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Laura endeavoured, as far as possible, to keep down such feelings,
but yet she could not drive them from her bosom. The minutes seemed
long, tedious, and heavy: from time to time she would fall into a fit
of musing; from time to time she would answer wide from the question;
but it fortunately so happened, that the events which had lately
occurred, and her anxiety to rejoin her father, were causes
sufficient to account for greater inequalities of conduct than these.

In the meantime, Wilton was subjected to the same, or even greater
pain, from the impossibility of saying all that he could have wished
to say; and he had, moreover, to contend both against the civility of
his landlord, individually, and the curiosity of the two magistrates,
conjointly, who did not fail, during the time that he remained, both
to press hire to eat and drink, in spite of all denials and
remonstrances, and to torment him with questions, many of them
frivolous in the extreme, not only concerning the events in which he
had been lately engaged, but also in regard to everything that was
taking place in London.

Nearly two hours passed in this unpleasant manner; but at length the
joyful sound of carriage-wheels announced that the man who had been
sent to Stroud had returned. Laura was eager to set out; but the
motherly care of good Mrs. Jeffreys detained her for some time
longer, by insisting upon wrapping her warmly up in cloaks, and
mantles, and hoods, to guard against the cold of the wintry night.

At length all was ready; and Wilton led her down to the carriage,
which it seems had been procured with difficulty; the machines called
post-chaises being not so common in those days as they became within
fifty years afterwards. The two magistrates stood bowing low to the
young lady as she entered the tall, long-backed, but really not
uncomfortable vehicle. The landlord of the inn, too, and his ostler,
were there; and Wilton failed not to pay them liberally for the
services they had rendered. He then briefly gave his own address, and
that of the Duke to his reverend entertainer, and entered the
carriage beside the Lady Laura, with a heart beating high with the
hope and expectation of saying all and hearing all that the voice of
love could speak.



CHAPTER XXIX.


For once--perhaps the only time that ever such a thing happened in
this world--hope and expectation were not disappointed. Wilton seated
himself by the side of Laura, the postilion cracked his whip, which
was then as common in England as it is now in France, the horses went
forward, and the wheels rolling through the little street of High
Halstow, were soon upon the road to Stroud.

There was a silent pause between Wilton and Laura for some minutes,
neither of them could very well tell why; for both of them had been
most anxious for the opportunity, and both of them had been not a
little grieved that their former conversation had been interrupted.
The truth is, however, that very interruption had rendered the
conversation difficult to renew; for love--sometimes the most
impudent of all powers--is at other times the most shy and bashful.
Wilton, however, found that he must not let the silence go on much
longer, and he gently took Laura's hand in his, saying, perhaps
somewhat abruptly--

"Dear Laura, everything that we have to say to each other, must be
said now."

"Oh, Wilton!--" was her only reply; but she left her hand in his, and
he went on.

"You had just spoken, when we were interrupted," he said, "words that
made me very, very happy, though they were coupled with expressions
of fear and apprehension. I have nothing to tell you, dear Laura,
that can altogether remove those fears and apprehensions, but I can
say something, perhaps, that may mitigate them. You are not aware of
the circumstances in which I have had the happiness of seeking you
and finding you this night; but you doubtless heard me mention, that
it was your father who intrusted me with the search; and surely, dear
Laura, that must show no slight trust and confidence on his part--may
I add, no slight regard."

"Oh, I am sure he feels that for you," replied Laura, "quite sure!
but yet such a trust shows, indeed, far more regard than I knew he
entertained, and that gives me some degree of hope. Still, I cannot
judge, Wilton, unless I had seen the manner in which my father did
it. You must tell me all that has been done and said in this
unfortunate business: you must tell me everything that has occurred.
Will you?--and I will tell you, upon my word, exactly what the
impression is that it all makes upon my mind."

Wilton had not spoken of their love; Laura had not mentioned the
subject either; but they had done fully as much, they had referred to
it as a thing known and acknowledged. Wilton had recalled words that
had made him very happy, and Laura had spoken of hopes which could
only apply to her union with himself.

He now, however, told her all that had occurred, briefly though
clearly. He dwelt not, indeed, on his own feelings during the painful
events lately past; but the few words that he did speak on that
subject were of such a kind as to show Laura instantly the distress
and anxiety which her disappearance had caused him, the agony that he
had suffered when he thought that she was lost to him for ever. The
whole of her father's conduct, as displayed by Wilton, seemed to her
strange and unaccountable; and well it might do so! for her lover
told her the terrible state of mind in which the Duke had been at
first, and yet he did not think fit to explain, in any degree, the
causes which he felt sure had prevented her father from joining in
the search himself. Notwithstanding all that had taken place in the
presence of Laura, he judged it far better to avoid any mention of
the unfortunate hold which Sir John Fenwick had obtained over the
Duke, by drawing him in to take a share, however small, in the great
Jacobite conspiracy of the day.

Laura, then, was greatly surprised at all she heard; and that Wilton
should be employed in the affair seemed to her not the least strange
part of the whole business. An expression of this surprise, however,
induced Wilton to add, what he still in some degree feared, and had
long hesitated to say.

"I do not, indeed, believe, dear Laura," he said, "that your father
would have trusted me so entirely in this business, if it had not
been for some words concerning myself which were spoken to him by
Lord Byerdale when I was not present. They were repeated to me
afterwards by Sherbrooke, and were to the effect, that although, in
consequence of some of the late unfortunate disturbances in the
country--the rebellions, the revolutions, the changes of dynasties
that have happened within the last twenty years--it was necessary to
conceal my birth and station, yet my blood was as pure and ancient as
that of your father himself. This, I think, made a change in all his
feelings towards me."

Wilton felt the small rounded fingers of Laura's hand rest, for a
single instant, more heavily in his own, while she drew a deep long
breath, as if a weight had been taken from her bosom.

"Oh, Wilton!" she said, "it makes all the difference in his views. It
will make all the difference in our fate. You know that it would make
none to me; that the man I loved would be loved under any
circumstances of fortune or station, but with him it is the first,
the greatest consideration. There may be difficulties still; there
may be opposition; for, as you know, I am an only child, and my
father thinks that nothing can equal what I have a right to expect;
but still that opposition will vanish when he sees that my happiness
is concerned, if the great and predominant prejudice of his education
is not arrayed against us. Oh! Wilton, Wilton, your words have made
me very happy."

Her words certainly made Wilton happy in return;--indeed, most
happy. His fate had suddenly brightened from all that was dark and
cheerless, from a situation in which the sweet, early dream of love
itself but rendered everything that was sombre, painful, and
distressing in his course, more gloomy, more bitter, more full of
despair, it had changed, to the possession and the hope of all that
the most sanguine imagination could have pictured of glad, and
joyful, and happy, to the prospect of wealth and station, to the hope
of obtaining the being that he loved best on earth, and to the
certainty of possessing her early, her first, her warm, her full
affection.

Had Wilton given way to what he felt at that moment, he would have
clasped her to his heart and sealed the covenant of their love on the
sweet lips that gave him such assurance of happiness. But he
remembered that she was there alone with him, in full confidence,
under the safeguard of all his best feelings, and he would not for
the world have done one thing that in open day could have called the
colour into her cheek. He loved her deeply, fully, and nobly, and
though, under other circumstances, he might scarcely have hesitated,
he now forebore. But again and again he pressed his lips upon her
hand, and thanked her again and again for all that she had said, and
for all the hopes and glad tidings that her words implied.

Their conversation then turned to love, and to their feelings towards
each other. How could it be helped? And Wilton told her all; how the
passion had grown upon him, how he had struggled hard against it, how
not even despair itself had been able to crush it; how it had gone on
and increased in spite of himself; how intense, how ardent it had
become. He could not tell her exactly, at least he would not, what he
had felt on her account, when he believed that she was likely to
become the bride of Lord Sherbrooke; but he told her fully, ay, and
eloquently, what agony of mind he had endured when he thought of
seeing her give her hand to any other man, without affording him an
apparent chance of even making an effort for himself. In short, he
gave her the whole picture of his personal feelings; and there is no
woman that is not gratified at seeing such a picture displayed, when
she is herself the object. But to a mind such as that of Lady
Laura, and to feelings such as were in her bosom, the tale offered
higher and nobler sources of delight. The love, the deep love, which
she felt, and which was now acknowledged to her own heart, required
every such assurance of full and ample return as his words afforded,
to render it confident and happy. But from the display of his
feelings which he now made, she felt, she saw, she knew that she was
loved as she could wish to be--loved as fully, as intensely, as
deeply, as she herself loved--loved with all those feelings, high,
and bright, and sweet, which assured her beyond all question that the
affection which she had inspired would be permanent as well as
ardent.

Wilton won her, too, to speak upon the same subject as himself,
though, of course, he could not expect her to dwell upon what she
felt in the same manner. There was a great difference: on the one
hand, all the sensations of his heart towards her were boldly avowed
and minutely detailed; the history of his love was told in language
straightforward, eager, and powerful. The love of her bosom, on the
contrary, was shadowed forth rather than spoken, admitted rather than
told, her feelings were referred to, but not depicted.

"You make me glad, Wilton," she said, "by telling me all this, for I
almost feared--and was teasing my own heart about it at the rectory,
lest I should have done the unwomanly thing of loving first--I will
not call it, being too easily won; for I should certainly despise the
woman who thought anything necessary to win her, when once she
really loved, further than the conviction of her lover's sincerity,
and honour, and nobility of spirit. But yet I thought, that even you
might somewhat despise me, if you found that I had loved you before
you loved me. And yet, Wilton," she added, after a momentary pause,
"I cannot help thinking that even if it had been so, I should have
been more pardonable than many people, on account of the very great
services you have rendered me at various times, and the perils you
have encountered in my behalf. How could I help loving a man who has
twice risked his life for me?"

"Oh, dear Laura," replied Wilton, "those services have been very
small ones, and not worthy of your naming. I certainly did strive to
conceal my love," he continued; "but I believe that, let us struggle
against our feelings as we will, there are always some signs and
tokens which show to the eyes of those we love--if there be any
sympathy between their hearts and ours--that which is passing in
regard to themselves within the most secret places of our bosom.
There is a cabalistic language in love, Laura--unknown to any but
those who really do love, but learnt in a moment, when the mighty
secret is communicated to our hearts. We speak it to each other
without knowing it, dear Laura, and we are understood, without an
effort, if there be sympathy between us."

In such conversation wore the night away, as the carriage wended
slowly onward. Two changes of horses were required to carry Laura and
her lover back to the metropolis, and bells had to be rung, ostlers
and postilions wakened, horses brought slowly forth, and many another
tedious process to be gone through, which had brought the night
nearly to a close, before the carriage crossed the wide extent of
Blackheath, and passed through a small part of the town of Greenwich,
which had then never dreamt of the ambitious project that it has
since achieved, of climbing up that long and heavy hill.

Wilton and Laura had sufficient matter for conversation during the
whole way: for when they had said all that could be said of the
present and the past, there still remained the future to be
considered; and Laura entreated her lover by no precipitate eagerness
to call down upon them opposition, which, if it showed itself of a
vehement kind at first, might only strengthen, instead of diminishing
with time. She besought him to let everything proceed as it had
hitherto done, till his own fate was fully ascertained, and any doubt
of his birth and station in society was entirely removed.

"Till that is the case," she said, "to make any display of our
feelings towards each other might only bring great pain upon us both.
My father might require me not to see you, might positively forbid
our thinking of each other; whereas, were all difficulties on that
one point removed, he might only express a regret that fortune had
not been more favourable to you, or require a delay, to make him
certain of our sincere and permanent attachment. After that point is
made clear, let us be open as the day with him. In the meanwhile, he
must receive you as a friend who has rendered him the greatest and
deepest of services; and I shall ever receive you, Wilton, I need not
tell you, as the only dear and valued friend that I possess."

"But suppose, dear Laura," said Wilton, "suppose I were to see you
pressed to marry some one else; suppose I were to see some suitor in
every respect qualified to hope for and expect your hand--"

"You do not doubt me, Wilton?" said Lady Laura.

"Oh no!" he replied. "Not for a moment, Laura. But it would be very
painful."

"It would be so to us both," she replied; "but I would take care that
the pain should soon be brought to an end. Depend upon it, Wilton,
it will be better as I say; let us not, in order to avoid uncertain
pains and dangers, run into certain ones."

Wilton at once yielded to her views, and promised to be entirely
guided by her opinion.

The day broke upon them just as they were passing through London, on
their way to Beaufort House; but the night which had just passed had
left them with changed feelings in many respects. It had been one of
those eventful periods which come in, from time to time, like
revolutions in states, to change entirely the very constitution of
our whole thoughts and feelings, to give a new character and entirely
new combinations to the strange microcosm within us. That great
change had been effected in Laura by that which is the great first
mover of a woman's destinies. She loved and had avowed her love: she
was married in spirit to the man beside her, and she felt that to a
heart like hers eternity itself could not dissolve the tie which had
that night been voluntarily established between them. She viewed not
such things as many, nay, most other women view them; she looked not
on such engagements, she looked not on such affections, as things to
be taken up and dropped, to be worn to-day, in the gloss of novelty,
and cast away to-morrow, like a fretted garment; she judged not that
it was the standing before the altar and receiving the ring upon her
finger, and promising to wear out earthly existence with another
human being, that constitutes the union which must join woman to the
man of her heart. But she regarded the avowal of mutual love, the
promise of unchanging affection, as a bond binding for ever; as, in
fact, what we have called it, the marriage of the spirit: as a thing
never to be done away, which no time could break, no circumstances
dissolve: it was the wedding of--forever. The other, the more
earthly union, might be dear in prospect to her heart, gladdening to
all her hopes, mingled with a thousand bright dreams of human joy,
and tenderness, and sweet domestic peace: but if circumstances had
separated her the next hour from Wilton for ever, she would have felt
that she was still his wife in heart, and ended life with the hope of
meeting him she had ever loved, in heaven. To take such ties upon
herself, then, was in her estimation no light thing; and, as we have
said, the period, the short period, of that night, was sufficient to
effect a great, a total change in all the thoughts and feelings of
her bosom.

The change in Wilton was of a different kind, but it was also very
great. It was an epoch in man's destiny. His mind was naturally
manly, powerful, and decided; but he was very young. The events of
that night, however, swept away everything that was youthful or light
from his character for ever. He had acted with vigour, and power, and
determination, amongst men older, better tried, and more experienced
than himself. He had taken a decided and a prominent part in a scene
of strife, and danger, and difficulty, and he had (to make use of
that most significant though schoolboy phrase) "placed himself." His
character had gone through the ordeal: without any previous
preparation, the iron had been hardened into steel; and if any part
had remained up to that moment soft or weak, the softness was done
away, the weakness no longer existed.



CHAPTER XXX.

If we were poets or fabulists, and could invest inanimate objects
with all the qualities and feelings of animate ones; if, with all the
magic of old AEsop, we could make pots and kettles talk, and endue
barn-door fowls with the spirit of philosophy, we should be tempted
to say that the great gates of Beaufort House, together with the
stone Cupids on the tops of the piers, ay, and the vases of carved
flowers which stood between those Cupids, turned up the nose as the
antiquated, ungilt, dusty, and somewhat tattered vehicle containing
the Lady Laura Gaveston and Wilton Brown rolled up.

The postboy got off his horse; Wilton descended from the vehicle, and
applied his hand eagerly to the bell; and Laura, who had certainly
thought no part of the journey tedious, did now think the minutes
excessively long till the gates should be thrown open. In truth, the
hour was still an early one; the morning cold and chilly, with a grey
biting east wind, making the whole scene appear as if it were looked
at through ground glass; and neither the porter nor the porter's wife
had thought it expedient to venture forth from their snug bed at such
an unpropitious moment. A second time Wilton applied his hand to the
bell, and with more success than before, for in stays and petticoat,
unlaced and half tied, forth rushed the grumbling porter's wife, with
a murmured "Marry come up: people are in great haste: I wonder who is
in such a hurry!"

The sight of Wilton, however, whom she had seen very lately with the
Duke, but still more the sight of her young lady, instantly altered
her tone and demeanour, and with a joyful swing she threw the gates
wide open. The chaise was drawn round to the great doors of the
house, and here a more ready entrance was gained.

"Is the Duke up?" demanded Wilton, as the servant opened the door.

"Oh yes, sir," replied the man: "he was up before day-break: but he
is not out of his dressing-room yet."

Laura ran up the steps into the vestibule, to see her father, and to
relieve his mind at once from all that she knew he was suffering on
her account. She paused, however, for a moment at the top to see if
Wilton followed; but he merely advanced a few steps, saying, "I will
leave you to converse with your father; for, of course, I have very
much to do; and he will be glad to spend some time with you alone,
and hear all that you have to tell him."

"But you will come back," said Lady Laura, holding out her hand to
him: "you will not be away long."

"Until the evening, perhaps," said Wilton, pressing that fair hand in
his own: "I may have many things to do, and the Earl may also require
my presence."

"Oh, but you must come to dinner--I insist," said Lady Laura. "You
know I have a right to command now," she added, in a lower tone, "and
therefore I will tell my father to expect you at dinner."

"I will come if I can," replied Wilton, "but--"

His sentence was interrupted, however, by the Duke's voice at the top
of the stairs, exclaiming, "Surely that is Laura's voice? Laura,
Laura! My child, my dear child!"

And the next moment, Lady Laura, darting on, was in her father's
arms.

Wilton Brown turned away; and without waiting to press a third person
upon a scene which should always be enacted between two alone, he got
into the post-chaise, and bade the postilion drive him back into
London, for it must be recollected that Beaufort House was out of the
town. This was easily accomplished, as the reader may imagine; and
having dressed himself, and removed the traces of blood and travel
from his face, he hastened to the house of Lord Byerdale, to give
hire an account of the success of his expedition.

The Earl had not been long up; but he had already gone to his cabinet
to write letters, and take his chocolate at the same time. On
entering, Wilton, without any surprise, found Arden, the Messenger,
in the presence of the Earl; for the man, knowing that the situation
in which he stood was a somewhat perilous one, was of course anxious
to make the best of his story before the young gentleman appeared.
What did very much surprise Wilton, however, was the gracious and
even affectionate manner in which the Earl received him. He rose
from his chair, advanced two or three steps to meet him, and shaking
him warmly by the hand, exclaimed, "Welcome back, my dear Wilton. So
you have been fully and gallantly successful, I find. But what is all
this that Arden is telling me? He is making a terrible accusation
against you here, of letting off Sir George Barkley, one of the most
notorious Jacobites in Europe--a very dangerous person, indeed."

"My lord," replied Wilton, "Mr. Arden is repeating to you a falsehood
which he devised last night. It is quite true, indeed, that if he had
not been a most notorious coward, and run away at the first
appearance of danger, there might have been a chance, though a very
remote one, of our securing Sir George Barkley."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Earl: "then you did meet with him?"

"Amongst the persons whom I had to encounter," replied Wilton, "there
was a gentleman whom they called Sir George, and who, from his
height, his age, and a deep scar upon his cheek, I have no earthly
doubt, is Sir George Barkley: but he had been gone for an hour before
this mighty brave gentleman, having collected forty or fifty people
to keep his own head from harm, thought fit to come back and seek for
me. The person who was with me when he did return was a tall
fine-looking young man of five or six and twenty."

"Indeed!" said the Earl. "Who could that be?"

"He called himself Captain Churchill," replied Wilton. "I do not
mean to say, my lord, that I believe such was his real name; for I do
not: but I never saw Captain Churchill at all; and I never saw this
gentleman till the moment when he came to my aid and rescued me, with
the assistance of another, from the hands of as desperate a set of
men as I ever met in my life, and who would certainly have murdered
me had it not been for his arrival. I have a report to make to your
lordship upon all Mr. Arden's proceedings, who, notwithstanding your
most positive commands to obey me in all things, has refused to obey
me in anything, and by the delays he has occasioned, and the
obstructions he has thrown in my way, very nearly prevented me from
effecting the liberation of Lady Laura at all."