CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XII.“Did jealous hate inspire thee?”

“Did jealous hate inspire thee?”

Meanwhilethe unamiable Henry, every time he returned from his school for the vacations, was filled with fresh envy and hatred on beholding Edmund more and more established in the rank of a child of the family, and more and more beloved by every one; while he, Henry, felt as if at enmity with the whole world, merely because his own unworthy nature could not divest itself of an instinctive consciousness, that he did not deserve to beloved. He, however, explained the business very differently: he persuaded himself that the beggar-brat (as he called Edmund in his own thoughts, for Mrs. Montgomery would not suffer him to do so to be heard) had got into his place, and deprived him of every body’s regard.

As soon as Mrs. Montgomery had been aware of her nephew’s lodging, she had had him removed to one more eligible; but his low habits were too strongly confirmed to be much amended by this salutary change. He still spent his leisure hours at the butcher’s house, and carried thither the fruits of all his depredations, namely, the spoils of robbed orchards, and scaled poultry-yards. There the wife and daughter would first cook for him, and then, joining in the carousal, help to demolish. His rompings too, with Miss Betsy Park, for sowas the butcher’s daughter named, grew daily more frequent.

The sagacious mother did not choose to interfere, observing, that though Betsy had become very saucy to Mr. Henry, and sometimes even gave him a smart slap in the face, he, instead of threatening to beat, and not unfrequently to kick her, as he used to do, was now often heard to menace her with a good kissing if she did not behave herself. The damsel, however, by no means alarmed, would most generally repeat her offence, and, snapping her fingers, tell him she defied him; upon which he would pursue her round the house, back yard, or garden, to put his threat into execution. On such occasions, however, he could not so entirely get rid of his old habits, as to let Miss Betsy off, without following up his new species of vengeance, by some of thosecruel pinches which, in childhood, had so often diversified the snowy surface of the young lady’s skin, with the various tints of black, blue, and green.

Yet Miss Betsy was, by this time, become a very fine girl: she was fair, had a glowing colour, a quantity of light auburn hair, laughing blue eyes, a saucy nose, full pouting lips, good white teeth, and was tall and well made, though, if any thing, a little too fat; but, in consequence of her youth, this, at present, rather gave luxuriance to her beauty, than coarseness to her appearance.

It may be asked, why any thing in the shape of a mother sanctioned such scenes as we have alluded to. But too many S— B— mothers, in Mrs. Park’s way, speculated on marrying their daughters to scholar lads, as the boys and young men are indiscriminatelytermed; and the questionable means employed by Mrs. Park were not only, in her opinion, the best to obtain her end, but those sanctioned by the customs of the village, time immemorial.

By such mothers, while their daughters were permitted—we had almost said counselled—to cast off all delicacy, a sort of worldly prudence was taught, by which the necessity of not forfeiting their chance of marrying a gentleman was duly impressed on young creatures, whose habitual manners, from childhood, had early deprived them of the natural guard of modesty. Thus, a girl who was forsaken (before marriage we mean) by a scholar-lad, incurred direful suspicions in the village; while one who had so successfully balanced her blandishments, as to decoy one into marriage, was ever after held up as a pattern of virtue! This wasthe more easily managed, when we consider the respective ages of the parties.

When once these lads left the school, their brides saw no more of them. The ladies, however, as soon as the schoolmaster’s authority was at an end, proclaimed their marriage in the village, called themselves by the gentleman’s name, had some allowance, particularly if there was a child in the case, and considered themselves a step higher in the ranks of society.

Henry was not yet seventeen, but he would be older before he finally quitted the school; and most of the S— B— weddings took place between mere boys and girls a few years their seniors.

A custom too prevailed in this village, and its vicinity, very favourable to suitors—we mean among the elevated rank of which we are now speaking. All received sweethearts, as theyare called, were permitted to sit the whole of the night by the embers of the kitchen fire, without witness or candle, beside the damsel to whom they wished to plead their cause. This indulgence was granted, whether scholar lad or labourer, on the plea of the swain, in either case, having no leisure for love-making by day. It was a custom, however, which David Park never permitted in his house, though he had himself been so favoured when courting Betsy’s mother.

It is reported in the village, that great confusion exists in the parish register, respecting the christenings and weddings of many families, including the butchers. We think, however, that it must be by a mistake of the old clerk, when a christening appears actually upon record before the wedding, the circumstance being quite out of the course of nature.

Betsy’s father, to do him justice, though he joined in wishing to see his daughter married to a gentleman, and though he was sturdily determined, if such a thing should ever happen, to have her publicly acknowledged; yet would he have disapproved of all the methods pursued by his wife for forwarding such views, had he been aware of them; nor did he permit the slightest familiarity in his presence, from the time that Betsy began to assume at all the appearance of a woman. Indeed he often took her seriously to task; and one memorable day, in particular, as he sat before his house fire, he drew his pipe, which he had been smoking for some time in moody silence, from his mouth, and addressed his daughter thus:—

“If thoo has a mind tle be a gintleman’s woife, or an honest man’s outher, kep thee sell’ to thee sell’, and behave theesell’ decently.”Turning half round, with both hands resting on his knees, he seemed to measure her height and form with his eyes, and then said, “Thoo’s gitting up, Bess! dinna let the lads owr nigh thee!” She blushed and smiled. “Coome,” he continued, “thoo may kiss thee fayther tho’!”

After a rough caress, he recommenced, still looking at her, “Thoo’s a fine lass thoo! It wad be a pity ti—a, that thoo shouldst coome tle ney bitter end, than tle mac devartion for scholar lads!—And sham to thee fayther!” he subjoined, after a pause, and in an altered tone.

After another pause he proceeded thus:—“Bonny devartion truly! bonny devartion! Nay, nay, Betsy, thoo’s worthy to be sum’ot bether nor that, my barne! If thoo sould niver be a gintleman’s woife, thoo may be a farmer’s woife, and ha’ plenty and decency roondthee aw thee days, and bonny bairns, like what thoo was thee sell, aboot thee. And when I’s tired wee killing swine,” he added, pleased with the picture he had drawn, “I can coome to thee chimney corner, and tack the wee things on my knee, and gee thee good-man sum’ot be the week for my leeving. I think I sould like that bether, after aw Betsy, nor yon gentleman hunting!”

“A weel, fayther,” said Betsy, affected, “and I’ll dee whativer thoo wilt. Bit Mr. Henry’s a nice enough lad, tee—a! and civiler grown nor he used to be.”

“Weel, weel, lass! Bit tack care o’ thee sell: the civiler the war, may be.”

That evening Henry brought one of his suppers to be cooked; and, among other good things, a jar of smuggled spirits, a delicacy which he had latterly contrived, by some secretmeans, to add to his feasts. On this occasion he seemed already to have taken himself a foretaste of the potent beverage. He found Betsy unusually distant. He kept following her about and deranging all her culinary proceedings, in the hope of provoking a game of romps. At last he got her up into a corner and kept teasing her, and coming up so close that it was impossible to get by without a struggle, which was just what he wanted. At this moment her father came in.

“Kep off the lass!” he cried; “kep off the lass!” And, pushing Henry roughly aside, he stood between him and his daughter. “I tell you what, Mr. Henry St. Aubin,” he said, “I been’t a gintleman, to be sure; bit she is my flesh and blood for au’ that, and the best gintleman in the land shan’t coome nigh hand her, withoot he gangs to church wee her first! She’sa fine lass, and a bonny lass, and a good lass; and worthy till be an honest man’s wife, and the mother o’ bonny bairns; and she sha’n’t be sport for scholar lads, as long as her fayther has twa hands tle knock him doon that mislests her!”

Henry laughed coarsely, and muttered some reply which did not seem to coincide exactly with David’s notions of delicacy; for he continued thus:

“Hoo durst yee tle spack in that undecent fashion afoor the lass? And what for do you look at her e that gate?”

Henry, whose usually slender stock of good manners had not received much addition from his late intercourse with the spirit jar, was getting provoked. He could think, at the moment, of no readier mode of venting his anger than that which the immediate power of insulting offered. He seized Betsy, therefore, in pretended jest, and began to pull her about rudely, in open defiance of David and decency. The father’s ire, at this, so got the better of him, that he forgot all his speculations.

“Git oot o’ my hoose!” he cried; and seizing Henry by the shoulders, he thrust him into the street, flinging the preparations for the supper at his heels, and exclaiming, “I’ll gar ye! ye greet gapping fiery-faced deevil! I’ll gar ye!”

Henry’s countenance, at the time, flushed with intoxication, rage, and insolence, at once suggested and justified the epithet of ‘fiery-faced deevil,’ bestowed by honest David.

The next time Henry found Betsy alone (though, fortunately for her, her father came in almost immediately) there was so much of ferocity in his manner; and the determined advances of the urchin, in despite of grave looks,partook so much more of revenge than of love, that Betsy was instinctively disgusted, and determined, though with tears, to think no more of him, and please fayther by marrying John Dixon.

Dixon was a young farmer in the neighbourhood, who could not help showing a partiality for Betsy, though he did not much like her intimacy with the scholar lads, nor the thoughts of her having romped so often with Mr. Henry. He got over all this, however, being a gentle-tempered, kind-hearted, rather simple young man; and, since he first fancied Betsy, disposed to melancholy.

The day was accordingly fixed for their wedding, when Henry, who had been forbid the house, contrived, by the mother’s means, to get an interview with the bride elect. He affected repentance for his late rudeness, pleaded excessive love by way of an excuse, and, rather than be ousted by the farmer, proposed marriage. Betsy shed tears of reconciliation, and poor John Dixon was dismissed.

CHAPTER XIII.“No green star tremblesOn its top, no moonbeam on its side.”“The blast of the desert comes,It howls in thy empty courts.”

“No green star tremblesOn its top, no moonbeam on its side.”“The blast of the desert comes,It howls in thy empty courts.”

“No green star tremblesOn its top, no moonbeam on its side.”

“The blast of the desert comes,It howls in thy empty courts.”

Therehappened to be a young man at this time expected in the village, who had received his early education at S— B— school, and who had been, for many years, the mate in mischief of Henry St. Aubin.

The young man, of whom we are speaking, was the only child of a lone woman who kept the bakehouse of the village. His father, whom he had never seen, had been, in the youthful days of his mother, a scholar lad. Themother was determined that her son should be, as his father had been, a gentleman! She devoted, therefore, the fruits of a life’s industry to educate him for the church. After such an exertion, however, she had no pocket-money left to give her darling, who, consequently, often wanted cash. He was selfish, and had no principles. His habits were low, yet, in their own petty way, expensive. His present return to the village was after a considerable absence. Henry hastened to the bakehouse at the moment of his arrival, and, taking him aside, asked him if he was yet ordained, “because,” continued Henry, without waiting for a reply, “if you are not, tell David you are, and pretend to marry me to Betsy. We’ll have rare fun and carousing at the wedding: and the next time my aunt fills my purse, I’ll go halves with you.”

Now, the young man was in orders already; but so good an offer as a carouse and even half a purse, was not to be cast away without consideration. Besides which, it might be ‘very convenient’ to have St. Aubin in his power; for though it was perfectly well known that Henry did not inherit any thing from his father, his future prospects from his aunt were equally well known not to be despicable; and, at any rate, she behaved so handsomely to him at present, that as a scholar-lad his purse was always tolerably well lined; it was not likely, therefore, that she would ever let him be without money, when he went into the world as a man. The conscientious young divine, accordingly, without more time for his calculations than whilst Henry spoke, told his friend that he was not yet ordained, and, at the same time, undertook that his mother shouldtell David (as well she might) that her son was in orders. “Indeed, for that matter,” he added, “it will be the safest way to make her think so herself.”

After this, it was easily arranged, with all parties, that Greyson (such was our hopeful churchman’s name) should perform the ceremony. It was to take place among the roofless ruins of S— B— Abbey, poor David having a prejudice in favour of his child being married in church, and the repaired part of the building, which is the present church, being of course locked. The little party, in contempt of canonical hours, left David’s house after midnight. They passed down the street, and all was silent. As they approached the little bridge, situated half-way between the village and the abbey, Betsy saw a man leaning over the battlements, seemingly looking on the wateras it glided from beneath the one low arch. She was sure, doubtful as was the light, for the moon was much obscured, that the figure was that of the young farmer. When they came to the gate which divides the road and school-house from the wide-spread ruins, they found it fastened, and were obliged to get over the stile. When elevated on the upper step of this, Betsy gave one look towards the bridge. The figure had left its position there. She passed her eye along the road, and could still discern it following at some distance.

“Make haste!” whispered Henry, hurrying her down the steps rather roughly. “You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?” he added, sneeringly.

Betsy’s heart misgave her, and she answered, with a heavy sigh, “If I have changed it ance, Henry, it’s no you ’at sould reproach me!”

“Hoot! if it is such a sighing matter,” he replied, “don’t break your heart to oblige me.”

“Tack care yee dinna brack it, Henry, nor my honest fayther’s nowther,” was Betsy’s answer. Then, mentally she added, “There’s ane ’at must be bracken, and that’s enew.”

At this moment a shadow passed along a moonlit wall beside them, and sunk in a dark archway before them. They soon entered the same archway; proceeded along the flags in front of the great western entrance; mounted some steps; walked on the northern high gravelled terrace, some way; then, leaving it, climbed over graves, and stumbled over tombstones, till, descending a rugged path, among nettles and long grass, they entered a part of the ruin which was without any roof. The walls, however, still rose to their full originalheight, till the starry sky seemed a canopy that closed them in; while, through a row of long, narrow, well-preserved arches, the moonlight streamed with an adventitious brightness, borrowed from contrast with the dark shadows in every other part. The entrance of our party, however, seemed the signal for all that had been bright to disappear. The moon, which had struggled for some time with the vapours of a hazy night, almost at the instant dropped behind a range of thick clouds near the horizon. She set a few moments after, and the haze thickening to a mizzling rain, the very stars became extinguished. It was slowly, therefore, and with difficulty, that the feet of our wanderers now advanced to the further or eastern end, where the altar is said to have once stood.

Our reverend divine here took a small dark lantern from his breast, unfastened its door, andopened before it a pocket prayer-book. By this time the darkness of all around was total, and added much to the strange effect of the partial gleam that lit up the book, the one hand that held it, and a part only of the one arm, the back of the lantern itself throwing a powerful shadow on the rest of the figure; so that the waving hand seemed a floating vision unconnected with any form, and the voice that arose out of the darkness behind it, almost supernatural! At the moment of its first sound, which, after the silence that had preceded it, seemed to startle every thing, an owl on the top of the ruins screamed. Betsy shuddered: the owl fluttered downwards, fell, as it happened, actually on the lantern, and, striking it out of the hand that held it, extinguished its light; then, having panted a moment at the feet of the astounded group, rose, and screaming again, brushed bytheir faces. A minute after, its cry was heard repeated, but fainter from the distance, for it now came from the highest point of the steeple.

“It’s no to be, fayther!” said Betsy, in a low voice, “it’s no to be!”

“Hoot!” said Henry, gruffly.

Betsy felt her hand, on the other side, taken in one that seemed to tremble. She thought, at first, it was her father’s; but just then she heard his voice on the far side of Henry, saying to the clergyman, “What’s to be done noo?”

“He kens it off book,” said Henry.

Greyson, who had engaged to swear whatever Henry said, alleged that, while he held the book in his hand, and repeated the words, it was the same thing as if he read them. Accordingly, with particular solemnity of tone, as if to compensate for the want of other requisites, he recommenced the ceremony.

Betsy felt the hand suddenly dropped, which had been all this time held against the throbbing heart of some one, whose laboured breathing she had distinguished close to her; not by sounds, those were apparently suppressed, but she had felt each warm sigh steal over that side of her neck and cheek. A moment after her hand had been dropped, she heard a slight movement among some loose stones at a little distance. The darkness was such, that she could not see any of the figures present.

David gave away his daughter: the ceremony was concluded, and they all began to make the best of their rugged way homeward. With much ado they got from among tombstones, and fragments of ruins. They passed the stile at the gate, even the bridge, and Betsy could see no traces of any one; but it was still very dark. At length they arrived atDavid Park’s door; it was opened, and a strong stream of light, pouring from it, crossed the street. David, the clergyman, and a friend of David’s, who had been taken as a witness, went in.

The bride and bridegroom, happening to be a little behind the rest, were following, when, just as Betsy put her foot on the threshold, she heard in the direction of the bridge a plunge, which, though distant, was distinct, from the perfect stillness of the night. She staggered back a few paces, drawing Henry with her.

“Oh, run! run!” she cried, pointing to the bridge, which was in a straight line from where they stood, so that any one who had been upon it might have seen the light of David’s open door, and the figures entering.

“Run where?” asked Henry.

“Yonder! yonder! Didna ye hear yon? I’s amaist sure its John, gane o’ur the brig for love o’ me!”

“And if it be,” replied Henry, “he may go. He shall have no help of mine!”

At this tender and considerate speech from the bridegroom, his young bride fainted away. She was carried into the house, without any one but Henry knowing the cause of her illness.

“My peur bairn’s doon-hearted wid yon darkling wedding, and that ne’er do weel o’a Jenny Owlet,” said David.

When Betsy recovered, which was not for a considerable time, she told her father her fears, and entreated him to go to the bridge.

“It was aw nonsense,” he said, “and no but fancy! The lad had na mickle to say for hissel, to be sure, bit he was no sic a feul as aw that; and if there had been ony body faud i’ the water, of a mischance, it wad be owr late tle help them noo.”

However, to satisfy his daughter, he walked down the road; but returned, saying, he could see nout. “It was no but yon Jenny Owlet again, or may be a wild duck; there plenty o’ them i’ the Senbee vale. And, what’s mare,” he added, “I wadend care an’ we had twa on them noo, twirling afoor this rouser.”

So saying, he placed himself in his own large chair before the said rouser, which he roused still more, with a gigantic poker, as was his invariable custom; while his wife laid on the board smoking dishes, one of which was graced, if not by two wild ducks, by two good tame geese. Henry, mean time, was preparing, scientifically, a large bowl of punch; to whichwas added, on the present occasion, several bottles of choice wine, purloined from the cellars of Lodore House.

In the morning, the miller who lives near to where the river ——, after wandering through the vale of S— B—, and passing under the bridge of which we have spoken, empties itself into the sea, found, stopped in its course, as it floated towards the ocean, by his mill-dam, the body of poor John Dixon. And Betsy was long before she could get it out of her mind, how his heart had beat against her hand so short a time before it lay still, and cold, in the mill-stream.

CHAPTER XIV.“My soul is tormentedWith fear! Ah, they are dead!”

“My soul is tormentedWith fear! Ah, they are dead!”

LadyL. had not increased her family since the birth of the twins, and they were, by this time, between four and five years old. Her ladyship now, however, expected to do so, and the event was to take place at Lodore.

Dr. Dixon, too, such was the almost superstitious confidence placed in him by Mrs. Montgomery, was to be again employed, which was matter of no small pride, as well as delight of heart, to the good old man.

He did not fail, as may be believed, to mention in every house in Keswick, and that before he felt a pulse, or even contemplated the hue of a tongue, that an humble individual like himself, had been selected to usher into this eventful life the future Earl of L. “For it would be a boy, no doubt,” ran on the Doctor, “as there are already two girls; lovely little creatures!—the Ladies Julia and Frances L. Both the future brides of noble earls, doubtless. But, respecting the seniority of the Lady Julia L.,” continued the Doctor, proud of having it in his power to give little people so much information about great people, “the circumstances are very remarkable—very remarkable, indeed! And if her little ladyship makes as good use of her time through life, as she did for the first three quarters of an hour, she will be fortunate—very fortunate—no doubt of it!Three quarters of an hour only, the elder of her fair sister; yet, by that short space, is her ladyship entitled to the sum of three thousand pounds per annum; to which fine property, situated in the shire of ——, her ladyship is, by the will of the late Major Morven, of age on the day that she completes her eighteenth year. The property has on it, the Earl tells me, a fine old family-seat, called the Craigs, with wood, they say, worth forty thousand pounds! The mansion, too, I understand, contains a gallery of invaluable pictures, a fine library, with service of plate, &c.”

The old gentleman made a very curious will, leaving the young lady entirely her own mistress, independent of father, mother, or guardian. “For,” said the good major, “I had not been an old bachelor, had they let me follow my own way in my youth.” “I was one of thewitnesses myself,” continued the doctor, “and heard him say these words. The major was gallant, you see, as all soldiers should be, and was determined that his will, should not thwart the will of a lady! The will! the will! Well, come, that’s very fair, a’n’t it?”

About this time, Mrs. Montgomery received a letter from the master of the S— B— school, stating, that he had been obliged, however reluctantly, to expel Mr. St. Aubin from his establishment, for the following offences, namely,—many scandalous irregularities, respecting the young women of the village; holding intercourse with the crew of a smuggling vessel, laying off S— B— head; absenting himself for days and nights, it is supposed on board the said vessel; and re-appearing in a shameful state of intoxication.

Soon after this epistle had been read, andbefore its contents had been half talked over, Henry himself arrived. Some charges he denied, others scoffed at; but did not succeed in satisfying Mrs. Montgomery.

He was sitting with her and Lady L. in the breakfast-room, which opens on the lawn. Speaking in answer to the account of his being supposed to have formed an unjustifiable intimacy, at least, if not a marriage, with Betsy Park, he said: “You must know, ma’am, the people of that village are always getting some one to swear that their daughters are married to every gentleman’s son in the school, just to extort money. They consider it quite a trade, I assure you,” he added; seeing that what he had said had made some impression. At this moment, a tradesman-like looking man appeared on the lawn.

On perceiving Henry, instead of directinghis steps to the regular entrance, he came up to the French window, or glass-door, which was standing open. Stopping a moment, he said, respectfully, to Mrs. Montgomery: “May I comeb ene, madam?” His dress and manner were so decent, and he seemed so much heated and fatigued, that, without hesitation, she said: “Certainly, sir.” He put the lifted foot, which had waited in that position for her reply, over the threshold, and, turning to Henry, said, in a determined manner: “Where is my Bess, sir? Where is my bairn?”

“You needn’t ask me,” replied Henry, turning pale, and speaking as though a lock-jaw were coming on; “the last I saw of her was in your own house.”

“Oh, doon’t say so, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed the poor man, clasping his hands entreatingly.

“It’s very true though,” said Henry, gaining courage.

“It’s not true!” returned David, with sudden fierceness, “or, if it is,” he added, changing again to accents of despair; “there’s nay body in this warld that kens whare she is!” He paused; then, with forced composure subjoined, “She gade oot o’ the hoose, the morn after yee gade away, and she’s niver cam back syne.”

“She is gone off with some sweetheart, I suppose,” replied Henry, affecting carelessness.

“For sham o’ yeersel!” cried David, “for sham o’ yeersel; and she at the doon-lying wid yeer bairn! Wha was she gang wid bit wid you? Ye ken weel enew, she was nane o’ that sort, or ye wad niver have been forced til mack her yeer wife.”

“She’s no wife of mine, man,” interrupted Henry, “and don’t dare to say so!”

“I will dare,” returned David, “til spack the truth.” Henry switched his boots with hiswhip, and whistled a tune. David continued—“She is your wife, Mr. St. Aubin; and your lawfu’ wife, afoor heaven, and lawfu’ witnesses beside.”

“Neither you, nor your false witnesses, can say that you saw us married,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh.

“If we didna, we heard yee,” replied poor David.

“Then it would seem, by your own confession, that you have nothing but hear-say to found your story upon,” wittily retorted master Henry. “You had better send the fellow away, ma’am,” he added; turning, as he hurried out of the room, to Mrs. Montgomery; who, together with Lady L., had hitherto listened in mute astonishment.

“Look yee theere!” cried David: “oh, madam, if my heart was na breaking withinmy body, I wad knock that young man doon at my feet.”

Mrs. Montgomery was about to speak, probably to reprove such violence.

“Hear me, madam!” he continued with solemn earnestness; “Yee’re a Christian woman, and a mother, I dar say. She was doon-lying, (as yon lady may be,) the neighbours aw kent she was wid bairn, and kent she was wedded and need na’ sham; then, whare wad she gang from her fayther, and her fayther’s hoose, in sic a straight, if she didna gang we him, whose wedded wife she was? Sweetheart, indeed! An the lass had been withoot sham hersel, whare’s the sweetheart at wad tack her awa, an she gone wid another man’s bairn?—Not his wife!—not his wife! An’ he thinks then, does he, to tack a vantage of yon darkling wedding? But I’ll tell you aw aboot it, madam,” he continued, gasping for breath. Then, with the utmost simplicity, he recounted every minute particular of Betsy’s wedding; the roofless ruin, the midnight hour, the fall of the owl, the consequent darkness, &c. &c.; and finding that his relation was listened to with interest, and evident compassion, he advanced a step nearer, grasped Mrs. Montgomery’s arm, with a hand that almost scorched her skin, and, lowering his voice, continued: “Oh, madam! bit what’s to come, is war than all; I went to Whiten like one distract, when Bess was missing; and theere, the ostler folk at ane o’ the Inn-yards, talt me sic a tale aboot a lady and a gentleman, at had been seen late at evening, walking ootby o’ the sands, a lang way aff. And hoo the gentleman, at darkling, cam back by his sel’; and cam ’intle the inn-yard, looking affeared like, and caw’d for a carriage; and hoohe walked up and doon, up and doon, on a bit o’ flag, nay longer nor yon table, aw the time the cattle war putting too; (the folk showed me the bit o’ flag;) and hoo, when ane on them asked him to remember t’ostler, hoo he looked at him, and never spack; and when he asked him again to remember t’ostler, hoo he started like a body at was wakened, and talt him te gang te hell; and gave him nout, and bad the driver drive on. I trembled fray head to foot,” continued David, “and I asked them—but, oh, I feard te hear what they should say in reply—I asked them, if the lass was na wid bairn; and—and—they answered——” Here the poor man became dreadfully agitated; threw up his arms and eyes a moment, then flung himself forward with violence on a table that stood before him, laid his face down on it, and sobbed audibly, uttering, in broken accents, the concluding words:—“They answered, she was wid bairn—it was why they notished her.”

“But what would you infer?” asked Mrs. Montgomery.

“Wha wad it be but Bess!” he replied, still sobbing. “And she did-na cam back,” he recommenced, raising his streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, as he joined complaint to complaint thus:—“And she’ll niver cam back! and she was aw I had! and I’ll niver see her bonny face more! nor her bairn, that I could ha’ loved for being Betsy’s bairn, if the deevil had been the fayther on’t! He has murdered her i’ the sands!” he added, sternly and suddenly, and he faced round as he spoke, “to be clean rid bathe o’ her and the bairn!”

“Silence! silence, man!” exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, in a voice of authority. Then,too much shocked and affected to experience, in full, the indignation she must otherwise have felt on hearing Henry thus accused, she added, “For heaven’s sake compose yourself! The horrible suspicion which agitates you in this dreadful manner, it is quite impossible should have any foundation! My nephew, however imprudent he may have been, is much too young a creature to have even thought of an enormity such as this!”

“Then where is Betsy?” said the poor man, looking up in her face.

“I shall insist on Henry’s declaring all he knows about her,” replied Mrs. Montgomery. “Depend upon it, she is perfectly safe in some lodging in Whitehaven, or some cottage in this neighbourhood, perhaps.”

The poor father smiled. It was a ghastly and a momentary smile. “Heaven grant it!” he ejaculated.

“Henry has behaved most imprudently,” continued Mrs. Montgomery, “in marrying, as you assure me he has done: and very wickedly, in endeavouring to deny it, when done; and I shall see that he does your daughter, if she be a modest girl, every justice, however ruinous to his prospects, ill-fated being! But you ought, indeed, my good man, you ought to take care, how you accuse any one, lightly, of such a crime as you have ventured to name! Were it not that I see your own internal sufferings are so dreadful, that you scarcely know what you say, and that it all proceeds from parental affection, in which I can sympathise, I should, indeed, be very much, and very justly offended!”

But there was no severity in Mrs. Montgomery’s tone: she looked, while she spoke, at her own daughter, and her mind glanced at what was, and what was not, parallel in situation, and she could have pardoned almost any extravagance in poor David.

“Weel, weel,” he replied, and forgetting ceremony, he sat down on a chair, and leaned back quite exhausted.

Lady L., who had felt for his extreme agitation, and had ordered wine to be brought in, now charitably offered him some, helping him herself. At this mark of condescension he attempted to stand up; but she saw he was unable, and would not let him. He took the glass from her; in doing so, a finger came in contact with the hand of Lady L.; its touch was like that of an icicle! He brought the wine near his lips; then, pausing, laid it on the table untasted, and said, “Bit wha could yon ha’ been, ’at went oot wid a young gintleman, and niver cam’ back, and was big wid bairn!”

“Possibly,” replied Mrs. Montgomery,“some lady, whose friends live in that direction, and who had no intention of returning.”

David took up the glass again; but it dropped from his hand, and he fell to the floor with a fatally heavy sound.

Mrs. Montgomery rang, called, begged Lady L. to sit down quietly in the next room, and not suffer herself to be agitated; then rang, and called again. Servants appeared, the doctor was sent for, bleeding, and every other method of restoring animation, resorted to, but in vain—poor David was no more! It was the doctor’s opinion, that his long and hurried journeys on foot, the frightful agitation of his mind, and the heat of the weather, had all together occasioned apoplexy.

Henry, when, a few days after this melancholy catastrophe, the subject was renewed, persisted in his assertions, that he had neverthought of marrying the girl; that she was a perfectly good-for-nothing creature, and, most probably, gone off with some fellow, whoever, perhaps, she had been most intimate with; though it was not a week since the father had had the insolence to threaten him, because he had spoken to the girl two or three times, with legal proceedings, forsooth.

Mrs. Montgomery was staggered, and puzzled, and knew not what to think. She wrote, however, to the master of S— B— school, but received, in reply, no more satisfactory information than the certainty that Betsy Park was missing. As to her character, she had always been considered dressy, and fond of the company of scholar lads.

If there was any truth in David’s having thought of taking legal proceedings, his sudden death seemed to have silenced his intended witnesses, for no person came forward. All, therefore, on which Mrs. Montgomery could decide was, that Henry’s profession should not be the church, as had been intended; and that she would settle some little pension on David Park’s widow.

CHAPTER XV.“Fruits, abundant as the southern vintage,O’erspread the board, and please the wand’ring eye,As each, from its moist and globular side,Reflects a ray, varied by its native hue;And all, through shelt’ring foliage shine, so placed,To give them tempting freshness: while Flora,Dispensing fragrance in the gayest forms,And brightest tints, that once fair ParadiseAdorned, flings all the loveliness of springO’er autumn’s ripen’d richness.”

“Fruits, abundant as the southern vintage,O’erspread the board, and please the wand’ring eye,As each, from its moist and globular side,Reflects a ray, varied by its native hue;And all, through shelt’ring foliage shine, so placed,To give them tempting freshness: while Flora,Dispensing fragrance in the gayest forms,And brightest tints, that once fair ParadiseAdorned, flings all the loveliness of springO’er autumn’s ripen’d richness.”

A socialparty of relatives, friends, and neighbours, were seated round the dinner-table at Lodore House. They have, it would seem, just dispatched the first two courses, and all important business thus concluded, they appearto be, at the present moment, trifling most agreeably with a summer dessert, consisting of clustering grapes, golden pines, velvet-cheeked peaches, &c. &c. These, crowning costly dishes, and decked with fresh leaves and gay flowers, resembled, as the shining surface of the board reflected each inverted heap, so many isles of plenty, scattered on a glassy sea. While, to keep up our simile, we may add, that cruising fleets of wine decanters sailed smoothly round and round, dispensing, wherever they passed, the sparkling juice of the foreign grape, with wit and gaiety as sparkling. The busy hum of voices still went on, some in the low murmur of flirtation, some in the loud debate of politics; while others, in medium tones, discussed the merits of the last new novel, opera, or play.

Mr. Jackson, who sat next to Mrs. Montgomery, addressing Henry, said—“Pray, Mr. St. Aubin, if the question is not an impertinent one, who might the man be, whom I saw part from you last evening, at the end of the wood leading into the shrubbery walks between this and my little place? I was much struck with his figure, and the insolence, I had almost said, of his step and carriage.”

Henry, at first, affected not to hear; but, on the question being repeated, answered, with over-acted indifference—“The fellow has been, I believe, a sailor. Begging, I fancy, is his present calling.”

“He doubted then,” rejoined Mr. Jackson, “either my ability, or my will to be charitable; for he did not beg of me. Indeed, he seemed disposed to get out of my way as fast as he could.”

“Possibly,” said Henry, “he feared that,as a magistrate, you might put into force the laws against vagrants.”

“There was something very remarkable in the countenance of the man,” persisted Mr. Jackson: “handsome, certainly; but the expression sinister in the extreme!”

“Expression,” repeated Henry with a sneer, “the man is deranged! You must have heard of a mad beggar about Whitehaven, who calls himself Sir Sydney Smyth: this is the fellow. I have been foolish enough to give him money, more than once, I believe; and, consequently, he now does me the favour to consider me in the light of an old acquaintance.”

“I thought,” said Mr. Jackson, “the man spoke in a strangely loud and dictatorial tone.—And so, he is a mad beggar! Well, I have dignified him amazingly: for he presented to my fancy, why, I scarcely know, the poetical idea of Milton’s devil, walking in paradise.The spot where I first observed him certainly is equal to any garden of Eden I have ever been able to imagine!”

“The parson is always in the heroics!” whispered Lady Theodosia to her next neighbour, Colonel B—: “the last time I was down here, he could talk of nothing but angels, I remember.”

At this moment, the beautiful little twins, now between four and five years old, were ushered in. After speaking to mamma, papa, grandmamma, &c. they took up their usual station, one at each side of Edmund, who helped them to fruit, ice, &c. Indeed he had so many requisitions of attention from both young ladies, and generally at one and the same moment, that he proved himself to have no mean talent for gallantry, in being able to turn with sufficient quickness from one to the other.

“Why, my little pupil will learn to be quitean accomplished ladies’ man,” observed Mr. Jackson, aside to Mrs. Montgomery.

“Then will the list of his accomplishments be complete!” said our old friend the doctor, who happened to catch the words, though across the table; “for I understand you are teaching him everything—absolutely everything! In short, erecting, on the substratum of ancient literature, an elegant structure, adorned with all the modern additions lately made to science, and inhabited by the muses!”

“Why,” said Mr. Jackson, who always answered seriously, however foolish the speech addressed to him; “I could not feel satisfied in communicating to a mind like Edmund’s, mere dry learning: he already shows a sensibility to what I call the poetry of nature, and indeed of everything, which quite delights me.”

A young lady, beside whom Henry satspeaking at the same time to her neighbour, observed, that the little beau had quite enough to do. “It is not every gentleman who can take as good care of even one lady,” she added, with a laugh.

Henry’s attention thus aroused, (for something had thrown him into a reverie,) he perceived that the lady’s plate was quite vacant. He started, apologized, and now heaped upon it every kind of fruit; making, at the same time, so many pretty speeches, that the young lady began to suspect that love, and that for herself, must have caused his absence of manner. Henry now appeared determined to be quite gay, and even full of frolic: and the young lady, restored to perfect good-humour, seemed highly amused by his efforts.

Edmund, and his two little ladies, were on the other side of Henry; Julia the nearest to him:whenever she looked away, he stole the fruit off her plate; and laughed much, in unison with his young lady, at her look of innocent astonishment, when she turned about; and at her instant application to Edmund, to get her more fruit; which, at the next opportunity, Henry would again steal. At length he was discovered; and Julia, without condescending to remonstrate, turned her shoulder as much as possible to him, and took better care of her plate; which she pushed with both hands quite close to Edmund’s.

Henry’s young lady, now seized with a strong veneration for justice, insisted on her swain’s making restitution of the heap of fruit, by this time collected before her. He, accordingly, slipped his hand over Julia’s head, and emptied the young lady’s plate on hers. Julia turned round; hustled back from off herown chair, and on to Edmund’s knee, supporting herself with one arm over his shoulder; and now, facing the enemy, she took up her plate in her other hand, slid off its whole contents on the table near Henry, still without speaking to him, and asked Edmund to give her more fruit; which he did.

“That is not polite, my dear,” observed Lady L.; “why should you throw Henry’s fruit away, and take the same kind from Edmund?”

“Because,” answered Julia, speaking distinctly, and with an air of importance and decision which amused every one, “I don’t love Henry, and I do love Edmund!”

“Explicit, upon my word!” said a gentleman at the other side of the table, who had been all day receiving alternate smiles and frowns from an heiress, to whom he was paying his devotions.

“You love poor Henry, then, I suppose,” said that gentleman’s fair neighbour to Frances.

“No, indeed!” said Frances; “I hate Henry!”

“And so do I!” said Julia.

The twins always made it a point to be exactly of the same opinion.

“You must not hate any one, my dears,” said Lady L., looking grave.

Frances was busily engaged arranging the grey hair of the doctor; and the better to effect her purpose, she was standing on tip-toe on the seat of her chair, with her little arms stretched eagerly across the wrinkled, smiling countenance of the good old man. While Julia, having kept the strong position she had at first taken up on Edmund’s knee, was sitting perfectly still.

“How marked at this moment,” observed Mr. Jackson, aside to Mrs. Montgomery, “arethe distinguishing characteristics of the two little girls! Quiescent,” he proceeded, “I should hardly know one from the other: the size, the fairness of the skin, the brilliancy of the red in the cheek, but especially the remarkable quantity of curling, floating, flaxen hair, is so exactly the same in both.”

“The eyes,” interrupted Mrs. Montgomery, “are a different colour.”

“Oh, yes; and in my opinion,” said Mr. Jackson, “the dark hazel is the most beautiful eye in the world! Yet, Frances’, it must be owned, have many of the poets on their side. Do look,” he added, “at the elastic spring of all her movements, and the picturesque air of her every attitude; while Julia’s grace is always that of repose, except at the moment of some immediate excitement—I mean, of the feelings, when the colour mounts, the eyessparkle, and all becomes energetic expression. That little creature will require the greatest nicety of management: her very warmth of heart may lead to a too great vehemence of character.”

“She has certainly a most affectionate disposition,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“And her gratitude,” pursued Mr. Jackson, “is quite a passion!”

“Well, gratitude can never degenerate into a fault!” resumed Mrs. Montgomery, “and the child is not in the least selfish; indeed, it is always in the cause of something oppressed or injured, that her little spirit rises: a bird, a fly, or I have seen her, after trying to beat Henry, sit down and cry over a crushed worm, that he had refused to step aside to spare.”

“She may require the stricter guard,” rejoined Mr. Jackson; “for, under the guise,and in the cause of generous feelings, we sometimes permit a warmth of temper to grow upon us, which we should have early subdued, had it appeared with a bare-faced front, and offered to fight our own battles.”

The rising of the ladies to retire, here put an end to the conversation.

In a day or two, Lady L.’s expected confinement took place. What were the rejoicings, bonfires, and illuminations, may be imagined, when we say, that the child was, as the doctor had prophesied, a son.

Back to Index Next