"Vanished is each bright illusion;
They have faded one by one:
Yet they gaze with happy faces,
Westwards to the setting sun:--
"Talking softly of the future,
Looking o'er the golden sands,
Towards a never-fading city,
Builded not with earthly hands."
Cyrus Thornton.
"Well, to be sure! My man wouldn't let me come no sooner--'tis his
fault, not mine. But I did want to know which of them lads o' ours told
his tale the Tightest. Here's Seth will have it you've had a thousand
left you by the year, and Ben he saith young Master Floriszoon's to be a
lord."
"Dear! I hope not," said Hans.
"Well! but they're a-saying so much all up and down the King's Street, I
can tell you."
"How could it have crept forth?" said Edith. "Then 'tis true? Eh, but
I'm as glad as if I'd had forty shillings left me,--I am, so!" cried
Mrs Abbott; and she was sincere, for a fresh subject for conversation
was worth quite that to her. "And is it true, as our Seth said, that
you've a fine house and a park in Northamptonshire come to you, and
fifteen hundred head o' red deer and a lake to fish in?"
"Quite true," said Robert Lewthwaite, with a grave bow, "allowing, my
mistress, of four corrections: there is not a park, it is not in
Northamptonshire, there be no red deer, and the lake 'longeth not to the
house."
"And jewels worth ever so many thousands, as our Ben saith, for Mistress
Lettice, and ten Barbary horses o' th' best, and a caroche fine enough
for the King's Majesty?"
"Ah, I would that last were true," said Edith.
"My mistress, the Barbary horses be all there saving ten, and the
caroche is a-building in the air: as to the jewels, seeing they be
Mistress Lettice's, I leave her to reply."
Lettice was in no condition to do it, for she was suffering torments
from suppressed laughter. Her Uncle Robert's preternatural gravity, and
Mrs Abbott's total incapacity to see the fun, were barely endurable.
"Eh, but you will be mortal fine!" said Mrs Abbott, turning her
artillery on the afflicted Lettice. "I only wish our Mall had such a
chance. If she--"
"Mrs Abbott, I cry you mercy, but here comes your Caleb," said Hans
calmly. "I reckon he shall be after you."
"I reckon he shall, the caitiff! That man o' mine, he's for ever and
the day after a-sending the childer after me."
"I rejoice to hear you have so loving an husband," Mr Lewthwaite was
sufficiently inconsiderate to respond.
"Eh, bless you, there's no love about it. Just like them men! they'd
shut a woman's mouth up as tight as a fish, and never give her no leave
to speak a word, if they had their way. But I'm not one of your meek
bag-puddings, that'll take any shape you pinch 'em,--not I, forsooth;
and he knows it. I'll have my say, soon or late, and Prissy, she's a
downright chatterbox. Not that I'm that, you know--not a bit of it: but
Prissy, she is; and I can tell you, when Prissy and Dorcas and Ben
they're all at it, the house isn't over quiet, for none on 'em hearkens
what t'others are saying, and their father whacks 'em by times--ay, he
doth! Now, Caleb, what's to do?"
"Nothing particular, Mother," said slow, deliberate Caleb through the
open window: "only there's yon pedlar with the mercery, and he willn't
tarry only ten minutes more--"
"Thou lack-halter rascal, and ne'er told me while I asked thee!"
The parlour of the White Bear was free in another moment.
"There's a deliverance!" said Mr Lewthwaite. "Blessed be the pedlar!--
Have you been much pestered by that gadfly?"
"There's been a bit of buzzing by times," replied Temperance.
"Now, Mother, darling," said Milisent, "how are we to carry you down
home?"
"My dear child!" was the response. "Methinks, if you would do that, it
should be only in my coffin. I have one journey to go soon, and it is
like to be the next."
"Mother, sweet heart, I won't have it! You shall yet win to Selwick, if
I carry you every foot of the way."
"Nay, nay, my dear heart, I cannot hope that at fourscore."
"Fourscore! ay, or forty score!" cried Milisent. "Why, old Mistress
Outhwaite journeyed right to the Border but just ere we came, and she's
four years over the fourscore--and on horseback belike. Sure, you might
go in a waggon or a caroche!"
"Where is the caroche, Milly?"
"Well! but at any rate we might find a waggon."
"There is a travelling waggon," said Hans, "leaves the Chequers in
Holborn for York, once in the month--methinks 'tis the first Thursday in
every month."
"That is three weeks hence. Why not? Sure, your landlord would suffer
you to let this house, and you might leave some behind till it were off
your hands. What saith Temperance?--or Hans?"
"That where my Lady goeth, I go," was the answer from Hans.
"Is it needful, Milly, to settle all our futures ere the clock strike?"
humorously inquired Mr Lewthwaite. "Methinks we might leave that for
the morrow."
Milisent laughed, and let the subject drop.
Mr Lewthwaite and Temperance happened to be the last up that night.
When all the rest had departed, and Charity came with the turf to bank
up the parlour fire for the night, Temperance was saying--
"One thing can I promise you,--which is, if Aubrey return to Selwick as
lord and master, you may trust Faith to go withal. As for me, I live
but in other lives, and where I am most needed, there will I be, if God
be served: but truly, I see not how we shall move my Lady Lettice. I
would fain with all my heart have her back yonder, and so she would
herself,--of that am I right sure. But to ride so far on an horse, at
her years, and with her often pains--how could she? And though the
waggon were safer, it were too long and weary a journey. Think you not
so?"
Charity, having now settled her peat-sod to her satisfaction, left the
room, with a hearty--"Good-night, Mrs Temperance! Good-night, Mestur
Robin!"
"Truly, I think with you," said Mr Lewthwaite, when she was gone: "but
there is time to consider the matter. Let us decide nothing in haste."
The next morning, for the first time for many weeks, Charity asked for a
holiday. It was granted her, and she was out till twelve o'clock, when
she came home with a very satisfied face.
Ways and means were discussed that day, but to little practical purpose.
Of course Aubrey must be informed of the good fortune which had fallen
to him: and after some consideration, it was settled that if Hans could
make arrangements with Mr Leigh, he should be the messenger in this
direction, setting forth when Sunday was over. People did not rush off
by the next train in those days, and scald their tongues with hot coffee
in order to be in time.
The Saturday evening came, and with it the calm quiet which most Puritan
families loved to have on the eve of the Lord's Day. While it was not
necessary, it was nevertheless deemed becoming to lay aside secular
occupations, and to let worldly cares rest. There was therefore some
astonishment in the parlour when a sudden rap came on the door, and
Charity's face and cap made their appearance.
"If you please, Madam, when'll you be wanting your coach, think you?"
"My coach, Charity!" said Lady Louvaine in amazement.
Everybody was staring at Charity.
"It's ready, Madam," said that damsel with much placidity. "He's only
got to put the horses to, hasn't 'Zekiel, and they're at Tomkins' stable
yon, by th' Tilt Yard--Spring Gardens, I reckon they call it."
"Charity, lass, are you in your right senses, think you?" demanded
Temperance.
"Well, Mrs Temperance, I reckon you'll be best judge o' that," said
Charity coolly. "Seems to me I am: but that scarce makes sure, I
count."
"But, Charity!--what Ezekiel?"
"'Zekiel Cavell, Mrs Edith. He's i' th' kitchen: you can see him if
you've a mind."
"Ezekiel Cavell! Aunt Joyce's coachman! Where on earth has he come
from?"
"Well, I rather think it was somewhere on earth," answered the calm
Charity, "and I expect it was somewhere i' Oxfordshire. Howbeit, here
he is, and so's th' coach, and so's th' horses: and he says to me,
`Charity,' says he, `will you ask my Lady when she'll be wanting th'
coach?' So I come."
Everybody looked at everybody else.
"Is it possible?" cried Edith. "Has dear Aunt Joyce sent her coach to
carry down Mother home?"
"Nay, it's none hers, it's my Lady's," said Charity, "and nobry else's;
and if she's a mind to bid me chop it up for firewood, I can, if Mestur
'Ans 'll help me. We can eat th' horses too, if she likes; but they mun
be put in salt, for we's ne'er get through 'em else. There's six on
'em. Shall I tell Rachel to get th' brine ready?"
"Charity, what have you been doing?" said Hans, laughing.
"I've done nought, Mestur 'Ans, nobut carry a letter where it belonged,
and serve 'Zekiel his four-hours."
They began to see light dawning on the mystery.
"A letter to whom, Charity? and who writ it?"
"To Mestur Marshall: and Mrs Joyce Morrell writ it--leastwise her man
did, at her bidding."
"What said it?"
"I didn't read it, Sir," responded Charity, demurely.
"Come, I reckon you know what was in it," said Mr Lewthwaite. "Out
with it, Charity."
"Come forward into the room, Charity, and tell your tale like a man,"
said Temperance.
"I amn't a man, Mrs Temperance," answered Charity, doing as she was
bid: "but I'll tell it like a woman. Well, when I were with Mrs Joyce,
afore we came hither, hoo gave me a letter,--let's see! nay, it were two
letters, one lapped of a green paper, and one of a white. And hoo said,
as soon as yo' geet [got] here, I were to ask my way to Shoe Lane, just
outside o' th' City gate, and gi'e th' letter i' th' white paper to
Mestur Marshall. And th' green un I were to keep safe by me, till it
came--if it did come--that my Lady lacked a coach either to journey home
or to Minster Lovel, and when I heard that, I were to carry it to Mestur
Marshall too. So I did as I were bid. What were i' th' letters I
cannot tell you, but Mestur Marshall come to see you as soon as he geet
th' white un, and when he geet th' green un come 'Zekiel wi' th' coach
and th' tits. Mrs Joyce, hoo said hoo were feared nobry'd tell her if
a coach were wanted, and that were why she gave me th' letter. So now
you know as much as I know: and I hope you're weel pleased wi' it: and
if you please, what am I to say to 'Zekiel?"
"Dear Aunt Joyce!" said Edith under her breath.
"Make Ezekiel comfortable, Charity," said Lady Louvaine, as she drew off
her glasses and wiped them: "and on Monday we will talk over the matter
and come to some decision thereupon."
The decision unanimously come to on the Monday was that Hans should ride
down to Oxford and see Aubrey before anything else was settled. Lady
Louvaine would have liked dearly to return home to Selwick, but Aubrey
was its master, and was of age, and he might be contemplating matrimony
when he could afford it. If so, she would make a long visit--possibly a
life-long one--to her beloved Joyce at Minster Lovel, accompanied by
Edith. Temperance and Lettice were to return to Keswick: Faith must
please herself. That Faith would please herself, and would not much
trouble herself about the pleasing of any one else, they were tolerably
convinced: and of course Aubrey's own mother had a greater claim on him
than more distant relatives. She would probably queen it at Selwick,
unless Aubrey provided the Hall with a younger queen in her place.
It was on a lovely summer afternoon that Hans rode into Oxford by the
Water Gate or Little Gate, from which a short street led up northwards
to Christ Church and Saint Aldate's. Just beyond these, he passed
through the city portal of South Gate, and turning to the left down
Brewers' Street, he soon came to Mr Whitstable's shop under the shadow,
of West Gate. Just on the eastern side was a livery-stable, where Hans
put up his horse: and then, wishing to see Aubrey before he should be
recognised, he walked straight into the shop. At the further end,
Aubrey was showing some solid-looking tomes to two solid-looking dons,
while Mr Whitstable himself was just delivering a purchase to a
gentleman in canonicals. Hans stepped up to the bookseller, and in a
low tone asked him for a Book of Articles. This meant the famous
Thirty-Nine, then sold separate from the Prayer-Book at a cost of about
sixpence.
Mr Whitstable laid three copies on the counter, of which Hans selected
one, and then said, still speaking low--
"May I, with your good leave, tarry till my brother yonder is at
liberty, and have speech of him? I have ridden from London to see him."
The keen eyes examined Hans critically.
"You--brothers?" was all the reply of the old bookseller.
"Not by blood," said Hans with a smile, "nor truly by nation: but we
were bred up as brothers from our cradles."
"You may tarry. Pray you, sit."
Hans complied, and sat for a few minutes watching Aubrey. He perceived
with satisfaction that his costume was simple and suitable, entirely
devoid of frippery and foppery; that his mind seemed to be taken up with
his employment; that he was looking well, and appeared to understand his
business. At last the grave and reverend signors had made their choice;
Bullinger's Decades, at nine shillings, was selected, and Beza's New
Testament, at sixteen: Aubrey received the money, gave the change, and
delivered the books. He was following his customers down the shop when
his eyes fell on Hans. Whether on this occasion he was welcome or not,
Hans was not left to doubt. Every feature of Aubrey's face, every
accent of his voice, spoke gratification in no measured tones.
"Hans, my dear brother!" he said as they clasped hands. "When came you?
and have you had to eat since? How left you all at home?"
Mr Whitstable was looking on, with eyes that saw.
"I came but now, and have left all well, God be thanked," said Hans. "I
have not yet eaten, for I wished to see you first. I will now go and
break bread, and we can meet in the evening, when you are at large."
There was a momentary look of extreme disappointment, and then Aubrey
said--
"That is right, as you alway are. Where meet we? under West Gate?"
Mr Whitstable spoke. "Methinks, Mr Louvaine, it were pity to snatch
the crust from an hungry man. Go you now with your brother, until he
make an end of his supper; then return here in time to make up accounts
and close. If this gentleman be the steady and sober man that his looks
and your words promise, you can bring him hither to your chamber for the
night."
"I thank you right heartily, Master. He is sober as Mr
Vice-Chancellor, and good as an angel," said Aubrey.
Hans followed him, with an amused look, to the Golden Lion, where they
supped on chicken and Banbury cakes, and Aubrey heard all the news--the
one item excepted which Hans had come especially to tell. The tongues
went fast, but no sooner had the hour rung out from the clock of Saint
Ebbe's than Aubrey sprang up and said he must return.
"Thou canst wander forth for an hour, only lose not thyself," he said to
Hans, "and when my work is done, I will join thee beneath the arch of
West Gate."
Hans obeyed with amused pleasure. This was an altered Aubrey. When had
he cared to keep promises and be in time for work? They met presently
under West Gate, and Aubrey played cicerone until dusk set in, when he
took Hans to his own quiet little chamber at the bookseller's shop. It
was very plainly furnished, and Hans quickly saw that on the drawers lay
a Bible which bore evidence of being used.
"Thou little wist," said Hans affectionately, when they were thus alone,
"how glad I am to see thee, Aubrey, and to perceive thy good welfare in
this place."
He did not add "good conduct," but he meant it.
"How much richer shouldst thou have been, Hans, if thou hadst never
beheld me?" was the answer.
"I should have been poorer, by the loss of the only brother I ever had."
There was more feeling in Aubrey's look than Hans was wont to see, and
an amount of tenderness in his tone which he had no idea how it
astonished Hans to hear.
"My brother," he said, "you have had your revenge, and it is terrible."
Hans looked, as he felt, honestly surprised. It was his nature to
remember vividly benefits received, but to forget those which he
conferred.
"Dost thou not know?" said Aubrey, reading the look. "After my unworthy
conduct toward thee, that thou shouldst take my debts upon thine own--"
"Prithee, shut thy mouth," answered Hans with a laugh, "and make me not
to blush by blowing the trumpet over that which but gave me a pleasure.
I ensure thee, my brother," he added more gravely, "that I had a
sufficiency to cover all was a true contentment unto me. As to revenge,
no such thought ever crossed my mind for a moment."
"The revenge had been lesser if it were designed," was the reply.
"And how goeth it with thee here?" asked Hans, not sorry to change the
subject. "Art thou content with thy work?--and doth Mr Whitstable
entreat thee well?"
"Mr Whitstable is the manner of master good for me," responded Aubrey
with a smile: "namely, not unkindly, but inflexibly firm and just. I
know that from him, if I deserve commendation, I shall have it; and if I
demerit blame, I am evenly sure thereof: which is good for me. As to
content--ay, I am content; but I can scarce go further, and say I find a
pleasure in my work. That were more like thee than me."
"And if it so were, Aubrey, that the Lord spake unto thee and me,
saying, `Work thus no more, but return unto the old life as it was ere
ye came to London town,'--how shouldst thou regard that?"
The momentary light of imagination which sprang to Aubrey's eyes was
succeeded and quenched by one of wistful uncertainty.
"I cannot tell, Hans," said he. "That I were glad is of course: that I
were wise to be glad is somewhat more doubtful. I am afeared I might
but slip back into the old rut, and fall to pleasing of myself. Riches
and liberty seem scarce to be good things for me; and I have of late,"--
a little hesitation accompanied this part of the sentence--"I have
thought it best to pray God to send me that which He seeth good, and not
to grant my foolish desires. Truly, I seem to know better, well-nigh
every day, how foolish I have been, and how weak I yet am."