by J. R. Rain
"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."
"Poor Henry," said Emma.
"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again—it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure."
"Say no more—say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did."
"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."
There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.
Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?
He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love.
It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match.
"Henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me, I have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir Arthur Onslow."
"Indeed, father!"
"Yes; I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady."
"In the character of a suitor?"
"Yes," replied the father, "certainly; it's high time you were settled."
"Indeed, I would rather not go, father; I have no intention of marrying just yet. I do not desire to do so."
This was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son, and which his imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened brow he said,—
"It is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience; but when I do so, I expect that you will obey me."
"But, father, this matter affects me for my whole life."
"That is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it."
"But it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair, father, since it may render me miserable."
"You shall have a voice."
"Then I say no to the whole regulation," said Henry, decisively.
"If you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you had better consider over what you have said. Forget it, and come with me."
"I cannot."
"You will not?"
"No, father; I cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up upon that matter."
"And so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave the house, and seek your own living, and you are a beggar."
"I should prefer being such," said Henry, "than to marry any young lady, and be unable to love her."
"That is not required."
"No! I am astonished! Not necessary to love the woman you marry!"
"Not at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; and it is all that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will beget love, and love in one begets love in the other."
"I will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a better judge than I; you have had more experience."
"I have."
"And it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this I can speak—my own resolve—that I will not marry the lady in question."
The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very good reasons for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; and hence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved.
To have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing except an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon his (the son's) obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the image that was there indelibly engraven.
"You will not marry her whom I have chosen for your bride?"
"I cannot."
"Do not talk to me of can and can't, when I speak of will and wont. It Is useless to disguise the fact. You have your free will in the matter. I shall take no answer but yes or no."
"Then, no, father."
"Good, sir; and now we are strangers."
With that Mr. Bradley turned abruptly from his son, and left him to himself.
It was the first time they had any words or difference together, and it was sudden and soon terminated.
Henry Bradley was indignant at what had happened; he did not think his father would have acted as he had done in this instance; but he was too much interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. Then came the consideration as to what he should do, now that he had arrived at such a climax.
His first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. He could not leave the house without bidding them good-bye. He determined to see his mother, for his father had left the Hall upon a visit.
Mrs. Bradley and Emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and to them he related all that had passed between himself and father.
They besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in the neighbourhood; but he was resolved to quit the place altogether for a time, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do something elsewhere.
Upon this, they got together all the money and such jewels as they could spare, which in all amounted to a considerable sum; then taking an affectionate leave of his mother and sister, Henry left the Hall—not before he had taken a long and affectionate farewell of one other who lived within those walls.
This was no other than the raven-eyed maiden who sat by the fire side, and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. She was his love—she, a poor cousin. For her sake he had braved all his father's anger, and attempted to seek his fortune abroad.
This done, he quietly left the Hall, without giving any one any intimation of where he was going.
Old Mr. Bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highly incensed at what he deemed his obstinacy; and he thought the threat hanging over him would have had a good effect; but he was amazed when he discovered that Henry had indeed left the Hall, and he knew not whither.
For some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, he must return, but, alas! he came not, and this was the second anniversary of that melancholy day, which no one more repented of and grieved for, than did poor Mr. Bradley.
"Surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is," he said; "he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid."
"No, no," said Mrs. Bradley; "it is, I fear, because he has not written, that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest he should cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we should hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided exertions."
"Well, well," said Mr. Bradley, "I can say no more; if I was hasty, so was he; but it is passed. I would forgive all the past, if I could but see him once again—once again!"
"How the wind howls," added the aged man; "and it's getting worse and worse."
"Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style," said one of the servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes.
"It will be a heavy fall before morning," said one of the men.
"Yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer than it has been when it is all down."
"So it will—so it will."
At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into a dreadful uproar from their kennels.
"Go, Robert," said Mr. Bradley, "and see who it is that knocks such a night as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it."
The man went out, and shortly returned, saying,—
"So please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, and desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can be found to guide him to the nearest
inn."
"Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more before the fire."
The stranger entered, and said,—"I have missed my way, and the snow comes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that I fear, by myself, I should fall into some drift, and perish before morning."
"Do not speak of it, sir," said Mr. Bradley; "such a night as this is a sufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me to grant it most willingly."
"Thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable."
"Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm."
The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskers and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout man.
"Have you travelled far?"
"I have, sir."
"You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?"
"I do, sir."
There was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself much; but Mr. Bradley continued,—
"Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have."
"Yes; I have not been in this country more than six days."
"Indeed; shall we have peace think you?"
"I do so, and I hope it may be so, for the sake of many who desire to return to their native land, and to those they love best."
Mr. Bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present, and the stranger looked from one to another, with a hasty glance, and then turned his gaze upon the fire.
"May I ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army—any relative?"
"Alas! I have—perhaps, I ought to say I had a son. I know not, however, where he is gone."
"Oh! a runaway; I see."
"Oh, no; he left because there were some family differences, and now, I would, that he were once more here."
"Oh!" said the stranger, softly, "differences and mistakes will happen now and then, when least desired."
At this moment, an old hound who had lain beside Ellen Mowbray, she who wore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in sound that was noticed in the stranger's voice. He got up and slowly walked up to him, and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushed at him with a cry of joy, and began to lick and caress him in the most extravagant manner. This was followed by a cry of joy in all present.
"It is Henry!" exclaimed Ellen Mowbray, rising and rushing into his arms.
It was Henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well as the large beard he wore to disguise himself.
The meeting was a happy one; there was not a more joyful house than that within many miles around. Henry was restored to the arms of those who loved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and his cousin Ellen.
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Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutes to twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loud knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo within its walls.
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CHAPTER XXXII.
THE THOUSAND POUNDS.—THE STRANGER'S PRECAUTIONS.
Varney moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood, with his unearthly looking eyes rivetted upon the door of the apartment.
In a few moments one of his servants came, and said—
"Sir, a person is here, who says he wants to see you. He desired me to say, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when the tide of life was ebbing fast."
"Yes! yes!" gasped Varney; "admit him, I know him! Bring him here? It is—an—old friend—of mine."
He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door through which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadful moment must be connected with him whom Sir Francisexpected—dreaded—and yet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches—a slow and a solemn footstep—it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and then the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. He is enveloped in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon his heels as he walks into the room.
Varney rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments they stood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room, and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them from conversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. It seemed as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the conversation, first.
And yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that stranger which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling so much alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of life; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, and as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had left deep traces of its progress. The only thing positively bad about his countenance, was to be found in his eyes. There there was a most ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicions look, as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep laid scheme, which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind.
Finding, probably, that Varney would not speak first, he let his cloak fall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said,
"I presume I was expected?"
"You were," said Varney. "It is the day, and it is the hour."
"You are right. I like to see you so mindful. You don't improve in looks since—"
"Hush—hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadful allusion to the past! There needs nothing to remind me of it; and your presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of that fearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to human understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that."
"It is well," said the stranger; "as you please. Let our interview be brief. You know my errand?"
"I do. So fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readily forgotten."
"Oh, you are too ingenious—too full of well laid schemes, and to apt and ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, the conditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly?"
"Because," said Varney—and he trembled as he spoke—"because each lineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the only scene in life that made me shudder, and which I cannot think of, even with the indifference of contempt. I see it all before my mind's eye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even to dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of this annual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; it sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me, from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, I can emerge."
"You have been among the dead?" said the stranger.
"I have."