Mrs. C. J. Newby

Unfaithful one! from seed of tares
No golden grain can spring:
Unhappy one! the wind, once sown,
Shall but the whirlwind bring.

Culver Allen.

Amongst all the curses pronounced against the rebellious Israelites, few, perhaps, in reality far exceeded that one—"Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in." It struck to the very heart of domestic peace, destroying that sanctuary, which, dark as the world around may be, we look to as a shelter and a solace. If the curse be there, what other blessing can reach us with any effect!

Such was the punishment which the cautious, wily woman of the world had been so carefully storing up for herself—for this she had chained her own temper—for this she had submitted to many weary vexations—for this she had been lavish in indulgence, even when her tired spirit would have willingly—so she believed—have turned from the cunning and fatiguing artifices of perpetual deceit—for this she had entered "into the fields of the fatherless," to find, only too late, that "their Redeemer is indeed mighty."

The curse for which she had so strenuously laboured, had entered into her very household, and her own daughters were turned against her.

Colonel Hargrave found Mrs. Villars in tears when he went to explain his wishes, and the reasons which led him to desire an early and private marriage.

"Take her when you like, and the sooner the better," exclaimed the goaded woman; "I care not when, and I only wish you could take away the ill she has brought with her."

Colonel Hargrave, who was accustomed to nothing but flattery in that house, felt a little surprise at the boldness with which the veil was now thrown aside.

"I hope," he said, at length, "that you will allow her to remain with you for the next three weeks. I wish this as a favour, because I would not have her forced to seek the protection even of old friends, at such a time—but I may as well add, that I know as well as yourself how little you have done your duty to your sister's orphan, and I make this the only condition which will force me to keep silence on the subject."

"Give me that promise and you shall not have cause to complain," said Mrs. Villars, apprehensively.

"It is yours," he returned, with great self-possession, which contrasted well with her pale face, and conscience stricken manner. "It is my particular wish," he added, "that our marriage should be as simple as possible, on account of the circumstances, which attend it. Any undue display would only hurt Mabel's feelings, as her year of mourning is not ended; but alone and friendless as she is, without a home at command, I say, with no hesitation, that the only thing she can do is, to accept that one which will ever hold her as its most honored mistress. But as even a private marriage may put you to some inconvenience, you must allow me the pleasure and privilege of providing against it."

As he said this, he placed a purse upon the table, which Mrs. Villars greedily laid her hands upon, and then he left the room, wondering, almost with some amusement, at himself, for the pique he felt at the sudden withdrawal of the adulation to which he had been accustomed, even though he had always seen its hollowness.

As he went down stairs to leave the house, for he had already announced his intention of removing to the White Lion, he met Lucy coming up, with such a bright blush upon her cheek, and looking so prettily agitated, that he stopped to enquire if any thing were the matter.

"Oh, I want Mabel—where is she—what have you done with her?"

"She went up stairs to take her bonnet off, and I think she will be glad of your company, to rouse her from certain little fears of a ceremony not very distant."

"Very well then, I will go to her," said Lucy, blushing yet more, and running past him. As he went on, he met Clair, coming from the study, and, as their destination was the same, they walked off arm-in-arm, talking of something which appeared entirely to engross them, till they reached the hotel, where they had dinner together.

"Oh, Mabel," said Lucy, when she had found her sitting in her own little room, "can you find time to think with me for one minute?"

"Of course I can," said Mabel, making her sit down on the trunk beside her.

"This dear old trunk, how I shall always love it," said Lucy, "how often we have sat upon it talking together; and to think of the trouble we had to shut it up, only last night, and how miserable we were then, and how happy we are now." She hid her blushing face on Mabel's shoulder as she went on. "You know I have such a strange thing to tell you. While you were out, I went into the study to find papa to get him to walk, and there was Captain Clair, talking to him; so directly I came in, up gets papa, and, saying he has something very particular to see done before he goes out, makes me promise to wait for him, and then gives me such an affectionate kiss, and hurries off—cunning papa—and then what do you think happens."

"I think I can guess," said Mabel, with a kiss and a smile.

"No, I am sure you cannot. Arthur told me, Captain Clair, I mean, that he had been talking to papa about me, and that he loved me now, though he once thought he could love no one but you, and indeed, dear Mabel, he spoke so kindly and affectionately that—"

"I understand you love," said Mabel, embracing her, "I thought so—I hoped so a long time since."

"You thought so," said Lucy, "impossible! I never could even have dreamt of such a thing yesterday."

"I tell you so," replied her cousin, "because I always knew his love for me only arose from the enthusiasm of circumstances; while those same circumstances only made him disapprove of you, as much as you did of yourself. I knew he could not see you so changed without really loving you."

"And do you think I shall ever be good enough for him?"

"Only keep as you are, and he will be quite satisfied."

"And, do you know that the doctors say, that if he returns to India it will kill him; and he has been for a long time wishing to become a clergyman; and now he has quite made up his mind, and he has entered his name at the college, at Dublin, which is the easiest way he says."

"That will be very, very nice, for we shall keep you both with us," exclaimed Mabel. "I am so very, very happy."

"And," almost whispered Lucy, "he so much wishes to be married on the same day that you and Henry are; but I hardly know whether mamma will consent."

"Oh, I dare say she will," said Mabel, "and I am glad of it for your sake."

Further conversation was interrupted by the dressing bell, and Lucy hurried away.

As Mabel had anticipated, there was little difficulty in getting Mrs. Villars's consent, when it was formally demanded by Clair, for in this piece of unexpected good fortune she hoped to find, at least a temporary respite, from the malice of her two disappointed children. In this, however, she was mistaken, for the marriage of their sister was no satisfaction to their jealous minds, and they did not fail to show their impression of their mother's injustice, on every occasion, and quite destroyed the pleasure she would have taken in providing Lucy's trousseau.

Mr. Villars looked upon the marriages as peculiar pet schemes of his own, and laid aside his writings to aid Mabel and Lucy in the choice of dresses and laces, with the most perfect good-humour and enjoyment. And when Lucy spoke with regret of leaving him, and felt half inclined to delay her marriage, for his sake, he would not hear of it, declaring that he should keep up a constant correspondence with both, and whenever he felt dull, if it were possible now that he had so much to do and to think of, he should run over and see them, wherever they were, and so recruit his spirits. For the present, he was almost their constant companion, for both Hargrave and Clair had so much to do, in a little time, that they had very little leisure at their disposal. There were settlements to be drawn, and Hargrave's was a very long one, licenses to procure, and a great many things besides, which, on such an occasion, were of no small importance. Besides which they were planning a visit together to Aston.

On the afternoon before they started, however, they accompanied Mr. Villars and his fair companions on a shopping expedition, and a pleasant afternoon they managed to spend. Hargrave, too, had his purchases to make, which he did with some pride in his own taste, of some beautiful Irish poplins, which he ordered to be directed, with his compliments, to Mrs. and the Misses Villars, together with some lace scarfs, which he thought would look very pretty at the wedding.

In due time they were delivered, and opened with much pleasure by Mrs. Villars and her daughter Selina, who seemed as tranquilly placid as ever, as if determined to find pleasure herself, whatever happened. She was just in the act of gathering the material in her fingers to see how well it would look made up, when Caroline entered.

"What is all this?" she cried, looking round upon Hargrave's present.

"Oh, my dear," said her mother, anxiously, "these beautiful poplins are from Henry Hargrave, who begs our acceptance of them, and hopes we will wear them at the wedding."

"And what do you mean to do with them?" enquired Caroline, looking at her fiercely.

"Why to wear them, of course, my dear; will you not do the same?"

"Not I, neither will you; I will have no such cringing ways done within my knowledge." Here she looked significantly at her mother, and then walking to the table, she began, deliberately, to refold the dresses, which they suffered her to do without interruption, hoping that she was relenting towards them. But when she had carefully folded every rumpled yard of the dresses, she placed them as carefully in their separate papers, and then tying them altogether, she wrote on the outside, and rang the bell.

"What are you doing, dear Cary?" cried Selina.

"You will see," said Caroline, and at that moment, their man-servant appearing, she turned to him, and said—"Take that parcel to Colonel Hargrave, at the White Lion, with mamma's compliments."

"Stop a moment, my dear, do consider," said her mother.

"Ma'am," replied her daughter, "no consideration is necessary. James, take the parcel."

And, without waiting further orders, he took it as she directed, leaving Mrs. Villars vexed and annoyed, but too timid to remonstrate.

Caroline, however, was disappointed at the satisfaction of knowing that Hargrave was annoyed, for he never even alluded to the subject.

The next morning, Hargrave and Clair set off, early, on their journey to Aston. The day was bright as a May morning could be desired to be, and the country, through which they drove, full of lovely home scenery. They had hired a phaeton, and took their own pace across the country—Hargrave driving, and delighting his companion with one of his very best humours, now sparkling with wit, or laughing in the merriment of his heart, and then suddenly changing his tone to one of deeper earnestness, as they spoke of the future or the past.

It was not till the close of the evening, that they espied the well-known landmarks of the little village—the simple spire of the rustic church, and the many windowed halls of Aston Manor.

As they entered the village, Hargrave suffered his horse to bring his tired trot to a walk, while they both eagerly looked around. Hargrave tried to fancy what his bride would feel, on the first sight of a place so loved, and so changed—and he thought, perhaps, she would have liked the old place better after all.

"Still there is nothing sickly in Mabel's mind," he said to himself, as he looked round, and considered how very greatly it was improved in reality. Here, were well drained roads, raised pathways, and neatly built houses, which might have proved models for many an English gentleman's estate, well lighted, well ventilated, as they were, and slightly ornamented besides, with the simple porch, and the little gardens which surrounded them. It made his heart beat high with that quick sensation of pleasure, which is almost pain. And there, too, on the site of Mrs. Lesly's cottage, rose one, smaller indeed, but still sufficiently like to recall it, and as then, the lawn in front sloped down to the road—and all beside, even to the simple gateway, seemed like the time gone-by. And, for the first time that long day, Clair looked sad, for he remembered when he had first looked upon it—and he thought of the graceful child, in her almost infantine beauty, as she sat and twined, with so much care, her fading wreath of the wild lily.

Little did he then think, that her dying wreath—dying even as she twined it—might so soon be regarded as her own fit emblem.

But they have ascended the hill, and though it is May, and the day has been warm, there is a brisk column of smoke curling up from the parlour chimney of the dear old rectory. They got down at the Hargrave Arms, and leaving their phaeton, just as they are recognised by the landlord, stroll on together.

It looked so like home, that old garden, as they entered it, they could almost fancy they heard the good rector's step in the well-known walks, and by the neat bee-hives; but no, the shutters were closed, and through their creeks issued a small stream of bright light, just giving a sly hint of the comfort they left in the snug parlour within.

To raise the window of the glass-door, and to spring into the passage, was but the work of one moment, and in the next, they were in the snug parlour itself, and shaking hands with Mr. Ware and his sister with a heartiness which nothing could exceed. And how the good man's face glowed when he welcomed his dear old pupil back, and, in the warmth of that one greeting, assured himself that he was "just as he used to be when he was a boy." And how, not altogether, or even one at a time, scarcely in any connection either, and certainly not as long stories are sometimes told, they made him understand why they had come, and all the changes which had taken place—and best of all, that Mabel was coming back to be mistress of Aston Manor, and Lucy—happy hearted Lucy—was to be Clair's wife, would all take too long to tell. But that they were a thoroughly comfortable and happy party, that night, there is no doubt. Then, as it grew later, Mr. Clifford, the young architect, returned from a long day, spent with some friends, and Hargrave was delighted to see him.

"Your work has been done almost with the rapidity of magic," he said, speaking kindly to him, for it had been his first essay. "I was quite pleased with what I saw as we lingered through the village."

Mr. Clifford looked much gratified by his approval.

"I am come down," Hargrave continued, "partly for the purpose of letting these cottages to those most deserving, and most honest; and you, my dear sir, must assist me," he said, turning to Mr. Ware; "my bailiff has already given notice, that they should all assemble in the large room, at the new inn, to-morrow, and you must come with me to see that I do justice."

"Most willingly, my dear Hargrave," replied Mr. Ware, whose countenance looked one continued beam of delight.

"And the next morning," continued Hargrave, "we are going to run away with you, as we cannot think of being married by any one but you."

Mr. Ware looked still more pleased, as he, at first, modestly declined, but very easily suffered himself to be persuaded to take the office assigned him.

"Now then, I have another plan to propose," pursued Hargrave. "You all know the little hamlet of Cheswell, over the hill—and how, of late years, it has increased to look more like a village of itself—and you may, perhaps, know how valuable the stone quarries have become to this estate. Well, I am thinking of erecting there, a small church, together with a snug house for a clergyman, and school house for the neglected children of that neighbourhood; partly from the knowledge of the great utility of such a measure, and partly because I wish to give some public testimony of my respect for the ordinances I once abused."

He colored deeply, as he made this confession, and then continued, more rapidly—

"I intend to endow this church property—and if, by the time it is finished, Clair is in orders, I shall present him with it. Why not, my dear sir, let him remain with you, till that time. I am sure," he added, with a bow to Miss Ware, "my cousin Lucy cannot learn to keep house, at once with cheerfulness and economy, better anywhere than here."

"Delightful," exclaimed Mr. Ware. "Arthur, my dear fellow, I have long known your intention of leaving the army; and may venture to say that your plans have not been settled with lightness and inconsideration. Will you come and live with us, for the present? Lucy can be with your aunt, whenever you may be forced to be long absent—you need not doubt that she shall be as welcome as you are."

"Should Lucy consent, I will gladly accept your offer, dear uncle," returned Clair; "but help me to thank Hargrave for this unexpected, unlooked-for kindness."

"No, no," said Hargrave, rising, and looking really embarrassed—"oblige me, by not saying a word. Come with me—I am going to carry you with me to the Manor. I shall sleep there to-night, for the first time, for more than six years—come and help me to do the polite to my faithful housekeeper."

"Ah, Colonel Hargrave," said Miss Ware, as she pressed his hand with reverence, for, with all his faults, she never forgot that she owed to him the happy home they had enjoyed, for so many years, "you will be welcome there, indeed, for you are come back to make us all happy."

Hargrave looked still more embarrassed, tried to say something, and failed—so seizing Clair by the arm, he hurried him off, without waiting for another word.

The first sound which greeted his ear, on the following morning, was a merry peal from the old church. He started up, and almost glad to find that Clair was still sleeping, he went, alone, to every part of the house, so well known, and so well remembered. Once again he felt master of his own—and the spell which had sent him forth a wilful wanderer was broken for ever.

With what pleasure he loitered from room to room, and then out to the green-houses and gardens; and, sometimes, he almost started, as some once familiar object distinctly recalled to mind the days of his boyhood. And then he would pause, to fancy how beautiful and how happy all would be, in the sunshine of his Mabel's presence.

But now Clair came to seek him, and they returned to a hearty breakfast, and then hurried off to the rectory, to fetch Mr. Ware and young Clifford to come with them to the inn, where already many an anxious peasant awaited them.

And when they did reach it, it was no light task to answer all claims, and equally to distribute favors, to the many who sought them.

Clair's head began to ache, many times, from the heated air of the large but well-filled room, and he, many times, strolled back to the rectory, to refresh himself.

Mr. Ware went back to his regular lunch, and dinner—and even Clifford found many opportunities of absenting himself; but still Hargrave sat on, apparently unwearied, as one after another sought his hearing, and laid claim to this or that disputed tenement. And his patience was well rewarded, by the satisfaction which he had afforded—for, towards the close of day, when the last claimant had been satisfied, the room was still thronged by those who were anxious to thank him for the attention he had shewn.

"Before I bid you good night," said Hargrave, rising as he spoke—and, as he did so, the fading rays of the evening sun played carelessly with his dark hair, and shed a light upon his face; "I have one question to ask you. Is there one among you, who will disapprove of my leniency in continuing this man," here he laid his hand upon the shoulder of his bailiff, who, with eyes fixed upon the ground, stood next him, and had been near him all day, "as my steward. If, since the night of the fire, he has done one wanton, or careless act—If he has neglected my interests by injuring you—speak, and he does not continue a day longer in his office; but, if not, I am not the man to close the gates of mercy against the repentant; and I say, that he shall have full opportunity of atoning for the past. If he has done wrong, in any one single instance, speak—if not, hold up your hands."

Every hand was raised, and the timid, but grateful expression, with which Rogers ventured to raise his eyes for the first time, seemed to say that the testimony thus given him was deserved.

"Very well," said Hargrave; "then he is my steward still, and long may he do his duty—but, my friends, remember, that I shall now be almost constantly with you, and I invite you all to dine on my grounds—on my wedding day, for I shall soon give Aston a mistress, who is already known, and loved, here. Mr. Clifford, who has already done so much for your comfort, will be kind enough to superintend your gaiety, and join you, I hope, in drinking my health. The only thing left me to ask, is your confidence, and your love, my good people, for I am come back to make a home among you."

The buzz of approbation which echoed through the long room, and even into the court-yard, beyond, might have satisfied him—but when, with a smile, he drew from his pocket a wig of shaggy hair, of the reddest hue, together with the slouched hat of a traveller, and placed them upon his head, they exclaimed, as with one voice, "The stranger!" and almost rent the place with their acclamations, pressing, at the same time, so closely round him, that he was glad to escape by a side door, from their eager protestations—and, as he paced rapidly up the path, through the fields, to the manor, he could still hear, in the distance, the untired hum of many voices, talking in surprise over the little romance of which he had been the hero.

There were many happy hearts in Aston that night, but none happier than that of its repentant master.