The Mother's Recompense, Volume 2
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"Oh, God, it is Charles himself?" she sobbed, and sunk almost fainting in his embrace; convulsively the brother pressed her to his bosom. It seemed as if the happiness of that moment was too great for reality, as if it were but some dream of bliss; scarcely was he conscious of the warm greeting he received; the uncontrollable emotion of the old Admiral, who, as he wrung his hand again and again, wept like a child. His brain seemed to reel, and every object danced before his eyes, he was alone sensible that he held his sister in his arms, that sister whom he had loved even more devotedly, more constantly in his hours of slavery, than when she had been ever near him. Her counsels, her example had had but little apparent effect on him when a wild and reckless boy at his father's house, but they had sustained him in his affliction; it was then he knew the value of those serious thoughts and feelings his sister had so laboured to inculcate, and associated as they were with her, she became dearer each time he felt himself supported, under his many trials, by fervent prayer and that implicit trust, of which she had so often spoken.
In wondering astonishment the younger members of the family had regarded this little scene some minutes before the truth had flashed on the mind of Mrs. Hamilton. Both St. Eval and Percy had guessed who in reality the stranger was, and waited in some anxiety for the effect that recognition would have on Mrs. Hamilton, whom Edward had already considerably agitated. With characteristic delicacy of feeling, all then left the room, Sir George Wilmot and Mr. Hamilton alone remaining with the long-separated brother and sister.
"My uncle Charles himself! Fool, idiot that I was never to discover this before!" had been Edward's exclamation, in a tone of unrestrained joy.
A short time sufficed to restore all to comparative composure, but a longer interval was required for Charles Manvers, whom we must now term Lord Delmont, to ask and to answer the innumerable questions which were naturally called forth by his unexpected return; much had he to hear and much to tell, even leaving, as he said he would, the history of his adventures in Algiers to amuse two or three winter evenings, when all his family were around him.
"All my family," he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling. "Do I say this? I, the isolated, desolate being I imagined myself; I, who believed so many years had passed, that I should remain unrecognised, unloved, forgotten. Reproach me not, my sister, the misery I occasioned myself, the emotions of this moment are punishment enough. And are all those whom I saw here yours, Hamilton?" he continued, more cheerfully. "Oh, let me claim their love; I know them all already, for Edward has long ere this made me acquainted with them, both individually and as the united members of one affectionate family; I long to judge for myself if his account be indeed correct, though I doubt it not. Poor fellow, I deserve his reproaches for continuing my deception to him so long."
"And why was that name assumed at all, dear Charles?" inquired Mr. Hamilton. "Why not resume your own when the chains of slavery were broken?"
"And how dare you say Mordaunt was yours as long as you can remember?" demanded Sir George, holding up his hand in a threatening attitude, as if the full-grown man before him were still the slight stripling he last remembered him. "Deception was never permitted on my decks, Master Charles."
Mrs. Hamilton smiled.
"Nor have I practised it, Sir George," he replied. "Mordaunt was my name, as my sister can vouch. Charles Mordaunt Manvers I was christened, Mordaunt being the name of my godfather, between whom and my father, however, a dispute arose, when I was about seven years old, completely setting aside old friendship and causing them to be at enmity till Sir Henry Mordaunt's death. The tale was repeated to me when I was about ten years old, much exaggerated of course, and I declared I would bear his name no longer. I remember well my gentle sister Emmeline's entreaties and persuasions that I would not interfere, that I knew nothing about the quarrel, and had no right to be so angry. However, I carried my point, as I generally did, with my too indulgent parent, and therefore from that time I was only known as Charles Manvers, for my father could not bear the name spoken before him. Do you not remember it, Emmeline?"
"Perfectly well, now it is recalled, though I candidly own I had forgotten the circumstance."
"But, still, why was Manvers disused?" Mr. Hamilton again inquired.
"For perhaps an unjust and foolish fancy, my dear friend. I could not enjoy my freedom, because of the thought I mentioned before. I knew not if my beloved father still lived, nor who bore the title of Lord Delmont, which, if he were no more, was mine by inheritance; for four-and-twenty years I had heard nothing of all whom I loved, they looked on me as dead: they might be scattered, dispersed; instead of joy, my return might bring with it sorrow, vexation, discontent. It was for this reason I relinquished the name of Manvers, and adopted the one I had well-nigh forgotten as being mine by an equal right; I wished to visit my native land unknown, and bearing that name, any inquiries I might have made would be unsuspected."
Surrounded by those whom in waking and sleeping dreams he had so long loved, the clouds which had overhung Lord Delmont's mind as a thick mist, even when he found himself free, dissolved before the calm sunshine of domestic love. A sense of happiness pervaded his heart, happiness chastened by a deep feeling of gratitude to Him who had ordained it. Affected he was almost to tears, as the manner of his nephew and nieces towards him unconsciously betrayed how affectionately they had ever been taught to regard his memory. Rapidly he became acquainted with each and all, and eagerly looked forward to the arrival of Emmeline and her husband to look on them likewise as his own; but though Edward laughingly protested he should tremble now for the continuance of his uncle's preference towards himself, he ever retained his place. He had been the first known; his society, his soothing words, his animated buoyancy of spirit, his strong affection and respect for his uncle's memory when he believed him dead, and perhaps the freemasonry of brother sailors, had bound him to Lord Delmont's heart with ties too strong to be riven. The more he heard of, and the more he associated with him in the intimacy of home, the stronger these feelings became; and Edward on his part unconsciously increased them by his devotedness to his uncle himself, the manner with which he ever treated Mrs. Hamilton, and his conduct to his sister whose quiet unselfish happiness at his return, and thus accompanied, was indeed heightened, more than she herself a few months previous could have believed possible.
CHAPTER XI
Our little narrative must here transport the reader to a small cottage in the picturesque village of Llangwillan, where, about three months after the events we have narrated, Lilla Grahame sat one evening in solitude, and it seemed in sorrow. The room in which she was seated was small, but furnished and adorned with the refined and elegant taste of one whose rank appeared much higher than the general occupants of such a dwelling. A large window, reaching to the ground, opened on a smooth and sloping lawn, which was adorned by most beautiful flowers. It led to a small gate opening on a long, narrow lane, which led to the Vicarage, leaving the little church and its picturesque burying-ground a little to the right; the thick grove which surrounded it forming a leafy yet impenetrable wall to one side of the garden. There were many very pretty tombs in this churchyard; perhaps its beauty consisted in its extreme neatness, and the flowers that the vicar, Mr. Myrvin, took so much pleasure in carefully preserving. One lowly grave, beneath a large and spreading yew, was never passed unnoticed. A plain marble stone denoted that there lay one, who had once been the brightest amid the bright, the brilliant star of a lordly circle. The name, her age, and two simple verses were there inscribed; but around that humble grave there were sweet flowers flourishing more luxuriantly than in any other part of the churchyard; the climbing honeysuckle twined its odoriferous clusters up the dark trunk of the storm-resisting yew. Roses of various kinds intermingled with the lowly violet, the snowdrop, lily of the valley, the drooping convolvulus, which, closing its petals for a time, is a fit emblem of that sleep which, closing our eyes on earth, reopens them in heaven, beneath the general warmth of the sun of righteousness. These flowers were sacred in the eyes of the villagers, and their children were charged not to despoil them; and too deep was their reverence for their minister, and too sacred was that little spot of earth, even to their uncultured eyes, for those commands ever to be disobeyed. But it was not to Mr. Myrvin's care alone that part of the churchyard owed its beauty. It had ever been distinguished from the rest by the flowers around it; but it was only the last two years they had flourished so luxuriantly; the hand of Lilla Grahame watered and tended them with unceasing care. In the early morning or the calm twilight she was seen beside the grave, and many might have believed that there reposed the ashes of a near and dear relation, but it was not so. Lilla had never seen and never known the lovely being whose last home she thus affectionately tended. It was dear to her from its association with him whom she loved, there her thoughts could wander to him; and surely the love thus cherished beside the dead must have been purity itself.
It was the hour that Lilla usually sought the churchyard, but she came not, and the lengthening shadows of a soft and lovely May evening fell around the graceful figure of a tall and elegant young man, in naval uniform, who lingered beside the grave; pensive, it seemed, yet scarcely melancholy. His fine expressive countenance seemed to breathe of happiness proceeding from the heart, chastened and softened by holier thoughts. A smile of deep feeling encircled his lips as he looked on the flowers, which in this season were just bursting into beautiful bloom; and plucking an early violet, he pressed it to his lips and placed it next his heart. "Doubly precious," he said, internally, "planted by the hand of her I love, it flourished on my mother's grave. Oh, my mother, would that you could behold your Edward now; that your blessing could be mine. It cannot be, and thrice blessed as I am, why should I seek for more?" A few moments longer he lingered, then turned in the direction of the Vicarage.
Lilla's spirits harmonized not as they generally did with the calm beauty of nature around her. Anxious and sorrowful, her tears more than once fell slowly and unheeded on her work; but little improvement had taken place in her father's temper. She had much, very much to bear, even though she knew he loved her, and that his chief cares were for her; retirement had not relieved his irritated spirit. Had he, instead of retreating from, mingled as formerly in, the world, he might have been much happier, for he would have found the dishonourable conduct of his son had not tarnished his own. He had been too long and too well known as the soul of honour and integrity, for one doubt or aspersion to be cast upon his name. Lady Helen's injudicious conduct towards her children was indeed often blamed, and Grahame's own severity much regretted, but it was much more of sympathy he now commanded than scorn or suspicion, and all his friends lamented his retirement. Had not Lilla's spirits been naturally elastic, they must have bent beneath these continued and painful trials; her young heart often felt breaking, but the sense of religion, the excellent principles instilled both by Mrs. Douglas and Mrs. Hamilton now had their full effect, and sustained her amidst all. She never wavered in her duty to her father; she never complained even in her letters to her dearest and most confidential friends.
"Have you thought on the subject we spoke of last night, Lilla?" asked her father, entering suddenly, and seating himself gloomily on a chair some paces from her. His daughter started as she saw him, for the first tone of his voice betrayed he was more than usually irritable and gloomy.
"Yes, father, I have," she replied, somewhat timidly.
"And what is your answer?"
"I fear you will be displeased, my dear father; but indeed I cannot answer differently to last night."
"You are still resolved then to refuse Philip Clapperton?"
Lilla was silent.
"And pray may I ask the cause of your fastidiousness, Miss Grahame? Your burst of tears last night made a very pretty scene no doubt, but they gave me no proper answer."
"It is not only that I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, father, but I cannot respect him."
"And pray why not? I tell you, Lilla, blunt, even coarse, if you like, as he is, unpolished, hasty, yet he has a better heart by far than many of those more elegant and attractive sprigs of nobility, amongst which perhaps your romantic fancy has wandered, as being the only husbands fitted for you."
"You do me injustice, father. I have never indulged in such romantic visions, but I cannot willingly unite my fate with one in whom I see no fixed principle of action—one who owns no guide but pleasure. His heart may be good, I doubt it not; but I cannot respect one who spends his whole life in fox-hunting, drinking, and all the pleasures peculiar to the members of country clubs."
"In other words, a plain, honest-speaking, English gentleman is not fine enough for you. What harm is there in the amusements you have enumerated? Why should not a fox-hunter make as good a husband as any other member of society?"
Lilla looked at her father in astonishment. These were not always his sentiments she painfully thought.
"I do not mean to condemn these amusements, my dear father, but when they are carried on without either principle or religion. How can I venture to intrust my happiness to such a man?"
"And where do you expect to find either principle or religion now? Not in those polished circles, where I can perceive your hopes are fixed. Girl, banish such hopes. Not one amongst them would unite himself to the sister of that dishonoured outcast Cecil Grahame."
Grahame's whole frame shook as he pronounced his son's name, but sternness still characterised his voice.
"Never would I unite myself with one who considered himself degraded by an union with our family, father, be assured," said Lilla, earnestly. "My hopes are not high. I have thought little of marriage, and till I am sought, have no wish to leave this sequestered spot, believe me."
"And who, think you, will seek you here? You had better banish such idle hopes, for they will end in disappointment."
"Be it so, then," Lilla replied, calmly, though had her father been near her, he would have seen her cheek suddenly become pale and her eyelids quiver, as if by the pressure of a tear. "Is marriage a thing so indispensable, that you would compel me to leave you, my dear father?"
"To you it is indispensable; when once you have lost the name you now hold, the world and all its pleasures will be spread before you, the stain will be remembered no more; your life need not be spent in gloom and exile like this."
"And what, then, will become of you?"
"Of me! who cares. What am I, and what have I ever been to either of my children, that they should care for me? I scorn the mere act of duty, and which of you can love me? no, Lilla, not even you."
"Father, you do me wrong; oh, do not speak such cruel words," said Lilla, springing from her seat, and flinging herself on her knees by her father's side. "Have I indeed so failed in testimonies of love, that you can for one instant believe it is only the duty of a child I feel and practise? Oh, my father, do me not such harsh injustice; could you read my inmost heart, you would see how full it is of love and reverence for you, though I have not always courage to express it. Ask of me any, every proof but this, and I will do it, but, oh, do not command me to wed Mr. Clapperton; why, oh, why would you thus seek to send me from you?"
"I speak but for your happiness, Lilla;" his voice was somewhat softened. "You cannot be happy now with one so harsh, irritable, cruel as, I know, I am too often."
"And would you compare the occasional irritation proceeding from the failing health of a beloved father, with the fierce passion and constant impatience of a husband, with whom I could not have one idea in common, whom I could neither love nor reverence, to whom even my duty would be wretchedness? oh, my father, can you compare the two? Think of Mrs. Greville: Philip Clapperton ever reminds me of Mr. Greville, of what at least he must have been in his youth, and would you sentence me to all the misery that has been poor Mrs. Greville's lot and her children's likewise?"
"You do not know enough of Clapperton to judge him thus harshly, Lilla; I know him better, and I cannot see the faults against which you are so inveterate. Your sister chose a husband for herself, and how has she fared? is she happy?"
"Annie cannot be happy, father, even if her husband were of a very different character. She disobeyed; a parent's blessing hallowed not her nuptials, and strange indeed would it be were her lot otherwise; but though I cannot love the husband of your choice, you may trust me, father, without your consent and blessing, I will never marry."
"Do not say you cannot love Philip Clapperton, Lilla; when once his wife, you could not fail to do so. I would see you united to one who loves you, my child, ere your affections are bestowed on another, who may be less willing to return them."
Grahame spoke in a tone of such unwonted softness, that the tears now rolled unchecked down Lilla's cheeks. Her ingenuous nature could not be restrained; she felt as if, were she still silent, she would be deceiving him, and hiding her face in her hand, she almost inaudibly said—
"For that, then, it is too late, father; I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, because—because I love another."
"Ha!" exclaimed Grahame, starting, then laying his trembling hand on Lilla's head, he continued, struggling with strong emotion, "this, then, is the cause of your determined refusal. Poor child, poor child, what misery have you formed for yourself!"
"And wherefore misery, my father?" replied Lilla, raising her head somewhat proudly, and speaking as firmly as her tears would permit. "Your child would not have loved had she not deemed her affections sought, ay, and valued too. Think not I would degrade myself by giving my heart to any one who deemed me or my father beneath his notice. If ever eye or act can speak, I do not love in vain."
"And would you believe in trifles such as these?" asked her father, sorrowfully. "Alas! poor child, words are often false, still less can you rely on the language of the eye. Has anything like an understanding taken place between you?"
"Alas! my father, no; and yet—and yet—oh, I know he loves me."
"And so he may, my child, and yet break his own heart and yours, poor guileless girl, rather than unite himself with the dishonoured and the base. Lilla, my own Lilla, I have been harsh and cruel; it is because I feel too keenly perhaps the gall in which your wretched brother's conduct has steeped your life and mine; mine will soon pass away, but the dark shadow will linger still round you, my child, and condemn you to wretchedness; I cannot, cannot bear that thought!" and he struck his clenched hand against his brow. "Why on the innocent should fall the chastisement of the guilty? My child, my child, oh, banish from your unsuspecting heart the hopes of love returned. Where in this selfish world will you find one to love you so for yourself alone, that family and fortune are as naught?"
"Why judge so harshly of your sex, Mr. Grahame?" said a rich and thrilling voice, in unexpected answer to his words, and the same young man whom we before mentioned as lingering by a village grave, stepping lightly from the terrace on which the large window opened into the room, stood suddenly before the astonished father and his child. On the latter the effect of his presence was almost electric. The rich crimson mantled at once over cheek and brow and neck, a faint cry burst from her lips, and as the thought flashed across her, that her perhaps too presumptuous hopes of love returned had been overheard, as well as her father's words, she suddenly burst into tears of mingled feeling, and darting by the intruder, passed by the way he had entered into the garden; but even when away from him, composure for a time returned not. She forgot entirely that no name had been spoken either by her father or by herself to designate him whom she confessed she loved; her only feeling was, she had betrayed a truth, which from him she would ever have concealed, till he indeed had sought it; and injured modesty now gave her so much pain, it permitted her not to rejoice in this unexpected appearance of one whom she had not seen since she had believed him dead. She knew the churchyard was at this period of the evening quite deserted, and almost unconscious what she was about, she hastily tied on her bonnet, and with the speed of a young fawn, she bounded through the narrow lane, and rested not till she found herself seated beside her favourite grave; there she gave full vent to the thoughts in which pleasure and confusion somewhat strangely and painfully mingled.
"Can you, will you forgive this unceremonious and, I fear, unwished-for intrusion?" was the young stranger's address to Grahame, when he had recovered from the agitation which Lilla's emotion had called forth, he scarcely knew wherefore. "To me you have ever extended the hand of friendship, Mr. Grahame, however severe upon the world in general, and will you refuse it now, when my errand here is to seek an even nearer and a dearer name?"
"You are welcome, ever welcome to my humble home, my dear boy, for your own sake, and for those dear to you," replied Grahame, with a return of former warmth and cordiality. "More than usually welcome I may say, Edward, as this is your first visit here since your rescue from the bowels of the great deep. You look confused and heated, and as if you would much rather run after your old companion than stay with me, but indeed I cannot spare you yet, I have so many questions to ask you."
"Forgive me, Mr. Grahame, but indeed you must hear me first."
"I came here to speak to you on a subject nearest my heart, and till that is told, till from your lips I know my fate, do not, for pity, ask me to speak on any other. I meant not to have entered so abruptly on my mission, but that which Mr. Myrvin has imparted to me, and what I undesignedly overheard as I stood unseen on that terrace, have taken from me all the eloquence with which I meant to plead my cause."
"Speak in your own proper person, Edward, and then I may perhaps hear you," replied Grahame, from whom the sight of his young friend appeared to have banished all misanthropy. "What I can, however, have to do with your fate, I know not, except that I will acquit you of all intentional eaves-dropping, if it be that which troubles you; and what can Mr. Myrvin have said to rob you of eloquence?"
"He told me that—that you had encouraged Philip Clapperton's addresses to Lil—to Miss Grahame," answered Edward, with increasing agitation, for he perceived, what was indeed the truth, that Grahame had not the least idea of his intentions.
"And what can that have to do with you, young man?" inquired Grahame, somewhat haughtily, and his brow darkened. "You have not seen Lilla, to be infected with her prejudices, and in what manner can my wishes with regard to my daughter on that head concern you?"
"In what manner? Mr. Grahame, I came hither with my aunt's and uncle's blessing on my purpose, to seek from you your gentle daughter's hand. I am not a man of many words, and all I had to say appears to have departed, and left me speechless. I came here to implore your consent, for without it I knew 'twere vain to think or hope to make your Lilla mine. I came to plead to you, and armed with your blessing, plead my cause to her, and you ask me how Mr. Myrvin's intelligence can affect me. Speak, then, at once; in pity to that weakness which makes me feel as if my lasting happiness or misery depends upon your answer."