“FROM GRAVE TO GAY.”
Joy and grief, how they alternate! What a busy, sorrowing, cheerful,
merry, sad, wicked, virtuous world it is! Births, marriages, and
deaths!--a text for all preachers--a safe guide for novelist and story
teller. Births, marriages, and deaths! The same story every day told by
every newspaper. What then can a true history of life be but a story of
births, marriages, and deaths?
Unroof yon street, friend Asmodeo, and let the reader judge for
himself. Here a child is born; there a bridegroom has just brought home
his newly-married wife; yonder lies a dead man with sorrow weeping by
his side. Carry us away to that village in the soft, sunny country.
The same story still. Births, marriages, and deaths--joy and grief
alternating! What bells are those that ring so merrily? What bell is
that which groans, and sobs, and wails?
Thank goodness, the merry bells are for our ears in this chapter. The
sound comes from a great square tower, that stands up like a beacon in
the Lincolnshire cornfields. The clash and clang of the bells comes
rushing out through the belfry apertures into the clear air amongst
the rooks and the swallows. The dead who lie beneath those gaunt,
crumbling, half-buried grave-stones, hear them not, though they rung
out joyously at their marriages. The hard, grimy faces in the church
porch, and the cherubims that ornament the water-spouts, hear the bells
now quite as well as the men and women who passed them by on their
way to the altar years and years ago. You would think the birds heard
the melody and rejoiced in it; they chirruped, and sung, and flitted
to and fro with a gaiety which they rarely exhibit in autumn days;
for they knew the year was coming to an end, and that the north wind
cometh after harvest. That ancient sluggish river, which had been
red in olden times with the blood of the last Saxon warriors, let the
bell-music rest upon its bright bosom in which the clouds mimicked each
other, and hid themselves amongst spikes of waving rushes and green
water flags.
They were ringing, these Lincolnshire bells, in celebration of the
marriage of Arthur Phillips and Phœbe Somerton, who had walked arm in
arm to church to be married, unattended save by Luke Somerton and Paul,
and their own true love. It was Arthur’s wish that it should be so; and
nobody but those most intimately concerned knew of the marriage until
the bells, big with the secret, burst their iron bonds, and gave birth
to that joyous melody.
And whilst they were ringing out their blithe and hopeful song, the
Earl and Countess of Verner were discussing the happy event at Montem
Castle, walking by the side of that sunny lake in the park.
“The news comes so suddenly,” said her ladyship, “that it is almost
tantalising.”
“What a sly little fox it is,” said his lordship.
“I have pressed her upon the subject several times, but unsuccessfully.
Never mind, I will be even with her. It has been in my mind very often
to tell you of my idea of a wedding present for these dear friends of
ours.”
“Yes, yes,” said his lordship; “what is it, dearest?”
“Oh, something so dreadfully expensive,” said the Countess; “something
almost unheard of as a wedding present.”
“You excite my curiosity,” said his lordship, gaily.
“It is something belonging to you--a gift in your own possession.”
“Our pictures?” said his lordship, eagerly.
“No, my love.”
“Our pottery, our books, our jewels?” said his lordship, tossing a
stone into the lake for the amusement of a water spaniel.
“No; I fear you cannot guess,” said Amy.
“Then I will give it up at once: whatever it be, Amy, it is yours to
bestow upon bride or bridegroom,” said his lordship.
“Thank you, my dear George; how good you are,” said the Countess.
“Not half good enough to have such a dear, dear wife as you, Amy,” said
the loving old lord. “And now what is it?”
“The Barton Hall Estate,” said Amy, triumphantly. “The house where
Phœbe was born, where she lived, and which was really her home, the
fields in which she walked, the rocks and trees which her husband loved
to paint, the place where Phœbe and your Amy lived and loved together.”
“Good, good!” said the Earl.
“You consent?” asked Amy, joyfully.
“Certainly,” said his lordship, “with all the pleasure in life; you
never doubted it. Besides, the estate is your own, Amy.”
“My dear love,” said the Countess, a warm affectionate smile lighting
up her beautiful face; but her countenance fell immediately, as Lionel
Hammerton emerged from a thicket close by.
“Oh! Lionel, going for a ramble?” said the Earl.
“Yes,” said Lionel, raising his hat to the Countess, “the weather is so
tempting, and my time down here so short.”
“Indeed; when do you leave us then?” asked the Earl.
“Next month,” said Hammerton.
“Thank God!” said the Countess in her heart.
“Your friend the artist is married to-day,” said the Earl; “a quiet
wedding all to themselves, and a secret.”
“I understood it was to be so,” said Hammerton. “I hope they will be
happy.”
“As happy as two other friends of yours,” said his lordship, merrily.
“Happier, if that were possible,” said Lionel.
“But it is not possible,” said his lordship. “Is it Amy?”
“I think not,” said Amy, casting a side-glance of defiance at Lionel.
“When two people marry, happiness comes to them in a hundred different
ways.”
“What do you think her ladyship’s wedding present is to be?” his
lordship asked.
“Diamonds and pearls, and bracelets of gold, and rubies,” said Lionel.
“Her ladyship has good choice of jewelry and things that are costly.”
Amy could understand the covert sarcasm of Lionel’s reply, but his
lordship laughed and said:
“I knew you could not guess. I tried much more likely presents than
those, without avail. Guess again.”
“Books of poems bound in gold, full of legends of love and constancy.”
“No--you’ll never guess. What do you think of the Barton Hall Estate
for a wedding present?”
Lionel hesitated and looked at Amy, who had taken her husband’s arm and
was walking quietly by his side.
“I am not joking. What do you think of a woman who presents to her
friend Barton Hall, and the lands surrounding it, chiefly on account of
the dear associations connected with it, and all that sort of thing?”
“Why, that she is a truly noble woman, and worthy to be the wife of
Earl Verner,” said Hammerton, with genuine enthusiasm.
“Thank you, brother--thank you,” said the Countess, with tears in her
eyes, and something of the tender expression of those past days which
Lionel was honestly trying to blot out for ever.
“Why, my darling, there are tears in your eyes,” said his lordship.
“Tears of joy and gratitude,” said Amy; “gratitude for your kindness,
and joy that your brother thinks me worthy to be your wife.”
Earl Verner hardly knew what to make of this little outburst of
feeling; but he loved his wife all the more for her generosity to her
friend, and said he hoped Lionel had never doubted that his wife was
equal to any previous Countess of Verner.
“Never, your lordship; and this act of gracious consideration for
her friend, this sanctifying of the past, if I may use so strong a
phrase, by the gift of Barton Hall to Arthur Phillips and his wife, is
a crowning act of grace which has no parallel in the history of the
ladies of our house.”
Earl Verner did not see that there was quite so much in it as Lionel
would make out; but he had never doubted his wife’s generosity, and
Lionel had. There was a peculiar graciousness in the gift which would
especially commend itself to one who knew more intimately than Earl
Verner did, the early history of his true and faithful wife.