I have confessed that Mr. Stephen Cornington, although one of my heroes, was not constitutionally brave; but this involuntary weakness, if it may be called one, never displayed itself to the fair sex. Towards them he was ever brave, almost to excess; and he now started to his feet with an aspect almost as furious as that which on the preceding day he had exhibited to Minny, during their confidential interview in the lane.
In reply to this unexpected inquiry as to what was the matter with him, he struck his forehead, with great apparent fury, with his clenched fist, and exclaimed:
“The matter is, loveliest, but most cruel of created beings, that you must cither keep the promise you have made me, and be mine, or prepare yourself to see me fall at your feet a corpse! I will not, for I cannot live without you!”
These words would have served his purpose better had they been uttered with more of tenderness, and less of fury; but the beautiful Emily, though most exceedingly silly, was by her nature considerably braver than her vehement lover, and instead of being alarmed by his violence, she felt not a little disposed to laugh at it. His beauty, too, was considerably impaired by his contortions, so that he really did not give himself a fair chance of recovering the place in her fluctuating affections which absence had lost, and the presence of his rival regained.
“Upon my word, it is lucky for you, Mr. Cornington,” said she, “that our temple is so beautifully sheltered, for I am quite certain that anybody in the world who saw you now would think you were mad. And you may take my word for it, Mr. Stephen, that young ladies do not like madmen.”
“But have you not promised to be my wife — and did we not seal the promise with a heavenly kiss by moonlight?” was his reply. And again he approached, and attempted to take her hand.
“Please to let me alone, Mr. Stephen Cornington,” she replied. “You look better by moonlight than you do by daylight, I can tell you, or you never would have got me to listen to your love-making at all. And I only did it for a frolic, as it was, for I was engaged to be married before, and I daresay you knew that as well as I did, for everybody knows it; I did not think you were in earnest. How could I? It was all stuff and nonsense, you know, so pray do not let us talk any more about it.”
Mr. Stephen Cornington had as completely made up his mind to believe that the magnificent fortune of Miss Steyton was in his grasp, as that she had permitted her lips to be audaciously pressed by his, and the terrible disappointment which now seemed to threaten him, was really as unexpected as it was dreadful.
For a short moment the colour forsook his cheeks, and he stood trembling almost convulsively before her, and for that short moment she was very nearly frightened, because as she afterwards told Minny, he really looked horrid; but she speedily recovered herself, and felt considerably more inclined to laugh, than either to pity or fear him.
But she little guessed, poor child, the really desperate condition of the frowning young giant who stood before her.
He was already as deeply in debt to all the tailors and bootmakers of Hertford, as his fear of discovery would permit him to go, for the ready-money largesses of his doting grandfather were far from being sufficient for his current ready-money expenses, and not a single shilling that he received from him was spent in the manner in which that most confiding of grandfathers supposed.
In one respect, indeed, our handsome Barbadian was very unlucky; for, whereas Sir Charles Otterborne, who rarely suffered a day to pass without challenging him to a match at billiards, lost constantly and betted high, but with no other payment than a very punctually-entered memorandum, in a book kept expressly for the purpose, the bets, as constantly lost to an accomplished marker at Hertford, were paid, perforce, with unerring punctuality.
In short, the young man was about equally destitute and desperate, and being, moreover, endowed as largely with brutality, as sparingly with courage, his rage and disappointment, together with the certainty of Minny’s co-operating evidence, suggested to the young villain the idea of placing her in such an equivocal position as would both avenge the scornful, quizzing sort of smile that he read in the thoughtless girl’s eye, and secure to him the immediate possession of her hand, with nearly as much certainty as he could wish.
“You know I adore you!” he exclaimed, suddenly throwing his arms around her; “you know I cannot live without you!”
“Let me alone then, Mr. Stephen, if you please,” said Emily, passionately, but evidently with more anger than terror. “You really ought to be ashamed of yourself; you know I told you from the very first that I was engaged to somebody else, and so I am. But if I was not, I am quite sure now that I would never engage myself to you, unless it was by way of a joke, on purpose to laugh at you afterwards — I don’t like your ways at all! Let me go, I tell you!”
This was uttered both passionately and rapidly, and the young man, while she continued to speak, looked stedfastly at her; but though he relaxed the rude violence of the grasp in which he held her, he did not withdraw the arm that encircled her waist. He seemed keenly watching her, as if determined to discover her real feelings and her real purposes.
But the result of this examination did not appear to inspire him with any confidence in her returning love, or even with any hope of such patient indulgence as might make him look forward to the renewal of her tender feelings for him in future; for, upon her repeating her remonstrance in a still more angry tone, he only replied, “No! I will not release you! No power on earth shall make me give you up! You are mine; mine to your dying day!”
The brutal vehemence with which he uttered these words made the now really terrified girl begin very seriously and decidedly to fear that they were intended as a dreadful threat, and after making another violent but vain effort to extricate herself from his clutches, she remained perfectly still for a moment, as if to collect her strength, and then uttered a succession of screams, which might almost have sufficed to reach the house, so shrill and so loud were they in their excessive terror.
But Mr. Stephen Cornington calculated the distance too accurately to be at all alarmed on that account, and the strength of the unfortunate Emily was failing her fast, when a hasty step was heard approaching, and nearly in the same instant the stalwart shoulders of the magnificent Stephen Cornington were saluted by a tolerably heavy blow from the butt end of a fowling-piece.
The first result of this was that the arm of the brutal Cornington relaxed its hold; and the next, that the fainting form of the beautiful Emily fell to the ground.
The spirited assailant of the villainous Stephen was a man as young as himself, but very greatly his inferior in size and strength, for it was the light and active figure of William Price that the cowardly culprit recognised, as he turned to see from whence the blow he had received proceeded.
“What business have you to interrupt the conversation of this young lady and myself?” cried Stephen, sulkily, and evidently endeavouring to conceal his alarm under a bullying aspect.
“Take yourself off, you villain!” cried the young man, whose opportune arrival had put a stop to what might have been a very frightful tragedy. “Leave this building instantly, or I will lodge the contents of my gun in your face. It may not be heavy enough to kill you, Master Cornington, but it will do to maul your pretty face a little.”
“Yes, Master Price, I shall take myself off, not because you desire it, but because it suits my own convenience. But mind my words, young parson, for if you do not, it may be the worse for you. You have caught me kissing a pretty girl. She chooses to make a fuss about it, but that’s our affair, and not yours; and if you dare open your lips to tell anybody, man, woman, or child, of what you have seen this day, you may reckon that your canting life will not be a very long one.”
“Threatened men live long,” replied William Price, gently raising poor Emily, who was as pale as death, and seating her on the sofa. “If I saw any advantage in relating your brutal insolence to everyone I met,” he added, “I should most certainly do it, without a
sking your permission; but I rather suppose that this young lady will consider you too much beneath her to choose to have your name ever mentioned at all in conjunction with hers, so it is likely that you will escape on this occasion the execration you deserve. But take yourself off, if you please, and that without a moment’s delay, or I’ll shoot you! When Mr. Steyton gave me leave to shoot the rabbits here, he did not say a word against my shooting any other sort of vermin that I might happen to find upon the premises.”
The delighted William Price (who certainly felt happier at that moment than he had ever done in his life, for the beautiful Emily was actually resting her drooping head upon his arm as he stood beside her,) looked as triumphantly happy as he felt; and, moreover, he looked very handsome too. This was altogether more than the peppery West Indian could bear, and he retorted with a vehemence of voice, look, and gesture, that was rather appalling — taking care, however, to retreat backwards towards the door as he spoke —
“You threaten my life, you murdering heretic, do you?
That’s your way of doing business, is it? Mine is different, but it may answer better in the end. I have changed my mind, Sir, about keeping this matter secret; I now think it will suit me better to have it known, and known it shall be, I promise you, do what you may to prevent it. That girl is my wife, at least in the way that many good marriages are made. I did not meet her here for nothing, and if you are fool enough to believe I did, her father, for one, will understand the matter better, and will be glad enough, I take it, to agree to any terms I may choose to propose, to make our marriage of the sort that people call respectable. So I wish you good morning, young man, and give you my permission to publish all you have seen and all you may guess.”
And with these words he left the temple sacred to friendship, and was soon concealed by the thick underwood, his path being very evidently chosen where it would be most difficult to trace him.
CHAPTER XL.
THE untamed spirit and fine health of the beautiful Emily made her more able than most young ladies would have been, to shake off the weakness which had overpowered her in a moment of extreme terror; and she heard and understood every word of Mr. Stephen’s parting address as distinctly as her young champion did.
The mind of Emily Steyton was not a very refined mind; and her folly in most things, and especially in her love affairs, was as great as it was well possible for ignorance and vanity to make it; she had, however, both sense and feeling enough to estimate pretty nearly at its worth the atrocious villainy of the desperate young bully who had left the room.
“Do you believe him — do you believe him, William Price?” cried the poor girl, bursting into an agony of tears. “Oh! what will become of me! Everybody will believe him! Everybody must believe him; for who will suppose it possible that any human being could be wicked enough to say such things if they were not true?”
Even if Mr. William Price had not been violently in love with her, which he most assuredly was, he could not have witnessed the real agony expressed in that fair young face unmoved. Every feature was working, and her clenched hands were raised towards heaven in an attitude that might have been studied by an artist as an expression of despair.
Mr. William Price was not what is called a clever young man, but he was handsome, gentleman-like, and kind-hearted; and, moreover, had enough both of quickness and good sense, to perceive that he, of all mankind, was the most capable at that moment of administering consolation to the outraged Emily.
“Do not make yourself so miserable, dearest, dearest Miss Steyton! for anything that contemptible animal can say!” he exclaimed, dropping on his knees before her; “for have you not a witness in me, who would not only willingly sacrifice his life to serve you, but who can, upon his own knowledge, give the lie to every syllable the villain uttered which could wound your feelings?”
“Then YOU do not believe what he said about me — that — that I ought to be his wife?” replied Emily, her whole countenance relaxing from the terrible expression of despair, and gradually assuming, as she listened to him, such a beautiful look of hope and gratitude as might have touched to the quick a heart less susceptible than that of Mr. William Price.
“Believe him, Miss Steyton?” he exclaimed. “How is it possible I could believe him, after witnessing what I did witness?”
“Good gracious! that is quite true, to be sure! Then you, at least, William Price, will do me justice,” said she.
“And so will every one else, my dear, dear Miss Steyton!” he ardently replied. “You and I, in our hearts,” he added, “may believe from what we have seen and heard, that he is really villain enough to have been capable of any crime, but we know, too, by the blessing of God..”
“That by the blessing of God YOU came to save me!” she cried, interrupting him with tears in her eyes, yet with happiness and gratitude beaming in every feature.
“And if I were to die to-morrow, I feel that I have lived long enough to have enjoyed a happiness greater than all that the longest and most prosperous life could bestow!” he replied, with such deep sincerity of feeling, that, man as he was, his handsome blue eyes were swimming in tears.
“Good gracious, Mr. William Price!” said Emily, with very perfect naivete; “I am sure I never thought that you eared so much about me, before,”
“Not care for you!” replied the enamoured youth, with irrepressible, energy, “not care for you? Oh! if I have never dared to show you all I have dared to feel, do me, at least, the justice to believe, that it has been a sense of my own inferiority that has kept me silent, and not because I was either blind or indifferent, to charms greater than I ever did, or ever can behold in woman!”
She looked very earnestly in his face as he spoke, as if to be quite sure that she was not mistaken, and then said, —
“Good gracious, Mr. William Price! I can hardly believe my cars. Are you really in love with me? Only fancy that I. should never have found it out!”
“Oh! Emily, too, too lovely Emily! I must and would have died before I confessed my audacity, had it not been for the extraordinary events of the last hour.”
“Good gracious!” returned Emily, gratefully holding out her hand to him; “I am sure I am very glad you did not die, William Price! What would have become of me if you had? I am sure I must have died too, for it would have been the only thing that was left for me to do. But you must promise me one thing, William Price, you must, indeed, and if you won’t promise it, I really don’t think that I will ever speak to you again... You must promise me, this very minute, that you will not fight that brutal monster, Cornington. Will you promise me?”
The young man was silent.
“Promise me, I tell you,” she repeated, passionately.
“How can I promise you?” he replied. “Did I not strike him? You saw me strike him, Miss Steyton, and it is impossible to refuse a man’s challenge after that, you know.”
“But Stephen Cornington is not a man, but a monster,” replied Emily “Besides if I tell you that I won’t let you do it, you can’t, you know, after what you have just said to me, do anything that I tell you not to do. Well, to be sure, this is a morning of adventures! To fancy my finding out that you are in love with me, just in time to prevent your making a fool of yourself by fighting that monster.”
“My dearest Miss Steyton!” he replied, “all that I can do to prove the obedience which you so kindly require, I promise to perform. I promise, dear, lovely Emily not to seek a meeting with Cornington, if he does not seek it with me, and I very strongly suspect that this will be quite sufficient to render it certain that there will be no hostile meeting between ns at all — for if ever I saw a coward in my life, I saw one when that audacious liar crept away yonder among the bushes. But having given this promise, too, too lovely Emily! may I not be rewarded for it by hearing you say that you never did really like that audacious and most presuming puppy? I have, in common with all the neighbourhood, been made, of course, to understand that you are enga
ged to be married to the happy, thrice happy, ten thousand times happy Herbert Otterborne. But he is a gentleman who might think himself justified, if any man living might do so, in seeking the honour of your hand. But there are people in our gossiping neighbourhood, who have not scrupled to assert that you have slighted Herbert Otterborne in order to encourage the presumptuous hopes of this audacious ruffian. Tell me too, too lovely Emily, only tell me that this report is false, and I feel as if I could lie down and die in peace.”
“Good gracious, William Price, I don’t see why you should talk about dying at all!” replied Emily, looking at him very kindly, “but if you will sit down quietly for a few minutes, I will not only tell you what you have asked, but a great deal more too. I am sure you have proved yourself to be a true friend, if ever any one did, and I don’t see why I should not ask your advice, just as if you were my own brother, for I am sure I want advice if ever girl did.”
“To serve you, to help you, to advise you, dear, dear Miss Steyton, ought to be happiness enough for any one. But I will not be such a hypocrite as to say that I can ever feel towards you like a brother towards a sister!” he replied, with great gentleness, but great solemnity.
“Well, well, William Price, never mind about that just now. If you can’t you can’t, you know, so there is no good in talking about it,” she replied; “besides, as I told you before,” she added, “you have proved yourself to be a true friend, as much as any brother could do, and therefore I shall tell you everything just the same — It is quite true what you were saying about Herbert Otterborne. I did like him, or at least I fancied I liked him, very much indeed, and everything was settled, as I dare say you heard, for our marriage, as soon as ever the lawyers could have got all their work about the money done — And dear Louisa, you know, was to have been one of my bridesmaids, and I am sure I bad no thought of changing my mind at all.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 411