SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW;
OR, THE
FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTERS OF
A Patchwork Story.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT AND SHADE; EVERSFIELD ABBEY;
BANKS OF THE WYE; AUNT AND NIECE, &c. &c.
Artless and unadorn’d she pleas’d the more;
The other dame seem’d e’en of fairer hue,
Fat bold her mien, unguarded mov’d her eye.
VOL. I.
MINERVA PRESS,
FOR A. K. NEWMAN AND CO.
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1812.
SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW.
——————————The sea,
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull’d by zephyrs, or when rous’d by storms.
.
. . . . . . . . . . .
I see them not! the storm alone I hear!
CRABBE’S
BOROUGH.
IT was in the autumn of 17—, the day had been
very hot and sultry, and the sun had set amongst heavy and portentous clouds,
thunder muttered at a distance, and the melancholy notes of the sea-birds, as
they wheeled in hasty circuits round the rocks, indicated the near approach of
a storm; the gay throng who had so lately crowded on the Steine at Brighton,
now hastened to their temporary homes, or to their evening parties, all but a
few stragglers, who were still on the beach, and who seemed to watch the storm,
some with abstracted, some with anxious eyes. Two females were accidentally
standing near each other, and steadily contemplating the scene; the wind was
rapidly rising, and howled responsively to the turbulent billows; though the
sun had set, there was light sufficient to distinguish objects accurately, and
the whole expanse of water became at intervals brilliantly illuminated by the
vivid lightning which played on its surface. One of the ladies appeared about
twenty-six years of age, her features were interesting, and her countenance had
a mingled expression of softness, sensibility, and discernment, which
instantaneously impressed the beholder with an idea of feeling and good sense;
she was habited in a genteel but plain style; and intently watching the
approach of the storm, she scarcely perceived that she had a companion, though
they were gradually getting nearer to each other, and almost to the water’s
edge. The other lady was scarcely twenty; her form was strikingly elegant, and
it was fully displayed by her dress, which was fanciful; with one arm she held
the corner of a long azure scarf, which flitted in the wind; her dark hair
streamed about her shoulders in unstudied negligence; she had no covering on
her head; and, as if in fearful contemplation of the elements, she would
frequently clasp her hands together, or waive them in the air, as with an
emotion, which, however, appeared the natural movement of her mind, she cried
—“Grand! awfully sublime! oh, what sight was ever equal to this! this is
tremendously magnificent! don’t you think so?” and she clasped the hand of her
next neighbour with vehement earnestness, as the liquid lightning which
illuminated the scene was momentarily succeeded by a loud peal of thunder.
The countenance of the speaker, as
she made the interrogatory, seemed to have caught some of the etherial
brightness of the passing lightning; all enthusiastic admiration, she still
held the arm of the person whom she had addressed—“It is indeed a fearful
storm,” said she, “and I am standing here with no little anxiety, for the fate
of a poor couple, who went out in a boat this afternoon; the man is a fisher,
who maintains himself by means of his little boat, and I have frequently
witnessed the patient docility with which his wife has followed him in this
arduous and dangerous employ. I happened to observe them as they embarked; they
have been gone a much longer time than is their custom, and I have heard the
fishermen on the beach expressing their apprehensions; it is impossible to put
off a boat to their assistance, and—”
At this moment the voice of the
speaker was entirely lost in a heavy and tremendous peal of thunder; it was
instantaneously succeeded by rain, which fell in sheets. Hastily loosing her
arm from the grasp of the stranger, Mrs. Elwyn, (for so we shall call her)
moved towards the town, saying—“We can do no good by staying here; I think we
had better seek our respective habitations.”
“There is something which suits the
frame of my mind in this scene,” replied the lady, her dark hair streaming in
the torrent which poured on her defenceless head; “I never witnessed such an
imposing spectacle before—adieu!” and spreading her right hand on her breast,
as if to retain her scarf, with the other she supported herself against the
wall, which was washed by the sea, and looked like the genius of the ocean,
risen from her watery bed, and invocating the storm. Surprise at the
extraordinary manner and strange appearance of this unknown, was quelled in the
benevolent bosom of Mrs. Elwyn, by her solicitude for the fate of the poor
fishers; and as she sat in her room, still seeing the vivid lightning, still
hearing the lengthened peals of thunder, the raging billows, and the roaring
wind, she put up a fervent petition for the safety of the honest pair, who,
though far removed from her sphere of life, and of whose names she was in
ignorance, she yet considered as her fellow-creatures, and equally the care of
an almighty and an all-wise Being!
CHAP. II.
Happy he sail’d, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck.
CRABBE’S BOROUGH.
THE storm of the
night was succeeded by a calm morning; the sun smiled, as if in mockery of the
devastation of the tempest; houses were nearly unroofed—boats were drifted from
their moorings—vessels were loosened from their anchors, their rigging and
sails shattered and dismantled—the bathing-machines had felt the fury of the
contending elements, and were moved from their stations; and though the spirit
of the tempest was quelled, yet old ocean was not so soon appeased, but heaved
and foamed, as if with labouring sobs it would have told the dismal history of
the storm.
The Steine exhibited a busy and
bustling scene; fishermen were hasting to see that their nets and tackling were
safe—sailors were busy in righting their ships—the bathing-women were preparing
their machines. Mrs. Elwyn was the first female of genteel appearance who
ventured forth; she hurried to the beach; alas! the fate of the poor objects of
her solicitous commiseration was decided; their boat had been drifted to the
shore, without oars, shattered, and a wreck, and with every returning wave the
bodies of its owners were fearfully expected.
A deep sigh issued from Mrs. Elwyn’s
bosom, as she turned from the beach; she had no spirits to lengthen her walk,
but with dull and languid step she returned to her lodgings.—“How buoyant with
hope, how vigorous in health, how elastic in spirits, did those poor creatures
embark on the treacherous ocean but yesterday!” sighed she; “ignorant, frail,
and short-sighted beings that we are! how soon are hope, health, and spirits
immersed for ever in a cold and watery grave! no, not for ever!” and her step
became firmer; “hope and immortal health for ever bloom
in paradise. Oh, God of mercy and of love! into thy haven of eternal rest
receive these ship-wrecked mariners.”
Anxious to know something further
relative to this unfortunate couple, Mrs. Elwyn soon obtained a direction to
their late residence; it was a neat but humble cabin, near the seaside, about a
mile from the town. A woman, between fifty and sixty years of age, was sitting
by a fire, and rocking a cradle, which contained two sleeping infants. Mrs.
Elwyn spoke to the woman in a voice of eager inquiry—“Whose are these
children?”
“Oh, madam! what, you have not heard
then that these two dear babies have lost both father and mother since
yesternoon; poor babies, worse luck for ‘em!”
Mrs. Elwyn’s eyes filled with
tears—“Poor infants!” cried she, as she hung over them.
“Aye, poor things,” returned the old
woman; “I little thought when Kitty Ellis sent for me yesterday, to take care
of ‘em, that I should never she more; and here I tossed up a bit of supper for
James and she, and I put it all in order, and I waited, and waited, and between
every clap of thunder I listened for James’s whistle, for he was a main man for
singing and whistling on shore; but law bless us all, I could hear nothing for
the roaring of the waves. ‘twas past twelve o’clock before I lighted the
candle; I saw a winding-sheet in it within two minutes, and that I know’d to be
a baddish sort of a sign; I could have lain a good wager that I should never
see ‘em more, after my eyes lighted on that ugly sight—oh, ‘twas a sure token!”
“Are you a relation of these poor
babes?” asked Mrs. Elwyn, still looking with compassion into the cradle.
“Oh dear, no, madam,” said the old
woman, “in all the varsal world,
these babies have now no kin or kindred but God. The parish must see to ‘em
now, and I be only waiting for one of the overseers to come along, to know what
‘tis best to do; for ‘tisn’t to be supposed, or expected, as I can leave my own
business to attend to they for nothing, you know, madam, though I love ‘em ever
so.”
“Was the poor fisherman born
in this place?”
“Law, to be sure, madam, he was, in
this very house too, for aught I know to the contrary; his father followed the
same calling as this James; he came from Worthing, I have heard tell, and so he
married, and got this boy; and when father and mother died, why James he must
be marrying too belike, and so he took up with Kitty; Kitty was a love-child,
as was laid at somebody’s door here in Brighton. Folks did
say that the saddle was put on the right horse’s back; howsomdever this child
was sent to the parish—the great lord or squire, or what he was, set off; and
Kitty was a decent sort of girl enough, considering her breeding up, with
nobody to care for her, or after her, as it were; and so the long and the short
of the matter was, that she was glad enough to marry with James Ellis. Poor
girl, she had not been put to bed of these two babies more than six weeks, and
such a young thing ‘twas, and looking so delicate, for she was but about of
seventeen years old; and I said to her yesterday—‘Kitty,’ says I, ‘’tis early
times, child, for you to venture into the water and the wet.’ ‘Molly,’ says
she, ‘James has been all alone with nobody but his own self a longful time, and
I am very hearty now,’ says she; ‘you mind the dear babies, and I’ll take care
of myself;’ and then she suckled ‘em, she did, and she kissed ‘em both three times—yes, I have minded since as ‘twas three times; and she flinged a net over her shoulder, and a
basket upon her arm, and away she went.”
Many were the conflicting emotions
which disturbed the peaceful breast of Mrs. Elwyn, as she listened to this
recital; she wished to do something for the benefit of these poor orphans; but
she was accustomed to reflect before she made a decision; and careful of not
betraying her secret wishes to the old woman, she remained in silent
meditation, when the door of the cottage was opened, and the stranger, whom she
had seen on the beach the preceding evening, dressed in the same fanciful
manner, with the addition of a long white veil, which, covering her head,
descended in floating drapery almost to the ground, entered the house, and
throwing herself on her knees at the side of the cradle, bent over it, and, as
if careless of being observed, gave way to the most tumultuous emotions and
affecting exclamations; she called them “poor forlorn innocents! helpless
interesting orphans! tenders blossoms of misfortune! early victims of sorrow!”
and that her feelings were in unison with her expressions was obvious, as the
large tears fell in torrents from her lovely eyes.
“Do you know this lady?” whispered
Mrs. Elwyn to the old woman, and retiring to the further end of the cottage.
“No, I never seed
she in my whole life before,” answered the dame; and then pointing, with a look
of significancy, to her forehead, she said—“but law, any body can see with half
an eye what ‘tis as is the matter with she.”
Mrs. Elwyn did not think exactly
with her informant; she allowed that there was something surprisingly eccentric
about the stranger, but she knew that romance and enthusiasm were the leading features of the day, and that
those feelings were nurtured and indulged, at the hazard of running counter to
all the forms and usages of society, and the good old way
in which she had been taught to walk.
One of the babes awakening from its
slumber, and unconsciously stretching out its feeble arms, the lady started up,
and catching it to her bosom, cried—“And shall you implore in vain? no, helpless being, here shall you have your
shelter ever!”
“Law, madam, do not please to take
up the child; may be as she’ll hurt your fine clothes,” said the old woman.
The lady looked with silent contempt
at the cautioner, and turning towards Mrs. Elwyn, she said—“Should I not be
worse than a barbarian not to claim her as my own? you who
first called forth my feelings for the
fate of the poor lost ones, tell me?”
“This is a case of pitiable
distress, and no common interest,” answered Mrs. Elwyn, “and I think some means
may be adopted to preserve these infants from a parish workhouse.”
The stranger almost shrieked at the
name of workhouse, and held the child yet closer to her bosom.
Several persons, attracted by
compassion or curiosity, on hearing the event of the preceding night, now
gathered round the cottage, to make inquiries, and to look at the twin-sisters.
The lady still held the babe, unmindful of the observations of the surrounding
spectators, and by turns apostrophized, caressed, and bathed it with her tears.
A subscription was readily made to
secure the attendance of the old woman, and to prevent the infants from being
taken immediately to the poor-house; but the stranger started up, and putting
five guineas into the hand of the old woman, she said—“I do not yield my treasure; she clings to me for protection, and she
shall have it!” and hastily quitting the house with the infant in her arms,
with sylph-like swiftness she moved along the shore.
“Who is she?” was the general
inquiry; no one could answer it.
“She seems to have a particular interest in that child,”
said a sagacious virgin of fifty; “else why not have taken both?”
“They are equal objects of pity,
certainly,” said Mrs. Elwyn, her kind heart yearning towards the remaining
babe.
“She must be followed,”
said a gentleman, who was in the habit of acting as a country justice; “for she
must give proper security to the parish for the maintenance of the child.”
“No, no, it wouldn’t do for her to
become troublesome to the parish hereafter,”
said a man who kept a lodging-house on the Steine, and who did not like the
idea of an increase in the poor-rates. “The chances are ten to one against its living, if ‘twas sent to the workhouse now.
No, no, the parish must have security;” and off he strided after the lovely
enthusiast.
“And now then we shall know who she
is,” said a maiden gentlewoman, lineally descended from mother Eve.
“She has been here a week; she
discharged the servants who came with her, and has hired others, it seems; but
she always walks about alone, and at all times, and at all seasons; and then
she dresses so queerly; oh, there is certainly something vastly odd about her!”
As if by general consent, the
company now moved off, except Mrs. Elwyn, who still cast a lingering look
towards the sleeping infant; the unfeeling speech of the lodging-house man had
pierced her heart, and as she quitted the cottage, she said—“Do not suffer that
child to go to the workhouse till you hear again from me; in the mean time, try
to get a wet-nurse for it, and for your care and attention I will reward you.
Here is my address,” putting a card into the hand of the old woman, who,
curtseying to the ground, was almost overwhelmed by the strange occurrences of
the morning, and began to think it was a lucky chance for the twins that their
parents had met with a watery grave.
CHAP. III.
——She, frail offspring of an April morn,
Poor helpless passenger from love to scorn.
MISS AIKIN.
LEFT an orphan at an
early age, the care of Clara Elwyn had devolved to a paternal uncle; his wife
was a worthy woman, who zealously fulfilled the part of a mother and an
instructress; and the ductile mind of her niece was early imbued with the
principles of religion and virtue; her uncle was equally careful of her
pecuniary interests; and at the age of twenty-one she became the nominal mistress
of two thousands per annum; we say nominal
mistress, because it had long been designed for her cousin, Henry Elwyn, by her
prudent uncle. Miss Elwyn had nothing to
object to this arrangement; she had from infancy associated with Henry Elwyn;
it was highly natural for her uncle to covet such an alliance for his only son,
and to retain so large a fortune in the family.
The Elwyn estates were entailed, and
in case she had died before she came of age, or in the event of her forming
another connexion, and dying without children, her cousin Henry would have
inherited them; and under these considerations, she almost felt it an act of
justice to fulfil her uncle’s wishes. There was not an individual in the world
whom she preferred to Harry Elwyn, and he had always treated her with
affectionate regard.
Clara had lived in retirement with
her uncle and aunt, and had seen little of mankind; her uncle had been averse
to her entering into the gay world (as it is called); and cheerful and
contented in disposition, fond of intellectual pursuits, and feminine
avocations, she was well contented to remain with them. Yet she had a heart
eminently formed to partake in all the delights of relative intercourse and
domestic happiness; and she frequently wished, as the period approached when
she had engaged to give her hand to Elwyn, that he were more stationary under
his father’s roof, but for the last twelve months his absences had been very
frequent, and much protracted. Clara allowed it was natural for a young man, in
the zenith of life, and blessed with every thing which could make that life
appear enchanting, to be fond of mixed circles, of excursions to the
metropolis, and of (what are termed) the pleasures of society; but if his heart were in the country, would he not feel a tasteless
apathy in the pursuit, and hasten with more avidity, and double animation, to
his affianced bride? This was not the case, and those conversations which
immediately preceded their marriage, and which might have been supposed to have
contained much confidential communication, much cheerful anticipation, and many
schemes of youthful ardour, were constrained and confused on the part of Elwyn,
and ill calculated to diffuse serenity and confidence on the part of his
cousin; yet she blamed herself for remarking his behaviour; she fancied that
she had suffered her imagination to take the lead, and that she was too
romantic and too fastidious in expecting such unlimited and such unrestrained
attention. The happiness of her uncle and of her aunt depended on her union
with their son; her uncle had never had more than a younger brother’s fortune,
and his generous disposition had prevented him from providing for his son
according to his wishes; it became then her duty to give
her hand to her cousin, and she hoped that this union would secure their mutual
happiness.
The cousins were united, and the
strictest propriety and civility marked the conduct of Mr. Elwyn towards his
lady.
During the first eighteen months
subsequent to their marriage, the time of the youthful bride was almost
exclusively devoted to the parents of her husband; at the end of that period
they had both paid the debt of nature; and though the melancholy scenes she had
witnessed had tinged the countenance of Mrs. Elwyn with a pensive expression,
yet the consciousness of having performed her duty afforded her much comfort;
her cares and her attentions would from henceforth entirely devolve on her
husband; and she looked with a sanguine eye through a long perspective of
domestic happiness, which, through the favour of Heaven, she hoped to enjoy.
Alas! she was doomed, like millions who had gone before her, to experience the
vanity of human wishes! and yet to common observers, what was there wanting to
felicity?
The house to which, on the demise of
Elwyn’s parents, he removed with his wife, was built on her paternal estate,
and situated in one of the pleasantest, the richest, and the most populous
parts of Gloucestershire. The mansion was spacious, commodious, and elegant;
the Elwyn family had for centuries been held in general respect; hence the
neighbourhood united in shewing attention and civility to our young couple, who
moved in that rank of life, which, while it lifted them above the vulgar herd,
enabled them to keep in the happy sphere of social enjoyment, and did not set
them apart from their fellow men, in the solitary gloom of superior eminence.
It was the very sphere where Mrs. Elwyn was peculiarly calculated to shine; and
as the unassuming equal, and the kind and unostentatious benefactress, she was
soon estimated according to her worth.
The discernment and anxious scrutiny
of Clara too soon enabled her to perceive, that where she would have sought the
fond confiding friend, she found the cold and heartless husband. Nothing could
be more obliging or more attentive than the manner and behaviour of Elwyn, yet
nothing could be farther removed from that connubial tenderness, which is
better felt than described. In any plan of benefiting the tenantry or the poor,
which the active mind of Clara suggested, his instant concurrence was obtained;
but it seemed as if he took no share in it, as if his heart entered into no
scheme of hers; and frequently was her generous, her disinterested spirit,
mortified by the seeming implication which his manner conveyed, that it was her fortune, and she had a right to dispose of it without
his voice.
“Ah,” thought Clara, “why not ours? Oh Elwyn, Elwyn, you know not how the very existence
of Clara was blended with that of thine, when she became a wife! I can have no divided interest!”
Mrs. Elwyn had a great mind, and
though endued with much sensibility, yet that softer feeling of her nature had
been corrected and restrained by a proper sense of religion. The most
undeviating, the most uncomplaining sweetness, marked her whole deportment
towards her husband; his smile of formal complaisance was always answered by
one of affection from her, his courteous speech returned warm from the heart;
if he seemed melancholy, she tried every art to enliven him, without appearing to
have noticed it; if she failed, and he retired (which was not unusual) to the
solitude of his library, she forbore to intrude upon his privacy; but by
immediate and active employment, tried to dissipate her own unpleasant
retrospections and anticipations. When Elwyn received letters, she never seemed
anxious to gain a knowledge of their contents; if he pleaded business and
quitted home, she never asked the nature of it, but anxiously awaited his
return, and received him with smiles, which often shone through tears, bright
as the crystal showers of April.
If we should say that Mrs. Elwyn had
no painful curiosity on the subject of Elwyn’s strange and mysterious reserves,
we should be accused (and with great justice too) of drawing an Utopian
character; that she had was
certain; but gloomy suspicion never gained an interest in her pure and liberal
mind. She remembered Harry Elwyn when a boy, gay, ingenuous, and open; she saw
and lamented the change, and willing to divine the cause, and after the
minutest scrutiny, unable to lay any fault to her own charge, in her conduct
and deportment towards a husband whom she loved (in the midst of all his
reserves, of all his concealments), with warm affection, she at length resolved
it into his anxiety for a family, and in consequence her own wishes of becoming
a parent were doubly sanguine.
Poor Clara forgot (or tried to forget) that the gloomy reserve of Elwyn had taken
place prior to his marriage, and that when he led her to the hymeneal altar a
blooming blushing bride, his countenance had exhibited more of the character of
a devoted victim than of a triumphant bridegroom; but the bloom of Clara’s
cheek was faded, the roundness of her form was wasted, she had no prospect of
presenting her husband with an instant cement of affection, and her health
evidently declined.
In compliance with the advice of her
physician, she had for several successive summers journeyed to the sea; Mr.
Elwyn had been eager for the adoption of this plan, had been strenuous in
persuading her to go, but he had invariably pleaded business; and after
escorting her, with great attention and care, to some watering-place, and seen
her settled in lodgings, he had quitted her.
Mrs. Elwyn’s letters to her husband
during these (on her part) forced separations, had been written in a style of
confidential freedom; she had no reserves with him, and she communicated all
she saw, and all she thought; and having a lively imagination, and being gifted
with a facility of expression, her letters were calculated to give pleasure and
satisfaction even to an indifferent reader; by Mr. Elwyn they were regularly answered.
In his manner of addressing his
wife, there appeared a
mixture of respectful politeness and gallantry; in answer to her
communications, he always told her of the journeys he had been taking; but of
the people whom he had seen, and of the incidents which had taken place, he was
wholly silent.
The knowledge of acting in
conformity with principle, duty, and religion, will support the mind when every earthly hope fails; but human nature
will ebb, and recoil back on itself, in sustaining such a conflict as that
which had so long torn the mind of Mrs. Elwyn.
She now almost despaired of ever
possessing her husband’s confidence, or of experiencing that connubial
happiness on which her early visions fondly floated; and she now turned towards
the idea of a child, whose infantile caresses might fill the void in her heart,
and brighten her future days with the pure enjoyment of maternal tenderness; but this wish had been denied to
her; and in worse health than she had ever known, she had sought Brighthelmstone for the fourth
summer, when we introduced her to our readers, standing on the beach, and so
anxiously feeling for two fellow-beings whom she knew to be in danger.
CHAP. IV.
Careless and cold, he views the beauteous mind,
For virtue, bliss, eternity
design’d.
MISS AIKIN.
RETURNING from the
cottage so recently inhabited by the poor fisherman to her own lodgings, Mrs.
Elwyn revolved over the idea of taking the remaining orphan under her
protection. Surely it would be an act of benevolence, and pleasing to the Most
High; at the same time that it would afford the supremest gratification to her own heart; her
fortune was amply sufficient to enable her to follow the dictates of her
generosity; but she did not consider it as her own; she had never considered or
used it as such, since she had become a wife; and she sat down to ask her
husband’s sanction and concurrence, ere she ventured a step further in the
business.
“Alas!” sighed the tearful Clara,
“the worst of it is, this will be a mere form; I shall receive from Elwyn a
tame concurrence; he will sanction every wish, he will conform to every
proposition that I shall make; I never yet could be assured that I got the
assent of his judgment, or the concurrence of his heart.”
After simply, but affectingly
detailing the direful tempest of the preceding night, and naturally blending
with it a description of her own feelings, at learning the untimely and
disastrous fate of the young couple, for whom she had been so painfully interested, she recounted her visit to the cabin which
contained the hapless little orphans, together with the immediate adoption of
one of them by the strange lady. She thus continued—“My dear Elwyn will have guessed my wishes by the length of this detail,
yet while I fearlessly avow them, I await his decision. I confess it would be
to me a most grateful office to become the protectress of this poor babe, and,
in some sort, to be to her a parent. Yet, mistake me not; I do not mean to
adopt her into your family, or foolishly to squander your fortune; if I take
her under my care, I will do my duty by her, and forget
not what I owe to myself. If Providence blesses my
endeavours, and she turns out a tractable and well-disposed child, I may have
the satisfaction of introducing a useful member to society. Pray tell me, my
dear husband, what you think of my plan; for be assured, that my enthusiasm in
the cause of this desolate babe would all be quelled, were you to start the
shadow of an objection, while it would glow with double fervour if it met with
your approval.”
Such was part of the letter, which
was thus answered by Mr. Elwyn:—
Elwyn Hall, August 10.
“MY DEAR MADAM,
“I
am hurt that you should think it necessary to apply for my assent, in following
the pure dictates of your benevolent heart. Never have I yet opposed your
wishes, and in this case, surely I must
be the most unfeeling of men to start an objection. You have an ample fortune,
and in permitting me to share it with you, I hope you will never find that I
wish to lay any embargo on your liberal spirit. On the present occasion, we
seem to be actuated by similar feelings; for, strange as it may appear, just at
the moment when I had the favour of your letter, I was meditating an address to
you on the subject of a little stranger, whom I am about to ask your permission
to introduce to Elwyn Hall. Many persons in my situation would hesitate to ask such a boon, but I have too long
experienced the disinterestedness of my dear friend, to hesitate on the present
occasion. My friend Belford is dead, and a boy of about six years of age pleads
for my protection. I cannot resist the appeal, and our mutual feelings must be our mutual excuse, for the introduction of our
respective protegées. Our circle will be enlarged
by their appearance amongst us, and our enjoyments will be enlarged also. Whether we call them
children of our adoption, or by whatever name they may be distinguished, yet if
they grow round our hearts, and become part of our very selves, who shall
condemn us, or term it squandering a fortune to let them share it with us? Be
assured, my dearest madam, that I shall receive great satisfaction in seeing
you return to the Hall, accompanied by your little foundling; and, feeling
assured of your permission for so doing, I shall appear to greet your arrival
with Harry Belford in my hand.
“With most cordial wishes for the entire
re-establishment of your valuable health, believe me to remain, with unfeigned
regard,
“Your much obliged friend,
“HENRY
ELWYN.”
Several combining emotions were felt by Mrs. Elwyn as she perused this
letter; the usual constrained style of her husband was evident, till he came to
the part of it which concerned the two children; here the warmth of his natural
disposition had forcibly intruded itself, and she could not help fancying that
she perceived, in the ardour of his expressions, the mortification which he
still felt at not having a son of his own; and to his disappointment in this
respect, she in part attributed his eager adoption of the child of his friend.
“Thus are even our trials and bitter
disappointments productive of good,” thought Mrs. Elwyn; “had Mr. Elwyn had a
son of his own, he might have steeled his heart to the claims of friendship; in
receiving the innocent endearments of my own offspring, I might have been
impervious to the call of humanity.”
Belford was a name that Mrs. Elwyn
had never remembered to have heard, as that of a friend of her husband’s, or of the Elwyn family;
but with regard to his own friendships, Elwyn had been uniformly reserved
towards her; and it would almost have been a subject of surprise had she known
the name of Belford, as she was a stranger to that of all his distant acquaintances.
Mrs. Elwyn answered her husband’s
letter, in that prompt and ready manner which instantaneously proved to him
that Master Belford would from henceforth have two friends at the Hall; and
having procured a wet-nurse for
her little protegée, Mrs. Elwyn employed herself,
during the remaining period of her stay at Brighton, in providing clothes of
more decent appearance than those she had hitherto worn, for the babe, previous
to her introduction to Mr. Elwyn.
In the mean time, she had learnt
that the strange lady, on being followed to her lodgings by the parish
officers, with an inquiry concerning what she meant to do with the infant which
she had taken away, had declared her intention of providing and educating it
wholly at her own expence; and being asked to give her address, and a reference, in order to certify to the parish that the child would not become
chargeable thereafter, she had ordered them to call again in the morning,
promising at that time to give them every necessary information; but when the
morning came, and the overseers attended according to the lady’s appointment,
they were informed, that together with the infant and a female servant, whom she had hired to attend it, she had left Brighton the preceding
evening in a chaise and four.
The certain expence of following her, and the possibility of a vain pursuit, when opposed
to the uncertainty of the child’s being returned on the parish, as such pains
had been taken to carry her off, appeased the minds of the parish officers; but
not so the busy tongue of curiosity and scandal; various were the surmises and
the conjectures in circulation with regard to the fair unknown, whose
extravagant appearance, extraordinary behaviour, and mysterious departure, were
not in the course of daily events; in general it was supposed, that her
inheritance of a large fortune depended upon her having a child within a
limited period; and that having no prospect of producing one herself, she had
determined on obtaining one by surreptitious means, and to introduce it into
the world as her own.
There seemed in this case a shadow
of reason in her conduct; but Mrs. Elwyn, who had seen her eccentric appearance
and extravagant demeanour, previous to the fate of the poor fishers, believed
that she had some motive for concealing her name and family; and that an
inquiry into these had hurried her from Brighton; while in protecting the
child, she had merely followed an impulse of feeling; and as in the latter case
she had herself been actuated by a similar motive, she was very much inclined
to extenuate the conduct of the young lady, and to hope that she was
unfortunate, rather than culpable.
That she had money at command was
evident; during the few days she had remained at Brighton, her liberality was
the constant theme; and her total ignorance, or disregard of the value of
money, proved that she had been born in a very exalted sphere of life, or that
she had been educated without the remotest reference to that knowledge of
prudence and calculation, which is so necessary in the common occurrences of
life. Elegant accomplishments and high-flown sentiments may be resorted to like
court dresses,
and worn on gala days; but in the wardrobe of education there
should be lain in a large stock of those plain suits of homebred knowledge, which will be wanted for every-day use, and almost constant
wear.
CHAP. V.
Of chill adversity. KIRKE
WHITE.
AT the appointed time
Mrs. Elwyn returned to the Hall, accompanied by her little eléve.
Mr. Elwyn appeared at the door, leading a beautiful boy of six years of age.
Mrs. Elwyn’s warm reception of his little favourite seemed to have paved the
way for her husband’s cordial notice of hers; indeed, there seemed more freedom
and heart in his reception of herself, than
she had been accustomed to meet with for many a day; and indulging in the most
pleasurable emotions, the yet sanguine Clara hailed the present moment as the
harbinger of many happy years.
Mary Ellis was consigned to the care
of a cottager’s wife, in the village of Norton, about half a mile from Elwyn
Hall; Mrs. Elwyn contented herself with paying her a daily visit, careful of
not suffering Mr. Elwyn to suspect her of an eccentric and romantic fondness
for the little orphan.
Harry Belford was the inmate of the
Hall, and the constant companion of herself, or of Mr. Elwyn; that gentleman’s
fondness for him appeared to increase every day; and in his long walks, which
he had been heretofore accustomed to take alone, Harry ran at his side; and
even in his hours of periodical retirement, the pleading voice of Harry Belford
was not unnoticed at the library door. Of a quick capacity, and lively manners,
the boy could not fail of gaining general favour.
Mrs. Elwyn delighted in instructing
him, and in marking the opening faculties of his mind; and while she
contemplated his dark and expressive eyes, and marked the roseate colour as it
mantled on his cheeks, she frequently fancied (and at these moments she seemed
to love the boy more fondly) that she could trace a likeness of her Elwyn, as
he was in the halcyon days of infancy.
The name of Belford, as the father
of Harry, had never been mentioned by Mr. Elwyn since his lady had returned to
the Hall; Mrs. Elwyn had kept an invariable silence on the subject; she never
sought to gratify an insignificant curiosity, at the hazard of tormenting her
husband with questions which he might not approve; if he thought it necessary
to be more communicative, she judged that he would have been so; and if his reserve
was occasioned by his doubts of her being worthy of his confidence, it would
rather strengthen them, and lessen his opinion of her, were she to betray an
eager desire to be admitted into it.
As an exemplary wife, we could
almost venture to pronounce that Mrs. Elwyn had not an equal; but such a
character as we have pourtrayed would not be imitated by the ladies of the
present era; they would all unite in calling her a tame, a meek fool; and each
of them would be tempted separately to declare—“that the behaviour of such a
brute as Elwyn was absolutely not to be borne!” In such a case, they would have
recourse to numberless modern methods
of shewing their spirit; they would relate the tale of injury to female
friendly confidants; they would have let their male
acquaintance peruse it in the soft liquid of
their melting eyes; and if they ventured
to advise retaliation and revenge—[But see further of this in the every-day
anecdotes of modern married pairs.]
We will return to Mrs. Elwyn, who,
trying to palliate what she would have wished to change in her husband, and dwelling on a great deal that she still
saw to admire, diverted her mind, by the conscientious discharge of her new
duties, (duties which she had voluntarily taken upon herself), and who felt a living principle within, as the original impulse, and the
unerring guide of all her actions.
Gossips there are, and gossips there
have been, in all ages of the world, and in all parts of the habitable globe,
but the gossip of a country village has been proverbial time out of mind; and
the whole village of Norton did not contain one female who
was dumb!
The goodness, the meek carriage, and
the humility of Mrs. Elwyn, had gained her the universal suffrage; but where we
cannot find any thing to condemn, it may be sometimes pleasant to pity; for human nature is human nature, and if there be no
perfect happiness, or perfect goodness, how should there be perfect charity?
The sagacious spinsters nodded their heads to the garrulous old wives, as they
canvassed over the affairs of the neighbourhood.
“Poor Mrs. Elwyn, ‘tis a great
pity!”
“Yes, she is a very good woman, very
good indeed, very good to the poor. She is really laying up her treasure in heaven!”
“Ah, poor soul! she has lain it out
to little purpose here, take my word for it;
she is quite broken-hearted, sinking with trouble, though she never complains;
and yet, before I would have let my husband
bring home his base-born brats under my own nose, and he too that I gave up
such a handsome fortune to—oh ladies, ‘tis shameful, shameful work! ‘tis not
forbearance, ‘tis not, indeed; I cannot call it forbearance—it shows no spirit,
no conduct—it scarcely shows any affection for the husband; for jealousy, say
what you will, must exist where there is any love.”
“And the boy, you tell me, is the
image of Mr. Elwyn?”
“Oh law, yes! the very counterpart
of the father, the same sly look with his eyes, as I remember well, when he
came down a child to visit his uncle here at the Hall. These family matches are
sad things; they never do turn out well, that’s very certain.”
“But the girl who is nursing at
Sarah Cooke’s, whose is that?”
“Oh, that is Mrs.
Elwyn’s pet, it seems.”
“Heaven only knows, ma’am; there are
two stories about that too; it will all come out in
time, I dare say; but they tell me Mrs. Elwyn is very fond of it.”
“Ma’am, I assure you she dotes upon it. Mrs. Elwyn went much earlier to Brighton this
year than she did the last.”
“Did she, ma’am? I was not at Norton
last summer.”
“Oh dear, yes! she did not go till
August then—now she went in
June.”
Unsuspicious and unassuming, Mrs.
Elwyn pursued the “even tenor of her way.”
Master Belford was at the proper
time placed by his guardian at an eligible school near the metropolis; Mr.
Elwyn always attended him there, and went himself to fetch him at the vacations, at each return to the Hall. The young gentleman seemed to rise in
estimation and in consequence; the servants observing the increasing fondness
of their master, and the sweet compliance of their mistress, treated him with
most respectful deference and attention. A poney was kept for his exclusive
use, a servant was given up to attend him during each vacation, and every thing
was prepared for him, which could minister to his pleasures or his gratification.
He was a fine youth, and high in health and spirits; and under the protection of such indulgent friends, it would have been surprising if he had not appeared in an attractive
light. His improvements kept pace with the ardent wishes of his benefactor; and
while he made great progress in his scholastic education, the accomplishments
of the gentleman
were not overlooked.
Mrs. Elwyn saw the increasing
fondness of her husband for Harry Belford with no jealous eye; she loved the
youth with much sincerity; and if she was doomed
never to be the object of Elwyn’s warmest affection, she did not grudge it to
this child of his adoption. Her cares, in the mean time, had never relaxed
towards her own favourite; for if she felt a partiality for one of the
children, it was surely towards the little girl, whom she had probably saved
from a life of painful servitude, if not of infamy.
When she was taken from the nurse, Mrs. Elwyn had
brought her to the Hall, and had scrupulously endeavoured to instruct her in
her duty, as an accountable and an immortal being, and to infuse such knowledge
into her youthful mind as would be useful to her in her journey through life,
and be calculated to smooth her passage to the tomb.
The little orphan was of a most tender and
affectionate disposition, passionately attached to her “mama Elwyn” (as that
lady suffered herself to be called), and scrupulously observant of all her
advice and her instructions.
Mrs. Elwyn looked upon the fortune which she inherited
as only lent to her for a season, for the trial of her own faith, and for the
use of her fellow-beings; and she was careful of unnecessarily wasting it,
because she knew that had she died unmarried or childless, it must have
devolved to her husband and to his heirs; she considered it as his now; and though she knew that he would, in his
accustomed easy manner, acquiesce to any proposition she should make, with
regard to a provision for Mary Ellis, yet it was not her wish to leave her more
than a moderate provision.
“If I would make her a reasonable and a rational
being,” thought she, “rational and reasonable ideas must be implanted in her
mind. Happiness is not the certain accompaniment of riches;” here a
half-checked sigh proved that she felt what she uttered; “a decent competence,
a useful stock of knowledge, a cultivated understanding, without fastidious
refinement of taste, and a grateful, a thankful heart, lifting itself towards
heaven—these are the blessings I
shall covet for my little Mary.”
CHAP. VI.
————————In admonition warm,
Oft did he caution the too thoughtless tribes
Against each sin that easily besets
The heart; and oft, more anxious than their guardians,
Taught the surrounding innocents, who lov’d
His friendly smile, the lesson to be good.
POLWHELE.
MARY Ellis had attained
the age of eight years, when she accompanied her protectress to Clifton; Mrs.
Elwyn now left home on a yearly excursion, from custom rather than from an idea
of experiencing any benefit.
The sea air had been pronounced too
keen for her the preceding summer, and in compliance with medical advice,
enforced by the persuasions of her husband, she now visited Clifton; her frame
was fragile, and her health delicate, yet she had no alarming symptoms; in
fact, mental anxiety and disappointment had long been struggling with a
naturally good constitution, and as yet they had not wholly undermined it.
Fond of having her little child
about her person, in an hundred ways she contrived to make her feel herself
useful, and to imagine herself of consequence in the tiny offices of gratitude
which she could perform; thus a stimulus was given to her exertions, and a
motive to her endeavours. Mary Ellis had been told that her parents were dead,
but of her infantile history she knew no more, except that on her “dear mama Elwyn”
the care of her had fallen. Mrs. Elwyn had a great aversion to all appearance
of mystery or concealment, and probably this aversion had daily been gaining
ground, from observing the cheerless and, as it were, studious reserve, which
Elwyn had ever practised towards her, and which had clouded all her days. She had long determined to make Mary Ellis fully acquainted with her birth and situation, not to give her a more enlarged idea of her obligations to herself, but to dilate her mind with gratitude to the Supreme Being, and to teach her that He who could thus raise up a protector to the fatherless would never forsake those who trusted in him.
From the most trivial incidents lasting impressions are frequently made; Mrs. Elwyn was urged to the communication of Mary’s little story, by the circumstance which we are going to relate.
It was a fine Sunday evening in summer, and having
accompanied her protectress to the church at Clifton twice in the course of the
day, Mary was rather surprised to hear the carriage ordered for an airing, as
Sunday was usually kept in the old fashioned
manner by Mrs. Elwyn; and while she devoted herself to the duties of religion,
her domestics had rest, and her cattle also.
The evening was delightfully pleasant, the breeze, as they were driven
across the down, was cool and refreshing, after the intense heat of the day;
they turned out into a public road to which Mary was a stranger, and presently
were attracted by the sound of a bell, from a plain edifice which stood in a
rural lane, at a short distance from the road; thither they bent their course.
There was something peculiarly impressive in the scene; the sun was fast
diverging towards the western hills, but its saffron glow threw an illumination
on this house of prayer; the simplicity of the building, its neat and
unobtrusive spire, the silver-toned bell, the retiredness of the situation,
which seemed particularly calculated to inspire pure and holy thoughts to the
mind, and to impress on the soul a true relish for devotion; the neat but
ancient style of architecture of the dwelling-house, which was attached to the
chapel; the picturesque scenery of the adjoining country, a gurgling rivulet,
which gently, pensively, meandered through meadows, which were clothed in
summer’s loveliest green, and which, newly mown, sent their refreshing
fragrance on the evening breeze, all conspired to impress the imagination and
the fancy with the most tranquil and the most soothing feelings; and with
placid serenity in her countenance, Mrs. Elwyn alighted from her chariot, and
entered the chapel, leading her beloved child. The eyes of that quickly
apprehensive child were wandering from side to side as they passed through the
body of the chapel, and were conducted by a respectable-looking matron to a pew
near the pulpit, which was set apart for the accommodation of the ladies. The
clergyman got into the desk, the chapel was filled, the solemn but soft-toned
organ was struck, and looking towards the gallery, Mary saw on each side of the
instrument fifteen girls stand up, and neatly clothed in gowns of green, with
modest round-eared caps, lift up with one accord their youthful voices in the
evening hymn of praise. Mary felt her heart glow with delight as she listened
to this infantile and harmonious choir; she looked with inquiring eyes towards
her protectress, who directed her by an answering look to the duties of the
place, for now the public service was begun.
The clergyman who preached had
chosen a most appropriate text—“Suffer little children to come unto me, and
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” He made an affecting
but judicious appeal to his hearers for the female orphans whose cause he
pleaded; he pointed out the dangers to which children, and particularly female
children, were exposed, when bereft of their parents; he showed them the
incalculable advantages of early religious instruction, and he reminded them
that the Saviour of the World did not think it beneath his glory to descend
from the highest heavens, and attend to the lisping petitions of babes and
sucklings; he spoke with fervor and with energy, for he felt the cause which he
had taken in hand; he knew the depravity and the frailty of human nature, and
the dangers to which the best instructed
are exposed in their journey through the world; and in affording an asylum for
infant females, a nursery of virtue and piety, he judged that there could not
be a species of charity more beneficial to the world, or more pleasing to the
Almighty. Towards the conclusion of the discourse, he turned towards the female
orphans, ere he began to address them; (as if by intuition) they all rose from
their seats, and fixing their modest eyes in attentive respect upon the
preacher, his address was most wisely adapted to their comprehension. He
pointed out to them the particular mercies of heaven, which they had
experienced in having friends raised up to them, when they were deprived of
their natural ones; he explained to them the nature of their obligations to the
patrons of that beneficent institution, who had not only shielded their persons
from want, extended to them food and raiment, and a dwelling-place, but who had
cared for their souls, who had given them the means of becoming the children of
God, and inheritors of the kingdom of heaven; he besought them never to forfeit
their right or title to that high distinction, but to join with him in praying
for their temporal benefactors, and in beseeching their Heavenly One still to
supply them with the means of grace, and with the hope of glory;” and then, in
a short but solemn prayer, he ended.
Again the organ sounded, again the
children lifted up their voices in praise, and Mary’s eyes were suffused in
tears, as Mrs. Elwyn turned towards her. It was with proud satisfaction that
she watched her trembling fingers, as hastily they emptied her little morocco
purse of its contents, when the plate came near her, while the crimsoning hue
which overspread her countenance announced the unusual perturbation of her
bosom. Mrs. Elwyn had, however, anticipated this in part, and on the preceding
day had filled her purse.
When they were reseated in the
carriage, Mary Ellis would have sunk on her knees at the feet of Mrs. Elwyn,
but was raised to her bosom, and tenderly folded to it.
“I am an orphan
too!” cried Mary; “oh why, why must I not kneel and thank you? oh, dear, dear
mama Elwyn, only think what that gentleman told those little girls! I might have been brought up wicked—I might have sworn—I might have stolen—I might have never known my duty to God
Almighty, if you had not taught me! oh, why
may I not kneel and thank you?”
“Only kneel to that God who moved my
heart in your favour, my best Mary,” said Mrs. Elwyn, deeply affected at
witnessing the virtuous emotions of her child.
“But how came you to take me, to take Mary Ellis? there were plenty, plenty of other little orphan girls, you know; and then you could not tell that I
should love you the best of all.”
“Compose yourself, my good girl, and
I will tell you all about it. Accident introduced me to your acquaintance, so
it would be called by those who are not accustomed to look for the presiding
influence of God in all sublunary things.”
“I am quite composed and good now,”
said Mary; “but you must let me hold your hand all the time you are telling
it.”
Mrs. Elwyn kissed the pudsey hand
which pressed hers, and faithfully recounted to Mary the fatal catastrophe
which had attended her parents, and the history of her visit to their cottage.
Tears rolled over the roseate cheeks
of the artless child, as she listened to the dreadful fate of her parents, but
her eyes brightened through them, when she heard she had a sister; and while
almost devouring Mrs. Elwyn’s hands with kisses, she forgot not to bless the
other good lady for taking her sister, and naturally asked her name, and where
she lived. Here Mrs. Elwyn was at a loss; she had frequently made inquiries
concerning the strange lady, but hitherto without success; and she tried to
quiet the mind of Mary, by telling her that her sister had got a friend as well
as herself, and that the same God cared for them both; but this assurance did
not entirely set the heart of Mary at ease, (not though it came from her
benefactress); for the first time, a feeling of relative affection had been
raised in her breast, and she ever after retained an anxious interest for the
fate of her sister; breaking from a reverie of a few moments, Mary said—“There
are male as well as female orphans, an’t there, Mrs. Elwyn?”
“Certainly, my love.”
“Poor Harry Belford, he is an orphan
too; he has no father, no mother—has he, ma’am?”
The question was an awkward one;
Mrs. Elwyn felt the colour revisit her pallid cheeks; her lip quivered; at
length she answered—“To Mr. Elwyn’s goodness Harry Belford is indebted—he has
supplied to him the place of his natural—of his parents.”
“And I think,” cried Mary, “I shall
love Harry Belford a great, great deal more
than I ever did, now I know he is an orphan like myself; and Mr. Elwyn too, how
good it was of him! But were Harry’s father and mother drowned too, ma’am?”
Mrs. Elwyn was again confused; she
answered she did not know; and then, as if recalling her words, she said—“No.”
“No, no,” said Mary, shaking her
head, “it was only poor Mary’s father and mother that were drowned. Oh, I shall
never see the sea again without thinking of my poor parents; and my dear good mama Elwyn, if you had not
taken their child, she might have
been drowned too, you know, before this time; for who would have looked after
her, to see that she did not come to any harm?”
CHAP. VII.
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to live,
Of hasty love, or head forgive.
SCOTT’S LADY OF THE LAKE.
WE will pass over the
infantile years of Mary Ellis, and our readers shall behold her a fine girl of
sixteen, firmly fixed in the affections of her patroness, by her good conduct,
grateful disposition, and pleasing demeanour; she was not eminently beautiful,
but her countenance was very expressive; and her dimpling mouth and glistening
eyes displayed the alternate emotions of a bosom which was a stranger to
disguise; her understanding was good, and her discrimination superior to her
years; she had great quickness and delicacy of feeling, and an innate sense of
feminine propriety; she was respectful and obliging in her behaviour towards
Mr. Elwyn, and scrupulously attentive to him, because she knew it was her duty,
and because she saw it was pleasing to Mrs. Elwyn; but for her loved, her
honoured benefactress, her affection could scarcely be restrained within the
bounds of moderation; she believed her the most perfect of human beings; and
while she beheld her as a model, she was almost in danger of worshipping her as
an idol, so strong a hold had the grateful sense of obligation obtained on her
youthful heart.
Harry Belford had just attained the
age of twenty-one, and returned to the Hall from Oxford, where his arrival was
distinguished by as much hilarity as if he had been the lineal heir of the
house of Elwyn; indeed, he had been long looked upon as the future possessor of
its honours by every body; and though Mr. Elwyn had never expressed himself
directly in this respect, yet by acquiescing in the general notice and
deference which was paid to him, he seemed covertly to have acknowledged it.
Harry Belford had been told that he was the son of Mr. Elwyn’s dearest friend; he felt that Mr. Elwyn had been the best of friends to him, and his conduct displayed towards him the respect and affection of a son; his must have been a hard heart if it had not softened towards Mrs. Elwyn; but Harry’s was