The Wilderness of the World. A novel

Front matter

HARRY HIEOVER'S MOST POPULAK PUBLICATIONS. In 1 Vol. demy 8vo. Price 12s. SPORTING FACTS & SPORTING FANCIES. BY HARRY HIEOVER, Author of ' Stable Talk and Table Talk,' ' The Pocket and the Stud,' ' The Hunting Field,' ' The Proper Condition for All Horses,' &c. " This work will make a valuable and interesting addition to the sports man's library." — Bell's Li/e, " In addition to the immense mass of practical and useful information with which this work abounds, there is a refreshing buoyancy and dash about the style, which makes it as attractive and fascinating as the pages of the renowned Nimrod himself." — Dispatch. " It contains graphic sketches of celebrated sporting characters. Sunday Times. Price 5s. with Plates, HARRY HIEOVER ON THE PROPER CONDITION FOR ALL HORSES. " It should 1)6 in the hands of all owners of horses." — Bett's Life.

" A work which every owner of a horse will do well to consult." — Morning Herald. " Every man who is about purchasing a horse, whether it be hunter, riding horse, lady's palfrey, or cart horse, will do well to make himself acquainted with the contents of this book." — Sporting Magazine. Price 4s. BIPEDS AND QUADRUPEDS. BY HARRY HIEOVER. " We recommend this little volume for the humanity towards quadru peds it advocates, and the proper treatment of them that it inculcates." — Bell's Life. Price 5s. THE WORLD AND HOW TO SQUARE IT. BY HARRY HIEOVER. POPULAR NEW WORKS. In 3 Vols. Price 21. Is. THE HISTORY OF THE PAPAL STATES. BY J. MILEY, D.D. " Dr. Miley supports his positions with a plentitude and profundity of learning, a force and massive power of reasoning, a perspicuity of logical prowess, and a felicity of illustration, rarely met in existence amongst historians of any age." — Morning Post.

"Illustrated by profound learning, deep thought, refined taste, and great sagacity." — Dublin Review. In 2 Vols. with Plates, 30s. THE SHRINES AND SEPULCHRES OF THE OLD & NEW WORLD. BY DR. MADDEN. " This work displays both extensive reading and extensive research." — Athenæum. In 3 Vols. 31s. 6<?., Third Edition. THE DESPOT OF EASTERN EUROPE. By the Author of " The Revelations ofRussia." " The author has command of information, as well diplomatic as local and personal. It is powerfully written." — Eaminer. " These volumes should be on the table of every one who hates oppres sion. — Observer." THE WILDERNESS OF THE WORLD. a #ob*I. BY EUSTACE MITFORD. The web of our Use is of a mingled yarn, Good and ill together. Shakspeare. If good we plant not, vice will fill its place, And rankest weeds the richest soil deface. Anon. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 1855. THE WILDERNESS OF THE WORLD

Chapter I. The Abduction

Lady Tresham had peremptorily commanded Barbara to leave the Abbey on the morning subsequent to the unpleasant interview in the oratory, since she had declined the Dowager's proposal of being exiled to France. And this was the second time that Miss Neville, with equal injustice, had been thrust forth upon the world, at a few hours' notice, VOL. III. b having no home, and scarcely knowing whither to go. But in this present instance, Barbara decided on going to London, and proceeding at once to Mrs. O'Connor's, and should her former apartment happen to be vacant, she might en gage that, until she was able to decide what course she should next pursue. As regarded another situation, Barbara feared that would be out of the question, as owing to the present most unpleasant and un expected circumstances, she would have no one to give her a recommendation, therefore, what must she do to maintain herself ? she began to calculate her resources, and thought she might keep a school, or go out as a day governess, but then, no one would engage her without a recommendation, and what could she say, what reason could she assign for having left her situation, persons would enquire, and ex pect to be told.

Barbara's heart sunk within me, she would be driven from an excellent situation, wherein she had given the greatest satisfaction, without being able to say, why she had left it ; her position was an embarras sing, and a cruel one ; she was compelled to leave, for no fault of her own, and yet, if she were to seek for another engagement, she could not give a satisfactory reply on the subject of leaving her former one, as she had given a promise that Sir Reginald should have no clue to her future address. There was one circumstance that grieved Barbara extremely ; she must leave Glen Priors, without having the satisfaction of bidding adieu to her pupil, for Miss Tresham was on a visit to a relative at some distance, and was not expected to return under a fort night. But if she had been at the Abbey, Lady Tresham, in all probability, would not have permitted Miss Neville to have mentioned her departure; therefore, perhaps, it was better that the young lady happened to be from home ; still, the reflection that she would be hold her pupil no more, added greatly to the poignancy of Barbara's regrets, and her packb ing proceeded very slowly, but at last, it was completed, just as the sun was setting behind the trees in the park, and tying on a hat and cloak, she was about to set out on a stroll, to take a farewell of her favorite haunts, when Margery tapped at the door and informed her that a lad had just come with a message from Doctor Meredith, who requested to see Miss Neville at the Rectory, as soon as she could make it convenient.

Barbara entertained a very great respect for this venerable gentle man, and had frequently been in the habit of calling on him with Miss Tresham, in the course of their evening walks, and supposing the good pastor, who was now a confirmed invalid, and seldom left the house, had heard of her intended departure from the Abbey, and wished probably to know the cause of it, she sent word that she would follow the mes senger immediately, and asking Margery to cord her trunks, and get them conveyed down to the hall, she struck across the park, in tbe direction of a path that would lead to the village. The sun had set before she left the Abbey, but it had not been a brilliant sun-set, heavy, murky clouds had succeeded, and the sky looked dark and louring, as though it threatened a storm, and once, Barbara fancied she heard the rumble of thunder, at a distance, and a few large drops of rain began to fall on the ground, which caused her to increase her paoe until she had reached a sheltered walk, that, in summer, was a most delightful retreat, for the trees were thickly set, and the lofty branches met over-head, forming an embowered arch, almost impervious to the sun's rays ; but now, it wore a dark and gloomy look, in the deepening shades of evening, and Barbara hesitated, ere she ventured down the path, but it was the nearest way to the village, and terminated in a rural, and secluded lane, into which, a gate, and a stile gave access.

This was a favourite walk of Barbara's, but she never remembered it looking so gloomy as now, and she tripped along at a quickened pace, but she had not proceeded very far, before approaching footsteps met her ear, though the light was too obscure to distinguish any person very clearly, and she increased her pace almost into a run, when suddenly a dark covering was thrown over her head, and drawn so tight as nearly to impede her respiration, she attempted to scream, but her voice was stifled, and a powerful arm raised her from the ground, and bore her swiftly away, despite her struggles, but in what direction Barbara knew not, for terrified and nearly suffocated, she. fain ted, and on returning to consciousness, found herself seated in a carriage that was proceeding at a rapid rate, and in complete darkness, for the night was tempestuous, and every blind was down.

At first, in the bewilderment of her mind, Miss Neville imagined she must be under the influence of a dream, but as recollection be came gradually more distinct, she was con vinced her present position was no illusion, but a strange reality, and she attempted to draw up the blinds, which were securely fastened, and she screamed aloud, but no notice was taken of it, for she appeared to be alone in the vehicle. The wind swept past in furious gusts, and the rain came down in torrents, for Barbara could hear it beat violently against tbe win dows and on the roof of the carriage, and plash in the road. She felt half frantic. Who was the author of this outrage, and whither was she to be conveyed, were questions that naturally occurred to her mind. She could only conjec ture that it was at the instigation of Lidy Tresham she had been thus forcibly removed.

Barbara knew of no other person who would be at all likely to commit such an outrage. Yet why should the Dowager have had recourse to such dishonourable means, when it was understood that she was to leave Glen Friors on the following morning. Were they conveying her to France ! Lady Tresham had intimated a wish that she would proceed thither with the Abbe Reignanl ; if so, surely tho Abbe would, most probably, have been her travelling companion, and she was alone ; thore was no one of whom she could ask a question, and her screams and cries for help were totally disregarded, even if they were heard amid the furious raging of the storm. The carriage proceeded at the same rapid rate, notwithstanding the stormy state of the weather, and stopped only a few minutes at different places to change horses, when Barbara endeavoured to make herself heard each time, but in vain ; and iu this manner she proceeded all night ; but as the daylight began to appear, the storm gradually died away ; the wind was less furious ; and though the rain still fell, it was not in such torrents as during the greater part of the night ; and Barbara fancied that, mingled with the sighing of the wind, she heard a sound like the roar of the ocean, at no great distance ; and, as she listened atten tively, became more convinced that she was approaching the sea; but conjecture was at fault as to what part of the coast.

She felt weary with thinking, and closing her eyes, leaned back in the carriage, which appeared to be ascending a steep road, at abated speed, and, occasionally, the vehicle would give a lurch, as though passing over a rough part, and jolted heavily along for some time, evidently up a steep, and, apparently, a circuitous path. The hoarse dash of the waves beating against the shore became more perfectly audible, and seemed much nearer ; but as the blinds re sisted every attempt to unfasten them, it was impossible for her to judge as to what part of the coast she had been conveyed. It was now getting quite light, and after toiling some distance along the steep and rugged road, the carriage at last stopped. There was a sound of unbarring gates, which were thrown open, and the vehicle passed through ; the gates were instantly re-closed, and the carriage stopped once more.

The door was opened, and a man with his hat slouched over his face, held out his hand to assist Barbara in alighting, but b before her foot had well touched the step, he seized her in his arms, and, with a velocity that deprived her almost of breath, bore her into a hall, paved with stone, then ascended a wide oaken staircase, and set down his half fainting burden in an apartment at the end of a long gallery, down which he passed, placed her on a chair, and before she could speak, he had vanished from the room, and Barbara heard the door locked behind him. She was then, it seemed, a prisoner. After having recovered her breath, Miss Neville rose up to examine the apartment in which she found herself. It was spacious in its dimensions, but the ceiling was low, and it was lighted by one deeply-embayed window, the upper panes of which were of stained glass, embellished with armorial designs, and set in a heavy stone-mullioned frame ; it com manded an extensive view of the ocean, whose foam-ciested waves beat hoarsely against the cliff, on which the house appeared to be built, and from that window, no land was visible.

Barbara turned away, and glanced round the apartment ; the furniture was rich, but cumbrous and old-fashioned, and seemed to belong to a former age. There was a bright fire burning on the hearth, beneath a wide, yawning chimney ; and a table, before the fire, was laid out for breakfast. The house was, evidently, no inn ; and, from the preparations, it seemed as though she had been expected. Where, then, was she, and who was the owner of the mansion ? Barbara supposed she might see some person shortly who would be able to solve the mystery, and she began to be impa tient, when the key was turned in the lock, the door opened, and an elderly female, of most prepossessing appearance, entered the apartment, and, closing the door cautiously. advanced a few steps, and made a low, respect ful curtsey."

"Welcome to Castle Cliff, my lady," said she. " My lady !" repeated Barbara. " For whom do you take me, good woman ; and to whom does this castle belong ?" "Lawk-a-daisy, my lady, not to know the castle that is to be your own ; why, it belongs, madam, to the gentleman that you are going to marry." "That I am going to marry," said Barbara, more perplexed than ever ; " I do not under stand you ; say, at once, who is the owner of this place, to which I have been forcibly con veyed ? And why do you call me ' my lady ?' " " Because I understood that you were going to be married to my master, madam." " And who is your master ?" " Good gracious, madam, that you should ask such a question. My master, madam, is Sir Edgar Stanhope." " Sir Edgar Stanhope," exclaimed Barbara, rising with indignation ; " am I then in the power of Sir Edgar Stanhope ?"

"Why sure, madam, did you not come here with your own free will ?" "No," replied Miss Neville, " I was forcibly brought to this place, entirely against my will, and in ignorance as to where I was to be con veyed." " Good lack !" ejaculated the old dame, raising her hands in apparent astonishment " I received orders from Sir Edgar to get these apartments in readiness to receive a young lady, who was shortly to become his wife, and—" "Is Sir Edgar now at the castle?" asked Barbara. " No, madam, he is not ; I expected to have seen him with your ladyship ; but it seems that an express arrived from town to acquaint the Baronet with the dangerous illness of my lady, his mother, and instead of coming here, as he intended, he was obliged to go to Lon don, for my lady is not expected to live ; and so Sir Edgar's gentleman bad orders to escort you, madam, to the castle ; and he has told me about Lady Stanhope's illness."

Barbara 6unk upon a chair, with a feeling of relief. " Thank Heaven !" said she, " I shall not be subjected to a repetition of his odious ad dresses ; for no earthly power could ever make me consent to become Sir Edgar's wife ; and his conduct in thus forcibly having me con veyed hither, has excited my utmost indignation ; nor will I remain one moment longer than till I can by any means contrive to effect my escape ; and if you would assist me, I will make it worth your while." "Lack-a-day, madam, but this is a sad tale," replied the old woman ; " and what I did not expect to have heard. But there appears such an air of truth about you, that I cannot doubt it ; especially as I know Sir Edgar to be a very gay gentleman, and who never spares expense, nor trouble, to ensure the gratifica tion of any object on which he has set his mind."

" My good woman, will you assist me to escape from this place ?" said Barbara. " Alack, madam, it would be as much as my place was worth ; I am an old servant of the family ; and have lived here as house-keeper the greater part of my life ; and Sir Edgar depends on my fidelity ; though it was a very different account that he told me. The Baronet, madam, says to me, when he came to the castle a short time since, and gave orders about these apartments being put in order — ' Dorothy,' say3 he, ' I think I may rely on your fidelity to me.' ' To be sure you may, Sir Edgar,' says I. ' Well then, my good, old Dorothy,' he says, ' I am going to be married.' ' La, Sir Edgar,' says I, ' sure, but I am very happy to hear it ; and who is the lady ?' ' You may see her, Dorothy, very shortly, as I expect she will come to the old place for a few days ; and mind you behave to her, Dorothy, as if she were already my wife, for I love her better than I ever loved any lady before ; and so mind that you pay her every attention.' But, deary me, madam, little did I expect you would be brought here against your will, though I did think it rather strange when Mr. Travers told me I was to lock the door of your apartment, during Sir Edgar's absence, which you must please to excuse, madam, for such are my orders, and I dare not disobey them."

" I may then consider myself as a prisoner," exclaimed Miss Neville, indignantly; "and that circumstance is a sufficient proof of Sir Edgar's villany." "Deary me, madam, I am very sorry," replied Dorothy, shaking her head, " but you do look sadly fatigued, and I will bring up breakfast immediately — a warm cup of tea will refresh you ; and, afterwards, as you have travelled all night, I would advise you, madam, to lie down for a few hours — the bed is well aired, and is in the adjoining room ; and, until your luggage arrives, I can provide you with a night-dress." Barbara thanked Dorothy, and said she should not undress, but might probably lie down outside the bed, for a short time, as she felt extremely fatigued ; and away bustled Dorothy — " On hospitable thoughts intent." And Miss Neville fell into a deep train of thought, which pursued her after she had thrown herself on the bed, to recruit her ex hausted strength, if possible, by a little repose ; but sleep, at first, fled her weary eyelids, while her mind was harassed with perplexing thoughts.

The dishonourable, unmanly conduct of Sir Edgar Stanhope, after she had so decidedly rejected his addresses, in every shape, filled her with extreme indignation, and she resolved to make her escape as soon as she could, even if she were to throw herself from her window into the sea, and trust to the chance of some fishing boat picking her up, though Barbara hoped she might not be compelled to risk so hazardous an expedient. Then she would regret not having enclosed an address, in her letter to Sir Reginald, though, on further reflection, she considered that as she had decided not to become his wife, unless with the appro bation of Lady Tresham, which was a circumstance not likely to happen, an address could have answered no purpose, only to increase the unhappiness of each, by interviews, that could not fail of being painful to both; therefore, under such circumstances, it was far better that they met not again, and the more Barbara reviewed the matter, the more convinced and satisfied she felt, that she had acted rightly ; her own previous feelings had forewarned her, that the Dowager would be certain to oppose her union with Sir Reginald, to whom she had repeatedly mentioned her doubts and fears, on that point, and never could she consent to marry him, with the terrible denunciation of Lady Tresham ringing in her ear.

No, Pro vidence, for some wise purpose, no doubt, had ordained her destiny to be otherwise, and she must submit patiently to those decrees she could not avert, and with this calm and pious resolution, Barbara, at last, fell into a sound, and refreshing sleep.

Chapter II. Castle Cliff

Barbara was, decidedly, a practical person, and whenever there was a necessity for prompt exertion, let it be what it might, she never failed to arouse the active energies of a firm, well regulated mind, though, as a matter of course, there were regrets, that she could not wholly subdue, though, as much as lay in her power, she would endeavour to soften, by her resignation to a higher power, and thus it was, when unexpectedly summoned into the for midable presence of the haughty Dowager, by a determined effort, she was enabled to sacrifice her own feelings, and her hopes, to what she deemed, a principle of right, under the peculiar, and trying circumstances, in which she was placed. And again, on finding that she bad fallen into the power of a man, whose intentions, she judged from his former conduct, and present outrage, were aDy thing but honourable, whatever he might profess, instead of consuming the time, in useless repinings, Barbara, on awaking refreshed from her slum bers, set about reflecting on what means she could adopt, for her escape.

Dorothy was in the sitting-room, busily arranging the table for dinner, and she again entreated the old woman to assist her, but she shook her head. " I do not know, madam, how I can," said she, " for what would Sir Edgar say, when he came, and found that you were gone ?" "You do not expect he will be here, for some days ?" " I do not madam ; but his coming will de pend entirely on the state of my lady's health, Sir Edgar is her only child, and, of course, he will not leave his mother until she is pro nounced out of danger." " Has the man left, who brought me hither?" " Yes, madam, Mr. Travers left the castle almost immediately, to join his master in Lon don, and he desired me to say your luggage should be forwarded to you as quickly as possible." " Barbara would feel very glad to have her luggage, but she rather wondered how the man might contrive to send it to her."

" Only assist me to make my escape from this place, before Sir Edgar returns," said she, drawing forth the notes she had received from Lady Tresham, " and all these shall be yours." " My dear young Lady," returned, Dorothy, " put up your money, for I will touch none of it. I feel for your situation, but I cannot undertake this matter for you. Sir Edgar will hear from his valet, that you are here, and he will expect to find you when he comes. My husband, who was formerly gamekeeper to Sir Ralph Stanhope, the present baronet's father, and is now, I am sorry to say, not very scrupulous about what matter he undertakes, provided he is paid, has promised Sir Edgar, that you shall be kept secure until his return, therefore, madam, I could not assist you, I grieve to say." "Sir Edgar need not know that you had any hand in my escape, but that I contrived it myself, then no blame could attach to you, therefore, good Dorothy, pray think of this ; you might leave some door open, by accident, you know."

" Well, well, madam, sit ye down and take a bit of dinner, and I will endeavour to think of some plan, but you must submit to my lock ing the door of your apartment, for such have been my orders, and my husband is ever on the watch, when he is at home, to see that I do not fail in my duty." Dorothy shortly after withdrew, and Barbara was again left to her reflections. She had little appetite— still it would be necessary to take some refreshment to support her strength, and she required it all in such an emergency ; therefore, she compelled herself to partake of the nice little repast, Dorothy had prepared for her, and under the circumstances, it was a sensible relief that she had been so fortunate as to meet with a person of Dorothy's kind disposition, and she felt thankful that she had, and when her solitary meal was finished, she took another and a more minute survey of the sitting-room, and the bed-chamber adjoining.

The windows were at a great height from the sea ; but Barbara, as she leaned forward, perceived the jutting point of a rock, at some distance beneath, which could she contrive to gain, she might await the arrival of some fishing-boat ; but then, how was she to gain this ledge, that was a question which occupied her mind the greater part of the evening, as she walked restlessly from one apartment to another, and she trusted that Dorothy might at THE WrORLD. last feel sufficient compassion, to point out some less dangerous method of escape, if she refused, personally, to assist her. Dorothy, by her silence, and sorrowful shaking of the head, appeared not to have hit on any plan that might prove safe for herself, and thus, in dull monotony, and harassing doubts and fears, three or four days wore heavily away.

To her surprise, and, of course, satisfaction, Barbara's luggage actually did arrive, and she found it placed in her bed-room, per fectly correct and safe, precisely as she had arranged it previously to her quitting the Abbey to obey the treacherous message she had re ceived, purporting to have been sent by Doctor Meredith. But at last, Dorothy, in a very cautious tone, as though fearing she might be overheard, in formed Miss Neville she had been considering of a plan for her escape, which she thought might be available, provided it should meet vol. in. c with her approbation, and her husband be kept in ignorance of the matter. " What is the plan you would propose, Dorothy ?" " I will tell you, madam ; Mr. Melville, our rector, who is as worthy a gentleman as ever lived, and is beloved by every body, far and near — for he is as charitable as the day — some times, in the course of his rounds, when he happens to be passing the castle, will come in, and condescend to have a chat with me ; for there is no false pride about Mr. Melville ; and it has occurred to me, that if you had no ob jection, I would say there was a lady in the castle who would be happy to receive a visit from him, and then, madam, you might tell your story your own way, and as it pleased yourself."

Barbara approved of this plan, and asked Dorothy when she expected Mr. Melville might call. " Possibly this very afternoon, madam, and I wish he would ; for my husband is out of the way, and such another opportunity might not again occur. Hark, surely I heard a ring at the gate. If it should chance to be Mr. Melville, shall I ask the gentleman up to your apartment, for fear my Ralph should return ? — and even if he did, why the rector called, you know, madam, of his own accord, I could saj'." " Certainly," said Barbara, with a smile at the good woman's fears, wishing the ring at the bell that announced a visitor, might prove to be Mr. Melville ; and it was that gentleman, Dorothy shortly after bustled into the room to announce — " Lose no time, madam, for fear Ralph should return," said she, in a whisper ; "shall I introduce Mr. Melville ?"

" By all means," replied Barbara ; " I am waiting anxiously to see him ;" and in a few moments Mr. Melvi'le was ushered into the apartment with great form, by Dorothy, who c took occasion to tell Barbara she would keep a watch, lest Ralph might suddenly return. Mr. Melville's appearance was venerable and prepossessing in the highest degree ; his hair was of silvery whiteness, and for his age, which, probably, might be about sixty, in unusual profusion ; his countenance was ex pressive of benevolence, and penetration, and in youth, must have been remarkably hand some ; and even now, when engaged in conver sation, the fire and animation that would kindle in his fine dark eye6, intimated to the beholder that the soul was still bright within, and untouched by the infirmities of declining years.

Barbara felt, as she gazed upon him, and returned his kind greeting, that she might rely, with perfect security, on the faith and friendship of such a man, and she fearlessly entered into a relation of the unpleasant circumstances in which she was then most unfor tunately placed, in the hope that she might not only meet with sympathy, but prompt assistance, as she dreaded that each returning day might bring Sir Edgar to the castle. Mr. Melville listened with great attention, and offered no remark, until Barbara had con cluded. He then told her a rumour had reached him, about a lady having arrived at Castle Cliff, and he had called on purpose to ascertain particulars from Dorothy. " For we country folk," continued he, smiling, " are somewhat curious about our neighbours ; and, especially, if it happen to be a new arrival ; that circumstance is quite sufficient to call forth every inquisi tive feeling ; but I was totally unprepared to meet with a lady who had suffered such a wrong, nor could I have believed that a civilised being who had any pretension to the name of gentleman would have committed such a base, dishonourable action ; whatever as sistance I can offer you, shall be heartily at your service."