Ten Thousand a-Year. Volume 2

"Behind a frowning ProvidenceHe hides a smiling face!Blind unbelief is sure to err,And scan His works in vain!God is His own interpreter,And He will make it plain!"

"Therefore, O my God!" thought Aubrey, as he gazed upon the lovely scenes familiar to him from his birth, and from which a few short hours were to separate him forever, "I do acknowledge Thy hand in what has befallen me, and Thy mercy which enables me to bear it, as from Thee." The scene around him was tranquil and beautiful—inexpressibly beautiful. He stood under the shadow of a mighty elm-tree, the last of a long and noble avenue, which he had been pacing in deep thought for upwards of an hour. The ground was considerably elevated above the level of the rest of the park. No sound disturbed the serene repose of the approaching evening, except the distant and gradually diminishing sounds issuing from an old rookery, and the faint low bubbling of a clear streamlet which flowed not far from where he stood. Here and there, under the deepening shadows cast by the lofty trees, might be seen the glancing forms of deer, the only live things visible. "Life," said Aubrey, to himself, with a sigh, as he leaned against the trunk of the grand old tree under which he stood, and gazed with a fond and mournful eye on the lovely scenes stretching before him, to which the subdued radiance of the departing sunlight communicated a tone of tender pensiveness; "life is, in truth, what the Scripture—what the voice of nature—represents it—a long journey, during which the traveller stops at many resting places. Some of them are more, others less beautiful; from some he parts with more, from others with less regret; but part he must, and pursue his journey, though he may often turn back to gaze with lingering fondness and admiration at the scene which he has last quitted. The next stage may be—as all his journey might have been—bleak and desolate; but, through that he is only passing: he will not be condemned to stay in it, as he was not permitted to dwell in the other; he is still journeying on, along a route which he cannot mistake, to the point of his destination, his journey's end—the shores of the vast, immeasurable, boundless ocean of eternity—HIS HOME!"

The deepening shadows of evening warned him to retrace his steps to the Hall. Before quitting the spot upon which he had been so long standing, he turned his head a little towards the right, to take a last view of an object which called forth tender and painful feeling—it was the old sycamore which his sister's intercession had saved from the axe. There it stood, feeble and venerable object! its leafless silvery-gray branches becoming in the fading light, dim and indistinct, yet contrasting touchingly with the verdant strength of those near it. A neat strong fence had been placed around it; but how much longer would it receive such care and attention? Aubrey thought of the comparison which had on a former occasion been made by his sister; and sighed heavily as he looked his last at the old tree. Then he slowly walked on towards the Hall. When about halfway down the avenue, he beheld two figures apparently approaching him, but undistinguishable in the gloom and the distance. As they neared him, he recognized Lord De la Zouch, and Mr. Delamere. Suspecting the object of their visit, which a little surprised him, since they had taken a final leave, and a very affecting one, the day before, he felt a little anxiety and embarrassment. Nor was he entirely mistaken. Lord De la Zouch, who advanced alone towards Aubrey—Mr. Delamere turning back—most seriously pressed his son's suit for the hand of Miss Aubrey, as he had often done before; declaring, that though undoubtedly he wished a year or two first to elapse, during which his son might complete his studies at Oxford, there was no object dearer to the heart of Lady De la Zouch and himself, than to see Miss Aubrey become their daughter-in-law. "Where," said Lord De la Zouch, with much energy, "is he to look elsewhere for such an union of beauty, of accomplishments, of amiability, of high-mindedness?" After a great deal of animated conversation on this subject, during which Mr. Aubrey assured Lord De la Zouch that he would say everything which he honorably could to induce his sister to entertain, or at all events, not to discard the suit of Delamere; at the same time reminding him of the firmness of her character, and the hopelessness of attempting to change any determination to which she might have been led by her sense of delicacy and honor,—Lord De la Zouch addressed himself in a very earnest manner to matters more immediately relating to the personal interests of Mr. Aubrey; entered with lively anxiety into all his future plans and purposes; and once more pressed upon him the acceptance of most munificent offers of pecuniary assistance, which, with many fervent expressions of gratitude, Aubrey again declined. But he pledged himself to communicate freely with Lord De la Zouch, in the event of an occasion arising for such assistance as his Lordship had already so generously volunteered. By this time Mr. Delamere had joined them, regarding Mr. Aubrey with infinite earnestness and apprehension. All, however, he said, was—and in a hurried manner to his father—"My mother is waiting for you in the carriage, and wishes that we should immediately return." Lord De la Zouch and his son again took leave of Mr. Aubrey. "Remember, my dear Aubrey, remember the pledges you have repeated this evening," said the former. "I do, I will!" replied Mr. Aubrey, as they each wrung his hands; and then, having grasped those of Lady De la Zouch, who sat within the carriage powerfully affected, the door was shut; and they were quickly borne away from the presence and the residence of their afflicted friends. While Mr. Aubrey stood gazing after them, with folded arms, in an attitude of melancholy abstraction, at the Hall door, he was accosted by Dr. Tatham, who had come to him from the library, where he had been, till a short time before, busily engaged reducing into writing various matters which had been the subject of conversation between himself and Mr. Aubrey during the day.

"I am afraid, my dear friend," said the doctor, "that there is a painful but interesting scene awaiting you. You will not, I am sure, forbear to gratify, by your momentary presence in the servants' hall, a body of your tenantry, who are there assembled, having come to pay you—good souls!—their parting respects."

"I would really rather be spared the painful scene," said Mr. Aubrey, with emotion. "I am nearly unnerved as it is! Cannot you bid them adieu, in my name? and say God bless them!"

"You must come, my dear friend! If it be painful, it will be but for a moment; and the recollection of their hearty and humble expressions of affection and respect will be pleasant hereafter. Poor souls!" he added with not a little emotion, "you should see how crowded is Mr. Griffiths' room with the presents they have each brought you, and which would surely keep your whole establishment for months!—Cheeses, tongues, hams, bacon, and I know not what beside!"

"Come, Doctor," said Mr. Aubrey, quickly, and with evidently a great effort, "I will see them, my humble and worthy friends! if it be but for a moment; but I would rather have been spared the scene." He followed Dr. Tatham into the spacious servants' hall, which he found nearly filled by some forty or fifty of his late tenantry, who, as he entered, rose in troubled silence to receive him. There were lights, by which a hurried glance sufficed to show him the deep sorrow visible in their countenances. "Well, sir," commenced one of them, after a moment's hesitation—he seemed to have been chosen the spokesman of those present—"we've come to tak' our leave; and a sad time it be for all of us, and it may be, sir, for you." He paused, and added abruptly—"I thought I could have said a word or two, sir, in the name of all of us, but I've clean forgotten all; and I wish we could all forget that we were come to part with you, sir;—but we sha'n't—no, never!—we shall never see your like again, sir! God help you, sir!" Again he paused, and struggled hard to conceal his emotions. Then he tried to say something further, but his voice failed him.

"Squire, it may be law; but it be not justice, we all do think, that hath taken Yatton from you, that was born to it," said one, who stood next to him who had first spoken. "Who ever heard o' a scratch in a bit of paper signifying the loss o' so much? It never were heard of afore, sir, an' cannot be right!"

"You'll forgive me, Squire," said another, "but we shall never tak' to t'new one that's coming after you!"

"My worthy—my dear friends," commenced Mr. Aubrey, with melancholy and forced composure, as he stood beside Dr. Tatham, "this is a sad trial to me—one which I had not expected, and am quite unprepared for. I have had lately to go through many very painful scenes; but few more so than the present. My dear friends, I can only say from my heart, God bless you all! I shall never forget you, whom I have always respected, and indeed been very proud of, as my tenantry, and whom I now, of course, look at as my friends only. We shall never forget you"–

"Lord Almighty bless you, sir, and Madam and Miss, and little Miss—and the little squire!" said a voice, in a vehement manner, from amid the throng, in tones which went to Mr. Aubrey's heart. His lips quivered, and he ceased speaking for some moments. At length he resumed.

"You see my feelings are a little shaken by the sufferings which I have gone through. I have only a word more to say to you. Providence has seen fit, my friends, to deprive me of that which I had deemed to be my birthright. God is good and wise; and I bow, as we must all bow, to His will with reverence and resignation. And also, my dear friends, let us always submit cheerfully to the laws under which we live. We must not quarrel with their decision, merely because it happens to be adverse to our own wishes. I, from my heart—and so must you, from yours—acknowledge a firm, unshaken allegiance to the laws; they are ordained by God, and He demands our obedience to them! society cannot exist without them"—He paused. "I have to thank you," he presently added in a subdued tone, "my worthy friends, for many substantial tokens of your good-will, brought with you this evening. I assure you sincerely that I value them far more"—he paused, and it was some moments before he could proceed—"than if they had been of the most costly and splendid description"–

"Lord, only hearken to t'squire!" called out a voice, as if on an impulse of eager affection, which its rough, honest speaker could not resist. This seemed entirely to deprive Mr. Aubrey of the power of utterance, and he turned suddenly towards Dr. Tatham with an overflowing eye and a convulsive quivering of the lips which showed the powerful emotions with which he was contending. The next moment he stepped forward and shook hands with those nearest. He was quickly surrounded, and every one present grasped his hands, scarcely any of them able to utter more than a brief but fervent "God bless you, sir!"

"I am sure, my friends," said Dr. Tatham, almost as much affected as any of them, "that you cannot wish to prolong so afflicting a scene as this. Mr. Aubrey is much exhausted, and has a long journey to take early in the morning—and you had better now leave."

"Farewell! farewell, my kind and dear friends, farewell!—May God bless you all, and all your families!" said Mr. Aubrey; and, most powerfully affected, withdrew from a scene which he was not likely ever to forget. He retired, accompanied by Dr. Tatham, to his library; where Mr. Griffiths, his steward, was in readiness to receive his signature to various documents. This done, the steward, after a few hurried expressions of affection and respect, withdrew; and Mr. Aubrey had then completed all the arrangements, and transacted all the business, which had required his attention before quitting Yatton: which, at an early hour in the morning, he was going to leave; having determined to go direct to London, instead of accepting any of the numerous offers which he had received from his friends in the neighborhood, to take up with them his abode for, at all events, some considerable period. That, however, would have been entirely inconsistent with the plans for his future life, which he had formed and matured. He left the whole estate in admirable order and condition. There was not a farm vacant, not a tenant dissatisfied with the terms under which he held. Every document, all the accounts connected with the estate, after having been carefully examined by Mr. Parkinson, and Mr. Aubrey, and Mr. Griffiths, were in readiness for the most scrupulous and searching investigation on the part of Mr. Aubrey's successor and his agents.

Mr. Aubrey's library was already carefully packed up, and was to follow him, on the ensuing day, to London, by water, as also were several portions of the furniture—the residue of which was to be sold off within a day or two's time. How difficult—how very difficult had it been for them to choose which articles they would part with, and which retain! The favorite old high-backed easy-chair, which had been worked by Miss Aubrey herself; the beautiful ebony cabinet, which had been given by her father to her mother, who had given it to Kate; the little chairs of Charles and Agnes—and in which Mr. Aubrey and Kate, and all their brothers and sisters—long since deceased—had sat when children; Mrs. Aubrey's piano; these, and a few other articles, had been successfully pleaded for by Mrs. Aubrey and Kate, and were to accompany or rather follow them to London, instead of passing, by the auctioneer's hammer, into the hands of strangers. The two carriage-horses, which had drawn old Mrs. Aubrey in the family coach for many years, were to be turned to grass, for the rest of their days, at Lady Stratton's. Poor old Peggy was, in like manner, to have to herself a little field belonging to Dr. Tatham. Little Charles's pony, a beautiful animal, and most reluctantly parted with, was sent as a present, in his name, to little Sir Harry Oldfield, one of his play-fellows. Hector, the magnificent Newfoundland dog, was, at the vehement instance of Pumpkin, the gardener, who had almost gone upon his knees to beg for the animal, and declared that he loved the creature like a son—as I verily believe he did, for they were inseparable, and their attachment was mutual—given up to him, on his solemn promise to take great care of him. Then there was a poor animal which they hardly knew how to dispose of. It was a fine old favorite staghound, stone-blind, quite gray about the head, and so very feeble, that it could but just crawl in and out of its commodious kennel, and lie basking in the genial sunshine; wagging its tail when any one spoke to it, and affectionately licking the hand that patted it. Thus had it treated Mr. Aubrey, that very morning, as he stood by, and stooped down to caress it for the last time. It was, at his earnest request, assigned to Dr. Tatham, kennel and all; indeed the worthy little doctor would have crammed the whole of his little premises in a similar way, in order to have the more "keepsakes" and "memorials" of his friends. Miss Aubrey's beautiful Blenheim spaniel, with its brilliant black eyes, and long glossy graceful ears, was to accompany her to London.

As for the servants—the housekeeper was going to keep the house of her brother, a widower, at Grilston, and the butler was going to marry, and quit service. As for the rest, Mr. Parkinson had, at Mr. Aubrey's desire, written about them to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap; and Mr. Gammon had sent word that such members of the establishment as chose, might continue at Yatton, at all events till the pleasure of Mr. Titmouse, upon the subject, should have been known. All the servants had received a quarter's wages that morning from Mr. Griffiths, in the presence of Mr. Aubrey, who spoke kindly to each, and earnestly recommended them to conduct themselves respectfully towards his successor. Scarce any of them could answer him, otherwise than by an humble bow, or courtesy, accompanied by sobs and tears. One of them did contrive to speak, and passionately expressed a wish that the first morsel Mr. Titmouse ate in the house might choke him—a sally which received so very grave a rebuke from Mr. Aubrey, as brought the hasty offender to her knees, begging forgiveness; which, I need hardly say, she received, but with a very serious admonition. Many of them most vehemently entreated to be allowed to accompany Mr. Aubrey and his family to London, and continue in their service, but in vain. Mr. Aubrey had made his selection, having taken only his own valet, and Mrs. Aubrey's maid, and one of the nursery-maids, and declaring that on no consideration would he think of being accompanied by any other of the servants.

There were some twenty or thirty poor old infirm cottagers, men and women, who had been for years weekly pensioners on the bounty of Yatton, and respecting whom Mr. Aubrey felt a painful anxiety. What could he do? He gave the sum of fifty pounds to Dr. Tatham for their use; and requested him to press their claims earnestly upon the new proprietor of Yatton. He also wrote almost as many letters, as there were of these poor people, on their behalf to his friends and neighbors. Oh, it was a moving scene which had occurred at each of their little cottages, when their benefactors, Mr. Aubrey, his wife, and sister, severally called to bid them farewell, and receive their humble and tearful blessings! But it was the parting with her school, which neither Kate nor her brother saw any probability of being kept up longer than for a month or two after their departure, which had occasioned Kate the greatest distress. There were several reasons, which will occur to the reader, why no application could be made, about the matter, from her, or on her account, to Mr. Titmouse; even if she had not had reason to anticipate, from what she had heard of his character, that he was a person unlikely to feel any interest in such an institution. Nor had she liked to trouble or burden the friends whom she left behind her, with the responsibility of supporting and superintending her little establishment. She had nothing for it, therefore, but to prepare the mistress, and her scholars, for the breaking up of the school, within a month of her departure from Yatton. She gave the worthy woman, the mistress, a present of a five-pound note; and five shillings to each of the children. She felt quite unequal to the task of personally taking leave of them, as she had intended, and several times attempted. She therefore, with many tears, wrote the following lines, and gave them to Dr. Tatham, to read aloud in the school, when their good and beautiful writer should be far on her way towards London. The little doctor paused a good many times while he read it, and complained of his glasses.

"My dear little girls,—You know that I have already bid each of you good-by; and though I tried to say something to all of you at once, I was not able, because I was so sorry to part with you, and tell you that my little school must be given up. So I have written these few lines, to tell you that I love you all, and have tried to be a good friend to you. Be sure not to forget your spelling and reading, and your needle. Your mothers have promised to hear you say your catechisms; you must also be sure to say your prayers, and to read your Bibles, and to behave very seriously at church, and to be always dutiful to your parents. Then God will bless you all! I hope you will not forget us, for we shall often think of you when we are a great way off; and Dr. Tatham will now and then write and tell us how you are going on. Farewell, my dear little girls; and may God bless and preserve you all! This is the prayer of both of us—Mrs. Aubrey and

"Catherine Aubrey.

"Yatton, 15th May 18—."

The above was not written in the uniform and beautiful hand usual with Miss Aubrey; it was, on the contrary, rather irregular, and evidently written hastily; but Dr. Tatham preserved it to the day of his death, and always thought it beautiful.

On the ensuing morning, at a very early hour, Dr. Tatham left the vicarage, to pay his last visit to friends whom it almost broke his heart to part with, in all human probability forever. He started, but on a moment's reflection ceased to be surprised, at the sight of Mr. Aubrey approaching him from the direction of the little churchyard. He was calm, but his countenance bore the traces of very recent emotion. They greeted each other in silence, and so walked on for some time, arm-in-arm, slowly, towards the Hall. It was a dull heavy morning, almost threatening rain. The air seemed full of oppression. The only sounds audible were the hoarse clamorous sounds issuing from the old rookery, at some distance on their left. Mr. Aubrey and Dr. Tatham interchanged but few words, as they walked along the winding pathway to the Hall. The first thing which attracted their eyes, after passing under the gateway, was the large old family carriage, standing opposite the Hall door, where stood some luggage, sufficient for the journey, ready to be placed upon it; the remainder having been sent on the day before to London. How mournful was the sight! On entering the Hall, they found its heart-broken inmates all up, and dressed. The children were taking their last breakfast in the nursery; Charles making many inquiries of the weeping servants, which they could answer only by tears and kisses. In vain was the breakfast-table spread for the senior travellers. There sat poor Kate, in travelling trim, before the antique silver urn, attempting to perform, with tremulous hand, her accustomed office; but neither she, nor Mrs. Aubrey, was equal to the task; which, summoning the housekeeper into the room, they devolved upon her, and which she was scarce able to perform. Mr. Aubrey and Dr. Tatham were standing there; but neither of them spoke. A short time before, Mr. Aubrey had requested the servants to be summoned, as usual, to morning prayer in the accustomed room, and requested Dr. Tatham to officiate. As soon, however, as the sorrowful little assemblage was collected before him, he whispered to Mr. Aubrey that he felt unequal to go through the duty with the composure which it required; and after a pause, he said, "Let us kneel down;" and in a low voice, often interrupted by his own emotions, and the sobs of those around him, he read, with touching simplicity and solemnity, the ninety-first psalm; adding the Lord's prayer, and a very tremulous benediction.

The bitter preparations for starting at an early hour, seven o'clock, were soon afterwards completed. Half smothered with the kisses and caresses of the affectionate servants, little Charles and Agnes were already seated in the carriage, on the laps of their two attendants, exclaiming eagerly, "Come, papa! come, mamma! What a while you are!" Just then, poor Pumpkin, the gardener, scarce able to speak, made his appearance, his arms full of nosegays, which he had been culling for the last two hours—having one a-piece for each of the travellers, servants, and children, and all. The loud angry bark of Hector was heard from time to time, little Charles calling loudly for him; but Pumpkin had fastened him up, for fear of his starting off after the carriage. At length, having scarcely tasted breakfast, the travellers made their appearance at the Hall door. Kate and Mrs. Aubrey were utterly overcome at the sight of the carriage, and wept bitterly. They threw their arms passionately around, and fervently kissed, their venerable friend and pastor, Dr. Tatham, who was grievously agitated. Then they tore themselves from him, and hastily got into the carriage. As he stood alone, bareheaded, on their quitting him, he lifted his hands, but could scarce utter a parting benediction. Mr. Aubrey, almost overpowered with his emotions, then grasped his hand, whispering, "Farewell, my dear and venerable friend! Farewell!" "The Lord God of thy fathers bless thee!" murmured Dr. Tatham, clasping Mr. Aubrey's hand in both of his own, and looking solemnly upward. Mr. Aubrey, taking off his hat, turned towards him an unutterable look: then, waving his hand to the group of agitated servants standing within and without the door, he stepped into the carriage; the door was shut; and they rolled slowly away. Outside the park gates were collected more than a hundred people, to bid them farewell—all the men, when the carriage came in sight, taking off their hats. The carriage stopped for a moment. "God bless you all! God bless you!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, waving his hand, while from each window was extended the white hand of Kate and Mrs. Aubrey, both of which were fervently kissed and shaken by those who were nearest. Again the carriage moved on; and quickening their speed, the horses soon bore them out of the village. Within less than half an hour afterwards, the tearful eyes of the travellers, as they passed a familiar turning of the road, had looked their last on Yatton!