CHAPTER XIX.The Struggle near the River.
Nobody could perceive at the breakfast-table that Sir John Slingsbyhad suffered from the strong emotions by which we have seen himinfluenced on the preceding night. No one could have conceived thathis state and fortune were in the tottering condition which NedHayward had represented. He was as gay, as happy, as full of jest andmerriment as a schoolboy of seventeen. And as his sister waspeculiarly cheerful, it seemed to excite in him even a more merry andjocund liveliness. To say the truth, Mrs. Clifford felt that her bondwas broken; that her visit to her brother's house, and her stay withhim, had unlinked one of the chains of cold and formal proprietieswhich had been wound round her for so many years. Heaven knows, shenever wished to see, hear, or do, think, or countenance anything thatwas evil; but yet her heart felt freer and lighter--it had more roomto expand. In fact the sunshine of early days seemed to be reflectedupon it, and it opened out to the light like a flower. She was gayerthan her daughter, though silent and still, except when called intoconversation by some lively sally; but she smiled, was good-humoured,and answered even merrily, when a jest passed round, and seemed towonder at the more than wonted gravity of her Mary. Isabella wasalmost too gay; as gay as the habits of the world and her own sense ofpropriety permitted; but, to an observing eye this cheerfulness wasrather assumed than real; and to any one who, like Mary, had thesecret of her heart, it was very evidently affected to cover a deeperand a graver current beneath.
"Well, what's the news this morning?" said Sir John, as Isabellapoured out the tea and coffee; "a quarter to nine and no tidingsstirring? This seems to promise a dull day. Nobody's mill been burntdown? Nobody's cat killed? Nobody's wife eloped? Nobody's daughtergone to Gretna-green? Nobody's house been broken open, game stolen,hen-roosts been plundered, pocket been picked, or nose beenpulled?--Faith we shall never get through the four-and-twenty hourswithout something to enliven us. All the objects of country lifeare gone. It seems to me that the world has turned as dead as ahorse-pond, and men and women nothing but the weed at the top, waitingcoolly in green indifference for the ducks to come and gobble them up.Lack-a-day! lack-a-day! if we had but Ned Hayward here to cheer us up!What can have become of him?"
"Oh, he has come back, my dear uncle," replied Mary; "I saw him uponthe terrace as I was taking my morning's walk."
"Then why is he not here?" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "why is heabsent from his post? What business has he at Tarningham-park, unlessit be like a ray of the summer sunshine to make every thing gay aroundhim?"
"He told me that he was going down to catch a trout," replied MissClifford; "he has some bet with you, my dear uncle, it seems?"
"The boy is mad! irretrievably gone! Bedlam or Saint Luke's, or someof those places they call a _private asylum_, is the only place forhim now," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby; "what, gone down to catch atrout, without pausing to take either rest or breakfast, with hishands burnt and a shot in his arm--so that fellow Gimlet said, theytell me."
"He seemed very well," answered Miss Clifford; "and he said he had hisbreakfast before he left the inn."
"I don't believe a word of it," answered her uncle; "that's just oneof his old tricks, Mary; if there was any thing to be done, he usednever to mind breakfast, or dinner, or supper, or any thing else; thematter was always done first, and then he did not mind a good dinnerand a bottle of claret, or even two, as the case might be. I never sawsuch a fellow! We used to call him 'thoughtless Ned Hayward;' but thefact is, he used to think more in five minutes than the rest of usaltogether in four-and-twenty hours, and then he was free for thewhole day--but here come the letters, and papers; we shall have somenews now, and we shall have something to laugh at, with, or becauseof."
Thus saying, Sir John took the bag which was brought to him by thebutler, opened it with a key attached to his watch-chain, and drewforth the articles it contained one by one. First came a newspaper inits cover--it was, I suppose, the Times, by its bulk--then another andanother. All these were laid down beside him; and next came the smallpacket of letters, and then, oh! how eager all were to devour thecontents. Strange and mysterious mixture of old rags and size, what aworld of emotions have you conveyed about this earth! Not the mostterrible stage that has ever represented to the eyes of admiringthousands the works of the poet, or displayed the skill of the actor,has produced such deep tragedy as you. How often has the sight of thethin folded sheet, with its strange, crooked black hieroglyphics,overwhelmed the lightest and the gayest heart with heaviness andmourning! how often changed the smile into the tear! how often sweptaway the gay pageants of imagination, and memory, and hope, and leftthe past all darkness, and the future all despair! But, on thecontrary, how often have ye been the unexpected messengers ofhappiness and joy! how often have ye brought sunshine and light intothe benighted breast! how often dispelled in a moment the darkthunder-clouds of the world's blackest storms,--aye, and sometimes,too, have closed as with a lightning-flash, the black tempestuous dayof a long sorrowful life, with a gleam of ecstasy, too intense andpotent to survive!
All eyes turned eagerly to Sir John Slingsby, while he looked over theletters. The first was in a stiff and clerk-like hand, which he putdown beside him with a low chuckle, which probably indicated anintention of not reading it at all. The next displayed a scrawl,written as if with a butcher's skewer, thin, straggling, andirregular, like the scratching of a hen in the last agony. That metthe fate of the former one. Then came an address in a good, bold,dashing hand, with a name written in the corner.
"Ah, ah!" cried he, "from Tom South, about the borough ofTwistandskin. Before I stand, I'll see him--Lord bless me, whatwas I going to say?" and putting his hand to his mouth, he looked tohis sister with a low laugh; but that letter was put at a littledistance from the two others. "Ah! Mr. Beauchamp, here is one foryou," continued the baronet, "sent up with the postmaster'scompliments!--damn his compliments! who wants his compliments?" and hegave the letter over to Beauchamp, who was sitting at the oppositeside of the table next his daughter. "My dear Harriet, do try thatpasty, it is excellent; or take something, in the name ofHeliogabalus; this is not a fast-day, is it? There's the best ham thatever came out of Yorkshire, on the side-board. There, Isabella,there's an epistle for you, from one of your sweet, maudlin, blond andsatin friends in London, as soft and insipid as a glass of orgeate,I'll answer for it; full of loves, and dears, and sweet friends, andlanguishing for your darling society, and wondering what you can bedoing in the country, spending your beauty on the desert air. Don'tlet me hear a word of it; I hate them all; and, if I had my will,would smother them all to death under eiderdown quilts. Pray read yourletter, Mr. Beauchamp. Every body in this world is anxious to readtheir letters but me; and as yours may very likely require an answer,you had better look at it at once; for one post here goes out ateleven."
Now, Sir John Slingsby, in the latter part of his speech, showedhimself considerate; for Mr. Beauchamp, during the first part ofbreakfast, had borne a very grave and business-like air. He had givenhimself up, it is true, to a more cheerful spirit on the day before;he had been calmly cheerful at dinner; gay in the evening; especiallywhen he was near Miss Slingsby. But who is not gay in the eveninghours, when the whole nervous fluid seems to have accumulated aboutthe brain and the heart, when the anticipated, or actual labours ofthe day are over, the apportioned task of care and anxiety are done?The load of the four-and-twenty hours is thrown off, and we snatch atthe brief portion that remains between labour and repose forenjoyment. Who is not gay, when beauty and cheerfulness pour theirmingled rays upon us, flooding our feelings and our thoughts with abright, happy, and congenial stream? Take a glass of iced-water, dearreader--as cold as you will, so that it be not actually frozen--andpour into it a merry glass of warm champagne; see how it will sparkleand dance up to the brim; and, unless the heart of man is a mass ofice indeed, such will be the effect upon it of mere association withyouth, beauty, and innocent gaiety.
But since then, Beauchamp had slept upon t
he matter. The night beforehe had gone on with the current; and now time had been afforded him toask himself how far that current had carried him. He was doubtfulwhether he had not been borne too far; there were doubts, hesitations,apprehensions in his mind; and he was grave--very grave indeed. He hadwished Miss Slingsby good-morning, he had expressed a hope she hadrested well, he had been most gracefully courteous--too courteous; forvery polished surfaces are generally cold; and Isabella, who had comedown with the intention of speaking to him frankly and freely uponmatters that interested her deeply, had shrunk into herself more thanwas her wont.
Beauchamp opened the letter, however, with rather a languid andunexpectant air, but the first words seemed to rivet his attention.The eye of Isabella, without her will, or rather against it, fixedupon him. She saw his cheek turn pale, then glow again warmly, andthen a glad and well-satisfied smile curled his lip. He ended theletter, and, looking towards the ceiling, his lips moved for aninstant, and, folding up the paper, he put it in his pocket, givingway for a few seconds to thought, which did not seem unsatisfactory.
Isabella Slingsby was the most straightforward girl in the world, bynature; and she had but one class of experimental teaching in regardto concealing her feelings. She could hide, occasionally, how much shedisliked some of her father's guests; she could conceal from him howpainful to her was much that she saw under his own roof. In everything else, however, she was as frank as the day; and, seeing Mr.Beauchamp receive a letter, and look not discontented with it, shesaid, somewhat inconsiderately:
"You seem to have had pleasant intelligence, Mr. Beauchamp?"
That gentleman turned his eyes suddenly upon her, and very fine andlustrous eyes they were, and he gazed at her for an instant with asmile so blended with many emotions, that Isabella, she knew not why,cast down her eyes, and coloured. After a brief pause, he replied:
"Not unpleasant, Miss Slingsby; for so strange a thing is the heart ofman, or, rather I should say, so strange a thing is his fate, that, inthe course of years and with the change of circumstances, there willbe pleasure even in the total ending of what were once bright hopes.The things we coveted and obtained, in the world's variation becomeburdensome to us; as, at the end of a long day's journey, we lay downwith relief the weight which, at the outset, we carried with joy orpride."
"That is because men are so fickle, I suppose," answered Isabella."The only constant beings on earth are women and Newfoundland dogs,Mr. Beauchamp--it is so, I assure you, whatever you may think of it. Iknow the wicked world takes a different view of the subject; but theworld is man's; and women might very well say a different picturewould be produced, 'if we lions were painters!'"
"Nay," answered Beauchamp, laughing, "I am not one of those evilspeakers and slanderers. I have had time to observe in the world whereI have been these many years as a mere spectator, watching thecharacters of men and women; and I can justly say, that there are, atleast, ten good women for one good man. Circumstances may havesomething to do with it; education, opportunity for good or evil; butstill there must be a fine and pure spirit at the heart, teaching toavoid evil and to seek good."
"I believe, in truth, there is," answered Mrs. Clifford, joining inthe conversation; "and that the bent of almost every woman's mind istowards that which is right. But if you are the creatures ofcircumstances, Mr. Beauchamp, we are, in many, respects, the creaturesof your hands; you give the bent and the direction of somewhat morethan half our thoughts, I am afraid, and are--"
"To be blamed, if you go wrong," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, with aloud laugh; "to be sure, to be sure; that is a woman's philosophy, mydear Harriet; all that she does good is her own, all that she doeswrong is man's; but let me tell you, my dear sister, that there is nolittle doubt, in the minds of the best informed, which has the mostinfluence; man over woman, or woman over man. I am of the lastopinion; and I see it every day in my case and that of others; herethis girl, Isabella, rules me with a rod of iron--does any thing shelikes with me; but, by my faith, for this day I shall abstract myselffrom her authority; for I have some business to settle during themorning; and she must entertain her guests as she can. Mr. Beauchamp,if you leave my house during the next four-and-twenty hours, it willbe a clear proof that Miss Slingsby does not entertain you properly;and I shall be very angry with her inhospitality, if I do not find youat lunch and dinner, tea and supper, and breakfast to-morrow morning;for I shall be quite sure she has not made my house agreeable."
"An imputation that I should be the last to bring upon Miss Slingsby,"said Mr. Beauchamp; and in truth he seemed to feel what he said; forwhen they rose from the breakfast-table, and the party sauntered tothe window, in that pleasant indolence which generally succeeds thefirst meal of the day--that five minutes that succeeds to breakfast,in short, before we put on the armour of active exertion--he attachedhimself closely to Miss Slingsby's side, engaged her in conversationso light and cheerful, that the whole character of the man seemedchanged. Not that what he said was without thought; for there was adeep undercurrent of reflection running all the time, which gave itquite a different tone from what is called small-talk. It wassparkling, brilliant, even playful; but its principal effect on theminds of those who heard was to set them thinking. There was a markedattention in his manner towards Isabella Slingsby, which flattered hera little. She might have perceived before that he was struck with herbeauty, that he admired her, that he liked her society, when he hadtwice or thrice met her at Dr. Miles's. She had thought himexceedingly agreeable, and had fancied that he thought her so too; butthere had been nothing said or done--not one word, one look, onegesture, that could set imagination flying any further; and she hadrested satisfied with letting things take their course, without anyother feeling than a slight degree of regret that her father had notmade the acquaintance of one so superior in manners and in mind to thegenerality of those around. During the preceding evening, Beauchamphad appeared in no other character than that of the calm, dignified,quiet, and well-informed gentleman. But after breakfast his attentionswere more pointed; and Isabella felt a little agitated, and doubtfulof what all this would come to. She was not fond of any thing thatagitated her: and therefore, somewhat more abruptly than wasnecessary, she broke through the conversation that was going onsaying:
"Mr. Beauchamp, Mary and I have entered into a compact to go down andsee Captain Hayward win his bet."
"What bet?" asked Beauchamp, who had forgotten all about it.
"To catch the largest trout in the river before twelve o'clock,"replied Isabella; "will you escort us? My dear aunt, won't you cometoo?"
"No, my dear," answered Mrs. Clifford; "I have letters to write, too,like your father."
"I have no letters to write," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, somewhatpetulantly; "I wish I had nothing less pleasant to do; but I have tosee the steward and a damned lawyer about business--the greatest boreson earth. I wish to Heaven Peter the Great had been but autocrat ofEngland for a bare month. Heaven and earth! how he would have thinnedthe roll of attorneys!--or if we could but bring them under thecutting and maiming act, what hanging and transporting we should have.I am sure they cut up our time and our comforts, maim our property,and cripple our resources. But the devil never abandons his own; andso they slip out of every noose that is made to catch them. There'sthat fellow, Stephen Gimlet, can make, they say, springes that willcatch woodcocks and snipes, hares, pheasants, partridges, ruffs, andrees; hang me, if I don't ask him if he has not got any trap that willstrangle an attorney."
"If he fails, ask Ned Hayward," said Isabella, half jokingly, halfearnestly; "I have no doubt he would furnish you with what you want."
"Perhaps he would, perhaps he would," answered Sir John; "not a badthought, Bella; but hang it, I must go and see the steward before thatfellow Wharton comes. So good bye, good bye, for the present. Mind theluncheon time; and if Ned loses and does not bring me home a trout ofat least three pounds, we'll drink his health in a bottle of the oldhermitage--get your shawls and bonnets, get your sha
wls and bonnets;and now, Harriet, if you want to send over to your place, be quickwith your letters, for I have got a man going to Tarningham attwelve."
Mrs. Clifford left the room with her brother, and was followedimmediately by her daughter and niece. Beauchamp walked out into thehall, and got his hat, gave some directions to one of the servants inregard to sending up some of his clothes from the inn at Tarningham,when any body was sent down to the town; and then returned to thewindow of the breakfast-room. There he paused and looked out,revolving various things in his mind, and coming to the half-mutteredconclusion, at length: "It must be so, it is quite clear--it iscertain." But when any one determines that a thing is quite clear, iscertain, before we agree with him in opinion, we should know whatother trains of thought are going on in his mind at the moment,jostling this idea and that out of their right places, leaving othersfar behind, and stimulating others again to run at lightning speed,the Lord knows whither, to win their race. It is not at allimpossible, that if you or I, dear reader, could see into Mr.Beauchamp's mind at this moment, we might come to a very differentconclusion on the premises, and think that the proposition was anything but, _quite_ clear, the result not at all _certain_.
However that might be, there he stood with his hat in his hand, invery good spirits, when Miss Slingsby and her cousin appeared.
Isabella was rather fluttered, as we have said, about something oranother; she felt a timidity that was not usual with her, and she gother cousin between herself and Mr. Beauchamp before they reached thedoor, as if she intended that he should offer Mary Clifford his arm.Beauchamp man[oe]uvred so skilfully, however, that before they werethrough the door and down the steps, he was by Isabella's side again,and, as she had two sides, one of which was certain to be unprotected,while that side was almost certain to be the point of attack to adexterous enemy, she gave up the battle at once, and let things taketheir course.
The walk, as Isabella managed it, was an exceedingly pleasant one. Inthe first place, there were the beauties of nature. To what heart,under what circumstances, do the beauties of nature fail to bringsweet feelings? There is something in the universe, of which we haveno definite conception; perhaps, it is too universal, too wide, toovast, to submit itself to any thing like demonstration. We all feelit, we all know it, we all enjoy it. The ancients and some of themoderns have deified it and called it Pan. It is, in fact, theuniversal adaptation of one thing to another: the harmony of all God'sworks; the infinite music of an infinite variety. It is figured inmusic--faintly figured; for music is only the image of the whole by apart; the sequence of bright things is the melody of creation; theirsynchronous existence, the harmony of God's Almighty will. But inthis, as in all else, woe be unto those who have worshipped thecreature of the Creator, and who have mistaken this grand harmony inthe infinity of created things, for the Godhead itself. It is but oneof the expressions of Almighty love, and those expressions are asinfinite as the love from which they emanate. It is our finite, ourcontracted, our exceedingly minute view of all things, that constantlykeeps us down from the contemplation and the conception of theimmeasurable to that which is within the ken of our own microscopicvision. If creation itself is infinite, the infinite harmony thereofis but a part of creation, and is in itself a proof of thatintelligent Providence, which man denies, because he does not see.
The walk was an exceedingly pleasant one, coming in varied scenes uponthe mind, each contrasted with the other, yet each harmonisingbeautifully. After about a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards ofshort turf they entered a glade, where tall trees, backed by deepshrubs, cut off the sunbeams, except where here and there theystruggled through an open spot. Tall beeches, more than a century old,crossed their arms above to give shade to the ground below, and thoughthe walk, nearly fifty feet in breadth from bole to bole of the oldtrees, was mown along its whole extent, yet a little to one side andthe other the wild flowers appeared gemming the earth like stars upona firmament of green. There was the purple columbine and the blueperiwinkle, and the yellow primrose, and the pale bending anemone; thehyacinth and the violet; and if art had had any share therein, thearrangement of the flowers was so skilfully managed, that all seemedowing but to nature's hand. The deep branches of the beech, and thegreen shade that they cast through the air, gave a solemn andelevating tone to the whole. The flowers and the occasional bursts ofsunshine, the rich colours of the moss, yellow and brown, and green,enlivened the scene, and made the solemn stillness of the long avenueseem like a thoughtful countenance brightened by a smile. Thensuddenly, when they had walked on for about a quarter of a mile, theyturned to the left through a wide break in the alley, and all waswonderfully changed. Shade and melancholy was gone; and they stoodupon the edge of a round sloping descent of some three or four hundredfeet covered with green short turf, and marked out, at shortdistances, by chumps of birches and hawthorns. On the right was thewoody crest of the hill, concealing in its bosom the continuation ofthe avenue, which they had just quitted; but on the left, wide overthe tree tops and waving ground beyond, stretched out an extensiveprospect in the sunshine, all light and loveliness. It was one of thebright days of early summer. Scarcely a cloud was in the sky, and yetthere was a softening effect in the atmosphere, which mellowed thelights and shades into each other, and suffered the sight to passsoftly and gently from each line of the distance to that whichsucceeded with a sort of dreamy pleasure, vague and indefinite, butvery sweet, like the sounds that sometimes come upon our sleeping earsin the visions of the morning.
Skirting along the hill with a gradual descent, the broad gravel-walkplunged into the valley, and there all was altered once more. A wideand uncultivated wood swept round, a small sparkling rivulet dashingon towards the broader stream amidst bushes and shrubs and waterplants; a willow here and there bending down its long pliant branchesover the glittering stream, and a patch of tall bulrushes raisingtheir long green stems, where any occasional interruption occasionedthe water to spread out. The trees were far apart, though the groundwas broken and uneven, and the flapping wing of a heron, with his grayshadowy form rising up at some fifty or sixty yards' distance, addedto the saddening and sombering effect. It was like a discord in a finepiece of music: just protracted long enough to make what had gonebefore and what followed after more delightful, and the next minutethey issued forth upon the warm green meadows, gilded with buttercups,that lay by the side of the wider river.
Heaven only knows what Isabella meant in bringing Beauchamp by thatpath, if she did not intend him to make love to her. She could havetaken him round by the other side of the house, and the straighthorse-road to the bridge, or down over the turf through the open partsof the park, amongst the deer and fern to the farther end of theriver, where it issued out of the grounds. But no, whether fromsomething that was going on in her own bosom, which made herinstinctively choose the scenes that most assimilated with herfeelings, or from accident, caprice, or design, she led him through apath, full of the sense of love. There was one too many for adeclaration, it is true; and she knew she was so far guarded; but yetit was a very dangerous walk for any two people, whose hearts had nobetter security than the simple presence of another, to stray alongupon such a day as that.
The letter, which Beauchamp had received at breakfast, had evidentlyeither pleased, or entertained, or relieved him; but the effect was,that he was infinitely gayer when he set out than he had ever beensince we have first met with him. He crossed the open ground byIsabella's side with a firmer and more elastic step, with his headhigh and his shoulders back, he gazed over the wide-spread parkscenery around, and seemed to snuff the air like a horse about tostart upon a race. He commented upon the loveliness of such views,remarked how very English they were--how very seldom one ever saw anything similar in any other land--and seemed to enjoy the whole sohighly, as to leave an impression that the pleasure of the walk washeightened by the society in which it was taken. When he came underthe shade of the tall trees his tone was somewhat changed, it becamesofter, more serious,
more earnest; and so he went on, his thoughtsseeming to receive a colouring from the scenery through which hepassed, without losing their general character, or particular train atthe moment. It was evident through all that he was thinking ofIsabella Slingsby; and though, with finished courtesy, he divided hisconversation very equally--not quite--between her and her cousin, yeteven when he was speaking to Mary Clifford, it was very evident thathis words, or at all events, his thoughts, were addressed to Isabella.
Mary said little, except just to keep up the conversation and depriveit of any thing like awkwardness; but she felt, and indeed nobodycould help feeling, that Mr. Beauchamp's manner towards her cousin wastoo marked and particular to be mistaken. Isabella, on her part, gaveway to all the gaiety of her heart, sometimes with bright and laughingsallies playing round Beauchamp's more earnest and deep-tonedthoughts, sometimes yielding to the impulse which she imparted, andventuring into the deep waters of feeling and reflection, whither heled her, till startled at herself she took fright and retreated. Shewas very happy, too; secure in Mary's presence from any thing thatmight agitate or alarm, she felt that she could give way to thepleasure of the moment; and even the knowledge of her father'ssituation and of the dangers and difficulties that beset him acted butas a softening and subduing power, which brought down her spirits fromtheir habitual gaiety, and rendered her heart more susceptible oftenderer and deeper impressions.
Beauchamp felt that he was listened to, that he pleased, that he mightbe beloved. He had seen nothing coquettish about Isabella; he hadheard a high character of her; he had been told by one, who had knownher from childhood, that she seemed lighter than she really was; thatif there was any thing assumed, it was the gaiety; that all the moreprofound things, that occasionally appeared in her character, might betrusted and relied upon; and that the seemingly high spirits were butas the breeze, that ruffles the tree tops without touching the depthof the forest. He felt sure, therefore, that she would not sport withhim, if she believed he was in earnest, and he took care, that uponthat subject she should have little doubt.
Thus passed away their walk; and though Mary Clifford would have givena great deal, had she dared to venture, to make Mr. Beauchamp a sharerin the secret of Sir John Slingsby's affairs, and asked the advice andassistance of one who had evidently gained much experience of theworld, without being spoiled by the world, yet she knew not how tobegin; a feeling of timidity came over her that stopped her; and thecourse of the conversation--its sparkling rapidity at some times, itsdeep and intense feelings at others--gave no opportunity ofintroducing a subject entirely discordant, without forcing it in amanner both harsh and discourteous. She determined, therefore, as theyapproached the river, to leave the matter to Captain Hayward, whosefrank straightforwardness, she thought, would soon either find or makean opportunity.
When they reached the bank, however, Captain Hayward was not to beseen; but Isabella pointed to an elbow of the wood, which concealed aturn in the stream, saying that he was most likely higher up, andaccordingly they walked on. As they were passing through the littlepath that cut through an angle of the woodland, they heard suddenly aloud exclamation, then a very ungentlemanly oath, and the next moment,as they issued forth, they saw Ned Hayward grappling with a tall,powerful man, in what may be called a semi-military dress. The twowere, apparently, well matched, though few, either in strength,activity, or skill, could match our friend. But the stranger, whoeverhe was, practised a trick, which he thought likely to free himselffrom his adversary, even at the risk of his own life. He struggledhard, and in the struggle drew towards the brink. Ned Hayward made aviolent effort to resist the impulse, and most likely would have beensuccessful; for, if any thing, he was the stronger man of the two. Buta part of the green turf gave way, undermined by the course of thecurrent, and both plunged in together into a deep pool, anddisappeared for an instant in the water.
Beauchamp; or, The Error. Page 20
