The Heiress of Haughton; or the Mother's Secret. By the author of 'Emilia Wyndham'

Chapter I

In him alone 'twas natural to please; His motions all accompanied with grace ; And paradise was opened in his face. Drtden. It was a beautiful evening. The day had been warm, and the sun, now sinking towards the tufted hills of Windsor Forest, shed a rich golden right upon the tops of those fine trees, which adorn the Playing Fields of Eton. t VOL. I, B The Thames, smooth as a mirror, and of the deepest blue, was seen at a little distance, gleaming with his green aits, through the foli age and between the noble and columnar trunks of these secular trees — whilst the rooks were slowly wending their homeward flight towards the hoary towers of that castle, which over hangs and adorns this beautiful scene — its western windows glittering in the sunbeams. In short, it was one of those perfectly de lightful English evenings which are the glory of our English summers.

The Playing Fields were quieter than usual, for the hubbub of the day was over ; or, perhaps, the still influence of the evening was felt by those imaginative English lads there loitering aud wandering about — for imaginative, English boys may most especially be called; and there is something within them that seems most peculiarly responsive to the sweet influences of Nature. Groups of boys, from little feUows of nine to ten years old, to youths upon the verge of manhood, were scattered about in these beautiful playing grounds. Some sauntering in idle conversation with one or two others ; some strolling alone, lost in boyhood's teeming thoughts ; others, sitting upon the benches beneath the trees with books, which they were reading with avidity — uot lesson-books, you may be sure, but novels ; perhaps, in their way, quite as improving; — and ministering high and generous food to the hearts and imaginations of these young, ardent lads.

Some little fellows were playing hockey ; some of the magnates were resting upon their bats — the last game of cricket having terminated — all in their several ways enhancing the interest and beauty of the scene, without disturbing the tranqurilising effect of this sweet evening. Among the groups we distinguish two boys of somewhat unequal height. The arm of the taller one is thrown over the shoulders of the other. They are walking alone together, and seem engaged in that close, confidential conver sation which is the delight of those united by the strong, fervent ties of a boy's friendship. B See how they saunter along, choosing one of the quietest and most retired walks, en gaged in serious discussion, and seeming little to regard anything that is going on around them — lost in the delightful interchange of thoughts, bright and fervent, like themselves.

For they are both boys remarkable for the wholesome freshness of their feelings and cha racters, for the earnest simplicity of their dispositions — and for more, both of imagination and feeling, than is common even with youths of their years. They are both also distinguished, not alone by these intellectual qualities, — they are as celebrated in the school for their personal beauty and their personal accomplishments, as for their characters and attainments. At hare and hounds, at the cricket match, at hockey, at leaping, at running — who bear away the palm but they ? They are the first in these, as in all the rest. All the rest, however, must be said with one exception — their school exercises. They were neither of them remarkable for these. They both kept their places passably well, — but they neither of them were particularly celebrated in business with the masters.

Not "to aspire to glory, but to avoid disgrace," seemed to be their only object here. And, yet, there was something about them both, that even the masters prized and were proud of, they scarcely knew why. As for the young community around them — as often happens in such cases — by a peculiar instinct of their own, which discovers the higher order of merit, before it has made itself evident through any peculiar achievements — these two were looked upon, by the boys in general, as the glory of the school. Everyone was proud to be of their acquaintance ; — even those who had not that privilege took pride, in that they belonged to the'same community. Their dress and manners were imitated : — their witty or clever speeches were retailed : — the highest auguries were drawn as to their future success in life; — everything was expected from them that was great and renowned — nobody well knew why.

It was the influence of what the French caU caractere, I believe, that effected aU this. — It is the secret of the strongest influences that one human being can exercise over another. These boys both belonged to families of the "middle remove" class of life, or, perhaps, strictly speaking, one ought to say, the "upper fifth" of society. Their parents were wealthy and well-born, and lived at their country-houses in their respective counties — magnates upon a small scale in then particular neighbourhoods. Both boys, at the seats of then respective fathers, had enjoyed the same free, wholesome Enghsh country rife until they were sent to Eton. That life of the woods and of the fields — that enterprising life of nature, which to the boy is so wholesome and so delight ful ; which, in itself, fosters so many free and generous aspirations ; — and which, when home affords other advantages equally necessary to a just development, is the very best early schooling a boy can receive.

These additional advantages, however, in these two instances, had been denied. The boys had lived at home, it is true, and had neither of them been injured by the low or vicious associations, or the false training of too many schools ; — but this was all. Little pains, except the most superficial disciphne and teaching, had been expended upon either of them. They had both happened to belong to those sort of people who have no idea of any duty as regards the education of their children, but that of sending them in due course of time to the proper schools, and paying their bills without grumbling. For the rest, they had it all much their own way. As little boys, their mothers, or their sisters' governesses had taught them to read ; — their mothers had also, I believe, read a chapter in the Bible with them on Sundays.

As they grew older, a daily tutor had given them an hour or two of Latin ; and at about twelve years of age they were sent to Eton. At Eton the same course was pursued. Eton was expected to do everything for them. A few letters from home — baskets of game and fruit ; a visit now and then from an uncle or a father — a dinner to a selected party of their particular friends — a sovereign into the hand as they parted in the evening, had been the sum of the care they had received. In the holidays it was much the same. — They saw httle of their parents, who were engaged in their own pursuits of visiting, or gardening, or farming, or shooting, as the case might be, and they happened neither of them to have sisters capable or willing, as so many are, of assisting insensibly in the improvement of boys of their age — and supplying, in some degree, the duties of a mother.

Not even this however, dispenses a mother from this sacred duty, which she, and she alone, can adequately perform, and which so many women most admirably and successfully do perform. Enough of this. The taUer boy is a fine, handsome, nobly developed creature, with fair hair, and large, spirited, brave blue eyes : features bold and regular — the very type of the old Norseman beauty. Accordingly his fellows have nick named him the Viking. The other is of a different kind. His figure is symmetry itself — finely modeUed to the per fection of united grace, activity, and strength; — his features are beautiful — expressive of all that is high and majestic, and all that is tender and passionate at once. His dark eyes melt and kindle — flash defiance when excited to anger, or are suffused with but too ready tears when softened by feeling ; his beautiful dark brown hair hangs clustering over his fine inteUectual brow, white as the waxy tea rose.

His feUows have named' him the Celestial Archer — he does, in truth, remind one of thatstatue "which enchants the world — " The ApoUo who has just sent forth his shaft from the twanging bow. But it is mostly in the perfection and contour of his figure ; for in the face there is a something English, — some thing passionate, thoughtful, intense, and deeply earnest, which the Grecian divinity wants, after aU. That the community of Eton had honoured them by thus surnaming them, would be in itself a warrant how highly they were rated ; how individually they stood out from the com munity. They had not known each other before they met at school ; but happening to lodge at the same Dame's, and their rooms to be next door to each other, an intimacy had sprung up, which had soon ripened into a friendship — a friendship the closer, perhaps, because with many points of resemblance in circumstances, early associations, tastes, and likings, they were in character extremely unlike each other.

The Viking was brave, reserved, stern, cold, and undemonstrative in his usual deportment. The Celestial Archer was vehement, ardent, positive, demonstrative. The one was slow to anger — but his anger, once excited, was terrible. Cold, stern, and measured hi its expression, but deep, abiding, and vindictive. A word or gesture would kindle up the other to a flame — which, at a word of apology or concession, would as rapidly subside into cor dial forgiveness. The passion of rage which found vent in the kindling cheeks and rising tears, would melt again into drops of soft and generous contrition, whenever his anger might have carried him too far. I think I see him now pressing a companion's hand in cordial re conciliation, and turning half away to hide the too ready moisture that the heart-swell sent up to his eyes.

"We all respected and looked up with admiration and a certain awe at the Viking — so ma jestic, so commanding, so self-possessed — but we adored the Celestial Archer. As for me, at least, I loved him with a passionate devotion and admiration, which only the heart of a schoolboy can feel. No one pretended to rival the friendship these two felt for each other. It was their privilege to be considered as standing upon equal ground ; for the rest of us. we all looked up to them involuntarily. Now they are walking, as I said, together, sauntering up and down, engaged in one of those interminable conversations in which they seemed to take such delight ; more closely united than ever by a circumstance which took place at the beginning of this half. The present conversation seems to be one of more than usual interest, and so it is — for it is upon a subject to which the Celestial rarely refers, and which is known only to this one friend.

Not for the universe would this proud and delicately-feeling boy have exposed the secret of his heart to any but the sacred, holy eye of the one true friend. He has a little narrow crimson ribbon which he wears close to his bosom, and from which depends a little tiny heart, in which is a very minute curl of soft, brown hair. The Viking does not laugh at his friend's secret. To him such a love as his is a sacred thing. They seldom enter upon the subject, but when they do, it is with an earnestness and delicacy which would do honour to any heart. " Yet, she is but a mere child," the Archer is saying, "eleven or twelve years old at most ; but she has the delicacy, sense, and goodness of an angel-woman. So sweet and obliging in her temper — so gay and hvely in her spirits — so intrinsically good — such an angel of love and piety.

It is enough only to see her saying her prayers at church — as I do when I am stay ing there, and we go into their great pew — to make one pious oneself .... and then her name — Imogene ! What a sweet name, and so ex actly her." There, my good reader, this is inserted to show why the history of Imogene opens with an account of the Celestial Archer. To return to the circumstance which I was about to relate, and which had still further rivetted this youthful friendship. They both of them belong to the boats. Neither of them, as I hinted, was cele brated for sapping; they seemed contented just to hold their own in the school, but appeared indifferent to distinguished success upon the forms — their pride appeared chiefly to he in surpassing the rest in aU sorts of manly sports and exercises. Boating and cricketing, of course, they excelled in.

In the last they were forced to take opposite sides, for no one would play a match against them united, — and they each steered a separate boat, for much the same reason. How they managed to combine the rivalry this excited with their perfect and unalterable friendship, I do not exactty know. Sometimes it seemed to me as if an unnatural fierceness would flash up in the Viking's eyes, when the Celestial Archer had beaten him at cricket ; and he would speak coldly and shortly to the other when — the game over — he came to take his arm with his usual affectionate cordiality. Sometimes I could observe a flush of red-hot colour just flare up into the cheek of the Archer, at the tone of voice in which he might be answered — but the thing was over in a moment — before a man could say, " Behold, it is there," it was gone — and the friends were as happy together as ever.

The incident which seemed so greatly to strengthen this close friendship took place one evening, when I myself chanced to be present. I was one of the boaters. It was a half-holiday, at the end of May, shortly before the Midsummer vacation. There was a small regatta at that bend of the river, which is nearly opposite to Clifden, and we were to row a match there. Upon this occasion, as upon others, as I have mentioned, the two friends steered separate boats, and were opposed to each other in the match of six oars. What a beautiful evening was that ! How lovely looked the woods of Clifden, as they swept down those fine steeps to the Thames — which, smooth as a mirror, and clear as crystal, reflected aU the innumerable tints — the rich yellows, browns, soft greens, and greys of the spring foliage.

The noble oaks and magnifi cent elms were towering, in all their wealth of beauty and grandeur, above the lower cluster ing copse trees. The sun shone brightly upon the landscape, giving a glow of life to everything around ; white swans were floating upon the gilded waters — the right boats were skim ming over the shining surface, forming little ripples with their prows. Now a white sail was hoisted, and spread its snowy wing to the breeze which began to rise — the little skiff to which it belonged, careering swiftly along — yet to be passed by a six-oar, which rapidly coursed along the water; the boys, in their pink-striped shirts, bending vigorously to the oar, and saluting the sailing boat with a shout of triumph, as they swept gaily by. The single-oared wherries, like sheUs afloat, were not wanting there — the one man they contained, urging them onwards with a speed as astounding as beautiful — in short, the river was a scene of gay confusion, enlivened still further by the bright sun, the blue sky, the white coursing clouds, the sweet fresh breeze, and the varied crowd of spectators upon the banks, in carriages, on horse-back, or on foot; — from the strange gipsy women of Burnham Beeches, to the fair Queen of Clifden herself — from the farming boy in his holiday suit, to the most exquisite of horse or man that ever adorned Rotten-Row.

I was rather a singular boy, I think, myself: — I always loved observation better than action — reflection upon my own thoughts, rather than interchange of thoughts with others. I used to mope about a good deal by myself, and the boys, to their credit be it said, let me alone — partly, because I was, as a scholar, considered rather a credit to the place — if I may venture to own so much without being suspected of undue vanity — partly, because I really was a very dehcate boy. There was no disguising this ; I was so manifestly unfit to struggle and make my way in the busy throng, that — with a sense of justice vol. I. c and good nature common to boys, who, as I think, are usually strictly just according to their ideas of justice, and generally good-natured where they suspect neither pretence nor affecta tion — I was suffered to live in my own way, a good deal apart, and undisturbed, — it being evident to the most superficial observer, that with me this was rather a matter of necessity than choice.

I loved to row alone in my wherry, keeping a little apart, so as to have the water a good deal to myself, and to watch, at a short dis tance, the proceedings of that busy crowd to which I so httle belonged. And now the race between the six-oars begins. Beautiful sight ! How the right vessels skim over the water, like sea-birds ! — how the steerers bend and bow almost to a level with the benches of the boat! — how the six rowers, with one sympathetic motion, reach forward, rise and fall simultaneously ! — how the accompanying boats fly onwards to be present at the termination of the race! and how cheering cries, responsive to the efforts of the rowers, greet them from the crowds upon the river side ! Mermaid and Water-Lily — which will be the victor? The Viking steers the Mermaid, — the Celestial Archer the Water-Lily — now this,— now that, has the lead.

The Viking has it ! — He is half-a-boat — he is a whole length, a-head ! You see him just cast up that noble head of his with a gesture of exultation, and then bend and bow to his task again. The Celestial Archer glances at his crew. "Now — now !" — with fresh vigour they bend to the oar. The steerer bows himself almost to a level with the earth. Forward they go, cleaving the water, which breaks in light foam around the prow of the swiftly flying httle vessel — forward ! — forward ! They pass ahead of the Viking, just as he almost touches the goal. A shout of triumph rang from all sides. Both steerers had started up as by one im pulse. The Celestial Archer, his face all one c glow of joy and triumph, glanced proudly and exultingly over his boat's-crew ; at this time thrown negligently back, resting on their oars, taking breath, after their almost super-human exertions : then he directed a look at the adver sary, the defeated boat.

It seemed as if he expected sympathy even at that trying moment of defeat from the friend he loved — but no. The face of the Viking was dark and sullen. His mortification was, indeed, excessive. He had the palm of victory in his very hand, when it had thus been snatched away. He could ril brook defeat at any time, and upon this occasion the deafening shouts of congratulation which greeted the triumph of the rival crew, came with peculiar bitterness to his proud heart. One glance was exchanged. The glowing cheek of the Celestial Archer turned pale ; the bright, generous, gladness of his eye was dim med; — he sat down quietly, and remained silent, and as if exhausted, whilst the boat, amid acclamations ringing from every side, returned leisurely to the starting-place. The Viking, too, resumed his seat ; and the defeated boat was quietly rowed awav.

It was as they were returning in the even ing, that the accident I am about to mention happened. The two boys had left their larger boats, and each was returning homewards in his own wherry. They were late ; the weather had changed, the evening was dark and lowering, — the sun had been some time gone down, and the twilight was thickening almost to dark ness over the river, the clouds lay so heavily around the horizon. The two boys rowed at some little distance from each other, not as usual, side by side, exchanging their jokes, and lively, fanciful conversation, but both silent and both moody. The Viking mortified and sullen ; — the Archer wounded to the very core of his heart. He was but a boy — a warm-tempered, generous, loving boy : he had yet to learn that half melancholy indulgence, which man, as he ad vances in life, discovers that he he must needs grant to the infirmities of his feUow-man.

To that heart of his which glowed so warmly, and beat so freely within his breast, he expected to find a responsive heart. His friend's triumph would have been as his own. He had strug gled hard for victory ; — that was due to himself and his crew — due to the generous, emulous feel ings of a breast which aspired to the crowning excellence in all things ; — but had he been defeated after he and his had done their best, — had the victory been awarded to his friend — it would more than have consoled him. He would have rejoiced once more, as over and over again, before this he had rejoiced — when the strength and unparaUeled vigour of the Viking had triumphed over him. Upon the water especially. This was, indeed, the first victory against the Mermaid, which the Water-Lily had achieved. He did not weigh the infinite mortification inflicted — when he, esteemed the invincible, first takes his place among the vanquished — against what he thought such cold and unkind want of sympathy.

He only felt acutely the contrast with what his own feelings upon such an occasion would have been, and at once jumped to the usual conclusion of the hurt spirit — that the Viking did not care for him at all. So, sorely wounded, and silent, and sullen, in his turn, he quietly pursued his way — the Viking preserving his moody attitude of stern, gloomy pride. I was at a httle distance, observing the two friends, and watching the aspect of things with interest, and a sort of sadness upon my own part, — when, suddenly, there was a loud cry ! I started up, but only to behold one of the wherries overset, and floating, keel upwards. It was the Archer's, — and, before a man could say, " 'Tis there," — the heavy plunge of the Viking into the water was heard. He had put on a large thick boat coat, for the evening was chilly; he did not even stay to throw it off, but plunged head foremost into the river after his friend.

That sort of precipitation was not usual with him. There was a passion and vehemence in, it, which showed where his heart lay. The wherry had been upset by a cord fas tened to the bank, and to a heavy coal barge in the river, which, in the glimmering twilight, the Archer had not observed; he had taken the line between the barge and the shore. The Viking was proceeding upon the outer side. Their mutual repulsion of the moment it was which occasioned the accident. Both sank, and were lost to sight. There Avas a general cry for help — a general shriek, rather than shout, of horror. Sud denly, the head of the Viking appears above the water, the heavy coat seems to weigh him down; nevertheless, he gives one or two vigorous strokes, raises himself for a moment, looks round, and then dives again.

The men on board the barge, and some of us in our boats, had by this time disem barrassed ourselves of our clothes, and all that could swim had plunged into the river. The first effort of some was to upturn the boat, — we found the boy had been sucked under it ; others dived and plunged where the Viking had disappeared, weighed down, it seemed, by the weight of his clothing. All passed in a moment's time — but what ages are some moments ! It was weU we were there. Once more the Viking emerges, but he is exhausted — he can scarcely rise to the surface. He holds a body supported by one arm, part of the clothing between his teeth; he is making a superhuman effort — his strength is fast giving way — his eyes are becoming dimmed by the dreadful death-stare ; but he has saved his friend ! It was just in time.

We cluster round him, and the two are landed, both insensible, but safely, upon the river's bank. "Where am I?" was Albert Faulconer's first exclamation, as, after the usual means had been employed for a considerable length of time, he opened his eyes, and, after a few convulsive heavings and struggles, recovered the power of speech. He looked confused, hke one suddenly awakened out of a profound sleep — stared round — shook his head up and down, as if to awaken his senses, and then asked again — "Where am I? Have I been dreaming?" "No, not dreaming: but dead you have been, Archer," said one of his companions — "how do you feel yourself now, old fellow?" "Rather particularly uncomfortable, I should say — but what's the matter ? — Where have we all been? — this is not my bed." " No, it's not your bed, sure enough," an swered another of his companions, Stanley ; " it's a poor bed, to be sure — but better than the bed of the river, it seems to me."

"Cold work among the fishes — ay, Celestial? What's that Shakspeare says about Phœbus pillowing his head upon the wave — rather a cold pillow, heigh ! my Archer ? " "Young gentlemen, please to let the patient alone," interrupted the apothecary, who had been caUed in, and now returned from visiting his patient in the next room — "the young gentleman requires quiet — both the gentlemen require quiet. Please aU of you, but one, to quit the room — one young gentleman to watch and administer any little thing to the patient that may be necessary, is all that is now re quired. I am sure we are greatly indebted to you, for your assistance." We had aU certainly been rubbing with all our might, or running to and fro, and offering every help in our power. " But now nothing more but a good sleep is necessary, after which the patient may be safely aUowed to return to Eton."

The Archer looked bewildered, but he turned his eyes upon me, as if asking an .explanation, and laid his hand at the same time upon mine, as if I were the one he wished to stay with him. " Very good," said the doctor. He had observed already how much more of the old woman than of the young boy there seemed to be about me — " Very good — you — Mister — Mister — Lenham. " " Very good — you, Mister Lenham — please to stay with us, and the rest of the gentlemen may be released." "Good night, then, Archer — Good night, Celestial." "Good night, Albert — Good night, Faul coner — pleasant dreams, and we'll tell Oxley all about it, and that you'll be home to-morrow — He'll be home to-morrow night, doctor ?" " Immediately after breakfast." " And Hake— the Viking?" " Mr. Hardress, do you mean?" " Yes, to be sure.

How's he ?" " He has suffered most — but it's all right, I hope, now — or will be soon." "How's that?" cried I — " I did not under stand that — what's the matter with him ?" " Oh, a trifle, a trifle," answered the doctor — for his patient's face became suddenly suffused with a crimson flush, as he started up, exclaim ing — " Hardress ! Hardress ! — What of him ?" " Oh, nothing of any consequence," replied the man of medicine, with a sort of gentle vio lence replacing his patient's shoulders upon the pillow — " You must both be quiet, and you'll soon be as if nothing had happened." The boys, one after the other, had by this time departed out of the room — followed by the doctor, after he had given me a few directions. The Archer continued to hold my hand ; he lay, however, some time quite still; his beau tiful eyes fixed upon the wall before him, lost in his own thoughts, and as if endeavouring to coUect his recollections.