What a varying thing is the stream of life! How it sparkles and glitters! Now it bounds along its pebbly bed, sometimes in sunshine, and sometimes in shade; sometimes sporting round all things, as if its essence were merriment and brightness; sometimes flowing solemnly on, as if it were derived from Lethe itself. Now it runs like a liquid diamond along the meadow; now it plunges in fume and fury over the rock; now it is clear and limpid, as youth and innocence can make it; now it is heavy and turbid, with the varying streams of thought and memory that are ever flowing into it, each bringing its store of dulness and pollution as it tends towards the end. Its voice, too, varies as it goes; now it sings lightly as it dances on; now it roars amidst the obstacles that oppose its way; and now it has no tone but the dull low murmur of exhausted energy.

Such is the stream of life! yet, perhaps, few of us would wish to change our portion of it for the calm regularity of a canal--even if one could be constructed without locks and floodgates upon it to hold in the pent-up waters of the heart till they are ready to burst through the banks.

Life was in its sparkling aspect with Zara Croyland and Sir Edward Digby, when they set out on horseback for the house of old Mr. Croyland, cantering easily along the roads of that part of the country, which, in the days I speak of, were soft and somewhat sandy. Two servants followed behind at a discreet distance; and lightly passing over hill and dale, with all the loveliness of a very bright portion of our fair land stretched out around them, the young lady and her companion drew in, through the eyes, fresh sensations of happiness from all the lovely things of nature. The yellow woods warmed their hearts; the blue heaven raised their thoughts; the soft air refreshed and cheered all their feelings; and, when a passing cloud swept over the sky, it only gave that slight shadowy tone to the mind, which wakens within us the deep, innate, and elevating movements of the spirit, that seem to connect the aspect of God's visible creation, with a higher and a purer state of being. Each had some spring of happiness in the heart fresh opened; for, to the fair girl who went bounding along through that gay world, the thought that she was conveying to a dear sister tidings of hope, was in itself a joy; and to her companion a new subject of contemplation was presenting itself, in the very being who accompanied him on the way--a subject quite untouched and novel, and, to a man of his character and disposition, a most interesting one.

Sir Edward Digby had mingled much with the world; he had seen many scenes of different kinds; he had visited various countries, the most opposite to each other; he had frequented courts, and camps, and cities; and he had known and seen a good deal of woman, and of woman's heart; but he had never yet met any one like Zara Croyland. The woman of fashion and of rank in all the few modifications of character that her circumstances admit--for rank and fashion are sadly like the famous bed of the robber of Attica, on which all men are cut down or stretched out to a certain size,--was well known to him, and looked upon much in the light of an exotic plant, kept in an artificial state of existence, with many beauties and excellences, perhaps, mingling with many deformities and faults, but still weakened and deprived of individuality by long drilling in a round of conventionalities. He had seen, too, the wild Indian, in the midst of her native woods, and might have sometimes admired the free grace and wild energy of uncultivated and unperverted nature; but he was not very fond of barbarism, and though he might admit the existence of fine qualities, even in a savage, yet he had not been filled with any great enthusiasm in favour of Indian life, from what he had seen in Canada. The truth is, he had never been a very dissolute, or, as it is termed, a very gay man--he was not sated and surfeited with the vices of civilization, and consequently was not inclined to seek for new excitement in the very opposite extreme of primeval rudeness.

Most of the gradations between the two, he had seen at different periods and in different lands; but yet in her who now rode along beside him, there was something different from any. It was not a want, but a combination of the qualities he had remarked in others. There was the polish and the cultivation of high class and finished training, with a slight touch of the wildness and the originality of the fresh unsophisticated heart. There was the grace of education, and the grace of nature; and there seemed to be high natural powers of intellect, uncurbed by artificial rules, but supplied with materials by instruction.

All this was apparent; but the question with him was, as to the heart beneath, and its emotions. He gazed upon her as they went on--when she was not looking that way--he watched her countenance, the habitual expression of the features, and the varying expression which every emotion produced. Her face seemed like a bright looking-glass, which a breath will dim, and a touch will brighten; but there is so much deceit in the world, and every man who has mingled with that world must have seen so much of it, and every man, also, has within himself such internal and convincing proofs of our human nature's fondness for seeming, that we are all inclined--except in very early youth--to doubt the first impression, to inquire beyond the external appearance, and to inquire if the heart of the fruit corresponds with the beauty of the outside.

He asked himself what was she really?--what was true, and what was false, in that bright and sparkling creature? Whether, was the gaiety or the sadness the real character of the mind within? or whether the frequent variation from the one to the other--ay, and from energy to lightness, from softness to firmness, from gentleness to vigour--were not all the indications of a character as various as the moods which it assumed.

Sir Edward Digby was resolved not to fall in love, which is the most dangerous resolution that a man can take: for it is seldom, if ever, taken, except in a case of great necessity--one of those hasty outworks thrown up against a powerful enemy, which are generally taken in a moment and the cannon therein turned against ourselves.

Nevertheless, he had resolved, as I have said, not to fall in love; and he fancied that, strengthened by that resolution, he was quite secure. It must not be understood, indeed, that Sir Edward Digby never contemplated marriage. On the contrary, he thought of it as a remote evil that was likely to fall upon him some day, by an inevitable necessity. It seemed a sort of duty, indeed, to transmit his name, and honours, and wealth to another generation; and as duties are not always very pleasant things, he, from time to time, looked forward to the execution of his, in this respect, in a calm, philosophical, determined manner. Thirty-five, he thought, would be a good time to marry; and when he did so, he had quite made up his mind to do it with the utmost deliberation and coolness. It should be quite a mariage de raison. He would take it as a dose of physic--a disagreeable thing, to be done when necessary, but not a minute before; and in the meantime, to fall in love, was quite out of the question.

No, he was examining and investigating and contemplating Zara Croyland's character, merely as a matter of interesting speculation; and a very dangerous speculation it was, Sir Edward Digby! I don't know which was most perilous, that, or your resolution.

It is very strange, he never recollected that, in no other case in his whole career, had he found it either necessary to take such a resolution, or pleasant to enter into such a speculation. If he had, perhaps he might have begun to tremble for himself. Nor did he take into the calculation the very important fact that Zara Croyland was both beautiful and pretty--two very different things, reader, as you will find, if you examine. A person may be very pretty without being the least beautiful, or very beautiful without being the least pretty; but when those two qualities are both combined, and when, in one girl, the beauty of features and of form that excites admiration, is joined with that prettiness of expression, and colouring, and arrangement that wakens tenderness and wins affection, Lord have mercy upon the man who rides along with her through fair scenes, under a bright sky!

Digby did not at all find out, that he was in the most dangerous situation in the world; or, if some fancy ever came upon him, that he was not quite safe, it was but as one of those vague impressions of peril that float for a single instant over the mind when we are engaged in any very bold and exciting undertaking, and pass away again as fast.

Far from guarding himself at all, Sir Edward Digby went on in his unconsciousness, laying himself more and more open to the enemy. In pursuit of his scheme of investigation, he proceeded, as they rode along, to try the mind of his fair companion in a thousand different ways; and every instant he brought forth some new and dangerous quality. He found that, in the comparative solitude in which she lived, she had had time for study as well as thought, and had acquired far more, and far more varied stores of information, than was common with the young women of her day. It was not alone that she could read and spell--which a great many could not, in those times,--but she had read a number of different works upon a number of different subjects; knew as much of other lands, and of the habits of other people, as books could give, and was tastefully proficient in the arts that brighten life, even where their cultivation is not its object.

Thus her conversation had always something new about it. The very images that suggested themselves to her mind were derived from such numerous sources, that it kept the fancy on the stretch to follow her in her flights, and made their whole talk a sort of playful chase, like that of one bird after another in the air. Now she borrowed a comparison for something sensible to the eye from the sweet music that charms the ear--now she found out links of association between the singing of the birds and some of the fine paintings that she had seen or heard of--now combined a bright scene, or a peculiar moment of happiness, with the sweet odours of the flowers or the murmur of the stream. With everything in nature and art she sported, apparently unconscious; and often, too, in speaking of the emotions of the heart or the thoughts of the mind, she would, with a bright flash of imagination, cast lights upon those dark and hidden things, from objects in the external world, or from the common events of life.

Eagerly Digby led her on--pleased, excited, entertained himself; but in so doing he produced an effect which he had not calculated upon. He made a change in her feelings towards himself. She had thought him a very agreeable man from the first; she had seen that he was a gentleman by habit, and divined that he was so by nature; but now she began to think that he was a very high-toned and noble-minded man, that he was one worthy of high station and of all happiness--she did not say--of affection, nor let the image of love pass distinctly before her eyes. There might be a rosy cloud in the far sky wherein the god was veiled; but she did not see him--or, was it that she would not? Perhaps it was so; for woman's heart is often as perverse and blind, in these matters, as man's. But one thing is clear, no two people can thus pour forth the streams of congenial thought and feeling--to flow on mingling together in sweet communion--for any great length of time, without a change of their sensations towards each other; and, unless the breast be well guarded by passion for another, it is not alone that mind with mind is blended, but heart with heart.

Though the distance was considerable,--that is to say, some three or four miles, and they made it more than twice as long by turning up towards the hills, to catch a fine view of the wooded world below, on whose beauty Zara expatiated eloquently,--and though they talked of a thousand different subjects, which I have not paused to mention here, lest the detail should seem all too tedious, yet their ride passed away briefly, like a dream. At length, coming through some green lanes, overhung by young saplings and a crown of brambles and other hedge-row shrubs--no longer, alas, in flower--they caught sight of the chimneys of a house a little way farther on, and Zara said, with a sigh, "There is my uncle's house."

Sir Edward Digby asked himself, "Why does she sigh?" and as he did so, felt inclined to sigh, too; for the ride had seemed too short, and had now become as a pleasant thing passed away. But then he thought, "We shall enjoy it once again as we return;" and he took advantage of their slackened pace to say, "As I know you are anxious to speak with your sister, Miss Croyland, I will contrive to occupy your uncle for a time, if we find him at home. I fear I shall not be able to obtain an opportunity of talking with her myself on the subjects that so deeply interest her, as at one time I hoped to do; but I am quite sure, from what I see of you, that I may depend upon what you tell me, and act accordingly."

As if by mutual consent, they had avoided, during their expedition of that morning, the subject which was, perhaps, most in the thoughts of each; but now Zara checked her horse to a slow walk, and replied, after a moment's thought, "I should think, if you desire it, you could easily obtain a few minutes' conversation with her at my uncle's.--I only don't know whether it may agitate her too much or not. Perhaps you had better let me speak with her first, and then, if she wishes it, she will easily find the means. You may trust to me, indeed, Sir Edward, in Edith's case, though I do not always say exactly what I mean about myself. Not that I have done otherwise with you; for, indeed, I have neither had time nor occasion; but with the people that occasionally come to the house, sometimes it is necessary, and sometimes I am tempted, out of pure perversity, to make them think me very different from what I am. It is not always with those that I hate or despise either, but sometimes with people that I like and esteem very much. Now, I dare say poor Harry Leyton has given you a very sad account of me?"

"No, indeed," answered Sir Edward Digby; "you do him wrong; I have not the least objection to tell you exactly what he said."

"Oh, do--do!" cried Zara; "I should like to hear very much, for I am afraid I used to tease him terribly."

"He said," replied Digby, "that when last he saw you, you were a gay, kind-hearted girl of fourteen, and that he was sure, if I spoke to you about him, you would tell me all that I wanted to know with truth and candour."

"That was kind of him," said Zara, with some emotion, "that was very kind. I am glad he knows me; and yet that very candour, Sir Edward, some people call affectation, and some impudence. I am afraid that those who know much of the world never judge rightly of those who know little of it. Sincerity is a commodity so very rare, I am told, in the best society, that those who meet with it never believe that they have got the genuine article."

"I know a good deal of the world," replied the young baronet, "but yet, my dear Miss Croyland, I do not think that I have judged you wrongly;" and he fell into thought.

The next moment they turned up to the house of old Mr. Croyland; and while the servants were holding the horses, and Zara, with the aid of Sir Edward Digby, dismounting at the door, they saw, to her horror and consternation, a large, yellow coach coming down the hill towards the house, which she instantly recognised as her father's family vehicle.

"My aunt, my aunt, upon my life!" exclaimed Zara, with a rueful shake of the head. "I must speak one word with Edith before she comes; so forgive me, Sir Edward," and she darted into the house, asking a black servant, in a shawl turban and a long white gown, where Miss Croyland was to be found.

"She out in de garden, pretty missy," replied the man; and Zara ran on through the vestibule before her. Unfortunately, vestibules will have doors communicating with them, which, I have often remarked, have an unhappy propensity to open when any one is anxious to pass by them quietly. It was so in the present instance: roused from a reverie by the ringing of the bell, and the sound of voices without, Mr. Croyland issued forth just at the moment when Zara's light foot was carrying her across to the garden; and catching her by the arm, he detained her, asking, "What brought you here, saucy girl, and whither are you running so fast?"

Now Zara, though she was not good Mr. Zachary's favourite, had a very just appreciation of her uncle's character, and knew that the simple truth was less dangerous with him than with nine hundred and ninety-nine persons out of a thousand in civilized society. She, therefore, replied at once. "Don't stop me, uncle, there's a good man! I came to speak a few words to Edith, and wish to speak them before my aunt arrives."

"What! plot and counterplot, I will warrant!" exclaimed Mr. Croyland, freeing her arm. "Well, get you gone, you graceless monkey! Ha! who have we here? Why, my young friend, the half-bottle man! Are you one of the plotters too, Sir Edward?"

"Oh, I am a complete master in the art of domestic strategy, I assure you," answered the young officer, "and I propose--having heard what Miss Croyland has just said--that we take up a position across these glass doors, in order to favour her operations. We can then impede the advance of Mrs. Barbara's corps, by throwing forward the light-infantry of small-talk, assure her it is a most beautiful day, tell her that the view from the hill is lovely, and that the slight yellowness of September gives a fine warmth to the green foliage--with various other pieces of information which she does not desire--till the manoeuvres in our rear are complete."

"Ah, you are a sad knave," replied Mr. Zachary Croyland, laughing, "and, I see, are quite ready to aid the young in bamboozling the old."

But, alas, the best schemed campaign is subject to accidental impediments in execution, which will often deprive it of success! Almost as Mr. Croyland spoke, the carriage rolled up; and not small was the horror of the master of the house, to see riding behind it, on a tall grey horse, no other than young Richard Radford. Sir Edward Digby, though less horrified, was not well pleased; but it was Mr. Croyland who spoke, and that in rather a sharp and angry tone, stepping forward, at the same time, over the threshold of his door: "Mr. Radford," he said--"Mr. Radford, I am surprised to see you! You must very well know, that although I tolerate, and am obliged to tolerate, a great many people whom I don't approve, at my brother's house, your society is not that which I particularly desire."

Young Radford's eyes flashed, but, for once in his life, he exercised some command over himself. "I came here at your sister's suggestion, sir," he said.

"Oh, Barbara, Barbara! barbarous Barbara!" exclaimed Mr. Zachary Croyland, shaking his head at his sister, who was stepping out of the carriage. "The devil himself never invented an instrument better fitted to torment the whole human race, than a woman with the best intentions in the world."

"Why, my dear brother," said Mrs. Barbara, with the look of a martyr, "you know quite well that Robert wishes Mr. Radford to have the opportunity of paying his addresses to Edith, and so I proposed----"

"He shan't have the opportunity here, by Vishnoo!" cried the old gentleman.

"To say the truth," said Mr. Radford, interposing, "such was not my object in coming hither to-day. I wished to have the honour of saying a few words to a gentleman I see standing behind you, sir, which was also the motive of my going over to Harbourne House. Otherwise, well knowing your prejudices, I should not have troubled you; for, I can assure you, that your company is not particularly agreeable to me."

"If mine is what you want, sir," replied Sir Edward Digby, stepping forward and passing Mr. Croyland, "it is very easily obtained; but, as it seems you are not a welcome guest here, perhaps we had better walk along the lane together."

"A less distance than that will do," answered Richard Radford, throwing the bridle of his horse to one of the servants, and taking two or three steps away from the house.

"Oh, Zachary, my dear brother, do interfere!" exclaimed Mrs. Barbara. "I forgot they had quarrelled yesterday morning, and unfortunately let out that Sir Edward was here. There will be a duel, if you don't stop them."

"Not I," cried Mr. Croyland, rubbing his hands; "it's a pleasure to see two fools cut each other's throats. I'd lay any wager--if I ever did such a thing as lay wagers at all--that Digby pricks him through the midriff. There's a nice little spot at the end of the garden quite fit for such exercises."

Mr. Zachary Croyland was merely playing upon his sister's apprehensions, as the best sort of punishment he could inflict for the mischief she had brought about; but he never had the slightest idea that Sir Edward Digby and young Radford would come to anything like extreme measures in his sister's presence, knowing the one to be a gentleman, and mistakenly believing the other to be a coward. The conversation of the two who had walked away was not of long duration: nor, for a time, did it appear very vehement. Mr. Radford said something, and the young Baronet replied; Mr. Radford rejoined, and Digby answered the rejoinder. Then some new observation was made by the other, which seemed to cause Sir Edward to look round to the house, and, seeing Mr. Croyland and his sister still on the step, to make a sign for young Radford to follow to a greater distance. The latter, however, planted the heel of his boot tight in the gravel, as if to give emphasis to what he said, and uttered a sentence in a louder tone, and with a look so fierce, meaning, and contemptuous, that Mr. Croyland saw the matter was getting serious, and stepped forward to interfere.

In an instant, however, Sir Edward Digby, apparently provoked beyond bearing, raised the heavy horsewhip which he had in his hand, and laid it three or four times, with great rapidity, over Mr. Radford's shoulders. The young man instantly dropped his own whip, drew his sword, and made a fierce lunge at the young officer's breast. The motion was so rapid, and the thrust so well aimed, that Digby had barely time to put it aside with his riding-whip, receiving a wound in his left shoulder as he did so. But the next moment his sword was also out of the sheath, and, after three sharp passes, young Radford's blade was flying over the neighbouring hedge, and a blow in the face from the hilt of Sir Edward Digby's weapon brought him with his knee to the ground.

The whole of this scene passed as quick as lightning; and I have not thought fit to interrupt the narration for the purpose of recording, in order, the four, several, piercing shrieks with which Mrs. Barbara Croyland accompanied each act of the drama. The first, however, was loud enough to call Zara from the garden, even before she had found her sister; and she came up to her aunt's side just at the moment that young Radford was disarmed, and then struck in the face by his opponent.

Slightly heated, Sir Edward gazed at him with his weapon in his hand; and the young lady, clasping her hands, exclaimed aloud, "Hold, Sir Edward! Sir Edward! for Heaven's sake!"

Sir Edward Digby turned round with a faint smile, thrust his sword back into the sheath, and, without bestowing another word on his adversary, walked slowly back to the door of the house, and apologized to Mrs. Barbara for what had occurred, saying, "I beg you ten thousand pardons, my dear madam, for treating you to such a sight as this; but I can assure you it is not my seeking. That person, who failed to keep an appointment with me yesterday, thought fit twice just now to call me coward; and as he would not walk to a little distance, I had no resource but to horsewhip him where I stood."

"Pity you didn't ran him through the liver!" observed Mr. Croyland.

While these few words were passing, young Radford rose slowly, paused for an instant to gaze upon the ground, and then, gnawing his lip, approached his horse's side. There is, perhaps, no passion of the human heart more dire, more terrible than impotent revenge, or more uncontrollable in its effect upon the human countenance. The face of Richard Radford, handsome as it was in many respects, was at the moment when he put his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up to the saddle, perfectly frightful, from the fiend-like expression of rage and disappointment that it bore. He felt that he was powerless--for a time, at least; that he had met an adversary greatly superior to himself, both in skill and strength; and that he had suffered not only defeat but disgrace, before the eyes of a number of persons whom his own headstrong fury had made spectators of a scene so painful to himself. Reining his horse angrily back to clear him of the carriage, he shook his fist at Sir Edward Digby, exclaiming, "Sooner or later, I will have revenge!" Then, striking the beast's flank with his spurs, he turned and galloped away.

Digby had, as we have seen, addressed his apologies to Mrs. Barbara Croyland; but after hearing, with a calm smile, his vanquished opponent's empty threat, he looked round to the fair companion of his morning's ride, and saw her standing beside her uncle, with her cheek very pale and her eyes cast down to the ground.

"Do not be alarmed. Miss Croyland," he said, bending down his head, and speaking in a low and gentle tone. "This affair can have no other results. It is all over now."

Zara raised her eyes to his face, but, as she did so, turned more pale than before; and pointing to his arm--where the cloth of his coat was cut through, and the blood flowing down over his sleeve and dropping from the ruffle round his wrist--she exclaimed, "You are hurt, Sir Edward! Good Heaven! he has wounded you!"

"A scratch--a scratch," said Digby; "a mere nothing. A pocket-handkerchief tied round it, will soon remedy all the mischief he has done, though not all he intended."

"Oh! come in--come in, and have it examined!" cried Zara, eagerly.

The rest of the party gathered round, joined, just at that moment, by Edith from the garden; and Mr. Croyland, tearing the coat wider open, looked at the wound with more experienced eyes, saying, "Ah, a flesh wound! but in rather an awkward place. Not as wide as a church door, nor as deep as a draw-well, as our friend has it; but if it had been an inch and a half to the right, it would have divided the subclavian artery--and then, my dear sir, 'it would have done.' This will get well soon. But come, Sir Neddy, let us into the house; and I will do for you what I haven't done for ten or twelve years--id est, dress your wound myself: and mind, you must not drink any wine to-night."

The whole party began to move into the house, Sir Edward Digby keeping as near the two Miss Croylands as possible, and laying out a little plan in his head for begging the assistance of Mrs. Barbara while his wound was dressed, and sending the two young ladies out of the room to hold their conference together. He was, however, destined to be frustrated here also. To Zara Croyland, it had been a day of unusual excitement; she had enjoyed, she had been moved, she had been agitated and terrified, and she was still under much greater alarm than perhaps was needful, both regarding Sir Edward Digby's wound and the threat which young Radford had uttered. She felt her head giddy and her heart flutter as if oppressed; but she walked on steadily enough for four or five steps, while her aunt, Mrs. Barbara, was explaining to Edith, in her own particular way, all that had occurred. But just when the old lady was saying--"Then, whipping out his sword in an instant, he thrust at Sir Edward's breast, and I thought to a certainty he was run through--" Zara sunk slowly down, caught by her sister as she fell, and the hue of death spread over her face.

"Fainted!" cried Mr. Croyland. "I wish to Heaven, Bab, you would hold your tongue! I will tell Edith about it afterwards. What's the use of bringing it all up again before the girl's mind, when the thing's done and over? There, let her lie where she is; the recumbent position is the right thing. Bring a cushion out of the drawing-room, Edith, my love, and ask Baba for the hartshorn drops. We'll soon get her better; and then the best thing you can do, Bab, is to put her into the carriage, take her home again, and hold your tongue to my brother about this foolish affair--if anything can hold a woman's tongue. I'll plaster up the man's arm, and then, like many another piece of damaged goods, he'll be all right--on the outside at least."

Mrs. Barbara Croyland followed devoutly one part of her brother's injunctions. As soon as Zara was sufficiently recovered, she hurried her to the carriage, without leaving her alone with Edith for one moment; and Sir Edward Digby, having had his wound skilfully dressed by Mr. Zachary Croyland's own hands, thanked the old gentleman heartily for his care and kindness, mounted his horse, and rode back to Harbourne House.