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Title: The Fate: A Tale of Stirring Times

Author: G. P. R. James

Release date: March 14, 2016 [eBook #51455]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
        Google Books (the New York Public Library)


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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
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Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source: Google Books
      https://books.google.com/books?id=IgMiAAAAMAAJ
      (the New York Public Library)
   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






THE FATE:


A TALE OF STIRRING TIMES.


BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"THE COMMISSIONER," "HENRY SMEATON," "THE OLD OAK CHEST," "THE
WOODMAN," "GOWRIE," "RUSSELL," "THE FORGERY," "BEAUCHAMP,"
"RICHELIEU," "DARK SCENES OF HISTORY," &c., &c.



NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1864.






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-one, by

GEORGE P. R. JAMES,

in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the Southern
District of New York.




PREFACE.


Change of scene I believe to be as invigorating to the mind as change
of air is to the body, refreshing the weary and exhausted powers, and
affording a stimulus which prompts to activity of thought. To a writer
of fiction, especially, the change may be necessary, not only on
account of the benefits to be derived by his own mind from the
invigorating effects of a new atmosphere, but also on account of the
fresh thoughts suggested by the different circumstances in which he is
placed.

We are curiously-constructed creatures, not unlike the mere brute
creation in many of our propensities; and the old adage, that "custom
is a second nature," is quite as applicable to the mind as to the
body. If we ride a horse along a road to which he is accustomed, he
will generally make a little struggle to stop at a house where his
master has been in the habit of calling, or to turn up a by-lane
through which he has frequently gone. The mind, too, especially of an
author, has its houses of call and by-lanes in plenty; and, so long as
it is in familiar scenes, it will have a strong hankering for its
accustomed roads and pleasant halting-places. Every object around us
is a sort of bough from which we gather our ideas; and it is very
well, now and then, to pluck the apples of another garden, of a flavor
different from our own.

Whether I have in any degree benefited by the change from one side of
the Atlantic to the other--a change much greater when morally than
when physically considered--it is not for me to say; but I trust that,
at all events, the work which is to follow these pages will not show
that I have in any degree or in any way suffered from my visit to and
residence in America. I have written it with interest in the
characters portrayed and the events detailed; and I humbly
desire--without even venturing to hope--that I may succeed in
communicating some portion of the same interest to my readers.

A good deal of laudatory matter has been written upon the
landscape-painting propensities of the author; and one reviewer,
writing in Blackwood's Magazine, has comprehended and pointed out what
has always been one of that author's especial objects in describing
mere scenes of inanimate nature. In the following pages I have
indulged very little in descriptions of this kind; but here, as every
where else, I have ever endeavored to treat the picture of any
particular place or scene with a reference to man's heart, or mind, or
fate--his thoughts, his feelings, his destiny--and to bring forth, as
it were, the latent sympathies between human and mere material nature.
There is, to my mind, a likeness (a shadowing forth--a symbolism) in
all the infinite variations which we see around us in the external
world, to the changeful ideas, sensations, sentiments--as infinite and
as varied--of the world of human life; and I can not think that the
scenes I have visited, or the sights that I have seen, in this
portion of the earth--the richness, the beauty, the grandeur, the
sublimity--can have been without influence upon myself; can have left
the pages of nature here a sealed book to one who has studied their
bright, mysterious characters so diligently in other lands.

Nay, more, I have met with much, in social life, well calculated to
expand the heart, as well as to elevate the mind, which I should be
ungrateful not to mention--kindness, hospitality, friendship, where I
had no claim, and enlightened intercourse with powerful minds, in
which I expected much, and found much more.

Sweet and ineffaceable impressions, ye can not have served to deaden
the feelings or to obscure the intellect!

I will rest, then, in hope that this work, the first which I have
commenced and completed in America, may not be worse than its many
literary brethren, and merely pray that it may be better. Let the
critics say, Amen!

G. P. R. JAMES.

_Stockbridge, Massachusetts_, 30_th July_, 1851.






THE FATE.




CHAPTER I.


There is no mistake more common among historians, no mistake more
mischievous, than to take for granted, without deduction, all the
statements of the satirists and splenetics of past-by ages as to the
manners and customs of their own times, and of the people with whom
they mingled. There are half a dozen, at least, of the pleasant little
passions of human nature which lead men, especially men of letters, to
decry their companions, their friends, and their neighbors--nay, even
their countrymen and their country. To say nothing of "envy, hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness"--sins common enough to be wisely
prayed against--pride, vanity, and levity point the pen, direct the
words, or furnish forth a little drop of gall to every man who is
giving an account of the times in which he lives and the country in
which he dwells, for those who are living or to live at a distance of
space or time from himself. It is pleasant to place our own brightness
on a dark back-ground; and the all but universal propensity of mankind
to caricature derives an extraordinary zest in its exercise, when, by
rendering others around us contemptible or odious, we can bring out
our own characters in bolder relief. But there are other, perhaps even
meaner motives still, which induce men frequently to portray their own
times in broad and distorted sketches. The faculty of admiration is a
very rare one; the faculty of just appreciation a rarer one still; but
every one loves to laugh; every one feels himself elevated by the
contemplation of absurdities in others. There is a vain fondness for
the grotesque lurking in the bosoms of most men; and a consciousness
that sly or even gross satire, and delicate or coarse caricature, are
the best means of giving pleasure to the great mass of mankind, is
probably one reason why we find such depreciatory exaggeration in the
writings of all those who have given pictures of their own times. The
letters of Petrarch, the statements of Hollingshed, the pictures of
Hogarth, the romances of Smollett and Fielding, all furnish, it is
true, certain sketches of their own times from which we can derive
some valuable information, but so distorted by passion, by prejudice,
by a satirical spirit, or a love of the ridiculous, that the portrait
can be no more relied upon, in its details, than Bunbury's caricature
of a Cantab for the general appearance of Cambridge scholars.

To give such pictures is mischievous in itself; but I can not help
thinking that for an historian to follow them without allowance is
more mischievous still. If there be a deviation on either side--though
any deviation should be avoided, if possible--surely it would be
better for every moral object to paint the past more bright rather
than more foul, as the past alone contains the just objects of
imitation, though we may emulate contemporary virtue or aspire to
ideal perfection in the future.

Truth--plain, simple truth, with such reflections upon the verities of
the past as may tend to benefit mankind in the present and the future,
forms all that the historian can desire; but he might as well hope to
draw truth from the pages of the satirists of any age, as a future
portrait painter might represent Lord John Russell or Lord Brougham
from the caricatures in Punch, where a certain likeness is kept up,
but every peculiarity is exaggerated with the grossest extravagance.

I enter my caveat against the picture given of the state of England in
the year 1685 by Mr. Macaulay, in his great and fanciful historical
work, and especially against that part of it which refers to the
English country gentlemen of those times, and to the English country
clergy. That such men did exist as those from which he has drawn his
statement, there can be no doubt; that they did exist in a greater
proportion than at present, there can be no doubt either; but that the
great mass were such as he has represented, may be very safely denied.
Pickwicks, and Tupmans, and Winkles are full of truth; but society is
not made up of these; and the reign of Victoria would appear very ill
in history if, by misfortune, it should have for its future historian
one inclined to paint the state of England in 1850 from similar
sources to those which have been pressed into the service of Mr.
Macaulay.

Nor does his reasoning afford any support to his statements; for, when
important elements are left out of calculation, the result can never
be admitted. Thus, when he says, "A country gentleman who witnessed
the revolution was probably in receipt of about a fourth part of the
rent which his acres now yield to his posterity. He was, therefore, as
compared with his posterity, a poor man, and was generally under the
necessity of residing with little interruption on his estate." The
historian forgets to state what was the comparative value of money at
the period he speaks of, and therefore can not draw as a fair
inference from the amount of rent, that the country gentleman of those
days was condemned by poverty to perpetual seclusion in the country,
which is, in fact, what he attempts to show. The tastes, the habits of
a country gentleman of that period kept him probably more in the
country; but it was not poverty. Even in the eighteenth century, we
find gentlemen of an estate producing two thousand pounds a year
keeping a pack of hounds without burdening their property, and every
true picture of country life which has descended to us shows that the
country gentlemen in general lived more at their ease than the same
class in the present day, and were as numerous in proportion to the
population. If their enjoyments were not so refined, it was because
the age was not so refined; and though the picture of Squire Alworthy
may be a pleasing exaggeration on the one hand, that of Squire Western
is an unpleasant caricature on the other, while the truth lay between,
and a multitude of country gentlemen existed of a very fair degree of
polish, without all the refined virtues of the one or the brutal
coarseness of the other.




CHAPTER II.


On the borders of Lincolnshire stood an old building, which had
preserved the name given to it more than two centuries before, though
the purpose which had given significance and propriety to that name
had passed away. It was a long, tall edifice of stone, somewhat like
the body of a church, and, as if to give it more resemblance still to
a religious edifice, another building had been added to the end of the
first, a story higher, and having some resemblance to a tower. This
additional part was built of brick; but moss and lichen had reduced
both stone and brick to very nearly one color; for though, when viewed
nearer, a variety of hues were to be discovered in the cryptogamous
vegetation which covered the walls, at a distance the general tint was
a brownish gray. The windows in the longer portion of the building
were placed in pointed arches, somewhat rudely and carelessly
decorated; those in the taller and newer portion were, on the
contrary, generally square, with a stone label above them, though some
had that flattened arch peculiarly characteristic of the worst Tudor
architecture. The whole building was not very large, and it was clear,
at first sight, that the long portion was devoted to barns, stables,
cart-houses, &c., while the other was separated for human habitation.
At the distance of some sixty or seventy yards from the house, a long
triple row of old elms topped a high bank, affording nesting-place for
innumerable rooks; and a little, clear stream, not unconscious of
trout, ran babbling along, mixing its melody with the music of the
birds. A stone wall, breast high, and in some decay, encircled the
whole, with two large uncouth posts ornamented with fragments of urns,
giving entrance, unimpeded by any gate between them, to any one who
might wish to approach the front door of the dwelling-house. There
probably had been a gate there once, for some iron work on the posts
seemed to show that they had been intended to support something; but
if so, the gate had long been gone--made into pikes in the civil war
for aught I know.

The scene around this old house, when viewed from the top of the bank,
was desolate enough. A wide, fenny piece of uninclosed land stretched
out far toward the north and east, only interrupted at the distance of
some three miles by an undulating rise of woodland. But, nevertheless,
the coloring was often fine, especially on autumnal evenings, when the
moor assumed a solemn, intense blue tint, and the pools and distant
river gleamed like rubies in the rich light of the setting sun.

On the other side, behind the house, the country had a more cheerful
look, with some well-cultivated fields sloping up, as the land rose to
the west, and many a knoll and gentle wave, and scattered trees, with
a thicker wood beyond, while sweeping away southward were hedgerows
and a hamlet here and there, the tower of a village church, and the
chimneys of a distant manor-house.

Such was the aspect of the building and the scene around it; and now
let us say a word of its history and its name.

In former years, when Plantagenet was the royal name of England, when
popes were powerful in the land, and it was sinful to eat beef on
Friday, among the best fed and best taught people of the country were
the abbots and priors of the various monasteries, who somehow,
notwithstanding vigil, prayer, and fasting--nay, even occasionally
vows of voluntary poverty--got fat, prosperous, and wealthy. Large
domains had these good men, and productive fields, besides tithes and
dues of various sorts, which were usually paid in kind. As the abbot,
and the abbot's bailiff, and other officers made their little profit
upon the sale of such commodities as they did not consume; and as, in
a benevolent and Christian spirit, they took good heed to have
plentiful stores laid up to aid the people in time of scarcity, it was
requisite that they should be provided with barns and garners to
preserve the fruits of the earth which they received. These barns were
called granges, and very often had a small farm attached to them. The
masonry of the edifice was generally solid, and the style of the
architecture in some degree ecclesiastical. When the grange was built
near the abbey, it usually stood by itself, without any dwelling-house
attached; but when it was at a distance, on one of the abbey farms, as
was frequently the case, a good mansion for grieve or farmer was often
added by the care of the monks; and a farmer who had pretty daughters,
or brewed good beer, generally contrived to get very comfortably
accommodated.

The house I have been describing was still called The Grange, and such
as I have stated had been its original destination. The long building
had been the real grange or barn of a neighboring abbey; the taller
building had been added afterward for the convenience of the abbot's
bailiff. When the monasteries were suppressed by the arch plunderer
Henry VIII., we all know how many and how great were those who shared
in the pickings of the defunct fowl of Rome. The Grange and the farm
attached to it fell to the lot of a nobleman in the neighborhood,
together with much other valuable property. He bestowed it upon a
younger son; and from that younger son it had descended in unbroken
line to its present possessor. The fortunes of the house had varied
considerably; some had proved gamblers, some had been soldiers, some
had been profuse, some penurious, some had even made love matches, and
now the farm, and the house, and the family were all in a state not
very prosperous, not very disastrous, somewhere between decay and
preservation. It was lucky, indeed, that the owner thereof had but one
son; for, had he been blessed with as many babes as a curate, there
might have been some danger of a dearth in the pantry. As it was, he
could afford comforts--an occasional bottle even of claret. Punch was
a frequent accessory to digestion, and good sound ale, which would
have done honor to any Cambridge audit, was never wanting for a friend
or a poor man.

The owner of that house, however, was a man of a peculiar disposition,
which prevented him from enjoying as much as he might have done the
favorable position in which fate had placed him. I do not mean to say
that he was of a discontented mood, nor that he was precisely a
melancholy man. He was whimsical, somewhat cynical, and certain it is
he had always the art, though a good and kind man at heart, of
discovering the bad or ridiculous side of every thing. He was a
learned man withal, and could often fit an occasion with a quaint
quotation, often twisted considerably from its just application, but
always serving his own purpose very well. He had passed a long time at
the University, and gained odd habits and some distinction. He had
then suddenly married a very beautiful woman of good family and small
fortune. For her sake he determined to exert himself, to strive with
the crowd for honors and distinctions, to place her in the same
position in which his ancestors and hers had stood. For this purpose
he went to the bar, around which he had been indolently buzzing for
some time previous. He was engaged in one cause: circumstances favored
him; the senior counsel was taken ill; the weight, the responsibility
fell upon the junior, but with them the opportunity. He made a
brilliant speech, a powerful argument, carried the court and jury
along with him, and saved his client from fine and imprisonment.

Then came the heaviest blow of his life. His wife died and left him
with one infant. The law was thrown up; the object of ambition was
gone; all his old habits returned, more wrinkled and stiff than ever.
He retired to his small property at The Grange; and there he had lived
ever since, cultivating his acres and his oddities. But let us venture
within the old walls, and see the proprietor in his glory.

Mark the knocker as you pass, reader--that great truncheon of iron, I
mean, suspended by a ring surrounded by a marvelously cut plate of
steel, with a large boss at the lower part, just beneath the obtuse
end of the hammer. The door, too, is worth a look, with oak enough in
it to build a modern house. Then we come to a low passage, none of the
widest, and diminished in space by two chairs with tall backs, each
back having round rods or bars joining the two sides together,
ornamented with round, movable pieces of wood, which may be rattled
from side to side, and resemble exactly those upon the curious machine
with which in popular schools we teach the infant mind to count, now
that we have discarded nature's original numeration table furnished by
our own ten fingers. Between the chairs, in order not to leave space
for intruders to pass too readily, is a suit of complete armor,
somewhat rusty, while on the other side are three cuirasses and three
steel caps, with sundry pikes, swords, and gauntlets, arranged with
some taste and garnished with much dust and many cobwebs.

Now, take care! There is a step--not up, but down; for the floor is
made to accommodate the ground, not the ground leveled to accommodate
the floor. Then this small door on the left hand, with sundry names
and capital letters carved in it with a penknife, to prove the
universality of idle habits in all ages and countries, leads into the
room where we would be.

But, ere we enter, let us take a glance around.

Seated at a small table, near a fire, with one foot resting on the
massive carved brass dog's head which ornaments the end of the
andiron, at the imminent risk of burning the slipper, and with the
other drawn up under his chair--which, by-the-way, was as tall and
stiff-backed as a corporal of dragoons, and would have been a most
uncomfortable seat had it not been well cushioned and partially
covered with Genoa velvet--sat a gentleman of perhaps five-and-fifty
years of age. He wore his own gray hair, though wigs were even then
beginning to domineer over the crown, and the somewhat slovenly
easiness of his whole apparel forbade the supposition that he would
have ever consented to embarrass his cranium with a load of horsehair
only fitted to stew the brains of the wearer into an unintellectual
mass of jelly. He had upon his back a brocade dressing-gown, which
might have been handsome at some former epoch--say twenty years
before; but which, though not actually dirty, was faded, and though
not actually ragged, was patched. He wore stockings of gray thread,
and breeches of a chocolate color, and by some antipathy between the
waistband thereof and the fawn-colored silk waistcoat above, a large
portion of that part of his shirt which covered the pit of his stomach
was exposed to view; but then that shirt was of the very finest and
cleanest linen. Every man has somewhere a point of coxcombry about
him, and fine linen was his weak spot. The ruffles and the cravat were
of lawn, and white as snow.

On the table before him was a large candle, shedding its light upon an
open book; and ever and anon, as he read, he raised one finger and
rubbed a spot a little above the temple, which, by long labor of the
same kind, he had contrived to render quite bald.

The room was by no means a large one, and the ceiling was of black
oak, which rendered its appearance even smaller than the reality; but
the greater part of three sides was covered with book-cases, and an
immense number of curious and antiquated pieces of furniture
encumbered the floor. The chairs were of all sizes and all
descriptions then in use; the tables were as numerous and as
various as the chairs. The latter, moreover, were loaded with large
glass tankards, curious specimens of Delftware--some exceedingly
coarse in material and coloring, but remarkable in device or
ornament--richly-covered wooden-bound books, strange daggers, and
fragments of goldsmith's work, with one or two pieces of China and
enamel of great value, besides coins and small pictures inestimable in
the eyes of an antiquary. The large center-table was tolerably clear,
for supper-time was approaching, and on it he took his frugal evening
meal, although he had a dining-room on the other side of the passage,
furnished with the most remarkable simplicity, and paved with hard
flag-stones. It was enough for him, however, to be disturbed once a
day; and he visited what was called the eating hall no oftener.

This elderly gentleman, however, was not the only tenant of the room.
On the other side, as far as he could get from the fire--for the
evening, though in early spring, was by no means cold--sat the son of
the master of the house, a young man of about one-and-twenty years of
age. The father might have been pronounced a good-looking man, had he
taken any care of his personal appearance; but the son had inherited
his mother's beauty, with a more manly character; and although youth
was still very evident, though the mustache was scant and downy, and
the face fair and unwrinkled, there was a good deal of thoughtful
decision about the eyes, and a world of resolute firmness about the
mouth and chin.

He, too, was reading; and sometimes the book beneath his eyes excited
a smile, sometimes engaged his attention deeply, but more frequently
his mind seemed to wander from the page. He would fall into deep fits
of thought; he would play with a knife which lay beside him; but, more
often still, he raised his eyes, and fixed them anxiously,
thoughtfully upon his father's face. It seemed as if there was
something working in his mind to which he wished to give utterance,
and it was not long before he spoke; but let us reserve what followed
for another chapter. It affected too much the fate and the immediate
course of the personages before us to be treated briefly at the end of
a mere descriptive passage.




CHAPTER III.


The father looked up from his book, and closed it with a slap, saying,
"'Et tamen alter, si fecisset idem, caderet sub judice morum.' It is a
bad book, and if another had written it he would have been put in the
stocks or whipped at the cart's tail. But this man will get fame, and
honor, and wealth by it; not that I am affected by the 'tristitia de
bonis alienis.' Each man should rejoice when he sees a worthy neighbor
successful, even if he may detect some flaw or fault in his
performances, for envy is the basest and most destructive of passions.
'Nulla pestis humano generi pluris stetit;' but when one sees a man of
some ability direct all his efforts to produce that which can only
work evil to his fellow-creatures, gild vice, decorate folly, and
corroborate falsehood, and yet be lauded and rewarded, it does excite
anger, and produces a sad conviction of the unworthiness of our kind."

This was not a very auspicious commencement of the conversation to
which the young man was looking with some anxiety for an opening to
propound certain schemes and purposes of his own. Nevertheless, it was
some satisfaction to him that his father had left off reading, for
that was an occupation not to be interrupted; and he hastened to make
a reply, in hopes that some turn would afford the opportunity he
desired.

"Bad books are sometimes very useful, I think, sir," he said, with a
good-humored smile.

"Ever in paradoxes, Ralph!" said his father "how may they be useful,
boy?"

"By giving better men than their authors occasion to refute them,"
replied Ralph; "not that I mean to say"--he continued, knowing the
peculiar argumentative character of his father's mind--"that the mere
refutation would be sufficient, for that would leave matters just
where they were before" (his father waved his hand), "but because, in
the act of refutation, a thousand new arguments would be drawn forth
in favor of truth and right, which might not occur to the multitude if
no controversy ever elicited them."

"You have not put your case as strongly as you might have done,
Ralph," replied his father; "complete refutation would not absolutely
leave matters exactly where they were before. It is with a truth, with
a principle, as with a sword-blade: its strength can not be fully
known till it is tried. True, the strength, whatever it is, remains
the same, but to those who have to use it, the trial adds confidence.
It is not of half as much importance to be armed with a good sword as
to have one and know that it is good from having proved it. The
abstract truth of any proposition remains the same, whether it be
assailed and defended or not; but the question before us involves
another element, namely, the effect of the assault and defense upon
the minds of men; and therefore, as you say, books assailing truth may
sometimes be useful by calling forth a complete vindication of the
truth. But the man who writes them is equally culpable; for even were
we to admit that he might desire to establish truth more firmly by
calling forth a strong defense, he would fall into the offense of
promulgating falsehood with the knowledge that it was false, and truth
refuses to be served by deceit."

He paused for the moment, and his son carefully abstained from
furnishing new matter for subtle arguments, well knowing that his
father had no mercy upon hobby-horses.

At length the old gentleman laid his hand, smilingly, upon the tome,
saying, "I do not suppose that you intend to refute this work, Ralph:
first, because I imagine that you do not know what it is, and, next,
because I have remarked any thing but a vaulting ambition in you, my
dear boy; indeed, perhaps too little. Now,


    'Ambire semper stulta confidentia est,
     Ambire nunquam deses arrogantia est,'


as has been said, in not the sweetest Latin that ever flowed--"

"Your pardon, dear father," replied Ralph, "I am very ambitious; not,
indeed, of refuting the book of any author, living or dead; that I
leave to you, in every way fitted for the task, if falsehood be the
opponent. But anxious am I--most anxious, 'ambire palmam,' on the
great stage of human life. To speak straightforwardly, I have been
thinking for some time of asking your permission to go forth and try
my fortune on a wider stage. I think I have not done ill at Cambridge"
(the father nodded his head approvingly); "but yet none of the paths
which a collegiate life opens to a man have temptations for me, and I
would fain see whether I can not carve out one for myself."

"What, at the court?" asked the father, shaking his head; "Ralph,
Ralph, you forget the means, and know not half the expenses which a
court life requires even before the slightest advantage can be gained.
With the rich and the courtly, only the rich and the courtly find
favor. 'Sus sui, canis cani, bos bovi, et asinus asino, pulcherrimus
videtur.'"

"Oh no!" cried Ralph, "no courtly life for me, sir. Some powerful
friends I may need, but those I know you can procure me; for not only
they who are connected with you by blood, but they also who have had
the stronger bond of personal friendship with you in former years,
will assuredly value your recommendation too highly to slight your
son. As to means, the small sum I receive from my college, and a part
of what you were kind enough to allow me there, will be ample."

His father shook his head with a somewhat doubtful air, and asked,
"But if you should fail, Ralph?"

"I can but return here," said the young man, "and matters will be just
where they were before."

"You are fond of that phrase, Ralph," replied his father, "but you are
mistaken--all are mistaken who use it; nothing that has passed through
any change is ever the same as it was before. There is always
something gained or something lost. It will be so with you; and who
shall say, in all the various complexities of circumstance and
character, of accident and conduct, which life in the great world
implies, how the balance may incline when you visit this old dwelling
again."

He fell into deep thought after uttering the last words, and his son
would not disturb his revery; for the ice was broken, the first
announcement made, and he was very certain of gaining his point in the
end. Oh how eagerly did the youth long for the attainment of that
point! What was it that attracted him so strongly? No truant
disposition; no idle weariness of the spot where his ancestors had
dwelt; no gilded dreams of sport and pleasure; no overcolored picture
of the world's brightness. But it offered him hope; one small spark of
that sacred fire, the extinction of which is death. He felt within him
strong energies; he had proved somewhat severely his own abilities; he
had a great purpose before him, a strong passion to lead him, and all
he wanted was hope and opportunity. He dared not tell his father all
that was in his heart, for there is a cold mist about age in which the
flame of hope will hardly burn; and if prescience were equal to
experience, youth would never struggle on so far and overcome so much,
for want of sunshine on the way.

The father sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire; the son remained
with his head leaning on his hand, till both started at a sharp rap
upon the door of the house from the heavy iron knocker which I have
mentioned.

There was, indeed, no need of starting, for both knew they were to
have a visitor that night, to taste a bowl of punch and chat over the
affairs of the country round. But they had been so deeply involved in
personal feelings that they had forgotten the flight of time, and the
guest was upon them ere either was aware that the usual hour of his
visit on a Wednesday night was actually come.

The father buttoned up a portion of his waist coat, and drew on again
a slipper which, under the pressure of cogitation, he had kicked off
his foot. The son put straight several of the chairs, which somehow or
another had got into a state of confusion; and in the mean while was
heard a sound, such as might have proceeded from a seal new caught
scrambling about in the bottom of a boat, but which, in reality, was
caused by the movement through the passage of a short, fin-legged
maid-servant, eager to open the door without delay to his reverence
the parson, of whose weekly visitation she had been more mindful than
her master. Hardly two minutes elapsed after the stroke upon the outer
door when that of the little library opened, and not one visitor, but
two, presented themselves, and both bedecked with cassocks.

I can not but regret the rubbing of the face off the coin wherever I
see it in society. I love local color; I love class costume, though
not class interests, however they may be disguised. Every profession,
every calling, honorably exercised, is honorable, and there is nothing
so vain as the vanity, nothing so pitiful as the pride which would
conceal any external indication of a position we have no right to be
ashamed of occupying. The Norman peasant girl, in love with her
immemorial white cap, would feel herself degraded were you to dress
her head up in hat and feathers. The New Haven fish-wife has an honest
pride in her yellow petticoat. The doctor in former times could still
be known by red roquelaur and gold-headed cane; the divine by the
garments of his order. The soldier aped not the civilian, nor the
civilian the soldier; each ship carried its own colors, and could be
known by those that sailed by it. I see not those inconveniences of
the system, which have produced a change in our day. However, in the
times of which I write, each parson could be known by his clerical
garments; and both the two gentlemen who now entered were evidently
churchmen, though very different both in appearance and demeanor from
each other.

The first was a fat, rosy personage, in a bran new cassock, glossy and
black as a raven's wing. In personal appearance he was no mean
representative of the old friar, wanting, however, the shaven crown
and the bare feet. The glance he gave around the room had just such a
degree of strangeness in it as might imply that he was not a frequent
visitor there, though not altogether unknown.

The second was an older man, perhaps sixty years of age, tall, pale,
and thin, with garments well worn, yet whole and decent. His hands,
though they not unfrequently held the spade in his own garden, were
peculiarly fine and delicate, and his face had seemingly been very
handsome in early life.

Now, from the time of the suppression of monasteries and the
reformation of the Church of England under Henry VIII. (if reformation
that movement could be called which took place under the wife-slayer)
to the present day, some five or six complete revolutions have
occurred in the state and character of the clergy of Great Britain.
Those are now living who remember one or two. By a very natural
reaction, the fishing, and shooting, and hunting parson of the early
part of the nineteenth century, the man unmindful of all outward
observances, and very little careful of even the more solemn duties of
his calling, has given place either to the man of forms and
ceremonies, of surplices and genuflexions, of crosses and
candlesticks, or to the eager, laborious, anxious evangelical
minister, ever visiting the sick, attending to the school, or
frightening the wicked with vivid pictures of damnation, and
diversifying labors, almost too much in themselves for any one man,
with missionary meetings, propagation of the Gospel societies, and
tract and Bible distribution. The parson Trulliber (I know not if I
spell the name aright, as I have no books with me), the parson Adams,
the Vicar of Wakefield--although each certainly very much overdrawn,
if we consider them as representatives of a class--give us some idea
of the various phases of the clerical state in the last century; and
innumerable memoirs, histories, and essays show the real condition of
the clergy in the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the
eighteenth centuries. At none of these periods, be it however
remembered, was there not among the clergy of the day an infinite
difference, in manners, character, and condition, between different
individuals, according to circumstances. The man placed at a distance
from refined society, in some remote country parish, was apt to lose
the more polished manners acquired at college. This was especially the
case where, as sometimes happened, the shameful smallness of the
stipend compelled the parish priest or curate to eke out the means of
subsistence by hard manual labor. But even then it was not always the
case; and hands that have held the plow or dug the glebe have often,
washed and clean, during the evening hours, penned words of fire,
which have not only found their way to the hearts of men, kindling a
flame of pure religion in the breast, but have lighted the writer
himself on the road to high preferment.

Again, the chaplain of the lord or great landed proprietor, depending
upon his patron for advancement in the Church, and sometimes even for
his dinner, was often inclined to be subservient and lickspittle, to
undertake degrading and sometimes shameless offices, to forget the
dignity of his calling and the dignity of man. But this was merely
occasionally; and occasionally, also, you would find a chaplain as
stern and harsh as the most fierce reformer, keeping the whole
household in awe, and even reproving the faults of his lord himself.
These, however, were the extremes, and the general course lay between.
There you would find the domestic priest, plodding on quietly in his
duties, doing as much good as a not very zealous character could
accomplish, bearing the crosses of his situation meekly, and looking
forward to a better and a freer day when the long-expected living
should be bestowed.

All the coarse caricature daubing in the world can not alter the lines
of the picture left to us by the authentic records of those days, and,
though it may make the idle smile and the ignorant applaud, yet it
will not deceive those who are really conversant with the manners and
customs of other times.

Two clergymen of the seventeenth century are now before us, reader,
but they belong to neither extreme, and the difference between them,
though very great, only serves to show that even the middle ground
admitted of much variety. The first who entered advanced, after a
momentary look around him, directly toward the master of the house,
and took him by the hand with kindly warmth.

"Mr. Woodhall," he said, with the slightest possible touch on an Irish
accent, "I am delighted to see you again. It is full six months since
we last met, for I stayed behind my lord, being obliged to remain in
London on account of having to go to Dublin about some little affairs
of my own; my dear aunt having at length thought fit to take her
departure for the realms of bliss, when, faith, I thought she had put
off the journey altogether. She left me--God bless her!--a neat little
comfortable income of two hundred pounds English, a large China bowl,
and a pair of Tangier slippers. Heaven reward her, as I am sure it
should, for she never troubled it till she could not help it."

"I am glad to see you back, Mr. M'Feely," replied the master of the
house; "you have been much wanted to bless the venison up at the
hall."

"Oh, the currant-jelly does that mighty well without me," replied the
chaplain. "Mr. Ralph, I am right glad to see you. Alma Mater
abandoned, I hear. Done with the old lady, eh? Well, it must be so
with all fathers and mothers. Children will quit them, must quit them;
and there is no use of going cackling about like a hen after a brood
of young ducklings when first she sees them take to the water. Every
animal knows its own element, and will find it sooner or later. My
poor mother, rest her soul, was sadly afraid that I might fall into
the errors of popery, and yield to the seductions of the scarlet
woman; but, faith, I had no turn for vows of celibacy, and so I came
over to England to be out of harm's way. No, no, wedlock is an
honorable estate--especially when there is another estate to back it;
and as to being married to the Church, upon my soul and conscience I
never yet saw the church, be it stone or wood, that I would like to
marry any how."

While this part of the worthy gentleman's discourse was going on,
addressed to the son, the father had been welcoming his other guest,
the parson of the parish.

"Good evening, doctor, give you good evening," he said; "you have
caught me here, the lean and slippered pantaloon; but, good faith,
Ralph and I were so earnest in talk that I forgot how time went.
Nevertheless, 'tis well as it is. Conversation never walks so much at
ease as when slipshod; and we will scant ceremony to-night. Come, lay
aside your periwig, and we will have a bowl of punch anon."

We will pass over the brewing of the punch and the conversation which
sweetened it, whether that conversation turned upon the decline of
lemons, which the chaplain declared were not half as juicy as when he
was a boy, or upon the enormous price of sugar, which the good parson
mourned over sincerely. After the two first ladlefuls had passed
round, however, other more important topics were started; rumors from
London, tales from France, an epigram, a court ball, a passage of
Lucan, and a newly-discovered method of solving some very puzzled
questions connected with conic sections were all mentioned and
discussed.

Ralph Woodhall had no interest in any of these things. Of some he was
ignorant, of some he was tired; and at length he rose, saying he would
go out and take a walk for half an hour.

"To study the stars, Ralph?" said his father.

"Nay, to write a sonnet to the pale-faced moon," replied his son,
laughing, and away he went.

"The boy has lost his wits," said the Irish clergyman, "to leave such
a bowl as this, and such edifying conversation for a green lane and a
moonbeam. He must be melancholic."

"Indeed, he has been somewhat heavy and thoughtful of late," said the
father, "but he always loved these rural walks, visere sæpè amnes
nitidas."

"But not by darkness," replied the parson; "he was never a
night-walker."

"The lad's in love," exclaimed the Irishman; "that is the plain truth,
as sure as my name is M'Feely. You never see a lad of about twenty get
moping and walking by moonlight, looking into babbling brooks, or
sitting with his hat off under an elm-tree, but you may be sure that
he is infected with that sauntering, heigh-ho, lamentable idleness,
love, rightly called a passion, if passion means suffering, and as
rightly called a madness or a disease by some doctors, whether the
seat thereof be in the liver, or the midriff, or the brain, or the
heart."

"Hold, hold, doctor," exclaimed Mr. Woodhall; "pray make some
distinctions. There are various kinds of love: some honest, noble,
ennobling, others base, evil, and degrading. To say nothing of divine
love, holy love, and all kinds and descriptions of honest affection,
even the love of man for woman is often too pleasing and blessing to
be called a disease. It may perhaps be termed a sort of mental
titillation, which, when not extravagant or in excess, is agreeable
and even salutary. Many Eastern nations take the greatest delight in
being gently tickled; the Chinese enjoy having the soles of their feet
titillated either with the finger or a feather, and yet we know that,
carried to excess, the tickling of the feet has produced convulsion
and death. All depends upon moderation: every excess is evil, on
whichever side it be committed: nay, I hold that an excess of
abstinence is more sinful than an excess of indulgence, for the one is
a despising of God's good gifts, while the other is merely a
superfluous enjoyment of them. I can not but think that the saint who
stood on a pillar, and the anchorites of the Thebaid, were not only
great fools, but blasphemous fools; for, if they did not convey by
speech, they signified by action, a foul and false imputation upon the
character of the Deity, for which they deserved to be burned--if ever
any men did merit such a fate."

"But if your son be in love, who is the person with whom he is in
love?" asked the parson. "There is no one in the parish for whom I
think it at all likely that he should conceive such a passion."

"He is not in love at all," replied the father; "the truth is, my
reverend friend, he has conceived a strong desire to go forth and seek
his fortune in the world, and we were speaking of that very subject
when you came in. I had neither consented nor prohibited; and
probably, doubt--the most painful of all modes or conditions of the
mind--has made him wander forth to-night."

"The boy's in love!" grumbled Mr. M'Feely, authoritatively; "the boy's
in love! But as to sending him forth to seek his fortune, that is the
very best thing that can be done for him. It is the best remedy for
love in the world. He'll puff and sigh like an angry cub for the first
fortnight. Then he'll find there is something else to be done in life
than sigh. Then he'll struggle on, all for the loved one's sake! Then
he'll forget the loved one in the struggle. Then he'll find she has
forgotten him, and he'll console himself by saying, 'There are more
fish in the sea.' Bless your soul, Mr. Woodhall, when I left Ireland,
with what I could scrape together, to study at your University of
Oxford here, I was dying for love of no less than nine of the
prettiest girls in all the north of Ireland. Not one of them didn't
swear she would die a maid for my sake; and yet you see I'm a bachelor
over forty, and they are all matrons--some of them grandmothers, I
fancy."

"What do you say to it, my worthy friend Barry?" asked Mr. Woodhall,
addressing the parson. "I do not like to part with my son so soon
after his return from college; I do not like to throw a lad like that
upon the wide world without any decided prospect before him. Yet if it
be for his good, I will cast away parental fondness and parental
anxiety, and let him go."

"You will let him go in the end, Woodhall, whatever you determine
now," replied the clergyman, with a look of kindly meaning, "and it is
better to do that graciously which you will do eventually. Besides, I
think you will do right. The most important part of education is the
education of the world. Those who keep their children back from this
till they are themselves gone, leave them to receive the hard
instruction, without any one at hand to render it more easy. You have
given Ralph every preparation. His mind and his heart have been
cultivated highly. Let him go to receive the lessons of experience,
while you are still here to give aid in case of need."

"Well, he shall go," said Mr. Woodhall, with a sigh; "I have still
some friends left in the great world who will lend a helping hand, and
to them he shall have letters."

"I have but one," said Mr. Barry, "but he is a good and faithful one;
and Ralph must know him."

"Bless your soul, I will get him twenty letters from my lord in a
jiffy," exclaimed Dr. M'Feely; "the lad is a great favorite of his,
and I have nothing to do but to write them, and my lord will sign and
address them."

Thus was it determined that Ralph Woodhall should go forth to try the
world.




CHAPTER IV.

I mentioned the stream--surely I mentioned the stream. Oh dear, yes, I
certainly did, although, in the hurry of telling a story, one is
sometimes apt to forget small particulars. But I know I informed the
reader, in describing The Grange, that there was a small, pleasant
stream, not unconscious of trout, which wandered past the back of the
old house, and then, as if it had a peculiar affection for the place,
made a graceful turn round one of the sides, serving for a fence--even
if there had not been a dilapidated old wall there for that purpose.

It was a very beautiful little river, for it deserved a grander name
than rivulet, seeing that it was at that spot some twelve or fourteen
feet broad; and although the country to the north and east was flat,
yet a number of little hills and eminences, and a general sloping
tendency of the country to the south and west, from which it
descended, had contrived to give it a rapid and hurried motion, which
was accelerated by several miniature cascades and rapids. There were
trees growing by its side, too, and often overhanging it, canopying
its glistening waters with interlacing boughs, and green, shimmering
foliage. Sometimes they swept afar, leaving broad, open meadows, where
the angler might throw his fly with fearless sweep of arm; but
sometimes they crept close to the bank, so close that their great
brown rounded roots would obtrude from the rugged bank, mingling with
the mossy turf and oozy rock, and curl down into the stream with many
a twist and many an aperture, affording fit concealment for the hole
of the water-rat or otter.

On the left-hand bank, however, whether along green meadow or among
the dim, shadowy trees, close to the margin of the stream, and
following all its turns and windings, ran a broad, dry, well-kept
path; and as beautiful and pleasant a walk it furnished for any one
who loved quiet musing, or was studious of the tranquil face of
nature, as could well be found in the wide world. The very bounding,
rush, garrulous boyhood of the stream, as it rushed on, struggling
with the rocks and impediments in its way, overleaping some
difficulties, rushing round other obstacles, and still, in spite of
all, making its way onward, might furnish fancies to a poet and
thoughts to a philosopher. Then the view over some of the open fields,
often, indeed, broken with hedgerows, and often dotted with church
spire, and cottage, and farmhouse, but not unfrequently extending for
miles and miles away over blue fen and dusky moor, had something wide
and expansive in it, which seemed to open the heart and make the
breast heave more freely; and where the trees fringed the stream, the
eye could still wander far, for there was no thick wood, but a mere
belt of planting without undergrowth, leaving smooth banks and grassy
slopes between the old trunks and stems, over which the sight might
range along tracks of sunshine, and often catch a glimpse through the
green avenues of a far-extending distance beyond.

Oh! the homilies of nature, how they pour into the heart of those who
will hear them lessons of peace, tranquillity, and love, which might
well reform this harsh and jarring world if man would but study there.
The characters which man's hand traces, even if spared by the wearing
course of time, whether written on parchment or graved upon the rock,
pass from comprehension--become a riddle or a mystery. The learned
scrutinize, the bold or the wise interpret; but the interpretation is
denied, and the dead man's tongue becomes a matter of dispute and
contention to the living. But the wisdom of the page ever open before
our eyes is written in the universal language, and man has but to look
and read to find himself wiser, better, greater from the permitted
commune with a spirit above his own.

It was a fair and pleasant walk that path beside the stream--pleasant
in the early morning, when dew was upon the grass and flowers, and the
slant rays peeped under the green branches as if the first glance of
the day at the new world were timid and doubtful; pleasant at noon,
when the green boughs afforded shade, and the brief walk across the
meadow rendered the shade more grateful, and the fresh air from the
ever-moving stream more sweet; pleasant at evening, when the rosy
light tinctured leaf and moss, and blade of grass, and painted the old
trunks of trees, and sprinkled the foam with rubies. Pleasant also was
it, most pleasant, when the yellow moon was hanging high in air, and
her beams, weaving themselves with the shadowy branches, spread the
way with a net-work of black and silver. Then how the stream would
seem to dance, and gambol, and leap up, as if to meet the looks of the
Queen of Night; and how every little cascade and rapid would sport
with the shower of diamonds that fell upon it from on high!

Along that path, under the moonbeam, Ralph Woodhall took his way, with
slow and thoughtful pace, while the next step in his future course was
under discussion in his father's house. He paused at the first meadow
and looked up to the broad moon, and then moved on again, sometimes
gazing at the stream and drawing dreamy images from its flashing
waters, sometimes fixing his eyes upon the path and giving up his
whole mind to commune with his own thoughts. They were somewhat sad
and dark--at least the ground-work was so; but still a gleam of hope
stole through, and checkered with brightness the gloom of the untried
future. Onward he went for about half a mile. There the stream
approached the little village, yet it came not too near; but, sweeping
past the foot of the little rise on which it stood, left a single
field dotted with one clump of trees between its bank and the first
house. Ralph paused there and looked up at the church, and strange
fancies passed through his mind. They were like those embodied in
Schiller's song of the Bell, full of association, partly sad, partly
joyful. Oh! how many a scene, and himself an actor in them, all passed
pageant-like before his eyes during the brief moment that he spent
there--all life's great epochs--all their emblems--the cradle--the
bridal ring--the coffin.

He walked on musing. He came to a low wall, with a stile of hewn stone
and thick trees beyond; and passing over, he followed the path, still
running by the side of the stream. Through the trees the moonlight
could be seen resting upon the open, waving ground, with many a dell
and glade, and here and there a deer lifting up its antlered head at
the sound of a footfall. Presently another sort of light gleamed
between the branches, but more directly on his path--a redder, less
placid beam; and shortly after, a tall, irregular house was seen upon
a terrace, to the foot of which the path approached very close, with a
bright blaze coming forth from three casements on the lower story,
while a ray or two shone out of the lattices above.

The young man took a few steps aside to a spot where the trees
approached nearest to the house, but remained under their shade, and
gazed up at one particular casement with a look intent but sorrowful.
What might be his thoughts and feelings at that moment? What might
they not be? The ringing sound of merry laughter came from the
fully-lighted windows below. There were men there carousing jovially,
but their merriment had no music for his ear. Did he envy them? Oh no!
Perhaps he might think how strangely Fate shaped men's lots; perhaps
he might ask why he, in whose veins flowed the same blood as in some
of those rejoicing there within, who was conscious of as high a mind,
as bold and true a heart, should be placed in comparative poverty,
should be looked upon as in an inferior position, because his father's
great-grandfather, about a couple of centuries before, had chanced,
without his own consent, to be born a younger son. Yet he envied them
not; he coveted not aught that they possessed; nay, of all within
those walls, longed for but one thing; but for that how he did long!
He could not obtain it; and yet the only bar was the lack of that
which those revelers possessed. That thought added to the objects of
desire; but their wealth, their rank, their station were only coveted
as means--means to the great end and objects of all his heart's
desire.

Thoughts came in crowds; but still he fixed his eyes upon the lattice.
A shadow crossed it, and he said to himself, "She knows not I am
gazing here." Then, again, he said, with some bitterness, "If she did,
what would she care?" but the next moment added, "yet I wrong her; she
would care--she would grieve--perhaps she would come forth to cheer
me--at all events, to bid me farewell. Would I could let her know."

He was taking a step forward with some unfixed purpose in his mind,
when a small door at the side of the building, not far from the bright
casements, emitted a momentary light, which was instantly obscured
again. The next instant a figure--a woman's figure, passed along the
terrace, crossing the blaze from the hall, and Ralph advanced a step
or two; but he retreated as rapidly, for the figure turned suddenly
from the sound of the revelry, descended the steps of the terrace, and
approached the very path by which he had come.

Oh how his heart beat at that moment; hers, perhaps, might have
throbbed wildly had she known who was near. But it was quite still,
though somewhat busy, and she took her way on, paused for an instant
to look up at the sky where the moonbeams vailed the stars, and then
entered the path beneath the overhanging boughs. Ralph Woodhall took a
step forward; it fell upon some of the withered leaves of the last
year, and the sound startled her. She stopped suddenly; and, fearful
that she would turn and fly, he pronounced her name.

"Margaret," he said, "Margaret, be not afraid; it is Ralph. I am glad
you have come out, for they seem merry-making at the hall, and I did
not like to go in, though I longed to see you."

Margaret gave him her hand; and whose heart was beating then?

"They are making a terrible noise," she replied; "more than usual, I
think, though perhaps it may be that my head aches, and that makes
their mirth sound louder than at other times. I fancied that the cool
air would do me good, and therefore came out to stroll along by the
stream."

"I will guard you on your walk, Margaret," replied Ralph; "it may be
the last time I can do so for a long time to come."

"The last time!" said the young girl--for she could not be more than
seventeen or eighteen; "you are not going to leave us, Ralph!"

"Yes, indeed, for a time, dear Margaret," he replied; "I am going away
into the wide world to seek my fortune--at least I have asked my
father's leave to do so."

"Fortune!" said Margaret; in a musing tone, walking on slowly along
the path; "what can there be in fortune, that makes men sacrifice so
much to seek it?"

"Nothing in itself," replied Ralph, "but every thing as a means--to
me, at least, every thing."

"I see not why it should be more to you than to others," answered
Margaret; "why is it?"

"I will tell you in an instant," replied her companion; "here I am
hardly at home from college, when I wish to go away again, to part
from my father, and you, and all my friends. That is what you would
say, I know, dear Margaret. But if I stay at home, content with the
little that Fate has given me, without an effort to make it more, or
to win honor, and station, and renown, there must come a bitterer
parting still; I must see the one I love best in all the world leave
me for another home, not only deny me her presence, but deny me her
thoughts, bestow heart and hand upon another, and be to me almost as a
stranger."

Margaret trembled, but answered nothing, and Ralph went on: "Shall I
wait tamely, Margaret, and, without an effort, see all this come
rapidly; or shall I, with a strong heart, battle with Fortune, and try
to conquer her for the hope of her I love?"

"Oh, yes; go, go!" cried the girl, eagerly.

"I may not succeed, perhaps," continued Ralph; "all my efforts may
fail--it is very likely. I may have to endure the same pang, to
undergo the same loss, notwithstanding the utmost exertions--that is
in God's hand; but, at all events, I shall have one consolation--I
shall have striven, I shall have labored, I shall have done my part;
and you, Margaret, you will think better of me; you will remember me
and my disappointments with sorrow; you will pity, if you must not
love me."

"I shall always love you, Ralph," she replied, in perfect simplicity;
but then suddenly stopped, adding, with a deep sigh, "I speak
foolishly, I fear; but you will not misunderstand me."

"Margaret," he said, in a tone of deep feeling, "Margaret, we must
fully understand each other. I love you, Margaret; I shall always love
you; I shall never love any but you. Yet hear me, dear girl, and do
not tremble so," he continued, drawing her arm within his; "I seek to
bind you by no tie to one in whose dark fortunes it needs the eye of
eager love to see one spark or hope. I ask of you no promise to be
mine, for I know right well that in my present state it were well-nigh
madness for either you or me to dream of such a far-off bliss. I have
that madness, Margaret, for I still dare to hope; but I would not have
you share it, lest my own bitter disappointment should be doubled by
breaking your heart too. It is well for me to go, and leave you free
to act as your own heart may dictate or circumstances may impel; it is
well for me to go, and to seek with the energy which only love can
give for all those bright jewels of the world which are but too
estimable in the eyes of those in whose hands your destiny must lie.
So long as you are Margaret Woodhall, hope will live, exertion will
continue, and strength will be given me to struggle on; but should I
ever hear of you by another name, the light of life will have gone
out, and, as my father has done, I will sit down to fade in darkness."

"What shall I do? what shall I say?" murmured Margaret, as if speaking
to herself. "Oh, Ralph, if I could add to your hopes, if I could
strengthen your efforts, how gladly would I do it; but my fate is in
the hands of others. I have no right to promise any thing. And yet a
promise might strengthen me myself; it might give me vigor to resist,
should resistance be needful. Still, my father has been very kind to
me and to you. Ought we, Ralph--ought we to do or say any thing that
he would blame and condemn?"

"No--oh no," answered Ralph Woodhall, firmly; "I ask it not, Margaret.
I only ask, let me still hope. Keep your heart and hand for me as long
as may be, and though it may seem wild, rash, insane to dream that in
a few short years I may accomplish enough to lessen the disparity
between your state and mine, yet, so long as the beacon burns before
me, I will go on, let the road be ever so rough and perilous. These
are strange and stirring times, Margaret; changes come suddenly and
often; all men are struggling; let me struggle too; and if Margaret
will but bid me hope, my heart shall never fail."

Margaret laid her fair hand upon his, and, looking up in his face,
replied, "Hope, Ralph! hope--hope all--hope always. I too will hope,
and struggle likewise."

As she spoke the moonlight poured through the branches on her fair
face and lighted her beautiful eyes. The look and the words were too
much to be resisted. Ralph bent his head over her, and their lips met.

"Hark!" said Ralph, after a moment's trembling pause, "I hear
footsteps coming up the path. Let us turn back toward the hall."

"Yes, yes, let us turn back," said Margaret, unclasping his arms from
around her, yet gently, kindly; and then, as if she would not leave
him wholly comfortless, she added, in a low voice, as they walked
onward, "there is at least one thing I may promise, Ralph, I will not
plight my faith to another; I will not yield to any entreaty--nay, or
command--till I have given you notice, and allowed time sufficient for
you to come and deliver me from that which would be a thousand-fold
worse than death, if deliver me you can. But now let us be calm, for I
hear the steps coming quick behind us."

When those steps were nearer still, Margaret was more calm than her
lover, for such is woman's nature. Perhaps he had been less deeply
moved than she had been--he could not be more; but the stronger
spirit, like the deeper water, when once in motion, remains longer
agitated.

"Ah ha! Mister Ralph," said the voice of Doctor M'Feely behind them a
moment after, "upon my life and soul, this is my country's way of
taking a solitary ramble. You go out to walk alone with a companion,
eh? Why, fair Miss Margaret, does my lord know of your night roaming?"

"Quite well," replied Margaret, with very little sign of emotion; "I
often walk through the park in the moonlight, doctor, but do not often
have such good luck as to-night in meeting Ralph to keep me company.
Ralph loves books better than the moon, I fancy."

"He loves a pretty face wherever he can find it, I fancy, be it the
moon's or not," replied the chaplain.

"As to my solitary ramble, doctor," said Ralph, "I believed, when I
set out, it would be solitary enough; but I can not say it has been
less unpleasant for not being so."

"Ay, devil doubt you," said M'Feely to himself; "but moonlight walks
are pretty dangerous things, as I know to my cost; there was the widow
Macarthy--but no matter for that. The moon is considered a cold
planet, but, on my faith, I think she has a greater knack of scorching
than any sun I ever saw."

All this was uttered in an under tone, so that no distinct sense was
conveyed to the two by whose side he now walked. It was evident,
however, that his suspicions were excited, and Ralph, somewhat
impetuous in disposition, and ever ready to confront a danger, asked
boldly, "What are you talking to yourself about, doctor?"

"Oh, nothing at all, but some of the queer freaks of nature, my boy,"
replied the other; and Margaret interposed, saying, "Ralph has been
telling me of a queer freak of his, doctor. He says he is going to
travel, and leave us all here in this dull place. He has not been home
from college a month, and is weary of us already. Can not you persuade
him to stay a little, if but for civility's sake?"

"By my conscience, but that is the last thing I shall do," replied
Doctor M'Feely; "it is the best thing for him to go and see the world,
and may be just as well for other people too. No, no, I have promised
the old gentleman to get my lord, your father, to give him letters to
all the great folks he knows, who may help him on in life, and the
sooner they are given the better."

"Well, I do not know what I shall do when he is gone," said Margaret,
following unconsciously a policy almost instinctive in woman's heart,
and showing a portion in order to conceal the whole; "I shall have no
one to talk to but you, doctor, and no one to draw me out of the river
if I fall in, as Ralph did when I was a little girl, for you would
never wet your cassock for my sake."

"Wouldn't I, though, darling?" cried the jolly priest; "I can help you
at a pinch, and will, depend upon it; and as to conversation, mine
will do you a world more good than that of any young scape-grace in
the land. But now, as to asking my lord about these letters, can it be
done to-night? is he in a fit state to be talked to, Mistress
Margaret? There was an array of bottles on the table when I left, and
the Bordeaux was none of the worst."

"Fit to be talked to!" cried Margaret; "fy, doctor, to be sure he is.
Would you have me tell papa that you think he gets tipsy every night?"

"No, no! For Heaven's sake not such a word, or there goes the living!"
cried Doctor M'Feely. "Oh, you little fox, so you have turned the
tables upon me! Well, you shall see how discreet I can be, and you be
discreet also, and don't say a word. We'll keep one another's counsel;
and mind, my darling, when you have an opportunity, speak a good word
for me about the living. I have been ten years in the house--ever
since you were a little thing not up to my knee--and not a benefice
has been offered me but that horrid marshy hole of Agueborough cum
Flushing-gap, where I should have had to read prayers to
yellow-bellied frogs, and preach to the seamews. I shall never be a
bishop at this rate, and I am resolved to comfort my arms in lawn if
it be possible. But now we are coming near. You trot up to your own
room, Mistress Margaret, and I and Ralph will go in; then the old lord
will never be a bit the wiser as to your moonlight rambles."

"On the contrary, I shall go straight in," said Margaret, boldly,
"that is to say, if all these drunken sots are gone, and will ask my
father for the letters for Ralph myself. You are altogether mistaken,
my reverend friend, if you suppose that I care about my father knowing
where I have been, or that I met Ralph accidentally. Only take care
not to put any wrong construction upon my walk, doctor," she added, in
a warning tone; "for the plain truth, I fear not."

When they reached the house, however, it was found that the party in
the Hall had not yet broken up, and the sounds that issued forth
warned Margaret that it was no scene for her to appear in. Doctor
M'Feely judged, also, that his presence would not be acceptable, and
the three parted at the door. It can not be said that Ralph's fingers
did not press more warmly on Margaret's hand than on that of the
chaplain as he bade them severally adieu.




CHAPTER V.


It was too much for the warmth of those lovers' hearts to part in the
cold, frozen solitude of even the little world around them. The many
makes a solitude for the few. No prison walls are harder, sterner; no
fetters more rigid, more binding; no penitentiary cell more silent,
more solitary, than the wall of hard human faces, than the fetters of
conventional forms, than the dull, hemming in, unresponsive circle of
an unsympathizing crowd for hearts that feel together, and would speak
to the ears that can comprehend.

They could not bear it; they risked all for the sake of pouring
out the thoughts of each bosom to the other; and on one bright
morning, the day before Ralph's departure over the brown heaths and
moors--Heaven knows how they found the opportunity; they hardly knew
themselves: it was the impulse of the moment--fortune favored; the
skies winked at the lovers' wish, and there they were. No eye, it
would seem, perceived their going forth; none whom they knew met them
in the lonely lane; and once in the wild commons, they were but a
speck upon the wide extent.

They heard the cry of dogs afar. They saw hounds and mounted horsemen
sweep over the distant hill. They felt little alarm; for so broad was
the expanse, that it would have required long calculations to discover
how many chances there were to one that the hunt would not come within
seeing distance of themselves. Sometimes they walked on together;
sometimes they sat side by side on the dry sandy bank. Margaret's hand
rested in Ralph's, and their eyes looked into each others'.

"You will not forget me, Margaret, among all the gay, and proud, and
high who throng your father's dwelling?"

"Can I forget myself, Ralph, and all the memories of which my
existence is made up? But will you not forget me? You are going forth
from me into a giddy world, where all is new and untried to you; where
thousands of sights, and feelings, and hopes, and passions, and
efforts, and changes, may well wipe away Margaret's image from your
heart."

"Do you believe it, Margaret? Do you think that in aught I meet with I
shall ever forget for one moment the object of my going forth? What
will be to me all that the world can give or show--what haughty
grandeur--what supple flattery--what upstart wealth--what official
insolence--what eager, hasty business--what cunning policy and low
cabal--what lordly halls and crowded courts, and glittering gems, and
eager strife, without the hope, the one bright leading hope, which,
like the mariner's star, may lead me away but to guide me surely home
again? Oh no, these things form but the waves of a sea through which
my bark must steer; but if they once break in, then I am wrecked
indeed. Would, dear Margaret, while I am gone, that you could see
every thought and feeling of my heart--behold, as in a glass, every
act in which I am engaged."

Margaret mused. "Would we could both know the future," she said, "at
least as far as our own fate is concerned; would we could see how all
this will end. They tell me there is a man lives yonder, down by those
few scattered houses on the moor, who can read horoscopes, and tell by
various means the destiny of those who will consult him freely. What
think you, Ralph," she asked, with a laugh and a blush; "shall we go
and ask him our fate? What if he were to say you would prove untrue,
and love some fair lady of the court, and forget Margaret? Are you
afraid to inquire?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "for I should give no weight to his
words, Margaret, whatever he said. The stars tell us of God's might,
and every thing throughout nature of his love and bounty; but man's
fate is a sealed book, which no stars, nor aught else in the great
creation, can aid us in reading. Had the Almighty ever designed that
the destiny even of the next coming hour should be known to us, he
would have given us clear means of learning it; for the same Being who
has taught us all that is necessary for us to know for our conduct
here below, and for our salvation hereafter, would not have left us
ignorant of any thing that could be beneficial to us to comprehend in
our after destiny. However, I have no fear, so let us go."

It may be a question whether Ralph really felt the full amount of
skepticism in regard to arts, which obtained almost universal credence
in those days, which he assumed. Reason is a fine thing; but alas for
poor human nature! reason but too often fails to convince. There would
seem to be intuitive convictions, against which argument the most
logical fails to operate. Ralph had a thousand times pondered and
discussed with himself all the points of superstition that affected
the age in which he lived. He had proved to his own satisfaction that
the calculations of the astrologer, and all the terrors of
supernatural visitants, were either impostures or dreams--to his own
satisfaction, I have said, but not to his own conviction, and the two
are very distinct. However, he did not suffer the lingering feelings
of unwilling belief, in that which his reason rejected, ever to affect
him in his conduct, and he again expressed his willingness to go.

Margaret, on the other hand, had never argued the question with
herself at all. Not that she gave full credence to all the wilder and
grosser superstitions of the day; for a mind naturally strong and
bright had guarded her against much, though not against all. She had
heard with horror and indignation of the trial, condemnation, and
execution of some unfortunate persons for witchcraft not very long
before the period of which I speak; but yet, when we remember that Sir
Thomas Brown himself, the great reformer of "vulgar errors," could not
free his mind entirely from the superstitions of his day, it was not
to be expected that a young girl of Margaret's age should be entirely
devoid of them.

She went on, then, with her lover, with more faith in the experiment
they were about to make, and of course with more eagerness also; but,
at the same time, her fears and agitation were naturally greater
likewise, and before they had taken a hundred steps she almost
regretted having made the proposal. Curiosity, however, was stronger
than apprehension--perhaps I might say, hope was stronger; for
undoubtedly one great motive of the inquiry she was about to make was
to strengthen her own heart in the coming hours of trial by the
assurances of after happiness which she fondly trusted to receive.

The scene around as they advanced, and the way that they took, were
well calculated to impress the mind with that feeling of awe which was
a good preparation for that which was to follow. The base of all
superstition is awe at the thought of some great unknown thing, and
whatever tends to impress the mind with grand and solemn fancies
naturally aids in that direction. I never saw the cause of
superstitious fears, so universal in the mind of man, clearly and
rightly reasoned but once, and that was in the work of an American
writer less generally known, at least in England, than he ought to be.
He makes one of his characters speak as follows: "Fear is not
cowardice. You may encounter unmoved the greatest danger that can
threaten you, as death in any shape, and yet be frightened at a trifle
merely because its exact magnitude is unknown to you. And this
convinces me that there is something somewhere in the universe more
terrible than death, or any ill that we know of, or whence comes this
all-pervading instinct of fear, which begins in the cradle, and
follows us to the grave? There is some undeveloped cause of fear
somewhere, some terrible evil which the imaginations of men have not
been able to find a shape for."

Any thing that strikes the mind and produces sensations of awe, even
of sublimity or grandeur, has a powerful effect in rousing up all that
is superstitious in our nature, and the scene through which the two
wandered on was well calculated to have that effect. I know nothing
more solemn and impressive than a wide, far-extended, uncultivated
moor upon a dim day, when no bright gleams of sunshine diversify the
expanse with catches of golden light, when the sky above is all gray,
and the eye rests upon nothing but long lines of brown and purple
heath, like a broad, desolate ocean spreading every where around. Such
was the scene which presented itself to the eyes of Ralph and Margaret
ere they had gone a quarter of a mile. The undulations of the ground
had by that time hidden the plowed fields and meadows around. The
Grange, the hedgerows, and tall trees were no longer seen; the church,
and the village, and her father's hall were shut out from sight, and
the only part to be discovered of the higher country to the south and
west was a dark, greenish-black line of hill covered with somber wood.
The small, scattered houses toward which they wended their way, and
which were to be seen distinctly when they stood upon the upland, were
now lost to the view; and not a trace of man's habitation or his
industrious hand greeted the eye to relieve the prospect from its air
of utter desolation. Even the path--if path it could be called--which
they followed to arrive at their object, showed none of the rich
coloring which could relieve the general somber tints of the view;
but, formed of the dark gray sand of a peaty soil, harmonized well
with, but enlivened not at all, the black and swampy ground that lay
on either side. Here and there a pool lay glistening upon the moor,
but the effect was not cheerful, for it reflected nothing but the gray
sky above; and round the edge, where the grass and heath had rotted
under the action of the water, the dark tangled roots and dull brown
moss, ragged and tufted, gave a more dreary look to the ground.

The distance was greater than Margaret had supposed; for the
cottagers, who were, in reality, intruders on another man's land, had
taken care to build at some distance from the cultivated ground, not,
indeed, in the hope of escaping observation, but in order to render it
not worth while to dispossess them. The solitary man, too, who had
established himself at no great distance from them, was not inclined
to court the proximity of the gay general world, and he had planted
his dwelling even some four or five hundred yards further in the moor
than the cottagers themselves.

Thus the walk was nearly two miles in length, and the ever-recurring
sameness of the view--its vastness--its desolation--sunk more and more
heavily upon Margaret's spirits as she and her lover walked slowly on
over the numerous slopes of ground, where the prospect was only varied
by a different arrangement of the same monotonous materials and hues;
and she literally trembled as she approached the lonely dwelling,
where, she more than half believed, her future fate might be made
known to her.

The house itself was a sad and solemn looking one; not a mere clay
hovel, like those which had been passed before, but a tall dwelling of
rough stone, with a perpendicular row of four windows, and two low and
narrow doors. It had evidently been built a long time, for moss and
lichen clung about it, and a thick stem of ivy rose at one corner, and
sent out its matted foliage of dark green over the greater part of two
sides of the building. It might have been a tower, erected in times of
trouble for watching the fens; and if a lodge in a garden of cucumbers
afforded to a Hebrew a good image of desolation, an Englishman could
conceive no habitation much more gloomy and dreary than a solitary
stone house in the midst of the marshes of Lincolnshire. In one
respect it had the advantage over the little hamlet situated near. It
was placed upon the top of the highest elevation of the low grounds,
probably for the purpose of descrying afar off any object that moved
across the fens. It was on a little mound, rising about some twenty
feet above the general level of the moor, and, consequently, the
situation was drier and more secure than could have been found any
where else in the neighborhood. But still it looked damp, and cold,
and miserable enough.

At the door which the two young people approached hung a large bell,
and laying his hand upon the pulley, Ralph drew it sharply down. It
gave forth a dull, melancholy sound, which made Margaret start. No one
appeared, however, at the door, although they waited for several
minutes in expectation. At the end of that time Ralph rang again, but
still no one appeared, and at length he lifted the latch and opened
the door. As he did so, he saw the foot of a tall stone stair-case
before him, and at the same moment a loud, deep voice called from
above, "Come up!"

When the young man turned toward Margaret, he saw that her blooming
cheek had become very pale, and that she was evidently much agitated.

"Shall we go on, dearest Margaret?" he said, taking her hand tenderly
in his.

"Oh yes, yes, let us go on now," replied Margaret, in a low voice;
"perhaps if I had known I should be so frightened I might not have
asked this, but I will not turn back now."

"There is no occasion for alarm, dear girl," rejoined Ralph; "I will
go first; but let me have your hand, Margaret;" and thus, hand in
hand, they ascended the long stair-case, while the voice from above
repeated, in a tone of command, the words "Come up!"

They passed two doors, one at the top of the first, and one at the top
of the second flight of steps; but Ralph judged that the voice sounded
from a place higher up still, and went on. The stair-case was very
dark, only illuminated by a narrow loop-hole here and there; but in
the middle of the third flight a brighter light began to shine upon
the steps, and Margaret detained her lover for a moment to recover
breath and courage, saying, "Stay a moment, Ralph. Let me stop my
heart from beating so;" then, after a short pause, she added, "Now let
us go on; I am ready."




CHAPTER VI.


At the top of the stairs there was an open door, from which what light
there was in the sky streamed out upon the landing-place, upon the old
oaken bannister which guarded the descent, and upon one half of the
flight of steps to the floor below. This light was so bright, so
clear, compared with that upon the common, especially when separated
from it by the darkness of the stair-case, that Margaret and Ralph
both thought for a moment that the clouds had cleared away, and that
the sunshine was streaming through some window that they could not
see. Such is the common effect of mounting to a high point when the
atmosphere is very thick; but these two young people had never
experienced it before, and they were surprised when they found, on
looking up, that, through what they termed a window in the roof--in
other words, a sky-light--the sky appeared as gray and clouded as
ever. Now these sky-lights are supposed by many to have been unknown
at the period I speak of, and the vanity of modern discovery leads men
to believe that many things are new inventions which were as well
known to our ancestors as to ourselves. It is the general introduction
of comforts and conveniences that is slow; the discovery of them is
often made centuries before they are applied.

There was a regular sky-light, with a small portion giving light to
the top steps, while the larger part served to illumine the room
beyond, the door of which was open.

The interior of the room was visible entirely to the eyes of Margaret
and Ralph as they ascended, and very different was it from that of the
learned Doctor Sidrophel, as described by Butler. It was nearly
destitute of furniture. There were two chairs and one table, formed of
old hard oak, upon which stood a telescope, pointing toward the
sky-light I have mentioned. Beside it lay a number of mathematical
instruments, and an enormous number of pieces of paper, or card, on
which were inscribed an infinite quantity of lines and figures, only
understood by the initiated. There were no stuffed beasts in the room,
no skin of alligator or large lizard; but upon a board at the side
were inscribed with a piece of chalk innumerable inscriptions and
strange figures, which Margaret did not at all comprehend. Near the
table--the only table which was to be seen--stood the master of the
house, dressed in long black garments, with boots of yellow morocco
leather. In short, his whole dress was singular, and at once denoted
the profession of an astrologer. It was not gaudy, nor in bad taste.
It seemed not as if he thought to proclaim his pretensions, but merely
adopted a peculiar garb for his own convenience. His figure and
appearance were impressive. He was a tall, powerful man of more than
six feet in height, and unbowed by the weight of years, although many
must have rolled over that tall, smooth brow, and the bald crown
above. The hair on the temples and back of the head was as white as
driven snow; but the eyebrows were still black as night, and but few
wrinkles appeared in the soft, smooth skin, which was as fair and soft
as that of any lady in the land.

At the moment when the lovers approached the door of the room, he was
looking anxiously at some papers in his hand, and he seemed wholly
engrossed by the subject of the moment. He moved not from the position
in which he stood, but simply repeated once or twice the words "Come
up!" and it was not until Margaret and Ralph had been some moments in
the room that he moved his eyes to ascertain who were his visitors. At
length he fixed a keen and eager glance upon them, and asked, in no
very gentle tone, "What brings you here, young people? Come you to
seek information of the past, or the present, or the future? I can
tell you either, and will tell you; for I know you too well to fancy
that it is some lost spoon, or strayed sheep, or any idle nothing of
village life which brings you here, as so many are brought, to inquire
of the _wise man_, whom they only think wise because he is different
from themselves in their own foolishness."

He spoke in a somewhat sneering manner, and Ralph answered in a calm
but bold one, "We have heard, sir," he said, "that you have studied
deeply sciences of which we know nothing, and that you are capable of
giving us information, or at least believe so, regarding our future
fate. But you seem to know who and what we are already, and now we
desire to hear, not what may be judged or fancied from the
probabilities of our existing situation, but rather that which is
indicated by science and calculation."

"You are a scholar, sir," said the astrologer, looking at him from
head to foot, "and doubtless hold in contempt the things which other
ages venerated. It is the mood of young scholars; but it matters not.
I do know you both well. I know you from the cradle until now. The
past, the present, and the future, as it regards you, are all before
me. I knew when you would come here, and that was why I told you to
come up, though I am not willing to be interrupted in my studies at
this hour. Now, Ralph Woodhall, what would you that I should tell you?
and you, Mistress Margaret, what is it you desire of me? Would you
fair dreams and specious promises, visions of bright and golden
happiness, love and enjoyment, long life, and a good old age? You will
have none such from me. Do you wish to hear the truth, or do you not?
Are you bold enough, fearless enough, to look upon the future with an
unwinking eye, and shape your course accordingly?"

"I am," replied Margaret, in a firmer tone than might have been
expected from her previous agitation; "it is for that I come. Say,
Ralph, is it not better that we should know what is in store for us,
than go on in doubt and uncertainty?"

Ralph was silent. There was something so impressive in the old man's
mariner, a strong conviction, so clear in his own mind, that some
belief was compelled; and yet the youth did not wish to acknowledge
that he placed any reliance on the other's pretended science. The
pride of argument and reason was against it; and he paused so long
that the other went on with a somewhat angry frown.

"You are incredulous," he said, "or would seem so. Happily for you,
belief or unbelief can not affect in any degree the immutable decree
of Fate. Now mark me. I need not the day and hour of your birth. I
know them both right well, and I will tell you broadly that which is
coming. To you, lady, in the first place, let me say the little I have
to say. Be true; be cautious; persevere! Strive not in any degree to
resist what seems impending over you. Yield to it, without a pledge;
but keep your troth pure and unsullied at the last, and you shall
still be happy."

"But not without him," exclaimed Margaret, laying her hand upon
Ralph's arm, and looking up in the old man's face eagerly, "not
without him, or it can not be true happiness."

The cloud passed away from the old man's brow, and he looked at her
with a smile the most sweet and benignant. "Truth will always make
happiness," he said; "without truth there can be none. You know how
you are plighted to each other. Be true to each other, and you shall
be happy; but it will not be without sorrow, and trial, and
difficulty. Now to you, young gentleman, I will speak. You are full of
vain hopes and expectations; love makes you ambitious; and I tell you
that you shall see one bright prospect fade away after another, and
hopes extinguished as soon as they are born. You shall struggle on
against hope, and meet with disappointment after disappointment. This
is your course. Lo, I have told you!"

He paused for a moment, gazing fixedly upon the countenance of Ralph
Woodhall, and then added, in a lower tone, "But persevere; be true,
and be happy in the end. In the moment when you least expect it--by
the means you least foresaw--your fate shall be worked out, and your
success accomplished. But hark! there are others coming who must not
find you here. Get you into this other room; keep you as still as
death, and wait till they are gone."

Thus saying, he opened a door in the wainscot, disclosing a small
chamber, utterly without furniture, and with one little window looking
out upon the moor. There was a sound of horses' feet, and people
speaking below; and the moment after the great bell rang, scaring
Margaret and her lover into their place of concealment with very
hurried steps. The voice of the old man was then heard, calling from
the top of the stairs, in his loud, sonorous tones, "Come up!" and the
instant after, another tongue was heard, shouting, "Where the fiend
are you? Do you hide yourself in the attic? Truth they say lies in a
well, and wisdom, it seems, at the top of the house."

"Wisdom and truth are not so far separate," said the old man, speaking
rather to himself than to the other.

At the same moment, Margaret, who had been leaning on Ralph's arm,
took a step forward, and shot a heavy bolt that was upon the door into
the staple; and then, raising her beautiful lips toward her lover's
ear till the sweet breath fanned his cheek, she whispered, "It is the
voice of Robert Woodhall, your cousin and mine, Ralph, though nearer
akin to you than to me."

"Little akin in kindness," replied the other, in the same low tone; "I
have not seen him for seven or eight years, so I may well forget his
voice. His haughty, imperious mother treated me so ill, and abused me
so much when last I was at the castle, that I will never go again."

Margaret laid her finger on her lips, terrified lest their retreat
should be disclosed by any sound; for steps were now heard coming fast
up the stairs, and there seemed to be more than one visitor
approaching. The next instant a voice sounded in the neighboring room,
which both Margaret and Ralph knew well, for it was that of her own
brother; and though it was more civil in its tone than that of the
first who spoke, there was a great deal of that rough levity in the
words, which was much affected by the young and dashing nobility of
the day.

"Good-morning to you, Moraber," he said; "I have brought my cousin
here, Lord Coldenham's son; or, rather, as I should say, Lord
Coldenham's brother. We want to see which way the hunt has taken. I
tell him you are a wise man, and he says to me nay, for that no wise
man would live in this moor."

"Fools might be made judges of wise men, and yet not much hanging done
in the land," replied the person he called Moraber; "not for want of
folly enough in the judges, but for want of wise men to be judged."

"Come, Master Moraber, or whatever is your name," said the voice of
Robert Woodhall, "show us a trick of your art. What in the fiend's
name is this you have got on the table?"

"Something that you can not understand," replied the other; "an
instrument that makes me see things that you can not see. What are you
holding out your hands for? Do you suppose that I practice chiromancy?
or do you come hither for the purpose of insult? If so, beware of your
neck; for that window is high, and you may have a speedy path to the
bottom."

"No, I don't come to insult you," replied the voice of the other, in
somewhat craven tones; "how the devil should I know how you tell
people's fortunes?"

"If you want palmistry, go to the Egyptians; I deal not with such
trash. The luminous influences which rule the destinies of mankind,
and which have been read with truth and certainty, from the days of
the Chaldean sages down to this present hour, are the letters of the
book I study. If you wish to know any thing that they may say
regarding your fate, put your questions and I will answer them; for I
have the horoscope of every man, above the rank of a churl, within
fifty miles of this place."

"I don't know well what to ask," replied the voice of Robert Woodhall;
and there seemed to be a whispered consultation between him and his
young companion. "Yes, yes, ask him that," said the voice of
Margaret's brother.

"Well, then," said Robert Woodhall, aloud, "tell me, if you can, in
all these choppings and changes of the times, what shall become of the
two kindred houses of Coldenham and Woodhall?"

"They shall be reunited," said the old man, at once and decidedly,
"and that before four years are over."

"Ay! How is that to be?" said the voice of Robert Woodhall, seemingly
puzzled by the reply; and then, after a moment's pause, he added, "I
suppose you mean that I shall marry my fair cousin Maggy."

Margaret's hand pressed tight on Ralph Woodhall's arm, and her
beautiful eyes fixed straining upon the door, as if she hoped that
their earnest gaze might reach the face of the old man, and read upon
it the answer ere it was uttered. The next moment, however, she heard
him reply, "I did not say so. I tell you what is to be, not how it is
to be."

"Well, then, tell me," exclaimed Robert Woodhall, in a more serious
tone, "shall I marry my cousin Margaret?"

"You shall go to the altar with her," replied the old man; but, ere he
could end the sentence, her brother Henry exclaimed, "You must have
changed your manners, and your morals too, Robby, before then, or I
tell you fairly I would stop it, even if it were at the altar step."

"It is not for you to stop it, young man," said the other deep-toned
voice; and then, suddenly breaking away from the subject, the old man
exclaimed, "There! if you desire to know which way the hunt has gone,
lo! there it goes over the fens hard by, and, if they take not good
heed, many a horse, and perhaps some men, will leave their lives
there."

"There it goes," cried Robert Woodhall; "come, Hal, come! Do not let
us stand wrangling and befooling ourselves here; let us to horse and
after them;" and the next instant was heard the sound of the two young
men's steps running rapidly down the stairs.

In the mean time, Margaret leaned her forehead upon Ralph Woodhall's
shoulder and wept; and, after a brief pause, the old man endeavored to
open the door from the other side.

Ralph drew back the bolt, but there were two sad faces which met
Moraber's eyes; for both the lovers had read his words in one sense,
and both, if the truth must be told, put some faith in them.

"Why weeping?" said the old man, gazing kindly at Margaret.

"You told me," said the beautiful girl, "to be true, and I should be
happy. How can I be either true or happy if I am to wed that man--a
man whom I abhor, a man who frightens me?"

The old man smiled. "It shall all be as I have said," he replied,
"though you can not see the how or the when. If the book of fate, dear
lady, could be laid open before your eyes, it would appear to you only
full of darkness and contradictions, unless you could perceive all the
myriads of fine links and intricate threads which unite event and
event together. These I myself can not see, and much that my art
discloses seems contradictory to me as well as yourself. Nevertheless,
that it _shall be_ I know; and if you find that my words come not
true, and all seeming contradictions melt away, I give you both leave
to call me liar and fool, and if I be still living, pluck me by the
beard in the public street. Nay, more, in compassion for your
weakness, and your partial want of faith, you may, when you find
events seemingly going contrary to my prediction, come to me, send to
me, write to me in your dread and apprehension, and I will give you
renewed assurance, and, perhaps, clear information. Be not afraid,
dear lady; have faith, and it shall go well."

Margaret shook her head and sighed, and the old man, turning to her
lover, asked, in a low tone, "When do you go forth?"

"In two or three days," replied Ralph; "but how did you know I was
going forth?"

The old man smiled. "I should be little worth consulting," he replied,
"if I knew not so trifling a thing as that. In two or three days! You
must take a long ride before that. You must go to a place you have not
seen for years, and to people that you love not. To-morrow morning
early, instead of hanging about the nest of this sweet bird, mount
your horse and ride away to Coldenham Castle; see the proud old lady,
see her eldest son. She will receive you ill, and treat you with
neglect, perhaps contempt. But laugh at it, Ralph Woodhall, laugh at
it; and mark every thing that you see in every chamber that you
enter--every chair, and table, and decoration, and piece of tapestry.
You shall be better than she is some day, and have rooms as fine, and
ornaments as gorgeous. If the woman is very fierce, just say to her,
calmly, that she has not done you justice, and that the day will come
when she must think better of you."

"But I love not to go near her," replied Ralph; "she is hateful to me
in many respects--a bold, harsh, bad woman; and, moreover, I see not
the use in visiting one whose only intercourse with my father or
myself led to total estrangement between him and his lordly cousin,
and to my mortification and injury."

"Go!" said the old man, in a tone of authority. "Go! as I have told
you; let her not say that you slunk out of your native county without
venturing to see your nearest relations. Perchance she may offer to
advance your views."

"Then I would spurn her offers with contempt," replied Ralph.

"What!" cried the other, laying his finger lightly upon Margaret's
hand, which rested on the table; "what! with this in view?"

"Margaret could never wish me to do a mean and base thing," answered
Ralph, "even for the greatest happiness that Heaven could bestow."

"Go, at all events," repeated the other, with a look not altogether
dissatisfied; "refuse or accept her good offices as you will; but go!
and now mark me further, youth: you will need a servant with you on
your wanderings. I know where you will find one who will suit you."

"Alas! good sir," replied Ralph, "I have no means to indulge in such
attendance. I can neither afford to pay a servant or to feed him."

"Did I not say that I knew one who would suit you?" asked the other,
"and when I said that I meant that he would suit you in all respects.
The one I speak of will have payment of a certain kind, but not from
you, and as to the rest, he will find means to feed himself; you must
take him with you, for he may be needful. Now remark: as, on your
return homeward from the castle, you pass through the village of
Coldenham, you will see a low white house, six doors beyond the
church; you will know it by the beams of the frame-work shining in
lozenges through the whitewash, and by the gables being turned to the
road; stop at the door, and ask for Gaunt Stilling: a lad will come
out to you, and you have but to say to him, Moraber says you are to be
at Halling's corner at such an hour of such a day, in order to go
through the world with me; and if you are punctual to the time you
tell him, you will find him at the place to the moment of the
appointed time. Ask him no questions, indulge no vain curiosity, and
he will serve you well and faithfully. Nay, more, he will, in case of
need, be able to communicate quickly with me, should I not be here
when you need counsel and assistance."

Ralph mused a moment, and then, looking up frankly, answered, "This is
all strange enough, but I will do as you desire. I hear all the people
round say that you are a good and kind man; that you cure them of
their ailments, relieve them in their need, and often, by your timely
help, turn the trembling scale of fortune in favor of the good and the
industrious. You would not do aught, I am sure, to raise hopes that
are vain, or to thwart efforts that are honest."

"I would not," replied the old man, solemnly, "but I would do the
reverse. And now it is time for both of you to speed home. The hunt
will soon be over. Do you know the way by the black lane?"

Ralph answered that he did; and saying "Take that, it is the safest,"
the old man led Margaret to the top of the stairs.




CHAPTER VII.


In a large and handsome room; in a splendid building of ancient
date--one of the few which, either in consequence of the political or
religious opinions of the owners, escaped ruin during the civil
wars--situated upon a gentle eminence on the confines of Nottingham
and Lincolnshire, with green turf sloping away to a wood of old trees,
to have wandered among which would have rejoiced the heart of Evelyn,
sat a lady considerably past the prime of life, yet with all the fire
of youth in her jet black eyes. She was not very tall, and yet there
was something commanding in her figure and her carriage which gave a
beholder the idea of greater height than she really possessed. The
figure, indeed, had suffered little from the ravages of time; and
although youthful grace might be gone--the supple, easy undulation of
unstiffened muscles--all the native dignity remained, rendered harsher
but not less remarkable by a certain degree of rigidity.

No one could deny that the features of the face were handsome, but yet
they did not possess that outline which is generally pleasing, and
there was something peculiarly repulsive in the expression--perhaps it
might be its unfeminineness (to coin a word); to this the general cast
of the features lent themselves greatly, now that the plump roundness
of early life had departed. The nose was aquiline, and strongly
marked, though beautifully cut; the eyebrows were thick, and still
quite dark; the eyes, as I have said, were black as jet, but no small
twinkling orbs, as is very frequently the case with very black eyes.
On the contrary, they were large and oval. The chin had probably been
very beautiful, though somewhat prominent, but now it had that
tendency to turn up which age generally gives to this feature when the
nose is aquiline. The hair, as white as silver, was turned back from
the forehead, just suffering two or three little snowy curls to escape
above the temples. Her dress was gorgeous, and even at that hour--it
was before noon--she wore a number of costly jewels.

To look upon her, one felt that there was a person of a strong will
and powerful intellect, but no one could imagine that any of the
tender weaknesses of woman's heart had ever found place in that bosom.

She had before her, at the moment I have chosen to present her to the
reader, a number of papers--stewards' accounts, household books,
statements of building expenses, and estimates; but with these she
seemed to have done, for though her jeweled fingers rested upon them,
her head was lifted, and her eyes turned toward the casement, though
the sun was shining through it fiercely; and on her face there was a
look of stern desolation--of melancholy, not gentle, but hard, which
might well picture disappointed expectation from those worldly goods,
which always, in the words of the poet, "turn to ashes on the lips."

As she thus sat, a servant entered and approached quietly within a
respectful distance, and then stood waiting for her notice. For a
moment she pursued her revery, whatever was its subject; but then,
seeming to become by degrees conscious of the man's presence, she
slightly turned her head and inclined her ear. Well versed in all her
ways, the man immediately announced his errand, saying, "Mr. Ralph
Woodhall, my lady, is below, and desires admittance to you."

"Who? who?" cried the lady, almost starting from her chair, while her
face grew alternately white and red, and her eye flashed with angry
brightness.

"Mr. Ralph Woodhall, the gentleman said," replied the servant.

"Let the beggar's son ride off!" said his mistress, fiercely; "he
shall not--no, he shall not--yet stay--give him admittance, but not at
once--not at once; keep him five minutes or so, then bring him in."

The servant bowed low and retired, not at all surprised by bursts of
strong feeling, to which he was apparently well accustomed.

As soon as he was gone, the lady rose and walked up and down the room.
"Ralph Woodhall," she said aloud, "Ralph Woodhall! what can bring him
here at the end of seven or eight years? I thought I had freed this
house of him and his miserable inert father--come to beg, perhaps.
Well, no matter, they can do no great harm, now that my good lord is
dead; or perhaps--but no, that can not be--Ralph Woodhall. But hark!
they are coming;" and she resumed her seat, smoothing her brow, and
affecting to look quickly over the papers before her.

The next instant young Ralph Woodhall was ushered into the room, and
his name pompously announced; but the lady took no notice, and still
turned over the papers, comparing one page with another. Ralph was
well dressed, and the glow of youth and exercise were upon as fine and
manly a face as eye could look upon. He observed at once the studied
negligence of his reception, and his first impulse was to turn upon
his heel and quit the room; but he thought that by so doing he would
give the proud woman the advantage, and, doubting not that it was her
intention to keep him standing like a dependant till she chose to
notice him, he advanced, with wonderful tranquillity of air, and
seated himself in one of the green velvet chairs exactly opposite to
her, throwing himself back, and letting his eye run quietly over the
decorations of the room.

Her eye was instantly upon him, and a bright red glow came into her
cheek. "Young man," she said, after a moment or two of bitter silence,
"nobody seats himself in my presence till he is asked to do so. You
are unmannerly."

"Pardon me, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man, boldly, "I seat
myself in the presence of any one but my king, and the more readily
where I see there are not manners enough to prevent my doing so
unasked." The lady gazed at him for an instant with flashing eyes; but
then something seemed to give a turn to her motions, and she burst
into a laugh, crying, "This is too good! you are a scholar, I think,
young man. Pray, under what professor did you study manners?"

"Under one, madam, who taught me that riches are not superior to
gentle blood," replied Ralph; "that rank is to be respected only where
it is combined with higher qualities, and that high station should
meet with reverence when it is ornamented with courtesy, but not
otherwise, except from fools and sycophants."

"By the book!" said the lady, "by the book! marvelous well remembered
and recited; and now what brings you here, Sir Scholar? To what do I
owe your polite attention? You come not here without cause--without
motive, I suppose."

"I have been over-persuaded, Lady Coldenham," replied the young man,
"to ride over, before I set out upon a somewhat long excursion, in
order to make a formal call at the house of my father's cousin's
widow, the only title by which you can be known to me--the only title
which justifies or gives occasion for my visiting you."

Instead of a violent burst of passion, which he certainly expected,
Lady Coldenham sat perfectly silent, leaned her head upon her hand,
and repeated to herself once or twice the words "The only title!" She
recovered herself soon, however, and replied, with a knitted brow,
fiery eye, and stern bitterness of tone, "You are an insolent
coxcomb--you always were."

The old man's words recurred to Ralph's mind at that moment, and he
replied, as he had been prompted, though not with perfect accuracy,
"Lady Coldenham," he said, "you have not done justice to me and mine,
but the time will come when you must do us justice. I came not here to
quarrel with you, or to bandy angry words, but with some hope that
time might have made a change in you, or, at all events, might have
banished bitter memories. I find it is not so, and therefore I will
take my leave."

Thus saying, he rose, and was about to depart, but the lady exclaimed
vehemently, "Sit down! I wish to speak with you."

He did as she desired, and for several minutes the old lady remained
in thought, apparently struggling with some strong emotions in her own
breast. At length she raised her eyes, which had been fixed vacantly
on the table, and said, with a quivering lip, "You are bold and harsh,
young man; but that I can forgive; I am not timid or tender myself. We
are about to part for long, perhaps forever. Tell me, what can I do
for you? If I can do aught, I will. That I owe to the memory of
others."

"You can do nothing for me, madam, that I will accept," the young man
replied; "a man must be base indeed to receive favors from one who
grants them unwillingly. Happily, I need nothing, and certainly I
would accept nothing at your hands even if I did. I am glad, however,
that you have made the offer, as it suffers us to part with less angry
words upon our lips than passed before. I thank you for your offer,
and now will take my leave."

Thus saying, he arose and left the room, where the lady remained
musing without uttering a word. On descending to the hall, he was met,
in crossing it, by a young gentleman gayly attired, the eldest son of
Lady Coldenham, and the actual possessor of the family title and
estates. He might be two or three-and-twenty of age; but such had been
the dominion exercised by Lady Coldenham over her husband during his
life, that he had left, on dying, immense and unusual control over his
whole property to his widow, besides a large jointure. Whispers,
indeed, had gone abroad that the death-bed of the old lord had
presented a painful and unsatisfactory scene, not only because he had
died without faith and hope, but because the domineering spirit of his
wife had been exercised, at that last fearful moment, with more
violence and eagerness than even during his lifetime; and that she had
watched his bedside night and day, not with the purpose of soothing
and consoling, but, as the servants judged, from her never suffering
him to be alone for a moment with any one, for the purpose of keeping
him her slave to the last.

The young man looked for a moment at Ralph Woodhall as a stranger, but
then suddenly recollecting him, he held out his hand frankly, saying,
"Ah, Ralph, how is it we never see you now? Why, your face had
well-nigh passed from my recollection, it is so long since you were
here."

"When last I was here, my lord," answered Ralph, "I had no great
encouragement to come back again."

"Oh, you mean my mother's conduct," answered the young lord; "you
should never mind her. She bullies every one. She always did; and if
every one she maltreats were to fly from her, she would have no
companions but the family portraits. Come along with me; I have a
famous mew of hawks to show you, which I have had trained after the
fashion of the olden time."

Ralph, however, pleaded want of time, and, after a few minutes more
spent in kindly conversation, the two young men separated; it must be
owned, with some regret upon Ralph's part at least. Lord Coldenham had
been the only one of the family who had shown him any kindness in his
younger days. He knew him to be like what his father had been,
placable, good-humored, and generous, full of honorable impulses,
though too easily governed, and he could well have made him a friend,
perhaps to the advantage of the young lord himself.

At the great door he found his horse fastened to a ring, the servants,
who always take their tone from the leading spirit of the house,
having judged it not worth their while to take the beast into the
stable, or to hold him till its master descended. Ralph tried to
banish all angry feelings, but a deep and indignant sense of ill
treatment remained which he could not master; and, mounting without
delay, he rode off toward the village, which lay at the distance of
about two miles. His beast was weary and wanted food, so that his
first care was to seek out the little public house, which he
remembered well. He there gave the horse into the charge of the
hostler, and then set out for the house which had been indicated to
him as the place where he would find a servant. As he strolled along
through the village, he could not help remarking the increased
appearance of decay which was manifest in all the houses, the
buildings, and the little gardens. Though never very prosperous,
Coldenham, when last he saw it, had appeared at least neat and
comfortable; but now the broken thatches, covered, but not concealed,
by houseleek; the windows patched, or very often without glass; the
railings and fences dilapidated, and insufficient to keep out the pigs
and cattle, and the gardens half cultivated and full of weeds,
presented a sad change. The only building which had remained much as
he had seen it was the old church, standing upon a piece of ground
raised a good deal above the road, with its grave-yard surrounded with
a low stone wall. Ralph paused for a moment, and gazed up at the tall,
thin, graceful spire, which he remembered having contemplated often in
former years, wondering how it had been built to such a height. All
was as he had seen it then. The tooth of time had fed upon it largely
in years long past, crumbling down the rich cut ornaments, corbels,
and gargoyles; but, as if the destroying monster could sometimes weary
of his diet, there was no appearance of his having touched the
building since Ralph stood before it last. Nor had any thing been done
to improve it; the same green, mossy look, which had been given to the
stone by the damp air sweeping through the fens, was still there; and
one of the coping stones of the little cemetery wall which had fallen
off, and which he had often seen lying within the fence, was lying
there still unreplaced.

The door was open, and, walking through the cemetery, the young man
went in. The tombs of his ancestors were there, and he wished to take
another look at them before he went afar. Walking up the aisle, he
soon stood before the spot where stood the monument of Sir Robert
Woodhall, who was considered the founder of the family. A gorgeous
monument it was, richly carved and ornamented; and the gratitude of.
the old knight's posterity had recorded, upon a tablet on one side,
the numerous virtues, real or imaginary, of the dead: how he had
fought for his sovereign in the field; how he had aided him with his
wisdom in the council; and how he had left two sons, both of whom he
had lived to see become peers of the realm. Then came the tombs of the
two sons, Robert, Lord Coldenham, and Ralph, Lord Woodhall; and then
the tombs of two more, another Robert, the grandfather of his own
father and of the late Lord Coldenham, and another Ralph, the
progenitor of the present Lord Woodhall. They were all Roberts and
Ralphs, with the exception of here and there a Henry, like a graft
upon an old stock. Every one has felt the eternally-speaking moral of
old monuments; the comment they are ever reading upon the vanity of
all the struggles, passions, and hopes of earth--upon the vanity of
vanities, ambition. I will not, therefore, dwell upon it, except as it
affected the young man who there stood and gazed. He might feel that
he came there with overeager expectations, with strong desires and
aspirations after worldly greatness--after things which, whether as a
means or an end, are but as a part of that great strife which ends in
emptiness. There lay around him, gathered into one small space not a
dozen yards square, a multitude of his own kin, who had struggled, and
toiled, and hoped, and desired like himself; who had even succeeded,
and had yet inherited nothing, for all their pains, but six feet of
earth and that piece of moldering marble; while the very deeds which
had gained them luster and renown their hopes, fears, and exertions,
occupied but a point far less in the vast waste of time than their
grave upon the surface of the earth. Feeling sad and reproved, he was
turning away, when a voice near him said, "Would not the best epitaph
of all be, 'He lived and died?' It is all that can be said with
certainty of any man."

On looking round, Ralph perceived standing near him and looking over
his shoulder an elderly man in the dress of a peasant well to do. He
had put off his shoes and laid down his hat somewhere about the
church, and by these indications Ralph concluded rightly that he was
the sexton. He asked him whether it was so, however, and the old man
replied, "Yea, truly, I am the sexton."

"You were not here when I was last in Coldenham," said Ralph; "what
has become of Harrison, who was sexton here before you?"

The old man pointed with his finger to the pavement, saying, "Down
there--he is as good as a lord now, and occupies just as much room.
When he died, I was sent for by the old lady; for I come from a
distance out of Dorsetshire, her own county."

"Then of course you are a great friend of hers," replied Ralph.

"Nay, why should you think so?" asked the old man.

"Because she put you in this good office," said Ralph.

"That is no reason," replied the sexton; "gifts do not always come
from favor, nor fortune either. I take what I get, and am thankful. I
ask not whence it comes, nor why. I can not be the friend of a great
lady nor the friend of a proud lady. Good office call you it? Marry!
the dead often do good to the living, and so it is with me; but the
living do no good to the dead, and so in one sense the office is not a
good one. It is like that of the hangman, who is said to do the last
offices to a culprit; but mine go beyond his, and are the only true
last offices; for I give back to the earth what the earth gave to the
light, and there is no hand between mine and eternity."

The conversation had a somber hue, and Ralph sought to turn it,
saying, "It seems to me that the village is much decayed since I last
saw it. The people do not seem so comfortable--so much at ease, as
when I was here before."

"How should they be so?" asked the sexton. "The many are always more
or less dependent upon the few; and in a country village of this land,
they derive their prosperity from the great folks near them. Mind,
young master, I speak of prosperity--not alone of wealth--of the
happiness that cheers labor, of the protection which prompts it, of
the example which leads in the right way, and of the generosity which
rewards those who follow it. How would you have the people prosperous
here, with no one of wealth and station near them but an old woman all
pride and diamonds, whose only object is to maintain her state and her
two sons; and their only bounties are the riding over our fields and
gardens, and the debauching of our wives and daughters? Marry! well
may the fences go to decay, the thatch go to decay, and the roof-tree
fall in. There is a good receipt for rendering a place desolate, and
these people have found it."

"I fear so, my good man," replied Ralph; "but you speak freely
dangerous things."

"I fear not, master," replied the old man, with a quiet smile;
"although, to say truth, I might not speak such things if you were not
a traveling stranger in the place."

"I am nearer akin to those you mention than you are aware of," replied
Ralph, turning toward the door; "but be not afraid, I will not betray
you, for I think much as you do."

"I am not the least afraid," replied the sexton, following him slowly,
and taking up his shoes and hat as he went; "I shall do very well,
whatever is said of me."

Ralph walked on, and took the little path branching to the right from
the church porch, which led in the direction of the house that Moraber
had described. It was at no great distance beyond, so that you could
see it from the little gate of the church-yard; and Ralph was
surprised, as he advanced through the old elms that shaded the little
graves, at the neatness and air of comfort which the dwelling
presented. It was larger and more roomy, too, than most of the other
houses near; for the doctor and the lawyer had not yet sprung up in
every village in the land, and the parsonage was the only good-looking
edifice in Coldenham, except the church.

Before the door, on a little patch of green which separated it from
the road, stood a fine old oak greatly decayed in the heart, but
having a bench underneath its shattered branches, where the cool air
might be enjoyed of a summer's evening; and pausing for a moment
beside the tree, the young gentleman looked up at the dwelling with
some doubts as to whether he was right or not.

The persevering old sexton was upon him the next moment, asking, in
his ordinary quaint tone, "Seek you any one there, young gentleman?"

"Yes, I do," replied Ralph, "if I am right in the house. I am seeking
a young man named Stilling."

"An old man named Stilling is talking to you," replied the sexton;
"but what is the Christian name of the man you seek?"

"Gaunt Stilling, I was told to ask for," replied Ralph. "Are you his
father?"

"So it is supposed," replied the old man, "but he is not within. Will
you come in and wait till he returns?"

"I must needs see him," replied Ralph, thoughtfully; and at the same
moment the old man opened the door which led into the house. As he did
so, a female figure with a beautiful face, of which Ralph had but one
glance, passed quickly across the passage, giving a look round, and
then disappearing instantly.

The young man made no remark, but he thought he saw traces of tears
upon the bright face that glanced by him. The sexton's countenance
fell a little, but he bated not his courtesy to the stranger, leading
him into a neat sanded parlor, and pressing him to take some
refreshment. With his own hands he brought in some cheese and bread,
and excellent butter, and then went out and fetched a foaming brown
jug of good strong ale.

"Homely fare for a young gentleman of the house of Woodhall," he said;
and he continued to talk and moralize for some ten minutes, while
Ralph, to say the truth, enjoyed his viands amazingly. At the end of
that time the young man began to reply and ask questions in return;
but their further conversation was interrupted by the dashing up of a
splendid horse to the door. To Ralph's surprise, the old sexton
started up from his seat, ran to the outer door, and turned the key in
it. Then, after looking at it for a moment with a grim smile, he
returned to the little parlor, saying to himself, "Nay, nay, not so."

He had hardly seated himself when a hand was laid upon the latch of
the outer door, and some one pushed hard. The lock, however, barred
all entrance, and the visitor knocked once or twice, saying, "Kate!
Kate, let me in!"

"Thou wilt soon have some one to deal with thee," said the old man, in
a low tone; and a moment after another horse was heard coming quickly
along the road, and then followed the sound of angry voices.

"Get home with you!" cried one; "I warned you before; and be you
lord's son or beggar's son, if I see you within a hundred yards of
that house, I will give you such a hiding as will take some of the
rankness out of you."

"Insolent scoundrel!" replied another voice, in the tones of which
Ralph thought he recognized those of Robert Woodhall; "I have a great
mind to send my sword through you, and if it were not for Kate's sake,
I would. But you shall be punished for your insolence notwithstanding
Lady Coldenham will soon send you and your old puritanical father
packing back to Dorsetshire."

"As for your sword," replied the other, in a scornful tone, "you dare
not draw it out of its sheath, and if you did, I would break it over
your back. As for your mother, you had better go and ask her what she
will do before you announce it. I have seen her since you have, and
proud as she is, she will not back you in your rascality. Get you gone
speedily, for my fingers itch to seize you by the throat and grind
your face into the mud. But you are a coward as well as a scoundrel,
and not worth punishing. You have done harm enough already, and you
shall do no more harm here."

After these words there was a momentary pause, sufficient for any one
to have mounted on horseback, and then the prancing of a horse's feet,
while Robert Woodhall's voice uttered some words, apparently of a very
offensive nature; for, although Ralph could not hear them distinctly,
they were followed by a loud and angry exclamation from the other
person, who added, "If you boast truly, I will have the best blood in
your heart."

Some one then cantered away from the house, and the old sexton rose
and unlocked the door, giving admission to a youth of three or
four-and-twenty years of age, whose form at first sight appeared so
lithe and spare as to be fitted only for great agility, but which,
when examined with a more careful eye, showed all the indications of
great strength in the sinewy muscles and exact proportions. His face
was heated, and he entered the room with a hurried step, but stopped
short on perceiving a stranger.

"Calm thyself, calm thyself," said his father; "thou art too hot and
rash, my son. Hast thou said to the old woman what I told thee?"

The son nodded his assent, and the father added, "Not a word more or
less."

"Not a word!" replied the son.

"Then he will come here no more," said the father; "but yet, as it is
impossible to put bridles upon young men bred up in luxury and vice,
it were well to follow the course we have determined, and we must set
about it quickly. Here is a gentleman, my son, who has come hither
asking for thee. Hear what it is he seeks."

"What is it you would with me, sir?" asked the young man, in a civil
tone.

"I have but a message to give you," replied Ralph; "Moraber says that
you are to be at Halling's corner at nine o'clock of the morning on
Thursday next, to go through the world with me."

"That gives but two clear days," exclaimed the young man, looking at
his father; "it can not be."

"Yes, yes, it can," cried the old man, eagerly; "you must not deny
him, boy."

"But I will not have her stay here," replied the younger Stilling;
"come what will, that shall not be."

"I will go with her myself," replied the old man; "you can remain here
till Thursday morning; by that time I shall be on my way back, and at
home by Friday night. He shall come, sir, he shall come. Tell our
friend that he will not fail."

"If you mean by that the person calling himself Moraber," replied
Ralph, "I shall not see him again before I depart; but doubtless he
will know of your son's compliance with his wishes."

"Oh yes, he will not fail to know," answered the sexton; "but why do
you say 'calling himself Moraber?' Think you that is not his real
name?"

"That is clearly a foreign name," replied the young gentleman, "and
his tongue bespeaks the Englishman."

"Oh! he knows many things that you little dream of," answered the old
man, "and can speak in one tongue as well as in another; however, my
son shall be with you at the time and place."

"I would fain know first whom I am going with," said Gaunt Stilling

"My name is Ralph Woodhall," replied the young gentleman, "the son of
Mr. Woodhall of The Grange."

The other paused and mused for a moment or two, after which he said,
"Well, sir, I will go with you; I have heard you spoken well of--the
only one of your name."

"Nay, nay," replied Ralph, "my cousin Henry, Lord Woodhall's son, is
surely an exception to your censure."

"He is well enough," replied the other; "not so bad as the worst, nor
so good as the best; but he may pass among young blades for a
ph[oe]nix, perhaps."

"Well, but his sister Margaret," said Ralph, the color slightly
deepening in his cheek, "surely you have no ill word to say of her."

"Oh ho! sits the wind so?" cried Gaunt Stilling, with a laugh; but the
moment after he added, in a grave and earnest tone, "No, sir, I have
no word to say against her; she is ever named as a good and sweet
young lady, gentle to every one, kind and generous to the poor. She is
very beautiful, too; that I can testify, for I once saw her. He who
wins her will be a rich man, for she is a treasure. However, sir, I
will be at the place appointed on Thursday morning, and ready to serve
you to the best of my power, and all the more willingly because you
are hated by those whom I hate. It is a good sign to have such men's
enmity."

After this engagement Ralph waited no longer, but taking leave of the
old sexton and his son, and thanking the former for his hospitality,
he returned for his horse to the little alehouse, mounted, and rode
away.




CHAPTER VIII.


Happily for Ralph Woodhall, the morning was bright and beautiful: I
say happily, because, although as far as his own person was concerned,
he would have little cared had the rain poured down as it has never
poured since the days of Noah, yet the sparkling brilliancy of the
morning cheered his spirits, and lightened the weight of parting with
those he loved. It is curious how much there is in association, and
how a sort of latent, diffusible superstition mingles with all
associations, especially those connected with the weather. "Happy is
the bride that the sun shines upon; happy is the dead that the rain
rains upon," is an old proverb. The day is said to "frown" upon an
enterprise; and who is there that, undertaking any thing in which
great interests are involved, sees a gloomy and menacing sky over his
head, and does not thence draw evil auguries?

The morning was bright and smiling when Ralph Woodhall set out upon
his journey. All nature appeared to rejoice; the fresh green trees,
the sparkling river, even the dark brown moor seemed to revel in the
sunshine; the light air waved the branches, and carried now and then a
small floating shadow from a hardly-seen cloud over the bosom of the
landscape, bringing out the brightness with stronger effect. The
moment was one which Ralph had dreaded. The parting had been very
different before: first, because the tenderer ties which bound him to
that spot had not been so strong; and, secondly, because, on every
former occasion, there had been a fixed limit to his proposed absence.
He had gone to the university for his term, and knew or hoped that,
when it was ended, he should return. But now all was vague and misty.
Months, years, the better part of life itself, might wane before he
saw his father's house again; and then the long, long absence from his
Margaret! It was in vain that he reasoned with himself--that he argued
that departure afforded the only chance of winning her; that to linger
on there, spending hours which should be devoted to active exertion in
the storm-foretelling calm of temporary happiness, was only to insure
bitter disappointment, and to render that disappointment ten times
more bitter. It was all in vain. He had looked forward to the moment
of parting with dread; but, as I have said, the brightness and the
light, and the sparkling of the scene, gave preponderance to hope
against fear. It seemed a happy omen to him; it seemed to promise the
smile of Heaven upon his endeavors, the sunshine of success to light
his way.

Early in the morning, with the first light, he had risen from his bed,
and made his final arrangements for departure. All that he intended to
take absolutely with him had been packed into two large leathern bags,
commonly used by travelers in those days, which strapped to the back
of the saddle. A large trunk-mail stood filled with a variety of
little articles that he prized, books, gifts from friends, some
curious relics of olden times, and all the fine apparel that he
possessed, to go by one of those innumerable carriers who at that time
traversed the country in every direction, following often paths
peculiar to themselves, and at one time, when the plague was raging in
the land, actually tracking out new roads, or changing small by-lanes
into high-ways, in order to avoid infected places.

When he was dressed and ready, he descended quietly to his father's
room, and opened the door with a gentle hand, for Mr. Woodhall was
never a very early riser, and Ralph fancied that he might be still
asleep. He found him, however, lying reading in his bed, and, after
taking a brief parting, not without its tenderness and depth of
feeling, however few the words might be, the young man retired. When
he was near the door, however, old Mr. Woodhall exclaimed, "Ralph!
Ralph!" and added, when his son turned toward him, "you have not
forgotten your Cicero, I hope; you said you would put him in your
saddle-bags; he is a good companion, Ralph." His son assured him that
Cicero had not been forgotten, and then departed.

The next parting was a silent one, but not less full of emotion. There
was a little rise in the ground upon the road which he traveled,
whence the whole of one side of the mansion of Woodhall was visible to
the wanderer's eye. The house was indeed so near that small ornaments
of stone-work could be easily distinguished across the stream, and at
one of the windows, which, by one means or another, he had learned to
know better than any of the rest, there was a fair face gazing out
upon the road. Ralph paused for an instant, and waved his hand; a hand
was waved in return, and then Margaret retreated hastily from the open
window, and he thought he could see her kneel down at the foot of the
bed, as if to pray or weep.

"I will win her or die," said Ralph to himself, and that last
interview armed him, perhaps, more than all else, to struggle with the
difficulties before him. There is nothing in the world so invigorating
to the wrestler, man, in his combat with the world, as a strong
passion and a strong resolution.

From that spot he rode on rapidly, gaining the high country by
degrees, sometimes sweeping over a bare hill side, sometimes passing
along under a bank from which stretched forth a canopy of trees. At
the distance of about four miles there was a small hamlet, from which
the inhabitants of the cottages had principally gone forth to their
early labors in the field; but one old woman, withered and blear, with
such a face as would easily have made a witch in any land not more
than fifty years before, was sitting spinning at one of the doors. As
the young traveler came up she raised her eyes, and said aloud, "Ay,
those ride fast who ride to ill."

Ralph heard the words, and, somewhat more impressible that morning
than usual, he checked his horse and turned to the old crone: "Why say
you so, mother?" he asked; "I have never done you any ill, but good,
and to your son's family too."

"Ay, it does not matter, Master Ralph," replied the old woman, shaking
her head; "what I said is true, notwithstanding;" and she repeated it.

"Do you mean to say I am riding to do ill or to suffer ill?" asked the
young man.

"Ay, to suffer more than you know of," replied the woman.

"Then I do not thank you for telling me so," said Ralph, half angrily;
and, turning his horse, he rode away at the same quick pace as before.
For an instant or two the old woman's words made some impression on
his mind; but then hope and expectation bounded up again. He looked to
the bright blue heaven, and the glorious sun, and the sparkling
landscape, and unconsciously giving a wave of his hand toward it, he
exclaimed, "I go with no evil purpose; I will do no base deed; and the
God who made all these, who rolls the stars aloft, and brightens the
skies above, and sends rain to fertilize, and sunshine to vivify, will
guide, provide for, and protect me also."

The distance to Halling's Corner, where he was to meet his new
servant, was considerable, but when he reached the spot no one was to
be seen. It was a place where two roads crossed, and Ralph looked up
and down each of them. No one was in sight; and, taking out one of the
cumbrous watches of the day, the young man found that, by dint of
riding fast, he had arrived nearly half an hour before the time
appointed. There was nothing for it but patience, and, dismounting, he
loosened the girths, and walked the horse up and down. At the end of
about twenty minutes, while he was a few yards distant from the
corner, he heard the voice of some one singing a common country air of
the time; and when he could see down the other road, he perceived
another horseman coming quietly up at a jog-trot. Rightly concluding
that it was his new man, Gaunt Stilling, he waved his hand for him to
make haste, and proceeded to refix his saddle The other, however, did
not hurry his pace in the least; and when he reached the spot, Ralph
told him, somewhat impatiently, that he had been waiting half an hour.

Stilling smiled good-humoredly, and replied, "Well, sir, you are now
master, and I am man, and it is bad for the master to wait upon the
man; but I have heard that, in point of punctuality, it is as bad to
be too soon as too late. It wants just five minutes of the hour, if I
judge the time right."

"No harm can happen from being a little too soon," replied Ralph.

"Sometimes, sir," answered Gaunt Stilling; "many a man has got his
bones broken for being half an hour too soon; as, for instance, If a
man appoints another to help him in a fray, and gets to his enemy half
an hour before his friend, he will have time to take a mighty good
drubbing for his lack of punctuality."

"True, true," answered Ralph; "punctuality is, I believe, the best
rule, after all, and punctuality admits of no deviations. My horse
carried me somewhat more speedily than usual."

"More's the pity, sir," replied Stilling, "for his pace will not be so
good, nor his strength so enduring as if he had come slower. Take a
horse out coolly--bring him in cool, is a good maxim in my part of the
country. But here is a letter I have to give you."

Ralph took it and looked at the superscription, which imported, "To
his grace the Duke of Norfolk, greeting. These by the hands of Ralph
Woodhall, Esquire, a gentleman of mark."

"Who gave you this for me?" asked the young gentleman.

"I know not, sir," answered Stilling; "it was left at our house."

"I have another letter for the duke," said Ralph, thoughtfully; "who
can this be from?"

"Two are always better than one," replied his companion; "one may hit
the nail that another misses."

"If so, it is fortunate," rejoined the young gentleman, "for I am
going straight to the duke's house in Norwich, judging that he might
best forward my views."

"I fancied that you would wing your flight thither, sir," said the
other, "as soon as I saw that letter."

"Why so?" demanded Ralph, "if you know not from whom this came?"

"Because I judged that no one would send you a letter for a place to
which they did not know you were going," was Stilling's reply; and
with it Ralph was obliged to be content, for it was very clear that if
the man did really know more, he was in no mood for telling it. One
question, however, he did ask, after they had mounted and were on
their way: "Do you know, Stilling," he said, "whether this letter is
or is not from old Lady Coldenham? My conduct in regard to it will be
decided by your answer: for if it be from her, I will not present it:
not that I fear the nature of its contents, for she can say naught
truly against me, but because I will receive no favor at her hands,
from reasons of my own."

"Would that all others had such reasons, or had attended to them,"
replied the servant, in a somewhat bitter tone; but then, suddenly
changing his manner, he added, "the contents you can easily see, sir,
for the letter is unsealed; but I am certain it is not from the dame
at the castle, as I know her hand-shrift right well."

"I shall certainly not open it," answered Ralph, as they rode on; "I
hold that the man who opens a letter intrusted to his care, and reads
the contents, whatever be his excuse, must feel himself a base and
degraded being forever--worse, far worse than an eaves-dropping spy;
for the latter has nothing trusted to his honor, the other every
thing."

"What, sir, if the letter is left open for the purpose!" inquired the
other.

"Ay, under any circumstances," answered Ralph; "we can not widen the
line between honorable and dishonorable dealing. Unless I am clearly
told that a letter is intended for my reading, nothing should induce
me to read it."

"Did all men hold so," answered Gaunt Stilling, "many a famous general
would have been defeated, many a famous army beaten, many a great
victory lost."

"Not so," replied Ralph; "when I am at war, any property I can take
from my enemy is mine, and his secrets against myself above all; but
for opening any other letter except those intercepted from an enemy,
there is no excuse. No man can tell what may be in them; no one can
tell that secrets, which the writer would not have published for the
world, and not at all affecting those to whose sense of honor they are
confided, may not lie hid within that little fold of paper. Oh! how we
ought to blush, if, venturing upon such an act on any pretense, we
were to find within that which no man of honor ought ever to have
seen. No, no, Stilling, I will never look into a letter intrusted to
we, let the consequences to myself be what they may."

"I don't suppose the consequences could well be bad," replied
Stilling, "for I suppose that no one would give you an open letter
containing abuse of yourself, unless, indeed, they knew your
prejudices about such things; so you can put the letter by, and give
it to the duke in all safety, I believe."

"I have another letter for the duke," replied Ralph, "which I shall
deliver first, as I know who it comes from."

Ralph somewhat quickened his pace, but Gaunt Stilling, though
exceedingly respectful, seemed to have a will of his own, and not to
be at all inclined to over-hurry the beast that bore him. He lingered
behind, then, and the conversation consequently dropped. At the end of
about a mile and a half, however, Ralph, who had ridden on for about
three or four hundred yards, and might well be supposed by any
observer to have no connection with the young man who followed, had
his ear attracted by some sound behind him, and, turning round his
head, beheld his new servant off his horse, and undergoing the very
unpleasant process of being well cudgeled by three stout men. It was a
woody part of the country, properly suited for an ambush, somewhat
like the scenes which the famous Dutch painter chose for his attacks
by banditti. To save him as much as possible from the infliction which
he was undergoing, Ralph returned at full speed; and as Stilling was
struggling with all his might, which was not little, and had nearly
mastered one of his opponents, although the others were beating him
all the time, his master's coming to his help turned the strife in his
favor. An immediate inclination to flight displayed itself on the part
of his assailants; but Ralph contrived to get a thrust at one of them
with his sword-blade ere he ran away, and, at all events, drew blood;
while Stilling, taking advantage of the assistance afforded, pummeled
the one on whom he had principally fixed his attention in no very
gentle manner before he let him go.

The men, who speedily disappeared in the wood, were disguised with
handkerchiefs tied round and partly over their faces; but Stilling
seemed either to know them, or to have very little curiosity; for when
his master asked him in one breath whether he was hurt, and if he knew
the men who had attacked him, or their object, he replied, very
briefly, that he was not hurt, and as to the men, that he knew all
about them, and what brought them there. He showed, in short, so
little disposition to be communicative, that Ralph resolved to ask no
further questions, but only bidding him follow more closely, hurried
on at a quicker pace than ever, and soon after reached a better-beaten
and more-traveled road.




CHAPTER IX.


There is in the fine old town of Norwich, I believe, even to the
present day, the remains of a whilom inn, which once stood not far
from the River Wansum. Now nothing remains of it but a gable or two,
transmuted to purposes very much below the dignity of receiving
two-legged guests. Then, however, it was the principal inn in Norwich;
and a great change had come over the state and condition of our inns
since the time of Chaucer. In that day, inns had reached, in England,
very nearly the climax of perfection. Hotels were an abomination
unknown, although the name, descended from ancient times, still
lingered in various parts of the country. Cleanliness, neatness,
perfect ease, and independence characterized the inn of former years;
the linen was white as snow; the food was generally of the best kind,
however plain the cookery. There a man might take the world as it
came; there he might pass his time as in a dream, obtruded upon by
none of the hard realities of life, so long as he had in his purse
wherewith to satisfy the demands of his host, which in those days were
not very extravagant. There he might escape the impertinence, the
annoyance, the importunity of the world. There he might riot or revel,
muse or meditate, or read or write, or think or sleep, just as he
pleased, without interruption. It afforded the most perfect species of
liberty, the old English inn, without having any of the drawbacks of
confusion and anarchy. No tax-gatherer ever came there, at least with
the knowledge of the guests. The constable, even, was seen drinking
his pot, or ladling out his punch, or smoking his pipe, with the other
friendly persons round the bar, and, so long as order and decency were
maintained, and perhaps a little longer, no one interfered with the
quiet and ease that reigned within. The inn of the Half Moon, at the
time I mention, was one of this sort; and toward it, in the first
instance, as directed by others of experience, Ralph Woodhall took his
way on his arrival in the city of Norwich, on a somewhat gloomy
morning, about eleven o'clock. Before he took rest, however, or did
more than brush his clothes from dust, and take off the heavy
saddle-bags from their convenient position behind the saddle, to let
his beast get a little refreshment and food, Ralph remounted, and rode
away to another part of the town, higher up upon the Wansum. This was
the old house, or palace of the old Dukes of Norfolk, in which, during
their brief terms of residence in Norwich, they kept up in a limited
sphere the state and dignity of a sovereign prince.

There had been some doubt in the mind of Ralph, when he arrived in the
city, as to whether the nobleman on whom fancy, for the time, seemed
to make his hopes depend, was in the town or not; but, as he passed
along the streets, the number of servants which he saw in the Howard
liveries, and the gayety and bustle which pervaded one quarter of the
city, showed him that, so far as finding the duke, his first
expectations were likely to be fulfilled. The antique gate-way, with a
number of servants crowded under it--the wall surrounding the grounds
extending to the river--the massive pile itself of the principal
building, did not much impress him; for he thought it very much like
one of the colleges at Cambridge, to which his eye was well
accustomed. Appearing on horseback, and with a servant behind him, the
gates were moved back by the retainers in the porch to give him
admission into the court; and, descending there, he was led--while
Stilling remained to look after the horses--to a little chamber on the
ground floor called the Chamberlain's Office. There he explained his
business by simply saying that he brought a letter for the duke from
Lord Woodhall; and the grave-looking officer to whom he spoke, looking
at the letter in his hand, led him into a waiting-room, where he found
three other persons already in attendance on the duke's leisure. Each
man was amusing the weary moments of expectation as best he might; one
looking out of the window, which displayed an orchard in full beauty;
one walking up and down the room, with eyes fixed upon the floor and
hands behind the back; and one seated at a large table examining some
books, which had been laid there, probably, to beguile the time.
Patience and silence seemed to be the order of the day, and Ralph,
after looking curiously at the splendid furniture which decorated even
that plain room, betook himself to one of those volumes, which soon
afforded him amusement to pass half an hour pleasantly. While he read,
one after another of his companions in attendance was called out of
the room, and at length, laying down the book, he fell into a revery,
of that kind which often comes upon us at vacant moments--when brief
summings up of the testimony borne by events to the progress of our
fate, during a certain period just past, are made by memory, and left
to the judgment of the mind, to see if any thing can be made of the
case or not.

The great step was taken. Here he was, many miles from home, "seeking
his fortune," as the term was then. He had entered the house of one
who could at will advance his views or neglect his cause, with nothing
to recommend him but one letter from a distant relation, and one from
a person he did not know. Something, however, bearing on his destiny
was to be decided soon, and he felt all that eager, fluttering anxiety
of youth, which every man in early years must have experienced when
the great object of the moment was in the balance. There was not much
cause for hope, indeed; and expectation, even under the exaggeration
of youth, could hardly see space to stand upon; but love is a great
fanner of the flame of hope; and love was always mingling a word with
all Ralph's cogitations.

The lesser incidents, too, which had lately occurred, presented
themselves to the young man's mind when the greater facts were
discussed; the interview with the strange personage calling himself
Moraber; the conduct of Lady Coldenham; the meeting with Gaunt
Stilling, and the misadventure which had occurred to the latter on the
road, passed in review. Of all these, the demeanor of his new servant,
his circumstances, and his conduct, puzzled Ralph most. What was he?
Why did he at once obey the order to follow him? Was there any secret
brotherhood or association in the land, like that of the disciples of
the old man of the mountains, which bound its members to follow
implicitly the orders of an unknown superior? There had been at that
time whispers of such a league; and, if Stilling was a member thereof,
what dangers and obstructions might not his own course be brought
among by retaining the services of a person over whose conduct another
maintained so absolute and independent a control? Then, again, the
man's demeanor had not been without remarkable points. Perfectly
respectful he always was; but that he had his own particular notions,
and liked them better than all others, he did not fail to show. He
seemed to have no feeling of degradation from the office of servant
which he assumed. He gave no vain reason for his obedience; but there
was something in his manner which seemed to say, "I have taken upon me
certain duties, and the only proper, the only honorable course, is to
fulfill them to the very best of my ability. No honest task degrades a
man; the vanity of shirking it, or the fault of neglecting its
requirements when undertaken, may degrade. These are the only acts
which can make the position of a servant degrading. He is as honorable
as his master, if he does his duty as well." No task seemed too hard
for him; the very words _menial services_, so often used obnoxiously
by the mean and vulgar, he seemed to scorn. His pride was in doing
well what he undertook. He appeared to feel that, in doing so, he made
himself, in Nature's book, equal with all, superior to many placed
continually above him by station and wealth. He would trust the care
of the horses to none other; he was careful of his young master's
wardrobe; he refused to sit down with him at table, even in small
inns, where such a course was common, both in England and France.

All this showed a high mind and a clear intellect; but his character
had other puzzling points. Sometimes--and, indeed, this seemed his
general humor--he was as gay as the lark, full of glee and merriment;
but ever and anon he would fall into deep reveries--fits of thought,
deep, profound, even sad, from which it was difficult to rouse him.

Some days after the period of which I write, indeed, he received a
letter by the carrier, which seemed to increase the frequency and
intensity of these attacks of moodiness; but that had not occurred
when Ralph sat in the room at the Duke of Norfolk's, as I have
mentioned, and the temper or character of his servant had, to his
eyes, all the first sharpness about it.

He was busily engaged in reflections upon all these things, when a
stately servant, who had previously called the others out to the
presence of the duke, came to summon him also, and led him, with slow
and formal steps, to another room on the same floor. Little do the
great of this world know how any stiff, haughty, or repulsive manner
affects those who, reasonably or unreasonably, have been building up
hopes upon their influence or kindness--what luster urbanity or
gentleness gives to a favor intended to be conferred; how, by kind
courtesy, a disappointment is softened and diminished. Very
frequently, the man who will give thousands in charity will not spare
a kind word, although it would relieve pangs a thousand-fold more
bitter than any which gold can touch. Honor, high honor, to that man
who does generous acts generously. There are some such in the world,
and, thank God! I know them; but they are not many.

The manner of the Duke of Norfolk was freezing in the extreme. He
received his young visitor standing; and, before hearing any thing he
had to say, informed him, in a tone cold, though apologetic, that he
was in some haste, as he had to go out. Ralph was the more surprised,
as the duke had established, generally, a character for courtesy in
his dealings with people of inferior rank; but he presented the letter
of Lord Woodhall with the hope that that might produce some change in
the great man's manner.

Such was not the case, however. The duke opened the letter, ran his
eye hastily over it, as a somewhat tiresome ceremony, and then folding
it up again, stood silent, as if expecting that Ralph would either say
something or go. Seeing, however, that the young man remained silent
likewise, he at length said, "Well, Mr. Woodhall, I must think over
this, and will let you hear from me in a few days. Tell my chamberlain
where you are to be found in Norwich."

"I do not think, my lord duke, that I shall be here very long,"
replied Ralph, making up his mind, with the rapid rashness of youth,
to expect nothing more from the haughty nobleman before him; "I have
another letter, however, which I may as well deliver to your grace
now, lest I should not have an opportunity of seeing you again."

The duke seemed surprised, and not quite well pleased; but Ralph took
out the letter which Stilling had brought him, put it in the
nobleman's hand, and was about to retire. The moment the Duke of
Norfolk saw the superscription, however, a great change came over his
face. "Stay! stay!" he cried; "let me see what this letter contains
before you go;" and he ran his eye quickly, but with evident
attention, over the few lines within. Before he had quite done, he
waved his hand toward a seat, saying, "Pray sit down, Mr. Woodhall,"
and then resumed the perusal. As soon as he had finished, he took a
seat himself, and looking upon Ralph with a smiling countenance,
inquired why he had not given him that letter first.

"Because, my lord duke," replied Ralph, "I thought the other from my
cousin, Lord Woodhall, the most important. I do not actually know by
whom the epistle you hold in your hand was written, it having been
sent to me to deliver, without any other intimation; but I suspect
that it came from a person so inferior in position to Lord Woodhall,
that it might have less weight in your opinion than the other."

The duke smiled. "You were mistaken," he said; "we in the great world
learn to estimate matters somewhat differently from others who have
not mingled much with matters of general concern, and we give less
weight than people generally imagine to rank and wealth. Lord Woodhall
is a very excellent nobleman, and my particular good friend; but this
gentleman," and he laid his hand significantly upon the paper, "is a
very singular and extraordinary personage. Even in these days of
infinite oddities he is very remarkable, and, besides his originality,
he is a man of immense power of mind, strong will, vast patience, and
unchangeable in his purposes; probably from a fixed opinion that
certain things are to be, and that it is only required he should shape
his course by them, and follow it perseveringly, in order to succeed
in his endeavors. This turn has been given to his mind by a passion
for judicial astrology, which he imbibed when he and I were
fellow-students together at Oxford. He then belonged to Brazen Nose
College, where that science, or pretended science, was a good deal
cultivated, and although he never made a convert of me, yet I can not
but admit that many of his predictions have had a very curious
accomplishment. For instance, he named to me long ago, that a change,
materially affecting the crown of England, would take place during the
first week of February, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five. I
read the prophecy to imply the death of the king, but throughout the
whole of January his majesty remained perfectly well; and I saw him on
the first of February without one token of decay, either in body or
mind. I imagined my good friend's prediction would fail; when lo! came
the startling news that he had been struck with apoplexy. You know the
rest of the events of that week. His majesty died on the sixth, and a
great change, indeed, took place."

The duke paused, and seemed to give his mind up to memory for some
moments; and Ralph would not interrupt his reveries. At length he
again broke silence, returning somewhat abruptly to the subject, and
saying, "Moreover, my young friend, these two letters are written in a
very different spirit. The first is a mere common letter of
introduction, bespeaking my good offices for a young gentleman going
to see the world. It is not even written in Lord Woodhall's own hand,
though signed by him, and was never calculated to insure you more than
merely the civility of an invitation to my house. The second, however,
demands, in good broad terms, that I shall do whatever I can to
promote your views, with sincerity and zeal; and, good faith, I am
willing to do it, though the terms need not have been quite so
imperative. First, however, I must know what those views are."

"I will explain them in a moment, my lord duke," replied Ralph; but
the other cut him short, saying, "We shall not have time at present,
for I am, in reality, going out upon business of some importance; I
shall be back, however, in a few hours, and the best plan will be for
you to come and take up your residence here for a fortnight or so.
During that time we shall find plenty of opportunity for conversation,
in the course of which I can learn all your intentions, and perhaps
strike out some means of serving you. In the mean time, I will put you
into the hands of my chamberlain, who will provide you with what rooms
you need, and make you acquainted with the customs of the house."

Thus saying, the duke rang a small bell that stood upon the table, and
summoned the chamberlain to his presence. Orders were cordially given
for Ralph's hospitable entertainment, and leaving him in the hands of
the officer, Norfolk went out to ride.

However far the duke might himself have unbent from his stateliness,
the chamberlain remained as dignified as ever. Perfectly civil was he,
indeed, for he had seen at a glance that the young stranger was high
in the favor of his lord; but he was solemn and slow, with all the
rigidity of a hackneyed official, putting a certain degree of state
into the slightest movement, and uttering every word in a tone of
ceremony. He inquired carefully what number of domestics Master Ralph
Woodhall would bring with him, and finding that he was only to be
accompanied by one, declared that that would render the arrangement of
his apartments very easy, adding, with a pompous air, that gentlemen
sometimes came accompanied by as many as twenty, which occasionally
put the duke's officers to some inconvenience.

All, however, was at length arranged, a stable pointed out for the two
horses, a small suite of rooms, at the western corner of the building,
assigned to the master and his servant, and their names duly inscribed
in the chamberlain's book.

This completed, Ralph took his departure, and returned to the inn,
where Stilling was waiting his arrival, with some traces of anxiety
upon his face.

"Well, sir, how has it gone?" he inquired, when Ralph appeared. "Is
the duke courteous or not this morning? for the people here tell me
his mood varies a good deal, according as he has many or few people to
see; mighty civil to the first who come, somewhat short to the last."

"Matters have gone better than I could have expected," replied Ralph;
"thanks, I believe, to the letter which you brought me, for till he
saw that I can not say the duke showed any great urbanity."

"Ay, I knew that would do the business," replied Stilling.

"Why, I thought you did not know who it came from," observed Ralph

"True, I did not know," replied the man, laughing, "but I guessed. I
have a rare bundle of guesses always about me, and they generally turn
out tolerably right. But what is to come of it now, master! When shall
we hear more? I do not like things to stick by the way."

"We shall hear more very soon, I trust," replied Ralph; "but, in the
mean time, you must get ready, Stilling, to take up your abode with me
at the duke's house."

"Hurrah!" cried Stilling, "that is progress, to have effected a
lodgment on the walls already. But I won't lose a moment, sir, for
that which is quick begun is quick ended, notwithstanding all that old
women may say;" and away he went to lead forth the horses and replace
the saddle-bags.




CHAPTER X.


"If you please, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, on the second day after
their arrival in Norwich, as he stood before his young master, who was
seated reading, and had hardly raised his eyes at his entrance, "may I
ask you a question?"

"Certainly," replied Ralph; "what is it, Stilling?"

"Why, only just this, sir," answered Stilling; "I should like to know
if, before you set out, you mentioned my name to any one, or whether
any one else knew that I was going in your service?"

"No one whatever, Stilling," replied Ralph, "except myself, our friend
Moraber, and Mistress Margaret Woodhall, were at all acquainted with
the fact; for I did not mention the subject to my father, as he might
have imagined that I was about to launch into extravagance and
encounter expenses incompatible with my small means, and, moreover,
might have made himself uneasy during the whole period of my absence
with this thought, which I should never have been able to remove from
his mind, although I knew the impression to be wrong."

"Good, sir, good," replied Stilling; "and so now, by your leave and
permission, I will be called Stilling no longer, but, as the old poet
man says, 'your good servant ever;' I have my own reasons, sir."

"But I do not understand you," said Ralph; "do you wish to change your
name, or rather take one that does not belong to you?"

"Yes, sir, any good traveling designation," replied the young man,
gayly. "I am not of the rank or manners to dub myself captain; but any
thing else will do as well."

"As far as I am concerned, it will," replied Ralph; "but do not the
people of the house know your real name?"

"No, sir--no," replied Stilling; "I have waited till to-day to
announce myself, and I know you have not betrayed me; for I was asked
my name yesterday at supper at the third table, and begged time for
consideration and preparation."

Ralph did not at the moment recollect that he had written the man's
name with his own hand in the chamberlain's book, and he readily
acceded to his wishes, not caring much by what name he went. Stilling
fixed upon the designation of Tuckett--Jack Tuckett, and begged his
master to call him so for the future, with which Ralph promised to
comply unless memory played him an unpleasant trick, and brought back
the old name when he was off his guard.

This was all settled, and for a time produced no consequences. Ralph
did not choose to pry into the motives of this transformation; and, to
say the truth, he was so occupied in thinking of the slow progress of
his own affairs that he soon forgot the matter altogether, accustomed
himself to call the servant Tuckett, and hardly remembered that he
ever had another name. Slow progress! Oh, the eager hopes of youth,
how they hurry us on to disappointing conclusions! He had been five
days in the house of the Duke of Norfolk. He had seen more or less of
that nobleman every day, and had been treated by him with kindness and
distinction; but not a word had yet been said in regard to his views
or prospects; and Ralph's spirit fretted within him to find the wheels
move so much more slowly than he had expected.

At length one day the duke sent up a message to his room, importing
that he was about, that morning, to set out upon a visit to a
neighboring nobleman, at whose house the Earl of Sunderland was to
meet him. He thought it might be advantageous to his young friend, he
said, to be acquainted with that nobleman, and he would take him with
him if he would consent to travel without a servant, as the house
would be somewhat crowded.

Ralph smiled when he received the message, and immediately prepared to
go. Stilling, or, as we must now call him, Jack Tuckett, seemed
delighted with the arrangement, and asked permission, during his
master's absence, to make an expedition of his own. His request was
readily complied with; and the two parted not long after, Ralph to
accompany the duke, and the other to go whithersoever his fancy led.

Nothing resulted from the interview with Lord Sunderland; and his
character is too well known in history for me to dwell upon the
impression he produced on Ralph's mind. The young man was naturally
charmed with his winning address, and easy, unaffected manners. There
was about him, too, a tone of superiority and confidence in his own
opinions, which were somewhat impressive to inexperience. It is not to
be wondered at, when men of great powers of mind, already forewarned
of Sunderland's treacherous vacillation, yielded to the peculiar
powers of fascination which he possessed, and believed him sincere and
steady in his convictions, after he had been weighed a thousand times
and found wanting, that a young man like Ralph Woodhall should be
deceived by his pretensions to purity and truth.

The Duke of Norfolk, however, from to time read a comment upon the
conduct of the statesman which was of service to his young friend; and
several of the gentlemen who were present made observations upon
Sunderland's professions, or told anecdotes of his former doings,
which served in some degree to open Ralph's eyes. The time passed very
pleasantly, however. Lord Sunderland seemed to have conceived a great
friendship for the young country gentleman, would take a morning walk
with him, and talk of classic lore and the stores of art in other
lands with eloquence and information such as few possessed. But yet
there was something unsatisfactory in the whole, which Ralph felt
without being able to detect what it was--a want of something,
probably of sincerity and frankness, which deprived his conversation
of much of its charm.

At the end of six days the duke set out on his return, and the whole
party reached Norwich somewhat late in the evening. Ralph found that
his servant had not yet returned; but he was already a favorite in the
household, and one of the duke's men came up to his room, and
volunteered to perform the offices of "Mr. Tuckett."

"There are to be great doings to-night, sir," he said; "it is a ball
night here. A great number of ladies and gentlemen have arrived from
different parts to stay with his grace since you went; all the country
round is invited, and the duke's carriages have gone out to bring in
the company from the town. The state-rooms, too, are open, where every
thing is of gold or silver, even to the tongs and pokers; so there
will be a grand sight."

Ralph dressed himself as speedily as possible in the best array that
his wardrobe would afford, and, receiving directions from the man who
came to assist him as to the way toward the state apartments he had
mentioned, descended without any of those emotions which vanity often
produces in even the practiced in such scenes when they expect to play
a conspicuous part. His mind was set upon higher objects; and he
neither hoped nor wished to attract attention, or to win admiration in
courtly halls. He had to descend--from the second floor of the house,
where his rooms were situated--a large oaken stair-case, from which,
at each landing-place, led away, in four directions, different
corridors leading to numerous suites of apartments; and as, by the
time he went down, guests were arriving thick, the galleries were
thronged with gay groups, hurrying across or pausing for a moment to
look over the balustrades at the parties entering the hall below.
Among the rest, Ralph stopped for an instant to gaze upon the
brilliant moving scene, and, leaning over, bent his eyes upon the
landing-place just beneath. Suddenly a figure passed across, the sight
of which made him start and run down with a quick step. It was gone
before he reached the landing; but if there was any sight in the eyes
of love, that figure, he felt certain, was that of his Margaret.

He hurried on to the state apartments, where more than a hundred
persons were already assembled, while the duke, all affability and
kindness, was standing in the third saloon, receiving his guests, and
saying some kind and courteous words to each. It was a bright and
cheerful scene, and perhaps excelled in splendor the court of royalty
itself; but Ralph had no eyes for any thing but the search which he
made among the ever-increasing crowd for the figure he had seen. The
magnificent pictures on the walls, the beautiful statuary ranged
around--master-pieces of ancient and of modern art--the costly
decorations on which the wealth and taste of several generations had
been lavished, detained him not for a moment; but onward he passed,
till he reached the room where the duke had placed himself. There he
paused for an instant to salute the lord of the mansion, intending to
hurry on immediately after; but the duke called him kindly to his
side, giving him his Christian name as a mark of familiarity, and
introduced him to the bishop and several of the most distinguished
guests. Still Ralph was anxious to escape; but his noble patron had
other business for him.

"Here, Ralph," he said, "this fair lady, to whom I present you,
Hortensia, Lady Danvers, is anxious to see the bowling-green and
wilderness illuminated on this fine night. I must, alas! remain here
to receive all my coming guests, or I would be her guide myself. I can
not, however, intrust her to any one who will supply my place with
gallant courtesy better than yourself, my young friend. Madam, let me
beg you to know and esteem my young friend, Ralph Woodhall, whose good
qualities he will commend to you himself better than any words of mine
could do."

The lady whom he addressed was young and beautiful, and looked younger
even than she really was; for the features were all exceedingly small
and delicately chiseled, the complexion brilliantly fair, while there
was a world of youthful, speaking tenderness in her eyes, a sort of
beseeching look, which seldom survives a long acquaintance with the
great hardening world. She was magnificently dressed, but in a style
peculiar to herself, approaching that of the earlier part of the last
reign, rather than the stiffer mode which was already beginning to
prevail; but her rich brown hair, looped up in great masses with
diamonds, was arranged in a fashion which probably had never found
favor in any country generally; for it required features such as her
own, and a brow as beautiful as hers, to render it at all becoming.
With her the effect was beautiful and picturesque, and she certainly
was as lovely a creature, as she stood there by the duke's side, as
the eye could well behold.

Nevertheless, Ralph would have given all that he possessed in the
world to be free from the task of escorting her; but that could not
be. He had no excuse ready, even if any excuse could have been
available in such circumstances; and bowing low, he said, with the
pardonable hypocrisy of society, that he should be delighted to be her
guide. He knew not, in his ignorance of the ways of courtly life,
whether he ought to offer her his arm or not, and he hesitated; but he
saw many a gentleman and lady passing through the apartments arm in
arm, and bending his head as she took a step forward toward the door,
he asked, "Will you not lean on me?"

"With pleasure," she replied, taking his arm at once; and they walked
on through that room and the next. It must have been difficult for the
lady not to see that her companion's thoughts were not so exclusively
given to herself as she had perhaps a right to expect, or to avoid
noticing that his eyes often wandered from her beautiful face to
different parts of the halls, as if looking for something. But woman
is a strange creature, and very full of varieties. Some persons, of
irritable and all-absorbing vanity, would have felt offended, and
might have shown their anger. Not so Lady Danvers, however. What might
have offended, or rather, I should say, disgusted her more, would have
been the empty compliments and overcharged affectation of gallantry
which were so common in that day. At all events, Ralph's demeanor had
somewhat of the charm of novelty in it; and she seemed to apply
herself diligently to show him that she was worthy of more attention
than he paid her.

For some little time she was silent; but at length she said, in a low
voice, "I think you must be looking for some one, Mr. Woodhall."

"Only my cousin, of whom I caught a glance upon the stairs," replied
Ralph.

"And now you are wishing me far away," rejoined the lady, with a
smile; "but come, let us look for him before we go to the wilderness;
I am quite willing to join in the chase."

Ralph felt his rudeness; and, what perhaps was more to the purpose at
that moment, he was convinced--for he had used his eyes well--that
Margaret was not in the rooms. He had either been mistaken altogether
in supposing he had seen her, or else she had gone to change her
dress, which might, for aught he had remarked, been merely a traveling
costume.

He hastened, then, to atone, saying, "Oh no! I will not lead you such
a chase on any account; nor must you suppose any such rudeness in my
thoughts. I wished but to say two words to my cousin. But it matters
not; I shall find, I trust, another opportunity. Now let us go to the
wilderness; this is our way."

"You are very strange," said the lady, thoughtfully; "I have given you
a dozen opportunities of saying pretty things to me, and you have not
taken advantage of one. I suppose there is not another man in the
whole room who would have neglected any of them."

Ralph was about to put forth some apology, and to try to make some
amends; but Lady Danvers would not suffer him to proceed, lifting her
beautiful soft eyes to his face, and saying, "Stop! not a word of
excuse; I like you all the better. For wits, courtiers, gallants, and
fools I have a wonderful aversion."

"But at all events," replied Ralph, smiling, as they descended the
stone steps to the bank of the Wansum, "you must at one time have
liked courtiers better to choose one for your husband."

"My husband!" exclaimed the lady, with a clear, merry laugh; "I have
no such incumbrance, Mr. Woodhall. I see you do not know much about
me, although I know every thing about you. Now I will tell you all
about myself, which may, perhaps, cheer your task for you. The duke
called me Lady Danvers, for the best of all possible reasons, because
I am Lady Danvers--but in my own right, and not as the appendage of
any husband in Christendom. I and poor Henrietta Wentworth were in the
same position, baronesses in our own right, and great friends, too,
till she went away, though she is older than I am."

"Why do you call her poor Henrietta Wentworth?" asked Ralph; "I should
think to be an independent peeress did not deserve much compassion."

"Oh, ignorant man!" cried his fair companion; "I did not think there
was any one in the whole world who did not know that poor girl's
history. I can not tell it to you fully, for there is much therein I
would not wish to dwell on. Suffice it that she sacrificed all to
love--rank, wealth, consideration, friends, home, country!"

"I envy her," said Ralph, in a serious tone; "methinks that there
could be no greater happiness on earth than the opportunity of making
such a sacrifice."

"For a worthy object," replied the lady, in as grave a tone as his
own.

"And is he not worthy, for whom she has sacrificed all this?" demanded
Ralph, eagerly.

"Not worthy of such a sacrifice in any way," said Lady Danvers,
"except in love for her; there I believe he is perfect. Graceful,
handsome, affable, kind, and brave in the field he is; but I fear much
he is weak, vacillating, inconstant, and ungrateful to all but her: I
speak of Monmouth."

"What, the duke?" asked Ralph.

"The same," replied the lady; and there the conversation stopped for a
moment or two, while, passing over the bowling-green, which was
surrounded by a ring of lights, as if to shine upon fairy revels on
the greensward, they entered what was called the wilderness, where a
number of mazy walks, illuminated by many tricornered lanterns,
afforded ample opportunities for private meetings and whispered tales
of love.

"This is exceedingly pretty," said the lady, looking around her over
the scene, where the lanterns, shining through the green leaves,
produced the effect of a garden lighted by glowworms.

"Yes," replied Ralph, in an absent tone; "but you said just now, Lady
Danvers, that I knew little about you, while you knew every thing
about me. The first was unhappily quite true; the second, I doubt not,
was quite true also; but yet I can not well comprehend how any thing
regarding so insignificant a person as myself can have reached your
ladyship's ears."

"Now have I a great mind," replied Lady Danvers, "to punish you for
all your misdeeds this night, by keeping you in darkness and mystery.
I will even aggravate your suffering by telling you that I desired the
duke to introduce you to me, and leave you to discover the
interpretation for yourself."

"Nay, nay," said Ralph, "I am sure you will not be so cruel."

As he spoke, another party, conversing in gay, laughing tones, passed
along a walk close to that which they were following, and only
separated from it by a thin screen of hornbeam. The lady paused ere
she replied; but when the others had passed, she said, "Well, well, I
will be merciful, and spare you an unquiet night. You are the son of
Mr. Robert Woodhall, of The Grange, the duke told me. I must explain:
I asked him who you were as you crossed the room--for I thought you
very handsome, of course; and I thought you better dressed than any
other man there, because you had less gold lace and embroidery about
you. However, the duke told me; and then I knew all about you
directly. My dear mother, who left me here on earth some eighteen
months ago, was the early friend of your mother, her constant
companion in the days of girlhood, and she has often talked to me
about her. She had her picture ever hanging in her room, and I have
seen it a thousand times; but she always said it did her little
justice--that she was the most beautiful creature in all the world.
Then my mother would tell me how yours had chosen your father against
the wishes of many of her friends, and neglected high station and
courtly celebrity to become the wife of a poor gentleman on whom she
had no fortune to bestow, and how, when she died and left him, he had
abandoned all the paths of worldly ambition which he had opened for
himself, and retired to his small estate with her only child. Once or
twice in the year, a letter passed between your father and my mother,
for they had both loved the same person, and both mourned her as long
as they lived."

There was something so touching in her voice and manner as she told
the little tale, that Ralph, hardly knowing what he did, took her fair
hand and pressed it in his own. Lady Danvers seemed not at all
offended, and entered fully into his feelings toward his mother.

"I am sure I should love your father very much," she added, "for I
have read several of his letters--especially toward the last years of
my own parent's life--and in them he spoke in as beautiful and
touching affection of his wife and her loss as if she had not been
dead a year. I am sure I should love him."

"I think you would," replied Ralph; "though that one deep grief, which
he experienced so early, has made him very negligent of all those
graces which I am told he at one time possessed. He is now immersed in
studies, curious and abstruse, and heeds little else besides his
books."

"Well, you see," replied Lady Danvers, "I have, at all events, an
hereditary right to your friendship; and all I can say is, that if I
can promote your views in any way, Mr. Woodhall, I shall be very
happy."

"To have a right to call you friend, dear lady," replied Ralph,
warmly, "is quite enough, without taxing your kindness further. The
picture you have of my mother must be, I suppose, a copy of that which
my father possesses; and yet I should like to see it."

"Oh, no, it is no copy," answered the lady; "she sat expressly at my
mother's request, shortly after her marriage. It is very beautiful;
the face so full of love, and tenderness and self-devotion. Hers was a
noble sacrifice and I am sure, if she had possessed millions to give
as well as her hand, she would not have hesitated. I can read it in
her face."

"I am glad to hear you speak thus," replied Ralph; "the world judges
hardly of such sacrifices. Her own relations blamed and cast her off."

"The world is very foolish in its estimates," replied Lady Danvers;
"surely the best wealth, and jewels, and rank, and station are
happiness and high qualities, peace of heart and contentment. Case me
in gold, and I am no better, no happier; put me on a throne, I am no
wiser, no better contented; but give me the society of those I
love, health, and enough, and the riches of the world can add very
little--their want take very little away. I would not be the slave to
all this decoration--to the mere ornaments of the human frame or of
human life, which I see the greater number of the women of this land
become, for all that earth can give."

"Nor I either," replied Ralph; "but yet, dear lady, wealth and station
are sometimes needful, not to happiness, but to the means of attaining
that better wealth of the heart."

"Never, I should think," replied the lady. "Let us suppose a case,"
said Ralph. "Imagine that a man, in other respects not ill endowed,
but wanting in riches and in high rank, dares to fix his eyes upon
some 'bright particular star,' and hopes to win it; suppose even
that he has gained love for love, what chance has he of being made
happy--of obtaining her he loves, in short? Friends, relations,
guardians interpose, obstacles of every kind arise, which can only be
overcome by gaining that wealth and station, the want of which is the
impediment."

"Not so, not so!" replied Lady Danvers, eagerly. "Let her he loves be
nobly firm, and bold in affection. Let her do as your mother did; and,
if there be competence, there will be happiness; but really, let us
look about us. We are talking so eagerly," she said, while a warm
blush fluttered over her cheek, "that people will say we are making
love, and the duke will ask me about the gardens, and I shall be able
to tell him nothing. Then will his grace have his good joke at poor
me. However, Mr. Woodhall, whenever you like to see that picture, you
can. It is at my seat in Somersetshire, and if I am absent when you
pass that way, you have but to use my name, and the servants will show
it to you. Bid them treat you hospitably, too, for their mistress's
sake; now tell me, what is this we are coming to?"

"It is the fish-pond--illuminated, too, I see," replied Ralph; "let us
go near the edge and look in. By day one can see down to the marble
beneath. I know not whether this light is strong enough. Yes, it is;
see how those gentlemen, in their gold and silver coats, swim quietly
about, as if their watery world had no strife or contention in it.
They always look to me like the prosperous and wealthy of this earth,
who never seem to dream of all the strife, and care, and agony of body
and of mind that is going on around them."

"Not so with all the prosperous!" replied the lady, in a tone almost
reproachful; "those who are not quite so fortunate often do them an
injustice. They can not see beneath the surface, or know not how often
the heart, which has few or no sorrows of its own, bleeds for the
sorrows of others. Yet so far you are right, I believe. Prosperity may
have a tendency to harden the heart. Without feeling grief or care,
imagination can not picture it distinctly, and we are in danger of
forgetting, in our own tranquillity, the sorrows and the pangs which
are not apparent to the eye."

They continued for a moment or two gazing into the clear water without
noticing the groups that passed by. At length, however, a voice
familiar to Ralph's ear said, loud enough for him to hear, "Yes, very
lover-like, indeed! Do not disturb them."

He started; but the speaker was already going down one of the little
alleys of the wilderness.

"Did you hear that?" said Lady Danvers, looking up with a blush and a
smile; "it is time for us to go back, I think; not that I ever trouble
myself much about people's wrong constructions; but it is as well not
to give them cause for such observations."

Charming as she was, and kind, Ralph was very willing to return; but
as they went, she gave him a frank invitation to visit her, either in
London or the country, adding, with a laugh, "I have always some old
aunt or ancient cousin of the house staying with me, so as to escape
scandal, Mr. Woodhall; and remember, if I can at any time serve you,
and perhaps I may be able, all the little influence I possess may be
commanded by the son of my dear mother's friend."

Ralph thanked her warmly, eagerly; and they walked on through the mazy
walks toward the house with somewhat slower steps, perhaps, than he
would have taken had he been alone.




CHAPTER XI.


There was an old white-haired man of distinguished mien standing by
the Duke of Norfolk, and the latter said, with a good-humored smile,
"You requested me, my lord, to take care of his fortunes. Now I have
introduced him, this night, to the most beautiful, the most wealthy,
and the most romantic young lady in the room, who knew something of
his family, and seemed exceedingly interested in his fate. To make the
matter more complete, I have sent them to take a walk together through
the wilderness and by the bank of the river. Now, I look upon it as a
hundred chances to one that they come back desperately in love with
each other; for, as the dramatist has it, they have 'changed eyes'
already. The lady has no one to control her, and, if I judge her
rightly, she will some day or another bestow hand and fortune upon
some poor gentleman of no rank, just to show the world how completely
she despises the gifts the gods have given her."

"I am delighted, my lord duke," answered the other, "and trust with
all my heart your anticipations may be fulfilled. Pray what is the
lady's name?"

"Hortensia, Baroness Danvers," replied the duke. "She was once a great
friend of poor Henrietta Wentworth, though somewhat more strict in her
notions of propriety. I remember her weeping bitterly when told that
Lady Wentworth had followed Monmouth. Before that, she would not
believe any of the tales that were current. She is a good girl, but a
fanciful little enthusiast."

There were only two other persons, besides Lord Woodhall, near enough
to the Duke of Norfolk to hear his words. One was a very beautiful
girl, who turned red and white alternately as the duke spoke, and the
other was a young gentleman of no prepossessing mien, though the
features of his face were generally good. He had a haggard and
suspicious expression of countenance; and while the duke was
concluding what he had to say of Lady Danvers, the young man addressed
his fair companion, using a good number of the ribald expletives of
the day, not very suitable to the ears of a lady.

"Demme, Margaret," he said, "that would never suit your brother, to
have Master Ralph carry off the rich baroness. Gads zounds! I saw
Henry fluttering round her in London like a blue and pink pigeon, and,
depend upon it, he'll suffer no rivalry from a fellow like Ralph.
He'll pink the book-worm in a minute, if there is any of that
nonsense."

Margaret turned away with a look of disgust, but with a very pale
cheek; and her father presented her to the duke, who received her with
a graceful mingling of gallantry and respect. Lord Woodhall then
introduced his kinsman, "Mr. Robert Woodhall, son of the late Lord
Coldenham;" adding, with a well-satisfied look, "you see, my noble
friend, that I have taken the liberty, in making this little detour on
my road to London, to cast a number of my relations on your
hospitality. My son Henry I think you have seen to-night."

"When monarchs make progresses," replied the duke, with a smile, "they
must always be attended by their suite. Your son I saw half an hour
ago; and if our friend Ralph would but return with his fair lady, we
would have a family dance in the ball-room. Let me offer you my arm,
Mistress Margaret; I think all the guests have arrived by this time."

When they reached the ball-room, they found Margaret's brother already
engaged in the dance; and the duke and his party paused for some five
or ten minutes, gazing upon the scene, while different groups of
guests came forward, said a few words, and passed on. Margaret's eyes,
however, were but little on the gay sight before her, and very
frequently turned to the door by which they had entered with an
anxious and eager glance. Ralph did not appear, however, and at length
her cousin asked her to join in the dance with him. She could not
refuse; and, taking their places, they were proceeding with one of the
courtly dances of that day, Margaret with a pale cheek and inattentive
mind, and Robert Woodhall with no great grace, but with some agility
and skill, when two persons entered the room by the door exactly
opposite to the dancers; and Lady Danvers, in all the splendor of her
beauty, leaning listlessly on the arm of Ralph Woodhall, was before
the eyes of Margaret.

At the same moment, Ralph saw her dancing with Robert Woodhall, and in
spite of all he could do to command himself, his cheek grew fiery red.
Margaret was fatigued with her long journey. She had been greatly
agitated by the words which she had overheard from the lips of the
Duke of Norfolk. She was one of those very few persons who undervalue
themselves, and when she saw the resplendent beauty of Hortensia
Danvers, arrayed and decorated by all that dress could do to heighten
its effect, a chilly feeling of all the perils to which her love and
happiness were to be exposed took possession of her. Her head became
giddy; the objects swam before her eyes; her heart refused to beat and
she sank fainting on the floor. The music was instantly stopped; a
little crowd gathered round; and Ralph, letting Lady Danvers's arm
drop from his own, sprang forward to render assistance. In so doing he
came in contact with Robert Woodhall, who turned sharply upon him,
exclaiming, "Demme, stand back, sir! You are impertinent! Who asked
you to meddle?"

Ralph made no reply whatever, but took him by the collar with one
hand, and forcibly drew him back into the center of the room. Then
taking his place, he bent anxiously over Margaret, by whom her brother
Henry was already standing.

The Duke of Norfolk had observed the whole scene, and had advanced
toward the group gathered round Margaret, without, however, mingling
with it. His voice was now heard exclaiming, "Carry the young lady out
to her own room. She is only fainting with the heat, and will soon be
better."

"Help me to carry her, Ralph," said Henry Woodhall, applying himself
at once to the companion of his youth rather than to his cousin
Robert.

They raised her in their arms and bore her out, Lord Woodhall
following, and saying to those around, "She has only fainted--she has
only fainted. The girl is not subject to such freaks; but that room
was very hot. Pray do not follow--none of you--none of you. We shall
bring her to herself very soon." Henry and Ralph carried their fair
burden into an ante-room at some distance from the reception rooms,
while an attendant ran away to call her own woman to her assistance,
and as soon as they had placed her in a chair, Lord Woodhall said,
"Now leave us, boys--leave us. I will soon bring her to herself. It is
not the first time I have seen a woman faint in my life."

Henry obeyed his father's directions at once, but Ralph lingered for a
moment, saying to the old nobleman, "Can I not render any assistance,
my lord?"

"Only if you can contrive to unlace this stomacher, my dear boy,"
replied Lord Woodhall, who had been fumbling at the various lacings
which went to complicate a lady's dress in those days, but apparently
without much success "Margaret would not mind, I am sure. You have
been always like a brother to her."

Ralph hastened to obey, and with hands which trembled with many
emotions, and associations, dear but agitating, soon unfastened
Margaret's dress and gave her fair bosom freer play. As he did so, the
beautiful girl opened her eyes for a moment, fixing them with a look
of thoughtful anxiety upon his face, and raised her hand faintly so
that it lay upon his. Then, however, came the maid; and as he was once
more desired by the old lord to leave himself and his daughter alone,
the young man obeyed--reluctantly, it must be owned, and not without
more than one glance turned back to her he was leaving. She was pale
and insensible still, having fallen back into a fainting fit again
almost as soon as she had opened her eyes; but the momentary look she
had given him was not to be forgotten, and it was with regret that he
quitted the room.

Instead of returning to the state apartments at once, the young
gentleman wandered up and down the corridor for some minutes; but at
length Lord Woodhall came forth with the welcome intelligence that
Margaret had fully recovered; and with him Ralph returned to the
ball-room.

In the mean time he had formed the subject of conversation in two of
the different groups which that room contained. In one part Robert
Woodhall was speaking eagerly with one or two gentlemen who surrounded
him, saying, "He insulted me, sir--he insulted me; and he shall make
me an apology, or I will know the reason why." The words were
overheard by the Duke of Norfolk, who had just returned from bidding
his guests go on with their dancing, assuring them that the little
confusion which had occurred, had only been occasioned by a lady
fainting from the heat, and ordering more windows to be opened to
admit the fresh air. He immediately turned somewhat sharply toward
Robert Woodhall, saying, "I beg your pardon, young gentleman, he did
not insult you. You insulted him. He shall make you no apology, if he
would remain my friend. Whether he will be content without an apology
from you, must rest with himself. I shall not interfere."

At the other side of the room conversation of a different character
was going on between the son of Lord Woodhall and the fair Lady
Danvers. She had remained, after Ralph left her, on the same spot,
watching, if the truth must be told, his proceedings with some
interest, and suspecting, though not convinced of the truth. Henry
Woodhall was an old acquaintance, but in her eyes nothing more; and
when he approached her, as soon as he re-entered the ball-room, she
inquired, "How is your sister?"

It was hypocrisy, I must needs admit; for had the question which first
sprang to her lips been uttered, it would have been, "Where is your
cousin?"

"Oh, she is getting better," replied Henry Woodhall, lightly; "ladies
will faint, you know, most beautiful."

"Why, your cousin Ralph seems to take a deeper interest in the matter
than you do," replied the lady, not seeking to make any mischief, but
moved by a curiosity which perhaps had its source in some deeper
motive still.

"Oh, they have been all their childhood together," replied Henry
Woodhall; "Ralph is as much her brother, in all our eyes, as I am."

"I almost fancied it was something more than brotherly love," said
Hortensia, in a low voice.

"Pooh! nothing of the kind," replied Henry Woodhall, in his gay, light
tone. "Margaret is to be married to my cousin Robert, by the act in
that case made and provided for


   "'Uniting lands and money
     In the holy estate of matrimony.'"


"But now tell me, beautiful lady," he continued, "will you dance with
me?"

"Poor girl!" said Lady Danvers, with a sigh, not heeding his request
at all.

"Why do you say poor girl?" asked Henry Woodhall.

"Because she ought to be a poor girl to marry your cousin Robert,"
replied Lady Danvers, bluntly, "and because she will be a poor girl if
she does marry him."

"Marry him she will, assuredly," replied Henry. "These things
always come to pass when the old people arrange them; and they
do very well after all. You would be obliged to marry me, if your
great-great-grandfather had arranged it with my great-great-grandmother."

"That I would not," replied Lady Danvers, "if all our ancestors had
arranged it from Adam downward."

"Well, never mind that," replied Henry, laughing; "nobody asks you.
The question at present is, Will you dance with me?"

"Then the answer is, No, I will not," replied Lady Danvers; "I shall
not dance to-night."

"Then I shall look for some one else," answered Henry; and, turning
gayly away, he left her.

Lady Danvers remained for a moment or two musing in the same place.
She asked herself, Was there any love between Ralph and Margaret? The
heightened color in his cheek when first his eyes fell on his fair
cousin, she had not remarked, but she had seen the eager gaze which
Margaret fixed first upon him and then upon herself, and the impetuous
haste with which he had flown to her aid when she fainted. She argued,
however, thus: "Perhaps the sight of a relation so kind and so noble
in his feelings, at the moment when she was dancing with a man whom
she could not love, forced upon her by her relations, may have moved
feelings deep enough to overpower her. Perhaps Ralph's eagerness might
be all very natural and right; nay, it _was_ natural and right, in one
brought up with the poor girl in fraternal affection such as Henry
Woodhall had described. Perhaps--" But there was no end of perhapses.
Lady Danvers was willing to believe that there was no love between the
two, and did believe it; and yet she asked herself, when her musing
came to an end, "What matters it to me whether there be love or not?"

Had she been seeing sights and dreaming dreams? It might be so; and
certain it is, that among the sweetest of all those dreams which flit
deceptive before man's eyes, from the cradle to the grave, are those
which are so faint and intangible that we are not ourselves conscious
of their passing till they have passed.

However that may be, and whatever silent streams of that peculiar
current of the mind which runs between thought and feeling--partaking,
like the mingled waters of the Rhine and Maine, of the distinct
coloring of each--had been flowing through her brain, certain it is
that she hung about in the ball-room, now in one place, now in
another, avoiding all long conversation with any one till Ralph made
his appearance again, and that soon after they were talking together
as before. Her first questions were for Margaret; but Ralph had by
this time recovered full command over himself, and knew how dangerous
it might be for all his hopes to suffer the feelings of his heart to
appear. He replied, therefore, in as cool a tone of indifference as he
could assume, and exerted himself during the rest of the evening to
appear at ease and unconcerned.

Margaret did not reappear. Robert Woodhall also quitted the ball-room,
and was seen in it no more; but Henry continued dancing and talking,
and more than once mingled gayly and good-humoredly in conversation
with his cousin Ralph and the young baroness, seeming just as well
pleased with the intimacy which had so suddenly sprung up between them
as if he had taken part in introducing them to each other.

Lord Woodhall was well pleased also. He was not a man of very quick
perceptions--no great schemer or arranger of plans; and, although he
would have been very willing to see his son marry any woman on earth
with the fortune of Lady Danvers, it had never struck him that the
alliance was worth seeking for any member of his family till the
notion was propounded to him, already arranged, by the Duke of
Norfolk. Neither did he feel any inclination to meddle with it after
finding it thus settled to his hand. All he thought was, that Ralph
was a very lucky fellow in having such an opportunity afforded him.

Such were the feelings of several personages on the scene when supper
was announced, and the guests sat down to one of the most splendid
entertainments of the period. I need not pause to give any account of
the supper, nor to tell how the guests were served on massive plate of
silver gilt, nor how they drank out of goblets of pure gold. Is it not
written in the book of chronicles of the house of Howard? and do we
not know that even the pokers, the tongs, the shovels, and the fenders
of the palace of Norwich were of solid silver?

Before the evening meal was completely ended, however, a servant bent
over Henry Woodhall's chair and whispered something in his ear. That
young gentleman remained at table for a few minutes longer, but as
soon as he could find a good opportunity, he slipped away from the
table and did not return.

Not long after, the duke and his friends rose from supper, and dancing
recommenced, going on till night had far waned. In common courtesy,
Ralph asked his fair companion of the evening to tread a measure with
him, and her answer was very different from that which she had given
to Henry Woodhall.

"I would with pleasure," she replied, "for I am fond of dancing; but I
have refused several to-night, and among the rest your cousin Henry."

"Oh, Henry would not mind," replied Ralph; "he is hot in temper, but
kind and good-humored; I will take the responsibility upon myself."

"No," replied Lady Danvers, "I said distinctly that I should not dance
this evening, and therefore I will not. See what it is," she
continued, in a gayer tone, "to neglect opportunity. If you had asked
me while we were walking together in the wilderness, I would have
danced with you at once, and then might have refused all other comers
at my own will and pleasure; but now that I have declared my intention
not to dance at all, I must not offend some very worthy people by
dancing with any one."

"Well, if you do not dance, will you walk?" asked Ralph; "the air upon
the terrace will be sweet and cool. There are many people walking
there also."

"Be it so," replied Lady Danvers, with a smile; "the fresh air will do
me good, for my head feels hot, and my brain somewhat giddy with the
multitude of people crammed into the same room. There is nothing so
strange as what people call pleasure; all who are here are seeking it
in things where it does not dwell--nay, more, are trying to extract it
from materials distasteful to most of them. What care they for
dancing? What care they for the crowded ball-room? What care they for
all the labor and trouble of dressing themselves forth for this grand
occasion? It is always something else they are seeking than that which
they pretend to be enjoying. Strange alchemy of the human mind, which
changes lead into gold, and from things that are fatiguing, hurtful,
or annoying, produces what is called pleasure, if not happiness. One
dances to show a fine form or graceful teaching, not for any enjoyment
of the dance. Another comes here to display a gown finer than her
neighbor's; a third--who would rather have been in bed--to say that
she was at the great ball, or perhaps," she added, laughing, "to
prevent others from saying that she was not. I am beginning to think
that every thing is hypocrisy in this world, Mr. Woodhall; is it not
so?"

"God forbid!" replied Ralph; and quietly led her on to the terrace,
where they wandered about for a few minutes. They soon, however, found
their way down to the banks of the Wansum again, and walked musingly
along, gazing upon the lights reflected in the water. Sometimes they
talked together, sometimes they mused; but Lady Danvers leaned all the
time upon his arm; and certainly, to the eyes of those who passed
them, they seemed more like a pair of lovers happy in each other's
affection than two persons who had met that night for the first time.
At length the sounds of departure warned them to return; and as they
parted, Hortensia said, "We shall meet again to-morrow."




CHAPTER XII.


Is a room not very large, upon the upper floor but one of the Duke of
Norfolk's palace in Norwich, sat Robert Woodhall by the side of a
table on which were placed two large wax tapers. His hat had been
thrown upon the ground at some distance; his sword and sword-belt lay
upon the table; his head was bent forward as he reclined in the chair,
and his left foot was thrown listlessly over the right.

I have described his features as good, though the expression of his
face was unprepossessing, and there was now on it a thoughtful look,
slightly varying from time to time, as if he were revolving some
subject of much interest, or laying out some plan upon which much
depended. Now a frown would gather on his brow; and now the frown
would be chased by a smile; and now the smile would give place to a
scornful curl of the lip, as if he were mentally sneering at some one
present to his thoughts.

"Ay, Master Ralph!" he muttered, between his teeth, "we will fit you
with something;" and then again he fell into silence. A moment or two
after he muttered in the same tone, "Harry's a fool! He's as hot as
pepper, though, when put up, and one can make something of that,
perhaps."

Once more a moment or two passed without his saying any thing, and
then came the words. "Yes, it must be that way if he has been
tampering with Margaret's heart, and is now half won away from her by
this bright Hortensia. Demme, it might be my game to let him win the
young baroness, and make sure if Mistress Margaret myself. She is very
handsome--would show well; and then her mother's fortune, that is all
her own at once. No--zounds! I will not play that game; for, though I
might win the stakes, yet he would carry off more still; and, by ----,
he shall not triumph. My mother told me to avoid him through life; for
that, if a struggle came between us, he might _throw me_: that was her
word. Now we have run against each other, and the struggle must come.
But we will see, mother mine which will throw the other. He may have
the strength, but I have the trick. What the fiend can be keeping that
lad? he has had time enough to learn the whole history of every body
in the house."

Once more he relapsed into silence; but if he were waiting for any
one, he had full a quarter of an hour to remain in expectation. At the
end of that time a tall, powerful, but agile fellow, in the garb of a
servant, entered the room, and with a sort of tip-toe, sliding, and
noiseless step, approached the back of the young gentleman's chair.
There standing he spoke over his shoulder, saying, "I have plenty of
news for you, sir."

"You have had time enough to get it," replied Robert Woodhall,
sharply; "speak out, and be quick."

"This cousin of yours is not here alone, as you thought, sir," said
the man; "he has got a servant with him, and who do you think that
servant is?"

"Nay, I know not, and what matters it?" rejoined his master; "though
where the beggarly animal picked up a servant, or got money to keep
him, I can not divine."

"He is none other, sir, but our old friend Gaunt Stilling," said the
servant, by those few words causing his young master to start upon his
feet with a look of vindictive fierceness which would have done honor
to a tragedy-villain. The next instant, however, he sat down again
with a laugh, saying, "That is impossible, you fool! That scoundrel
Stilling went away with my pretty Kate, to take her out of my reach. I
will find her, though. I heard the whole plan, and set three men to
belabor him on the road, and bring her back. They failed in the
latter, for she had gone on with her old fool of a father; but they
succeeded in the former part of the business--at least they swore so,
and if they cheated me, I will trounce them. It is impossible, I tell
you. The men did overtake him, and one of them got a sharp poke in the
shoulder from a companion of his. I saw the wound myself; and it was
not such a scratch as a man might give himself, for the sake of a
little bloody evidence to support a lie. What you tell me is
impossible, I say."

"It is quite true, sir," said the man, in a soft, insinuating tone; "I
will tell you all about it; but let me just say, in the mean time,
sir, that if you had but condescended to trust me in the matter of the
young lady, Mistress Kate, I would have had her back for you, and snug
in the little cottage, within a single day."

"I never trust any body too much," replied Robert Woodhall, in a surly
tone. "How the devil did you know any thing about the cottage?"

"Oh, I know every thing that goes on, sir," answered the servant, with
a slight touch of self-sufficient confidence in his tone; "I believe
you would find it better to trust one than many."

"Come, come, leave your preaching," cried Robert Woodhall,
interrupting him sharply; "I do not desire to be schooled by such as
you. You say this tale you tell me is true; I say it it impossible.
Now make these two meet."

"Why, sir, you have been misinformed," replied the man. "Gaunt did not
go with his sister, but the old man did. Gaunt stayed to go along, as
servant, with your poor cousin Ralph; and it was Mr. Woodhall who slit
Jack Naseby's arm. They had not much time to belabor Master Gaunt
either, for they took to their heels and ran as soon as his master
came to his rescue."

"Gaunt Stilling turned his servant?" said Robert Woodhall, in a tone
of doubt and surprise; "I can not believe it, Roger. He is as proud as
a prince, demme; he would be no man's servant."

"Oh, there are ways of taming pride, sir," answered the man. "It would
not surprise me if you were to find means to tame the pride of both
brother and sister."

"What is it you mean?" demanded his master, sternly. "Zounds! sir, do
not trifle with me, or you shall suffer for it. Give me some connected
account at once. Tell me what you have heard, and as you heard it."

"Well, sir, well," replied Roger, "I have both seen and heard. But, to
give you a connected account, as you say: after I left you I went into
the still-room, and pretended to have a defluxion which required some
herb water. I soon got into conversation with the still-room maid, and
then went with her to talk with the young ladies of the third table. I
there heard that Mr. Ralph Woodhall had a servant with him who called
himself Jack Tuckett, and that the said Jack had gone, or been sent by
his master, on some expedition on horseback four or five days ago. Now
I think I know every man's name within forty miles of Coldenham
tolerably well, but I did not recollect such a person as Jack Tuckett
among all my acquaintance. It sounds like a false name, too, sir; and
so I determined I would go away to the duke's chamberlain and find out
more. So, when I got to the chamberlain's office, I took off my hat,
and bowed low, and the old gentleman said, with a grand air, 'What do
you want, my man?' To which I replied, humbly, below my breath, 'My
master ordered me to see that his name was rightly put down in the
books, for there are more gentlemen than one who may be marked R.
Woodhall.'"

"Come, be not so particular," cried his master, whose oaths and
expletives shall be omitted for the future, or supplied by the
reader's imagination rather than my pen. "Come to the point, sir."

"Well, sir, the point was that I saw the books," replied the worthy
Roger, "and there I saw written Mr. Ralph Woodhall, and Gaunt
Stilling, his man, with date and designation."

"It is impossible!" cried Robert Woodhall, in a tone of doubt rather
than negation. "Why, but a few days ago he was bearding my mother like
a lion--and it needs no less to beard her; and now, a servant to this
poor, miserable cousin of mine, who has hardly money enough to keep
himself in clean linen!"

"Well, sir, I was surprised too," replied the man, "though it must be
a tough joke that surprises me; but just as I was crossing the stable
yard, who should I see but Gaunt Stilling himself getting off that
very good brown horse he rides, and leading him right into the
stables. It was dark enough there, and I kept out of the way; but he
caught sight of me, and all the menservants being busy in the house,
he hallooed to me, 'Good friend, just hold my beast a minute, while I
go in and get a lantern to look for the rack comb and brushes!' But I
answered, in the voice of a Blunderbore, 'I'm no servant of the house;
hold the beast yourself.' He gave me a benediction, tied his horse to
the manger the best way he could, and away for a light. Then it, just
came across me that I might find something out by a little feeling. So
I went into the stable, missed a kick from a skittish mare, and,
creeping up by the side of the new-come beast, who was as dull as a
long journey could make him, I ran my hand over the saddle and its
adjuncts. I found a pair of bags with padlocks on them, which there
was no time to pick; and I found two horse-pistols at the saddle-bow,
out of which it was not worth while to take the bullets; and I found a
horseman's cloak, good broad-cloth enough it seemed to the feel, but
it would not do to take it bodily, for people ask after their cloaks
sometimes. I could not help feeling it, however, for it was so soft
and good--ten times as soft as my lady gives her people--and as I felt
it here and felt it there, I felt something crackle like paper.
'Here's a pocket,' said I; and I soon found it; and, gently
insinuating my hand, I found these papers, which I brought incontinent
to you."

Robert Woodhall took them, and looked at the first, which was a
somewhat crumpled document, written on coarse paper, and seemingly a
bill. He threw it down on the floor with a contemptuous look, which
the servant immediately remarked and commented on.

"The next is more to the purpose, sir," he said.

"What! then you have examined them!" exclaimed his master, turning
sharply upon him.

But Roger was not to be daunted easily; and he replied, with the
utmost coolness, "Certainly, sir; I could not tell there might not be
something immoral or irreligious in them, and I could not venture to
bring you ribaldry."

His master laughed coarsely, and turned the paper, which was an open
letter, till he could see the address. It was written in a very
tolerable female hand, and was, in effect:


     "To Master R. Woodhall.

   "These from--"


Here the writer seemed to have been interrupted, for the writing broke
short off.

Without ceremony, Robert Woodhall began to unfold the letter; but his
servant observed, in a quiet tone, "I do not know, sir, whether it is
for Mr. Ralph or you. That is a question. There is nothing in the
letter to show--"

"What! then you have read it all, you infernal scoundrel!" exclaimed
his master.

"Certainly, sir," replied the man, "every word."

"Then, by ----, I will--" cried Robert, with an angry look; but there
he stopped, and, spreading out the sheet, read as follows:


"I am here in bondage, dearest love; if you do but love me half as
much as you have sworn, come and deliver me. My father nor brother do
not know all, or nearly all; but you know that the truth can not long
be concealed. I am ready to fly with you, as you used to ask me, to
the world's end: only come--and come as fast as possible. There is
nothing to stop us here. Come, then, to your unhappy        KATE
STILLING."


The place from which the letter was dated was A small town in
Dorsetshire, and the date itself three days before.

Robert Woodhall smiled as he mused over those few lines, and then he
turned to the address again, and seemed to consider it attentively,
muttering, "Master R. Woodhall."

"You see, sir," said his servant, "one can not tell whether it is for
you or your cousin, Master Ralph."

"What the devil do you mean?" cried his master, fixing his eyes
eagerly upon him.

"Why simply, sir," replied the man, "that it would make a desperate
good handle against him if it fell into the hands of the other."

"I think I understand you, Roger," said his master, in a much more
placable tone; "but Ralph does not even know my fair Kate."

"We can not tell that, sir," answered the servant; "he was over at
Coldenham lately."

"Only one day," replied Robert, "and soon got his answer from my
mother."

"He was in the church with old Stilling, and in old Stilling's house,"
said the man; "that I know for sure."

"Was he?" exclaimed Robert, in a tone of much surprise; but, after a
moment's thought, he added, "Ay, ay, to hire this young vagabond for a
servant. But I understand what you mean, and perhaps may act upon it."

"Only be so good as to remember, sir," replied Roger, "that the letter
was brought by his own servant over here, after being sent away, no
one knows where, for several days; and the letter R may stand for
Ralph as well as for Robert--or Roger either, for that matter."

His master laughed: "Would you make me jealous of Kate?" he said. "No,
no, Roger, I understand all this clearly. Gaunt Stilling has gone over
to see her while his master was absent with the duke. He has caught
her writing this letter, and brought it away by force. Do you not see
how the address breaks off? Perhaps he wishes to make use of it
against me when he finds occasion; for my lady mother threatened me
highly if I continued to persecute these people, as she called it.
Luckily, the letter fell into good hands."

"Do you not think, sir, that those hands deserve some little lining?"
asked the man, with a grin.

"They do--they do," replied Robert; "I am marvelous poor just now; but
there is a guinea for you. You shall have more some day soon, if you
continue to serve me as well. Now go and contrive to get my cousin Hal
to come and speak with me as soon as possible. This letter, perhaps,
may serve me much in one way; but I have another matter in hand which
will need quick attention."

The man bowed low and retired, but he expressed no thanks for the
present he had received; and when he had reached the other side of the
door, he tossed up the piece of coin with a contemptuous air, saying,
"A guinea!"




CHAPTER XIII.


"Well, Robert, what is your important business?" demanded Henry
Woodhall, entering his cousin's room with a look of haste and
impatience. "Be quick, for I want to return to the ball."

"The ball will be over before we have done Henry," replied his cousin,
in a grave and emphatic tone; "I have several things to say to you of
importance."

"In the way of homily?" asked Henry Woodhall, laughing; "come, then,
put off your solemnity, Bob, and let us hear what it is."

Thus saying, he threw himself into a chair, and his cousin replied,
"Some things I have to say affect myself alone; some affect you and
me; some affect you only."

"First, second, and to conclude," said the gay young man. "Why, what
is all this? How comes it that my rattle-pated, dissolute,
latitudinarian cousin Robert has, all of a sudden, become
metamorphosed into a parson? Where are your demmes and your zoundses?
Where are your remarkable oaths, and your satin embroidery blasphemy?
Why, Robert, you must be in love, or have taken physic, had the
cholic, or the heartache. They tell me that powdered unicorn's horn is
a sovereign thing for clearing the brain of melancholic humors, and
that a few grains of mummy, taken in goat's whey, will purge the liver
of black bile. Let me commend them to your consideration."

"All very well laughing, Hal," replied Robert; "but this is no
laughing matter, by ----."

"Come, come, there's an oath!" cried his cousin; "the patient is
getting better. Well, if we are not to laugh, what are we to cry
about?"

"About being made fools of by a raw Cambridge student," replied his
cousin, bitterly; "about being cheated, deceived, betrayed--about
having all your father's plans and my mother's overthrown--about your
losing the hand of a rich and beautiful heiress, and my losing my
future wife's heart."

"Well-a-day, well-a-day!" cried Henry Woodhall, "this is a serious
matter. But let us hear the particulars. Imprimis, about your future
wife's heart; by which, I suppose, you mean the heart, or muscular
pin-cushion, of my sister Margaret. But first let me observe, Bob,
before you proceed, that Maggy is not quite certainly your future
wife. There is many a slip between the cup and the lip, Robert; and
that matter is not quite settled yet."

"Quite settled between your father and my mother," replied Robert
Woodhall, "and quite settled as far as I am concerned. With regard to
Margaret, the matter may be different; for I am certain that this
mean, pitiful fellow, Ralph, has been trifling with her affections,
and has won them too."

"Awkward for you!" replied his cousin, "and one reason the more for my
saying this matter is not settled between you and Maggy. I tell you
fairly, Robert, I will have a say in any thing wherein she is
concerned, and you shall not have her hand unless between this and
then you show yourself more worthy of her."

"How will you prevent it?" asked Robert Woodhall, in a sharp, almost
fierce tone.

"By running you through the liver, if need be," replied Henry
Woodhall; "I tell you, Robert, that as you two stand just now, you
with your vices and Ralph with his poverty, I would rather see him
Margaret's husband than you."

Robert Woodhall fixed his eyes full upon his cousin's face, and
contemplated him for a moment or two in silence, while a dark,
malignant smile gradually came upon his lip. "You love hypocrites, I
think, Henry?" he said, at length.

"No. I hate them," replied the other, sharply.

"You can not say that I have any hypocrisy," rejoined his cousin; "all
that I do, be it bad or good, is open, in the face of day. I am frank
and bold at least. But are you sure that this young lad, on whom you
pin your faith, has not learned hypocrisy at Cambridge as well as
Greek and Latin? Are you sure that his heart is not as mercenary as a
money-lender's? that his conduct is not as foul and corrupt as a
street prostitute's? that his hypocrisy is not as great as a
non-juring preacher's?"

"Pooh, pooh!" said Henry Woodhall, "I have known him from infancy: we
have been boys--have grown up men together. We have been like
brothers, and his thoughts are as common to me as to himself."

Still that same dark smile hung upon the lips of Robert Woodhall as he
listened.

There was something triumphant in it, a sort of cool self-confidence,
which conveyed, before he even spoke, the idea that he possessed the
means of overthrowing all the arguments opposed to him in a moment.

"Well," he said, "let us look a little at Mr. Ralph's real conduct,
and see whether it be such as you quite approve. Men have singular
opinions on these subjects. Your own are somewhat curious; and perhaps
you may admire all this. First, taking advantage of your father's
hospitality and kindness, he makes love to Margaret, and wins her
heart; then--"

"Stay, stay!" cried his cousin; "of that we have no proof but your own
jealousy; and, if there be any thing between them, it is more than
probable that they have mutually grown up to love each other, and then
some casual word or accidental circumstance has betrayed the secret of
each breast to the other. I can not blame him, Robert. Margaret is a
little angel, and any man might well love her. But still, I say, we
have no proof of this but your jealousy."

"My jealousy! Henry," replied Robert, with a sneer which he could not
repress, though it injured his own cause; "I have no jealousy, good
cousin. I am not in the predicament. However, even were it so, that is
a matter very easily settled. Ask Margaret herself. Press her closely,
and either by her looks or words you will come at the truth. But, for
the moment, let us suppose that it is so; I would not blame him
either, were there any real love in the case; for, though I do not
know much of the heroic passion, yet I have heard that it sometimes
drives men mad. But if there has been no real love on his part; if he
has been moved only by mercenary motives; if he has been ready at any
moment to sacrifice her when he saw the prospect of greater fortune
than her own; if, the moment he has seen this young Baroness Danvers,
he has cast off all thought of Margaret, and paraded their intimacy
openly, in order that the poor girl might be satisfied at once of his
treachery; if he has pursued Lady Danvers the more eagerly because the
world gave out that you were to have her hand, would you think this
honest, honorable, kind in your generous, excellent cousin Ralph?"

"No, no," replied Henry Woodhall, fiercely, "I should think it base,
pitiful, mean, deserving instant chastisement. As to the matter with
Hortensia Danvers, I care not one straw. Let him win her and wear her
if he will. I never thought of her--never thought of marriage at
all--never shall, probably, till I find my mustachio turning gray, or
have got the gout in my right foot. Then is the time for matrimony and
a warm dressing-gown; but with Margaret he shall not trifle; and, if
he do, he shall answer for it. On this subject I will make full
inquiry from the dear girl herself. I shall know in a moment, for I
have been well accustomed to read her looks. It can not be done
to-night, however, for she has gone to rest. Have you aught else to
say?"

"Nothing that I hold of very much importance," replied Robert; "two
things, however, may as well be mentioned. First, he insulted me
grossly when I was endeavoring to aid your sister after she fainted."

"That is your own affair," cried Henry Woodhall; "you can send him
your cartel, and that is soon settled."

"You are mistaken," replied Robert, somewhat gloomily; "the Duke of
Norfolk has laid me under an obligation to forbear, and given me to
understand that he will have his eye continually upon me."

"Humph!" said Henry Woodhall, with a slight accent of contempt, for,
to say truth, he did not hold his cousin's courage very highly, "What
is number two?"

"It is a mere nothing in my eyes," answered Robert, smarting a little
from his cousin's tone, "and doubtless you will think nothing of it
either; for your sanctified men are abundant in charity to
peccadilloes of the kind--especially when they are committed by
themselves or their near relations. It is only this, that while making
love to Margaret, and doubtless vowing his whole heart to her, he was
amusing himself in another manner with a country girl in the
neighborhood--nay, do not look contemptuous and unbelieving; of this I
have the proof in my own hands. Nay, more, since he has been here--as,
it would seem, the young lady is in a difficult position--he has sent
his own servant over to see her, and bring him news of her estate."

"Why, he has no servant," replied Henry Woodhall. "He went away
without one. That I heard at The Grange, for I thought to offer him my
own lad Brown, that he might appear the better here."

"True--quite true," replied his cousin, with a laugh; "he kept the
matter very quiet; for he would not have his father know of the
politic arrangement. Oh, he is the most frank and candid of men! The
way he managed was this: he made compensation for the sister's ruin by
taking the brother into his high and mighty service. Other potentates
and lordly men have done the same. Then, to conceal the transaction,
he made the lad join him on the road, and uses him now as the
go-between of himself and the sister."

"And can you prove all this?" asked Henry Woodhall, in a grave tone.

"Every word of it, step by step," replied Robert; "but I attach no
importance to it."

"I do," answered Henry, sternly; "I must hear the proofs."

"Good," said Robert; and, rising, he opened the door, exclaiming,
"Roger, see if you can find some servant of the Duke of Norfolk's, and
ask him to come hither for a moment. Any one will do."

He then closed the door, seated himself, and remained silent,
internally enjoying the varied but painful emotions which sent their
traces like cloud-shadows over the face of his nobler cousin. There
was something in the mental torture which he had inflicted that
pleased him well, for Henry had galled him often, and he now had his
revenge.

At length the door of the room opened, and one of the duke's servants
was introduced, with a look of some surprise and curiosity. "You sent
for me, gentlemen," he said; "how can I serve you?"

"I only wish to ask you a question or two." said Robert Woodhall.
"Pray tell me, has my good cousin, Master Ralph Woodhall, a servant
here with him?"

"I think he is absent, sir," replied the man, "on some business of his
master's."

Robert Woodhall smiled, and then asked, "Had he one with him when he
arrived?"

"Oh yes, sir," replied the servant, "a man who calls himself Jack
Tuckett; but he has been away for about a week, I think. I have not
seen him at the third table."

"Thank you, that will do," replied Robert Woodhall. The man departed,
and the young gentleman then called in his own servant Roger. "Now,
Roger," he said, "examine this letter accurately. You admitted that
you read it. Now see if it be the same, in every respect, that you
gave to me about an hour ago."

The man took the letter, opened it deliberately, read it all through,
and then handed it back to his master, saying, "It is the same."

Robert threw it over to his cousin, who read it hastily, and then,
turning sharply to the man, demanded, "How came you by this letter?
Who gave it to you?"

"Tell the truth, I command you, Roger," cried his master; "the plain,
straightforward, unadorned truth."

"Certainly, sir," replied the man; then turning toward Henry, he
added, "Nobody gave it to me; I picked it up."

"That is a lie, Roger," said his master. "I insist on your telling the
truth as you told it to me--about this letter at least. I do not wish
you to compromise others; and whatever you say that may compromise
yourself shall be forgotten, and you forgiven."

"Very well, sir, I close the bargain," replied Roger, with the coolest
impudence. "If the truth must be told, then, I was in the stable-yard
to-night, when I saw Mr. Ralph's servant come in. I was rather anxious
to know where he had been gone so long, and seeing him go away for a
lantern, I thought I might as well investigate whether he had got any
thing particular about his saddle. I could make nothing of that, but I
found that he had thrown his horseman's cloak over the beast's
shoulder, and in the pocket I discovered the old bill I showed you and
that letter, which I perused carefully, and then brought to you. But I
do hope, sir, you will send it to Master Ralph, for I am afraid there
will be a fuss about it."

"We will take care of that, Roger," replied his master. "Have you any
questions to ask him, Henry?"

"No," replied the other; "he is a d----d scoundrel. But how do you
make out the brothership? This billet is signed Kate Stilling; the
other man said Ralph's servant was called Jack Tuckett."

"A traveling name, sir, a traveling name," replied Roger, mingling in
the conversation; "I know the man quite well, and have seen his pretty
sister Kate more than once. He may call himself Jack Tuckett at the
third table, if he likes, but his real name is Gaunt Stilling, and so
you will find him written down in the chamberlain's book, for I saw it
myself. He was for a couple of years a soldier in the Tangier
regiment, and very likely called himself Jack Tuckett there, for that
honorable corps did not like to always go by their own names."

"Go away," said Henry, sharply; and Roger quitted the room.

"There are now two things I have to ascertain," said Henry Woodhall,
composing himself with a strong effort, which gave a stern rigidity to
his manner; "first, whether Master Ralph Woodhall has been trifling
with the affections of my sister. Secondly, whether the name of Gaunt
Stilling is to be found, as his servant, in the chamberlain's books
here."

Robert nodded his head, but was silent, and the other went on. "All
this must be done to-morrow, for it is too late to-night; and as soon
as I am satisfied, we will converse further, Robert; for Ralph must be
taught, if he have done these things, that they do not go without
their reward. If I have done you injustice, my good cousin, I am very
sorry for it; perhaps it may be so; for when we find that we have been
bitterly mistaken in one man, we may suspect that we have been as
bitterly mistaken in another. Good-by for the present."

"Good night," replied Robert, who would not add another word, for fear
of lessening the impression he had produced; and they parted.




CHAPTER XIV.


Early in the morning of the day after that of which we have just been
speaking, a young gentleman walked up and down the terrace, on the
garden side of the Duke of Norfolk's palace in Norwich. His eyes were
generally bent upon the ground, but ever, when he turned, he raised
them for a moment to one particular window on the second floor of the
building. His walk continued for fully half an hour uninterrupted. The
guests and the servants had been up late, and nobody felt himself
inclined to rise betimes except that young gentleman, who, to say
truth, had not closed his eyes all night. All the windows of the house
were still defended from the attack of the morning sun by the large
gray wooden shutters which folded over them from the outside. At
length a solitary housemaid appeared at one of the doors which opened
on the terrace, sweeping out a quantity of dust, mingled with flowers,
and bugles, and other gew-gaws, without noticing at all whether with
them might not be mingled diamonds, or rubies, or other precious
things.

Shortly after, the window toward which the young gentleman's eyes had
been so frequently turned was opened, and the shutters thrown back, in
the act of doing which a maid's head and shoulders appeared. Instantly
the young gentleman stopped, saying, "Tell Margaret, Vernon, that I
wish to speak with her as soon as she can admit me."

"Very well, sir," replied the maid, and withdrew her head.

Henry Woodhall took two or three more turns up and down the terrace,
and then brushing hastily past the girl who was sweeping out the hall,
he mounted the stair-case and knocked at his sister's door. The maid
admitted him, and was about to recommence her labors upon the toilet
of Margaret, who was seated before a table near the window, with her
beautiful hair hanging in large masses over her shoulders. But Henry
turned toward her, saying, in an impetuous tone, "Leave us, Vernon! I
wish to speak with my sister alone. You shall come back in a few
minutes."

Margaret had started up at the sharp sound of her brother's voice,
feeling some degree of alarm, which was only increased by the strange
change which she perceived upon his usually placable and good-humored
countenance. The moment, however, that the waiting-woman had retired
and closed the door, Henry's whole aspect softened. Margaret was still
frightened, however; and, throwing her beautiful arms round his neck,
she said, "What is the matter, Henry? You frighten me."

Henry put one arm round her waist, led her gently back to her chair,
and seated himself by her side. Then again drawing her nearer to his
heart, he said, in the kindest and tenderest tone, "Dearest Margaret,
I have come to comfort and console you. You and I are the only
children of the house, Margaret. I have always loved you better than
any thing on earth, and have seemed to feel no wish or hope separate
from your happiness. Let us, dear Margaret, have confidence in one
another; and you will always find that you may rely upon me as a stay
and counselor in any moment of difficulty, and that I will think of
your happiness without any consideration of avarice, ambition, or
prejudice, which may have weight with others."

Margaret hid her face upon his shoulder; but he could see the cheek,
and temple, and the fair, delicately-chiseled ear glowing like an
evening sunset.

"You need not tell me, Margaret," continued Henry; "I know and see how
it is with you and Ralph. But only speak, dear girl--only let me know
how this came about. Has he sought you eagerly? Has he taught you to
conceal this from my father and me till this moment? Has he instilled
into your mind lessons of concealment from those who love you best?
Has he taken advantage of my father's kindness secretly to win your
heart, without a brother's knowledge, and against a parent's will?"

"Oh heavens, no! No, no," cried Margaret, raising her head and gazing
on her brother's face; and then, with warm, impetuous words, which I
can not repeat, for they were all confused, almost incoherent, but all
very natural, she poured forth the whole tale of her love, showing
how, from early years, almost from infancy, she and Ralph had become
attached to each other; how little kindnesses, and some important
services, and frequent communication, and the interchange of mutual
thought, had ripened early regard into fraternal affection, and warmed
fraternal affection into mature love. Then she told him how by the
merest accident, their mutual feelings had become known to each other,
and how they had trembled, and dreaded, and agreed that it was in vain
to hope, and had determined to part; how, in consequence of this
resolution, Ralph had remained one whole vacation at his college; and
how they fancied, in the end, they could meet calmly, and forget their
love; and how, when they did meet, they found that passion was
stronger than reason, and that it was in vain to hope that the memory
of first true love could ever be obliterated. Then she added that
Ralph had determined to go forth and seek his fortune, lighted on his
way by the hope of winning her, and how he had not even bound her by
any engagement, except that deep, strong bond of the heart, which she
fondly fancied could never be severed; and then she once more hid her
face on her brother's bosom, and tears told the rest.

Henry was a great deal moved. "His crime is not so great," he said,
thoughtfully.

"Crime! crime!" repeated Margaret; "what do you mean, Henry?"

"Yes, crime," answered her brother; "for it is a crime, Margaret, to
trifle with affections such as yours."

As he held her to his heart, he felt her shudder at the confirmation
of the fears she herself had entertained. But Henry went on,
determined to say all at once, in order to spare the pain of after
explanations.

"There is more besides this, Margaret," he said; "more besides his
conduct to you and Lady Danvers. There are other affections he can
trifle with--other hearts he can break, Margaret. I am moved by no
pride, no family prejudice, no desire of wealth. You could be happy
with small means with a man who deserved you; but I tell you, my dear
sister, you must think of this man no more, for he deserves you not."

"Other hearts he can break!" said Margaret, in a low, sad tone; "I do
not comprehend you, Henry."

"There, read that letter, Margaret," said her brother, putting the
billet he had received from their cousin into his sister's hands.

Margaret gazed at it, read it by fits and snatches, and then said, "I
know not what this means--Kate Stilling! Who is Kate Stilling?"

"An unhappy peasant girl," replied her brother; "look at the back,
Margaret. It was brought by his own servant after a long absence, and
fell into my hands by chance."

Margaret turned the paper, and, as her eyes rested upon the words of
the address, she sank slowly down into the chair from which she had
just before risen, and the letter dropped upon the floor.

Henry thought she had fainted again, and took a step to call for
assistance, but Margaret's voice stopped him.

"Stay, Henry, stay, I beseech you," she cried; "say not a word of this
to any one, if you do love me indeed. Let us never talk of it but when
we are alone together. You shall henceforth know every thought of my
breast--Only--only beseech ray father to quit this place at once. Tell
him I shall be ill here; tell him I shall die;" and, starting up with
a burst of uncontrollable emotion, she sprang to the side of her bed,
cast herself upon her knees, and, burying her face in the coverings,
sobbed loud and vehemently.

Henry gazed upon his sister for a moment with feelings of deep
sympathy and compassion, and then hurrying out of the room, found her
waiting-woman near the door.

"Go in to your lady, Vernon," he said; "comfort her and soothe her,
but say no word of her state to any one; for I have had to grieve her
much, and it would only double her grief if others were to know it."

Thus saying, he strode on and sought the higher chamber which had been
assigned to his cousin Robert. The latter was still in bed and asleep,
but Henry soon roused him.

"I have inquired, Robert," he said, as soon as the eyes of his cousin
were fully open; "I have inquired, and the whole of the tale you told
me is but too true. Ralph is a scoundrel and a hypocrite, and must be
punished. Get up; you must bear him a billet from me."

"No need of such great hurry, Hal," replied Robert, in his usual
affected tone. "Demme, Ralph is not a wild goose that will take wing
every time you fire near him. He will stay here as long as the bright
baroness does, believe me."

"But I must go," replied Henry; "ay, and this very day. Margaret must
be here no longer. Last night my father hesitated whether to go on
this morning or to stay another day. A word from me will turn the
balance, and that word I will speak."

"Your plan is a bad one, Hal," said his cousin; "if you attempt to
bring your enemy to the ground this morning, you will be frustrated,
depend upon it. All the world is up and busy; the Duke of Norfolk has
eyes upon us all; there will be no slipping away unobserved for such a
time as would be needful to get out of Norwich. No, no, you must go
more cautiously to work."

"But Margaret has besought me earnestly to have her taken hence at
once," replied Henry; "she says she will die if she stays, and, on my
life, I think she says the truth."

"Well, have her taken hence," replied Robert; "let her and your father
go, and let us stay behind; or, better still, let us all go; it will
lull suspicion."

"Four-and-twenty hours shall not pass ere I have satisfaction upon
Ralph Woodhall," replied Henry, vehemently.

"No need that they should," answered his cousin; "only hear me out.
Send your cartel this morning before you set out; take it for granted
at once that this ambitious youth will not refuse his good cousin a
meeting at the sword's point, and name the wilderness as the place, at
any hour of the night when you can be sure, by the almanac, that the
moon is up. Give him a hint that, though you seem to be going
Londonward, you will be back for the pleasure of pinking his doublet;
and bid him come to the ground alone, as you will do."

Henry Woodhall mused for some time over this plan, but eventually
agreed to follow his cousin's suggestions; and Robert, springing from
his bed, soon produced writing materials for drawing up the challenge.
Henry sat down to the table, and wrote for a few moments in a fine,
bold hand, and when he had concluded, read the letter aloud to his
cousin as follows:


"SIR,--Your conduct, which I have had the sorrow and misfortune of
discovering lately, and of which you yourself must be conscious; the
evil uses which you have made of my father's unsuspecting hospitality
and kindness, and the pain and discomfort which you have occasioned in
my family, compel me not only to inform you that I can no longer look
upon you as a relation, but to require that you give me immediate
satisfaction for the injuries you have inflicted. The circumstances in
which I am placed drive me to abridge the usual courtesies upon this
occasion, for which I pray your excuse. To avoid all publicity and the
chance of interference, I shall apparently take my departure from
Norwich this day; but you will not fail to find me in the wilderness
of the duke's house, near the fish-pond, this evening at ten, when
there will be sufficient moonlight for our purpose. I send you
inclosed the length of my sword; and if you be a man of courage, for
which I give you credit, you will be at the spot appointed, and alone,
as I shall be.

"I have the honor to subscribe myself your most obedient and very
humble servant,

"HENRY WOODHALL."


"Let me see, let me see," said Robert; and, taking the note from his
cousin's hand, he read it over very considerately, pausing and
pondering upon every word. There were some things that he could have
well wished omitted; but, upon the whole, it was better than he
expected--that is to say, more suitable to his purpose--and, after
some consideration, he determined to let it go without alteration.
"Master Ralph," he thought, "will fancy that the whole weight of the
offense is having made love to my pretty Lady Margaret contrary to the
will and wishes of papa and brother: that can hardly be explained
away, I think. Nevertheless, doubtless he will endeavor to explain it
as best he can. He will not like fighting the brother, for whatever
comes of it must be ill for him. I must contrive to stop all
explanations, and bring them to the point of the sword. There,
whatever they may do will be done for me."

This last thought carried on his mind for some little time in a
different direction. An important subject of consideration started
itself; but he reserved it for future thought, and brought back his
mind to the affair of the present. He saw that he must prevent any
communication between the cousins, as explanation, if it did not
absolutely lead to the discovery of his villainy, would, at all
events, frustrate his object, and throw suspicion on his character. To
do so, however, was very easy. Henry's absence till the hour of
meeting was all that was needful on one part, and that was already
arranged. The only chance of another turn being given to the whole
affair was, that Ralph, with his frank and open nature, might set out,
as soon as he received the challenge, to follow Lord Woodhall and his
family, meet all charges boldly, and explain his whole conduct. Some
means, he thought, must be devised to prevent such an occurrence; but
he determined to leave that also for after consideration, to obtain
from Henry the task of delivering his letter, and to delay its
execution till after Lord Woodhall's departure.

"Who shall I send it by?" said his cousin, interrupting his reverie's,
somewhat impatiently.

"Oh, I will take it, of course," replied Robert; "I think the best
plan will be, Henry, for me to remain here another day; I can then get
Master Ralph's answer."

"Remain or not, as you like," replied Henry Woodhall; "but his answer
I will have before I quit this place--if any answer indeed is to be
given. I appoint a meeting. Any man of courage or honor will feel
himself obliged to be there, without further question. Ralph is
undoubtedly a man of courage; I have seen him tried; but he may not
like to fight me in this cause; and I will have yea or nay."

Robert felt that he had made a false step, but he hastened to retrieve
it by another stroke of his art.

"Well, then," he said, "let us send it by my servant Roger; he is
skillful in all small diplomacies. He shall be here in a moment. Fold
it up, and seal it with your largest seal, remember, while I throw on
a dressing-gown and seek for my good man."

Henry Woodhall sat down to the table, and his cousin left the room.
Close to his own door he met his man Roger, coquetting with a
pretty-looking waiting-woman somewhat over-dressed. He had no
hesitation, however, in breaking through their sweet conversation by
calling Master Roger to the window at the further end of the corridor.

"Who is that?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon the girl, as she
retreated toward the head of the stairs.

"Only Lady Danvers's waiting-woman," answered Roger, with a simper;
"she is a sweet creature, and uncommonly kind."

"Ah!" said his master; "now listen to me;" and he proceeded in a low
voice to give the man the instructions which he thought needful. He
repeated them over twice with great precision, and each time Roger
bowed his head and said, "It shall be done, sir." How he fulfilled his
mission I shall now proceed to show.

Robert Woodhall returned at once to his own room, saying as he
entered, "I can not find the scoundrel; but he will be here soon, for
he knows my hour, and that I won't endure negligence."

Henry Woodhall rose with a look of impatience, and walked up and down
the room. A few minutes after, there was a knock at the door, and the
servant entered.

"You are late," said his master, in an affectedly sharp tone.

"No, sir, to a minute," replied Roger; "the castle clock is now
striking."

"Well, that matters not," cried Henry; "take this letter to the room
of Master Ralph Woodhall, and bring me back an answer, if he thinks
fit to send one."

"Instantly, sir," said the man, taking the note with a very humble
bow; and, with a look of perfect unconsciousness, he quitted the room.
He then directed his course at once toward the apartment of Ralph, but
he communed with himself as he went. "A guinea!" he said; "a guinea!
and something more in prospect! Upon my soul, my honorable master is
generous and free of his money. Hang me if I do not spoil this little
scheme for him, just to show him that he can not work without me. But
I must be cautious, so that he does not find out who did it."

He put the letter in his pocket, and walked straight on to Ralph's
door, where he knocked.

Now most of the rooms in the duke's palace at Norwich had ante-rooms
to them, which was the case here. Thus the door was opened, not by
Ralph Woodhall himself, but by no less a person than Gaunt Stilling;
and the servants of the two cousins stood face to face, eyeing each
other for a moment with a somewhat sinister expression, like two
quarrelsome dogs meeting suddenly at the corner of a street and
deliberating, ere they set to, as to which shall give the first bite.

"Good morning to you, Mr. Stilling," said Roger, who was the first to
drop his tail, if I may follow out my simile; for a soldier of the
Tangier regiment might well be considered a very formidable opponent.
"Let us forget all grudges. I have had no share, for my part, in doing
you any wrong; and I now bear a message from my master to yours--not
very willingly, for, to say the truth, I don't do much of my master's
work willingly at all; but a man must gain his bread, you know."

"What is your message?" asked Gaunt Stilling, sharply, adding
something, muttered between his teeth, which the other did not hear.

"My master told me to say," replied Roger, "that he will be obliged if
your master will be in this room of his at noon to-day, as he has
something to say to him at that hour."

"Very well, so be it," replied Gaunt Stilling, and was then about to
close the door, which he held in his hand, in the other man's face. A
sudden change of thought seemed to come across him, however, and he
opened it wider than before, saying, "Harkee, Roger, I do not believe
you are so bad as the rest of them. I never saw you at our house with
your scoundrel master; and, if you take my advice, you will quit his
service as soon as possible, otherwise bad luck may befall you."

"Find me another place first, Mr. Stilling," replied Roger; "but,
however, I will talk more with you of it by-and-by. I dare say we
shall soon meet; and I do not like my place much, I can tell you, in
any way."

Gaunt Stilling nodded his head and shut the door.

Robert Woodhall's servant then directed his steps quite in a different
direction from his master's chamber, found out Lady Danvers's
waiting-woman on the floor below, and whispered a word in her ear.

"A challenge!" cried the maid.

"Yes," replied Roger, in a solemn tone, "about some words which passed
between them last night in the ball-room."

"And when are they going to fight?" cried the young lady.

"Some time in the afternoon." replied Roger; "but the hour I did not
hear, for I was talking with a pretty little gill-flirt, of whom you
know something, in the passage. She was as cruel as Queen Mary, and
made me lose the best part of the story. Can I find you again in an
hour?"

"Not you," cried the girl, with a coquettish air.

"I am obliged to go now," said Roger, "but I will hunt the house for
you very soon. Mind you don't tell any one what I have told you."

"Oh dear, no," replied the girl, "I would not tell any one for the
world;" and away she went, and told her mistress every word.

In the mean time Roger made his way back to his master's room, having
calculated--for he was a great calculator--that the little interlude
which had just passed would precisely fill up the lapse of time that
might have been consumed in reading the letter of which he was the
bearer, if he had delivered it. He entered without ceremony; and, as
he expected, the first question was, "Have you taken the letter?"

"Yes, sir," replied Roger, mentally adding, "and brought it back
again."

"What was the answer?" demanded Robert Woodhall.

"Very short, sir," replied Roger; "all that was said was 'Very well,
so be it.'"

"So I say too," cried Henry Woodhall; "so be it, Master Ralph. I knew
he would not flinch, Robert; but now I will go and get my father and
Margaret off as soon as possible, and return and join you here from
our first halting-place."

"Good," replied Robert, regarding his cousin with a somewhat
supercilious smile, which the other could not help remarking. His
thoughts, however, were busy with other things, and he made no inquiry
regarding the cause, but at once quitted the room.

Robert remained seated, with his eyes fixed upon the table, and for
some moments he was motionless as well as silent. There are people,
however, who, when thought is very strong within them, love to have
some active demonstration of the conclusions at which they have
arrived. Robert Woodhall raised both his hands, and with the index
finger of the right touched first one and then another of the
left-hand, pausing between the second and third, and then going on to
the third and fourth.

"So," he said; "ay, so."

At that moment his eye rested upon his servant Roger, and he
exclaimed, angrily, "What are you lingering for? quit the room."

"I thought you might want me, sir," replied the man; "and you told me
to bring the letter back again, and deliver it to you."

Thus saying, he placed the challenge before his master, and retreated
to the ante-room, where he paused for an instant to consider what he
termed "the finger work."

"That is to say, as plain as it can speak," said Roger to himself,
imitating his master's gesticulations, "finger one, Henry kills Ralph;
finger two, a troublesome rival out of my way, and I revenged by
another man's sword--very good. Finger three, Ralph kills Henry;
finger four, a better man than myself taken out of the world, an
everlasting barrier put between Master Ralph and Mistress Margaret,
Lord Woodhall without an heir, and I Baron Woodhall on his death--very
good, indeed! Clever, Master Robert, clever! I did not think you had
so much wit; but there are other witty people in the world as well as
yourself."




CHAPTER XV.


Within two hours after the events of which I have just spoken, the
family of Lord Woodhall, that is to say, himself, his son, and
daughter, took leave of the Duke of Norfolk, and, followed by a great
mob of servants, mounted on horseback as was the custom in those days,
set out in the family coach on the road to London. Robert Woodhall
remained behind upon some one of the many excuses for any thing that
he liked to do, which he was never without. He waited for a full hour,
however, before he proceeded to take advantage of the absence of his
family, remaining quietly in his own room all the morning, and
cogitating with considerable satisfaction upon the probable result of
the arrangements he had made.

About noon, however, he called his servant Roger, gave him the
challenge, and told him to carry it to Mr. Ralph Woodhall. He did not
choose to take it himself; for Ralph, he knew was somewhat impetuous,
and the pass of a sword between them might soon have given an entirely
new face to the whole state of affairs. He was cautious, too--very
cautious; and in giving the letter into the hands of his servant, he
said, "You need not tell him that I am still here. Let him think that
I have gone with the rest, as he was not about when they departed. If
he asks, you may say I will certainly be back to-night."

"I understand, sir, I understand," replied Roger, and away he went
with the letter.

On knocking at Ralph Woodhall's door--carrying this time the letter
openly in his hand--Roger was once more encountered by Gaunt Stilling,
who received him very graciously, and asked him to come into the
ante-room.

"What have you got there?" asked Stilling, pointing to the letter.

"An epistle for your master," replied Roger, with a certain
significant smile, "which is to be delivered immediately, Master
Stilling."

"Mr. Ralph Woodhall is not here now," replied the other; "he was sent
by the duke to escort Lady Danvers on her way home."

"I know that as well as you do," answered Roger; "I saw him go some
time before our people; but I only obey orders, Master Stilling. Did
you give him the message I left?"

"Certainly," replied Stilling; "and he answered as became him, 'that
if your master had any thing to say to him, he must wait his time and
convenience.'"

"Proud!" said Roger, with a laugh; "proud, but quite right! I must
give you the letter, however, though I suspect it will not reach him
in time for its purpose."

"He will be back before nightfall," replied Gaunt Stilling,
emphatically; "of that you may assure your master. Pray, what is the
purport of the letter, as you seem to know all about it?"

"A challenge--nothing but a challenge," replied Roger, with a jaunty
air.

"Time and place appointed?" asked Stilling, quite quietly; "I suppose
you know that too?"

"Oh yes," replied Roger; "I do not think my master ought to have any
secrets from so faithful a person as myself, and therefore, to the
best of my abilities, I remedy his negligence when he forgets to tell
me any thing. You see the letter is very convenient--folded up in
haste, and the ends quite open. Just take a peep. There you will
see--Place, the fish-pond at the end of the wilderness--Time, ten
o'clock to-night, when the moon is well up--Length of sword,
twenty-eight inches."

"Ralph Woodhall will not stand upon an inch or two," replied Gaunt
Stilling, with a grim smile. "You may tell your master, on my
assurance, that Mr. Ralph will be back before sundown, and will not
fail to be on the spot named at the hour appointed. Is your master
here?"

Roger had the greatest possible inclination, for once in his life, to
tell the truth; but the reader will remark, that the telling of the
truth in this instance would have been nearly equal in value to
telling a lie, as it was a betrayal of his master's confidence, which
might have been as satisfactory to him. However, the fear of something
occurring to expose his disobedience overweighed other considerations,
and he replied, "No, he has gone away, but he will come back with Mr.
Henry to-night."

"Good," said Gaunt Stilling, "good--a pleasant afternoon to you,
Master Roger."

"What?" asked the servant, in some apparent surprise at the
valediction.

"I only said good afternoon to you," answered Gaunt Stilling, coolly.
"I wish to be left alone."

This significant hint was sufficient, and Roger took his departure to
inform his master that Mr. Ralph Woodhall would undoubtedly return
before night, and would be at the place appointed. Robert was well
satisfied, but Gaunt Stilling was not completely so. He walked up
and down the room several times, thinking deeply, and often muttering
to himself, "One push of a sword," he said, "and the account is
settled--God speed the good lad's arm. Oh, if he had but used the
sword as much as I have! Yet he seems to fence well."

He then looked very hard at the letter several times, as if he had a
strong inclination to pry into the contents; but at length he
muttered, "No, no, I remember what he said upon the road. I will not
do a dirty action." Then, after having thought for a minute or two
more, and felt, perhaps, very eager to see the whole, he exclaimed,
"Nay, I will put it on his table. There he will find it when he comes
back."

Let us pass over a few hours; for long details will not suit the
conclusion of a chapter, and we must hurry to the end of the first act
of this strange, eventful history.

It was night, and nearly ten o'clock. There were two persons in Robert
Woodhall's room, and his servant Roger standing on the outside of the
door.

"No, no," said Henry Woodhall, whose face was somewhat pale and
haggard, "I go alone. I insist that you do not come with me, Robert,
nor follow me. Push over the light; I wish to seal this letter."

"For whom is it intended?" asked his cousin, somewhat eagerly.

"For the Duke of Norfolk," replied Henry; and he then added, in a calm
and easy tone, "The issue of such encounters is always uncertain. The
night is darker than I expected; and I may chance to fall. If so, I
wish the duke to know all about this affair. If I live, I can explain
all myself."

"I will take care that it shall be delivered to him in case of such
unlooked-for misfortune," replied Robert, in a tone of very well
simulated apprehension.

"Your pardon, my good cousin," said Henry; "my own servant is below,
and shall have orders to give it to the duke if I do not return.
There, there," he continued, seeing that his cousin was about to
remonstrate, "I will have my way, and have not time to dispute."

He took out his watch and said, "Eight minutes." Then sealing the
letter, he lifted his hat from the table, made sure that his sword
moved easily in its sheath, and, shaking his cousin's hand, without
another word quitted the room.

Robert opened the door and listened, and it were vain to say that his
heart did not beat. As soon as he heard his cousin's step upon the
stairs, he drew his servant into the room, and whispered, with a
ghastly look and eager eye, "Follow him, Roger, follow him at a
distance, to the fish-pond at the end of the wilderness. See what
happens, and bring me information instantly of the result."

The man departed without reply, but there was a curious sort of smile
upon his lip as he walked along the corridor. A quarter of an hour
passed, during which Robert continued to stride slowly up and down his
room, with his hands clasped tight together, his eyes straining upon
the floor as if they would have burst from his head, and his cheek of
an ashy paleness. The spirit of Cain was in his heart. He felt--he
knew, that at that moment he was committing murder. But the fiery
torture of that deed--commencing generally in rage and ending in
remorse, with but one momentary point for act between them--was to him
protracted through all those long, long minutes. At length he heard a
step coming with lightning speed up the stairs, and the next instant
his servant burst into the room. There was no smile upon his face now.
It was ghastly and full of horror: he panted for breath.

"Speak! speak!" cried his master; "what has happened?"

"He is killed, sir," replied the man.

"Who? who?" demanded Robert, aloud, forgetting all caution.

"Mr. Henry, I believe--nay, I am sure," answered Roger; "the night is
dark: there is a thin mist all over the ground by the side of the
river: I could see nothing till I got very near; but I heard the
swords grating. After I came in sight, there were but three passes,
and then Mr. Henry fell and lay quite still. Mr. Ralph is the taller,
is he not?"

"Yes--yes," replied his master; "Henry was my height, Ralph much
taller."

"Then Mr. Henry is gone," replied the man, "for it was the short one
who fell. The business must have got abroad, for a number of the
duke's people were hurrying out--Hark! they are bringing him up
hither."

"Take the body to the room where he slept last night," said the voice
of the chamberlain upon the stairs; "I will go and inform my lord
duke."




CHAPTER XVI.


In the vast, immeasurable depth of thought, there are so many
resources, that one would suppose it were quite unnecessary for any
one to repeat himself or to copy others, let him write as much as he
will; and yet we see continually men of considerable powers of mind
borrowing largely--I might even say systematically--from the works of
ancient or cotemporary writers: not always the identical words,
though sometimes those; not always the identical thought, though
sometimes that; but, more generally, the ideas suggested by the
thoughts of others, and so intimately blended with them as to be
inseparable--judging themselves safe from the accusation of plagiarism
upon the same plea which was put forth by a thief indicted for
stealing a scarf, who proved he had only taken the gold fringe. I know
many men who never compose--and they are men who write much, and
well--without having open around them many works of precisely the same
character as that which they are writing. It is a dangerous habit, and
much to be avoided. Indeed, we pray against it every day when we nay,
"Lead us not into temptation."

As to repeating one's self, it is no very great crime, perhaps, for I
never heard that robbing Peter to pay Paul was punishable under any
law or statute, and the multitude of offenders in this sense, in all
ages, and in all circumstances, if not an excuse, is a palliation,
showing the frailty of human nature, and that we are as frail as
others--but no more. The cause of this self-repetition, probably, is
not a paucity of ideas, not an infertility of fancy, not a want of
imagination or invention, but that, like children sent daily to draw
water from a stream, we get into the habit of dropping our buckets
into that same immeasurable depth of thought exactly at the same
place; and though it be not exactly the same water as that which we
drew up the day before it is very similar in quality and flavor, a
little clearer or a little more turbid, as the case may be.

Now this dissertation--which may be considered as an introduction or
preface to the second division of my history--has been brought about,
has had its rise, origin, source, in an anxious and careful endeavor
to avoid, if possible, introducing into this work the two solitary
horsemen--one upon a white horse--which, by one mode or another, have
found their way into probably one out of three of all the books I have
written; and I need hardly tell the reader that the name of these
books is legion. They are, perhaps, too many; but, though I must die,
some of them will live--I know it, I feel it; and I must continue to
write while this spirit is in this body.

To say truth, I do not know why I should wish to get rid of my two
horsemen, especially the one on the white horse. Wouvermans always had
a white horse in all his pictures; and I do not see why I should not
put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my paper and ink pictures
as well as any painter of them all. I am not sure that other authors
do not do the same thing--that Lytton has not always, or very nearly,
a philosophizing libertine--Dickens, a very charming young girl, with
dear little pockets; and Lever, a bold dragoon. Nevertheless, upon my
life, if I can help it, we will not have in this work the two horsemen
and the white horse, albeit, in after times--when my name is placed
with Homer and Shakspeare, or in any other more likely position--there
may arise serious and acrimonious disputes as to the real authorship
of the book, from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark and
characteristic.

But here, while writing about plagiarism, I have been myself a
plagiary; and it shall not remain without acknowledgment, having
suffered somewhat in that sort myself. Hear, my excellent friend,
Leigh Hunt, soul of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle
brightness! I acknowledge that I stole from you the defensive image of
Wouvermans's white horse, which you incautiously put within my reach,
on one bright night of long, dreamy conversation, when our ideas of
many things, wide as the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing,
or produced but a cool, quiet spark--as the white stones which
children rub together in dark corners emit a soft, phosphorescent
gleam, that serves but to light their little noses.




CHAPTER XVII.


The call was very sudden. Ralph Woodhall was taken quite by surprise.
He had calculated upon finding some opportunity, during the day, of
quiet conversation with his Margaret; and now to be desired by his
friend and patron, the Duke of Norfolk, to escort Lady Danvers upon
her road westward, caused him some trouble and anxiety. He knew not
how to refuse, however; for the duke informed him that intimation had
been received of tumults on the road, and the fair Hortensia herself
was present, looking as beautiful as ever, but pale and considerably
agitated, and apparently alarmed. In such circumstances there was no
showing even any hesitation, and, turning to the lady, he said, "If
you will but wait for me five minutes, Lady Danvers, I will be ready.
I wish to say a few words to my cousin, who must be up by this time,
and--"

"Oh, there will be plenty of time for that after you return, Master
Woodhall," said the duke. "Lord Woodhall announced last night his
intention of remaining till to-morrow or the next day. So sure was I
of your prompt readiness, that I took the liberty of ordering your
horse to be saddled, and he now stands at the door, with five of my
own servants ready to accompany our fair friend's carriage."

This was said with some stateliness, and Ralph evidently saw that
there was something unexplained.

"I will get my hat and gloves, then," he said, "and be ready to escort
Lady Danvers at once."

"I will send for them," replied the duke; and, raising his voice, he
called a servant, saying, "Minton, get Mr. Woodhall's hat and gloves."

Ralph smiled, but made no reply; and as soon as the servant returned
with what he had been sent for, he followed the duke, who, with
ancient courtesy, conducted the lady to her carriage, and kissed her
fair hand as he placed her in it, whispering, at the same time, "You
see I have obeyed your injunctions to the letter; but take care of
your reputation, dear lady."

Hortensia blushed to the eyes, but answered gayly, "Never fear that,
my lord duke; I do right, and defy scandal."

The carriage moved on, and Ralph Woodhall followed it, with the Duke
of Norfolk's servants and those of the fair baroness following him.
Throughout the first five miles of the journey poor Margaret might
have seen him with relief and satisfaction to her own heart.
Thoughtful and abstracted, he kept near the carriage, it is true, but
he never once approached its side. He rode on at the slow, uneasy pace
which was necessary to keep up with, but not pass by the heavy
vehicle; with eyes turned toward the ground and a somewhat contracted
brow. He was not sullen, for his was a frank and cheerful heart; and,
though he was grieved to be deprived of Margaret's society even for a
few hours when he could have enjoyed it without peril to himself or
her, that would never have clouded his bright look, when he sacrificed
his wishes to be of service to another. But there appeared something
strange to him in all that had lately passed--something that roused
suspicions of a vague, unpleasant kind--that showed him he was made an
instrument of for some purpose which was carefully concealed from
himself.

"Could it be at the desire of Lord Woodhall that he was sent away?" he
asked himself. "Could _his_ love for Margaret, or Margaret's love for
him, have been discovered?" Perhaps it might be so; and the intention
of the parties might be to remove him away from the house upon some
fair excuse till she was gone.

The thought was very bitter to him; but yet his mind clung to it; and
the more he reflected, the more probable the supposition seemed. There
were objections, it is true. That the Duke of Norfolk should have
condescended to have mingled himself with such a deceit, was not at
all likely; and he could not imagine for one moment that Lady Danvers
would have knowingly lent herself to it. All the opinions she had
expressed the night before--her whole conduct--her whole manner--her
very look, were opposed to it; and yet the anxiety to hurry him away,
to prevent him from speaking with any of his relations, or even seeing
them before he went, the few whispered words that passed between the
duke and Hortensia, which he had remarked, although he did not hear
them distinctly, all seemed to tend to such a conclusion, and puzzled
him sorely. He revolved the whole in his mind, first turning the
argument one way, and then another--at one time convinced, and at
another doubting. Thus he rode on pondering, as I have said, for some
miles, when suddenly the sound of a horse's feet coming rapidly behind
attracted his ear, and he turned and looked round. The servants of the
Duke of Norfolk were in the way, so that he could not see who
approached; but the moment after, doubt was ended by his own man Gaunt
Stilling riding up.

"What is the matter?" asked Ralph, as the servant drew close to his
side. "Has any thing gone amiss?"

"I heard you had gone away for the morning, sir," replied the man,
respectfully, "and as you had left your riding-sword and taken your
small sword, and had forgotten your cloak, I made bold to ride after
you with them."

Ralph unfastened the dangling, inconvenient weapon he carried, gave it
back to the man, and put on the other sword--more serviceable on
horseback--which he had brought. Then, pausing for a moment, he
suffered him to strap the folded riding-cloak to the back of the
saddle without dismounting, and seeing him linger, asked, "Is there
any thing more?"

Gaunt Stilling approached as close as he could, and spoke several
sentences to his master in a whisper. Ralph turned, and put a question
or two in the same tone, with an expression of some, but not great,
surprise on his face. The man replied, and it was only the dumb-show
which the Duke of Norfolk's servants witnessed. At length the young
gentleman said aloud, "I will certainly be back before nightfall,
unless some very unexpected circumstances occur to render it
impossible, but, at all events, before bedtime."

Gaunt Stilling took off his hat gracefully enough, and rode away,
directing his horse toward Norwich; and, after giving nearly half an
hour more to deep meditation, apparently not of the most pleasant
character, Ralph rode up to the side of the carriage, and commenced
what he would fain have made an easy conversation with its fair
inmate.

While this little event occurred, and these thoughts and
considerations had been passing in his mind, he had himself been the
object of some interest and anxiety to Lady Danvers. She attributed,
indeed, his thoughtful, gloomy mood, and want of ordinary gallantly,
to very different feelings from those which were really in his breast.

"He has received the challenge," she thought, "and is fearful he won't
get back in time;" and then, addressing the maid, who sat opposite,
she said, "Look out, and tell me what he is doing now."

"Just the same as before, my lady," replied the girl, "looking down at
his horse's neck, as if he were counting the hairs in the mane, and
gloomy enough he looks too."

"We must prevent him from escaping, Alice," said her mistress; "but I
know not well how to manage to detain him, till it is too late for him
to go back."

"Trust to chance, my lady," replied the waiting-woman; "it is a rare
book, that chapter of accidents, if one knows how to read it rightly.
But I dare say the duke has told his own people how to manage it. I
saw him speaking with Master Wilton, the head groom, who goes with us.
I should not wonder if the young gentleman's horse cast a shoe, or
went dead lame, or something of that kind."

Lady Danvers smiled, but replied, "I will not trust to that, Alice.
The duke seemed more indifferent about the matter than I expected. He
said that boys would fight, but that to please me he would prevent
this affair. I trust to his word as far as his ability goes, for he is
a man of honor; but I do not think he will be very active in the
business."

"Oh dear," replied the maid, "I should think, for my part, he would be
glad enough to stop two handsome young gentlemen from cutting each
other's throats on his own ground. I do hate the sight of those
swords; and if I were king, I would have them all taken from them, and
locked up against a time of war. But the duke certainly can not like
such things."

Hortensia Danvers shook her head. "Neither you nor I, Alice," she
said, "can understand men's feelings about these things; we have a
great objection to be cut, or wounded, or hurt in any way, and
bloodshed is naturally horrible to us. But no man cares much about
such things in his own case, and, of course, can not be expected to
care more in the case of others."

It was at this moment that Ralph rode up to the side of the carriage,
saying, with an effort, "The roads are bad, notwithstanding the fine
weather; but I fear we shall have rain, for there is much mist lying
on the low ground."

"I do not think that is a sign of rain," replied Lady Danvers; "but I
am no good judge of signs and seasons."

"Would that I were," replied Ralph; "for there are many that I do not
understand."

"I must not pretend to be interpreter," replied Lady Danvers, in a gay
tone; "however, if you wish me to act the Sibyl, propound your
questions, and I will try. You must take the oracle for what it is
worth, and remember that all such answers always read two ways. But
would it not be better for you to give your horse to one of the men,
and take a seat here beside me till we arrive at some point of danger,
when, of course, my knight will mount on horseback and deliver me?"

"With all my heart," replied Ralph; "then I can question the
prophetess at ease."

Thus saying, he ordered the coachman to stop, dismounted, and entered
the carriage.

"You mentioned danger just now," he said, as soon as they were going
forward again. "Now tell me, dear Lady Danvers, do you really think
there is any danger?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Lady Danvers; "both I and the duke thought so,
or you would not have been with me now."

"But have you had any intelligence which should make you fear?" asked
Ralph.

"Distinct and certain," answered the fair lady. "It is true I am
somewhat of a timid nature, and am apt, perhaps, to be frightened
occasionally without cause; but such is not the case with his grace of
Norfolk, and he judged that my apprehensions were very reasonable."

"May I ask where the danger lies, and in what it consists?" inquired
Ralph.

"Nay, I do not know that I can give you a consistent account of the
whole matter," replied Hortensia, with a quiet smile; "but we heard of
much discord and quarreling, and that there was likely to be a fight."

"Indeed!" replied Ralph, with an air so perfectly unconscious that
Lady Danvers began to ask herself if she had been misled by her maid's
information, or if he was acting the hypocrite to perfection.

"Have you had no cause to suppose such things are likely to take
place?" she asked.

"None whatever," he replied; "so little so, indeed, that I almost
fancied, from the extremely pressing hurry in which I was dispatched
upon this pleasant task, that the duke did not only desire to confer
upon me the honor and happiness of escorting you, but also to get me
out of the way for a time."

Hortensia raised her beautiful eyes to his face, and fixed them there
while she inquired, "Do you know of any motive he could have for such
a proceeding?"

"I can fix upon none in particular, and have been puzzling myself to
divine one," replied Ralph; but, at the same time, he colored highly,
and Hortensia was satisfied.

A silence of some minutes ensued; and then the lady, with all her
quiet gayety, resumed the conversation: "I do think--to use a
housemaid's mode of asseveration," she said, "that you are the most
ungallant young man that I ever met with--I don't say discourteous,
for your manner is fair enough, Master Ralph Woodhall; but I do not
believe that there is one man to be found in court, camp, or city, who
would have gone about to discover any cause for his being sent on a
journey with me, or who would not, if forced to take it, have sworn
most devoutly on the Holy Evangelists that it was the most blessed
chance that ever befell him--whether he thought it so or not, Ralph
Woodhall--you understand, whether he thought it so or not."

Ralph felt that he had in some degree failed in politeness, and he
replied, "No one, dear lady, would have told you so more readily, and
no one would have felt it more sincerely than myself, upon any other
day than this; but I had to-day something important to do, which
rendered what would otherwise have been a true pleasure, the cause of
some slight embarrassment; but you see I am too straightforward to be
courtly, even when I do my best."

"I like you all the better," replied Lady Danvers, frankly; "but now
let us talk of something else. I dare say and hope that you will get
back in plenty of time to do all that you want to do, if it be right
and proper: if it be not, I hope you won't; for I am certainly not
going to give you up, and send you back again sooner than I please,
because you are cross at being taken away from Norwich. Be therefore
exceedingly civil and amusing during the whole of the rest of the
journey, in the hope that your chains may thereby be broken all the
speedier."

Ralph thought that her philosophy was a good one, and exerted himself
to cast off the feeling of disappointment, and to make himself as
agreeable as possible for the rest of the way. He succeeded very well,
although, to speak the truth, he did so greatly by the assistance of
Hortensia who put forth all her powers to amuse the hour. Thus passed
the time upon the long and weary way which lies between Norwich and
the western part of the county. It is not very picturesque even now,
displaying but little beauty and little variety, except the beauty of
exceedingly well cultivated fields, and the variety of oxen and sheep,
sportsmen and dogs. But culture could then hardly be said to have
begun; and it was not a sporting season of the year. There was no
inducement, therefore, for the lady and her companion to turn their
eyes from the interior of the carriage; and, to say sooth, if Ralph
desired a lovely prospect, he could not have had one more beautiful
than the face and form of her who sat beside him. He could not but
feel, too, the fascination of her look and manner; and her
conversation, gay, light, and playful as it was, had frequently
running through it, like dark veins in the clear white marble, a
strain of melancholy which rendered it still more charming. It was
like a light, blithesome bird, that dips its wings for an instant in a
cool stream, only to rise again refreshed and brightened.

Slowly as the coach proceeded--and it was one of those large,
lumbering, gilded vehicles which we can not imagine to have traveled
at the rate of more than four miles an hour--five hours had been
consumed ere the party reached the little town of ----.

Ralph was glad to see it, for he thought he should be there dismissed;
and yet there were feelings of regret at parting with that fair and
charming girl--feelings which, could Margaret have seen them really as
they were, would have given her neither pain nor offense. It was now
between two and three o'clock, and there was a good deal of gayety and
bustle in the town, the streets crowded, wagons and market-carts
obstructing the way, and countrymen riding rough-looking horses, with
their tails tied up to keep them out of the mud. With some difficulty
the carriage moved along the road; and Ralph remounted his horse in
order to give directions for clearing the way. They reached at length
the inn door, where the horses were to be fed and to rest for an hour
or two. Ralph handed Lady Danvers from the carriage, and was leading
her through a little crowd which had gathered before the inn, when he
remarked that, although the appearance of such a vehicle in a remote
place might well attract attention, the eyes of the mob were
principally turned in another direction, as if watching for some
object coming down the street.

"Dear me! my lady, there is something going on," said Mistress Alice,
the waiting-maid; "what can it be about?"

Hortensia made no reply, but, quitting Ralph's arm upon the step,
walked hastily into the house, and then whispered to the maid, "Send
the duke's head groom to me at once."

The landlord was, in the mean time, bowing low; and his good dame,
with abundant keys, and more than one pin-cushion by her side, was
courtesying to the ground, ready to show the beautiful lady to her
chamber.

"What is the matter without?" asked Lady Danvers; "the people seem a
good deal excited."

"Oh, it is nothing at all," replied the landlady, "only a
Nonconformist gentleman who has been examined by the magistrates. They
are taking him away to the jail, and the people do not like it. I
should not wonder if there were to be a riot to-night; for the Whigs
have the upper hand in this town, and they don't bear patiently all
that is going on."

Hortensia turned and looked through the doorway into the street. She
saw Ralph standing on the steps, and a crowd passing hurriedly on
before him. The next instant, however, she beheld him spring forward,
and heard him exclaim. "Why do you strike the man, sir? You are
exceeding your duty. He can not go faster than he does."

What was answered she did not hear; and the steps of the inn were
almost instantly covered with a multitude of people, who shut out from
her sight what was passing beyond.

"Come up, my lady--come up stairs," cried the landlord; "they will
make bad work of it."

Hortensia followed up the stairs as fast as the landlord could go;
and, shown into a large and handsome room which faced the street, she
ran forward, threw open the window, and looked out. The sign-board of
the inn was in the way, so that she could not see the exact spot where
Ralph stood; but she heard angry words and fierce tones going on
below, and a moment after, stones began to fly and cudgels to wave.
But the next instant the sound of Ralph's voice rose up over the din,
exclaiming, clear and loud, "Keep the peace--keep the peace! Suffer
the constables to do their duty according to law; and you, sirs, take
care that you do not exceed the law, as you have done already by
striking this gentleman when he was making no resistance."

Though he spoke loud, his tone was so quiet, and his words so
reasonable, that Lady Danvers entertained no apprehension regarding
his conduct or his safety, and, taking one glance over the crowd to a
spot where she saw her maid standing on the opposite side of the road,
afraid to make her way back to the inn, the lady withdrew into the
room to avoid the stones which were flying thicker than was pleasant.

The loud and angry speaking continued for several minutes, and once a
stone came into the room where Hortensia was sitting; but no one came
near her, for the excitement of the scene without had affected even
the people of the inn, and it is probable that neither her own
servants nor those of the Duke of Norfolk could force their way up to
the door. At length, however, a nimble step was heard upon the stairs,
and the head groom, whom she had sent for, appeared with an eager and
excited countenance. He doffed his hat as he entered the room, saying
at once, "They have taken him away before the magistrates, my lady;
but Mistress Alice said you wanted me."

"Who? who?" demanded Lady Danvers; "of whom do you speak?"

"Mr. Ralph, my lady," replied the man. "We would have rescued him with
the strong hand, and beaten the constables all to mortar; but he would
not let us, and ordered us all to keep the peace. But I had better run
up at once with the rest, to see that he is fairly dealt by."

"Ay, do so, do so," cried Hortensia, at first, eagerly; but then
immediately she fell into a fit of thought, and as the man was
quitting the room, called him back, saying, "Stay, Wilton--Wilton! we
may turn this to advantage, perhaps."

The man seemed surprised and confounded, but the lady beckoned him to
come nearer, saying, "I have no time for explanations, Master Wilton,
but you must do what you can, without endangering Mr. Woodhall's
safety or character, to turn this matter so as to keep him here till
to-morrow morning. In a word, the Duke of Norfolk sent him here with
me to keep him out of the way. There was some quarrel going on between
him and another gentleman in the house, and his grace wished for time
to arrange it before he returned."

"I understand, my lady, I understand," replied the man, with a shrewd
nod of the head. "His grace gave me a little hint, but I did not think
of turning this to profit. I'll manage it--I'll manage it;" and away
he went at full speed, saying to himself, "My lady does not mind
having a handsome young man to sit with her all the evening, I'll
warrant, though they do say she has refused scores of great people
already. Well, there is no knowing womankind."

He overtook Ralph walking quietly up the street between two
constables, who, from an intimation of his strength which they had
received, kept at a respectful distance from him. A number of men and
boys were following close, with an unnecessary trot; and all the
servants of the Duke of Norfolk who had come into the town with the
carriage, as well as one or two of Lady Danvers's people, and several
women and children, were following at a little distance behind. Wilton
made his way through all these, and kept close to Ralph's elbow till
the party reached the justice room (which was, in fact, the parlor of
an alehouse), and the prisoner was ushered into the presence of the
justices, who, booted and spurred, and with their horse-whips in their
hands, were just ready to leave the place and ride away. There were
three of them present, and two of them looked exceedingly rueful at
the prospect of more business. The third, however, rapping out a great
oath, cast himself back into his seat again, and laid his horse-whip
on the table. "Why, what the devil--" he said; "you look like a
gentleman, sir. Curse my buttons, what have they brought you here
for?"

"They can best tell you themselves, sir," answered Ralph.

"Don't you go to church? Don't you take the sacrament? Are you a
Nonconformist?"

"I go to church and take the sacrament as regularly as most men,"
replied Ralph; "and Nonconformist I am none, having been brought up in
the Church of England from my infancy."

"Pox take you, then," exclaimed the choleric fat justice, addressing
the constables, "what did you bring this gentleman here for?"

The charge was then formally made by the two constables, imputing to
Ralph the serious offenses of riot and an attempt to rescue their
prisoner.

Ralph, in reply, simply told his own story. The constables, he said,
had treated an old and respectable-looking man with unjustifiable
harshness, irritated apparently by the great crowd which had
collected. One of them had even struck him with his staff, upon the
pretense of making him go on, although he was offering no resistance.

"That was Doggett, I'll be sworn," said the magistrate, looking round
at his two brethren; "I told you all Doggett would get us into a
scrape some day."

Doggett, however, was not present, having gone to lodge his prisoner
in jail for re-examination; and the magistrate continued, turning to
Ralph Woodhall, and saying, "Well, sir, but who are you? What's your
station, rank, profession? What do you know of this prisoner who you
say was maltreated?"

"I know nothing of him whatever," replied Ralph, "except that he was
maltreated, and that I told the man who struck him he exceeded his
duty. As to my name, rank, station, et cetera, my name is Ralph
Woodhall, a distant relation of a nobleman of that name, without any
rank but that of a Master of Arts, without any condition which can
particularly designate me but that of being at present a guest of the
Duke of Norfolk, and having undertaken, at his request, to escort Lady
Danvers on a part of her way to the West."

The magistrates all looked very blank, for the Duke of Norfolk was the
great man in those parts; and great men, whether good men or not,
obtained much more deference in those days than at present. The
business would have probably ended in a dismissal of the charge and a
rebuke to the constables; but Master Wilton, who was a shrewd
Yorkshireman, from which county the principal grooms in great families
were then generally selected, chose his moment well, and, stepping
forward, said, "What Master Woodhall says your worships, is quite
true, and I can prove it, if I had time to bring forward my witnesses.
I am head groom to his grace of Norfolk, who is the dearest friend of
this young gentleman. If your worships like to put off the case until
I can get the people together who saw it all, I will be 'sponsible
that Mr. Ralph will be here at any time you like to-morrow."

The magistrates looked wise; but Ralph exclaimed, with a somewhat
sharp gesticulation of impatience, "I would a great deal rather have
the case decided at once. I have business which calls me back to
Norwich."

"This is a very serious charge, sir," said one of the magistrates who
had not yet spoken--an ill-tempered man, rendered cross by having been
detained; "recollect, sir, that if we decide against you on a charge
of riot and attempt to rescue, we shall have to commit you to prison
for trial."

"I have plenty of witnesses, too, if they talk of witnesses," said one
of the constables. "I can prove that there was a riot, and that he had
a hand in it. I suppose his being a friend of the Duke of Norfolk is
no great matter here."

This part of the discussion was the most unpleasant part to Ralph
Woodhall. The prospect of being committed to prison if he urged the
case forward at that moment was, of course, more unpleasant to him
than that of being detained for the whole day; but, nevertheless, he
urged, in a few words, that the witnesses might be speedily collected,
as they could not be far off, and that the duke expected his return
that night.

"That is of no consequence to us, sir," said the chairman of the
magistrates, with solemn dignity; "and we can not wait here all the
evening collecting witnesses. We must adjourn the hearing till
to-morrow morning, and, in the mean time, should be sorry to do any
thing harsh, if we could be quite certain that you will be here
present at the hour appointed."

"I'll pawn my body and soul, your worship," said Wilton, "that he does
not stir out of the town to-night, and if he do, you can come and take
me out of the duke's stables, and lose me my wages and my place."

"Will you give your word of honor, sir," asked the magistrate,
addressing Ralph, "that you will appear at the hour appointed?"

There seemed no help for it, and Ralph replied, "I will, if the hour
be an early one."

"Nine o'clock," replied the magistrate, with a laugh; "we are all
early men. I hold you to your word, then; and you too, Master
What's-your-name. Clerk, make out the bail-bond for him; we won't be
too particular as to the property."

Once more, there was no help for it; and it is good policy in life, as
Ralph well knew, to submit patiently to that for which there is no
help. The clerk, however, was tediously slow--people always are slow
when we want them to be quick, and by the time the whole business was
concluded, and the young gentleman had once more issued forth into the
air, the clock in the old steeple was striking five.

A little crowd had gathered about the doors of the justice room, and
they greeted Ralph when he appeared at liberty with a warm-hearted
cheer. He got clear of the people as soon as he could, however, and,
followed by the servants of the Duke of Norfolk and Lady Danvers, made
his way back to the inn. A day from which he had expected some of
those golden moments which are the treasures of the heart, had nearly
passed by without affording him one look of her he loved.




CHAPTER XVIII.


How often, as society is constituted, does the passing of one single
hour affect the whole of the hours that gather into life. A moment is
sometimes enough; but it is more frequently an hour--two hours--an
evening.

I wonder if it was so with the patriarchs. I rather think not; for if
so, they would not have lived so long. If Methuselah had gone on at
the rail-road pace at which we live in modern days--if he had crowded
into each day of life the same amount of thought, sensation, act,
event, which now fills up the space of every four-and-twenty hours,
between seventeen and seventy, the whole history of the world, in its
hundred thousand folio tomes, would have been a joke to the annals of
his existence. But we make a great mistake if we think those old
gentlemen, in any thing, lived as fast as we do; and this, I feel
sure, was the secret of their longevity.

Oh no, they moved from place to place, with their flocks and herds,
traveling _not_ much more than five or six miles a day. They struck
their tents in the morning; they pitched them in the evening; they
milked their cows, tended their "much cattle," and the day was done.
Sometimes they did not even strike their tents at all, but remained
upon one spot, till, like the locusts, they had eaten up every green
thing. An occasional combat with a lion or a bear--a fight with a
neighboring herdsman, or the procuration of venison "to make savory
meat," was an event agreeably diversifying the monotony of existence;
and I have a strong notion that thought and feeling marched at as slow
a rate as all the rest.

Thus was it, probably, that their thoughts were so grand, their
feelings so powerful. In mighty masses, they moved slow; but whatever
they touched they overwhelmed.

We, on the contrary, can never go too fast; forgetting that there is
but a certain portion of life allotted to every man, and that life is
not mere time, measured by suns or moons, but a certain amount of
action, event, idea, sensation. We crowd more into seven days than a
patriarch put into seven years; and then we wonder that life is so
brief, that so little time has been allowed us.

There was an evening--a long evening--before Ralph Woodhall and
Hortensia Danvers. What might they not have done in that space of
time? How completely, under many circumstances, might it have altered
the whole course of the fate of both; and it did affect their fate
considerably: perhaps not in event, perhaps not in that course and
conduct of external life which is open to the eye of the world, which
consists of act, and influences others, but much in that internal
life, where thought and feeling are the actors, where spirit speaks to
spirit, and their proceedings are only open to the eye of
consciousness.

But let me tell, and as briefly as possible, for I must hurry on to
other things, what did actually take place.

When Ralph returned to the inn, he was led at once by the landlord,
with every demonstration of the most profound respect, to the
apartments which had been assigned to Lady Danvers. He found one of
the servants of the Duke of Norfolk with her, one of her own men, and
her own waiting-woman; and he saw, at a glance, by the sparkling look
with which she gave him her hand, that she had heard all, and had
approved what he had done. He was somewhat surprised to see, indeed,
the state and condition of the room into which he was shown. It had
been understood that Lady Danvers was to go on that night, as soon as
her horses had been refreshed; but now, every thing seemed prepared
for her longer stay.

Hortensia had an art of giving any place of her temporary abode an air
of graceful refinement which was very charming, and it was done with a
rapidity and precision which could only be accomplished by the aid of
the fairy or order. The room was a large, old-fashioned, dingy room,
well-furnished enough, and reserved for persons of high degree who
might chance occasionally to visit the house; but since Hortensia
Danvers entered it, the furniture had been rearranged, a number of
little articles of taste and ornament had been taken by the maid from
her baggage, and laid about upon the tables with apparently a careless
care. Here was seen the book of Common Prayer, in its cover of crimson
velvet, with silver clasps; there a beautifully finished miniature in
a golden frame. In other places were seen materials for writing,
arranged in quaintly-formed stands of the workmanship of the fifteenth
century, while all the flowers that could be procured in the
neighborhood decorated different parts of the room. The maid was still
busy with these arrangements, under her lady's direction, when Ralph
entered, and gazed round with a look of wonder.

His fair young companion seemed to enjoy his surprise, and asked, in a
cheerful tone, if she had not decorated the room gayly.

"You have, indeed, sweet lady," he answered; "but is not all this
labor thrown away? I thought you were going forward this evening."

"So thought I," replied Lady Danvers, "till you chose to get yourself
apprehended by constables, Master Woodhall. Then, as you had
courteously come so far to take care of me, I found myself bound in
courtesy to stay to take care of you. You would not have had me go on
and leave you in the hands of the Philistines, surely? I have just
heard how it has all ended for the time; but, over and above a wish to
know how the matter goes with you to-morrow, it is too late now, at
half past five, to think of moving my quarters for the night. I
therefore invite you to sup with me here, and to spend such portion of
your time with me, in this dull solitude, as you can withdraw from
more weighty occupations."

She spoke in a gay and jesting tone; and seeing a certain look of
uneasiness upon Ralph's countenance, which she justly attributed to
the thought of being detained--though she misunderstood entirely the
circumstances which rendered the detention painful--she added,
"Moreover, I lay my commands upon you to clear your countenance
instantly, to submit with a good grace to the will of Fate, to cast
off all thought of repining at being cooped up for a whole evening
with Hortensia Danvers, and, if possible, to make yourself exceedingly
agreeable, and more civil than ordinary. Alice, you stay here," she
continued, addressing the waiting-maid, who seemed about to quit the
room; and then, with a laughing look to Ralph, she added, "It is as
well that she should have the benefit of our learned conversation,
both for her own instruction and the instruction of others."

Ralph could not help smiling; and, seating himself beside her in one
of the window seats, he made up his mind to do as she bade him, to
think no more of what could not be avoided, and to let the present
pass as agreeably as might be.

There was no very romantic scene before them: a wide old street, with
the quaint gables of the houses turned to the highway; edifices of
wood, with galleries and sometimes stair-cases running over the
outside; edifices of stone and brick--for the country afforded
both--with flights of steps descending from the path to the reception
rooms. There was the market cross in the middle of the highway, where
the latter grew wide, about twenty yards above the inn door, enlarging
into a sort of market square, and the church tower a hundred yards
beyond, with a group of boys playing at marbles before the gate by
which the dead were borne into the cemetery, and wrangling over their
game as fiercely as if they had tasted human blood. Some knots of
people still lingered in the streets, gossiping sagely over the events
which had just passed, and presaging more sagely still the events
which were to come; and numerous carts and wagons, with their loads
still packed, or ready for removal, occupied a considerable portion of
the street. It was like a dream of the age fading away and ready to
give place to a period fresher, stiffer, more practical.

Yet over the whole there hung a light, misty haze of sunshine and
vapor commingled, not uncommon on an English afternoon, and not unlike
the dim, magnifying fog which shrouds from the eager eye the
transition from the present to the future.

"How richly the sunshine streams down the street upon that old carved
cross and the straw-strewn market-place!" said Ralph.

"All the more bright because we see not whence it comes," replied
Hortensia; "and the warmer--to the eye, at least--for passing through
an atmosphere grosser than that from which it issues. What is it most
like, Ralph--like woman's love, or Heaven's bounty, or the rays of
Hope, that stream between the close dwellings of man's earthly
aspirations, gilding the straws upon his onward way, and making the
stones on his path shine like jewels?"

"Like woman's love, methinks," said Ralph, "because, as you say, it
pours from sources we do not see, brightens the dimmer air that it
pervades, and often lends a luster to worthless objects, which shine
in its light alone."

"True," said the lady, with a sigh; "but see, it catches on the cross
upon the steeple-top, and makes it shine as if with fire."

"It will rest there longest," replied her companion; "shining after
all is dark below."

"Even so," said the lady, retiring from the window; "I love the shaded
light of a quiet room better than the wide, garish sunshine abroad.
Come, let us talk of other days, when you and I were boy and girl, and
knew not of each other's being, and chased butterflies, and sought to
catch the rainbow, and did all that the common bond of nature uses to
link withal the human hearts through the wide world in one community
of universal sympathy in early years. Tell me, Ralph Woodhall, why is
it that all mankind, thus one in happy youth, should part so widely in
maturer years--part in feeling and in thought, in conduct and in
course, in object and in means?"

"Because," replied Ralph, "at least so I suppose, infancy is one
general starting-point from which all the roads diverge, leading
further and further asunder."

"Till all guide us to the great precipice which surrounds our arena on
every side," said the lady, "and we take the leap from points wide
apart. But we are getting dull, Mr. Woodhall. Do you remember your
mother?"

"But faintly," replied Ralph, "yet brightly too, though it may seem a
contradiction. The long look back through life is to me like the
prospect down that street, where there are many long, shadowy spaces
in which I can see nothing clearly, while every here and there comes a
bright gleam of light, displaying every thing as vividly as in
mid-day."

"Memory! memory!" said the lady; "it is ever like the setting sun."

"Sometimes," continued Ralph, "the objects furthest off seem to catch
the light of that sun of memory most brightly; and where a dark lapse
of shadow intervenes, the objects beyond are the most brilliant. One
of my earliest recollections is of having been taken into a large
room, dimly lighted by a shaded lamp, and seeing a pale, beautiful
face pillowed on my father's arm. I remember being lifted up by a
nurse upon the side of the bed, and my father's raising gently that
fair, faded form, while my mother cast her arms around me, and I heard
her say, 'God bless and keep thee, my child;' and then some tears fell
upon my face, and I was carried away. All around that scene is dark
and obscure; but it is as clear to memory as the events of yesterday."

"It may be that such is the happiest parting," said Lady Danvers,
shading her eyes with her hand. "It is very sad to watch the
decreasing strength, to gaze anxiously upon the waning color, to
listen terrified to the panting breath, to see the eyes we love lose
their light, and to mark the dull, awful change steal over the face
once warm and eager with affection. Yet who can tell? Each one has his
sorrow; Nature's lamp is only lighted to go out, and leave the heart
it cheered in darkness. What matters it if it be suddenly extinguished
by some harsh wind, or slowly flicker out for failing oil? Come, let
us be more cheerful; let us talk of the gay, great world, or of
country scenes and happy life at home. Surely we may find some more
cheering themes than death or sunset."

"Both have a morrow," replied Ralph; and then he tried, with some
success, to vary the conversation with lighter topics; but still the
somber tone which it had at first assumed spread through it all a
quiet, gentle melancholy, which was not without its danger to one
heart there. Ralph had but little knowledge of the world--none of
courts or courtly scenes. By nature he was a gentleman--by habit, by
thought, by feeling. His collegiate life had not been long enough to
stiffen or to harden, and his studies had been directed to all those
things which embellish as well as enrich the mind. Thus his
conversation was new--almost strange to Hortensia's ears--unlike aught
she had heard before, yet full of sympathies with much in her own
heart and mind; and for several hours the time passed sweetly, till
toward half past eight Ralph rose to retire.

"Surely," she thought, "all danger of an angry meeting must have gone
by for to-day;" and, perhaps, with too strong a consciousness that she
would willingly have detained him longer, she let him go.

Shortly after, an undefinable feeling of dread took possession of her.
"There is no knowing," she thought, "what men in their intemperate
courage may do to satisfy themselves upon their point of honor.
Alice!" she cried aloud, "go and see for Mr. Ralph Woodhall; tell him
I want him--that I had forgotten something which I wished to say."

"Lord! my lady, I dare say he is gone to bed," replied the girl.

"Ascertain, at all events," said Lady Danvers; "ask one of the duke's
servants."

The waiting-woman left the room, and remained away for some five
minutes. When she returned, she said, with a laugh, unconscious of her
mistress's anxiety, "The young gentleman has gone forth, my lady--to
amuse himself in the town, I'll warrant. But Master Wilton says he
will give him your ladyship's message as soon as he returns."

Lady Danvers sat up for more than one hour, but Ralph did not make his
appearance; and with a heavy heart she at length retired to rest.




CHAPTER XIX.


"It is hopeless," said the Duke of Norfolk, sadly, as he stood by the
side of the bed on which they had laid the body of Henry Woodhall, and
let the cold hand, which he had taken in his own, sink slowly down by
the dead man's side.

"Quite hopeless, I fear, your grace," replied a surgeon, who stood on
the other side. "The sword, I suspect, has passed right through his
heart."

"Did not some one say that Mr. Robert Woodhall is still in the house?"
inquired the duke; "why is he not here? Has any one told him?"

"He knows it, your grace," answered one of his servants, who had aided
to bear in the body; "his own servant went up to inform him; I saw him
pass that way in haste."

"Has any one seen Mr. Ralph Woodhall?" inquired the duke; but no one
replied; and he sent up to Ralph's room to ascertain if he had
returned.

In a moment or two the messenger appeared again, saying, "He is not
there, your grace. His servant says that he went away this morning
with Lady Danvers, and he has not yet returned."

The duke mused thoughtfully, and then made inquiries as to whether the
wilderness and the grounds adjacent had been searched, observing, at
the same time, "This poor youth has evidently fallen in a duel, for
when he went away this morning he concealed his intention of coming
back. Nevertheless, it is right we should know his opponent, that we
may ascertain if the circumstances of the combat were all fair."

"The poor young gentleman's servant is below, your grace," said the
chamberlain, "but I would not let him come up till I had your
commands."

"Bring him here--bring him hither at once," said the duke; "perhaps he
can throw some light on this sad affair."

The man was immediately brought into the room, a tall, stout,
fresh-colored, good-looking fellow; but he turned ashy pale when his
eye fell upon the breathless form of his master; and, without noticing
any one in the room, he advanced to the bedside, while the tears rose
thick in his eyes, exclaiming, "Alas! alas! poor Master Henry! a
better gentleman did not live. Little did I think, when you told me to
give the letter early to-morrow, what you were going to do to-night,
or I would have stopped it one way or another. But your father will
have vengeance upon him who killed you, if it cost him his heart's
blood, or I don't know him."

"Of what letter do you speak, my good friend?" asked the duke; "is it
one from this poor young gentleman to his father?"

"No, your grace," replied the man, drawing forth a letter from his
pocket, but apparently hesitating as to whether he should deliver it,
"I am to give it to your grace to-morrow."

"Give it to me," said the duke, in a tone of authority; "no time like
the present;" and, taking the letter, he opened it at once. The
contents were as follows:


"MY LORD DUKE,

"A quarrel having taken place between myself and my cousin, Mr. Ralph
Woodhall, which we are to void to-night, in the manner which befits
gentlemen of our station, and as the issue of such encounters is
always uncertain, I write you these few lines, to be delivered in case
matters should go unfavorably with myself. Although I think he has
behaved ill in some affairs of domestic concern, and has certainly
caused great pain and uneasiness in my family, for which I have
demanded satisfaction this night, I hold Ralph to be a man of honor;
and I beg to inform you that the challenge was given by myself, in
such terms that he could not refuse to accept it; that I appointed the
meeting to take place by moonlight, in order to avoid the eyes which I
had reason to believe were upon us; and that it was at my express
desire that no witnesses or seconds were present. I say this, lest,
from the above circumstances, some undeserved imputation should fall
upon the character of my cousin. From my knowledge of him, during many
years, you may rest assured, whatever is the result, that all has
passed honorably and fairly between us; and, so long as I have life, I
beg you, my lord duke, to believe me, your grace's most faithful and
obedient servant,             HENRY WOODHALL."


The duke mused much over this letter, and hesitated, in some degree,
how he should act. He doubted not, from the warm and impetuous temper
of Lord Woodhall, that the servant's words would prove prophetic, and
that the old nobleman would suffer nothing to stand in the way of his
vengeance.

"I must have time for thought," he said to himself. "This youth,
Ralph, has given his fair guardian the slip, it seems. Well, I can not
blame him; I should most likely have done the same myself in his
circumstances. He should have stayed, however, to confront what he has
done--and yet, perhaps not. It is better as it is. His presence would
have been very embarrassing."

As he thus thought, with his eyes fixed upon the door, Robert Woodhall
suddenly entered the room, and the duke, though not a very acute man,
could not help remarking that a sudden change came upon the young
man's countenance even as he passed the threshold. The expression of
his face, at the moment he pushed the door open, was any thing but one
of dissatisfaction; there was even a faint smile upon his lip,
although his face was pale enough. But a look of deep sadness was
assumed in a moment; and, advancing to his noble host, he first
apologized, in good set form, for not having come sooner, alleging
that he had been partly undressed when the news arrived, which, the
reader knows, was false.

The duke replied by pointing to the corpse, and saying, somewhat
stiffly, "This is a sad sight, sir; I hope you have had no share in
urging this quarrel forward, and think it might have been better if
you had taken means to prevent its fatal termination. By good advice,
such matters are sometimes obviated."

"Ah! poor Henry!" cried Robert, with a look at the dead body, and a
shudder, which was natural enough; "I do assure your grace that I had
nothing to do with this squabble at all. Henry wrote the challenge
with his own hand; I did not even bear it to my cousin Ralph; and
surely a man of honor like yourself would not have me betray a secret
intrusted in full confidence to my keeping."

"And yet," said the duke, sternly, "at the very moment when your two
near relations were about to shed each other's blood, you were
undressing to go to bed!"

Robert colored whether he would or not; but he excused himself by
another lie.

"I did not know the precise hour, my lord duke," he answered; "Henry
only gave me half his confidence. He would not even leave a letter,
which he wrote to your grace, to my care. He acted in every thing for
himself."

"Perhaps he did right," replied the duke, somewhat bitterly, for there
was that in the young man's conduct and demeanor which did not please
him--nay, which excited suspicions, just in themselves, though not
very definite.

"I think it will be better, Mr. Woodhall." he continued, "for you to
mount on horseback, as early as may be to-morrow morning, and break
the tidings of this unfortunate affair to poor Lord Woodhall."

"I will go at once, my lord duke," replied Robert.

"That is needless," replied the duke, in a grave, melancholy tone;
"you would but break in upon his rest. Do not rob an aged man of one
night of calm repose that he can enjoy; do not add more hours of
bitterness to the many bitter hours he must endure. I will write to
him myself, by your hands, and you shall have the letter by the gray
of the dawn to-morrow. That will be time enough."

"But will your grace take no means to cause the apprehension of the
murderer?" demanded Robert Woodhall, with a look of well-assumed
surprise.

"Murderer!" said the duke; "do you mean your cousin, sir?"

"He was my cousin, sir," replied Robert, a good deal nettled by the
duke's tone, "but I shall regard him as my cousin no longer; and a man
who drives another by his bad conduct to call him to the field, and
then slays him, I can only look upon as a murderer, be he my cousin or
not."

"That dead hand there," said the duke, pointing to the corpse, "wrote,
while yet in life, a full exculpation of his adversary's conduct in
the affair of the duel, at least. Ralph Woodhall was only acting, it
would seem, as any man of honor would have acted, and those who best
deserve the name of murderers are they who urge on petty quarrels to a
fatal result."

"Your grace's opinion seems harsh of me," said Robert Woodhall, with
feelings of rage he could hardly repress.

"I have not forgotten," replied the Duke of Norfolk, "that the first
quarrel last night was between yourself and your cousin Ralph. What
may have been your conduct since I do not pretend to say; but certain
I am, that until Henry Woodhall quitted the supper-table, he and his
cousin were upon the most friendly terms, and I am not aware that they
met afterward until this last fatal occasion."

Thus saying, he turned and left the room, giving some necessary
directions to his servants as he descended the stairs.

Robert Woodhall remained standing at the foot of the bed, with his
eyes gloomily fixed upon the floor. Several of the attendants still
continued in the room; but they all drew back from the young gentleman
with a feeling of dislike and suspicion, for which they might have
found it difficult to assign a cause, though undoubtedly the duke's
words gave direction to their thoughts. There are instincts, however,
in the human breast; and those instincts, probably, had some share in
the feelings of the men who surrounded Robert Woodhall.

He remained there, I have said, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the
floor--not upon the corpse; but he was roused from his revery by the
voice of the surgeon, who still stood by the bedside, and who said,
"Mr. Woodhall, will you come here for a moment?"

Robert approached him slowly, and then the old man said, in a peculiar
tone, "Will you put your hand upon the breast of your poor cousin?"

"No," cried Robert Woodhall, almost fiercely; and, turning sharply on
his heel, he quitted the room.

About two hours after the events I have just related, the Duke of
Norfolk was seated in his own fine library, with lights and papers
before him, but quite alone. The door opened, and his chamberlain
appeared, saying, "Here is the young man, your grace; he had not gone
to bed."

The chamberlain had been followed into the room by Gaunt Stilling,
whose large, massive brow was very heavy, as if with deep grief. The
duke waved his hand to the chamberlain, and that officer withdrew to
the other side of the door, keeping watch there, but not approaching
too close.

"Your master has not returned yet, I hear," said the duke, fixing his
eyes upon Stilling's face.

"He has not, my lord duke," replied the other, gravely.

"This is a serious affair," said the duke; "and I fear that the
consequences may be very serious to your master. Lord Woodhall is a
man of much influence at court, and of a warm and vehement temper.
This young gentleman who has been killed was the general favorite."

"And well he deserved to be so!" cried Gaunt Stilling, warmly; "he was
not perfect--no man is; but, as people of his rank go, there were few
like him. Had it been his cousin Robert, who would have cared? but
Fate seems to make mistakes sometimes, as well as others. The good are
taken and the bad are left."

The duke listened quietly to this outburst of feeling, and then
inquired if the man thought he could tell where his master was to be
found.

"I think I can find him, your grace," replied Gaunt Stilling; "but I
will not say where, if any evil is to come of it."

"I do not wish to know where," answered the Duke of Norfolk. "If you
can find him, well. Bear him this letter from me; and it will be as
well to take with you as much of his baggage as you can, for I think
it will be inexpedient for him to return hither for some time, till
this storm has blown by. I will find means to befriend him during his
absence."

"What am I to do with the rest of the baggage, my lord duke?" asked
Gaunt Stilling; "there is a good deal more than a horse-load."

"There is a carrier crossing the country, I think, to-morrow," the
duke replied; "the chamberlain will give you surer information. You
can send the superfluous baggage by him to any place you like,
northward or westward--perhaps it would be better to send it to his
father's house; but my people will see it expedited, if you will give
it into their charge."

Gaunt Stilling bowed, took the packet which the duke held in his hand,
and which deserved that epithet rather than the name of letter, and
withdrew in silence. But he did not set out immediately. An hour was
spent in packing up the baggage of his master, and another hour in
writing a long letter, which, when finished and sealed, he placed in
another half sheet of paper, on the inner side of which he wrote a few
lines to his father, and put old Stilling's address, at Coldenham,
upon the whole. This, together with the larger trunk-mails, he
delivered to the duke's night porter, to be forwarded by the
chamberlain on the following day; and then, after making some
inquiries as to the shortest roads, he placed the two pair of
saddle-bags upon his horse, and set out in the same direction which
had been taken by his master and Lady Danvers on the preceding
morning.

It was by this time nearly four o'clock, and until daylight Stilling
rode as fast as he could go, except where, every now and then, he met
with a corner, or a turning of which he did not feel very sure. When
daylight did break, and the laborers began to trudge forth into the
fields, he found that he had gone somewhat out of his way, which
obliged him to retrace his steps for nearly a couple of miles. He then
proceeded more cautiously, but contrived to reach the little town
where Lady Danvers was a few minutes before nine. At the inn he asked
eagerly for his master, having some fear, indeed, that Ralph might
have passed him while he had been wandering wide of the proper track.

The reply, however, satisfied him; for the landlord stated that the
young gentleman, Mr. Woodhall, had that moment gone down to the
justice room, with all the Duke of Norfolk's servants. Thither
Stilling followed him, as soon as he had given his horse into the
hands of the hostler, and placed his bags in security. Round the door
there was a small crowd, as usual; but the stout young fellow elbowed
his way in, and arrived just at the moment when the fat magistrate in
the chair was announcing the decision of the bench.

"There is no pretense whatever," said the justice, "at least such is
the opinion of myself and my brethren, for detaining Mr. Ralph
Woodhall even for an hour. It is clearly shown, by a multitude of
witnesses, that he endeavored to calm the riot rather than to excite
it, and that the brutal conduct of the constable Doggett was the sole
cause of any commotion; for which brutal conduct we have determined to
reprimand the said Doggett, and he is reprimanded accordingly. Mr.
Woodhall, you are at liberty, and we hope that your detention may not
prove inconvenient."

Ralph was about to make some reply, but Stilling, stepping forward,
placed the packet in his hand, saying, "From his grace of Norfolk,
sir--in haste."

Ralph took it, and was breaking the seal, when Gaunt Stilling
whispered, "You had better read it in private, sir, for there is
matter of much moment in it."

Hurrying out of the justice roam, Ralph returned to the inn, sought
his own chamber, and opened the packet.

It contained several sealed letters, addressed to different gentlemen
in Dorsetshire and Somersetshire, and for himself a brief note to the
following effect:


"MY YOUNG FRIEND,

"After finishing the inclosed, I have but a moment to write to you,
but it is absolutely necessary for your safety, for your present
comfort, and your future happiness, that you should leave this part of
the country as speedily as possible. The anger of Lord Woodhall, when
all is made known to him, will be excited, as you may well suppose, to
the very highest pitch of fury. He has immense influence at court, and
can destroy you. I am not sure that it would not be better and safer
for you to betake yourself to Holland for a time; in which idea I have
inclosed for you a letter for a gentleman at the Hague, who will show
you kindness.

"You may trust upon my doing all I can for you during your absence,
both out of consideration for yourself and our friend Moraber.

"You can consult Lady Danvers in the West as to the best means of
keeping yourself concealed till this storm has blown by; but, whatever
you may think of the circumstances in which you are placed, believe
that my judgment is best, and take the advice of your sincere friend,

    "NORFOLK."


Ralph gazed at the letter for several minutes with a pale cheek and
anxious eye but then some one knocked at his door, and the voice of
one of Lady Danvers's servants said, "My lady, sir, wishes to speak
with you immediately."

"I will come in a moment," replied Ralph; and, folding up the Duke of
Norfolk's letter once more, he proceeded with it in his hand to
Hortensia's apartments.




CHAPTER XX.


In one of the largest houses of that day in London, and in that
fashionable suburb which lay in the immediate vicinity of the palace,
sat a young lady in deep mourning, weeping bitterly. She was quite
alone in her own room; and the face, once almost ruddy with the hue of
country health, looked now pale and delicate. The wits about the
court, who by any chance had seen her, either at her father's
residence or during a former visit to the court, had not failed to
have their remark, their jest, or their gallant speech upon the
occasion of her altered appearance.

One man, of exceedingly refined taste, declared that she looked far
more lovely since she had cast away what he called that "very vivid
rose," which made her look like a lovely dairy-maid.

Another replied that his lordship was fonder, he believed, of lilies
than of roses.

Another rejoined that these were not lilies, but faded roses; and
another declared that his two noble friends made it out clearly that
the lady had the gift of weeping rose-water for her brother's death,
as it was evidently by the process of distillation she had become so
pale.

Little did any of the gay mockers know all the sources of poor
Margaret's tears. True, she wept much for her brother's death. She had
loved him well, as he had loved her. There had been something in his
frank and generous nature peculiarly attractive to a heart like hers.
Even his rashness, his vehemence, which were occasionally excessive,
were all tempered toward her, and had only the effect of making her
shrinkingly withhold from him the one great secret of her life. The
thought that that secret love might have been the near, or even the
remote cause of her brother's violent death, added double bitterness
to her tears. But this was not all. Margaret wept for her lover as
well as for her brother--wept for the slayer as well as the slain. She
knew, with a certainty that might have made her swear to the fact,
that the provocation must have been great indeed that could induce
Ralph to draw the sword upon her brother Henry; she felt for the
severe struggle which must have taken place in his mind before he
sought the fatal spot. She felt for all that he must have experienced
when their swords crossed and Henry fell. She felt for all he must
have endured in the anguish of his flight, and for all he was still
enduring, wherever he might have sought refuge.

"Remorse and despair, both in one," she said; "these must be his
portion now, poor Ralph: remorse for having taken my brother's life,
and despair for having by his own act placed an impassable bar between
us forever. Oh, yes! whatever they may tell me, I know, I feel he
loves me still. If he have, indeed, trifled for an hour with this
bright and beautiful Hortensia Danvers, when he saw my poor Henry
lying on the grass, all his love for Margaret has returned, I am
certain. No man can forget the love of early years so easily--at least
not Ralph. I know what he will feel, I know what he will think; and
sure I am that no one here, not even myself or my father, will weep
for poor Henry as bitterly as he does."

Oh! abiding confidence of woman's love, what is like thee? No other
passion--no other feeling--no other thought pervades the whole of
being, takes possession of every faculty, clings to the heart, rules
and subjugates the mind, sets reason, and argument, and conviction at
defiance like thee. It must be true love, though not the paltry
passion, the half-indifferent liking, the admiration warmed a little
by propinquity and habit, the convenient, half mercenary, half
ambitious tenderness. None of those lukewarm mixtures of heart and
brain, which stand white-gloved and orange-flowered before the altar
of a fashionable church, and are recorded under the desecrated name of
love, to have that very record blotted out, ere a few short years are
over, by the bitter drops of regret or the burning spots of shame. No,
no; it must be true, full, wholehearted love--the love that gets a
grasp upon the very soul--the love that is immortal as the soul
itself.

And such was Margaret's love for her pool cousin. For him she wept as
much as for her brother Henry; for she felt and knew that his life was
dead if his body lived, and that the fallen man was happier than he
whose existence was prolonged.

At that moment Margaret thought little of herself or of her own future
fate. She was of an unselfish nature; and her first thoughts were
never--as so many's are--of the cares, anxieties, and griefs which the
events of the day might bring upon herself. Imagination would indeed,
from time to time, force upon her some recollection of her own fate
and situation--dim, hovering phantoms, wandering the extreme verge of
thought, but never coming near enough to be tangible. But, for the
time, her feelings rather than her thoughts were alive principally to
the fate of her brother and of her lover. Of her father, it is true,
she thought often and painfully; but his deep grief might have
affected her more, had it been of a character more like her own. But
there was an eager, fiery fierceness in it, with which she could have
no sympathy. He called down curses upon the head of him who had
deprived him of his son; he vowed vengeance--ay, and sought it; and
declared that life only should bound his purposes of revenge.
Margaret, indeed, did not give much credence to such vows. Without
having studied it, without having even thought of it, she knew her
father's character well. It had sunk into her mind, as it were, making
its impress, from infancy upward, more and more deeply every year. She
knew him to be warm-hearted, kind, generous, passionate, somewhat
careless, not without ability, but without consistency, if not
continuity of purpose. She had never seen any passion maintain a long
and powerful influence over him, however vehement might be the
outburst at first. Grief, from which man usually flies the most
eagerly, as his natural enemy--as the enemy of all his desires at
every period of life--had had a greater hold upon him than any other
affection of his mind to which she had ever seen him subject. She
remembered well the period of her mother's death, which had occurred
some five or six years before, and how long afterward a deep, brooding
melancholy had hung over Lord Woodhall, how slow was his return to
cheerfulness, how frequently the fits of gloom would come back. But
even that had passed away, and she doubted not that this present
frantic rage against poor unhappy Ralph would pass away likewise. She
somewhat feared, indeed, what might be the result when the violence of
passion should subside; when that which for the time seemed to bear
away grief upon its fiery wings should sink down either gratified or
wearied out, and leave him alone in sorrow and desolation. Then, she
knew, would be the struggle; then, when he daily saw the empty place
at the table, when he missed the beloved face, when he heard no more
the cheerful voice, when the presence which was sunshine to him, and
the gallant bearing in which he took such a pride, were all found
wanting; when the house looked vacant and lonely, and the meals
cheerless and solitary, and the evenings went by unenlivened, and the
day ended with the knowledge that he was gone--then, she thought, when
her mind turned in that direction, then will sorrow be fully felt in
all its heavy weight; then will the anguish which is now divided by
rage bow him to the earth; and then must be the time for me to
struggle with my own griefs, in order to lighten his. Now it would be
vain to say a word. To oppose his wrath against poor Ralph would be
madness; to offer him consolation, as vain.

From time to time these thoughts came upon her, and, even sad and
bitter as they were, they offered her some relief; for the
others--those I have described before--were so much more intense and
painful, that any thing which led her mind away to other things was a
blessing for the time. She might have looked round all the world for
some surpassing woe, without finding any which could compare in her
heart with that which the death of her brother, by the hand of her
lover, had inflicted. They were both so dear--so unutterably
dear--they were both so linked with every affection, and every memory,
and every hope, that the one, who was dead to all, and the other, who
must be dead to her, left the once flowery landscape of life, which
had lain so lately smiling before her, nothing but a dark, desolate
wilderness. It was like a fair scene just torn by an earthquake, and
bearing not one trace of its former aspect.

It was over such thoughts that she was now weeping, somewhat more than
a fortnight after her brother's death. Her father had gone forth,
still moved by the same fierce desire of vengeance, to move every
power of the court to gratify that burning thirst; for those were days
in which influence and even wealth--money, base, corrupted money--made
the very scales of justice quiver. He had been more harsh and
ferocious that day than usual; he had dwelt upon the particulars of
her poor brother's death with a painful, lingering minuteness, which
tore poor Margaret's heart. He seemed anxious to lash his resentment
to such a pitch that it would bear all before it, and he left the
house declaring that he would bring Ralph to the gallows, or perish.
This scene, as he had walked up and down the room, looking angrily at
the floor, and every now and then stopping to add some bitter or
painful word more, was full in Margaret's mind when she retired to her
own chamber, and there sat down to weep as I have described. It was
one of the darkest hours which had fallen upon her since her brother's
death; for the probability of her lover's being found and taken--being
brought to trial--being condemned--was brought more painfully home to
her heart than it had ever been before. All seemed darkness and
despair around her. What should she do in such a case? she asked
herself. How should she act? Throw herself at her father's feet, and
beseech him to forbear, and be merciful? She knew it was vain--all
vain. She might as well beseech the hurricane. Should she leave him
whom she so dearly loved to perish unseen, unsupported, unconsoled?
She knew her own heart would perish also. Should she fly to him, cast
off all restraint, make her fate with his, interpose between her
father and his vengeance, and say, "Strike him through me?" But her
brother's spirit seemed to stand in the way of the very thought,
crying, "Margaret, Margaret he slew me."

Poor Margaret could but weep; and bitterly, painfully did she weep;
but while the tears were still streaming as rapidly as ever down her
cheeks, there was a light tap at the door, and, without waiting to be
told, her maid entered the room. She was an old and faithful servant,
who had waited many years upon her mother; somewhat stiff, indeed, but
full of love for all the children of the house; one of those old
attached servants of an English household, which are hardly to be
found in any other land. She had wept over the death of poor Master
Henry, as she called him, as bitterly as any one; but she had shared
Margaret's feelings rather than those of the old lord. She had loved
Henry well; but she loved Ralph nearly as well, for she had known him
from the cradle; had known his mother, and every one who had known her
had loved her. Ralph had always, too, shown a great attachment to her.
As a child, he would sit with his arms round her neck, and call her,
in his infant prattle, "his Dody"--her name was Dora Vernon; and the
very first comfort which Margaret had received came from her lips,
very shortly after the fatal news arrived.

"Do not take on so, Mistress Margaret," she said, adhering still to
the term mistress, which was but beginning to decline; "the dead can
never be brought back by weeping; and if your tears are for the
living, as I can't help thinking they be in part, I dare say, if you
knew all, Master Ralph is not so much to blame as you think. I don't
see, for my own part, why the good old lord goes on so madly against
poor Master Ralph. He fought two men in his day himself, and killed
one of them, and he would not have a gentleman refuse to fight, I am
sure, when he was asked. Master Henry, God rest him! was hot and
passionate enough, as you know; and, I dare say, he provoked poor
Ralph more than he could bear. Perhaps he was deceived about
something, and wouldn't listen to reason about it, for he took up
things very hastily, and all things are not as they seem at first; and
I am sure Master Ralph would not give real cause of offense to man or
woman either, for he is as good, and kind, and noble-hearted a lad as
any in all the world. But if people will not listen to reason, and
hear things explained, what can one do? and that was always Master
Henry's way: a word and a blow, and the blow came first."

I have said that this speech, somewhat incoherent as it was, had
comforted Margaret greatly and it gave her comfort in more ways than
one. She remembered the letter which Henry had shown her, and the
impression which it had produced upon her mind; and a doubt, a
thought, a hope that they might both have been deceived--that the
letter was either a fabrication, or might be explained, arose, and
grew stronger and stronger every moment. What right had she to judge
him unheard? she asked herself--what right had Henry? and, knowing the
weakness of her brother's temper, his rashness, and punctiliousness
upon the point of honor, she easily conceived that he actually
compelled Ralph to draw his sword, without listening to any thing he
might say in his own defense.

The sight, therefore, of her good Dora was now pleasant to her; and
she did not even try to wipe away the tears that she was shedding when
she entered, but, holding out her arms to her, leaned her head upon
her shoulder, and wept there.

"There, there, my dear child," said the good woman, "you have been
sorry enough; and don't you be afraid of all that the old lord says.
He'll not do half that he thinks. It's poor, powerless work when old
men begin to swagger. I heard him going on when you were in the
withdrawing-room with him; but he'll do nothing; and I dare to say
that Master Ralph will easily show that he was driven to do what he
did. And now, my bird, wipe your eyes, there's a dear child. Here's a
little saucy boy down stairs wants to see you; he has been out there
over the way for an hour, till the old lord went out, and then he came
over and asked for you. Harrison sent for me, but the lad won't talk
to any one but you, for he has got a letter to deliver into your own
hand, he says--a love-letter, I don't doubt;" and the old woman
laughed a little. "I don't doubt that it's a love-letter, for it isn't
in Master Ralph's hand--that was my hope at first--but it's a great,
sprawling, twisting hand, and the boy's all decked out as fine as a
groat--a sort of page-looking lad, with a band of feathers round his
hat, quite fantastical."

"Send him away," said Margaret, sadly; "I will not see him; I have
naught to do with love-letters, Dora."

"But you can not tell it is a love-letter," replied the waiting-woman;
"that was only my fancy; and, indeed, my dear child, you should see
him, for he won't give it to any body but you; and you can not tell
what it may be about, and it's always right to look at a letter; and
it is but civil."

"Well, bring him up," replied Margaret; "but stay you here, Dora, till
he is gone."

The boy was brought up so rapidly, that, had Margaret been in a very
observing mood, she might have suspected he had not been very far from
the door while the conversation just detailed was passing between her
and her woman; but she only noticed that he came; that he was a
gay-looking boy of some thirteen or fourteen years of age, very much
like what Dora had described; that he asked her carefully, ere he gave
the letter, whether she was Mistress Margaret Woodhall. Her mind was
too much occupied with other thoughts to notice or attend to any thing
more.

She answered his question in the affirmative, took the letter, and
then, gently bowing her head, dismissed the boy, saying, "I will send
my reply, if this should require one."

"Well, I do think," said Dora, "seeing he is so smart a youth, I would
have tried to find out where he came from. Letters do not always tell
who sent them, and--"

"Nonsense--nonsense, Dora!" said Margaret. "I care not whom it comes
from, nor whence it comes;" and, much to the good woman's
inconvenience, she continued to hold the letter unopened in her hand,
gazing upon the ground, and falling gradually into thought.

"Well, really!" exclaimed Dora Vernon, after she had waited some five
minutes; and Margaret, rather startled by the sharpness of the sounds
than clearly understanding their meaning, languidly opened the letter,
and fixed her eye upon the page.

The moment she did so the whole expression of her face altered; her
eyes recovered their brightness, and fixed eagerly on the lines
beneath them; the color mounted up into her cheek; her lip lost its
dejected stillness, and bent into a sweet, hopeful smile; and then, as
if there were magic in the ending lines, she started up, let the paper
drop, and pressed her hand tight upon her heart.

Dora pounced upon the letter in an instant, took it up unchidden or
forbid, and gazed at the words it contained. They were large enough,
Heaven knows; but still her spectacles were habitually needful; and,
retreating a step, for fear her young lady should attempt to stop her,
she mounted them on her nose, and read:


"Fear not, my child," so the letter ran, "fear not! Fate has done its
work with your poor brother. It could not be otherwise. It was doomed
to be so. I warned you, you would have many trials; but fear
not--shrink not. More must yet come; but they will pass away, and
though a multitude of obstacles may seem to stand between you and
happiness, yet shrink not--doubt not! Your fate depends upon yourself.
The stars do not rule, but counsel you. Be firm--be true--be happy!

"Above all, doubt not him who loves you. Trust to tried affection and
long-known truth; and be assured that he who may now seem guilty is
innocent as yourself. He who seems most innocent is guilty. You sent
not to me in the hour of need as I bade you; but I watch over you, and
come to your comfort, even when you seek me not. Be firm and true.
MORABER."


"Goodness gracious! if that is not the wise man in the old tower!"
exclaimed Dora, when she had arrived at the name, and made it out with
some difficulty; "Lord bless me! Mistress Margaret, how can he know
any thing about you?"

Margaret had sunk into her chair again, without an effort to prevent
the good woman from reading the letter; and, in deep thought, made no
reply to the question till Dora had repeated it twice.

"You talked to me much about him, Dora," she replied, at length; "I
went to see him--that is all."

"And never told me a word!" muttered Dora. "Ah, my pretty child, I can
guess, dear one--I can guess, my bird. Well, love sees with his own
eyes; and I say not they are bad ones, though folks call him blind.
He's no bad judge, I wot, though he judges not as old lords and great
people judge. Marry! they would have people men and women of the
world's making, not of God's; but you can't fashion flesh and blood
like a coach or a coat. Nature says shall, and who shall gainsay her?
Love's not a loose cloak to fit every one; and it's a garment which
can but be bought once and won't turn. Don't tear it, my dear, for
patch it you can't; and old Moraber is right, depend upon it--he
always is."

"Pray God he is so now," replied Margaret, fervently; and then,
throwing her arms round Dora, in a wild burst of strong emotion, she
wept again as profusely as ever, but far more happily.

How the heart catches at the least assurance of that which it longs to
believe! Oh, dry and dusty earth of which we are made, how soon is it
fired by the least spark of hope! I remember hearing of that famous
lost Greek fire, how, one time, spilled by accident in the baths of a
great city, no effort could put it out; it burned through theaters and
dwelling-places, through the great church, through its stone pavement,
down to the very graves beneath. And this is Hope, unextinguishable
even into the tomb. Does it end even there? I know not. But beyond is
the first world of reality, where Hope, the wanderer, meets her sister
Joy.

Yes, from so slight and frail an assurance as that of the strange,
wild letter she had just received, Margaret's thought-world was
relighted; the darkness passed in part away; she dared to look
forward; she dared to withdraw her eyes from her brother's tomb; she
boldly said to herself, "Come what may, I will be firm and true."

But, as a consequence of that letter, another comfort, not more
substantial, not more sustaining, but still infinitely great, was
afforded her. Her old servant's words showed her that the secret of
her heart had been penetrated--that no glowing explanation--no timid
hesitation--no word--no sign was needed further--that she had some one
to confide in, some one to counsel and to aid. The counsel might not
be the wisest, the aid not the most powerful, but she stood no longer
alone in the sorrow of her own heart.




CHAPTER XXI.


We left Ralph Woodhall proceeding toward the apartments of Hortensia
Danvers with the Duke of Norfolk's letter in his hand. He seemed
puzzled and confused, but his determination was soon taken. "I might
have foreseen this," he said to himself; "it could not be long
concealed; and I must bear my destiny. But I will not encounter the
good old lord with any attempt at justification. The Duke of Norfolk
is perhaps right: it would be better for me to be absent for a time,
seeking fortune in the West, or perhaps in Holland, till the first
burst of wrath has passed. I can trust to Margaret's love."

With these thoughts he entered the sitting-room of Lady Danvers, where
he found her standing by a table, dressed for her journey, and looking
toward the door, as if anxious for his coming.

"Well, they have set you free," she said; "but I have been in some
fear about you, not that you would not appear at the time, if you
could, but that you might not be able. I sent to ask you to speak with
me last night, but, to my surprise, found you were absent."

She spoke with a peculiar emphasis, and Ralph replied, in a faint,
melancholy tone, "I was absent for some hours, Lady Danvers--how
employed, I may find another opportunity of telling you. At present,
let me show you this letter from the Duke of Norfolk. I have,
unfortunately, incurred the anger of my noble relation, Lord Woodhall;
he is a good man, but violent to an exceeding degree when excited; and
the duke advises me strongly to hurry away into the West till I can
take ship for Holland. There is his letter; you can read what he
says."

"No need--no need," replied Lady Danvers, putting the letter aside; "I
know it all--all that has happened. Poor young man! Well may you speak
in so sad a tone, Mr. Woodhall. But the duke is right. There is no
resource for you but to keep in retirement for a time, till this has
passed over. Depend upon it, Lord Woodhall will move heaven and earth
to ruin you. To the West? I am going to the West; but my course will
be too slow; you must set off instantly."

"So I propose," replied Ralph, "though to what exact spot I shall turn
my steps I do not exactly know; that is a part of the country I am
unacquainted with."

"I will decide it for you," replied Hortensia; "let it be Danvers's
New Church. Stay! let me give you a letter to my steward, who is the
man of all others to aid you, and to take means for insuring your
safety."

"Nay, dear Lady Danvers," replied Ralph, "I am under no such great
apprehension as you seem to think; I have done nothing that any man of
heart would not have done, or that any man of honor might not have
done. I would fain, it is true, avoid all personal collision with Lord
Woodhall in his present state of rage; but for my personal safety I
have no fear; he is a man of too much honor to resent what has
occurred by any unworthy means."

"There is no knowing--there is no knowing," said Lady Danvers; "your
life is too precious to others--to your father, to be lightly risked.
Is your horse in a fit state to carry you? If not, take one from my
servants; they are well mounted, and their beasts must be quite fresh
by this time."

"Oh, mine is quite fit and strong," replied Ralph; "the little journey
he has had can have had but little effect upon so strong and tried an
animal."

"Well, I will write the letter," replied Lady Danvers, with the same
eager and quick manner in which she had hitherto been speaking. "You
go and order your servant, who is arrived. I am told, to get all
things ready. Alice! Alice! bring me back the ink and paper."

Ralph hastened to follow her suggestion, and found Gaunt Stilling in
somewhat sharp conversation with a man considerably taller than
himself, but who seemed to stand in considerable awe of him.

"Get you back to Norwich, Master Roger," said Stilling, in a more
angry tone than Ralph had ever heard him use before. "If I find you
watching our movements, I will break every bone in your skin, and take
that as an installment of what your master owes me."

"I must wait till I have baited my horse, Master Stilling," replied
the servant.

"I should like to know what the devil brought you here," cried the
other; but he was interrupted by the call of his master, and only
paused to add, "Mind what I have said; I am not one to be trifled
with, as you ought to know by this time."

Ralph gave his orders rapidly, then returned to his own room for a few
moments, and then once more sought Hortensia for the letter she had
promised. It was written, sealed, and addressed to "Master William
Drayton, Danvers's New Church, by Harstock, Dorset."

She placed it in Ralph's hands, gazing at him with a look of deep and
melancholy interest. There was also an air of hesitation about her as
she asked, "Is all ready?"

"I dare say it is by this time," replied Ralph. "Accept my best
thanks, dear Lady Danvers, for all the kind interest you have taken in
me, especially in these painful circumstances in which I am placed."

She waved her hand almost impatiently, saying, "Not a word--not a
word, my good friend; but there is one thing more I wish to say--"
Again she hesitated, but then added quickly, and in a tone of kindly
feeling, "Ralph, I look upon you as a relation--I can not regard your
mother's son in any other light; you came away with me hastily
yesterday; you had no time to provide funds for a long journey--No
false delicacy between you and me."

Ralph took her hand and raised it to his lips, and as he did so he
thought that it trembled very much. "Thanks--a thousand thanks," he
said; "and I would accept your kind offer as frankly as it is made,
but I have quite enough here, Lady Danvers; my servant has brought a
large part of my baggage with him, and I have there all the little
store which was to last me for six months."

"Well, well--go, then," she said; "do not delay a moment, for I am
apprehensive till you are out of the old lord's reach. We shall meet
again, my friend, and talk over all these details more at leisure. At
present, nothing is to be done but to part as soon as possible."

Again Ralph kissed her hand, which was beautiful enough; though, to
say truth, her lip was the more tempting of the two. He was soon in
the stable-yard, and found his horse saddled and the baggage all
arranged. In another moment he was riding out under the archway of the
inn, and remarked a face gazing from a little window at the side,
which commanded a view both of the stable-yard and of the street.
Gaunt Stilling shook his fist at it as they passed, and, while his
master paused to say a few words to the Duke of Norfolk's servants who
were gathered round the gate, laid his finger significantly on the
hilt of a good strong sword, which by this time he had added to his
traveling equipage. Ralph was then turning his horse to the right
hand, in the direction of the western road; but Gaunt Stilling rode up
to his side, saying, in a low voice, "This way, sir; we are watched,
and must give them the slip. I can find the way, I think, by the back
lanes, as they have directed me. After we get past Ely, I know every
rood of the road for a hundred miles."

Ralph readily followed his suggestion, but inquired, after riding a
few yards, "Who is watching us? One of Lord Woodhall's people?"

"No!" replied Stilling, in his quaint, bluff way; "knave Robert's
knave Roger."

"I wish to heaven it was his master instead," said Ralph, with a quick
glow of the cheek and flash of the eye.

"Ay, so do I," answered Gaunt Stilling, gloomily; "but he always
contrives to put some one else in his place when that place is a
dangerous one. Every man has his time, however, and his is waiting for
him."

He then relapsed into silence, and they pursued their way without
interruption. Nothing remarkable occurred upon the road throughout the
whole journey, though, as the reader knows, it led them across nearly
the widest part of Great Britain. Ralph himself was silent and
melancholy, and many painful considerations pressed upon his mind,
withdrawing it from that enjoyment of changing scene and rapid motion
which a young and ardent heart like his might well have experienced in
traversing the beautiful counties which lie between Norfolk and
Dorsetshire. His thoughts were almost entirely of Margaret. He saw
little--he observed little--and conversation he had none; for Gaunt
Stilling, though evidently a man superior, by education, to his class,
and who had received the education of the world as well as of books,
was taciturn and gloomy. He had never spoken much, and what he had
said was generally brief and blunt; but now he hardly uttered a word,
and remained usually totally apart from all other servants or society
of any kind in the inns where they chanced to stop on the road. Ralph
remarked, too, that when his bill was brought to him at any of these
places, no charge was ever made for his servant or his servant's
horse; and the strange circumstances in which the man had been placed
with him came back, from time to time, upon his mind with a feeling
not altogether agreeable. That he had been useful, serviceable, ay,
and zealous in his service, Ralph fully felt; but it was unpleasant to
him to have such gratuitous attendance, especially where it involved
no light expense to the person rendering it. He determined he would
have some explanations upon this subject with Gaunt Stilling; but the
man's taciturnity, his own busy thoughts, and the rapidity with which
they passed from place to place, made him delay the execution of his
intention till they reached the place of their temporary sojourn.

Upon the frontiers of Somersetshire and Dorsetshire, Gaunt Stilling
seemed to enter upon a well-known land. He had before displayed a very
good knowledge of the country lying between the Isle of Ely and the
Mendip Hills--an extent sufficient to try his geographical
information--but now not a single lane or by-road was unknown to him.
He was aware where comfortable inns could be found in the most remote
parts of the country--not at that time well cultivated or largely
populated; and Ralph could not help thinking that, if it were really
necessary for him to play at hide and seek at all--which he began to
doubt--he could not have a better instructor in the game than his good
companion.

Still, however, Gaunt Stilling maintained the same dull silence;
answered in monosyllables, though civilly, and never exceeded above
two or three words except once, when, crossing the beautiful Mendip
Hills, he said, "I have brought you forty miles out of the way, sir,
not for the sake of giving you that fine view, but for the purpose of
avoiding the lands of old Lady Coldenham. I should be soon known
there; and you would be found out through me. Then the news would fly
across the country as rapidly as possible."

"I really do not see the need of such extreme precaution," replied
Ralph, musing.

"Don't you, sir?" said Gaunt Stilling, and there the conversation
dropped; for Ralph did not think it needful to enter into the
particulars of his situation with his taciturn servant, and knew not
how far the facts might have been bruited abroad in the household of
the Duke of Norfolk.

At length, one afternoon, about a couple of hours before sunset, they
passed through a long, deep lane, sunk beneath the level of the
neighboring fields, and overhung by tall and shady trees in the full
richness of their summer foliage. Even at those spots where the head
of a horseman rose above the bank, no view of the country was to be
obtained; for rich orchards, already beginning to glow with their
blossoms, spread all along on either side for more than a mile. At the
end of a quarter of a mile's riding, the sunshine was seen streaming
up the end of the lane; and in a few minutes more Ralph stood upon the
verge of a gentle descent, where the eye ranged free along one of the
most beautiful valleys he ever beheld. A considerable portion of the
ground in front was laid out as a park, with sloping lawns, and large
ancient trees on both sides of a stream of some extent, which ran
rapidly, dashing and sparkling, down the dell. An old gray bridge,
too, was seen here and there along the course of the stream--even in
the wilder land, which spread forth beyond the limits of the park; and
on an elevated spot some two hundred yards from the river appeared a
large stone edifice, perhaps of the reign of Henry the Seventh or
Eighth, for it bore some of the characteristics of the best period of
Tudor architecture.

At the distance of about a bow-shot from the house, but within the
limits of the park, rose a beautiful church, from the bosom of a small
grove of trees. Not less than three centuries and a half before, it
might have deserved the name of New Church; for even if any architect
could have been found to imitate so perfectly the inimitable early
English architecture, the lichens and mosses, the hue of the stone,
and the crumbling of the antique moldings, would have clearly denoted
how long it had been constructed.

"There is Danvers's New Church, sir," said Gaunt Stilling; "but we
must take a little round to get to the gates."

"It seems a peaceful spot enough," said Ralph, in reply.

"Peaceful?" murmured Gaunt Stilling. "Is there such a thing as peace?"

In a few minutes more they had entered the park and were riding up to
the house, under the old stone gate-way of which were sitting a hale,
good-looking, well-dressed man, past the middle age, and an elderly
woman, with a young child reading a horn-book at their feet.

"That is Master Drayton, I take it," said Gaunt Stilling; and, riding
up, Ralph dismounted and presented Lady Danvers's letter.

"This is for me," said the man upon the steps, opening the letter; "I
suppose my lady will soon be coming."

At the same moment he unfolded the sheet, and fixed his eyes upon the
contents. They seemed to startle him; for although he said, as a sort
of comment while he read, "Of course--certainly--to be sure," his
broad brow was contracted, and his whole face assumed a hesitating
look.

"You are quite welcome, sir," he said, when he had done, "and I will
do the best I can for you. My lady's orders shall be obeyed to the
utmost of my power; but I can't resist the law, you know."

"Resist the law!" exclaimed Ralph; "surely Lady Danvers does not ask
you to do that! and there could be no necessity on my account."

"Well, sir, you know best," replied Mr. Drayton, "but I think it will
be best if you would just step into this room, and talk with me for a
moment;" and, opening the door of the house, he led the way to a small
ante-room off the great hall. When there, he said, after having closed
the door, "What I meant just now, sir, was merely that I would do
every thing, as in duty bound, to hide you; but that, if officers
should come to take you, I could not think myself justified in
resisting with a strong hand."

"Officers come to take me?" said Ralph, completely bewildered; "there
must be some mistake, my good sir. May I be permitted to look at Lady
Danvers's letter!"

"Oh, certainly, sir," replied the steward; "there is nothing that you
need not see;" and he placed the letter in Ralph's hand, who read as
follows:


    "MASTER DRAYTON,

"This will be given into your hands by Mr. Ralph Woodhall, the son of
my poor mother's dearest friend, and consequently mine. You will show
him every attention in your power, and let him make use of Danvers's
New Church as if it were his own, providing suitably all things for
himself and his servant. It will be necessary to keep good watch
around the place, and not suffer him to be at all molested by any one,
as he has had the misfortune of killing in a duel his cousin, the son
of Lord Woodhall, who is highly incensed against him."


Ralph let the paper fall from his hand, and gazed upon Mr. Drayton
with a look of unmingled astonishment. "In the name of Heaven!" he
exclaimed, "what is the meaning of this? Henry Woodhall killed in a
duel! and by me! I can not believe my senses when I see such an
assertion under the hand of Lady Danvers. She must have been grossly
and terribly misled--but there must be some foundation for this;" and,
opening the door vehemently, he made his way to the outer porch, and
called aloud, "Stilling! Stilling!"

The man, who was leading the horses up and down, returned to the door,
and Ralph at once demanded, "What is this? Lady Danvers, in her letter
to Mr. Drayton here, declares that my cousin Henry has been killed in
a duel."

"Well, sir, did you not know it?" asked Stilling, in a cold tone.

"Know it!" exclaimed Ralph; "how in Heaven's name should I know it?
You never mentioned the subject to me during the whole course of the
journey."

"I thought it would be too painful a subject, sir," replied the man,
with a very peculiar look; "you had the Duke of Norfolk's letter."

"The duke never mentioned a word of it," said Ralph. "Good God! this
will drive me mad;" and, turning on his heel, he walked back into the
house, followed by Mr. Drayton, and, casting himself into a chair,
covered his eyes with his hands in an agony of grief and
consternation.

Gaunt Stilling tied the horses to an iron railing and followed him
quietly; and good Mr. Drayton, as much moved to attention and respect
toward the young gentleman by the agony he saw him suffer as by his
lady's letter, did all that he could think of to comfort and console
him. It was not much he could think of, it is true, for he was a man
of material thoughts and habits. He could tell the number of acres,
roods, and poles in every farm upon the estate, and how they should be
cultivated. He knew the condition and the wants of every laborer,
every tenant; and he tried his best to ameliorate the one, and to
diminish the other. But to deal with deep sorrow--to soothe an
intelligent mind and feeling heart, were tasks above or beyond his
scope. At best--and it was his only resource--he might try to divert
the thoughts of one afflicted from the causes of grief. He had done so
with many a mendicant at the hall door--for he was no harsh and cruel
deputy despot--and he tried at least to add comfort to gifts. He did
the same even now. He even teased Ralph about bed-rooms, and first and
second tables, and what he would require during his stay; till at
length he pressed him so hard upon these subjects, that Ralph rose and
followed him to the rooms he proposed to show him with a gloomy air
and heavy step, from which all the elasticity of youth seemed gone.

Gaunt Stilling looked after him with a hesitating, uncertain
expression of countenance, as if he did not know whether to follow him
or not. But, after a moment's consideration, he turned round, led the
horses to the stables, and after having given them, with some
directions, into the hands of a country lad whom he found there,
returned to the house and sought out his master, whom he found sitting
sorrowfully alone, Mr. Drayton having quitted him in order to make the
necessary preparations.

The moment Gaunt Stilling entered the room, Ralph motioned him to shut
the door, and said, "Now tell me more of this sad affair, Stilling. I
am calmer now; and though I do wish you had spoken to me on the
subject as we came hither, by which you would have stopped my journey
entirely, yet I dare say you were under the same mistake which it
seems has been made by others."

"Why, sir," replied the servant, in a tone of some feeling, "I saw you
very melancholy and sad, and, as the duke himself had written to you,
I naturally concluded that you were right well aware of all. You may
easily judge that, the death of Mr. Henry Woodhall was the subject of
talk with the whole of the duke's house; and when he had written to
you, I could not presume to speak to you on the subject without your
speaking to me."

"The duke's letter I must have misunderstood entirely," replied Ralph;
"fearful of wounding my feelings, it would seem, he wrote in vague
general terms of unfortunate events and unhappy circumstances. My
imagination, utterly ignorant of what had taken place, fixed upon
other events and circumstances--but all that matters not. Now I would
know the whole. It would seem that they attributed poor Henry's death
to me?"

"Yes, sir, every body thought so," replied Gaunt Stilling. "They said
that Mr. Woodhall had discovered that you and his sister were in love
with each other, contrary to the wishes of the family; that he had
challenged you, and that you had killed him."

"But you must have known better," said Ralph, somewhat sternly; and
the man's countenance fell, and his brow became clouded, as if the
tone of the master, whom he served gratuitously, had wounded his
pride.

Ralph went on, however, saying, "You should have contradicted it at
once, Stilling. The duke might be deceived; for he could not tell that
I had not returned secretly; but you must have known I never
re-entered my room from the time I quitted it in the morning."

"Yes, sir," replied Stilling, in a quiet tone; "but there was no need
of re-entering your room. You had a sword with you, and had but to
ride back, fight your adversary, and disappear."

"True--true," replied his master; "But did you really think I had done
so?"

Gaunt Stilling hesitated, but replied at length, "I certainly did not,
sir; but I was in no circumstances to speak my mind. Every thing,
indeed, seemed against your having done so, in my mind, till the
morning after."

"And what happened then to make you change your opinion?" asked Ralph.

"Why, I heard at the inn where Lady Danvers stopped," replied
Stilling, "that you had gone out about half past eight o'clock, and
had not been seen by any body for some hours. Now the duel took place
between ten and eleven; and, with a quick-going horse, you might
easily have got to Norwich within the time."

Ralph pressed his hand upon his brow, saying, as if in reply to some
question which had arisen in his own mind, "That explains it--that
explains it all. How Lady Danvers could have imagined that I had been
guilty of this act, I was at a loss to comprehend; but now I see it
all."

"Guilty! sir," said Gaunt Stilling, whose old soldier's habits made
him view such events in a very different light from that in which his
master regarded them; "no great guilt, I think, in killing a man in
fair and open combat, without advantage--especially when he was the
person to seek it."

"We may think differently," replied Ralph, "but this, at least, I will
tell you, Stilling, that if my hand had shed poor Henry's blood in
such a quarrel as this, I never should forgive myself to my dying day.
Leave me now, Stilling. You will be well taken care of here; and I
will send for you soon, to seek for any further information I may
want. At present, my mind is all in wild confusion; and I must try to
calm my thoughts, and decide upon what is to be done next. My first
impulse is to set off at once for London, to clear myself of this
deed."

"Better give the horses some rest, sir," said Gaunt Stilling; "we have
come at a rattling pace; and they won't do much more just at present.
Besides, it would be well to think whether you could clear yourself so
easily as to prevent disagreeable consequences. Four or five months'
imprisonment, waiting for trial, is no very agreeable thing, and the
very fact of your running away here in such haste would require a good
deal of explanation, for other people might not understand it quite as
well as you do yourself."

Ralph looked at him earnestly, and asked, in a low, deep voice, "You
surely do not believe me guilty still?"

"Not in the least, sir," replied the man, frankly. "I am quite sure
you are not; and I can even give a guess, and a pretty shrewd one, as
to what was the mistake which made you follow the duke's advice so
readily; but all I think, is, that other people may not understand the
matter so easily, and that, in order to clear yourself, in a hurry, of
this accusation, you might be forced to explain other matters, which
might be unpleasant for you to touch upon."

"I will think over it--I will think over it," replied Ralph; and Gaunt
Stilling, seeing him fall into a deep revery, quietly left the room.




CHAPTER XXII.


Candles were lighted in a small, beautiful room at Danvers's New
Church, and Ralph Woodhall sat at a table covered with delicacies
which he could little have expected to find, at that season of the
year, in that remote place. He gave small heed to them, however. He
ate what was merely needful for sustenance, and drank several glasses
of fine old wine, which were pressed upon him by the care of two old
servants of the Danvers family--blue bottles, as they were called in
those days--who, with less to do at any time than they altogether
liked, were left behind by their lady in the country, when she
journeyed far, in consideration of their age, which they themselves
were not apt to believe in very much. They thought themselves strong
and hearty as ever, and able to do any sort of work which might be
assigned to them. But Hortensia was not one to overtask any one's
willingness; and she had more consideration for their years than they
had themselves. Right glad were they, then, to pay every attention to
a favored guest during her absence; and old men, being very often apt
at calculation, and especially at putting two stray ends of
circumstances together and linking them, as it were, with cobbler's
wax, reasoned internally upon the probability of the handsome
young stranger--in regard to whose fortune and fate they knew
nothing--becoming, ere long, their legitimate lord and master.

Toward the end of the meal, when some early fruits, at that time
brought to perfection with great difficulty and at vast expense, had
been put upon the table, Mr. Drayton himself appeared, and stood for a
moment by the side of Ralph's chair, excusing the scantiness of the
dinner on the ground of the short time allowed for preparation.

"We shall treat you better to-morrow, sir," he said; "but, in the mean
time, is there any wine in the cellar you would like better? The keys
are always left with me, and there is some very rich Burgundy, as well
as Bordeaux wine of the finest quality--even imperial Tokay; for my
late lord was a great judge, and the wines have only improved since
his death, which, come Martinmas, will be thirteen years."

"Nothing more, Mr. Drayton--nothing more, thank you," replied Ralph;
"I have had quite enough, and all has been very good."

"Perhaps, sir, you would like to look through the house," said Mr.
Drayton, determined not to leave the young stranger to his own bitter
thoughts if he could help it; "it is a curious old place, and, to my
mind, looks better by candlelight than at any other time. I think old
places always do; for there is something about them which makes one
feel that their real light is gone, and that they can only be viewed
pleasantly by something manufactured and modern. I think you would
like to see it."

"Very well," replied Ralph, in an indifferent tone; "I will accompany
you, Mr. Drayton, when you like."

"This minute, if you please, sir, if you have done your wine," replied
Mr. Drayton. "Stay! I will call people to take the lights on before,
and we will go through the whole suites of apartments, beginning with
the yellow guest chamber, and going on to the green guest chamber, and
the blue guest chamber."

"Yellow, and green, and blue guests!" said Ralph; "methinks that there
must have been some heavier hearts than even my own here."

"Oh, sir, it is but a name," replied the good man; "and I dare say
what we call the rooms has little to do with those who sleep in them.
But now, sir, I will be ready in a moment;" and, ordering one of the
menservants to take up two of the lights and precede them, he led the
way with a step as slow and solemn as if the place had been a nunnery,
and he had feared to interrupt the devout orisons of its inmates.

I will not detain the reader with much particular account of the
various rooms and passages through which Ralph was led, but simply
dwell upon the general aspect of the place, which was solemn, stalely,
and meditative. The effect, too, was heightened by every ornament and
decoration to be seen, for the late Lord Danvers had a consummate
knowledge and a real taste for art. Thus along the old corridor, which
had been converted to the purposes of a picture gallery, the young
gentleman was led, pausing every now and then to examine more closely
one or other of the portraits which hung upon the wall. The whole
history of each was well known to Mr. Drayton, who gave it in full to
his young companion--not, perhaps, without a little embellishment, in
order to keep his attention engaged. At first Ralph walked listlessly
enough; but gradually his mind assumed an interest in the subjects
which were laid before him, and he stopped several times to gaze at
the different portraits as he passed by, asking the names and history
of the personages. Some were by Sir Peter Lely--some were by Vandyck;
and the collection went as far back even as Holbein. The Danvers
family, of course, figured conspicuously. There were Danverses of all
ages, from the infant swathed up like an Egyptian mummy, to the
white-bearded senior in his high-backed chair; men in suits of armor,
with pages holding the casque, and a horse looking over the left
shoulder; gentlemen in long gowns and venerable ruffs, and ladies in
stiff bodices, or with collars buttoned up to the chin. But there were
also a number of portraits representing persons either allied to the
family by blood or affection, or figuring remarkably in history.
Howards there were many--Percys not a few; and, in fact, the records
of each age since the family rose to distinction had their
representative on the walls. Among the rest were two full-length,
portraits of ladies in the early spring of life. One was represented
standing with a large Spanish fan in her hand, while a grayhound,
raised upon his hind feet, and with his curling tail dropping
gracefully nearly to the ground, had his fore feet upon a table
supporting a globe of gold and silver fishes, which he seemed to be
eyeing with intense curiosity and some appetite. The face of the lady
was exquisitely beautiful; and Ralph had no occasion to inquire the
name of the original, for the likeness to Hortensia was so strong,
though the hair was a shade less dark, that no one who had seen her
could fail to recognize her mother. The other portrait was of a
somewhat taller lady, leaning upon a marble urn, which had something
sepulchral in its character. Her eyes were raised, so as to seem
gazing directly at the spectator; and her right hand was stretched
out, as if she were offering it to the figure in the other picture. In
those eyes there was that deep, intense expression which is never
seen--no, never--except in persons whose feelings are strong and
permanent; and the painter had caught that look, and expressed it with
wonderful power, making even the beauty of the features and of the
coloring subservient to that. It was a face that Ralph knew well; and
to see the portrait of his own mother side by side with that of the
late Lady Danvers, made him feel indeed as if there were nearer bonds
between him and Hortensia than any thing like a sudden friendship or
the acquaintance of a few short days could twine.

"I must always feel toward her as a brother," he thought; "and she has
nobly proved toward me that she regards me as such. One of my first
acts must be to disabuse her mind of the idea that I would so lightly
draw my sword against my cousin Henry's life."

Then turning to Mr. Drayton, he asked, "Is there any picture of Lady
Danvers here?"

"Only one, sir, in her own morning room," replied the steward; "it was
taken when she was quite a child, and she would never sit for one
afterward. This is the room;" and, taking a step or two forward, he
opened a door on the left.

The lights the servant carried slowly penetrated the gloom, and Ralph
gazed round with deep interest at the arrangement of the place where
so fair and interesting a creature as Hortensia made her ordinary
abode. Nowhere could his eye rest without finding some proof of her
fine taste, and of a certain spirit of order, neatness, and decoration
rarely met with in one so young. Antique cabinets of ebony, with
silver hinges and locks, were in several parts of the room,
containing, doubtless, many little treasures of virtù. A large table
in the middle, supported by richly-carved and twisted columns of
dark-black oak, was covered with miniatures, carvings in ivory, pieces
of rare china, curious ancient ornaments, one or two small books in
very antique bindings, and two or three small statues in bronze or
ivory, which might, perhaps, have employed the hand of Cellini or
Bologna. There, too, were a number of specimens of the cinqui-cento
art, placed beneath glass covers to keep them from the dust; a
crucifixion in ivory, where the intense passion of the expression
seemed to make the dead material live; a drinking-cup of silver, from
the sides of which stood out in bold relief some scores of figures
holding up wreaths of flowers to the brim, as if to catch the drops of
wine that might rim over, and every figure differing from the other,
but anatomically perfect and full of grace; a salt-cellar of gold,
used probably at high festivals in days of yore, where, on a large
cockle-shell, intended to contain the salt, stood the figure of
Neptune waving his trident over the heads of two sea-horses, while
round about were exquisitely grouped, with arms sometimes linked
together, sometimes cast round each other's necks or shoulders in
every different attitude that can be conceived, the numberless deities
of the wave.

On the walls around, between the various cabinets and the windows,
were a number of small and beautiful pictures from the hands of the
greatest masters. They were principally landscapes though here and
there a figure-piece of the Dutch or Flemish school found admittance,
where the subject fitted it for a lady's eyes. There was only one
large picture in the room, and that was the portrait of a young girl,
some what fancifully dressed, putting aside with her hand the green
leaves and branches of a tree, and seeming to look out from the
shadowy bower beneath upon those who gazed upon her in return. The
face was full of life, and light, and intelligence, and joy. Youth was
evidently holding revel in her heart, and the spirit of the free
green-wood seemed over all. Although Lady Danvers's eyes had deeper
things in them now--although the expression was now generally more
thoughtful, more timid, and the form, there in the bud, had blossomed
into womanly loveliness, yet Ralph had no difficulty in recognizing
Hortensia in the delicate features and wild graces of the child. He
paused longer there, and with deeper interest than he had done any
where else; and as the servant continued to hold up the lights before
him, and Mr. Drayton stood a step behind, a slight smile came upon the
face of the latter, arising apparently from some conclusions that he
was drawing in his own mind.

"This is my lady's dressing-room," he said, after a while, opening a
door beyond, "and this is her bed-room."

Ralph followed, and gazed round. Here, it was evident, the same spirit
resided; but the bed-room itself was very simply arranged. There was a
fire-place for a wood-fire, with a mantel, piece of rich white marble,
supported by two beautiful columns; and the andirons, according to the
ancient mode, were decorated with two large dogs' heads beautifully
sculptured in brass. Above the mantel-piece was another picture of the
late Lady Danvers. The chairs were of green velvet, and the hangings
of the bed the same. The pillow and the sheet were edged with lace;
and as Ralph gazed at the spot where Hortensia laid her head to rest,
he said to himself, with a strange feeling that he did not stop to
analyze, "May peace and happiness ever rest there with her!"

Turning away with the good steward, he proceeded through a number of
other rooms; but, though the house had some historical associations,
and a number of those old dreamy stair-cases, passages, and halls,
which filled the unoccupied mind with strange imaginings, no part had
such an interest for him as that which he had visited first; and he
returned to the room in which he had been sitting with the more
painful feelings busy in his heart, but mingled with some pleasanter
thoughts, by all that he had seen in the apartments of Hortensia.

"I will now, Mr. Drayton," he said, "write some letters, and then
retire to rest."

"Ay, sir, it is always better," said Mr. Drayton, in that commonplace
tone which somewhat jars with strong emotions, "to write a letter at
night, take counsel with one's pillow, and read it over before one
sends it in the morning. It seems my lady has made some mistake about
this duel, and it has taken you by surprise. You had better think
well, sir, before you act in any way, for one does not always do the
wisest when one acts in a hurry."

"True--true, Mr. Drayton," said Ralph, in an absent tone, "I will
think before I act; but still I must not suffer an imputation to rest
upon me which I do not deserve;" and, after having procured writing
materials, he proceeded to indite several letters, of which I shall
only give one as a specimen. It was addressed to Lord Woodhall, and
was to the following effect:


"MY HONORED AND VERY DEAR LORD,

"I have this evening, and only this evening, learned the sad and
terrible event which has occurred in your family, and which has
deprived me not only of a very dear relation, but of one who has been
my friend from boyhood. Though your lordship's grief must naturally be
greater than that of any other person, believe me that mine, upon
receiving this intelligence, would have been hard enough to bear
without any aggravation. But coupled with the sad information comes
the strange tidings that by some mistake, to me unaccountable, my name
has been mingled with the transaction which deprived you of your dear
son, and me of my friend and cousin. I can not leave you to suppose
for one moment that I would have drawn my sword upon your son; but I
have further to declare that there was no quarrel or dispute between
us whatsoever; that we parted on the night of Wednesday last in
perfect friendship and good feeling; and that I have never either seen
or heard from him since, as I set out early on the morning of Thursday
to escort Lady Danvers westward, and have never been in Norwich from
that hour to this. Nay, more, it is utterly impossible that I could
have been there, as I am willing to prove at any time, by accounting
for every moment of my time, and producing persons who were with me.
If, notwithstanding my most solemn assurance, your lordship still
entertains doubts of the fact I mention, which can not be removed by
private investigation, I am not at all unwilling to abide fair and
open trial; and if I do not show that there was no possibility
whatsoever of my having been on the spot, and at the hour where and
when the unfortunate transaction took place, let me be condemned as a
murderer.

"One thing, however, I would fain avoid, which is lengthened
imprisonment; but if it is publicly given forth on what day the charge
against me can be tried, I pledge you my word of honor, as a man and a
gentleman, I will come forward at the place named, and surrender
myself to abide the result.

"With the hope that God may comfort you in the sad affliction with
which He has been pleased to visit you, and that He may shower every
blessing upon yourself and your daughter, I have the honor to
subscribe myself, my lord, your lordship's most faithful and humble
servant,

"RALPH WOODHALL."


Another letter of similar import was addressed to the Duke of Norfolk,
another to his own father, and another to Lady Danvers.

He would fain have written to Margaret also, but paused, hesitated,
and finally abandoned his intention.

When these were all concluded, he sent for Gaunt Stilling, to consult
with him as to the best means of dispatching the letters from that
part of the country, communications by post being in those days not
very rapid and not very secure.

"I will have them conveyed, sir," said Stilling, taking the letters,
"though Norwich and London are far apart, and Lincolnshire a good way
off too; but if the object of these letters is what I guess, I think
you might save yourself the trouble and expense, which will not be
small."

"What do you guess the object is?" asked Ralph.

The man paused for an instant, and then answered, "To tell all these
people that you are not the man who killed Mr. Henry Woodhall."

"Do you not think it worth my while to clear myself of shedding my
cousin's blood?" asked Ralph, with some feeling of anger at the man's
cool tone.

"Certainly, sir," replied Stilling; "but I think it is done already,
in all probability. Either you do not know well the person who first
placed me with you, or he has not told you how his eyes are always on
those in whom he takes an interest. His eyes need no perspective
glasses, sir, and he is just as well aware of the whole facts as you
or I--better, indeed, most likely, than either of us. Nor will he let
the knowledge sleep, depend upon it. He will make your cause good with
those who are most concerned, whether you ask him or not."

Ralph smiled faintly. "You seem to have great faith," he said; "but I
must not trust to any thing like a chance in such matters. I should
like the letters to go."

"Well, sir, they shall go," replied Gaunt Stilling; "but one must
trust to chance in all matters. For instance, I must give this letter
for London to the king's post: there's a chance of his being stopped
on the way. This must be sent to Lady Danvers by a special messenger,
who is just as likely to miss her as not. The Duke of Norfolk will be
gone from Norwich by this time, and--"

Ralph waved his hand somewhat impatiently. "I wish them to go," he
said; "there is no chance, at least, of the messenger not reaching
London."

"The greatest in the world," answered Gaunt Stilling; "but I see, sir,
that you are not aware of all that is going on. Do you know that the
country between this and London is all in a flame? If civil war has
not broken out already, it won't be long first, and depend upon it
that no letter will reach London, without being stopped and examined,
for this month to come. I haven't got all the particulars right, but
you shall hear more to-morrow morning, for I have got friends in Lyme,
where this matter first broke out, and I have sent over a boy to
inquire."

"Give me the letters," said Ralph Woodhall, "and I will decide
to-morrow, when we have heard more."

Thus saying, he took them back, determined, on account of the
difficulties Stilling threw in his way, to see them dispatched
himself. The news of insurrection made but small impression upon his
mind at the moment, occupied so fully as it was by personal feelings;
but he asked a few questions in an indifferent tone; and, receiving
nothing but a report of vague rumors, to which he attached but little
importance, he retired to bed, determined to rise early on the
following morning, and transact his business for himself.




CHAPTER XXIII.


The most capricious gift of heaven is sleep--That is a very bad
expression--unphilosophical--not logical; but yet it expresses what I
mean, perhaps, better than any other form I could have used. A gift
can not be capricious, though the giver may; and yet, in this
instance, the giver is never capricious, and the gift, as if instinct
with life, and will, and perversity itself, seems to have no rule, no
regularity, no consequence of effect.

One is always inclined to repeat or copy the opening of Young's Night
Thoughts when one speaks of sleep; and yet the owl-poet, soft and
solemn as he was, did not always direct his thoughts aright. Sleep
does not always "his ready visit pay where Fortune smiles;" nor does
he always forsake the wretched to light on lids unsullied by a tear.
Far, far from it. Shakspeare knew the world, waking and sleeping,
better than Young; for sleep does often "knit up the raveled sleave of
care," and bestows his balmy blessing, as the gift of Heaven, upon
wearied eyelids, and aching hearts, and care-worn brains, which naught
of earth earthly could ever soothe. Ay, and he does so, too, in
circumstances where the blessed boon could never be expected; unless
man could calculate finely, and to the utmost nicety, all the varied
shades of the heart's feelings, all the different hues of the mind's
thoughts, all the delicate outlines of the body's sensations, and
balance the harmonies existing through the whole as in a goldsmith's
scale.

Ralph Woodhall lay down to rest--to rest, mark me, I say--not to
sleep. Sleep he never calculated upon. His mind was as busy and as
active when his head touched the pillow as his body had been during
the four or five days preceding. But his body was weary; there was a
dull numbness in his limbs, an oppressive weight upon his corporeal
energies that pressed them down, and he thought he could find repose,
though not slumber. In a moment, however, there came a vacancy of
thought--a dead leaden lapse in mind's existence--a space in which
intellect and feeling were still and silent. Suddenly the mind or the
heart, I know not which, woke up, and the body itself was roused by
the start of its companions. He raised himself upon his arm, gazed
wildly round upon the darkness, half remembered, half forgot where he
was, sunk slowly back upon his pillow, and slept profoundly.

His sleep was long as well as deep. The morning sun rose and shone
into the room; the summer birds began their song, and caroled at his
window all unheard; his servant came in, gazed at, but would not wake
him, and retired, saying to himself, "Would that I could sleep so;"
the breakfast table was laid in the small room below; the church clock
even struck nine, and Ralph was sleeping still.

It was not exhaustion of body, for he was accustomed to hard and
robust exercise, often repeated, long continued; but it was exhaustion
of body and mind together.

The immortal spirit, bound up in the fleshy clay, partakes of the
infirmity of its fellowship; and that which, liberate from earth, must
necessarily be unconscious of weariness or needful of repose, when
linked in the bond of life with dust, feels a part of the weight
which hangs upon its mortal brother. Both were weary with Ralph
Woodhall--both slept. There was an utter vacancy of all things in that
dull, leaden repose. There was no movement--no tossing to and fro--no
murmuring of the lips--no dream--no thought--no feeling, waking. All
was still. The beating of the heart went on--the mere mechanism of
life was there: the wheel was not still, the silver chain was not
broken; there was existence without life--without the living life,
deprived of which existence is but a gap in time.

It was nearly ten when he awoke; but then, the shortened shadow on the
floor, the brightness of the sunshine as it streamed through the
window with its warm, yellowish, unempurpled light, showed him how
long he had slept; and he proceeded to dress himself eagerly and in
haste.

As he stood by the window at the toilet table, bestowing no great
pains upon his attire--for mind had by this time recovered the full
mastery of her mortal ally--he saw a horseman crossing with speed the
open space of the park which lay between the house and the little
bridge that spanned the river some half a mile further up The man was
dressed in the livery of Lady Danvers, which, as most liveries were in
those days, was somewhat gay, if not gaudy; and the horse seemed tired
enough to require frequently the whip and spur.

Ralph took no great heed, for his mind was busy within its own
peculiar sphere of thought, and sent forth few scouts to notice what
was passing without. He saw the man gallop up to the terrace and pass
round to the back of the house, without any comment, even merely
mental. He did not ask himself who he could be, why he rode so fast,
or what intelligence he brought. It was but to him that a something
had arrived at the mansion--that a horse and man had passed rapidly
before his eyes, and that they were gone. He was still absorbed in the
thoughts of the preceding day, when a gentle knock at the door roused
him, and, turning round, he saw Mr. Drayton entering with some letters
in his hand.

"I beg pardon for intruding, sir," said the steward, with a bow of
profound respect; "but a servant has brought some letters from my
lady, among which is this one for yourself, marked, 'with the utmost
speed.' I therefore made bold to break in upon your rest, for your
servant told me you were still sleeping."

"I thank you, Mr. Drayton," replied Ralph; "I have a good deal
overslept myself. What says your lady?"

"But little to me, sir," replied the steward, "except to give you this
letter immediately, and to send the other to Lady Di Fullerton, who
often stays here; but I thought this needed immediate notice, and
therefore, as I have said, I brought it up."

Ralph took the letter with more indifference than Mr. Drayton thought
altogether proper toward the hand and seal of his fair influential
mistress, and then, having opened it, he read as follows:


"I write to you in haste, dear friend, for since you left me I have
heard much which requires to be spoken of between you and me
immediately. Some mistakes have evidently been committed--where or how
I can not stop to inquire; and it is needful, before you take any step
whatever, that you should consult with some one, even though it be so
humble a counselor as myself. There are more dangers surrounding you
than you at all imagine, very different from those which alarmed me on
the day that you left me, and which have now passed away from my mind.
These can not be explained by letter; but you must now--I enjoin and
require you, by courtesy and gallantry, which I know you possess, if
you would but show them--to remain a close prisoner in my house till
you see me without doing act or deed which can bring any one to know
where you are concealed. I may add that there are warrants out against
you for crimes less merciable than the simply fighting of a duel, and
that you must not be found at present, till the doubts and fears which
shake men's minds have passed away. Do not suppose that I will keep
you long waiting, although I do not choose to commit the facts of
which I am cognizant to the peril of a letter; but I am following you
as rapidly as may be, bold in my independence, and, I trust, in my
right purposes. Nevertheless, to escape the world's forked tongue, I
have written to an amiable but antique cousin--married and widowed--to
come over to Danvers's New Church. Should she arrive before myself,
show her all courtesy and kindness, and believe me, if you will let me
be so, your kind sister,

                       "HORTENSIA DANVERS."


Ralph studied the letter with much attention; read and re-read every
sentence several times, and ultimately resolved to abide by the
counsel it contained, and to await the coming of his fair hostess ere
he took any step whatever. It was evident--so he argued--that Lady
Danvers was disabused of the idea that he had killed his cousin Henry
in a duel; but what were the circumstances of peril to which she
alluded, he could not divine.

Could it be, he asked himself, that the influence of Lord Woodhall,
attributing to him his son's death, had been exerted with such effect
as to have a factitious accusation of some other offense against the
laws brought against him to secure vengeance? Such an idea would never
occur to any Englishman in the present day, and the very mention of it
would be laughed to scorn. But we must recollect that this was no vain
and improbable fancy in the times of which we are speaking. Trumped-up
charges, for the purpose of destroying a political adversary or a
private enemy, had been for more than twenty years, and still were, as
common as daisies; nor had such villainy yet reached its height; for
the three succeeding years displayed an amount of villainous practices
of this kind which probably never before, and certainly never after,
stained the history of any Christian country. Courts of law, too, were
notoriously corrupt; judges were bought, sold, and influenced. Scroggs
and Jeffries had befouled the judgment-seat; attorneys general were at
the beck and call of every political enmity or court intrigue; and
corrupt sheriffs selected, packed, and instructed the juries of the
day on the basest motives for the most infamous purposes. It was no
chimera of the imagination, then, that Ralph Woodhall dreaded, but a
real and substantial danger, which might affect any man who had
incurred the enmity of power and influence.

There could be no great harm done, he thought, by delay; and he
determined not to send the letters which he had written on the
preceding evening till Lady Danvers had arrived.

On questioning the man who had brought her letters, he found that she
might be expected in two days more; and, to follow her directions
exactly, he took a strong resolution to confine himself to the house
till after he was made more fully aware of the peril that menaced him.

But alas for human resolutions, and for the young man's above all!
Ralph was uneasy and restless. The anxiety of his mind left him no
repose. He tried to read, and the fine library of Danvers's New Church
afforded ample opportunity; but he soon found that the delight in
books was for the time gone. He thought of Margaret, and of his poor
cousin Henry, and, with a feeling of sympathy and pity, of old Lord
Woodhall himself. He knew well that the first effect of his son's
violent death would be to produce rage and a thirst for vengeance,
which might be turned against him by the slightest accident; but he
knew also that this would subside, and that profound grief would take
the place of anger, and very probably affect the old man's health, if
not his intellect.

He paced up and down the room. He gazed forth from the window, full of
thought. He tasted very little of the dinner set before him. He looked
at his watch often to see how the dull day went. In fact, to use a
vulgar but significant expression, "he could settle to nothing."

At length, as the sun began to go down, he felt that longing for the
free, open air which is so hard to be resisted. He persuaded himself
that there could be no harm in wandering out into the park. He would
go no further, he thought; and, as he had seen no one throughout
the whole livelong day but the servants coming to and fro, or a
game-keeper, with a gun on his shoulder, crossing the wide expanse
within the walls, his walk, he fancied, was likely to be solitary and
uninterrupted. Resolution soon gave way under such reasoning, and out
he went, wandering quietly along, and soon losing himself amid the
scattered trees and undulations of the ground. It is very pleasant to
lose one's self sometimes, to shake us free from every thing habitual,
to lose sight of houses and men, and the busy scene of mortal coil, to
comrade with nature, and see naught but nature's handiwork around; and
Ralph certainly had ample opportunity of doing so; for, quitting the
path, and taking his way across the green turf, he was soon out of
sight of the house, and wandering on among the old fantastic
hawthorns, with the fern waving its plumes up to his knees, and here
and there a chestnut or an oak spreading its green branches over his
head. Every now and then a rabbit or a hare would dart away from his
foot, and cunningly gallop through the tall, concealing fern, marking
its course by a long wavy line. A herd of deer, here and there, would
stand and gaze at him as he passed, keeping him at a fearful distance,
or trot away with increasing speed if he came suddenly near. A
solitary doe, too, started up as he approached her lair among the
longest leaves, and scampered off in a different direction from the
herd; and Ralph would moralize upon her somewhat in the vein of
Jacques, asking himself what she had done to be thus shut out from
fellowship with her kind--what offense she had committed against the
laws and proprieties of the deer.

There were all these things around him, but there was no trace of man.
If the scene had ever been embellished by man's hand, the vestiges of
his handiwork had passed away, and it all seemed Nature's doing.
Clouds, too, were flitting over the sky--large, grand, fleecy summer
clouds, low down in the air, and looking like the island of the
Laputan sages. Ralph's fancy played with them too. He made flying
thrones of them, and winged chariots, and longed to have some
enchanter's spell to call one down to receive him and float away upon
that soft, calm coach till he could step gently down at Margaret's
side.

This pleasant amusement of the mind--this refreshing solitude had no
long time to last. After walking about half a mile through the fern,
the wall of the park appeared in sight, and Ralph, turning a little to
the left, resolved to follow its course and return to the house by the
other side. He soon heard voices speaking beyond the wall, however,
and judged rightly that beyond it lay some public road. An instant
after, as he looked on, he saw a figure leap the wall at the distance
of about a hundred yards further up the hill, and immediately crouch
down among the fern and long grass which was there particularly tall.
Ralph paused for a moment to watch what would follow, and, standing
under an old chestnut-tree, could see without being seen. Running feet
were heard immediately after, and then the head and shoulders of a man
appeared above the wall. After gazing quickly round, the last comer
exclaimed, "He has run on! he has run on! he must have either taken
down over the bridge, or among the cottages by old Mother Diamond's."

Thus saying, he let go his hold of the wall and disappeared; and Ralph
could hear the sound of many persons running fast and calling to each
other as they went. His curiosity was excited by the scene he had
witnessed, and he connected it in his own mind with some vague
information which Gaunt Stilling had brought him in the morning of a
rising on the sea-board of Dorsetshire, which Ralph had judged from
the man's account to be of no greater importance than a riot in a
country town. He walked straightforward, then, toward the spot where
the man who had leaped the wall lay concealed, when the stranger
started upon his feet with a large horse-pistol in his hand, warning
him to stand back: "I will not be taken by a single man," he said; "I
will die first, with arms in my hand."

"I do not seek to take you, my good friend," replied Ralph, in a calm
tone; "I have no commission for such a thing. But you had belter put
up your pistol; for, if you should be foolish enough to fire it, it
would bring back to the spot those who apparently are seeking you, and
servants and game-keepers enough to render your other arms useless."

"Then will you swear not to touch me if I do put it up--not to attempt
to take me, I mean," said the stranger, after having eyed him
attentively for a moment.

"I will give you my honor," replied Ralph, "and that must satisfy
you; but I should much like to know, if you please, what you are
doing here within the walls of this park, where I imagine you have no
business, and where you are exceedingly likely to be apprehended as a
deer-stealer?"

"I am the most unfortunate of men," cried the other, "and only escaped
one peril to fall into another. Sir, I assure you I came not to steal
your deer, but merely to escape from those bloodhounds of a tyrant who
are following me to death."

Lamentable as his reply was, there was something almost ludicrous in
the tone in which it was delivered, and Ralph smiled slightly as he
replied, "The deer are not mine, my good friend, nor am I the
proprietor of this park, but merely a guest at the house."

He was going on, when the other interrupted him with a theatrical
gesture, saying, "Then I beseech you, sir, if you have any generosity
or chivalry in your disposition, aid an unfortunate stranger, who is
only persecuted on account of his political and religious opinions. I
have committed no crime. They can charge me with no other fault but
that of hating tyranny and popery."

"If that be all your offense," replied Ralph, "there is many a man in
the land who would be chargeable with the same, and myself among the
rest. But I really know not how to serve you, unless it be by leading
you to a way out of the park, in a different direction from that which
your pursuers have taken. I saw a gate a few minutes ago, up the
stream. They have gone down below toward the bridge, and will very
likely search the park when they find themselves disappointed there.
You had better follow me, therefore, as fast as possible, in order to
have a fair start."

"Without delay--without delay," replied the stranger, waving his hand
in what he conceived a very graceful manner; and, pursuing his course
onward by the wall, Ralph conducted him toward a gate of the park,
which was visible from the house. As they went, the stranger, who
seemed somewhat given to babble, entered into more conversation than
the young gentleman perhaps desired. Nor was the style exactly well
suited to compensate for the defects of the manner. His language was a
mixture of bad French and somewhat vulgar English, with the
assistance, every now and then, of a word or two of Low Dutch; and in
this jargon he went on to inform Ralph of a variety of particulars
which, had our young friend's loyalty been very rampant, might have
induced him to cause his arrest upon the spot. He boasted that a
fortnight would not pass before the crown of England was upon the head
of a good, true Protestant king; that the whole land was rising in
favor of the legitimate heir to the throne, and that the army itself
was full of disaffection to the reigning monarch.

Ralph interrupted him as soon as he could, half inclined to believe
that he was insane, and only anxious to get rid of him as soon as
possible; but, before they reached the gate toward which their steps
were directed, they were encountered by a game-keeper, who stopped
full in their way, looking at them both sternly as they approached.

Suddenly, however, the man's face changed, and he exclaimed with a
laugh, "Ah, Tom Dare! when did you come back from beyond sea? I
thought you dared not venture. Why, do you know, man, you are
proclaimed, and all the lads of Taunton are looking for you?"

Tom Dare, as the keeper called him, had at first shrunk into himself
in evident consternation; but the last words seemed to rouse him, and,
resuming his high-flown tone, he answered, "They shall soon find me,
for I am going there tout droit."

"But who is this gentleman?" asked the keeper, looking at Ralph with
some degree of suspicion, and addressing his question to the man he
called Tom Dare.

Ralph, however, took upon himself to answer, saying, "I am a guest of
Lady Danvers, my good friend, and finding this person in the park, I
undertook to show him the way to the gate."

"Oh, sir, you are the gentleman staying at the house," said the
keeper, doffing his hat; "as to Tommy Dare here, the sooner he is out
of the park the better--indeed, I don't know what he does here at
all."

To this uncivil speech Mr. Dare only replied by a rueful shake of the
head, and by some muttered words in regard to a certain lady of
Babylon who had a very unpleasant reputation. In the mean time he sped
on, however, the game-keeper turning in the direction of the gate also,
as if to see him out of the park. There was an air of doubt and
hesitation about the keeper's face, and once or twice he muttered to
himself, "I don't know--I'm not sure but I ought--but, hang it, one's
own townsman! No, no, I can't do it."

As soon as they came in sight of the gate at the upper part of the
park, both Ralph and the keeper stopped, and the latter said, "There's
the gate, Master Dare; and I'll give you a word of advice: take care
of your neck if you get to Taunton. I don't believe you'll find the
folks bide any nonsense there, especially when there are riots going
on in the country."

Mr. Dare, who was a step or two in advance, waved his hand solemnly,
and Ralph thought he could hear the word "Fool" uttered in a low tone.
The fugitive hurried on, however, and passed the gates, and Ralph
turned back with the game-keeper on his way to the house.

"Who is that man?" he asked, as they proceeded.

"He is a bad fellow, sir," replied the game-keeper, somewhat abruptly;
"his name is Thomas Dare, who had at one time a little money in
Taunton, my native town, but he could not keep himself quiet, for he
was a great talker and orator, as they call them, and got a number of
folks into a scrape in the last king's reign, then left them to shift
for themselves, and ran away to Holland. I am not at all sure that I
ought not, by rights, to have apprehended him, for he is a proclaimed
outlaw, and is here for no good, depend upon it."

Ralph made no comment, but strolled back again toward the house,
feeling a little dissatisfied with himself for not having adhered to
his resolution of the morning. The sun was setting when he reached the
door, purpling the slopes of the park, and making the river glow like
a ruby. Another day had passed; and as he stood there and looked for a
moment round, he could not help thinking of how different was the
scene, and the spot, and the circumstances in which that day had gone
by, from any thing he could have anticipated but a few weeks before.




CHAPTER XXIV.


The mansion of Danvers's New Church, when Ralph entered it, seemed
silent and solitary enough. It was too large for a small household,
such as now tenanted it. The steward's apartments were far away, the
rooms of the inferior servants still further distant, and, entering
the small saloon in which he had passed the morning, Ralph felt as if
he were the only inhabitant of the house. The evening light, now
tinged with the gray of night, shone in at the window; the paintings
on the walls had become dim and indistinct; shade after shade came
melancholy over the sky; and the ticking of a clock upon the stairs
would have been the only sound that broke the stillness, had it not
been for the note of a distant blackbird singing from beneath a bush.
Ralph felt his spirits depressed, and was not sorry when one of the
old servants entered the room, bearing two letters in his hand.

"This is for you, sir, I suppose," he said; "Harry has just brought it
back from Lady Di Fullerton, with this other for my lady against her
return."

Ralph took the letter which the man handed to him--a small, delicate
note, perfumed and sealed; but it was too dark by this time even to
read the address, and he had to wait till lights were brought. When
they had been set upon the table, he bade the good man send his
servant to him.

"He borrowed a horse from Mr. Drayton, sir," replied the man, "and
rode away about twelve o'clock. He has not come back yet, I believe."

"I remember--I remember," replied Ralph: "he asked leave to go to see
some of his friends;" and then, turning to the note, he examined the
back, which bore,

"To the Honorable Gentleman at present residing at Danvers's New
Church."

Within were written a few complimentary lines in the French language,
expressing the regret of Lady Diana Fullerton that she could not have
the extreme pleasure of doing the honors of her relative's house to
Lady Danvers's guest, as she had been for some time too seriously
unwell to venture out of her own dressing-room. Plenty of polite and
courtly expressions were employed; but the main fact was, that there
was no chance of Lady Fullerton being able to give her society and
countenance to Hortensia during Ralph's stay at Danvers's New Church.

To say the truth, Ralph did not very much embarrass himself with
reflections upon this derangement of Lady Danvers's plans. He was
young, inexperienced in the world, and a college life of those days
was not at all likely to open the eyes of a young man to the
proprieties of society. He saw no more reason why he should not stay
in the same house with Hortensia than stay in the same street; and it
must be remembered, also, that that horrible cloak of decorum, which
but too frequently covers, like charity, a multitude of sins, was a
thing hardly known in those days, when the phrensied license of the
Restoration was but just giving place to the colder and more covert
debaucheries which succeeded. He quietly tore to pieces Lady Diana
Fullerton's note with very little reverence, and, casting the subject
from his mind, let his thoughts rest again, with some of that
impatience for action which is peculiar to youth, upon the death of
his poor cousin Henry, and the anguish which he knew Margaret must be
feeling both for her brother and for himself, if she believed him
guilty. He longed to fly to her, to console her, to comfort her, to
assure her of his innocence, and of his ever-enduring affection; but
how rarely is it that Fate allows us to do any thing that we long to
do. Had not even the warning of Lady Danvers kept him in inactivity,
he would not have dared either to visit or to write to her whom he so
much loved. He did not know if their attachment to each other had been
really made known or not; for, although he had at first imagined that
the anxiety of the Duke of Norfolk and Hortensia to remove him from
the vicinity of Lord Woodhall was occasioned by a discovery which he
knew would excite the old lord's highest indignation, even without any
of those insinuations which Robert Woodhall was too likely to add, yet
that anxiety was now explained in another manner, and his and
Margaret's mutual love might be still unknown, and their happiness
periled by any indiscreet act.

Thought, so rapid in itself that it can girdle the great earth ere the
leviathan can swim a mile, makes time often pass rapidly along with
it. The evening wore away insensibly, broken by only one solitary
ramble through the galleries and rooms which he had visited the night
before. That ramble, indeed, occupied some time, because there were
many of the pictures which interested him; and more than once he stood
with the light in his hand gazing at the face of departed greatness or
beauty, and comparing what he knew of the life passed away with the
permanent expression of the countenance.

It has always given me a strange sensation to go through an ancient
portrait-gallery, and see the faces of the dead looking down at me
from the wall--living, as it were, again in the spiritual world of
art. Their acts may be recorded on the page of history--their
thoughts, their words transmitted to us even in their own hands; but
these are voices without substance, vague shadows of a name. It is
only the hand of the painter or the sculptor, that can give us the
definite and the clear. On the broad brow, in the liquid eye, in the
curl of the lip, in the dimpled cheek, in the poise of the figure, in
the very fall of the hand, we read more of men's character, or more of
its truths, than in all that they have written--even, than in all that
they have done. Men write for the world, and often act for the world.
Circumstances control them--events rule them. Few, if any, are not at
some time, if not at all times, acting a part; and even where passion
has spurned all governance, and the fiery deed of love or hate has
seemed in its bright glare to reveal the very inner secrets of the
heart, still no one can tell how that heart may have been affected by
events of which we know nothing--how many motives, sensations,
feelings, passions, accidents, may have prompted and mingled with the
deeds which we only see in their harsh whole. But, upon the face and
form, we are fond to think that Nature has herself written the
description of her handiwork. There, with some experience, and but
very little skill, by indications as small as the letters of a book,
we can read much of the mind, the heart, the character, which no other
page can ever display; and, at the same time, the likeness of the
fleshly tabernacle of the spirit stands before us, so that all which
can be known of the mixed being is at once in presence.

Oh, great Lavater! every one is more or less a physiognomist.

Ralph gazed, then, upon those faces with association very busy in his
mind. Or, again, he would pause before a sunny landscape, and let the
eye rest upon the golden skies, or wander through the far-prolonged
vales, or pause among the deep groves of trees, watching the nymph
bathing in the limpid stream, or the ancient armament sailing up, amid
columns, and trophies, and palaces, to an imagined city; and the
poetry of painting would wake in his heart as many bright images as
ever were called up by verse or the lyre.

Again, he would go on, and, feeling free in the solitude, he ventured
once more into Hortensia's own apartments. But this time he got no
further than her picture. It had certainly something fascinating in
it, for he stood and gazed on that bright face, bursting through the
branches, in its wild, gay youth, and comparing it, line by line, with
the features which memory preserved; and as he did so, imagination was
busy too. He asked himself, what were the events, what the course of
life, which had subdued and chastened the light hilarity there
displayed--what was it that, like Undine's love, had given a soul to
the wild spirit sparkling there? He did not puzzle, though he did not
satisfy himself; he enjoyed the wanderings of his own imagination
round the pleasant theme, and when at length he turned away to retire
to rest, he said to himself, "She must always have been very lovely."

Let us not ask if Hortensia shared his dreams with Margaret. We have
no right to lift up sleep's shadowy curtain, and see the fairy sports
of fancies freed from the control of will and reason. He slept, and
doubtless he dreamed too; but he woke early, ere the sun had so far
climbed the eastern hill as to overtop the wood, and while the slant
rays were still pouring in golden splendor through the branches of the
trees.

As he paused to look through the open window after having dressed
himself, his eye passed over the park to the valley beyond, and, where
the open ground stretched out from the banks of the stream up the
sides of the hills, he was surprised to see a number of horsemen, in
groups of two or three together, cantering lightly hither and thither,
as if in sport. It was no season for hunting; but he thought that
perhaps they might be flying a hawk, and he watched them with some
interest till he convinced himself that that supposition was
incorrect.

A moment after he saw a single figure on horseback riding up the broad
road from the great gates to the house, and as it came nearer he
recognized his servant, Gaunt Stilling, who had been absent since noon
of the day before.

"Perhaps he brings me some intelligence," thought Ralph; and,
descending to the small saloon, he ordered his breakfast to be
brought. Still Gaunt Stilling did not come; and at length, after
having waited ample time for him to tend his horse, his young master
sent for him. When he appeared, Ralph was a good deal struck with
something strange in the man's looks. He seemed worn, fatigued, and
thin, and his apparel was dusty with the road; but that was not all.
He was gloomy, abstracted, more taciturn than usual. Even in the midst
of a sentence he would fix his eyes upon the ground, and seemingly
fall into a deep revery.

"Do you know who those horsemen are, whom I saw just now riding down
in the valley?" asked Ralph, after a few other questions of no moment.

"No, sir," replied Stilling; "I saw them, but did not heed them."

"They seemed at one time to be hawking," said Ralph. "Have you heard
any further intelligence from Lyme, Stilling!"

"None, sir," answered the servant; "I have been forty miles the other
way. I met that scoundrel, Thomas Dare, this morning, who might have
told me, perhaps, but--" and he left the sentence unconcluded,
remaining, as it were, lost in thought.

"But what?" asked his master.

The man started and looked up. "Oh, merely that I was busy with other
thoughts, sir--that the man is a rascal, and that we passed each other
with only 'Give you good-day, Master Stilling'--'Go to the devil,
Thomas Dare.'"

Something had evidently gone wrong with Stilling; but, as he did not
seem inclined to speak of it, Ralph, though he felt interested, merely
said, "I hope you had good news of your family, Stilling?"

"The worst in the world," replied the man, abruptly. "I thought the
worst had come some time ago, yet this is worse; but, so help me
Heaven--" and again he broke off his speech and relapsed into silence.
This time, however, his silence was not without significance, for he
clinched both his hands tight, as if struggling with some strong
passion.

"I am very sorry to hear this," replied Ralph, in a feeling tone. "Can
I do any thing to assist you, Stilling? I need not tell you that I am
most willing, if it be possible."

The man looked up more brightly, and replied, "Not at present, sir,
but the time may come--Hark! there is Lady Danvers, I suppose; I heard
of her upon the road."

The sounds which had attracted his attention were produced by horses'
feet upon the gravel, and the moment after the great bell rang out
loud. Without taking note of the fact that there had been no sound of
carriage wheels, Ralph rose hastily and ran through the hall to the
door, in order to assist his beautiful hostess as she alighted. He was
surprised to see, however, when he opened the door, a party of some
ten or twelve horsemen, three of whom had dismounted, while another,
far taller and much handsomer than any of the rest, was in the act of
alighting also. One groom held his horse; another supported his
stirrup; and there was something dignified and graceful in his whole
air which instantly attracted Ralph's chief attention toward him. He
wore a star and broad ribbon, and over his heavy riding-boots a pair
of golden spurs, and his whole dress was splendid, though subdued in
coloring by good taste.

Before any questions could be asked, the steward and two or three of
the old servants were by Ralph's side, and finding that he had been
mistaken in his expectations, the young gentleman retired into the
house, leaving Mr. Drayton to reply to any inquiries. Ralph heard a
fine melodious voice, however, ask if Lady Danvers were then in
Dorsetshire, and Mr. Drayton replied in the negative.

"I have a letter for her from an old friend," replied the stranger,
"and would wish to add a few lines myself, if you will furnish me with
materials for writing. Nay, more, I am inclined to tax your
hospitality so far, sir, as to ask for some refreshment for my men and
horses, and some breakfast for myself--you know me, I presume?"

"I do, your grace," replied Mr. Drayton, "and, of course, whatever the
house affords is at your service."

"Well, then, I will walk in here and write," replied the other,
advancing toward the room in which Ralph then was.

Mr. Drayton seemed puzzled how to act; but, before he could decide,
the stranger had entered the room, and stood face to face with Ralph
Woodhall. He bowed courteously, but with a look of some surprise; and
the good steward thought fit to take upon himself the task of
introducing Ralph as "Mr. Woodhall, a friend of my lady's family, sir,
who is staying for a time at the house."

He did not mention the name of the new visitor; but while he hurried
away to procure pen, ink, and paper, the gentleman who had come in
seated himself calmly at the table, and entered easily into
conversation. His very appearance was a recommendation; and his
demeanor was so graceful, that, even had his conversation been less
happy than it was, there would still have been an irresistible charm
about it; but his words were well chosen; his expressions what I may
call picturesque, if not poetical; and there was a touch of that
vivacity which often passed for wit at the court of the second
Charles. He asked a number of questions, but none of them impertinent
or intrusive. He spoke of the house, and the grounds, and the beauty
of the park; said he had been there when he was a boy, but had nearly
forgotten it, and expressed a wish, before he went, to walk over the
house.

"I shall have much pleasure in conducting you, sir," replied Ralph,
"for during the short time of my stay here, I have more than once
wandered over the building, and felt much interest in all that it
contains."

"Then you are not well acquainted with the place?" said the other;
but, without waiting for a reply to what was in reality a question, he
added, "Let us go. Doubtless they will be a long while in finding pen,
ink, and paper. I have always found it so, here in Dorsetshire, since
my return."

They walked out into the hall together, where two or three gentlemen
stood booted and spurred. They uncovered their heads as soon as the
other appeared; and one of them, advancing a step, addressed him,
saying, "It is all clear, your grace, on the way to Taunton, and the
intelligence in that quarter is satisfactory."

"Good," replied the other. "This want of cavalry is inconvenient. What
says Mr. Dare as to the levies about Taunton?"

"He had not yet reached the town, my lord duke, when his messenger
came away," was the reply; "but he promises much--more, I fear, than
he will perform; for his reception in some of the small villages by
the way has been so good, that he looks upon it as a conquered country
already. He is a braggadocio, if ever there was one."

"He is a good creature, notwithstanding," replied the duke; "light and
gay in danger, and cheerful in all circumstances--a little given to
boast and assume, perhaps; but still his gayety and confidence throw a
light upon our expedition, which I wish we had a little more."

"Shall I give any orders regarding the march to-morrow?" inquired the
other gentleman.

"I think not," said Ralph's companion; "we must wait for these Taunton
levies, or some surer information. It will not do to leave all
resources behind us till we have the certainty of support in advance.
But make yourself easy, gallant friend; time, I trust, will be our
ally, and not our enemy."

There was something uncommonly easy and placable, though confident in
the speaker's tone and manner; and Ralph, though he had divined from
the first that he was speaking with the Duke of Monmouth, began to
doubt whether his supposition was correct, for he had not calculated
accurately how far adversity can tame both the highest and the
lightest spirit.

After this brief conversation, they passed on through the house,
speaking calmly and cheerfully of the various objects which it
presented to their eyes, as if there were no such thing as strife, and
warfare, and bloodshed in the world. The duke walked the suites of
splendid rooms and the long-drawn-out lines of corridors as if he were
treading the drawing-rooms of some peaceful palace, with a calm sort
of meditative gentleness, not unmixed with dignity, which beseemed him
well. In his whole demeanor, carriage, and appearance, he was every
inch a prince; and his very abstinence from all reference to political
topics seemed to Ralph a recommendation of his cause. He appeared as
tranquilly confident of his rights as if nothing more was required
than to show himself to win all hearts in his support. Had he always
maintained this happy trust, he would have been a greater, a happier,
perhaps a more successful man.

The duke asked several questions, however, tending to elicit his young
companion's opinions; and, finding him a stanch Protestant, though of
the Episcopal Church, and a strong enemy of all tyranny, civil or
religious, he ventured gradually to allude distantly to his own
enterprise, and to hint--without asking it--that the assistance of
every gallant gentleman was an object he desired.

Ralph was silent, from very many varied motives. He gave neither
encouragement nor the reverse, judging more sanely than the duke of
the circumstances which surrounded them, and entertaining many doubts
whether, if Monmouth, by one of those strange accidents which
sometimes influence the course of great events, should succeed in
dethroning James, his own elevation to sovereignty would be acceptable
to the great body of the people of the realm. To himself,
notwithstanding the fascination of Monmouth's manner, he felt that
such would not be the case; and he knew that in the hearts of
Englishmen there is a fund of steady, determined loyalty, a hereditary
love for an ancient line of kings, which it requires the insanity of
great oppression to shake or overthrew.

The Duke of Monmouth (for he it was) did not press the subject by any
means far, seeming to feel it beneath him to canvass for the aid of
any individual. He might know, too, that much eagerness displays small
confidence; and at this moment of his career it was a part of
Monmouth's policy to appear full of good assurance.

He returned to the small room below, then, after commenting in the
tone of a connoisseur upon some of the pictures, and in that of a gay
courtier upon others, and finding writing materials ready, sat down
and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, in which he inclosed
another letter he had brought with him. He sealed and then addressed
the whole to "Hortensia, Baroness Danvers;" and then placing it in
Ralph's hand, he said, with a gay smile, "I will trust this to your
good care for speedy delivery, sir. If you be a lover, it comes from
no rival; if you be a friend, it comes from a friend no less sincere;
if you be a relation, there are lines within it from one who has loved
the person addressed as sincerely as any relative could love. Nay, my
good sir," he continued, turning to Mr. Drayton, who entered, followed
by several servants bearing food in a rich service of plate, "you
treat my humble state too royally; but the time may come when I can
acknowledge your courtesy better. Mr. Woodhall, will you partake?"

The duke's breakfast was not half concluded, when one of his
followers, from without, came in suddenly and without ceremony, and
spoke a word to Monmouth in a low tone over the back of his chair.

The duke started up, and gazed at him for an instant with a look of
horror and consternation.

"What!" he exclaimed; "what did you say? shot Thomas Dare--in the
streets of Lyme--on a dispute about a horse?"

"Too true, indeed, your grace," replied the other; "shot him dead; the
ball passed through his brain."

"By the Lord that lives!" cried Monmouth, "these turbulent men shall
find that he who claims to rule a realm like this, can at least rule a
handful who pretend to obey. Have out the horses there! I must not
lose a moment."

Ever energetic, and often right, in purpose, Monmouth hurried to
depart, only to show how weak he could be in act, how amenable to the
weak counsels of others. Brave as a lion in the field--often timid in
the council--not without skill as the general--ever misled as the
politician and the man.

As, about to mount his horse, he turned away from the door, he
looked round to Ralph with a pleasant smile, saying, "Remember my
commission--I trust to you."

"I will not fail, your grace," replied Ralph.

They were few and simple words, but their effects were more important.




CHAPTER XXV.


"Ah, poor gentleman!" said Mr. Drayton, as the cavalcade passed
quickly down the tortuous road through the park toward the gates, "I
remember the time well when he went through the western counties in a
sort of triumph like; when men and maidens turned out of every village
and every town to meet him; when his horse's feet trod upon nothing
but flowers, and the ringing of the bells kept all the country in a
noise. Feasted at Longleet, met by all the gentry of the land,
harangued by every corporation, the people made an idol of him, and
the great men could not show him too much honor; I fear he will find
it different now."

"Do you think the people have lost their love for him, then?" demanded
Ralph, anxious to hear more of events which were passing so near,
without any certainty having reached his ears.

"Not a whit, sir," answered the steward, "not a whit, if you mean the
common people. They are more constant than gentlemen think. Why, they
are flocking into Lyme in thousands, I am told. But with the gentry it
is different. They courted him for interest--at least one half of
them--and now for interest they will keep aloof. The Tories will stick
by the crown right or wrong; and Whig gentlemen have a great notion of
looking well before they leap. I would take any fair bet that the good
duke will not find five men above the rank of a yeoman to join him
before he fights a battle and wins it--if ever that should happen."

Ralph made no reply, although he doubted not that Mr. Drayton's
anticipations were too true. He inquired, indeed, what was taking
place in the country round; but the rumors--which were all that the
steward could relate--were, as is always the case on such occasions,
confused and various; and, after a time, Ralph begged the worthy man
to send him his servant Stilling, in order to renew the conversation
which had been broken off by Monmouth's arrival.

Mr. Drayton seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then said, frankly,
"I think you had better let him alone, sir, just at present. Something
has gone very wrong with him, that is clear. I saw him a minute or two
ago walking up and down the stable-yard, and pinching his hands one in
the other as if he would have screwed the blood out of his fingers'
points. Poor fellow! I remember him a gay, blithesome lad in an
attorney's office at Dorchester--a good education he had, Gaunt
Stilling--but then the old lady got him a commission in the Tangier
regiment, and he went away. He's mightily changed now; and yet he
can't be much over thirty."

"So much?" said Ralph, in a tone of surprise; "but tell me, Master
Drayton, do you know any thing of the cause of his present distress of
mind? You seem to be well acquainted with his family."

"I have known them many years, sir," replied the steward, with a grave
face. "As to what is the matter now, I don't exactly know any thing.
The carrier brought over word some three weeks ago that his sister had
been sent away from Lincolnshire by the old man, to get her from a
young gentleman who wished to wrong her. The father brought her half
the way, and her uncle went the other half to meet her. Now I fancy
Gaunt has been over to see her. It's a bad business, I'm afraid; and
the gentleman's name they talked of was the same as yours, sir."

As he spoke he fixed his eyes with an inquiring look upon Ralph's
face, and the young gentleman felt himself redden as he recollected
all he had seen and heard at Coldenham. He fancied, too, that there
was some suspicion in the steward's eyes; and he hastened to reply,
"Not mine exactly, sir, for there is no other of the name of Ralph
Woodhall that I know; and I never saw poor Stilling's sister but once,
and then only for a moment."

He spoke somewhat sharply, and Drayton replied in an apologetic tone,
saying, "I beg pardon, sir; I did not at all mean that you were the
gentleman--indeed I knew you were not; but I thought it might be some
relation."

"Possibly," replied Ralph, not quite satisfied yet; "I know nothing of
this matter, however; for, with the exception of the poor cousin whom
I have lately lost, and his father, I have been on no terms of
intimacy with any of my male relations."

"They are of high rank, sir, I believe," replied the steward, in a
tone of inquiry.

But Ralph merely bowed his head, thinking it not necessary to enter
into any part of his family history with a mere stranger. After a
moment's pause, he said, "I will take your advice, Mr. Drayton, and
leave poor Stilling alone for a time; but I think it would be as well
to divert his thoughts after a short period from painful subjects of
contemplation. I wish, therefore, that you would, without my sending
for him, let him know that I wish him to go out in the afternoon and
ascertain what is doing in the country. Tell him that I desire very
precise and accurate information as to the movements of the Duke of
Monmouth's forces and those of the king, for it can not be supposed
that a large body in actual rebellion will be suffered much longer to
move about the country unopposed."

"I don't know, sir," answered Mr. Drayton, shaking his head; "but
sometimes governments are taken napping, and I think the only chance
for the good duke would be to push on upon London at once. Bold
counsels would bring many a man to his standard, for there is
something catching in boldness as well as in fear. I doubt, however,
that Stilling will learn much; for I have men all about who would
bring me any tidings that are to be got, and they bring me nothing
certain."

"I should wish him to go, nevertheless," replied Ralph. "It would
serve to occupy his mind, and may, perhaps, furnish us with
information even more valuable to your lady than myself."

The steward bowed and withdrew, and for an hour or two Ralph amused
himself as best he might. To have seen him one would have supposed him
of as idle a nature as ever existed. He opened no books; he had no
inclination or application to read. He looked at no pictures, unless
it were those of imagination. His mind had harder realities to deal
with than those which any canvas can display. The greater part of his
time was passed in gazing forth from the windows upon the wide, wavy
scene without, which afforded, as it were, a stage sufficiently
extensive and ample for all persons in the drama of fancy to play
their several parts before his eyes. Oh, how memory and imagination
conjured up, from the depths of the past, from the depths of the
future, scenes and characters which might all bear their share in the
tragedy about to be performed in the land! A gloomy anticipation, a
dark but too true shadowing forth of the stern, terrible acts that
were about to take place, visited the young man's mind; and he felt
that sensation of awe, that sublime, dreadful expectation, which is
experienced by a spectator viewing from a height the thunder-cloud
marching onward over a sunny land, soon to be left desolate, or the
tempest riding over a calm sea, and piling up the glassy waters into
surges full of shipwreck and of death.

The minutes glided by almost unnoted; and then, seating himself again
at a table, a strange fancy seized him of writing down the thoughts of
the moment--the reflections--the anticipations, which rose one by one
as he considered the circumstances that surrounded him.

It was a dangerous amusement. Written thoughts, as undigested--as
carelessly recorded--as immaturely gathered--as inconsequent and
undirected, had aided not a little, in the last reign, to bring the
head of the gallant Sydney to the scaffold; but yet the impulse was
upon him; and he did not even strive to resist it, but eat and
thought, and wrote, and thought, and wrote again.

The day had declined, and evening was not far off, when Gaunt Stilling
entered the room abruptly, saying, "There has been a bit of a battle,
sir, at Bridport, and the duke's troops have been repulsed. It was
plowman against plowman, and the duke's plowmen would have won the day
if Lord Grey and his horse had not ran at the first fire."

"Who is Lord Grey?" asked Ralph, in a quiet tone.

"Oh, the duke's general of horse," answered Stilling, with a laugh. "A
gentleman very bold in words, and brave enough, they say, in presence
of a hangman or a judge; but he does not like the nasty smell of
gunpowder, and eschews push of pike."

"Have you any other tidings?" inquired his master.

"Oh yes, plenty," answered Stilling; "the Duke of Albemarle--who is
more, by-the-way, of a monk than his father--is marching to attack the
duke with the militia. He will be beaten, of course; for, where
Monmouth is in person, the people will fight like wolves, and he is no
bad general either. That will be a feather in his cap, and may bring
some people in. But then Feversham is marching down with three or four
regular regiments--my old comrades among the rest. Now Monmouth is
worth twenty Frenchmen, and Feversham is only fit for a court supper;
but then there is Churchill with the Blues already in the field, and
he will give the good duke some trouble, or I mistake my man. But I
forgot to tell you, sir, that my Lady Danvers was coming down the hill
as I passed; and she will be here in a minute or two, for they were
going at a great rate, not liking, I suspect, the sounds of war that
were whizzing all round them."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ralph, starting up eagerly; "I will go to meet
her. She comes by the western gates, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, sir, by the west," replied Gaunt Stilling, gazing after his
master as he hurried toward the door; and then, as the young gentleman
disappeared, the man muttered between his teeth, "Fickle--fickle, like
all the rest. What matters it what falls upon him--they are all alike.
This girl has captivated his eye, and little cares he how many hearts
he breaks. Ah! what a cursed thing it is to be a gentleman, and what
fools those are who strive to rise above humble station, to be a prey
to the next bigger beast than themselves!"

In the mean while, without hearing or heeding his servant's comments,
Ralph had snatched up his hat which lay in the passage, and hurried
out down the walks toward the great gates. The little cavalcade was
already in sight--the great lumbering vehicle, and the horsemen who
accompanied and followed it. It were vain to say that Ralph did not
behold it joyfully, or that the coming of Hortensia was not pleasant
to him. At the very lowest estimate, it was an agreeable relief to the
dull monotony of the life he had been leading. But then there was much
more: her grace, her beauty, the charm of her manner and her
conversation, shed a light around, like that of the sunshine, which
brings out the beauty of even the dullest scenes, when it can reach
and enrich them with its varying splendor. With her, too, he could
consult, confer, and determine; and action, which seemed to him like
life, promised to commence with her coming.

With well-pleased looks, then, he hurried on, and met the carriage
half way through the park. He did not approach unmarked; for, whether
she expected him or not, Hortensia saw him afar, and bade the coachman
stop. When he came near, she alighted, looking, as he thought, more
beautiful than ever; and placing her hand within his arm, directed the
rest to go on, saying she would walk up to the house. There was a
sweet, tender placidity in her look--a gently-moved calmness, which
was very lovely in itself; and as she leaned upon Ralph's arm, while
the servants hurried on, obeying with due discretion the orders they
had received, she looked up in her young companion's face, as if to
see how much he had suffered--what ravages thought and remorse had
effected in his appearance since they parted.

Her first question, however, referred to things very different from
the subject which was uppermost in her thoughts. "I hope," she said,
"that my cousin, Lady Di Fullerton, has taken good care of you. Ralph,
I have been a sad, weary time upon the journey; but coaches move
slowly."

"I doubt not, dear Lady Danvers," replied Ralph, with a faint smile,
"that Lady Diana would have taken good care of me had she been here;
but--"

"Is she not here?" exclaimed Hortensia, in an eager tone, with the
blood suddenly rushing up into her cheek, more from surprise and the
sudden pressure of many strange considerations in her mind than from
any great disappointment or annoyance. "Why did she not come? She must
have received my letter?"

"She was too, ill to come," replied Ralph; "but I fear my stay may be
inconvenient to you--perhaps not quite right. There can be no harm or
danger in my going forward at once on my way."

"Ralph," exclaimed Hortensia, in a somewhat reproachful tone, "you do
not think me so weak--so foolish! Surely, if my good name be so frail
a thing as not to bear the giving shelter in an hour of danger to the
son of my mother's dearest friend, it were little worth the keeping.
You stay, Ralph--you stay, if you have any regard for me! No, no, it
matters not. I asked my good cousin out of deference to the cold
world's opinion. Having done that, I have done enough."

Well may prophets, and, by their tongues, the great Creator of the
human heart, declare that it is the most deceitful of all things; for
any one who has ever rendered the secrets of the dark, mysterious
cavern of his own bosom objective to the analysis of reason, must have
recoiled from the scrutiny, deterred by the fearful complications
which the eye, at one glance, can perceive. How far--and how far
willingly--Lady Danvers was deceiving herself, it is hardly necessary
to inquire. It is quite unnecessary, and would be useless, to attempt
to trace all the tortuous and darkling passages by which the deception
crept along. Certain it is, however, she had persuaded herself that
the son of her mother's dearest friend--of her adopted sister--stood
toward her almost in the relation of a brother; that she could not do
too much for him; that she could do nothing within the bounds of
modesty and honor that was not justifiable and justified in the
bright, clear, piercing eye of heaven.

Strong in the rectitude and purity of her own purpose, she cared
little for the dull, dark, earthy eye of the world. But she little
recollected that there is a misty, shadowy land, between the pellucid
light above and the coarse darkness below, where the phantoms of
associations hover between the two--ever beheld from the one realm,
and sometimes too clearly displayed to the other. She did not ask
herself--she did not venture to ask herself--what personal feelings,
what mortal affections were stealing in and mingling unperceived with
the calm, unselfish, soulful memories which had first drawn her
thoughts to Ralph Woodhall. She knew not--she would not know--that
there was any difference whatsoever in her feelings toward him, as
they walked there in her own park side by side, from those with which
she had first beheld him at the Duke of Norfolk's house, a stranger in
all but memories. She loved to call him to herself--to think of him in
her own mind as her brother Ralph. Oh, cunning heart, how skillful art
thou even in snatching the artifice of indistinct words to veil thy
workings from the deceived eye of thy master. She would not have
called him Mr. Woodhall now for the world. It would have broken the
spell--destroyed the illusion. He would have been no longer her
brother, but her lover--or him whom she loved. The very thought that
her heart could have been so far given, as it really was, to one who
had never sought or asked it, would have been death to her; for, with
all the warm tenderness of her feelings, the deep, strong,
enthusiastic tone of her affections, she had every quality of a true
woman: that nearest approach to the angel which the latter world has
ever seen.

Let the cold argue against such things. Let the worldly. Argue, ye
bound up, molded, fettered in the strong conventionalities of a false
and factitious state; ye who are tutored from the nursery to the
altar, to bend your wills and crush your hearts before the great
world's god, Convenience. In that age--base, corrupt, debased as it
was--one of the worst that earth has ever seen--in the reaction--in
the rebellion of man's heart and soul against the iron tyranny of a
cold and false fanaticism, there were glorious instances of pure and
true devotion, of strong and deep affection, of passion above license,
of morality beyond decorum, which are rarely seen now when the fire of
fanaticism is extinguished, and the rigid rules of a cynical religion
have been superseded by the gilded but unsubstantial fetters of an
eye-serving propriety. Nay, more, the most licentious chronicle of the
scandals of that age, the witty scoffer at every virtue, the pleasant
companion of every vice, has been the one to record some of the
brightest exceptions to the system in which he moved and had his
being.

The freedom of the times; the liberty of thought and action in which
she had been brought up; the independence of all conventional forms,
except those of courtly ceremony, which prevailed during the whole
time of her youth; the very dangers, difficulties, intrigues, cabals,
slaughter, agitation, and extraordinary circumstances which marked the
latter years of Charles the Second, had rendered Hortensia
independent, from a very early period, of the world's opinion; and in
the case of Ralph Woodhall, she had already paid it more deference
than she was ever inclined to pay.

True, had she asked her own heart why she had yielded thus far to a
power she contemned and despised, she might have found there was a
weakness in her own bosom which counseled caution. But she would ask
her own heart nothing, as I have before said. Like an unskillful
general, in the certainty of some strong points--honor, uprightness,
purity, and truth--she thought her position impregnable, and made no
allowance for the easy slope of passion, or the covert ways of love.

Thus onward she walked with Ralph, repelling the very thought of his
quitting her house on account of what the world might say with utter
scorn. I know not whether the thought ever presented itself to her
mind that there was an easy way of silencing the tongue of scandal by
uniting their fate forever; I rather think not; but I am quite sure
that such a thought never crossed the mind of Ralph. However, if she
was satisfied, he had no cause to be otherwise; for he was not such a
Quixote in delicacy as to fear that which, with her better knowledge,
she did not fear.

He laughed gayly, then--more gayly than he had done for many a
day--saying, "Well, dear Lady Danvers, I only sought to show my
devotion to your will by my readiness to go, rather than put you in
unpleasant circumstances; but, at the same time, I must tell you that
no such dangers exist in my case as you have been led to suppose. My
poor cousin Henry, by whosesoever hand he fell, owes not his death to
me. I would have sacrificed any thing but honor rather than have
crossed swords with him. My long absence from the inn, which perhaps
you may have heard of, and which might have given time, though barely,
for me to return to Norwich, can be every moment accounted for."

"Ay, that is what has puzzled me," said Hortensia, before he had quite
concluded what he had to say; "two different accusations have been
brought against you--at first sight incompatible with each other: the
one, that you went back to Norwich, fought, and slew your cousin
Henry; the other, that you passed several hours in comforting and
consoling the unhappy family of the poor Nonconformist minister. But I
made anxious inquiry of the people at the inn, and none could tell me
at what hour you returned. They said you must have stabled and groomed
your horse yourself; and I concluded that some mistake had been made
about the hour of the duel; for every thing I had heard before we set
out, and every thing contained in the Duke of Norfolk's private letter
to myself, seemed to prove that such a duel had taken place."

"I never quitted the town," replied Ralph; "I never took my horse from
the stable; and in regard to the duel, I had not the most remote idea
that such a lamentable event had taken place till I arrived in these
domains."

"Nay, I doubt you not in the least," replied Hortensia; "but, though
guiltless of your cousin's death, and though you could prove your
innocence completely, which might be more difficult than you imagine,
your situation would still be one of imminent peril, and you must not
think of stirring from this house so long as you can be here in
safety--how long that may be, in these distracted times, who can say?"

"But what is the peril, dear lady?" asked Ralph; "my innocence of my
cousin's death can surely be easily proved, for I can account for
every moment of my time."

"Did any one see you return to the inn?" asked Lady Danvers; "I made
inquiries, and all the servants of the house assured me that such was
not the case."

Ralph mused for a moment or two, and then replied, "It is very
strange; I do not recollect having seen any one. I entered by the door
from the stable-yard, saw a light burning in the entrance, took it up,
and went straight to my own room."

"At what hour was this?" asked Hortensia.

"I can not well say," replied Ralph; "it must have been after ten, but
I think before eleven."

"The duke's letter to myself," replied Lady Danvers, "said the hour of
the duel was some time between ten and twelve. Now, Ralph, consider
upon what nice calculations your fate might depend. Those who know you
well will have no doubt; but those who do not know you--a prejudiced
judge--perhaps a packed jury, will at all events suspect, and if they
do suspect, your death would be the consequence."

"Nay, I can not think that," answered Ralph Woodhall; "duels occur
every day; and where there is no dishonorable act accompanying them,
we never hear of any such severity."

"But you deny the duel," said Lady Danvers; "you can not admit that it
took place, if it did not. Yet certain is it that your cousin sent you
a challenge for that very hour--that he met some one--that the meeting
took place at night--that there were no witnesses--and that he was
killed. Your very denial of the meeting would be construed into a
consciousness of guilt in the transaction."

The color had been mounting higher and higher in Ralph's cheek every
moment, as he saw the extraordinary complication of circumstances
which rendered it difficult for him to prove his innocence, and was
almost led to fancy that Hortensia believed him guilty still. "Upon my
honor as a man, and my faith as a Christian, dear Lady Danvers," he
said, "I had no share in this transaction whatsoever."

Hortensia laid her beautiful hand gently on his arm, and replied,
looking full in his face, "And upon my honor and faith, Ralph
Woodhall, I believe you; but I mentioned other perils besides these.
The magistrates, it is true, dismissed the charge against you of
attempting to rescue old Mr. Calloway, the Nonconformist preacher; but
hardly had you left the town, when it was discovered that you had
passed a considerable portion of the night with the family of that
poor, persecuted man. You know how severe the laws are upon that
subject, and how tyrannically they are exercised. It was proved that
several other persons had visited the house that night as well as
yourself; they were all arrested and committed to prison. A new charge
of attending a night conventicle, contrary to law, was preferred
against you, and a warrant was immediately issued for your
apprehension. The case would be a perilous one at any time; but since
this rash insurrection by the Duke of Monmouth, the great leader of
the Calvinistic party, the dangers would be incalculable, even were
not the matter complicated by other serious accusations. Nay, nay, you
must stay here, Ralph, till we may find means of getting you out of
the country. Monmouth must be mad, I think, or fearfully misinformed."

We often find that when the mind is bewildered by considerations too
intricately tangled and commixed to be easily separated and reduced to
order, it receives the first pretext that presents itself to fly to
some other theme, however irrelevant or unimportant, as if to refresh
itself before it returns to its more laborious task. Such was probably
the case with Ralph Woodhall; for, without pursuing the subject of his
own fate further, he said, "I forgot to mention that the Duke of
Monmouth was here this morning, and stayed for more than an hour."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Danvers, in a tone of no very great
satisfaction; "I wish he had stayed away. I can never forgive him."

"He also left a packet for you," said Ralph, "committing it to my
charge, and saying that it contained a letter for you from an old and
dear friend, who still loved you well."

"Alas! alas!" replied Lady Danvers, "poor Henrietta! where once she
loves, she loves forever. Love has been her ruin and her blight; for
she was never taught that there are higher and holier things than even
love. Let us go in, Ralph; I must read her letter, for she is still
very dear to me."




CHAPTER XXVI.


"At the house of Lady Danvers, say you? on the far edge of
Dorsetshire?" said the voice of an old man, tremulous, and eager with
strong passion.

"Yes, my dear lord," replied Robert Woodhall, "at Danvers's New
Church, a place where a strong-armed man could pitch a crown piece
into three counties. He has doubtless chosen that retreat, partly
because he fancies a warrant may be easily evaded, partly--"

"But are you sure, Robert--quite sure?" asked Lord Woodhall; "do not
let us make another mistake."

"I am quite sure," answered his young cousin; "I have the news from
three of our own people who have seen him there. You know my mother's
place lies at no great distance, and the whole country round rings
with the rumor that he is to be married to Lady Danvers--the cause,
probably, of his taking the life of a better man than himself."

"Married to the gallows first!" cried Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "Call
a servant, boy; bid him bring my hat and cloak. I will away to the
king. Monmouth lies about there, they say; he was last heard of
marching toward Exeter. Feversham and Churchill are after him, and the
troops may serve our purpose as well as the king's."

"Shall I attend you, sir?" said Robert.

"No, no," answered the old lord; "stay here till I come back. Go and
comfort poor Margaret. She bears up a little now, but still weeps
often. It will gladden her heart to hear that there is a chance of
catching her brother's murderer at last."

A slight, hardly perceptible smile curled upon Robert Woodhall's lip;
but, turning away to conceal the emotions of which he was conscious,
he called Lord Woodhall's servants to their master, and then saw him
deferentially to the door.

There are as great varieties in love as in any other passion; seldom
found altogether pure, it is mixed with a thousand various alloys,
some more, some less congenial to itself. Now it must not be supposed
that Robert Woodhall was altogether without love of a certain kind for
his fair cousin Margaret. True, it was of a coarse nature, even in its
very origin. Her beauty--her fresh, warm, healthful loveliness, had
its attractions for a man who, even before he could count manhood, had
sated himself with licentious pleasures. But even this baser sort of
love was mingled with many other feelings. Ambition had its share, and
avarice; and, strange to say, spite and revenge too. He saw that
Margaret did not love him; he felt intuitively that she would never
love him; but that conviction diminished not in the least the ardor of
his pursuit. It prompted a desire to pain, to grieve her, whenever he
could do so without appearing as the active agent, but took not the
least from the desire to possess her as his wife, nor shook his
resolution to attain that object by any means, however base.

Quietly walking up the stairs, he entered the room where she usually
sat during the morning, but found it vacant. He sat for a few minutes,
gazing forth from the window into the street, till the door opened,
and Margaret herself appeared. With a cold inclination of the head,
she was about to withdraw immediately. But her cousin called to her,
saying, "Margaret, Margaret, I have something to tell you from your
father. He wishes you to stay with me till his return, when he will
give you further tidings."

Margaret obeyed at once, entered, sat down, and drew an embroidery
frame toward her.

"Very satisfactory intelligence has been received this morning," said
Robert Woodhall, "which my lord, your father, has gone to make the
most of. We have discovered the place where poor Henry's murderer lies
concealed."

The tears rose in Margaret's beautiful eyes, but still she would not
hear Ralph called by such a name. "You have no right, sir," she said,
"so boldly to announce my cousin Ralph a murderer till he has been
proved so."

Robert Woodhall saw her emotion with infinite pleasure, but he
answered in a quiet tone, though with a slightly-curled lip, "I did
not know that there was any doubt of it."

"Great doubt," replied Margaret; "I, for one, do not believe that
Ralph would ever draw his sword against poor Henry; and there are
others, wiser, and better able to judge than myself, who do not
believe it either."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Robert Woodhall, with unfeigned surprise; "pray
who?"

"For one, the Duke of Norfolk," answered Margaret.

"You astonish me," said Robert, musing; "then pray whom do you and the
good duke suspect?"

There was something contemptuous and bitter in his tone, which kindled
a momentary anger in Margaret's breast, and she answered, "No one in
particular, Robert Woodhall; but we should suspect you just as soon as
poor Ralph. Pray where is he, if you have discovered?"

One of his slight, shrewd, sarcastic smiles came upon Robert
Woodhall's face; and he answered, "He is at Danvers's New Church, the
seat of the fair Hortensia, to whom he is about to be married, if the
hangman does not previously perform for him a ceremony of a different
kind."

"Unfeeling, heartless man!" exclaimed Margaret, rising, with her face
flushed, to quit the room; but Robert placed himself in her way,
saying, "Your father wishes you to stay here until he returns.--Why do
you call me unfeeling, Margaret? I did not intend to either offend or
grieve you."

Margaret returned and seated herself, but when he again asked the
question, she replied, "If my father wishes me to remain, I will
remain; but I remain not to converse with you, Robert Woodhall. I tell
you, I doubt you--nay, more, I do not believe you. More than once I
have detected you in saying things that were untrue; and I will now
know, as soon as my father returns, whether it was his wish or will
that I should remain with one whose society is unpleasant to me."

The pale, somewhat yellowish tinge of Robert Woodhall's face gave way
to burning red. He felt that he was understood--unmasked by a
woman--by a mere girl; and there is no offense so bitter to a villain
as to have his character unveiled.

"I will repay you," he thought, "I will repay you!" but, at the same
time, he would have given a good deal to have escaped from the room,
in order to meet Lord Woodhall ere he saw his daughter, and to guard
against the questions she might ask. He suffered some minutes to pass
however, for the purpose of covering his maneuver, but then rising, he
said, "Your father is longer than I expected. I fear I must go; I have
an engagement."

Grief is a great teacher of the human heart; and Margaret had learned
much since first she was presented to the reader. "Your pardon Robert
Woodhall," she said; "you stay here till my father returns. What you
have told me is either true or false. If it be true, you are bound to
remain with me, as I was commanded to remain with you--Nay, not a
word! Sit down, or I will call those who will make you."

She was nearer to the door than himself, and she moved toward it, and
laid her hand upon the latch.

Before Robert Woodhall could recover from his surprise, the voice of
the old lord sounded below, and the next moment his step was heard
upon the stairs. Margaret stood quietly by the door. Her cousin did
not venture to move; but few human hearts have felt the rage which
filled his at that moment. A minute after, Lord Woodhall entered the
room, and ere he could speak of any thing else, Margaret exclaimed,
with a boldness unusual with her, especially in speaking to her
parent, "My dear lord and father, this gentleman tells me that it was
your command I should remain here with him till you returned. I
beseech you tell me whether this is true or false; I do not believe
it."

"False!" cried the old lord, sharply; "I never said such a word. What
is the meaning of this, sir?"

"Only a little lover's artifice, my dear lord," replied Robert
Woodhall, with a pleasant smile; "I did but stretch your words a
little. You said I was to go and stay with her till you came back, and
I chose to read your meaning that she was to stay with me."

"Lover!" said Margaret, with a bitter emphasis, and was turning to
quit the room, when the old lord detained her by the hand, saying,
"Oh, is that all? Stay, stay, Margaret, this is no very unforgiveable
offense--stay! I have news for you."

"I hope good news, my lord," said Robert Woodhall. "The king, I trust,
has entered into your views?"

"As warmly as heart could wish," replied the old nobleman. "Feversham
has received his commands to order Colonel Kirke to occupy Danvers's
New Church with his regiment, and to arrest the fugitive. The object
is to be concealed, and the occupation of the house and village to
pass for a mere military operation till they have got the murderer in
their hands; otherwise he might escape us again, boy, in the troubled
state of the country."

"Your lordship calls him murderer," said Robert Woodhall, quietly,
eager to make mischief between the parent and the child, "but Mistress
Margaret objects to my use of that term, and says she does not believe
Ralph Woodhall committed the act."

"How is that--how is that?--not believe?" cried Lord Woodhall, turning
toward his daughter, and dropping her hand.

"The Duke of Norfolk does not believe it, my lord," replied Margaret;
"I received a letter from him this morning with the trinkets I left
behind me in my room at Norwich. He says that he has reason to believe
some great mistake has been committed, and that my cousin Ralph is
quite free from all participation in the deed."

"Who does he suspect, then?" demanded Lord Woodhall.

"I will bring you his letter, my father," replied Margaret, fixing her
eyes firmly upon the face of Robert Woodhall; "you will there see that
he suspects a very different person, and will comprehend why to remain
in that gentleman's society was most unpleasant to your daughter."

"What does he say--what does he say? No need of the letter just now,"
cried the impetuous old lord; "I can read that afterward: tell me the
substance of what he says."

"I have told you part, my father," replied Margaret; "but he adds that
it is clearly proved there was no quarrel between Ralph and poor
Henry, though there was between Ralph and Master Robert Woodhall. He
says they parted perfectly friends at supper; that they never met
afterward during the whole night; that no challenge was ever actually
delivered to Ralph; and that he has good reason to believe, from
circumstances which have lately come to his knowledge, that my cousin
never returned to Norwich after he himself had sent him away to escort
Lady Danvers on her journey. He says, indeed, that to have done so, in
the circumstances of which he is personally cognizant, implies almost
an impossibility. The duke adds," continued Margaret, with a voice
which trembled a little at the gravity of the words she was about to
utter, "that undoubtedly Robert Woodhall attempted to produce a
quarrel between Ralph and my poor brother; and he remarks that Henry's
death could be of no possible advantage to Ralph, but that it might be
to other persons."

Lord Woodhall glared round with a look of bewildered rage; but Robert
caught the ball at the rebound with great skill. "His grace of Norfolk
must think that you take a great interest, Mistress Margaret, in your
_poor_ cousin Ralph," he said; "but that is of no matter. Strange as
it may seem, my dear lord, I am very glad that this foolish suspicion
has been so plainly stated. An innocent man laughs at such things; he
does not run away from investigation. Indeed, did not the duke's
dislike of myself blind him, he could not fail to see how ridiculous
all this is. Henry's own letter to the duke himself, which you have
seen, shows that the challenge was given and accepted; and I can prove
easily, not only that I never quitted my room that night, but that I
did all in my power to dissuade Henry from the course that he was
following. He was headstrong, and would have his own way. My servant
can prove many of these facts. He is in the house; call him up and
examine him. I wish no previous interview with him; I have no lesson
to teach him."

The man was called; but he had already taught himself his own lesson;
and he mentioned those facts only, of all that occurred at Norwich,
which could show his master's character in the fairest light.

Lord Woodhall was quite satisfied, but Margaret was not. She had a
sort of instinct in this case, and it led her right.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Some days had passed at Danvers's New Church; and I must not dwell
upon their passing. "Time warns me to be brief," as worthy clergymen
say in long-composed sermons, where no reference to time existed in
the act of composition. But time, and the end of the volume apparent
to the view (which are to an author what time and the end of life
ought to be to every man), warn me that I _must_ be brief. Several
days had passed at Danvers's New Church since Hortensia Danvers and
Ralph Woodhall had entered that house arm in arm. Fill up the time as
you will, reader. I can not dwell upon it. Very little passed of any
consequence. We well know how bulky trifles will become when we are
trying to pack closely the portmanteau of the present. A child's toy
will take up more room than a volume of philosophy, and a blown India
rubber ball occupy ten times more space than all the essays of John
Locke. Those days had been filled with trifles. They formed a period
of little or no progress. Country gentlemen had come in--esquires, and
justices, and barons, and lords of high degree--to offer their
services and compliments to the young, graceful, beautiful Lady
Danvers, upon her return to her ancestral home. Country gossips had
flocked thither to see, and hear, and know all that was going on; for
certain reports had been carried about by the tongue of Rumor as to
the sojourn of a young and handsome cavalier within the walls of
Danvers's New Church.

At first Hortensia was somewhat puzzled what to do; for, with all her
readiness--which proceeded more from simple purity and rectitude of
purpose, enlightened by a bright, clear mind, than any worldly
wisdom--she could not help feeling that she was commencing a struggle
against a very muddy but turbulent torrent called the world, which
would require a stout heart to stem it.

If she refused to receive such visitors, she was certain to subject
herself to misconstruction. If she appeared with Ralph, there was
still a danger of misconstruction, and peril to him likewise. She
resolved to receive them all; and she did so, with quiet ease, and
calm, though somewhat cold demeanor, which rebuked curiosity, and put
calumny at fault. She would not suffer Ralph, however, to appear,
impressing upon him strongly the necessity of concealment for his own
safety, and taking such means as her knowledge of the country, and her
more general experience of the world and the world's ways, enabled her
to adopt of finding some means of conveying him secretly to the coast
of Holland. Every morning servants on horseback went out to different
ports on the western shores of England. Every evening servants
returned, bringing no satisfactory tidings. Nearly one half of life is
consumed in emptinesses, and three quarters, at least, in emptinesses
and disappointments taken together. So it was at Danvers's New Church.

But still a little progress was made--a very little. Nevertheless, it
is worth while recording. It may be asked if Hortensia, when the
consciousness came upon her that she had to swim, as it were, against
the stream of the world's opinion, did not sometimes say to herself,
"Ralph's arm may at any time save me, and bear me safe to shore."

I do not think she did so, for it was a subject upon which she did not
like her thoughts to rest. She was fain to believe, and did believe,
that she was actuated by no feeling but one, a sincere, unmingled
desire of freeing a man whom she esteemed, the son of her mother's
best friend, from perils and difficulties undeserved. And yet there
were various little incidents--very indefinite--very intangible--a
word dropped row and then--a deep fit of thought after the name of
Margaret Woodhall had been mentioned--a grave and solemn earnestness
of manner in protesting that nothing on earth could have induced him
to draw his sword against Henry Woodhall, which, like the light gusts
of the evening wind, bringing up misty clouds upon the western sky,
cast over Hortensia's contemplated future a vague, uncertain gloom,
from which she was pleased to turn her eyes, and rejoice in the
sunshine of the present, when she and Ralph spent the evening alone
together in her wide, tastefully-furnished withdrawing-room, sometimes
reading authors whom we venerate as the fathers of the poetry and
prose of England, but who were then hardly consecrated by the hand of
Time; or singing, and playing upon instruments then in vogue, music
which might strike us, perhaps, in the present day, as poor in the
harmony, but which had a freshness, a vigor in the melody that is
rarely to be found in this all-steaming age.

True, in the darkness of the night, Hortensia would often lay awake
for hours, not indulging in apprehensive or regretful thoughts--not
even, like the patriarch, struggling with the angel of Hope to win a
boon at last from the Giver of all happiness, but watching, like a
warder upon a tower, to prevent the entrance of any of the enemies
that flocked continually forward to obtain admittance into the
fortress of the mind.

Sometimes, wearied with this dark, silent strife, she would wake her
maid, who now slept in the same room, and bid her strike a light and
give her a book to while away the tedious hours till daylight came.
This done, the maid would creep again to bed, and fall in a moment
into dreamless, heavy slumber, the envy of the highborn lady lying
near.

It was thus one night--I call the period of darkness night--when
Hortensia, after reading for some time, placed the book beneath her
pillow, raised her fair, beautiful arm, as children will do, under her
head, and with the rich curls of her unfilleted hair falling over it,
and partly shrouding her face, was trying to obtain a brief,
refreshing draught of that sweet, calm, morning sleep, which often
visits us just in the sober-colored dawn of day, when she heard the
trotting of a horse; and the moment after, the great bell rang
sharply.

No one answered, and several minutes passed; but then the bell rang
again; and shortly after, slow and tardy steps were heard pacing the
marble hall toward the great door.

A gray light was by this time stealing into the room; and Hortensia,
partly roused again, exclaimed, between sleep and waking, "Alice!
Alice! some one is ringing the great bell. Throw on some clothes, and
go and ask what is the matter."

The girl was already awake, for she had slept long and well; and the
ringing of the bell had roused her. She was soon partly dressed and
gone, and Hortensia heard her talking with the old porter over the
balustrade of the stair-case. The interrogatory seemed to deviate into
a gossip; and when the maid returned, saying, "Nothing but some
letters, my lady, brought by a messenger for Mr. Ralph Woodhall,"
Hortensia was fast asleep, and unconscious of the words spoken.

When she again awoke, some two hours afterward, she made further
inquiries, and on being informed of what had occurred, hastened to
dress herself as rapidly as possible.

On descending to the breakfast-room (or little hall, as it was called
at that time, in her dwelling), she found three letters addressed to
Ralph Woodhall lying undelivered on the table. The porter had not
thought it worth while to wake the young gentleman, he said; and
Hortensia at once dispatched a messenger to her guest, who appeared
soon after with the letters open in his hand.

"Any news? any tidings?" asked Hortensia, eagerly. "The sight of those
letters frightens me; for it is clear some one has discovered the
place of your retreat, and our secret is no longer safe."

"It has been discovered, indeed," replied Ralph, "but how I know not.
However, two of these letters are to warn me that this place is no
longer safe for me. There is one of them."

As he spoke, he gave into the hands of Lady Danvers a sheet of
somewhat coarse paper, on which were written a few lines in a bold
hand. She read them attentively, and then, raising her eyes to his
face, inquired, "Who is this person who signs himself Moraber?"

"I can hardly tell you," replied Ralph; "he is a strange, solitary
being, of whose history I know nothing, except that he was a college
companion of the Duke of Norfolk--gave himself up, from a very early
period, to the study of judicial astrology, and seems, by that or some
other means, to have obtained a very strange degree of knowledge
regarding the fortunes and feelings of a great multitude of persons.
You will see in another letter, which I will show you in a moment,
that he takes no slight interest in my own affairs, and has done me
justice in matters where even those who loved me well were inclined to
doubt me."

"But from whom is that very long letter? if my curiosity be
pardonable," asked Hortensia, pointing to a sheet of foolscap closely
covered.

"This is from my good father," replied Ralph, with a smile; "and if
you will take the trouble of deciphering the first few sentences, you
will see, dear lady, that one brought up in such principles was not
likely to take his cousin's life in a duel."

Lady Danvers took the letter and read what follows:


"DEAR SON,--I have been in a state of anguish of mind not to be
described from Wednesday last, the twenty-second of the month, till
this present Tuesday, the twenty-eighth. I had heard, and that from
authority which appeared not to be doubted, that you had been mad
enough to engage in a duel, notwithstanding all the principles which I
have endeavored to instill into your mind; that you had killed your
adversary, and that the slain man was your cousin Henry. Now I have
ever held, and have endeavored to teach you to hold, that dueling is
not only murder, but murder of the most aggravated kind. The slaughter
of the man may take place by accident--by a hasty blow in a moment of
passion--in self-defense, when suddenly assailed--or in a general
tumult or commotion; and in these cases the law of man--and, let us
not doubt, the law of God also--deals leniently. But in the case of a
duel, there is no sound and legitimate excuse whatsoever for the man
who slays another. He has time for reflection, therefore the act is
deliberate and premeditated. He goes out to kill, and he kills. Nor is
it any mitigation whatsoever of his offense that his adversary came
there with the same purpose toward himself; for the crime of the one
can never excuse the crime of the other. Still less is it an excuse
that dueling is a custom of society; for every Christian and every
philosopher must perceive that this custom of society is in itself a
criminal one, a proof of its barbarism rather than its civilization;
and he who sanctions it by his example, commits, in addition to the
particular crime of murder, a general offense against society and
mankind by encouraging and perpetuating a criminal habit which all
good men should unite to put down. Thus, to the eyes of God, and to
the eyes of all reasoning men likewise, the act of killing another in
a duel is the most aggravated kind of murder; for the evil is not
confined to the offense, but spreads round as a diffusible poison,
affecting detrimentally the whole mass of society. There are but three
occasions in which any man is justified in taking the life of another:
in actual defense of his own life--in defense of his country--and in
obedience to the laws of his country. All other cases are murder. Now
you may easily conceive, my dear son, how much pain it gave me to
think for one whole week that my son was a murderer. I have this day,
however, received from a person calling himself Moraber, whom you must
have heard of in our neighborhood, the most strong and solemn
assurance that you are innocent of this terrible offense--that you did
not fight your cousin, and that he was slain by some other hand. I
believe the information to be correct, for my informant is above
suspicion; but yet I beseech you, if it be possible, write me the same
assurance, that my mind may be freed completely from anguish such as I
have never known--nay, not even when it pleased Heaven to take from me
your beloved mother."


The writing went on for several pages further; but Lady Danvers
stopped there, and returned the letter to Ralph, saying, "I agree with
him entirely, Ralph. But to return to this Moraber. What can he know
of any thing that is taking place here? He tells you that immediate
flight is necessary to your safety; that you have but two days to
execute it after the receipt of his letter; yet the letter is itself
nearly a fortnight old."

"I have still surer information than that," replied Ralph. "Here is
another letter, which I will show to no eyes but your own, dear Lady
Danvers. After all your kindness and generosity toward me, however, I
can keep back no secret of my heart from you."

Again Lady Danvers took the letter he offered, and read. It was brief,
hastily written in a woman's hand, and to the following effect:


"An opportunity has suddenly presented itself, dear Ralph, of sending
to you a few lines, and I seize it, first, to assure you that,
notwithstanding all that men accuse you of, I do not believe one word
of the tale. Your love for Margaret would never suffer you to slay her
brother. Secondly, I write to tell you that dangers of various kinds
menace you where you are. Your place of concealment has been
discovered. Orders will be dispatched this very night to the troops
marching against the Duke of Monmouth, to occupy Danvers's New Church
as a military post, and apprehend you if you are found there. Fly
immediately! and, if possible, till the storm is passed, take refuge
across the sea. The dear and beautiful lady with whom you are will
doubtless be able to provide you with the means of escape, and if so,
will merit more than, even at present, the eternal gratitude of your
own

    "MARGARET."


Strange and beautiful were the changes of expression which came over
the face of Hortensia Danvers as she read those words. The very first
sentence called the warm blood rushing into her cheek, like the light
of the morning sun kindling the white clouds on the horizon. Then the
glow faded away again. Back, back to the heart every warm, thrilling
drop was withdrawn, and her beautiful face remained pale as that of a
marble statue, while her eyes fixed upon the lines as if every word
had been a fate to her who read. Even after she had done, she held up
the letter still in her hand, gazing at it in deep silence.

"I must tell you, dear Lady Danvers," said Ralph, in his inexperience
not reading her looks aright, "I must tell you that my cousin Margaret
and myself have loved each other warmly from childhood, and that it
was the hope--a hope almost insane--of winning her father's consent to
our union that led me forth to seek my fortune in the wide world--"

"Here--take it! take it!" said Hortensia, putting the letter in his
hand; "I will be back directly; all this news confounds me; I must
think--alone and in quiet. I will be back soon, and we will decide
upon something."

Again the warm blood rushed into her cheek, as if some sudden thought,
for which she took shame to herself, crossed her mind secretly, and
she added, in a faltering voice, "To have my house occupied by troops!
I will be back presently."

For nearly half an hour Ralph walked up and down the hall alone; but
then, with a slow and somewhat languid step, Hortensia rejoined him,
and seated herself near the table. Not a trace of tears was upon her
cheek; she had evidently not been weeping, but she was still as pale
as alabaster, though her eyes beamed with even more light than usual.
Was it that there had been a deadly struggle of passions in her heart?
that she had been the victor? that the light of triumph was in her
eyes, but that the exhaustion of combat well-nigh overpowered even the
conqueror? Perhaps so; but certainly she betrayed no evidence of the
struggle in her manner toward Ralph. She was as kind, as warm, as
eager as ever.

He had still the roll of letters in his hand, and, pointing to them,
she said, with her sweet smile and musical voice, "I must do
something, Ralph, to win this dear girl's gratitude, as she trusts to
me. Let me see the letter again."

He gave it to her. She read it through, and then murmuring, "May she
be happy!" pressed her lips upon Margaret's name. When she gave it
back to Ralph, there was a single tear upon it, and that was all she
shed.

"Now," said Hortensia, gayly, "we must to counsel, to see if we can
not out-maneuver our enemies. There is further down the coast a little
port called Seaton, where there used to be large and very safe boats
which they called luggers. I was a great favorite there with the good
fishermen when I was a child, and methinks, if we can reach that port,
it would be very easy to hire one of these boats, if not to convey you
to the coast of France or Holland, at least to land you at some other
English port where you may find a vessel ready to sail."

"Perhaps I had better set out at once," said Ralph; "my horse is quite
fresh now, and, with some one to guide me, I could reach the port
rapidly."

"No, no, that will never do," replied Lady Danvers; "the country is
all covered with troops, and you will be stopped to a certainty. I
will tell you how we must manage. During the day we will send forth
people in all directions to ascertain what roads are clear. Then,
toward evening, we will set out in my carriage, as it were, for an
hour's drive round the place. No one dare stop me; and after that we
shall have darkness to befriend us. We can take the roads we know to
be open, and as your friend Moraber gives you two whole days, we shall
be within the limit."

"Nay, nay," said Ralph, "I will not have you peril yourself for me.
That must not be, dear Lady Danvers."

"Well, I will convoy you part of the way," said Hortensia. "Let your
servant ride on to Seaton, obtain information there, and meet us on
the road. One of my people can mount your horse; and when you need the
beast, the man can get upon the carriage to return. This will be the
surest way; and if we obtain good intelligence, I shall run no risk,
nor you either, I trust, Ralph."

So was it settled; and the same evening Ralph and Hortensia began a
pilgrimage which will require a chapter to itself.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


There had been very few visitors to Danvers's New Church during the
morning. Something had kept every one away but the parson of the
parish, and an old lady of the village, who held a sort of middle
station between the gentry and the yeomanry of the country, and prided
herself upon knowing all the affairs of both. Trustworthy servants,
however, had been coming and going all the day; and they brought
intelligence which showed that a considerable circuit must be taken
round the town of Axminster, in order to avoid the two contending
parties in the western counties, then actually coming to hard blows
with each other.

About four o'clock Gaunt Stilling set off on horseback for Seaton, the
way to which he knew well, and his business at which place was
explained to him easily. He was to meet Lady Danvers and Ralph a
little to the eastward of Axminster, and let them know the result of
his inquiries at Seaton; but his instructions were totally independent
of the various scouts which had been sent forth, and the rumors which
Hortensia received from the latter were somewhat contradictory,
especially toward the close of the day.

Nevertheless, about an hour before sunset, the great lumbering
carriage was brought round to the door; the lady and Ralph entered it;
and, followed by several armed servants on horseback, they took their
way toward the upper gates, by a road not quite so much frequented as
either the lower road or the foot-path which crossed the park below
the house. It was a soft and not unpleasant evening, such as one often
finds in that climate, with a misty, hazy sort of air, through which
the sun struggled from time to time, shedding a rosy light over the
whole scene around.

Hortensia was somewhat silent, and evidently anxious--I do not mean to
say frightened, for she was unconscious of any personal danger--but
the perils of her companion seemed to weigh upon her; and when she did
converse, her whole conversation consisted of inquiries,
consultations, and advice as to the best means of passing on
undetected till an assured place of safety should be reached. Every
consideration seemed merged in that one. There was no longer the
light, lark-like flight of fancy which had often, in the leisure hours
preceding, carried away the mind of Ralph Woodhall into far etherial
fields of space; there was no longer the calm, thoughtful, yet not
unimaginative wandering of the spirit through more familiar scenes
filled with association, where, side by side, they had gone on over
the leas, and through the meadows of ordinary life, drawing as much
essence of dream from a cowslip, or a primrose, or a violet, as bolder
efforts of the fancy would extract from the high mountain or the
floating cloud. All was now hard, dry matter of necessity and
business. That was the only difference between the communion of the
preceding days and that of the present; but it was great.

The edge of the sky grew rosy; the sun set; the night came. The misty
clouds, from which had dropped, occasionally, large tears upon the
earth, passed away like gloomy thoughts from a bright mind; and star
by star came out in the refreshed sky, and looked down upon the earth
in melancholy calmness.

Alone, and side by side, Hortensia Danvers and Ralph Woodhall wended
slowly on. I must not pretend to look into her bosom; the eye of man
never did. There may be some women who can divine what mysterious
things were passing therein, but even of women, not all.

It were vain to say that at that moment--which to him seemed the real
parting moment--Ralph Woodhall did not feel many deep, many strong
emotions at the thought of being severed, perhaps forever, from one so
beautiful, so gentle, so generous, so kind. It is too rare to find
pure, disinterested friendship on the earth for one of a high heart to
meet with it untouched. He forgot himself--his fate--his peril--the
pressing urgency of petty circumstances--the momentary dangers that
beset his way--the trifling incidents that at every step might change
his destiny for good or ill. He thought only of Hortensia; and yet
with such thoughts that Margaret might have seen them all, joined
them, and shared them.

There was a deep silence for a considerable length of time. Had there
been any other soul within the carriage, not sharing in their
thoughts, to him it would have seemed very long. To them it was all
too brief for the crowded feelings they forced into it.

At length Ralph could refrain no more. He took Hortensia's hand in
his: he pressed it to his lips, and said, "Oh, dear Lady Danvers, how
can I ever thank you sufficiently--how can I ever explain to you all I
feel. Your kindness--your many acts of kindness, have come upon me
like a torrent, so rapidly that I have had no time to breathe or think
till this moment; and now, when I still feel the full force of all, we
are going to part for God knows how long!"

"Hush!" said Hortensia, in a low, agitated voice; "hush!" and for a
single instant she leaned her fair brow upon his shoulder; then
raising it calmly, she added, "Ralph, my dear brother, we must not
think of any thing which can withdraw our attention from the present
perilous hour. If you escape happily and well--as God in his great
mercy grant--tell your Margaret, with Hortensia's love, that she did
all in her power to save and aid you--nay, tell her," she added, in a
more cheerful tone--though there was a touch of fluttering effort
about it too--"nay, tell her that in after years, perhaps, when storms
have vanished and the skies are clear, Hortensia will come to visit
you both in your happiness and claim the gratitude she promised, and,
then rejoicing, will talk of days of sorrow and of peril passed away."

Silence fell upon them again. Was that a sob? It was very like one.

Whatever it was, it was drowned the moment after in the rattle of
musketry; there was a flash, too--distant, but near enough to show
suddenly the tower of a large Cathedral-looking church, long lines of
houses, and stacks of chimneys, and undulating hedgerows, and
wavy-outlined trees. The next moment--not in one volley, but in an
irregular running fire--shot after shot was heard, sometimes single,
sometimes two or three together, sometimes as if from whole platoons,
while quick reiterated flashes ran along all the hedgerows within
sight, and then the roar of a cannon or two was heard, with a shrill
sound of fifes and drums.

In an instant Ralph's hand was upon the door of the carriage, and
before Hortensia could beseech him to forbear, he had sprang out.

"Here, Jones, give me my horse!" he cried. "Turn round the carriage,
and away back with all speed! What! is the lane too narrow? On before
there seems a wider space. Stay! I will ride on and see. Coachman, you
must get your mistress out of this peril as speedily as possible. Come
after me slowly; some one put the cushions against the front windows;
you, men on horseback, gather round the carriage--take no part with
any one, but defend your lady."

Then dashing forward, he was for a moment lost in the darkness, till
his voice was heard shouting, "Here! here is room to turn;" and the
coachman hurried on his horses at the utmost speed to a place where a
wide, open space, with a gate leading into a field, seemed to give a
chance of wheeling round the lumbering vehicle.

At that moment, however, just as the four horses, somewhat restive
with the noise and confusion, were plunging and rearing, and a man on
foot was striving to turn the heads of the leaders round, the whole
evolution was interrupted by a number of men in military garb, but not
array, running as if for life up the lane, and dashing against the
horses and the carriage.

One of the fugitives exclaimed, evidently mistaking Ralph, who
had his sword drawn, for some one else, "All's lost, my lord, all's
lost--Monmouth has won the day, and the men are running like devils."

Thus saying, he flung his musket into the ditch and ran on, only to be
succeeded by another still more terrified, who had already denuded
himself of cap and weapons, and was struggling to get out of a
military jacket which seemed to cling to him like the coat of Nessus.
He cried, "Monmouth! Monmouth! The Protestant religion forever, and
d--n papacy, and prelacy, and the pope of Rome!"

"Here! draw up across the lane!" cried Ralph, addressing the horsemen
who accompanied the carriage; "keep a sufficient space clear for the
coach to turn; let another footman go to the head of the horses--get
them quickly round--soothe them, soothe them!"

At that moment a sharp volley came up the lane, and one of the balls
rattled against the carriage. Ralph spurred instantly toward the side,
but, ere he reached it, his horse staggered and sunk upon its
haunches.

"You are not hurt, Hortensia?" he said, springing from the saddle. "Oh
God! you are not hurt?"

"No, no," she cried, "but you're wounded, Ralph."

"Not in the least," he answered; "it is but the horse;" and, running
forward, he aided with better skill in turning the carriage round.

While thus employed, a party of horsemen of distinguished mien
galloped up the lane, and one of them, with a hat loaded with plumes,
paused for an instant to ask, "Whose carriage is this? In Heaven's
name, how came you here?"

"We were going to Axminster," replied Ralph, "but suppose it is in the
hands of the Duke of Monmouth. We can hardly get the carriage round."

"As difficult as I have found it to take Axminster with two regiments
of boobies and a handful of plowmen," replied the other. "I fear we
can not stay to help you. If you fall into the hands of Monmouth, give
him the Duke of Albemarle's compliments, and say I hope we shall meet
again some day soon."

"Come, come, my lord, this is no time for jesting," said another of
the horsemen; and the party rode on, leaving the ground clearer than
it had been before.

A few moments only were now required to turn the carriage completely;
but the lane was deep and muddy, and little progress was likely to be
made, while it seemed certain that pursued and pursuers would still be
urging their course along the very path which it was necessary to
follow in order to reach Danvers's New Church.

Ralph gave a look at his horse, but the poor beast was now stretched
out with his head flat in the clay, and it was necessary to drag him
out of the road before the carriage could pass. This consumed some
time, and several fugitives hurried by, exclaiming as they went, "They
are coming! They are coming! You had better make haste."

At length the carcass of the horse was removed, and, taking the
pistols from the holsters, Ralph approached the side of the carriage,
saying, "I know not whether I can best give you protection by mounting
another horse and riding by your side, or--"

"No, no, come in, come in," said Hortensia. "I need some one with
me--I am foolishly frightened."

Ralph instantly opened the door, but, turning to the men ere he
entered, he said, "Draw round as close as possible; each keep a cocked
pistol in his hand. Bid every one stand off, saying we are peaceful
travelers avoiding the affray. Be firm, but forbear any violence. Now,
coachman, drive on as fast as you can go."

Thus saying, he entered the carriage and seated himself by Hortensia's
side, while the coachman plied the whip with terrified vehemence, and
the horses dashed on quicker than probably they had ever been known to
go before. In the rumbling and rattling of the wheels, and their
grating through the stones and mud, the sounds from without--although
there was still firing, and shouting, and running going on all
around--were not very distinctly heard; but there were some clear,
sweet, musical tones fell distinctly enough upon Ralph's ear: "Oh,
Ralph, tell me--assure me that you are not hurt," said Hortensia. "I
am sure I saw you reel upon the horse as if a ball had struck you."

"It was the horse who staggered and fell," replied Ralph; "I can
assure you I am not hurt at all."

"Thank God!" said Hortensia, with a deep sigh; and Ralph went on to
add, "I feared you might be hurt, for I heard a bullet strike the
carriage."

"Did it?" said Hortensia; "I was not aware of it. It did not come near
me; and I was looking out, and thinking how wildly you men expose
yourselves unnecessarily, more than of any thing else."

"Not unnecessarily," replied Ralph, "depend upon it; it needs some one
to command under such circumstances."

"And that you did right well, most certainly," replied Lady Danvers,
assuming a tone of gayety not very congenial to her feelings; "I could
have fancied you a general, and think, indeed, you should have been a
soldier. But what are we to do now? What is to become of us?"

"We must go back to Danvers's New Church at once," replied Ralph. "We
have no other choice; and I must try my fortune alone early to-morrow
morning. It is strange we have heard nothing of Gaunt Stilling."

Hortensia did not reply, and after a moment Ralph added, "The firing
seems further off now, to the east of the town. I strongly suspect
Monmouth will not pursue his advantage--his troops are too raw. Is any
thing the matter? You do not speak."

"No, Ralph, no," she answered; "my heart is very full with many
mingled feelings; some joy--as, for instance, at our escape from
danger--some apprehension, some sorrow; but I trust that to-morrow
will bring better fortune, and that, ere night, I shall hear that you
are safe, Ralph."

She called him Ralph twice in the same short answer, and it was
pleasant to his ear; but she had remarked that from the moment when he
sprang from the carriage he had given her no name whatever, except
once that of Hortensia. He would not--he dared not, call her so again,
after the first excitement was over, and yet, with the warm sound upon
his lips, he could not bring them to utter a colder name. Their
thoughts were both upon the same subject at the same moment.

The sound of the firing had nearly ceased. The fugitives who were
still passing were few and scattered, and the moon was rising slowly
in the east, and silvering over the heaven behind a wooded hill, and a
tall, ancient-looking farmhouse upon a high, stony bank, when suddenly
a loud voice cried, "Halt! who goes there?"

The coachman instantly pulled in his reins, and Ralph, putting his
head out of the carriage, replied, "Friends! whose post is this?
Standoff, for the men are armed, and we want no more confusion."

"What friends?" demanded the sentry.

"Lady Danvers and her servants," replied Ralph, knowing the
announcement could do no one any harm but himself. "She is seeking to
return to her own house, as she finds she can not get to Axminster.
Who commands at this post, fellow, I ask again?"

"George Monk, duke of Albemarle," replied the militiaman, stoutly;
"and, I can tell you, you must stop till he says that you can go on,
for if you come a step further, I will shoot one of your great coach
horses."




CHAPTER XXIX.


The sentinel who spoke the words with which the last chapter concluded
was placed in a little hollow way, or cut in the steep bank through
which the lane had to wind on in order to pass over the hill. He was
evidently a country boor of the Duke of Albemarle's militia,
unacquainted with military service, and as likely as not to put his
threat of shooting one of the coach-horses in execution. But before
Ralph could think of what was next to be done, or Lady Danvers could
say a word, a figure was seen to drop down from the bank behind the
poor soldier, seize him by the throat, and with very little ceremony
wrench his musket out of his hands, taking special care to allow him
no opportunity of discharging it in the struggle.

"A pretty fellow you are, to stop a lady's carriage on the king's
highway," cried a voice which Ralph recognized right well. "There! go
and tell the duke what you've been doing, and get well punished for
your pains. He never told you to stop Lady Danvers's carriage, I'm
sure."

Thus saying, Gaunt Stilling shook the powder out of the pan of the
man's musket, and, giving him a kick behind, sent him running up
toward the farmhouse I have mentioned.

"Quick, my lady," said the servant; "you had better drive back to
Danvers's New Church as fast as possible. You can not pass any other
way; I will overtake you soon; jog along, Master Coachman."

He sprang up the bank again as he spoke, and the carriage moved
forward.

It is probable that the Duke of Albemarle, who was of a more jovial
temper than his renowned father, only laughed at the sentry's mishap.
Certain it is, he gave no orders for pursuing the carriage of Lady
Danvers; and Ralph and his fair companion continued their journey
uninterrupted. That journey was slow in its progress, however, and it
was nearly two o'clock in the morning before the carriage entered the
park. The moon, which had risen clear, had become dim and cloudy--not
altogether obscured, indeed, but partially vailed in thin clouds, amid
which her rays formed a broad yellow halo, auguring ill of the coming
weather. The beautiful park itself, the dark trees, the solemn old
house standing on its eminence, all had a sad and gloomy aspect in
that sort of dreary twilight, and with a wearied frame, and a heart
not happy, the buoyant spirit of Hortensia fell. She sat silent and
thoughtful by Ralph's side, and more than once felt that she could
weep and find relief in tears if she were alone.

She restrained them, however, and strove to look cheerful when Ralph
at length aided her to alight at her own door.

"Ah, my lady," said Mr. Drayton, "I'm glad to see you back, for rumors
have come in of a battle near Axminster."

"In the midst of which we have been, Drayton," replied his lady.

"Oh, a mere skirmish, madam," said Gaunt Stilling, advancing from the
hall door; "but I have some news to give you and my master, for which
I will crave your attention as soon as may be."

"Come in here, come in here," said Hortensia, turning toward the
little room in which Ralph had made his principal abode during her
absence.

"If you are going to use the coach to-morrow, my lady," said the
coachman, coming up the steps, "I had better get the carpenter and the
blacksmith up at once, for two bullets have gone right into the hind
axle-tree."

"We can use some other lighter carriage," said Lady Danvers,
thoughtfully; "the vis-à-vis--"

"Lord bless you, my lady, it would be knocked all to pieces." said the
coachman; "and, besides, that can't be, for it is in Lunnun, and all
the other carriages, for that matter."

"Well, then, Harrison, get this mended as well as you can, without
sending up to the village. Now, Master Stilling;" and, accompanied by
Ralph, she bade the man who followed shut the door.

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, addressing his master,
"that I could not get back in time to stop your going on; but I was
met and turned at every point, like a hare by the grayhounds, so that
I was three times as long as I need otherwise have been. However, it's
quite useless going to Seaton; for an embargo has been laid on all the
boats, and the Tory magistrates are strong in the village. I have
found out, however, from some of the old boatmen, that there is a much
better chance in the Bristol Channel. You mustn't go to Bristol
itself, for Lord Pembroke is there, and he has probably got his orders
with regard to you; but if you can cut across to any of the little
ports, or to Bridgewater, you are sure to find a ship, and seamen
ready enough. It will cost a good sum, though, they say."

"That matters not." said Lady Danvers. "But are you sure that he can
pass?"

"There is nothing sure in this world, dear lady," said Ralph, "unless
it be woman's kindness; but in such matters we must take our chance,
do the best we can, and leave the rest to the will of Heaven."

"If I could have a fresh horse to-morrow, my lady," said Gaunt
Stilling, "I will undertake to make sure of a path. My own beast will
rest in the mean time, and my master and I can set out at night--only
it would be a great deal better for you to stay here, if I may be so
bold, for we shall get on twice as last on horseback, and not draw so
many eyes."

"But it may be dangerous for him to remain here," said Hortensia; and,
looking round to Ralph, she asked, in a low voice, "May I tell him
what we have heard?"

"Oh yes, we can confide in him entirely," replied Ralph; adding, "The
truth is, Stilling, we have information that this house is to be
occupied by the king's troops, with a special injunction to apprehend
me if I am found within its walls. Orders have been already sent to
Lord Feversham to that effect."

"Lord Feversham is a gentleman, if not a soldier," answered Gaunt
Stilling, with a laugh, "and he will do every thing ceremoniously. It
would be no hard matter to bamboozle him. I would undertake to pass my
master upon him for a cardinal in disguise--but I thought, sir, you
had two whole days to come and go upon?"

"What! then you have heard from our friend in Lincolnshire too?" said
Ralph.

"Yes, sir," replied the man, "and you may depend upon what he says.
Lord Feversham is near three days' march upon the right--at least he
was this morning; and if you can but keep yourself still and quiet in
the house, there is no fear till I come back. He has no horse to
spare; and he could not move infantry down in time, let them go as
fast as they will. My plan was to let them get in advance of us, and
then pass in their rear; but if they are to occupy this house, that
will not do, and we must get in the rear of Monmouth instead. He is
certain to move forward from Axminster, I suppose, after his
successful skirmish, which he fought cleverly enough, if he had but
known how to draw good use out of it afterward. I shall hear what he
is doing, however, to-morrow, and if he marches toward Bath, as I
think likely, we can easily cut across behind him, and get to the
coast before a battle is fought."

"Do you think, then, he will fight a general battle?" asked Ralph.

"Oh, beyond doubt," answered Gaunt Stilling; "his men are bad enough,
it is true, and badly armed too; but then it does not require old
Greeks to beat a coxcomb like Feversham. They tell me, however, that
Churchill is there, and Oglethorpe, and the Tangier regiment, and
Dumbarton's; and it would require men who had smelt powder to fight
those fellows."

There was a knock at the door at this moment, which interrupted the
conversation for a time; the worthy steward, partly moved, perhaps, by
curiosity, partly by anxiety for his lady's health, having come to
inquire whether she would not take some refreshment after her
fatiguing journey.

Brief consultation between Ralph and Hortensia during supper confirmed
the resolution, already half taken, to follow the counsels of Gaunt
Stilling, and Lady Danvers even submitted to the necessity of letting
her young guest seek safety alone, without offering a word of
objection to that which she believed would prove most favorable to his
purpose.

A horse was accordingly ordered for Stilling, to be ready early on the
following morning, and Ralph and Hortensia parted to seek repose.

The following day broke dull and heavily. Drops of rain fell from time
to time; the sky was covered with a mantle of gray cloud. The whole
aspect of Nature was well in harmony with the feelings of two dear
friends about to part in peril and anxiety--to part, with a dark,
uncertain future before them--without any knowledge to guide hope as
to the when, and the where, and the how they were ever to meet again.

How often is it, even when hands are clasped, and eyes are bright with
expectation, and lips murmur hopefully, "We shall soon meet again,"
that grim Fate stands sternly by, and puts in the dark word of
contradiction, "Never!" But there are sadder partings--partings where
the word of Fate is heard like thunder--and partings where, though the
word be not actually spoken, yet the frown upon the forehead of
Destiny fills the heart with dread, and wild, unhopeful doubt.

Such was the parting for which Hortensia prepared herself; but,
happily for her, there was much to be done to fill up the intervening
hours. The best horse of her stable had to be selected for Ralph's use
to supply the place of that which he had lost; and then she had to
persuade, to insist, to argue with him on the matter of receiving from
her the means of hiring a vessel, at whatever cost, to carry him to
the Dutch coast.

It is very strange; three days before, he would have had no hesitation
whatsoever in profiting by her kindness at once; but now, he strove to
avoid--to evade it. He assured her he had enough--that he had all he
wanted, even while he was calculating in his own mind what amount he
could obtain for the various trinkets he possessed. I will not try to
look into his motives, for he would not look into them himself,
although he carried his refusal almost to a point of coldness. It was
only in the end, when Hortensia, with a faltering voice, said, "For
Margaret's sake, Ralph," that he yielded even in part, and accepted
assistance which she thought infinitely small.

She made up her mind, however, as to the means of foiling his false
delicacy, as she called it; and she proceeded to execute her plan as
soon as she was left alone. It is true that she would fain have had
him stay with her the whole day. Each minute seemed valuable; they
were the last drops in the flask. But he had to write a letter to his
father; and though it was not long, the time that it occupied was the
dullest of the day to Hortensia. To occupy a part of it, however, she
sent for her steward as soon as she was alone.

"I know not, Master Drayton," she said, "what rents you have got in,
but there are circumstances existing which will speedily require more
money than I have brought with me. I dare say you recollect quite well
my mother's friend, Mistress Woodhall, for you must have been with my
father before her death."

"Oh, quite well, my lady," replied Mr. Drayton, "and a beautiful
creature she was."

"Now this young gentleman that is here is her son," continued
Hortensia, "and I feel toward him and would act toward him as a
sister, if he would but let me. From circumstances not necessary to
mention more than I have done before, it is needful that he should go
to Holland as fast as possible. Now you can easily judge that to hire
a vessel for that voyage will in these present times cost very dear.
He thinks he has got quite enough. I know that he has not; but he will
accept no more; therefore I must contrive to place the necessary funds
in the hands of his servant Stilling, if you think the man is to be
trusted."

"Oh, perfectly, my lady, perfectly," replied Mr. Drayton. "How much
does your ladyship think will be required?"

"Not less than five hundred pounds," replied Lady Danvers.

"I have not so much in the house," said Mr. Drayton, somewhat
surprised, "but I will easily procure it in the course of the day, and
will get all that I can in gold, as most convenient to carry; but the
tenants often pay their rents in great heaps of silver, which takes
hours to count. When will it be needed, my lady?"

"Before nightfall, at all events," replied Lady Danvers. "When you
have got it, Mr. Drayton, give it into the hands of the good man
Stilling, for his master's use. You had better, perhaps, take a
receipt for it, and tell him to employ it at once in case of any
difficulty being made about the hire of a vessel. You are sure you can
trust him?"

"Oh, quite sure," replied Mr. Drayton; "ha is very moody and somewhat
passionate, but as honest a man as ever lived."

When this conversation was over, Hortensia passed the next half hour
as best she might, sadly and thoughtfully enough, walking up and down
the terrace before the house in despite of the drops of rain which
fell from time to time. At length she was joined by Ralph, and strove
steadily to appear cheerful, if not happy. They conversed of many
things--some bright--some dark--some pertinent to the occasion and the
circumstances--some wandering far away into realms where thought but
too often did not keep pace with words.

Thus passed away hour after hour; and though, to vary the time,
Hortensia and Ralph sat down to the usual meals, but little food was
taken, and thought and conversation went on as before.

At length, about an hour before sunset, as they were sitting in a
large, beautifully-furnished corner room, which commanded two views of
the park, they heard the sound of a horse's feet coming at speed, and
Ralph went to the window, saying, "Here is Stilling, returned, I
suppose--No! it is a stranger, in a military dress."

The man pushed his horse up the terrace, and rang the great bell
without dismounting; and Hortensia, opening the door of the room,
which was near the head of the stairs, listened eagerly.

Slowly the old porter swung back the heavy house door, and a voice
from without said, "Here is a letter addressed to the Right Honorable
Lady Hortensia, Baroness Danvers--come, take it, for I must be on to
Dorchester."

"Who is it from?" asked the old porter, not hurrying his steps in the
least.

"From the Earl of Feversham," replied the soldier; "I have had hard
work to find this out-of-the-way place."

"Won't you dismount and take a glass of ale?" inquired the porter; but
the man replied, "No, no, I must not stay;" and, turning his horse, he
trotted quickly away.

"These are tidings, Ralph," said Hortensia; "let us go and see what
they are;" and, descending to the floor below, she met the old man
with the letter in his hand. She refrained from opening it till she
and Ralph were again alone, but then perused the few lines it
contained eagerly. They were written in French, the earl's native
language, and contained the usual amount of unmeaning compliment and
prettiness. Stripped of all verbiage, however, the purport of the
letter was to inform Lady Danvers, as in gallantry and duty bound,
that the position of Lord Feversham's forces and his line of march
compelled him, most unwillingly, to occupy her house and park as a
military post of much importance. "I have given the strictest orders,"
continued the earl, "that your beautiful ladyship be not put to the
slightest uneasiness or inconvenience; but as the receiving of a large
body of infantry without notice might embarrass you, I have thought
fit, in due devotion to your beautiful eyes, to overlook a little the
strict line of military duty, in order to give you intimation a whole
day beforehand, that the gallant Colonel Kirke, with the Tangier
regiment, will crave your hospitality to-morrow at some period between
the hours of four and seven, post meridian. We trust very soon to come
at the end of these rebellions, and, in the mean time, I commend
myself, my lady, to your good graces and favorable consideration.
     FEVERSHAM."


The eyes of Ralph and Hortensia instantly turned to the date of the
letter, and, with a feeling of relief, they perceived that it had been
written on the morning of the same day, so that four-and-twenty hours
were clear before them.

"Do you know any thing of this Colonel Kirke?" asked Ralph.

"Nothing whatever," replied Hortensia; "but I know the Tangier
regiment does not bear the best name in the world."

"Of its qualities," said Ralph, with a smile, "we can get full, though
perhaps not unprejudiced information from Stilling when he returns,
for he once served in this very corps. He can not be long now, I
suppose."

Nor was he; for he must have passed Lord Feversham's messenger very
nearly at the gates of the park, and the letter had not been read ten
minutes when he entered the room.

"Well, Stilling, what news?" said his master; "I was beginning to be
somewhat anxious for your return."

"Plenty of time, sir--plenty of time," said Gaunt Stilling, "and my
news is good. A schooner or a brig can certainly be hired in the
Channel, and at no very hard rate. The way, too, is open, for Monmouth
is moving to the eastward, as I expected. The people behind him are
all in his favor, and the magistrates are powerless. No warrants
run there. Still, as parties of troops are scouring about here and
there--no one knows where--it will be better to take the low horse
road, which leaves Taunton and all those towns on one side. I was only
afraid that some of the king's officers might have occupied the little
hamlet at St. Mary's, in order to command that road, and that Monmouth
might have left it behind unnoticed, thinking he could force it at any
time. I find, however, that a part of Oglethorpe's corps, which was
quartered there, retreated this morning for fear they should be cut
off, so that the way is clear and easy to Bridgewater, where we shall
be sure to hear of ships."

"We shall have ample time, too," replied Ralph, "for Colonel Kirke
will certainly not be here before four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

"Colonel Kirke! Colonel Kirke!" exclaimed Gaunt Stilling, with an air
of consternation; "is he coming here?"

"So we are informed by Lord Feversham," said Hortensia. "Do you know
any thing of that gentleman?"

"God's life! my lady, quite enough," replied Gaunt Stilling; "pray
forgive me, but who is coming with him?"

"The Tangier regiment, which he commands, I believe," answered Lady
Danvers. "You know something of them, Mr. Woodhall tells me."

"I know this, my lady," replied Gaunt Stilling, "that if they come
here, and Kirke at their head, this house is no place for you, or any
lady or poor girl either. It is impossible, sir," he continued,
turning to Ralph, "that Lady Danvers can remain here, if Kirke and
these Tangier men are coming. I served with them for three years in
Africa; and if I had been inclined to disbelieve in the existence of a
devil, I should have had no doubt afterward, for I had more than four
hundred real ones all round me, and the arch fiend at their head. I
beg your pardon, my lady, for speaking so plainly, especially as not
long ago I was all for having you stay here, and letting Mr. Woodhall
and myself find our way alone. But now I see it can not be done. You
must not remain an hour, nay, not ten minutes in the same house with
Kirke and the Tangier men. There is no knowing what they have done,
and what they will dare to do--Oh, if I could but tell you all I know!
You must either come with us, or let us see you to some place of
safety."

Lady Danvers smiled somewhat sadly. "I fear I must not come with you,"
she said, "if you mean to Holland; but I have friends both in the
neighborhood of Wells and Bristol who will gladly give me refuge."

"Then, madam, if you will take my advice," replied Gaunt Stilling,
"you will take care of your plate, and all the pretty little
knickknacks that I see lying about all over the house, or you will
find clear boards when you come back again."

"I will order all the rooms to be locked up," said Hortensia, "except
those where the men must sleep."

"The Tangier regiment don't mind locks, my lady," said Gaunt Stilling,
gravely. "There is always an excuse for breaking a lock, especially
when there are Nonjurors and Dissenters about. Doors would open very
fast, and with two or three hundred witnesses you would have two or
three hundred accomplices. Ask Tom if his brother's a thief! No, no,
my lady, take my advice; put every thing of value into small drawers
which would not hold an infant, or they'll break in to see if there's
a Dissenting minister. Consign all your plate to the plate-chests;
and, when you come back, you may think yourself very lucky if you do
not find the eyes of your grandfather bored with a pike, or the
portrait of your mother shot through with a musket, just to see if
there be not a concealed door behind the canvas. Feed them well, or
they will feed themselves better; and disperse all the women of the
household over the parish--that is to say, under eighty. The men must
take care of themselves, and a hard time enough they will have of
it--some heads broken, if not driven in, before you come back, I will
warrant."

"You lay me out work for a long time, Master Stilling," answered
Hortensia; "what is to be done, Ralph?"

"Take his advice, dear lady," replied Ralph Woodhall. "Let me aid you
in your arrangements, at once and immediately. Then lie down and take
a short repose, and let us set off before daylight to-morrow. We will
see you safe to Wells, and I shall depart with a lighter heart."

Gaunt Stilling did not appear to be quite satisfied, but he made no
observation; and various servants being called, Lady Danvers explained
to Mr. Drayton that she was under the necessity of quitting her own
dwelling, as she had received information from Lord Feversham that
Danvers's New Church was about to be occupied as a military post by
Colonel Kirke and the Tangier regiment.

"Odd bless my life! my dear lady, that's bad news indeed," cried the
old man, rubbing his hands in an agony of perplexity; "why, it is the
worst regiment in the whole service--nothing like it in all the
civilized world--a mere band of licensed robbers and plunderers,
especially their colonel--gracious! what shall we do with all the
things that are about?"

"We must lock them up safely," said Lady Danvers; "and that was one
reason of my sending for you, Mr. Drayton. We must all set to work as
hard as possible; the carriage and horses must be round at the door
before three. But I will not take more men with me than is needful. My
maid Alice must go. The rest of the women you had better disperse
among the farmhouses and in the neighboring villages till the storm
has blown by; and you must take the best care of these men who are
coming that you can."




CHAPTER XXX.


It was wonderful to see how soon, with a little order and a right
good-will, all the rooms were cleared of the rich and delicate
ornaments which filled them. The girl Alice, well trained by her
mistress, did good service in this way, and at length all was
completed. Four servants, besides Gaunt Stilling, were selected to
accompany the carriage, and, after a few minutes' quiet conversation
with Ralph, Hortensia retired to seek some repose. Her last words
were, as they parted, "This is a strange life, Ralph."

How often it is that such little truisms give the clew to long, deep,
intricate, undisplayed trains of thought, which have been going on in
silence and secrecy for a long time before the common place result, in
which most meditations end, is expressed.

Lady Danvers's words led the mind of Ralph on a journey fully as long
and various as her own had previously been traveling, and, after
giving a few directions to his servant, he cast himself into a chair,
and passed the night in sleepless silence, till the faint gray of the
early morning began to tinge the eastern sky. From time to time he had
heard steps in the house throughout the night, and before the hour
appointed Hortensia was down and ready to proceed.

There are various characteristics which give the men who possess them
great power and influence over their fellows. Promptitude and
decision, even though they approach rashness; firmness and
determination, even when they touch upon obstinacy; great knowledge of
the world and wide experience, are pre-eminent among these; and, by a
combination of all three, Gaunt Stilling had obtained an ascendency
among the servants of Lady Danvers which rendered him at once the
leader and commander, as it were, of the little party which surrounded
the carriage as it wended on. Two men he threw forward in advance, at
the distance of some five hundred yards from each other, to gain
intelligence and report to him in case of need. He himself rode a
little before the carriage, and the other two men placed themselves
one at each door, or portière, as it was the custom then to call it,
one leading Ralph's horse by the bridle. The morning was peculiarly
fine--bright, glowing, and beautiful--the colors of the sunrise
unusually vivid; but the feathery clouds over head soon began to mass
together. The sun lost his splendor, became dull and heavy-eyed, and
then disappeared behind a shroud of vapor. First came on a thick,
drizzling rain; then a heavy, continuous pour, pitting the dry ground,
and then forming miniature torrents by the road side.

The carriage was much more heavily laden than on the preceding
journey, and slowly and laboriously it went on, wallowing through the
thick mud, and often seeming to pause, as if to rest itself, in the
gutters which channeled the way. Progress was very tardy; hour after
hour went by, and still every scene was familiar to the eyes of
Hortensia. She knew this house, and that farm, and the church upon the
hill, and the little village inn with its jolly host, and she could
almost tell the exact distance from spot to spot. The slowness of
their progress alarmed her; and after going on for four hours, and
indulging in a fit of deep thought, she turned suddenly to Ralph,
saying, "Indeed, I think you had better mount your horse, and ride
away with your man. I shall reach Wells in safety, without doubt; but
I fear every moment we may meet with Colonel Kirke, or some other of
the king's officers, and the consequences might be dangerous to you.
Have you not remarked that one of the men has ridden back several
times to speak with your servant? We are now approaching the turning
toward St. Mary's, and really we had better part here."

It cost her a great effort to utter those words, but it cost Ralph
none to reply.

"I will leave you on no account," he said, "till I see you safely in
your cousin's house at Wells; I should ill repay your kindness were I
to act so selfish a part. A lady traveling in such scenes of confusion
needs all the protection she can have; the danger to myself I do not
think great. If we are rightly informed, Kirke's men will be marching
on a different road; and as to the men moving rapidly backward and
forward, it is but to keep up the communication from front to rear. We
move slowly, indeed," he added; "but I never expected to accomplish
the journey in less than three days, and with these roads it will
probably take four."

"Four!" exclaimed Hortensia; "why, I have ridden the distance in one.
Heaven knows what may happen in four days."

The words were still upon her lips when Gaunt Stilling rode up to the
carriage and looked in, saying, as if in an inquiring tone, "I think
we had better turn a little way up the lane to St. Mary's, sir, for I
find from the reports that there is a good large party of the king's
troops at a village about a mile before us. They halted there last
night, but where they are going this morning the people do not seem to
know. The carriage can get up the lane for about half a mile, and the
two first sharp turnings will hide it from this road. There is a field
near there where we can wheel about when we have obtained intelligence
that the troops have marched on."

Ralph and Hortensia agreed to the proposal, and directions were given
to the coachman accordingly. But Gaunt Stilling had reckoned without
his host. Not fifty yards after the carriage had turned into the lane,
a deep, unmended hollow, almost deserving the name of a pit, presented
itself in the road. The horses dashed over--one stumbling and nearly
falling--the heavy and overladen vehicle plunged in, with a shock
first to the fore, then to the hind wheels; the injured axle-tree, not
well mended, gave way, and the carriage stuck fast and immovable.

It was evident, in an instant, that the accident was beyond repair, at
least for a long time; and while Ralph and Hortensia stood by the side
of the vehicle, in no slight embarrassment and dismay, a distant beat
of drums was heard, and one of the horsemen, who had been sent on the
high road to bring his fellow from the front, came up at a quick pace,
saying, "They tell me these are Kirke's lambs, my lady."

"You had better avoid that flock, madam," said Gaunt Stilling; "we can
all be seen from the road; and I would not have them find you here for
a good deal."

"But what is to be done?" exclaimed Ralph, impatiently; "they are
already marching, it would seem; the carriage can not be repaired for
hours, and Lady Danvers can not go on on foot."

"No, but she can on horseback," answered Gaunt Stilling.

"But there is no lady's saddle," replied Ralph; "her dress is not
fitted for riding."

"Oh, that has all been taken care of," answered Gaunt Stilling, with a
grin, "if Mistress Alice followed my counsel, and the coachman
Harrison did what I told him. I knew quite well we should have some
accident before we had done, and that my lady would likely have to
mount on horseback and ride for it. As to the drum, that's only the
muster-drum, and they won't march for this half hour; and, if people
have not forgotten, there's a pad for my lady's riding on the
carriage, and an amazon skirt, as they call it, under the cushion."

"The velvet pad is up behind," growled the coachman, who had been
gazing disconsolately at his broken vehicle.

"I put the skirt in," cried the maid; "I always do what I'm told."

"But what am I to do with you, my poor Alice, if I ride away?" said
Lady Danvers.

"Oh, never mind me, my lady," replied the maid, "I'm not a bit afraid
of them. If they say a word to me, I'll scratch their eyes out. Or I
can walk along down the lane till I get to some cottage, and hide
myself there till they have plundered the coach and gone by."

"Why, I should think you had known them of old, Mistress Alice, you
hit them off so pat," said Gaunt Stilling; "but you won't find a
cottage for a long way, I can tell you. However, if you and the men
get into that little wood, and hide yourselves there, it is a thousand
to one that they don't seek for you. The picking of the carriage will
take them some time, and Kirke won't let them stop long."

"I sha'n't get into the woods," said the sturdy coachman; "I'll stand
by the carriage."

"And I'll stick by the horses," said one of the men; "the girl can
hide herself in the wood, if she likes--I won't."

"Then, my brave lads, I'll stay with you," answered Gaunt Stilling. "I
know these men, and perhaps can do more with them than any of you. I
know Master Kirke, too, and he knows me. However, do not let us waste
time in talking;" and, turning to Ralph, he added, "You and the lady,
and one of the men, had better ride on, sir, as fast as may be; I will
follow you as soon as I can, and reach you where you stop for the
night. Perhaps we can get the carriage repaired so as to go on
to-morrow. Harrison, get the pad on the lightest going of the horses.
Alice, set your little fingers going about your lady's dress."

"Marry, you're familiar!" said the maid, searching under the cushions
of the carriage; and, at the same time, Ralph replied, "But I do not
know the way, Stilling."

"I do--I do!" exclaimed Hortensia; "only tell me, is it the second or
third turning you take to the right?"

"The fourth, my lady," replied Gaunt Stilling; "don't take the third,
or it may lead you into the lion's jaws; the fourth turning, and then
ride straight on. You go in one line for sixteen miles till you come
to a cross-road with a good inn. There, my lady, I think you'll need
rest; and there, God willing, I'll bring you news. Now, pretty
Mistress Alice, have you got the skirt?"

"Yes, here it is; but what my lady is to do without her hat and
feather, I can't tell."

Hortensia smiled, but made no answer; and her extemporaneous toilet
was soon completed.

The pad by this time had been placed upon one of the servant's horses,
and Ralph lifted his beautiful companion into the saddle, not without
some haste and anxiety, for the sound of fifes and drams playing a
march was distinctly heard, and it was clear that Colonel Kirke and
the Tangier regiment were moving down the road. As soon as she was
safely seated, he sprang upon his own horse's back, and Hortensia,
shaking her rein lightly, with a look in which sadness checkered
strangely one of her gay smiles of olden days, put the beast into a
canter, saying, "Now, Ralph, for a gallop, such as I used to enjoy so
much when I was a girl."




CHATTER XXXI.


The roads were bad, and heavy with rain which had fallen during the
night, but still Ralph and Hortensia kept up the quick pace at which
they had set out for some six or seven miles. They spoke little, but
the rapid motion seemed to animate and cheer them both; and at length
Hortensia drew in her rein, her color revived by the air and exercise,
and a brighter look of hope in her beautiful eye.

"I think we must have distanced them, Ralph," said Hortensia, "and we
can ride on more quietly now."

"I trust there is no danger at present," answered Ralph; "and though,
dear lady, you seem as if you were boon companion of the huntress
goddess, it may be better to spare the horses."

"One of Diana's maidens I suppose I was destined to be," replied
Hortensia; and then, as if to take away the point from her words,
she added, "I was ever very fond of hunting, I remember, when a
child--except, indeed, the catching of the beast, which I could never
bear. The shrill scream of a poor hare when caught by the dogs,
banished me at length from the hunting-field forever."

She fell into thought again for a moment, and then lifting up her eyes
to her companion's face, she said, "We are very foolish, Ralph, I
think--you--I--every body."

"Indeed!" said Ralph, smiling; "why think you so?"

"Because," replied Hortensia, "not content with all the great and ugly
evils with which Fate has crammed this mortal abode of ours, we set up
looking-glasses all round them in our minds to multiply them by
reflection. Is not this foolish, Ralph?"

"Methinks it is," answered her companion; "but I believe the reason of
it is that we wish to see them on every side, to see if we can not
diminish them or cast them out."

"Vain effort!" replied Hortensia. "Our path is straight on; we can not
turn aside from it. The ills that lie upon it must be encountered in
front, and there is no use in watching for them till they are within
reach. Let us be wise, Ralph, if it be but for this day. Let us enjoy
the present as far as we can. You think no more of a dark past or a
gloomy future, and I will cast from my mind many a heavy thought and
anxious care which the world's eye shall never behold. See! the sun is
breaking out from behind the clouds, mottling the livery of the sky
with gold. Let us fancy that in a calm, peaceful land, in a softened
summer day, with nothing but prosperity round us, a happy home before
us in which to rest, a short but bright vista of pleasant, youthful
hours behind us, and light and loveliness on every side--let us fancy,
I say, that we are taking a morning's ride for mere enjoyment. Can you
do your part?"

"I will try," replied Ralph; "and, indeed, dear lady, as you say, it
is the wisest plan. I have turned all the events of these last few
days in my mind during this whole morning, and during the greater part
of last night too; but thought has come to no result; and, as you see,
the best-devised plans are frustrated in the moment of execution. I
really feel inclined to be a fatalist, and to think that Destiny is
leading me on blindfold, struggle how I may."

"Perhaps so," replied Hortensia; "but you are already breaking our
compact, and moralizing upon things that be. Let us get into
dreamland, Ralph; it is the mind's best refuge. You never were in
France, or Italy, or Greece, I think; never saw the seven sober,
united provinces, nor dwelt among the stiff and boorish aristocracy of
Germany?"

"Never," replied Ralph, "never;" but yet the very name of these places
turned his thoughts, as Hortensia intended, into another channel; and
the two continued, not without an effort, indeed, to discuss subjects
the least possibly connected with their own fate or the circumstances
of the moment. Often--very often would thought recur to painful
themes; the distant barking of a dog--the wild, joyous galloping of a
horse in a neighboring field, would startle and alarm with the thought
of fresh danger; but then, each time this occurred, the effort to
banish the night-mare of the moment would be less difficult, till at
length they nearly succeeded in forgetting all that they wished to
forget.

Thus the time passed more pleasantly, and the road seemed shorter and
less wearisome than it might have done had they yielded greater
attention to pains and anxieties. That which Hortensia counseled and
was practicing, has been, through the history of the world, one of the
great secrets of philosophy and fortitude. The stoic bore his shame,
the martyr his anguish, by thinking of something else; and great would
be the blessing to man if he could attain to such mastery over his own
mind as to give no more thought to any painful circumstance than is
absolutely necessary to safety.

Ralph's heart was well guarded, indeed, or it could not have gone
through that journey with Hortensia in safety; not so much from the
beauty of her person, or the charm of her conversation, or the
sweetness of her voice, or the high-hearted mind which seemed to pour
a sort of halo of light around her, as from the deep thoughts of
her--her character--her fate--which that long, dreamy ride suggested.
He was thinking of her continually, even while conversing with her on
indifferent things--thinking of her, not in a manner that could have
pained Margaret if she had seen all his thoughts, but thinking of her
far more than Margaret would perhaps have liked. The words which gave
his mind that direction were those which Hortensia herself had used in
speaking of herself, when she promised, for the enjoyment of the
moment, to cast away from her mind "many a heavy thought and deep
anxiety which the world could never see;" and on this text he went on,
discoursing with himself, as I have said, even while he was striving
to keep up a gay, wandering conversation with her.

The way seemed short, and neither Ralph nor Hortensia could believe
that they had gone sixteen miles from the turning of the road when
they saw, at length, a large, good-looking inn standing at a corner
where two ways crossed. That which they were traveling themselves was
a mere lane. The other, which traversed it, was evidently a high road,
and Ralph said, "I hope we are right. We surely can not have come so
many miles already?"

Hortensia looked up at him with a gay smile, and pointing to his
horse, replied, "The poor uncommunicative beasts know better, Ralph;
see you, your horse hangs his head, and both think they will be much
the better of corn and water. Hark you, Peter," she continued, turning
to the servant who had followed them, "ride up to yon inn door, and
ask how far this is from St. Mary's. That will give us some indication
of the distance we have come. But mind, mention not my name or Mr.
Woodhall's on any account. It might be very dangerous to me, Peter,
and I think you love your mistress well enough not to risk her safety
by any indiscretion."

"I won't say a word, my lady," replied the good man, pulling off his
hat as he rode forward.

In two or three minutes more, Ralph and Hortensia were seated quietly
in a comfortable small room of an old-fashioned inn, with an
old-fashioned landlord waiting upon them. He was full of attention,
and often took his snowy night-cap in his hand, uncovering his bald
head to guests whom he saw were worthy of reverence.

"Dinner shall be placed before you, my lord and my lady, in a moment,"
he said. "You have just come at the nick of time, for we had a great
banquet ordered for Master Jenkins and his friends. He was to be
married the day after to-morrow to pretty Mistress Betty Parker of the
Grange; but those soldiers who came down to join Oglethorpe's regiment
last night carried him off with them for disaffection--foul fall them!
His only fault, if it was a fault, was too much affection--for
Mistress Betty Parker. He would have given her up his whole soul and
substance; and as to his being a Nonconformist, he was as good a
Churchman as any in these parts, was baptized by old Doctor Hicks, and
confirmed by the Bishop of Wells. But I'll show you your bed-room, my
lord and my lady. It is all quite snug and comfortable, in here, out
of this parlor," and he threw open a door leading into a very nice
room beyond.

"You make a mistake, my good friend," said Ralph, while Hortensia's
face glowed with painful crimson. "I am not this lady's husband, but
merely protecting her on her journey in these dangerous times."

"Well, sir, I hope you soon may be," said the pertinacious host.
"You couldn't have a better, nor she either, for that matter, I'm
sure--Good gracious! the lady's crying--Dear me, madam, I'm very
sorry--I beg pardon a thousand times--I'm a foolish old man and must
chatter."

"Never mind, never mind, my good man," replied Hortensia, drying her
eyes. "It is I who am foolish; but I have been subject to much fatigue
and anxiety to-day. We had very nearly fallen in with a band of these
lawless soldiers who are about, and I was obliged to leave my carriage
on the road, broken down, and ride on under this kind friend's
protection."

"Oh, well, if that is all, he can have the bed-room just opposite,
where he can come to you in a moment if you want him," said the host,
and again Hortensia's face glowed like a rose.

"If I stay the night, I may need that for my maid," she replied; "the
girl will come on as soon as possible. I dare say you can find him a
room somewhere else."

"I have none so good," said the landlord. "Twenty-five is rather damp,
and number seven--"

"Never mind, never mind," said Ralph, "any one will do for me. These
must be for the Lady Hortensia and her maid--Now go and hurry dinner
as fast as possible."

The old man turned toward the door, but stopped suddenly, and looked
round with a bright expression, as if a good thought struck him,

"Won't it be better," he said, "to have a bed put into my lady's room
for the maid?"

"Exactly--exactly," said Ralph; "that will do very well."

"Capital--capital," cried the old landlord, snapping his fingers with
an air of triumph; "that hits it exactly; then you can have the
opposite room, and comfort them both if they should need it."

Ralph could bear no more, and burst into a fit of laughter, in which,
to say sooth, Hortensia joined, although she was not very sure whether
she should laugh or weep again.

The old man looked in some surprise, and left the room with a somewhat
sheepish air.

As soon as he was gone, Hortensia raised her eyes to Ralph's face with
an expression of much anxiety, rendered almost whimsical by the faint
glow of merriment that still lingered like sunset round their lips.
"This will not do, Ralph," she said, in a timid tone; "I hope my
people will come and join us soon; but I must not--I fear I must not
travel with you alone, though God knows, and you know, that our
feelings toward each other would not shrink from the scrutiny of all
the world."

Ralph took her hand and pressed his lips upon it. "You have been
pained too much on, my account already," he said; "but I must and will
see you safe to your journey's end, Hortensia. If your maid does not
join you at once, I doubt not we can engage some honest girl here to
fill her place for the time, and accompany you on the way to-morrow.
No one who knows you could doubt you for an instant."

"But what may not Margaret think?" asked Lady Danvers, turning very
pale.

"Margaret's thoughts are all generous," replied Ralph; "and if she
knew you as I do, she would almost worship you for your kindness to
me."

"Without a doubt or a suspicion?" asked Hortensia, sadly.

"Without a shadow or a cloud to dim her confidence," replied Ralph,
boldly. "Others might insinuate what Margaret would not believe; but I
feel it now, dear Lady Danvers, to be a duty to you, to her, and to
myself, as soon as I can find an opportunity, to write to my dear
cousin, and tell her all the generous, noble, disinterested kindness
you have shown to me. It is risking a good deal, perhaps, but I think
I can find the means of conveying the letter to her secretly."

"Perhaps I may find courage to write to her also," replied Hortensia,
thoughtfully. "A woman, in a woman's letter, soon reads a woman's
heart; and mine I don't wish to conceal--from her eyes, at least. She
will understand me."

Ralph pressed her hand kindly in his own. His brow was clear and calm;
his eye expressed, perhaps, esteem, regard, affection, but not
passion, and he answered, "She _will_ understand you as I understand
you; she will be grateful to you as I am grateful to you; and she will
neither doubt, nor fear, nor hesitate, but comprehend you, most
excellent and amiable of human beings, as you will ever be
comprehended and loved by one who esteems you more than any other
being upon earth but her with whom his whole fate and existence has
been linked from early childhood."

Heaven knows what it was in his words, but Hortensia bowed her head
till it touched her hands upon the table, and burst into so vehement a
fit of sobbing, that Ralph, after in vain endeavoring to soothe her or
even to attract her attention to himself, called loudly from the door
for help, and soon brought the landlord's wife and daughter to the
assistance of his fair companion.

The peculiar situation in which they were placed prevented him from
carrying her himself to her bed-room; but he had soon after the
happiness of hearing that she was calmer and better; and for an hour
or two he waited tranquilly, in the pleasant and quiet abode which
they had found, for some news of all they had left behind them on the
road.

Hortensia had just rejoined him--had just made one of those excuses
which women often make for any agitation they betray when emotion
overpowers habitual self-command, saying that she had overcalculated
her strength, and that the fatigue which she had lately undergone had
affected her more than she had expected.

"The truth is, I suppose, Ralph," she said, "I have been acting the
fine court lady too much of late, and in cities and crowds have lost
somewhat of the dairy-maid health I used to boast of in days of yore.
I must abandon such enfeebling scenes, and once more ride my fifteen
or twenty miles in the day, as I used to do; for I am resolved not to
be a languishing dame till my hair begins to turn gray, and not even
then if I can help it."

They were gazing forth from the window, which, looking over a low
copse on the opposite side of the road, gave a beautiful view of that
rich and beautiful country, which extends for many miles along the
borders of Somerset and Devonshire--a land which probably my eyes will
never see again, but which will be present to my mind to the last hour
of life. The garden of England well may they call it; and when they
say that, surely they mean the garden of the world. The sun was
shining fitfully; the clouds, broken, were drifting away on a swift
wind; the trees and fields were sparkling with the past rain, and the
soft exhalation of the warm earth marked out the aerial perspective of
every far-receding slope more tenderly than usual. From the refreshed
earth the air rose up loaded with perfume, and the note of the
blackbird poured rich and musical from the covert, as if to keep
scent, and sight, and sound in harmony. They had not gazed for above
two minutes, however, and Hortensia had hardly had time to ask her own
heart how and why it was that Nature's own world was so bright, and
beautiful, and peaceful, while man's was so full of ruggedness and
thorns, when the sight of Gaunt Stilling trotting up quickly to the
door, and quite alone, called the attention both of herself and her
companion.

The man asked some questions quickly of an hostler who was standing by
the horse-trough, gave him some large saddle-bags to carry into the
house, and then dismounting, entered the inn. A moment after, he was
in the presence of his master and Lady Danvers, and Ralph argued at
once, from the expression of his face, that matters had gone wrong
with him. Nevertheless, his words did not convey any evil tidings.

"Lucky you didn't stop, my lady," he said, addressing Hortensia, "for
we were very likely to have a fight for it, and two shots were fired,
which did no damage to any thing but the carriage. However, we have
saved it from actual plunder, though I believe Kirke's lambs have
filched two or three things of no very great importance."

"But where is the carriage?" asked Ralph; "and where is Lady Danvers's
maid?"

"It will be impossible to get the carriage repaired at all till
to-morrow," replied Gaunt Stilling, "and it may be night then before
it is ready but we contrived at last to get it drawn up into the yard
of a good farmer, who will take care of it, and the men and all, and
Mistress Alice to boot, till they can set off to Wells. As to the
young woman, my lady," he said, with a laugh, "you should have her
taught to ride; for we could find no possible way of getting her on
here, or I would have brought her with me. We contrived a capital sort
of pad saddle for her, and mounted her tolerably well; but no sooner
was she on upon one side than she was off upon the other. So the
matter was in vain; for I knew my horse would have enough to do to
bring one here alone, otherwise I would have brought her on a pillion
behind me. I have brought a heap of things for your ladyship, however,
which the girl crammed into a big pair of bags I bought from the
farmer."

"Have you heard any news of the other forces that are marching?" asked
Ralph; "it is absolutely necessary that we should get some accurate
intelligence."

"Hard to be found, sir," replied Gaunt Stilling; "I don't think much
that there are more than three men among the king's troops who know
which way they are marching, or what they are doing, and Feversham is
not one of them. If Monmouth had but one good regiment of foot and a
handful of horse, he would beat them all in detail; he must win a
battle or he's lost, however, for they're pressing him back upon the
sea just by their dead weight."

"But can he win a battle with such ill-disciplined and ill-armed
forces as he has?" inquired Ralph.

"I don't rightly know, sir," replied Stilling. "His men are
bad enough, in all conscience; but the king's are not much
better--Feversham, an idle, effeminate fop--vain, too, as a peacock;
the men a set of drunken marauders, only fit to scour a conquered
country, and the officers, for the most part a set of dissolute,
enfeebled libertines, who know as much of tactics or campaigning as
that table. Your cousin, Lord Coldenham, is one of them, sir. I think
it would not take a very strong man to knock down a whole regiment of
such, like a child's house of cards. But there is Churchill," he
added, "and Oglethorpe, and Dumbarton's regiment, and the Blues.
Monmouth will fall down there if they come across him. His only chance
would be to beat Feversham first, and then push on to London. A battle
won and a forward march would make many cold friends warm ones."

"But have you been able to obtain no intelligence, then, which may
guide us?" asked his master; "I care not for myself, Stilling, if I
could see Lady Danvers safely at Wells."

"Ay, that is the thing, sir," answered Stilling; "for the whole
country is in a state of commotion, and it is almost equally dangerous
to move or to sit still. The whole roads to the south and east are in
a state you can form no idea of. Every sort of outrage is being
committed. Nothing is safe, nobody is respected. The landlords are
ruined by having men quartered upon them. The villages are plundered.
The farmer's horses are all taken to draw the baggage-wagons and
artillery, and you would suppose not only that martial law was
proclaimed, but that the whole land was given up to pillage. It is as
bad as Tangier; and it was only because Kirke knew me, and I knew
Kirke, that her ladyship's carriage was spared. When I told him that
if he did not keep up some discipline about the carriage at least,
some secrets might come out he might not like to have public, I could
see him fingering his pistol, as if he did not well know whether to
shoot me or bid his men march on; but I had a pistol too, and my hand
upon it, and I think that settled the question with him. However, all
I can say is, we must go on very carefully to-morrow, for nobody seems
to know which way Monmouth has turned. I dare say we shall hear,
however, as we proceed, and as to the rest, we must trust to the
chapter of accidents. Now, with your good leave, sir, I will go and
get something to eat, for I have neither had bit nor sup since last
night, and my horse is nearly as badly off as his master."

Gaunt Stilling withdrew, and Ralph and Hortensia were left alone to
consult over the somewhat cheerless prospects before them. To stay
where they were for that night seemed inevitable; and, following
Ralph's suggestion, Lady Danvers sent for the good woman of the house,
to inquire if some young woman could not be procured in the
neighborhood to act in the capacity of her maid for a few days. The
landlady willingly agreed that her own daughter should sleep in
Hortensia's room, and attend upon her that night, but no consideration
would induce her to allow the girl to quit her home on the following
day.

Inquiries were then made in the village, which lay about a quarter of
a mile down the road; but all proved vain. The terror which the
various bodies of troops had occasioned rendered every parent anxious
to keep his child at home; and Hortensia was obliged to make up her
mind to undergo any evil construction that the world might put upon
her conduct, as she was placed in a position from which, however
unpleasant, there was no escape.

It would be tedious to trace the adventures of the next two or three
days, for they only consisted of embarrassments and disappointments
very similar to those which have been already noticed. Whichever way
Ralph and Hortensia directed their steps, intelligence reached them
that some body of troops lay between them and the place they sought to
reach; and, turned at every point, several days were lost in fruitless
wanderings, which only brought them nearer to the Bristol Channel, and
further both from Wells and Hortensia's own dwelling.

Sometimes a feeling of despair would come over Ralph, and he more than
once thought of seeking out the quarters of his cousin Lord Coldenham,
of whose presence with the royal forces he was now assured, and
trusting to his honor to find means of conveying Lady Danvers safely
on her way. But when he proposed such a plan to her, she rejected it
at once in a manner which admitted of no further argument.




CHAPTER XXXII.


In a room which we have before described in Coldenham Castle sat the
same stately, proud-looking, majestic dame to whom Ralph Woodhall had
paid a brief visit of ceremony before his final departure from his
father's house. The unconcealed gray hair upon the broad, powerful,
masculine brow, added not less, perhaps, to the grave dignity of her
aspect, than the keen, finely-cut features, and the stern black eye.
There was a look of some discontent upon her countenance as she
opened, one after another, a number of letters which had been placed
upon the table before her, but no doubt, no hesitation, no remorse;
and yet she might very well have felt all, or either.

"Not caught him yet?" she said, bitterly; "God's my life, thief-takers
must have lost their skill! But they must have him soon. I have
tracked him to his lair, and it seems they have unearthed him. Surely
they can run him down now. It must be this foolish confusion in the
country about Monmouth which has favored his evasion. Methinks I will
go over myself. Men are but women nowadays, and it is time that women
should act the part of men. I will soon find means to catch him. I
fear me Coldenham is too weak and soft, and the old lord too rash and
hasty; Robert, though the best head among them, too politic and wily.
It needs to see clearly, and judge wisely, and strike boldly. A keen
sword is of no great use without a strong hand. I will soon do it if I
go; and let me but catch him, I will so pile up crimes upon his head
that he will need a wiser jury than England can afford to set him
free."

This was partly murmured in distinct words, partly thought; and while
her meditation on that subject continued, she retained in her hand
unopened the next letter of the pile, hardly regarding it. When she
had done, she looked for a moment at the back, and said, "The old
man's hand! Why does he write to me, I wonder?" and, tearing open the
seal, she read the contents. They seemed to affect her more than she
expected, for one of those strange changes came over her countenance
which I have before described.

"Ha!" she exclaimed, "ha! how sits the wind now?" and, turning to the
beginning, she re-read the letter to an end. It was to the following
effect, and much more brief than good Mr. Woodhall's epistles usually
were:


   "MY DEAR LADY AND COUSIN,

"I write to you because I am informed, on authority which to me would
be beyond doubt as proof of any other assertion, that, although no one
should be better aware than yourself of the innocence of my son Ralph
in the matter of his cousin Henry Woodhall's death, you are urging on
our kinsman Lord Woodhall to persecute him with great severity, and
also are engaged in seeking causes of offense which may render him
obnoxious to the court, and perhaps even prejudice him before a jury.
This information having been communicated to me without any injunction
to secrecy, I think it but just to yourself and to my son--although I
believe that some error must exist--to make known to you the fact, in
order that you may at once give immediate contradiction to the report,
should it be false. Should it be out of your power to contradict it,
however--which I do not believe--I have to warn you that the
consequences to yourself may be more dangerous than you imagine; that
all your proceedings in this case will be at once brought to light;
and that many things, now apparently buried forever in the darkness of
the past, may have to be brought forward in the eye of day. Trusting
that, with the firmness and decision which belong to your character,
you will at once deny the truth of the information which has reached
me, I beg to subscribe myself, et cetera."


Lady Coldenham gazed upon the paper with a look in which many an evil
expression mingled with surprise. "Insolent old fool!" was her first
exclamation; "does he dare? Who could have told him of this? his
fellow-simpleton, Lord Woodhall himself, I suppose. Nay, nay, there
can be no communication between them. It must have come from some
other source; whence, I can not divine. The old man Stilling surely
could not--nay, how could he? he knows not of it. It is very strange.
And this threat, too. The son threatened, and he shall rue it. The
father threatens, and he may rue it too. Deny the truth? Nay, I will
confirm it with 'the firmness and determination which belong to me.'
It is time that I should know to what these menaces tend. If I am to
have a foe, let me meet him in front;" and, taking up a pen, she wrote
hastily upon a sheet of paper a few bold lines to the following
effect:


"SIR,--What I dare to do, I dare to avow. Your son Ralph murdered his
cousin Henry Woodhall. I have urged, and shall urge Lord Woodhall, the
bereaved father, to suffer no weak remains of affection for an
unworthy object to prevent him from punishing the offender to the
utmost. I, for one, should prefer to have a man hanged out of my
family, rather than to have a murderer left living in it. Your cousin,

"ESTHER COLDENHAM."


This done and the letter sealed, she rang the silver bell upon her
table, and, as soon as a servant appeared, handed him the tender
epistle, saying, "Dispatch that by a messenger immediately."

"May it please your ladyship," replied the man, "Mr. Woodhall's
messenger is waiting."

"Then let him have it and be gone," replied Lady Coldenham; "his
master can't have my answer too soon."

When she was again alone, Lady Coldenham once more read her cousin's
letter, and it seemed less satisfactory to her than even at first;
for, with all the evil passions which it evidently stirred up, and
which painted themselves upon her countenance, there was an expression
of doubt, of hesitation, of dread, which that face had seldom, if
ever, before borne.

She had great power over herself, however. She was resolute,
persevering, undaunted in purpose. Little had she ever scrupled to do
in life; and no fear had ever got sufficient hold upon her to deter
her from any act on which she had determined.

Whatever it was she dreaded on the present occasion, she suffered not
the impression to remain upon her mind for more than a few moments.
Then, casting it from her as something that was used and done with,
she turned to the letters again, perused all those which she had not
read before, made notes upon such as referred to business, and then
calmly and deliberately ordered every thing to be prepared for a
journey into Dorsetshire within three hours. Her own arrangements were
very rapidly made, and the early time of dinner was approaching, when
the peculiar servant who attended upon that room entered with another
letter in his hand. Lady Coldenham took it and looked at the address.
The moment she did so, a paleness came over her face; and the man
could see that her hand shook as she broke the seal. He did not
venture to remain, however, and retired with his usual noiseless step.
But the door was not yet quite closed when he heard a cry, as if of
pain, and then the sound of a heavy fall, and, running hastily back,
he found his mistress stretched senseless on the floor. The letter lay
wide open at a little distance from her, and he thought fit to look at
it before he called for aid. Only one word, written in a fine, bold
hand, in the middle of the page, was to be seen. It was, "Beware!"
and, as he could make nothing of it, he called the waiting-woman and
the housekeeper, and a number of other servants, who soon, by their
united efforts, brought Lady Coldenham to herself. For a moment or two
after her eyes opened, she lay quite still where they had placed her;
but then, as if moved by some sudden passion, she started up, snatched
the letter from the floor, and uttered some wild and whirling words
which no one could rightly comprehend.

"It is false!" she cried; "it is a forgery! They are in a league to
frighten me; but they shall find themselves mistaken. Ay, they shall
find themselves mistaken!" and, after tearing the letter into a
thousand pieces, she sunk slowly into a chair, and leaned her head
upon her hand.

"Is the coach come?" she asked, as if not fully aware of how short a
space of time had elapsed since she gave her orders.

"No, my lady," replied the waiting-woman "it is not time yet. But, as
your ladyship has not been well, would it not be better to delay your
journey till to-morrow?"

"Not an hour--not a minute!" replied Lady Coldenham, sternly; and,
rising up from her chair as stately as ever, she said, "You may
withdraw. Let me know when dinner is ready."




CHAPTER XXXIII.


The sun set slowly, and somewhat dimly too over a wide, extensive,
melancholy-looking plain in the west of England. Two persons gazed
over the wide expanse from the windows of a tolerably comfortable
farmhouse situated on the first slope of a rising ground to the
eastward. Nothing could appear more dreary and hopeless than the
aspect of the scene before their eyes. The general face of the country
for some miles to the westward was completely flat, rather hollowed
out than otherwise, looking much like a Dutch landscape, where a wide
tract of country, rescued from the sea, continually forces upon the
mind of the spectator the impression that at any time the sea may
break in again and recover its own. I know few things more desolate in
appearance than one of these Dutch landscapes late in the autumn or
early in the spring. There is a sort of marshy, fenny feel in the very
look, which makes the mind shiver and creep, as if it got the ague
before the body was sensible of it. But even a Dutch landscape had the
advantage over that which lay beneath the eye of the traveler. The
manifold wind-mills, with their arms waving in the breeze, which give
a sort of merry activity to most of the Dutch pictures, were here
wanting. The curious old manorial houses, very often furnished with
draw-bridge and portcullis, and with clumps of old trees around them,
were not to be seen. Here and there, indeed, marked out by the falling
of the light and shade, a little elevated piece of ground, apparently
but a few yards wide, though in reality much more extensive, rose up
as a sort of island a few feet above the dull level of the plain; and
there almost invariably appeared the spire of a little village church,
with a low cottage or two scattered among the orchards, and the
squire's or parson's house domineering over the rest. All these
houses, however, in which men and women dwelt--in which every human
passion had its sway--in which loves, and hates, and hopes, and
ambitions, and envy, and pride, and jealousy, and enmity, and strife,
and mortal struggle existed as well as in the midst of courts, seemed,
to the eyes that looked upon them from the height, no larger than the
smallest of a child's playthings, so completely did they sink into
insignificance--lost, as it were, in the vast expanse around.

Dim, dim was the aspect of the whole scene. The setting sun, half
vailed in cloud, yet partially seen through the gray covering of the
sky, looked pale and wan, and of evil augury. No rosy glow accompanied
his descent, till his lower limb touched the very verge of the
horizon, and then two or three blood-red streaks marked the death of
day, without affording one hope of brighter looks to-morrow. There
were none of those strong contrasts, those deep blue shadows, and warm
yellow lights, brought forth by the changeful aspect of the April or
October day; but the utmost variation in the depth of hue served but
to throw out, in very slight relief, the little hamlet-covered
elevations I have mentioned. Perhaps, indeed, this effect was produced
more by the long lines of light mist that rose up from the lower parts
of the ground than by any contrast of light and shade; and the dull,
leaden, cheerless, rayless look of the whole was only rendered more
oppressive by two or three tall wreaths of bluish smoke which rose up
here and there, several miles apart, marked out the distances, and
showed how wide was the space beneath the eye.

"Somewhere here," said Ralph, "must have lain, I think, the famous
isle of the Æthelings, so celebrated in our Saxon history; for this
was the great marsh--at that time nearly covered with water in the
winter--into which the Danes could never penetrate."

"It looks, indeed, a sad and gloomy place--the refuge of despair,"
replied Hortensia; and then allowing her eyes to run forward over some
twelve or fourteen miles of ground, they rested upon a spot where,
against the western sky, rose up a number of irregular white masses,
crowned by a very tall steeple, which looked as solitary and
melancholy as a column in a wilderness.

"That must be Bridgewater, I suppose," said Hortensia.

"I fancy so," answered Ralph, "but I can not tell. We will ask the
good farmer;" and he was turning toward the other side of the room,
where stood the door, when Hortensia stayed him, saying, "Nay, do not
leave me, Ralph; I am very sad to-night. I know not why it is; but I
suppose these long journeyings and wearing anxiety have fatigued me
much--fatigued mind, and heart, and soul, and spirit, more than the
body, for these frail limbs do not feel so weary as after the first
day's journey; but there is nothing like the weariness of the spirit.
It matters little whether it be Bridgewater or not--let it be what it
may. We shall learn more to-morrow--"

The moment after, with a little spice of that caprice which the
weariness of the spirit that she talked of often gives, Hortensia
added, "If that be Bridgewater, and the villages we see there be
occupied by the king's troops, as the people say, they must have
somehow passed us; and I should think that we could get across the
country to Bristol or Bath early to-morrow. Of course, if Monmouth is
before them, they will call in all stragglers and detachments, and the
road in their rear must be clear."

"I have good hope it will prove so," replied Ralph; "but if the
intelligence we have heard to-night be correct, your own house at
Danvers's New Church must be free of these marauders. Nothing is more
probable than that Lord Feversham should order Kirke, as the people
told us, to join him again by forced marches."

"I wish Stilling would return," said Lady Danvers, with a sigh. "We
have fed so long upon the bitter bread of uncertainty, that I am
marvelous tired of the diet, Ralph."

"He has not yet been gone half an hour," replied Ralph Woodhall. "Take
my counsel, dear lady: go and lie down to rest for a few hours, and as
soon as Stilling returns I will send and let you know what news he
brings. If I judge right, there will be some one up in the house all
night, for the good people are evidently anxious and alarmed in
consequence of the near presence of the soldiery."

"If I sleep at all," replied Hortensia, "it shall be in this large
chair. Though the back be as tall and stiff as a monument, yet there,
ready for any event, I shall rest more quietly than in a bed. I like
this sober evening twilight--this sort of middle state of sight, where
there is nothing very bright, and nothing very dark, like the calm,
even hue of happy mediocrity. Forbid me candles at an hour such as
this. I could go on, methinks, musing and pondering in this light for
ever, if it would but last--or till the night of age and death fell
upon me."

Her quiet melancholy dream ended with the opening of the door; and the
good farmer's wife entered, saying, in a broad, Somersetshire dialect,
"Come, young folks, don't you sit moping here in the dark. I've got
something ready all hot for your supper down below. A plenty of
roasted eggs and some bacon, and some good dough cakes as ever were
baked. It's poor feeding for such as you, I dare say; but it's the
best we can give, and it's given right hearty."

"And so will we partake of it," said Hortensia, rising and laying her
hand upon the good woman's arm. "Come, Ralph, let us go to supper; we
can employ our time worse, even in sitting thinking sadly here."

"Well, thou art a dear, beautiful lady! and there's the very best
cider in the country to boot," said the farmer's wife, walking down
the stairs by the side of her fair guest.

Hortensia did not see the connection between herself and the cider;
but she asked no questions, and was soon seated at the farmer's
supper-table, where, in addition to himself, his wife, and her two
guests, were half a score of plowmen and maid-servants, all very
decorous in their behavior, though simple and rough enough in their
manner.

The conversation turned naturally enough to the situation of Monmouth
and the king's troops, and some speculations were indulged in as to
the result of the struggle going on. It was evident that the good
farmer was a Tory at heart, although he took especial care to guard
the expression of his opinions.

"Lord bless you! my lady," he said, in answer to some observation of
Hortensia, "there will be no battle. The duke can't afford to fight
such men as he's got before him--that's to say, the duke or King
Monmouth, as they call him; and I can't tell, of course, which is
right. But he's strengthening himself in Bridgewater, they say; and I
know he sent for a great number of our lads round about, to help to
cut rines and throw up dikes. He'll soon be obliged to give them all
up, I've a notion; but nobody can tell, after all. War and love are
the two most uncertain things that are, and I do not know which is the
worst, for my part."

"Love," said Hortensia, smiling; "for, besides being bad in itself, as
you say, it often leads to war, which is another evil."

"Lord bless you! my lady, love's a very good thing in its way, when
it's young and fresh," said the farmer's wife, with a merry laugh.
"It's not like beer, the better for being kept, that is true; but all
those sweet liquors grow sour when they get stale; and so love's no
worse than the rest of them. Isn't it so, father?"

The jolly farmer shook his sides with a hearty laugh, but replied,
with a better compliment than courts could afford, "Such as thou never
gets stale, my dear old girl; for there's a sweet spirit in the heart
of thee that won't let a drop in thy veins grow sour, and the longer
thou art kept the better."

The conversation served somewhat to cheer; but still both Ralph and
Hortensia were anxious for the return of Gaunt Stilling; and Lady
Danvers would not consent to retire to rest before information was
received of what was the course to be pursued in the morning. After
the supper was over, they went up again together to the room above,
and seated themselves by the window, while the good farmer's wife
followed them with a single lamp, and sat making stockings, and every
now and then saying a word or two, calculated, as she thought, to keep
their spirits up.

Ralph and Hortensia said little, but gazed on the scene before them,
with the stars twinkling faintly above, and the wide expanse of
Sedgemoor nearly vailed in mist, looking like a dim, uncertain sea.

"Ay, we none of us can rest to-night," said the old woman; and then,
after a pause and two or three more stitches, she continued. "That's
because we all feel as if something were going to happen; and
something must happen, too, very soon--I'm sure of that. They've got
too near to part without tearing each other."

"It is sad to think of," said Hortensia; "perhaps to-morrow may bring
fate to many hundreds of honest men who ought to be friends and
brethren."

"Likely, my lady," replied the farmer's wife; and there the
conversation dropped.

"Farmer Bacon thinks they are going to have a siege," said the good
dame, after about half an hour's silence; "but I don't think they'll
wait for that slow work."

"I should think Lord Feversham would hardly give the duke time to
fortify himself," Ralph answered; and there the conversation dropped
again.

About an hour after that, Ralph said, "Hark! do you not hear the sound
of a horse's hoofs beating upon a hard road or causeway? I dare say it
is Stilling coming back."

"It must be on Zoyland causeway," said the old woman, "for all the
roads are mere pease-pudding. You would not hear the galloping of a
whole regiment of horses. That horse is six miles off, at the least;
but the night is still, you see."

A short time then elapsed without any further observation; but
suddenly Hortensia started and uttered a low exclamation. A bright
flash of fire was seen to blaze through the fog toward the center of
the moor, and some seconds after, a loud, ringing report of musketry;
then, immediately after, flash after flash ran along in a straight
line across the moor, extending some three or four hundred yards, and
the peal of the shot was mingled with other sounds, probably shouts of
command, or the cheer of troops in the charge.

It was clear a battle was going on--that a night attack had been made
by Monmouth on the king's troops, and that mighty destinies hung upon
the events which were taking place on one spot in the midst of that
wild moor.

Some five or ten minutes after, a light broke out about two miles to
the right, steady and persisted, as if a bonfire had been lighted
there; but a number of flashes also poured down from that quarter, and
then came the sound of many horses' feet beating the hard causeway.

The farmer and many of the people of the house came up, warned by the
sounds which reached the house, to look out upon the distant battle.
All were silent--all were pale with the strong emotions of the moment;
and it is not at all improbable that from among the farming men, at
least, many an aspiration went up for the success of Monmouth.

Again, at the end of a quarter of an hour, firing commenced upon the
left; but it was faint and scattered; and still the heat of the strife
was evidently toward the center of Feversham's position. There the
firing was kept up incessantly, rising and falling, sometimes less
fiercely than at others, but never discontinued altogether. At length
a dull, heavy roar was heard, and brighter, broader flashes were seen.

"Those are cannon brought into play," said Ralph.

"Ay, that will soon settle it," observed the farmer. "The daylight is
coming, too. See how gray it is out there."

"Heaven have mercy upon those poor men!" said Hortensia, with a sigh.
"Do you not think you hear cries and shrieks, Ralph?"

"No, indeed, dear lady," replied her companion; "it is your own bright
imagination hears them."

"They are heard by the ear of Heaven," replied Hortensia; and, bending
down her eyes, she fell into a fit of deep thought.

The farmer's voice roused her. "And now, my lady," he said, "if you
will take my advice, you will lie down and take an hour or two's
rest--say till five o'clock. By that time we shall know how matters
have gone, though I myself don't doubt. By that time, too, the chase
will be over, and you can get some breakfast, mount your horse with
this young gentleman, and ride away quietly, keeping to the rear of
the army."

"But suppose we should be met by stragglers, and stopped?" said Lady
Danvers; "I have a great dread of those troops of Colonel Kirke's; and
there being no one with us to protect us, we should be quite at their
mercy if they met with us."

"Well," said the old farmer, scratching his head, "I will ride with
you till you're out of harm's way, and will take two of the lads with
us; not that I should be any great protection, or they either, for
that matter; but I think I've got a secret to keep them quiet. I don't
believe they'll venture to hurt me, any how. So now go and lie down
and rest quietly, there's a dear, pretty lady."

"I do not think I can sleep at all after what I have seen," answered
Hortensia.

"Never mind that, my lady," said the farmer's wife; "it will rest you,
at any rate, to lie down. Come with me, and I will show you the way."

Hortensia followed, and Ralph remained debating with himself whether
it might not be better for him to place his fair companion under the
charge and safe guidance of these honest people, and entreat them to
see her unmolested to the house of some relation, than to persist in
accompanying her, when his presence seemed but to bring mishap and
inconvenience with it. He determined, in the end, to see her, at all
events, safely beyond the immediate neighborhood of the field of
battle, and then to propose his plan to her, and leave her to decide.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


A small party on horseback rode quietly along upon the very verge of
Sedgemoor, where the land begins to slope upward. They were still upon
the moor, however, which was in those days a moor in reality; for few
spots on the eastern side of the Atlantic have undergone a more
complete change in the short space of two hundred years. A slight
elevation of the ground--one of the waves, as it were, of that
earth-sea, concealed the travelers in a degree from the field on which
the battle had lately been fought; but this shelter was not complete,
for the little ridge was irregular, and in some places sunk to the
level of the rest of the marsh. Nevertheless, the party pursued their
way unmolested for more than three miles, not hurrying their horses,
nor putting on any appearance of haste or dismay. Lady Danvers was in
the front, with Ralph on one side, and the good old farmer on the
other; and their spirits and hopes were beginning to rise, from the
impunity with which they had proceeded on their last half hour's ride.
They were taking a slanting course somewhat away from the field of
battle, and Hortensia fondly trusted that every forward step put her
and Ralph further from danger. The old man upon her left, too, was
cheerful and light-hearted, and seemed to anticipate no peril or
obstruction. Suddenly, however, as they turned a little angle of the
ground, they saw two mounted men with carbines on their knees, fixed
motionless right in the middle of the way, evidently posted there to
cut off any fugitives who, after having made their way round the
flanks of the enemy's position, might now be seeking to escape by
favor of the hollow way.

A little confusion occurred in Hortensia's party as soon as the
soldiers were perceived; and one of the farm-servants, who was riding
behind, exclaimed, "Let us gallop away across the hill."

"Stay!" said Ralph, whose presence of mind generally came to his aid
in moments of danger, "every thing now depends upon coolness and
propriety of conduct. These men can not be avoided. We must meet them,
and then act according to circumstances."

Thus saying, he begged Hortensia to halt for a moment, and then rode
on alone, waving his hand to the man who was nearest. He was speedily
challenged, and replied at once, "The king--King James."

"Ay, ay," said the soldier, "every one calls out King James this
morning, though many a one hallooed out King Monmouth last night."

"We, at least, hallooed nothing of the kind," said Ralph, "for I was
prevented from going to Bridgewater by hearing that the duke was
there. At all events, you can not suspect that a lady took any part in
such things, and I trust you will let her pass quietly, as every good
soldier ought in a woman's case."

"I can't let any body pass, man or woman," replied the soldier,
gruffly; "my orders are strict to stop every one, and have him
examined by one of the superior officers. You must stay where you are,
and so must every one of your party, till we make the signal from that
bit of a mound. Take care that you stay quite still, and do not
attempt to move away, or my companion will fire in front, and I will
fire upon you in flank."

"We will remain in perfect quiet where we are," answered Ralph, in an
indifferent tone; "but one thing let me add, that we would greatly
prefer to speak with one of the generals, who probably might know us,
than with any inferior officer."

"That's as it may be," answered the man. "I saw the general Himself
there just now. Perhaps he may look back, if he's not gone too far.
Well, you go back and stay with the rest."

Ralph returned to his party, and communicated what had taken place,
evidently greatly to the alarm of Hortensia.

"Don't be afraid--don't be afraid," said the old farmer, in a cheerful
tone. "I've got a secret that will tame them, especially if they bring
us one of the colonels or generals."

But Hortensia's fears were roused for Ralph. "I am not in the least
alarmed for myself," she said, in a low voice; "but indeed, Ralph, you
are in a situation of great peril. Will it not be better for you to
turn your horse, and try to make your escape the other way."

"No, no," he said, "I should only bring suspicion on you, and probably
be taken before I had ridden a couple of miles. Besides, dear lady, I
am wearied with this continual uncertainty; and, in truth, I think I
have fully as good a chance of passing unobstructed in this direction
as in any other."

Hortensia hung her head, and his answer did not seem fully to satisfy
her. But no great time was allowed for thought or consultation. In
less than five minutes the head of a considerable party of military
men appeared over the hill; and, riding at a quick pace, they were
soon in the little ravine leading to the spot where Hortensia and the
rest were waiting. Preceding them by a step or two came a man,
somewhat above the middle height, of distinguished aspect, and a
countenance which, though not absolutely handsome, was expressive of
high mental qualities, if there be any truth in physiognomy or
phrenology. The panoply of war had evidently been thrown aside since
the battle, and he was now dressed in the ordinary costume of a
gentleman of the court, with the exception of the large jack boots and
long heavy sword, with which no mere courtier would have liked to
encumber himself. He gazed with a keen, shrewd, penetrating look upon
the party as he rode up; but when, within about five paces, he seemed
suddenly to recognize one of their number, and, doffing his hat, he
spurred on up to Hortensia's horse, saying, "Dear Lady Danvers, can I
believe my eyes?"

"Yes, indeed, Lord Churchill," she answered, with a well-pleased
smile, for she well knew the courtesy of that great but heartless man;
"and, to tell you the truth, I have some cause to be very angry with
you, for you have been art and part in the offense, I fear, of forcing
me many a mile out of my way, breaking my carriage to pieces, and very
nearly getting me into the midst of a battle."

"Serious offenses, indeed," said Churchill, with a laugh; "but how
have I had any share in these terrible acts?"

"Why, the simple fact is, I have been trying to pass toward Wells with
this gentleman who is escorting me," said Lady Danvers--Churchill
pulled off his hat with a low bow toward Ralph, and a keen look at his
person, and Hortensia proceeded: "I could not effect my object,
however, for I always found some of your troops in the way, and I was
not a little afraid of them."

"Nay, nay, what a satire," exclaimed Churchill; "we should have
treated you with all courtesy, as if we had been knights of old."

"No satire, but homely truth, general," replied Lady Danvers,
pointedly. "The first we met with was Colonel Kirke's Tangier
regiment; and his men, we heard from every tongue, were plundering the
whole country, and abusing every one who fell into their hands."

Churchill's brow contracted, and he muttered, "This is too bad. That
man ought to be punished. I hope you did not suffer insult or injury
At his hands?"

"No; but I escaped only by turning down a narrow lane," answered
Hortensia; "there my carriage was broken to pieces, as I have said,
and I was obliged to mount a horse, and get away as fast as I could.
What has become of the carriage and its contents, my maid, and my
servants, remains yet to be seen."

"I grieve exceedingly that you have suffered such inconvenience,"
replied the officer; "and I can only compensate for it by insuring
that you shall be safely and immediately escorted to Wells, or any
where else that you think fit to go within reasonable distance. But
who are these three gentlemen behind," he continued, in a louder tone,
"in such exceedingly country attire?"

"Why, general, don't you know me?" said the good farmer, riding up; "I
saw you at my lord's head-quarters yesterday morning. There it is, all
about it. I am Josiah Bacon; and I think that ought to pass me and
every one with me;" and he held forth a scrap of paper which he had
produced from his pocket.

"I think I do remember your face," said Churchill, taking the paper,
on which were written the following words:


"These are to certify that Josiah Bacon, a true and loyal subject of
our sovereign lord, King James the Second, has voluntarily furnished
eighteen horses for the service of the royal artillery, and to require
all faithful lieges of his said majesty, and officers in the army
under my command, to suffer the said Josiah Bacon to pass and repass
the several posts and stations upon his lawful business or the king's
good service. FEVERSHAM."


Below was written, "I hereby prohibit any soldiers or officers being
quartered in the house or on the premises of the above-named Josiah
Bacon, and require all men in the king's name to give him aid and
assistance on every lawful occasion."

"Good," said Churchill, when he had read; "but who are these two men
behind?"

"They are only two of my lads," replied the farmer; "you see the way
of it was this, general--her ladyship there and this young gentleman
came to my house yesterday afternoon, wanting to make their way to
Bristol, or Bath, or Wells, or any of those places, but in a great
fright about your soldiers, for Kirke's lambs had scared them. They
had a servant with them then, and while we took them in and did the
best for them, they sent the man on--Stilling I think they called
him--to see which way they could get on in safety. I heard them with
my own ears; so this morning, you see, after watching the battle last
night from the windows--and heartily did we all pray for the king's
success--they determined to go on when they heard you had won the
victory; but, being still a little bit frightened about stragglers
from the army and such like, they got me and these two fellows to come
with them and show them the way, and take care of them."

Hortensia bad seldom, if ever, so much wished a long speech at an end;
but Churchill listened with exemplary patience, and when the farmer
had done, inquired, "Do you assure me, upon your loyalty, Master
Bacon, that these two men are actually your farm-servants, and that
they took no part in the battle last night?"

"Upon my soul and conscience they never were out of the house, and
have been with me for the last two years," replied the farmer.

"Well, then, you can pass," said Churchill. "Will you ride on with
them, Lady Danvers?"

"Come, Ralph," said Hortensia, joyfully.

But Churchill interposed with a grave look. "I beg your pardon," he
said, "but I must ask this young gentleman a few questions before he
proceeds with you."

He paused, as if he expected her to go forward; but Hortensia kept her
hand tight upon her bridle rein, and the general then proceeded,
saying, "May I inquire who you are, sir?"

"A very unimportant personage, my lord," replied Ralph.

"Not so, I should suppose from your bearing, sir," interrupted
Churchill, in a courteous tone, "though not so important as I at first
believed. You are about the same height as the Duke of Monmouth; and I
fancied, when first I saw you, that I had caught the bird for which we
had been beating the bushes all the morning. I perceive my mistake;
but may I ask your name? You must be of the court, I think; but I have
not the honor of recollecting you."

"My name, sir, is Woodhall," replied Ralph, at once.

"Your Christian name?" asked Churchill.

"Ralph Woodhall," answered the young gentleman, calmly.

"Then I fear, sir," rejoined the general, "that I must request you to
accompany me to my quarters, and deprive Lady Danvers for a time of
the advantage of your escort. I will take care, however, that your
place is properly supplied, and that she shall suffer no
inconvenience."

"That is all I could desire," replied Ralph; but Hortensia demanded,
fixing her beautiful eyes upon Churchill's face with a look earnest
and intense, "Does he go as a prisoner, my Lord Churchill?"

"Not exactly as a prisoner, dear Lady Danvers," replied Churchill,
"but as my guest for the time;" then, seeing a look of doubt and grief
on Hortensia's face, he added, "The truth is, then, and I must not
conceal it from you, that I have heard at the quarters of Lord
Feversham, the commander-in-chief, that orders have been given for the
apprehension of a gentleman of the name of Ralph Woodhall on some
charge, I know not well what. I do not apprehend him myself, because I
am not a constable or a messenger; but I feel it my duty to stop him,
in obedience to the intimation I have received."

"Then the offense with which he is charged is not a military offense,"
said Lady Danvers; "and, if so, there can be no need for Lord
Churchill to make himself a constable for the occasion. I beseech you,
my lord, as you must well know that this gentleman has had no share in
this most unfortunate rebellion, to suffer him to pass on with me, for
I feel that I have been greatly the cause of his having been placed in
this situation. Had he not undertaken to see me safely to Wells, he
would have been many miles from this spot at the present moment."

"Dear Lady Danvers," said Churchill, with that captivating grace which
so peculiarly distinguished him, "you have been now at the court of
England nearly three years, I think. Where few pass unassailed, you
have retained an unblemished reputation--and your honor is too high
and pure for envy even to attempt to cloud it--"

The color rose in Hortensia's cheek; for she thought he was about to
censure her traveling with Ralph, and point to the effect it might
have upon her fair fame; but Churchill turned his speech quite in a
different manner, saying, after a momentary pause, "You esteem this
reputation highly, dear Lady Danvers; not the softest or tenderest
persuasions would induce you to swerve from the line of duty, or do
one act that could tarnish your fair fame. The honor of a soldier must
be kept equally unsullied; he must be as well prepared to resist
entreaties as any beautiful lady in the land, and, be the temptation
what it will, keep his conduct beyond all imputation. Was not this so,
I fear I should yield to you at once."

Hortensia seemed still about to remonstrate, but Ralph besought her
not to do so, and then spoke a few words in a low tone to the general
himself.

Churchill made a sign to the escort which had accompanied him, spoke
with an old officer who rode forward, and then some changes took place
in the disposition of his little force. It was all done very rapidly,
and while the troopers were cantering in different directions, the
general once more advanced close to Lady Danvers, saying, in a low
tone, "Do not be apprehensive about this gentleman, dear Lady Danvers.
Doubtless no harm will happen to him. I believe the charge against him
is something concerning a duel not quite regular in its forms; but in
these days such events are never treated severely when the first
effect of them upon the public mind is passed. We will endeavor to
keep the matter back as long as possible, and there can be no doubt of
the result."

"Will you promise me, Lord Churchill, to do the very best you can for
him, and on no account to give him up to Colonel Kirke?" asked Lady
Danvers, in a voice trembling with emotion.

"I give you my honor of both," replied Churchill, "and I think you
need be under no alarm."

At the same moment Ralph approached, and, taking Hortensia's hand, he
bent his head over it, saying, "Farewell, dearest lady; may God bless
and protect you ever;" and, without waiting for a reply, he turned his
horse and cantered away.

Hortensia saw that, as he rode, two of Lord Churchill's soldiers
joined him, the one placing himself on the right, and the other on the
left. Without a word to Lord Churchill--for her heart was too full to
speak--she urged her horse forward on the road she had been previously
pursuing. The moment after, the old officer who had spoken with
Churchill, accompanied by two or three troopers, followed and took his
place by her side, saying, "Lord Churchill has commanded me, my lady,
to see you ten miles on the way--or further, should you require it."

Hortensia merely bowed her head in reply; and at that moment she would
have given much for a vail or a mask, for the tears were streaming
rapidly down her cheeks.





CHAPTER XXXV.


The insurrectionary war was over; but far the most bloody part of the
whole tragedy was about to begin. There is certainly a degree of
madness in the vices and crimes of the human race--a something beyond
a mere spirit of evil--a something that hurries us out of the pale of
reason, and teaches mankind to commit, even deliberately, acts which
the right use of intellect would utterly forbid. We are all fond of
the idea of glory. We feel our hearts glow at the recital of gallant
actions. The splendor of great victories the sounds of triumph, and
the shouts of military success excite our imagination, and warm the
hellish part of the blood in our veins. But what becomes of reason?

No one has been fonder of such illusions than myself. No one has felt
a deeper thrill in reading of feats of chivalrous daring, or listening
to tales of great renown. But let the reader put such achievements to
the same test to which I put them a few days ago. Let him take a
picture of a great battle, where the fancy and skill of an
accomplished painter have done the best that could be done to heighten
the interest, and conceal the horrible details of the scene--where the
dust, and the grime, and the convulsions are omitted altogether--where
the languor of the dying and the prostration of the dead are made to
group in fair, flowing lines around the feet of the trampling horses
and the charging corps--where the blood is used sparingly in contrast
with the pallor of the faces, to produce an harmonious effect of
coloring, and the fiery bursting of a shell is kept in tone by a
stream of gore lighted by the flash. Let him not strip it of any of
the painter's adjuncts; let him leave it embellished as far as
the pencil could embellish; but let him strip it of all that his own
fancy has added, and let him take it and dissect it under the
microscope-glass of reason. Let him look at the combatants, one by
one, and ask what they are fighting for. The one for a name in
history, which very likely he may never attain, and which, if he does,
will benefit him in nothing. Another, because he is commanded to fight
by some king or some leader, spilling his life's blood and taking the
life of others at the nod of a man in whose face he would spit if he
told him to black his shoes. Another is fighting for pure principles
of patriotism, without ever asking himself if the same, or even higher
ends, could not be obtained by any other than the butchering means
with which he soils his hands. Others, and by far the greater part,
are fighting for--from four-pence to a shilling a day; and they fight
just as bravely, just as gallantly as the others! The whole, each and
every one, are engaged in debasing God's image, breaking God's law,
and taking from others the etherial essence they can never restore--the
great, the mighty, the inestimable boon of life--for objects and
purposes which two hundred years after, if not utterly forgotten, will
be found to have changed but very little the course of events, or
influenced the world's history. But take each of those figures
separately--those dark, livid things lying on the ground, and think
what has befallen him by this great achievement. That fair-haired
youth, lying there, was the hope of a mother's heart, the only one
dear to a widowed bosom, the support of her age and of her sickness.
His last thought, as he felt the life-blood welling away from his
side, was his "Poor mother!" and he saw before her, with the prophetic
eye of death, years of wasting grief, neglect, and gnawing penury; and
then, the workhouse. Then, again, that stout fellow, somewhat older,
with the broad-sword still grasped in his dead hand; his fine open
brow, his powerful limbs, all show a man who might have served his
country, and the best interests of humanity, well in other fields than
this--ay, in better, nobler fields. The last thought of his heart,
when he felt the shot, was of his calm cottage in the country, and of
the wife and babes he never shall see again. He thought of their
future fate--of all the hard chances of life for them, deprived of a
husband and a father; and a cloud of doubt came between his parting
spirit and his God. Close beside him, slain probably at the same
moment, lies the hardened reprobate, unchastised and unreclaimed,
loaded with wickedness, and sent, without a moment's warning or a
moment's thought, into the presence of offended Deity; and there,
hard by, the young and unconfirmed waverer, with much matter for
self-reproach in his heart--with a sense of wrong doing--with
aspirations for better things--with resolutions for amendment not yet
commenced; and he, too, is sent to his account, without real penitence
or heart-breathed prayer, before purpose can become act.

There is a burning village in the back-ground, and doubtless there are
many others round--homes destroyed--families left destitute--sons,
fathers, husbands, brothers slain--weeping in all eyes--agony in all
hearts. But this is only one circle beyond the immediate spot; for
from that point of glory flow far away on every side deep streams of
misery, and sorrow, and calamity, to which the transient joy and
evanescent brightness of a great victory is but as a falling star in a
dark night.

It may be said--nay, it has been said--that we must not look at these
things too closely. Believe me, reader, that the act or the passion,
which we dare not look at too closely, is evil. It needs no such close
examination; for the judgment of the reason is pronounced upon it as
it vails itself from inspection.

If such, however, be any true picture of the insane sin of war, what
must we think of laws, and customs, and acts, and of the men who
committed or made them, by which oceans of blood, shed deliberately on
the scaffold, after fierce passion had subsided, have flowed over the
page of history, making it little else than one scarlet crime? If it
be doubtful--nay, more than doubtful--whether it be a less crime than
murder to shed the blood of man for any thing but murder, what must we
think of death, ay, and torture, being inflicted by one human being
upon another, not only for acts, but for words, and even thoughts?
Society must be a bad thing, and a weak one, if it requires to be
defended by such crimes as these.

Of all periods known in English history, the time of which I write was
perhaps the one most foully stained by such abominations. The scene
was just opening--the tragedy had merely begun when the battle of
Sedgemoor ended; law, and all its forms, were set at naught; prisoners
were slaughtered without trial, as without mercy; the suspected had
imposed upon them tasks more terrible than death; and the simple
well-wishers of an unsuccessful cause were forced to quarter the
victims of tyranny, and imbrue their hands in the warm blood of
friends, companions, and, we are assured, even relations. The fiend
Kirke was busy in his brutal office all day long, and his ferocious
soldiery drank deep of blood, and reveled amid the carnage in
unbridled licentiousness. None escaped him or them upon whom the
jealous eye of power fell, who could not pay enormously for life from
some store unattainable by his death; for where there was a choice,
Kirke always preferred blood.

Had Ralph Woodhall been given up at once by Churchill to any inferior
officer, or even to Lord Feversham himself, it is more than probable
his fate would have been instantly sealed. His presence on the field
after the battle might have been judged enough. No investigation--no
examination of witnesses would have been deemed necessary; and he
might have been condemned and died ere he quitted the verge of
Sedgemoor. But Churchill remembered his promise to Hortensia, and
fulfilled it honorably. There was also something in Ralph's demeanor
which he liked; for--gold and ambition apart--that great general was
not insensible to high qualities in others. He was a keen judge of
human nature too; and there was a straightforward frankness in Ralph's
dealings with him, from which he argued so favorably that he stretched
lenity toward him to the utmost. He conversed with him on his return
to his quarters for some time, treated him with every sort of polite
attention, and said to him in the end, "It may be some days before I
see Lord Feversham, or have an opportunity of delivering you into the
hands of those who will insure you a fair and impartial trial. You
have answered me straightforwardly in every thing, Mr. Woodhall, and I
have not the slightest doubt you are a man of your word. If,
therefore, you will give me your parole of honor to consider yourself
a prisoner, and not to absent yourself more than half a mile from my
quarters, I will free you from the unpleasant attendance of a guard."

Ralph's parole was, of course, immediately given, and Churchill
continued this liberal course of conduct as far as possible, from the
knowledge that, the longer a trial is delayed, the more likely is a
just if not a more lenient one to be obtained. He little knew at the
time that the arch-fiend--compared with whom Kirke was indeed a
lamb--was coming down with all speed to crush those whom military
vengeance could not reach. Rumor, indeed, said that the well-known
Jeffries would be sent into the West; but Churchill fancied wrongly
that common decency would impel the court to withhold or restrain this
unscrupulous perverter of the law.

The general's head-quarters had been moved to a considerable distance
from East Zoyland; and he had invited Ralph and some of his own
officers to a very plain and homely dinner, when, toward the close of
the meal, a paper was presented to him, which he read attentively. No
change of countenance took place; and he merely said to his trooper
who brought in the paper, "Tell them to wait without."

When the dinner was over, however, and the guests were retiring, he
beckoned Ralph to a window, and put the paper he had received into the
young gentleman's hand. It was an order to deliver him up to a
messenger who was charged to lodge him, without delay, in Dorchester
jail.

"I fear I must obey it," said Churchill; "and now I will only add as a
hint, that as soon as I have given you up, your parole to me is at an
end. More than one man," he added, with a meaning smile, and no very
unpleasant recollection, "has found safety and fortune by jumping out
of window."

Ralph thanked him gravely; and the messenger and his two followers
having been called in, the young gentleman was delivered into their
hands.

I will not pretend that, had opportunity presented itself, Ralph would
have neglected the hint which Lord Churchill had given him; but the
messenger was shrewd and keen, the two officers watchful and severe,
and, at the end of three days, Ralph Woodhall was lodged in Dorchester
jail, and experienced for the first time the taste of real
imprisonment. A low, miserable, damp cell was assigned to him; no food
but bread and water, except what he paid for at enormous prices, was
afforded to him by the jailer, and a light was refused him when night
fell. It was not, indeed, intended that this course of treatment
should be continued, as he had the means of paying for better
accommodations; but it was what a jailer technically termed in those
days "the taming of a bird," or, in other words, the preparation
necessary to make him submit quietly to every imposition, however
gross. Thus, in darkness, discomfort, and gloom, with memories and
expectations equally painful, he passed his first night in the prison
at Dorchester, where, for the present, we must leave him.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


It was still in the midst of summer, but London was yet crowded,
although the Parliament had risen. The city was in great agitation,
too; for news of a battle, and the defeat of Monmouth--the great
Protestant leader, whom the Protestant Church had failed to
support--the idol of the people, whom the people, or, at least, all
those who were influential among them, had left to perish--had reached
London on the preceding night by rapid post from the West. A general
gloom hung over the metropolis in despite of the rejoicing of the
court; and many a man began to regret, too late, that he had not
mounted horse and buckled on his sword when every arm was needful, and
every purse should have been opened to support the cause which fully
one half of the nation had affected, at least, to advocate for many a
long year. But a multitude of those whom timidity, doubts of his
right, suspicion of his character, or disapproval of his conduct, had
kept from joining the standard of the great insurgent, although truly
attached to the cause of religious liberty, very soon had personal
motives furnished to them for bitterly repenting that they had not
thrown their weight into the scale, while there was a possibility of
the balance being turned. The slightest suspicion of having held
communication with Monmouth, or the smallest possible evidence of
dissenting from the Episcopal Church on any side but popery, was
treated as a high offense: rights, guarantees, statutes, were set at
naught, and many hundreds were snatched from their homes and cast into
prison without having committed any other crime than that of
entertaining a conscientious objection to the government and the forms
of the English Church.

Thus the gloom was increased through the city; nor was it diminished
when men found that a sort of trade in accusations was once more about
to commence; that the royal bounty was prepared to reward the
informer; and that a multitude of harpies round the court were all
ready to make a merchandise of clemency, as far as it could be wrung
from the hard, cold heart of James the Second.

All was gloom, then, although bells were ringing, flags flying, and
bonfires prepared, when a young gentleman, attended by two or three
horsemen, rode quickly along what was then known as the Reading road,
and entered the town without slackening his pace. He was impelled by
even stronger motives than the reward which had hurried forth the
earlier posts; and, though he took his way toward Whitehall, it was
not at the gates of the royal palace he dismounted. In one of the
streets in the vicinity of the court there was a large house, to which
I have before led the reader; and in one of the rooms on the ground
floor, at the moment the young stranger arrived before the door, sat
old Lord Woodhall, reading a broad sheet which gave an account of the
battle. He had been very much changed by the events of the last few
weeks. He was no longer the stout, hale, robust country gentleman
which he had previously appeared. He was shrunk and exceedingly thin,
and old age was marked upon every feature of his face. He was tall and
upright still, for the very fierce and angry feelings which consumed
his corporeal frame served to give him an energy and a fire which
sustained him with unnatural strength.

The middle of a paragraph had been reached, detailing with many
blunders and exaggerations the closing scene of the battle, the flight
of Monmouth from the field, and the direction which he was positively
asserted to have taken, when the door was flung open at once, and
Robert Woodhall entered, booted and spurred, and muddy from the road.

"News! news! my noble lord," he exclaimed, with a triumphant air.

"I have it here, boy," answered Lord Woodhall, rapping the paper with
his finger.

"Ay, but better news than that, noble kinsman," said the young man,
with a laugh; and then, keeping up a tone partly jesting, partly
serious, he asked, "What did you promise me, my lord, if I put Ralph
Woodhall, the murderer of your son, into the hands of justice?"

"Why," said Lord Woodhall, with a good deal of hesitation, "I promised
I would give you Margaret, as your mother wishes; but I find she does
not love you--can not love you, she says."

"Perhaps because she loves her brother's murderer," replied the young
man, bitterly.

The old nobleman started as if a serpent had bit him, and exclaimed,
"Robert, Robert, do not set my whole blood on fire at such a thought!
Beware what you do, sir--beware what you insinuate! Is the man taken?
is he in prison?"

"Oh no, he is not," replied Robert Woodhall, in a cool, indifferent
tone; "I know where he is; I can put him in the hands of justice in
eight-and-forty hours. In double that time he may escape, for he goes
whither he will, and disports himself as a gentleman at large. But
what is that to me, if Margaret loves him better than me--if your
promise is to be unavailing, and your commands to be set at naught?"

The old man advanced sternly toward him, took his hand and wrung it
hard, murmuring in a low, fierce, emphatic tone, "Robert, you shall
have her! But put him in my power--but give him to the arm of the law,
and you shall have her, with all my estates, at my death. I say not
how soon she shall be yours; she must have time--I must have time; but
she shall be yours, I pledge you my honor, and my conscience, and my
soul. May God curse me and spare the murderer if I break my vow."

"That is all I can desire," answered Robert. "We will not hurry the
fair lady; and I think, my dear lord, that I can soon contrive to
clear her mind of any love for Master Ralph, if such a fancy has ever
crossed it. There are certain tales down there, which, even without
all that poor Henry knew--and told her, I believe--of this very
honest, religious young man's fidelity to her, must soon banish from
her heart every trace of affection toward him."

"It is false!" cried Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "She has no affection
toward him. She dislikes you, because she knows you to be a libertine
and a profligate."

"Better that, my lord, than libertine, profligate, and hypocrite too,"
answered Robert Woodhall, somewhat nettled.

"That is true, indeed," replied the old nobleman; "but no more of
that; my word is given, and it shall be kept. Now, where is this
man--this murderer?"

"Down in the West, there, my lord," replied Robert Woodhall; "but,
saving your good pleasure, I must have the management of all this.
None but myself must place him in the hands of the officer. I would
not share that task with any one for half a kingdom."

"Thou art a fine lad, and shall have your way," answered old Lord
Woodhall, attributing to regard for his dead son the zeal which
proceeded in truth from mere personal hatred. "What is it you want
now? How is it you intend to proceed?"

"I ask but a letter from you to the secretary of state," replied
Robert, "desiring him to give me a messenger for the apprehension of
Ralph Woodhall, and for his safe transmission to Dorchester jail, and
you shall have information that he is there lodged by the very next
post from the West.

"The letter you shall have," replied the old man; "and I will keep my
word, let come what may. Seek me pen and ink."

The letter to the secretary of state was accordingly written, and,
without even asking to see Margaret, Robert Woodhall went on his way
rejoicing. At the office of the secretary of state he was detained
some time, for much important business was going on in consequence of
the late important events in the West. An intimation given, however,
to one of the clerks, that he was the brother of Lord Coldenham, and
fresh from Sedgemoor, at length obtained admission for him, and the
secretary received him with much courtesy.

"Your brother's regiment did good service, Mr. Woodhall," he said;
"you were with it, I suppose."

"I command a company in that regiment, my lord," answered Robert, with
the color coming somewhat warmly into his cheek from a knowledge that
in reality he had not been in the battle at all--and that by his own
fault; "but your lordship's time is precious, I know, and the business
I come upon is very urgent."

Sunderland fixed his eyes upon him for one instant very steadfastly,
and the slightest possible smile curled his acute lip, while he said,
"What is the business, Mr. Woodhall? I shall be most happy to serve
you."

"If you will read that letter, my lord, you will see," replied Robert;
and the secretary took and perused it rapidly. He made some
difficulties, however. It was not customary, he remarked, to send a
secretary of state's messenger to apprehend any one accused of any
thing but state offenses. Common constables, or any ordinary officer
of police, might be employed.

"It is not improbable, my lord," replied Robert, who had a vigorous
perseverance in his nature which was not easily baffled--a touch of
his mother's strong determination--"it is not improbable, my lord,
that affairs of state may be complicated with other offenses in this
instance. This man was certainly upon the field at Sedgemoor. He is
also accused of harboring, comforting, and defending, against the
officers of the law, a noted Dissenting preacher named Calloway."

Sunderland still seemed to hesitate, and Robert immediately added, "If
your lordship has any scruple, however, it can easily be removed, I
think, by an application to the king, who I know is extremely anxious
that this notorious offender should be brought to justice. I can go to
his majesty with Lord Woodhall, and return in a few minutes;" and he
raised his hat slightly, as if about to depart.

"That is not necessary," said Sunderland, quickly; "I think you have
made out a case; but recollect that the office can not be charged with
the expenses, unless the young man be taken. Are you prepared to pay
them, should you fail?"

"Perfectly," replied Robert Woodhall; "for I am certain of his
apprehension, if we proceed quickly. I only trust your lordship will
impress upon the messenger the necessity of dispatch."

All was soon arranged to his satisfaction, and Robert Woodhall set off
with the messenger in two hours from that time.

A change, which may at first sight appear strange, came upon him as he
journeyed. Courage, like all other qualities, is very variously
modified in different men; and, besides the two great divisions of
moral and physical, it has an infinite number of subdivisions. Some
men--especially those of great imagination and hypochondriac
temperament--are hesitating and even timid in the contemplation
of distant danger, but become bold as lions, and perfectly
self-possessed, in the moment of action. Others--and of these Robert
Woodhall was one--are exceedingly brave in determination, but somewhat
fearful in execution. He had, when he set out for London from
Somersetshire, regarded the apprehension of his cousin Ralph with a
malevolent pleasure, which made him resolve to see the work done
himself, and to have the satisfaction of witnessing with his own eyes
Ralph's consignment to a dungeon. He pictured to himself, with great
delight, the anguish of the man he hated, and his removal out of the
soft guardianship of Churchill--from which Robert sincerely believed
he could and would escape as soon as the hot pursuit after Monmouth
was over--to all the horrors and inconveniences of a county prison of
those days. All along the road to London he had amused himself with
such contemplations; he had gloated over Ralph's anticipated
sufferings, and he had pictured each particular scene as it arose. But
when he had obtained what he wanted, and was riding back with the
messenger and his followers toward Somersetshire, he began to doubt
and hesitate. Ralph was fiery, and Robert thought him more so than he
really was. There was no certainty that he might not resist; and if he
did, his resistance was likely to be dangerous. Robert feared, too,
that his cousin might speak unpleasant truths regarding him, and he
went on in his own mind swelling up objections to any further personal
interference, till in the end he determined to put the messenger and
his followers so far upon the track that there was no possibility of
their missing the game, and then leave them to hunt it down
themselves, taking all the credit to himself, and avoiding every risk.

When the small party arrived at Taunton, Robert was anxious that they
should proceed some way further that night; but the messenger, though
a resolute and active officer, was a man who loved his comforts, and
he would only consent to go on after having remained a couple of hours
to rest and dine.

Robert had no stomach for his meat; for he had heard of the removal of
Churchill's quarters, and he was anxious lest the prey should escape
him. He wandered out, then, from the little inn at which he and his
companions had alighted, and walked through the principal street of
the town, where nothing but signs of gloom and dismay met him on every
side, till, standing at the door of a larger inn, he beheld a good
portly man in the livery of his family.

On inquiry, he found, much to his surprise, that his mother was in the
house, and that a messenger from her had been dispatched that very
evening to Lord Coldenham. In a few moments he was in Lady Coldenham's
presence, and she showed as much gladness at the sight of her favorite
son as she ever displayed on any occasion. She seemed much surprised
to hear that he had been in London, but interrupted him in the course
of his narrative to say, "You should not have been absent, Robert,
when you knew that Ralph Woodhall was in the neighborhood. He has
escaped the hands of Colonel Kirke, I find, but he must not escape us.
There is much depends upon it."

She paused, and gazed upon him with a fixed, glassy sort of stare, and
then added, "He must be taken--he must be tried--he must die! If he
escapes you, you will repent your negligence long and bitterly. He is
a viper in the path which must be crushed, and you should not have
quitted the place till he was in prison."

"If your ladyship knew what I went for," replied Robert, "you would
approve of my going. You know, of course, that the murderer was
concealed at the house of Lady Danvers--"

"Give him no hard names, Robert," replied the old lady, with a bitter
smile; "it signifies not to us whether he be a murderer or not. As to
that pretty little bright-eyed doll, Hortensia Danvers, she must not
stand in my way. She will find herself overmatched, with all her wit.
But what were you going to say? Kirke searched her house; but the bird
was flown. I know all that."

"But you do not know, my dear lady and mother," replied Robert, "that
since then, Ralph Woodhall has fallen into the hands of Lord
Churchill, who allows him to be what he calls a prisoner on
parole--that is, gives him every opportunity of flying when he likes.
Churchill would certainly not give him up to a common constable; and I
went to London, first, to get a messenger to see our admirable
cousin--as you object to the term murderer--lodged safely in prison,
and, secondly, to secure for myself the fruits of my discoveries in
pretty Margaret's hand and Lord Woodhall's estates."

Old Lady Coldenham shook her head gravely. "There will be difficulties
there, I fear," she said; "the old lord's last letter on the subject
was as cold as ice."

"The difficulties on his part are all removed," replied Robert. "I
have his promise, sealed by every sort of vow and imprecation, that if
I lodge Ralph in prison, I shall have Margaret's hand. Any difficulty
will lie with her; but they must be overborne."

"What has she to do with it?" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "she must, of
course, marry whom her father tells her. His promise is quite enough,
and he will not break it."

"It is to fulfill my part of the bond that I am now hurrying back,"
replied Robert; "and as Churchill has no knowledge whatever that I
have made any discovery, we shall take him by surprise before he can
afford Master Ralph the means of escape. The messenger is here in the
town with me: a greedy beast, who spends half his time in eating. I
trust he has done his supper by this time, and therefore, with your
leave, will go and see if he be ready to ride forward. Where shall I
find your ladyship when I have fulfilled my task?"

"The moment all is safe, send me a messenger," said the old lady; "and
if I have the news that he is lodged in the clutches of the law, you
will find me at Ormebar Castle the day after to-morrow. But mind he
escapes you not. There is more hangs upon his life than you know of,
Robert."

"He shall not escape," answered her son, confidently; "but there is
one other man I would fain catch hold of too, if I could do so without
burning my fingers--one who has insulted me, and been the chosen
companion--servant, as he calls him--of this serpent Ralph: I mean old
Stilling's son."

The color rose in the old woman's cheek; and she answered sternly,
"Let him alone! You have behaved very ill, boy, and your folly will
cost me five thousand pounds. How dared you meddle with the old man's
daughter? You might have made concubines of all the girls in the
village but her, without my caring; but you know not what you have
done. Touch not the young man, however--do no one act against him, as
you value all that you possess on earth. And now away. See that Ralph
escapes you not; that is your business for the present. We may have
more to settle hereafter."

Robert took his departure gladly, for there was a look upon his
mother's face which he knew too well to remain exposed to her anger
willingly; and the result of his further proceedings is already known
to the reader.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Once more back to London, dear reader, and to the house of Lord
Woodhall, near the court. There were two rooms occupied in that house,
and a little episode going on in each, about an hour after Ralph
Woodhall's departure. Into each of these I should like to give my
reader an insight, but know not well which to proceed with first.
Perhaps the one the most completely detached from the story, and
having the least influence upon the result, had better be chosen. We
will walk up stairs, then, and into Margaret's room, where she sits
with her door bolted to guard against interruption, and two letters
before her. She has read one, in the hand of Ralph Woodhall, and it
has clouded many hopes, and cast a deep shadow back upon her mind It
has told her that he whom she loves is a prisoner, and that all chance
of escape is at an end; that he must abide a prejudiced trial, and
encounter all that the wrath of her own relations can do to destroy
him. But as there are drops of bitter in every cup, so are there drops
of sweetness in the bitterest chalice; and Ralph's letter has given
her the most solemn assurances that he had no share whatever in her
brother's death, and that he has loved her ever, and will love
her ever to the last hour of life. He has spoken, too, of
Hortensia--freely--frankly--easily, telling all that she has done for
him, and showing the painful situation in which she has been placed by
the result of her generous kindness to the son of her mother's friend.

That was a great satisfaction to her; for Margaret was a woman; but
yet, perhaps, for the same reason, she was not quite satisfied. She
would certainly have been better pleased had it been a man who thus
befriended her lover. Nevertheless, she felt very grateful, and tried
to persuade herself that there was not a vestige of such a thing as
jealousy in her mind.

The other letter was written in a small, woman's hand, more beautiful
than was common in those days, and though it was open. Margaret had
kept it unread till she had perused every word in Ralph's handwriting
twice. She had only seen the first words, and those were so familiar
and affectionate that she thought they must come from some well-known
friend, though she could not remember the writing. She now turned to
it with some interest, and read:


"DEAREST MARGARET,

"If to have learned to love you like a sister can give me a claim to
call you so, I have a right to use these words. I write to you in
great sadness, but yet I will not be deterred from writing; for there
are many causes which induce me to seek personal communication with
yourself, and among the chief of these is the hope of serving you in
times of difficulty, and supporting you in hours of trial. One very
dear to you, and deservedly so both as a man and a relation, has read
me a part of your letter to him, warning him that his residence at my
house had been discovered, and that danger menaced him there. Do not
think that this was a breach of confidence on his part, for it was
absolutely necessary in the circumstances in which he was placed. That
letter only served to heighten my affection for you both, and increase
my anxiety to serve you. You spoke of gratitude toward me for what I
did to shelter and save him. I deserve no such gratitude, for I acted
entirely from personal feelings. He is the son of one whom my mother
loved as few have ever loved a sister; and, therefore, I felt that he
had as much claim upon me as a near relation. I served him, also,
because I have a deep regard for him, and because I look upon him as
injured and persecuted. After I had heard your letter, believe me, I
only redoubled my exertions, periled myself, my fortune, and perhaps
my fair fame to save him; but my own heart is satisfied that I did
right, and I do not think that you will judge otherwise. We set out to
seek for some port where he could embark, traveling in my carriage,
and well attended; but we were met and turned by various parties of
contending troops, till, in the end, my carriage broke down, and I was
obliged to fly with him on horseback, traveling with a single servant
only. At length, most unfortunately, we were suddenly stopped by a
party of Lord Churchill's horse, and he was immediately made a
prisoner.

"I give you all these details, because I know there are some about you
who may seek to give a false impression of my conduct and his. The
inconveniences I suffered I care not for at all; the opinion of the
world I care for little; but your good opinion, dear Margaret, I care
for much, as it must greatly depend upon that how much you trust me,
and how far we can act together to frustrate the designs of those who
wish no good to you, and all evil to him who loves you. Believe not a
word that they say, Margaret; believe only that I have acted toward
him as a sister to a brother, and that I have done that, ever thinking
of you, and of his love for you, and seeking as one object to promote
your happiness. I will own that when I saw him arrested, I wept for
him as bitter tears as I ever shed, and probably exposed myself to
imputations which I did not deserve; but be assured that there is no
act of my life that I could have wished you not to see; no word that I
have ever uttered to him that I could not desire you to hear.

"And now, dear Margaret--believing this, as I know you will believe
it--listen to a few words of counsel from one more world-learned than
yourself. Remember that you are surrounded by his enemies--by those
who, either from malice or mistake, seek to destroy him, and if they
can not succeed in that, to deprive him of you. Trust them not,
Margaret. Receive every thing they tell you with doubt. Be firm,
constant, and true to the last; for be sure it is the only road
to--the only chance of happiness. Let them not persuade you to any
thing that can ever put a bar against your union with him. Let them
never induce you to give up faith in despair. Far be it from me to
urge any child to disobey a parent; but there is a limit to obedience
beyond which no parent has a right to exact it, and the less when any
command is founded on passion, prejudice, or error. I see before you
many a difficulty and many a trial; but still, be firm under them all,
and if any service can be rendered to you, or any support afforded,
fear not to apply to me.

    "HORTENSIA DANVERS."


Why, I will not stop to inquire, but Margaret wept when she read those
lines.

It is now time that we should descend to the room below, in which Lord
Woodhall still sat after his young relation Robert had left him. He
had read over twice the news from Sedgemoor, and was reading it again,
when first there was a tap at the door, and then a portly and jovial
figure entered, in very neat and bright attire. The black silk
stockings fitted the sturdy calves of the legs and the neat ankle to
the utmost nicety. Nothing could be brighter than the shoe. The
cassock glistened like a raven's wing; and the round, smooth,
well-shaven face, beaming with good nature and a kindly heart, was
almost as lustrous as the gown.

"Well, my dear lord, well," cried Doctor M'Feely, "I have won my bet,
I think. Monmouth has been beaten before the seventh of July, and I
have won the living that your lordship promised."

"You shall have it--you shall have it, parson," said the old lord,
whose spirits Robert's news had somewhat cheered, "though you have had
as narrow a squeak of it as ever ninth pig had, just escaped the
tithe. You should have had it, indeed," he added, in a good-humored
tone, "even if you hadn't won the bet. You have waited a long time,
but you have got a good one now. The presentation was made out the day
before yesterday, and you have nothing to do but go down and ring
yourself in. The dedimus, too, is made out, and sent down to Giles
somebody or other, who will receive your oaths; for, as I told you,
you must act as justice too in those wild parts. We know better than
to put many parsons in the commission in Lincolnshire."

"Ay, that's the worst part of the bargain," said good Doctor M'Feely.
"I wish I could get over that. I never could bear to send a poor
creature to prison, I'm sure."

"Pooh! pooh!" said the old peer; "go and take the oaths directly, the
first thing you do, and my word for it you will be as hard as a
flint-stone before a twelvemonth is over, committing any lad who
steals a cabbage or nooses a hare as readily as you will give a text
on a Sunday. If you look in that drawer, you will find all the
papers."

Doctor M'Feely got them out, with great reverence for the papers, and
great joy at his new situation. He was a man destitute by no means of
imagination, and it is inconceivable what apple-trees he planted in
the orchard, and how he plowed the glebe. When he had got the precious
documents in his pocket, however, which made him, with the consent of
the bishop--no very difficult thing in those days--rector of the
united parish of Bridlington cum Saddletree, and justice of the peace
in the county of Dorset, he did not forget another errand he had in
hand, though it was rather a delicate one.

"I thought I saw Master Robert Woodhall pass by me in the street," he
said, after having thanked Lord Woodhall again and again; "has he been
here? I thought he was in Somerset."

"Ay, he has been here, and brought me good news, doctor. He has
tracked out that villain Ralph; and, before the month is out, I hope
he will be hanging as high as Haman."

"Ay, now," said Doctor M'Feely, with some hesitation, "that's just
what I wanted to talk about. I can't help thinking, my lord, that your
lordship is mistaken about Master Ralph; I don't think any thing on
earth would have made that young man draw a sword upon your son.
Besides, I have letters from his father, and from the good
Doctor ----, the vicar of the parish. They both say that they are sure
he did not do it--nay, more, that it was impossible; and, moreover--"

"Is the man mad?" exclaimed Lord Woodhall, starting up from his seat
with a look of indescribable fury in his countenance, "or would he
drive me mad? Was not the challenge sent, man? Did he not say that he
would come? Was not the hour appointed? Was not my son killed? Will
you persuade me that my poor boy is still alive, when I saw him cold,
and stiff, and white, in his bloody coffin? Of what would you persuade
me? Henry was killed--at night I--without witnesses--Ralph Woodhall
killed him; and I will have vengeance."

The last words were uttered with a shout, and the old man's face was
contorted with passion; but Doctor M'Feely, though not very clerical
in all his habits, was roused, and felt himself at that moment the
minister of the Gospel; and he replied, in a solemn and warning tone,
"Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."

The next moment he stood in the hall; and then, taking up his hat and
cane, he quitted the house.

A little more than a week after the period of which I have just been
speaking, Doctor M'Feely stood in his small rectory-house, a few miles
from the town of Dorchester, and looked about him with evident
complacence. There was a boy in deep mourning, about fifteen years of
age, standing by his side; and the house was completely furnished,
plainly, but very neatly. The doctor was in high good humor; every
thing was somewhat better than he expected; the glebe good, and
largely measured; the house solid, and wanting no repair; the small
tithes as well as the large were his, and some of them had come in, so
that he was not likely to want butter and eggs in a hurry. There was a
prospect, in short, of pleasant abundance before him, and, what is
still better, blessed independence. At that moment he did not care a
rush for the whole world.

"Well, my dear," he said to the boy, "and what does your mother ask
for the whole of this?"

"She says she thinks, sir, two hundred pounds," replied the boy,
modestly.

"Pooh! pooh!" cried Doctor M'Feely, with some little acquired feelings
of parsimony hanging about him, "a hundred and fifty is quite enough."

"The furniture, the cart, and the garden things cost my poor father
four hundred not eighteen months ago," replied the boy, with a sigh.

"Ay, but they have been used a good deal since," replied Doctor
M'Feely, without looking at the lad.

"Well, sir, you must have them for what you will give," said the late
rector's son; "my mother is very poor, and there are eight of us; but
she says she could not bear to have the things sold by auction--it
would break her heart."

"Eight of you? God bless the poor woman!" exclaimed the good doctor,
turning and looking him full in the face, down which was rolling a
large tear; "she shall have the two hundred. I didn't think there were
eight of you!"

"Not if you think it above the value, sir," said the boy.

"I dare say not--I dare say not," said the doctor, hurriedly, with a
gush of warm blood coming into his smooth face; "besides, I can spare
it very well, my man. I have been a great economist, do you see, and
when I made two pennies I always put by one. That's the way to thrive,
young man, and to keep yourself from getting out at elbows. I have
never wanted a whole cassock or a clean shirt since I came across the
herring pond--I won't say much for what was between the two, but that
was neither seen nor felt--I can spare it quite well, I tell you, so
not a word more about it; the bargain's struck; and tell your mother,
my dear, that I will come down and see her to-night, and if I can help
you on with your Latin and Greek, I'll do it, and perhaps communicate
a touch of the genuine dialect into the bargain."

The boy went away well satisfied with his father's successor; and
Doctor M'Feely sat down and took some dinner, prepared by a clean
country servant, regretting that he had got no wine in the house to
drink his own health on the first day of his residence. He then leaned
back in his chair to indulge in an afternoon's nap, a habit which he
had lately cultivated a good deal. His eyes were just closed, and two
or three deep inspirations showed that his efforts had not been
unsuccessful, when the door of the room shook by the opening of the
outer door, and the next moment a stranger stood before him.

Doctor M'Feely started, rubbed his eyes, and gazed at the stranger,
who was a young man of powerful frame, but somewhat gaunt and haggard
in appearance, with a wild, somewhat wandering eye, and a broad but
knitted brow.

"What do you want?" asked the doctor, without rising.

"Are you a magistrate?" asked the stranger.

"Yes; by God's blessing, I am justice of the peace," replied the good
doctor. "What do you want with me in that capacity? I thought you
wanted to be married, or buried, or christened; for you look in a
perilous state of mind, young man, and I don't know which would be
most appropriate to your case."

"The second," answered the stranger, sternly. "Christened I have been,
by better hands than yours. Married I shall never be. Buried I shall
soon be. But where have I seen your face before?"

"'Pon my soul and conscience I can't tell," replied the doctor, with a
sly twinkle of the eye, "in no place, I hope, where I should not have
been. It's Ireland perhaps you're thinking of."

"Not I," cried the stranger. "Lincolnshire, if any where; but that
must be a mistake."

"Devil a bit of that," answered Doctor M'Feely, "for if you ever saw
me any where in the whole world--barring Ireland--it's just as likely
it was in Lincolnshire as any where else, for I never lived there a
bit longer than I could help, and that was three quarters of my whole
time, seeing that the old lord was so mighty fond of the hall, and the
fox-hounds, and all that, to say nothing of the good wine, which was a
sore temptation to his carnal nature, and to me too, it must be
acknowledged. The Lord have mercy on us both, and send us more of it."

"I have it now," replied the stranger, "you are the fat chaplain who
came over with him, and passed a week at Coldenham."

"I never tasted worse stuff in my life," said Doctor M'Feely, with a
bitter remembrance of Lady Coldenham's wine; "and as to fat, there's a
leg, boy! Where will you match that?" and he stuck it out from under
his cassock, adding, in the same breath, "I can tell you what,
that visit to Coldenham--what between the sour wine and the sour
woman--took two as good pounds of beef off that same identical leg as
ever were cut out of an ox's rump. I thought he'd never plump out
again."

"You were reckoned a good man, I think," said the stranger, in the
same wild, grave tone.

"Good! to be sure I was. Did you ever see any body who was not good
bloom and blossom like a rose? I always loved every thing that was
good all my life--a good bottle above all. I wish I had one now," he
added, in an under tone; "though I don't object to punch, when nothing
else is to be had; but the devil a drop of rum is there in the house."

"Well, then," said the other, taking a paper from his pocket, "I want
you to swear me to this deposition."

"Let me see--let me see," cried Doctor M'Feely, stretching out his
hand.

"Not one word," replied the stranger, sternly. "It is all written in
my own hand, properly drawn up, for I was bred to be that beastly
thing, an attorney, and all I wish you to do is to swear me to the
truth of what is contained in this paper, and to attest my signature
of it."

"Lord bless you, I'll swear you fast enough," cried Doctor M'Feely.
"I've seen a good deal of that done in my day on both sides of the
water. Heaven help us! where's the Bible? Sally, Sally!--There's a
pretty forget! Sally, is there such a thing as a Bible in the house?
The old parson must have had a Bible--if not, there must be one in the
village."

"Oh, I've got one, your reverence, up in my box," replied the servant.

"Reverence!" muttered the doctor. "Bring it me, there's a good girl.
Here's a gentleman wants to swear a little."

"Bring a light also," said the stranger.

"A light at noon day!" exclaimed the worthy divine; "what does the man
want with a light?"

"To seal this up when I have done," answered the other, with an
imperturbable countenance.

"Then you may just as well blow the candle out," said the worthy
doctor, "for there isn't a bit of sealing-wax in the whole house so
big as a boy's marble."

The servant had in the mean time disappeared, but soon returned with a
light and the Bible. Her reverend master then sent her for pen and
ink, and, when all the preparations were completed, and she had
quitted the room again, he once more held out his hand, saying, "Come,
don't be nonsensical; give me the paper. I don't want to read a word
of it--to tell the truth, I wouldn't for any thing less than half a
bottle; but I must write at the top, 'Personally appeared before me,
Peter M'Feely, Justice of Peace, et cetera.'"

"I have done all that for you except the name," replied the other;
"put it in there;" and he held the paper before the parson while he
wrote his name.

"Now, then, get over the swearing," said Doctor M'Feely. "Take the
book in your right hand, and the paper in your left--mind your thumb,
boy, when you kiss the book--the cover's not over clean, but it's as
good as your own, I fancy. Now we'll be serious--if possible. It's an
awful job, swearing. You know the nature of an oath, I suppose?"

"Better than you do," answered the stranger fiercely, "for you have
taken many an oath that you have broken to God, if not to man;" and
then, in a clear and audible voice, and without any prompting, he
proceeded to swear to the truth of every word that paper contained,
and then signed his name to it in a bold, free hand.

Doctor M'Feely then attested the signature, exclaiming, as he did so,
"Gaunt Stilling! Now I recollect. Stilling was the old clerk and
sexton at Coldenham; many a chat we've had together. Gaunt was his
son, who had been in the Tangier regiment--you are gaunt enough
now--why, what in the name of Misfortune has changed you so, lad? Why,
I do recollect you, only you look ten years older. Come, take a cup of
ale; there's that in the house, at all events."

Gaunt Stilling waved his hand. "You shall have this within three
days," he said. "It will not be wanted before then."

"Three days? I shall be at the assizes in three days," said the
parson.

"You must wait till you receive this," replied Gaunt Stilling, "and
then act with it as I shall direct you. The assizes will not be at
Dorchester for four days at least. The commission was only opened at
Winchester on Monday; and now good-by. You are not a bad man at heart,
I believe. I recollect the sermon you preached in Coldenham Church,
and you spoke bold words upon the vices of the great, which did you
honor. Do not forget your master's service in seeing justice done to
the innocent. Be bold, and true to the right, and that may cover a
multitude of little sins like yours."

"Whew!" whistled Doctor M'Feely, "as if a man were a bit the worse for
liking a good bottle and a slice out of the haunch, to say nothing of
the fat! I can prove that it's a crying sin to neglect such mercies.
All the fathers held it so, and when I write their _lives_ I'll make
it appear, whatever their _doctrines_ might be;" but Gaunt Stilling
had waited for no such proofs; and, after rubbing his good broad
forehead for a moment, Doctor M'Feely sank back in his chair again and
took a nap.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


The very name of Jeffries spread terror and despair through the
various prisons in the west of England in which the unfortunate
participators in Monmouth's rebellion were confined. He was known to
be the unscrupulous tool of arbitrary power. He was known to love
blood, and to revel in misery. He was probably the only judge who ever
disgraced the English bench by openly rejoicing in the power to
torture or to slay. He was the terror of the bar, the brow-beater of
witnesses, the bully of a jury. With a sufficient knowledge of the law
to twist it to his own purposes, and make it serve the ends that were
dictated to him; with a sufficient contempt for it to set it at naught
when it interfered with his designs; with a sagacity and clearness of
judgment that were applied only to derive from any case all the
arguments it could afford in favor of a prejudiced judgment; with an
impudent daring befitting only the brothel or the gambling-house, he
feared no consequences so long as his savage instincts could be
gratified, he shrunk from no opprobrium so long as it was a means to
wealth and power.

The news soon spread far and wide that Jeffries was coming down to
judge the prisoners in the West. It was soon followed by intelligence
of his having opened the commission at Winchester, of his having tried
the Lady Alice Lisle for harboring two unfortunate rebels, of his
having violated the first principles of justice and the strict letter
of the law, of his having brow-beat, insulted, and abused the
witnesses, and wrung by threats and violence a verdict of guilty from
a reluctant jury. Then came the sentence that she should be burned
alive in the public market-place, and then the mockery of mercy in the
commutation of the sentence to another kind of death. Dismay spread
through all hearts; for no man found himself safe, however conscious
he might be of innocence. The safeguards of law and justice were gone.
Party prejudices, private malice, cupidity, revenge, caprice, could at
any time strike its victim from the judgment seat; and men learned to
fear enemies whom they had contemned and scorned before.

If such was the feeling produced throughout the public, what must have
been the sensations with which prisoners already accused heard the
fatal tidings that Jeffries was coming on into the West? The savage
jailers of the prison in which Ralph Woodhall was confined--men of the
basest minds and lowest habits--took care that he should have the
whole intelligence piece by piece. As far as personal comfort was
concerned, they had consented, for high considerations, to improve his
condition: he had a comfortable room in the governor's house; his food
was no longer bread and water; he had pen and ink allowed him; and a
good and honest lawyer was admitted to him; but the jailers, who loved
misery next to money, took part payment for the conveniences they were
bribed to allow, in torturing the prisoner with continual thoughts of
his coming fate.

To say that Ralph gave himself up to despair would give no proper idea
of the condition of his mind. He gave himself up for lost, indeed, and
prepared to meet the worst with firmness, and in this respect,
perhaps, a knowledge of the character of his judge was serviceable to
him. There was very little uncertainty to be struggled with, the most
unnerving of all agonies. He had not to think of chances, and
calculate probabilities, and vacillate between hope and fear. He had
only to prepare. Had any just judge been the person to try him, he
would have entertained no doubt, no apprehension; for his full
consciousness of innocence made him imagine that his innocence must be
clearly established. But with a Jeffries on the bench, with his known
corruptibility, with all the strong influence and great wealth of Lord
Woodhall arrayed against the prisoner, there was little--there was no
chance of an acquittal, and he felt that there was nothing remaining
but by an honest and firm defense to keep his name pure for after
time, and to make ready to die with manly fortitude.

That was a bitter task enough. He was in the bloom of youth, full of
the fresh vigor of early manhood, with every capability of enjoyment
unimpaired, with the bright, cheerful world unclouded by
disappointments, unsullied by vice. All that he had seen of life, up
to a few months before, had been calm, cheerful happiness; and he had
now to part with all. Hope, too, had opened her garden gates before
him, and but a short time previously he had been breathing her odors
and reveling among her flowers. All this was to be parted with--the
bright expectations of love, the long vista of happy hours ever open
to the eye of youth, the high aspirations, the brilliantly-painted
pictures of fancy, were all to be given up together, and buried with
him in the dark, cold grave. The strong energies; the warm, chivalrous
courage; the firm, enduring resolution; the activity of thought, the
might of a strong mind, which he had expected, exercised with honor
and with faith, would lead him to distinction, were all to come to an
end upon a public scaffold; and a death of dishonor was to close a
brief, bright life of honest effort and unstained integrity.

For all this he had to prepare; but he did so, and did it well.

He wrote to his father, to Margaret, to Lady Danvers, and to Lord
Woodhall, and on each letter he put the words, "To be delivered after
my death." To all he gave the most solemn assurances, as a dying man,
that he had no share whatsoever in the death of his cousin Henry,
adding that he trusted to make the facts so clearly appear at his
trial, that when prejudice and passion should have subsided, there
would not be one man who would deny his innocence. At the same time,
he declared the conviction that he should be condemned, alluding only
generally to the circumstances which rendered that conviction
reconcilable with the full consciousness of innocence.

His lawyer was active and eager; there was something in the young
man's demeanor, in his calmness, in his firmness, in a certain
cheerful tone with which he spoke of his coming fate, that touched the
good man much, and he took more than a mere mercenary or a mere
professional interest in the case. Ralph let him do what he would; but
he showed considerable indifference to all the legal and technical
points connected with his situation. He answered all the questions
that were put to him frankly and sincerely, and gave a full and clear
account of all the events affecting the case, as far as he knew them,
mentioning the names of every one who had taken more or less part in
the transactions which I have recorded.

The man of law rubbed his hands, and declared that if the evidence of
the persons mentioned could be procured, there was no doubt about
obtaining a verdict. There was one point, he said, that required some
consideration. The trial ought to take place in the county where the
alleged offense had been committed. "Doubtless," he added, "the crown
is prepared to change the venue, and that is done so easily nowadays
that any motive will suffice where the crown is concerned. I should
not wonder to find in this instance the pretext is, the difficulty and
inconvenience of moving you to Norfolk without the slightest
consideration of the difficulty and expense to you of moving your
witnesses hither. Perhaps, indeed, the trial may not come on, and you
may still be sent to Norwich; but even in that case my labors will not
have been in vain, for your defense will be fully prepared."

Ralph smiled faintly. "You have furnished me with the first ground of
hope," he said, "and I am almost sorry for it. In Norfolk I should be
certainly acquitted. Here I should be as certainly condemned; but I
will not give way to any expectations. Those who have determined to
condemn me have taken their precautions, depend upon it, and be you
sure the venue will be changed."

"Well, well, it gives us a chance," said the lawyer; "great men
sometimes make great mistakes, and an oversight may have been
committed in this instance."

At this time he had stayed with Ralph, as was sometimes his custom,
for several hours, and day had declined into night when he took his
departure.

The old town of Dorchester was, I believe, not very much less in size
at that time than at present. It was always a very prosperous and
quiet town, not very much celebrated for any manufacture but that of
ale. The streets were then very narrow and tortuous, and the houses
opposite to the prison itself were only separated from the outer wall
surrounding the old building by a road not four yards broad. They were
low, mean houses, inhabited by the poorer classes, which have long
since been swept away. Under the eaves of one of these houses, when
the attorney came forth from the prison gates, he perceived a man
standing with his figure clearly displayed by a light in one of the
windows, for there were no lamps in the town at that period. It was a
rainy night, however, and as the roof projected far, it afforded a
shelter. The moment the attorney moved on, however, the man followed
him, and at the end of the street overtook and tapped him on the
shoulder.

"I want to speak with you," he said, in a civil tone. "Is your name
Danes? Are you a lawyer?"

"Right in both," replied the attorney. "What do you want with me?"

"I want nothing," replied the man, "but a lady does. She wants to see
you directly--a great lady, too, whom you must have heard of, if not
seen."

"Who is she?" asked the attorney.

"Come with me, and you will see," replied the man; and Mr. Danes
followed him with the full determination of taking to his heels if his
guide conducted him to any place of suspicious appearance.

Far from so doing, however, the man led him to one of the most
frequented parts of the town, and to the house of one of the most
respectable inhabitants--a gentleman well affected also to the
reigning family, and in some favor with the powers that were:

"Why, this is Mr. Winkworth's house," said the attorney.

"Very true," replied the man, laconically, and opened the door, for
doors in Dorchester at that time usually remained unlocked till the
family retired to rest. "Come up," said the man; and, passing several
doors in the great hall, through which the sounds of conversation
found their way, he led his companion up a broad, venerable stair-case
of carved oak, and opened a door, saying, "Master Danes, my lady."

The attorney entered the room, and though it contained only two
persons, he felt dazzled, as it were, not so much by the bright light
which succeeded suddenly to darkness, as by the blaze of beauty before
him. He paused a moment in his advance, thinking he had never before
beheld two such beautiful creatures as those which were seated near
the table with hand clasped in hand. One was dressed in deep mourning;
and on the table near her lay one of those black half masks very
commonly worn by ladies of that day, and known in France by the name
of loup. The other was richly dressed in the style of the court; but
even the costume of the day, which by that time was becoming stiff and
rigid, could not conceal the beauty of her form. About the one there
was a certain wild freshness and youthful grace that was very
captivating; while the other, though evidently but a very little
older, had a sort of quiet dignity and self-possession in her carriage
which spoke the long-accustomed guest of courts.

The lawyer had not much time to observe, however, before the voice of
the elder lady said, "Come in, Mr. Danes, and take a seat, if you
please."

He thought he never heard such music in his life as the tones which
proceeded from those sweet lips, and, advancing to the table, he
remained standing, with his wet hat in his hand.

"You have seen me before, Mr. Danes," said the lady who had spoken,
"but perhaps you do not recollect me."

"I can not say I do, my lady," replied the lawyer, "and yet I do not
think I could forget you, if ever it had been my good fortune to see
you."

"I was a little girl," she answered, with a faint smile; "you may
perhaps, recollect Hortensia Danvers."

"Oh, God bless me, my lady!" said the lawyer, with a look of delight,
"I remember you quite well, and your noble father, and your excellent
lady mother. I owed my first success in life to them. What can I do to
serve you? Nothing can give me greater pleasure, if it be in my
power."

Hortensia made him take a seat, and then informed him that, having
heard he had been engaged to prepare the defense of Mr. Ralph
Woodhall, she had sent for him to inquire his opinion of the case, and
to offer whatever assistance might be wanted, and she could give.

"The case would be very clear, my lady," replied the lawyer, "if we
could count upon a fair jury and an unprejudiced judge--I must speak
plainly, for the matter requires it--we know that his lordship, who is
coming down here, is subject to all sorts of influences, and, to tell
you the truth, I discover, what I have kept from the young gentleman
himself, that no means, however unscrupulous or iniquitous, are
neglected by the relations of the dead man to get a verdict against
the living one."

"Hush!" said Hortensia, with a glance toward her fair companion,
"hush, Mr. Danes! Do not impute such great blame to persons only moved
by deep love for one whom they have lost."

"Let him speak, dear Hortensia," said Margaret, "let him speak
plainly. It is necessary for you and for me to hear the truth, however
bitter it may be."

"Indeed, my lady," said the lawyer, "in a matter of this kind, where
life and death are concerned, one can not stop to pick words. If Mr.
Woodhall should be tried here, a verdict is very likely to go against
him, for the most violent influence is being used to prejudice the
minds of juries, and the same influence will undoubtedly be exerted
upon the judge."

"But can he not be tried somewhere else?" asked Hortensia.

"He ought to be tried in Norfolk," replied Mr. Danes; "but the crown
can change the venue, and there is but the remotest possible chance of
their neglecting to do so till too late for these assizes. They won't
stand upon any forms of law, depend upon it, and perhaps may break
through all recognized principles of justice; but nevertheless we may
thwart them if they do make any mistakes, though there are few men at
the bar who dare to face Jeffries."

"The boldest, the most skillful, the most learned, must be retained,
at whatever cost," said Hortensia, eagerly. "I make myself responsible
for the amount, Mr. Danes, whatever it may be. Hesitate at no expense
whatever; use all the means that may suggest themselves; for, in
proportion to the vigor of the efforts made to oppress, so must be the
vigor of our efforts to defend."

As she spoke, she laid her hand upon Margaret's, and pressed it
gently; and, if there was ever abnegation of self in a woman's heart,
it was in Hortensia's at that moment.

"This is very necessary kindness, my lady," said the attorney, "for
witnesses have to be brought from a great distance, and the little
means we have will be consumed in that part of the affair. The fees of
eminent lawyers are very great; and my only hope was that old Mr.
Woodhall might arrive and bring a further supply; but he has not
come."

"Let not that stand in the way for a moment," replied Hortensia; "I am
responsible to you for any amount employed in this case."

"If so," said the lawyer, gazing at her with an inquiring look, "we
might try what can be done with his lordship himself. I think it would
answer if the sum were large enough."

The blood rushed into Hortensia's face, and there was an evident
struggle.

"I can not say that," said she, "I can not tell you to do any thing
that is wrong; but this I will say, Mr. Danes, do all that is
necessary to insure that real justice is arrived at, and I will shrink
from no engagement that you may make for me. Now, can you explain to
me some circumstances that I do not understand. It appears even to my
eyes, unlearned in the law as I am, that it may be necessary and right
to summon myself and all the servants who were with me at the Duke of
Norfolk's when the supposed quarrel took place, to give our evidence
at the trial. But I find that several other persons attached to my
household, who were not near the spot, but resided at Danvers's New
Church at the time, have likewise received notice to appear--what can
be the cause of this, Mr. Danes?"

"Rather strange, certainly, my lady," said the lawyer. "But was not
the young gentleman at your house for some time after the event?"

"He was," replied Lady Danvers; "but I see not how that can affect the
question whether he did or did not kill his cousin in a duel, and
whether the circumstances attending that duel were fair."

"They may think they can prove admissions of some kind," said the
lawyer; "but still, I will acknowledge it strikes me as strange; and
where it is evident that there is an intention to persecute rather
than prosecute, one does become suspicious of every move in the game.
I will tell you what I will do, my lady. I know something of most of
the men engaged in the courts here. Some of them have already given
information as to the unfair means which are being employed to obtain
a condemnation. I will go and see if I can discover any motive for the
proceeding you mention. Can you give me the names of your people who
have been subp[oe]naed?"

Lady Danvers wrote down five or six names on a piece of paper, and at
the head of them appeared that of the steward, Mr. Drayton. Furnished
with these, the attorney went upon his way; and, in the mean time,
Margaret and Hortensia remained for some time alone, conversing sadly
on the topic which occupied the thoughts of both. Other subjects
connected with Margaret's own fate and circumstances mingled from time
to time with their discourse; and when, at length, she rose to go,
Hortensia repeated twice the injunction to be firm.

"While there is life there is hope, dear Margaret," she said; "and,
though your fate may never be united to that of the man you love, you
owe it to him, methinks, never to wed one whom you so justly abhor.
What I have told you this night of the character of that man is more
than mere hearsay, and I should as soon expect oil and water to mingle
as you to give your hand to him. I must not go with you back, for
doubtless your father has returned by this time, and I should be no
very welcome guest, I suspect; but two of my men shall accompany you,
although, in this good town of Dorchester, one might walk alone, I
believe, without much risk."

"I hope my father has not returned," said Margaret, timidly. "I fear
he might be angry at my absence. He has become exceedingly irascible
since I refused to listen to Robert Woodhall's suit;" and the tears
rose in her eyes while she added, "He never showed me such unkindness
before. Where shall I find my maid?"

"We will call her in," replied Lady Danvers; and, after having
summoned the good woman from another room, she kissed Margaret
tenderly, saying, "Hope still, dear girl, hope still."

"Ay, hope still!" repeated Lady Dangers to herself when Margaret had
left her. "_You_ may hope, poor Margaret. One of the strange turns of
Fate may open before you long vistas of happiness. For me, the view is
closed all round. Well, I can be an anchorite even here."

A few minutes after Mr. Danes returned, but it was only to bring the
intelligence that he could obtain no information. He seemed even more
doubtful and suspicious regarding the circumstances to which Lady
Danvers had called his attention than before. "Either the people
themselves, who are immediately employed, do not know the motives," he
said, "or they will not tell them; and, in either case, the matter
does not look well. There must be motives of secrecy somewhere; and in
such a case as this, where simple justice is concerned, that is in
itself suspicious. However, my lady, all that we can do is to prepare
the defense as carefully as possible. I must send off fresh messengers
eastward this very night to hurry our witnesses; for I hear that his
lordship is making speedy work of it on the way, and it would not
surprise me if he were to refuse even a postponement of the trial,
although our defense was necessarily incomplete." He then went on to
ask Lady Danvers some questions as to what she could testify
concerning the events of that night on which Henry Woodhall's death
had taken place, and then left her with a mind but the more depressed
from inquiries, the object of which she did not altogether see. She
expressed her perfect readiness and willingness, however, to be called
as a witness for the defense; and Mr. Danes went away, convinced that
she would give her evidence well and firmly.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Those who have remained any time in Dorchester or its neighborhood
will know that within a circle of not many miles' diameter around that
town, there are many spots to be found as wild and solitary as in any
part of the island of Great Britain; on the side of Weymouth
especially, there are some scenes in the midst of which one might
fancy one's self very far removed, indeed, from the high cultivation
which closely surrounds them. In the days of James the Second, when
agriculture, as a science, had made very little advance upon the
knowledge possessed by the Anglo-Saxons, and when cultivation had
spread but slowly under the influence of a great many deterring
causes, these solitary spots were, of course, more numerous in all
counties of England; and it was upon one of these in Dorsetshire, not
very many miles distant from the capital of the county, that was built
an ancient, fortified house, dating probably from two centuries
before. It was placed upon an eminence overhanging a river, brief in
its course, and utterly unimportant till it reached a point about five
miles from its mouth, where it widened out into a creek or narrow bay
of salt water, which afforded a convenient refuge for fishing-boats.
Near a spot where the first considerable extension of the banks of the
stream took place, a sort of sandy bar had formed itself, marking the
navigable from the unnavigable water, and it was just at this point
that the house, or castle as it was called, had been built. I will
name the river the Orme; and from it and the sandy bar I have
mentioned, the house had derived the name of Orme-bar Castle.

The ground around was covered with smooth, green turf, or short, but
rich grass, disposed in easy undulations, and watered by many a clear
and beautiful stream, and such a thing as a hedgerow or a wall was not
to be seen for some miles round the inclosure of the park. It was a
gloomy-looking building too, consisting of tall, wide, irregular
masses of masonry, put together any how; and one could easily see from
the outside, from the numerous and very much varied windows, and from
the irregular distribution of the chimneys about the house, that in
searching for any room within, one might have a real journey to go, in
order to reach a door hard by.

It was in this curious old building, and amid the solitary scene
around, that a little party had met together on the night of
Margaret's visit to Hortensia. The kitchen and the hall were well
tenanted--better, indeed, than they had been for many a year--for a
large household had been transported there from a distant part of the
country, and two or three old servants, who had remained for years in
the place, were added to those who had freshly arrived. But in a
large, curious, old-fashioned hall above, only three persons were
seated at the hour of sunset. They were a mother and her two sons, and
they grouped themselves together near the window, not to watch the
passing away of the western light, but upon business which two of
them, at least, considered of no light importance. In the midst, on a
tall, high-backed, velvet-covered chair, with a foot-stool under her
feet, sat old Lady Coldenham. Her eldest son was on her right hand,
looking somewhat listlessly out toward the sea, in a direction where
the tower of a little church was just visible over the slope of the
ground. His arm was thrown over the back of the chair, his head
leaning somewhat on one side, and his whole figure disposed in an
attitude of graceful idleness. On the other side appeared his brother
Robert, with a very different air. He leaned rather forward than
otherwise, with his right hand resting on his knee, and his eyes fixed
on his mother, as if watching for some oracular word from her lips.

At length, as the day began to grow dim, Robert inquired, "Shall I
call for lights, madam?"

"No," replied Lady Coldenham; "I love this sort of light--ay, and
enjoy seeing the stars come out one by one, when darkness resumes her
sway over the earth like a powerful monarch triumphing in stern, proud
serenity over some weak and glittering pretender who had disputed his
sway. Besides, Robert, it is full as well to talk of all we have to
notice under the shadow."

She paused, and relapsed into silence again; and then, when the sky
was nearly dark, she said, "You have done your part well, Robert; and
now we must make sure that the blow goes home. You have lodged him in
prison as you promised--but he must die."

"I think you may leave that to the care of the good old lord," replied
Robert. "He is as eager for his blood as a hound for the blood of a
deer."

"I will leave it to no one with entire trust," replied Lady Coldenham;
"too much depends upon him to have any thing risked upon the conduct
of a blundering old man, or a heedless, inattentive lawyer."

"I wonder what poor Ralph has done," said Lord Coldenham, breaking
silence for the first time during a quarter of an hour, "to make you
two so bitterly his enemies. One pursues him like a blood-hound, and
the other says he must die."

Lady Coldenham fixed her large dark eyes upon him with a look of angry
astonishment; but the young lord had long been growing somewhat
restive, and he repeated, "I wonder what he has done, I say--what is
his fault, I should like to know?"

"He is his father's son," said Lady Coldenham, with stern emphasis.

"I did not know that that was any greater crime than being
one's mother's son, but rather thought it a virtue," said Lord
Coldenham, with a light laugh; "as to the father, I don't see much
harm in him any more than in Ralph. He is a very good sort of old
gentleman--rather pedantic, it is true, but not much the worse for
that. Shrews, pedants, and libertines are, I suppose, necessary evils
in our state of society; and as I don't approve of persecuting them, I
think I had better leave this somewhat intolerant council, and amuse
myself elsewhere."

As he spoke, he rose; but Lady Coldenham exclaimed, in a fierce, stern
voice, "Sit down, Lord Coldenham!"

"No, indeed, dear mother," replied the young lord, "I can employ
myself better. There is Robert, who is peculiarly fond of either
sitting or running--which was it you did at Sedgemoor, Bob! I am too
active for the one, and too idle for the other; and so, with your
blessing, I will walk."

Lady Coldenham eyed him with an expression of anger, surprise, and
contempt, which could hardly be described; but the young lord had
chosen his part, and, though idle enough in his habits, he was
resolute. His mother's look nettled him a little too, and he said, in
a cool but determined tone, "In a word, dear lady and mother, I am of
age, I think, and master, at least, of my own actions. I do not desire
particularly to be master even of my own house, as long as it has got
so much better a master in it; but I will not be here consenting to
things that I disapprove and dislike, let it cost what it may."

"Hark, you, Coldenham!" cried his mother, as he moved toward the door;
"a word in your ear, if you please."

He bent down his head, listening gravely; and the lady whispered
something to him, gradually raising her voice till the last words
became distinct and audible enough. They were, "And leave you a beggar
and an outcast at a word."

"Do it!" said Lord Coldenham, with the most indifferent tone in the
world, and quietly sauntered out of the room. Lady Coldenham shut her
teeth tight together, and the violent emotion that was going on within
might be seen by the close clinching of her beautiful white hands as
they lay upon her knee; but she made no comment, and, perhaps, was
sorry for the words she uttered. They had not escaped the ears of
Robert Woodhall; and he might build upon them some strange
expectations. But he was wisely silent; and, after a very long pause,
Lady Coldenham resumed the conversation, saying, "Let us think no more
of that foolish boy's caprices. You are a rational being, Robert. Tell
me what you think of this case. Are we certain of getting a
condemnation?"

"Really, I do not know, dear lady," he answered, and then added, with
some emphasis, "that must depend upon the judge and the jury."

"They must both be taken care of," said Lady Coldenham, slowly nodding
her head. "I will crave an audience of his lordship when he first
arrives. He will not refuse me. You must see to the jury, Robert; and
if the youth be really guilty, there surely can be no great difficulty
in proving him so. Tell me, upon your honor and soul, do you really
think he committed the deed?"

"Upon my honor and soul I do," replied Robert Woodhall; and for once
in his life he spoke the truth. Nay, more, he carried his frankness
further, adding, "But I do not doubt that it was all done fairly.
Ralph, I have heard, was reputed the best fencer in his college, and
the best quarter-staff man in all Lincolnshire. Three or four passes
would soon settle the matter with Henry, without any foul play. That
letter of Henry's, too, written with his absurd generosity, clears
away all suspicious circumstance. That is the worst point of the case
against us for juries are not fond of condemning men for duels where
no unfairness is proved."

"Can not the letter be suppressed?" inquired his mother.

Her son shook his head; and she went on to ask, "Is it in Lord
Woodhall's hands?"

"No, in the Duke of Norfolk's," answered her son; "he gave the old
lord a copy, but he kept the original."

"This is frightful!" said the old lady, in an under tone. "He will
escape us yet: the only chance is with the jury, Robert. There must be
two or three sturdy men found among them who will starve the others
out and get us a verdict--Hark! there are horses' feet! that must be
the old lord himself. He promised to bring a great lawyer with him,
who will enter into our views. But mind, be not too rash--speak not
too plainly, boy; for these men sometimes take fire when their own
image is shown them in too perfect a glass, and they assume a fresh
honesty but to show us that our thoughts of them were calumnious."

"No fear of my being too rash," replied Robert Woodhall. "Besides, I
shall apply myself principally to this business with Margaret. It
seemed to me the old lord wavered before her steadiness; but I will
not be kept in suspense. I will know at once whether he intends to
keep his oath or not."

"There is business on hand," said Lady Coldenham, very gravely, "more
serious than any pretty painted puppet in the world."

"Ay; but the estates, mother!" said her son.

"True," she answered, "true--the estates;" and, at the same moment,
Lord Woodhall entered the room, followed by a man in dark clothing,
whom he presented to Lady Coldenham as Counselor Armitage.

The conversation was led at once to the predominant subject in the
thoughts of all; and was discussed for some time, principally by Lord
Woodhall, Robert, and Lady Coldenham, who stated briefly but
distinctly the new-born fears of failure which her son's previous
words had suggested.

The lawyer, who had listened attentively, but had spoken little, now
interposed, saying, "Do not be afraid, Lady Coldenham; we will take
care that justice shall be done; and if, through the weakness of a
jury, it could not be done in one way, it would be done in another. It
matters little for the true cause of justice what are the means
employed so that the end be favorable to herself. We will reach him,
depend upon it. Let him attempt to conceal the facts if he will and if
he can. The case of the slaughter once clearly proved against him, we
must overcome the scruples of the jury--and, if not, it does not much
matter."

"Does not much matter?" said Lady Coldenham, with a stare; "I do not
understand you, sir."

"I am instructed for the crown, Lady Coldenham, and that is the reason
why a great number do not understand me," replied Mr. Armitage, with a
slight smile at what he imagined to be a jest; "all I can say is, you
shall be satisfied, and this good lord too. The young man has
evidently committed a great crime, and it shall not be the foolish
lenity of a jury that shall save him."

"No, I trust there is no chance of that," said old Lord Woodhall. "He
killed my son, and I will have justice. Now I have found him, I will
never leave him till I have justice. I am an old man to take such a
journey as this from London to Dorchester in three days; but the
spirit that brought me down here will support me to follow him all
over the world till I have justice upon his head."

"There will be plenty to second you, my noble lord," said Robert
Woodhall. "I, for one, can not rest satisfied so long as this man is
with me on the earth; for it is very clear to me, now, that I never
shall have the love of my promised bride so long as he lives."

Lord Woodhall was silent; and Robert Woodhall, finding that his
indirect mode of proceeding produced no reply, asked boldly, "If she
persists in her refusal, what do you intend to do, my lord?"

"Keep my word, young man," replied the old lord, dryly; and then
turning to Lady Coldenham, he inquired, "Where is your eldest son,
madam? I thought to find him here."

"Oh, never mind him," replied Lady Coldenham. "He is in the house; but
can see, with his idle whims, he is more likely to spoil all than to
help in any thing. He is better out of the way. As to Margaret," she
continued, "you must let me see her, my good lord. Women can often
find means of persuasion when men fail."

"See her if you like, Lady Coldenham," replied the old lord, "but it
will make little difference. I have pledged my word, and it shall be
kept. She must obey. But as to your son, I am sorry he goes not with
us in this business. What is the reason?"

"Oh, none," replied Lady Coldenham; "old affection for this young man,
I believe. Depend upon it, he is better out of our councils; and
now, sir," she continued, turning to Mr. Armitage, "will you explain
to me clearly how the case stands, what are its chances, and what
remains to be done to make chances secure? Remember, I am accustomed
to deal with lawyers, and will not be put off with ambiguities."

She had hardly uttered these words in a stern, masculine tone, when a
loud voice--rich, and deep, and full--was heard, saying, "Beware! Once
more I tell you, Catharine, beware!"

The three gentlemen looked round, for the speaker seemed to be in the
room but no one was to be seen; and Robert's voice; soon called
attention another way, as he exclaimed, "Good God! my mother has
fainted."

It was long before Lady Coldenham could be brought to herself; and for
a time those who surrounded her thought she was dead, so still and
breathless did she lie, and so cold did her hands become. Lord
Coldenham was sent for in haste; but he could not be found; and the
only intelligence that could be obtained regarding him was, that he
had been seen speaking to a tall old gentleman in the gate-way, and
that shortly after he had ordered his horse and ridden away.

The attempts to recall Lady Coldenham to life at length proved
successful; but she was in no state to continue the conversation, and
the party separated, Robert Woodhall promising to visit his noble
relation on the following day.




CHAPTER XL.


The court assembled in the town of Dorchester, and the notorious
Jeffries, with his gross, ferocious face, took his place upon the
bench. Several trials for treason were entered into in the morning,
and dispatched with terrible rapidity. Death! Death! Death was the
news brought to the prison every hour; and each man awaited his doom
as his character permitted.

The court was crowded to suffocation; and most of the magistrates of
the county were assembled near the bench. There were several clergymen
among them; but one, in particular, seemed much interested in the
course of the proceedings. He was a stout, tall, portly man, of the
middle age, with bright, twinkling eyes, and a smooth, rosy
countenance. He moved frequently on his seat; often looked toward the
dock and the jury, and sometimes cast his eyes with an inquisitive
glance at the paper of notes which lay before the judge, from whom he
was not very far distant.

At length the case of Ralph Woodhall was called on; and, before the
prisoner was brought into the dock, the good clergyman I have
mentioned approached the judge, and was seen to whisper to him with a
paper in his hand. Jeffries turned round, bent his beetle brows upon
him, and surveyed him from head to foot.

"I thought it was some Presbyterian knave," he said, aloud, "and not a
clergyman of the establishment. What do you come here for, sirrah?
Like a straw witness, to bring off the guilty?"

"No, faith, my lord," replied Doctor M'Feely, with a laugh, and
perfectly undismayed by the menacing aspect of the judge, "I came
according to my duty, as a magistrate, and, moreover, to get your
advice about this little bit of a paper; and perhaps to drink a bottle
with you--or maybe two--after you have done the hanging and
quartering, if you should be good-humored enough to ask me to dinner.
We have drank a bottle together before now at the Miter, when you were
a little man and I not much bigger: I paid for it, too, by the same
token--But what am I to do with this paper?"

"It's not evidence, knave," thundered Jeffries, unable to restrain
himself under the half-suppressed merriment of the court. "Is the
witness forthcoming? Is he dead? Is he buried? Is he gone to the devil
by your ghostly counsels? It is not evidence, sir. Take it away, and
yourself too, for fear I have the gown stripped off your back. You
shall not long disgrace the bench."

"Faith, my lord, if I do, I am not the only one," replied Doctor
M'Feely, walking away; but, ere he had taken many steps, pushing a
path through his fellow-magistrates, Jeffries recollected himself a
little, and called out aloud, "Here, fellow--you parson!--give me the
paper. Let me look at it."

Doctor M'Feely seemed to be suddenly stricken with a fit of deafness,
and walked on deliberately; but those whom he was passing at the
moment heard him say, as if to himself, "Don't I know better? He's
just in a humor to tear every thing to pieces--why not this? No, no, I
know what I will do;" and, getting into the court below, he forced his
way to a spot just behind Mr. Danes, and spoke to him in a whisper
over his shoulder. Mr. Danes in turn whispered to an elderly counselor
before him, who turned round his grave, hard-lined face, and said,
"Good! We will use it in some way, if need be. The very tendency will
have its effect upon the jury."

Doctor M'Feely remained standing where he was during the whole of the
events which succeeded, although his fat sides suffered severely from
the pressure of the crowd.

The little incident of the sparring between the parson and the judge
had withdrawn the attention of the spectators from the dock, and when
heads were turned round and eyes bent in that direction, Ralph
Woodhall was seen standing between two jailers. Every one knows the
impression produced by a fine person and dignified bearing, even upon
a court of justice; and, as the young gentleman stood there, his
handsome face, athletic form, and calm, resolute demeanor, had no
slight influence in his favor. He fixed his eyes for a moment or
two upon the judge, and then let them run round the court. There
was no loved face to greet him--no look of encouragement for his
support--nothing but a sea of unknown, indifferent faces gazing at him
as an object of curiosity.

Some forms were gone through, and then at once the counsel for the
prisoner rose. Jeffries would fain have refused to listen to him at
that stage of the proceedings; but he insisted, and the harsh judge
knew his man too well--his firmness, his quiet, persevering courage,
and his profound knowledge of law to resist too far. He was permitted
to speak, and at once took an objection to the competence of the
court. He pointed out that the venue had not been changed, and that
the case ought to be tried in Norfolk. It required but little argument
to show that the law of the land was entirely on his side; and that
argument was placed in the plainest and briefest form.

Jeffries was furious. He looked over his desk to a little man sitting
near his feet, and asked him a question. The reply was in a very low
and humble tone; but it stirred up the wrath of the judge still
higher. His face became actually purple, and he poured forth upon the
poor man's head a torrent of invective, of which the words "knave,
villain, and pitiful impostor" were the lightest ornaments. A vast
string of very blasphemous oaths was added; and then, having thus
vented his first fury, he consulted for a few moments with the counsel
for the crown, whom he beckoned up; and then, raising his great coarse
voice as if addressing the whole court, he said, "Look you here now!
See what law is, and how carefully it protects the subject! There
stands a murderer--a man who should not be suffered to cumber the
face of earth one hour longer than needful--a bad fellow--always
a bad fellow from his cradle--and yet some of the officers of the
crown--drunken knaves, I warrant--having neglected, or, perhaps, been
bribed--to neglect their duty in a matter of mere form--a thing of no
moment--this fellow thinks that he will protract his life for some
miserable months to come. He must be a cowardly villain, to wish to
live on in a prison--"

"I wish a fair trial, by a just judge," said Ralph, in a firm, loud
tone, which startled even Jeffries.

"Hold your tongue, knave!" cried the judge; "we will fit you. You
shall be disappointed of your fine project. You may gain a few hours,
but no more. You shall be hanged before I quit Dorchester, if I live.
See here, now, what a fellow this is! There are no less than three
charges against this man. One for murder--cold-blooded, premeditated
murder--one under the statute regarding conformity--and one for high
treason. The indictment is ready; but he must have a copy, and time to
read it. Oh, yes, he shall have a copy--but we will fit him." Then,
leaning forward a little, he looked full at Ralph's counsel, and said
bitterly, "You have gained so much for your man, sir, and you shall
not say I overstepped the law. Oh no, sir! You strive to withdraw him
from justice, but you sha'n't succeed."

"You mistake, my lord," replied the counsel, "I have no intention of
charging you with overstepping the law; and still more do you mistake
in supposing that I wished to withdraw this honorable and noble-minded
young man from fair trial and justice. Had I done so, I should have
taken another course. As the venue is laid in Dorsetshire, and the
indictment, on its very face, alleges the crime charged to have been
committed in Norfolk, I should have suffered the trial to proceed to a
verdict, and then pointed out the flaw in the indictment; but, in
consultation with this honorable and very high-spirited gentleman last
night, I agreed, at his suggestion, to raise the objection at once, in
order to show that he shrunk not from a fair trial, but only claimed
the same rights as other British subjects."

"Silence, sir, silence! Sit down this instant!" exclaimed Jeffries.
"Jailer, remove the prisoner, and keep him in safe custody. Call on
another."

Several persons left the court from the outskirts of the crowd, and
Doctor M'Feely elbowed his way out with difficulty, taking the paper
he had brought in his pocket. Tidings of what had occurred spread to
various houses in the vicinity--to the great inn, and to the temporary
dwelling of Hortensia Danvers; and various were the feelings which the
intelligence that Ralph Woodhall's trial for murder had been put off,
on account of an error in the indictment, excited in the bosoms of the
many persons interested.

Lord Woodhall received the news with stern bitterness, and said
little, but remained gloomy, dark, and silent till Robert Woodhall
joined him with a very cheerful face.

"Well, what think you of this?" said the old lord; "you seem gay,
young man."

"Because every thing is going well, my lord," replied Robert
Woodhall; "we have ten times the chances of getting a verdict against
him, as things stand at present, on the charge of high treason, than
we should have upon the charge of murder. Armitage says that he would
most certainly have been acquitted--that poor Henry's letter would be
quite sufficient. I told you how refractory the jury were last night,
and those who know them say that at least five of them would have held
out for acquittal, even if they had died of starvation. It not being a
state case, the jury was badly struck; but upon the charge of treason
Armitage declares he is perfectly certain. Armitage says they are
condemning every body, and when once they have got a taste of blood,
they will go on."

"It vexes me," said the old lord, with a dissatisfied look. "He should
be hanged for Henry's death, and nothing else. A gross and culpable
act of negligence has been committed; and the clerk, or whoever he is,
should be discharged and punished."

"Counselor Armitage declares it is very well as it is," says Robert;
adding, with a laugh, "He vows that he saw the flaw, and would not
notice it, because he knew we should fail of conviction; but I don't
believe he did see it, or even looked at the indictment. The charge of
treason, however, will succeed, depend upon it; and if it should not,
by any chance, we have still another left to go upon with a better
chance of success."

Lord Woodhall, however, was still dissatisfied, and would not be
convinced that it made no difference whether Ralph Woodhall was
condemned for another offense or for the murder of his son. He drew a
distinction, which Robert Woodhall, only anxious to destroy an enemy,
could not at all perceive. Knowing how impossible it was to move him
in any opinion which he had once taken up, he at length left him, but
did not even ask to see Margaret, for he knew there was little to be
hoped from an interview at that moment.




CHAPTER XLI.


It was night, when, in a large, airy chamber of the great inn, where
Lord Woodhall had taken up his abode on his arrival in Dorchester,
Margaret sat, side by side with Hortensia, who had quietly entered the
room a moment before. The faces of both were pale from anxiety, and
from thought fixed intensely upon one subject. It was the day of
Ralph's trial for high treason; and both were well aware, Hortensia
more especially, that Ralph had never had any share whatever in
Monmouth's rebellion. They had not met till then, during the whole
day, and each had looked upon the charge somewhat lightly, and
entertained but small doubts that upon that, at least, Ralph would be
acquitted.

As the day had passed on, however, and messenger after messenger
brought tidings from the court to each, their feelings had become very
different; and they were startled and astounded by the evidence which
was produced. It was proved by Hortensia's own servants that Ralph had
come to Danvers's New Church during her absence; that he had been
found in her park in close communication with a notorious rebel, then
actually levying war against the crown, one Thomas Dare; that, very
shortly after this, Dare appeared in Taunton, and raised the people of
that town in favor of Monmouth, and that he boasted publicly there
that he had assurances of Lady Danvers's tenantry joining the duke.
This was enough to shake Hortensia's confidence--to agitate--to
terrify her. But another messenger had followed soon after, bringing
her the news that two of her servants had sworn to the fact of Ralph
having had a long private interview with Monmouth in her house during
her absence, and that Mr. Drayton himself had sworn to the same. Then
she heard that two more of her people had deposed, that, on leaving
Ralph at the door of her house, the duke had turned to him, saying,
"Remember my commission. I trust to you;" and that Ralph replied, "I
will not fail your grace."

Hortensia herself, though she easily conceived the words to be
innocent, did not understand to what they could apply; and she
evidently saw the chain, which bound the victim, being drawn tighter
and tighter around him. Then came the evidence of his having been on
the road to Axminster when Monmouth was actually in combat with the
royal troops; and then of his having been taken on the very field of
Sedgemoor. She knew that many a one had already been condemned upon
evidence slighter than this, and her heart failed her. The summing up,
too, of the judge, had been brought to her with tolerable accuracy;
and she perceived how skillfully he had pieced out the evidence
against the unfortunate prisoner, not only indulging in violent abuse
of him, but attributing to him much to which none of the witnesses
testified.

Ralph's defense had been simple and straight forward. He told the
facts just as they had occurred, plainly and straightforwardly. He
pointed out that the Duke of Monmouth had come to Danvers's New Church
with a considerable body of men, whom he had no power of opposing,
even if he had been personally cognizant of then being in rebellion;
that the duke had left with him a sealed letter for Lady Danvers,
which, he believed, had come from the young Baroness Wentworth,
charging him to deliver it as soon as possible, and that the words
which had passed between them at the door referred solely to that. At
all this Jeffries scoffed in his summing up, declaring it to be a
trumped up story which would not deceive an oyster wench, it was
clear, he contended--as clear as any thing under the sun, that Ralph
had held friendly communication with the rebel and his agents, had
agreed to assist him, and had endeavored to induce Lady Danvers to
take part in the same criminal proceeding. "Doubtless," he said, "the
young knave entrapped her to go into Axminster, for the purpose of
entangling her with the insurrection, so that she could not draw
back."

"Either her ladyship's good sense or her good fortune," said Jeffries,
"kept her out of the scrape; but with that we have nothing to do at
present. The case is against this young felon--felon in all senses of
the word--guilty, beyond a doubt, of a thousand different crimes."

He then hypocritically declared he left the case entirely in the hands
of the jury, though he could not have any doubt as to the verdict they
would bring in.

Poor Hortensia--despair took possession of her when these tidings were
brought to her solitary room. She did not fail to perceive how the
evidence might be made to bear against herself; but she gave that
hardly a moment's thought. Her whole mind was fixed upon the fate of
Ralph; and, after pondering gloomily for a few minutes, she started up
suddenly, saying, "I will go and see her, let the old man behave as he
will;" and, calling her maid, she hastened away to the inn, where she
now sits with poor Margaret, not exactly alone, for the two maids are
there, standing at a little distance, and entering partially into the
feelings of those whom they served.

Old Lord Woodhall had gone forth several hours before to the court;
for his disappointment at the result of the first charge against Ralph
had but stimulated his eagerness, and he could not rest satisfied
without watching the progress of events. When once there, the interest
increased upon him. He was torn, it is true, by various contending
feelings. He could not see the gallant young man, whom he had loved
only less than his own children in former years, stand there in the
dock, defending his life with calm dignity and firmness, without
feeling emotions he strove hard to crush. But when he thought of his
own brave, high-spirited boy, and persuaded himself that Ralph's hand
had killed him, returning affection was changed again to gall and
bitterness. The interest was but the deeper, however, from this
contention. He stayed out the examination of all the witnesses--he
stayed out the prisoner's defense and the judge's summing up; and now,
with the greater part of the auditory, he was lingering still in the
court to hear the verdict of the jury, who had retired to deliberate.

The time was one of anxious suspense to all, but to none more terrible
than to Margaret and Hortensia. From time to time they would send out
a maid to inquire, or one of Lady Danvers's servants would put his
head in and say, "No verdict yet, my lady." Hortensia bore it all
firmly, and apparently calmly, though her anxious eye and pale cheek
belied the tranquillity of her manner. Poor Margaret could hardly
bear up at all: often the tears would not be restrained, and the
long-protracted suspense kept her only under increasing agony.

At length there was a noise of bustle and confusion in the street and
a hasty step was heard running up the stairs. The moment after the
door opened quickly, and Mr. Drayton himself appeared. His face was
sufficient answer to all inquiries. It was pale, haggard, ghastly and
full of deep grief.

"Speak!" cried Hortensia, "speak!"

"Condemned, madam," replied the steward, solemnly, "and partly upon my
testimony. But, indeed, I could not help it. I only told the truth."

The words had hardly passed his lips, and Margaret's head had fallen
forward on the table, with her eyes deluging her fair hands with
tears, when Lord Woodhall entered the room with a slow and somewhat
feeble step. He was a very much altered man. His eyes were fixed upon
the floor, his look grave and sad, his whole aspect downcast and
sorrowful. Oh, how often does fruition bring to strong passion ashes
and bitterness. He was sated; the fierce desire of his heart was
gratified; the man upon whom he sought vengeance was condemned to a
terrible death. The awful words rang in his ear; he saw the gallant
youth stand firm and unshaken while they were uttered; he saw
him wave his hand as he left the dock, and say as calmly as if
he had been going to his rest, "Farewell all! Remember, I die
innocent!--Remember!"

Remorse and pity had touched the old man's heart. For the first time
he doubted the guilt of the man he had persecuted; and, as he sank
into a chair, his first words were, "Poor Ralph!"

Margaret's ear caught those friendly sounds; and, springing up, with a
wild gesture of entreaty, she cast herself at her father's feet,
exclaiming, "Oh save him! save him!" The old man shook his head
sorrowfully, and replied, in a very low tone, "It is in vain, my
child; I can not even interfere to save the slayer of my son."

"Oh! he did not--he did not!" cried Margaret, vehemently; "it is all
false--a device of that traitor's. Ralph would have died ere he
injured Henry."

"You have been deluded, Lord Woodhall," said Lady Danvers, wiping the
tears from her eyes; "and if the trial for murder had taken place, you
would have seen that your poor young kinsman is innocent. I can give
testimony as to the impossibility of his ever having drawn his sword
against your son; for I know where he was, and can account for every
moment of his time, from nine o'clock of that fatal morning till after
the deed was done. Lord Woodhall, if you had any share in bringing
about this condemnation, now exert yourself to the utmost to save this
young man's life, or I will, ere two days are over, lay before you
such evidence of his innocence as shall fill you with horror and
remorse until the last day of your existence."

"Can you so?" asked the old man, gazing at her. "Is it so doubtful as
that?"

"It is not doubtful in the least," replied Hortensia, almost sternly.
"He did not do it--it was impossible for him to do it. Stay with him,
Margaret! Cease not to plead until you have wrung it from him! I have
heard some of the doings in this case, and know how much influence he
has exerted and can exert. I will away at once to another quarter, and
see what can be done there. When I return, I will bring with me those
who can show your father where Ralph Woodhall spent every moment of
his time, on the day of your brother's death, which he did not pass
with me. They are now in the town, though they would have come too
late had he been tried three days ago."

Thus saying, she hurried away, followed by her maid, and on the stairs
passed Robert Woodhall with a look of contempt and horror which she
could not hide.

The young man doffed his hat, and smiled, with one of those meaning
serpent looks which often accompanied with him a sense of triumphant
cunning. He walked on to the room in which Margaret and her father had
been left together, but merely opened the door and looked in. Then,
seeing her at her father's feet, he bowed his head slowly to Lord
Woodhall, and retired.

The sight of him made the old man start; and he gazed round vacantly
for a moment, as if looking for something. It was some resource
he looked for, for his mind was greatly troubled. At length some
sudden scheme seemed to strike him, and he grasped his child's
hands in his. "Margaret, my child, Margaret," he cried, "you can save
all--him--me--all of us, if you will. I have promised your hand to
your cousin Robert. I have pledged him my honor and my faith. I have
imprecated the curse of Heaven upon my head if I do not keep my word.
Now, Margaret--now give your consent; promise to be Robert's, and I
will do my best to save this young man."

Margaret started up and gazed upon her father silently with a look of
icy horror. "Oh God!" she exclaimed, at length, "what is it my father
imposes on me!" Then she raised her hand to her brow and pressed it
tight, as if to still the throbbing of her brain.

"You will do your best to save him?" she said, gazing wildly in the
old man's face.

"I _will_ save him--he _shall_ be saved!" exclaimed Lord Woodhall,
vehemently. "If not, your promise shall be void. Do you consent,
Margaret?--Consent, my child, consent! Your old father beseeches and
entreats his child to save him from dishonor and from remorse, and
this young man from death."

Margaret clasped her hands together, and raised her eyes on high, as
if praying to Heaven for help. But then she placed her right hand in
her father's, and said in a low, sad, solemn tone, but with every word
marked and distinct, "On that condition I do consent. But give me
time--you must give me time;" and she added, in a lower tone, "to
die."

"You shall have time--ample time. Thanks--thanks, my dear child," said
Lord Woodhall, kissing her. But when he withdrew his arms again,
Margaret fell senseless on the floor.

The maid, who had been in the room during the whole scene, ran hastily
to her mistress's aid; and poor Margaret was removed to her own
chamber still in a state from which it was cruelty to rouse her.

"Send for a doctor--bring her to herself!" said the old lord. "I will
away as speedily as possible, and see the judge; he has blank pardons
in his pocket, they say, ready signed, which he tosses about among
boon companions in a drinking bout. I must find him forthwith, though
doubtless he is now at his revels. Tell her where I am gone--that will
please her."

Thus saying, he sped away; and when Lady Danvers returned, about three
quarters of an hour after, with a young man and an elderly woman, she
found the room vacant. Inquiring further, and leaving her two
companions behind her, she sought out Margaret's chamber. The fair,
beautiful girl was lying on the bed, as pale as death, and with her
eyes still closed; but Hortensia could see by a tear which trickled
through the lids, and gemmed the long, dark lashes, that she had been
recalled to sense and suffering.

Her maid was now with her alone, and making a sign to Lady Danvers not
to speak aloud, she advanced, and said in a whisper that her poor
mistress was better, but that the least effort made her fall into a
fainting fit again. In the same tone she communicated to Hortensia all
that had occurred.

"Poor girl!" said Hortensia, clasping her hands together, "what hast
thou done? They have been very cruel to thee. Thou hast done all to
save him thou lovest, but at the expense of peace and happiness, and
perhaps life."

It is probable Margaret heard the murmur of her voice; but she stirred
not in the least, and Hortensia quitted the room in deep sadness.




CHAPTER XLII.


A large table was set in a rich and costly room, and round it were
seated a number of persons very dignified in station, but certainly
not at that moment very dignified in demeanor. At the head of the
table was an elderly gentleman, well fattened and of rubicund face,
which had evidently lost none of its roses by the accessories of the
meal. This was Mr. Mayor, entertaining the judges at supper. On his
right hand sat Lord Chief-justice Jeffries, with his wig a good deal
on one side, a curious sort of tightness about one corner of his mouth
and a depression of the other corner, as if he had been slightly
affected by palsy. There was a merry leer in his eyes, however, and a
robustious jollity about his whole appearance, which contrasted
strangely with his savage and ferocious look upon the bench. Yes, it
did afford a strange contrast; but yet it was nothing, compared with
the harsh, jarring discord of his light, licentious levity at the
table, when closely opposed to the savage cruelty which occupied the
morning. There he was, laughing, and drinking, and jesting, and
singing, immediately after having condemned half a score of innocent
men to death.

Judges, like undertakers, I believe, get hardened to the idea of
death.

"How many are you going to pardon, my lord?" asked the worthy mayor,
with a half-suppressed hiccough.

"That depends upon their circumstances, Master Mayor," replied
Jeffries, with a broad laugh.

"That young man, I hope," said the good-natured magistrate; "I mean
the Mr. Woodhall who was convicted of seeing Monmouth before the
rebellion broke out. His case was not half as bad as the rest, and he
seemed a fine young fellow."

"His case will be worse before Saturday night," said Jeffries. "A
knave--an arrant knave, sir! Why, they tell me his father is not worth
five hundred a year. Was there ever such a knave? By God's wounds! the
son of such a knave ought to hang for having such a father, and the
father ought to hang for having such a son. Ha! what is this? Say I am
supping; I will not be disturbed. I have done work enough for one day,
and cut out work enough for a few others."

"The lady says she must and will see you, my lord," replied the
servant to whom his last words were addressed, and who the moment
before had slipped a note into his hand.

"Ha, ha! a lady!" cried Jeffries, with a leer round the table; "we
must see the lady. Is she young, fellow? Is she pretty?"

"Quite beautiful, sir," replied the man; "and such a dress!"

"'Twill do--'twill do!" cried the judge; "show her into a private
room--quite private, and I will come to her anon. I must steady
myself, gentlemen--I must steady myself. I'll even drink a cup of
water--that is the most steadying thing I know;" and, after a moment's
thought, Jeffries rose and walked out of the room coolly and
straightly enough, for it required an infinite quantity of strong
drink to produce any thing more in him than a sort of boisterous
merriment, in which he strangely forgot all dignity and propriety.

As the reader has probably by this time supposed, the person whom he
found waiting for him was Lady Danvers. She was accompanied by her
maid, however, and two of her men were stationed at the door of the
room.

"My lord," she said, as soon as she entered, "I am glad to see you.
You have condemned my young friend, Ralph Woodhall, this day: I come
to intercede for him."

"All in vain, my lady--all in vain!" said Jeffries, glancing his eye
at the maid-servant. "Found guilty by a jury, he can expect no mercy."

Hortensia had spoken very calmly, and she knew the man too well to let
him see any agitation. "Why not?" she asked, in the same quiet tone.
"If his guilt were proved, which you, my lord, know quite well it is
not, and which I deny, still he would be very much less culpable than
any of the others whom you have condemned. You must, and of course
will, pardon some, in mere compassion to the executioner. Is it not
right, then, to choose the least guilty? Alice, go to the door and
stay with the two men; shut the door, remember."

Jeffries grinned; for he saw that Lady Danvers was now coming to the
point.

"I do not mean to say," he answered, "that this young man's guilt is
quite as atrocious as that of some others, but--"

"The levying of a severe fine," replied Hortensia, "will meet the
justice of the case better than execution."

"That may be, ma'am," said Jeffries; "but the law says death."

"One is bound and justified to evade the law in the cause of mercy
where law is too severe," replied Hortensia. "You have, my lord, I
understand, received from the king, with a view to such very cases as
these, a number of pardons signed in blank, in order to prevent a
waste of time in referring to him. Now I can see, by what you admit,
that you judge this young man is worthy of one of these pardons, and
the only question is, what is the fine you think sufficient? If the
strict letter of the law prevents you from commuting the sentence
openly to a fine, the money can be paid quite privately, justice be
satisfied, and yet no deviation from the law appear."

"Madam, they should send you ambassador to the hardest-headed court in
Europe," said Jeffries, with a laugh. "The worst feature, however, of
this case is, the young man is too poor to pay a fine. There is
nothing to levy upon."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," replied Hortensia, "there are the purses of
his friends; and let me tell you, my lord, he has many not only rich,
but powerful friends. The Duke of Norfolk crossed the whole country
four days ago, to give evidence on the trial for murder, and remained
in Dorchester till that part of the matter was settled."

"Ay, that's the worst of the whole business," said Jeffries. "Were it
not for that, we might content ourselves with levying a fine of ten or
twenty thousand pounds--"

"Nay, nay!" exclaimed Hortensia, "say five."

"Ten at the least," said the judge, "ten at the least;" and he shook
his head decidedly.

"Well, ten be it," replied the lady. "Do we understand each other?"

"Not quite," replied Jeffries; "for what's the use of saving his head
from treason if it is to be touched for murder? Besides, it's only
fair to tell you, putting all roundabouts aside, that the king will
have Lord Woodhall satisfied in this matter. His son has been killed
in a duel of a very irregular kind, and the old man is furious."

"Not so furious as he was," answered Hortensia. "His son has been
killed, but not by Ralph Woodhall. The case would have failed against
him, my lord, for there is evidence in this town to show that it was
impossible he could have been on the spot where the duel took place
for at least two hours after the occurrence."

"Ay, I thought there was something of that sort at the bottom of it,"
said Jeffries; "but what then? He will have to be tried for that, and
these things are uncertain, my lady."

"If such evidence is laid before Lord Woodhall as to make him see
clearly that the young gentleman is innocent, and he desires to desist
from the prosecution, and even joins in our application for pardon in
this other case, and if the same evidence convinces the attorney
general that there is really no case to go to the jury, is there no
means--"

"Oh yes," replied Jeffries, "Mr. Attorney can enter a nolle prosequi
at any stage of the proceedings; but do you think that the old lord
will really sue for his pardon? I saw him last night, and he was as
fierce as ever."

"He did not know any thing of what he now knows, or will know in a few
hours," replied Hortensia. "His heart is already melted, and if it is
clearly proved to him that Ralph is in truth innocent, he will be the
first to apply to the crown himself for a pardon."

A change came over Jeffries's face, and he muttered between his teeth,
"We must stop that--that would never do."

Hortensia saw how her words affected him, and she hastened to take
advantage of the impression. Leaning a little forward, she spoke a few
words to Jeffries in a whisper, to which he replied in the same tone.
Then she put some question to him again, and he answered aloud, "Oh,
to my man Silas Jones. He was once a Presbyterian knave, but I have
converted him into an honest Churchman. He dare not finger any thing
that belongs to me; so pay it to him."

"And he will have the pardon ready?" said Hortensia.

"Ay, ay," answered the judge, "by half past nine of the morning; but
remember, my lady, I must have Lord Woodhall's approval."

"That shall be done," answered Hortensia; for she had good hope that,
even if the old lord remained obdurate, the judge, having been brought
thus far, might, by the same means, be brought one step further.
"Farewell, my good lord," she added, when about to retire; but
Jeffries extended his hand, saying, "Let me kiss that lovely hand,
divine Lady Danvers."

She repressed the inclination to shudder, and gave him her hand, over
which he bent his head with a look of maudlin admiration.

"That is a lovely ring," said Jeffries, pointing to a remarkably large
diamond which she wore upon her middle finger. Hortensia immediately
took it off and presented it to him, saying, "Take it, my lord, and
wear it in remembrance of this interview, in which you have been
induced to show mercy; and whenever you look upon it, let the
remembrance produce the same result."

Jeffries took it reverently, and placed it on his fat little finger;
but I very much fear that it never reminded him of mercy with any
result.

When Hortensia was gone, he returned to the table, and, sitting down
by the mayor, soon turned the conversation with the good-natured
magistrate to the subject of Ralph Woodhall; for I must pass over all
the jests that took place with regard to his interview with a lady,
and the allusions to the diamond ring upon his finger, which he rather
encouraged than otherwise. Mr. Mayor again urged his remonstrances in
regard to Ralph Woodhall, saying, "I do really, my lord, wish you
would think of that case."

"Well, well, I will," replied Jeffries, "at your request, Mr. Mayor;
but, if you get me to take compassion upon him, your worship will be
the first mayor that ever moved George Jeffries."

"Had you not better respite him, my lord?" said the mayor.

"Ay, that can be done to-morrow," said Jeffries, "according as I
determine. It won't do him any harm to have one day of hanging,
drawing, and quartering. My life for it, he'll be seeing his bowels in
the hands of the hangman all night long. But I'll think of it--I'll
think of it, Mr. Mayor, for your sake. Now another glass, if you
please, and that shall be the last, upon my honor--the last but four.
Armitage, you dog, you are as dull as a swine to-night; there's a
pardon for you, for that fat Presbyterian knave whom you convicted
this morning of buying arms to supply the rebels. The fellow is an
armorer by trade; but that makes no difference: he had no business to
buy arms when there was rebellion in the land. He's rich, man, he's
rich; and, if you understand coining, you may know him into five
hundred or a thousand gold pieces, with the effigy of his blessed
majesty upon them."

The servant again came in, and whispered something over the back of
the lord chief justice's chair. "Who? who?" exclaimed Jeffries, with a
scowl.

"Lord Woodhall, my lord," replied the servant, aloud.

"Oh, ask him in, by all means," said the mayor.

"On no account whatever," said Jeffries, rising at once; "this is
private business; and I fear me much that it is to move me against
your request concerning that young man Ralph. God help me! how we poor
sinners are torn to pieces by opposite applications!"

"Attend to mercy, my lord, attend to mercy," said the mayor; but the
judge was half way down the room by this time.

Jeffries was learned in the art, in which statesmen of our own day are
not unlearned, of making one favor serve three or four applicants.
When Lord Woodhall, therefore, urged his request that Ralph might be
pardoned, Jeffries made innumerable difficulties, and seemed, at
length, to yield only at the old nobleman's most pressing entreaties.
He insisted, at the same time, that Lord Woodhall should undertake to
express to the attorney general his full conviction that Ralph had no
share in causing the death of his son, and request that he would enter
a nolle prosequi when the case came again for trial. "There would be
no pretense for pardoning him in this case," said Jeffries, "if we
were to have another trial next day, and hang him for murder--waste of
parchment, my lord, waste of parchment."

Lord Woodhall agreed to all that he demanded, and obtained, in return,
a respite for Ralph before he left this admirable lord chief justice.
He went away with a heart wonderfully eased. Four-and-twenty hours
before, he could not have imagined that he should have felt any thing
like satisfaction at saving the life of Ralph Woodhall; but now his
feelings had taken a very different turn. "Every body says he did not
do it," he thought; "the Duke of Norfolk says it was impossible. This
Lady Danvers too--and the parson--all of them. I do not want to wrong
an innocent man; but I will find out the murderer yet, and have
vengeance upon him. Well, well, if Ralph is innocent--and I begin to
fancy it may be so--he'll marry Lady Danvers, and Margaret will marry
Robert, and we might all be happy again--but for the want of poor
Henry!"

Poor old man, how completely he had forgotten, or how little must he
have ever known of the feelings and passions of youth! The
indifference of old age to those things of the heart which make the
brightness of active existence, is one of age's greatest evils,
considered as a stage of mere mortal life, but is, perhaps, a good
preparation for parting with mortal things to enter upon life eternal.

Thus musing, as I have shown, Lord Woodhall approached the door of the
inn, over which a great lantern was burning. When his foot was upon
the step, a man came out and was passing; but he suddenly stopped,
gazed at the old lord, and exclaimed, "Ah, persecutor of my unhappy
boy, is that you?"

"Hush, man, hush!" cried Lord Woodhall, grasping old Mr. Woodhall's
hand; "I have been in error--you are in error now. I am not
persecuting your son--I have a respite for him in my pocket now, and
the promise of a pardon."

Old Mr. Woodhall staggered back and would have fallen; but one of Lord
Woodhall's servants caught him, and took him into the inn. An
agitating scene followed, and Lord Woodhall, who was by nature a
good-hearted and kindly man, rejoiced greatly that the life of his own
cousin's son was not to be sacrificed. A short time passed in loose
and rambling questions and answers; and at length Mr. Woodhall rose to
go, saying, "I must see him, my lord, I must see him at once; for he
must think that his father has forgotten him, and left him to his
fate. I was detained upon the road by accident. But now, my lord, I
may carry him good news. Is it not so?"

"You may assure him that he is safe," said the old nobleman. "Here,
take the respite with you, man. That will be the best comfort you can
give the boy;" and, taking it from his pocket, he put it in Mr.
Woodhall's hands.

Engaging one of the horse-boys of the inn to guide him through the
streets of a strange town, Ralph Woodhall's father found his way to
the jail, and rang the great bell which hung at the gate. A moment
after, a little panel, just large enough to frame a man's head, was
drawn back, and the face of a jailer appeared behind an iron grating.

"What do you want?" said the man.

Mr. Woodhall explained his business, and demanded to see his son. A
rude and abrupt refusal was his only answer. He insisted, and
demanded, at all events, to see the governor of the prison. The
jailer, however, said sullenly that the governor was absent, that the
visiter was behind the hours, and that he should not have admission.

Mr. Woodhall then tried money; but, strange to say, even this proved
in vain. The man refused it with real or affected indignation, and
seemed about to close the wicket, when Ralph's father announced that
he had a respite with him for the prisoner.

"Then hand it in here," said the jailer; "I suppose this means that he
will be pardoned."

"Undoubtedly," returned Mr. Woodhall; "therefore there can be no
objection to my seeing him."

"I won't break through the rules for any one," said the jailer,
doggedly. "The jail is crammed full, and our orders are strict."

Sad and disappointed, Mr. Woodhall handed in the respite, calling up
the boy who had accompanied him to witness its delivery, and desiring
the jailer to announce the good tidings he bore at once to his son.

The man promised to do so; but, the moment he had retired into his
lodge near the gate, he threw the paper upon a shelf with a laugh,
saying, "Well, lay thou there. Thou sha'n't stop me getting my fifty
pounds. Devil take the judges, they won't let a poor man earn any
thing; they pocket it all themselves! I wonder how much this cost. A
great deal more than I get, I dare say."

His words may seem somewhat mysterious without explanation, which only
can be given by entering one of the prison cells, and displaying what
had been passing within about half an hour before.

Ralph Woodhall was sitting alone, about an hour after the judge had
passed sentence upon him, with his limbs heavily fettered, and a still
heavier weight upon his heart. Strong resolution had borne him up
through the terrible scenes which had lately passed; but all the
bitterness of parting with life, at the very period of early joy, had
been tasted in that last solitary hour. Suddenly the door opened, and
a turnkey came in. He carried in his hand a small instrument; and
closing the door carefully behind him, he put it in Ralph's hands,
saying, in a low tone, and pointing to the fetters, "Work away and get
them off. Leave them and the saw behind you."

Ralph gazed at him with astonishment, saying, "What do you mean?"

"Haven't I told you?" said the turnkey. "Hark ye! at one in the
morning, be dressed and ready. However hard I lock that door just now,
you will find it open then. Walk out. Turn to the right along the
passage. You will come to a door; it will be open too. You will find a
man beyond it who won't see you. Don't you see him. Walk straight on
till you find another man, who'll go on before you. Follow him as far
as he goes. There you'll find a horse and your people, and when
they've paid the other two hundred, you can ride away."

He waited for no reply, but, turning away from the prisoner, quitted
the cell, taking more than ordinary care in locking the door behind
him, and making a good deal of noise about it.

On the following day, at about ten minutes before ten o'clock--when a
good deal of bustle and excitement was visible in the prison, in
consequence of the preparations for bringing the prisoners for trial
rapidly into the court--the deputy sheriff presented himself at the
gate and demanded to see Mr. Ralph Woodhall, announcing, with an
important air, that a free pardon under the broad seal had been
received by the high sheriff, and was then in his possession.

"Quick work, Master Deputy," said the turnkey, who was standing beside
the porter; "condemned yesterday at seven, sentenced at nine, and
pardoned this morning before ten. But come along; you'll like to give
him the news yourself, I dare say, for you may get something for your
pains. He doesn't want the stuff, and has paid well enough
considering. We haven't been in this morning yet, for he said he'd
like to sleep till twelve, seeing he'd a hard day's work of it
yesterday."

Thus saying, he led him away along the passages of the prison to one
of the condemned cells. When he put the key in the door, however, it
would not turn, and he exclaimed, with a great oath, "Why, it's
unlocked!"

So it proved, and the cell empty.

Nothing could exceed the horror and consternation expressed by the
turnkey. He called the watchman who sat in the passage, and insinuated
that he had unlocked the door and let the prisoner escape. The
watchman repelled the charge with every appearance of indignation,
asked how he could unlock the door when he hadn't the keys, and vowed
he hadn't left the passage a minute except when he went to call the
doctor for John Philips, who had fallen into a fit, and was screaming
like a madman.

"Ay, he must have got out just then," said the turnkey. "How he picked
the lock I don't know. I locked it fast enough last night, I'm sure."

"I saw and heard you," said the watchman.

"Ay, he's been well supplied from outside," said the turnkey, pointing
to the fetters which lay upon the floor of the cell; "you see he has
filed the irons right through."

The sheriff's deputy was not altogether satisfied, however. The
governor was called; a search was instituted, and a rope-ladder was
found thrown over the wall of the prison yard. As a pardon, however,
had been received, the governor wisely thought that the less said
about the matter the better; and the sheriff's deputy, who was his
friend, agreed to take the same view of the case. Their plans were
somewhat deranged, indeed, by the arrival of old Mr. Woodhall in the
midst of their consultations; but, with great presence of mind, the
deputy sheriff asserted boldly that the prisoner he inquired for had
been set free upon pardon, and had departed more than an hour ago.




CHAPTER XLIII.


Oh the night after Ralph Woodhall's trial for treason, at the end of a
lane, which at that time ran at the back of Dorchester jail, stood a
man holding the bridles of two horses over his arm. From time to time
he looked forward toward the prison, but more frequently kept his eyes
fixed upon the ground. At length his sharp ear caught the sound of
steps; and shortly after, the figures of two men appeared advancing at
a quick pace. The watcher did not move from the spot, but put his hand
on the hilt of his sword, and ascertained that it moved easily in the
scabbard. The two men he had seen came forward rapidly, and when quite
close, one of them said, "Stilling?" in an inquiring tone.

"The same, sir," said the man. "Here, fellow--here are the other two
hundred pounds for you; look at it, and count it, if you will."

The third man took a bag which was held out to him, withdrew the shade
of a dark lantern, and by its light examined what he had received. He
soon saw that the contents of the bag were gold, and, after weighing
it in his hand, seemed to be satisfied that the count must be about
right.

"I dare say it's all fair," he said, "but I can not stop to count it.
Good-night, sir, and good speed to you. You will be far enough by this
time to-morrow, I hope."

"That he will," answered Stilling; and, drawing one of the horses
forward, while the jailer closed his dark lantern and hurried rapidly
away, he continued, "Let us mount and be gone, sir; we ought to be ten
leagues at sea before daybreak."

Ralph sprang upon the horse's back, and in a few moments he and Gaunt
Stilling were riding away from Dorchester at full speed.

The latter led the way; and very little was said by either for
somewhat more than an hour end a half, when Stilling turned to his
young master, saying, "We are beyond pursuit, I think, sir. Twenty
minutes more will bring us to the boat's side. All is ready and
arranged; and they but wait for us, to put off."

"I have much to thank you for, Stilling," replied his master; "but you
must have had some assistance from others. Who has furnished you with
the means to bribe these men?"

"Faith, no one furnished me with any thing for that purpose," replied
Stilling; "but Lady Danvers's steward gave me five hundred pounds, to
make all smooth at Bridgewater, when we were going there. I had no
scruple in using it now, as I knew she would wish it used; so I paid
these knaves three hundred and fifty pounds to let you out, and hired
a good lugger for another hundred."

New questions and answers succeeded; and Ralph found that the cause of
Stilling's never having returned to the farmhouse at the edge of
Sedgemoor, when sent to obtain information, was very simple. He had
fallen in with some men of the Tangier regiment, and had been carried
to the quarters of Colonel Kirke. That worthy officer had thought fit
to detain him, strongly suspecting that he had some design of joining
the forces of Monmouth.

"I do not mean to say," continued Stilling, "that I had not a strong
inclination to do so; for there was one good stroke I would fain have
given in that battle. However, Kirke could prove nothing against me,
except that I had made my way straight to the quarters of the king's
army, which didn't suit his purpose, otherwise he would have had as
much pleasure in hanging his old comrade as any of the poor rebels
whom he butchered. He was forced, in the end, to let me go; and the
first thing I heard was that you were in Dorchester jail. I took what
measures I thought necessary, regarding the first charge against you;
but I was quite unprepared for the second--and marvelous well they got
it up; so I had nothing for it but to do my best to get you out after
condemnation, which, knowing well all the people here in Dorchester,
was no very difficult matter."

Less than half an hour more bought the two horsemen to the sea-shore
at a spot where the coast was low and sandy; and after riding along
for some way, they came upon a small group of fishermen's houses,
where lights were still to be seen, and several persons moving about.
At some little distance from the shore was a large lug sail-boat of
some forty or fifty tons burden, and Ralph and his companion were
instantly accosted by one or two of the fishermen, who urged them to
hurry their movements, as the tide was going out.

Neither was inclined to make any long delay. Ralph sprang to the
ground at once. Stilling gave the horses to one of the men, with
injunctions to do with them as they had been directed before, and both
entering a little row-boat which lay at the beach, were pushed off by
two of the fishermen who accompanied them, and were soon safely on
board the lugger. A favorable breeze was blowing, the large, heavy
sails were speedily filled, and away the boat went, bounding over the
waves, directing her course right toward the coast of France.

It might render the narrative more interesting, perhaps, if I could
recall any hair-breadth escapes or marvelous passages in the voyage;
but, alas! there were none such to chronicle. The wind was perfectly
fair; the water slightly agitated, but not stormy; no king's vessels
appeared, to give chase to the little craft; and the only objects they
saw, except sea and sky, until they reached the French coast, were
several other large fishing-boats like their own, and, just about
daybreak, one man-of-war, in the far distance, with all sails set, but
steering away from them. She looked like a phantom upon the waters,
with her hull below the line of vision, and her sails figured faintly
on the distant sky.

Toward the close of the day they reached a little French port; and
doubtless it would not be very interesting to the reader to hear all
the little difficulties that beset them in making their way to
Holland, or how they overcame them. Suffice that they were overcome,
and that Ralph and his companion crossed the frontier line in about a
fortnight after they had quitted England. They made their way as
rapidly as possible to Amsterdam--the Hague not being a place quite
safe at that time for refugees from England. Having passed all his
early life at college or in the country, Ralph Woodhall only found one
person in the city with whom he had any acquaintance. This was a dry,
melancholy young man, who had been at Cambridge with him for some
time, but had abandoned the Church of England, and adopted the views
of the most extreme Calvinists. He was kind in his own way, and Ralph
was in need of kindness; but the views of this fellow-collegian were
so different from his own that there could be no great companionship
between them; and certainly the young Dissenter's conversation was not
at all likely to lighten the load of care for any man.

Gaunt Stilling, on the contrary, found numerous acquaintances among
the English who had taken refuge at Amsterdam. But both Gaunt Stilling
and his master had too many dark and gloomy chambers in the palace of
the breast to be willing to admit many to their intimacy. Ralph
Woodhall, on his arrival at the Dutch capital, it must be recollected,
was in no degree aware that a pardon had been obtained for him in
regard to the crime of high treason with which he had been charged;
nor did he know that Lord Woodhall, satisfied with his innocence, had
ceased to pursue him for the murder of his son. Condemned for one
offense which he had never committed; liable to be tried the moment he
returned for another of which he was equally innocent; and, moreover,
charged with a third, which was little less heinous in the eyes of the
court than murder or treason, he saw nothing before him but a long and
hopeless exile, the loss of all bright prospects, and the vanishing of
all his dreams of love. At the same time, gnawing care preyed upon
him. It may easily be supposed that he carried no great sum of money
with him. Almost all he possessed had been expended in the prison; the
fifty pounds which remained in Gaunt Stilling's hands from the money
given by Lady Danvers was nearly exhausted, and coming want stared him
in the face. Many an anxious consultation did he hold with Gaunt
Stilling as to what was to be done in the circumstances in which they
were placed; and but little comfort did he get from the servant, of a
kind that could be at all available. Stilling's reply always was, "Oh,
you will have money soon, sir, from England, and so shall I. I have
taken care to let the people know where we are, and they won't leave
us destitute. Your father will take care of you, and I have friends
who will look out for me."

"But I can not and will not bear to be a burden upon my father,"
replied Ralph; "I must seek out some employment here, in the service
of the state as a soldier, or in any other capacity for which I may be
suited. Methinks I will go to the Hague and see the Prince of Orange.
I can show him that I have had no share in this mad insurrection of
Monmouth's, and prove my innocence pretty well of all other crime. I
have letters, also, for several gentlemen at the Hague from the Duke
of Norfolk, and doubtless they will use their influence to obtain for
me some employment."

"Wait a little, sir--wait a little," was Gaunt Stilling's reply; "we
shall hear something from England soon. There is news that must be
sent to me, and that speedily. In the letter that brings them, we
shall most likely hear more of those in whom you take an interest."

He was not wrong in his anticipations. Ten days had hardly passed when
several letters reached Amsterdam for Ralph, and two for Gaunt
Stilling. Ralph's intelligence was joyful on all points but one. The
letters conveyed to him information that a full pardon had been
obtained for him on the charge of treason; that a nolle prosequi had
been entered by the attorney general in regard to the charge for
murder; and that Lord Woodhall was fully convinced, from evidence that
had been laid before him, of his innocence of the death of Henry
Woodhall. But it seemed, from the tenor of all the letters, that a
charge still hung over his head of having comforted and assisted a
Nonconformist clergyman, and attended a Dissenting conventicle, which
might subject him, if he returned unadvisedly, to lengthened
imprisonment. Several passages in these letters were somewhat obscure;
for his father, by whom one was written, did not seem to be aware that
he had made his escape without any knowledge of the pardon, and
Hortensia, who wrote to him likewise, though she appeared to have
comprehended at once how his flight to Holland had been effected,
alluded to the painful and unhappy circumstances in which he was
placed in terms which he thought hardly applicable to the mere chance
of his being tried for a very inferior offense.

A third letter, which surprised him much, was from his cousin, Lord
Coldenham. It was written in a frank, but not cheerful vein,
congratulating him on his escape from death, but urging him strongly
to return to England immediately. It assigned no motives on the part
of the young lord himself for pressing this point so strongly; but the
concluding words of the letter were, "For the sake of your own best
interests, Ralph--for the sake of your dearest hopes--come, and come
directly."

The effect of the intelligence he received upon his mind was to render
him thoughtful, but not sad; and he was still hesitating in some
degree how he should act, for his father's letter contained a
remittance which enabled him to act freely, when Gaunt Stilling joined
him with an expression of countenance which puzzled the young
gentleman a good deal. His brow was contracted with a heavy frown, but
his eyes were bright and sparkling, and there was a quivering sort of
eagerness about his lip at every word he spoke, which betrayed no
inconsiderable agitation within.

"Well, sir, what news?" he said, abruptly.

Ralph gave him a summary of the intelligence he had received, and the
man laughed rather wildly, saying, "Ay--is that all? better news than
mine."

"I am sorry to hear that you have had bad tidings," replied Ralph; "I
hope they are not of a very serious character."

"Family matters--family matters," answered Gaunt Stilling, walking
twice up and down the room. "The old man is ill, and well he may be--a
bad complaint, sir--a broken heart."

"I have just been pondering, Stilling," said Ralph, "whether it would
be better or not for me to return to England at once. My cousin, Lord
Coldenham, urges me strongly to do so, and if I do, we can go
together."

"Let me go first, sir," said Gaunt Stilling, quickly and eagerly. "You
shall soon hear more from me or of me--more than all the rest have
told you, I'll answer for it. As for myself, I must go, and this very
day. See what there is written to me;" and he put in Ralph's hand a
letter containing the following few words:


"Come back instantly. You are wanted here at once, for the great work
which must be done at length. I have refrained too long. I will
hesitate no longer.           MORABER."


"This is strange," said Ralph, returning the letter.

"Not so strange as some tidings in this letter, sir," said Gaunt
Stilling, striking lightly the other he held in his hand. "However,
before I go, let me ask you one question, sir, which is of more
importance than you may think. I am very bold; but you will pardon me.
Are you to be married, as men say, to Lady Danvers?"

"Not the most remote chance of it," replied Ralph. "Have you too,
Stilling, been deceived by appearances, the deceitfulness of which
none could judge better? Neither Lady Danvers nor myself ever dreamed
of such a thing. She knows my heart too well, Stilling."

"Thank you, sir--thank you," said Gaunt Stilling, warmly; "and now
good-by."

"But is there such great haste?" said Ralph; "I would fain have an
hour or two's time for consideration as to whether I had better
accompany you or not."

"Better stay where you are, sir," replied Stilling, "for the present,
at least. I would not stop one hour after having received this letter
for more than King James could give. I owe this man, sir, a deep debt
of gratitude, which must be paid in whatever way he chooses."

"Besides," added Ralph, "I am deeply your debtor, Stilling, and I
would fain do something, however little is in my power."

"Never mind that, sir," said Stilling, slowly inclining his head with
a very significant gesture; "all debts, to me and from me, will soon
be paid. Fare you well, sir; may God speed you better when I have gone
from you than you have sped while I have been with you;" and, without
further leave-taking, he turned and quitted the room.

There was something very remarkable in his manner, a sort of sharp,
wild abruptness, which, in all the variations of his mood, and they
had been many, Ralph had never remarked before. He mused over the
matter for a moment or two, but we are too apt to look upon the signs
of suppressed passion in others as matters of no moment, not seeming
to comprehend that where emotion is so strong as to carry with it a
sense of the necessity of concealing it, the very temporary resistance
with which it meets only seems to concentrate its power, and it bursts
forth at length in act because it was denied expression in words.

After thinking over the character and conduct of Gaunt Stilling for a
few minutes in silence, Ralph dismissed the subject from his mind, and
returned to other thoughts. He wrote to his father, to Hortensia, and
to Margaret, without much hope, indeed, of finding an opportunity to
forward the letter to her in safety and with secrecy. He wrote, too,
to Lord Woodhall, repeating his assurance that he had never drawn his
sword against his cousin Henry, and buoying himself up with false and
flattering hopes that Margaret might still be his. To Hortensia and
his father, he judged it necessary, from the ambiguous expression in
their letters, to give a detailed account of his escape, as far as it
could be done without committing any of the persons engaged in it, and
assuring them both that he had never heard of the pardon till the
morning on which he wrote. Lord Coldenham's letter he reserved for
further consideration; and a gleam of peaceful hope seemed to break
upon him once more, after so many had passed away, overshadowed as
soon as seen.




CHAPTER XLIV.


Ormebar Castle presented a gay and festive scene--such as had not been
beheld within its walls since the time of the first Charles. A number
of the neighboring nobility and gentry had been invited to pass a few
days there, in a sport already beginning to fall into disuse, although
it had been revived for a short time by the favor of Charles the
Second. A mew had long been attached to the castle; and the hawks of
Ormebar were famous throughout the country. The merry monarch himself
had even considered the present of a couple of pair of well-reclaimed
birds of that breed as a great gift; and a grand hawking party at
Ormebar was sure to attract all that was gay and graceful in the
county. Two facts were remarked as strange by the guests: that the
young Lord Coldenham was not present at the castle, for which various
unsatisfactory reasons were assigned; and that Margaret Woodhall,
publicly announced as the affianced bride of her cousin Robert--though
in the castle with her father, and appearing occasionally at meal-time
in the hall--shared not in any of the sports or amusements which were
going on, and when seen, came with a pale cheek and sorrowful brow,
self-involved in her own thoughts, and smiling not at the gayest jests
or most pleasant amusements. She seemed to take no interest in any
thing. She hardly appeared to notice aught around her. She looked like
a person walking in a dream, and that a sad one; and vain was every
effort to call her attention, or to awaken her interest. Lady
Coldenham for several days seemed to take no heed of this conduct--let
it pass as if it were undeserving a thought; but at length, one day,
as Margaret sat alone in her room, the imperious woman entered, and
seated herself with an air of proud disdain.

"I come," she said, "to inquire what you mean, my pretty cousin, by
your treatment of my son."

"Me, madam," said Margaret, gazing at her with a look of abhorrence;
"I have no particular meaning in my conduct."

"Then I wish you would have," replied Lady Coldenham, bitterly; "and a
very different meaning from that which every one puts upon your
demeanor. I wish you would mean to please your promised husband--to
show him some sort of courtesy, if not respect."

Margaret was roused. "Respect!" she said; "what should I respect in
Robert Woodhall?"

"You should respect him whom you have promised to marry," said Lady
Coldenham; "you should respect the house from which he springs."

"My promise to marry him," replied Margaret, with cold calmness, "was
cruelly wrung from me in a moment of the greatest agony. It is
sufficient that I keep it, without exacting more. He can not make me
more than his slave. Knowing that I abhorred him, he persisted in a
suit which he ought to have felt could only make me abhor him
more--obtained from my poor father, by what means I know not, a solemn
promise that I should be his--instigated my father to take advantage
of the most terrible circumstances to obtain a pledge from me. And
now, Lady Coldenham, my father will redeem his vow. I will redeem my
pledge. My hand shall be his; the estates, which he covets more than
my hand, will be his likewise; but ask nothing further. My heart never
can be his--my esteem, my respect, my love, he can never obtain."

"Impudent girl!" exclaimed Lady Coldenham; "this to his mother?"

"Ay, to any one, to every one, to all who question me on the subject,"
answered Margaret. "I am no longer the timid child whom you once knew,
to quail at your presence, and to shrink from your proud eye. You and
yours have taken from me all hope and all fear. You have strengthened
me by misery. You have made life valueless--death a blessing to be
coveted, and not far off, I trust. My father has brought me here, Lady
Coldenham, against my will; but I trust at least that the privacy of
my own chamber will be allowed to me."

"Good! mighty good!" cried Lady Coldenham, with a scornful laugh. "Now
mark me, Mistress Margaret Woodhall, we will tame you a little. You
seek, I know, to put off this marriage till the latest possible hour;
but as we find that kindness has no effect upon you, we will try
sterner measures. We will not allow you to trifle with us; the
marriage shall take place soon--immediately."

"That will be as my father shall decide," replied Margaret, in as calm
a tone as before. "I have always held that a man, doomed to die, shows
himself a coward if he attempts to put off his execution for a moment.
You have made me brave, Lady Coldenham; you can not frighten me."

"Ha, ha!" said the old lady, rising with an air of triumph; "lucky
that no compulsion will be needed;" and she passed majestically out of
the room.

Well might she triumph, for the object of her visit to Margaret was
attained with less difficulty than she had expected. No opposition had
been shown to a speedy marriage, and she hastened to Lord Woodhall to
tell him that his daughter consented.

The old man could hardly believe his ears; but the assurance of Lady
Coldenham was strong, and she told him, with a slight gloss, what had
passed between her and Margaret.

Robert Woodhall came to her aid, seeming to understand his mother's
schemes almost by intuition. Between them both, they soon obtained
Lord Woodhall's consent that a very early day should be fixed, and
preparations were immediately begun.

Margaret bore up well when the public eye was upon her. She quailed
not, she wavered not; no tear was seen to dim her eyelids; not a word
of opposition did she utter. Her character seemed to be entirely
changed. The frank, simple, timid girl, blooming in rich health, and
agitated by manifold emotions, was now the cold, grave, firm, decided
woman--pale as monumental marble, and unmoved by any of the passing
things of life. A petrifying hand had touched her--that of despair,
and she was indeed no longer the same.

Robert Woodhall saw it all--understood it all. But he had no pity: he
rejoiced.

Margaret was more alone than ever. She seldom, when she could avoid
it, quitted her own room. She left to others all preparations, and
only stipulated that the marriage should be performed by the good
Irish clergyman who had been for so many years her father's
chaplain--who had known her mother, and been the friend of her
childhood. She knew that he had many faults; but she knew that he had
many virtues too, and she thought that his familiar face would be a
comfort and a support to her.

She was sitting alone one day in a little chamber communicating with
her bed-room, while all the family and guests were absent on some gay
occasion at Dorchester, when her maid announced to her that Doctor
M'Feely had come to visit her.

"Bring him hither--bring him hither," cried Margaret, with the first
appearance of eagerness she had displayed for many a day. "Here we
shall not be interrupted, and I want much to speak with him."

In two minutes more, Doctor M'Feely, with his portly person and
buoyant step, swung into the room, and, taking her hands in his,
exclaimed, "Ah, my dear child--my dear young lady, that is--I am glad
to see you again, but not to see you looking so. Bother it, Mistress
Margaret, they have worried all the color out of your cheeks. They
used to bloom like a couple of roses in a summer's day, but now they
are like lilies in the shade. Well, man's a curious beast! I would not
have had a hand in withering those roses to be Archbishop of
Canterbury."

"The stem on which they grew will soon wither too," said Margaret,
sadly. "The tree is dead at the heart, doctor, and can never bloom
again."

"Don't say that, Mistress Margaret--don't say that, my dear child,"
cried the good parson; "that's just what I came to see you about, with
just the least possible hope that one way or another--what between
representations and denunciations--oh, that I were but a Roman
Catholic, and believed in transubstantiation; wouldn't I curse them
from the altar, and put a great seal upon them!--but, as I was saying,
I do think something might be done; though what the foul fiend, the
man intends to do, I don't know; for your father seems to me like a
rock; and as to Robert Woodhall, he is mischief itself, and the more
he thinks he vexes you, the more he'll do it. Couldn't you get up
early one moonlight morning, my darling, and just make a run of it?
There's a young man on the other side of the water who would be glad
enough to hold you to his heart, and I'd go over and marry you to
prevent mischief."

"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Margaret, clasping her hands wildly. "Oh
forbear, forbear, my good friend! No," she continued, "my father has
called down the curse of God upon his head if he does not give me to
Robert Woodhall. I have consented, in order to save poor Ralph's life;
and I will be honest. I will keep my word, though it kill me."

"Ay, but wasn't that word cheated out of you, my darling?" asked the
parson, earnestly. "Did they not persuade you that poor Ralph had
killed your brother Harry? If they did, I can show you in this paper
here that it was one of the biggest lies that ever was told. I may
show you the paper, dear Mistress Margaret; for, though it was given
to me in confidence--sub sigillo confessionis, as I should say if I
were a Romanist--God help the benighted people, and the king at the
back of them--I was permitted by the letter to bring it forward, if
they tried Ralph for the murder, and to show it to you if need be. Now
I say I can prove from this--"

"No need--no need," replied Margaret, laying her hand upon his arm.
"There is only one thing you can do for me, and that I wish you much
to do. I have never been deceived in regard to Ralph's innocence of my
brother's death--I have always done him justice; but I want you to
tell him, Doctor M'Feely--I want you to tell him hereafter" (and the
tears rolled plentifully down her face) "that Margaret loved him to
the last hour she was permitted to love any one on earth. At the altar
I renounce all earthly love. The ceremony might as well be my funeral
as my marriage, for it consigns my heart to the tomb, and leaves my
spirit only to seek its Maker. Thank God, I have wept again! I believe
these tears will save my reason."

The good clergyman wept too--wept like a child; but in the midst of
his tears, he kept feeling in his pocket till he brought forth an
unsealed letter, from the midst of which he took out another paper.
"But what answer do you mean to give to this man?" he asked, totally
forgetting that poor Margaret knew not who the man was. "He's a
strange creature, and deals with the devil, I've little doubt. I spent
a couple of hours with him one day, and he told me all manner of
things--a learned man, too. I was his match in Latin, but he beat me
to mud in Greek; and as to Hebrew and Arabic, Lord ha' mercy upon us!"

"Who--who?" cried Margaret; "do you mean Moraber?"

"Oh, ay, just Moraber," answered the parson; "Moraber's his surname,
and Devil, I suppose, is his Christian name, though not a very
Christian name either. But here--see what he writes to you here; for I
take it for granted it's intended for you, because he told me to give
it you;" and he spread out the inner paper before Margaret's eyes.

"Misguided girl!" the paper ran, "you have nearly destroyed your own
happiness forever, for want of truth and confidence. Did I not tell
you to be true and faithful to the last, and your happiness would be
secure? Write me down an answer to these questions:

"Do you still love him whom you loved first?

"Has your heart never swerved from him through vanity, lightness, or
caprice?

"Was it solely to save his life that you consented to wed a man whom,
if there be any honesty in the heart of woman, you are bound to hate?

"Answer at once, and answer truly."

"Here's a pen and ink, darling," said Doctor M'Feely, bringing the
implements for writing from a distant table. "I'll take it upon me
that you can answer all the questions handsomely enough; and the man
says something about a hope, in his letter to me--though how the devil
he found me out, or his little spalpeen of a boy in blue and silver
either, I can't tell. He can't have an optic glass that will look all
the way from Lincolnshire to Cerne Abbas--to say nothing of the
corners it would have to look round."

"I will answer truly at all events," replied Margaret, "be there hope
or no hope;" and, taking the pen, she wrote rapidly, "I love him ever.
No feeling of my heart has ever swerved from him. It was solely to
save his life that I consented to wed a man whom I do hate. This is
all true, so help me Heaven at my utmost need."

"There, Doctor M'Feely," she said, "give him that. But it is all in
vain. You know the marriage is appointed for Friday next."

"Friday!" said the doctor; "that's an unlucky day, my dear; I never
knew any one married on Friday in all my life."

"There never before was such a bridal," said Margaret. "Unlucky! Oh,
Doctor M'Feely, if they chose the most unlucky day in all the
calendar, they had hardly found one black enough to fit my wedding. I
will not be married in mourning," she said, "for it would grieve my
father; but I will have no bridal finery; I will not affect to rejoice
while my heart is dying."

"Well, I think it would have been but civil," said the doctor, "to
have let me know about the Friday."

"Doubtless you will hear of it to-day," replied Margaret. "Originally
the day was fixed for the Monday after, but something seems to have
affected Lady Coldenham strangely, and she has urged my father to
curtail even the short space allowed. To me it is indifferent what is
the day of execution. Doubtless Jane Grey shrunk from the block and
ax, as I shrink from the altar and the ring; but she met her fate
firmly, and so will I. Hark! there is a halloo in the fields; they are
coming back. Take the paper, but say I have no hope; that my fate is
sealed. Remember to tell Ralph what I have said; and bid him think of
me as one dead; for to every thing that makes existence life, I must
be dead from the moment the ring is upon my finger."

After a few words more, Doctor M'Feely left her; and in less than a
quarter of an hour, the house, so lately silent and solitary, was full
of gay sounds and heedless laughter, jarring painfully with the
thoughts of the melancholy tenant of that solitary room. Indeed, it
seemed as if the whole party, with the exception of Lord Woodhall, had
determined to leave the poor girl to her own imaginations. No one came
to console or support her; no one even attempted to cheer her by
conversation, or to withdraw her from her sad and lonely state. Her
father did come to see her, and strove to speak cheerfully; but there
was a silent reproach in his daughter's deep gloom which sent him ever
away with a heart depressed, and a consciousness that he had destroyed
the peace of his only remaining child.




CHAPTER XLV.


There were horses and carriages at the door of Ormebar Castle. The
court-yard was crowded with servants in all kinds of livery. Lady
Coldenham had resolved that the marriage should not want witnesses;
and every one of noble blood in the county had been invited. One or
two, who had been there the preceding week, asked, as they arrived,
whether Lord Coldenham had returned; and though the answer was no,
they did not much marvel, for Lady Coldenham was so completely monarch
in her own family, that no one could expect she would make any
alteration in her arrangements for the pleasure or convenience of a
son.

The great hall was thrown open on that inauspicious morning, and
richly decorated with evergreens and the few flowers which still
lingered after the year's brighter part had passed away. Not less than
forty or fifty people were assembled in that hall; but none of the
family yet appeared among them, with the exception of Robert Woodhall,
who had entered the room, remained for a few minutes, and retired
again, explaining that some deeds and other writings had to be signed
in the small room hard by, where Lady Coldenham usually received her
guests. It is to that room which we must, in the first place, turn our
eyes, before we relate what occurred afterward in the hall when the
party was setting out for the wedding.

It was a handsome and beautifully decorated chamber, nearly square,
with a highly-ornamented ceiling of black oak. It was called in those
days the little withdrawing-room, but was at least thirty feet in
length, and seven or eight-and-twenty in width. A large table was
placed in the middle of the room, and at it was seated old Lady
Coldenham, in a large armchair. She was richly attired, and looked in
her stern dignity like a queen upon her throne. She had become awfully
pale, however, during the last few weeks. The delicate blending of
color in her cheek was gone, and the flesh looked not like marble, but
wax.

Old Lord Woodhall was seated near, with a nervous, anxious,
apprehensive expression of countenance. Two or three lawyers were
further down the table, with a number of parchments before them.
Robert Woodhall and two of his gay friends, somewhat older than
himself--loose, debauched men, with that weak, supercilious expression
of countenance which almost always gathers upon the face after a life
of promiscuous licentiousness--stood at a little distance from the
table on Lord Woodhall's right, while Margaret appeared behind, near a
window, leaning heavily on the arm of Hortensia Danvers--the only
bridemaid she had chosen, and whom she had persisted in choosing,
notwithstanding a cold sneer from Lady Coldenham, and some opposition
on the part of the poor girl's father. Hortensia was in a blaze of
beauty, and magnificently attired. Her bright eyes were flashing with
light, her brow slightly contracted, her beautifully chiseled nostrils
expanding like those of a proud horse, and her fine arching lip
quivering with feelings of indignation that hardly could be repressed.
Her arm passed across her waist, and her hand rested upon poor
Margaret's, as she leaned upon her, with a fond and comforting
pressure; but her eyes were turned forward toward Lord Woodhall and
Lady Coldenham, and seemed to express wonder as well as disgust.
Behind her and Margaret stood their two maids, and the faithful old
attendant of the unhappy bride often put her handkerchief to her eyes,
which bore marks of many tears.

Some conversation took place between the persons seated at the table
regarding the contents of the documents before them. There were some
points which Lord Woodhall seemed not to comprehend easily, and which
the lawyers did not explain clearly.

At length, however, after some minutes had passed in question and
answer, the old lord seemed to grow impatient. "Well, give me the
pen," he cried; "it does not much matter. I dare say it is all right;"
and in a bold, dashing manner, which hardly covered the trembling of
his hand, he wrote the word "Woodhall."

"Now, my lady," said one of the lawyers, addressing Lady Coldenham,
"you will have the goodness to sign this paper, and your son will sign
below."

A slight shade of hesitation seemed to pass across Lady Coldenham's
face; and though she took the pen and dipped it in the ink, she held
it suspended for a moment ere she wrote her name. The noise, perhaps,
of the opening door, which was a little behind her on the left,
hurried the act, and the paper was signed.

Robert Woodhall had already advanced to write his name after his
mother's, and had received the pen from Lady Coldenham's hand. But at
that moment Lord Coldenham himself came forward, and put his brother
aside, saying, "Stop a moment, sir."

His tone was so stern and decided that Robert drew back, and Lady
Coldenham fixed her eyes upon her eldest son with an expression of
fierce but yet apprehensive inquiry, as one may see a chained eagle,
when menaced by a child's cane, gaze at him, ready to strike, yet
watchful for the blow.

"Nonsense, Coldenham, no trash just now!" cried Robert Woodhall, with
an affected laugh.

"Trash, sir!" said Lord Coldenham, in a stern and bitter tone, which
he had never assumed in his life before; "do you suppose that I would
jest even at a moment like this? I ask you, madam," he continued,
turning to his mother, "is this to go on? There stands a poor girl,
driven by hard usage to marry a man whom she detests. This marriage
has been hurried rapidly forward for fear of the appearance of certain
unpleasant impediments. Though I wrote from a distant part of the
country, it would seem either that it was not understood how much I
knew--or that it was believed I could not get here in time--or that I
was supposed to be so base and mean as to conceal facts detrimental to
myself which could be beneficial to others. I am here, madam. Those
who have so judged me are mistaken. I ask you again, is this to go
on?"

"Yes!" said Lady Coldenham, between her closed teeth, grasping tightly
the arm of her chair. "Yes, serpent!"

"It shall go on, so help me Heaven!" cried Lord Woodhall; "I have
pledged my honor and my word, and no power on earth can shake me. She
shall be his, if I live three hours longer. I will not live perjured
and forsworn."

"Yes, generous brother," said Robert Woodhall, "it shall go on. That I
will maintain with my voice and with my sword."

"Your sword!" said Lord Coldenham, with a bitter sneer. "Those who
rest upon that had better ask Sedgemoor of its glory--But tell me,
sir, what name are you going to sign to that paper?"

"My own, of course," replied the young man.

"And what is your own?" asked his brother.

"Forbear! forbear!" shrieked Lady Coldenham.

"Forbear!--Have you forborne?" said her son, sternly; and then,
turning to Margaret, he took her hand kindly, saying, "Margaret, my
dear cousin, I ask you, shall this go on? I tell you, you are in no
degree bound to that young man; that he is not what he seems; that he
stands before you there, a lie. Speak one word, and I will end it all.
I tell you, you are not bound to him."

"I am bound by my promise to my father," replied Margaret, in a low,
still, solemn voice.

Lord Woodhall's face had been becoming redder and more red; and as his
daughter answered, he exclaimed, "And I say she shall marry him, be he
who or what he may;" and he added a fearful oath.

"Well, then, without there!" cried Lord Coldenham, raising his voice
high, and the door was immediately partly opened.

"You can not go in there, sir," said a voice, in quick accents,
without; "we are ordered to keep every one out but the family."

"Out of my way, knaves!" said a loud, rich, powerful voice, which
echoed round and round the room. "Learn that I am master here!" and,
at the same moment, the door flew wide open, and two of Lady
Coldenham's servants were cast headlong into the room.

Following them, with a firm, calm step, and a brow stern and gloomy,
came a man of some sixty years of age, above the ordinary height,
powerful in frame, and dignified in carriage. He was richly though
somewhat darkly attired, and in his hand he carried a large roll of
paper.

All eyes turned in that direction, and Lady Coldenham's with the rest.
She uttered no word--no scream; but a low groan escaped her, and her
eyes closed.

A multitude of questions were asked, and sudden exclamations uttered.

"Why, that is the old man we saw in Lincolnshire," cried Robert
Woodhall.

"God bless my life! why, I recollect you quite well, Sir Robert," said
one of the old lawyers sitting at the table.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded old Lord Woodhall, almost fiercely.

"That woman's husband!" replied Moraber, pointing to Lady Coldenham,
"otherwise Sir Robert Hardwicke, of Ormebar Castle. Take her away. She
has fainted, as well she may, at the sight of one who has forborne too
long."

"But you were supposed dead," said the lawyer who had before spoken;
"she married under a false impression. She thought you had been killed
by the Moors on the coast of Africa."

"She knew that I was a slave of the Moors," replied Sir Robert
Hardwicke, "and she amused me with hopes of ransom for three long
years after she had married Lord Coldenham, as these loving letters
will testify. Then, indeed, she thought me dead; for I discovered the
fraud, and suffered the tale of my death in captivity to go forth."

"Then I am Lord Coldenham," exclaimed Robert, with a disgusting laugh
of exultation; "for I was born more than four years after my mother's
marriage."

"Not so," replied Sir Robert Hardwicke, seating himself in the chair
from which Lady Coldenham had just been removed; "your mother's
marriage was a fraud, and, as such, invalid altogether."

"We will have proof of that," said Robert Woodhall.

"Were these letters not proof," answered the other, gravely, "the fact
of her having a monument erected to a man whom she knew to be living,
and having buried therein a wooden figure, pretending it to be a
corpse brought from beyond sea, would, methinks, be sufficient. I tell
you, sir, and I tell all, that you are simply Robert Ratcliffe--the
natural son of Catharine Ratcliffe, Lady Hardwicke, by the Earl of
Coldenham. Now let us see whether Lord Woodhall will marry his only
child to you or not."

"He promised her to me without reservation," cried Robert, vehemently.
"He did it for services I performed to him, unconnected with my birth.
He took God to witness--he pledged his honor and his faith--"

"And I will keep them sacredly!" cried Lord Woodhall, after an
instant's hesitation. "Margaret, there stands your husband: let us end
this scene. The clergyman is waiting. The guests are all prepared.
Shuffle those parchments to the dogs. My heiress can build up a new
family. It was not his fault if his mother played the fool!"

Margaret pressed her hand upon her brow, for a momentary hope had
risen up in her breast but to be extinguished. Lord Woodhall, however,
grasped her arm, saying, "Come on."

"Leave her with me, my lord," said Hortensia, sadly; "you go on with
him; we will follow."

"Come on, then, Robert," said the old lord, taking the young man's
arm. "Sir Robert Hardwicke, we leave you and your wife's eldest son to
finish as you please the fine scene you have arranged this day. This
one, at least, I will take care of."

"So be it!" said Moraber. "But methinks, in courtesy, I must grace the
wedding, seeing it is so joyful a one. Lead on, my lord; and, if the
bride comes living from the altar, we will still feast the gay company
here, in this place, where one happy marriage was celebrated some
thirty years ago. Lead on, my lord, I say."

"I will so," replied Lord Woodhall, sharply. "Come, Margaret: follow
close behind."

Thus saying, he walked on with Robert Woodhall, throwing wide the door
which led into the great hall beyond.

Margaret followed with a faint step, and a hand which Hortensia felt
trembling on her arm.

Lady Danvers whispered to her eagerly, and her last words were, "At
the altar--at the very altar! He has no claim; your promise is not to
him; you promised to wed Robert Woodhall, not this man."

But still Margaret moved on.

The gay company in the hall separated, making a sort of lane as the
bridal party passed, and several voices said, "Health and happiness to
the bride and bridegroom!"

But the cheek of Robert Woodhall, which had been flushed with
excitement, turned deadly pale a moment or two after he had entered
the hall. What was it produced the change? and why did his eyes stare
so fixedly forward? There was nothing in the way to the hall door but
an old man and a young one. But that young man was taking a step
forward, and the old one tried to hold him back in vain.

"Robert Ratcliffe, you are a knave, a liar, a villain, a cheat, a
traitor!" said Gaunt Stilling, approaching close to him and striking
him a blow.

The ladies scattered back in terror; the gentlemen gazed in surprise
without interfering; and Robert, after an instant's hesitation, laid
his hand upon his sword and drew it. The moment it was done, Gaunt
Stilling's sword was crossed with his blade.

Lord Woodhall and Robert's brother beat up the weapons ere two passes
had been exchanged; but as they did so, Robert Woodhall fell back upon
the pavement; and then Gaunt Stilling thrust his sword into the
sheath, and dropped his hands by his side, for any one to take him who
would.

The confusion that succeeded was indescribable. Some rushed round the
fallen man and raised him up, gazing on his face, or striving to
stanch the bleeding of a small wound on the right side, which would
have seemed of no great importance, had not the torrent of gore which
poured from it told how deep the avenging blade had gone. Those who
gazed upon his face soon saw that the attempt to keep in the flood of
life was vain. The unhappy young man's eyes rolled in his head; but
they were meaningless--lifeless. Their motion was merely convulsive,
as probably were also the gasping efforts he made as if to speak.

Others rushed upon his slayer and seized him roughly, while Stilling's
father approached slowly and exclaimed, "Oh, my son, what have you
done?"

To the latter he answered sternly, "Avenged my sister, old
man--avenged her whom he deceived, and wronged, and killed by
falsehood. The serpent, whom your weak compliance with his mother's
fraud warmed into venomous power, stung your own child to the death,
and your other child has crushed him."

Then turning sharply upon those who had laid hands upon him, he
shook them off, saying, "What need to seize a man who seeks not to
escape--who is neither ashamed of the deed he has done, nor afraid of
its consequences? Stand back, and let me look upon the villain!" and,
striding forward, he gazed upon the face of Robert Woodhall, while the
dead man's brother supported the flaccid form partly on his knee, and
Sir Robert Hardwicke held his hand upon the pulse.

"Ay, young rebel," said Gaunt Stilling, looking sternly in his face,
"I warned thee; but thou wouldst not be warned: thou hadst timely
notice to forbear--thou hadst timely notice to keep thy word with my
poor Kate. But thou must wed a great lady, must thou? Thou must have
the broad lands of Woodhall. Thou must leave Kate Stilling to die of
grief and shame, after having poisoned her mind against father and
brother. But I warned thee--I warned thee long ago; and thou didst
contrive, too, to make me take the life of thy noble cousin--believing
that one who bore the name of Woodhall was bold enough to fight his
rival manfully, and not to put the peril upon another. That is the
only thing I regret in life. You stare," he continued sharply, turning
to one of the guests; "do you suppose that, standing here, and seeing
him be there--a piece of carrion--with his soul fresh flown to another
world, whither I must soon follow to stand before the same judgment
seat, that I feel the least regret, remorse, or shame for having sent
him thither? No, man, no. I am proud of the deed--Society is my
debtor--God has taken vengeance by my hand; and only timely did it
come. Look at that lady there," and he pointed to Margaret, who
stood trembling like an aspen leaf hard by, "trapped to his snares
by the most deceitful artifices--loathing him, yet bound to him by
lie-obtained promises--on the point of sacrificing happiness, and life
itself, rather than break her plighted word. Look at that old man,"
and he pointed to Lord Woodhall, "whose heart would have been one
everlasting curse--a core of fire in his bosom, if he had been
suffered to drag his daughter to the altar to unite her fate to that
reprobate. These have I saved by that one blow; but not only these.
All you around me owe me much. From such a pitiful villain as
this--from such a dark and secret plotter, who did his blackest deeds
by other men's hands, no heart is safe, no home is sacred. Hark you,
Robert Ratcliffe! I come after you very speedily. Prepare to meet me
before the throne of the great Judge--the God who judges the heart,
and knows whether mine has been upright and honest, even in this last
deed. To Him I appeal my cause; let Him judge between me and thee."

He spoke so vehemently, with such a rapid flow of words and sternness
of aspect, that no one even dreamed of interrupting him. All seemed
horror-struck--paralyzed, as it is called, by the terrible event which
had just taken place and the strong passion of the young man's
demeanor.

At length, however, Sir Robert Hardwicke spoke, letting drop Robert
Ratcliffe's hand lifeless from his own. "Thou speakest to the dead,
unhappy young man," he said. "For many years thou didst my bidding
well in every thing. Alas! why didst thou not obey unto the end? But
it was thy fate: in vain I sent thee to a foreign land--the doom was
to be fulfilled."

"It was my fate," answered Gaunt Stilling, "and I thank God for it!
Now take me hence. Put me where you will. I know what I have to
undergo, and I will meet it as a man. This heart may throb as if it
would burst, but it shall never quail."

They laid hands upon him gently, and led him away unresisting. The
corpse of Robert Ratcliffe was taken up by the servants, and removed
quietly to another chamber. The guests gazed strangely upon each
other; and those the least familiar with the family began to drop away
one by one, begging to be excused to Lady Coldenham. These words of
ceremony had been repeated once or twice to her eldest son, who had
merely bowed coldly, till one flippant woman added, with an inquiring
air, "though we have not had the honor of seeing her ladyship."

"There is no such person as Lady Coldenham," said the young man,
impatiently; and the news was whispered round that Lady Coldenham was
dead, but that this strange family had been going to celebrate the
marriage even while she lay a corpse in the house.

There was more truth in the rumor than rumors usually have; for Lady
Coldenham never woke completely from the terrible fit of fainting into
which she had fallen. She once made an effort, as if to get up from
the bed on which they had laid her; and one of the servants raised her
suddenly; but she instantly fell back, and expired without a word.
This event had already taken place when her son spoke, but he knew it
not; and, turning his eyes from the departing guests, he looked round
for one who had greatly moved his interest that day.

Margaret was seated by this time in a distant corner of the room, with
her head leaning on Hortensia's shoulder, and her handkerchief pressed
upon her eyes. The young man approached her kindly (while another and
another of the guests took their departure in silence), and said, "Be
comforted, Margaret--be comforted, my dear cousin--for you are still
my cousin Margaret. These are sad and terrible scenes for a young and
gentle thing like you; but you have borne yourself nobly and well; and
I trust a better Lord Coldenham will console and repay you for all you
have suffered on his account."

Margaret started, and gazed in his face.

"Ay, Margaret!" he said. "In the common course of events, Ralph
Woodhall will soon be Lord Coldenham, as his father now is. For
myself, I am so no longer; and what will become of me I know not. My
mother's small property will but be sufficient for herself; but I have
my sword unstained, and my heart unburdened, and I too can carve a way
for myself in the world."

"Young man," said a voice close to him, while a hand was laid upon his
arm, "I have not put you to these bitter trials without motive. You
are my son, if you will be so, and heir of all that I possess. Your
mother I once loved well, till her imperious temper drove me forth to
wander over the world. In her ambition she soon forgot and hated me. I
became a captive, a slave, a favorite, a rich merchant, as is often
the case in Eastern lands. The liberty which she would not seek for
me, I repurchased by my own industry and skill. This estate of
Ormebar, good as it is in these lands, is but small to what I possess.
If you have lost rank and station, with me you may find affluence and
peace; and I promise you, after all I have seen of your noble conduct
in such trying circumstances, that you shall ever find the affection
of a parent also."

The young man grasped his hand, but bent his head, and something like
a tear stained his cheek.

Old Lord Woodhall had remained nearly alone in the middle of the room.
Some of the guests had come up and spoken to him ere they departed;
but he seemed hardly to notice or to hear them, remaining with his
eyes bent upon the ground and his arms crossed upon his chest.
Suddenly something seemed to move him. He strode across the hall with
a rapid step, and took Margaret's hands in his.

"Forgive me, my child, forgive me!" he said. "Henceforth your fate is
at your own disposal. Your father will never seek to mar it again."




CHAPTER XLVI.


In the same cell in Dorchester jail which had first received Ralph
Woodhall after his capture, sat Gaunt Stilling on the evening
succeeding the events which I have mentioned. He was heavily ironed;
but he had a light--a lantern fixed upon the wall at a considerable
distance above his head, and by its rays, feeble as they were, he was
reading a small book very closely printed. One passage seemed to
interest him much, for he read it over three or four times. It
contained a curious and somewhat subtle argument, translated from the
Italian, concerning the lawfulness of certain actions according to the
circumstances in which men are placed, and it ended in a quotation in
Latin of the well-known epitaph of Cardinal Brundusinus:

    "Excessi è vitæ ærumnis facilisque lubensque
     Ne perjora ipsa morte dehinc videam."


He was interrupted before he could go further by the entrance of the
chief turnkey, who took especial care to look along the passages
before he entered, and then closed the door securely behind him.

"Has the parson come?" asked Stilling, raising his head suddenly.

"No," replied the turnkey: "not yet, Gaunt; but I want to have a
little talk with you; and I have brought the light irons, for these
are too heavy."

"I care not for them," answered Stilling: "what matters it to me
whether they are fight or heavy? Do you suppose I am going to try to
escape?"

"No, no, Master Stilling," said the turnkey, "we must have no more
escapes."

"Ay," said Gaunt Stilling; "yet I could frighten you into opening that
door and letting me out in five minutes."

The turnkey shook his head.

"What! not if I could prove you received eighty pounds out of the
three hundred and fifty?"

"You can't prove that," said the turnkey, with a grin.

"You are mistaken," replied Gaunt Stilling. "Every piece was marked in
the presence of a witness, and five of them which you spent are easily
to be found. There is not one of you--of all the five who shared the
money--that is not just as much in my power as I am in yours. If it
depended upon my word, that might be nothing; but remember, there are
several others in the business, who are now free enough to bear
testimony."

"But you are too honorable a man to 'peach," said the turnkey, a good
deal frightened.

"Honorable!" said Gaunt Stilling, with a scoff; "but no matter. I
don't want to escape, Master Blackstone. I can die one day as well as
another, and I do not know any day this last twelvemonth in which I
should not have been quite ready to go. Hanging is not unpleasant,
they tell me; and, at all events, it must be a great deal better than
lying for weeks in a sick-bed, and then going out like the end of a
candle."

"I am glad you think so," said the jailer, dryly. "But come, Master
Stilling, give me your word of honor that you will not 'peach of us.
You know it was only at your request, and because you were an old
friend, that we did what we did."

"You have forgotten the three hundred and fifty golden Jacobuses,"
said Gaunt Stilling, with a laugh. "Well, well, I must have a better
room, and that to-night. I must have a better light, and that
speedily. I must have a pen and ink, and paper, to write with. I must
have a bottle of wine and cold chicken for the parson. It's a long
time till the assizes, and I must make myself comfortable."

The turnkey rubbed his head and thought for a moment, for his
predicament was somewhat unpleasant. "The best I can do for you
to-night, Master Stilling," he said, "is to put you in the little room
in the third ward. It has got a good planked floor, and a fire-place.
You'll be out of my district, but I'll tell you who has got the keys.
It is Jones Barstow--you'll recollect him, I dare say--a green hand,
mighty fond of strong waters, which, when he gets enough of them, send
him sound to sleep. The governor doesn't put many capitals there, for
fear Barstow should let them out--he's such a soft one! But I'll speak
with the governor, and get it done for you."

"Very well," answered Stilling; "set about it quick; and remember, I
shall look to you, Master Blackstone, for every thing I want."

"In reason--in reason," said the turnkey, and went his way.

The governor made some objections; for, although Barstow, being a
distant cousin of his wife's, enjoyed his favor, yet he had but little
confidence in him, and Stilling had been represented to him as a
resolute, desperate fellow, requiring the strictest watch. The head
turnkey overcame his scruples, however, representing that the man had
no thought of escape, and adding "that he seemed to think hanging
rather pleasant than otherwise."

"Wait till he tries it," said the governor, laughing. "However, if you
are sure of him, put him there. I don't mind."

In about half an hour Gaunt Stilling was in a more comfortable room,
and in a few minutes after Doctor M'Feely was admitted to him.

"Ah, young man, young man," said the good doctor, "this is a sad pass
you've brought yourself to. You go on your own way all your life, and
then you send for the parson."

"Sit down, doctor," said Gaunt Stilling, with a look so much gayer
than any which Doctor M'Feely had seen upon his countenance when last
they met, that the worthy clergyman was both surprised and grieved.
Nor was his mind much relieved when Gaunt Stilling went on to say, "I
didn't send for you, doctor for the purposes you imagine. I dare
say you think I am sorry for what I have done; but there you are
mistaken--or that I'm afraid of being hanged; but there you're
mistaken again."

"You'll be hanged as sure as a gun, and no help for it, my dear boy,"
said Doctor M'Feely; "I'll bet you a bottle of it, and let the longest
liver drink it."

"I know I shall be hanged," answered Gaunt Stilling; "but what I sent
for you for was, that you might take down the whole particulars of
every thing that has happened, exactly as it did happen. I am
determined to save judge, and jury, and lawyers all sorts of trouble,
and I sha'n't give the hangman much either. You've got that paper I
sent you. You behaved like an honest man about that, though I believe
the law would have had you give it up."

"Well, well, perhaps it might," said the doctor; "but the paper didn't
tell much, young man: it only said you killed poor Henry Woodhall in
mistake, and that Master Ralph was never back in Norwich that night;
but not a word did you say about how it all happened."

"Well, I'll tell you now," replied Gaunt Stilling; "so take your paper
and write down my confession; then I will sign it, and you shall
witness it."

Doctor M'Feely seated himself at the table, dipped the pen in the
ink, and dated the paper, saying quietly, "Don't make it too long,
lad--about the length of a sermon will do."

"You shall have a bottle of wine and a chicken when you've done,"
replied Gaunt Stilling.

"The wine I don't mind," answered the doctor, "but as for the chicken,
I've no stomach. The sight of all the passages, and locks, and bolts,
and you here in the middle of them, has taken away my appetite; so
fire away, my boy, and make haste."

"Young Robert Ratcliffe," said Gaunt Stilling, leaning his head upon
his hand, "who always passed for the lawful son of Lord Coldenham--"

"There's another pretty affair!" cried Doctor M'Feely. "Who would ever
have thought that that proud old woman was a ---- whew!"

"Never mind her," said Gaunt Stilling; "bad the crow, bad the egg. Put
that down. Young Robert Ratcliffe, who passed for Lord Coldenham's
lawful son, was an insolent, profligate fellow. He had done much
mischief in the village; and when I returned from Tangier, I found him
often coming to our house, and seeing my sister Catharine--poor
unhappy girl, I came too late! I warned him off--told him I would not
have him there, and gave him fair notice I would beat him if he
came--punish him if he wronged my sister. My father had been foolish
enough to think he would marry her, because she was handsome and well
taught, and he had a hold upon the old woman by knowing her secrets.
The young man one day, too, said that he would marry her; and that was
the poor girl's ruin. I knew better than to believe such nonsense, and
opened my father's eyes at length, so that he was as eager to move her
out of the way of temptation as I was, and we agreed to bring her here
to our relations in Dorset. My uncle met her half way, and she was
kept secure enough from that time. But her shame soon became apparent;
and when I came over from Norwich to see her, there was no longer any
concealment. I had promised revenge, and I resolved to take it. But it
was needful to wait my time, when, as if good fortune would have it,
chance seemed to throw the opportunity in my way. I heard that there
had been a quarrel between young Ralph Woodhall, with whom I was, and
Robert Ratcliffe, in the ball-room of the duke's house. I heard that
Ralph had dragged him away by the neck from Mistress Margaret when she
fainted, and that the villain quitted the room, and sent for his
cousin Henry. I did not suspect, at that time, that he was altogether
a coward, and naturally thought that a duel would follow. That did not
please me; for I wanted to punish him myself; and I would have given a
great deal to take Ralph's place; for, though he is a good swordsman,
Robert was fencing all his life, and full of tricks. As I suspected,
Robert Ratcliffe's servant Roger came twice seeking Ralph Woodhall.
The last time he brought a sealed letter. I asked him if it was a
challenge, and he said yes; so I naturally thought it came from the
man with whom Ralph had quarreled. My master was then absent, gone
with Lady Danvers to Thetford, but he was to be back long before
night, and I managed to find out, one way or another, that the duel
was to take place by moonlight, and without seconds. I got hold of the
place too; and a quick thought passed through my mind, that if Ralph
did not return, I would take the opportunity myself. I answered,
therefore, boldly, that he would be at the place appointed, adding,
below my breath, 'or somebody else in his place.' When the knave was
gone, I had a strong inclination to look into the letter; but I had
heard Ralph speak so highly about the shame of opening letters to
other people, that I could not bring my mind to do it. I was uneasy,
however, for fear he should come back in time; and I rode after him
part of the way toward Thetford. He told me he should certainly be
back before night; but they had made so little progress, it was not
likely; and I found out from the Duke of Norfolk's servants that they
did not intend to let him come back; for that the duke had sent him
out of the way to prevent his receiving the challenge. I kept it snug
in my pocket, therefore, and returned to Norwich, where I remained in
a great fright lest he should come. Night fell again, and at ten
o'clock I was upon the ground. Nobody was there; and, sitting down
upon a bench, I fell into a doze, out of which a quick step awoke me
at length. It was a foggy night, and though the moon gave some light,
one could not see a man's face clearly. The man was of the same
height, too, as Robert Ratcliffe, dressed much in the same way, and I
was hardly awake. His sword was in his hand when first I saw him, and
he said, 'Come, no words, sir; draw your sword. On my life, you take
it coolly.' There was something in the voice that startled me, though
I knew neither of their tongues well; but, as his sword was out, mine
was soon out too. We made two or three passes, and he pressed me hard;
for I had a doubt, and wanted to be sure. He beat me out from beneath
the trees to a place by the side of the basin where there was more
light, and then he seemed surprised, and lost his guard just as I was
lunging quart over the arm. I had no notion I should hit him; but he
did not parry, and the blade went through his body. He was killed in a
fair fight, however; and, though it was a mistake, it was no murder.
The knave Roger, Robert Ratcliffe's servant, can tell you more as to
how his cowardly master got Henry Woodhall to take the burden off his
own shoulders."

Doctor M'Feely shook his head: "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man
shall his blood be shed," he replied. "If this isn't murder, Gaunt
Stilling, I should like to know what the devil it is."

"Be that as it may," answered Gaunt Stilling, "I was only the more
resolved to have vengeance upon that villain Robert. I went to seek
him at Sedgemoor, when I heard he was there; but I was stopped and
prevented, and I heard afterward that he had slunk away from the
battle. After that," he continued, "I found that poor Master Ralph was
in prison, and my heart was torn many ways; for my sister sent for me,
and I found her dying. The villain had broken her heart by a letter he
wrote her, mocking her claims, and making a scoff of her love. She
never took heart again, and died a fortnight after the birth of her
child. I was resolved, however, that Ralph should not suffer for my
deed, if I could help it, and I wrote that paper and brought it to
you. I kept myself out of the way, indeed, because I always thought
the time for my vengeance would come; and when I heard in Holland that
Robert Ratcliffe was going to marry Margaret Woodhall, to gain all his
ends and objects, and, perhaps, in time to become Lord Woodhall, I
made up my mind what I would do. I found out Sir Robert Hardwicke, who
went so long by the name of Moraber--"

"What could make him take such a heathenish name?" asked Doctor
M'Feely. "There is not a Christian letter in it."

"It is but Ormebar turned another way," replied Gaunt Stilling. "But
write away, write away. I did not tell Sir Robert all I intended,
though he has ever been kind and generous to me. But he seemed to
divine a great deal, and cautioned me to beware. He told me that he
intended to claim his own--to bring the adulteress to shame, and
dispossess the son of Lord Coldenham, giving Ralph his place, because
he had loved his mother when she was young. He said that would be
punishment enough; and I hesitated a little. I resolved to make sure,
however, for I knew him to be soft-hearted; and I went with my father
this morning to Ormebar Castle, where Sir Robert had appointed him to
come to bear witness. When I saw the villain, however, come out into
the hall with Margaret Woodhall to go to the church, my blood seemed
to boil up. I had no longer any command over myself, or any scruple;
and I killed him. Now don't say a word, good man; there are some
offenses that the law does not touch--there are some evils that no law
will prevent; I have punished the one, and have stopped the other.
That is my only offense, and I am ready to die for it."

"If I put those last words down, they'll twist a cord round your
throat to a certainty, Gaunt," said Doctor M'Feely. "Lawyers won't
have it that there is any thing law can't do; and they always hang a
man who preaches the contrary."

"Put them down, put them down," said Gaunt Stilling; "they will make
no difference in my fate. Now give me the paper, and I will sign
it--you put your name there."

"We had better have in another witness," suggested Doctor M'Feely;
and, calling the turnkey, he made Gaunt Stilling read over the whole
paper in the man's presence, and acknowledge its accuracy before he
signed his name.

The chicken and the bottle of wine were then brought in; but good
Doctor M'Feely was in no mood for either eating or drinking; and after
taking one glass to please the prisoner, he retired, promising to
visit him again in a couple of days. Some weeks passed without any
thing remarkable occurring in Dorchester jail, till an early fall of
snow took place; on the morning after which, the room of Gaunt
Stilling was found vacant. A plank had been taken up in the floor, and
extended from the high window, the bars of which had been wrenched
out, to a parapet of the doorkeeper's lodge; thence, for any one to
make their escape, a wall some six feet high was to be surmounted, and
then a leap of fourteen or fifteen feet into the lane was to be taken.
That this had been accomplished was evident by the marks in the snow;
and foot-prints, undoubtedly those of Gaunt Stilling, were traced for
some way on the Weymouth road, till the marks of traffic effaced them.
He was never actually heard of more; but in the fourth year of the
reign of King William the Third, some portions of a skeleton, and a
complete set of irons covered with rust, were taken out of a deep hole
in the River Wey.




CHAPTER XLVII.


Two brief scenes more and I have done. The outline of the one probably
the imagination of the reader could fill up; the other, however, would
require to be pictured more completely.

Let me premise that all applications to King James, for assurance that
Ralph Woodhall would not be prosecuted for the events which had taken
place at Thetford, were vain, and the king, rampant with his success
over Monmouth, only showed a more and more strong determination to
persecute all who showed any favors toward Dissenters. In vain Lord
Woodhall petitioned. In vain the young man's father, now Lord
Coldenham, urged that his son was a steadfast member of the Church,
and had only acted from motives of pure humanity. They knew too well
what would be the consequence of Ralph's return to England, and both
of them at length went over to pass a few months with him in Holland.

When, at length, William of Orange landed on the shores of Great
Britain, and marched toward London, one of the most favored officers
of his army was the Honorable Colonel Woodhall; and when the crown was
placed, by the voice of the people, upon that prince's head, and James
himself became an exile, a beautiful and blooming bride sailed gayly
over with Queen Mary from Holland, and joined her noble husband at
Coldenham Castle. She was beautiful and blooming again; but a certain
delicacy of complexion--a want of that high and somewhat rustic health
which Margaret Woodhall had once enjoyed, gave her husband some
uneasiness, especially as her strength did not seem to increase even
in the air of her native land and county. She was very joyous,
however, and very happy; and three beautiful babes came as blessings
to the household. But no happiness can endure long unalloyed. Within
the four years that followed Ralph's marriage, his father and Lord
Woodhall both sunk quietly into the grave; and Margaret mourned much
for her father. Her color became less vivid, except at night; and she
often visited the old monuments in Coldenham church, and gazed at
several vacant places, where there was space for a tomb or two more.
When people inquired after her health, however, she always said she
was very well; and her husband's eye never but once found a sad look
upon her face, except when she was mourning for her father. She was at
the moment gazing at her children; and when Ralph bent down his head
and kissed her cheek, she put her arms round his neck, and whispered a
word or two in his ear: "There is one whom I should greatly prefer,"
she said, in conclusion, "if that should happen--You know whom I
mean."

"Hush! hush! dear Margaret," said Ralph; "you grow gloomy here. We
must change this scene, and in the softer air and brighter landscapes
of Devonshire, find health and spirits for you."

Margaret smiled, and said that was not needful; she only spoke of what
might be.

But Ralph carried out his plan, and ere a week was over the whole
family were moving gently toward Devonshire.

Suppose two more years over, reader; and you see once more Lord
Coldenham, not yet quite nine-and-twenty years of age.

A lady--a very beautiful lady--is seated in a chair where Margaret
used to sit. She is in a traveling dress; and one young child, of
about eighteen months old, is pressed close to her breast, and playing
among her rich brown hair with its little fingers. Three others,
somewhat older, are clustering round her, and all their young
forgetful faces are raised gladly toward her; but the tears are
falling rapidly from her eyes; and even her husband turns away toward
the window to conceal a drop that has gathered in his own. The next
moment he returned, and clasped her hand in his without uttering a
word; and the lady pointed to the children, saying, "These dear ones
do not remember, Ralph; and, indeed, how should they; but neither you
nor I, my dear husband, can ever forget there has been a Margaret. I
will do all I can to supply her place, but that can never be
completely."

"God bless you, my Hortensia!" said Ralph, and hurried away from the
room.



THE END.









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