Our little narrative must here transport the reader to a small cottage
in the picturesque village of Llangwillan, where, about three months
after the events we have narrated, Lilla Grahame sat one evening in
solitude, and it seemed in sorrow. The room in which she was seated was
small, but furnished and adorned with the refined and elegant taste of
one whose rank appeared much higher than the general occupants of such a
dwelling. A large window, reaching to the ground, opened on a smooth and
sloping lawn, which was adorned by most beautiful flowers. It led to a
small gate opening on a long, narrow lane, which led to the Vicarage,
leaving the little church and its picturesque burying-ground a little to
the right; the thick grove which surrounded it forming a leafy yet
impenetrable wall to one side of the garden. There were many very pretty
tombs in this churchyard; perhaps its beauty consisted in its extreme
neatness, and the flowers that the vicar, Mr. Myrvin, took so much
pleasure in carefully preserving. One lowly grave, beneath a large and
spreading yew, was never passed unnoticed. A plain marble stone denoted
that there lay one, who had once been the brightest amid the bright, the
brilliant star of a lordly circle. The name, her age, and two simple
verses were there inscribed; but around that humble grave there were
sweet flowers flourishing more luxuriantly than in any other part of
the churchyard; the climbing honeysuckle twined its odoriferous clusters
up the dark trunk of the storm-resisting yew. Roses of various kinds
intermingled with the lowly violet, the snowdrop, lily of the valley,
the drooping convolvulus, which, closing its petals for a time, is a fit
emblem of that sleep which, closing our eyes on earth, reopens them in
heaven, beneath the general warmth of the sun of righteousness. These
flowers were sacred in the eyes of the villagers, and their children
were charged not to despoil them; and too deep was their reverence for
their minister, and too sacred was that little spot of earth, even to
their uncultured eyes, for those commands ever to be disobeyed. But it
was not to Mr. Myrvin's care alone that part of the churchyard owed its
beauty. It had ever been distinguished from the rest by the flowers
around it; but it was only the last two years they had flourished so
luxuriantly; the hand of Lilla Grahame watered and tended them with
unceasing care. In the early morning or the calm twilight she was seen
beside the grave, and many might have believed that there reposed the
ashes of a near and dear relation, but it was not so. Lilla had never
seen and never known the lovely being whose last home she thus
affectionately tended. It was dear to her from its association with him
whom she loved, there her thoughts could wander to him; and surely the
love thus cherished beside the dead must have been purity itself.
It was the hour that Lilla usually sought the churchyard, but she came
not, and the lengthening shadows of a soft and lovely May evening fell
around the graceful figure of a tall and elegant young man, in naval
uniform, who lingered beside the grave; pensive, it seemed, yet scarcely
melancholy. His fine expressive countenance seemed to breathe of
happiness proceeding from the heart, chastened and softened by holier
thoughts. A smile of deep feeling encircled his lips as he looked on the
flowers, which in this season were just bursting into beautiful bloom;
and plucking an early violet, he pressed it to his lips and placed it
next his heart. "Doubly precious," he said, internally, "planted by the
hand of her I love, it flourished on my mother's grave. Oh, my mother,
would that you could behold your Edward now; that your blessing could be
mine. It cannot be, and thrice blessed as I am, why should I seek for
more?" A few moments longer he lingered, then turned in the direction of
the Vicarage.
Lilla's spirits harmonized not as they generally did with the calm
beauty of nature around her. Anxious and sorrowful, her tears more than
once fell slowly and unheeded on her work; but little improvement had
taken place in her father's temper. She had much, very much to bear,
even though she knew he loved her, and that his chief cares were for
her; retirement had not relieved his irritated spirit. Had he, instead
of retreating from, mingled as formerly in, the world, he might have
been much happier, for he would have found the dishonourable conduct of
his son had not tarnished his own. He had been too long and too well
known as the soul of honour and integrity, for one doubt or aspersion to
be cast upon his name. Lady Helen's injudicious conduct towards her
children was indeed often blamed, and Grahame's own severity much
regretted, but it was much more of sympathy he now commanded than scorn
or suspicion, and all his friends lamented his retirement. Had not
Lilla's spirits been naturally elastic, they must have bent beneath
these continued and painful trials; her young heart often felt breaking,
but the sense of religion, the excellent principles instilled both by
Mrs. Douglas and Mrs. Hamilton now had their full effect, and sustained
her amidst all. She never wavered in her duty to her father; she never
complained even in her letters to her dearest and most confidential
friends.
"Have you thought on the subject we spoke of last night, Lilla?" asked
her father, entering suddenly, and seating himself gloomily on a chair
some paces from her. His daughter started as she saw him, for the first
tone of his voice betrayed he was more than usually irritable and
gloomy.
"Yes, father, I have," she replied, somewhat timidly.
"And what is your answer?"
"I fear you will be displeased, my dear father; but indeed I cannot
answer differently to last night."
"You are still resolved then to refuse Philip Clapperton?"
Lilla was silent.
"And pray may I ask the cause of your fastidiousness, Miss Grahame? Your
burst of tears last night made a very pretty scene no doubt, but they
gave me no proper answer."
"It is not only that I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, father, but I cannot
respect him."
"And pray why not? I tell you, Lilla, blunt, even coarse, if you like,
as he is, unpolished, hasty, yet he has a better heart by far than many
of those more elegant and attractive sprigs of nobility, amongst which
perhaps your romantic fancy has wandered, as being the only husbands
fitted for you."
"You do me injustice, father. I have never indulged in such romantic
visions, but I cannot willingly unite my fate with one in whom I see no
fixed principle of action--one who owns no guide but pleasure. His heart
may be good, I doubt it not; but I cannot respect one who spends his
whole life in fox-hunting, drinking, and all the pleasures peculiar to
the members of country clubs."
"In other words, a plain, honest-speaking, English gentleman is not fine
enough for you. What harm is there in the amusements you have
enumerated? Why should not a fox-hunter make as good a husband as any
other member of society?"
Lilla looked at her father in astonishment. These were not always his
sentiments she painfully thought.
"I do not mean to condemn these amusements, my dear father, but when
they are carried on without either principle or religion. How can I
venture to intrust my happiness to such a man?"
"And where do you expect to find either principle or religion now? Not
in those polished circles, where I can perceive your hopes are fixed.
Girl, banish such hopes. Not one amongst them would unite himself to the
sister of that dishonoured outcast Cecil Grahame."
Grahame's whole frame shook as he pronounced his son's name, but
sternness still characterised his voice.
"Never would I unite myself with one who considered himself degraded by
an union with our family, father, be assured," said Lilla, earnestly.
"My hopes are not high. I have thought little of marriage, and till I am
sought, have no wish to leave this sequestered spot, believe me."
"And who, think you, will seek you here? You had better banish such idle
hopes, for they will end in disappointment."
"Be it so, then," Lilla replied, calmly, though had her father been near
her, he would have seen her cheek suddenly become pale and her eyelids
quiver, as if by the pressure of a tear. "Is marriage a thing so
indispensable, that you would compel me to leave you, my dear father?"
"To you it is indispensable; when once you have lost the name you now
hold, the world and all its pleasures will be spread before you, the
stain will be remembered no more; your life need not be spent in gloom
and exile like this."
"And what, then, will become of you?"
"Of me! who cares. What am I, and what have I ever been to either of my
children, that they should care for me? I scorn the mere act of duty,
and which of you can love me? no, Lilla, not even you."
"Father, you do me wrong; oh, do not speak such cruel words," said
Lilla, springing from her seat, and flinging herself on her knees by her
father's side. "Have I indeed so failed in testimonies of love, that you
can for one instant believe it is only the duty of a child I feel and
practise? Oh, my father, do me not such harsh injustice; could you read
my inmost heart, you would see how full it is of love and reverence for
you, though I have not always courage to express it. Ask of me any,
every proof but this, and I will do it, but, oh, do not command me to
wed Mr. Clapperton; why, oh, why would you thus seek to send me from
you?"
"I speak but for your happiness, Lilla;" his voice was somewhat
softened. "You cannot be happy now with one so harsh, irritable, cruel
as, I know, I am too often."
"And would you compare the occasional irritation proceeding from the
failing health of a beloved father, with the fierce passion and constant
impatience of a husband, with whom I could not have one idea in common,
whom I could neither love nor reverence, to whom even my duty would be
wretchedness? oh, my father, can you compare the two? Think of Mrs.
Greville: Philip Clapperton ever reminds me of Mr. Greville, of what at
least he must have been in his youth, and would you sentence me to all
the misery that has been poor Mrs. Greville's lot and her children's
likewise?"
"You do not know enough of Clapperton to judge him thus harshly, Lilla;
I know him better, and I cannot see the faults against which you are so
inveterate. Your sister chose a husband for herself, and how has she
fared? is she happy?"
"Annie cannot be happy, father, even if her husband were of a very
different character. She disobeyed; a parent's blessing hallowed not her
nuptials, and strange indeed would it be were her lot otherwise; but
though I cannot love the husband of your choice, you may trust me,
father, without your consent and blessing, I will never marry."
"Do not say you _cannot_ love Philip Clapperton, Lilla; when once his
wife, you could not fail to do so. I would see you united to one who
loves you, my child, ere your affections are bestowed on another, who
may be less willing to return them."
Grahame spoke in a tone of such unwonted softness, that the tears now
rolled unchecked down Lilla's cheeks. Her ingenuous nature could not be
restrained; she felt as if, were she still silent, she would be
deceiving him, and hiding her face in her hand, she almost inaudibly
said--
"For that, then, it is too late, father; I cannot love Mr. Clapperton,
because--because I love another."
"Ha!" exclaimed Grahame, starting, then laying his trembling hand on
Lilla's head, he continued, struggling with strong emotion, "this, then,
is the cause of your determined refusal. Poor child, poor child, what
misery have you formed for yourself!"
"And wherefore misery, my father?" replied Lilla, raising her head
somewhat proudly, and speaking as firmly as her tears would permit.
"Your child would not have loved had she not deemed her affections
sought, ay, and valued too. Think not I would degrade myself by giving
my heart to any one who deemed me or my father beneath his notice. If
ever eye or act can speak, I do not love in vain."
"And would you believe in trifles such as these?" asked her father,
sorrowfully. "Alas! poor child, words are often false, still less can
you rely on the language of the eye. Has anything like an understanding
taken place between you?"
"Alas! my father, no; and yet--and yet--oh, I know he loves me."
"And so he may, my child, and yet break his own heart and yours, poor
guileless girl, rather than unite himself with the dishonoured and the
base. Lilla, my own Lilla, I have been harsh and cruel; it is because I
feel too keenly perhaps the gall in which your wretched brother's
conduct has steeped your life and mine; mine will soon pass away, but
the dark shadow will linger still round you, my child, and condemn you
to wretchedness; I cannot, cannot bear that thought!" and he struck his
clenched hand against his brow. "Why on the innocent should fall the
chastisement of the guilty? My child, my child, oh, banish from your
unsuspecting heart the hopes of love returned. Where in this selfish
world will you find one to love you so for yourself alone, that family
and fortune are as naught?"
"Why judge so harshly of your sex, Mr. Grahame?" said a rich and
thrilling voice, in unexpected answer to his words, and the same young
man whom we before mentioned as lingering by a village grave, stepping
lightly from the terrace on which the large window opened into the room,
stood suddenly before the astonished father and his child. On the latter
the effect of his presence was almost electric. The rich crimson mantled
at once over cheek and brow and neck, a faint cry burst from her lips,
and as the thought flashed across her, that her perhaps too presumptuous
hopes of love returned had been overheard, as well as her father's
words, she suddenly burst into tears of mingled feeling, and darting by
the intruder, passed by the way he had entered into the garden; but even
when away from him, composure for a time returned not. She forgot
entirely that no name had been spoken either by her father or by herself
to designate him whom she confessed she loved; her only feeling was,
she had betrayed a truth, which from him she would ever have concealed,
till he indeed had sought it; and injured modesty now gave her so much
pain, it permitted her not to rejoice in this unexpected appearance of
one whom she had not seen since she had believed him dead. She knew the
churchyard was at this period of the evening quite deserted, and almost
unconscious what she was about, she hastily tied on her bonnet, and with
the speed of a young fawn, she bounded through the narrow lane, and
rested not till she found herself seated beside her favourite grave;
there she gave full vent to the thoughts in which pleasure and confusion
somewhat strangely and painfully mingled.
"Can you, will you forgive this unceremonious and, I fear, unwished-for
intrusion?" was the young stranger's address to Grahame, when he had
recovered from the agitation which Lilla's emotion had called forth, he
scarcely knew wherefore. "To me you have ever extended the hand of
friendship, Mr. Grahame, however severe upon the world in general, and
will you refuse it now, when my errand here is to seek an even nearer
and a dearer name?"
"You are welcome, ever welcome to my humble home, my dear boy, for your
own sake, and for those dear to you," replied Grahame, with a return of
former warmth and cordiality. "More than usually welcome I may say,
Edward, as this is your first visit here since your rescue from the
bowels of the great deep. You look confused and heated, and as if you
would much rather run after your old companion than stay with me, but
indeed I cannot spare you yet, I have so many questions to ask you."
"Forgive me, Mr. Grahame, but indeed you must hear me first."
"I came here to speak to you on a subject nearest my heart, and till
that is told, till from your lips I know my fate, do not, for pity, ask
me to speak on any other. I meant not to have entered so abruptly on my
mission, but that which Mr. Myrvin has imparted to me, and what I
undesignedly overheard as I stood unseen on that terrace, have taken
from me all the eloquence with which I meant to plead my cause."
"Speak in your own proper person, Edward, and then I may perhaps hear
you," replied Grahame, from whom the sight of his young friend appeared
to have banished all misanthropy. "What I can, however, have to do with
your fate, I know not, except that I will acquit you of all intentional
eaves-dropping, if it be that which troubles you; and what can Mr.
Myrvin have said to rob you of eloquence?"
"He told me that--that you had encouraged Philip Clapperton's addresses
to Lil--to Miss Grahame," answered Edward, with increasing agitation,
for he perceived, what was indeed the truth, that Grahame had not the
least idea of his intentions.
"And what can that have to do with you, young man?" inquired Grahame,
somewhat haughtily, and his brow darkened. "You have not seen Lilla, to
be infected with her prejudices, and in what manner can my wishes with
regard to my daughter on that head concern you?"
"In what manner? Mr. Grahame, I came hither with my aunt's and uncle's
blessing on my purpose, to seek from you your gentle daughter's hand. I
am not a man of many words, and all I had to say appears to have
departed, and left me speechless. I came here to implore your consent,
for without it I knew 'twere vain to think or hope to make your Lilla
mine. I came to plead to you, and armed with your blessing, plead my
cause to her, and you ask me how Mr. Myrvin's intelligence can affect
me. Speak, then, at once; in pity to that weakness which makes me feel
as if my lasting happiness or misery depends upon your answer."
"And do you, Edward, do you love my poor child?" asked the father, with
a quivering lip and glistening eye, as he laid his hand, which trembled,
on the young man's shoulder.
"Love her? oh, Mr. Grahame, she has been the bright beaming star that
has shone on my ocean course for many a long year. I know not when I
first began to love, but from my cousin Caroline's wedding-day the
thoughts of Lilla lingered with me, and gilded many a vision of domestic
peace and love, and each time I looked on her bright face, and marked
her kindling spirit, heard and responded inwardly to her animated voice,
I felt that she was dearer still; and when again I saw her in her
sorrow, and sought with Ellen to soothe and cheer her, oh, no one can
know the pain it was to restrain the absorbing wish to ask her, if
indeed one day she would be mine, but that was no time to speak of love.
Besides, I knew not if I had the means to offer her a comfortable home,
I knew not how long I might be spared to linger near her; but now, when
of both I am assured, wherefore should I hesitate longer? With the
title of captain, that for which I have so long pined, I am at liberty
to retire on half-pay, till farther orders; the adopted son and
acknowledged heir to my uncle, Lord Delmont, I have now enough to offer
her my hand, without one remaining scruple. You are silent. Oh, Mr.
Grahame, must I plead in vain?"
"And would you marry her, would you indeed take my child as your chosen
bride?" faltered Grahame, deeply moved. "Honoured, titled as you are, my
poor, portionless Lilla is no meet bride for you."
"Perish honours and title too, if they could deprive me of the gentle
girl I love!" exclaimed the young captain, impetuously. "Do not speak
thus, Mr. Grahame. In what was my lamented father better than
yourself--my mother than Lady Helen? and if she were in very truth my
inferior in birth, the virtues and beauty of Lilla Grahame would do
honour to the proudest peer of this proud land."
"My boy, my gallant boy!" sobbed the agitated father, his irritability
gone, dissolved, like the threatening cloud of a summer day beneath some
genial sunbeam, and as he wrung Captain Fortescue's hand again and again
in his, the tears streamed like an infant's down his cheek.
"_Will_ I consent, _will_ I give you my blessing? Oh, to see you the
husband of my poor child would be _too, too_ much happiness, happiness
wholly, utterly undeserved. But, oh, Edward, can Mr. Hamilton, can Lord
Delmont consent to your union with one, whose only brother is a
disgraced, dishonoured outcast, whose father is a selfish, irritable
misanthrope?"
"Can the misconduct of Cecil cast in the eyes of the just and good one
shadow on the fair fame of his sister? No, my dear sir; it is you who
have looked somewhat unkindly and unjustly on the world, as when you
mingle again with your friends, in company with your children, you will
not fail, with your usual candour, to acknowledge. A selfish, irritable
misanthrope," he added, archly smiling. "You cannot terrify me, Mr.
Grahame. I know the charge is false, and I dread it not."
"Ask me not to join the world again," said Grahame, hoarsely; "in all
else, the duties of my children shall be as laws, but that"--
"Well, well, we will not urge it now, my dear sir," replied the young
sailor, cheerfully; then added, with the eager agitation of affection,
"But Lilla, my Lilla. Oh, may I hope that she will in truth be mine? Oh,
have I, can I have been too presumptuous in the thought I have not loved
in vain?"
"Away with you, and seek the answer from her own lips," said Mr.
Grahame, with more of his former manner than he had yet evinced, for he
now entertained not one doubt as to Edward being the chosen one on whom
his daughter's young affections had been so firmly fixed. "Go to her, my
boy; she will not fly a second time, so like a startled hare, from your
approach; tell her, had she told her father Edward Fortescue was the
worthy object of her love, he would not thus have thrown a damp upon her
young heart, he would not have condemned him as being incapable of
loving her for herself alone. Tell her, too, the name of Philip
Clapperton shall offend her no more. Away with you, my boy."
Edward awaited not a second bidding. In a very few minutes the whole
garden had been searched, and Miss Grahame inquired for all over the
house, then he bounded through the lane, and scarcely five minutes after
he had quitted Mr. Grahame, he stood by the side of Lilla; the
consciousness that she had confessed her love, that he might have
overheard it, was still paramount in her modest bosom, and she would
have avoided him, but quickly was her design prevented. Rapidly, almost
incoherently, was the conversation of the last half hour repeated, and
with all the eloquence of his enthusiastic nature, Edward pleaded his
cause, and, need it be said, not in vain. Lilla neither wished nor
sought to conceal her feelings, and long, long did those two young and
animated beings remain in sweet and heartfelt commune beside that lowly
grave.
"What place so fitted where to pledge our troth, my Lilla, as by my
mother's resting-place?" said Edward. "Would that she could look upon us
now and smile her blessing."
Happily indeed flew those evening hours unheeded by the young lovers.
Grahame, on the entrance of his happy child, folded her to his bosom;
his blessing descended on her head, mingled with tears, which sprung at
once from a father's love and self-reproach at all the suffering his
irritability had occasioned her. And that evening Lilla indeed felt that
all her sorrows, all her struggles, all her dutiful forbearance, were
rewarded. Not only was her long-cherished love returned, not only did
she feel that in a few short months she should be her Edward's own, that
he, the brave, the gallant, honoured sailor, had chosen her in
preference to any of those fairer and nobler maidens with whom he had
so often associated, but her father, her dear father, was more like
himself than he had been since her mother's death. He looked, he spoke
the Montrose Grahame we have known him in former years. Edward had ever
been a favourite with him, but he and Lilla had been so intimate from
their earliest childhood, that he had never thought of him as a son; and
when the truth was known, so truly did Grahame rejoice, that the
bitterness in his earthly cup was well-nigh drowned by its present
sweetness.
Innumerable were the questions both Lilla and Grahame had to ask, and
Edward answered all with that peculiar joyousness which ever threw a
charm around him. The adventures of his voyage, his dangers, the
extraordinary means of his long-lost uncle being instrumental in his
preservation, Lord Delmont's varied tale, all was animatedly discussed
till a late hour. A smile was on Grahame's lip, as his now awakened eye
recalled the drooping spirits and fading cheek of his Lilla during those
three months of suspense, when Captain Fortescue was supposed drowned,
and the equally strange and sudden restoration to health and
cheerfulness when Ellen's letter was received, detailing her brother's
safety. Lilla's streaming eyes were hid on her lover's shoulder as he
detailed his danger, but quickly her tears were kissed away;
thankfulness that he was indeed spared, again filled her heart, and the
bright smile returned. He accounted for not seeking them earlier by the
fact that, while they remained at Richmond, his uncle, whose health from
long-continued suffering was but weakly established, could not bear him
out of his sight, and that he had entreated him not to leave him till
they returned to Oakwood. This, young Fortescue afterwards discovered,
was to give Lord Delmont time for the gratification of his wishes,
which, from the time he had heard the line of Delmont was extinct, had
occupied his mind. Many of his father's old friends recognised him at
once. His father's and his sister's friends were eager to see and pay
him every attention in their power. He found himself ever a welcome and
a courted guest, and happiness, so long a stranger from his breast, now
faded not again. To adopt Edward as his son, to leave him heir to his
title and estate, was now, as it had been from the first moment he
recognised his nephew, the dearest wish of his heart, "if it were only
to fulfil Sir George Wilmot's prophecy," he jestingly told the old
Admiral, who, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, warmly seconded his wishes.
The necessary formula met with no opposition, and the same day that gave
to Edward his promotion of captain, informed him of the secretly-formed
and secretly-acted-upon desire of his uncle.
In the time of Edward's grandfather, the Delmont estates, as some of our
readers may remember, were, from the carelessness of stewards and the
complete negligence of their lord, in such an embarrassed state, as
barely to return a sufficient income for the expenses of Lord Delmont's
establishment. Affairs, however, were not in a worse state than that a
little energy and foresight might remedy. The guardian of Henry Manvers,
who, as we know already, became Lord Delmont when only three years old,
had acted his part with so much straightforwardness and trust, that when
Manvers came of age he found his estates in such a thriving condition,
that he was a very much richer nobleman than many of his predecessors
had been. Well able to discern true merit, and grateful for the
services already rendered, his guardian, by his earnest entreaty,
remained his agent during his residence with his mother and sister in
Switzerland. There, living very much within his income, his fortune
accumulated, and by his early death it fell to the Crown, from which
Lord Delmont, on his return from his weary years of slavery, received it
with the title of earl, bestowed to prove that the tale of a British
sailor's sufferings and indignities had not fallen unheeded on the royal
ear. The long-banished seaman was presented to his Majesty by the Duke
of Clarence himself, and had no need to regret the gracious interview.
His intentions concerning the young officer Captain Fortescue met with
an unqualified approval. Ardently loving his profession, the royal Duke
thought the more naval heroes filled the nobility of his country the
better for England, and an invitation to Bushy Park was soon afterwards
forwarded, both to Lord Delmont and his gallant nephew.
Edward, already well-nigh beside himself by his unexpected promotion, no
longer knew how to contain the exuberance of his spirits, much to the
amusement of his domestic circle; particularly to his quiet, gentle
sister, who, as she looked on her brother, felt how truly, how
inexpressibly her happiness increased with his prosperity. She too had
wound herself round the heart of her uncle; she loved him, first for his
partiality to her brother, but quickly her affection was extended to
himself. Mrs. Hamilton had related to him every particular of her
history, with which he had been deeply and painfully affected, and as he
quickly perceived how much his sister's gentle firmness and constant
watchfulness had done towards forming the character of not only Edward
and Ellen but of her own children, his admiration for her hourly
increased.
A very few days brought Lord Delmont and his niece Ellen to Mr.
Grahame's cottage, and Lilla's delight at seeing Ellen was only second
to that she felt when Edward came. The presence, the cordial greeting of
Lord Delmont removed from the mind of Grahame every remaining doubt of
his approbation of the bride his nephew had chosen. As a faithful
historian, however, I must acknowledge the wishes of Lord Delmont had
pointed out Lady Emily Lyle as the most suitable connection for Edward.
Lady Florence he would have preferred, but there were many whispers
going about that she was engaged to the handsome young baronet Sir
Walter Cameron, who, by the death of his uncle Sir Hector, had lately
inherited some extensive estates in the south-west of Scotland. When,
however, Lord Delmont perceived his nephew's affections were irrevocably
fixed, and he heard from his sister's lips the character of Lilla
Grahame, he made no opposition, but consented with much warmth and
willingness. He was not only content, but resolved on being introduced
to Miss Grahame as soon as possible, without, however, saying a word to
Edward of his intentions. He took Ellen with him, he said, to convoy him
safely and secure him a welcome reception; neither of which, she assured
him, he needed, though she very gladly accompanied him.
A few weeks passed too quickly by, imparting happiness even to Ellen,
for had she been permitted the liberty of choosing a wife for her
Edward, Lilla Grahame would have been her choice. Deeply and almost
painfully affected had she been indeed, when her brother first sought
her to reveal the secret of his love.
"I cannot," he said, "I will not marry without your sympathy, your
approval, my sister--my more than sister, my faithful friend, my gentle
monitress, for such you have ever been to me," and he folded her in his
arms with a brother's love, and Ellen had concealed upon his manly bosom
the glistening tears, whose source she scarcely knew. "I would have you
love my wife, not only for my sake but for herself alone. Never will I
marry one who will refuse to look on you with the reverential affection
your brother does. Lilla Grahame does this, my Ellen; it was her girlish
affection for you that first attracted my attention to her. She will
regard you as I do; she will teach her children, if it please heaven to
grant us any, to look on you even as I would; her heart and home will be
as open to my beloved sister as mine. Speak then, my ever-cherished,
ever faithful friend; tell me if, in seeking Lilla, your sympathy, your
blessing will be mine."
Tears of joy choked her utterance, but quickly recovering herself, Ellen
answered him in a manner calculated indeed to increase his happiness,
and her presence at Llangwillan satisfied every wish.
Unable to resist the eloquent entreaties of all his friends and the
appealing eyes of his child, Grahame at last consented to spend the
month which was to intervene ere his daughter's nuptials, at Oakwood.
That period Edward intended to employ in visiting the ancient hall on
the Delmont estate, which for the last three months had been in a state
of active preparation for the reception of its long-absent master. It
was beautifully situated in the vicinity of the New Forest, Hampshire.
There Edward was to take his bride, considering the whole estate, his
uncle declared, already as his own, as he did not mean to be a fixture
there, but live alternately with his sister and his nephew. Oakwood
should see quite as much of him as Beech Hill, and young people were
better alone, particularly the first year of their marriage. Vainly
Edward and Lilla sought to combat his resolution; the only concession
they could obtain was, that when their honeymoon was over, he and Ellen
would pay them a visit, just to see how they were getting on.
"You must never marry, Nelly, for I don't know what my sister will do
without you," said Lord Delmont, laughing.
"Be assured, uncle Charles, I never will. I love the freedom of this old
hall much too well; and, unless my aunt absolutely sends me away, I
shall not go."
"And that she never will, Ellen," said Lilla earnestly. "She said the
other day she did not know how she should ever spare you even to us; but
you must come to us very often, dearest Ellen. I shall never perform my
part well as mistress of the large establishment with which Edward
threatens me, without your counsel and support"
"I will not come at all, if you and Edward lay your wise heads together,
as you already seem inclined to do, to win me by flattery," replied
Ellen, playfully, endeavouring to look grave, though she refused not the
kiss of peace for which Lilla looked up so appealingly.
The first week in July was fixed for the celebration of the two
marriages in Mr. Hamilton's family. As both Edward and Percy wished the
ceremony should take place in the parish church of Oakwood, and be
performed by Archdeacon Howard, it was agreed the same day should
witness both bridals; and that Miss Manvers, who had been residing at
Castle Terryn with the Earl and Countess St. Eval, should accompany them
to Oakwood a few days previous. Young Hamilton took his bride to Paris,
to which capital he had been intrusted with some government commission.
It was not till the end of July he had originally intended his nuptials
should take place; but he did not choose to leave England for an
uncertain period without his Louisa, and consequently it was agreed
their honeymoon should be passed in France. It may be well to mention
here that Mr. Hamilton had effected the exchange he desired, and that
Arthur Myrvin and his beloved Emmeline were now comfortably installed in
the Rectory, which had been so long the residence of Mr. Howard; and
that Myrvin now performed his pastoral duties in a manner that reflected
happiness not only on his parishioners, but on all his friends, and
enabled him to enjoy that true peace springing from a satisfied
conscience. He trod in the steps of his lamented friend; he knew not
himself how often his poor yet contented flock compared him in their
humble cottages with Herbert, and that in their eyes he did not lose by
the comparison. Some, indeed, would say, "It is all Master Herbert's
example, and the society of that sweet young creature, Miss Emmeline,
that has made him what he is." But whatever might be the reason, Arthur
was universally beloved; and that the village favourite, Miss Emmeline,
who had grown up amongst them from infancy, was their Rector's
wife--that she still mingled amongst them, the same gentle, loveable
being she had ever been--that it was to her and not to a stranger, they
were ever at liberty to seek for relief in trouble, or sympathy in joy,
was indeed a source of unbounded pleasure. And Emmeline was happy,
truly, gratefully happy; never did she regret the choice she had made,
nor envy her family the higher stations of life it was theirs to fill.
She had not a wish beyond the homes of those she loved; her husband was
all in all to her, her child a treasure for which she could not be
sufficiently thankful. She was still the same playful, guileless being
to her family which she had ever been; but to strangers a greater degree
of dignity characterised her deportment, and commanded their involuntary
respect. The home of Arthur Myrvin was indeed one over which peace and
love had entwined their roseate wings; a lowly yet a beauteous spot,
over which the storms of the busy troubled world might burst, but never
reach; and for other sorrows, piety and submission were alike their
watchword and their safeguard. Lord St. Eval was the only person who
regretted Arthur's promotion to the rectory of Oakwood, as it deprived
him, he declared, of his chaplain, his vicar, and his friend. However,
he willingly accepted a friend of Mr. Hamilton's to supply his place, a
clergyman not much beyond the prime of life; one who for seven years had
devoted himself, laboriously and unceasingly, to a poor and unprofitable
parish in one of the Feroe Islands; in the service of Mr. Hamilton he
had been employed, though voluntarily he had accepted, nay, eloquently
he had pleaded for the office. To those of our readers who are
acquainted with the story of Home Influence, the Rev. Henry Morton is no
stranger. They may remember that he accompanied Mr. Hamilton on his
perilous expedition, and had joyfully consented to remaining there till
the young Christian, Wilson, was capable of undertaking the ministry. He
had done so; his pupil promised fair to reward his every care, and
preserve his countrymen in that state of peace, prosperity, and virtue,
to which they had been brought by the unceasing cares of Morton; and
that worthy man returned to his native land seven years after he had
quitted it, improved not only in inward peace but in health, and
consequently appearances. A perceptible lameness was now the only
remains of what had been before painful deformity. The bracing air of
the island had invigorated his nerves; the consciousness that he was
active in the service of his fellow-creatures removed from his mind the
morbid sensibility that had formerly so oppressed him; and Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton perceived, with benevolent pleasure, that life was to him no
longer a burden. He had become a cheerful, happy member of society,
willing to enjoy the blessings that now surrounded him with a truly
chastened, grateful spirit: Oakwood and Castle Terryn were ever
enlivened when he was present. After the cold and barren living at
Feroe, exiled as he there had been from any of his own rank in life, the
Vicarage at Castle Terryn and the society those duties included, formed
to him indeed a happy resting-place; while his many excellent qualities
soon reconciled St. Eval and his Countess to Myrvin's desertion, as they
called his accepting the rectory at Oakwood. No untoward event occurred
to prevent the celebration of Percy and Edward's bridals as intended.
They took place, attended with all that chastened joy and innocent
festivity which might have been expected from the characters of those
principally concerned. No cloud obscured the happiness of the
affectionate united family, which witnessed these gladdening nuptials.
Each might, perhaps, in secret have felt there was one blank in every
heart, that when thus united, there was still a void on earth. In their
breasts the fond memory of Herbert lingered still. Mr. Grahame forgot
his moroseness, though he had resolved on returning to his cottage in
Wales. He could feel nothing but delight as he looked on his Lilla in
her chaste and simple bridal robes, and felt that of her he might indeed
be proud. Fondly he dried the tear that fell from her bright eyes, as
she clung to him in parting, and promised to see her soon, very soon at
Beech Hill.
It was the amusement of the village gossips for many a long evening to
discuss over and over again the various merits of the two brides; some
preferring the tearful, blushing Lilla, others the pale, yet composed
and dignified demeanour of Miss Manvers. Some said Captain Fortescue
looked much more agitated than he did when he saved his uncle's life off
Dartmouth, some years before; it was marvellously strange for a brave
young officer such as he, to be so flustered at such a simple thing as
taking a pretty girl for better or worse. And Mr. Percy Hamilton, some
said, was very much too serious for such a joyous occasion; if they had
been Miss Manvers they should not have liked it, and so unlike himself,
too.
"Hold your tongue, silly woman," a venerable old man interposed, at this
part of the conversation, "the poor lad's thoughts were with his
brother, to whom this day would have been as great a source of joy as
to himself. He has not been the same man since dear Master Herbert's
death, and no wonder, poor fellow."
This observation effectually put an end to the remarks on Percy's
demeanour, and some owned, after all, marriage was somehow a solemn
ceremony, and it was better to be too serious at such a time than too
gay.
Percy and his bride stayed a week in London, and thence proceeded to
Paris, which place, a very short scrutiny convinced Percy was internally
in no quiet condition; some disturbance, he was convinced, was
threatening, though of what nature he could not at first comprehend. He
had not, however, left England a fortnight before his family were
alarmed by the reports which so quickly flew over to our island of that
extraordinary revolution which in three short days completely changed
the sovereign dynasty of France, and threatened a renewal of those
horrors which had deluged that fair capital with blood in the time of
the unfortunate Louis XVI. We have neither space nor inclination to
enter into such details; some extracts of a letter from Percy, which Mr.
Hamilton received, after a week of extreme anxiety on his account, we
feel, however, compelled to transcribe, as the ultimate fates of two
individuals, whose names have more than once been mentioned in the
course of these memoirs, may there perhaps be discovered.
"Your anxiety, my dearest mother, and that of my father and Ellen, I can
well understand, but for myself I had no fear. Had I been alone, I
believe a species of pleasurable excitement would have been the
prevailing feeling, but for my Louisa I did tremble very often; the
scenes passing around us were to a gentle eye and feeling heart terrible
indeed, and so suddenly they had come upon us, we had no time to attempt
retreat to a place of greater safety. Cannonballs were flying in all
directions, shattering the windows, killing some, and fearfully wounding
many others; for several hours I concealed Louisa in the cellar, which
was the only secure abode our house presented. Mounted guards, to the
number of six or seven hundred, were dashing down the various streets,
with a noise like thunder, diversified only by the clash of arms, the
shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce cries of the populace. It was
indeed terrible--the butchery of lives has indeed been awful; in these
sanguinary conflicts between desperate men, pent up in narrow streets,
innocent lives have also been taken, for it was next to impossible to
distinguish between those who took an active part in the affray, and
those who were merely paralysed spectators. In their own defence the
gendarmes were compelled to fire, and their artillery did fearful havoc
among the people.
* * * * *
Crossing the Quai de la Tournelle, at the commencement of the first day,
I was startled by being addressed by name, and turning round, beheld, to
my utter astonishment, Cecil Grahame at my elbow; he was in the uniform
of a gendarme, in which corps, he told me, with some glee, his
brother-in-law, Lord Alphingham, who was high in favour with the French
court, had obtained him a commission; he spoke lightly, and with that
same recklessness of spirit and want of principle which unfortunately
has ever characterised him, declaring he was far better off than he had
ever been in England, which country he hoped never to see again, as he
utterly abhorred the very sight of it. The French people were rather
more agreeable to live with; he could enjoy his pleasures without any
confounded restraint. I suppose he saw how little I sympathised in his
excited spirits, for, with a hoarse laugh and an oath of levity, he
swore that I had not a bit more spirit in me than when I was a
craven-hearted lad, always cringing before the frown of a saintly
father, and therefore no fit companion for a jolly fellow like himself.
'Have you followed Herbert's example, and are you, too, a godly-minded
parson? then, good day, and good riddance to you, my lad,' was the
conclusion of his boisterous speech, and setting spurs to his horse, he
would have galloped off, when I detained him, to ask why he had not
informed his family of his present place of abode and situation. My
blood had boiled as he spoke, that such rude and scurrilous lips should
thus scornfully have spoken my sainted brother's name; passion rose
fierce within me, but I thought of him whose name he spoke, and was
calm. He swore that he had had quite enough of his father's severity,
that he never meant to see his face again. He was now, thank heaven, his
own master, and would take care to remain so; that he had been a fool to
address me, as he might be sure I should tell of his doings, and bring
the old fellow after him. Disgusted beyond measure, yet I could not
forbear asking him if he had heard of his mother's death. Without the
least change of countenance or of voice, he replied--
"'Heard of it, man, aye, and forgotten it by this; why it is some
centuries ago. It would have been a good thing for me had she died years
before she did.'
"'Cecil Grahame!' I exclaimed, in a tone that rung in my ears some
hours afterwards, and I believe made him start, daring even as he was,
'do you know it is your mother of whom you speak? a mother whose only
fault towards you was too much love, a mother whose too fond heart your
cruel conduct broke; are you so completely devoid of feeling that not
even this can move you?'
"'Pray add to your long list of my good mother's perfections a weakness
that ruined me, that made me the wretch I am,' he wildly exclaimed, and
he clenched his hand and bit his lip till the blood came, while his
cheek became livid with some feeling I could not fathom. He spurred his
horse violently, the spirited animal started forward, a kind of spell
seemed to rivet my eyes upon him. There was a loud report of cannon from
the Place de Grêve, several balls whizzed close by me, evidently fired
to disperse the multitude, who were tumultuously assembling on the Pont
de la Cité, and ere I could recover from the startling effects of the
report, I heard a shrill scream of mortal agony, and Cecil Grahame fell
from his horse a shattered corpse.
* * * * *
For several minutes I was wholly unconscious of all that was passing
around me. I stood by the body of the unfortunate young man, quite
insensible to the danger I was incurring from the shot. I could only see
him before my eyes, as I had known him in his boyhood and his earliest
youth, full of fair promises, of hopeful futurity, the darling of his
mother's eye, the pride of his father, spite of his faults; and now what
was he? a mangled corpse, cut off without warning or preparation in his
early youth. But, oh, worse, far worse than all, with the words of
hatred, of defiance on his lips. I sought in vain for life; there was no
sign, no hope. To attempt to rescue the body was vain, the tumult was
increasing fearfully around me; many gendarmes were falling
indiscriminately with the populace, and the countenance of Cecil was so
fearfully disfigured, that to attempt to recognise it when all might
again be quiet would, I knew, be useless. One effort I made, I inquired
for and sought Lord Alphingham's hotel, intending to obtain his
assistance in the proper interment of this unfortunate young man, but in
this was equally frustrated; the hotel was closely shut up. Lord and
Lady Alphingham had, at the earliest threatening of disturbances,
retreated to their chateau in the province of Champagne. I forwarded the
melancholy intelligence to them, and returned to my own hotel sick at
heart with the sight I had witnessed. The fearful tone of his last
words, the agonized shriek, rung in my ears, as the shattered form and
face floated before my eyes, with a tenacity no effort of my own or even
of my Louisa's could dispel. Oh, my mother, what do I not owe you for
guarding me from the temptations that have assailed this wretched young
man, or rather for imprinting on my infant mind those principles which,
with the blessing of our heavenly Father, have thus preserved me.
Naturally, my temper, my passions were like his, in nothing was I his
superior; but it was your hand, your prayers, my mother, planted the
seeds of virtue, your gentle firmness eradicated those faults which, had
they been fostered by indulgence, might have rendered my life like Cecil
Grahame's, and exposed me in the end to a death like his. What would
have availed my father's judicious guidance, my brother's mild example,
had not the soil been prepared by a mother's hand and watered by a
mother's prayers? blessings, a thousand blessings on your head, my
mother! Oh, may my children learn to bless theirs even as I do mine;
they cannot know a purer joy on earth.
* * * * *
"We have arrived at Rouen in safety. I am truly thankful to feel my
beloved wife is far from the scene of confusion and danger to which she
has been so unavoidably exposed. I am not deceived in her strength of
nerve, my dear mother; I did not think, when I boasted of it as one of
her truly valuable acquirements, I should so soon have seen it put to
the proof; to her letter to Caroline I refer you for all entertaining
matter.
* * * * *
"I have been interrupted by an interview as unexpected as it promises to
be gratifying. One dear to us all may, at length, rejoice there is hope;
but I dare not say too much, for the health of this unhappy young man is
so shattered, he may never yet embrace his mother. But to be more
explicit, I was engaged in writing, unconsciously with the door of my
apartment half open, when I was roused by the voice of the waiter,
exclaiming, 'Not that room, sir, if you please, yours is yonder.' I
looked up and met the glance of a young man, whom, notwithstanding the
long lapse of years, spite of faded form and attenuated features, I
recognised on the instant. It was Alfred Greville. I was far more
surprised and inconceivably more shocked than when Cecil Grahame crossed
my path; I had marked no change in the features or the expression of the
latter, but both in Alfred Greville were so totally altered, that he
stood before me the living image of his sister, a likeness I had never
perceived before. I was too much astonished to address him, and before I
could frame words, he had sprung forward, with a burning flush on his
cheek, and grasping my hand, wildly exclaimed, 'Do not shun me,
Hamilton, I am not yet an utter reprobate. Tell me of my mother; does
she live?"
"'She does,' I replied; instantly a burst of thanksgiving broke from his
lips, at least so I imagined, from the expression of his features, for
there were no articulate sounds, and a swoon resembling death
immediately followed. Medical assistance was instantly procured, but
though actual insensibility was not of long continuance, he is
pronounced to be in such an utterly exhausted state, that we dare not
encourage hopes for his final recovery; yet still I cannot but believe
he will be spared--spared not only in health, but as a reformed and
better man, to bless that mother whose cares for him, despite long years
of difficulties and sorrow, have never failed. In vain I entreated him
not to exhaust himself by speaking; that I would not leave him, and if
he would only be quiet, he might be better able on the morrow to tell me
all he desired. He would not be checked; he might not, he said, be
spared many hours, and he must speak ere he died. Comparatively
speaking, but little actual vice has stained the conduct of Greville.
Throughout all his career the remembrance of his mother has often, very
often mingled in his gayest hours, and dashed them with remorseful
bitterness. He owns that often of late years her image, and that of his
sister Mary, have risen so mildly, so impressively before him, that he
has flown almost like a maniac from the gay and heartless throngs, to
solitude and silence, and as the thoughts of home and his infancy, when
he first lisped out his boyish prayer by the side of his sister at his
mother's knee, came thronging over him, he has sobbed and wept like a
child. These feelings returned at length so often and so powerfully,
that he felt to resist them was even more difficult and painful than to
break from the flowery chains which his gay companions had woven round
him. He declared his resolution; he resisted ridicule and persuasion.
Almost for the first time in his life he remained steadily firm, and
when he had indeed succeeded, and found himself some distance from the
scenes of luxurious pleasure, he felt himself suddenly endowed with an
elasticity of spirit, which he had not experienced for many a long year.
The last tidings he had received of his mother and sister were that they
were at Paris, and thither he determined to go, having parted from his
companions at Florence. During the greater part of his journey to the
French capital, he fancied his movements were watched by a stranger,
gentlemanly in his appearance, and not refusing to enter into
conversation when Greville accosted him; but still Alfred did not feel
satisfied with his companionship, though to get rid of him seemed an
impossibility, for however he changed his course, the day never passed
without his shadow darkening Greville's path. Within eighty miles of
Paris, however, he lost all traces of him, and he then reproached
himself for indulging in unnecessary fears. He was not in Paris two
days, however, before, to his utter astonishment, he was arrested and
thrown into prison on the charge of forging bank-notes, two years
previous, to a very considerable amount. In vain he protested against
the accusation alleging at that time he had been in Italy and not in
Paris. Notes bearing his own signature, and papers betraying other
misdemeanours, were brought forward, and on their testimony and that of
the stranger, whose name he found to be _Dupont_, he was thrown into
prison to await his trial. To him the whole business was an impenetrable
mystery. To us, my dear father, it is all clear as day. Poor Mrs.
Greville's fears were certainly not without foundation, and when affairs
are somewhat more quiet in Paris, I shall leave no stone unturned to
prove young Greville's perfect innocence to the public, and bring that
wretch Dupont to the same justice to which his hatred would have
condemned the son of his old companion. Alfred's agitation on hearing my
explanation of the circumstance was extreme. The errors of his father
appeared to fall heavily on him, and yet he uttered no word of reproach
on his memory. The relation of his melancholy death, and the misery in
which we found Mrs. Greville and poor Mary affected him so deeply, I
dreaded their effect on his health; but this was nothing to his
wretchedness when, by his repeated questions, he absolutely wrung from
me the tale of his sister's death, his mother's desolation: no words can
portray the extent of his self-reproach. It is misery to look upon him
now, and feel what he might have been, had his mother been indeed
permitted to exercise her rights. There is no happiness for Alfred
Greville this side of the Channel; he pines for home--for his mother's
blessing and forgiveness, and till he receives them, health will not,
cannot return.
* * * * *
In prison he remained for six long weary months, with the consciousness
that, amidst the many light companions with whom he had associated,
there was not one to whom he could appeal for friendship and assistance
in his present situation, and the thoughts of his mother and sister
returned with greater force, from the impossibility of learning anything
concerning them. The hope of escaping never left him, and, with the
assistance of a comrade, he finally effected it on the 27th of July, the
confusion of the city aiding him far more effectually than he believed
possible. He came down to Rouen in a coal-barge, so completely
exhausted, that he declared, had not the thought of England and his
mother been uppermost, he would gladly have laid down in the open
streets to die. To England he felt impelled, he scarcely knew wherefore,
save that he looked to us for the information he so ardently desired.
Our family had often been among his waking visions, and this accounts
for the agitation I witnessed when I first looked up. He said he felt he
knew me, but he strove to move or speak in vain; he could not utter the
only question he wished to frame, and was unable to depart without being
convinced if I indeed were Percy Hamilton.
"'And now I have seen you, what have I learnt?' he said, as he ceased a
tale, more of sorrow than of crime.
"'That your mother lives,' I replied, 'that she has never ceased to pray
for and love her son, that you can yet be to her a blessing and
support.'
"Should he wish her sent for, I asked, I knew she would not demand a
second summons. He would not hear of it.
"'Not while I have life enough to seek her. What, bring her all these
miles to me. My mother, my poor forsaken mother. Oh, no, if indeed I may
not live, if strength be not granted me to seek her, then, then it will
be time enough to think of beseeching her to come to me; but not while a
hope of life remains, speak not of it, Percy. Let her know nothing of
me, nothing, till I can implore her blessing on my knees.'"
* * * * *
"I have ceased to argue with him, for he is bent upon it, and perhaps it
is better thus. His mind appears much relieved, he has passed a quiet
night, and this morning the physician finds a wonderful improvement,
wonderful to him perhaps, but not to me."
* * * * *
Percy's letters containing the above extracts, were productive of much
interest to his friends at Oakwood. The details of Cecil's death,
alleviated by sympathy, were forwarded to his father and sister. The
words that had preceded his death Mr. Hamilton carefully suppressed from
his friend, and Mr. Grahame, as if dreading to hear anything that could
confirm his son's reckless disposition, asked no particulars. For three
months he buried himself in increased seclusion at Llangwillan, refusing
all invitations, and denying himself steadfastly to all. At the
termination of that period, however, he once more joined his friends, an
altered and a happier man. His misanthropy had departed, and often Mr.
Hamilton remarked to his wife, that the Grahame of fifty resembled the
Grahame of five-and-twenty far more than he had during the intervening
years. Lilla and Edward were sources of such deep interest to him, that
in their society he seemed to forget the misery occasioned by his other
children. The shock of her brother's death was long felt by Lilla; she
sorrowed that he was thus suddenly cut off without time for one thought
of eternity, one word of penitence, of prayer. The affection of her
husband, however, gradually dispelled these melancholy thoughts, and
when Lord Delmont paid his promised visit to his nephew, he found no
abatement in those light and joyous spirits which had at first attracted
him towards Lilla.
Ellen, at her own particular request, had undertaken to prepare Mrs.
Greville for the return of her son, and the change that had taken place
in him. Each letter from Percy continued his recovery, and here we may
notice, though somewhat out of place, as several months elapsed ere he
was enabled fully to succeed, that, by the active exertions of himself
and of the solicitor his father had originally employed, Dupont was at
length brought to justice, his criminal machinations fully exposed to
view, and the innocence of Alfred Greville, the son of the deceased, as
fully established in the eyes of all men.
Gently and cautiously Ellen performed her office, and vain would be the
effort to portray the feelings or the fond and desolate mother, as she
anticipated the return of her long-absent, dearly-loved son. Of his own
accord he came back to her; he had tried the pleasures of the world, and
proved them hollow; he had formed friendships with the young, the gay,
the bright, the lovely, and he had found them all wanting in stability
and happiness. Amid them all his heart had yearned for home and for
domestic love; that mother had not prayed in vain.
Softly and beautifully fell the light of a setting sun around the
pretty little cottage, on the banks of the Dart, which was now the
residence of Mrs. Greville; the lattice was thrown widely back, and the
perfume of unnumbered flowers scented the apartment, which Ellen's hand
had loved to decorate, that Mrs. Greville might often, very often forget
she was indeed alone. It was the early part of September, and a
delicious breeze passed by, bearing health and elasticity upon its wing,
and breathing soft melody amid the trees and shrubs. Softly and calmly
glided the smooth waters at the base of the garden. The green verandah
running round the cottage was filled with beautiful exotics, which
Ellen's hand had transported from the conservatory at Oakwood. It was a
sweet and soothing sight to see how judiciously, how unassumingly Ellen
devoted herself to the desolate mother, without once permitting that
work of love to interfere with her still nearer, still dearer ties at
home. She knew how Herbert would have loved and devoted himself to the
mother of his Mary, and in this, as in all things, she followed in his
steps. Untiringly would she listen to and speak on Mrs. Greville's
favourite theme, her Mary; and now she sat beside her, enlivening by
gentle converse the hours that must intervene ere Alfred came. There was
an expression of such calm, such chastened thanksgiving on Mrs.
Greville's features, changed as they were by years of sorrow, that none
could gaze on her without a kindred feeling stealing over the heart, and
in very truth those feelings seemed reflected on the young and lovely
countenance beside her. A pensive yet a sweet and pleasing smile rested
on Ellen's lips, and her dark eye shone softly bright in the light of
sympathy. Beautiful indeed were the orphan's features, but not the
dazzling beauty of early youth. If a stranger had gazed on her
countenance when in calm repose, he would have thought she had seen
sorrow; but when that beaming smile of true benevolence, that eye of
intellectual and soul-speaking beauty met his glance, as certain would
he have felt that sorrow, whatever it might have been, indeed had lost
its sting.
"It was such an evening, such an hour my Mary died," Mrs. Greville said,
as she laid her hand in Ellen's. "I thought not then to have reflected
on it with feelings such as now fill my heart. Oh, when I look back on
past years, and recall the prayers I have uttered in tears for my son,
my Alfred, the doubts, the fears that have arisen to check my prayer, I
wonder wherefore am I thus blessed."
"Our God is a God of truth, and He promiseth to answer prayer, dearest
Mrs. Greville," replied Ellen, earnestly; "and He is a God of love, and
will bless those who seek Him and trust in Him as you have done."
"He gave me grace to trust in Him, my child. I trusted, I doubted not He
would answer me in another world, but I thought not such blessing was
reserved for me in this. A God of love--ay, in my hour of affliction. I
have felt Him so. Oh, may the blessings of His loving-kindness shower
down upon me, soften yet more my heart to receive His glorious image."
She ceased to speak, but her lips moved still as in inward prayer. Some
few minutes elapsed, and suddenly the glowing light of the sun was
darkened, as by an intervening shadow. The mother raised her head, and
in another instant her son was at her feet.
"Mother, can you forgive, receive me? Bid me not go forth--I cannot,
may not leave you."
"Go forth, my son, my son--oh, never, never!" she cried, and clasping
him to her bosom, the quick glad tears fell fast upon his brow. She
released him to gaze again and again upon his face, and fold him closer
to her heart, to read in those sunken features, that faded form, the
tale that he had come back to her heart and to her home, never, never
more to leave her.
In that one moment years of error were forgotten. The mother only felt
she hold her son to her heart, a suffering, yet an altered and a better
man; and he, that he knelt once more beside his mother, forgiven and
beloved.