  THE GREAT AUK. ( Alca Impennis. ) GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXV. November, 1849. No. 5. Table of Contents Fiction, Literature and Other Articles Poetry, Music, and Fashion Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. HAPPY AS A KING. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XXXV. PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1849. No. 5. OR THE COURSE OF PASSION. ——— BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. ——— (Continued from page 213.) Reader, the heart of man is a strange compound, a deceitful thing. Jasper St. Aubyn did love Theresa Allan, as I have said before, with all the love which he could bestow on any thing divine or human. His passion for the possession of her charms, both personal and mental, was, as his passions ever were, inordinate. His belief in her excellence, her purity, in the stability of her principles, the impregnable strength of her virtue, could not be proved more surely than by the fact, that he had never dared an attempt to shake them. His faith in her adoration for himself was as firm-fixed as the sun in heaven. And, lastly, his conviction of the constancy of his own love toward her, of the impossibility of that love’s altering or perishing, was strong as his conviction of his own being. But he was one of those singularly constituted beings, who will never take an easy path when he has the option of one more difficult; never follow the straight road when he can see a tortuous byway leading to the same end. Had his father, as he pretended, desired to thwart his will, or prevent his marriage with Theresa, for that very cause he would have toiled indefatigably, till he had made her his own in the face of day. Partly swayed by a romantic and half chivalrous feeling, which loved to build up difficulties for the mere pleasure of surmounting them, partly urged on by pure willfulness and recklessness of temper, he chose evil for his good, he rushed into deceit where truth would in fact have served his purpose better. A boyish love of mystery and mischief might probably have had its share likewise in his strange conduct, and a sort of self-pride in the skill with which he managed his plot, and worked the minds of older men into submission to his own will. Lastly, to compel Theresa to this sacrifice of her sense of duty and propriety, to this abandonment of principle to passion, appeared to his perverted intellect a mighty victory, an overwhelming proof of her devotedness to his selfish will. If there were any darker and deeper motive in his mind, it was unconfessed to himself; and, in truth, I believe, that none such then existed. If such did in after times grow up within him, it arose probably from a perception of the fatal facility which that first fraud, with its elaborate deceits had given him for working further evil. Verily, it is wise to pray that we be not tempted. The perilous gift of present opportunity has made many an one, who had else lived innocent, die, steeped to the very lips in guilt. Such were the actuating motives of his conduct; of hers pure love, and the woman’s dread of losing what she loved, by over-vehement resistance. At the dead of a dark, gusty night in autumn, when the young moon was seen but at rare intervals between the masses of dense driving wrack which swept continuously across the leaden-colored firmament before the wailing west winds, when the sere leaves came drifting down from the great trees, like the ghosts of departed hopes, when the long mournful howl of some distant bandog baying the half seen moon, and the dismal hootings of the answered owls, were the only sounds abroad, the poor girl stole, like a guilty creature, from her virgin chamber, and, faltering at every ray of misty light, every dusky shadow that wavered across her way, as she threaded the long corridors, crept stealthily down the great oaken staircase, and joined her young lover in the stone hall below. Her palfrey and his hunter stood saddled at the foot of the terrace steps, and, almost without a word exchanged between them, she found herself mounted and riding, with her right hand clasped in his burning fingers, through the green chase toward the village. The clock was striking midnight—ill-omened hour for such a rite as that—in the tower of the parish church, as Jasper St. Aubyn sprung to the ground before the old Saxon porch, and lifting his sweet bride from the saddle, fastened the bridles of their horses to the hooks in the churchyard-wall, and entered the low-browed door which gave access to the nave. A single dim light burned on the altar, by which the old vicar, robed in his full canonicals, awaited them, with his knavish assistant, and the two witnesses beside him. Dully and unimpressively, at that unhallowed hour, and by that dim light, the sacred rite was performed, and the dread adjuration answered, and the awful bond undertaken, which, through all changes, and despite all chances of this mortal life makes two into one flesh, until death shall them sever. The gloom, the melancholy, the nocturnal horror of the scene sunk deeply on Theresa’s spirit; and it was in the midst of tears and shuddering that she gave her hand and her heart to one, who, alas! was too little capable of appreciating the invaluable treasure he had that night been blessed withal. And even when the ceremony was performed, and she was his immutably and forever, as they rode home as they had come, alone, through the dim avenues and noble chase, which were now in some sort her own, there was none of that buoyancy, that high, exulting hope, that rapture of permitted love which is wont to thrill the bosoms of young and happy brides. Nor, on the following day, was the melancholy gloom, which, despite all her young husband’s earnest and fond endeavors to cheer and compose her, still overhung her mind, in anywise removed by the tidings which reached the manor late in the afternoon. The aged vicar, so the tale went, had been called by some unusual official duty to the parish church, long after it was dark, and in returning home had fallen among the rocks, having strayed from the path, and injured himself so severely that his life was despaired of. So eagerly did Jasper proffer his services, and with an alacrity so contrary to his usual sluggishness, when his own interests were not at stake, did he order his horse and gallop down to the village to visit his old friend, that his father smiled, well pleased and half laughingly thanked Theresa, when the boy had gone, saying that he really believed her gentle influence was charming some of Jasper’s willfulness away, and that he trusted ere long to see him, through her precept and example, converted into a milder and more humanized mood and temper. Something swelled in the girl’s bosom, and rose to her throat, half choking her—the hysterica passio of poor Lear—as the good old man spoke, and the big tears gushed from her eyes. It was by the mightiest effort only that she kept down the almost overmastering impulse which prompted her to cast herself down at the old man’s feet, and confess to him what she had done, and so implore his pardon and his blessing. Had she done so, most happy it had been for her unhappy self; more happy yet for one more miserable yet, that should be! Had she done so, she had crowned the old man’s last days with a halo of happiness that had lighted him down the steps to the dusky grave rejoicing—she had secured to herself, and to him whom she had taken for better or for worse, innocence and security and self-respect and virtue, which are happiness! She did it not; and she repented not then—for when she told Jasper how nearly she had confessed all, his brow grew as dark as night, and he put her from him, exclaiming with an oath, that had she done so, he had never loved her more; but did she not repent thereafter? It was late when Jasper returned, and he was, to all outward observers, sad and thoughtful; but Theresa could read something in his countenance, which told her that he had derived some secret satisfaction from his visit. In a word, the danger, apprehension of which had so prompted Jasper’s charity, and quickened his zeal in well-doing—the danger, that the old clergyman should divulge in extremis the duty which had led him to the church at an hour so untimely, was at an end forever. He was dead, and had never spoken since the accident, which had proved fatal to his decrepit frame and broken constitution. Moreover, to make all secure, he had seen the rascal sexton, and secured him forever, by promising him an annuity so long as the secret should be kept; while craftier and older in iniquity than he, and suspecting—might it not be foreseeing—deeper iniquity to follow, the villain, who now alone, with the suborned witnesses, knew what had passed, stole into the chancel, and cut out from the parish register the leaf which contained the record of that unhappy marriage. It is marvellous how at times all things appear to work prosperously for the success of guilt, the destruction of innocence; but, of a truth, the end of these things is not here. It so fell out that the record of Theresa Allan’s union with Jasper St. Aubyn was the first entry on a fresh leaf of the register. One skillful cut of a sharp knife removed that leaf, so as to defy the closest scrutiny; had one other name been inscribed thereon, before hers, she had been saved. Alas! for Theresa! But to do Jasper justice, he knew not of this villainy; nor, had he known, would he then have sanctioned it. He only wished to secure himself against momentary discovery. The ill consequences of this folly, this mysterious and unmeaning craft, had now in some degree recoiled upon himself. And delighting, as he really did, in the closest intercourse with his sweet young bride, he chafed and fumed at finding that the necessity of keeping up the concealment, which he had so needlessly insisted on, precluded him from the possibility of enjoying his new possession, as he would, entirely and at all hours. He would have given almost his right hand now to be able to declare openly that she was his own. But, for once in his life, he dared not! He could not bring himself to confess to his kind father the cruel breach of confidence, the foul and causeless deceit of which he had been guilty; and he began almost to look forward to the death of that excellent and idolizing parent, as the only event that could allow him to call his wife his own. It was not long before his wish—if that can be called a wish, which he dared not confess to his own guilty heart, was accomplished. The first snows had not fallen yet, when the old cavalier fell ill, and declined so rapidly that before the old year was dead he was gathered to his fathers. As he had lived, so he died, a just, upright, kindly, honorable man. At peace with all men, and in faith with his God. His last words were entreaty to his son to take Theresa Allen to his wife, and to live with her unambitiously, unostentatiously, as he had lived himself, and was about to die, at Widecomb. And even then, though he promised to obey his father’s bidding, the boy’s heart was not softened, nor was his conscience touched by any sense of the wrong he had done. He promised, and as the good man’s dying eye kindled with pleasure, he smiled on him with an honest seeming smile, received his parting kiss, and closed his eyes, and stood beside the dead, unrelenting, unrepentant. He was the Lord of Widecomb; and so soon as the corpse by which he stood should be composed in the quiet grave, the world should know him, too, as the Lord of Theresa Allan. And so he swore to her, when he stole that night, as he had done nightly since their marriage, to her chamber, after every light was extinguished, and, as he believed, every eye closed in sleep; and she, fond soul! believed him, and clasped him to her heart, and sunk into sleep, with her head pillowed on his breast, happier than she had been since she had once—for the first, last time—deviated from the paths of truth. But he who has once taken up deceit as his guide, knows not when he can quit it. He may, indeed, say to himself “thus far will I go, and no further,” but when he shall have once attained the proposed limit, and shall set himself to work to recover that straight path from which he has once deviated, fortunate will he be, indeed, if he find not a thousand obstacles, which it shall tax his utmost energy, his utmost ingenuity to surmount, if he have not to cry out in despair— Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive. Jasper St. Aubyn did honestly intend to do, the next day, what he that night promised; nor did he doubt that he could do it, and so do it, as to save her scatheless, of whom he had not yet grown weary. But, alas! of so delicate a texture is a woman’s reputation, that the slightest doubt, the smallest shade once cast upon it, though false as hell itself, it shall require more than an angel’s tears to wash away the slain. All cautiously as Jasper had contrived his visits to the chamber of his wife, all guarded as had been his intercourse with her, although he had never dreamed that a suspicion had been awakened in a single mind of the existence of such an intercourse, he had not stolen thither once, nor returned once to his own solitary couch, but keen, curious, prying eyes had followed him. There was not a maid-servant in the house but knew Miss Theresa’s shame, as all believed it to be; but tittered and triumphed over it in her sleeves, as an excuse, or at least a palliation of her own peccadilloes; but told it, in confidence, to her own lover, Tom, the groom, or Dick, the falconer, until it was the common gossip of the kitchen and the butlery, how the fair and innocent Theresa was Master Jasper’s mistress. But they nothing dreamed of this; and both fell asleep that night, full of innocent hopes on the one hand, and good determinations—alas! never to be realized, on the other. The morrow came, and Sir Miles St. Aubyn was consigned to the vault where slept his fathers of so many generations. Among the loud and sincere lamentations of his grateful tenantry and dependents, the silent, heartfelt tears of Theresa, and the pale but constrained sorrow of his son, he was committed earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, to his long last home, by the son of the aged vicar, who had already been inducted to the living, which his father had held so many years before him. The mournful ceremonial ended, Jasper was musing alone in the old library, considering with himself how he might best arrange the revelation, which he proposed to make that very evening to his household of his hitherto concealed marriage with Theresa, when suddenly a servant entered, and informed him that Peter Verity, the sexton, would be glad to speak six words with his honor, if it would not be too much trouble. “By no means,” replied Jasper, eagerly, for he foresaw, as he thought, through this man a ready mode of extricating himself from the embarrassment of the disclosure, “admit him instantly.” The fellow entered; a low, miserable, sneaking scoundrel, even from his appearance; and Jasper felt as if he almost loathed himself that he had ever had to do with so degraded a specimen of mortality. He had need of him, however, and was compelled, therefore, much against his will, to greet him, and speak to him fairly. “Ha, Verity,” he said, “I am glad you have come, I should have sent for you in the morning, if you had not come up to-night. You have managed that affair for me right well; and I shall not forget it, I assure you. Here are ten guineas for you, as an earnest now, and I shall continue your annuity, though there will be no need for concealment any longer. Still I shall want your assistance, and will pay you for it liberally.” “I thank your honor, kindly,” answered the fellow, pocketing the gold. “But with regard to the annuity, seeing as how what I’ve done for your honor is a pretty dangerous job, and one as I fancy might touch my life.” “Touch your life! why what the devil does the fellow mean!” Jasper interrupted him, starting to his feet, “I never asked you—never asked any man—to do aught that should affect his life.” “You never did ask me, right out in words, that is a fact, your honor. You was too deep for that, I’m a thinking! But, lord bless ye, I understood ye, for all, as well as if you had asked me. And so, be sure, I went and did it straight. I’d ha’ done any thing to serve your honor—that I would—and I will again, that’s more.” “In God’s name, what have you done, then?” exclaimed Jasper, utterly bewildered. “Why, seeing as your honor didn’t wish to have your marriage with Miss Theresa known, and as there wasn’t no way else of hiding it, when the old parson was dead and gone, and a new one coming, I went and cut the record of it out of the church-register, and I’ve got it here, safe enough. So if your honor fancies any time to get tired like of Miss, why you can e’en take another wife, and no one the wiser. There’s not a soul knows aught about it but me, and black Jem Alderly; and we’ll never say a word about it, not we. Nor it wouldn’t matter if we did, for that, when once you’ve got this here paper. And so I was thinking, if your honor would just give me five hundred guineas down, I’d hand it over, and you could just put it in the fire, if you choosed, and no one the wiser.” Jasper cast his eyes up to heaven in despair, and wrung his hands bitterly. “Great God!” he said, “I would give five thousand if you could undo this that you have done. I will give you five thousand if you will replace the leaf where it was, undiscovered.” “It ain’t possible,” replied the man. “The new vicar he has looked over all the register, and made a copy of it; and he keeps it locked up, too, under his own key, so that, for my life, I could not get it, if I would. And I’d be found out, sure as God—and it’s hanging by the law! nothing less. But what does it signify, if I may be so bold, your honor?” “When my poor father died, all cause of concealment was at an end; and I wished this very day to acknowledge my marriage with Mrs. St. Aubyn.” The man uttered a low expressive whistle, as who should say, “Here is a change, with a vengeance!” But he dared not express what he thought, and answered humbly, “Well, your honor, I don’t see how this alters it. You have nothing to do but to acknowledge madam as your wife, and there’s no one will think of asking when you were married, nor hasn’t no right to do so neither. And if they should, you can say the Doctor married you in his own parlor, and I can swear to that, your honor; if you want me, any time; and so’ll Jem Alderly; and this writing, that I’ll give you, will prove it any time, for it’s in the Doctor’s own hand-writing, and signed by the witnesses. So just you give me the five hundred, and I’ll give you the register; and you can do as you will with it, your honor. But if I was your honor, and you was Peter Verity, I’d just tell the servants, as Madam was my wife, and interduce her as Mistress St. Aubyn like; but I’d not say when nor where, nor nothing about it; and I’d just keep this here paper snug; as I could perduce it, if I wanted, or make away with it, if I wanted; it’s good to have two strings to your bow always.” Jasper had listened to him in silence, with his eyes buried in his hands, while he was speaking, and as he ceased he made no reply; but remained motionless for several minutes. Then he raised his head, and answered in an altered and broken voice. “It cannot be helped now, but I would give very much it had been otherwise.” He opened a drawer, as he spoke, in the escritoir which stood before him, and took out of it a small box bound with brass and secured by a massive lock, the key of which was attached to a chain about his neck. It was filled with rouleux of gold, from which he counted out the sum specified, and pushed the gold across the table to the man, saying, “Count it, and see that it is right, and give me the paper.” Then satisfying himself that it was the very register in question, he folded it carefully, and put it away in the box whence he had withdrawn the gold; while the villain, who had tempted him stowed away the price of his rascality in a leathern bag which he had brought with him for the purpose, well assured that his claim would not be denied. That done, he stood erect and unblushing, and awaited the further orders of the young Lord of Widecomb. “Now, Peter,” said he, collecting himself, “mark me. You are now in my power! and, if I ever hear that you have spoken a word without my permission, or if you fail to speak when I command you—I will hang you.” And he spoke with a devilish energy, that showed how seriously he was in earnest. “Do you understand that, Master Peter Verity?” “I do, your honor,” answered the man, with a doubtful and somewhat gloomy smile; “but there is no need of such threats with me; it is alike my interest and my wish to serve you, as I have done already.” “And it is my interest and my wish that you should serve me, as differently as possible from the way in which you have served me; or served yourself, rather, I should say, sirrah.” “I beg your honor’s pardon, if I have done wrong. I meant to do good service.” “Tush, sirrah! tush! If I be young, I am neither quite a child, nor absolutely a fool. You meant to get me into your power, and you have got yourself into mine. Now listen to me, I know you for a very shrewd rascal, Peter Verity, and for one who knows right well what to say, and what not to say. Now, as I told you, I am about this very evening to make known my marriage with the lady whom you saw me wed. You will be asked, doubtless, a thousand questions on the subject by all sorts of persons. Now, mark me, you will answer so as to let all who ask understand that I am married, and that you have known all about it from the first; but you will do this in such a manner that no one shall be able to assert that you have asserted any thing; and further, that, if need should be hereafter, you may be able to deny point blank your having said aught, or known aught on the subject. I hope you will remember what I am desiring you to do correctly, Peter Verity; for, of a truth, if you make the slightest blunder, I shall carry this document, which you have stolen from the church-register, to the nearest justice of the peace, and make my deposition against you.” “I understand perfectly, your honor, and will do your bidding correctly,” said the fellow, not a little embarrassed at finding how much his position had altered, since he entered the library, as he thought, well nigh the young heir’s master. “So you shall do well,” replied Jasper. “Now get you gone. Let them give you some ale in the buttery, but when I send word to have the people collected in the great hall, make yourself scarce. It is not desirable that you should be there when I address them;” and lighting a hand-lamp as he ceased speaking, for it had grown dark already during the conversation, he turned his back on the discomfited sexton, and went up by a private staircase to what was called the ladies’ withdrawing room, an apartment which, having been shut up since the death of his own mother, had been reopened on Theresa’s joining the family. “The sexton of the church has been with you, Jasper,” she said, eagerly, as her husband entered the room; “what should have brought him hither?” “He was here, you know, dearest, at the sad ceremonial; and I had desired him to bring up a copy of the record of our marriage. He wished to deliver it to me in person.” “How good of you, dear Jasper, and how thoughtful,” she replied, casting her fair white arms about his neck, and kissing his forehead tenderly, “that you may show it to the people, and prove to them that I am indeed your wife.” “Show it to the people! Prove that you are my wife!” he answered impetuously, and with indignation in his every tone. “I should like to see the person ask me to show it, or doubt that you are my wife. No, indeed, dear Theresa, your very thought shows how young you are, and ignorant of the world. To do what you suggest, would but create the doubt, not destroy it. No, when they have done supper, I shall cause the whole household to be collected in the great stone hall; and when they are there, I shall merely lead you in upon my arm, tell them we have been married in private these three months past, and desire them to respect you as my dear wife, and their honored mistress. That, and your being introduced to all friends and visiters as Mistress St. Aubyn, is all that can be needed; and, in cases such as ours, believe me, the less eclat given to the circumstances, the better it will be for all parties. And do not you, I pray you, dearest, suffer the servant girls to ask you any questions on the subject, or answer them if they do. But inform me of it forthwith.” “They would not dream of doing so, Jasper,” she replied, gently. “And you are quite right, I am certain, and I will do all that you wish. Oh! I am so happy! so immeasurably happy, Jasper, even when I should be mournful at your good father’s death, who was so kind to me; but I cannot—I cannot—this joy completely overwhelms me. I am too, too happy.” “Wherefore, so wondrous happy all on a sudden, sweet one?” asked the boy, with a playful smile, laying his hand, as he spoke, affectionately on her soft, rounded shoulder. “That I need fear no longer to let the whole world know how dearly, how devotedly I love my husband.” And she raised her beautiful blue eyes to his, running over with tears of tenderness and joy; and her sweet lips half apart, so perfumed and so rosy, and radiant with so bright a smile, as might have tempted the sternest anchorite to bend over her as Jasper did, and press them with a long kiss of pure affection. “Now I will leave you, dearest,” he said, kindly, “for a little space, while I see that things are arranged for this great ceremonial. I will warn old Geoffry first of what I am about to say to them, that they may not overwhelm us by their wonder at the telling; and do you, when you hear the great bell ring to assemble them, put on your prettiest smile, and your most courageous look, for then I shall be on my way to fetch you.” It was with a beating heart, and an almost sickening sense of anxiety, that poor Theresa awaited the moment which was to install her in the house of her husband as its lawful lady. She felt the awkwardness, the difficulty of her situation, although she was far indeed from suspecting all the causes which in reality existed to justify her embarrassment and timidity. She had not long, however, to indulge in such fancies, and perhaps it was well that she had not; for her timidity seemed to grow on her apace, and she began to think that courage would fail her to undergo the ordeal of eyes to which she should be exposed. But at this moment, when she was giving way to her bashfulness, when her terrors were gaining complete empire over her, the great bell began to ring. Slow and measured the first six or seven clanging strokes fell upon her, resembling more the minute-tolling of a death-bell, than the gay peal that gives note of festive tidings and rejoicing. But almost as soon as this thought occurred to her, it seemed that the ringer, whoever he was, had conceived the same idea, for the cadence of the bell-ringing was changed suddenly, and a quick, merry chime succeeded to the first solemn clangor. At the same instant the door of the withdrawing-room was thrown open, and her young husband entered hastily, and catching her in his arms, kissed her lips affectionately. “Come, dearest girl,” he said, as he drew her arm through his own, “come, it will be all over in five minutes, and then every thing will go on as usual.” And without waiting a reply, he led her down the great staircase into the stone hall, wherein all the servants of the household, and many of the tenantry and neighboring yeomen, who had not yet dispersed after the funeral, were assembled in a surprised and admiring although silent crowd. The old steward, to whom Jasper had communicated his purpose, had already informed them of the object of their convocation, and great was their wonder, though as yet they had little time to comment on it, or communicate their thoughts and suspicions of the news. And now they were all collected, quiet, indeed, and respectful—for such was the habit of the times—but all eagerness to hear what the young master had to say, and, to speak truly, little impressed by the informality of the affair, and little pleased that one whom they regarded as little higher than themselves, should be elevated to a rank and position so commanding. Gathering even more than his wonted share of dignity from the solemnity of the moment, and bearing himself even more haughtily than his wont, from a sort of an inward consciousness that he was in some sort descending from his proper sphere, and lowering his wife by doing that which was yet necessary to establish her fair fame, the young man came down the broad oaken steps, with a slow, proud, firm step, his athletic though slender frame seeming to expand with the elevation of his excited feelings. He carried his fine head, with the brows a little bent, and his eyes, glancing like stars of fire, as they ran over every countenance that met his gaze, seeking, as it seemed, to find an expression which should challenge his will or underrate his choice. She clung to his arm, not timidly, although it was evident that she felt the need of his protection, and, although there was an air of bashfulness and a slight tremor visible in her bearing, they were mixed with a sort of gentle pride, the pride of conscious rectitude and purity, and she did not cast down her beautiful blue eyes, nor avoid the glances which were cast on her from all sides, by some desiring to read her secret, by some wishing to prejudge her character, but looked around her tranquilly with a sweet lady-like self-possession, that won many hearts to her cause, which, before her coming, had been prepared to think of her unkindly. Finding no eye in the circle that met his own with an inquisitive, much less an insolent glance, Jasper St. Aubyn paused, and addressed his people with a subdued and almost melancholy smile, although his voice was clear and sonorous. “This is a sad occasion,” he said, “on which it first falls to my lot, my people, to address you here, as the master of a few, the landlord of many, and, as I hope to prove myself, the friend of all. To fill the place of him, who has gone from us, and whom you all knew so well, and had so much cause to love, I never can aspire; but it is my earnest hope and desire to live and die among you as he did; and if I fail to gain and hold fast your affections, as he did, it shall not be for want of endeavoring to deserve them. But my object in calling you together, my friends, this evening, was not merely to say this to you, or to promise you my friendship and protection, but rather to do a duty, which must not be deferred any longer, for my own sake, and for that of one far dearer than myself.” Here he paused, and pressing the little white hand which reposed on his arm so gently, smiled in the face of his young wife, as he moved her a little forward into the centre of the circle. “I mean, to present to you all, Mistress St. Aubyn, my beloved wife, and your honored mistress! Some of you have been aware of this for some time already; but to most of you it is doubtless a surprise. Be it so. Family reasons required that our marriage should be kept secret for a while, those reasons are now at an end, and I am as proud to acknowledge this dear lady as my wife, and to claim all your homage and affection for her, both on my account, and on account of her own virtues, as I doubt not you will be proud and happy to have so excellent and beautiful a lady to whom to look up as your mistress.” He ceased, and three full rounds of cheering responded to his manly speech. The circle broke up, and crowded around the young pair, and many of the elder tenants, white-headed men and women, came up and craved permission to shake hands with the beautiful young lady, and blessed her with tears in their eyes, and wished her long life and happiness here and hereafter. But among the servants of the household, there was not by any means the same feeling manifested. The old steward, indeed, who had grown up a contemporary of Jasper’s father, and the scarcely less aged housekeeper, did, indeed, show some feeling, and were probably sincere as they offered their greetings, and promised their humble services. But among the maid servants there passed many a meaning wink, and half light, half sneering titter; and two or three of the younger men nudged one another with their elbows, and interchanged thoughts with what they considered a vastly knowing grin. No remarks were made, however, nor did any intimation of doubt or distrust reach the eyes or ears of the young couple—all appeared to be truthful mirth and honest congratulation. Then having ordered supper to be prepared for all present, and liquor to be served out, both ale and wine, of a better quality than usual, that the company might drink the health of their young mistress, well pleased that the embarrassing scene was at an end, Jasper led Theresa up to her own room, palpitating with the excitement of the scene, and agitated even by the excess of her own happiness. But as the crowd was passing out of the hall into the dark passages which led to the buttery and kitchen, one of the girls of the house, a finely-shaped, buxom, red-lipped, hazel-eyed lass, with a very roguish if not sensual expression, hung back behind the other maids, till she was joined by the under falconer, a strapping fellow in a green jerkin with buckskin belt and leggins. “Ha! Bess, is that you?” he said, passing his arm round her waist, “thou’rt a good lass, to tarry for me.” And drawing her, nothing reluctant, aside from the crowd into a dark corner, he kissed her a dozen times in succession, a proceeding which she did not appear by any means to resent, the “ha’ done nows!” to the contrary notwithstanding, which she seemed to consider it necessary to deliver, and which her lover, probably correctly, understood as meaning, “pray go on, if you please.” This pleasant interlude completed, “Well, Bess,” said the swain, “and what thinkst thou of the new mistress—of the young master’s wife? She’s a rare bit now, hant she?” “Lor, Jem!” returned the girl, laughing, “she hant no more his wife than I be yourn, I tell you.” “Why, what be she then, Bess?” said the fellow, gaping in stupid wonderment, “thou didst hear what Master Jasper said.” “Why she be his sweetheart. Just what we be, Jem,” said the unblushing girl—“what the quality folks calls his ‘miss.’ Why, Jem, he’s slept in her room every night since she came here. He’s only said this here, about her being his wife, to save her character.” “No blame to him for that, Bess, if it be so. But if you’re wise, lass, you’ll keep this to yourself. She’s a beauty, anyways; and I don’t fault him, if she be his wife, or his ‘miss,’ either, for that matter.” “Lor!” replied the girl. “I shan’t go to say nothing, I’m sure. I’ve got a good place, and I mean to keep it too. It’s naught to me how they amuse themselves, so they don’t meddle with my sweet-hearting. But do you think her so pretty, Jem? She’s a poor slight little slip of a thing, seems to me.” “She beant such an armful as thou, Bess, that’s a fact,” answered the fellow, making a dash at her, which she avoided, and took to her heels, looking back, however, over her shoulders, and beckoning him to follow. Such were not the only comments of the kind which passed that evening; and although, fortunately for Jasper’s and Theresa’s peace of mind, they never dreamed of what was going on below, it was in fact generally understood among the younger men and women, both of those within and without the house, that Jasper’s declaration was a mere stratagem, resorted to in order to procure more respect and consideration for his concubine; and, although she was every where treated and addressed as St. Aubyn’s wife, every succeeding day and hour she was more generally regarded as his victim, and his mistress. Such is the consequence of a single lapse from rectitude and truth. Alas for Theresa! her doom, though she knew it not, was but too surely sealed forever. Had it not been for the exceeding gentleness and humility of the unhappy girl, it is probable that she would have been very shortly made acquainted, one way or other, with the opinion which was entertained concerning her, in her own house, and in the neighborhood. But the winning affability of her manners, the total absence of all arrogance or self elevation in her demeanor toward her inferiors in station, her respect every where manifested to old age and virtue, her kindness to the poor and the sick, her considerate good-nature to her servants, and above all her liberal and unostentatious charities, rendered it impossible that any could be so cruel as to offer her rudeness or indignity, on what was at most mere suspicion. Added to this, the fierce impetuosity of Jasper, when crossed by any thing, or opposed in his will, and the certainty that he would stop at nothing to avenge any affront aimed at Theresa, so long as he chose to style her his wife, deterred not only the household and village gossips, but even that more odious class, the hypocritical, puritanic, self-constituted judges of society, and punishers of what they choose to deem immorality, from following out the bent of their mischievous or malicious tempers. In the meantime, month after month had passed away. Winter had melted into the promises of spring; and the gay flowers of summer had ripened into the fruits of luxuriant autumn. A full year had run its magic round since Theresa gave herself up to Jasper, for better for worse, till death should them part. The slender, joyous maiden had expanded into the full-blown, thoughtful, lovely woman, who was now watching at the oriel window, alone, at sunset for the return of her young husband. Alone, ay, alone! For no child had been born to bless their union, and to draw yet closer the indissoluble bonds which man may not put asunder. Alone, ay, alone! as all her days were now spent, and some, alas! of her nights also. For the first months of her wedded life, when the pain of concealment had been once removed, Theresa was the happiest of the happy. The love, the passion, the affection of her boy bridegroom seemed to increase daily. To sit by her side, during the snowy days of winter, to listen to her lute struck by the master hand of the untaught improvisatrice, to sing with her the grand old ballads which she loved, to muse with her over the tomes of romance, the natural vein of which was not then extinguished in the English heart, to cull the gems of the rare dramatists and mighty bards of the era, which was then but expiring; and, when the early days of spring-time gave token of their coming, in the swelling flower-bud and bursting leaf, to wander with her through the park, through the chase, to ride with her over the heathery moorland hills, and explore the wild recesses of the forest, to have her near him in his field-sports, to show her how he struck the silvery salmon, or roused the otter from his sedgy lair—these seemed to be the only joys the boy coveted—her company his chiefest pleasure, the undisturbed possession of her charms his crowning bliss. But passion is proverbially short-lived; and the most so with those who, like Jasper, have no solidity of character, no stability of feeling, no fixed principles, whereon to fall back for support. One of the great defects of Jasper’s nature was a total lack of reverence for any thing divine or human—he had loved many things, he never had respected one. Accustomed from his earliest boyhood to see every thing yield to his will, to measure the value of every thing by the present pleasure it afforded him; he expected to receive all things, yet to give nothing. He was in fact a very pattern of pure selfishness, though no one would have been so much amazed as he had he heard himself so named. Time passed, and he grew weary, even of the very excess of his happiness—even of the amiability, the sweetness, the ever-yielding gentleness of his Theresa. That she should so long have charmed one so rash and reckless was the real wonder, not that she should now have lost the power of charming him. Nevertheless so it was; the mind of Jasper was not so constituted as to rest very long content with any thing, least of all with tranquillity— |
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