CHAPTER XVI.The Chance-Meeting in the Park.
The morning sky was very gray. There was a thin film of vapour overthe greater part of the heavens, retarding, as it were, the advance ofdawn, as a mother keeps back her wayward child struggling forward toofast upon all the varied ways of life. Yet towards the east there wasa bright streak of gold, which told that the star of light, andwarmth, and genial influences, was coming up rapidly from below theround edge of the rolling ball. It was a line, defined and clear,marked out from the vapour, which ended there by an edge of lighteryellow; and as the strong golden tints became more, and more intense,the filmy cloud split and divided into fragments of strange shapes,while the beams streamed through, and, passing across the wide extentof air, tinted with purple the vapours above. Towards that glowingstreak all things seemed to turn; the sunflower inclined her headthither; the lark bent his flight in that direction; towards it allthe songsters of the wood seemed to pour the voices of their choir. Itis a strange thing, the east; full of curious associations with allthe marvellous history of man. Every good thing and almost everybright thing, has come from the east; religion, salvation's hope;daylight and the seeming movement of the stars and moon; summer andsunshine and Christianity have sprung thence, as if there were thefountain of all the best gifts to man. There have all nations risen,and still the progress is from the East towards the West; as if therewere some law, by which all things on the earth followed the course ofthe great light-giver. Nevertheless, how have these blessings beenmingled with many evils! The cutting winds of spring and winter,pestilence and destruction, earthquakes and wars, have there arisen,to sweep over the world, and blacken it with grief and mourning. It isa strange place, the east; and I can never look towards it and see therising sun, without a strange feeling of awe and mystery, from thevarious associations which exist between it and the wonders of thepast.
The scene from the windows of Tarningham-hall was not a very extensiveone, but it was fine in its peculiar character: the sweeps of thepark; the dewy lawns; the large old trees; the broad and featheryfern; the stately deer, walking along with unconfirmed steps andhalf-awakened deliberation; the matutinal hares, scudding about in thegray twilight; and the squirrels, rushing from tree to tree; were allpleasant to the eye that looked upon them, though that eye could onlyat one small point, where the break in the wood gave a wider view,catch any thing beyond the domain, and all that even there was gained,consisted of a narrow portion of that same streak of yellow light,which broke the monotonous curtain of the cloud towards the east.
Nevertheless, for several minutes, Mary Clifford gazed upon the wholewith pleasure and interest. She was early in her habits: a familiarchild of the morning; and the dew on the leaves was a delight to her;the soft gray of the early day, a sort of invitation to contemplationand enjoyment. After marking the deer, and smiling at the sportivegambols of the hares, who, as it was forbidden to shoot near thehouse, played fearless on the lawns, she turned her eyes towards thespot where the dawning morning-light was visible, and recollectingthat not far from the house and what was called the terrace, there wasa point whence the whole scene over the country was visible, and whereshe could watch, with uninterrupted pleasure, all the effects of thebreaking day upon that beautiful landscape, she sallied forth to enjoya peculiar sort of pleasure, which requires a very pure and unsulliedmind, and a heart naturally elevated and devout, to understand itfully.
The hour was a very early one; for, at that season of the year, DanPh[oe]bus, as the ancient poets call him, shaking off the lazy habitsof the winter, gets up betimes; and, as the servants of good Sir JohnSlingsby were not subjected to very severe discipline, not a singlesoul in the house was up to give our sweet friend exit. There isalways a curious sensation in walking alone through a house, all theother tenants of which are still sleeping; there is a deathly feelingabout it; a severing of the ties, which so lately existed between usand those who are now insensible; but that sensation is most stronglyfelt, when the morning sunshine is on the world; when nature hasrevived, or is reviving from the trance of night; and other things arebusy in restless activity, though the gay companions of a few hoursgone by are silent and still, as if death had struck them.
Down the broad oak stairs, with its narrow strip of carpet, along theold marble hall with its tessellated floor, Mary Clifford went slowlyand quietly, lighted alone by a skylight overhead, and a large windowover the great doors; but she could hear the gay birds singingwithout; the thrush upon the tree top; the woodlark in the shade; thelinnet, with its small, sweet song, and the chaffinch in his springdress and his spring notes amongst the bushes. She opened the door ofthe library and went in, leaving it unclosed behind her, then unbarredand unlocked the glass-door, went out and gazed about her. Some deerthat were near the house started and withdrew a few steps, and thenpaused to stare at her; but whether it was that they had never seenany of their companions slaughtered by a being in a woman's dress, orthat they thought she looked, as she really did, sweet and gentle asthe morning, they did not take fright, trotting a few steps farther,after a long look, and then stopping with their heads to converse overthe matter.
After closing the door, Mary walked on towards the terrace, which wasat the distance of about a couple of hundred yards, climbed the stepsand proceeded towards the end, where the finest view was to beobtained, at a spot sheltered by six rugged yews, underneath whichthere was a seat: and there she paused, for at least ten minutes,drinking in the beauty of the scene, as if changed to a thousand huesunder the influence of the rising sun. All was still and tranquil; butat length she heard some voices speaking, and looked in the directionin which they came.
Some of the grooms, she thought, as her eyes rested on the stables atsome little distance in the rear of the house; and although it was notat all probable that they would disturb her reveries, yet she preparedto go back, for one half of the pleasure which she derived from herearly walk lay in its solitude. She was wishing that the grooms hadthought fit to lie in bed for half an hour longer, when she heardproceeding from the lower ground under the bank of the terrace, thelight and rapid footfalls of some one apparently walking from thestables to the mansion; and, not at all wishing to meet anyone, sheturned back again towards the yews. At the end of the terrace,however, the footsteps stopped; there was a momentary pause, and thenthey mounted the steps and came along the gravel towards her. Marywalked on to the end, and then turned, when straight before herappeared Captain Hayward, coming on with his usual light and cheerfulair, though the sleeve of his coat was cut open, and it was evidentthat he had bandages round his arm.
"Good morning, good morning, Miss Clifford," he said, advancingfrankly and taking her hand; "what a magnificent morning! I see youare as early in your habits as myself. But did you ever see such arich dove-colour as has come upon those clouds? I love some of thesecalm gray mornings, with a promise of a bright day they give, betterfar than those skies all purple and gold, such as are described bythat rhodomontade fellow, Marmontel, in his 'Incas,' which are alwayssure to end in clouds and rain. I have always thought those verybright mornings like a dashing woman of fashion, tricked out in herbest smiles and her brightest colours, promising all sorts of thingswith her eyes, which she does not intend to perform, and cold orfrowning before half an hour is over."
"And the gray morning, Captain Hayward," asked Mary, with a smile,"what is that like?"
"Oh, I don't know," answered Captain Hayward, laughing, "you must notdrive my imagination too hard, dear lady, lest it stumble--perhaps thegray morning is like a calm, quiet, well brought up country girl, witha kind heart under the tranquil look that will give a long day ofsunshine after its first coolness is passed."
Mary Clifford cast down her eyes, and did not answer; but, as she waswalking on towards the house, Ned Hayward continued in his usualstraightforward way; "You must not go in yet, my dear Miss Clifford; Iwant you to take a turn or two with me upon this delightful terrace.You must, indeed, for I have got a thousand things to say an
d I know Ishall find nobody else to say them to for the next two or threehours."
His fair companion did not think fit to refuse, though some prudishpeople might have thought it a little improper to take a walk at fiveo'clock in the morning with a young captain of infantry unattached;but Mary Clifford had only known Captain Hayward six-and-thirty hours,and therefore she saw nothing in the least improper in it in theworld. Young ladies, who guard so very scrupulously against being madelove to, forget that they show what they expect. She turned,therefore, with him at once, and replied, "You must, indeed, have along series of adventures to tell us; I am delighted to forestall therest of the family and to have the news myself three hours before anyone. We were all in great alarm about you last night. My uncle and Mr.Beauchamp, and half-a-dozen servants were setting out to seek you,upon the report of Stephen Gimlet, as they call him, the father of thelittle boy you saved; but your note just arrived in time to stopthem."
"Oh, then, Master Gimlet, I suppose, has told my story for me?" saidNed Hayward.
"Only very briefly," answered the young lady; "he said you had chasedsome man over the common, who had fired at you, and he was afraid hadwounded you; and I fear, from what I see, he was right."
"Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all," replied Ned Hayward; "but I'lltell you all about it as circumstantially as a newspaper;" and he wenton in a gay and lively tone to give an account of his adventures ofthe preceding night, till his arrival at Buxton's inn. Sometimes hemade Mary Clifford laugh, sometimes look grave and apprehensive, buthe always interested her deeply in his tale; and she showed that shehad marked one part particularly by asking, "Then did you know the manwhen you saw his face so distinctly in the pit?"
"Up to that moment I thought I did," replied her companion, "but thenI saw I was utterly mistaken. I will acknowledge to you, my dear MissClifford, that, till he turned round I fancied he was one I had seenbefore--the same height, the same make--and, under existingcircumstances, I felt that nothing would justify me in giving up thepursuit, although it was most painful to me, I assure you, to follow,with the purpose of punishing a young gentleman, in whom, from whatyou said yesterday at dinner, I conceive you take a considerableinterest."
"Who? Mr. Wittingham?" exclaimed Mary Clifford, her face turning asred as scarlet, "Oh, Captain Hayward, you are mistaken, I take nointerest in him, I abhor him; or, at least---at least I dislike himvery much."
Ned Hayward looked puzzled; and he really was so in a considerabledegree. His own prepossessions had done something to mislead him; anda man never conceives a wrong opinion but a thousand smallcircumstances are sure to arise to confirm it. A man may long forgreen figs, but in any country but England he will not get them in themonth of March; he may desire grapes but he cannot find them in May;but if he have a suspicion of any kind, he will meet with, whenever helikes, all sorts of little traits and occurrences to strengthen it,for the only fruit that is ripe in all seasons is corroborativeevidence; and, amongst the multitude of events that are ever in themarket of life, it must be a hard case if he do not find enough of it.After a moment given to consideration, he replied more cautiously thanmight have been expected, "I have some how mistaken you, my dearlady," he said at length, "and such mistakes may be dangerous. I haveno right to force myself into your confidence; but really the whole ofthis affair is becoming serious. When first I had the pleasure ofseeing you, I found you subjected to what was certainly a greatoutrage. I call it so; for I am perfectly certain that you yourselfmust have considered it as such; and there could not even be apalliation for it except--" he paused an instant, and then added,gravely, "except love on both sides, disappointed by objectionsarising in the prejudices of others."
Mary Clifford coloured deeply, but suffered him to proceed. "I neednot tell you, after, what I have said," he continued, "that I haverecognised and identified the principal person concerned in thisbusiness. At dinner you expressed a very strong desire that theoffender should not be punished; but the former offence was followedby a very serious crime. A shot was fired last night into your uncle'sdining-room amidst a party of gentlemen quietly drinking their wine,which very nearly struck the father of the very man who had alreadyrendered himself amenable to the laws of his country by his attackupon you. I had suspicions that he was the perpetrator of this crime,and although he certainly was not the person I pursued across themoor, yet I have some very strong reasons to think that he was aparticipator in the offence. These are all very serious circumstances,my dear young lady; but I am ignorant of those which have precededthese events, and if without pain to yourself you could give me anyexplanations which might guide my mind to the causes of all that hasoccurred, it might be very serviceable in many respects. I am sure youwill answer me frankly, if it be possible, and believe me I am not oneto act harshly, or to abuse your confidence--nay, more, thoughtless asI may seem, and as I am called, be assured I will do nought withoutconsideration and forethought."
"I am sure you will not, Captain Hayward," answered Mary Clifford,warmly, "quite sure; and I have no hesitation in giving you myconfidence--though, indeed, I have very little to tell. These thingsare always unpleasant to speak about, and that is the only motive Icould have for remaining silent; but this gentleman's conduct has beenso very public, that I am saved from all scruples on his account.About two years ago, I met Mr. Henry Wittingham at the county ball,danced with him there, and observed nothing in his behaviour whichshould make me treat him differently from other new acquaintances. Idid not think him agreeable, but he was not offensive. He asked me todance again the same night, and I refused, but, shortly after, he wasformally introduced at our house; my father asked him to dinner, andwas, indeed, very kind, both to him and to Mr. Wittingham, his father,because he thought that they were unjustly looked down upon andtreated coldly by the county gentry on account of their family. I soonbegan to find that--that--I really do not well know how to go on--butthat this young gentleman's visits were more frequent than waspleasant, and that he always contrived to be near me, especially whenwe met in public. His conversation, his manners, as I knew more ofhim, became insupportably disagreeable; I tried as much as I could toavoid him, to check his advances, at first quietly, but decidedlywithout speaking to any one else, for I did not wish to produce anybreach between my father and Mr. Wittingham; but, at last, I foundthat he made a parade and a boast of his intimacy, and then I thoughtit best to speak both to mamma, and my dear father. What was done Ireally do not know; but certainly something took place which very muchenraged both father and son, and the latter was forbidden to visit atour house. The result was any thing but deliverance from hispersecution. From that moment he chose to assume, that the objectionwas on the side of my parents, and I cannot tell you how I have beenannoyed. I have not ventured to walk out alone, for although once whenI met him in the village, I told him plainly my sentiments towardshim, he still persisted in the most unpleasant manner, that I spokealone from mamma's dictation, and for months he used to hang about theplace, till I really grew nervous at the sight of every human beingwhom I did not instantly recognise. This last outrage has been worsethan all; and I will admit that it deserves punishment; but I amafraid, from various circumstances which accompanied it, that the law,if carried into effect, would punish it too severely. My uncledeclared he would hang the man if he could catch him; and oh, think,Captain Hayward, what a horrible reflection that would ever be to methrough life, to think that I had been even the innocent cause ofbringing a fellow-creature to a disgraceful death."
"Painful, indeed, I do not doubt;" answered Ned Hayward, "but yet--"
"Nay, nay," cried Mary, "do not say _but yet_, Captain Hayward. Icould never make up my mind to give evidence against him; and, tospeak selfishly, the very fact of having to appear in a court ofjustice, and of having my name in public newspapers, would render thepunishment nearly as great to me as to him. These were my solemotives, I can assure you, in what I said yesterday, and not theslightest personal interest in one who has, I am afraid, in allsituati
ons disgraced himself."
For some reason or another, Ned Hayward was glad to hear Mary Clifforddefend herself, and so warmly too, from the imputation of any feelingof regard for Harry Wittingham; but he took care not to show, to itsfull extent, all the pleasure that he felt.
"I thought it strange, indeed," he said, "that you should entertainany great feeling of esteem for a person who certainly seemed to menot worthy of it; but there are often circumstances, my dear MissClifford, unseen by the general eye, which endear two people to eachother, who seem the most dissimilar--youthful companionship, servicesrendered, old associations--a thousand things build up this betweenpersons the least likely to assimilate which are stronger than allopposing principles. I thought that such might be the case with you;but as it is not, let me tell you what was the end of my adventurelast night; and then you will see what cause I have for suspicion. Imust inform you, in the first instance, that I marked the person ofMr. Henry Wittingham well on the evening of the attack,notwithstanding the twilight, and that I saw him yesterday inTarningham. His father's unwillingness to enter into the charge, whenmade against some unknown person, excited suspicion; but I foundafterwards, from other sources, that Mr. Wittingham and his son hadquarrelled, and were completely at variance; and, in the justice-room,the young man whispered something to the old one, of which I heardonly two or three words, but they were of a threatening nature. I havetold you that I thought I recognised the figure of the man who firedthe shot, and Stephen Gimlet declared he could swear the horse he rodewas Henry Wittingham's; but I found, as I have said, that the man inthe pit was a stranger. When, after pursuing him as long as I had anytrace, I at length arrived at a place called, I find, Buxton's Inn, Isaw the very horse in the stable in a state which left no doubt thatit had been ridden hard for several hours, and had not been in fiveminutes. I inquired for the master, and was told the number of theroom where he was to be found. I walked straight in and found Mr.Henry Wittingham sitting quietly at supper. Some conversation ensued,in the course of which I told him the cause of my intrusion; and hiswhole manner was confused and agitated. He swore violently at the ideaof any body having ridden his horse, and affected not to believe it;but I made him come down to the stable, when, of course, his mouth wasclosed."
"But who did ride it then?" exclaimed Miss Clifford.
"Nay, that I cannot tell," answered Ned Hayward; "but I resolved towait at the inn and see if I could discover anything. I was shown intoa very neat little sitting-room, and wrote a note to your uncle, SirJohn, while they were getting my coffee. It was now nearly teno'clock, and there was a room apparently similar to my own on eachside of me, with a door of communication with either. I suppose theywere locked so as to prevent the passage of any thing very fat orcorporeal from one room into the other, but certainly were not sowell closed as to exclude all sound. It may seem a strange thing forme, my dear Miss Clifford, to give you an account of the sitting-roomsof an inn; but so much depends in this world upon what is calledjuxta-position, that very important events have depended upon thekeyhole of a door. You must not suppose, however, that I made use ofeither of the keyholes in my room for the laudable and honourablepurpose of eavesdropping; on the contrary, I spoke loud enough to thewaiter to give sufficient notice to my neighbours, if I had any, thatvoices were distinguishable from one room to the other; and it wouldseem that Mr. Henry Wittingham, who was on the left-hand side, wasdetermined to impress me not only with the same fact, but also with anotion that he was in a towering passion on account of the usage hishorse had met with; for he cursed and swore very severely, to whichthe waiter, or whosoever he spoke to, did not reply. There seemed tobe nobody on the other side, for about half an hour, when, as I wassitting at my coffee, after having despatched my note, I heard stepscome up from below, a door open, and the voice of the waiter say mostrespectfully, 'I will tell the captain you are here, Mr. Wharton.'"
"It is Mr. Wharton, the lawyer, then?" exclaimed Mary, with somedegree of eagerness.
"I really cannot tell," answered Ned Hayward; "but I suspect it was,from what passed afterwards. All was silent for about three minutes,except when I heard a step walking up and down the room. As your unclehad mentioned Mr. Wharton's name more than once in the course ofyesterday, I fancied he might have come upon business to some one,which there was no necessity for my hearing; and, therefore, I rattledthe cups and saucers, moved about the chair, tumbled over a footstool,and left them to take their own course."
"Mr. Wharton is a very shrewd man," said Mary Clifford, "and one Ishould think a hint would not be thrown away upon."
"He did not choose to take mine, however," replied Ned Hayward; "for,at the end of a few minutes, some one seemed to join him, saying in aloud and familiar tone, 'Ha! how do you do, Wharton?--Very glad to seeyou again! I hope you have brought me some money.'"
"Was it Mr. Wittingham's voice?" asked Miss Clifford.
"Oh, dear no," replied Captain Hayward; "one quite of a differenttone; a good deal of the same swaggering insolence in it, but, to myfancy, there was more bold and dogged determination. Every now andthen there was a small pause, too, before a word was pronounced, whichone generally finds in the speech of a cunning man; but yet there wasa sort of sneering persiflage in the words, that I have more generallymet with in the empty-headed coxcombs of fashion, who have nothing torecommend them but impertinence and a certain position in society.However, it could not be Mr. Wittingham, for him this lawyer must haveknown very well, and his reply was,--'Indeed, Captain Moreton, I havenot; but I thought it better to come over and answer your note inperson, to see what could be done for you.'"
"Captain Moreton!" cried Mary; "I know who it is very well--not that Iever saw him, as far as I can remember; for he quitted this part ofthe country ten or twelve years ago, when I was quite a child; but Ihave often heard my father say that he was a bad, reckless man, andhad become quite an adventurer, after having broken his mother'sheart, ruined his other parent, and abridged poor old Mr. Moreton'sdays also. He died quite in poverty, three years ago, after havingsold his estate, or mortgaged it, or something of the kind, to thisvery Mr. Wharton, the attorney."
"Indeed!" said Ned Hayward, "that explains a great deal, my dear younglady. Where did this property lie?"
"Just beyond my uncle's, a little way on the other side of the moor,"replied Miss Clifford.
Ned Hayward fell into a fit of thought, and did not reply for somemoments; at length he said, with a laugh, "Well, I do not know thattheir conversation would interest you very much, though, in spite ofall I could do I heard a great part of it, and as for the rest, I mustmanage the best way I can myself."
"You are very tantalising, Captain Hayward," said his fair companion,"and you seem to imply that I could aid in something. If I can, Ithink you are bound to tell me. Confidence for confidence, you know,"and when she had done she coloured slightly, as if feeling that herwords implied more than she meant.
"Assuredly," replied Ned Hayward; "but I only fear I might distressyou."
"If what you say has reference to Mr. Wittingham," the young ladyanswered, raising her eyes to his face with a look of ingenuousfrankness, "let me assure you, once for all, that nothing you can saywill distress me if it do not imply that I feel something more thanthe coldest indifference."
"Nay, it does not refer to him at all," replied Ned Hayward, "but toone you love better."
"Indeed!" exclaimed his companion, her lip trembling with eagerness,"tell me--tell me, Captain Hayward! After what you have said, I mustbeg and entreat that you would."
"I will, then," answered Ned Hayward, gazing upon her with a look ofadmiration blended with sorrow at the pain he was about to inflict. "Ibelieve, Miss Clifford I am about to commit an indiscretion inmentioning this subject to you at all; for I do not know that you canassist materially; and yet it is something to have one to consultwith--one, in whose generosity, in whose kindness, sympathy, ay, andgood sense too, I can fully trust. Besides, you know, I dare say, allthe people in the neigh
bourhood, and may give me some serviceablehints."
"But speak--speak," said Miss Clifford, pausing in their walk up anddown the terrace, as she saw that he fought round the subject which hethought would distress her, with a timid unwillingness to do so; "whatis it you have to tell me?"
"Why, I very much fear, my dear young lady," answered Captain Hayward,"that your uncle is very much embarrassed--nay--why should I disguisethe matter?--absolutely ruined."
Mary Clifford clasped her hands together, and was about to answer withan exclamation of sorrow and surprise; but I do believe that no personon earth was ever permitted to give an explanation uninterrupted. TheFates are against it: at least they were so in this instance; for justas Ned Hayward had uttered the last very serious words, they heard alight step tripping up behind them, and both turning suddenly round,beheld Miss Slingsby's French maid.
"Ah, Ma'amselle," she said as soon as she reached them, "I saw you outin this early morning without any thing on, and so have brought you ashawl."
"Thank you, thank you, Minette," replied Mary, and as she was wellaccustomed to early walks, was about to decline the shawl; but,judging the quickest mode of getting rid of the maid would be to takeit, she added, "Very well--give it to me," and cast it carelesslyround her shoulders.
The maid would not be satisfied with that arrangement, however,adjusted it herself, showed how the ladies of Paris shawledthemselves, and occupied full ten minutes, during which her poorvictim remained in all the tortures of suspense.