CHAPTER VII.

While the lofty door of a house in Grosvenor Street was yet quivering

under the shock of a previously announced dinner-arrival, one of the two

servants standing behind a carriage which approached from the direction

of Piccadilly, slipped off, and in a twinkling, with a

thun-thun-thunder-under-under, thunder-runder-runder, thun-thun-thun!

and a shrill thrilling _Whir-r-r_ of the bell, announced the arrival of

the Duke of----, the last guest. It was a large and plain carriage, but

perfectly well known; and before the door of the house at which it had

drawn up had been opened, displaying some four or five servants standing

in the hall, in simple but elegant liveries, some half-dozen passengers

had stopped to see get out of the carriage an elderly, middle-sized man,

with a somewhat spare figure, dressed in plain black clothes, with

iron-gray hair, and a countenance which, once seen, was not to be

forgotten. That was a great man; one, the like of whom many previous

centuries had not seen; whose name shot terror into the hearts of all

the enemies of old England all over the world, and fond pride and

admiration into the hearts of his fellow-countrymen.

"A quarter to eleven!" he said, in a quiet tone, to the servant who was

holding open the carriage door--while the bystanders took off their

hats; a courtesy which he acknowledged, as he slowly stepped across the

pavement, by touching his hat in a mechanical sort of way with his

forefinger. The house-door then closed upon him; the handful of

onlookers passed away; off rolled the empty carriage, and all without

was quiet as before. The house was that of Mr. Aubrey, one of the

members for the borough of YATTON, in Yorkshire--a man of rapidly rising

importance in Parliament. Surely his was a pleasant position--that of an

independent country gentleman, a member of one of the most ancient noble

families in England, with a clear unencumbered rent-roll of ten thousand

a-year, and already, in only his thirty-fourth year, the spokesman of

his class, and promising to become one of the ablest debaters in the

House! Parliament having been assembled, in consequence of a particular

emergency, at a much earlier period than usual, the House of Commons, in

which Mr. Aubrey had the evening before delivered a well-timed and

powerful speech, had adjourned for the Christmas recess, the House of

Lords being about to follow its example that evening: an important

division, however, being first expected to take place at a late hour.

Mr. Aubrey was warmly complimented on his success by several of the

select and brilliant circle then assembled; and who were all in high

spirits--on account of a considerable triumph just obtained by their

party, and to which Mr. Aubrey was assured, by even the Duke of----, his

exertions had certainly not a little contributed. While his Grace was

energetically intimating to Mr. Aubrey his opinion to this effect, there

were two lovely women listening to him with intense eagerness--they were

the wife and sister of Mr. Aubrey. The former was a very interesting and

handsome woman--with raven hair, and a complexion of dazzling

fairness--of nearly eight-and-twenty; the latter was a very beautiful

girl, somewhere between twenty and twenty-one. Both were dressed with

the utmost simplicity and elegance. Mrs. Aubrey, most dotingly fond of

her husband, and a blooming young mother of two as charming children as

were to be met with in a day's walk all over both the parks, was, in

character and manners, all pliancy and gentleness; while about Miss

Aubrey there was a dash of spirit which gave an infinite zest to her

beauty. Her blue eyes beamed with the richest expression of feeling--in

short, Catherine Aubrey was, both in face and figure, a downright

English beauty; and she knew--truth must be told--that such she appeared

to the Great Duke, whose cold aquiline eye she often _felt_ to be

settled upon her with satisfaction. The fact was that he had penetrated

at a first glance beneath the mere surface of an arch, sweet, and

winning manner, and detected a certain strength of character in Miss

Aubrey which gave him more than usual interest in her, and spread over

his iron-cast features a pleasant expression, relaxing their sternness.

It might indeed be said, that before her, in his person,

"Grim-visaged war had smooth'd his wrinkled front."

'Twas a subject for a painter, that delicate and blooming girl, her

auburn hair hanging in careless grace on each side of her white

forehead, while her eyes,

"That might have sooth'd a tiger's rage,

Or thaw'd the cold heart of a conqueror,"

were fixed with absorbed interest on the stern and rigid countenance

which she reflected had been, as it were, a thousand times darkened with

the smoke of the grisly battle-field. But I must not forget that there

are others in the room; and among them, standing at a little distance,

is Lord De la Zouch, one of Mr. Aubrey's neighbors in Yorkshire.

Apparently he is listening to a brother peer talking to him very

earnestly about the expected division; but Lord De la Zouch's eye is

fixed on you, lovely Kate--and how little can you imagine what is

passing through his mind! It has just occurred to him that his sudden

arrangement for young Delamere--his only son and heir, come up the day

before from Oxford--to call for him about half-past ten, and take his

place in Mrs. Aubrey's drawing-room, while Lord De la Zouch goes down to

the House--may be attended with certain consequences! He is in truth

speculating on the effect of your beauty bursting suddenly on his

son--who has not seen you for nearly two years! all this gives him

anxiety--but not painful anxiety--for, dear Kate, he knows that your

forehead would wear the ancient coronet of the De la Zouches with grace

and dignity. But Delamere is as yet too young--and if he gets the image

of Catherine Aubrey into his head, it will, fears his father, instantly

cast into the shade and displace all the stern visages of those old

geometers, poets, orators, historians, philosophers, and statesmen, who

ought, in Lord De la Zouch's and his son's tutor's judgment, to occupy

exclusively the head of the aforesaid Delamere for some five years to

come. That youngster--happy fellow!--frank, high-spirited, and

enthusiastic--and handsome to boot--was heir to an ancient title and

very great estates; all that his father had considered in looking out

for an alliance was--youth, health, beauty, blood--here they all

were;--and _fortune_ too--bah! what did it signify to his son--but at

any rate 'twas not to be thought of for some years.

"Suppose," said he, aloud, though in a musing manner, "one were to

say--twenty-four"----

"_Twenty-four!_" echoed his companion, with amazement; "my dear De la

Zouch, what the deuce do you mean? _Eighty_-four at the very lowest!"

"Eh? what? oh--yes of course--I should say ninety--I mean--hem!--_they_

will muster about twenty-four only."

"Ah--I beg your pardon!--_there_ you're right, I dare say."--Here the

announcement of dinner put an end to the colloquy of the two statesmen.

Lord De la Zouch led down Miss Aubrey with an air of the most delicate

and cordial courtesy; and felt almost disposed, in the heat of the

moment, to tell her that he had arranged all in his own mind--that if

_she_ willed it, she had _his_ hearty consent to become the future Lady

De la Zouch. He was himself the eleventh who had come to the title in

direct descent from father to son; 'twas a point he was not a little

nervous and anxious about--he detested collateral succession--and he

made himself infinitely agreeable to Miss Aubrey as he sat beside her at

dinner! The Duke of---- sat on the right hand side of Mrs. Aubrey,

seemingly in high spirits, and she appeared proud enough of her

supporter. It was a delightful dinner-party, elegant without

ostentation, and select without pretence of exclusiveness. All were

cheerful and animated, not merely on account of the over-night's

parliamentary victory, which I have already alluded to, but also in

contemplation of the coming Christmas; how, and where, and with whom

each was to spend that "righte merrie season," being the chief topic of

conversation. As there was nothing peculiar in the dinner, and as I have

no turn for describing such matters in detail--the clatter of plate, the

jingling of silver, the sparkling of wines, and so forth--I shall

request the reader to imagine himself led by me quietly out of the

dining-room into the library--thus escaping from all the bustle and

hubbub attendant upon such an entertainment as is going on in front of

the house. We shall be alone in the library--here it is; we enter it,

and shut the door. 'Tis a spacious room, all the sides covered with

books, of which Mr. Aubrey is a great collector--and the clear red fire

(which we must presently replenish, or it will go out) is shedding a

subdued ruddy light on all the objects in the room, very favorable for

our purpose. The ample table is covered with books and papers; and

there is an antique-looking arm-chair drawn opposite to the fire, in

which Mr. Aubrey has been indulging in a long revery till the moment of

quitting it to go and dress for dinner. This chair I shall sit in

myself; you may draw out from the recess for yourself one of two little

sloping easy-chairs, which have been placed there by Mrs. and Miss

Aubrey for their own sole use, considering that they are excellent

judges of the period at which Mr. Aubrey has been long enough alone, and

at which they should come in and gossip with him. We may as well draw

the dusky green curtains across the window, through which the moon

shines at present rather too brightly.--So now, after coaxing up the

fire, I will proceed to tell you a little bit of pleasant family

history.

The Aubreys are a Yorkshire family--the younger branch of the ancient

and noble family of the Dreddlingtons. Their residence, YATTON, is in

the north-eastern part of the county, not above fifteen or twenty miles

from the sea. The hall is one of those old structures, the sight of

which throws you back a couple of centuries in our English history. It

stands in a park, crowded with trees, many of them of great age and

size, and under which two or three hundred head of deer perform their

capricious and graceful gambols. In approaching from London, you strike

off from the great north road into a broad by-way; after going down

which for about a mile, you come to a straggling little village called

Yatton, at the farther extremity of which stands a little aged gray

church, with a tall thin spire; an immense yew-tree, with a kind of

friendly gloom, overshadowing, in the little churchyard, nearly half the

graves. Rather in the rear of the church is the vicarage-house, snug and

sheltered by a line of fir-trees. After walking on about eighty yards,

you come to high park-gates, and see a lodge just within, on the left

hand side, sheltered by an elm-tree. Having passed through these gates,

you wind your way for about two-thirds of a mile along a gravel walk,

among the thickening trees, till you come to a ponderous old crumbling

looking red brick gateway of the time of Henry VII., with one or two

deeply set stone windows in the turrets, and mouldering stone-capped

battlements peeping through high-climbing ivy. There is an old

escutcheon immediately over the point of the arch; and as you pass

underneath, if you look up, you can plainly see the groove of the old

portcullis still remaining. Having passed under this castellated

remnant, you enter a kind of court formed by a high wall completely

covered with ivy, running along in a line from the right hand turret of

the gateway till it joins the house. Along its course are a number of

yew-trees. In the centre of the open space is a quaintly disposed

grass-plot, dotted about with stunted box, and in the centre of that

stands a weather-beaten stone sundial.

The house itself is a large irregular pile of dull red brickwork, with

great stacks of chimneys in the rear; the body of the building has

evidently been erected at different times. Some part is evidently in the

style of Queen Elizabeth's reign, another in that of Queen Anne; and it

is plain that on the site of the present structure has formerly stood a

castle. There are, indeed, traces of the old moat still visible round

the rear of the house. One of the ancient towers, with small deep stone

windows, still remains, giving its venerable support to the right hand

extremity of the building, as you stand with your face to the door. The

long frontage of the house consists of two huge masses of dusky-red

brickwork, (you can hardly call them _wings_,) connected together by a

lower building in the centre, which contains the hall. There are three

or four rows of long thin deep windows, with heavy-looking wooden

sashes. The high-pitched roof is of red tiles, and has deep projecting

eaves, forming, in fact, a bold wooden cornice running along the whole

length of the building, which is some two or three stories high. At the

left extremity stands a clump of ancient cedars of Lebanon, feathering

in evergreen beauty down to the ground. The hall is large and lofty; the

floor is of polished oak, almost the whole of which is covered with

thick matting; it is wainscoted all round with black oak; some seven or

eight full-length pictures, evidently of considerable antiquity, being

let into the panels. Quaint figures these are to be sure; and if they

resembled the ancestors of the Aubrey family, those ancestors must have

been singular and startling persons! The faces are quite white and

staring--all as if in wonder; and they have such long thin legs! some of

them ending in sharp-pointed shoes. On each side of the ample fireplace

stands a figure in full armor; and there are also ranged along the wall

old helmets, cuirasses, swords, lances, battle-axes, and cross-bows, the

very idea of wearing, wielding, and handling which, makes your arms

ache, while you exclaim, "they _must_ have been giants in those days!"

On one side of this hall, a door opens into the dining-room, beyond

which is the library; on the other side a door leads you into a noble

room, now called the drawing-room, where stands a very fine organ. Out

of both the dining-room and drawing-room you pass up a staircase

contained in an old square tower; two sides of each of them, opening on

the quadrangle, lead into a gallery running round it, and into which all

the bed-rooms open.

But I need not go into further detail. Altogether it is truly a fine old

mansion. Its only constant occupant is Mrs. Aubrey, the mother of Mr.

Aubrey, in whose library we are now seated. She is a widow, having

survived her husband, who twice was one of the county members, about

fifteen years. Mr. Aubrey is her first-born child, Miss Aubrey her last;

four intervening children rest prematurely in the grave--and the grief

and suffering consequent upon all these bereavements have sadly shaken

her constitution, and made her, both in actual health, and in

appearance, at least ten years older than she really is--for she has, in

point of fact, not long since entered her sixtieth year. What a blessed

life she leads at Yatton! Her serene and cheerful temper makes every one

happy about her; and her charity is unbounded, but dispensed with a just

discrimination. One way or another, almost a fourth of the village are

direct pensioners upon her bounty. You have only to mention the name of

Madam Aubrey, the lady of Yatton, to witness involuntary homage paid to

her virtues. Her word is law; and well indeed it may be. While Mr.

Aubrey, her husband, was, to the last, somewhat stern in his temper and

reserved in his habits, bearing withal a spotless and lofty character,

_she_ was always what she still is, meek, gentle, accessible,

charitable, and pious. On his death she withdrew from the world, and has

ever since resided at Yatton--never having quitted it for a single day.

There are in the vicinity one or two stately families, with ancient

name, sounding title, and great possessions; but for ten miles round

Yatton, old Madam Aubrey, the squire's mother, is the name that is

enshrined in people's kindliest and most grateful feelings, and receives

their readiest homage. 'Tis perhaps a very small matter to mention, but

there is at the hall an old white mare, Peggy, that for these twenty

years, in all weathers, hath been the bearer of Madam's bounty.

Thousands of times hath she carried Jacob Jones (now a pensioned

servant, whose hair is as white as Peggy's) all over the estate, and

also oft beyond it, with comfortable matters for the sick and poor. Most

commonly there are a couple of stone bottles filled with cowslip,

currant, ginger, or elderberry wine, slung before him over the well-worn

saddle--to the carrying of which Peggy has got so accustomed, that she

does not go comfortably without them. She has so fallen into the habits

of old Jones, who is an inveterate gossip, (Madam having helped to make

him such by the numerous inquiries she makes of him every morning as to

every one in the village and on the estate, and which inquiries he

_must_ have the means of answering,) that, slowly as she jogs along, if

ever she meets or is overtaken by any one, she stops of her own accord,

as if to hear what they and her rider have to say to one another. She is

a great favorite with all, and gets a mouthful of hay or grass at every

place she stops at, either from the children or the old people. When

poor Peggy comes to die, (and she is getting feeble, now,) she will be

missed by all the folk round Yatton! Madam Aubrey, growing, I am sorry

to say, less able to exert herself, does not go about as much as she

used, betaking herself, therefore, oftener and oftener, to the old

family coach; and when she is going to drive about the neighborhood, you

may almost always see it stop at the vicarage for old Dr. Tatham, who

generally accompanies her. On these occasions she always has in the

carriage a black velvet bag containing Testaments and Prayer-books,

which are principally distributed as rewards to those whom the parson

can recommend as deserving of them. For these five-and-twenty years she

has never missed giving a copy of each to every child in the village and

on the estate, on its being confirmed; and the old lady looks round very

keenly every Sunday, from her pew, to see that these Bibles and

Prayer-books are reverently used. I could go on for an hour and longer,

telling you these and other such matters of this exemplary lady; but we

shall by and by have some opportunities of seeing and knowing more of

her personally. Her features are delicate, and have been very handsome;

and in manner she is very calm, and quiet, and dignified. She looks all

that you would expect from what I have told you. The briskness of youth,

the sedate firmness of middle-age, have years since given place, as you

will see with some pain, to the feebleness produced by ill health and

mental suffering--for she mourned grievously after those whom she had

lost! Oh! how she dotes upon her surviving son and daughter! And are

they not worthy of such a mother?

Mr. Aubrey is in his thirty-fourth year; and inherits the mental

qualities of both his parents--the demeanor and person of his father. He

has a reserve which is not cynical, but only diffident; yet it gives

him, at least at first sight, and till you have become familiar with his

features, which are of a cast at once refined and aristocratic, yet full

of goodness--an air of hauteur, which is very--very far from his real

nature. He has in truth the soft heart and benignant temper of his

mother, joined with the masculine firmness of character which belonged

to his father; which, however, is in danger of being seriously impaired

by _inaction_. Sensitive he is, perhaps to a fault. There is a tone of

melancholy in his composition, which has probably increased upon him

from his severe studies, ever since his youth. He is a man of superior

intellect; a capital scholar; took the highest honor at Oxford: and has

since justified the expectations which were then entertained of him. He

has made several really valuable contributions to historic

literature--indeed, I think he is even now engaged upon some researches

calculated to throw much light upon the obscure origin of several of our

political institutions. He has entered upon _politics_ with

uncommon--perhaps with an excessive--ardor. I think he is likely to make

an eminent figure in Parliament; for he is a man of very clear head,

very patient, of business-like habits, ready in debate, and, moreover,

has at once an impressive and engaging delivery as a public speaker. He

is generous and charitable as his admirable mother, and careless, even

to a fault, of his pecuniary interests. He is a man of perfect

simplicity and purity of character. Above all, his virtues are the

virtues which have been sublimed by Christianity--as it were, the cold

embers of morality warmed into religion. He stands happily equidistant

from infidelity and fanaticism. He has looked for light from above, and

has heard a voice saying, "_This_ is the way, walk thou in it." His

piety is the real source of that happy consistent dignity, and content,

and firmness, which have earned him the respect of all who know him, and

will bear him through whatever may befall him. He who standeth upon this

rock cannot be moved, perhaps not even touched, by the surges of worldly

reverses--of difficulty and distress! In manner Mr. Aubrey is calm and

gentlemanlike; in person he is rather above the middle height, and of

slight make. From the way in which his clothes hang about him, a certain

sharpness at his shoulders catching the eye of an observer--you would

feel an anxiety about his health, which would be increased by hearing of

the mortality in his family; and your thoughts are perhaps pointed in

the same direction, by a glance at his long, thin, delicate, white

hands. His countenance has a serene manliness about it when in repose,

and great acuteness and vivacity when animated. His hair, not very full,

is black as jet, his forehead ample and marked; and his eyes are the

exponents of perfect sincerity and acuteness.

Mr. Aubrey has been married about six years; 'twas a case of love at

first sight. Chance (so to speak) threw him in the way of Agnes St.

Clair, within a few weeks after she had been bereaved of her only

parent, Colonel St. Clair, a man of old but impoverished family, who

fell in the Peninsular war. Had he lived only a month or two longer, he

would have succeeded to a considerable estate; as it was, he left his

only child comparatively penniless; but Heaven had endowed her with

personal beauty, with a lovely disposition, and superior understanding.

It was not till after a long and anxious wooing, backed by the cordial

entreaties of Mrs. Aubrey, that Miss St. Clair consented to become the

wife of a man, who, to this hour, loves her with all the passionate

ardor with which she had first inspired him. And richly she deserves his

love! She does, indeed, dote upon him; she studies, or rather, perhaps,

anticipates his every wish; in short, had the whole sex been searched

for one calculated to make happy the morbidly fastidious Aubrey, the

choice must surely have fallen on Miss St. Clair; a woman whose temper,

whose tastes, and whose manners were at once in delicate and harmonizing

unison and contrast with his own. She has hitherto brought him but two

children--and those very beautiful children, too--a boy between four and

five years old, and a girl about two years old. If I were to hint my own

impressions, I should say there was a probability---- be that, however,

as it may, 't is an affair we have nothing to do with at present.

Of Catherine Aubrey you had a momentary moonlight glimpse at a former

period of this history;[14] and you have seen her this evening under

other, and perhaps not less interesting circumstances. Now, where have

you beheld a more exquisite specimen of budding womanhood? but I feel

that I shall get extravagant if I begin to dwell upon her charms. You

have seen her--judge for yourself; but you do not _know_ her as I do;

and I shall tell you that her personal beauty is but a faint emblem of

the beauties of her mind and character. She is Aubrey's youngest--now

his only sister; and he cherishes her with the tenderest and fondest

affection. Neither he, nor his mother--with whom she spends her time

alternately--can bear to part with her for ever so short an interval.

She is the gay, romping playmate of the little Aubreys; the demure

secretary and treasurer of her mother. I say _demure_, for there is a

sly humor and archness in Kate's composition, which flickers about even

her gravest moods. She is calculated equally for the seclusion of Yatton

and the splendid atmosphere of Almack's; but for the latter she seems at

present to have little inclination. Kate is a girl of decided character,

of strong sense, of high principle; all of which are irradiated, not

overborne, by her sparkling vivacity of temperament. She has real

talent; and her mind has been trained, and her tastes directed, with

affectionate skill and vigilance by her gifted brother. She has many

accomplishments; but the only one I shall choose here to name is--music.

_She_ was one to sing and play before a man of the most fastidious taste

and genius! I defy any man to hear the rich tones of Miss Aubrey's voice

without feeling his heart moved. Music is with her a matter not of _art_

but of _feeling_--of passionate feeling; but hark!--hush!--surely--yes,

that is Miss Aubrey's voice--yes, that is her clear and brilliant touch;

the ladies have ascended to the drawing-room, and we must presently

follow them. How time has passed! I had a great deal more to tell you

about the family, but we must take some other opportunity.

Yes, it _is_ Miss Aubrey, playing on the new and superb piano given by

her brother last week to Mrs. Aubrey. Do you see with what a careless

grace and ease she is giving a very sweet but difficult composition of

Haydn? The lady who is standing by her to turn over her music, is the

celebrated Countess of Lydsdale. She is still young and beautiful; but

beside Miss Aubrey she presents a somewhat painful contrast! 'T is all

the difference between an artificial and a natural flower. Poor Lady

Lydsdale! you are not happy with all your fashion and splendor; the

glitter of your diamonds cannot compensate for the loss of the sparkling

spirits of a younger day; they pale their ineffectual fires beside the

fresh and joyous spirit of Catherine Aubrey! You sigh----

"Now, I'll sing you quite a new thing," said Miss Aubrey, starting up,

and turning over her portfolio till she came to a sheet of paper, on

which were some verses in her own handwriting, and with which she sat

down again before the piano: "The words were written by my brother, and

I have found an old air that exactly suits them!" Here her fingers,

wandering lightly and softly over the keys, gave forth a beautiful

symphony in the minor; after which, with a rich and soft voice, she sang

the following:--

PEACE.

I.

Where, O where

Hath gentle PEACE found rest?

Builds she in bower of lady fair?--

But LOVE--he hath possession there;

Not long is _she_ the guest.

II.

Sits she crown'd

Beneath a pictured dome?

But there AMBITION keeps his ground,

And Fear and Envy skulk around;

_This_ cannot be her home.

III.

Will she hide

In scholar's pensive cell?

But _he_ already hath his bride:

Him MELANCHOLY sits beside--

With her she may not dwell.

IV.

Now and then,

Peace, wandering, lays her head

On regal couch, in captive's den--

But nowhere finds she rest with men,

Or only with the dead!

To these words, trembling on the beautiful lips of Miss Aubrey, was

listening an unperceived auditor, with eyes devouring her every feature,

and ears absorbing every tone of her thrilling voice. It was young

Delamere, who had, only a moment or two before Miss Aubrey had commenced

singing the above lines, alighted from his father's carriage, which was

then waiting at the door to carry off Lord De la Zouch to the House of

Lords. Arrested by the rich voice of the singer, he stopped short before

he had entered the drawing-room in which she sat, and stepping to a

corner where he was hid from view, though he could distinctly see Miss

Aubrey, there he remained as if rooted to the spot. He, too, had a soul

for music; and the exquisite manner in which Miss Aubrey gave the last

verse, called up before his excited fancy the vivid image of a dove

fluttering with agitated uncertainty over the sea of human life; even

like the dove over the waters enveloping the earth in olden time. The

mournful minor into which she threw the last two lines, excited a heart

susceptible of the liveliest emotions to a degree which it required some

effort to control, and almost a tear to relieve. When Miss Aubrey had

quitted the piano, Mrs. Aubrey followed, and gave a very delicate sonata

from Haydn. Then sat down Lady Lydsdale, and dashed off, in an

exceedingly brilliant style, a _scena_ from the new opera, which quickly

reduced the excited feelings of Delamere to a pitch admitting of his

presenting himself! While this lowering process was going on, Delamere

took down a small volume from a tasteful little cabinet of books

immediately behind him. It was Spenser's _Faery Queen_. He found many

pencil-marks, evidently made by a light female hand; and turning to the

fly-leaf, beheld the name of "_Catherine Aubrey_." His heart fluttered;

he turned towards the piano, and beheld the graceful figure of Miss

Aubrey standing beside Lady Lydsdale, in an attitude of delighted

earnestness--for her ladyship was undoubtedly a very brilliant

performer--totally unconscious of the admiring eye which was fixed upon

her. After gazing at her for some moments, he gently pressed the

autograph to his lips; and solemnly vowed within himself, in the most

deliberate manner possible, that if he could not marry Kate Aubrey, he

would never marry anybody; he would, moreover, quit England forever; and

deposit a broken heart in a foreign grave--and so forth. Thus calmly

resolved--or rather to such a resolution did his thoughts tend--that

sedate person, the Honorable Geoffrey Lovel Delamere. He was a

high-spirited, frank-hearted fellow; and, like a good-natured fool, whom

bitter knowledge of the world has not cooled down into contempt for a

very considerable portion of it, trusted and loved almost every one whom

he saw. At that moment there was only one person in the whole world that

he hated, viz. the miserable individual--if any such there were--who

might have happened to forestall him in the affections of Miss Aubrey.

The bare idea made his breath come and go quickly, and his cheek flush.

Why, he felt that he had a sort of _right_ to Miss Aubrey's heart; for

had they not been born, and had they not lived almost all their lives,

within a few miles of each other? Had they not often played

together?--were not their family estates almost contiguous?--Delamere

advanced into the room, assuming as unconcerned an air as he could; but

he felt not a little tried when Miss Aubrey, on seeing him, gayly and

frankly extended her hand to him, supposing him to have only the moment

before entered the house. Poor Delamere's hand slightly quivered as he

felt it clasping the soft lilied fingers of her whom he had thus

resolved to make his wife: what would he not have given to have carried

them to his lips! Now, if I were to say that in the course of that

evening, Miss Aubrey did not form a kind--of a sort--of a faint--notion

of the possible state of matters with young Delamere, I should not be

treating the reader with that eminent degree of candor for which I think

he, or she, is at present disposed to give me credit. But Kate was

deeply skilled in human nature, and promptly settled the matter by one

very just reflection, viz. that Delamere was, in contemplation of law, a

mere _infant_--_i. e._ he wanted yet several weeks of twenty-one! and,

therefore, that it was not likely that, &c. &c. &c. And,

besides--pooh!--pooh!--'t is a mere _boy_, at College--how

ridiculous!--So she gave herself no trouble about the affair; exhibited

no symptoms of caution or coyness, but conducted herself just as if he

had not been present.

He was a handsome young fellow, too!----

During the evening, Mr. Delamere took an opportunity of asking Miss

Aubrey who wrote the verses to which he pointed, as they lay on the

piano. The handwriting, she said, was hers, but the verses were composed

by her brother. He asked for the copy, with a slight trepidation. She

readily gave it to him--he receiving it with (as he supposed) a mighty

unconcerned air. He read it over that night, before getting into bed, at

least six times; and it was the very first thing he looked at on getting

out of bed in the morning. Now Miss Aubrey certainly wrote an elegant

hand--but as for _character_, of course it had none. He could scarcely

have distinguished it from the writing of any of his cousins or

friends;--How should he? All women are taught the same hard, angular,

uniform style--but good, bad, or indifferent, this was _Kate Aubrey's_

handwriting--and her pretty hand had rested on the paper while

writing--that was enough. He resolved to turn the verses into every kind

of Greek and Latin metre he knew of--

In short, that here was a "course of true love" _opened_, seems pretty

evident: but whether it will "run smooth" is another matter.

Their guests having at length departed, Mr. Aubrey, his wife, and

sister, soon afterwards rose to retire. He went, very sleepy, straight

to his dressing-room; they to the nursery--(a constant and laudable

custom with them)--to see how the children were going on, as far as

could be learned from the drowsy attendants of the aforesaid children.

Little Aubrey would have reminded you of one of the exquisite sketches

of children's heads by Reynolds or Lawrence, as he lay breathing

imperceptibly, with his rich flowing hair spread upon the pillow, in

which his face was partly hid, and his arms stretched out. Mrs. Aubrey

put her finger into one of his hands, which was half open, and which

closed as it were instinctively upon it, with a gentle pressure.

"Look--only look--Kate!" softly whispered Mrs. Aubrey. Miss Aubrey

leaned forward and kissed his little cheek with an ardor which almost

awoke him. After a glance at a tiny head partly visible above the

clothes, in an adjoining bed, and looking like a rosebud almost entirely

hid among the leaves, they withdrew.

"The little loves!--how one's heart thrills with looking at them!" said

Miss Aubrey as they descended. "Kate!" whispered Mrs. Aubrey, with an

arch smile, as they stood at their respective chamber doors, which

adjoined, "Mr. Delamere is improved--is not he?--Ah, Kate! Kate!--I

understand!"

"Agnes, how can you"--hastily answered Miss Aubrey, with cheeks suddenly

crimsoned. "I never heard such nonsense"----

"Night, night, Kate! think over it!" said Mrs. Aubrey, and kissing her

beautiful sister-in-law, the next moment the blooming wife had entered

her bedroom. Miss Aubrey slipped into her dressing-room, where Harriet,

her maid, was sitting asleep before the fire. Her lovely mistress did

not for a few minutes awake her; but placing her candlestick on the

toilet table, stood in a musing attitude.

"It's so perfectly _ridiculous_" at length she said aloud; and up

started her maid. Within half an hour Miss Aubrey was in bed, but by no

means asleep!

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Aubrey was seated in the

library, in momentary expectation of his letters; and a few moments

before the postman's _rat-tat_ was heard, Mrs. and Miss Aubrey made

their appearance, as was their wont, in expectation of anything which

might have upon the cover, in addition to the address--

"CHARLES AUBREY, ESQ., M. P.," &c. &c. &c.,

the words, "Mrs. Aubrey," or "Miss Aubrey," in the corner. In addition

to this, 'twas not an unpleasant thing to skim over the contents of

_his_ letters! as one by one he opened them, and laid them aside; for

both these fair creatures were daughters of Eve, and inherited a

_little_ of her curiosity. Mr. Aubrey was always somewhat nervous and

fidgety on such occasions, and wished them gone; but they only laughed

at him, so he was fain to put up with them. On this morning there were

more than Mr. Aubrey's usual number of letters; and in casting her eye

over them, Mrs. Aubrey suddenly took up one that challenged attention;

it bore a black seal, had a deep black bordering, and bore the frank of

Lord Alkmond, at whose house in Shropshire they had for months been

engaged to spend the ensuing Christmas, and were intending to set off on

their visit the very next day. The ominous missive was soon torn open;

it was from Lord Alkmond himself, who in a few hurried lines announced

the sudden death of his brother; so that there was an end of their visit

to the Priory.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, calmly, rising after a pause, and standing

with his back to the fire, in a musing posture.

"Has he left any family, Charles?" inquired Mrs. Aubrey, with a sigh,

her eyes still fixed on the letter.

"I--I really don't know--poor fellow! We lose a vote for Fellington--we

shall, to a certainty," he added, with an air of chagrin visibly

stealing over his features.

"How politics harden the heart, Charles! Just at _this_ moment to

be"---- quoth Mrs. Aubrey.

"It _is_ too bad, Agnes, I own--but you see," said Mr. Aubrey,

affectionately; suddenly, however, he broke off--"stay, I don't know

either, for there's the Grassingham interest come into the field since

the last"----

"Charles, I do really almost think," exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey with sudden

emotion, stepping to his side, and throwing her arms round him

affectionately, "that if _I_ were to die, I should be forgotten in a

fortnight if the House were sitting"----

"How _can_ you say such things, my love?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, kissing

her forehead.

"When Agnes was born, you know," she murmured inarticulately. Her

husband folded her tenderly in his arms in silence. On the occasion she

alluded to, he had nearly lost her; and they both had reason to expect

that another similar season of peril was not _very_ distant.

"Now, Charles, you _can't_ escape," said Miss Aubrey, presently,

assuming a cheerful tone; "now for dear old Yatton!"----

"Yes, Yatton! Positively you must!" added Mrs. Aubrey, smiling through

her tears.

"What! Go to Yatton?" said Mr. Aubrey, shaking his head and smiling.

"Nonsense! I--i--t ca--n't--be--done!--Why, we must set off to-morrow!

They've had no warning!"

"What warning does mamma require, Charles?" inquired his sister,

eagerly. "Isn't the dear old place always in apple-pie order?"

"How you love the 'dear old place,' Kate!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, in such

an affectionate tone as brought his sister in an instant to his side, to

urge on her suit; and there stood the lord of Yatton embraced by these

two beautiful women, his own heart (_inter nos_) seconding every word

they uttered.

"How my mother would stare!" said he at length, irresolutely, looking

from one to the other, and smiling at their eagerness.

"What a bustle everything will be in!" exclaimed Kate. "I fancy I'm

there already! The great blazing fires--the holly and mistletoe. We must

all go, Charles--children and all!"

"Why, really, I hardly know"---- said Mr. Aubrey, hesitatingly.

"Oh! _I've_ settled it all," quoth Kate, seeing that she had gained her

point, and resolved to press her advantage, "and, what's more, we've no

time to lose; this is Tuesday,--Christmas-day is Saturday--we must of

course stop a night on the way; but hadn't we better have Griffiths in,

to arrange all?" Mr. Aubrey laughed--and--rang the bell.

"Request Mr. Griffiths to come to me," said he to the servant who

answered the summons.

Within a very few minutes that respectable functionary had made his

appearance and received his instructions. The march to Shropshire was

countermanded--and hey! for Yatton!--for which they were to start the

next day about noon. Mr. Griffiths' first step was to pack off Sam, Mr.

Aubrey's groom, by the Tally-ho, the first coach to York, starting at

two o'clock that very day, with letters announcing the immediate arrival

of the family. These orders were received by Sam, (who had been born and

bred at Yatton,) while he was bestowing, with vehement sibilation, his

customary civilities on a favorite mare of his master's. Down dropped

his currycomb; he jumped into the air; snapped his fingers; then he

threw his arms round Jenny, and tickled her under the chin. "Dang it,"

said he, as he threw her another feed of oats, "I wish thee were going

wi' me--dang'd if I don't!" Then he hastily made himself "a _bit_ tidy;"

presented himself very respectfully before Mr. Griffiths, to receive the

wherewithal to pay his fare; and having obtained it, off he scampered to

the Bull and Mouth, as if it had been a neck-and-neck race between him

and all London, which should get down to Yorkshire first. A little after

one o'clock, his packet of letters was delivered to him; and within

another hour Sam was to be seen (quite comfortable, with a draught of

spiced ale given him by the cook, to make his hasty dinner "sit well")

on the top of the Tally-ho, rattling rapidly along the great north road.

"Come, Kate," said Mrs. Aubrey, entering Miss Aubrey's room, where she

was giving directions to her maid, "I've ordered the carriage to be at

the door as soon as it can be got ready; we must go off to

Coutts'--see!" She held in her hand two slips of paper, one of which she

gave Miss Aubrey. 'Twas a check for one hundred pounds--her brother's

usual Christmas-box--"and then we've a quantity of little matters to

buy this afternoon. Come, Kate, quick! quick!"

Now, poor Kate had spent nearly all her money, which circumstance,

connected with another that I shall shortly mention, had given her not a

little concern. At her earnest request, her brother had, about a year

before, built her a nice little school, capable of containing some

eighteen or twenty girls, on a slip of land between the vicarage and the

park wall of Yatton, and old Mrs. Aubrey and her daughter found a

resident schoolmistress, and, in fact, supported the little

establishment, which, at the time I am speaking of, contained some

seventeen or eighteen of the villagers' younger children. Miss Aubrey

took a prodigious interest in this little school, scarce a day passing

without her visiting it when she was at Yatton; and what Kate wanted,

was the luxury of giving a Christmas present to both mistress and

scholars. That, however, she would have had some difficulty in effecting

but for this her brother's timely present, which had quite set her heart

at ease. On their return, the carriage was crowded with the things they

had been purchasing--articles of clothing for the feebler old villagers;

work-boxes, samplers, books, testaments, prayer-books, &c. &c. &c., for

the school; the sight of which, I can assure the reader, made Kate far

happier than if they had been the costliest articles of dress and

jewelry.

The next day was a very pleasant one for travelling--"frosty, but

kindly." About one o'clock there might have been seen standing before

the door the roomy yellow family carriage, with four post-horses. All

was in travelling trim. In the rumble sat Mr. Aubrey's valet and Mrs.

Aubrey's maid--Miss Aubrey's, and one of the nursery-maids, going down

by the coach which had carried Sam--the Tally-ho. The coach-box was

piled up with that sort of luggage which, by its lightness and bulk,

denotes lady-travelling: inside were Mrs. and Miss Aubrey muffled in

furs, shawls, and pelisses; a nursery-maid, with little Master and Miss

Aubrey, equally well protected from the cold; and the vacant seat

awaited Mr. Aubrey, who at length made his appearance, having been

engaged till the latest moment in giving and repeating specific

instructions concerning the forwarding of his letters and papers. As

soon as he had taken his place, and all had been snugly disposed within,

the steps were doubled up, the door was closed, the windows were drawn

up--crack! crack! went the whips of the two postilions, and away rolled

the carriage over the dry hard pavement.

"Now that's what I calls doing it _uncommon_ comfortable," said a

pot-boy to one of the footmen at an adjoining house, where he was

delivering the porter for the servants' dinner; "how _werry_ nice and

snug them two looks in the rumble behind!"

"_We_ goes to-morrow," carelessly replied the gentleman whom he had

addressed.

"It's a fine thing to be gentlefolk," said the boy, taking up his

pot-board.

"Pretty well--but one tires of it in time!" drawled the footman,

twitching up his shirt-collar.

On drawing up to the posting-house, which was within about forty miles

of Yatton, the Aubreys found a carriage and four just ready to start,

after changing horses; and whose should this prove to be, but Lord De la

Zouch's, containing himself, his lady, and his son, Mr. Delamere! His

lordship and his son both alighted on accidentally discovering who had

overtaken them; and coming up to Mr. Aubrey's carriage windows,

exchanged surprised and cordial greetings with its occupants--whom Lord

De la Zouch imagined to have been by this time on their way to

Shropshire. Mr. Delamere manifested a surprising eagerness about the

welfare of little Agnes Aubrey, who happened to be lying fast asleep in

Miss Aubrey's lap; but the evening was fast advancing, and both the

travelling parties had yet before them a considerable portion of their

journey. After a hasty promise on the part of each to dine with the

other, before returning to town for the season--a promise which _Mr.

Delamere_ at all events resolved should not be lost sight of--they

parted. 'Twas eight o'clock before Mr. Aubrey's eye, which had been for

some time on the look-out, caught sight of Yatton woods; and when it

did, his heart yearned towards them. The moon shone brightly and

cheerily, and it was pleasant to listen to the quickening clattering

tramp of the horses upon the dry hard highway, as the travellers rapidly

neared a spot endeared to them by every early and tender association.

When they had got within half a mile of the village, they overtook the

worthy vicar, who had mounted his nag, and had been out on the road to

meet the expected comers, for an hour before. Mr. Aubrey roused Mrs.

Aubrey from her nap, to point out Dr. Tatham, who by that time was

cantering along beside the open window. 'Twas refreshing to see the

cheerful old man--who looked as ruddy and hearty as ever.

"God bless you all! All well?" he exclaimed, riding close to the window.

"Yes; but how is my mother?" inquired Mr. Aubrey.

"High spirits--high spirits! Was with her this afternoon! Have not seen

her better for years! So surprised! Ah! here's an old friend--Hector!"

"Bow-wow-wow-wow! Bow--Bow-wow!"

"Papa! papa!" exclaimed the voice of little Charles, struggling to get

on his father's lap to look out of the window, "that is Hector! I know

it is! He is come to see _me_! I want to look at him."

Mr. Aubrey lifted him up as he desired, and a huge black-and-white

Newfoundland dog almost leaped up to the window, at sight of him

clapping his little hands, as if in eager recognition, and then

scampered and bounded about in all directions, barking most

boisterously, to the infinite delight of little Aubrey. This messenger

had been sent on by Sam, the groom; who, having been on the look-out for

the travellers for some time, the moment he had caught sight of the

carriage, pelted down the village through the park, at top speed, up to

the Hall, there to communicate the good news of their safe arrival. The

travellers thought that the village had never looked so pretty and

picturesque before. The sound of the carriage dashing through it, called

all the cottagers to their doors, where they stood bowing and

courtesying. It soon reached the park-gates, which were thrown wide open

in readiness for its entrance. As they passed the church, they heard its

little bells ringing a merry peal to welcome their arrival. Its faint

chimes went to their very hearts.

"My darling Agnes, here we are again in the old place," said Mr. Aubrey,

in a joyous tone, affectionately kissing Mrs. Aubrey and his sister, as,

after having wound their way up the park at almost a gallop, they heard

themselves rattling over the stone pavement immediately under the old

turreted gateway. On approaching it, they saw lights glancing about in

the Hall windows; and before they had drawn up, the great door was

thrown open, and several servants (one or two of them gray-headed) made

their appearance, eager to release the travellers from their long

confinement. A great wood fire was crackling and blazing in the ample

fireplace in the hall opposite the door, casting a right pleasant and

cheerful light over the various antique objects ranged round the walls;

but the object on which Mr. Aubrey's eye instantly settled was the

venerable figure of his mother, standing beside the fireplace with one

or two female attendants. The moment that the carriage door was opened,

he stepped quickly out, (nearly tumbling, by the way, over Hector, who

appeared to think that the carriage door had been opened only to enable

him to jump into it, which he prepared to do.)

"God bless you, Madam!" said Mr. Aubrey, tenderly, as he received his

mother's fervent but silent greeting, and imagined that the arms folded

round him were somewhat feebler than when he had last felt them

embracing him! With similar affection was the good old lady received by

her daughter and daughter-in-law.

"Where is my pony, grandmamma?" quoth little Aubrey, running up to her,

(he had been kept quiet, from time to time, during the last eighty miles

or so, by the mention of the aforesaid pony, which had been sent to the

Hall as a present to him some weeks before.) "Where is it? I want to see

my little pony directly! Mamma says you have got a little pony for me

with a long tail; I _must_ see it before I go to bed; I must, indeed--is

it in the stable?"

"You shall see it in the morning, my darling--the very first thing,"

said Mrs. Aubrey, fervently kissing her beautiful little grandson, while

tears of joy and pride ran down her cheek. She then pressed her lips on

the delicate but flushed cheek of little Agnes, who was fast asleep; and

as soon as they had been conducted towards their nursery, Mrs. Aubrey,

followed by her children, led the way to the dining-room--the dear

delightful old dining-room, in which all of them had passed so many

happy hours of their lives. It was large and lofty; and two antique

branch silver candlesticks, standing on sconces upon each side of a

strange old straggling carved mantelpiece of inlaid oak, aided by the

blaze given out by two immense logs of wood burning beneath, thoroughly

illuminated it. The walls were oak-panelled, containing many pictures,

several of them of great value; and the floor also was of polished oak,

over the centre of which, however, was spread a thick richly-colored

Turkey carpet. Opposite the door was a large mullioned bay-window, then,

however, concealed behind an ample flowing crimson curtain. On the

farther side of the fireplace stood a high-backed and roomy armchair,

almost covered With Kate's embroidery, and in which Mrs. Aubrey had

evidently, as usual, been sitting till the moment of their arrival--for

on a small ebony table beside it lay her spectacles, and an open volume.

Nearly fronting the fireplace was a recess, in which stood an

exquisitely carved black ebony cabinet, inlaid with white and red ivory.

This, Miss Aubrey claimed as her own, and had appropriated it to her own

purposes ever since she was seven years old. "You dear old thing!" said

she, throwing open the folding-doors--"Everything just as I left it!

Really, dear mamma, I could skip about the room for joy! I wish Charles

would never leave Yatton again!"

"It's rather lonely, my love, when _none_ of you are with me," said Mrs.

Aubrey. "I feel getting older"----

"Dearest mamma," interrupted Miss Aubrey, quickly, and embracing her

mother, "_I_ won't leave you again! I'm quite tired of town--I am

indeed!"

Though fires were lit in their several dressing-rooms, of which they

were more than once reminded by their respective attendants, they all

remained seated before the fire in carriage costume, (except that Kate

had thrown aside her bonnet, her half-uncurled tresses hanging in

negligent profusion over her thickly-furred pelisse,) eagerly conversing

about the little incidents of their journey, and the events which had

transpired at Yatton since they had quitted it. At length, however, they

retired to perform the refreshing duties of the dressing-room, before

sitting down to supper. Of that comfortable meal, within twenty minutes'

time or so, they partook with a hearty relish. What mortal, however

delicate, could resist the fare set before them--the plump capon, the

delicious grilled ham, the poached eggs, the floury potatoes, home-baked

bread, white and brown--custards, mince-pies, home-brewed ale, as soft

as milk, as clear as amber--mulled claret--and so forth? The travellers

had evidently never relished anything more, to the infinite delight of

old Mrs. Aubrey; who observing, soon afterwards, irrepressible symptoms

of fatigue and drowsiness, ordered them all off to bed--Kate sleeping in

the same chamber in which she was sitting when the reader was permitted

to catch a moonlight glimpse of her.

They did not make their appearance the next morning till after nine

o'clock, Mrs. Aubrey having read prayers before the assembled servants,

as usual, nearly an hour before--a duty her son always performed when at

the Hall; but on this occasion he had overslept himself. He found his

mother in the breakfast-room, where she was soon joined by her daughter

and daughter-in-law, all of them being in high health and spirits. Just

as they were finishing breakfast, little Aubrey burst into the room in a

perfect ecstasy--for old Jones had taken him round to the stables, and

shown him the little pony which had been recently presented to him. He

had heard it neigh--had seen its long tail--had patted its neck--had

seen it eat--and now his vehement prayer was, that his papa, and mamma,

and Kate would immediately go and see it, and take his little sister

also.

Breakfast over, they separated. Old Mrs. Aubrey went to her own room to

be attended by her housekeeper; the other two ladies retired to their

rooms--Kate principally engaged in arranging her presents for her little

scholars: and Mr. Aubrey repaired to his library--as delightful an old

snuggery as the most studious recluse could desire--where he was

presently attended by his bailiff. He found that everything was going on

as he could have wished. With one or two exceptions, his rents were

paid most punctually; the farms and lands kept in capital condition. To

be sure an incorrigible old poacher had been giving a little trouble, as

usual, and stood committed for trial at the ensuing Spring Assizes; and

a few trivial trespasses had been committed in search of firewood, and

other small matters; which, after having been detailed with great

minuteness by his zealous and vigilant bailiff, were despatched by Mr.

Aubrey with a "pooh, pooh!"--Then there was Gregory, who held the

smallest farm on the estate, at its southern extremity--he was three

quarters' rent in arrear--but he had a sick wife and seven children--so

he was at once forgiven all that was due, and also what would become

due, on the ensuing quarter-day.--"In fact," said Mr. Aubrey, "don't ask

him for any more rent. I'm sure the poor fellow will pay when he's

able."

Some rents were to be raised; others lowered; and some half dozen of the

poorer cottages were to be forthwith put into good repair, at Mr.

Aubrey's expense. The two oxen had been sent, on the preceding

afternoon, from the home farm to the butcher's, to be distributed on

Christmas eve among the poorer villagers, according to orders brought

down from town by Sam the day before. Thus was Mr. Aubrey engaged for an

hour or two, till luncheon time, when good Dr. Tatham made his welcome

appearance, having been engaged most of the morning in touching up an

old Christmas sermon.

He had been vicar of Yatton for about thirty years, having been

presented to it by the late Mr. Aubrey, with whom he had been intimate

at college. He was a delightful specimen of a country parson. Cheerful,

unaffected, and good-natured, there was a dash of quaintness or

roughness about his manners, that reminded you of the crust in very fine

old port. He had been a widower, and childless, for fifteen years. His

parish had been ever since his family, whom he still watched over with

an affectionate vigilance. He was respected and beloved by all. Almost

every man, woman, and child that had died in Yatton, during nearly

thirty years, had departed with the sound of his kind and solemn voice

in their ears. He claimed a sort of personal acquaintance with almost

all the gravestones in his little churchyard; he knew the names of all

who slept beneath them; and when he looked at those gravestones, his

conscience bore him witness, that he had done his duty by the dust of

whom they spoke. He was at the bedside of a sick person almost as soon,

and as often, as the doctor--no matter what sort of weather, or at what

hour of the day or night. Methinks I see him now, bustling about the

village, with healthy ruddy cheek, a clear, cheerful eye, hair white as

snow! with a small stout figure, clothed in a suit of somewhat rusty

black, (knee-breeches and gaiters all round the year,) and with a small

shovel-hat. No one lives in the vicarage with him but an elderly woman,

his housekeeper, and her husband, whose chief business is to look after

the doctor's old mare and the little garden; in which I have often seen

him and his master, with his coat off, digging for an hour or two

together. He rises at five in the winter, and four in the summer, being

occupied till breakfast with his studies; for he was an excellent

scholar, and has not forgotten, in the zealous discharge of his sacred

duties, the pursuits of literature and philosophy, in which he had

gained no inconsiderable distinction in his youth. He derives a very

moderate income from his living; but it is even more than sufficient for

his necessities. Ever since Mr. Aubrey's devotion to politics has

carried him away from Yatton for a considerable portion of each year,

Dr. Tatham has been the right hand counsellor of old Mrs. Aubrey, in all

her pious and charitable plans and purposes. Every New-year's day, there

come from the Hall to the vicarage six dozen of fine old port wine--a

present from Mrs. Aubrey; but the little doctor (though he never tells

her so) scarce drinks six bottles of them in a year. Two dozen of them

go, within a few days' time, to a poor brother parson in an adjoining

parish, who, with his wife and three children--all in feeble health--can

hardly keep body and soul together, and who, but for this generous

brother, would not probably taste wine throughout the year, except on

certain occasions when the very humblest may moisten their poor lips

with wine--I mean the SACRAMENT--the sublime and solemn festival given

by One who doth not forget the poor and destitute, however in their

misery they may sometimes think to the contrary!--The remainder of his

little present Dr. Tatham distributes in small quantities among such of

his parishioners as may require it, and may not happen to have come

under the immediate notice of Mrs. Aubrey. Dr. Tatham has known Mr.

Aubrey ever since he was about five years old. 'Twas the doctor that

first taught him Greek and Latin; and, up to his going to college, gave

him the frequent advantage of his learned experience.--But surely I have

gone into a very long digression, and must return.

While Miss Aubrey, accompanied by her sister-in-law, and followed by a

servant carrying a great bag, filled with articles brought from London

the day before, went to the school which I have before mentioned, in

order to distribute her prizes and presents, Mr. Aubrey and Dr. Tatham

set off on a walk through the village.

"I must really do something for that old steeple of yours, Doctor," said

Mr. Aubrey, looking up, and shading his eyes with his hands, as, arm in

arm, they approached the church; "it looks crumbling away in many

parts!"

"If you'd only send a couple of masons to repair the _porch_, and make

it weather-tight, it would satisfy me for some years to come," said the

doctor, with exceeding earnestness.

"Well--we'll look at it," replied Aubrey; and, turning aside, they

entered the little churchyard.

"How I love this old yew-tree!" he exclaimed, as they passed under it;

"it casts a kind of tender gloom around that always makes me pensive,

not to say melancholy!" A sigh escaped him, as his eye glanced at the

family vault, which was almost in the centre of the shade, where lay his

father, three brothers, and a sister, and where, in the course of

nature, a few short years would see the precious remains of his mother

deposited. But the doctor who had hastened forward alone for a moment,

finding the church door open, called out to Mr. Aubrey, who soon stood

within the porch. It certainly required a little repairing, which Mr.

Aubrey said should be looked to immediately. "See--we're all preparing

for to-morrow," said Dr. Tatham, leading the way into the little church,

where the grizzle-headed clerk was busy decorating the old-fashioned

pulpit, reading-desk, and altar-piece, with the cheerful emblems of the

season.

"I never see these," said the doctor, taking up one of the sprigs of

mistletoe lying on a form beside them, "but I think of your own

Christmas verses, Mr. Aubrey, when you were younger and fresher than you

now are--don't you recollect them?"

"Oh--pooh!" quoth Aubrey, somewhat hastily.

"But I remember them," rejoined the doctor; and he began with great

emphasis and solemnity--

"Hail! silvery, modest mistletoe,

Wreath'd round winter's brow of snow,

Clinging so chastely, tenderly:

Hail holly, darkly, richly green,

Whose crimson berries blush between

Thy prickly foliage, modestly.

Ye winter-flowers, bloom sweet and fair,

Though Nature's garden else be bare--

Ye vernal glistening emblems, meet

To twine a Christmas coronet!"

"That will do, Doctor," interrupted Aubrey, smiling--"what a memory you

have for trifles!"

"Peggy! Peggy!--you're sadly overdoing it," said the doctor, hastily,

calling out to the sexton's wife, who was busy at work in the squire's

pew--a large square pew in the nave, near the pulpit. "Why, do you want

to hide the squire's family from the congregation? You're putting quite

a holly hedge all round!"

"Please you, sir," quoth Peggy, "I've got so much I don't know where to

put it--so, in course, I put it here!"

"Then," said the doctor, with a smile, looking round the church, "let

Jonas get up and stick some of it into those old hatchments; and,"

looking up at the clerk, busy at work in the pulpit, "don't you put

quite so much up there into my candlesticks!"

With this the parson and the squire took their departure. As they passed

slowly up the village, which already wore a sort of holiday aspect, they

met on all hands with a cordial, respectful, and affectionate greeting.

The quiet little public-house turned out some four or five stout steady

fellows--all tenants of Mr. Aubrey's--with their pipes in their hands,

and who took off their hats, and bowed very low. Mr. Aubrey went up and

entered into conversation with them for some minutes. Their families and

farms, he found, were well and thriving. There was quite a little crowd

of women about the shop of Nick Steele, the butcher, who, with an extra

hand to help him, was giving out the second ox which had been sent from

the Hall, to the persons whose names had been given in to him from Mrs.

Aubrey. Farther on, some were cleaning their little windows, others

sweeping their floors, and sprinkling sand over them; most were

displaying holly and mistletoe in their windows, and over their

mantelpieces. Everywhere, in short, was to be seen that air of quiet

preparation for the solemnly-cheerful morrow, which fills a thoughtful

English observer with feelings of pensive but exquisite satisfaction.

Mr. Aubrey returned home towards dusk, cheered and enlivened by his

walk. His sudden plunge into the simplicity and comparative solitude of

country life--and that country Yatton--had quite refreshed his feelings,

and given a tone to his spirits. Of course Dr. Tatham was to dine at the

Hall on the morrow; if he did not, indeed, it would have been for the

first time during the last five-and-twenty years!

Christmas eve passed pleasantly and quietly enough at the Hall. After

dinner the merry little ones were introduced, and their prattle and

romps occupied an hour right joyously. As soon as, smothered with

kisses, they had been dismissed to bed, old Mrs. Aubrey composed

herself, in her great chair, to her usual after-dinner's nap; while her

son, his wife, and sister, sitting fronting the fire--a decanter or two,

and a few wine-glasses and dessert, remaining on the table behind

them--sat conversing in a subdued tone, now listening to the wind

roaring in the chimney--a sound which not a little enhanced their sense

of comfort--then criticising the disposition of the evergreens with

which the room was plenteously decorated, and laying out their movements

during the ensuing fortnight. Mrs. Aubrey and Kate were, with

affectionate earnestness, contrasting to Aubrey the peaceful pleasures

of a country life with the restless excitement and endless anxieties of

a London political life, to which they saw him more and more addicting

himself; he all the while playfully parrying their attacks, but

secretly acknowledging the truth and force of what they said,

when--hark!--a novel sound from without, which roused the old lady from

her nap. What do you think, dear reader, it was? The voices of very

little girls singing what seemed to be a Christmas hymn: yes, they

caught the words--

"Hark! the herald angels sing.

Glory to the new-born king;

Peace on earth and mercy mild"--

"Why, surely--it must be your little school-girls," said old Mrs.

Aubrey, looking at her daughter, and listening.

"I do believe it is!" quoth Kate, her eyes suddenly filling with tears,

as she sat eagerly inclining her ear towards the window.

"They must be standing on the grass-plot just before the window," said

Mr. Aubrey: the tiny voices were thrilling his very heart within him.

His sensitive nature might have been compared to a delicate Æolian harp

which gave forth, with the slightest breath of accident or

circumstance,--

"The still, sad music of humanity."

In a few moments he was almost in tears--the sounds were so unlike the

fierce and turbulent cries of political warfare to which his ears had

been latterly accustomed! The more the poor children sang, the more was

he affected. Kate's tears fell fast, for she had been in an excited mood

before this little incident occurred. "Do you hear, mamma," said she,

"the voice of the poor little thing that was last taken into the school?

The little darling!" Kate tried to smile away her emotion; but 'twas in

vain. Mr. Aubrey gently drew aside the curtain, and pulled up the

central blind--and there, headed by their matron, stood the little

singers exposed to view, some eighteen in number, ranged in a row on the

grass, all in snug gray woollen hoods effectually protecting them from

the cold. The oldest seemed not more than ten or twelve years old, while

the younger ones could not be more than five or six. They seemed all

singing from their very hearts. Aubrey stood looking at them with very

deep interest.

As soon as they had finished their hymn, they were conducted into the

housekeeper's room, according to orders sent for that purpose, from Mrs.

Aubrey, and each of them received a little present of money, besides a

full glass of Mrs. Jackson's choicest raisin wine, and a currant bun;

Kate slipping half-a-guinea into the hand of their mistress, to whose

wish to afford gratification to the inmates of the Hall was entirely

owing the little incident which had so pleased and surprised them. "A

happy Christmas to you, dear papa and mamma!" said little Aubrey, about

eight o'clock the next morning, pushing aside the curtains, and trying

to clamber up on the high bed where Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey were still

asleep--soon, however, they were awakened by the dear welcome voice! The

morning promised a beautiful day. The air, though cold, was clear; and

the branches of the trees visible from their windows, were all covered

with hoar-frost, which seemed to line them as if with silver fringe. The

little bells of Yatton church were ringing a merry peal; but how

different in tone and strength from the clangor of the London

church-bells!--Christmas was indeed at last arrived--and cheerful were

the greetings of those who soon after met at the bountiful breakfast

table. Old Mrs. Aubrey was going to church with them--in fact, not even

a domestic who could be possibly spared, was to be left at home. By the

time that the carriage, with the fat and lazy-looking gray horses, was

at the Hall door, the sun had burst out in beauty from an almost

cloudless sky. The three ladies rode alone; Aubrey preferring to walk,

accompanied by his little son, as the ground was dry and hard, and the

distance very short. A troop of some twelve or fourteen servants, male

and female, presently followed; and then came Mr. Aubrey, leading along

the heir of Yatton--a boy of whom he might well be proud, as the future

possessor of his name, his fortune, and his honors. When he had reached

the church, the carriage was returning home. Almost the whole

congregation stood collected before the church door, to see the squire's

family enter; and reverent were the courtesies and bows with which old

Mrs. Aubrey and her lovely companions were received. Very soon after

they had taken their places, Mr. Aubrey and his son made their

appearance; objects they were of the deepest interest, as they passed

along to their pew. A few minutes afterwards little Dr. Tatham entered

the church in his surplice, (which he almost always put on at home,)

with a face, composed and serious to be sure, but yet overspread with an

expression even more bland and benignant than usual. He knew there was

not a soul among the little crowd around him that did not really love

him, and that did not know how heartily he returned their love. All eyes

were of course on the squire's pew. Mrs. Aubrey was looking well--her

daughter and daughter-in-law were thought by all to be by far the most

beautiful women in the world--what must people think of them in London?

Mr. Aubrey looked, they thought, pleased and happy, but rather paler,

and even a little thinner; and as for the "_little_ squire," with his

bright eyes, his rosy cheeks, his arch smile, his curling auburn

hair--and so like his father and mother--he was the pride of Yatton!

Dr. Tatham read prayers, as he always did; with great distinctness and

deliberation, so that everybody in the church, young and old, could

catch every syllable; and he preached, considerately enough, a very

short sermon--pithy, homely, and affectionate. He reminded them that he

was then preaching his thirty-first Christmas-day sermon from that

pulpit! The service and the sacrament over, none of the congregation

moved from their places till the occupants of the squire's pew had

quitted it; but as soon as they had got outside of the door, the good

people poured out after them, and almost lined the way from the church

door to the gate at which the carriage stood, receiving and answering a

hundred kind inquiries concerning themselves, their families, and their

circumstances.

Mr. Aubrey stayed behind, desirous of taking another little ramble with

Dr. Tatham through the village, for the day was indeed bright and

beautiful, and the occasion inspiriting. There was not a villager within

four or five miles of the Hall who did not sit down that day to a

comfortable little relishing dinner, at least one-third of them being

indebted for it directly to the bounty of the Aubreys. As soon as Dr.

Tatham had taken off his gown, he accompanied Mr. Aubrey in cheerful

mood, in the briskest spirits. 'T was delightful to see the smoke come

curling out of every chimney, while few folk were visible out of doors;

whence you reasonably concluded that they were all housed, and preparing

for, or partaking of, their roast-beef and plum-pudding! Now and then

the bustling wife would show her heated red face at the door, and

hastily courtesy as they passed, then returning to dish up her little

dinner.

"Ah, ha; Mr. Aubrey!--isn't such a day as this worth a whole year in

town?" exclaimed Dr. Tatham.

"Both have their peculiar advantages, Doctor; the pleasure of the

contrast would be lost if"----

"Contrast! Believe me, in the language of the poet Virgil"----

"Ah! how goes on old blind Bess, Doctor?" interrupted Aubrey, as they

approached the smallest cottage in the village--in fact the very last.

"She's just the same as she has been these last twenty years. Shall we

look in on the old creature?"

"With all my heart. I hope, poor soul! that _she_ has not been

overlooked on this festive occasion."

"Trust Mrs. Aubrey for that! I'll answer for it, we shall find old Bess

as happy, in her way, as she can be."

This was a stone blind old woman, who had been bedridden for the last

twenty years. She had certainly passed her hundredth year--some said two

or three years before--and had lived in her present little cottage for

nearly half a century, having grown out of the recollection of almost

all the inhabitants of the village. She had long been a pensioner of

Mrs. Aubrey's, by whom alone, indeed, she was supported. Her great age,

her singular appearance, and a certain rambling way of talking that she

had, had long earned her the reputation, in the village, of being able

to say strange things; and one or two of the old gossips knew of things

coming to pass according to what--poor old soul--she had predicted!

Dr. Tatham gently pushed open the door. The cottage consisted, in fact,

of but one room, and that a very small one, and lit by only one little

window. The floor was clean, and evidently just fresh sanded. On a

wooden stool, opposite a fireplace, on which a small saucepan was

placed, sat a girl about twelve years old, (a daughter of the woman who

lived nearest,) crumbling some bread into a basin, with some broth in

it. On a narrow bed against the wall, opposite the window, was to be

seen the somewhat remarkable figure of the solitary old tenant of the

cottage. She was sitting up, resting against the pillow, which was

placed on end against the wall. She was evidently a very tall woman;

and her long, brown, wrinkled, shrivelled face, with prominent

cheekbones and bushy white eyebrows, betokened the possession, in

earlier days, of a most masculine expression of features. Her hair,

white as snow, was gathered back from her forehead, under a spreading

plain white cap; and her sightless eyes, wide open, stared forward with

a startling and somewhat sinister expression. She was wrapped round in a

clean white bedgown; and her long thin arms lay straight before her on

the outside of the bedclothes. Her lips were moving, as if she were

talking to herself.

"She's a strange-looking object, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, as he

and Dr. Tatham stood watching her for a few moments in silence.

"Dame! dame!" said the doctor, loudly, approaching her bedside, "how are

you to-day? It's Christmas-day--I wish you a merry Christmas."

"Ay, ay--merry, merry!" echoed the old woman, with a half-groan. "More

the merrier! I've seen a hundred and nine of them!"

"You seem comfortable enough, dame," said Mr. Aubrey, kindly. "I hope

you _are_?"

"They won't give me my broth--my broth," said she, peevishly.

"It's coming, granny," called out the shrill voice of the girl sitting

before the fire, quickening her motions.

"Here's the squire come to see you, dame, and he wishes you a happy

Christmas," said Dr. Tatham, loudly.

"What! the squire? Alive yet? Ah, well-a-day! well-a-day!" said she, in

a feeble, mournful tone, slowly rubbing together her long, skinny,

wrinkled hands, on the backs of which the veins stood out like knotted

whipcord. She repeated the last words several times, in a truly doleful

tone, gently shaking her head.

"Granny's been very sad, sir, to-day, and cried two or three times,"

said the little girl, stirring about the hot broth.

"Poor squire! doth he not look sad?" inquired the old woman.

"Why should I, dame? What have I to fear?" said Mr. Aubrey, somewhat

quickly.

"Merry in the Hall! all, merry! merry! But no one has heard it except

old blind Bess. Where's the squire?" she added, suddenly turning full

towards the spot where they were standing--and her face seemed whitened

with emotion. Her staring eyes were settled on Mr. Aubrey's face, as if

she saw him distinctly, and were reading his very soul.

"Here I am, dame," said he, with a great deal of curiosity, to say the

least of it.

"Give me your hand, Squire," said she, stretching out her left arm, and

working about her talon-like fingers, as if in eagerness to grasp Mr.

Aubrey's hand, which he gave her.

"Never fear! never, never! Happy in the Hall! I see all! How long"----

"Why, dame, this is truly a very pleasant greeting of yours," interposed

Dr. Tatham, with a smile.

"Short and bitter! long and sweet! Put your trust in God, Squire."

"I hope I do, granny," replied Mr. Aubrey, seriously.

"I see! I hear!--my broth! my broth!--where is it?"

"Here it is, granny," said the girl--"It's all ready!"

"Good-day, dame," said Mr. Aubrey, gently disengaging his hand from

hers; and before they had left the cottage, she began to swallow very

greedily the broth with which the little girl fed her.

"This is the sort of way in which this old superannuated creature has

frightened one or two of"----

"Is it indeed?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, with a sort of mechanical smile.

Dr. Tatham saw that he was in a somewhat serious humor.

"She's alarmed _you_, I protest!--I protest she has!" exclaimed the

doctor, with a slight laugh, as they walked along. Now, he knew the

disposition and character of Aubrey intimately; and was well aware of a

certain tendency which he had to superstition.

"My dear doctor, I assure you that you are mistaken--I am indeed not

_alarmed_--but at the same time I will tell you something not a little

singular. Would you believe that a month or two ago, when in town, I

dreamed that I heard some one uttering something very much like the

words which we have just heard from this old woman?"

"Ah! ha, ha!" laughed the doctor; and, after a second or two's pause,

Aubrey, as if ashamed of what he had said, echoed the laugh, and their

conversation passed on to political topics, which kept them engaged for

the remainder of their walk, Mr. Aubrey quitting his companion at the

door of the vicarage, to be rejoined by him at five o'clock, the dinner

hour at the Hall. As Mr. Aubrey walked along the park, the shades of

evening casting a deepening gloom around him, his thoughts involuntarily

recurred to the cottage of old blind Bess, and he felt vague

apprehensions flitting with darkening shade across his mind. Though he

was hardly weak enough to attach any definite meaning or importance to

the gibberish he had heard, it still had left an unpleasant

_impression_, and he was vexed at feeling a wish that the

incident--trifling as he was willing to believe it--should not be

mentioned by Dr. Tatham at the Hall; and still more was he excited when

he recollected that he had _purposely abstained_ from requesting the

good doctor not to do so. All this undoubtedly implied that the matter

had occupied Mr. Aubrey's thoughts to a greater extent than he secretly

relished. On reaching, however, the Hall door, this brief pressure on

his feelings quickly ceased; for on entering, he saw Mrs. Aubrey, his

sister, and his two children, at high romps together in the hall, and he

heartily joined in them.