“Don’t call me Edith, sir! This continuedimportunity is insufferable! If you have any explanation to make, you must select a fitter time,” and the sliding-panel was instantly closed.
“Ye’ve cotohed it ony hoo!” said the shrimp, with a malignant leer. “Wauken up, Bauldy, my man, and let’s see how cleverly ye’ll gae through them!”
A few words of explanation satisfied our commanding-officer, and the victorious machine rolled insultingly through the lines. I have not spirits to narrate the further proceedings of that day. My heart was not in the squadron; and my eyes, even when ordered to be directed to the left, were stealthily turned in the other direction towards two distant figures in bathing-gowns, sedulously attempting to drown one another in fun. Shortly afterwards we dispersed, and returned to Edinburgh. I attempted a visit of explanation, but Miss Bogle was not at home.
I messed that evening for the first time with the squadron. Judging from the laughter which arose on all sides, it was a merry party; but my heart was heavy, and I could hardly bring myself to enter cordially into the festivities. I was also rather uneasy in person, as will happen to young cavalry soldiers. I drank, however, a good deal of wine, and, as I was afterwards informed, recovered amazingly towards the close of the sederunt. They also told me, next morning, that I had entered Masaniello to run for the Squadron Cup.
“And so you really forgive me, Edith!” said I, bending over the lady of my love, as she sate creating worsted roses in a parterre of gossamer canvass: “You are not angry at what happened the other day at that unlucky encounter on the sands?”
“Have I not said already that I forgive you?” replied Edith. “Is it necessary that I should assure you twice?”
“Charming Miss Bogle! you do not know how happy you have made me.”
“Pray, don’t lean over me so, or you’ll make me spoil my work. See—I have absolutely put something like a caterpillar into the heart of this rosebud!”
“Never, dearest Edith, may any caterpillar prey upon the rosebud of your happiness. How curious! Do you know, the outline of that sketch reminds me forcibly of the countenance of Roper?”
“Mr M’Whirter!”
“Nay, I was merely jesting. Pray, Miss Bogle, what are your favourite colours?”
“Peach-blossom and scarlet; but why do you ask?”
“Do not press me for an explanation—it will come early enough. And now, Edith, I must bid you adieu.”
“So soon? Cannot you spare a single hour from your military duties? Bless me, how pale you are looking! Are you sure you are quite well?”
“Quite—that is to say a little shaken in the nerves or so. This continued exertion”—
“Do you mean at mess? Mr Roper told me sad stories about your proceedings two nights ago.”
“Oh, pooh—nonsense! You will certainly then appear at the races?”
“You may depend upon me.”
And so I took my leave.
The reader will gather from this conversation, which took place four days after the events detailed in last chapter, that I had effectually made my peace with Miss Bogle. For this arrangement Mary Muggerland took much more credit than I thought she was entitled to; however, it is of no use quarrelling with the well disposed, especially if they are females, as, in that case, you are sure to have the worst of it in the long run. I did not feel quite easy, however, regarding, the insinuations thrown out upon my unusually pallid appearance. The fact is, that the last week had rather been a fast one. The mess was remarkably pleasant, and all would have been quite right had we stopped there. But I had unfortunately yielded to the fascinations of Archy Chaffinch and some of the younger hands, who, being upon the loose, resolvedto make the very most of it, and the consequence was, that, to the great scandal of Nelly, we kept highly untimeous hours. In fact, one night I made a slight mistake, which I have not yet, and may never hear, the last of, by walking, quite accidentally, into the house of my next-door neighbour—a grave and reverend signior—instead of my own, and abusing him like a pickpocket for his uncalled-for presence within the shade of my patrimonial lobby. It therefore followed that sometimes of a morning, after mounting Masaniello, I had a strong suspicion that a hive of bees had taken a fancy to settle upon my helmet—a compliment which might have been highly satisfactory to the infant Virgil, but was by no means suited to the nerves or taste of an adult Writer to the Signet.
Roper had been my guest at one of the late messes. His speech in returning thanks for the health of his regiment was one of the richest specimens of oratory I ever had the good fortune to hear, and ought to be embalmed for the benefit of an aspiring posterity. It ran somewhat thus—
“I assure you, sir, that the honour you have just conferred upon ours, is—yas—amply appweciated, I assure you, sir, by the wegular army. It gives us, sir—yas—the hiwest gwatification to be pwesent at the mess of such a loyal body as the South-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry. The distinguished services of that gallant corps, both at home andabwoad, are such as—yas—to demand the admiwation of their country, and—yas—in short, I feel compwetely overpowared. The bwoad banners of Bwitain floating over land and sea—chalk cliffs of old Albion, if I may be allowed the simile—wight hand of the service and left—wegulars and yeomanry—and the three corners of the world may come at once in arms, and be considewably shocked for their pains. Permit me again to expwess my extweme thanks for the honour you have done to ours.”
Now, on that evening, as I can conscientiously vouch, Roper contrived to deposit at least two bottles of claret beneath his belt. Any revelations, therefore, of what took place at our hospitable board, amounted to a gross breach of confidence, and were quite unpardonable; more especially when our relative situations with regard to the affections of Miss Bogle are considered. But Punic faith is the very least that one can expect from a rival.
On the review day, the whole regiment turned out under auspices of unusual smartness. We were to be inspected by a veteran officer of high rank and reputation, and, under those circumstances, we all thought ourselves bound in honour to support the credit of the corps. That was not remarkably difficult. You will hardly see anywhere a finer-looking set of fellows than the Mid-Lothianyeomanry, and our discipline, considering the short period of exercise, was really praiseworthy. In the words of our commanding-officer, he was justly proud of his recruits, and I can answer for it, that the recruits most cordially reciprocated the sentiment.
“Now, Anthony,” said Pounset, as we formed into line, “I shall really be obliged to you to make less clatter with that scabbard of yours when we charge. My mare is mad enough with the music, without having the additional impetus of supposing that a score of empty kettles are tied to her tail.”
“By jove, that’s a good one!” replied Anthony. “Here have you been bunging up my eyes and making attempts upon my ribs for the last week, and yet you expect me to have no other earthly consideration beyond your personal comfort! How the deuce am I to manage my scabbard when both hands are occupied?”
“Can’t you follow the example of Prince Charles, and throw it away?”
“Thank you for nothing! But, I say that sort of madness seems contagious. Here’s M’Whirter’s horse performing a fandango, which is far more curious than agreeable.”
“What’s the matter with Masaniello?” cried Archy Chaffinch; “he looks seriously inclined to bolt.”
I had awful suspicions of the same nature. No sooner had the regimental band struck up, than mycharger began to evince disagreeable signs of impatience; he pawed, pranced, snorted, curveted, and was utterly deaf to the blandishments with which I strove to allay his irritability. I was even thankful when we were put into motion preparatory to the charge, in the belief that action might render him less restive; and so it did for a time. But no sooner had we broke into a gallop, than I felt it was all up with me. I might as well have been without a bridle. The ungovernable brute laid back his ears like a tiger, and I shot past Randolph in an instant, very nearly upsetting that judicious warrior in my course.
Nor was I alone. Pounset’s mare, who never brooked a rival, and who, moreover, had taken umbrage at the sonorous jolting of Anthony, was resolved not to be outstripped; and, taking the bridle between her teeth, came hard and heavy on my flank. The cry of “halt!” sounded far and faint behind us. We dashed past a carriage, in which, from a momentary glimpse, I recognised the form of Edith; while a dragoon officer—I knew intuitively it was Roper—had drawn up his horse by the side. They were laughing—yes! by heavens they were laughing—at the moment I was borne away headlong, and perhaps to destruction. My sword flew out of my hand—I had need of both to hold the reins. I shouted to Pounset to draw in, but an oath was the only reply!
I heard the blast of the recall bugle behind us, but Masaniello only stretched out more wildly. We splashed through the shallow pools of water, sending up the spray behind us; and onwards—onwards we went towards Joppa, with more than the velocity of the wind.
“Have a care, M’Whirter!” shouted Pounset. “Turn his head to the sea if you can. There’s a quicksand right before you!”
I could as easily have converted a Mussulman. I saw before me a dark streak, as if some foul brook were stagnating on the sands. There was a dash, a splash, a shock, and I was catapulted over the ears of Masaniello.
I must have lost consciousness, I believe, for the next thing I remember was Pounset standing over me, and holding my quadruped by the bridle.
“We may thank our stars it is no worse,” said he; “that stank fairly took the shine out of your brute, and brought him to a stand-still. Are you hurt?”
“Not much. But I say, what a figure I am!”
“Not altogether adapted for an evening party, I admit. But never mind. There’s a cure for everything except broken bones. Let’s get back again as fast as we can, for the captain will be in a beautiful rage!”
We returned. A general acclamation burst from the squadron as we rode up, but the commanding officer looked severe as Draco.
“Am I to conclude, gentlemen,” said he, “that this exhibition was a trial of the comparative merits of your horses preparatory to the racing? Upon such an occasion as this I must say”——
“Just look at M’Whirter, captain,” said Pounset, “and then judge for yourself whether it was intentional. The fact is, my mare is as hot as ginger, and that black horse has no more mouth than a brickbat!”
“Well, after all, hedoesseem in a precious mess. I shall pass it over as a mere accident, but don’t let it happen again. Fall in, gentlemen.”
There was, however, as regarded myself, considerable opposition to this order.
“Why, M’Whirter, you’re not going to poison us to death, are you?” said Anthony Whaup. “Pray keep to the other side, like a good fellow—you’re not just altogether a bouquet.”
“Do they gut the herrings down yonder, M’Whirter?” asked Archy Chaffinch. “Excuse me for remarking that your flavour is rather full than fragrant.”
“I wish they had allowed smoking on parade!” said a third. “It would require a strong Havannah to temper the exhalations of our comrade.”
“Hadn’t you better go home at once?” suggested Randolph. “My horse is beginning to cough.”
“Yes—yes!” cried half-a-dozen. “Go home at once.”
“And if you are wise,” added Hargate, “take a dip in the sea—boots, helmet, pantaloons, and all.”
I obtained permission to fall out, and retired in a state of inconceivable disgust. Towards the carriage where Edith was seated I dared not go; and with a big and throbbing heart I recollected that she had witnessed my disgrace.
“But she shall yet see,” I mentally exclaimed, “that I am worthy of her! Once let me cast this foul and filthy slough—let me don her favourite colours—let me win the prize, as I am sure I ought to do, and the treasure of her heart may be mine!—You young villain! if you make faces at me again, I shall fetch you a cut over the costard!”
“Soor dook!” shouted the varlet. “Eh! see till the man that’s been coupit ower in the glaur!”
I rode home as rapidly as possible. I throw a veil over the triumphant ejaculations of Nelly at the sight of my ruined uniform, and the personal allusions she made to the retreat and discomfiture of the Philistines. That evening I avoided mess, and courted a sound sleep to prepare me for the fatigues of the ensuing day.
“Here is a true, correct, and particular account, of the noblemen, gentlemen, and yeomen’s horses, that is to run this day over the course of Musselburgh, with the names, weights, and liveries of the riders, and the same of the horses themselves!”
Such were the cries that saluted me, as next day I rode up to the race-course of Musselburgh. I purchased a card, which, among other entries, contained the following:—
Edinburgh Squadron Cup, 12 Stone.MrA. Chaffinch’sbr. g.Groggyboy—Green and White Cap.MrRandolphns. b. g.Capsicum—Geranium and French Grey.MrM’Whirter’sbl. g.Masaniello—Peach-blossom and Scarlet.MrHargatens. ch. m.Loupowerher—Fawn and Black Cap.MrPounset’sb. m.Miss Frolic—Orange and Blue.MrShakerleyns. b. g.Spontaneous Combustion—White bodyand Liver-coloured Sleeves.
Edinburgh Squadron Cup, 12 Stone.
MrA. Chaffinch’sbr. g.Groggyboy—Green and White Cap.MrRandolphns. b. g.Capsicum—Geranium and French Grey.MrM’Whirter’sbl. g.Masaniello—Peach-blossom and Scarlet.MrHargatens. ch. m.Loupowerher—Fawn and Black Cap.MrPounset’sb. m.Miss Frolic—Orange and Blue.MrShakerleyns. b. g.Spontaneous Combustion—White bodyand Liver-coloured Sleeves.
I made my way to the stand. Miss Bogle and Mary Muggerland were there, but so also was the eternal Roper.
“Ah, M’Whirter!” said the latter. “How do you feel yourself this morning? None the worse of your tumble yesterday, I hope? Mere accident, you know. Spiwited cweature Masaniello, it must be confessed. ’Gad, if you can make him go the pace as well to-day, you’ll distance the whole of the rest of them.”
“Oh, Mr M’Whirter! I’msoglad to see you!” said Edith. “How funny you looked yesterday when you were running away! Do you know that I waved my handkerchief to you as you passed, but you were not polite enough to take any notice?”
“Indeed, Miss Bogle, I had something else to think of at that particular moment.”
“You werenotthinking about me, then?” said Edith. “Well, I can’t call that a very gallant speech.”
“I’ll lay an even bet,” said Roper, “that you were thinking more about the surgeon.”
“Were you ever wounded, Mr Roper?” said I.
“Once—in the heart, and incurably,” replied the coxcomb, with a glance at Edith.
“Pshaw! because, if you had been, you would scarce have ventured to select the surgeon as the subject of a joke. But I forgot. These are times of peace.”
“When men of peace become soldiers,” retorted Roper.
“I declare you are very silly!” cried Edith; “and I have a good mind to send both of you away.”
“Death rather than banishment!” said Roper.
“Well, then, do be quiet! I takesuchan interest in your race, Mr M’Whirter. Do you know I have two pairs of gloves upon it? So you must absolutely contrive to win. By the way, what are your colours?”
“Peach-blossom and scarlet.”
“How very gallant! I take it quite as a compliment to myself.”
“M’Whirter! you’re wanted,” cried a voice from below.
“Bless me! I suppose it is time for saddling. Farewell, Edith—farewell, Mary! I shall win if I possibly can.”
“Good-by!” said Roper. “Stick on tightly and screw him up, and there’s no fear of Masaniello.”
“Where the deuce have you been, M’Whirter?” said Randolph. “Get into the scales as fast as you can. You’ve been keeping the whole of us waiting.”
“I’ll back Masaniello against the field at two to one,” said Anthony Whaup.
“Done with you, in ponies,” said Patsey Chaffinch, who was assisting his brother from the scales.
“Do you feel nervous, M’Whirter?” asked Hosier, a friend who was backing me rather heavily. “You look a little white in the face.”
“To tell you the truth—I do.”
“That’s awkward. Had you not better take a glass of brandy?”
“Not a bad idea;” and I took it.
“That’s right. Now canter him about a little, and you’ll soon get used to it.”
I shall carefully avoid having any future occasionto make use of my dear-bought experience. I felt remarkably sheepish as I rode out upon the course, and heard the observations of the crowd.
“And wha’s yon in the saumon-coloured jacket?”
“It’ll be him they ca’ Chaffinch.”
“Na, man—yon chield wad make twa o’ Chaffinch. He’s but a feather-wecht o’ a cratur.”
“Wow, Jess! but that’s a bonnie horse!”
“Bonnier than the man that’s on it, ony how.”
“Think ye that’s the beast they ca’ Masonyellow?”
“I’m thinkin’ sae. That man can ride nane. He’s nae grupp wi’ his thees.”
These were the kind of remarks that met my ears as I paced along, nor, as I must confess, was I particularly elated thereby. Pounset now rode up.
“Well, M’Whirter, we are to have another sort of race to-day. I half fear, from the specimen I have seen of Masaniello, that my little mare runs a poor chance; but Chaffinch will give you work for it—Groggyboy was a crack horse in his day. But come, there goes the bell, and we are wanted at the starting-post.”
The remainder of my story is short.
“Ready, gentlemen?—Off!” and away we went, Spontaneous Combustion leading, Miss Frolic and Groggyboy next, Randolph and myself following, and Hargate bringing up the rear on Loupowerher, who never had a chance. After the first few seconds, when all was mist before my eyes, I felt considerablyeasier. Masaniello was striding out vigorously, and I warmed insensibly to the work. The pace became terrific. Spon. Bus. gradually gave way, and Groggyboy took the lead. I saw nothing more of Randolph. On we went around the race-course like a crowd of motley demoniacs, whipping, spurring, and working at our reins as if thereby we were assisting our progression. I was resolved to conquer or to die.
Round we came in sight of the assembled multitude. I could even hear their excited cries in the distance. Masaniello was now running neck and neck with Groggyboy—Miss Frolic half-a-length before!
And now we neared the stand. I thought I could see the white fluttering of Edith’s handkerchief—I clenched my teeth, grasped my whip, and lashed vigorously at Masaniello. In a moment more I should have been ahead—but there was a crash, and then oblivion.
Evil was the mother that whelped that cur of a butcher’s dog! He ran right in before Masaniello, and horse and man were hurled with awful violence to the ground. I forgive Masaniello. Poor brute! his leg was broken, and they had to shoot him on the course. He was my first and last charger.
As for myself, I was picked up insensible, and conveyed home upon a shutter, thereby fulfilling to the letter the ominous prophecies of Nelly, who criedthe coronach over me. Two of my ribs were fractured, and for three weeks I was confined to bed with a delirious fever.
“What noise is that below stairs, Nelly?” asked I on the second morning of my convalescence.
“’Deed, Maister George, I’m thinking it’s just the servant lass chappin’ coals wi’ yer swurd.”
“Serve it right. And what parcel is that on the table?”
“I dinna ken: it came in yestreen.”
“Give it me.”
“Heaven and earth! Wedding-cake and cards!Mr and Mrs Roper!”
“
Do you remember that pretty cottage we passed in our ride round Silvermead, last Tuesday?” inquired my friend L——, some days ago, as we were mounting our horses for an equestrian lounge. “We were pressed for time that evening, or I should have liked to show you the interior of the little dwelling, and to have introduced you to its worthy humble owners, who are old friends of mine, and not the least respected on my list. What say you, shall we take the ‘Peasant’s Nest’ in our round to-day?” The proposal met my willing acquiescence, and an hour’s quiet amble through a richly wooded and beautifully diversified part of the country brought us to a short straight lane, half-embowered by luxuriant hedges on either side, and (except a half-worn cart-track) carpeted with the greenest and softest turf, which terminated in agateway to a small meadow, and in a low green wicket in the centre of a sweet-brier hedge; behind which, and two intervening flower-knots on either side the neat gravel-walk, stood the little dwelling which had attracted my attention on a former day by its air of peculiar neatness and comfort, and even rustic elegance. Its thatched roof (a masterpiece of rural art) had just acquired the rich mellowness of tone which precedes the duller hue of decay, and when the last rays of a golden sunset touched it in flickering patches through the dark foliage of overhanging elms, it harmonised, and almost blended in brilliancy of colour, with the brightest blossoms of the buddlea, which, overtopping its fellow-trailers, seemed aspiring to meet and dally with the sunbeams, and almost to rival them with its topaz stars.
Moss-roses were budding round each of the wide low casements on either side the door, over which a slight arch of rustic trellis-work supported a mass of rich dark foliage, soon to be starred with the pale odorous flowers so typical of virgin purity; and far along the low-projecting eaves on one side of the cottage, ran the flexile stems and deep verdure of the beautiful luxuriant plant, till it reached and formed a bowery pent-house over a long open lattice, through the wire-work of which brown glazed pans were discernible, half-filled with rich creaming milk, and pats of neatly printed butter—yellowas the flower which gilds our summer meadows—ranged with dairy-woman’s pride on the wet slab of whitest deal.
The master of the cottage—a respectable-looking old man—was so intently occupied in tying up some choice pheasant-eyed pinks in one of the flower-knots, that he had not heard the quiet pacing of our steeds down the green bowery lane, and was only roused from his floral labours by the salutation of my friend, as we dismounted before the low wicket-gate, and, hooking our bridles to its side-posts, prepared to enter the little territory. Starting from his flower-bed, the old man, at sight of us, respectfully uncovered his grey head, and came forward as quickly as was compatible with the state of limbs crippled by rheumatic gout, to admit and welcome his visitors with something beyond rustic courtesy.
“Ah, Hallings!” said my friend, cordially shaking hands with his humble acquaintance, whose countenance brightened with pleasure at the kind greeting—“here you are at your favourite work; no wonder your garden is celebrated for the most beautiful flowers in the neighbourhood, for you and Celia tend them, I verily believe, night and day; and as for those pinks—which are, I know, the pride of your heart—you may rest content, for they are the pride of the country. Remember, Mrs L—— has your promise of a few slips at the proper season.”
“Be pleased to look, sir at these few plants I havemade free to pot for Mrs L——,” answered the venerable Hallings, with a glance of conscious pleasure, not unmingled with pride, as he directed my friend’s attention to some perfect specimens of the choice flowers in question: “I will send them down to the lady to-morrow morning by my brother’s cart, and Celia and I shall be proud to think madam will accept them, and set some store, may be, on our poor offering, for the remembrance of old times, and the sake of those who are gone. You may remember, sir, how our dear lady prized this particular sort?”
“Well do I remember it, and those old times you allude to, my good Hallings. Methinks at this moment I can see your worthy venerable master, and his faithful companion and friend, the dear sister of whom you speak;—he, with one of these, her choice flowers, in his button-hole when he came into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, and she often assisted to her seat during her slight attacks of gout by Mrs Hallings, her faithful Celia. I believe, Hallings, Mrs Eleanor used to send her brother a daily present, for his afternoon toilet, of one of these rare beauties—was it not so?” asked my friend, with a smile; the good-humoured archness of which soon, however, changed to a more serious expression, as he observed that the old man’s voice faltered in his attempted reply, and that he hastily drew his sleeve across his eyes, todisperse the watery film which had gathered over them while Mr L—— was speaking.
“But come, Hallings,” said the latter, quickly changing the subject that had struck painfully on a too sensitive chord in the old man’s heart—“I am come not only to visit you and your flowers, but my old friend, Celia; and I have promised, in her name, a frothing glass of red cow’s milk, fresh from the pail, to this gentleman, Mr Hervey, who complained of thirst in our way hither.”
Recovering from his momentary emotion, the master of the cottage threw open its latched door, and respectfully made way for us to enter the little carpeted parlour, where his well-assorted partner (my friend’s friend, Celia) sat smoothing her apron, in expectation of the visitors, the sound of whose voices had reached her through the open casement.
The comely dame who rose up at our entrance, and dropt to each a curtsy that would not have dishonoured the patrician graces of her revered lady and prototype, the late Mrs Eleanor Devereux, was still comely for her years—“fat, fair, and sixty” and exhibiting, in her prim neatness of person, the antiquated but becoming fashion of her dress, and her profound respectfulness, untinctured by anything like cringing servility to those she considered her superiors, no unfavourable specimen of the housekeeper and waiting-woman of former days—of a class now almost extinct, as the times in whichit flourished are accounted obsolete—when better feelings, and more Christian principles than those which loosely huddle up our modern mercenary compacts, based and cemented the mutual obligations of masters and servants, of the great and their dependants—when there was dignity in the humblest servitude, and meekness in the most absolute authority—self-respect on both sides, and the fear of God above all.
The cottage parlour contained the unusual luxury of a sofa, from which Mrs Hallings affected to brush, with her snowy apron, the dust that could scarce have been perceptible to “microscopic eye,” as she courteously begged us to be seated; and her husband, as he shook up one of the end cushions to make the corner seat, into which L—— had thrown himself, more commodious, said, smiling, as he addressed himself to me,—“You may well wonder to see such a piece of furniture in a poor man’s house, sir, but my poor master had it put for me into my own room at the Hall, when I had my first fit of the gout there, and we made shift to buy it, and a few others of the old things that were so natural to us, when all was sold;” and the old man’s speech, that had begun cheerfully, ended in a deep sigh.
“Ah, Hallings! I wish with all my heart more had fallen to your share of the venerable relics that fell into far other hands at that revolting sale,”observed L——, echoing the faithful servant’s sigh; “but I love to look at those few familiar things you have saved from the unhallowed hands of indifference. Look, Hervey,” he continued, turning to me, “at that beautiful shell-work basket on the bracket, yonder. It is the work of that dear and venerable friend whose loss, and that of her excellent brother, you have heard me lament so deeply and sincerely.”
The object to which my attention was so directed, was a beautiful specimen of female ingenuity, an elegantly formed corbeille of flowers, imitated from nature, with art little less than magical, considering the nature of the materials employed in its construction. The elegant trifle, now the boast of a poor cottage, might have been conceited by a fanciful gazer to have been the work of sea-nymphs, for the pearl grotto of their queen; but a nearer inspection must have assigned it to mortal fingers, for the name of “Eleanor Devereux” was inlaid with minute gold-coloured shells in a dark medallion, that formed the centre of the basket.
“That was not bought at the sale, sir,” said Mrs Hallings, drawing towards the precious relic I was inspecting, and regarding it herself with looks of almost devotional reverence. “Be pleased to read what is written there, sir,” she added, in a voice not sufficiently steady to have articulated the sentence to which she pointed, written apparently with atrembling hand, in old Italian characters, on a slip of paper, laid within the glass cover of the basket. I looked as she directed, and read,
“The work of Eleanor Devereux.Her last gift to her old and faithful servant, Celia Hallings.”
“The work of Eleanor Devereux.Her last gift to her old and faithful servant, Celia Hallings.”
“This is indeed a precious relic,” I remarked, in a low voice, and with not unmoistened eyes. Those of the good woman to whom I spoke were filled to overflowing; but with that modesty of feeling which is a sure test of its deep sincerity, she quietly drew back, and left the room, on “hospitable cares intent,” in quest of the “brimming bowl,” for which my friend had preferred our joint petition. During her absence, L—— continued to talk with his old acquaintance on the subject so deeply interesting to both the speakers, and not a little so even to myself, a stranger in the neighbourhood, and uninformed of more than the general character of the deceased person of whom they discoursed with such affectionate and melancholy sympathy. My friend had noticed in the looks and tone of Hallings, and even in his wife’s, during the few moments she had remained with us, a troubled and sorrowful expression, far different from the placid cheerfulness with which they had been wont to receive him, since Time had mellowed their affliction for the loss of those they had served with life-long fidelity; and even from the tender seriousness of their manners, when reverting—asit was their delight to do—to the revered memories of the departed, and the fond ones of days that were gone.
On L——’s gently hinting his fear that some recent cause had arisen to disturb the serenity of his worthy friends, the old man shook his head in mournful affirmation of the implied suspicion; and, after a moment’s pause to subdue the tremor of his voice, answered,—“Oh, sir! I am ashamed you should see how my poor wife and I are overcome by the work which has been going on for this last fortnight, and to which almost the finishing-stroke has been put this very day. And I, old fool that I am! have hardly been able to keep away from the place, sir! though every stroke of the masons seemed like a blow upon my heart, and every stone that fell, like a drop of blood from it. And poor Celia! though she kept at home, could hear the sounds even here. Grief has sharp ears, sir.”
“Ah, is it even so, my good friend?” said L——, affected even to tears. “I have been away from home almost this month, you know; I had not heard what was going on. So then the old Hall is no more? I have looked my last at its venerable walls. Would I had returned a few days earlier—in time to have seen but one fragment standing.”
“That you may do yet, sir! that you may do yet,” sobbed out the old servant, with a burst of now uncontrolled feeling; “onefragment is still standing,half of the south gable, and a part of the north side wall,—just the corner ofonechamber, with the bit of flooring hanging to it. My master’s own chamber, sir, and the chair in which he died stood in that very corner, on those crazy boards that will be down to-morrow.”
“Then, Hallings, I must go this very evening—this very moment, to take my farewell look at all that remains—that last remaining portion so sacred to my feelings and to yours.”
So saying, L—— started from his seat just as Celia entered, followed by her little handmaiden (an orphan relation of her husband’s, the adopted child of the worthy couple), and placed on the shining round table a collation of dairy luxuries and fresh-gathered strawberries, hastily arranged with a degree of simple good taste, too nearly approaching elegance to have been acquired by one accustomed only to provide for poor men’s tables.
Our kind hostess was in no present mood “gailyto press andsmile,” but she did press us to partake of her rustic dainties, with such earnest yet modest importunity, that it would have been worse than churlish to have slighted her invitation, if even my parched and thirsty palate had not made the sight of the creaming milk-bowl, and a second of clear whey, irresistibly tempting. While I did ample justice to the merits of those refreshing fluids, and my friend partook more sparingly, he endeavouredto persuade Hallings from accompanying us, as the old man prepared to do, to a scene, the recollection of which affected him so painfully. But the remonstrance was fruitless.
“I have not takenmy own lastlook, sir,” was the touching and unanswerable reply; “and that I was minded, please God, to take, when all the workmen had left the place, and I could stand and look my fill at the crumbling wall, without being distracted by their noises, or scoffed at belike for giving way to an old man’s weakness. But my master’s friend will make allowance for his old servant, and it will do me good to go with you, sir.”
We both felt that he was right; that, as he expressed it, itwould do him goodto take that “last look,” accompanied by one who could so fully sympathise in all his feelings, and to whom he could pour out his full heart with the garrulous simplicity of age, and of a sorrow, heart-seated truly, butnot“too deep for tears.” So he was allowed to secure our steeds in an adjoining cowshed, while we talked with Celia on the subject that day uppermost in her thoughts also; and having calculated with her that the nearly full moon would be up by our return, to light us on our homeward way, we left her standing on the threshold of the back door of her cottage, and followed her husband down the garden path which opened into a small orchard (a portion of his little property), and led through it to a narrow stile,over which we passed into some beautiful meadows, appertaining, as Hallings informed me, to the Devereux Hall estate, three of them only intervening between his own little territory and the old mansion-house, or rather the site where it had stood. “Ay,” continued the old man, in a low under-tone, half communing with himself, and half addressing me,—“Ay, so it is—to think what changes I have lived to see! The Hall down in the dust before its time, and that hard man’s house raised (as one may say) upon its ruins! Blessed be the kind master who provided for his old servants’ age, and secured tothemthe shelter of their humble roof-tree, before misfortune fell on his own grey hairs, and would have made him houseless at fourscore years and upward, had he lived a few weeks longer! But—but—God is merciful!——” The old man devoutly aspirated after the abrupt pause, accompanied with a sort of inward shudder, which preceded those pious words; and he spoke no more during the remainder of our walk.
A shade of peculiar solemnity passed over my friend’s countenance, as Hallings concluded his brief soliloquy, and both of them became so profoundly silent, sympathetically affected as it seemed by the same shuddering recollections, that the infection partly extended itself to me, ignorant as I was of the particular circumstances of their painful retrospect, and the words died on my lips asI was about to inquire Hallings’ meaning in alluding to the “hard man, whose house had been raised on the ruins of his master’s.” I could not for worlds have broken into the sacredness of their silent thoughts; so, without further interchange of words, we quietly pursued our pleasant path, till it brought us to a boundary of thick hazel copse, across a stile, and over a rustic bridge, which spanned a little trout-stream just glancing between the boughs of over-arching alders, to a green door in a high holly hedge. While Hallings stept before us to undo the temporary fastening with which the workmen had secured it for the night, my friend, aroused from his fit of abstraction, said, pointing to the hedge, “I remember the time when that verdant wall, now straggling into wild luxuriance, was as trimly kept as were those of Sayes Court, before the barbarous sport of Evelyn’s imperial guest destroyed his labour of years. Neglect is making progress here, destructive as that royal havoc, though more gradual.”
Our venerable conductor having unfastened the door while L—— was speaking, we passed into a square enclosure, or rather area; for though still bounded on three sides by the noble evergreen hedge, it was open on the fourth to a dreary site of demolished walls and heaps of rubbish, in place of what had been the ancient mansion of the Devereuxs. The small garden (for such it was, thoughnow a trampled field of desolation) had been called more especially Mr Devereux’s garden. The glass-door of his library, and its large bay-window, as well as that of his bed-chamber above, had opened into it, and in this small secluded but sunny and cheerful spot it was that the old man had loved best to spend his solitary and contemplative hours.
Under the hedge on the side we had entered, had stood a range of bee-hives, the ruins of which were still remaining, though little more than heaps of mildewing thatch, and long deserted by the industrious colonies, to watch whose labours had been among the innocent pleasures of Mr Devereux; and Hallings pointed out some fragments of green trellis-work, in the angle of the holly wall, which had formed part of the old man’s favourite arbour, where he would sit for hours with his book, or enjoying the ceaseless humming of the bees, as they gathered in their luscious harvest from the herbs and flowers he had collected in that quarter of the garden for their delight and sustenance.
“And they knew my master, sir,” said Hallings, turning to me, and appealing to L—— to confirm the truth of his assertion—“They knew my master, and, poor small creatures as they were, must have loved him too in their way, as every living thing did; for they used to buzz all round him as he sat there, and often pitch upon him, even upon his hands or head, and never one was known tosting him, vengeful as they were if strangers made too free near their hives, or among the flower-beds my master used to call their pleasure-grounds.”
“What has become of old Ralph and the tortoise, Hallings?” asked L——, as he stopt to take a melancholy survey of the altered scene. “The gold-fish, of course, have been long destroyed, for I see the little basin with its small fountain is quite choked up with dead leaves and rubbish.”
“Mr Heneage Devereux took out the gold-fish, sir, the week after my master’s death,” replied the old butler; “but the tortoise had buried himself for the winter; and when he crawled out the spring afterwards, and took to his old haunt in the basin, one would have supposed he found out the change that had taken place, for the creature was quite restless; and I often found him out of the water, and making his way about the garden, as if in search of something; and for a long, long time, old Ralph and he—for Ralph is living, sir, and you will see him presently—he and the old raven were the only living creatures, beside the birds, that did not desert the poor old place—except myself indeed. I could never keep away from it a whole day together, and I used to come here to feed old Ralph too; for it was long before we could lure him to the cottage for his food, and now he is almost always here, and hides himself for the most part in thegreat bay-tree there in the corner, where part of the north gable is still standing.”
As he spoke, we coasted leisurely along the hedge-side walk, as carefully (though almost unconsciously) avoiding to tread the beds it skirted, as if they were still filled with choice flowers, or fragrant and aromatic herbs, or matted hoops, or hand-glasses guarding the rarer or tenderer plants, bulbs, and auriculas, once (L—— observed) the pride of that small garden. The forms of those fair flower-knots were still discernible from their edgings of thrift, box, daisy, London pride, now grown, however, into perfect hedges, where still untrampled, or into ragged bushes, still indicating the once clipt line of geometrical exactness, as each bed radiated to a centre, where lay the little basin with its fairy fountain before alluded to. Some large stone flower-pots, green and discoloured with damp and weather-stains, were still standing round it in mockery of decoration. From two or three shot up a luxuriant growth of common weeds; in one, a beautiful foxglove, exulting as it were in plebeian pride and brilliancy over its aristocratical neighbour in an adjoining vase, a delicate and sickly Persian lilac, whose pensile sprays drooped languidly even under their scanty growth of yellow leaves and pale and stunted blossoms. Here and there, within the flower-knots, bloomed a tuft of double white narcissus, struggling through grassand matted vegetation. Some tall fris’s, white lilies, and other hardy flowers, had also shot up into beauty or fair promise; but the elegant moss-rose drooped to the earth, as if in sorrow, and its half-blighted buds lay cankering on the moss-grown path. The scene, desolate as it was, would still have been one of beauty in decay, had the work of destruction been wrought by “Time’s defacing fingers” only; but man’s more desecrating touch was too perceptible there; and, independently of peculiar circumstances and associations, there is a wide difference between the pleasing melancholy which loves to meditate among ivied and moss-grown ruins, and that painful feeling with which we contemplate the newness of untimely desolation. It was a ghastly sight even to a stranger’s eye, that of the gaping void left along one entire side of the little garden by the demolition of the old mansion; and the dreary effect of that blank exposure was not a little heightened by the contrasting incongruity of the prospect beyond, where the great gateway to what had been the principal entrance-court stood perfectly isolated and entire. The beautiful gate of iron open work closed between the massy side-pillars, on each of which the lion couchant of the Devereuxs still kept watch and ward as proudly as when that gate had unclosed in the last reign of the Tudors to admit a royal visitant and her courtly train.
On either side, the ballustraded wall was wholly removed, so that the eye ranged on, unimpeded but by the solitary gateway, down a triple avenue of magnificent elms, in whose tall tops the dark people, who from generation to generation had built there unmolested, were fast assembling for the night; the mingled sounds of their hoarse cawing, and the rustling of innumerable wings, adding in no slight degree to the impressive sadness of that scene and hour.
We were now standing on the lime and brick-strewn site of what (L—— informed me) had been the Library. All around us, the vaults and cellarage below were laid open to view through the bare rafters, from whence the flooring and pavement had been removed; but the boards were not yet torn up from that one small spot—so small in its unwalled exposure, which had been so recently an apartment of noble dimensions, furnished with the collected wisdom of successive ages! At one end it was of those few square yards of flooring, that a part of the gable, including a stack of chimneys, was still standing. We stood on the hearthstone of what had been the Library fireplace; and high above us, in the naked wall, yawned a corresponding aperture, belonging to the upper chamber, which had been Mr Devereux’s bedroom, the flooring of which had been rent away with the side and partition walls, all but a small portion which hung slantingfrom a few rafters still adhering to the remaining corner of the end gable. The eyes of my companions seemed drawn by sympathetic impulse towards that forlorn remnant; and, calling to mind the words of Hallings, I was at no loss to account for the deep and sorrowful interest with which they dwelt upon it. After a long pause, a look of intelligence passed between them; and the old man, first breaking silence, said, with a deep sigh,—“That is the very place, sir! The very spot where I stood by the easy-chair in which my dear master breathed his last, his head supported on my shoulder.”
“And it was there you found him, was it not, Hallings, when”——
“Yes, sir! yes! there, in that very spot, from whence, as you see, he could just reach the mantel-shelf, where stood”—But here the old servant stopt abruptly, glancing towards me a look of troubled consciousness; and L——, hastening to relieve his embarrassment, said, “Fear nothing, good Hallings, from my friend Hervey here! He is one from whom I have no secrets—who would feel as you and I do on the subject of your thoughts, if he were acquainted with it. But neither you nor I must now dwell on it longer. You have said it, Hallings—‘God is merciful!’ To Him we commit the issue. And now, a long farewell to Devereux Hall!”
So saying, my friend cast round him one long leisurely survey of the desolated spot, turning again, and lingering yet a moment on what had been the threshold of the glass door into the Library. The short twilight was already brightening into silvery moonlight, edging the dark glossy leaves of the old bay-tree by the ruined gable, towards which its tall spiral top (just agitated by a passing breeze) swayed with slow and melancholy motion, while a shivering sound ran through the crisped foliage and long rustling branches, like whisperings and lamentations of good genii departing from the scene of their long-delegated guardianship. As he gazed with these “thick-coming fancies” on the fine old evergreens, so magnificent in sombre beauty, I was startled by the sudden disturbance of its lower boughs, and by a sound proceeding from them more hoarse and deep, if not more ominous, than the low unearthly murmurs I had been listening to with such excited feelings. My exclamation roused Hallings from the abstraction he had fallen into while taking his farewell look at all that remained of the venerable mansion, and, turning towards the object at which I pointed, he said, with a sad smile, “It is my old fellow-servant, sir! the only one besides me that haunts the place now; but it is time he should leave it too, for eventhattree, my master’s favourite tree, that he planted when a child with his own hands, will be cut down to-morrow.”So saying, he gave a low whistle, and calling, “Ralph! Ralph!” the well-known signal was acknowledged by an answering croak, and a huge raven, hopping to the ground from his dark covert in the interior of the bay-tree, came towards Hallings with sedate and solemn gait, and, first eyeing the old man’s countenance with a look of almost human intelligence, perched upon his extended wrist, and suffered himself to be borne on it as we retraced our steps toward the cottage, discoursing (I could have fancied) by sidelong glances at his kind supporter, of the departed glories of their master’s house, and their last look at its untimely ruins.
Our ride home—our pleasant moonlight ride! was performed almost in silence. My friend’s thoughts were busy with sad and tender recollections, and mine with the scene from whence we came, and the persons and circumstances I had heard so tenderly spoken of, and mysteriously alluded to. “I must hear more before I sleep,” was my inward soliloquy, as we reined up our steeds at the lodge gate; and forthwith I obtained a promise from L—— that he would gratify my curiosity before we retired for the night. My fair hostess was able and willing to contribute her shareof information on a subject not less interesting to her than to her husband; and from their mutual reminiscences I made out a little history of the last Devereux, uneventful, indeed, for the most part, and not perfectly explanatory in its latter details, but such a one as may be listened to without impatience by the indulgent hearer, who has accompanied me unwearied in my pilgrimage to the cottage of Matthew Hallings, and to the desolated site where so lately stood the venerable fabric of Devereux Hall.
The late Mr Devereux and his sister, said my friend, were the only children of Roger Devereux, Esq., and Dame Ethelred, his wife, whose venerable and dignified old age I well remember, for it was extended to such a patriarchal term, that “the young folks” (as they were wont to term their son and daughter, “the young Squire and Miss,” as Mr Reginald and Miss Devereux were called by the servants and tenantry) had attained—the former to the mature age of fifty years—the latter to that of forty-eight, before the children were called on to pay the last duties to those dear and honoured parents, to whom they had been children indeed—in a sense of the word little understood in our day of enlightened liberality, when, for the most part, the obsolete virtues that were then thought beautiful and becoming in the filial character (deferential tenderness and submissive duty), are cast asidewith other antique trumpery, and triumphantly superseded by the improved system of familiar intercourse, on terms of perfect equality, friendly and confidential, or cold and ceremonious, according to the character and circumstances of the parties, whose filial and parental relations, like those of “the beasts that perish,” appear to cease with the flight of the young brood, or the sprouting of its pen-feathers. I can remember that when I was an idle boy, the antiquated fashions of Devereux Hall sometimes excited in me “a laughing devil,” that was scarcely repressed by the frowning of my anxious mother, or my own profound veneration for our excellent friends and neighbours—and that the wicked spirit had nearly got the better of me on more than one occasion, when Mrs Devereux would tenderly censure for “youthful heedlessness or imprudence” the sedate spinster, whose years outnumbered those of my own mother, or when Mr Reginald, while undergoing his seventh annual attack of gout, was alluded to as “the dear boy,” by his sympathising father. But if my boyish mirth was sometimes excited by these and suchlike innocent and natural incongruities, far other feelings—such as I firmly believe have been happily influential in the formation of my character—were oftener awakened in me, by the example, early witnessed at the dear old Hall, of tender union, pure morality, and genuine Christianity. And when I look backupon those old times and antiquated manners (antiquated even in that long past day), and contrast them with our modern times and modern code, I am disposed to think we have gained less by exploding the stateliness and formality of our ancestors, than we have lost in degenerating from their high-toned politeness and true English hospitality into fashionable ease, often (in the higher ranks especially) amounting to vulgarity, and a style of living with which it would be absurd to connect the idea of social intercourse. But, in fact, the country gentry of England have been long a deteriorated, and will soon be an extinct species. The last perfect specimens within my knowledge were the late possessors of Devereux Hall.
I have told you that Mr Devereux and his sister were far advanced in life when their parents paid the debt of nature. Both were single, also, as they continued to the last hour of their inseparable companionship; for, though “the young Squire” had been early wedded to the choice of his heart, and the selected of his parents—a fair and gentle being, who was transplanted to her husband’s home, and taken to the bosom of his family, only to win for herself its tender affection and undying remembrance—before the expiration of the nuptial year, the young wife and her new-born son slept in the vault of the Devereuxs, and her sorrowing husband (in this instance only resisting the gently impliedwishes of his parents) could never be prevailed on to contract a second marriage.
His sister—the faithful sharer of all his joys and sorrows—was to him as a consoling angel in the season of his sore calamity. Her mind (the stronger of the two) was the support of his in its great trial, and her heart, tender as ever beat in a woman’s breast, was tuned to finer sympathy with his, by having also undergone the touchstone of affliction.
Eleanor Devereux had been wooed and won with the parental sanction—had loved tenderly—had trusted nobly—would have wedded splendidly in the world’s acceptation. But before the irrevocable knot was tied, the suspicions of her anxious father were awakened by certain unguarded expressions of his future son-in-law, which led to serious investigation on the part of Mr Devereux, and a reluctant, but unqualified avowal, of more than scepticism on the most sacred subject, from him to whom the truly Christian parent was about to commit the earthly welfare of his beloved child, and perhaps her eternal interests. Mr Devereux shrank not for a moment from the fulfilment of the duty imposed on him by this painful discovery. But when he imparted it to his darling, and required from her the sacrifice of those innocent hopes which had grown up under the fullest sanction of parental encouragement, the utmost exertions of manly fortitude, basedon Christian principle, alone enabled him to persevere in his painful duty. There was no passionate remonstrance, no resisting wilfulness, no ebullition of violent feeling, on the part of the mild and right-minded Eleanor; but the quivering lip, the swimming upraised eye, the voice that faltered and failed in its endeavour to articulate her acquiescence to the required sacrifice—this voiceless eloquence went to the father’s heart, and his tears mingled with hers as he clasped her to his breast, inwardly ejaculating, almost in the words of the prophet-king—“Would to God I could suffer alone for thee, my child!my child!” For a while the hopeful tenderness of woman’s nature delayed Eleanor’s final decision, speciously whispering to her heart the possible blessedness of converting darkness into light, by the influence of holy example, and love’s unwearying persuasiveness. But the parental guardian was near, to suggest to her the dangerous fallacy of that fond illusion, and Eleanor’s love, though true and tender as ever woman felt, was not the blinding, all-engrossing passion “which refuses to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.” She wept and spoke not, but retired to her chamber, and for that day was seen no more; but the next morning brought her to her parents’ feet, with a colourless cheek indeed, but a look of such heavenly composure, as seemed reflected from the source of light to which she hadresorted in her hour of mental darkness and distress; and though she hid her face on her mother’s lap, and her soft voice trembled in uttering the decisive words, they were spoken—the renunciation was made—and the sacrifice complete. How dear it cost her, was known only to God and her own heart; for, having renounced (as it then seemed to her) every view of earthly happiness for herself, she devoted herself the more assiduously to promote that of her parents and her brother, and of every living creature within the sphere of her benign influence, till at last, and by insensible degrees, she became blest in the consciousness of blessing, and never for one moment of her after life did she repent the act of that hour, the sharp agony of which had left behind it “Peace which passeth understanding.” But from thenceforth the lot of Eleanor Devereux was one of fixed celibacy. Hers were not transferable affections; and however, for her sake, the fond parents might have wished it otherwise, they could ill resist the pleading of the dutiful child, who only prayed to be allowed to cleave to them, and them only, and to her dear brother, in this life, as she hoped to be reunited to them in eternity. So it came to pass that the elder branch of the House of Devereux was destined to become extinct, when the bachelor brother and his maiden sister were removed from the Hall of theirancestors to the family burying-place, in the chancel of their parish church.
After the year of mourning and seclusion, religiously observed by Mr Reginald and his sister, for the loss of their last surviving parent, all things at the Hall fell into their former course, and, save the diminution of the family circle, and that the places of the revered elders at the hospitable board were now filled by their filial successors, little change was perceptible to readmitted guests; and the brother and sister resumed those habits of social intercourse with the large and respectable surrounding neighbourhood, which it had been the pleasure and principle of their parents to maintain, as in like manner devolved upon them by the example of revered progenitors.
The Devereuxs had been at one time the wealthiest, as they continued to be the most ancient family, in their part of the country; and on the succession of the last lineal descendant to the inheritance of his forefathers, the same liberality, and even stately hospitality, characterised the general establishment and style of entertainment at Devereux Hall, as had distinguished it under the rule of many preceding generations. Far less did it enter into the contemplation of the last Devereux to diminish aught of the munificent charities which had so long dispensed comfort and gladness, not only among the dependantsof the family, and the peasantry on their estate, but in every poor man’s cottage for many miles around the venerable Hall. The bounteous stream flowed in its several channels with unabated regularity, and little was it suspected by any of those who shared as friends or dependants in its diffusive plenteousness, that the waters at the source were already shrunken, and threatened with fatal diversion from their ancient courses.
Yet such was the melancholy fact, though known only to Mr Devereux, his confidential man of law, and his distant relation, Mr Heneage Devereux, of whom you may remember Old Hallings made mention in terms of no special reverence, while we stood among the ruins of the demolished mansion. That man has been indeed a serpent in the bosom of his noble unsuspecting kinsman.
Very distantly related to the family of Devereux Hall, and still less akin by congeniality of character to its respected possessors, between them and Mr Heneage Devereux little social intercourse had at any time been kept up, though, unfortunately for my venerable friend, communication on matters of business became but too frequent between him and his wily kinsman, who acquired over him a strange and at the time inexplicable ascendancy; inexplicable even to Mrs Eleanor, whose stronger mind (had she been early aware of her brother’s circumstances)might have counteracted the influence so banefully exerted on his feebler character.
But loving her, dearly as ever brother loved the dearest sister—cherishing her as the inestimable companion—the faithful friend—almost the guardian angel of his life, Mr Devereux’s affection lacked that perfect confidence which “casteth out fear;” for, strange as was the anomaly, from some instinctive sense of weakness and inferiority, he stood in awe of the opinion of that gentle being whose tenderness and devotion to him were almost deferential. Motives of tenderness towards her—a desire to spare her the participation of his corroding cares, had doubtless their share in his ill-starred system of concealment—and having no other confidential friend and adviser, so it was that he became the prey—alas! I fear the victim—of his calculating, unprincipled relation.
I cannot detail to you—for all such are unknown to me—the minute and particular circumstances of those pecuniary transactions between my old friend and Mr Heneage Devereux, which ended in results so fatal to the former; but I have reason to believe that Mr Heneage, who had accumulated considerable wealth in mercantile speculations, found means in the first place to possess himself of certain bond debts and considerable mortgages on the property, incurred by the father and grandfather of Mr Devereux,as the pressure of the times or untoward casualties forced upon them the alternative of so burdening the family property, or the more energetic measure of wise and timely retrenchment. Mr Devereux’s legal adviser was undoubtedly in the interest of his speculating kinsman, whose primary object was to secure to himself the reversion of the family property, the entail of which ended with the late possessors. And Mr Heneage was well aware that he had no chance of being voluntarily selected as the heir of the Devereuxs.
Not only had there been a long-subsisting estrangement between the ancient stock and that distant branch from which Mr Heneage derived his descent, though a frigid intercourse was formally kept up by visits at stated periods, and letters of ceremony as occasion called for them; but on the part of the late Mr Devereux there was evidently a degree of instinctive repugnance towards his distant relation, which would have amounted to aversion, had his kindly and gentle nature been capable of so unchristian-like a feeling. No two characters could have been more dissimilar than these two kinsmen. I have already dwelt affectionately on the amiability of Mr Devereux. I have also touched on its slight alloy—a degree of moral weakness, in part doubtless inherent in his nature, but which, from the circumstances of his life and long indulgence of his tastes and feelings, had grown into constitutional infirmity,which made him an easy prey to the bold and designing.
Mr Devereux’s manners and habits were those of refined elegance, his tastes and opinions nice even to fastidiousness; and his perceptions acute on some points to a degree of sickliness. His very person was cast as if for an appropriate mould to enshrine this fine frame of moral organisation. Small, delicate, beautifully proportioned, with hands and feet of almost feminine moulding—while those of Cousin Heneage!——How have I seen the slender fingers of my dear old friend shrink from the vice-like grasp of that coarse bony hand, that looked capable of crushing it to atoms, together with the large mourning ring on the little finger, the oval of which, set with diamonds, encircled a groundwork of fair silky hair, bearing the device of an urn and a weeping willow, in small brilliants.
During the last few years of Mr Devereux’s life, it became too evident to his old and true friends that, notwithstanding his ill-concealed repugnance to Cousin Heneage, the man had by some unaccountable means obtained an extraordinary influence over him—a baneful influence, that by degrees superseded that mild persuasive power hitherto exercised so beneficially for Mr Devereux, by the faithful companion of his life—the tenderest of sisters. His affection for her was evidently unabated. His tender solicitude for her, as the growing infirmitiesof advanced life rendered her more feeble and delicate, was peculiarly affecting, from the circumstances of his own age, and more evident decay, and from the expression of anxious sadness with which he often regarded her. What, then, was the surprise of their mutual friends, when the wife of Mr Heneage Devereux accompanied her husband in one of his now frequent visits to the Hall, and was received by Mr Devereux as an invited guest!
Cousin Heneage had promoted this lady from the superintendence of his kitchen to that of his family, and the honours of a lawful wife, but he did not deem it requisite to notify the forming of so respectable a connection to the then surviving parents of Mr Devereux; neither did the birth of some half-score promising babes, with whom he was presented in yearly succession, form part of the formal communications addressed at stated periods to his kinsman at the Hall. And when he occasionally presented himself in person, no allusion was ever made on either side to the lady or her progeny, till the time I mentioned, about three years preceding the death of my venerable friend. Imagine, then, the consternation of Mrs Eleanor, when her brother, with an abruptness of manner very different from his usual address, requested her to prepare herself for the reception of Mrs Heneage Devereux, who, with her husband and three elder children, a son and two daughters, between the ages of fifteen and one-and-twenty,would arrive the day following, to make some stay at the Hall. It so happened that I went over to pay a visit to my friends on the morning of this strange communication, and was ushered into Mrs Eleanor’s morning room, just as her brother left it, passing me with a hurried excuse, and in evident agitation. I found the sister flushed, and trembling with surprise and pain; and it was in vain that she endeavoured to welcome me with her usual serenity, and the kind sweet smile that was wont to light up her benevolent countenance at sight of those she loved and valued: when I took her hand with the inquiring look of affectionate concern it was impossible not to feel at the thought that any distressful circumstance should wound the heart of that gentle and heavenly-minded creature, the tears gushed from her eyes, and with a tremulous tone, she related to me the short and peremptory communication just made to her by her brother.
“And such a brother!” she exclaimed, while her voice trembled with emotion—“You knew him, Mr L——; you have known him from your childhood; the best and kindest of human beings—one from whose lips no living creature ever heard a harsh or an ungentle word. And to me, what has he not been!—in what perfect love and unity have we not dwelt together all our long lives!—But that fearful man!—that hard, coarse-minded Heneage Devereux! Is it to be believed that that man should step in betweenmy brother and myself—not sundering our hearts, for that is impossible; but causing reserve on the part of my dear brother, in lieu of that perfect confidence he ever placed in me? What can be the nature of the influence that has so changed him? and how has it been acquired? I am sure his heart bled but now, when, as if compelled by some dire necessity, he desired me to prepare for the reception of Mrs Heneage Devereux; but when I would have uttered—as well as the suddenness of my surprise permitted—a few words of gentle remonstrance, my brother stopt me, with an almost stern reiteration of his wishes, and turned from me as if in anger. But it was not so; it was in deep distress, I am certain, Mr L——, and therefore it is that you find me thus overpowered; for what fearful cause can so move my dear brother, and instigate his present determination?”