Time passes with a measured and memorable wing during the first periodof a sojourn in a new place, among new characters and new manners.Every person, every incident, every feeling, touches and stirs theimagination. The restless mind creates and observes at the same time.Indeed there is scarcely any popular tenet more erroneous than thatwhich holds that when time is slow, life is dull. It is very often andvery much the reverse. If we look back on those passages of our lifewhich dwell most upon the memory, they are brief periods full of actionand novel sensation. Egremont found this so during the first days of hisnew residence in Mowedale. The first week, an epoch in his life, seemedan age; at the end of the first month, he began to deplore the swiftnessof time and almost to moralize over the brevity of existence. He foundthat he was leading a life of perfect happiness, but of remarkablesimplicity; he wished it might never end, but felt difficulty incomprehending how in the first days of his experience of it, it hadseemed so strange; almost as strange as it was sweet. The day thatcommenced early, was past in reading--books lent him often too by SybilGerard--sometimes in a ramble with her and Morley, who had time muchat his command, to some memorable spot in the neighbourhood, or in thesport which the river and the rod secured Egremont. In the evening, heinvariably repaired to the cottage of Gerard, beneath whose humble roofhe found every female charm that can fascinate, and conversation thatstimulated his intelligence. Gerard was ever the same; hearty, simple,with a depth of feeling and native thought on the subjects on which theytouched, and with a certain grandeur of sentiment and conception whichcontrasted with his social position, but which became his idiosyncracy.Sybil spoke little, but hung upon the accents of her father; yet everand anon her rich tones conveyed to the charmed ear of Egremont somedeep conviction, the earnestness of her intellect as remarkable asthe almost sacred repose of her mien and manner. Of Morley, at firstEgremont saw a great deal: he lent our friend books, opened withunreserve and with great richness of speculative and illustrative power,on the questions which ever engaged him, and which were new and highlyinteresting to his companion. But as time advanced, whether it were thatthe occupations of Morley increased, and the calls on his hours left himfewer occasions for the indulgence of social intercourse, Egremont sawhim seldom, except at Gerard's cottage, where generally he might befound in the course of the week, and their rambles together had entirelyceased.
Alone, Egremont mused much over the daughter of Gerard, but shrinkingfrom the precise and the definite, his dreams were delightful, butvague. All that he asked was, that his present life should go on forever; he wished for no change, and at length almost persuaded himselfthat no change could arrive; as men who are basking in a summer sun,surrounded by bright and beautiful objects, cannot comprehend how theseasons can ever alter; that the sparkling foliage should shrivel andfall away, the foaming waters become icebound, and the blue serene, adark and howling space.
In this train of mind, the early days of October having already stolenon him, an incident occurred which startled him in his retirement, andrendered it necessary that he should instantly quit it. Egremonthad entrusted the secret of his residence to a faithful servant whocommunicated with him when necessary, under his assumed name. Throughthese means he received a letter from his mother, written from London,where she had unexpectedly arrived, entreating him, in urgent terms, torepair to her without a moment's delay, on a matter of equal interestand importance to herself and him. Such an appeal from such a quarter,from the parent that had ever been kind, and the friend that had beenever faithful, was not for a moment to be neglected. Already a periodhad elapsed since its transmission, which Egremont regretted. Heresolved at once to quit Mowedale, nor could he console himself withthe prospect of an immediate return. Parliament was to assemble in theensuing month, and independent of the unknown cause which summoned himimmediately to town, he was well aware that much disagreeable businessawaited him which could no longer be postponed. He had determined notto take his seat unless the expenses of his contest were previouslydischarged, and despairing of his brother's aid, and shrinking fromtrespassing any further on his mother's resources, the future lookedgloomy enough: indeed nothing but the frequent presence and the constantinfluence of Sybil had driven from his mind the ignoble melancholywhich, relieved by no pensive fancy, is the invariable attendant ofpecuniary embarrassment.
And now he was to leave her. The event, rather the catastrophe,which under any circumstances, could not be long postponed, was to beprecipitated. He strolled up to the cottage to bid her farewell and toleave kind words for her father. Sybil was not there. The old dame whokept their home informed him that Sybil was at the convent, but wouldreturn in the evening. It was impossible to quit Mowedale without seeingSybil; equally impossible to postpone his departure. But by travellingthrough the night, the lost hours might be regained. And Egremont madehis arrangements, and awaited with anxiety and impatience the lastevening.
The evening, like his heart, was not serene. The soft air that hadlingered so long with them, a summer visitant in an autumnal sky andloth to part, was no more present. A cold harsh wind, gradually rising,chilled the system and grated on the nerves. There was misery in itsblast and depression in its moan. Egremont felt infinitely dispirited.The landscape around him that he had so often looked upon with love andjoy, was dull and hard; the trees dingy, the leaden waters motionless,the distant hills rough and austere. Where was that translucent sky,once brilliant as his enamoured fancy; those bowery groves of aromaticfervor wherein he had loved to roam and muse; that river of swiftand sparkling light that flowed and flashed like the current of hisenchanted hours? All vanished--as his dreams.
He stood before the cottage of Gerard; he recalled the eve that he hadfirst gazed upon its moonlit garden. What wild and delicious thoughtswere then his! They were gone like the illumined hour. Nature andfortune had alike changed. Prescient of sorrow, almost propheticof evil, he opened the cottage door, and the first person his eyeencountered was Morley.
Egremont had not met him for some time, and his cordial greeting ofEgremont to-night contrasted with the coldness, not to say estrangement,which to the regret and sometimes the perplexity of Egremont hadgradually grown up between them. Yet on no occasion was his presenceless desired by our friend. Morley was talking as Egremont entered withgreat animation in his hand a newspaper, on a paragraph contained inwhich he was commenting. The name of Marney caught the ear of Egremontwho turned rather pale at the sound, and hesitated on the threshold. Theunembarrassed welcome of his friends however re-assured him, and in amoment he even ventured to enquire the subject of their conversation.Morley immediately referring to the newspaper said, "This is what I havejust read--
"EXTRAORDINARY SPORT AT THE EARL OF MARNEY'S.
On Wednesday, in a small cover called the Horns, near Marney Abbey, hisgrace the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine, the Earl of Marney, Colonel Rippe andCaptain Grouse, with only four hours shooting, bagged the extraordinarynumber of seven hundred and thirty head of game, namely hares threehundred and thirty-nine; pheasants two hundred and twenty-one; partridgesthirty-four; rabbits eighty-seven; and the following day upwards of fiftyhares, pheasants, &c., (wounded the previous day) were picked up. Outof the four hours' shooting two of the party were absent an hour anda-half, namely the Earl of Marney and Captain Grouse, attending anagricultural meeting in the neighbourhood; the noble earl with hisusual considerate condescension having kindly consented personallyto distribute the various prizes to the labourers whose good conductentitled them to the distinction."
"What do you think of that, Franklin?" said Morley. "That is our worthyfriend of Marney Abbey, where we first met. You do not know this part ofthe country, or you would smile at the considerate condescension of theworst landlord in England; and who was, it seems, thus employed the dayor so after his battue, as they call it." And Morley turning the paperread another paragraph:--
"At a Petty Sessions holden at the Green Dragon Inn, Marney, Friday,October--, 1837.
"Magistrates present: The Ear
l of Marney, the Rev. Felix Flimsey, andCaptain Grouse.
"Information against Robert Hind for a trespass in pursuit of game inBlackrock Wood, the property of Sir Vavasour Firebrace, Bart. The casewas distinctly proved; several wires being found in the pocket of thedefendant. Defendant was fined in the full penalty of forty shillingsand costs twenty-seven; the Bench being of opinion there was no excusefor him, Hind being in regular employ as a farm labourer and gaining hisseven shillings a-week. Defendant being unable to pay the penalty, wassent for two months to Marham Gaol."
"What a pity," said Morley, "that Robert Hind, instead of meditating thesnaring of a hare, had not been fortunate enough to pick up a maimed onecrawling about the fields the day after the battue. It would certainlyhave been better for himself; and if he has a wife and family, betterfor the parish."
"Oh!" said Gerard, "I doubt not they were all picked up by the poultererwho has the contract: even the Normans did not sell their game."
"The question is," said Morley, "would you rather be barbarous or mean;that is the alternative presented by the real and the pseudo Normannobility of England. Where I have been lately, there is a BishopsgateStreet merchant who has been made for no conceiveable public reason abaron bold. Bigod and Bohun could not enforce the forest laws with suchseverity as this dealer in cotton and indigo."
"It is a difficult question to deal with--this affair of the game laws,"said Egremont; "how will you reach the evil? Would you do away with theoffence of trespass? And if so, what is your protection for property?"
"It comes to a simple point though," said Morley, "the Territorialistsmust at length understand that they cannot at the same time have theprofits of a farm and the pleasures of a chase."
At this moment entered Sybil. At the sight of her, the remembrance thatthey were about to part, nearly overwhelmed Egremont. Her supremacy overhis spirit was revealed to him, and nothing but the presence of otherpersons could have prevented him avowing his entire subjection. His handtrembled as he touched her's, and his eye, searching yet agitated, wouldhave penetrated her serene soul. Gerard and Morley, somewhat withdrawn,pursued their conversation while Egremont hanging over Sybil, attemptedto summon courage to express to her his sad adieu. It was in vain.Alone, perhaps he might have poured forth a passionate farewell. Butconstrained he became embarrassed; and his conduct was at the same timetender and perplexing. He asked and repeated questions which had alreadybeen answered. His thoughts wandered from their conversation but notfrom her with whom he should have conversed. Once their eyes met, andSybil observed his suffused with tears. Once he looked round and caughtthe glance of Morley, instantly withdrawn, but not easy to be forgotten.
Shortly after this and earlier than his wont, Morley rose and wishedthem good night. He shook hands with Egremont and bade him farewell withsome abruptness. Harold who seemed half asleep suddenly sprang from theside of his mistress and gave an agitated bark. Harold was never veryfriendly to Morley, who now tried to soothe him, but in vain. The doglooked fiercely at him and barked again, but the moment Morley haddisappeared, Harold resumed his usual air of proud high-bred gentleness,and thrust his nose into the hand of Egremont, who patted him withfondness.
The departure of Morley was a great relief to Egremont, though thetask that was left was still a painful effort. He rose and walked fora moment up and down the room, commenced an unfinished sentence,approached the hearth and leant over the mantel; and then at lengthextending his hand to Gerard he exclaimed, in a trembling voice, "Bestof friends, I must leave Mowedale."
"I am very sorry," said Gerard; "and when?"
"Now," said Egremont.
"Now!" said Sybil.
"Yes; this instant. My summons is urgent. I ought to have left thismorning. I came here then to bid you farewell," he said looking atSybil, "to express to you how deeply I was indebted to you for all yourgoodness--how dearly I shall cherish the memory of these happy days--thehappiest I have ever known;" and his voice faltered. "I came also toleave a kind message for you, my friend, a hope that we might meet againand soon--but your daughter was absent, and I could not leave Mowedalewithout seeing either of you. So I must contrive to get on through thenight."
"Well we lose a very pleasant neighbour," said Gerard; "we shall missyou, I doubt not, eh, Sybil?"
But Sybil had turned away her head; she was leaning over and seemed tobe caressing Harold and was silent.
How much Egremont would have liked to have offered or invitedcorrespondence; to have proffered his services when the occasionpermitted; to have said or proposed many things that might havecherished their acquaintance or friendship; but embarrassed by hisincognito and all its consequent deception, he could do nothing buttenderly express his regret at parting, and speak vaguely and almostmysteriously of their soon again meeting. He held out again his handto Gerard who shook it heartily: then approaching Sybil, Egremont said,"you have shewn me a thousand kindnesses, which I cherish," he addedin a lower tone, "above all human circumstances. Would you deign tolet this volume lie upon your table," and he offered Sybil an Englishtranslation of Thomas a Kempis, illustrated by some masterpieces. In itsfirst page was written "Sybil, from a faithful friend."
"I accept it," said Sybil with a trembling voice and rather pale, "inremembrance of a friend." She held forth her hand to Egremont, whoretained it for an instant, and then bending very low, pressed it to hislips. As with an agitated heart, he hastily crossed the threshold ofthe cottage, something seemed to hold him back. He turned round. Thebloodhound had seized him by the coat and looked up to him with anexpression of affectionate remonstrance against his departure. Egremontbent down, caressed Harold and released himself from his grasp.
When Egremont left the cottage, he found the country enveloped in athick white mist, so that had it not been for some huge black shadowswhich he recognized as the crests of trees, it would have beenvery difficult to discriminate the earth from the sky, and the mistthickening as he advanced, even these fallacious landmarks threatened todisappear. He had to walk to Mowbray to catch a night train for London.Every moment was valuable, but the unexpected and increasing obscurityrendered his progress slow and even perilous. The contiguity to theriver made every step important. He had according to his calculationsproceeded nearly as far as his old residence, and notwithstanding thecareless courage of youth and the annoyance of relinquishing a project,intolerable at that season of life, was meditating the expediency ofrenouncing that night the attempt on Mowbray and of gaining his formerquarters for shelter. He stopped, as he had stopped several timesbefore, to calculate rather than to observe. The mist was so thick thathe could not see his own extended hand. It was not the first time thatit had occurred to him that some one or something was hovering about hiscourse.
"Who is there?" exclaimed Egremont. But no one answered.
He moved on a little, but very slowly. He felt assured that his earcaught a contiguous step. He repeated his interrogatory in a loudertone, but it obtained no response. Again he stopped. Suddenly he wasseized; an iron grasp assailed his throat, a hand of steel griped hisarm. The unexpected onset hurried him on. The sound of waters assuredhim that he was approaching the precipitous bank of that part of theriver which, from a ledge of pointed rocks, here formed rapids. Vigorousand desperate, Egremont plunged like some strong animal on whom a beastof prey had made a fatal spring. His feet clung to the earth as if theywere held by some magnetic power. With his disengaged arm he grappledwith his mysterious and unseen foe.
At this moment he heard the deep bay of a hound.
"Harold!" he exclaimed. The dog, invisible, sprang forward and seizedupon his assailant. So violent was the impulse that Egremont staggeredand fell, but he fell freed from his dark enemy. Stunned and exhausted,some moments elapsed before he was entirely himself. The wind hadsuddenly changed; a violent gust had partially dispelled the mist; theoutline of the landscape was in many places visible. Beneath himwere the rapids of the Mowe, over which a watery moon threw a faint,flickering light. Egremont was
lying on its precipitous bank; and Haroldpanting was leaning over him and looking in his face, and sometimeslicking him with that tongue which, though not gifted with speech, hadspoken so seasonably in the moment of danger.
END OF THE THIRD BOOK
BOOK IV
Book 4 Chapter 1