Paul Clifford — Complete
“Your command,” said the stranger, moving to the harpsichord, “is
all-sufficient; and since you, madam,” turning to Lucy, “have chosen
a song after the old school, may I find pardon if I do the same? My
selection is, to be sure, from a lawless song-book, and is supposed to
be a ballad by Robin Hood, or at least one of his merry men,--a very
different sort of outlaws from the knaves who attacked you, sir!”
With this preface the stranger sung to a wild yet jovial air, with a
tolerable voice, the following effusion:
THE LOVE OF OUR PROFESSION; OR THE ROBBER'S LIFE.
On the stream of the world, the robber's life
Is borne on the blithest wave;
Now it bounds into light in a gladsome strife,
Now it laughs in its hiding cave.
At his maiden's lattice he stays the rein;
How still is his courser proud
(But still as a wind when it hangs o'er the main
In the breast of the boding cloud),
With the champed bit and the archd crest,
And the eye of a listening deer,
Like valour, fretful most in rest,
Least chafed when in career.
Fit slave to a lord whom all else refuse
To save at his desperate need;
By my troth! I think one whom the world pursues
Hath a right to a gallant steed.
“Away, my beloved, I hear their feet!
I blow thee a kiss, my fair,
And I promise to bring thee, when next we meet,
A braid for thy bonny hair.
Hurrah! for the booty!--my steed, hurrah!
Thorough bush, thorough brake, go we;
And the coy moon smiles on our merry way,
Like my own love,--timidly.”
The parson he rides with a jingling pouch,
How it blabs of the rifled poor!
The courtier he lolls in his gilded coach,
--How it smacks of a sinecure!
The lawyer revolves in his whirling chaise
Sweet thoughts of a mischief done;
And the lady that knoweth the card she plays
Is counting her guineas won!
“He, lady!--What, holla, ye sinless men!
My claim ye can scarce refuse;
For when honest folk live on their neighbours, then
They encroach on the robber's dues!”
The lady changed cheek like a bashful maid,
The lawyer talked wondrous fair,
The parson blasphemed, and the courtier prayed,
And the robber bore off his share.
“Hurrah! for the revel! my steed, hurrah!
Thorough bush, thorough brake, go we!
It is ever a virtue, when others pay,
To ruffle it merrily!”
Oh, there never was life like the robber's,
--so Jolly and bold and free!
And its end-why, a cheer from the crowd below,
And a leap from a leafless tree!
This very moral lay being ended, Mrs. Slopperton declared it was
excellent; though she confessed she thought the sentiments rather loose.
Perhaps the gentleman might be induced to favour them with a song of a
more refined and modern turn,--something sentimental, in short. Glancing
towards Lucy, the stranger answered that he only knew one song of
the kind Mrs. Slopperton specified, and it was so short that he could
scarcely weary her patience by granting her request.
At this moment the river, which was easily descried from the windows of
the room, glimmered in the starlight; and directing his looks towards
the water, as if the scene had suggested to him the verses he sung, he
gave the following stanzas in a very low, sweet tone, and with a far
purer taste, than, perhaps, would have suited the preceding and ruder
song.
THE WISH.
As sleeps the dreaming Eve below,
Its holiest star keeps ward above,
And yonder wave begins to glow,
Like friendship bright'ning into Love!
Ah, would thy bosom were that stream,
Ne'er wooed save by the virgin air!--
Ah, would that I were that star, whose beam
Looks down and finds its image there!
Scarcely was the song ended, before the arrival of Miss Brandon's
servant was announced; and her destined escort, starting up, gallantly
assisted her with her cloak and her hood,--happy, no doubt, to escape in
some measure the overwhelming compliments of his entertainers.
“But,” said the doctor, as he shook hands with his deliverer, “by what
name shall I remember and” (lifting his reverend eyes) “pray for the
gentleman to whom I am so much indebted?”
“You are very kind,” said the stranger; “my name is Clifford. Madam,”
turning to Lucy, “may I offer my hand down the stairs?”
Lucy accepted the courtesy; and the stranger was half-way down the
staircase, when the doctor, stretching out his little neck, exclaimed,--
“Good-evening, sir! I do hope we shall meet again.”
“Fear not!” said Mr. Clifford, laughing gayly; “I am too great a
traveller to make that hope a matter of impossibility. Take care,
madam,--one step more.”
The night was calm and tolerably clear, though the moon had not yet
risen, as Lucy and her companion passed through the fields, with the
servant preceding them at a little distance with the lantern.
After a pause of some length, Clifford said, with a little hesitation,
“Is Miss Brandon related to the celebrated barrister of her name?”
“He is my uncle,” said Lucy; “do you know him?”
“Only your uncle?” said Clifford, with vivacity, and evading Lucy's
question. “I feared--hem! hem!--that is, I thought he might have been a
nearer relation.” There was another, but a shorter pause, when Clifford
resumed, in a low voice: “Will Miss Brandon think me very presumptuous
if I say that a countenance like hers, once seen, can never be
forgotten; and I believe, some years since, I had the honour to see her
in London, at the theatre? It was but a momentary and distant glance
that I was then enabled to gain; and yet,” he added significantly, “it
sufficed!”
“I was only once at the theatre while in London, some years ago,” said
Lucy, a little embarrassed; “and indeed an unpleasant occurrence which
happened to my uncle, with whom I was, is sufficient to make me remember
it.”
“Ha! and what was it?”
“Why, in going out of the play-house his watch was stolen by some
dexterous pickpocket.”
“Was the rogue caught?” asked the stranger.
“Yes; and was sent the next day to Bridewell. My uncle said he was
extremely young, and yet quite hardened. I remember that I was foolish
enough, when I heard of his sentence, to beg very hard that my uncle
would intercede for him; but in vain.”
“Did you, indeed, intercede for him?” said the stranger, in so earnest
a tone that Lucy coloured for the twentieth time that night, without
seeing any necessity for the blush. Clifford continued, in a gayer
tone: “Well, it is surprising how rogues hang together. I should not be
greatly surprised if the person who despoiled your uncle were one of the
same gang as the rascal who so terrified your worthy friend the doctor.
But is this handsome old place your home?”
“This is my home,” answered Lucy; “but it is an old-fashioned, strange
place; and few people, to whom it was not endeared by associations,
would think it handsome.”
“Pardon me!” said Lucy's companion, stopping, and surveying with a look
of great interest the quaint pile, which now stood close before them;
its dark bricks, gable-ends, and ivied walls, tinged by the starry
light of the skies, and contrasted by the river, which rolled in silence
below. The shutters to the large oriel window of the room in which the
squire usually sat were still unclosed, and the steady and warm light of
the apartment shone forth, casting a glow even to the smooth waters of
the river; at the same moment, too, the friendly bark of the house-dog
was heard, as in welcome; and was followed by the note of the great
bell, announcing the hour for the last meal of the old-fashioned and
hospitable family.
“There is a pleasure in this,” said the stranger, unconsciously, and
with a half-sigh; “I wish I had a home!”
“And have you not a home?” said Lucy, with naivety. “As much as a
bachelor can have, perhaps,” answered Clifford, recovering without an
effort his gayety and self-possession. “But you know we wanderers are
not allowed the same boast as the more fortunate Benedicts; we send
our hearts in search of a home, and we lose the one without gaining the
other. But I keep you in the cold, and we are now at your door.”
“You will come in, of course!” said Miss Brandon, “and partake of our
evening cheer.”
The stranger hesitated for an instant, and then said in a quick tone,--
“No! many, many thanks; it is already late. Will Miss Brandon accept
my gratitude for her condescension in permitting the attendance of one
unknown to her?” As he thus spoke, Clifford bowed profoundly over the
hand of his beautiful charge; and Lucy, wishing him good-night, hastened
with a light step to her father's side.
Meanwhile Clifford, after lingering a minute, when the door was closed
on him, turned abruptly away; and muttering to himself, repaired with
rapid steps to whatever object he had then in view.
CHAPTER XII.
Up rouse ye then,
My merry, merry men!
--JOANNA BAILLIE.
When the moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palely
broke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarned
traveller would not have been eager to pass, but which might not have
afforded a bad study to such artists as have caught from the savage
painter of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Dark
trees, scattered far and wide over a broken but verdant sward, made the
background; the moon shimmered through the boughs as she came slowly
forth from her pavilion of cloud, and poured a broader beam on two
figures just advanced beyond the trees. More plainly brought into light
by her rays than his companion, here a horseman, clad in a short cloak
that barely covered the crupper of his steed, was looking to the priming
of a large pistol which he had just taken from his holster. A slouched
hat and a mask of black crape conspired with the action to throw a
natural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His horse, a beautiful
dark gray, stood quite motionless, with arched neck, and its short
ears quickly moving to and fro, demonstrative of that sagacious and
anticipative attention which characterizes the noblest of all tamed
animals; you would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, but
for the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional
and unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially
thrown into the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad,
was busied in tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and
size. As he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a
popular drinking-song.
“'Sdeath, Ned!” said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged
in a silent revery,--“'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the
fine arts at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every
moment; at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar. Recollect
we are not at Gentleman George's now!”
“The more's the pity, Augustus,” answered Ned. “Soho, Little John;