 | CHAPTER VIII. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
It was not until a late hour, late at least
for those primitive days, that Edward Hale
awoke on the morning following the
revels of the first of May; and when he
did awake it was with a fevered frame
and an aching head. Some one or other,
I forget who, has said that a man ought to
get drunk every now and then for the sake
of the serious thoughts, the earnest promises
of reformation, and the very thorough
process of remorse and repentance which
he goes through on the morning succeeding
to a hard debauch. Without entering
into the morality of this question at all, or
inquiring whether, even if the salutary effects
be not overstated, a man ought to do
ill that good may come of it, it cannot be
disputed that the frame of mind in which
a man is left on the subsidence of that
violent excitement, conjoined with the
discomfort of the body, is such as to lead
him naturally to grave and serious reflection.
And so it was, in this instance, with the
young baronet. He was not by nature at
all disinclined to calm, and, at times, almost
solemn meditation; although the
character of his reveries was for the most
part rather imaginative and romantic than
contemplative or moral. Although gay
and joyous, and endowed largely with
those high spirits which flow from youth
and health, unchecked by present ills, or
presages of future sorrow, he was rather
of a poetical temperament, and that leads
oftentimes to a reflective mood.
This morning in particular, after he had
arisen from his bed and dressed himself
partially, he sent away his valet, and began
to ponder seriously on the occurrences
of the past day.
As he sat in his armed chair, partially
leaning on the sill of the open window,
looking over the green meadow whereon
still stood the tall May-pole, although the
giddy crowd who had made all the space
around it so gay on the preceding morning
were now dispersed about their ordinary
avocations, his thoughts reverted instantly
to the beautiful queen of the May. At
this calm season of the day, ere the sun
had yet heated the earth, while the air
came in fresh and dewy from the cool
woods and grassy meadows, and fanned
his brow with its fresh breath, the feverish
excitements and hot passions of the
past day seemed out of place, unhallowed,
and distasteful. Better things were at
work within him; better thoughts were
aroused by the comparison involuntarily
drawn between that innocent and tranquil
daybreak, and the wild revel of the past
night.
He was a different man this morning,
and the pictures which his mind conjured
up before him of beautiful Rose Castleton,
were not such as he had seen through the
medium of glowing Burgundy. He thought
not of her now, with her voluptuous figure
swaying and bending in the dance, its
every wavy line instinct with hidden passion;
of her white bosom, all too much
exposed by the disordered kerchie grow
eyes now beaming bright with gratified
ambition, now swelling, swimming, languishing
in amorous dimness; of her
sweet pouting lips; her balmy breath fluttering
and panting between surprise and
half offended modesty; of her honeyed
kiss; of her rare form struggling in his
embrace, and yet half willing to be detained,
as he snatched the kiss from her lips,
and the rose bud from her bosom; of the
low, silvery, faltering voice in which she
promised to meet him the next evening in
the Monk's coppice! No! these were not
the pictures which his fancy this morning
set before him. Far, far from it. He
saw her weeping, disconsolate, and pensive
at her spinning wheel, in some such
touching attitude as that wherein the great
German painter has given a form and body
to the rare spiritual Margaret of the great
German poet.[1] He saw her with every
vestige of color vanished from her wan
cheek, every spark quenched in her bright
eye; all the soft roundness of her lovely
form wasted away and lost. He saw her
kneeling at the village shrine with clasped
hands and streaming eyes, while the
stern fiend remorse was whispering in her
ear to despair and die. He saw her prostrate
at her grey-headed father's feet,
clasping his knees and supplicating him
to pardon his lost child—he saw the
clenched hand, and the knitted brow, and
the indignant eye of the relentless father,
driving forth the dishonored girl, who had
brought shame on his grey hairs—he saw
the rude rout of the village, the coarse
brutal rabble hooting the harlot through the
long sunny street, and hallooing for the
beadle and the ducking stool! He saw
her by the still pool in the dark woodland,
where the stream has no ripple on its
surface, and the black waters tell of its
unusual depth, kneeling and striving
vainly to syllable a prayer for mercy before
that awful plunge which should remove
her, and for ever, from the cold
sneers of the ruthless world! He saw her
drawn out by the shuddering hands of
superstitious rustics, cold, wan, dishevelled,
dead—dead, by her own rash act—
her own! say rather his! his whose false
love had driven her to the brink of that
abyss whose bottom is perdition!
All this he saw, or seemed to see, in
the delineations of his vivid fancy; he
saw, and shuddered at the strength of his
own imaginings. “And shall I,” he
said to himself, half aloud, “shall I, for
the poor gratification of a foul sensual
passion, shall I do this thing? For a few
hours, or a few days of fierce and fiery
pleasure, shall I pollute so fair a temple, a
temple reared by the hands of our common
God and Father, to be the dwelling
of as fair a spirit? shall I, for any temporal
delight, perhaps consign her to eternal
ruin? God forbid! God forbid!” and he
stood up in the intensity of his feelings, for
he had worked himself up to a state of considerable
excitement, and walked for several
minutes to and fro the room, strengthening
his good resolves at every turn, and
manning the fortress of his heart against
the assaults of the Evil One, till he at last
satisfied himself that he was again master
of himself, that he could see and converse
with the country beauty, without incurring
any danger, or feeling any undue admiration
of her charms; and finally he determined
that with a magnanimity like that
of Scipio, he would at once bring about
her marriage with young Hunter, and give
her the lease of the home farm for a dowry.
This honorable resolution taken, well
pleased with himself, conscious of honorable
feelings, and proud of his own integrity,
superior to its first very grave temptation,
he sat down once again to reflect
on the perfections of his legitimate lady
love, and anticipate in imagination his future
marriage with the charming Lady
Fanny.
For one whose whole life had been
but one scene of success and pleasure, who
had scarce known, as yet, the meaning of
the word sorrow, so little had any touch of
it come near to him, Edward Hale did truly
and sincerely love Frances Asterly. It was
not her beauty only, nor her sweet manners
that had won him; but her heart, her
mind—the purity and truthfulness of the
one, the kind, affectionate, and cordial nature
of the other! And when a man sets
his love on the qualities of the intellect and
of the heart—the qualities that are immortal
and endure for ever in never fading and
undying glory—and not upon the qualities
of the poor body, that speedily are but as
grass cut down and cast into the oven—
small risk is there of his loving unworthily,
or of his changing easily! For, in a word,
so to love is a proof of character, higher
than ordinary men possess, in the lover,
and a guarantee for the existence of unusual
qualifications in the object beloved.
And, in both points, this was true of the
present case; for Sir Edward Hale was,
beyond doubt, a person of qualifications
and mental character far above the standard
average of men. It might be doubtful,
hitherto, whether that character would
end—whether those qualifications would
serve to adorn and decorate a virtuous and
honorable life, or to lend a false and meteorie
splendor to an irregular and disorderly
career; but there could be no doubt that,
whichever way the wheel of his destinies
should turn, in that course he would be
found conspicuous and above his fellows,
either in virtue or in vice.
Thus far at least, the better spirit
had prevailed; and, as he finished dressing
himself, which he did unassisted
by his valet, his heart was more at ease,
and he was in truth both a happier and a
better man than he had been on the previous
morning; and it was with a gay and
joyous exterior, covering a self-satisfied
and tranquil confidence in his own good
intentions, that he descended the grand
staircase to join his companions in the
breakfast parlor.
Some short time, however, before he was
ready to go down, he was not a little surprised
to hear the sound of voices on the
terrace below his windows; the rather as
he knew of old that St. Maur was habitually
a late riser—rarely displaying the glories
of his well decorated person to profane
and vulgar eyes until high noon—and
he had no reason for suspecting that the
gay captain was more matutinal than his
friend. He looked out of the window,
therefore, wondering who these could be
that were astir already; and yet more to
his surprise, he found that the very men
whom he would almost have sworn had
not yet turned themselves over to take
their second nap, were walking to and fro
upon the terrace, pausing every now and
then, and talking earnestly in a low voice,
as if they were unwilling that their words
should be overheard.
This Hale did not observe at the time,
but afterwards events occurred which often
led him to reflect on various things which
passed that morning; and then he recollected
this, and recollected, moreover, that
when they first saw him leaning out of the
window looking at them, there was a sort
of consciousness if not embarrassment;
about St. Maur's air and manner, indicating
that he was, in some sort, the subject
of their discourse.
He did notice, however, and not without
surprise, that they were both fully dressed,
their periwigs arranged and powdered
with careful nicety, and the whole of their
attire showing, by its scrupulous precision,
that they must have been on foot some
hours, and that their toilets had been performed
not negligently nor in haste.
Hale waited for a moment without speak
ing, until they came directly under his
windows, when he dropped a rose-bud
which chanced to be lying on the table—
the same which he had snatched from the
bosom of Rose Castleton in the evening—
so that it fell immediately in front of St.
Maur.
He stooped to pick it up from the broad
flag-stones that paved the terrace, and then
cried, as he raised his eyes to the window,
before seeing who it was—
“By George! a fair challenge, be you
who you may, sweet. Ah! you rogue,
you rogue, Ned! so it is you, is it? I
thought it had been some fair dame or
damsel of whom my beaux yeux had made
a conquest. This is a pretty disappointment!
Your ugly phiz, in lieu of black
eyes and cherry cheeks, and I know not
what beside! The devil take you, Ned!
the devil take you!”
“Many thanks to you,” replied Hale,
laughing, “for the warmth of your morning
salutation, which I will not return. I
have to crave your pardon, Captain Spencer,
for playing such a sluggard part, as
host, who ought to have been on foot to
receive my guest. But it seems the mulled
Burgundy made me a more sleepy
night-cap than it did for you!”
“You forget, you forget,” answered
Spencer, “that St. Maur and I did not
double the said night-cap quite so often as
you did, and it sat in consequence less
heavily on us; but pray don't think of
apologizing; we have been amusing ourselves
delightfully here this fine clear
morning, looking about your magnificent
old place.”
“Thank you for saying so,” returned
Hale, “but I fear you could have found
little to amuse you; but I will dress myself
in haste, and come down to you—will
you be so kind in the meantime as to call
for chocolate, and make yourselves quite
at home? After breakfast we will see
what we can do to kill the day. It is not
a good time of the year for country sports,
unless any of you are fishermen; there are
fine trout in the river. But I fancy Mark
can find us a heron or two, and I have a
few cast of fine hawks, if you like to see
a flight; coursing and hunting are of
course out of the question; but I can give
you some capital rabbit shooting in the
fern of the upper deer-park.”
“Oh! I have no doubt we shall do very
well; but make haste, make haste, what
we desire most is your company,” said
the captain, but almost in the same breath,
he added in a half whisper to St. Maur,
“and as our desire will be gratified in a
few moments, we must talk out our talk
about Harbottle—no, no! that will never
do—he is not at all to be trusted in delicate
matters like these. No, no! leave it
to me, and my life on it, I arrange everything
to your wishes. But after all I cannot
guess, for my soul, why you are so
wild to marry this penniless girl. It is
true, I confess, that she is devilish handsome,
and sprightly looking also; if she
were some fellow's wife now, I could understand
it; but to marry her—to marry
her! Pshaw, pshaw! it is mere boy's
play. If I were you I would let Hale
marry her, nay, help him to her, and then
take her from him; by the Lord, there is a
great game to be played there.”
“Hold, Spencer, hold!” St. Maur interrupted
him, “you forget that you are talking
of a girl whom I seriously intend to
make my wife.”
“Indeed I do not, my good fellow; I
only wish to give you all the good advice
I can beforehand; after she is your wife I
shall remember it, you may be sure—unless
indeed I should take a fancy to her
myself—there is no saying what may happen,
when men marry handsome wives;
a friend's wife now is twice as good as an
acquaintance's, and an acquaintance's as
a stranger's!”
“By heavens! Spencer, you are incorrigible;
I should be hurt and angry with
you, if I did not know that it is only your
wild way of talking, and that you would
not do the things you talk about to win the
world!”
“Oh no,” said Spencer, with a dubious
smile, “not at all, not at all! only, as there
is no saying what may happen, and as I
hate treachery as I do the devil or the
parson; only don't say, if anything should
turn up, that I did not give you fair warning,
Harry.”
St. Maur looked at him for a minute or
two steadily, as if to see whether he was
in earnest, and then said, bursting into a
light laugh—
“You are a sad fellow, but I am not
afraid of you. Well, go on, what is the
whole of your scheme? let us be perfect
in it.”
“Why it seems that this old she devil
has arranged all the preliminaries with
pretty Fan already. She is to be made to
believe Hale a perfect devil of licentiousness,
and so break off the match with
him; when you will have it all your own
way; for there was never a man yet, who,
backed by father and mother, could not
win any girl's love at any time, when her
fancy is disengaged, unless he is a greater
fool than I take you to be. Then she will
be piqued and her vanity wounded in this
case, which will make it easier yet for
you; and if, as you say, she does dislike
you now, that does not hurt your chance
a straw's value; for my own part, when
I want to win a woman, next to her loving
me beforehand, I would choose to
have her hate me! Nothing is so difficult
to deal with as indifference—for they always
go by contraries and extremes—women
do, I mean, Harry; and so if they begin
by hating you, and thinking you a
fiend of darkness, they are pretty sure to
adore you in six weeks, and discover that
you are an angel of light.”
“Yes, yes! that is all very fine—one of
your wiredrawn theories that come to nothing!
However, I do not doubt but I can
win her easily enough if we can set her
against Hale.”
“Well, that is easily done enough, I am
sure. Why here is luck playing into your
very hand. The old woman has laid the
foundation of distrust in her daughter's
heart already; and here is this young baby
half wild now after this country girl—who
by the way is pretty enough to make a
wiser man wild. My only fear was that
she would be too willing. But I have
taken care of that—she will not meet him
to-night, and that will whet his appetite;
then you must play your own part—extol
her beauty, feed his passion as much as
you can; and I will sneer at him—we will
bet high on his success, you for and I
against it! I saw at a glimpse that game-keeper
was a rogue, and I have bought
him; he will help us through anything.
Then I have sent for my lieutenant and a
press gang to be here to-morrow, and we
will screw him up to-night to sign an order
to have Hunter pressed. It is a devil
of a stretch I know; but we who serve
King Jamie to the utmost, know how to
stretch a commission without cracking it;
and we will have him carry off the girl,
and so arrange things that it shall all come
our directly; and so he will be disgraced
in the eyes of all good people, and dished
with lady Fan.”
“Yes, that will do, if we can accomplish
it.”
“If, if!—to the devil with your ifs!—I
tell you it is half accomplished now. I
should not at all wonder, if he have half
repented of his wicked wishes this fine
morning, now that he is maudlin—your
maudlin state is a great virtue breeder!
But I have laid a trap for him that will set
his tinder in a blaze presently. Do you
but play your part well, and talk all day
of her charms, and try to make him jealous
of that fool Harbottle, who is I think
get him to show that if you can—and
now, do not forget to write to Delaval, as
I told you, expressing your surprise at
finding Hale, as he had hinted to you,
such a wild rake and jolly fellow. Invent,
invent! describe his harems and his orgies!
Draw, draw upon imagination, or
if that fail you, look to the Arabian Nights!
But hark you, all in your proper character,
—reckless and rash—no sermonizing, or
you will spoil all. Do you understand?”
“Yes, to be sure; it will be shown—”
“To her cousin, Lady Serena Fortescue,
who will tell her so, that she shall never
doubt the channel. I, too, will write to
Davenant, in a quite different strain, but
to the same effect. I only wish I could
have got him to commit some outrage or
indecency before that puritanical old beast
and idiot, Rochefort; that would have set
him talking.”
At this moment Sir Edward appeared
coming down the steps from the front door
to join them; and at the same time Eversley
passed them going to meet his master,
with a beantiful black greyhound bitch
following at his heel, and a large bunch of
violets in his hand.
“Ha! Master Keeper,” exclaimed Spencer,
as the man went by; “what's in the
wind now?” and he spoke loud, on purpose
that Hale might hear him; and then,
as Eversley turned round to answer him,
he went on—“By George! what a posy
thou hast got there! Here, give it to me,
man, give it to me, and take this guinea
in exchange, for I am mortal fond of
posies.”
“Excuse me, Captain Spencer,” said
the fellow, grinning and pocketing the
guinea which the sailor flung to him;
“excuse me, for I would give it willingly
if it was mine, which it is not; it is a present
I am carrying to master.”
“What's all this? what's all this?” said
the young Lord of the Manor, laughing.
“Why don't you give Capt. Spencer the
flowers, Mark?”
“Nay, nay, Sir Edward, she that gave
them to me desired me to put them in your
own hand, and by the same token she
sent a message, too.”
“She! she!” exclaimed St. Maur; “Spencer,
I'll bet you a rouleau I can put a name
to the she!”
“Done! done!” replied the captain;
“done, that you cannot put the right one.
Whisper it now to me, and we will leave
it to his honor afterwards.”
“Well, then, I say Rose Castleton,” replied
St. Maur, in what was meant to pass
for a whisper, although it reached Ed
ward's ears as plainly as if it had been
uttered in a shout.
“I bide my bet,” said Spencer in the
same sort of whisper; “I shall win it too;
that girl is not to be won so easily—he will
never win her! But come,” he added,
now speaking in his natural tones, “come;
Mercury, it seems, will not deliver his
message in the presence of the assembled
gods, but keeps it for the private ear of
Jove. Let us leave them”—and they moved
off a little way, out of ear-shot, although
they watched every movement of the parties.
They saw the hot blood mount crimson
to the fair brow of the young man as he
received the nosegay and the message;
but it was evident that his face reddened
not with anger, for his eye sparkled and
there was a smile upon his lip as he asked
several questions, to all of which he got
prompt answers from the keeper, who had
been primed already for his part by the
wily plotters, and now played it to perfection.
The conference did not last above five
minutes when Hale turned away, saying—
“Be in the way, after breakfast; for we
will either shoot, or see those new merlins
fly. Canst find us a heron-shaw this fine
morning?”
“I'll warrant you, Sir Edward?”
“Well, we will see anon. Now let us
go to breakfast, gentleman. I think a
broiled turkey's gizzard will suit my stomach
to a turn this morning, for, to speak
truth, I do feel a little squeamish after the
Burgundy. But where is Harbottle? Has
nobody seen Harbottle? Run, Mark, and
send some one to call Mr. Harbottle to
breakfast.”
“But in the meantime, baronet,” said
Spencer, “touching this bouquet, of which
I see you think so well you are wearing it
next to you heart; will you decide our bet,
upon your honor?”
“Is it correct to do so, Captain, when it
concerns a woman?”
“No, if it be a lady—yes! if a country
girl, Sir Edward.”
“I believe you are in the right; the rather
that she seems to me rather a light o'
love. How stands your bet?”
“St. Maur bets that it was Rose Castleton
that sent you the violets. I hold the
opposite.”
“St. Maur has won, captain, it was
she!”
“There, Spencer, there,” cried the
young lord triumphantly, “unbuckle, sailor
man, unbuckle your fat legs; out with
the rouleau.”
Spencer pulled out his purse, and with
sum which he had lost, saying, as he did
so,
“I must look out for Percy Harbottle,
now for you dare not stand the other bet,
St. Maur.”
“What other bet? what other bet, Captain
Spencer?” answered Lord Henry with
well feigned eagerness, and a little show
of anger. “I do not like such remarks
as these! I stand any bet that any man
dare stand, at least if I see a possibility of
winning it. What bet is it you mean?”
“That he wins her,” answered Spencer,
“that he wins the girl in any reasonable
time; you dare not bet that, St. Maur; but
it does not come within your category—
there is no possibility of your winning it.”
“I will, though, I will!” exclaimed St.
Maur; “I will bet a cool thousand that he
has her living with him as his mistress in
a fortnight.”
“A cool thousand! done! I shall win
that,” said the captain confidently.
They had been all walking together towards
the house, while this conversation,
if conversation it can be called, was going
forward; but now Sir Edward stopped
short, piqued not a little at the sort of undervaluing
way in which Spencer spoke
of his chances with the girl, and trying to
laugh, but evidently a little mortified—
“And why do you think so, Captain
Spencer? Have you so vast an idea of
the girl's virtue?”
“Why, I had rather you would pardon
me. I was in the wrong to speak as I did;
I would rather you would ask me no
more.”
“No, no; speak out. You have said
too much, or too little. I insist on it, that
you let us have the whole. Do you think
her impregnable!”
“Oh dear, no! Far from it, She is
willing enough, any one can see. But you
will excuse me, Sir Edward, I have some
experience in these matters, and I do not
think you are the man.”
“Who then? yourself, perhaps, captain?”
replied Hale, still more piqued by
his answer, although perfectly good humored.
“Oh, no! not myself, upon my word!
though I should like very well to have the
wench in London for a month or so, for she
is a devilish handsome woman, that is certain;
and her slim round figure would show
admirably well in a mazarine blue riding-dress
of the last mode, slashed with gold
colored brocade. By heaven! I think I
can see her now, reming that strawberry
roan Spanish jenet of mine through the
Parks. Heavens! St. Maur, how she would
catch men's eyes. It would be a year's renown
to return to London as her protector.
But I beg your pardon, Sir Edward, for wandering
from your question; no! I assure you
on my honor, that I had not myself in mind
at all, when I spoke. No! I think Percy
Harbottle a likelier man. I saw her look
at him out of the corners of those large
languishing eyes of hers, two or three
times while you were dancing with her.”
“Perhaps you would like, captain,” replied
Hale, assuming a tranquillity which
he did not feel, “perhaps you will like to
bet that she will be Harbottle's mistress in
a week, and not mine, for I intend to try all
means to make her mine.”
“Of course you do,” said St. Maur;
“nobody doubted that—nobody, at least,
who knows you. With the encouragement
you have had, you would be a precions
ninny if you did not. Of course you
will try, and succeed, too. I'll be sworn
of it.”
“I cannot bet that she will be Harbottle's
mistress, for I don't know at all that
he is thinking about her. I would bet—but
no, no! baronet,” he interrupted himself,
“I am your guest, and I don't wish to
win your money. Besides, it is my jesting
that has put you up to the notion. It
would not be fair.”
“To the notion of what?” asked Hale,
very quickly, “put me up to the notion of
what!”
“Of courting this girl, to be sure,” answered
Spencer. “But let us say no more
about it. Come, let us go to breakfast.”
“You forget that I told you yesterday
at Barnsley that my eye was upon her—
you forget—”
“Yes, to be sure he does,” interrupted
St. Maur, “or rather he pretends to forget,
to get off betting. He knows as well as
we do that you will win her.”
“I know nothing of the sort! I know
that he will not.”
“Once again, will you bet?” said Sir Edward,
who was growing almost angry.
“If you insist upon it, yes.”
“I say, then, that I will have her openly
as my mistress within one week from
this day.”
“I understand you perfectly, and take
the converse. For how much?”
“For anything you please, from one to
five thousand.”
“Oh! one—one is enough; for one
thousand be it. It is a bet!”
“Very well, there is an end of that—
then let us go to breakfast; and here
comes Percy Harbottle,” and he took
several quick steps forward in advance of
the rest, to greet him. As he did so
two, and whispered in his ear—
“You stand my lose to him, if I should
lose the bet; as it is most likely that I
shall.”
“Yes, yes! I understand it so,” said
the other, “but come on quickly, or he
will see us whispering together, and suspect
something.”
And overtaking him, they all walked
on together, and entered the breakfast
room, joking and laughing merrily.
| CHAPTER VIII. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor | |