L I E) R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 

 
 THE 
 
 GENTLEMAN 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. 
 
 AUTHon Of "the huguenot," ''the gipsv,'" "the robber, 
 
 ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS, 
 
 PATERNOSTER- ROW. 
 
 1839.
 
 LONDOK : 
 
 Printed by A. Spottiswoode, 
 New- Street-Square.
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL MARCH PHILLIPPS, ESQ. 
 
 &.C. &c. &c. 
 
 THIS WORK, 
 
 AS 
 
 A TESTIMONY OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP AND ESTEEM, 
 
 WHICH, SPRINGING UP 
 
 UNDER THE MOST ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES, 
 
 HAVE ONLY INCREASED BY LENGTH OF ACQUAINTANCE, 
 
 IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. R. JAMES.
 
 V. 1 
 
 THE 
 
 GENTLEMAN 
 
 OF 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The relation between the moral and physical 
 universe is so close : man's being and his fate are 
 so linked to all the material objects that sur- 
 round him, that when I remember one of the 
 speculative visions of my youth, which I looked 
 ^ upon in after years as nothing but an idle folly, 
 '^^ I find that it may be true as an image, though 
 ^ it be false as a fact. The fancy I allude to 
 ^ was, that there is a sort of involution of soul 
 and body, one within the other, throughout all 
 . nature, each moral agent composed of many 
 ' parts, comprised in its material form, each 
 
 ■^ VOL. I. B
 
 X THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 acting upon, and suffering through, the other. 
 Man, according to this hypothesis, had his 
 soul, with all its various feelings, comprised 
 in the earthly tabernacle of his mortal frame; 
 the earth, with all its mass of manifold material 
 qualities and capabilities, ^vas but the body 
 assigned to the great existing mass of human 
 intellect and feeling, which, in the aggregate, 
 was in fact the soul appointed to animate, to 
 employ, and to govern it. The planetary 
 system in w^hich we move, as a speck in the 
 ocean of space, was another body animated 
 and impelled along its destiny by another 
 spirit, and was in itself comprised within 
 some other great series of material and intel- 
 lectual parts, forming another great body, and 
 another great mass of mind, and so on, till the 
 whole was embraced in infinity of power, of 
 might, and of wisdom. Fancy also had sug- 
 gested many a cunning contrivance to reconcile 
 discrepancies, to remove obstacles, to palliate 
 absurdities, and, in the light wanderings of a 
 young imagination, I have often asked myself, 
 why may not this be ?
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 3 
 
 An answer has long since been found, and 
 with these passed-by dreams of my early days, I 
 have nothing more to do here, than to choose 
 from amongst them such images as may best be 
 suited to my present subject, believing as I do, 
 that all the feelings, thoughts, and passions that 
 aifect the human mind, may find, in the material 
 world around them, types of themselves and of 
 their eifects, while the changes of the seasons, 
 the movement of the hours, the transitions of 
 light and darkness^ spring, summer, autumn, 
 winter, day, twilight, night, and dawning, the 
 cloudless sky, the passing shower, the storm,- 
 the tempest, and the earthquake, have each 
 their counterparts in the mind and fate of man, 
 more or less in the history of each individual, 
 and ahvays in the history of the world. 
 
 A young and unperverted mind sets out in 
 early youth with fair prospects, with a happy 
 disposition, with indulgent parents, and wealth 
 at command, and for many a bright year all is 
 smiles and gaiety. Pleasure leads on to pleasure, 
 till comes satiety : disappointments begin to ap- 
 pear, the trusted friends prove false, the hopes 
 B 2
 
 4 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 break like bubbles that a child would grasp, 
 prosperity passes away, impatience, anxiety, 
 intemperance succeed ; the spoilt child of for- 
 tune bears ill the check of adversity, and new 
 difficulties and reverses rush up to swell the 
 amount. Violent passions, anger, wrath, strife 
 come on ; and life either ends in turbulence and 
 crime, or else, improved though saddened, 
 elevated though melancholy, the rest of exist- 
 ence is spent calmly, cheered by the hopes of 
 another and a better world. 
 
 How like is this history to the passing of 
 many a summer day ! It rises bright and beau- 
 tiful with all the promises of splendour, of sun- 
 shine, and of light; the birds sing about the 
 cradle of the infant morning, the painted insects 
 hum around and flutter as it rises ; cloudless in 
 its golden prosperity it advances through the 
 sky, till towards the heat of noon a cloud or two 
 here or there comes with its shadow over the 
 heavens. Ardent and more ardent the noon-day 
 sun shines strong, as if to overwhelm such in- 
 truders in its tide of glory : but the very heat 
 seems but to call up fresh masses of dull vapour :
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 5 
 
 they rise, they increase, they grow upon the 
 sky, the warm summer light but makes them 
 look more black and threatening, till at length 
 the sun itself is covered, and the storms begin. 
 Then comes the lightning, and the thunder, 
 and the hail ; the brightness and the beauty is 
 all passed away; the calm light of the dawn, the 
 golden warmth of the morning, the resplendent 
 beaming of high noon, are all gone ; and the day 
 either comes to an end in clouds and storms 
 and weeping darkness, or else, after many an 
 hour, the blue sky appears again, the vapours are 
 partially swept away ; and with tearful eyes and 
 aspect cool though clear, the day goes down 
 into night, leaving the hope of a brighter 
 morrow. Such is the sort of day with which 
 we would fain open this true history. 
 
 Nothinor could be fairer or more beautiful 
 
 o 
 
 than the morning when, towards nine o'clock, 
 a young gentleman set out on horseback from 
 an inn about ninety miles from London. It was 
 a fine and handsome horse that he bestrode, and, 
 as far as features and form went, he might be 
 pronounced a good-looking young man. We 
 B 3
 
 6 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 cannot, however, say as mucli for the expression 
 of his countenance ; for though nature had given 
 him features, each of which was good individu- 
 ally, the union of the whole was not so pleasant, 
 and the sneering sort of self-confidence about 
 the lip, as well as a considerable degree of super- 
 cilious insolence in the brow and eyes, produced 
 altogether a look which few could meet without 
 feeling an instant inclination to resist and to 
 repel. The complexion was fair, almost to 
 effeminacy, the features straight, and the colour 
 that which is produced sometimes by deep 
 study, sometimes by enfeebling dissipation. He 
 rode well, and set off at a quick pace, and the 
 servants of the inn, who had collected round 
 the door to see him depart, indulged in various 
 comments as he rode away, which perhaps 
 might not have gratified him much to hear. 
 
 " He'll not catch the carriage though, for all 
 that," said the ostler who had held his horse, 
 " and a good thing too, for I'm sure some of 
 those in it didn't want his company." 
 
 *' He doesn't want to catch the carriage," 
 said the waiter. " I've seen him before, two or
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 7 
 
 three times, and I'll take any bet that he'll stop 
 his horse half way on this side of Stalbrooke 
 turnpike. Ay, ay, I know what he's after; 
 but it won't do." 
 
 Thus saying, the waiter turned upon his heel 
 with an air of knowing importance, and was 
 followed by the chambermaid, who made sure 
 of wringing the secret out of him before long ; 
 but two or three of the rest remained w^atching 
 the stranger up the road, and commenting upon 
 him till he was out of sight. 
 
 This stranger, however, we must now follow 
 upon his journey through the rest of a day 
 which was not destined to end as fairly as 
 it had begun. He proceeded a long way at 
 the rapid pace at which he had left the inn, 
 without looking to the right hand or to the 
 left, and seemingly buried in his own con- 
 templations, nor did he pull in his rein till, 
 after riding for about an hour and a half, he 
 saw, as he reached the top of one hill, a carriage 
 drawn by four horses slowly ascending to the 
 top of another, at the distance of about a mile 
 and a half or two miles. He then brought his 
 B 4
 
 8 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 horse to a walk, and for the first time looked 
 up towards the sky, the aspect of which had 
 completely changed since he commenced his 
 journey. 
 
 Dark, leaden clouds, by this time, covered 
 three quarters of the sky with a variety of 
 fantastical forms, all hard and cutting at the 
 edges, except where some lighter mass of grey- 
 ish vapour floated over the general surface ; 
 and at the same time, beyond the hills over 
 which the carriage was wending, was seen one 
 broad expanse of deep lurid purple, with two 
 or three small thin streaks of fleecy white 
 drawn across it. 
 
 As the horseman gazed, a sudden sharp 
 line of wavy light ran across the dark bosom 
 of the distant cloud; and, setting his teeth 
 hard, with a look of mortification he muttered 
 to himself, " A storm coming on ; this is dis- 
 agreeable enough." 
 
 Now, abstractedly speaking, there are few 
 things, if any, in all that portion of the uni- 
 verse which is exposed to the eyes of man, so 
 grand, so mighty in beauty, so magnificent in
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 9 
 
 splendour, as a great thunder storm. The 
 feeble and impotent contention of man with 
 man, even upon the grandest scale, is fain to 
 borrow from the cloudy war of the storm Images 
 to give it grandeur. We hear of the thunder 
 of the cannon, of the lightning flash of the 
 artillery. But what is it all to the reality, 
 when forth from the cloud bursts the deafening 
 voice of the storm upon the ear, and upon the 
 eye blazes the blinding flash of the leven' bolt 
 of heaven ? When shall we produce lights like 
 that, casting their splendour from one verge of 
 heaven to the other ? where shall we find sounds 
 so magnificent, so grand, rolling along the whole 
 vault from the zenith to the horizon ? Yet there 
 are few persons who view a thunder storm with 
 the same feelings ; and indeed the difierences 
 of human character are tried by scarcely any 
 thing more finely, than by the sensations pro- 
 duced upon the mind by that phenomenon. 
 There are many who are terrified, and that 
 terror may proceed from a thousand other 
 causes than mere mental weakness. There 
 are some who have been taught fear, irreme-
 
 10 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 diably in their youth. There are some 
 actually afraid of corporeal danger. There are 
 some scarcely afraid, but awe-struck and over- 
 powered. There are others, again, who have 
 neither fear, nor awe, nor admiration, the 
 dull fabric of whose minds is incapable of 
 any fine sensation. There are some who 
 do more, and admire the storm ; but admire 
 it simply for its grandeur : there are others 
 who do so likewise, but go far beyond, who 
 combine it with visions of bright things, who 
 hear tongues like those of angels in the voice 
 of the thunder, and who gaze upon the blaze 
 of the lightning, lighted by its splendour to 
 far faint visions of Almighty power and ma- 
 jesty. 
 
 It was not with the latter sensations at all 
 that the traveller, whose course we are pursu- 
 ing, beheld the approaching storm. He had no 
 fear, it is true; he was even capable of ad- 
 miring the beauty of the spectacle, if it did 
 not interrupt, delay, or inconvenience him. 
 But he had no thought beyond that ; his 
 mind had not a tendency to rise ; it was not
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 11 
 
 one of those that form out of every thing in 
 nature a fresh step to elevate and ennoble 
 themselves. At present, therefore, as he 
 was abroad, and with an object in view 
 which required him to ride some distance 
 so rapidly as not to suffer the time em- 
 ployed to be perceived by others, he looked 
 upon the approaching storm as an annoy- 
 ance, simply as it was likely to impede him 
 in the execution of his purpose. The sight 
 of the carriage also had annoyed him, as he 
 evidently did not wish to come up with it, 
 and the road by vvhich, as the waiter had 
 shrewdly divined, he intended to turn off, 
 lay beyond the brow of that hill over which 
 he had seen the vehicle of his friends slowly 
 proceeding. 
 
 Forced then to slacken his pace, he de- 
 scended the hill at a walk, and seeing a little 
 green lane, which led away to the right, beaten 
 with the marks of horses' feet, and channelled 
 even by the ruts of wheels, he convinced 
 himself that it would lead him by a shorter 
 way to the point whereunto his course was
 
 12 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 directed. Accordingly, turning his horse's 
 head, he once more put him into a quick 
 pace, and rode along till he was interrupted 
 by a gate which he found some difficulty in 
 opening. The air was extremely sultry, and 
 while struggling to open the gate a few drops 
 of rain began to fall, precursive of the ap- 
 proaching storm. 
 
 With a sharp splenitive oath the horseman 
 tore the gate open and rode on, taking no pains 
 to shut it behind him, and yet he began to doubt 
 that he had taken a right path. A multitude 
 of alders were growing on the one side, and a 
 swampy field of osiers appeared on the other, 
 running down to the bank of a river ; and 
 recollecting that the high road passed that river 
 by a bridge some way on the hither side of 
 the turning which led him in the direction he 
 sought to take, he began to fear that he 
 should find no way across the water, and that 
 the road only led to some farm-house, or to 
 some fields at a distance from the highway. 
 Checking his horse, he was on the eve of 
 turning back, when some sounds, as of people
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 13 
 
 speaking on tlie way before him, again led 
 him forward to enquire his way, and scarcely a 
 hundred yards from the spot where he had 
 checked his horse to turn, a sudden bend of 
 the road showed him a wide common opening 
 out before him with a little brick bridge over 
 the stream. The sounds he had heard pro- 
 ceeded from two boys driving some cattle, but 
 a way over the stream being thus afforded 
 him, he fancied that he required no farther 
 directions, and accordingly rode on at the 
 same quick pace. 
 
 Two or three distant claps of thunder 
 had been heard as he passed along the 
 lane, but immediately after he had crossed 
 the bridge a bright flash of lightning startled 
 his horse so as nearly to throw him, while 
 the rain began to come down heavily, mingled 
 with large hailstones, which drove right in 
 his face as he took his way across the com- 
 mon. It was impossible now to go fast, at 
 least for one not well acquainted with the 
 way, for the road half lost itself in the turf 
 of the waste, and was only to be distinguished
 
 14 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 by the occasional tracks of wheels, which were 
 often so deep and irregular as to make his 
 horse stumble more than once, while the hail 
 continued to pour directly upon their path, 
 nearly blinding both beast arid rider. 
 
 There be some people who fancy that their 
 way must be smooth through life, and, having 
 a high opinion of their own deserts, look upon 
 all the little misadventures and obstructions 
 of existence as injuries with which they have 
 a right to be discontented, angry, and im- 
 patient. The traveller before us was one of 
 such ; and could any one have looked into his 
 mind, or forced him to give sudden voice to 
 all that was passing in his bosom, they would 
 have found that he was as angry, as impa- 
 tient, as much irritated, as if some mortal 
 hand had done him an act of injustice, or 
 offered him a glaring insult. Internally he 
 cursed the weather ; he vowed that it was 
 always so ; that whenever one wanted half 
 an hour's sunshine, a storm was sure to come 
 on, and that the day seemed to have changed 
 on purpose to disappoint him.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 15 
 
 Which way he was to go, too, soon became 
 another question of difficulty, for half-way 
 across the moor the wheel marks, by which 
 he had guided himself^ spread out into two 
 different directions, and no friendly finger- 
 post pointed its long white arm to show him 
 the path which he was to follow. Just at 
 that moment, however, the quick sound of 
 a horse's feet galloping behind him, caught 
 his attention ; and the next moment a young 
 gentleman, about his own age, mounted on a 
 splendid hunter, bending down his head to 
 avoid the hail, and seeming to trust entirely 
 to his horse's knowledge of the way, passed 
 him at the full gallop. 
 
 The bewildered traveller shouted after him 
 in a loud voice, and, though carried beyond 
 him for nearly a hundred yards by the im- 
 petus of his horse's speed, the other drew up 
 his horse, and turned to answer his call. 
 
 *' I have lost my way on this common, 
 sir," said the first traveller we have men- 
 tioned, " and know not where to betake my- 
 self in this storm."
 
 16 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " Oh ! come with me, come with me, then," 
 replied the other in a frank voice, " we shall 
 find a place of shelter in a minute ; follow 
 as quick as you can. There is a house not 
 a quarter of a mile on." 
 
 Thus saying he again turned his bridle, and 
 put his horse into full speed ; and the other, 
 somewhat disconcerted at not having been 
 treated with any very formal respect, quickened 
 his horse's pace, and followed as fast as he 
 could. 
 
 Galloping over the common towards a 
 clump of trees v^hich formed a conspicuous 
 landmark, the leading horseman entered a lane 
 between two hedges, and in a few minutes was 
 at the door of a small neat brick-house, standing 
 at the edge of a little sandy slope, with a pond 
 and some tall elms overshadowing it, a little 
 further down the road. He sprang to the 
 ground instantly, the door was thrown open 
 with impatient good-will by a clean-looking 
 maid servant ; and exclaiming, " Quick, quick, 
 Jenny, get me the key of the stable-door : I 
 shall spoil my uncle's saddle-cloth, and his demi-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 17 
 
 pique," the young gentleman led round his horse 
 to a small stable at the side of the house, and had 
 safely housed him before the other came up. 
 
 " You had better put your horse in here 
 too," he said, on the arrival of the person he 
 had guided, " and then come into good Dame 
 Philippina's, till the storm is over." This said, 
 he turned once more to the maid-servant, who 
 had run out with the tail of her gown over her 
 head to open the stable-door, adding, " Do, 
 Jenny, vvipe the demipique, and dry the saddle- 
 cloth : there's a good girl. I took them be- 
 cause all my own saddles hurt the new horse's 
 back." 
 
 " Tliat I will. Master Rafe, that I will, with 
 all my heart," replied the girl. " But, Lord 
 bless you, sir, it's not hurt ; and Sir Andrew 
 wouldn't mind if it were, so you hurt it." 
 
 " That's the more reason I should take care 
 of it, Jenny," replied the young gentleman. 
 " Now, sir, if you will come with me," he con 
 tinned; and running across the little open 
 space, he entered the door, which the maid- 
 servant had left open. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Standing in the passage, whicli was as clean 
 as hands could make it, and very nicely sanded, 
 was a person who seemed somewhat anxious to 
 show the young gentleman every sort of kind- 
 ness, and upon whose personal appearance we 
 must pause for a moment. She was a woman 
 of about five or six and forty years of age, 
 with a complexion which can be called nothing 
 but coffee colour, somewhat black under the 
 eyesj and not a little shrivelled ; but neverthe- 
 less with features by no means ugly, and a 
 somewhat pleasant, though, if we may use the 
 term, unsettled expression of countenance. Her 
 teeth were good; her hair, which v/as the colour 
 of a raven's wing, had not one single filament 
 of white marking the approach of age. The 
 eyes were as black as jet, extraordinarily lustrous 
 and flashing ; and though not very large, yet 
 the whole space between the eyelids being 
 nearly occupied by the iris, they seemed of 
 greater dimensions than they really were. She 
 was small in person, apparently very active and 
 well-made ; and altogether, though dressed in 
 a style suited to a. person even more advanced
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 19 
 
 in life than herself. Mistress Philippina was a 
 very pleashig-looking person, though it needed 
 not to be a great physiognomist to read in her 
 countenance the traces of an impetuous and 
 passionate disposition. To gaze upon her face, 
 it would have been very difficult to say to what 
 race or country she belonged. One thing, 
 however, was apparent at the first glance : she 
 was not an Englishwoman. She was, perhaps, 
 more like a middle-aged Frenchwoman from 
 the neighbourhood of Marseilles or Avignon ; 
 but the moment that she spoke, her tongue 
 belied that appearance, and a strong German 
 accent, which she had never been able to get 
 out of the bottom of her throat, at once declared 
 her country, though she was so unlike in 
 jDcrson the generality of its inhabitants. 
 
 " Well, Mistress Philippina," said the young 
 gentleman, taking her good-humouredly by the 
 ear ; *' well, you must give me shelter till the 
 storm's over, and this gentleman too, whom I 
 have met half drowned upon the common." 
 
 " That I will. Master Ralph," replied the 
 other ; " but I'll go and get you a little warm 
 c 2
 
 20 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 elder wine, for you are both of you as wet as 
 may be." 
 
 " I don't want any, my good Philly," replied 
 Master Ralph, as she called him ; " but I know 
 if you say I'm to take it, it's inevitable. If 
 you were to tell me I was to take pap, such as 
 you gave me when I was a baby, I know I 
 should be obliged to do it." 
 
 " Pap ! I never gave you pap," cried the 
 woman, shaking her hand at him ; '' why you 
 were four years old when I came to you, and 
 a wild scape-goat you were." 
 
 " Scape-grace you mean, Philly," replied the 
 gentleman. " But get the wine, if it must be 
 so ; only if you will but let me have my own 
 way for once, let it be cold, not hot, for who 
 could drink hot wine on such a day as this ? I 
 dare say the thunder has turned it all sour." 
 
 " Nonsense," cried Philippina. " Thunder 
 does no harm to anybody but fools and small- 
 beer ; " and away she went upon her errand, 
 fully resolved that the young gentleman and 
 his companion should not only have the wine, 
 but have it hot too, for she was one of the few 
 women who love their own way.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 21 
 
 When she was gone, the two horsemen had 
 time to turn and remark for a moment each 
 other's appearance. The first we have already 
 described. The second was a very opposite 
 person in almost every respect. He was of a 
 middle height, well and gracefully made, strong 
 and muscular, even more than he appeared at 
 first sight, and the whole aspect of his person 
 betokened at once vigour and activity. His 
 countenance was remarkably handsome, though 
 very dark ; his eyes large and of a deep hazel ; 
 his teeth fine and regular, and the expression 
 cheerful and good-humoured ; though there 
 was a great deal of thought about the brow, 
 and a glance of quick and fiery energy in 
 the bright lustrous eye. He was dressed in 
 a green riding-coat, relieved by a binding of 
 silver lace, and had on a light riding-sword 
 in a shagreen sheath with silver mountings. 
 His feet and legs were covered with heavy 
 hunting boots, coming above the knee, such 
 as were worn at that period ; and his hat had 
 a band of white feathers, a piece of petit- 
 7uaitrism which had been very common about 
 c 3
 
 ^2 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 thirty years before tlie period of which I 
 speak, and which was revived for a short time 
 within the recollection of our fathers. His 
 manner was frank and open, but withal 
 that of a person who was accustomed to be 
 treated with respect, and who felt that all 
 around him owed him at least some degree 
 of deference. 
 
 The dress of the first horseman, of whom 
 we have spoken, was somewhat different ; .it 
 had the air of the town about it. The cho- 
 colate-coloured suit, the manifold buttons, 
 the rich embroidery of the waistcoat, the pro- 
 fusion of lace, the quantity of shirt shown at 
 the wrists, all spoke plainly the inhabitant of 
 the great metropolis ; and he, on his part, 
 had quite discarded from his hat every vestige 
 of a feather, and contented himself with a broad 
 gold band and buckle, very much like those 
 which we have now transmitted to our ser- 
 vants. The dresses of both were pretty well 
 soaked in rain ; but, as might naturally be 
 expected, that of the Londoner had suffered 
 the most, and notwithstanding the advantage
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 23 
 
 of a good person and gentlemanly bearing, 
 he certainly did present at that moment a 
 yei'j draggled and disconsolate appearance. 
 
 After a momentary pause of examination, in 
 the course of which the gentleman whom they 
 had called Master Ralph regarded the other 
 so intensely as somewhat to excite anger, he 
 said in a tone of apology, '' I really have to 
 beg your pardon for staring at you so, if I am 
 not correct in believing we have met before. 
 Your face is not altogether strange to me, but 
 it seems connected with very distant years. I 
 could almost swear that it was my old school- 
 fellow John Forrest." 
 
 The word instantly seemed to call up nev>^ 
 feelings in the bosom of the stranger also, and 
 he answered, " The same, the same ! If I did 
 not know that Ralph Strafford was in Germany 
 with Prince Ferdinand, your appearance, and 
 the place in which I find you, so near his uncle's 
 house as this must be, would make me believe 
 that you were he." 
 
 *' I am none other, Forrest,*' replied his com- 
 panion, extending his hand to him in a frank 
 c 4
 
 SS* THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 manner, though there had been something 
 strained and involved in his companion's ac- 
 knowledgment of recognition. They shook 
 hands heartily, hovrever, Ralph Strafford add- 
 ing, " I have returned from Germany more 
 than six months. Every thing seemed to pro- 
 mise so speedy a termination of the wbly, that I 
 might well be spared, and my uncle, who had 
 a fit of illness at the time, was anxious for my 
 presence in England." Their first recognition 
 was followed by a temporary fit of musing. 
 
 It is strange — perhaps the strangest of all 
 the mind's intricacies — the sudden, the instan- 
 taneous manner, in which memory, by a single 
 signal, casts wide the doors of one of those dark 
 storehouses in which long-passed events have 
 been shut up for years. That signal, be it a 
 look, a tone, an odour, a single sentence, is the 
 cabalistic word of the Arabian tale, at the potent 
 magic of which the door of the cave of the 
 robber, Forgetfulness, is cast suddenly wide, and 
 all the treasures that he had concealed displayed. 
 Upon the memory of Ralph StraiFord rushed up 
 the visions of his youthful days, — the sports of
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 25 
 
 boyhood, the transient cares, the quarrels soon 
 forgotten, the pains which passed away like 
 summer clouds ; the pure sweet joys of youth, 
 and innocence, and ignorance of ill, that never 
 return when once passed away. The image of 
 John Forrest was connected with bright and 
 happy memories, and it was natural that all 
 the first feelings of his school-fellow on their 
 recognition should be pleasant towards him. 
 It required a more slow operation of memory 
 to call up many a disagreeable trait in the cha- 
 racter of his companion, and even then a gene- 
 rous heart was fain to believe that the faults of 
 the boy had been corrected by the experience 
 of the man. 
 
 While they were yet with this subject fresh 
 upon their lips and their thoughts, the good 
 German Philippina returned with her neat maid- 
 servant bearing the mulled wine ; and Strafford's 
 first exclamation was, while he did more justice, 
 than inclination for the beverage prompted, to 
 the wine she brought, " I have found an old 
 school-fellow here, Philly. Forrest, let me in- 
 troduce you to the worthy gouvernante of my
 
 26 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 infancy. Frau Philippina Weiler, let me intro- 
 duce to your notice my old school-fellow, Jolui 
 Forrest." 
 
 Philippina fixed her black sparkling eyes 
 upon the stranger, and made him a low reve- 
 rence ; but before she could answer, the young 
 gentleman went on, " Why, whither were you 
 going, Forrest, in this out of the way part of 
 the country, when I met you on the common ? 
 I cannot consent to your quitting our county 
 without spending a day or two at my uncle's, 
 who will be delighted to see you." 
 
 *^ To say the truth," replied the other, after 
 a momentary pause, '* I was following the car- 
 riage of my uncle, who is going on with his 
 wife and daughter to spend a short time with 
 his cousin, Lady Mallory, But this storm 
 coming on, I thought I could take a shorter 
 cut across the country, and had lost myself 
 when you found me." 
 
 ** To Lady Mallory's ! " exclaimed his com- 
 panion, with some surprise; "I never knew 
 that she was your relation. She must be much 
 younger than your uncle."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 9,1 
 
 " A great deal ! " replied John Forrest ; 
 '^ not much older, I believe, than myself. 
 There was some unfortunate dispute between 
 them, which lasted for several years ; but it is 
 now made up, and he is going clown to visit her 
 for the first time since her marriage. He was 
 to have set out three weeks ago, but he was 
 detained in London." 
 
 '^ It is strange enough," replied Strafford : 
 " I have just come from the Hall myself; but I 
 fear your uncle is not aware that Lady Mallory 
 is very ill, and unable to see any one." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the other, with much 
 surprise ; '' that is most unfortunate." 
 
 *' The report was," said Strafford, ^' when I 
 called this morning, that she was somewhat 
 better, and hoped to see any of her friends 
 again towards the end of the week." 
 
 His companion replied not, but fell into a fit 
 of musing, and Philippina joined in the conver- 
 sation, shaking her head, and saying, " Ay, it 
 is a sad sickly time. Master Ralph, a sad sickly- 
 time, indeed. There *s many a poor soul badly
 
 %0 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 *' I know it, I know it, Pliilippina," replied 
 Strafford with a saddened brow, " especially in 
 the low grounds down by the moor there. The 
 summer has been so wet that it has spread 
 much sickness. I was just riding down to see 
 poor "Williams, the schoolmaster, and inquire 
 what could be done for him, when this storm 
 came on, and I turned down here for shelter." 
 
 " Ay, Master Ralph," replied the good 
 woman, shaking her head — '^ the storm has 
 spared you a useless ride ; nothing can be done 
 for poor Williams now in life. He died about 
 this time yesterday. I went down and sat with 
 his poor girl for an hour or two, to comfort her 
 last night, for the gay, blithe, wild-headed thing 
 is now well nigh broken-hearted." 
 
 " You're a good creature, Philly," replied 
 the young gentleman. " I fear Williams has 
 died but poor, and his girl must be badly off." 
 
 '' A beggar," replied Philippina briefly. 
 
 The young gentleman's purse was in his 
 hand in a moment. " She must want nothing, 
 Philippina," he said, '' till my imcle can do 
 something for her. Go down to her again to-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. ^9 
 
 night, there 's a good woman, and let her have 
 every thing that is needful. Let her think my 
 uncle gives it, you know, for she might not like 
 to take it from a young man like me." 
 
 *' Thou art thoughtful and kind, my boy," 
 replied Philippina, — "always thoughtful and 
 always kind, and I will do what you bid me ; 
 but I hope and trust that there is another that 
 will take care of her, for sure I am there is 
 another loves her well, — wild and light as 
 she has always seemed. If a man have a 
 generous spirit, it is now that he should come 
 forward to soothe, and cheer, and bless her 
 sorrowful heart with generous kindness and 
 honest love, when the first natural affections 
 that God put in her bosom are mourning over 
 her father's grave." 
 
 There was something in the woman's words 
 that touched Ralph Strafford much, and he 
 turned to the window, as if to look out to the 
 sky. 
 
 The storm had somewhat abated ; there was 
 a gleam of blue and of sunshine upon the edge 
 of the horizon; and in about half an hour more
 
 so THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 tlie cloud seemed to liave exhausted its fury, 
 and passed away, though there were still drops 
 of rain falling from time to time, and now and 
 then a flash of lightning, followed by a distant 
 murmur of the thunder, broke across the 
 landscape, but faint and subdued. The two 
 gentlemen then mounted their horses ; and 
 Strafford, promising to put his companion into 
 the direct road to Mallory Hall, led the way 
 back through some other lanes towards the high 
 road. Forrest suffered him to do so unop- 
 posed ; for though, as we have seen, he had 
 falsified the truth in attributing his deviation 
 from the turnpike road to the effects of the 
 storm, yet, whatever was his purpose, it was 
 abandoned for the time, and he willingly put 
 himself under Strafford's guidance.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 31 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 We must now lead our readers to anotlier 
 scene, very different from the high road, or 
 the wild common, or the clean deal-boarded 
 parlour of Philippina's cottage. It is to the 
 library of Stalbrooke Castle, such as it was 
 in the days of which we speak. Many an 
 eye that looks upon these pages may have 
 seen it in its present state ; but that state is 
 very, very different from the condition in 
 which it was then found. 
 
 It is a very common saying in many parts 
 of this pleasant little island of old England, 
 when things go well with one, that " the world 
 runs upon castors with him ;" and in a wider 
 sense of the word, the world has certainly 
 run on castors between that time and this, 
 changing every thing as it went along — castors 
 as rapid and eager in their revolutions as 
 those which, nowadays, upon a rail-road
 
 S2 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 seem to beat the flight of Tmie himself, and find 
 the clocks striking the same hour in many a 
 different part of the earth. 
 
 In the library of Stalbrooke Castle in those 
 days there were no damask hangings with gold 
 fringe ; no chairs of red morocco, so heavy in 
 their massy carving that they could hardly be 
 moved ; there were no splendid looking-glasses 
 in frames of a foot in thickness ; but, neverthe- 
 less, every thing bespoke comfort, affluence, and 
 taste, though chastened by a calm simplicity. 
 The chintz curtains, the neat light-rolling arm- 
 chairs, the soft Turkey carpet, the large well- 
 contrived library table, were all prolific of as 
 much ease as the best and showiest of more 
 modern inventions. There was a grandeur, too, 
 in the large black oak bookcases, with their 
 folding glass doors, which displayed the titles 
 on the tomes behind, without suffering the 
 dust to encumber their quaint old bindings ; 
 and the formidable array of volumes, eight 
 or nine thousand in number, had, at first 
 sight, an imposing effect, though, perhaps, 
 afterwards, there might be a strange shade of
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 33 
 
 melancholy come over the mind, from a vague 
 feeling, connecting the immensity of labour, 
 and thought, and study, which must have 
 been expended in the compilation of that 
 mass of literature, not only with the idea 
 of the mortality of those who produced it, 
 but with the idea of the mortality of man's 
 best and finest hopes of his aspirations after 
 fame and permanent renown, and with that 
 of his vain grasping at the straws which 
 float upon the surface of existence, in the ex- 
 pectation that they will save his name from 
 sinking like the rest. A great library is cer- 
 tainly a splendid monument to intellectual 
 exertion ; but, like other monuments, it is as 
 certainly erected to the dead, and bears a 
 touch of the melancholy of the tomb ; with 
 this only difference in general, that the book- 
 shelves are the catacombs in which are en- 
 tombed men's minds, instead of their bodies. 
 
 On the top of the bookcases, contrasting 
 finely with the black oak of the panelling, 
 were a number of busts of celebrated men 
 in white marble. The execution of those 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34f THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 thus placed was not very good ; but around 
 the room, on pedestals of different kinds of 
 rich marble, were some exquisite pieces of 
 ancient sculpture. They were few, but they 
 were choice ; and on no part of the statue 
 or the bust was there to be seen the mallet 
 mark of the manufacturer of modern antiques, 
 nor the clumsy additions of the restorer's 
 chisel. 
 
 Some large, splendid, but cool-coloured 
 china vases filled up various intervals ; and 
 it is worthy of remark, that the only things 
 around the room, which in the slightest de- 
 gree approached to the yellow hue of gold, 
 were the castors of the chairs, a thin moulding 
 round a large pier glass over the mantel- 
 piece, and the massy carving of two old Flo- 
 rentine frames ; in each of which, on either 
 side of the mantel-piece, was placed an ex- 
 quisite specimen of the handiwork of two 
 of the most opposite, yet most skilful, land- 
 scape painters that ever lived. 
 
 There was on the one side a cool, calm, 
 shady wood scene of Poussin, witli a boy
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. S5 
 
 gazing into a stream, wliich was scarcely 
 rippled by a distant fall over a small rock. 
 There was but little in the picture, but one 
 might look upon it during a hot summer's 
 day and feel refreshed. 
 
 On the other side was a picture of the 
 same size, from the hand of Claude, full of 
 sleepy sunshine, and representing a bright 
 soft world basking in the risen day. In the 
 midst of December, in gazing upon that pic- 
 ture, one might well be deluded into believing 
 that the ear heard the busy hum of the in- 
 sects in the pride of summer. 
 
 Such was the appearance of the library of 
 Stalbrooke Castle at the period of which we 
 speak. But there was something else therein 
 upon which we must pause, in order to give 
 even a more lengthened description. It was 
 the owner of the house, who, seated in an arm- 
 chair by the side of the library table, on w^hich 
 his left arm leaned, was reading, with calm 
 thought, one of the periodical papers of the 
 day ; not one of those journals, indeed, which, 
 filled with virulence, malevolence, and falsehood 
 D 2
 
 S6 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 of every kind, give excitement and food to tlic 
 bad passions of the present time, but one of 
 those short essays, by Avhich some of th.e 
 wisest and best of the men of the hist cen- 
 tury endeavoured to improve the hearts and 
 enlarge the understandings of their fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 The gentleman we speak of was apparently 
 about sixty years of age, or somewhat more ; 
 but hale, healthy, florid ; with an undimrned 
 eye, an un withered cheek, a lip as Arm and 
 full as that of youth itself. One saw that he 
 was advanced in life, but yet one could scarcely 
 point out in what particular age made itself 
 visible. He was tall and well made, without 
 the slightest approach to corpulence ; and the 
 swelling of the muscles of his leg, seen througli 
 the nicely fitting silk stocking, spoke a life of 
 activity and vio;our. His hand, which had one 
 ring upon the little finger- — a small plain circle 
 of gold, like a wedding ring — was remarkably 
 white and well made ; and there was a degree 
 of extreme neatness and care in every part 
 of his apparel 5 which is pleasing to the eye
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 37 
 
 to beliolcl in every period of life, but more 
 especially at an age when all the fopperies 
 of youth are done away w^th, and we are too 
 much accustomed to neglect that personal ap- 
 pearance to which we formerly paid too much 
 attention. 
 
 His hair, which probably, could the colour 
 have been seen, would have been found to be 
 white, was filled with marechal powder, the 
 reddish hue of which harmonised well vvitk 
 his florid complexion. He was a little bald 
 about the temples ; but over the rest of the 
 head the hair was full, and tied with a black 
 riband in a large thick club behind. His 
 coat was cut much in the form of those which 
 are still worn at courts, and w^as made of an 
 excessively rich and thick sort of silk, re- 
 sembling uncut velvet. It was perfectly plain, 
 however, and of a sort of tea colour, only 
 relieved by some large steel buttons, not very 
 much cut. His waistcoat was of white, plainly 
 embroidered with brown ; and his breeches of 
 the same colour as the coat, with one pocket, 
 in which he kept his snuff-box, habitually 
 D 3
 
 38 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 open, as if he feared not to get at the precious 
 weed rapidly enough. 
 
 It must be owned, however, that he took 
 very little, and that very rarely ; but under- 
 neath the snuff-box lay his purse, and that 
 was often in his hand. 
 
 His buckles in the knees, and in his well- 
 made shoes, were of the same plainly cut 
 steel as his buttons ; but it must be acknow- 
 ledged that, in the silk stockings of blue and 
 white (of what was called the thunder and light- 
 ning pattern), in their fit, their spotlessness, 
 and the avoidance of every wrinkle, there 
 was a degree of neatness which approached 
 to foppery. Let my readers take the pencil 
 of imagination, and draw him as we have 
 described him, only adding the steel hilt of 
 his sword — he was never without it, for he 
 looked upon it as the especial mark of a 
 gentleman — with the steel hilt of his sword, 
 I say, reposing quietly in the left hand corner 
 of the chair, where it had fallen naturally 
 when he sat down, and they will have before 
 their eyes a picture of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 39 
 
 a true gentleman of the old school, as he sat 
 in his library at the hour of ten o'clock on 
 the morning, the commencement of which we 
 have already described. 
 
 It has not come to my knowledge what was 
 the precise paper that he was engaged in 
 reading. It was before the commencement of 
 the Rambler, we believe, and after the con- 
 clusion of the Spectator. But it matters not, for 
 it was evident that whatever the essayist might 
 say gave him pleasure. Somxctimes he dropped 
 the paper a little from his eye, and gazed for- 
 ward thoughtfully, as if either to impress upon 
 his mind that which he read, or to examine 
 more minutely the truth and accuracy of the 
 sentiments expressed. Then again as he read, 
 and when some unexpected sally sparkled from 
 the page, or some happy point was suddenly 
 elicited, a well-pleased smile would play upon 
 his lip, somewhat peculiar in character, and 
 even benevolent ; for it seemed as if he were not 
 only satisfied with what had been said, but as 
 if he participated in the author's pleasure at 
 having said it so happily. 
 D 4
 
 40 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 His was a heart, indeed, that was in constant 
 association with the hearts of lii.s fellow-men. 
 Most men are selfish entirely in almost every 
 thing they do : the pleasures they derive are for 
 themselves ; the pains they experience are for 
 themselves ; the thoughts they think are of 
 themselves alone. Even if they act apparently 
 for the benefit of others, it is for advantage or 
 honour to redound to themselves ; and the one 
 little godhead of self is the object of their 
 worship through every hour of the day, though 
 they veil the idol under a thousand garbs. 
 
 Bat the reverse of all this was Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke. There was a link of connection, as 
 we have said, between every thing that he did, 
 or thought, or felt, and the actions, the happi- 
 ness, the Vv^elfare of others. As we have just 
 exemplified, when he sat down to read the pro- 
 ductions of any other man, if they were well 
 written, his pleasure was doubled on the author's 
 account ; if they were ill written, he felt pained 
 and grieved for him, and found in the treasures 
 of his own generous heart a thousand excuses 
 for the failure, which he never would have
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 41 
 
 brought forward had the case been his own. 
 That he lived not up to liis income was neither 
 from a love of money, nor for the desire of 
 leaving any larger fortune than he himself pos- 
 sessed to his nephew and his heir; but he 
 always considered and foresav/ that the moment 
 might come when some extraordinary claims 
 might require the surplus, and some one wlio 
 wanted assistance might have it but ineffi- 
 ciently if he went close to those bounds of due 
 economy which he was resolved never to over- 
 step. His forethought in this respect was con- 
 stantly justified, for that which was saved one 
 year never remained in his purse till the end 
 of the next. 
 
 That he kept up fully and splendidly the 
 household, the hospitality, the table, and the 
 equipage of an English country gentleman, 
 was neither that he loved ostentation or fine 
 living ; but he recollected that the multitudes of 
 the laborious, the ingenious, the industrious, 
 receive their legitimate support from the 
 wealth of those to whom God had intrusted 
 large property, even as stewards ; and he felt
 
 42 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 that he had no right to disappoint their just 
 expectations of employment and reward. The 
 poor and the needy, however, always found that 
 his purse remained sufficiently full for their 
 necessities, and his generosity was of an ample 
 character. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, there can very well 
 be such a thing as a mean generosity, — a gene- 
 rosity which gives but half as much as may be 
 really serviceable ; and this, in almost every in- 
 stance, produces to the object of it evil rather 
 than good, depresses rather than raises, en- 
 tangles more deeply instead of setting free at 
 once. 
 
 Such, however, was not the generosity of 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke : when he gave, his 
 first thought was how much may be really ser- 
 viceable, and what he gave was certainly never 
 •less than what his judgment pointed out to be 
 ample. He was generous of his time too ; for, 
 a happy economist both of riches and moments, 
 he could afford to give the necessary space for 
 investigating the truth of any case that was 
 brought before him, for seeking the best means
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 43 
 
 of relieving distress, for interesting others where 
 his own aid could not be fully available, and for 
 soothing, comforting, consoling, and advising in 
 those instances where neither wealth nor in- 
 terest could prove a medicine to the mind's 
 malady. 
 
 He was generous, too, of his reputation, for in 
 reputation also he felt himself to be rich. He 
 never shrunk from the persecuted, he never 
 abandoned the innocent, he never frowned even 
 upon the failing and repentant. Many a man 
 would have been trodden under foot by the 
 rush of slanderous enemies, — many a woman 
 would have been cast from society, and plunged 
 into vice as the only resource, had it not been 
 for Sir Andrew Stalbrooke. His hand had been 
 a prop to many, his name had ever been a shield 
 to the oppressed ; and, as it cannot be in this 
 world but that a crushed viper will turn to sting, 
 the sword of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke had twice 
 sprung from the sheath to defend the wronged 
 honour of others, who trusted their cause to 
 him. 
 
 We have not painted the mental character of
 
 44 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the Gentleman of the Old School so fully and 
 completely as we have his personal appearance ; 
 because on the latter we shall touch no more, 
 while many a trait of his character may have to 
 be recorded in the pages which follow. When 
 he had done the paper which he was reading, 
 he laid it down and rang the bell. The servant 
 was some time in coming ; and, as Sir Andrew 
 had in his character several little foibles, one of 
 which was a certain degree of impatience and 
 quickness of disposition, he rose and took the 
 bell in his hand hastily, as if to ring a violent 
 and reproachful peal. But such movements 
 were with him but momentary ; and even while 
 the rope was in his hand he corrected himself, 
 and rang again as gently as before, thinking, 
 " Johnson is most likely busy, and I know he 
 does not like any of the others to answer my 
 bell." 
 
 A moment after his own servant appeared, 
 bringing two or three papers in his hand. " I 
 beg pardon, sir," he said, " for keeping you 
 waiting ; but here is one of the poor little boys 
 from the village that used to go to Williams's
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 45 
 
 scliool. Poor Miss Lucy has sent him up with 
 ail these papers, tliat lier fatlier desired to be 
 given to you concerning the school business." 
 
 *' I Ivuew you had some good reason for 
 not coming directly, Johnson," replied Sir An- 
 drew : " I am afraid poor Williams wdll not do 
 well." 
 
 The man shook his head. " He died yester- 
 day, sir," he said: " I knew it last night, and 
 tliought to tell it you while you were going 
 to bed ; but you were grieved about Lady 
 Mallory's illness, and I could not find in my 
 heart to vex you." 
 
 '' Ilou should have told me, Johnson, you 
 should have told me," replied the Baronet 
 calmly. "We are not here to see all things 
 prosper that vv'e wish, Johnson, and every man 
 must bear his portion of sorrow. God knows, I 
 have had very few of my own as yet, and I v/ish 
 to be spared none of the natural pains that 
 must befall us, not for an hour, Johnson. Poor 
 W^illiams — he was a good creature, though his 
 head turned with poetry and such things out of 
 his v»'ay, and above his station. Lucy will be
 
 46 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 very sad, poor thing. We must see what can 
 be done for her. Give me the papers. We must 
 get another schoolmaster soon, or the poor 
 children will be getting quite wild again. Tell 
 the boy to give my love to Lucy, and say I will 
 be down to see her in the course of the day. — 
 Hark ye, Johnson — if you were to go down 
 yourself, and tell her that though she has lost 
 one father she will find another in me, it 
 might comfort her till I can go down, which I 
 will do after the post comes in." 
 
 The man bowed and retired, and Sir Andrew 
 advanced to the wide bow window of the library, 
 and gazed out for several minutes. It was a 
 beautiful scene that he beheld, — the ground 
 sloping down from Stalbrooke Castle, green 
 wave after green wave, till a long avenue of 
 horse chestnuts marked where the park wall 
 ran along the bottom of the valley. Beyond 
 that again rose up a sunny landscape, breathing 
 of rural prosperity, extending for many a mile, 
 and bounded only by wooded hills at the dis- 
 tance of two or three leagues. Between, lay 
 field beyond field, with cottages innumerable,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 47 
 
 marked out and separated from each other by 
 groups of trees and shrubs ; while little gardens, 
 small detached fields, hedge-rows and copses 
 appeared, growing less and less distinct, till all 
 was lost in undistinguished masses. Beyond 
 the park, though the village was hidden by the 
 horse chestnuts, the scattered cottages and farm 
 houses could all be seen clearly amongst the 
 trees ; here and there a whole front, then a 
 gable, then a roof, then nothing but a few 
 chimneys, with the white smoke curling amongst 
 the green leaves. The whole was bathed in 
 sunshine ; and through the open window came 
 mingled many a sweet country sound, — the dis- 
 tant barking of the honest dog, the gay voices 
 of the village children, and the singing of many 
 a bright bird, glorying in the fulness of summer. 
 It was all very lovely and very delightful. But 
 even in the enjoyment of that sweet scene, Sir 
 Andrew Stalbrooke's sympathies for his fellow- 
 beings were not for a moment extinguished. He 
 thought of what that sunshine must be to her 
 who mourned ; and, as he turned away towards
 
 48 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the writing table, he said in a low voice, " Poor 
 Lucy ! " 
 
 He now seated himself to write letters, and 
 continued to do so for nearly an horn- ; but as he 
 went on, though the apartment was wide and 
 lightsome, the paper grew dark, and, as he sat, 
 Sir Andrew could scarcely see to write. "With- 
 out looking up, he changed his position so as to 
 gain more light; but, in a few minutes after, 
 there came a sudden flash of light across the 
 paper, and then a peal of thunder that shook 
 the whole building. Sir Andrew now looked up, 
 and saw the rain descending fast ; then applied 
 himself to his letter again, and wrote on. 
 
 He had just concluded, and was folding up 
 what he had written, when a servant in livery 
 entered, and, advancing close to the table, said, 
 *' Sir, there is a servant just come up from 
 the hill to say, that one of the horses of the 
 carriage with which he is travelling has fallen 
 going down the hill, and the carriage is overturned. 
 His master and mistress and all the rest are un- 
 der the great ash tree by the milestone, and they 
 •\Yant assistance to set the carriage to rights."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 49 
 
 Sir Andrew instantly started up. " Under 
 the ash tree in such a storm as this!" he cried. 
 " Quick, John, bring all the men that you can 
 get down directly. Bring down all the cloaks 
 and roquelaures and things of that kind that you 
 can find. We must have these ladies up to the 
 castle immediately. They must be strangers, 
 or they surely would not serve me in such a 
 way as this." 
 
 "That's what I said to the servant, sir," 
 replied the man ; " I said you would be quite 
 offended." 
 
 '' Not offended, John, not offended," replied 
 Sir Andrew ; " but hurt, pained, grieved." 
 
 " I sent down William, sir," continued the 
 man, " and Thackery, the under-groom, along 
 with the servant, and I told them how vexed 
 you would be ; so most likely they are coming 
 up by this time." 
 
 Notwithstanding this intimation, however. 
 Sir Andrew pursued his way out of the library, 
 through a little vestibule, into the great stone 
 hall, which was separated from a large flight of 
 stone steps leading down into the Gothic porch 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 50 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 of the house, by a screen filled up with glass 
 and admitting two large glass doors. Hastily 
 taking up his hat and cloak he threw open one 
 of the doors ; descended the stone steps ; only 
 paused in the porch to bid the servant who 
 followed lose no time ; and then running down 
 the other flight of ste2)s with the agility of 
 youth, he passed through the stone court, as it 
 was called, which led at once to a short paved 
 road which brought him to the highway. 
 
 At this moment, hail, thunder, rain and light- 
 ning, were pouring a mingled deluge on the earth, 
 so that it was scarcely possible to see any object, 
 even at the short distance which lay between 
 the gates of Stalbrooke Park and the spot upon 
 the side of the hill where the carria^-e had been 
 overturned. Sir Andrew could just perceive, 
 through the dim dark curtain of the heavy 
 shower, one of the huge masses, called coaches 
 in those days, lying flat upon its side like a 
 black sow in the mire, with a group of several 
 persons gathered together under a large ash 
 tree near the spot, which in truth afforded no 
 shelter whatsoever, while the three men who had
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. Si. 
 
 just before gone down from the castle were 
 seen a little nearer, each running on with his 
 head bent down in the attitude of a ram in tlie 
 act of butting, in order to encounter the hail 
 and rain upon wliat was probably the thickest, 
 hardest, and most impenetrable part of their 
 person. 
 
 The baronet hurried on as fast as ho conhi, 
 and advancing at once to an elderly gentleman, 
 who seemed the master of the vehicle, he ^i- 
 nounced his name, and begged that the whole 
 party would immediately take shelter la his 
 house. With the rapid clearness which distin- 
 guished most of his proceedings, he cast a single 
 glance upon the carriage ; and seeing that oue 
 of the axles was broken, he turned again to the 
 gentleman before he could even announce tliat 
 he accepted the invitation, exclaiming, " I much 
 doubt, my dear sh', whether you will be able t& 
 proceed to-day. Allow me to show you the 
 way to my house, madam," he continued, 
 offering his hand to the elder of two ladies wh.9 
 were present. " I hope, my fair young fricjid, 
 the lightning does not alarm you." 
 E 2 
 
 0» vf ILL UK
 
 52 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " Not in the least, sir," replied the young 
 lady in a low tone as they advanced towards 
 the house. " It is awful as well as beautiful ; 
 but surely not frightful." 
 
 The elder lady, however, trembled so violently 
 that it was evident she possessed no particle of 
 her daughter's courage, and leading her forward 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke exerted himself to the 
 utmost to make her forget her apprehensions, 
 by talking of the accident that had happened, 
 and enquiring into all the particulars. Servants 
 with mantles and all kinds of protections against 
 the weather met them half way; but Sir An- 
 drev/, — thinking it unnecessary to cover up 
 people who, he now saw, were already wet to 
 the skin, from any further effects of the storm, 
 — hurried on as fast as possible, till he had 
 safely lodged the whole party, inclusive of two 
 waiting women, within the glass door of the 
 great hall. Housekeepers and housemaids were 
 there in attendance, every member of Sir 
 Andrew's household knowing how to calculate 
 to the utmost nicety what would be his conduct 
 on such occasions.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 53 
 
 " Mistress Wallis," lie said to the house- 
 keeper, *' pray conduct these two ladies imme- 
 diately to their chambers. Send down instantly 
 for whatsoever mails they may want from the 
 carriage to change their wet clothing ; and pray 
 see that it be done effectually. Madam," he 
 continued to the elder lady, "let me beg you 
 to make my house for the time your home. It 
 will be impossible for you to proceed for many 
 hours, and therefore, though an old gentleman's 
 solitude may not afford you the most agreeable 
 resting-place in the v/orld, you must e'en con- 
 tent yourself with it for a time. I will take 
 care of this gentleman, if he will follow me, 
 and act as his groom of the chamber, as I have 
 unfortunately sent my own servant out." 
 
 The party who had met with the accident 
 were willing to offer every sort of apology 
 and excuse for the trouble they were giving. 
 But Sir Andrew laid his finger quietly on 
 the sleeve of the gentleman's coat, from 
 which the water was absolutely trickling down 
 upon the marble pavement of the hall, and 
 said, *' My dear sir, if any apology were really 
 E 3
 
 54 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 necessary, tliis drenched garment would be the 
 strongest of all reasons for cutting it short. If 
 you Tiill do me the favour to follow me, we 
 shall all he in a condition to converse with each 
 other more fully in a short time."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 55 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 If we were in general to judge by the manners 
 of one of our countrymen towards a stranger, 
 whom he meets for the first time, of what was 
 really passing in his heart, and to suppose that 
 he obeyed the divine precept, to love his neigli- 
 bour as himself, there would certainly be no 
 being under the sun which fulfilled likewise 
 the precept addressed to a sinner, of hating him- 
 self, so thoroughly as an Englishman. There 
 seems, in short, a sort of natural antipathy 
 between an Englishman and a stranger, which 
 cannot be got over till the relationship in which 
 it takes its rise is extinguished ; but although 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke was an Englishm.an jpar 
 excellence, and had all the finer, and the better, 
 and the nobler qualities of his countrymen, he 
 bad in his early life mingled much with foreign 
 nations, seen much of foreign countries, and 
 rubbed off, in short, that husk of reserve which 
 E 4
 
 56 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 in our own land so often keeps man from man. 
 In about half an hour from the period at which 
 we last left him, he was in the drawing-room of 
 his own house, having, in the interim, com- 
 pletely changed his wet suit, and notwithstand- 
 ing the absence of his valet, appearing as neat, 
 as clean, and as well powdered as ever. Here 
 then he waited for about twenty minutes longer, 
 with his heart overflowing with all sorts of kind 
 and hospitable thoughts towards his guests, 
 hoping that Mistress WalHs would take every 
 care of the two ladies, and that neither alarm 
 nor wetting would do them any harm. 
 
 At the end of about a quarter of an hour 
 more, the drawing-room door opened, and the 
 gentleman who headed the party in the car- 
 riage appeared with changed garments, and an 
 aspect somev/hat less disconsolate than he had 
 borne when Sir Andrew had last seen him. 
 He was a man of the middle age, or, perhaps, 
 somewhat beyond it ; tall, thin, and gentleman- 
 like in appearance, but somewhat stiff and rigid 
 in his carriage. His countenance was pale, 
 even sallow; and though the features were good.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 57 
 
 there was a narrow keenness about the eyes 
 which gave him a look of vulture-like sharpness ; 
 while the close fixing of the determined teeth, 
 and a wrinkled frown, which had become ha- 
 bitual, on the brow, spoke to the dabbler in 
 physiognomy a harsh and tyrannical disposition, 
 if not an unfeeling and remorseless heart. His 
 dress was very plain, but it was of fine and 
 costly materials ; and every part of it, without 
 being quite new, had still the gloss of newness 
 upon it. 
 
 ** I have. Sir Andrew, to thank you," he 
 said, advancing towards his host with a formal 
 bow, — *^ to thank you most sincerely for your 
 hospitality towards me, and my wife and 
 daughter. They will be down in a few 
 minutes and offer you their thanks them- 
 selves." 
 
 " My dear sir," replied Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke, " believe me, that thanks are quite 
 unnecessary — nay more, even painful to me ; 
 inasmuch as having received pleasure already 
 fi-om the opportunity of showing you any little 
 attention, I should be receiving more than
 
 58 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 my right if I permitted you to add thanks to 
 the pleasure you have given by accepting it." 
 
 The other replied, urging in formal terms 
 the expression of his gratitude ; and then 
 added, " I doubt not, Sir Andrew, that the 
 servant who came up to your house made 
 you acquainted with my name, and my near 
 connection with your neighbour, and I be- 
 lieve friend, Lady Mallory." 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Sir Andrew. " I 
 keep up the old custom here, my dear sir, 
 and, of course, ask no one's name ; but I can 
 assure you it adds to the pleasure I have re- 
 ceived from your taking shelter here, to learn 
 that you are connected with that fair and very 
 excellent lady." 
 
 " My name, sir," replied the gentleman, ** is 
 Forrest ; and, I am happy to say, I am her 
 first cousin. It is true," he added, perhaps 
 seeing a slight shade of surprise upon the 
 countenance of his entertainer ; " it is true, 
 some old family disputes have kept Lady 
 Mallory and myself as strangers to each other 
 for many years. I am happy to say, however.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 59 
 
 that such unpleasant circumstances have ter- 
 minated ; and I am on my way, even now, 
 Avith my wife and daughter, and my nephew, 
 who follows us on horseback, to pay a long- 
 promised visit to my fair cousin. We take 
 her by surprise, indeed ; but she informed me 
 that she had always room for us." 
 
 " Were the cause less unpleasant than it 
 is," replied Sir Andrew, " I should be inclined 
 to s^jlIioj)e that your thus taking Lady Mallory 
 by surprise might afford me the pleasure of 
 your company for a day or two longer, Mr. 
 Forrest ; but I am grieved to be obliged to 
 tell 3-0U, tliat Lady Mallory is far from well. 
 Two days ago it was even reported that she 
 was in danger ; but yesterday we had more 
 favourable accounts, and my nephew is now 
 over at her house making inquiries after her 
 health." 
 
 . The countenance of Mr. Forrest fell ; but 
 what he was about to reply was cut short by 
 the entrance of his wife and daughter, whom 
 he formally introduced to Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke, perhaps not unwilling to pause a little
 
 60 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 ere lie replied to the implied invitation of his 
 host, and to consider how he had best act 
 under the circumstances in which Lady Mal- 
 lory's illness had placed him. 
 
 In due propriety we must speak of the 
 elder lady who now appeared, first. It has 
 been remarked that, in general, persons choose 
 to unite themselves in matrimony to a part- 
 ner the most opposite in every point, moral 
 and physical. Generally speaking, indeed, 
 it seems as if every body, upon intimate 
 acquaintance, became heartily sick of his 
 own self, and married a person as unlike 
 the disagreeable original as possible. There 
 are, however, exceptions. Sometimes we do 
 find two handsome people, two clever people, 
 two graceful people, two tall people, or two 
 short people, united together in the bond of 
 wedlock ; and in one respect, at least, this was 
 the case with Mr. and Mrs. Forrest. They 
 were both of them tall ; but here the similarity 
 ended, for her whole demeanour confirmed the 
 tale told by her countenance, of gentle pli- 
 ability of character, of patient endurance of
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 61 
 
 sorrows, perhaps of wrong — endurance which 
 left melancholy, but not bitterness behind. 
 Her eyes were large, full and tender, and still 
 very beautiful, though many a tear had dimmed 
 the brightness of their deep hazel hue. The 
 rest of her features were all fine ; and, even 
 now that she had passed, by twenty years, 
 the prime of life, had been worn with anxieties 
 and depressed with, sorows — even now, no 
 one could look upon her without exclaiming, 
 *' How beautiful she must have been!" She 
 had much quiet dignity and grace of de- 
 meanour ; but there seemed some power in 
 her husband's eye, when it fell upon her, 
 capable of taking all strength away from her 
 limbs, making her steps unsteady, and her 
 whole frame shrink wdth apprehension. 
 
 The younger lady, Edith Forrest, was by 
 no means affected in the same way, however 
 stern might be the look of her father. She 
 was small in person, but beautifully formed, 
 with every rounded limb full of grace and 
 symmetry, — the small beautiful foot, the de- 
 licately formed hand, the arm, the movements
 
 62 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 of which never formed one ungraceful angle^ 
 were all in exact proportion to her height ^ 
 so that to see her standing apart, uncon- 
 trasted with other persons, the smalhiess of 
 her size was scarcely perceptible. 
 
 Her face could scarcely be called regularly 
 handsome, and yet, once seen, it was not 
 easily forgotten ; it was so full of varying 
 expression, from the light and sparkling look 
 of gay enjoyment, to the downcast gaze 
 of deep and shadowy thought, or the up- 
 turned glance of intense feeling, when the 
 heart seemed to raise the eyes towards 
 those heavens, not less blue than they were, 
 not less pure, and intense, and deep, and 
 bright than itself. She moved across the room 
 to be introduced to Sir Andrew Stalbrooke 
 with that exquisite and easy grace which 
 nothing can describe, but which never fails 
 in exciting admiration, even in the rude and 
 uncultivated. 
 
 Such, however, was by no means the cha- 
 racter of the Gentleman of the Old School. 
 Eve^y thing that was beautiful in art or 
 nature found some responsive feeling in his
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 63 
 
 heart ; and, as Eclitli advanced towards liim, 
 his eye rested upon her for a moment with 
 more earnestness than his courtesy would have 
 permitted, had he not been so much struck 
 with her appearance as for a moment quite 
 to forget himself. At that instant she had 
 raised her eyes towards him, with the memory 
 of his courteous kindness during the storm 
 fresh in her heart, and the sparkling pleasure 
 of such feelings beaming up in her look. The 
 grace of her movements might call forth simple 
 admiration ; but there was a living poetry in 
 that grace, combined with that expression 
 which woke up in the heart of Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke the recollection of early dreams, 
 and hopes gone by, and joys passed away for 
 ever. He gazed at her, therefore, earnestly, 
 — more earnestly than was his custom ; but, 
 recollecting himself, the moment after he ad- 
 vanced, with a well-pleased smile, to meet her 
 as her father presented her to him, and, gently 
 taking her hand, hoped that she had recovered 
 from her apprehensions regarding the storm. 
 . *' Oh, it was not I who was frightened," she 
 said, — *' it was my mother. I am not at all
 
 64^ THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 alarmed at thunder ; but it makes her ill, even 
 before it comes on." 
 
 *' Fear of course makes her ill," said Mr, 
 Forrest, with a curling lip ; " but doubtless if 
 she had not accustomed herself to give way to 
 such terrors, she would escape the illness also." 
 
 Mrs. Forrest bent down her eyes and made 
 no comment, and Sir Andrew Stalbrooke deli- 
 cately and immediately led the conversation 
 away from a subject which had already become 
 painful, by an easy transition from the storm to 
 the eifect produced by clouds and sunshine 
 upon the fair scene before the windows, through 
 which Edith's eyes were gazing with a look of 
 melancholy thought, as if the jarring words 
 spoken by her father to her mother still ex- 
 cited some wonder as well as sorrow. 
 
 '' One unpleasant effect of the storm. Miss 
 Forrest," said Sir Andrew, turning to the young 
 lady, " has been to make the first sight of this 
 place somewhat dark and gloomy. It is not so 
 in general, however ; for I can assure you that 
 the prospect before your eyes varies with every 
 changing aspect of the sky above it, and I have
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 65 
 
 seen the countenance of nature, as there set 
 forth, bear at least twenty expressions in the 
 day." 
 
 " Like the countenance of some creature of 
 caprice," said Mr. Forrest in a civil tone, but 
 with a sneer upon his lip which he found it 
 difficult at any time to suppress. 
 
 ** Not exactly," replied the baronet ; ** I 
 should be sorry to apply such a simile to a 
 scene of which I am peculiarly fond." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Edith, in a low tone, " it 
 may be beautiful under all its aspects, as it 
 seems to me now, notwithstanding the clouds ; 
 and then it will be like a feeling and gentle 
 heart, which may be melancholy, and even 
 gloomy, under sorrows and adversities — the 
 clouds and storms of life, — but still smile up 
 brightly again to joys and amusements — the 
 light and sunshine of being, — or change under 
 the gleams of fancy, or sparkle brightly under 
 the passed-by shower of temporary disappoint- 
 ment, when the sun begins to look forth again, 
 as I see that he is doing now upon the oppo- 
 site hills." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Sir Andrew smiled affectionately upon her 
 as she spoke, and then said, *' You speak like 
 a painter, fair lady '* 
 
 " Like a poet rather, Sir Andrew," said her 
 father, interrupting him. " Edith has a habit of 
 letting her imagination run away with her 
 judgment.'* 
 
 ** Whether poet or painter," replied Sir 
 Andrew, passing over the bitterer part of his 
 guest's speech without comment, " she is 
 equally well fitted for what I was going to 
 propose : namely, to look at a small collection 
 of pictures that I have in some rooms beyond 
 my library. They are few, but very beautiful ; 
 and every fine picture addresses itself first 
 to the imagination, as porteress of the heart. 
 — Mrs. Forrest," he continued, '' will you 
 permit me to lead you thither ? I value them 
 not only because I admire them myself, but 
 because I was aided and directed in collect- 
 ing them by a friend who is now no more, 
 and who, if I may use the term, expended as 
 much life, that is to say, of what is valuable 
 and estimable in life, in the course of a few
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 67 
 
 short years, as most others do iu a long exist- 
 ence, whether they see themselves wither in 
 inactivity, or whiten under the slow exertion 
 of qualities but half employed." 
 
 Mrs. Forrest willingly signified her assent, 
 and Sir Andrew led the way through his library 
 into two rooms beyond, which faced the north. 
 The light was clear and cool, and whatever 
 were the beauties or defects of each picture, it 
 was seen to the utmost possible advantage. Sir 
 Andrew himself had a fine taste in the arts ; 
 and as the whole collection, with a very few ex- 
 ceptions, had been made by himself, he had 
 taken care that it should contain nothino- but 
 what was absolutely good. There were one or 
 two pictures by Guido, a few by Salvator Rosa, 
 two Titians in his purer and richer manner, a 
 single masterly Paul Veronese, a DomenicJiino, 
 specimens of the Caraccis, and a beautiful 
 picture of Endymion sleeping by Guercino. 
 Although, at the time I speak of, Murillo was 
 scarcely known in this country, four of his 
 finest pictures were to be found in that small 
 collection ; and besides, there were some thirty 
 F 2
 
 G8 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 or forty exquisite landscapes by the best 
 painters, and in the most different styles, -r- 
 Claudes, Poussins, Cuyps, Hobbimas, and Wou- 
 vernians ; while in one room was a small paint- 
 ing by Raffael, covered by a curtain to keep 
 off the dust, and in the other an exquisite head 
 of a Madonna by an unknown Spanish artist, 
 which, although the name of the painter might 
 never have reached celebrity, Sir Andrew did 
 not value less than any other picture in his 
 collection, so beautiful was the expression, so 
 masterly the execution of that single head. 
 
 Mrs. Forrest seemed to enjoy the sight of 
 these pictures much, but Edith enjoyed them 
 more still ; and to her young and enthusiastic 
 mind every painting, of whatever character, 
 seemed to afford some fresh source of enjoy- 
 ment. Although she did not appear to be 
 without some knowledge of the subject, yet 
 she spoke not, she judged not as a connoisseur. 
 It was not alone the beauty of the handling, 
 the fineness of the colouring, the breadth, the 
 juice, the contour : these were to her mind, 
 what in fact they really are, merely the me-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 69 
 
 chanical parts of the art employed for the pur- 
 pose of producing, when complete and perfect, 
 an effect upon the human soul. Paintmg, as 
 well as sculpture, is, after all, but a hieroglyphic 
 character, in which one great mind writes down 
 its magnificent conceptions for the benefit of 
 others like itself. The mechanical skill with 
 which it does so affects the marble or the can- 
 vass, shapes the rude block into graceful forms, 
 or covers the blank sheet with glowing colours ; 
 but it is the thought in the mind of the artist 
 which speaks to the mind of others. Where there 
 is no thought, you have but a meaningless scroll, 
 like a child's copy book, where the letters may 
 be perfectly formed but the sense wanting. 
 
 Thus, when Edith Forrest gazed on that 
 picture of Guercino, where Endymion lies 
 sleeping, with the yellow rays of the distant 
 moon pouring down upon his closed eyelids, 
 the poetical appeal to her imagination was as 
 complete as if Homer, or Milton, or Shak- 
 speare had addressed it to her in words. She 
 saw him dream beneath her eyes, and she 
 dreamt too of what his dreams might be, —
 
 70 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " Of golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
 Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves. 
 Echoing grottos, full of trembling waves 
 And moonlight, aye, of all the mazy world 
 Of silvery enchantment — " 
 
 Or when she looked into one of the cahii deep 
 pictures of Poussin, with shady woods, and 
 solitary glens, and fragments of the ancient 
 splendour of past times now green with ruin 
 and decay, a thousand recollections rose up of 
 scenes like that through which her own footsteps 
 had strayed in other lands. Memory then took 
 imagination by the hand, and led her on to a 
 bright future, where the enjoyment of those 
 objects which nature has spread around the 
 human heart to excite its higher feelings, and 
 of those feelings by which the human heart in 
 its aspiration for all brightness asserts its 
 kindred to heaven, should be without the dark 
 alloy, the bitter drop, that had too often min- 
 gled with every pleasure in the past, and turned 
 the sweet cup into gall. Or when again she 
 looked upon the sweet countenance of that 
 Madonna, she read there the deep calm grief 
 mingling with hope, at once the triumph and
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 71 
 
 the sorrow, the humility and the elevation, the 
 resignation and the confidence, the agony of 
 the mortal mother, the grand faith in the im- 
 mortal Son. She read it all in those skilful 
 lines — the picture of Mary's heart when all was 
 complete, and the last awful act of the atone- 
 ment made, when man's guilt consummated 
 God's mercy, and " the sword had pierced 
 through her own soul also." 
 
 As she gazed and went on from one to 
 another, she spoke but little, and that only 
 when the words of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, or 
 of her mother, called for reply. But when she 
 did speak, the spirit of poetry that breathed 
 forth, the rich, deep, unusual tone of feeling 
 and of thought in one so young, the revelling 
 of her imagination through the wide field of 
 association, the deep purity of every idea, the 
 elevating tendency of every fancy, struck, sur- 
 prised, and pleased the high-minded old man 
 beside her, and filled him with feelings such as 
 he had seldom experienced before. 
 
 " Her fancy's flight is like the lark, all up- 
 wards," he munnured to himself. But yet, 
 F 4
 
 72 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 strange to say, even the sweet pleasure of ap- 
 proving was not altogether without some mix- 
 ture of pain in the bosom of Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke. " How I could have loved a child 
 like this," he thought ; but the next moment he 
 reproached himself for such a feeling. "Was it 
 not enough that he had his dear sister's son? 
 he asked himself, noble and generous, brave 
 and upright, full of high feelings and fine sym- 
 pathies — was it not enough that he had him? 
 and Sir Andrew Stalbrooke coloured slightly 
 under the reproaches of his own heart, as if his 
 nephew could have seen that he had done him 
 wrong, even by a thought. 
 
 The comments of Mr. Forrest upon the col- 
 lection of pictures were not so pleasant as 
 those of his daughter. He understood the 
 subject, it is true, better than she did, as a mere 
 matter of art. He was competent to decide 
 upon the accuracy of every line, and of every 
 shade ; but he did so with somewhat of a sneer- 
 ing and supercilious air, which somewhat puz- 
 zled Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, as he admitted 
 at the same time that it was one of the finest
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 73 
 
 small collections that he had ever seen. Sir 
 Andrew, however, was not a man to seek ex- 
 planation by any means that would imply a 
 reproof, in a matter which was a mere affair of 
 taste ; and he only remarked, 
 
 ** You seem to be very fond of fine pictures, 
 Mr. Forrest, and to have studied them much." 
 
 " I am fond of Indian screens too," replied 
 Mr. Forrest, ''and don't dislike old china, or 
 well-painted tea-trays. As to pictures, I think 
 them amongst the most useless and expensive 
 pieces of extravagance in which this good world 
 is disposed to indulge." 
 
 Sir Andrew felt that the speech was rude ; 
 but he was in his own house, and he replied as 
 gently as possible, " I do not quite agree with 
 you, Mr. Forrest, in regard to really fine pic- 
 tures. If man were an animal, composed 
 solely of his material form, and a principle, 
 whether material or not, which was given him 
 for the purpose of providing himself with food, 
 and guarding against dangers or injuries, I 
 would be very willing to confine all his efforts 
 to those arts which might best contribute to his
 
 74 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 material comfort, according to the school which 
 is rising up in the present day, and to the ac- 
 quisition of such knowledge as might tend to 
 the same object. But T look upon man as a 
 very different creature, my dear sir. I believe 
 him to be possessed of an immortal part also ; 
 and I look upon his imagination as one of the 
 finest qualities of that immortal part. It seems 
 to me that his imagination, in short, is nearer 
 akin to a higher state of being than even his 
 reason itself, and that it speaks more plainly 
 and distinctly the fact of his immortality. His 
 reason has a full and proper sphere of action, in 
 this very world in which we live : if there were 
 to be no other state of being, his reason would 
 have fulfilled its destiny here, without pointing 
 to, or dreaming of, a hereafter. Not so his 
 imagination, which is full of aspirations after 
 higher things, which is continually rejecting 
 the forms that surround it, to create out of the 
 only materials within its reach more splendid 
 scenes, more magnificent habitations, and to 
 point to them as the boons of futurity. I have 
 always thought, and felt, and believed, that:
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 75 
 
 though much gratitude may be due to those 
 who tend to cultivate our reason, to improve 
 our arts, and to provide for our material com- 
 fort : those who address themselves w^ith noble 
 purposes to our imagination — the painter, the 
 poet, tlie sculptor, or the musician, — who seek 
 to purify, to elevate, to direct that great quality 
 of the immortal soul, to give, in fact, to Fancy the 
 wings of the Seraph, not only deserve higher 
 thanks, but are in their very selves of a higher 
 nature, dealing with a higher power, treating 
 with greater intelligences, and are, in short, 
 amongst the princes of the human mind." 
 
 " I have no great fancy for princes of any 
 kind," muttered Mr. Forrest ; but Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke would not reply. He had spoken 
 more at length, indeed, than he had intended 
 to do, and had got warm in speaking, and he 
 feared for his own courtesy if the conversation 
 went farther. It took a new turn, however, a 
 moment or two after ; for steps were heard in 
 the adjoining library, and voices speaking ; and 
 the next moment, through the door which had 
 been left open, two young gentlemen, whom we
 
 76 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 have before introduced to the reader, entered 
 the room. Although we have ah'eady described 
 them, we must yet pause for a moment to 
 notice the contrast of their appearance to the 
 eyes of those in the picture-gallery, as they 
 advanced side by side. 
 
 They were both decidedly handsome, as far 
 as features went ; but the one was bad in ex- 
 pression, somewhat stiff and assuming in de- 
 meanour, and his dress spoke fashion rather 
 than taste. Ralph Strafford, on the other 
 hand, bore on his countenance the light of a 
 high heart, and a powerful and intelligent 
 mind. All his movements were easy, graceful, 
 and unstudied. He felt not, or at least seemed 
 not to feel, that there was any eye upon him ; 
 and health, and vigour, and grace-giving ex- 
 ercises, and the sympathy which generally 
 exists between the mind and the body, afforded 
 to every movement that air of ease and power 
 which is one of the most distinguishing marks 
 of the heart's gentleman. 
 
 As the two entered. Sir Andrew Stalbrooke 
 felt proud of his nephew, and gazed at him a
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 77 
 
 moment as he advanced, till, turning to his 
 guests to introduce young Strafford to them, 
 he saw that a slight additional shade of red 
 had come up in Edith's cheek. 
 
 As soon as Strafford introduced the young 
 stranger to his uncle, and Sir Andrew found 
 that this was the nephew whom Mr, Forrest 
 had been expecting, the baronet's mind rapidly 
 ran on to other conclusions, and for a moment 
 he fancied that the cause of Edith's blush might 
 be the appearance of her cousin. He was 
 surprised, however, to see his own nephew 
 advance with a well-pleased air towards Edith 
 and Mrs. Forrest, and welcome them to England 
 by the name of Quintin. He was evidently 
 known, too, to Mr. Forrest ; but nothing passed 
 between them but a formal bow. Mr. Forrest, 
 however, hastened to explain to Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke the acquaintance between his family 
 and that gentleman's nephew; saying, "My wife 
 and daughter are under some obligations to this 
 gentleman, who, I find, is your nephew. In 
 passing through Germany about a year since, 
 which we thought it best to do under a feigned
 
 78 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 name, we got entangled with the armies ; and 
 while I was obliged to go to Frankfort for the 
 necessary papers to facilitate us on our way, these 
 ladies might have been put to considerable in- 
 convenience had it not been for the kindness and 
 attention of this gentleman, who deprived me 
 of the opportunity of thanking him fully by 
 leaving Lipstadt on the day after my return." 
 
 Some complimentary nothings then passed 
 between Mr. Forrest and Ralph Strafford ; and 
 the state of Lady Mallory's health having been 
 mentioned, it was finally arranged that Mr. 
 Forrest and his family should take up their 
 abode at Stalbrooke Castle for at least that 
 day, and that on the following morning a note 
 should be sent over to Lady Mallory to inquire 
 after her health, and ask when she could con- 
 veniently receive her relations.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 79 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It is impossible to say that tlie evening at 
 Stalbrooke Castle passed over pleasantly. The 
 clouds, it is true, were swept away from the sky, 
 the sun shone out brightly, the evening was as 
 calm and as beautiful as the joys of innocence, 
 and the day went down in splendour and in smiles. 
 But although we have used the varying aspect 
 of our atmosphere as a figure to display some 
 of the changes in the mind of man, yet there 
 are minds, as there are climates, everfuU of clouds 
 and storms, replete with mist and darkness. 
 Such was the mind of Mr. Forrest. Towards 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke himself he evidently 
 laboured to maintain a polite and courteous 
 demeanour ; but yet it was evidently all effort ; 
 and from time to time, in spite of his best skill, 
 some bitter reply would be murmured half 
 audibly; some sarcastic and biting observation 
 upon human nature, human life, the power and
 
 80 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 goodness of God, or the beauties of creation, 
 would form a strange harsh contrast with the 
 bright clear views of the Gentleman of the Old 
 School, whose judgment of all things was sun- 
 shiny and pure, — at times, perhaps, touched a 
 little with melancholy, but never with bitter- 
 ness ; and the clouds of whose mind were never 
 so dense as to prevent the sun from shining 
 through them, and brightening the shower with 
 the rainbow. 
 
 It might be, indeed, that the perfect contrast 
 between the minds of the two, between their 
 whole feelings, thoughts, and principles, in 
 some degree irritated Mr. Forrest, and made 
 an unruly temper more difficult than ever to 
 govern. But it was upon his wife and daughter 
 that most frequently his ill temper displayed 
 itself, and that in a way which, though evidently 
 habitual, was extremely painful to witness. It 
 seemed as if in her husband's opinion there was 
 not one thought or taste of Mrs. Forrest that 
 was not ridiculous ; and though he expressed 
 his feelings on these subjects in words that 
 could scarcely be called rude, yet there was a
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 81 
 
 bitterness in the turn of the expression, as well 
 as in the thought, which was the more painful 
 and aggravating, because the mere words were 
 not ungentlemanly. In regard to his daughter, 
 he pursued a different plan — for some reason 
 he did not think fit to deride or sneer at her 
 opinions ; but he spoke to her even upon the 
 slightest matters in a tone of command which 
 marked the domestic tyrant, and at the same 
 time Sir Andrew Stalbrooke thought he could 
 perceive a sort of bitter and meaning look 
 which implied something even more. 
 
 Such was the conduct of the father; that of the 
 nephew was, to one of the party at least, even still 
 more disagreeable. There is in all ages and at 
 all times a class of young men of whom John 
 Forrest was but a type ; and perhajDS there is 
 not a class so deservedly to be detested upon 
 the face of the earth. He had considerable 
 talents of various kinds, and the possession of 
 those talents made him idly fancy that he 
 possessed genius — that most rare of all jewels. 
 The belief that he possessed genius, based 
 upon natural self-conceit, and stimulated into 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 activity by egregious vanity, induced him to 
 have recourse to every means for the purpose of 
 forcing the same opinion of his merits down 
 the throats of other people. As self-conceit, 
 from the impossibility of its being always 
 gratified, is generally a pugnacious quality, he, 
 like many others, soon learned to believe that 
 the strongest proof of genius was to assail the 
 opinions which the good and the wise have 
 received and promulgated ; and, with a natural 
 turn for speculation, v,diich he called philosophy, 
 considerable powers of sophistry, which he called 
 logic, a supercilious smile and a sarcastic ex- 
 pression of countenance, he had convinced a 
 great many soft persons that he was what he 
 pretended to be — a man of real and sterling 
 genius, who was to be courted, feared, and 
 admired. Though he was thus far successful, 
 and had gathered round him in the capital a 
 circle of small idolaters, who adopted his 
 philosophy, spread his fame, and talked him 
 into notoriety John Forrest was nevertheless a 
 disappointed man. The credit he obtained, 
 though far more than he deserved, did not
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 83 
 
 satisfy the greediness of his self-conceit. In 
 the first place, he found, that, though flattered, 
 and caressed, he was hy no means generally 
 loved or liked ; and he was shrewd enough to 
 perceive, that even amongst women his success 
 and favour was principally, if not altogether, 
 with those who had neither minds, nor prin- 
 ciples, nor hearts ; that they gratified his vanity 
 to gratify their own ; and that there were very 
 many, who, though they might not be able to 
 combat his arguments even if they had tried, 
 viewed him with coldness, reprobation, and 
 contempt. All this spread a bitterness through 
 his mind ; and that weakest of small ambitions, 
 the love of saying a smart thing, was mingled 
 with a sneering virulence from the disappoint- 
 ment of egregious vanity. 
 
 In the course of the evening at Stalbrooke 
 Castle these qualities displayed themselves 
 more than once. Sir Andrew Stalbrooke heard 
 him calmly and patiently ; never for a moment 
 forgot the courtesy of his demeanour, but 
 always expressed his dissent from doctrines that 
 he thought evil in their nature, or dangerous in 
 G 2
 
 84 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 their tendency ; and, much to the annoyance of 
 the young lawyer, without entering into long 
 disputes upon any subject, sometimes over- 
 threw his favourite theories by five or six 
 words of simple reason thrown in at the proper 
 moment, sometimes in a single sentence carried 
 on his would-be axioms into absurdity, and 
 marked the consequence with a smile. 
 
 John Forrest writhed under this treatment. 
 He was always sure, if any one in society entered 
 into argument with him, either so to involve his 
 ideas in a cloud of subtle words as to defy any 
 adversary to clear them up and overthrow them, 
 or so to lead his opponent on by constantly 
 shifting his ground as to make him drop the 
 discussion, not only from becoming tired of it 
 himself, but from perceiving that it wearied 
 others. But that which tortured him in the 
 present case was, what he internally termed the 
 assumed superiority of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke's 
 tone ; in reality, the native superiority of his 
 character and mind. His supercilious con- 
 tempt for the opinions of others, however, was 
 not displayed towards Sir Andrew alone. His
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 85 
 
 uncle was equally the object of it ; and scarcely 
 could his cousin Edith utter a sentence, which 
 was not met by some observation equally unjust 
 and uncourteous. 
 
 There was another person in the house, 
 however, who marked all this ; and, feeling 
 that he had not the same command over 
 himself as Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, more than 
 once quitted the room, for fear that he should 
 either be led into an angry argument, or be- 
 have uncourteously to a guest in his uncle's 
 house. "When in the room Ralph Strafford 
 remained nearly silent, except when sitting by 
 Mrs. Forrest or Edith. The former he en- 
 deavoured as far as possible to amuse and 
 entertain, and to turn her thoughts from all 
 that was unpleasant. 
 
 " She must be subject to this every day, it is 
 true," thought Strafford ; " but still when a 
 garden has but few flowers, the few that there 
 are, seem the more dear and beautiful ; and I 
 may as well do what I can to make the hours 
 that she is here pass pleasantly, poor thing." 
 
 He was not so frequently at Edith's side ; for 
 G 3
 
 86 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 he remarked a degree of uneasiness come over 
 Mr. Forrest's face as soon as he saw him there, 
 and he had a key to the cause of that uneasiness, 
 which we shall explain hereafter. We must 
 not deny, however, that when he did speak to 
 Edith, though there was no display of any other 
 feeling than that of gentlemanly courtesy to- 
 wards a lady that he knew and liked, yet to a 
 very keen and criticising eye there might have 
 appeared in his manner a certain degree of 
 admiration, and a still greater degree of ten- 
 derness — 2)erhaps springing from pity, for on 
 many accounts Ralph Strafford did pity Edith 
 Forrest. 
 
 When he was sitting by and talking to any 
 one else, however, the looks of the young officer 
 were frequently turned Upon the fair girl before 
 him, with a sort of earnest contemplation that 
 seemed altogether to absorb him ; and then when 
 any one appeared to remark him, he withdrew 
 his eyes suddenly, and cast them on the ground 
 with a thoughtful look, as if something sur- 
 prised and puzzled him. He seemed to watch 
 her particularly whenever her cousin approached
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 87 
 
 her or spoke to her ; and as he evidently 
 saw that she shrunk from him with dread 
 at least, if not dislike, and always answered 
 him briefly and coldly, though gently, his sur- 
 prise seemed to increase. 
 
 Once or twice in the course of the after- 
 noon and evening Edith's looks were raised 
 towards his with an inquiring glance, as if 
 there were something also in his conduct 
 which she did not fully comprehend. But 
 they had no opportunity of speaking for any 
 length of time alone ; and it was only, indeed, 
 for a single moment, when at the request of 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke his nephew was leading 
 Miss Forrest to a very fine organ in the music 
 room, that he had an opportunity of saying in a 
 low tone, " It is long since we have met. Miss 
 Forrest, and months make great changes." 
 
 The colour rushed warmly into Edith's cheek, 
 and she kept her eyes bent upon the ground, 
 while her breath seemed to come short. " There 
 is no change in me, Mr. Strafford," she said, 
 in the same tone : "I am sorry to see that you 
 are much graver, and do not appear so well." 
 G 4
 
 88 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " There has been a cause. Miss Forrest," re- 
 plied Strafford ; " a cause which I must find an 
 opportunity of explaining to you." 
 
 She turned a little pale ; and he added, " I 
 have nothing to say that can pain you." 
 
 Almost as he spoke, her father was by their 
 side, and the conversation turned upon the 
 music which was about to be performed. 
 
 Nothing else occurred during the evening 
 worthy of note, and the whole party retired 
 early. The next morning broke clear and 
 bright ; and though somewhat cooler for the 
 storm of the past day, the atmosphere was yet 
 summery and genial. It was scarcely five o'clock 
 in the morning when Strafford left his bed, 
 and, to say sooth, that bed had been very lit- 
 tle visited by slumber during the night. His 
 thoughts were disturbed, and, like many an- 
 other, he lay striving to discover, by the unaided 
 power of imagination, his way through a laby- 
 rinth of which he had no clue. 
 
 Wearied at length, he rose, and throwing 
 open the window gazed over the park. From 
 the room in which he stood he could see
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 89 
 
 across the esplanade before the house, over 
 the wide expanse of turf, studded here and 
 there with majestic trees, which formed the 
 deer park of Stalbrooke. On an eminence 
 to the right was a considerable wood of fine 
 chestnuts, A large piece of water lay glisten- 
 ing at some distance beyond. To the left lay 
 the part of the park stretching away towards 
 the village, and a small stream was seen gleam- 
 ing in and out amongst the trees and banks in 
 the bottom of the valley. The deer were feed- 
 ing in herds in the morning sunshine, and a 
 forester with his gun was taking his way upon 
 his early rounds. The scene was calm, and 
 rich, and beautiful, with nothing naked or 
 exposed about it, and yet full of expansion and 
 freedom ; the eye seemed to rejoice in the power 
 to rove, the heart beat more free, the breath 
 came more lightly. 
 
 Ralph Strafford stood at the window and 
 gazed, and his thoughts became more calm from 
 that fine sight. As he did so, however, steps 
 passed his room door, and in a minute or two 
 after he saw young Forrest issue forth from
 
 90 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the house with a fishing-rod in his hand, 
 and take his way across the esplanade. He 
 certainly was not the person of all others that 
 Strafford would have been most inclined to 
 encounter, generally speaking ; but his old 
 school-fellow looked up, and seeing him at the 
 window, exclaimed, ** I am going down to the 
 stream to see if fishes be as foolish things as 
 men, and still fail to see the hook, be the bait 
 ever so trifling. Will you come with me ? " 
 
 " I am not dressed yet," replied Strafford ; 
 " but I will come down and join you by and by." 
 
 The other waved his hand with a somewhat 
 studied grace and walked on, and Strafford pro- 
 ceeded slowly to dress himself in order to follow. 
 There were questions which he wished to ask, 
 — knowledge which he wished to gain, and in 
 regard to which, perhaps, nobody could furnish 
 him with better information than young Forrest 
 himself. But yet there was in the breast of 
 Ralph Strafford a feeling of repugnance towards 
 any communication whatsoever, farther than a 
 mere ordinary interchange of civilities, with his 
 former school-fellow, which made him pause,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 91 
 
 doubtful as to what he should do. Accordingly, 
 when he was dressed, on which operation he 
 bestowed more time than usual, he descended 
 into the library, and then once more paused, 
 looking out of the window. As he did so, he 
 heard something move in the picture gallery, 
 the door of which he perceived was ajar. It 
 was now about half past six o'clock ; the servants 
 were all up and stirring ; but still there was 
 something which induced Strafford to open the 
 door of the gallery and go in. There might be 
 a hope in his bosom, which certainly did not 
 amount to an expectation, of seeing the person 
 that he did see. But that hope was so faint 
 that the surprise upon his countenance, as he 
 advanced towards Edith Forrest, was quite 
 natural. 
 
 *' Good heavens ! Miss Forrest," he said, 
 *' you are up very early." 
 
 *' I am always up very early," she replied ; 
 *' you know that of old in Germany." 
 
 *' I thought those might be German habits," 
 answered her companion, " and that they might 
 have worn away in England."
 
 92 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 '* Oh no," she replied, " I am not changed in 
 those respects." 
 
 *' And in none others ? " demanded Strafford, 
 with a look of some meaning. 
 
 " In none," she answered with a faint blush, 
 and a still fainter sigh — " in none that I know 
 of ; " and then, as if anxious to change the 
 subject, she added, " I always like to rise early 
 in the morning, because I may call that my 
 only time for uninterrupted thought, when I 
 can ponder and pause as I will, and dream 
 dreams, as my father calls it, that come to 
 nothing." 
 
 " That is, I suppose, a warning for me to 
 go," replied Strafford, *' and not to deprive you 
 of your solitary pleasure." 
 
 As he spoke, he dropped the hand that 
 he had taken and retained for a moment in 
 his own, and took a step or two back, as if 
 to quit the gallery, adding, " Shall I leave 
 
 you?" 
 
 Edith was evidently embarrassed : what she 
 had said referred alone to the rest of her family, 
 to the dissensions, sneers, and bitterness, that
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 93 
 
 often made solitude a relief to her ; but yet slie 
 could hardly explain this to Straffordj and for a 
 moment she paused, pained and hesitating. 
 " No," she said at length, looking up frankly 
 with the full light of her eyes beaming upon 
 him — ''no, do not go : you misunderstood me, 
 or rather, I did not say what I meant.'* 
 
 The necessity of determining something very 
 often decides the nature of our determination. 
 Ralph Strafford knew and felt that he might 
 never again, or at least not for long, have any 
 opportunity of entering into a full explanation 
 with Edith Forrest ; and though he believed that 
 he might risk much — even her good opinion 
 — by the step he was about to take, yet the 
 necessity of deciding what he was to do, made 
 him determine upon doing what was even more 
 than necessary. It is true, that bright speaking 
 look, that sparkling forth of a pure frank heart, 
 might have something to do with the decision. 
 But he returned at once towards her, holding 
 out his hand, took hers in his, and raising it to 
 his lips, replied, " Edith, I have much to say 
 to you, much that I have long wished to say :
 
 Q^ THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 fate most unexpectedly seems to have placed an 
 hour or two at our own disposal. Let us not 
 waste it ; for to any person who feels rightly, 
 friendship and fair esteem, if it he no more, is 
 worth preserving. If I really do not intrude 
 upon your time, will you take a walk with me 
 through the park this beautiful morning ? " 
 
 Edith had turned pale, her eyes were cast 
 down, and she was evidently a good deal 
 agitated. 
 
 " Your cousin has gone down to fish in the 
 river," added Strafford : " I have promised to 
 join him there before breakfast. Shall we take 
 our walk thither? All I have to say may be 
 said before we reach the stream." 
 
 *' Oh no, no ! " cried Edith eagerly, ** not to 
 join him of all people on earth. But there is 
 no reason, I suppose, why I should not walk 
 out with you in the park if you wish it." 
 
 " None, none ! " replied Strafford — " there 
 can be none ; " and in a few minutes they were 
 upon their way. 
 
 How often in life do we long for oppor- 
 tunities, which, when they come, we scarcely
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 95 
 
 know how to emplo}-. It is, indeed, with them 
 hut as with every other good thing of life ; they 
 are coveted at a distance, and j^et nine times 
 out of ten, from our own faults, confer not all 
 that we expected from them. Ralph Strafford 
 had sought that solitary walk, and yet, as it 
 went on, he felt a difficulty in taking advantage 
 of it, even for the explanation which he so 
 much desired. But the thought that he might 
 he interrupted soon nerved him to his task; and 
 the sort of timid anxiety in Edith's look and 
 manner, as if she were under some apprehension 
 of hlame, even while she was doing nothing- 
 blameworthy, gave him courage, — ay, and even 
 gave him hope. 
 
 " Edith," he said at length, as they took 
 their way towards the wood of chestnut trees on 
 the right — " Edith," he said, for the feelings 
 in his heart would not suffer him to call her by 
 a colder name, " much that I see requires ex- 
 planation, and I have some also to give myself; 
 for it is clear to me that those who, I think, 
 were bound to do it have not explained to you 
 what should have been explained."
 
 96 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Edith was silent, and, after a pause, he went 
 on — " I need not remind, you, Edith," he said, 
 " of the great intimacy which the circumstances 
 into which we were thrown produced in Ger- 
 many. I had an opportunity of being of some 
 assistance to you and your sweet mother, and 
 you repaid — far more than repaid — any thing 
 that I could do for you by the friendship and 
 confidence you placed in me. You suffered 
 me to be your counsellor and your adviser in 
 all things ; and I tried to the best of my power 
 to act the part of a brother to you till your 
 father's return." 
 
 " Why did you leave us, then ? " demanded 
 Edith, eagerly looking up in his face — " why 
 did you quit us so abruptly, and never see us 
 more ; not even, when I saw you pass by the 
 inn at Mayence, and I could hardly doubt that 
 you saw me " 
 
 " I did see you," replied Strafford ; " I knew 
 you were there ; nay, more, I accompanied you 
 thither step by step along the road, because 
 till I saw you safe on that side of the Rhine, I
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 97 
 
 could not feel satisfied that you were in se- 
 curity." 
 
 *' Then why, oh why," said Edith, in a low, 
 sad, and somewhat reproachful tone, — " why 
 did you deprive us of the pleasure of seeing 
 you? Did you think that Edith Forrest and 
 her poor mother were people to whom gra- 
 titude was likely to be a burden, or that she 
 was one of those idle and contemptible people 
 who could know worth, and profess warm 
 friendship, and the next day be cold and 
 strange ? Oh ! Captain Strafford, Captain 
 Strafford, if you judged of her thus, you did 
 very well to drop her acquaintance ; but not," 
 she added, a moment after, looking up in his 
 face with one of her beaming smiles — "but 
 not to follow her to Mayence, for that might 
 make her think that yon did not judge of her 
 quite so harshly." 
 
 « Harshly, Edith ! harshly, dear Edith ! " 
 replied Strafford — " Oh no ! Edith, you must 
 have known, and you must have felt, what 
 were the words that hung upon my lips at the 
 moment that the arrival of your father from 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Frankfort interrupted us. Edith, I see that 
 you are not, you cannot be, aware, that on 
 that very night, in a long conversation with 
 your father, he informed me your hand was 
 engaged to your cousin and your heart was 
 hi.s." 
 
 Edith suddenly withdrew her arm from 
 Strafford's, and, clasping her hands together, 
 gazed in his face as pale as death. For a mo- 
 ment or two it seemed that she was deprived 
 of power to speak ; but at length she exclaimed, 
 " His ! his ! his whom I hate and abhor ! Oh, 
 Strafford ! did you believe it ?" 
 
 " I did not know him, Edith," replied Straf- 
 ford. " I had known him but as a boy at 
 school ; but I knew not then that he was any 
 connection or relation of yours. No name was 
 mentioned. He was merely called your cousin. 
 Since I have seen you together, I know and 
 judge better. I felt sure, all last night, that 
 one pfirt of the statement at least could not 
 be just." 
 
 " Oh ! you should not have believed it even 
 before," cried Edith eagerly. " Could you be-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 99 
 
 lieve, could you suppose, for one moment, that 
 I would act towards you as I did then, if my 
 hand or my heart either had been engaged to 
 my cousin ?" 
 
 " I had your own father's word for it, Edith," 
 replied Strafford ; *' he waited not to hear any 
 thing that I could say upon the subject ; but, 
 after thanking me with cold and formal but 
 more than sufficient thanks, he added, that he 
 feared he must caution me that you were en- 
 gaged, in the manner I have said, to your 
 cousin ; adding, that the constant visits and 
 attentions of a gentleman in my situation might 
 cause reports to be circulated which would be 
 both erroneous and unpleasant." 
 
 " Oh! v/nat must I do?" said Edith sadly 
 — " what must I do, when it is my own father 
 that has committed such an act ? I dare not 
 cast one word of blame upon him ; but I may 
 at least tell you the whole truth as it con- 
 cerns myself. First, I do not believe that my 
 cousin has even the slightest particle of regard 
 for me, or that he ever even wished for the 
 hand which you were told was promised to 
 H 2
 
 100 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 him. He never should have it, even if I were 
 a beggar in the streets. It is true, Captain 
 Strafford, and I must acknowledge it, that my 
 father, who is very fond of him — far fonder 
 than he is of me — informed me one day that 
 his intentions were such with regard to an 
 anion between my cousin and myself." 
 
 She paused in deep emotion, and cast her eyes 
 upon the ground for a moment or two, as if 
 contending duties — and it was so — struggled 
 together in her breast, irreconcileable in them- 
 selves — each powerful, each active, each eager 
 in the strife. She paused and thought : on 
 the one hand were the bonds of filial duty — 
 of all that nature and God required of the 
 daughter to the father — of all that the cus- 
 tom.s of the world added to the dictates of 
 feeling and religion : on the other were all 
 the considerations of what was due to her 
 own self — to the happiness and clear current 
 of the life in this world whose course and 
 direction so intimately affects the mightier 
 life hereafter— to him who, she knew, loved 
 her nobly, truly, deeply — to the first grand
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 101 
 
 duty of truth and sincerity, when dealing with 
 a true and a sincere heart. She would not 
 willingly have said one word against her 
 father ; she would not even have implied an 
 accusation against him : but his own conduct 
 spoke for itself. She knew, she felt sure, that 
 Strafford could not see his demeanour to her- 
 self and her mother, without feeling, in regard 
 to Mr. Forrest, far more than any words of 
 hers could ever prompt; and, after pausing 
 and considering, she determined to act and 
 speak as if he already divined all the painful 
 circumstances in which she was placed. 
 
 " I have learned, Captain Strafford, a hard 
 lesson," she said at length, — " to yield in all 
 things to my father's will, except in matters 
 of the deepest importance ; and there to resist 
 with a firmness which he knows will not be 
 conquered. It is painful to me to say to you 
 this ; but the first and second time I tried, it 
 was on my poor mother's account. The third 
 time was on my own ; and I then told him, na 
 power on earth should ever make me give my 
 hand to John Forrest. In reply, he assured 
 H 3
 
 102 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 me with an oath, that if at the end of two 
 years I refused to do so, he would choose his 
 course as I chose mine. He said that he 
 would make me a heggar, and leave me with- 
 out a shilling in the world." 
 
 " Let him do it, dear Edith — let him do 
 it!" replied Strafford. 
 
 " Certainly," replied Edith, " sooner than 
 yield in that point. But I fear for my poor 
 mother. She would suffer for my resistance — 
 she has done so already." 
 
 Edith was very pale, and her eyes were full 
 of tears. But they had reached the wood of 
 chestnut trees : no eyes marked those tears 
 but Ralph Strafford ; and sitting down on a 
 bench under the spreading branches, she gave 
 them their full course. Her lover let them 
 flow for a moment or two ; and then kneeling 
 down beside her, he wiped them gently away, 
 saying, " Listen to me, dear Edith. Your 
 situation is indeed a painful one ; but it is some 
 happiness to think that nothing which has 
 passed between you and I — that in no shape my 
 love, my deep unchanging love for you — has at
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 103 
 
 all increased the difficulties and discomforts of 
 your situation." 
 
 " That is indeed a comfort," replied Edith 
 through her tears, — ''- that is indeed a hap- 
 piness." 
 
 " Thou art mine, then, Edith," said Straf- 
 ford, gazing up in her face — " thou art mine, 
 then. Thy words imply a promise and a 
 hope." 
 
 Edith hid her dewy eyes upon his shoulder ; 
 for she felt that, though he had not absolutely 
 asked her hand, and she had not promised it 
 in words, they were bound to each other as 
 deeply, as fully, as any earthly contract could 
 make them. Perhaps it is in love that we first 
 find out there is a language of spirit more 
 thrilling, more expressive, than the language of 
 the lips. We have things to say, we have 
 thoughts to tell, we have feelings to express, 
 too fine, too bright, too fiery to be conveyed 
 by ordinary words. We have recourse to 
 another tongue, — the universal language of 
 nature, ■ — and every action, every look, ewery 
 touch speaks and tells, without a sound, the 
 H 4
 
 104< THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Story of our hearts. The tale had been thus 
 told, before Edith and her lover had last parted. 
 But after that, from her father's deceit, had 
 come a cold, dark pause of doubt and appre- 
 hension to both. 
 
 They had now again met — the cause was ex- 
 plained, the fears removed — and they had felt 
 and spoken as if their love had been before 
 acknowledsred in words. When Edith sud- 
 
 o 
 
 denly, however, felt fully, from the words of 
 Strafford, that she had virtually owned her 
 love and plighted her faith to him, an over- 
 powering sense of all that she had done 
 came over her. It was not that she doubted, 
 it was not that she feared — it was not that 
 the very next moment she would not have 
 done the same — it was not that she was not 
 prepared instantly to repeat, in distinct words, 
 the avowal that she had implied; but yet 
 she trembled with the emotion of conferring 
 the greatest boon that woman can confer. 
 The emotion was a joyful one too ; for when 
 the voice of her lover drew back the veil from 
 her own heart, and let her, for the first time,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 105 
 
 see all the deep feelings, the full confidence, 
 the trusting love that was in that heart to- 
 wards him — when slie beheld her fate for the 
 future linked to his, and the long bright 
 years of futurity rising one behind the other, 
 gilded by the mingled sunshine of love, and 
 hope, and happiness — she felt breathless, as 
 one does when, on climbing a high hill, some 
 beautiful prospect suddenly bursts upon us, 
 overpowering in its grandeur and its love- 
 liness. 
 
 She remained silent then ; and althougli 
 Strafford felt and knew that he was loved, 
 there was something in the covetous heart of 
 affection that would not be contented till the 
 full promise was spoken. 
 
 *« Edith," he said, " dear Edith, answer me. 
 You are mine ; is it not so ? You will be 
 mme : 
 
 Edith looked up almost reproachfully at the 
 question. " I am yours, Strafford/' she said in 
 a low voice, " as much as heart and spirit can 
 make me ; and sooner or later I will be yours, if 
 you still continue to wisli it. But, oh ! Strafford,
 
 106 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 there is mucli to be thought of between this 
 and then. There is a duty to be thought of — 
 a duty both to my father and to my poor 
 mother." 
 
 " With regard to your mother, dear Edith," 
 cried Strafford eagerly, *' let me trust — oh, 
 let me trust that you will secure to her 
 greater happiness than she knows at present, 
 by giving your hand to one for whom she has 
 often professed her regard, who will be as a son 
 to her, a protector, and a defender." 
 
 " As he has been before,'^ said Edith with a 
 melancholy but affectionate smile — " as he has 
 been before, Strafford. But you forget," she 
 added, with playfulness and sadness intimately 
 mingled in her tone — " you forget, Strafford, 
 that if I do not marry him whom my father has 
 pointed out, he has declared he will cast me off 
 and make me a beggar ; and your friends would 
 sadly disapprove, I fear, of your marrying a 
 beggar." 
 
 There was playfulness mingled, as we have 
 said, with sadness in her tone ; but let us con- 
 fess that they were cast over the real feelings
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 107 
 
 of her heart as a veil to hide the blushes of 
 vanquished pride. Was Edith Forrest proud, 
 then ? No, she was not ; for there were deeper, 
 more powerful, feelings in her heart, before 
 which pride quailed ; and pride, in the proud, 
 bends not to any other power in our nature. 
 There had been for a moment a feeling of pride 
 which made the thought of wedding him she 
 loved, dowerless and unequal to him in the 
 gifts of fortune, painful to her ; but that pride 
 had been combated and overcome by a bright 
 and generous confidence ; and as she thought 
 of all the circumstances, it seemed pleasant to 
 her to show how deeply she loved him, not by 
 sacrificing to him mere worldly wealth, but by 
 overcoming in her own bosom that propensity 
 by which angels fell — pride, which leads to 
 envy, and covetousness, and ambition, and to 
 the misappreciation of those that love us, and 
 to the misappreciation of ourselves. She knew 
 that she was loved — she was sure that he was 
 generous — she was sure that he coveted not 
 wealth, and that he would despise that voice 
 which could be raised against Edith Forrest
 
 108 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 because slie brought liim not a dowry of great 
 value ; but yet, when she spoke of it, the dying 
 effort of pride, like the parting struggle of the 
 dolphin, might have tinted her cheek with 
 varying hues, if she had not spoken with a 
 tone of playfulness which she did not feel, and 
 to which the sadness that mingled with it 
 brought a denial in the same instant. 
 
 *^Fie, Edith, fie!" replied Strafford; "I 
 have no friends of such a sort. My own for- 
 tune, thank God, is enough to afford you and I 
 and your mother competence. I have no re- 
 lation on whom I have the slightest dependence, 
 except the best, the most amiable, the kindest, 
 the most generous of men, — I mean my dear 
 uncle. But I dare boldly take upon me to 
 promise, Edith, that as he has been a father to 
 me, so he will be a father to you ; and that he 
 will no more consider whether you have fortune 
 or not, than he would think of whether a 
 woman were beautiful or not, when he was 
 called upon to defend her." 
 
 Edith paused for a moment while her mind 
 ran on into the future ; and she said at length,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 109 
 
 *' But my father, Strafford — my father, I 
 must not violate my duty towards him. I have 
 a right, I know I have a right, to refuse to 
 promise love where love cannot be given, — to 
 refuse to sacrifice the whole peace of my after 
 life, and to unite my fate to one who is hateful 
 
 to me. But " 
 
 *' But, dear Edith," replied Strafford earnestly 
 — ''but do you not sacrifice the happiness 
 of your life, — though it may seem vanity to 
 say it, — if, for any caprice of his, you refuse to 
 unite yourself to one who loves you so deeply, 
 who will always love you and who will spend 
 his life in the endeavour to make you happy ? 
 Nay more, dear Edith, have you a right to 
 doom him to unhappiness, and to wring his 
 heart through long years of expectation and 
 anxiety?" 
 
 He pleaded eagerly — he pleaded long and 
 eloquently, and Edith felt that his words were 
 not without avail. She repeated that sooner or 
 later she would be his. She pledged herself to 
 yield to no persuasions, to no threats, to no 
 apprehensions. Step by step he gained much
 
 110 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 upon lier. But she entreated that he would 
 wait — that he would only wait, ere he pressed 
 her farther, till the period was expired at the 
 end of which her father had announced he 
 would demand her decision. 
 
 *' Neither press me, Strafford," she said, 
 ** nor, 1 beseech you, say any thing of this to 
 any one. I myself will tell my mother, for I 
 know it will be a comfort and a happiness to 
 her, and I cannot bear that she should con- 
 tinue to think that you had left us so abruptly 
 and unreasonably in Germany. Wait only 
 three months, Strafford, and then I will put 
 my reason entirely under the guidance of yours. 
 You shall tell me what I ought to do, how I 
 ought to act. I know that you will be unbiassed ; 
 I am sure that you will think of what is right, 
 of what is dutiful to do, for her that you love." 
 
 '^ I will indeed, Edith," replied Strafford ; 
 *' for did I persuade you to do any thing but 
 what was right, should I not be injuring myself, 
 Edith?" 
 
 " Hark ! " she exclaimed, interrupting him ; 
 " what is that sound, Strafford?"
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 11 1 
 
 " Nothing but the cry of the deer, Edith," 
 he answered, and was going on; hut she 
 continued, — <* Oh, yes, yes ; I hear cries as 
 for help, mingling with the sound of the 
 deer!" 
 
 Strafford started up and listened. He heard 
 the cries also, and evidently was somewhat 
 surprised and alarmed. I must go down, 
 Edith," he said ; "' there is something the 
 matter. Go back to the house, dearest, as 
 fast as possible. The deer are dangerous at 
 this season of the year. We shall find another 
 opportunity to speak more. But remember, 
 dear, dear Edith, you are mine ! " 
 
 " Hark !" she exclaimed, " there is that cry 
 again. Go, Strafford, go, for Heaven's sake go ;" 
 and Strafford bounded down the hill, turning 
 once as he did so to make himself sure that 
 there was no herd of deer between Edith and 
 the house.
 
 112 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tpie sounds which had attracted the attention 
 of Edith and Strafford came from the lower 
 ground in the direction of the river; hut not 
 precisely from that part to which John Forrest 
 had bent his steps. The voice that called, how- 
 ever, was evidently that of a man, and appa- 
 rently of a man in great danger or pain. While 
 Strafford ran on as swiftly as possible, the cry 
 was repeated, and seemed much nearer to him 
 than the river ; and recollecting a low dingle 
 filled with old hawthorn trees, slightly to the 
 right of the path from the castle to the village, 
 he paused for a single instant to listen, and as- 
 certained at once that it was thence the cries 
 proceeded. He thought, too, that he recognised 
 the voice of the elder Mr. Forrest ; and rushing 
 on as fast as possible, he came to the top of a 
 high bank above the dell, from which he gained 
 an instant view of the terrible scene that was 
 going on below.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 113 
 
 A tall stag, with his eyes fiery red, his throat 
 swelled to an enormous size, and his whole 
 look betokening the furious madness which 
 sometimes seizes upon the animal at that 
 season of the year, was standing over an object 
 prostrate before him, which was partly con- 
 cealed from the eyes of Strafford by the trunk 
 of a fallen hawthorn tree, and thrusting at it 
 with his horns, the sharp point of one of which 
 was dyed with gore. Sometimes the thrust 
 was followed by a shrill cry, as if the animal 
 had v/ounded the living object of its fury : 
 sometimes its horns seemed to strike upon the 
 hawthorn tree, and do no injury. But the 
 voice that uttered those cries, and the part of 
 the man's dress that was visible, left no doubt 
 upon the mind of Strafford that it was Edith's 
 father who lay there before him ; and he sprang 
 down the bank at once, thus drawing the atten- 
 tion of the stag upon himself. 
 
 The only weapon that he had about him, — 
 for he had come out without his sword, — vvas 
 a common hunting knife, which he had just 
 time to draw when the mad animal rushed 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE GENTLExMAN 
 
 furiously at him. The stag, however, was forced 
 to turn one of the hawthorn trees in his course, 
 and Strafford threw himself forward, endeavour- 
 ing to strike him with the knife in the throat. 
 He missed his footing, however, on one of the 
 slippery roots of the tree, wounding the animal, 
 though not seriously, as he fell, and making 
 him stau^iTjer back. Before he could recover his 
 feet, however, the stag was upon him again ; 
 and in another moment, in all probability, 
 death would have ended all the hopes, and 
 fears, and anxieties which had been caused by 
 that morning's conversation with Edith, had 
 there not been a loud halloo on the other side 
 of the dell, mingled with the barking of a dog. 
 These sounds were instantly followed by a 
 fine sheep-dog rushing in upon the stag, and 
 flying at his throat. He was gored and cast off 
 in a moment, however, and the beast again 
 turned upon its human assailant. But the ap- 
 pearance of the dog was followed by the appear- 
 ance of a stout hale man of six or seven and 
 thirty, who rushed on ; and at the very mo- 
 ment that the stag was bending to thrust its
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 115 
 
 horns into StrafFord as he rose, the new-comer 
 struck the beast a tremendous blow upon the 
 head with the loaded end of a heavy riding- 
 whip, which made him reel and fall partly over, 
 StrafFord darted on him almost at the same 
 moment, and threw him down completely, and 
 the next instant the hunting-knife was plunged 
 up to the haft into the furious beast's heart. 
 The other man grasped him tight by the horns, 
 and held his head down to the ground, or even 
 even then he would have risen up, and might 
 have injured somebody in the very struggle of 
 death itself. 
 
 " You have quieted him. Captain — you 
 have quieted him," said the person who had 
 come so opportunely to Strafford's assistance. 
 ** I thought he would have killed you." 
 
 *' So he would, farmer Ball," replied Strafford, 
 holding out his hand to him — "so he would, 
 to a certainty, if it had not been for your assist- 
 ance." 
 
 " Well ! " cried the farmer, grasping Straf- 
 ford's hand, " if I am not happier that I came 
 through the park instead of going round by 
 I 2
 
 116 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the road, than I ever was for any thing in my 
 life, my name 's not Castle Ball. I heard you 
 almost down to the bridge." 
 
 " It was not I5 farmer," replied Strafford, 
 *' and I fear more mischief has been done ;" and 
 rurning quickly to the spot, about thirty yards 
 off, where he had first seen the stag, he ap- 
 proached with an anxious and a palpitating heart 
 the fallen hawthorn tree, under which Mr. 
 Forrest had in some degree sheltered himself. 
 The sight which he now beheld was not calcu- 
 lated to relieve his apprehensions. The ground 
 was dyed with blood ; for notwithstanding the 
 partial defence which the trunk of the tree 
 afforded, the stag had struck the object of its 
 fury several times, and tremendously lacerated 
 his right shoulder and breast, as well as inflicted 
 a deep wound upon the cheek. His counte- 
 nance was deadly pale, his eyes closed, and 
 his lips motionless ; and Castle Ball demanded 
 in a low tone, " Is he dead. Captain, do you 
 think?" 
 
 " I trust not — I trust not," replied Strafford. 
 '* Let us instantly remove him to the house,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 117 
 
 Ball. But first we will tie up the wounds, to 
 prevent this bleeding, which seems to have 
 made him faint." 
 
 Thus saying he knelt down, and drew the 
 almost lifeless form of Mr. Forrest from under 
 the trunk of the tree, and in so doing some 
 movements of the hands and head showed him 
 that the spirit had not absolutely departed. 
 There was a wound on the breast, which seemed 
 the most dangerous, and Strafford feared that 
 the horns of the animal might have penetrated 
 into the chest. But as from it but little blood 
 was flowing, at least externally, the two who 
 had come to liis rescue applied themselves to 
 stanch the wounds upon his right arm and 
 shoulder, and then raising him between them, 
 bore him carefully towards the house. As 
 they did so, the pain recalled him to himself, 
 and he looked mournfully up in Strafford's 
 face, saying in alow tone, " I am hurt — I fear 
 I am very much hurt." 
 
 Strafford strove to reassure him, saying he 
 trusted, that though very much torn and bruised 
 by the horns of the beast, he had received no 
 I 3
 
 118 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 material injury. Mr. Forrest, however, was not 
 to be comforted. Indeed, the observation is 
 very just — though, of course, not without excep- 
 tions — that those who have little faith or trust 
 in the promises of another world, are generally 
 agonised with fear at the thought of quitting 
 this. It is natural, indeed, that it should be so ; 
 for if through life we have entertained firm 
 xhopes of immortality, those hopes remain, and 
 brighten at the portals of the tomb. But 
 .those who have disbelieved, and those who 
 have doubted, have nothing to cheer them in 
 the dark transition ; and if they have had mis- 
 givings, those dreary misgivings last, when all 
 the vanities that covered them have melted 
 away like snow. 
 
 Mr. Forrest had through life made little con- 
 cealment of his scepticism; and now that he 
 fancied himself on the brink of the grave, he 
 felt all the agonies of doubt — doubt which 
 may sometimes be distantly allied to hope, but 
 is always much nearer akin to fear. In answer 
 to Strafford's words of consolation, he only 
 shut his eyes with a shudder, and suftered
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 119 
 
 them to bear liim on, while the goocl-natiired 
 voice of Castle Ball commented upon the ac- 
 cident that had occurred, and, without the 
 slightest meaning of offence towards Mr. For- 
 rest, declared that it might have been much 
 worse, — thinking solely, as he did so, of the 
 risk which Strafford himself had lately run. 
 
 ** How the stag got into the park I cannot 
 tell," said Strafford, thoughtfully ; '' the fallow 
 deer are bad enough at this season of the year, 
 but this beast was worse stilL He must have 
 come from the chace, I suppose, though the 
 nearest point is several miles off." 
 
 " I rather think, Captain," said the farmer, 
 ** that honest Tim Meakes, and some of his 
 friends, have been meddling with the chace 
 more than was prudent. I heard of Tim being 
 up there not long ago with his lurcher, just 
 before the venison season went out ; and they 
 said at the time, I remember, that a stag had 
 been driven out of the chace, and that they 
 could never get hold of him." 
 
 With a few words thus spoken from time, 
 to time, and an occasional pause, they carried 
 I 4
 
 120 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Mr. Forrest back towards the house ; but 
 alarmed by the sounds that she had heard, 
 an apprehensive also for him she loved, Edith 
 had been watching at the window, and, ere 
 they reached the esplanade, she darted out and 
 ran towards them. At some distance she re- 
 cognised the dress of her father, and clasping 
 her hands together she paused, exclaiming, 
 *^ Good God!" 
 
 At that moment her feelings were strange 
 and most painful. She recollected that, at the 
 very moment when he was perhaps receiving 
 his death-blow, she herself was, indirectly in 
 words, and straightforwardly in her heart, ac- 
 cusing him of cruel and selfish tyranny both to 
 herself and to her mother. Even now she felt 
 that the accusation was true ; but yet reason 
 gave way to tenderness and to pity. She re- 
 proached herself for even admitting such a 
 truth. She thought those very feelings and 
 convictions evil, which he himself had forced 
 upon her. She strove to soften her own heart 
 — a heart already all softness and gentleness. 
 She tried to call up any amiable, any gentle
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 121 
 
 trait in her father's character ; and might say, in 
 the exquisite words of the poet — 
 
 I've tried 
 
 To reckon every artifice of love. 
 
 Which 'mid my father's waywardness proclaim'd 
 
 His tenderness unalter'd ; — felt again 
 
 The sweet caresses infancy received, 
 
 And read the prideful look that made them sweeter; 
 
 Have run the old familiar round of things 
 
 Indifferent, on which affection hangs 
 
 In delicate remembrances, which make 
 
 Each household custom sacred ; — I 've recall'd 
 
 From memory's never-failing book of pain, 
 
 My own neglects of dutiful regard, 
 
 Too frequent — all that should provoke a tear — 
 
 And all in vain." 
 
 But no such caresses had been bestowed upon 
 her infancy ; no such pride had shone in her fa- 
 ther's eyes upon her; no such remembrances of 
 parental love came, like the softening wind of the 
 South, to melt her heart and bend all her soul to 
 tenderness. She was grieved, pained, anxious, 
 agitated ; and she wept. But she wept not as 
 children weep the parents that have nurtured 
 them in love and reared them in affection. She 
 reproached her own heart for its coldness ; and 
 had it been needful to lay down her life for his,
 
 12^ THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 she would have done it readily. But she felt that 
 the aifection was wanting ; that all that moved 
 her was the grief which such an event, happen- 
 ing to any one, might naturally cause, and the 
 hahitual sentiment towards him as a parent, 
 which she cultivated studiously in her bosom, 
 but which existed there, amidst the innumerable 
 graceful, tender, and affectionate feelings that 
 grew up naturally, like a forced foreign plant, 
 liable to wither every hour, in a garden filled 
 with bright and beautiful indigenous flowers. 
 
 The good farmer, Castle Ball, had never 
 beheld her before ; but he felt an internal con- 
 viction, before a word was spoken, that she 
 was the wounded man's daughter ; and he, as 
 well as Strafford, paused when they came up to 
 her. 
 
 "Good Heavens!" she said, gently taking 
 her father's hand in hers, " 1 fear you are ter- 
 ribly hurt, sir. What is all this blood? How 
 has all this happened? It is Edith, sir; oh, 
 speak to her ! " 
 
 The touch of her hand made Mr. Forrest 
 open his eyes ; but it was only to turn away
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 123 
 
 from her witli a sort of shudder. Edith v/as 
 pained — deeply, sorrowfully pained by that ges- 
 ture ; but yet she resolved that nothing should 
 prevent her from attending upon him with the 
 same dutiful tenderness as if he had loved her 
 through life with undivided affection. 
 
 " He never loved me," she thought : ^' he 
 never loved me from my birth, because he was 
 disappointed in not having a son." Such was the 
 interpretation which Mrs. Forrest had always 
 put upon her husband's coldness towards his 
 child. *^ But," continued Edith in her own 
 thought — " but he may now find that the girl's 
 tenderness in the hour of sickness, and perhaps 
 of death, may be more close, more soothing, 
 more devoted than a man's can, or perhaps 
 ought to be." 
 
 As she thus thought, Strafford and the good 
 farmer moved on with their burthen, she hold- 
 ing Mr. Forrest's hand in hers, and gazing still 
 upon his countenance as they went. 
 
 The morning was somewhat advanced, and 
 in the vestibule they met Sir Andrew Stalbrooke 
 himself crossing towards the breakfast-room.
 
 124 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 He paused with a sudden start, gazed for a 
 moment on Mr. Forrest, and then said in a low 
 voice, " Bear him this way, as far from the 
 lady's chamber as possible. Wilson," — speaking 
 to the servant who had been in the act of 
 throwing open the door for him, — " send one of 
 the grooms off instantly for Mr. Marnel, the 
 surgeon. Bid him lose not a moment by the 
 way. Do not speak a word on what has oc- 
 curred to any one, for fear of the tidings reach- 
 ing Mrs. Forrest unprepared." 
 
 The wounded man looked up with one of 
 his own bitter sneers, saying, in a voice that was 
 scarcely audible from exhaustion, " It will need 
 no great preparation, good sir." 
 
 " Women's hearts are sometimes tenderer 
 than we imagine them," said Sir Andrew in a 
 gentle tone. *' This way, Ralph ; this way, my 
 dear boy ;" and he himself conducted them to a 
 bedchamber in the vicinity of the library, above 
 which it was raised only by three or four steps. 
 There attendants were summoned, Mr. Forrest 
 placed in bed; and while Sir Andrew Stalbrooke's 
 own valet, who had some knowledge of surgery,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 125 
 
 applied himself to stanch the wounds, which 
 were still bleeding, the Gentleman of the Old 
 School proceeded himself to Mrs. Forrest's dress- 
 ing-room, in order to communicate to her the 
 accident which had befallen her husband. Her 
 maid appeared at the door when he knocked; 
 but Mrs. Forrest herself, who was already 
 dressed, met him the moment afterwards with 
 a look of surprise and alarm. 
 
 '' You are surprised to see me^ madam," he 
 said, " and judged rightly that I would not 
 have intruded upon you without some matter 
 to communicate. First let me tell you that 
 the accident does not seem so severe as was at 
 first supposed." 
 
 "Edith! Edith!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrest, 
 clasping her hands in agony. 
 
 '* Is quite, is perfectly well," interrupted Sir 
 Andrew, before she could add more. 
 
 " Thank God for that ! " replied Mrs. Forrest, 
 with a look of inexpressible relief, " That 
 would have been the last blow, and would have 
 ended life. Who is it that is hurt ? my hus- 
 band?"
 
 1^6 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 '^ Even so, madain," replied Sir Andrew; 
 " but I hope and trust that the accident will 
 not prove severe, and perhaps you had better 
 not go to him just at present." 
 
 " He is my husband, Sir Andrew," replied 
 Mrs, Forrest, weeping with very mingled emo- 
 tions. " He is my husband, and I must go to 
 him ; — I will shrink from no duty — I have 
 never shrunk from my duty. The memory of 
 old affection, too," she added, weeping more 
 bitterly, " will come up, and I must not be ab- 
 sent from his bed of pain and sickness." 
 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke immediately offered 
 her his hand, and led her down towards the 
 room v/here her husband lay. As soon as they 
 reached it, he beckoned his nephew. Castle Ball, 
 and the servants out of the room, and left the 
 husband and wife and daughter together, merely 
 saying, " A surgeon is sent for, Mrs. Forrest, 
 and every attendance that the house can afford 
 waits but your commands." 
 
 The lady bowed her head ; and Sir Andrew, 
 leading the way into the neighbouring room, 
 demanded eagerly how the accident, which had
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 127 
 
 produced such terrible results, had occurred. 
 In a few brief words Strafford explained the 
 facts to him, while Castle Ball stood with his 
 stalworth form erect, and his arms crossed upon 
 his broad chest, his hat hanging under one 
 elbow, and the serviceable riding-whip depend- 
 ing from the other, while his eyes were fixed 
 with a sort of respectful and affectionate eager- 
 ness upon the countenance of Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke, as Strafford went on. 
 
 ** You would certain!}^, my dear uncle," said 
 Strafford, " have lost a nephew, if it had not 
 been for my good friend, farmer Ball here, for 
 he assuredly saved my life. I had no defence 
 whatever from the beast, and his horns would 
 have been in my breast in another moment, 
 but for the tremendous blow he hit him just 
 behind the ears." 
 
 Sir Andrew shook the farmer warmly by the 
 hand. ^' You and yours have been my tenants 
 from generation to generation. Castle Ball," he 
 said, " and you are running up a long account 
 against us ; for you have found many a means 
 of doing us a service, when I know of none that 
 we ever did you."
 
 128 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " God bless you, sir; God bless you ! " re- 
 plied tbe farmer, shaking his hand warmly in 
 return; ^' you have been a good landlord, and 
 a good friend, and a good example to all the 
 country round. Isn't that service enough for 
 one man to do in his day ? But I must go 
 down," he added, '^ as fast as I can, to see after 
 my poor bitch Jenny. She got an awful poke 
 from that beast's horns ; and though it's but 
 right to think of the Christian first, I mustn't 
 forget the poor dog, either." 
 
 " That is right, — that is right, Ball," replied 
 Strafford; '' I will go down with you too, and 
 see the place, if I can be of no further service 
 here, and will be up before breakfast is ready. 
 I should like to break the tidings to young 
 Forrest, who is still down at the river," 
 
 Almost as he spoke, however, the door of 
 the library opened, and John Forrest himself 
 was ushered in by a servant, who had evidently 
 told him all that he knew of the events of the 
 morning. There was a formal air of gloom 
 upon the young man's countenance, and he 
 listened with patient silence while the whole
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 129 
 
 story was told to him over again ; interrupt- 
 ing it with common-place expressions of sur- 
 prise and dismay, and at the end saying, with 
 a tone of consideration and anxiety, that he 
 thought he had better not go in to disturb his 
 uncle, as Mrs. Forrest and Edith were already 
 wdth him. 
 
 '^ I knew," he said, " that it is the most 
 dangerous thing in the world, under such 
 circumstances, to be too much agitated and 
 excited." 
 
 It is wonderful how completely, at mo- 
 ments like these, self-love changes its charac- 
 ter, and becomes one of the most considerate, 
 thoughtful, and disinterested of human mo- 
 tives. Few, I believe, too few, really shrink 
 from visiting a sick bed for fear of agitating 
 the person that lies upon it. Yet how many 
 are there, who persuade themselves and others 
 that such are their motives for avoiding scenes, 
 painful, distressing, or disagreeable ! Sir An- 
 drew Stalbrooke turned away, and looked 
 out of the window ; Captain Strafford accom- 
 panied Castle Ball in search of the dog ; and 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 after having remained musing for a decent 
 length of time, John Forrest sauntered into the 
 breakfast room, where he remained till Sir 
 Andrew and Strafford joined him. 
 
 The surgeon came as speedily as possible, 
 and, after careful examination, declared that 
 the wounds Mr. Forrest had received did not 
 affect any vital part, but that the excessive 
 laceration and bruises might produce very 
 serious consequences. John Forrest did make 
 up his mind to visit his uncle in the course 
 of the day, and remained with him for some 
 time. The only other event which took place, 
 worthy of being recorded here, during the 
 course of that day, was the arrival of a note 
 from Lady Mallory, who, in ignorance of what 
 had occurred, declared her readiness, though 
 not quite recovered, to receive her relations on 
 the following morning. 
 
 *^ You had better ride over, Ralph," said 
 Sir Andrew, " and inform Lady Mallory of the 
 accident ; though most likely you will not see 
 her. Perhaps Mr. Forrest may like to accom- 
 pany you."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 131 
 
 " No, I thank you, Sir Andrew," replied 
 John Forrest ; " I think not, if I am not likely 
 to see her fair ladyship. I am rather inclined 
 to roam about your pretty village and its 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 Sir Andrew bowed stiffly, and the matter 
 dropped. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was on the evening of the day, the com- 
 mencement of which we have dwelt upon so long, 
 that a very young and very pretty girl sat in 
 the little parlour of a neat cottage in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Stalbrooke, with her eyes buried in 
 her hands, and the tears from time to time forcing 
 their way through the small delicate fingers, 
 and dropping on the table which supported her. 
 The cottage, both on the outside and on the in, 
 was peculiarly neat ; the flooring, which was of 
 board, was as white as snow ; the table, though 
 made of harder wood and highly polished, bore 
 no speck or stain in any part. In one corner 
 of the room stood that most convenient and or- 
 namental of all pieces of cottage furniture, 
 called a corner cupboard, the shelves of which 
 displayed a number of little articles of ornament 
 or taste, — small china cups, red Indian slippers, 
 some Japanese gods, and moccasins from the far
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. loo 
 
 North. Opposite to it, again, was the no less 
 useful and ornamental house clock, an indif- 
 ferent spectator of joys and woes, ticking forth 
 its slow accustomed tune, which suffered no in- 
 terruption but from an occasional discordant 
 grumble once in the week, when it was wound 
 up on Saturday night. Besides these articles of 
 furniture, which might be found in many ano- 
 ther cottage of the same class, there was another 
 much more rare, in the form of a book-case, dis- 
 playing upon its shelves a curious collection of 
 volumes, which showed some oddity, perhaps., 
 but some taste in the collector. One of the first 
 in bulk and importance was the old folio edition 
 of Shakspeare, in a binding the colour of black 
 oak, and with paper which had lost all sem- 
 blance of whiteness. Dryden, and Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, too, were there ; a translation of 
 Astrea into French, four or five stray volumes 
 of history, two or three French books, and a 
 French Dictionary, Sir Thomas Browne's Vulgar 
 Errors, and Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 
 Prior's works, too, were there ; and so was 
 Sir Pliilip Sydney's Arcadia; close by which
 
 134 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 stood two volumes of old sermons, and Jeremy 
 Taylor's Holy Living and Dying. On the top of 
 the book-case was a little jug filled with flowers ; 
 but, alas ! they were now beginning to wither ; 
 for neither the flowers themselves, nor the water 
 which was to keep them fresh, had been re- 
 newed for several days. 
 
 The girl who sat at the table weeping, as we 
 have described her, was perhaps eighteen years 
 of age, of a brown complexion, with large, 
 speaking, dark eyes, and hair of a rich, warm 
 brown. She might have passed well, in short, 
 for the personification of the nut-brown maid. 
 Her movements and her demeanour were al- 
 ways graceful, though somewhat wild, quick, 
 and fawn-like. But now the quick spirit was 
 quelled, and she sat silent and alone in her 
 desolate home, with some of those articles of 
 mourning which she was forcing herself to make, 
 cast down, as if in a fit of despair, on the table 
 before her. The dress that she wore at this 
 moment, her mourning not being ready, was not 
 without taste, though periiaps somewhat fan- 
 tastic ; but it seemed to have been but little
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 135 
 
 attended to in that moment of grief; and tlie 
 sort of shepherdess air, which it at other times 
 displayed, was now altogether gone. 
 
 The brown hair fell over the small hand that 
 covered her eyes, and in vain she cast it back ; 
 for, like the thoughts of her sorrow, it returned 
 again the moment after, and would not be re- 
 strained. 
 
 The cause of the renewed grief of poor 
 Lucy Williams at that moment was, that the 
 undertaker had, within the last hour, brought 
 home her father's coffin and placed him in it, 
 and the image of death was thus more vividly 
 obtruded on her mind. It is true that the frail 
 clay is nothing when the spirit has departed. — 
 It is true, when the beams from heaven, which 
 lighted up our earthly tenement, have passed 
 away for ever, and the deserted house is ready 
 to fall into ruins, that then the blow — the 
 real blow — has been struck, the bitterness is 
 past, the friend is gone never to return, and 
 the place is thenceforth vacant. But still 
 the mortal and the immortal, linked together, 
 derive their associations from perishable things. 
 K 4
 
 136 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 When we look upon the vacant seat, the form 
 that used to fill it rises to our eyes ; and th.e 
 soul's tabernacle even, falling into ruins after 
 the departure of its tenant, is dear to the heart, 
 as the abode of what we loved : we are bound 
 to it by the memoryof many bright expressions, 
 looks of love, tones of affection ; we cling to it 
 as the last remnant that is left us of a thing so 
 dear ; and when we see it about to descend into 
 the dull cold earth, it is the breaking of the last 
 bond, the tearing the last seal off the highest, 
 the noblest, the dearest of human affections. 
 
 Oh, how solitary was the heart of Lucy 
 Williams, even before that time ! — Oh, how 
 strongly did she feel, when lier father's last 
 breath was drawn, the weakness, the vanity, 
 the emptiness of much that she had thought 
 most dear, and bright, and beautiful ! — Oh-, how 
 the aspect of the world, and all that it contained, 
 was changed to her by the dull shadow of that 
 dark cloud! — Oh, how deeply she experienced 
 the mortality, not only of man, but of joy ! But 
 when the sad preparations began for convey- 
 ing to the dull bosom of the ground the cold
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 137 
 
 remains of him with whom the remembrance of 
 every hour of life was entwined — it was then 
 that she felt lonely and desolate, dark and 
 deserted indeed. As long as in that adjoining 
 room she could go and gaze upon tlie still, calm 
 features of the dead, and her bright and eager 
 fancy might light them up with the looks that 
 they were wont to bear, there seemed something 
 left, something nearer, something not wholly 
 desperate in her situation. But the sight of the 
 coffin, the preparation for man completing what 
 the Almighty had begun, the sound of harsh 
 ungrieving voices as they went about the awful 
 task, had brought over her spirit the chillness, 
 the icy chillness, of utter destitution, not of the 
 body, but of the heart. Oh, how she wept! 
 and, though the village girl, who had acted as 
 the servant of her father and her herself, looked 
 in from time to time after the undertakers had 
 gone away, and would fain have spoken a word 
 of comfort, yet Lucy wept still, or only made a 
 sign to be left alone. 
 
 It was at that moment, however, — that aw- 
 ful moment, that after some muttered sounds in
 
 138 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the passage, the door opened, and another person 
 appeared, perhaps the last on earth that Lucy 
 could have wished to see ; for he was one who 
 could have no sympathy with such feelings as 
 at that moment filled her bosom — he was one 
 from whose heart even grief itself,' and deep 
 misfortune, could extract nothing generous. 
 He has been before the reader's eyes already, 
 in the first person we have described in this 
 book ; and the cottage which he now entered 
 was the spot towards which, in reality, he had 
 turned his horse's head when he quitted the 
 high road, as we have before detailed. 
 
 On entering the little cottage parlour, his 
 countenance assumed a look of grief, which any 
 eye well accustomed to the world's hypocrisy 
 would scarcely have needed two glances to re- 
 cognise as proceeding from no real emotion of 
 the heart, but from some selfish purpose, or 
 from some worldly custom. He was quite dis- 
 sembler enough, however, to deceive poor Lucy 
 Williams. He had been oftentimes before the 
 guest of that cottage : her dead father, who 
 had been somewhat fantastic and enthusiastic,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 139 
 
 had formerly been an inferior master at the 
 school where Forrest was brought up ; and in 
 after years Forrest, in one of his fly-fishing 
 excursions, finding his old usher in the village 
 schoolmaster, had found also attractions in the 
 daughter's beauty, which made him affect a 
 fondness to the father for her sake. She had 
 seemed lonely and unprotected, a fitting prey 
 for the heartless like himself; and every time 
 when opportunity, or idleness, or satiety of the 
 pleasures of the capital, brought him into the 
 country, he would wander from the open course 
 to the small village of Stalbrooke, and spend 
 a day or two in the endeavour to amuse the 
 father and betray the child. He had contrived, 
 also, to take advantage of the careless thought- 
 lessness of the poor schoolmaster's disposition, 
 in order to lay him under some pecuniary ob- 
 ligations ; and Lucy had felt grateful, both for 
 the assistance which he had thus rendered to 
 one who was so dear to her, and for the delight 
 and gratification which her father experienced 
 from his occasional society. 
 
 Of late, however, John Forrest had lost no
 
 140 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 opportunity of endeavouring to corrupt her 
 mind. He had sought to persuade her that vice 
 was virtue, and virtue vice. He had sought 
 to confound and distort her ideas of good and 
 evil ; and seeing in a moment those qualities 
 of her mind which he might most easily bend 
 to his purpose, he assailed her through her 
 imagination, and strove to lull her virtue asleep 
 in sweet dreams of poetry and visions of ro- 
 mance. 
 
 But there were two things wanting to the 
 success of his plans : he himself, though largely 
 read in the poetry both of his own country and 
 of several others, though there was scarcely a 
 passage of great beauty or merit in any eminent 
 writer that he had not made his own, and could 
 apply as best suited his purposes, had not the 
 true spirit of poetry in his heart. He had been 
 guided by a good taste, and was aided by a 
 strong memory, to collect, adapt, and reproduce 
 the thoughts and expressions of others : but 
 the spirit, the essence, was wanting ; and Lucy 
 Williams, while she listened, and perhaps ad- 
 mired, still had upon her mind the vague im-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 141 
 
 pression that she hearkened to a sweet-tongued 
 sophist, and associated with him without that 
 fall conviction of his truth and sincerity which 
 it was necessary for his purposes that she should 
 receive. The second thing that was wanting, 
 perhaps, to the success of the seducer, was that 
 the heart of his intended victim should be 
 entirely free — that there should be none upon 
 whom she might turn her eyes, and draw a 
 comparison unfavourable to him. 
 
 Thus, when, on his two last visits to the 
 village, he had found opportunities, while her 
 father was occupied, to scoff more scornfully at 
 those things which he called prejudices, but 
 which she considered principles, instead of 
 tending to corrupt, his words served but to put 
 her on her guard ; and though from her very in- 
 nocence she did not understand the full tend- 
 ency and object of all he said, yet his language 
 created wonder, and alarm, and doubt, and she 
 would instantly have told the whole to her fa- 
 ther, had she not feared to destroy at once that 
 connection between him and young Forrest, 
 which was the old schoolmaster's pride and 
 delight.
 
 142 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 She resolved to avoid, as far as possible, all 
 meeting with one whom she doubted and in 
 some degree feared. She went even farther ; 
 and when, on his last visit, he had spoken to 
 her with fie-ry words that increased her doubts 
 and apprehensions, she had endeavoured to 
 chill him with icy coldness, and mistakenly 
 thought she had succeeded. She knew not 
 how persevering and unyielding is human vanity ; 
 she knew not, that by piquing that of one so 
 completely given up to it, she urged him for- 
 ward in the very pursuit which she sought 
 to check. John Forrest, however, did not be- 
 lieve that she was really cold towards him. He 
 was too well satisfied with himself in every 
 respect to understand fully that, such could be 
 the case. He thought that she only affected 
 such things, that his success was certain, 
 though her eagerness, as he termed it, might 
 make the triumph less easy; and to render 
 his hold upon her still stronger than he fancied 
 that his arts had yet made it, he voluntarily 
 offered to lend the unhappy schoolmaster, 
 whose health was then beginning to decline,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 14S 
 
 a larger sum than he had given before, provided 
 Lucy would sign the promise to pay it, merely 
 as a form, he said. 
 
 The father was ill at the moment, and in 
 some distress. He saw no danger; Lucy 
 obeyed his will ; and the paper was signed. 
 Forrest, the period of whose stay in the coun- 
 try had by that time expired, returned to 
 London, believing that he had Lucy in his 
 power ; and now, having heard of her father's 
 illness and death, he came prepared to take 
 advantage of opportunity. 
 
 Lucy rose when she saw him enter the room, 
 and wiped the tears hastily from Jier eyes. 
 Her first feelings towards him, indeed, were such 
 as he might have been well pleased to see. 
 He had been the friend, and, as she believed, 
 the benefactor of her father — of that father 
 whom she now mourned in sadness and in 
 solitude. All the pleasure that her dead parent 
 had found in his society ; all the pride which he 
 had taken in the thought of his former pupil 
 visiting him, sitting with him for hours, listening 
 to all his jests, taking part in all his wild and
 
 144 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Tisionary speculations ; all the confidence whicli 
 lie had reposed in him, presented objects sweet 
 and touching to her mind as connected with 
 John Forrest, and her first emotions were grati- 
 tude and pleasure. The melancholy, too, ex- 
 pressed by his countenance, so sympathetic 
 with what was proceeding in her own heart, 
 was all in his favour ; and when he took her 
 hand gently in his, and with studied and artful 
 words condoled with her upon her loss, she was 
 almost inclined to forget all that had pained 
 and alarmed her in his former conduct, and to 
 believe that in him she had a friend indeed. 
 He sat down by her, he soothed her, he 
 assumed the whole air and appearance of deep 
 grief; he offered some apologies even for intrud- 
 ing upon her in her moments of sorrow, and he 
 assigned as the cause, that some time before her 
 father had written to him to ask the loan of a 
 small sum of money, and that he feared she 
 might be under some inconvenience for want 
 of it. 
 
 She assured him that such was not the case, 
 that every one had been very kind to her, and
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 145 
 
 that she wanted nothing. She thanked him, 
 however, warmly for his consideration ; and 
 though he was sorry to hear that there were 
 many who had come forward to befriend her, 
 he only expressed himself the more ardent to 
 serve her, to relieve her of all pain, to remove 
 from her all anxiety. His words grew warmer — 
 his looks alarmed her — and Lucy drew back 
 from his near approach with all her apprehen- 
 sions returning. She heard a slight sound in 
 the adjoining passage, and hoped even that it 
 was some one coming in to break through an 
 interview which was each minute becoming 
 painful. 
 
 Nobody, however, approached, and he went 
 on. He spoke of love, and of passion, and of 
 casting off the restraints and considerations 
 of the world ; and he proposed to her even 
 almost immediately to quit the calm and happy 
 village in which she dwelt, and to fly with 
 him to London, there, as he expressed it, 
 to be adored and idolised, and to live in 
 pleasure and in brightness all the day long. 
 We must not dwell upon his words, or upon 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the scene that took place ; pictures of the 
 heart's depravity are always painful, and should 
 ever be traced in broad lines. 
 
 Lucy was pained, and grieved, and terrified, 
 and indignant. She rose to call the servant girl ; 
 but the girl was absent, and he again took her 
 hand and drew her back into the room. Still 
 the memory of her father, still the memory of 
 what Forrest had done for him, prevented her 
 from speaking all she felt ; but she besought him 
 wildly and eagerly to leave her ; she entreated 
 him with tears not to insult her sorrow ; and 
 at length, when he still went on protesting, 
 soliciting, urging her with every base entreaty, 
 she suddenly drew her hand from the grasp in 
 which he held it, and then, with the wild but 
 not ungraceful vehemence which often charac- 
 terised her, she clasped his arm with her hand 
 without reply, and drew him towards the door 
 which led into the inner chamber. 
 
 Forrest was surprised, and knew not what 
 she meant; but he followed where she led, and 
 in another moment stood by the side of the 
 bed of death. The coffin lay upon it, as yet
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 147 
 
 not screwed down; the countenance of the 
 dead man, cahn, still, rigid, was before their 
 ejes ; while the curtains, in great part drawn 
 around the bed, cast upon it a greyer shade, 
 a more ashy hue than even death itself. 
 
 The sight of her father's face for a moment 
 made Lucy pause, and the tears rushed up 
 into her eyes ; but the next instant she reco- 
 vered herself, drew up her head, let go the arm 
 of her companion, and pointing to the features 
 of the dead, she said, — ^ 
 
 " Mr. Forrest, you professed friendship for 
 that dear father who lies there — whose heart 
 was as pure, and as noble, as if he had been 
 born in ranks as high or higher than your own. 
 You professed friendship for him — you professed 
 friendship for me ; if that friendship was true 
 for either the one or for the other, talk not to 
 me base words within a step of my honest 
 father's corpse — break not the heart that is 
 nearly broken, by making me think that there 
 is not one honest and true friend left. Let me 
 tell you, sir — let me tell you that I would 
 sooner stand here, and, looking on my dead 
 L 2
 
 148 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 parent, see the corruption that must soon come 
 upon that form, creep over it shade by shade, 
 and the worm itself revel on the cheek of him 
 that I loved best, than I would feel the corrup- 
 tion of your words come over my mind, or a 
 fouler worm than that of the grave. Hear me, 
 sir—- hear me," she continued, seeing that he was 
 about to interrupt her — '^ hear me out ; for you 
 have spoken, and I have been silent, too long. 
 You professed friendship to my father, and 
 friendship to me ; if either was sincere, leave 
 me, fly from me ; let me never behold you again, 
 till you can bring your mind to believe that 
 honesty and virtue may even be in a cottage girl 
 like myself. But if your professions were all 
 false, and if you have come here so frequently 
 with the sole hope of seducing an unprotected 
 girl, and destroying the happiness of a home 
 that was once bright, let me call to your mind 
 that the time must come, and is not far distant, 
 when you shall lie like him, whom you now 
 see before you, with your earthly frame going 
 down to cold corruption, and your immortal 
 spirit gone to answer before the judgment-seat
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 149 
 
 of God, where my father's spirit may be your 
 accusing angel, and call for retribution on your 
 head." 
 
 For a few moments the man she spoke to 
 was struck and silenced, and he turned partly as 
 if to quit the chamber ; but the next instant he 
 thought — " Shall I be frustrated by a girl like 
 this ? shall her idle words by the side of a dead 
 mass of what was once animated matter — shall 
 they leave me without a voice, and send me 
 away like a whipped schoolboy ? " 
 
 Vanity triumphed in an instant. There 
 seemed to him something fine and startling 
 in the very idea of overcoming what he called 
 idle scruples, and bending Lucy to his will, 
 even in the presence of the dead ; and he in- 
 stantly turned to her again. 
 
 By this time, however, the vehemence, the 
 dignity, the energy, with which she had spoken, 
 had passed away ; her eyes were fixed upon her 
 dead father's face ; memory had run back to the 
 past, energy had given way to sorrow, and 
 the fire was drowned out in tears. 
 
 " I grieve extremely," said Forrest, once 
 L 3
 
 150 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 more taking her hand — '' I grieve extremely 
 to have agitated you, but • " 
 
 "Leave me, sir, leave me!" said Lucy 
 Williams, — "leave me, if you have any pity 
 in your nature ! — leave me, if you are a gen- 
 tleman ! — leave me, if you are a man!" 
 
 " No, indeed, I cannot leave you thus," re- 
 plied Forrest ; " I cannot leave you thus in 
 deep affliction, and with my own heart wrung 
 and hopeless with your coldness — indeed, in- 
 deed I cannot, and I will not leave you thus." 
 
 " Because, sir, you are not a man!" said a 
 voice behind the seducer ; and at the same time 
 a hand was laid upon his arm, which forcibly 
 detached his grasp from Lucy Williams. 
 
 Forrest turned fiercely round in a moment ; 
 but it was the calm, dignified countenance of 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke that met his eyes, 
 looking full upon him with a stern and re- 
 proving glance. " Because, sir," said the Ba- 
 ronet — " because, sir, you are not a man; for 
 if you were either a gentleman or a man, as the 
 poor girl herself has said, you would have 
 ceased such language, and left her long ago."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 151 
 
 ^' Sir, you insult me," exclaimed young For- 
 rest, laying his hand upon his sword, and, in 
 the excitement of the moment, forgetting all 
 restraint. 
 
 " Insult you!" exclaimed Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke. " Tiiink, sir, what it is that you have 
 yourself insulted ! You have insulted innocence 
 and goodness in that poor girl. You have 
 insulted your God in the presence of the dead 
 whom he has called to himself; and, humble 
 and lowly as I am in such comparisons, you 
 have insulted also me, by daring to issue forth 
 from under my roof to injure and to aggrieve 
 those, who, living happily and virtuously under 
 my protection and on my lands, are to me as 
 my own children." 
 
 " Sir," replied Forrest fiercely, *' it is lucky 
 for you that you are an old man — otherwise I 
 should take instant means to make you eat 
 such words." 
 
 " Not so old a man, sir," replied Sir Andrew 
 
 Stalbrooke in the same calm severe tone — " not 
 
 so old a man as not to scourge you from the 
 
 door of this cottage like an ill-conditioned cur, 
 
 L 4
 
 152 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 if you do not instantly quit it without offending 
 the ears of any here present hy another word ;" 
 and so saying, he grasped the young man's arm 
 firmly, and pushed him towards the door. 
 
 ** Forrest's sword was drawn in an instant, 
 and poor Lucy Williams started forward to cast 
 herself between them ; but, overpowered by all 
 that had passed, she fell fainting on the floor. 
 At the same moment, however, from behind 
 the closed curtains on the other side of the bed, 
 ran forward the woman Philippina, with her 
 bright black eyes flashing with living fire. Ere 
 she could come round, however, or call for help. 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke's sword was also drawn, 
 and with ease and grace, that might have 
 shamed many a youth of daily practice in the 
 schools of defence, he crossed it with that of 
 Forrest, parried two quick lunges, and almost 
 in an instant disarmed his adversary. 
 
 " Take up your sword, sir, and begone," he 
 said with a somewhat cutting smile. " Courage, 
 sir, is a good quality : I am happy to see you 
 possess it ; for your conduct here to-day, towards 
 a poor girl who could not defend herself, made
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 153 
 
 me doubt that you did so. I have only farther 
 to say, that, as my chance guest at this moment, 
 if this unpleasant occurrence is at all spoken of, 
 it shall not be my fault. But in the village of 
 Stalbrooke I must insist that you do not set 
 your foot again ^ and, trusting that you are 
 both ashamed and repentant of your conduct 
 here, I wish you good evening for the present, 
 and shall meet you at supper as if this had not 
 occurred. 
 
 Young Forrest stooped, and slowly raised his 
 sword from the ground ; thrust it back into the 
 scabbard ; and, with a bright spot on his cheek, 
 his brow knit, and his teeth set, made a dogged 
 inclination of the head to Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke, and quitted the cottage. 
 
 " Not a word of this business, Philippina ! " 
 said Sir Andrew ; " I mean as far as this quarrel 
 is concerned. You may tell any one how well 
 this poor child has behaved, for that ought to 
 be known. You did quite right also yourself, 
 to send for me up to the farm, when you knew 
 Vv'hat was going on ; though I do not quite
 
 154 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 approve of your hiding yourself behind the 
 curtains till I came." 
 
 Philippina explained that she had done it for 
 poor Lucy Williams's own sake; and Sir Andrew, 
 satisfied that she had meant well, bade her 
 either take the orphan girl home with her, or 
 stay with her there till after the funeral ; and 
 leaving Lucy in her hands, he took his way back 
 on foot by the village towards his own dwelling.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 155 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The most obnoxious and irritating thing which 
 an ordinary critic can meet with, and which 
 excites his fury more than any thing else on 
 earth, is that constant change of scene and cha- 
 racter which it is sometimes convenient to adopt 
 in the beginning of a work like the present, 
 where, in order to avoid a change from person- 
 age to personage, afterwards when the reader's 
 interest is particularly excited in favour of any of 
 them, it is necessary to bring each individual in 
 turn before the eye, ere the mind has become 
 much interested in any of them at all. The or- 
 dinary critic is naturally enraged at this, inas- 
 much as it is part of his trade to speak learnedly 
 of a book that he has not read; and conse- 
 quently, where the spot and the person are fre- 
 quently changed, it is much more difficult to 
 get that superficial view of the whole which is 
 necessary to his purpose, than in works where
 
 156 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the narrative plods quietly on, suffering one 
 event to drag on another to the end of the tale. 
 He naturally swears to the public then, that 
 the book is a mere phantasmagoria of detached 
 scenes, that the characters are introduced with- 
 out any reference to each other, and that the ■ 
 incidents do not at all tend to the general pro- 
 gress of the story. He swears all this, and 
 perhaps believes it ; because he neither gives 
 himself time, nor takes the trouble, nor pos- 
 sesses the inclination, to examine the links of 
 connection between the various characters, to 
 trace the minute steps by which each incident 
 hurries on the advance of the w^hole tale ; 
 and because, in all probability, he has not a 
 mind of sufficient capacity to view the matter 
 as a whole, even if he had time, industry, or 
 inclination. 
 
 Trusting, however, that the intelligent reader 
 will not suffer himself to be misled, and will 
 remember, that though it is a melancholy sight 
 to see a blind man led, even by a dog that can 
 see, there is a still more lamentable thing daily 
 to be observed in matters of literature — that is
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 157 
 
 to say, a man who can see, led by a blind dog : — 
 Trusting that the reader will remember this, 
 we shall proceed, for the fourth time, to carry 
 him into new scenes and amongst new charac- 
 ters ; and doubt not that it will be believed 
 we do so for certain ends and purposes well 
 considered in reference to the general progress 
 of the story. 
 
 About a mile and a half from the village 
 of Stalbrooke, on the side which lay farthest 
 from the high road, was a wide open common, 
 covered with furze bushes and heath, broken 
 by old gravel pits, and interspersed with little 
 shining pools of water. This heath swept 
 round at one extremity till it reached the park 
 of good Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, from which it 
 was separated by a high stone wall. It extended 
 on the other hand to a distance of three or 
 four miles, and crept up the hiUs which formed 
 the boundary of the county in that direction. 
 In the days of which we speak, the high roads 
 of Great Britain, as well as of every other 
 country in Europe, were, in comparison with 
 those of the present day, few, tortuous, and
 
 158 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 remote from each other, and the parish roads 
 still fewer. The country on either side of one 
 of the highways might be highly cultivated and 
 well peopled ; but in proportion as you di- 
 verged from the straight course, between one 
 large town and another, you came into tracts 
 where the population was more thin, the com- 
 munication more difficult, and the care of man 
 more scantily bestowed upon the soil. There 
 are people still living, or at least were within 
 ten years, who can remember the time when 
 the person who wished to go from Reading to 
 Oxford had no choice but a journey on horse- 
 back, or a round of many miles ; and the 
 country to the right or left of every highway 
 was very much in the situation of the heathy 
 track which we have just mentioned — that is to 
 say, almost utterly destitute of any regular and 
 well-maintained path. 
 
 Various traces, indeed, winding along with 
 serpent-like meanderings over the face of the 
 moor, marked where travellers, or beasts turned 
 out to graze, had been led by instinct or habit to 
 follow the same track that others had followed
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 159 
 
 before them ; and there was likewise a road of 
 a kind and description now almost utterly lost 
 and forgotten, but which deserves to be re- 
 corded in this place. It was a small sandy 
 track, never above six feet broad, and sometimes 
 less, which on the flatter parts of the moor 
 that it traversed, seemed to owe its origin to 
 chance, and not to the handiwork of man, but 
 which in other spots, where the ground rose 
 considerably, was proved to be the effect of 
 labour and design, by being cut straight on, 
 deep through the sandy banks, which rose high 
 above it, and in some places almost canopied 
 it over with shrubs and leaves, the yellow 
 flowering gorse and broom, the wild honey- 
 suckle, and the eglantine. For the distance of 
 between twenty and thirty miles, that narrow 
 road wound on, displaying throughout its course 
 the peculiar and distinctive characteristic which 
 marked it out from all other roads, except five 
 or six in very distant parts of the country. 
 This characteristic was, that it avoided, as if 
 with scrupulous care, every village, and town, 
 and hamlet. But the name which it bore — and
 
 160 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 which similar roads bore in different parts of 
 England, up to a very late period — serves to 
 point out the awful cause of this peculiarity. 
 It was called the Plague Road ; and had been 
 constructed at the time when, in the seven- 
 teenth century, the terrible pestilence which 
 nearly decimated this country, raged in the 
 highest degree. At that time a great part of 
 the traffic of the country was carried on by 
 means of pack-horses ; and the carriers in 
 various places cut these roads for themselves, 
 for the purpose of going from one point of 
 their course to the other, without being forced 
 to stop at any of the intermediate towns or 
 villages where the plague might be supposed to 
 be raging. The terrible circumstances under 
 which it had been constructed, had long passed 
 away at the time of oar tale, and the Plague 
 Road had fallen a good deal into disuse ; but 
 it still afforded a pleasant ride to the yeomen 
 and the gentry in the neighbourhood, though 
 the pack-horses of the carriers no longer stalked' 
 heavily along it, and the tortuous means of
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 161 
 
 communication, ^Yhicll it had once afforded, 
 was supplied by a more direct way. 
 
 Upon the very edge of this road, very nearly 
 in the centre of the common, stood a group of 
 five trees, with underneath them a little patch 
 of ground, rescued from the waste, carefully 
 and neatly cultivated with long rows of cab- 
 bages, onions, and other culinary herbs ; a nice 
 white fence circling the whole about ; and a 
 remarkably neat house, of two stories high, 
 sheltering itself directly under the green 
 branches amidst which it sent up the white 
 smoke of its turf fires. At the spot where the 
 road passed by this house, it had just emerged 
 from a deep sandy gorge, through which it had 
 been cut, and issued out upon the flat ground. 
 The lower part of the house was thus shaded to 
 the eastward by the rise through which the road 
 plunged, but the upper windows commanded 
 a view of the whole of its course in that direc- 
 tion ; while on the other side was seen, wide 
 spread out before it, the bare face of the 
 brown moor. 
 
 This house, thus well situated as a place 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 of observation, was inhabited bj a personage 
 of a very singular character ; and we may at 
 once present him to the reader's eyes, as he 
 sat in his little parlour looking over the moor, 
 taking his glass of rum and water — which it 
 is necessary to remark was extremely weak — 
 on the same evening of which we have just been 
 speaking in the last chapter. 
 
 He was a man of about five feet eleven in 
 height, some fifty years of age, spare but not 
 exactly meagre in form, with a weather-beaten 
 countenance, and hair which had once been of a 
 reddish brown, gathering into small grey curls 
 about his head. His hands were large and 
 strong, his arms and legs muscular, and his 
 chest deep ; but through the middle of his left 
 hand was a hole surrounded by a deep black- 
 ened scar, and the two middle fingers of that 
 hand were stiff and immoveable. His coun- 
 tenance, though the features were not hand- 
 some, was good and frank, and there was an 
 immense deal of intelligence and character 
 about his quick grey eye. He was dressed in 
 a coat of velveteen, which had once been of a
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 163 
 
 darkish green, but now, by exposure to the 
 sun, had acquired a yellow hue ; and, contrary 
 to the custom of the times, which wrapped up 
 men's necks in the most enormous swaddling 
 clothes, his throat and even part of his chest 
 were bare. 
 
 Although he sat alone, as far as the ab- 
 sence of every other human being was con- 
 cerned, yet he by no means wanted com- 
 panions ; for there was a small white terrier 
 at his feet; something which looked prodi- 
 giously like a lurcher curled up in a corner of 
 the room ; five bird-cages, tenanted by gold- 
 finches and linnets, gracing the sides of the win- 
 dow ; a ferret rolled up in an old stocking at 
 the end of the table, making itself as comfort- 
 able as it could under such circumstances ; and 
 a spaniel bitch, with her litter of puppies, in the 
 place which, had it been winter, would have 
 been occupied by the fire. 
 
 From one to another of these animals wan- 
 dered the eye of the master of the house from 
 time to time, with a look of affection and satis- 
 faction ; and they, on their parts, seemed in- 
 M 2
 
 164 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 stinctively to know when they each attracted his 
 attention. The terrier looked up and pricked 
 its ears ; the birds came down to the bottoms of 
 their cages, and thrust their bills through the 
 wires; and the lurcher raised his grey eyebrow, 
 and slightly wagged the tip of his tail. 
 
 Such, then, was the personage to whom this 
 house belonged, absolutely and entirely, as his 
 own freehold. But his history must be dwelt 
 upon for a moment. In early life he had been 
 a wildish lad in the village of Stalbrooke ; and 
 his father, who was the miller there, and well to 
 do in the world, used to treat his son Timothy 
 with a degree of harshness which Timothy 
 was not inclined to endure. He accordingly 
 enlisted in a regiment destined immediately for 
 foreign service ; and went out to see the world, 
 and to try the smiles of the fickle Goddess. He 
 proved a brave and gallant soldier; received 
 various wounds, of which the musket-ball 
 through the hand was one ; and might have 
 gradually gone on by various degrees of pro- 
 motion, till he had even mounted the epaulette, 
 had it not been for a certain sort of inherent
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 165 
 
 fondness for the beasts of the field, which 
 somewhat interfered with the reguhir discharge 
 of his military duties. He had every quality 
 on earth for a good soldier, but one. He was 
 brave, active, clever, obedient, respectful, quick 
 in thought and in deed, cleanly in his person 
 and his habits almost to foppery, — boasting 
 that his General had more often a dirty shirt 
 on than he had ; and with a certain degree of 
 shrewdness and clear-headedness, which made 
 him invaluable as a non-commisioned officer^ 
 He submitted to discipline without the slightest 
 murmur; but the unfortunate point of his 
 character was, that if there was bird, or beast, 
 or fish, to be caught, shot, or hunted, from a 
 rat U) a rattlesnake, from a tortoise to a tiger, 
 Tim Meakes could not resist it, let the time 
 and circumstances be what they would. Indeed, 
 all his comrades and friends applied to him, and 
 none but him, on such occasions ; for — whether 
 by long conversation with birds, and beasts, 
 and creeping things, he had acquired an inti- 
 mate knowledge of their characters ; or, by a 
 peculiar instinct derived from nature, had a 
 M 3
 
 166 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 sort of sympathetic intelligence with the brute 
 creation ; or by some metempsicosical process 
 he had been passed in succession through the 
 bodies of every animal under the sun, and re- 
 tained a recollection of the changes ; — he was 
 certainly far better aware of what any given 
 beast would do, under particular circumstances, 
 than the beast itself. It was natural, therefore, 
 that he should love to deal with things whereof 
 he had so intimate a knowledge : it was na- 
 tural, too, that his companions should con- 
 stantly call for his aid, when they had any thing 
 to do with that part of the creation over which 
 he seemed to exercise a superior influence : and 
 these circumstances, during the six and twenty 
 years that he remained in the service, and of 
 which he had passed seventeen or eighteen in 
 India, brought him into various difficulties, from 
 which he would have found great trouble in 
 extricating himself, had it not been for his ex- 
 cellent character in every other respect. 
 
 He thus, therefore, remained in an inferior 
 rank ; but nevertheless he contrived to acquire, 
 by care and forethought, a very tolerable pit-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 16^ 
 
 tance, to enable him to return to his native 
 country in comfort. That pittance was in- 
 creased by a share of the property of his father, 
 who just lived to see his son return ; and buy- 
 ing a small patch of freehold ground, which 
 happened to lie in the very midst of the com- 
 mon, Tim Meakes, with his own hands, and 
 very little assistance, reclaimed the land, fenced 
 it from the waste, built the house, made the 
 furniture, and established himself as we have 
 described. 
 
 His household consisted, besides himself and 
 his beast associates, of an old woman, who had 
 been the maid of the mill when he enlisted for 
 a soldier. She could cook his dinner, and was 
 some ten years older than himself, so that there 
 was no scandal. A farming boy helped in the 
 garden ; and though shrewd enough underneath, 
 was as stupid upon the surface as heart could 
 desire. 
 
 These were all the tenants of the place ; 
 
 and Tim Meakes would have lived a very happy 
 
 and peaceful life, had it not been that his old 
 
 propensity towards the beasts of the field did 
 
 M 4
 
 168 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 not suffer him to be long in his native land, 
 without plunging him into the perils of poach- 
 ing. To say the truth, the peril was not the 
 part of the business that Tim Meakes liked 
 the least ; for he was of an adventurous dis- 
 position, and required a little excitement, fond 
 of an enterprise of almost any kind, and always 
 prompt to mingle with it that degree of gay 
 jocularity which hides from our own eyes, as 
 well as those of others, the dangers that sur- 
 round us, better than any other deception of 
 the human heart. 
 
 The farmers, to a man, loved Tim Meakes, 
 and gave him every sort of facility, if not 
 assistance ; and at first even the lords of the 
 neighbouring manors, perhaps, would have looked 
 over his malpractices, if they had not found 
 out that Meakes's skill and example rendered 
 the other poachers in the neighbourhood ten 
 thousand times more destructive and impudent. 
 But the old soldier proved too keen for them, 
 even when they did attempt to punish him: 
 and though he had been three times brought 
 up before the late Lord Mallory, who would
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 169 
 
 certainly have sent him once more across the 
 seas if he had found the means ; and twice 
 before Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, whose suppressed 
 smile, as his old acquaintance appeared in his 
 presence, gave Meakes every sort of confidence; 
 no proof so distinct as to convict the amateur 
 poacher could be brought forward against him, 
 and he still continued to live on, ever in the 
 practice of manifold suspicious walks and the 
 possession of manifold unlawful dogs. After 
 going on in this state for some time, Tim 
 Meakes acquired a sort of prescriptive right 
 to poach in the neighbourhood. Lord Mai- 
 lory's keeper having been provoked into some 
 act towards him, rather beyond the letter of 
 the law, Meakes thrashed him within an inch 
 of his life in the open market place of the 
 neighbouring town ; and this feat caused him 
 to be held in but the greater reverence by 
 every body but Lord Mallory himself, who, 
 dying shortly after, was obliged to put off, sine 
 die, the persecution that he was preparing for 
 the termagant old soldier. 
 
 Besides this degree of licence which he had
 
 170 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 acquired for himself by the valour of his invin- 
 cible arm, there were a good many pieces of 
 extra-manorial land, and one small farm in the 
 hands of its own proprietor, over which the 
 lord of the manor could not make his right of 
 sporting good. Liked as he was by the farmers 
 and some of the smaller country gentlemen, 
 these possessions, .as far as the game went, 
 naturally fell under the paternal care of 
 Timothy Meakes, who tacked Esquire to his 
 name for the nonce, and boldly asserted that he 
 had a qualification. It thus happened that 
 Meakes had an opportunity of obliging any of 
 his inferior neighbours with a day's shooting or 
 fishing ; and his name became so renowned in 
 these respects, that occasionally a person of 
 greater importance still, would place himself 
 under his guidance or tuition, in order to obtain 
 the better sport; and this particular circumstance 
 of his situation brings us to the precise point 
 whereat and through which he is connected 
 with this tale. 
 
 As he was sitting there in his mansion, calmly- 
 sipping the weak rum and water, in a small
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 171 
 
 portion of which he indulged every afternoon 
 instead of tea or coiFee, meditating deeply of a 
 sweet nide of young pheasants, which he had 
 seen under the wings of their mother, close 
 by a hazel bush in one of the outlying copses 
 of Lady Mallory ; revolving for a change of 
 thought sundry old buck hares that frequented 
 the barley fields, and even a stray bustard — one 
 of the last in England — which he had seen upon 
 the high downs above ; — as he sat thus, we say, 
 with his eyes now turned to the lurcher, now 
 to the spaniel, now to the ferret that writhed 
 in the stocking, and between whiles to the 
 window which looked over the common, he 
 perceived the figure of a gentleman walking 
 along the Plague road, slowly and meditatively, 
 in the direction of his own house. 
 
 The sharp eye of Timothy Meakes instantly 
 recognised an old acquaintance before he could 
 see a feature of his face, and calling to the worthy 
 lady who superintended his kitchen, he told her 
 to bring another glass, and some more cold water, 
 while he himself quietly walked to the door, and 
 opened it, to give admittance to the expected
 
 172 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 visiter. As soon as the guest reached the 
 gate of his garden, Meakes held out his hand 
 to him, shaking his head with a somewhat 
 rueful and reproachful air, and saying : " Ah 
 Mr. Forrest, Mr. Forrest, you missed as fine a 
 fish there this morning as ever I saw in all my 
 life. Why, you didn't give him time to pouch, 
 sir. I was watching you from the bank above, 
 and you struck in a minute ; and such a stroke 
 too, that you had not even a chance of hooking 
 him by accident. It's all very well, sir, with 
 a carp, or any sly fish like that, to give it a 
 leetle stroke — a leetle stroke, you see, as soon 
 as you see the float bob. But, bless you, that 
 will never do with such a fish as a pike, who is, 
 in comparison with a carp, just what a soldier 
 is to a lawyer. I don't wonder you look 
 downcast and heavy-like." 
 
 " Ah," replied Forrest, sullenly, *^ I've got 
 more cause to look downcast and heavy than 
 that, Meakes. I've been made a fool of by a 
 girl, and an old prig hard by, and I sha'n't lay 
 my head down in peace, till I've found some way 
 of conquering the one, and punishing the other.''
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 173 
 
 Meakes looked grave, but he nevertheless 
 pressed Forrest into his house, set the glass and 
 the bottle before him, from which the young 
 lawyer did not fail to drink plentifully, of 
 somewhat stronger beverage than the old 
 soldier ; and then Meakes, after falling into a 
 reverie for some minutes, contrived to draw 
 forth from his guest a full and particular 
 account of the whole of his proceedings of that 
 afternoon, at least according to the light in 
 which Forrest chose to paint them. There 
 was something about the old soldier which 
 prevented his companion from displaying in 
 plain words the nature of his design upon poor 
 Lucy Williams. He represented her simply as 
 a coquettish jilt, who had first given him every 
 reason to believe that she loved him, and then, 
 as he termed it, turned the cold shoulder upon 
 him. Sir Andrew Stalbrooke he represented 
 as interfering impertinently, and '^ marring 
 matters that he could not mend ;" and he dwelt 
 vaguely upon some whirling schemes for reveng- 
 ing himself, in the execution of which he seemed 
 to ask and to hope for Meakes's assistance.
 
 174 THR GENTLEMAN 
 
 The old soldier listened without uttering a 
 word, except such as were calculated to draw the 
 whole particulars forth from his companion, 
 with more precision and accuracy than the other 
 might be inclined to display. A sort of cynical 
 smile, too, curled his lip from time to time, as 
 if there were a running commentary going on 
 in his mind upon the tale of Master Forrest, 
 which might not have very greatly gratified the 
 other to hear ; and then again, when he had 
 done, he paused and pondered for a minute 
 or two without reply, saying at length : " Of 
 course, Master Forrest, you intend to marry 
 the girl." 
 
 Forrest gazed with open eyes at so strange a 
 proposal; but, seeing that Meakes looked serious, 
 he replied in a tone half jest, half earnest : " Oh ! 
 certainly, Meakes, beyond all doubt : you know, 
 if once I get her into my hands, I'll marry her, 
 depend upon it." 
 
 Meakes's countenance assumed an air of well 
 pleased simplicity. " Ay, that's right now. 
 Master Forrest, that's right," he said. " I 
 thought you never would have proposed to me
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 175 
 
 to help you to carry off the girl, without in- 
 tending to marry her, for I think I should have 
 thrown you out of window if you had. But as 
 you intend to marry her, why I don't mind if I 
 lend you a hand. But I'll think over it till to- 
 morrow morning, do you see, Master Forrest. 
 I'm an old soldier, you know, and not likely to 
 miss any stratagem, if you really do intend to 
 marry the girl." 
 
 *' Oh ! that I will," replied Forrest, far more 
 earnestly than he had before said it, — '' that 
 I will, depend upon it, Meakes, — upon — 
 upon — " 
 
 He hesitated to pledge his honour ; for so 
 strange a thing is human nature, that the man 
 who in the eye of truth and reason scruples 
 not to sacrifice his honour every day, and in 
 every relation of life, pays to the mere word 
 the reverence due to the fact alone, and shrinks 
 from pledging that which he virtually does not 
 possess. 
 
 Meakes did not seem to observe his hesitation, 
 but replied at once: *' Well, well, that's all 
 right, that's all right ; and, since it is so, I'll help
 
 176 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 you with all my heart. Give me but till to- 
 morrow morning. Master Forrest, and you shall 
 have a scheme that can't fail ; and now, what 
 think you of just walking with me and white 
 Midge there/' pointing to the terrier, "up to 
 the Sandhill lane. Do you remember last year, 
 when you were down here shooting with me in 
 the copse at the back of the common, and my 
 thinking I saw in the sand the mark of a beast's 
 foot — somewhat uncommon-like ; well, I never 
 left him till I found him out, and there he is, 
 housed just above the Sandhill lane, a fine old 
 grey badger, with a black snout. I 've seen him 
 peering out three times, for all the world like an 
 old weatherbeaten lieutenant-general. Now, 
 Midge will draw a badger with any woman in 
 the country — " 
 
 "I can't to-night, Meakes, I can't to-night," 
 replied Forrest. *' I don't choose that old man 
 to say that he has beaten me out of the field. I 
 will go back to his house and face him, and 
 give him one or two raps on the knuckles ; and 
 then to-morrow morning I shall leave his house, 
 and not join the party again till they go to
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 177 
 
 Lady Mallory's. The surgeon speaks so favour- 
 ably of my uncle this afternoon, that they will 
 not be much longer detained, I trust, in a place 
 where they are both unwelcome and unwilling 
 guests." 
 
 Tim Meakes did not press his guest to the 
 sport, and after having arranged to coine back 
 early on the following morning, to hear what 
 scheme the old soldier had devised, young 
 Forrest took his leave, and left Meakes to 
 pursue his designs against the badger if he 
 liked. 
 
 The moment he was gone, however, Meakes 
 stretched out the fingers of his broad brown 
 hand upon the table, curled his lip into a bitter 
 and sarcastic smile, and, after pausing for a 
 minute or two in thought, he muttered to him- 
 self : *^ The rascal ! the infernal cheating scoun- 
 drel ! he thought to take me in, did he ; but 
 he shall find that he has made a great mistake ! 
 Poor little thing! I'll go down and see her, 
 though that old dreaming idiot her father was 
 fool enough to quarrel with me about poaching, 
 as he calls it. It wasn't her fault, poor thing, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 I'll lay a scheme for him; yes, that I will : and 
 hang me if he sha'n't marry her, or have every 
 
 bone in his skin broken ! He be ; " and, 
 
 with a condemnatory imprecation upon the 
 head of Forrest, which we shall not repeat, 
 Timothy Meakes, Esquire, made his commune 
 with himself, took up his hat and walked down 
 towards the village, to visit Lucy Williams. 
 Now, lest the interest which he took in the poor 
 girl may excite some surprise, it may be ne- 
 cessary to point out the connection between 
 them. We have said that on his return to his 
 native country Meakes obtained a share in the 
 property of his father, and we thereby implied 
 that there was another person who shared it 
 with him. That other person was his own sister, 
 the wife of Williams the schoolmaster. She had 
 died a year or two after, and her husband had 
 brought upon himself a bitter and irreconcilable 
 quarrel with her brother, by exhorting him in 
 grandiloquent and very reprehensive terms on 
 the subject of taking other people's game. 
 
 Good conduct may be the consequences of a 
 good heart, of good principles early instilled, or
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 179 
 
 of a good understanding. Now, though the good 
 heart and the good principles had been certainly 
 the portion of poor Williams, the good under- 
 standing was not ; and although the little sins 
 and errors of his brother-in-law shocked him 
 terribly, and offended all his notions of right 
 and wrong, yet he himself, in passing through 
 life, committed, for the want of good judgment, 
 an_ error of perhaps equal magnitude, and as- 
 suredly more dangerous consequences. Not- 
 withstanding considerable opportunities and 
 assistance, he spent all and even more than he 
 possessed, left some debts, and his child, in fact, 
 a beggar ; while, as we have shown, Meakes, 
 with some and considerable errors, went on and 
 prospered. It is only at first sight that the 
 moral will appear a bad one, inasmuch as duties 
 neglected often imply a fault of a graver de- 
 scription than actual wrongs committed. " Hell 
 is paved," said the preacher, *' with good resolu- 
 tions;" and destruction is as often incurred by 
 what is left undone, as by what is done. 
 
 N -^
 
 180 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It is strange that human nature, with all its ten- 
 dency to follow the multitude to do evil, is 
 certainly not fond of the beaten track. Timid- 
 ity may whip us on the path that others have 
 travelled before us ; but ambition and the 
 spirit of enterprise are powerful, on the other 
 hand, to lead us away from the track which 
 others have explored, to carry us to new scenes, 
 even if they be not so pleasant as the old ones. 
 It was in the afternoon, towards the hour of 
 five or six, that Strafford mounted his horse, 
 to ride over upon his visit to Lady Mallorj- ; and 
 although there was a straightforv,'ard road, as 
 good as the art of that day could make it, cut 
 in nearly a direct line from Stalbrooke Castle 
 to Mallory Hall, yet for some reason — or per- 
 haps without any reason at all, but acting upon 
 those vague impulses Vv^hich govern at least one 
 half of our being — he turned his horse's head
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 
 
 IBi 
 
 throiigli one of the paths in the park, in order 
 to take a more circuitous, rougher, and less fre- 
 quented road. 
 
 It was, however, on account of the latter 
 quality, that he chose it, whether that choice 
 was the effect of reason or of impulse. The 
 truth is, that the mind of young Strafford 
 was at that moment burthened with many 
 thoughts, which he wished to disentangle from 
 each other, to ponder calmly, and to pur- 
 sue to their conclusion -uninterrupted. The 
 conversation which he had had with Edith 
 Forrest, on that very morning, had been to him 
 a source of happiness and comfort far greater 
 than he had even expected. His acquaintance 
 with her in Germany had indeed not been very 
 long, but it had been full of all those little in- 
 cidents which produce from a short acquaintance 
 a more intimate knowledge of character, lay up 
 a greater store of associations, and open out 
 between the hearts of persons previously stran- 
 gers, more clear and direct channels of commu- 
 nication, than long years of acquaintance under 
 other circumstances. He had enjoyed oppor- 
 N 3
 
 182 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 tunities of xn-otecting, of guiding, of directing 
 her, while surrounded by hostile armies, and 
 exposed, not perhaps to dangers, for there were 
 really none of a probable kind, but to incon- 
 venience, annoyance, and embarrassment. He 
 had been the only friend, during that period, 
 that she and her mother had ; and they had 
 been obliged to rely Upon him for all things, 
 with that full confidence which is the strongest 
 fosterer of regard. 
 
 He had thus known Edith well and deeply ; 
 and, if her beauty and her grace could not 
 fail to attract his attention and admiration, 
 the treasures of her mind and of her heart, 
 her gentleness, her sweetness, her fortitude? 
 her kindness, had all been so plainly called 
 forth on different occasions, that love was fol- 
 lowing willingly where admiration led, and all 
 his words, and looks, and manner might well 
 declare to Edith, beforehand, those feelings of 
 affection and attachment which he waited but 
 an opportunity to tell otherwise. From her 
 manner to him he did not doubt that his society 
 was not disagreeable to her ; from what he knew
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 183 
 
 of Edith, lie felt very sure that she would be- 
 have to no man as she did to him, who might 
 not entertain a reasonable hope of winning her 
 affection. In this position they stood towards 
 each other when her father had returned, and 
 at that time no comment, either from mother 
 or daughter, had ever revealed to Strafford the 
 real character and disposition of Mr. Forrest. 
 From various vague indications Strafford per- 
 ceived that they feared him, but he knew not, 
 and could not know, to what extent his domestic 
 tyranny was carried. 
 
 When, then, he informed Strafford that 
 Edith's hand and heart were engaged to ano- 
 ther, the lover was surprised and pained ; but 
 he knew not at the time how deep, sincere, 
 and permanent his love was. He felt glad 
 that he had not committed himself in words ; 
 he felt disappointed at the conduct of her he 
 loved ; and he strove to account for that con- 
 duct in several ways, to find any excuse that 
 he could from the circumstances in which Alice 
 had been placed towards him : but he never 
 N 4
 
 184 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 thought of doubting that her father's repre- 
 sentation was true. 
 
 He determined, however, to cure himself as 
 speedily as possible of a passion which could 
 not be gratified. He resolved to forget her, to 
 seek relief in society, even if possible to find 
 others as bright and engaging as herself, who 
 might, by renewing the feelings which he fan- 
 cied were only in their infancy with regard to 
 her, enable him to' banish from his mind an 
 acquaintance which had once been full of joy, 
 but the memory of which must be propor- 
 tionally painful. He had found the execu- 
 tion of these resolutions far more difficult than 
 he imagined. He found that he could not 
 forget Edith; he found that he could not 
 love another ; he found that he had loved her 
 more than he imagined ; he found that he might 
 continue to love her longer than he wished or 
 expected. 
 
 Nevertheless, Strafford was not a man to give 
 way; he reasoned with himself, he schooled 
 himself, he suffered no one to perceive that a 
 great change had come upon him. He might
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 185 
 
 not appear quite so well in health to the eyes 
 of Others, it is true; he might be somewhat 
 graver ; he might be a little impatient at times, 
 though his natural temper was gentle and en- 
 during. This was all, however, that was seen ; 
 and yet he thought of Edith frequently, con- 
 stantly. He had been thinking of her on the 
 very day preceding that on which he saw her 
 again. He had been gazing for nearly an 
 hour, in the picture gallery, on a small picture 
 of Albano's, in which one of the female 
 figures, showering flowers upon a group of 
 children, always put him strongly in mind of 
 the beauty and grace of Edith's form. He 
 had gazed and pondered, though from that 
 sight he gathered nothing but painful feelings, 
 no other harvest than disappointed hopes. He 
 was angry with himself for thus gazing, and 
 for thus feeling. He called it giving way to 
 idle and fruitless regrets, and he wished for the 
 time when the restoration to health of their 
 fair neighbour. Lady Mallory, might afford him 
 again the relief of her society, which was 
 always, to him, pleasing and interesting.
 
 186 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 We have shown how his conversation with 
 Edith had changed all his feelings and sen- 
 sations ; we have shown how she left him happy 
 in the knowledge that he was beloved, and 
 confident in the promise that her hand should 
 be his, although there might be some few 
 difficulties and obstacles to be overcome. His 
 life then, hitherto, had been pictured by the 
 morning with the account of which we com- 
 menced our tale : bright and full of unusual 
 happiness at its opening ; covered with clouds 
 and storms at an after period ; clearing up again 
 into brightness as it went on ; and, at the mo- 
 ment to which we have led him, few vestiges 
 were left of the past tempest, with nothing but 
 a cloud or two hanging here and there to 
 threaten a passing shower. 
 
 Nevertheless, to the anxious eye of love, 
 those clouds were sufficient to cause him much 
 disquiet. What means might not be taken 
 to cut off all communication between him and 
 Edith, as soon as their attachment and engage- 
 ment were known ? At what means would Mr. 
 Forrest hesitate, after having degraded himself
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 187 
 
 SO far as to falsify the truth in regard to her 
 engagement with his nephew? 
 
 The report of the surgeon had, as we have 
 seen, been favourable in regard to that gentle- 
 man's wounds, especially after having watched 
 the patient for some hours. In the course of 
 liis illness and convalescence, indeed, the gentle 
 care and kindness with which Edith was tend- 
 ing him might, perhaps, soften his feelings to- 
 wards her ; but, still, it was evident that his love 
 for his nephew was far superior to that which 
 he entertained for any other human being. It 
 seemed a passion, a weakness ; and Strafford 
 saw in that affection an almost insuperable 
 obstacle to his union with Edith, with the 
 consent or approbation of her father. Their 
 marriage, it is true, might take place without 
 that approbation, for she was, or soon would 
 be, of age to decide for herself, if she chose to 
 exert the power. But he knew that it would 
 be most painful for her so to do ; and he also 
 knew that his own uncle, for whose opinion he 
 had so deep a veneration, though he might not
 
 188 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 oppose, would hardly approve of such a pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 The motive then, if not the reason, for his 
 choosing a path less frequented than the ordi- 
 nary one, was, that he might meditate over all 
 these circumstances uninterrupted ; and, pro- 
 ceeding with a far slower pace than that to 
 which his quick spirit usually prompted, he re- 
 volved again and again every part of his situ- 
 ation, and sought, but sought vainly? to find 
 some probable means of removing from his path 
 even a part of the difficulties and dangers which 
 lay in his way. 
 
 At length a sudden thought seemed to 
 strike him, deserving of more attention than 
 any which had previously presented itself. He 
 checked his horse altogether, as if to reflect 
 on it uninterruptedly; and at length, after 
 a moment's pause, he again set forward at a 
 quicker pace, saying to himself: " I will tell 
 Lady Mallory, and ask her opinion and assist- 
 ance ; she has always been kind and affectionate 
 towards me, she has always been like an elder 
 sister. She will help me, I am sure, if she can ;
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 189 
 
 and, very probably, her near connection with 
 Mr, Forrest, as well as her wealth and influence, 
 may give her some power over him, which may 
 be employed to advantage." 
 
 The more he thought over it, the more he 
 liked his own idea. He had known Lady Mal- 
 lory for many years, even from the time when 
 she first came down into that part of the country, 
 the wife of a man considerably older than her- 
 self,- but one to whom she had ever behaved 
 wdth the utmost propriety, kindness, and atten- 
 tion ; and her whole demeanour, though her 
 character was somev/hat veiled under a calm 
 and stately, but not ungentle, reserve, had 
 appeared to Strafford such as to merit confi- 
 dence, and to encourage trust. As he went on 
 he quickened his horse's pace ; but we must 
 precede him on his journey by a few minutes, 
 and speak of the lady herself whom he went to 
 seek. 
 
 Mailory Hall, or The Hally as it was generally 
 called, was a large old-fashioned house of the 
 later Tudor architecture, built of cold grey stone, 
 and ornamented alone by small square v/indows
 
 190 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 in carved frames. In one of the rooms of this 
 building, lofty, spacious, and somewhat gloomy, 
 lined with dark oak, relieved by pictures in 
 massive gilt frames, and hangings of crimson 
 velvet and gold, surrounded by manifold objects 
 of art and luxury, and dressed gracefully and 
 richly, but somewhat negligently, sat a lady, if 
 not in her first youth, still in the prime of life 
 and beauty. She had been married at the early 
 age of seventeen, and as yet counted consider- 
 ably less than thirty summers ; nor had those 
 summers, as they came and went, acted upon 
 her beauty any otherwise than as the golden 
 tide of the ocean upon the bright sands, which, 
 as it ebbs away, leaves them soft and glistening 
 as ever. 
 
 Not one line of white mingled with her dark 
 hair, not one beam of light was extinguished in 
 the large full dark eyes. The contour of her 
 beautiful figure was as perfect, perhaps more 
 perfect than ever, and the graceful bend of her 
 head, which, perhaps, took a little from her full 
 height, was habitual from her youth. The hand 
 and arm, in which nature seems to take a
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 191 
 
 delight in displaying all the loveliest lines, but 
 which usually chcinges sooner than almost any 
 other part of the human form, were as rounded, 
 as tapered, as delicately fine, as snowy white as 
 ever ; and the waist, which at one time might 
 have been girdled with a span, though not now 
 quite so fine as in her girlhood, seemed not less 
 so to the eye, from the greater fulness which her 
 whole figure had acquired. The features were 
 straight and beautifully cut, but they were far 
 from wanting expression ; and that expression, 
 except, perhaps, to a very nice and critical eye, 
 w^as such as might well give unmingled pleasure 
 to the beholder. There was a softness in it and 
 yet a dignity, a gentleness and yet a spirit, an 
 earnestness and yet a shyness, that are but 
 seldom found united. There was a winning 
 smile, too, when she was pleased, a look of soft 
 melancholy when she was pained, that might 
 well win upon all who beheld her ; and it was 
 seldom — very seldom, that a bright lightning 
 flash in the eye, a sudden wrinkle in the con- 
 tracted brow, and a quick curl of the proud lip, 
 told that, though governed and repressed with
 
 ]92 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 matcliless power, there were strong eager feel- 
 ings in that soft bosom, perhaps nery passions 
 at the bottom of the heart. 
 
 At present she was somewhat pale; and, as she 
 sat before a table with her eyes cast down, any 
 body might have discovered that those eyes were 
 not upon the book, the pages of which lay 
 open before her, but were fixed, unconscious of 
 what they gazed upon, upon the spot of the 
 rich Turkey carpet under her feet. Her me- 
 ditations were deep and long, a sigh every now 
 and then chequered without interrupting them; 
 and, whether it was that slie regretted him who 
 had left her a widow in her youth, or grieved 
 from some other unexplained cause, it was 
 evident that the Lady of all that wide domain, 
 tlie mistress of immense wealth and humble 
 service, the talked-of, the admired, tlie re- 
 verenced, the loved, was not so happy as 
 Heaven might have made her. 
 
 It could not be called evening, for the sun was 
 yet an hour or two above the horizon ; but the 
 heat and the brightness of the day were over, 
 and the great light-bearer, as he sunk towards
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. US 
 
 the western verge of heaven, poured a cahn ray 
 through tlie stone balcony and the windov/ 
 behind her — touched upon that graceful head 
 as it leaned upon her hand — gilded the arm 
 it rested upon : and, perhaps, in all tlie wide 
 worlds that at that moment were illuminated 
 by his beams, the lands to which he was rising 
 as well as those from which he declined, shone 
 upon nothing more sweet, more lovely, than 
 herself. 
 
 As she thus sat she started suddenl}-, and 
 listened to the sound of a horse's feet. There 
 was a quivering of the lip ; the eyelid and its 
 dark curtain rose and fell rapidly, from the 
 eagerness with which she listened ; and, as she 
 heard the sounds pass underneath the balcony, 
 seem to circle round the house to the doors of 
 the great hall, which lay on the other side, and 
 there stop, a smile came upon her countenance, 
 which brightened still more as the bell rang 
 and announced a visiter. 
 
 She drew the book towards her, and looked 
 as if she were reading. In a minute or two 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 after a servant entered, and announced that 
 Captain Straiford had come to say • 
 
 " Show Captain Strafford hither," said the 
 lady, interrupting him ; but the servant replied 
 that the porter had said she was still unwell ; 
 and then the eye flashed, evidently with vex- 
 ation and disappointment. *^ Did I not say," 
 she asked, " that I was better; that I would see 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, or Captain Strafford, 
 or any old friend ? Quick, run down and call 
 him back. I wish to speak with some one 
 from the Castle particularly." 
 
 The man obeyed at once, and the lady mur- 
 mured to herself, " He cannot be gone yet, I 
 have not heard his horse's feet. He must pass 
 beneath the windows." 
 
 The colour mounted brightly into her cheek, 
 either from shame or agitation, even though she 
 was alone ; but an impulse that she could not, 
 or would not, resist carried her almost instantly 
 into the balcony, at the very moment that Straf- 
 ford was passing beneath it on his return. He 
 was going slovvdy, but there was no moment for 
 thought. His eyes were cast down, and she
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 195 
 
 felt that she must either let him ride away or 
 speak at once. 
 
 *' So, Ralph," she said, in a tone that was 
 low at first, but gained strength at the second 
 or third word, ^' so, Ralph, you will not come 
 in and see your old friend." 
 
 Strafibrd looked up, and a frank well-pleased 
 smile played upon his countenance. " Dear 
 Lady Mallory ! " he exclaimed, " how are you ? " 
 They told me you were not well, and did not 
 yet see any one." 
 
 " Oh ! they were stupid," said Lady Mallory; 
 '* they do not know how to make distinctions 
 between real friends and tiresome acquaint- 
 ances. Either you or your good uncle I 
 would willingly have seen days ago. I do not 
 coquette with you, Ralph, you know ; and, 
 having no designs upon your heart, care not 
 whether you see me in dishabille, with a pale 
 cheek and curl-less hair, or not." 
 
 *' Oh ! then I shall take that as my warrant 
 to ride round and come in," replied Strafford. 
 
 " Not unless you like it, truant knight," 
 o 2
 
 196 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 replied the lady ; '^ I put no enchantment upon 
 you. Come if you will: if not, go free." 
 
 Strafford nodded his head with a gay smile, 
 turned his horse round, and rode back to the 
 door of the Hall. There was a minute or two 
 of silent expectation, it might be of agitation 
 too. on the part of Lady Mallory. Her eyes 
 fixed eagerly upon the door, her hand played 
 unconscious with the things upon the table, 
 her breath came quick and short ; but after a 
 moment she recollected herself. She sat calmly 
 down ; she put away the book in which she had 
 been reading; she drew an embroidery frame 
 towards her ; and ere the door opened and 
 Ralph Strafford entered, she had recovered 
 fully her look of composure, and welcomed 
 him., as she might do an old and dear friend, 
 who had no other tie upon her than long ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 On his part, Strafford vras perfectly free 
 and unembarrassed. He took her hand with 
 every appearance of sincere regard, saying, 
 " Dear Lady Mallory, how glad I am to see 
 you better. You look as if you had scarcely
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 197 
 
 been ill : your people would indeed have de- 
 prived me of a great pleasure, by preventing 
 me from seeing how much better you really 
 are than I could have expected." 
 
 Lady Mallory's colour changed more than 
 once, as he spoke. 
 
 " You flatter, Ralph," she said. '' I am 
 better, certainly, but not quite well yet; but 
 it certainly was very stupid of my people, 
 for 1 was extremely angry yesterday that the}'- 
 sent you away ; I could have seen you quite 
 well. It is a very different thing seeing 
 an old and dear friend, and seeing a stranger. 
 To-morrow, too, I must exert myself, you 
 knovv ; for I am to have the people here who 
 have trespassed too long upon your uncle's 
 hospitality already. I scarcely can say that 
 I know any of them personally, though this 
 worthy gentleman is, as you are aware, my first 
 cousin." 
 
 ** I knew it not till the other day," replied 
 Strafford ; " I never heard you mention him or 
 his family." 
 
 " Oh no, I never did," she answered. " He 
 o 3
 
 198 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 behaved, as I thought, very ill, some years ago, 
 to me, about some property — all, indeed, that 
 he possesses, which was at one time destined 
 to be mine by our mutual uncle. I was a 
 mere child at the time, and knew nothing of 
 what took place ; but my uncle, who was my 
 guardian, and with whom I lived, had made a 
 deed settlmg the property on me, when this 
 Forrest stepped in, and, by various persuasions 
 and misrepresentations, induced him to rescind 
 the act, and to leave him, by will, the whole of 
 his estates." 
 
 " That was unhandsome, indeed," said Straf- 
 ford, '' most unhandsome." 
 
 " But not so unhandsome," replied Lady 
 Mallory, " as the means he took to obtain that 
 end. I cared not about the property — I have 
 never cared much for wealth ; but it was all 
 the manoeuvres that were employed which dis- 
 gusted me. The history, I fear, would only tire 
 you ; and yet " 
 
 Ralph Strafford assured her that it would 
 not do so ; and she went on. 
 
 *' I may have been misinformed, but I
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 199 
 
 have been told that Forrest did every thing 
 that was base and low-minded to obtain his 
 purpose ; that he represented to my uncle that 
 I was by no means in good health, and should 
 most likely never see womanhood. My uncle's 
 great weakness, I must tell you, was the desire 
 of seeing his name perpetuated ; and, in the 
 deed he had made in my favour, he had ex- 
 pressly stipulated that I was to take his own 
 name of Forrest, which I was to give with my 
 hand to the man I married. His nephew, 
 however, represented to him that being under 
 age I could not bind myself to do so even if I 
 lived, which he made him believe doubtful ; and 
 he induced him by arguments built upon this 
 foundation, to make a will leaving the property 
 to him and his children, if he should have any, 
 it being stipulated that they were always to bear 
 the name of Forrest. As he was leading a 
 somewhat dissolute life, however, at that period, 
 which had first alienated from him my uncle's 
 affection, a proviso was put in, that, if he were 
 not married and the father of a child or chil- 
 dren at the period of my uncle's death, the 
 o 4
 
 SOO THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 estates were to revert to me at once. He took 
 care, however, that sucli should not be the 
 case, having' married, but a month after the 
 signature of the will, the unfortunate lady 
 whom, I understand, he treats most cruelly. 
 His daughter, hov/evcr, is bound to retain the 
 name of Forrest, let her marry whom she vvill ; 
 and perhaps that very fact may be an obstacle 
 to her forming a connection such as could be 
 desired. I mention all this, Strafford," she 
 said, " to explain my reasons for dropping all 
 connection with my cousin for so many years. 
 I may have been misinformed, as I was a mere 
 child, at the time ; but I think such was not the 
 case, as the person who did inform me v/as poor 
 Lord Mallory, who witnessed, the whole trans- 
 action, and. who was, as you know, Ralph, a 
 father to me as much as a husband." 
 
 She coloured a good deal as she S'poke, and 
 pressed her hand upon her heart, and Strafford, 
 not wishing to continue a topic that might 
 be painful, was about to change the subject; 
 but she suddenly interrupted him, and pro- 
 ceeded.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 201 
 
 " I was pained and angry, you may conceive, 
 when I heard all this ; and as we were brought 
 into some communications absolutely necessary 
 upon my marriage with Lord Mallory, I spoke 
 my feelings freely, and we parted in anger. 
 One cannot, however, retain one's resentments 
 for ever ; and wlien he lately made some ad- 
 vances towards a reconciliation, I would not 
 hold back. I am, therefore, only the more 
 grieved that I was not quite well yesterday 
 when they arrived at your uncle's, not wishing 
 to show the slightest degree of unv/illingness 
 to receive them." 
 
 " I see, dear Lady Mallory," said Strafford 
 in reply, " that your servant has not given you 
 the message I left. It is likely, I am afraid, 
 to be some days, perhaps a week or two, before 
 you do receive them." And he proceeded to 
 detail all the particulars of the accident which 
 had occurred to Mr. Forrest. 
 
 The conversation upon that subject was what 
 might be expected ; for, in regard to persons 
 that are indifferent to us, we are reduced to 
 speak mere common-places upon any event that
 
 202 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 befalls them ; and, in general, we are inclined to 
 talk about tlie occurrence rather than about the 
 person, as our common-places then are more 
 easily found, and bear the appearance of deeper 
 interest. Lady Mallory talked of the hor- 
 ribleness of the accident ; and upon that sub- 
 ject there was much to be said, giving a degree 
 of feeling and point to the small portion of 
 compassion which she could aiford to bestow 
 upon Mr. Forrest himself. 
 
 As she made many enquiries, however, in 
 regard to the circumstances attending the acci- 
 dent, Strafford was naturally led to mention 
 the danger he himself had run. He did so 
 merely casually, however, without dwelling 
 upon it for a moment, but the whole demeanour 
 of Lady Mallory was instantly changed. She 
 was all eagerness and excitement ; her beautiful 
 dark eyes seemed to grow larger with the light 
 of deep interest that beamed out from them. 
 The lip quivered ; she made him tell it all over 
 again, and enter into every particular ; and then 
 she put her hand before her eyes, as if to shut 
 out the horrible image presented.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 203 
 
 '* With such kind feelings," thought Straf- 
 ford, " I may surely venture to tell her my 
 situation with regard to Edith, and ask her 
 advice and assistance.'* 
 
 Pray, reader, remember that Strafford had 
 not been told all the particulars of Lady 
 Mallory's demeanour when his horse's feet 
 passed the window, and his hand rang for 
 admittance that day, as you have been told ! 
 Pray remember that Lady Mallory had been his 
 friend and acquaintance even from boyhood ! 
 Pray remember that, though neither a blind nor 
 a dull man, he was not a vain man either. 
 
 He saw nothing in the conduct of Lady 
 Mallory that, considering the intimacy of her 
 family and his, was not perfectly natural and 
 straightforward ; and, not feeling — though he 
 certainly thought her a very lovely and a very 
 charming woman, and had a very deep and 
 affectionate regard for her, — not feeling the 
 slightest inclination to fall in love with her, he 
 never even dreamt that Lady Mallory ran the 
 slightest risk of falling in love with him. He 
 therefore determined to trust her with the secret
 
 204 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 of his feelings for Editli ; but at the same time — 
 though he resolved not to lose the opportunity 
 now afforded him of speaking to his fair com- 
 panion on the subject without the presence of 
 any one else — yet he felt some degree of hesita- 
 tion and embarrassment how he should introduce 
 it gracefully. He tried to turn the conversation 
 in that direction several times ; but still he hesi- 
 tated as he was about to begin, paused, looked 
 embarrassed, and then went on a little farther, 
 striving to mend the opportunity, and losing 
 it by so doing. 
 
 Lady Mallory marked his embarrassment; 
 and as there is nothing so catching as that 
 mental malady, she b.ecame embarrassed also : 
 she hesitated, she paused, she cast her eyes 
 down upon the ground ; and Strafford very 
 soon found that if he did not conduct his pro- 
 ceedings better, the conversation would pro- 
 bably drop altogether. That conviction drove 
 him to do the very thing he had been seeking 
 to avoid ; namely, to introduce the matter 
 abruptly. 
 
 " You do not know, Lady Mallory," he said.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. '^VD 
 
 *•' tlie surprise I received upon finding your 
 cousins with my uncle." 
 
 '* It was a curious circumstance," she said, 
 looking up with some wonder at the sudden- 
 ness of the transition ; ^' it was a curious cir- 
 cumstance that they should be driven into your 
 uncle's by the storm, when so near my own 
 house." 
 
 '^ Oh ! but that was not all," added Straf- 
 ford; '' the surprise was, that, on entering the 
 picture gallery, and expecting to find three 
 strangers, I found three acquaintances ; one 
 certainly a very slight one, I mean Mr. For- 
 rest, but two very dear and very intimate ones, 
 Mrs. Forrest and Edith." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Lady Mallory, with 
 all her feelings excited in a moment ; '' indeed ! 
 where could you have knov/n them before ? " 
 
 *' In Germany," replied Strafford. '' When 
 I was with the army there, I not only knew 
 them well and intimately, but had an oppor- 
 tunity of rendering them some service and 
 assistance." 
 
 The colour had come bright up into Lady
 
 206 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Mallory's clieek ; but slie cast her eyes down, 
 and remained in perfect silence. Strafford 
 could not lielp remarking that there was some- 
 thing strange in her conduct. It seemed as if 
 she were displeased — as if something had given 
 her pain ; and it is very likely that he might 
 have dropped the matter then and changed his 
 resolution, if LadyMallory herself had not, after 
 a long and somewhat embarrassing pause, de- 
 manded, in a tone as calm as she could assume, 
 *' And what sort of a girl is Edith Forrest ? I 
 have heard that she is pretty." 
 
 " I think she is very pretty," replied Straf- 
 ford eagerly. '' Some people might not, be- 
 cause though her figure is exquisitely beautiful, 
 her face may have some defects. But the ex- 
 pression is so lovely and so varying, and there 
 is so much beauty in the coimtenance altoge- 
 ther, that he who could pause to look for 
 defects, must be a very cold critic indeed." 
 
 " Which you are not," muttered Lady Mal- 
 lory, in a tone scarcely audible. 
 
 Strafford did not remark it, but went on. 
 
 '' Do you know, dear Lady Mallory," he
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 207 
 
 said, '' on this very subject I have much 
 wished to speak with you. You have always 
 acted tov/ards me as an elder sister; you 
 have often given me good counsel, and told 
 me how it was best for me to act. I know 
 none that I can apply to so well as you, — none 
 who I think will advise me so well, — none who 
 can, perhaps, befriend and assist me in a case 
 of some difficulty." 
 
 Lady Mallory remained silent, but he went 
 on. *' The circumstances," he said, " in which 
 Editli and I were placed in Germany, the 
 intimacy that existed between us, her depend- 
 ence upon myself during her father's absence, 
 all led to feelings. Lady Mallory, which you can 
 easily divine." 
 
 Lady Mallory, for some minutes, had been as 
 pale as death. The paleness, we can scarcely 
 say, had increased as he went on, but her 
 cheek had assumed an ashy hue, and her lips 
 had lost their colour : but now the hand which 
 she had held firmly pressed upon her heart 
 dropped as it were lifeless by her side, and.
 
 ^08 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 witfi a sort of convulsive gasp, slie fell back at 
 once in tlie cliair. 
 
 Strafford started up alarmed, exclaiming, 
 " You are ill. Lady Mallory !" And ringing the 
 bell hastily, he summoned her maid, who 
 instantly exclaimed, 
 
 "Oh, sir! my mistress has fainted. You 
 liad better leave me with her. She will be 
 well soon. She fainted yesterday too, and 
 I dare say she will be quite well again by to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 '' I cannot go," replied Strafford, " without 
 hearing that she is better. Mistress Margaret. 
 But I vv'ill go and wait in the library till you 
 come and bring me a report. Pray do not be 
 long, for I am very anxious." 
 
 And thus saying, he retired, somewhat sur- 
 prised, somewhat embarrassed, not knowing 
 well what to think ; with a glimmering of the 
 truth flashing upon his mind, but rejecting it, 
 with indignation against himself, for entertain- 
 ing such a suspicion, even for a moment.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 209 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Cold water, essences, and all those means and 
 appliances which the worthy housekeepers and 
 Lady Bountifuls of a preceding epoch kept 
 always ready for the restoration of those who, 
 either as a voluntary or involuntary act, fell 
 into fainting fits, were now applied to Lady 
 Mallory, who, however, remained so long in a 
 state of insensibility as almost to puzzle the 
 housekeeper, and wear out the patience of the 
 maid. At length, however, she revived ; and, 
 ere she had well recovered the use of her 
 benumbed faculties, looked anxiously round 
 the room. 
 
 " Where is he ?" she said, in a low voice. 
 ic Where is Mr. Strafford?" Then, seeminj? to 
 recollect herself, she added, *' He will think 
 this very strange and affected. He is not gone, 
 I hope ?" 
 
 ** Oh! no, my lady, he is not gone," repHed 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 the lady's maid ; " he is not gone ; and I told 
 him that you had had just such another fit 
 yesterday ; so he wo'n't think it affected, my 
 lady." 
 
 " You did right, Margaret, you did right," 
 replied her lady. " Do not let him go ! — pray, 
 do not let him go! — I have something to say 
 to him. — I have a message to send. Go and 
 tell him I am better, Margaret, and will see 
 him in a kw minutes. Bring me some of those 
 drops you gave me yesterday, too." 
 
 She drew a deep sigh ; and, in a moment 
 or tw^o after the other servant had gone, she sent 
 the housekeeper away also, saying that she did 
 not want her. The moment she was alone, 
 Lady Mallory bent down her head upon her 
 folded arms, which lay upon the table ; and by 
 the sort of convulsive sobs that shook her whole 
 beautiful form, one might have judged that 
 she was weeping. 
 
 Such, however, was not the case ; no tear 
 moistened her eyelids, and the pangs which 
 she felt were evidently struggled against. It 
 is woman's first impulse to conceal the feelings
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. ^211 
 
 of her heart, and to that object were now 
 chie'fiy directed all the efforts of Lady Mallory. 
 She recovered herself speedily and wonderfully, 
 and in less than half an hour, she sent to tell 
 Strafford that she was ready again to receive 
 him. 
 
 " You must have thought me very strange, 
 and very odd, Ralj^h," she said, when he came 
 in ; " but, to say the truth, I felt myself very ill 
 for some time, while you were speaking to me« 
 I hardly heard, I believe, what you said, and 
 certainly was unable to answer you. I thought 
 it would pass away, and therefore said nothing 
 about it; but at length it overpowered me ; and 
 you see that 1, who used always uncharitably to 
 say that women generally faint, or rather ap- 
 pear to faint, from affectation, and to attract 
 attention, fainted completely myself, though I 
 can divine no cause for it. The dtiy has 
 been very warm, 1 believe, and sultry; and 
 perhaps that may account for it. The same 
 happened yesterday, after the thunder-storm ; 
 and yet, as you well know, it was no coward- 
 ice made me faint." 
 
 p 2
 
 21^2 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 " Oh 110," replied Strafford, *' I am sure of 
 that, nor affectation either ; but I fear that to- 
 day you have been slightly accessory to your 
 own illness — I mean by receiving me." 
 
 " Perhaps I may have been," replied the 
 lady, looking at him gravely and earnestly ; 
 " perhaps I may. Nevertheless, I thought I 
 was stronger than I feel I am. But you were 
 going to consult me, Strafford ! You said — at 
 least I believe you did — that you were going to 
 ask my advice, — to make me your confidant, I 
 think." 
 
 The effort by which she conquered her 
 feelings so far as to speak such words, though 
 terrible internally, was scarcely perceptible 
 upon the surface ; and Strafford blamed him- 
 self more than ever, for having suffered one vain 
 and self-conceited suspicion of her feelings 
 tosvards him to cross his mind for a moment. 
 He fancied that the strangeness of manner 
 which he had remarked had proceeded from 
 the approach of illness. He accused himself 
 of having staid with Lady Mallory already too 
 long, and engaged her in conversation ere her
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 213 
 
 health was fully restored ; and, resolved not 
 to commit the same error again, he replied, 
 " No, no, Lady Mallory, I will not obtrude 
 such things upon you at the present moment ; 
 some other time I will talk to you upon that 
 subject; some other time I will ask your ad- 
 vice, when you are quite well again." 
 
 ** Nay, Strafford," she said, " I am quite 
 well again now ; I am interested with the 
 subject, and you must not keep me in sus- 
 pense really. You are in love with this young 
 lady, I think you said, at least so I gathered," 
 she added, " though I was so ill, to say the 
 truth, that I scarcely heard what you said just 
 before I fainted. But what can I do for you ? 
 Do you wish me to plead your cause with my 
 fair cousin ? " 
 
 '* Oh ! no," replied Strafford, his cheek 
 slightly colouring at the supposition ; ^' Oh ! 
 no, dear Lady Mallory, I have pleaded my own 
 cause already." 
 
 A deep sigh that broke unconsciously from 
 Lady Mallory 's lips interrupted him as he- 
 was speaking ; and, remembering his good 
 p 3
 
 .^14 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 resolutions, again he rose, and taking lier band 
 kindly said, '' I will not indeed go on to-night. 
 1 should be very selfish and unkind to do so, 
 • — very ungrateful, I might say — after all the 
 kindness that you have shown me at various 
 times. I will come back another day ; tell you 
 the whole story out ; consult with you, as if 
 you were my sister, in regard to what T ought 
 to do ; and, as several days must elapse before 
 tlie family can come over here, there is plenty 
 of time." 
 
 " When will you come, when will you come, 
 Strafford?" asked Lady Mallory, eagerly. 
 " Will you come to-morrow?" 
 
 " I fear to fatigue you," replied Strafford. 
 ^' You will not be well enough, Lady Mal- 
 lory." 
 
 " Oh ! yes I shall, indeed I shall," she 
 replied. ^' I am much better to-day : I was 
 much better yesterday and the day before, and 
 I shall be better still to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, then, T will come," replied Strafford ; 
 " and will bring you news of your cousin's 
 health : but remember you are not to put your-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 2X5 
 
 self to inconvenience, or to hear me if it be too 
 inucli for you." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no. I shall be delighted to see 
 you," the lady answered ,• and her looks spoke 
 the truth of what she said. 
 
 With tlie thoughts of seeing him again, then, 
 on the morrow, Lady Mallory let him bid her 
 farewell and depart ; and Strafford rode on 
 quickly, for the shades of night v/ere now 
 beginning to fall. He had seen but little of 
 Edith since the morning. At dinner-time, in- 
 deed, she had appeared, and a brief period of 
 brighter enjoyment had been his while she had 
 staid. At all times, in this wintry life, the 
 presence of those we love is like a gleam of 
 sunshine through the clouds, lighting up one 
 particular spot amidst the shadows, and giving 
 warmth and lustre and loveliness to all be- 
 neath the ray. That passing gleam still seems 
 brighter than the full sunshine ; but with 
 Edith, during the short time that she was 
 present, there was a difference from her usual 
 manner, a difference that rendered it — to the 
 p 4
 
 216 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 eyes of him who watched and loved — more 
 deeply mterestiiig, not the less bright. There 
 was, indeed, an occasional shadow seemed to 
 come across her when she thought of her 
 father's situation, wlien she remembered that 
 he was suffering pain and undergoing sickness : 
 but still the impression of his harshness in 
 return for all her tender care, contrasting with 
 all the kindly courtesy she met with when 
 away from him : the comparison of the cheerful 
 ease, the free but not thoughtless current of con- 
 versation, which reigned without his chamber, 
 with the fearful restraint that chained the mind 
 within, made her spirit, like an uncaged bird, 
 soar up and disport itself in its hour of liberty. 
 That hour had soon been over ; and, after 
 lingering a few minutes, she had returned to Mr, 
 Forrest's room just as Strafford was about to 
 mount his horse. He knew that she would remain 
 there some time ; but he was in great hopes that, 
 as her father was pronounced so much better 
 than any one had supposed he would be, she 
 might quit his sick chamber, and spend part at 
 least of the evening in the di'awing-room.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 217 
 
 Thus he rode on, as we have said, quickly; and 
 this time he took the high road as the shortest 
 and the easiest path to follow : but it very, 
 very often happens, that those who follow the 
 beaten track with careful and prudent cal- 
 culation, in order to arrive the sooner at their 
 object, meet with obstacles and obstructions 
 which they would have avoided if they had 
 taken a path seemingly more difficult. The 
 greater part of Strafford's ride was accom- 
 plished, and he was within about two miles of 
 Stalbrooke Castle when he felt that his horse 
 was going lame, and though, when he dis- 
 mounted to examine the animal's feet, he 
 could perceive no cause for such an occurrence, 
 yet on mounting again he felt that the lame- 
 ness not only continued, but increased. 
 
 The night had too far advanced for him to see 
 without a light ; but, as he was near the farm- 
 house of good Castle Ball, he led his horse 
 thither, and tying him to the gate, walked 
 through the little garden up to the house. 
 The door, as was very usual in many farm- 
 houses in that day, stood open, even at that
 
 218 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 hour of the night. There were lights in tlie 
 neat little parlour within, and the voice of the 
 good farmer's mother, who kept his house and 
 attended to the farm-yard, was heard speaking 
 in tones loud and shrill, and seemingly in no 
 very placable mood of mind. 
 
 Frank and decided as usual, however, knowing 
 and feeling that he was welcome in every house in 
 the county, Strafford walked without ceremony 
 up the passage, opened the door of the parlour, 
 and entered. The farmer's neat tea-table was 
 set out, and he himself, resting his head upon his 
 hand, sat sipping his tea, and patiently enduring 
 a storm of many and sharp words, which were 
 poured upon his head from the ready lips of 
 the good dame, his mother. Mrs. Ball herself 
 was a hale portly dame of some sixty years of 
 age, with cap as white as snow, full of all sorts 
 of neat proprieties, and sharp close-cutting econo- 
 mies, set olF by occasional liberalities and acts 
 of kindness ; prudent in all her notions ; some- 
 what shrewish in her temper ; proud of ginger 
 wine, and large flocks of jetty turkeys. Seated 
 at the tea-table when Strafford entered, she
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. J219 
 
 held the small china cup beside her ; while on 
 her knee, still employing every moment, she 
 held a neat black coat belonging to her son, 
 on the cuffs of which she was diligently sewing 
 a pair of snow-white weepers. 
 
 Before the visiter's entrance was perceived, 
 the good lady poured forth a considerable part 
 of the volley she was discharging to the fol- 
 lowing effect : — '' 1 did not say, my son Castle, 
 that you should not go to the funeral. I did 
 not say that you should not be as kind to the 
 girl as possible. All I said was, that you. 
 Castle Ball, an honest, staid, sober man, well 
 to do in the world, are not, or should not be 
 at ail events, a man to go and marry a wild, 
 harum-scarum, tittuping thing like that. I'll 
 never hear of it, I '11 never consent to it." 
 
 " Hush, good dame, hush, " cried Castle 
 Ball, " don't you see the captain?" 
 
 And his honest brow and cheek grew very 
 red at the thought of Strafford coming in and 
 finding him undergoing such maternal objur- 
 gation. Mrs. Ball was a little ashamed too ; 
 but whereas a man under such circumstances
 
 220 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 generally holds his tongue and remains silent, 
 between shyness and vexation, the gentler part 
 of the human race are inclined instantly to put 
 themselves upon the defensive, and — as Mrs. 
 Ball did on the present occasion — make their 
 ovt^n cause good by any means in their power. 
 
 '^ Well, I'm very glad the captain has come 
 in!" said Mrs. Ball vehemently: *' there's no 
 man can tell you better, my son, what's right to 
 do. Pray, sir, sit down : I Vv^as just saying to 
 my son, Captain, that it would be a scandal and 
 a disgrace to the family he comes of — and a 
 very good family of yeomen it is — won't you 
 take a cup of tea, sir ? — if he were to go for 
 to think of marrying such a girl as that Lucy 
 Williams ? " 
 
 *' Come, come, mother," cried Castle Ball, 
 his eyes beginning to sparkle, *' I won't have 
 you say a word against poor Lucy." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said his mother, in a tone 
 which evidently betokened some momentary ap- 
 prehension lest her maternal authority should be 
 resisted in the presence of Strafford, " I did not 
 say that the girl was a bad girl ; she 's a very good
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 221 
 
 girl, I dare say — Nay, I know she is," the old 
 lady added in a more generous tone — "a very 
 good girl, indeed — and a very good daughter 
 she v^as to her poor stupid father, too." 
 
 " Why, shouldn't she make a good wife, 
 then, if she has made a good daughter ? " de- 
 manded Castle Ball. 
 
 " That's a different thing, quite a different 
 thing," cried his mother. " Castle, I tell you 
 she's no more fit to be your wife than I am to 
 be Sir Andrew's. Why, she's as fanciful and 
 wild as a young kitten. She's got her head fall 
 of poetry and romances, and such sort of trash, 
 only fit to make a woman good for nothing ; 
 and besides, she's not got a farthing in the 
 world — not a single farthing. She's a beggar 
 — she 's worse than a beggar, for there are all 
 her father's debts unpaid." 
 
 " That's not her fault, good mother," replied 
 Castle Ball, " and I don't see why " 
 
 What he said farther was lost in the angry 
 tones of his mother, who could not be restrained 
 even by the presence of Strafford; but who 
 broke forth vehemently, exclaiming, " But I
 
 ^•22 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 do see why. you should not marry her, and 
 why her being a beggar is a very good reason 
 too." 
 
 A sort of ominous cloud gathering upon the 
 stout farmer's brow, however, warned Mrs. Ball 
 that she was going somewhat too far, and 
 stopping suddenly, she said, " Come, come, 
 Castle, don't let us quarrel. All I want is for 
 you not to go and do any thing rashly. You 
 can be as kind to the girl as ever you like, and 
 I'll be kind to her too." 
 
 " I'm not going to do any thing rashly, 
 mother," cried Castle Ball, in a displeased tone; 
 " and if you are kind to poor Lucy, that's all I 
 want for the present. But here is Captain 
 Strafford standing, and can't get a word in for 
 your tongue, good dame." 
 
 "Oh, I'll be kind to her, 1*11 be kind to 
 her," said the old lady, in a tone that promised 
 any thing but such kindness. "As for the 
 Captain, I'm sure I did not wish to interrupt 
 him," and she turned towards Strafford with 
 an air which seemed to imply that now 
 that her spirit was roused, she was quite as
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 223 
 
 willing to turn a part of her indignation upon 
 him as upon any one else, if he found fault 
 with her. 
 
 He cut the matter short, however, with a 
 good-humoured smile, saying to Castle Ball, " I 
 have waited more patiently, farmer, than I fear 
 my poor horse has done ; for I left him tied to 
 your gate, and came to seek a light, as I fear he 
 has run a nail into his foot, and has gone quite 
 lame for the last mile." 
 
 " There now!" exclaimed Castle Ball, " and 
 you have been kept here waiting all this 
 time, sir ! But mother's tongue when it does 
 begin! " 
 
 And after raising both his hands with a sort 
 of Lord-have-mercy-upon-us air, which gave 
 point to his observation on his good mother's 
 powers of loquacity, he snatched one of the 
 candles from the table, and ran out to see the 
 horse, followed by Strafford. 
 
 It proved, as the young gentleman had sup- 
 posed, that his horse had picked up a nail ; and 
 after having freed it from such a painful encum- 
 brance, he threw the bridle over his arm, and
 
 224 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 led it quietly homeward, without venturing 
 again within range of Mrs. Ball's fire. 
 
 On his arrival at tlie Castle, Strafford found 
 his hopes in regard to Edith fulfilled. Mr. For- 
 rest, it seemed, had fallen asleep ; Mrs. Forrest 
 had remained by his bed-side, sending Edith 
 away from the sick chamber for a little relief; 
 and John Forrest, after having sat about half an 
 hour in the drawing-room, for the purpose of 
 braving shame and the presence of Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke, had found himself somewhat em- 
 barrassed by the calm and courteous though 
 cold demeanour of the baronet, and had retired 
 to his own chamber, upon the pretence of writing 
 letters. 
 
 When Strafford entered then, after putting 
 his dress in some better array, he found Sir 
 Andrew Stalbrooke sitting with his own quiet 
 grace talking to Edith, who, seated at the 
 end of the table, was engaged in the pleasant 
 household task of making tea for her host. The 
 simple beauty of her whole figure, the bright 
 and characteristic expression of her countenance, 
 the mingled look of powerful thought and
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 225 
 
 youthful playfulness, which sparkled over her 
 features as she listened to some kindly and 
 courteous jest of the Gentleman of the Old 
 School, all woke up sweet and happy feelings in 
 the heart of Strafford. There was something in 
 seeing her there alone with the uncle he loved 
 and respected so much ; there was something in 
 seeing her there performing tlie little household 
 task in which she was engaged, which set imagi- 
 nation instantly at work to call up sunny dreams 
 of the future ; and love, and joy, and happiness, 
 and domestic peace, grouped themselves in a 
 picture for the eye of Ralph Strafford, as the 
 hand of no artist could ever yet display them. 
 There was a bright, a glowing, and affectionate 
 smile came upon the lip of both Sir Andrew 
 and Edith when- he entered ; and sitting down 
 beside them, Strafford passed an hour or two 
 of the most unmingled happiness, that, perhaps, 
 he had ever known in life. 
 
 And what did Edith feel ? What did a heart 
 that was formed for all gentleness and all. affec- 
 tion, feel during the course of that calm evening ? 
 Her feelings were various, but for the time they 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 were almost all haj^py ; for she banished every 
 thought of difficulty and sorrow to come, and 
 lived only in the happy present. In the first 
 place, she felt — and when she thought of it, 
 the feeling seemed strange to her own con- 
 sciousness — she felt herself perfectly at home 
 in a house where she had not yet been six-and- 
 thirty hours. She felt at home, far more at 
 home than ever she felt in her father's house : 
 her individual feelings towards Strafford we need 
 not dwell upon — they were deep, strong, and 
 powerful ; for she loved, and loved with all the 
 intensity of a heart possessed of that grandest 
 of capabilities — the power of loving truly. But 
 as she sat there v/ith none but him and his 
 uncle present, with their affection for each 
 other shining forth every moment, and with a 
 courteousness of word, and thought, and look, 
 and feeling, appearing in every thing — towards 
 her — amongst themselves — to the very ser- 
 vants that came and went on different occasions ; 
 the contrast which the whole presented to the 
 scene which she was accustomed to behold in 
 her father's dwelling, was so strange, so bright.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 227 
 
 SO beautiful, so consonant to all the mild and 
 graceful thoughts of her own heart, that she 
 could almost have wept with tenderness and joy 
 at the sight of that state of existence which she 
 might, perhaps, often have dreamt of, but never 
 before had seen. She could almost have wept, 
 especially when she thought that the time might 
 come when, linked to the dearest of these two 
 amiable beings by the sweetest of ties, she 
 might become an inmate of their happy home, 
 a permanent sharer in the calm happiness of 
 their course of life. 
 
 A tear did glisten in her eye, though she 
 repressed it ; but happy as she was, she became 
 somewhat more silent after Strafford entered, 
 for she loved to hear him and his uncle, — she 
 loved to watch their mutual demeanour towards 
 each other. In Strafford towards Sir Andrew 
 there was respect approaching to veneration, 
 but brightened and rendered free and graceful 
 by deep love. There was scarcely a thought 
 of his bosom that he hesitated to speak openly 
 and straightforwardly before his kind friend and 
 second father. There was not an enthusiasm,
 
 228 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 there was not an opinion that he feared to pour 
 forth, knowing well that, if Sir Andrew had lost 
 a part of those enthusiasms by long acquaintance 
 with the world, they were yet dear to his heart 
 and bright to his memory ; and that if his uncle 
 differed from the opinions that he stated, that 
 difference would he expressed with kindness, 
 with gentleness, we might say with humility. 
 
 On his part, Sir Andrew Stalbrooke had 
 never a harsh word hut for vice : error he 
 lamented, failings he could pass over or notice 
 in private : though ever firm in right, he was still 
 lenient in expression ; he sought to lead rather 
 than to drive, to convince rather than to com- 
 mand. The general tone of his conversation 
 was the complete picture of his mind. There 
 was, as we have said, a sunshinyness pervaded it 
 all ; there was a bright cheerfulness, in short, 
 about it, which, strange as it may seem, was 
 nevertheless quite consistent with a slight, a 
 very slight degree of occasional melancholy. 
 That melancholy, however, was only sufficient 
 to make every one feel when they were con- 
 versing with him, that the stream was deep as
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 229 
 
 well as sparkling ; and that through the whole 
 of all he did and said, ran the current of deep 
 thought and deep feeling : that the charm was 
 the cliarm of the spirit, the courtesy the courtesy 
 of the heart. 
 
 To all who approached him Ralph Strafford 
 was well aware that his uncle was kind and 
 gentle as the sweet westerly wind ; but knowing 
 him so well as he did, he saw at once, and saw 
 with delight, that towards Edith there was an 
 affectionate tenderness mingling with his whole 
 manner. Whether it sprang from compassion 
 at the painful situation in which she was placed, 
 or from esteem for high qualities discovered or 
 fancied in her mind and heart, that tenderness, 
 to the mind of Strafford, argued brightly for 
 the view which his uncle would take of their 
 mutual affection. They were pleasant, they 
 were joyful hours ; and when in the end the 
 door again opened, and John Forrest entered, 
 there were two at least of the party who drew 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 Q S
 
 2S0 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 From the cottage to the palace, from the castle 
 to the hovel, through all the imperceptible 
 shades and grades of life and station that in- 
 tervene between greatness and littleness, — from 
 the sage to the idiot, from the conqueror to 
 the worm, — fate in darkness and in silence, with 
 movements that men seldom see, and never 
 appreciate, is spinning that small, fine, but 
 binding thread which weaves their common des- 
 tiny into one inextricable web. It is not alone 
 that the mouse disentangles the lion from the 
 toils ; it is not alone that the stronger saves 
 or destroys the weaker ; but it is that every 
 being at every step aifects the destinies of 
 millions of others, present and to come, and 
 carries on the train of cause and event that is 
 going on from eternity to eternity. 
 
 The dependence of the great upon the small,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 231 
 
 and the continual reference of our fate to petty 
 circumstancesj is a consideration full of \yeighty 
 moral, and is never to be forgotten. 
 
 It is then with the principal personages of 
 our story, and in reference to them, that we 
 have to do when we return to the humble 
 cottage of Lucy Williams on the morning after 
 that day which we closed in the last chapter. 
 
 In the first place, however, we must say 
 that on the preceding evening her uncle, vvhose 
 character we have dwelt upon somewhat at 
 large, had visited the dwelling which he had 
 not entered for many years before, and had 
 appeared in her eyes quite a different being 
 from that which she had been taught to believe 
 him. He had sat down beside her, and striven 
 in a frank, soldier-like tone, to give her com- 
 fort ; he had bid her cheer up ; and with a 
 delicacy of feeling, which is occasionally to be 
 met with in every class of life, he had avoided 
 the slightest reference to his quarrel with her 
 father, but assured her that she should never 
 want a home and a kind look while he had one 
 to give her. 
 
 Q 4
 
 232 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 The effect was veiy sweet upon the mind 
 of Lucy. Her father had not, indeed, taught 
 her to look upon her uncle with any degree 
 of harshness. Williams had been a somewhat 
 weak and fanciful, though a talented, man ; but 
 still there were such things as firm principles in 
 his mind, from which he never departed ; and 
 he would as soon have thought of neglecting to 
 teach Lucy any thing that he could teach her, 
 as he would have thought of perpetuating his 
 own enmities by prejudicing her mind against 
 any adversary. She knew, indeed, that Meakes 
 and her father were not friends ; and though 
 her father had never dwelt upon his brother- 
 in-la,w's character, slie pictured the old soldier 
 and reputed poacher as a harsh, unfeeling, 
 brutal being, without natural affections or kind- 
 liness of heart. She trembled, even, when he 
 entered the cottage upon the day we speak 
 of; but his manner was so different from that 
 which she had anticipated, his greeting so 
 ardent, and his meeting wdth her so totally 
 opposed to all that might naturally have been 
 expected from a man of his pursuits and habits
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 2S3 
 
 of life — he was, in short, so really kind, so 
 truly tender, so scrupulously delicate and for- 
 bearing, even in the midst of a certain bluifness 
 of manner, and plainness of language — that 
 Lucy's apprehension and reserve were soon cast 
 off, and she clung to him as the last tie be- 
 tween herself and the kindred she had loved. 
 The presence, the assistance, and the appro- 
 bation of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke had been to 
 her a great comfort, indeed : but there is a vast 
 difference between protection and sympathy, 
 which to have its full effect must of course be 
 reciprocal ; and although Sir Andrew might 
 sympathise greatly with the poor girl's grief, 
 yet the vast difference of station prevented her 
 from feeling that it was sympathy as well as 
 compassion. 
 
 With her mother's brother, however, it was 
 a different thing. She felt that it was affection 
 prompted him, and she shed tears of joy to 
 find the natural ties between them recognised 
 so willingly. 
 
 She was surprised, however, before Meakes 
 left her, to hear him talk of the events whicli
 
 234 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 had occurred that very day between herself and 
 young Forrest ; but she soon found that his 
 information was not accurate, and she hastened 
 to set him right, at least as far as the supposition 
 went that she entertained the slightest regard 
 for him. 
 
 Meakes made her relate the whole, comment- 
 ing, as she narrated the young lawyer's proceed- 
 ings, for the last two years, with such words as 
 *' The atrocious scoundrel — The dirty villain !" 
 But when he heard that Forrest had induced her 
 to write him down a promise to pay the last 
 sums that he had lent to her father, the baseness 
 of his purposes became but the more apparent. 
 The old soldier, however, laid out a scheme in 
 his own mind for making the very arts that the 
 seducer had employed, and the cruelty that he 
 probably intended to perpetrate, the means of 
 bringing about his punishment. As he thought 
 over the whole, his lip curled with a well pleased 
 smile ; and though the sum owed was somewhat 
 larger than he would have felt at all inclined to 
 give to "Williams had he been alive, yet he 
 would now have given at least five times the
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 235 
 
 amount for the pleasure of punishing him, 
 who had attempted to wrong the dead man's 
 child. 
 
 Lucy saw him smile, and did not very well 
 divine the cause thereof, but it was soon in 
 some degree explained to her. 
 
 "Ah, my girl!" said Meakes, "it won't 
 end there. You never saw a fox come out of 
 its earth, Lucy, without he wanted some dinner ; 
 you never saw a lawyer lend money to any body 
 without intending to get more than he gave ; 
 but don't you be afraid, my girl, you shall have 
 the money to pay him : leave that all to me, 
 Lucy, leave that all to me : I 've got a plan in 
 my head, and he shall be paid with interest. 
 I'll tell you what, Lucy, if he comes here 
 again " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " exclaimed Lucy ; but then 
 recollecting herself she added, " Oh he will not 
 come back here after what happened betv/een 
 him and Sir Andrew." 
 
 " Perhaps not, perhaps not," replied Meakes ; 
 *' but I'll tell you what, my dear, if he doesn't 
 come he'll send ; and if he sends, you tell him
 
 236 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 that you have not got it to give him, and don't 
 intend to give it at all." 
 
 " Oh yes, but I do," replied Lucy ; " for Sir 
 Andrew Stalbrooke sent me down fifteen guineas 
 by Phillipina this morning, and she says she's 
 sure if I tell him all about it, he will give me 
 the rest." 
 
 " Never mind, Lucy, do as I tell you," re- 
 plied her uncle. " I tell you, I'll pay the money 
 for you ; and who should pay it if Tim Meakes 
 don't ? Isn't he your own uncle, and sergeant in 
 the King's regiment of Pompadours ? Only let 
 me take my time with the fellow, that's all. 
 I'll have my eye on his earth, and I'll draw 
 him as sure as my dog Midge will draw a 
 badger. Trust me for sticking to him, Lucy 
 dear. They shall cut all my four paws off 
 before I let go my hold." 
 
 It was so long since Lucy Williams had been 
 in the custom of hearing the peculiar convers- 
 ation of her worthy uncle, that the habit which 
 he had of forgetting from time to time that he 
 was a human being, in the elucidations which he 
 derived from the brute creation, with which he was
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 237 
 
 more familiar, and of talking of himself as if lie 
 ■svere the particular beast uppermost in his mind 
 at the moment, utterly puzzled and confounded 
 her ; and Meakes, seeing that such was the case 
 in the present instance, contented himself with 
 adding, " Never mind, Lucy, never mind : only 
 be a good girl and do what you are bid ; and if 
 they should come to arrest you for the money, 
 let them do just as they please, and remember 
 that I'm looking after them like a hawk, that 
 I 've got my wings spread out and am just 
 hovering, and will pounce upon them in a 
 minute ; and as soon as I 've done what I want 
 to do, you shall come up and live with me, and 
 be my little housekeeper till some gay young 
 fellow comes and runs away with you. I dare 
 say you 've got some one at the bottom of your 
 little heart now, — eh, Lucy? — lying snug where 
 nobody can see him, like an otter in a hole." 
 
 Lucy blushed not a little, which confirmed 
 her uncle in the belief that something of the 
 kind might be the case. Meakes smiled as 
 he saw it, saying, " I hope you don't flutter 
 your feathers so, silly bird, when he's by, or
 
 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 shoot me if tlie dog won't run in upon the 
 game." And then with a good-humoured word 
 or two more, her imcle left her, and took his 
 way homeward. 
 
 But it was, as we have said, to the morning 
 which followed after this evening visit that we 
 must turn, after noticing one more event that 
 occurred on the preceding evening. The good 
 German, Phillipina, had remained with Lucy, 
 showing her every kmdness that Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke himself could have desired, till a 
 few minutes before the arrival of Meakes at the 
 cottage. At that time, however, she had re- 
 ceived a message from the Castle, purporting 
 that if Miss Lucy, as Lucy Williams was 
 generally called in the neighbourhood, was 
 better and able to spare her, the housekeeper 
 at Stalbrooke would be very glad if Mistress 
 Phillipina could come and sit up with the 
 sick gentleman, as she knew so much better 
 how >to manage sick people than any body in 
 the Castle. Such in truth was the case : no 
 one was more skilful or more attentive on any 
 such occasion than the good German. She
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 239 
 
 was firm and yet kind, active but not bustling, 
 taciturn and yet cheerful ; and whenever there 
 was any illness in the house of Sir Andrew 
 Stalbrooke, it was customary to call upon Phil- 
 lipina for assistance in the sick room. 
 
 On applying to Lucy to know whether she 
 would spare her, Pliillipina was assured that she 
 might go with perfect tranquillity, as the poor 
 girl was by this time quite recovered ; and the 
 servant girl was ordered positively to refuse ad- 
 mittance to her persecutor, if he presented him- 
 self at the cottage again. Phillipina accordingly 
 went ; and she had not yet returned on the fol- 
 lowing morning, when the preparations began for 
 the funeral procession of the poor schoolmaster. 
 
 Lucy had determined, as was customary, to 
 follow the body of her father to the grave, and 
 thought that she had well prepared her mind 
 to do so ; but when the first of the dead man's 
 friends and acquaintances began to gather at 
 the cottage, they found that, weakened and 
 shaken by the events of the preceding night, 
 Lucy was so terribly agitated, even with the 
 sad preliminaries of the funeral, that there was
 
 210 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 scarcely a chance of her being able to reach the 
 churchyard. She still, however, insisted upon 
 soincf, notwithstandino: all that her uncle could 
 say to prevent her ; and the old soldier, as well 
 as several others who seemed to take an interest 
 in the poor giiTs situation, were puzzled how 
 to act, when a little incident, thrilling to her 
 heart by many a dear association, overthrew all 
 the stock of resolution which she had been 
 mustering, and once more quite overcame her. 
 This was the arrival of the good young farmer 
 Castle Ball, who, dressed in his suit of shining 
 black — as fine a specimen of an English yeoman 
 as it is possible to see — entered the cottage 
 where he had spent many a happy hour with 
 Lucy and her father, and with a look half shy, 
 half agitated, advanced towards the spot where 
 she sat endeavouring to gain sufficient com- 
 posure for her task. 
 
 The very sight of him seemed to agitate her ; 
 but, nevertheless, even at that sad moment, a ray 
 of pleasure lighted up her countenance for a 
 moment as she saw him ; and Castle Ball, with 
 the memory of many sweet hours, the feeling
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 241 
 
 of deep true love and kindly compassion, all 
 strong at his heart, could not resist the emotion 
 of the moment, but took her in his arms before 
 them all, and kissed her cheek, calling her his 
 dear Lucy. 
 
 There was a little murmur of pleasure ran 
 round the cottage parlour ; but, strange to say, 
 the effect was to make Castle Ball put his 
 handkerchief to his eyes, and Lucy to burst into 
 a passion of tears. 
 
 ** Indeed, my dear Lucy, you must not go," 
 said Meakes ; but Lucy waved her hand, and 
 certainly would have made the attempt, had not 
 the party been increased by the unexpected 
 arrival of Sir Andrew Stalbrooke himself and 
 Ralph Strafford, who had come to pay the last 
 tribute to the ashes of poor Williams. 
 
 Sir Andrew walked straight up to Lucy, and 
 took her kindly by the hand, saying, as he saw 
 the state of agitation in which she was, '^ My 
 dear child, you must not think of going. Your 
 heart pays the tribute to him that is gone suf- 
 ficiently, Lucy. The rest is a ceremony, my 
 poor child : go and lie down upon your bed, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 2i2 THE r^ENTLEMAN 
 
 Lucy. — Here, my good girl," lie continued to 
 the servant girl, " go with your mistress up 
 stairs to her room : you can read to her. You 
 can read the Bible, I know ; " and leading the 
 poor girl to the foot of the stairs he left her, 
 and returned to see the last sad offices properly 
 performed. 
 
 Upon the funeral we shall not dwell ; but it 
 had scarcely left the cottage ten minutes, when 
 the sorrows of poor Lucy Williams were broken 
 in upon in a manner that she but little ex- 
 j)ected. Somebody was heard walking about in 
 the rooms below ; but this, as the house had 
 that morning been full of painful and unusual 
 sounds, did not strike her as any thing par- 
 ticular, till she heard a quick but heavy and 
 creaking step ascending the little narrow stair- 
 case to the room in which she lay. Some one 
 then tapped at her door sharply, but not hard ; 
 and on the girl running out to see who it was, 
 the portly person of good Dame Ball, somewhat 
 out of breath with clim])ing the stairs, entered 
 the room, and occupied the chair by Lucy's 
 bed-side.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. Q4S 
 
 She had come, as she had promised her son, 
 to be kind to Lucy Williams ; and there can be 
 no doubt that her intention was really to be 
 kind, as far as her knowledge and capabilities 
 went. Lucy, who had been all her life afraid 
 of her, saw her approach with terror and 
 vexation ; but, perhaps, the emotions produced 
 by the visit of Mrs. Ball might in some sort be 
 beneficial, by giving a totally different direction 
 to the thoughts and feelings of the poor girl, 
 whose first sensation on seeing that good lady 
 was generally that of fear, verging quickly into 
 indignation and resistance. 
 
 At first Mrs. Ball began by endeavouring to 
 console poor Lucy for the death of her father ; 
 but she very speedily and very naturally de- 
 viated into the matter of her son's affection for 
 the orphan girl, and she then showed how little 
 her ideas of treating a person kindly coincided 
 with the ideas generally entertained upon such 
 a subject. She first set to work with some 
 degree of moderation, having in view to impress 
 Lucy clearly and fully with the absolute impos- 
 sibility of her ever being united to Castle Ball,
 
 244 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 The thing, she said, was quite ridiculous — not to 
 be thought of — altogether out of the question; 
 and she proceeded — most satisfactorily to her 
 own mind — that she was in no respect a fitting, 
 or proper match for a rich, a respectable farmer. 
 
 Lucy wept for some time and said nothing ; 
 but Mrs. Ball was not at all well pleased with 
 this sort of taciturnity. Her eagerness increased 
 as slie went on: her views and purposes ex- 
 panded as she thought she had made progress ; 
 and it is not quite clear that, feeling herself 
 harsh, unkind, and unjust, she did not on that 
 very account become still more so, venting upon 
 Lucy the irritation which she felt, because her 
 own conscience smote herself. As she went on, 
 we have said, her views extended, and she felt 
 very much inclined not to leave the house till 
 she had obtained from the poor girl a positive 
 promise on no account or consideration whatso- 
 ever to wed her son Castle Ball. 
 
 " I'm sure," she said, tossing her head and 
 shrugging her shoulders, " I'm sure when I was 
 a young woman I should not have thought of 
 staying in a part of the country where there
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 245 
 
 was a young man that wished to marry me and 
 his parents would not consent. I would have 
 gone to some friend at a distance; but there 
 was no need for me, for I brought my husband 
 well nigh seven hundred pounds, so his father 
 and mother were glad enough to get me. If they 
 had not been, I'm sure I should have tossed up 
 my head and scorned to stay in their neigh- 
 bourhood, that I would ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I might too," replied Lucy, " if I 
 had any one at a distance to go to, for I'm sure 
 this place will be sad enough to me," 
 
 " Oh, that's all very pretty," replied Mrs. Ball ; 
 " where there's a will there's always a way." 
 
 '^ Do you know, Mrs. Ball," said Lucy, rising 
 from her bed with an air that surprised the 
 good dame for a moment, *^ do you know that 
 I think this very cruel of you to come here with 
 such language at a time like this, when God 
 knows I am thinking more of the dead than of 
 the living? I wish you would go away and 
 leave me." 
 
 " Marry, come up," cried Mrs. Ball, glad of 
 an opportunity of bursting forth into anger to 
 R 3
 
 246 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 get rid of the self-reproach that she felt at the 
 justice of Lucy's charge, " Marry, come up, I 
 suppose Miss will turn me out of the house. I 
 ahvays knew you were a saucy thing, and I 
 now see what it would be if I let my son have 
 his fool's way and marry you. I should not 
 dare to say my life was my own. I should be 
 obliged to wash the dishes for the fine lady, and 
 make her a low courtesy every time she spoke 
 to me. T should have a mistress over me in 
 my dead husband's house," and Mrs. Ball began 
 to cry. But before she had shed five tears she 
 thought better of it, and, marching straight up 
 to Lucy, she exclaimed, " I'll tell you what, 
 ma'am, though ! saucy as you are, I sha'n't quit 
 the house till you promise me either to go away 
 from this part of the country fully thirt}^ miles, 
 or else not to marry my son Castle Ball if he 
 asks you twenty times." 
 
 The colour rose bright both with shame and 
 indignation into Lucy Williams's clear brown 
 forehead, and she replied at once, " I shall 
 make you no promise of any kind, Mrs. Ball ; 
 you have no right to ask any promises from me ;
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 247 
 
 and I shall make you none. You are very un- 
 kind, very cruel, and very unjust. I wish you 
 would leave me ! But if you will not, and will 
 drive a poor orphan girl like myself out of her 
 dead father's house, while his body is being 
 carried to the grave, I will go and take refuge 
 at some neighbour's til] you choose to go." 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed the virago, " No, no, 
 you sha'n't do that ; you have told me to go out 
 of the house, and I'll go. I see how it is, pretty 
 mistress, but you'll miss your mark, depend 
 upon it ; " and down the stairs walked Mrs. Ball 
 muttering all the way that she w^ent, " Silly 
 fantastical thing ! I wonder the boy is such a 
 fool ! — pretty, I dare say ! — with her staring 
 black eyes as big as a tea-cup, and her hair like 
 nobody-else's in the world ! — a May-day molly, 
 forsooth ! " 
 
 As soon as she was gone and the outer door 
 was heard to bang after her, the strength that 
 had supported Lucy Williams seemed to give 
 way, and, casting herself down by the side of 
 her bed, she buried her face in her hands and 
 R 4
 
 248 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 wept violently, murmuring, " I wish I had 
 never been born ! " 
 
 She remained there till she v\'as roused by 
 the voice of Phillipina speaking to the servant 
 girl who had followed Mrs. Ball down stairs. 
 
 "Where is she? where is she?" said the 
 voice of the good German, in somewhat agitated 
 tones. " I will see her directly. I want to see 
 her directly. ' 
 
 " She is in her own room, ma'am," replied 
 the girl. " Mrs. Ball has been here, and been 
 very unkind to poor Miss Lucy." 
 
 " She is a very wild woman," replied Phil- 
 lipina, " a very wild woman indeed. I met her 
 just now; and she finds that I can be as wild as 
 she is. But I have something to speak to poor 
 Lucy about;" and she walked slowly and 
 thoughtfully up stairs to the room of poor 
 Lucy Williams, who rose up to meet her, with 
 her whole heart torn by conflicting emotions, 
 each painful, though in a very different cha- 
 racter and degree.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 249 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 When Ralph Strafford left Lady Mallory with 
 the promise of calling on her on the succeeding 
 day, that lady seemed to be perfectly recovered 
 from the temporary attack under which she had 
 laboured, and no eye could have discovered, 
 by her manner or demeanour, that there was 
 any great agitation within. Even after he was 
 gone, she had sufficient command over herself 
 to ring and say, that she was not to be disturbed 
 for the next hour, without any emotion betray- 
 ing to her servants that the conversation be- 
 tween her and Strafford had been such as to 
 affect her painfully. 
 
 When she was secure, however, and alone. 
 Lady Mallory became an altered being. She 
 bent down upon the sofa, she hid her eyes 
 upon the pillows, her hands grasped the soft 
 cushions convulsively ; and though her face was 
 invisible and her lips were silent, yet the beav-
 
 250 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 ing and writhing of her whole beautiful form told 
 a tale of deep mental agony, which was not to 
 be mistaken. She sobbed not, she wept not; 
 it seemed for some time as if her feelings were 
 so scorching and intense as to dry up the 
 fountain of her tears. At length, however, 
 tears came ; at first fiery, passionate, and terri- 
 ble ; but then calmer and sadder, and she sat up, 
 gazing towards heaven, with her hands clasped, 
 and the bright drops rolling over her cheek. 
 
 " He loves me not!" she murmured, " he 
 loves another ! God of heaven ! " she added, 
 after she had repeated those words two or three 
 times, " is it possible that I, who have loved 
 him so deeply and so well, — that I, who have 
 shaped my conduct towards him as perhaps 
 never woman did — I, who loved him, when 
 perhaps I ought not to have done so, and yet 
 hid that love deep in the secret places of my 
 heart till I was free to give it way — hiding it 
 from him and from all others, even from myself 
 — I, whose love he must have seen and known, 
 since my hand was free, by the altered manner, 
 by the warmer tone, by the brighter eye, by the
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 251 
 
 joy that his presence gave me, by the pain to 
 see him depart — is it possible that I should 
 be forgotten, neglected, slighted for a mere girl, 
 a child in whose company he has not been a 
 dozen times ? It is not true ; it cannot be true : 
 it is but some idle caprice of the moment." 
 
 She paused, and thought darkly, bitterly, 
 gloomily; and then added, "She loves him, 
 too : so at least he implied. — At that I wonder 
 not. — And yet, what is the love of a child like 
 that? — She cannot love as I can love — she 
 can hardly know what love is." 
 
 Again came another gloomy pause, and feel- 
 ings of deep sorrow seemed to rise within her. 
 " And is it indeed so ? " she said. " Am I never 
 to know the bright dreams that sun over the 
 cold fate of woman? — Are the prospects of 
 my youth to be thwarted by a villain ? — And 
 he to succeed in carrying off the inheritance 
 that was promised to me ? Then bound by gra- 
 titude, and ignorant of what love is, am I to 
 give up the fairest years of youth to him who 
 protected and defended me when left a portion- 
 less orphan, and to devote the hours that God
 
 /^52 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 and nature give for life's first joys, to the cold 
 tendance of an old man's winter? And then, 
 when love has touched my heart with its magic 
 fire, and I have hid, with stony firmness, the 
 light that scorched me, am I to find, at the 
 very time — when the ties which bound me 
 are broken and I am free to love and to be 
 happy — am I to find that here too the blight 
 and mildew of my fate withers the flower in 
 the blossom, that he is cold and chilly towards 
 her whose heart is all fire and emotion, giving 
 his heart's bright treasure to an idle girl that 
 cannot, cannot love him as I can love?" 
 
 " It must not, it must not be," she added, 
 starting up, and clasping her hands eagerly 
 together. " It cannot — it shall not be, for 
 I will prevent it — I will stake life and soul 
 upon it — I will shake off* this weak womanli- 
 ness that crushes all my energies — I will take 
 love's fire to light me on my way, and will 
 find a means, if there be a means on earth, to 
 thwart this fine device of theirs. — He shall be 
 mine," she continued thoughtfully — " he shall 
 be mine, cost what it will — or if he be not, he
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 253 
 
 shall never be hers. — There must exist obstacles ; 
 his words showed it clearly; and give me but an 
 obstacle between them, no bigger than a mole- 
 hill, I will find means to swell it to a mountain. 
 Ralph Strafford, Ralph Strafford, thou shalt not 
 cast away a heart that loves thee as mine does ! " 
 and again she fell into deep thought, ponder- 
 ing the means now that she had formed the re- 
 solution. As she did ponder those means, a 
 thousand circumstances rose to her recollection 
 which brightened the thought of success. 
 
 " Strafford loved me," she thought. '' I am 
 sure he loved me before he went to this hist 
 campaign. 1 have marked that his manner was 
 changed, that he has been more melancholy, 
 more gloomy since his return. But he is fond 
 of me, he trusts me still ; and I will find means 
 to revive that love. — He trusts me : he seeks 
 for my advice and assistance even in his love 
 for another ; and he shall have my advice and 
 assistance. But it shall not work as he expects 
 it. This Forrest, too, though doubtless he 
 would be glad enough to snatch at such a 
 match as this for his girl Edith, must yield to
 
 25i THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 my will in that at least. — Is he not in my 
 power ? — Could T not blast his reputation ? 
 
 — nay, perhaps affect his life, did I so will it ? 
 I will show him how much he is in my power. 
 
 — I will let him know that none of his dark 
 secrets are hidden from me — and then if he 
 dare snatch at Strafford for his daughter, he 
 shall rue the day, and I will bring such disgrace 
 upon the name of Forrest as will render the 
 taint worse than the blood of an Egyptian! — 
 The very thought makes me feel well again. — 
 I will cast off this foolish sickness — I wonder 
 I was weak enough to faint ! " 
 
 In such thoughts, and with such resolutions. 
 Lady Mallory passed the rest of the evening. 
 Nor, as far as it was possible, did she fail to exe- 
 cute even that evening itself the determination 
 of conquering her own womanly weakness, and 
 bending every energy to the accomplishment of 
 her purpose. She rang for tea ; she gave her 
 orders and directions calmly and distinctly ; she 
 moved with grace and strength ; all trace of 
 corporeal weakness was at an end ; the tears 
 had been washed carefully from her eyes, and
 
 OF TPIE OLD SCHOOL. 255 
 
 twice slie took up an instrument of music, on 
 which she was no unskilful performer, and 
 played and sang when any of the domestics 
 were in the room. Had they been very ob- 
 servant, indeed, they might have remarked that 
 a change had come over their mistress, and that 
 her demeanour was somewhat different from 
 what it had been for months before. They 
 might have found it somewhat difficult indeed 
 to point out in what the change consisted ; but 
 Lady Mallory's own maid described it in a 
 single sentence. She said, that her mistress 
 was more like what she used to be during old 
 Lord Mallory's life than she had seen her since 
 his death. 
 
 Such indeed was the case : she was once 
 more acting under a high restraint : she was 
 once more mastering herself and all her feel- 
 ings, though not with the same fine purpose as 
 before. Her air and her tone were grave as 
 well as calm ; her eye rested upon every body 
 and every thing to which she turned it with, 
 firm steadfastness. She fell into no fits of 
 reverie when any one was present. But her
 
 256 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 whole aspect was thoughtful ; and though her 
 mind was present and active in every thing she 
 did or said, yet it seemed as if her words, and 
 actions, and looks, had all a reference to some 
 ulterior object. When the was alone, indeed, 
 she thought, and thought deeply ; and taking 
 forth one of the drawers of her cabinet, she 
 strewed the table witli papers which she read 
 attentively, and from which she made more 
 than one long extract ere she replaced them 
 and locked them up. 
 
 The last act before she retired to rest was to 
 order her carriage to be prepared by nine on 
 the following morning ; and though her maid 
 ventured to remonstrate on the risk of going 
 out so early after such an illness, Lady Mallory 
 silenced her by a word, and was ready at the 
 appointed hour. The coachman received or- 
 ders to drive to Stalbrooke Castle, and thither- 
 ward he took his way, with all the pomp and 
 circumstance of four magnificent horses, two 
 out-riders, and other attendants. On arriving 
 at the Castle, for the journey, in those days 
 occupied some time, Lady Mallory found that 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke and Captain Strafford
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL 257 
 
 were both absent, having gone to attend the 
 funeral of the poor schoohnaster Williams. 
 
 The next inquiry was for Mrs. Forrest and 
 Edith, and finding that they were in the room 
 of Mr. Forrest, she sent in to announce her 
 coming, and to seek an interview with them. 
 To both she was completely a stranger, and 
 with Mrs. Forrest her meeting v/as somewhat 
 cold and restrained. It was perfectly courteous, 
 however ; and she took care to assure that lady 
 how much pleasure she received from a recon- 
 ciliation with her good cousin Forrest : she 
 attributed, in general terms, the misunder- 
 standing which had existed so long between 
 them to mistake and misrepresentation, and 
 expressed a trust that for the future they might 
 see far more of each other. 
 
 Towards Edith her manner was much warmer ; 
 and the difference was produced by a vain 
 struggle between new feelings and previous 
 determinations. She spoke to her more as a 
 friend and a sister, declared how delighted she 
 should be if instead of remaining there, making 
 her cheek pale by watching and anxiety, she 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 would come over witli her to the hall, and give 
 hack to her dull mansion the gaiety and cheer- 
 fulness which it had long lost. There was 
 something tender and even affectionate in her 
 manner towards the fair girl; and, strange to 
 say, notwithstanding all the purposes which 
 Lady Mallory at that moment entertained, that 
 tenderness and that affection were not altogether 
 hypocritical. She felt a degree of pity for 
 Edith ; she felt a degree of sympathy for her. 
 Even while determined to disappoint her love, 
 and frustrate her hopes, she grieved for her. 
 She wished that they had not been so fated ; 
 and the sweet gentleness of her young cousin, 
 the bright candour that shone out in all she did 
 and said, were so different from what Lady 
 Mallory had expected — were so unlike the 
 light idle girl that rivalry had painted, that she 
 felt pain, but, alas ! not hesitation. After a 
 few minutes given to conve;sation with Mrs. 
 Forrest and her daughter. Lady Mallory asked 
 if she might not be admitted for a 'few minutes 
 to the sick-room of her poor cousin. 
 
 *' I am an excellent sick-nurse," she said with
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 259 
 
 a sigh, " having had to watch for many a long 
 and anxious night by a bed of ilhiess, which 
 was but to prove the bed of death. I shall not 
 distui-b him, therefore," she added ; " and as I 
 have one or two things to tell him, which may 
 give him much pleasure to hear, my visit may 
 have as much effect as the doses of a surgeon." 
 
 " My father is much better this morning," 
 replied Edith. *' He had a somewhat disturbed 
 and rambling night, fancied that he saw strange 
 people, and talked somewhat incoherently : but 
 about four o'clock this morning he fell into a 
 very sound sweet sleep, and woke this morning 
 considerably better. I will ask permission first, 
 if you please," she continued, and she left the 
 room for that purpose. 
 
 Lady Mallory did not lose the opportunity, 
 though the fear of losing it forced her to be 
 abrupt. " Have you been long acquainted with 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke's family, my dear lady ?" 
 she asked, as soon as Miss Forrest was out of 
 the room. 
 
 " Not yet more than three days," replied 
 Mrs. Forrest. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 Lady Mallory looked surprised. " Oh then, 
 she exclamied, '' the report which has reached 
 me must be mere idle nonsense, that Mr. For- 
 rest and Sir Andrew have arranged a marriage 
 between your daughter and Captain Strafford. " 
 
 *' An idle rumour, indeed, I fear," replied 
 Mrs. Forrest ; " I lament most bitterly, Madam, 
 to sa}^, that Mr. Forrest has other views for 
 poor Edith ; and I feel sure that nothing upon 
 earth will change my husband's purposes in 
 those respects, even should it cost his child 
 health, hai^piness, or life itself. No, no, it will 
 never be with his consent at least, that Edith 
 marries such a man as Captain Strafford." 
 
 Lady Mallory looked still more surprised; 
 but before she could reply, Edith had returned, 
 saying that her father would have great pleasure 
 in receiving his cousin ; and the lady at once 
 proceeded to Mr. Forrest's sick-room. 
 
 The windows were partly closed, so that but 
 little light entered the chamber, and the cur- 
 tains on the side of the bed next to the case- 
 ment were closely drawn also, so that the sick 
 man's bed was kept well nigh in darkness.
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 261 
 
 Nevertheless Lady Mallory could see enougli 
 of the countenance which lay upon the uneasy 
 pillow before her, to mark the terrible change 
 which had taken place in those features since 
 last she had beheld them. At that time, 
 though not exactly a young man, Mr. Forrest 
 had been full of health and vigour. His cheek 
 had been florid, his eye bright, his hair, though 
 somewhat mingled, still dark and glossy. He 
 was now pale, haggard, worn : and had that 
 expression on his countenance most painful to 
 behold — the oldness of the heart. 
 
 The sight was in some degree painful to Lady 
 Mallory, especially as the news which she had 
 learnt from Mrs. Forrest had taught her not to 
 entertain towards the sick man exactly the same 
 feelings with which she had come to Stalbrooke 
 Castle. She had thought of him, as she drove 
 thither, only as one whom she was to meet as 
 an antagonist, whom she was to coerce and com- 
 pel to her will, by the power which she had over 
 him. Now, on the contrary, she found that they 
 w^ere likely to act together with the same views, 
 and towards the same ends ; and she greeted him 
 s 3
 
 OQ2 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 with a smile of satisfaction, wliicli, to say the 
 truth, somewhat surprised Mr. Forrest. 
 
 " How are you, my good cousin?" she said, 
 sitting down by his bed-side ; *' this is really 
 a terrible accident that has happened to you.'* 
 
 " Oh I am better," he said, *' much better, and 
 I trust that I shall soon be well. I had a little 
 fever last night, and fancied that I saw people 
 that I have not seen for many years. I raved, 
 I believe ; but that has all passed away ; the 
 fever has left me ; and, what is better, I have 
 had some refreshing sleep, and feel ^ stronger, 
 though bruised and torn. It is very kind of 
 you indeed, Isabella, to come to see me in this 
 state." 
 
 " I could not of course let my own cousin 
 remain ill without seeing him," replied Lady 
 Mallory ; " but, to say the truth, I wished to 
 talk with you on one or two subjects. — But it 
 may fatigue you, and another time will do." 
 
 " Not at all, not at all," replied Mr. Forrest 
 with a look of anxiety in his countenance. 
 " What is it you have to say ?" 
 
 *' Nothing that is unpleasant," replied Lady
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 263 
 
 Mallory, with a calm smile ; but speaking in a 
 clear distinct tone. " You know, Ferdinand, and 
 I know, that the only way for us to deal with 
 each other is clearly and straightforwardly in 
 language distinct and without disguise." 
 
 " I know that such is your Ladyship's 
 custom," replied Mr. Forrest somewhat bitterly; 
 " you have not been in the habit, towards me 
 at least, of overloading your expressions with 
 sweet things. It is not always a honeyed 
 draught that comes from your ladyship's hands." 
 
 " In the present instance, my dear Fer- 
 dinand,'' replied Lady Mallory with another 
 smile, '* as I have nothing at all disagreeable to 
 say, what I have may be expressed in the very 
 plainest words without giving you the slightest 
 pain." 
 
 Mr. Forrest again looked much surprised at 
 this exordium, but Lady Mallory went on. *' A 
 report had reached me, Ferdinand — it mat- 
 ters not how — that there was a likelihood of 
 your uniting your daughter Edith to Captain 
 Strafford, the nephew of your present host. — 
 
 Hear me out," she continued, seeing him about 
 s 4
 
 264 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 to speak. " Now for reasons of my own — it 
 matters not what — I do not approve of such 
 an union, and I resolved from the first, to 
 oppose it by every means in my power, and 
 to insist upon its not taking place.'* 
 
 Now though Mr. Forrest saw that Lady 
 Mallory's views and his own were perfectly the 
 same, his spirit was one that loved not to be 
 dictated to, and never submitted to it in any one 
 who had not power to compel submission. He 
 therefore instantly roused himself at Lady 
 Mallory's tone, and demanded in a sneering 
 voice, " And pray, my fair cousin Isabella, how 
 came you by any right or power to insist upon 
 any thing taking place or not taking place in 
 regard to the disposal of my child?" 
 
 " Because, my good cousin," replied Lady 
 Mallory, who being determined to manage the 
 whole business in her own way, had resolved to 
 show Mr. Forrest from the first that she 
 had him in her power, " because, my good 
 cousin " 
 
 But ere she could conclude her sentence, some- 
 body rose up from behind the curtains on the
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 265 
 
 other side of the bed, and walking round with 
 a low courtsey to Lady Mallory, glided out of 
 the room into a little antechamber or dressing- 
 room beyond, of which she closed the door 
 behind her. 
 
 '' Who is that? who is that?" demanded 
 Mr. Forrest eagerly, " who is that that has just 
 gone out of the room ?" 
 
 " Only an old servant," replied Lady Mallory 
 quietly, " I know her well. She has been 
 watching by you, I suppose, during the night. 
 She has heard nothing of consequence. I know 
 her well, and she is fond of me. But to go 
 on. That which gives me the right and the 
 power Ferdinand," slie added in a calm, clear 
 voice, " is, that I possess a certificate of the 
 deaths of your brother, Henry Forrest, in 
 India, and his son John, with documents to 
 prove that the boy never even lived to embark 
 for England. — Say not a word, Ferdinand — 
 say not a word. — You understand me. — Put 
 me not upon the proof of such things by one 
 word of denial. I say that I possess these 
 documents, and that so far from intending to
 
 266 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 make use of them, I will place them all in your 
 hands, the day after your daughter Edith is 
 married to some other person than to Ralph 
 Strafford." 
 
 " She shall never marry him," exclaimed 
 Mr. Forrest eagerly, '' she shall never marry 
 him while I have any power over her." 
 
 '* So your wife informed me but now," re- 
 plied Lady Mallory ; " and seeing at once, my 
 dear Ferdinand, that there is every probability 
 of our acting together with zeal, harmony, and 
 good will, all that I wished to converse with 
 you upon was, the best means of carrying our 
 intentions into effect." 
 
 " The best means are," replied Mr. Forrest, 
 " to marry her immediately to another ; and that 
 I will do within three months, if you will pro- 
 mise me, Isabella, one thing ; which is, to let me 
 choose that other myself, without one objection 
 on any account whatsoever, without one question 
 as to my motives or my reasons, or how I can re- 
 concile it to my conscience, as you will call it ; 
 without, in short, one word or observation of 
 any kind upon the person I choose, either ad- 
 dressed to myself or others."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 267 
 
 " Oh," replied Lady Mallory in an indifferent 
 tone, ^' that I have nothing to do with ; that is 
 your own business entirely." 
 
 " Do you promise it, Isabella? Do you 
 promise what I have demanded, in its full terms 
 and complete sense ? " demanded Mr. Forrest, 
 raising himself on his arm and gazing eagerly 
 in her face. 
 
 " I do," replied Lady Mallory, in some sur- 
 prise at his eagerness. 
 
 *' Do you swear it?" he added, "by all you 
 hold sacred — by all you hold dear ? " 
 
 *^ I do," answered Lady Mallory. " But who 
 is the man?" 
 
 " Perhaps my nephew, John Forrest," re- 
 plied the sick man, sinking back in bed. 
 
 Lady Mallory suddenly turned as pale as 
 ashes, and shook like an aspen leaf from head 
 to foot, while she exclaimed, " But good God ! 
 Ferdinand " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried Mr. Forrest, holding up his 
 hand, ** hush ! — remember your oath ; leave 
 me and my conscience to settle between us my 
 own acts ; I ask you to take no share in this ; I
 
 268 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 view things in a different light from you. I 
 judge upon different motives. And now to 
 think of the means of guarding against this 
 wilful girl's frustrating all our views, either by 
 art or obstinacy." 
 
 " I cannot speak with you about it just yet," 
 said Lady Mallory, rising still dreadfully 
 agitated ; " I must have a little air. I must 
 have a few moments to recover myself." 
 
 " Do not go," said Mr. Forrest, seeing her 
 turn towards the door ; " go to the window ; I 
 told Edith to open it. Go to the window, and 
 you will get air." 
 
 Lady Mallory went to the window, and draw- 
 ing back the curtain sat down, where the free 
 fresh air of heaven blowing through the open 
 casement, and the wide expanse of the joyous 
 cheerful innocent face of nature, formed a 
 strange contrast with the close, dull room and 
 the dark designs from which she had just turned. 
 It struck her powerfully, terribly, and pressing 
 her handkerchief upon her eyes, she wept. She 
 remained there some time in thought ; but at 
 length the voice of the sick man, exclaiming,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 269 
 
 '' Isabella ! Isabella !" brought lier again to his 
 bed-side, and. she sat down once more to listen 
 to schemes against the innocent. At first, she 
 scarcely mingled in the conversation, and the 
 plans were principally put forth by Mr. Forrest 
 himself. 
 
 " In the first place," he said, *' I must get 
 well as fast as possible ; at least, I must en- 
 deavour at any risk to get over to your house 
 in a few days. Thus we shall do what we can 
 to check the idle folly of Edith and this young 
 man. But, Isabella, even when she is with you, 
 even were she many miles removed from this 
 place, we must have some better means of 
 keeping a watch upon her than we now have. 
 I feel perfectly certain that yesterday morning, 
 at the very time I received these accursed 
 wounds, Edith and Ralph Strafford had a long 
 and un watched interview, and most likely a full 
 explanation, which I had taken care should not 
 occur in Germany. When I came down as 
 early as possible to guard against such a thing, 
 I found her room vacant. On inquiring of her 
 maid, who fails not in general to give me ac-
 
 270 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 curate information of all her proceedings, I was 
 told that she was in the picture gallery. Such 
 was not the case ; the doors were open, but she 
 was not there. I went out into the park in 
 search of her. I missed her there, however, 
 but she was certainly out, and this young man 
 also, for he was one of those that carried me 
 home ; the one, I believe, who killed the stag. 
 It is impossible to prevent her from going out ; 
 and we must have some one who may keep a 
 constant watch upon her when she is out, with- 
 out her knowing it. Thus gaining certain inform- 
 ation of all her proceedings, we may frustrate 
 any secret plan which she may form, or Mrs. 
 Forrest for her." 
 
 *' From your wife's words to-day," replied 
 Lady Mallory, " I should judge most assuredly 
 that she gave her no encouragement." 
 
 "Womanly hypocrisy! Trust it not, trust 
 it not," replied Mr. Forrest, " or if she gives 
 no encouragement, she gives, at least, con- 
 nivance. Our only security while she is here 
 — and I fear I could not yet take a journey to 
 London, for many a week — our only security
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 271 
 
 would be, if we could get some one to watch 
 her without appearing to do it. Were it but a 
 deer-keeper, a forester, or woodman, any one 
 who could hang about and give instant tidings 
 of where and with whom she has gone out, 
 when she leaves the house." 
 
 Lady Mallory, after her return from the 
 window, had appeared to be labouring still 
 under some deep and oppressive thoughts, and 
 had suffered Mr. Forrest to go on with his 
 views uninterrupted. She seemed, indeed, to 
 wish to say as little as possible on a topic, the 
 discussion of which appeared suddenly to have 
 become painful to her. But gradually, when 
 once she had broken silence, she was led on 
 quickly to enter upon the matter fully again, 
 and to pursue it apparently with the same 
 eagernetis as before. 
 
 " Does not the person you speak of," she de- 
 manded, *^ keep the watch himself? Has he no 
 skill, no tact, no policy to make sure that his 
 society shall keep her safe, when others are not 
 with her ? " 
 
 ** Alas, fair lady," replied Forrest, " he is as
 
 272 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 headstrong and as thoughtless in his way as she 
 is in hers — I might say, even more so. You 
 will scarcely believe it, but — after having seen 
 me lying here, wounded in the severe and 
 terrible manner in which I have been wounded 
 — he proposes to leave me — nay, indeed, is 
 gone this morning, making some dull business 
 the excuse for quitting a dull house." 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried Lady Mallory, in a tone of 
 surprise, but mingled with no grief. " Indeed ! 
 then he does not love her." 
 
 The lip of Mr. Forrest curled with somewhat 
 of a sneer, at what he called, in his own mind, 
 so womanly a comment. " Oh, he loves her," 
 replied he, " as well as he loves any thing. But 
 he is young, you know, and heedless ; and she 
 loves not him, that is clear enough." 
 
 Lady Mallory paused and mused ; she then 
 replied, however, *^ "Well, my good cousin, you 
 must leave it to a woman's wit to find a person 
 who may keep the watch upon your daughter, 
 as you mention. I think I can undertake to 
 find such a one, and a good actor too ; but it 
 will require time ; and till you can remove to
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 273 
 
 my house, you must endeavour to keep this fair 
 Mistress Edith with you as much as may be. 
 One thing I will tell you, however, for your 
 comfort, which is, that I am pretty sure of 
 making myself the mistress of all fair Edith's 
 secrets." 
 
 ^' You know her not. You know her not," 
 replied Mr. Forrest. " She gives not her con- 
 fidence easily." 
 
 <^ Leave that to me," replied Lady Mallory, 
 in a confident tone, " leave that to me. And 
 now, my good cousin," she added in a lower 
 voice, " think not of what I said about those 
 papers, farther than that they are in the hands 
 of a friend, who will give them up as soon as she 
 sees your daughter the wife of any one but the 
 heir of this house." 
 
 Thus saying. Lady Mallory glided away from 
 the bed side, and opened the door into the 
 anteroom. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 274 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 On entering the anteroom Lady Mallory per- 
 ceived the form of Philippina hastily withdraw- 
 ing from the window, which was open from 
 the ground. There was a small terrace before 
 that part of the house, and it required but 
 a single step to bring any one, by that terrace, 
 from the anteroom to the window of Mr. For- 
 rest's chamber; and Lady Mallory, as she 
 marked all this, remembered that when, in a 
 moment of much agitation, she had sought for 
 fresh air at the casement, a rustle, as of some- 
 body moving away, had struck her ear, but 
 received no attention. 
 
 The sight of Philippina, and the aspect of 
 the German, recalled the circumstance to her 
 mind, and gave her more than suspicion. Not 
 that the countenance of Philippina displayed 
 the least particle of shame or bashfulness, for 
 her bright black eye fixed bold and unshrinking
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 275 
 
 upon the beautiful countenance of Lady Mal- 
 lory ; but tliere was an eager and flashing light 
 in that dark eye, a knitting of the heavy brow, 
 and a bright red spot in each of the pale cheeks, 
 which indicated clearly that she had not passed 
 the last solitary hour without excitement. 
 
 In matters where any but the one passion 
 was concerned, the quick and decided spirit of 
 Lady Mallory instantly shone forth ; and raising 
 her proud head high, she walked straight for- 
 ward towards Philippina, saying at once in plain 
 terms, " You have been listening." 
 
 " I have, madam," replied Philippina, with 
 the same spirit within her, and with her eye 
 remaining steady and unabashed ; " I have been 
 listening, and I heard every thing you said but 
 the last ten words." 
 
 Their eyes met sternly, and gazed into each 
 other. 
 
 " You think you have me in your power," 
 said Lady Mallory, " and you are already 
 meditating ingratitude for my kindness to you ; 
 — but you may find yourself mistaken I " 
 
 " I think nothing at all, miladi, but that you 
 T 2
 
 276 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 are a very great lady, and a very beautiful lady, 
 and were a very good lady, and always kind 
 and good to every body ; — But now you are 
 going to do a very evil thing, and though I be 
 a poor person, and nothing at all compared 
 with you, I do not scruple to tell you so." 
 
 " Philippina," replied Lady Mallory, some- 
 what softening her tone, " I will pass over the 
 meanness of your listening to my convers- 
 ation ," 
 
 " I did not wish to listen to your convers- 
 ation, miladi," interrupted Philippina ; '* I wished 
 to listen to what he said, and to do that I have 
 aright!" 
 
 ' « A right ! " — cried Lady Mallory. '' But that 
 matters not ! You could not listen to his words 
 without listening to mine, and I say that, pass- 
 ing over that offence, which I could punish 
 perhaps more severely than you know, I will 
 forgive you, and do nothing against you, if you 
 will do three things." 
 
 " I do not know," replied Philippina with an 
 inquiring air ; " I do not know how you could 
 punish me at all."
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. ^77 
 
 " By going out of this room," replied Lady 
 Mallory, " by seeking Sir Andi-ew Stalbrooke 
 directly, and by informing him that I had de- 
 tected you in listening to the conversation 
 between myself and my cousin, Mr. Forrest, 
 and that you implied a threat of charging me 
 with evil designs in that conversation, if I ex- 
 posed your eavesdropping ! " She fixed her 
 eyes sternly upon the German, and Philippina 
 seemed somewhat startled. '^ You will deter- 
 mine in one minute," said Lady Mallory, seeing 
 the effect she had produced, ** whether you 
 will do what I am about to require of you ; 
 for if you do not, as sure as I live I shall 
 act as I have stated. You will see whether Sir 
 Andrew Stalbrooke will give credit to me or to 
 you." 
 
 " I did not want to charge you with any evil 
 designs, miladi," replied Philippina, " except 
 that of marrying this poor young lady to a man 
 that she hates and detests, who is the greatest 
 villain under the sun, and who dared to draw 
 his sword upon Sir Andrew himself, because his 
 T 3
 
 278 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 worship prevented him from wronging a poor 
 girl in the village. To make her marry him, 
 whether she likes it or not, I do call evil." 
 
 " Philippina, you have mistaken me," said 
 Lady Mallory in a much lower tone, and vvdth 
 a softened expression of countenance ; *' it is 
 his wish that she should marry John Forrest ! — 
 But it is so far from mine," she added, bending 
 her eyes deeply and impressively upon the 
 German, " but it is so far from mine, Phi- 
 lippina, that I would rather lay down this right 
 hand and have it cut off, than have any thing 
 to do with the marriage of those two." 
 
 " It is a pretty hand too," said Philippina, 
 gazing in Lady Mallory 's face ; " but then, 
 what is it that you did design, miladi ? " 
 
 " To prevent her marrying Ralph Strafford," 
 replied Lady Mallory, in a tone scarcely audible, 
 and with the colour, which had been scarcely 
 heightened by two shades while making the 
 same avowal to Mr. Forrest, mounting high 
 and bright into her cheek and brow, now that 
 she spoke it to a woman. 
 
 Philippina paused thoughtfully, and then
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 219 
 
 replied, " With that and with your reasons, 
 madam, I have no business to meddle, if you 
 do not seek to do the very evil thing I thought. 
 But you said, if I would do something for you, 
 you would say no more of my having listened. 
 What is it that you wish me to do 1 " 
 
 " I will make sure of you, Philippina, in all 
 ways," replied Lady Mallory ; " first, you shall 
 tell me all that you have heard ." 
 
 Lady Mallory paused, and the German did 
 as she demanded, showing, that though she 
 might have miscomprehended some things, she 
 had heard almost all. 
 
 " Secondly," continued Lady Mallory, as 
 soon as she had done, ** as you have heard the 
 sort of person whose assistance we want, you 
 must procure that person for us. But of that 
 we will talk more in a minute, if you consent to 
 do your best to find one." 
 
 " I do," replied Philippina. 
 
 ** And now," continued Lady Mallory, *' in 
 
 order to make perfectly sure that you do not 
 
 reveal one word of what you have heard, you 
 
 shall promise — But no;" she continued, cor- 
 
 T 4
 
 280 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 rectiiig herself, " you shall agree and put down 
 in your own hand in writing to take a share in 
 my purposes, and to aid them to the best of 
 your power. I mean, that you shall promise 
 to do every thing you can to prevent Ralph 
 Strafford from marrying Edith Forrest." 
 
 " Oh, that is very hard," cried Philippina ; 
 " that is very hard indeed. He has been 
 always kind to me. I tended him when he was 
 quite young. — Well," she continued, after 
 pausing for a minute, and seeing Lady Mal- 
 lory's eyes still fixed sternly upon her, *' well, it 
 does not much matter. He will be quite as 
 happy with one as with another. Will you 
 write it down for me, miladi ? There is the pen 
 and ink the doctor had." 
 
 " No," answered Lady Mallory, " you must 
 write it yourself, if you can write our lan- 
 guage." 
 
 " Oh, I can WTite quite good English," re- 
 plied Philippina taking the pen, and she wrote 
 down on a sheet of paper, with considerable 
 fluency and accuracy, "I do hereby promise 
 to do every thing that I can, to prevent Captain
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 281 
 
 Ralph StraiFord from marrying Miss Edith 
 Forrest ; " and when she had thus written, she 
 signed it with her name. 
 
 Lady Mallory took it up, and having read it 
 over with a well pleased smile, folded it care- 
 fully and put it in her bosom, saying, ^' Now 
 Philippina we are friends, and embarked in the 
 same adventure." 
 
 Philippina hung her head, as if not so well 
 pleased with what had passed ; but she looked 
 up again the next moment, and demanded, 
 " And now, miladi, what was it you said about 
 some one to serve you ? " 
 
 Lady Mallory now entered into all the de- 
 tails which we have already heard in some 
 degree discussed between Mr. Forrest and her- 
 self, regarding the qualities and character of the 
 person whom she wanted to watch the move- 
 ments of Edith Forrest and her lover. But Lady 
 Mallory went far beyond what she had stated 
 to Mr. Forrest himself. She did not exactly 
 say so ; but she made Philippina understand 
 that she sought to have an eye on all, Mr. 
 Forrest and his nephew included ; that to her
 
 282 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 all information was to be given ; that through 
 her, and through her alone, it was to be com- 
 municated to others ; that she, in fact, was to 
 know, and rule, and guide, those around her, for 
 the purpose — as it appeared by her own showing 
 — first, of cutting off any private communication 
 between Ralph Strafford and Edith Forrest, 
 and secondly, of preventing Mr. Forrest's pur- 
 pose of uniting Edith to his nephew. 
 
 Philippina had seen and known Lady Mallory 
 during her husband's lifetime, and especially 
 during the long and tedious illness which pre- 
 ceded his death, ruling his household and his 
 large property with a firm and steady hand, dis- 
 playing all those qualities of accuracy, precision, 
 forethought, and determination, seldom coveted 
 or possessed by women, and acting under difii- 
 cult circumstances with a powerful and vigorous 
 mind. But now there seemed something added ; 
 a fire and energy which breathed out in all that 
 she said or did, and gave a tone of commanding 
 power to her whole words and demeanour. The 
 secret of a new strong passion, in short, broke 
 forth. Like her framed by the demigod, what-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 283 
 
 ever were her beauties and perfections, they 
 had been cold and comparatively inactive till 
 that moment, when they blazed forth, touched 
 by the true fire of heaven. We know not our- 
 selves, and others know not, what are our 
 capabilities and our powers till some strong 
 passion moves the heart, and, like the main 
 spring of a complicated piece of machinery, 
 sets in motion all the wheels of life. 
 
 The German listened with some surprise, 
 and then fell into thought, while Lady Mallory 
 still went on suggesting, devising, explaining. 
 At length Philippina stopped her — "I think I 
 can do it, madam," she said ; "1 think I can 
 find the person that you mean. But I must 
 inquire ; I must see. If I am right, I will bring 
 you an answer this evening, or send you one, 
 for perhaps I may not be able to come, as I am 
 forced to attend to poor Lucy, the daughter 
 of Williams the schoolmaster, who is buried to- 
 day." 
 
 *' Ah, poor Williams ! " exclaimed Lady Mal- 
 lory, " I heard of his death, and his daughter's 
 deep sorrow for him. I think somebody told
 
 284f THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 me that lie had left her but poorly provided 
 for. She was a nice sweet girl, a little wild 
 and fanciful : but I recollect her well, aiding 
 her father in the village school, and all the 
 children loved her. Is it true that her father 
 left her but little ? " 
 
 '' Nothing at all, madam, but debts and 
 sorrow," replied Philippina. 
 
 *' Poor child ! we must do something for her,'* 
 said Lady Mallory, taking out her purse. '' Give 
 her these ten guineas, Philippina, for me, and 
 bid her, when she is sufficiently well and com- 
 posed, come up to see me at the hall. I will 
 do what I can for her. I should think that she 
 was fit to be a governess." 
 
 " I will send her up, madam," replied Phi- 
 lippina, " and will, as I have said, come up 
 myself or send this very evening." 
 
 " Let it be after dark, good Philippina," re- 
 plied Lady Mallory, thinking of the promised 
 visit of Ralph Slraffi)rd. " Let it be after dark, 
 then I can speak with you more freely." 
 
 Philippina made no objection, and after a 
 word or two more. Lady Mallory, satisfied with
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 285 
 
 what she had done, proceeded to the room 
 where she had left Mrs. Forrest and Edith. She 
 there paused for a few minutes, speaking with 
 them both in a quiet and friendly tone, gazing 
 from time to time upon the countenance of 
 Edith Forrest, with an earnest and thoughtful 
 look, in which those who knew her heart might 
 have discovered that regret, perhaps sorrow, 
 had a share, but, for the time at least, neitlier 
 regret nor sorrow altered the purposes of her 
 bosom. 
 
 " I am somewhat fatigued," she said at length, 
 " This visit has been a great exertion to me 
 after my late illness, and though I long to see 
 my good old friend. Sir Andrew Stalbrooke, I 
 fear I cannot wait for his return. Pray make 
 my excuses to him, Mrs. Forrest, and put my 
 young friendj Ralph, in mind, that he promised 
 me a visit this afternoon, to explain what he left 
 unexplained yesterday. — You see," she con- 
 tinued to Mrs. Forrest with a smile, " you see 
 that I take the cold privilege of elderly ladies, 
 Mrs. Forrest, and invite young men to come 
 and visit me. I suppose it is, Mrs. Forrest,
 
 286 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 for the simple reason that, if we did not, we 
 should not be visited at all." 
 
 She spoke with a gay smile, and certainly 
 her words were calculated to deceive. If every 
 sentence that is spoken in the world, were 
 traced through the fine channels of thought 
 and feeling back to the original motive in the 
 heart, how many should we find calculated to 
 display truth, — how many to veil it ? The 
 man who said that language was given to us for 
 the purpose of concealing our thoughts, would 
 have pronounced a sublime truth, if he had 
 contented himself with saying, that such was 
 the purpose to which man applies it. 
 
 Was Edith Forrest deceived ? She was not ; 
 for it is scarcely possible for two women to love 
 the same man, without each discovering her 
 rival instantly. It came not, indeed, to the 
 mind of Edith Forrest as a conviction ; it came 
 but as a doubt, a suspicion, an apprehension, 
 but it was sufficient to make her heart sink 
 with doubt, with anxiety, and grief. 
 
 Sir Andrew Stalbrooke and his nephew re- 
 turned about half an hour after Lady Mallory
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 287 
 
 had left the house. Edith heard Mrs. Forrest 
 give tlie message to Ralph Strafford, who 
 smiled, and with so calm and unconcerned an 
 air, that Edith felt she was secure there at least. 
 A few minutes afterwards he had an opportunity 
 of saying to her in a low voice, " I am going 
 over, dearest Edith, to tell sweet Lady Mallory, 
 who is as kind as the air of heaven, all about 
 our love, and to beg her assistance, and her 
 influence with your father." 
 
 Had Edith yielded to the first impulse, she 
 would have exclaimed, " Oh, do not, do not." 
 But there were people near : she had a moment 
 for reflection : and she thought, " It may be as 
 well that she should know of our love and our 
 engagement ; then, if she be as kind and as 
 generous as people say, she will conquer her 
 own feelings, and perhaps give us her aid." 
 
 She replied nothing, then, but cast down her 
 eyes, and shortly after returned to the chamber 
 of Mr. Forrest. 
 
 In the mean time Lady Mallory returned 
 home, and passed the day partly in thought, 
 partly in reading, when thought became so in-
 
 288 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 tense as to be painful. Her mind was made 
 up how to act : she had seen Edith Forrest, 
 and her eyes were too keen and clear not to 
 perceive at once, that there was that mingling 
 of fine qualities of mind, and beautiful qualities 
 of heart, which, to a man of such a disposition 
 as Ralph Strafford, forms the most engaging 
 of all characters. She could not but own also, 
 that Edith was extremely pretty, but at the 
 same time she felt a proud consciousness of 
 superior beauty. She felt, that though nothing, 
 perhaps, could surpass Edith in grace and 
 loveliness of form, yet that even in that grace 
 and loveliness she was herself not inferior. 
 She judged also, and rightly, that her figure, 
 from its height, was more dignified and majestic, 
 while from the full roundness of every limb, it 
 lost not one particle of softer beauty. In 
 feature, too, she felt that she had decidedly the 
 advantage ; and though she thought, with a sigh, 
 of some few years of youth gone by, yet she 
 believed that the deep feelings which she ex- 
 perienced now, and which she had never 
 experienced in youth, if they could but be
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 289 
 
 known to him she loved, must overpower any 
 thing like prepossession in favour of another, 
 whom she could not and would not believe to 
 be capable of loving as she did herself^ How 
 then, how, she asked herself, could she make 
 that love known to Strafford ? She was not 
 weak enough, or unwise enough, to risk by any 
 rash avowal the loss of his esteem as w^ell as of 
 his heart ; and she determined, while she raised 
 up inseparable barriers between him and Edith 
 Forrest, to listen kindly, nay tenderly, to his 
 tale of love towards her rival ; to seem even to 
 counsel and assist him ; to make him feel that 
 she was doing so solely from regard for him ; to 
 let him see that she was unhappy, and pique 
 his curiosity to learn why, but not to gratify- 
 that curiosity in any degree, till his union with 
 Edith had been rendered impossible by her 
 marriage with another, and then only to lead 
 him by indirect means to suspect, that the 
 cause of her own conduct, her grief, and her 
 agitation, might be in some degree affection 
 towards himself. 
 
 Such was the rule that she laid down for her 
 
 VOL. I. V
 
 i290 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 behaviour, and to pursue this course skilfully, 
 firmly, and perseveringly, she now bent every 
 energy of her mind. The calmness which she 
 had assumed the night before continued ; she 
 governed, she ruled every impulse of the mind 
 or body ; she became, as it were, an instrument 
 in the hands of her own purpose, resisting every 
 thing but its guidance, and overpowering every 
 thing that opposed it. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that to- 
 w'ards the hour at which she expected Strafford's 
 visit she was not agitated by manifold emotions. 
 Her heart thrilled, ber whole spirit seemed moved, 
 andthe joy of his presence contended with painful 
 thoughts regarding the subject on which he was 
 about to speak, in a manner which would have 
 totally overpowered her under any other cir- 
 cumstances. But at length, the sound of his 
 horse's feet was heard, the bell rang in the 
 porch ; and then, with a powerful effort she 
 cleared away every sign of emotion, remaining 
 ready to receive him in the calm dignity of 
 surpassing beauty and unaffected grace. 
 
 When he appeared, she made him sit down
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. ^91 
 
 beside her on tlie sofa, and after a few words 
 upon ordinary topics, an inquiry or two con- 
 cerning tlie state of Mr. Forrest tliat afternoon, 
 and a reproachful message to Sir Andrew Stal- 
 brooke for not coming to see her. Lady Mallory 
 proceeded with a faint but somewhat melancholy 
 smile, saying, *' Well, Ralph, I have seen your 
 fair lady this morning, you know, and I think 
 she is a very pretty little creature indeed." 
 
 The terms in which she spoke of Edith, 
 though laudatory, did not at all satisfy the feel- 
 ings of Ralph Strafford; but that, perhaps, is the 
 case with all lovers, — at least we are told so ; 
 and as he paused without reply. Lady Mallory 
 went on to ask, " You told me yesterday that 
 there was something connected with this at- 
 tachment of yours, in regard to which you 
 wished for counsel and assistance. Now, I need 
 not tell you, Ralph, that I shall be most happy 
 — if there is any thing on earth that I can do 
 for you, either by my influence, or assistance, 
 or advice — to exert myself to the utmost of 
 my abilities." 
 
 There was a slight glistening in her eye like 
 u 2
 
 292 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 a drop of dew in the cup of a flower, which 
 might proceed merely from the eagerness with 
 which she spoke : but she felt that it was 
 there ; she feared that the drop might run over 
 upon her cheek, and her colour came brightly 
 up, making her look more beautiful than ever. 
 This was all nature, and so far nature acted far 
 better for her than art could have done. After 
 a momentary pause she shook her head, with a 
 playful smile at her own embarrassment, and 
 added, before Strafford could reply, " I may 
 surely make you these professions, Ralph, with- 
 out colouring in this way as if I were sixteen, 
 when I am older than yourself in the first place, 
 and in the next you come to consult me how 
 to obtain the hand of another woman." 
 
 This was nature and art combined, and it 
 answered its purpose as well as she could 
 possibly have desired, for the first idea that it 
 suggested to the mind of Ralph Strafford, was 
 the possibility that had existed of his falling 
 in love with Lady Mallory after her husband's 
 death, which was followed again by the idea of 
 the very great probability of such a thing taking
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 29S 
 
 place ; and then, when he gazed on her beauty 
 and thought of her talents, her graces, her good 
 qualities, he wondered that it had not been the 
 case before he ever met with Edith Forrest. 
 What was the difference of a year or two in 
 their age ? Was not Lady Mallory still in the 
 bright freshness of her youth ? was she not now 
 as beautiful — perhaps more beautiful than she 
 had been ten years before ? Why then had he, 
 when he admired, esteemed, and liked her, why 
 then had he, circumstanced as they were, not 
 loved her also ? All that he could answer to 
 his own question was that he had never thought 
 of it ; that he had been accustomed so long to 
 think of Lady Mallory as the wife of Lord 
 Mallory, that even when that tie was broken, 
 he had never thought or reflected that her 
 widowhood placed her hand within his reach. 
 
 All this passed through his mind in a moment, 
 so rapidly as by no means to impede his reply 
 to Lady Mallory. " If I might not consult 
 you, Lady Mallory, and you might not give 
 kind assistance to me," he said, " to whom 
 should I venture to apply, for who do I know 
 u 3
 
 294 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 SO well ? who has ever treated me with such un- 
 varying kindness as yourself?" Lady Mallory 
 cast down her eyes, and a long deep sigh read 
 a comment upon Strafford's words. Without 
 noticing it, however, he went on to give her 
 the whole account of his meeting with Edith 
 in Germany, their attachment to each other, 
 the conduct of Mr. Forrest, the explanation 
 which had taken place between him and Edith 
 since the}^ had again met, and the difficulties 
 and obstacles which threatened to ojDpose them 
 from her father's determined opposition, and 
 views in regard to John Forrest. 
 
 Lady Mallory paused in thought, and, to say 
 the truth, she hesitated. She was about to 
 take the first decided step in a course of deceit ; 
 she was going to give advice, the tendency of 
 which was directly opposite to that which she 
 attributed to it. She loved not the task — it 
 was painful to her. She felt shame, she felt 
 remorse; but strong passion triumphed; and 
 compelling her spirit to be calm, she replied, 
 " Oh, you very well know, my dear Ralph, that 
 in all these affairs of love, in play, romance,
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 295 
 
 and poem, froin the beginning of the world 
 even to the present day, there is always some 
 cruel father who opposes the happiness of the 
 lovers, and is either in the end softened by 
 some unexpected circumstance, or teased into 
 an unwilling consent by prayers and impor- 
 tunities. In real life it would seem also," she 
 continued, remarking that he did not seem 
 altogether to like the tone of raillery in which 
 she spoke, *' In real life it would seem, also, 
 that there is ever some obstacle to be overcome, 
 as if to test affection, or perhaps to strengthen 
 and invigorate it, lest it should die or grow old 
 as soon as gratified. The only way, I believe, 
 in such circumstances, is to have patience. If 
 you attempt to overleap all barriers, you will 
 find them multiply around you ; for fate, depend 
 upon it, takes a pleasure in thwarting those 
 who think that they can overrule her will. 
 Take patience, Ralph, wait calmly and quietly 
 till the period fixed by her father for demand- 
 ing her decision has arrived. Were I in your 
 place, I should not even suffer my attachment 
 to appear too strongly. Give time, and depend 
 u 4
 
 296 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 upon it all difficulties will be conquered ; but 
 if you remark, it is ever by striving to press 
 forward the march of events, that men plunge 
 themselves and those they love into difficulties, 
 from which they sometimes find it impossible 
 to extricate themselves." 
 
 For a minute or two Strafford made no reply, 
 pondering over what she said ; and Lady Mal- 
 lory added, after falling into a fit of abstraction 
 for a minute or two, " Of course I need not 
 ask you, Ralph, if you are very sure that the 
 feelings which you experience towards this 
 young lady are really those of love — that love, 
 I mean, which will be durable, lasting, and suffi- 
 cient to compensate for all the evils and the 
 pangs of life." 
 
 The words that she made use of might not 
 have struck Ralph Stra fiord, had it not been 
 for the tone that she employed. But that tone 
 was sad, solemn, almost stern ; and after gazing 
 in her face for a moment with somewhat of sur- 
 prise, his only reply was an exclamation. 
 
 ** Good God, dear Lady Mallory !" he said, 
 " what is it that you mean ?"
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 297 
 
 " I mean, Ralph/' she replied in the same 
 sad tone, " that in these matters both man and 
 woman often deceive themselves. Struck by- 
 beauties and graces, or perhaps not even that ; 
 attracted bj some high or noble qualities, by- 
 services mutually rendered and kindnesses ex- 
 perienced ; ignorant, by never having felt it, of 
 -vvhat real love is, they very often marry with 
 high esteem, regard, affection, even admiration, 
 thinking that they love truly, and shall love 
 always. Then come the little inconveniences 
 and discomforts that ever mingle in the cup of 
 domestic life, be they cares, be they anxieties, 
 be they any of the many things that would pass 
 over real love, leaving it unsullied like breath 
 upon the diamond. Now, however, each one 
 leaves a trace, a discomfort, a remembrance : 
 the false stone and the real jewel, Ralph, are 
 tried by the scratches ordinary instruments will 
 make upon them. But oh ! Ralph Strafford, 
 if the time should come when the master tone 
 of the human heart is struck by some other 
 being than that to whom our fate is linked, 
 when we know and feel for the first time what
 
 298 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 real love is, when suddenly it flashes upon us 
 in all its intensity, in all its brightness, in all 
 its overpowering strength, then, then, how awful 
 is the situation of those who have mistaken the 
 feelings of their own hearts, — who have not in 
 the first instance inquired, with eager anxiety, 
 ' Do I know what real love is? do I feel it ?' — 
 Oh, how awful is that moment ! '* 
 
 " And do you mean to say. Lady Mallory," 
 exclaimed Strafford with deep interest, " do 
 you mean to say, that such has been your 
 own fate ?" 
 
 The blood rushed up over her neck and face 
 and brow in the deepest crimson. " No ! no ! 
 no !" she exclaimed vehemently, " No ! I did 
 not say so. Ralph Strafford, can you ask the 
 question, who have known me so long and 
 well ? No ! no ! Oh no ! There is not any one 
 on earth has a right to say that 1, the wife of 
 Lord Mallory, ever gave one thought to any 
 other man on earth." 
 
 " I know it, I am sure of it, dear Lady 
 Malloiy," replied Ralph, taking her hand 
 kindly in his ; but she drew it back again in-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 299 
 
 stantly, saying, *^ No ! no ! you have mistaken 
 nie Mr. Strafford! All I meant to say was, 
 that the most important question in this life, 
 which man or woman should put to their own 
 heart when they seek to unite their fate to 
 another is, ' Do I love this being with all the 
 power, passion, and intensity, of which my nature 
 is capable ?' It is upon the answer to that ques- 
 tion that the weal and woe of their future 
 existence altogether depends ; ay, and with a 
 depth and profundity of joy or grief which 
 none can know, till the question is answered 
 and the step taken. But you have asked your 
 heart that question, Ralph, and it has answered 
 that you do. Is it not so ? " 
 
 " It is, indeed," answered Strafford; " I 
 have asked my heart that question, and I have 
 found that my love for Edith is not such as can 
 ever fail or flide ; that it is rooted irradicably in 
 my bosom, • — a part of my existence, that ends 
 but with my being. Before I knew her, I may 
 have met, admired, and fancied for the time I 
 loved many another : but the difference of all 
 my feelings towards her, shows me how vain
 
 300 THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 and empty were all my feelings towards others. 
 For her sake I could be cold to all the earth ; 
 to me she is hope and sunshine ; without her 
 the world would seem to have no light. Ab- 
 sence, long absence, and absence without hope, 
 has tried that love, but never altered it. Even 
 when I thought that there might be some 
 blame attached to her for her conduct towards 
 me, I loved her still, forgave the pain I suf- 
 fered, and prayed for her happiness who I 
 thought had deprived me of mine." 
 
 Lady Mallory had turned her face slightly 
 away, and the blood which had lately crimsoned 
 it, had left it and flowed back again to her 
 heart. The hand which she had withdrawn 
 from Strafford's, and which lay upon the sofa, 
 slightly contracted; but she said not a word 
 for a moment or two, and then only added, 
 ** Of course she has asked herself the same 
 question, and received the same reply." 
 
 *' I do not know," replied Strafibrd ; " but if 
 she have not, I will ask it." 
 
 " And she will answer you as you wish," 
 replied Lady Mallory in a lighter tone ; '^ how-
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 301 
 
 ever, what we have now to consider is, how to 
 overcome the obstacles to your union with her 
 who loves you so. I will do every thing that I 
 can to aid you, and to make you happy. You 
 had better not, however, press your advance too 
 eagerly, lest you spoil all. With time, depend 
 upon it, success crowns perseverance ; and now 
 I suppose, Strafford, you have no objection to 
 my letting your fair Edith know that you have 
 made me your confidant on this business. The 
 consultation of two women on such a theme, is 
 more likely to be to the purpose than that of a 
 woman and a man. Have you any objection?" 
 
 " Not in the least, not in the least," replied 
 Strafford. *' I informed her of my intention 
 myself." 
 
 " And what did she say ?" demanded Lady 
 Mallory eagerly. 
 
 " She said nothing," replied Strafford. 
 
 Lady Mallory was silent for a moment, and 
 then said, *' You see, Ralph, the shades of 
 evening are beginning to fall. I will not 
 detain you any longer. For my part I will do 
 the best for you, and hope, I am sure, that what
 
 30^ THE GENTLEMAN 
 
 I do will be for your happiness. It shall not 
 be my fault, if it is not." 
 
 Strafford now rose and took his leave ; but 
 on descending to the porch, he found that his 
 horse had been taken to the stable, and several 
 minutes elapsed before it was brought round. 
 He had sufficient matter of thoughtj however, 
 in all that had lately passed, and he hardly 
 observed that the night was coming rapidly on. 
 He took what might be called the thoughtful 
 road homeward, that is, the least frequented 
 one, and was approaching Stalbrooke castle by 
 the green lanes, which led up from the common 
 towards the back of the park, with a glorious 
 moon shedding its light upon his path, when he 
 heard, as it were, a suppressed scream, and 
 listened to ascertain whether it proceeded from 
 real fear or pain, or was merely uttered in some 
 village jest. For a minute the scream was not 
 repeated, but in the stillness of the hour he 
 heard a noise of scuffling and trampling, and 
 voices speaking low, and the next instant a 
 tongue that he recognised exclaimed, '* She has 
 got the handkerchief off;" and two or three
 
 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 303 
 
 loud screams followed, succeeding each other 
 without intermission. Ralph Strafford put his 
 horse into a gallop, and rapidly approached the 
 spot. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
 London: 
 Printed by A. Spottiswood 
 New-Street-Square.
 
 THE 
 
 GENTLEMAN 
 
 OF THE 
 
 0]p SCHOOL 
 
 ^ (Kale, 
 
 I iN THREE VOI-UMES. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 ^xtmammimi 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 084214508 
 
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