Tells of trouble in love, and trouble after marriage. Miss Jenny is persuaded by Mrs. Lupton to abandon her affection for Colin.

LET us now resume the thread of our story, and begin with that communication from Miss Calvert to Colin, previously adverted to as the cause of much pain to him. It ran as follows:—

“Since Mr. Clink quitted our now forsaken-looking house at ————, my mother has had much to say to me,—oh, too much that it is impossible to tell again, and that I am most unhappy in ever having heard. I know not why it is I should have been destined to so much trouble, for I never wilfully harmed one human creature even by a word, nor ever injured the meanest thing that had a life to enjoy, and which the Creator had made for its own enjoyment. Perhaps it is the will of Heaven that this grief should come upon me to try what virtue of resignation to its will I may possess. And if so, then indeed have I been sorely tried, most acutely probed and searched. During your absence, it seems to have become more fixedly my mother's intention that I shall never be happy. She has expressed her urgent desire that I would beg of you to forget me, and now you are away, make no endeavour ever to see me even once again. I never slept a wink, but cried, and prayed for you, my dearest Colin, all night upon my pillow. I am very ill now, and can scarcely do anything but weep. However, I will make my heart as strong as I can, for I foresee it has a terrible task to undergo. Were I of that religion which permits such things, I would now go into a convent, where no one should ever know my thoughts but Heaven; where I could ask on my knees, day and night, for forgiveness for those thoughts that I have not power to prevent; and where no eye that now knows me, should ever again see how pitiable and heart-broken a creature is even so soon made of the once happy, though now too wretched, but still devotedly affectionate—

“J. C.”

I cannot better describe the effect produced upon Colin's mind by the perusal of this epistle, than by stating that within ten minutes afterwards, he formed a dozen different and very desperate determinations to rescue his mistress from her trouble, each one of which respectively was abandoned again almost as soon as formed. He would hurry back to London,—remonstrate with Mr. and Mrs. Calvert. No, on second thoughts, he would not do that. He would write to Jane herself, and beseech her to calm her mind and wait with patience in the hope that happiness was still in store for them. And yet, what would be the utility of that? Would it not be preferable to act with spirit, and at once give up all thoughts of maintaining his courtship any longer?—or more advisable, or desirable, or prudent, or proper, to do—what? In fact he felt absolutely puzzled, and could not tell. In this dilemma he laid Miss Calvert's letter before her brother Roger, who at once flatly declared that if it were his case, if he happened unluckily to be similarly circumstanced with respect to Fanny Woodruff, as was Colin with regard to his sister Jane, he would make up his mind to run away with her at once, get married, and leave the old folks to reconcile themselves to the event in the best manner they might.

This suggestion wonderfully coincided with Colin's present state, both of feeling and thinking; he felt quite astonished that he had not hit upon the same expedient himself; but determined to adopt it without farther loss of time. And in all probability he would have done so within the shortest given space from that day, more especially as his friend Roger volunteered to write to Jane advising her to consent to that mode of settling matters,—had not an event occurred which for the present caused him to set his design entirely aside. This was no other than the arrival at the Hall of that long absent lady, of whom lately we have heard so little mention, the amiable Mrs. Lupton.

Colin happened to be wandering solitarily in the gardens, musing sadly over the subject of his love, when the carriage drove up that brought the Squire's lady once more back to that home which she loved best, but which it had not been her fate in life to enjoy. As the young man watched, he observed a female anxiously gazing through one of the windows, and endeavouring to obtain a first glimpse of those old walls which to her spoke so eloquently, so mournfully of past times, of years of happiness once, and only once, anticipated when she first entered them a bride; but of years of unhappiness realized, of bright visions faded; and sad remindings that the silver chain of a woman's dearest hopes had been snapped asunder, ay, even at the very moment when most the busy mind and hopeful heart had with bootless industry been employed in linking it together!

When the carriage stopped, he saw that a lady descended from it attended by two females, whose assistance appeared needful to enable her to alight with safety, and to walk into the house. As she stood upon the ground, our hero was struck with the elegance of her figure; although her countenance plainly denoted in its worn and anxious beauty that she was one of those whom trouble unrevealed has destined to “grow old in youth, and die ere middle age.”

As she passed up the pathway, supported by the arms of her attendants, she stopped to pluck the first rose that came to hand.

“There,” said she, gazing on it with an expression of countenance which might most properly be termed affectionate, “I love this flower—though it seems a fading one—better for the ground it grew on, the air it lived in, and the eyes—it may be—that have looked upon it;—I say the eyes that may have looked upon it, for he is my husband still, and this is my natural home;—I love it better, I tell you, than if it were grown in Paradise, and had been tended by an angel.”

The sun shone brilliantly; and as her face was turned upwards, Colin saw distinctly that her bright blue eyes were not tearless, nor the heart within that bosom at such peace as the lovely creature it gave life to seemed to merit.

Already had the Squire apprised him of the expected arrival of his wife, and therefore Colin felt no doubt that in the individual before him he now saw Mrs. Lupton. Nor in this belief was he mistaken. As she entered the hall she regarded everything—the minute equally with the great—with that degree of interest which any individual might be supposed to feel, who after many years should turn over anew the leaves of some old record of their by-gone life, wherein was shown again the past as now existing; save that it now looked upon no future of possible joy or rest, unless in that world which, happily, is beyond man's reach to darken or make sad.

As early after Mrs. Lupton's arrival as was consistent with a proper consideration of her state of health, and the quietude necessary after the fatigue of the journey she had undergone, Mr. Lupton desired and obtained an interview with her alone, which lasted during a space of four or five hours. In the course of that time communications of deep interest to both parties must have been made, as it was observed that more than once the services of Mrs. Lupton's attendants were required in order to save her from fainting, while the eyes of her husband evidently betrayed that even on his part their conversation had not been conducted without tears.

That same evening Mr. Lupton conducted Colin into the apartment where his lady was sitting, and presented him with the remark, “This, madam, is the young man of whom I have before spoken.” A gentle inclination seemed to mark that she perfectly understood what was said and done, although the terms in which her reply was couched evidently betrayed that the long years which had elapsed since last we saw her affecting interview with Miss Mary Shirley in that same old hall, had produced no permanent restoration of the then partly overthrown and too deeply troubled mind. She looked in Colin's face fixedly, and apparently without emotion; and although it is, perhaps, needless to add, she had never seen him before, she remarked—

“Yes; I have the pleasure of knowing him well. I remember that face as well—nay better—better than any other in the world; though it is more than twenty years since I saw it before.”

It has already been remarked that Colin bore a more than common resemblance to the Squire.

“And when,” she continued, “when shall I see it again?—Never more! I shall never see it again. It went from me soon after I was wed.”

“Now pray be calm,” interposed Mr. Lupton, in a persuasive and kind tone, when he found that the agitation and excitement resulting from what had so recently passed between them had produced a temporary recurrence of her disorder. “Be calm, madam, and we will talk these matters over at some future time.”

“And this favour,” continued Mrs. Lupton, “I shall beg of you particularly: I would have no one put me out of this house any more till the end; for though there are so many wicked people about that want to lead me astray, I will endure everything patiently, and soon get me out of the way where no man's snares shall ravel me again.”

Under the unhappy and painful circumstance of this temporary alienation of mind having thus again occurred, Mr. Lupton and Colin very properly retired from the room, leaving the unfortunate lady in the hands of her female attendants, one amongst whom was her old companion Miss Shirley.

“Mary!” whispered Mrs. Lupton, as the last-named individual approached her, “I have seen Walter Lupton again, just as when he used to see me at my father's—but I am resolved I will not marry him. Men do so flatter us! And in a week after we find ourselves more lonely than before we knew anybody. This beauty is all our ruin. The pretty apple soon goes, Mary, but the crab hangs till Christmas.

Then there's that Jenny Calvert too. I have loved that girl ever since she was born: she is a dear good creature, Mary,—a pretty sweet thing; but she cries just like one of the wicked, so there seems the same dish for all of us. Now, I tell her, never to marry one of Walter Lupton's friends, else we may be all alike; and I would not have her like me, not for a silver penny six times counted!”

“But I understand,” replied Miss Shirley, “that he is a very worthy young man, and that Jane is deeply in love with him. She cries for what she has not—not over what she has.”

“Then let her have him by all means,” answered Mrs. Lupton; “for if the girl love so much, she must be unhappy to her life's end without him; and as there is a chance that all men may not be alike, and all women not so unfortunate as I—most unfortunate—I would advise her to try that chance. I would have her happy, as she most deserves.”

Not to prolong the description of this and similar painful scenes, be it sufficient to state that, after the lapse of a few days, when Colin was again introduced to her, Mrs. Lupton had fully recovered her self-possession, and perfectly comprehended certain arrangements which Mr. Lupton had mentioned to her touching that young man whom he intended to make his heir, and whose parentage was no longer to her a mystery. In these arrangements she quietly acquiesced, not because she felt any interest in them, or would allow herself in any manner to acknowledge that she could in the least be identified with the young man whom Mr. Lupton had now introduced to the house; but simply because her husband had proposed and desired them. At the same time, while his every wish was hers, personally she felt that degree of indifference, respecting any arrangements he might make, not unusual with individuals who have been long hopeless of all happiness, so far as the present life is concerned, and who, consequently, contemplate the world to come as their only place of refuge and of rest, while the present, with all its pleasures, its anxieties, and its affairs, proportionably sinks in their estimation, as scarcely worthy even of a moment's serious consideration.

Whether this feeling was unconsciously accelerated by the closeness of an event which shortly after happened, and which—happily, perhaps, it may be deemed—put an end to all Mrs. Lupton's earthly sorrows, I will not pretend to divine; yet it has occasionally been asserted that the nearness of death (although at the time unknown) will often produce those exhibitions of sentiment and feeling, as regards the things of this world, which are never so fully made under any other circumstances. It is not for the writer of this history to speculate on such a subject; with facts alone has he to do: and, therefore, the reader must here be informed that, now Mrs. Lupton's proper faculties had returned, she strenuously opposed—notwithstanding what we have previously recorded as having escaped from her lips—the marriage of her young friend, Miss Calvert, with Colin. On that one question only did she evince the least interest in anything connected with him; but no sooner was she made aware that he was the object of that affection which had caused Miss Calvert so much trouble, than she retired to her room, and, without delay, addressed to her the following communication, dated from the Hall:—

“Believe me, my dearest Jenny, when I express to you the pain I feel in writing to you on such an occasion as the present, and in obtruding my sentiments upon you respecting a subject of such deep interest to your own heart, that upon the next step you take in it may probably depend your happiness or misery during the whole of your after-life. But as I am not happy, and have felt too grievously the impossibility of being made so any more in this world, it will not be difficult for you to credit my motives in wishing you to think, only think, how, by an ill-considered proceeding, you may do that in one moment which a whole after-life of pain can never remedy, and from which nothing but the grave can afford you a refuge. The young gentleman who has been introduced to you is not exactly what he has been represented—Mr. Lupton's friend. He is something more. Would that he were my son, for your dear sake! Then, my dearest girl, should I wish him no higher happiness than the possession of so good and true a creature, nor you any better love and care than I should delight in exercising towards you. It is unfit that I should tell you more than this; though possibly your own good sense may enable you to supply the deficiency. If you can give up this disastrous affection, let me implore you to do so. I fear it cannot end in any happiness. Why I say so, I scarcely know; but I feel that fear most deeply. Perhaps my own wretchedness makes me doubt whether there be such a state as happiness really to be met with, in any shape, in the world. But whatever the cause, let me again and again, as you regard the last words of a true friend, beseech you never to consent to such a match as would make you mistress of this unhappy and mournful house. I know everything, and warn you advisedly.

“Ever and for ever

“Your affectionate

“Elizabeth Lupton.”

By a singular coincidence, the same post which placed the above in Miss Calvert's hands, also conveyed to her two others:—one from Colin, and the other from her brother Roger. Colin's was opened the first.—It contained all those passionate appeals and protestations which, from a person so circumstanced, might naturally have been expected. Judging from this epistle, Colin was in a state of desperation, scarcely to be sufficiently described; although he concluded by expressing his determination never to relinquish his suit, though all the powers of earth conspired to oppose him, or even Jane herself should be induced by her supposed friends to resist his addresses. But while he possessed the consciousness of her eternal affection, it was utterly impossible for him by any means to do otherwise than persist through all trials until fortune should be compelled at length to crown his hopes.

This spirited production at first inspired poor half-heart-broken Jane with momentary hope; the more especially so as she found, too, on opening her brother Roger's letter, that he also advised her by no means to sacrifice her own happiness—if her happiness really did depend upon the event of this attachment—merely out of compliance, however otherwise desirable, with the wishes of those who could take no share from off her bosom of the load which their own agency had once placed there. Roger reminded her, that while others rejoiced, she might have to suffer; and that for his own part he never wished to see the day when his sister might possibly pine away her solitary hours in grief, which it was likely would hurry her to the grave, instead of being the happy wife of a young man whom she loved, and who, as far as he could observe, very well merited her attachment. At the same time, he declared in the most positive terms, that the real objection urged by her parents and friends against Colin, was not, in his opinion, a valid one. That it did not in the remotest degree touch the character or qualifications of the youth himself, and ought never to have been by any means so pertinaciously insisted on.

These remarks in some degree counteracted the bitterness of those which had made her weep over her friend Mrs. Lupton's letter, although they served in some degree to assist her in drawing that correct conclusion as to the true cause of objection, which now was rendered sufficiently evident to her mind. Yes, now she conjectured it:—her lover was not Mrs. Lup-ton's son, but he was more to Mr. Lupton than a friend. Besides, these matters had not been altogether unknown to her family during some years past; and, therefore, a certainty almost seemed to exist that her father and mother saw in the parentage of Colin the bar to their future union.

How long Jane grieved over this discovery and these letters, I need not say, but grieve she did, until some that had known her slightly knew her not again; and those who had known her best became most deeply certain, that if this was suffered to continue, a light heart was for ever exchanged for a sad one, and the creature whose very presence had diffused happiness, was converted into one of those melancholy beings over whose mind an everlasting cloud seems to have settled; whose looks instantaneously demand our pity, we scarce know why, and whose very bodily existence appears to become spectral and unearthly, while yet they sit at our table, or muse statue-like with melancholy by our hearth. Then it was that the obstinate began to soften, the strict to relax, the determined to think that continued opposition to the ways of the heart is too cruel to be always maintained. Everybody loved poor Jane, and everybody grieved to see her grief. So at length they proceeded from the direct exertion of counter influences upon her, to the tacitly understood holding out of hope, and the sometimes expressed possibility that matters might yet be ultimately arranged to her satisfaction.

Meanwhile, as the Squire's object in introducing his son to Mrs. Lupton had been fulfilled, Colin took the earliest opportunity, in company with Roger Calvert, to return to London, and throw himself with passionate sorrow before his mistress. But before we follow him thither, and record his fortunes, the reader will, perhaps, be pleased to hear something respecting certain other of the characters who have figured in this book, to whose interest, be it hoped, he does not feel altogether indifferent.