which should induce
you to tell me more than you have told. One is, the safety of the
Great Personage we have mentioned himself. It is scarcely possible
for him to guard against the evil you apprehend in the manner you
propose. He is by far too fearless a man, as you well know, to shut
himself up within the walls of his palace, or even to conceal himself
in his carriage. If he rides out, he cannot always be surrounded by
guards, nor can he have a troop galloping after him through the
hunting field."

"Sir," replied the stranger, "to you and to his other friends and
attendants I must leave the guardianship of his person--I neither know
him nor his habits. I have done what I conceive to be my duty; I have
done it to the extreme limit of what I judge right; and neither fear
nor favour will make me go one step farther."

"These scruples are very extraordinary," replied Keppel--"indeed, I
cannot understand them: but at all events I must beg you to remain a
little, while I go and speak to Lord Portland upon the subject.
Perhaps, if the King himself were to hear you, you might say more."

"I should say no more to the Personage you mention," replied the
other, "than I should to Lord Portland--for to the one I am obliged,
to the other, not."

"Well, wait a few minutes," replied Keppel, and quitted the room.

The other remained standing where the courtier had left him, though
the thought crossed his mind, "My errand is now done. Why should I
remain any longer? I should risk less by going now than by
lingering."

But still be stayed; and in two minutes, or perhaps less, the door
again opened, giving admission, not to Keppel, but to the elder
personage with whom he had spoken before.  Advancing into the middle
of the room, he leaned upon the table, near which the other was
standing, and said--

"Monsieur Keppel has told me all that you have said, and, moreover,
what you have refused to say. First, let me tell you that I am much
obliged to you for the intelligence you have brought; and next, let
me exhort you to make it more full and complete to render it
effectual."

"I have made it as complete, my lord," replied his visitor, "as it is
possible for me to do without betraying men who were once my friends,
and who have only lost my friendship by such schemes as these. I must
not say any more even at your request; for I must not take from you
the power of saying, that you saved the life of a man of honour. You
must contrive means to secure the Great Personage we speak of, and I
doubt not you will be able to do so. I had but one object in coming
here, my lord, and that object was not a personal one; it was to tell
you of the danger, and thereby enable you to guard against it; it was
to tell you, that a body of rash and criminal men have conspired
together, to assassinate a Personage who stands in the way of their
schemes."

"Are there many of them?" demanded his companion.

"A great many," he replied--"enough to render their object perfectly
secure, if means be not taken to frustrate it."

"But," said the other, "the men must be mad, for many of them must be
taken and executed very soon."

"True," answered his visitor, "if we were to suppose the country
would remain quiet all the while. But assassination might only be the
prelude to insurrection and to civil war, and to the restoration of
our old monarchs to the throne."

"Such was the purpose, was it?" replied his companion.

"Assassination is a pitiful help, and has never yet been called in to
aid a great or good cause."

"Ay, my lord," replied his informant; "but in this instance it is a
base adjunct affixed to the general scheme of insurrection by a few
bloody-minded men, without the knowledge of thousands who would have
joined the rising, and without the knowledge, I am sure, of King
James himself."

"I really do not see," said the other, "what should have caused such
hatred against the person they aim at--the post of King of England is
no bed of roses; and a thousand, a thousand-fold happier was he, as
Stadtholder of Holland, governing a willing people and fighting the
battles of freedom throughout the world, than monarch of this great
kingdom, left without a moment's peace, by divisions and factions in
the mass of the nation, which called him to the throne, and seeing
union nowhere but in that small minority of the people who oppose his
authority, and even attempt his life.  His is no happy fate."

"Sir, there are some men," replied the other, "in whom certain
humours and desires are so strong, that the gratification thereof is
worth the whole of the rest of a life's happiness, and gratified
ambition may be sufficient in this case to compensate for the
sacrifice of peace. I mean not to speak one word against the master
that you serve. He has, as you say, fought the battles of liberty for
many years: he is a brave and gallant soldier, too, as ever lived: I
doubt not he is a kind friend and a good master"

"Stay, stay," replied the other, holding up his hand "before you go
farther, let me tell you that you arc, under a mistake. I am the
personage of whom you speak--I am the King. When I prevented the
soldiers from killing you, Bentinek was near me. He is taller than I
am: the Dutch guards saw him before me, and shouted his name, which
led to your error."

The effect of these words upon the other can hardly be imagined. He
turned pale--he turned red; but he yielded to the first impulse both
of gratitude and respect, and without taking time to think or
hesitate, he bent his knee and kissed the King's hand.

"Rise, rise!" said William--"I ask nothing of you, sir, but to speak
to me as you would have done if I had really been Lord Portland. I
could not let you go on without explanation, for you had said all
that could be pleasant to a king's ears to hear; and you seemed about
to say those things which you might not have been well pleased to
remember, when you discovered my real situation."

"I thank you, sir, most deeply," replied the other, "for that act of
kindness, as well as for that which went before.  I have hitherto, as
I need scarcely say, been a strenuous and eager supporter of King
James. I have served him with all my ability, and had he at any time
returned to this country, would have served him with my sword. That
sword, sir, however, can never now be drawn against the man who has
saved my life; and, indeed, though I have known many changes and
chances, yet I remember no one moment of joy and satisfaction greater
than this, when I think that, spontaneously, I have refused to take a
share in criminal designs against my benefactor, though I knew him
not to be so, and have revealed the schemes against his life, who
generously spared my own."

"I intended," said the King, "in the character of Lord Portland, to
press you to farther explanations; but now that you know who I am, I
may feel a greater difficulty in so doing. I must leave it to
yourself, then, to tell me all that you may think necessary for my
safety."

The other put his hand to his head, and for a few minutes seemed
embarrassed and pained. "The discovery, sir," he said, at length,
"alters my situation also; and yet I pray and beseech you, do not
press me to perform an act that is base and dishonourable; grant me
but one or two conditions, and I will go to the very verge of what I
ought to do, towards you."

"I will press you to nothing, sir," replied William; "what are the
conditions?"

"First," replied the other, "that I may not be asked to name any
names; secondly, that I may never be called upon to give any evidence
upon this subject in a court of justice."

"The names, of course, are important," said William, "as by having
them we are placed most upon our guard. However, you have come
voluntarily to render me a service, and I will not press hard upon
you. The conditions you ask shall be granted. The names shall not be
required of you, and you shall not be called upon to give evidence.
Call in Keppel! Arnold!" he added, raising his voice; and immediately
the door was opened, and Keppel entered, bowing low as he did so.

"I have promised this gentleman two things, Keppel," said the King.
"First, that he shall not be pressed to give up the names of the
conspirators; and, secondly, that be shall not be called upon to give
evidence against them."

"Your majesty is very gracious," replied Keppel: "without the
names of the persons, I scarcely think--"

William made a sign with his hand, saying, "That is decided. Now,
sir, what more have you to add?"

"Merely this, sir," replied the other: "it is not much, indeed, but
it will enable you to take greater measures for your safety. The
design to assassinate you has existed some time, but the period for
putting it in execution was formerly fixed for the month of April. My
opposition to the bloody design, and to the purpose of bringing
French troops into Great Britain, has deranged all the plans of these
base men.  I had fancied that such opposition, and the falling away
of many others on whom the assassins counted, would have induced them
to abandon the whole design. Last night, however, I received
intelligence that, instead of so doing, their purpose was but
strengthened, and their design only hastened; that instead of April,
the assassination was to take place whenever it could be
accomplished; that even tomorrow, when it is believed you dine with
the Lord Romney, if it were found possible absolutely to surround the
house so as to prevent escape, the deed was to be attempted there; or
as you went; or as you came back. If none of these occasions suited,
you were to be assailed the first time that you went out to hunt; and
dresses such as those worn by many of your attendants in the chase
are already ordered for the purpose of facilitating the execution of
the murder, and the escape of the assassins. It has been calculated,
I find, that on the night of next Saturday you are likely to pass
across Turnham Green towards ten o'clock, and that is one of the
occasions which is to be made use of, if others fail."

William looked at Lord Albemarle, and Albemarle at the King; but the
latter remained silent for a minute or two, as if to give his
informant time to go on. The other, however, added nothing more; and
the King, after this long pause, said, "I must not conceal from you,
sir, that we have heard something of this matter, and may probably
soon have farther tidings."

"It is high time, sir," replied the other, "that you should have
farther tidings, for the first attempt will certainly be to-morrow
night."

"Perhaps we have acted somewhat rashly," said Keppel; "but to say
truth, there have been so many reports of plots, that we thought it
but right to discourage the matter; his Majesty justly observing,
that if he were to give attention to everything of the kind, he would
have nothing to do but to examine into the truth of stories composed
for the purpose of obtaining rewards. We therefore gave this matter
not so much attention as it would seem to require."

"It requires every attention, sir," replied their visitor; "and from
whomsoever you may have obtained the information, if possible, obtain
more from him immediately. If he tell you what I have told, he tells
you truth; and if so, it is probable that any farther information he
may give will be true likewise. Did I know his name, perhaps I could
say more."

"Suppose his name were Johnstone?" said the King.

"I know of none such," replied the other, "who could give you much
information. There are many persons, whom men call Jacobites, of that
name, and many very gallant gentlemen who would sooner die than
become assassins.  But none that I know of, in this business."

"What would you say, then," the King continued, "to the name of
Williamson, or Carter, or Porter?"

"Porter!" replied the other, gazing in the King's face--"Porter!--I
believe, sir," he added, "you are too generous to attempt to wring
from me the names of persons connected with this business in any
underhand manner; and therefore I reply to you straightforwardly,
that if Captain Porter should give you any information upon this
matter consistent with the tidings that I have given, or in
explanation thereof, you may believe him. He is not a gentleman I
either very much respect or esteem; but I do not believe that he is
one who would willingly take a part in assassination, or who would
falsify the truth knowingly."

"Sir, you confirm my good opinion of you," replied the King: "we have
intimation of some of these proceedings from Porter, and have had
intimation from other quarters also, but none such as could be relied
upon till the information that you have given us to-night. Porter's,
indeed, might have proved more satisfactory; but he does not bear a
good reputation, and it was judged better to discourage the thing
altogether. He shall now be heard, and very likely the whole will be
explained. On the complete discovery of the plot, I need hardly say
that any reward within reason which you may require shall be given
you."

The stranger waved his hand somewhat indignantly.  "There was a man
found, sir," he said, "to sell the blood of Christ himself for thirty
pieces of silver; and therefore it can scarcely be considered as
insulting to any of the sons of men to suppose that they would follow
that example. I, however, do not trade in such things, and I require
no reward whatsoever for that which I have done. I trust and see now
that it will prove effectual, and I am perfectly satisfied. If these
men fall into your hands by other means than mine, and incur the
punishment they have justly deserved, I have not a word to say for
them, but I have only to beseech you, sir, to separate the innocent
from the guilty; to be careful--oh! most careful, in a moment of
excitement and just indignation--not to confound the two, and to make
a just distinction between fair and open enemies of your government,
and base and treacherous assassins."

"I shall strive to do so, sir," answered the King, "and would always
rather lean towards mercy than cruelty. And now, as it grows late, I
would fain know your name, and would gladly see you again."

"My name, sir," replied the other, "must either be kept secret, or
revealed to your Majesty alone. I have long been a nameless man,
having lost all, and spent all, in behalf of that family opposed to
your dynasty."

"Who have, doubtless, shown you no gratitude," said William.

"They have had no means, sir," replied the Jacobite, "and I have made
no demand upon them."

"It is but right, however," said the King, changing the subject,
"that I should know your name. When I inquired who you were when we
last met--the only time, indeed, we have met, till now--they gave me
a name which I now see must have been a mistaken one. Do you object
to give it before this gentleman?"

"To give my real name, sir," replied the other, "I do.  But I have no
objection to give it to you yourself in private."

"Leave us, Arnold," said the King; and Lord Albemarle immediately
quitted the presence.



CHAPTER XXII.

The day which we have just seen terminate at Kensington we must now
conduct to a close in another quarter, where events very nearly as
much affecting the peace and safety of this realm, and far more
affecting the peace of various personages mentioned in this history
than the events which took place at the palace, were going on at the
same time. It was a bright, clear, frosty day, with everything
sparkling in the sunshine, the last dry leaves of the preceding year
still lingering in many places on the branches of the trees, and
clothing the form of nature in the russet livery of decay.

Wilton Brown was up long before daylight, and ready to set out by the
first streak of dawn in the east. Not having seen the Duke on the
preceding night--as that nobleman, worn with anxiety and grief, had
fallen ill and retired to seek repose--he sat down and wrote him a
note, while waiting for the Messenger, informing him that he had
obtained information concerning Lady Laura's situation, and doubted
not to be enabled to set her free in the course of the following day.
The Messenger was somewhat later up than himself, and Wilton sent
twice to hasten his movements. When he did appear, he had to be
informed of the young gentleman's purposes, and of the information he
had obtained the night before; and this information Wilton could of
course communicate only in part. When told in this mysterious manner,
however, and warned that there might be some danger in the enterprise
which they were about to undertake, he seemed to hesitate, as if he
did not at all approve of the affair. As soon as Wilton remarked
this, he said, in a stern tone, "Now, Mr. Arden, are you or are you
not willing to go through this business with me? If you are not, let
me know at once, that I may send for another messenger who has more
determination and spirit."

"That you wont easily find," replied the Messenger, a good deal hurt.
"It was not at any danger that I hesitated at all, for I never have
in my life, and I wont begin now, when I dare say there is not half
so much danger as in things that I do every day.--Did not I apprehend
Tom Lambton, who fired two pistols at my head? No, no, it is not
danger; but what I thought was, that the Earl very likely might not
like any of these bargains about not taking up the folks that we find
there, and all that. However, as he told me to obey your orders in
everything, I suppose that must be sufficient."

"It must, indeed," answered Wilton; "for I have no time to stop for
explanations or anything else; and if you hesitate, I must instantly
send for another messenger."

"Oh, I shall not hesitate, sir," replied the Messenger; "but you must
take all the burden of the business on yourself.  I shall do exactly
as you order me, neither more nor less; so that if there comes blame
anywhere, it must rest at your door."

"Come. come, Arden," said Wilton, seeing that he was likely to have a
lukewarm companion where a very ardent and energetic one was much
wanted, "you must exert yourself now as usual, and I am sure you will
do so. Let us get to our horses as fast as possible."

Wilton tried to soothe the Messenger out of his ill-humour as they
rode along, but he did not succeed in any great degree. The man
remained sullen; being one of those who like, when clothed with a
little brief authority, to rule all around them rather than be
directed by any. So long as he had conducted the search himself, it
had been pleasant enough to him to have one of the minister's
secretaries with him, following his suggestions, listening to his
advice, and showing deference to his experience; but when the young
gentleman took the business into his own hands, conducted the whole
proceedings, and did not make him acquainted even with all the
particulars, his vanity was mortified, and he resolved to assist as
little as possible, though he could not refuse to act according to
the directions which he received. This determination was so evident,
that, before they had reached Gravesend, Wilton felt cause to regret
that he had not put his threat in execution, and sent for another
messenger.  His companion's horse must needs be spared, though he was
strong, quick, and needed nothing but the spur; he must be fed here,
he must be watered there; and the young gentleman began to fear that
delays which were evidently made on purpose, might cause them to be
late ere they arrived at the place of their destination. He had
remarked, however, that the Messenger was somewhat proud of the beast
that carried him, and he thought it in no degree wrong to make use of
a stratagem in order to hurry his follower's pace.

After looking at the horse for some time with a marking and critical
eye, he said, "That is a fine, powerful horse of yours, Mr. Arden. It
is a pity he's so heavy in the shoulder."

"Heavy in the shoulder, Mr. Brown!" said Arden--" I don't think he
can be called that, sir, any how; for a really strong, serviceable
horse, he's as free in the shoulder as any horse in England."

"I did not exactly mean," replied Wilton, "to say that he was heavy;
I only meant that he could not be a speedy horse with that shoulder."

"I don't know that, sir; I can't say that," replied the Messenger,
evidently much piqued: "you reckon your horse a swift horse, I should
think, Mr. Brown, and yet I'll bet you money, that at any pace you
like, for a couple of miles, mine wont be a yard behind."

"Oh, trotting will do, trotting will do," replied Wilton--"there's
no such made horse as mine in England. Let him once get to his full
pace, and he will out-trot any horse I ever saw."

"Well, sir," replied his companion, "let us put to our spurs and
see."

"With all my heart," answered Wilton, and away they accordingly went,
trotting as hard as they could go for the next four or five miles.
Nevertheless, although the scheme was so far successful, Wilton and
the Messenger did not reach the village of High Halstow above an hour
before sunset. The horses were by this time tired, and the riders
somewhat hungry. Provisions were procured in haste to satisfy the
appetite of the travellers, and the horses, too, were fed. It was
some time, however, before the tired animals would take their food,
and Wilton and his companion at length determined to proceed on foot.
Before they did so, as both were perfectly ignorant of the way,
application was made to the host for directions, and the reply, "Why,
there are three roads you can take!" somewhat puzzled the inquirers,
especially when it was followed by a demand of where they were going
exactly.

"When I know that," said the landlord, "I shall be able to tell you
which is the best road."

"Why, I asked the way to Cowley Castle," said Wilton, both
embarrassed and annoyed; for the Messenger stood coolly by, without
any attempt to aid him, and, in truth, enjoying a little difficulty.

"But you are not going to Cowley Castle at this time of night," said
the man: "why, the only house there is the great house, and that is
empty."

"My good friend," said Wilton, "I suppose the next question you will
ask me is, what is my business there? I ask you the way to Cowley
Castle, and pray, if you can, give me a straightforward answer."

"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the man, with a determined air--" I
have given you a straightforward answer.  There are three roads, all
of them very good ones, and there is, besides, a footpath."

As he spoke, he stared into Wilton's face with a look half dogged,
half jocular; but in the end, he added,--

"Come, come, sir--you might as well tell me the matter at once. If
you are going to Master Plessis's--the mountseer, as we call him
here--I'll put you upon your road in a minute: I mean the gentleman
that, folks think, has some dealings with France."

It struck Wilton, instantly, that this gentleman, who was supposed to
have dealings with France, must have something to do with the
detention of Laura, and he therefore replied, "Perhaps it may be as
you suppose, my good friend. At all events, put me upon the principal
horse-road towards Cowley Castle."

"Well, sir, well," replied the host, "you have nothing to do but to
turn to the right when you go out of the door, and then you will find
a road to the left; then take the first road to the right, which will
lead you straight down to Cowley Church. Now, if you're going to
Master Plessis's, you had better not go farther than that."

"That way will not be difficult to find," replied Wilton; and
followed by the Messenger, he quitted the little inn, or rather
public-house, for it was no better, and traced accurately the road the
landlord had pointed out.

"He had better go no farther than Cowley Church, indeed," said a man
who was sitting in the bar, as soon as he was gone; "for if he be
going to Master Plessis's, he'll be half a mile beyond the turning by
that time."

"Jenkin, Jenkin!" cried the landlord, not minding what his guest
said, but addressing a boy who was cleaning some pewter stoups in a
kitchen at the end of the passage--"come here, my man. Run down by
the lanes as fast as you can go, and tell Master Plessis that there
are two gentlemen coming to his house, whose looks I don't like at
all. One is a state messenger, if I'm not much mistaken. I've seen
his face before, I'm sure enough, and I think it was when Evans the
coiner was taken up at Stroud. You can get there half an hour before
them, if you run away straight by the lanes."

The boy lost not a moment, very sure that any one who brought
Monsieur Plessis intelligence of importance would get something at
least for his pains.

In the meantime, Wilton and his companion walked on.  The sky was
clear above, but it had already become very dark, and a doubt
occurred, both at the first and second turning, as to whether they
were right. Wilton and the Messenger had furnished themselves with
pistols, besides their swords; and the young gentleman paused for a
moment to ascertain that the priming had not fallen out; but nothing
would induce the Messenger to do so likewise; for his sullen mood had
seized upon him again more strongly than ever, and he merely replied
that his pistols would do very well, and that it would be lucky if
Mr. Brown were as sure of his way as he was of his pistols.

"I should like you to give me my orders, Mr. Brown," he added, in the
same dogged tone, "for I am always glad to know beforehand what it is
I am to do, that I may be ready to do it."

"I shall of course give orders," replied Wilton, somewhat sharply,
"when they are required, Mr. Arden. At the present moment, however, I
have only to tell you that I expect every minute to meet a person who
will lead us to the house where Lady Laura is detained. At that
house, we shall have to encounter, I understand, a number of persons
whose interest and design is to carry her off, probably to the coast
of France. I intend to demand her in a peaceable and tranquil manner,
and in case they refuse to give her up, must act according to
circumstances. I expect your support on all the legal points of the
case, such as the due notice of our authority, et cetera; and, in case
it should become necessary or prudent either to menace or to use
force, I will tell you at the time."

The Messenger made no reply, but sunk again into sullen silence; and
Wilton clearly saw that little help, and indeed little advantage, was
to be derived from the presence of his self-sufficient attendant,
except in as much as the appearance of such a person in his company
was likely to produce a moral effect upon those to whom he might be
opposed. Messengers of state were in those days very awful people,
and employed in general in the arrest of such criminals as were very
unlikely to escape the axe if taken. Yet it seldom if ever happened
that any resistance was offered to them; and we are told that at the
appearance of a single individual of this redoubted species, it often
happened three or four traitors, murderers, spies, or pirates, whose
fate if taken was perfectly certain, would seem to give up all hope,
and surrendering without resistance, would suffer themselves to be
led quietly to the shambles.

Thus if Arden did but his mere duty, Wilton knew that the effect of
his presence would be great; but as he walked on, he began to
entertain new apprehensions. For nearly two miles, no one appeared to
guide them to the place of their destination; at length a church,
with some cottages gathered round it, announced that they had reached
the little hamlet of Cowley, where, as several roads and paths
branched off in different directions, he found it advisable to follow
the counsel of the landlord, and not go any farther.

He consequently turned back again; but a thin white fog was now
beginning to come on--a visitation to which that part of the country
near the junction of the Thames and the Medway is very often subject.
The cloud rolled forward, and Wilton and the Messenger advanced
directly into it; so that at length the hedge could only be
distinguished on one side of the road, and beyond it, on either side,
nothing could be seen farther than the distance of five or six yards.

The Messenger lingered somewhat behind, muttering, "This is
pleasant;" but ere long, as they were approaching the top of a narrow
lane which Wilton had before remarked, as they passed, he thought he
heard people speaking at a distance, and stopped to listen. The tones
were those of a male and a female voice conversing evidently with
eagerness, though with slow and measured words and long pauses.
Wilton thought that the sound of one voice was familiar to him,
though the speaker was at such a distance that he could not catch any
of the words.

Not doubting at all, however, that one of the interlocutors was the
person who was to guide him on his way, Wilton paused, determined to
wait till they came up.

A loud "So be it then!" was at length uttered; and the next moment
steps were heard advancing rapidly towards him, and the figure of a
man made its appearance through the mist, first like one of the
fabled shades upon the dim shores of the gloomy river, but growing
into solidity as it came near.



CHAPTER XXIII.

For the right understanding of all that is to follow--strange as it
may appear to the reader, we are only just at the beginning of the
story--it may be necessary to go back to the house of Monsieur
Plessis, and to trace the events of the past day, till we have
brought them exactly down to that precise time Wilton was walking, as
we have described, with a mist around him both moral and physical,
upon the road between High Halstow and Cowley. We must even go beyond
that, and introduce the reader into a lady's bedchamber, on the
morning of that day, as she was dressing herself after the night's
repose; though, indeed, repose it could scarcely be called, for those
bright eyes had closed but for a short period during the darkness,
and anxiety and grief had been the companions of her pillow. Yet it is
not Lady Laura of whom we speak, but of that gentle-looking and
beautiful lady whom we have described as sitting in the saloon of
Plessis's house, shortly before the conspirators assembled there.

Without any of the aids of dress or ornament, she was certainly a very
beautiful being, and as, sitting before the glass, she drew out with
her taper fingers the glossy curls of her rich dark hair, nothing
could be more graceful than the attitudes into which the whole form
was cast. Often as she did so, she would pause and meditate, leaning
her head upon her hand for a moment or two. Sometimes she would raise
her eyes imploringly towards Heaven, and once those eyes became full
of tears. She wiped them away hastily, however, as if angry with
herself for giving way, and then proceeded eagerly with the task of
the toilet.

While she was thus engaged, some one knocked at the door, which she
unlocked, and the next instant, another lady, to whom the reader has
been already introduced, entered the chamber. It was the same person
whom we have called the Lady Helen, in her interview with Wilton
Brown; and there was still in the expression of her countenance that
same look of tender melancholy which is generally left upon the face
by long grief acting upon an amiable heart. It was, indeed, less the
expression of a settled gloom on her own part, than of sympathy with
the sorrows of others, rendered more active by sorrows endured
herself. On the present occasion she had a note in her hand, which
she held out towards the fair girl whom she had interrupted at her
toilet, saying, with a faint smile, "There, Caroline--I hope it may
bring you good news, dear girl." The other took it eagerly, and broke
the seal, with hands that trembled so much that they almost let the
paper drop.

"Oh, Lady Helen," cried the younger lady, while the colour came and
went in her cheek, and her eyes sparkled, and then again nearly
overflowed, "we must, indeed, we must stay over to-day. He says he
will come down to see me this afternoon. Indeed we must stay; for it
is my last chance, Helen dear, my last chance of happiness in life."

"We will stay, of course, Caroline," replied the other; "but I trust,
my poor girl, that if you see him, you will act both wisely and
firmly. Let him not move you to yield any farther than you have done;
left him not move you, my sweet Caroline, to remain in a degrading
and painful state of doubt. Act firmly, and as you proposed but
yesterday, in order, at least, if you do no more, not to be, as it
were, an accomplice in his ill-treatment of yourself."

"Oh no!" replied the other--"oh no! Fear not, dear lady, that I will
deal with him otherwise than firmly. But yet you know he is my
husband, Helen, and I cannot refuse to obey his will, except where he
requires of me a breach of higher duties."

"Ay," replied the Lady Helen. "When he claims you openly as his wife,
Caroline, then he has a right to command, and no one can blame you
for obeying; but he must not take the whole advantage of his
situation as your husband, without giving you the name and station,
or suffering you to assume the character of his wife. Let him now do
you justice in these respects, or else, dear Caroline, leave him!
fly from him! strive to forget him! Look upon yourself as widowed,
and try to bear your sorrow as an infliction from the hand of Heaven,
for having committed this action without your father's knowledge and
consent."

"Oh, Helen!" replied the other, mournfully, "you know my father was
upon the bed of death; you know that Henry was obliged to depart in
three weeks; you know that I loved him, and that if I had parted with
him then, without giving him the hand I had promised, it might have
been years before I saw him again; for then I should have had no
title to seek him as his wife, and the ports of France were not
likely to be opened to him again. Would you have had me agitate my
father at that moment? Could I refuse to be his, under such
circumstances, when I believed every word that he said, when I
thought that if he departed without being my husband, I might not
behold him for many years to come?"

"Forgive me for glancing at the past, poor child," replied her
friend--"I meant not to imply a reproach, Caroline; but all I wish is
to counsel you to firmness. Let not love get the better of your
judgment. But tell him your determination at once, and abide by it
when it is told. If you would ever obtain justice for yourself,
Caroline, now is the moment. He himself will love and respect you
more for it hereafter. He assigns no reason for farther delay; and
his letters, hitherto, have certainly suggested no motives which
could lead either your judgment or your affection to consent to that
which is degrading to yourself. I have seen enough of these things,
Caroline, and I know that they always end in misery."

"Misery!" replied the younger lady, "alas! Helen, what have I to
expect but misery? Oh, Helen, it is not that he does not openly
acknowledge our marriage, and forbids me to proclaim it--it is not
that which makes me unhappy.  Heaven knows, were that all, I could
willingly go on without the acknowledgment. I could shut myself from
the day, devote myself to him alone, forswear rank, and station, and
the pleasures of affluence, for nothing but his love; so long that,
knowing I myself was virtuous, I also knew that he continued to love
me well. It is not that, Helen, it is not that; but all which I have
heard assures me, that notwithstanding every vow of amendment, of
changed life, of constant affection towards me, he is faithless to me
in a thousand instances; that his wish of longer concealment
proceeds, not from necessity, but from a libertine spirit; in short,
Helen, that I have been for a week the creature of his pleasure, but
that he never really loved me; that his heart rested with me for an
hour, and has now gone on to others."

As she spoke, she sank again into her chair, and clasping her hands
together as they rested on her knee, fixed her eyes upon the ground
during a moment or two of bitter thought.

The other lady advanced toward her, and after gazing at her for a
minute, she kissed her beautiful brow affectionately, saying,
"Nevertheless, Caroline, he does love you. He is a libertine by
habit, Caroline, I trust not a libertine in heart; and I see in every
line that he writes to you that he loves you still, and always will
love you. It is my belief, dear Caroline, that if you behave well to
him now, firmly, though kindly, gently, though decidedly; if you
yield nothing, either to love, or importunity, or remonstrance, but
tell him that you now bid him farewell for ever if he so chooses it,
and that you will never either see him, or hear from him, or write to
him, till he comes openly as your husband, and gives you the same
vows and assurance of future affection and good conduct that he did
at first--it is my firm conviction, I say, that the love for you
which I see is still strong within him, the only good thing perhaps
in his heart, will bring him back to you at last. Passion may lead
him astray, folly may get the better of reason, evil habits may rule
him for a time; but the memory of your sweetness, and your beauty,
and your firmness, and your gentleness, will come back upon his mind,
even in the society of the gay, the light, and the profligate, and
will seem like a diamond beside false stones."

"Hush, hush, hush!" said the younger lady, blushing deeply--"I must
not hear such praises, Helen: praises that I do not deserve."

"Nay, my dear child, I speak but what I mean," replied the Lady
Helen--" I say that the recollection of you and your young fresh
beauty, and your generous mind, will return to his remembrance, my
Caroline, at all times and in all circumstances, even the most
opposite: in the midst of various enjoyments, in the heated revel,
and in the idle pageant; when lonely in his chamber, when suffering
distress, or pain, or illness; amidst the reverses and the strife, as
well as in the prosperity and the vanities, of the world, he will
remember you and love you still. That memory will be to him as a
sweet tune that we have loved in our youth, the recollection of which
brings with it always visions of the only joys that we have known
without alloy. But still, remember, Caroline, that the condition on
which this is to be obtained, the condition on which his recollection
of you is to be, as it were, a precious antidote to the evils of his
heart, is, that you now act towards him with firmness and with
dignity."

"But suppose, dear lady," said the other, "that he were to ask me to
remain with him, still concealing our marriage.  Nay, look not
terrified--I am not going to do it. I have told you how I am going to
act, and, on my honour, I will keep to my determination. I only ask
you what you think would then be the consequences?"

"Destruction both to you and to him," replied the Lady Helen: "he
would never look upon you entirely as his wife, he would never treat
you entirely as such. You would dwell with him almost as a
concubine.--Forgive me, but it must be spoken.--He would grow tired
of your beauty, weary of your society; your virtues would be lost
upon him, because he would see that firmness was not amongst them,
and he would not respect you because you had not respected yourself.
There is something, Caroline, in the state and dignity, if I may so
call it, which surrounds a virtuous married woman, that has a great
effect upon her husband, ay, and a great effect upon herself. There
is not one man, Caroline, out of a million, who has genuine nobility
of heart enough to stand the test of a long concealed private
marriage.  I never saw but one, Caroline, and I have mingled with
almost every scene of human life, and seen the world with almost all
its faces. However, here, there can be no cause which should justly
induce you to consent to live with him under such circumstances, and
there are a thousand causes to prevent you from so doing. If you were
to do it, you would lose your respect for yourself, and how then
could you expect that he would retain any for you?"

The conversation was some time protracted in the same tone, and
nearly a whole hour was thus passed ere the younger lady was dressed
and ready to accompany her friend to breakfast.

Monsieur Plessis was there to do the honours of his table, treating
his fair guests not exactly as his equals, but yet behaving not at
all as an Englishman, under such circumstances, could have demeaned
himself He was polite, attentive, deferential; but he was still
Monsieur Plessis in his own house. There can be no doubt that all he
furnished them with was amply paid for; but yet he had an air of
conferring a favour, and indeed felt that he did so when he received
them into his dwelling at all.  There was thus an air of gallantry
mingled with his respectfulness, a sweet smile that bent his lips
when he pressed either of them to their food, a courteous and affable
look when he greeted them for the first time that clay, all of which
spoke that Monsieur Plessis felt that he was laying them under an
obligation, and wished to do it in the most graceful manner possible.
The breakfast table was beautifully laid out, with damask linen of
the finest quality, and more silver than was usually displayed at
that day even in families of distinction. Both the ladies seated
themselves; and Plessis was proceeding to recommend some of the most
exquisite chocolate which had ever been brought from Portugal--at
least so he assured them--when the elder lady interrupted its praises
by saying, "Had we not better wait a little, Monsieur Plessis, for
the young lady whom we saw yesterday?"

Plessis, however, put his finger on his large nose, saying, "Her
breakfast will be taken to her in her chamber, Miladi. There are
mysteries in all things, as you well know. Now here you are; and
there are nine or ten gentlemen meet at my house every night, from
whom I am obliged to hide that you are in the place at all. Here is
this young lady, whom, it seems, I should have concealed from you in
the same way:  only I could not refuse to let you see her and speak
to her yesterday, in order that you might be kind to her on board the
ship; for she is to go in the ship with you, you know, and she seems
quite helpless, and not accustomed to all these things. When the
worthy gentlemen found that the ship was not to sail last night, they
were in great embarrassment, and charged me strictly not to let her
see any one till the ship sailed; and I find they have put a man to
watch on both sides of the house, so that no one can go out or come
in without being seen. They told me nothing about it; and that was
uncivil; but, however, I must keep her to her own room; for the man
that they left in the house, with my consent, to keep guard over her,
watches sharply also."

The elder lady said nothing, but the colour of the younger heightened
a good deal at this detail, and she started up indignantly as soon as
Plessis had finished, exclaiming, "Nonsense, sir. I never heard of
such a thing!--You, a man of honour and gallantry," she continued,
with a gay smile, such as had once been common to her countenance,
passing over it for a moment--"you, a man of honour and gallantry,
Monsieur Plessis, consenting to see a lady discourteously used and
maltreated in your house, and a stranger put as a spy upon you in
your own dwelling. Fie!  For shame! I never heard of such a thing! I
shall go immediately to her, with your compliments, and ask her to
come to breakfast. And let me see if this spy upon you will dare to
stop me."

"Oh no, Miladi," replied Plessis, "he is not a spy upon me; but I
said myself I would have nothing to do with the young lady being
detained; that it was no part of my business, and should not be done
by my people; that they might have the rooms at the west corner of
the house if they liked, but that I would have nothing to do with it.
I beseech you, dear lady," he continued, seeing Caroline moving
towards the door--"I beseech you, do not meddle; for this is a very
dangerous and bad business, and I fear it will end ill, Nay, nay!"
and springing towards the door, he placed himself between it and the
lady, bowing lowly, with his hand upon his heart, and exclaiming,
"Humbly on my knees I kiss your beautiful feet, and beseech you not
to meddle with this bad business."

"A very bad business, indeed," said Caroline; "and it is for that
very reason that I am going to meddle, Monsieur Plessis. Do me the
favour of getting out of my way. I thought you were a man of
gallantry and spirit, Monsieur Plessis.--I am determined; so there is
no use in opposing me."

Plessis shrugged up his shoulders, bowed his head low, and with a
look which said as plainly as any look could say, "I see there is
never any use of opposing a woman," he suffered the fair lady to pass
out, while her friend remained sitting thoughtfully at the table.

The lady whom we have called Caroline walked quietly along one of the
corridors of the house till she came to a spot where a man in the
garb of a sailor was sitting on a large chest, with his elbows on his
two knees, and his chin on his two hands, looking very much wearied
with his watch, and swinging one of his feet backwards and forwards
disconsolately. There was a door farther on, and towards it the lady
walked, but found that it was locked, though the key was on the
outside.  The sailor personage had started up as she passed, and then
gazed at her proceedings with no small surprise; but as she laid her
hand upon the lock, he came forward, saying, "Ma'am, what do you want
there?".

"I want," replied the lady, turning round, and looking at him from
head to foot, "I merely to call this young lady to breakfast. Be so
good as to open the door: the lock is rather stiff." 

She spoke so completely with the tone of calm authority, that the man
did not even hesitate, but opened the door wide, taking it for
granted that she had some right to enter. The lady was about to go
in; but suddenly a feeling of apprehension seized her, lest the man
should shut the door and lock it upon her also; and pausing in the
doorway, she addressed Lady Laura, who we need scarcely tell the
reader was within,--"I have come to ask you," she said, "if you will
go with me to breakfast."

"Oh gladly, gladly!" cried the poor girl, darting forward, and
holding out her hands to her; and Caroline, drawing one fair arm
through her own, led her onward to the room where she had left the
Lady Helen.

The man paused and hesitated, and then followed the two ladies along
the passage; but before he was near enough to hear what was said,
Caroline had whispered to her companion, "It is already done: I have
had an answer to my note, which went in the same packet, so that the
place of your detention is now certainly known to those who will not
fail to send you aid."

The bright joy that came up in the eyes of Laura might very well have
betrayed to the man who guarded her, had he seen her face, that she
has received more intelligence than his employers could have wished.
He followed, however, at some distance, without taking any notice;
and seeming to think it enough to watch her movements, and prevent
her egress from the house, he seated himself again near the door of
the chamber where breakfast had been prepared, while Laura and her
fair companion entered the room.

They found the Lady Helen and Monsieur Plessis in eager conversation,
the lady having just announced to him her intention of delaying their
departure till another day; and he, who was in fact part proprietor
of the vessel which was to bear them to France, and was actuated by
very different views, urging her eagerly to follow her first
intention of sailing that night. He made representations of all sorts
of dangers and difficulties which were to arise from the delay; the
two ladies were likely to be arrested; he was likely to be ruined;
the master of the ship would sail without them; and in short,
everything was represented as about to happen which could induce them
to take their departure with all speed.

The Lady Helen, however, was resolute. She replied that, from what
she had heard in London, she was convinced there was not the least
chance whatsoever of their even being inquired after, and much less
of their being arrested; that his ruin was only likely to be a
consequence of the arrest, and therefore that was disposed of. Then
again, in regard to the captain of the vessel sailing without them,
she said that was improbable, inasmuch as he would thereby lose the
large sum he was to receive, both for bringing them thither and
taking them back.

Now, though Monsieur Plessis was, in his way, a very courageous and
determined person, who in dealing with his fellow men could take his
own part very vigorously, and, as we have shown, successfully, yet he
was much feebler in the presence of a lady, and on the present
occasion, with three to one, they certainly made him do anything they
liked. The consequence was, that Laura was permitted to spend a great
part of that day with the two accidental tenants of Monsieur
Plessis's house; and not a little comfort, indeed, was that
permission to her.

It was a moment when any society would have been a great consolation
and relief. But there was in the two ladies with whom she was now
associated for the time much more to interest and to please. The
manners of each were of the highest tone; the person of each was
highly pleasing; and when Laura turned to the Lady Helen, and marked
the gentle pensiveness of her beautiful countenance, listened to the
high, pure, noble words that hung upon her lips, and marked the deep
feelings which existed beneath an exterior that people sometimes
thought cold, the remembrance of her own mother rose up before her,
and she felt a sort of clinging yearning towards a being who
resembled her in so many respects.

With the younger lady, too, she had many a thought and many a feeling
in common. Caroline was a few years older than herself, and evidently
more acquainted with the world; but there were deep strong feelings
apparent in every word she uttered--a thoughtfulness (if we may so
express ourselves) which blended with an air of carelessness--a depth
to be seen even through occasional lightness, which was only like a
profound river rippled by a rapid breeze. Each had subjects for
thought; each had more or less matter for grief or apprehension; but
each found relief in the society of the other; and the day passed
over more happily than Laura could have imagined it would have done
in such circumstances.

Towards evening, indeed, she became anxious and apprehensive, for no
attempt to deliver her had, apparently, been made, and she had been
warned that she was to embark for France that night. From this
apprehension, however, the Lady Helen speedily relieved her, by
assuring her that there was no other ship to convey her but that
which was hired to take herself and her young friend to France, and
that they had determined upon putting off their departure till the
succeeding night.

About the same hour, however, Caroline became uneasy and agitated.
She rose often; she looked often at her watch; she gazed out froth
the window; she turned her eyes to the sky; and in the end she
retired for a time to her own chamber, and returned shortly after,
dressed for going out, with a short black cloak, richly trimmed, cast
over her shoulders, and a silk hood, stiffened with whalebone and
deeply fringed with lace, covering her head and the greatest part of
her face.

"Who are you going to take with you, my dear child, to show you the
way?" said the Lady Helen.

"No one, sweet lady," replied the other. "While you were away from me
in London I had plenty of opportunity to explore every path round
this house, and the place is so distinctly marked, that neither he
nor I can mistake it."

Lady Helen looked in her face for a moment with an expression
somewhat sad as well as inquiring; and her beautiful companion, as if
comprehending at once what she meant, advanced quietly towards her,
knelt on the footstool at her feet, and putting her two hands in
hers, she said, "I promise you most solemnly, dearest lady--most
solemnly and firmly do I promise, not to suffer myself to be shaken
in any one of the resolutions which I have taken with your advice."

"Thank you, my child, thank you," cried the elder lady, "thank you
for giving me the prospect, Caroline, of seeing you ultimately happy.
But oh, do not be late, my sweet child. Return to us soon. The
country is in a distracted state--the hour is very late. You see it
is already growing dusk."

"I will return as soon as I can," replied Caroline, and left the
room.

The man who was still on watch in the passage looked at her
attentively, but said nothing; and Plessis, who was at the door
speaking to two ship-boys, said merely, "It is very cold and very
late, madame. I wonder you don't get cold with such late walks."

She made no reply, but went on: and taking one or two turns through
the tortuous lanes in the neighbourhood, arrived at a spot where a
small obelisk, of no very graceful form or great dimensions, planted
in the middle of the road, marked the boundary of four distinct
parishes. She paused there for a moment, and leaned upon the
landmark, as if from fatigue, weakness, or agitation. The light was
now dim, but it was not yet dark; and in a moment. or two she saw a
figure appear suddenly in the lane before her.

It advanced rapidly towards her, and she pressed her hand tight upon
her heart. One might have heard it throbbing.  The gentleman came on
with a pace like lightning, and held out his hand towards her. She
gave him her hand, but turned away her head; and after gazing on her
for a moment, he drew her gently to his bosom, saying, "One kiss at
least, my Caroline."

She did not refuse it, and he pressed her warmly to his heart. There
was a moment's silence, and then his arms relaxed their hold, and he
exclaimed, "Oh Heaven!"

He then drew her arm within his, and walked on with her.

"Oh, Caroline," he said at length, "would that you did know how I
love you!"

"If I did know, Sherbrooke," she replied, "that you really did love
me, it would make me far, far happier than I am. But how can I
believe it, Sherbrooke? how can I believe it?"

"Is it," he demanded, "is it because I have asked you to conceal our
marriage a little longer? Is it for that reason that you doubt my
love? Is it for that reason that you have come over to England,
risking all and everything, affecting my fate in ways that you have
no idea of? Is it for this, Caroline?"

There was a pause for several minutes, and at length she answered,--

"Not entirely. There may have been many reasons, Sherbrooke, joined
therewith. There were many that I stated in my letters to you. There
were others that you might have imagined. Was it unnatural that I
should wish to see my husband? Was it unnatural I should believe that
he would be glad to see me? As I told you, the circumstances were
changed; my father was dead; I had none to protect me in France; the
Lady Helen was coming to England. When she was gone, I was left quite
alone. But oh, Sherbrooke, tell me, tell me, what cause have I had to
believe that you love me? Have you not neglected me? Have you not
forgotten me? Have you not----"

"Never, never, Caroline!" he cried, vehemently--"in my wildest
follies, in my rashest acts, I have thought of you and loved you. I
have remembered you with affection, and with grief, and with
tenderness.  Memory, sad memory, has come upon me in the midst of the
maddest efforts for gaiety, and cast me into a fit of deep, anxious,
sorrowful, repentant, remorseful thought, which I could not shake
off: it seemed as if some vengeful spirit seized upon me for its
prey, and dinned in my ears the name of love and Caroline, till my
heart was nearly broken."

"And the moment after," she said, "what was it, Sherbrooke, that you
did? Did you sit down and write to Caroline, to her who was giving
every thought to you? or did you fly to the side of some gay
coquette, to dissipate such painful thoughts in her society? or did
you fly to worse, Sherbrooke?"

He was silent. "Sherbrooke," she added, after a time, "I wish not to
reproach you. All I wish is to justify myself, and the firm
unchangeable resolution which I have been obliged to take. I have
always tried to close my ears against everything that might make me
think less highly of him I love. But tales would reach me--tales most
painful to hear; and at length I was told that you were absolutely on
the eve of wedding another."

"They told you false!" exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke, wildly and
vehemently--"whoever said so, lied. I have been culpable, and am
culpable, Caroline; but not to that extent. I never dreamed of
wedding her. Did I not know it could not be? But you speak of your
resolutions.  Let me know what they are at once! To declare all, I
suppose! Publicly to produce the proofs of our marriage! To announce
to my father, already exasperated against me, that in this, too, I
have offended him! To call down, even upon your own head, the revenge
of a man who has never yet, in life, gone without it! To tell
all--all, in short?"

"No, no, no, Sherbrooke!" she said--"I am going to do none of all
these things. Angry and thwarted, you do not do that justice to your
wife which you ought. You speak, Sherbrooke, as if you did not know
me. I will do none of these things. You do not choose to acknowledge
me as your wife. You are angry at my having come to England. I will
not announce our marriage till the last moment. I will not publish it
till my dying hour, unless I be driven to it by some terrible
circumstance. I will return to France. I will live as the widow of a
man that I have loved. But I will never see you more, Sherbrooke; I
will never hear from you more; I will never write to you more; till
you come openly and straightforwardly to claim me as your wife in the
face of all the world.  Whenever you declare me to be your wife, I
will do all the duties of a wife: I will be obedient to your will,
not alone from duty but from love; but till you do acknowledge me as
your wife, you can plead no title to such submission."

"Ah, Caroline," replied Lord Sherbrooke, "you speak well and wisely,
but coldly too. You can easily resign the man that you once loved. It
costs you but little to give him over to his own course; to afford
him no solace, no consolation, no advice; to deprive him of that
communication, which, distant as it was, might have saved him from
many an error. It costs you nothing to pronounce such words as you
have spoken, and to sever our fate for ever."

"It is you that sever it," she replied, in a sad and reproachful
tone.  "Sherbrooke, Sherbrooke, you do me wrong--you know you do me
wrong--Oh, how great wrong! Do you think I have shed no tears? Do you
think my heart has not been wrung? Do you think my hours have not
passed in anguish, my days in sadness, and my nights in weeping? Oh,
Sherbrooke, since you left me, what has been my fate? To watch for
some weeks the death-bed of a father, from whose mind the light had
already departed; to sorrow over his tomb; to watch the long days for
the coming of my husband--of the husband whom all had doubted, all
had condemned, but my own weak heart, whose vows of amendment I had
believed, to whose entreaties I had yielded, even to that rashest of
all acts, a secret marriage; to find him delay his coming from day to
day, and to see the sun that rose upon me in solitary sadness go down
in grief; to lose the hope that cheered me; to look for his letters
as the next boon; to read them and to weep over them; to remain in
exile, not only from my native land, but also from him to whom I had
given every feeling of my heart, to whom I had yielded all that a
virtuous woman can yield; to remain in a strange court, to which I
had no longer any tie, in which I had no longer any protector; and
every time I heard his name mentioned, to hear it connected with some
tale of scandal, or stigmatized for some new act of vice; and worse,
worse than all, Sherbrooke, to be sought, idly sought, by men that I
despised, or hated, or was indifferent to, and forbade to say the
words which would have ended their pursuit at once, 'I am already a
wife.' Sherbrooke, you have given me months and months of misery
already. I weep not now, even with the thought of parting from you
for ever; but it is, I believe, that the fountain of my tears is
dried up and exhausted. Oh, Sherbrooke, when first I knew you, who
was so blithe and joyous as myself?  and now, what have you made me?"

He was much moved, and was about to speak; but she held up her hand
beseechingly, and said, "Let me go on--let me go on. You said it
costs me little to act as I proposed to act. Think, Sherbrooke, think
what it does really cost me. Even were I all selfishness, how bitter
is the part that I have assigned myself to play! To pass my time in
solitude, without the pleasures of youth and gaiety; debarring myself
from all the advantages of an unmarried woman, yet without the name,
the blessings, the station, the dignity, of a wife; voluntarily
depriving myself of every sort of consolation, relinquishing even
hope. But if I am not altogether selfish, Sherbrooke--and you have no
cause to say I am so--if, as you know too well, there is deep, and
permanent, and pure and true affection for you at the bottom of my
heart, judge what the after-hours of life will be, judge what a long
dreary lapse lies before me, between the present instant and the
grave."

Sherbrooke was moved, and again and again he assured her that he
loved her more than any other being upon earth; and the conversation
continued for nearly half an hour longer. He begged her to stay with
him in England, still concealing their marriage; he pressed her in
every way to break her resolution; he urged her, if it were but for
one week, to remain with him, in order to see whether he could not
make arrangements to render their marriage public. But she remembered
her resolution, and held to it firmly, and even rejected that last
proposal, fearing consequences equally dangerous to herself and to
him. Opposition began to make him angry; he entered not into her
reasons; he saw not the strength of her motives; he spoke some harsh
and unkind words, which caused her to weep, and then again he was
grieved at having pained her, and kissed the tears away, and urged
and argued again. Still she remained firm, however, and again he
became irritated.

At the end of half an hour, both Caroline and her husband heard the
sound of feet approaching them on both sides; and though it seemed
that the people who were coming from the direction of Plessis's house
walked lightly and with caution, yet there were evidently many of
them, and Caroline became alarmed for her husband.

"The people are coming from the house, Sherbrooke," she cried--"they
must not, oh, they must not find you here!"

"Why not?" he demanded, sharply.

"Oh, because they are a dangerous and a desperate set," she
said--"bent, I am sure, from what I have heard, upon bloody and
terrible schemes. Me they will let pass, but I fear for you--the very
name of your father would be sufficient to destroy you, with them. We
must part, indeed we must part!"

"And can you, Caroline," he demanded, still lingering, but speaking
in a bitter and irritated tone, angry alike with himself, and her, and
with the interruption--"can you hold to your cold and cruel
resolution, now?"

"I can, I must, Sherbrooke," she replied,--" nothing shall shake me."

"Well, then, be it so!" he answered sharply; and turning away, walked
rapidly up the lane.

Caroline stood, for a single instant, on the spot where he left her;
but then all the feelings with which she had struggled during the
whole of that painful conversation with her husband, seemed to break
loose upon her at once, and over-power her. Her head grew giddy, a
weary faintness seemed to come over her heart, and she sank,
unconscious, on the ground.

The next moment six or seven men came quickly up.

"Here's a woman murdered!" cried one--"and the fellow that did it is
off up the lane."

A few hasty exclamations of surprise and pity followed, and then
another man exclaimed, in a hasty and impatient tone, "Take her up in
your arms, Jim, and bring her along.  Perhaps we may find this
Messenger the boy talked of, and the murderer together; but let us
make haste, or we shall lose both."

"Mind," said another, speaking almost at the same time, "don't knock
the Messenger's brains out. We will just take and plant him in the
marsh, tie his arms, and put him up to the arm-pits. The boys will
find him there, when they come to drive back the cattle.--The lady
don't seem quite dead, I think."

"Bring her along! bring her along!" cried another voice--"we shall
miss all, if you are so slow;" and thus speaking, the leader of the
party quickened his pace, while the others, having raised the lady
from the ground, bore her onward towards the end of the lane.
 


CHAPTER XXIV.

We have said that Wilton Brown paused and gazed through the mist at
the figure of a man advancing towards him, and to the reader it need
not be told who the person was that thus came forward. To Wilton,
however, the conviction was brought more slowly; for though he had
heard the sound of a familiar voice, yet it seemed so improbable that
voice should be the voice of Lord Sherbrooke, that the idea never
struck him, till the figure became so distinct as not to leave a
doubt.

"Good God, Sherbrooke!" he exclaimed, advancing towards him at
length--" can it be you?"

"And I may well ask, Wilton, if it be you," said Lord Sherbrooke, in
a tone so sharp and angry, so unlike his usual voice and manner of
speaking, that Wilton drew back astonished, imagining that he had
given his friend some unknown offence. But Lord Sherbrooke grasped his
arm, exclaiming, "Hark! There they are! They are close upon us,
Wilton! I have fallen in with a nest of Jacobites, I fancy, ready for
an outbreak, and they are after me. Have you any arms?"

"Here are plenty of pistols, my lord," said the Messenger, who knew
him.

"Ah, Arden, is that you?" he exclaimed. "Give me a pistol!" and he
took one from the Messenger's hand. "Here are three of us now,
Wilton," he exclaimed, with a laugh, "and one of us a Messenger:
enough surely for any dozen Jacobites in England."

There was something wild, hasty, and strange in Lord Sherbrooke's
manner, which startled and alarmed Wilton a good deal.

"For Heaven's sake, Sherbrooke," he said, "do nothing rashly. Let us
see who they are before you act."

"Oh, I will do nothing rash," replied Sherbrooke. "But here they
come! just like Jacobites, gabbling at every step.  Who goes there,
my masters?" he exclaimed, at the same moment. "Don't advance, don't
advance! We are armed!  The first man that advances, I shoot upon the
spot!"

"Those are the men! those are the men!" cried a loud voice from the
other party, who were now seen coming up in a mass. "Rush upon them!
Rush upon them, and tie the Messenger!"
 
"Oh, oh!" cried Arden. "They have found me out, have they! Stand by
me, my lord! Stand by me, Mr. Brown!  They are rushing on!"

"Then here's for the midst of them!" cried Lord Sherbrooke; and
instantly levelling his pistol, he fired, though Wilton was in the
very act of holding forth his hand to stop him.

The moment the fatal flash had taken place, there was a reel back
amongst the advancing party, though they were at several yards'
distance when the pistol was fired. A confusion, a gathering together,
a murmur, succeeded; and while Lord Sherbrooke was in the very act of
exclaiming, "Give me another pistol, Arden!" there was heard, from
amongst the party who had been approaching, a loud voice, exclaiming,
"By, he has shot the lady!--and she was only fainting, after all. See
how the blood flows!"

The words were perfectly distinct. Lord Sherbrooke's hand, which had
just seized the other pistol that the Messenger had held out to him,
suddenly let it drop upon the ground. It was not possible to see the
expression of his face fully, for his head was turned away; but
Wilton felt him grasp his arm, as if for support, trembling in every
limb.

"Good God! What have you done, Sherbrooke?" exclaimed his friend.

"I have killed her! I have killed her!" cried Lord Sherbrooke,
gasping for breath--"I have killed the dear unfortunate girl!" and
letting go Wilton's arm, he rushed forward at once into the midst of
the other party, exclaiming, "Stand back! Let me forward! She is my
wife! Stand out of my way! How, in the name of Heaven, did she--"

He left off, without concluding; and nobody answered. But the tone of
bitter grief and agony in which Lord Sherbrooke spoke was not to be
mistaken: there was in it the overpowering energy of passionate
grief; and everybody made way for him. In a moment he bad snatched
the form of the unhappy lady from the man who held her in his arms,
and supporting her himself, partly on his knee, partly on his bosom,
he kissed her again and again vehemently, eagerly, we may almost say
frantically, exclaiming, "And I have killed thee, my Caroline! I
have killed thee, my beloved, my wife, my own dear wife! I have
killed thee, noble, and true, and kind! Oh, open your eyes, dear
one, open your eyes and gaze upon me for a minute! She is living, she
is living!" he added wildly--"she does open her eyes!--Quick, some
one call a surgeon!--A hundred guineas to the first who brings me a
surgeon!--God of Heaven!  how has this happened?--Oh yes, she is
living, she is reviving!--Wilton, for pity's sake, for mercy's sake,
help me!"

Wilton Brown had followed Lord Sherbrooke rapidly; for a sudden
apprehension had crossed his mind immediately the words were
pronounced, "He has shot the lady," lest by some accident Lady Laura
had fallen into the hands of the people who were approaching, and
that she it was who had been wounded or killed by the rash act of his
friend. The moment he came up, however, he perceived that the lady's
face was unknown to him, and he saw also that the men who stood
round, deprived of all power and activity by a horrible event, which
they only vaguely comprehended, were anything but the persons he had
expected to see. They seemed to be almost all common sailors; and
though they were in general evidently Englishmen, they were habited
more in the fashion of the Dutch seamen of that day. They were well
armed, it is true, but still they bore not the slightest appearance
of being connected with Sir John Fenwick and the party to which lie
was attached; and the horror and consternation which seemed to have
taken possession of them all, at the injury which had been inflicted
on the unhappy lady, showed that they were anything but feelingless
or hardened.

One rapid glance over the scene before his eyes had shown Wilton
this; and he now stood beside Lord Sherbrooke, gazing with painful
interest on a picture, the full horror of which he divined better
than the others who surrounded them.

Almost as Lord Sherbrooke spoke, however, and before Wilton could
reply, the lady made a slight movement of her hand, and raised her
head. Her eyes were open, and she turned to Lord Sherbrooke, gazing
on his face for a moment, as if to be certain who he was.

"Oh, Sherbrooke," she said at length, in a faint voice, "fly, fly!--I
was very foolish to faint.--I am better now. The men will be upon
you in a minute--Oh Heaven, they are all round us! Oh how weak it was
to faint and keep you here till they have taken you.--I am better
now," she said, in answer to a whispered inquiry of Lord Sherbrooke,
as he pressed her to his heart. "But I must have hurt my shoulder in
falling, for it pains me very much." And putting her hand towards it,
she drew it suddenly away, exclaiming, "Good Heaven, it is blood!"

"Yes, dearest--yes, beloved," replied Lord Sherbrooke--"it is
blood--blood shed by your husband's hand; but oh, inadvertently,
clear girl. I rashly fired amongst the men that were pursuing me, and
have killed the only woman that I ever loved!" And he struck his hand
vehemently against his forehead, with a gesture of despair that could
not be mistaken.

"Come, come, young gentleman," said a man who seemed the leader of
the bluff sailors around him, "don't take on so. Some one has gone
for a surgeon. There's a clever one at Halstow, I know, and mayhap
the young lady is not so much hurt. At all events, you did not do it
to hurt her, that's clear enough; and I rather fancy we've all been
in a mistake together. For if you were flying from people looking out
to take you, you were not the goods we were after--for we were
looking for people that were coming to take us.

"They came down and said that a gentleman had come down with a
Messenger to look after our little traffic, and have some of us up
for it. Now we intended to plant the Messenger in the bog till we had
got all things ready and the ship off, and it was him and his people
we were after. But come along-