CHAPTER XV. CHURCH AND STATE.
Edward Ainslie had finished his studies at the
University, where he had so distinguished himself
as to afford the most favourable anticipations of his
future success. He was in some doubt as to the
profession which he should embrace. Inclination
prompted him to devote himself to the church. His
father was anxious that he should become a political
character; probably being somewhat influenced by
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an offer, which he had had from one of the ministry,
of a diplomatic appointment for his son.
This interesting subject was under consideration
at the very time when the events, which we have
just been recording, transpired. Edward had returned
to London after witnessing the perfect recovery
of Lucy, and the discussions concerning his future
career were renewed with considerable interest.
On the evening after his return, he was sitting in
the parlour of his father's splendid mansion. All
the family except his father and himself had retired.
They lingered a few moments to confer on the old
subject.
“Well, Edward,” said his father, “I hope you
are ready now to oblige our friends in a certain
quarter, and strengthen the hands of government.”
“Indeed, sir, my late visit to the country, has
served rather to increase my predilection for the life
of a country parson.”
“My Lord Courtly says it is a thousand pities
your talents should be so thrown away; and though
I should not regard the thing in that light, yet
I think that your country has some claims upon
you. Let the livings of the church be given to the
thousands who are unfit for, or unable to attain the
promotion that is offered to you. If you accept a
living, it is ten to one you disappoint some equally
worthy expectant.”
“Perhaps I shall do the same if I accept this
diplomatic appointment.”
“Little danger of that, I fancy, when the appointment
is so freely offered you—when in fact you are
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solicited to accept it. Let me tell you, Edward, you
know not how splendid a career you may be refusing
to enter upon.”
“I fear, my dear father, that you have not duly
considered the cares and anxieties, of political life.
It is a constant turmoil and struggle for distinction.
All the sterner feelings of our nature are brought
into action. All the generous emotions and amiable
weaknesses of humanity are regarded as fatal to one's
success. A blunder in state affairs is considered
worse than a crime.”
“I think there is no profession,” said the Baronet,
“in which a crime is not more fatal to success,
in the long run, than a blunder. However, we are
wandering from the subject. In one word, Edward,
I think that you may carry all your strict moral
principles and your high and generous sense of
honour into public life, without in the least endangering
your success.”
“What you say may be strictly true, sir, but I
have feelings and partialities which cannot fail to
prove a hindrance. I shall sigh for seclusion and
domestic enjoyment amidst the splendour of foreign
courts, and never pen a dispatch to be sent to old
England, without longing to see its fair prospects of
green fields and smiling cottages. I love to converse
with nature in her still retreats and if I must
mingle with my fellow men, let it not be in the vain
strife for power and distinction; but rather in the
delightful intercourse of social life, or in the more
interesting relation of one who cares for their eternal
welfare. If I were rich, the character I should most
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wish to figure in, would be that of a useful, benevolent
and religious country gentleman, as the advice
and instruction, which I could thus impart, would not
arise simply from official duty and might be rendered
doubly efficient by acts of benevolence. Since that
may not be, I am content with the humbler office of
a country parson.”
At this period of the conversation a servent entered
with a letter directed to the Baronet, saying that
it had been brought by an express. He opened it
and hastily running it over, exclaimed,
“Well, my boy, you can have your wish now.
See there!” handing him the open letter.
It was from the executor of a distant relation who
had taken a fancy to Edward in his childhood, and
had now bequeathed him the whole of his large
estate, situated in the North of England.
Astonishment and gratitude to the Divine Disposer
of events were visible in the countenance of
the youth as he silently lifted up his eyes in thanksgiving.
After a few minutes pause, his father said, “Well,
you will visit your property immediately, of course?”
“Yes sir; but I wish to visit Hampshire for a few
days before I set off for the North.” And so saying,
he bade his father good night and retired.
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CHAPTER XVI. AN ENGAGEMENT.
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Before leaving London, Ainslie called at the late
residence of Mrs. Franklin, and was surprised to
find the house in other hands. On making further
inquiries of his father, he learnt that she had embarked
for New York with the whole of her family.
On reflection he was satisfied that this was the most
natural and proper course for her. America was
the land of her nativity, and the scene of all the
happiness she had enjoyed in early life. England,
the country where she had known nothing but misfortune
and trial. Her young sons, too, would be able
to figure with great advantage in the new country
and its existing friendly relations, with that to which
her oldest son owed allegiance, prevented her feeling
any uneasiness on the score of his present employment
in the India service. Edward's father also
informed him that Mrs. Franklin's affairs in England
were intrusted to the most responsible agents.
Being satisfied that there was nothing further
which friendship required of him in that quarter he
set out for Hampshire with rather different feelings
from those which oppressed him, on his last visit
there.
We will not attempt to analyze his feelings at this
time; but rather follow him to the Rectory, whither
he hastened after a half hour spent at his father's
seat. On entering the parlour, he found Mrs.
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Matthews and Mrs. Cavendish, and learnt from them that
the young ladies were gone to visit Lucy's favourite
school.
He determined to take a short cut to this place;
and accordingly strolled along a shaded pathway
which led from the garden towards the spot. The
sun was just approaching the horizon and shed a
rich splendour over a pile of massy clouds which
reposed in the west. As he passed rapidly along a
turn in the path revealed to him the solitary figure
of Aura Melville, in strong relief against the western
sky as she stood on the edge of a bank and gazed
upon the last footsteps of the retiring sun. He
approached unobserved, and just as he was on the
point of speaking, heard her say in a low voice, as
though thinking aloud,
“How beautiful! How much more beautiful it
would be, if a certain friend were with me to pronounce
it so!”
Laying his hand gently upon her arm, he murmured
in the same soliloquizing tone, “How happy
should I be If I might flatter myself that I were
that friend!”
She turned and the “orient blush of quick surprize,”
gave an animation to her features which made
her lover own to himself that he had never seen her
half so lovely.
We have already hinted at Aura's partiality for
Edward and when we apprize the reader that he
had long loved her with a respectful and devoted
attachment, which he had only been prevented from
declaring by his dependent situation and uncertainty
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with regard to his pursuits in life, it will readily be
supposed that they were not many minutes after this
in coming to a perfect understanding.
With lingering steps and many a pause, they
turned towards the Rectory long after the shadows
of twilight had begun to fall. The rapture of those
moments, the ardent expressions of the youth, the
half uttered confessions, the timid glances and averted
looks of the maiden, and the intervals of silence—
silence full of that happiness which is never known
but once—all these must be imagined by the reader.
On their arrival at the Rectory they found that
Lucy, who had been left at the school by Aura, had
returned by the more frequented road, and the family
were waiting their coming, while the smoking tea
urn sent forth its bubbling invitation to the most
cheerful, if not the most sumptuous of all entertainments.
CHAPTER XVII. TEA TABLE CONVERSATION.
“Well, Edward,” said the good Rector, as he
slowly sipped his favourite beverage, “this is an
unexpected pleasure. I had supposed that the wishes
of your father and the rhetoric of the minister had
prevailed over your philosophical resolutions and
that you were already half way to Saint Petersburg.
Perhaps you are only come to pay us a farewell visit,
and are soon to set off for the North.”
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“Indeed, sir,” replied Ainslie, “I am soon to
set off for the North, but shall hardly reach the
court of the Czars this winter.”
“To Berlin, perhaps.”
“Too far, sir.”
“Peradventure to Copenhagen.”
“Hardly so far, sir, as the `Land o' cakes an
brither Scots.' I am to sojourn for the next few
weeks among the lakes and hills of Cumberland.”
“Cumberland!” exclaimed three or four voices
at once.
“For what purpose can you be going to Cumberland,”
said Lucy Blakeney, “I never heard of any
court in that quarter except that of queen Mab.”
“I am going to look after a little property there.”
“I never heard your father say that he owned
any estates in Cumberland,” said the Rector.
“But my great uncle Barsteck did. You remember
the old gentleman who used to visit my father and
take me with him, in all his strolls about the pleasant
hills and meadows here. He has long been declining
in health and the letter which brought us the melancholy
intelligence of his decease brought also the
information that he has remembered his old favourite.
I could have wished to be enriched by almost any
other event than the loss of so good a friend.”
The remembrance of his relative's early kindness
came over him with such force at this moment that
he rose and turned away to the window and it was
some minutes before he was sufficiently composed to
resume the conversation, in whsch he informed his
friends that he had given up all thoughts of public
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life and was resolved to devote himself to more
congenial pursuits amidst the romantick scenery of
the lake country.
It may readily be supposed that this determination
was highly approved by the worthy pastor and that
in the private interview, which he had with Edward,
the next day, it had no small influence in procuring
his approbation of the suit which he then preferred
for the hand of his fair ward.
After a few delightful days spent in the society of
his friends at the Rectory, Edward set forward on
his journey to the North.
CHAPTER XVIII. AN ADVENTURE.
Edward's estate was in the neighbourhood of
the romantick vale of Keswick. The mansion house
lately inhabited by his uncle, was an old fashioned
but comfortable house situated on the southern declivity
of the mountain Skiddaw, with a beautiful
garden and extensive but uneven grounds, laid out in
a style entirely suited to the surrounding scenery.
The view from the balcony, in front of the house,
was one of singular beauty and sublimity. A long
valley stretched away to the south disclosing in the
distance the still glassy surface of Derwent-water
and terminated by the bold and fantastic mountains
of Borrowdale. On the east the lofty steeps of
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Wallow-crag and Lodore seemed to pierce the very
heavens, whilst the towering heights of Newland
bounded the view on the West, displaying the picturesque
varieties of mountain foliage and rocks.
The cottages and farm houses of his tenants were
scattered about in such points of view, as to afford
a pleasing sort of embellishment to the landscape.
Many of them were constructed of rough unhewn
stone, and roofed with thick slates, and both the
coverings and sides of the houses were not unfrequently
overgrown with lichens and mosses as well
as surrounded with larches and sycamores. Edward
made it his first business, on his arrival, to visit his
tenantry and he found no little pleasure in studying
the characters of these humble minded people,
whose residence amongst these sequestered mountain
regions had preserved their primitive manners from
the tide of refinement and corruption which had
swept over less fortunate portions of the country.
As he was taking his customary ride on horseback
one afternoon, he arrived at a part of his estate
remote from the mansion house, and where he had
not before been, when he was struck with the picturesque
appearance of one of the stone cottages
which we have mentioned above.
It was of a very irregular shape and seemed to
have received additions and improvements from
several generations of its occupants.
The orchard too had its trees of all ages, and
one craggy looking apple tree, which stood before
the door, seemed by its accumulation of moss, and
its frequently protruded dry branches, to be coeval
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with the house itself. There was a little garden
with its shed full of bee hives, and its narrow beds
of herbs and borders of flowers, and a small but
noisy rill, that came dashing down from the rocks in
the rear of the cottage, and sent a smile of verdure
and a fairy shout of melody over the whole scene.
Edward alighted and entered the cottage, where
he was received with a hearty welcome. The
farmer himself was away among the hills; but the
good dame was “main glad to see his honour, and
hoped his honour was coming to live among them,
as his worship's honour that was dead and gone had
always done.”
He assured her that such was his intention.
“I am glad your honour has come here this afternoon,”
she proceeded, “for more reasons than one.
Your honour must know there is a poor distressed
young creature in the other room, who wandered
here yesterday after a weary long journey. She is
come of gentle blood, and talks of her relations, who
seem to be all lords and ladies. But sure enough the
poor thing is quite beside herself, and a woful sight
she was, when she came to our door yesterday, with
nothing in the world but an open work straw bonnet
on her head, and a thin shawl over her shoulders,
poor soul, in such a biting cold day. Would not
your honour please to be so good as just to speak a
kind word to her? I'm thinking she's come from
the South, and would be cheered at the sight of one
from her own part of the country, and of her own
degree too.”
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It will be readily supposed that Edward expressed
a desire to see her, and he was accordingly conducted
from the neat sitting room, into which he had
first been invited, into a small back room, where
to his no small astonishment he saw, seated in an
easy chair by the fire, and attended by a little girl,
the unfortunate Lady Mary, the wife of Sir Stephen
Haynes.
Her attire consisted of a soiled travelling dress,
which had once been rich and showy—her countenance,
though thin and wasted, was flushed and feverish,
and there was a wildness in her eyes which
told the saddest tale of all, that not only was the
wretched lady forsaken by friends and fortune, but
at least partially deprived of the blessed light of
reason.
She started at the sight of Edward, and exclaimed,
“Ha! so you have come at last. Well, there, I
have been crying here all this livelong morning!
My husband the Duke is to be beheaded on Tower
Hill to-morrow morning for high treason! But,”
said she, grasping Edward's arm, and whispering
vehemently in his ear, “I came within an ace of
being queen, for all that.”
“Then, too,” she continued, weeping bitterly,
“they have imprisoned me here, and the constable
of the castle has taken away my jewels, and sent
away my waiting maid, and left me nobody but this
simple maiden here to attend upon me. I could
have forgiven them all this but they have taken
away my child, my pretty boy, with his bright eyes
and his golden locks. Oh, why do they let me live
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any longer!” And she wrung her hands as one not
to be comforted.
“Poor creature!” whispered the good woman of
the house, “she has not been so raving before.”
“I am acquainted with the unfortunate lady,”
replied Edward, in a low voice, “but she does not
seem to know me.”
“Know you!” shrieked Lady Mary, catching
his last words, “Yes I do know you, Edward Ainslie,
and I know, too, what you are come here for.
You have come to preach to me on the folly of ambition—
to upbraid me for deserting my friends and
protectors. But you may spare yourself the trouble.
I shall answer for all to-morrow. I will die with
my husband.”
She said this with great energy, and then, after
pausing a moment and looking thoughtfully on the
floor, she burst into tears again, exclaiming, “But
my poor boy! what will become of him. I pray
Heaven they may not destroy him. Surely he has
done no injury to the state. If the king could look
upon his innocent little face, surely he would spare
him.”
Edward, perceiving that his presence could be of
no service to her, left the apartment and directed
that every attention should be paid to her, and promised
ample remuneration to the family for their
trouble. Then hastily mounting his horse, he rode
to the nearest medical attendant, whom he despatched
to the cottage before he returned home.
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CHAPTER XIX. THE CONSEQUENCES OF IMPRUDENCE.
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For several days after the occurrence which we
have described in the last chapter, Lady Mary continued
in a high fever, and the physician gave little
hopes of her recovery. Edward visited the cottage
every day to inquire after her, and was at length
happy to learn, that by the unremitted kindness
and care of the worthy family, she was safely past
the crisis of her disorder; that her reason was restored,
but her weakness was such, that she had not
been permitted to attempt giving any account of the
manner in which she came into the miserable state
in which she was found.
She was assured that she was under the care of
a friend who had known her in early life, and would
visit her as soon as her strength would permit. Satisfied
with this assurance, she recovered rapidly,
and, in a month from the time of Edward's first
visit to the cottage, was able to sit up a great part of
the day, and to receive a visit from him.
The interview, as may readily be supposed, was
an affecting one to both parties. Poor Lady Mary
seemed to be throughly humbled by misfortune,
and was desirous of nothing so much as to see her
early friends, and receive their pardon for her unworthy
conduct in deserting them. Edward assured
her that their affection for her was the same as ever;
that they had regarded her as misled by designing
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and artful persons; and that nothing would afford
them such heartfelt pleasure, as to welcome her
once more to their hospitable home.
Thus soothed and encouraged, she informed him
of the events which we have already narrated concerning
her elopement, and the subsequent desertion
of her husband. She proceeded to say that she had
lost her child, a beautiful boy, born at the Gothic
cottage of which we have so frequently spoken;
that after the marriage of Craftly and Theresa,
which out of regard to that young lady's taste was
celebrated with considerable parade, she had continued
to reside with them in the cottage, in a state
of indescribable wretchedness from the neglect of
her husband.
She said, that one day when the rest of the family
were out on an afternoon visit, she went into one of
the chambers to look for a book; which, Theresa
had told her as she went out, might be found in a
drawer there. She pulled out one drawer of the
bureau after another in vain, till she came to the
lower one, which came out with considerable difficulty.
When, at last, she succeeded in drawing it
out, what was her astonishment, to find a great part
of the letters which she had written to her husband
and friends, tumbled into it, after being broken open?
There were a great many more letters, and some
among them directed to Craftly, in her husband's
hand writing.
Convinced that she was suffering by some vile
conspiracy, she felt herself justified in taking the
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whole to her room, after first closing the drawer to
avoid a speedy discovery.
Besides her own and Sir Stephen's letters, there
were several of Theresa's to her mother. Before
the family returned, Lady Mary had read through
the greater part of them, and notwithstanding the
bewildering and oppressive emotions which impeded
her progress and distracted her mind, she was able
to make out pretty clearly what her situation was.
Her husband was living in Paris, immersed in
dissipation. Craftly had been instructed by him,
and was repeatedly charged in the letters, to suffer
no communication between her and her friends, and,
what shocked the unfortunate lady most of all and
deprived her of recollection for some moments, was
a determination expressed in one of the letters never
to see her again, accompanied with the declaration,
that although she supposed herself so, she was not
really his wife.
After recovering from her fainting fit, she hurried
through the remainder of the letters, with many
tears and many prayers to Heaven for support.
“Never in my life,” said she, “did I pass an
afternoon of such complete and thorough wretchedness.
I thought myself lost beyond all hope. Surrounded
with enemies, and without a single protector
or friend. Before the family returned, I restored
a greater part of the letters to the drawer, and when
desired to join them at tea, I sent an excuse, and was
glad to be left neglected and undisturbed in my
room until the next morning.
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“During this time I had considered all the circumstances
of my situation. It was apparent from
the suppression of Theresa's letters, that she had not
from the first been a full participator in the plot
against me. Yet it was not possible for me to give
her my confidence, now that she had become the
wife of Craftly, who was the chief instrument of the
conspiracy. The mother and sister of this hypocrite
were so fully persuaded of his honour, that they
would have considered me a maniac or a calumniator,
if I had disclosed the truth to them. I had found
out by the letters that Craftly was paid for my
support by my husband, who relinquished the interest
of a mortgage on Craftly's estate as payment.
This I regarded as a tacit acknowledgment that
I was his wife. But the evidence of Theresa,
which I supposed could be drawn from her at
some future time by my friends, I considered of
still greater value.
“I had no reason to fear that I should be left in
absolute want, or that I should be treated with open
unkindness by any of the family. But it was dreadful
to me to know, that I was living under the roof
of a man who had conspired to deprive me of every
thing that is valuable in life. I could not look upon
him without a secret shudder running through my
frame. After revolving the circumstances of my
situation for several days, during which I with difficulty
preserved an outward appearance of composure,
I at length came to the resolution to seek
shelter with Mr. Matthews, and endeavour to recover
the favour of my relations.
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“But how to effect my escape, with any prospect
of ever reaching my friends, was a difficult question.
I had no money nor jewels of any considerable value;
but there were a few valuable laces which I might
dispose of for enough to defray my travelling expenses.
I accordingly packed them up with great
care, and learning that there was to be a fair in the
neighbourhood, I determined to dispose of them
there. On the morning of the fair, I informed the
family that I intended to take a walk, and spend
the day in visiting the cottages in our neighbourhood;
I hope the deception will be forgiven me.
I put on my travelling dress, concealed my treasure,
and set forward, with mingled emotions of gladness
and apprehension. I sold the laces without difficulty,
though for considerably less than their value,
and I have reason to believe that I was mistaken for
one of those persons who gain a subsistence by smuggling
articles of this kind from the continent. This
however was a trifling consideration, I could have
consented to pass for a gypsey or a fortune teller
in order to escape from my persecutors.
“My next object was to secure a passage in the
mail coach, which went South. Here was a greater
trial of my courage; since this exposure was a continued
one, while my other was but momentary. I
played my part however as confidently as I could,
and although my unprotected state exposed me to
suspicions which the innkeeper, his wife and even
the servants were at no great pains to conceal, yet I
was enabled to bear up against it all, without a tear,
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and arrived at the end of the first stage without
any accident.
“The fatigues of the last two days, however,
were so great, that I was nearly overcome when we
arrived at the inn which was at the termination of
this stage, and I retired to a room apart, as soon as we
arrived. I observed a newspaper lying in the window
seat, and after refreshing myself with a cup of tea,
I took it up, half hoping to see the name of some
friend in its columns. Judge of my horror on reading
the fatal record of my husband's death. He
had fallen in a duel in Paris. I had loved him,
oh too well!”
Here Lady Mary became too much affected to
proceed with her narrative. Indeed she had little
more to relate; for the shock had proved too great
for her reason, and from that moment she recollected
little more than that she had wandered from
village to village, pitied and relieved by some and
derided by others, until she found herself in her
present asylum, restored to perfect recollection by
the care of the good people around her.
Edward had listened to her narrative with the
deepest interest and compassion, and assured her of
the protection and support of her friends, whatever
might be the determination of her relations. He
gave directions for her further accommodation at
the cottage during her convalescence, and it was arranged
that as soon as her strength would permit,
she should take up her residence at his own house.
Having been delayed only by his desire to learn
all that related to her, and to provide for her
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comfort, Edward set off for the South as soon as these
arrangements had been completed, leaving Lady
Mary under the care of the worthy family at the
cottage.
CHAPTER XIX. AN OLD FASHIONED WEDDING.
The time would fail us to enumerate the multiplied
works of charity in which Lucy Blakeney engaged
herself. She was not content with occasionally
visiting the poor and administering to their
more urgent wants; but she made the true economy
of benevolence her study. Her knowledge, her
taste, her wealth, were all rendered subservient to
the great cause. Without officiously intermeddling
with the charities of others, she became a bright example
to them. Her well timed assistance was a
stimulus and an encouragement to the industrious
poor, and her silent and steady perseverance was a
strong appeal to the better feelings of the rich. She
received the blessing of him that was ready to perish,
and the unheard praise and unsolicited imitation of
those who had abundance of wealth and influence.
As the nuptials of her friend Aura Melville approached,
her attention was directed to the proper
mode of honouring that event, and at the same time
rendering it memorable among those who had long
regarded both these young persons as the joint
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guardians of their happiness. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews
and Mrs. Cavendish too, were all for having the
marriage celebrated after the fashion of the good old
times when the poor not only looked up to the
gentry for protection and friendship, but took a
lively interest in their domestic affairs, were depressed
at their misfortunes, and proud and happy in the
fame and happiness of their patrons.
Nor was Edward Ainslie backward in promoting
this design. Accordingly the preparations for the
marriage were made with a view to interest and
gratify rather than to dazzle the guests. The bridal
array was rather plain than sumptuous, the carriages
and horses of Edward and his family, were decked
with ribbons, and the church ornamented with flowers
and evergreens, prepared by the pupils of Lucy's
establishment, who also walked in procession and
had their dance upon the green, to the music of
the pipe and tabor. The villagers crowded the
church to witness the ceremony, and repaired to
the Rectory to partake of the bride cake, while the
poor who had been invited to celebrate Lucy's birth
day, found an entertainment not less substantial and
exhilarating than the former one, prepared for them
at her friend's wedding.
A long summer's day was spent in the festivities of
this happy occasion, and when late in the evening
the full moon was seen rising behind the church
tower and shedding his quiet lustre over hill and
valley, streamlet and grove, the music was still
sounding, and the merry laugh of the light hearted
guests was heard in parlour and hall.
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None seemed to enjoy the day more deeply and
feelingly than Lucy. She had learned the great
secret of woman's happiness, to enjoy the happiness
of others. Selfish gratification was no concern of
hers. She had entered into the previous arrangements
with all her heart, and as her object had been
not to lay her friends under heavy obligations and
astonish the guests by show and parade, but to promote
the real and heartfelt pleasure of all concerned,
she succeeded; and none derived more satisfaction
from partaking of this festival of true joy than she
did from its preparation.
When, on the following morning, Edward and
his bride set off for the North, she with the rest of
the family bade them a tender adieu, and returned
to her usual benevolent occupations with that tranquil
and calm spirit, that firm reliance on the Righteous
Disposer of all things, which, in every situation
of life, is indeed the pearl of inestimable value.
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CONCLUSION.
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Several years rolled away after the event recorded
in the last chapter, without affording any
thing worthy the attention of the reader. The
persons to whom our narrative relates, were enjoying
that calm happiness, which as has frequently been
remarked, affords so little matter for history. We
must accordingly conclude the story with the incidents
of a somewhat later period.
It was the season of the Christmas holidays.
Edward and his blooming wife with their two lovely
children, were on a visit to his father, and had come
to pass an evening at the Rectory. Lady Mary too
was there. She had recovered from the wreck of
her husband's property enough to support her genteelly,
and had found an asylum with her old preceptor
and guide, in the only place where she had
ever enjoyed any thing like solid happiness.
The Rector, now rapidly declining into the vale
of years, afforded a picture of all that is venerable
in goodness; his lady retained her placid and amiable
virtues, although her activity was gone; and
the worthy Mrs. Cavendish, still stately in her carriage,
and shrewd and decisive in her remarks,
presented no bad counterpart to her milder sister.
Last but not the least interesting of the cheerful
group which was now assembled around the fireside
of the Rector, was Lucy Blakeney. Her beauty,
unimpaired by her early sorrows and preserved by
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the active and healthful discharge of the duties of
benevolence, had now become matured into the fairest
model of lovely womanhood. It was not that
beauty which may be produced by the exquisite
blending of pure tints on the cheek and brow, by
fair waving tresses and perfect symmetry of outline—
it was the beauty of character and intellect, the
beauty that speaks in the eye, informs every gesture
and look, and carries to the heart at once the conviction,
that in such an one, we behold a lovely
work of the Creator, blessed by his own hand and
pronounced good.
The Rector was delighted to find the three
orphans once more met under his own roof, and
apparently enjoying the blessings of this world in
such a spirit as gave him no painful apprehensions
concerning the future.
“I cannot express to you,” he said, “how happy
I am to see you all here again once more before my
departure. It has long been the desire of my heart.
It is accomplished, and I can now leave my blessing
with you and depart in peace.”
“You cannot enjoy the meeting more highly
than we do, I am sure,” said Aura, “the return
to this spot brings back a thousand tender and delightful
associations to my mind, and I regard
among the most pleasing circumstances which attend
our meeting, the degree of health and enjoyment
in which we find all our old friends at the Rectory.
But how do all our acquaintances among the cottagers?
Is the old serjeant living?”
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“He is in excellent health,” replied the Rector,
“and tells all his old stories with as much animation
as ever.”
“And your protegés, Lady Mary, the distressed
family which you found out,” rejoined Aura.
“They are well, and quite a happy industrious
family,” answered Lady Mary, with a slight blush.
“How goes on the school, Lucy,” said Edward,
“I regard that as the most effective instrument of
benevolent exertion.”
“I hope it has effected some good,” answered
Lucy. “There has been a considerable number
from the school who have proved useful and respectable
so far; several of the pupils are now married,
and others are giving instruction in different parts of
the country. A circumstance which has afforded us
considerable gratification is, that a pupil, whose
merit has raised her to a high station in life, has
visited us lately, and presented a handsome donation
towards rendering the establishment permanent.”
After a short pause in the conversation, Mr.
Matthews expressed a wish that they might have
some intelligence from their absent friends.
“I have this day received a letter from America,”
said Edward, taking it from his pocket and looking
inquiringly at Lucy.
“I think you may venture to read it to us,” said
she.
It was from Mrs. Franklin, and informed him
that she had purchased a beautiful seat on the banks
of the Delaware, and was living there in the enjoyment
of all the happiness, which was to be derived
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from the society of her family and the delightful
serenity of nature. One circumstance only had
happened since her departure from England to mar
this enjoyment, the account of which must be given
in her own words.
`My oldest son, your friend—no doubt you have
often heard from him. He soon grew tired of the
India service, and was at his own desire exchanged
into a regiment which had been ordered to join the
army in Spain. There, his career was marked with
the heroism and generosity which had ever distinguished
his character. A young officer is now visiting
me, who accompanied him in his last campaign.
He informs me, that my noble son never lost an opportunity
either of signalizing himself in action or
relieving the distresses of those who suffered the
calamities of war.
`In one of the severest battles fought upon the
peninsula, it was the fortune of my son to receive
a severe wound, while gallantly leading his men to
a breach in the walls of a fortified town. The English
were repulsed, and a French officer, passing
over the field, a few hours after, with a detachment,
had the barbarity to order one of his men to fix his
bayonet in him. His friend, who was also wounded
and lay near him, saw it, but was too helpless himself
to raise an arm in his defence.
`The same night, the town was taken by storm.
When the English force advanced, the unfortunate
officers were both conveyed to safe quarters, and
my poor son lived thirty-six hours after the capture
of the place. During this time, the story of his
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inhuman treatment reached the ears of the commander
in chief. Fired with indignation, he hastened
to the quarters of the wounded officers.
“`Poor Franklin,” says his friend, “was lying
in the arms of his faithful servant and breathing
heavily, when the illustrious Wellington entered
the room. It was apparent to all that he had but
a few moments to live.
“`Tell me,” said the General, “exert but strength
enough to describe to me the villain who inflicted
that unmanly outrage upon you, and I swear by the
honour of a soldier that in one hour his life shall
answer it.”'
`Never did I see the noble countenance of Franklin
assume such an expression of calm magnanimity
as when he replied,
“`I am not able to designate him, and if I could
do it with certainty, be assured, Sir, that I never
would.”'
`These were his last words, and in a few minutes
more his spirit fled to a brighter region.'
If there are sorrows which refuse the balm of
sympathy, there are also consolations which those
around us “can neither give nor take away.”
Through the remaining years of her life, the orphan
daughter of the unfortunate Charlotte Temple evinced
the power and efficiency of those exalted principles,
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which can support the mind under every trial, and
the happiness of those pure emotions and lofty aspirations
whose objects are raised far above the variable
contingencies of time and sense.
In the circle of her friends she seldom alluded to
past events; and though no one presumed to invade
the sanctuary of her private griefs and recollections,
yet all admired the serene composure with which
she bore them. Various and comprehensive schemes
of benevolence formed the work of her life, and
religion shed its holy and healing light over all her
paths.
When the summons came, which released her
pure spirit from its earthly tenement, and the history
of her family was closed with the life of its last
representative; those who had witnessed, in her
mother's fate, the ruin resulting from once yielding
to the seductive influence of passion, acknowledged,
in the events of the daughter's life, that benignant
power which can bring, out of the most bitter and
blighting disappointments, the richest fruits of virtue
and happiness.
