L
AUSTEN
828
A935
LONDON
A 508030

Rec
828
A 935
ARTES
LIBRARY
1837
SCIENTIA
VERITAS
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
E-PLURIBUS UNUM
SI-QUAERIS PENINSULAM AMOENAM
¡CIACUMSPICE
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
BY
ALFRED AUSTIN.
IN TWO VOLUME S.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
J. F. HOPE, 16, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1858.
:
PREFACE.
"GENIUS," 'tis said, "is Patience." An
altogether opposite idea has got abroad this
rapid age; and yet Buffon's definition, I
warrant, is not far from truth.
No Preface ought to contain more than
two short paragraphs. Was it worth while
penning thus much in order to say (with all
humility) that this book has been twice re-
written? And will the result only be, that
severe critics-would there were more of
them! - will exclaim, "Pity 'twas not
written a fourth time"? Any way, I sub-
mit. The majority are never wrong.
2
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
CHAPTER I.
"O blest retirement!"-GOLDSMITH.
THEY who are acquainted with the chi-
valric pages of Froissart and of Joinville will
surely remember that those worthy chro-
niclers narrate, with an especial satisfaction,
how their pet knights were accustomed,
before spurring to the field of battle, to
engage awhile within their oratories in
devout exercises and sacred meditation.
Holy men, and even worldly sophists,
VOL I.
B
.....
·2

2
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
t
assure us that life is one long, arduous
combat, from beginning to end. Would
it not therefore seem that none of us
would do amiss, were we to prepare for
our struggle by those solemn thoughts
which are to be cultivated only in seclu-
sion.
:
Of this mind at least seemed to be my
hero, Edgar Huntingdon, whose struggles
will be narrated in the ensuing pages. His
oratory he found in a spot about sixteen
miles from the home of his childhood, the
village of Afrel, on the banks of the river
Scarf. As if to counteract the too effemi-
nate fertility of the valley in which it lies
cradled, hills on either side, rugged, wild,
and stretching far away, encompass it in
their stern and sterile girdle. Here, whilst
yet a child, Edgar had spent some of his
happiest days. His former home was
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
3
tenanted by strangers: the great London
was to be henceforth his only hearth;-
beyond its shelter was he a stranger and a
wanderer.
Afrel is no watering-place, even in the
most liberal sense of the word. But its
romantic beauty, and its water, which how-
ever boasts no property beyond extreme
purity, make it a resort for perhaps a
hundred visitors, and these principally
children, during the summer months. Here,
then, had Edgar Huntingdon sat down, a
temporary recluse. Yet he knew every
denizen of the place; he had known them
from his infancy: so that, despite his
retirement, there were homely faces round
him still. Afrel has but two streets.
Through one, the beck, swollen by the
tribute of streams that rise far away among
the hills, makes pleasant music the long
B 2
4
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
พ่
•
•
year round. In the other stands the old
church, the same in feature, though changed
in ritual, as it was hundreds of years ago.
No one dares to say when it was built;
but it must have been in rude times, for
the architecture can claim no affinity with
any acknowledged style or period. A hand,
unskilled but reverent (perhaps it moulders
in the graveyard below), has carved a rough
cross over the uneven porch.
Memory invested with a feeling of fond
interest for my hero everybody and every-
thing belonging to Afrel; but there was
one old dame who had always been his
especial favourite. Betty Nestfield had kept
donkeys, time immemorial, on the green
mound just below the church, and taken
charge of the cold-spring baths, within that
tottering whitewashed cottage, halfway up
the brow of the southern hill. Like all
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
5
LO
her sex, I care not whether they be in
years eighteen or eighty, or any age be-
tween these extreme periods-whether they
be dressed in purple and fine linen, or wear
the coarsest serge, Betty had an idol-one
person whom she placed on a pedestal and
worshipped, who could neither think, nor
do, nor look wrong. That person was
Edgar Huntingdon. She loved to tell how
Edgar, when a child, "t' nicest lad that iver
came to Afrel," captivated by the scarlet
jackets of her donkey-drivers, had begged
to remain and be a driver too.
Poor old lady! some years back she had
lost her helpmate, her companion, her
"good man," as she delighted to call him.
She had talked of him ever since, and it
was not the mere selfish regret and babble
of loss. "We niver had a differ," she
"for five-and-forty year, all
would say,
6
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
t' time we were togither." One donkey,
called Jessie, being the last "
my Nestfield
iver bought," was the particular object
of Betty's affection. She never let it go
"wintering" on the moors, but stabled it
and tended it with the most untiring ten-
derness, reserving its services for the sex
which is more gentle to animals, and for
Edgar Huntingdon. No other of the less
considerate division of the human race
had ever mounted, or ever will mount Jessie,
I can assure you.
Edgar was standing with the old dame,
on the green mound in front of her cottage
door, this fine October morning on which
this tale naturally commences.
"I was going to Glendover," he was
saying, "but thought I would look in and
see how you and Jessie and the rest of the
family were."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
7
"Ay, ay, bairn! ye may well say Jessie's
part o' t' family. It's coming twelve year
sin' my good man bought Jessie. She'll be
eighteen year old come 'fore end o' Christ-
mas. Ay, and Nestfield would ha' been
eighty, had he been spared me-he would."
And she lifted her blue apron to her moist
and now failing eyes.
"And how old are you, Betty?" Edgar
knew her age as well as his own; but he
wished to lead her away from her grief.
"Seventy-eight, honey! seventy-eight-
going seventy-nine. Ay, it's a great age.
Did I iver tell you how many grand-childre
I have? Why, I've twenty-seven, and
that's t' youngest on 'em. He's a wild un,
too-he is; he goes at such a rate wi' t'
donkeys. But I niver let him drive Jessie.
No, my good man bought Jessie.”
"Well, I must leave you now.
.
I am
1
·
!
8
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
only going to Glendover for the day-good-
bye;" and he left her looking after him
affectionately, with her usual-"He's t'
nicest lad that iver came to Afrel."
Six miles farther west, embosomed in a
neighbouring valley, lies Glendover, with
its dismantled abbey, its glorious woods
and glades, through which, narrower but
still more picturesque than at Afrel, the
silver Scarf winds its fantastic way. Every
break in the ruin, every stile, every turn
of the river, Edgar knew them all by
heart, and loved them as only poets love the
sweet sympathizing face of Nature.
Before him was the wonder of his child-
hood-the waterfall; somehow, it did not
seem so high as in younger days departed.
He could not but think that the shattered
oriel, shaken arch, and weed-grown aisles,
resembled the many anticipations of life
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
9
}
destroyed, and the good intentions forfeited;
that, like the cascade, hope appeared not
so lofty as in earlier days; and that the
river, like the stream of sorrow, was the
only thing unchanged and unbroken. How
long this meditation would have lasted, or
into what refinements of contrast proceeded,
perhaps they can tell who are in the habit
of indulging in similar moods. My hero's
moralizing was suddenly interrupted by the
discovery that he had nearly walked over
somebody, a moment ago unperceived. On
his entirely returning to a lucid state, he
found to his horror that he had summarily
knocked a sketch from the hand of an utter
stranger to the ground. He was somewhat
reassured by seeing that the face of his
new acquaintance wore a smile of simple
amusement.
"Pray, pardon my stupid fit of absence,"
1
1
10
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Edgar exclaimed, stooping hastily to pick up
the sketch; "but I was thinking "` Here
he paused, as though it struck him that it
was quite unnecessary, and moreover would
be extremely ridiculous, to say what he
had been thinking about. "However, will
you show me your sketch, as a full assurance
that you forgive my clumsiness ?”
"With pleasure. You interrupted a
worthless occupation; but I fear I have
broken the ladder of a vision that was both
holy and instructive." The words were
said very quietly, but they assumed a sort
of sneer when the speaker referred to his
own sketch.
"You are very complimentary, considering
that we are in the woods; but if you are
pleased to value as highly my opinion of
drawing as you are my unfortunate musings,
you will consider your success in your
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
11
occupation at least equal to your indiffer-
ence."
"I suppose," was the stranger's response,
"I must not retort your remark about com-
pliments and the woods. However, I have
finished this sketch, and will give it you,
if you will be pleased to accept of it. I am
going on to Deepwell, and should be glad of
your company, unless your habit of solitary
thinking has made you, as the ancients said,
either a god or a beast."
"I hope I am neither. I am going as
far as the Leap, for the sake of old memories,
and will travel with you that part of your
journey. You will find I am much of a
mortal-plenty of clay." Edgar felt that as
he spoke his companion was examining him
minutely. It was not long before he heard
the result of the scrutiny.
"You are an embryo poet, or ought to
12
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
be, by your—well, not to be too particular
by your appearance. Will you acknowledge
as much ?"
"I can compliment your intuition to this
extent, that poetry is my hobby; and that
I write it, or what I intend for it, sometimes.
Are you satisfied ?"
"Perfectly; I was so before I asked you
the question. If you had said 'no,' I should
only have concluded that you were not yet
intimate with yourself, or not frank with
me. It is there, as plainly as the river
through these woods." He spoke with an
unassumed confidence, that had in it nothing
of boasting, but merely of knowledge. There
was a pause. Edgar took a rapid survey of
his companion.
There was little about his appearance to
claim a lingering attention. Of middle
stature, slim, and apparently active, he
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
13
seemed quite dead to his own exterior. His
hair was black; his complexion, sallow; he
wore a discontented, but withal kindly look.
His eyes, which must have once been restless,
appeared subdued, and brought into an un-
willing subjection.
"I
suppose you are an artist," said Edgar;
"but I have not your accurate judgment of
feature to guide me-only your pencil, and
the talent of your sketch."
"You are not right; yet scarcely wrong.
I am sorry to say I am nothing, as the
phrase is. Unfortunately, I have enough to
satisfy my moderate cravings and ambition."
Edgar thought he pronounced that last word
uneasily. "Drawing and painting are my
toys, my kind playmates. You are more
in earnest; you would never be satisfied
with playthings. Don't walk so fast; it
betrays you. Are you going to publish?
A
14
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Pardon me, perhaps you have done so
already ?"
Edgar felt entertained. An utter stranger
was turning him inside out, and reading him a
page from his own heart. He was inclined to
be frank with this man. Besides, it made no
matter; frank or not, he would be understood.
"I confess I am ambitious. I believe
with Disraeli, that the time has come when
to be young and to be indifferent can no
longer be synonymous. But as yet I have
written nothing that even I think worthy of
publication. I have only just left college,
and am but twenty-two. The world has
not taught me what it wants; and a song
is thrown away that is not in the same key
as the listener."
"True Your age, I confess, rather
puzzled me. I thought you older. You
see I am not young" (he looked forty); "so
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
15
indifference is not incompatible with my
position, even according to Mr. Disraeli."
"Perhaps you were ambitious?" suggested
Edgar with a smile.
"Perhaps I was," replied the stranger
kindly, but with evident reserve.
"If I
was, you see I am cured." Edgar glanced
at him; there was disappointment in his
tone-none was visible in his face.
"Yet you see," he continued, "I am
"he “I
interested in others who are ambitious. You
confess to being at least an amateur votary
of the muses; do you not find that this
working, week-day world is rather fond of
interfering with your worship? Is not the
lamp of your sanctuary often extinguished ?"
"I cannot accuse the world as yet. But
it seems to me that this romance - worship
is little subject to the attacks of intrusion.
Who can get at your sanctuary? Who can
1
16
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
A
extinguish your lamp? It is in the society
of stupid, commonplace people that I am
struck with my favourite fancies. Did we
often meet persons capable of imparting
interest to their conversations, we should
not be driven to so much self-communing.
Were there no bores, I imagine there would
be no poets. Wearied with the eternal
treadmill of stereotyped remarks, the con-
stant repetition of established truisms, one
contracts a habit of conversing on one sub-
ject, and reflecting upon another."
"Doubtless. We are obliged to live two
lives, and those simultaneously. So far I
can understand that the world exerts a
salutary influence upon reflecting disposi-
tions; and thus Nature, which is said never
to be idle, makes use of its lower, to foster
the advancement of its higher, order of
intellects. But I would speak of the con-
1
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
17
stant contact with those whom we do not,
and should not usually regard as bores-
whom we must meet hourly-to whom we
are bound both by duty and instinct-I
mean, one's own family. Do you not find
that you are forced to make constant sacri-
fices of your moods to their exigencies and
demands ?"
"I understand you now. But, unfor-
tunately, in applying to me for information,
you ask one who is peculiarly unfitted to
give you any. My father I never knew;
my mother died ten years ago. My nearest
connection is a gentleman who is supposed
to act as my guardian, and, at any rate, acts
as my banker."
"Um! Sad for the boy!-good for the
poet! I beg your pardon-I was thinking
aloud. You-you-I suppose, then, like
me, have sufficient, should you wish it,
VOL. I.
C
18
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
to support an idler-which the world thinks
a poet is. Do you think me impertinently
inquisitive ?"
"Not at all. They say that young men
are conceited; so I conclude they ought not
to be very much hurt when they are regarded
as of sufficient importance to be asked such
questions as yours. Plainly, I have £300-
in four years I shall have £1,800 a year.
But I trust I shall not be an idler, even if,
which I must not expect, a poet."
"Then you will labour-at what?"
"I am going to the bar. I go up to
London to-morrow to enter at the Temple."
"I think you are wise. It takes a long
time for a man to learn to do nothing, and
with comfort. If you have the taste only,
(
without the faculty divine,' for poesy,
legal studies will discover to you the truth.
If God means you for a poet, sing you will;
་
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
19
4
all the professions in the world will not
stifle the necessity at your heart. See,
there is the Leap-I suppose we part. But
mind, youth is strong and reckless. If you
can, and perhaps you can, bear up manfully
against low abuse and scoundrel calumny"
(the speaker's face wore a look of intense
anger for the moment), " go on, and prosper.
If you cannot, take my advice, and be a
private citizen. We may meet again. * I
shall be glad to hear of your success.
Good-bye."
The stranger went his way. And thus
the two, ignorant even of each other's names,
parted by the Leap.
The October day is done. Somewhere
behind the hills the regal sun went down
in all the pomp of victory; bent upon
conquering other lands, and leaving his
pale but queenly deputy enthroned in
·
1
c 2
20
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
:
:-
heaven. Edgar is leaning over Afrel bridge,
which spans the Scarf just below the vil-
lage. He gazes at the purple hills, at the
ever-flowing, ever-talking river, at the dark
church-tower. Do you not, dear reader,
who have ventured thus far with me, desire
to know something of my hero's exterior?
He is quite in repose now; let me describe
him.
"Is he handsome? Heroes should be; and it
is a bold thing (they say) to spurn a beaten
track. But truth is truth; and I, who am
critical in these matters, am compelled to
deny him an attribute whose value is, I
think, as often underrated by those who do
not possess it, as it is overrated by those who
do. I would rather be good-looking than
not, just as I would rather have a new coat
than one out at elbow. Who would not?
And so I have a certain amount of regret
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
21
that Edgar Huntingdon is not so imposing
as he might be. It may be said that those
somewhat broad shoulders suggest great
power of enduring fatigue; but it may also
be remarked that an evidently acquired stoop
manifests the absence of any desire to
unnecessarily undergo it. His forehead,
not remarkably large, is finely chiselled;
the brow not fully developed; but pregnant
with promised intellect. The temples are
delicate a censor might suggest, to a fault;
but they soften the rather hard expression
of the lower portion of the face; and per-
haps there is a slight self-complacency in
their superiority traceable in the brushing
back of the hair, lest it should hide or mar
the more perfect, and seemingly more che-
rished, gift. The expression of the deeply-
set brown eye is somewhat puzzling. One
moment, you would say it bespoke a melan-
22
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
a
choly-the next, only a thoughtful tem-
perament. Though his face is pale—and,
should he wax earnest, will be paler he is
not delicate.
It is well the sketch is more or less com-
plete, for he moves away, and mutters—
"Well-well-to-morrow!"
To-morrow! How many brave young
hearts have sallied forth into the world with
"to-morrow" on their proud, flaunting pen-
nons, and have lost their pennons, and their
hope, and their all, and got nothing, even
for a bargain! Well, who dares prophesy?
The young have failed so often and so
utterly, that men (ay, and even women-
fond, faithful, encouraging women-whose
distrust is much worse to bear) begin to
disbelieve in them. Mind not, brave boy!
To-morrow! Go on! We follow.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
23
་
CHAPTER II.
"Aut viam inveniam, aut faciam.”
Ir has pleased the despotic world—against
whose opinions, however ill-founded, there
is, as everybody knows, no hope of appeal-
to give the Inns of Court, in their physical
capacity, the very worst of reputations. The
popular idea of the Temple conjures up dark,
dismal, damp, tumble down tenements, par-
taking of the baneful characteristics of the
class who inhabit them; and whom the afore-
said world has also chosen, in its supreme
will, to paint as black as it alone knows how.
24
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Yet, most discriminate reader, the idea is
purely fanciful. I, who write this contradic-
tion to it, know the Temple as well as you
know the hearth before which, every even-
tide, you sit; and, moreover, I am not unac-
quainted with other places on this multi-
farious earth; and certainly I can recall no
spot where "merchants congregate," no
quarter where are assembled the world's
workers, that can vie in beauty, in cleanli-
ness, in cheerfulness, with thee, O time-
honoured Temple !
Nowhere, within the precincts of this
overgrown London, flourishes there greener
grass; and here, in the rich autumn months,
have I seen two or three score of carriages,
in the day, with no mean coronets, and with
even strawberry-leaves on the panels (and the
world, not I, makes much of these things),
put down noble ladies, who have come from
•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
25
the far and holy West, to see the Temple
chrysanthemums. And you, fair reader!
who have, I doubt not, bachelor friends
usque ad nauseam, even to being bored, ask
some of them if they know aught about
chambers in this locality of which I write;
and if they be frank with you (as why should
they not?), I doubt not you will turn from
the popular opinion, and be of mine. Ask
the nursemaids and the rosy-cheeked chil-
dren who come, of summer afternoons, to
disport themselves in front of our windows,
what they think about the matter. I agree
for them to be umpires.
Edgar Huntingdon, at least, was well
satisfied with his unpretending chambers in
Garden Court. The principal hours of the
day, however, he spent in King's Bench Walk,
in the chambers of a Mr. Trantham, a well-
known special-pleader, by whom he was
}
26
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
initiated into the sacred mysteries of the
law. Mr. Trantham had three other pupils
-Horace Cooper, Charles Etheridge, and
George Hamilton. These young men were
pretty fair specimens of the race who read in
barristers' chambers. They were perhaps
more devoted to balls than briefs, and yet not
absolutely idlers, with, maybe, the exception
of Horace Cooper. When they were all in
the pupil-room together, any continuous
application was out of the question; and it
was fortunate for Edgar, who was by nature
energetic, and by intention earnest, that
they seldom made their appearance before
one o'clock; so that by being at chambers
at ten, and joining Trantham in his own.
room, when so inclined, he had, after all, but
little difficulty in pursuing his bent. And,
to give an opinion, I do not think that my
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
27
hero was much injured by being occasionally
forced to desist from labour, and join in the
vivacious and somewhat noisy amusements
of his companions. At first, I fear, they
thought him rather proud, unsociable, and
young; and he them, flippant and purposeless.
They had already since discovered that he
was signally amiable; as free from a reserved
hauteur as is consistent with self-respect,
and at least as experienced as themselves.
Nor had he failed to find that, though they
were not the most industrious fellows in the
world, they contrived to pick up legal
knowledge, and had a sincere intention of
getting on in life, somehow. With Cooper,
he was rapidly contracting an intimacy that
might, without much desecration, be already
termed friendship; with the other two all
distance, at least, had departed.
28
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Seven months had Edgar now pursued his
legal studies. It was a hot May morning;
he had got through more than his usual
amount of work; the rest had arrived-
Cooper, as usual, making his appearance
last.
"Well, Huntingdon, who was the belle
last night at Sir Winter's? Eh, old fellow?
Was it Miss Fairfort? Come now, be
honest." He turned to the others. "I
assure you, Huntingdon danced with her
the whole night. She certainly comes up to
old Terence's description-
"Voltu, Sosia!
Adeo modesto, adeo venusto, ut nihil supra.”
I did not expect to find you here this morn-
ing, amorous Master Edgar! Strong-minded
of you.'
""
"So strong-minded," said Edgar, laughing,
"that I have been working here since half-
.
+-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
29
past nine of the clock. Look here!" And
he held up some thirty sheets of well-covered
draft-paper.
"But how the deuce do you know her?
She isn't a nobody, I can tell you."
"To solve the awful mystery-I was at
college with her brother; we were, and are,
considerable friends. Behold the solution!
Apropos of this subject, I must tell you
what I heard of Cooper, the other day.
You know old Liddell, don't you, Etheridge?
-of course you do. Well, he asked Cooper,
how ever he managed to keep himself out
of scrapes and matrimony, for he was
always making furious love to girls, and
yet never married any of them. 'Oh,' said
Cooper, when parents ask me my inten-
C
tions, I propose; and then it comes out
I have £200 a year, and the thing is
smashed.'"
30
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
*
"Shame! shame!" was the chorus of
voices, in which Cooper joined.
"Villain !" shouted Etheridge theatrically,
"dost thou trifle with the sacred affections
of
my beloved daughter? Come, Eliza, to
my heart!" seizing hold of Hamilton.
Huntingdon interposes, as the Deus ex
machinâ, or clearer-up. Etheridge makes
another mock speech, unites and blesses the
happy pair, and the curtain falls; and poor old
Gower, Q.C., in his chambers immediately
below them, and busy with a very heavy
case, sends up to Trantham, who is similarly
occupied, imploring that he will not give
his pupils such boisterous work; which
Trantham afterwards relates to his pupils
as a most excellent joke-in which light it
is considered by everybody.
During a slight truce of silence, the
•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
31
Times is perused all round; but it was a
very short truce indeed. This was not a
working day, evidently.
"Do you know young Brydges, Hunting-
don ?" asked Hamilton. "A very clever
fellow-wrote the last extravaganza for
He was telling me
the St. James's.
that he has become a convert to the doctrine
of metempsychosis."
"Hallo!" shouted Cooper, "I know him;
he surely hasn't been turned into a zebra,
has he ?"
"Not quite. But the first day he dined
in hall he felt convinced that the poor
paniers were formerly wicked benchers,
who have now been transmogrified and
condemned for their sins to wait on law-
students."
"I think it's a plausible idea," said
•
32
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Cooper; "and, moreover, it reminds me that
I heard of Etheridge being at the Debating
Club in Fleet Street, the other night-beer
and shag, is it not? No! Well, then,
lavender-coloured gloves, patent leather,
and perfumed speeches; and he rose to
get rid of his emotion-strong emotion, sir!
upon this momentous question" (cheers);
"and when he sat down, an honourable
member rose to reply, and lo! it was one
of Brydges's metamorphosed benchers—a
Lincoln's Inn panier."
A loud jeering laugh followed, and an
"Eh! you did not tell us this; why so
close ?"
"Why, you see, as I had lost my tail."
"We've found the tale," broke in Hamil-
ton, who had been a medical student, and
never lost the opportunity of making a bad
pun.
!
4
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
33
1
"Bah! out on your puns; I thought some
one, whilst mooning about for occupation,
might fall into the trap, and lose his
tail, too. When the panier rose, with
all the dignity of an offended senator, I
thought it time to slope."
(6
+
Right, my boy! But, gentlemen-
gentlemen!" said Cooper, jumping up fran-
tically, "last day of Epsom-no handi-
cap! Oh, fallen from its high estate !
Time was-but no matter." Cooper had
been with Trantham two years, and was
thus the patriarch of the pupil-room. "Let
us not disgrace the days of old. Let me
see. Twenty horses-four fellows-five
shillings each-eh? Agreed. I'll write
the names, and lend my hat patriotically
for the occasion. Asdrubal's the favourite.
Who draws first?-you, Huntingdon-go
ahead !"
VOL. I.
D
}
"
i
34
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"I've Asdrubal!" exclaimed Edgar.
"By Jove! and so have I. You've put
in two Asdrubals, and omitted an out-
sider."
"Genius! genius!" said Etheridge,
mournfully. "Can't help it, poor boy."
Very sorry, gentlemen; will redress
the wrong, and be more careful. Wasn't
that a knock? Come in."
It was amusing to see the easy rapidity
with which these noisy young men assumed
a quiet and calm self-possession, as a
stranger entered, whom Edgar introduced
as Mr. Frank Fairfort.
But the new comer was not one to keep
his company at a distance very long. On
learning the nature of the occupation which
he had interrupted, he expressed a wish to
join in it.
"Four horses each, now. Draw, Mr.
.
=
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
35
Fairfort. Safe as the mail, this time," said
Cooper, resuming his freedom. Again he
had the favourite; but alone, this time.
"Pa-par!" said the newsboy, introducing
his rubicund face, and asking if the Times
was done with.
"There's the Times, my boy! Got the
evening pa-par? Let me look. Phyllis
first, by Jove !"
"An outsider! Who has her? Mr.
Fairfort, wish you joy! Done, by the Lord
Harry!"
1
"Oh, Frank, you interloper! A pretty
introduction to my friends. Larceny, at
least."
"Betty Larceny-fill his-" and the
would-be punster was, as usual, shouted
down.
This is not an unfair sample of the after-
noons spent in Mr. Trantham's pupil-room,
D 2
36
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
in King's Bench Walk. Edgar was far
more benefited by this style of pastime
than he dreamed of, or than perhaps you,
dear reader, can yet imagine. It rubbed
off the rust of melancholy that constantly.
gathered about him. For success such as
he desired, nothing is so necessary as a
knowledge of the human machine; and
this is gained only by a constant familiarity
with it. The great poet-at least, the suc-
cessful poet-must be a man of the world,
as Shakspeare, Pope, and Byron were. He
must be a mover in its circle of fashion
and change; he must breathe the same
atmosphere, throb with the same pulse,
and think with the same mind. London,
not the Tyrol, is the foster-nurse of poets
It was five o'clock; the hour at which
our inmates of King's Bench Walk generally
-to use Etheridge's word-sloped. Edgar
·
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
37
left with Fairfort. Between these two
young men, a friendship too sincere and
perfect not to be rare, had sprung up
during their college career. No two people
could possess more contrasted characters.
Fairfort wished to sail through life undis-
turbed-happily, because lazily. Possessed
of a warm heart, he sought in friendship
all that was necessary to sweeten exist-
ence; and, with a cheerful spirit, he lay
in the boat of life, plying no oar, trim-
ming no sail, but dreaming on in, to him,
delicious listlessness. Nature had denied
him nothing but application. His abilities
in reality very great, seemed still greater,
as apparently he never studied. A reten-
tive memory did more for him than all the
other faculties combined do for most people;
he seldom read, but he never forgot. For-
tunately, he was born to a station in which,
3
-
38
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
..
perhaps, energy is not so useful as a facile
brilliancy. His father was a baron-com-
paratively poor, it is true; but his position
of only son secured to him the choice of
being idle. Even this very indolence, so
contrary to Edgar's disposition, assisted the
formation of the friendship existing between
these young people. For there can be no
doubt that, to an arrant idler, a certain
kind of poetry is a great assistance. And
many an hour, together, during their college
life, did they spend in the perusal of page
after page of the older poets: one seeking
from them a help-a dulce lenimento his
indolence; the other, a spur to his ambition.
They had not seen each other for eight
months, until the dance of the preceding
evening, alluded to by Cooper. A dinner
at Verrey's was agreed to.
"I was very much pleased," said Edgar,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
39
i
"with your sister. Apart from her being
the beauty last night, she is so talented
and ready. She has not adopted your
dolce far niente doctrines; she is tolerably
enthusiastic and ambitious."
"Yes, indeed; I am not astonished at
your agreeing so well. She often expresses
her disgust at what she calls my indiffer-
ence, and wishes she could give me the
distaff, and she assume the sword or the
pen. You'll call on her and the governor
to-morrow. What time will suit you? I
will call on you first."
Edgar was silent for a few seconds,
though he was not, as Fairfort thought,
considering what time would suit him best.
At last he said-
"Our friendship has nothing to do with
your family; we can surely be friends, as
at college."
40
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"What on earth do you mean? If you
wont call, you wont;, and there's an end.
But it is by special desire, as the playbills
say, that I ask you."
"Very well," replied Edgar, with mis-
givings, but unwilling to display them.
Say one o'clock.”
(6
"One be it. By the way, is the old
passion as strong as ever? Are you not
going to publish soon?"
"No, indeed; at least, not yet. I have
written some things latterly; but most
were composed in the streets, as is my
habit; so I fear they have little connection,
as I always gave way to the feeling upper-
most. I have not worked, so I cannot have
produced anything valuable. I have not
been long enough in the world to be its
oracle."
"You are the same fellow as ever-the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
41
same who wrote over his mantelpiece at
college-
'Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.'
By-the-by, have you heard anything of
Pampesterra, and his daughter, with whom
we were both so desperately smitten ?"
"Only one of us, master Frank, if you
please. I had a letter from him the day
before yesterday, in which he says that,
now my influence is removed, his fortunes
have changed. So I have told him to come
up to London with his daughter, and I
will see what can be done. Can you help
me?"
I! You are facetious.
Don Quixote was a practical
And as for
And as for you,
man in com-
parison. Pray, what are you meditating?
42
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Dividing your fortune with these sufferers?
Or giving it all to them, perhaps? How
many pensioners have you? Half of Lon-
don ?"
"Nay, nay; I shall find Pampesterra
something to do. He is not too proud to
work though he is a Castilian. O Frank,
you were exiled and penniless!"
if
About eighteen months previously, while
Edgar and his friend were still at the
University, a Spanish officer, accompanied
by his daughter, his only near relation,
had sought the great abode of learning, in
the vain hope of there obtaining the means
of making a small competence, in lieu of
the comfort and the home of which fate and
fidelity to his party and to his military oath
had deprived him. He soon discovered
his mistake. He somehow had the good
fortune to come across my hero, who set
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
43
himself to work to accomplish for the
stranger some practical and beneficial re-
sult. His energy succeeded; and, within a
week, Pampesterra was supposed to be
Professor of Spanish to about a dozen of
Edgar's more intimate acquaintances, who
met, during the hours of freedom, at the
exile's lodgings. So long as Edgar's influ-
ence was present, so long did the amateur
pupils keep together; but with Edgar's
departure waned the Spaniard's prosperity
and pupils. The letter which Edgar men-
tioned explains the rest.
"I fear," said Frank, continuing the
conversation, "that I can do little by per-
sonal exertion. But I suppose money will
be wanted, and I can spare £10."
"I certainly accept it, then. They may
requite us both, some day."
Prophetic words! though uttered un-
7
44
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
:
wittingly. Even if unseen, yet surely, no
single benefit, even this side the clouds,
but brings forth many thousand-fold, and
strangely too.
Edgar was at King's Bench Walk rather
earlier than usual on the following morning;
but, somehow, he did not work as atten-
tively as was his wont. He kept putting
down the pen to think. He did not like.
the idea of the intended visit; he had a
presentiment that misfortune would arise.
out of it, though of what kind, or how, he
was at a loss to conjecture. He was not
too proud to see-perhaps his very pride
helped his insight in this particular-that
such things as degrees in social rank exist,
and ought to exist. And he was willing
to confess that Lord Fairford's social posi-
tion was higher than his own: the peer
was surely above the small country squire's
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
45
son. His forebodings were still uppermost
when his friend arrived.
"Quick, Edgar, or I shall be disgraced—
I am after my time!"
"I am ready. Let us go."
There was as marked a contrast in the
appearance as in the dispositions of these
young men. Fairfort was tall, and had a
half-lounge in his walk. Perhaps he looked
more pronouncedly the aristocrat, and was
undoubtedly the handsomer. The first look
would have been fixed on him; the second
on Edgar. But it would have remained
there. His step, firm, decisive, and regular,
bespoke energy and resolve; and his pale,
chiselled countenance would attract by its
meaning, and sustain interest by its plenitude
of character.
They entered a house in Piccadilly, that
street of palaces. Edgar perceived, at once,
46
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
that he was under the roof of a nobleman
of taste, if of moderate means of satisfying
it. The room opened on to a conservatory
of slight dimensions; beyond was a garden
of proportionate extent, but scrupulously
cared for, and secluded from the Argus-
gaze of the capital. Edgar had walked
towards the conservatory, when the door
opened, and Miss Fairfort entered. His
eyes, as he turned, fell with all an artist's
frankness, yet all an artist's delicacy, upon
a figure of moderate height, but so elegant
and so finely proportioned that nothing
could have enhanced, and very little would
have marred it. She had her brother's
blue eyes; but hers were more pensive and
more expressive. Her hair was that inde-
scribable brown that has no name, since
there is nothing to which it can be likened.
2.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
47
Her mouth seemed formed for love and
poetry-the mouth of the Venus of Canova.
Her complexion wore that rose-tint-so rare,
though so often talked of-which blooms
only on the cheeks of those who unite peace
of mind to purity of soul. Such, to my
hero's eyes, seemed Annette Fairfort.
"If I am to judge by appearances, Miss
Fairfort, last night's exertions have not
much trespassed upon the comfort of to-
day."
"Appearances are right, for once, though
it was my first dance this season," she re-
plied, in a tone that recalled to Edgar
Shakspeare's idea of "an excellent thing
in woman." "I might give back the com-
pliment, though I suppose it would be
none-would it, Frank?-to"-she was
going to say something arch; but she paused,
48
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
then added" to gentlemen. A little more
practice, and I shall be equal to the most
unsusceptible."
"For my part," said Frank, "I think
the best part is the fatigue. I never should
dance at all if I were not certain of being
tired the next day; it makes one so deli-
ciously lazy." And as he spoke he prac-
tically illustrated the idea by throwing
himself on the sofa, and knocking a hand-
some volume upon the floor. Edgar took
it up.
"For shame, Frank! I am sorry, Mr.
Huntingdon, you so trouble yourself for
such a time-waster."
"Oh! I would not have him disturbed
for the world," said Edgar laughingly. "It
is quite a pleasure to wait on some people,
they are so nobly, regally, majestically idle.
But am I to judge of your love for the in-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
49
N
terior by the exterior of this book? It is
beautifully bound."
"I certainly have no show-books, and it
is one of mine. I am romantic enough to
think that a binding of gold is not equal to
one line of genuine poetry."
"A rare sentiment, and one I should
scarcely quarrel with; yet better, perhaps,
not to be expressed before a miscellaneous
audience. They would only smile; and
nothing is so offensive as the stupid but
patronizing sneer of want of sympathy."
"Oh, but I do not hide my opinions; and
at least you must not blame me, for Frank
has often spoken to me of your taste, and I
believe I may say talent, for poetry."
"Frank does his best to get me a reputa-
tion: it is the only field in which he exerts
himself. But do you really admire Tenny-
son so immensely ?"
VOL. I.
E
¿
50
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"Immensely is scarcely the word. Tenny-
son is far from being my idol, though my ad-
miration for him is at least equal to, I should
think, that of most people."
"I feared we should not agree when I
saw the sanctuary in which you had en-
throned this poet-priest, but I see we are
much of the same opinion. I wish he had
more judgment. When he published this
'Princess' he showed that he could write a
great many pages of nonsense without know-
ing it; and I have always fancied that judg-
ment is requisite for all great success."
"Probably and it always appeared to
me that, despite Tennyson's evident care and
labour, he says beautiful things too much by
accident, and stupid things on much the
same principle. He wants self-criticism.
It is seen, too, I think, in 'In Memoriam,'
--but I hope you admire that?"
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
51
"The author of 'In Memoriam' ought to
be pumped on," put in Frank.
"That shows that you have never—I was
going to say felt, but at least suffered," said
his sister rebukingly.
"I am glad it does. For my part, I think
poetry is an unhealthy sign. If people would
only be happy there would be no verses.
They are the result of exertion and bile. I
never made any.
"O Frank!" exclaimed Edgar, "your
memory fails I have seen-"
you.
"Do not notice him, Mr. Huntingdon :
he is in a self-contented contradictory mood
to-day. He is as poetical, in reality, as the
silliest of us."
"Of that I am fully aware; and I know,
too, that he appreciates this very 'In Memo-
riam;' and in this he is with a very small
minority, among whom I am glad to see you,
E 2
52
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
...
too, are one. And yet, if Tennyson by 'In
Memoriam' proved himself one of the beauti-
ful thinkers of the world, he also showed his
inability or his indifference to create a sym-
pathizing audience. It is want of sympathy
with one's age to publish now a poem of such
a length without action. He who writes 'it
may be a poet: he who publishes it is not a
sensible man."
"And yet," objected Miss Fairfort, "the
world likes egotism in poets ?"
"No doubt it does. It is pleased when a
great man dissects his heart for its amuse-
ment; but then he must do it in a manner
appreciable by them. Byron's name might
appropriately be the heading of every one of
his own pages; but every page with him is as
fresh as if none other had been written, and
the writer is acting-he is doing something.
Byron, with whom judgment was, perhaps,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
53
་
1
the most remarkable characteristic, never
dares to moralize abstractedly for any length.
Even in 'Childe Harold' we move constantly,
and, though there is no real, there is often
an apparent oblivion of himself. He mixes
up his own sorrow so intimately with all that
is beautiful in art and great in history, that
you seem to be listening to something in-
finitely more solemn and more vast than the
melancholy musings of a single man."
"I quite comprehend the distinction
between the egotism that seeks sympathy
from the universe for its own small self, and
that which identifies itself, and almost loses
itself, in the troubles and complaints of thou-
sands. And I have often thought that Tenny-
son wants art-the perfect art-if I do not
seem absurd in the expression," she said
this so diffidently," the perfect art of
Nature."
54
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"The expression is a happy one, and needs
no apology," said Edgar; "for in the deepest
solitude Nature works what we call artisti-
cally. We have no right to the two words;
they are in reality synonyms. And Nature
works what we call artistically, because she
works without a thought as to the effect she
produces."
"There, I think, lies the secret. If men,
blest with genius, would but follow their own
good instincts, they would never go wrong.
It is the desire for effect which has spoiled
many writers. It is a want of honest sim-
plicity; and it has, I fancy, injured Tenny-
son. People fancy, when they are trying to
create impressions, they are working with an
artist's will; and, as you say, they are doing
exactly the reverse of what Nature does, and
therefore err. You are rather a severe critic,
Mr. Huntingdon, and this will naturally
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
55
make us more anxious to see your first
attempt in a line which always meets with
severe criticism."
How long this conversation would have
lasted, had it not been interrupted, it is diffi-
cult, even from analogy, to say; but we all
know to what lengths clever young people
of different sexes will go when they once are
fairly embarked in a conversation of which
poetry is the beginning and end. I suppose
that an opportunity is thus afforded them of
expressing sentiments which they cannot, or
dare not, convey in any other more direct
guise. It is astonishing how many pretty and
very significant things are said through the
medium of discussions on novels and poems.
Diffident young men (among whom I do not
mean to insinuate my hero ought to be classed),
by this useful and easy means, constantly open
to tender, blushing maidens the most hidden
་
56
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
secrets of their heart. As a rule, the elders
think it not worth their while to listen
to such rubbish; and so under their
very eyes love is made, and creates no suspi-
cion. I must own that these last remarks
have but little to do with Edgar and Miss
Fairfort; but they are strikingly true, and
will do as well noted down here as elsewhere.
And again I say, that it is impossible to
form any conjecture as to how long the above
conversation would have lasted, had not Lord
Fairfort's entrance interrupted it.
His Lordship was a tall man, though some-
what bent. His unimpeachable courtesy
half betrayed his natural coldness; yet his
address was pleasing. He was yet hand-
some, and had the tout ensemble of one well-
born and well-bred. He entered with an
outstretched hand and an apology.
"I have been trespassing largely on your
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
57
1
forbearance, Mr. Huntingdon! Will you
pardon me? These people from my estates,
with their demands on my good-nature
and supposed influence, have nearly driven
me to quote Mr. Pope's words-
Shut-shut the door, good John!-fatigued, I said;
Tie up the knocker-say I'm sick—I'm dead.’
Am I correct?—you will know."
"Perfectly, my Lord."
"And very apropos," put in Frank, "if
you give the two following lines:-
'The dog-star rages-nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out.'
Poetry has been the order of the day-
and I am quite out of the field: Huntingdon
glowing with eloquence, and Annette just
catching fire as you entered."
"Miss Fairfort," remarked Edgar, " cer-
tainly meets the eloquence (if such it be)
I
58
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
with the warmest yet most discriminate
taste."
"You ought to know, Mr. Huntingdon,"
said his Lordship-"you ought to know.
You have chosen an eminently literary pro-
fession—such, sir, as I should have chosen,"
he added courteously, "if circumstances
had not made me a slave without a choice.
My son prefers obscurity to distinction."
"And a headache."
Edgar laughed, and shortly after rose to
depart. As he walked to the door, Lord
Fairfort said-
"I am aware of the friendship existing
between you and my son. I trust that -
nothing will ever interfere with it, and I
shall be happy to afford the means of its
being cultivated. You will, without cere-
mony, be always welcome here."
As Edgar walked back alone to the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
59
Temple, he began to think that his mis-
givings had been unfounded, or founded
only on his stupid pride. Could anything
be more assuring than Lord Fairfort's frank
cordiality? And Miss Fairfort-what a
charming girl! And so, time went pretty
happily with our hero, who was studying
for the bar, and thinking of being-a poet.
•
·
?
1.
60
f
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
:
""
CHAPTER III.
"Nec dulces amores
Sperne, puer! neque tu choreas.”
HORACE.
'Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer."
BYRON.
ANNETTE FAIRFORT was the younger of two
daughters. Her sister, Lady Allanroy, had
been married five years. Even in her ear-
liest infancy she had lost that guide for
whom no other preceptor can be substituted
-whose tender care and gentle hand can
never be replaced-her mother. She was
too young to comprehend at the time her
*
7
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
61
loss; nor in riper years did she fully
appreciate its extent. Lord Fairfort, though
proud of and sincerely attached to his chil-
dren, was a man to whose naturally cold
disposition the loss of his wife and the
experience of the world had superadded an
additional hardness and deficiency of sym-
pathy. He had received his estates im-
poverished and encumbered; and he ex-
pended all his energies, and nearly all his
time, in retrieving the mischief entailed by
the folly, and perhaps the wickedness, of his
ancestors. In public life he was known
only by his noble name and high social
position. Left thus to judge for herself at
an age when most girls have opinions ready-
made for them, Annette Fairfort had arrived
at many conclusions, differing considerably
from those upon which society has affixed
its permit. Hence, at least, she gained
62
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
whatever benefits (and some are inclined to
doubt their existence), originality confers.
Her heart had not been "preached down
with a little hoard of maxims ;" and, though
she might be too romantic for her particular
century, she wore an earnest and simple
sincerity of enthusiasm that must have
pleased in any.
A morning or two after his call in Picca-
dilly, Edgar saw among his letters an enve-
lope that unmistakeably augured an invita-
tion. He gave it precedence. It was, as he
had anticipated, an invitation to a dance at
Lord Fairfort's, on the 14th of June. He
placed it on his side of a portrait of the
Duke of Wellington, which was dedicated
to such purposes, and which was already
very nearly full; for my hero, though, as
already stated, having no near relatives, had
pretty fair introductions into London
声
​FIVE YEARS OF IT.
63
society. On the parallel side of the picture,
Cooper's cards lagged not far behind. The
latter made his appearance earlier than
usual, and at once noticed the accession to
his adversary's ranks.
"Upon my word, Huntingdon! you are
distancing me; you are the first fellow in
these chambers who has done it, I can tell
you. But I have not Miss Fairfort to plead
for me."
"I think you have hot much reason to
complain. You must remember you are
an old stager, whilst this is my first year
in town; and people want new faces, as
they want new fashions, even though they
be ugly ones."
"Thanks for your consolation! It's as
you say. Handsome men" (with a mock
air) "are at a discount."
Edgar thought that, withal, Cooper was
1
"

64
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
mortified. He was to be seen at almost
every dance. When his father died he
left him a competence, a handsome appear-
ance, winning manners, idleness, and the
entrance into the best salons.
And no
one danced oftener, had the reputation of
flirting more, or was a greater favourite than
Horace Cooper.
"Ah, well! I oughtn't to care; and
indeed I don't. The fact is, Huntingdon,
I'm engaged, and am going to be Philip
sober. It is to no one you've seen. I
will introduce you to my bonnibel-there
is Mary Linwood's portrait."
"I should very much like to meet the
girl up to your ideas.
But I hope you
are not going to do anything stupid. I
thought you were too poor to marry-you've
always said so."
'Oh, my dear fellow! I can manage. I
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
65
E
have three, and she has about two hundred
a year. But no extravagance, now." And
he said it so merrily, that Edgar was rejoiced,
and even envied him.
Carriages were driving up to Lord Fair-
fort's door, and Edgar was seeking his noble
host's daughter among the throng of dancers.
As he approached her, a gentleman walked
hastily across the room and claimed her for
the next dance. Edgar offered his arm.
"Stay, sir; Miss Fairfort is engaged to
dance this waltz with me."
"I think not, Mr. Bingham!" said Edgar,
quietly, but it must be confessed, with some
hauteur. And as once before that evening
he had waived his claim, in order to extri-
cate Miss Fairfort from a dilemma which
she had unconsciously created, and as she
had at the time voluntarily named this
dance as a substitute, he was not inclined
VOL. I.
F
66
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
AP
to bend to this demand, especially when
advanced with so little courtesy. So he
said-
"Will you decide, Miss Fairfort?"
"You have at least the prior, if not the
only claim," she replied with dignity, as
she accepted his arm, and joined the crowd
of dancers.
"How strangely discourteous Mr. Bing-
ham was to you! You seem to know
him ?"
"Oh, yes; we were at school together,
where he always persisted in hating me. I
remember, the last evening there, actually
imploring him to be friendly, and he refused,
saying some stupid boyish thing about
revenge. Usually the sources of hatred, like
those of the Nile, are lost in obscurity—if
you will pardon the simile."
"And not unoften fertilize like the Nile,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
67
by their overflow, what they threaten to
destroy, if you will pardon my continuing it."
"You have at least improved it. I dare-
say his dislike will not be attended by any
very disastrous consequences. I know his
family well, and I often meet him; but this
is the first time, since we parted at school,
that he has shown more than coldness. It
is a pity-I cannot feel angry.
"I am sure, Mr. Huntingdon, you could
give him no real animosity."
"I hope not ;" and he laughed.
"So you
must not believe him if he tries to make me
out a monster."
"I prefer my own opinion of people,"
she said archly; "and in this case I
shall not go to Mr. Bingham for in-
formation."
Two years hence, and did Annette Fairfort
remember this conversation? Perhaps. She
1
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F 2
68
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
seemed to forget it at present, as, still on
Edgar's arm at the conclusion of the waltz,
she entered the conservatory. The beauty
of the night and the full moon tempted them
into the garden beyond.
"Stay," said Edgar, "I had better save
you from a possible cold, and mitigate some
of your charms" (he said it in a frank manly
way that could not offend)" with the help of
this cloak; for you know Diana is a female
divinity, and therefore given to jealousy, and
might visit you with a more terrible chastise-
ment than even poor Actæon. She will not
be very jealous of this sober covering."
"No, but if you are not careful she may
become jealous of your compliments to me,
and wreak signal vengeance on both. She
is so beautiful we can surely talk of her.
Besides she has been time out of mind the
poet's goddess, and, therefore, yours."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
69
"She has too many and too immortal
adorers to care much for my poor worship.
Somehow I always feel, from such a night
as this, a strong rising-up within me against
what we call civilization. Nature has fewer
devotees than of old-civilization only wor-
ships itself."
"And yet the regret is useless. We have
built a Tower of Babel: we must endure the
consequences—the discord of thought, of feel-
ing, and of interest; the rivalry, the conten-
tions, the misery" (she raised her beautiful
hand mournfully, and again it fell slowly
to her side) "the misery, and the despair."
"Nay, you are too desponding. Much is
yet left us, I am convinced. Anxious soli-
citude and tenderness of heart are more
awakened, and find a more extensive and
fitting sphere for their purifying influence in
the depths of a great city than in a more
70
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
primitive and perhaps more holy state. For
if there is more misery, there is more bene-
volence; if more poverty, a more extended
and softening generosity: we learn to lean
more on each other's shoulder, and give a
helping hand to those who are not quite so
strong. If men suffer, women soothe; if
we sin, surely you, good and persevering
angels, weep, pray, and bring us back.
Dearly do I love the face of sweet Mother
Nature; but I find in the development of the
world, and the strange material civilization
which is fostered by the concourse of thou-
sands upon thousands to one spot, the great
poem, the living drama, instinct, if with in-
tenser evil, breathing more earnest good,
wherein, not as in the Greek tragedies of
old, there is a supreme Fate, unavoidable
by gods and men, but wherein is the great
Motor, the divinity of civilization-Charity.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
71
Herein lies our sphere, Miss Fairfort-herein
the circle of our duties. If the glorious
woods and hills lend us rapture and yet re-
pose,
let us imitate their example by soothing
those whom civilization has engulphed, whom
no woods, no hills, have power to rejoice."
"There is more poetry in London than I
have thought," she said simply. "I think
we had better return. I fear we have been
absent too long."
"2
Did her arm cling more confidingly to his
as she spoke? Or, did he press it closer to
his side? If so, it was the half unconscious
magnetism of the moment: they were soon
far apart in the crowd of dancers.
The morning twilight was creeping up
from the German Ocean, and breaking
against the silent city, as Edgar walked
homewards down the now deserted Hay-
market; through Trafalgar Square, where,
72
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
tall and stern, rose the victorious genius loci;
and along the Strand, strangely silent. The
policemen were beginning to feel the chill of
the doubtful morning; and at the corners of
dismal streets drunken women-what aw-
ful outcasts!-prostrate, yet not in wor-
ship, were the only beings to welcome the
advent of the winged day. Edgar shuddered
and hastened on. As he passed through the
Temple Gate, he jostled against some one
coming from the opposite direction. To
whom should he apologize but to the stranger
whom he had met at Glendover Abbey, and
with whose name he was yet unacquainted.
"It seems," said the latter, "we are des-
tined to meet in this abrupt manner; but we
meet in a different scene. Time has not curbed
your habits of meditation."
•
"The scene," said Edgar, "is my abode;
and as we have stolen so much from the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
73
night, we had better make free with the rest
come. That is my name," pointing to
one on the threshold.
"Edgar Huntingdon," repeated the other.
"Mine is Gregson Woofinden; scarcely so
euphonious or so historically interesting as
yours."
"This way. You see my bachelor snug-
gery," said Edgar, lighting the candles,
and remarking that the legal abodes did not
get the benefit of day so soon as Glendover.
"I prefer living here: I can do utterly as
I like."
"And are your likes unchanged? Has
the great city stunted or fostered your fer-
vour and ambition ?”
"I think you will find a great town the
mother of eager and restless endeavours;
and London is the she-wolf with the brazen
dugs, the foster-nurse of many Romuluses."
74
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"Then have you built your Rome al-
ready? I have not heard of it."
"Not quite; but just when I am laying
the foundation and digging my ditch, I sup-
pose you have come, like Remus, to jump
over and sneer at it."
"Not I, indeed. I should be sorry to
disparage any noble effort. But what have
you done ?"
"What I was doing when I ran up against
you, five minutes ago-composed in the
streets, as the humour takes me."
"And what do you intend to do with all
this ?" asked Woofinden.
"Publish it, by-and-by. It will be the
first attempt. I merely want to know if I
can write well; the rest I see must wait."
"Ah! my friend, if you will allow me to
call you so," said Woofinden with a scep-
tical smile, you try very bravely to de-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
75
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•
ceive yourself. In your heart of hearts you
fancy for your first-born a great success.
You picture to yourself a frantic. crowd,
more numerous than that at the opera-house
on an especial night, scuffling at your pub-
lisher's door for copies of your immortal
poem. You see the fortunate coming out
with perspiration and triumphant happiness
on their faces, and Bond Street deserted for
Paternoster Row."
Edgar woke the echoes of the chambers
over-head with his violent laughter at this
severe sally. There was humour in all this
exaggeration, and no little truth, even if
caricatured, in the picture drawn by this
scoffing philosopher. He went on more
seriously.
"What you will see, will be most of the
copies of your exquisite book, that was to be
the gem of drawing-rooms, the treasure of
い
​76
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
boudoirs, over which lovely maidens were
to weep, and even veterans wax pathetic,
adorning the patient shelves of the printer's
back-room. When you visit your publishers,
you will see a copy, and always the same
copy, of
your poem on the principal table.
The gentleman of the firm will always receive
you with the blandest of smiles, and a 'Pray
take a seat, sir!' and he will smile and
smile, and, as you will eventually think, be
a villain."
"But," interrupted Edgar eagerly, "this
will be the case at first, and probably ac-
cording to my deserts. But I shall try
again."
"Yes, I know you will. Even should
Hope decrease, Pride will come to the res-
cue; and time, and money, and happiness,
will be absorbed in the gaping desire that
will never be satisfied. The bolder critics
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
77
will ask, What nonsense is this? assert, flip-
pantly, that it is neither rhyme nor reason;
not poetry, but prose run mad; and that a
boy in the sixth form would. be whipped for
ignorance of something which they have
learned by accident, perhaps half-an-hour
ago; and many other such witty things,
which they have said of every man who has
been fool enough to attempt to please any-
body but himself. Minor journals will call
your verses elegant, and of considerable pro-
mise; whilst others, who love a balance,
will damn you with a sentence of 'buts.'
If you have iron-cast-iron-feelings, try
it. If you have wise ones, show your verses
to the girl who loves you, and she will praise
you, and kiss you, and be proud of you; and
with this be satisfied." It was said with
the intensest bitterness; but Edgar shook
his head, and urged still-
+
D.
78
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"I am sure you take too harsh a view of
things. I believe that critics-respectable
critics-are, as Longfellow expresses it, the
sentinels at the gates of literature, to chal-
lenge each new comer; and that they sincerely
seek for worth, being the heralds of our
prowess, and the trumpeters of our success.'
""
"Say rather," Woofinden replied with a
savage sneer, "that they are the lacqueys
who howl out our names on the staircases of
life, like the menials who bawled out yours
to-night for the benefit of your host. This is
their office."
66
"I cannot-I will not," persisted Edgar,
come to such sad conclusions. I believe
that the world loves poetry, and that there
are critics who love it still more intensely;
and that, when they find it, they are over-
joyed, and hasten to spend the welcome
tidings. There are fields of literature yet
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
79
.:
unexplored; and I have faith that critics will
hail with rapture the man who is fortunate
enough to discover them."
""
'Then trim your sail, and be at your
helm, and drive on in search, till you find
yourself drifting into the regions of northern
ice, when your bones will be picked by the
wolves, your friends the critics."
All Edgar's naturally fiery and impatient
nature was aroused. He struck the table
fiercely, as he sprang up, and said—
"I will succeed, if I die in a mad-house !”
The candles died out in their sockets as he
spoke. He drew up the blind: the sun was
looking over the roof. Woofinden also rose;
and gazing at Edgar, still glowing with his
splendid burst of enthusiasm, said quietly-
66 'You will not die in a mad-house; but
you will succeed nevertheless. I no longer
doubt it."
4
J
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}
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Thus passed the night of the 14th, and the
early morning of the 15th of June. Edgar
had a bath, and walked to Hampstead, and
at half-past nine was working in King's
Bench Walk.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
81
:
CHAPTER IV.
"And I am in the world alone."-BYRON.
ABOUT a week later, Pampesterra came up
with his daughter Catalina to London—that
last refuge whither suffering finds either
better days or death. The meeting between
them and Edgar was a warm one: of grati-
tude on the one side, and on the other of
satisfaction, such as always attends on seeing
those whom we have benefited. The best
and most devoted men, or even women, take
at least "this unction to their souls."
Ten months had worked a striking altera-
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
tion in Catalina. Daughter of a precocious
clime, where everything matures with a
rapidity almost unintelligible to northern
imaginations, and where the year yields a
double harvest, Catalina, at sixteen, had just
reached the glorious eminence of perfect wo-
manhood. Sorrow, too, I dare say, had had
something to do with this early development;
and as Edgar gazed, he confessed that such
beauty as was hers he had never before
seen. Poor Pampesterra likewise looked
older; but with him the advance was not to
the summer, but the fall of life.
once unfolded to them his plans.
Edgar at
He had
taken lodgings for them close to Regent's
Park, in the direction of St. John's Wood,
judging with a delicate attention that so fair
a thing as the exile's daughter should not be
imprisoned within the turmoil of the vast
and seething city. The rooms, though com-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
83
**
fortable, boasted no approach to luxury,
unless a small library be considered one.
Catalina for a long time
wistfully into Edgar's face.
could only look
At last she took
his hand and imprinted on it a kiss so in-
tensely grateful that it was nothing more.
And as for her poor father, he went over and
over the three rooms with the tears running
down his soldier's cheeks. At last he ap-
proached Edgar with emotion.
"O Mr. Huntingdon ! why all this? A
hovel in a back street would have sufficed;
and that I would not have allowed you to
bestow but for my daughter. If I felt less,
perhaps I could express my gratitude.
Heaven reward you, for I cannot."
"Oh, but you are going to do something
for me. Can you drudge? See.'
29
And Edgar produced some deeds which
had to be engrossed, purposing thus to take
G 2
84
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
away the sting arising from a sense of utter
dependence. Work of this kind he could
always obtain; and he would himself teach
the Spaniard the technicalities to be observed
in copying out those dry, tedious, pages.
Beyond learning these, Pampesterra had but
little difficulty. He knew English perfectly,
having spent two or three years in this
country during his youth. Never a sigh
escaped him during the performance of this
labour, at least in Edgar's presence. He
worked as cheerfully as if he were writing
some great and cherished book that was to
earn for him immortality. But Edgar also
promised, and hoped not without reason,
again to obtain for him pupils, at once more
constant and more profitable than the amateur
ones of the University. As for Catalina, he
promised that she should find herself engaged
in more amusing pursuits as soon as she
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
85
made herself a proficient English scholar. This
she was gradually becoming; and my hero's
heart felt much lighter and more at ease than
when first, at college, he met that poor out-
lawed girl. He strove earnestly to induce
Pampesterra to allow him to introduce some
of his friends, that thus he and his daughter
might have the benefits of society; but on
this point the exile could not be persuaded to
yield. He would not retain his full title,
which was noble; he would not be known by
a curtailed one; nor had he, he said, the
spirits to converse with any one but his
daughter and his benefactor. So Edgar
desisted.
It was a dismal, drizzling afternoon, and
London looked the picture of misery under
its own peculiar incrustation of mud, as at
the end of this, his first visit, Edgar drove
back to King's Bench Walk. The fire had
!
86
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
been lighted, although it was July; and
Horace Cooper, who had not made his ap-
pearance at chambers for ten days, was
sitting alone on the hearth, with his face
buried in his hands.
"Hallo! Cooper! a pretty truant you
have been. But what on earth is the
matter ?"
Cooper looked up, and with a forced
smile, answered, "The day is dark and
dreary."
"Cheer up," replied Edgar, quoting from
the same poem-
'Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining:
Thy lot is the common lot of all;
Into each life some drops must fall,
Some days be dark and dreary.""
"Oh! but Huntingdon," groaned Cooper,
with the smile entirely vanished from his
face, "into mine have fallen drops to the
•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
87
brim. I let it fall from my grasp-and it
is-shivered to atoms!"
Edgar was petrified. This from Cooper!
Cooper, the merriest of mortals; the soul
of the chambers: the incarnation of reckless
spirits."
"Horace," he said in a voice so soft it
almost sounded like a woman's, "Will you
confide in me ?"
Cooper raised his head, and gazed at Ed-
gar with his vacant eyes.
"Sit down by the fire-there-and I will
tell you-all."
s;
Again he buried his head in his hands
and as he spoke he seemed not to move a
muscle.
"You know, Edgar, do you not, that I
have not always been altogether what I
should have been-that I have been what
is called 'fast?' I had better call it wicked;
1
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
1
yes-that is the word. If it is any conso-
lation to me, I have not been as bad as
many. Thank God! I never, whatever else
I have done, was the cause of virtue's first
fall. No! not that but I have sinned
;
enough without it, though men and I
was one of them-speak lightly of these
things. I told you of my engagement to
Mary Linwood. As I live, from the first
moment I saw her, I left sin behind. I
showed you the place where we were to
live; I was there, making final arrange-
ments; I was told some one wanted me.
It was "-he paused a little, though without
moving "a girl to whom I had been kind,
as kindness is generally weighed in these
matters. She had come to say good-bye. I
knew she loved me, as such creatures do
love; poor outcast! It was a sad parting
for her, from her affection for me, because
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
89
she suffered so. I bid her take hope-
repent-be different-be pure. She wept!
and how bitterly. I soothed her, as I best
could, with my voice; yes, with my hands.
As she was leaving me she said suddenly,
pointing to the window, 'Look! who is
that!' I looked, and saw nothing. But
something there had been, and that some-
thing was-O God!-Mary Linwood!"
He raised his head, and stretching out a
crushed letter, gave it to Edgar to read. It
ran thus:-
"Even at this moment, when the present
and the past are scarcely distinguishable by
me,-when I see only a future blank, dreary
and hopeless, I write you, O only loved-one
of my heart! the last words you will ever
read of mine. You know your guilt; you
must know, now, that I was a witness of it.
90
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
How can I write it? Yet it must be writ-
ten. Burning with the desire of your pre-
sence, and to witness how progressed the
house which was to be at once our home
and heaven, I arrived to see you giving to
another embraces which you had sworn
were for me alone. If your heart did not
accompany them, your sin is even worse:
either way, you deeply wronged me. How
have I lost your love? It would be almost
some comfort to know that I had erred
against you. I should not then have had
the sad thought that you are the more
guilty because I am innocent. To seek me
will be useless, and do not injure me further
by pursuit. Nay, you may search, but you
will search in vain. I have taken, and shall
continue to take, every precaution against
being discovered. I should know you; you
would not know me. Your very coming to
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
91
my place of refuge would only assist me to
conceal myself more securely. I love you
still too wildly to bear your presence: you
will be happy in the love of her who has
supplanted me. But why did you not find
that out before—before I had given my heart,
my life to you? O Horace! it was cruel—
it was fearfully cruel! Farewell; you will
always have the love, if you value the love,
of the broken-hearted MARY LINWOOD."
The letter bore the Antwerp post-mark.
Edgar returned it without remark.
"I am justly punished," said Cooper.
"Yet, who could have foreseen that the
very act, which was to close the gates on
guilt, should close on happiness and for
ever? Yes-but I am justly punished-
yet-yet how fearfully!"
He stood up.
His face was sunken and dark, as if a great
}
92
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
i
cloud rolled across it. "I must suffer-
must I?
Suffer.
How can I die?
Edgar! I would die.
God in heaven-it is
more than I can bear!" With a calmer
look, he took some letters from his drawer
and placed them gently on the fire, and
stood watching them until they were
entirely consumed-gave his hand to
Edgar,-said, "Thank you! I shall be
here to-morrow"-and departed.
Edgar sat long by the dying embers,
listening to the dreary rain beating against
the moaning windows, and brooding over
the sorrow that dripped too on his own
bewildered heart. Horace Cooper, the
young, the strong, the buoyant, the
admired, haggard within a fortnight-the
weak, fainting, despairing wreck he had just
gazed upon the wretched-the broken-
upon-the
hearted! But what had he done to find this
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
93
1
poor girl? He would ask, but not yet.
He wandered out into the bespattered
streets, and not till eight o'clock did he find
himself at Garden Court, when he awoke
to the fact that he had not dined, but had
been walking two hours in the rain, without
a purpose, and almost without consciousness
-but grieving over the terrible fate which
had overtaken Horace Cooper and Mary
Linwood.
Fortunately, he found Etheridge and
Hamilton at chambers very early the next
morning. He simply told them that a
great misfortune had befallen Cooper, but
that they must not refer to it in any way;
that it would be kindness to leave the
wound to Time, at once the
once the healing
physician and the soothing priest!
Cooper came at his usual hour-pale, and
certainly altered; but not presenting that
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
utterly woebegone appearance he had worn
on the previous day. Etheridge affected to
receive him, in theatrical fashion, as the
long-lost son. Hamilton tried hard to cheat
him into an argument. Cooper did his best
to look amused; said he had been a sad
truant, but intended to make amends by
severe application; sat down in his accus-
tomed place, and wrote till five. Neither
Etheridge's frantic attempts in the facetious
and theatrical line, nor Hamilton's pertina-
cious loquacity, could give that pupil-room
its former tone. No songs-no romps-
no banter; the glory of King's Bench
Walk was departed. Old Gower, Q.C.,
discontinued his complaints, and Tran-
tham marvelled what had come over his
noisy pupils, though he guessed where the
drag was, from Cooper's emaciated face.
The poor fellow seemed to work at law-a
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
95
༄།
thing unknown before. He had Chitty, and
Fearne, and Sugden open before him; but
Edgar knew that his stricken friend's
thoughts were far away. At first, he met
his jaded figure and grief-worn, melancholy
countenance, wandering spectrally through
the ante-chambers of ball-rooms, of which he
had been one of the chosen spirits. From
these at last he disappeared, pleading ill
health as an excuse for declining all invita-
tions. Edgar saw his friend's side of the
Duke of Wellington's portrait was empty,
and not likely to be refilled.
cussed Cooper's looks and his
Society dis-
absence for
a few weeks, and then rapidly forgot one
who had forgotten it. The truth was
known but to three people in the whole
world—our hero, and the two sufferers in
this sad catastrophe. Edgar could not but
participate in the gloom; and he felt
96
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
relieved as July came to a close, and the
few remaining stragglers of fashion looked
northwards, and the lights went out, and
the ball-rooms were covered up, and the
awnings taken down, and the 'Long Vaca-
tion' arrived. The day before he left
London, he said to Cooper-
"What efforts have you made to find
Mary Linwood ?"
Few, you will think. I travelled, night
and day, for a week, right and left of Ant-
werp, and did not obtain a clue of any kind,
and came back, seeing how altogether hope-
less was further search."
"But her relations-her uncle and aunt,
with whom you told me she lived?"
"I have not I cannot tell them what
she has written to me alone. They only
know she has chosen to go away somewhere
-for some whim or other, they suppose-
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
97
and expect her back every day. They
never loved her, nor she them. They have
always thought her eccentric; they being
the most matter-of-fact people I ever knew.
She has money, they say; and so are satis-
fied. Her fortune, about £4,000, was taken
out of a mine in Ireland some time ago,
and lodged with the Bank previously to
being invested according to the terms of our
marriage settlement, which was not yet
drawn, and never will be now.
It was
under her own control. I discovered that
she drew £500 four days before I received
her letter, which was my first intimation of
the truth."
"But the £500, was it in notes ?"
"Yes. Some were changed here in town
-that I discovered-and by her; and that
clue was the last. It led to nothing. The
rest were changed, no doubt, at the same
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
time, but elsewhere. I have employed the
police, and in vain, as I expected. No!
God wills it. I shall struggle no more in
that direction. You leave town to-morrow,
do
you not ?"
"Yes. I wish you would come with me."
He had often endeavoured to persuade the
poor fellow to accompany him.
(6 No, no; I must stay, and sit among
the ruins."
The next day Edgar left the great city
behind him.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
99
CHAPTER V.
"Sir! we had talk."-JOHNSON.
EDGAR spent the first three weeks of the
long vacation at Afrel. His time he occu-
pied by a final revision of his poem, which
he was now resolved upon publishing, and
in the indulgence of that exercise of body
which so long a confinement in London had
made both necessary and much desired. He
had received a most pressing invitation to
Fairfort Park, which he had gladly accepted.
So he wrote one day to announce his inten-
tion, and the following one carried it into
H2
or M
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1
effect.
The journey was stupid enough,
the last fourteen miles being performed by
posting. At last, the walls of Fairfort were
in view; a winding gallop along a shaded
avenue, and he leaped down, Frank's hand
giving assistance and welcome.
"So glad to see you, old fellow! Only
ten minutes to dinner. Come along."
Edgar dressed with a rapidity that re-
minded him and Frank of their speed in
college days, when they had missed chapel
four days running, and they made a push
to be present on the fifth; while Frank
rattled away, putting innumerable questions,
and not waiting for them to be answered.
The hasty toilet was completed, the bell
rang, and Edgar found himself gone through
a variety of salutations and introductions,
and comfortably seated at dinner.
The
company consisted of Lady Allanroy, Lord
Moll
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
101
Fairfort's eldest daughter, as unlike her
sister as is possible to conceive, save in a
certain elegance of manner; her husband,
an aristocratic, but stupid-looking man, a
member of the Lower House, who never
spoke in it, and very rarely outside of it;
a Mr. Ponsonby, a rising young Whig; and
an elderly, quiet, melancholy gentleman,
who was introduced to Edgar as Lord Fair-
fort's brother.
"You seem no little improved, Mr. Hun-
tingdon," said the noble host, "for your
sojourn in the country. You were tolerably
gay, during the season-much as I was
myself, when young.
29
"Without the éclat which attended, I
believe, your Lordship's spring-time of life."
"I am delighted you have come," said
Lady Allanroy. "I have not heard a com-
pliment since I came into the country; in
1
102
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
fact, no one seems to be
existence of such a thing.
aware of the
You have the
complimentary tone of the great world. I
ventured, the other day, to praise a speech
of Mr. Ponsonby's, which I had not read,
and he looked petrified with amazement."
"We do not, you perceive," said Mr.
Ponsonby, "lack satire."
"But really, Mr. Ponsonby, I did not read
your speech."
((
"I suppose," said Miss Fairfort, this
is all a plot, out of which to make political
capital. We are all to read the speech-it
is full of statistics. Sugar was the subject,
Mr. Ponsonby, was it not ?"
"No, Miss Fairfort; aloes."
"Then we must not put our fingers in
it," exclaimed Frank. "We had capital
sport to-day. Ponsonby did not bag a
single bird-though he expended powder
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
103
enough to have cleared all our preserves. I
believe he fired once at a tame pigeon-
though of course he denies it. Stick to
politics, Ponsonby!"
The latter combated the idea of the
pigeon, though confessing himself not much
of a sportsman: and not much relishing
Frank's quizzing, eagerly snatched at the
mention of politics, and asked Edgar what
1
were his opinions.
"I should not like to think they are yet
formed: but I much fear they never will
be. I doubt if I should make a good
partisan. But my tendencies are conserva-
tive."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Frank, who was in
one of his mischievous humours, and
renewing the attack upon Ponsonby; "you
see where the hearts of the rising genera-
tion are. Ponsonby is a thorough Whig.
104
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
He believes in all the articles of the Whig
creed-that John Langton is the greatest
man of all time-that A.D. 1165 is the great
date of all history-that Macaulay is the
historian, and Lord John Russell the states-
man, and that the Whigs will have heaven
exclusively to themselves.
In fact, they
purpose making a treasury-bench of it for
the Russells and Elliotts, &c.: and Burke
and such secondary luminaries will have the
honour of sitting immediately behind them.
It will be a fool's-paradise with a vengeance.
Never mind, Ponsonby!" he added compas-
sionately, "you will perhaps be offered a
place in the excise by-and-by. There is
time to repent. Be a Tory and a minister
—or a Whig and an ultimate tax-gatherer."
Ponsonby could have held his own
against any style of attack, but this flimsy
banter of Frank's: against it he was
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
105
*
powerless. And the young man kept up
this light firing most of dinner.
Edgar heard Miss Fairfort sing that night
for the first time. She was constant to the
pianoforte-he to turning over music-leaves,
and admiring with an honest but intense
enthusiasm. Those sweet and touching
tones invested her who sat there with an
additional charm. Who does not own the
enhanced power of woman, when she wields
song for her sceptre ?
The following morning Edgar was up and
out almost with the sun. He pictured to
himself with satisfaction the quiet stroll he
was to have before breakfast over the
domain of his broad-acred host. But no
sooner had he gained the terrace than he
heard his name pronounced, and by Miss
Fairfort, who, book in hand, and the colour
of the early morning upon her cheeks,
106
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
looked the Egeria of the spot, risen to wel-
come him.
"You surprise me," said Edgar. "I
flattered myself I was the only denizen
about the walls."
"I had the same idea about myself: but
I have outstripped you by at least a full
half-hour. If you wish to have your stroll
in peace, I will keep to my 'Lament for
Adonaïs.""
"Your companionship," answered Edgar,
"will scarcely interfere with my peace. I
shall rather consider it as a reward for
my
early rising. If you will be my guide
where you must know all by heart, I will
promise to admire with genuine sight-seeing
spirit."
The scene before their view stood in
need of no previous determination to be
pleased. The terrace on which they stood,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
107
and which was laid out in innumerable
flower-beds, the mingling of whose colours
was a work of complete art, covered prob-
ably three acres of ground. Gradually
from the terrace sloped an undulating sward
for a quarter of a mile, until it halted by
the margin of a small lake, as if stooping
down to drink of its pellucid ripples. From
the two extremities of this sheet of water,
not in artificial order, but scattered in way-
ward groups, rose ancient monarchs of the
glade, magnificent in form and height, with
all their gorgeous autumn panoply and
many-coloured banners glistening in the
morning sun. It was a scene to awake the
marvel of the most indifferent: but for a
Poet, it was a scene to embrace, to worship,
to be enamoured of, to hold mystic, yet to
him how familiar companionship with-with
which to exchange thoughts, nay, to mingle
#
་
T
108
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
+
beings: to possess some faint shadow of the
feeling with which the Eternal Poet, the
Great Maker, gazed upon the beautiful
world He flung into awakened space, and
saw that it was good!
Miss Fairfort did not fail to notice the
effect it produced upon her companion.
"I wish," she said, "that I could behold
this scene as you do. I enjoy it—see how
tame. I know that my appreciation is none,
compared with the unfettered vision with
which poets must behold it."
"Pardon me, Miss Fairfort, but you betray
yourself to be a poet oftener than you think.
Are not those some of Shelley's poems ?"
Yes; I hope you are not as scandal-
ized at seeing me carrying them about as my
sister is. I confess I have been both shocked
and hurt at his utter and avowed unbelief;
but I am sure that injustice from those who
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
109
did believe, if it did not cause, at least
strengthened it. Somehow, Mr. Huntingdon,
these pious people are seldom charitable.”
"That is quite a sentiment of mine.
There was much reverence originally in
Shelley's nature; and where there is reve-
rence, religious feeling and belief may always
be instilled. But we do not like our medicine
or our theology in the most disagreeable
form. My poor mother, I can remember,
gave me my powders in strawberry preserve.
But in dealing with Shelley, who was very
much of a child, people wrapped up the pill
of truth in insolence; so Shelley put it aside
and went on disbelieving."
"He certainly is most offensive sometimes
in his treatment of subjects we love and
venerate."
"Yes," said Edgar, "whether he believed
or not, silence would have been both wiser
+
+
110
.
FIVE YEARS OF .
ITOF ITand nobler. But Shelley was a colt, wild
and unbroken. They wished to catch him,
but instead of offering him oats, and calling
him with a gentle, soothing voice, they spread
out their arms and shouted frantically; and
so he tossed his defiant head and sped far
away, so far, Miss Fairfort, it is sad even
to recall it. I fear that not unoften poets, to
all of whom some religion is necessary, mis-
take their goddess Poetry for a higher divinity,
and carve out of this material world their
altar, proffering the incense of song, and wor-
shipping only the Beautiful. It is a great
and mournful mistake. Not so worshipped
Dante, not so Tasso, not so the severe Mil-
ton. Pope never sneers at anything sacred,
but writes his noblest work 'to vindicate the
ways of God to man.' Chateaubriand listens
with clasped hands, and bows his mighty
head to the wisdom of the Infinitely Mighty.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
111
Poor Shelley! I wish he could have believed.
We might not then have had the Revolt of
Islam, the splendid scorn, the terrific indig-
nation, the inspiration of his wild prophecies,
but we should have had a Christian, and the
poor man would have been happy. And I
cannot envy him who writes the greatest
earthly song, but cannot see who has written
the Great Poem which we behold around us."
His companion listened with rapt interest.
She loved to hear his outpourings.
She
nearly always agreed with him. It was as
though he were giving her thoughts, form,
and utterance.
66 'Oh, Mr. Huntingdon !" she said ear-
nestly, "if you should ever be a great poet
-and I think you will be-remember this,
and think as you think now. They have
much to tempt them these great intellects.
The screen rolls up, and they see the beauti-
A
י
112
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
#
ful with unclouded gaze. They feel, really
and palpably, something more exquisite than
even religion can pourtray. They reverence
intellect, but forget the First Intellect, of
which their's is, if I may so speak, but a
spark gone out-a falling star that heaven
will never miss."
She, too, spoke eloquently. These two
young people thought aloud to each other.
It was a rare privilege this perfect converse,
though they did not know its value, till time
had not been overkind to either.
But to the happiest, to him who is even
"dis carus ipsis;" such opportunities come
seldom. Nor did my hero, and the com-
panion who seemed so well to sympathize
with him, enjoy another outpouring such
as this all the time Lord Fairfort's other
guests remained. Not seeking it, as of
course they could not, they were not visited
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
113
by it. The days were spent on the hills
bagging game; the evenings in music and
general discussion. At last the small party
separated. Parliament was to meet in No-
vember that year, so Ponsonby was required
in London. Lord Allanroy, taking his wife,
went also to sleep during the debates, and
get into the wrong lobby at divisions. Lord
Fairfort's brother departed as silently as he
had remained. Edgar thought him strangely
retiring—he would ask Frank. His visit
was not yet quite over.
I

114
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
:
CHAPTER VI.
"Thus happily the days of Thalaba went by."
"Friends meet to part."
SOUTHEY.
The Giaour.
EVEN in London, during the season, Lord
Fairfort spent little of his time in the centre
of his family; yet there the imperious neces-
sities of society made his presence, wherever
Miss Fairfort was seen, generally indispens-
able. But when, the season over, he retired
to his estates, he devoted himself almost ex-
clusively, during the day, to their direction;
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
115
unless it so happened that the number of his
guests demanded the sacrifice of his time
and tastes. Edgar he considered as more
especially Frank's visitor; and now that the
rest had departed, whatever hours hung
heavy on the hands of the two friends, they
might, if so minded, spend in the additional
society of his daughter. Save with occa-
sional apologies, he seldom trespassed upon
the amusements of these young people: it
was the man's nature. Though not posses-
sing a warm, he still proved that he had,
when an opportunity strikingly presented
itself, at least a kind heart; and was glad
to see Edgar, an orphan, homeless, of pro-
mising talent, and his son's most intimate
friend, passing his days thus quietly at Fair-
fort. The young men were still faithful to
the sport which his Lordship's moors pre-
sented. Not unoften Miss Fairfort would
I 2
116
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
accompany them to the hills, and even spend
there, if the weather were propitious, her
whole day, fortified, on a favourable emi-
nence, with stout wrappers, and one of her
chosen authors. This spot was the ren-
dezvous for luncheon, and for counting the
game at the close of the day's labours.
Sometimes the hills were deserted for riding
excursions, which Edgar proposed in order
to relieve what he said must be the mono-
tony of Miss Fairfort's occupations; though,
I dare say, our hero was not making a very
great sacrifice whilst honestly consulting
the young lady's amusement.
Thus pleasantly glided away the weeks
at Fairfort Park. The last afternoon came,
as last afternoons will come, bringing with it
a fluttering sensation of undefinable regret.
The following day introduced Michaelmas
term, and Edgar must return to Garden
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
117
:
*
Court. The young people set out on their
farewell walk. It was as lovely an after-
noon as even autumn ever knew, though the
leaves were becoming fewer and fewer, and
the branches showed half-bare with sad an-
ticipations of winter; but those which yet
remained had received a deeper and more
lustrous tint; and on them the sun poured
the smile of the last holiday of the year.
"What a strangely quiet man your uncle
is," remarked Edgar; "he has such a melan-
choly look. Has he suffered much?"
"It is difficult to tell," said Miss Fair-
fort.
"Suffering cannot be measured by
the known cause, or by the apparent effect."
(6
'You mean, Annette, that suffering is an
unknown quantity; at least, I don't know
it; and I believe my uncle is much in the
same plight. The fact is, he married, as
they say, below him. His wife was snubbed

118
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
by his relations, especially by the women,
Annette included; but he pleased himself,
however, I suppose, and is happy. He has,
any how, attained the summit of bliss-
judicious silence."
"You are very far from bliss, then," said
his sister; "for you libel me for mere con-
versation's sake. Really, Mr. Huntingdon,
I never knew my aunt; and certainly should
not, to use Frank's ugly word, have snubbed
her, or any other person. She died some
years ago, leaving my uncle a daughter.
After her death he was permitted to re-
enter civilized society, and of course he
bears it little love now, and is rather afraid
of it. It was very hard; it-
"But," interrupted Frank-
"No, sir! You cannot mitigate it with
any amount of derisive 'buts,' or other
form of sophistry. It was hard-it was
•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
119
..
cruel. I am sure his wife was a lady; for
about a year ago I insisted upon my cousin
coming to see me, and carried my point.
And she was such a pretty, elegant, gentle
little creature, I am sure her mother was a
lady. And if she was not a star out of the
perfect firmament of haut ton, could not my
poor uncle please himself? I would, were
I a man. You saw, Mr. Huntingdon, that
his spirit is quite broken. It was shame-
ful!"
Edgar had never heard her speak with
such energy and indignation. The words
came from her innermost conviction, like
champions of the weak against the exacting
injustice of society. He could not but gaze
on her with delight, as her cheeks lighted
up, and her eyes glistened with the fervour
of her intense and ardent bravery.
"As
*
you will,” said Frank. "I give in.
120
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
At least, I have no intention of facing such
a sentence as that. But I should think Mr.
Fairfort is as happy as his neighbours. He
got the woman of his choice-is not that
the phrase, Annette ?-and therefore would
be happy. But perhaps you have discovered
that, too, to be a delusion."
His sister smiled, and would have replied
to his banter in her simple, sincere way,
had not Lord Fairfort's steward overtaken
them, and informed Frank that his father
wished to consult him. This his Lordship
constantly did, hoping thus to interest his
son in the property which would one day
be his own.
A refusal or excuse would
have deeply offended, so Frank was forced
to leave his sister and Edgar to continue
their stroll alone. About a mile further on,
they sate down upon the stump of an old
tree, directly facing the now declining sun.
t
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
121
The day was mild, and Autumn always
tempts to lingering.
"Then you intend publishing your poem
about Christmas ?" asked Miss Fairfort.
“When shall you begin to have it printed?"
"Immediately on my arrival in town.
It is an experiment. What if I am very
severely handled ?"
"That is impossible. The passages you
were so kind as to read to me were truly
exquisite."
"I do not doubt your judgment, Miss
Fairfort; but I allow for-may I presume?
-your partiality."
66
Certainly; but a partiality founded on
your merits."
"I shall be very anxious."
"You are so already; it is but natural.
Do you know I have a sort of fear lest,
should you succeed, you should not be
·

122
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
happy. How literary men have suffered!
I always shudder when I think of Tasso-
sweet Tasso-imprisoned as a madman; of
Savage, and Collins, and Shelley, and many,
too many others; of Byron shedding those
tears in the garden at Ravenna, whose fear-
ful bitterness we are powerless even to
imagine that beautiful and spiritual head
grey at thirty-two, laid in the dust at
thirty-seven! Can fame, fame even such
as poor Byron's was, make up for the un-
feeling wrong, relentless calumnies, and
fiendish abuse with which he was assailed?
Do you remember those words of his, which
seem to be the index of his whole life?
The blame of the meanest,' he says, 'has
always given me infinitely more pain than
the praise of the greatest has given me
pleasure. What an avowal! No poet
had ever, during life-time, such renown as
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
123
he;
Solomon's, and perhaps as true !”
and this is his conclusion-as sad as
·
"I thank you, my dear Miss Fairfort!
most gratefully, for the generous interest
you take in my possible future. But a
price must be paid for everything; and I
think the price for becoming a poet is some-
what of sorrow. He asks for the most
valuable gift known to earth; he must
make the largest sacrifice. The pillars of
Hercules may be reached; but the Nemean
lion must be slain the Minotaur battled
with and vanquished. To reach the Holy
Mountain, we must walk with bared feet,
even if we are bruised."
""
"And yet," said his companion, thought-
fully, "perhaps the doom, or at least much
of it, may be escaped. In many instances,
the causes are assignable."
"Yes, in many, if not in all," Edgar
-
124
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
3
replied. "And that the doom may be
partially avoided, it is necessary that a poet,
should he marry, should have for his com-
panion a gentle, loving, worshipping woman
-a woman talented, indeed; but talented
only to translate his thoughts, and reflect
his feelings. She must cherish him, tend
him, and be proud of him-think there is
no one like him in the vast world; in fact,
she must adore him, moving in her poet-
mate's orbit simply as his satellite. Poets
are gentle—are fond, by nature; but, of all
things, they require to be intensely loved.
There is much of your sex in them: they
are jealous, almost savagely jealous, of affec-
tion. They give much; they require even
more.'
29
"It is too true; for I fear there are no
such women. And what you say of poets
resembling women is so correct, that I
.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
125
think it is out of that resemblance the
difficulty and the misfortune arise. It
makes the contrast, which we are led to
think so requisite, almost impossible. I
have often noticed that poets have invariably
found their truest friends in men-men who
have loved them, as men generally love
women. They seem to excite the same inter-
est, and win the same worship."
"All that is also remarkably true: but
you must pardon me if I persist in thinking
that there are women such as I have de-
scribed. If there are not, poets must be
miserable to the end of the chapter-and
there's an end of it. Or they had better
remain single, and, to use Wordsworth's
splendid image, be like stars, and dwell
apart. But if the poet does marry,
and chooses for his helpmate a woman
strong in the assumed consciousness of her
I
126
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
own unsurpassed talents, so satisfied with
her own abilities that she uses them simply
as a foil to her husband's, treating as a
common gift a thing so sacred that proud
should be the woman to whose whole gui-
dance it is entrusted, O, then, that woman
has abused her privilege, forfeited her oppor-
tunities, and betrayed her splendid trust,
blasted the yearnings of a gentle heart, and
changed the disposition of a loving poet into
that of a fearless tiger, facing the world,
and daring it to the struggle. Poor Byron!
they did so with him." He spoke almost
savagely. "My curse on the women that
have so done, or shall ever do!"
"Indeed it is fearful," said Miss Fairfort,
with more calmness but equal solemnity, "to
reflect upon these magnificent lives wrecked
utterly by the selfishness and vanity of one
person. Poets are much like children-im-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
127
pulsive, but always generous: easily hu-
moured, but with an instinct of contradiction
ever ready. They have the intellect of the
Seraphim-they want a Cherub's love to
guide them. And, after all, it is better to
put down the pen and suffer obscurity than
be the defiant man you have so forcibly
described."
Why did Edgar's face so suddenly change
colour, though but for a moment? She who
sat beside him noticed it not, and had all a
maiden's quiet self-possession. And in the
autumn sunset they walked leisurely home,
Edgar talking to her of his plans for the
ensuing months, and enquiring what com-
missions he could execute for her in the
great city, whither he should depart on the
morrow.
When Edgar retired to his own room that
night he somehow seemed not inclined for
128
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
sleep, but sat staring rather vacantly for
two hours at the fire. What he was think-
ing of all that time it might be difficult, and,
I fear, no less tedious to tell. At last he
jumped up abruptly, tossed the hair back
from his forehead, and walked about the
room, indulging in a viva-voce soliloquy.
"There must be an end of this. So
sudden, and utterly unexpected. I have
always liked the girl-who wouldn't?-but
never, I am sure, till she spoke so this after-
noon had I this confounded feeling. Bah!
what an impressionable fool to be so trans-
formed by half a dozen words, spoken as
innocently as a morning salutation. A
pretty fancy indeed!" and he looked at
himself in the glass, with a whimsical ex-
pression of face.
"You aspire, young gen-
tleman! A girl-a goddess-to win whom the
highest in the land might even humbly peti-
+
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
129
tion-and will have to do it, too-to be
thought of by you, sir! a would-be poet!
Give place, I say." And again he threw
himself into his chair before the fire. "She
certainly is the sweetest, dearest girl I ever
met-but then I've known that for a long
time. The more lucky I to have met her at
all—but what then? No, no; I don't feel
anything of the sort-I don't love her I
wont love her. The idea of gazing up at
such a height from such a lonely, lowly
place! Who ever heard, thought, dreamed
of such a thing? Ha, ha! confound it! I
shall wake Frank if I don't mind, and he'll
be coming in to see what's the matter. I'm
glad I'm going to-morrow-nothing like
work. Half-past two, and I have to be up
early. To bed, then, to bed."
It was a dismal morning. At breakfast
Lord Fairfort was most pressing in his invi-
VOL. I.
K
130
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
tations to Edgar to spend Christmas with
them. He thought of the loneliness which
at that time especially the young man other-
wise would feel with no home to go to; and
was pleased to think he could offer some
substitute. Moreover, his Lordship fancied
the quiet, gentlemanly, yet always cheerful
manners of my young hero. Between the
departing guest and Miss Fairfort the last
clasp of the hands seemed warmer and the
last adieu more sad than they had been as
yet before. The traveller wrapped himself
in his rug, looked a final farewell, leaned
back, and the carriage started down the long
winding avenue. Fairfort Park was soon
left in the far distance, and Edgar Hunting-
don to his own thoughts.
As for the fair young denizen of those
now all but deserted halls, she had never
passed so stupid a morning. Shelley was
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
131
uninteresting, Tennyson tiresome, Rogers
was a bore; Byron appealed more power-
fully, but even he was soon laid aside for
that little private volume which we some-
times take out secretly and read,—the un-
bound book, with the melancholy tear-blotted
pages-the pages of the heart!
K 2
!
*
132
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
CHAPTER VII.
"Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the
distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden."
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
THE following day Edgar called at King's
Bench Walk. He found Cooper sitting over
his books, just as when he had left him nearly
three months before. It seemed as if he had
never stirred from that spot, from that posi-
tion, the whole time. The figure was perhaps
more bent, the face thinner, the voice more
subdued, even than before.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
133
3,
-
J
A
"You surely have not been in London all
'the Long ?'"
"Yes!" he replied. "I have been here
every day I am an accomplished lawyer
now."
"Is there no hope, Horace?" inquired
Edgar tenderly.
"I have never looked for it. Oblivion,
+
not hope, is my research; and yet one is as
vain as the other." Then a smile half played
about his mouth, in a sickly, doubtful
"I must strive for a judgeship,
manner.
or-" he paused a little-" a grave
"Strive for the former rather. The same
Providence that has chastised may relent."
Cooper made no answer, but again bent
over his books, as if he had told his friend all
that there was to tell after so long a separa-
tion. This, then, was the epitome of twelve
weeks' solitude!
"
134
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
On the mantelpiece was a copy of Long-
fellow's "Hyperion." Edgar took it up. It
was blotted with tears; and the page whereon
Paul Flemming transcribes the words he
found written in a village chapel, was almost
illegible from the scalding drops which had
fallen upon the imaginary, from the depths of
the real, sorrow. When strong men weep,
and forget, or care not to hide, the traces of
such a weakness, broken must be the heart,
and unnerved the will indeed!
When the afternoons were bright, Edgar
would get him away from chambers. At
first he manifested great reluctance; and
when at last he yielded, it was as though he
had forfeited all volition. They would go
into the Park, which, though comparatively
deserted, was by reason of Parliament being
this autumn assembled, more frequented than
is usual at that period of the year. Cooper
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
135
would lean over the railings, silently and
half vacantly staring at the passers-by. He
would start and tremble at times, as a fair
girl dashed past on horseback, or leaned for-
ward in the heavy old family carriage. Edgar
would seem not to notice it, but would lead
him on into Kensington Gardens, and sit
with him as the sun set behind the branchless
desolate trees, trying, the gentle Samaritan,
to interest the sufferer in the sober dying-out
of the year.
"Yes, you know not," Cooper would say,
"how I enjoy in my way. There is a some-
thing sympathizes with me from out those
dead leaves. The earth has been widowed,
too, and I feel as though we were soothing
each other."
"But spring," suggested Edgar, "will
return."
"Oh, that is what I dread! I can bear
136
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
this, but to see the flowers and foliage come
back, and to hear the birds with their joyous
marriage-notes restored, and for her not to
return! O Edgar! I should like the long
grass to wave above me before then."
"Wait, wait," said his companion solemnly.
"Patience will almost bring the dead to life.
I would not be harsh with you, Horace, but
you own you have, in your strong youth, sadly
erred. You must endure the chastisement,
so bear it penitently. These may seem cold,
comfortless words; but the hand of sorrow
that presses so heavily on you, has bound
down the young and the strong before; and
some of these have not seemed to wander
from the right as you own to having wan-
dered."
"Oh, yes, it is true-all true-true as that
I sit suffering here. I will try to endure-
I have sat up in my bed
I will try. I have sat up
many
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
137
a night, wiping away the cold sweat, whilst I
prayed that I might forget or die. Then I
resolved to search for her" (he never men-
tioned her by name now) "round and round
the world. But morning came, and I saw
my folly-my midnight illusion; and I
went down to King's Bench Walk, and-
nay, I know not what I did." Then with
agony he broke out-" Oh! it's terrible to be
bound thus, with the vulture gnawing at
one's heart.'
22
"Will you travel? I will go with you,”
said the generous young fellow.
"I thought you knew those verses of
Byron's to Ianthe better. Don't you re-
member
"
'What exile from himself can flee?''
"}
True," replied Edgar, mechanically re-
peating the same idea from an older verse-
maker-
138
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
i
“Cælum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt."
For there was a gentle power in Cooper's
melancholy objecting, the augmentative force
of which his companion could not overcome.
Many an afternoon like this did our hero
devote to the noble endeavour to cheat the
sufferer of his grief; much did he deny
himself—even the working for his own ad-
vancement, when he saw the least chance
of soothing that aching heart. Cooper never
thanked him for-nay, seemed not to be
aware of these manifold attentions; but
was obeyed and led by him like a child, or,
rather, like a somnambulist. Edgar thought
nothing of this, only redoubling his kind-
ness; and in a few weeks began to hope
that the troubled waters were becoming at
least more still, though over them floated
Regret with its leaves pale and placid !
His poem was already in the press. Many
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
139
of his acquaintances, some tacitly, others
more avowedly, did their best to disenchant
him of his literary hopes. But my hero
was not one whose purpose is lightly laid
aside in deference to the patronizing fears
of scepticism, or even the well-intentioned
doubts of really anxious interest. It was
one of his favourite maxims that he who
cannot brook evil prophecies deserves not
success, and will assuredly not obtain it:
nor, moreover, was he unconscious that the
greater part of these prudent counsellors
would be, in case he did succeed, the very
first to aver that they always knew Edgar
Huntingdon was sure to get on. So these
he utterly disregarded. Nor minded he
much more that large class of worthy people
who would have convinced him that even
success, such as he desired, would be the
very worst fate that could possibly befall
140
FIVE YEARS OF II.
him;
inasmuch as it would seriously injure,
if not destroy, his prospects at the bar. This
idea is, if I mistake not, an almost universal
one. Strange, certainly! Many if not most.
of our successful legal men have been
authors of no contemptible standing. I
could name a pretty long list; but the here-
ditary prejudices of Englishmen are too
powerful, and have too much vis inertiæ, to
be much affected by argument. And to the
end of the chapter, verse-making will be
deemed "duty broken," and "an idle trade"
by "parents disobeyed." But young men
will have their prejudices, too; and Edgar
Huntingdon had his, which he indulged by
publishing a poem. He had given it to
Catalina Pampesterra to transcribe. With
her, this was a labour of love; every verse
of her benefactor seemed unmatched by any
other. Ah! if our author could have found
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
141
many readers of this frame of mind, he had
been already of no little importance. Cata-
lina was in nothing altered. But her father
evidently wasted under his deplorable exile.
His daughter complained to Edgar that she
could not make him take any exercise; that
he would sometimes sit for hours in silent
abstraction, and when he awoke from his long
reverie, he would pour out upon her all his
fondness, as if to repair his unwitting negli-
"And that," said the poor girl,
gence:
"pains me most of all."
Edgar asked if Pampesterra could play
chess, and was pleased to hear it was the
only game the exile thoroughly cared for.
So the young man, pleading want of society
at this dull time of the year, asked permis-
sion to spend his evenings at St. John's Wood.
It was one of those untruths so glorious, that
142
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
- :
to it may well be applied the words of Horace
-"splendidè mendax !"
Pampesterra was rejoiced; so many an
evening now found Huntingdon on his way
to the exile's lodgings. Sometimes they
would return the visits to Garden Court;
and whilst the antagonists were bent upon
their friendly rivalry, Catalina would look
into Edgar's books, and wonder why a poet
read such stupid things about contracts,
and would put his room in order after
her ideas, thinking what a sloven this kind
young Englishman was. And thus my
hero devoted the time after law hours to
Horace Cooper and the exiles. He did not
write at present-though often the furor
scribendi was strong upon him-in order that
he might restore one shattered heart, and
prop two others that, thank God, were not
yet utterly undone.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
143
•
Christmas was close at hand; and our poet
was, at last, satisfied with the proofs. Oh,
that correction of proofs ! You come to
detest every single word you have penned.
It was all very well in Horace's time, when
no such method had been invented whereby
to cure authors of their conceit, to lock up
works for nine years; now, that is utterly
uncalled for. Printing has settled that
question, as it has settled innumerable
others. You read over and over and over,
till every verse sings like a stupid old
nursery rhyme. And, then, the monsters
that are made of your favourite ideas! I
understand, now, what Job meant when he
wished his enemy would write a book. He
must have had in mind the tortures his foe
would have to endure from the relentless hand
of printers. Let no critic here accuse me of
a gross anachronism, for I am fully aware
144
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
of it, as no doubt you, dear reader, are
also.
The snow was thick round King's Bench
Walk, and faster came the falling flakes as
Edgar made his way to Trantham's pupil-
room. He met Etheridge at the threshold.
"Hallo, off already!"
"In half an hour. Wish this confounded
snow would thaw and dissolve itself into a
dew. I want some hunting, old boy! this
law dries up one's marrow so—and we've
all got so studious of late. I've just been
saying good-bye to Cooper; I never saw
any one so altered. He used to drive me
distracted with his noisy merriment; now,
he gives me the blue-devils. He must have
come in for it, rather."
"He has suffered fearfully," Edgar replied
solemnly; "but I must not moralize now; so
good-bye, and merry Christmas."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
145.
,
"The same and success to the poem !"
Cooper was huddled up before the fire.
He would be here likely enough on Christmas
Eve. Here! whilst outside and all around
him, green and holly would be carried about,
and mistletoe hung up, and not unwilling
maidens be kissed beneath its propriety-
dispelling favour. Here! whilst merry fires
would blaze out, yielding only in brightness
to the happy human faces. Here! whilst
children would be singing carols of the Saxon
days, and praying God-spede at the jovial
Christmas-tide. Here! perhaps the only
inhabitant, that eve, of this spot, which the
most persistent lawyer had abandoned; hear-
ing no chimes, listening to no carols, receiving
no peace on earth," brooding over his own
utter, irremediable wretchedness, eating into
his own heart, sleepless, companionless!
66
VOL. I.
L
•
י
146
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Edgar took his hand, and begged him to
leave London.
66
You see I am calm," he answered;
"perhaps I cannot be said to suffer. I am
numb, I barely feel. I sit here, not even
thinking, but merely sitting here: it is
enough. If you took me away, and made my
pulse hasten on again, and showed me what
others are doing, grief would return-bitter,
active, resistless grief, violent as you once
saw it-grief I cannot bear."
Edgar was at sea. He had exhausted his
inventive generosity; he could do, could
suggest, nothing more. He must bow his
head to that God who had, if so fearfully,
yet so justly smitten Cooper for his sins; and
trust and pray that the lost one might yet
be found, love renewed, and vengeance satis-
fied!
-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
147
CHAPTER VIII.
"One
•
Whom to gaze on was to love."
Locksley Hall.
"These are good rhymes."
MR. POPE to his Son.
FAIRFORT PARK was full of visitors when
Edgar arrived, in accordance with his pro-
mise, to spend there his Christmas. Frank
had done his best to prepare for him a repu-
tation—a doubtful sort of kindness, after all;
since it only raises expectations which are
generally too great not to be disappointed.
He had brought with him the first copy of
L 2
148
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
his poem, which he presented to Miss Fair-
fort. The general curiosity about its merits
prevented the possibility of her at present
perusing it; and it was finally demanded with
a unanimous voice, that Edgar should read it
in full conclave. If there was one thing he
usually avoided more sedulously than ano-
ther, it was reading aloud his own composi-
tions; but refusal was out of the question,
and evasion equally impossible. So he gave
way with as good a grace as he could well
assume. As a matter of course, he received
little but the most undiscriminating praise,
which he was wise enough not to value over
highly; and all the flattery here bestowed
was, I fear, completely wasted, with the
exception of one little tear which, at the close
of a canto, he saw, or fancied he saw, glisten
from the drooping eyelid of Miss Fairfort.
Yet he would, I think, have made some con-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
149
siderable sacrifice not to have seen that inno-
cent tear which, be it confessed, was not
alone in that company, where she was not
the sole sensitive listener. For that tear
only strengthened the more a feeling he was
bent on combating. No sooner had he again
come across this young lady than, to his
intense annoyance, he felt very much as he
had felt that autumn afternoon, two months
ago, when he had walked home with her in
the blaze of sunset. The house was, as I
have said, full of guests; so there had not
passed between them one single word but
had been spoken in the presence and hearing
of at least a dozen witnesses. Yet, the being
in the same neighbourhood as this beautiful
and high-born girl somehow stirred up sen-
sations, which he would not allow to be those
of incipient fondness, but which he was
obliged to confess, were they not such, he was
150
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
somewhat senseless in opposing. The honest
fact is, he had taken alarm at what were,
deny it to himself as he might, the first unmis-
takeable symptoms of a well-known disease,
with a good, old, simple Saxon name, and that
name Love. Do what he would, seek her
or shun her, miss her or meet her, it was
nothing with him but one constant, weari-
some struggling with himself. He was at a
loss. He could not be distant with her-it
would be remarked; besides, it would be
unjust, ungrateful, and impertinent. Yet he
feared to continue with her upon such fami-
liar terms as those which he had hitherto
enjoyed. Yes he knew what he would do;
he would leave Fairfort-he was better away.
He should not see her again, in all probability,
till May; and if he could not, removed from
her presence, tread down by then the mere
beginnings (supposing such they were) of
A
FIVE YEARS OF TT.
151
1
He was
affection, well then-shame on him for a
weak craven! So he reasoned.
summoned up to town, he said, and must
obey. Every one seemed to regret it; but
he had come to his determination not without
long thought, and he went; no one, not even
Frank, imagining that the real reason was
not the one openly avowed.
On the Saturday after his return to town,
there appeared in the most influential weekly
journal devoted to literature, a notice of
his poem. He had reason to be proud of
its commendation; for this review had
always maintained, and to this day con-
tinues to maintain, in its judgments the
highest and sternest standard of excellence,
and its praise was proverbially difficult to
obtain. It spoke of Edgar's poem as ner-
vous, vigorous, and picturesque; of the
similes as original and judicious; of the
1
152
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
author as evidently capable of producing
something better. It pointed out the fault
of occasional obscurity, and remarked upon
the shapelessness of the plot. Here, then,
was sober criticism: kind and encouraging,
but partaking of anything rather than the
undiscriminating character of the Fairfort
Park acclamations. A bi-monthly journal,
of scarcely less repute, was perhaps more
complimentary still, and was more liberal in
its quotations. Others, in less prominent,
but withal highly valuable quarters,
appeared to satisfy the young author. On
the whole, he had much reason for con-
gratulation. It falls to the lot of few first
productions to be noticed so favourably.
He felt that he had now, at least, gained for
himself an introduction, and the right to be
heard hereafter. There were not a few who
would look forward with interest and
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
153
anxiety to his second attempt; and, having
been so unhesitatingly assured that he could
write poetry, he would now sit down and
write a poem.
The acquaintances from whom he re-
ceived perhaps the soundest criticism were
poor Horace Cooper and Gregson Woofin-
den. The former he found, on his first visit
to King's Bench Walk after leaving Fairfort
Park, deeply occupied with the new poem.
"I bought it the other day," Cooper
said, "and have been delighted with both
its tender and its passionate outbursts.
I think they are helping me to endure.
But how is it that such a melancholy vein
runs through almost every page? You
might have suffered even as-yes, more than
I have; yet no one would guess it."
"My dear Horace! there is a sort of
suffering that is never seen-and it is the
•
·
154
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
worst of all. But we will not talk of that:
many have made the same remark; and
were I willing to explain what so puzzles
them, I should have to display an amount of
egotism that would be simply insufferable.
People must be satisfied with verses: it is
unreasonable to expect a key to them."
"But you must get rid somehow of this
melancholy brooding, or give up all idea of
success. You have not studied what the
world wants. In this age of novels,
dramatic power, though not in the accepted
dramatic form, must enter into poetry: the
old must combat the new romance with the
new weapons. There is such a fascination
about these interwoven plots, which are the
foundation of modern tales, that he who
discards them, no matter under what form
he writes, must be satisfied with few, very
few readers. I do not mean you should
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
155
write metrical novels: that would be dese-
crating the noblest path of literature.
Come to me when you compose again. I
will give you a plot when you are at a
loss."
Round to the old story. Edgar had
listened to his companion's remarks with
evident delight, not so much for their truth
-though that he acknowledged in them-
but that he who spoke seemed to be for-
getting for awhile, in the interest he took in
his friend's literary career, the sorrow at
his own heart. But see-he returns to his
own woe, and clings to it as faithfully as
ever.
"What did you do on Christmas day?"
Edgar asked.
"I went to church and was not consoled.
The following day, came here and read
Chitty, and was no wiser. Let fall a few
156
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
!
weak tears, but my heart was no lighter:
'Que sert, hélas ! d'arroser le feuillage quand
l'arbre est coupé par le pied?"" And he
turned to his desk again. "Poor child!
poor child!" He often uttered exclama-
tions like this last, now: Edgar knew well
of whom he was thinking.
A few days later, Woofinden called upon
him, with the poem in his hand. He had
read it over three times, he said some
passages much oftener. Our hero was
touched with something very like affection
for this rather severe, unsparing man, as
he thought of the kindly, spontaneous in-
terest thus displayed in his behalf.
"This ought to have been a poem,"
Woofinden began, "which, let me tell you,
at present it is not. Nay, don't bite your
lip; I am not going to be severe. It is
poetry, and poetry of no mean order-a
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
157
t
poem it certainly is not. A little more
care, my young friend, and this book might
have made you. As it is, it does not
deserve very great success. I have read
the critiques of it, and I tell you candidly
that they praise you as liberally as honest
reviewers possibly could. Even I will con-
fess that these notices"-and he produced
them-" are both just and generous."
((
But," interposed Edgar, "I have
obtained all that I desired-the assurance
that I can write, and the certainty of being
listened to on a future occasion."
"Well, if you are satisfied, who shall
complain? Yes, I will. You are to suc-
ceed that I know that I have told you.
And the man who has the stuff in him out
of which may come success, has no right
idly to squander his material. There are
innumerable lines in this book that ought
1
158
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
to have remained long in people's minds:
you have absolutely thrown them away.
You say you are contented with being
assured that you can say fine things; but
how much better if you had taken two steps
instead of one. People are generally, and
ought to be, gentle with a first attempt;
and your first attempt is highly creditable.
Nay, I don't want to flatter you, or I could
use more honied language, and still be
within the truth. But I give you this as
my frank opinion, that a second perform-
ance such as this will damn you hope-
lessly, or certainly should do. You must
get out of that mischievous way of com-
posing anywhere and anyhow, as the
humour comes upon you. It may be a
very delightful occupation-anything but
a profitable one. Don't write a line till
you know thoroughly what you want to
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
159
say, from beginning to end.
Ornamen-
tation will come without your seeking
it; the foundation you must dig with
your own hands. We will have a poem
yet."
Edgar thanked this sound, honest critic,
exacting from him a promise to do for the
poem, when it was written, but before it
was printed, what he had done for his
poetry after it was printed, and it was too
late to alter or destroy it.
"Don't talk of destroying, my dear
fellow! You have not done, this time, all
you might have done; and that's all. And,
when all has been said, I am free to confess.
I never think hopefully of a young man
whose art is already perfect."
Edgar now settled down again to his
usual pursuits. The hours devoted to law
were extended. Our pupil-room in King's
160
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Bench Walk had become the quietest and
most industrious in the Temple. The first
three months of the year passed uninter-
rupted by any event which need be chron-
icled in these pages. In the first week of
April, Cooper had not made his appearance
for three days. This was the more strange
as, for seven months, he had not been absent
one single day. Edgar was just starting for
Pall Mall, where Cooper lodged, when he
received a note begging him to go at once
to the writer, who was ill.
Ill indeed he was; ill from the long
mental agony he had now undergone for
nearly a whole year. Disease, the doctor
said, there was not; and having been told
by Edgar, in confidence, something of his
patient's sad story, expressed his conviction
that it was a case in which medical skill
has but little potency; that he could per-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
161
ין
ceive no danger, in the ordinary sense of
the word; but that, together with the
young man's assistance, he would use every
means to restore the sufferer's strength,
which was now reduced to the very lowest
point. Were they successful, Cooper must
then leave London, and have change of
scene. To all this Edgar listened patiently,
and shook his head. He did not think
his friend would die-he could not bring
himself to desire this consummation, but
he felt that the poor suffering fellow
stretched out on yonder bed would know
no better days this side the grave. All
that gentleness and generosity can do, Edgar
did. He brought his law-books, and studied
as he best could, whilst the invalid slept;
when he awoke, this patient watcher would
read to him, talk to him, pray with and
for him, and perform innumerable slight
VOL. I.
M
է
162
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
t
offices which we are wont to think women
alone can do. When they do these things,
we reckon nothing of it; we have grown
accustomed, even to indifference, to all their
tenderness; but when men execute such
duties, it does seem as though they were
approaching very near to the angels.
At times, Cooper did not recognize his
friend; on the ninth day of his illness, his
mind evidently wandered; at last, there
came delirium; and this, for him who sat
in the sick room, was the hardest trial of all.
All that he could do now was to watch, and
sometimes weep-for he could not wholly
repress his tears, it was so sad. Let us pass
away from it.
What a terrific retribution it was! and
yet, what a just one! The career of sin
run-repented of-passed; the better, purer
days at hand; the last scene just drawing ·
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
163
".
to a close; the curtain about to fall; but
instead, and when in another minute it
had been too late, vengeance! Where was
she who was the instrument and the sharer
alike of this inscrutable
inscrutable scourge? Was
she, too, suffering? and like this? Were
she permitted for an instant to enter that
room, and see that wasted, delirious form
but a second, the torment might be removed!
Wondrous Providence! that by a thread
can hold eternities apart, two souls which
sympathy declared, and still declares, to be
but one!
The day on which Cooper's delirium was
at its height, Edgar had witnessed a scene,
and held a conversation that, brief as they
were, had brought home still more strongly
to him the sad events consequent upon that
fatal day which had initiated his stricken
friend into sorrow. Towards the dusk of
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164
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
evening, as he was returning to Pall Mall,
a woman sitting huddled up on the door-
step prevented his entrance. He asked
her to rise. No sooner had he spoken
than the figure started up convulsively,
and seized his arm, exclaiming in a wild
tone--
"Oh ! is it you? is it you? Thank God!
Tell me tell me will he die? Speak! for
Heaven's sake! will he-will he die ?”
Her very existence seemed to hang upon
the response. She had been once a lovely—
she was even yet a beautiful woman. Yes,
standing though she did with her youth far
behind her, though her years were fewer than
those of him whom she addressed thus passion-
ately. She wore what had once been finery.
Like its wearer it was merely a recollection,
a wreck, telling a complete history.
"Do you mean Horace Cooper ?"
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
165
"Do not madden me—yes, yes—will he
-tell me-will he die ?" -
"I trust not," said Edgar, in a tone which
was scarcely hopeful.
"Oh! if he should die! if he should die!
I have watched you-you watch over him.
Surely he has told you all-all. I-I am
the woman who has caused all this."
And in a wild wail of weeping, she hurried
away, leaving him transfixed with horror.
This, then, was the woman: this was Emma.
This was, first the instrument of sin, and
then the instrument of bitterest amerce-
ment.
In the midst of all this, Pampesterra, too,
became invalided. Edgar had been forced
of late to discontinue his visits to St. John's
Wood; and, with his absence, the Spaniard's
low spirits, Catalina wrote, had returned.
Debility followed, and then almost helpless-
1
1
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
ness. At least, he could no longer work or
receive his pupils. When he sank to a
certain point he halted there, becoming,
despite medical skill, not better, not worse.
The doctor's bills were heavy, and Edgar
had to pay them, which he did cheerfully
enough.
•
But it fell heavily now upon this
generous
young benefactor. His allowance, as I have
already said, was, as yet, very limited. Upon
his certain expectations he could have raised
far more money than was requisite to defray
every expense; but such things were not in
Edgar Huntingdon's disposition. And per-
haps it was well for him, while Cooper slept,
and early in the morning and late into
the night, to have to write for the maga-
zines which paid him best, that the poor
Spaniard might not want what he could no
longer work for, and the heavy doctor's bills
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
167
might be discharged. It was perhaps a
blessing sent wisely that he should thus learn
at some period of his life, the duty of drudg
ery, the heroism of hard work, the true
nobility of stern, unfavoured labour; for in
his private behoof he would never have
allowed that independent intellect to stoop.
But for the sake of others, who knew it not,
he slaved on mechanically, writing without
an author's sense of pleasure--that sweetest
of all rewards. Nor did it seem probable
that this state of affairs would soon cease,
for life and death appeared to have made
an armistice, and neither wholly claimed
Pampesterra. The beautiful Catalina at
last began to look paler, but managed to
maintain her spirits outwardly, with all a
woman's exclusive courage.
One afternoon, towards the end of April,
when Edgar sat writing in Pall Mall,

168
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Cooper, who had been now in a rambling,
now in a delirious state, for the last
fortnight, awoke quietly from a ten-hours'
sleep, and asked what day of the month
it was.
"The 24th of April," said Edgar.
"Is it? I don't remember anything since
the 9th-I think. Have I slept all this
time? How weak I feel!”
Edgar's eyes brightened at the voice of
returned consciousness. He rose, and ap-
proached the bed. "I dare say you do feel
weak. You have not been sleeping exactly
—you have been ill, and have talked sad
nonsense sometimes."
"You mean I have been delirious? But
I have had such a sweet sleep just now. I
was dreaming, I suppose: I was with her,
and I explained all, and we were married.
But—yes—I was dreaming."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
169
i
He had never spoken so calmly since that
wet, miserable day on which Edgar had
found him huddled over the fire in King's
Bench Walk, and had listened to his appall-
ing narrative. Slowly, but still markedly, he
now grew stronger, and it would seem, more
resigned. His voice was very low; his
movements strangely gentle; everything
about him was so subdued. But he would
listen to the news of the day; now, taking
an interest in the world without. Despite
his winter prophecy, he improved with the
sunny days.
About the middle of May, one bright
afternoon, two young men were driving in
an open carriage through Hyde Park: one
carefully wrapped up, even at this mild
season of the year, and wearing that inter-
esting look with which illness always
invests the handsome; the other with a
"
#

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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
perhaps yet paler countenance, yet on which
thought, not delicacy, had fixed its im-
press, adjusting, with even a woman's
care, the folds of his companion's multifa-
rious coverings, whenever they left the
invalid too much exposed to the almost
summer air.
"Lord Fairfort has quite made up his
mind. He has written to me himself, and
expressed the strongest desire to visit Afrel
and Glendover. I meet them on the
29th. I fancy Frank will be in town before
then."
Edgar had said so much about Afrel
that his friends at Fairfort Park were
determined, previously to their coming
up to town, which, from some whim of his
Lordship's, they never did till late in
the season, to visit this spot with him,
who so vaunted it, for their guide. Of
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171
course compliance was, on Edgar's part,
de rigueur. He had not, it is true, wished to
meet Miss Fairfort under such circum-
stances again so soon. Yet, after all, why
need he be alarmed? had he not fully con-
quered? Why, he had worked most dili-
gently, both for himself and for others,
during the five months which had elapsed
since he had last seen her; and he could say
honestly that of late she had not entered
into his daily thoughts save in the garb of a
maiden, gentle, beautiful, and thankfully
remembered. Was not his heart fully at
peace? And, moreover, what choice was
there? Absolutely none. "Bah!" said he,
"we shall have the pleasantest time of it:
and I will make Cooper go-Lord Fairfort
has written that he shall be delighted to see
any one I choose to bring; and I shall attend
to the poor fellow the whole time. So, there
1
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
will be no danger—and I certainly shall be
glad to see the dear girl again."
"One thing," Edgar continued to his
companion, "we have made up our minds
about-namely, that you are to be one of
the party; so discussion is useless. You
know you cannot resist bodily.
Cooper seemed almost gratified.
"You are all more than kind-and I will
do, Edgar, what you wish! But I shall be
a sad stumbling-block. Do not anticipate
any enjoyment."
"Oh, but I do-and you shall enjoy
also."
On the 28th of May, Pampesterra was
leaning on Edgar's arm in Regent's Park,
watching the bright glow of the setting sun.
"I shall not be away more than a week,"
said the young man.
Not more than a week? Indeed! I
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
173
think, Edgar Huntingdon, that four more
suns will see you not very distant from the
spot on which you now are standing!

174
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
CHAPTER IX.
"Where rose the mountains, there for him were friends."
Childe Harold.
As Edgar had anticipated, Frank came up
to town, and accompanied him and Cooper
on their journey. The rain fell in relentless
torrents all the way, and, luctabile dictu, was
still falling as, late in the evening, the tra-
vellers reached Afrel, where Lord Fairfort
and his daughter had already arrived. As
was natural, Edgar looked the portrait of
bitter disappointment; the young lady was
but little less dejected. His Lordship
laughed, and read the paper. Frank tried
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•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
175
in vain to be philosophical; poor Cooper
tried in vain to be otherwise. All that they
could do was to watch the mist creeping
stealthily along the rocks that rose upon
the hills like an army of war-and-weather-
beaten camps. At times, the White House,
the shrine of the famous Well, looked out
into the grey twilight, and was again buried
in the rolling clouds.
"Never mind, Mr. Huntingdon," said
Miss Fairfort encouragingly; "come what
will, I for one, will to-morrow discard fear
and umbrella, and bear the pelting of the
pitiless storm' as far as the White House."
(
"Bravo! nothing like bravery; but I do
pray yours may not be put to the proof."
""
With ejaculations of a similar nature,
they went to rest. About five o'clock the
next morning, Edgar woke. Did he dream?
Or-was not? Yes surely there was

176
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
sunshine on the curtains. He jumped up
hastily, threw on his dressing-gown, rushed
frantically to the window, and opened it on
as glorious a day as ever came up from
behind the Afrel hills. Upon the southern
slope before him, shone out the Well, daz-
zlingly white. The larks were just starting
upwards, trilling joyous matins to the morn.
He could hear the delighted music, nay, he
could see the tremulous sparkling of many
a mountain stream, as they bounded along
between their banks of heather. Another
sound, considerably less musical, arising
from the opening of an adjoining lattice,
grated on his ear; and Miss Fairfort, evi-
dently fancying herself the only one of the
party yet awake, and bent on the same
anxious errand as himself, her cloak thrown
over her shoulders, and her long hair falling
in a happy negligence that defies all the
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
177
competition of more studious art, looked out.
They had stumbled on each other too fairly
for either to beat an absurd retreat; so, with
congratulations on the good auspices of the
glorious sunrise, and mutual assurances,
accompanied with the most uncontrollable
merriment, that they had never seen each
other to such striking personal advantage,
they closed their windows, and perhaps
slept, and perhaps didn't.
The general meeting at breakfast was
much more satisfactory than the forced
hopes of the preceding evening. Even
Cooper appeared interested, and submitted,
with a good grace, to being mounted on a
mule, and made to join in the wanderings
of the day. The scene has already been
described. It was here, as you, dear reader,
well remember, that you made the first
acquaintance with my hero; but it was new
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
to all, except to him. As they halted at
the Well, and looked down upon the wide
fertile valley below, all declared that. they
were already repaid for their journey. Poor
Cooper stretched out his arms, as though he
would embrace new vigour from that soft,
but bracing air; his face lighting up, as it
had not done for nearly a long dreary year.
Miss Fairfort was particularly attentive to
him, walking by his side as they pushed on
to the moors above, making constant kind
enquiries, and, though she did not know his
sad history, manifesting the finest sympathy
for his melancholy, lost look. When they
reached the highest point upon the moors,
Cooper was the first to speak-
"It is well worth while living a whole
year in a dungeon of a city, to feel what I,
at least, feel now."
It was the first spontaneous remark, be-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
179
yond daily commonplace converse, that he
had made for months. Oh! how sincerely
Edgar breathed a silent thanksgiving to
Heaven for this healthful sign. And, oh!
how pure the prayer went up from the
uncontaminated altar of the hills! As they
returned through the village, Miss Fairfort
remarked, that almost every man touched
his hat, every girl had a curtsey, every boy
a nod, every woman a smile, for Edgar
Huntingdon.
"You seem to be well known here, and
respected," she added.
"Yes, I am pretty well known. My
oldest friend is one of the Afrel villagers.
May I introduce you ?"
If, dear reader, you do not know to whom
the young man referred, I think you treat
me but indifferently.
He led the way
up to the green mound below the church,
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
4%
and knocked at the door of Betty Nest-
field.
"Eh! is it ye, bairn ?" exclaimed the old
dame; "I'm so glad to see ye, but”—in a
whisper-" that isn't yer sister, is it?"
"No, Betty; this is Miss Fairfort—a
daughter," he added out of mischief, trying
what effect a sound that has a marvellous
magic for most people, would have on the
old villager—" a daughter of Lord Fair-
fort."
Her simplicity was no wise disturbed by
the announcement, nor by Miss Fairfort's
extended hand. She only said, honestly,
"I'm sure it's very good o' Miss Fairfort
coming to see us poor folk, and I'm glad to
see her; I thought it warn't yer sister.”
"You have known Mr. Huntingdon a long
time, have yoù not, Mrs. Nestfield ?” asked
the young lady.
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
181
"Ay, honey! I have that. I remember
him when he war a very little un, and he
war t' nicest lad that iver came to Afrel, he
war, though I say it that he's been kind to.
We've had a wedding," she continued, in
her garrulous way, "i't' old church this
forenoon, and they would have me for a
witness and sich like an old thing like me.'
""
"Indeed!" said Edgar, "which of the
good Afrel people have been getting
married ?"
"Nay, it war none o' our folk; strangers
like, and grand uns, as it might be ye two
bairns," said Betty, innocently, "only not
so bonnie as ye, quite. She war a fair lass,
though, but took on a good deal; but I
suppose it's way wi' 'em all. They're gone
honeymooning like. I thought o' my poor
Nestfield, and our being wed, fifty-seven
year come August."
;
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
182
And she went on talking as she had so
often talked to Edgar before, whilst Miss
Fairfort listened to the old woman's kindly
recollections of her "good man" that was
gone. Jessie was asked for at Edgar's whis-
pered suggestion. The favourite donkey's
history was fully gone through, and Miss
Fairfort, gently patting the creature that,
next to Edgar Huntingdon, occupied perhaps
the first place in Betty's affections, stipulated
that, should she want a ride, Jessie was to
carry her. The old lady was delighted; and
she never forgot the "bonnie lass wi' the
blue eyes that war so kind to her good man's
Jessie."
The afternoon was spent in rest, well-
earned by the morning's exertions on the
hills. The day closed clear and peacefully;
a single star, that had stolen a march upon
the night, even as the sun departed, already
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
183
shone out, heralding the moon.
At last she
came, halting on the extreme ridge of the
eastern hill, as if to gaze upon her realms,
and then mounting to her high-canopied and
myriad-jewelled throne. It was such a
night as that on which Edgar had stood
upon Afrel bridge previously to plunging,
on the morrow, into the turmoil of the world.
To this spot did he lead Miss Fairfort, fol-
lowed by Frank and Cooper.
"I was here," said Edgar to his com-
panion, "eighteen months ago, the scene
differing in nothing from the present one,
save that I was alone. There was the same
garrulous river, the same moon, the same
purple on the hills. It was here I framed
finally my resolution to struggle to achieve
some success, and effect some good. The
same church-tower which we see now, lay
there in the quiet night, and I prayed that,
TH

184
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
like it, my aims, though pointing loftily
upwards, might ever seem to point to
Heaven. Standing here again, I cannot
avoid the question-so far, has the prayer
been heard ?"
"I have been told," said Miss Fairfort,
apparently changing the subject, "that you
have watched many days and many nights
by Mr. Cooper's bed-side during his illness.
Is it true?"
"Yes. Who told you?"
"He did, this morning."
"Well?" enquired Edgar.
"This is my conclusion, Mr. Huntingdon.
He who, though so ambitious as I know you
to be, can step aside for a time from his fond
purpose at the call of sad human nature,
must have motives pure indeed. I think
your prayer was heard."
"That I am very ambitious, I acknow-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
185
ledge," he replied. "But I should lose my
own esteem, much less should I think of
seeking yours, if I preferred the high-flown
efforts for renown to the performance of a
more humble but more pertinent duty. Is
it not better to discontinue the journey, and
stay to pour oil into the wounds of one who
has indeed fallen into the hands of robbers.
Poor Horace! We know not, Miss Fairfort,
when our turn may come.'
"Nay," she answered, taking his proffered
arm, "we will not be melancholy to-night,
despite the moon. Shall we walk by the
river side? Every blade of grass is dis-
tinguishable."
"I should be a safe guide here on the
darkest night: this spot was my nur-
sery."
"Indeed! few are so fortunate. How the
ripples fret against the stones, just below the

186
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
bridge; putting themselves, like children,
quite out of breath with it."
"A pretty fancy; they seem to be aware
that they are getting nearer to the turbid
towns, so they try to leap back, unwilling
to leave the sweet meadows they have jour-
neyed through this bright summer day."
Yes," said Miss Fairfort; "they do try
to leap back. I never noticed that before;
they have no ambition."
"They have no souls, Miss Fairfort. All
they have to do is to make sweet, unconscious
music, to be soothing, and performing their
gentle office, even without knowing it-I
was going to say, as you do."
"I wish I could do even that," answered
the beautiful girl," could even imitate
those puny waves. And yet, how much
grander to rush on to the mighty ocean, and
be a part of it, helping to bear its wondrous
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
187
freights, its glorious burdens. I cannot
understand a man not being ambitious."
Shine on, O moon! Deepen, deepen, thou
purple on the far unconscious hills; stay not
thy babble, simple river, though these young
and tender souls talk thus-thus fancifully.
Well-a-day! Love alone grows not old.
But circumstance will not-will not die, and
tyrannizes yet. Crouch low, thou stealthy
passion, in the poet's heart-crouch low,
crouch low! He speaks:
"Frank and Horace are on the bridge.
Shall we join them ?"
F

188
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
CHAPTER X.
"The passion of a moment came
As on the wings of years."-WORDSWORTH.
"And, what is more,
I'm loved by Hermia.”
Midsummer Night's Dream.
ANOTHER morning broke, a worthy rival
of its predecessor. The party started im-
mediately after breakfast for Glendover; a
letter having forewarned the good landlady of
the Glendover Arms of the intended invasion
of her worthy hostelry. The road ran along
the river the whole five miles, the edges
thick with wild roses and luxuriant May in
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
189
their very prime. The dew was yet on
the rich side-slopes; the morning carollers
had not yet completed their protracted
orisons ; the Afrel hills smiled kindly
approbation on the summer scene. Each
eye followed Edgar's, as he rose in the
carriage and pointed through the trees to a
long, white stuccoed house, over whose side
innumerable creepers clambered. This was
the Glendover Arms, at whose threshhold
they soon alighted. Here they rested till
one o'clock, in deference to his Lordship's
wishes, and poor Cooper's debility. At last,
they started for the Abbey. They passed
along the garden, whose walks were almost
choked up with vagrant flowers, across a
broad meadow that sloped down to the Scarf,
turned a projection of rock, down which
tumbled the well-known waterfall, and the
Abbey was before them. Shattered oriel,
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
and leaning arch whose symmetry was well
nigh gone; turret, moss-grown and crum-
bling; pillars which supported nothing; rifled
altar, and pillaged sanctuary,-all were be-
fore them-wrecks, splendid and haughty yet:
"To which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower."
"This—this is the spot," exclaimed Miss
Fairfort enthusiastically, "which I have
long sought. Surely it was here that the
Peri caught the penitent's falling tear, which
reopened the gates of Paradise!"
"And here," added her father, who had a
truly English taste for Goldsmith, "that
Angelina met her long-lost love, and asked
the gentle hermit of the vale to guide her
lonely way."
Edgar turned to Cooper—
"What think you, Horace?"
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
191
"I know not if tears ever open the gates
of Paradise; but this is a spot where a peni-
tent might well shed them."
"And you, sir," said Miss Fairfort, turn-
ing to her brother, who had sat himself down
upon a broken column.
"If I may hazard a conjecture, I should
say that it is the scene of Thomson's 'Castle
of Indolence.'
"O Frank! it is a shame to introduce your
affected indifference into such a scene. Do
you not see that it is a sort of desecration?
Can you not imagine the monk in the ‘Golden
Legend,' sitting at that window, with the
Gospel of St. John before him, watching
the swallow on her nest beneath the
eaves, and sketching from it the illuminated
letter which commences the sacred name of
God? Why do they sneer at those devoted
men ? "
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
ཝཾ
"Why, indeed, Annette!" said his Lord-
ship, whose disposition was a reverent one,
and who was too well acquainted with history
to be a bigot; "to call them idle is to call
oneself ignorant. With all our boasted ad-
vance, our mechanical contrivances, and our
undoubted energy, we build neither so artis-
tically nor so durably as the men who erected
this and many similar structures ?”
"Do you not think, my Lord," suggested
Edgar, "that it is because we are not ani-
mated by the same motives? Faith-intense
faith-and a zeal burning for the glory of
God, raised this pile, noble in its worst
desolation. Perhaps not a single stone was
laid without the thought in whose honour it
was placed there. And the architects were
the workmen also; the same men were at
once the carvers and the priests of the
sanctuary. The hands of nobles, and not
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
193
unoften of kings who had put aside
jewelled crowns, laid together this solid
masonry."
"Ah, yes!" said Frank; "when his
majesty carried the hod, and my lord mixed
the mortar, and the masons did not swear
over their work, nor fuddle themselves over
hydromel and sack, and never struck for
three bits of lead more apiece,-when the
head architect never quarrelled with the
head ventilator, and supplementary estimates
were not yet invented, there was some chance
for a building but now!"
you,
"There is a much better chance for
now," said his sister; "it is well for you
you were not born in those days; you would
have had to starve."
"I am astonished, Annette, at your want
of historical accuracy! I was under the
impression that these monks of yours sup-
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
ported all the poor idlers of the neighbour-
hood."
1
They journeyed on through the woods,
often turning round to catch a glimpse of the
ruin through the occasional breaks in the
trees, and at the fantastic windings of the
silvery Scarf.
A dull, heavy, monotonous
sound announced their approach toward the
Leap. The river moved on slowly and pain-
fully, long streams of grey froth floating on
its surface. The ground grew rougher at
every step, the noise louder-louder; then
nothing but slippery rock, a deafening up-
roar, and there was the Leap. Immediately
above, the river, opposed by huge blocks of
natural masonry, was as narrow as a moun-
tain stream, as though it had gathered itself
up for the desperate dash. It came on,
quickening its pace as it neared the ledge,
a confined but swollen mass. It took the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
195
terrific leap, and it conquered, and it raised
a triumphant shout, flinging its scornful
spray
into the bewildered air; and it foamed
and panted with the fearful effort then went
its way more calmly on, dashing the froth
from its breast, a splendid victor!
"Does it not," said Edgar, "seem like a
great man exulting in the prowess of his
strength and intellect, laughing defiantly at
the world, breasting its mighty opposition,
recoiling for a while that he may break
through the barriers with all his collected
force, then taking the desperate bound, and
vanquishing,—filling the universe with a
majestic pæan, and going on his way calm,
sublime, and long-remembered ?"
"And must all," asked Cooper mourn-
fully, "who have not such strength, perish?"
"Yes, all who throw down the gauntlet,
and bid the world to pick it up!"
!
0 2
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FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"6
Then," said Miss Fairfort, "it will be by
their own choice?"
"Generally, but I think not always. There
are some men whose simple existence is such
a defiant manifestation of gladiatorial power,
and who march onward with such exulting,
even if unconscious strength, that the world
grows jealous of their usurping that might
which it arrogates to itself alone, and tries
to stem their course. It grew thus jealous
of poor Chatterton, and it crushed him. It
grew thus jealous of Byron, and he laughed
aloud, and took the giant leap, and went his
scornful way."
"It is very, very noble," said Miss Fair-
fort; "they who can do this, are to be gazed
at, wondered at-they are demigods! But,
Mr. Huntingdon, are they to be envied? To
use the sweet idea of that intellectual athlete,
whom you have mentioned, I would rather
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
197
be a pettish mountain stream, and run and
have my tears kissed away on the breast of
my soothing mother lake. This, rather
this, a thousand times!"
66
"Yes," added Frank, adopting his sister's
tone. This, rather this, to be a village
brook and end in a gutter!”
"This, rather this," said Cooper also ;
"and conclude life with a garden-chair and
a posset!"
Edgar answered nothing; it was the first
time Miss Fairfort had so strikingly differed
from him. But everybody's meditations,
whatever they were, were summarily invaded
by luncheon being announced as ready in a
choice open spot within sound of the Leap.
It was half-past five before they again started
forward. An almost circular drive of some
eight miles, through wood upon wood,
brought them to the summit of the loftiest
198
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
A
eminence in that extensive range of hills,
about a mile from the Glendover Arms. The
sun was setting upon a scene that seemed
conjured up by a wizard power. Every foot
of ground they had travelled over that day
lay visible beneath them. There, rose Afrel
Church-there, the Well, on the southern
hill-there, a narrow broad line, the road
they had come along in the early morning.
They turned their eyes westwards; and still
the river, and the woods, and the hills
stretched far away-a splendid brotherhood
of pride and beauty. And over them the
sun outspread his beneficent hands, and
blessed them ere he went his way. Long
did they gaze; and my hero, with his fair
companion, was still riveted to the spot
when the rest had descended. The sun sank
lower-lower; one purple cloud surmounting
it, the only one upon the vast horizon. The
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
199
remaining expanse of sky seemed trans-
parent; and they gazed as if with momentary
expectation of seeing the veil roll up, and
angels in the heaven beyond ascending and
descending upon golden wings. Scattered
far and wide, shone molten stars, fallen ema-
nations, but burning brightly still, from the
throne of Eternal light. One took shape as
it were of a chalice, lifted up for mercy and
atonement! Another moment, and the sun
touched the outline of the farthermost hill.
Both had long been silent; Miss Fairfort
was the first to speak
"If we were told that yonder sun was set-
ting for the last time,-that the earth would
still go its weary round, but that its bright
day-star must be extinguished, and that we
must take our final gaze of its departing
glory, I wonder what would be our agony,
our despair ?”

200
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"It would realize my idea," said Edgar
solemnly, "of a terrible after-world!"
"You are very generous," she answered,
smiling, "to discover a reply to my ab-
surdity; I was wandering, and thought
aloud. It is so foolish to conjure up im-
possibilities."
"Miss Fairfort, what you have uttered
is no impossibility. If you have spoken
what to you has no meaning, you have
strangely translated my thoughts. Listen
to me!"—and his face, turning from the de-
parting orb, flashed full upon hers as he
spoke. "To me, you-you are that sun;
I hang upon your radiance; I live only in
your light; if you set, I am desolate. The
world will still go its weary round, and I
with it. I know what I hazard now, for
you have described it. Tell me tell me-
is my day-star about to set, and for ever-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
201
more? I know I have nothing, nothing to
offer you;
a poet—can you, will you accept them ?"
I have but the love and future of
The sun had half disappeared; the west
was a mass of burnished gold; nature seemed
to pause, with that impassioned lover's lips,
to listen to the answer of his fair adored
one! Her head had fallen on her bosom,
which heaved with an emotion yet unuttered,
and as if unutterable. When she spoke, it
was in a low, measured voice.
"Pardon my silence," she said. "It is
not easy to speak. I had not-believe me,
I had never anticipated this." She raised
her head now; tears were hastening to her
eyes. Again her beautiful lips parted, and
she spoke more rapidly. "Accept them?
Oh! who could know you, your noble gene-
rosity, your unselfish heart, your pure am-
bition, and refuse them?” He trembled

|
202
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
towards her, with outstretched hands and
glowing eyes; he touched her form. "I
loved you," she continued, "at our second
meeting. I never"-and the tears came
faster as she said it-"never, never thought
I should tell you this!"
It was his heart now that was too full for
utterance; but he put his gentle arms around
her, fondly folding her to his breast, which
should be hers-her thrice-blest sanctuary,
her shelter, her only home, through all the
perils of this rough and troublous world.
Unresistingly she leaned upon that heart.
which she knew would be her stay hence-
forth and for ever. She did not hide her
blushing face she could look into his eyes.
now and feel no shame that they gazed only
upon her. The sun sank peacefully behind
the hills, solitary witness of that first fond
embrace.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
203
+
: ་
"O Annette!" he at last exclaimed,
"that I should have deferred such bliss as
this! As I love you, I thought my sun
would set this day. Annette, Annette, is it
so that you love me? But, darling, knew
you not how I worshipped you? How did
you not expect this ?”
(6
Ah, Edgar! you say you loved me, and
yet you knew not what I felt for
you;
and
yet, oh, how I have treasured your every
look and word! Was not concealment pos-
sible to both? I thought I had never seen
the woman worthy to win and retain your
heart. Dear one, I think so still-and so I
never hoped."
He bent over her sweet face, taking as
his lordly right that first kiss that never
comes but once, that baptism of love, that
rapture of a life! How he encircled her
within his sheltering arms, as though he
1
204
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
would have kept her to himself alone, and
would not have anyone in the wide world
beside approach the treasure of his love!
And yet he smiled.
"Indeed, my pretty one, I will try to
become what you fancy I already am. It
seems so cold to say I will live for you, die
for you, when of course I will; but when
you know more of this heart of mine, much
that appears gold will prove but tinsel.”
"No, Edgar, no," she answered, placing
her beautiful hand upon his lips, as though
she would not let him speak such heresy;
"indeed it will not be so.
As I know you
more I almost fear I shall half repent my
presumption in consenting to even worship
at such a shrine. You must teach me what
you will: I will try to learn to cherish you
as I ought."
"Darling, you will need no teaching.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
205
But do you remember what you said at the
Leap to-day about defiant ambition? It was
the only time you ever tortured me."
"Pardon me, Edgar, pardon me; but I
remembered also what you said seven months
ago that poets are by nature gentle, but
that they want for a companion a woman
who will reverence their talents, and think
there is none like them. I am sure-and it
is no woman's fancy-there is no one on
earth like you. I love you, you only more,
if I may say it (for you said that poets
required this) even than you love me; so I
am comforted. To use your own dear words,
I will be your satellite, moving only in your
orbit, and so you shall never be the gentle
poet transformed into a tiger, facing the
world and daring it to the struggle. Oh! if
I were to be of the women you cursed!
What a responsibility! yet-
""
206
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
"Yet, sweet one, you accept it?”
"Yes, yes, Edgar, I accept it."
Surely this beautiful girl said truly that
she loved him even more than he loved her.
He marvelled to hear her quoting sentences
of his, which he was able to recall as she
uttered them, but which, otherwise, he had
long since forgotten.
1
"How you remember everything! But
I was not such an egotist as to speak those
words of myself."
"Did you not?" she asked with simple
astonishment, for she had even then persisted
in thinking him a poet. "I thought you
did-I had no doubt of it."
"But if you loved me then, dear Annette,”
he urged, "and suspected not my feeling,
how could you bear to talk to me as you did,
taking such generous interest in my future?"
"Ah! that is a woman's secret, which
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
207
1.
she can never explain. I cannot show it to
you; but, love you, though I did, and pas-
sionately, I was not unhappy-I was at
peace. I had never encouraged-do you
understand me?-my natural fondness for
you. I had said to myself that it would be
useless-would be wrong-and no one would
ever know it. It is different when you know
-when you have been told-that you are
loved. Then-oh! then-
"Well, dearest ?"
"Then you feel as I feel now; but I can-
not utter it. But you never showed me that
you loved me."
"I dare say not. Nay, I tried hard,
Annette-very, very hard-to hide my feel-
ings-even to conquer them. Last Christ-
mas I left Fairfort, because I feared I could
not conquer while in your presence. At last
I half fancied that I was victor. But when
208
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
I saw you again, the other night, at Afrel,
I found out how utterly I had been mis-
taken. I loved you more-more than ever
-even, dearest, as I love you now."
"But, why," she asked seriously, "did
you try to conquer it? Did you fear we
should not be happy ?"
"Do not be angry with me," he said, half
smilingly. "But-but you know-I thought
Lord Fairfort would-would not see in me
one quite worthy of his daughter."
"Oh," she answered eagerly, "how
wrong of you! Papa is always praising you
to everybody. There is no one of whom he
thinks so highly. Was that your only
reason?"
66
'The only one, indeed. But I was think-
ing, long and late, last night about this, and,
I confess, closed my eyes irresolute and un-
decided; but it struck me that Lord Fairfort
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
209
would not have bestowed upon me such
signal proofs of esteem and liking, and even
planned this expedition, if he had so strong
an objection as I owned, and own still, he has
a right to have. Nay, do not stay me, little
tyrant! Had I resolved to speak to you this
day, I probably should not, as yet, have
spoken. It is useless to plan. I do not
believe in Fate, therefore it must have been
Providence that prompted the avowal I
made, as the sun set, which has transformed
my being, and won for me the treasure of
your heart."
All fear, all doubt, was past. Whenever
their eyes met—and it was very often-they
read, mutually, all that was within; and
that all was Love-boundless, exclusive, in-
expressible Love. They went over all their
many former conversations, comparing their
then meaning with what they seemed to
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210
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
2
mean now, making clear what was half dim
before; and one thing, above all, was plain
-that they had always loved each other.
Yes, even from before the night of the 14th
of June, when they had held their first ro-
mantic converse; and if they were silent for
a while, they were thinking one of the other.
Once, when Edgar was
apparently absent, she
gently, and said—
both silent, and
pressed his arm
"What is it, Edgar? You are anxious
about something. Tell me."
"No, darling, I am not anxious; but I
was looking into the future. I do not, for
ten months, come into my property-
"Hush!"
22
"It is not quite £2,000 a year, so
that-
""
"Do not let us talk of that," she said,
with sweet simplicity. "I am sure we can
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
211
2
never be better than we are now. I shall
never love you better. Your plans are mine.
There are some things on which to consult
me is to doubt my love, and that you will
never do."
And thus they walked homewards in the
soft evening twilight, clasping each other's
hands with a thoughtless familiarity, as if
they had done so always. O wonder-
working miracle of Love! A word is spoken,
and a new world flashes into being.
Tender, purest maidenhood, harbouring
chaste thoughts with jealous care, that, a
moment ago, would have loosed the hand
which was too freely pressed, trembles not,
starts not, shrinks not from-nay, rushes to
divide the passionate embrace and the
wildest kiss. O Love! how wondrously
pure thou needs must be! Time, at thy word
alone, relents. We may know each other
UorM
P 2
212
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
from the cradle upwards; but not all our
conversations, from the first lisp to the final
sigh, annihilate restraint like that one wizard
moment when we say, we love!
As they walked across the meadow to-
wards the Glendover Arms, they could see
Frank standing in the garden, evidently
awaiting their approach. As the wicker-
gate was opened by him to receive them,
Annette ran hastily to the house, to prepare,
she said, for tea, which could be seen spread
out upon the table within. Edgar linked
his arm in that of his friend, and in the
flower-tangled walks, told his successful
love. He had never feared to meet from
Frank anything but the fondest approval;
nor was he disappointed. His darling's
brother blessed the day, and the setting
sun, which had thus united the two beings
whom he cared for most on earth; and the
Mau
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
213
17
roses, and the wandering honeysuckle,
breathed forth, in answer to the dew, their
sweet pleasure and benign consent. And
even the poet's world grew more intensely
beautiful in the halo of the summer gloam-
ing and the tremulous light of beautified
Love!
The evening wore away as with an unna-
tural quietness. It was well that they all
sat talking in the twilight; no one asked
for lights. His Lordship was dozing; Ho-
race Cooper loved to grieve in darkness;
Frank knew well enough what the newly-
betrothed would prefer. At nine o'clock
Miss Fairfort pleaded fatigue, and retired;
Edgar shortly accompanying Cooper, as was
his wont, to his chamber.
"Would you be surprised," he asked, "to
hear that I am engaged to Miss Fairfort ?"
“No-surely not. I have watched with
214
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
an interest that has almost renewed my
youth the quiet love-essays between you?
Tell me, Edgar, do you sincerely love her?
I think I could live again in the reflection
of your happiness. I am sure she loves
you."
66 She has told me so, on Glendover Mount;
where, in the sunset, I avowed what I could
no longer conceal. She confessed that she
loved me at our second meeting."
Cooper did not express the astonishment
his companion expected: on the contrary.
"Of course," he answered; "how could
she but love you?
you? Had you been a
woman you would either have won or
broken my heart; as it is, you soothe it.
If I happened to love Miss Fairfort, I should
no more attempt to rival you than, in my
present state, to wrestle with you. I have
never spoken my gratitude and love towards
·
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
215
you, and speak it I never shall; for simply,
Edgar, all language fails me. But let me
say this-if you are happy with Miss Fair-
fort, I shall begin to be contented without-
Mary Linwood! "
What could he say in reply? He did
not take as a just estimate the opinion of
grateful affection; but he could not avoid
the sweet sensations of being thus belauded,
even though he knew the praise was so
wildly overlaid. Oh, how glorious seemed
life! What marvellous transformation had
Hitherto he
thus compassed him round.
had written what he had thought was poesy;
but now he lived in a poet's land, whose
veritable visions outdid the gorgeous day-
dreams of truth-contemning fabulousness.
And this bewitching feeling found-nay,
desired-no vent in words. Ah! were we
always happy, the world would lose its

216
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
-
singers. To be eloquent, one must needs.
be sometimes sad.
Again, in the secluded flower-walks he
talked to Frank of his past, his present, and
more than all, his future. At last he said,
((
Enough, then; let us go to your father."
Lord Fairfort had just laid down the
Times of the preceding day, and was
about to comment upon some item of intel-
ligence, when Edgar said, "I have come to
speak to you, my Lord, on a subject of some
importance; but, unless you wish it, Frank
can be present."
"Yes-eh ?-yes, Mr. Huntingdon; cer-
tainly," answered his Lordship, somewhat
confused, but all attention; "Certainly-
speak-yes."
"Not to delay your Lordship, then,"
said Edgar, "I come to ask your approval
of an affection I have for some time enter-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
217
tained, and this day expressed, for Miss
Fairfort."
Lord Fairfort seemed either so absolutely
amazed, or bewildered, or both, that he
could scarcely put together two consecutive
words.
"Do I-surely no-understand you-Mr.
Huntingdon-do I—you don't—er—under-
stand you that you have-have proposed to
-to Annette ?"
"Yes, my Lord—that is what I—what I
would say."
""
"But, Mr. Huntingdon," added Lord
Fairfort, gradually recovering his self-
possession, "Am I—am I
Am I—am I wrong—I believe
I am not-you will pardon me, I am sure,
for going into this matter-am I wrong in
believing that you are not what is called in
a position to-to marry, which, I take it, is
the object a man has in view when he—
፡
218
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
when he proposes for a young lady's
hand."
((
'Certainly, my Lord! About this posi-
tion your Lordship must be the only judge.
I confess I am not blessed with a fortune
similar to that of many whom I fear you
will consider and I cannot deny it-are
more fitted to aspire to Miss Fairfort than I
am. Simply, in ten months, I shall have
at my own disposal a fortune of about
£2,000 a year." His Lordship jumped up
as in amazement. "At present, I have
scarcely £300."
"Good God! Did you know this, sir ?”
asked Lord Fairfort, turning to his son;
"did you know that this that Mr.
Huntingdon was in the almost immediate
possession of the income he mentions ?"
"Certainly," answered Frank.
always aware of it."
"I was
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
219
4
"I wish your judgment, sir, were equal
to your
information and your nonchalance !"
answered his father angrily. Then, turning
to Edgar, he continued with assumed calm-
ness, but with a face deadly pale, and a
manner strongly impressed with pain
"Pardon me, Mr. Huntingdon, if I have
not been over-courteous. I thought you
had done me an injury; I find, on the other
hand, I have, though unintentionally, in-
flicted one on you. I owe you this explan-
ation. I pledge you my word of honour
that I had not the faintest idea you were
heir to such a property as you mention. I
am not in the habit of inquiring into other
people's affairs when I have no reason to
suppose that they concern me. I saw you, an
orphan and of full age, living in a style that,
if I gave it a passing thought, I must have
guessed to be supported by about the sum
220
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
you mention, £300 a year.
That you
had anything further, I never heard-I
never supposed. You were spoken of as my
son's friend-I saw you-I liked you-par-
don me, Mr. Huntingdon-I like you still.
£2,000 a year, if you will allow me to say
it, is a gentleman's fortune, doubtless; but
still scarcely one which I am justified in
expecting the husband of my daughter to
possess. I do not-I cannot-blame you;
I thought you in possession of an income
just sufficient to support yourself in the
expensive and honourable profession you
have adopted; and I doubted not, neither do
I doubt now, that your talents will bring you
eventually that wealth which, though the
least, is one of the rewards of success. But
I knew that such wealth would not be yours
for many years-certainly not till long after
my remaining daughter was-if she ever
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
221
were to be-settled in life. Had I been
aware of the existence of the fortune which
I now am assured is yours, I would never
have acted as unfortunately I have done. I
have misled you, no doubt; unwittingly, but
still I have misled you. I have allowed you
the freest intercourse with Annette; you
were justified in supposing that I could
have no objection to a possible union which
I took so little trouble to prevent; nay,
which I have no doubt the world will say
so-I took so much trouble to bring about.
I am at least glad to find that I cannot
blame you.
"You have left me, my Lord," answered
Edgar, with emotion he took no pains to
conceal, "but little to add. I may perhaps
say that I all along thought myself not the
peer of your daughter, or I should have told
her my love six months ago. Your Lordship's
222
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
conduct did mislead me; still, no fault was
yours. It has been a sad, sad mistake; for
if I do not misinterpret you, you disapprove
the affection which I fear I have gained, and
most certainly have bestowed."
"Then I am to understand that Annette
has heard from you what you have ex-
pressed to me, and—and-
""
"And has accepted my love, subject to
your Lordship's consent."
you
"Well, I suppose I must be patient.
Were I to upbraid you, Mr. Huntingdon, I
should only be still more unjust to you. But
I must be straightforward. Under what
properly call a sad mistake, I permitted an
intimacy between you and my daughter,
which has ended thus. I consider it my
duty to tell you, however, that I cannot
accept your offer, or endorse the so-easily
obtained consent of my daughter. There are
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
223
distinctions in this world-social distinctions
-stupid ones, I dare say, but still they ex-
ist, and cannot be avoided."
“Then you refuse that approval, without
which neither my offer nor Miss Fairfort's
acceptance, be assured, my Lord, will be
acted upon ?”
"Yes, Mr. Hungtingdon, I do refuse it;
that is exactly my meaning."
"I suppose, then, my Lord, all I have to
do is to depart ?”
"In that you must be your own guide.
I do not quite see the necessity, though per-
haps it would be the wiser course." Edgar
turned to the door. "Nay, Mr. Huntingdon,
let us part in peace.”
"In peace ?" said Edgar bitterly, and
mechanically repeating the words. "Yes,
my Lord; certainly in peace. Had I no
higher principles, my love-esteem, I would
-
224
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
!
.7
say, for your daughter would make me de-
part in peace."
And Lord Fairfort was alone.
Cooper
heard his door open gently, and a voice
whisper, "Horace! are you awake?”
"Yes; come in. I have been thinking
of you."
At these words, Edgar hesitated, and felt
inclined only to say "Good night," and de-
part, with the misery untold. However, he
entered, and closed the door.
"Be calm, Horace.'
"Yes, yes; but why?”
"I have something to tell you; but you
must not be excited."
"Good God, Edgar! you are as pale as
this sheet. Speak, what is it ?"
"Lord Fairfort has refused his consent,
and-I am going."
Cooper sank back in his bed, and covered
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
225
up
his face. When he again sat up, he said,
in the old deep tone which had left him for
some time-
"Has the curse fallen upon you?-you
that have never wandered? Am I dream-
ing?" And he rubbed his deep-sunken eyes.
"It is no dream, Horace. I am going
away to-night-directly. Frank will ac-
company you to town, where we shall again
meet. Good-bye."
But Cooper held his hand firmly, speaking
in a half-musing tone, as though he were
alone.
"That I should have repined, and won-
dered that my life was ruined, and my heart
broken! He suffers, who has never sinned!
Impossible! O God! see my faith, for I
understand nothing!"
He relaxed his grasp, and fell back upon
the pillow. Edgar bent over him, saw that
VOL. I.
Q
226
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
•
it was only grief which shook him so,
and crept gently out of the room. Frank
was standing at the hall-door, with a knap-
sack in his hand.
"I have put in the things you mentioned.
There will that do?
I did not expect this.
Is it fast? Ah me!
But I will trust to
Time and that Something which rights every-
body in the end."
"You have been too fond of me; you have
all over-rated and spoiled me. I wish I had
never called in Piccadilly. Another will be
miserable now; that is the worst. I submit.
Good-bye. Tell her all."
And the retreating figure crossed the
bridge, and was lost in the distance. He
strode on through the woods, and meadows,
and lanes towards Afrel, on the opposite
bank of the river to that along which, in the
happy morning, he had ridden with hope
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
227
?
and her by his side. He seemed to hold no
converse with himself, to harbour no thoughts,
to cherish no regrets, to feel only the desire
to leave Glendover far, far behind him. The
moon looked at him from over the trees;
three hours ago the sun had set on-let us
forget it.
On! The dew shaken by the wanton
night-breeze from the perfumed May in the
thick hedgerows sometimes fell upon his
burning cheeks, sometimes on his parched
and tenacious lips. He did not court
it, he did not shake it off, he did not
seem to heed it in any way. He came to
Afrel bridge, which he had to cross before
he could gain the high road, beyond the
village. He halted, and looked over. The
river was flowing on as before; ay, as it
was flowing last night, when he had gazed
upon it with her from whom he was flying
:
4
•
•
་
Q 2.
228
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
for ever. Quietly slept the hills, quietly
rose the solitary church-tower, quietly looked
down the moon upon him, and upon it all.
And he thought of the words which he had
uttered, and for which his dear companion
had gently chid him: "We know not when
our turn may come." On!
On! All were asleep
in Afrel. The village lay behind him, at
last the night too.
entered a large town.
shake off slumber.
The sun rose as he
It was beginning to
On through the half-
empty streets, up some stone steps, a whistle,
a jerk, and Edgar Huntingdon was on his way
to London.
}
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
229
:
CHAPTER XI.
"Ah me! from all that ever I could hear,
Did ever read in tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.
But... it was different in blood."
Midsummer Night's Dream.
She
LORD FAIRFORT had been sitting at break-
fast with his son for some time, in complete
silence, when his daughter entered.
looked round for Edgar, with evident but
bashful disappointment.
"Mr. Huntingdon is late this morning; I
wonder if he is unwell. He always prides
himself upon being down the first."
By
230
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"Mr. Huntingdon has gone," said his
Lordship.
"Oh, indeed! I am not astonished," she
replied, though I think she was very aston-
ished, and not a little mortified; "the Abbey
is so beautiful! Are we to join him there?"
"I mean to say, he has gone-gone away
-left Glendover."
"Left Glendover? What has called him
away so suddenly? Anything serious, papa?"
"No, Miss Fairfort; he has not been
called, neither was he sent away; but he has
gone-gone, because he did not find me so
anxious as you to step down from your posi-
tion—at least, mine. I refused my assent to
your absurd love-making; and I refuse it
now, and always will. And he has gone,
for anything I know, to the———— 99 His
Lordship had nearly said "devil," but he
checked himself, and added, "land's end."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
231
This petulant sentence showed most faith-
fully Lord Fairfort's present frame of mind.
Usually so courteous, however rarely affec-
tionate, to his daughter, he could not bring
himself, at this moment, to treat her feelings
with common delicacy. He was so annoyed
at his own error, so wounded at his daughter's
readiness to accept this boy, so vexed at
having but little to urge against him, he
thought the whole affair such arrant and ill-
judged nonsense, that he lost all patience,
and, it must be confessed, all decency. The
beautiful girl's eyes filled with tears as he
spoke, and she answered, in a tremulous but
indignant tone-
"You have refused my hand to the only
man on whom I can ever bestow my heart.
For the rest, receive a daughter's sub-
mission." And she hastened out of the
room.
232
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1.1
Lord Fairfort could endure it no longer.
"Damn it, sir,” he broke out to his son,
"I did not send you to college to pick up all
the rhyming adventurers you could meet.
Perhaps you think the house of Fairfort
wants a scribbler to sing its praises; it will
require it before long if its character descends
into your hands. I can get my epitaph
written more cheaply than by that fellow.
Poetry be damned! You'll introduce a
fiddler next."
There are few men who, when they have
committed an error, can be just, during its
consequences, toward their own family; and
Lord Fairfort was not one of them.
"And as for your sister, she has no more
sense than if she were Sappho."
Frank did not wish to make any reply, but
resolved at the first pause to leave the room,
-and a man cannot storm in this absurd
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
233
?
fashion for any great length of time, unless
he be interrupted by some one. Cooper was
not yet down. Frank sought him.
"Has Edgar gone?" was the first question.
66
Yes, he went last night. He walked.
He told you all, did he not ?"
"Yes, yes; I don't know how it is. I
have prayed to-night that I may not become
a sceptic. Everything seems so inexplicable.
I suffer, who deserve well to suffer. Hun-
tingdon suffers, who has always, I am sure,
been the almost perfect being he is now.
I bow my head, and wish to believe, but it
is very, very unintelligible, all of it; very,
very-poor Edgar! Did he ever tell you
my-my history ?"
"He never mentioned it but very vaguely,"
replied Frank.
"I can't tell you, then; and Edgar wont
be able now. Never mind; 'tis not worth
234
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
the telling. And Miss Fairfort, too—cursed,
all cursed!-all !"
The old way had returned in a single
night. Could it be otherwise? The arm
that had supported was now itself shattered;
no wonder that he again fell. They knocked
at Miss Fairfort's door, and entered. She
had been walking up and down the room,
maintaining a cruel calmness, her eyes brim-
ming with tears, which she would not per-
mit to trespass farther. Her cheeks were
suffused with an indignant shame, but her
lips were white with the endeavour to re-
press the current of her suffering. She
stopped as they entered. But when Frank
approached with extended hands, ignorant
of the part he had taken, and suspecting
he had but come to reconcile her to
her fate, she turned from him, and said
loftily—
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
235
"So he has gone, this adventurer, this
squire's son-the poet has gone his way;
and I must remember my position ?" She
raised her head with a queenly dignity..
"Thanks to my social position, I must wed
some empty fool with a splendid coronet to
cover his shallow brow. No, sir!" and her
arm, as she waved it, seemed rather the
sceptre of scorn than of love. "I will not
mate me thus for the broadest acres of the
dullest duke in England. Out on your pride
of birth and your flimsy heraldry! If Edgar
Huntingdon is not noble, there is nothing
lower than nobility. I would not care to
face the world penniless with such a man!
But he has gone!"
Cooper had stood with folded arms, his
head slightly bent, but his eyes had been
fixed on the disdainful speaker. He went
up to her gently; she did not repel him.
236
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
....
He took her hand, placing his unrestrainedly
on her shoulder.
"Miss Fairfort," he said softly; "he is
the best, wisest, purest being I ever knew.
I have loved, and lost; but I own she was
not his peer. Why he is thus punished,
divine I cannot.
Poor Edgar! Love him!
Yes, yes, it is nobler to love him hopelessly
than all else, shine the sun on them as it
may. Fear not he has often told it to me
-There is a God in heaven, and He will see
to it."
"Thank you, thank you!
thank you! Oh, yes, Mr.
Cooper, if papa only knew.
4
He is the
noblest, purest, best-so gentle, so generous.
Perhaps it is as well: no
him-at least, I am not.
one is worthy of
But I will love
Then we are
him; you love him, too?
friends, and shall always be so.
a disgrace to spurn him so!"
Oh, what
And she
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
237
covered her face, transfused with a sincere
and resistless shame.
Frank then told her of the part he had
taken; how he had stood and would
always stand-by Edgar; how he had
borne the brunt of their father's harsh
words; how he was sure Edgar would come
back some day, and their father would get
to know him, somehow, even as they knew
him; and how all would yet be right. The
affectionate girl kissed him tenderly, beg-
ging him to forgive her abrupt and unkind
injustice; thanking him, and saying how
strange it was that Lord Fairfort alone did
not know the extent of Edgar's worth—and
begging to be left alone, now. Then, for
the first time, came a torrent of tears. They
could be stayed no longer; and, in her soli-
tude, they fell fast and full. An hour she
thus spent in a paroxysm of sorrow-the
.
238
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
wildness of outraged hope. At last it left
her, and misery sank down to the bottom, a
dead weight; and the waters of customary
bearing closed over it. But it was there
still; unseen, though sometimes reflected;
heavy, obstructing, motionless.
That day they set off for London. From
Annette came no assent-no opposition. It
was all the same now to her whither they
went; and Glendover, with its majestic ruin,
its primeval woods, its river, and its sweet
sunshine, lay meditating, all alone, on what
it had witnessed but yesterday.
The sun is pretty high and powerful,
though the dials in the Temple point but to
half-past ten. Wigs over knit brows grow
plentiful in Lincoln's Inn, and gowns flutter
་
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
239
and tremble with the vast importance of their
legal wearers. Men do their best to look
thoughtful. Young bloods, persuading them-
selves and their governors (as the phrase is
with them) that they are killing themselves
by their bi-weekly attendance at lectures,
emerge from mysterious chambers, disporting
frantic pins and runaway scarfs. They have
a seedy look, as of tobacco-ashes and the lees
of port wine, and are off to Pim's to make
up
for the loss of the "sweet restorer, balmy
sleep," by copious indulgence in oysters and
potass-waters. Attorneys' clerks, more de-
plorably seedy, and in a sottish way of their
own, who have fuddled themselves, over
night, with half-and-half and strong shag at
Dr. Johnson's, trudge, slip-shod, up Bell
Yard, with greasy deeds under their arms, and
stop to compare notes with the inn-porters,
who, for some unknown reason, are ticketed,
..
240
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
as though there were a chance of their being
lost. But the sun has its own way most in
Temple Gardens, where Edgar Huntingdon
has been basking this hour and a half.
Trafalgar Square is astir, and Farrance's
and the Royal Academy divide the presence
of the carriages. Bills of fare at the one,
and catalogues at the other, are conned
knowingly. There is a great crowd, as usual,
round Maclise's length of canvas, with its
pretty, simpering, meaningless, girls' faces,
and its vividly-coloured draperies. A smaller,
but more select group, is gathered round
Stanfield's last. Edgar is one of them. Oh,
how he wishes that white, tossing spray were
rising to his lips. "Portrait of a Lady" is
the next. She has blue eyes, and brown
hair, and is very like—but he is closing
the catalogue. He goes down the steps, and
wanders anywhere.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
241
The day wears on. Piccadilly is very full.
Rotten Row and the Drive more crowded
still. People are leaning over the railings,
chatting familiarly and leisurely bow-
legged men, of the seat of the riders, and
the flesh on which they are mounted, and
tell marvellous equine stories; military cha-
racters, smart, moustached, and fierce, but
faded just a little, and smelling slightly of
Boulogne, poverty, and hells, discussing the
roses or the paint inside the passing, ever
passing, broughams; innocent lads of fifteen
or so, with the down on their cheeks, and
kindliness in their unspoiled hearts, be-
stowing some attention on the horses, but
admiring the maidens most; one thinking
that the girl in the grey habit is so like his
cousin Amy, "And you know, Jack, she's a
stunner, and I'm very fond of her." Edgar
has been leaning here some time—how long
VOL. I.
Ꭱ

242
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
I can't exactly say; he is going now. As
he wanders in the secluded avenues of Ken-
sington Gardens, he says, aloud, "Who
loves, raves-'tis youth's frenzy '-ah, how
true! Yes and 'the sad necessity of
loving!"" And is silent, as if submitting to
the inevitable fate. He is in Regent's Park,
and the sun is setting. He hears his name
pronounced—it is by Pampesterra.
Said I not so, Edgar Huntingdon? Four
suns only since you stood here! The same
spot; the same sun setting; the same com-
panion; the same heart, but broken!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
243
፡፡
CHAPTER XII.
"What will not woman dare?"-The Corsair.
'How is this?" asked Pampesterra, with
surprise;" you were to be away a week,
and you return thus unexpectedly. And
how ill you look!”
Edgar sat down on the bench beside him.
For some time he made no answer; he did
not like to speak of his sorrow.
said, “I suppose I must tell you.
heard me speak of Miss Fairfort ?"
At last he
You have
"Yes, often. You mean the sister of Mr.
Fairfort, who was at the University ?"
R 2
244
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"I never told you that I loved her. I
never told anyone, till I told her yesterday."
'Surely she has not rejected you?”
"No, no, unfortunately she has not: would
to God she had! She loves me. But her
father is opposed-strongly opposed to our
union. So it must not be and I came
away. I could not stay and see her, and
speak to her, oh, how differently!"
Edgar had thought that Pampesterra's
woe could gain, at least, no intensity. But,
utterly cast down as the exiled officer had
long seemed, his former look of misery and
lost wretchedness was as nothing to the
silent agony of pain which his face now, and
so suddenly, assumed. His head drooped
even lower; his lips quivered; he drew a
long sorrow-laden sigh.
66
You, our only benefactor, our good
friend, for whom we would die-thus, thus!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
245
This is the
What will
crowning grief.
Catalina say? Shall we go to her? She left
me but now."
"No; I think I would not see her to-
day. Tell her what you will; she would
readily guess if you did not tell her. I will
come to-morrow."
""
'But where are you going?"
"Where? Oh, yes! Well, I scarcely know,
I am a wanderer now"-and he tried to
smile. "We must comfort each other.”
"I shall not burden you much longer!"
Edgar seemed not to understand him.
But, as he looked on that debilitated frame,
which one day's real illness would probably
suffice to destroy, the terrible thought flashed
across him that the father might die, and
the daughter be left to his sole charge!
And he could see no farther. He dared not
contemplate it; he had not the heart at this
.

246
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
moment. But strange fancies would suggest
themselves. Alas! for Catalina, too, was
there not the strong necessity of loving?
And yet there was no one for her to love but
her father, and-whom? Out on it! He
felt powerless in the presence of amassed
misfortunes.
With an aching heart he bent his steps.
towards Pall Mall. There, with the old look
upon him, all the benefits of a month's re-
covery negatived in a day, sat the object of
his visit. Cooper had arrived, it might be
an hour ago. For a long time neither spoke;
they did not seem to think that any remark
was necessary. There was a broad contrast,
as they sat almost facing each other, in the
effect suffering had so far produced, and was
likely to produce, in these two young men.
Cooper was completely broken down, jaded,
submissive. The only change perceptible
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
247
in our hero was, that his eye had lost a little
of its calm brilliancy, and that his face was
paler even than before-pallid, I think, ex-
presses it; but he appeared nowise unstrung.
There was, rather, an almost fierce com-
pressment of the lips, as if Grief had but
strengthened Will.
"I shall get my name put down for a
commission in the line," said Cooper, at
length. "I can endure this state of torture
no longer. I will drown regret, if I can. I
have suffered enough; and for the rest, I
will blot out all I may of the past. It is
no use bearing with a torment that will
neither leave nor kill you. Would to Heaven
there were a war!”
Edgar shrank back at the words, but
could he reprove them? Was he to ask
Cooper, after such a year's agony, and in
his present state, to endure still what might
248
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
possibly be somewhat cured thus? Surely
not. Yet in his heart he doubted.
"Your resolution comes on me unawares, ""
he said; "perhaps it is the best course you
can adopt. But of this, Horace, be sure:
it is better to endure an eternity of pain,
such as you have, I know, been of late
enduring, than-think me not harsh-renew
that past for which the present is doubtless
sent as an amercement. Surely such will
not be again."
"God forbid !" replied Cooper solemnly.
"But I am unfitted for mental exertion. I
am strong no more. I leave you to struggle.
You will not be such a coward; but I-I
must give in. I could have laboured still,
had I seen you happy. I was becoming a
part of you-beginning to live in your
existence, as you poets live in your own
creations. Your sorrow has thus only
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
249
multiplied mine. I will do my best to
get rid of both. I can be of no use to
myself, much less to you; only the burden
I have been so long and so hopelessly.”
"I would not chide you-nay,
not," Edgar answered.
nay, I can-
"You have seen
the blow that has fallen on me. It is not
so heavy as that under which you suffer;
but it is heavy. Yet, Horace, this I say in
no vain, boasting spirit: if an angel came
from heaven, and told me that there was no
hope for either of us, I would turn me
and strive as I best might. We were sent
here to love, doubtless; but not solely to
love. Nothing is necessary in this life but
clearing away regrets that only impede, and
working at what underlies them. I dare
say it will be two or three years before I
shall be able to plod on as before; but I am
sure the years will bring back the ability.
M
•
250
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
.
Even now, I feel not so anxious about mere
fame as I did; and it may be well. Suffer-
ing has perchance been sent that I may
be of some severe use to myself and others;
and this we know, at least, that in nature
the fruit never comes till the flowers fall off.
Sorrow may show me more distinctly what
I have to do; and were the sorrow my own
only, I could even feel very, very grateful
for it. What will be, neither you, nor I, nor
the wisest know; but this we all have seen,
that present exertion brings future guerdon;
patience, fulfilment; and submission, hope.
I do not suffer less from this belief; but
I gain encouragement that, being deprived
of love, I may discover duty."
"Oh, yes, Edgar! you are of a different
mould—you are not of the clay of which
I am formed. Suffering is with you as with
Orionit transforms you into a glorious
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
251
constellation!
But do not scorn me who
am only earth. This long pain crushes
me; I am ground down." And the poor
fellow bowed
humility.
bowed his head with
Edgar tried to soothe him.
piteous
"No, no; we are different-but only in
the extent of what we have to bear. I have
not to endure what you have; my loss is
as nothing. But do hope-only hope. God
will have mercy yet, in some shape, if
will not despair."
you
At half-past nine the following morning,
Edgar was bending over law-books and
law-papers at King's Bench Walk. The
struggle, of which he had spoken, began
at once. He set himself manfully to work;
and with some fresh sadness he was obliged
to confess, that night, the effort had been
an unsuccessful one. Every morning was
252
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
it bravely renewed. A week had passed:
had anything been gained? He thought
not; but he was satisfied that he had lost
no ground. Another week went-a fortnight
had elapsed. He had fought hard, that
young fellow, and had not driven away
the foe one whit, but still held his position.
They who happened to meet him now,
believed him readily when he said that he
was refusing all invitations, on the score
of health, which at present seemed not of
the best. Seven hours every day had he
spent at Trantham's. The fourteenth of
June came, and he had, in the fortnight,
positively learned nothing. This day, at
one o'clock, it must be owned, he fairly
gave in, and begged for a truce, that he
might bury, and pay obsequies to, the
dead.
A year ago! And Annette Fairfort had
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
253
first loved him. A year ago! How had
they watched the moon, that night, and
said romantic, sweetly melancholy things
of the great city, in which (where was she?)
he still was. A year ago! And Cooper had
been the soul of that room, where he now
sat, dúmber than himself. A year ago!
And the thoughts never finished, but went
on reverting, and dissolving, and reverting
still. And the enemy had kept the field,
unrestrainedly, for four hours!
At ten o'clock that evening, Lord Fair-
fort's carriage was standing at his door in
Piccadilly. A quarter of an hour later, it
drew up before Sir Lionel Leicester's, in
Eaton Square. As Miss Fairfort entered
the drawing-room, there was a stir amongst
the elder gossips who usurped the wall. His
254
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
One,
Lordship had been pleased to communicate
his late trouble, in the strictest confidence,
to his two oldest and dearest friends.
if not both of them, had been pleased in
turn, and of course again in the strictest
confidence, to impart the information to his
or their dearest friend. So that, by this
time, our hero's love affair, in some various
distorted shapes, was known to a pretty
select circle, which was every day widening.
Miss Fairfort's dejected looks well bore out,
at least, the foundation on which each ver-
sion of the narrative was based. Her face
had already lost no little of its fulness and
bloom: her beauty, though perhaps as no-
ticeable as ever, had changed its character
from freshness to an unconscious melancholy.
Many strange mishaps accordingly occurred.
On one occasion, five people, to each of
whom she had assuredly engaged herself,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
255
claimed her for the same dance. By two
o'clock she had offended half the men in the
room; and her brother once whispered in
her ear
"Do you know, Annette, that you have
danced with Glenbarton five times ?"
"Have I?" she said; "surely not. I
don't remember it." And within fifteen
minutes she was dancing with him again.
St. John's Wood church tolled out the
second hour of morning. A cab was stand-
ing before the house where the Spanish
exiles lodged. The door opened: Catalina
embraced her father, hurried down the
steps, and drove off. The cab stopped in
Air Street, Piccadilly, where she dismissed
it, walking on alone at a quick pace, till she
came to Lord Fairfort's house. She rang.

256
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"This letter is for Miss Fairfort: it is
important, and must be delivered as soon as
she returns. You will not forget ?"
The old porter said it should be attended
to without fail.
Catalina had scarcely turned from the
house when Lord Fairfort's carriage drove
up. Annette retired at once to her room,
wearied and sick at heart. She took up the
note and read:-
"Animated by the sincere desire of as-
sisting my benefactor, and her whom he
loves, I ask an audience of you. I shall
watch your return, and seek admission a
quarter of an hour after you should, and I
trust will, receive this note. I am woman
as yourself. CATALINA PAMPESTERRA."
"Pampesterra? Pampesterra? Surely I
have heard that name. Oh, yes; one of
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
257
the many who are the receivers of his bene-
volence. I have heard Frank speak of her
father." She rang. "What can she want
with me? However, she asks in his name:
it is enough."
She gave the requisite orders. The
quarter of an hour had elapsed. Catalina
was ushered in. Annette started at her
i
exceeding beauty, advanced, and bade her
welcome.
I must ask you to remember, dear reader,
you who have been born under English
skies, bred with English notions, and im-
bued with English prejudices (I use not
the words offensively), that Catalina was a
daughter of the south; a Castilian, cradled
in the land of love, where passion is the
main sustenance of its people, where affec-
tion is duty paramount. Those who love
must be united; nothing must be left un-
VOL. I.
S
•
258
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
tried to attain this sacred end. The refusal
of a parent is tyranny: submission, little
short of sacrilege: resistance, at least, a
right. Such were the sentiments that flowed
hereditarily in her veins, such the notions
which pursued her. She knew nothing of
our northern ways; of our stern habits of
self-restraint. She had heard simply from
her father that her dear benefactor loved,
and was loved; and that Lord Fairfort
stood between these feelings and their
fulfilment.
.
"Forgive me this intrusion," she said;
"but Mr. Huntingdon has been so good, so
generous to my dear father and to me, that
I would venture anything in his behalf.
Need I ask pardon for this from the woman
who loves him ?"
"Indeed I have nothing to pardon, rather
to thank you-as I do. But, Miss Pampes-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
259
terra, do you come from Mr. Huntingdon ?
Are you his messenger ?”
"He does not even know that I have
sought you. I have seen the sorrow at his
heart, and would remove it, and serve him,
that is all."
"And how? What is the purpose of this
visit? Will you not sit down ?”
Oh ! are
"The purpose of my visit?
you of my sex, and do you ask that? I
come to bid you fly-fly with him-fly this
very night. I have prepared everything.
I await only you."
"But you own you have not spoken to
Mr. Huntingdon? I do not understand
you."
"O Miss Fairfort, pardon me, but I
cannot tell you how cold, how unloving you
appear. Do you doubt he will fly with you
to the end of the world, and at a moment's
s 2
:
·
.

260
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
notice? He loves you! It is
gain-you I would rouse !"
you I would
Such energy, such fire, such faith were
there in the speaker's tone and words, that,
as she thus upbraided, implored, assured,
Annette almost believed her; but when the
sound ceased she was the English girl again.
"You do not, I see," she said, taking
Catalina's hand, "understand our habits
and our motives. I cannot do what you
ask. I love Edgar-ah! more than you
even in your wild earnestness can imagine.
I shall always love him; but you are mis-
taken; he would not fly with me thus, nor
would I with him. No, no; I thank you
from my heart, indeed I do, but-" and she
kissed Catalina affectionately, "but, good
night!"
The Castilian threw herself at Miss Fair-
fort's feet, clasping the folds of her dress.
總
​FIVE YEARS OF IT.
261
"Oh, see me thus! Must I plead for
him in your presence, and to you? Will
you say you love him, and yet remain here?
Women do not love thus. Will tyranny
cease because you hug the chain? Do you
hope when you will not act? Say that you
do not love him, and I will go.'
"Oh! but I love him as you cannot know.
I would die for him-I would"
"You would die for him," interrupted
the prostrate suppliant, "and yet you will
not fly with him-you will not be united to
him? Oh, save him! save his heart! it is
breaking; shall I be in time to find it not
already broken?"
Annette turned away
her weeping eyes and heaving bosom. "Yes,
you will-you will fly-you will be happy
in his love; you will lie sheltered by his
beautiful heart. Now, I will go, and I will
return with him! "

262
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Annette had ceased to resist. The girl's
burning words, her reproaches, her implor-
ing attitude, her beseeching tone, her picture
of the breaking heart, had worked her into
a fever of blind and ardent fondness for him
whose sufferings were thus pourtrayed.
Her cheeks had resumed their brightness,
relit from the wildly-waved torch of expect.
ant Love!
Edgar was yet sitting up in his chambers
in Garden Court: he had been continuing
his day-dreams. A year ago he had met
Woofinden, and had talked with him over
literary hopes in that room till the sun rose.
A year ago!
A violent knocking at the outer door,
evidently intended to rouse him from sup-
posed slumber, startled him in the midst of
his dismal reverie. He undid the massive
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
263
bolts, and, to his horror, opened the door
upon Catalina Pampesterra.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, with omi-
nous dread; "your father-is he-is he
dying ?"
“No, no,” she answered quickly, and she
removed a mountain from his heart.
"How
fortunate I am: I feared you would have
retired to rest. Quick-quick: there is no
time to lose. I have a cab here: quick,
time flies."
"Be calm, Catalina, and tell me what you
mean. I am quite at sea. Sit down: you
are so excited.”
She continued with nervous rapidity-
"I have been to Miss Fairfort-she con-
sents to fly-I have prepared all-she awaits
you. Come quickly: you want nothing."
"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "what have
you done?"
1

...
!!
2
264
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"Served you, sir," she said, and burst
into tears.
"Nay, nay, I am not angry, Catalina;
thank you-thank you-let us explain."
He drew her towards him, and placed her
on his knee, soothing and even kissing her,
as though she were a child. "You are a
dear, generous girl, and I am grateful to
you from my heart. But, there, there, don't
weep. You do not understand us cold
English." She yielded to his gentle caresses
with the purest resistlessness. "If Miss
Fairfort were to do what you counsel, Cata-
lina, in this country, she would be thought
and spoken of as you would not like to hear.
We are not a very good people, so we are
obliged to be outwardly excessively strict.
If you were seen here now, all your own sex
would point, all mine would laugh at you.
It is very cruel, I know, but it is so. There,
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
265
it is all right; you have been very, very
generous, and I will never forget this."
And he dried her eyes, and set her down
again. "Did
you say that Miss Fairfort
consented to your scheme ?"
"At last she did, but oh! it took so long
to persuade her. I had to go on my knees
and weep, and implore, and speak passion-
ately of you, and of all she was losing, and
then she yielded." And again the tears
came apace into the dark speaker's eyes.
"This is the worst; after all this, you de-
stroy my labour and my hope. I promised
to be there again within half-an-hour. There
are but ten minutes-I must go."
"One moment." Edgar wrote on a slip
of paper the following lines:-
"I have seen this poor girl, and explained
to her what she did not, and does not yet, I
fear, fully understand. You know what my
266
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
•
love was; it is, and will remain the same. I
know yours. Neither must be stained by a
falling-off from duty. I trust in God; do
you put your trust there likewise.—EDGAR
HUNTINGDON."
Not a word of endearment! though a
thousand sweet syllables of fondness rushed
up to his lips, and crowded on his pen. For
he wrote at the stern suggestions of con-
science.
"Give this to Miss Fairfort, if you please."
"But you will come to Piccadilly to see
my preparations ?" said the patient and art-
ful diplomatist; for she was not yet quite
convinced, and as far from being persuaded
as ever.
"I must not let you return home alone, at
any rate. Go to the cab, I will follow
instantly." They soon arrived in Air Street.
A travelling chaise, in whose traces were two
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
267
thorough-breds, was standing a little way
down. It was not difficult to guess
posed, but baulked purpose.
its pro-
"You wont come, then ?" she said, taking
his hand, and making a final appeal; "wont
you see her for a moment ?"
"No, no, Catalina! Go, leave the note,
and return immediately."
He walked to the chaise.
"You will not be wanted to-night," he
said to the postilion; "are you paid?"
"No, sir."
"Well, here's what I suppose will satisfy
you. You had better leave this at once."
Catalina returned.
"Ah!" she said, "I can't comprehend
you English; you have the most generous
and yet the most quiet hearts. It is all
duty, duty, duty. And the women! it seems
they are still less to be understood.
Will
!
:

268
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
L
you believe me, Miss Fairfort was in her
ball-room dress, as when I left her, in no
way ready? She saw that she had done.
wrong, she said, when I had gone, and she
was certain you would think so too. Yet,
she had been weeping, and she had many
tears that had yet to fall. Ah!-I gave her
the letter."
Edgar's stern self-denial had placed him,
for the time, above all weakness.
"In, then, my brave little adventurer!"
he said cheerfully.
"But the carriage? Wait one moment."
"Oh, it has gone: I sent it away."
"But you have not I mean, you have
not-have not paid for it?"
"Of course I did; it will be all right;
jump in, my bold heroine !"
"You cheat me of everything, Mr. Hun-
tingdon!" she said, when they started; "I
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
269
cannot tell you how I am disappointed; I
did think to serve you this night."
And again the tears came, and again he
coaxed them away, fondling the weeper as a
father would, and telling her that she had
served him, that she was his best, kindest.
friend, and that he would never forget what
she had done for him. As he said this, she
turned her eyes upon him archly, and an-
swered-
"You are Mr. Huntingdon always. You
will tell such untruths rather than not be
generous."
Pampesterra answered their knock when
they alighted at St. John's Wood. He told
Edgar that it was as he had expected, but
that he could not thwart his poor Catalina,
nay, that he had, he owned, partly en-
couraged her. But Mr. Huntingdon was
always wisest, always right. Catalina said
fי
270
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
she supposed it was so; but, right or wrong,
she would never forgive him.
Poor Annette, in her lonely splendour,
strangely kept the anniversary of the famous
morning of the fifteenth of June. She re-
mained long awake over that scrap of paper,
on which were written the only words which
she possessed of her poor dear Edgar's. Not
one kind syllable, not one fond phrase, did it
contain: but she kissed it, pressed it to her
heart, wept over it, and read its lesson. She
did not regret having temporarily yielded to
the generous girl's enthusiastic impetration;
for she felt that he would understand all, and
gather from it only how much she loved him.
She wept, and wept, and fell asleep, still
weeping. And there she lay, still in her
ball-room dress; her wreath and pendant of
fast-fading flowers drooping upon the grace-
ful form that heaved with slumber, and the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
271
4
•
dreams of Edgar. And her rich brown hair
gradually left its folds, as slumber deepened,
and fell over the round chiselled arm on
which her head was gently laid, the tresses
mingling with the golden bracelets which
yet encircled, but could no further beautify
it. But she still held the precious paper to
her lips, which breathed upon it the warm,
fragrant incense of dreaming fondness!
And Edgar—where was he? Awake, still
awake, in his silent chambers in the Temple.
Not dreaming, but thinking-wildly, pas-
sionately, tearfully thinking-of her whom
he loved, not as men do; no, not as women
do, but even as poets love, and poets only!
And thus passed, a second time noticed in
this history, the early morning of the fifteenth
of June.

272
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
CHAPTER XIII.
"He talked; Lord! how he talked!"-DRYDEN.
"Oh! I could not choose but go
Unto the woodland hoar."-LONGFELLOW.
WHEN Annette appeared at the breakfast
table that morning, Frank thought that she
looked as though she had slept but little, and
been refreshed even less. When his Lord-
ship, who, it must be confessed, was striving
his utmost by plentiful attention to wean his
daughter from her strange, quiet melancholy,
and was more than annoyed to find all his
attentions for the most part thrown away, left
the room, Frank said hesitatingly—
·
•
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
273
"You danced with Glenbarton very often
last night, Annette! I speak to you as your
brother. It was acting unwisely, unless-
I will not insult you."
no,
The tears gathered in her eyes.
"I did not know it. Really, I often forgot
where I was. How can I care for such
scenes now? How would you have me dis-
tinguish between one dullard and another
dullard? Even a title does not furnish a
sufficiently safe distinction, I think."
"But you must be careful, my dear! I
heard your names mentioned in one breath
more than once. Glenbarton may translate
what springs from real indifference as spring-
ing from seeming partiality. And—you un-
derstand me."
"Partiality! His translation will need a
translation. The Earl of Glenbarton is
scarcely the man to fill up the void left by-
VOL. I.
T
274
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
ཟླ་
Frank! you understand me. I utter no com-
plaints. I make my sacrifice to the sophistry
of birth and the Heralds' College; but I
anticipate some slight reward; at any rate, I
expect to be unmolested. I may forego
Edgar Huntingdon, but not for the purpose of
being wearied by the tiresome attentions of
our noble connection, or any other equally
well-born, shallow personage. I lay aside
love, but I expect peace.'
99
O Eros! that thou shouldst yield to
Eirene!
When Frank returned from a Bond Street
stroll, uncomfortable at heart, and miserable.
for the first time in his life, he found Annette
making-believe to be very busy with Tasso;
as he passed he noticed that the book was
upside down. She saw it too, and hastily
turned it. He also took up a book; and the
progress made by each was probably equally
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
275
rapid. Shortly, the door opened, and the
Earl of Glenbarton was announced.
Perhaps, attentive reader! you were good
enough to remark that Annette spoke of the
Earl as a connection. The fact is, his Lord-
ship was first cousin to Lord Allanroy, who, as
you can probably likewise recall, had married
Lord Fairfort's elder daughter. He was a
tall and why need I deny it ?—a somewhat
elegant man. His most noticeable idiosyn-
crasy was a marvellous pair of whiskers:
their colour might be criticized, their splendid
proportions no one could deny. In fact, they
seemed to have an unfair advantage of the
hair upon the summit of his noble head; for,
though by the generous aid of washes, po-
mades, and ovolavatory applications, it had
been forced into just covering the allotted
space; still it was evidently ashamed of its
manifest inferiority. He was very fair, and
T 2
276:
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
.
כי
had those eyes which people so intensely
florid generally possess. He was good-look-
ing, in a wooden kind of way. He was one
of those men who, while they escape especial
admiration, do not provoke severe strictures.
He was as the square root of a negative
quantity, neither plus nor minus. Not that
I would insinuate that the Earl of Glenbarton
was a fool; but he was heavy, essentially
heavy. He had been perhaps a little fast-
as fast as such ponderous men can be-"in
his hot youth," two or three years ago. But
a Prime Minister had discovered that his pa-
trimony was considerable, and his influence
might be made extensive; so he told him
that he had a talent for business and public
affairs. His Lordship's vote was at least
secured; he was assured he had the requisite
qualities for success in politics;
the Minister's word implicitly.
and he took
Still he did
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
277
not quite lay aside his pretensions to be a
man of fashion; and the world does not
readily interfere with any claims, however
ridiculous, backed by such a title, such a
rent-roll, and such whiskers, as were in the
undoubted possession of the Earl of Glen-
barton. The stupid books were exchanged
for more stupid salutations.
"A remarkably-er-good dance last
night; did you-er-not-t-think so?"
began the slow visitor. "I never—r—en-
joyed a dance-ce-more."
"Nor I," answered Frank, as his sister
made no reply.
She started as soon as she became con-
scious of her silence.
"Yes, Mr.-my Lord! it was a very
good ball."
"Yers; such good music-such—er-
yers-such very good music."
278
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
I trust that I draw his Lordship cor-
rectly and yet the portraiture is difficult.
He had not the "aw," the drawl of the
exquisite. His "er" resembled more the
"um" of speakers whose vocabulary is
limited: and yet it was not that either. It
was his Lordship's own. He spoke heavily
--just as he thought-and looked heavily.
In point of fact, he spoke, what I must call
as regards him, naturally. He had not even
the shadow of a shade of affectation. He
merely paused, or repeated his words,
because he had no desire to hurry over the
ground; at every fresh "er" he took as it
were a survey. He was thoroughly self-
possessed-manifesting not the least con-
sciousness that he was at all stupid.
"Such a-er-good room, too; yers-
was it not, Miss Fairfort ?"
She heard her name, and ventured, "Yes."
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
279
"Yers; a very, very good-r-room.
What do you think of-er-Lady Lei-
cester ?"
Annette was again startled by the pause,
and answered hastily-
"Very, indeed."
"Most accomplished and elegant," said
Frank quickly: "you misunderstand Glen-
barton."
"Pardon me," she said, blushing. "Oh,
´yes, she is very charming-and so clever!"
"Yers-so clever-r-and that sort of
thing-perhaps, Sir Lionel-er-thinks
too clever."
The Earl was facetious, and seemed pleased
with himself as he laughed an equivocal laugh.
Frank joined with one less equivocal, but
not quite so spontaneous.
Annette said,
with a smile—
"I daresay, she is very clever."

280
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Her remark was fortunate this time.
Her noble connection was evidently gratified
at what he thought her approval of his
original and severe joke.
"If your-r-brother would be-er-
kind enough to join us-s-would you
honour-r-me with a-er-ride in the-
er-Row at five-er-Miss Fairfort ?"
Annette was playing with a paper-knife.
She said, with an abruptness that the Earl
mistook for earnest readiness-
"Oh, yes; certainly."
Frank felt sadly annoyed with his sister
for her compliance; but could only say that
he too should be very happy.
And the noble Earl "ered" himself out.
Five o'clock came. Frank, whip in hand,
sought his sister. To his surprise he found
her in the drawing-room, still making-
believe to read Tasso.
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
281
-
"It is past five, Annette."
"Well ?"
"I thought you were ready. Five was the
hour mentioned: the horses are at the door.”
"You did not ask me to ride with you,
did you?"
"No; but you promised to have a canter
in the Row with Glenbarton, and of course I
agreed to accompany you. See! he comes!"
"It is very strange: I have no recollec-
tion of it. Did you hear me?"
66
Certainly. Be quick. It seems so very
rude."
She put down the book and went to dress.
She was not quite so long as she might have
been, had she been preparing to ride with
somebody else. However, many eyes were
upon her as she cantered up the Row: for
the air brought back the colour to her
cheek. The Earl did not extract many strik-
*
282
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
1
ing remarks from his beautiful companion:
but as he said to himself, after he had left
her in Piccadilly, "though she was rather
-r-silent, yet-er-damn it!—we weren't
-t-made for—r-talking only—and she's
a-er-deuced lovely girl-no doubt of it!"
Do you sneer, O cynical reader? because
it never entered the head of the illustrious
Earl that, with his rank, wealth, and "er-
damn it!-very presentable-er-appear-
ance," he had been boring this "deuced
lovely girl ?" Somehow I do not think
meanly of myself; yet I am a simple citizen,
with a shabby hat, perfect obscurity, and
pay no income-tax. Are you better off?
I hope so. But still, I doubt not that
we have both bored innumerable people
in our time, without as much as suspect-
ing it; and that when the economical
mammas have blown out the supernume-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
283
rary wax-candles, the daughters, with their
now unrestrained feet upon the fender,
and their silk skirts slightly raised, have
said as much without being contradicted.
The most illustrious Englishman of the
nineteenth century (as Mr. Macaulay calls
the Hero-Poet who died at Missolonghi),
divided the human race into those who bore
and those who are bored. I think the divi-
sion was unnecessary. We are all one tribe
—all sons and daughters of the first couple
who bored each other so thoroughly, even in
Paradise, that they fell to making mischief,
for which we are here earning our bread;
and very hard some people find it is to earn.
Let us not complain. The tendency to bore
and be bored is in us all. "Hanc veniam
damus petimusque vicissim." We have our
revenge. The victim of to-day is the exe-
cutioner of to-morrow.
284
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Edgar had passed another unsuccessful
morning. He had learned nothing; so far,
it would seem, he had battled in vain. He
walked slowly and disappointedly away;
and, turning into some place or other in
St. James's Street, sat down to dine.
Dinner did not appear to offer much stronger
attractions than law. He was recalled to
the fact that his soup had become cold by a
"How are you, Huntingdon ?" He turned
and saw Edward Bingham.
From him Edgar had met nothing but
unmitigated rudeness for the last year; but
he was not one, when addressed by the man
most persistently and inexcusably discour-
teous to him, in a tone similar to that which
Bingham now used, to display the remotest
resentment for the past. He answered the
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
285
..
greeting cordially.
Bingham had heard,
but two or three days before, of my hero's
true love not running smooth, and hastened
to gratify his intense hatred of Edgar, under
apparent warmness. The young man took
for granted that he had forgotten, or at least
wished to make amends for his former inci-
vility, and had become thoroughly ashamed
of his conduct as a boy. So, though not
much in the humour to find anybody's
society peculiarly agreeable, Edgar did his
best to look pleasant, as Bingham sat down
beside him, and said, "We had a devilish
good dance at Sir Lionel's last night. I
was surprised not to see you there."
(6
Lady Leicester honoured me with an
invite, but I did not accept.'
""
"Have you really given up society alto-
gether?"
"For this season, at any rate."
:
286
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Bingham felt foiled, but he renewed the
charge with consummate coarseness:
"But, surely, you are not going to be
melancholy for ever, because you can't
marry the first girl you take a fancy to ?"
Edgar glanced at the speaker, and saw
that his recent mischance had somehow
become pretty public, and for once he
winced. Bingham continued-
"I would not make myself miserable, if I
were you. I saw her dance with the Earl
of Glenbarton six or seven times last night,
and I met her riding with him in the Row
ten minutes ago. I advise you to forget
her."
"Whom?" asked Edgar, pretending to
be busier with his soup than the conversa-
tion; though in reality he had never expe-
rienced such annoyance as he felt at that
moment.
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
287
"Why, Miss Fairfort. I heard all about
your affair-everybody knows it-and was
devilish sorry for you.
These damned aris-
tocrats at least some of them," (he said
66 some of them," inasmuch as he considered
himself as one of the body generally,) "are
so infernally proud. I pity you, old fellow!
but you might have been sure they would
snub you.'
99
Little suspicious as Edgar was, he must
have been dull indeed not to see the rude
malice of his pretended comforter. He did
not wish to talk of her to such a fellow, so
he said, “Have you seen anything of your
brother Percy and his wife lately?”
Percy Bingham had married a friend of
Edgar's, a Miss Forsyth, who does not con-
cern this history, save in the elucidation of
the present conversation. Edward Bingham
had proposed to her two days after she had
•
L
288
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
accepted his younger brother, and was, of
course, refused.
"I see but little of them," Bingham re-
plied, with evident discomfort.
Edgar took advantage of the reply, and
said, with insinuating sympathy, "Is it too
much for you?" Then, in a different tone,
whose very query contained in itself a crush-
ing negative, "Or, surely Percy is not jea-
lous of you still ?”
Bingham could not find a reply. Edgar
went on mercilessly: "She is a splendid
girl-you missed it there; though, after all,
I don't know, she told me you would not
have suited her, and I think you wouldn't.
Percy is the very man for her so full of
conversation."
He said it in such a seemingly innocent
and unintentional way, that Bingham beat a
retreat, pleading an engagement: he had
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
289
but half dined, but he said, even as it was,
he should be late.
Horace Cooper would have it that Edgar
was perfect; I, his biographer, am of a
different opinion; but in this instance I
think he would have failed in his duty had
he not punished such unblushing malice.
And yet, silence would, perhaps, have been
more in accordance with prudence. I don't
know if Edgar would have thought so, had
he seen Bingham, as he left the room, clench
his teeth and mutter, with a fearful oath,
that he would be "even with that fellow
some day!"
It was about four o'clock of the following
afternoon. Edgar and Charles Etheridge
were the only occupants of the pupil-room
in King's Bench Walk. The former had,
for the last half-hour, been sitting in the
easy chair, silent and motionless.
VOL. I.
U
290
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"What the deuce ails you?" said his
companion, at last; "you are becoming as
glumpy as Cooper. Are pounds, shillings,
and pence, at the bottom of it?"
Partly to escape being further questioned,
and partly that he did not exactly know
what he was saying, Edgar answered-
"Yes."
"I'm sure, old boy, what I have is at
your disposal."
Edgar had always regarded Etheridge as
a fellow with much humour, and the only
person he ever met who could talk arrant
"slang," and yet remain an unimpeachable
gentleman. He had certainly never given
him credit for much feeling or much gene-
rosity. He blamed himself for the unfair
estimate.
"You are very kind, very generous,
Etheridge; but I did not know what I was
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
291
saying. It is not a money matter; some-
thing even older and more mischievous than
that one of love!"
"Ah! I fear I have no remedy for that
complaint, though I think violent exercise
is the best one. But I don't see anything
so killingly generous as you make out. One
wants the unum necessarium: another has it,
and shells out-simple enough-simple di-
vision, in fact; though, to hear you talk, it
might be the cubing of unknown quantities,
or the infinitesimal calculus."
"Well, well; mask the real nature of
your offer under smart levity if you will;
but such things are not so common, that we
can be easily cheated out of our admi-
ration."
"Which way you like. But, come and
dine with me. I have two tickets for the
Opera."
U 2
292
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
"Thanks. I am sorry I must refuse two
more offers. The fact is, I am going into
the country to-morrow, and shall be busy
this evening."
"How long shall you be away? Why
can't you wait till the 'Long? We shall
all be off then."
"I cannot stay here, at present," said
Edgar, speaking openly to Etheridge, for
the first time. "I must leave London be-
hind me for a while."
"Well, cheer up, and be back soon.
You're not the fellow to hop the twig from
an attack of the 'blues.' Good-bye!"
As Edgar was descending the stairs, he
heard Etheridge humming, in his odd way,
without reference to any idea in particular:
Eurydice! the woods,
Eurydice! the floods.”
And he paused. Had he not longed for the
F
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
293
lyre of Orpheus? Was it not but just he
should share the poet's fate?
He walked on to Pall Mall, to say good-
bye to Cooper, whom he had seen but seldom
the last fortnight, and that always at cham-
bers, where both were generally silent.
Cooper was at home, wearing a blank ex-
pression; an expression, as if final and un-
changeable as if Sorrow had done its worst,
and stood with folded arms.
"I am going to Afrel to-night," Edgar
said. “I did not intend going till morning;
but as I walked along I thought I might as
well start at once. I make no way here;
so I go to fight the battle elsewhere.”
“Your choice is a strange one. A general
would scarcely take up his position where a
sad disaster had but recently befallen him."
"I shall have the incentive to struggle
perpetually before me. Here, I forget, and
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294
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
2
waste my energies in oblivious musing;
there, I should be perpetually reminded what
my object is. At any rate, I will not give
in yet; no, nor for many yets.""
"
Cooper did not appear to be interested.
He had laid down his arms three weeks ago.
He had seen the last of the fight—the final
charge-the utter rout. The colours had
been lost, and he been made a chained and
hopeless prisoner.
"I have done no good," continued Edgar.
"So far, I have not conquered. I have been
at chambers for seven hours, every day, and
am no wiser; neither am I disciplined even.
I am the raw recruit I was on the first of
June. London does not help me. I will
see what say the hills to my disease. What
have you been doing lately?"
"I have just finished Bulwer's 'Zanoni,'
for the second time. I have been very busy
over it.'
""
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
295
Busy over it! Three days' not very close
reading, Edgar thought, would have sufficed
for the perusal of this book; the other thir-
teen, then, had been spent in—why, as he
himself had spent them.
I
"It shows," added Cooper, "that the
more we know, the more we feel, live, love,
hope, and act, the more we sicken, suffer,
despair, and yet, alas! not die. It is the
old truth. One line of 'Manfred' is the
epitome of it all:
'The tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.'"
"Nay, Horace! nay; read Zanoni' a
third time, for assuredly its lesson has
escaped you. It is a splendid dramatic
sermon-the finest, I think, of our greatest
living writer's homilies. Think you not
that this is its moral ?-That he who would
soar above this sphere, before he has per-
296
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
.
!
formed the tasks which it allots, soars with
fettered wings, and will fall again to earth.
That he who, in the lust of power, would
rule the minds and sway the councils of
men, must first master his own prejudices
and clogging passions, control his own wild
impulses, discipline his own intellect, and
purify his own soul. That, having done
this, he may then aspire, then hope to
proudly rise; then may he wield a worthy
and a world-compelling sceptre! That he
who cannot wait, will never win.
never win. That
Patience is the mighty wizard, stronger than
Fate, longer than Time-the alchemist, the
conqueror ! That he who shrinks from
suffering, shall not with sacrilegious hand
snatch the crown. That knowledge is
granted only to calm, continuous labour;
and love, to a heart that trusts long, and
is not cast down. That he-be it reverently
FIVE YEARS OF IT,
297
spoken-who dare not face the agony, will
not arrive at the consummation !"
There was a long pause. At last, Cooper
said—
"Ah, Edgar, I wish I were a poet! Her-
cules was strong because he was the son
of Alcæus; and was not the bright Aurora
descended of Apollo? So are you strong.
Time was when I read and needed no in-
terpreter; but now, even as you translate
the pages, I have not read aright, they
fail to move, to rouse me. I do not wish
to aspire; I do not hope; I suffer, but not
willingly; and I want no crown.
death comes, its functions will be few-it
will have but to close my eyes. If I
still really live, life is not what I once
thought it."
When
The wreck was complete. Mast, and
sail, and helm-strength, volition, judgment,
298
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
Į
1
-all had gone; and it only remained for
the waters to close over the abandoned!
Edgar could face the sight no longer; he
wondered why Cooper was not a chattering
idiot. Merciful Heaven! why is reason
spared?
Peace! mortal! The darkest cloud that
ever rose from earth above, One there can
breathe upon.
Will it not dissolve, and
in a gentle shower descend?—a healing
dew!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
299
CHAPTER XIV.
"And as a hare, whom horn and hounds pursue,
Pants to the place from which at first it flew.”
GOLDSMITH.
EDGAR was once more leaning over Afrel
bridge. He had left the feverish turmoil
of the town behind, and come to listen to
the promptings of solitude in this sweet,
sequestered spot. The hills opened their
bosoms to receive him; they had known
him from his infancy, and they welcomed
him as one long and well remembered.
They bent down to look at the poor boy-
300
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
sufferer, as he leaned over that bridge,
where he had once made his compact with
ambition; where he had been, later on, a
fatal augur; and whither he now came
again, seeking fortitude.
The place seemed kindly minded towards
him; it was willing to be once more his
teacher. He was again a neophyte, a pos-
tulant knocking at the gates of Endurance.
Still, to-day there came no answer; or, at
least, the answer was not understood. He
listened to the voice of the river-oracle;
but though it kept on uttering the mighty
truths, he comprehended not a word. And
yet he listened, for the sounds were very
sweet, and the cadence soothed him. And
he looked up again at the hills, and he
saw that they wore a smile; and he was
sure from this that they pitied him, and
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
301
would shorten his probation. And he felt
comforted.
He went up the shady lane, on to the
village, and stopped at the door of his old
friend, Betty Nestfield.
"Eh, bairn!" she exclaimed, when she
heard his voice, "are ye here again? I'm
right glad to see ye, tho'. And are ye
boun' to stop long, or no but passing thro'
like? Is t' bonnie lass wi' the blue eyes
wi' ye, this time?"
"No, Betty; I have come to be quiet;
I am alone!"
"But ye du luke white, joy! I didn't
mark ye when ye came in, my eyes is
failing so. Sit ye down, honey! My Bess 'll
see to t' asses."
Edgar told the old dame his sad story.
He did not know why; he felt he must tell
:
· 302
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
OF IT
Betty. She listened very earnestly, with a
hand on each knee, and, as he finished his
narration, she raised them slowly, and her
wrinkled face all smoothed out with asto-
nishment, said pitifully-
"E-h! Didst ever hear?
Poo-o—r
lad! E-h! I am sorrowed. She war sich
a nice lass, and so gentle, like. But ye
Ye know I'm vary sor-
mustn't go sad.
rowed, honey! I am.
Ay-I'm sure ye
loved the lass. It's very grievous. But ye
must try and be cheery, like, and niver think
nought of it—no more than ye can help.”
She took hold of his hand as he turned
away his face that he might conceal a few
rebellious tears. There were more in Betty's
eyes, but she did not seem ashamed of hers,
and held up her head, shaking it very, very
mournfully, and accompanying it with a
long-drawn "E-h!"
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
303
And there in the thatched cottage they
sat; the bent old woman, the close of
whose journey could not be far off, unedu-
cated, blunt, untravelled, who had read
little beyond her prayers; and by her side,
seeking comfort, youth in its fairest form;
a head beautiful in its manly intelligence;
a mind that had already done much, and
might prove to be a poet's, a statesman's,
an orator's, or all; a heart that beat with
the loudest throbs of a beneficent ambition :
these, hand in hand. Intellect asking con-
solation, and Ignorance bestowing it.
"Well, well, joy; but ye know it wasn't
all love ye war sent for-anyhow, earthly
love," added the good old lady: "ye've to
work, too. And if He doesn't wish a
thing, why, ye mustn't grumble, but do
His will, ye know. I lost my poor Nest-
field after I'd lived wi' him two-and-forty
304
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
•
year. I war sore tried, and took on-I
know I did; for it war bad to bide. But
wi' me it war all over then: I niver loved
no one but my Nestfield. But ther's many
another bonnie lass, bairn! and ye mustn't
be loitering after one that's hopeless. Ye're
vary young, and there's others like the
lass wi' the blue eyes, though ye mayn't
be for thinking so, now."
Edgar shook his head, but could not
argue with Betty. And though she, good
soul, did her best thus, in the way of com-
fort, she had known him, as I have related,
from the cradle, upwards; and she knew
full well, that he would never give up “the
lass wi' the blue eyes.'
""
Edgar had come to the conclusion, that he
must begin with a milder discipline. He
re-read Disraeli's "Contarini Fleming," and
this made him ponder deeply. He read as
}
A
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
305
in a glass where he was himself reflected;
much was so true a shadow of his own by-
gone feelings. He was delighted with the
marvellous analytical power displayed by
the writer. The description of Contarini's
first attempt and failure in composition,
when he had thought his head so full of
fancies, struck him as so singularly felici-
tous, as to be almost unequalled in fineness.
of truth. When the hero came to a certain
age, Edgar closed the book; for he knew
he must be approaching to the forbidden
fruit.
He wished to continue his new poem.
He might never have written a line in his
life: his soul was mute-his lyre dead;
the chords were snapped. Alas! had all
power gone ? He marvelled why verses
and images did not crowd upon him when
he was alone, as of old,-why they did not
VOL. I.
X
306
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
come rushing upon his ear unsought and
spontaneously. Everything had forsaken
him. He had been at Afrel nearly three
weeks, and had read a few novels; that
was all. Perhaps he had been a little dis-
ciplined, but he doubted it. Did he take
up the paper, and read some law case, he
was soon wandering in the old maze.
he thought of Poltrot de la Mer, who, after
attempting the life of the Duke of Guise,
and flying from pursuit, at full gallop, the
entire day, found himself, at sunset, on the
very spot where he had planned the murder.
And
One morning, when he had been standing
a long time on the bridge, the river seemed
to speak in a tone that was familiar; and
sweet cadences shaped themselves upon his
ear. The music went on; some one passed.
He looked up, and discovered that he had
composed the first thirty lines of his second

FIVE YEARS OF IT.
307
canto. He went back to his lodgings, on
the slope of the eastern hill, committed them
to paper, wrote others, neglected dinner,
wrote on, and was amazed, when he rose, to
find that he had finished the canto. He
looked at his watch; he had been composing
six hours! Nonsense! Yet there were up-
wards of four hundred lines. It was so,
then. He experienced the first thrill of
pleasure that had visited him since that
night when he had passed through Afrel,
with the knapsack on his back, and the
heavier burden at his heart. He had mate-
rially wandered from the originally intended
plot; the change being tinged with the
sobered hues reflected from late events.
The rest of the evening he was more at peace.
He had a long ramble away upon the hills,
and enjoyed the sunset in his old rapturous
way. He began to think that he had been
x 2
L
!

308
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
on a wrong track, but had stumbled on the
right one now. That night he could not
sleep. He read till five a.m., when slumber
visited him. He did not wake till after
noon. He dressed with difficulty, could eat
nothing, and felt altogether what we call
(6
wrong." He was not ill, but suffered from
utter lassitude. He knew well enough what
it was; as all men who have written too
long a time on an imaginative theme know.
Twenty-four hours of mathematical investi-
gation do not bring it on, nor will the closest
metaphysical study: the application in which
fancy is on the strain alone produces such
prostration. It lasted all that day; and
more or less the two succeeding days: then
it left him; and he confessed to himself that
he did not feel so utterly miserable. An-
guish was no longer sole dictator: there was
a sort of triumvirate, formed by Regret, Re-

FIVE YEARS OF IT.
309
signation, and Hope, in which Regret was
still Pompey. Things change. May not
Hope yet prove the Cæsar?
He often composed now, as he roamed
along the hills, or by the river side, or in
the green lanes; and in a few days the poem
wanted but little to its completion. One
bright afternoon he was standing at the open
window. He had ceased to look out upon
the pleasant landscape; his head was bent
down, as though he were in one of his re-
flective moods.
"Yes!" he said audibly, "it must be
finished there; the place will bless and sanc-
tify it. I think I am strong enough to face
it. I will go.
""
He passed through the village, and over
the bridge, and along the lanes that lead to
Glendover. He has reached the Abbey, but
stays not to marvel or regret. He crosses

310
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
J
some stepping-stones, and mounts by a path,
known to few beyond himself, and he stands
upon Glendover Mount! Upon the spot
where he told his love to Annette Fairfort!
And the sun is setting!
A moment he gazes outward; his head
droops slowly down upon his breast; he
stands with folded arms and motionless. I
think he has been standing there an hour;
at least, the sun has long since set. He
raises his head, and utters something indis-
tinctly. It is the last verse: the poem is
completed! The closing scene took shape
by that broken but still sacred shrine. He
bares his head, and kneels him down upon
the sod where the grass grows short and
scant, and humbles himself in prayer, but
silently. Heaven only knows for what he
asked. But I think he begged that Annette
might be restored; but, if Heaven willed it
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
311
!
יי
not, she might at least be happy, and he be
strengthened, and of use!
The days went better now. He would
join in the games of the rough village-lads,
who had often heard their parents praise the
young gentleman, whom they remembered an
infant twenty years ago and more. He settled
their disputes, and his authority was never
questioned. It was always "Mr. Huntingdon
says so;" and argument ceased. He intro-
duced a kinder urbanity among these untu-
tored youngsters: himself gentle with all,
even with those whom he reproved for harsh
or rude words. They had not been accus-
tomed to this treatment. A word and a
blow were not out of fashion even at Afrel.
These lads absolutely liked Edgar's cor-
rections. Tact has this virtue: that it rules
with an unseen and unfelt sceptre. Our
hero joined even heartily in the games;
312
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
.
there was always an anxious contention as
to which side he should be on.
The pro-
bation was going on favourably. Not that
but, at times, the fit would return, and often
leave him only with the day; yet the mists
were rising. And often, when he had left
the cricket-ground, the lads would say to
each other, in their simple, admiring
fashion-
"Eh! hasn't he bright eyes
How long this quiet and mostly secluded
life among the hills would have continued,
had nothing occurred to break in upon its
present calm, I am unable to conjecture.
But one evening, when a cricket-match was
at its height, large, heavy drops, the sure
precursors of a storm, began to fall. Edgar,
followed by the rest, took refuge in a shed
which stood close by. They had been there
a few minutes, and were busy discussing
!
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
313
their game and the chances of victory, when
a man came walking through the field, bent
apparently on no especial errand, but with a
long, thick switch in his hand. Just as he
neared the shed, one of the lads, called Allan,
who, though not more than thirteen years of
age, was the most enthusiastic of all the
cricketers, appeared to see him for the first
time, and made a dash out. The man rushed
forward and struck him a fierce blow with
the switch. The boy yelled and took
refuge behind Edgar. The scream vibrated
along our hero's naturally sensitive nerves;
he put up his arm instinctively and
snatched the switch from the man's hand.
Allan took advantage of this to escape. His
uncle (such it was) began excusing himself
to Edgar, complaining that he had ordered
his nephew, two hours ago, to go somewhere
with a mule carriage, and that he had been
314
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
..
playing cricket instead. Edgar expressed
his sorrow at the lad's behaviour; had he
been aware of it, he should not have allowed
Allan to play; he would speak to the boy,
and answer for such conduct not again
occurring. But he added, that he did not
approve, and where he was would not permit,
such brutal violence in the way of punish-
ment. As he walked up the village he met
Allan he spoke very severely and with
sorrow in his voice, but still not a harsh
word escaped him. The lad was not made to
feel his own inferiority. Finally, putting his
arm round the truant, he extracted a promise
that the offence should never be repeated.
If it ever was, I know, and hope you, gentler
reader! can also guess whose fault it was.
But the deed had been done; the savage
blow struck, and the succeeding shriek still
rang in Edgar's ears, and made him miser-
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
315
able. He never had been able to endure the
cry of agony, arising from cruel torture. He
was born, he had often said, a sensitive
fool, and it is not surprising that recent
occurrences had caused the weakness to be
more morbid than ever. He should never
be able to play cricket with those lads again.
It may seem absurd. Be it so! but he re-
solved to leave Afrel on the morrow.
Ai!
ai! as the old Greeks used to exclaim when
Thou poor
they wanted to express pain.
sufferer! I know not whither thou art to
wander to avoid thy own self. If such a
scene as this sets thee off upon the march
again, I have but little hope or comfort for
thee! Thou art a strange medley of strength
and weakness.
A terrific storm was coming on, in the
very teeth of the wind. The northern hills
across the river were livid with rage, as the
316
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
serried clouds swept swiftly onwards. Those
on the south stood up, rolled out their misty
banners, and grimly watched the on-coming of
the foe. They met, and their thunder-shouts
shook the valley, as column after column
of that dark, determined mass broke upon
their opposing front, rallied, and rolled back!
And then, as Edgar stood at the open
window, he thought the hills looked down at
him mournfully, a moment motioning him;
and then the peaks wrapped themselves in
their ghost-like shrouds-again a moment
looked out at him, and then slowly, almost
imperceptibly, melted, phantom-like, into
the far, unfathomable distance. And Love
crept stealthily around his being. And then
again the hills thundered out their angry,
loud defiance, as the foe sullenly retreated.
And he would fly to Annette Fairfort, and
he would tear her, ay, from the depths of
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
317
the darkest cloud that swelled the tyrant
tempest! And the thunder-mutterings, an-
swering scornfully, died away, and in the
west, as over Glendover Mount a ray of
sunshine slanted; and Edgar smiled, as
though he did not quite comprehend it or
himself.
Morning came, as if with a fresh creation,
renovating the world; and the young man
felt regret, but could not stay withal. His
last visit was to Betty Nestfield.
"I am going back to London," he said
to his old friend, "to work. Don't you
think I have been idle long enough?"
be
"Why, bairn, for the matter o' that, may-
ye have; though I think ye'd be better
here a bit—but ye're like to know t' best.
Are ye any improved, think ye ?"
'Yes, Betty; I think I am, a little. It
is rather hard to bear though."
}
318
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
*
“Ay, ay, honey, it's like to be; for she
war a vary nice lass, and a bonnie un, too..
But, niver ye mind; it 'll come right, some-
how."
"Perhaps it will, Betty. But I must be
going now. That gig takes me out of
Afrel."
It's
"I'm sorry ye're going, bairn.
happen t' last time I shall iver see ye. I
don't think I shall live ower t' winter."
"Oh, yes you will-twenty winters yet."
"Nay, nay, joy! Well, good-bye, and I
hope ye'll be comforted. God bless ye, joy!
God bless ye!"
There were many curtsies dropped, many
hats doffed, and many mournful faces among
the cricketers, as Edgar drove away. Poor
fellow! he thought he should be obliged to
ask the man to take the reins for a time, the
tears would gather so. No; he contrives
T
319
FIVE YEARS OF IT.
to repress them. Blessings on the hills for
their kindly shelter !-on the river for its
gentle music! When shall Edgar visit them
again?
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: J. F. HOPE, 16, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

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