He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his gaze.
“This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!” said Mr Haredale. “Leave it, sir, and return no more.”
“Miss Haredale's presence,” returned the young man, “and your relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is yours—not mine.”
“It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man, sir,” retorted the other, “to tamper with the affections of a weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.”
“It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,” said Edward. “Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn they merit.”
“You will find,” said Mr Haredale, calmly, “your trusty go-between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy's part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to my niece. “ As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress.
“Mr Haredale,” said Edward, “your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute's happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to her. What have I done that you should hold me in this light esteem, and give me these discourteous words?”
“You have done that, sir,” answered Mr Haredale, “which must he undone. You have tied a lover'-knot here which must be cut asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond between ye. I reject you, and all of your kith and kin—all the false, hollow, heartless stock.”
“High words, sir,” said Edward, scornfully.
“Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,” replied the other. “Lay them to heart.”
“Lay you then, these,” said Edward. “Your cold and sullen temper, which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you. I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless man; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece's truth and honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her with a confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.”
With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more encountering and returning Mr Haredale's steady look, withdrew.
A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman's despondency with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.
Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as he held the young man's stirrup,
“He's comfortable in bed—the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.”
“Who, Willet?” said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.
“Your worthy father, sir,” replied John. “Your honourable, venerable father.”
“What does he mean?” said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt, at Joe.
“What DO you mean?” said Joe. “Don't you see Mr Edward doesn't understand, father?”
“Why, didn't you know of it, sir?” said John, opening his eyes wide. “How very singular! Bless you, he's been here ever since noon to-day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn't been gone an hour.”
“My father, Willet!”
“Yes, sir, he told me so—a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in green-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in, sir,” said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the window. “He hasn't put out his candles yet, I see.”
Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind—forgotten something—and must return to London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.
Chapter 15
At noon next day, John Willet's guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the Maypole's highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.
In the broad old-fashioned window-seat—as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee—in the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfasttable. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morninggown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.
The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.
There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, “Who enters here leaves noise behind. “ There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger's form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.
It was in a room in Paper Buildings—a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple Gardens—that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were alread
y pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn't know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river's margin two or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone.
“Ned is amazingly patient!” said Mr Chester, glancing at this lastnamed person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick, “immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!”
As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace.
“Really, as if he had heard me,” said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. “Dear Ned!”
Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.
“Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?” said Edward.
“Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.—Have you breakfasted?”
“Three hours ago.”
“What a very early dog!” cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.
“The truth is,” said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating himself near the table, “that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to speak.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “confide in me, I beg. But you know my constitution—don't be prosy, Ned.”
“I will be plain, and brief,” said Edward.
“Don't say you will, my good fellow,” returned his father, crossing his legs, “or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me'—
“Plainly this, then,” said the son, with an air of great concern, “that I know where you were last night—from being on the spot, indeed—and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.”
“You don't say so!” cried his father. “I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn't you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.”
“I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's reflection, when both of us were cool,” returned the son.
“'Fore Gad, Ned,” rejoined the father, “I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying'—
“I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?”
“My dear Ned,” said his father, “I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.”
“I saw Miss Haredale last night,” Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request; “her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.”
“For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not accountable,” said his father. “That you must excuse. He is a mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life. —Positively a fly in the jug. The first I have seen this year.”
Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his tea.
“Father,” said the young man, stopping at length before him, “we must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me by this unkind indifference.”
“Whether I am indifferent or no,” returned the other, “I leave you, my dear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miry roads—a Maypole dinner—a tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business—a Maypole bed—a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots and centaurs;—whether the voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.”
“I wish you to consider, sir,” said Edward, “in what a cruel situation I am placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do'—
“My dear fellow,” interrupted his father with a compassionate smile, “you do nothing of the kind. You don't know anything about it. There's no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have good sense, Ned,—great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.”
“I repeat,” said his son firmly, “that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?”
“My dear Ned,” returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him, “that is my purpose most undoubtedly.”
“The time that has elapsed,” rejoined his son, “since I began to know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no resource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine, indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, in the hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence between us in time to come.”
“My good fellow,” said his smiling father, “you quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.”
“I am very sorry, sir.”
“I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you'll come to the point at once, I'll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.”
“What I would say then, tends to this,” said Edward. “I cannot bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself an honourable path in life? For any term you please to name—say for five years if you will—I will pledge myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without your fall concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expira
tion of the term we agree upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is revived by you, let it never be renewed between us.”
“My dear Ned,” returned his father, laying down the newspaper at which he had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in the window-seat, “I believe you know how very much I dislike what are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our condition. But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned— altogether upon a mistake—I will conquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut the door.”
Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his pocket, and paring his nails, continued:
“You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal—had nothing to boast of in that respect.”
“Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,” said Edward.
“Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing—I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages—he wished to marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned. I was a younger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort—quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone—how old are you? I always forget.”
Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 90
