U N I VERS ITY Of ILLINOIS PRESENTED bY THE ESTATE OF DR. AND MRS. S. M. WYLIE 1950 &ZS L39 eu * V \ It I I * , . / > V k. t J 3 I I * - ' .1 m ■ BuKt gf "jEJR 7" ,rm - '• r %.' < t ‘"' Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. I EUGENE ARAM ANI) MADELINE.—p. 257 t fiotti Upttcm lEtutton EUGENE ARAM % ®itle BY SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART. “Our acts our angels are, or good or ill. Our fatal Shadows that walk by os still. .All things that are Made for our general uses, are a* war — Ev’n we among ourselves 1 ” John Fletcher, upon An Honest Man's Fortune COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 187 5 . * / s ^ * Mr4* R, K. J SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bakt. etc., etc. It has long been my ambition to add some humble tribute to the offerings laid upon the shrine of your genius. At each succeeding book that I have given to the world, I have paused to consider if it were worthy to be inscribed with your great name, and at each I have played the procrastinator, and hoped for that morrow of better desert which never came. But N defluat amnis, the time runs on —and I am tired of waiting for the ford which the tides refuse. I seize, \ then, the present opportunity, not as the best, but as the only one I can be sure of commanding, to express that affectionate admiration with which you have inspired me in common with all your contemporaries, and which a French writer has not ungracefully termed “ the happiest prerogative of genius.” As a Poet, and as a Novelist, your fame has attained to that height in which praise has become superfluous ; A* ( v) 71 DEDICATION. out in tlie character of the writer there seems to me a yet higher claim to veneration than in that of the writings. The example your genius sets us, who can emulate? — the example your moderation bequeaths to us, who shall forget? That nature must indeed be gentle which has conciliated the envy that pursues intellectual greatness, and left without an enemy a man who has no living equal in renown. You have gone for a while from the scenes you have immortalized, to regain, we trust, the health which has been impaired by your noble labors, or by the manly struggles with adverse fortunes, which have not found the frame as indomitable as the mind. Take with you the prayers of all whom your genius, with playful art, has soothed in sickness — or has strengthened, with generous precepts, against the calamities of life.* “Navis quoe tibi creditum Debes Virgilium- Reddas incolumem! ” -f- You, I feel assured, will not deem it presumptuous in one, who, to that bright and undying flame which now streams from the grey hills of Scotland, — the * Written at the time of Sir W. Scott’s visit to Italy — after the great blow to his health and fortunes. f 0 ship, thou owest to us Virgil — restore in safety him whom we entrusted to thee l DEDICATION. V1J last halo with which you have crowned her literary glories, — has turned from his first childhood with a deep and unrelaxing devotion; you, I feel assured, will not deem it presumptuous in him to inscribe an idle work with your illustrious name: — a wsrk which, however worthless in itself, assumes some¬ thing of value in his eyes when thus rendered a tribute of respect to you. The Author of “ Eugene Aram.” London, December 22, 1881 . : ’■ t.*V ^ • PEEFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1831. Since, dear Deader, I last addressed thee, in Paul Clifford, nearly two years have elapsed, and some¬ what more than four years since, in Pelham, our familiarity first began. The Tale which I now sub¬ mit to thee differs equally from the last as from the first of those works; for, of the two evils, perhaps it is even better to disappoint thee in a new style, than to weary thee with an old. With the facts on which the tale of Eugene Aram is founded, I have exer¬ cised the common and fair license of writers of fiction: it is chiefly the more homely parts of the real story that have been altered; and for what I have added, and what omitted, I have the sanction of all established authorities, who have taken greater liberties with characters yet more recent, and far more protected by historical recollections. The book was, for the most part, written in the early part of the year, when the interest which the task created in the Author was undivided by other subjects of excitement, and he had leisure enough not only to (ix) X PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1831. oe neseio quid meditans nugarum , but also to bo totus in illis!* I originally intended to adapt the story of Eugene Aram to tlie Stage. That design was abandoned when more than half completed; but I wished to impart to this Romance something of the nature of Tragedy,— something of the more transferable of its qualities. Enough of this: it is not the Author’s wishes, but the Author’s books that the world will judge him by. Perhaps, then (with this I conclude), in the dull monotony of public affairs, and in these long winter evenings, when we gather round the fire, prepared for the gossip’s tale, willing to indulge the fear, and to believe the legend, perhaps, dear Reader, thou mayest turn, not reluctantly, even to these pages, for at least a newer excitement than the Cholera, or for a momentary relief Rom the everlasting discussions on “ the Bill.” f London, December 22, 1831. * Not only to be meditating I know not what of trifles, but also to be wholly engaged on them. j- The year of the Reform BilL PEEFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. The strange history of Eugene Aram had excited my interest and wonder long before the present work was composed or conceived. It so happened, that during Aram’s residence at Lynn, his reputation for learning had attracted the notice of my grandfather •—a country gentleman living in the same county, and of more intelligence and accomplishments than, at that day, usually characterized his class. Aram frequently visited at Hey don (my grandfather’s house), and gave lessons, probably in no very elevated branches of erudition, to the younger members of the family. This I chanced to hear when I was on a visit in Norfolk, some two years before this novel was published, and it tended to increase the interest with which I had previously speculated on the pheno¬ mena of a trial which, take it altogether, is perhaps the most remarkable in the register of English crime. I endeavored to collect such anecdotes of Aram’s life ( xi ) PREFACE TO THE _ • • Xll and manners as tradition and hearsay still kept afloat. These anecdotes were so far uniform that they all concurred in representing him as a person who, till the detection of the crime for which he was sen¬ tenced, had appeared of the mildest character and the most unexceptionable morals. An invariable gentleness and patience in his mode of tuition—* qualities then very uncommon at schools—had made him so beloved by his pupils at Lynn, that, in after life, there was scarcely one of them who did not per¬ sist in the belief of his innocence. His personal and moral peculiarities, as described in these pages, are such as were related to me by persons who had heard him described by his contemporaries: the calm be¬ nign countenance—the delicate health—the thought¬ ful stoop — the noiseless step — the custom, not un¬ common with scholars and absent men, of muttering to himself—a singular eloquence in conversation, when once roused from silence — an active tender¬ ness and charity to the poor, with whom he was always ready to share his own scanty means — an apparent disregard to money, except when employed in the purchase of books — an utter indifference to the ambition usually accompanying self-taught talent, whether to better the condition or to increase the repute; — these, and other traits of the character portrayed in the novel, are, as far as I can rely on my information, faithful to the features of the original. That a man thus described — so benevolent that he would rob his own necessities to administer to EDITION OF 1 840. Xlll those of another, so humane that he would turn aside from the worm in his path—should have been guilty of the foulest of human crimes, viz.—murder for the sake of gain; that a crime thus committed should have been so episodical and apart from the rest of his career, that, however it might rankle in his con¬ science, it should never have hardened his nature; that, through a life of some duration, none of the errors, none of the vices, which would seem essen¬ tially to belong to a character capable of a deed so black from motives apparently so sordid,* should have been discovered or suspected;—all this presents an anomaly in human conduct so rare and surprising, that it would be difficult to find any subject more adapted for that metaphysical speculation and ana¬ lysis, in order to indulge which, Fiction, whether in the drama, or the higher class of romance, seeks its materials and grounds its lessons in the chronicles of passion and crime. The guilt of Eugene Aram is not that of a vulgar ruffian: it leads to views and considerations vitally and wholly distinct from those with which profligate knavery and brutal cruelty revolt and displease us in the literature of Newgate and the Hulks. His crime does, in fact, belong to those startling para- * For I put wholly out of question the excuse of jealousy, as unsupported by any evidence — never hinted at by Aram himself (at least on any sufficient authority) — and at variance with the only fact which the trial establishes, viz., that the robbery was the crime planned, and the cause, whether accidental or otherwise, of the murder. 1 — B xiv PREFACE TO THE doxes which the poetry of all countries, and espe¬ cially of our own, has always delighted to contem¬ plate and examine. Whenever crime appears the aberration and monstrous product of a great intel¬ lect, or of a nature ordinarily virtuous, it becomes not only the subject for genius, which deals with passions, to describe; but a problem for philosophy, which deals with actions, to investigate and solve:— hence, the Macbeths and Bichards, the Iagos and Othellos. My regret, therefore, is not that I chose a subject unworthy of elevated fiction, but that such a subject did not occur to some one capable of treat¬ ing it as it deserves; and I never felt this more strongly than when the late Mr. Godwin (in con¬ versing with me after the publication of this romance) observed that “ he had always thought the story of Eugene Aram peculiarly adapted for fiction, and that he had more than once entertained the notion of making it the foundation of a novel.” I can well conceive what depth and power that gloomy record would have taken from the dark and inquiring genius of the author of Caleb Williams. In fact, the crime and trial of Eugene Aram arrested the attention and engaged the conjectures of many of the most eminent men of his own time. His guilt or innocence was the matter of strong contest; and so keen and so enduring was the sensation created by an event thu3 completely distinct from the ordinary annals of human crime, that even History turned aside from the so¬ porous narrative of the struggles of parties, and the / EDITION OP 1840. XT feuds of kings, to commemorate the learning and the guilt of the humble school-master of Lynn. Did I want any other answer to the animadversions of commonplace criticism, it might be sufficient to say that what the historian relates, the novelist has little right to disdain. Before entering on this romance, I examined with some care the probabilities of Arams guilt; for I need scarcely perhaps observe, that the legal evidence against him is extremely deficient—furnished almost entirely by one (Houseman) confessedly an accom¬ plice of the crime, and a partner in the booty; and that, in the present day, a man tried upon evidence so scanty and suspicious would unquestionably escape conviction. Nevertheless, I must frankly own that the moral evidence appeared to me more convincing than the legal; and, though not without some doubt, which, in common with many, I still entertain of the real facts of the murder,* I adopted that view which, at all events, was the best suited to the higher pur¬ poses of fiction. On the whole, I still think that if the crime were committed by Aram, the motive was not very far removed from one which led recently to a remarkable murder in Spain. A priest in that country, wholly absorbed in learned pursuits, and apparently of spotless life, confessed that, being de¬ barred by extreme poverty from prosecuting a study which had become the sole passion of his existence, he had reasoned himself into the belief that it would * See Preface to the Fresent Edition, p. xxiv svi PREFACE TO TII E be admissible to rob a very dissolute, worthless man, if he applied the money so obtained to the acquisi¬ tion of a knowledge which he could not otherwise acquire, and which he held to be profitable to man¬ kind. Unfortunately, the dissolute rich man was not willing to be robbed for so excellent a purpose: he was armed and he resisted — a struggle ensued, and the crime of homicide was added to that of robbery. The robbery was premeditated: the murder was ac¬ cidental. But he who would accept some similar interpretation of Aram’s crime, must, to comprehend fully the lessons which belong to so terrible a picture of frenzy and guilt, consider also the physical cir¬ cumstances and condition of the criminal at the time: severe illness — intense labor of the brain—poverty bordering upon famine—the mind preternaturally at work, devising schemes and excuses to arrive at the means for ends ardently desired. And all ibis duly considered, the reader may see the crime bodying itself out from the shades and chimeras of a horrible hallucination — the awful dream of a brief but deli¬ rious and convulsed disease. It is thus only that we can account for the contradiction of one deed at war with a whole life — blasting, indeed, for ever the happiness; but making little revolution in the pur¬ suits and disposition of the character. No one who has examined with care and thoughtfulness the aspects of Life and Nature, but must allow that, in the contemplation of such a spectacle, great and most moral truths must force themselves on the notice and EDITION OF 1840. XVU eink deep into the heart. The entanglements of human reasoning; the influence of circumstance upon deeds; the perversion that may be made, by one self-palter with the Fiend, of elements the most glorious; the secret effect of conscience in frustrating all for which the crime was done — leaving genius without hope, knowledge without fruit — deadening benevolence into mechanism — tainting love itself with terror and suspicion;—such reflections—lead¬ ing, with subtler minds, to many more vast and com¬ plicated theorems in the consideration of our nature, social and individual — arise out of the tragic moral which the story of Eugene Aram (were it but ade¬ quately treated) could not fail to convey. Brussels, August , 1840. B* . ♦ • - PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. If none of my prose works have been so attacked as Eugene Aram, none have so completely triumphed over attack. It is true that, whether from real or affected ignorance of the true morality of fiction, a few critics may still reiterate the old commonplace charges of “selecting heroes from Newgate,’' or “in¬ vesting murderers with interest; ” but the firm hold which the work has established in the opinion of the general public, and the favor it has received in every country where English literature is known, suffice to prove that, whatever its faults, it belongs to that legitimate class of fiction which illustrates life and truth, and only deals with crime as the recognized agency of pity and terror, in the conduct of tragic narrative. All that I would say farther on this score has been said in the general defence of my writings which I put forth two years ago; and I ask the in¬ dulgence of the reader if I repeat myself: — “ Here, unlike the milder guilt of Paul Clifford, the author was not to imply reform to society, nor (xix) XX PREFACE TOfllE open in this world atonement and pardon to tlia criminal. As it would have been wholly in vain to disguise, by mean tamperings with art and truth, the ordinary habits of life and attributes of charac¬ ter, which all record and remembrance ascribed to Eugene Aram, as it would have defeated every end of the moral inculcated by his guilt, to portray in the caricature of the murderer of melodrame, a man immersed in study, of whom it was noted that he turned aside from the worm in his path, so I have allowed to him whatever contrasts with his inexpiable crime have been recorded on sufficient authority. But I have invariably taken care that the crime itself should stand stripped of every sophistry, and hideous to the perpetrator as well as to the-world. Allowing all by which attention to his biography may explain the tremendous paradox of fearful guilt in a man aspiring after knowledge, and not generally inhumane — allowing that the crime came upon him in the partial insanity, produced by the combining circumstances of a brain overwrought by intense study, disturbed by an excited imagination, and the fumes of a momentary disease of the reasoning faculty, consumed by the desire of knowledge, un¬ wholesome and morbid, because coveted as an end, not a means, added to the other physical causes of mental aberration — to be found in loneliness and want verging upon famine; — all these, which a bio¬ grapher may suppose to have conspired to his crime, have never been used by the novelist as excuses for its enormity, nor indeed, lest they should seem aa PRESENT EDITION. XXI excuses, have they ever been clearly presented to the view. The moral consisted in showing more than the mere legal punishment at the close. It was to show how the consciousness of the deed was to ex¬ clude whatever humanity of character preceded and belied it from all active exercise — all social confi¬ dence ; how the knowledge of the bar between the minds of others and his own deprived the criminal of all motive to ambition, and blighted knowledge of all fruit: Miserable in his affections, barren in his intellect — clinging to solitude, yet accursed in it — dreading as a danger the fame he had once coveted—• obscure in spite of learning, hopeless in spite of love, fruitless and joyless in his life, calamitous and shame¬ ful in his end;—surely such is no palliative of crime, no dalliance and toying with the grimness of evil! And surely, to any ordinary comprehension, any candid mind, such is the moral conveyed by the fiction of Eugene Aram." * In point of composition Eugene Aram is, I think, entitled to rank amongst the best of my fictions. It somewhat humiliates me to acknowledge, that neither practice nor study has enabled me to surpass a work written at a very early age, in the skilful construction and patient development of plot; and though I have since sought to call forth higher and more subtle passions, I doubt if I have ever excited the two elementary passions of tragedy, viz., pity and terror, to the same degree. In mere style, too, Eugene Aram, in spite of certain verbal oversights, and de- * A Word to the Public, 1847 PREFACE TO THE Kxii feels in youthful taste (some of which I have endea¬ vored to remove from the present edition), appears to me unexcelled by any of my later writings, at least in what I have always studied as the main essential of style in narrative, viz., its harmony with the subject selected, and the passions to be moved; — while it exceeds them all in the minuteness and fidelity of its descriptions of external nature. This indeed it ought to do, since the study of external nature is made a peculiar attribute of the principal character whose fate colors the narrative. I do not know whether it has been observed that the time occupied by the events of the story is conveyed through the medium of such descriptions. Each description is introduced, not for its own sake, but to serve as a calendar marking the gradual changes of the seasons as they bear on to his doom the guilty worshipper of Nature. And in this conception, and in the care with which it has been followed out, I recognize one of my earliest but most successful at¬ tempts at the subtler principles of narrative art. In this edition I have made one alteration, some¬ what more important than mere verbal correction. On going, with maturer judgment, over all the evi¬ dences on which Aram was condemned, I have con¬ vinced myself, that though an accomplice in the robbery of Clarke, he was free both from the preme¬ ditated design and the actual deed of murder. The crime, indeed, would still rest on his conscience, and insure his punishment, as necessarily incidental to the robbery in which he was an accomplice, with PRESENT EDITION. XX111 jiouseman; but finding my convictions, that in tbe murder itself be bad no share, borne out by tbe opinion of many eminent lawyers, by whom I have beard tbe subject discussed, I have accordingly so shaped bis confession to Walter. Perhaps it will not be without interest to tbe reader, if I append to this preface an authentic spe¬ cimen of Augene Aram's composition, for which I am indebted to the courtesy of a gentleman by whose grandfather it was received, with other papers (espe¬ cially a remarkable “ Outline of a New Lexicon ”) during Aram's confinement in York Prison. The essay I select is, indeed, not without value in itself as a very curious and learned illustration of Popular Antiquities, and it serves also to show not only the comprehensive nature of Aram’s studies, and the inquisitive eagerness of his mind, but also the fact that he was completely self-taught; for in contrast to much philological erudition, and to passages that evince considerable mastery in the higher resources of language, we may occasionally notice those lesser inaccuracies from which the writings of men solely self-educated are rarely free; indeed, Aram himself, in sending to a gentleman an elegy on Sir John Ar- mitage, which shows much but undisciplined power of versification, says, “ I send this elegy, which, in¬ deed, if you had not had the curiosity to desire, I could not have had the assurance to offer, scarce be¬ lieving I, who was hardly taught to read, have any abilities to write.” XX1Y ESSAY, BY EUGENE ARAM. THE MELSUPPER AND SHOUTING THE CHURN. These rural entertainments and usages were for¬ merly more general all over England than they are at present; being become by time, necessity, or avarice, complex, confined, and altered. They are commonly insisted upon by the reapers as customary things, and a part of their due for the toils of the harvest, and complied with by their masters perhaps more through regards of interest, than inclination. For should they refuse them the pleasures of this much expected time, this festal night, the youth especially, of both sexes, would decline serving them for the future, and employ their labors for others, who would promise them the rustic joys of the harvest supper, mirth and music, dance and song. These feats appear to be the relics of Pagan ceremonies, or of Judaism, it is hard to say which, and carry in them more meaning and are of far higher antiquity than is generally apprehended. It is true the subject is more curious than important, and I believe altogether un¬ touched ; and as it seems to be little understood, has been as little adverted to. I do not remember it to have been so much as the subject of a conversation. Let us make then a little excursion into this field, for the same reason men sometimes take a walk. Its traces are discoverable at a very great distance of time from ours, nay, seem as old as a sense of joy for the benefit of plentiful harvests and human gra« ESSAY, BY EUGENE ARAM. XXV titude to the eternal Creator for his munificence to men. We hear it under various names in different counties, and often in the same county; as, melsupper, churn supper, harvest supper, harvest home, feast of in-gathering, &c. And perhaps this feast had been long observed, and by different tribes of people, be¬ fore it became perceptive with the Jews. However, let that be as it will, the custom very lucidly appears trom the following passages of S. S., Exod. xxiii. 16, “And the feast of harvest, the first fruits of thy labors, which thou hast sown in the field.” And its institution as a sacred right is commanded in Levit. xxiii. 39: “ When ye have gathered in the fruit of the land, ye shall keep a feast to the Lord.” The Jews then, as is evident from hence, celebrated the feast of harvest, and that by precept; and though no vestiges of any such feast either are or can be produced before these, yet the oblation of the Pri- mitise, of which this feast was a consequence, is met with prior to this, for we find that, “ Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering to the Lord.” — Gen. iv. 3. Yet this offering of the first fruits, it may well be supposed, was not peculiar to the Jews, either at the time of, or after, its establishment by their legislator ; neither the feast in consequence of it. Many other nations, either in imitation of the Jews, or rather by tradition from their several patriarchs, observed the right of offering their Primitise, and of solemnizing a festival after it, in religious acknowledgment for I. —1 xxvi ESSAY, BY EUGENE ARAM. the blessing of harvest, though that acknowledgment was ignorantly misapplied in being directed to a se¬ condary, not the primary, fountain of this benefit; — namely, to Apollo or the Sun. For Callimachus affirms that these Primitias were sent by the people of every nation to the temple of Apollo in Delos, the most distant that enjoyed the happiness of corn and harvest, even by the Hyper¬ boreans in particular, Hymn to Apol., Oj [xsvtoi xa\a[Ar jv ts xai l spa Spayixa rtpuroi affraxuwv, “ Bring the sacred sheafs, and the mystic offerings.” Herodotus also mentions this annual custom of the Hyperboreans, remarking that those of Delos talk of 'Ispa fv(5s<5sp<-sva sv xaXafxt) irvpuv sg 'Ywtpfiopsuv, u Holy things tied up in sheaf of wheat conveyed from the Hyperboreans.” And the Jews, by the command of their law, offered also a sheaf: “And shall reap the harvest thereof, then ye shall bring a sheaf of the first fruits of the harvest unto the priest.” This is not introduced in proof of any feast ob¬ served by the people who had harvests, but to show the universality of the custom of offering the Primitise, which preceded this feast. But yet it may be looked upon as equivalent to a proof; for as the offering and the feast appear to have been always and intimately connected in countries affording records, so it is more than probable they were connected too in countries which had none, or none that ever survived to our times. An entertainment and gaiety were still the concomitants to these rites, which with the vulgar, ESSAY, BY EUGENE ARAM. xxvit ) one may pretty truly suppose, were esteemed the most acceptable and material part of them, and a great reason of their having subsisted through such a length of ages, when both the populace and many of the learned too, have lost sight of the object to which they had been originally directed. This, among many other ceremonies of the heathen worship, be¬ came disused in some places and retained in others, but still continued declining after the promulgation of the Gospel. In short, there seems great reason to conclude, that this feast, which was once sacred to Apollo, was constantly maintained, when a far less valuable circumstance, i. e., shouting the churn, is observed to this day by the reapers, and from so old an era; for we read of this acclamation, Isa. xvi. 9: 11 For the shouting for thy summer fruits and for thy harvest is fallen;” and again, ver. 10: “And in the vineyards there shall be no singing, their shouting shall be no shouting.” Hence then, or from some of the Phoenician colonies, is our traditionary “ shouting the churn.” But it seems these Orientals shouted both for joy of their harvest of graves, and of corn. We have no quantity of the first to occasion so much joy as does our plenty of the last; and I do not re¬ member to have heard whether their vintages abroad are attended with this custom. Bread or cakes com¬ pose part of the Hebrew offering ( Levit . xxiii. 13), and a cake thrown upon the head of the victim was also part of the Greek offering to Apollo (see Horn. II. a), whose worship was formerly celebrated in Bri- xxviii essay, by eugene aram. tain, where the May-pole yet continues one remain of it. This they adorned with garlands on May-day, to welcome the approach of Apollo, or the sun, to¬ wards the north, and to signify that those flowers were the product of his presence and influence. But, upon the progress of Christianity, as was observed above, Apollo lost his divinity again, and the adora¬ tion of his deity subsided by degrees. Yet so per¬ manent is custom, that this right of the harvest sup¬ per, together with that of the May-pole (of which last see Boss, de Orig. and Frag. Idolatr. 1, 2), have been preserved in Britain; and what had been an¬ ciently offered to the god, the reapers as prudently eat up themselves. At last the use of the meal of the new corn was neglected, and the supper, so far as meal was con¬ cerned, was made indifferently of old or new corn, as was most agreeable to the founder. And here the usage itself accounts for the name of Melsujoper (where mel signifies meal, or else the instrument called with us a Mell, wherewith antiquity reduced their corn to meal in a mortar, which still amounts to the same thing) for provisions of meal, or of corn in furmity, &c., composed by far the greatest part in these elder and country entertainments, perfectly conformable to the simplicity of those times, places, and persons, however meanly they may now be looked upon. And as the harvest was last concluded with several preparations of meal, or brought to be ready for the mell, this term became, in a translated signi- ESSATc, £Y EUGENE ARAM. XXIX fication, to mean the last of other things; as, when a horse comes last in the race, they often say in the north, “he has got the mell All the other names of this country festivity suffi¬ ciently explain themselves, except Churn-supper, and this is entirely different from Melsupper; but they generally happen so near together, that they are frequently confounded. The Churn-supper was always provided when all was shorn, but the Mel- supper after all was got in. And it was called the Churn-supper, because, from immemorial times, it was customary to produce in a churn a great quan¬ tity of cream, and to circulate it by dishfuls to each of the rustic company, to be eaten with bread. And here sometimes very extraordinary execution has been done upon cream. And though this custom has been disused in many places, and agreeably commuted for by ale, yet it survives still, and that about Whitby and Scarborough in the east, and round about Gis- burn, &c., in Craven, in the west. But, perhaps, a century or two more will put an end to it, and both the thing and name shall die. Vicarious ale is now more approved, and the tankard almost everywhere politely preferred to the Churn. The Churn (in our provincial pronunciation Kern) is the Hebrew Kern, np or Keren, from its being circular like most horns: and it is the Latin corona, named so either from radii, resembling horns, as on some very antient coins, or from its encircling the head; so a ring of people is called corona. Also the XXX ESSAY, BY EUGENE ARAM. Celtic Xoren, Keren, or corn, which continues ac¬ cording to its old pronunciation in Cornwall, &c., and our modern word horn is no more than this; the an- tient hard sound of k in corn being softened into the aspirate h, as has been done in numberless in¬ stances. The Irish Celtse also call a round stone, clogh crene, where the variation is merely dialectic. Hence, too, our crane-berries, i. e. round berries, from this Celtic adjective, crene , round. N. B. The quotations from Scripture in Aram’s original MS, were both in the Hebrew character and their valr ,e in English sounds. / EUGENE ARAM. BOOK FIKST. T«. $£v, sTa yap rb Stocow roifjdv tjv ipol rridtj. OIA: Trr: —316-321. Tbi. Alas! alas! how sad it is to be wise, when it is not advantageous tc him who is so. ***** Oi. But what is the cause that you come hither sad. Tei. Dismiss me to my house. For both you will bear your fat* easier, and I mine, if you take my advice. - -•' • \ EUGENE ARAM. BOOK FIRST. CHAPTER I. THE TILLAGE. — ITS INHABITANTS. — AN OLD MANOR- HOUSE : AND AN ENGLISH FAMILY ; THEIR HISTORY, INVOLVING A MYSTERIOUS EVENT. “ Protected by the divinity they adored, supported by the earth which they cultivated, and at peace with themselves, they enjoyed the sweets of life, without dreading or desiring dissolution.” — Numa Pompilius. In the county of-there is a sequestered hamlet, which I have often sought occasion to pass, and which I have never left without a certain reluctance and regret. It is not only (though this was a remarkable spell over my imagination) that it is the sanctuary as it were of a singular and fearful interest; but the scene itself is one which re¬ quires no legend to arrest the traveller’s attention. I know not in any part of the world which it has been my lot to visit, a landscape so picturesque, as that which on every side of the village I speak of, you may survey. The (9i r 10 EUGENE ARAM. hamlet to which I shall here give the name of Grassdale, is situated in a valley which for the length of about a mile winds among gardens and orchards, laden with fruit, be¬ tween two chains of gentle and fertile hills. Here singly or in pairs, are scattered cottages, which bespeak a comfort and a rural luxury, less often than oui poets have described the characteristics of the English peasantry. It has been observed, and there is a world of homely, ay, and of legislative knowledge in the observa¬ tion, that wherever you see a flower in a cottage garden, or a bird-cage at the window, you may feel sure that the cottagers are better and wiser than their neighbors ; and such humble tokens of attention to something beyond the sterile labor of life, were (we must now revert to the past) to be remarked in almost every one of the lowly abodes at Grassdale. The jasmine here, there the vine clustered over the threshold, not so wildly as to testify negligence; but rather to sweeten the air than to exclude it from the inmates. Each of the cottages possessed at its rear its plot of ground, apportioned to the more useful and nutri¬ tious product of nature ; while the greater part of them fenced also from the unfrequented road a little spot for the lupin, the sweet pea, or the many tribes of the Eng¬ lish rose. And it is not unworthy of remark, that the bees came in greater clusters to Grassdale than to any other part of that rich and cultivated district. A small piece of waste land, which was intersected by a brook, fringed with ozier and dwarf and fantastic pollards, afforded pasture (or a few cows, and the only carrier’s solitary horse. The EUGENE ARAM. 11 stream itself was of no ignoble repute among the gentle craft of the Angle, the brotherhood whom our associations defend in the spite of our mercy; and this repute drew wel¬ come and periodical itinerants to the village, who furnish¬ ed it with its scanty news of the great world without, and maintained in a decorous custom the little and single hos¬ telry of the place. Not that Peter Dealtry, the proprietor of the ‘ Spotted Dog,’ was altogether contented to subsist upon the gains of his hospitable profession: he joined thereto the light cares of a small farm, held under a wealthy and an easy landlord; and being moreover honored with the dignity of clerk to the parish, he was deemed by his neighbors a person of no small accomplishment, and no insignificant distinction. He was a little, dry, thin man, of a turn rather ‘Sentimental than jocose ; a memory well stored with fag-ends of psalms, and hymns which being less familiar than the psalms to the ears of the villagers, were more than suspected to be his own composition ; often gave a poetic and semi-religous coloring to his conversation, which accorded rather with his dignity in the church, than his post at the Spotted Dog. Yet he disliked not his joke, though it was subtle and delicate of nature; nor did he disdain to bear companionship over his own liquor, with guests less gifted and refined. In the centre of the village you chanced upon a cottage which had been lately white-washed, where a certain pre¬ ciseness in the owner might be detected in the clipped hedge, and the exact and newly mended stile by which you approached the habitation ; wherein dwelt the beau and 12 EUGENE A RA M. bachelor of the village, somewhat antiquated it is true, but still an object of great attention and some hope to the elder damsels in the vicinity, and of a respectful popularity, that did not however prohibit a joke to the younger part of the sisterhood. Jacob Bunting, so was this gentleman called, had been for many years in the king’s service, in which he had risen from the rank of corporal, and had saved and pinched together a certain small independence upon which he now rented his cottage and enjoyed his leisure. He had seen a good deal of the world, and pro¬ fited in shrewdness by his experience ; he had rubbed off, however, all superfluous devotion as he rubbed off his pre¬ judices, and though he drank more often than any one ehe with the landlord of the Spotted Dog, he also quarrelled with him the oftenest, and testified the least forbearance at the publican’s segments of psalmody. Jacob was a tall, comely, and perpendicular personage ; his threadbare coat was scrupulously brushed, and his hair punctiliously plastered at the sides into two stiff obstinate-looking curls, and at the top into what he was pleased to call a feather, though it was much more like a tile. His conversation had in it something peculiar; generally it assumed a quick, short, abrupt turn, that, retrenching all superfluities of pronoun and conjunction, and marching at once upon the meaning of the sentence, had in it a military and Spartan significance, which betrayed how difficult it often is for a man to forget that he has been a corporal. Occasionally indeed, for where but in farces is the phraseology of the humorist always the same? he escaped into a more en EUGENE ARAM. la larged and christian-like method of dealing with the king’s English, but that was chiefly noticeable, when from con¬ versation he launched himself into a lecture, a luxury the worthy soldier loved greatly to indulge, for much had he seen and somewhat had he reflected ; and valuing him¬ self, which was odd in a corporal, more on his knowledge of the world than his knowledge even of war, he rarely missed any occasion of edifying a patient listener with the result of his observations. After you had sauntered by the veteran’s door, beside which you generally, if the evening were fine, or he was not drinking with neighbor Dealtry — or taking his tea with gossip this or master that — or teaching some emulous urchins the broadsword exercise — or snaring trout in the stream — or in short, otherwise engaged; beside which, I say, you not unfrequently beheld him sit¬ ting on a rude bench, and enjoying with half-shut eyes, crossed legs, but still unindulgently erect posture, the luxury of his pipe • you ventured over a little wooden bridge ; beneath which, clear and shallow, ran the rivulet we have before honorably mentioned ; and a walk of a few minutes brought you to a moderately sized and old- fashioned mansion — the manor-house of the parish. It stood at the very foot of the hill; behind, a rich, ancient, and hanging wood, brought into relief — the exceeding freshness and verdure of the patch of green meadow imme¬ diately in front. On one side, the garden was bounded by the village church-yard, with its simple mounds, and its few scattered and humble tombs. The church was of 1 . —2 14 EUGENE ARAM. 0 great antiquity ; and it was only in one point of view that you caught more than a glimpse of its grey tower and graceful spire, so thickly and so darkly grouped the yew tree and the larch around the edifice. Opposite the gate by which you gained the house, the view was not ex¬ tended, but rich with wood and pasture, backed by a hill, which, less verdant than its fellows, was covered with sheep ; while you saw hard by the rivulet darkening and stealing away ; till your sight, though not your ear, lost it among the wood-land. Trained up the embrowned paling on either side of the gate, were bushes of rustic fruit, and fruit and flowers (through plots of which green and winding alleys had been cut with no untasteful hand) testified, by their thriving and healthful looks, the care bestowed upon them. The main boasts of the garden were on one side, a huge horse- chesnuttree—the largest in the village ; and on the other, an arbor covered without with honeysuckles, and tapes¬ tried within by moss. The house, a grey and quaint building of the time of James I. with stone copings and gable roof, could scarcely in these days have been deemed a fitting residence for the lord of the manor. Nearly the whole of the centre was occupied by the hall, in which the meals of the family were commonly held — only two other sitting-rooms of very moderate dimensions had been reserved by the architect for the convenience or ostenta¬ tion of the proprietor. An ample porch jutted from the main building, and this was covered with ivy, as the win¬ dows were with jasmine and honeysuckle; while seats EUGENE ARAM 15 were ranged inside the porch, covered with many a rude initial and long-past date. The owner of this mansion bore the name of Roland Lester. His forefathers, without pretending to high an¬ tiquity of family, had held the dignity of squires to Grass- dale for some two centuries ; and Rowland Lester was perhaps the first of the race who had stirred above fifty miles from the house in which each successive lord had re¬ ceived his birth, or the green church-yard in which was yet chronicled his death. The present proprietor was a man of cultivated tastes ; and abilities, naturally not much above mediocrity, had been improved by travel as well as study. Himself and one younger brother had been early left masters of their fate and their several portions. The younger, Geoffrey, testified a roving and dissipated turn. Bold, licentious, extravagant, unprincipled,— his career soon outstripped the slender fortunes of a cadet in the family of a country squire. He was early thrown into difficulties, but by some means or other they never seemed to overwhelm him ; an unexpected turn — a lucky adven¬ ture— presented itself at the very moment when Fortune appeared the most utterly to have deserted him. Among these more propitious fluctuations in the tide of affairs, was, at about the age of forty, a sudden marriage with a young lady of what might be termed (for Geoffrey Lester’s rank of life, and the rational expenses of that day) a very competent and respectable fortune. Unhap¬ pily, however, the lady was neither handsome in feature nor gentle in temper; and after a few years of quarrel 16 EUGENE ARAM. and contest, the faithless husband, one bright morning, having collected in his proper person whatever remained of their fortnne, absconded from the conjugal hearth with¬ out either warning or farewell. He left nothing to his wife but his house, his debts, and his only child, a son. From that time to the present, little had been known, though much had been conjectured, concerning the deser¬ ter. For the first few years they traced, however, so far of his fate as to learn that he had been seen once in India : and that previously he had been met in England by a rela¬ tion under the disguise of assumed names: a proof that whatever his occupations, they could scarcely be very re¬ spectable. But of late, nothing whatsoever relating to the wanderer had transpired. By some he was imagined dead; by most he was forgotten. Those more immediately connected with him—his brother in especial, cherished a secret belief, that wherever Geoffrey Lester should chance to alight, the manner of alighting would (to use the sig¬ nificant and homely metaphor) be always on his legs ; and coupling the vaunted luck of the scape-grace with the fact of his having been seen in India, Roland, in his heart, not only hoped, but fully expected that his lost one would, some day or other, return home laden with the spoils of the East, and eager to shower upon his relatives, in re¬ compense of long desertion, “With richest hand .... barbaric pearl and gold.” But we must return to the forsaken spouse.— Left in this abrupt destitution and distress, Mrs. Lester had only EUGENE ARAM. 1'i the resource of applying to her brother-in-law, whom in deed the fugitive had before seized many opportunities of not leaving wholly unprepared for such an application. Rowland promptly and generously obeyed the sum¬ mons : he took the child and the wife to his own home,—. he freed the latter from the persecution of all legal claim¬ ants,—and, after selling such effects as remained, he de¬ voted the whole proceeds to the forsaken family, without regarding his own expenses on their behalf, ill as he was able to afford the luxury of that self-neglect. The wife did not long need the asylum of his hearth,— she, poor lady, died of a slow fever produced by irritation and dis¬ appointment, a few months after Geoffrey’s desertion.— She had no need to recommend her children to their kind-hearted uncle’s care. And now we must glance over the elder brother’s domestic fortunes. In Roland, the wild dispositions of his brother were so far tamed, that they assumed only the character of a buoyant temper and a gay spirit. He had strong princi¬ ples as well as warm feelings, and a fine and resolute sense of honor utterly impervious to attack. It was im¬ possible to be in his company an hour and not see he was a man to be respected. It was equally impossible to live with him a week and not see he was a man to be beloved. He also had married, and about a year after that era in the life of his brother, but not for the same advantage of fortune. He had formed an attachment to the por¬ tionless daughter of a man in his own neighborhood and of his own rank. He wooed and won her, and for a few 2 * B 18 EUGENE ARAM. years lie enjoyed that greatest happiness which the world is capable of bestowing — the society and the love of one in whom we could wish for no change, and beyond whom we have no desire. But what Evil cannot corrupt, Fate seldom spares. A few months after the birth of a second daughter, the young wife of Roland Lester died. It was to a widowed hearth that the wife and child of his brother came for shelter. Roland was a man of an affectionate and warm heart: if the blow did not crush, at least it changed him. Naturally of a cheerful and ardent dispo¬ sition, his mood now became soberized and sedate. He shrunk from the rural gaieties and companionship he had before courted and enlivened, and, for the first time in his life, the mourner felt the holiness of solitude. As his nephew and his motherless daughters grew up, they gave an object to his seclusion and a relief to his reflections. He found a pure and unfailing delight in watching the growth of their young minds, and guiding their differing dispositions ; and, as time at length enabled them to re¬ turn his affection, and appreciate his cares, he became once more sensible that he had a home. The elder of his daughters, Madeline, at the time our 6tory opens, had attained the age of eighteen. She was the beauty and the boast of the whole country. Above the ordinary height, her figure was richly and exquisitely formed. So translucently pure and soft was her complexion, that it might have seemed the token of delicate health, but for the dewy and exceeding redness of her lips, and the freshness of teeth whiter than pearls. Her eyes of » EUGENE ARAM. 19 deep blue, wore a thoughtful and serene expression, and her forehead, higher and broader than it usually is in woman, gave promise of a certain nobleness of intellect, and aded dignity, but a feminine dignity, to the more ten¬ der characteristics of her beauty. And indeed the pecu¬ liar tone of Madeline’s mind fulfilled the indication of her features, and was eminently thoughtful and high-wrought. She had early testified a remarkable love for study, and not only a desire for knowledge, but a veneration for those who possessed it. The remote corner of the county in which they lived, and the rarely broken seclusion which Lester habitually preserved from the intercourse of their few and scattered neighbors, had naturally cast each mem¬ ber of the little circle upon his or her own resources. An accident, some five years ago, had confined Madeline for several weeks or rather months to the house; and as the old hall possessed a very respectable share of books, she had then matured and confirmed that love of reading and reflection, which'she had at a much earlier period pre¬ maturely evinced. The woman’s tendency to romance natu¬ rally tinctured her meditations, and thus while they digni¬ fied, they also softened her mind. Her sister Ellinor, younger by two years, was of a character equally gentle but less elevated. She looked up to her sister as a supe¬ rior being. She felt pride without a shadow of envy, at her superior and surpassing beauty; and was unconsciously guided in her pursuits and predilections, by a mind she cheerfully acknowledged to be loftier than her own. And y’et Ellinor had also her pretensions to personal loveliness, 21 EUGENE ARAM. and pretensions perhaps that would be less reluctantly ac knowledged by her own sex than those of her sister. The sunlight of a happy and innocent heart sparkled on her face, and gave a beam it gladdened you to behold, to her quick hazel eye, and a smile that broke out upon a thousand dimples. She did not possess the height of Madeline, and though not so slender as to be curtailed of the roundness and feminine luxuriance of beauty, liei shape was slighter, feebler, and less rich in its symmetry than her sister’s. And this the tendency of the physical frame to require elsewhere support, nor to feel secure of strength, influenced perhaps her mind, and made love, and the dependence of love, more necessary to her than to the thoughtful and lofty Madeline. The latter might pass through life, and never see the one to whom her heart could give itself away. But every village might possess a hero whom the imagination of Ellinor could clothe with un¬ real graces, and to whom the lovingness of her disposition might bias her affections. Both, however, eminently pos¬ sessed that earnestness and purity of heart, which would have made them, perhaps in an equal degree, constant, and devoted to the object of an attachment, once formed in defiance of change and to the brink of death. Their cousin Walter, Geoffrey Lester’s son, was now ir his twenty-first year; tall and strong of person, and with a face, if not regularly handsome, striking enough to be generally deemed so. High-spirited, bold, fiery, impa¬ tient ; jealous of the affections of those he loved ; cheerful to outward seeming, but restless, fond of change, and EUGENE A RA M 21 subject to the melancholy and pining mood common tc young and ardent minds : such was the character of Wal¬ ter Lester. The estates of Lester were settled in the male line, and devolved therefore upon him. Yet there were moments when he keenly felt his orphan and deserted situation ; and sighed to think, that while his father per- 1 aps yet lived, he was a dependant for affection, if not for maintenance, on the kindness of others. This reflection sometimes gave an air of sullenness or petulance to his character, that did not really belong to it. For what in the world makes a man of just pride appear so unamiable as the sense of dependence ? CHAPTER II. A PUBLICAN, A SINNER, AND A STRANGER. “Ah, Don Alphonso, is it you? Agreeable accident! — Chance presents you to my eyes where you were least expected.” — Gil Blas. It was an evening in the beginning of summer, and Peter Dealtry and the ci-devant, corporal sate beneath the sign of the Spotted Dog (as it hung motionless from the bough of a friendly elm) quaffing a cup of boon compan- ionshiu The reader will imagine the two men very dif¬ ferent from each other in form and aspect; the one short, dry, fragile, and betraying a love of ease in his unbuttoned rest, and a certain lolling, see-sawing method of balane- 2 * b 22 EUGENE A R A M. ing his body upon his chair; the other, erect and solemn, and as steady on his seat as if he were nailed to it. It was a fine, tranquil, balmy evening; the sun had just set, and the clouds still retained the rosy tints which they had caught from his parting ray. Here and there, at scattered intervals, you might see the cottages peeping from the trees around them ; or mark the smoke that rose from their roofs — roofs green with mosses and house-leek,— in graceful and spiral curls against the clear soft air. It was an English scene, and the two men, the dog at their feet, (for Peter Dealtry favored a wiery stone - colored cur which he called a terrier,) and just at the door of the little inn, two old gossips, loitering on the threshold in familiar chat with the landlady, in cap and kerchief,— all together made a group equally English, and somewhat picturesque, though homely enough, in effect. “Well, now,” said Peter Dealtry, as he pushed the brown jug towards the corporal, “ this is what I call pleas¬ ant ; it puts me in mind —” “ Of what ? ” quoth the corporal. “ Of those nice lines in the hymn, Master Bunting, ‘ How fair ye are, ye little hills, Ye little fields also ; Ye murmuring streams that sweetly run ; Ye willows in a row!’ There is something very comfortable in sacred verses, Master Bunting; but you’re a scoffer.” '' Psha, man 1” said the corporal, throwing out his right Ifipr and leaning back, with his eyes half-shut, and his ohm E U GENE A R A M . 23 protruded, as he took an unusually long inhalation from his pipe ; “ Psha, man ! — send verses to the right-about — fit for girls going to school of a Sunday; full-grown men more up to snuff. I’ve seen the world, Master Deal- try ; —the world, and be damned to you ! —baugh ! ” “ Fie, neighbor, fie ! What’s the good of profaneness, 07il speaking and slandering ? — ‘Oaths are the debts your spendthrift soul must pay; All scores are chalked against the reckoning day.* Just wait a bit, neighbor ; wait till I light my pipe.” “Tell you what,” said the corporal, after communicating from his own pipe the friendly flame to his comrade’s ; “ tell you what — talk nonsense ; the commander-in-chief’s no martinet — if we’re all right in action, he’ll wink at a slip word or two. Come, no humbug — hold jaw. D’ye think God would sooner have a snivelling fellow like you in his regiment, than a man like me, clean limbed, straight as a dart, six feet one without his shoes ! — baugh ! ” This notion of the corporal’s, by which he would have likened the dominion of Heaven to the King of Prussia’s body-guard, and only admitted the elect on account of their inches, so tickled mine host’s fancy that he leaned back in his chair, and indulged in a long, dry, obstreper¬ ous cachinnation. This irreverence mightily displeased the corporal. He looked at the little man very sourly, and said in his least smooth accentuation :— “ What — devil — cackling at ? — always grin, grin, grin — giggle, giggle, giggle — psha ! ” “Why really, neighbor,” said Peter, composing him self,“ you must let a man laugh now and then.” 24 EUGENE ARAM. “ Man 1” said the corporal, “ man’s a noble animal! Man’s amusquet, primed, loaded, ready to supply a friend or kill a foe — charge not to be wasted on every tom-tit. But you ! not a musquet, but a cracker ! noisy, harmless, —- can’t touch you but olf you go, whizz, pop, bang in one’s '’ace 1 — baugh ! ” “Well,” said the good-humored landlord, “I should think Master Aram, the great scholar who lives down the vale yonder, a man quite after your own heart. He is grave enough to suit you. He does not laugh very easily, I fancy. ” “ After my heart ? Stoops like a bow !” “ Indeed he does look on the ground as he walks; when I think, I do the same. But what a marvellous man it is 1 I hear, that he reads the Psalms in Hebrew. He’s very affable and meek-like for such a schohard.” “ Tell you what. Seen the world, Master Dealtry, and know a thing or two. Your shy dog is always a deep one. Give me a man who looks me in the face as he would a cannon ! ” “ Or a lass, ” said Peter knowingly. The grim corporal smiled. “ Talking of lasses,” said the soldier, re-filling his pipe, “ what creature Miss Lester is ! Such eyes ! — such nose ; Fit for a colonel, by God ! ay, or a major-general ! ” “ For my part, I think Miss Ellinor almost as handsome ; not so grand-like, but more lovesome ! ” “Nice little thing ! ” said the corporal, condescendingly “ But, zooks ! whom have we here ? ” EUGENE ARAM. 25 This last question was applied to a man wno was slowly turning from the road towards the inn. The stranger, for such he was, was stout, thick-set, and of middle height. His dress was not without pretension to a rank higher than the lowest; but it was threadbare and worn, and soiled with dust and travel. His appearance was by no means prepossessing : small sunken eyes of a light hazel and a restless and rather fierce expression, a thick flat nose, high cheek-bones, a large bony jaw, from which the flesh receded, and a bull throat indicative of great strength, constituted his claims to personal attraction. The stately corporal, without moving, kept a vigilant and suspicious eye upon the new comer, muttering to Peter,— “ Customer for you ; rum customer too — by Gad ! ” The stranger now reached the little table, and halting short, took up the brown jug, without ceremony or pre¬ face, and emptied it at a draught. The corporal stared — the corporal frowned; but be¬ fore — for he was somewhat slow of speech — he had time to vent his displeasure, the stranger, wiping his mouth across his sleeve, said in rather a civil and apologetic tone, “ I beg pardon, gentlemen. I have had a long march of it, and very tired I am.” “ Humph ! march ” said the corporal, a little appeased, “ Not in his Majesty’s service — eh ? ” “Not now,” answered the traveller; then, turning round to Dealtry, he said : “ Are you landlord here ? ” I «— 3 26 EUGENE ARAM. “At your service/’ said Peter, with the indifference of a man well to do, and not ambitious of half-pence. “Come then quick — budge,” said the traveller, tap¬ ping him on the back: “bring more glasses — anothel jug of the October ; and any thing or every thing your lar- der is able to produce — d’ye hear ? ” Peter, by no means pleased with the briskness of this address, eyed the dusty and way-worn pedestrian from head to foot; then looking over his shoulder towards the door, he said, as he ensconced himself yet more firmly on Inis seat — “ There’s my wife by the door, friend ; go, tell her what 70U want.” “Do you know,” said the traveller, in a slow and measured accent—“ Do you know, master Shrivel-face, Jiat I have more than half a mind to break your head for mpertinence. You a landlord!—you keep an inn in¬ deed ! Come, sir, make off, or—” “ Corporal! corporal! ” cried Peter, retreating hastily from his seat as the brawny traveller approached mena¬ cingly towards him — “ You won’t see the peace broken. Have a care, friend — have a care. I’m clerk to the par¬ ish— clerk to the parish, sir — and I’ll indict you for sacrilege.” The wooden features of Bunting relaxed into a sort of grin at the alarm of his friend. He puffed away, with¬ out making any reply; meanwhile the traveller, taking advantage of Peter’s hasty abandonment of his cathedra- rian accommodation, seized the vacant chair, and drawing EUGENE ARAM. 21 it yet closer to the table, flung himself upon it, and plat¬ ing his hat on the table, wiped his brows with the air of a man about to make himself thoroughly at home. Peter Dealtry was assuredly a personage of a peace¬ able disposition ; but then he had the proper pride of a host and a clerk. His feelings were exceedingly wounded at this cavalier treatment — before the very eyes of his wife too — what an example ! He thrust his hands deep into his breeches-pockets, and strutting with a ferocious swagger towards the traveller, he said : — “ Harkye, sirrah ! This is not the way folks are treat¬ ed in this country ; and Fd have you to know, that I’m a man that has a brother a constable.” “Well, sir ! ” “ Well, sir, indeed 1 Well! — sir, it’s not well, by no manner of means ; and if you don’t pay for the ale you drank, and go quietly about your business, I’ll have you put in the stocks for'a vagrant.” This, the most menacing speech Peter Dealtry was ever known to deliver, was uttered with so much spirit, that the corporal, who had hitherto preserved silence — for he was too strict a disciplinarian to thrust himself unneces sarily into brawls,— turned approvingly ronnd, and nod ding as well as his stock would suffer him at the indig¬ nant Peter, he said: “Well done ! ’fegs — you’ve a soul, man ! — a soul fit for the forty-second ! augh ! — A soul nbove the inches of five feet, two ! ” There was something bitter and sneering in the travel ler’s aspect as he now, regarding Dealtry, repeated — 28 EUQENE ARAM. “ Vagrant — humph ! And pray what is a vagrant ? 99 “ What is a vagrant ? ” echoed Peter, a little puzzled. “Yes 1 answer me that.” “ Why, a vagrant is a man what wauders, and what has no money.” “ Truly,” said the stranger smiling, but the smile by no means improved his physiognomy, “ an excellent defini¬ tion, but one which I will convince you, does not apply to me.” So saying, he drew from his pocket a handful of silver coins, and throwing them on the table, added : “ Come, let’s have no more of this. You see I can pay for what I order; and now, do recollect that I am a weary and hungry man.” No sooner did Peter behold the money, than a sudden placidity stole over his ruffled spirit;—nay, a certain benevolent commiseration for the fatigue and wants of the traveller replaced at once, and as by a spell, the an¬ gry feelings that had previously roused him. “Weary and hungry,” said he ; “ why did you not say that before ? That would have been quite enough for Peter Dealtry. Thank God ! I am a man that can feel for my neighbors. I have bowels — yes, I have bowels. Weary and hungry ! — you shall be served in an instant 1 may be a little hasty or so, but I’m a good Christian at bottom — ask the corporal. And what says the Psalm¬ ist, Psalm 14T ? — ‘ By Him the beasts that loosely range. With timely food are fed: He speaks the word — and what He wills Is done as soon as said.’ EUGENE ARAM. 29 Animating his kindly emotions by this apt quotation, Peter turned to the house. The corporal now broke silence: the sight of the money had not been without an effect upon him as well as the landlord. “Warm day, sir: — your health. Oh! forgot you emptied jug — baugh ! You said you were not now in his Majesty’s service : beg pardon — were you ever ? ” “Why, once I was ; many years ago.” “ Ah !—and what regiment ? I was in the forty-second. Heard of the forty-second ? Colonel’s name, Dysart; cap¬ tain’s Trotter; corporal’s Bunting, at your service.” “ I am much obliged by your confidence,” said the tra¬ veller drily. “I dare say you have seen much service.” “Service! Ah! may well say that;—twenty-three years’ hard work: and not the better for it! A man that loves his country is ’titled to a pension — that’s my mind ! — but the world don’t smile upon corporals — augh ! ” Here Peter re-appeared with a fresh supply of the Oc¬ tober, and an assurance that the cold meat would speed- fly follow. “ I hope yourself and this gentleman will bear me com¬ pany,” said the traveller, passing the jug to the corporal; and in a few moments, so well pleased grew the trio with each other, that the sound of their laughter came loud and frequent to the ears of the good housewife within. The traveller now seemed to the corporal and mine host a right jolly, good-humored fellow. Not, however, that he bore a fair share in the conversation — he rather 3 * 80 EUGENE ARAM. promoted tlie hilarity of his new acquaintances than led it. He laughed heartily at Peter’s jests, and the corpo- lal’s repartees; and the latter, by degrees, assuming the usual sway he bore in the circles of the village, contrived^ before the viands were on the table, to monopolize the whole conversation. The traveller found in the repast a new excuse for si¬ lence. He ate with a most prodigious and most conta¬ gious appetite ; and in a few seconds the knife and fork of the corporal were as busily engaged as if he had only three minutes to spare between a march and a dinner. “ This is a pretty, retired spot,” quoth the traveller, as at length he finished his repast, and threw himself back on his chair—“ a very pretty spot. Whose neat old-fashioned house was that I passed on the green, with the gable-ends and the flower-plots in front. “ Oh, the Squire’s,” answered Peter ; “ Squire Lester’s — an excellent gentleman.” “ A rich man, I should think, for these parts; the best house I have seen for some miles,” said the stranger carelessly. “ Rich — yes, lie’s well to do ; he does not live so as not to have money to lay by.” “ Any family ? ” “ Two daughters and a nephew.” “ And the nephew does not ruin him. Happy uncle I Mine was not so lucky,” said the traveller. “ Sad fellows we soldiers in our young days ! ” observ¬ ed the corporal with a wink. “Ho, Squire Walter’s a good young man, a pride to his uncle.” EUGENE ARAM. 31 “ So,” said the pedestrian, “ they are not forced to keep up a large establishment and ruin themselves by a retinue of servants?—Corporal, the jug.” “ Nay ! ” said Peter, “ Squire Lester’s gate is always open to the poor ; but as for show, he leaves that to my lord at the castle.” “ The castle, where’s that ? ” “ About six miles off,— you’ve heard of my Lord * * * *, I’ll swear.” “ Ah, to be sure, a courtier. But who else lives about here ? I mean, who are the principal persons barring the corporal and yourself, Mr. Eelpry — I think our friend here calls you.” “ Dealtry, Peter Dealtry, sir, is my name.—Why the most noticeable man, you must know, is a great scholard, a wonderfully learned man ; there yonder, you may just catch a glimpse of the tall what-d’ye-call-it he has built out on the top of his house, that he may get nearer to the stars. He has got glasses by which I’ve heard that you may see the people in the moon walking on their heads; but I can’t say as I believe all I hear.” “You are too sensible for that, I’m sure. But this scholar, I suppose, is not very rich ; learning does not clothe men now-a-days — eh, corporal ? ” “ And why should it ? Zounds ! can it teach a man how to defend his country ? Old England wants soldiers, and oe d—d to them ! But the man’s well enough, I must own. civil, modest — ” “ And not by no means a beggar, ” added Peter j “ he 82 EUGENE ARAM. gave as much to the poor last winter as the Squire him¬ self ” “ Indeed 1 ” said the stranger, “ this scholar is rich then.” “ So, so ; neither one nor t’other. But if he were as rich as my lord, he could not be more respected ; the great¬ est folks in the country come in their carriages and foul to see him. Lord bless you, there is not a name more talked on in the whole country than Eugene Aram. ” “ What! ” cried the traveller, his countenance chang¬ ing as he sprung from his seat; “ what! —Aram ! — did you say Aram ? Great God, how strange ! ” Peter, not a little startled by the abruptness and ve¬ hemence of his guest, stared at him with open mouth, and e?en the corporal took his pipe involuntarily from his lips. “ What 1 ” said the former, “you know him, do you ? you’ve heard of him, eh ? ” The stranger did not reply, he seemed lost in a reverie ; he muttered inaudible words between his teeth ; now he strode two steps forward, clenching his hands ; now smiled grimly ; and then returning to his seat, threw himself on it, still in silence. The soldier and the clerk exchanged looks; and now outspake the corporal: “ Rum tantrums ! What the devil, did the man eat your grandmother ? ” Roused perhaps by so pertinent and sensible a ques¬ tion, the stranger lifted his head from his breast, and said with a forced smile, “ You have done me, without know- * ing it, a great kindness, my friend. Eugene Aram was EUGENE ARAM. su an early and intimate acquaintance of mine : we have not met for many years. I never guessed that he lived in these parts : indeed I did not know where he resided. 1 am truly glad to think I have lighted upon him thus un¬ expectedly.” “ What! you did not know where he lived ? Well! I thought all the world knew that 1 Why men from the universities have come all the way, merely to look at the spot.” “ Yery likely,” returned the stranger; “but I am not a learned man myself, and what is celebrity in one set is obscurity in another. Besides, I have never been in this part of the world before ! ” Peter was about to reply, when he heard the shrill voice of his wife behind. “ Why don’t you rise, Mr. Lazyboots ? Where are % your eyes ? Don’t you see the young ladies ? ” Dealtry’s hat was off in an instant,— the stiff corporal rose like a musquet; the stranger would have kept his seat, but Dealtry gave him an admonitory tug by the collar; accordingly he rose, muttering a hasty oath, which cer¬ tainly died on his lips when he saw the cause which had thus constrained him into courtesy. Through a little gate close by Peter’s house Madeline and her sister had just passed on their evening walk, and with the kind familiarity for which they were both noted, they had stopped to salute the landlady of the Spotted Dog, as she now, her labors done, sat by the threshold, svithin hearing of the convivial group, and plaiting straw. o EUGENE ARAM. U The whole family of Lester were so beloved, that we question whether my lord himself, as the great nobleman of the place was always called, (as if there was only one lord in the peerage,) would have obtained the same de¬ gree of respect that was always lavished upon them. “ Don’t let us disturb you, good people,” said Ellinor, as the;? now moved towards the boon campanions, when her eye falling on the stranger, she stopped short. There was something in his appearance, and especially in the expression of his countenance at that moment, which no one could have marked for the first time without appre¬ hension and mistrust: and it was so seldom that, in that retired spot, the young ladies encountered even one un¬ familiar face, that the effect the stranger’s appearance might have produced on any one, might well be increased for them to a startling and painful degree. The traveller saw at once the sensation he had created : his brow low¬ ered ; and the same unpleasing smile, or rather sneer, that we have noted before, distorted his lip, as he made with affected humility his obeisance. “ How !—a stranger ! ” said Madeline, sharing, though in a less degree, the feelings of her sister ; and then, after a pause, she said, as she glanced over his garb, “ not in distress I hope.” “Ho, Madam! ” said the stranger, “if by distress is meant beggary. I am in all respects perhaps better than I seem.” There was a general titter from the corporal, my host, and his wife, at the traveller’s semi-jest at his own uu- EUGENE ARAM 35 prepossessing appearance: but Madeline, a little discon¬ certed, bowed hastily, and drew her sister away. “ A proud quean ! ” said the stranger, as he re-seated himself, and watched the sisters gliding across the green. All mouths were opened against him immediately. lie found it no easy matter to make his peace ; and before he had quite done it, he called for his bill, and rose to depart. “ Well! ” said he, as he tendered his hand to the cor¬ poral, “ we may meet again, and enjoy together some more of your good stories. Meanwhile, which is my way to this — this — this famous scholar’s — ehem ? ” “Why,” quoth Peter, “you saw the direction in which \ the young ladies went; you must take the same. Cross the stile you will find at the right — wind along the foot of the hill for about three parts of a mile, and you will then see, in the middle* of a broad plain, a lonely grey house with a thingumebob at the top ; a servatory they call it. That’s Master Aram’s.” “Thank you.” “And a very pretty walk it is too,” said the dame, “the prettiest hereabouts to my liking, till you get to the house at least; and so the young ladies think, for it’s their usual walk every evening ! ” “ Humph ! —then I may meet them.” “Well, and if you do, make yourself look as christian- like as you can,” retorted the hostess. There was a second grin at the ill-favored traveller’s expense, amidst which he went his way. 36 EUGENE ARAM. “ All odd chap ! ” said Peter, looking after the sturdy form of the traveller. “ I wonder what he is ; he seems well edicated — makes use of good words.” “ What sinnifies ? ” said the corporal, who felt a sort of fellow-feeling for his new acquaintance’s brusquerie of maimer ; — “ what sinnifies what he is ? Served his coun¬ try,—that’s enough ; —never told me, by the by, his regi¬ ment;— set me a talking, and let out nothing himself; —old soldier every inch of him ! ” “ He can take care of number one,” said Peter. “ IIow he emptied the jug ! and my stars ! what an appetite ! ” u Tush,” said the corporal; “ hold jaw. Man of the world — man of the world,— that’s clear.” CHAPTER III. A DIALOGUE AND AN ALARM.-A STUDENT’S HOUSE. “ A fellow by the hand of nature marked, Quoted, and signed, to do a deed of shame.” Shakspeare. — King John. * * * * * “ He is a scholar, if a man may trust The liberal voice of fame in her report. * * * * * * Myself was once a student, and indeed Fed with the self-same humor he is now.” Ben Jonson. — Every Man in his Humor. The two sisters pursued their walk along a scene which might well be favored by their selection. No sooner had they crossed the stile, than the village vanished EUGENE ARAM. 31 into earth ; so quiet, so lonely, so far from the evidence of life, was the landscape through which they passed. On their right, sloped a green and silent hill, shutting out all view beyond itself, save the deepening and twilight sky ; to the left, and immediately along their road, lay frag¬ ments of stone, covered with moss, or shadowed by wild shrubs, that here and there, gathered into copses, or break¬ ing abruptly away from the rich sod, left frequent spaces through which you caught long vistas of forest-land, or the brooklet gliding in a noisy and rocky course, and breaking into a thousand tiny waterfalls, or mimic eddies. So secluded was the scene, and so unwitnessing of culti¬ vation, that you would not have believed that a human habitation could be at hand, and this air of perfect soli¬ tude and quiet gave an additional charm to the spot. “But I assure you,” said Ellinor, earnestly continuing a conversation they had begun, “ I assure you I was not mistaken : I saw it as plainly as I see you.” “ What, in the breast-pocket ? ” “Yes, as he drew out his handkerchief, I saw the bar¬ rel of the pistol quite distinctly.” “ Indeed, I think we had better tell my father as soon as we get home ; it may be as well to be on our guard, though robbery, I believe, has not been heard of in Grass- dale for these twenty years.” “Yet for what purpose save that of evil, could he in these peaceable times, and this peaceable country, carry fire-arms about him ? And what a countenance ! Did I. —4 38 EUGENE ARAM. you note the shy, and yet ferocious eye, like that of some animal, that longs, yet fears, to spring upon you.” “Upon my word, Ellinor, ” said Madeline, smiling, “you are not very merciful to strangers. After all, the man might have provided himself with the pistol which you saw as a natural precaution ; reflect that, as a stranger, he may well not know how safe this district usually is, and he may have come from London, in the neighborhood of which they say robberies have been frequent of late. As for liis looks, they are I own unpardonable ; for so much ugliness there can be no excuse. Had the man been as handsome as our cousin Walter, you would not perhaps have been so uncharitable in your fears at the pistol.” “ Nonsense, Madeline,” said Ellinor, blushing and turn¬ ing away her face ; —there was a moment’s pause, which the younger sister broke. “We do not seem,” said she, “to make much progress in the friendship of our singular neighbor. I never knew my father court any one so much as he has courted Mr. Aram, and yet you see how seldom he calls upon us ; nay, I often think that he seeks to shun us ; no great compli¬ ment to our attractions, Madeline.” “ I regret his want of sociability, for his own sake,” said Madeline, “for he seems melancholy as well as thoughtful, and he leads so secluded a life, that I cannot but think my father’s conversation and society, if he would but encourage it, might afford some relief to his solitude.” “And he always seems,” observed Ellinor, “to take EUGENE ARAM. 39 pleasure in my father’s conversation* as who would not ? how his countenance lights up when he converses ! it is a pleasure to watch it. I think him positively handsome when he speaks.” “■ Oh, more than handsome ! ” said Madeline, with en¬ thusiasm, “ with that high pale brow, and those deep, un¬ fathomable eyes! ” Ellinor smiled, and it was now Madeline’s turn to blush. “Well,” said the former, “there is something about him that fills one with an indescribable interest; and his manner, if cold at times, is yet always so gentle.” “And to hear him converse,” said Madeline, “it is like music. His thoughts, his very words, seem so different from the language and ideas of others. What a pity that he should ever be silent! ” “There is one peculiarity about his gloom, — it never inspires one with distrust,” said Ellinor; “if I had observed him in the same circumstances as that ill-omened traveller, I should have had no apprehension.” “ Ah ! that traveller still runs in your head. If we were to meet him in this spot!” “ Heaven forbid ! ” cried Ellinor, turning hastily around in alarm — and, lo ! as if her sister had been a prophet, she saw the very person in question at some little dis¬ tance behind them, and walking on with rapid strides. She uttered a faint shriek of surprise and terror, and Madeline, looking back at the sound, immediately par¬ ticipated in her alarm The spot lcoked so desolate and 40 EUGENE ARAM. lonely, and the imagination of both had been already so worked upon by Elliuor’s fears, and their conjectures re¬ specting the ill-boding weapon she had witnessed, that a thousand apprehensions of outrage and murder crowded at once upon the minds of the two sisters. Without, how¬ ever, giving vent in words to their alarm, they, as by an involuntary and simultaneous suggestion, quickened their pace, every moment stealing a glance behind, to watch the progress of the suspected robber. They thought that he also seemed to accelerate his movements; and this ob¬ servation increased their terror, and would appear indeed to give it a more rational ground. At length, as by a sudden turn of the road, they lost sight of the dreaded stranger, their alarm suggested to them but one resolu¬ tion, and they fairly fled on as fast as the fear which ac¬ tuated would allow them. The nearest, and indeed the ouly house in that direction, was Aram’s, but they both imagined if they could come within sight of that, they should be safe. They looked back at every interval; now they did not see their fancied pursuer — now he emerged into view — now — yes — he also was running. “ Faster, faster, Madeline, for God’s sake ! he is gain¬ ing upon us ! ” cried Ellinor : the path grew more wild, and the trees more thick and frequent; at every cluster that marked their progress, they saw the stranger closer, and closer ; at length, a sudden break,— a sudden turn in the landscape : — a broad plain burst upon them, and in the midst of it, the student’s solitary abode ! “ Thank God. we are safe ! ” cried Madeline. She EUGENE ARAM. 41 turned once more to look for the stranger ; in so doing, her foot struck against a fragment of stone, and she fell with great violence to the ground. She endeavored to rise, but found herself, at first, unable to stir from the spot. In this state she looked, however, back, and saw the trav¬ eller at some little distance. But he also halted, and after a moment’s seeming deliberation, turned aside, and was lost among the bushes. With great difficulty Ellinor now assisted Madeline to rise ; her ancle was violently sprained, and she could not put her foot to the ground ; bufr though she had evinced so much dread at the apparition of the stranger, she now testified an almost equal degree of fortitude in bearing pain. “ I am not much hurt, Ellinor,” she said, faintly smiling, to encourage her sister, who supported her in speechless alarm : “ but what is to be done ? I cannot use this foot; how s\aall we get home ? ” “ Thank God, if you are not much hurt! ” said poor Ellinor almost crying, “ lean on me — heavier — pray. Only try and reach the house, and we can then stay thero till Mr. Aram sends home for the carriage.” “ But what will he think ? how strange it will seem ! ” said Madeline, the color once more visiting her cheek, which a moment since had been blanched as pale as death. “Is this a time for scruples and ceremony ? ” said Elli¬ nor. “ Come ! I entreat you, come ; if you linger thus, the man may take courage and attack us yet. There I i that’s right! Is the pain very great ? ” “ I do not mind the pain,” murmured Madeline : “ but 4 * 42 EUGENE ARAM. if lie should think we intrude ? His habits are so reserved — so secluded; indeed I fear ” “ Intrude ! ” interrupted Ellinor. “ Ho you think so ill of him ? — Ho you suppose that, hermit as lie is, he has lost common humanity ? But lean more on me, dear¬ est ; you do not know how strong I am 1 Thus alternately chiding, caressing, and encouraging her sister, EllinUr led on the sufferer, till they had crossed the plain, though with slowness and labor, and stood before the porch of the recluse’s house. They had looked back from time to time, but the cause of so much alarm appeared no more. This they deemed a sufficient evidence of the justice of their apprehensions. Madeline would even now fain have detained her sister’s hand from the bell that hung without the porch, half im¬ bedded in ivy ; but Ellinor, out of patience as she well might be_with her sister’s unseasonable prudence, refused any longer delay. So singularly still and solitary was the plain around the house, that the sound of the bell breaking the silence, had in it something startling, and appeared in its sudden and shrill voice, a profanation to the deep tranquillity of the spot. They did not wait long _ a step was heard within—the door was slowly unbarred, and the student himself stood before them. He was a man who might, perhaps, have numbered some five and thirty years ; but at a hasty glance, he would have seemed considerably younger. He was above the ordinary stature ; though a gentle, and not ungrace¬ ful bend in the neck rather than the shoulders, somewdiat / EUGENE ARAM. 43 curtailed his proper advantages of height. His frame was thin and slender, but well knit and fair proportioned. Nature had originally cast his form in an athletic mould; but sedentary habits and the wear of mind, seemed some¬ what to have impaired her gifts. His cheek was pale and dedicate ; yet it was rather the delicacy of thought, than of weak health. His hair, which was long, and of a rich and deep brown, was worn, back from his face and tem¬ ples, and left a broad, high, majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and bare^ and on the brow there was not a single wrinkle, it was as smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago. There was a singular calmness, and, so to speak, profundity, of thought, eloquent- upon its clear expanse, which suggested the idea of one who had passed his life rather in contemplation than emotion. It was a face that a physiognomist would have loved to look upon, so much did it speak both of the refinement and the dignity of intellect. Such was the person — if pictures convey a faithful resemblance — of a man, certainly the most eminent in his day for various and profound learning, and a genius wholly self-taught, yet never contented to repose upon the wonderful stores it had laboriously accumulated. He now stood before the two girls, silent, and evidently surprised ; and it would scarce have been an unworthy subject for a picture — that ivied porch — that still spot •—Madeline’s reclining and subdued form and downcast eyes — the eager face of Ellinor, about to narrate the nature and cause of their intrusion — and the pale student u EUGENE ARAM. himself, thus suddenly aroused from his solitary medita¬ tions, and converted into the protector of beauty. No sooner did Aram gather from Ellinor the outline of their story, and of Madeline’s accident, than his coun¬ tenance and manner testified the liveliest and most eager sympathy. Madeline was inexpressibly touched and sur¬ prised at the kindly and respectful earnestness with which this recluse scholar — usually so cold and abstracted in mood_assisted and led her into the house : the sympa¬ thy he expressed for her pain — the sincerity of his tone — the compassion of his eyes — and as those dark — and to use her own thought — unfathomable orbs bent admir¬ ingly and yet so gently upon her, Madeline, even in spite of her pain, felt an indescribable, a delicious thrill at her heart, which in the presence of no one else had she ever experienced before. Aram now summoned the only domestic his house possessed, who appeared in the form of an old woma.. whom he seemed to have selected from the whole neigh¬ borhood as the person most in keeping with the rigid seclusion he preserved. She was exceedingly deaf, and was a proverb in the village for her extreme taciturnity. Poor old Margaret 1 she was a widow, and had lost ten children by early deaths. There was a time when her gaiety had been as noticeable as her reserve was now. In spite of her infirmity, she was not slow in comprehend¬ ing the accident Madeline had met with ; and she busied herself with a promptness that showed her misfortunes had not deadened her natural kindness of disposition, in » EUGENE ARAM. 45 preparing fomentations and bandages for the wounded foot. Meanwhile Aram, haying no person to send in his stead, undertook to seek the manor-house, and bring back the old family coach, which had dozed inactively in its shelter for the last six months, to convey the sufferer home. “No, Mr. Aram,” said Madeline, coloring, “pray do not go yourself : consider, the man may still be loitering on the road. He is armed — good Heavens, if he should meet you! ” “Fear not, madam,” said Aram, with a faint smile. 11 1 also keep arms, even in this obscure and safe retreat; and to satisfy you, I will not neglect to carry them with me.” As he spoke, he took from the wainscoat, from which they hung, a brace of large horse-pistols, slung them round him by a leathern belt, and flinging over his person, to conceal weapons so alarming to any less dangerous passenger he might encounter, the long cloak then usually worn in inclement seasons, as an outer garment, he turned to depart. “But are they loaded ?” asked Ellin or. Aram answered briefly, in the affirmative. It was some¬ what singular, but the sisters did not then remark it, that a man so peaceable in his pursuits, and seemingly possessed of no valuables that could tempt cupidity, should in that spot, where crime was never heard of, use such habitual precaution. When the door closed upon him, and while the old 46 EUGENE A RA M . woman relieved with a light hand and soothing lotions, which she had shown some skill in preparing, the anguish of the sprain, Madeline cast glances of interest and curi¬ osity, around the apartment into which she had had the rare good fortune to obtain admittance. The house had belonged to a family of some note, whose heirs had outstripped their fortunes. It had been long deserted and uninhabited ; and when Aram settled in those parts, the proprietor was too glad to get rid of the incumbrance of an empty house, at a nominal rent. The solitude of the place had been the main attraction to Aram ; and as he possessed what would be considered a very extensive assortment of books, even for a library of these days, he required a larger apartment than he would have been able to obtain in an abode more com- ^ pact, and more suitable to his fortunes, and mode of living. The room in which the sisters now found themselves was the most spacious in the house, and was indeed of considerable dimensions. It contained in front one large window, jutting from the wall. Opposite was an antique and high mantel-piece of black oak. The rest of the room was walled from the floor to the roof with books; volumes of all languages, and it might almost be said, without much exaggeration, upon all sciences, were strewee around, on the chairs, the tables, or the floor. By the window stood the student’s desk, and a large old-fashioned chair of oak. A few papers, filled with astronomical cal¬ culations, lay on the desk, and these were all the witnesses of the result of study. Indeed Aram does not appear EUGENE ARAM. 47 to have been a man much inclined to reproduce the learn¬ ing he acquired;—what he wrote was in a very small proportion to what he had read. So high and grave was the reputation he had acquired, that the retreat and sanctum of so many learned hours would have been interesting, even to one who could not appreciate learning; but to Madeline, with her peculiar disposition and traits of mind, we may readily conceive that the room presented a powerful and pleasing charm. As the elder sister looked round in silence, Ellinor at¬ tempted to draw the old woman into conversation. She would fain have elicited some particulars of the habits and daily life of the recluse ; but the deafness of their attend¬ ant was so obstinate and hopeless, that she was forced to give up the attempt in despair. “ I fear,” said she at last, her good-nature so far overcome by impatience as not to forbid a slight yawn ; “ I fear we shall have a dull time of it, till my father arrives. Just consider, the fat black mares, never too fast, can only creep along that broken path, — for road there is none: it will be quite night before the coach arrives.” “I am sorry, dear Ellinor, my awkwardness should occasion you so stupid an evening,” answered Madeline. “ Oh,” cried Ellinor, throwing her arms around her sister’s neck, “ it is not for myself I spoke ; and indeed I am delighted to think we have got into this wizard’s den. and seen the instruments of his art. But I do trust Mr. Aram will not meet that terrible man.” “ Nay,” said the prouder Madeline, “ he is armed, and 48 EUGENE ARAM. it is but one man. I feel too high a respect for him to allow myself much fear.” “ But these bookmen are not often heroes,” remarked Ellinor, laughing. “For shame,” said Madeline, the color mounting to her forehead. “ Do you'not remember how, last summer, Eugene Aram rescued dame Greenfield’s child from the bull, though at the literal peril of his own life ? And who but Eugene Aram, when the floods in the year before swept along the lowlands by Fairleigh, went day. after day to rescue the persons or even to save the goods of those poor people; at a time too, when the boldest vil¬ lagers would not hazard themselves across the waters ? — But bless me, Ellinor, what is the matter? you turn pale, you tremble.” “Hush!” said Ellinor under her breath, — and, put¬ ting her finger to her mouth, she rose and stole lightly to the window; she had observed the figure of a man pass by, and now, as she gained the window, she saw him halt by the porch, and recognised the formidable stranger. Presently the bell sounded, and the old woman, familiar with its shrill sound, rose from her kneeling position beside the sufferer to attend to the summons. Ellinor sprang forward and detained her : the poor old woman stared at her in amazement, wholly unable to comprehend her abrupt gestures and her rapid language. It was w r ith considerable- difficulty and after repeated efforts, that she at length impressed the dulled sense of the crone with the nature of their alarm, and the expediency of refusing 49 EUGENE ARAM. admittance to the stranger. Meanwhile, the bell had rang again,— again, and the third time with prolonged violence which testified the impatience of the applicant. As soon as the good dame had satisfied herself as to Ellir.or’s meaning, she could no longer be accused of unreason¬ able taciturnity; she wrung her hands, and poured forth a volley of lamentations and fears, which effectually re¬ lieved Ellinor from the dread of her unheeding the admo¬ nition. Satisfied at having done thus much, Ellinor now herself hastened to the door and secured the ingress with an additional bolt, and then, as the thought flashed upon her, returned to the old woman and made her, with an easier effort than before, now that her senses were sharp¬ ened by fear, comprehend the necessity of securing the back entrance also ; both hastened away to effect this precaution, and Madeline, who herself desired Ellinor to accompany the old woman, was left alone. She kept her eyes fixed on the window with a strange sentiment of dread at being thus left in so helpless a situation; and though a door of no ordinary dimensions and doubly locked in¬ terposed between herself and the intruder, she expected in breathless terror, every instant, to see the form of the ruffian burst into the apartment. As she thus sat and looked, she shudderingly saw the man, tired perhaps of repeating a summons so ineffectual, come to the window and look pryingly within : their eyes met; Madeline had not the power to shriek. Would he break through the window ? that was her only idea, and it deprived her of l. — 5 D 50 EUGENE ARAM. words, almost of sense. He gazed upon her evident ter¬ ror for a moment with a grim smile of contempt; he then knocked at the window, and his voice broke harshly on a silence yet more dreadful than the interruption “ Ho, ho ! so there is some life stirring ! I beg pardon, madam, is Mr. Aram — Eugene Aram, within ? ” “No,” said Madeline faintly, and then, sensible that her voice had not reached him, she reiterated the answer in a louder tone. The man, as if satisfied, made a rude inclination of his head and withdrew from the window. Ellinor now returned, and with difficulty Madeline found words to explain to her what had passed. It will be con¬ ceived that the two young ladies watched the arrival of their father with no lukewarm expectation; the stranger however appeared no more ; and in about an hour, to their inexpressible joy, they heard the rumbling sound of the old coach as it rolled towards the house. This time there was nc delay in unbarring the door EUGENE ARAM. 51 CHAPTER IV. THE SOLILOQUY, AND THE CHARACTER OF A RECLUSE.— THE INTERRUPTION. “Or let my lamp at midnight hour , Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, Or thrice-great Hermes, and unsphere The spirit of Plato.”— ^Milton: Penseroso. As Aram assisted the beautiful Madeline into the cai- riage— as he listened to her sweet voice — as he marked the grateful expression of her soft eyes — as he felt the slight yet warm pressure of her fairy hand, that vague sensation of delight which preludes love, for the first time, in his sterile and solitary life, agitated his breast. Lester held out his hand to him with a frank cordiality which the scholar could not resist. “ Do not let us be strangers, Mr. Aram,” said he warm¬ ly. “ It is not often that I press for companionship out of my own circle ; but in your company I should find pleasure as well as instruction. Let us break the ice boldly, and at once. Come and dine with me to-morrow, and Ellinor shall sing to us in the evening.” The excuse died upon Aram’s lips. Another glance at Madeline conquered the remains of his reserve: he ac- y Of (U- U& 52 EUGENE ARAM. cepted the invitation, and he could not but mark, with an unfamiliar emotion of the heart, that the eyes of Madeline sparkled as he did so. With an abstracted air, and arms folded across his breast, he gazed after the carriage till the winding of the valley snatched it from his view. He then, waking from his reverie with a start, turned into the house, and carefully closing and barring the door, mounted with slow steps to the lofty chamber with which, the better to indulge his astronomical researches, he had crested his lonely abode. It was now night. The heavens broadened round him in all the loving yet august tranquillity of the season and the hour ; the stars bathed the living atmosphere with a solemn light; and above — about — around — “ The holy time was quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.” He looked forth upon the deep and ineffable stillness of the night, and indulged the reflections it suggested. “Ye mystic lights,” said he soliloquizing:—“worlds upon worlds — infinite — incalculable. — Bright defiers of rest and change, rolling for ever above our petty sea of mortality, as, wave after wave, we fret forth our little life and sink into the black abyss;—can we look upon you, note your appointed order, and your unvarying course, and not feel that we are indeed the poorest pup¬ pets of an all-pervading and resistless destiny ? Shall we see throughout creation each marvel fulfilling its pre¬ ordered fate — no wandering from its orbit — no variation in its seasons — and yet imagine that the Arch-ordainer EUGENE ARAM. 53 will hold back the tides he has sent from their unseen source, at our miserable bidding ? Shall we think that our prayers can avert a doom woven with the skein of events ? To change a particle of our fate, might change the fate of millions 1 Shall the link forsake the chain, and yet the chain be unbroken ? Away, then, with our vague repinings and our blind demands. All must walk onward to their goal, be he the wisest who looks not one step behind. The colors of our existence were doomed before our birth — our sorrows and our crimes; —millions of ages back, when this hoary earth was peopled by other kinds, yea ! ere its atoms had formed one layer of its present soil, the Eternal and the all-seeing ruler of the universe, Destiny, or God, had here fixed the mo¬ ment of our birth and the limits of our career. — What then is crime ? — Fate ! What life ? —Submission. ” Such were the strange and dark thoughts which, con¬ stituting -a part indeed of his established creed, broke over Aram’s mind. He sought for a fairer subject for meditation, and Madeline Lester rose before him. Eugene Aram was a man whose whole life seemed to have been one sacrifice to knowledge. What is termed pleasure had no attraction for him. — From the mature manhood at which he had arrived, he looked back along his youth, and recognized no youthful folly. Love he had hitherto regarded with a cold though not an incuri¬ ous eye : intemperance had never lured him to a moment¬ ary self-abandonment. Even the innocent relaxations with which the austerest minds relieve their accustomed toils, 5 * 84 EUGENE ARAM. had had no power to draw him from his beloved researches. The delight monstrari digito ; the gratification of triumph¬ ant wisdom ; the whispers of an elevated vanity; existed not for his self-dependent and solitary heart. He was one of those earnest and high-wrought enthusiasts who now are almost extinct upon earth, and whom romance has not hitherto attempted to portray; men not uncom¬ mon in the last century, who were devoted to knowledge, yet disdainful of its fame; who lived for nothing else than to learn. From store to store, from treasure to treasure, they proceeded in exulting labor, and having accumulated all, they bestowed nought; they were the arch-misers of the wealth of letters. Wrapped in obscurity, in some sheltered nook, remote from the great stir of men, they passed a life at once unprofitable and glorious ; the least part of what they ransacked would appal the industry of a modern student, yet the most superficial of modern students might effect more for mankind. They lived among oracles, but they gave none forth. And yet, even in this very barrenness, there seems something high ; it was a rare and great spectacle — Men, living aloof from the roar and strife of the passions that raged below, de¬ voting themselves to the knowledge which is our purifica¬ tion and our immortality on earth, and yet deaf and blind to the allurements of the vanity which generally accom¬ panies research ; refusing the ignorant homage of their kind, making their sublime motive their only meed, ador¬ ing Wisdom for her sole sake, and set apart in the popu¬ lous universe, like stars, luminous with their own light. 4 EUGENE ARAM. 5L\ but too remote from the earth on which they looked, to shed over its inmates the lustre with which they glowed. From his youth to the present period, Aram had dwelt little in cities though he had visited many, yet he coiffd scarcely be called ignorant of mankind; there seems some¬ thing intuitive in the science which teaches us the know¬ ledge of our race. Some men emerge from their seclusion, an I find, all at once, a power to dart into the minds and drag forth the motives of those they see ; it is a sort of second-sight, born with them, not acquired. And Aram, it may be, rendered yet more acute by his profound and habitual investigations of our metaphysical frame, never quitted his solitude to mix with others, without penetra¬ ting into the broad traits or prevalent infirmities their characters possessed. In this, indeed, he differed from the scholar tribe, and even in abstraction was mechanic¬ ally vigilant and observant. Much in his nature would, had early circumstances given it a different bias, have fit¬ ted him for worldly superiority and command. A resist¬ less energy, an unbroken perseverance, a profound and scheming and subtle thought, a genius fertile in resources, a tongue clothed with eloquence, all, had his ambition so chosen, might have given him the same empire over the physical, that he had now attained over the intellectual world. It could not be said that Aram wanted benevo¬ lence, but it was dashed, and mixed with a certain scorn : the benevolence was the offspring of his nature; the scorn seemed the result of his pursuits. He would feed the birds from his window, he would tread aside to avoid the 56 EUGENE ARAM. worm on his path ; were one of his own tribe in danger he would save him at the hazard of his life : — yet in his heart he despised men, and believed them beyond ameli¬ oration. Unlike the present race of schoolmen, who in¬ cline to the consoling hope of human perfectibility, he saw in the gloomy past but a dark prophecy of the future. As Napoleon wept over one wounded soldier in the field of battle, yet ordered, without emotion, thousands to a certain death; so Aram would have sacrificed himself for an individual, but would not have sacrificed a momentary gratification for his race. And this sentiment towards men, at once of high disdain and profound despondency, was perhaps the cause why he rioted in indolence upon his extraordinary mental wealth, and could not be per¬ suaded either to dazzle the world or to serve it. But by little and little his fame had broke forth from the limits with which he would have walled it: a man who had taught himself, under singular difficulties, nearly all the languages of the civilized earth ; the profound mathematician, the elaborate antiquarian, the abstruse philologist, uniting with his graver lore the more florid accomplishments of science, from the scholastic trifling of heraldry to the gen¬ tle learning of herbs and flowers, could scarcely hope for utter obscurity in that day when all intellectual acquire¬ ment was held in high honor, and its possessors were drawn together into a sort of brotherhood by the fellow¬ ship of their pursuits. And though Aram gave little or nothing to the world himself, he was ever willing to com¬ municate to others any benefit or honor derivable from EUGENE ARAM. 57 * his researches. On the alta,r of science he kindled nc light, but the fragrant oil in the lamps of his more pious brethen was largely borrowed from his stores. From al¬ most every college in Europe came to his obscure abode letters of acknowledgment or inquiry ; and few foreign cultivators of learning visited this country without seek¬ ing an interview with Aram. He received them with all the modesty and courtesy that characterized his demeanor; but it was noticeable that he never allowed these inter¬ ruptions to be more than temporary : he proffered no hos¬ pitality, and shrunk back from all offers of friendship ; the interview lasted its hour, and was seldom renewed. Patronage was not less distasteful to him than sociality. Some occasional visits and condescensions of the great, he had received with a stern haughtiness, rather than his wonted and subdued urbanity. The precise amount of his fortune was not known ; his wants were so few, that what would have been poverty to others might easily have been competence to him; and the only evidence he manifested of the command of money, was in his extended and various library. He had now been about two years settled in his present retreat. Unsocial as he was, every one in the neighbor¬ hood loved him; even the reserve of a man so eminent, arising as it was supposed to do from a painful modesty, had in it something winning ; and he had been known to evince, on great occasions, a charity and a courage in the service of others which removed from the seclusion of his \ abits the semblance of misanthropy and of avarice, EUGENE ARAM. bS The peasant drew aside with a kindness mingled with his respect, as in his homeward walk he encountered the pale and thoughtful student, with the folded arms and downcast eyes, which characterized the abstraction of his mood ; and the village maiden, as she curtsied by him, stole a glance at his handsome but melancholy counte¬ nance ; and told her sweetheart she was certain the poor scholar had been crossed in love. And thus passed the student’s life; perhaps its monotony and dulness required less compassion than they received; no man can judge of the happiness of another. As the moon plays upon the waves, and seems to our eyes to favor with a peculiar beam one long track amidst the waters, leaving the rest in comparative obscurity ; yet all the while she is no niggard in her lustre — for though the rays that meet not our eyes seem to us as though they were not, yet she with an equal and unfavoring loveli¬ ness, mirrors herself on every wave: even so, perhaps, happiness falls with the same brightness and power over the whole expanse of life, though to our limited eyes she seems only to rest on those billows from which the ray is reflected back upon our sight. From this contemplation, of whatsoever nature, Aram was now aroused by a loud summons at the door ; the clock had gone eleven. Who could at that late hour, when the whole village was buried in sleep, demand ad¬ mittance ? He reecollected that Madeline had said the stranger who had so alarmed them had inquired for him; EUGENE ARAM. 59 at that recollection his cheek suddenly blanched, but again that stranger was surely only some poor traveller who had heard of his wonted charity, and had called to solicit relief, for he had not met the stranger on the road to Les¬ ter’s house ; and he had naturally set down the apprehen¬ sions of his fair visitants to a mere female timidity. Who could this be ? no humble wayfarer would at that hour crave assistance: some disaster perhaps in the village. From his lofty chamber he looked forth-*and saw the stars watch quietly over the scattered cottages and the dark foliage that slept breathlessly around. All was still as death, but it seemed the stillness of innocence and secu¬ rity : again! the bell again! He thought he heard his name shouted without; he strode once or twice irreso¬ lutely to and fro the chamber; and then his step grew firm, and his native courage returned. His pistols were still girded round him; he looked to the priming, and muttered some incoherent words; he then descended the stairs, and slowly unbarred the'door. Without the porch, the moonlight full upon his harsh features, and sturdy frame, stood the ill-omened traveller. » 60 EUGENE ARAM. CHAPTER Y. A DINNER AT THE SQUIRE’S HALL.-A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO RETIRED MEN WITH DIFFERENT OBJECTS IN RETIREMENT.—DISTURBANCE FIRST INTRODUCED INTO A PEACEFUL FAMILY. “Can he not be sociable?” — Troilus and Cressida. “Subit quippe etiam ipsius inertim dulcedo; et invisa primo desi- dia postremo amatur.” — Tacitus. “How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.” Winter’s Tale. The next day, faithful to his appointment, Aram ar¬ rived at Lester’s. The good squire received him with a warm cordiality, and Madeline with a blush and a smile that ought to have been more grateful to him than ac¬ knowledgments. She was still a prisoner to the sofa, but in compliment to Aram, the sofa was wheeled into the hall, where they dined, so that she was not absent from the repast. It was a pleasant room, that old hall! Though it was summer—more for cheerfulness than warmth, the log burnt on the spacious hearth: but at the same time the latticed windows were thrown open, and the fresh yet sunny air stole in, rich from the embrace of the woodbine EUGENE ARAM. 61 and clematis, which clung lovingly around the casement A few old pictures were panelled in the oaken wain¬ scot ; and here and there the horns of the mighty stag adorned the walls and united with the cheeriness of com¬ fort, associations of that of enterprise. The good old board was crowded with the luxuries meet for a country squire. The speckled trout, fresh from the stream, and the four-year-old mutton modestly disclaiming its own ex¬ cellent merits, by affecting the shape and assuming the adjuncts of venison. Then for the confectionary,— it was worthy of Ellinor, to whom that department generally fell; and we should scarcely be surprised to find, though we venture not to affirm, that its delicate fabrication owed more to her than superintendence. Then the ale, and the cider, with rosemary in the bowl, were incomparable potations; and to the gooseberry wine, which would have filled Mrs. Primrose with envy, was added the more gen¬ erous warmth of port, which in the squire’s younger days had been the talk of the country, and which had now lost none of its attributes, save “the original brightness” of its color. But (the wine excepted) these various dainties met with slight honor from their abstemious guest: and, for though habitually reserved he was rarely gloomy, they remarked that he seemed unusually fitful and sombre in his mood. Something appeared to rest upon his mind, from which, by the excitement of wine and occasional bursts of eloquence more animated than ordinary, he seemed striving to escape; and at length he apparently I. —6 62 EUGENE ARAM. suceeded. Naturally enough, the conversation turned upon the curiosities and the scenery of the country around ; and here Aram shone with a peculiar grace. Vividly alive to the influences of nature, and minutely acquainted with its varieties, he invested every hill and glade to which remark recurred with the poetry of his descriptions; and from his research he gave even scenes the most familiar, a charm and interest which had been strange to them till then. To this stream some romantic legend had once attached itself, long forgotten and now revived ; that moor, so barren to an ordinary eye, was yet productive of some rare and curious herb, whose properties afforded scope for lively description ; that old mound was yet rife in at¬ traction to one versed in antiquities, and able to explain its origin, and from such explanation deduce a thousand classic or Celtic episodes. No subject was so homely or so trite but the knowledge that had neglected nothing, was able to render it lumin¬ ous and new. And as he spoke, the scholar’s countenance brightened, and his voice, at first hesitating and low, com¬ pelled the attention to its earnest and winning music. Lester himself, a man who, in his long retirement, had not forgotten the attractions of intellectual society, nor even neglected a certain cultivation of intellectual pur¬ suits, enjoying a pleasure that he had not experienced for years. The gay Ellinor was fascinated into admira¬ tion ; and Madeline, the most silent of the group, drank in every word, unconscious of the sweet poison she imbibed. Walter alone seemed not carried away by the eloquence EUGENE ARAM. 63 of their guest. He preserved an unadmiring and sullen demeanor, and every now and then regarded Aram with looks of suspicion and dislike. This was more remark¬ able when the men were left alone; and Lester in sur¬ prise and anger, darted significant and admonitory looks towards his nephew, which at length seemed to arouse him into a more hospitable bearing. As the cool of the evening now came on, Lester proposed to Aram to enjoy it without, previous to returning to the parlor, to which the ladies had retired. Walter excused himself from joining them. The host and the guest accordingly strolled forth alone. “ Your solitude,” said Lester smiling, “is far deepel and less broken than mine: do you never find it irksome ? ” “ Can humanity be at all times contented ? ” said Aram. “No stream, howsoever secret or subterranean, glides on in eternal tranquillity.” “ You allow, then, that you feel some occasional desire for a more active and animated life ? ” “ Nay,” answered Aram ; “ that is scarcely a fair corol¬ lary from my remark. I may, at times, feel the weari¬ ness of existence — the tedium vitoe; but I know well that the cause is not to be remedied by a change from tranquillity to agitation. The objects of the great world are to be pursued only by the excitement of the passions. The passions are at once our masters and our deceivers ; — they urge us onward, yet present no limit to our pro¬ gress. The farther we proceed, the more dim and shadowy grows the goal. It is impossible for a man who leads the I 64 EUGENE ARAM. life of the world, the life of the passions, ever to experi enee content. For the life of the passions is that of a perpetual desire ; but a state of content is the absence of all desire. Thus philosophy has become another name for mental quietude ; and all wisdom points to a life of intellectual indifference, as the happiest that earth can bestow.” “ This may be true enough,” said Lester reluctantly; “ but — ” “ But what ? ” “A something at our hearts — a secret voice — an involuntary impulse — rebels against it, and points to action — action, as the true sphere of man.” A slight smile curled the lip of the student; he avoid¬ ed, however, the argument, and remarked, “Yet, if you think so, the world lies before you : why not return to it ? ” “ Because constant habit is stronger than occasional impulse ; and my seclusion, after all, has its sphere of action — has its object.” “All seclusion has.” “ All ? Scarcely so ; for me, I have my object of in¬ terest in my children.” “And mine is in my books.” “And engaged in your object, does not the whisper of fame ever animate you with the desire to go forth into the world, and receive the homage that would await you ? ” “ Listen to me,” replied Aram. “ When I was a bov, I went once to a theatre. The tragedy of Hamlet was EUGENE ARAM. 65 performed : a play full of the noblest thoughts, the sub* tlest morality, that exists upon the stage. The audience listened with attention, with admiration, with applause. I said to myself, when the curtain fell, * It must be a glo¬ rious thing to obtain this empire over men’s intellects and emotions.’ But now an Italian mountebank appeared on the- stage,— a man of extraordinary personal strength and sleight of'hand. He performed a variety of juggling tricks, and distorted his body into a thousand surprising and unnatural postures. The audience were transported beyond themselves : if they had felt delight in Hamlet, they glowed with rapture at the mountebank : they had listened with attention to the lofty thought, but they were snatched from themselves by the marvel of the strange posture. * Enough,’ said I; ‘I correct mv^ former notion. Where is the glory of ruling men’s minds, and command¬ ing their admiration, when a greater enthusiasm is excited by mere bodily agility, than was kindled by the most won¬ derful emanations of a genius little less than divine ? ’ I have never forgotten the impression of that evening.” Lester attempted to combat the truth of the illustra¬ tion, and thus conversing, they passed on through the village-green, where the gaunt form of Corporal Bunting arrested their progress. “Beg pardon, squire,” said he, with a military salute ; “beg pardon, your honor,” bowing to Aram; “but I wanted to speak to you, squire, ’bout the rent of the bit cot yonder ; times very hard — pay scarce — Michaelmas dose at hand — and — ” I. — 6 * E 66 EUGENE ARAM. “ iTou desire a little delay, Bunting, eh ? —Well, well, we’ll see about it, look up at the hall to-morrow ; Mr. Walter, I know, wants to consult you about letting the water from the great pond, and you must give us your opinion of the new brewing.” “Thank your honor, thank you; much obliged I’m sure I hope your honor liked the trout I sent up. Beg pardon, Master Aram, mayhap you would condescend to accept a few fish now and then ; they’re very fine in these streams, as you probably know ; if you please to let me, I’ll send some up by the old ’oman to-morrow—that is, if the day’s cloudy a bit.” The scholar thanked the good Bunting, and would have proceeded onward, but the corporal was in a familiar mood. “Beg pardon, beg pardon, but strange-looking dog here last evening — asked after you—said you were old friend of his — trotted off in your direction — hope all was right, Master ? — augh ! ” “All right 1 ” repeated Aram, fixing his eyes on the corporal, who had concluded his speech with a significant wink, and pausing a full moment before he continued; then, as if satisfied with his survey, he added : “ Ay, ay, I know whom you mean ; he had known me gome years ago. So you saw him 1 What did he say to you of me ? ” “ Augh ! little enough, Master Aram : he seemed to think only of satisfying his own appetite: said he’d been a soldier.” “ A soldier, humph 1 ” EUGENE ARAM. 67 A “Never told me the regiment though,— shy—> did he ever desert, pray, your honor ? ” “ I don’t know ; ” answered Aram, turning away. “ I know little, very little, about him ! ” He was going away, but stopped to add : “ The man called on me last night for assistance; the lateness of the hour a little alarmed me I gave him what I could afford, and he has now proceeded on his journey.” “ Oh, then, he won’t take up his quarters hereabouts, your honor ? ” said the corporal, inquiringly. “No, no; good evening.” “What! this singular stranger, who so frightened my poor girls, is really known to you,” said Lester, in sur¬ prise : “ pray, is he as formidable as he seemed to them ? ” “Scarcely,” said Aram, w r ith great composure; “he has been a wild roving fellow all his life, but — but there is little real harm in him. He is certainly ill-favored enough to — ” here, interrupting himself, and breaking into a new sentence, Aram added ; “but at all events he will frighten your nieces no more — he has proceeded on his journey northward. And now yonder lies my way home. Good evening.” The abruptness of this farewell did indeed take Lester by surprise. “ Why you will not leave me yet ? The young ladies expect your return to them for an hour or so 1 What will they think of such desertion? No, no, come back, my good friend, and suffer me by and by to walk some part of the way home with you.” “ Pardon me,” said Aram, “ I must leave you now 68 EUGENE ARAM. As to the ladies,” he added with a faint smile, half in melancholy, half in scorn, “ I am not one whom they could miss;—forgive me if I seem unceremonious. Adieu. ” Lester at first felt a little offended, but when he recalled the peculiar habits of the scholar, he saw that the only wav to hope for a continuance of that society which had so pleased him, was to indulge Aram at first in his un¬ social inclinations, rather than annoy him by a troublesome hospitality; he therefore, without further discourse, shook hands with him, and they parted. When Lester regained the little parlor, he found his nephew sitting silent and discontented, by the window. Madeline had taken up a book, and Ellinor, in an oppo¬ site corner, was plying her needle with an air of earnest¬ ness and quiet, very unlike her usual playful and cheerful vivacity. There was evidently a cloud over the group; the good Lester regarded them with a searching, jet kindly eye. “ And what has happened ? ” said he ; “ something of mighty import, I am sure, or I should have heard my pretty Ellinor’s merry laugh, long before I crossed the threshold.” Ellinor colored and sighed, and worked faster than ever. Walter threw open the window, and whistled a favorite air quite out of tune. Lester smiled, and seated himself by his nephew. “ Well, Walter,” said he, “ I feel, for the first time these ten years, I have a right to scold you. What on earth ;ould make you so inhospitable to your uncle’s guest ? EUGENE ARAM. 69 You eyed the poor student, as if you wished him among ^ the books of Alexandria! ” “ I would he were burnt with them ! ” answered Walter, sharply. “ He seems to have added the black art to his other accomplishments, and bewitched my fair cousins here into a forgetfulness of all but himself.” “ Not me ! ” said Ellinor eagerly, and looking up. “No, not you, that’s true enough; you are too just, too kind; —it is a pity that Madeline is not more like you.” “My dear Walter,” said Madeline, “what is the mat¬ ter ? You accuse me of what ? being attentive to a man whom it is impossible to hear without attention ! ” “There!” cried Walter passionately; “you confess it; and so for a stranger,— a cold, vain, pedantic egotist, you can shut your ears and heart to those who have known and loved you all your life ; and — and—” “Tain!” interrupted Madeline, unheeding the latter part of Walter’s address. Pedantic ! ” repeated her father. “ Yes ! I say vain, pedantic ! ” cried Walter, working himself into a passion. “ What on earth but the love of display could make him monopolize the whole conversa¬ tion ! — What but pedantry, could make him bring out those anecdotes and allusions, and descriptions, or what¬ ever you call them, respecting every old wall or stupid plant in the country ? ” “ I never thought you guilty of meanness before,” said Lester, gravely. “ Meanness 1 ” io EUGENE ARAM. “Yes! for is it not mean to be jealous of superior acquirements, instead of admiring them ? ” “ What has been the use of those acquirements ? Has he benefited mankind by them? Show me the poet — the historian—the orator, and I will yield to none of you ; no, not to Madeline herself, in homage of their genius : but the mere creature of books — the dry and sterile col¬ lector of other men’s learning — no — no. What should I admire in such a machine of literature, except a waste of perseverance? — And Madeline calls him handsome too l” At this sudden turn from declamation to reproach, Les¬ ter laughed outright; and his nephew, in high anger, rose and left the room. “ Who would have thought Walter so foolish ? ” said Madeline. “Nay,” observed Ellinor gently, “it is the folly of a kind heart, after all. He feels sore at our seeming to prefer another—I mean another’s conversation—to his !” Lester turned round his chair, and regarded with a serious look, the faces of both sisters. “ My dear Ellinor,” said he, after he had finished his survey, “you are a kind girl — come and kiss me !” EUGENE ARAM. 71 CHAPTER YI. TflE BEHAVIOR OF THE STUDENT. — A SUMMER SCENE.— ARAM’S CONVERSATION WITH WALTER, AND SUBSEQUENT COLLOQUY WITH HIMSELF. “ The soft season, the firmament serene, The loun illuminate air, and firth amene The silver-scalit fishes on the grete O’er-thwart clear streams sprinkillond for the heat,” &c. Gaw-in Douglas. -“Ilia subter Caecum vulnus habes ; sed lato balteus aur Proetegit.” — Persius. Several days elapsed before the family of the manor- house encountered Aram again. The old woman came once or twice to present the inquiries of her master as to Miss Lester’s accident: but Aram himself did not appear. This want of interest certainly offended Madeline, although she still drew upon herself Walter’s displeasure, by dis¬ puting and resenting the unfavorable strictures on the scholar, in which that young gentleman delighted to indulge. By degrees, however, as the days passed without maturing the acquaintance which Walter had disapproved, the youth relaxed in his attacks, and seemed to yield to the remonstrances of his uncle. Lester had, indeed, con¬ ceived an especial inclination towards the recluse. Anv 72 EUGENE ARAM man of reflection, who has lived for some time alone, and who suddenly meets with one who calls forth in him, and without labor or contradiction, the thoughts which have sprung up in his solitude, scarcely felt in their growth, will comprehend the new zest, the awakening, as it were, of the mind, which Lester found in the conversation of Eugene Aram. His solitary walk (for his nephew had the separate pursuits of youth) appeared to him more dull than before ; and he longed to renew an intercourse which had given to the monotony of his life both variety and relief. He called twice upon Aram, but the student was, or affected to be, from home; and an invitation he sent him, though couched in friendly terms, was, but with great semblance of kindness, refused. “ See, Walter,” said Lester, disconcerted, as he finished reading the refusal — “see what your rudeness has effect¬ ed. I am quite convinced that Aram (evidently a man of susceptible as well as retired mind) observed the cold¬ ness of your manner towards him, and thus you have de¬ prived me of the only society which, in this county of boors'and savages, gave me any gratification.” Walter replied apologeticall}’-, but his uncle turned away with a greater appearance of anger than his placid fea¬ tures were wont to exhibit; and Walter, cursing the inno¬ cent cause of his uncle’s displeasure towards him, took up his fishing-rod and went out alone, in no happy or exhil¬ arated mood. It was waxing towards eve—an hour especially lovely in the month of June, and not without reason favored by EUGENE ARAM. 73 the angler. Walter sauntered across the rich and fra¬ grant fields, and came soon into a sheltered valley, through which the brooklet wound its shadowy way. Along the margin the grass sprang up long and matted, and profuse with a thousand weeds and flowers — the children of the teeming June. Here the ivy-leaved bell-flower, and not far from it the common enchanter's night-shade, the silver weed, and water-aven ; and by the hedges that now and then neared the water, the guelder-rose, and the white briony, overrunning the thicket with its emerald leaves, and luxuriant flowers. And here and there, silvering the bushes, the elder offered its snowy tribute to the summer. All the insect youth were abroad, with their bright wings and glancing motion ; and from the lower depths of the bushes the blackbird darted across, or higher and unseen the first cuckoo of the eve began its continuous and mellow note. All this cheeriness and gloss of life, which enamour us with the few bright days of the English summer, make the poetry in an angler’s life, and convert every idler at heart into a moralist, and not a gloomy one, for the time. Softened by the quiet beauty and voluptuousness around him, Walter’s thoughts assumed a more gentle dye, and he broke out into the old lines : “Sweet day, so soft, so calm, so bright; The bridal of the earth and sky,” &c. as he dipped his line into the current, and drew it across the shadowy hollows beneath the bank. The river-god’s were not, however, in a favorable mood, and after waiting I — 7 74 EUGENE ARAM. id vain for some time, in a spot in which he was usually successful, he proceeded slowly along the margin of the brooklet, crushing the reeds at every step, into that fresh and delicious odor, which furnished Bacon with one of his most beautiful'comparisons. He thought as he proceeded, that beneatn a tree that overhung the waters in the narrowest part of their chan¬ nel, he heard a voice, and as he approached he recognised it as Aram’s ; a curve in the stream brought him close by the spot, and he saw the student half reclined beneath the tree, and muttering, but at broken intervals, to himself. The words were so scattered, that Walter did not trace their clue ; but involuntarily he stopped short, with¬ in a few feet of the soliloquist: and Aram, suddenly turn¬ ing round, beheld him. A fierce and abrupt change broke over the scholar’s countenauce ; his cheek grew now pale, now flushed; and his brows knit over his flashing and dark eyes with an intent anger, that was the more with¬ ering, from its contrast to the usual calmness of his fea¬ tures. Walter drew back, but Aram stalking directly up to him, gazed into his face as if he would read his very soul. “ What! eaves-dropping ? ” said he with a ghastly smile. “ You overheard me, did you ? Well, well, what said I \ — what said I ? ” Then pausing, and noting that Walter did not reply, he stamped his foot violently, and grinding his teeth, repeated in a smothered tone, “ Boy, what said I? ” “ Mr. Aram,” said Walter, “you forget yourself; I air not one to play the listener, more especially to the learn EUGENE ARAM. 75 ed ravings of a man who can conceal nothing I care to know. Accident brought me hither.” “What! surely — surely I spoke aloud, did I not?—• did I not ? ” “You did, but so incoherently and indistinctly, that I did not profit by your indiscretion. I cannot plagiarize, I assure you, from any scholastic designs you might have been giving vent to.” Aram looked on him for a moment, and then breathing heavily, turned away. “ Pardon me,” he said ; “ I am a poor half-crazed man; much study has unnerved me ; I should never live but with my own thoughts; forgive me, sir, I pray you.” Touched by the sudden contrition of Aram’s manner, Walter forgot, not only his present displeasure, but his general dislike ; he stretched forth his hand to the student, and hastened to assure him of his ready forgiveness. ** Aram sighed deeply as he pressed the young man’s hand, and Walter saw with surprise and emotion, that his eyes were filled with tears. “Ah!” said Aram, gently shaking his head, “it is a hard life we bookman lead. Not for us is the bright face of noon-day or the smile of woman, the gay unbending of the heart, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump ; the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life. Our enjoy¬ ments are few and calm ; our labor constant; but that i* it not, sir? — that is it not? the body avenges its ow neglect. We grow old before our time ; we wither up; the sap of youth shrinks from our veins ; there is no 76 F LMj E N E A LI AM. bound in our step. We look about us with dimmed eves, and our breath grows short and thick, and pains and coughs, and shooting aches come upon us at night; it is a bitter life — a bitter life — a joyless life. I would I had never commenced it. And yet the harsh wor’d scowls upon us: our nerves are broken, and they wonder that we are querulous; our blood curdles, and they ask why we are not gay : our brain grows dizzy and indistinct (as with me just now,) and shrugging their shoulders, they whisper their neighbors that we are mad. I wish I had worked at the plough, and known sleep, and loved mirth — and — and not been what I am.” As the student uttered the last sentence, he bowed down his head, and a few tears stole silently down his cheek. Walter was greatly affected — it took him by surprise ; nothing in Aram’s ordinary demeanor betrayed any facil¬ ity to emotion; and he conveyed to all the idea of a man, if not proud, at least cold. “ You do not suffer bodily pain, I trust ? ” asked Wal¬ ter, soothingly. “ Pain does not conquer me,” said Aram, slowly recov¬ ering himself. “I am not melted by that which I would fain despise. Young man, I wronged you — you ha?e forgiven me. Well, well, we will say no more on that head; it is past and pardoned. Your uncle has been kind to me, and I have not returned his advances; you shall tell him why. I have lived thirteen years by myself, and I have contracted strange ways and many humors not common to the world—you have seen an example of EUGENE ARAM. 77 this. Judge for yourself if I be fit for the smoothness, and confidence, and ease of social intercourse ; I am not fit, I feel it! I am doomed to be alone — tell your uncle this — tell him to suffer me to live so ! I am grateful for his goodness — I know his motives — but have a certain pride of mind ; I cannot bear sufferance — I lothe indul¬ gence. Nay, interrupt me not, I beseech you. Look round on nature — behold the only company that hum¬ bles me not — except the dead whose souls speak to us from the immortality of books. These herbs at your feet, I know their secrets — I watch the mechanism of their life; the winds — they have taught me their lan¬ guage; the stars — I have unraveled their mysteries; and these, the creatures and ministers of God — these I offend not by my mood — to them I utter my thoughts, and break forth into my dreams, without reserve and without fear. But men disturb me — I have nothing to learn from them — I have no wish to confide in them; they cripple the wild liberty which has become to me a second nature. What its shell is to the tortoise, solitude has become to me — my protection ; nay, my life I ” “But,” said Walter, “with us, at least, you would not have to dread restraint; you might come when you would ; be silent or converse according to your will.” Aram smiled faintly, but made no immediate reply. “ So, you have been angling ! ” he said, after a short pause, and as if willing to change the thread of conver¬ sation. “ Lie ! It is a treacherous pursuit; it encour¬ ages man’s worst propensities — cruelty and deceit.” 7 * T8 EUGENE ARAM. “ 1 should have thought a lover of nature would have been more indulgent to a pastime which introduces us to her most quiet retreats.’ 1 “ And cannot nature alone tempt you without need of rich allurements ? What! that crisped and winding stream, with flowers on its every tide — the water-violet and the water-lily — these silent brakes — the cool of the gathering evening — the still and luxuriance of universal life aronnd you ; are not these enough of themselves to tempt you forth ? if not, goto—your excuse is hypocrisy.” “I am used to these scenes,” replied Walter; “I am weary of the thoughts they produce in me, and long for any diversion or excitement.” “ Ay, ay, young man ! The mind is restless at your age — have a care. Perhaps you long to visit the world — to quit these obscure haunts w'hich you are fatigued in admiring ? ” “It may be so,” said Walter with a slight sigh. “I should at least like to visit our great capital, and note the contrast; I should come back, I imagine, with a greater zest to these scenes.” Aram laughed. “My friend,” said he, “when men have once plunged into the great sea of human toil and passion, they soon wash away all love and zest for inno¬ cent enjoyments. What once was a soft retirement, will become the most intolerable monotony; the gaming of social existence — the feverish and desperate chances of honor and wealth, upon which the men of cities set their hearts, render all pursuits less exciting, utterly insipid and EUGENE ARAM. 79 dull. The brook and the angle — ha — ha ! — these are not occupations for men who have once battled with the world. ” “I can forego them, then, without regret;” said Wal¬ ter with the sanguineness of his years. Aram looked upon him wistfully ; the bright eye, the healthy cheek, and vigorous frame of the youth, united with his desire to seek the conflict cf his kind, gave a naturalness to his ambition, which was not without interest, even to the recluse. “ Poor boy 1 ” said he mournfully, “ how gallantly the ship leaves the port; how worn and battered it will return ! ” When they parted, Walter returned slowly nomewards, filled with pity towards the singular man whom he had seen so strangely overpowered ; and wondering how sud¬ denly his mind had lost its former rancor to the student. Yet there mingled even with these kindly feelings, a little displeasure at the superior tone which Aram had uncon¬ sciously adopted towards him; and to which, from any one, the high spirit of the young man was not readily willing to submit. Meanwhile, the student continued his path along the watei side, and as, with his gliding step and musing air, he roamed onward, it was impossible to imagine a form more suited to the deep tranquillity of the scene. Even the wild birds seemed to feel by a sort of instinct, that in lnm there was no cause for fear ; and did not stir from the turf that neighbored or the spray that overhung his path. 80 EUGENE ARAM. “ So,” said he, soliloquizing, but not without casting frequent and jealous glances round him, and in a murmur so indistinct as would have been inaudible even to a lis¬ tener— “so, I was not overheard,— well, I must cure myself of this habit; our thoughts, like nuns, ought not to go abroad without a veil. Ay, this tone will not be¬ tray me, I will preserve its tenor, for I can scarcely alto¬ gether renounce my sole confidant — self; and thought seems more clear when uttered even thus. ’Tis a fine youth ! full of the impulse and daring of his years ; I was never so young at heart. I was — nay, what matters it? Who is answerable for his nature ? Who can say, “ I con¬ trolled all the circumstances which made me what I am ? 7> Madeline,— heavens ! did I bring on myself this tempta¬ tion ? Have I not fenced it from me throughout all my youth, when my brain did at moments forsake me, and the veins did bound ? And now, when the yellow hastens on the green of life ; now, for the first time, this emotion — this weakness — and for whom ? One I have lived with—known—beneath whose eyes I have passed through all the fine gradations, from liking to love, from love to passion ? No ; — one, whom I have seen but little ; who, it is true, arrested my eye at the first glance it caught of hei two years since, but with whom till within the last few weeks I have scarcely spoken 1 Her voice rings on my ear, her look dwell? on my heart; when I sleep, she is with me ; when I wake, I am haunted by her image. Strange, strange ! Is love then, after all, the sudden pas¬ sion which in every age poetry has termed it, though till EUGENE ARAM. 81 now my reason has disbelieved the notion '{ —. And now. what is the question ? To resist or to yield. Her father invites me, courts me; and I stand aloof! Will this strength, this forbearance, last! — Shall I encourage my mind to this decision ? ” Here Aram paused abruptly, and then renewed : “ It is true! I ought to weave my lot with none. Memory sets me apart and alone in the world ; it seems unnatural to me, a thought of dread — to bring another being to my solitude, to set an everlasting watch on my uprisings and my downsittings; to invite eyes to my face when I sleep at nights, and ears to every word that may start unbidden from my lips. But if the watch be the watch of love — away ! does love endure for ever ? He who trusts to woman, trusts to the type of change. Affection may turn to hatred, fondness to loathing, anxiety to dread ; and, at the best, woman is weak, she is the minion to her impulses. Enough : I will steel my soul,— shut up the avenues of sense,— brand with the scathing-iron these yet green and soft emotions of lingering youth,— and freeze and chain and curdle up feeing, and heart and manhood, into ice and age 1 w F 82 EUGENE ARAM. CHAPTER YI1. THE POWER OF LOYE OYER THE RESOLUTION OF THE STUDENT.— ARAM BECOMES A FREQUENT GUEST AT THE MANOR-HOUSE.—A WALK.-CONVERSATION WITH DAME DARKMANS.-HER HISTORY.—POVERTY AND ITS EFFECTS. “Mad. Then, as time won thee frequent to our hearth, Didst thou not breathe, like dreams, into my soul Nature’s more gentle secrets, the sweet lore Of the green herb and the bee-worshipp’d flower? And when deep Night did o’er the nether earth Diffuse meek quiet, and the heart of heaven With love grew breathless — didst thou not unroll The volume of the weird Chaldean stars, And of the winds, the clouds, the invisible air, Make eloquent discourse, until, methought, No human lip, but some diviner spirit Alone, could preach such truths of things divine? And so — and so — ” “Aram. From Heaven we turned to Earth, And Wisdom fathered Passion.” * * * * * * * * * * “Aram. Wise men have praised the Peasant’s thought¬ less lot, And learned Pride hath envied humble Toil; If they were right, why let us burn our books, And sit us down, and play the fool with Time, Mocking the prophet Wisdom’s high decrees, And walling this trite Present with dark clouds, ’Till Night becomes our Nature; and the ray 1 * ETTGENE ARAM. 83 Ev’n of the stars, but meteors that Avitkdraw The wandering spirit from the sluggish rest Which makes its proper bliss. 1 will accost This denizen of toil.” From Eugene Aram , a MS. Tragedy. “ A wicked hag, and envy’s self excelling In mischiefe, for herself she only vext. But this same, both herself and others eke perplext.” * * * * * “ Who then can strive with strong necessity, That holds the world in his still changing state, &c. &c. Then do no further go, no further stray, But here lie down, and to thy rest betake.” — Spenser. Few men perhaps could boast of so masculine and firm a mind, as, despite his eccentricities, Aram assuredly pos¬ sessed. His habits of solitude had strengthened his natu¬ ral hardihood ; for, accustomed to make all the sources of happiness flow solely from himself, his thoughts the only companion — his genius the only vivifier— of his retreat; the tone and faculty of his spirit could not but assume that austere and vigorous energy which the habit of self-dependence almost invariably produces; and yet, the reader, if he be young, will scarcely feel surprise that the resolution of the student, to battle against incipient love, from whatever reasons it might be formed, gradually and reluctantly melted away. It may be noted, that the enthusiasts of learning and reverie have, at one time or another in their lives, been, of all the tribes of men, the most keenly susceptible to love ; their solitude feeds their passion ; and deprived, as they usually are, of the more hurried and vehement occupations of life, when love is once admitted to their hearts, there is no counter-check 84 EUGENE ARAM. to its emotions, and no escape from its excitation. Aram, too, had just arrived at that age when a man usually ‘'eels a sort of revulsion in the current of his desires. At that age, those who have hitherto pursued love, begin to grow alive to ambition ; those who have been slaves to the pleasures of life, awaken from the dream, and direct their desires to its interests. And in the same proportion, they who till then have wasted the prodigal fervors of youth upon a sterile soil; who have served ambition, or, like Aram, devoted their hearts to wisdom ; relax from their ardor, look back on the departed years with regret, and commence in their manhood, the fiery pleasures and delirious follies which are only pardonable in youth. In short, as in every human pursuit there is a certain vanity, and as every acquisition contains within itself the seed of disappointment, so there is a period of life when we pause from the pursuit, and are discontented with the acquisition. We then look around us for something new — again follow — and are again deceived. Few men throughout life are the servants of one desire. When we gain the middle of the bridge of our mortality, differ¬ ent objects from those which attracted us upward almost invariably lure us to the descent. Happy they who ex¬ haust in the former part of the journey all the foibles of existence 1 But how different is the crude and evanes¬ cent love of that age when thought has not given inten¬ sity and power to the passions, from the love which is felt, felt for the first time , in maturer but still youthful years 1 As the flame burns the brighter in proportion to the EUGENE ARAM. 8b resistance whinh it conquers, this later love is the more glowing in proportion to the length of time in which it has overcome temptation : all the solid and concentred faculties ripened to their full height, are no longer capa- ble of the infinite distractions, the numberless caprices of youth ; the rays of the heart, not rendered weak by diversion, collect into one burning focus;* the same earnestness and unity of purpose which render what we undertake in manhood so far more successful than what we would effect in youth, are equally visible and equally triumphant, whether directed to interest or to love. But then, as in Aram, the feelings must be fresh as well as matured ; they must not have been frittered away by pre¬ vious indulgence ; the love must be the first product of the soil, not the languid after-growth. The reader will remark, that the first time in which our narrative has brought Madeline and Aram together, was not the first time they had met; Aram had long noted with admiration a beauty which he had never seen paral- leled, and certain vague and unsettled feelings had pre¬ luded the deeper emotion which her image now excited within him. But the main cause of his present and grow¬ ing attachment, had been in the evident sentiment of kindness which he could not but feel Madeline bore to¬ wards him. So retiring a nature as his, might never have harbored love, if the love bore the character of pre- * Love is of the nature of a burning-glass, which, kept still in one place, fireth ; changed often, it does nothing!”— Letters by S'* John Suckling. I. —8 36 EUGENE ARAM. gumption ; but that one so beautiful beyond his dreams as Madeline Lester, should deign to exercise towards him a tenderness, that might suffer him to hope, was a thought, that when he caught her eye unconsciously fixed upon him, and noted that her voice grew softer and more tremulous when she addressed him, forced itself upon his heart, and woke there a strange and irresistible emotion, which soli* tude and the brooding reflection that solitude produces—a reflection so much more intense in proportion to the paucity of living images it dwelt upon—soon ripened into love. Perhaps even, he would not have resisted the im¬ pulse as he now did, had not at this time certain thoughts connected with past events, been more forcibly than of late years obtruded upon him, and thus in some measure divided his heart. By degrees, however, those thoughts receeded from their vividness, into the habitual deep, but not oblivious, shade beneath which his commanding mind had formerly driven them to repose; and as they thus receded, Madeline’s image grew more undisturbedly present, and his resolution to avoid its power more fluc¬ tuating and feeble. Fate seemed bent upon bringing together these two persons, already so attracted towards each other. After the conversation recorded in our last chapter between Walter and the student, the former, touched and softened as we have seen, in spite of himself, had cheerfully forborne (what before he had done reluc¬ tantly) the expression of dislike which he had once lav¬ ished so profusely upon Aram. And Lester, who, for* ward as had seemed, had nevertheless been hitherto a EUGENE ARAM. 87 little checked in his advances to his neighbor by the hos¬ tility of his nephew, now felt no scruple to deter him from urging them with a pertinacity .that almost forbade re¬ fusal. It was Aram’s constant habit, in all seasons, to wander abroad at certain times of the day, especially towards the evening : and if Lester failed to win entrance to his house, he was thus enabled to meet the student in his frequent rambles, and with a seeming freedom from design. Actuated by his great benevolence of charac¬ ter, Lester earnestly desired to win his solitary and un¬ friended neighbor from a mood and habit which he na¬ turally imagined must engender a growing melancholy of mind; and since Walter had detailed to him the partic¬ ulars of his meeting with Aram, this desire had been considerably increased. There is not perhaps a stronger feeling in the world than pity, when united with admira¬ tion. When one man is resolved to know another, it is almost impossible to prevent him: we see daily the most remarkable instances of perseverance on one side con¬ quering distaste on the other. By degrees, then, Aram relaxed from his unsociability; he seemed to surrender / himself to a kindness, the sincerity of which he was com¬ pelled to acknowledge ; if he for a long time refused to accept the hospitality of his neighbor, he did not reject his society when they met, and this intercourse by little and little progressed, until ultimately the recluse yielded to solicitation, and became the guest as well as companion. This, at first accident, grew, though not without many interruptions, into habit; and at length few evenings were 83 EUGENE ARAM. past by the inmates of the manor-house without the so* ciety of the student. As his reserve wore off, his conversation mingled with its attractions a tender and affectionate tone. He seemed grateful for the pains which had been taken to allure him to a scene in which, at last, he acknowledged he found a hapj iness that he never experienced before : and those who had hitherto admired him for his genius, admired him now yet more for his susceptibility to the affections. There was not in Aram, any thing that savored of the harshness of pedantry, or the petty vanities of dogmatism : his voice was soft and low, and his manner always remark¬ able'for its singular gentleness, and a certain dignified humility. His language did indeed, at times, assume a tone of calm and patriarchal command; but it was only the command arising from an intimate persuasion of the truth of what he uttered. Moralizing upon our nature, or mourning over the delusions of the world, a grave and solemn strain breathed throughout his lofty words and the profound melanchbly of his wisdom; but it touched, not offended — elevated, not humbled — the lesser intel¬ lect of his listeners ; and even this air of unconscious supe¬ riority vanished when he was invited to teach or explain. That task which so few do gracefully, that an accurate and shrewd thinker has said ; “ It is always safe to learn, even from our enemies; seldom safe to instruct even our friends,”* Aram performed with a meekness and sim¬ plicity that charmed the vanity, even while it corrected * Lacon. EUGENE ARAM. 89 the ignorance, of the applicant; and so various and mi¬ nute was the information of this accomplished man, that there scarcely existed any branch even of that knowledge usually called practical, to which he could not impart from his stores something valuable and new. The agri¬ culturist was astonished at the success of his suggestions ; and the mechanic was indebted to him for the device which abridged his labor in improving its result. It happened that the study of botany was not, at that day, so favorite and common a diversion with young ladies as it is now, and Ellinor, captivated by the notion of a science that gave a life and a history to the loveliest of earth’s offspring, besought Aram to teach her its prin¬ ciples. As Madeline, though she did not second the request, could scarcely absent herself from sharing the lesson, this pursuit brought the pair — already lovers — closer and closer together. It associated them not only at home, but in their rambles throughout that enchanting country ; and there is a mysterious influence in Nature, which ren¬ ders us, in her loveliest scenes, the most susceptible to love ! Then, too, how often in their occupation their hands and eyes met: — how often, by the shady wood or the soft water-side, they found themselves alone. In all times, how dangerous the connection, when of different sexes, between the scholar and the teacher ! Under how many pretences, in that connection, the heart finds the opportunity to speak out! Yet it was not with ease and complacency that Aram 8 * 9U EUGENE ARAM. delivered himself to the intoxication of his deepening attachment. Sometimes he was studiously cold, or evi¬ dently wrestling with the powerful passion*that mastered his reason. It was not without many throes, and despe¬ rate resistance, that love at length overwhelmed and sub¬ dued him: and these alternations of his mood, if they sometimes offended Madeline and sometimes wounded, still rather increased than lessened the spell which bound her to him. The doubt and the fear — the caprice and the change, which agitate the surface, swell also the * tides, of passion. Woman, too, whose love is so much the creature of her imagination, always asks something of mystery and conjecture in the object of her affection. It is a luxury to her to perplex herself with a thousand apprehensions ; and the more restlessly her lover occu¬ pies her mind, the more deeply he enthrals it. Mingling with her pure and tender attachment to Aram, a high and unswerving veneration, she saw in his fitfulness, and occasional abstraction and contradiction of manner, a confirmation of the modest sentiment that most weighed upon her fears; and imagined that at those times he thought her, as she deemed herself, un¬ worthy of his love. And this was the only struggle which she conceived to pass between the affection he evidently bore her, and the feelings which had as yet re¬ strained him from its open avowal. x One evening, Lester and the the two sisters were walk¬ ing with the student along the valley that led to the house of the latter, when they saw an old woman engaged ELGENE ARaM. 91 in collecting fire-wood among the bushes, and a little girl holding out her apron to receive the sticks with which the crone’s skinny arms unsparingly filled it. The child trembled, and seemed half-crying; while the old woman, in a harsh, grating croak, was muttering forth mingled objurgation and complaint. There was something in the appearance of the latter at once impressive and displeasing; a dark, withered, furrowed skin was drawn like parchment over harsh and aquiline features; the eyes, through the rheum of age, glittered forth black and malignant; and even her stoop¬ ing posture did not conceal a height greatly above the common stature, though gaunt and shrivelled with years and poverty. It was a form and face that might have recalled at once the celebrated description' of Otway, on a part of which we have already unconsciously encroach¬ ed, and the remaining part of which we shall wholly borrow. “-On her crooked shoulders had she wrapped The tattered remnants of an old stript hanging, That served to keep her carcase from the cold, So there was nothing of a piece about her. Her lower weeds were all o’er coarsely patched With different colored rags, black, red, white, yellow, And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness.” See,” said Lester, “ one of the eyesores of our village, (I might say) the only discontented person.” “ What! Dame Darkmans ! ” said Ellin or quickly. “ Ah ! let us turn back. I hate to encounter that old woman ; there is something so evil and savage in her manner o/ 92 EUGENE ARAM. talk —and look, how she rates that poor girl, whom she has dragged or decoyed to assist her! ” Aram looked curiously on the old hag. “Poverty,’' said he, “makes some humble, but more malignant; is it not want that grafts the devil on this poor woman’s nature ? Come, let us accost her — I like conferring with distress.” “It is hard labor this? ” said the student gently. The old woman looked up askant — the music of the voice that addressed her sounded harsh on her ear. “Ay, ay!” she answerd. “You fine gentlefolks can know what the poor suffer; ye talk and ye talk, but ye never assist.” “ Say not so, dame,” said Lester ; “ did I not send you but yesterday bread and money ? and when do you ever look up at the hall without obtaining relief? ” “But the bread was as dry as a stick,” growled the hag : “ and the money, what was it ? will it last a week ? Oh, yes ! Ye think as much of your doits and mites, as if ye stripped yourselves of a comfort to give it to us. Did you have a dish less — a ’tato less, the day ye sent me — your charity, I ’spose ye calls it ? Och ! fie J But the Bible’s the poor cretur’s comfort.” “ I am glad to hear you say that, dame,” said the good- natured Lester ; “ and I forgive every thing else you have said, on account of that one sentence The old woman dropped the sticks she had just gathered and glowered at the speaker’s benevolent countenance with a malicious meaning in her dark eyes. EUGENE ARAM. 93 “An’ ye do ? Well, I’m glad I please ye there. Och 1 yes! the Bible’s a mighty comfort; for it says as much that the rich man shall not fnter the kingdom of heaven i There’s a truth for you, that makes the poor folk’s heart chirp like a cricket — ho ! ho ! I sits by the Ambers of a night, and I thinks and thinks as how I shall see you all burning; and ye’ll ask me for a drop o’ water, and I shall laugh thin from my pleasant seat with the angels. Och — it’s a book for the poor, that! ” The sisters shuddered. “ And you think then, that with envy, malice, and all uncharitableness at your heart, you are certain of heaven ? For shame ! Pluck the mote from your own eye! ” “ What sinnifies praching ? Did not the blessed Sa¬ vior come for the poor ? Them as has rags and dry bread here will be ixalted in the nixt world; an’ if we poor folk have malice as ye calls it, whose fault’s that ? What do ye tache us? Eh? — answer me that. Ye keeps all the laming an’ all the other fine things to your- sel’, and then ye scould, and thritten, and hang us, ’cause we are not as wise as you. Och ! there is no jistice in the Lamb, if heaven is not made for us ; and the iverlasting hell, with its brimstone and fire, and its gnawing an’ gnashing of teeth, an’ its theirst, an’ its torture, and its worm that never dies, for the like o’you.” “ Come ! come away,” said Ellinor, pulling her father’s arm. “And if,” said Aram pausing, “if I were to say to you,— name your want and it shall be fulfilled, would you have no charity for me also ? ” EUGENE ARAM. “ Umph,” returned the hag, “ye are the great f .colard ; and they say ye knows what no one else do. Tz'll me now,” and she approached, and familiarly laid fier bony linger on the students arm; “till me,— have ye iver, among other fine things, known poverty?” “ I have, woman ! ” said Aram, sternly. “ Och, ye have thin ! And did ye not sit and gloat, and eat up your own heart, an’ curse the sun that looked so gay, an’ the winged things that played so blithe-like, an’ scowl at the rich folk that never wasted a thought on ye ? till me now, your honor, till me ! ” And the crone curtesied with a mock air of beseeching humility. * “ I never forgot, even in want, the love due to my fel¬ low-sufferers ; for, woman, we all suffer,— the rich and the poor: there are worse pangs than those of want! ” “Ye think there be, do ye? that’s a comfort, umph 1 Well, I’ll till ye now, I feel a rispict for you, that I don’t for the rest on ’em ; for your face does not insult me with being cheary like their’s yonder; an’ I have noted ye walk in the dusk with your eyes down and your arms crossed ; an’ I have said—that man I do not hate, some¬ how, for he has something dark at his heart like me!” “ The lot of earth is woe,” answerd Aram calmly, yet shrinking back from the crone’s touch ; “judge we char¬ itably, and act we kindly to each other. There — this money is not much, but it will light your heart, and heap your table without toil, for some days at least I ” “ Thank your honor : an’ what think you I’ll do with the money ? ” EUQENE ARAM. 95 “ What ? ” “ Drink, drink, drink ! ” cried the hag fiercely ; “there’s nothing like drink for the poor, for thin we fancy oursels what we wish, and,” sinking her voice into a whisper, “ I thinks thin that I have my foot on the billies of the rich folks, and my hands twisted about their intrails, and I hear them shriek, and — thin I’m happy ! ” ‘ Go home ! ’ said Aram, turning away, “ and open the book of life with other thoughts.” The little party proceeded, and, looking back, Lester saw the old woman gaze after them, till a turn in the winding valley hid her from his sight. “ That is a strange person, Aram; scarcely a favorable specimen of the happy English peasant;” said Lester, smiling. “Yet they say,” added Madeline, “that she was not always the same perverse and hateful creature she is now.” “ Ay,” said Aram, “ and what then is her history ? ” “Why,” replied Madeline, slightly blushing to find herself made the narrator of a story, “ some forty years ago, this woman, so gaunt and hideous now, was the beauty of the village. She married an Irish soldier whose regiment passed through Grassdale, and was heard of no more till about ten years back, when she returned to her native place, the discontented, envious, altered being you now see her.” “She is not reserved in regard to her past life,” said Lester. “ She is too happy to seize the attention of any one to whom she can pour forth her dark and angry con* 96 EUGENE ARAM. fidence. She saw her husband, who was afterwards dis¬ missed the service, a strong, powerful man, a giant of his trioe, pine and waste, inch by inch, from mere physical want, and at last literally die from hunger. It happened that they had settled in the county in which her husband was born, and in that county, those frequent famines which are the scourge of Ireland were for two years es¬ pecially severe. You may note, that the old woman has a strong vein of coarse eloquence at her command, per¬ haps acquired in (for it partakes of the natural character of) the country in which she lived so long; and it would literally thrill you with horror to hear her descriptions of the misery and destitution that she witnessed, and amidst which her husband breathed his last. Out of four chil¬ dren, not one survives. One, an infant, died within a week of his father; two sons were executed, one at the age of sixteen, one a year older, for robbery committed under aggravated circumstances ; and the fourth, a daugh¬ ter, died in the hospitals of London. The old woman be¬ came a wanderer and a vagrant, and was at length passed to her native parish, where she has since dwelt. These are the misfortunes which have turned her blood to gall; and these are the causes which fill her with so bitter a hatred against those whom wealth has preserved from sharing or witnessing a fate similar to hers.” Oh ! ” said Aram, in a low, but deep tone, “ when — when will these hideons disparities be banished from the world ? How many noble natures — how many glorious hopes — how much of the seraph’s intellect, have been EUGENE ARAM. 91 crushed into the mire, or blasted into guilt, by the mere force of physical want ? What are the temptations of the rich to those of the poor ? Yet see how lenient we are to the crimes of the one,— how relentless to those of the other ! It is a bad world ; it makes a man’s heart sick to look around him. The consciousness of how little individual genius can do to relieve the mass, grinds out, as with a stone, all that is generous in ambition ; and to aspire from the level of life is but to be more graspingly selfish.” “ Can legislators, or the moralists that instruct legis¬ lators, do so little, then, towards universal good ? ” said Lester, doubtingly. “ Why, what can they do but forward civilization ? And what is civilization, but an increase of human dispar¬ ities ? The more the luxury of the few, the more start¬ ling the wants, and the more galling the sense, of poverty. Even the dreams of the philanthropist only tend towards equality ; and where is equality to be found, but in the state of the savage ? No ; I thought otherwise once ; but I now regard the vast lazar-house around us without hope of relief: — Death is the sole Physician ! ” “ Ah, no ! ” said the high-souled Madeline, eagerly; “do not take away from us the best feeling and the high¬ est desire we can cherish. How poor, even in this beau¬ tiful world, with the warm sun and fresh air about us, that alone are sufficient to make us glad, would be life, if we could not make the happiness of others ! ” Aram looked at the beautiful speaker with a soft and I.—9 G 98 EUGENE AllAM. half-mournful smile. There is one very peculiar pleasure that we feel as we grow older,— it is to see embodied in another and a more lovely shape the thoughts and senti¬ ments we once nursed ourselves ; it is as if we viewed before us the incarnation of our own youth; and it is no % wonder that we are warmed towards the object, that thus seems the living apparition of all that was brightest within ourselves ! It was with this sentiment that Aram now gazed on Madeline. She felt the gaze, and her heart beat delightedly, but she sunk at once into a silence, which she did not break during the rest of their walk. . “ I do not say,” said Aram, after a pause, “that we are not able to make the happiness of those immediately around us. I speak only of what we can effect for the mass. And it is a deadening thought to mental ambition, that the circle of happiness we can create is formed more by our moral than our mental qualities. A warm heart, though accompanied but by a mediocre understanding, is even more likely to promote the happiness of those around, than are the absorbed and abstract, though kindly powers of a more elevated genius; but (observing Lester about to interrupt him), let us turn from this topic,— let us turn from man’s weakness to the glories of the mother- nature, from which he sprung.” And kindling, as he ever did, the moment he approach¬ ed a subject so dear to his studies, Aram now spoke of the stars, which began to sparkle forth,— of the vast, il¬ limitable career which recent science had opened to the imagination,— and of the old, bewildering, yet eloquent EUGENE ARAM. 99 theories which from age to age had at once misled and elevated the conjectures of past ages. All this was a theme which his listeners loved to listen to, and Madeline not the least. Youth, beauty, pomp, what are these, in point of attraction, to a woman’s heart, when compared to eloquence? — the magic of the tongue is the most dangerous of all spells! CHAPTER Till. THE PRIVILEGE OF GENIUS.— LESTER’S SATISFACTION AT THE ASPECT OF EVENTS.-HIS CONVERSATION WITH WALTER.-A DISCOVERY. “ Ale .— I am for Lidian: accident no doubt will draw him from his hermit’s * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “ Lis .— Spare my grief, and apprehend What I should speak.” Beaumont and Fletcher.— The Lover's Progress. In the course of the various conversations our family of Grassdale enjoyed with their singular neighbor, it ap peared that his knowledge had not been confined to the closet; at times, he dropped remarks which showed that he nad neen much among cities, and travelled with the design, or at least with the vigilance, of the observer; but he did not love to be drawn into any detailed accounts 100 EUGENE ARAM. of what he had seen, or whither he had been ; an habit¬ ual though a gentle reserve, kept watch over the past — not indeed that character of reserve which excites the doubt, but which inspires the interest. His most gloomy moods were rather abrupt and fitful than morose, and his usual bearing was calm, soft, and even tender. There is a certain charm about great superiority of in¬ tellect, that winds into deep affections which a much more constant and even amiability of manners in lesser men, often fails to reach. Genius makes many enemies, but it makes sure friends—friends who forgive much, who en¬ dure long, who exact little ; they partake of the charac¬ ter of disciples as well as friends. There lingers about the human heart a strong inclination to look upward — to revere : in this inclination lies the source of religion, of lovalty, and also of the worship and immortality which are rendered so cheerfully to the great of old. And in truth it is a divine pleasure to admire 1 admiration seems in some measure to appropriate to ourselves the qualities it honors in others. We wed,— we root ourselves to the natures we so love to contemplate, and their life grows a part of our own. Thus, when a great man, who has engrossed our thoughts, our conjectures, our homage, dies, a gap seems suddenly left in the world; a wheel in the mechanism of our own being appears abruptly stilled; a portion of ourselves, and not our worst portion, for how many pure, high, generous sentiments it contains, dies with him ! Yes ! it is this love, so rare, so exalted, and so denied to all ordinary men, which is the especial priv* EUGENE ARAM. 101 ilege of greatness, whether that greatness be shown iu wisdom, in enterprise, in virtue, or even, till the w r orld learns better, in the more daring and lofty order of crime. A Socrates may claim it to-day — a Napoleon to-morrow; nay, a brigand chief, illustrious in the circle in which he lives, may call it forth no less powerfully than the gener¬ ous failings of a Byron, or the sublime excellence of the greater Milton. Lester saw with evident complacency the passion grow¬ ing up between his friend and his daughter; he looked upon it as a tie that would permanently reconcile Aram to the hearth of social and domestic life ; a tie that w r ould constitute the happiness of his daughter, and secure to himself a relation in the man he felt most inclined, of all he knew, to honor and esteem. He remarked in the gen¬ tleness and calm temper of Aram much that was calcu¬ lated to insure domestic peace, and knowing 'Jits peculiar disposition of Madeline, he felt that she wa i exactly the person, not only to bear with the peculiarities of the stu¬ dent, but to venerate their source. In short, the more he contemplated the idea of this alliance, the more he was ‘harmed with its probability. Musing on this subject, the good squirt was one day walking in his garden, when he perceived his nephew at some distance, and remarked that Walter, on seemg him, was about, instead of coming forward to meet him, to turn down an alley in an opposite direction. A little pained at this, and remembering tha' Walter had of late seemed estranged from himself, and greatly 9 * 102 EUGENE ARAM. altered from the high and cheerful spirits natural to his temper, Lester called to his nephew; and Walter, reluc¬ tantly and slowly changing his purpose of avoidance, advanced and met him. “ Why, Walter! ” said the uncle, taking his arm ; “ this is somewhat unkind to shun me; are you engaged in any pursuit that requires secrecy or haste ? ” “No indeed, sir! ” said Walter with some embarrass¬ ment ; “but I thought you seemed wrapped in reflection, and would naturally dislike being disturbed.” “ Hem ! as to that, I have no reflections I wish con¬ cealed from you, Walter, or which might not be benefited by your advice.” The youth pressed his uncle’s hand, but made no reply ; and Lester, after a pause, continued : — “You seem, Walter, I am most delighted to think, entirely to have overcome the little unfavorable prepos¬ session which at first you testified towards our excellent neighbor. And for my part I think he appears to be especially attracted towards yourself: he seeks your com¬ pany ; and to me he always speaks of you in terms, which, coming from such a quarter, give me the most lively gratification. ” Walter bowed his head, but not in the delighted van¬ ity with which a young man generally receives the assur¬ ance of another’s praise. “I own,” renewed Lester, “that I consider our friend¬ ship with Aram, one of the most fortunate occurrences (n my life; at least,” added he with a sigh, “ of late years l doubt not but you must have observed the partiality EUGENE ARAM. 103 with which our dear Madeline evidently regards him ; and yet more, the attachment to her, which breaks forth from Aram, in spite of his habitual reserve and self-con¬ trol. You have surely noted this, Walter? ” 4 1 have,” said Walter, in a low tone, and turning awaj l:;s head. “ And doubtless you share my satisfaction. It happens fortunately now, that Madeline early contracted that stu¬ dious and thoughtful turn, which I must own at one time gave me some uneasiness and vexation. It has taught her to appreciate the value of a mind like Aram’s. For¬ merly, my dear boy, I hoped that at one time or another, she and yourself might form a dearer connection than that of cousins. But I was disappointed, and I am now consoled. And indeed I think there is that in Ellinor which might be yet more calculated to render you happy; that is, if the bias of your mind should ever lean that way.” “ You are very good,” said Walter bitterly. “I own I am not flattered by your selection ; nor do I see why the plainest and least brilliant of the two sisters must necessarily be the fittest for me.” “ Nay,” replied Lester, piqued, and justly angry, “ I do not think, even if Madeline have the advantage of her sister, that you can find any fault with the personal or mental attractions of Ellinor. But indeed this is not a matter in which relations should interfere. I am far from any wish to prevent you from choosing throughout the world any one whom you may prefer. All I hope is, that your future wife will be like Ellinor in kindness of heart and sweetness of temper.” 104 EUGENE ARAM. “ From choosing throughout the world ! ” repeated Walter; “and how in this nook am I to see the world ? ” “ Walter! your voice is reproachful!—do I deserve it ?’ Walter was silent. “ I have of late observed,” continued Lester, “ and with wounded feelings, that you do not give me the same confidence, or meet me with the same alfection, that you once delighted me by manifesting towards me. I know of no cause for this change. Do not let us, my son, for I may so call you — do not let us, as we grow older, grow also more apart. Time divides with a sufficient demar¬ cation the young from the old; why deepen the neces¬ sary line ? You know well, that I have never from your childhood insisted heavily on a guardian’s authority. I have always loved to contribute to your enjoyments, and shown you how devoted I am to your interests, by the very frankness with which I have consulted you on my own. If there be now on your mind any secret grievance, or any secret wish, speak it, Walter:—you are alone with the friend on earth who loves you best! ” Walter was wholly overcome by this address: he press¬ ed his good uncle’s hand to his lips, and it was some mo¬ ments before he mustered self-composure sufficient to reply. “You have ever, ever been to me all that the kindest parent, the tenderest friend could have been : — believe me, I am not ungrateful. If of late I have been altered, the cause is not in you. Let me speak freely : you encour¬ age me to do so. I am young, my temper is restless ; I have a love of enterprise and adventure : is it not natu* EUGENE ARAM. 105 ral that 1 should long to see the world? This is the cause of mj late abstraction of mind. I have now told you all: it is for you to decide. ” Lester looked wistfully on his nephew’s countenance before he replied — “It is as I gathered,” said he, “from various remarks which you have lately let fall. I cannot blame your wish to leave us ; it is certainly natural; nor can I oppose it. Go, Walter, when you will!” The young man turned round with a lighted eye and flushed cheek. “And why, Walter?” said Lester, interrupting his thanks, “ why this surprise ? why this long doubt of my affection ? Could you believe I should refuse a wish that, at your age, I should have expressed myself? You have wronged me ; you might have saved a world of pain to us both by acquainting me with your desire when it was first formed ; but, enough. I see Madeline and Aram approach,— let us join them now, and to-morrow we will arrange the time and method of your departure.” “Forgive me, sir,” said Waltet, stopping abruptly as the glow faded from his cheek, “I have not yet recovered myself; I am not fit for other society than yours. Excuse me joining my cousin, and — r “Walter ! ” said Lester, also stopping short and look- * ing full on his nephew, “a painful thought flashes upon me! Would to heaven I may be wrong! — Have you pver felt for Madeline more tenderly than for a sister ? ” Walter literally trembled as he stood. The tears rushed 106 EUGENE ARAM. Into Lester's eyes: — he grasped his nephew’s hand warmly — “ God comfort thee, my poor boy ! ” said he, with great emotion ; “ I never dreamt of this.” Walter felt now that he was understood. He grate¬ fully returned the pressure of his uncle’s hand, and then, withdrawing his own, darted down one of the intersect¬ ing walks, and was almost instantly out of sight. s CHAPTER IX. THE STATE OF WALTER’S MIND.— AN ANGLER AND A MAN OF THE WORLD.— A COMPANION FOUND FOR WALTER. “This great disease for love I dre, * There is no tongue can tell the wo; I love the love that loves not me, I may not mend, but mourning mo.” The Mourning Maiden. f ‘ I in these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me, To whose harmouious bubbling voice with my angle would rejoice.” — Izaac Walton. When Walter left his uncle, he hurried, scarcely con¬ scious of his steps, towards his favorite haunt by the water-side. From a child, he had singled out that scene as the witness of his early sorrows or boyish schemes; and, still, the solitude of the place cherished the habit of his boyhood. Bear. * EUGENE ARAM. 10 } Long had he, unknown to himself, nourished an attach¬ ment to his beautiful cousin ; nor did he awaken to the secret of his heart, until, with an agonizing jealousy, he penetrated the secret at her own. The reader has, doubt¬ less, already perceived that it was this jealousy which at the first occasioned Walter’s dislike to Aram : the con¬ solation of that dislike was forbid him now. The gentle¬ ness and forbearance of the student’s deportment had taken away all ground of offence ; and Walter had sufficient generosity to acknowledge his merits, while tortured by their effect. Silently, till this day, he had gnawed his heart, and found for its despair no confidant and no comfort. The only wish that he cherished was a feverish and gloomy desire to leave the scene which wit¬ nessed the triumph of his rival. Every thing around had become hateful to his eyes, and a curse had lighted upon the face of Home. He thought now, with a bitter satis¬ faction, that his escape was at hand : in a few days he might be rid of the gall and the pang, which every mo¬ ment of his stay at Grassdale inflicted upon him. The sweet voice of Madeline he should hear no more, subdu¬ ing its silver sound for his rival’s ear:—no more he should watch apart, and himself unheeded, how timidly her glance roved in search of another, or how vividly her cheek flushed when the step of that happier one approach¬ ed. Many miles would at least shut out this picture from his view; and in absence, was it not possible that he might teach himself to forget ? Thus meditating, ho arrived at the banks of the little brooklet, and was awa- EUGENE ARAM. 108 kened from his reverie by the sound of his own name. He started, and saw the old corporal seated on the stump of a tree, and busily employed in fixing to his line the mimic likeness of what anglers, and for aught we know, the rest of the world, call the “ violet-fly. ” “Ha! master,— at my day’s work, you see: — fit for nothing else now. When a musket’s half worn' out, school-boys buy it — pop it at sparrows. I be like the musket: but never mind — have not seen the world for nothing. We get reconciled to all things: that’s my way — augh ! How, sir, you shall watch me catch the finest trout you have seen this summer: know' where he lies — under the bush yonder. Whi—sh ! sir, whi — sh ! ” The corporal now gave his warrior soul up to the due guidance of the violet-fly : now he whipped it lightly on the wave ; now he slid it coquettishly along the surface ; now it floated like an unconscious beauty, carelessly with the tide; and now, like an artful prude, it affected to loiter by the way, or to steal into designing obscurity under the shade of some overhanging bank. But none of these manoeuvres captivated the wary old trout on whose acquisition the corporal had set his heart; and what was especially provoking, the angler could see dis¬ tinctly the dark outline of the intended victim, as it lay at the bottom,— like some well-regulated bachelor who eyes from afar the charms he has discreetly resolved to neglect. The corporal w'aited till he could no longer blind him¬ self to the displeasing fact, than the violet-fly was wholly EUGENE ARAM. 109 inefficacious; he then threw up his line, and replaced the contemned beauty of the violet-fly,with the novel attrac tion of the yellow-dun. “ Now, sir ! ” whispered he, lifting up his finger, and nodding sagaciously to Walter. Softly dropped the yel¬ low-dun upon the water, and swiftly did it glide before the gaze of the latent trout; and now the trout seemed aroused from his apathy: behold he moved forward, bal¬ ancing himself on his fins; now he slowly ascended to¬ wards the surface; you might see all the speckles of his coat; the corporal’s heart stood still—he is now at a convenient distance from the yellow-dun ; lo, he surveys it steadfastly; he ponders, he see-saws himself to and fro. The yellow-dun sails away in affected indifference, that indifference whets the appetite of^the hesitating gazer, he darts forward ; he is opposite the yellow-dun — he pushes his nose against it with an eager rudeness,— he — no, he does not bite, he recoils, he gazes again with surprise and suspicion on the little charmer; he fades back slowly into the deeper water, and then suddenly turning his tail towards the disappointed bait, he makes off as fast as he can,— yonder — yonder, and disappears! No, that’s he leaping yonder from the wave; Jupiter! what a noble fellow ! What leaps he at ? — a real fly — “ Damn his eyes ! ” growled the corporal. “You might have caught him with a minnow,” said Walter, speaking for the first time. “Minnow!” repeated the corporal gruffly, “ask your % honor’s pardon. Minnow ! — I have fished with the yel* L—10 110 EUGENE ARAM. low-dun tliese twenty years, and never knew it fail before. Minnows ! — baugh ! But ask pardon : your honor is rery welcome to fish with a minnow if you please it.” “ Thank you, Bunting. And pray what sport have you had to-day ? ” “Oh,— good, good,” quoth the corporal, snatching up his basket and closing the cover, lest the young squire should pry into it. No man is more tenacious of his secrets than your true angler. “ Sent the best home two hours ago; one weighed three pounds, on the faith of a man ; indeed, I’m satisfied now ; time to give it up; ” and the corporal began to disjoint his rod. “ Ah, sir ! ” said he, with a half sigh, “ a pretty river this, don’t mean to say it is not; but the river Lea for my money. You know the Lea ? — not a morning’s walk from Lunnun. Mary Gibson, my first sweetheart, lived by the bridge,— caught such a trout there by-the-by ! — had beautiful eyes — black, round as a cherry — five feet eight without shoes — might have listed in the forty- second.” “ Who, Bunting !” said Walter smiling, “the lady oi the trout ? ” “ Augh ! — baugh ! — what ? Oh, laughing at me, your honor, you’re welcome, sir. Love’s a silly thing — know the world now — have not fallen in love these ten years. I doubt — no offence, sir, no offence — I doubt whether your honor and Miss Ellinor can say as much.” “I and Miss Ellinor 1 — you forget yourself strangely Bunting,” said Walter, coloring with anger. .EUGENE ARAM. Ill “Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon — rough soldier — lived away from the world so long, words slipped out of m 3 » mouth — absent without leave.” “But why,” said Walter, smothering or conquering- his vexation,— why couple me with Miss Ellinor ? Did you imagine that we,— we were in love with each other?” “ Indeed, sir, and if I did, his no more than my neigh¬ bors imagine too.” “ Humph ! your neighbors are very silly, then, and very wrong.” “Beg pardon, sir, again — always getting askew. In¬ deed some did say it was Miss Madeline, but I says,— says I,— ‘No! I’m a man of the world — see through a millstone ; Miss Madeline’s too easy like; Miss Nelly blushes when he speaks; ’ scarlet is love’s regimentals — it was ours in the forty-second, edged with yellow — pep¬ per and salt pantaloons ! For my part I think,— but I’ve no business to think, howsomever — baugh ! ” “ Pray what do you think, Mr. Bunting ? Why do you hesitate ? ” “ ’Fraid of offence — but I do think that Master Aram — your honor understands — howsomever squire’s daugh¬ ter too great a match for such as he! ” Walter did not answer; and the garrulous old soldier, who had been the young man’s playmate and companion since Walter was a boy, and was therefore accustomed tc the familiarity with which he now spoke, continued, mingling with his abrupt prolixity an occasional shrewd¬ ness of ooservation which showed that he was no inat- 112 EUGENE ARAM. tentive commentator on the little and quiet world around him. “Free to confess, squire Walter, that I don’t quite like ^ this larned man, as much as the rest of ’em — something queer about him — can’t see to the bottom of him—- don’t think he’s quite so meek and lamb-like as he seems: — once saw a calm dead pool in foron parts — peered down into it — by little and little, my eye got used to it —saw something dark at the bottom — stared and stared — by Jupiter — a great big alligator! — walked off im¬ mediately— never liked quiet pools since — augh, no ! ” “ An argument against quiet pools, perhaps, Bunting ; but scarcely against quiet people.” “ Don’t know as to that, your honor — much of a much¬ ness. I have seen Master Aram, demure as he looks, start, and bite his lip, and change color, and frown — he has an ugly frown, I can tell ye — when he thought no one nigh. A man who gets into a passion with himself may be soon out of temper with others. Free to confess, I should not like to see him married to that stately beau¬ tiful young lady — but they do gossip about it in the vil¬ lage. If it is not true, better put the squire on his guard •—false rumors often beget truths — beg pardon, your honor — no business of mine — baugh ! But I’m a lone man, who have seen the world, and I thinks on the things % around me, and I turns over the quid — now on this side, now on the other — ’tis my way, sir.— and — but I offend your honor.” “ Not at all; I know you are an honest man, Bunting, EUGENE ARAM. lib and well affected to our family; at the same time it is neither prudent nor charitable to speak harshly of our neighbors without sufficient cause. And really you seem to me to be a little hasty in your judgment of a man so inoffensive in his habits and so justly and generally es¬ teemed as Mr. Aram.” “May be, sir,— may be,— very right what you say. But I thinks what I thinks all the same; and indeed, it is a thing that puzzles me, how that strange-looking vag¬ abond, as frightened the ladies so, and who, Miss Nelly told me, for she saw them in his pocket, carried pistols about him, as if he had been among cannibals and hot- tentots, instead of the peaceablest county that man ever set foot in, should boast of his friendship with this larned scollard, and pass a whole night in his house. Birds of a feather flock together — augh ! — sir! ” “A man cannot surely be answerable for the respecta¬ bility of all his acquaintances, even though he feel obliged to offer them the accommodation of a night’s shelter.” “Baugh 1” grunted the corporal. “Seen the world, sir — seen the world — young gentlemen are always so good-natured ; ’tis a pity, that the more one sees, the more suspicious one grows. One does not have gumption till one has been properly cheated — one must be made a fool of very often in order not to be fooled at last! ” “ Well, corporal, I shall'now have opportunities enough of profiting by experience. I am going to leave Grass- dale in a few days, and learn suspicion and wisdom in the great world.” 10 * H 114 EUGENE ARAM. “Augh! baugh 1 — what ?” cried the corporal, start' ing from the contemplative air which he had hitherto as. sumed. “ The great world ? — how ? —when ? — going away ? — who goes with your honor ? ” “ My honor’s self; I have no companion, unless you like to attend me;” said Walter, jestingly — but the corporal affected, with his natural shrewdness, to take the proposition in earnest. “ I! your honor’s too good ; and indeed, though I say it, sir, you might do worse; not but what I should be sorry to leave nice snug home here, and this stream, though the trout have been shy lately,— ah ! that was a mistake of yours, sir, recommending the minnow; and neighbor Dealtry, though his ale’s not so good as ’twas last year; and — and — but in short, I always loved your honor — dangled you on my knees;—You recollect the broad¬ sword exercise ? — one two, three — augh ! baugh ! — and if your honor really is going, why rather than you should want a proper person who knows the world, to brush your coat, polish your shoes, give you good advice — on the faith of a man, I’ll go with you myself!” This alacrity on the part of the corporal, was far from displeasing to Walter. The proposal he had at first made unthinkingly, he now seriously thought advisable; and at length it was settled that the corporal should call next morning at the manor-house, and receive instructions as to the time and method of their departure. Not for¬ getting, as the sagacious Bunting delicately insinuated, “the wee settlements as to wages, and board wages, more a matter of form, like, than any thing else — augh \ ” EUGENE ARAM. 115 CHAPTER X. THE LOVERS.— THE ENCOUNTER AND QUARREL OP THE RIVALS. “Two such I saw, that time the labored ox In his loose traces from the furrow came.”— Cornu*. “Pedro. Now do me noble right. “ Rod. I’ll satisfy you; But qot by the sword.” Beaumont and Fletcher.— The Pilgrim While Walter and the corporal enjoyed the above conversation, Madeline and Aram, whom Lister soon left to themselves, were pursuing their walk along the solitary fields. Their love had passed from the eye to the lip, and now found expression in words. “ Observe,” said he, as the light touch of one who he felt loved him entirely, rested on his arm,— “ Observe, as the later summer now begins to breathe a more various and mellow glory into the landscape, how singularly pure and lucid the atmosphere becomes. When, two months ago, in the full flush of June, I walked through these fields, a grey mist hid yon distant hills and the far forest from my view. Now, with what a transparent stillness the whole expanse of scenery spreads itself before us! And such, Madeline, is the change that has come over myself since that time. Then, if 1 looked beyond the limited present, 116 EUGENE ARAM. all was dim and indistinct. Now, the mist has faded away — the broad future extends before me, calm and bright with the hope which is borrowed from your love ! ” We will not tax the patience of the reader, who seldom enters with keen interest into the mere dialogue of love, with the blushing Madeline’s reply, or with all the soft vows and tender confessions which the rich poetry of Aram’s mind made yet more delicious to the ear of his dreaming and devoted mistress. “There is one circumstance,” said Aram, “which casts a momentary shade on the happiness I enjoy — my Mad¬ eline probably guesses its nature. I regret to see that the blessing of your love must be purchased by the misery of another, and that other, the nephew of my kind friend. You have doubtless observed the melancholy of Walter Lester, and have long since known its origin.” “ Indeed, Eugene,” answered Madeline, “ it has given me great pain to note what you refer to, for it would be a false delicacy in me to deny that I have observed it. But Walter is young and high-spirited; nor do I think he is of a nature to love long where there is no return! ” “And what,” said Aram sorrowfully,— “what deduc¬ tion from reason can ever apply to love ? Love is a very contradiction of all the elements of our ordinary nature, — it makes the proud man meek,— the cheerful, sad,— the high-spirited, tame; our strongest resolutions, our hardiest energy fail before it. Believe me, you cannot prophesy of its future effect in a man, from any knowledge of his past character I grieve to think that the blow EUGENE ARAM. falls upon one in early youth, ere the world’s disappoint' merits have blunted the heart, or the world’s numerous interests have multiplied its resources. Men’s minds have been turned when they have not well sifted the cause them¬ selves, and their fortunes marred, by one stroke on the affections of their youth. So at least have I read, Mad¬ eline, and so marked in others. For myself, I knew nothing of love in its reality till I knew you. But who can know you, and not sympathise with him who has lost you ? ” “Ah, Eugene! you at least overrate the influence which love produces on men. A little resentment and a little absence will soon cure my cousin of an ill-placed and ill-requited attachment. You do not think how easy it is to forget.” “ Forget! ” said Aram stopping abruptly : “ Ay, for¬ get— it is a strange truth! we do forget! the summer passes over the furrow, and the corn springs up ; the sod forgets the flower of the past year; the battle-field for¬ gets the blood that has been spilt upon its turf; the sky forgets the storm ; and the water the noon-day sun that slept upon its bosom. All nature preaches forgetfulness. Its very order is the progress of oblivion. And I — I — give me your hand, Madeline,— I, ha ! ha ! I forget too.” As Aram spoke thus wildly, his countenance worked; but his voice was slow, and scarcely audible; he seemed rather conferring with himself, than addressing Madeline. But when his words ceased, and he felt the soft hand of his betrothed, and turning, saw her anxious and wist- 118 EUGENE ARAM. ful eyes fixed in alarm, yet in all unsuspecting confidence, on his face ; his' features relaxed into their usual serenity, and kissing the hand he clasped, he continued in a col¬ lected and steady tone, “ Forgive me, my sweetest Madeline. These fitful and strange moods sometimes come upon me yet. I have been so long in the habit of pursuing any train of thought, however wild, that presents itself, to my mind, that I cannot easily break it, even in your presence. All studious men —the twilight Eremites of books and clos¬ ets, contract this ungraceful custom of soliloquy. You know our abstraction is a common jest and proverb : you must laugh me out of it. But stay, dearest! —there is a rare herb at your feet, let me gather it. So, do you note its leaves — this bending and silver flower? Let us rest on this bank, and I will tell you of its qualities. Beautiful as it is, it has a poison.” The place in which the lovers rested, is one which the villagers to this day call “ The Lady’s-seat; ” for Made¬ line, whose history is fondly preserved in that district, was afterwards wont constantly to repair to that bank (during a short absence of her lover, hereafter to be no¬ ted,) and subsequent events stamped with interest every spot she was known to have favored with resort. And when the flower had been duly conned, and the study dis¬ missed, Aram, to whom all the signs of the seasons were familiar, pointed to her the thousand symptoms of the month which are unheeded by less observant eyes; not forgetting, as they thus reclined, their hands clasped EUGENE ARAM. 119 together, to couple each remark with some allusion to his love or some deduction which heightened compliment into poetry. He bade her mark the light gossamer as it float¬ ed on the air ; now soaring high — high into the translu¬ cent atmosphere; now suddenly stooping, and sailing away beneath the boughs, which ever and anon it hung with a silken web, that by the next morn, would glitter with a thousand dew-drops. “ And, so,” said he fanci¬ fully, “ does love lead forth its numberless creations, making the air its path and empire; ascending aloof at its wild will, hanging its meshes on every bough, and biddiug the common grass break into a fairy lustre at the beam of the daily sun ! ” He pointed to her the spot, where, in the silent brake, the harebells, now waxing rare and few, yet lingered—or where the mystic ring on the soft turf conjured up the associations of Oberon and his train. That superstition gave license and play to his full memory and glowing fancy; and Shakspeare — Spenser — Ariosto — the magic of each mighty master of Fairy Realm — he evoked, and poured into her transported ear. It was precisely such arts, which to a gayer and more worldly nature than » Madeline’s might have seemed but wearisome, that arrested and won her imaginative and high-wrought mind. And thus he, who to another might have proved but the retired and moody student, became to her the very being of whom her “maiden meditation” had dreamed — the master and magician of her fate. Aram did not return to the house with Madeline; he 12b EUGENE ARAM. accompanied her to the garden gate, and then taking leave of her, bent his way homeward. He had gained the entrance of the little valley that led to his abode, when he saw Walter cross his path at a short distance. His heart, naturally susceptible to kindly emotion, smote him as he remarked the moody listlessness of the young man’s step, and recalled the buoyant lightness it was once wont habitually to wear. He quickened his pace, and joined Walter before the latter was aware of his presence. “Good evening,” said he, mildly; “if you are going my way, give me the benefit of your company.” “My path lies yonder,” replied Walter, somewhat sul¬ lenly ; “ I regret that it is different from yours.” “ In that case,” said Aram, “ I can delay my return home, and will, with your leave, intrude my society upon you for some few minutes.” Walter bowed his head in reluctant assent. They walked on for some moments without speaking, the one unwilling, the other seeking an occasion to break the % silence. “ This, to my mind,” said Aram at length, “isthe most pleasing landscape in the whole country; observe the bashful water stealing away among the woodlands. Me- thinks the wave is endowed with an instinctive wisdom, that it thus shuns the world.” “Rather,” said Walter, “with the love for change which exists every where in nature, it does not seek the shade until it has passed by ‘towered cities,’ and ‘the busy hum of men.’ ” EUGENE ARAM. 121 “ I admire the shrewdness of your reply,” rejoined Aram ; “but note how far more pure and lovely are its waters in these retreats, than when washing the walls of the reeking town, receiving into its breast the taint of a thousand pollutions, vexed by the sound, and stench, and unholy perturbation of men’s dwelling-place. Now it glasses only what is high and beautiful in nature — the stars or the leafy banks. The wind that ruffles it, is clothed with perfumes ; the rivulet that swells it, descends from the everlasting mountains, or is formed by the rains of heaven. Believe me, it is the type of a life that glides from the weariness and fretful turmoil of the world, ‘No flattery, hate, or envy lodgeth there, ‘There no suspicion walled in proved steel, ‘Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear. » ‘ Pride is not there; no tyrant there we feel! ’ ” * “ I will not cope with you in simile, or in poetry,” said Walter, as his lip curved; “it is enough for me to think that life should be spent in action. I hasten to prove if my judgment be erroneous.” “ Are you, then, about to leave us ? ” inquired Aram. “ Yes, within a few days.” “Indeed, I regret to hear it.” The answer sounded jarringly on the irritated nerves of the disappointed rival. “You do me more honor than I desire,” said he, “in interesting yourself, however lightly, in my schemes or fortune ! ” I. —11 * Phineas Fletcher. 122 EUGENE ARAM. “ Young man,” replied Aram coldly, “ I never see the impetuous and yearning spirit of youth without a certain, and it may be, a painful interest. IIow feeble is the chance, that its hopes will be fulfilled ! Enough, if it lose not all its loftier aspirings, as well as its brighter expectations.” Nothing more aroused the proud and fiery temper of Walter Lester than the tone of superior wisdom and superior age, which his rival assumed towards him. More and more displeased with his present companion, he answered in no conciliatory tone, “ I cannot but consider the warning and the fears of one, neither my relation nor my friend, in the light of a gratuitous affront.” Aram smiled as he answered, “ There is no occasion for resentment. Preserve this hot spirit, and high self-confidence, till you return again to these scenes, and I shall be at once satisfied and corrected.” “ Sir,” said Walter, coloring, and irritated more by the smile than the words of his rival, “ I am not aware by what right or on what ground you assume towards me the superiority, not only of admonition but reproof. My uncle’s preference towards you gives you no authority over me. That preference I do not pretend to share.”—ne paused for a moment, thinking Aram might hasten to reply; but as the student walked on with his usual calm¬ ness of demeanor, he added, stung by the indifference which he attributed, not altogether without truth, to dis¬ dain, “And since you have taken upon yourself to cau- EUGENE ARAM. 123 tion me, and to forebode my inability to resist the conta¬ mination, as you would term it, of the world, I tell you, that it may be happy for you to bear so clear a conscience, so untouched a spirit as that which I now boast, and with which I trust in God and my own soul I shall return to my birth-place. It is not the holy only that love solitude; and men may shun the world from another motive than that of philosophy.” It was now Aram’s turn to feel resentment, and this was indeed an insinuation not only unwarrantable in itself, but one which a man of so peaceable and guileless a life, affecting even an extreme and rigid austerity of morals, might well be tempted to repel with scorn and indignation ; and Aram, however meek and forbearing in general, testified in this instance that his wonted gen¬ tleness arose from no lack of man’s natural spirit. He laid his hand commandingly on young Lester’s shoulder, and surveyed his countenance with a dark and menacing frown. “ Boy ! ” said he, “ were there meaning in your words, I should (mark me !) avenge the insult; — as it is, I des¬ pise it. Go! ” So high and lofty was Aram’s manner — so majestic was the sternness of his rebuke, and the dignity of his bearing, as he now T waving his hand turned away, that Walter lost his self-possession, and stood fixed to the spot, absorbed, and humbled from his late anger. It was not till Aram had moved with a slow step several paces backward towards his home, that the bold and haughty 124 EUGENE ARAM. temper of the young man returned to his aid. Ashamed of himself for the momentary weakness he had betrayed, and burning to redeem it, he hastened after the stately form of his rival, and planting himself full in his path, said in a voice half choked with contending emotions, “ Hold ! — you have given me the opportunity I have long desired ; you yourself have now broken that peace which existed between us, and which to me was more bitter than wormwood. You have dared,— yes, dared to use threatening language towards me. I call on you to fulfil your threat. I tell you that I meant, I designed, I thirsted to affront you. Now resent my purposed — pre¬ meditated affront as you will and can ! ” There was something remarkable in the contrasted figures of the rivals, as they now stood fronting each other. The elastic and vigorous form of Walter Lester, his sparkling eyes, his sun-burnt and glowing cheek, his clenched hands, and his whole frame alive and eloquent with the energy, the heat, the hasty courage, and fiery spirit of youth; on the other hand,— the bending frame of the student, gradually rising into the dignity of its full height — his pale cheek, in which the wan hues neither deepened nor waned, his large eye raised to meet Walter^, blight, steady, and yet how calm ! Nothing weak, nothing irresolute could be traced in that form — or that lofty countenance ; yet all resentment had vanished from his aspect. He seemed at once tranquil and prepared. “You designed to affront me 1” said he, “it is well— it is a noble confession ;—and wherefore ? What do you EUGENE ARAM. 12* propose to gain by it ? — a man whose whole life is peacev you would provoke to outrage ? Would there be tri- umph in this, or disgrace? — A man whom your uncle honors and loves, you would insult without cause — you would waylay — you would, after watching and creating your opportunity, entrap into defending himself? Is this worthy of that high spirit of which you boasted? — is this worthy a generous anger, or a noble hatred ? Away ! you malign yourself. I shrink from no quarrel — why should I ? I have nothiug to fear: my nerves are firm — my heart is faithful to my will; my habits may have diminished my strength, but it is yet equal to that of most men. As to* the weapons of the world — they fall not to my use. I might be excused by the most punctil¬ ious, for rejecting what becomes neither lgy station nor my habits of life : but I learnt this much from books long since, ‘hold thyself prepared for all things:’—I am so prepared. And as I can command the spirit, I lack not the skill, to defend myself, or return the hostil¬ ity of another.” As Aram thus said, he drew a pistol from his bosom ; and pointed it leisurely towards a tree, at the distance of some paces. “Look,” said he, “you note that small discolored and white stain in the bark—you can but just observe it; — he who can send a bullet through that spot, need not fear to meet the quarrel which he seeks to avoid.” Walter turned mechanically, and indignant, though silent, towards the tree. Aram fired, and the ball pene- 11 * 126 EUGENE ARAM. trated the centre of the stain. He then replaced the pistol in his bosom, and said : — “ Early in life I had many enemies, and I taught my¬ self these arts. From habit, I still bear about me the weapons I trust and pray I may never have occasion to use. But to return.— I have offendsd you — I have in¬ curred your hatred — why ? What are my sins ? ” “ Do you ask the cause ? ” said Walter, speaking be¬ tween his ground teeth. “ Have you not traversed my views — blighted my hopes — charmed away from me the affections which were more to me than the world, and driven me to wander from my home with a crushed spirit, and a cheerless heart. Are these no «ause for hate ? ” “ Have I done this ? ” said Aram, recoiling and evi¬ dently and powerfully affected. “ Have I so injured you ? — It is true! I know it — I perceive it — I read your heart; and — bear witness heaven ! — I felt for the wound that I, but with no guilty hand, inflict upon you. Yet be just: — ask yourself, have I done aught that you in my case would have left undone ? Have I been insolent in triumph or haughty in success ? if so, hate me, nay, spurn me now.” Walter turned his head irresolutely away. “ If it please you, that I accuse myself, in that I, a man seared and lone at heart, presumed to come within the pale of human affections ; — that I exposed myself to cross another’s better and brighter hopes, or dared to soften my fate with the tender and endearing ties that are meet alone for a more genial and youthful nature j — if it EUGENE ARAM. 121 please yon that I accuse and curse myself for this —that I yielded to it with pain and with self-reproach — that I shall think hereafter of what I unconsciously cost you with remorse — then be consoled ! ” “ It is enough,” said Walter; “let us part. I leave you with more soreness at my late haste than I will ac¬ knowledge, let that content you ; for myself, I ask for no apology or-” “But you shall have it amply,” interrupted Aram, advancing with a cordial openness of mien not usual to him. “I was all to blame; I should have remembered you were an injured man, and suffered you to have said all you would. Words at best are but a poor vent for a wronged and burning heart. It shall be so in future, speak your will, attack, upbraid, taunt me, I will bear it all. And indeed, even to myself there sfcems some witch¬ craft, some glamoury in what has chanced. What! I favored w r here you love ? Is it possible ? It might teach the vainest to forswear vanity. You, the young, the buoyant, the fresh, the beautiful? — And I, wdio have passed the glory and zest of life between dusty walls; I who — well, well, fate laughs at probabilities ! ” Aram now seemed relapsing into one of his more abstracted moods ; he ceased to speak aloud, but his lips moved, and his eyes grew fixed in reverie on the ground. Walter gazed at him for some moments with mixed and contending sensations. Once more, resentment and the. bitter w r rath of jealousy had faded back into the remoter depths of his mind, and a certain interest for his singular 128 EUGENE ARAM. rival, despite of himself, crept into his breast. But this mysterious and fitful nature, was it one in which the de¬ voted Madeline would certainly find happiness and repose ? — would she never regret her choice ? This question ob¬ truded itself upon him, and while he sought to answer it, ^ram, regaining his composure, turned abruptly and offered him his hand. Walter did not accept it, he bowed with a cold respect. “ I cannot give my hand without my heart,” said he : “ we were foes just now ; we are not friends yet. I am unreasonable in this I know, but — ” “ Be it so,” interrupted Aram ; “ I understand you. I press my good-will on you no more. When this pang is forgotten, when this wound is healed, and when you will have learned more of him who is now your rival, we may meet again with other feelings on your side.” Thus they parted, and the solitary lamp which for weeks past had been quenched at the wholesome hour in the student’s home, streamed from the casement through¬ out the whole of that night; was it a witness of the calm and learned vigil, or of the unresting heart ? EUGENE ARAM. 129 CHAPTER XI TIIE FAMILY SUPPER.— THE TWO SISTERS IN THEIR CHAM¬ BER.-A MISUNDERSTANDING FOLLOWED BY A CONFES¬ SION.— WALTER’S APPROACHING DEPARTURE AND THE CORPORAL’S BEHAVIOR THEREON.— THE CORPORAL’S FA¬ VORITE INTRODUCED TO THE READER.-THE CORPORAL PROVES HIMSELF A SUBTLE DIPLOMATIST -“So we grew together Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet an union in partition.” Midsummer Night's Dream. “ The corporal had not taken his measures so badly in this stroke of artilleryship.” Tristram Shandy. It was late that evening when Walter returned home, the little family were assembled at the last and lightest meal of the day; Ellinor silently made room for her cousin beside her, and that little kindness touched Walter. “Why did I not love her?” thought he, and he spoke to her in a tone so affectionate, that it made her heart thrill with delight. Lester was, on the whole, the most pensive of the group, but the old and the young man exchanged looks of restored confidence, which, on the part of the former, were softened by a pitying tenderness. When the cloth was removed, and the servants gone, Lester took it on himself to break to the sisters the in¬ tended departure of their cousin. Madeline received i 130 EUGENE ARAM. the news with painful blushes, and a certain self-reproach; for even where a woman has no cause to blame herself she, in these cases, feels a sort of remorse at the unhap¬ piness she occasions. But Ellinor rose suddenly and left the room. "And now,” said Lester, "London will, I suppose, be your first destination. I can furnish you with letters to some of my old friends there : merry fellows they were once : you must take care of the prodigality of their wine. There’s John Courtland — ah ! a seductive dog to drink with. Be sure and let me know how honest John looks, and what he says of me. I recollect him as if it were yesterday; a roguish eye, with a moisture in it; full cheeks; a straight nose; black curled hair; and teeth as even as dies:—honest John showed his teeth pretty often, too : ha, ha ! how the dog loved a laugh ! Well, and Peter Hales — S/'r Peter now, has his uncle’s baronetcy — a generous open-hearted fellow as ever lived — will ask you very often to dinner — nay, offer you money if you want it: but take care he does not lead you into extravagances : out of debt, out of danger, Walter. It would have been well for poor Peter Hales, had he remembered that maxim. Often and often have I been to see him in the Marshalsea; but he was the heir to good fortunes, though his relations kept him close ; so I suppose he is well off now. His estates lie in-shire, on your road to London ; so, if he is at his country-seat, you can beat up his quarters, and spend a month or so with him : a most hospitable fellow.” « EUGENE ARAM. 131 With these little sketches of his cotemporaries, the good squire endeavored to while the time ; taking, it is true, some pleasure in the youthful reminiscences they excited, but chiefly designing to enliven the melancholy of his nephew. When, however, Madeline had retired, and they were alone, he drew his chair closer to Walter’s, and changed the conversation into a more serious and anxious strain. The guardian and the ward sate up late that night; and when Walter retired to rest, it was with a heart more touched by his unele’s kindness, than his own sorrows. But we are not about to close the day without a glance at the chamber which the two sisters held in common. The night was serene and starlit, and Madeline sate by the open window, leaning her face upon her hand, and gazing on the lone house of her lover,-which might be seen afar across the landscape, the trees sleeping around it, and one pale and steady light gleaming from its lofty casement like a star. “ He has broken faith,” said Madeline : “ I shall chide him for this to-morrow. He promised me the light should be ever quenched before this hour.” “Nay,” said Ellinor in a tone somewhat sharpened from its native sweetness, and who now sate up in the bed, the curtain of which was half drawn aside, and the soft light of the skies rested full upon her rounded neck and youthfnl countenance —- “ Nay, Madeline, do not loiter there any longer; the air grows sharp and cold, and the dock struck, one, several minutes since. Comw sister, come ! y 132 EUGENE ARAM. “ I cannot sleep,” replied Madeline, sighing, “ and think that yon light streams upon those studies which Aeal the healthful hues from his cheek, and the very life from his heart.” ‘‘You are infatuated — you are bewitched by that man,” said Ellinor, peevishly. “And have I not cause — ample cause?” returned Madeline, with all a girl’s beautiful enthusiasm, as the color mantled her cheek, and gave it the only additional loveliness it could receive. “ When he speaks, is it not like music ? — or rather, what music so arrests and touch¬ es the heart? Methinks it is heaven only to gaze upon him — to note the changes of that majestic countenance — to set down as food for memory every look and every movement. But when the look turns.to me — when the voice utters my name, ah! Ellinor, then it is not a won¬ der that I love him thus much: but that any others should think they have known love, and yet not loved him! And, indeed, I feel assured that what the world calls love, is not my love. Are there more Eugenes in the world than one ? Who but Eugene could be loved as I love ? ” “What! are there none as worthy?” said Ellinoi, half smiling. “ Can you ask it ? ” answered Madeline, with a simple wonder in her voice; “whom would you compare—com¬ pare ! nay, place within a hundred grades of the height which Eugene Aram holds in this little world ? ” “ This is folly — dotage ; ” said Ellinor indignantly ; EUGENE ARAM. 133 •surely there are others, as brave, as gentle, as kind, and if not so wise, yet more fitted for the world.” “Yon mock me,” replied Madeline, incredulously; “ whom could you select ? ” Ellinor blushed deeply — blushed from her snowy tem¬ ples to her yet whiter bosom, as she answered, “If I said Walter Lester, could you deny it ? ” “Walter I ” repeated Madeline, “the equal of Eugene Aram 1 ” “ Ay, and more than equal,” said Ellinor, with spirit, and a warm and angry tone. “And indeed, Madeline,” she continued after a pause, “ I lose something of that respect, which, passing a sister’s love, I have always borne towards you, when I see the unthinkiug and slavish idolatry you manifest to one, who, but for a silver tongue and florid words, would rather want attractions than be the wonder you esteem him. Eie, Madeline ! I blush for you when you speak, it is unmaidenly so to love any one ! ” Madeline rose from the window, but the angry word died on her lips when she saw that Ellinor, who had worked her mind beyond her self-control, had thrown herself back on the pillow, and now sobbed aloud. The natural temper of the elder sister had always been much more calm and even than that of the younger, who united with her vivacity something of the passionate caprice and fitfulness of her sex. And Madeline’s affec¬ tion for her had been tinged by that character of for¬ bearance and soothing, which a superior nature often manifests to one more imperfect, and which in this I.—12 L34 EUGENE ARAM. instance did not desert her. She gently closed the win¬ dow, and, gliding to the bed, threw her arms round her sister’s neck, and kissed away her tears with a caressing fondness, that, if Ellinor resisted for one moment, she returned with equal tenderness the next. “ Indeed, dearest,” said Madeline, gently, “ I cannot guess how I hurt you, and still less, how Eugene has offended you ? ” “ He has offended me in nothing,” replied Ellinor, still weeping, “ if he has not stolen away all your affec¬ tion from me. But I was a foolish girl, forgive me, as you always do ; and at this time I need your kindness, for I cm very — very unhappy.” “Unhappy, dearest Nell, and why?” Ellinor wept on without answering. Madeline persisted in pressing for a reply; and at (ength her sister sobbed out: “ I know that — that — Walter only has eyes for you, and a heart for you, who neglect, who despise his love ; and I — I — but no matter, he is going to leave us, and of me — poor me, he will think no more ! ” Ellinor’s attachment to their cousin, Madeline had long half suspected, and she had often rallied her sister upon it; indeed it might have been this suspicion which made her at the first steel her breast against Walter’s evident preference to herself. But Ellinor had never till now seriously confessed how much her heart was affected ; and Madeline, in the natural engrossment of her own ardent and devoted love, had not of late spared much observa- EUGENE ARAM. 135 tion to the tokens of her sister’s. She was therefore dismayed, if not surprised, as she now perceived the cause of the peevishness Ellinor had just manifested, and by the nature of the love she felt herself, she judged, and perhaps somewhat overrated, the anguish that Ellinor endured. She strove to comfort her by all the arguments which the fertile ingenuity of kindness could invent; she proph¬ esied Walter’s speedy return, with his boyish disappoint¬ ments forgotten, and with eyes no longer blinded to the attractions of one sister, by a bootless fancy for another. And though Ellinor interrupted her from time to time with assertions, now of Walter’s eternal constancy to his present idol; now, with yet more vehement declarations of the certainty of his finding new objects for his affec- tions in new scenes ; she yet admitted, by little and little, the persuasive power of Madeline to creep into her heart, and brighten away its griefs with hope, till at last, with the tears yet wet on her cheek, she fell asleep in her » sister’s arms. And Madeline, though she would not stir from her post lest the movement would awaken her sister, was yet prevented from closing her eyes in a similar repose ; ever and anon she breathlessly and gently raised herself to steal a glimpse of that solitary light afar; and ever, as she looked, the ray greeted her eye§ with an unswerving and melancholy stillness, till the dawn crept greyly over the heavens, and that speck of light, holier to her than the stars, faded also with them beneath the broader lustro of the day. 136 EUGENE ARAM. The next week was passed in preparations for Walter’s departure. At that time, and in that distant part of the country, it was greatly the fashion among the younger travellers to perform their excursions on horseback, and it was this method of conveyance that Walter preferred. The best steed in the squire’s stables was therefore appro¬ priated to his service, and a strong black horse with a Roman nose and a long tail, was consigned to the mas- tery of Corporal Bunting. The squire was delighted that his nephew had secured such an attendant. For the soldier, though odd and selfish, was a man of some sense and experience, and Lester thought such qualities might not be without their use to a young master, new to the common frauds and daily usages of the world he was about to enter. As for Bunting himself, he covered his secret exulta¬ tion at the prospect of change, and board-wages, with the cool semblance of a man sacrificing his wishes to his affections. He made it his peculiar study to impress upon the squire’s mind the extent of the sacrifice he was about to make. The bit cot had been just white-washed, the pet cat just lain in ; then too, who would dig, and gather seeds in the garden, defend the plants, (plants! the cor¬ poral could scarcely count a dozen, and nine out of them were cabbages!) from the impending frosts ? It was exactly, too, the time of the year when the rheumatism paid flying visits to the bones and loius of the worthy corporal; and to think of his “galavanting about the country,” when he ought to be guarding against that sly foe the lumbago, in the fortress of his chimney corner I EUGENE ARAM. 137 To all these murmurs and insinuations the good Lester seriously inclined, not with the less sympathy, that they invariably ended in the corporaPs slapping his manly thigh, and swearing that he loved Master Walter like gunpowder, and that were it twenty times as much, he would cheerfully do it for the sake of his handsome young honor. Ever at this peroration, the eyes of the squire began to twinkle, and new thanks were given to the veteran for his disinterested affection, and new pro¬ mises pledged him in inadequate return. The pious Dealtry felt a little jealousy at the trust im¬ parted to his friend. He halted, on his return from his farm, by the spruce stile which led to the demesne of the corporal, and eyed the warrior somewhat sourly, as he now in the cool of the evening, sate without his door, arranging his fishing-tackle and flies, in various little papers, which he carefully labeled by the help of a stunt¬ ed pen which had seen at least as much service as himself. “Well, neighbor Bunting,” said the little landlord, leaning over the stile, but not passing its boundary, “ and when do you go ? — you will have wet weather of it (looking up to the skies) — you must take care of the rnmatiz/ At your age it is no trifle, eh — hem.” “ My age ! should like to know — what mean by that ? my age indeed ! — augh ! — bother ! ” grunted Bunting, looking up from his occupation. Peter chuckled inly at the corporaPs displeasure, and continued, as in an apolo¬ getic tone, '‘Oh, I ax your pardon, neighbor. I don’t mean to 12 * 138 EUGENE ARAM. say yon are too old to travel. Why there was Hal Whittol, eiglity-two come next Michaelmas, took a trip to Lunnun last year — “For young and old, the stout—the poorly — The eye of God be on them surely.” “ Bother! ” said the corporal, turning round on h. seat “ And what do you intend doing with the brindled cat? put’un up in the saddle-bags? You won’t surely have the heart to leave’un.” “As to that,” quoth the corporal, sighing, “the poor dumb animal makes me sad to think on’t.” And putting down his fish-hooks, he stroked the sides of an enormous cat, who now, with tail on end, and back bowed up, and uttering her lenes susurros — anglice, purr;—rubbed herself to and fro, athwart the corporal’s legs. . “ What staring there for ? won’t ye step in, man ? Can climb the stile I suppose ? — augh ! ” • “No thank’ye, neighbor. I do very well here, that is if you can hear me ; your deafness is not so troublesome as it was last win— ” “ Bother 1” interrupted the corporal, in a voice that made the little landlord start bolt upright from the easy confidence of his position. Nothing on earth so offended the perpendicular Jacob Bunting, as any insinuation of increasing years or growing infirmities; but at this mo¬ ment, as he meditated putting Dealtry to some use, he prudently conquered the gathering anger, and added, like the man of the world he justly plumed himself on being — in a voice gentle as a dying howl, EUGENE ARAM. 139 “What ’fraid on? come in, there's good fellow, wain to speak to ye. Come do—a-u-g-h ? ” the last sound being prolonged into one of unutterable coaxingness, and accompanied with a beck of the hand and a wheedling wink. These allurements the good Peter could not resist — he clambered the stile, and seated himself on the bench be¬ side the corporal. “There now, fine fellow, fit for the forty-second ; ” said Bunting, clapping him on the back. “Well, and — a-nd — a beautiful cat, isn’t her ? ” “ Ah ! ” said Peter very shortly — for tnough a remark¬ ably mild man, Peter did not love cats: moreover, we must now inform the reader, that the cat of Jacob Bun¬ ting was one more feared than respected throughout the village. The corporal was a cunning teacher of all ani¬ mals.: he could learn goldfinches the use of the musket; dogs, the art of the broadsword; horses, to dance horn¬ pipes and pick pockets; and he had relieved the ennui of his solitary moments by imparting sundry accomplish¬ ments to the ductile genius of his cat. Under his tuition, Puss had learned to fetch and carry; to turn over head and tail, like a tumbler; to run up your shoulder when you least expected it; to fly, as if she were mad, at any one upon whom the corporal thought fit to set her; and, above all, to rob larders, shelves, and tables, and bring the produce to the corporal, who never failed to consider snch stray waifs lawful manorial acquisitions. These little feline cultivations of talent, however delightful to 140 EUGENE ARAM. the corporal, and creditable to his powers of teaching the young idea how to shoot, had nevertheless, since the truth must be told, rendered the corporal’s cat a proverb and byword throughout the neighborhood. Never was cat in such bad odor: and the dislike in which it was held was wonderfully increased by terror; for the crea¬ ture was singularly large and robust, and withal of so courageous a temper, that if you attempted to resist its invasions of your property, it forthwith set up its back, put down its ears, opened its mouth, and bade you fully comprehend that what it feloniously seized, it would gal¬ lantly defend. More than one gossip in the village had this notable cat hurried into premature parturition, as on descending at day-break into her kitchen, the dame would descry the animal perched on the dresser, having entered, God knows how, and gleaming upon her with its great green eyes, and a malignant, brownie expression of countenance. Various deputations had indeed, from time to time, arrived at the corporal’s cottage, requesting the death, expulsion, or perpetual imprisonment of the favorite. But the stout corporal received them grimly, and dismiss¬ ed them gruffly; and the cat still went on waxing in size and wickedness, and baffling, as if inspired by the devil, the various gins and traps set for its destruction. But never, perhaps, was there a greater disturbance and per¬ turbation in the little hamlet, than when, some three weeks since, the corporal’s cat was known to be brought to bed, and safely del vered of a numerous offspring EUGENE ARAM. 141 The village saw itself overrun with a race and a perpe¬ tuity of corporal’s cats ! Perhaps, too, their teacher growing more expert by practice, the descendants might attain to even greater accomplishments than their nefari¬ ous progenitor. No longer did the faint hope of being delivered from their tormentor by an untimely or even natural death, occur to the harassed Grassdalians. Death was an incident natural to one cat, however vivacious, but here was a dynasty of cats! Principes mortales, respublica eternal Now the corporal loved this creature better, yes better than any thing in the world, except travelling and board- wages ; and he was sorely perplexed in his mind how he should be able to dispose of her safely in his absence. He was aware of the general enmity she, had inspired, and trembled to anticipate its probable result, when he was no longer by to afford her shelter and protection. The squire had, indeed, offered her an asylum at the manor-house ; but the squire’s cook was the cat’s most embittered enemy; and who can answer for the peace- aole behavior of his cook ? The corporal, therefore, with a reluctant sigh, renounced the friendly offer, and after lying awake three nights, and turning over in his own mind the character^, consciences, and capabilities of all his neighbors, he came at last to the conviction that there was no one with whom he could so safely entrust his cat as Peter Dealtry. It is true, as w r e said before, that Peter was no lover of cats, and the task of persuad¬ ing him to afford board and lodging to a cat, of all cats 1 42 EUGENE ARAM. the most odious and malignant, was therefore no easy matter. But to a man of the world, what intrigue is impossible ? The finest diplomatist in Europe might have taken a lesson from the corporal, as he now proceeded earnestly towards the accomplishment of his project. He took the cat, which by the by we forgot to say that he had thought fit to christen after himself, and to honor with a name, somewhat lengthy for a cat (but indeed this was no ordinary cat!) viz. Jacobina. He took Jacobina then, we say, upon his lap, and stroking her brindled sides with great tenderness, he bade Dealtry remark how singularly quiet the animal was in its manners. Nay, he was not contented until Peter himself had patted her with a timorous hand, and had reluctantly submitted the said hand to the honor of being licked by the cat in re¬ turn. Jacobina, who, to do her justice, was always meek enough in the presence, and at the will of her master, was, fortunately this day, on her very best behavior. “ Them dumb animals be mighty grateful,” quoth the corporal. “Ah ! ” rejoined Peter, wiping his hand with his pock¬ et-handkerchief. “But, Lord ! what scandal there be in the world !” “Though slander’s breath may raise a storm, It quickly does decay! ” muttered Peter. “ Yery well, very true; sensible verses those,” said the corporal, approvingly; “ and yet mischief’s often EUGENE ARAM. 143 done before the amends come. Body o’ me, it makes a man sick of his kind, ashamed to belong to the race of men to see the envy that abounds in this here sublunary wale of tears ! ” said the corporal, lifting up his eyes. Peter stared at him with open mouth: the hypocrit¬ ical rascal continued, after a pause,— “ Now there’s Jacobina, ’cause she’s a good cat, a laithful servant, the whole village is against her; such lies as they tell on her, such wappers, you’d think she was the devil in garnet! I grant, I grant,” added the cor¬ poral, in a tone of apologetic candor, “that she’s wild, saucy, knows her friends from her foes, steals Goody Solomon’s butter; but what then ? Goody Solomon’s d—d b—h ! Goody Solomon sold beer in opposition to you, set up a public ; —you do not like Goody Solomon, Peter Dealtry ? ” “ If that were all Jacobina had done ! ” said the land¬ lord, grinning. “All! what else did she do? Why she eat up John Tomkin’s canary-bird ; and did not John Tomkins, saucy rascal, say you could not sing better nor a raven ? ” “ I have nothing to say against the poor creature for that,” said Peter, stroking the cat of his own accord. “ Cats will eat birds, ’tis the ’spensation of Providence. Bat what! corporal! ” and Peter hastily withdrawing his hand, hurried it into his breeches pocket — “but what! did not she scratch Joe Webster’s little boy’s hand into ribbons, because the boy tried to prevent her run¬ ning off with a ball of string ? ” 144 EUGENE ARAM. “And, well,” grunted the corporal, “that was not Jacobina’s doing, that was my doing. I wanted the string — offered to pay a penny for it — think of that! ” “It was priced three pence ha’penny,” said Peter. “ Augh-baugh 1 you would not pay Joe Webster all he asks ! What’s the use of being a man of the world, unless one makes one’s tradesmen bate a bit ? Bargain¬ ing is no cheating, I hope ? ” “ God forbid ! ” said Peter. “But as to the bit string, Jacobina took it solely for your sake. Ah she did not think you were to turn against her I ” So saying, the corporal got up, walked into his house, and presently came back with a little net in his hand. “ There, Peter, net for you to hold lemons. Thank Jacobina for that; she got the string. Says I to her one day, as I was sitting, as I might be now, without the door, ‘Jacobina, Peter Dealtry’s a good fellow, and he keeps his lemons in a bag : bad habit,— get mouldy,— we’ll make him a net: ’ and Jacobina purred, (stroke the poor creature, Peter !) — so Jacobina and I took a walk, and when we came to Joe Webster’s I pointed out the ball o’twine to her. So, for your sake, Peter, she got into this here scrape — augh.” “Ah!” quoth Peter laughing, “poor Puss! poor Pussy ! poor little Pussy ! ” “And ffow, Peter,” said the corporal, taking his friend’s hand, “I am going to prove friendship to you — going to do you great favor.” EUGENE ARAM. 145 “ Aha ! ” said Peter, “ my good friend, I’m very much obliged to you. I know your kind heart, but I really don’t want any ” — “ Bother ! ” cried the corporal, “ I’m not the man as makes much of doing a friend a kindness. Hold jaw ! tell you what,— tell you what; am going away on Wed¬ nesday at day-break, and in my absence you shall — ” “What? my good corporal.” “ Take charge of Jacobina ! ” “ Take charge of the devil I ” cried Peter. “ Augh ! — baugh ! — what words are those ? Listen to me.” “ I won’t 1 ” “ You shall 1 ” “ I’ll be d—d if I do 1 ” quoth Peter sturdily. It was the first time he had been known to swear since he was parish clerk. “Very well, very well 1 ” said the corporal chucking up his chin ; “ Jacobina can take care of herself! Jacob- iua knows her friends and her foes as well as her master. Jacobina never injures her friends, never forgives foes. Look to yourself! look to yourself! insult my cat, insult me ! Swear at Jacobina, indeed ! ” “ If she steals my cream ! ” cried Peter — “ Did she ever steal your cream ? ” “ No ! but, if — ” “ Did she ever steal your cream ? ” “I can’t say she ever did.” “ Or any thing else of yours ? ” 13 K 146 EUGENE ARAM. ‘Not tnat I know of; but—” “ Never too late to mend.” “If— ” “Will you listen to me or not?” “Well.” “ You’ll listen?” “ Yes.” “ Know then, that I wanted to do you kindness.” “ Humph ! ” “ Hold jaw ! I taught Jacobina all she knows.” “ More’s the pity ! ” “Hold jaw 1 I taught her to respect her friends—. never to commit herself in-doors — never to steal at home — never to fly at home — never to scratch at home — to kill mice and rats — to bring all she catches to her master — to do what he tells her — and to defend his house as well as a mastiff: and this invaluable creature I was going to lend you : — won’t now, d—d if I do ! ” “ Humph! ” “ Hold jaw 1 When I’m gone, Jacobina will have no one to feed her. She’ll feed herself— will go to every larder, every house in the place — your’s best larder, best house; — will come to you oftenest. If your wife attempts to drive her away, scratch her eyes out; if you disturb her, serve you worse than Joe Webster’s little boy: — wanted to prevent this — won’t now, d—d if J do ! ” “ But, corporal, how would it mend the matter to tako the devil in-doors?” EUGENE ARAM. 147 “ Devil! Don’t call names. Did not I tell you, only one Jacobina does not hurt is her master? — make you her master: now d’ye see?” “ It is very hard,” said Peter grumblingly, “that the only way I can defend myself from this villanous crea¬ ture is to take her into my house.” “ Yillanous ! You ought to be proud of her affection. She returns good for evil — she always loved you; see how she rubs herself against you — and that’s the reason why I selected you from the whole village, to tako care of her: but you at once injure yourself and refuse to do your friend a service. Howsomever, you know I shall be with young squire, and he’ll be master here one of these days, and I shall have an influence over him — you’ll see — you’ll see. Look that there’s not another “Spotted Dog ” set up — augh ! —bother ! ” “ But what would my wife say, if I took the cat ? she can’t abide its name.” “ Let me alone to talk to your wife. What would she say if I bring her from Lunnun Town a fine silk gown, or a neat shawl, with a blue border — blue becomes her; or a tay-chest — that will do for you both, and would set off the little back parlor. Mahogany tay-chest — inlaid at top — initials in silver — J. B. to D. and P. D. — two boxes for tay, and a bowl for sugar in the middle.— Ah 1 ah ! Love me, love my cat! When was Jacob Bunting ungrateful ? — augh ! ” “ Well, well 1 will you talk to Dorothy about it! ” “ 1 shall have your consent, then ? Thanks, my dear, 148 EUGENE ARAM. dear Peter; ’pon my soul you’re a fine fellow! You see, you’re great man of the parish. If you protect her, none dare injure ; if you scout her, all set upon her. For as you said, or rather sung, t’other Sunday — capital voice you were in too — “ The mighty tyrants without cause Conspire her blood to shed! ” “ I did not think you had so good a memory, corporal,” said Peter smiling; — the cat was now curling itself up in his lap: “after all, Jacobina—what a deuce of a name — seems gentle enough.” “Gentle as a lamb — soft as butter — kind as cream —and such a mouser 1 ” “But I don’t think Dorothy — ” “I’ll settle Dorothy.” “ Well, when will you look up ? ” “Come and take a dish of tay with you in half an hour ; —you want a new tay-chest; something new and genteel.” “ I think we do,” said Peter, rising and gently deposit¬ ing the cat on the ground. “Aha! we’ll see to it! — we’ll see! Good b’ye for the present — in half an hour be with you ! ” The corporal, left alone with Jacobina, eyed her intent¬ ly, and burst into the following pathetic address: “Well, Jacobina ! you little know the pains I takes to serve you —the lies I tells for you — endangered my pre¬ cious soul for your sake, you jade ! Ah ! may well rub your sides against me. Jacobina ! Jacobina ! you be the EUGENE ARAM. 143 only thing in the world that cares a button for me. I have neither kith nor kin. You are daughter — friend — wife to me: if any thing happened to you, I should not have the heart to love any thing else. And body o’ me, but you be as kind as any mistress, and much more tractable than any wife ; but the world gives you a bad name, Jacobina. Why ? Is it that you do worse than the world do ? You has no morality in you, Jacobina: well, but has the world?—no! But it has humbug — you have no humbug, Jacobina. On the faith of a man, Jacobina, you be better than the world ! — baugh ! You takes care of your own interest, but you takes care of your master’s too ! You loves me as well as yourself. Few cats can say the same, Jacobina ! and no gossip that flings a stone at your pretty brindled skin' can say half as much. We must not forget your kittens, Jacobina; — you have four left— they must be provided for. Why not a cat’s children as well as a courtier’s ? I have got you a comfortable home, Jacobina — take care of your¬ self, and don’t fall in love with every tom-cat in the place. Be sober, and lead a single life till my return. Come, Jacobina, we will lock up the house, and go and see the quarters I have provided for you.— Heigho ! ” As he finished his harangue, the corporal locked the door of his cottage, and Jacobina trotting by his side, he stalked with his usual stateliness to the Spotted Dog. Dame Dorothy Dealtry received him with a clouded brow, but the man of the world knew whom he had to leal with. On Wednesday morning Jacobina was in- 13 * 150 EUGENE ARAM. ducted into the comforts of the hearth of mine host; — and her four little kittens mewed hard by, from the sine¬ cure of a basket lined with flannel. Reader: Here is wisdom in this chapter: it is not every man who knows how to dispose of his cat. CHAPTER XII. A STRANGE IJABIT.— WALTER’S INTERVIEW WITH MADE¬ LINE.— HER GENEROUS AND CONFIDING DISPOSITION.- WALTER’S ANGER.— THE PARTING MEAL.-CONVERSA¬ TION BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW.— WALTER ALONE.-SLEEP THE BLESSING OP THE YOUNG. “Fall. Out, out, unworthy to speak where he bieathetli.” * * * * &c. “ Punt . Well now, my whole venture is forth, I will resolve to depart.” Ben. Jonson. — Every Man out of his Humoi. It was now the eve before Walter’s departure, and on returning home from a farewell walk among his favorite haunts, he found Aram, whose visit had been made during Walter’s absence, now standing on the threshold of the door, and taking leave of Madeline and her father. Aram and Walter had only met twice before since the interview we recorded, and each time Walter had taken care that the meeting should be but of short duration. In these brief encounters, Aram’s manner had been even EUGENE ARAM i51 more gentle than heretofore; that of Walter’s more cold and distant. And now, as they thus unexpectedly met at the door, Aram, looking at him earnestly, said : “ Farewell, sir 1 You are to leave us for some time, I hear. Heaven speed you 1 ” Then he added in a lower tone, “ Will you take my hand, now, in parting ? ” As he said, he put forth his hand,— it was the left. “ Let it be the right hand,” observed the elder Lester, smiling : “it is a luckier omen.” “I think not,” said Aram, drily. And Walter noted that he had never remembered him to give his right hand to any one, even to Madeline ; the peculiarity of this habit might, however, arise from an awkward early habit, it was certainly scarce worth observing, and Walter had already coldly touched the hand extended to him : when Lester carelessly renewed the subject. “ Is there any superstition,” said he gaily, “that makes you think, as some of the ancients did, the left hand luckier than the right ? ” “Yes,” replied Aram; “a superstition. Adieu.” The student departed; Madeline slowly walked up one of the garden alleys, and thither Walter, after whis¬ pering to his uncle, followed her. There is something in those bitter feelings, which are the offspring of disappointed love; something in the intolerable anguish of well-founded jealousy, that when the first shock is over, often hardens, and perhaps ele¬ vates the character. The sterner powers that we arouse within us to combat a passion that can no longer be 152 EUGENE ARAM. worthily indulged, are never afterwards wholly allayed. Like the allies which a nation summons to its bosom to defend it from its foes, they expel the enemy only to find a settlement for themselves. The mind of every man who conquers an unfortunate attachment, becomes strong¬ er than before ; it may be for evil, it may be for good, but the capacities for either are more vigorous and collected. The last few weeks had done more for Walter’s charac¬ ter than years of ordinary, even of happy emotion, might have effected. He had passed from youth to manhood, and with the sadness, had acquired also something of the dignity, of experience. Not that we would say that he had subdued his love, but he had made the first step towards it; he had resolved that at all hazards it should be subdued. As he now joined Madeline, and she perceived him by her side, her embarrassment was more evident than his. She feared some avowal, and, from his temper, perhaps some violence on his part. However, she was the first to speak ; women, in such cases, always are. “ It is a beautiful evening,” said she, “ and the sun set in promise of a fine day for your journey to-morrow.” Walter walked on silently; his heart was full. “ Madeline,” he said at length, “ dear Madeline, give me your hand. Nay, do not fear me ; I know what you think, and you are right; I loved — I still love you ! but I know well that I can have no hope in making this con¬ fession ; and when I ask you for your hand, Madeline, it EUGENE ARAM. 153 is only to convince you that I have no suit to press ; had 1, I would not dare to touch that hand.” Madeline, wondering and embarrassed, gave him her hand ; he held it for a moment with a trembling clasp, pressed it to his lips, and then resigned it. 1 Yes, Madeline, my cousin, my sweet cousin; I have loved you deeply, but silently, long before my heart could unravel the mystery of the feelings with which it glowed. But this — all this — it were now idle to repeat. I know that I have no hope of return; that the heart whose possession would have made my whole life a dream, a transport, is given to another. I have not sought you now, Madeline, to repine at this, or to vex you by the tale of any suffering I may endure : I am come only to give you the parting wishes, the parting blessing, of one, who, wherever he goes, or whatever befall him, will always think of you as the brightest and loveliest of human beings. May you be happy, yes even with another! ” “ Oh, Walter ! ” said Madeline, affected to tears, “if I ever encouraged — if I ever led you to hope for more than the warm, the sisterly affection I bear you, how bit¬ terly I should reproach myself! ” “ You never did, dear Madeline ; I asked for no induce¬ ment to love you,— I never dreamed of seeking a'motive, or inquiring if I had cause to hope. But as I am now about to quit you, and as you confess you feel for me a sister’s affection, will you give me leave to speak to you as a brother might ? ” Madeline held out her hand to him in frank cordiality: f< Yes!” said she, “speak!” 154 EUGENE ARAM. “ Then,’’ said Walter, turning awa) nis head in a spirit of delicacy that did him honor, “ is it yet all too late for me to say one word of caution as relates to — Eugene Aram ? ” “Of caution! you alarm me, Walter; speak, has aught happened to him ? I saw him as lately as your¬ self. Does aught threaten him ? Speak, I implore you, — quick ? ” “I know of no danger to him!' 1 ' 1 replied Walter, stung to perceive the breathless anxiety with which Mad¬ eline spoke ; “ but pause, my cousin, may there be no danger to you from this man ? ” “Walter ! ” “I grant him wise, learned, gentle,— nay more than all, bearing about him a spell, a fascination, by which he softens, or awes at will, and which even I cannot resist. But yet his abstracted mood, his gloomy life, certain words that have broken from him unawares,— certain tell-tale emotions, which words of mine, heedlessly said, have fiercely aroused, all united, inspire me,— shall I say it,— with fear and distrust. I cannot think him alto¬ gether the calm and pure being he appears. Madeline, I have asked myself again and again, is this suspicion the effect of jealousy ? do I scan his bearing with the jaundiced eye of disappointed rivalship ? And I have satisfied my conscience that my judgment is not thus biassed. Stay ! listen yet a little while ! You have a high — a thoughtful mind. Exert it now. Consider your whole happiness rests on one step ! Pause, exa- EUGENE ARAM 155 mine, compare! Remember, you have not of Aram, as of those whom you have hitherto mixed with, the eye¬ witness of a life ! You can know but little of his real temper, his secret qualities ; still less of the tenor of his former life. I only ask of you, for your own sake, for my sake, your sister’s sake, and your good father’s, not to judge too rashly! Love him, if you will; but observe him ! ” “ Have you done ? ” said Madeline, who had hitherto with difficulty contained herself; “then hear me. Was it I ? was it Madeline Lester whom you asked to play the watch, to enact the spy upon the man whom she exalts in loving ? Was it not enough that you should descend to mark down each incautious look — to chronicle every heedless word — to draw dark deductions from the unsus¬ pecting confidence of my father’s friend — to lie in wait — to hang with a foe’s malignity upon the unbendings of familiar intercourse — to extort anger from gentleness itself, that you might wrest the anger into crime ! Shame, shame upon you, for the meanness ! And must you also suppose that I, to whose trust he has given his noble heart, will receive it only to play the eavesdropper to its secrets ? Away! ” The generous blood crimsoned the cheek and brow of this high-spirited girl as she uttered her galling reproof; her eyes sparkled, her lip quivered, her whole frame seem¬ ed to have grown larger with the majesty of indignant 'ove. “Cruel, unjust, ungrateful!” ejaculated Walter, paie 156 EUGENE ARAM. with rage, and trembling under the conflict of his roused and wounded feelings. “ Is it thus you answer the warn* nig of too disinterested and self-forgetful a love ? ” “ Love 1 ” exclaimed Madeline. “ Grant me patience 1 — Love 1 It was but now I thought myself honored by the affection you said you bore me. At this instant, I blush to have called forth a single sentiment in one who knows so little what love is ! Love ! — methought that word denoted all that was high and noble in human nature—confidence, hope, devotion, sacrifice of all thought of self! but you would make it the type and concentra¬ tion of all that lowers and debases ! — suspicion — cavil — fear — selfishness in all its shapes! Out on you — love ! ” “ Enough, enough ! Say no more, Madeline, say no more. We part not as I had hoped; but be it so. You have changed indeed, if your conscience smite you not hereafter for this injustice. Farewell, and may you never regret, not only the heart you have rejected, but the friendship you have belied.” With these words, and choked by his emotions, Walter hastily strode away. He hurried into the house, and into a little room adjoining the chamber in which he slept, and which had been also appropriated solely to his use. It was now spread with boxes and trunks, some half packed, some corded, and inscribed with the address to which they were to be sent in London. All these mute tokens of his approaching departure struck upon his excited feelings with a suddenness that overpowered him. EUGENE ARAM. 157 '•And it is thus — thus,” said he aloud, “that I am to leave, for the first time, mj childhood’s home.” He threw himself upon his chair, and covering his face with his hands, burst, fairly subdued and unmanned, into a paroxysm of tears. When this emotion was over, he felt as if his love for Madeline had also disappeared; a sore and insulted feeling was all that her image now recalled to him. This idea gave him some consolation. “ Thank God ! ” he muttered, “ thank God, I am cured at last! ” The thanksgiving was scarcely over, before the door opened softly, and Ellinor, not perceiving him where he sat, entered the room, and laid on the table a purse which she had long promised to knit him, and which seemed now designed as a parting gift. > She sighed heavily as she laid it down, and he observed that her eyes seemed red as with weeping. He did not move, and Ellinor left the room without discovering him; but he remained there till dark, musing on her apparition, and before he went down stairs, he took up the little purse, kissed it, and put it carefully into his bosom. He sate next to Ellinor at supper that evening, and though he did not say much, his last words were more to her than words had ever been before. When he took leave of her for the night, he whispered, as he kissed her cheek ; “ God bless you, dearest Ellinor, and till T return, take care of yourself, for the sake of one, who loves you iow, better than any thing on earth.” I.—14 158 EUGENE ARAM. Lester had just left the room to write some letters for Walter; and Madeline, who had hitherto sat absorbed and silent by the window, now approached Walter, and offered him her hand. “ Forgive me, my dear cousin,” she said in her softest voice. “ I feel that I was hasty, and to blame. Believe me, I am now at least grateful, warmly grateful, for the kindness of your motives.” “Not so,” said Walter bitterly, “the advice of a friend is only meanness.” “ Come, come, forgive me ; pray do not let us part unkindly. When did we ever quarrel before ? I was wrong, grievously wrong — I will perform any penance you may enjoin.” “Agreed then, follow my admonitions.” “ Ah 1 any thing else,” said Madeline, gravely, and coloring deeply. Walter said no more ; he pressed her hand lightly and turned away. “ Is all forgiven ? ” said she, in so bewitching a tone, and with so bright a smile, that Walter, against his con¬ science, answered, “Yes.” The sisters left the room. I know not which of the two received his last glance. Lester now returned with the letters. “ There is one jharge, my dear boy,” said he in concluding the moral injunctions and experienced suggestions with which the young generally leave the ancestral home (whether prac¬ tically benefited or not by the legacy, may be a matter EUGENE ARAM. 159 of question) — “ there is one charge which I need not entrust to your ingenuity and zeal. You know my strong conviction, that your father, my poor brother, still lives. Is it necessary for me to tell you to exert yourself by all ways and in all means to discover some clue to his fate ? Who knows,” added Lester, with a smile, “ but that you may find him a rich nabob. I confess that I should feel but little surprise if it were so ; but at all events you will make every possible inquiry. I have written down in this paper the few particulars concerning him which I have been enabled to glean since he left his home ; the places where he was last seen, the false names he assumed, &c. I shall watch with great anxiety for any fuller suc¬ cess to your researches.” “ You needed not, my dear uncle,” said Walter se¬ riously, “ to have spoken to me on this subject. No one, not even yourself, can have felt what I have; can have cherished the same anxiety, nursed the same hope, indulged the same conjecture. I have not, it is true, often of late years spoken to you on a matter so near to us both, but I have spent whole hours in guesses at my father’s fate, and in dreams that for me was reserved the proud task to discover it. I will not say indeed that it makes at this moment the chief motive for my desire to travel, but in travel it will become my chief object. Perhaps I may find him not only rich — that for my part is but a minor w ish,— but sobered and reformed from the errors and wildness of his earlier manhood. Oh, what should be his gratitude to you for all the care with which you have 160 EUGENE ARAM. supplied to the forsaken child the father’s place ; and not the least, that you have, in softening the colors of hid conduct, taught me still to prize and seek for a father’s love 1 ” “You have a kind heart, Walter,” said the good old man, pressing his nephew’s hand, “ and that has more than repaid me for the little I have done for you ; it is better to sow a gnor of seeing you before.” “ Perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you,” said Wal¬ ter. “ And among my papers I have a letter addressed to you from my uncle Rowland Lester.” “ God bless me ! ” cried Sir Peter, “ what, Rowy ! — well, indeed I am overjoyed to hear of him. So you are his nephew ? Pray tell me all about him, a wild, gay 210 EUGENE ARAM. / sollicking fellow still, eh? Always fencing, sa — sal or playing at billiards, or hot in a steeple chase ; there was not a jollier, better humored fellow in the world than Rowy Lester.” “You forget, Sir Peter,” said Walter, laughing at a description so unlike his sober and steady uucle, “ that some years have passed since the time you speak of.” “Ah, and so there have,” replied Sir Peter: “and what do^s your uncle say of me ? ” “ That, when he knew you, you were generosity, frank¬ ness, hospitality itself.” “ Humph, humph ! ” said Sir Peter, looking extremely disconcerted, a confusion which Walter imputed solely 1 modesty. “ 7 wa» a hairbrained foolish fellow then, quit: a boy, quite a. buy ; but bless me, it rains sharply, ana you have no cloax. But we are close on the town now. An excellent kin is the “ Duke of Cumberland’s Head,” you will have charming accommodation there.” “ What, Si Peter, you know this part of the country well! ” “Pretty weL, pretty well; indeed I live near, that is to say not very far from, the town. This turn if you please. We separate here. I have brought you a little out of your way — not above a mile or two — for fear the rob¬ bers should attack me if I was left alone. I had quite forgot you had no cloak. That’s your road — this mine. Aha ! so Rowy Lester is still alive and hearty, the same excellent, wild fellow, no doubt. Give my kindest re¬ membrance to him when you write. Adieu, sir.” EUGE NE ARAM. 211 This latter speech having been delivered during halt the corporal had heard it: he grinned delightfully h<* touched his hat to Sir Peter, who now trotted off muttered to his young master: — “ Most sensible man, that, sir ! ” C HAPTER YI. SIR PETER DISPLAYED.— ONE MAN OF THE WORLD SUFFERS \ FROM ANOTHER.-THE INCIDENT OF THE BRIDLE BEGETS THE INCIDENT OF THE SADDLE ; THE INCIDENT OF THE SADDLE BEGETS THE INCIDENT OF THE WHIP ; THE INCI¬ DENT OF THE WHIP BEGETS WHAT THE READER MUST READ TO SEE. “Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta.” Vet. Auct. “ And so,” said Walter, the next morning, to the hea. waiter, who was busied about their preparations for breakfast; “ and so, Sir Peter Hales, you say, lives with¬ in a mile of the town ? ” “Scarcely a mile, sir,— black or green? you passed the turn to his house last night; — sir, the eggs are quite fresh this morning. This inn belongs to Sir Peter.” “ Oh ! — Does Sir Peter see much company ? ” The waiter smiled. “ Sir Peter gives very handsome dinners, sir, twice a 212 EUGENE ARAM. year ! A most clever gentleman, Sir Peter ! They say he is the best manager of property in the whole county. Do you like Yorkshire cake ? — toast ? yes, sir !” “ So, so,” said Walter to himself, “a pretty true des¬ cription my uncle ga^e me of this gentleman. ‘ Ask mt too often to dinner, indeed ! ’—‘ offer me money if I want it! 7 — ‘spend a month at his house!’ — ‘most hospita¬ ble fellow in the world’ — My uncle must have been dreaming.” Walter had yet to learn, that the men most prodigal when they have nothing but expectations, are often most thrifty when they know the charms of absolute possession. Besides, Sir Peter had married a Scotch lady, and was blessed with eleven children ! But was Sir Peter Hales much altered ? Sir Peter Hales was exactly the same man in reality that he always had been. Once he was selfish in extravagance ; he was now selfish in thrift. He had always pleased himself, and damned other people; that was exactly what he valued himself on doing now. But the most absurd thing about Sir Peter was, that while he was for ever extracting use from every one else, he was mightily afraid of being himself put to use. He was in parliament, and noted for never giving a frank out of his own family. Yet withal, Sir Peter Hales was still an agreeable fellow; nay, he was more liked and much more esteemed than ever. There is something conciliatory in a saving disposition; but people put themselves in a great passion when a man is too liberal with his own It is an insult on their own prudence EUGENE ARAM. 213 “ What right has he to be so extravagant ? What an example to our servants! ” But your close neighbor does not humble you. You love your close neighbor: you respect your close neighbor•, you have your harmless jest against him — but he is a most respectable man. “ A letter, sir, and a parcel, from Sir Peter Hales,” said the waiter, entering. The parcel was a bulky, angular, awkward packet of brown paper, sealed once and tied with the smallest possible quantity of string; it was addressed to Mr. James Holwell, Saddler,-Street,****. The letter was addressed to-Lester, Esq., and ran thus, written in a very neat, stiff, Italian character. “D r S r , “ I trust you had no difficulty in find 5 y e Duke of Cum¬ berland’s Head, it is an excellent I n . “ I greatly reg 1 y‘ you are unavoid y oblig’d to go on tc Lond"; for, otherwise I sh d have had the sincerest pleas* in seeing you here at din r , & introducing you to L Hales. Anoth r time I trust we may be more fortunate. “As you pass thro’ y e litt* town of.. exactly 21 miles from hence, on the road to Lond", will you do me the fav r to allow your serv* to put the little parcel I send into his pock*, & drop it as direct d . It is a bridle I am forc’d to return. Country work 0 are such bung rs . '* I sh d most certain have had y e hon r to wait on you person y , but the rain has given me a m° sev e cold ; — hope you have escap’d, tho’ by y e by, you had no cloke, nor wrapp r I 214 EUGENE ARAM. “ My kindest regards to your m° excellent unc e . I am quite sure he’s the same fine merr y fell w he always was,—• tell him so ! “D r S r , Yours faith y , “ Peter Grtndlescrew Hales. “ P. S. You know perh s y‘ poor Jno° Court d , your uncle’s m° intim 6 friend, lives in., the town in which your serv* will drop y e brid e . He is much alter’d, — poor Jn° 1 ” “ Altered ! alteration then seems the fashion with my uncle’s friends ! ” thought Walter as he rang for the cor¬ poral, and consigned to his charge the unsightly parcel. “ It is to be carried twenty-one miles at the request of the gentleman we met last night,— a most sensible man, Bunting.” “ Augh — waugh,— your honor ! ” grunted the corpor¬ al, thrusting the bridle very discontentedly into his pock¬ et, where it annoyed him the whole journey, by incessantly getting between his seat of leather and his seat of honor. It is a comfort to the inexperienced, when one man of the world smarts from the sagacity of another; we resign ourselves more willingly to our fate. Our travellers resumed their journey, and in a few minutes, from the cause we have before assigned, the corporal became thoroughly out of humor. “Pray, Bunting,” said Walter, calling his attendant to his side, “ do you feel sure that the man we met yesterday at the alehouse, is the same you saw at Grassdale some months ago ? ” EUGE NE ARAM. 215 “ Damn it! ” cried the corporal quickly, and clapping his hand behind. “ How, sir ! ” “Beg pardon, your honor — slip tongue, but this con* founded parcel! augh — bother ! ” “ Why don’t you carry it in your hand ? ” “ ’Tis so ungainsome, and be d-d to it; and how can I hold parcel and pull in this beast, which requires two hands ; his mouth’s as hard as a brickbat,— augh ! ” “ You have not answered my question yet ? ” “ Beg pardon, your honor. Yes, certain sure the man’s the same ; phiz not to be mistaken.” “It is strange,” said Walter musing, “that Aram should know a man, who, if not a highwayman as we sus¬ pected, is at least of rugged manner and disreputable appearance ; it is strange too, that Aram always avoided recurring to the acquaintance, though he confessed it.” With this he broke into a trot, and the corporal into an oath. They arrived by noon, at the little town specified by Sir Peter, and in their way to the inn (for Walter re¬ solved to rest there), passed by the saddler’s house. It so chanced that Master Holwell was an adept in his craft, and that a newly invented hunting-saddle at the window caught Walter’s notice. The artful saddler per¬ suaded the young traveller to dismount and look at “the most convenientest and handsomest saddle that ever was seed ; ” and the corporal having lost no time in getting rid of Ms encumbrance, Walter dismissed him to the inn I. —19 A R A M. 216 EUGENE with the horses, and after purchasing the saddle, in ex* change for his own, he sauntered into the shop to look at a new snaffle. A gentleman’s servant was in the shop at the time, bargaining for a riding-whip ; and the shop-boy, among others, showed him a large old-fashioned one, with a tarnished silver handle. Grooms have no taste for antiquity, and in spite of the silver handle, the servant pushed it aside with some contempt. Some jest he utter¬ ed at the time, chanced to attract Walter’s notice to the whip ; he took it up carelessly, and perceived with some surprise that it bore his own crest, a bittern, on the han¬ dle. He examined it now with attention, and underneath the crest were the letters G. L., his father’s initials. “How long have you had this whip ? ” said he to the saddler, concealing the emotion, which this token of his lost parent naturally excited. “Oh, a nation long time, sir,” replied Mr. Holwell ; “ it is a queer old thing, but really is not amiss, if the silver was scrubbed up a bit, and a new lash put on; you may have it a bargain, sir, if so be you have taken a fancy to it.” “ Can you at all recollect how you came by it ? ” said Walter, earnestly; “the fact is that I see by the crest and initials, that it belonged to a person whom I have some interest in discovering.” “ Why let me see,” said the saddler, scratching the tip of his right ear, “ ’tis so long ago sin I had it, I quite forgets how I came by it.” “ Oh, is it that whip, John ? ” said the wife, who had EUGENE ARAM. 217 been attracted from the back parlor by the sight of the handsome young stranger. “ Don’t you remember, it's a many year ago, a gentleman who passed a day with Squire Courtland, when he first come to settle here, call¬ ed and left the whip to have a new thong put to it. But I fancies he forgot it, sir, (turning to Walter,) for he never called for it again ; and the squire’s people said as how he was gone into Yorkshire; so there the whip’s been ever sin. I remembers it, sir, ’cause I kept it in the little parlor nearly a year, to be in the way like.” “ Ah 1 I thinks I do remember it now,” said Master Holwell. “ I should think it’s a matter of twelve yearn ego. I suppose I may sell it without fear of the gentle¬ man’s claiming it again.” “ Not more than twelve years ! ” said Walter anxiously, for it was some seventeen years since his father had been last heard of by his family. “Why it may be thirteen, sir, or so, more or less, I can’t say exactly.” “ More likely fourteen ! ” said the dame, “ it can’t be much more, sir, we have only been a married fifteen year come next Christmas ! But my old man here, is ten years older nor I.” “ And the gentleman, you say, was at Mr. Courtland’s.” “ Yes, sir, that I’m sure of,” replied the intelligent Mrs. Holwell; “ they said he had come lately from the Ingee.” Walter now despairing of hearing more, purchased the 218 EUGENE ARAM. whip; and blessing the worldly wisdom of Sir Peter Hales, that had thus thrown him on a clue, which, how¬ ever faint and distant, he resolved to follow up, he inquir¬ ed the way to Squire Courtland’s, and proceeded thither at once. CHAPTER YII. WALTER VISITS ANOTHER OF HIS UNCLE’S FRIENDS.— MR. COURTLAND’S STRANGE COMPLAINT. — WALTER LEARNS NEWS OF HIS FATHER, WHICH SURPRISES HIM.-THE CHANGE IN HIS DESTINATION. “ God’s my life, did you ever hear the like, what a strange man is this ! “ What you have possessed me withall, I’ll discharge it amply.” — Ben Jonson’s Every Man in his Ilumor. Mr. Courtland’s house was surrounaea by a high wall, and stood at the outskirts of the town. A little wooden door buried deep within the wall, seemed the only entrance. At this Walter paused, and after twice applying to the bell, a footman of a peculiarly grave and sanctimonious appearance, opened the door. In reply to Walter’s inquiries, he informed him that Mr. Courtland was very unwell, and never saw “com¬ pany.”— Walter, however, producing from his pocket- book the introductory letter given him by his uncle, EUGENE ARAM. 219 slipped it into the servant’s hand, accompanied by half a crown, and begged to be announced as a gentleman on very particular business.. “Well, sir, you can step in,” said the servant, giving way; “but my master is very poorly, very poorly in¬ deed.” “ Indeed I am very sorry to hear it: has he been long so ? ” « “ Going on for ten-years, sir!” replied the ser¬ vant, with great gravity; and opening the door of the house which stood within a few paces of the wall, on a singularly flat and bare grass-plot, he showed him into a room, and left him alone. The first thing that struck Walter in this apartment, was its remarkable lightness . Though not large, it had no less than seven windows. Two sides of the wall, seemed indeed all window! Nor were these admittants of the celestial beam shaded by any blind or curtain: “The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day” made itself thoroughly at home in this airy chamber. Nevertheless, though so light, it seemed to Walter any thing but cheerful. The sun had blistered and discolored the painting of the wainscot, originally of a pale sea- green ; there was little furniture in the apartment; one table in the centre, some half a dozen chairs, and a very small Turkey-carpet, which did not cover one tenth part of the clean, cold, smooth, oak boards, constituted all the goods and chattels visible in the room. But what par* 19 * 220 EUGENE ARAM. ticularly added effect to the bareness of all within, was the singular and laborious bareness of all without. From each of these seven windows, nothing but a forlorn green flat of some extent was to be seen; there was not a tree, or a shrub, or a flower in the whole expanse, although by several stumps of trees near the house, Walter perceived that the place had not always been so destitute of vegetable life. While he was yet looking upon this singular baldness of scene, the servant re-entered with his master’s com¬ pliments, and a message that he should be happy to see any relation of Mr. Lester. Walter accordingly followed the footman into an apart¬ ment possessing exactly the same peculiarities as the for¬ mer one ; viz. a most disproportionate plurality of win¬ dows, a commodious scantiness of furniture, and a prospect without, that seemed as if the house had been built on the middle of Salisbury plain. Mr. Courtland, himself a stout man, and still preserving the rosy hues and comely features, though certainly not the same hilarious expression, which Lester had attri¬ buted to him, sat in a large chair, close by the centre window, which was open. He rose and shook Walter by the hand with great cordiality. “ Sir, I am delighted to see you ! How is your worthy uncle? I only wish he were with you — you dine with me of course. Thomas, tell the cook to add a tongue and chicken to the roast beef—no,— young gentleman, I will have no excuse; sit down, sit down ; pray come EUGENE ARAM. 221 near the window; do you not find it dreadfully close ? not a breath of air ? This house is so choked up ; don’t you find it so, eh ? Ah, I see, you can scarcely gasp.” “ My dear sir, you are mistaken; I am rather cold on the contrary: nor did I ever in my life see a more airy house than yours ” “ I try to make it so, sir, but I can’t succeed ; if you had seen what it w'as, when I first bought it! a garden here, sir; a copse there; a wilderness, God wot! at the back: and a row of chesnut trees in the front! You may conceive the consequence, sir; I had not been long here, not two years, before my health was gone, sir, gone — the d-d vegetable life sucked it out of me. The trees kept away all the air—I was nearly suffocated, without at first guessing the cause. But at length, though not till I had been withering away for five years, I discovered the origin of my malady. I went to work, sir ; plucked up the cursed garden, I cut down the infer¬ nal chcsnuts, I made a bowling green of the diabolical wilderness, but I fear it is too late. I am dying by inches,— have been dying ever since. The malaria has effectually tainted my constitution.” Here Mr. Courtland heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head with a most gloomy expression of countenance “Indeed, sir,” said Walter, “I should not, to look at you, imagine that you suffered under any complaint. You seem still the same picture of health, that my uncle describes you to have been when you knew him so many years ago.” 222 EUGENE ARAM ‘Yes, sir, yes ; the confounded malaria fixed the color to my cheeks; the blood is stagnant, sir. Would to God I could see myself a shade paler ! — the blood does not flow ; I am like a pool in a citizen’s garden, with a willow at each corner; —but a truce to my complaints. You see, sir, I am no hypochondriac, as my fool of a doctor wants to persuade me : a hypochondriac shudders at every breath of air, trembles when the door is open, and looks upon a window as the entrance of death. But, I, sir, never can have enough air; thorough draught or east wind, it is all the same to me, so that I do but breathe. Is that like hypochondria ? — pshaw ! But tell me, young gentleman, about your uncle ; is he quite well, — stout, — hearty, — does he breathe easily,— no oppression ? ” “ Sir, he enjoys exceedingly good health : he did please himself with the hope that I should give him good tidings of yourself, and another of his old friends whom I accidentally saw yesterday,— Sir Peter Hales.” “ Hales, Peter Hales ! — ah ! a clever little fellow that: how delighted Lester’s good heart will be to hear that little Peter is so improved : — no longer a dissolute, harum-scarum fellow, throwing away his money, and al¬ ways in debt. No, no ; a respectable steady character, an excellent manager, an active member of Parliament, domestic in private life:— Oh I a very worthy man, sir, a very worthy man ! ” “ He seems altered indeed, sir,” said Walter, who was young enough in the world to be surprised at this eulogy; EUGENE ARAM. 223 “but he is still agreeable and fond of anecdote. He told me of his race with you for a thousand guineas.” “ Ah, don’t talk of those days,” said Mr. Courtland, shaking his head pensively, “it makes me melancholy. Yes, Peter ought to recollect that, for he has never paid me to this day ; affected to treat it as a jest, and swore he could have beat me if he would. But indeed it was my fault, sir; Peter had not then a thousand farthings in the world, and when he grew rich, he became a steady cha¬ racter, and I did not like to remind him of our former follies. Aha 1 can I offer you a pinch of snuff? — You look feverish, sir; surely this room must affect you, though you are too polite to say so. Pray open that door, and then this window, and put your chair right between the two. You have no notion how refreshing the draught is.” Walter politely declined the proffered ague, and think¬ ing he had now made sufficient progress in the acquaint¬ ance of this singular non-hypochondriac to introduce the subject he had most at heart, hastened to speak of his father. “ I have chanced, sir,” said he, “ very unexpectedly upon something that once belonged to my poor father; ” here he showed the whip. “ I find from the saddler of whom I bought it, that the owner was at your house some twelve or fourteen years ago. I do not know whether you are aware that our family have heard no¬ thing respecting my father’s fate for a considerably longer time than that which has elapsed since you appear to r 224 EUGENE ARAM. have seen him, if at least I may hope that he was your guest, and the owner of this whip ; and any news you can give me of him, any clue by which he can possibly be traced, would be to us all — to me m particular — an inestimable obligation.” “Your father!” said Mr. Courtland. “Oh,— ay your uncle’s brother. What was his Christian name ? Henry?” “ Geoffrey.” “ Ay, exactly ; Geoffrey ! What! not been heard of ? — his family not know where he is ? A sad thing, sir ; but he was always a wild fellow ; now here, now there, like a flash of lightning. But it is true, it is true, he did stay a day here, several years ago, when I first bought the place. I can tell you all about it; — but you seem agitated,— do come nearer the window:—■ there, that’s right. Well, sir, it is, as I said, a great many years ago,— perhaps fourteen,— and I was speak¬ ing to the landlord of the Greyhound about some hay he wished to sell, when a gentleman rode into the yard full tear, as your father always did ride, and in getting out of his way I recognized Geoffrey Lester. I did not know him well — far from it; but I had seen him once or twice with your uncle, and though he was a strange pickle, he sang a good song, and was deuced amusing. Well, sir, I accosted him, and, for the sake of your uncle, I asked him to dine with me, and take a bed at my new house. Ah ! I little thought what a dear bargain it was to be. He accepted my invitation, for I fancy—no offence. EUGENE ARAM. 225 sir,— there were few invitations that Mr. Geoffrey Lester ever refused to accept. We dined tete-a-tete ,— I am an old bachelor, sir,— and very entertaining he was, though his sentiments seemed to me broader than ever. He was capital, however, about the tricks he had played his ere- d'tors, — such manoeuvres,— such escapes ! After dinner he asked me if I ever corresponded with his brother. I told him no; that we were very good friends, but never heard from each other: and he then said, ‘Well, I shall surprise him with a visit shortly ; but in case you should unexpectedly have any communication with him, don’t mention having seen me ; for, to tell you the truth, I am just returned from India, where I should have scraped up a little money, but that I spent it as fast as I got it. However, you know that I was always proverb¬ ially the luckiest fellow in the world — (and so, sir, youi father was !) — and while I was in India, I saved an old colonel’s life at a tiger-hunt; he went home shortly after¬ wards, and settled in Yorkshire; and the other day on my return to England, to which my ill-health drove me, I learned that my old colonel was really dead, and had left me a handsome legacy, with his house in Yorkshire. I am now going down to Yorkshire to convert the chat¬ tels into gold — to receive my money, and I shall then seek out my good brother, my household gods, and, per¬ haps, though it’s not likely, settle into a sober fellow for the rest of my life.’ I don’t tell you, young gentleman, that those were your father’s exact words,— one can’t remember verbatim so many years ago ; —but it was to 226 EUGENE ARAM. that effect. He left me the next day, and I never heard any thing more of him : to say the truth, he was looking wonderfully yellow, and fearfully reduced. And I fancied at the time he could not live long; he was prematurely old, and decrepit in body, though gay in spirit; so that I had tacitly imagined in never hearing of him more — that he had departed life. But, good heavens! did you never hear of this legacy ? ” -‘ Never : not a word ! ” said Walter, who had listened to these particulars in great surprise. “And to what p*\rt of Yorkshire did he say he was going ? ” “That he did not mention.” “Nor the colonel’s name?” “ Not as I remember ; he might, but I think not. But I am certain that the county was Yorkshire, and the gen¬ tleman, whatever was his name, was a colonel. Stay ! I recollect one more particular, which it is lucky I do remember. Your father in giving me, as I said before, in his own humorous strain, the history of his adven¬ tures, his hair-breadth escapes from his duns, the various disguises, and the numerous aliases he had assumed, mentioned that the name he had borne in India, and by which, he assured me, he had made quite a good charac¬ ter— was Clarke : he also said, by the way, that he still kept to that name, and was very merry on the advantages of having so common an one. ‘By which/ he said wit¬ tily, ‘he could father all his own sins on some other Mr. Clarke, at the same time that he could seize and appro¬ priate all the merits of all his other namesakes.’ Ah, n< EUGENE ARAM. 221 offence; but he was a sad dog, that father ot yours ! So you see that, in all probability, if he ever reached Yorkshire, it was under the name of Clarke that he claimed and received his legacy.” “You have told me more,” said Walter, joyfully, “ than we have heard since his disappearance, and I shall turn my horses’ heads northward to-morrow, by break of day. But you say, ‘if he ever reached Yorkshire,’ — what should prevent him ? ” “ His health ! ” said the non-hypochondriac. “ I should not be greatly surprised if—if—in short you had better look at the grave-stones by the way, for the name of Clarke.” “ Perhaps you can give me the dates, sir,” said Walter, somewhat cast down from his elation. “ Ay ! I’ll see, I’ll see, after dinner: the commonness of the name has its disadvantages now. Poor Geoffrey ! — I dare say there are fifty tombs, to the memory of fifty Clarkes, between this and York. But come, sir, there’s the dinner-bell.” Whatever might have been the maladies entailed upon the portly frame of Mr. Courtland by the vegetable life of the departed trees, a want of appetite was not among the number. Whenever a man is not abstinent from rule, or from early habit, as in the case of Aram, Solitude makes its votaries particularly fond of their dinner They have no other event wherewith to mark their day — they think over it, they anticipate it, they nourish its I. —20 228 E U G E N E A it A M . soft idea with their imagination ; if they do look forward to any thing else more than their dinner, it is — supper! Mr. Courtland deliberately pinned the napkin to his waistcoat, ordered all the windows to be thrown open, and set to work like the good Canon in Gil Bias. He still retained enough of his former self, to preserve an excellent cook ; so far at least as the excellence of a she- artist goes; and though most of his viands were of the plainest, who does not know what skill it requires to pro¬ duce an unexceptionable roast, or a blameless boil ? Talk of good professed cooks, indeed ! they are plentiful as blackberries : it is the good, plain cook, who is the rarity ! Half a tureen of strong soup ; three pounds, at least, of stewed carp ; all the under part of a sirloin of beef; three quarters of a tongue; the moiety of a chicken ; six pancakes and a tartlet, having severally disappeared down the jaws of the invalid, “Et cuncta terrarum subacta Prjeter atrocem animum Catonis,” he still called for two deviled biscuits and an anchovy! When these were gone, he had the wine set on a little table by the window, and declared that the air seemed closer than ever. Walter was no longer surprised at the singular nature of the non-hypochondriac’s complaint. Walter declined the bed that Mr. Courtland offered him — though his host kindly assured him that it had no curtains, and that there was not a shutter to the house-" EUGENE ARAM. 229 upon the p.ea of starting the next morning at daybreak, and his consequent unwillingness to disturb the regular establishment of the invalid: and Courtland, who was still an excellent, hospitable, friendly man, suffered his friend’s nephew to depart with regret. He supplied him, however, by a reference to an old note-book, with the date of the year, and even month, in which he had been favored by a visit from Mr. Clarke, who, it seemed, had also changed his Christian name from Geoffrey, to one beginning with D-; but whether it was David or Daniel the host remembered not. In parting with Wal¬ ter, Courtland shook his head, and observed: — “ Entre nous , sir, I fear this may‘ be a wild-goose chase. Your father was too facetious to confine himself to fact — excuse me, sir—and perhaps the colonel and the legacy were merely inventions —pour passer le temps — there was only one reason, indeed, that made me fully believe the story.” “ What was that, sir ? ” asked Walter, blushing deeply, at the universality of that estimation his father had ob¬ tained. “Excuse me, my young friend.” “Hay, sir, let me press you.” “ Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey Lester did not ask me to lend him any money.” The next morning, instead of repairing to the gaieties of the metropolis, Walter had, upon this slight and du¬ bious clue, altered his journey northward, and with an 230 EUGENE ARAM unquiet yet sanguine spirit, the adventurous son com¬ menced his search after the fate of a father evidently so unworthy of the anxiety he had excited. CHAPTER YIII. % Walter’s meditations. — the corporal’s grief and ANGER.— THE CORPORAL PERSONALLY DESCRIBED. AN EXPLANATION WITH HIS MASTER.-THE CORPORAL OPENS HIMSELF TO THE YOUNG TRAVELLER.-HIS OPINIONS ON LOVE ; — ON THE WORLD ;-ON THE PLEASURE AND RESPECTABILITY OF CHEATING ;-ON LADIES-AND A PARTICULAR CLASS OF LADIES ; — ON AUTHORS ; ON THE VALUE OF WORDS ; — ON FIGHTING ;-WITH SUNDRY OTHER MATTERS OF EQUAL DELECTATION AND IMPROVE¬ MENT.— AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. “Quale per incertam Lunam sub luce maligna Est iter.” Virgil. The road prescribed to our travellers by the change in their destination led them back over a considerable por¬ tion of the ground they had already traversed, and since the corporal took care that they should remain some hours in the place where they dined, night fell upon them as they found themselves in the midst of the same long and dreary stage in which they had encountered Sir Peter Hales and the two suspected highwaymen. EUGENE ARAM. 231 Walter’s mind was full of the project on which he was Dent. The reader can fully comprehend how vivid must have been his emotions at thus chancing on what might prove a clue to the mystery that hung over his father’s fate ; and sanguinely did he now indulge those intense meditations with which the imaginative minds of the young always brood over every more favorite idea, until they exalt the hope into a passion. Every thing con¬ nected with this strange and roving parent, had possessed for the breast of his son, not only an anxious, but so to speak, indulgent interest. The judgment of a young man is always inclined to sympathize with the wilder and more enterprising order of spirits ; and Walter had been at no loss for secret excuses wherewith to defend the irregular life and reckless habits of his parent. Amidst all his father’s evident and utter want of principle, Wal¬ ter clung with a natural and self-deceptive partiality to the few traits of courage or generosity which relieved, if they did not redeem, his character; traits which, with a character of that stamp, are so often, though always so unprofitably blended, and which generally cease with the commencement of age. He now felt elated by the conviction, as he had always been inspired by the hope, that it was to be his lot to discover one whom he still believed living, and whom he trusted to find amended. The same intimate persuasion of the “ good luck ” of Geoffrey Lester, which all who had known him appeared to entertain, was felt even in a more credulous and ear¬ nest degree by his son. Walter gave way now, indeed, 20 * EUGENE ARAM. 232 to a variety of conjectures as to the motives which induced his father to persist in the concealment of his fate after his return to England; but such of those conjectures as, if the more rational, were also the more despondent, he speedily and resolutely dismissed. Sometimes he thought that his father, on learning the death of the wife he had abandon¬ ed, might have been possessed with a remorse which ren¬ dered him unwilling to disclose himself to the rest of his family, and a feeling that the main tie of home was broken ; sometimes he thought that the wanderer had been disappointed in his expected legacy, and dreading the attacks of his creditors, or unwilling to throw him¬ self once more on the generosity of his brother, had again suddenly quitted England and entered on some # enterprise or occupation abroad. It was also possible, to one so reckless and changeful, that even, after receiv¬ ing the legacy, a proposition from some wild comrade might have hurried him away on any continental project on the mere impulse of the moment, for the impulse of the moment had always been the guide of his life ; and once abroad he might have returned to India, and in new con¬ nections forgotten the old ties at home. Letters from abroad too, miscarry; and it was not improbable that the wanderer might have written repeatedly, and receiv¬ ing no answer to his communications, imagined that the dissoluteness of his life had deprived him of the affec¬ tions of his family, and, deserving so well to have the proffer of renewed intercourse rejected, believed that it actually was so. These and a hundred similar conjee- EUGENE ARAM. 233 tures, found favor in the eyes of the young traveller ; but the chances of a fatal accident, or sudden death, he perti¬ naciously refused at present to include in the number of probabilities. Had his father been seized with a mortal illness on the road, was it not likely that he would, in the remorse occasioned in the hardiest by approaching death, have written to his brother, and recommending his child to his care, have apprised him of the addition to his for¬ tune ? Walter, then, did not meditate embarrassing his present journey by those researches among the dead, which the worthy Courtland had so considerately recom¬ mended to his prudence : should his expedition, contrary to his hopes, prove wholly unsuccessful, it might then be well to retrace his steps and adopt the suggestion. But what man, at the age of twenty-one, ever took much precaution on the darker side of a question on which his heart ^vas interested ? With what pleasure, escaping from conjecture to a more ultimate conclusion — did he, in recalling those words, in which his father had more than hinted to Courtland of his future amendment, contemplate recover¬ ing a parent made wise by years and sober by misfor¬ tunes, and restoring him to a hearth of tranquil vir¬ tues and peaceful enjoyments ! He imaged to himself a scene of that domestic happiness, which is so perfect in our dreams, because in our dreams monotony is always excluded from the picture. And, in this creation of Fancy, the form of Ellinor — his bright-eyed and gentle cousin, was not the least conspicuous. Since his alterca- V. 234 EUGENE ARAM. tion with Madeline, the love he had once thought so ineffaceable, had faded into a dim and sullen hue; and, in proportion as the image of Madeline grew indistinct, that of her sister became more brilliant. Often, now, as he rode slowly onward, in the quiet of the deepening night, and the mellow stars softening all on which they shone, he pressed the little token of Ellinor’s affection to his heart, and wondered that it was only within the last few days he had discovered that her eyes were more beautiful than Madeline’s, and her smile more touching. Meanwhile the redoubted corporal, who was by no means pleased with the change in his master’s plans, lingered behind, whistling the most melancholy tune in his col¬ lection. No young lady, anticipative of balls or coro¬ nets, had ever felt more complacent satisfaction in a jour¬ ney to London than that which had cheered the athletic breast of the veteran on finding himself, at last, within one day’s gentle march of the metropolis. And no young lady, suddenly summoned back in the first flush of her debut, by an unseasonable fit of gout or economy in papa, ever felt more irreparably aggrieved than now did the dejected corporal. His master had not yet even ac¬ quainted him with the cause of the countermarch ; and, in his own heart, he believed it nothing but the wanton levity and unpardonable fickleness “common to all them ere boys afore they have seen the world.” He certainly considered himself a singularly ill-used and injured man, and drawing himself up to his full height, as if it were a matter with which heaven should be acquainted at the EUGENE ARAM. 235 earliest possible opportunity, he indulged, as we before said, in the melancholy consolation of a whistled death- dirge, occasionally interrupted by a long-drawn interlude half sigh, half snuffle, of his favorite augh — baugh. And here, we remember, that we have not as yet given to our readers a fitting portrait of the corporal on horse¬ back. Perhaps no better opportunity than the present may occur; and perhaps, also, Corporal Bunting, as well as Melrose Abbey, may seem a yet more interesting pic¬ ture when viewed by the pale moonlight. The corporal then wore on his head a small cocked hat, which had formerly belonged to the colonel of the forty-second — the prints of my uncle Toby may serve to suggest its shape; — it had once boasted a feather — that was gone ; but the gold lace, though tarnished, and the cockade, though battered, still remained. From under this shade the profile of the corporal assumed a particular aspect of heroism: though a good-looking man on the main, it was his air, height, and complexion, which made him so; and a side view, unlike Lucian's one-eyed prince, was not the most favorable point in which his features could be regarded. His eyes, which were small and shrewd, were half hid by a pair of thick shaggy brows, which, while he whistled, he moved to and fro, as a horse moves his ears when he gives warning that he intends to shy : his nose was straight — so far so good— but then it did not go far enough: for though it seemed no despicable proboscis in front, somehow or another it appeared exceedingly short in profile; to make I 236 EUGENE ARAM. „ ■» ap for this, the upper lip was of a length the more strik¬ ing from being exceedingly straight; —it had learned to hold itself upright, and make the most of its length as well as its master ! his under lip, alone protruded in the act of whistling, served yet more markedly to throw the nose into the back-ground; and as for the chin—talk :f the upper lip being long indeed! — the chin would have made two of it; such a chin ! so long, so broad, so massive, had it been put on a dish might have passed, without discredit for a round of beef! it looked yet larger than it was from the exceeding tightness of the stiff black leather stock below, which forced forth all the flesh it encountered into another chin,— a remove to the round. The hat, being somewhat too small for the cor¬ poral. and being cocked knowingly in front, left the hinder half of the head exposed. And the hair, carried into a club according to the fashion, lay thick, and of a griz¬ zled black, on the brawny shoulders below. The veteran was dressed in a blue coat originally a frock ; but the skirts, having once, to the imminent peril of the place they guarded, caught fire, as the corporal*stood basking himself at Peter Dealtry’s, had been so far amputated, as to leave only the stump of a tail, which just covered, and no more, that part, which neither Art in bipeds nor Na¬ ture in quadupeps loves to leave wholly exposed. And that part, ah, how ample ! had Liston seen it, he would have hid for ever his diminished — opposite to head! — No wonder the corporal had been so annoyed by tne par¬ cel of the previous day, a coat so short, and a-; but EUGENE ARAM. no matter, pass we to the rest! It was not only in its skirts that this wicked coat was deficient; the corpora*, who had within the last few years thriven lustily in the inactive serenity of Grassdale, had outgrown it prodigi¬ ously across the chest and girth ; nevertheless he man¬ aged to button it up. And thus the muscular propor¬ tions of the wearer bursting forth in all quarters, gave him the ludicrous appearance of a gigantic schoolboy. His wrists, and large sinewy hands, both employed at the bridle of his hard-mouthed charger, were markedly visi¬ ble ; for it was the corporal’s custom whenever he came into an obscure part of the road, carefully to take off, and prudently to pocket, a pair of scrupulously clean white leather gloves, which smartened up his appearance prodigiously in passing through the towns in their route. His breeches were of yellow buckskin, and ineffably tight; his stockings were of grey worsted, and a pair of laced boots, that reached the ascent of a very mountain¬ ous calf, but declined any further progress, completed his attire. Fancy then this figure, seated with laborious and un¬ swerving perpendicularity on a demi-pique saddle, orna¬ mented with a huge pair of well-stuffed saddle-bags, and holsters revealing the stocks of a brace of immense pis¬ tols, the horse with its obstinate mouth thrust out, and the bridle drawn as tight as a bowstring ! its ears laid sullenly down, as if, like the corporal, it complained of going to Yorkshire, and its long thick tail, not set up in u comely and well-educated arch, but hanging sheepishly 238 EUGENE ARAM. down, as if its buttocks should at least be better coverea than its master’s! And now, reader, it is not our fault if you cannot form some conception of the physical perfections of the cor¬ poral and his steed. The reverie of the contemplative Bunting was inter¬ rupted by the voice of his master calling upon him to approach. “ Well, well ! ” muttered he, “the younker can’t expect one as close on his heels as if we were trotting into Lun- non, which we might be at this time, sure enough, if he had not been so damned flighty — augli ! ” “Bunting, I say, do you hear?” “ Yes, your honor, yes ; this ere horse is so ’nation sluggish.” “ Sluggish ! why I thought he was too much the re¬ verse, Bunting ? I thought he was one rather requiring the bridle than the spur.” “ Augli! your honor, he’s slow when he should not, and fast when he should not; changes his mind from pure whim, or pure spite; new to the world, your honor, that’s all; a different thing if properly broke. There be a many like him ! ” “ You mean to be personal, Mr. Bunting,” said Wal¬ ter, laughing at the evident ill-humor of his attendant. “Augh! indeed and no! — I daren’t — a poor man like me — go for to presume to be personal,— unless i get hold ) yap Stds, aXX* ovws laoipou O. Maviai re , - * * * * * M. fyavTaapuTuiv raSe vooeis irolwv 8»w. 'OPEST. 398—407. 0. Mightiest indeed is the grief consuming me. M. Dreadful is the Divinity, but still placable. . The furies also- * • * * M. Urged by what apparitions ao you rave thuii I,— 22 :my I - BOOK THIRD. CHAPTER I. FRAUD AND VIOLENCE ENTER EVEN GRASSDALE.—PETER’S NEWS. — THE LOVERS’ WALK. — THE RE-APPEARANCE. “ Auf \—Whence comest thou—what wouldst thou?” Coriolanus. One evening Aram and Madeline were passing through the village in their accustomed walk, when Peter Dealtry sallied forth from the Spotted Dog, and hurried up to the lovers with a countenance full of importance, and a little ruffled by fear. “Oh, sir, sir, — (Miss, your servant 1) — have you neard the news ? Two houses at Checkington, (a small (251) 252 EUGENE ARAM. town some miles distant from (jrassdale,) were forcibly entered last night,— robbed, your honor, robbed. Squire Tibson was tied to his bed, his bureau rifled, himself shockingly confused on the head ; and the maid-servant Sally — her sister lived with me, a very good girl she was,— was locked up in the — the — the — I beg pardon, Miss — was locked up in the cupboard. As to the other house, they carried ofl* all the plate. There were no less than four men, all masked, your honor, and armed with pistols. What if they should come here ?, such a thing was never heard of before in these parts. But, sir,— but, Miss,— do not be afraid, do not ye now, for I may say with the Psalmist, ‘ But wicked men shall -drink the dreg3 Which they in wrath shall wring, For / will lift my voice, and make Them flee while I do sing! * “You could not find a more effectual method of put¬ ting them to flight, Peter,” said Madeline smiling; “but go and talk to my uncle. I know we have a whole magazine of blunderbusses and guns at home : they may be useful now. But you are well provided in case of attack. Have you not the corporal’s famous cat Jaco¬ bin a,— surely a match for fifty robbers?” “ Ay, Miss, on the principle of set a thief to catch a thief, perhaps she may ; but really it is no jesting matter. Them ere robbers flourish like a green bay tree, for a space at least, and it is ’nation bad sport tor us poor lambs till they be cut down and withered like grass EUGENE ARAM. 253 But jour house, Mr. Aram, is very lonesome like ; it is out of reach of all your neighbors. Hadn’t you better, sir, take up your lodgings at the squire’s for the pres¬ ent? ” Madeline pressed Aram’s arm, and looked up fearfully in his face. “ Why, my good friend,’’'said he to Dealtry, “ robbers will have little to gain in my house, unless they are given to learned pursuits It would be something new, Peter, to see a gang of housebreakers making off with a telescope, or a pair of globes, or a great folio covered with dust.” “ Ay, your honor, but they may be the more savage for being disappointed.” “Well, well, Peter, we will see,” replied Aram, impa¬ tiently ; “ meanwhile we may expect you again at the hall. Good evening for the present.” “ Do, dearest Eugene, do, for heaven’s sake,” said Madeline, with tears in her eyes, as they, now turning from Dealtry, directed their steps towards the quiet val¬ ley, at the end of which the student’s house was situated, and which was now more than ever Madeline’s favorite walk, “ do, dearest Eugene, come up to the manor-house till these wretches are apprehended. Consider how open ‘jour house is to attack ; and surely there can be no necessity to remain in it now.’i Aram’s calm brow darkened for a moment. “What! dearest,” said he, “can you be affected by the foolish fears of yon dotard ? How do we know as yet, whether this improbable story have any foundation in truth ? At 22* R 254 EUGENE ARAM. all events, it is evidently exaggerated. Perhaps an inva¬ sion of the poultry-yard, in which some hungry fox was the real offender, may be the true origin of this terrible tale. Nay, love, nay, do not look thus reproachfully ; it will be time enough for us when we have sifted the grounds of alarm to take our precautions; meanwhile, do not blame me if in your presence I cannot admit fear. Oh Madeline, dear, dear Madeline, could you know, could you dream, how different life has become to me since I knew you ! Formerly, I will frankly own to you, that dark and boding apprehensions were wont to lie heavy at my heart; the cloud was more familiar to me than the sunshine. But now I have grown a child, and can see around me nothing but hope ; my life was winter — your love has breathed it into spring.” “And yet, Eugene — yet — ” “ Yet what, my Madeline ? ” “ There are still moments when I have no power over your thoughts ; moments when you break away from me ; when you mutter to yourself feelings in which I have no share, and which seem to steal the consciousness from your eye and the color from your lip.” “ Ah, indeed ! ” said Aram quickly; “ what! you watch me so closely?” “ Can you wonder that I do ? ” said Madeline, with an earnest tenderness in her voice. “ You must not then, you must not,” returned her lover, almost fiercely; “I cannot bear too nice, and sud- 3en a scrutiny; consider how long I have clung to a EUGENE ARAM 25? stern and solitary independence of thought, which allows iO watch, and forbids account of itself to any one. Leave it to time and your love to win their inevitable way. Ask not too much from me now. And mark, mark, I pray you, whenever, in spite of myself, these moods you refer to darken over me, heed not, listen not — Leave me! Solitude is their only cure ! promise me this, love—promise.” “ It is a harsh request, Eugene, and I do not think I will grant you so complete a monopoly of thought; ” answered Madeline, playfully, yet half in earnest. “Madeline,” said Aram, with a deep solemnity of man¬ ner, “ I urge a request on which my very love for you depends. From the depths of my soul, I implore you to grant it; yea, to the very letter.” “ Why, why, this is — ” began Madeline, when en¬ countering the full, the dark, the inscrutable gaze of her strange lover, she broke off in a sudden fear, which she could not analyze ; and only added in a low and subdued voice, “I promise to obey you.” As if a weight was lifted from his heart, Aram now brightened at once into himself in his happiest mood, lie poured forth a torrent of grateful confidence, of buoyant love, that soon swept from the remembrance of the blushing and enchanted Madeline, the momentary fear, the sudden dullness, which his look had involunta¬ rily stricken into her mind. And as they now wound along the most lonely part of that wild valley, his arm twined round her waist, and his low but silver voice pour 256 EUGENE ARAM ing magic into the very air she breathed — she felt per¬ haps a more entire and unruffled sentiment of present, and a more credulous persuasion of future, happiness, than she had ever experienced before. And Aram him¬ self dwelt with a more lively and detailed fulness, than was his wont, on the prospects they were to share, and the security and peace which retirement would instil into their mode of life. “ Is it not,” said he, “ with a lofty triumph that we shall look from our retreat upon the shifting passions, and the hollow loves of the distant world? We can have no petty object, no vain allurement to distract the unity of our affection: we must be all in all to each other ; for what else can there be to engross our thoughts, and occupy our feelings here ? “ If, my beautiful love, you have selected one whom the world might deem a strange choice for youth and loveliness like yours ; you have, at least, selected one who can have no idol but yourself. The poets tell you, and rightly, that solitude is the right sphere for love; but how few are the lovers whom solitude does not fatigue 1 they rush into retirement, with souls unprepared for its stern joys and its unvarying tranquillity: they weary of each other, because the solitude itself to which they fled, palls upon and oppresses them. But to me, the freedom which low minds call obscurity, is the aliment of life ; I do not enter the temples of nature as the stranger, but the priest: nothing can ever tire me of the lone and august altars, on which I sacrificed my youth: and now, EUGENE ARAM. 251 what nature, what wisdom once were to me — no, no, more, immeasurably more than these, you are ! Oh, Madeline ! methinks there is nothing under heaven like the feeling which puts us apart from all that agitates, and fevers, and degrades the herd of men; which grants us to control the tenor of our future life, because it an¬ nihilates our dependence upon others, and, while the rest of earth are hurried on, blind and unconscious, by the hand of fate, leaves us the sole lords of our destiny; and able, from the past, which we have governed, to become the prophets of our future ! ” At this moment Madeline uttered a faint shriek, and clung trembling to Aram’s arm. Amazed, and roused from his enthusiasm, he looked up, and on seeing the cause of her alarm, seemed himself transfixed, as by a sudden terror, to the earth. But a few paces distant, standing amidst the long and rank fern that grew on either side of their path, quite motionless, and looking on the pair with a sarcastic smile, stood the ominous stranger, whom the second chapter of our first volume introduced to the reader. For one instant Aram seemed utterly appalled and overcome ; his cheek grew the color of death ; and Mad¬ eline felt his heart beat with a loud, a fearful force be¬ neath the breast to which she clung. But his was not the nature any earthly fear could long abash He whis¬ pered to Madeline to come on ; and slowly, and with hia usual firm but gliding step, continued his way. 258 EUGENE ARAM. “ Good evening, Eugene Aram,” said the stranger ; and as he spoke, he touched his hat slightly to Madeline. “ I thank you,” replied the student, in a calm voice ; “ do you want aught with me ? ” “Humph! — yes, if it so please you.” “Pardon me, dear Madeline,” said Aram softly, and disengaging himself from her, “but for one moment.” lie advanced to the stranger, and Madeline could not but note that, as Aram accosted him, his brow fell, and his manner seemed violent and agitated ; but she could not hear the words of either ; nor did the conference last above a minute. The stranger bowed, and turning away, soon vanished among the shrubs. Aram regained the side of his mistress. “ Who,” cried she eagerly, ■“ is that fearful man ? What is his business ? What is his name ? ” “ He is a man whom I knew well some fourteen years ago,” replied Aram coldly, and with ease; “I did not then lead quite so lonely a life, and we were thrown much together. Since that time, he has been in unfor¬ tunate circumstances — rejoined the army — he was in early life a soldier, and had been disbanded — entered into business, and failed; in short, he has partaken of those vicissitudes inseparable from the life of one driven to seek the world. When he travelled this road some months ago, he accidentally heard of my residence in the neighborhood, and naturally sought me. Poor as I am, l was of some assistance to him. His route brings him IS JJfiNE ARAM. 259 hither again, and he again seeks me : I suppose too that I must again aid him.” “And is that indeed all?” said Madeline, breathing more freely; “well, poor man, if he be your friend, he must be inoffensive — I have done him wrong. And does ne want money? I have some to give him — here, Eu¬ gene I ” And the simple-hearted girl put her purse into Aram’s hand. “ No, dearest,” said he, shrinking back ; “ no, we shall not require your contribution; I can easily spare him enough for the present. But let us turn back, it grows chill.” “ And why did he leave us, Eugene ? ” “ Because I desired him to visit me at home an hour hence.” “ An hour ! then you will not sup with us to-night ? ” “No, not this night, dearest.” The conversation now ceased; Madeline in vain en¬ deavored to renew it. Aram, though without relapsing into any of his absorbed reveries, answered her only in monosyllables. They arrived at the manor-house, and Aram at the garden-gate took leave of her for the night, and hastened backward towards his home. Madeline, after watching his form through the deepening shadows until it disappeared, entered the house with a listless step ; a nameless and thrilling presentiment crept to her heart; and she could have sate down and wept, though without a cause. 260 EUGENE ASA V CHAPTER II. THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN ARAM AND THE STRANGER «The spirits I have raised abandon me, The spells which I have studied baffle me.” Manfred Meanwhile Aram strode rapidly through the village, and not until he had regained the solitary valley did he relax his step. The evening had already deepened into night. Along the sere and melancholy wood, the autumnal winds crept, with a lowly, but gathering moan. Where the water held its course, a damp and ghostly mist clogged the air, but the skies were calm, and chequered only by a few clouds, that swept in long, white, spectral streaks, over the solemn stars. Now and then, the bat wheeled swift¬ ly round, almost touching the figure of the student, as he walked musingly onward. And the owl * that before the mouth waned many days, would be seen no more in that region, came heavily from the trees, like a guilty thought that deserts its shade. It was one of those nights, half dim, half glorious, which mark the early decline of the year. Nature seemed resting and instinct with change; * That species called the shorb-eared owl. EUGENE ARAM. 261 there were those signs in the atmosphere which leave the most experienced in doubt, whether the morning may rise in storm or sunshine. And in this particular period, the skiey influences seem to tincture the animal life with their own mysterious and wayward spirit of change. The birds desert their summer haunts ; an unaccountable inquietude pervades the brute creation ; even men in this unsettled season have considered themselves, more (than at others) stirred by the motion and whisperings of their genius. And every creature that flows upon the tide of the Universal Life of Things, feels upon the ruffled sur¬ face, the mighty and solemn change, which is at work within its depths. And now Aram had nearly threaded the valley, and his own abode became visible on the opening plain, when the stranger emerged from the trees to the right, and suddenly stood before the student. “ I tarried for you here, Aram,” said he, “ instead of seeking you at home, at the time you fixed ; for there are certain private rea¬ sons which make it prudent I should keep as much as possible among the owls, and it was therefore safer, if not more pleasant, to lie here amidst the fern, than to make myself merry in the village yonder.” “ And what,” said Aram, “ again brings you hither ? Did you not say, when you visited me some months since, that you were about to settle in a different part of the country, with a relation ? ” “ And so I intended ; but Fate, as you would say, or the Devil, as I should, ordered it otherwise. I had not I. —23 262 EUGENE ARAM. long left you, when I fell in with some old friends, bold spirits and true ; the brave outlaws of the road and the field. Shall I have any shame in confessing that I pre¬ ferred their society, a society not unfamiliar to me, to the dull and solitary life that I might have led in tending my old bed-ridden relations in Wales, who, after all, may live these twenty years, and at the end can scarce leave me enough for a week’s ill-luck at the hazard-table ? In a word, I joined my gallant friends, and entrusted myself to their guidance. Since then, we have cruised around the country, regaled ourselves cheerily, frightened the timid, silenced the fractious, and by the help of your fate, or my devil, have found ourselves by accident, brought to exhibit our valor in this very district, honored by the dwelling-place of my learned friend, Eugene Aram.” “Trifle not with me, Houseman,” said Aram sternly; “ I scarcely yet understand you. Do you mean to imply, that yourself and the lawless associates you say you have joined, are lying out now for plunder in these parts ? ” “You say it: perhaps you heard of our exploits last night, some four miles hence ? ” “ Ha ! was that villany yours ? ” “ Villany ! ” repeated Houseman, in a tone of sullen offence. “ Come, Master Aram, these words must not pass between you and me, friends of such date, and on such a footing.” “ Talk not of the past,” replied Aram, with a livid lip. “ and call not those whom Destiny once, in despite of j:UGENE A 11 A M. 263 Nature, drove down her dark tide in a momentary com¬ panionship, by the name of friends. Friends we are not; but while we live, there is a tie between us stronger than that of friendship. ” “ You speak truth and wisdom,” said Houseman, sneer- ngly ; “ for my part, I care not what you call us, friends 3r foes.” “Foes, foes!” exclaimed Aram, abruptly, “not that. Has life no medium in its ties? — pooh — pooh! not foes ; we may not be foes to each other.” “It were foolish, at least at present,” said Houseman, carelessly. “ Look you, Houseman,” continued Aram drawing his comrade from the path into a wilder part of the scene, and as he spoke, his words were couched in a more low and inward voice than heretofore. “ Look you, I cannot live and have my life darkened thus by your presence. Is not the world wide enough for us both ? Why haunt each other ? what have you to gain from me ? Can the thoughts that my sight recalls to you be brighter, or more peaceful, than those, which start upon me, when I gaze on you ? Does not a ghastly air, a charnel breath, hover about us both ? Why perversely incur a torture it is so easy to avoid ? Leave me — leave these scenes. All earth spreads before you — choose your pursuits, and your resting-place. elsewhere, but grudge me not this little spot.” ' “ I have no wish to disturb you, Eugene Aram, but I must live ; and in order to live I must obey my compa- 264 EUGENE ARAM. nions; if I deserted them, it would be to starve. They will not linger long in this district; a week, it may be; a fortnignt, at most; then, like the Indian animal, they will strip the leaves and desert the tree. In a word, after we have swept the country, we are gone.” “ Houseman, Houseman 1 ” said Aram, passionately, and frowning till his brows almost hid his eyes, but that part of the orb which they did not hide, seemed as living fire ; “ I now implore, but I can threaten — beware ! —• silence, I say; ” (and he stamped his foot violently on the ground, as he saw Houseman about to interrupt him;) “Listen to me throughout — speak not to me of tarrying here — speak not of days, of weeks — every hour of which would sound upon my ear like a death- knell. Dream not of a sojourn in these tranquil shades, upon an errand of dread and violence — the minions of the law aroused against you, girt with the chances of apprehension and a shameful death --” “And a full confession of my past sins,” interrupted Houseman, laughing wildly. “ Fiend ! devil ! ” cried Aram, grasping his comrade by the throat, and shaking him with a vehemence that Houseman, though a man of great strength and sinew, impotently attempted to resist. “ Breathe but another word of such import; dare to menace me with the ven¬ geance of such a thing as thou, and,*by the God above us, I will lay thee dead at my feet! ” “ Release my throat, or you will commit murder.” EUGENE ARAM. 265 gasped Houseman with difficulty, and growing already black in the face. Aram suddenly relinquished his gripe, and walked away with a hurried step, muttering to himself. He then returned to the side of Houseman, whose flesh still qui¬ vered either with rage or fear, and, his own self-posses¬ sion completely restored, stood gazing upon him with folded arms, and his usual deep and passionless composure of countenance : and Houseman, if he could not boldly confront, did not altogether shrink from, his eye. So there and thus they stood, at a little distance from each other, both silent, and yet with something unutterably fearful in their silence. “ Houseman,” said Aram at length, in a calm, yet hoi-' low voice, “it may be that I was wrong; but there lives no man on earth, save you, who could thus stir my blood, — nor you with ease. And know, when you menace me, that it is not your menace that subdues or shakes my spirit; but that which robs my veins of their even tenor is that you should deem your menace could have such power, or that you,— that any man,— should arrogate to himself the thought that he could, by the prospect of whatsoever danger, humble the soul and curb the will of Eugene Aram. And now I am calm: say what you will, I cannot be vexed again.” “I have done,” replied Houseman coldly: “I have nothing to say; farewell ! ” and he moved away among the trees. “Stay,” cried Aram in some agitation; “stay; we 23 * 266 EUGENE ARAM. must not part thus. Look you, Houseman, you say you would starve should you leave your present associates That may not be ; quit them this night,— this moment: leave the neighborhood, and the little in my power is at your will.” “ As to that,” said Houseman drily, “ what is in your power is, I fear me, so little as not to counterbalance the advantages I should lose in quitting my companions. I expect to net some three hundreds before I leave these parts.” “ Some three hundreds ! ” repeated Aram recoiling ; “ that were indeed beyond me. I told you when we last met that it is only by an annual payment I draw the little •wealth I have.” “ I remember it. I do not ask you for money, Eugene Aram ; these hands can maintain me,” replied House¬ man, smiling grimly. “ I told you at once the sum I expected to. receive somewhere, in order to prove that you need not vex your benevolent heart to afford me relief. I knew well the sum I named was out of your power, unless indeed it be part of the marriage portion you are about to receive with your bride. Fie, Aram ! what, secrets from your old friend? You see I pick up the news of the place without your confidence.” Again Aram’s face worked, and his lip quivered; but he conquered his passion with a surprising self-command, and answered mildly, “ I do not know, Houseman, whether I shall receive any marriage portion whatsoever: if I do, I am willing FUOENE ARAM. 2PP to make some arrangement by which I could engage you to molest me no more. But it yet wants several days to my marriage ; quit the neighborhood now, and a month hence let us meet again. Whatever at that time may be my resources, you shall frankly know them.” “It cannot be,” said Houseman; “I quit not these districts without a certain sum, not in hope, but posses¬ sion. But why interfere with me ? I seek not my hoards in your coffer. Why so anxious that I should not breathe the same air as yourself ? ” “ It matters not,” replied Aram, with a deep and ghastly voice; “ but when you are near me, I feel as if I were with the dead'; it is a spectre that I would exorcise in ridding me of your presence. Yet this is not what I now speak of. You are engaged, according to your own lips, in lawless and midnight schemes, in which you may, (and the tide of chances runs towards that bourne,) be seized by the hand of justice.” “Ho,” said Houseman, sullenly, “and was it not for saying that you feared this, and its probable conse¬ quences, that you well-nigh stifled me, but now? — so truth may be said one moment with impunity, and the next with peril of life ! These are the subtleties of you wise schoolmen, I suppose. Your Aristotles, and your Zenos, your Platos, and your Epicurus’s, teach you nota¬ ble distinctions, truly ! ” u Peace ! ” said Aram ; “ are we at all times ourselves ? Are the passions never our masters? You maddened me into anger; behold, I am now calm : the subjects discuss -268 EUGENE ARAM. ed between myself and you, are of life and death ; let us approach them with our senses collected and prepared. What, Houseman, are you bent upon your own destruc¬ tion, as well as mine, that you persevere in courses that must end in a death of shame ? ” ‘‘What else can I do ? I will not work, and I cannot live like you in a lone wilderness on a crust of bread Nor'is my name like yours, mouthed by the praise of honest men : my character is marked ; those who once knew me, shun now. I have no resource for society, (for I cannot face myself alone,) but in the fellowship of men like myself, whom the world has thrust from its pale. I have no resource for bread, save in the pursuits that are branded by justice, and accompanied with snares and danger. What would you have me do ? ” “Is it not better,” said Aram, “to enjoy peace and safety upon a small but certain pittance, than to live thus from hand to mouth ? vibrating from wealth to famine, and the rope around your neck sleeping and awake ? Seek your relation ; in that quarter, you yourself said your character was not branded : live with him, and know the quiet of easy days, and I promise you, that if aught be in my power to make your lot more suitable to your wants, so long as you lead the life of honest men, it shall be freely yours. Is not this better, Houseman, than a short and sleepless career of dread ? ” “ Aram,” answered Houseman, “ are you, in truth, calm enough to hear me speak ? I warn you, that if agair you forget yourself, and lay hands on me-” . EUGENE ARAM. 269 “ Threaten not, threaten not,” interrupted Aram, EUGENE ARAM. 41 ger, was he well sensible of another, that might have seemed equally near and probable, to a less collected and energetic nature. Houseman now halted, again put aside the boughs, proceeded a few steps, and by a cer¬ tain dampness and oppression in the air, Aram rightly conjectured himself in the cavern Houseman had spoken $f. “We are landed now,” said Houseman, “but wait, I will strike a light; I do not love darkness, even with another sort of companion than the one I have now the honor to entertain ! ” * In a few moments a light was produced, and placed aloft on a crag in the cavern; but the ray it gave was feeble and dull, and left all beyond the immediate spot in which they stood, in a darkness little less Cimmerian than before. “’Fore Gad, it is cold,” said Houseman, “but I have taken care, you see, to provide for a friend’s comfort; ” so saying, he approached a bundle of dry sticks and leaves, piled at one corner of the cave, applied the light to the fuel, and presently, the fire rose crackling, break- # ing into a thousand sparks, and freeing itself gradually from the clouds of smoke in which it was enveloped. It now mounted into a ruddy and cheering flame, and the warm glow played picturesquely upon the grey sides of the cavern, which was of a rugged shape, and small dimensions, and cast its reddening light over the forms of the two men. Houseman stood close to the flame, spreading his 4 * 42 EUGENE ARAM. hands over it, and a sort of grim complacency stealing along features singularly ill-favored, and sinister in their expression, as he felt the animal luxury of the warmth. Across his middle was a broad leathern belt, contain¬ ing a brace of large horse-pistols, and the knife, or rather dagger, with which he had menaced Aram, an instrument sharpened on both sides, and nearly a foot in length. Altogether, what with his muscular breadth of figure, his hard and rugged features, his weapons, and a certain reckless, bravo air which indescribably marked his attitude and bearing, it was not well possible to imagine a fitter habitant for that grim oave, or one from whom men of peace, like Eugene Aram, might have seemed to derive more reasonable cause of alarm. The scholar stood at a little distance, waiting till his companion was entirely prepared for the conference, and his pale and lofty features, hushed in their usual deep, but at such a moment, almost preternatural repose. He stood leaning with folded arms against the rude wall; the light reflected upon his dark garments, with the graceful riding-cloak of the day half falling from his shoulder, and revealing also the pistols in his belt, and the sword, which, though commonly worn at that time, by all pretending to superiority above the lower and trading orders, Aram usually waived as a distinction, but now carried as a defence. And nothing could be more strik¬ ing, than the contrast between the ruffian form of his companion, and the delicate and chiselled beauty of the student’s features, with their air of mournful intelligence EUGENE ARAM. 43 any serene command, and the slender, though nervous symmetry of his frame. “ Houseman,” said Aram, now advancing, as his com¬ rade turned his face from the flame, towards him; “ be¬ fore we enter on the main subject of our proposed com¬ mune— tell me, were you engaged in the attempt last night upon Lester’s house ? ” ‘‘By the Fiend, no!” answered Houseman, “nor did I learn it till this morning; it was unpremeditated till within a few hours of the time, by the two fools who alone planned it. The fact is, that I myself and the greater part of our little band, were engaged some miles off, in the western part of the county. Two — our general spies,— had been, of their own accord, into your neighbor¬ hood, to reconnoitre. They marked Lester’s house during the day, and gathered (as I can say by experience it was easy to do) from unsuspected inquiry in the village, for they wore a clown’s dress, several particulars which in¬ duced them to think it contained what might repay the trouble of breaking into it. And walking along the fields, they overheard the good master of the house tell one of his neighbors of a large sum at home ; nay, even describe the place where it was kept: that determined them ; —they feared, (as the old man indeed observed,) that the sum would be removed the next day; they had noted the house sufficiently to profit by the description given : they resolved, then, of themselves, for it was too late to reckon on our assistance, to break into the room in which the money was kept — though from the aroused 44 EUGENE ARAM vigilance of the frightened hamlet, and the force within the house, they resolved to attempt no farther booty. They reckoned on the violence of the storm, and the darkness of the night, to prevent their being heard or seen ; they were mistaken — the house was alarmed, they were no sooner in the luckless room, than-” “ Well, I know the rest; was the one wounded danger¬ ously hurt ? ” “ Oh, he will recover, he will recover; our men are no chickens. But I own I thought it natural that you might suspect me of sharing in the attack; and though, as I have said before, I do not love you, I have no wish to embroil matters so far as an outrage on the house of your father-in-law might be reasonably expected to do : — at all events, while the gate to an amicable compro¬ mise between us is still open.” ‘'I am satisfied on this head,” said Aram, “ and I can now treat with you in a spirit of less distrustful precau¬ tion than before. I tell you, Houseman, that the terms are no longer at your control; you must leave this part of the country, and that forthwith, or you inevitably perish. The whole population is alarmed, and the most vigilant of the London police have already been sent for. Life is sweet to you, as to us all, and I cannot imagine you so mad, as to incur, not the risk, but the certainty, of losing it. You can no longer, therefore, hold the threat of your presence over my head. Besides, were you able to do so, I at least have the power, which you seem to have forgotten, of freeing myself from it. Am I chained EOGENE ARAM. 45 to yonder valleys ? have I not the facility of quitting them at any moment I will ? of seeking a hiding-place, which might baffle, not only your vigilance to discover me, but that of the law ? True, my approaching mar¬ riage puts some clog upon my wing, but you know that I, of all men, am not likely to be the slave of passion. And what ties are strong enough to arrest the steps of him who flies from a fearful death ? Am I using sophis¬ try here, Houseman ? Have I not reason on my side ? ” “What you say is true enough,” said Houseman reluc¬ tantly ; “ I do not gainsay it. But I know you have not sought me, in this spot, and at this hour, for the purpose of denying my claims : the desire of compromise alone can have brought you hither. ” “ You speak well,” said Aram, preserving the admira¬ ble coolness of his manner ; and continuing the deep and sagacious hypocrisy by which he sought to baffle the dogged covetousness and keen sense of interest with which he had to contend. “ It is not easy for either of us to deceive the other. We are men, whose perceptions a life of danger has sharpened upon all points; I speak to you frankly, for disguise is unavailing. Though I can fly from your reach—though I can desert my present home and my intended bride, I would fain think I have free and secure choice to preserve that exact path and scene of life which I have chalked out for myself: I would fain be rid of all apprehension from you. There are two ways only by which this security can be won ; the first is through your death ; — nav, start not, nor put 46 EUGENE ARAM. your hand on your pistol; you have not now cause to fear me. Had I chosen that method of escape, I could have effected it long since : when, months ago, you slept under my roof,— a y, slept ,— what should have hindered me from stabbing you during the slumber? Two nights since, when my blood was up, and the fury upon me, what should have prevented me tightening the grasp that you so resent, and laying you breathless at my feet ? Nay, now, though you keep your eye fixed on my mo¬ tions, and your hand upon your weapon, you would be no match for a desperate and resolved man, who might as well perish in conflict with you as by the protracted accomplishment of your threats Your ball might fail — (even now I see your hand trembles) — mine, if I so will it, is certain death. No, Houseman, it would be as vain for your eye to scan the dark pool into whose breast yon cataract casts its waters, as for your intellect to pierce the depths of my mind and motives. Your murder, though in self-defence, would lay a weight upon my soul, which would sink it for ever: I should see, in your death, new chances of detection spread themselves before me : the terrors of the dead are not to be bought or awed into silence; I should pass from one peril into another; and the law’s dread vengeance might fall upon me, through the last peril, even yet more surely than through the first. Be composed, then, on this point! From my hand, unless you urge it madly upon yourself, you are wholly safe. Let us turn to my second method of attaining security. It lies, not in your momentary EUGENE ARAM. 41 cessation from persecutions; not in your absence from this spot alone; you must quit the country—you must never return to it — your home must be cast, and your very grave dug, in a foreign soil. Are you prepared for this ? If not, I can say no more; and I again cast my¬ self passive into the arms of fate.” “You ask,” said Houseman, whose fears were allayed by Aram’s address, though, at the same time, his disso¬ lute and desperate nature was subdued and tamed in spite of himself, by the very composure of the loftier mind with which it was brought in contact: — “ you ask,” said he, “no trifling favor of a man — to desert his country for ever; but I am no dreamer, that I should love one spot better than another. I might, perhaps, prefer a foreign clime, as the safer and the freer from old recollections, if I could live in it as a man who loves the relish of life should do. Show me the advantages I am to gain by exile, and farewell to the pale cliffs of England for ever ! ” “Your demand is just,” answered Aram. “Listen, then. I am willing to coin all my poor wealth, save alone the barest pittance wherewith to sustain life; nay, more, I am prepared also to melt down the whole of my possible expectations from others, into the form of an annuity to yourself. But mark, it will be taken out of my hands, so that you can have no power over me to alter the conditions with which it will be saddled. It will be so vested that it shall commence the moment you touch a foreign clime j and wholly and for ever cease the % 48 EUGENE ARAM. moment yon set foot on any part of English ground ; or, mark also, at the moment of my death. I snail then know that no further hope from me can induce you to risk this income ; for, as I shall have spent my all in attain¬ ing it, you cannot even meditate the design of extorting more. I shall know that you will not menace my life; for my death would be the destruction of your fortunes. We shall live thus separate and secure from each other ; you will have only cause to hope for my safety; and I shall have no reason to shudder at your pursuits. It is true, that one source of fear might exist for me still —• namely, that in dying you should enjoy the fruitless ven¬ geance of criminating me. But this chance I must patiently endure ; you, if older, are more robust and hardy than myself—your life will probably be longer than mine; and, even were it otherwise, why should we destroy one another ? I will solemnly swear to respect your secret at my death-bed; why not on your part, I say not swear, but resolve, to respect mine ? We cannot love one another; but why hate with a gratuitous and demon vengeance? — No, Houseman, however circum¬ stances may have darkened or steeled your heart, it is touched with humanity yet: you will owe to me the bread of a secure and easy existence — you will feel that I have stripped myself, even to penury, to purchase the comforts I cheerfully resign to you — you will remember that, instead of the sacrifices enjoined by this alternative, I might have sought only to counteract your threats by attempting a life that you strove to make a snare and EUGENE ARAM. 49 torture to my own. You will remember this; and you will not grudge me the austere and gloomy solitude in which I seek to forget, or the one solace with which I, perhaps vainly, endeavor to cheer my passage to a quiet grave. No, Houseman, no ; dislike, hate, menace me as you will, I still feel I shall have no cause to dread the mere wantonness of your revenge.” These words, aided by a tone of voice, and an expres¬ sion of countenance that gave them perhaps their chief effect, took even the hardened nature of Houseman by surprise : he was affected by an emotion which he could not have believed it possible the man who till then had galled him by the humbling sense of inferiority could have created. He extended his hand to Aram. “ By-,” he exclaimed, with an oath which we spare the reader; “you are right! you have made me as helpless in your hands as an infant. I accept your offer — if I were to refuse it, I should be driven to the same courses I now pursue. But look you ; I know not what may be the amount of the annuity you can raise. I shall not, however, require more than will satisfy my wants, which, if not so scanty as your own, are not at least very extravagant or very refined. As for the rest, if there be any surplus, in God’s name keep it for yourself, and rest assured that, so far as I am concerned, you shall be molested no more.” “ No, Houseman,” said Aram, with a half smile, ''you shall have all I first mentioned; that is, all beyond what nature craves, honorably and fully. Man’s best resolu- 11 . —5 w 50 EUGENE ARAM. tions' are weak: if you knew I possessed aught to spare, a fancied want, a momentary extravagance, might tempt you to demand it. Let us put oursejves beyond the possible reach of temptation. But do not flatter your- self by the hope that the income will be magnificent. My own annuity is but trifling, and the half of the dowry I expect from my future father-in-law is all that I can at present obtain. The whole of that dowry is insignificant as a sum. But if this does not suffice for you, I must beg or borrow elsewhere. ” “This, after all, is a pleasanter way of settling busi¬ ness,” said Houseman, “than by threats and anger. And now I will tell you exactly the sum on which, if I could receive it yearly, I could live without looking be¬ yond the pale of the law for more — on which I could cheerfully renounce England, and commence ‘the honest man.’ But then, hark you, I must have half settled on my little daughter.” “ What ! have you a child ? ” said Aram, eagerly, and well pleased to find an additional security for his own safety. “Ay, a little girl — my only one — in her eighth year. She lives with her grandmother, for she is motherless; and that girl must not be left quite destitute should I be summoned hence before my time. Some twelve years hence — as poor Jane promises to be pretty — she may be married off my hands *, but her childhood must not be exposed to the chances of beggary or shame.”' “ Doubtless not, doubtless not. Who shall say now EUGENE ARAM. 51 that we ever outlive feeling ? ” said Aram. “ Half the annuity shall be settled upon her, should she survive you : but on the same condition, ceasing when I die, or the instant of your return to England. And now, name the sum that you deem sufficing.” “ Why,” said Houseman, counting on his fingers, and muttering, “twenty — fifty — wine and the creature cheap abroad — humph 1 a hundred for living, and half as much for pleasure. Come, Aram, one hundred and fifty gui¬ neas per annum, English money, will do for a foreign life — you see I am easily satisfied.” “Be it so,” said Aram ; “I will engage, by one means or another, to obtain what you ask. For this purpose I shall set out for London to-morrow ; I will not lose a moment in seeing the necessary settlement made as we have specified. But, meanwhile, you must engage to leave this neighborhood, and, if possible, cause your comrades to do the same ; although you will not hesitate, for the sake of your own safety, immediately to separate from them.” “Now that we are on good terms,” replied Houseman, “ I will not scruple to oblige you in these particulars. My comrades intend to quit the country before to-mor¬ row ; nay, half are already gone: by daybreak I mysel. will be some miles hence, and separated from each of them. Let us meet in London after the business is com¬ pleted, and there conclude our last interview on earth.” “ What will be your address ? ” “ In Lambeth there is a narrow alley that leads to the 52 EUGENE ARAM water-side, called Peveril Lane. The last house to the right, towards the river, is my usual lodging; a safe resting-place at all times, and for all men.” “ There then will I seek you. And now, Houseman, fare you well! As you remember your word to me, may life flow smooth for your child.” “Eugene Aram,” said Houseman, “there is about you something against which the fiercer devil within me would rise in vain. I have heard that the tiger can be awed by the human eye, and you compel me into submis¬ sion by a spell equally unaccountable. You are a singu¬ lar man, and it seems to me a riddle how we could ever have been thus connected; or how — but we will not rip up the past, it is an ugly sight, and the fire is just out. These stories do not do for the dark. But to re¬ turn : — were it only for the sake of my child, you might depend upon me now; better, too, an arrangement of this sort, than if I had a larger sum in hand which I might be tempted to fling away, and, in looking for more, run my neck into a halter, and leave poor Jane upon charity. But come, it is almost dark again, and no doubt you wish to be stirring : stay, I will lead you back, and put you on the right track, lest you stumble on my Mends.” * 1 Is this cavern one of their haunts ? ” said Aram. “ Sometimes; but they sleep the other side of The Devil’s Crag to-night. Nothing like a change of quar¬ ters for longevity — eh?” “ And they easily spare you ? ” - * EUGENE ARAM. 53 a Yes, if it be only on rare occasions, and on the plea of family business. Now then, your hand, as before. ’Sdeath ! how it rains 1 — lightning too ! — I could look with less fear on a naked sword than those red, forked, blinding flashes.— Hark ! thunder ! *’ The night had now, indeed, suddenly changed its as¬ pect; the rain descended in torrents, even more impetu¬ ously than on the former night, while the thunder burst over their very heads, as they wound upward through the brake. With every instant the lightning, darting through the riven chasm of the blackness that seemed suspended as in a solid substance above, brightened the whole hea¬ ven into one livid and terrific flame, and showed to the two men the faces of each other, rendered deathlike and ghastly by the glare. Houseman was evidently affected by the fear that sometimes seizes even the sturdiest crimi¬ nals, when exposed to those more fearful phenomena of the heavens, which seem to humble into nothing the power and the wrath of man. His teeth chattered, and he muttered broken words about the peril of wandering near trees when the lightning was of that forked charac¬ ter, quickening his pace at every sentence and sometimes interrupting himself with an ejaculation, half oath, half prayer, or a congratulation that the rain at least dimi¬ nished the danger. They soon cleared the thicket, and a few minutes brought them once more to the banks of the stream, and the increased roar of the cataract. No earthly scene, perhaps, could surpass the appalling sub¬ limity of that which they beheld; — every instant the 5 * 54 EUGENE ARAM. lightning, which became more and more frequent, con¬ verting the black waters into billows of living fire, or wreathing itself into lurid spires around the huge crag that now rose in sight; and again, as the thunder rolled onward, darting its vain fury upon the rushing cataract and the tortured breast of the gulf that raved below. And the sounds that filled the air were even more fraught with terror and menace than the scene;—the waving, the groans, the crash of the pines on the hill, the impetu¬ ous force of the rain upon the whirling river, and the everlasting roar of the cataract, answered anon by the yet more awful voice that burst above it from the clouds. They halted while yet sufficiently distant from the cataract to be heard by each other. “ My path,” said Aram, as the lightning now paused upon the scene, and seemed literally to wrap in a lurid shroud the dark figure of the student, as he stood, with his hand calmly raised, and his cheek pale, but dauntless and composed,-— “ my path now lies yonder: in a week we shall meet again.” “By the fiend,” said Houseman, shuddering, “I would not, for a full hundred, ride alone through the moor you will pass 1 There stands a gibbet by the road, on which a parricide was hanged in chains. Pray Heaven this night be no omen of the success of our present compact! ” “ A steady heart, Houseman,” answered Aram, strik¬ ing into the separate path, “is its own omen.” The student soon gained the spot in which he had left his horse; the animal had not attempted to break the oridle, but stood trembling from limb to limb, and testi- EUGENE ARAM. 55 fied by a quick short neigh the satisfaction with which it hailed the approach of its master, and found itself no longer alone. Aram remounted, and hastened once more into the main road. He scarcely felt the rain, though the fierce wind drove it right against his path ; he scarcely marked the lightning, shough, at times, it seemed to dart its arrows on his very form: his heart was absorbed in the success of his schemes. “ Let the storm without howl on,” thought he, “ that Within hath a respite at last. Amidst the winds and rains I can breathe more freely than I have done on the smoothest summer day. By the charm of a deeper mind and a subtler tongue, I have conquered this desperate foe ; I have silenced this inveterate spy : and, Heaven be praised, he too has human ties; and by those ties I hold him! How, then, I hasten to London — I arrange this annuity — see that the law tightens every cord of the compact; and when all is done, and this dangerous man fairly departed on his exile, I return to Madeline, and devote to her a life no longer the vassal of accident and the hour. But I have been taught caution. Secure as my own prudence may have made me from farther appre¬ hension of Houseman, I will yet place myself wholly be- yond his power: I will still consummate my former pur¬ pose, adopt a new name, and seek a new retreat: Made¬ line may not know the real cause ; but this brain is not barren of excuse. Ah ! ” as drawing his cloak closer round him, he felt the purse hid within his breast which 56 EUGENE ARAM. contained the order he had obtained from Lester,— “ ah I this will now add its quota to purchase, not a moment¬ ary relief, but a stipend of perpetual silence. I have passed through the ordeal easier than I had hoped for. Had the devil at his heart been more difficult to lay, so necessary is his absence, that I must have purchased it at any cost. Courage, Eugene Aram ! thy mind, for which thou hast lived, and for which thou hast hazarded thy soul — if soul and mind be distinct from each other — thy mind can support thee yet through every peril: not till thou art stricken into idiotcy, shalt thou behold thyself defenceless. How cheerfully,” muttered he, after a momentary pause,— “how cheerfully, for safety, and to breathe with a quiet heart the air of Madeline’s pres¬ ence, shall I rid myself of all save enough to defy want. And want can never now come to me, as of old. He who knows the sources of every science from which wealth is wrought, holds even wealth at his will.” Breaking at every interval into these soliloquies, Aram continued to breast the storm until he had won half his journey, and had come upon a long and bleak moor, which was the entrance to that beautiful line of country in which the valleys around Grassdale were embosomed : faster and faster came the rain ; and though the thunder¬ clouds were now behind, they yet followed loweringly, in their black array, the path of the lonely horseman. But now he heard the sounds of hoofs making towards him ; he drew his horse on one side of the road, and at EUGENE ARAM. 57 that instant, a broad flash of lightning illumining the space around, he beheld four horsemen speeding along at a rapid gallop: they were armed, and conversing loudly — their oaths were heard jarringly and distinctly amidst all the more solemn and terrific sounds of the night. They came on, sweeping by the student, whose hand was on his pistol, for he recognized in one of the riders the man who had escaped unwounded from Les¬ ter’s house. He and his comrades were evidently, then, Houseman’s desperate associates; and they, too, though they were borne too rapidly by Aram to be able to rein in their horses on the spot, had seen the solitary travel¬ ler, and already wheeled round, and called upon him to halt! The lightning was again gone, and the darkness snatched the robbers, and their intended victim, from the sight of each other. But Aram had not lost a moment; fast fled his horse across the moor, and when, with the next flash, he looked back, he saw the ruffians, unwilling even for booty to encounter the horrors of the night, had followed him but a few paces, and again turned round; still he dashed on, and had now nearly passed the moor; the thunder rolled fainter and fainter from behind, and the lightning only broke forth at prolonged intervals, when suddenly, after a pause of unusual duration, it brought the whole scene into a light, if less intolerable, even more livid than before. The horse that hitherto 6ped on without start or stumble, now recoiled in abrupt 58 EUGENE ARAM. affright; and the horseman, looking up at the cause, beheld the gibbet, of which Houseman had spoken, im¬ mediately fronting his path, with its ghastly tenant wav¬ ing to and fro, as the winds rattled through the parched and arid bones; and the inexpressible grin of the skull fixed, as in mockery, upon his countenance. BOOK FOURTH ’H Kvnpis oi iravSTipos' iXacr^so rrjv Qebv ehr&p Ovpaviav'' - * * * * * HPAHINO'H. Qdpasj Zu)rv pi'cov, y\vKzpbv tikos, oh Myw Arr ropra. A laOavtTai rb fipicpos, val rdv n6rviav' 6E0KP. The Venus, not the vulgar! Propitiate the divinity, terming her the Uranian.— ***** Praxinoe. Be of good cheer, Zopyrion, dear child; X do not speak of thy father. Gor&o. The boy comprehends, by Proserpine. ' t I ' . +■ , '■,i iff*} !«•;. '■/ 4 *! .* • »' BOOK FOURTH. CHAPTER I. ♦ IN WHICH WE RETURN TO WALTER.— HIS DEBT OF GRATI¬ TUDE TO MR. PERTINAX FILLGRAYE.— THE CORPORAL’S ADVICE, AND THE CORPORAL’S VICTORY. • 1 “Let a physician be ever so excellent, there will be those that censure him.” — Gil Bias. We left Walter in a situation of that critical nature, that it would be inhuman to delay our return to him any longer. The blow by which he had been felled stunned him for an instant; but his frame was of no common strength and hardihood, and the imminent peril in which he was placed served to recall him from the momentary insensibility. On recovering himself, he felt that the ruffians were dragging him towards the hedge, and the thought flashed upon him that their object was murder. Nerved by this idea, he collected his strength and sud¬ denly wresting himself from the grasp of one of the ruffians who had seized him by the collar, he had already II. — 6 ( 59 ) 60 EUGENE ARAM. gained his knee, and now his feet, when a second blow once more deprived him of sense. When a dim and struggling consciousness recurred to him, he found that the villains had dragged him to the opposite side of the hedge and were deliberately rob¬ bing him. He was on the point of renewing an useless and dangerous struggle, when one of the ruffians said,— “ I think he stirs. I had better draw my knife across his throat.” “Pooh, no ! ” replied another voice ; “never kill if it can be helped: trust me ’tis an ugly thing to think of afterwards. Besides, what use is it ? A robbery in these parts is done and forgotten ; but a murder rouses the whole country.” “ Damnation, man ! why, the deed’s done already; he’s as dead as a door-nail.” “Dead!” said the other, in a startled voice; “No, no ! ” and leaning down, the ruffian placed his hand on Walter’s heart. The unfortunate traveller felt his flesh creep as the hand touched him, but prudently abstained from motion or exclamation. He thought, however, as with dizzy and half-shut eyes he caught the shadowy and dusk outline of the face that bent over him, so closely that he felt the breath of its lips, that it was a face he had seen before ; and as the man now rose, and the wan light of the skies gave a somewhat clearer view of his features, the supposition was heightened, though not absolutely confirmed. But Walter had no farther power to observe his plunderers: again his brain reeled; the EUGENE ARAM. 61 dark trees, the grim shadows of human forms, swam be¬ fore his glazing eye; and he sank once more into a pro¬ found insensibility. Meanwhile, the doughty corporal had, at the first sight of his master’s fall, halted abruptly at the spot to which his steed had carried him ; and coming rapidly to the conclusion that three men were best encountered at a distance, he fired his two pistols, and, without staying to see if they took effect, which, indeed, they did not, galloped down the precipitous hill with as much despatch as if it had been the last stage to “Lunnon.” “My poor young master ! ” muttered he. “But if the worst comes to the worst, the chief part of the money’s in the saddle-bags any how; and so, messieurs thieves, you’re bit — baugh ! ” The corporal was not long in reaching the town, and alarming the loungers at the inn-door. A posse comita- tus was soon formed; and, armed as if they were to have encountered all the robbers between Hounslow and the Apennine, a band of heroes, with the corporal, who had first deliberately reloaded his pistols, at their head, set off to succor “the poor gentleman what was already murdered.” They had not got far before they found Walter’s horse which had luckily broke from the robbers, and was now quietly regaling himself on a patch of grass by the road-side. “ He can get his supper, the beast I ” grunted the corporal, thinking of his own; and bade one of the party try to catch the animal, which, however, would 62 EUGENE ARAM. have declined all such proffers, had not a long neigh of recognition from the Roman nose of the corporal’s steed striking familiarly on the straggler’s ear, called it forth¬ with to the corporal’s side ; and (while the two chargers exchanged greeting) the corporal seized its rein. When they came to the spot from which the robbers had made their sally, all was still and tranquil; no Wal¬ ter was to be seen : the corporal cautiously dismounted, and searched about with as much minuteness as if he was looking for a pin ; but the host of the inn at which the travellers had dined the day before, stumbled at once on the right track. Gouts of blood on the white chalky soil directed him to the hedge, and creeping through a small and recent gap, he discovered the yet breathing body of the young traveller. Walter was now conducted with much care to the inn ; d surgeon was already in attendance; for having heard that a gentleman had been murdered without his know¬ ledge, Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave had rushed from his house, and placed himself on the road, that the poor creature mighi not, at least, be buried without his assistance. So eager was he to begin, that he scarce suffered the unfortu¬ nate Walter to be taken within, before he whipped out his instruments, and set to work with the smack of an amateur. Although the surgeon declared his patient to be in the greatest possible danger, the sagacious corporal, who thought himself more privileged to know about wounds than any man of peace, by profession, however destruc EUGENE ARAM. 63 lUt by practice, could possibly be, had himself examined those his master had received, before he went down to taste his long-delayed supper; and he now confidently assured the landlord and the rest of the good company in the kitchen, that the blows on the head had been mere flea-bites, and that his master would be as well as ever in a week at the farthest. And, indeed, when Walter the very next morning woke from the stupor, rather than sleep, he had under¬ gone, he felt himself surprisingly better than the surgeon, producing his probe, hastened to assure him he possibly could be. By the help of Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, Walter was detained several days in the town ; nor is it wholly im¬ probable, that but for the dexterity of the corporal, he might be in the town to this day; not indeed in the comfortable shelter of the old-fashioned inn, but in the colder quarters of a certain green spot, in which, despite of its rural attractions, few persons are willing to fix a permanent habitation. Luckily, however, one evening, the corporal, who had been, to say truth, very regular in his attendance on his master; for, bating the selfishness consequent, perhaps, on his knowledge of the world, Jacob Bunting was a good-natured man on the whole, and liked his master as well as he did anything, always excepting Jacobina and board-wages; one evening, we say, the corporal, coming into Walter’s apartment, found him sitting up in his bed. 6 * x 64 EUGENE ARAM. with a very melancholy and dejected expression of counte nance. “ And well, sir, what does the doctor say ? ” asked the corporal, drawing aside the curtains. “Ah! Bunting, I fancy it’s all over with me!” “The Lord forbid, sir! You’re a-jesting surely?” “Jesting! my good fellow: ah! just get me that phial.” “ The filthy stuff! ” said the corporal, with a wry face. Well, sir, if I had had the dressing of you — been half¬ way to Yorkshire by this. Man’s a worm; and when a doctor gets un on his hook, he is sure to angle for the devil with the bait — augh ! ” “What! you really think that d—d fellow, Fillgrave, is keeping me on in this way ? ” “ Is he a fool, to give up three phials a-day, 4s. 6c?. item, ditto, ditto ? ” cried the corporal, as if astonished at the question. “ But don’t you feel yourself getting a deal better every day ? Don’t you feel all this ere stuff revive you ? ” “No, indeed, I was amazingly better the first day than I am now : I make progress from worse to worse. Ah ! Bunting, if Peter Dealtry were here, he might help mo to an appropriate epitaph ; as it is, I suppose I shall be very simply labelled. * Fillgrave will do the whole busi¬ ness, and put it down in his bill — item, nine draughts—. item, one epitaph.” “ Lord-a-mercy, your honor ! ” said the corporal, draw- EUGENE ARAM. 65 mg out a little red-spotted pocket-handkerchief; “how can.—jest so? — it’s quite moving.” “ I wish we were moving ! ” sighed the patient. “And so we might be,” cried the corporal; “so we might, if you’d pluck up a bit. Just let me look at your honor’s head ; I knows what a con/usion is better nor any of ’em.” The corporal having obtained permission, now removed the bandages wherewith the doctor had bound his intend¬ ed sacrifice to Pluto, and after peering into the wounds for about a minute, he thrust out his under lip, with a contemptuous,— “ Pshaugh ! augh ! —And how long,” said he, “ does Master Pillgrave say you be to be under his hands ? — augh ! ” “ He gives me hopes that I may be taken out an airing very gently (yes, hearses always go very gently) in about three weeks ! ” The corporal started, and broke into a long whistle. He then grinned from ear to ear, snapped his fingers, and said, “Man of the world, sir,— man of the world every inch of him ! ” “ He seems resolved that I shall be a man of another world,” said Walter. “Tell ye what, sir — take my advice — your honor knows I be no fool — throw off them ere wrappers ; let me put on a scrap of plaster — pitch phials to devil—• order out horses to-morrow, and when you’ve been in tht» ah half-an-hour, won’t know yourself again 1 ” 66 EUGENE ARAM. “Bunting ! the horses out to-morrow ? — Faith I don’t think I could walk across the room.” “Just try, your honor.” “ Ah 1 I’m very weak, very weak — my dressing-gowr and slippers — your arm, Bunting — well, upon my honor, I walk very stoutly, eh ? I should not have thought this ! Leave go : why I really get on without your assist¬ ance ! ” “Walk as well as ever you did.” “Now I’m out of bed, I don’t think I shall go back again to it.” “Would not, if I was your honor.” “ And after so much exercise, I really fancy I’ve a sort of an appetite.” “ Like a beefsteak ? ” “Nothing better.” “ Pint of wine ? ” “ Why, that would be too much — eh ? ” “ Not it.” “ Go, then, my good Bunting : go, and make haste — stop, I say, that d—d fellow-” “Good sign to swear,” interrupted the corporal; swcre twice within last five minutes—-famous symptom 1 ” • Do you choose to hear me ? That d—d fellow, Fill • grave, is coming back in an hour to bleed me: do you mount guard — refuse to let him in — pay him his bill — you have the money. And harkye, don’t be rude to the rascal.” EUGENE ARAM. 6 1 “Rude, your honor I not I—been in the forty-second — knows discipline — only rude to the privates!” The corporal having seen his master conduct himself respectably towards the viands with which he supplied him — having set his room to rights, brought him the candles, borrowed him a book, and left him, for the pre¬ sent, in extremely good spirits, and prepared for the flight of the morrow ; the corporal, I say, now lighting his pipe, stationed himself at the door of the inn, and waited for Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave. Presently the doc¬ tor, who was a little thin man, came bustling across the street, and was about, with a familiar “ Good evening,” to pass by the corporal, when that worthy, dropping his pipe, said respectfully, “ Beg pardon, sir — want to speak to you — a little favor. Will your honor walk into the back-parlor ? ” “Oh! another patient,” thought the doctor; “these soldiers are careless fellows — often get into scrapes. Yes friend, I’m at your service.” The corporal showed the man of phials into the back- parlor, and hemming thrice, looked sheepish, as if in doubt how to begin. It was the doctor’s business to en¬ courage the bashful. “Well, my good man,” said he, brushing off, with the arm of his coat, some dust that had settled on his inex¬ pressibles, “ so you want to consult me ? ” “ Indeed, your honor, I do ; but feel a little awkward in doing so — a stranger and all.” 68 EUGENE ARAM. “Pooh!— medical men are never strangers. I am the triend of every man who requires my assistance.” “Augh!— and I do require your honor’s assistance very sadly.” “ Well — well — speak out. Any thing of long stand¬ ing ? ” “Why only since we have been here, sir.” “ Oh, that’s all! Well.” “Your honor’s so good — that — won’t scruple in tell¬ ing you all. You sees as how we were robbed — master, at least, was — had some little in my pockets — but we poor servants are never too rich. You seems such a kind gentleman — so attentive to master — though you must have felt how disinterested it was to ’tend a man what had been robbed — that I have no hesitation in making bold to ask you to lend us a few guineas, just to help us out with the bill here,— bother I ” “Fellow!” said the doctor, rising, “I don’t know what you mean ; but I’d have you to learn that I am not to be cheated out of my time and property ! I shall in¬ sist upon being paid my bill instantly, before I dress your master’s wound once more ! ” “ Augh ! ” said the corporal, who was delighted to find the doctor come so immediately into the snare : — “ won’t be so cruel surely ! — why, you’ll leave us without a shiner to pay my host here ! ” “Nonsense! — Your master, if he’s a gentleman, can * T rite home for money.” “ Ab, sir, all very well to say so ; but, between you EUGENE ARAM. 69 and me and the bed-post, young master’s quarrelled with old master — old master won’t give him a rap : so I’m sure, since your honor’s a friend to every man who re¬ quires your assistance — noble saying, sir !—you won’t refuse us a few guineas. And as for your bill — why-” “ Sir, you’re an impudent vagabond 1 ” cried the doc¬ tor, as red as a rose-draught, and flinging out of the room; “ and I warn you that I shall bring in my bill, and expect to be paid within ten minutes.” The doctor waited for no answer — he hurried home, scratched off his account, and flew back with it in as much haste as if his patient had been a month longer under his care, and was consequently on the brink of that happier world, where, since the inhabitants are immortal, it is very evident that doctors, as being useless, are never admitted. The corporal met him as before. “ There, sir 1 ” cried the doctor, breathlessly ; and theu putting his arms a-kimbo, “take that to your master, and desire him to pay me instantly.” “ Augh ! and shall do no such thing.” “ You won’t ? ” “No, for shall pay you myself. Where’s your re¬ ceipt — eh ? ” And with great composure the corporal drew out a well-filled purse, and discharged the bill. The doctor was so thunderstricken, that he pocketed the money without uttering a word. He consoled himself, however, 70 EUGENE ARAM. with the belief that Walter, whom he had tamed into a becoming hypochondria, would be sure to send for him the next morning. Alas, for mortal expectations ! — the r.ext morning Walter was once more on the road. CHAPTER II. NEW TRACES OF THE FATE OF GEOFFREY LESTER.— WALTER AND THE CORPORAL PROCEED ON A FRESH EXPEDITION -THE CORPORAL IS ESPECIALLY SAGACIOUS ON THE OLD TOPIC OF THE WORLD.-HIS OPINIONS ON THE MEN WHO CLAIM KNOWLEDGE THEREOF; — ON THE ADVANTAGES ENJOYED BY A VALET;—ON THE SCIENCE OF SUCCESS¬ FUL LOVE;-ON VIRTUE AND THE CONSTITUTION;—ON QUALITIES TO BE DESIRED IN A MISTRESS, ETC. — A LANDSCAPE. “This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversa¬ tion among us of a more sedate turn.” — Spectator, No. III. Walter found, while he made search himself, that it was no easy matter, in so large a county as Yorkshire, to obtain even the preliminary particulars, viz. the place cf residence, and the name of the colonel from India whose dying gift his father had left the house of the worthy Courtland to claim and receive. But the mo¬ ment be committed the inquiry to the care of an active and intelligent lawyer, the case seemed to brighten up prodigiously; and Walter was shortly informed Lhat a EUGENE ARAM. 71 Colonel Elmore, who had been in India, had died in the year 17—; that by reference to his will, it appeared that he had left Daniel Clarke the sum of a thousand pounds, and the house in which he resided before his death; the latter being merely leasehold, at a high rent, was speci¬ fied in the will to be of small value: it was situated in the outskirts of Knaresborough. It was also discovered that a Mr. Jonas Elmore, the onlv surviving executor of the will, and a distant relation of the deceased colo¬ nel’s, lived about fifty miles from York, and could, in all probability, better than any one, afford Walter those farther particulars of which he was so desirous to be in¬ formed. Walter immediately proposed to his lawyer to accompany him to this gentleman’s house; but it so hap¬ pened that the lawyer could not, for three or four days, leave his business at York; and Walter, exceedingly im¬ patient to proceed on the intelligence thus granted him, and disliking the meagre information obtained from let¬ ters, when a personal interview could be obtained, re¬ solved himself to repair to Mr. Jonas Elmore’s without farther delay. And behold, therefore, our worthy corpo¬ ral and his master again mounted, and commencing a new journey. The corporal, always fond of adventure, was in high spirits. “ See, sir,” said he to his master, patting with gregt affection the neck of his steed,— “see, sir, how brisk the ereturs are; what a deal of good their long rest at York city’s done ’em ! Ah, your honor, what a fine town that II. —7 72 EUGENE ARAM. ere be! — Yet,” added the corporal with an air of great superiority, “it gives you no notion of Lunnon like; on the faith of a man, no! ” “Well, Bunting, perhaps we may be in London within a month hence.” “ And afore we gets there, your honor,— no olfence,— but should like to give you some advice; —’tis ticklish place, that Lunnon; and though you be by no manner of means deficient in genus, yet, sir, you be young, and T be-” “Old; — true, Bunting,” added Walter very gravely. “Augh — bother! old, sir! old, sir! A man in the prime of life,— hair coal black, (bating a few grey ones that have had since twenty,—care, and military service, sir,)—carriage straight,— teeth strong,— not an ail in the world, bating the rheumatics,— is not old, sir—not by no manner of means—baugh!” “You are very right, Bunting: when I said old, I meant experienced. I assure you I shall be very grate¬ ful for your advice; and suppose, while we walk our horses up this hill, you begin lecture the first. London’s a fruitful subject; all you can say on it will not be soon exhausted.” “Ah, may well say that,” replied the corporal, exceed¬ ingly flattered with the permission he had obtained; “ and anything my poor wit can suggest, quite at ycur honor’s sarvice,— ehem, hem! You must know by Lun¬ non, I means the world, and by the world means Lunnon; know one — Enow t’other. But ’tis not them as affects EUGENE ARAM. 13 to be most knowing as be so at bottom. Begging your honor’s pardon, I thinks gentlefolks what lives only with gentlefolks, and calls themselves men of the world, be often no wiser nor Pagan creturs, and live in a Gentile darkness.” “The true knowledge of the world,” said Walter, “ is only then for the corporals of the forty-second, — eh, Bunting ? ” “As to that, sir,” quoth the corporal, “ ’tis not being of this calling or of that calling that helps one on; ’tis an inborn sort of genius, the talent of obsarving, and growing wise by obsarving. One picks up crumb here, crumb there; but if one has not good digestion, Lord, what sinnifies a feast? Healthy man thrives on a ’tatoe, uckly look pale on a haunch. You sees, your honor, as L said afore, I was own sarvant to Colonel Dysart; he was a lord’s nephy, a very gay gentleman, and great hand with the ladies,— not a man more in the world; so I had the opportunity of laming what’s what among the best set; at his honor’s expense, too,— augh ! To my mind, sir, there is not a place from which a man has a better view of things than the bit carpet behind a gentleman’s chair. The gentleman eats, and talks, and swears, and jests, and plays cards, and makes love, and tries to cheat, and is cheated, and his man stands behind with his eyes and ears open — augh!” “One should go into service to learn diplomacy, I see,” said Walter, greatly amused. “Does not kuow what ’plomacy be, sir, but knows it EUGENE ARAM. % T4 would be better for many a young master nor all the colleges; — would not be so many bubbles if my lord could take a turn now and then with John. A-well, sir! how I used to laugh in my sleeve like, when I saw my master, who was thought the knowingest gentlema r about Court, taken in every day smack afore my face There was one lady whom he had tried hard, as he thought, to get away from her husband; and he used to be so mightily pleased at every glance of her brown eyes — and be d—d to them! — and so careful the husband should not see — so pluming himself on his discretion here, and his conquest there,— when, Lord bless you, it was all settled ’twix man and wife aforehand! And while the colonel laughed at the cuckold, the cuckold laughed at the dupe. For you sees, sir, as how the colo¬ nel was a rich man, and the jewels as he bought for the lady went half into the husband’s pocket — he! he! That’s the way of the world, sir,— that’s the way of the world! ” “Upon my word, you draw a very bad picture of the world: you color highly; and by the way, I observe that whenever you find any man committing a roguish action, instead of calling him a scoundrel, you show those great teeth of yours, and chuckle out ‘A man of the world 1 a man of the world! ” “To be sure, your honor; the proper name, too.— ’Tis your greenhorns who fly into a passion, and use hard words. You see, sir, there’s one thing we Iarn afore all other things in the world—to butter bread. Knowledge EUGENE All AM. 75 of others, means only the knowledge which side bread’s buttered. In short, sir, the wiser grow, the more take Cixre of oursels. Some persons make a mistake, and, in trying to take care of themsels, run neck into haltei — baugh! they are not rascals — they are would-be men of the world. Others be more prudent (for, as I said afore, sir, discretion is a pair of stirrups); they be the true men of the world.” “I should have thought,” said Walter, “that the knowledge of the world might be that knowledge which preserves us from being cheated, but not that which enables us to cheat.” “Augh!” quoth the corporal, with that sort of smile with which you see an old philosopher put down a high- sounding error from a young disciple who flatters himself he has uttered something prodigiously fine,— “augh! and did I not tell you, t’other day, to look at the pro¬ fessions, your honor ? What would a laryer be if he did not know how to cheat a witness and humbug a jury? — knows he is lying: why is he lying? for love of his fees, or his fame like, which gets fees; — augh! is not that cheating others? The doctor, too — Master Fillgrave, for instance ? ” 'Say no more of the doctors; I abandon them to your satire, without a word.” “The lying knaves! Don’t they say one’s well when one’s ill — ill when one’s well? — profess to know what don’t know ? thrust solemn phizzes into every abomina¬ tion, as if larring lav 1 *d in a-? and all for their 7 * 76 EUGENE ARAM. neighbor’s money, or their own reputation, which makes money — augh 1 In short sir, look where will, impossi¬ ble to see so much cheating allowed, praised, encouraged, and feel very angry with a cheat who has only made a mistake. But when I sees a man butter his bread care¬ fully — knife steady — butter thick, and hungry fellows looking on and licking chops — mothers stopping their brats; ‘See, child, respectable man, — how thick his bread’s buttered! pull olf your hat to him;’ — when I sees that, my heart warms: there’s the true man of the world — augh ! ” “Well, Banting,” said Walter, laughing, “though you are thus lenient to those unfortunate gentlemen whom others call rogues, and thus laudatory of gentlemen whc are at best discreetly selfish, I suppose you admit the possibility of virtue, and your heart warms as much when you see a man of worth as when you see a man of the world ? ” “Why, you knows, your honor,” answered the corpo¬ ral, “so far as vartue’s concerned, there’s a deal in con¬ stitution : but as for knowledge of the world, one gets it oneself! ” “I don’t wonder, Bunting—as your opinion of women is much the same as your opinion of men—that you are still unmarried.” “Augh! but your honor mistakes; I am no mice-and- trope. Men are neither one thing nor t’other, neither good nor bad. A prudent parson has nothing to fear from ’em, nor a foolish one anything to gain — baugh EUGENE ARAM. FT As to the women creturs, your honor, as I said, vartue’s a deal in the constitution. Would not ask what a lass¬ ie’s mind be, nor what her eddycation; but see what her habits be, that’s all,— habits and constitution all one,— play into one another’s hands.” “And what sort of signs, Bunting, would you mostly esteem in a lady ? ” “First place, sir, woman I’d marry must not mope when alone! must be able to ’muse herself,— must be easily ’mused. That’s a great sign, sir, of an innocent mind, to be tickled with straws. Besides, employment keeps ’em out of harm’s way. Second place, should ob- sarve, if she was very fond of places, your honor — sorry to move—that’s a sure sign she won’t tire easily: but that if she like you now from fancy, she’ll like you by and by from custom. Thirdly, your honor, she should not be avarse to dress — a leaning that way shows she has a desire to please: people who don’t care about pleasing, always sullen. Fourthly, she must bear to be crossed — I’d be quite sure that she might be contradict¬ ed, without mumping or storming; ’cause then, you knows, your honor, if she wanted any thing expensive, need not give it — augh ! Fifthly, must not set up for a saint, your honor; they pye-house she-creturs always thinks themsels so much better nor we men; don’t under¬ stand our language and ways, your honor: they wants us not only to belave, but to tremble — bother!” “I like your description well enough, on the wholle ’ 78 EUGENE ARAM. said Walter; and when I look out for a wife I shall come to you for advice.” “ Y’our honor may have it already — Miss Ellinor’s jist the thing. ” Walter turned away his head, and told Bunting, with great show of indignation, not to be a fool. The corporal, who was not quite certain of his ground here, but who knew that Madeline, at all events, was going to be married to Aram, and deemed it, therefore, quite useless to waste any praise upon her, thought that a few random shots of eulogium were worth throwing away on a chance, aud consequently continued,— “Augh, your honor,— ’tis not ’cause I have eyes, that I be’s a fool. Miss Ellinor and your honor be only cou¬ sins, to be sure; but more like brother and sister, nor anything else. Howsomever, she’s a rare cretur, who¬ ever gets her; has a face that puts one in good humor with the world, if one sees it first thing in the morning; ’tis as good as the sun in July — augh! But, as I was saying, your honor, ’bout the women creturs in gene¬ ral-” “Enough of them, Bunting; let us suppose you have been so fortunate as to find one to suit you — how would you woo her? Of course there are certain secrets of courtship, which you will not hesitate to impart to one who, like me, wants such assistance from art,— much more than you can do, who are so bountifully favored by nature.” “As to nature,” replied the corporal, with consider* EUGENE ARAM. able modesty, for he never disputed the truth of the compliment, “’tis not ’cause a man be six feet without’s shoes that he’s any nearer to a lady’s heart. Sir, I will own to you, howsomever it makes ’gainst your honor and myself, for that matter — that don’t think one is a bit more lucky with the ladies for being so handsome! ’Tis all very well with them ere willing ones, your honor—- caught at a glance; but as for the better sort, one’s beauty’s all bother! Why, sir, when we see some of the most fortunatest men among she-creturs — what poor little minnikens they be! One’s a dwarf—another knock-kneed —a third squints — and a fourth might be shown for a 7*ape 1 Neither, sir, is it your soft, insinuat¬ ing, die-away youths, as seem at first so seductive; they do very well for lovers, your honor: but then it’s always .— rejected ones! Neither, your honor, does the art of succeeding with the ladies ’quire all those finnikin nimini- pinimis, flourishes, and maxims, and saws, which the colo¬ nel, my old master, and the great gentlefolks, as be knowing, call the art of love — baugh ! The whole science, sir, consists in these two rules—‘Ax soon, and ax often.’” “There seems no great difficulty in them, Bunting.” “Not to us who has gumption, sir; but then there is summut in the manner of axing — one can’t be too hot — can’t flatter too much — and above all, one must never take a refusal. There, sir, now,— if you takes my advice — may break the peace of all the husbands in Lunnon—- bother—waugh! ” Y 80 EUGENE ARAM. “ My uncle little knows what a praiseworthy tutor he has secured me in you, Bunting,” said Walter, laughing; 11 and now, while the road is so good, let us make the most of it.” As they set out late in the day, and the corporal was fearful of another attack from a hedge, he resolved that, about evening, one of the horses should be seized with a sudden lameness (which he effected by slyly inserting a stone between the shoe and the hoof), that required im¬ mediate attention and a night’s rest; so that it was not till the early noon of the next day that our travellers entered the village in which Mr. Jonas Elmore resided. It was a soft tranquil day, though one of the very last in October; for the reader will remember that time had not stood still during Walter’s submission to the care of Mr. Pertinax Eillgrave, and his subsequent journey and researches. The sun-light rested on a broad patch of green heatlq covered with furze, and around it were scattered the cot¬ tages and farm-houses of the little village. On the other side, as Walter descended the gentle hill that led into this remote hamlet, wide and flat meadows, interspersed with several fresh and shaded ponds, stretched away to¬ wards a belt of rich woodland gorgeous with the melan¬ choly pomp by which the “regal year” seeks to veil its decay. Among these meadows you might now see groups of cattle quietly grazing, or standing half hid in the still and sheltered pools. Still farther, crossing to the woods, a solitary sportsman walked carelessly on, sur¬ rounded by some half-a-dozen spaniels, and the shrill EUGENE ARAM. 81 small tongue of one younger straggler of the canine crew, who had broken indecorously from the rest, and already entered the wood, might be just heard, softened down by the distance, into a wild, cheery sound, that animated, without disturbing the serenity of the scene. “After all,” said Walter aloud, “the scholar was right — there is nothing like the country 1 ‘ Oh, happiness of sweet retired content, To be at once secure and innocent!’” “Be them verses in the Psalms, sir?” said the corpo¬ ral, who was close behind. “No, Bunting; but they were written by one who, if I recollect right, set the Psalms to verse. * I hope they meet with your approbation?” “Indeed, sir, and no — since they ben’t in the Psalms.” “And why, Mr. Critic?” “’Cause what’s the use of security, if one’s innocent, and does not mean to take advantage of it?—baugh 1 One does not lock the door for nothing, your honor! ” “You shall enlarge on that honest doctrine of yours another time; meanwhile, call that shepherd, and ask the way to Mr. Elmore’s.” The corporal obeyed, and found that a clump of trees, at the farther corner of the waste land, was the grove that surrounded Mr. Elmore’s house: a short canter across the heath brought them to a white gate, and hav¬ ing passed this, a comfortable brick mansion, of moder¬ ate size, stood before them. * Denham. 82 EUGENE ARAM. CHAPTER III. 4 SCHOLAR, BUT OF A DIFFERENT MOULD FROM THE STU¬ DENT OF GRASSDALE.-NEW PARTICULARS CONCERNING GEOFFREY LESTER. — THE JOURNEY RECOMMENCED. “ Insenuitque Libris.” * — IIorat. “Volat, ambiguis Mobilis alis, Hora.” f — Seneca. Upon inquiring for Mr. Elmore, Walter was shown into a handsome library, that appeared well stocked with books, of that good, old-fashioned size and solidity, which are now fast passing from the world, or at least shrinking into old shops and public collections. The time may come, when the mouldering remains of a folio will attract as much philosophical astonishment as the bones of the mammoth. For behold, the deluge of wri¬ ters hath produced a new world of small octavo! and in the next generation, thanks to the popular libraries, we shall only vibrate between the duodecimo and the dia¬ mond edition. Nay, we foresee the time when a very handsome collection may be carried about in one’s waistcoat-pocket, and a whole library of the British Classics be neatly arranged in a well-compacted snuff-box. * And he hath grown old in books, | Time flies , still moving on uncertain wing. EUGENE ARAM 8? In a few minutes Mr. Elmore made his appearance, he was a short, well-built man, about the age of fifty Contrary to the established mode, he wore no wig, and was very bald; except at the sides of the head, and a little circular island of hair in the centre. But this de¬ fect was rendered the less visible by a profusion of pow¬ der. He was dressed with evident care and precision; a snulf-colored coat was adorned with a respectable pro¬ fusion of gold lace: his breeches were of plum-colored satin; his salmon-colored stockings, scrupulously drawn up, displayed a very handsome calf; and a pair of steel buckles, in his high-heeled and square-toed shoes, were polished into a lustre which almost rivalled the splendor of diamonds. Mr. Jonas Elmore was a beau, a wit, and a scholar of the old school. He abounded in jests, in quotations, in smart sayings, and pertinent anecdotes; but, withal, his classical learning (out of the classics he knew little enough) was at once elegant, but wearisome; pedantic, but profound. To this gentleman Walter presented a letter of intro¬ duction which he had obtained from a distinguished clergyman in York. Mr. Elmore received it with a pro¬ found salutation : — “ Aha, from my friend, Dr. Hebraist,” said he, glancing at the seal: “a most worthy man, and a ripe scholar. I presume at once, sir, from his introduction, that you yourself have cultivated the literas humaniores. Pray sit down — ay, I see you take up a book — an excellent symptom; it gives me an immediate insight into your XI. —8 84 EUGENE ARAM. character. But you have chanced, sir, on light reading, •—one of the Greek novels, I think: you must not judge of my studies by such a specimen.” “Nevertheless, sir, it does not seem to my unskilful eye very easy Greek.” “Pretty well, sir; barbarous, but amusing, — pray, continue it. The triumphant entry of Paulus Emilius is not ill told. I confess, that I think novels might be made much higher works than they have been yet. Doubtless, you remember what Aristotle says concerning painters and sculptors, ‘that they teach and recommend virtue in a more efficacious and powerful manner than philosophers by their dry precepts, and are more capa¬ ble of amending the vicious, than the best moral lessons without such aid.’ But how much more, sir, can a good novelist do this, than the best sculptor or painter in the world! Every one can be charmed by a fine novel, few by a painting. 1 Docli rationem artis intelligunt, indocti voluptatemd * A happy sentence that in Quinctilian, sir, is it not? But, bless me, I am forgetting the letter of my good friend, Dr. Hebraist. The charms of your con¬ versation carry me away. And indeed, I have seldom the happiness to meet a gentleman so well-informed as yourself. I confess, sir, I confess that I still retain the tastes of my boyhood; the Muses cradled my childhood, they now smooth the pillow on my footstool— Quern tu , Melpomene, &c.—You are not yet subject to gout, dira * The learned understand the reason of art, the unlearned the pleasure, Xi o GENE ARAM. 85 podagra. By the way, how is the worthy doctor since his attack? — Ah, see now, if you have not still, by youf delightful converse, kept me from his letter — yet, posi¬ tively I need no introduction to you: Apollo has already presented you to me. And as for the Doctor’s letter, 1 will read it after dinner; for as Seneca-” “I beg your pardon a thousaud times, sir,” said Wal¬ ter, who began to despair of ever coming to the matter, which seemed lost sight of beneath this battery of erudi¬ tion, “but you will find by Dr. Hebraist’s letter, that it is only on business of the utmost importance that I have presumed to break in upon the learned leisure of Mr. Jonas Elmore. “Business!” replied Mr. Elmore, producing his spec¬ tacles, and deliberately placing them athwart his nose, “ ‘His inane edictum, post prandia Callirlioen,’ &c. Business in the morning, and the ladies after dinner. Well, sir, I will yield to you in the one, and you must yield to me in the other: I will open the letter, and you shali dine here, and be introduced to Mrs. Elmore. What is your opinion of the modern method of folding letters? I—but I see you are impatient.” Here Mr. Elmore at length broke the seal; and to Walter’s great joy, fairly read the contents within. “ Oh! I see, I see ! ” he said, refolding the epistle, and placing it in his pocket-book; “my friend, Dr. Hebraist, says you are anxious to be informed whether Mr. Clarke ever received the legacy of my poor cousin, Colonel 86 EUGENE ARAM. Elmore; and if so, any tidings I can give you of Mr. Clarke liimself, or any clue to discover him, will be highly acceptable. I gather, sir, from my friend’s letter, that this is the substance of your business with me, caput ne - gotii; — although, like Timanthes, the painter, he leaves more to be understood than is described, 1 intelligilur plus quam pingitur ,’ as Pliny has it.” “Sir,” said Walter, drawing his chair close to Mr. Elmore, and his anxiety forcing itself to his countenance, “that is indeed the substance of my business with you; and so important will be any information you can give me, that I will esteem it a-” “Not a very great favor, eh? — not very great!” “Yes, indeed, a very great obligation.” “I hope not, sir; for what says Tacitus — that pro¬ found reader of the human heart ? — ‘ beneficia eo usque Iceta sunt,’ &c.; favors easily repaid beget affection—- favors beyond return engender hatred. But, sir, a truce to trifling;” and here Mr. Elmore composed his counte¬ nance, and changed,— which he could do at will, so that the change was not expected to last long — the pedant for the man of business. “Mr. Clarke did receive his legacy: the lease of the house at Knaresborough was also sold by his desire, and produced the sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds; which being added to the farther sum of a thousand pounds, which was bequeathed to him, amounted to sev¬ enteen hundred and fifty pounds. It so happened, that my cousin had possessed some very valuable jewels, which EUGENE ARAM. S7 were bequeathed to myself. I, sir, studious, and a culti¬ vator of the Muse, had no love and no use for these baubles; I preferred barbaric gold to barbaric pearl: and knowing that Clarke had been in India, whence these jewels had been brought, I showed them to him, and consulted his knowledge on these matters, as to the best method of obtaining a sale. He offered to pur¬ chase them of me, under the impression that he could turn them to a profitable speculation in London. Accord¬ ingly we came to terms: I sold the greater part of them to him for a sum a little exceeding a thousand pounds. He was pleased with his bargain; and came to borrow the rest of me, in order to look at them more consider¬ ately at home, and determine whether or not he should buy them also. Well, sir (but here comes the remarka¬ ble part of the story), about three days after this last event, Mr. Clarke and my jewels both disappeared in rather a strange and abrupt manner. In the middle of the night he left his lodging at Knaresborough, and never returned; neither himself nor my jewels were ever heard of more ! ” “Good Heavens!” exclaimed Walter, greatly agi¬ tated; “what was supposed to be the cause of his dis¬ appearance ? ” “That,” replied Elmore, “was never positively traced It excited great surprise and great conjecture at the time. Advertisements and handbills were circulated through ihe country, but in vain. Mr. Clarke was evidently a man of eccentric habits, of a hasty temper, and a wan* 8 * EUGENE ARAM. $8 Bering- manner of life; yet it is scarcely probable that he took this sudden manner of leaving the country, either from whim or some secret but honest motive never divulged. The fact is, that he owed a few debts in the town — that he had my jewels in his possession, and as (pardon me for saying this, since you take an inter .-st in him) his connections were entirely unknown in these parts, and his character not very highly estimated,—■ (whether from his manner, or his conversation, or some undefined and vague rumors, I cannot say,)—it was con¬ sidered by no means improbable that he had decamped with his property in this sudden manner in order to save himself that trouble of settling accounts which a more seemly and public method of departure might have render¬ ed necessary. A man by the name of Houseman, with whom he was acquainted (a resident in Knaresborough), declared that Clarke had borrowed rather a considerable sum from him, and did not scruple openly to accuse him of the evident design to avoid repayment. A few more dark but utterly groundless conjectures were afloat ; and since the closest search, the minutest inquiry, was em¬ ployed without any result, the supposition that he might have been robbed and murdered was strongly entertained for some time; but as his body was never found, nor sus¬ picion directed against any particular person, these con¬ jectures insensibly died away; and being so complete a stranger to these pans, the very circumstance of his dis¬ appearance was not likely to occupy, for very long, the attention of that old gossip the Public, who, even in the EUGENE ARAM. 89 remotest parts, has a thousand topics to fill up her time and talk. And now, sir, I think you know as much of the particulars of the case as any one in these parts can inform you.” We may imagine the various sensations which this un¬ satisfactory intelligence caused in the adventurous son of the lost wanderer. He continued to throw out addi¬ tional guesses, and to make farther inquiries concerning a tale which seemed to him so mysterious, but without effect; and he had the mortification to perceive, that the shrewd Jonas was, in his own mind, fully convinced that the permanent disappearance of Clarke was accounted for only by the most dishonest motives. “And,” added Elmore, “I am confirmed in this belief by discovering afterwards, from a tradesman in York who had seen my cousin’s jewels, that those I had trusted to Mr. Clarke’s hands were more valuable than I had imagined them, and therefore it was probably worth his while to make off with them as quietly as possible. He went on foot, leaving his horse, a sorry nag, to settle with me and the other claimants: — I, pedes quo te rapiunt et aurae ! ’ ” * “Heavens!” thought Walter, sinking back in his chair sickened and disheartened, “what a parent, if the opinions of all men who knew him be true, do I thus zealously seek to recover I ” * Go, where your feet and fortune take you. m 90 EUGENE ARAM. The good-natured Elmore, perceiving the unwelcome and painful impression his account had produced on his young guest, now exerted himself to remove, or at least to lessen it; and, turning the conversation into a classi¬ cal channel, which with him was the Lethe to all cares, he soon forgot that Clarke had ever existed, in expatiating on the unappreciated excellencies of Propertius, who, to his mind, was the most tender of all elegiac poets, solely because he was the most learned. Fortunately this vein of conversation, however tedious to Walter, preserved him from the necessity of rejoinder, and left him to the quiet enjoyment of his own gloomy and restless reflec¬ tions. At length the time touched upon dinner: Elmore, starting up, adjourned to the drawing-room, in order to present the handsome stranger to the placens uxor — the pleasing wife, whom, in passing through the hall, he eulogized with an amazing felicity of diction. The object of these praises was a tall, meagre lady, in a yellow dress carried up to the chin, and who added a slight squint to the charms of red hair, ill concealed by powder, and the dignity of a prodigiously high nose. “There is nothing, sir,” said Elmore,— “nothing, believe me, like matrimonial felicity. Julia, my dear, I trust the chickens will not be over-done.” “Indeed, Mr. Elmore, I cannot tell; I did not boil them.” “ Sir,” said Elmore, turning to his guest, “ I do not know whether you will agree with me, but I think a slight ten- 0 EUGENE ARAM 91 dency to gourmandism is absolutely necessary to com plete the character of a truly classical mind. So many beautiful touches are there in the ancient poets — so many delicate allusions in history and in anecdote re¬ lating to the gratification of the palate, that, if a man have no correspondent sympathy with the illustrious epi¬ cures of old, he is rendered incapable of enjoying the most beautiful passages that-Come, sir, the dinner is served: — ‘Nutrimus lautis mollissima corpora mensis,’” * As they crossed the hall to the dining-room, a young lady, whom Elmore hastily announced as his only daugh¬ ter, appeared descending the stairs, having evidently re¬ tired for the purpose of re-arranging her attire for the conquest of the stranger. There was something in Miss Elmore that reminded Walter of Ellinor, and, as the likeness struck him, he felt, by the sudden and involun¬ tary sigh it occasioned, how much the image of his _ sousin had lately gained ground upon his heart. Nothing of any note occurred during dinner, until the appearance of the second course, when Elmore, throwing himself back with an air of content, which signified that the first edge of his appetite was blunted, observed,— “ Sir, the second course I always opine to be the more dignified and rational part of a repast,— ‘Quod nunc ratio est, impetus ante fuit.’” -j- * We nourish softest bodies at luxurious banquets. + That, which is now reason , at first was but desire. 92 EUGENE ARAM. ‘‘Ah! Mr. Elmore,” said the lady, glancing towards a brace of very fine pigeons, “I cannot tell you how vexed I am at a mistake of the gardener’s; you remember my poor pet pigeons, so attached to each other — would not mix with the rest — quite an inseparable friendship, Mr. Lester — well, they were killed, by mistake, for a couple of vulgar pigeons. Ah ! I could not touch a bit of them for the world.” “My love,” said Elmore, pausing, and with great so¬ lemnity, “hear how beautiful a consolation is afforded to you in Valerius Maximus: — ‘Ubi idem et maximus et honestissimus amor est, aliquando praestat morte jungi quam vita distrai! ’ which, being interpreted, means, that wherever, as in the case of your pigeons, a thoroughly high and sincere affection exists, it is sometimes better to be joined in death than divided in life —Give me half the fatter one, if you please, Julia.” “Sir,” said Elmore, when the ladies withdrew, “I can¬ not tell you how pleased I am to meet with a gentleman so deeply imbued with classic lore. I remember, several years ago, before my poor cousin died, it was my lot, when I visited him at Knaresborough, to hold some de¬ lightful conversations on learned matters with a very rising young scholar who then resided at Knaresborough, — Eugene Aram. Conversations as difficult to obtain as delightful to remember, for he was exceedingly re¬ served.” “Aram!” repeated Walter. EUGENE ARAM. 93 “What! you know him then? — and where does he live now?” “In -, very near my uncle’s residence. He is certainly a remarkable man.” “Yes, indeed he promised to become so. At the time I refer to, he was poor to penury, and haughty as poor; but it was wonderful to note the iron energy with which he pursued his progress to learning. Never did I see a youth,— at that time he was no more,— so devoted to knowledge for itself. ‘ Doctrinse pretiura triste magister habet.’ * “Methinks,” added Elmore, “I can see him now, stealing away from the haunts of men With even step and musing gait,’ across the quiet fields, or into the woods, whence he was certain not to reappear till nightfall. Ah! he was a strange and solitary being, but full of genius, and pro¬ mise of bright things hereafter. I have often heard since of his fame as a scholar, but could never learn where he lived, or what was now his mode of life. Is he yet married ? ” “Not yet, I believe: but he is not now so absolutely poor as you describe him to have been then, though cer¬ tainly far from rich.” “Yes, yes, I remember that he received a legacy from a relation shortly before he left Knaresborough. He had * The master hat but sorry remuneration for Ids teaching . 94 EUGENE ARAM very delicate health at that time: has he grown stronger with increasing years ? ” “ He does not complain of ill health. And pray, was he then of the same austere and blameless habits of life that he now professes?” “Nothing could be so faultless as his character ap¬ peared; the passions of youth — (ah 1 I was a wild fel¬ low at his age,) never seemed to venture near one — ‘ Quem casto erudit docta Minerva simi.* * Well, I am surprised he has not married. We scholars, sir, fall in love with abstractions, and fancy the first woman we see is-Sir, let us drink the ladies.” The next day Walter, having resolved to set out for Knaresborough, directed his course towards that town; he thought it yet possible that he might, by strict per¬ sonal inquiry, continue the clue that Elmore’s account had, to present appearance, broken. The pursuit in which he was engaged, combined, perhaps, with the early disappointment in his affections, had given a grave and solemn tone to a mind naturally ardent and elastic. His character acquired an earnestness and a dignity from late events; and all that once had been hope within him, deep¬ ened into thought. As now, on a gloomy and clouded day, he pursued his course along a bleak and melancholy road, his mind was filled with that dark presentiment — that shadow from the coming event, which superstition believes the herald of the more tragic discoveries or the * Whom wise Minerva taught with bosom chaste. EUGENE ARAM. 95 more fearful incidents of life: he felt steeled and pre*. pared for some dread denotement, to a journey to which the hand of Providence seemed to conduct his steps; and he looked on the shroud that Time casts over all beyond the present moment with the same intense and painful resolve, with which, in the tragic representations of life, we await the drawing up of the curtain before the last act, w^hich contains the catastrophe, that, while we long, we half shudder to behold. Meanwdiile, in following the adventures of Walter Lester, we have greatly outstripped the progress of events at Grassdale, and thither we now return. II.— 9 z 96 EUGENE ARAM. CHAPTER IY. aram’s departure. — Madeline. — exaggeration of SENTIMENT NATURAL IN LOVE. — MADELINE’S LETTER.— WALTER’S. — THE WALK, — TWO VERY DIFFERENT PER¬ SONS, YET BOTH INMATES OF THE SAME COUNTRY VIL¬ LAGE.-THE HUMORS OF LIFE, AND ITS DARK PASSIONS, ARE FOUND IN JUXTAPOSITION EVERYWHERE. “ Her thoughts as pure as the chaste morning’s breath, When from the Night’s cold arms it creeps away, Were clothed in words.” Detraction Execrated , by Sir J. Suckling. “ Urticse proxima ssepe rosa est.” * — Ovid. “You positively leave us then to-day, Eugene?” said the squire. “Indeed,” answered Aram, “I hear from my creditor (now no longer so, thanks to you,) that my relation is sc dangerously ill, that, if I have any wish to see her alive, I have not an hour to lose. It is the last surviving rela tive I have in the world.” “I can say no more, then,” rejoined the squire, shrug ging his shoulders. “When do you expect to return?” “At least, before the day fixed for the wedding,’ answered Aram, with a grave and melancholy smile. * The rose is often nearest to the nettle. EUGENE ARAM. 97 “ Well, can you find time, think you, to call at the lodging in which my nephew proposed to take up his abode,— my old lodging; — I will give you the address, •—and inquire if Walter has been heard of there: I con¬ fess that I feel considerable alarm on his account. Since that short and hurried letter that I read to you, I have heard nothing of him.” “You may rely on my seeing him if in London, and faithfully reporting to you all that I can learn towards removing your anxiety.” “I do not doubt it; no heart is so kind as yours, Eu¬ gene. You will not depart without receiving the addi¬ tional sum you are entitled to claim from me, since you think it may be useful to you in London, should you find a favorable opportunity of increasing your annuity. And now I will no longer detain you from taking your leave of Madeline.” The plausible story which Aram had invented, of the illness and approaching death of his last living relation, was readily believed by the simple family to whom it was told ; and Madeline herself checked her tears, that she might not, for his sake, sadden a departure that seemed inevitable. Aram accordingly repaired to London that day; the one that followed the night which witnessed his fearful visit to the Devil’s Crag. It is precisely at this part of my history that I love to pause for a moment; a sort of breathing interval be¬ tween the cloud that has been long gathering, and the 93 EUGENE ARAM. storm that is about to burst. And this interval is noi without its fleeting gleam of quiet and holy sunshine. It was Madeline’s first absence from her lover since their vows had plighted them to each other; and that first absence, when softened by so many hopes as smiled upon her, is perhaps one of the most touching passages in the history of a woman’s love. It is marvellous how many things, unheeded before, suddenly become dear. She then feels what a power of consecration there was in the mere presence of the one beloved; the spot he touch¬ ed, the book he read, have become a part of him — are no longer inanimate — are inspired, and have a being and a voice. And the heart, too, soothed in discovering so many new treasures, and opening so delightful a world of memory, is not yet acquainted with that weariness — that sense of exhaustion and solitude, which are the true pains of absence, and belong to the absence, not of hope but regret. “You are cheerful, dear Madeline,” said Ellinor^ “though you did not think it possible, and he not here! ” “I am occupied,” replied Madeline, “in discovering how much I loved him.” We do wrong when we censure a certain exaggera¬ tion in the sentiments of those who love. True passion is necessarily heightened by its very ardor to an elevation that seems extravagant only to those who cannot feel it. The lofty language of a hero is a part of his character; without that largeness of idea, he had not been a nero. With love, it is the same as with glory: what common EUGENE ARAM. 99 minds would call natural in sentiment, merely because it is homely, is not natural, except to tamed affections. That is a very poor, nay, a very coarse, love, in which the imagination makes not the greater part. And the Frenchman, who censured the love of his mistress because it was so mixed with the imagination, quarrelled with the body for the soul which inspired and preserved it. Yet we do not say that Madeline was so possessed by the confidence of her love, that she did not admit the intrusion of a single doubt or fear. When she recalled the frequent gloom and moody fitfulness of her lover — his strange and mysterious communings with self—the sorrow which, at times, as on that Sabbath eve when he wept upon her bosom, appeared suddenly to come upon a nature so calm and stately, and without a visible cause ; when she recalled all these symptoms of a heart now at rest, it was not possible for her to reject altogether a certain vague and dreary apprehension. Nor did she herself, although to Ellinor she so affected, ascribe this cloudiness a,nd caprice of mood merely to the result of a solitary and meditative life; she attributed them to the influence of an early grief, perhaps linked with the affec¬ tions, and did not doubt that at one day or another she should learn the secret. As for remorse — the memory of any former sin,—a life so austerely blameless, a disposi¬ tion so prompt to the activity of good, and so enamour¬ ed of its beauty—a mind so cultivated, a temper so gentle, and a heart so easily moved — all would have forbidden, to natures far more suspicious than Madeline’s, 9 * 100 EUGENE ARAM. the conception of such a thought. And so, with a patient gladness, though not without some mixture of anxiety, she suffered herself to glide onward to a future, which, come cloud, come shine, was, she believed at least, to be shared with him. On looking over the various papers from which I have woven this tale, I find a letter from Madeline to Aram, dated at this time. The characters, traced in the delicate and fair Italian hand coveted at that period, are fading, and in one part wholly obliterated by time; but there seems to me so much of what is genuine in the heart’s beautiful romance in this effusion, that I will lay t before the reader without adding or altering a word: —. “Thank you — thank you, dearest Eugene! — I have received, then, the first letter you ever wrote me. I can¬ not tell you how strange it seemed to me, and how agi¬ tated I felt, on seeing it; more so, I think, than if it had been yourself who had returned. However, when the first delight of reading it faded away, I found that it had not made me so happy as it ought to have done — as I thought at first it had done. You seem sad and melan¬ choly ; a certain nameless gloom appears to me to hang over your whole letter. It affects my spirits — why I know not — and my tears fall even while I read the assu¬ rances of your unaltered, unalterable love: and yet this assurance your Madeline — vain girl!—never for a mo¬ ment disbelieves. I have often read and often heard of the distiust and jealousy that accompany love; bur I EUGENE ARAM. 101 thin# that such a love must be a vulgar and low senti¬ ment, To me there seems a religion in love, and its very found avion is in faith. You say, dearest, that the noise and stir of the great city oppress and weary you even more ti an you had expected. You say those harsh faces, in which business, and care, and avarice, and ambi¬ tion, write their lineaments, are wholly unfamiliar to you; you turn aside to avoid them; you wrap yourself up in your solitary feelings of aversion to those you see, and you call upon those not present — upon your Madeline I And would that your Madeline were with you 1 It seems to me — perhaps you will smile when I say this — that I alone can understand you — I alone can read your heart and your emotions; and, oh! dearest Eugene, that I could read also enough of your past history to know all that has cast so habitual a shadow over that lofty heart and that calm and profound nature ! You smile when I ask you; but sometimes you sigh,— and the sigh pleases and soothes me better than the smile. ****** “We have heard nothing more of Walter, and my father continues to be seriously alarmed about him. Your account, too, corroborates that alarm. It is strange that he has not yet visited London, and that you can obtain no clue of him. He is evidently still in search of his lost parent, and following some obscure and uncertain track. Poor Walter! God speed him! The singular fate of his father, and the many conjectures respecting him, have, I believe, preyed on Walter’s mind more than he acknowledged. Elliuor found a paper in 102 EUGENE ARAM. his closet, where we had occasion to search the other day for something belonging to my father, which was scribbled with all the various fragments of guess or infor¬ mation concerning my uncle, obtained from time to time f and interspersed with some remarks by Walter himself that affected me strangely. It seems to have been, from early childhood, the one desire of my cousin to discover his father’s fate. Perhaps the discovery may be already made;—perhaps my long-lost uncle may yet be present at our wedding. “You ask me, Eugene, if I still pursue my botanical researches? Sometimes I do; but the flower now has no fragrance, and the herb no secret, that I care for; and astronomy, which you had just begun to teach me, pleases me more; the flowers charm me when you are present: but the stars speak to me of you in absence Perhaps it would not be so, had I loved a being less exalted than you. Every one,— even my father, even Ellinor, smile when they observe how incessantly I think of you — how utterly you have become all in all to me. I could not tell this to you, though I write it: is it not strange that letters should be more faithful than the tongue ? And even your letter, mournful as it is, seems to me kinder, and dearer, and more full of yourself, than, with all the magic of your language, and the silver sweetness of your voice, your spoken words are. 1 walk¬ ed by your house yesterday; the windows were closed; there was a strange air of lifelessness and dejection about it. Do you remember the evening in which I first enter- EUGENE ARAM. 103 ed that house? Do you — or, rather, is there one hour in which it is not present to you ? For me, I live in the past,—it is the present (which is without you) in which 1 have no life. I passed into the little garden, that with * your own hand you have planted for me, and filled with flowers. Ellinor was with me, and she saw my lips move. She asked me what I was saying to myself. I would not tell her; — I was praying for you, my kind, my beloved Eugene. I was praying for the happiness of your future years,— praying that I might requite your love. When¬ ever I feel the most, I am the most inclined to prayer. Sorrow, joy, tenderness, all emotion, lift up inv heart to God. And what a delicious overflow of the heart is prayer! When I am with you — and I feel that you love me — my happiness would be painful, if there were no God whom I might bless for its excess. Do those who Relieve not love? — have they deep emotions? — can they feel truly — devotedly? Why, when I talk thus to you, do you always answer me with that chilling and mournful smile? You would rest religion only on reason,— as well limit love to the reason also!—what were either without the feelings ? “When — when — when will you return? I think I love you now more than ever. I think I have more courage to tell you so. So many things I have to say,—- so many events to relate. For what is not an event to us? the least incident that has happened to either; — the very fading of a flower, if you have worn it. is a whole history to me. ( 104 ETQENE ARAM. ‘'Adieu, God bless you; God reward you; God keep your heart with Him, dearest, dearest Eugene. And may you every day know better and better how utterly you are loved by your “Madeline.” The epistle to which Lester referred, as received from Walter, was one written on the day of his escape from Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, a short note rather than letter, which ran as follows: — “My dear Uncle, “I have met with an accident, which confined me to my bed; a rencontre, indeed, with the knights of the road; nothing serious (so do not be alarmed !) though the doctor would fain have made it so. I am just about to recommence my journey; but not towards London; on the contrary, northward. “I have, partly through the information of your old friend, Mr. Courtland, partly by accident, found what I hope may prove a clue to the fate of my father. I am now departing to put this hope to the issue. More I would fain say; but, lest the expectation should prove fallacious, I will not dwell on circumstances which would, in that case, only create in you a disappointment similar to my own. Only this take with you, that my father’s proverbial good luck seems to have visited him since your latest news of his fate; a legacy, though not a large one, awaited his return to England from India: but see if I am not growing prolix already; — I must EUGENE ARAM. 105 break off ir. order to reserve you the pleasure (may it be so!) of a full surprise! “ God bless you, my dear uncle ! I write in spirits and hope. Kindest love to all at home. “Walter Lester. “P. S. Tell Ellinor that my bitterest misfortune, in the adventur. I have referred to, was to be robbed of her purse. Will she knit me another? By the way, I en¬ countered Sir Peter Hales: such an open-hearted, gene¬ rous fellow as you said! 'thereby hangs a tale.’” This letter, which provoked all the curiosity of our little circle, made them anxiously look forward to every post for additional explanation, but that explanation came not; and they were forced to console themselves with the evident exhilaration under which Walter wrote, and the probable supposition that he delayed further information until it could be ample and satisfactory. “Knights of the road,” quoth Lester, one day; “I won¬ der if they were any of the gang that have just visited us. Well, but, poor boy! he does not say whether he has any money left: yet if he were short of the gold, he would be very unlike his father (or his uncle, for that matter) had he forgotten to enlarge on that subject, how¬ ever brief upon others.” “Probably,” said Ellinor, “the corporal carried the main sum about him in those well-stuffed saddle-bags, and it was only the purse that Walter had about his per¬ son that was stolen; and it is clear that the corpora! 106 EUGENE ARAM. escaped, as he mentions nothing about that excellent personage.” “A shrewd guess, Nell; but pray, why should Walter carry the purse about him so carefully ? Ah, you blush: well, will you knit him another ? ” “ Pshaw, papa! Good-by; I am going to gather you a nosegay.” But Ellinor was seized with a sudden fit of industry, and, somehow or other, she grew fonder of knitting than ever. The neighborhood was now tranquil and at peace; the nightly depredators that had infested the green valleys of Grassdale were heard of no more; it seemed a sudden incursion of fraud and crime, which was too unnatural to the character of the spot invaded to do more than to terrify and to disappear. The truditur dies die; the serene steps of one calm day chasing another returned, and the past alarm was only remembered as a tempting subject of gossip to the villagers, and (at the Hall) a theme of eulogium on the courage of Eugene Aram. ‘‘It is a lovely day,” said Lester to his daughters, as they sat at the window; “come, girls, get your bonnets, and let us take a walk into the village.” “And meet the postman,” said Ellinor, archly. “Yes,” rejoined Madeline, in the same vein, but in a whisper that Lester might not hear: “for who knows but that we may have a letter from Walter?” H ow prettily sounds such raillery on virgin lips/ No, no; nothing on earth is so lovely as the confidence be- EUGENE ARAM. 107 tween two happy sisters, who have no secrets but those of a guileless love to reveal! As they strolled into the village they were met by Peter Dealtry, who was slowly riding home on a large ass, which carried himself and his panniers to the neigh¬ boring market in a more quiet and luxurious indolence of action than would the harsher motions of the equine species. “A fine day, Peter; and what news at market?” said Lester. “Corn high, hay dear, your honor,” replied the clerk. “Ah, I suppose so; a good time to sell ours, Peter: we must see about it on Saturday. But pray, have you heard any thing from the corporal since his departure ? ” “Not I, your honor, not I; though I think as he might have given us a line, if it was only to thank me for my care of his cat; but — “Them as comes to go to roam, Thinks slight of they as stays at home.’ ” “A notable distich, Peter; your own composition, I warrant. ” “Mine! Lord love your honor, I has no genius, but I has memory; and when them ere beautiful lines of poet¬ ry-like comes into my head they stays there, and stays till they pops out at my tongue like a bottle of ginger- beer. I do loves poetry, sir, ’specially the sacred.” “ We know it,— we know it.” “For there be summut in it,” continued the clerk, “which smooths a man’s heart like a clothes-brush, wipes IL —10 108 EUGENE ARAM. away the dust and dirt, and sets all the nap right: and 1 thinks as how ’tis what a clerk of the parish ought to study, your honor.” “Nothing better; you speak like an oracle. 1 ’ “Now, sir, there be the corporal, honest man, what thinks himself mighty clever,— but he has no soul for varse. Lord love ye, to see the faces he makes when 1 tells him a hymn or so; ’tis quite wicked, your honor,— for that’s what the heathen did, as you well know, sir. ‘ And when I does discourse of things Most holy to their tribe, What does they do? — they mocks at me, And makes my harp a gibe.” ’Tis not what I calls pretty, Miss Ellinor.” “Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for verse, you never indulge a little in satire against such perverse taste.” “Satire! what’s that? Oh, I knows; what they writes in elections. Why, miss, mayhap-” here Peter paused, and winked significantly — “but the corporal’s a passion¬ ate man, who knows: but I could so sting him. — Aha! we’ll see, we’ll see. Do you know, your honor,” — here Peter altered his air to one of serious importance, as if about to impart a most sagacious conjecture, “I thinks there be one reason why the corporal has not written to me.” “And what’s that, Peter?” “’Cause, your honor, he’s ashamed of his writing: I fancy as how his spelling is no better than it should be. EUGENE ARAM. 109 —but mum’s the word. You sees, your honor, the cor¬ poral’s got a tarn for conversation-like; he be a mighty fine talker, surely! but he be shy of the pen; ’tis not every man what talks biggest what’s the best schollard at bottom. Why, there’s the newspaper I saw in the mar¬ ket (for I always sees the newspaper once a-week) says as how some of them great speakers in the parliament house are no better than ninnies when they gets upon pa¬ per; and that’s the corporal’s case I sispect: I suppose as how they can’t spell all them ere long words they make use on.' For my part, I thinks there be mortal de- sate (deceit) like in that ere public speaking; for I knows how far a loud voice and a bold face goes, even in buying a cow, your honor; and I’m afraid the country’s greatly bubbled in that ere particklar; for if a man can’t write down clearly what he means for to say, I does not thinks as how he knows what he means when he goes for to speak! ” This speech — quite a moral exposition from Peter, and, doubtless, inspired by his visit to market — for what wisdom cannot come from intercourse? — our good publi¬ can delivered with especial solemnity, giving a huge thump on the sides of his ass as he concluded. “Upon my word, Peter,” said Lester, laughing, “you have grown quite a Solomon; and, instead of a clerk, you ought to be a justice of the peace at the least; and, indeed, I must say that I think you shine more in the capacity of a lecturer than in that of a soldier.” “’Tis not for a clerk of the parish to have too great a 110 EUGENE ARAM. knack at the weapons of the flesh,” said Peter, sancti moniously, and turning aside to conceal a slight confu* sion at the unlucky reminiscence of his warlike exploits; “but lauk, sir, even as to that, why, we has frightened all the robbers away. What would you have us do more ? ” “Upon my word, Peter, you say right; and now, good day. Your wife’s well, I hope? And Jacobina (is not that the cat’s name?) in high health and favor?” “Hem, hem! why, to be sure, the cat’s a good cat; but she steals Goody Truman’s cream as Goody sets for butter reg’larly every night.” “Oh ! you must cure her of that,” said Lester, smiling. “I hope that’s the worst fault.” “Why, your gardener do say,” replied Peter, reluc¬ tantly, “as how she goes arter the pheasants in Copse- hole.” “The deuce!” cried the squire: “that will never do: she must be shot, Peter, she must be shot. My phea¬ sants! my best preserves! and poor Goody Truman’s cream, too! a perfect devil! Look to it, Peter; if I hear any complaints again, Jacobina is done for.—What are you laughing at, Nell?” “Well, go thy ways Peter, for a shrewd man and a clever man; it is not every one who could so suddenly have elicited my father’s compassion for Goody Truman’s cream.” “Pooh!” said the squire: “a pheasant’s a serious thing, child; but you women don’t understand matters ” EUGENE ARAM 111 They had now crossed through the village into the fields, and were slowly sauntering by “ Hedge-row elms on hillocks green,” when, seated under a stunted pollard, they came suddenly on the ill-favored person of Dame Darkmans. She sat bent (with her elbows on her knees, and her hands sup¬ porting her chin), looking up to the clear autumnal sky; and as they approached, she did not stir, or testify by sign or glance that she even perceived them. There is a certain kind-hearted sociability of temper that you see sometimes among country gentlemen, espe¬ cially not of the highest rank, who knowing, and looked 0 up to by, every one immediately around them, acquire the habit of accosting all they meet — a habit as painful for them to break, as it was painful for poor Rousseau to be asked “how he did” by an apple-woman. And the kind old squire could not pass even Goody Darkmans (coming thus abruptly upon her) without a salutation. “All alone, dame, enjoying the fine weather? — that’s right. And how fares it with you?” The old woman turned round her dark and bleared eyes, but without moving limb or posture. “’Tis well-nigh winter now; ’tis not easy for poor folks to fare well at this time o’year. Where be we to get the firewood and the clothing, and the dry bread, carse it! and the drop o’stuff 1 that’s to keep out the cold. Ah! it’s fine for you to ask how we does, and the days shortening, and the air sharpening.” 10 * 2a 112 EUGENE ARAM. “Well, dame, shall I send to * * * * for a warm cloak for you?” said Madeline. “Ho! thankye, young lady — thankye kindly, and I’l\ wear it at your widding, for they says you be going to git married to the larned man yander. Wish ye well, ma’am; wish ye well.” And the old hag grinned as she uttered this benedic¬ tion, that sounded on her lips like the Lord’s Prayer on a witch’s; which converts the devotion to a crime, and the prayer to a curse. “Ye’re very winsome, young lady,” she continued, eye¬ ing Madeline’s tall and rounded figure from head to foot. “Yes, very; but I was as bonny as you once, and if you lives — mind that—fair and happy as you stand now, you’ll be as withered, and foul-faced, and wretched as me. Ha! ha! I loves to look on young folk, and think o’that. But mayhap ye won’t live to be old — more’s the pity! for ye might be a widow, and childless, and a lone ’oman, as I be; if you were to see sixty: an’ wouldn’t that be nice? — ha! ha! — much pleasure ye’d have in the fine weather then, and in other people’s fine speech¬ es, eh ? ” “ Come, dame,” said Lester, with a cloud on his benign brow, “this talk is ungrateful to me, and disrespectful to Miss Lester; it is not the way to-” “ Hout! ” interrupted the old woman ; “I begs pardon, sir, if I offended — I begs pardon, young lady: ’tis my way, poor old soul that I be. And you meant me kindly EUGENE ARAM. 113 and I would not be uncivil, now you are a-going to give me a bonny cloak; and what color shall it be ? ” “Why, what color would you like best, dame — red?” “Red! no! like a gypsy-quean, indeed! Besides, they all has red cloaks in the village, yander, No; a handsome dark grey, or a gay, cheersome black, an’ then I’ll dance in mourning at your wedding, young lady; and that’s what ye’ll like. But what ha’ ye done with the merry bridegroom, ma’am? Gone away, I hear. Ah, ye’ll have a happy life on it, with a gentleman like him. I never seed him laugh once. Why does not he hire me as your sarvant; would not I be a favorite, thin? I’d stand on the thrishold, and give ye good morrow every day. Oh ! it does me a deal of good to say a blessing to them as be younger and gayer than me. Madge Darkman’s blessing! Och ! what a thing to wish for ! ” “Well, good day, mother,” said Lester, moving on. “Stay a bit, stay a bit, sir; has ye any commands, miss, yander, at Master Aram’s ? His old ’oman’s a gossip of mine; we were young togither: and the lads did not know which to like the best. So we often meets and talks of the old times. I be going up there now. Och! I hope I shall be asked to the widding. And what a nice month to wid in! Novimber, Novimber, that’s the merry month for me! But ’tis cold — bitter cold too. Well, good day, good day. Ay,” continued the hag, as Lester and the sisters moved on, “ye all goes and throws niver a look behind. Ye despises the poor in your hearts. But the poor will have their day. Och! 114 EUGENE ARAM. an* I wish ye were all dead, dead, dead, an’ I dancing in rny bonny black cloak about your graves; for an’t all mine dead, cold, cold, rotting, and one kind and rich man might ha’ saved them all?” Thus mumbling, the wretched creature looked after the father and his daughters, as they wound onward, till her dim eyes caught them no longer; and then, drawing her rags round her, she rose, and struck into the oppo¬ site path that led to Aram’s house. “I hope that hag will be no constant visitor at your future residence, Madeline,” said the younger sister, “it would be like a blight on the air.” “And if we could remove her from the parish,” said Lester, “it would be a happy day for the village. Yet, strange as it may seem, so great is her power over them all, that there is never a marriage nor a christening in the village from which she is absent; they dread her spite and foul tongue enough, to make them even ask humbly for her presence.” “And the hag seems to know that her bad qualities are a good policy, and obtain more respect than amiability would do,” said Ellinor. “I think there is some design in all she utters.” 1 I don’t know how it is, but the words and sight of that woman have struck a damp into my heart,” said Madeline, musingly. “It w'ould be wonderful if they had not. child,” said Lester, soothingly; and he changed the conversation to other topics. EUGENE ARAM. 115 As, concluding their walk, they re-entered the village, they encountered that most welcome of all visitants to a country place, the postman — a tall thin pedestrian, famous for swiftness of foot, with a cheerful face, a swing¬ ing gait, and Lester’s bag slung over his shoulder. Our little party quickened their pace — one letter — for Made¬ line— Aram’s handwriting. Happy blush—bright smile 1 Ah! no meeting ever gives the delight that a letter can inspire in the short absences of a first love! “And none for me!” said Lester, in a disappointed tone, and Ellinor’s hand hung more heavily on his arm, and her step moved slower. “It is very strange in Walter; but I am really more angry than alarmed.” “Be sure,” said Ellinor, after a pause, “that it is not his fault. Something may have happened to him. Good Heavens! if he has been attacked again — those p earful highwaymen! ” “Nay,” said Lester, “the most probable supposition after all is, that he will not write until his expectations are realized or destroyed. Natural enough, too'- it I. what I should have done, if 1 had been in his place.” “Natural!” said Ellinor, who now attacked where she before defended — “Natural not to give us one line to say he is well and safe! — Natural! I could not have beer, so remiss! ” “Ay, child, you women are so fond of writing: ’tis not so with us, especially when we are moving about: — it is always — ‘Well, I must write to-morrow — well, I must write when this is settled — well, I must write when U6 EUGENE ARAM. I arrive at such a place;’ — and, meanwhile, time slips on, till perhaps we get ashamed of writing at all. I heard a great man say once, that ‘Men must have some¬ thing effeminate about them to be good correspondents; and ’faith, I think it’s true enough on the whole.” “I wonder if Madeline thinks so?” said Ellinor, envi¬ ously glancing at her sister’s absorption, as lingering a little behind, she devoured the contents of her letter. “He is coming home immediately, dear father; per¬ haps he may be here to-morrow,” cried Madeline, abrupt¬ ly; “think of that, Ellinor! Ah! and he writes in spir¬ its!”— and the poor girl clapped her hands delightedly, as the color danced joyously over her cheek and neck. “I am glad to hear it,” quoth Lester; “we shall have him at last beat even Ellinor in gaiety! ” “That may easily be,” sighed Ellinor to herself, as she glided past them into the house, and sought her own chamber. 4 EUGENE ARAM. in CHAPTER Y. - A REFLECTION NEW AND STRANGE. — THE STREETS OF LON DON.-A GREAT MAN’S LIBRARY.-A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE STUDENT AND AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER’S.-ITS RESULT. “ Here’s a statesman! ****** Rolla. Ask for thyself. Lai. What more can concern me than this ? ” The Tragedy of Rolla. It was an evening in the declining autumn of 1158; some public ceremony had occurred during the day, and the crowd which it had assembled was only now gradu¬ ally lessening, as the shadows darkened along the streets. Through this crowd, self-absorbed as usual—- with them, not one of them — Eugene Aram slowly wound his uncompanioned way. What an incalculable field of dread and sombre contemplation is opened to every man who, with his heart disengaged from himself, and his eyes accustomed to the sharp observance of his tribe, walks through the streets of a great city! What a world of dark and troubled secrets in the breast of every one who hurries by you! Goethe has said some where that each of us, the best as the worst, hides within 118 EUGENE ARAM. him something — some feeling, some remembrance that, if known, would make you hate him. No doubt the saying is exaggerated; but still, what a gloomy and pro¬ found sublimity in the idea! — what a new insight it gives into the hearts of the common herd! — with what a strange interest it may inspire us for the humblest, the tritest passenger that shoulders us in the great thorough¬ fare of life! One of the greatest pleasures in the world is to walk alone, and at night (while they are yet crowd¬ ed), through the long lamp-lit streets of this huge me¬ tropolis. There, even more than in the silence of woods and fields, seems to me the source of endless, various meditation. “ Crcscit enim cum amplitudine rerum vis ingeuii.” * There was that in Aram’s person which irresistibly commanded attention. The earnest composure of his countenance, its thoughtful paleness, the long hair falling back, the peculiar and estranged air of his whole figure, accompanied as it was by a mildness of expression, and that lofty abstraction which characterizes one who is a brooder over his own heart—a soothsayer to his own dreams; — all these arrested from time to time the second gaze of the passenger, and forced on him the impression, simple as was the dress, and unpretending as was the gait of the stranger, that in indulging that second gaze he was in all probability satisfying the curiosity which * For the power of the intellect is increased by the amplitude of the things that feed it. EUGENE ARAM. 119 makes us love to fix our regard upon any remarkable man. At length Aram turned from the more crowded streets, and in a short time paused before one of the most princely houses in London. It was surrounded by a spacious court-yard, and over the porch the arms of the owner, with the coronet and supporters, were raised in stone. “ Is Lord ***** within ?” asked Aram, of the bluff porter who appeared at the gate. “My lord is at dinner,” replied the porter, thinking the answer quite sufficient, and about to reclose the gate upon the unseasonable visitor. “I am glad to find he is at home,” rejoined Aram, gliding past the servant with an air of quiet and uncon¬ scious command, and passing the court-yard to the main building. At the door of the house, to which you ascended by a flight of stone steps, the valet of the nobleman — the only nobleman introduced in our tale, and consequently the same whom we have presented to our reader in the earlier part of this work, happened to be lounging and enjoying the smoke of the evening air. High-bred, pru¬ dent, and sagacious, Lord ***** knew w r ell how often great men, especially in public life, obtain odium for the rudeness of their domestics; and all those, especially about himself, had been consequently tutored into the habits of universal courtesy and deference, to the lowest stranger as w T ell as to the highest guest. And trifling as this may seem, it was an act of morality as well as II. —11 120 EUGENE ARAM. of prudence. Few can guess what pain may be saved to poor and proud men of merit by a similar precaution. The valet, therefore, replied to the visitor’s inquiry with great politeness; he recollected Aram’s name and repute; and as the earl, taking delight in the company of men of letters, was generally e-asy of access to all such-—the great man’s great man instantly conducted the student to the earl’s library, and informing him that his lordship had not yet left the dining-room, where he was entertaining a large party, assured him that he should be apprized of Aram’s visit the moment he did so. Lord ***** was still in office; sundry boxes were scattered on the floor; papers, that seemed countless, lay strewed over the immense library table; but here and there were books of a more seductive character than those of business, in which the mark lately set, and the pencilled note still fresh, showed the fondness with which men of cultivated minds, though engaged in official pur¬ suits, will turn in the momentary intervals of more arid and toilsome life to those lighter studies which perhaps they in reality the most enjoy. One of these books, a volume of Shaftesbury, Aram carefully took up: it opened of its own accord at that most beautiful and profound passage, which contains per¬ haps the justest sarcasm to which that ingenious and graceful reasoner has given vent: — “ The very spirit of Faction, for the greatest part, seems to be no other than the abuse or irregularity of that social love and common affection which is natural to EUGENE ARAM. 121 mankind — for the opposite of sociableness is selfishness; and of all characters, the thorough selfish one is the least forward in taking party. The men of this sort are, in this respect, true men of moderation. They are secure of their temper, possess themselves too well to be in dan¬ ger of entering warmly into any cause, or engaging deeply with any side or faction.” On the margin of the page was the following note, in the handwriting of Lord ****** — “Generosity hurries a man into party—philosophy keeps him aloof from it; the Emperor Julian says in his epistle to Themistius, ‘If you should form only three or four philosophers, you would contribute more essentially to the happiness of mankind than many kings united . 1 Yet, if all men were philosophers, I doubt whether, though more men would be virtuous, there would be so many instances of an extraordinary virtue. The violent passions produce dazzling irregularities.” The student was still engaged with this note when the earl entered the room. As the door through which he passed was behind Aram, and he trod with a soft step, he was not perceived by the scholar till he had reached him, and, looking over Aram’s shoulder, the earl said: “You will dispute the truth of my remark, will you not? Profound calm is the element in which you would place all the virtues.” “Not all , my lord,” answered Aram, as the earl now shook him by the hand, and expressed his delight at see¬ ing the student again. Though the sagacious nobleman 122 EUGENE ARAM had no sooner heard the student’s name, than, in his own neart, he was convinced that Aram had sought him for the purpose of soliciting a renewal of the offers he had formerly refused; he resolved to leave his visitor to open the subject himself, and appeared courteously to consider the visit as a matter of course, made without any other object than the renewal of the mutual pleasure of inter¬ course. “I am afrai'd, my lord,” said Aram, “that you are en¬ gaged. My visit can be paid to-morrow, if-” “ Indeed,” said the earl, interrupting him, and drawing a chair to the table, “I have no engagements which should deprive me of the pleasure of your company. A few friends have indeed dined with me, but as they are now with Lady * * * * j no t think they will greatly miss me; besides, an occasional absence is readily for¬ given in us happy men of office; — we, who have the honor of exciting the envy of all England, for being made magnificently wretched.” “I am glad you allow so much, my lord,” said Aram, smiling; “/ could not have said more. Ambition only makes a favorite to make an ingrate;—she has lavished her honors on Lord * * * * and hear how he speaks of her bounty ! ” “Nay,” said the earl, “I spoke wantonly, and stand corrected. I have no reason to complain of the course I have chosen. Ambition, like any other passion, gives us unhappy moments; but it gives us also an animated life. In its pursuit, the minor evils of the world are not EUGENE ARAM. 123* felt; little crosses, little vexations do not disturb us Like men who walk in sleep, we are absorbed in ona powerful dream, and do not even know the obstacles in our way, or the dangers that surround us: in a word, we have no private life. All that is merely domestic, the anxiety and the loss which fret other men, which blight the happiness of other men, are not felt by us: we are wholly public; — so that if we lose much comfort, we escape much care.” The earl broke off for a moment; and then turning the subject, inquired after the Lesters, and making some general and vague observations about that family, came purposely to a pause. Aram broke it: — * “My lord,” said he, with a slight, but not ungraceful, embarrassment, “I fear that, in the course of your poli¬ tical life, you must have made one observation,— that he who promises to-day, will be called on to perform to¬ morrow. No man who has anything to bestow, can ever promise with impunity. Some time since, you tendered me offers that would have dazzled more ardent natures than mine; and which I might have advanced some claim to philosophy in refusing. I do not now come to ask a renewal of those offers. Public life and the haunts of men, are as hateful as ever to my pursuits: but I come, frankly and candidly, to throw myself on that generosity, which proffered to me then so large a bounty. Certain circumstances have taken from me the small pit¬ tance which supplied my wants;—I require only the 11 * 124 EUGENE ARAM. power to pursue my quiet and obscure career of study — your lordship can afford me that power: it is not against custom for the government to grant some small annuity to men of letters—your lordship’s interest could obtain me this favor. Let me add, however, that I can offer nothing in return I Party politics — sectarian interests — are for ever dead to me: even my common studies are of small general utility to mankind. I am conscious of this — would it were otherwise I — Once I hoped it would be — but-” Aram here turned deadly pale, gasped for breath, mastered his emotion, and proceeded — “I have no great claim, then, to this bounty, beyond that which all poor cultivators of the abstruse sciences can advance. It is well for a country that those sciences should be cultivated; they are not of a nature which is ever lucrative to the possessor — not of a nature that can often be left, like lighter literature, to the fair favor of the public;—they call, perhaps, more than auy spe¬ cies of intellectual culture, for the protection of a gov¬ ernment; and though in me would be a poor selection, the principle would still be served, and the example fur¬ nish precedent for nobler instances hereafter. I have said all, my lord ! ” Nothing perhaps more affects a man of some sympa¬ thy with those who cultivate letters, than the pecuniary claims of one who can advance them with justice, and who advances them also with dignity. .If the meanest, the most pitiable, the most heart-sickening object in tha EUGENE ARAM. 125 world, is the man of letters, sunk into the habitual beggar, practising the tricks, incurring the rebuke, glorying in the shame, of the mingled mendicant and swindler:—what, on the other hand, so touches, so subdues us, as the first, and only, petition of one whose intellect dignifies our whole kind; and who prefers it with a certain haughti¬ ness in his very modesty; because, in asking a favor to himself, he may be only asking the power to enlighten the world ? “Say no more, sir,” said the earl, affected deeply, and gracefully giving way to the feeling; “the affair is set¬ tled. Consider it so. Name only the amount of the annuity you desire.” % With some hesitation Aram named a sum so moderate, so trivial, that the minister, accustomed as he was to the claims of younger sons and widowed dowagers — accus¬ tomed to the hungry cravings of petitioners without merit, who considered birth the only just title to the right of exactions from the public — was literally startled by the contrast. “More than this,” added Aram, “I do not require, and would decline to accept. We have some right to claim existence from the administrators of the common stock — none to claim affluence.” “Would to Heaven !” said the earl, smiling, “that all claimants were like you; pension-lists would not then call for indignation; and ministers would not blush to support the justice of the favors they conferred. But are you still firm in rejecting a more public career, with 126 EUGENE ARAM. / all its deserved emoluments and just honors? The offer I made you once, I renew with increased avidity now.” “ 1 Despiciam dites, ,v answered Aram, “and, thanks to you, I may add, ‘ despiciamque famiemd ”* * CHAPTER VI. THE THAMES AT NIGHT.-A THOUGHT.-THE STUDENT RESEEKS THE RUFEIAN. — A HUMAN FEELING EVEN IN THE WORST SOIL. 0 “Clem. ’Tis our last interview! Slat. Pray Heav'n it be!”— Clemanttys. On leaving Lord * * * * *’s, Aram proceeded, with a lighter and more rapid step, towards a less courtly quar¬ ter of the metropolis. He had found, on arriving in London, that in order to secure the annual sum promised to Houseman, it had been necessary to strip himself even of the small stipend he had hoped to retain. And hence his visit, arid hence his petition, to Lord *****. He now bent his way to the spot in which Houseman had appointed their meet¬ ing. To the fastidious reader these details of pecuniary matters, so trivial in themselves, may be a little weari- * “ Let me despise wealth,” and, thanks to you, I may add, “ ana let me look down on famine .” EUGENE ARAM. 127 • some, and may seem a little undignified; but we are wri¬ ting a romance of real life, and the reader must take what is homely with what may be more epic — the petti¬ ness and the wants of the daily world, with its loftier sorrows and its grander crimes. Besides, who knows how darkly just may be that moral which shows us a nature originally high, a soul once all a-thirst for truth, bowed (by what events?) to the manoeuvres and the lies of the worldly hypocrite ? The night had now closed in, and its darkness was only relieved by the wan lamps that vistaed the streets, and a few dim stars that struggled through the reeking haze that curtained the great city. Aram had now gained one of the bridges “that arch the royal Thames,’’ and, in no time dead to scenic attraction, he there paused for a moment, and looked along the dark river that rushed below. Oh, God! how many wild and stormy hearts have stilled themselves on that spot, for one dread instant of thought — of calculation — of resolve — one instant, the last of life! Look at night along the course of that stately river, how gloriously it seems to mock the pas¬ sions of them that dwell beside it. Unchanged — un¬ changing— all around it quick death, and troubled life; itself smiling up to the grey stars, and singing from its deep heart as it bounds along. Beside it is the senate, proud of its solemn triflers; and there the cloistered tomb, in which, as the loftiest honor, some handful of the fiercest of the strugglers may gain forgetfulness and a 2b 128 EUGENE ARAM. grave! There is no moral to a great city like the river that washes its walls. There was something in the view before him, that sug¬ gested reflections similar to these, to the strange and mys¬ terious breast of the lingering student. A solemn dejec¬ tion crept over him, a warning voice sounded on his ear, the fearful genius within him was aroused, and even in the moment when his triumph seemed complete and his safety secured, he felt it only as — “The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.” The mist obscured and saddened the few lights scattered on either side the water; and a deep and gloomy quiet brooded round: — “The very houses seemed asleep, And all that mighty heart was lying still.” Arousing himself from his short and sombre reverie, Aram resumed his way, and threading some of the smaller streets on the opposite side of the water, arrived at last in the street in which he was to seek Houseman. It was a narrow and dark lane, and seemed altogether of a suspicious and disreputable locality. One or two samples of the lowest description of alehouses broke the dark silence of the spot;—from them streamed the only lights which assisted the single lamp that burned at the entrance of the alley; and bursts of drunken laughter and obscene merriment broke out every now and then from these wretched theatres of Pleasure. As Aram passed one of them, a crowd of the lowest order of EUGENE ARAM. 12S ruffian and harlot issued noisily from the door, and sud¬ denly obstructed his way: through this vile press, reek¬ ing with the stamp and odor of the most repellant cha¬ racter of vice, was the lofty and cold student to force his path! The darkness, his quick step, his downcast head, favored his escape through the unhallowed throng, and he now stood opposite the door of a small and narrow house. A ponderous knocker adorned the door, which seemed of uncommon strength, being thickly studded with large nails. He knocked twice before his summons was answered, and then a voice from within cried, “Who’s there? What want you?” “I seek one called Houseman.” No answer was returned — some moments elapsed. Again the student knocked, and presently he heard the voice of Houseman himself call out— “Who’s there—Joe the Cracksman?” “Richard Houseman, it is I,” answered Aram, in a deep tone, and suppressing the natural feelings of loath¬ ing and abhorrence. Houseman uttered a quick exclamation; the door was hastily unbarred. All within was utterly dark; but Aram felt with a thrill of repugnance the gripe of his straage acquaintance on his hand. “Ha! it is you! — Come in, come in! — let me lead you. Have a care — cling to the wall — the right hand — now then — stay. So — so — (opening the door of a room, in which a single candle, well-nigh in its socket, ISO EUGENE ARAM. broke on the previous darkness); here we are! here we are! And how goes it — eh?” Houseman now bustling about, did the honors of his apartment with a sort of complacent hospitality. He drew two rough wooden chairs, that in some late merri¬ ment seemed to have been upset, and lay, cumbering the unwashed and carpetless floor, in a position exactly con¬ trary to that destined them by their maker;—he drew these chairs near a table strewed with drinking horns, half-emptied bottles, and a pack of cards. Dingy cari¬ catures of the large coarse fashion of the day, decorated the walls; and carelessly thrown on another table, lay a pair of huge horse-pistols, an immense shovel hat, a false moustache, a rouge-pot, and a riding-whip. All this the student comprehended with a rapid glance — his lip quivered for a moment — whether with shame or scorn of himself, and then throwing himself on the chair Houseman had set for him, he said — “I have come to discharge my part of our agree¬ ment.” “You are most welcome,” replied Houseman, with that tone of coarse, yet flippant jocularity, which afforded to the mien and manner of Aram a still stronger contrast than his more unrelieved brutality. “There,” said Aram, giving him a paper; “there you will perceive that the sum mentioned is secured to you, the moment you quit this country. When shall that be ? Let me entreat haste.” EUGENE ARAM. 131 “Your prayer shall be granted. Before day-break to¬ morrow, I will be on the road.” Aram’s face brightened. “There is my hand upon it,” said Houseman, earnestly. “You may now rest assured that you are free of me for life. Go home — marry — enjoy your existence, as I have done. Within four days, if the wind set fair, I am in France.” “My business is done; I will believe you,” said Aram, frankly, and rising. “You may,” answered Houseman. “Stay—I will light you to the door. Devil and death — how the d—d candle flickers 1 ” Across the gloomy passage, as the candle now flared — and now was dulled — by quick fits and starts,—• Houseman, after this brief conference, reconducted the student. And as Aram turned from the door, he flung his arms wildly aloft, and exclaimed in the voice of one, from whose heart a load is lifted,— “Now, now, for Mad¬ eline 1 I breathe freely at last 1 ” Meanwhile, Houseman turned musingly back, and re¬ gained his room, muttering — “Yes — yes — my business here is also done! Com¬ petence and safety abroad — after all, what a bugbear is this conscience! — fourteen years have rolled away — and lo ! nothing discovered ! nothing known ! And easy cir¬ cumstances— the very consequence of the deed — wait the remainder of my days: my child too — my Jane—-shall not want — shall not be a beggar nor a harlot.” II. — 12 132 EUGENE ARAM. So musing, Houseman threw himself contentedly on the chair, and the last flicker of the expiring light, as it played upward on his rugged countenance, rested on one of those self-hugging smiles, with which a sanguine man contemplates a satisfactory future. He had not been long alone before the door opened, and a woman with a light in her hand appeared. She was evidently intoxicated, and approached Houseman with a reeling and unsteady step. “How now, Bess? drunk as usual 1 Get to bed, you she-shark, go! ” “ Tush, man, tush 1 don’t talk to your betters,” said the woman, sinking into a chair; and her situation, dis¬ gusting as it was, could not conceal the striking, though somewhat coarse beauty of her face and person. Even Houseman (his heart being opened, as it were, by the cheering prospects of which his soliloquy had indulged the contemplation), was sensible of the effect of the mere physical attraction, and drawing his chair closer to her, he said in a tone less harsh than usual—- “Come, Bess, come, you must correct that d—d habit of yours; perhaps I may make a lady of you after all. What if I were to let you take a trip with me to France, old girl, eh? and let you set off that handsome face—for you are devilish handsome, and that’s the truth-of it — with some of the French gewgaws you women love? What if I were ? would you be a good girl, eh ? ” “I think I w'ould, Dick,— I think I would,” replied the woman, showing a set of teeth as white as ivory, with EUGENE ARAM. 133 pleasure partly at the flattery, partly at the proposition: “you are a good fellow, Dick, that you are.’' “ Humph 1” said Houseman, whose hard, shrewd mind was not easily cajoled; “but what’s that paper in your bosom, Bess? A love-letter, I’ll swear.” “’Tis to you then; came to you this morning, only somehow or other, I forgot to give it you till now 1 ” “ Ha 1 a letter to me! ” said Houseman, seizing the epistle in question. “Hem! the Knaresbro’ postmark—- my mother-in-law’s crabbed hand, too! What can the old crone want?” He opened the letter, and hastily scanning its contents, started up. “Mercy, mercy!” cried he, “my child is ill — dying. I may never see her again,— my only child,— the only thing that loves me,—that does not loathe me as a villain ! ” “Heyday, Dicky!” said the woman, clinging to him, “ don’t take on so ; who so fond of you as me ? — what’s a brat like that?” “Curse on you, hag!” exclaimed Houseman, dashing her to the ground with a rude brutality: “you love me! Pah! My child — my little Jane,— my pretty Jane — my merry Jane—my innocent Jane — I will seek her instantly — instantly! What’s money? what’s ease,— if—if-” And the father, wretch, ruffian as he was, stung to the core of that last redeeming feeling of his dissolute nature, struck his breast with his clenched hand and rushed from the room — from the house 134 EUGENE ARAM. CHATTER VII. MADELINE, HER HOPES. — A MILD AUTUMN CHARACTERIZED — A LANDSCAPE. — A RETURN. “ ’Tis late, and cold — stir up the fire, Sit close, and draw the table nigher; Be merry and drink wine that’s old, A hearty medicine ’gainst a cold: Welcome—welcome shall fly round!” Beaumont and Fletchek: Song in the Lover's Progress As when the great poet, “Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain’d In that obscure sojourn; while, in his flight, Through utter and through middle darkness borne, He sang of chaos, and eternal night:” — as when, revisiting the “holy light offspring of heaven first-born,” the sense of freshness and glory breaks upon him, and kindles into the solemn joyfulness of adjuring song; so rises the mind from the contemplation of the gloom and guilt of life, “the utter and the middle dark¬ ness,” to some pure and bright redemption of our nature — some creature of “the starry threshold,” “the regions mild of calm an4 serene air.” Never was a nature more beautiful and soft than that of Madeline Lester — never EUGENE ARAM. 135 a nature more inclined to live “above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, which men call earth” — to commune with its own high and chaste creations of thought—to make a world out of the emotions which this world knows not—a paradise, which sin, and suspicion, and fear, had never yet invaded — where God might recognize no evil, and angels forbode no change. Aram’s return was now daily, nay, even hourly expect¬ ed. Nothing disturbed the soft, though thoughtful sere¬ nity, with which his betrothed relied upon the future. Aram’s letters had been more deeply impressed with the evidence of love, than even his spoken vows; those let¬ ters had diffused not so much an agitated joy, as a full and mellow light of happiness over her heart. Every thing, even nature, seemed inclined to smile with appro¬ bation on her hopes. The autumn had never, in the memory of man, worn so lovely a garment: the balmy and refreshing warmth which sometimes characterizes that period of the year was not broken, as yet, by the chilling winds, or the sullen mists, which speak to us so mournfully of the change that is creeping over the beau¬ tiful world. The summer visitants among the feathered tribe yet lingered in flocks, showing no intention of de¬ parture; and their song — but above all, the song of the skylark — which, to the old English poet, was what the nightingale is to the Eastern — seemed even to grow more cheerful as the sun shortened his daily task;—the very mulberry-tree, and the rich boughs of the horse- chestnut, retained something of their verdure; and the 12 * J 36 EUGENE ARAM. thousand glories of the woodland around Grassdale were still chequered with the golden hues that herald, but beau¬ tify, decay. Still no news had been received of Walter; and this was the only source of anxiety that troubled the domestic happiness of the manor-house. But the squire continued to remember that in youth he himself had been but a negligent correspondent; and the anxiety he felt had lately assumed rather the character of anger at Walter’s forgetfulness, than of fear for his safety. There were moments when Ellinor silently mourned and pined; but she loved her sister not less even than her cousin; and in the prospect of Madeline’s happiness did not too often question the future respecting her own. One evening the sisters were sitting at their work by the window of the little parlor, and talking over various matters; of which the Great World, strange as it may seem, never made a part. They conversed in a low tone; for Lester sat by the hearth in which a wood fire had been just kindled, and appeared to have fallen into an afternoon slumber The sun was sinking to repose, and the whole landscape lay before them bathed in light, till a cloud passing over¬ head darkened the heavens just immediately above them, and one of those beautiful sun-showers, that rather characterize the spring than autumn, began to fall; the rain was rather sharp, and descended with a pleasant and refreshing noise through the boughs, all shining in the sun-light: it did not, however, last long, and presently EUGENE ARAM. 137 there sprung up the glorious rainbow, and the voices of the birds, which a minute before were mute, burst into a general chorus,—the last hymn of the declining day. The sparkling drops fell fast and gratefully from the trees, and over the whole scene there breathed an inex¬ pressible sense of gladness,— “The odor and the harmony of eve.” “How beautiful!” said Ellinor pausing from her work. “Ah, see the squirrel — is that our pet one? — he is coming close to the window, poor fellow! Stay, I will get him some bread.” “ Hush ! ” said Madeline, half rising, and turning quite pale; “do you hear a step without?” “Only the dripping of the boughs,” answered Ellinor. “Ho, no — it is he! —it is he!” cried Madeline, the blood rushing back vividly to her cheeks. “I know his * step! ” And—yes — winding round the house till he stood opposite the window, the sisters now beheld Eugene Aram: the diamond rain glittering on the locks of his long hair; his cheeks were flushed by exercise, or more probably the joy of return; a smile, in which there was no shade or sadness, played over his features, which caught also a fictitious semblance of gladness from the rays of the setting sun which fell full upon them. “My Madeline! my love! my Madeline!” broke from his lips. 138 EUGENE ARAM. ‘‘You are returned — thank God — thank God — safe — well?” “And happy!” added Aram, with a deep meaning in the tone of his voice. “ Hey-day, hey-day! ” cried the squire, starting up, “what’s this? Bless me, Eugene! — wet through, too, seemingly! Nell, run and open the door — more wood on the fire — the pheasants for supper—and stay, girl, stay — there’s the key of the cellar—the twenty-one port — you know it. Ah! ah! God willing, Eugene Aram shall not complain of his welcome back to Grass- dale ! ” i EUGENE ARAM. 139 CHAPTER VIII. AFFECTION: ITS GODLIKE NATURE. — THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN ARAM AND MADELINE. — THE FATALIST FOR¬ GETS FATE. “Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that, And manage it against despairing thoughts.” Two Gentlemen of Verona. If there be any thing thoroughly lovely in the human heart, it is affection ! All that makes hope elevated, or fear generous, belongs to the capacity of loving. For my own part, I do not wonder, in looking over the thou¬ sand creeds and sects of men, that so many religionists have traced their theology — that so many moralists have wrought their system — from love. The errors thus originated have something in them that charms us, even while we smile at the theology, or while we neglect the system. What a beautiful fabric would be human nature — what a divine guide would be human reason—if love were indeed the stratum of the one, and the inspiration of the other! We are told of a picture by a great painter of old, in which an infant is represented sucking a mo¬ ther wounded to the death, who, even in that agony 140 EUGENE ARAM. strives to prevent the child from injuring itself by im¬ bibing the blood mingled with the milk.* How many emotions, that might have made us permanently wiser and better, have we lost in losing that picture! Certainly, love assumes a more touching and earnest semblance, when we find it in some retired and sequester¬ ed hollow of the world; when it is not mixed up with the daily frivolities and petty emotions of which a life passed in cities is so necessarily composed: we cannot but believe it a deeper and a more absorbing passion; perhaps we are not always right in the belief. Had one of the order of angels to whom a knowledge of the future, or the seraphic penetration into the hid¬ den heart of man, is forbidden, stayed his wings over the lovely valley in which the main scene of our history has been cast, no spectacle might have seemed to him more appropriate to that pastoral spot, or more elevated in the character of its tenderness above the fierce and short¬ lived passions of the ordinary world, than the love that existed between Madeline and her betrothed. Their natures seemed so suited to each other! the solemn and undiurnal mood of the one was reflected back in hues so gentle, and yet so faithful, from the purer, but scarce less thoughtful character of the other 1 Their sympathies ran through the same channel, and mingled in a common fount; and whatever was dark and troubled in the breast of Aram, was now suffered not to appear. Since his * “Tntelligitur sentire mater et timere, ne & mortuo lacte san guinern lambat ” EUGENE ARAM. 141 return, his mood was brighter and more tranquil; and he seemed better fitted to appreciate and respond to the peculiar tenderness of Madeline’s affection. There are some stars which, viewed with the naked eye, seem one, but in reality are two separate orbs revolving round each other, and drinking, each from each, a separate yet united existence: — such stars seem a type of them. Had anything been wanting to complete Madeline’s happiness, the change in Aram supplied the want. The sudden starts, the abrupt changes of mood and counte¬ nance, that had formerly characterized him, were now scarcely, if ever, visible. He seemed to have resigned himself with confidence to the prospects of the future, and to have forsworn the haggard recollections of the past; he moved, and looked, and smiled like other men; he was alive to the little circumstances around him, and no longer absorbed in the contemplation of a separate and strange existence within himself. Some scattered fragments of his poetry bear the date of this time: they are cheifly addressed to Madeline; and, amidst the vows of love, a spirit, sometimes of a wild and bursting, some¬ times of a profound and collected happiness, are visible. There is great beauty in many of these fragments, and they bear a stronger evidence of heart —they breathe more of nature and truth, than the poetry that belongs of right to that time. And thus day rolled on day, till it was now the eve before their bridals Aram had deemed it prudent to tell Lester that he had sold his annuity, and that he had 142 EUGENE ARAM. applied to the earl for the pension which we have seen he had been promised. As to his supposed relation — the illness he had created he suffered now to cease; and indeed the approaching ceremony gave him a graceful excuse for turning the conversation away from any topics that did not relate to Madeline, or to that event. It was the eve before their marriage: Aram and Mad¬ eline were walking along the valley that led to the house of the former. “How fortunate it is,” said Madeline, “that our future residence will be so near my father’s. I cannot tell you with what delight he looks forward to the pleasant circle we shall make. Indeed, I think he would scarcely have consented to our wedding, if it had separated us from him.” Aram stopped, and plucked a flower. “Ah! indeed, indeed, Madeline! Yet in the course of the various changes of life, how more than probable it is that we shall be divided from him — that we shall leave this spot.” “It is possible, certainly; but not probable: is it, Eugene ? ” “Wo^ld it grieve thee, irremediably, dearest, were it so ? ” rejoined Aram, evasively. “Irremediably! What could grieve me irremediably that did not happen to you ? ” “Should, then, circumstances occur to induce us tc leave this part of the country, for one yet more remote, you could submit cheerfully to the change?” EUGENE ARAM. 143 “I should weep for my father — I should weep for Ellinor; but-” “But what?” “I should comfort myself in thinking that you would then be yet more to me than ever! ” “ Dearest! ” “But why do you speak thus; only to try me? Ah I that is needless.” “No, my Madeline ; I have no doubt of your affection. When you loved such as me, I knew at once how blind, how devoted must be that love. You were not won through the usual avenues to a woman’s heart; neither wit nor gaiety, nor youth nor beauty, did you behold in me. Whatever attracted you towards me, that which must have been sufficiently powerful to make you over¬ look these ordinary allurements, will be also sufficiently enduring to resist all ordinary changes. But listen, Mad¬ eline. Do not yet ask me wherefore; but I fear, that a certain fatality will constrain us to leave this spot very shortly after our wedding.” “How disappointed my poor father will be!” said Madeline, sighing. “Do not, on any account, mention this conversation to him, or to Ellinor: ‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof ’ ” Madeline wondered, but said no more. There was a pause for some minutes. “Do you remember,” observed Madeline,” that it was 144 EUGENE ARAM. about here we met that strange man whom you had for* merly known?” “Ha! was it? — Here, was it?” “What has become of him?” “He is abroad, I hope,” said Aram, calmly. “Yes, let me think; by this time he must be in France. Dear¬ est, let us rest here on this dry mossy bank for a little while; ” and Aram drew his arm round her waist, and, his countenance brightening as if with some thought of increasing joy, he poured out anew those protestations of love, and those anticipations of the future, which befitted the eve of a morrow so full of auspicious promise. The heaven of their fate seemed calm and glowing, and Aram did not dream that the one small cloud of fear which was set within it, and which he alone beheld afar, and unprophetic of the storm, was charged with the thunderbolt of a doom he had protracted, not escaped. EUGENE ARAM. 145 CHAPTEB IX. WALTER AND THE CORPORAL ON THE ROAD. — THE EVENING SETS IN.— THE GIPSY TENTS.-ADVENTURE WITH THE HORSEMAN. — THE CORPORAL DISCOMEITED, AND THE ARRIVAL AT KNARESBRO’. “Long had he wander’d, when from far he sees A ruddy flame that gleam’d betwixt the trees. -Sir Gawaine prays him tell Where lies the road to princely Carduel.” The Knight of the Sword. “Well, Banting, we are not far from our night’s rest¬ ing-place,” said Walter, pointing to a mile-stone on the road. “The poor beast will be glad when we gets there, your honor,” answered the corporal, wiping his brows. “Which beast, Bunting?” “ Augh !—now your honor’s severe ! I am glad to see you so merry.” Walter sighed heavily; there was no mirth at his heart at that moment. “Pray, sir,” said the corporal, after a pause, “if not too bold, has your honor heard how they be doing at Grassdale ? ” 146 EUGENE ARAM. “No, Bunting; I have not held any correspondence with my uncle since our departure. Once I wrote to him on setting off to Yorkshire, but I could give him no di¬ rection to write to me again. The fact is, that I have been so sanguine in this search, and from day to day I have been so led on in tracing a clue, which I fear is now broken, that I have constantly put off writing till I could communicate that certain intelligence which I flattered myself I should be able ere this to procure. However, if we are unsuccessful at Knaresbro’, I shall write from that place a detailed account of our proceedings.” “And I hopes you will say as how I have given your honor satisfaction.” “Depend on that.” “Thank you, sir, thank you humbly; I would not like the squire to think I’m ungrateful! — augh,— and may¬ hap I may have more cause to be grateful by and by, whenever the squire, God bless him! in consideration of your honor’s good offices, should let me have the bit cot¬ tage rent-free.” “A man of the world, Bunting ; a man of the world ! ” “Your honor’s mighty obleeging,” said the corporal, putting his hand to his hat; “I wonders,” renewed he, after a short pause, “I wonders how poor neighbor Dealtry is. He was a sufferer last year; I should like to know how Peter is getting on — ’tis a good creature.” Somewhat surprised at this sudden sympathy on the part of the corporal, for it was seldom that Bunting ex¬ pressed kindness for any one, Walter replied.— EUGENE ARAM. 141 “When I write, Bunting, I will not fail to inquire how Peter Dealtry is; — does your kind heart suggest any other message to him ? ” “Only to ask arter Jacobina, poor thing! she might get herself into trouble if little Peter fell sick and ne¬ glected her like — augh! And I hopes as how Peter airs the bit cottage now and then; but the squire, God bless him ! will see to that and the tato garden, I ’m sure.” “You may rely on that, Bunting,” said Walter, sink - ing into a reverie, from which he was shortly aroused by the corporal. “I ’spose Miss Madeline be married afore now, your honor? Well, pray Heaven she be happy with that ere larned man! ” Walter’s heart beat faster for a moment at this sudden remark, but he was pleased to find that the time when the thought of Madeline’s marriage was accompanied with painful emotion was entirely gone by; the reflection, however, induced a new train of idea, and without reply¬ ing to the corporal, he sank into a deeper meditation than before. The shrewd Bunting saw that it was not a favorable moment for renewing the conversation; he therefore suffered his horse to fall back, and taking a quid from his tobacco-box, was soon as well entertained as his master. In this manner they rode on for about a couple of ipiles, the evening growing darker as they proceeded, when a green opening in the road brought them within view of a gypsy’s encampment; the scene was so sudden and 13 * 148 EUGENE ARAM. picturesque, that it aroused the young traveller from his reverie, and as his tired horse walked slowly on, the bri¬ dle about its neck, he looked with an earnest eye on the vagrant settlement beside his path. The moon had just / risen above a dark copse in the rear, and cast a broad, deep shadow along the green, without lessening the vivid effect of the fires which glowed and sparkled in the dark¬ er recess of the waste land, as the gloomy forms of the Egyptians were seen dimly cowering round the blaze. A scene of this sort is, perhaps, one of the most striking that the green lanes of old England afford,— to me it has always an irresistible attraction, partly from its own claims, partly from those of association. When I was a mere boy, and bent on a solitary excursion over parts of England and Scotland, I saw something of that wild people,— though not perhaps so much as the ingenious George Hanger, to whose memoirs the reader may be referred for some rather amusing pages on gipsy life. As Walter was still eyeing the encampment, he in return had not escaped the glance of an old crone, who came running hastily up to him, and begged permission to tell his fortune and to have her hand crossed with silver. Yery few men under thirty ever sincerely refuse an offer of this sort. Nobody believes in these predictions, yet every one likes hearing them: and Walter, after faintly refusing the proposal twice, consented the third time: and drawing up his horse, submitted his hand to the old lady. In the meanwhile, one of the younger urchins who had accompanied her had run to the encamp- EUGENE ARAM. 149 * merits for a light, and now stood behind the old womaifs shoulder, rearing on high a pine brand, which cast over the little group a red and weird-like glow. The reader must not imagine we are now about to call his credulity in aid to eke out any interest he may feel in our story; the old crone was but a vulgar gipsy, and she predicted to Walter the same fortune she always pre¬ dicted to those who paid a shilling for the prophecy — an heiress with blue eyes — seven children — troubles about the epoch of forty-three, happily soon over — and a healthy old age, with an easy death. Though Walter was not impressed with any reverential awe for these vaticinations, he could not refrain from inquiring whether the journey on which he was a-t present bent was likely to prove successful in its object. - “’Tis an ill night,” said the old woman, lifting up her wild face and elfin locks with a mysterious air — “’Tis an ill night for them as seeks, and for them as asks— He's about-” “He — who ? ” “No matter! — you maybe successful, young sir, yet wish you had not been so. The moon thus, and the wind there — promise that you will get your desires, and find them crosses.” The corporal had listened very attentively to these predictions, and was now about to thrust forth his own hand to the soothsayer, when from a cross-road to the right came the sound of hoofs, and presently a horseman at full trot pulled up beside them. 150 EUGENE ARAM. “Hark ye, old she-devil, or you, sirs — is this the road to Knaresbro’ ? ” The gipsy drew back, and gazed on the countenance of the rider, on which the red glare of the pine-brand shone full. “ To Knaresbro’, Richard the dare-devil ? Ay, and what does the ramping bird want in the old nest? Wel¬ come back to Yorkshire, Richard, my bencove!” “Ha I ” said the rider, shading his eyes with his hand, as he returned the gaze of the gipsy—“is it you, Bess Airlie ?—your welcome is like the owl’s, and reads the wrong way. But I must not stop. This takes to Knaresbro’, then?” “Straight as a dying-man’s curse to hell,” replied the crone, in that metaphorical style in which all her tribe love to speak, and of which their proper language is in¬ deed almost wholly composed. The horseman answered not, but spurred on. “Who is that?” asked Walter, earnestly, as the old woman stretched her tawny neck after the rider. “An old friend, sir,” replied the Egyptian, dryly. “I have not seen him these fourteen years; but it is not Bess Airlie who is apt to forgit friend or foe. Well, sir, shall I tell your honor’s good luck?”—(here she turned tc the corporal, who sat erect on his saddle, with his hand on his holster,) — “the color of the lady’s hair—- and-” “Hold your tongue, you limb of Satan!” interrupted the corporal, fiercely, as if his whole tide of thought, so EUGENE ARAM. 15'i lately favorable to the soothsayer, had undergone a deadly reversion. “Please your honor, it’s getting late, we had better be jogging!’’ “You are right,” said Walter, spurring on his jaded horse; and, nodding his adieu to the gipsy, he was soon out of sight of the encampment. ‘ Sir,” said the corporal, joining his master, “that is a man as I have seed afore; I knowed his ugly face again in a crack — ’tis the man that came to Grassdale arter Mr. Aram, and we saw arterwards the night we chanced on Sir Peter Thingumybob.” “Bunting,” said Walter, in a low voice, 11 1 too have been trying to recall the face of that man, and I too am persuaded I have seen it before. A fearful suspicion, amounting almost to conviction, creeps over me, that the hour in which I last saw it was one when my life was in penl. In a word, I do believe that I beheld that face bending over me on the night when I lay under the hedge, and so nearly escaped murder! If I am right, it was, however, the mildest of the ruffians; the one who coun¬ selled his comrades against despatching me.” The corporal shuddered. “Pray, sir,’’said he, after a moment’s pause, “do see if your pistols are primed: — so — so. ’Tis not out o’na¬ ture that the man may have some ’complices hereabout, and may think to waylay us. The old gipsy, too, what a face she had! Depend on it, they are two of a trade — augh ! — bother! — whaugh ! ” And the corporal grunted his most significant grunt 152 EUGENE ARAM •‘It is not at all unlikely, Bunting; and as we are now not far from Knaresbro’, it will be prudent to ride on as fast as our horses will allow us. Keep up alongside.” “Certainly — I’ll purtect your honor,” said the cor¬ poral, getting on that side where the hedge being thin¬ nest, an ambush was less likely to be laid. “I care more for your honor’s safety than my own, or what a brute I should be — augh ! ” The master and man trotted on for some little dis¬ tance, when they perceived a dark object moving along by the grass on the side of the road. The corporal’s hair bristled — he uttered an oath, which he mistook for a prayer. Walter felt his breath grow a little thick as he watched the motions of the object so imperfectly be¬ held ; presently, however, it grew into a man on horse¬ back, trotting very slowly along the grass; and as they now neared him, they recognized the rider they had just seen, whom they might have imagined, from the pace at which he left them before, to have been considerably ahead of them. The horseman turned round as he saw them. “Pray, gentlemen,” said he, in a tone of great and evident anxiety, “how far is it to Knaresbro’?” “Don’t answer him, your honor,” whispered the cor¬ poral. “Probably,” replied Walter, unheeding this advice, “you know this road better than w r e do. It cannot, how¬ ever, be above three or four miles hence.” “Thauk you, sir,— it is long since I have been in these EUGENE ARAM. 15S parts. I used to know the country, but they have made new roads and strange enclosures, and I now scarcely recognize anything familiar. Curse on this brute ! curse on it, I say! ” repeated the horseman through his ground teeth, in a tone of angry vehemence: “I never wanted to ride so quick before, and the beast has fallen as lame as a tree. This comes of trying to go faster than other folks. — Sir, are you a father?” This abrupt question, which was uttered in a sharp, strained voice, a little startled Walter. He replied shortly in the negative, and was about to spur onward, when the horseman continued — and there was something in his voice and manner that compelled attention,— “And I am in doubt whether I have a child or not.— By G—! it is a bitter gnawing state of mind. — I may reach Knaresbro’ to find my only daughter dead, sir I — dead! ” Despite Walter’s suspicions of the speaker, he could not but feel a thrill of sympathy at the visible distress with which these words were said. “I hope not,” said he involuntarily. “Thank you, sir;” replied the horseman, trying ineffect¬ ually to spur on his steed, which almost came down at the effort to proceed. “I have ridden thirty miles across the country at full speed, for they had no post-horses at the d—d place where I hired this brute. This was the only creature I could get for love or money; and now the devil only knows how important every moment may be. While I speak, my child may breathe her last—! ” 151 EUGENE ARAM. And the man brought his clenched fist on the shoulder of his horse in mingled spite and rage “All sham, your honor,” whispered the corporal. “Sir,” said the horseman, now raising his voice, “1 need not have asked if you had been a father — if you had, you would have had compassion on me ere this,— you would have lent me your own horse.’ “The impudent rogue!” muttered the corporal. “Sir,” replied Walter, “it is not to the tale of every stranger that a man gives belief.” “Belief!—ah, well, well, ’tis no matter,” said the horseman sullenly. “ Tnere was a time, man, when I would have forced what I now solicit; but my heart’s gone. Ride on, sir — ride on,— and the curse of-” “If,” interrupted Walter, irresolutely, “if I could be* lieve your statement: — but no. Mark me, sir: I have reasons — fearful reasons, for imagining you mean this but as a snare 1 ” “Ha!” said the horseman, deliberately, “have we met before ? ” “I believe so.” “And you have had cause to complain of me?' It may be — it may be: but were the grave before me, and if ;>ne lie would smite me into it, I solemnly swear that I now utter but the naked truth.” “It would be folly to trust him, Bunting?” said Wal* ter, turning round to his attendant. “ Folly ! — sheer madness — bother 1 ” “If you are the man I take you for,” said Walter, EUGENE ARAM. 155 “you once raised your voice against the murder, tnough you assisted in the robbery, of a traveller:—that travel¬ ler was myself. I will remember the mercy — I will for¬ get the outrage; and I will not believe that'you h'ave devised this tale as a snare. Take my horse, sir; I will trust you.” Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his saddle. “I don’t ask God to bless you: a blessing in my mouth would be worse than a curse. But you will not repent this: you will not repent it!” Houseman said these few words with a palpable emo¬ tion ; and it was more striking on account of the evident coarseness and hardened brutality of his nature. In a moment more he had mounted Walter’s horse, and turn¬ ing ere he sped on, inquired at what place at Knaresbo- rough the horse should be sent. Walter directed him to the principal inn ; and Houseman, waving his hand, and striking his spurs into the animal, wearied as it was, shot out of sight in a moment. “Well, if ever I seed the like!” quoth the corporal. “Lira, lira, la, la, la! lira, lara, la, la, la!—augh! — waugh ! — bother! ” “So my good-nature does not please you, Bunting?” “Oh, sir, it does not sinnify: we shall have our throats cut — that’s all.” “What, you don’t believe the story?” “I? Bless your honor, I am no fool.” “Bunting! ” “Sir.” II. —14 ✓ 156 EUGENE ARAM. “You forget yourself.” “ A ugh ! ” “ So you don’t think I should have lent the horse ? ” “Sartainly not.” “On occasions like these, every man ought to take care of himself? Prudence before generosity?” “ Of a surtainty, sir 1 ” “Dismount, then,— I want my horse. You may shift with the lame one.” “Augh, sir,—baugh ! ” “Rascal, dismount, I sayl” said Walter angrily: for the corporal was one of those men who aim at governing their masters; and his selfishness now irritated Walter as much as h\s impertinent tone of superior wisdom. The corporal hesitated. He thought an ambuscade by the road of certain occurence; and he was weighing the danger of riding a lame horse against his master’s displeasure. Walter, perceiving he demurred, was seized with so violent a resentment, that he dashed up to the corporal, and grasping him by the collar, swung him, heavy as he was,— being wholly unprepared for such force,— to the ground. Without deigning to look at his condition, Walter mounted the sound horse, and throwing the bridle . f the lame one over a bough, left the corporal to follow at lis leisure. There is not, perhaps, a more sore state of mind than that which we experience when we have committed m act we meant to be generous, and fear to be foolish. EUGENE ARAM. 157 “ Certainly,” said Walter, soliloquising, “certainly the man is a rascal; yet he was evidently sincere in his emo¬ tion. Certainly he was one of the men who robbed me; yet, if so, he was also the one who interceded for my life. If I should now have given strength to a villain; —-if I should have assisted him to an outrage against myself? What more probable? Yet, on the other hand, if his story be true;—if his child be dying,— and if, through my means, he obtain a last interview with her! Well, well, let me hope so!” Here he was joined by the corporal, who, angry as he was, judged it prudent to smother his rage for another opportunity; arid by favoring his master with his com¬ pany, to procure himself an ally immediately at hand, should his suspicions prove true. But for once, his knowledge of the world deceived him: no sign of living creature broke the loneliness of the way. By and by the lights of the town gleamed upon them; and, on reaching the inn, Walter found his horse had been already sent there, and, covered with dust and foam, was submitting itself to the tutelary hands of the hostler. 158 EUGENE ARAM. CHAPTER X. Walter’s reflections.— mine host.—a gentle cha¬ racter AND A GREEN OLD AGE.-THE GARDEN, AND THAT WHICH IT TEACIIETH. — A DIALOGUE WHEREIN NEW HINTS TOWARDS THE WISHED-FOR DISCOVERY ARE SUG¬ GESTED.— THE CURATE.— A VISIT TO A SPOT OF DEEP INTEREST TO THE ADVENTURER. “I made a posy while the day ran by, Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band.” — George Herbert. “ . . . The time approaches, That will with due precision make us know What-” Macbeth. The next morning Walter rose early, and descending into the court-yard of the inn he there met with the landlord, who — a hoe in his hand — was just about to entei a little gate that led into the garden. He held the gate apen for Walter. “It is a fine morning, sir; would you like to look into the garden ? ” said mine host, with an inviting smile. Walter accepted the offer, and found himself in a large and well-stocked garden, laid out with much neatness and some taste: the landlord halted by a parterre which EUGENE ARAM. 159 required bis attention, and Walter walked on in solitary reflection. The morning was serene and clear, but the frost min¬ gled the freshness with an “eager and nipping air; ” and Walter unconsciously quickened his step as he paced to and fro the straight walk that bisected the garden, with his eyes on the ground, and his hat over his brows. Now then he had reached the place where the last trace of his father seemed to have vanished; in how way¬ ward and strange a manner! If no futher clue could be here discovered by the inquiry he purposed, at this spot would terminate his researches and his hopes. But the young heart of the traveller was buoyed up with expec¬ tation. Looking back to the events of the last few weeks, he thought he recognized the finger of Destiny guiding him from step to step, and now resting on the scene to which it had brought his feet. How singularly complete had been the train of circumstance, which, link¬ ing things seemingly most trifling, most dissimilar, had lengthened into one continuous chain of evidence! the trivial incident that led him to the saddler’s shop; the accident that brought the whip that had been his father’s, to his eye; the account from Courtland, which had con¬ ducted him to this remote part of the country; and now the narrative of Elmore leading him to the spot, at which all inquiry seemed as yet to pause! Had he been led hither only to hear repeated that strange tale of sud¬ den and wanton disappearance — to find an abrupt wall, a blank and impenetrable barrier to a course hitherto so 160 EUGENE ARAM. continuously guided on ? Had be been the sport of Tate, and not its instrument? No; he was filled with a serious and profound conviction, that the discovery which he of all men was best entitled by the unalienable claims of blood and birth to achieve was reserved for him, and that this grand dream of childhood was now about to be embodied and attained. He could not but be sensible, too, that as he proceeded on his high enterprise, his character had acquired a weight and a thoughtful serious¬ ness, which was more fitted to the nature of that enter¬ prise than akin to his earlier temper. This consciousness swelled his bosom with a profound and steady hope. When Fate selects her human agents, her dark and mys¬ terious spirit is at work within them; she moulds their hearts, she exalts their energies, she shapes them to the part She has allotted them, and renders the mortal instru¬ ment worthy of the solemn end. Thus chewing the cud of his involved and deep reflec¬ tions, the young adventurer paused at last opposite his host, who was still bending over his pleasant task, and every now and then, excited by the exercise and the fresh morning air, breaking into snatches of some old rustic song. The contrast in mood between himself and this “ Unvex’d loiterer by the' world’s green ways,” struck forcibly upon him. Mine host, too, was one whose * appearance was better suited to his occupation than his profession. He might have told some three-and-sixtj EUGENE ARAM. 161 years, but it was a comely and green old age; his cheek was firm and ruddy, not with nightly cups, but the fresh witness of the morning breezes it was wont to court; his frame was robust, not corpulent; and his long grey hair, which fell almost to his shoulders, his clear blue eyes, and a pleasant curve in a mouth characterized by habit¬ ual good-humor, completed a portrait that even many a dull observer would have paused to gaze upon. And, indeed, the good man enjoyed a certain kind of reputa¬ tion for his comely looks and cheerful manner. His pic¬ ture had even been taken by a young artist in the neigh¬ borhood; nay, the likeness had been multiplied into engravings, somewhat rude and somewhat unfaithful, which might be seen occupying no unconspicuous nor dusty corner in the principal print-shop of the town : nor was mine host’s character a contradiction to his looks. He had seen enough of life to be intelligent, and had judged it rightly enough to be kind. He had passed that line so nicely given to man’s codes in those admira¬ ble pages which first added delicacy of tact to the strong sense of English composition. “We have just religion enough,” it is said somewhere in The Spectator , “to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” Our good landlord, peace be with his ashes! had never halted at this limit. The country innkeeper might have furnished Goldsmith with a counterpart to his country curate; his house was equally hospitable to the poor — his. heart equally tender, in a nature wiser than experience, to error, and equally open, in its warm 162 EUGENE ARAM. simplicity, to distress. Peace be with thee *****! Our grandsire was thy patron — yet a patron thou didst not want. Merit in thy capacity is seldom bare of reward The public want no indicators to a house like thine. And who requires a third person to tell him how to ap¬ preciate the value of good-nature and good-cheer? As Walter stood and contemplated the old man bend' ing over the sweet fresh earth (and then, glancing round, saw the quiet garden stretching away on either side with its boundaries lost among the thick evergreen), something of that grateful and moralizing stillness with which some country scene generally inspires us, when we awake to its consciousness from the troubled dream of dark and unquiet thought, stole over his mind; and certain old lines which his uncle, who loved the soft and rustic mo¬ rality that pervades the ancient race of English minstrels, had taught him, when a boy, came pleasantly into his recollection: — With all, as in some rare limned book, we see Here painted lectures of God’s sacred will. The daisy teacheth lowliness of mind; The camomile, we should be patient still; The rue, our hate of vice’s poison ill; The woodbine, that we should our friendship hold; Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold.”* The old man stopped from his work, as the musing figure of his guest darkened the prospect before him, and said,— * Henrv P^a-cbam. v EUGENE ARAM. 163 “A pleasant time, sir, for the gardener!” “Ay, is it so? You must miss the fruits and flowers of summer.” “Well, sir,— but we are now paying back the garden for the good things it has given us. It is like taking care of a friend in old age, who has been kind to us when he was young.” Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea. “’Tis a winning thing, sir, a garden! It brings tis an 0 object every day; and that’s what I think a man ought to have if he wishes to lead a happy life.” “It is true,” said Walter; and mine host was encour¬ aged to continue by the attention and affable countenance of the stranger, for he was a physiognomist in his way. “And then, sir, we have no disappointment in these objects;—the soil is not ungrateful, as they say men ,are — though I have not often found them so, by the by. What we sow we reap. I have an old book, sir, lying in my little parlor, all about fishing, and full of so many pretty sayings about a country life, and meditation, and so forth, that it does one as much good as a sermon to look into it. But to my mind, all those sayings are more applica¬ ble to a gardener’s life than a fisherman’s.” “It is a less cruel life, certainly,” said Walter. “Yes, sir; and then the scenes one makes one’s self, the flowers one plants with one’s own hand, one enjoys more than all the beauties which don’t owe us anything: at least so it seems to me. I have always been thankful to the accident that made me take to gardening.” 164 EUGENE ARAM. “And what was that?” “Why, sir, you must know there was a great scholar, though he was but a youth then, living in this town some years ago, and he was very curious in plants, and flowers, and such like. I have heard the parson say, he knew more of those innocent matters than any man in this county. At that time I was not in so flourishing a way of business as I am at present. I kept a little inn in the outskirts of the town; and having formerly been a game- keeper of my Lord-’s, I was in the habit of eking out my little profits by accompanying gentlemen in fish¬ ing or snipe-shooting. So one day, sir, I went out fish¬ ing with a strange gentleman from London, and, in a very quiet retired spot some miles off, he stopped and plucked some herbs that seemed to me common enough, but which he declared were most curious and rare things, and he carried them carefully away. I heard afterwards he was a great herbalist, I think they call it, but he was a very poor fisher. Well, sir, I thought the next morn¬ ing of Mr. Aram, our great scholar and botanist, and fancied it would please him to know of these bits of gras§: so I went and called upon him, and begged leave tc go and show the spot to him. So we walked there; and certainly, sir, of all the men that ever I saw, I never met one that wound round your heart like this same Eugene Aram. He was then exceedingly poor, but he never complained; and was much too proud for any one to dare to offer him relief. He lived quite alone, and usually avoided everv one in his walks; but, sir. there EUGENE ARAM. 165 was something so engaging and patient in his manner and his voice, and his pale, mild countenance, which, young as he was then, for he was but a year or two over twenty, was marked with sadness and melancholy, that it quite went to your heart when you met him or spoke to him.—Well, sir, we walked to the place, and very much delighted he seemed with the green things I showed him; and as I was always of a communicative temper — rather a gossip, sir, my neighbors say — I made him smile now and then by my remarks. He seemed pleased with me, and talked to me going home about flowers, and garden¬ ing, and such like; and sure it was better than a book to hear him. And after that, when we came across one another, he would not shun me as he did others, but let me stop and talk to him; and then I asked his advice about a wee farm I thought of taking, and he told me many curious things which, sure enough, I found quite true, and brought me in afterwards a deal of money. But we talked much about gardening, for I loved to hear him talk on those matters; and so, sir, I was struck by all he said, and could not rest till I took to gardening myself, and ever since I have gone on, more pleased with it every day of my life. Indeed, sir, I think these harmless pursuits make a man’s heart better and kinder to his fellow-creatures; and I always take more pleasure in reading the Bible, specially the New Testament, after having spent the day in the garden. Ah, well, I should like to know what has become of that poor gentleman.” "I can relieve your honest heart about him. Mr. 166 EUGENE ARAM. Aram is living in * * * *, well off in the world, and uni versally liked; though he still keeps to his old habits ol reserve.” “Ay, indeed, sir! I have not heard any thing that pleased me more this many a day.” “Pray,” said Walter, after a moment’s pause; “do you remember the circumstance of a Mr. Clarke appearing in this town, and leaving it in a very abrupt and mysteri¬ ous manner ? ” “Do I mind it, sir? Yes, indeed. It made a great noise in Knaresbro’—there were many suspicious of foul play about it. For my part, I too had my thoughts, but that’s neither here nor there; ” and the old man re-commenced weeding with great diligence. “My friend,” said Walter, mastering his emotion, “you would serve me more deeply than I can express, if you would give me any information, any conjecture respect¬ ing this — this Mr. Clarke. I have come hither, solely to make inquiry after his fate: in a word, he is — or was — a near relative of mine!” The old man looked wistfully in Walter’s face. “In¬ deed,” said he, slowly, “you are welcome, sir, to all I know; but that is very little, or nothing rather. But will you turn up this walk, sir ? it’s more retired. Did you ever hear of one Richard Houseman?” “Houseman! yes. He knew my poor-, I mean he knew Clarke: he said Clarke was in his debt when he left the town so suddenly.” The old man shook his head mysteriously, and looked EUGENE ARAM. 167 round. “I will tell you,” said he, laying his hand or. Walter’s arm, and speaking in his ear; “I would not accuse any one wrongfully, but I have my doubts that Houseman murdered him.” “Great God 1 ” murmured Walter, clingiug to a post for support. “Go on — heed me not—heed me not—■ for mercy’s sake go on.” “Nay, I know nothing certain — nothing certain, be¬ lieve me,” said the old man, shocked at the effect his words had produced : “it may be better than I think for, and my reasons are not very strong, but you shall hear them. Mr. Clarke, you know, came to this town to re¬ ceive a legacy— you know the particulars?” Walter impatiently nodded assent. “Well, though he seemed in poor health, he was a lively careless man, who liked any company who would sit and tell stories, and drink o’ nights not a silly man exactly, but a weak one. Now of all the idle persons of this town, Richard Houseman was the most inclined to this way of life. He had been a soldier — had wandered a good deal about the world — was a bold, talking, reck¬ less fellow — of a character thoroughly profligate; and there were many stories afloat about him, though none were clearly made out. In short, he was suspected of having occasionally taken to the high-road; and a stran ger, who stopped once at my little inn, assured me pri¬ vately, that though he could not positively swear to his person, he felt convinced that he had been stopped a year before on the London-road by Houseman. Notwith- IJ. —15 168 EUGENE ARAM. standing all this, as Houseman had some respectable con¬ nections in the town — among his relations, by the by, was Mr. Aram — as he was a thoroughly boon companion — a good shot—a bold rider — excellent at a song, and very cheerful and merry, he was not without as much company as he pleased; and the first night he and Mr. Clarke came together, they grew mighty intimate; in¬ deed it seemed as if they had met before. On the night Mr. Clarke disappeared, I had been on an excursion with some gentlemen; and in consequence of the snow which had been heavy during the latter part of the day, I did not return to Knaresbro’ till past midnight. In walking through the town, I perceived two men engaged in earn¬ est conversation: one of them, I am sure, was Clarke; the other was wrapped up in a great-coat, with the cape over his face; but the watchman had met the same man alone at an earlier hour, and, putting aside the cape, per¬ ceived that it was Houseman. No one else was seen with Clarke after that hour.” “But was not Houseman examined?” “Slightly; and deposed that he had been spending the night with Eugene Aram; that on leaving Aram’s house, he met Clarke, and wondering that he, the latter, an invalid, should be out at so late an hour, he walked some way with him, in order to learn the cause; but that Clarke seemed confused, and was reserved, and on his guard, and at last wished him good-by abruptly, and turned away. That he, Houseman, had no doubt he left the town that night, with the intention of defrauding his EUGENE ARAM. i 69 creditors, and making off with some jewels lie had bor rowed from Mr. Elmore.” “But, Aram — was this suspicious, nay, abandoned character — this Houseman—intimate with Aram?” “Not at all; but being distantly related, and House man being a familiar, pushing sort of a fellow, Aram could not, perhaps, always shake him off; and Aram allowed that Houseman had spent the evening with him.” “And no suspicion rested on Aram?” The host turned round in amazement.—“Heavens above, no ! One might as well suspect the lamb of eat¬ ing the wolf!” But not thus thought Walter Lester; the wild words occasionally uttered by the student — his lone habits — his frequent starts and colloquy with self, all of which had, even from the first, it has been seen, excited Wal¬ ter’s suspicion of former gi ilt, that had murdered the mind’s wholesome sleep, now rushed with tenfold force upon his memory. “But no other circumstance transpired? Is this your whole ground for suspicion; the mere circumstance of Houseman’s being last seen with Clarke?” “Consider also the dissolute and bold character of Houseman. Clarke evidently had his jewels and money with him — thev were not left in the house. What a •* temptation to one who was more than suspected of hav¬ ing in the course of his life taken to plunder! House¬ man shortly afterwards left the country. He has never returned to the town since, though his daughter lives 170 EUGENE ARAM. here with his wife’s mother, and has occasionally gone up to town to see him.” “And Aram — he also left Knaresbro’soon after this mysterious event?” “Yes! an old aunt at York, who had never assisted him during her life, died and bequeathed him a legacy, about a month afterwards. On receiving it, he naturally went to London — the best place for such clever scholars.” “Ha! But are you sure that the aunt died? that the legacy was left ? Might this be no tale to give an ex¬ cuse to the spending of money otherwise acquired ? ” Mine host looked almost with anger on Walter. “It is clear,” said he, “you know nothing of Eugene Aram, or you would not speak thus. But I can satisfy your doubts on this head. I knew the old lady well, and iny wife was at York when she died. Besides, every one here knows something o'f the will, for it was rather an eccentric one.” Walter paused irresolutely. “Will you accompany me,” he asked, “to the house in which Mr. Clarke lodged,— and, indeed, to any other place where it may be prudent to institute inquiry?” “Certainly, sir, with the biggest pleasure,” said mine host; “but you must first try my dame’s butter and eggs. It is time to breakfast.” We may suppose that Walter’s simple meal was soon over; and growing impatient and restless to commence his inquiries, he descended from his solitary apartment to the little back room behind the bar, in which he had, on EUGENE ARAM. IT 1 th*?. .light before, seen mine host and his better-half at sup) er. It was a snug, small, wainscoted-room ; fishing- rods were neatly arranged against the wall, which was also decorated by a portrait of the landlord himself, two old Dutch pictures of fruit and game, a long, quaint- fashit ned fov,ding-piece, and, opposite the fire-place, a noble stag’s head and antlers. On the window-seat lay the Buac Walton to which the old man had referred; the Family Bible, with its green baize cover, and the frequent marks peeping out from its venerable pages; and, close nestling to it, recalling that beautiful sentence, “Suffer the littlj children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” several of those little volumes with gay bindings, and marvelh us contents of fay and giant, which delight the heart-spelled urchin, and which were “the source of gold¬ en hours” to the old man’s grandchildren, in their respite from “learning’s little tenements,”—• “ Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.” * Mine host was still employed by a huge brown loaf and some baked pike; and mine hostess, a quiet and serene old lady, was alternately regaling herself and a large brindled cat from a plate of “toasten cheer.” While the old man was hastily concluding his repast, a little knock at the door was heard, and presently an elderly gentleman in black put his head into the room, and, perceiving the stranger, would have drawn back ; 15* * Shenstone’s Schoolmistress. 172 EUGENE ARAM. but botV landlady and landlord, bustling up, entreated him to enter by the appellation of Mr. Summers. And then, as the gentleman smilingly yielded to the invita¬ tion, the landlady, turning to Walter, said,—“Our cler¬ gyman, sir: and though I say it afore his face, there is not a man who, if Christian vartues were considered, ought so soon to be a bishop.” “Hush! my good lady,” said Mr. Summers, laughing as he bowed to Walter. “You see, sir, that it is no trifling advantage to a Knaresbro’reputation to have our hostess’s good word. But, indeed,” turning to the land¬ lady, and assuming a grave and impressive air* “I have little mind for jesting now. You knew poor Jane House¬ man,— a mild, quiet, blue-eyed creature,— she died at daybreak this morning! Her father had come from Lon¬ don expressly to see her: she died in his arms, and, I hear, he is almost in a state of frenzy.” The host and hostess signified their commiseration. “Poor little girl!” said the latter, wiping her eyes; “tier’s was a hard fate, and she felt it, child as she was. Without the care of a mother — and such a father! Yet he was fond of her.” * “My reason for calling on you was this,” renewed the clergyman, addressing the host: “you knew Houseman formerly; me he always shunned, and, I fancied ridiculed. He is in distress now, and all that is forgotten. Will you seek him, and inquire if any thing in my power can afford him consolation? He may be poor: I can pay fo s> the EUGENE ARAM. m poor child’s burial. I loved her; she was the best girl at Mrs. Summers’ school.” “Certainly, sir, I will seek him,” said the landlord, hesitating; and then, drawing the clergyman aside, he informed him in a whisper of his engagement with Wal¬ ter, and with the present pursuit and meditated inquiry of his guest; not forgetting to insinuate his suspicion of the guilt of the man whom he was now called upon to compassionate. The clergyman mused a little; and then, approaching Walter, offered his services in the stead of the publican in so frank and cordial a manner, that Walter at once accepted them. “Let us come now, then,” said the good curate—for he was but the curate — seeing Walter’s impatience; “and first we will go to the house in which Clarke lodged: I know it well.” The two gentlemen now commenced their expedition. Summers was no contemptible antiquary; and besought to beguile the nervous impatience of his companion by dilating on the attractions of the ancient and memorable town to which his purpose had brought him. “Remarkable,” said the curate, “alike in history and tradition: look yonder” (pointing above, as an opening in the road gave to view the frowning and beetled ruins of the shattered castle) ; “you would be at some loss to recognize now the truth of old Leland’s description of that once stout and gallant bulwark of the North, when he ‘numbrid 11 or 12 towres in the walles of the castel. 174 ETJGENE ARAM. and one very fayre beside in the second area.’ In that castle, the four knightly murderers of the haughty Becket (the Wolsey of his age) remained for a whole year defy¬ ing the weak justice of the times. There, too, the un¬ fortunate Richard the Second — the Stuart of the Plan- tagenets — passed some portion of his bitter imprison¬ ment. And there, after the battle of Marston Moor, waved the banners of the loyalists against the soldiers of Lilburne. It was made yet more touchingly memo¬ rable at that time, as you may have heard, by an instance of filial piety. The town was grievously straitened for want of provisions; a youth, whose father was in the garrison, was accustomed nightly to get into the deep dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put provisions through a hole, where the father stood ready to receive them. He was perceived at length; the soldiers fired on him. He was taken prisoner and sentenced to be hanged in sight of the besieged, in order to strike terror into those who might be similarly disposed to render assistance to the garrison. Fortunately, however, this disgrace was spared the memory of Lilburne and the republican arms. With great difficulty, a certain lady obtained his respite; and after the conquest of the place, and the de¬ parture of the troops, the adventurous son was released.” “A fit subject for your local poets,” said Walter, whom stories of this sort, from the nature of his own enterprise, especially affected. “Yes; but we boast but few minstrels since the young Aram left us. The castle then, once the residence of EUGENE ARAM. 17«. John of Gaunt, was dismantled and destroyed. Many of the houses we shall pass have been built from its mas¬ sive ruins. It is singular, by the way, that it was twice captured by men of the name of Lilburne, or Lillburne; once in the reign of Edward II., once as I have related. On looking over historical records, we are surprised to find how often certain names have been fatal to certain spots; and this reminds me, by the way, that we boast the origin of the English sibyl, the venerable Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at whose foot she is said to have been born, is worthy of the tradition.” “You spoke just now,” said Walter, who had not very patiently suffered the curate thus to ride his hobby, “of Eugene Aram; you knew him well?” “Nay: he suffered not any to do that! He was a remarkable youth. I have noted him from his child¬ hood upward, long before he came to Knaresbro’, till on leaving this place, fourteen years back, I lost sight of him.— Strange, musing, solitary from a boy: but what accomplishment of learning he had reached! Never did I see one whom Nature so emphatically marked to be great! I often wonder that his name has not long ere this been more universally noised abroad, whatever he attempted was stamped with such signal success. I have by me some scattered pieces of his poetry when a boy: they were given me by his poor father, long since dead; and are full of a dim, shadowy anticipation of future fame. Perhaps, yet, before he dies,— he is still young, 2l5 EUGENE ARAM lift •—the presentiment will be realized. You, too, know him, then ? ” •‘Yes! I have known him. Stay — dare I ask you 8 question, a fearful question? Did suspicion ever, in your mind, in the mind of any one, rest on Aram, as concern¬ ed in the mysterious disappearance of my—of Clarke? His acquaintance with Houseman who was suspected; Houseman’s visit to Aram that night; his previous pov¬ erty— so extreme, if I hear rightly; his after riches — though they perhaps may be satisfactorily accounted for; his leaving this town so shortly after the disappearance I refer to;—these alone might not create suspicion in me, but I have seen the man in moments of reverie and abstraction, I have listened to strange and broken words, I have noted a sudden, keen, and angry susceptibility to any unmeant appeal to a less peaceful or less innocent remembrance. And there seems to me inexplicably to hang over his heart some gloomy recollection, which I cannot divest myself from imagining to be that of guilt.” Walter spoke quickly, and in great though half-sup¬ pressed excitement; the more kindled from observing that as he spoke, Summers changed countenance, and listened as with painful and uneasy attention. “ I wall tell you,” said the curate, after a short pause (lowering his voice)—“I will tell you : Aram did under¬ go examination — I was present at it: but from his char¬ acter, and the respect universally felt for him, the exami¬ nation was close and secret. He was not, mark me, suspected of the murder of the unfortunate Clarke, nor EUGENE ARAM. 177 was any suspicion of murder generally entertained until all means of discovering Clarke were found wnolly un¬ availing; but of sharing with Houseman some part of the jewels with which Clarke was known to have left the town. This suspicic n of robbery could not, however, be brought home even to Houseman, and Aram was satis¬ factorily acquitted from the imputation. But in the minds of some present at that examination, a doubt lingered, and this doubt certainly deeply wounded a man so proud and susceptible. This, I believe, was the real reason of his quitting Knaresbro’ almost immediately after that examination. And some of us, who felt for him, and were convinced of his innocence, persuaded the others to hush up the circumstance of his examination, nor has it generally transpired, even to this day, when the whole business is well-nigh forgot. But as to his subsequent improvement in circumstances, there is no doubt of his aunt’s having left him a legacy sufficient tc account for it.” Walter bowed his head and felt his suspicions waver, when the curate renewed: — ‘‘Yet it is but fair to tell you, who seem so deeply interested in the fate of Clarke, that since that period rumors have reached my ear that the woman at whose house Aram lodged, has from time to time dropped words that require explanation — hints that she could tell a tale — that she knows more than men will readily be¬ lieve— nay, once she is even reported to have said that the life of Eugene Aram was in her power.” 178 EUGENE ARAM. Father of mercy! and did Inquiry sleep on words so calling for its liveliest examination ? ” “Not wholly. When the words were reported to me, I went to the house, but found the woman, whose habits and character are low and worthless, was abrupt and in¬ solent in her manner; and after in vain endeavoring to call forth some explanation of the words she was said to have uttered, I left the house fully persuaded that she had only given vent to a meaningless boast, and that the idle words of a disorderly gossip could not be taken as evidence against a man of the blameless character and austere habits of Aram. Since, however, you have now reawakened investigation, we will visit her before you leave the town; and it may be as well, too, that House¬ man should undergo a further investigation before we suf¬ fer him to depart.” “I thank you! I thank you! — I will not let slip one thread of this dark clue! ” “And now,” said the curate, pointing to a decent house, “we have reached the lodging Clarke occupied iu the town ! ” An old man of respectable appearance opened the door, and welcomed the curate and his companion with an air of cordial respect, which attested the well-deserved popularity of the former. “We have come,” said the curate, “to ask some ques¬ tions respecting Daniel Clarke, whom you remember as your lodger. This gentleman is a relation of his, ana interested deeply in his fate l ” EUGENE ARAM. 179 “What, sir!” quoth the old man; “and have yvu, his relation, never heard of Mr. Clarke since he left the town? Strange!—this room, this very room, was the one Mr. Clarke occupied, and next to this,— here — (opening a door) was his bed-chamber!” It was not without powerful emotion that Walter found himself thus within the apartment of his lost father. What a painful, what a gloomy, yet sacred interest, every thing around instantly assumed ! The old-fashioned and heavy chairs — the brown wainscot walls — the little cup¬ board recessed as it were to the right of the fire-place, and piled with morsels of Indian china and long taper wine-glasses — the small window-panes set deep in the wall, giving a dim view of a bleak and melancholy-look¬ ing garden in the rear — yea, the very floor he trod — the very table on which he leaned — the very hearth, dull and fireless as it was, opposite his gaze — all took a familiar meaning in his eye, and breathed a household voice into his ear. And when he entered the inner room, how, even to suffocation, were those strange, half-sad, yet not all bitter emotions increased! There was the bed on which his father had rested on the night before-what? per¬ haps his murder! The bed, probably a relic from the castle, when its antique furniture was set up for public sale, was hung with faded tapestry, and above its dark and polished summit were hearse-like and heavy trap¬ pings. Old commodes of rudely carved oak, a discolored glass in a japan frame, a ponderous arm-chair of Eliza¬ bethan fashion, and covered with the same tapestry as the II —16 180 EUGENE ARAM. # bed, altogether gave that uneasy and sepulchral impres¬ sion to the mind so commonly produced by the relics of a mouldering and forgotten antiquity. “It looks cheerless, sir,” said the owner: “but then we have not had any regular lodger for years; it is just the same as when Mr. Clarke lived here. But bless you, sir, he made the dull rooms look gay enough. He was a blithesome gentleman. He and his friends, Mr. House¬ man especially, used to make the walls ring again when they were over their cups 1 ” “It might have been better for Mr. Clarke,” said the curate, “had he chosen his comrades with more discre¬ tion. Houseman was not a creditable, perhaps not a safe , companion.” “That was no business of mine then,” quoth the lodg¬ ing-letter; “but it might be now, since I have been a married man! ” The curate smiled. — “Perhaps you, Mr. Moor, bore a part in those revels ? ” “Why, indeed, Mr. Clarke would occasionally make me take a glass or so, sir.” “And you must then have heard the conversations that took place between Houseman and him ? Did Mr. Clarke, ever, in those conversations, intimate an inten¬ tion of leaving the town soon ? And where, if so, did he talk of going?” “Oh! first to London. I have often heard him talk of going to London, and then taking a trip to see some relations of his in a distant part of the country. I re* EUGENE ARAM. 181 memoer his caressing a little boy of my brother’s: you know Jack, sir, not a little boy now, almost as tall as this gentleman. Ah,” said he with a sort of sigh, “ah! I have a boy at home about this age,— when shall I see him again?” “When indeed!” thought Walter, turning away his face at this anecdote, to him so naturally affecting. “And the night that Clarke left you, were you aware of his absence ? ” “No! he went to his room at his usual hour, which was late, and the next morning I found his bed had not been slept in, and that he was gone — gone with all his jewels, money, and valuables; heavy luggage he had none. He was a cunning gentleman; he never loved paying a bill. He was greatly in debt in different parts of the town, though he had not been here long. He ordered every thing and paid for nothing.” Walter groaned. It was his father’s character exactly; partly it might be from dishonest principles superadded to the earlier feelings of his nature; but partly also from that temperament, at once careless and procrastinating, which, more often than vice, loses men the advantage of reputation. “Then in your own mind, and from your knowledge of him,” renewed the curate, “you would suppose that Clarke’s disappearance was intentional; that, though nothing has since been heard of him, none of the blacker rumors afloat were well founded?” “T confess, sir, begging this gentleman’s pardon, who 182 EUGENE ARAM. yon say is a relation, I confess I see no reason to think others ise.” “Was Mr. Aram, Eugene Aram, ever a guest of Clarke’s? Did you ever see them together?” “Never at this house. I fancy Houseman once pre¬ sented Mr. Aram to Clarke; and that they may have met and conversed some two or three times — not more, I believe; they were scarcely congenial spirits, sir.” Walter, having now recovered his self-possession, en¬ tered into the conversation; and endeavored by as minute an examination as his ingenuity could suggest, to obtain some additional light upon the mysterious subject so deeply at his heart; Nothing, however, of any effectual import was obtained from the good man of the house. He had evidently persuaded himself that Clarke’s disap¬ pearance was easily accounted for, and would scarcely lend attention to any other suggestion than that of Clarke’s dishonesty. Nor did his recollection of tlis meetings between Houseman and Clarke furnish him with any thing worthy of narration. With a spirit somewhat damped and disappointed, Walter, accompanied by the curate, recommenced his expedition. EUGENE ARAM. 183 CHAPTER XI. % flUIEF IN A RUFFIAN. — THE CHAMBER OF EARLY DEATH.—• A HOMELY YET MOMENTOUS CONFESSION.-THE EARTH’S SECRETS. — THE CAVERN.— THE ACCUSATION. “All is not well, * I doubt some foul play. ***** Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.” Hamlet. As they passed through the street, they perceived three or four persons standing round the open door of a house of ordinary description, the windows of which were partially closed “It is the house,” said the curate, “in which House¬ man’s daughter died — poor — poor child! Yet why mourn for the young ? Better that the light cloud should fade away into heaven with the morning breath, than travel through the weary day to gather in darkness and end in storm.” “Ah, sir!” said an old man, leaning on his stick, and lifting his hat in obeisance to the curate, “the father is within, and takes on bitterly. He drives them all away 16 * 184 EUGENE ARAM. from the room, and sits moaning by the bedside, as if he was a-going out of his mind. Won’t your reverence go in to him a bit?” The curate looked at Walter inquiringly. “ Perhaps,” said the latter “you had better go in: I will wait with¬ out.” While the curate hesitated, they heard a voice in the passage, and presently Houseman was seen at the far end, driving some women before him with violent gesticu¬ lations. “I tell you, ye hell-hags 1” shrieked his harsh and now straining voice, “that ye suffered her to die. Why did ye not send to London for physicians? Am I not rich enough to buy my child’s life at any price? By the liv¬ ing-! I would have turned your very bodies into gold to have saved her. But she’s dead! and I-out of my sight — out of my way!” And with his hands clenched, his brows knit, and his head uncovered, House¬ man sallied forth from the door, and Walter recognized the traveller of the preceding night. He stopped ab¬ ruptly as he saw the little knot without, and scowled round at each of them with a malignant and ferocious aspect. “Very well — it’s very well, neighbors!” said he at length with a fierce laugh: “this is kind! You have come to welcome Richard Houseman home, have ye? — Good, good! Not to gloat at his distress? — Lord! no. Ye have no idle curiosity — no prying, searching, gossiping devil within ye, that makes ye love to flock, and gape, and chatter, when poor men suffer I EUGENE ARAM. 185 this is all pure compassion: and Houseman, the good, gentle, peaceful, honest Houseman, you feel for him —I know you do! Hark ye: begone — away — march — tramp — or-Ha, ha! there they go — there they go! ” laughing wildly again as the frightened neighbors shrank from the spot, leaving only Walter and the clergy¬ man with the childless man. “Be comforted, Houseman!” said Summers, sooth¬ ingly: “it is a dreadful affliction that you have sustained. I knew your daughter well: you may have heard her speak of me. Let us in, and try what heavenly comfort there is in prayer.” “Prayer! pooh! I am Hichard Houseman!” “Lives there one man for whom prayer is unavailing?” “Out, canter, out! My pretty Jane ! — and she laid her head on my bosom,— and looked up in my face,— and so — died!” “Come,” said the curate, placing his hand on House¬ man’s arm, “come.” Before he could proceed, Houseman, who was mutter¬ ing to himself, shook him off roughly, and hurried away up the street; but after he had gone a few paces, he turned back, and, approaching the curate, said, in a more collected tone,— “I pray you, sir, since you are a clergy¬ man (I recollect your face, and I recollect Jane said you had oeen good to her) — I pray you go, and say a few words over her: but stay — don’t bring in my name — you understand. I don’t wish God to recollect that there lives such a man as he who now addresses you. Halloo I i86 EUGENE ARAM. (shouting* to the women), my hat, and stick too. Fal lal la! fal la! — why should these things make us play the madman ? It is a fine day, sir: we shall have a late win¬ ter. Curse the b-! how long she is. Yet the hat was left below. But when adeath is in the house, sir, it throws things into confusion : don’t you find it so ? ” Here, one of the women, pale, trembling, and tearful^ brought the ruffian his hat; and, placing it deliberately on his head, and bowing with a dreadful and convulsive attempt to smile, he walked slowly away and disappeared. “What strange mummers grief makes!” said the cu¬ rate. “It is an appalliug spectacle when it thus wrings out feeling from a man of that mould ! But, pardon me, my young friend; let me tarry here for a moment.” “I will enter the house with you,” said Walter. And the two men walked in, and in a few moments they stood within the chamber of death. The face of the deceased had not yet suffered the last withering change. Her young countenance was hushed and serene; and, but for the fixedness of the smile, you might have thought the lips moved. So delicate, fair, and gentle were the features, that it was scarcely possible to believe such a scion could spring from such a stock; and it seemed no longer wonderful that a thing so young, so innocent, so lovely, and so early blighted, should have touched that reckless and dark nature which rejected all other invasion of the softer emotions. The curate wiped his eyes, and kneeling down prayed, if not for the dead (who, as our church teaches, are beyond human interces* EUGENE ARAM. 13 ^ sion)— perhaps for the father she had left on earth, more to be pitied of the two! Nor to Walter was ffie scene without something more impressive and thrilling than its mere pathos alone. He, now standing beside the corpse of Houseman’s child, was son to the man of whose mur¬ der Houseman had been suspected. The childless and tiie fatherless! might there be no retribution here ? When the curate’s prayer was over, and he and Wal¬ ter escaped from the incoherent blessings and complaints of the women of the house, they, with difficulty resisting the impression the scene had left upon their minds, once more resumed their errand. “This is no time,” said Walter, musing, “for an ex¬ amination of Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten.” The curate did not reply for some moments; and then, as an answer to the remark, observed that the conversa¬ tion they anticipated with Aram’s former hostess might throw some light on their researches. They now pro¬ ceeded to another part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and desolate-looking house, which seemed to wear in its very appearance something strange, sad, and omin¬ ous. Some houses have an expression , as it were, in their outward aspect, that sinks unaccountably into the heart — a dim oppressive eloquence, which dispirits and affects. You say, some story must be attached to those walls; some legendary interest, of a darker nature, ought to be associated with the mute stone and mortar: vou «/ feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you gaze. Such was the description of the house that JL8a EUGENE ARAM. the young adventurer now surveyed. It was of antique architecture, not uncommon in old towns: gable-ends rose from the roof; dull, small, lattised panes were sunk deep in the grey, discolored wall; the pale, in part, was broken and jagged; and rank weeds sprang up in the neglected garden, through which they walked towards the porch. The door was open; they entered and found an old woman of coarse appearance sitting by the fire¬ side, and gazing on space with that vacant stare which so often characterizes the repose and relaxation of the uneducated poor. Walter felt an involuntary thrill of dislike come over him, as he looked at the solitary inmate of the solitary house. “Hey day, sir!” said she in a grating voice; “and what now? Oh! Mr. Summers, is it you? You’re wel¬ come, sir. I wishes I could offer you a glass of summut, but the bottle’s dry — he! he!” pointing with a revolt¬ ing grin to an empty bottle that stood on a niche within the hearth. “I don’t know how it is, sir, but I never wants to eat; but ah ! ’tis the liquor that does un good ! 99 “You have lived a long time in this house?” said the curate. “A long time — some thirty years an’ more.” “You remember your lodger, Mr. Aram?” “A — well—yes 1 ” “An excellent man- “ Humph.” “A most admirable man!” EUGENE ARAM. 189 “A-humph! he! — humph! that’s neither here noi there.” “ Why, you don’t seem to think as all the rest of the world does with regard to him ? ” “I knows what I knows.” “Ah! by-the-by, you have some cock-and-a-bull story about him, I fancy, but you never could explain yourself; it is merely for the love of seeming wise that you invent¬ ed it; eh, Goody ? ” The old woman shook her head, and crossing her hands on her knee, replied with peculiar emphasis, but in a very low and whispered voice, “I could hang him!” “ Pooh! ” “ Tell you I could ! ” “Well, let’s have the story then!” “No, no ! I have not told it to ne’er a one yet; and I won’t for nothing. What will you give me? — Make it worth my while ? ” “ Tell us all, honestly, fairly, and fully, and you shall have five goldeu guineas. There, Goody.” Roused by this promise, the dame looked up with more of energy than she had yet shown, and muttered to her¬ self, rocking her chair to and fro, “Aha! why not? no fear now—both gone — can’t now murder the poor old eretur, as the wretch once threatened. Five golden gui¬ neas— five, did you say, sir,— five?” ‘ Ay, and perhaps our bounty may not stop there,” said the curate. Still the old woman hesitated, and still she mutterep 190 EUGENE ARAM. to herself; but, after some farther prelude, and some fur¬ ther enticement from the curate, the which we spare our reader, she came at length to the following narration:—• “It was on the fth of February, in the year ’44; yes, ’44, about six o’clock in the evening, for I was a-washing in the kitchen, when Mr. Aram called to me, an’ desired of me to make a fire up stairs, which I did: he then walked out. Some hours afterwards, it might be two in the morning, I was lying awake, for I was mighty bad with the toothache, when I heard a noise below, and two or three voices. On this, I was greatly afeard, and got out o’bed, and, opening the door, I saw Mr. Houseman and Mr. Clarke coming up stairs to Mr. Aram’s room, and Mr. Aram followed them. They shut the door, and stayed there, it might be an hour. Well, I could not a-think what could make so shy an’ resarved a gentleman as Mr Aram admit these ’ere wild madcaps like at that hour; an’ I lay awake a-thinking an’ a-thinking till I heard the door open agin, an’ I went to listen at the keyhole, an’ Mr. Clarke said: ‘It will soon be morning, and we must get off.’ They then all three left the house; but I could not sleep, an’ I got up afore five o’clock, an’ about that hour Mr. Aram an’ Mr. Houseman returned, and they both glowered at me, as if they did not like to find me a-stirring; an’Mr. Aram went into his room, and Houseman turned and frowned at me as black as night.—Lord have mercy on me! I see him now! An’ I was sadly feared, an’ I listened at the keyhole, an’ I heard Houseman say: ‘If the woman comes in, she’ll EUGENE ARAM. 191 -ell.'- ‘What can she tell?’ said Mr. Aram : ‘poor simple thing, she kuows nothing.’ With that, Houseman said, lays he: ‘If she tells that I am here, it will be enough; »ut however,’—with a shocking oath,— ‘we’ll take an opportunity to shoot her.’ “On that I was so frighted that I went away back to my own room, and did not stir till they had a-gone out, and then-” “What time was that?” “About seven o’clock. Well, you put me out! where was I? — Well, I went into Mr. Aram’s room, an’ I seed they had been burning a fire, an’ that all the ashes were taken out o’ the grate ; so I went and looked at the rub¬ bish behind the house, and there sure enough I seed the ashes, and among ’em several bits o’ cloth and linen which seemed to belong to wearing apparel; and there, too, was a handkerchief which I had obsarved House¬ man wear (for it was a very curious handkerchief, all spotted) many’s the time, and there was blood on it, ’bout the size of a shilling. An’ afterwards I seed Houseman, an’ I showed him the handkerchief; an’ I said to him, ‘What has come of Clarke? ’ an’he frowned, and, looking at me, said, ‘Hark’ye, I know not what you mean: but, as sure as the devil keeps watch for souls, I will shoot you through the head if you ever let that d—d tongue of yours let slip a single word about Clarke, or me, or Mr. Aram; so look to yourself!’ “An’ I was all seared, and trimbled from limb to limb; an’ for two whole yearn afterwards (long arter II. —17 2f 192 EUGENE ARAM. Aram and Houseman were both gone) I niver could so much as open my lips on the matter; and afore he went, Mr. Aram would sometimes look at me, not sternly-like as the villain Houseman, but as if he would read to the bottom of my heart. Oh! I was as if you had taken a mountain off o’ me, when he an’ Houseman left the town; for sure as the sun shines I believes, from what I have now said, that they two murdered Clarke on that same February night. An’ now, Mr. Summers, I feels more easy than I has felt for many a long day; an’ if I have not told it afore, it is because I thought of Houseman’s frown, and his horrid words; but summut of it would ooze out of my tongue now an’ then, for it’s a hard thing, sir, to know a secret o’ that sort and be quiet and still about it; and, indeed, I was not the same cretur when I knew it as I was afore, for it made me take to anything rather than thinking; and that’s the reason, sir, I lost the % good crakter I used to have.” Such, somewhat abridged from its “says he” and “says I” — its involutions and its tautologies, was the story which Walter held his breath to hear. But events thick en, and the maze is nearly thridden. “Not a moment now should be lost,” said the curate, as they left the house. “Let us at once proceed to a very able magistrate, to whom I can introduce you, and wiio lives a little way out of town.” ‘As you will,” said Walter, in an altered and hollow voice. “I am as a man standing on an eminence, who views the whole scene he is to travel over, stretched be- EUGENE ARAM. 193 Fore him; but is dizzy and bewildered by the height which he has reached. I know — I feel — that I am on the brink of fearful and dread discoveries; — pray God that-But heed me not, sir,— heed me not—let us oil —on! ” It was now approaching towards the evening; and as they walked on, having left the town, the sun poured his last beams on a group of persons that appeared hastily collecting and gathering round a spot, well known in the neighborhood of Knaresborough, called Thistle Hill. “Let us avoid the crowd,” said the curate. “Yet what, I wonder, can be its cause ? ” While he spoke, two peasants hurried by towards the throng. “What is the meaning of the crowd yonder?” asked the curate. “I don’t know exactly, your honor; but I hears as how Jem Ninnings, digging for stone for the lime-kiln, have dug out a big wooden chest.” A shout from the group broke in on the peasant’s explanation — a sudden simultaneous shout, but not of joy, something of dismay and horror seemed to breathe in the sound. Walter looked at the curate: — an impulse—a sudden instinct — seemed to attract them involuntarily to the spot whence that sound arose; — they quickened their pace — they made their way through the throng. A deep chest, that had been violently forced, stood before them : its contents had been dragged to day, arid now lay on the sward — a bleached and mouldering skeleton! 194 EUGENE ARAM. Several of the bones were loose, and detached from the body. A general hubbub of voices from the spectators,— inquiry—guess—fear—wonder—rang confusedly round. “Yes,” said an old man, with grey hair, leaning on a pickaxe; “it is now about fourteen years since the Jew pedlar disappeared; — these are probably his bones — he was supposed to have been murdered! ” “Nay!” screeched a woman, drawing back a child who, all unalarmed, was about to touch the ghastly relics — “Nay, the pedlar was heard of afterwards! I’ll "tell ye, ye may be sure these are the bones of Clarke — Daniel Clarke — whom the country was so stirred about, when we were young ! ” “Right, dame, right! It is Clarke’s skeleton,” was the simultaneous cry. And Walter, pressing forward, stood over the bones, and waved his hand, as to guard them from farther insult. His suddeu appearance — his tall stature — his wild gesture — the horror — the pale¬ ness— the grief of his countenance — struck and appalled all present. He remained speechless, and a sudden silence succeeded the late clamor. “And what do you here, fools?” said a voice abruptly. The spectators turned — a new comer had been added to the throng; — it was Richard Houseman. His dress, loose and disarranged — his flushed cheeks and rolling eyes — betrayed the source of consolation to which he had flown from his domestic affliction. “ What do ye here?” said he, reeling forward. “Ha! human bones) and whose may they be, think ye?” EUGENE ARAM. 195 '‘They are Clarke’s!” said the woman who had first given rise to that supposition. “Yes, we think they are Daniel Clarke’s — lie who disappeared some years ago!” cried two or three voices in concert. “Clarke’s?” repeated Houseman, stooping down and picLing up a thigh-bone, which lay at a little distance from the rest; “Clarke’s?—ha! ha! they are no more Clarke’s than mine ! ” “Behold!” shouted Walter, in a voice that rang from cliff to plain,— and springing forward, he seized House¬ man with a giant’s grasp,— “Behold the murderer!” As if the avenging voice of Heaven had spoken, a thrilling, an electric conviction darted through the crowd. Each of the elder spectators remembered at once the person of Houseman, and the suspicion that had attach¬ ed to his name. “Seize him! seize him!” burst forth from twenty voices. “Houseman is the murderer!” * “Murderer!” faltered Houseman, trembling in the iron hands of Walter—“murderer of whom? I tell ye these are not Clarke’s bones! ” “Where then do they lie?” cried his arrester. “ Pale — confused — conscience-stricken — the bewilder ment of intoxication mingling with that of fear, House man turned a ghastly look around him, and, shrinking from the eyes of all, reading in the eyes of all his con¬ demnation, he gasped out, “Search St. Robert’s Cave, iu the turn at the entrance! ” ri * 196 EUGENE ARAM. “Away!” rang the deep voice of Walter, on the in* stant — “away!—to the Cave—to the Cave!” On the banks of the river Nid, whose waters keep au everlasting murmur to the crags and trees that overhang them, is a wild and dreary cavern, hollowed from a rock, which, according to tradition, was formerly the hermitage of one of those early enthusiasts who made their solitude in the sternest recesses of earth, and from the austerest thoughts, and the bitterest penance, wrought their joy¬ less offerings to the great Spirit of the lovely w r orld. To this desolate spot, called, from the name of its once-cele¬ brated eremite, St. Robert’s Cave, the crowd now swept, increasing its numbers as it advanced. The old man who had discovered the unknown remains, which were gathered up and made a part of the proces¬ sion, led the way; Houseman, placed between two strong and active men, went next; and Walter followed behind, fixing his eyes mutely upon the ruffian. The curate had had the precaution to send on before for torches, for the wintry evening now darkened round them, and the light from the torch-bearers who met them at the cavern, cast forth its red and lurid flare at the mouth of the chasm. One of these torches Walter himself seized, and his was the first step that entered the gloomy passage. At this place and time, Houseman, who till then, throughout their short journey, had seemed to have recovered a sort of dogged self-possession, recoiled, and the big drops of fear or agony fell fast from his brow. He was dragged EUGENE ARAM. 19 r < forward forcibly into the cavern; and now as the space filled, and the torches flickered against the grim walls, glaring on faces which caught, from the deep and thrill¬ ing contagion of a common sentiment, one common ex¬ pression ; it was not well possible for the wildest imagi¬ nation to conceive a scene better fitted for the unhallowed burial-place of the murdered dead. The eyes of all now turned upon Houseman; and he, after twice vainly endeavoring to speak, for the words died inarticulate and choked within him, advancing a few steps, pointed towards a spot on which, the next moment, fell the concentrated light of every torch. An indescri¬ bable and universal murmur, and then a breathless silence, ensued. On the spot which Houseman had indi cated,— with the head placed to the right, lay what once had been a human body! “Can you swear,” said the priest, solemnly, as he turn¬ ed to Houseman, “that these are the bones of Clarke ? ” “Before God, I can swear it!” replied Houseman, at length finding voice. “My Father!” broke from Walter’s lips, as he sank upon his knees; and that exclamation completed the awe and horror which prevailed in the breasts of all present. Stung by the sense of the danger he had drawn upon himself, and despair and excitement restoring, in some measure, not only his natural hardihood but his natural astuteness; Houseman here mastering his emotions, and making that effort which he was afterwards enabled to 198 EUGENE ARAM. follow up with advantage to himself, of which he could not then have dreamed; — Houseman, I say, cried aloud,— “But / did not do the deed; /am not the murderer.” “ Speak out! — whom do you accuse ? ” said the curate. Drawing his breath hard, and setting his teeth, as with some steeled determination, Houseman replied,— “ The murderer is Eugene Aram! ” “Aram!” shouted Walter, starting to his feet: “O God, thy hand hath directed me hither ! ” And suddenly and at once his sense left him, and he fell, as if a shot had pierced through ..is heart, beside the r