The Smuggler Part 39

THE LADY'S SONG.

"Oh! there be many, many griefs, In this world's sad career, That shun the day, that fly the gaze, And never, never meet the ear.

But what is darkest--darkest of them all?

The pang of love betray'd?-- The hopes of youth all fleeting by-- Spring flowers that early, early fade?

But there are griefs--ay, griefs as deep: The friendship turn'd to hate-- And, deeper still--and deeper still, Repentance come too late!--too late!

The doubt of those we love; and more The rayless, dull despair, When trusted hearts are worthless found, And all our dreams are air--but air.

Deep in each bosom's secret cell, The hermit-sorrows lie; And thence--unheard on earth--they raise The voice of prayer on high--on high.

Oh! there be many, many griefs, In this world's sad career, That shun the day, that fly the gaze, And, never, never meet the ear."

Thus sang the lady; and one of her hearers, at least, was delighted with the sweet voice, and the sweet music, and the expression which she gave to the whole. But though he listened with deep attention, both to words and tones, as long as her lips moved, yet, when the mere instrumental part of the music recommenced, which was the case between every second and third stanza--and the symphonetic parts of every song were somewhat long in those days--he instantly remembered the object with which he had first asked her to sing, (little thinking that such pleasure would be his reward;) and bending down his head, as if he were paying her some lover-like compliment on her performance, he asked her quietly, as I have said before, a question or two, closely connected with the subject on which both their minds were at that moment princ.i.p.ally bent.

Thus, at the first pause, he inquired--"Do you know--did you ever see, in times long past, a gentleman of the name of Warde--a clergyman--a good and clever man, but somewhat strange and wild?"

"No," answered Zara, looking down at the keys of the harpsichord; "I know no one of that name;" and she recommenced the song.

When her voice again ceased, the young officer seemed to have thought farther; and he asked, in the same low tone, "Did you ever know a gentleman answering that description--his features must once have been good--somewhat strongly marked, but fine and of an elevated expression, with a good deal of wildness in the eye, but a peculiarly bland and beautiful smile when he is pleased--too remarkable to be overlooked or forgotten?"

"Can you be speaking of Mr. Osborn?" asked Zara, in return. "I barely recollect him in former days; but I and Edith met him about ten days ago; and he remembered and spoke to her."

The song required her attention; and though she would fain have played the symphony over again, she was afraid her father would remark it, and went on to sing the last two stanzas. As soon as she had concluded, however, she said, in a low, quick voice, "He is a very extraordinary man."

"Can you give me any sign by which I should know him?" asked Digby.

"He has now got a number of blue lines traced on his face," answered Zara; "he went abroad to preach to the savages, I have heard. He is a good man, but very eccentric."

At the same moment the voice of her father was raised, saying, "I wish, my dear, you would not sing such melancholy things as that.

Cannot you find something gayer? I do not like young ladies singing such dull ditties, only fit for sentimental misses of the true French school."

What was the true French school of his day, I cannot tell. Certainly, it must have been very different from the present.

"Perhaps Sir Edward will sing something more cheerful himself?"

answered Zara.

"Oh, I am a very bad musician," replied the young officer; "I cannot even accompany myself. If you will, and have any of the few things I know, I shall be very happy.--In everything, one can but try," he added, in a low voice, "still hoping for the best."

Zara looked over her collection of music with him; and at last she opened one song which was somewhat popular in those times, though it has long fallen into well-merited oblivion. "Can you venture to sing that?" she asked, pointing to the words rather than the music; "it is quite a soldier's song."

Sir Edward Digby read the first line; and thinking he observed a double meaning in her question, he answered, "Oh, yes, that I will, if you will consent to accompany me."

Zara smiled, and sat down to the instrument again; and the reader must judge from the song itself whether the young officer's conjecture that her words had an enigmatical sense was just or not.

THE OFFICER'S SONG.

"A star is still beaming Beyond the grey cloud; Its light rays are streaming, With nothing to shroud; And the star shall be there When the clouds pa.s.s away; Its l.u.s.tre unchanging, Immortal its ray.

"'Tis the guide of the true heart, In field, or on sea; 'Tis the hope of the slave, And the trust of the free; The light of the lover, Whatever a.s.sail; The strength of the honest, That never can fail.

"Waft, waft, thou light wind, From the peace-giving ray, The vapours of sorrow, That over it stray; And let it pour forth, All unshrouded and bright, That those who now mourn, May rejoice in its light."

"G.o.d grant it!" murmured the voice of Sir Robert Croyland. Zara said, "Amen," in her heart; and in a minute or two after, her father rose, and left the room.

During the rest of the evening, nothing very important occurred in Harbourne House. Mrs. Barbara played her usual part, and would contribute to Sir Edward Digby's amus.e.m.e.nt in a most uncomfortable manner. The following morning, too, went by without any incident of importance, till about ten o'clock, when breakfast just being over, and Zara having been called from the room by her maid, Sir Robert's butler announced to his master, that the groom had returned from Mr.

Croyland's.

"Where is the note?" demanded his master, eagerly.

"He has not brought one, Sir Robert," replied the servant, "only a message, sir, to say that Mr. Croyland is very sorry he cannot spare the horses to-day, as they were out a long way yesterday."

Sir Robert Croyland started up in a state of fury not at all becoming.

He stamped, he even swore. But we have got rid of a great many of the vices of those times; and swearing was so common at the period I speak of, that it did not even startle Mrs. Barbara. Her efforts, however, to soothe her brother, only served to irritate him the more; and next he swore at her, which did surprise her mightily.

He then fell into a fit of thought, which ended in his saying aloud, "Yes, that must be the way. It is his business, and so----" But Sir Robert did not conclude the sentence, retiring to his own sitting-room, and there writing a letter.

When he had done, he paused and meditated, his mind rambling over many subjects, though still occupied intensely with only one. "I am a most unfortunate man," he thought. "Nothing since that wretched day has ever gone right with me. Even trifles combine to frustrate everything I attempt. Would I had died many years ago! Poor Edith--poor girl--she must know more sorrow still, and yet it must be done, or I am lost!--If that wretched youth had been killed in that affray yesterday, it would have all been over. Was there no bullet that could find him?--and yet, perhaps, it might not have had the effect.--No, no; there would have been some new kind of demand from that greedy, craving scoundrel.--May there not be such even now? Will he give up that fatal paper?--He shall--by Heaven, he shall!--But I must send the letter. Sir Edward Digby will think this all very strange. How unfortunate, that it should have happened just when he was here. Would to Heaven I had any one to consult with! But I am lone, lone indeed.

My wife, my sons, my friends,--gone, gone, all gone! It is very sad;"

and after having mused for several minutes more, he rang the bell, gave the servant who appeared the letter which he had just written, and directed him to take it over to Mr. Radford's as soon as possible.

Returning to the room which he had previously left--without bestowing one word upon Mrs. Barbara, whom he pa.s.sed in the corridor, Sir Robert Croyland entered into conversation with Sir Edward Digby, and strove--though with too evident an effort--to appear careless and unconcerned.

In the meantime, however, we must notice what was pa.s.sing in the corridor; for it was of some importance, though, like many other important things, it was transacted very quietly.

Mrs. Barbara had overheard Sir Robert's directions to the servant; and she had seen the man--as he went away to get ready the pony, which was usually sent in the morning to the post--deposit the note he had received upon an antique piece of furniture--a large marble table, with great sprawling gilt legs--which stood in the hall, close to the double doors that led to the offices.

Now, Mrs. Barbara was one of the most benevolent people upon earth: she literally overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and, if a few drops of that same milk occasionally spotted the ap.r.o.n of her morality, which we cannot help acknowledging was sometimes the case, she thought, as a great many other people do of a great many other sins, that "there was no great harm in it, if the motive was good."

This was one of those cases and occasions when the milk was beginning to run over. She had a deep regard for her brother: she would have sacrificed her right hand for him; and she was quite sure that something very sad had happened to vex him, or he never would have thought of swearing _at her_. She would have done, she was ready to do, anything in the world, to help him; but how could she help him, without knowing what he was vexed about? It is wonderful how many lines the devil always has out, for those who are disposed to take a bait. Something whispered to Mrs. Barbara, as she gazed at the letter, "The whole story is in there!" Ah, Mrs. Barbara, do not take it up, and look at the address!--It is dangerous--very dangerous.

But Mrs. Barbara did take it up, and looked at the address--and then at the two ends. It was folded as a note, unfortunately; and she thought--"There can be no harm, I'm sure--I won't open it--though I've seen him open Edith's letters, poor thing!--I shall hear the man pull back the inner door, and can put it down in a minute. n.o.body else can see me here; and if I could but find out what is vexing him, I might have some way of helping him; I'm sure I intend well."

All this argumentation in Mrs. Barbara's mind took up the s.p.a.ce of about three seconds; and then the note, pressed between two fingers in the most approved fashion, was applied as a telescope to her eye, to get a perspective view of the cause of her brother's irritation. I must make the reader a party to the transaction, I am afraid, and let him know the words which Mrs. Barbara read:--

"My dear Radford," the note began--"As misfortune would have it, all my horses have been taken out of the stable, and have not been brought back. I fear that they have fallen into other hands than those that borrowed them; and my brother Zachary has one of his crabbed moods upon him, and will not lend his carriage to bring Edith back. If your horses have not gone as well as mine, I should feel particularly obliged by your sending them down here, to take over my coach to Zachary's and bring Edith back; for I do not wish her to stay there any longer, as the marriage is to take place so soon. If you can come over to-morrow, we can settle whether it is to be at your house or here--though I should prefer it here, if you have no objection."

There seemed to be a few words more; but it took Mrs. Barbara longer to decipher the above lines, in the actual position of the note, than it might have done, had the paper been spread out fair before her; so that, just as she was moving it a little, to get at the rest, the sound of the farther of the two doors being thrown open, interrupted her proceedings; and, laying down the letter quickly, she darted away, full of the important intelligence which she had acquired.

CHAPTER V.

There are periods in the life of some men, when, either by a concatenation of unfortunate events, or by the acc.u.mulated consequences of their own errors, the prospect on every side becomes so clouded, that there is no resource for them, but to shut their eyes to the menacing aspect of all things, and to take refuge in the moral blindness of thoughtless inaction, against the pressure of present difficulties. "I dare not think," is the excuse of many a man, for continuing in the same course of levity which first brought misfortunes upon him; but such is not always the case with those who fly to wretched merriment in the hour of distress; and such was not the case with Sir Robert Croyland.