L I B RAR.Y OF THE UNIVERSITY or ILLINOIS 82.5 |V\355ra ;?:.. RAVENSCLIFFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF EMILIA WYNDHAM," "THE TVILMINGTONS," ETC. So once it would have been— 'tis so no more ; I have submitted to a new control : A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my soul. Wordsworth. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1851. LONnoN : PETNTED BY "WILLIAM TYLER, BOLT-COURT. 8^5 V, 1 RAVENSCLIFFE, CHAPTER I. " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, — These three alone lend life to sovereign power: Yet not for power .... .... But to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And because right is right, to follow right, "Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. Tennysov. " ToTJ have insulted my creed — you have insulted my country — you have insulted my family — you have insulted myself! — Take that — and that — and that — and that ! " .. And quick as lightning fell the flashing horsewhip upon the shoulders of the vrretched and degraded man. The whip VOL. I. B ^ Z EAVENSCLIFFE. was snapped into fifty pieces, and thrown trinnipliantly over his head ; and then, with a shout of wild mocking laughter, the hand- some young Irishman flung away, and left the victim of his passion standing there alone— though, alas ! sm^ounded by a crowd of astonished spectators, for it was high noon. The unclouded sun at his meridian was shining in full splendour through the ca- nopy of green trees which arches the broad walk at the back of St. John's College, Cambridge, and the walk was filled with gownsmen of every condition and degree, from heads of colleges to sizars. Under- graduates, masters of arts, grave professors, and wild young pupils. Gyps and laun- dresses, townsmen and go^VTismen. The day was magnificent, and the walks were fuU. The victim of this outrageous burst of passion was a tall, thin, gaunt - looking young man,mth straight dark hair arranged roimd his face in something of the puritan cut. His features were harsh and stern, his gait ungraceful, his eye deep-set and lower- EAYENSCLirrE. 6 ing. Such was the usual appearance of this man at the best ; you may guess how he looked now — insulted and degraded before the assembled University. He stood there in the broad sunlight, which almost blazed upon the gravel that hot and bright day, a dark figure, cast into the strongest, most dreadful rehef, by the surrounding glare of light. Perfectly alone, in one strong sense of the word, for the crowd had instinctively retreated from the cii^cuit of the wlnrling horsewhip, and stood there — ^terrific circle! all eyes fixed upon the wretched man. His antagonist, the young Irislunan, had, as I have told you, broken through the press, and had, with loud shouts of triumphant laughter, disappeared ; followed by a few of liis friends, their scornful cacliinnations serving as a sort of chorus to the leading voice. He, the attacker, went away not unac- companied by the applauding voice of the multitude — he, the injured, stood there perfectly unsupported, and by himself. He was one nobody loved. 'b 2 4 RAVENSCLIFFE. A few moments he remained immove- able, as if tm'necl to stone ; his head bent down upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the earth — ^something fearful in the dark cloud upon his face. Then he raised his head a very little, and slowly moved away. As he did so, a low hiss followed him. It was from the rude boys and fellows of the commoner sort ; for the undergraduates looked on in a kind of appalled silence. There is sometliing in seeing this dread- ful humiliation inflicted upon a man, which cows the very heart of honour, and makes the blood tingle, and the hair crisp, as if one had been present at some act of excessive physical cruelty. The heads of houses and authorities stood by with yet other feelings. There was a very considerable sense of indig- nation aroused against the dashing young Irishman, and the words " expulsion," or at least " rustication," were murmured about amongst them. RAVENSCLIFFE. 5 Marcus Pitzroy and his friends met in his rooms. '' You'll have a bullet throus^h yom- brains for it, see if you haven't," said one. " He send a buUet through my brains ! a contemptible scoundrel ! I wish he'd try — I wish he'd give me the opportunity to send one through his dastardly heart ! No — no — he won't fight — he can't fight. His principles will not allow Imn to fight ! That's it. He mav use his cursed ton2:ue with impunity, he thinks — distil the venom of his black and detestable envy when and where he ^viU — because he can't be brought to book — can't be called to a reckoning. His principles ^ill not suffer him to fight ! But he's got it ! — He's got it ! — He's got it for one while !" And Marcus danced about the room with exultation. The young men who were present stood stiU and looked grave. There was something to their ideas so dreadful, in the vengeance which had been inflicted ; sometliing so doubly and trebly terrible when wrecked upon one so utterly helpless as the man who cannot fight — that 6 BAVENSCLIFFE. though they most cordially shared in the indignations and antipathies of their young friend, they stood there shocked and con- founded. At last one of them, Berring- ton, said, " You don't mean to assert positively that this fellow can't and won't fight? Yesterday he might have said and thought so. He won't say and thuik so to-day. He is not a coward, whatever else he maybe." " Coward or no coward, what care I? I tell you he is a sneaking, backbituig, in- sulting, envious scoundrel. A venomous worm, that stings a man in the heel because he dare not strike liim in the face. And he shelters liimself — a pitiful rascal! — under his principles, if a man calls him to account ! And he's got a good tlirashing, — a glorious, glorious tln^ashing. To lash his principles into him, or out of him — I care not a button vrliich. I've had mv revens^e, and he may take his — or let it alone. It's aU one to me." RAVEySCLIPTE. 7 He had darkened his rooms. The first thing he did when he entered was to tear down, rather than pnll down, his blinds — ^to dras? his curtains hastily across, to shut out the light of the sun, which seemed killing him. And then he began to walk up and down, up and down the room, like a wild beast in his den. His fists were clenched, his arms crossed tightly over his breast, his head bent down, his face towards the earth. Oh the thunder-cloud that was upon his brow I A contest the most violent was raging within him. An insatiable desire — a rabid hunger for revenge, wliich words cannot describe — daggers and heavy-loaded sticks, and dark nights, and comers of lanes seemed to haunt his mental vision. To call his enemv out — ^to demand the satisfaction due to himself, as a gentle- man, was a light, feeble measure of retri- bution in comparison with the vengeance for which he panted. He wanted to inflict something degrading, lowering, insulting, like that to which he had been subjected — 8 RAVENSCLIFFE. he wanted to have his adversary under his feet in the mire. His was a fierce, violent nature. Pas- sionate yet hard, fiery hut cold — fearful and painful contrasts, aggravated not softened hy the education he had received under an iron father and a rigid mother ; stern hy nature, and fanatical through prejudice and through principle — the edu- cation a Dominican inquisitor might have given in the hosom of a Protestant church ; than which nothing in the form of rehgious teaching can perhaps he imagined more fearful. Prom a child his passions, which had heen extraordinary in thek force, had heen all driven m. His tenderer feelings cliilled; every softer hnagination hlighted. His father and mother on earth had heen cold, unsympathising, and severe; and he had been taught to look upon the Universal Pather as on a stern though rigidly just Ruler, sitting there in His awful infalli- bility amidst scenes of misery and retribu- tion. He had learnt to reverence and to fear — for this impassable justice excited his RAVEN SCLIFFE. 9 reverence — ^but he had never been taught to love. He might be said never to have known what love was. Still he had strong principles. He had been reared in strong fixed principles, and was accustomed to obey them. "WTiat was right he did, partly from principle, partly from doggedness, partly from pride. — These three were tmsted as it were together in that strong cord which bound him to his duty. The savage part of liis nature has had its hour. And now that whirlwind of rage and passion has passed away — and then comes a sterner struggle to be gone through. As that extravagance of passion sub- sided, which upon such occasions lifts a man at once out of the limits of the Con- ventional — the Conventional once more asserted its claim to be heard; and, the satisfaction which, accordiag to the cus- tom of the society around him, such an insult demanded, began to present itself 10 EAVENSCLirrE. in place of daggers, clubs, and dark lanes, as the proper yengeance to be sought. The necessity for calling liini out, became the question. But to call a man out to fight a duel he had been educated to consider, and had always been accustomed to consider, as an act of cold premeditated murder ; heinous in the eye of God and contemptible in that of men. As a deliberate flpng in the face of the Lord of Life — and a cowardly sub- mission to the indispensable and absurd constitutions of society — as a measure at once wicked and contemptible. He would have despised himself as much for the concession to a prejudice as he would have blamed himself for the commis- sion of a crime. And yet, in spite of all this, society is strong, though nature is strong too. A sense of public opinion, the feehngs of our fellows, vnR, imder such circumstances, make themselves felt, even with the most com^ageous and daring defiers of public opinion. And the desire to wipe out this EAVEXSCLirFE. 11 stain, in the only way by which, according to the notions of the young men around him, it could be T\iped out, was yehement now. This stormy contest of feelings lasted Ions:. The iatense desire to clear himseK from disgrace — to resume his place among his fellows. In return for the mocking laughter which still rang in his ears — to confront his enemy, pistol leyelled, in that dire contest wherein one of them should lie dead — he or his injurer — was almost oyerwhelming. Oh, how his soul thirsted for a meeting such as that in which either he should hunself fall, closing his eyes at once upon a world which had become hateful to him — or should see that wild, beautiful, and excitable being, who presented himself even now to liis imagin- ation, as if surrounded, by a sort of glory — 2:lory as of an ayensrins: ansrel — a some- thing lifted aboye common earth and com- mon men — see that brilliant creatm^e stretched before his feet a poor heap of senseless inanimate clay. A helpless in- offensiye clod — whilst he himself should 12 BAVENSCLIFFE. be restored to his place in the opinion of men — hj ha^sdng eonunitted . . , "What ? An action which every one of those very men would laiow he had been driven into against his conscience, against his prin- ciples, against Ms opinions, against his prejudices, — liis often expressed opinions, his well-known principles. Eor had he not declared them openly hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds of times ? Had he not declamied, in terms of the most bitter contempt — the most biting sarcasm — against the mcked- ness, and the foUy, and the weakness — nay, and the cowardice — of this mode of arbitrement between man and man ? Had he not declared his conviction of the wickedness of thus flying in the face of one of the very first laws im- posed upon human beings, — that of re- specting life? Upon the folly of thus putting wrong and right, justice and in- justice, injm-ed and injm-er, against each other upon equal terms, and calling that satisfaction! Had he not harangued upon the weakness of submitting to BAVENSCLIFFE. 13 the conventional absurdities of society, and suffering life and conscience to lie at the mercy of its preposterous arrange- ments ? Above all, had he not exclaimed till he was hoarse against the cowardice — the infamous cowardice — of such a pro- ceeding? He had pointed out, — and rightly enough, but for the air of trium- phant superiority which he was accus- tomed to assume, — ^that no stronger proof could be given of a deficiency in all that constituted true manly strength and courage than was given by him thus become the slave of opinion. "\Mio dare not do what he thought just — dare not do what he thought right — dare not resist crime, and absm^dity, and folly, because he feared the eve of man. Cowardice it was, — ay, rank, con- temptible cowardice ; — ^what else ? Over, and over, and over again, had he thus arom.ed and talked. Talked till the dark blood crimsoned his sallow cheeks to the temples, — till his black stem eye flashed with ominous fire. Ay, that strong bitter tongue of his 14i RAVENSCLirPE. had exliausted all its stores of sarcastic scorn to stigmatise tlie base cowardice of iiim who suffered liimself to be driven by the world's laugh to the breaking throu2:h of his own well-known and ac- knowledged principles. The barrier thus presented, and which he had himself elevated between him and this — satis- faction, — a satisfaction which he now felt he would have given life here and life hereafter, — everything on earth and everything beyond the earth to obtain — he felt to be invincible. There was no such satisfaction pos- sible for him. His principles were too well known. Often and ofteif, in his declamatory arguments, he had been met— not mth arguments strong and logical as his own — ^for that was impossible — but in the usual manner in which the oi polloi of this world, who cannot argue, and will not be comdnced, meet reasoning too strong for reply — by the connnon resource of such, to use the then University phrase — the tu quoque. '' Wait and see, — wait RAVENSCLIFFE. 15 and see, — wait till he's tried ; we sliall see what all these fine phrases -^Hl come to. Let hini he put to proof. Let him be put to proof, and see whether he has more of this fine moral courage he pretends to than other men." And, above all, echoed in his memory's ear, the loud contemptuous laugh upon such occasions of Marcus Fitzrov, who ridiculed his notions and defied his logic. And one sentence in particular there was, not to be forgotten, which had been uttered by this young Irishman, who detested reasoning, and looked upon duelling as one of the first necessities and most heroic con- tingencies of life — and between whom and himself so violent an antipathy had arisen. "I'd like to thrasli those notions out of him," the lively young Hibernian had been heard to say, with that exulting ah' of conscious superiority which action assumes over reason ; "I'd like to thrash him out of his notions. And see if I don't, if ever he gives me the oppor- tunity ! — and then we shall see what will become of his logic." 16 KAYENSCLIFFE. The very man — the very aggressor, would be the first to triumph. Marcus Pitzroy cared not one rush for a duel ; mth him it came as " easy as eating" — A common necessary inci- dent in every young man's life, — to be regarded as Ughtly as the gay young fellow at that time regarded most things. Ever ready he was to stake Ms life upon the turn of a hair, either to defend Ms own honour or to serve a friend. Gene- rous, free-hearted as the day was he — thoughtless of consequences, free and T\dld as the wind. The chartered libertine whom every one laughed at, admired, and loved. These thoughts, as they rose in Eandal Langford's spmt, were truly bitter as wormwood. TMs last triumph of his ad- versary did, indeed, eat into his soul; and he had not even the satisfaction of feeling that the tremendous sacrifice he was called upon to make was offered up at the shrine of Ms conscience. The devil within could not cheat him so far. He was denied tMs proud reward, — ^that RAYENSCLITFE. 17 noble, eleYating, inner sense of the right, the courageous, and the manly, which would have carried a character like his, triumphant, through the deepest obloquy. He knew himself so far. He knew that it was not respect for the law of God, — ^that it was not obedience to prin- ciple, — that it was not the manly strength that adheres to duty in defiance of the clamours of all mankind, that prompted him to the course he was about to take. No, no ! Alas ! after all, it was but cowardice in another form. Fear of man's opinion lay at the root of it — Fear as contemptible as that he had been wont so loudly to stigmatise. Fear, of what the youno? men about him — boys he so heartily despised — fear of what they would say, would think of him, if driyen to abandon his opinions. Fear, aboye all — abject fear — of the moment when he should confront that youni^ exultini> crea- ture — the laughing de^oL in his eye — upon a field to which he had suffered liimself to be driyen in defiance of eyerv well- knoAvn principle and determination. YOL. I. c 18 BAVENSCLIPFE. The alternative was horrible. On either side lay shame before men. That burn- ing, agonizing, racking thing, to a proud, haughty spkit like liis — shame before men! He despised every several man among them, but before the power of their opinion his spirit quailed, and liis cheek, at the mere idea of their contempt, fired or blanched. Partly from vast natural strength both of body and mind, — partly from that blind self-esteem wliich is engendered by the ignorance of ourselves and others, result- ing from a retired education, — partly from a natural haughtiness or arbitrariness of disposition, which sought to domineer and take the leading place at all times, Randal Langford was accustomed to hold hmiself in his own esteem like one who walked in a liigher sphere than other men. As a tiling apart, — one as much elevated above his ordinary companions in soul, as he towered above them head and shoulders in bodily height. And now he was smarting, agonizing. RAVENSCLIPFE. 19 maddening, under the sense of obloquy; — obloquy among these pigmies — obloquy from these pigmies — smarting from the wounding of ten thousand minute arrows, every sheaf of wliich singly he would have trampled on and defied. And there was no redress, — nothing to be done, — notliing but to take refuge in the last asyliun of the proud ; — a dogged determination not to be driven from liis resolutions, — not to vleld a line to then' j)rejudices or opinions, but to defy them all in tliis last act, — Not to fight. Oh that this moral triumph had but proceeded from a nobler source ! Oh that this strong man, when he resisted error, prejudice, and folly, had but done it from high and generous sentiment I — sentunent which would have magnetized mankind, and won the s^Tiipathy and admiration of the young, unthinking, erring crowd around liim I As it was, no one s}-mpa- thised. In fact, every one did just the contrary. Bets were laid, — "Will he fight?— wiU he not fight?" "WiU his pride drive Mm to seek satisfaction in the c 2 20 RAVEZS'SCLIFEE. ordinary way, or ^yiR his obstinacy main- tain liim in the absurdity of passively submitting to be horsewhipped, and thus beini? diss^raced for ever ?" Nobody among the whole body of under- graduates seemed once to tliink of con- sidering liis conduct in any other light. There is a sort of instinct which seems to teach man the motive power wliich in- fluences his fellow-man. Not one among them ever thought of imagining Langford as the hero or the dupe of a moral principle. Every one beheved the contest would he between revenge and obstinacy — between pride of one sort or the other. Nobody ever dreamed of accusing liim of cowardice. They were just enough in their judgments of the man, though so erroneous in their judgments of the act. The act they designated as an insigne absm'dity of com^se ; the motives in which it originated they laughed at. Yet after all there was something in this dogged obstinacy which they could not help feel- ing a certain respect for. Even dogged RAVEXSCLirFE. 21 obstinacy is a form of strength, and all men respect moral strength. Langford had not one single friend to feel for him, understand him, or advise him. ^S'ever stood man more alone. Never was man more nniversallv disliked. His gTeat mental superiority, — his rude unpohshed manners, rendered more pecu- liarly offensive by the universal impression that his roughness proceeded less from the ignorance of forms belonging to a secluded education, than from that utter contempt for liis fellows, which rendered to please or displease equally indifferent, — his domi- neering, arbitrary halDits, — liis implacable, proud, unamiable temper, and the disdain towards his companions which he dis- played upon every occasion when these youngsters irritated liim by their thought- lessness and lenity — ^had provoked it. In short, these quahties united had rendered Langford an object of universal dislike, not to sav* hatred. The vounsr Irishman, Marcus Titzroy, a gay, high- spirited, ardent-tempered fellow, had taken a most prominent share in this animosity, 22 RAYENSCLirrE. and in the amusement of iDaiting the northern hear — as they called him — Lang- ford heing a Xorth of England man. With the light-artillery of liis ready wit he was for ever persecuting him ; and the flashes of his quick retorts set many a supper- tahle upon a roar. Langford had the hitter, irritating feeling upon every occa- sion of kno^^ing that public opinion was against liim. Argue as he might — thunder as he might — abuse as he might — conclude as he might — were he ten thousand tunes in the right, one sally from his lively light-armed adversary would lay all his heavy defences prostrate, and convulse the table vdth. laughter. With that peculiar laughter in wliich the note of triumph is to be detected; that note wliich pro- clauns to the writliing heart that every creature present enjoys the defeat. The hatred Langford conceived for Pitzroy became almost terrible. He lay in wait for every opportunity to attack and to injure him. To his face, behind his back, it was all one. His creed, for Fitz- RATEyscLirrE. 23 roy was a Catholic — his coimtrv, for FitzroY was an Irishman — his family, for his family, though nohle, had fallen into poverty and ohscurity — himself — ^for, clever as he was, he said and did many a wild, blundering, imprudent thing, — all these afforded mark wide enous^h and broad enough for the shafts of malice. Such proceedings had been some time endured as only just reprisals and le- gitimate warfare ; but the arrogance and insolence of Langford at last carried him beyond what was considered legiti- mate or just, and this behind his adver- sary's back, too. The consequence had been that Titzroy had vowed to horsewhip him, and had carried the sentence into execution in the manner we have seen. What was talked about at supper - tables that evenincr but the cause of D Fitzrov xersus Lans^ford ? What discussed o but the Avill and the wiU not ? — the 24 HAVENSCLIFPE. should or the should not ? Loud were the disquisitions. Much bad logic and much worse wit, was expended upon the sub- ject ; and a great deal of infamous moral philosophy, of course. There were all sorts of opinions as to what loould be done, and some difference as to what ought. Not a man but in his own case would have adopted the -vodgar conven- tional mode of demanduig satisfaction in the ordinary way ; but most of them felt and acknowledged the difficulty as regarded Langford. His profession of principle upon this subject had been so public, so re- peated, so trancliant, so unmodified, that it seemed impossible for him to recede with honour. The perception of the fix he was in was hailed with immeasured dehght. They had him in. a trap — the grim monster of whom aU these Vv^ild lads had felt more or less a httle in awe — and oh ! how they exulted and revelled in the idea, " What will he do ? — what step take next ?" Gh ! hov/ they re- joiced as they laughed, and pictured him, that grim Bruin, biting his paws for very KAYEXSCLirPE. 25 rage, not knoAving whether to turn to the right hand or to the left. Pitzroy, the Alexander of the day — the hero of every tonme — the victor who had humbled the fierce indomitable '^'io- lenee of the common enemy — sat there crowned vdih his laurels — gay, thought- less, unostentatious, as ever — ^utterly in- different as to the next morning's event ; believing in liis heart that Langford would fight — must fight. To his Irish brain, it appeared a moral impossibility that he could do anytiiing else but fight. Say what they all would, he felt they were talldng nonsense — utter nonsense. They might argue it as they chose, but what was, was — what must be, must be — what is in accordance with the inevitable laws of nature, must happen. Langford would challenge him, of course — he should find a challenge on his table when he went home. He should have to fight him next morning ; he should have the satis - ^o faction of winging him. It should be the right arm — he would not go near the heart — he had paid him — he was 26 EAVENSCLiriE. satisfied — he didn't want to harm the poor old fellow — he had given him his lesson. So thought the young Irishman about the encounter he expected the next day. And he laughed, and he joked, and he took his wine, and he was, as usual, the delight of the table ; and he thought no more of the seriousness of these things — of life and death, wrong or right — than a bird who launches himself on the ^dng from a tree top, to bathe in the sun- light, carolling with youtliful joy. So they laughed, and so they speculated. But the most interesting speculation in which they indulged was as to how Langford would meet them all to-mor- row, supposing that he did not fight — what face he would put upon the matter. Much humour was lavished upon this part of the subject; and a great deal of long-brooded ill-will and dislike found vent in satirical description. However, minutes succeeded to minutes, and hours to hours, and it was time to separate. Bets were settled and booked ; EAYEXSCLIFPE. 27 a few more sqiuhs, and a fevr more loud hearty laughs exchanged, and then supper parties broke up, and under- graduates sought then; rooms, all on tip- toe for the morrow — at least as much on tip-toe as men a little the worse for ■wine, and a good deal the worse for want of sleep, can be said to be. Eitzroy re- turned to his room vrith. some impa- tience, and entering hastily went up to liis table, fully expecting to find the challenge, he felt so certain of recei^dng, lying there. I need not inform you that nothing of the sort was to be foimd. The young man stared. It was the most wonderful phenomenon in human life that he had ever met with — monstrous, and utterly unaccormtable upon any theory. There was but one reason for declining a duel that he could comprehend — namely, that the man was a coward. Langford he knew was no coward. It was passing strange. He stood considering a little — as one considers some marvellous event, utterly incapable of being referred to any known 28 EAVENSCLIFFE. cause or principle. Then lie whistled sig- nificantly, for a few moments, — dropped the words '' Just as he likes," and taking up his candle went to bed. The head was soon upon the pillow, and it had not been two seconds upon the pil- low before Eitzroy was fast asleep, '' in dreams Elysian." The morning was dark and lowering. A cold raw fog hung over the towers of the University. The sluggish Cam seemed to creep more sluggishly along, as the mist, which had risen from its waters, hung heavy over the trees and towers of the colleges, and college walks and gardens. The sun was not to rise for two hours, but there was a kind of dawning ti^dlight in the east, wliilst the moon hidden by the mist, but still hanging on the western range, threw a pale spectral light upon objects. The lamps are faintly twinkling down Trumpington-street, now silent and deserted except by a drowsy watchman or EAYENSCLIPFE. 29 two, or a few of those accountable figures which at any hom% however late m the night, or before the dawning day, mar be seen now and then stealino^ solitarily alons^ the causeways of great to^vns — making the night hideous. Four o'clock this chill mominsj. — All the clocks and chimes of the Uniyersity take up the tale and tell it, some in wild notes of music — some by the clear calls of the clock, distinct as the yoice of chanti- cleer — some by the low-toned accents of the bell. The air is eloquent — talking of- — Time — Time — passing — passing Time — Time that was, and is — and is passed, and will not be again. The slumbering world around lie in- sensible to the voice. To-nio^ht throus-h the insensibility of sleep, as to-morrow throu2:h that of indifiPerence. As little heeds he, the man who in a heavy great coat, and carrying a rough horse-cloth upon his arm, strides down Trumpington-street towards the Inn. so BAVENSCLIFFE. The lamps blaze brightly over the arched way to the inn-yard, and the gloominess and silence of this early hour is here enlivened by the floating lights of lanterns and candles, and the voices of busy men, and shrilly exclaiming women. I^ar imder the archway stands the coach — The Northern Highflyer, with four horses in bright harness, stamping and impatient to start — with its staring lamps, and its handsomely painted sides — its bm4y coach- man in heavy great coat, its stern and active guard, its passengers and packages, all in the hurry and excitement of imme- diate departure. " Any place inside ? " " Any place inside ? " passes from the coachman, too busy arranging the packing of his macliine even to look up ; " Any place inside ? " is carried from mouth to mouth. " No, sir ! No, sir ! No, sir ! " " A place on the box ? " " That's taken." *' A place anywhere ? " '' Yes, sk ; the place by me," says the EAYEySCLIPFE. 31 guard, in too great a hurry to utter more. " riing up my horseman's cloak, then. When do you start ?" " Two minutes, two seconds. There — away with that basket there." A few more seconds. They seem to hun like hours : the spirit within is fret- ting, is raging, to be off — to be away. He lends liis giant strength in hoisting up boxes, packages. He is glad to be em- ployed, — anything to divert the mitable gnawdng sense of impatience. At last it is done. " That's aU ? " " Yes ; yes, sir." " Will you mount ? " says the guard ; and Langford is in his place. The guard scrambles up by his side ; he puts his horn to his mouth, and the merry cheering blast startles the dull echoes of the nis^ht. Lash goes the whip ; forward spring the gay prancing horses ; they rattle do^n Trumpington-street, the guard blowing a merry reveillee as the coach careers along. They have crossed the bridge, they are out 32 EAVENSCLIFFE. of the town. The detested University, with its green-arched arbouring wallvs, its lofty trees, its hoary towers, its venerable time-hallowed colleges, dies away into the mist — and he is in the freedom of the fields once more. He breathes again. He begins to draw long, heavy relieving breaths. The fresh air of the morning expands his chest ; the free air of nature blows upon his temples. The pressure, the iron band, and the hideous nightmare of the last twelve hom^s — where are they gone ? They have vanished mth the hoar towers of the University — sunk, dissolved, as it were, in the wreath of the mist, which, as the coach thus gallops forward with the speed of the liglit from the banks of the reedy and sluggish Cam, dis- appears among the open unenclosed hills towards Newmarket. The sky clears overhead ; the day dawns in the east, and the golden beam first faintly streaking the rising morning, slowly expands, and the birds begin to whistle over the treeless fields as the sun comes EAVEXscLirrE. 33 on — comes on — And then there is a pause — till up he bursts in all liis glory. The coach gallops on — gallops on — over hill, over dale, across open plain, and be- tween rising banks ; and every mile it proceeds, and every half-hour that elapses, fresh freedom, and energy seem to visit the bosom of the ans^uished man. That weight, that oppressive, insupportable weight, which society had laid upon him seems removed. Societv and he vrere not made for each other. He was formed to live alone with nature, like some lordly, sullen, lion that one has heard of — found, in his solitary lonely grandeur in the de- sert. Such a desert is Eandal Langford's element. His horseman's cloak wrapt round him, for the air of these hills is chilly, his arms crossed over his breast — now he looks down, indulging the delicious feeling of the renewal of life which springs within him, then lifts up his head and cheerfully regards the flying landscape. Sometimes he, though not given to VOL. I. D 34 EAVENSCLirrE. casual conversation, addresses the guard, and puts questions about the various seats of the different country gentry as they pass. And with a sullen, indistinct sense of satisfaction hears, alas ! the usual record of this man's extravagance, and that man's unhappiness, — of the vices of such an one, and the misfortune of another, — -and why that house is shut up, and this to be sold, — and that is let, and to whom, — that is uninhabited, and w^hy. — A tale, like most tales of humanity, sad and disheartening, because the human story is too often sad and disheartening ; its happier and better side being seldom the upper side of the medal. Misfortunes and crimes stimu- late the vulgar curiosity, the vulgar appetite for excitement; the virtues and their peaceful enjoyments afford little sub- ject for discourse, and little scope for description. So the traveller goes on. He travels night and day without stopping. And it will take him another night and two days before he reaches the place of his destina- tion. This is Ravenscliffe — situated in a RAVENSCLirrE. 35 most seclnded part of tliat part of the country, whicli lies upon the borders of Northumberland and Durham. " Good mornino^ ! Horribly cold. This is the most detestable weather." '' Say, detestable place in the world. I yerily belieye we haye more fos^ at Cam- bridge than at any place in the "United Eongdom.." " Any news ? How go the bets ? " " Has anybody seen Fitzroy this morn- ing ? He thinks no more of ' going out,' as he calls it, than of playing a game at chuck-farthing — but there is something in the thought of a friend being about to be engaged in a duel, that makes one quiyer in spite of one's self." '' Well ; but does any one know any- tliing about it ? T^Tio said he was gone out ? I don't belieye a word of it. I passed his door two minutes ago, and he still sported his oak. I don't belieye he is up. See, his blinds are down ; and the D 2 36 RAVENSCLIFFE. first thing he does in the morning is, to di-aw them up." " Well, get along, or we shall be too late for chapel/' '' By Jove ! I wonder how Langford will look." "You need not trouble yourself vdth wondering how he wiR look," said another under-graduate, joining the party — ''for Langford' s gone." '' Gone ! " " Yes ; my Gyp has just told me that his Gyp told him Langford left his rooms at fom' o'clock tliis morning, and was off by the Tsorthern Highflyer." " Pairly turned tail." At which thev all laus^hed, and hurried in to chapel. EAYiySCLIFFE. 37 CHAPTER II. 'Tis the place ; and round the gables, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about tlie moorland, fiying over Locksley Hall — Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the drean,' tracks. . . Ten'xysox. PtA^'ENSCLiFFE is situated in what was then a most deeply secluded part of Eng- land — I say was, for I understand one of the northern railroads has now penetrated tln-ough that portion of the country, dis- closing to the eye its long-liidden and unimaginable beauties — but at the time of whch I am writing, it might be called a district almost quite unknown. Is o great roads traversed it — no traffic animated it — the secluded vales and cleans never echoed to the rousing horn of the mail- 38 HAVENSCLIEFE. coach, nor were enlivened by the gay public equipage glancing along its deserted roads. A wide desert of broA^ii liills and rocky mountains, a desolate country of mines and miners, extending oyer mde tracts, separated from the ordinary world some of the most lovely scenery of our beautiful island. A few ancient mansions, sur- rounded by their secular Avoods of oak, and birch, and mountain ash ; with wild half- redeemed parks, studded by enormous trees, that might have seen the Con- quest, — were scantily scattered over this district, most of them, even at that time of day, bemg abandoned by their proprie- tors. A few there were, however, where the OAvners still lived in a kind of feudal grandeur, ahiiost entkely separated from the common current of the Avorld. — The habit of annual \isits to London not being at tliis time of day at all general. Tliese residents were mostly given to those faults, and endowed with the good qualities such seclusion from the vrorld usually engenders. The evils of the system, I think, it is now EATEyscLirrz. 89 generally acknowledged, in most cases, outTreigMng its advantages. One of the most imposing — one of the most picturesque — one of the most se- cluded — and one of the most gloomy of these mansions — ^was Eavenscliffe. The Eavenscliffe property was very extensiye, stretching over a "uide area of the surroundinor country — The estate was certainly less valuable than it was large ; nevertheless, in the wide-spreading circumference of its boundary-line, there were included many rich vallevs, where the herbage was of that rich and peculiar quality which belongs to the well-known dales of the North, and from whence noble droves of oxen were even then sent to the London market. IVIr. Langford's income, therefore, was a handsome one, though not of the enor- mous amount which those pro^^rietors realise whose baiTen mountains cover mines of coal or lead. In the district belons^op to 'Mi\ Lan2:ford there were none; in consequence, the scenery- upon his estate possessed more than the usual 40 RAYENSCLirFE. share of beauty. The steeps were pre- cipitous, and covered mth abundance of that Viild vegetation which, inter- mingled with the projecting faces of sand or granite rock, produces so much beauty. Trees of vast size adorned the woods, which came sweeping down between the hills ; and among them ran one of those bright, broad, pebbly, transparent moun- tain rivers, ^vith bold faces of rock rising abruptly on the sides, or here and there broken and tumbling in confusion into the stream — which render such scenery so eminently beautiful. Above the stream, where the rocky precipices at intervals were interrupted or had receded, pendant birches of extra- ordinary size and beauty waved, whilst hollies, that were like forest-trees, stood among the lighter greens, and gave effect to the picture. Giant oaks stretched their broad arms across the sky; and the water — ^the living water, which played and meandered, sparkled and rushed on- ward, now dashing in wild passion over the broken rocks, now softly meandering RAYENSCLIFFE. 41 round some small promontory clothed with weeping birch-trees, now sleeping in some still, dark pool, under the shadow of enormous oaks, or sparkling gaily in the sunbeams as it ran over the glancing pebbles. The river was cele- brated as a trout-stream, and possessed every charm which lures the pensive and imaginative fisherman to his still pleasures. Upon a scam% high over this beautiful stream — a sort of hiUy projection, upon either side of wliich fell two vallevs, clothed T\'ith magnificent woods — stood the house, or what had once, indeed, been the Castle of EavensclifPe. The castle was almost entirely cleared away, but some vestisres of it vet remained. There was a large square tower, still inliabited ; and a good deal of the old materials, and even some of the old elevation, might be traced among the servants' apartments and the stables. The modern house, which might, indeed, itself be about a hundred and fifty years old, extended in one long Hne from the square tower, to which it was united, along the front of the precipice. 42 RAVENSCLIFrE. There was nothing particular to recom- mend it. It had been built, mth much contempt of the rules of architecture, chiefly of materials, it would seem, draT^TL from the ancient edifice. A long line of crenellated wall terminated in two small crenellated towers, the wall being pierced with large windows, which were those of the dramng, dining-room, and library, — large-paned ordinary sash-windows. There was no attempt at imitation of Elizabethan or Mediseval art; the house having been erected at that unimaginative period of Eno'lish history, the close of the seven- teenth, or opening of the eighteenth, cen- tm'v. In short, nothins" could he more wildly romantic than the scenery around ; nothing more prosaically common-place than the house and its furniture. There were no remains of the splendour of the Louis Quatorze, or the luxury of the Louis Quinze, style here; no elaborate arch to door or window ; no lofty ceilings ; no painted walls ; no charming oriel windows ; no pleasant, secluded, fantastical nooks and corners. The rooms were square, or ob- EATEXSCLirrE. 43 long — square, or oblong as packing-cases ; neither high, nor low, nor long, nor short, but just in that desolating proportion which has no character at all. The doors were square at top, and of the same de- spauing propriety of proportion : windows alike — sash-windows, all. TTindow-panes neither large nor small ; just small enough to cut up the view piecemeal, just too large to give the least comfortable feehng of tAvilight seclusion to the apartment. Not a creeper was allowed to be trained against the walls of this imamiable abode. Creep- ers occasioned all sorts of dirt and insects, and hurt the stonework ; and what was the use of them ? TVliat possible use could there be in having a set of trees, even fruit-trees, damping the walls, and serving as a harbour for every species of vermin ? In front of this long line of house, between it and the precipice, ran a space of turf, kept scrupulously mowed and clean ; and in the centre of it ran a somewhat naiTOw gravel walk. Xot a rose-bush, not a shrub, not a flower — but once there, vou felt no longer the want of these things. There 44 RAYENSCLIFFE. was the glorious ^dew before you — the steep precipice, the sparkling river coursing at your feet, making a thousand fantastic leaps and tiny waterfalls ; the magnificent birch-trees bathing their light branches in the liquid stream ; the vast secluded woods stretched on each side and behind you, and the -^Tld scenery of hill upon hill, peak beyond peak, mountain beyond mountain, spread in sublime desolation in front. One other featm^e, however, peculiar to the place, must not be forgotten, — ^namely, the old hoar gray tower itself; its attend- ant single oak-tree, and the raven's nest, which, according to tradition, had been there for centmies. The dark tower rose in a sort of gloomy grandeur against the sky, solitary and deserted of its fellows, and seeming to look down with a species of forlorn contempt upon the more modern mansion. It was still, however, inhabited ; of wliich the or- dinary sash-windows, most ingeniously in- serted into its moss-grown, weather-beaten walls gave proof. The grass-plot and gra- vel-walk was carried on towards this old EAYEXSCLirFE. 45 frowning tower in all their trim and pro- saic propriety; but when yon had followed them so far, and tm-ned the farther angle of that part of the building, you came suddenly upon a featm-e more in character ^dth it, — ^namely, the raven's oak. The raven's oak was a vast ruinous old tree, cotemporary with, or in all proba- bility far more ancient than the Norman edifice. The trunk, — now in an advanced stage of decay, having upon one side a space which would contain two or three people, — was of an enormous circumfer- ence; hoary, rugged, moss-grown. It was surmounted bv a vast coronet of branches of amazing strength and thickness, which spread their huge arms over a wide extent of rough and shaggy grass. It stood there in its solitary grandeur like a noble vege- table cathedi'al — its huo^e arms swavin^ majestically to the rising and falling T^-ind, gi\-ing forth, at intervals, the solemn mys- terious voices of the spirits of the air, which seemed to breathe amidst its mul- titudinous -wilderness of leaves. Sublime relict of as^es opone bv ! 46 RAVENSCLIFFE. In the very centre of tliis huge tree was situated the raven's nest. A pair of ravens, — and one pair only, — had built there time out of mind. The nest had seemed to increase in size with every fresh generation of these singular birds, and now presented the appearance of a small hillock of dead branches in the very centre of the verdant, living green which surrounded it. The hoarse croak of the ravens as they slowly Vvdnged their way round and round the tree; their black forms, rendered promi- nent against the golden green of the leaves, completed the beautiful and sin- gular picture. These ravens, as I told you, were always there, — and always a pan, and a pair only. The habits of birds in these respects are little understood. It would seem as if something of our right of suc- cession were preserved among them. So long as the parents live, the children ap- pear to forsake the nest in v\'Mch they were reared, and leave to their progenitors the undisputed possession : when the old ones die, a successor, without hesitation or dis- pute, arrives and takes their place. This EAYEXSCLirrE. 47 it is certain had been the case at Kavens- ciiffe ; — for as long as the castle had been a castle, or the oak a groTiTL tree, all tra- dition acn:eed that the two ravens had been there; and this tradition was con- firmed in some measure by the raven borne as crest, and two ravens proper upon the shield of the Langfords. I know few things more grand and im- posing than it was upon one of those low ^-indy days, when large masses of cloud are slowly sailing over the heavens, and the wind makes a solemn music in the tops of the woods, than to stand under the vener- able tower vrhich frowned above your head, and watch the branches of this mountain of verdure, slowly heaving — rising and falling like the regular breathing of some husre Kvino? thins:, — the two ravens slowly whirling round and round, then* black forms giving point and feature to the picture, and their hoarse croak every now and then breaking the solemn mono- tony of the ^\ind voices. Every boy that had ever borne the name of Langford, had, in his turn, been in the 4i8 RAYENSCLIFFE. habit of scaling the huge trunk of the oak- tree, and peeping into the nest of the sacred ravens ; but, boy nor man, for miles round, would have dared to put a sacri- legious hand within its precincts, and touch an egg — ^far less have taken one. They would not have done it scarcely for their lives. Still less would any one have pre- sumed to disturb the parent bbds. Xo ancient dame, no hoary Druid, could have venerated these singular creatm^es more than did the whole peasant neighl3ourhood round. Eavenscliffe, Langford, and the ravens, seemed indissolubly associated in every imao:ination. Nav, the character of the ravens, and of the raven's oak, seemed in some mysterious way attached to the family. The Langfords were all of lofty stature, dark, with raven hair and eyes, and a certain rugged, haughty sternness of countenance which rendered them alike respected and feared. EAVEXSCLirFE. 49 Such was Eavenscliffe — and such as it was, one great quality it appeared to pos- sess in an eminent degree, and tliat was, the power of attaching its proprietors to the spot. This was a sort of traditionary feeling in the family of Langford. Every member of it loved, honom^ed, revered Ravenscliffe. To belong to Eavenscliffe was in itself a distinction. To be the heir of Eavenscliffe was, in a sort, like being heir -apparent to a kingdom ; it was a dignity inappreciable. Xo daughter left the house of Langford to enter other fami- lies, but taught her children to honour Eavenscliffe — to believe no house, no estate, no possession, could equal that of Eavenscliffe. Xo younger son left the father's mansion to try his fortune in the world but carried with him the imdvias^ veneration for Eavenscliffe. To send the spoils of their various enterprizes to adorn EavensclifPe — ^to revisit Eavenscliffe — this was the prime object of life. The attach- ment was so strong, the association, as we may call it, so absurd, that very few younger sons among the Langfords were. VOL. I. E 50 RAVENSCLIFFE. known to marry. They mostly retm^ned to die at Eavenscliffe, or to live th^e renting some of the farms, or inhabiting some one or other of the small houses upon the estate, — content, so they laid their bones in the family vault at Ravenscliffe. The family did not mingle much with the world in general, nor had it done so for many generations. At the time of the great rebellion, Lang- ford, of Ravenscliffe, had taken part v/ith the Parliament. He was a doughty cap- tain in Cromwell's army — a stern, sour Independent. At the P^estoration, he had managed to escape the punishment of exile or confiscation; perhaps he might, from the remote quarter in which liis property was situated, have escaped ob- servation. However that might be, with little gratitude for the leniency he had experienced, he had returned to Ravens- cliffe scowling and grumbling like a re- treating lion — cursing the government of EAYENSCLIFFE. 51 kings and prelates — abhorring alike every established form, whether in Church or State. In this hunionr he had shut him- self up in his gloomy fortress. There, in due time, he had married a vouno^ lady — if she could ever have been called vounsr — of the same stern, imcompromising faith as himself. One son and some daughters had blessed, or rather had been the result of, their imion. The children were cherished in the stem principles of their parents — to love Eavenscliffe, and hate the estabHsh- ment in Church and State, being the two foundation-stones of their teaching. As time passed on — as the Stewarts were driven from the throne, and the glorious house of Hanover and Protestant succes- sion succeeded — the feelings of the party to which the house of Langford belonged, gradually softened and subsided for Avant of the aliment of opposition. The Independents lost much of their sullen feelings of separation, and mingled more with their fellow-men. The gloomy features peculiar to the party melted, in some degree, into the general harmony of E 2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLiNOIS LIBRARX 52 RAVENSCLIFFE. thought which began to pervade society; and the Langfords, no longer shutting themselves up at Bavenscliffe with a few family connections and Independent divines, began to come out a little into the world. Langfords were sent to Cam- bridge, though they refused subscription, and never were made B.A's. The father of Randal Langford had been there, at least, and to St. John's had sent liis son. But schools, especially public schools, were still held in abomination, by the house of Bavenscliffe. The sons were educated in all the pride and exclusiveness which pertains to a system of private education, when carried on out of contempt, or rather hatred, of the vices and deficiencies of public edu- cators; and all the narro^^iiess of spirit and ignorance of society and of self was engendered, which is too often the result of being reared under a private tutor, whose bread and advancement depend upon the subservience of his humour. The Langfords, to a man, were the last people in the world to escape uninjured RAVEXSCLirPE. 53 from such discipline, or rather want of discipline. There was something so rigid, so abitrarv, so OYerbearinsr, in their tem- pers, such a thorough, inbred, double-dyed comdction of the value of the race of Langfords, — of their indisputable supe- riority, both in conduct and principles, — and of the utter frivolity and absurditv of the world m general, that nothing but a thorough grinding doTvn of the whole man, a good com-se of thrashing in a pubKc school, could have brought them into the shape of anything that was tolerable. For want of this they were, father and son, generation after genera- tion, most ^?^tolerable, and were in general pronounced so by every one of their ac- quaintance. Sotto voce, however, as you hear men whisper a derogatory opinion against that which is held in general reverence; for the strict rectitude of their conduct, their high and haughty bearing, their kno^vn observance of all the laws of morality, and their deep rehgious convictions and austere practice of its obligations, — Dissenters though they 54 RAVENSCLIFFE. were, — commanded the respect of every- body. Now, of all the members of this harsh, overbearing, and unamiable race, no one had appeared for generations more aus- tere in his temper, more overbearing in his habits, more unamiable in his man- ners, than this very Randal Langford, who got horsewhipped for his insolent contempt of good feeling and good man- ners by the fiery Irishman. And of all that race, — so deep, so profoundly sen- sitive in their feelings as they unques- tionably were, — iron as their exterior might appear, — no one was capable of more acu.te, more profound, more inefface- able feeling, than this very man. Im- pressions once made remained indelible ; hidden they might be, — closed over, as it were, and concealed under the stern im- passable exterior, — but they were as characters written upon the rock, and were never, never to be effaced. RAYENSCLIFFE. 55 The fresli morning air, as he was carried rapidly over the breezy, open Cambridge- shire hills, far from the detested precincts of the University, had raised, however, an unwonted sense of exhilaration in the traveller. The fresh morning air is like the ^-ine of life, crisping the nerves, cheer- ing the spirits. It is irresistible. Xo ill- humour, no depression, no vexation, can withstand it. Eandal felt, too, something like Alex- ander when he had cut the Gordian Knot, as if, by his resolution, he had solved a difficulty until then insolvable. He had manifested his contempt for the conven- tional laws of honom% — his contempt for the opinion of his fellows, — his contempt for the University itself, — ^by thus defying her regulations and insulting her autho- rity. It was a triumph; and he enjoyed it thoroughly, as the coach careered gaily along, and the inspiriting horn seemed to blow in harmony with the voice of victory within. Rustication ?— -Expulsion ?— 'V\Tiat would the penalty be ? He cared not. He 56 RAVENSCLIFFE. should be at Kayenscliffe. He was heir of Ravenscliffe, — the future Lord of E^avenscliffe 1 What mattered it to him what a few sheepish old heads of colleges, — far less what a heap of empty, feather- headed under-graduates, — might say? But tliis intoxication lasted not long. The day darkened; the sun was covered with low, heavy clouds, — not dark thun- der-clouds, great and imposing, and ele- vating to look upon, — but low, dusky, uncharacterised clouds, telling of mizzling rain, wliicli soon began to fall in that regular, voiceless, baptizing, determined manner, which is more than sufficient to deaden any spirits and any courage. A mournful whistling wind every now and then broke the silence ; the roads became heavy and muddy; the horses pranced and spanked no more. Nobody talked or laughed on the top of the coach. There was nothing to listen to with inward con- tempt; no proud comparsions to feed in- solent seK-esteem. Everybody seemed infected with the moodiness of the hom\ He forgot that he had defied the Univer- EA^-EXSCLirFE. 0/ sitv, and remembered that he had been horsewhipped. He forgot that he had scorned to challenge ]\Iarcus Eitzroy, and had held him so far at defiance. His shoulders tingled. Again a voice was ringing in his ears : '*And that, — and that, — and that, — and that !" It echoed like the voice of a mocking demon to his memory. The mood into which he now sank was fearful. In his moments of triumphant defiance of Mar- cus, the imder-graduates, and the Uni- versity, he could have been almost for- £ri\dnop. Had the neck of Fitzrov laid under his feet, he might have been generous ; he might not have crushed it ; he might have turned away. But when his feelings took their present turn, — when to the nervous excitement of the first few hours had succeeded that reaction which was sure to come, — when he re- collected, with a sense of shame and rage indescribable, that aU which had passed was no dream, but that he had been horsewhipped, — that Fitzroy had horse- 58 BAVENSCLirPE. wliipped liim, and that he had taken no revenge ! . . . nay, that he had abandoned the field to his rival, — fairly run away, — deserted, — ^making liis escape with his tail between his legs, like a lashed hound (for so the change in his spirit represented things now) — when he felt his cheek, now biu^ning with the deep sense of insult received, then whitening with unimagin- able passion, — for he felt himself sick with passion .... and reflected where he was, and where Pitzroy was, and con- trasted the exulting laugh of the gay young fellows echoed by that of his admiring friends, vdih. his own sullen, solitude of feeling, — the victorious tri- umph of the one with his own degrading punisliment, — oh ! then my pen wants means to describe what took place within his heart ! Suffice it to say, that the agony sub- sided in this one resolution, the only one in which he could find consolation, — a resolution to take refuge from this out- rage against all that was dear to man, in one determination, at least ; namely, that EAYEXSCLEFrE. 59 of maintainiiio^ hencefortli and for ever a spirit of implacable unforgiyeness — Xever to forget and never to pardon. The time would come, — yes, life would present some opportunity or other, for exacting payment. The deep, bitter yearnings of his heart were mistaken for presentiments. In them he took refuge. He was in some degree restored to a sense of his own disniitv by the iron determi- nation with wliich this resolution was engraved upon his heart. He felt almost as if abeadv half avensred by havlno^ made it, — almost restored to his own esteem by the dark energy of his und^-ing sense of injury, — the unbending perseverance with which he knew he could, and he would, maintain it. He understood him- self but too well. He nourished this dark temper in his heart, till it became a habit which was entT^ined with every lineament of his character — a part of himself, not to be eradicated but \^ith life. Restored to a sort of gloomy tranquil- lity by these last feelings and reflections, 60 RAVENSCLIFFE. Ms countenance, though very dark, is no longer agonized- He slept a good part of the following night in liis place beside the guard, — for even his strong frame began to yield to the effects of the fierce emotions he had gone through. About twelve o'clock upon the second day, he was put down at a little hill-side inn, about seven miles from K/avenscliffe, being the nearest point at which the "Northern Highflyer" passed the domain. BAVENSCLirrZ. 61 CHAPTER III. Darkly, darkly hath the curse of evil swept across the earth, Blasting every form of beauty, blighting every scene of mirth ; Changing what was once a universal paradise Into a den of evil passions John "William Fletcher. It was a dark, clreaiy day — high noon — and the sun as completely hidden as if he had still been below the horizon. Gray, ill-defined clouds of vapour, one layer over the other, stretched to the very verge of a desolate landscape, penetrated by no gleams of light, and casting no shadow. The barren liills extended far on every side, a melancholy waste, without feature or character, except that of monotonous solitude. Not a tree — not a shrub; no 62 RAVENSCLIFFE. flocks bleating upon tlie hills — no herds grazing in the valleys, which were filled with bogs and covered wnltli bog-myrtle, or with coarse, reedy herbage, and the cotton grass. The cottage, built of rough stone, thatched, and low-roofed, with its nar- row, slanting door, looking as if the roof was pressing it out of the perpendicular, and two or three small, ill-formed win- dows on each side, presented a picture of the wildest and most wretched descrip- tion. There was not a plant higher than a gooseberry-bush about it, — except, in- deed, one old, tattered mountain -ash, broken and shattered by many a winter storm, which grew beside one of the gables. A few barren fields, enclosed by walls of rough stone, — a few rude farm- buildings, forming a sort of com-t on the left, the gray, monotonous colour of which was redeemed, in one instance only, by the red poles of a cart thrown upwards in one corner, — a garden, or rather an apology for a garden, where a few rows of wretched potatoes struggled RATEXSCLirFE. 63 for a precarious existence, and a few goose- berry and currant-trees stood shiverino^ for their lives, — complete the description of the little wayside house of entertain- ment, standing close upon the broad, magnijS.cent turnpike-road which traversed the district through which the " Northern Highflyer" travelled. Of course, when anv of the familv from Eavenscliffe were expected to arrive, ser- vants ^dth horses or carriages were sure to be in attendance to meet them, — the place being about six miles from the Great House, and a wild, drearv district hrin^ between them ; but there was no one in waiting now. The coach suddenly stopped. Langford was startled from a reverie ; he dropped himself down — paid the guard — received his horseman's cloak upon his extended arm ; and away sprang the horses, and the bright vehicle was soon lost amid the hills. Langford turned towards the house, jline host and liis "uife were, however, already beforehand with him. They had sallied forth when the coach had stopped, 64 RAVENSCLIFFE. one from Ms farm-yard, the other from her door, and it was — " Heigh ! Mr. Randal. My goodness, Mr. Langford! Who'd have thought of seeing you here ? And nobody on earth come to meet you !" — This was from the woman. " Main glad always to see you, Mr. Randal," — from the man, — " but I hope nothing amiss. You ben't expected at the Great House, I'm tliinking ; for I saw Thomas yestre'en about the tm^f-cutting for Madam Langford' s dressing-room fire, and not one word said he of meeting you, or your being expected on." Langford made not the smallest reply to these two speeches, only his counte- nance seemed to grow darker and darker. At last, after standing there a short time without uttering a syllable — and oh ! the storm that raged within during that brief time !— he broke silence by asking, " How many miles do you call it over the hills to Ravenscliffe ? I suppose there is some nearer cut than by the horse-road?" " May-be four miles as the crow flies," EAVENSCLIPFE. 65 answered the man ; '' but it's a way main hard to find. There is a sort of a path, it's true : but never was country so want- ing in landmarks as this here, save to those who know it passing welL Every hill looks like the other — all biggish and more big ; and every bog between 'em just the same — full of bog-myrtle and cotton-vreed, nothing else. Sure/y, a barer, barrener tract nor this is not to be found in the wide creation; — ^not a sheep's grass, to say nothing of a cow's, to be found for miles round. Ay, su% sure and certain there is a short cut across them hills, — but I misdoubt it. Better take the bridle-road. Yet, stay; if you are set upon the shorter, Mr. Randal, — and sure the t'other's a long six mile, and no one to meet you, — why stay, I'll be happy, I'm sm^e, to show vou the wav. Here, Bet, hold a hand ; give me my smock- frock. I'll be at your service, Mr. Eandal, in a minute." "No, no!" answered Langford, impa- tiently ; *' I don't want anybody's help. Show me wliich way the path lies ; I am VOL. I. F W RAVENSCLIFFE. not very likely to lose myself among hills I have known all my life." " Well-a-day ! well-a-day ! " the good woman kept repeating, to his great pro- vocation, '' to think of Mr. Randal being come back this day, of all days in the year, and not a soul here to meet him ! AVhy, sir, I thought you wasn't to come from the great Cambridge Colleges till Christmas." "Will you hold yom- tongue or not, woman?" broke out angrily from the young man, " and let me hear what your husband is saying ?" " Whj, what I'm saying, Mr. Eandal, is, that you may think you know your way over these hills as well as any on us, for how you've been among 'em, man and hoy, a matter of twenty years or so ; but I doubt whether you know this side of the property so well as t'other ; for, bless me ! except a little snipe- shooting in one or two places, what should bring man or boy here ? You'd better — you'd better a deal, Mr. Eandal, let me show you the road," "Better a deal! better a deall" — RAYENSCLirrE. 67 screamed mine hostess in a shrill key, rendered piercing by her anxiety ; for the hek of Ravenscliffe was esteemed as a sort of common property among all the good women round. " Better a deal ! better a deal ! be ruled, — for love of goodness be ruled, Mr. Eandal ; you '11 be lost — YOU may be boffsred — there are awful bogs and places there away — now do — do — what T\'ill your father ? what ^\tQ Madam Langford say ? " " "Will vou never hold vour noise, woman ? " cried Langford, roughly. " I tell YOU I won't have anybody ^vith me — I choose to go that way, and I choose to go alone — here Job, ^viR you point out the way, or will you not ? That wife of yours is enough to driye a man mad \vith her confoimded clatter." He spoke so angrily and yehemently, that both man and Avoman were at once cowed into silence. The woman retreated Avitliin the house-door, awe- struck and frightened. It never, howeyer, once en- tering into her head to criticise or yenture to censure in the slifi^htest desrree tliis im- F 2 68 rvAVENSCLIEFE. perious hauglitiness of manner. The good man dropped his honest head a little, — half ashamed of his o^Yn kind importunit}^ as of a fault; and silently led the way- down the turnpike-road to the place from which the mountain-path diverged. '' This is the way, sir," he said respect- fully; '^ keep straight forward for ahout a mile, till you come to where two paths part. Take the left-hand, if you please — the rio^ht leads into the very heart of the mlderness, for miles and miles. Will you not please to leave your heavy horseman's cloak with me ? It will be a load to carry over these hills." " No." And without condescending to utter a syllable more, Handal put some money into the man's hand, and turned towards the wilderness. The path ran dimly discernible between the coarse tufts of grass and sweet gale, and scanty knots of heath and gorse, winding among the dreary hills, now up, HAVENSCLirrE. 69 noxi do^vii. Xo^' affordins: a view over tlie v.'ide-exteiidecl desolation of tlie pro- spect — now losing itself amid the boggy valleys and allomng of no prospect but that of the black bogs, mth their pools of dark stamant water, their tinv forests of bog myrtle, their tufts of coarse reeds, and the white cotton-orrass wa^dna' its snowy head mournfiilly up and dovrn in the chill whistling: wind. Xow and then a snipe or a curlew- would suddenly start up from among the reeds, and silently wing its way over tlie marsh. Sometimes a windchat or a sand- piper ran whistling and wagging its white tail across the path. But these events were rare. jSTothing could exceed the silence and loneliness of the scene — the aspect of dead nature wliich it presented. He walked on, indifferent to all. He neither resrarded the <:^loomv loweriiio- skv, nor the dreary v ilderness around him ; he marked not the black bogs, the stag- nant pools, the monstrous tracts of bog myrtle, nor the white waving of the cotton-grass. The scene was too per- 70 HAYENSCLIFFE. fectly in harmony Avitli his present feel- ings to awaken attention by contradiction. There was a sullen silence — a sullen absence of every cheerful form or colour, which was in unison ^vith the deep gloom of his mind. His various feelings had at length sub- sided into tliis. It was the last change of that horrible and irritating vicissitude of thoughts and sentiments through which he had passed, and it remained the pro- minent one. Deep indeed was the cloud that dark- ened liis mind, and dreary the scene of utter desolation— of utter severance from all human sympathy, vrliich oppressed him as he wandered on. Xot that he was one accustomed to need human sympathy — but there was something in this total despair of attaining it which was appalling even to him. TVliat a contrast did his present solitude of beins^ offer to the busv ani- mated scene he had so latelv left ! e. Alone amid a crowd — he had been, it is true. In a certain sense, he had felt per- fectly alone amidst that crowd; but it RATEXSCLIFFE. 7l was as a oriant mav he said to be alone among pigmies. These pigmies miglit have been anno^'in<4' as thev croTrcled and pressed around Mm — troublesome- and tormentini> be mii^lit have found them ; but he had brushed them awav roughly, or he had spurned them, or he had crushed them: He had been at enmity with them all, yet he had had a good deal to do with them. He had felt himself dis- liked, and in a certain sense solitary.', amid the general aversion — but respected and feared, nerertheless. In spite of his unpo-^ pularity, his pride had been gratified, — he had felt liimself a err eat man amom? them, whatever else he might be. Xow, what was he become ? A Cain — a wanderer driven from the haunts of men. The mark was upon him. The ineffaceable, the indeUble brand. A mark is set upon Cain, and whosoever meeteth him shall spurn him. Oh, the awful desolation of that thoui?ht ! There was no refu2"e for him left in that world of yesterday. But in the silent wilderness around him, severed from 72 RAVENSCLIPPE. his fellow-men — there he might yet he himself — there he might yet he what he had once been — restored to his self- dignity and self-respect. Said I so, — alas ! no — unhappy man ! The tingling lash was yet upon his shoulders — the lines lay there as if im- printed with characters of fire — ^tho scars were on his soul — nothing could efface tliem. The poisoned mantle of Dejanira was disgrace — was shame ! It clung to his flesh, it was burned into his flesh. It clung to his mind, it clave to, and poisoned his mind. It envenomed the life-springs within his heart — this perti- nacious sense of indelible disgrace — this •undying sense of shame. The more he was left undisturbed to his own reflections, the further he flew from the busy scenes of a few hours ago, the more intense did the idea become. In this gloomy waste that surrounded liim now, the more and the more intense — for there was not one object to divert the mind from this all-absorbing sentiment. It was unfortunate, indeed, at that mo- KAVENSCLirrE. 73 ment. Sufficient to constitute of it a fixed idea, vrhich henceforward became a permanent feature of his mind. Unfortimately this solitary walk proved a long one. Absorbed in his o^ti thoughts, Randal passed the indicated turning, and Avas soon buried in the deep wilds that stretched to avast extent northwards. He went on, on, on — hill and bog — hill and bog — for a great many hom^s; at length he stopped, and looked up. Suddenly it struck hhn that he ought to have been at home by this time. He looked about him, and then became aware that he was where he had never been before, — in a district totally unknown to him, — in short that he had lost himself. He looked round, and he looked up. Xot the slightest indica- tion could he discover as to where he might be ; — he did not even know in what direction he had wandered, or on wliich side his father's house might lie. The sky was so completely obscm'ed that there was no discovering the position of the sun ; and even if he could thus have ascertained the points of the com- 74 HAVENSCLIPFE. pass, it would have been of little use, except so far as that he knew he ought not to go north — that northwards lay a pathless T\dlderness extending to the borders of Scotland, almost untrodden by the foot of man : and that, in any other direction, so he walked forwards, he must, sooner or later, inevitably arrive at some human habitation. He looked up, he looked round — a leaden sky, an interminable solitude. Then sud- denly the msh arose to fold himself up in his horseman's cloak, and there to lie dowTi and die. There shame could not pursue him; infamy would expire before she could reach him there. There in bit- terness he would lie do^n and expire ; his body should return to the elements, and the brand upon his shoulders be ef- faced. Had the death that he desired been a short and sudden death, I think there is little doubt but that in his present mood, in the bitterness of his spirit, he might have taken refuge in it ; but he felt the force of a strong Hfe, the resistance of an iron constitution within him, and EAVENSCLIFFE. 75 lie dreaded the fearful struggle. To die thus would be to die a long, lingering, a2^onisiii<> death of days — nay, it mio^lit be, of weeks : he had heard of such things. An idea such as that was insupportable. He abruptly turned, and began to retrace his steps. A long, long, weary, and toilsome task it was. The few mountain-paths were so intricate and deyious, that he soon ceased to attempt to piu'sue them. But novr the sun, descending to the horizon, began to cast a faint gleam from beneath the cloudy canopy aboye, and Eandal was enabled to take the points of the compass. South- west, he belieyed, was the dh^ection he ought to take ; and he' resolved to follow it, straightly as the crow flies, whilst the linc^erinc^ he^ht afforded some assist- ance. Once adopted, he began to carry out the design with his usual determination. He scrambled up the rugged hill-sides ; he made his way through the bogs ; now he fell, now he was upon his hands and knees. This hill seemed unassailable, that bog 76 RAVENSCLirrE. impassable; no matter, lie got through them all. At length, just as the deepen- ing twilight began to render distant objects almost indiscernible, he caught a view of a peculiarly-shaped hill, which he inew to lie about a mile at the back of Ravenscliffe, and to it he made his way. Strong man as he was, his strength was heginniiig by this time to be exhausted. His knees trembled, strange sensations were about his temples and heart; but he posted on. Now he reaches the foot of the well-known hill; now he scales the lofty barrier ; now he is upon the •other side ; and now rises the moon nearly at the full, and bathes in a flood of light the distant woods, the glittering river, the looming spectre tower, and the raven's oak of his father's house. He sat down to take breath, and gazed upon the lovely, peaceful scene. Yes; there it lay, stretched hi all its mountain, beauty, serene and lonely, sleeping quietly in the bathing moonbeams. Suddenly, lie heard the stable-clock strike. The loud clear bell sounded far in the deep HAYEXSCLIFFE. 77 silence ; one, two, three, four, and to ten. He counted it. Tliev would not be all asleep ; an hour yet before liis father would be gone up to bed. Regular as the clock itself were his habits; and his hour for retiiing to liis own study, to offer his secret prayer before going to his rest, was eleven. There was yet time, if he pushed on, to reach liis home, and meet his father that night. jMeet his father ! How meet his father ? At the thought, the pulses of his heart made a sudden pause; then the thick throbbing blood hurried forward again. Aorain the dark lurid red rose to his temples ; again it sunk down, to be suc- ceeded by a sickly paleness — blackness. But he rose, and pushed forward. He is over the remainder of the moor ; he enters the woods, and passes between the fields ; he ascends the precipitous road at the foot of Eavenscliffe ; he gazes upon the monumental tower; he passes, "»^ith- out pausing, ])y the loved and honoured oak. The clock had not yet struck eleven, and he stands at the hall-door. He pulled 78 RAVENSCLIFEE. the bell; a servant opened the door and uttered an exclamation of astonishment, but ventm^ed not to utter a word. He stood in too much awe of liis young mas- ter to be sm^prised into familiarity. Lansrford seizes the candle which the man held in his hand, strides across the hall, opens the dining-room door, and presents himself before his astonished parent with the words, '' Pather ! I bring you home a disgraced man." The room was low and gloomy; the fire was smouldering upon the hearth; two mould candles upon the table threw a dim circle of light around it. The cor- ners of the room, — indeed, all the rest, — were in darkness. The old man was sitting by the table. As the door opened, he made a slight gesture of sm^prise : then he slowly arose ; but, -without extending his hand, fixed liis eyes, filled vdtli a sort of severe aston- ishment, upon his son. The young man EAYEyscLirrE. 79 approached tlie table. Thus they con- fronted each other for a second or two, motionless and in silence. Then, " Father, vou do not extend your hand. You do well — Your son is a disgi'aced man." '' I were slow to ueiieve it," said the stem, ancient man before liim, standing there in ail his ragged, giant, and still unbent disriiitY and strensfth. " I were slow to beheve that^ of any Lan2rford of Rayenscliife. I did not hear rightly ; say again, Eandal Langford." ''Father, you see a man before you, disgraced in the world's eye, but faithful to your own principles. One who has refused to wash out a stain in blood ; the stain must, therefore, remain indelible." "I do not imderstand thee, Eandal. But, if it be in defence of the principles of a God-fearing house that the sons of Belial, T^ith their empty scofhngs, haye beset thee, heed it not. — Thou art still a Langford — thou art still Bandal Lang- ford, and my son." " Father, I haye been insulted ; and 80 KAYENSCLIFFE. I have refused, as the phrase goes, to demand satisfaction — to redeem my ho- nour by sending a challenge, in short — and therefore, in the eye of the world, the brand is ineffaceable." "And what is the eye of the world?" replied the father, deliberately resuming his seat, but still without extending his hand, or offering the slightest demonstra- tion of paternal affection towards his son ; ''what is the eye of the world, that we should stand in awe of it ? There is One eye, One all-seeing eye, which penetrates the thick darkness, and sees the hidden as well as the overt acts of men — sees to visit and to punish. — That Eye we may fear. A Langford of Ravenscliffe fears no other. — ^^^hat is the eye of the world ?" The son's coimtenance kindled a little ; yet his spirit -v^ithin him uttered a low groan as he said, with a strange mixture of sometliing between audacity and levity, " I am glad to see you consider it thus, sh^ ; for yom' son has been horsewliipped! " The old man started up with a shrill cry, sank back again in his chair, and EAYEXSCLIFFE. 81 turned deadly pale. So pale that he seemed almost dying. — He was speechless. Randal Langford eyed him with a pecu- liar expression. He stood there gazing steadily at his father: and there was contempt and bitter rage mingled in his coimtenance. Ay, that countenance seemed to sav, " You ! Even tou I — 'With all your vaunted contempt for the opinion of man, — See how vou like it ! See how you take it ! " Without deigning to pity his father's agony, he went on driving the shaft into the wound with all his force. '^ Yes, su' ! that's it. Horsewhipped, at high noon, ia the public walk at the back of St. John's College, Cambridge. The walks beuig then crowded There was one means, and one only means in the world's eye for wiping out the stain from a gentleman's honom' ; but you had taught me to despise that means as cowardly and despicable, as fearing the face of man, rather than that of God. I have held to yom' principles, and mij principles, sir. — And see how you take it !'^ The old man uttered a low groan. VOL. I. G 82 KAVENSCLIFFE. " See ! what I am to expect," his son went on passionately. '' See what I am to expect from others as the reward of such adherence to such principles — Your God-fearing, courageous, would-he-loftv principles ! See what I am to expect, — what I am to expect ! You yourself give me a sample of it, — You yourseK despise and groan over me." '' What had you done ? " "Done! What had I done! Is that the question ? What was I likely to have done? /done!" " What had you done to provoke this ?" " Provoke this ! Are you going to sit in judgment upon me, sir ? Hear evidence. Try the cause hetvreen me and the rascally yomig madman who dared to insult me ? Pack up your things, sh% and away to Cambridge, — hear what they have to say for themselves, — Bid me ask then pardon for my rough northern truths — You will get no detailed explanation from me." " I shall not ask it. — Your rude vio- lence to the father, who should be in the place of God to you, is enough." RAYENSCLIFFE. 83 "This, then! This, then!" exclaimed Langford ^\ith a loud and bitter cry, " is the greeting I receive at home. This, then, is the way my father, my own father, receives the news of my disgrace ! Oh ! cm^ses, eternal curses, on the hound who branded me I And may God forget to forgive me, if ever I forgive him." And so savinsr he turned awav — seized the servant's candle, which yet stood upon the table, — and hurried to his own room. He entered, fimig-to the door, and locked himself in. Xo real cordiality from this time was ever restored between father and son. They were both of too unbending natures. No further explanation ^^as asked l^y the one, or offered by the other. They met the next morning A^ith cold civility, as if nothiag had happened between them. Anything like exchange of feeling would, in any case, still more after Vvhat had passed, have been impossible between them. G 2 84 EAVEXSCLIFFE. But his mother ? it will he asked. Did not the son seek some comfort from his mother ? — He never thought of it. Mrs., or Madam Langford, as she usually was called, was a cold, stiff, rigid woman ; Tvith one of those som% puritan faces, which one sometimes sees in old portraits among families of that descent. She was a woman of undeviating rectitude of con- duct, strong piety, and a severe sense of duty ; but, to use the illustration of the eminent Erench author, there was in her that separation between la chcileur et la luiniere — between warmth and light — between feeling and intellect, — between the heart and the mind, which he ascribes to the arch-father of evil himself. The education she had given her son had been frigid as her temper. In her opuiion all fond caresses, all endearing in- dulgences, far more any of the sweet flat- teries of partiality and affection, were weak and culpable. Mrs. Langford never caressed her son. She exacted from him the extremest re- spect, an undeviating regularity of con- EAYEXSCLirPE. 85 duct, and strict obedience. Tlie cliild had never been fondled, — the boy never in- dulored, — the vouth never excused. This mother, false to her post, had not been the medium through which the austere affection of the father came softened and sweetened to the son. And, to tell the truth, Eandal Langford loved his father much more than he did his mother ; for the stern reserve of the one was less un- natural, less uncongenial to feeling, than the cold chastened composiu^e of the other. Pather and mother were sitting together at the formal breakfast-table, when the son, guilty for once in his life of the irrei^ularitv of beinc^ too late, made his appearance. He did not speak, but coldly saluted his parents. Mr. Langford, who was reading the newspaper, just raised his head, acknow- ledged the salute, and resumed his occupa- tion. Mrs. Langford, sitting there before her tea-urn, rinsing her cups, as little demonstrative as if she had been a mere machine of propriety, turned her sour features, now filled ^vith an expression of 86 RAVENSCLIFFE. grave displeasure, towards liiin, sajdng gravely, " You are late this morning, Eandal." Por worlds would she not have been persuaded to say more, to look kind, to give Mm even one glance of sympathy and compassion. She was a woman of a haughty, as well as of a frigid temper, and her whole soul — for she coidd feel bitterly, though not warmly — had been filled with the deepest mortification at what she had heard. That her son should have left his college without writing, with- out consulting his parents ; that he should, some way or other, have exposed himself to the degrading punishment he had re- ceived ; and that, some way or other, he had not managed to avenge the disgrace, was bitterer than bitterest wormwood to her stern spirit. It was the habit of her mind always to suppose blame where blame could be supposed, and to visit mistakes, faults, or crimes, — it made little difPerence to her which, — with the same unsparing severity. She could not quarrel with her son because he had not fought a RAVENSCLIFFE. 87 duel, that would liave been too grossly inconsistent ^^ith her avowed principles ; but she found the food for that censiu^e in which it Avas her habit upon such occa- sions to seek consolation, by assumini^, as a fact, that Ptandal must have been greatly to blame, — must have indulged the defects of his disposition and manners to a very unpardonable degree, before he could have drawn doAvn upon himself such extraordinarv chastisement. Mrs. Langford was not far ^Tong in her conclusions, it must be acknowledged ; but she was shamefully wrong in her beliaA-iom\ She ought to have remem- bered who it was that, under the icy cold- ness of her rule, thus blighted every genial feeling; whose proud assumption of superiority above others had set the example of insolent contempt for every one whose principles or practice fell short of his own. She ought to have pitied, have softened, have healed, the cruel wounds under which he smarted. She ought to have done everything, in short, which she did not do. 88 UAVENSCLIFFE. She had resolved witliin herself that all reproaches would be vain, and would only, indeed, show a weak indulgence of regretful feelings, therefore she made none ; but imposed upon herseK a total silence as regarded the subject. As she could not approve — as the occasion was past — and it was futile to blame, she forbade to her- self the slightest recurrence to the event. She took refuge in that worst alterna- tive in such cases — an awful, portentous, a barren dreary silence, far worse in its effects upon family harmony than the most passionate and stormy explana- tions. So E/andal Langford took his place at his father's board again, as if the episode of his life at the University had not been. The notice of his expulsion, on account of his sudden absence, unaccounted for and unapologized for, in due time reached his father. Mr. Langford opened the letter, and handed it first in silence to his ^vife, and then, without note or comment, to his son. These three read it, and not one word was SAYENSCLirPE. 89 uttered, and not the slightest symptom of feeling or sympathy betrayed. Such things deepened the e^T.1. The days of the young man were mostly spent in gloomy solitude of thought, — brooding over his vrrongs. Thus the implacable temper in which he had met them was strengthened. The deep ineffaceable hatred he made it his pride, as it was Ms sole consolation to cherish against Eitzroy, was rendered still more bitter by the alienation, which had gradually in this silent manner grown up between him and liis parents. Randal was not without a heart. He had a power of very deep passionate affection. So much the worse was this for him now ; his very sensibility to better feelings tmned against him. He deeply resented the conduct of his parents, more esj)eciaUy that of his mother ; and his heart thus left to eat itself, he was fast sinking into apathetic misanthi'opy, when he was awakened to new life, to a new scene — By whom ? Or by what ? 90 EAVENSCLIFFE. CHAPTER IV. Eleanor Whaenclipfe was Ptandal Langford's second or tliird cousin. In the suUen gloom which had fallen upon him since liis return from Camhridge, Randal Langford had shunned all general society, and had remained ohstmately shut up at HavensclifPe, positively re* fusing to accept any invitations, or to accompany his father or mother in the formal dinner visits they were accustomed to pay at stated, hut somewhat distant,, intervals in the neighhom^hood. This, however, lasted so long, and the strange apathy of his manners, and the singularity of his son's hahits was so rapidly increasing, that though the formal RAVENSCLIFFE. 91 insensibility of the mother was neither aroused nor alarmed, the father, made of more benevolent stuff, — for in natures of this sort the man's heart is out-and- out tenderer than the woman's, — began to be uneasy. He loved his son, though he never, during that son's life, had been known to give him one single proof of cordial affection; but he loved him, and his love was in a vray retiu^ned. The father and son were, after all, of congenial natures. Iron outside, but heart of flesh at the core. Xot like the mother, — mthout a heart. The father understood the bitter feel- ings of the son, though he could hardly be said to compassionate them. He was not made for the meltings of compassion, but he understood the sufferings of a spiiit so proud, under such cncumstances ; and in silence admired the stoicism of his haughty and in^dncible reserve. At last, as this determined avoidance of all social intercourse evidently began to increase, till, from declining all communication 92 RAVENSCLIFFE. witli men of Ms o\mi rank, it gradually assumed the form of an almost total avoidance of every human hemg — even the ordinary communication with the depend- ants of the family heing shunned as much as possible — as day after day passed in almost total silence, whilst the deepening gloom of the stern and resentful counte- nance, showed the dark feelings that overpowered the heart — Mr. Langford became more and more uneasy, and at last he broke silence with his wife. " Eachel," he said, " I don't like our son's looks." " Like them, Mr. Langford ! I should not suppose anybody could much like them. Handal is unamiable in every relation of life. I do not wonder that he makes no friends." " I am afraid he suffers much imder this obstinate stoicism wliich he affects." ''Suffer! No, I should not think he exactly suffered; but I confess Ms sin- gularity is impleasant to his friends." " Unpleasant ! — Alarming, would be my word." RATENSCLIFFE. 93 a I see no cause wliat soever for alarm. His health is good, his morals are irre- proaehable ; and where can a young man be better than at the home of his father ? Secured from all the evil influences of a vicious world. I own I \^ish he had a little more energy about him, and could take pleasure in reheAdng you, by entering mto some of vom^ affairs — ^but I don't know, perhaps it is best as it is. Randal is of so unbending and intractable a temper, that it would be difficult to transact any busi- ness m partnership with him." " So I have thought, and have not attempted it — But madam, have you never reflected that this is not the way the heu' of Eavenscliffe can go on for ever r Have you never thought of maiTying hitn ?" '' Marrying Mm I It is time enough to think of that, — Time enough to bring a dausrhter-in-law to flout mv srrav hau's this ten years hence." " I do not agree ^ith you. I think our son is rapidly sin king into a state of habitual gloom and melancholy, which may terminate in the very worst conse- 9Ji RAVENSCLIFFE. quences. It will not be the first time such things have happened at E^avenscliffe, if family tradition say true." " Do you mean he will go mad ? 'No no, set your heart at rest ; weak people go mad. Such iron-tempered beings as B/andal Langford may drive others mad, — They seldom go mad themselves." " You speak strangely, Mrs. Langford. You use terms, with a strange familiarity, w^hich it makes a man shudder to hear applied, even ever so remotely, to his son. Melancholy is not actual madness, but to the suiferer I believe it often proves worse." '' Suiferer! -Melancholy ! —Let liim exert liimseK and shake it off, then." " Let us exert ourselves and help him to shake it oflP, madam, it would rather be- come a mother to say," replied Mr. Lang- ford, sternly; for he was shocked at the insensibility she showed. It aroused aU that was wise and good withm himself. " I am persuaded," he went on, " that nothing but marriage can save Handal, and restore him to himself and society. Among new con- nections and new interests, the wretched EAYENSCLIFFE. 95 circmnstances of his University life will be forgotten. Time has passed over, and thrown these things into the distance ; raise up new objects, and they vnR be seen and thousrht of no lono-er." "And may I ask whom you have in your eye — whom you may pm^pose to marrv Mm to. Or, how vou intend to bring him, in the first place, to suffer liim- self to be introduced; in the second, to court ; m the third, to espouse the yoimg lady — he, who absolutely refuses, say what his father and mother can, to leave the precincts of Ravenscliffe, or enter imder any roof but tliis ? There seems to me invincible difficulties to be overcome, even on the very threshold of yom* plan." " I have been thinking of Eleanor Wliarncliffe." " Eleanor Wharncliffe !" Mrs. Eangford mused a little wliile, and then she added, " Really, no bad idea. I beg your pardon, Mr. Langford, for what I have said. I think Eleanor ^liarncliffe ixd^^ht do very well." " Her father and mother have been 96 EAVENSCLIFFE. spending nearly eighteen months at Chel- tenham, as you know, whilst the house at Lyclcote Hall has heen undergoing repair. Partly for that reason, partly upon the score of Eleanor's health. But Wliarneliffe writes me word that they are now ahout to return home. We do not lie much out of their way. I was thinldng of inviting her father and mother to pay us a visit here ; and as Eleanor must of course accompany them, there would be one difficultv ^ot over. Eandal could not, after this visit, well refuse to accompany us to return it. Being blood relations, I don't imagine he would object to it, — indeed, I fancy inclination would not be wanting upon his side. It is some years since they have met — it was long before he went to College. But the only little otI I ever saw Bandal affect v,'as the delicate, timid little cousin of his, who used to be so afraid of the dogs, and of the old tower, and of the Haven's oak, of the dark, and of everj^thing. I have seen our boy lifting her in his arms, very tenderly, I can assure you, when ISTero has RAVENSCLIFFE. 97 been bounding about , and slie screaming vdth terror, and Whameliffe rating ker for her foUy." '' A slight foundation to build a foolish love-tale upon, I fear," said Mrs. Lang- ford, with a grim smile ; *' but now you recall the circumstances, I recollect them too ; and remember thinking oiu* dark, strong boy, and that little, soft, fair- haired thing, offered a pretty contrast enough." " l'\liarnclifie wishes to marry her, I know ; because, haA-ing married a woman Tvithout a portion himself, and being resolved not to charge the estate and encumber it for his sou, tliere will not be much provision for this daughter of his. HaATiig no younger children myself, and you, madam, having l3rought so hand- some a dovrry into the family, I am happy to say we are above the necessity of regarding money in our alliances. The WharncliflPes are of a most honom-able and ancient house. What say you to it, Mrs. Langford r" ''That I think it ^vill do very well. VOL. I. H 98 RAVENSCLIFFE. Have YOU heard how she grew up ? — As well-favoured as she promised to be?" " They tell me she is surpassingly beautiful." In all alliances of this formal nature, it has often surprised me to see how much beauty counts, — frequently more with the parents and friends than with the young espoused himself. With them it seems a sort of property, of the nature of a positive possession — a soiu'ce of pride — a proper dignity and distinction ; ^\ith him, it is but one quality of her he loves, which might be dispensed with. If he love truly, it is not the beauty which he loves. Severe as Mrs. Langford's notions were, she was quite open to this weakness. That any daughter-in-law of hers should be any- thing but beautiful, would have been quite derogatory to her ideas of fitness and propriety. That Eleanor AYharnclifPe was very distinguishedly so was, like other dis- tinctions, very agreeable to her sense of dignity — to her pride. She thought little of it as it concerned her son's happiness ; she did not even calculate upon the RAVEXSCLIFFE. 99 chances of this remarkable beauty ^-inning his affections, and ensuring his consent to the marriage. That the heir of Ravens- cliff e should reject an alliance arranged for him by liis parents, never entered her head. The A\Tiamcliifes were second or third cousins to the present Mr. Langibrd, as I think I have mentioned. It was not ^nthout emotion that Eandal Langford, as he was sitting the next day in his usual moodv silence at dinner, listened to the follo^ving conversation, which took place, not altogether unde- signedly, between liis father and mother. '' It really is so long," began the mis- tress of the house, *' since we have had any guests at Havenscliffe, that the best bed-room will want some putting to rights. The furniture is too antiquated. I must have a new dressing-glass, at all events, and an arm-chaii* or two, and a small table to stand in the middle of the room for H 2 100 RAVENSCLIFFE. ^vriting - materials, — and a couch at the foot of the bed would not be amiss. People furnish so luxuriously now — and Lady Wharncliffe is quite of the ncAV school, of com'se." " Get what you like, madam. It will be best, perhaps, to have Tidcombe over from Durham, to see what is wanting, and set all to rights." Mr. Langford with pleasure observed his son start as his mother pronounced the name of T\niarncliffe, and raise his head, and look up with an expression of interest to which his countenance had long been a stranger, as his father went on : " What room did you think of putting Eleanor in ? Choose a warm one, she is still very delicate." " I thought to put her into the one next her mother's. — It has a southern aspect, and commands a pretty view. But I was going to speak to you of that. — It will requh'e to be new furnished throughout." The young man's eyes had already drop- ped again ; yet it was e'^ddent he was listening attentively. RAVENSCLIFPE. 101 '' Get things nice and pretty, and with- out regard to expense, Mrs. Langford. I hear she is grown up a svreet creature, and nothing can be too good for her." " Well, I ^ill ^rate to Tidcombe by this night's post. Allien do thev talk of leaving Cheltenham?" " In about a fortnio?ht from this time. They have some ^dsits to pay on their Tray, but in about a month, more or less, TVTiam- cliffe teUs me I may expect them here." " I wish it could have been a little earlier. But we have often some fine days at the end of October." Lano^ford was a stoic by nature, little given to any of the softer or tenderer moods. The greater the wonder, that his heart was beating fast, and faster, and his frame beginning to quiver "uith a strange sense of joy, as he listened to what was going on. Eleanor ^liamcliffe I And at the name what a host of sweet recollections and associations were summoned up. The dear pretty little creatui-e ! that he, a sullen reserved bov, who loved nobodv, and whom nobodv loved, had in his secret heart doted 102 RAVENSCLIPFE. ^pon — doted as human beings dote upon the object of their sole idolatry. The little, timid, delicate child ! afraid of everytliing but her mother and liimself. Afraid of Mr. and Mrs. Langford, and very particu- larly afraid of her own father, who had adopted the ill-judged plan of attempting to shame and frighten the little girl out of her invincible cowardice. If Mrs. Lang- ford remembered the protection which the late dark boy had afforded to the fair little girl against her enemies the dogs — much more might he. The scenes of days past away now rose with all that soft pleasure mth which the days of a boyhood spent like that of Randal Langford' s, recur. A happy boyhood after all it had been, spent at home, amid scenes so beloved, and in ways so congenial to his nature. He had wanted little society. A few boys, his inferiors in rank and con- sequence, had sufficed him; for he loved to domineer, and could ill brook the slight- est opposition. These circumstances, we may remark however by the way, had acted unfortunately upon his disposition. EATEXSCLirrE. 103 The absence of that discipline which chil- dren of the same rank and age exercise over each other, had increased his native insolence, and had rendered him, as v.e have seen, quite unfit to mingle with the world in general. He, who has not been well knocked about as a bov, Idv his fellow- bovs, seldom makes an amiable man. This E^andal Langford had never been ; the only contradiction he had met vrith. was from liis ovm parents — more especially from his cold and passionless mother ; and perhaps it ^vould be hard to decide, whether the dis- cipline of the dra^^ing-room, or the license of the play-ground, was the most injmious to the boy's character. Be that as it may, one thing is certain, that Eandal looked back to the days of his boyhood with plea- sure ; and of such days, those he most loved to remember of all, were passed when the little Eleanor ^ATiarncliife had been \dsiting at his father's house. She had been a sweet, gentle -tempered cliild; extremely timid, silent, shy, and reserved in general ; but when happy and at her ease, and feeling safe, positively in- 104 RAVENSCLIFFE. telligent, and possessing an innocent gaiety wliicli was perfectly enchanting. And she always felt safe mth E;andal. Eandal was, as you have heard, a great, tall, dark, rather alarniing-looking fellow, and among his boy companions violent and overbearing ; but mth this little creature it was quite different. As they never came into opposition in any way, the harsh fea- tures of his character were not called into action. The little thing seemed not in the least afraid of him ; clung to him in every danger, followed him about wherever he went, seemed happy when she vras holding his hand, and safe from every peril, either of man or beast, when sheltered in his arms. Tills softness, tliis dependence, this secu- rity, the playful sweetness when they were safe and alone, the little creeping to liis side as if to seek refuge when they were in company — first found its w^y to that heart; and, as frequently happens in such cases, where there is but one strong afiPection cherished, this ^yas felt with an intensity little consistent mtli his other feelings. It is true that of late years this youthful EAYEIsSCLirrE. 105 love had been little thought of amid the fierce contests of his university life, and the ontrai^e Trith ^yhich they had ternii- nated ; under his hitter sense of these things, and that deep resentment of injury which he most cherished, every thouo;ht and feehng had seemed so completely occu- pied, that there appeared room for no softer affection. But now, like those gentle-working, indistinct streams of thought, which will he sometimes awakened by a strain of loved and long-forgotten music, at the mention of Eleanor's name feelings of sweetness which had not visited his heart for many, many years, besran to revive, and to shed a tender softness over his spirit, " smoothing the raven down of darkness till it smiled." The beautiful little blue-eved s^irl, with that soft face of hers resting, against his bosom, as he sheltered her from the huge, terrible Xero, the great, barking bloodhound, — that beautiful, soft, flaxen liair, so soft as to be entirely without curl, Iving; like a shower of unsprm silk over his breast. 106 RAYEXSCLIFPE. — that sweet face, lifted up to liim with a look of grateful reliance, — those soft eyes, meeting his, so full of muigled love and terror, — terror that was abating, — and gentle smiles that were commg again, — one of those little, dehcate, childish arms thro^^ii fondly round his neck, — oh ! how his strons^ heart throbbed with the sweetest, purest affections ! Then the scene would change to the drawing-room. There would be a party, — an awful dinner-party, — a circle of guests to be entertained. He hated a formal cbcle as much as any one could, do, and had done so more especially when a boy ; but he scorned to feel nervous at that or anything. He had, indeed, been brought up in so high a sense of his own import- ance, even from a baby, that the idea of fearing the face of any man living, in society or out of society, never entered his mind. He would come into any circle, — reserved and surly, it might be, — but never in the slightest degree discomposed. Xow he remembered those days vividly, when Sir John and Lady "\MiarncHffe RAYEyscLirrE. 107 would be upon a visit at Eavenscliffe, and their two children, Everard, the son and heir, and the little Eleanor vdth them. Sir John and Eady ^Tiarncliite were in strange contrast ^^ith the Lord and Lady of Eavenscliite ; and the friendship that subsisted between the parties can only be accounted for bv the faniilA' connection and pretty close relationship that united them on that one subject, and wliich, however differently displayed, they held to excess and in common, namelv — familv pride. The haughty, exclusive sense of inborn superiority ; the insolent contempt for every creature, be he who he might, — hovi'ever gifted, however accomplished, however excellent or distinguished, — want- ing in that essential quahty — was com- mon to both, and carried in both to the same absurd and offensive extent. In the Langfords this form of pride was enhanced and rendered still more im- amial)le by the spiritual pride which they cherished as members of a stern and ex- clusive religious sect. In Sh* John "^Yliarn- cliffe it was rendered more triumphantly 108 HAVENSCLIEFE. overbearing by the advantages of a fine person, the manners and accomplishments wbich large converse with the world tends to produce, — gay spirits, an abundance of words, ready laughter, and, above all, a temper insensible and cold as a rock. These gay spirits, when they are united to such a temper, render a man's heart harder than the nether millstone. Ladv Wharncliffe was a woman of fashion, — a woman of the world ; a mere woman of fashion, — a mere woman of the world ; and all is said. She had all the ready good sense, — the knowledge of so- ciety, — of human nature, as it displays itself in general society, — the savoir vivre, in short, which renders " the children of this world \^dser in their generation than the childi^en of light." She was as totally wantins: in that wisdom from above, — those qualities essential to the higher life, which belong to the children of that better sphere. But she was not ^vithout lier amiable points neither. She was naturally good-natured and kind-hearted, and never intentionally gave, and always intention- RAYENSCLirrE. 109 ally avoided gh'ing pain, to feelings, be they such as she understood. But then her range of sympathy was narrow, as was her range of thought. How came the sensitive little girl to belong to such parents ? The brother was just as he should have been, — a handsome, high-spirited, lively, ffentleman-like bov, alike devoid of everv- thino' the least above the most ordinary common-place in perception or feeling. Made to be the ornament of society, and the admiration of all the world ready — clever — assured — srav — imorant, and empty ; informed in all that l^elonged to to-day — ignorant of ever^iihing that was beyond to-day — assured, because in- competent to comprehend the existence of anything above his own sphere of thought — clever, because confident in his own a]3Llities, the extent of which he had no standard by which to measm^e — srav, because always pleased with himself, and certain to please others. He was the idol of both father and mother; their heh% their representative, 110 ' RAVENSCLIPEE. their personal selfishness in a concrete form. And, as Mr. Langford has hinted, to this idol they were unhesitatingly prepared to sacrifice the pecuniary interests of their little daughter. Her poor hundreds were diminished to swell his tens of thousands. Wliat was respectability — even liberty — ne- cessity even, as regarded her comfort, in comparison with the requirements of idle luxmy and unnecessary display on his? Yet they were not in other respects with- out a certain regard for her well-being; the father in some degree, the mother far more. They wished to marry Eleanor well, as the phrase runs ; that is, to settle her in a rank above her present position, if possible, and elevate her in the world of society. This was a duty they felt to be imperative, second only to that of keeping the estate unencumbered for their son. In pursuit of this object, to l^e sm^e they never considered the happiness of the being in question. Suitability of temper, s^rm- pathy of affection, the personal worth and virtue of the intended husband — such considerations never entered their cii'cle of HATENSCLirFE. Ill thought. To many her icell — what the workl calls ^vell — where there vroiild he wealth, connection, and station, all three, if possible ; hut two at least indispensable — this was thek object to attain, and eveiy duty to their child would be fulfilled. How came Eleanor to be what she was, so descended, so brought up as she had been ? It is vain to inquire after the cause of these strange contradictions to the ordinary- rule of descents and races ; but when such things occur, they too often produce much secret misery in the imhappy exception. Eleanor T^Tiarncliffe possessed a heart and temper of the most exquisite suscep- tibility and tenderness ; an intellect fine to the last degree, though not strong. Ptarely in women, does that Avhich is so finely tempered prove strong. Delicacy, and a something fragile, seems almost an essential attendant upon extraordi- nary moral or intellectual beauty. In the instance before us, this was eminently the case. Erom her earliest infancy, her moral 112 HAVENSCLIFFE. and mental gifts had proved to her but a source of suffering — consequently of physical injury. The exquisite delicacy of her perceptions, formed to distinguish ex- cellence in its finest developments — ^the softness and tenderness of her heart — her innate moral sense of all that was liigli and good — ^iiad been in the twilight of the childish life, sources of continual misery. Her whole circle of thought and expe- rience had been peopled vdtli giants and spectres of her own creating ; or rather created by the contradiction between her- self and all that surrounded her. To her tender spirits, and sweet, loving temper, the indifference of her father — the careless, uncertain fondness of her mother — the sharp reproofs too often received from the man of the world, wlien through timidity, or delicacy of feeling, she failed in the observance of some of those duties of the world, which he exacted without distinction of times, feelings, power, or inefficiency, from his children — were cruel causes of anguish. She did not know what she wanted ; but she wanted some- RAYEXSCLirFE. 113 thing : she did not know what she feared ; but she feared o^reatlv. She never felt ■unhappy -^nthont longing to shed her tears upon some kind bosom ; but her mother hated crpng children, and either scolded, or laughed at her when she wept ; calling her a foolish Kttle thing, and bid- ding her, if she could not give over, to go into the nursery till she had done. In one sense Lady '\VharnclifFe was right thus to check the efftisions of sensibility on the part of her daughter. What had sen- sibility and the world in which Eleanor's life was to pass to do with each other ? With her father the terrible, terrible diihculty to overcome was, her shyness. And this timidity, as he managed it, was sure to increase ; and to be in danger of terminating in habitual weakness of the nerves. In fact, such was the consequence which ensued from his treatment — and I know not a greater cause of misery, than to have at once encroaching demands made upon strength, and dimhiished powers of answering them. Every time her father saw Eleanor in VOL. I. I 114 EAVENSCLIFFE. company with other little lively, happy, and perhaps somewhat precocious chil- dren of her OTVTi age, he felt mortified and angry. His pride was offended to see his daughter shrinking from observation, whose place, as he considered it, ought to have been among the foremost. He could not endure to find his little girl over- looked, when others, with far inferior pre- tensions, were exciting general attention, and making thek ot^ti parts good. The sentence which so often greeted him, *' A sweet little gentle creature, and so pretty; it's a pity she's so shy," uttered with a kind of contemptuous compassion by the proud mothers of more forward and admired children, galled him to the quick. He would laugh and reply, " Yes, poor little thing." But in this case he could not carry things off with the usual ready assurance which in his intercourse with the world rarely failed, and enabled him to practise one of its grand secrets — never to o'v^m to a defeat or a disappoint- ment, but in every defect to find a quality. RAVENSCLIFFE. 115 an advantage in every sinister accident. He was too really vexed at heart to be ready with the retort he might justly have given — too much out of temper to use his powers of polite sarcasm in return, and to compliment the mothers upon the precocity of the little premature men and women about him. He was angry, and so he was unjust ; and he visited upon the poor Kttle girl the mortification he felt. Angry reproaches for her want of courage ; contemptuous ridicule of her a"v^^kwardness and silence ; and imperious orders that she should behave better in fuitm^e, were not exactly the means calcu- lated to raise the spirits or brace the nerves of the sensitive young creatui'e. How vividly did Langford recall these tlungs as he sat there by the dinner- table, silent but attentive. His memory pictured the little creature as he came down dressed before dinner, when the dramng-room was already half ftdl, and the merry ringing laugh of Sir John Whamcliife might be heard even whilst he himself was yet upon the stands. I 2 116 RAVENSCLIFFE. How Randal used to hate that ever- ready, half insolent, half gay, and to him, most unfeeling laugh ! At such times there would often be found, waiting near the dra^^ing-room door, a delicate little girl, in a white frock and v/hite sash, with her face and arms of the colour of the tenderest blush rose, faintly tinted vdth puik ; her fair, long, soft hair, combed smoothly and simply round her face, and falling in floods as of sill^: over her sweet, childish, Vv^axen shoulders; two lovely blue eyes, beseechingly cast up to liim ; the pretty, small, chubby hand extended towards him, as she stood there, mth her grave, kind, good old nurse beside her. Thus she would stand expecting him. The rough boy's large hand would soon be holding in its firm protecting grasp those little quivering fingers, the gentle confiding clasp of which seemed to en- tvrine itself round his inmost heart ; and thus they would enter the awful drawing-room together. Sir John was far from looking ill-pleased when this KAVENSCLIFFE. 117 happened to be the case. He t^-ouIcI come up, and, vdth. more cordiahty than usual, shake his Httle ghl by the hand; would lead her, ^ith her head a little upon one side, and hanging modestly downwards, to present her to some friend or other, and then restore her to hbertv and to her Eandal again. She used to look so excessively pretty and interesting thus companioned, that the contrast could not fail to strike every- body. Sh' John seemed particularly to admire it. 118 RAVENSCLIFFE. CHAPTER V. Though thoughts, deep-rooted iii my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh, — This memory brightens o'er the past. As when the sun concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field. Longfellow. Such silent reveries as that in wliicli Randal Langford was indulging, take longer in the description than they do in the actual passage tlirough the mind. His father and mother had not finished discussing the subject of the rooms, before he lifted up his head, and his face quite changed, so much was its EAYEXSCLirrE. 119 habitual gloom dispersed, showed the in- terest he was takins^ m what was s^oino: on. In fact, it was no slight change which had taken place within him at the mention of that almost forgotten name. He had suffered the cloudy melan- choly, — that melancholy wliich proceeds from the indulgence of the unamiable feelings and adverse passions to become almost habitual, and nothing that occm^red at Eavenscliffe seemed likely to remove it ; but these tender recollections, thus revived, of the happiest moments, perhaps, Kterally, the only really happy moments of his life, worked wonders. The utter alienation from his father and mother in wliich he had permitted himself to indulge, and which had ren- dered the gloom of his mind so intole- rable, seemed dissipated. But he knew not, and cared not why it was, or how it was, the master feeling of his mind — the hatred he cherished against the man who had injured liim, still re- mained imsoftened by these kindher feel- ings. That sentiment lay deep in the 120 EAVENSCLIFEE. recesses of his heart, passive, because no circumstances occurred to revive it, but not the less permanent and ineffaceable. The resentment he had felt against his father' and mother, for what he considered their injustice and insensibility, on the contrary, had been a cause of daily uTitation; but it vanished completely under the train of thoughts and feelings now presented. He thought of Eleanor Whamcliffe, and of the years gone by. A healing balm seemed to soothe the wounds of his spirit ; he lifted up his head with something like cheerfulness, and listened to the talk between his father and mother. " Extremely delicate. Lady Wharncliffe wiites me word, but gro^^'n sm^pas singly beautiful." " Abroad a vear or two, and then a year and a half at Cheltenham. Eour years, I think, since they were last here.'* "Youmav sav five, next November." " Well, give her the room you men- tioned, madam, and spare no expense in making her comfortable. This return of the '\^liarncliffes shall be celebrated by EAYEXSCLirrE. 121 us sometbino; in the manner of roval visits. .... I wonder whether Sir J ohn iauo^hs as much as he used to do." *' Probably. — His lancphter was of a sort not to diminish Avith years. — It came little from the heart. A mere trick I Yet Sh' John is a sensible man." " So I have always thought, Ijiit could have wished him a little more sohditr." Mrs. Lan^ford sisrhed. "They are people of tliis world," said she, sententiously ; '' both he and dear Lady Wharncliife. Too much so, I fear — but time and adyancing years may do much. — There are the seeds of good — and who knows what the quiet of the country, and associations somewhat different from those which they haye lately been accus- tomed to may do for him and poor Lady WhamclifPe ? We ought neyer to despaii- of any one." Por she was resolyed, and so was Mr. Langford resolyed, to find nothing amiss in the "\Miarncliffes. Their charitable views of their friends' characters and con- duct being mightily aided by their secret 122 EAVENSCLirrE. inclinations. I should have liked to liave heard what they would have said of the Wharncliffes if they had not been friends of then' o^Yll, connections of whom they were not a little proud ! Randal keeps walking up and do^vn the gravel walk which runs along the summit of the cliff, and commands a vi&w of the carriage-road, waiting the arrival of the expected guests. His heart is throbbing in a strange way, and the whole man experiencing a sense of happiness to which he had long been a stranger, — great, it might be called exquisite, happi- ness, — intoxicating as new wine to one little accustomed to it. '' More beautiful than ever — more deli- cate than ever!" The words were not forgotten. He pictured her the same sweet, endearing creatuj^'e whom he had loved so well. He never asked liimself whether all the rest would continue upon the same footing, — whether this lovely RAVENSCLirrE. 123 creature would remain inclined to love hi m as a man, in the way she had done as a boy. Still less did he recollect that, lore him or not, there could not, in the natiu^e of things, be the same artless display of her feelings. But he troubled not his head with these questions. He kept pic- turing her to himseK the same in all respects, except that the child had bloomed into the woman; and a woman he had abeady appropriated to himself. A some- thing in his father and mother's manner, indeed, might have justified this feeling, had he sought, which he did not, either to justify or to account for it. He had. in old davs, been accustomed so entirely to consider Eleanor T\Tiamcliffe as his own peculiar possession, and she had so invariably seemed to admit the claim, and to cling to him as her sole friend and protector, that now they were to meet again, his heart, as a matter of course, renewed the feehng. Besides, a man heir to a large estate, representative of an ancient family, and saturated with the sense of his own high 124 RAYENSCLIFFE. claims and pretensions, does not usually anticipate much difficulty in pressing his suit upon any disengaged woman. So he walked up and do^vn the terrace in a state of comfort and satisfaction to which he had very long been a stranger. De- livered from what might have been almost called the monomania of exasperated feel- ings, his mind seemed restored to health ; to varied natural interests and feelings. And I know few sensations more pleasant than this restoration to a sound, from a morbid state of mind : the convalescence of the body is nothing to it. It was a fine day, towards the latter end of November, — say what they will of November, it has its charming days; — a slight frost had crisped the air, and a soft mistiness hung upon the landscape, giving a mysterious indistinctness to the groups of trees and the rocks, and the outlines of the more distant hills ; whilst the full but transparent river, coursing rapidly along, sparkled in the sunbeam. The day was in harmony vdth his feelings, subdued, softened as they were ; and he walked and RAVEXSCLIFFE. 125 watched, and mused, in tranqnii enjoyment of the inner peace so lately acquired, till at length the distant roll of an approaching carriage was heard. And soon a gay landau and four, vdih a couple of servants attend- ing on horseback, was to be seen emerging from the woods, and taking the road by the river side. Xow it is at the foot of the ascent — now it slowly mounts the hill. He watched it some moments, hesitating whether to go at once to the door, as his impatience urged him, or to wait till he was summoned. His impatience decided the matter, and before the carriage had swept round the grass-plat at the back of the house, Eandal was standing, the foremost figm^e of all in attendance, upon the steps ; his father and mother remained waiting in the hall. Mr. Lang-ford observ^ed with considerable pleasure the e\'ident excitement of his son ; but the mother remained cold, and, as usual, little observant of that in which the happiness of others was concerned. The landau was not open, even the windows were dra^Ti up, to shelter the 126 RAVENSCLIFFE. travellers from the slight ehilness of the day. It stopped, and, as Langford looked impatiently within, displayed nothing but a confused heap of bonnets, cloaks, baskets, boxes, and all those wearisome matters with which some ladies love to surround themselves when travelling. But the door is opened, and out first issues Sir John. He is dressed in a thick fur- lined coat, or cloak, which was then called a roquelcmre, muffled up from head to foot ; and he is no sooner liberated than he begins to stamp with his feet, ex- claiming, in no measured terms, against the confounded coldness of the weather ; and making, as Randal thinks, a great fuss and noise. He, however, speedily tmms to the carriage, — ^to which, after a slight salute to Eandal, he gives his whole attention. The next person who appears is Lady Wharncliffe's maid, her hands full of bags and baskets, — an ex- cessively spare young person, dressed in the pink of the Abigail mode, and appear- ing to regard herself as one not among the least important of the party. She BAVENSCLIFFE. 127 addresses Sir John Tvitli a sort of half- respectful familiarity, and orders the men- servants al)out as if she were the mistress herself. Then Lady "WTiamclifPe makes her appearance, — a thin fashionable- looking figm-e, rather above the common size, with the remains of much beauty, considerably the worse lor wear, but, in spite of that, looldng yoimger than she really is, and as if the traces upon her featm^es were rather those of habitual dissipation and late hours than of age. She is not unpleasing upon the whole; for her face looks refined, and there is in it a great deal of loveliness, and a certain animation, subdued by habitual ton ; yet there is nothing in it to interest, — no promise of much beyond what at fii'st sight appears. She too, like Sir Jolm, having descended, directs her first at- tention to the carriage ; a woman of simple dress and manners, being Miss Whamcliffe's attendant, who came upon the box, now joins her. The footmen moujit the wheels, the roof of the car- riage is thro^vn back, and then a roR 128 RAVENSCLIFFE. of cloaks and furs, of silks and ermines, is with mucli care lifted down the carriage steps, and, attended by Sh' John, my Lady, and the last -mentioned maid, is carried up the hall-steps and into the house. And Langford beholds the object of so much thought and expectation before him. Her figure was entirely enveloped in the cloaks and furs that were vrrapped round her ; her head was covered with a remarkably pretty black velvet travelling bonnet, in which v»'ere two feathers, fall- ing most gracefully on one side, their dark shade setting off her pale, most delicate, and most beautiful features, to the greatest advantage, aided by the abundance of fah' sliining hah-, v\^hich, a little disordered by the journey, streamed down upon each side. The loveliest blue eyes in the uni- verse, fuU of gentle meanmg, were Kfted up to the servants who carried her into the house, as in lovf tones, most musical, she softly thanked them for the trouble they were taking. She was carried at once into the draw- ing-room, the door of which stood open, RAVENSCLIFFE. 129 and laid upon the sofa. This being done, the parents upon each side exchanged very cordial greetings, and the introduction of his son, as a growTi man, to Sir John and Lady TiliamclifPe, was made by Mr. Langford, senior. Then they all adjourned to the dra^^ing-room, where her maid was akeady busy in relie^dng Miss T\liarn- cliffe from some of the heavy ^Taps. The young lady seemed rather faint, and they had untied her bonnet ; and as she lay there, with the ribbons and feathers scattering round her face, the dehcate frill of her habit - shirt encu'cling her throat, her fair hair in the greatest abund- ance scattering upon the sofa cushion upon which her head rested, and its rich golden hue showing almost like a glory — the extreme softness and tenderness — the spmtual expression of the face — and the dehcate outline of the figure, were dis- played to the utmost advantage. Alto- gether they formed a picture wliich Randal Langford, to his d}dng day, could never forget. He stood a minute or two gazing in VOL. I. K 130 RAVENSCLIFFE, silent ecstacy, whilst the others conversed together. At last Sir John turned to him and said, " Mr. Langford, I must present you again to my daughter ; though I dare say her memory is more tenacious than mine ; ha — ha — ^ha ! Eleanor, my dear, I dare say you have not forgotten your cousin, Randal Langford — ^your champion in all difficulties and dangers ? Though, by Jove, I hardly recognised you myself — So grown — so altered — ha — ha — ha 1 Well, shake hands and he friends — ha — ha — ha!" Upon this the smallest, most delicate, most incomparable of hands, ungloved, and glittering with a few sparkling rings, was held out — Langford took it in his with a reverence, as if touching the fingers of an immortal. He did not speak, nor did she, — but his large sinewy hand closed round, and pressed hers, firmly though very softly, as if to assure her that the old sentiments yet existed upon liis side. The pres- sure was almost imperceptibly returned, the blue eyes being at the same time lifted to his face, with a sort of anxious, EAYENSCLIPFE. 131 T^istflll expression. There were the traces of much suffering in them, — that peculiar sadness that tells of hahitual suffering. His raven black eyes, so full of deep earnest expression, met hers in return. Tliev were no longer strangers — The feelings of the gone-by years were at once restored ; enhanced, on his side, at least, Ijy new sentiments, wliich added incalculably to then' power and vivacity. Eow it would be on hers remains to be proved. The cloaks are removed, the voum? ladv is arranged comfortably upon the sofa ; Mrs. Langford has accompanied Lady TVTiarncliffe to put her in possession of her apartments ; the two elder gentle- men stood talking at a window, from which Sn John I'^Tiarncliffe's ready laugh comes perpetually recmTing, in a manner that may fatigue, but never exhilarates. But Langford has dra^^m a chair, and seated at the back of the sofa, which had been pushed towards the fire, remams silent, iri a state of almost rapturous feel- ing, his eyes bent upon his gentle and K 2 132 RAYENSCLIFFE. lovely cousin. It completed the charm, that, excessively as he admired her, she did not inspire him with the slightest feel- ing^ of that awe and shvness, which so generally, and so provokingly attend upon many a real passion. She looked so softly, spoke so sweetly, seemed herself so ready to resume the fond familiarity of their cliildhood attach- ment, that everything approacliing to un- pleasant timidity and reserve was done away with. The tender blue eyes were raised to him with the most endearing look of confidence and reliance, just as it used to be when she Avas a child ; and his dark coimtenance, bent towards hers, was filled with that which softened every harsher line and character. Thus sub- dued, the countenance of Randal Langford might be called really charming. They began to converse in low tones \\dth each other ; his usually harsh voice, modulated to harmony by the new feelings vrhich possessed him — as for hers, it was ever low and musical : and thus, the two talked. " Are you quite sure you would take EAYENSCLIPFE. 133 nothing r — You seem very much exliausted by your day's journey." " No ! I think not. — Not more th-ed than usual, I think. — I am never very strong, and this eokl weather, mv dear mother and Gary Tvill insist upon Trrapping me up in so many cloaks, that I am almost, smothered. — I shall be quite comfortable in a short time." " Let me move the pillow. — Is that right r And don't you like something laid over vour chest ? — Shall I stir the lire a little more r It seems to me cold here." " Oh no, thank you. I am glad to feel the air of the room so fresh. Mv father likes to travel ^\ith the windows shut, and it always refreshes me to be out of the carriage again. This is a nice room," looking round. "Do you think so ? I am no great judge of rooms. I never think one room differs much from another. Sometimes I have thought the ceiling of this rather low — there have been times when it seemed to oppress, to smother me — but such things are mere fancies " 134 RAVENSCLIFFE. '^ Have you felt it SO ? " "Yes."*^ " I imderstand what you mean Yes — I could fancy, now you say it, that in certain moods one might feel this ceiling low and oppressive — but I have been so used — " to be miserable — was upon her lips, but she could not as yet quite open her heart so far, and she checked herself — '* so used .... to large lofty resounding rooms — that — that .... Well I suppose it is human nature — one ever likes best what is new. You cannot think how snug and comfortable, these ratlier low and shady rooms seem to me." He smiled, and felt and looked pleased, and he said, " Ho you remember the place weU?" " Every tmg and stone about it, I think. I kept my face close to the car- riage window after we had passed the lodge gate. Nothing seems much altered. That is very pleasant. — It is so painful to come back after a few years to a place that one has loved, and to find tliis improved, and that removed — and everything some EAYENSCLirFE. 135 wav or other chanored. I do so hate such changes. — Are the ravens alive still ? " Undonbtedlv. I believe the Lans^fords would think the roof tree of their house had fallen, if the ravens were to give over buildinsr in the old oak." '* And what is become of Xero ? The terrible Nero r Is he yet living ? Do you know, Randal, I have dreamed of Xero often and often, and not very long ago either — and have awakened in a perfect paroxysm of terror as he jumped up and laid liis great heavy paws upon my shoulders. I believe, if it were actually again to happen, I should screech like a wild thinsr vet." ''"Would you — " and he smiled, then added, " Poor old Xero ! Ms bounding days are over. He still creeps about the place, but he is become as a verv old man." t, ''How pleasant it is," she resumed after a short pause, " how pleasant and refresliing it is," and she gave a sigh as if a load was being cast from her bosom, "to come back to a place where one has never been since one was a child. They 136 RAVENSCLIFFE. say — and of course it seems as if it must be so, tliat no one can retread his steps in life — that time rolled by, revolves no more — and yet, I feel just now, as if time had run back, and as if I was, at this very moment, much the same little thoughtless, happy, foolish, thing that I was in the davs of Nero. Po vou feel anvthin<> of this at meeting again, Randal ? No ; I suppose you can't." *' I don't know exactly what I feel," said he, bending upon her eyes filled mth un- utterable softness. " T^Tiether it be as you say, that time has rolled back, or — No — it is not so — I am quite different from what I was then — All is different from what it was then." *' You do not look so very different — and I don't like to think you are so very dif- ferent. — Don't say that again, Eandal; let it be as it was then. — Cousin, you do not know how much I wish it — how much I have thought about it, expected from it — " she stopped herself. *' Have you ?" said he ; " Have you ever been so good as to think of me ? " RAYENSCLIFFE. 137 " Tliink of YOU ! — often and often," and she sighed, and her head dropped a little, and she seemed overpowered with some painful recollection ; then she roused her- self Avith a slight gesture of impatience, as if she would forcibly shake off some un- pleasant remembrance; and she looked round the room again, and laughed a little, and said, " I declare it is just exactly what it was when I left it. There are the very thins^s I used to tliink so beautiful — The lady with the lamb, and the lady vrith. the cockatoo, and all your precious old ancestors, too, Eandal — I used to manage to be afraid even of them. TMiat a little fool I was ! And how good-natured you used to be, you big boy. Eoys of that age are usually such rough, unfeeling creatures, and so particularly fond of teazing little timid girls. Do you remember the delight Everard used to take in plaguing me — and how passionate you would be about it? How I used to stand and quiver, for very terror and pleasure, when you took my part ; and you two were quarrelling about it despe- 138 RAVENSCLIFFE. rately. How my poor little heart used to thank you! Everard is a very different person now, E^andal. He is a spruce young officer in one of his Majesty's crack regi- ments. He is esteemed as handsome as an angel, and the very pink of courtesy and good manners." " He always promised to he very hand- some. — To he the pink of courtesy and good manners is the natural consequence, I suppose, of belonging to one of his Majesty's crack regiments." He felt a disagreeable sense of the con- trast his owTi appearance might present. The proudest men are humble to base- ness when they truly love. He added, what under any other circumstances, his haughty spirit would have broken rather than have uttered — something to this effect; That those who had passed their time, shut up m retired country houses, must want many such advantages. She did not take up this. She did not seem to notice the remark, or to think about him with reference to his external appear- ance. Her mind kept recurring to the past. KAYENSCLIEFE. 139 " Do you remember that beautiful sum- mer's day, when we were all three sitting under the dear old oak-tree, and watching the ravens feeding their young, whom we could hear fluttering, and attempting an infantile croak in the huge nest above? — The gravity of the indefatigable parents, flying so solemnly along in search of food, and the greedy screechings of the nursery full of children ? Do you remember that particular day, Ptandal ? " "Yes — I rememb er it . " "How Everard wanted to climb the tree; and how I screamed and cried because I was sure he would hurt himself; and how at last he lost all patience. Do you re- member?" " Oh yes, I remember." And Avell he did remember seeing Eve- rard at last rudely push away the little, clinging gu4, screaming, in an agony of terror, for his sake — and the blow with which he had at last accompanied the order to be quiet, and hold her noise — and the sudden rush of blood to his own temples ; and the ecstacy of passion which bUnded 140 UAVENSCLIPFE. him — and how he had rushed forward, and with one stroke of his foot levelled the coward to the earth — and how Everard had struck his forehead against a stone, and had bled profusely — and the agony of distress and remorse into which his httle sister had been thrown— and the generosity with which she had forgotten all her owt^i causes of complaint in her sense of her brother's sufferings — and yet, how, in the paroxysms of her distress, her heart had remained just, and grateful, and loving to himself; and how sulky Everard had been — and the tears she had shed before he would be reconciled — and how, when the reconciliation at last had been effected, her tears had ceased ; but she kept sobbing and sobbing, as he sat upon the grass by her side, and her little head was leaned against his breast. " You were always my champion," she said — and again she looked into his eyes with the same searching, anxious, wistful expression which we have noticed when first they met. His eyes were cast down at this mo- EATEXSCLIFFE. Ill mcnt, and she kept peeping under his eyelids, for he did not oh serve her ; and then she seemed occupied in perusing his features, and scanning his figure, as if she were trrins: to understand hiin exactly. The expression of the face, softened as it was, had in it even now when she con- sidered it '^yith this attention, something stern and seyere. And the strong-huilt figure; the large limhs, knit together as with sinews of iron, something in it almost approacliing to the temble. The longer she looked, and the stronger this impression became, she began to wonder she could haye spoken with so much childish ease and composure to this seyere-looking man. But he soon raised his eyes a<>ain and then there was some- thing in them, — a softness again per- vading eyery feature when he looked at her, — ^^\'hich reassured her. 142 RAYENSCLirPE . CHAPTER VI. Oh hush ! may blest forgetfuhiess Our former being steep, .And with its sorrows may its love In dead oblivion sleep. Mrs. Acton Tindal. Tke conversation between tlie two eon- tinned in tlie strain I have related, for some time longer, and every fresh quarter of an hour seemed by awakening fresh recollections of their old friendship, to draw them nearer to each other ; but it *was time to separate and dress for dinner. Lady WharnclifPe and Mrs. Langford reap- peared, attended by Eleanor's maid. " Well, my love, how do you feel ? Not so very much tired ? " KAVENSCLIFFE. 143 '' Thank you, mamma, — very much less tired than I was yesterday, — don't ring," as her mother approached to put her hand upon the bell, — " with a little help I feel quite equal to walking up-stairs." " I don't know for that — you are not a very prudent person. Always trying, Mrs. Langford, to do more than her strength is equal to. There is no end to our quar- rels upon that subject. Xay, my darling, if you positively must and Tvdll," as Eleanor, assisted by her maid, endea- voured slowlv and with considerable difficulty to rise from the sofa, — " Mr. Langford — Eandal — perhaps you ^ill l^e so good ..." He had abeady risen, and stood there, waiting only for permission to resume some of his old offices of assistance and protection. '' If Miss Whanicliffe will only give me leave ; nay, Eleanor, it is but as it used to be — let me support you." And he put his arm under the pillow, and ^ith one slight effort raised her at once ; and still keeping his arm round her, supported her as IM RAVENSCLIEFE. there she stood, tottering and uncertain upon the floor. She had looked up at him as he did so, her soft eyes so sweetly, lovingly, and thankfully raised to his, with that gentle confiding smile in them, so inexpressibly dear to his heart ! — A sweetness to which he had for years been a stranger seemed to pervade his feelings. " I wish," he said — and he stooped his tall head tenderly and anxiously down towards her — " I Avish you would let it be as it used to be, Eleanor, — let me lift you up and carry you to your room. You really do not seem fit to w^allv, and I could lift you as I should a feather. "Would it not be better. Lady ^Yharncliffe ?" turn- ing and appealing to her. '* Eeally I see no objection to it ; only she is such a positive little thing. . . . She is as light as a leaf; it really would be much better." And thus encom^aged, P^andal Langford, without waiting for further permission, took the trembling girl up in his arms, and saving, " Mother, wliich way ? " fol- RAVENSCLIFFE. 145 lowed by the ladies, carried her, as he might have done a Kttle baby, very softly and without the shghtest appearance of eflPort up-stairs. The maid opened the door of the room appointed, a not very large one, at the end of the house. It had a bow- Avindow and commanded a most lovely ^iew to the eastward. The sun, it is true, no longer shone full upon it; but his rays gilded the woods and cliffs opposite, and sparkled upon the river which ran below. The scene was beautiful beyond descrip- tion. The cliffs upon this side of the house were less precipitous than upon the other, and fell, broken into all sorts of fantastic shapes, and clothed, ^ith every variety of that beautiful vegetation proper to the sandstone-rock, towards the stream. The rich yellows, reds, and browns of the stone from time to time breaking out, and appearing between the various greens, — now, indeed, now longer properly green, for the dying tints of the year were upon the shrubs and toughest plants which grew there in such profusion. A path upon VOL. I. L 146 BAYENSCLIFFE. this side of the house led from the gravel- walk and terrace down to the river's brink; over which the bow-window, pro- jecting considerably, seemed to hang. At this moment nothing could be more pleasing than the scene presented through the windoAV ; nor look more comfortable and cheerful than did the little apartment itself. Indeed it might be said to be the only really cheerful apartment in the house. She had her arm round his neck, as he held her in his arms, and before he laid her doAVii upon the sofa, wliicli stood by a brisk blazing fire, he just carried her to the window, and leaning her forward so that she might look out, said, " Look Eleanor, — do you remember this view? The sun is very bright this No- vember day — Is it not beautiful?" "Lovely!" she answered. "How soft and calm it is ! The shrubs seem to have grown very much, and are more rich and abundant than ever. And how charming is the effect of the mist lying in the hol- lows of the woods and rocks, with the bright tints of tlie sun tipping the peaks EAYEXSCLIFFE. 147 and the tops of the trees ! — Let me look a little longer — how lovely ! " He stood there — not unT^illin^, vou may be sure, leaning her forward, and she placidly regarding the scene — with such an expression of peaceful repose on her face ! The peace and repose were infectious. He had never felt in his life ]3efore as he did at that moment. Such a sense of ahnost holy love and joy stealing over him, as he held the sweet delicate creature in liis arms, so tenderly ! Then she turned up those cpentle eves and said, " Thank you, — Now you must lay me upon my sofa, I believe." And, assisted by her maid, he deposited his bm^den with a care the most solicitous, and with feelings of tenderness and anxi- ety most sweet and most new, upon the couch, and aided Mrs. Gary to arrange her pillows and coverings. All which attentions Eleanor seemed to receive with as much satisfaction as they were offered, and a merry little laugh, such a laugh as had not been heard from her lips for many and many a long day rejoiced her mother's ears. L 2 148 RAVENSCLIFEE. Lady Tiliarncliiie came up to the sofa, looking much pleased. " Eeally, my love, you have borne yom* jom^ney wonderfully. — Thank you, Mr. Langford — E-andal " — '' Let it be Randal, pray ma'am." '' Well then, Eandal — really you are a capital nurse. ^^Tio would have expected it of ijou? — But you were always very good-natured. — However, now we must turn you out, for positively" — looking at her watch — " it's getting late, and Eleanor must lie and rest about an hour before she dresses for dinner. — So get along with you, and au revoir, my darling. Gary, take care your young mistress does not get cold from lying between fire and mndow. Better, perhaps, draw the cm^tain." " Oh no, mamma, thank you, please not to draw the curtain. Let me look out." He ran down stairs, and let liimself out at the hall-door, and plunged doTMi the steep by the path beneath her Tvindow, and was soon upon the flowing river's EAYEXSCLirrE. 1^9 brink. Here, under overhanging trees and rocks, a ^ide walk was laid out, which extended above two miles, winding in and out, — now following the course of the river, and running upon its very brink, then diverging into the woods, and leading the water altogether; — now rising amid the cliffs and broken rocks to a conside- rable height, then sinking again to the shaded river-side. A beautiful walk it was, indeed ! He hurried there ; and once there, for- getful of tide and time, indulging all the new and deiiQ-htful sensations wliich crovrded into his heart, he followed the devious wav, unobservant of the beauteous scenery which surrounded liim, x^i per- haps not entu-ely disengaged from its influence. — The sweet sohtude of the walk, and its extraordinary beauty, the lulling sound of the light ^dnd among the branches overhead, and of the transparent river, bounding and rippling over the stones and broken rocks, soothing his senses by their soft music, and lending fresh charms, though unobserved, to the harmonv of his 150 EAVENSCLIFFE. feelings. Every liarsli or irritating sensa- tion seemed soothed, — every old rankling wound healed. His cherished hatreds, his bitter recollections, all dissipated, as if the past had been but a painful dream. His thoughts were far otherwise occupied, dwell- ing upon that tender smile, those blue eyes of surpassing softness and loveliness, that delicate form, which seemed to ask for support and protection. Love, tenderness, and a sort of holy pity, were mingling in his bosom, — the sense of injiuies and suffer- ings, — the old thu'st for revenge and retri- bution, died away. It was as a new birth of the soul. He wandered and wandered on, I know not how long ; at last he recollected him- self. Then he looked at his watch ; it was getting late, and he hm^ied back to dress for dinner, fdled with the dehghtful cer- tainty that at dinner he must meet again, and that the whole evening would be spent in her company. EATENSCLIFFE. 151 The chansre effected in Eleanor's feelins^s was for the moment almost as entire as that produced in those of Eandal, and the relief which she experienced almost as great. She had been for some time very, very mise- rable, and her misery had been increased to a sad degree by the impossi1}ility of exciting sympathy in any of those who surrounded her. Not that they intended to be im- kind; to positive unkindness, except, it might be, now and then from her brother, she was a stranger. Her father, whom she had feared so much as a little girl, had, since she had bloomed forth into loveliness so remarkable, exchanged the mortifying system of early years for one totally different. His pride in the admi- ration she excited was excessive, and he flattered her accordinorlv, and indulored her in most ways. Like other vain men, he was gratifying his own self-love, whilst thus appearing to be gratifying hers, and giving, by the admiration he did not hesi- tate openly to display, the cue, as it were, to the admiration of others. Nobody could, in appearance at least, be more 152 RAVENSCLIFFE. indulgent than lie. Not a msli that she could form was to be denied, not a want unsatisfied. Every one was put in requi- sition if her service required it. Every one's wants and wishes were expected to be subservient to hers. And yet, under all this apparent kindness, Eleanor felt and 3aiew that she dare no more contradict her father, than in the days of her infant awe I That he loved and indulged her to excess, but that all tliis Avas upon one understood condition — that no desire of hers was to be put in contradiction with his. The love and the value he expressed for her was to be understood to last so long, and only so long as she consented to minister to his self-consequence, and yield implicitly to his plans and wishes. As for anything like the true sympathy of the heart — any- thing approaching to a disinterested desire for her true happiness, or indeed, the least approach to the comprehension of that in which her true happiness would consist — she well knew it was as vain to hope as to expect to gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles. RAVEKSCLIFFE. 153 As regarded the mother, that sympathy for which her heart was yearning it seemed ahnost equally yain to look for. There were, indeed, few feelings in common between mother and daughter. — They were both very good-natured, and habitually gentle and kind in then' manner. In these two good qualities, which so agree- ably tend to smooth the course of family life, Lady Wharncliffe might be said to rival Eleanor. But in all others, alas ! how lamentably she fell short 1 Eleanor possessed an almost excessive delicacy of taste, the greatest refinement of sentiment and acuteness of perception, united to a temperament sensitive in the extreme. Her faculties were of a very high character, and her disposition noble, generous, and tempered too finely not to feel in general perfectly indifferent to the busy interests of that little-great world, for vrliich her mother seemed alone to exist. Eleanor knew but of two sources of happiness, — the development of her ^e intellect, and the indulgence of the affec- tions belonging to the tenderest of hearts. 154 HATENSCLIFFE. Lady T^^harncliffe, on her side, was not wanting in a certain cleyerness, nor inca- pable, in her way, of a good deal of real affection. In things belonging to this world, she was active, tolerably well judging, and at home. Of those belonging to a hisrher life — that life which constituted existence for Eleanor — she had not an idea. An^^hing like the support of her sym- pathy in those many sufferings to which a being lilve Eleanor is, in the great world, exposed, it was manifestly absiuxl to expect from her mother. Yet was Lady 'Wliamcliffe far from neg- lectful of her responsibilities, as she under- stood them. To bring her daughter out with every advantage — ^to dress her in the best possible style, without regard either to trouble or expense — carefully to attend to> her health, so far, at least, as was consistent with the fatigue of continual dissipation — • above all, to leave no pains unspared, no cncumstance neglected, wliich might tend to secure an advantageous settlement in life for her daughter, — ^this was Lady Wharn- cliife's conception of a mother's duties, and KAYEXSCLirrE. 10. > such duties she sedulously performed, and well. Further than this she did not, for she really could not, 2:0. She had never knoT\TL a want bevond such tliinsrs herself — t. ~ how should she estimate the immensity of that want in the case of another ? Every- thing approaching to matters of such a natui'e, was at once dismissed as ^' stuff and nonsense " hv her. And a laus-h, and '•' Mv dear child, how can you be so absurd r Do, for goodness sake, my sweet Eleanor, talk more Kke a rational being," — had silenced the first attempts of the young girl, as life opened, to make the feelings understood T\ith which her heart was filled to overflowing. Of course, am-tliing approaching to confidence had been thus entu'ely repressed, and the feelino^s had been driven inwards. A beino; so timid and sensitive as Eleanor 'Whamclifi'e, even under the most favourable circimi- stances, finds it difiicult to give \ei\i to sentiments delicate perhaps to an almost morbid excess, — in this case it was ma- nifestly impossible. She became really in her own familv what so manv verv un- reasonably and conceitedly affect to be iii 156 RAVENSCLIPPE. theirs, — that hapless thing, une femme incomprise. She had no sister, and as regarded her hrother, there was still less sympathy to be hoped than from any member of her family. He was, in fact, a regular spoiled heir, a common-place fashionable young man of the world, selfish and hard-hearted, as many such, though not all, are. As he had never known crosses himself, he cared not one whit for the crosses of other people, and indeed usually chose to conclude that such tilings existed only in the imagination of the sufferers. His feelings to his sister unsoftened, as in Sir John and Lady Wharncliffe, by the natural instincts of parental pride and affection, were those of complete indifference, or rather, I might perhaps say, something beyond indifference. In fact, he did not much like her. There was an innate superiority in Eleanor's mind, character, and abilities, which would make itself felt, in spite of all her gentleness ; and which, though he would have scorned to confess it, irritated Ms pride, and excited something very like EAYEXSCLirrE. 157 incipient jealousy in Everard. Then, she was an inyalid, and as such reqmred con- sideration and indulgence ; and T\ith the something approaching to barharity, too common in spoiled, selfish men, Everard hated an invalid; voting that nothing upon earth was such a bore as a dehcate woman, — '•' Mere affectation, and non- sense, and fuss, it was all." " Why could not one woman do what other women did, if she chose ?" " Other women stood twelve hours a day at then washiag-tuhs. Housemaids scrubbed floors, and dairy- maids went sinsrino^ alons^ under heaw milk-pails. The incapacity to endure fatigue v>'as nothing in the world but the result of indolent habits, and fancied inability for exertion." ''He hated such nonsense, and had he a daughter like Eleanor, he'd soon teach her to jimip about." In this manner Eleanor had for some years been driven to live within herself, until her thoughts and feelings, for want of some wholesome communication with those of others, had attained an almost 158 RAVENSCLIFFE. morbid intensity ; and she stood in danger of becoming more absorbingly attached ihan is safe in this inconstant, changeful world, should she meet with an object capable of exciting her affections. Her attachment to her cousm Eandal had not taken any form, however, approaching to this. She had been too young when last at Ravenscliffe to attach herself in this exclusive manner to ]Randal Langford ; and the difference of thek ages, so appa- rent at that early period of life, would have indeed rendered an;^i;hmg like sym- pathy of this nature improbable. It was as her protector and champion, rather than as lier companion, that she looked up to hhn and loved liim ; and it was indeed something in the very same light that she felt incluied to regard him still, for she was in ckcumstances greatly to need both a friend and a protector. Poor girl! she was at this time sorely beset; and she had no one, as we have seen, among the members of her o^vn family, from whom she might expect the least assistance in her difficulties. The anxious RATEN&CLIFPE. 159 searching look \^'llic]l she had once or twice cast upon Eanclal, seemed to be one of inquiry whether he vrould indeed prove himself a friend, and the examination seemed to have encouraged her. As she lay there upon her sofa, restmg before dressing for the evening, her countenance assumed a tranquillity of expression ; there was an air of hope and comfort diflriised over it which had not been seen upon that gentle suffering face for a very long time. Lady TMiarnch'ffe, dressed for dinner, now came into the room. She looked extremely handsome, and vrell satisfied, as she had reason to be, with her ovm appearance; and she came up to her daughter's couch, and kissing her, said, '' How well you are looking, my dear ! this air seems quite to have renovated you already. You ^^ill enjoy yourself here, I am sure — you, who are so fond of old childish associations, and all that sort of thing — and, really, it looks a pretty place — I had almost forgotten all about it — Most horribly out of the way, though, it certainly is. How well Mr. and Mrs. Lano:ford 160 HAVENSCLIFFE. are looking! IS'ot a day older, I declare, than when I was here last. I suppose, in the vegetable sort of life they lead here, people really become something like the old oak-trees themselves. Year suc- ceeds to year with them, and makes no perceptible change. As for Eandal Lang- ford, your cousin, child, what do you think of him? A strange, dark-looking face it is. And yet, I declare, he is grown handsome — very handsome, I think. I can't help liking those sort of faces — don't you? They look so manly." '* I always thought my cousin Randal handsome from a boy," said Eleanor; " and though people used to say, even then, that there was too much harshness in his expression, it always seemed a kind one to me. And I tliink I can detect the same latent kindness in it now." ''You have been perusing the book with attention, have you, my darling little prude? — I am glad you like the contents so well. — It's so nice to be fond of one's cousin." " Eond ! " repeated Eleanor, " And yet. RAVENSCLITFE. 161 I believe I really am quite fond of Eandal. I always liked him so much from a boy ; and he seems to me — except, of course, that he is grown and changed into a man — so little altered. As he carried me up- stairs, I could almost have fancied I was but six years old again." '' Dear me, child ! I wish I could fancy mvself six vears old a^ain ! But I must wait for vouns^ gentlemen to volunteer to carry me up-stairs, before I can amve at that blessed delusion. Ilowever, seriously, I am quite pleased that you are so content ; and I hope that old associations may put more recent ones out of that silly little heart of yours, Eleanor Say it shall be so, child — won't you ?" Eleanor sighed ; then she said, *' If my mind could be at rest upon one subject, I should be able to get along better." "Well, well; I think you may make yourself easy upon that score for the present. It is not likely Sir William will renew his suit just yet. — Though I don't intend to sav that I think he will not persevere — That chit's face of yours must VOL. I. M 162 RAVENSCLIFPE. have something very attractive in it. But, make yom'self easy ; you will not see him again, at all events, till next spring. Let me see — Easter falls late — one, two, three, four, five, good months. Why, it is a life, child ! Nohody knows what may turn up in five months." Eleanor looked relieved by this speech. Eive months was, indeed, a long time, ^o one could tell, as her mother said, what might happen in five months. The best thing that could happen, as regarded her, would be, that Sir William might change his mind, fall in love elsewhere, and leave her at peace. She dreaded a family contest. She felt that resistance to the united wishes and persuasions of all around her was a task to which she was scarcely equal, alone and unsupported as she was : and yet, to marry Sk William! — With her present feelings it was impossible. Eut, what could she urge? He was an un- exceptionable match, — rich, well-bom, handsome, and good-humom^ed — and with Just that portion of sense which suffices to RAVENSCLIFFE. 163 make a man respectable without making him interesting. She had only one objection to plead, and that she dared not allude to, for shame and mortification lay that way — Eor there lay the deep shame of passionate, and, as it appeared, unrequited affection bestowed; and to her proud family the burning mortification of having had the daughter of their pride, in the eye of the world — and, to use the terms of the world, neither more nor less than — jilted. It was this hateful, hateful idea which furnished her father and her brother with theii- strongest reasons for forcing this match ^Yiih. Sir William upon her. Her speedy marriage with another, being, as they regarded it, the only possible way to mpe out the disgrace under which they smarted. As for Lady TTliamcliffe, as we have seen, she had always been properly alive to the impoi-tance of a good settlement in life; and since Eleanor had "come out," as the phrase is, had thought, talked, and speculated upon little else. Tlierefore to M 2 164 RAVENSCLirPE. refuse such a proposal as Sir AYilliam's, — unless, indeed, a better offered, — appeared to her little short of insanity. "You are going to dress, and come do-wn again, this evening?" the mother interrupted Eleanor's reverie by saying. " Oh, yes — certainly ! I feel quite equal to it. You will find me in the draAving- room when you come out from dinner; for though Randal would not let me walk up, I certainly intend to walk down-stairs. So, pray say nothing about my designs of tliis nature, dear mamma, for fear he should insist upon having it his own way again." " Oh, never fear, child ; I'll keep your secret. — But there's the second bell. TVTiy canH these people have a gong? They seem to retain most antediluvian notions, to be sure, — of which dining at six o'clock is not the least. Six o'clock I — only think ! However, farewell, dear child; and put on that white silk with the white fringes, will you ? It becomes you so — And I want to force that starched piece of puiitanism, Mrs. Langford, to own RAVENSCLirPE. 165 you are very pretty, which she seems to think it ahnost at the peril of her soul to do. — Besides, it pleases your father — you know it always does, when you look ravish- infj^." And so the srav mother kissed the quiet daughter, and took her leave. The evening was rather a stupid affair to most of the party. Lady "Wliamcliffe sat making talk with Mrs. Langford, and every now and then endeavourins^ to swallow doAvn, as hest she might, some most tremendous vawns. The two s^entle- men got on, however, somewhat better together. Men in England, however dif- ferent thek habits of thought and ideas of life may be, are sure to find some subjects in common upon vrhich to dis- course; and, moreover, are seldom so exposed to the inroads of the demon of enmii as a lively woman like Lady Wliamcliffe, when there is nothing amusing going on. 166 iRAVENSCLIFFE. '' How sliall I ever get through it ? How shall I ever endure it? — What am I to do ? — ^^^hat is to become of me?" she kept mentally ejaculating ; but then she looked at the sofa, and she said to herself, ''Possible or impossible, do it I must." Upon the sofa Eleanor lay reposing ; and over the back of it Randal was again lean- ing. The young girl was certainly looking surpassingly lovely ; for that, rather than beautiful, is the proper term to use. The white dress that she wore, trimmed vaih. rows of rich fringe ; the beautiful lace scarf, or shawl, that hung over her shoul- ders ; her most sweet face, her abundance of fine fair hair, now dressed and displayed to the utmost advantage; the peculiar softness of every tone when she spoke ; the sweetness of her smile; the tender grace of every motion and gesture, rendered her, in truth, a most bewitch- ing creature. The young man sat there talking to her, and listening to the sweet easy way in which she prattled — that pretty prattle, so gentle, so softly playful, EAYENSCLIFFE. 167 SO winning, to his sense little short of ravishment — He thouo^ht her the sweetest of mortals — more than mortal — an angel — an anc^el of lis^ht and heantv. His whole strong^ nature T^'as melted and subdued. The stronger the power of resistance, the more complete the yictory. He felt already that he loved this fail' creature with that love, too deep for words, which passeth show — that his whole, whole heart was hers — hers every faculty of his mind — hers henceforward and for ever. The strength of the passion was in proportion to the earnest intensitv of his character. He loved her as the strong, the serious love, when love thev do ^dth the whole soul. Yet his passion took a coloiu' from the object by which it was inspired. It was as pure and holy, as deep and fervent. Alreadv he felt himself a nobler and a better man. And, as he looked at Eleanor^ his imagination began to weave one of those romances of marriage, which adds a something so substantial, so dear, to more evanescent feelinsrs. Alreadv he was 168 KAYENSCLIFFE. picturing her to himself as liis wife, liis own — the mistress of his family — the mother of his children — the gentle ruler of that very mansion. — Investing her with those sweet attributes which rendered her still more precious as his ot^h, his own only, a part and portion — and oh ! what a blessed portion ! — of liis own individual self! These are dangerous speculations for any one, man or woman, to indulge in. It is dangerous work thus to abandon the reins to the imagination, and draw pictures of felicity, only too often, never to be realized. A few hours leads people far, when they once begin to travel in that direction. The effects produced by that one evening followed Randal Langford to his grave. Love and hatred were both master passions vnih him. Though so strongly contrasted, it is, as asserted in the old proverb — the po^ver to feel them in their fiiU intensity mostly exists in the same character. The conversation of the elder ones had for some time subsided into silence; and RAYENSCLirrE. 169 sitting there round the fire, they observed, mth considerable satisfaction, what was going on between Randal and Eleanor — too much absorbed in each other's conver- sation to be aware that they were objects of attention elsewhere. Lady Wharncliffe raised her head, from time to time, from her netting, and though she could not suppress a sigh now and then, as she thousrht of the tasks before her, vet ^ith internal satisfaction she reiterated to herself the determination to endure all with true maternal heroism. Even Mrs. Langford's cold precise mouth, as she looked oTavelv at the two, relaxed into a grim smile of approbation. Su' Jolm talked of turnips, and cast a glance now and then at what was going on ; and Mr. Langford looked gravely content. The lovely young creature, her heart absorbed T^ith far other ideas, little sus- pected the nature of the family plot thus wearing against her, or the expectations which her artless conduct excited. As for Eandal, he was, as usual, per- fectly careless upon the subject. If he 170 RAVENSCLIFFE. had suspected what was going on, his pride and his delicacy might have heen somewhat offended, and he would pro- bably have resented this sort of premature design against his liberty. Men hate to be dictated to in love, even if it be in the very way to which their inclination is tending. KAYEInSCLIPFE. 171 CHAPTEPt YII. When we met methought her alter' d, Though the flower was sweet and fair, And the hright bud had expanded, But mom's sunshine was not there. Oft I mark'd a sudden sadness, Stealing o'er her tender eye ; Swiftly on her smile and laughter, Follow' d the unbidden sigh. Mrs. Acton Tindal. Ele Alston's health rapidly improYed under the quiet of Eavenscliffe. Her mind, harassed and agitated as it had been, was soothed by the tranquillity which sur- rounded her; besides, she had abundance of time to herself, and could indulge her melancholy without obseryation. She was also entirely relieyed from what was at this moment the most pressing of her 172 RAVENSCLIFPE. troubles — the suit of Sir WiUiam. By common consent this last subject seemed altogether dropped, and this was a great comfort to her. She spent much of her time in her charming little room — her eye wander- ing over the lovely landscape before her — listening to the hoarse roar of the wind among the woods, or watching the hurry- ing river, now swelled by the autumn rains, tumbling over the rocks. Her thoughts would dwell, it is true, too long upon a certain forbidden subject ; but the cruel bitterness of her injured feehngs seemed allayed, and her heart soothed and softened by the charm of that repose w^hich surrounded her. She had time to review what had passed, to arrange her thoughts, to discipline, as far as possible, her feelings — those feelings which had been so deeply outraged, — to endeavour to diminish the force of senti- ments through which she had suffered so much, — ^to stifle cruel, cruel regret, — to forget that trembling agony of hope once excited to ecstacy, and disappointed. EAVEXSCLIFFE . 173 She strove to lower the bright hues of those pictures of bliss once assured, now lost for ever, which, do what she would, at times recui-red, — to endeavour to be reasonable and good, resigned, patient, and submissive. T\Tiilst she had remained at Chelten- ham in all the hurry of dissipation, and exposed to the suit of Sir William, and to the cruel persecutions of her family upon his account, she had found it im- possible to obtain the least approach to tranquillity of mind. She had lived in a constant state of internal agitation, which, coupled with the incessant and painful effort to disguise it, and assume a com- posure which she Avas so far from feeling, had completely undermined her health, and brought her into the fearful state of weakness to which she was reduced. Eleanor lived many years ago, — when mankind seem to have existed under what might almost be thought a different religious dispensation from that which we now enjoy. There was little of that reality — that vital sense of the loving 174 RAVENSCLIFFE. truth of the great subject which distin- guishes truly religious minds in our time. People seemed to reason upon these sub- jects most imperfectly, — to admit the facts, Avith much less hesitation and doubt, perhaps, than they do at present, but not so logically to follow out their conse- quences, loTien admitted. Either as a re- straint or as a consolation, religion was, in general, less effectual, in proportion to the immensity of its claims, than even now. And people who believed every article of its teachings, and were punctual in the observance of its external prac- tices, carried little of it home to their inner hearts. They looked to the world for their motives and for their support; and disciplined their hearts, when that task was attempted, rather by the sug- gestions of that sort of ancient moral philosophy Christianized, wliich you may find in the sermons of Blau', — for in- stance, — than through that -^ital faith which pm-ges the eye of the soul, teaches to discern the force of higher motives, and gives strength to move mountains. EAVEXSCLITFE. 175 Thus it was both with Eleanor and Ptandal. They both, contrasted as were their notions, were alike in this — theu- habitual respect for rehgion, their habitual confidence in the truth of what they had been taught, and thek equally habitual inconsistency in neglecting to apply these things to the discipline or support of their own minds. They differed, howeyer, so far, that whilst Eleanor, with a strong intuitiye moral sense, a yery deep perception of the beauty of goodness, was in a dim, grop- ing manner always endeayouring to attain to it, Eandal knew not what self-disci- pline meant. Eleanor was an example of what a character, so naturally loyely as hers, may become, and often, I belieye, does be- come under such superficial yiews. There was all that is tender, pure, and beautiful, but there was neither happiness nor strength. The cheering, animating sense of liymg under the perpetual goyemment of wis- dom, goodness, and sympathy — that bro- 176 EAYENSCLIFFE. therhoocl with One who has condescended to disclose himself under the affecting relationship, — that cheerful suhmission which arises from the conviction, that suffering, and sorrow, and disappointment, are not the result of the contradictory workings of hlind accident, but parts of a great scheme of moral education, — such consoling and ennobling certainties were seldom present to her mind. So that in this great crisis of her life, when such considerations, and such considerations alone, could have saved her from the sense of utter desolation and desertion which she endm^ed, left to her o^^ti un- assisted efforts, she added one more to the numerous list of sufferers, who have found the vanity of the supports on which they trusted. Still, nothing that is good in itself is in this world utterly cast away ; and the efforts she made to resign herself to ne- cessity were not mthout their fruit. She struggled hard to recover her peace of mind, and though unable altogether to attain tliis, she was able to conquer the RATEXSCLirrE. 177 constant internal agitation which had been destroying her, and to profit by this pause in her life, so as to restore a little order to the confusion of her thoughts and feelings. She passed the numerous hours in which at Kavenscliffe she was suffered to remain alone, in reviewing her past life, endeavouring to understand her own cha- racter, and to decide upon the course best, under all the cu^umstances of the case, to pursue. Upon two things she soon came to a decision. One was, that whilst under the influence of her present feelings, the only state in which she could either per- form her duty to her oavh satisfaction, or, indeed, find existence suppoii:aljle, was that of a single woman. The second was the natural consequence of the first, that she must, and she would, come what might of it, refuse Sir William, if, as she feared, he should address her again. She like\\ise resolved, in case of difficulty, to apply to her cousin E-andal, confess the whole to him, and entreat his protection and sup-^ VOL. I. N 178 RAVENSCLIFFE. port against the urgency of lier family. There was everything in Randal that she could desire for such a purpose. His affection for her seemed to be as strong as in their childish years ; the influence his strength of character gave him over others very great, and more especially great, as it appeared, over her ovm. father and mother. They treated him with a cordiality, and showed a deference to his opinions in a manner that surprised her. The cause she was, indeed, far from diAining. It may seem strange, but so it was, — so absorbed was she by her o^ti ideas, that the thouscht of her cousin in the character of a lover did not once present itself. And thus gradually and almost imper- ceptibly, Eleanor day by day recovered her strength, and a certain internal tranquillity. Having made up her mind as to the future, a certain tender melancholy succeeded to the cruel tempest by which her poor heart had been distracted. Life appeared under a sobered, but no longer a terrific aspect ; and her face losing a certain anguished expression of fear and sorrow, was now RAVEyscLirPE. 179 only gently shaded by a sweet sadness. Every hour she looked lovelier and more bewitching as these changes proceeded. Randal, in the meantime, was rapidly advancins^ in his love historv. Every dav added something to the captivations of the dav before ; and everv dav he became more deeply and passionately attached. His love was, as were his other sentiments, intense and concentrated; — rarely dis- played, and in its display often miamiable r embittered bv manv hard, ani>rv, and mistaken feelings, yet sincere, deep, and most faithful. There was little imagi- nation in it — it was all piu'e, intense feeling. The extreme softness of Eleanor's man- ner spared him many of those alterna- tions of hope and fear, lov^ and rage, which a temper such as his would have been exposed to, under captivity to almost any other woman. She was so gentle and affectionate in her manner of treatini> him, it was impossible to find cause for ofPence or irritation ; still there was a something, he knew not what, and never y 2 180 RAVENSCLIFFE. asked liimseKwliat, ever seeming to pre- vent his entire satisfaction. When he was with her, when under the charm of her presence, he felt himself in general content, and but too intensely happy. Yet he rarely left her without a notion that something, he knew not what, had been wanting, — something he missed instinc- tively, — something he felt intuitively should have been there. She was too friendly, — too gently and invariably kind. Could he be complaining of that ? She soon got so much better, that she was able to walk out. Pirst they walked together upon the terrace at the top of the clifF, and in front of the drawing-room windows • then then' strolls would extend to the raven's oak, and under its wide stretching branches, and sheltered by the old tower from the east wind, they would walk and converse for hours. At last she ventured to descend by the mnding-path which led to the river's side, and enjoy the charming path which I have described, and which the green shining hollies, and the pines and firs intermixed among the BAYENSCLirPE. 181 now leafless brandies of tlie other trees, rendered, even in winter, sheltered and beautiful. He would, upon these occasions, be sometimes gloomy and silent, at others easy and conversable; his temper, now irritable and exacting, then tender and obliging. She had been accustomed to these alternations in his humour when a bov, and thous-ht notliins; further of it. When he was cross, she smiled and spoke the more sweetly and playfully, endeavour- ing to charm the ill-humour out of him ; when he was in a better temper, she talked to him confidingly, and was happy and contented. Still neither of them had made the least approach to the subject which severally occupied both their minds. A sort of proud shyness kept him from the least allusion, as yet, to his passion ; and she shrouded the secret history of her heart with the most shrinkinsr dehcacv. So they continued entirely in the dark as to the real natm-e of each other's sentiments ; but there was so much old honest affection between them, that they 182 EAVENSCLIEFE. got on upon the wliole extremely well in spite of this. They have heen walking hy the side of the river for two hours at least, for it is a shining, sunny day; there has been a slight frost in the morning, just enough to crisp and render the air exhilarating, and the sun is warm and bright. A silence longer than common — though long silences were not unfrequent between them — ^lias been for some time maintained; her thoughts have been wandering far away, — farther than she had lately suffered them to roam. She has been thinking of the days of the preceding summer, — of certain walks under over-arching trees, and by gently gliding rivers, at the recol- lection of which her heart trembled, — of certain words, and looks, and impressive sighs, — of a charmingly animated face, fall of bright intelligence, — of the sweetest, and gayest, and tenderest smiles, — of feel- ings too sweet for words, never to be forgotten ; and she sighed and started as Randal turned abruptly round, saying, — ""WTiat are you thinking of, Eleanor?*' RAVENSCLIFFE. 183 She coloured as if she had been detected doing some forbidden thing. " Thinking of?" she said. '' Yes, thinking of — I have been watch- ing you this quarter of an hour. — I never savr such a face as youi-s is, Eleanor. It can take, at times, the saddest, most piteous expression that it is possible to conceive. It is a perfect tragedy in itself. TMiat can make you look so ?" " I did not know," blushing and trjTng to laugh it off, " that my face was such a story-teller." " T\Tiat do you mean by that ? You don't look sincere, Eleanor, whilst you say that. I wish I knew the cause of aU tliis." " All this ! "What do you mean by all this ? AU nothing. — Nonsense, Eandal — whait were we talking about ?" " Nay, what loere we talking about, Eleanor ? Nothing at all for this last haK-hour, I am certain. — I would give something to know what you have been thinking of." " Don't, Eandal. There is nothing so disagreeable as to be asked to tell one's 184 EAVENSCLIFFE. thoughts — In nearly nine eases out of a hundred not worth the telling. I have observed this even when the face has looked as serious as if it were resolving the fate of the nation." But he was not to be so put off. He felt certain there was evasion. " Eleanor, when you were a little child, you used to be a very cowardly child. Cowards are seldom truthful." She did not flame up, as many girls would have done, at this blunt accu- sation. That was not her way. She merely cast doT^Ti her eyes, and seemed to consider whether it was deserved. After a little reflection, she answered, gently : "I believe it is a fault to which coward- ice is very prone." " But why should you be afraid of me ? You used never to be afraid of me." " I am not afraid of you. — "What makes you think so?" " Because I am certain you told me a story just now." '' No, Randal, I do not think I did. RAYENSCLIFFE. 185 And besides, you have no right to inqiiii^e into the subject-matter of my thoughts, if I do not choose to tell you." '' True. — Then you confess there icas a subject matter which you did not choose toteUme?" " No, I did not confess even so much as that. — Pray do not tease me;" and she looked distressed. " That means. Ask me no questions, and I will tell YOU no lies. — Eh, Eleanor ?" '' Eandal, you are not kind this morn- ing." " I see nothing very imkind in what I have said; but if I am not kind, you are neither sincere nor candid." The tears came to her eves; but she made no answer. *' Eleanor, there is a mystery about you," he said, passionately; " and I must and will know it." She made no ansvrer. " Eleanor," he said, taking hold rather roughly of her arm, " eYer\i:hing about you convinces me more and more that there is a mystery; and I mttst know it." 186 BAVENSCLIEFE. " No, Eandal," slie said, gently and firmly, " I do not acknowledge anything of the sort ; but if there were something to confess, — a mystery, as you call it, — this is not the way to get it out of me. It is new to me to find you rude and ungentle; but I think everybody seems to take a pleasm^e in treating me in the ^Tong way. They might get anything out of me by softness .... Perhaps it is better as it is." " Might they get anything out of you by softness ?" he cried, greatly touched by her manner. " Oh ! Eleanor, that I could be soft ; but I cannot be soft. Oh ! that I could get anything from you by softness. I mean — that — ^that — think — oh, Eleanor !" " Pray, Eandal, don't talk in that way," she said, turning from him, and for the first time T\ith a vague feeling of alarm. " Oh ! Eandal," and she turned to him again, with the most beseeching look, — " be my frieyid T^ " And am I not your friend ? Would I not be your friend ? Will I not be your friend?" RAVENSCLIFFE. 187 *' I have ever thought so." '' But, Eleanor, — nay, don't go away; I have something more to say to you." " "Which I cannot, cannot hear now," cried she, — ^breaking away from him, and hurrying towards the house. He chd not attempt to follow her. He stood looking after her, half hurt, half melted. Her softness was invincible ; but something in her manner most discourag- ing. "And now, my dear Eleanor; be rea- sonable — don't cry so — what ^*ill you keep crvino^ so for ? It is so weak, so tiresome. Do, for goodness' sake, have done crying." She was actually dissolved in tears ; but she tried at this to check them, and con- trol her emotion. It would not do; at everv fresh risinc^ of thou2:ht the tears burst forth, and streamed afresh. " It really is so provoking ;" continued the mother, half-vexed at her, yet very sorry for her — the more vexed because she 188 HAYENSCLIFFE. was so sorry. " So provoking of you Eleanor, just to take as the greatest of misfortunes, wliat \Yith your tastes and feelings must be tlie nicest thing that could possibly have happened to you. You love the country — here is the country. You love a quiet life — ^here is a quiet life. You love an ancient family — ^here is an ancient family. You need a good fortune — here is a good fortune. You love your cousin — here is yom^ cousin." '' Ah ! no — no. Don't say so, mamma ! Don't say so." " Why really, Eleanor, you are enough to provoke a saint. Wliy, what can you mean? If you don't like Randal, pray what has been the reason you have volun- tarily spent almost the whole of your time with him since we have been here ? " " Oh mamma ! Do pray — pray under- stand me. I esteem and like Eandal, but love ! — Oh mamma, mamma, you know I cannot, I cannot." "Don't talk in that way, Eleanor, or you will make me angry. I know ! I know nothing, but that if your heart, is EAYEXSCLIPFE. 189 not at your own disposal by this time, it is a very great reproach to you." " Don't be angry. Pray manimaj don't be angry I I have done everything in my power, indeed, I have. My heart is dis- engaged, is my own again, but oh I oh ! do not — ^do not ask me to love another man." " I don't ask you to love another man ; I should never dream, or think, of asking any young woman to love anybody. It is her first duty, in my opinion, to keep her heart a stranger to such weakness. The fii^st point of self-respect, of delicacy of womanly deportment, of all that a young woman ought to regard in herself, is to keep her ima^^ination free from such de^radinor nonsense." " Oh mamma ! mamma I Don't ! Have pity ! " '' I have neither pity nor patience for you, Eleanor; indeed, I haven't. But I don't want to vex you. Only really — you ought to consider.-— Is your whole life to be sacrificed to this most unfortunate pre- possession? Tor I will not give it a 190 RAVENSCLIFFE. stronger name. That unworthy prepos- session I might call it — for what woman gives her heart undemanded, if give her heart, or stuff of that sort, she must." "I know — I know;" sohhed Eleanor; ■*' I know — I know how it must seem. I am — I am — sorry — hut — but " The mother and daughter were sitting l)y the fire in Eleanor's room. The mother on a small chair with her feet upon the fender ; the daughter thrown back in an arm-chair, with her hand- kerchief held by both hands to her eyes. " Wrong 1 To be sure it was, and this is the truth. Either he made love to you, or he did not make love to you. If he did not make love to you, you are perfectly unjustifiable in caring for liim ; if he did make love to you, he behaved shamefully ill, and you ought to have discarded him from your thoughts long ago upon that account. But, really, now you know that he is upon the eve — or, in all probability, actually at this moment, married to an- RAVEySCLIFFE. 191 other. You reaUy ought to behave better — reaUy you ought, Eleanor." The sobs had ceased, and the tears seemed to have ceased ^nth them. The mother continued to urge her point. ** And now, here is your cousin, Randal — He loves you — he offers you his hand. If you were to search through England you would not suit yourself better ; and vet, vou actually tliink of refusim^ him ; for the sake of what ? Of what, Eleanor ? Be reasonable — only consider — for the sake of a man who has behaved to you shame- fully — I repeat it, scandalously " " Spare me mother ! '* was uttered faintly. %/ '' No, I reaUy cannot spare you, Eleanor ; I speak for yom^ o^^tl good, dear child. Do pray take yom^ handker- chief from your eyes. Your objections to Sir "V^^illiam I could understand, though I regretted them — but I am positive you like Eandal Langford very much, if you were not too silly and romantic to own it." "As a friend — Yes, as a friend. But 192 EAVENSCLIFFE. more ! — Oh ! not more ! I could not de- ceive liim in this way — I could never love him — I should loathe him as a husband — Oh ! mother ! — mother ! Be merciful, and understand me." " I cannot imderstand you — I don't pre- tend to understand such stuff. I don't suppose many women are in love, as you call it, ^Yit\l the men they marry, and much better they should not. Do you think I was ? I never dreamed of such a thing — nobody expected such a romance. And now, my dear one, — indeed I am speaking for your o^vn sake, — you really must make up yom' mind to say Yes, for I am sure your father would never listen for an in- stant to your saying Xo. He has made up his mind to this match — and in truth, he had settled it with Mr. Langford before you and Eandal met." Eleanor was silent. " Come, speak, Nelly, — do," said the mother coaxingly, " Spealc, my own Nell — don't be naughty. Dear child ! don't you see that it would never do — that the tiling is all fixed and settled between the two EATEXSCLIFFE. 193 seniors — ^that Eandal is more desperately in. love than ever I yeriiy believe happened before in a pre-arranged case of this na- tui*e, and we ail know what friends vou are — so that really, a refusal upon youi- part would appear so strange, that it could only be accounted for by pleading a pre- \'ious attachment — and that, you know, it would driye your father raguig mad only to hear mentioned." " I wonder Eandal did not speak to me first." " T\liy, that is what he fully intended doing ; but he let out a hint to me of liis intentions, and I begged he would speak at once to your father or to myself on the pretence that your health was in such a state that you could not bear any sudden emotion. He most miT^Tllino^ly consented. I could not trust your first impulses, Eleanor — I did not know what they might lead you to say or do." Eleanor, who had leaned forward earn- estly at the beginning of this speech, again sank back and covered her face — she groaned slightly. VOL. I. o 19i RAYENSCLIFFE. " My dear girl ! do not, for goodness' sake, make sucIl a tragedy matter of it. Why, after all, it's only being married, you know. To speak it out bluntly, you cannot have the man you want — pray be content, like nine hundred and ninety-nine girls out of a thousand, to take the man that wants you." Eleanor took the handkercliief from her eyes, and looked up into her mother's face. " Mother, do not urge me ; I will not wrong E^andal Langford. I do not love him as a woman ought to love the man she marries. Do not, mother ! If this marriage were to take place — which, please God, it never, never shall — it would be a miserable one." ''You cannot be so mad; don't talk in this wav. Nonsense ! Wrono; Eandal bv just doing what he so earnestly begs of you to do ! Indeed, Eleanor, yom' notions are perfectly insane ; I don't know what to do with you. I declare I shall be obliged to apply to yom' father and brother to bring you to yom- senses." " Mamma ! — mamma ! — mamma I" PcAVEXSCLIFrE. 195 " Oh ! clear, dear love, do not bleat forth that name in such a piteous manner, like a poor lost lamb. Xo, no ; if you will only be reasonable ... I would not haste or hiuTy you for the world, Eleanor, — and you will be quite ill, I declare. Xo, I will promise to say nothins: as vet to brins? vour father upon you, upon one condition, however — " " What is that, mamma ? any — every- tliing." " Promise, then, that vou will faithfully attend to my advice in one single respect, and I will not say a word to youi' father about your state of mind." " I promise — "What is it r" " That you will keep this distressing secret from E.andal Langford. You have promised, Eleanor, you must keep your word." '' Ah, mother I vou have betraved me into promising that which I had no right to promise .... Eelease me from that promise, mother, I beseech you." " No, I shall do no such tiling. Nothing but misery and mischief can in any case arise from your breaking it. In the pre- o 2 • 196 llAVENSCLIFFE. sent state of Randars mind, if lie knew that history, I do not know Avhat he might not do. Kandal is eapahle of anything wOien enraged, and liis resentments are terrihle. I do not know what he might do if he heard this story; what revenge he might take upon Lord Lisburn, in the first place, — or what upon your father, and his own father, in the second, — for deceiving him and drawing him into this trap. Your father, most especially, Eleanor, whose con- duct, though meant for the best, was not quite loyal and above board, perhaps. You can have no idea of the mischief you might do, and for no possible good on earth — ^for the thing is over for ever, and what can be the use of recurring to it ? However, use or not, I have your promise, Eleanor, and you ^dll not break it." " I cannot break it ; but — well, it is no matter, I must speak to Randal, myself." " TVliy, I suppose in due time," said the mother, laugliing, "you must speak to Randal yom-self." Oh ! how that laugh, slight as it was, grated upon the poor girl's nerves. " But I cannot possibly, Eleanor, EAYENSCLirFE. 197 allow of an interview with Eandal till vou have given your consent to be his. Indeed I can't, child; it would only be to draw you into terrible temptation. I know, in the present state of your nerves, you could not possibly help saying or doing sonie- tliing which ought not to be done or said. No, you cannot, shall not, see Randal till you have had time to get over this foolish flurry, and to become reasonable ; as I am quite sure you will when you have reflected a little. So — La! there is the dressing bell, I declare — I must go and dress; I shall say you have a bad headache, and beg to be excused coming down to- night ; so you will be left here quite un- distm^bed, to think of what I have said. And as soon as we come out of the dining- room I vnJl be with vou airain." »■ >^ "Come," she added, going up to the chair, and taking the pale and tear-stained face of her daughter between both hands, she kissed her on the forehead, " my dear, dear child, don't put yourself into such an agitation; don't fret yourself to death. You look quite ill, indeed you do, Eleanor. 198 EAVENSCLIFPE. I mil send Gary with jovir drauglits. I TNdsli to heaven you would not make yourself so unhappy, it makes one so very uncomfortable ; pray let me find you better when I come up again. And what mil you have for dinner ? — There are snipes ; I know you can fancy a snipe." Eleanor shook her head. '' Oh ! now don't begin to imagine you can't eatj or there'll be an end of you. It is quite fancy — you had a very good appe- tite yesterday. Well, well, I shall send you something up ; and mind, I shall be quite in a passion if I do not find it de- voured — but I reallv must 2:0. Do wash your eyes mth a little rose-water, they are quite inflamed." And again taking the pale, downcast face between her hands, she lifted it up, gave her daughter a loving kiss, and went away, as utterly callous to her child's siifferings as she was utterly incapable of compre- hending them. And this it is to have a good-natured, worldly woman for a mother. One who is without understanding. EA^-ENSCLIFFE. 199 CHAPTER YIII. Oh Death I no more, no more delaj-, My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest Longfellow. Eleakor was left alone, still in the same attitude. Tlii'own back in her chair, and her eyes covered "^ith her handkercliief — but as soon as the door closed upon her mother, she rose from her seat, and wring- ing her hands, began to pace up and down the room in the extremity of distress. It was the agony of despair. Her soft eyes, in a sort of ^ild dis- traction, were cast up towards the ceilings as if imploring the help she could not hope from man; her beautiful fair hair 200 HAVEKSCLIFFE. had fallen from the comb that fastened it, and streamed floating beliind her ; her fingers were conyulsively twisted together, and her arms rigidly extended before her. Thus she kept walking up and dowTi, breathing hard, and looking as one bewil- dered by the ecstacy of suffering. Terrible situation for a creature so thnid, of a natm^e so gentle and jdelding, to find herself thus called upon, alone and unsup- ported, to encounter the fierce struggle she anticipated with her family, and not one friend on earth to council or support her ; for Eandal — Ptandal — ah ! that was the worst of all — was m league -^^ith her ene- mies. She kept walking hurriedly up and dowTL the room, in a paroxysm of distress, unable to calm her spirits, or even tliink ; all was a wild storm and confusion of terror and anguish, increased by that frightful agitation of the nerves which renders resistance impossible. Ay, there it was, altogether, all against her! And Eandal — Randal Langford! — her friend, her brother! — he, upon whom her poor heart had lately reposed in such RAYEXSCLirFE. 201 confidence, assured of liis support and affection — even he I — "Where should she fly now ? Randal, her friend — He, too, was become a persecutor — a lover I A lover seemed to her tortured feelings but another name for the cruellest of ene- mies. A suitor was to her imagination one only bent upon securing his ovtd. happiness at the expense of hers, at the expense of — oh ! what a smn of misery — something more hateful, more to be dreaded, than death itself. Death — yes, there was death; AMiy might she not die, and escape from tliis cruel world at once, and find rest in the bosom of the All-pitying. — But, ah ! " Is there no pity sitting in tlie skies Which looks into the bottom of my grief? " exclaimed the unliappy Juliet, in her de- spah\ Poor Eleanor cast up those imploring eyes of hers in vain. The need was so near, so urgent, the help seemed so distant, so far off. Thus it will too often prove in the days of distress to those who have not cultivated their higher relations in those of peace and tranquillity. When the 202 EAYEXSCLirrE. terrible hour arrives, there is no help to be found on earth — no refaore to be found but in the mercy of Him, the Author of their being. Oh, He seems so far off, and their affliction so near ! " Oh, Heaven ! oh. Heaven ! have pity upon me, for indeed I am sore beset, and my best friend is become my direst enemy, and it goes sorely — sorely with me." Then she cast herself again in the large chair, fell back, and once more passed her handkerchief before her eyes; and as she did so, as a dream of sonnambulism, the charming figure of Lord Lisburn rose before her. The sweet animated face, the tender yet spu^ited air, the glances which told of love, inefPable love, which words could not express. The \dsion seemed to speak, seemed to repeat what he had said when last they had met : 'Eleanor, trust me. Nor father, nor mother, nor kith, nor kin, nor powers above the world, nor powers below, shall separate me from thee, my Eleanor ! — Onlv be faithful and true.' And now they said he Avas actually married, or just EAVEXSCLiriE. :^0o upon the eve of being married to another I And yet she douhted — she had not the cruel satisfaction of being assured even of that. Oh, he was far, far a^vay in that remote corner of Ireland, and she had no means of veri^ng the tale Trhich had reached her. She only knew, alas ! that Lord lisburn was poor, and that she was almost por- tionless, and that she they spoke of as her rival possessed a fine estate conti- guous to his father's, the possession of which woidd restore his ancient but now ruined house to its original splendour. A splendour which had been lost amid the distractions of his countrv. She knew that his family had lost much, almost evervthini?, in the cause of their rehorion and their party, and that the means were in this manner offered of re-establishing their affairs. She was informed, too, that his father and his mother were urging him in the most earnest and affecting mamier to the step upon which so much depended, and that her love and his love was all that could be pleaded on the opposite side. 201 BAVENSCLIFPE. She had been generous. She thought she knew her duty and had endeavoured to do it, hut when she discovered that Lishurn personally disliked the young heiress to whom his friends so passionately desired to unite him, she had hesitated. It seemed not right, either to the yoimg lady or to himself, to endeavour to force him hy her resistance to a step which, ^dth a cha- racter hke his, seemed fraught with misery to both parties. Her own character was far from being of that strong energetic stamp which can persist in spite of diffi- culty ia a course once adopted. She was of too soft and yielding a temper — the tears and entreaties of her lover were irresistible. They had continued to meet in public. In large parties it is true, but where indeed the understanding between them could be easily carried on, and many an opportunity for private conversation be enjoyed ; as where better ? She had allowed this ; she loved him too well, he had seemed to love her too weU, for a final rupture to be possible. They had agreed to wait in patience and mutual KATEySCLIFFE. 205 faith, for ]}etter times. So it had gone on. At last one morning, suddenly she was aroused from her fond dream of love and happiness hy the entrance of her mother. She came into her room before she Avas up, big ^^ith the intelligence that Lord Lisburn had left Cheltenham. The T^liarncliifes, it appears, had been absent from the place upon a yisit of a few days ; and therefore were, till that moment, entii*ely in ignorance of Lord Lisburn' s departm-e ; which had taken place about a week before their return. Lady "VMiarncliffe appeared much excited. She held a newspaper in her hand, and pointed to the following paragraph: '' We are authorised to announce that the approaching marriage of the accomplished heu'ess of Castle Yernor, in the county of Kerry, with Lord Lisbm-n, only son of the Earl of Fermanagh, ^^*ill shortly take place. The union of the sole lining representatives, of these two very ancient Catholic families, and consequently of the two contiguous estates under one head, is looked upon with the ijrreatest satisfaction bv all those 206 EAYENSCLirFE. wlio take interest in the advancement or seenrity of that ancient and long-oppressed body, whose prosperity may be considered as but a type of the prosperity of the kingdom in general/' &c., &c. It was an Irish paper, in tlie Catholic interest, which had come into Lady Wharn- cliffe's hand, and in rather a strange man- ner. It had been forwarded to her from some unknown quarter, and had just been received by that morning's post. Lady "Wliarncliffe was almost wild with indignation. Too much excited, and far too angry to consider her daughter's present feelings, and thus she run on : "- Neither your father nor I liked the connection — you know we never did — nor was it likely we should. An Irish peer he mil be ; but what is that ? What is the miserable Irish peerage, after all P — A host of beggars ! Most of them utterly ruined in their horrid rebellion, and these people quite beggared. Still I don't say, that it Avas a tiling we had determined to set our faces against; for he was a fine young man, undoubtedly ; and the family RAVEySCLIFFE. 207 ancient and respectable ; but to have vou treated in tliis way, after all the pubKc attention he has showed you upon every occasion, and that all the world must have seen and commented upon — publicly to expose you to the mortifying suspicion of having been jilted by him, — really, Eleanor, it is too abominable ! But don't look so ghastly pale, for goodness' sake ! Don't let yom^self be upset in this way about it. Treat it ^\ith spirit. Such dis- agreeable adventures will hapj)en in life to the best of us. Men are so fickle and selfish. The only thing left for us to do is, to put the best face upon the matter. The world is so horridly ill-natm^ed — has such a wicked enjoyment of other people's mortifications. Your father v.'ill expect this proof of courage from you, Eleanor. Don't give way, child ; vou must not. Your father and I shall soon find a better ixtrti for you than this. . . . " A beggarly son of a beggarly Irish peer, your father calls him ; and a pitiful Irish fortune-hunter into the bargain — and ... " 208 EAVENSCLIFFE. " Good gracious! good gracious! Eleanor! — Eleanor ! — Gary ! — Gary ! Good hea- vens ! *' — ringing the bell violently, and then running to the wash-stand and seizing the water-jug — " Eleanor ! — Eleanor ! — Good heavens ! — Gary ! — Gary ! — Sal volatile ! — sether ! — send for Mr. Green — • Send for Mr. Green ! — Eleanor, child ! — Surely she's not dead?" She lay cold as death — white as a sheet — motionless as a corpse, upon the bed where she had fallen. Long, long was it before she came to herself, or showed the slightest sign of retm^ning life; and then it was to open her eyes, cast a piteous glance at her mother, and go off from convulsion fit to convulsion fit. The dreadful paroxysm lasted all that day and night. The next morning found her restored to sense and the recollection of what had happened ; lying in her bed, scarcely half alive, unable to speak but in a whisper, yet in a state of mental agony at the remembrance of which she still shuddered. Erom that time to this she had heard no EAYEXSCLirJE. 209 more of Lord lisburn, Trith one exception only, and this was, that some little time afterwards a second Irish newspaper had been forwarded to Ladjr Whamcliffe, con- taining the intelligence, that the expected marrias^e between the amiable and acconi- phshed heh'ess of Castle Yemon and the dis- tinguished patriot, Lord Lisbm^n, only son of the Earl of Fermanagh, &c., was fixed for the 20th of the succeeding August. The 20th of the succeeding August had now long been over, but no further in- tellio^ence had reached Ladv Wharncliffe. Still, as not a line or syllable in contra- diction of these reports had ever come to Eleanor's hands, — as Lord Lisbum had not given her the slightest sign of his existence since they had last met at a large pic-nic party in the neighboui'hood of Cheltenham, — Sir John and Lady TMiarncliffe seemed justified in consi- dering the affah' as at an end, and their daughter as excessively ill-used. And as nothino^ can be much more mortifvinsr in the eyes of people of the world, than for a daughter to be even suspected Df havmg VOL. I. p 210 BAVENSCLIFPE. been deserted — herself to jilt one man in order to make a better mateli ^\itli another being quite a different affak — her parents were most impatient to efface the reproach by having her speedily engaged elsewhere. Therefore, Sir William Stanliope's pro- posals, which speedily followed the late events, had proved most aagain : *' Randal — I hope — Randal — I wdsh — " "What do you hope? ■^V^lat do you wdsh ? My loved, my dearest, my life, my soul's soul. Only say what you wish — and if it were my heart's blood you should have it." '' Oh ! not your heart's blood ! Oh, Randal ! Don't talk so. You cannot tliink how unhappy you make me." " Unhappy ! my sweetest girl ! Don't rsay that. 1 would not make you unhappy for the whole world, Eleanor. I love you mth a passion, with a truth, with a holy tenderness, which it is not for words to express. I love you more than myself, — more than every earthly being, or con- KA^T:>rscLiFFE. 223 si deration upon earth. If I may live for you, I am more l3lest than the angels of heaven; if I might even die for you, I should esteem myself happier than I deserve. So my sweetest, sweetest Eleanor, don't be nervous and afraid. How can vou he afraid of vour old friend ? '\Miy, my love, I have loved you from a little child ; and have you not loved me ? A little, — a little ; nay, do not turn away your head, I Avill not ask you to confess it again. But you weep,— you are weeping. Don't weep, Eleanor. Don't weep, Eleanor !" " Ah, Eandal ! Eandal I ^lio would have thought that you had so much heart ?" *' I never had till you created it, Eleanor. You have made it, — it is yours — Take, take it, take it, Eleanor "WTiarncliffe ! Use it generously, and accept it frankly." She made no answer. She bent her head down upon her hands ; she seemed weeping \iolently. He heard her sob, then faintly sln-iek, 224 EAVENSCLIFEE. ''Oh! Oh!"— then the limhs began to quiver ; she was in convulsions. He tried to sprmg up to her assistance, but the window was too high. He called aloud ; he ran this way and that. He could not bear to leave the window; he shouted for help, — he was in despair. His shouts and cries were at last heard ; presently Gary was seen rushing to the window to help her young mistress, and soon after Lady A^n.iarncliife appeared. "Lift her to her bed. Oh, Eandal," she said, half reproachfully, half anxiously, " Wlij did you come here after what I have just been telling you ? And what have you both been saying ?" " Oh, I was a fool and a madman ! But is slie better ? How is she going on? Is she better?" " Yes," looking towards the bed, " She's coming round." Presently Lady Wliarncliffe kneeled down, and putting her head out of the window, said, in a low voice, "Pray tell me what you have been saying." " Don't ask me ! T can't teU you ! E AVENSCLIFFE . 225 Words that would have l)eeii of fire, if they had done me justice." '' But she, — what did she say ?" " Ah, nothing, nothing ! Faint ejacu- lations in that voice of angel sweetness, that was all. I was a hrute and a fool to persist in tormenting her. It was as you said — and so she fainted away." Lady Wliarncliife was satisfied, and drew her head within the -window again. " But is she better ? How is she ? TeU me she is better." " Yes, yes ! — get along, be content, — She's coming round. But for goodness' sake get away. You have done miscliief enough to-night. Get away, get away ! " VOL. I. 226 EAVEXSCLIFFE. CHAPTER IX. Forbear — forbear ! Oh no ! Not thus, "With sacrilegious hand Profane the Temple ! Mrs. H. Sandbach. " Very well, Eleanor ; I am answered, or rather, I am not answered at all. Yom^ arguments have no effect upon me. — I think you selfish, and I think you ahsui-d. You are ahsorhed in your OT^^l feelings, and never think of his. — You have got some romantic notions of your o^atl into your head, and scorn to listen to the representations of one a Kttle more ex- perienced in the world, I should think, than yourself." EAYEXscLirrE. 227 Eleanor made no reply. She sat there, looking so pale and ill, — so utterly ex- hausted by the mental and bodily agita- tions of the last fourteen hours, that she was really scarcely able to articulate — far less to contend a matter. " Now, don't be sullen, Eleanor. TTe all know vou can take refusre in sullenness when you are at a loss for reasons. — Don't be obstinate. — It is that sullen obstinacy in your disposition which diives your father mad ; and I have often heard him say he would rather have to do T^ith the most violent little yixen in the world, than -with vou in vour fits of silent de- pression. And I must own, Eleanor, they try me very much — and I don't think it is quite treating me as I deserve from you, child." And Lady T\liarncliffe's voice slightly trembled. She really was moved. She thought herself a very imkindly-treated mother. " I am sure." said the poor girl, sadly, and in a voice which her weakness ren- dered very low and trembling, ^' that I do, Q 2 ZZb RAVENSCLIFFE. not mean to be sullen; but I am very weak, mamma. I do not intend to be obstinate .... I don't know what papa means by calling me so obstinate .... I wish, I am sure, to be docile and obe- dient in everything ; but there are things, — mother, — mother, — it seems so treache- rous, so \^Tong." "And that it is wliich puts me out of all patience, Eleanor ; — as if your father or I should be capable of exacting from you anvthinsc either treacherous or ^vronsr. — What can be more simple, or what can be more kind, or more reasonable? — All we ask of you is, that you will merely give Handal Langford the opportunity of press- ins: his suit, and endeavom* to wean vou from a most unfortunate and degrading state of feeling . . . ; and that, during this, you will be wise enough, and land enough, to conceal a certain part of your history, v\4iich it can do him no possible good to know, — which he has not the least right in the world to expect to know, as it is quite over, — and which it would, of course, make him very -wTetched, under his pre- BATEXSCLIFFE. 229 sent feelings, to be made acquainted vat li. I do not see that there is anytliing so very wrong or treacherous in sho^ving a little consideration for the feelings of a man so devotedly attached to you; rather than thinking, as you are for ever doing, of the right and the ^vrong as regards yourself. Tills, loushed too far, is onlv another foi-m of selfishness, in my opinion." The pale cheek dropped upon the hand ; the eyes were bent upon the floor. She seemed to hesitate .... That voice of intense feehng, — that cry of the soul, not to be mistaken, which she had heard at her A^indow the few hours before, still rang in her ear. Ladv Whamcliffe saw her advantasre, and went on : " Eleanor, let me speak to you as a friend, — not \di\i the authority of a mother — Do you know Ptandal's history ?" " No, mamma. AYhat do you mean ?" " Do you know the cruel insult he received at college ? And, that his family 2yri7icij)l€s, — how unimaginably absurd people can be! — however, that the prin- 230 PvAVEXSCLIFFE. ciples in whicli these liis wortliy parents brought hun up, forbade him to wipe away the infamy of the affront in the way every man of honour on earth but him- self would have done. — In short, that he refused to send a challenge — and rather than abandon his principles, — you are all of you enough to make one hate the name, — left college, — and his has been a mise- rable, disappointed, embittered life ever since. Has he ever told you this part of bis history?" " ;N'o, mamma," looking up, and fixing her eyes upon her mother's face with an air of great interest. '' T\liat do you tell me? My head is confused; I do not understand. How was it ?" " "Wliy, that Randal was grossly in- sulted when he was at Cambridge, by some impudent young Irishman or other ; and because he had been taught by this excellent father and mother of his, — I have no patience mth your good people, — that it was ^vrong to send a challenge, be the occasion what it might, — (I don't advocate duelling, I am sure; but there EAYEXSCLIFrE. 231 are circumstances . . . .) — what does he do, hut instead of putting a pistol-hullet throus^h his adversary's hodv, as anv rational creature, smarting imder the affront, would have done, — what does Randal do — but fairly turn tail — run away from Camhridsre, and come down to hide his blushes here." The young girl's eyes were riveted upon her mother. " Now, you know, child, conscience and principle, and all that sort of thing, are excellent, no doubt; but when one has obeyed them, they don't always prevent one feeling very small and uncomfortable. And so tliis afPair rankled in E-andal's heart — for no creatui^e on earth, be he what he may, likes to have been horse- whipped, and not to have had liis revenge. And so Randal has been a miserable man ever since, — the most gloomy, -^^Tetched spirits at times, — and all because he adhered to what he thousrht risrht. His mother tells me, that till you came, he was quite a lost being, liis sense of dishonour was so keen, and liis sense of injury so bitter ; 232 HAVENSCLIPFE. but that your presence has acted like a charm upon him, that he is restored to himself, is become quite an altered crea- ture, and bids fair to tm^n out at last what he once promised to be, — a ibst-rate man." Still Eleanor was silent ; but the changes of her countenance were not unmarked by her mother, who resolved to pursue her advantage, and thus went on : " Xow, my love, here it is. Your o^^tl happiness is, or you fancy it is, ruined by an unfortunate and most misplaced attach- ment. You are not happy as you are, — you are not likely to be happy again — at least so you think. If unliappy you are to be, what matters it to you whether it be in one way or the other? But it matters everything to one who has always loved you, and been kind to you, and whose happiness you hold in your power. Indeed it matters to liim, and a great deal more than matters; for there is no knomng to what extremities a disap- pointment in liis first love might drive such a being.— Xow it is for you to con- EAYENSCLIPFE. 233 sider this. — Will you l3e the cause of ruining Eandal Langford body and soul ? or will you do a httle violence to your own romantic feelings, and . . . ." " Ah manima! vou confuse me. I do not seem to know what is right or T\Tong." " I should tliink it was easy enough to know what was right or wrong if people- would not wilfully shut then- eves to it. But I have done. You must decide as you please. However, pray do not forget, as you imaginative people are apt to do, the plain facts of the case ; and there is not the least doubt of the fact as regards Eandal Langford's feelings and character. The inevitable ruin of both ^^ill be the consequence of your conscientious regard to the — gratification of your oicn feelings'^ Then Lady "V^TiamclifPe rose and made a few paces, as if about to quit the room ; but she returned to the fire, and standing in front of her daughter, said, " But one thing I repeat — I m-ge — I would command, if you gave any weight to a parent's commands upon such sub-^ jects — ^l3ut I conjm^e you, Eleanor, if you 234 RAYENSCLIFFE. have the least regard for his peace and happiness, to keep the secret of that absurd Cheltenham affau' inviolate. You do not know the misery you might inflict, and for no possible use upon earth. — I there- fore beg of YOU, whatever else you may decide upon, to resolve sacredly to adhere to this;" and she once more turned to go away. " Promise me at least," said she, again returning, and speaking most earnestly and seriously, " that you will not betray this secret to Eandal till you and I have had an opportunity of discussing this matter again." '' Yes, I will promise that, mamma." Upon which Lady Wharncliffe imme- diately left the room. Her narrative had produced its efPect. She left Eleanor in a state of feeling alto- gether changed. In spite of the sophistry of her mother's arguments, there was sometliing in the idea of sacrificing herself for B^andal's happiness which was dear to her heart. It responded to the tone of her highly-wrought feelings; it called KAYENSCLirrE. 235 forth every grateful and generous senti- ment of a most grateful and loving nature. What her mother said of the impossi- bility of being happy herself, and of the devotion of her life to the happiness of another, seemed to reheve and soothe her, — to lift the heaw cloud that hung upon her pros^^ects; and to hold out a distant ^dew of usefulness and peace. Then she loved and pitied Eandal; and his history, as thus told, excited in her the warmest admiration and sj-mpathy. She was deeply affected ^^ith the idea of this blighted life, this sacrifice to a higher sense than that of mere worldlv honour, honom-ing with intense sensibility the streno-th of feelm^ which E^andal had shown. Women are captivated by strength in any of its forms, perhaps most of all vdien displayed in the proud and silent endurance of great suffering. The ideas of Eleanor took a turn not unnatural. She began no longer to look upon Eandal Langford as a lover to dread and to fly, but as an unhappy and injured man, to solace and console — as 236 RAVENSCLIFEE. the victim of ratuous principle to be re- compensed. Gradually her spirits began to revive ; the heart to resmne its more natural and tempered beatings; the thoughts to brighten, under the sweet sense of sacrifice to another, well-deserving such a sacrifice ; of happiness to be be- stowed if not received — ^happiness to be bestowed upon one most deser^dng and most unfortunate. These soothing ideas began to pervade her thoughts, giving that sense of peace and satisfaction which is the recompense of generous and disin- terested feelings. She sat a long time musing, and the more she mused the more tranquil she became. Her mother had the prudence to leave her to lierseK for about an houi% then she returned. She cast an anxious glance at her daughter's face, at once discerned the change which had taken place there, and proposed that she should finish dressing and accompany her down-stairs. Luncheon was over, and the little party dispersed. There was no one in the draw- RAYEXscLirrE. 237 ing-room but Mrs. Langford, who, placed upon a small cliair, was sitting upright by the side of the fire, engaged in reading a book of somewhat antiquated appear- ance. She rose from her seat as the two ladies made then* appearance, and with an ex- pression of more animation and cordiality than usual in her countenance, came up to them, and taking Eleanor by both hands, kissed her upon the forehead, saying, " My dear Eleanor, I am verv srlad to see you down. It was sad to have you so poorly last night, — I hope it is all over." *' Thank you, madam, — it is quite over now." '' Well, sit yourself down in your old place upon the sofa, my dear, and keep quiet." And Mrs. Langford, with a kindness of mamier ver}^ unusual to her, led Eleanor to her accustomed seat, and then, a thing quite out of character with the cold reserved manner of proceeding she gene- rally pm'sued, sat do^vn by her still hold- ing her hand. 238 RAVENSCLIFPE. Lady Wliarncliffe in the meaiitinie took this opportunity of leaving the room. Eleanor felt it almost alarming thus to be left alone with Mrs. Langforcl, — and she, holding her hand, — for Mrs. Lang- ford's way of holding a hand was the most chilling thing imaginable. It seemed to produce quite an opposite effect from the usual magnetic power of opening the heart by that little symptom of affection. The chief thing you felt when you had hold of Mrs. Langford's hand, was, how you should put it down again, — shy and nervous — only thinking of the IiomcI you held. The taking any person's hand in the way of affection was an almost unheard-of proceeding, as I have said, on the part of Mrs. Langford ; but the fact was, she was extremely pleased with the turn affairs had taken. In spite of her coldness of temper, she loved her son, — what mother but loves her son? — and since that conversation with Mr. Langford recorded above, her attention having been awakened in that RAYEXSCLIFFE. 239 direction, she had found reason to ba very seriously apprehensive as to the state of his mind. She had been much pleased with Eleanor from the first interview. There was somethins: in the softness and open- tleness of her countenance and manners, the extreme refinement of her appear- ance, the low and sweet voice, and the beauty of her face and form, which won upon Mrs. Langford greatly. So cold, stiff, and harsh herself, the contact with the melting sweetness of tills lovely girl produced a strange but very delightful sense of contrast, which was heightened when she saw Eleanor and her son together — a thing they con- stantlv were. She thought that notliing formed a prettier picture than the tall dark young man and the delicate fair girl. It was, in truth, a beautiful one, set off ^^ith all the force of light and shade. Eandal, too, seemed so altered, so reanimated, so amiable, so happy ! Add to this that every other sentiment of the mother's proud 210 RAVENSCLIFFE. heart was gratified. This was a most safe and respectable connection. There was nothing in it to fear in any way. Besides, Eleanor was of so quiet and retiiing a temper, so fond of a secluded life in the country, that the only possible objection which might have arisen from the gay ^vorldly habits of her parents was set at rest. Eleanor, it was evident, was one to make herseK perfectly content in the retirement of Uavenscliffe. Randal would not be tempted to leave it, and for her sake to enter that gay world, which was a subject of abhorrence and dread to Mrs. Eangford, she, being one of the many in her day, who forgot that the Eather of Evil might be fomid wandering in solitary places as well as in crowded palaces. The temptations she dreaded for her son were those of gaiety and dissipation alone; the errors into which a man is liable to faU, if he enters into mixed society, the only ones she feared. She •quite overlooked those equally dangerous, and to her son most peculiarly dangerous, of livinac in the unchecked indulgence of RAYEXSCLirrE. 241 his own natural tempers and passions, nnschooled and uncorrected by the rous^h contact ^vith others. She forgot that the most perilous trial to which Eandal could be exposed, the most injurious position in which he could be placed, was his present one of solitary importance, surromided only by his inferiors and de- pendants ; absorbed in himself, in his o^^tl affairs, thoughts, and feelings, monarch of all he suryeyed, and almost as sohtary as Crusoe m his island. So far, at least, as hearing the yoice of truth or contra- diction was concerned. Mrs. Langford's thoughts were accus- tomed to trayel in but a narrow circle. She could discern good and eyil in theii- more positiye and roughly- defined shapes ; she had no notion of — she had not eyen a nam.e — for the finer distinctions in morals. With her there was but one description of sins to be ayoided — the sins to which commerce T^ith mankind exposes a man. So long as the conduct was externally rei^ular, she totally fors^ot to inquire how it might be going on Tvith VOL I. R 242 RAVENSCLIFFE. the heart. She forgot that the great and good Master, whilst he exacted the utmost purity of conduct, forgot not to dwell upon purity of soul — and that amongst the sins which corrupt the soul He enume- rated pride, covetousness, censoriousness, hatred, and envy. Nevertheless, groping in the dark as she did, she, like many other gropers, was so fortunate as to hit upon the very hest means that could have heen devised to oh\'iate the evils of her owtl system ; and she seized upon it and prized it, when she had the good luck to hit upon it, mth a sort of blind instinctive feeling of its value, though without a distinct perception of that in which this value consisted. She liked the gentle Eleanor on her own accoimt, too, very much. She thought her peculiarly well adapted to be her son's ^ri£e ; and so far she was quite right ; but -her reasons for this preference were as false as her instinct was true. She liked the thought of Kandal marrying Eleanor, because she would keep him out of the world. A better motive would have been. RAYEXSCLirrE. 243 because she would soften, mould, and pre- pare him for it. She had, however, been holding Eleanor's hand to an unreasonable length of time, till Eleanor's fingers and heart too seemed gradually freezing im.der the contact ; and she had been saying, " Mv dear Eleanor, vou must allow me to enter upon the interesting subject which has occupied all our minds for the last twenty-fom^ hom-s, and to assure vou how truly Mr. Langford and I approve of my son's choice, and sympathise in his hopes of happiness. My dear, you could not enter any family where your amiable qualities will be more highly esteemed than in this." " I am very much obliged to you, madam ; thank you very much, but . . . . " '* It is most dear to our hearts, the idea of adding to our family circle, by receiving into it an individual so gifted and accom- plished in all the more valuable points of character, as well as so sweetly lovelv, as my dear Miss T\liamcliffe; and I am sure both Mr. Langford and myself shall R 2 ' • 244 UAVENSCLIFTE. do everytlnng in our power to render a daughter " Eleanor was confounded beyond measure "by this address. Hurried, and distressed, to find the matter, upon wliich she was only just beginning to feel the excessive repugnance of her first feelings a little giving way, treated in tliis strange form and manner as a thing altogether settled — an aftan in which there was nothing further to be done, no fresh steps to be taken, and from wliich there was no retreat. She did not know what to say. ^liether she spoke or was silent she was equally in danger of producing a ^^Tong impression. She did not intend irrevocably to refuse E-andal Langford, still less could- she tole- rate the idea of accepting him at present. She wanted time — she wanted to be urged, to be persuaded, to be gradually led to that step, which for his sake, and the sake of all, she wanted to fin.d it possible to take. But she knew Mrs. Langford too well not to feel sm'e that all these shades of feeliag vrould be unintelligible to her. That a plain yes or no, at once, was all that she PvATEySCLIFPE. 245 coiild comprehend — that not to sav no would be accordino^ to her ideas to say yes, and that she exposed herself because she conld not quite say that no — to be con- sidered and to be represented to Eandal and to the two fathers as haying uncon- ditionally ens^ac^ed herself. She felt excessiyely uncomfortable, and still more uncomfortable, because IVIrs. Langford held and fi'igidly pressed her hand. She, howeyer, at last, under pre- tence of taking her pocket-handkerchief, manasred to draw that away ; and then she felt, oddly enough as she thought, more able to say what she wanted to say ; and when a pause ensued in Mrs. Langford' s formal assurances of esteem and affection, she began, — " Thank you, madam ; I am sure I feel your flattering kindness yery much — but this has come upon me so suddenly, and I am so easily hiuTied, I haye not had time to collect my thoughts. I really " "Your sweet confusion, my dear, is yery natural and allowable to a delicate mind like yours upon such an occasion. Belieye 246 KAYENSCLIFFE. me, I quite understand and admire you for it ; but here comes your mother and Eandal." They at that moment passed the mndow together, walking very fast; and in the next minute they entered the room, be- fore Mrs. Langford, in her slow way, had finished her sentence. Ptandal looked flushed and heated; his stern featm^es agitated with feeling, his chest heaving with strong emotion. He hurried up to the sofa, and casting a look upon his mother, as if beseeching her to leave them alone, took Eleanor by the hand. She looked up at him, and never was face more full of softness ; she could not help being deeply interested, after all she had heard, by the excessive emotion he displayed. She no longer felt that dread of meeting him, of coming to an explanation, which had kept her so many hom's up-stairs. She felt a wish to hear what he had to say, and still greater wish to explain herself as far as possible ; but stupid Mrs. Langford seemed to be resolved to keep her place. However, Lady Wharncliffe was one of RAVENSCLIFFE. 247 rather ciifPerent perceptions, and seeing that Mrs. Langford showed no intention of mo^-ing, she, ^vith her usual easy assur- ance, went up to her, and putting her owTL arm in hers, said, " These vouncr thinsrs will never find a word to say to one another whilst we keep watchinsr them in this wav. Come alonsr ; I want to be tausrht the new stitch vou were to show me — let us go to your dressing-room." The door closed after them. 248 RAYEKSCLIFFE. CHAPTER X. Ope, folded rose ! Longs for thy beauty the expectant air, — Longs every silken breeze that round thee blows ; The watching summer longs to vaunt thee fair. ^y. C. Ben>;ett. Then Randal took Eleanor's other hand, and bending down his head upon both, so that his face was concealed, muttered, in a tone of deep feehng — "Eleanor, how shall I ever thank you?" "Ah, Eandal " "Eleanor, I am not a man of many words — I do not know how to express my feelings as others would do." He con- tinued to whisper in a very low tone, whilst he pressed his face against her EAYEX SCLIPFE . 249 hands with such intense respect and ten- derness mino^led ! ^' Tew words come to me," he went on, "upon any occasion; ansrel ! — life ! — ho;ht ! — own I — these are what I would say ; but they are vulgar and desecrated terms, they express nothing of what I would say." »/ ''My dear Randal," at last she found breath and courage to utter in so low a Yoice that she was hardly to be heard, " I had a good deal that I wished to say to you — that I think I ought to say to you." The perfect assm-ance he seemed to feel that he was accepted again threw her into perplexity. '\^Tiat should she say — what could she do ? Had there been anythinc^ like presumption in the manner in which he took it for granted that she had accepted him, she would have known how to repress it at once ; but this humble gratitude in the haughty, stern Eandal, aflPected her very much. She knew not what to do — To give a cruel and unexpected blight to aU these feelings, was a gTeater effort of courage than she felt capable of; and yet 250 BAYENSCLIFFE. slie felt as if she were suffering herself in a manner, gradually to slide to destruc- tion down a precipice, from which one firm, vigorous effort would have rescued her. Eut that effort she knew not how to make. Her heart had heen deeply moved hy what she had heard from her mother that morn- ing ; she had heen accustomed to love him, too, and feel grateful to him from her infancy. She was very much touched hj this humhle tenderness in one she had been so accustomed to look up to, almost to fear, and yet — Ah, yet ! In spite of all, there was another — another so different — perhaps less worthy in himself, certainly less fervent in his attachment to her. Eut, oh, oh ! — And her poor heart, like a fluttering bird, beat against the wires of its cage so wildly ! in terror of it loiew not what, vainly en- deavouring to escape, it knew not how. All she could keep repeating, in that soft, most musical voice of hers, was, " Oh, Handal! oh, Eandal!" And what could he desire more ? Cer- tainly these gentle exclamations were not EAYENSCLIFFE. 251 calculated to undeceive him. He con- tinued there in silent rapture ; his head bowed down, pressing Ms cheek to her hand. She felt as if every moment she suffered to pass thus, was, as it were, confirming the tacit engagement ; yet she wanted courage to withdraw her hand. At last, she gently endeavom^ed to do so. " Don't take your hand away, my love," he said at last, raising his head ; " you do not know how dear its possession is to me." But she persisted with a little more resolution at this speech, which still she found it impossible to know how to reply to. She looked hurried and embarrassed, as she gently struggled to get her hand released. He looked up at her. There was a something in her face at that moment which he did not like. He knew not what it was, or why ; but his feelings felt sud- denly chilled by it. He immediately let go her hands ; and resuming his chair, — for he had fallen upon one knee by the 252 RAYENSCLIErE. side of her sofa, — said, '' Eleanor, what is the matter mth you ?" She felt more and more hurried. It seemed as if every sentence he uttered should be one exactly calculated to render it impossible for her to answer it as she ought, and so as to lead to further explanation. T^liat was it ? — How was it? It was as if she were under the speU of an enchantment, which ren- dered her powerless. As it had been with his mother before, so it was now with him. There was something so positive, so un- questioning, in the way in which both seemed assm-ed that everything was set- tled, that it seemed as if by an in^dsible force she were compelled tacitly to acqui- esce in the conclusion. Then her thoughts cast a hasty glance upon the circumstances around her; and a voice seemed to say, '^And why not? — What is there to prevent your Why should you not yield at once ? Why in- flict unnecessary pain — So much, such exquisite pain ? Why not suffer yourself, KATENSCLirrE. 253 poor passive atom, to be whirled do-^vn the stream of destiny, um^esisting r " As, wearied out with long-continued fatigue, some poor ^vretch lavs himself down to sleep, and feels, even if the chamber be tottering or flaming round him, that rather than make fresh exer- tion he would perish, so he might but remain quiet, — th.us Eleanor felt, — as if she would rather abandon herself to misery than contest the matter — rather perish than make fresh efPorts. The temptation was so great to give way — to have done mth it — to yield herself to Eandal, and take her fate. Assiu^ed as she was of Lord Lisburn's inconstancy, there seemed really nothinsr to set upon the opposite side ; except that deep master-feeling of a woman's heart — preference for another. But even this was weakened, for she was herself so weakened. She wanted rest — she must have rest. A conclusion this way would bring immediate rest; any other way- offered nothing but a fiightfiil prospect of contention, hi wliich she felt certain 254 RAVENSCLirFE. she should be worsted at last. — Contention with her own family, such as she had gone through with regard to Sir William Stanhope, and which she shuddered at the idea of ha\dng repeated. But, far more than tliis, to have to contend with her own regard for Randal — to inflict pain upon him whom she had long so affec- tionately loved, and whom she had just learned enthusiastically to esteem, — may she he forgiven at this moment that she had not the com^age to explain herself? So she answered Langford's alarmed, and almost jealous interrogatory, evasively. But the habitual softness of her manner gave an air of truth to the evasion. " Dear Randal, you cannot be surprised that I should feel very nervous and hurried " The answer was again to cast himself at her feet, oh ! so Inmibly ! — so ten- derly ! — to find words at last to pour out a passion so deep, so pure, so tender, so real ! But we will not profane it. She lis- tened.— She was deeply, deeply moved, EATEN SCLIFFE. 255 melted — filled ^nth pity, ^vitli regret, that she had not a disengaged heart to give in return for so much sincerity of devo- tion. Deeply interested she certainly was ; and as for offering any explanation, or attempting to abate the happy security of his feelings, every moment that passed rendered it less and less possible. Thus things proceeded. Hour followed upon hour, and day succeeded to day, and the same course was continued ► Every evening when Eleanor was left alone, her head laid upon her pillow, and her maid departed, and she remained in silence, to take account of the thoughts and feelings of the day, the more cause she found to be dissatisfied with herself. Eor every fresh day found her entangled the more in that labyrinth of doubt in which she had suffered herself to become involved. Every testimony of Eandal's devoted — we might almost say idolatrous — love, wliich she received, only made her the more 256 RAVENSCLIPEE. deeply conscious of the utter unwortliiness of her feelings to respond to his; — more grieved for him, more angry with her- self. The approbation T\ith wliich she was now greeted by every one, — the happiness and satisfaction which every one seemed to feel, and the fond and flattering indulgence which she met with, as the result of this universal satisfaction, stung her to the heart, as the undeserved reward of secret treachery. Her conscience reproached her with bitterness, and told her how, were the truth but known, the whole of things would be changed, — painted the angry surprise of her father, — the indignation of Mr. and Mrs. Langford, — the rage and despair of Randal. She had already had some expe- rience of the form a passion, however pm^e and noble, might take in a character like his. All love, in some respects, inclines to hatred; all intense devotion to an almost cruel disregard of giving pain. Love is tender and generous in the ex- treme ; but love inevitably breeds jealousy, and jealousy is implacable and pitiless. EATEXSCLirPE. 257 The more intensely a man loves, the more delicately, pm^ely, and nobly he loves, — the more excessive is his susceptibility to the power of that jealousy, and the more liable, under its influence, is he to be bar- barous and unjust. Randal was jealous to excess. Jealous, not only as the natural consequence of his almost A^ild attaclmient, but jealous from natiu'e, — from his proud, mitable, sus- ceptible, exclusive nature. His faults, as well as . his qualities, all tended that way. Every hour Eleanor passed in his com- pany she became the more aware of this ; and ever^^ horn' she felt it more impossible to venture upon the slightest allusion to her secret. Yet every night she laid doAvn under the bitter consciousness of how T\Tong she was ; and every day she Avas humbled by the feeling, that could he but know the state of her heart, the fancied possession of which he so ex- travagantly and Avildly prized, he would sprnTL it from him with a contempt almost amounting to hatred. She feared him;^ VOL. I. s 258 EAVENSCLirFE. she had been accustomed, in spite of all her childish confidence, to stand a little in awe of him, as the older and the wiser, and now^ and then not only the stronger, bnt as one whose strength might be used in deeds of injustice and violence. This awe, in spite of all his tenderness and devotion, gained force every day, be- cause she felt she was deceiving him, and feared she was wronging him, and lost somethmg of her own self-esteem at every fresh proof of his love and admi- ration. These things gave a certain uncertauity to her manners wliich, though softened as it quite unintentionally was, by her invariable gentleness and sweetness, he detected. He did not give this feeling a name, for it took no definite form,' but there was a something in her Avitli which he felt dissatisfied, he knew not how; lie knew not why. However, things went on progressing to the catastrophe as they mostly do in all com^tships. The visit at Havenscliffe came to a close. Eleanor Vvith her parents was to return to Lidcote RATEXSCLirFE. 259 Hall, her own liome. Here Eandal was in a few days to follow her, and make a short \dsit ; and in about six weeks from that time, the parents talked about be- ginning theu' preparations for the mar- riage. January had now almost passed away, but the ^.^inter had set in severely after Christmas, and the i)arty had been a good deal confined to the house ; never- theless, Eandal had contrived to muihe up his darling in all sorts of warm furs, and to enjoy many a delightful walk upon the crisped paths of the woods ; now ren- dered supremely beautiful by the wreaths of snow which lay hea^y upon the branches of the fir-trees, and streaked with a line of lic^ht everv tinv Uvi^ of the leafless oaks and birches. I tliink he enjoyed this happy period of life — that short one passed with the betrothed and adored, in all the ecstasy of hope, assm-ed hope, which attends a propitious engagement — more in this rude season than he would have done in a more genial one; and Eleanor certainlv ffot alons^ better than if it had been in the summer or spring. s 2 260 RAVEN SCLIFEE. Those seasons were too full of associations with another. ''To-morrow, then you go; and what will become of me when you are gone, Eleanor ? — The effect your presence exer- cises upon me is quite strange. You are literally to me as the sun. When you are here, everything is bright to the intellect and genial to the heart ; the very atmo- sphere that I breathe seems changed. My feelings are all so softened and melted that I am become like a little cliild. In- deed, I can never recollect when I really was a little child feeling so childlike as I do now. Tell me, my darling, where you learned all yom* mtchery ? Por you are a witch, a very mtch, Eleanor. Do you know there are moments when I could almost believe you had literally cast a spell over me — falsified my \dsion — and that all this delusion of happiness was unreal, and would some day or other dis- solve like a baseless dream." Such a speech as this was sure to dis- tress her. She held doT\'n her head, and her eyes, bent upon the ground, seemed RAYEXSCLirrE. 261 following her feet as tliey tracked the thin snow upon the path. Could she have an- swered tliis appeal, hy one slight pressure of the arm upon which she leaned, no words would have heen necessary ; all would have been said ; but Eleanor could not be actively deceptive, only passively so. He felt disappointed that she did not speak, and said so. ''I do not know what to say," she re- plied, " when you talk in this manner. I wish you would not speak in that ex- aggerated way, Randal. You invest me with a thousand ideal good qualities which I am far from desening, but then in re- tmm you seem to suspect me of . . . ." " Of things you do not deserve to be suspected of. Oh Eleanor ! only say this — repeat this — swear this — only say, vow, swear ; I am unjust, that I distrust you without reason — that vou are no witch, no enchantress, no magician, but a real, substantial, sincere, loving woman. Be ano-rv, be offended, onlv be reed — onlv make me feel vou are recd.^^ 262 RAVENSCLirrE. She sighed, and drooped her head a little lower. "Ah I" he cried impatiently, "that is just what drives me mad, — that soft, passive, gentle way of taking my rude violence, — ^that submission, that unresist- ance — One would almost fancy that you felt that you deserved it, Eleanor," he added anErrilv. She sighed again, but it was more heavily than before ; and then she mut- tered, " It is very difficult to please you." " Now, how can you say that ? — when every look, gesture, syllable, is to me a source of distracting admiration. I love you to distraction — you know that I do, Eleanor. How can you be so unjust as to say, you do not know how to please me ? " " I did not intend to be imjust. I should be so sorry to be unjust ; so sorry to be wTong," she said, and the tears came to her eyes. " I wish — oh ! how I "s^dsh to do right ! " " E^ight ! T\liat are we saying about right ? I don't want you to be right — EATEXSCLirrE. 2G3 I want you to be real. I want to feel that you really love me, Eleanor ; or, at least, that you really like, that I should lore you." She answered not. " Will you not say so much as that, Eleanor ?" She lifted up those eyes of hers with such a soft deprecating look. He felt as if he could go distracted, as he had said, with love and admiration. And in this manner such conversations usually ended, — the blind struggles of two hearts to break through the fetters that bound them, and understand each other and themselves. The more and more enthralled — but the more and more feel- ino^ that it was a thrall — she the more and more persuaded of the iniquity of the deceit she was practising ; and yet, find- ing herseK every day farther and farther from the possibility of explaining herself. 264 EAVENSCLIFFE, CHAPTER XL Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead, Will never come back to me. Tennyson. The wild sea-coast at the south-west of Ireland, and a dark stormy day. The clouds roll heavily over the bare treeless waste of mountains stretching to the shore, where the Atlantic rolls its world of waters, falling with sublime force against the grand precipitous rocks, which, worn by the conflict of sixty cen- turies, still resist the force of the mighty waves. The vdnd. howls mournfully amid RAYEXSCLirPE. 265 tlie crevices of the rocks : the dark waters break at intervals, thundering upon the sands ; all around wears an aspect of grand and gloomy desolation. Tv.'o gentlemen are walking upon the heach. The one a young man in the prime of youthful strength and beauty, but Ms face almost deformed by the \do- lence of his emotions, is walking impetu- ously forward, every gesture betraying his grief and his impatience. The other, a small slender figure, is somewhat past the middle age, as the gray, scattered locks, which shadow a countenance of singular sweetness and gentleness, betray. This last figure has something pliant and bending about it, which implies a certain deficiency in muscular energy, though there is no appearance of the weakness arising from latent disease. It would seem as if disuse alone had in some degree impaired the povv'crs of the physical man ; but the countenance showed that the same inactivity had not reached his mind. The expression of his 266 RAYENSCLIFFE. face was intellectual; the eye bright and penetrating ; the brow thoughtful and in- telligent ; the cheek pale, and apparently worn by mental toil and vigil — the mouth unintelligible. The young man kept walking forwards vdili a certam air of passionate impa- tience, his companion with some difB.culty . contriving to keep pace with him. Yet the speed the younger used was evidently not that of one in pursuit of any object ; for when he had reached a certain bold point of precipitous rock, which stood there its time-worn face exposed to the force of thenvestern storms, and with the waves boiling and breaking at its feet, he stopped, paused a few seconds, cast his eyes over the waste of waters, and then tm^ning round, resumed his hasty and im- petuous walk. This scene had lasted for some time, passing in perfect silence. Nothing was to be heard but the hoarse murmur of the waves lashing upon the sands, and the screams of the white sea-bu^ds as they revelled in the storm, now floating in the EAYENSCLirPE. 267 air, now dropping swiftly into the waves, now soaring aloft amid the precipices. Not one word was exchanged ; for the young man, whose whole aspect bespoke a passionate indignation, seemed resolved not to speak, and indeed, appeared to be endeavonrinop to shake off his companion. He, however, still perseveringly held on^ and was the first to break silence. " How long is this paroxysm to con- tinue ?" at last he said. But it was in a tone most bland and kind. The other turned almost fiercely round : — *' How long ? Till either brain or heart give way, I care little which. If the one, it \\dll kill me at once — if the other — I shall do the s^ood ofiice for mvself." " Young man — Christian — Child of the Church " "Silence! — I am neither. Wimt has your Christianity done for me ? "What has Yom' Chm^ch done for me ? T\liat have you done for me ? I renounce you, one and all!" answered the other vehe- mently ; then, suddenly stopping in his walk, he struck liis forehead with his hand. 268 SAYENSCLIFFE. The face was lifted up ; the dark storm of passion upon it cleared aTt^ay ; a bright thought seemed to have struck him as he uttered the word " renounce ;" and he looked up wildly to the sky. The priest — for it was a Catholic priest with whom the young man was walk- ing — watched the change of expression anxiously; he seemed puzzled by it. He did not speak for a few moments, but appeared occupied in observing and reflecting. His companion suddenly resumed liis wallv, as if again determined to shake him off, but he pertinaciously followed. " You speak with great violence, and what is worse, with impiety, young man. Will these sudden bursts of passion never be controlled?" '' Oh, yes, they Avill be controlled. Oh, yes. Never fear — make yourself sure of that— They wiU be controlled!" " You say this whilst every feature is working with passion. Do you call this exercising the virtue of self-control ? Do vou call such ^'iolence as vou have for the EAYEyscLirrE. 269 hour and a lialf been exhibiting, an exer- cise of seK-control r " " No taunting, su', if you please. You know I will not bear that. Xo, I did not say that I had, but I said that I icould. Yes, yes, I Vv'ill change — I am changed ! You shall have no further cause to re- proach me with my impetuosity." •' I am glad to hear it." " You have little cause." " I shall have great cause, when I see you — the son of my care, my child in holy Church, prove yourself a worthier member of that church by a conscientious sub- mission to that vv'hich her interests, and your loyalty to those interests, imposes." ''Yes, yes! — cause — you shall have cause — cause enough — Cause enough to rejoice in the odious and dishonourable deception which, in the name of holy Chmxh and your loyalty to her interests, forsooth ! you have practised upon me. Enough, enough, Mr. Sullivan! — YvTiy will you persist in following me in this manner ? — Between you and me, hence- forth, ever}i;hing is ended." 270 RAYENSCLIFFE. " I will not believe it — I will not be- lieve it, Marcus — I will not believe it!" cried the priest with much emotion — it was no simulated emotion ; " what I have •done was intended for the best — your honour and happiness " "My honour! My happiness!" scorn- fuUy. " Yes, Marcus; your honom^ — your hap- piness ! The honour and happiness of your family — ^your father — your mother — ^your Church " " I renounce them all ! " " Yes," he vrent on passionately, as he wildly threw up his arms into the air, and cast up a face full of wretchedness to the sky — " One and all ! I renounce you all ! — Treachery ! infamy ! — breach of faith ! hreacli of honour! — \ile ! vile! — Mean calculations ! — paltry \'iews of interest ! — execrable deceptions! — infamous lies! — All, all of you ! Pather and mother — Home and country — Priest and Church — I re- nounce you one and all ! " The priest seemed thunderstruck — shocked and grieved beyond expression. EAYE^'SCLIx^E. 271 There was a reaction in his thoughts and feelings ; for the moment all his percep- tions seemed confoimded. In a he^^ildered manner he, for the first time, hastily put the question to himseh", whether he was right ; whether ^\'hat he had done had been indeed right. But long-accustomed habits of thought resumed their sway, and his countenance was soon restored to its usual air of tranquil, gentle, yet determined resolution, and he said, " Your invectives are rude and unjust ; and they demonstrate at once the ^dolence of your passions, and your imorance of the oblis-ations of dutv. Eoth your parents and I have been led to act in this matter by no base suggestions of self-interest ; by no miserable schemes of personal ambition. The desire to re- build a fallen house, to restore an ancient family, is no impulse deserving, either to be stigmatised as one of base self-in- terest, or mere personal ambition. Such a house as yours belongs to its country. Such blood as flows in vour veins, forms part of the rich treasm-e of your Chm^ch. Generation after generation in her cause 272 HAVENSCLIFFE. it has been slied. At her call, and for her sake, both blood and worldly Avealth have been lavished. — The contemplation of such deeds, the meditation of such sacrifices, elevates the mind, ennobles and enlarges the view of life. — ISien who descend from those who have sacrificed family and*, estates, nay, life itself when needed, for the cause of holy Church, and of that divinely-instituted king, whose cause and hers were one — are apt to expect much — everything — from the members of the same brave race. Yes, young man, I acknowledge it. I have been mistaken; because I forgot that you did not belong to the same generation. — I forgot the de- generacy of the times. I see you are like the rest — a cliild of the present day — and yet " '' I love honour as much as you, Mr. Sullivan," cried the young man, interrupt- ing him abruptly ; " but if the honour of those gone-by times, about which you make such a parade, consisted in practising such deceits, as you have practised upon me — I tell you I renounce it, and defy it. KAYEySCLIFFE. 273 Scorn it — and ^vould rather be a rene-?ade and a slave, than such a man of hononr." " Violent — ^^dolent ! Ever "violent ! How- should a man, with his brain so intoxicated with rage, be expected to view objects justly, or to argue accurately ? The aspect of all things must be confused to liis per- ceptions. — It is futile to reason with one who is no longer in possession of his owti reason." This was uttered in a gentle, but slightly sarcastic tone. The young man made no reply. He turned his head awav, — and hastilv resuming his wallv, directed his steps homewards. The priest followed ; but his companion managed so to keep a head that his face could not be seen. He was right to conceal it ; it was beaming with joy. His heart was bounding with joy — new-born, irresistible joy. He had burst his fetters. At that fatal word " renounce," they had fallen from Mm, as the mths from the freshly-aroused Samson. His soul expanded with new- TOL. T. T 274 RAYENSCLIFFE . born liberty. He could scarcely control the ecstasy of his sensations. He accelerated Ms pace, so that the priest could no longer keep up vdih him. Panting, liis face flusliing, Mr. Sullivan began to feel that tliis hurried walking, or rather running, was inconsistent with his dignity; he slackened his steps, fell behind, and the young man succeeded in liis object of getting rid of him. The priest, having once parted company with his companion, seemed to abandon the idea of following him further. He watched him as he strode vehemently onward, till he was lost beliind a jutting point of rock. Then he turned round, and walked slowly in an opposite dh'ec- tion; and, as he walked, he fell into deep rejection. That cry of wronged and insulted natu- ral rectitude which he had heard, now that he was left to his o^»vn reflections, again .sounded in his ear. There was a some- RAVENSCLIPFE. 275 thing in his own heart, — there is some- thing in every heart, — however sophisti- cated, wliich icill echo to it. False views of duty, false ideas of God, false principles of right, false notions of honour, had done much to darken and to pervert a man endowed by nature with an honest heart and a good understanding. They might, and they did, habitually stide, but they could not entirely eradicate, that instinctive sense of the just and the right, that pui-e, innate perception of the honest and the true, which is the natural en- doTVTnent of everv human beino?. Loner had such sentiments lain smothered and dormant in his mind; but now the ^^ild exclamations uttered by Marcus had struck home, and the ^^iiole soul of the priest was in disturbance. As he paced up and do^Ti upon the beach of that little secluded bay where Marcus had left him, he began to review his conduct, and to examine it Vvith a new and more scrutinizing eye. What did the prospect present ? No- thing but one undeviating course of the T 2 276 KAYENSCLIFFE. deepest duplicity, — a regular system of deception, pursued vvdth the most un- hesitating perseverance, and in the course of which neither assurances, nor insinu- ations, nor artful implications, nor even positive assertions, had heen spared. And each and every one of them had heen — false ! Nor had his conduct heen confined to this hreacli of faith in words and looks alone. He had descended to acts, — acts which, in any other cause, he would have stigmatised as those of the most degrading meanness and treachery. He had tampered with the integrity of servants ; he had condescended to play the part of a thief and a spy ; he had, in short, during the last few months, carried on a system of darkness and concealment at which his very soul, in any other cause, would have revolted .... And now, at last, he had been suddenlv aroused to view objects in a new light, and to put to him- self the question of questions, — Could the end authorise the means ? One of the most fearful errors of that Church to which Mr. Sullivan belonged. EAYEXSCLirrE. Zi i is its fatal admission of casuistry into morals, — one of tlie most deleterious among the poisoned frnits of that tree, the root of which is no longer planted firmly upon the Eock from which it originally sprang. That tree which has suffered itself to derive nourishment from other sources, and pollute the stream of life at its spring. Once admit casuistry into morals, and morality exists no longer. I mean morality as a principle, — as an im- mutable principle of himian life. A great deal of good may \jQ done, and no doubt is still done, from the superficial action of general infiuences ; but the root of the matter is no longer there. General influences may be qxW. as well as good; and the course of the man's life remains at the mercy of such accidents. He may do well, and he does, when it happens that the right and the expedient comcide ; but woe to hiTu when they are separated, and he has to choose between the two diverging paths I He has lost the one only infallible guide, — the one unde^i- ating principle of conduct which, blow 278 RAYENSCLIFFE. liigli, blow low, through fair ways or through foul, carries him forward in sound unflinching righteousness. His moral being becomes a confused chaos of warring principles, between -\Yhicli he has to choose as best he may. The mighty Yoice which sounded over chaos, and re- duced the struggling mass to a sublime order, no longer speaks within his soul. He has disowned its authority, and has listened to that of another, — turned away from his God to give his allegiance to his Chm^ch. Tliis Church — Mr. Sullivan's Church — had, as he conscientiously believed, de- manded from him the service, performed at such a heavy price. The interests of his Church as connected with those of his country, imperatively demanded, as he thought, that this sinking and once powerful family, with interests so inex- tricably linked with hers, should, if pos- sible, be restored at any cost. To a man accustomed from his earliest years to consider no sacrifice as too great when dedicated to this object, who EAYEXscLirrE. 279 Inmself stood there an instance of such, submission, — one who had offered up at this shrine all the natural affections of a very feelhig heart, all the dearest ties of human life, — to him the substitution of one object of youthful attachment for another had perhaps appeared but as a trifling sacrifice. And it was not that he had exacted this sacrifice, and that he had used all his influence to stren^theiL the decision of the young man's parents- as regarded this object, which went so hard Avith him now. Xo, it was the means, — the means which Marcus had stigmatised as so base, so degrading, so- dishonourable. It was the means at which his better self now shuddered. Mr. Sullivan had been taught by his Church — in defiance of the express injunc- tions of its living Head, Lord, and Master ,> now in heaven — that the end rjld justify the means — that \:q might do Qxil that srood mis^ht come — that moralitv is not the changeless, the everlasting rock of ages upon which human society rests,, and which neither time nor tide can_ 280 RAVENSCLIFFE. overthrow, but the shifting sand, which yiekis to every succeeding wave till its foundations are swept away — and, he had acted upon these principles. As to the importance of the object he pursued, he never doubted of that for a mo- ment. The end in view approved itself to his conscience ; and until this moment, so utterly had it been blinded, he had never once hesitated as to the means. He had practised every species of deceit upon the young man, and with impunity, even to the sub str action of letters — but here Ms system of concealment had broken doT^ii. This positive act could not, like words, looks, or insinuations, be smothered over or denied. It was at any moment liable to be discovered — it had been discovered a few hours before, and at a moment most critical. The young man before us is Marcus Titzroy, now Lord Lisburn — the woman he loved was Eleanor Wharncliffe. The house for whose restoration to wealth and consequence such sacrifices were de- manded, was that of the Earl of Fermanagh. Marcus had been, as we have seen, re- EAYENSCLirrE. 281 called hj his parents in order to many Mm as liis familv desired, and every motive had been brought forward to in- duce him to acquiesce in the measure, but all had been in vain. Marcus, it is true, hesitated as to what course he ought to pursue, and lingered in Ireland, perplexed between contending duties. Inchnation and his high sense of honour pointed one way, — the earnest wishes of his parents, the influence of his priest, his own sense of family pride and dimitv, and of what was due to his Church and to his House the other. He had written repeatedly to Eleanor duiing these conflicts, flattering him- self that he should recei^'e fi-om her such assurances of affection in return as would irrevocably engage Mm upon the side of inclination. But no such assui-ances arrived. Xot a line from Eleanor had ever reached Mm since Ms return ; nor is tMs to be won- dered at — not one of his letters had ever reached her. Every one that he had written had been abstracted, throusrh the 282 RAVENSCLIFFE. infidelity of his servant, who, acting under a blind obedience to the requisitions of his priest, had placed them all in Mr. Sullivan's hands. That gentleman it was also, as will be surmised, ayIio had forwarded the pro- vincial newspapers to Lady Wharncliffe. The articles which related to this aflPair ha\dng been inserted by himself. One rea- son being, his hopes that Lord Lisburn's resistance, founded upon his sense of what was due in honour to Miss Wliarnclifie, might be met by a something of a similar nature as regarded Miss Vernor ; namely, the publicity of his attentions. And this proceeding had not been mthout producing its effect. The pertinacious silence of the one, aided by the constant communica^ tions with the other, promised, in no short time, to decide the conflict. Such was the state of things until that verv morn- ing, when Mr. Sullivan, who kept up a careful correspondence with England, and watched every movement of Sir Johu AVharncliffe's family mth intense mterest, had, through the infidelity of a domestic, EAVEXscLirrE. 283 received the intelligence that Miss Wharn- cliife was upon the eve of marriage with the onl" son and heir of Mr. Lans^ford of Ravenschffe. This intelligence he had just communi- cated at the time when we beheld Lord lishurn displaying such an ecstasy of passion. The nev.'s had, indeed, been received with a burst of anguish, for which the priest, well as he thought himself acquainted with the disposition of his young charge, was little prepared. The asTonv into which Marcus had been thrown, his grief, his despair, seemed to know no bounds ; and when, in the course of the agitated conversation which had ensued, he had become, for the first time, aware of the deceptions which had been practised upon liim, the violence of his indignation was indescribable. Contrary to his usual habits when much moved, the young Irishman had become suddenly silent. It seemed as if rage and scorn alike denied him utterance. In a sort of desperation he had continued walking up 28^ KAVENSCLirrE. and clown the shore endeavouring to escape, as we have seen, from the priest, — but the priest would not leave him. But reasoning, entreating, explanation were alike vain. The thoughts of Marcus were all in confusion. Passionate regret, awakened by the conviction that Eleanor was lost for ever. Vehement self-reproach for his supineness in thus suffering him- self to be blinded and led; detestation of the means employed, and of passion- ate anger against the man who had thus deluded him, were united to a horror in- describable, at the thought of the man to whom Eleanor was about to be sacri- ficed. Eor, he remembered him well. The paroxysm that ensued was of the ^^ildest violence. In this whirlwind of passion he had continued to walk up and down in the manner just described, without the slight- est attempt to curb the violence of his emotions. When suddenly, as he uttered the word "Renounce!" a thought had struck him, and diverted the whole course of his ideas. A new world seemed HAVEXSCLIPFE. 285 to open before liim, — new plans, views, and purposes to present themselves. His chest ceased to labour under the dreadful storm of grief Trhich agitated it ; the dark- ness in which he seemed wandering, lost, and desperate, was at once dispelled ; the cloud was lifted — ^he saw, he felt, that all was not vet over ; and liis resolutions were sudden as was the change wliich had taken place. To escape fi-om the company of the priest was his first attempt, and he effected it with a determination very different from that vdili which during the last hour he had been trying to shake him off. At that time, it was only because the pre- sence of Mr. Sullivan was oppressive, when Marcus was panting to be alone and ofive vent unrestrainedlv to his feel- ings — now, he was become a positive ob- struction in the course upon wliich the vouni? man had resolved, and, ^ith liis usual spirit and resolution, the desii-e was carried into effect in a moment. 286 B.AVENSCLIFFE. CHAPTER XII. What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well." Winter's Tale. The priest returned slowiy to the house. He felt unwiUing to enter it. Perplexed and ill-satisfied with himself, he felt the greatest repugnance to the idea of joining the family party, — one of which he constituted, for he resided with Lord Fermanagh. He could scarcely endure the thought of confronting Lord Lisburn in the pre- sence of liis parents, — of exposing him- self to the flashing scorn of that bright EAYENSCLirrE. 287 eye before Lord and Lady Permanagh, both of wliom he oTeatlv loved and respected. Xot that he exactly feared that they would participate in their son's contemptuous indignation at the part which had been played ; — they had been long habituated to that sophistry, which justified the disguising of truth for purposes of policy. He knew how deeply anxious they were for the attain- ment of the object in vie^v, — and he believed that, like too manv of their creed, they would esteem all the means admissible employed to bring the pui-pose to bear. Still, he shrank from the thought of confronting Marcus in then' presence. That vehement abhorrence of the false, in whatever cause, or however employed, which the young man had so passionately displayed, and which had, like a sudden light, awakened I\Ir. Sullivan's own mind to new perceptions, and for a few mo- ments presented things under a totally new moral aspect, might act upon them also. And to have his conduct, even 2SS EAYENSCLIFPE. for an instant, looked upon by others as he had been forced, as it were, to re- gard it himself, was more than he could bear. So, slowly and unwillingly he walked towards the house ; the hoarse murmur of the sea, as it lashed the shore, and thundered and echoed among the rocks, sounding in his ears like the portent of coming woe. At last, however, he rounded the furthermost point of rock Avhich in- terposed between him and his object, and the stately castle of Lisburn rose in full grandeur before him. It stood at the head of a beautifai bay, adorned with all the wild sul3limity of that splendid and interesting western coast of Ireland, scooped out and hollowed by the waves of the vast Atlantic. Lofty mountains encompassed it behind, rising* ridge beyond ridge in stately majesty, and lifting up their peaked heads among the clouds, which, dark and heavy, rolled slowly over them. The ridge of moun- tains terminated seaward abruptly, in the lofty precipitous cliffs which encircled the E.AYEN3CLIFPE. 289 bay; the huge faces of rock lifting iip their frowning heads as if in dsnance cf the winds and waves. Several pictLU esTde islands, rr.ther like pealied moiiii':aiii tc>j3 than islands, broke the vieT^ of the T/ild ocean, which came 'jumbiiag ra Tzith ir-r^s- sistible force amoiLg them, and poraiig its giant waves in ceaseless- ciiccex-oii upon the shore. It WciS a £oene a!/ cnca wild, grand, terrible, and bsautifci. The castle stood upo:r2 a gsntlv rising ground, which sloped towards tie G^a ; and which, presenting an nnbrcksn s^mfaco for a considerable extent, dispiarred to perfection the splendid pr:»port;ion£- of the edifice. It was, indeed, a nci^ie b'dld::ig. A real castle in the trae ITorjnan ctjie, biiiit by the Kor-nan ancestcrs ci tMs onee haughty hc^ise. lis d^Q w?^ ^nor- mous, its proportions upon the grai-dest scale; but time and adversi';/ had Jsrs their work, ?nd the long decline in. ths family prosperity was visible in th.e gsnarr;! dilapidation of this theio: feudal sea^. There was an air of decay sad. neglect VOL. I. TJ 290 BAVENSCLIFFE. aljout every part of it. The walls were weather-stained and out of repair ; the battlements in many places falling or fallen ; the windows in most of the tu?:rets in a ruinoLcs condition ; and long streams of Irish iyy, which grew against tiie wallD, in many places in prodigious aibu3idance, hung over and streamed with SbTL air- of desolation around them. Bats and jaclidaYfs here found their abode, and nestled among the holes in the chambers a^d towers, a great portion of which, indeed, were entirely abandoned to them. T^.ere, as Mr. Ouiiivan rounded the point, it presented itself — ^this gjp.nt remnant of another world and other days, raising its weather-beaten front drearily against the wfntry sky. The heavens hung black S/D-d lurid above it, as it stood frowningly txiercj backed hj those bare and rugged moimtain ridges which were now rapidly darkenbig with the coming storm. Glowly, slowly, he approached; but, however slowly he walked, arrive at last he must;) and he reached Zj low postern door, which admitted him into the ediSee. RAVENSCLIFFE. 291 He entered a low, narrow passage, which, winding for some distance in a sort of twilight obscurity, led to the little priest's chamber which he occupied. Whatever other faults — and they are many — may be charged upon the Irish priesthood, that of personal luxury is, certainly, not usually one. The chamber was lowly and simple as the cell of a Franciscan friar. It was very small and gloomy ; the ceiling low, the narrow Gothic window darkened oj its heavy stone frame, and yet more by the wreaths and festoons of ivy which hung over and around it. The walls of the little apartment were simply whitewashed ; but even the whitewashing seemed to have been done Ions: aero for it was become gray and discoloured. One little, hard, pallet-bed in a comer, two wooden-seated chairs, a table, upon which lay a breviary, a few old, darkly-bound, and tattered books, and a human skull — ^with a large crucifix against one side of the wall, com- pleted the furniture of the apartment. V 2 292 RAVENSCLIPrE. The priest entered it, looking exceed- ingly exhausted and miserable, and sat down upon a chair with the air of one travailed in spirit and wearied in body. Por, fji truth, bis heart was well-nigh broken, and his spirit was failing him within. He could not hide it from him- self; he felt it — he knew it. His influ- ence over this child of his affections was at an end, justly forfeited by his own mistaken conduct. He had strained the bow too far — ^it had given way. The revolt had been declared; 2Ji.d the open declaration of revolt is, in such cas-es, everything. Never would he be again to Marcus what he had been. A reconcili- ation might be — v/^ould be — must be effected; but his power v/as at an end. Nev^r again would thQj stand in the tender relation of spiritual father and child; never agaia should he see that impetuous but generous cpirit bend to his instructions and repres3::3.t?/dons, as the docile young steed to the Tirb; never agaia would that full confidence be RAYENSCLIFFE. 293 restored, wMch made him proud as a confesser, and liappy as a man. He was very, very wretched. These men, without famdly ties, often throw a passionate personal interest into their spiritual relations, of which the Protestant can scarcely form an idea. It is, at least, so far bad, that it engages a vast deal of selfish happiness ia a cause where self ought to have no place at all ; and leads men, under the guise of the most disinterested desire for the spiritual welfare of their neophytes, to a vast deal pf inordinate personal feehng. So it was in this case. Mr. SuHivan lamented the revolt of Lord Lishurn for the young man's sake, and for the sake of his family, much ; but, for his own per- sonal sake, a vast deal more. Indeed, he felt it most bitterly; and he sat there quite broken-down and overwhelmed, and for the present believing himself to be utterly incapable of standing another meet- ing with the young man, or, indeed, of doing anything but sit where he was, vainly attempting to compose himself. 294 RAYENSCLIFFE. And there lie remained, until the dinner- hour — ahout tlu'ee o'clock — at length ar- rived; and the large bell of the castle rang forth its iron sunnnons. Sending out its sonorous, melancholy tones over those towers and surrounding mountains. Lord and Lady [Fermanagh entered the gloomy ancient dining-room by different doors, exchanged a few friendly greetings, and took each their several places at the table. The servants, half-a-dozen about, wild and untamed as mountain savages, but headed by a fine, respectable-looking butler, stood in attendance with an air of the profoundest respect. The butler pro- ceeded to perform the duties of his of&ce, by lifting the cover of a huge silver soup- tureen, which stood before the Lady Fer- managh. " Better not take it away," said the mistress of the mansion, after having helped her husband and herself. '*Do you know where your young master and Mr. Sullivan are? I cannot think what they can be about.'* '* Lord Lisburn and Mr. Sullivan have EAYEKSCLIFFE. 295 "been walking most part of tlie morning together, I beKeve, my lady. Lord lis- burn came in, and I saw hi 'in come in, €.nd. go up to his own room, but I think ho went out again. I have not seen Mr. Sullivan." '' Send some one to both their rooms, and tell them Lord Fermanagh has sat do^vn to dinner." The order was obeyed. A fevf minutes afterwards Mr. Sullivan made his appear- ance; he looked pale and agitated, and made his apologies in a hurried, n2rYCUS manner. " What is the matter ? " asked Lady Fermanagh kindly, — ^\\'hilst Lord Ferma- nagh looked surprised and inquiringly at the poor priest. ^' Has anything distress- ing happened ? I hope not, indeed. Any of your flock ill? Any particular in- stance of misconduct down below, of dis- tress, or sickness? Of distress and mis- conduct, — God knows we have enough among us ; but something more than usual, I fear, has occurred. — Pray sit down here by the fire, my good sir, you look quite chilled and miserable." 9j95 ravenscliffe. He answered her inquiries with a tender, giai^eful glance, and a melancholy smile, and took the seat she pointed out, in Eilen<;e. ^" Dq tell me. Has anything happened in the town down belov/ to vex you ? '' ^' No, Madam. Things go on there daily m-J-ch as you emphatically describe it, with G-od knows how much of misery, sickness, and at times misconduct. Poor wretches 1 God help them ! for man has riole power — and even that little seems di^Anishing every day, under the spuitual darlmess and political oppression of the land.'' "•5o not talk in this manner, Mr. Sul- Evan," interrupted Lord Fermanagh, who had been listening with a face of serious and melancholy attention to what passed. " Complairit is futile, worse than futile. It engenders like some hideous monster, tJie very evils which it laments. Don't complain of the spiritual darkness exist- ing in a fiock almost entirely under your own care — and as for political oppres- sion. They have the upper hand now, we RAYEXSCLIFFE. 297 had it once. I suppose oppression is the natural result of the termination of a contest such as ours has been. — In that respect it matters little which side turns up the winner. — If our poor ^vretehes would show a greater spirit of exertion, and spend less time in pitying themselves and their countrv', I think it mis^ht be the better for all parties." Mr. Sullivan bent his head submis- sively, but made no answer to this speech. Lady Eermanagh went red, then pale, cast up her eyes to Heaven in a sort of deploring deprecation of such sentiments, but presumed only to say, in a low voice, — " Alas ! poor Ireland — Alas ! for her fallen Church." Every one after this relapsed into silence. The silence was, however, after a Kttle space, interrupted by Lady Perma- nagh saying, in a somewhat pettish, un- patient tone, — "Wliy will Marcus never be punctual at dinner ? Where can he be ? Mr. SuUivan, he was last seen walking with you." 298 RAVENSCLIFFE. " We were walking, Madam, for nearly an hour and a half upon the sea-shore. After that, Lord Lishurn quitted me some*- what hastily, and turned towards the castle. I followed leisurely, but went to my own room, and I have not seen him since.'* " I think Patrick never will come back. Please Murtagh, to another footman, go and see what they are all about ? " The servant last addressed obeyed ; but soon returned, saying that Lord Lishurn was not in his room, and that Patrick was gone to look for him. No anxiety was felt or expressed at this report, and the dinner proceeded; but when every one had finished, and still her son did not appear. Lady Permanagh began to look anxiously at Mr. Sullivan. " Do you know where he was intending to go, or anything about him, Mr. Sulli- van? " she asked. "Not in the least. Madam," said the priest, — turning even paler than he was before ; " but if you will give me leave I will go and seek him myself." '' I shall be very much obliged to you, EAYENSCLirrE. 299 my dear sir, TTliat can have led him. to absent himself at this uniisiial hour r Surely he is not gone out in the boat — You, none of you saw him go out in •the boat ? " '^ No boat could live for a quarter of an hour in such a sea as we have to-day," remarked Lord Fermanagh. '^Pray, my dear ladv, be easv. Your son is safe, depend upon it, wherever he may be." " The Holy Mother of God, and aU the holy Saints and Angels, grant it so I But my mind misgives me strongly." " I wish, my dear, it were possible that you could spare yourself all the self-in- flicted misery of these mis^ivin£rs, as vou call them. Only reflect, since Marcus was in his cradle, upon the misgivings with which you have been visited upon every occasion when he has not returned, boy or man, precisely to the appointed hour. Yet, how invariablv these missjivino^s have proved false, and you have always in due time received your son again, safe and sound. Depend upon it that will prove 300 RAVENSCLIFFE. to be the case now. If he does not come in to dinner he will appear at tea." " I wish — 1 do wish, my lord, that Marcus were expected to render some little account of his goings and comings. How can we tell where he is, or what he is about ? I msh I could persuade you to exact a little more of this accountable- ness from him ; I am sm'e it would spare me a world of anxiety and misery." " I am sorry for your anxiety and misery ; but what is seK-inflicted no mortal can remove. I do not think it proper to exact this strict account from a man of Marcus's age. If he consent to live in his father's house, it must be upon the condition of feeling himself a perfectly free agent. Anything less would be intolerable to a young man of his spirit. How could I have endured it at his age? is a question I often ask myself, when, yielding to your representations, I feel inclined to exact what you wish. I would not have endured it for a day. I should have fled my country." EAYEXSCLirFE. 801 Lady Permanagli answered tMs by a deep sigh, which almost approached to a groan ; and, casting dov>Ki her eyes, sat there the picture of sadness. Lord Fermanagh had once been deeply grieved, and had sympathised profoundly with her when in distress ; but that time was long past, and he, wearied by her habits of self-indulgence in misery, had accustomed himself to think of these melancholy humours as of a necessary evil, to which he must resign himself with as little disturbance of his own mind as possible. She had her priest to offer con- solation when she needed it — ^to receive her confessions of weakness and cowardice, and reprove and guide her as best he might. liord Permanagh Gurrendersd all this species of power, as a siatier of cou-ise, in^o Mr. Sullivan's hancs, w.i'om he looked upon as a censible, and kne'v to fee % pious and good nan. Ke h&d long been in the habit of qidetly leaving his vrde alone when she was m^zildng Iierseif wretched, or in extreme eases of sending 302 EAVENSCLIFFE. Mr. SuUivan to remonstrate with and encourage her. '^ Shall I remove the dinner, my lord ?" asked the hutler. "Yes; your young master can have something when he comes in." The dinner was removed, the wine set upon the table, Lord Permanagh took up the yesterday's newspaper for the fifth time, and read, or pretended to read. Lady Eermanagh remained immovable, at the head of the table, looking the very picture of woe, and enduring in imagina- tion all the horror and distress of seeing her son brought back, drowned by the upsetting of his boat, fallen from a pre- cipice, or the victim of some unexpected act of violence. If she would, as her husband had desired, have looked back upon her life, what a sum of time thus spent, what an amount of. useless misery entailed upon herself and others, it would have disclosed ! But self-examination v/as a process she was little accustomed to : good, wholesome^ mental and moral discipline she knew nothing of. The duty of being KAYENSCLirPE. 303 cheerful and happv had never entered into the conceptions of one taught to believe that the God she served was best wor- shipped by self-inflicted suffering, and took delight in self-imposed torture. She had conceived the idea, that to be mise- rable was to be pious and heavenly-minded, and to be cheerful and full of enjoyment worldly and unchristian. I wish there were none but the ascetics of her own persuasion who iadulge these unworthy notions of their Creator, of " the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth," At length the door opened, and ]\Ir. Sullivan reappeared. The face of the priest was agitated and heated, the drops arising from severe bodily exertion and mental distress mingled, stood upon his brow. His usu?! gentle composure was superseded by hurried abruptness of man- ner, as coming up to Lady Eermanagh he said — " He is to be found nowhere." She uttered, a low suppressed shriek, and sank back in her chair. Lord Per- 304 HAVENSCLIPFE. managh rose from his, and approached her. His heart had been akeady smiting him. He felt that he had been un- kind. ''What do you mean, Mr. Sullivan? — My dear Agnes — ^be patient, don't terrify yourself so. Has he not been seen to go out ? — Has he taken one of the horses ? " "He was seen to go out, and lie had a small portmanteau under his arm. One of the horses has been also taken out of the stable." " Then he is probably "gone to Castle Vernor.*' "No, not to Castle Vernor," said Mr. Sullivan, looking down. "Where else, then — where else, then, can he be gone?" broke oat Lady Eerma- nagh, vehemently. " Oh, Mr. Sullivan ! — yc\i know — I am sure you know 1 "'vThsre is he ? — ^Tell me, for Gcd's sake, where can he be gone ? " " I fear he is gone to England." "To Eiigland! '^That on earth can have taken Iiim to England!" exclaimed both parents at once. KAYENSCLIFFE. 305 Mr. Sullivan looked doAyn, and made no answer. " You know more of this than we do, Mr. Sullivan/' said Lord Fermanagh, with a slight dissatisfaction in his tone. " To be sure he does," interfered Lady Fermanagh, ''to he sure he must. He is in possession of all Marcus's secrets. But if not revealed under the seal of confession, for heaven's sake, Mr. Sullivan, tell us all you know." '* What I am at liberty to tell is not much," said Mr. Sullivan, hesitatiag. " Indeed, it is difficult — I can scarcely say how far — but this, I believe, T\ithout tres- passing upon my confessional office, I may acknowledge. I fear there has been some entanglement — some attachment in Eng- land." " Then, ia the name of all that's good, why could you not give us a hint of this before, Mr. Sullivan?" " My lord, I thought it for the best — my lord, I acted, as I thought, for the best — " " Acted for the best ! In keeping his parents ignorant of such a CKCumstance VOL. I. X 306 RAVENSCLIFFE. as tliis, Mr. Sullivan ? Well — well I thought I perceived an aceountahle unwillingness, an insurmountable indispo- sition upon the part of my son, to tliis match with Miss Yernor. I could not comprehend it — I tried hard to compre- hend it — at last I do, but it is too late." '* But, what do you think he is gone to England for ? — ^^Tiat do you think he is gone to England for ?" reiterated Lady Eermanagh. '' And what is she ? — and who is she ? — A gentlewoman, I trust — A Catholic, I hope?" "I believe, a gentlewoman, — but no Catholic." '' And why, sir, may I ask," said Lord Eermanagh, sternly, '' was I to be kept so long in ignorance of all this ? Why was there to be no confidence exchanged be- tween father and son upon a subject so interesting to both ? Why, if his heart, and perhaps his good faith, was engaged elsewhere — why was I allowed to persist in the odious task of pressing upon him a match in that case so improper and wretched; — and, apparently for the mere KAVENSCLIFFE. 307 vile consideration of money ? AYliy was my son to be urged to win an amiable young lady's beart, — an object wbicb, but a quarter of an bour ago, I so greatly re- joiced in tbinking be bad attained, — and bis own no longer in bis power ? You must answer tbese questions, Mr. Sullivan, if you please." *' Ob, Fermanagb ! — Ob, Permanagb ! How can you — ^bow can you speak so se- verely ? Dear ]Mr. SuHiTan, forgive bun, foro:ive it — He is not bimseLf at tbis moment. Hear "Mr. Sullivan, be forgets bimself wben be calls you to account in tbis manner." " Peace ! woman — I do not forget my- self. I do not see wby an accoimt is not to be rendered by Mr. Sullivan as weU as by any otber man; and I ask bim — and I desire an answer to my question — ^w^by tbe fatber was to be kept in tbe dark as to tbe nature of tbe son's feelings and sentiments in a matter so intensely connected witb bis bonom^ and bis bappiness ? — And, I bave anotber question or two to ask, also, wben he has answered tbat." X 2 308 RAVENSCLirrE. "My lord," said Mr. Sullivan, attempt- ing to recover himself, and assuming an air of not ungraceful dignity, " I cannot, in justice, be called to render an account to man of the things which belong unto God. In what I did, I thought I was doing God and holy Church — and, I may add, yourself — service. This is all the answer I have to give." *^Be it so. — Then I request to know — merely as a piece of information for my own guidance — Was my son made aware, or was he not made aware, of this ig- norance upon my part of the true state of the case ? Did he or did he not be- lieve, that I and his mother were ac- quainted with the fact that he had a prior attachment, and consequently no heart to give?" " He believed you icere aware of that fact." *' Monster I" The colour flashed to Lord Termanagh's cheek as he uttered the word. He hastily rose, approached the priest, and seizing him by the shoulder, said, BAVENSCLIFFE. 309 " And did this abominable deception originate in you ? " " Oh Arthur ! Oh Lord Fermanagh ! My lord ! — my lord ! — Oh, you forget yourself. Mr. Sullivan — ]\Iy dear, dear lord!" she exclaimed, endeavouring to throvs^ herself between them, and to relieve the shoulder of her confessor from her husband's in- dignant hand. " My lord ! My lord ! You forget yourself — you forget who it is." " I do not forget myself, Agnes. I ask of this man — this priest — how he dared permit himself to utter such a base, un- worthy falsehood." " I uttered no falsehood — no direct false- hood. Lord Fermanagh. — I hope I am as incapable of direct falsehood as you are yourself." " Falsehood in act — ^falsehood in fact ! — Oh I know! I know!" cried Lord Fer- managh, releasing the shoulder he held, and shaking off Lady Fermanagh, he cast up his eyes with a look of despair. Then composing himself, and apparently strug- gling for patience, he returned to his chair 310 BAVENSCLIFFE. at the other end of the room, and again took up his newspaper. Between Lady Eermanagh and the priest, meanwhile, the follo^dng conversation was in a low voice carried on : " Then you have known of this attach- ment ever since Marcus's return ?'* " I have. He confided it to me under the seal of confession, and it was there- fore impossible for me to mention it. Afterwards vfe talked the matter over as. friends.'' " But why did he never mention this fact to his father or to me? Did you prevent him ? Did you advise him not ?" "In so doing, I thought I prevented much family misery. To suffer him to persist in this engagement to a young lady of a hostile faith, and one very slen- derly provided — as he confessed she was — with the means of dissipating the embar- rassments — so generously incurred — of this loyal and noble family — ^was not to be endured. The injustice that would have been committed to a young lady of Miss Yernor's pretensions, was as little ta RAYEXSCLirrE. 311 be thought of. I helieve that I best considered Lord and Lady Fermanagh's happiness, by sparing them the pain of performing the task of opposition which, from considerations hke these, I knew they would consider themselves bound to attempt. — Under circumstances so imfor- tunate, I thought I acted in the best manner for all parties. — If I was mistaken, I cry for mercy." A gesture of impatience shook the news- paper in Lord Fermanagh's hand, but he said nothing. *' Then you feel assured that he is gone to England ; and for what pm-pose do you suppose r" " Nay, I know not. This is more than I can tell. His distress was very great. He was much distressed, — in much suffering when he left me so hastily." Mr. Sullivan kept talking, in an hesi- tating, agitated way, — ^the tears standing in his eyes, and his voice faltering. Lord Fermanagh's cheek kindled, then turned white, and the newspaper in his 312 RAVENSCLIFFE. liand shook much; still he maintained silence. '' Poor dear ! — ^poor boy ! What is to be done, — which way is he gone ? Surely, surely, he might be followed ! — Surely, surely, there is yet time ! He might be stopped, — be arrested in his purpose! Pollow him, Mr. Sulhvan ; he will easily be traced, and he has not been gone long. Pollow him, — ^urge him, — lay his father's commands upon him ! — An Englishwoman, and a heretic I Lord Fermanagh ! Lord Fermanagh ! We are losing time ; let Mr. Sullivan set out directly." " No," said Lord Fermanagh, at length breaking silence, la^dng down the news- paper, and displaying all the grave dis- pleasm'e written on his pale face. " No, I will not have him interfered mth. My son is a man of honour. He does right, having been once deceived, to withdraw his confidence in the representations of any one, and to decide for himself as to the position in which he stands with respect to this young lady in England. KAVEKSCLirFE. 313 Be she who she may — such I conclude his errand to be ?" — ^with a look of interroga- tion directed to the priest. Mr. Sullivan only answered by a humble bend of his head. " But oh ! my lord ! Oh ! Lord Tev- managh ! — a Protestant — a heretic — an Englishwoman ! Mr. SuUivan, Lord Fer- managh scarcely knows what he says! Go, for Heaven's sake, go !'* " I know well what I am saying, and I expect obedience," said Lord Fermanagh, decisively and sternly. *'And I \y\R beg Mr. Sullivan, so far as this affair is concerned, to forbear from any fur- ther interference whatsoever, in my family." He spoke vdili an air of authority not to be disputed ; and rising from his chair, immediately quitted the room, leading Lady Fermanagh dissolved in tears, and with a face in which mingled dismay and disapprobation were written. "WHiilst Mr. Sullivan was humbled to the dust, what between the reproaches of his own VOL. I. Y 314 RAYENSCLIFFE. conscience, and the liigli disapprobation of liis conduct thus expressed by one honoured so deeply as he did Lord Eer- managh. END OF VOL. I. London : Printed by William Tyler, Bolt-court. NEW WORKS OF FICTION, Sp Bistingttisf)fD U^xiUxs. PUBLISHED BY COLBURN & CO. 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH-STREET. MKS. MATHETVS ; OR, FAMILY MYSTERIES. By MRS. TROLLOPE. 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