The Mother's Recompense, Volume 2

"And do you, Edward, do you love my poor child?" asked the father, with a quivering lip and glistening eye, as he laid his hand, which trembled, on the young man's shoulder.

"Love her? oh, Mr. Grahame, she has been the bright beaming star that has shone on my ocean course for many a long year. I know not when I first began to love, but from my cousin Caroline's wedding-day the thoughts of Lilla lingered with me, and gilded many a vision of domestic peace and love, and each time I looked on her bright face, and marked her kindling spirit, heard and responded inwardly to her animated voice, I felt that she was dearer still; and when again I saw her in her sorrow, and sought with Ellen to soothe and cheer her, oh, no one can know the pain it was to restrain the absorbing wish to ask her, if indeed one day she would be mine, but that was no time to speak of love. Besides, I knew not if I had the means to offer her a comfortable home, I knew not how long I might be spared to linger near her; but now, when of both I am assured, wherefore should I hesitate longer? With the title of captain, that for which I have so long pined, I am at liberty to retire on half-pay, till farther orders; the adopted son and acknowledged heir to my uncle, Lord Delmont, I have now enough to offer her my hand, without one remaining scruple. You are silent. Oh, Mr. Grahame, must I plead in vain?"

"And would you marry her, would you indeed take my child as your chosen bride?" faltered Grahame, deeply moved. "Honoured, titled as you are, my poor, portionless Lilla is no meet bride for you."

"Perish honours and title too, if they could deprive me of the gentle girl I love!" exclaimed the young captain, impetuously. "Do not speak thus, Mr. Grahame. In what was my lamented father better than yourself—my mother than Lady Helen? and if she were in very truth my inferior in birth, the virtues and beauty of Lilla Grahame would do honour to the proudest peer of this proud land."

"My boy, my gallant boy!" sobbed the agitated father, his irritability gone, dissolved, like the threatening cloud of a summer day beneath some genial sunbeam, and as he wrung Captain Fortescue's hand again and again in his, the tears streamed like an infant's down his cheek.

"Will I consent, will I give you my blessing? Oh, to see you the husband of my poor child would be too, too much happiness, happiness wholly, utterly undeserved. But, oh, Edward, can Mr. Hamilton, can Lord Delmont consent to your union with one, whose only brother is a disgraced, dishonoured outcast, whose father is a selfish, irritable misanthrope?"

"Can the misconduct of Cecil cast in the eyes of the just and good one shadow on the fair fame of his sister? No, my dear sir; it is you who have looked somewhat unkindly and unjustly on the world, as when you mingle again with your friends, in company with your children, you will not fail, with your usual candour, to acknowledge. A selfish, irritable misanthrope," he added, archly smiling. "You cannot terrify me, Mr. Grahame. I know the charge is false, and I dread it not."

"Ask me not to join the world again," said Grahame, hoarsely; "in all else, the duties of my children shall be as laws, but that"—

"Well, well, we will not urge it now, my dear sir," replied the young sailor, cheerfully; then added, with the eager agitation of affection, "But Lilla, my Lilla. Oh, may I hope that she will in truth be mine? Oh, have I, can I have been too presumptuous in the thought I have not loved in vain?"

"Away with you, and seek the answer from her own lips," said Mr. Grahame, with more of his former manner than he had yet evinced, for he now entertained not one doubt as to Edward being the chosen one on whom his daughter's young affections had been so firmly fixed. "Go to her, my boy; she will not fly a second time, so like a startled hare, from your approach; tell her, had she told her father Edward Fortescue was the worthy object of her love, he would not thus have thrown a damp upon her young heart, he would not have condemned him as being incapable of loving her for herself alone. Tell her, too, the name of Philip Clapperton shall offend her no more. Away with you, my boy."

Edward awaited not a second bidding. In a very few minutes the whole garden had been searched, and Miss Grahame inquired for all over the house, then he bounded through the lane, and scarcely five minutes after he had quitted Mr. Grahame, he stood by the side of Lilla; the consciousness that she had confessed her love, that he might have overheard it, was still paramount in her modest bosom, and she would have avoided him, but quickly was her design prevented. Rapidly, almost incoherently, was the conversation of the last half hour repeated, and with all the eloquence of his enthusiastic nature, Edward pleaded his cause, and, need it be said, not in vain. Lilla neither wished nor sought to conceal her feelings, and long, long did those two young and animated beings remain in sweet and heartfelt commune beside that lowly grave.

"What place so fitted where to pledge our troth, my Lilla, as by my mother's resting-place?" said Edward. "Would that she could look upon us now and smile her blessing."

Happily indeed flew those evening hours unheeded by the young lovers. Grahame, on the entrance of his happy child, folded her to his bosom; his blessing descended on her head, mingled with tears, which sprung at once from a father's love and self-reproach at all the suffering his irritability had occasioned her. And that evening Lilla indeed felt that all her sorrows, all her struggles, all her dutiful forbearance, were rewarded. Not only was her long-cherished love returned, not only did she feel that in a few short months she should be her Edward's own, that he, the brave, the gallant, honoured sailor, had chosen her in preference to any of those fairer and nobler maidens with whom he had so often associated, but her father, her dear father, was more like himself than he had been since her mother's death. He looked, he spoke the Montrose Grahame we have known him in former years. Edward had ever been a favourite with him, but he and Lilla had been so intimate from their earliest childhood, that he had never thought of him as a son; and when the truth was known, so truly did Grahame rejoice, that the bitterness in his earthly cup was well-nigh drowned by its present sweetness.

Innumerable were the questions both Lilla and Grahame had to ask, and Edward answered all with that peculiar joyousness which ever threw a charm around him. The adventures of his voyage, his dangers, the extraordinary means of his long-lost uncle being instrumental in his preservation, Lord Delmont's varied tale, all was animatedly discussed till a late hour. A smile was on Grahame's lip, as his now awakened eye recalled the drooping spirits and fading cheek of his Lilla during those three months of suspense, when Captain Fortescue was supposed drowned, and the equally strange and sudden restoration to health and cheerfulness when Ellen's letter was received, detailing her brother's safety. Lilla's streaming eyes were hid on her lover's shoulder as he detailed his danger, but quickly her tears were kissed away; thankfulness that he was indeed spared, again filled her heart, and the bright smile returned. He accounted for not seeking them earlier by the fact that, while they remained at Richmond, his uncle, whose health from long-continued suffering was but weakly established, could not bear him out of his sight, and that he had entreated him not to leave him till they returned to Oakwood. This, young Fortescue afterwards discovered, was to give Lord Delmont time for the gratification of his wishes, which, from the time he had heard the line of Delmont was extinct, had occupied his mind. Many of his father's old friends recognised him at once. His father's and his sister's friends were eager to see and pay him every attention in their power. He found himself ever a welcome and a courted guest, and happiness, so long a stranger from his breast, now faded not again. To adopt Edward as his son, to leave him heir to his title and estate, was now, as it had been from the first moment he recognised his nephew, the dearest wish of his heart, "if it were only to fulfil Sir George Wilmot's prophecy," he jestingly told the old Admiral, who, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, warmly seconded his wishes. The necessary formula met with no opposition, and the same day that gave to Edward his promotion of captain, informed him of the secretly-formed and secretly-acted-upon desire of his uncle.

In the time of Edward's grandfather, the Delmont estates, as some of our readers may remember, were, from the carelessness of stewards and the complete negligence of their lord, in such an embarrassed state, as barely to return a sufficient income for the expenses of Lord Delmont's establishment. Affairs, however, were not in a worse state than that a little energy and foresight might remedy. The guardian of Henry Manvers, who, as we know already, became Lord Delmont when only three years old, had acted his part with so much straightforwardness and trust, that when Manvers came of age he found his estates in such a thriving condition, that he was a very much richer nobleman than many of his predecessors had been. Well able to discern true merit, and grateful for the services already rendered, his guardian, by his earnest entreaty, remained his agent during his residence with his mother and sister in Switzerland. There, living very much within his income, his fortune accumulated, and by his early death it fell to the Crown, from which Lord Delmont, on his return from his weary years of slavery, received it with the title of earl, bestowed to prove that the tale of a British sailor's sufferings and indignities had not fallen unheeded on the royal ear. The long-banished seaman was presented to his Majesty by the Duke of Clarence himself, and had no need to regret the gracious interview. His intentions concerning the young officer Captain Fortescue met with an unqualified approval. Ardently loving his profession, the royal Duke thought the more naval heroes filled the nobility of his country the better for England, and an invitation to Bushy Park was soon afterwards forwarded, both to Lord Delmont and his gallant nephew.

Edward, already well-nigh beside himself by his unexpected promotion, no longer knew how to contain the exuberance of his spirits, much to the amusement of his domestic circle; particularly to his quiet, gentle sister, who, as she looked on her brother, felt how truly, how inexpressibly her happiness increased with his prosperity. She too had wound herself round the heart of her uncle; she loved him, first for his partiality to her brother, but quickly her affection was extended to himself. Mrs. Hamilton had related to him every particular of her history, with which he had been deeply and painfully affected, and as he quickly perceived how much his sister's gentle firmness and constant watchfulness had done towards forming the character of not only Edward and Ellen but of her own children, his admiration for her hourly increased.

A very few days brought Lord Delmont and his niece Ellen to Mr. Grahame's cottage, and Lilla's delight at seeing Ellen was only second to that she felt when Edward came. The presence, the cordial greeting of Lord Delmont removed from the mind of Grahame every remaining doubt of his approbation of the bride his nephew had chosen. As a faithful historian, however, I must acknowledge the wishes of Lord Delmont had pointed out Lady Emily Lyle as the most suitable connection for Edward. Lady Florence he would have preferred, but there were many whispers going about that she was engaged to the handsome young baronet Sir Walter Cameron, who, by the death of his uncle Sir Hector, had lately inherited some extensive estates in the south-west of Scotland. When, however, Lord Delmont perceived his nephew's affections were irrevocably fixed, and he heard from his sister's lips the character of Lilla Grahame, he made no opposition, but consented with much warmth and willingness. He was not only content, but resolved on being introduced to Miss Grahame as soon as possible, without, however, saying a word to Edward of his intentions. He took Ellen with him, he said, to convoy him safely and secure him a welcome reception; neither of which, she assured him, he needed, though she very gladly accompanied him.

A few weeks passed too quickly by, imparting happiness even to Ellen, for had she been permitted the liberty of choosing a wife for her Edward, Lilla Grahame would have been her choice. Deeply and almost painfully affected had she been indeed, when her brother first sought her to reveal the secret of his love.

"I cannot," he said, "I will not marry without your sympathy, your approval, my sister—my more than sister, my faithful friend, my gentle monitress, for such you have ever been to me," and he folded her in his arms with a brother's love, and Ellen had concealed upon his manly bosom the glistening tears, whose source she scarcely knew. "I would have you love my wife, not only for my sake but for herself alone. Never will I marry one who will refuse to look on you with the reverential affection your brother does. Lilla Grahame does this, my Ellen; it was her girlish affection for you that first attracted my attention to her. She will regard you as I do; she will teach her children, if it please heaven to grant us any, to look on you even as I would; her heart and home will be as open to my beloved sister as mine. Speak then, my ever-cherished, ever faithful friend; tell me if, in seeking Lilla, your sympathy, your blessing will be mine."

Tears of joy choked her utterance, but quickly recovering herself, Ellen answered him in a manner calculated indeed to increase his happiness, and her presence at Llangwillan satisfied every wish.

Unable to resist the eloquent entreaties of all his friends and the appealing eyes of his child, Grahame at last consented to spend the month which was to intervene ere his daughter's nuptials, at Oakwood. That period Edward intended to employ in visiting the ancient hall on the Delmont estate, which for the last three months had been in a state of active preparation for the reception of its long-absent master. It was beautifully situated in the vicinity of the New Forest, Hampshire. There Edward was to take his bride, considering the whole estate, his uncle declared, already as his own, as he did not mean to be a fixture there, but live alternately with his sister and his nephew. Oakwood should see quite as much of him as Beech Hill, and young people were better alone, particularly the first year of their marriage. Vainly Edward and Lilla sought to combat his resolution; the only concession they could obtain was, that when their honeymoon was over, he and Ellen would pay them a visit, just to see how they were getting on.

"You must never marry, Nelly, for I don't know what my sister will do without you," said Lord Delmont, laughing.

"Be assured, uncle Charles, I never will. I love the freedom of this old hall much too well; and, unless my aunt absolutely sends me away, I shall not go."

"And that she never will, Ellen," said Lilla earnestly. "She said the other day she did not know how she should ever spare you even to us; but you must come to us very often, dearest Ellen. I shall never perform my part well as mistress of the large establishment with which Edward threatens me, without your counsel and support"

"I will not come at all, if you and Edward lay your wise heads together, as you already seem inclined to do, to win me by flattery," replied Ellen, playfully, endeavouring to look grave, though she refused not the kiss of peace for which Lilla looked up so appealingly.

The first week in July was fixed for the celebration of the two marriages in Mr. Hamilton's family. As both Edward and Percy wished the ceremony should take place in the parish church of Oakwood, and be performed by Archdeacon Howard, it was agreed the same day should witness both bridals; and that Miss Manvers, who had been residing at Castle Terryn with the Earl and Countess St. Eval, should accompany them to Oakwood a few days previous. Young Hamilton took his bride to Paris, to which capital he had been intrusted with some government commission. It was not till the end of July he had originally intended his nuptials should take place; but he did not choose to leave England for an uncertain period without his Louisa, and consequently it was agreed their honeymoon should be passed in France. It may be well to mention here that Mr. Hamilton had effected the exchange he desired, and that Arthur Myrvin and his beloved Emmeline were now comfortably installed in the Rectory, which had been so long the residence of Mr. Howard; and that Myrvin now performed his pastoral duties in a manner that reflected happiness not only on his parishioners, but on all his friends, and enabled him to enjoy that true peace springing from a satisfied conscience. He trod in the steps of his lamented friend; he knew not himself how often his poor yet contented flock compared him in their humble cottages with Herbert, and that in their eyes he did not lose by the comparison. Some, indeed, would say, "It is all Master Herbert's example, and the society of that sweet young creature, Miss Emmeline, that has made him what he is." But whatever might be the reason, Arthur was universally beloved; and that the village favourite, Miss Emmeline, who had grown up amongst them from infancy, was their Rector's wife—that she still mingled amongst them, the same gentle, loveable being she had ever been—that it was to her and not to a stranger, they were ever at liberty to seek for relief in trouble, or sympathy in joy, was indeed a source of unbounded pleasure. And Emmeline was happy, truly, gratefully happy; never did she regret the choice she had made, nor envy her family the higher stations of life it was theirs to fill. She had not a wish beyond the homes of those she loved; her husband was all in all to her, her child a treasure for which she could not be sufficiently thankful. She was still the same playful, guileless being to her family which she had ever been; but to strangers a greater degree of dignity characterised her deportment, and commanded their involuntary respect. The home of Arthur Myrvin was indeed one over which peace and love had entwined their roseate wings; a lowly yet a beauteous spot, over which the storms of the busy troubled world might burst, but never reach; and for other sorrows, piety and submission were alike their watchword and their safeguard. Lord St. Eval was the only person who regretted Arthur's promotion to the rectory of Oakwood, as it deprived him, he declared, of his chaplain, his vicar, and his friend. However, he willingly accepted a friend of Mr. Hamilton's to supply his place, a clergyman not much beyond the prime of life; one who for seven years had devoted himself, laboriously and unceasingly, to a poor and unprofitable parish in one of the Feroe Islands; in the service of Mr. Hamilton he had been employed, though voluntarily he had accepted, nay, eloquently he had pleaded for the office. To those of our readers who are acquainted with the story of Home Influence, the Rev. Henry Morton is no stranger. They may remember that he accompanied Mr. Hamilton on his perilous expedition, and had joyfully consented to remaining there till the young Christian, Wilson, was capable of undertaking the ministry. He had done so; his pupil promised fair to reward his every care, and preserve his countrymen in that state of peace, prosperity, and virtue, to which they had been brought by the unceasing cares of Morton; and that worthy man returned to his native land seven years after he had quitted it, improved not only in inward peace but in health, and consequently appearances. A perceptible lameness was now the only remains of what had been before painful deformity. The bracing air of the island had invigorated his nerves; the consciousness that he was active in the service of his fellow-creatures removed from his mind the morbid sensibility that had formerly so oppressed him; and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton perceived, with benevolent pleasure, that life was to him no longer a burden. He had become a cheerful, happy member of society, willing to enjoy the blessings that now surrounded him with a truly chastened, grateful spirit: Oakwood and Castle Terryn were ever enlivened when he was present. After the cold and barren living at Feroe, exiled as he there had been from any of his own rank in life, the Vicarage at Castle Terryn and the society those duties included, formed to him indeed a happy resting-place; while his many excellent qualities soon reconciled St. Eval and his Countess to Myrvin's desertion, as they called his accepting the rectory at Oakwood. No untoward event occurred to prevent the celebration of Percy and Edward's bridals as intended. They took place, attended with all that chastened joy and innocent festivity which might have been expected from the characters of those principally concerned. No cloud obscured the happiness of the affectionate united family, which witnessed these gladdening nuptials. Each might, perhaps, in secret have felt there was one blank in every heart, that when thus united, there was still a void on earth. In their breasts the fond memory of Herbert lingered still. Mr. Grahame forgot his moroseness, though he had resolved on returning to his cottage in Wales. He could feel nothing but delight as he looked on his Lilla in her chaste and simple bridal robes, and felt that of her he might indeed be proud. Fondly he dried the tear that fell from her bright eyes, as she clung to him in parting, and promised to see her soon, very soon at Beech Hill.

It was the amusement of the village gossips for many a long evening to discuss over and over again the various merits of the two brides; some preferring the tearful, blushing Lilla, others the pale, yet composed and dignified demeanour of Miss Manvers. Some said Captain Fortescue looked much more agitated than he did when he saved his uncle's life off Dartmouth, some years before; it was marvellously strange for a brave young officer such as he, to be so flustered at such a simple thing as taking a pretty girl for better or worse. And Mr. Percy Hamilton, some said, was very much too serious for such a joyous occasion; if they had been Miss Manvers they should not have liked it, and so unlike himself, too.

"Hold your tongue, silly woman," a venerable old man interposed, at this part of the conversation, "the poor lad's thoughts were with his brother, to whom this day would have been as great a source of joy as to himself. He has not been the same man since dear Master Herbert's death, and no wonder, poor fellow."

This observation effectually put an end to the remarks on Percy's demeanour, and some owned, after all, marriage was somehow a solemn ceremony, and it was better to be too serious at such a time than too gay.

Percy and his bride stayed a week in London, and thence proceeded to Paris, which place, a very short scrutiny convinced Percy was internally in no quiet condition; some disturbance, he was convinced, was threatening, though of what nature he could not at first comprehend. He had not, however, left England a fortnight before his family were alarmed by the reports which so quickly flew over to our island of that extraordinary revolution which in three short days completely changed the sovereign dynasty of France, and threatened a renewal of those horrors which had deluged that fair capital with blood in the time of the unfortunate Louis XVI. We have neither space nor inclination to enter into such details; some extracts of a letter from Percy, which Mr. Hamilton received, after a week of extreme anxiety on his account, we feel, however, compelled to transcribe, as the ultimate fates of two individuals, whose names have more than once been mentioned in the course of these memoirs, may there perhaps be discovered.

"Your anxiety, my dearest mother, and that of my father and Ellen, I can well understand, but for myself I had no fear. Had I been alone, I believe a species of pleasurable excitement would have been the prevailing feeling, but for my Louisa I did tremble very often; the scenes passing around us were to a gentle eye and feeling heart terrible indeed, and so suddenly they had come upon us, we had no time to attempt retreat to a place of greater safety. Cannonballs were flying in all directions, shattering the windows, killing some, and fearfully wounding many others; for several hours I concealed Louisa in the cellar, which was the only secure abode our house presented. Mounted guards, to the number of six or seven hundred, were dashing down the various streets, with a noise like thunder, diversified only by the clash of arms, the shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce cries of the populace. It was indeed terrible—the butchery of lives has indeed been awful; in these sanguinary conflicts between desperate men, pent up in narrow streets, innocent lives have also been taken, for it was next to impossible to distinguish between those who took an active part in the affray, and those who were merely paralysed spectators. In their own defence the gendarmes were compelled to fire, and their artillery did fearful havoc among the people.