approaching nuptials was somewhat damped by the unaccountable condition
of Ellen Chadwick, whose health, instead of improving during her visit
to Carr Cottage, had appeared to decline still more perceptibly. A
constant pain at her chest, frequent headaches, uncertain spirits,
and increasing languor gave Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick real cause for
uneasiness; but Ellen would not hear of a doctor, and maintained that
it was “nothing to trouble about,” she should “be better soon.”
But she did not get “better soon,” and when the first August sun shone
on Augusta’s birthday and bridal, it taxed her powers to the utmost to
sustain efficiently her part as bridesmaid.
Had Captain Travis accepted his lieutenant’s invitation to be
groomsman, she would have found it still more difficult; but a
comparative stranger, a Mr. Joseph Bennett, of Gorton, filled the post,
the bride’s father having objected very decidedly to bold Ned Barret.
Yet Ben Travis and Jabez Clegg were both among the guests, albeit it
cost each a struggle. The two had mutually strengthened each other as
such friends should, arriving at the Spartan decision to “suffer and
be silent, facing their fate like men.” And indeed, old Mr. Ashton had
wrung the hand of Jabez at least a week before, and said—
“I’m sorry for you, Clegg; I am, upon my soul; and I’m sorry for our
poor lass too, for she’s made a mistake. But keep a brave heart, and
don’t let that slashing yeomanry fellow crow over you. As Mrs. Ashton
would say, ‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ and we must all of us
show the best face at the wedding that we can.”
If that meant elaborate display in dress and decorations, and provision
for the bridal breakfast and dinner, then the face exhibited was a
shining one. Mrs. Hodgson, the fashionable mantua-maker and milliner
of Oldham Street (where two or three of the private houses had already
been converted into shops), had kept her apprentices at work almost
night and day for weeks, executing bridal orders from the Ashtons
and their friends. A very snowstorm might have passed through the
work-room, such heaps of white French-crape and satin, lace and
organdi, lute-string and gauze, littered and covered available space,
putting matronly brocade, velvet, and llama quite into the shade.
The warehouse saw little of Mrs. Ashton for a week or ten days
previously. Cicily, who had gone over to the Aspinalls, had begged to
be allowed to help Kezia for that occasion; and she roasted her own
face in spinning gold and silver webs and baskets from sugar for the
table, making “floating islands,” syllabubs, trifles, jellies, and
blanc-mange to supplement the solid dishes Kezia dressed with so much
skill. And Mr. Mabbott sent in a sugary “Temple of Hymen” and a bride’s
cake prepared six weeks in advance.
The bride, alternately radiant and tearful like an April day, veiled
with lace, and crowned with white rose-buds and orange-blossoms, wore
a low-bodiced dress of white satin, festooned round the narrow skirt
with costly lace, whilst on neck and arms, and in her tiny ears, were
negligé, bracelets, and earrings of pearl, the gift of the gallant
bridegroom’s gallant father.
The bridegroom was scarcely less resplendent in his high-collared blue
coat and gold buttons, his white waistcoat buttoned to match, his
glossy white trousers, and low shoes tied with a bunch of silk ferret.
An oblong brooch set with a rim of pearls held down his broad fine
shirt-frills; from his fob hung a huge bunch of gold seals pendant from
a flat gold watch chain; and in his hand (not crushing his elaborate
curls, now clustering richly as ever) he carried a hat of white beaver
of the newest shape.
To Mr. and Mrs. Ashton it was a matter of open regret that Joshua
Brookes, who had christened Augusta, should not have lived to marry her
also; but Mr. Aspinall, whose reminiscences of the old chaplain were of
another order, was much better satisfied to see his own personal friend
Parson Gatliffe, the _bon vivant_, behind the altar-rails.
If the bride was tall and graceful, with sunshine in her eyes and in
her classic curls, tall and stately was the bride’s mother, whose long
train of purple silk velvet swept the aisles, though trains had ceased
to be general. There was no faltering over the responses. There was a
glow of modest pride on the cheek of Augusta; a look of mingled ardour
and exultation on the face of Laurence; his “_I will_” was pronounced
with a force which was almost fierce, yet, as she faintly promised to
“obey,” he pressed her hand with smiling significance.
The ceremony over, the bride did not faint, but turning to her
tearful-eyed father, threw her arms around his neck and clung to him,
whispering how grateful she was that he had given her the man of her
choice, and that he should see what a good wife she would make; and the
impromptu embrace sent a shower of snuff over white satin and lace.
Yet some one fainted, whom Ben Travis caught in his strong arms
and carried to the church door for air; a dark-haired, black-eyed
bridesmaid, whose face was white and skin transparent as her own robe.
Custom had not set its imperative seal on the wedding tour as a
necessity, but after a magnificent solid dinner, to which the party did
full justice, and an elaborate dessert, during which the cake was cut,
and Mr. Aspinall proposed the health of the bride in an inflated toast,
demanding that it should be drunk in bumpers, “and no heel-taps,” the
wedded pair drove off in Mr. Aspinall’s carriage to the family mansion
at Fallowfield, there to spend the honeymoon.
“Good-bye, Jabez,” said Augusta, putting her small soft hand into his
as they left the house; “you will comfort my father and mother, will
you not? I trust them to you.”
And he replied with the fervency of truth, “I accept the trust
willingly. Good-bye, Mrs. Aspinall” (how the word choked him!) “May God
bless you, and the marriage you have contracted. Good-bye!”
He did not kiss her hand, had not taken the common liberty of guests
to kiss the bride’s lips in church; he did but press her hand as any
old friend who had grown up with her under the same roof might have
done; but before the carriage had well dashed from the door, or the
bridegroom had fairly settled himself on his seat, Laurence turned to
the fair young wife, whose prophetic tears were now falling fast, with
the sharp rebuke—
“What was that foundling fellow mumbling over your hand? You will
please to remember that that hand is mine now, Mrs. Aspinall. You have
promised to _love_ and _obey_ me—ME your LORD and
MASTER. And MASTER I mean to be. I have borne the
fooling of your friends and your own pretty caprices long enough. It is
my turn now; and if any man so much as dares to look at you I’ll pound
him to a jelly! And now dry your eyes and give me a kiss!”
And that was the inauguration of Augusta Aspinall’s married life.
It has been said that the bridesmaid fainted. Every lady carried a
smelling bottle, and means to revive her were not far to seek. She
soon recovered, and with a sensitive blush withdrew from the arms
which had been so proud to sustain her, casting her eyes round as if
in search of some other whose service might have been more acceptible.
But she suffered no relapse. She was ready to wait upon the bride, to
sign “Ellen Chadwick” in the church register, and to assist Mr. Joseph
Bennett in cutting up the cake for distribution, with cards and gloves,
to friends not present. It was an arduous task, and she succumbed
before it was half completed.
“Miss Chadwick, you are not well; let me relieve you,” said Jabez,
coming to her assistance after the “happy pair” had driven off, and
whilst peals of laughter, shouts, and hurrahs came from the dining-room
where gentlemen were honouring the bridal by drinking themselves
senseless and speechless.
Ellen remained with her aunt a few days longer, during which Jabez,
exceedingly pained to see the ravages hidden disease had made in so
estimable a young lady, was pitifully attentive.
He could not, however, fail to see that his attentions distressed her;
and, on the whole he was not sorry when Augusta’s parents and he were
left to themselves, to talk of their own dear one and speculate on her
future.
Weeks went by. Mrs. Aspinall visited her old home, but never without
her husband; and seldom was she allowed to remain more than an hour.
Her spirits seemed exuberant, but somehow her unusual vivacity jarred
on her mother’s nerves, and she suspected that her spirits were forced.
Meanwhile Ellen Chadwick faded. Dr. Hardie, called in at last, watched
his patient with curious and attentive eye, perplexed and dubious.
He had been friend as well as physician since Mr. Chadwick’s attack
of paralysis, and was a close observer. Now he came and went in a
gossiping sort of way, to put his patient at ease, and off her guard.
He was there one day when Jabez was announced, and saw a sudden
spasmodic action of the face, a dilation of the pupils, a scarcely
perceptible pant and parting of the lips, and then he watched her
closer. He introduced Mr. Clegg’s name, as if casually, whilst his
fingers were on her pulse. The result of his observations were told to
Mr. Chadwick the same day.
“Your daughter has no specific disease, Mr. Chadwick, she is simply
_love-sick_.”
“L-love-s-sick?”
“Yes; and her secret passion is consuming her. Medicine cannot save
the patient’s life if her affection be not returned, and that right
speedily.”
Mr. Chadwick was aghast.
“I feared as much,” said Mrs. Chadwick, with a sigh.
“Then you will have an inkling who is the desired object?” said the
doctor.
“I think so.”
“Does your maternal instinct point to Mr. Clegg?” he asked, with a
curious look.
“It does; but he himself has no suspicion, and I am sure regards Ellen
only as a friend—a friend elevated a little above him.”
“Is the young man courting?”
“I believe not.”
“Then,” said the doctor sententiously, “the sooner he is, the better
for Miss Chadwick. Her life is not worth a month’s purchase unless Mr.
Clegg become the buyer. But let not Miss Ellen hear a whisper of my
opinion. Good day.”
And snatching up his hat the doctor departed, leaving them to their
reflections.
Here was a delicate subject to be dealt with, and that without either
loss of time or the sacrifice of their beloved child’s sensitiveness
and reserve.
Unknown to Ellen a family conclave assembled under the Mosley Street
roof, to discuss the momentous question, and deliberate what was
best to be done. Long and grave were their deliberations. At length,
taking Mr. Chadwick’s imperfect speech into consideration, Mr. Ashton
consented to lay the case before Jabez, and leave his brother-in-law
to supplement it, if necessary; though opinions were divided as to the
result.
It was after business hours, and Mr. Ashton found Jabez in his own
room, doing his best to dissipate thought by hard work, mind and hand
being busy with a chintz-pattern for calico-printing.
There was a nervous plunge into the gold snuff-box, and a consequent
flourish of a gay bandana, and some time spent in examining the
incomplete design on the desk, before Mr. Ashton could fairly enter on
his embassy. After a little prelude, in which, whilst enlarging on the
serious nature of his niece’s illness, he elicited from Jabez that he
held the young lady in the very highest esteem, and was deeply grieved
to hear of her perilous state, he put down his snuff-box on the table
before him, and drawing up his chair so as to bring their heads closer
together, looked steadfastly into the other’s clear eyes as he put the
question—
“And what should you think of _love_ as the cause of her malady?”
“LOVE!” echoed Jabez, his mind running off to the agonised
confession made to him on the Taxal hillside.
“Yes, _love_, and for the very man whose merits _my_ foolish child
failed to see.”
Jabez looked at him vaguely.
“Surely not Mr. Marsland!”
“Pah! no!” exclaimed Mr. Ashton, as if disgusted at his obtuseness.
“Yourself, man—Jabez Clegg.”
Jabez fixed his eyes on his informant in blank amazement, a
monosyllabic long-drawn “_Me!_” being his sole response.
“Just so!” assented Mr. Ashton, and he took a pinch of snuff on the
strength of it.
“Oh, sir, there must be some mistake! How has this been ascertained?
Has Miss Chadwick made——”
“No, Clegg, the poor lass has never said one word, except with her eyes
and pulse. Dr. Hardie has made the discovery now, and it turns out Mrs.
Chadwick suspected it long ago.”
“Oh, dear! dear! this is very terrible!”
He was estimating the pain in Ellen’s heart by that in his own.
“Very terrible indeed, Clegg, for Hardie says the lass’s life is not
worth so much as a yard of filleting if her love meet no return.”
The head of Jabez sank in his open hands upon the table. What would his
friend Travis think of all this? Presently he raised his face, over
which a strange change had passed.
“Mr. Ashton, what would you have me do?”
“Whatever Jabez Clegg thinks he ought to do,” he answered steadily,
adding in another tone, “I would have been glad to have given thee my
own child: my brother-in-law implores thee to take _his_ child, to save
her life.”
After a prolonged silence Jabez spoke.
“Mr. Ashton, I hold that love alone can sanctify marriage: my love
has blossomed and died fruitless. Yet so highly do I esteem Miss
Chadwick, and so proud am I of the great honour she has done me in
her preference, that I place myself in your hands. If I can spare so
amiable a young lady the pain I suffer from rejected love, I should be
a brute and a savage to refuse her the remnant of a valueless life. We
may at least soften its asperities for each other.”
The Chadwicks went home with minds relieved, but Jabez had stipulated
that nothing should be said to Ellen of their overtures to him, no hint
given which could alarm her shrinking modesty.
The following day he called to inquire about her health, made his
genuine anxiety apparent, and noted, as he had never done before, how
her lip trembled and her eyelid drooped. Gradually, as his attentions
became more marked, her health and spirits rose, and when at last he
proposed to her calmly, quietly, as though he sought a haven when the
frothy waves of a first passion had subsided, she accepted him as God’s
best gift, all unaware that his offer was not spontaneous, or that her
cousin Augusta was yet deeply shrined in his secret heart.
He had been at first greatly concerned about Ben Travis but the
generous fellow, to whom he felt in honour bound to explain his
conduct, only wrung his hand and said—
“I could not resign her to a worthier.”
CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND.
BLOWS.
Richard Chadwick, who had served as a midshipman under Admiral
Collingwood, and shared in the victory of Trafalgar, was a midshipman
still, and his vessel had long been away on a foreign station. Few,
brief, and far between had been his opportunities to visit home and
friends. Ships had been paid off, but he had been exchanged, several
years had elapsed since he had set foot in Manchester, and the hearts
of his kin yearned towards their sailor.
His very whereabouts was unknown to them, and when written
communication was necessary, letters had to be forwarded through the
Admiralty.
Ellen’s engagement and prospective marriage called forth a voluminous
epistle, crossed and recrossed like a trellis, from Mrs. Chadwick to
her son, whose presence she craved, if leave of absence could possibly
be obtained. The letter was a singular compound of gratulation and
apology, through which a thin undercurrent of dissatisfaction meandered
like a stream. His sister’s strange malady and infatuation for a man
of apparently low origin, whose name and parentage were alike unknown,
were set forth to be deplored. Still, since the sole remedy for Ellen’s
ailment rested with this obscure Mr. Clegg whose career upwards, from
his floating cradle to his honourable position in the Ashton house and
warehouse, was circumstantially detailed, his personal worth was a
matter for congratulation; and the deep obligation of the whole family
to him for the service rendered on Peterloo-Day seemed dragged in as a
sort of extenuating circumstance. Clearly the Mr. Travis, whose name
and pretensions cropped up here and there throughout the letter would
have been a more acceptable son-in-law in the sight of Mrs. Chadwick
and his other sister, Charlotte Walmsley, and just as clearly it was
made apparent that his paralysed father (hale and strong in all other
respects) was as much infatuated with the young man as was Ellen,
having “positively offered to take him into partnership on his entrance
into the family.” And even there Mrs. Chadwick felt “constrained to
admit that the clear head, business tact, and energy of Mr. Clegg would
be a great acquisition.”
This item of news closed the missive, which must have gone a circuitous
round of red tape it was so long upon its travels. Months came and
went; Father Christmas shook his snowy locks over the town; but neither
the midshipman nor a written substitute put in an appearance.
Meanwhile Jabez, who had crushed down in the garden of his heart those
roots of his love for Augusta which mocked his strength to eradicate,
did his best to plant and foster above them a grateful affection for
the one who had chosen him, and hoped in time that the newer growth
might utterly extinguish the old. His attentions to Ellen were more
assiduous than, under the circumstances, might have been expected; but
he argued with himself—
“I must endeavour to atone to her for a proposal in which love had no
part. She must never have occasion to suspect the truth. I should be a
brute did I remain insensible to the unconquerable love she has so long
cherished in secret for me. Augusta’s face, alas! was more divinely
fair, her manner more enchanting; but Ellen, though she is older than
myself, will doubtless make the best wife for a business man who has to
carve his way to fortune, and _she loves me_!”
Ellen, too, had her seasons of doubt and perplexity. She had been so
sensitively alive to the silent homage of Jabez Clegg to her younger
and fairer cousin that at first her mind had refused to realise the
fact that he desired to marry her, even though his proposal had been
preceded by direct and palpable attention. She had been at first
inclined to attribute his many acts of kindness and courtesy to
friendship and compassion for her failing health. And when he had
spoken of being won by her many estimable qualities to seek her for a
wife, she had listened incredulously; then, overpowered by contending
emotions, sank back amongst her cushions, in a state of insensibility.
Even her tremulous acceptance had been uttered as in a blissful dream,
which might vanish all too soon. From time to time she perplexed
herself with questions of the motive for so sudden a change in one so
steadfast as Jabez, and at last wavered between the two suppositions
that Augusta’s wilfulness had wearied him, or that she owed her lover
to pique. Of the real state of the case she had no inkling.
She was not alone in her latter supposition.
“A happy new year to you, Mrs. Clowes!” said our friend Jabez to his
friend the old confectioner, as at one stride he took the two steps to
her confined shop on the bright frosty second of January, 1823, and
extended his hand to her across the counter, where she still kept up a
show of activity in spite of age and wrinkles.
“Same to you, Mr. Clegg.”
She had been one of the first to recognise his right to the prefix, and
with all her old-fashioned familiarity never dropped it.
“Eh, but now I look at thee, thah doesn’t look ower bright an’ happy;”
and she peered into his face inquiringly.
He smiled.
“Looks are not always to be relied on. I ought to be happy, for I am
about to be married, and my errand hither is to——”
She interrupted him with—
“So I’ve heard. But what o’that? Is she th’ reet un? For I wouldna give
a mince-pie for thi happiness if she isna.”
The blood mounted painfully to his forehead.
“Miss Chadwick is all that is estimable and amiable, Mrs. Clowes,” he
answered steadily, “and if I am not happy with her it will be my own
fault.”
The old dame was not satisfied. The white linen lappets of her
antiquated mutch flapped like a spaniel’s ears as she shook her head.
“Eh, well!” sighed she, opening and shutting a drawer in the counter
abstractedly, “you should know best, but both me and Parson Brookes
(dead and gone as he is) thought you’d set your mind on th’ lass that
rantipollin lad Aspinall snapped up. I hope thah’s not goin’ to wed th’
cousin out o’ spite,” and she looked up in his face, over which a cloud
had swept. “It would be the worst day’s work you ever did, either for
her or you.”
He had mastered his emotion, and answered cheerfully—
“Make your mind easy, Mrs. Clowes. I am not marrying from any unworthy
motive, and I think our prospect of happiness is about the average. I
came to ask you, as the oldest friend I have in the town, to be present
on the occasion.”
Mrs. Clowes was overpowered.
“What! Mr. Clegg! Me, in my old black stuff gown and mutch, among your
grand folk? Nay, nay; I’m too old to don weddin’ garments. But I tell
you what”—and her face puckered with pride and pleasure—“you shall have
the finest wedding-cake that ever was baked i’ Manchester, and the old
woman will mebbe look on the weddin’ from some quiet nook, out o’ the
way. It’s a thousand pities Jotty is not alive to marry you?”
“There will be no grand folk, Mrs. Clowes; I am but a poor man
struggling upwards, and Miss Chadwick has not had good health of late;
so we shall be married very quietly on Wednesday week. Only very near
relatives, or old friends are invited.”
Customers interrupted the colloquy. When the shop was clear, she asked
where he was going to live after marriage, and was told, with his
bride’s parents.
“Eh! but that’s a bad look out. Now, I’ve built some houses in a new
street off Oxford Road as they call Rosamund Street, an’ I’ll tell you
what, you shall have one to live in at a peppercorn rent, and I’ll lend
you the money to furnish it. Young folks are best by themselves.”
Clear and bright were the eyes that met hers in reply.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clowes, thank you heartily for your kind offer; but
I think you lose sight of Mr. Chadwick’s infirmity. He has acted
very liberally towards me—in fact, has offered to take me into
partnership—and I should ill repay him by removing from his hearth the
good daughter on whom he relies. It is rather my duty to add to the
comfort of his declining years.”
“Oh!” said she, sharply; “if that’s how you raise your crust I’d best
keep my fingers out of your pie.”
Jabez was going. The shop was full.
“Stay, Mr. Clegg,” said she, beckoning him into her parlour, and
closing the door. “It’s hard cheese for a man to owe everything to his
father-in-law. I’ve got £500 hanging on hand. It’s not much, but the
least bit of capital would make you feel independent, and its heartily
at your service; and if you don’t like to take it without interest, you
can pay me one per cent., and repay me when you’ve made a fortune; and
if that doesn’t come till I lay under a stone bed-quilt, you can hand
it over to my first godchild.”
That same evening Augusta Aspinall stood before a large oval
swing-glass in her luxurious dressing-room, the blazing fire shed
its warm glow on polished furniture, amber silk hangings, bright
fire-irons, costly mirrors, and expensive toilet ware (of execrable
shape). She was robing for a ball at the Assembly Rooms, and Cicily,
who, although cook, insisted on retaining her post as lady’s maid on
such occasions, had just fastened the last hook of a delicate lilac
figured silk as soft as it was lustrous, with swansdown fringing skirt,
sleeves, and bodice, as if to show how fair was the symmetrical neck of
the wearer to stand such test.
In came Laurence fresh from the Spread Eagle in Hanging Ditch, where
he, a newly-elected member of the Scramble Club, had spent the
afternoon with one or two others, forgetful that the origin of the club
was the fourpenny pie and glass of ale, or at most the slice from a
joint despatched in a hurry or “scramble” by business men to whom time
was money.