THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.
Crowning a gradual hill the mansion swells
In old colonial grandeur.—_W. Mason._
River-view, the ancestral home of the Devilles, was one of those fine
old provincial mansions, of which scarcely a well-preserved specimen
remains in America.
It was situated on the north bank of the Potomac, on a heavily-wooded
bluff.
The house, a large, irregular building of gray rock, with a steep roof
and many gables, was inclosed in a spacious yard, defended by a low
stone-wall.
Behind it rolled away the forest-covered hills of old Maryland.
Before it, from the very wall, tumbled the moss-covered rocks to the
water’s edge. And out beyond spread the magnificent prospect that gave
the place the name of River-view: the beautiful Potomac, broad here as a
bay, rolled in living light from north to south, as far as the eye could
reach. Across it, under the line of the horizon, arose the dim, blue
hills of Virginia. On the left, a little down the river, lay the lovely
wooded island of St. George’s.
The last proprietor of River-view, under the colonial government, was
Alexander Davenport Deville, who had been educated in Scotland, and
while there had married the Lady Elizabeth Lorne, the portionless
daughter of a Scotch Earl.
Mr. Deville brought his bride to River-view, where he lived tranquilly
with her for eighteen years, and dying, left her with one son, Orville,
aged about fifteen.
As soon as the funeral was over the Lady Elizabeth, in compliance with
the will of her late husband, conveyed her son to England to be
educated.
But, previous to entering the boy at Eton, her ladyship took him to make
a visit to his uncle, the Earl of Lennark, who was then at his
hunting-lodge in the highlands of Scotland.
She found her brother on his death-bed, and in sore distress of mind
upon two subjects.
Firstly, upon account of his younger brother, Donald, the heir of his
title and estates, who, having secretly embraced the cause of the
Pretender, was now in France, helping to hatch conspiracies.
Secondly, for the sake of his own and only child, the Lady Adelaide
Lorne, now about twelve years of age, whom he was about to leave without
protection, though happily not without fortune.
Concerning the first subject, the Jacobite conspirator, her ladyship
advised the earl to dismiss from his mind a matter which, being without
remedy, should be without regret.
Touching the second trouble, the motherless maiden, so soon fated to be
left fatherless, the brother and sister put their heads together in
close counsel.
And this was the result:
Young Orville Deville was an only son, fifteen years of age, healthy,
handsome, talented, and heir of one the finest estates in the province
of Maryland.
The little Lady Adelaide was an only daughter, aged twelve, beautiful,
graceful, amiable, and heiress in her mother’s right to about twenty
thousand pounds sterling.
Wherefore a betrothal between these two would not be so bad a plan,
thought his mother and her father.
For at first, betrothal only was intended; but upon reflection these
plotters perceived that such betrothal would be in no degree binding
upon the young people, should the latter in future object to
consummating the same by marriage.
Wherefore the wise ones concluded that a marriage-contract should be
drawn up and signed, and a marriage-ceremony performed, between the two,
to be consummated when the parties should arrive at a proper age for
setting up housekeeping together.
When this was decided upon, the children were called in from their play
in the park.
The mother took her son in hand, and made him comprehend as much as a
boy of fifteen could of the eligibility of a union with the Lady
Adelaide Lorne.
Orville did not know that he had any objection; in general rather liked
the new idea of being married; in particular was pleased to get a titled
lady for his bride—titles were so very rare in the colonies! Yes, upon
the whole, he thought he would marry Lady Adelaide, without making any
ado about it.
Lady Adelaide was summoned to the bedside of her father, and merely told
that she was to be married to her cousin, Orville Deville. The maiden,
too meek to express the astonishment she felt, retired to ask her old
nurse, Elspeth, what it all meant.
In short, in a week from this, all the preliminaries having been
prepared, a solemn farce was played—a diabolical piece of wickedness was
performed at the death-bed of the Earl of Lennark,—a boy-child of
fifteen and a girl-child of twelve were gravely united in the holy bonds
of matrimony. After which the male-child was sent in one direction with
his servant, and the female-child sent in another with her nurse.
And that night the Earl of Lennark, having, with the best intentions,
done the last harm he could in this world, died, and went “to give an
account of the deeds done in the body.”
During the week of funeral obsequies the newly-married infants saw but
little of each other; nor, to tell the truth, did they wish to do so. In
their strange relation they had become painfully shy,—the boy,
especially, had grown horribly afraid of the little girl.
After the funeral solemnities were quite over, and the house restored to
order, Lady Elizabeth Deville prepared to depart.
Then indeed Master Orville received a tremendous shock of disappointment
with the intelligence that he was still to go to Eton! that the awful
event of his marriage had made no change in the previous arrangement!
Here was a downfall!
He had confidently expected that, being “married and settled,” he should
go back to River-view, enter at once upon his estate, keep horses and
hounds, give dinners and card-parties, hunt, drink and play; and, in
brief, spend time, health and wealth, as a gentleman of quality should!
Of becoming lover or husband, the lad never dreamed; of the little Lady
Adelaide he never thought, except carelessly, that she might not be much
in his way.
It cost Lady Elizabeth a great deal of trouble, and the promise of
unlimited pocket-money, to persuade Master Orville of the propriety of
going to Eton.
And reluctantly at last to Eton he went.
Lady Adelaide, meek maiden, never dreamed of opposing her elders or
superiors. She shed many tears at leaving her beautiful, wild
Highland-home,—more tears still at parting from her father’s grave, and
her old nurse, Elspeth,—and patiently followed her mother-in-law.
Lady Elizabeth Deville was upon the whole a good and sensible woman;
though, in some particular instances,—the baby-marriage, for
example,—she had acted wrongly and foolishly.
Her one predominant affection was maternal love; her one ruling passion,
her son: her devotion to him reached idolatry.
In him she could see no fault nor blemish.
For him, if necessary, all persons, all possessions, all interests
should be sacrificed.
To him all wills should bend.
In her far-reaching previsions, a wife for him, a daughter-in-law for
herself, had been her greatest dread.
A wife that might not worship him sufficiently, a daughter-in-law to
make her miserable!
Now, however, the great dread of her future was destroyed.
The angel of her life was secured: a high-born maiden of her own blood,
beautiful, intelligent, altogether lovely, and of such tender age and
docile temper that she—the mother—could melt, mould, and shape her into
a perfect model of a wife for her darling son—a perfect pattern of a
daughter-in-law for herself.
Honest mothers of marriagable sons, do you wish you had the same
opportunity of forming and training satisfactory daughters-in law? Good
women, don’t you try it! Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a
thousand it would be a failure, and the thousandth time worse than a
failure; for it would be, as this proved, an accursed success!
To return.
The youth at Eton, in study and in play, in cricketing, boxing, and
boating, in school-boy fights and school-boy friendships, soon forgot
his baby-bride.
The maiden, returning home with her mother-in-law to River-view, was not
permitted so to forget her boy-bridegroom.
As a sensible woman Lady Elizabeth knew, that in order to mould and
train this girl into a model wife and desirable daughter-in-law, she
must first win her affections and confidence; being an amiable woman the
lady found the task quite to her taste.
During the long, long voyage out, no mother could have been more
affectionate, solicitous and devoted to her only child than was this
lady to her daughter-in-law.
When the little maiden was sea-sick the lady nursed her with the utmost
skill, tenderness, and patience; when home-sick, gathered her to her
bosom, sympathized with, and consoled her; when weary of the long way,
read to her; when books were exhausted, told her stories from long
life’s readings, or gave descriptions, or related incidents, of the new
world to which they were bound.
The maiden was of a gentle, grateful, and affectionate nature, and soon
learned to love the lady with all the strength of her warm, pure, young
heart.
Thus these two, before the voyage was over, formed a very tender,
sincere, mutual attachment. This was perfectly natural—nay, inevitable.
The girl never had known a mother’s care, yet instinctively longed for a
mother’s love, and found it in Lady Elizabeth.
The lady herself had never dreamed of the sweetness of a daughter’s
affection, until she discovered the treasure in the grateful bosom of
young Adelaide.
The long voyage came to an end.
They reached the shores of Maryland late in the evening; landed at
River-view in the dark; and slept that night at home.
Thus it was by morning light that Lady Adelaide first looked upon her
home in the new world.
Her chamber was the right-hand front room, on the second floor of the
mansion, looking out upon the water.
Lady Elizabeth’s apartment was the corresponding left-hand front room.
A broad passage only separated these two chambers.
Early in the morning Lady Elizabeth crossed the passage and entered the
chamber of her daughter-in-law.
She found Adelaide already up and dressed, and standing at the front
windows looking longingly out. These windows reached from ceiling to
floor, and opened on hinges like doors, out upon the upper piazza.
Lady Elizabeth, after greeting the young girl, opened the window and led
her forth upon the porch.
From the house down to the river fell the rocks, now carpeted with moss,
as green as emeralds. Beyond them rolled from north to south the
glorious Potomac. Far across its waters, gray and dim with distance, was
the shore of Virginia. On the upper hand the river curved, bay-like, out
of sight. On the lower, it divided around the green and wooded island of
St. George.
Adelaide, an enthusiast in natural scenery, gazed in delight.
“How do you like it, my love?” was the almost-needless question of the
lady.
“It is not Scotland,” was the half-admiring, half-regretful reply.
“No, it is not your native land, my child! not the country of your
birth; but we hope to see it the country of your deliberate choice.”
“It is not even _like_ Scotland,” sighed the maiden.
“No, here you miss the lakes and mountains of the Highlands; but then
here you have magnificent breadths of landscape! Rivers, islands,
forests are all on a majestic scale of grandeur.”
“True; it is so different from Scotland,” and the eyes of the home-sick
child filled with tears.
The lady put her arms around the maiden’s waist, and kissed her tears
away. Then pointing down the river she said—
“Look, love! there, look far down beyond St. George’s Island, to where
you see those two opposite points, beyond which rolls the bay,—that is
the mouth of the river, and those are Point Look-Out and Point Smith.
Midway between them, see that sail—making out to sea! It is our late
ship. She goes to Annapolis next. Look—for in five minutes she will be
out of sight.”
Adelaide wiped her eyes, and watched the retreating ship.
“She is gone! Now come to breakfast, love,” said the lady, leading the
way.
When the Lady Elizabeth had reached the door of the dining-hall, she
turned and saw Adelaide standing pale and motionless as a statue—a look
of pain and terror sweeping over her face. Hastening back, she caught
the girl by the arm, and eagerly asked the cause of such a sudden
transfiguration. It was some moments before Adelaide recovered from the
strange fit; and then, with a moan as of pain and with hands clasped
over her heart, she exclaimed—
“Oh, my Saviour, what a fate!”
“Why, what is the matter, child?” asked the Lady Elizabeth with much
concern.
“I have had a vision—a terrible vision! Is it not said that members of
our family sometimes have the gift of second-sight? I saw a raging
storm, and a young girl perishing therein—a cradle robbed of its
treasure—a mother wildly searching for her babe! And I—oh, _I_ was
there! I was myself a part of my own vision! Oh, my heart! my heart!”
“Pshaw! Come into your breakfast, quick. The whole household will be
alarmed by this fantasy. You are unwell, my dear.”
They went to breakfast, and nothing more was said about the vision.
Was there some mysterious sympathy between Adelaide and Lionne, that
caused their “visions”—the revelations of their “second-sight”—to be so
similar?