Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844

The day of majority came at last—the third of June. The tenants of the Bandvale farms had a dinner at the Rose and Crown, and one of the managing attorneys proposed the young landlord's health in a speech full of amazing eloquence, but with a countenance that would have been more appropriate to a funeral oration than a toast; and it was, in fact, the funeral oration over his stewardship, as he gave notice that it was Mr Edwards's intention to take the management into his own hands—a piece of information that gave great satisfaction to every one except the firm of Goody and Fripp. But in spite of this announcement, young Frank never made his appearance—the walks continued overgrown with grass—the wounded Atlas looked proudly to heaven from his deathbed of fame-and the young ladies remained on the tiptoe of expectation.

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought I; "has he no regard for his father's neighbours, and his own birthplace?"

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought Miss Sibylla Smith, and all the maidens young, old, and middle aged. "Has he fallen in love with his tutor's daughter, or got engaged to his guardian's niece?" for our young people had studied life so zealously in three-volume novels, that they never doubted for a moment that Frank Edwards's tutor (if he had a tutor) had a daughter, or that his guardian (and they knew he had a guardian) had a niece. But in spite of all our thoughts Bandvale Hall continued empty.

"I'll take another look at the old place," I said, one day in August as I was passing the lodge, and rode at a quiet contemplative walk down the avenue. I hung my rein over one of the rails of the porch steps, and passed round into the garden. Not a flower to be seen; but the place of them famously supplied with potatoes and other useful articles—and the same evidence of absenteeism in the shape of tottering walls, and grass grown walks, and dusty fountains in all directions. What a shame!—if I knew the boy's address, I would write to him to come home at once; but that Leicestershire guardian has kept him quite separated from those who ought to have been his friends, and had the bringing up of him from his youth. If we are to have him all the rest of his life, he could not have come among us too early; and in the firm intention of carrying this resolution into effect, I determined to look out for some workman about the place, to ask where Mr Edwards was to be found. The man that has the care of the garden can't be far off;—and accordingly I went in search of him. But either the vegetables were illustrations, like Southey's butlers, of self-culture, or the gardener had gone to dinner; and in the expectation of finding him in the kitchen, I clambered into the house by an open window, and walked quietly along the passage. I thought I heard voices in the garden library, a delightful room on the ground-floor, where I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing them at leisure. They were both young men—both tall and good-looking; one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man, who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise a shudder in any person's breast. He said—

"I had him murdered in the shooting-box."

"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be expected.

"Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived."

"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to it on any account, and told you so before you did it."

Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an introduction to the son of my poor friend—the accomplice of a murderer—who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really, looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest provocation. But both were so free in their manner, and talked so pleasantly, that if it had not been for what I had overheard, I should have taken them for two very agreeable young men. And, in spite of it all, I could hardly avoid asking them both to leave the deserted house, and take up their quarters with me. I forced myself, however, to abstain from giving them the invitation; and after a half hour of friendly conversation, I got up to go away. They accompanied me a portion of the way; and when I looked at young Frank, and listened to the tones of his voice, twenty years seemed to roll off my shoulders. I took his hand. "You must dine with me to-morrow," I said; "and—and—your friend Mr Marvale," I added with some little difficulty. They both accepted without a moment's hesitation. "Hang it, there must be some mistake after all!" I thought, as I put my foot in the stirrup; "but I'll go and ask a few of the neighbours to meet them. Old Smith of Howkey is a magistrate, with an amazing nose for a crime. We'll see what he makes of it."

CHAPTER II

Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire—an alderman, or even a lord mayor, for any thing I know—who had bought Howkey, and built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other people read novels—for his amusement; and every body thought he knew more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty welcome to his native county.

We were all assembled in the drawing-room—that is to say, all but the party from Bandvale—and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes like a peony rose.

"Why, what's the matter, Sib?" said Old Smith; "has a bee stung you."

"No, no!" she said; "but I saw likeness—a something"—

"What was it you saw?" enquired my wife—"a ghost?"

Sibylla lifted up her eyes to the ceiling, and said nothing; for at that moment the door opened, and Frank Edwards and Mr Percy Marvale were announced.

"No, not a ghost," whispered Sibylla to my wife, "but an apparition I as little expected to see—I knew Mr Marvale in town."

The introduction was soon over; and Mr Marvale, on being presented to Miss Sibylla, exhibited as much surprise as that young lady had done at the window. I watched him as closely as if I had been one of the detective police; but, saving an enormous amount of puppyism and affectation, I could trace nothing very unusual in his appearance. Frank, on the other hand, was a fine open-mannered fellow, that one took to at once; and it was a mystery to me how he could be so intimate with a person so different from himself. Pity such a good-dispositioned youth should fall into the hands of such an atrocious character!

"You've met Mr Marvale before?" I said to Sibylla, as I took her into the dining-room.

"Oh, yes—at my cousin Jane's, in Russell Square—a wonderful man—a perfect genius!"

"I hope to Heaven he's no worse," said I, "though that's bad enough."

"Bad enough! Oh, I doat on men of genius! Did you never hear of him? He is quite a celebrity. Cousin Jane always has him at her literary parties, for she does not know Bulwer or Dickens; and he's so handsome, too—such a wild expression."

"Wild enough to get him two months of the tread-mill, if your father lays hands on him."

But when I saw the glance of profound admiration darted by Sibylla at the interesting stranger, I felt sure she would only like him the more if he were found out to be a murderer in reality; for there is a certain school of young ladies who do not stand upon trifles in the way of their flirtations, but extract fresh reasons for glorifying the object of their preference, from facts which the unwary lay before them by way of warnings. If he is a spendthrift, it is so noble to be free and generous; if he is a gambler, he is of such a fine unsuspecting disposition, he is only the dupe of the designing. In short, whatever you say to put them on their guard, only makes them expose themselves the more; and, therefore, I made no further attempt to open the eyes of Miss Sibylla Smith. All passed off very well at dinner. Every one was kind to Frank, and, for his sake, were abundantly civil to his friend; but that individual seemed to care very little whether we were civil to him or not. He talked more than all the rest of us put together— corrected Old Smith on points of law—and put me right on the routine of crops; proved to old Lambert's own satisfaction that he knew nothing of stall-feeding, and so belaboured us with great people, with their whole birth, parentage, and connexions, that we might have fancied he was Mr Debrett. Sibylla evidently believed he was the most delightful of men; and certainly the looks she darted at him, and the looks he darted at her, were the most extraordinary phenomena of the look kind I ever happened to see. It was quite evident that the daughter's feelings were not shared by Old Smith; and I made little doubt he would have been delighted to give him seven years of the hulks, if he could have found out any act of Parliament making it penal for a good-looking young fellow to encourage a silly young woman to make a fool of herself. He found time, in spite of his apparently monopolizing the whole conversation, to whisper incessantly into Sibylla's ear. He was evidently asking questions about her household position—how many sisters she had—how many brothers—their ages, characters looks, and the state of their education. He seemed practising for an inspector of schools. Then he went off to her cousin's, where he had met her in Russell Square, and the same series of questions about family affairs was repeated. Was the man engaged in collecting the census returns?

"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at my cousin's."

"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man with a beautiful wife is he dead?"

"Oh, yes—quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some people say there is something wrong about it."

"Indeed—ha!" said Mr Marvale. "What—what do they say?"

"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed him; but"—

I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely attended to what she was saying.

"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental," continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."

"Pray, Sibylla," I said, "what was the poor woman's Christian name?"

"Her name was Isabella."

"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir?

Her name was Isabella."

"Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage—a good thing in its time, but out of fashion now," he answered. "A curious fact, there is an incident of precisely the same kind, of which I claim the credit."

"Of what kind, sir?" I said. "Take care what you say."

"Oh, it's no secret! Mr Edwards and I concocted it between us; that is to say, he objected to it a little at first, but I flatter myself it will make some little noise in the world when it is fairly known."

I looked again at the brazen-faced fellow, and nearly fell off my chair at hearing him make such a horrid confession.

"I don't believe a word of it, sir," I exclaimed, "as far as Frank Edwards is concerned."

"I assure you he had very little hand in it," he replied. "The merit, as you say, is entirely my own."

"And the consequences, too, I hope."

"I hope so. I offered a good deal before I undertook it; and I think it will pay very well."

"What will pay?"

"The Surrey, when the melodrama is finished."

"Oh! it is a melodrama you're speaking of? I was not aware, I am sure, or I should"—

"My dear sir, make no apologies. I hate the fuss people make about a man because he happens to be a successful author. I assure you, the plain entertainment you have given is better than all the fêtes my friends Devonshire and Lansdowne gave me, when I published the Blasted Nun."

So my murderer had sunk into a writer of plays.

Sibylla looked at him with still more intense admiration, when she heard him speak of the honours his works had procured him, and he entered at once into a minute description of the festivities of Chatsworth and Bowood, that would have done honour to the Morning Post.

After the ladies had gone to the drawing-room, I took the opportunity of having a quiet conversation with Frank, while his friend was astonishing the minds of the rest of the party with an account of his having refused the Guelphic Order which the Queen had pressed upon him on the twenty-fourth night of his Blood-stained Milkmaid.

"Who, in Heaven's name, and what is your friend, Mr Percy Marvale?"

"Oh, a very good fellow!" replied Frank. "I have known him at the Club for a long time."

"He seems a rum one."

"A very useful ally, I can assure you. I study him as the beau ideal of vanity and impudence."

"But your studies seem somewhat useless, if you have no higher object?"

"Oh, but I have, though—a very serious object—the only object, in fact, I care for in the world!"

And here the young man sighed.

"Well, if your object," I said, "has any connexion with my old friend Smith, I think he is in a fair way of securing you a confederate in Miss Sibylla."

"She may perhaps be useful; but Marvale will find out whether she will be so or not, before he lets her go to-night."

"Well, if it's any thing where other assistance is needed, you may depend on me."

"You're very good; but I fear you have neither the vanity nor the impudence that are so invaluable in my friend Percy Marvale."

"Is that his real name?"

"I am sure I don't know. It is what he is known by in the Club. He dramatizes all the bloodthirsty horrors at the Surrey—pushes his way every where—puffs and praises himself wherever he goes—is very good-looking, and makes love like a French hero—and, in short, is at this moment indispensable to me."

I made no further enquiries, for Frank filled his glass, and sighed like a smith's bellows. But I was filled with wonder at all that passed, and could form no guess at the bond that united two such dissimilar men, nor at the reason so much value was attached to the services of a boastful, clattering, pushing, inquisitive vagabond like the bewhiskered dramatist.

Before I joined in the general conversation, it was evident that Mr Percy Marvale, by dint of downright categorical questions, had acquired an intimate knowledge of poor old Harry Lambert's and Williams's domestic affairs; and it is useless to say he had bound himself in the most solemn manner to visit both them and Mr Smith, though neither of them, as far as I could see, seemed much delighted with his repeated asseverations.

"It's what I always do, my dear sir," he said to Harry Lambert; "for how could a man pick up any information unless he made himself intimate with all classes? Why should I keep myself separate from good fellows, merely because I happen to have written the Frozen Island, or the Fire King of the Caucasus? I will see you the day after to-morrow. I give you my honour. Your daughters have perhaps read my works?"

"I'm afraid they're too young, sir."

"What age are they? But if they are well taught, they have studied the drama, of course. They have a governess, I suppose?

"Yes."

"Has she red hair? I have an idea that red-haired people are all good teachers."

"I don't recollect the colour of her hair, I'm sure."

"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any account. So you may be quite easy."

And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of an enquiry whether his governess squinted; for he had another theory that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.

"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."

He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with him at one o'clock.

"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him back to Bandvale in half a year."

"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be miserable."

"How?"

"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all make honey of him"—

"They will sting him to death. I see—I see."

CHAPTER III

Next day I trotted over to the Hall. Mr Percy Marvale was busy putting the finishing stroke to his Demon of the Waste, in which the interesting incident of the murder in the shooting-box is introduced; and Frank and I had a long and confidential conversation in the garden. Miss Sibylla Smith and the students of three-volume novels were for once very nearly right in their guesses on the subject of his tutor's daughter. He certainly was in love, if not engaged, but not exactly in the way they had imagined; and it struck me that, in spite of his declaration of constancy and firmness, there was still a very reasonable chance of there being an opening for some of the bees alluded to by my wife. For my own part, I am no believer in sentiment and romance, and could not enter into Frank's feelings at all.

Not far from Frank's guardian's house, in Leicestershire, there was a small white-walled villa, surrounded by pretty pleasure grounds, and inhabited by the most enchanting family in the world. The father, a clergyman, too much of an invalid to hold a living, and only rich enough to struggle on in the quietest possible way, with a wife and a daughter. The wife, of course, was all that was amiable and wise; and the daughter, Alice, endowed with every possible perfection. As to her beauty, it was above description, and her disinterestedness almost incredible. Every week, and at least every day of every week, Frank found himself at the fireside of the Reverend Mr Elstree, and no mother and sister could be so affectionate to him as Mrs Elstree and Alice. He was only fourteen, to be sure, when the acquaintance began, and the girl nine or ten; so that when he was twenty-one, he could not recall by what means, or on what occasion, he had told Alice he was devoted to her; nor could he even recollect what method she had taken to tell him she was delighted to hear it; but the case was, nevertheless, as complete a case of engagement, and true love, as if he had made formal propositions on his knees, or signed a bond on parchment. By this time he was at Cambridge, and considered himself as much a man as undergraduates always consider themselves—and wrote twice a-week to Alice—and heard twice a-week in return—and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a gay young fellow, with a good allowance—had his father's seat on horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he was steady—and looked at the little portrait with undiminished admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London—the great trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued exactly the same; but the ideas altered—he saw other people, he mixed with the world—he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the correspondence was not so regular as before—and perhaps the expressions on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career—during all which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever—he was startled by hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire, but found he was too late. The good man had died, after having learned from his daughter the secret of her engagement, and having refused his consent to it, not on the ground that he was too good a match for Alice—which would be almost as vulgar a reason as if he had been too poor—but on the ground that he was young, giddy, thoughtless, and the wasting health and wan cheek of his daughter had told him that he was fickle too. People in the country make so little allowance for young men during their first season in town; and mother and daughter, in spite of all his protestations, in spite of all the vows he made to Alice, which she believed in her heart—were firm in breaking off the connexion, and would see him no more. And this resolution seemed to be formed on the maturest deliberation, and in spite of every inducement to the contrary they kept it. He had not seen them for nearly a year. Their income, at all times small, had been annihilated by the father's death; they left the white-walled villa, and after bidding him farewell for ever in a letter, and thanking him for his friendship to her father, and some few tender recollections on her own account, Alice had begged him to forget her! And Frank thought of her, of course, every hour of his life—tried every means to find out where they had gone, that he might resume his suit, and to offer them the fortune of which he had now come into full possession—but all in vain. His friend, Mr Percy Marvale, had undertaken to find them out within six months if they were still on the habitable globe, and thought he had discovered that the scene of their retirement was in our county; and with a knowledge of nature drawn from melodramas, French and English, he had laid it down as a rule, that as they were reduced in circumstances, Alice had gone out as a governess— which accounted for his theories about squints and red hair. It was a curious story; but there was perfect sincerity in all he said; and instead of trying to dissuade him, I could not help offering my services to discover the vanished pleiad—if she twinkled in any part of our Worcestershire heavens.