[This tale occupies nearly fifty pages. It so teems with moral pathos
and touching beauty, that we are at a loss to abridge it throughout so
as to preserve that acquaintance with the finest feelings of our nature,
which marks every page with sterling value. We, therefore, only adopt
the conclusion, and attempt a leading thread of the story. Grace is
the daughter of a village schoolmaster. She loves "not wisely, but too
well," "Joseph Huntley, the handsomest youth in the retired village of
Craythorpe." The father consents to their union. The real character of
the husband appears early; his fond love soon dwindles to painful
neglect: how truly does the writer observe, "the rapidity with which
love may glide from the heart of man is a moral phenomenon for which it
would puzzle philosophers to account. The brief space of a few months
not unfrequently converts the devoted into the unkind, or to a delicate
mind still worse--the neglectful husband." The wayward Huntley breaks
off church-going; he refuses Grace his company, and we find her first
solitary walk since her marriage thus touchingly referred to: "almost
every tree certainly every stile she passed--was hallowed by some
remembrance connected with the playmate of her childhood--the lover of
her early youth--the husband of her affections." When, she looked on the
dew dancing amid the delicate tracery of the field spider's web--when
the joyous whistle of the gay blackbird broke upon her ear--gazing
silently on all that was really fresh and beautiful in nature--she
felt that, instead of warming, it fell chilly upon her heart. And yet
all was as usual--the bright sun, and the smiling landscape. Why, then,
was she less cheerful? She was alone! No one she loved was by her side,
to whom to say, "How beautiful!" Joseph gets into debt, and upon Grace
offering to sacrifice a favourite article of dress to enable him to keep
a "promise to pay," we find the following exquisite paragraph: "there is
something so commanding, so holy, in virtue, that, though the wicked may
not imitate, they cannot withhold from it their admiration." As Huntley
looked upon his wife, he thought she never appeared so lovely. Some of
the affection of earlier and purer years returned warmly to his heart;
and as he kissed her, words of happier import broke from his lips--"God
bless you, Grace! I am a sad scoundrel, and that's the truth." Joseph
deserts her, and in less than eight years after their marriage, her
little family are entirely dependent upon her for support. The husband
returns, and sets the eldest boy to rob his mother; the villany of the
father is reproved by Grace, meekly but firmly. Joseph takes the boy
under his guidance, and becoming acquainted with "John and Sandy Smith,
(two poachers,) who lived together in a wretched hut on the skirt of
Crayton Common," he soon initiates the little fellow into crime. After a
storming quarrel with his wife--]
That night, as latterly had been his custom, he sallied forth about
eight o'clock, leaving his home and family without food or money. The
children crowded round their mother's knee to repeat their simple
prayers, and retired, cold and hungry, to bed. It was near midnight
ere her task was finished; and then she stole softly into her chamber,
having first looked upon and blessed her treasures. Her sleep was of
that restless heavy kind which yields no refreshment. Once she was
awakened by hearing her husband shut the cottage-door; again she slept,
but started from a horrid dream--or was it indeed reality! and had her
husband and her son Abel quitted the dwelling together? She sprang from
her bed, and felt on the pallet--Gerald was there; again she felt--she
called--she passed into the next room--"Abel, Abel, my child! as you
value your mother's blessing speak!" There was no reply. A dizzy
sickness almost overpowered her senses. Was her husband's horrid
threat indeed fulfilled? and had he so soon taken their child as his
participator in unequivocal sin? She opened the door, and looked out
upon the night; it was cold and misty, and her sight could not penetrate
the gloom. The chill fog rested upon her face like the damps of the
grave. She attempted to call again upon her son, but her powers of
utterance were palsied--her tongue quivered--her lips separated yet
there came forth no voice, no sound to break the silence of oppressed
nature. Her eyes moved mechanically towards the heavens--they were dark
as the earth; had God deserted her?--would he deny one ray, one little
ray of light, to lead her to her child? Why did the moon cease to shine,
and the stars withhold their brightness? Should she never again behold
her boy, her first-born? Her heart swelled, and beat within her bosom.
She shivered with intense agony, and leaned her throbbing brow against
the door-post, to which she had clung for support. Her husband's words
rang in her ears--"One by one shall your children be taken from you to
serve my purposes!" Through the dense fog she fancied that he glared
upon her in bitter hatred--his deep-set eyes flashing with demoniac
fire, and his smile, now extending, now contracting, into all the varied
expressions of triumphant malignity! She pressed her hand on her eyes to
shut out the horrid vision, and, a prayer, a simple prayer, rose to her
lips. Like oil upon the troubled waters, it soothed and composed her
spirit. She could not arrange, or even remember, a form of words; but
she repeated, again and again, the emphatic appeal, "Lord, save me, I
perish!" until she felt sufficient strength to enable her to look again
into the night. As if hope had set its beacon in the sky, calmly and
brightly the moon was now shining upon her cottage. With the sudden
change, at once the curse and blessing of our climate, a sharp east
wind had set in, and was rolling the mist from the canopy of heaven.
Numerous stars were visible, where, but five minutes before, all had
been darkness and gloom. The shadow passed from her soul; she gazed
steadily upwards; her mind regained its firmness; her resolve was taken.
She returned to her bed-room, dressed, and, wrapping her cloak closely
to her bosom, was quickly on her way to the Smiths' dwelling, on
Craythorpe Common.
The solitary hut was more than two miles from the village; the path
leading to it broken and interrupted by fragments of rocks, roots of
furze, and stubbed underwood, and, at one particular point, intersected
by a deep and brawling brook. Soon after Grace had crossed this stream,
she came in view of the cottage, looking like a misshapen mound of
earth; and, upon peering in at the window, which was only partially
lined by a broken shutter, Covey, the lurcher, uttered, from the inside,
a sharp muttering bark, something between reproof and recognition.
There had certainly been a good fire, not long before, on the capacious
hearth, for the burning ashes cast a lurid light upon an old table, and
two or three dilapidated chairs. There was also a fowling-piece lying
across the table; but it was evident none of the inmates were at home;
and Grace walked slowly, yet disappointedly, round the dwelling, till
she came to the other side, that rested against a huge mass of mingled
rock and clay, overgrown with long tangled fern and heather. She
climbed to the top, and had not been many minutes on the look-out ere
she perceived three men rapidly approaching from the opposite path. As
they drew nearer, she saw that one of them was her husband; but where
was her son? Silently she lay among the heather, fearing she knew not
what--yet knowing she had much to fear. The chimney that rose from the
sheeling had, she thought, effectually concealed her from their view,
but in this she was mistaken; for, while Huntley and one of the Smiths
entered the abode, the other climbed up the mound. She saw his hat
within a foot of where she rested, and fancied she could feel his breath
upon her cheek as she crouched, like a frightened hare, more closely in
her form. However, he surveyed the spot without ascending further, and
then retreated muttering something about corbies and ravens, and, almost
instantly, she heard the door of the hut close. Cautiously she crept
down from her hiding-place; and, crawling along the ground with stealth
and silence, knelt before the little window, so as to observe, through
the broken shutter, the occupation of the inmates. The dog alone was
conscious of her approach; but the men were too seriously engaged to
heed his intimations of danger.
[She sees all that the three are about, is convinced that her son will
be lost, and forms her resolution:]
"Then there is hope for my poor child!" she thought, "and I can--I
_will_ save him!" With this resolve, she stole away as softly and
as quickly as her trembling limbs would permit. The depredators revelled
in their fancied security. The old creaking table groaned under the
weight of pheasant, hare, and ardent spirits; and the chorus of a wild
drinking-song broke upon her ear as returning strength enabled her to
hasten along the rude path leading to Craythorpe.
The first grey uncertain light of morning was visible through the old
churchyard trees as she came within sight of her cottage. She entered
quietly, and saw that Abel had not only returned, but was sleeping
soundly by his brother's side.
Grace set her house in order--took the work she had finished to her
employer--came back, and prepared breakfast, of which her husband,
having by this time also returned, partook. Now he was neither the
tyrant whose threat still rung in her ears, nor the reckless bravo of
the common; he appeared that morning, at least so his wife fancied,
more like the being she had loved so fondly, and so long.
"I will sleep, Grace," he said, when their meal was finished--"I will
sleep for an hour; and to-morrow we shall have a better breakfast." He
called his son into the bed-room, where a few words passed between them.
Immediately after this Grace went into the little chamber to fetch her
bonnet. She would not trust herself to look upon the sleeper, but her
lips moved as if in prayer; and even her children still remember, that,
as she passed out of the cottage-door, she had a flushed and agitated
appearance.
"Good morning, Mrs. Huntley," said her old neighbour, Mrs. Craddock;
"Have you heard the news? Ah! these are sad times--bad people going--"
"True, true!" replied poor Grace as she hurried onwards; "I know--I
heard it all."
Mrs. Craddock looked after her, much surprised at her abruptness.
"I was coming down to you, Grace," said her father, standing so as to
arrest her progress; "I wished to see if there was any chance of the
child Abel's returning to his exercises. As this is a holiday, I
thought--"
"Come with me," interrupted Grace, "come with me, father, and we will
make a rare holiday."
She hurried the feeble old man along the road leading to the rectory,
but returned no answer to his inquiries. The servant told her, when she
arrived at her destination, that his master was engaged--particularly
engaged--could not be disturbed--Sir Thomas Purcel was with him; and, as
the man spoke, the study-door opened, and Sir Thomas crossed the hall.
"Come back with me, sir," exclaimed Grace Huntley, eagerly: "I can tell
you all you want to know."
The Baronet shook off the hand she had laid upon his arm as if she were
a maniac.
Grace appeared to read the expression of his countenance. "I am not mad,
Sir Thomas Purcel," she continued, in a suppressed tremulous voice; "not
mad, though I may be so soon. Keep back these people, and return with
me. Mr. Glasscott knows I am not mad."
She passed into the study with a resolute step, and held the door for
Sir Thomas to enter. Her father followed also, as a child traces its
mother's footsteps, and looked around him, and at his daughter, with
weak astonishment. One or two of the servants, who were loitering in
the hall, moved as if they would have followed.
"Back, back, I say!" she repeated; "I need no witnesses--there will be
enough of them soon. Mr. Glasscott," she continued, closing the door,
"hear me, while I am able to bear testimony, lest weakness--woman's
weakness--overcome me, and I falter in the truth. In the broom-sellers'
cottage, across the common, on the left side of the chimney, concealed
by a large flat stone, is a hole--a den; there much of the property
taken from Sir Thomas Purcel's last night is concealed."
"I have long suspected these men--Smith, I think, they call themselves.
Yet they are but two. Now, we have abundant proof, that _three_ men
absolutely entered the house."
"There was a third," murmured Grace, almost inaudibly.
"Who?"
"My--my--my husband!" and, as she uttered the word, she leaned against
the chimney-piece for support, and buried her face in her hands.
The clergyman groaned audibly;--he had known Grace from her childhood,
and felt what the declaration must have cost her. Sir Thomas Purcel was
cast in a sterner mould.
"We are put clearly on the track, Mr. Glasscott," he said, "and must
follow it forthwith; yet there is something most repugnant to my
feelings in finding a woman thus herald her husband to destruction."
"It was to save my children from sin!" exclaimed Grace, starting
forward with an energy that appalled them all: "God in heaven, whom
I call to witness, knows, that though I would sooner starve than taste
of the fruits of his wickedness, yet I could not betray the husband of
my bosom to--to--I dare not think what!--I tried, I laboured to give
my offspring honest bread. I neither asked nor received charity; with
my hands I laboured, and blessed the Power that enabled me to do so.
If we are poor, we will be honest, was my maxim, and my boast. But
he--my husband--returned; he taught my boy to lie--to steal! and
when I remonstrated--when I prayed, with many tears, that he would
cease to train our--ay, _our_ child for destruction, he
mocked--scorned--told me, that, one by one, I should be bereaved of my
children if I thwarted his purposes; and that I might seek in vain for
them through the world, until I saw their names recorded in the book of
shame!--Gentlemen, this was no idle threat. Last night, Abel was taken
from me--"
"I knew there must have been a fourth," interrupted Sir Thomas, coldly;
"we must have the boy also secured."
The wretched mother, who had not imagined that any harm could result
to her son, stood as if a thunderbolt had transfixed her; her hands
clenched and extended--her features rigid and blanched--her frame
perfectly erect, and motionless as a statue. The schoolmaster, during
the whole of this scene, had been completely bewildered, until the idea
of his grandchild's danger or disappearance, he knew not which, took
possession of his mind; and, filled with the single thought his
faculties had the power of grasping at a time, he came forward to the
table at which Mr. Glasscott was seated, and respectfully uncovering his
grey hairs, his simple countenance presenting a strong contrast to the
agonized iron-bound features of his daughter, he addressed himself to
the worthy magistrate: "I trust you will cause instant search to be made
for the child Abel, whom your reverence used kindly to regard with
especial favour."
He repeated this sentence at least half a dozen times, while the
gentlemen were issuing orders to the persons assembled for the
apprehension of the burglars, and some of the females of the family were
endeavouring to restore Grace to animation. At last Sir Thomas Purcel
turned suddenly round upon Abel Darley, and, in his stentorian tone,
bawled out, "And who are you?"
"The schoolmaster of Craythorpe, so please you, sir--that young woman's
father--and one whose heart is broken!"
So saying, he burst into tears; and his wail was very sad, like that of
an afflicted child. Presently there was a stir among the little crowd,
a murmur--and then two officers ushered in Joseph Huntley and his son.
He walked boldly up to the magistrate's table, and placed his hand upon
it, before he perceived his wife, to whom consciousness had not yet
returned. The moment he beheld her he started back, saying, "Whatever
charge you may have against me, gentlemen, you can have none against
that woman."
"Nor have we," replied Sir Thomas; "she is your accuser!"
The fine features of Joseph Huntley relaxed into an expression of scorn
and unbelief. "She appear against me! Not--not if I were to attempt to
murder her!" he answered firmly.
"Grace!" exclaimed her father joyfully, "here is the child Abel--he is
found!" and seizing the trembling boy, with evident exultation, led
him to her. The effect of this act of the poor simple-minded man was
electrical. The mother instantly revived, but turned her face from her
husband; and, entwining her son in her arms, pressed him closely to her
side. The clergyman proceeded to interrogate the prisoner, but he
answered nothing, keeping his eyes intently fixed upon his wife and
child. In the mean time, the officers of justice had been prompt in the
execution of their duty; the Smiths were apprehended in the village, and
the greater portion of the property stolen from Sir Thomas Purcel was
found in the hut where Grace had beheld it concealed.
When the preparations were sufficiently forward to conduct the
unfortunate men to prison, Joseph Huntley advanced to his wife. The
scornful as well as undaunted expression of his countenance had changed
to one of painful intensity; he took her hand within his, and pressed it
to his lips, without articulating a single syllable. Slowly she moved
her face, so that their eyes encountered in one long mournful look. Ten
years of continued suffering could not have exacted a heavier tribute
from Grace Huntley's beauty. No language can express the withering
effects of the few hours' agony. Her husband saw it.
"'Twas to save my children!" was the only sentence she uttered, or
rather murmured; and it was the last coherent one she spoke for many
weeks. Her fine reason seemed overwhelmed. It was a sight few could
witness without tears. The old father, tending the couch of his
afflicted daughter, would sit for hours by her bedside, clasping the
child Abel's hand within his, and every now and then shaking his head
when her ravings were loud or violent.
[We add the conclusion.]
It might be some fifteen years after these distressing events had
agitated the little village of Craythorpe, that an elderly woman,
of mild and cheerful aspect, sat calmly reading a large volume she
supported against the railing of a noble vessel, that was steering its
course from the shores of "merrie England" to some land far over the
sea. Two gentlemen, who were lounging on the quarter-deck arm-in-arm,
frequently passed her. The elder one, in a peculiarly kind tone of
voice, said, "You bear the voyage well, dame."--"Thank God! yes,
sir."--"Ah! you will wish yourself back in Old England before you
are landed six weeks."--"I did not wish to leave it, sir; but my duty
obliged me to do so."
The gentlemen walked on.
"Who is she?" inquired the younger.
"A very singular woman. Her information transported for life a husband
whom she loved, notwithstanding his coldness and his crimes. She had at
that time three children, and the eldest had already become contaminated
by his father's example. She saw nothing but destruction for them in
prospective, her warnings and intreaties being alike unregarded. So she
made her election--sacrificed the husband and saved the children!"
"But what does she here?"
"Her eldest son is now established in a small business, and respected by
all who know him. Her second boy, and a father, whom her misfortunes
reduced to a deplorable state of wretchedness, are dead. Her daughter,
a village belle and beauty, is married to my father's handsome new
parish-clerk; and Mrs. Huntley having seen her children provided for,
and by her virtues and industry made respectable in the Old World, is
now on her voyage to the New, to see, if I may be permitted to use her
own simple language, 'whether she can contribute to render the last days
of her husband as happy as the first they passed together.' It is only
justice to the criminal to say, that I believe him truly and perfectly
reformed."
"And on this chance she leaves her children and her country?"
"She does. She argues, that as the will of Providence prevented her from
discharging her duties _together_, she must endeavour to perform
them _separately_. He was sentenced to die; but, by my father's
exertions, his sentence was commuted to one of transportation for life;
and I know she has quitted England without the hope of again beholding
its white cliffs."
[Miss Landon has contributed a few poetical pieces of great merit; and
the Editor, the "simple story" of an Emigrant in verse, full of truth
and nature. The Author of the Corn Law Rhymes has two pieces.
The Illustrations are nearly unexceptionable. Seven of them are
from pictures by Lawrence; Newton's Gentle Student has supplied the
Frontispiece; and Wilkie's Theft of the Cap, one of the most pleasing
of the well arranged selection.]
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