MABEL.
A NOVEL,
BY EMMA WARBURTON.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. I.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1854.
TO
MISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG,
THIS WORK
IS INSCRIBED
AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION
OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM.
MABEL.
CHAPTER I.
Oh, timely, happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise,
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new.
New every morning is the love,
Our waking and uprising prove,
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
KEEBLE.
One morning, early in the month of August, a few years since, the sun
rose lazily and luxuriously over the hills that bounded the little
village of Aston, which lay in one of the prettiest valleys of
Gloucestershire. The golden beams of that glorious luminary falling
first upon the ivy-covered tower of the little church, seemed, to the
eye of fancy, to linger with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if
glad to recognize the altar of Him, who, from the beginning, had fixed
his daily course through the bright circle of the heavens, then pouring
a flood of brilliancy on the simple rectory, danced over the hills, and
played with the many windows of the old Manor House, which, situated at
a short distance from the church, formed one of the most striking
objects of the village.
Only here and there a thick volume of smoke rose from the cottages
scattered over the valley, while the only living object visible was a
young man, who thus early walked down the steep and winding path, which
led from the rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if attracted by
the beauties of the early morning. The slow pace with which he moved
seemed to betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his dress, which
was of the latest fashion, slightly contrasted with the ancient-looking
simplicity of the place.
Captain Clair, for such was his name, had quitted his regiment, then in
India, and returned to England, with the hope of recruiting his health,
which had been considerably impaired by his residence abroad.
On the preceding evening, he had arrived at the rectory, upon a visit to
his uncle, who wished him to try the bracing air of Gloucestershire as a
change from town, where he had been lingering for some little time since
his return to England.
In person, the young officer was slight and well made, with a becoming
military air; his countenance light and fresh colored, spite of Indian
suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, though not untinged by certain
worldly characters, as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly on a
world of sin and temptation.
There is, however, something still and holy in the early morning, when
the sin and folly of nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life
again awakes with fresh energy to labor. The dew from heaven has not
fallen upon the herb alone, it seems to rest upon the spirit of man
which rises full of renewed strength to that toil before which it sank
heavily at eve; and as Captain Clair felt the breeze rising with its
dewy incense to heaven, his mind seemed to receive fresh impetus, and
his thoughts a higher tone. Languidly as he pursued his way, his eye
drank in the beauties of a new country, with all the fervour of a
poetical imagination.
On the right and left of the village, as he entered it, were high hills,
covered with brushwood, a few cottages, with their simple gardens, lay
in the hollow, and the church, standing nearly alone, was built a
little above these, having the hill on the left immediately behind it.
There was great beauty in that simple church, with that thickly covered
hill above, and nothing near to disturb its solemnity.
Further on, the hills opened, and gave a view of the whole country
beyond, presenting a scene of loveliness very common in our fertile
island. A small but beautiful river wound through the valley, carrying
life and fertility along its banks. Wide spreading oaks and tall
beeches, with the graceful birch and chestnut trees bending their lower
branches nearly to the green turf beneath, enclosed the grounds of the
Manor House, which, built on a gentle ascent, looked down on the
peaceful valley below.
The house, itself, was a fine old building, well suited to the habits of
a country gentleman, though not so large as the gardens and plantation
surrounding it, might have admitted. These had been gradually acquired
by each successive owner of the mansion, who took pleasure in adding to
the family estate by purchasing all property immediately adjoining, but
had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling the house itself.
Captain Clair was determined to admire every thing; he had got up
unusually early, and that in itself was a meritorious action, which put
him in perfect good humour with himself. It was a very pleasant morning,
too, numbers of insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of since
he was a boy, attracted his attention, and flew out from the dewy
hedges, over which the white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace.
The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sunshine--and the bee went forth
to the busy labors of the day, humming the song of cheerful industry.
All combined to bring back long forgotten days of innocent childhood and
boyish mirth; the pulse which an Indian clime had weakened, beat
quicker, and his spirits revived before the influence of happy memories
and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, as the morning advanced,
he lingered to watch the movements of the villagers, and to muse upon
the characters of the inmates of the different cottages as he passed
them, and to observe that those who dwelt in the neatest were those who
stirred the first. The labourers had gone to their work, and now the
windows and doors were opened, and children came forth to play.
As he returned again to reach the rectory in time for its early
breakfast, he perceived one dwelling much superior in character to those
around it, with its antique gable front ornamented with carefully
arranged trelliswork, over which creepers twined in flowery luxuriance,
and the simple lawn sloping down towards the road, from which a low,
sunk fence divided it. Here, careless of observation, a young child had
seated herself--her straw hat upon the turf beside her, while she was
busily engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild lily, forgetful
that in a few minutes its beauty would perish; she was a lovely child,
the outline of her infantine features was almost faultless, and her
little face dimpled with smiles as she looked up from her occupation to
nod some brief salutation to the poor men as they passed her on their
way home.
Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all the objects he had
observed that morning, none should make so deep an impression as the
sight of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, as he thought of
her twining those fading flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked
at nothing further, but still found himself musing on the delicate
features of that young face.
When he reached the garden gate, he found his uncle strolling about,
waiting for him.
Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling over
a wide and expansive forehead. Though a little under the middle height,
there was a gentle dignity in his manner that could scarcely fail to be
noticed, or if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He was neither very
witty, nor very learned--yet none knew him very long without liking him.
His face, not originally striking, had become more handsome as he had
grown older--for the struggle between good and evil, which must be in
every well principled mind, a perpetual struggle, had been carried on by
him for many years, and so successfully, that each year brought heaven
nearer to the good man's thoughts; and now, as the race was so nearly
finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his conscience more tender;
fearing, lest, after a life spent in his Master's service, he might be
found lingering at the last, and lose the prize for which he had been so
long striving. In his eye was that look of serenity and peace which
seemed to say, "he feared no evil tidings;" for he walked continually
under the protection, which only can give that feeling of security which
those who have it not would bestow great riches to possess. We have
lingered longer than we at first intended in description, but, perhaps
not too long.
When we look back to the innocence of childhood, we sigh to think that
we can never be children again; we recall that happy time when the world
had not written its own characters of sin and falsehood in our hearts;
we sigh to think that childhood is gone--but no sigh will recall it. But
when we see an old man who has passed the waves of this troublesome
world, true to the faith with which he entered life, we feel that here
is an example which we may follow. Childhood we have left behind, but
old age is before us, and if we live on, must come; and, as the body
decays, do we not feel that the spirit should increase in holiness and
strength, preparing itself for that beautiful world of light which it
must enter or die.
Mr. Ware had resided for many years at Aston; when a younger man, he had
been tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, the present
possessor of the Aston property--and though with his pupil, only during
a tour through Italy, the attachment between them was such, that the
young man solicited his father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that
living became vacant, partly, he told him, from his wish to secure
himself a friend and companion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware
gratefully accepted an offer which at once placed him in independence;
and, as soon as he had settled himself in his new house, he carried one
of his favourite projects into execution, by sending for his only
sister, who had been obliged to procure her livelihood as a governess;
his own small means being, since their father's death, insufficient for
both.
It was not then for his own sake entirely that he rejoiced in his
improved circumstances. When he drove his neat little carriage to meet
his sister, and when he brought her home, and shewed her his
house--their house as he called it--with its pretty comfortable
sitting-room, looking out upon the garden, and the neat little chamber,
where all her old favourite books--recovered from the friend who had
taken charge of them during her wanderings--rested upon the neatly
arranged shelves, he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And when, with
eyes glistening with pleasure, he assured her that it was her home as
long as she lived--he said what he never found reason to repent, for the
cheerful face of his companion bore perpetual remembrance of his
brotherly kindness.
He had once thought of marriage; but the idea had now passed away
entirely. In early years, he had been sincerely attached to a school
friend of his sister's, whom he had met during one of his Oxford
vacations; but she died early, leaving her memory too deeply impressed,
to make him wish to replace it by giving his affection to another. His
sister, now almost his only near relative, had sympathised, most
sincerely, in his loss, and had endeavoured to aid his own manly
judgment in regaining that cheerfulness of tone so necessary for the
right discharge of the every-day duties of life. She had been rewarded
by the more than usual continuation of a brother's early love and
esteem, and she had, therefore, no scruple of accepting his offer of
protection, and a home.
From that time, she had continued to keep his house with the most
cheerful attention to his wishes and whims, and with an evenness of
temper which had always been peculiar to her.
There was an air of gaiety about the whole house; the two maid-servants
and the old gardener seemed to possess peculiarly good tempers--they
were, indeed, scarcely ever disturbed, and we may venture to add, that
they were not very much overworked.
There were hives of bees in the garden, chickens in the court-yard, and
the gaily-feathered cock strutting about, giving a lazy crow now and
then--all seeming to take their ease, and enjoy themselves. In fact,
there was a blessing on the good man's home, that was always smiling
round it.
It was to this pleasant abode that the young soldier had come down
wearied with London amusements, like some strange being who had yet to
find a place in its social order.
"You are fortunate, sir," he said, as he strolled down the garden by his
uncle's side, "in your neighbourhood. I have seldom seen anything before
more comfortably beautiful, if I may use the expression."
"I am glad you like it," replied Mr. Ware, "and I assure you I shall be
quite contented if it has the power to make you spend a month or two
here agreeably. If you are fond of scenery, there are many places worth
seeing, even within a walking distance."
"I suppose the Manor House is amongst the number?" observed his nephew,
"I have been admiring it extremely. I cannot think why Hargrave does
not come down here. Has he been since he came into the property?"
"Yes--but only once, and then only for a short while; but you speak as
if you knew him?"
"A little," replied Clair, "he came home with us from Malta; but
friendship, sometimes, ripen fast. He found out my relationship to you,
which commenced our acquaintance; I was charmed with him--indeed, I
scarcely ever met more variety in any character. Sometimes I could
scarcely keep pace with his flow of spirits, and then he would fall into
a fit of musing, piquing my curiosity to discover why so great a change
should take place, as it were, in an instant--in short, I'd defy any one
to get into his confidence. But you know him, sir?"
"Yes," said Mr. Ware, "I knew him very well at one time; his father sent
me with him to Italy, and in return, the generous boy obtained me this
preferment. But I have not seen him now, I think, for six or seven
years--though we write to each other occasionally. You must tell me more
about him at your leisure, however, for he is a great favourite with
Mary as well as myself; but now, I think, you must be ready for
breakfast--Mary is waiting for us, I see. Afterwards, if you are not
tired, we will pay a visit to the church--there are two or three
monuments of the Hargrave family worth looking at."
"You are very kind," replied Clair, "I am sure I feel better already
with the fresh country air--and health after sickness is happiness
itself, sometimes."
At this moment, Miss Ware opened the glass door which led into the
garden. She was dressed, with studied simplicity, in a black silk gown,
with white muslin apron, and her cap, looking as white as snow, fastened
round the head by a broad lilac ribbon; but the smile upon her face was
the best of all, and was never wanting at the breakfast-table, for she
always maintained that no one had a right to be dull after a good
night's rest, or to anticipate the troubles of the day before they came.
"Good morning, Edmund," said she to her brother, "and good morning,
Arthur," giving her hand to her nephew. "I was just preparing to send
your breakfast up-stairs, when I heard you had been out for more than
two hours."
"I am not sorry to save you the trouble of nursing me, aunt--I have had
enough of that in London," said Clair, gaily, as he followed her to the
morning-room, where breakfast waited them. The meal was dispatched with
cheerfulness, and he amused his aunt by an account of his walk, and the
guesses which it had allowed him to make of the character of their
poorer neighbours, with whom she was herself well acquainted.
After breakfast, Mr. Ware invited him to join his morning ramble.
"I shall have an opportunity," he said, as they descended the hill
leading to the lower part of the village, "of pointing out to you some
of the evils of absenteeism--of which you have, doubtless, heard much. I
have always noticed, that what we gain from our own observation is worth
much more than the information of others. In this little spot,
unhappily, you will see very much to condemn. I have already told you
that our landlord, Colonel Hargrave, has not been here for more than six
years, and before that visit, which was chiefly occupied in field
sports, his sojourn here had been very rare, for his talented mind led
him to seek the more extensive knowledge to be gained from foreign
travel, even before he entered the army. His father, who has now been
dead some years, constantly resided here, till the death of his wife,
which made Aston a very different place from what it is at present. Poor
Mrs. Hargrave was universally beneficent, and was so much loved and
respected by the people in this neighbourhood, rich as well as poor,
that her name is scarcely ever mentioned without the title of 'good'
being added to it. The time when good Mrs. Hargrave lived is always
looked back upon with affectionate regret. When she died, however, her
husband, who was passionately fond of her, took a distaste to a place
which constantly reminded him of his loss, and he only paid very casual
visits to it during the remainder of his life, which did not last long
after the domestic blow he had sustained. At present, the estate is in
the hands of a rapacious bailiff, who amply fulfils that proverb, which
says, 'A poor man that oppresseth the poor is like a sweeping rain which
leaveth no food.' Unfortunately, I have no influence with him, and as he
has to pay me tithe, he regards me in the light of others who are
dependent upon him. It is an unhappy state of things, certainly, for the
wages of the poor laborers employed on the estate, are, in some cases,
kept back for months together. You may easily fancy how difficult it is
for men to live under these circumstances, having no other resource
beyond the fruit of their labors."
They had, by this time, reached the hollow between the two hills, where
a great many cottages were situated. About them was an appearance of
neglect, that is, at all times, disagreeable to contemplate. In most
parts, the thatch had become blackened by the weather, and here and
there pieces of it had been blown off by the high winds, or were kept in
place only by heavy stones laid upon the roof. In some places the walls,
which bounded the little gardens, had been suffered to crumble
down--loose stones lying in the gaps, but no effort seemed to have been
made to replace them. A ditch ran along the road, partially covered with
long grass and weeds; but the glimpses here and there afforded of it,
told that it was used as a receptacle for the drains of that part of the
parish--and a noxious stench arose from it exercising a baneful
influence, as might be seen by the pale faces of the children who played
about it.
Added to this, there was a desponding tone over the general features of
the place, which might have accounted for the wastes of ground which
might be seen, here and there, covered with weeds, rather than converted
to any useful purpose.
"Surely," said Clair, attracting his uncle's attention, "this
self-neglect cannot be attributed to Hargrave?"
"Not altogether," replied Mr. Ware, "this is an evil which I hope time
will remedy; there is, indeed, no excuse for it; yet the reason I
believe simply to be, that the people, losing their accustomed
stimulant, arising from a resident family, and depressed by the low and
uncertain wages they receive from an oppressive bailiff, have not yet
learned to take care of themselves; but yet I hope, from day to day,"
said the good man, looking round, "it would not do for me to despond as
well as the rest."
Stepping over a small plank that crossed the ditch, they entered one of
the cottages. The interior presented a kind of untidy comfort; a large
heap of fuel lay in one corner, and a bed was at one side, and seemed
used as a substitute for a seat during the day. The windows, where panes
had been broken, were filled up with dirty rags; two or three children
were playing about with naked feet, and their mother, a remarkably
pretty young woman, was working at the darkened window. By the fire was
seated a strong hale young man, with his hands upon his knees,
contemplating it with gloomy fixedness. A red cap ornamented his head,
and partly shaded a pair of dark eyes, and a scowling countenance.
Mr. Ware could not but enter the cottage with the consciousness that he
was not particularly welcome; yet this did not render his visits less
frequent.
"Well, Martin," said he, "I am sorry to see you at home, for I fear you
are out of work."
The man answered, without rising from his seat--
"I am out of work, and so I am likely to remain, I suppose. It is
up-hill work to have nothing better to look to than this comes to--and
it is very hard to be owed ever so much money, which I have earned by as
honest labor as was ever given in exchange for money. I have heard you
read--'_cursed is he that keepeth a man's wages all night by him until
the morning_,'--but I don't know what would be said to him that can keep
them for months, letting a poor man starve, without thinking of him for
a moment. When rent day comes round, then it must be rent, or turn out;
we hav'nt got no power in our hands; but I say 'tis a very hard case."
"It is very hard, I allow, Martin," said Mr. Ware, "but the wrong done
you does not excuse your sitting here idle; have you been trying for
work?"
"Yes, I've been to all the farmers round; but there's none to be got."
"How do you manage to get on then?"
"We live as we can," answered the man, sullenly.
"Well, my good fellow," said Mr. Ware, kindly, "make another effort, and
do not sit down here idle all day. I hear that Colonel Hargrave is
coming to England shortly, if, indeed, he is not already here."
"We have heard that so often," growled Martin, "that we cannot put any
faith in it. He'll never come to do us any good, I reckon."
Mr. Ware offered him a little more advice as to exerting himself, and
then, with a small gratuity to his wife, left the cottage with his
nephew.
"He is a notorious poacher," said he, as they walked on, "and his excuse
is, if they do not give us our own money, we must take an equivalent.
It is difficult to preach while poverty and starvation are opposed to
the maxims we would wish to inculcate. I wish something could make the
Colonel believe the actual state of things; but I do sometimes fear he
entirely forgets us. In that neat-looking dwelling," he continued, after
a pause, "lives a woman, who has hitherto obtained her livelihood by
supplying the poor inhabitants with bread and other necessaries; for
some months past, however, Rogers, the bailiff, has found excuses to
withhold the wages from most of the workmen engaged in repairing the
premises at Aston, and they have been obliged to live upon credit, which
this poor woman has been persuaded to give them--in consequence, she
tells me, she is nearly ruined; and from the confusion in which her
money matters stand, she has fallen quite into a state of melancholy. I
went to her yesterday, so that I will not ask you to see her to-day; but
we will come in here," he said, at the same time lifting the latch of a
door, which opened into a small room, more like some hovel, attached to
a tenement which contained several families.
It was a wretched-looking place, and Clair could scarcely suppress a
shudder as he entered it. It was but badly lighted from a broken window;
an old piece of furniture served, at once, for a table and a sort of
cupboard; two chairs, and a stool, completed the furniture, with the
exception of a shelf, on which the poverty of the house was displayed,
in half a loaf of bread which rested on it. Here an old man sat by the
smouldering embers of a wood fire, holding his hands as close to it as
possible, as if he hoped to find comfort in the miserable heat it
afforded, for his thin hands looked cold, though it was still early in
autumn. He welcomed them with pleasure, and offered his two chairs to
the gentlemen with ready alacrity, taking possession of the stool for
himself.
While Mr. Ware continued talking to the old man, Clair gave a searching
glance round the poor dwelling, and trembled to think how the cold
December wind would whistle through the old window; but when he thought
of asking some questions concerning it, he was checked, by hearing the
two old men discourse with such apparent ease and cordiality, as if they
had entirely forgotten where they were.
"Is it really possible, sir," said he, when they had left, "that nothing
can be done for that poor old man?"
"I fear nothing can be done," returned Mr. Ware, "unless we can persuade
Hargrave to return to us."
"But how," enquired Clair, "would his coming remedy the evil."
"It would do so in a great measure," replied Mr. Ware, as they turned
homewards. "A man with his wealth could afford to keep all that are now
out of labour, well employed. A farmer cannot well afford to pay an old
man for the little labour he can give, but a rich landlord can easily
find him employment; at a lower rate of wages, of course. Formerly,
those who were too old for hard work, were allowed to sweep away the
leaves, or clean the weeds from the walks on the estate, which were a
few years since beautifully kept. The absence of a rich family in a
place where the people have learnt to depend upon them, is a serious
loss. You will wonder, perhaps, that I do not instantly, and fully
relieve the situation of the old man we visited just now, but the
poverty which has prevailed in almost every house during the past year,
has been very great; and I have been obliged to divide my charity so as
to make it more extensive. Besides, I do not much approve of giving
where it can be avoided; and, therefore, husband my means for the
scarcity of the coming winter."
"I should have guessed," said his nephew, "that some such motive
influenced you, or I know such cases would meet with instant
relief--but of one thing, I am certain, Hargrave cannot be aware of
this."
"We will hope not," said Mr. Ware, somewhat sadly; "but I have written
to him frequently, and if Rogers gave me the proper directions, it is
hardly likely my letters have not reached him. It is too probable, that,
like many more, he relies too much upon his bailiff."
They had, by this time, reached the rectory, and Clair, exhausted from
unusual exercise, threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book.