Unfaithful one! from seed of tares
No golden grain can spring:
Unhappy one! the wind, once sown,
Shall but the whirlwind bring.
CULVER ALLEN.
Amongst all the curses pronounced against the rebellious Israelites,
few, perhaps, in reality far exceeded that one--"Cursed shalt thou be
when thou comest in." It struck to the very heart of domestic peace,
destroying that sanctuary, which, dark as the world around may be, we
look to as a shelter and a solace. If the curse be there, what other
blessing can reach us with any effect!
Such was the punishment which the cautious, wily woman of the world had
been so carefully storing up for herself--for this she had chained her
own temper--for this she had submitted to many weary vexations--for this
she had been lavish in indulgence, even when her tired spirit would have
willingly--so she believed--have turned from the cunning and fatiguing
artifices of perpetual deceit--for this she had entered "into the fields
of the fatherless," to find, only too late, that "their Redeemer is
indeed mighty."
The curse for which she had so strenuously laboured, had entered into
her very household, and her own daughters were turned against her.
Colonel Hargrave found Mrs. Villars in tears when he went to explain his
wishes, and the reasons which led him to desire an early and private
marriage.
"Take her when you like, and the sooner the better," exclaimed the
goaded woman; "I care not when, and I only wish you could take away the
ill she has brought with her."
Colonel Hargrave, who was accustomed to nothing but flattery in that
house, felt a little surprise at the boldness with which the veil was
now thrown aside.
"I hope," he said, at length, "that you will allow her to remain with
you for the next three weeks. I wish this as a favour, because I would
not have her forced to seek the protection even of old friends, at such
a time--but I may as well add, that I know as well as yourself how
little you have done your duty to your sister's orphan, and I make this
the only condition which will force me to keep silence on the subject."
"Give me that promise and you shall not have cause to complain," said
Mrs. Villars, apprehensively.
"It is yours," he returned, with great self-possession, which contrasted
well with her pale face, and conscience stricken manner. "It is my
particular wish," he added, "that our marriage should be as simple as
possible, on account of the circumstances, which attend it. Any undue
display would only hurt Mabel's feelings, as her year of mourning is not
ended; but alone and friendless as she is, without a home at command, I
say, with no hesitation, that the only thing she can do is, to accept
that one which will ever hold her as its most honored mistress. But as
even a private marriage may put you to some inconvenience, you must
allow me the pleasure and privilege of providing against it."
As he said this, he placed a purse upon the table, which Mrs. Villars
greedily laid her hands upon, and then he left the room, wondering,
almost with some amusement, at himself, for the pique he felt at the
sudden withdrawal of the adulation to which he had been accustomed, even
though he had always seen its hollowness.
As he went down stairs to leave the house, for he had already announced
his intention of removing to the White Lion, he met Lucy coming up, with
such a bright blush upon her cheek, and looking so prettily agitated,
that he stopped to enquire if any thing were the matter.
"Oh, I want Mabel--where is she--what have you done with her?"
"She went up stairs to take her bonnet off, and I think she will be glad
of your company, to rouse her from certain little fears of a ceremony
not very distant."
"Very well then, I will go to her," said Lucy, blushing yet more, and
running past him. As he went on, he met Clair, coming from the study,
and, as their destination was the same, they walked off arm-in-arm,
talking of something which appeared entirely to engross them, till they
reached the hotel, where they had dinner together.
"Oh, Mabel," said Lucy, when she had found her sitting in her own little
room, "can you find time to think with me for one minute?"
"Of course I can," said Mabel, making her sit down on the trunk beside
her.
"This dear old trunk, how I shall always love it," said Lucy, "how often
we have sat upon it talking together; and to think of the trouble we had
to shut it up, only last night, and how miserable we were then, and how
happy we are now." She hid her blushing face on Mabel's shoulder as she
went on. "You know I have such a strange thing to tell you. While you
were out, I went into the study to find papa to get him to walk, and
there was Captain Clair, talking to him; so directly I came in, up gets
papa, and, saying he has something very particular to see done before he
goes out, makes me promise to wait for him, and then gives me such an
affectionate kiss, and hurries off--cunning papa--and then what do you
think happens."
"I think I can guess," said Mabel, with a kiss and a smile.
"No, I am sure you cannot. Arthur told me, Captain Clair, I mean, that
he had been talking to papa about me, and that he loved me now, though
he once thought he could love no one but you, and indeed, dear Mabel, he
spoke so kindly and affectionately that--"
"I understand you love," said Mabel, embracing her, "I thought so--I
hoped so a long time since."
"You thought so," said Lucy, "impossible! I never could even have
dreamt of such a thing yesterday."
"I tell you so," replied her cousin, "because I always knew his love for
me only arose from the enthusiasm of circumstances; while those same
circumstances only made him disapprove of you, as much as you did of
yourself. I knew he could not see you so changed without really loving
you."
"And do you think I shall ever be good enough for him?"
"Only keep as you are, and he will be quite satisfied."
"And, do you know that the doctors say, that if he returns to India it
will kill him; and he has been for a long time wishing to become a
clergyman; and now he has quite made up his mind, and he has entered his
name at the college, at Dublin, which is the easiest way he says."
"That will be very, very nice, for we shall keep you both with us,"
exclaimed Mabel. "I am so very, very happy."
"And," almost whispered Lucy, "he so much wishes to be married on the
same day that you and Henry are; but I hardly know whether mamma will
consent."
"Oh, I dare say she will," said Mabel, "and I am glad of it for your
sake."
Further conversation was interrupted by the dressing bell, and Lucy
hurried away.
As Mabel had anticipated, there was little difficulty in getting Mrs.
Villars's consent, when it was formally demanded by Clair, for in this
piece of unexpected good fortune she hoped to find, at least a temporary
respite, from the malice of her two disappointed children. In this,
however, she was mistaken, for the marriage of their sister was no
satisfaction to their jealous minds, and they did not fail to show their
impression of their mother's injustice, on every occasion, and quite
destroyed the pleasure she would have taken in providing Lucy's
_trousseau_.
Mr. Villars looked upon the marriages as peculiar pet schemes of his
own, and laid aside his writings to aid Mabel and Lucy in the choice of
dresses and laces, with the most perfect good-humour and enjoyment. And
when Lucy spoke with regret of leaving him, and felt half inclined to
delay her marriage, for his sake, he would not hear of it, declaring
that he should keep up a constant correspondence with both, and whenever
he felt dull, if it were possible now that he had so much to do and to
think of, he should run over and see them, wherever they were, and so
recruit his spirits. For the present, he was almost their constant
companion, for both Hargrave and Clair had so much to do, in a little
time, that they had very little leisure at their disposal. There were
settlements to be drawn, and Hargrave's was a very long one, licenses to
procure, and a great many things besides, which, on such an occasion,
were of no small importance. Besides which they were planning a visit
together to Aston.
On the afternoon before they started, however, they accompanied Mr.
Villars and his fair companions on a shopping expedition, and a pleasant
afternoon they managed to spend. Hargrave, too, had his purchases to
make, which he did with some pride in his own taste, of some beautiful
Irish poplins, which he ordered to be directed, with his compliments, to
Mrs. and the Misses Villars, together with some lace scarfs, which he
thought would look very pretty at the wedding.
In due time they were delivered, and opened with much pleasure by Mrs.
Villars and her daughter Selina, who seemed as tranquilly placid as
ever, as if determined to find pleasure herself, whatever happened. She
was just in the act of gathering the material in her fingers to see how
well it would look made up, when Caroline entered.
"What is all this?" she cried, looking round upon Hargrave's present.
"Oh, my dear," said her mother, anxiously, "these beautiful poplins are
from Henry Hargrave, who begs our acceptance of them, and hopes we will
wear them at the wedding."
"And what do you mean to do with them?" enquired Caroline, looking at
her fiercely.
"Why to wear them, of course, my dear; will you not do the same?"
"Not I, neither will you; I will have no such cringing ways done within
my knowledge." Here she looked significantly at her mother, and then
walking to the table, she began, deliberately, to refold the dresses,
which they suffered her to do without interruption, hoping that she was
relenting towards them. But when she had carefully folded every rumpled
yard of the dresses, she placed them as carefully in their separate
papers, and then tying them altogether, she wrote on the outside, and
rang the bell.
"What are you doing, dear Cary?" cried Selina.
"You will see," said Caroline, and at that moment, their man-servant
appearing, she turned to him, and said--"Take that parcel to Colonel
Hargrave, at the White Lion, with mamma's compliments."
"Stop a moment, my dear, do consider," said her mother.
"Ma'am," replied her daughter, "no consideration is necessary. James,
take the parcel."
And, without waiting further orders, he took it as she directed, leaving
Mrs. Villars vexed and annoyed, but too timid to remonstrate.
Caroline, however, was disappointed at the satisfaction of knowing that
Hargrave was annoyed, for he never even alluded to the subject.
The next morning, Hargrave and Clair set off, early, on their journey to
Aston. The day was bright as a May morning could be desired to be, and
the country, through which they drove, full of lovely home scenery. They
had hired a phaeton, and took their own pace across the
country--Hargrave driving, and delighting his companion with one of his
very best humours, now sparkling with wit, or laughing in the merriment
of his heart, and then suddenly changing his tone to one of deeper
earnestness, as they spoke of the future or the past.
It was not till the close of the evening, that they espied the
well-known landmarks of the little village--the simple spire of the
rustic church, and the many windowed halls of Aston Manor.
As they entered the village, Hargrave suffered his horse to bring his
tired trot to a walk, while they both eagerly looked around. Hargrave
tried to fancy what his bride would feel, on the first sight of a place
so loved, and so changed--and he thought, perhaps, she would have liked
the old place better after all.
"Still there is nothing sickly in Mabel's mind," he said to himself, as
he looked round, and considered how very greatly it was improved in
reality. Here, were well drained roads, raised pathways, and neatly
built houses, which might have proved models for many an English
gentleman's estate, well lighted, well ventilated, as they were, and
slightly ornamented besides, with the simple porch, and the little
gardens which surrounded them. It made his heart beat high with that
quick sensation of pleasure, which is almost pain. And there, too, on
the site of Mrs. Lesly's cottage, rose one, smaller indeed, but still
sufficiently like to recall it, and as then, the lawn in front sloped
down to the road--and all beside, even to the simple gateway, seemed
like the time gone-by. And, for the first time that long day, Clair
looked sad, for he remembered when he had first looked upon it--and he
thought of the graceful child, in her almost infantine beauty, as she
sat and twined, with so much care, her fading wreath of the wild lily.
Little did he then think, that her dying wreath--dying even as she
twined it--might so soon be regarded as her own fit emblem.
But they have ascended the hill, and though it is May, and the day has
been warm, there is a brisk column of smoke curling up from the parlour
chimney of the dear old rectory. They got down at the Hargrave Arms, and
leaving their phaeton, just as they are recognised by the landlord,
stroll on together.
It looked so like home, that old garden, as they entered it, they could
almost fancy they heard the good rector's step in the well-known walks,
and by the neat bee-hives; but no, the shutters were closed, and through
their creeks issued a small stream of bright light, just giving a sly
hint of the comfort they left in the snug parlour within.
To raise the window of the glass-door, and to spring into the passage,
was but the work of one moment, and in the next, they were in the snug
parlour itself, and shaking hands with Mr. Ware and his sister with a
heartiness which nothing could exceed. And how the good man's face
glowed when he welcomed his dear old pupil back, and, in the warmth of
that one greeting, assured himself that he was "just as he used to be
when he was a boy." And how, not altogether, or even one at a time,
scarcely in any connection either, and certainly not as long stories are
sometimes told, they made him understand why they had come, and all the
changes which had taken place--and best of all, that Mabel was coming
back to be mistress of Aston Manor, and Lucy--happy hearted Lucy--was to
be Clair's wife, would all take too long to tell. But that they were a
thoroughly comfortable and happy party, that night, there is no doubt.
Then, as it grew later, Mr. Clifford, the young architect, returned from
a long day, spent with some friends, and Hargrave was delighted to see
him.
"Your work has been done almost with the rapidity of magic," he said,
speaking kindly to him, for it had been his first essay. "I was quite
pleased with what I saw as we lingered through the village."
Mr. Clifford looked much gratified by his approval.
"I am come down," Hargrave continued, "partly for the purpose of letting
these cottages to those most deserving, and most honest; and you, my
dear sir, must assist me," he said, turning to Mr. Ware; "my bailiff has
already given notice, that they should all assemble in the large room,
at the new inn, to-morrow, and you must come with me to see that I do
justice."
"Most willingly, my dear Hargrave," replied Mr. Ware, whose countenance
looked one continued beam of delight.
"And the next morning," continued Hargrave, "we are going to run away
with you, as we cannot think of being married by any one but you."
Mr. Ware looked still more pleased, as he, at first, modestly declined,
but very easily suffered himself to be persuaded to take the office
assigned him.
"Now then, I have another plan to propose," pursued Hargrave. "You all
know the little hamlet of Cheswell, over the hill--and how, of late
years, it has increased to look more like a village of itself--and you
may, perhaps, know how valuable the stone quarries have become to this
estate. Well, I am thinking of erecting there, a small church, together
with a snug house for a clergyman, and school house for the neglected
children of that neighbourhood; partly from the knowledge of the great
utility of such a measure, and partly because I wish to give some public
testimony of my respect for the ordinances I once abused."
He colored deeply, as he made this confession, and then continued, more
rapidly--
"I intend to endow this church property--and if, by the time it is
finished, Clair is in orders, I shall present him with it. Why not, my
dear sir, let him remain with you, till that time. I am sure," he added,
with a bow to Miss Ware, "my cousin Lucy cannot learn to keep house, at
once with cheerfulness and economy, better anywhere than here."
"Delightful," exclaimed Mr. Ware. "Arthur, my dear fellow, I have long
known your intention of leaving the army; and may venture to say that
your plans have not been settled with lightness and inconsideration.
Will you come and live with us, for the present? Lucy can be with your
aunt, whenever you may be forced to be long absent--you need not doubt
that she shall be as welcome as you are."
"Should Lucy consent, I will gladly accept your offer, dear uncle,"
returned Clair; "but help me to thank Hargrave for this unexpected,
unlooked-for kindness."
"No, no," said Hargrave, rising, and looking really embarrassed--"oblige
me, by not saying a word. Come with me--I am going to carry you with me
to the Manor. I shall sleep there to-night, for the first time, for more
than six years--come and help me to do the polite to my faithful
housekeeper."
"Ah, Colonel Hargrave," said Miss Ware, as she pressed his hand with
reverence, for, with all his faults, she never forgot that she owed to
him the happy home they had enjoyed, for so many years, "you will be
welcome there, indeed, for you are come back to make us all happy."
Hargrave looked still more embarrassed, tried to say something, and
failed--so seizing Clair by the arm, he hurried him off, without waiting
for another word.
The first sound which greeted his ear, on the following morning, was a
merry peal from the old church. He started up, and almost glad to find
that Clair was still sleeping, he went, alone, to every part of the
house, so well known, and so well remembered. Once again he felt master
of his own--and the spell which had sent him forth a wilful wanderer was
broken for ever.
With what pleasure he loitered from room to room, and then out to the
green-houses and gardens; and, sometimes, he almost started, as some
once familiar object distinctly recalled to mind the days of his
boyhood. And then he would pause, to fancy how beautiful and how happy
all would be, in the sunshine of his Mabel's presence.
But now Clair came to seek him, and they returned to a hearty breakfast,
and then hurried off to the rectory, to fetch Mr. Ware and young
Clifford to come with them to the inn, where already many an anxious
peasant awaited them.
And when they did reach it, it was no light task to answer all claims,
and equally to distribute favors, to the many who sought them.
Clair's head began to ache, many times, from the heated air of the large
but well-filled room, and he, many times, strolled back to the rectory,
to refresh himself.
Mr. Ware went back to his regular lunch, and dinner--and even Clifford
found many opportunities of absenting himself; but still Hargrave sat
on, apparently unwearied, as one after another sought his hearing, and
laid claim to this or that disputed tenement. And his patience was well
rewarded, by the satisfaction which he had afforded--for, towards the
close of day, when the last claimant had been satisfied, the room was
still thronged by those who were anxious to thank him for the attention
he had shewn.
"Before I bid you good night," said Hargrave, rising as he spoke--and,
as he did so, the fading rays of the evening sun played carelessly with
his dark hair, and shed a light upon his face; "I have one question to
ask you. Is there one among you, who will disapprove of my leniency in
continuing this man," here he laid his hand upon the shoulder of his
bailiff, who, with eyes fixed upon the ground, stood next him, and had
been near him all day, "as my steward. If, since the night of the fire,
he has done one wanton, or careless act--If he has neglected my
interests by injuring you--speak, and he does not continue a day longer
in his office; but, if not, I am not the man to close the gates of mercy
against the repentant; and I say, that he shall have full opportunity of
atoning for the past. If he has done wrong, in any one single instance,
speak--if not, hold up your hands."
Every hand was raised, and the timid, but grateful expression, with
which Rogers ventured to raise his eyes for the first time, seemed to
say that the testimony thus given him was deserved.
"Very well," said Hargrave; "then he is my steward still, and long may
he do his duty--but, my friends, remember, that I shall now be almost
constantly with you, and I invite you all to dine on my grounds--on my
wedding day, for I shall soon give Aston a mistress, who is already
known, and loved, here. Mr. Clifford, who has already done so much for
your comfort, will be kind enough to superintend your gaiety, and join
you, I hope, in drinking my health. The only thing left me to ask, is
your confidence, and your love, my good people, for I am come back to
make a home among you."
The buzz of approbation which echoed through the long room, and even
into the court-yard, beyond, might have satisfied him--but when, with a
smile, he drew from his pocket a wig of shaggy hair, of the reddest hue,
together with the slouched hat of a traveller, and placed them upon his
head, they exclaimed, as with one voice, "The stranger!" and almost rent
the place with their acclamations, pressing, at the same time, so
closely round him, that he was glad to escape by a side door, from their
eager protestations--and, as he paced rapidly up the path, through the
fields, to the manor, he could still hear, in the distance, the untired
hum of many voices, talking in surprise over the little romance of which
he had been the hero.
There were many happy hearts in Aston that night, but none happier than
that of its repentant master.