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The Adventures of Hugh Trevor

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Oh Olivia!

Gracious God! What were the throbs the thrillings, the love, the
indignation, the transports, of my soul! How did a few moments raise
and allay in me the whirlwind of the passions! How did my frame
tremble, and madden, and shiver, and burn! How were my lips at once
bursting with frenzy and locked in silence! It was my guardian angel
that protected me, that pleaded for me, that awed me to patience, and
that repaid by her seraphic praise the virtue she had inspired!

Oh, yes, it was Olivia! It was she herself that had the justice, the
fortitude, and the affection, to assert the dignity of truth, to
controvert an overbearing aunt whom she revered, for this aunt had her
virtues, and to speak in defiance of that hypocrisy which inculcates
the silence that intends to deceive, and which teaches females that
sincerity is an unpardonable vice.




CHAPTER XI


_False conclusions rectified: A lover's reveries: The dangers of a
stage-coach, in a dark night and a fog: The discovery of more old
acquaintances, and the journey pursued_


It has been truly remarked that the most serious and even the most
dignified emotions are sometimes mingled with the most ludicrous. When
the divine Olivia had ended, there was a momentary pause; and Clarke,
meditating no doubt on the advantages of which he had been deprived,
and to the enjoyment of which every man feels he has a right,
directing his remark to me, suddenly exclaimed--'What would I give now
if I understood all that these ladies were saying as well as you do!'

'_Est-ce donc que Monsieur sçait parler François?_--What, sir! Can you
speak French?' said the aunt with a burst of surprise.

'Yes, madam,' answered I; in a low and tremulous voice.

'_Gesù Maria! Chi l'avrebbe pensato! Parliamo Italiano, Signora._ Good
God! who could have thought it! Let us speak Italian, Miss,' continued
she: but, suddenly recollecting herself, added--'Perhaps, sir, you
speak that language, too?'

'Yes, madam.'

A dead silence ensued; which was only once or twice interrupted by
an exclamation of discontent from the aunt. Each became busied with
their own thoughts: mine were distracted by doubts and apprehensions,
concerning the manner in which I ought to act. I could come to no
determination. To be seen by the aunt would not only have wounded her
pride, and if possible have rendered her more implacably my mortal
enemy than she had been, but it would have subjected Olivia, toward
whom my heart was bursting with affection, to a series of new assaults
and persecutions. Nay the sudden sight of me might overpower her, and
even have dangerous effects. Such at least were the whisperings either
of my tenderness or my vanity. And yet to miss this opportunity, to
acquaint her with none of those overwhelming sensations that were all
thankfulness, love, and adoration, and not so much as to inform her
that I was still living, still perhaps capable of all the good that
she had ever supposed of me, was in every view of it tormenting. How
had she struggled to conceal her emotions when she mentioned my death,
and that I had saved her life! Should I deserve this tenderness, if I
could leave her to grieve a moment longer? Such unkindness were not
only unworthy of me, but might be dangerous: it might even risk her
compliance to the proposed match.

And here a torrent of painful anxieties and surmises rushed upon me.
The hateful subject was brought fully to my recollection. Andrews was
no longer the rival I had to dread. A lord had entered the lists: a
peer of the realm had sued for Olivia. Who could he be? Was it likely
that she should long withstand the solicitations of her aunt, endure
her bitter upbraidings, and suffer the rude taunts of her brother,
while rank and splendor were courting her acceptance, while coronets
were crouching at her feet and supplicating her compassion? Which of
our ancient barons could he be? How should I learn? Was he young,
handsome, courteous, engaging? Had he the virtues and the high
qualities which imagination is so apt to attach to the word noble?

Another train of conjecture seized upon my thoughts. How did it happen
that they should believe me dead? Who were the authors of this false
report? It must surely be intentional deceit; perhaps of the aunt,
perhaps of Hector; invented to induce her to comply with their wishes,
and ally them to the peerage. I must not suffer it to continue. The
aunt appeared to believe it; and that Olivia had no doubt of it was
certain. My fears confirmed me in the suspicion that it was a family
artifice.

I was at length awakened from these reveries by the aunt; who
expressed her surprise and impatience at the slow driving of the
coachman. It seems it had continued for some time, though not remarked
by me; and it was not long before the coach stopped, when I perceived
that we were in an uncommonly thick fog. Olivia was still silent, but
the aunt was alarmed by the voices of men; and, as the darkness and
mist prevented all danger of my being known, I opened the coach-door
and jumped out; and Clarke followed my example.

I found on enquiry we were passing Cranford-bridge at the beginning of
Hounslow-heath, that a broad-wheeled waggon had approached, and that
the coachman unable to distinguish the road had alighted to lead his
horses, lest we should be overturned. He had trusted the reins to the
footman who remained on the box.

By the caution of the coachman, the waggon was safely passed, and he
thought proper to mount his box again: but he durst not venture to
drive fast; and, as I was alarmed for the safety of Olivia, I and
Clarke continued beside the horses.

We had not gone fifty yards before we were again entangled with a
timber carriage; the driver of which, embarrassed by the fog, had
turned it across the road.

The waters, which lie in the hollows on the Hounslow-side of the
bridge, had been greatly increased by the late tempests, and heavy
rains. The coach horses began to snort with more vehemence; for they
had for some time been disturbed with fright; and one of them, running
against the projecting timber, plunged, and terrified the rest: so
that the two fore-horses, quitting the road, dashed into the water,
dragged the coach after them in despite of the driver, and the
near-wheels were hurried down the bank.

It fortunately happened that the declivity was not steep enough
immediately to overturn the coach; otherwise Olivia and her aunt would
probably have lost their lives.

Bewildered by the fog, neither I nor Clarke could act with that
promptitude which we desired. I however got to the horses' heads,
myself above the knees in water, and stopped them just in time. I
called to Clarke to come to me; and, as I knew him to be both strong
and determined, I committed the horses to him and ran to support the
carriage, lest it should overturn.

The coachman sensible of his danger, took care to alight on the
off-side. The footman did the same; and I, with an air of authority
which the circumstances inspired, ordered them to come to me and
support the coach. They obeyed. I hastened round to the other side,
opened the door, first took out the aunt, and then accomplished the
wish of my heart: I held the lovely Olivia once more in my arms, and
once more pressed her to my bosom, without the least alarm to her
delicacy.

For how many rapturous moments are lovers indebted to accident! Mine
indeed would have been a single bliss, and therefore unworthy the
name, had not the tenderness and the truth of Olivia so lately been
manifested. But this addition made the transport undescribable! To
be in my arms yet not to know me, but to suppose me dead, to feel
my embrace and to have no suspicion that it was the embrace of
love, to be once more safe and I myself once more her protector, oh
Imagination! Strong as thou art, thy power is insufficient for the
repetition of such a scene, for the complete revival of such ecstacy!

I was unwilling to part with my precious burthen, which I had no
longer any pretence to retain. 'Pray, sir, put me down,' said the
angel; with a sweet, a gentle, and a thankful voice. 'We are very safe
now: for which both I and my aunt are infinitely indebted to you.'

I could make no reply: but I pressed her hand with something of that
too ardent rashness of which the aunt had accused me.

The old lady too did not forget her acknowledgments. She had no doubt
now that I was a gentleman. My behaviour proved it. She should be very
proud to thank me, in a more proper place, for my civilities; and
would endeavour to repay the obligation if I would do her the favour
to call in Hertford-street.

Olivia was not one of those who think only of themselves. 'Having been
so good, sir,' said she, 'as to take us out of danger, perhaps you
could be serviceable to the poor coachman.'

'Let me first see you back to the inn, ladies.'

'Some accident may happen in the mean time. The horses are unruly. We
will stay here till all is safe.'

The advice was just, and it came from Olivia. I obeyed and hastened to
the coachman; who was busied in loosing the traces, and relieving the
horses from the carriage. This was presently done; and the coach was
left, till proper aid and more light could be obtained.

I then returned to Olivia; and, when the coachman came up, the aunt
enquired if their danger had been great?

'I don't know, madam, what you may call great,' answered he; 'but,
if that gentleman had not stopped the cattle, and if the near wheels
had gone one yard nay two feet farther I should have had an overturn;
and then how either you or I could have got out of that gravel pit
is more than I can tell. For my own part, I know, I thank him with
all my heart; and the other gentleman too: for it is not often that
your gentleman are so handy. Instead of helping, they generally want
somebody to help them. I hope they'll be civil enough to take a
glass with me. By G---- they shall go to the depth of my pocket, and
welcome.'

'If that be the case,' replied the aunt, 'we are all very much obliged
to them indeed! But I will take care never to travel in a fog again.'

Just as this was passing, we heard at a distance, and as if coming
from the inn, a shouting of 'Hollo! Hoix! Coachee! Coach! where are
you all?'

'I declare,' said the aunt, 'that is my nephew's voice! This is very
lucky! He will now take us in his phæton.'

'Surely, madam,' exclaimed I, 'you would not trust yourself and this
young lady in a phæton such a night as this; when you see the most
experienced drivers are liable to such accidents?'

'If the lady does,' continued the coachman as he was going, 'why I
shall suppose she does not value a broken neck of a farthing.'

We then proceeded back to the inn, and were presently joined by
Hector; whom the aunt immediately began to rate.

While she was thus employed, I, endeavouring to disguise my voice, as
I had before done in the few sentences I had uttered, and addressing
myself to Olivia, said, 'I should be exceedingly concerned, madam,
if I thought you would suffer Mr. Mowbray to drive you home till day
light shall appear.'

'I certainly shall not, sir;' answered she. 'But do you know my
brother?'

'Madam!'

'You are acquainted with his name; and I don't recollect that it has
been mentioned.'

I hesitated, Hector turned upon us, we were approaching the light,
and, with a suddenness which fear and passion inspired, knowing that
Mowbray did not understand Italian, I said in an under voice--'_Il
Signer Hugo Trevor non é morto, bellissima Signora_; Mr. Trevor is not
dead, dearest lady'--At the same instant I snatched her hand, pressed
it, was about to raise it to my lips, but recollecting myself, turned
short round, and added, '_Addio!_'

Clarke was at my back; and I plucked him by the coat, and
whispered--'Come with me.'

But what of Olivia? Was she dead to feeling at this strange mysterious
moment? Did no rushing torrent of ideas suddenly overwhelm her? The
man whose loss she had lamented not in his grave; that man again her
saviour, her guardian genius in the dark hour of dread and danger;
acquainted in a way the most extraordinary with her thoughts, and
favourable wishes; or, as she was too severely inclined to term it,
her passion and its folly; a witness that she did not credit all
which malice could urge against him, nor listen in base silence when
her perhaps too partial heart pleaded in his behalf; nay more, that
man the protector of her aunt, by whom he had been so often and so
bitterly reviled; that man travelling in obscurity; in familiar
society with a carpenter, yet braving peril in her behalf, and
shunning the thanks which the uncommon services he had rendered might
boldly make him claim; avoiding them most certainly because of the
mean condition to which he was reduced; faithful in his affection; for
such his behaviour spoke him; but unfortunate, depressed, despised;
sinking under poverty; languishing away his youth; or crushed
by accumulating disasters!--Did no such fears, no such tender
recollections, assail her bosom?--I have described her ill indeed if
that could be supposed. I must pursue my narrative: for how can I
picture what most indubitably must have passed in her heart, since I
feel myself so very incapable of delineating my own!

This adventure did not entirely end here. I wished to have gone
forward on foot to Hounslow without delay: but Clarke interceded, for
a glass of brandy. He said the water had chilled him; and he was still
more importunate with me to take the same preventative. I had no fear
for myself; for I had no such feeling: but, as I did not think I had
any right to trifle with his health, I returned with him; taking the
precaution to go through the passage to the kitchen door.

Here, just as we came to the threshold, who should be coming in face
of us, carrying a pair of candles, but my quondam servant, Philip!

The instant he beheld me, he turned pale, trembled, set down the
lights, stood aghast for a moment, and then took to his heels.

Though not so terrified, I was almost as much surprised as he; and
suffered him to escape before I had the presence of mind to know how
to act. As however it was my plan to avoid being known myself for the
present, I thought proper to make no other enquiry than to ask whose
servant he was? and was answered that he came with the ladies, who had
just returned from the coach.

Various conjectures instantly crossed my imagination; all of which
were associated with the sudden flight from Bath, the robbery he had
committed, the seeming honesty and even affection of his character
previous to that event, his now being in the service of Olivia, for I
understood him to be her own valet, and the story of my death. But,
though my curiosity was greatly excited, the present was not the
time in which these mysteries could be unravelled. We therefore took
Clarke's prescription against cold; and, leaving Cranford bridge,
pursued our road to Hounslow: where we arrived about eleven o'clock,
and put up at an inferior inn lest any accident should bring us again
in company with the aunt and the nephew.




CHAPTER XII


_Meditations on what had passed: The condolence of Clarke: Arrival at
London: The meeting of former friends: Law arrangements_


It may be well supposed that the incidents of this night were not
easily driven from my imagination. While we were walking, the care we
were obliged to take, and the gloom around us, prevented any thing
from escaping me sufficiently marked to attract the notice of my
companion. But, when we were seated in a room with lights, and my mind
was no longer diverted by other objects, the reveries into which I
fell, the interjections that broke from me, the hasty and interrupted
manner in which I ate and drank, the expressions of extreme joy which
altered my countenance at one moment, and the solemn seriousness which
it assumed the next, with my eyes fixed, while the tears rolled down
my cheeks, at last so agitated poor Clarke that he exclaimed--'For
God's sake, Mr. Trevor, what is the matter with you?'

My silence, for I was unable to speak, did but increase his
alarm--'Are you taken ill? What has befallen you? Won't you open your
mind to me? If I could do you any good, I hope you don't think I
should be backward? Are you unhappy?'

'No, no.'

'I am very glad of that. But something uncommon I am sure has happened
to you: though it may not be fit perhaps that I should hear what. And
I don't want to be a busy body; though I must say I should be more at
ease, if I was quite sure that all was right. That's all. I have no
other curiosity.'

'All is not right: but yet I hope it will be. I know not by what
means. It seems indeed impossible! And perhaps it is; and yet I hope!
I hope! I hope!'

'Well, well: I am glad of that. We should all hope. We are bid to
hope. God help us if we did not. Perhaps I can't give you any help?
I suppose that is beyond me. I am sorry for it. But what can a poor
carpenter do, in the way of befriending a gentleman?'

'A poor carpenter can have a kind heart; and I do not know whether
that is not the most blessed thing on earth! Did you ever hear me
repeat the name of Olivia?'

'Yes; when you were light-headed, I heard the name many a time and
often. And the nurse said you raved of nobody else. But we could none
of us find out who she was. Though, I must say, I have often enough
wished to ask: but that I did not think it became me to seem to be at
all prying.'

'That is the lady you have been in company with to-night. It is she
whom you have helped me to save. I was sufficiently indebted to you
before: but what am I then at present?'

'Well, that to be sure is accidental enough! I could not have thought
it! How oddly things do fall out! But I am glad of it with all my
heart!'

'I could not see much of her, to be sure; though I looked with all the
eyes I had: but I thought somehow she seemed as fine a young creature
as I had ever beheld since the hour I was born; which the mildness of
her voice did but make the more likely. I thought to myself, I never
in my days heard any living soul so sweet-spoken. So that I must say
things have fallen out very strangely.

'I always said to my Sally, there must be something between you and
the gentlewoman the name of _which_ was on your tongue's end so often,
while you were down in the fever; and I am glad to the heart that you
have happened on her again so unexpectedly: though I can see no good
reason, now you have found her, why you should be in such a hurry to
get away.'

The unaffected participation of Clarke in all my joys and sorrows, the
questions which his feelings impelled him to put, and the fidelity of
his nature, as well as the impulse which passion gave me to disburthen
my mind, were all of them inducements to speak; and I informed him of
many of those particulars which have already been recited.

The more intimately he became acquainted with my history, the more
powerfully he seemed imbued with my hopes and fears; and the better
satisfied I was with the confidence I had reposed in him. I am unable
to paint the honest indignation of his feelings and phraseology
at the injustice which he as well as I supposed had been done me,
the depression of his countenance when I dwelt on the despair and
wretchedness which the almost impossibility of my obtaining Olivia
inspired, and the animation with which he seemed as it were to set
his shoulders to the wheel, when my returning fervor led me to the
opposite extreme, and gave me confidence in my own powers and the
strenuous exertions on which I was resolved.

The conversation continued long after we retired to rest; so that our
sleep was short: for we were up again very early, before it was light,
and continued our journey to London; where we arrived a little after
nine in the morning.

I immediately proceeded to the lodging of Miss Wilmot; whom I found
where I had left her, and who was truly rejoiced to see me. Clarke
had never been in London: I therefore took him with me, gave a proper
account of him to Miss Wilmot, and we all breakfasted together,
while Mary waited; whose features as well as her words sufficiently
testified the unexpected pleasure of the meeting, and who artlessly
related the apprehensions of herself and my few friends, at not
hearing from me.

My first enquiries were concerning Wilmot and Turl; and I was
delighted to learn that Wilmot, whom I left in a sickly state of mind
that was seriously alarming, had been awakened by Turl to a more just
sense of human affairs; and had recovered much of the former vigour
and elasticity of his talents.

His sister told me that he was at present engaged in a periodical
publication; and had beside composed a considerable part of a comedy:
of which Turl, as well as herself, conceived the greatest hopes.

The reader scarcely need be told that this intelligence gave me great
pleasure. It led me to revolve mighty matters in my own mind, created
emulation, and inspired me with increasing confidence and alacrity.
Yes, said I, exultingly, genius may safely encounter and dare
difficulties. Let it but confide in itself and it will conquer them
all.

While we were conversing Wilmot came in.

I must leave the imagination to paint the welcome we gave each other.

I was surprised at the change which had taken place in his form and
physiognomy; and at the different aspect they had assumed. Not that
the marks of melancholy were quite eradicated: but, when I considered
his whole appearance, he was scarcely the same person.

I produced surprise in him of a contrary kind. There was neither the
wonted freshness of my complexion nor the fashionable ease of my air
and dress, which he had remarked but a few months before; and he took
the first private opportunity that offered to enquire, with great
earnestness, if there were any means by which he could be of service?

Under the general selfishness which our present institutions inspire,
such questions are wonderfully endearing. I answered him that I had
found a friend, whose principles were as liberal and enlarged as they
were uncommon; and that I would take an early occasion to give him an
account of my present designs, and the posture of my affairs.

He informed me that the severe application of Turl had enfeebled his
health, and had induced him to reside for a few weeks at a small place
by the sea-side, that he might enjoy the benefits of bathing and the
fresh breezes; for which purpose he had left London the week before:
that neither Wilmot nor Turl himself considered his case at present as
the least dangerous, but that they had both agreed this was a prudent
step; and that he had received a letter from Turl, informing him of
his safe arrival; and that he thought he had already derived benefit
and animation from the journey.

Turl was not a man to be known and to be thought of with apathy. The
intelligence Wilmot gave me, softened as it was by the circumstances
attending it, produced a very unpleasant feeling. The possibility
of the loss of such a man, so wise, so benevolent, and so undaunted
in the cause of truth, was a sensation for which I have no epithet.
Wilmot perceived what passed in my mind, and again assured me of his
thorough persuasion that there was not any danger.

We passed as much of the morning together as Wilmot could spare from
his occupations; after which we parted, and each proceeded on his own
concerns: I to enquire after a dwelling-place; and he to his literary
engagements: while Clarke, instructed by Mary, went in search of a
lodging for himself through those streets that were most likely to
afford him one at a reasonable rate.

Mr. Evelyn had a relation of a younger branch of the family in the
law, whose name was Hilary, to whom I was recommended; and from whom
I received the utmost attention, in consequence of the letters I
brought. This gentleman was an attorney of repute, a practitioner of
uncommon honesty, assiduous and capable as a professional man, a firm
defender of freedom even to his own risk and detriment, a sincere
speaker, a valuable friend, and in every sense a man of worth and
principle.

Happy at all times to oblige, he willingly undertook the task assigned
to him by Mr. Evelyn's recommendation; and, in pursuance of his
advice, I hired an apartment in the neighbourhood of Queen's-square
Bloomsbury: that I might be within a convenient distance of the inns
of Court, yet not entirely buried in the noise and smoke of the
disagreeable part of the town.

I likewise informed Mr. Hilary of my determination not to be a dumb
barrister; and having, from my appearance and mode of enunciation
as well as from the letters of Mr. Evelyn, conceived rather a high
opinion of my talents, he applauded my plan: in pursuance of which he
recommended me to place myself with Counsellor Ventilate; a man of
high situation in the law. I readily consented; and it was agreed that
he should speak to that gentleman immediately on the subject, and
appoint a meeting.




CHAPTER XIII

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