CHAPTER I.

It may be very well in most cases to plunge, according to the rule of the Latin poet, into the middle of things. It may be very well even, according to the recommendation of Count Antoine Hamilton, to 'begin with the beginning.' But there are other cases where there may be antecedents to the actual story, which require to be known before the tale itself is rightly comprehended. With this view, then, I will give one short scene not strictly attached to that which is to follow, ere I proceed with my history.

In a small high room of the oldest part of St. John's College, Cambridge, in a warm and glowing day of the early spring, and at about seven o'clock in the morning, there sat a young man with his cheek leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon the page of an open book. There were many others closed and unclosed upon the table around him, as well as various pieces of paper, traced with every sort of curious figure which geometrical science ever discovered or measured. The page, too, on which his eyes were bent, was well nigh as full of ciphers as of words, and it was evident, from everything around, that the studies of the tenant of that chamber were of a very abstruse character.

And yet to gaze at him as he sits there, and to consider attentively the lines of the face, and the development of the organs of the head, the physiognomist or phrenologist would, at once pronounce that, although by no means wanting in any of the powers of mind, that young man was by nature disposed to seek the pleasures of imagination rather than the dry and less exciting, though more satisfactory, results of science. There were some slight indications, too, about his room, of such tastes and propensities. In a wine-glass, half filled with water, were some early flowers, so arranged that every hue gained additional beauty from that with which it was contrasted; a flute and some music lay upon a distant table; one window, which looked towards the gardens, and through which came the song of birds and the fragrant breath of the fresh fields, was thrown wide open; while another, which looked towards courts and buildings, was closed, and had the curtains drawn. Nevertheless, had any eye watched him since he rose, it would

have found that from the hour of five he had remained intent upon the problems before him, suffering not a thought to wander, neither rising from the table, nor turning his eyes even for a moment to the worshipped beauty of external nature. The air came in gently from without, and fanned his cheek, and waved the curls of his dark hair; the smell of the flowers was wafted to the sense; the song of the bird sounded melodious in his ear; but not the breeze, nor the odour, nor the lay called off his attention from the dry and heavy task before him. His cheek was pale with thought, his fine eyes looked oppressed with study, though still bright; and the broad expansive brow ached with the weary labours of many a day and night: labours to which he saw no end, from which he hardly hoped to obtain any very great result. Tall and manly in person, with limbs apparently formed for robust exercises, and a mind fitted for the enjoyment of every refined and graceful pleasure, he had chained down the body and, I may almost add, the spirit, to the hard captivity of intense study, in the hope

some day of making himself a great name, and recovering from the grasp of fortune that wealth and station which had been the inheritance of his ancestors.

Still he felt weary and sick at heart; still hopeless despondency would hold him enthralled; and though, with, an unflinching perseverance, for many a long year he had pursued the same weary round, he felt that he was fitted for other things, and regretted that the energies of his nature were doomed to struggle with objects the most repulsive to his tastes.

There was a knock at the door; not a light and timid tap, but strong and familiar. Without raising his eyes, however, he said, "Come in," and the next instant a gentleman entered, in a black gown and cap. He was an elderly man, with a somewhat florid and jovial, but upon the whole, benevolent countenance. His forehead was high, and very broad over the brows, and there were lines of thought upon it which mingled somewhat curiously with the cheerful and almost jocular expression of the lips and eyes. Indeed, he was a man of great eminence in science and in literature, who, having in early life conquered all the difficulties of very arduous pursuits, found no longer any trouble in those tasks which would have startled or overpowered many another man. and who consequently walked lightly under burdens which had become familiar, and which had in reality no weight for him, because he had become accustomed to bear them.

"Well, Edward," he said—the young man was a distant relation of his own—"still poring and plodding! My dear lad, you must not carry this too far. You have already done much, very much, and you must take some thought of health."

The young man rose with a faint smile, and placed a chair for his old relation. "I have both your example and your precept, my dear sir," he replied, "for pursuing the course before me without relaxation. You told me, some four years ago, that before you were as old as I was then, you had taken high honours at this university. I could only do so last year; and you have often said that unremitting study in youth is the only means of winning a title in after years to repose and enjoyment. Besides, I must study hard to recover lost time, and to fit myself for the course before me."

"True, true, very true!" rejoined the elder man; "but you have studied hard for nearly six years now. There was the great fault. You did not begin early enough; your father should have sent you here full two years before you came. Let me see: you are now six-and-twenty, and for any man destined to fight his way in one of the learned professions, it is never too early to begin to labour."

"But neither my poor father nor myself," replied the young gentleman, "were at all aware that I should ever have, as you so justly call it, to fight my way in one of the learned professions, I was then the heir of six or seven thousand a year; I have now only the income of a fellowship; and that I could not have obtained had I not been supported here by your bounty."

"Say nothing of that Edward," replied the other; "neither let us look back. You have done enough for the present. You have distinguished yourself here; after the long vacation you will be called to the bar, and eminence, doubtless, is before you; but still there are a few hard steps to be taken, which require strength of body as well as powers of mind, and in your case both mind and body will suffer if you pursue this course any farther. Come, I have something to propose which I think will be gratifying to you, and which I know will be good for you. The friends of a young nobleman, whose father I knew well, have written to request that I would recommend to them some competent person to accompany their relation upon a short tour which he is about immediately to make upon the continent. The terms they propose are very liberal; the expedition will be a pleasant one; and if you choose to undertake the task, it will refresh and invigorate you, both mentally and corporeally. The young man will be of age in the autumn, and will return about the very time when you are to be called to the

bar. The connexion is a very good one, and few men get on in life without powerful friends. By both information and character you are fitted to do justice to the trust reposed in you, and my advice is to accept the offer without hesitation. You know I would not recommend anything to you without due consideration of all the circumstances."

The young man paused thoughtfully ere he replied. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. At the time when all his prospects in life were blighted he had been preparing to set out, with all the resources of wealth at his command, upon such a tour as that in which he was now desired to share. Very different were the circumstances, it is true, but still the pleasures which he had then anticipated had nought to do with wealth, except as a means. He had formed no schemes of display, of luxury, or splendour: he had only thought of visiting scenes rich in natural beauty and historic recollections; of treading where great men had trod; of dwelling for a time where great deeds had been performed; of seeing the face of earth in its most beautiful and its grandest aspects; and all that was now before him. But yet there was a certain repugnance to the idea of dependence, to the thought of linking himself, even for a time, to a being of whose character, conduct, and views, he knew nothing, and his first reply was doubtful.

"Who is this young lord, my dear sir?" he asked. "I should be very willing to go, as you judge it right, for, to say the truth, I am very weary of this life, which only the strong impulse of necessity has made me follow; but you can easily conceive I should not like the task of guiding every young man through Europe;" and he added, with a melancholy smile, "I am not fitted for bear-leading, as you know, and in this world there are many bears in high places."

"True," replied his relation, with a slightly sarcastic smile, and a touch of that unextinguishable jealousy which exists between St. John's and another great college—"true; we see that every day at Trinity; but this young man is not a bear, nor a bear's cub; or, at all events, he is well licked. It is young Lord Hadley, whom you must have seen."

"Oh! I know him well," replied the student, with a well-satisfied look. "Though not perfection, he is very much better than most young men of the present day; a little rash, a little given to dissipation, perhaps, but right at heart, kind and well feeling; too easily led, but yet, I do believe, always preferring right to wrong."

"As to rashness," replied his companion, "you are rash enough, Ned, yourself; and as to his being easily led, that will be an advantage while he is with you. You have that decision of character which he wants; and will, I am sure, have power to restrain his habits of dissipation, and supply that firmness, for the time at least, of which he is destitute. I can see by your face that you are willing to undertake the task, and, therefore, I shall write in that sense."

Thus saying, he was turning towards the door; but he stopped, after taking a step or two, and coming back to the table, laid down upon it a piece of paper, which, with one of those curious tricks whereof most men have some, he had been twisting first round one finger and then round another, during the whole time that the conversation lasted. "You will want a supply for your preparations, my dear lad," he said; "there is a cheque for a couple of hundred pounds. You can repay me when you are a judge."

"Indeed I do not want it," answered the other, with a slight glow coming into his face; "I have quite enough."

"Pooh! nonsense," said the old man; "if you have enough without it, buy oranges with it." And without waiting for farther discussion, he left the room.

CHAPTER II.

It was a dark autumnal night, the wind was strong and very fierce, sweeping along over fields and downs, tearing the branches and the withering leaves from the trees, and screaming along the rocks and tall precipitous cliffs upon a high and iron-bound part of the coast of England. There was no moon in the sky, but from time to time the sudden glance and disappearance of a star showed how rapidly the dull gray clouds were hurried over the face of the heavens; and the moaning of the trees and shrubs, added to the wild whistling of the gale, showed how it vexed the still, reposing, rooted things of creation in its harsh fury as it swept through them.

On the summit of one of the most elevated points upon the coast there was a little indentation, extending from the highest point of the downs to the edge of the cliff, where it was somewhat lower than at other places. This little hollow was sheltered from most of the winds that blew, except when a gale came very nearly due west; and in consequence of this protection some low scrubby trees had gathered themselves together, as in a place of refuge, never venturing to raise their heads above the neighbouring slopes, but spreading out broad and tolerably strong in the lower part of the dell. From them there was a footpath extending on either side; on the one, leading to the top of the precipice, on the other, to the high road, which lay at about half a mile's distance. The path was little frequented, and the short mountain grass encroaching upon it here and there, almost obliterated the track, but in passing towards the top of the cliff it wound in and out amongst some large stones and rocks, with here and there a scattered tree overshadowing it as it ran on.

By the side of one of those rocks, on the night of which I speak, and guarded by it from the direct course of the blast, were seated three powerful men, each of whom had reached what is called the middle age. They had a lantern with them; and between the lantern and the road one of them was seated with his back to the latter, his left shoulder touching the rock, and his face towards the sea. Thus, no one coming from the eastward could see the light itself, although, perhaps, a faint general glimmer could be perceived; but at the same time the lantern could be distinguished by any one on the sea at the distance of half a mile or more. Within that distance, the interposing cliff must have cut it off from the eyes of wanderers upon the wave.

The men were evidently watching for something, and as usually happens in such moments of expectation, their conversation was broken and desultory. None of them seemed to be armed, and two of them were clothed in sailors' jackets, while the third wore a large shaggy great coat, such as was commonly at that time used by pilots. He was a tall, strong, good-looking man enough, with a dark complexion, and a skin apparently well accustomed to exposure in all sorts of weathers, being rough and florid, and appearing, perhaps, more so than was really the case, from the glare of the lantern and the contrast of his own gray hair, as its long curls waved about in the night wind. The others were ordinary, hard-featured men, with that sort of grave, self-composed aspect, which is not at all unusual in sailors of all classes: men of few words and vigorous action, who can perhaps troll a song or crack a jest with their boon companions, but who are the most opposite creatures in the world to the sailor of drama or romance. But he in

the rough coat had something about him which could not well be passed without attention by any one who had even ordinary powers of observation; and yet it is very difficult to describe what it was, for as he sat there perfectly still and tranquil, there was nothing, to all appearance, likely to call for remark. Yet it would have been difficult for any one to watch him at that moment without feeling that there was a something impressive in his figure, a dignity of aspect it may be called, for there is such a thing even in the rudest and least cultivated.

The wind whistled loud and strong; it was heard rushing and roaring farther down, and hissing and screaming high above over the bleak tops of the hills. There was a cheerless, desolate sound about it: a sound of warning and of woe. Well might the traveller hasten towards his journey's end, and the weary, houseless wanderer seek the shelter of shed or out-house, or the warm side, of the farmer's stack. But still those three men sat there almost motionless. The rock protected them to a certain degree, but the blast would whirl round the point and sweep chilling in amongst them. They were very silent, too, and not a word had been spoken for some ten minutes, when one said to the other, "It won't do; the wind's getting to the southward, and if it shifts but one point she can't lay her course."

"We must wait and see," said the man in the rough coat. "I hope they won't try, if the wind does shift."

"It has shifted already," said the third; "it is coming right over from the great house."

No reply was made, and they all fell into silence again.

"I hope your people are keeping a good look-out, Master Clive," said one of the two sailor-looking men, after another long pause. "Didn't I hear that you had sent your two young men away over to Dorchester?"

"I did it on purpose," replied the other; "but do not you be afraid of the look-out. It is trusted to one who won't be found wanting."

"It would be awkward if any of them were to pounce upon us," rejoined the other.

"They might rue it," replied the man in the pilot's coat; and again the conversation stopped.

About three minutes after, there was heard a loud halloo from the side of the high-road, and one of the men started up; but the voice of him they called Clive was heard saying, in a low tone, "Lie close, lie close! I don't know the tongue; some drunken fool, perhaps, who has lost his way; but we shall soon see." And at the same time, drawing the lantern nearer to him, he put his hand into one of the large pockets of his coat, and pulled out a pistol, which he looked at by the dull light. The next instant the halloo was repeated, and the cock of the pistol was heard to click.

"They are coming this way," said one of the sailors; "hadn't we better dowse the glim, Master Clive?"

"No," replied the other, sternly; "would you have me endanger the boat and our friends in her, to save myself from a little risk?"

As he spoke, steps were heard coming along the side of the hill, and the moment after, a voice called aloud, "Is there a person of the name of Clive there?"

The tone was that of a gentleman: there was no country accent, no broad pronunciation; and Clive instantly started up, replying, "Yes; what do you want with me?"

"I am sorry to tell you," said the voice they had heard, "that an accident has happened to your daughter;" and at the same time a tall, powerful, and handsome young man advanced towards the light. "It is not, I trust, very serious," he added, in a kindly tone, as if anxious to allay the apprehensions which his first words must have produced. "I am afraid her right arm is broken, but she complains of no other injury."

The old man put the pistol he had in his hand to the half-cock, and replaced the weapon in his pocket, gazing in the stranger's face with a look of apprehension and inquiry, but without making any reply for some moments.

"Are you telling me the truth, sir?" he said at length.

"I am, indeed," replied the stranger; "I would not deceive you for the world. A gentleman, with whom I have been travelling, and myself, got out of the carriage to walk up the hill, and just at the top I saw something lying near the road, and heard, as I thought, a groan. On going nearer, I found a girl, partly covered with stones and dirt, and apparently unable to extricate herself. She said she was not much hurt, but could not shake off the mass that had fallen upon her, being unable to use her right arm."

"It's that devil of a wall has fallen upon her," said one of the sailors. "I knew it would come down some day in the first gale, for it was all bulging out, and nothing but loose stones at the best."

"Exactly so," said the stranger; "such was the account of the accident she herself gave; but it would seem that the wall brought part of the bank with it, which probably prevented the stones from injuring her more severely."

"Where is she?" demanded Clive, abruptly.

"She is in the carriage, just where the path joins the high road. We were taking her home as fast as possible, when she asked me to come down hither, and give you information of what had happened, for she said it was necessary you should know."