Agatha Beaufort; or, Family pride. By the author of 'Pique'

Chapter I

Few parts of England excel the midland county of W shire in picturesque beauty, or present to the tourist's eye such agreeable diversity of landscape. The district also claims historical interest of no common description ; for its castles, churches, woods, and hills, are all associated with the history of the past. Almost every span of ground recalls visions of royal pageants, and magnificent cavalcades of olden times, when many of the monarchs of England made its woodlands echo to the shrill note of the huntsman's bugle ; or, again, of the days when the air resounded with the martial din of war, as armies in gallant array advanced to the assault of those VOL. I. A proud fortresses, whose giant ruins still remain in their stately beauty, memorials of the wealth and power of their princely founders.

To this day the county is rich in spacious, curious old mansions, constructed with those quaint contri vances, to combine comfort with magnificence, which distinguish the domestic architecture of the Marian and Elizabethan periods. Most of these venerable mansions have been handed down in direct succession to their present owners, from ancestors who mingled in the busy scenes of feudal pomp and splendour ; many of whom, likewise, found a glorious death, fighting bravely for church, state, or king, in one or other of the bloody feuds which, at divers periods of our history, converted the length and breadth of this fair realm into one huge battle-field. Such, at least, is the solemn testimony borne by many a church in the county. Scarcely can one be entered, however humble, without feeling that there the startling reality of the message proclaiming man's frailty, and the nothingness of worldly grandeur, strikes home with peculiar awe, as the eye rests on the lordly banners and escutcheons that adorn its walls ; while soon, from these faded relics of human greatness, the glance falls on the gorgeous tomb beneath, with its mailed effigy, under which repose the remains of that potent war rior whose valour won the trophies drearily shadow ing his last resting-place.

Claiming thus, as children of her soil, some of the highest and most ancient families of that iUus trious commonage, at once the pride and boast of England, the memories of olden days cling with strange tenacity to the county of W shire. Gleams of the old faith — relics of priestly tyranny and dark superstition, long since swept away — haunt her beautiful valleys. More than one noble mansion there, has still its Romish chapel attached, fair and imposing to behold in external pomp and decoration ; and the sound of the convent vesper-bell oft-times steals on the ear, floating in musical cadence on the bosom of the soft breeze, as daylight fades away, blending in shadowy hues the outlines of the distant hills. In one of the sunniest and most lovely dells in this fairest of counties lay the little secluded village of Woodthorpe.

From early spring until the sear hand of autumn cast a many-coloured mantle over the leaves and verdure, its vales and meadows were enamelled with fragrant wUd flowers : wood anemones, violets, primroses, cowslips, showy field-pop pies, and woodbines, followed each other in rapid and brilliant succession. Then the wild luxuriance of its thickets of hawthorn and eglantine, showering a profusion of pink and white blossoms on the green banks beneath, was refreshing to behold. The small gardens, also, attached to the cottages, were models of trim neatness, and formed a gay border on either side of the village street ; while roses and clematis twined in graceful festoons over the porches and roofs, until during the summer sea son the little village appeared literally embowered in sweets. The population of Woodthorpe amounted to about two hundred persons, most of whom were in toler ably easy circumstances in life ; either farming on their own account, or labourers in daily employ on the estate of Sir James Somerton, owner of the vil lage and the adjoining land for several miles around it.

Woodthorpe Park was one of those magnificent residences seen only in England, and there even rarely. The mansion, stately, and of enormous ex tent, remained with its dark grey stone untouched by stucco, or modern improvement of any kind, em bosomed in woods, the growth of centuries. No daring hand had been suffered unduly to lop away, or fetter within the bounds of formal trimness, the luxuriant vegetation which reigned everywhere throughout the park. Nature there foUowed her own devices ; consequently, no park in the kingdom could boast of richer woodland scenery, shadier groves, or brighter expanses of greensward, than that of Woodthorpe. The viUage lay about a mile from the mansion, almost, in fact, comprehended within the limits of the park ; for tall avenues of trees extended beyond the iron gates opening on the green; while the church and neat parsonage stood actually within its precincts.

Rows of oaks and sycamores skirted the village street; and for some two miles along the high road, park palings and dark woods imparted to the scenery an air of sombre grandeur and se clusion ; while every now and then sudden breaks in the line of trees revealed glimpses of the park beyond, with its numerous herds of deer browsing in the sunshine, or basking in clusters on the soft turf. Woodthorpe, however, so rich in every sylvan beauty, was seldom visited by Sir James Somerton. A yearly brief sojourn of a few weeks generally comprised the entire period he honoured the place with his presence ; the principal reason which prevented Sir James's longer residence being, that his wife Lady Mary Somerton's health was in so dehcate and precarious a condition that she seldom quitted London, as her ladyship was sure to fancy hersetf ill if absent for any length of time from her favourite medical attendant.

Lady Mary had brought her husband an only son. Mr Somerton, at the time this story opens, had completed his twenty-seventh year, and was better known among his father's tenantry at Woodthorpe than the baronet himself. UniversaUy beloved, Mr Somerton was the very personage to keep up there the prestige and dignity of his family. Just and liberal, no man had ever been heard to arraign his decisions, or to question his generosity. Foremost in every scheme for improving the condition and promoting the prosperity of his humbler neighbours, Mr Somerton led not a hfe of selfish ease or haughty seclusion ; yet, while mingling freely and constantly with all, and making himsetf acquainted with the wants and necessities of the poorest labourer on his father's estates, he forfeited, by this condescension, no distinction due to his rank ; for none, presuming on his affability, ventured to trespass, by freedom of remark or otherwise, on that respectful deference owing to the lord of the soil from his de pendants.

Yet, with a disposition thus far removed from pride, there was a calm dignity in Mr Somerton's deportment, and in all he said or did a quiet determi nation, which told upon people wonderfully. His dependants considered his word as infaUible ; for, while others exhausted themselves in noisy argument and vague promises, what Mr Somerton said was to be accomplished, they fearlessly relied upon his power to effect. The influence, therefore, this con fidence in his steady ability gave him over them was incalculable, and redounded to the great and perma nent prosperity of the community. In disposition Mr Somerton was reserved : though he had read much, and thought more, he never made useless parade of his knowledge. An eloquent orator, he possessed that power of concentration of thought, and ready wit, which, while exercising unbounded sway over the mind and opinions of those with whom he was brought into con stant intercourse, won him a prominent position in the senate.

From the evening, therefore, on which his brilliant maiden speech was received with admiring applause, his influence over public affairs had been progressive and sure. In general society,. however, Mr Somerton talked little. Lounging nonchalantly aloof, save for the flash which every now and then shot from his dark eye, or the smile which occasionally curled his well-cut lip, he might have been deemed an abstracted spectator of what was going on around ; yet, when Mr Somerton did think it worth while to speak, immediate and general was the attention his words commanded. On the village green, exactly opposite to the gates of Woodthorpe Park, stood an old grey stone house, of considerable dimensions. A neat, formal Uttle garden in front was sheltered from the road by a row of tall elm trees, clipped and trimmed with the nicest precision.

A deep, clear pool of water lay on one side of the house, from whence it derived its name of " Pool House ;" on the other, an enormous farm-yard stretched for some distance down the adjoining lane. Pool House was the abode of Mr Compton, Sir James's principal ten ant at Woodthorpe, whose honourable boast it was, that, though holding the farm at a rental of many hundreds a year, he had never been once in arrears with his rent ; nor had the baronet's steward, in his stated perambulations over the property, ever had cause to utter the slightest complaint as to the cul ture or management of the land. Proceeding down the shady lane leading from the village green, close under the prosperous farmer's garden wall, a quarter of an hour's walk brings you to another house, standing far back in a field, on the opposite side of the road to Mr Compton's. This was the residence of Mr Desmond, a comparatively new resident in the village.

The house was a small one, very prettily situated on the verge of the park, and had formerly been inhabited by Sir James's head gamekeeper. A row of linden trees led from the gate in the lane up to the garden, which was taste fully arranged ; and pass whenever you might, the flowers of the various seasons bloomed gaily around, betokening, by their order, harmony, and variety of colour, that feminine industry and taste contributed to the adornment of the place. Excepting at church, Mr Desmond was rarely seen outside his own little domain ; and although he had been an inhabitant of Woodthorpe for upwards of a year, he shunned and declined intercourse with every one — Mr Compton excepted, whose kindness was not to be repulsed. Mr Desmond was a tall, grave-looking man, with lofty and slightly aquiline features.

His hair was tinged with grey ; his age apparently averaged between forty and fifty ; and there were few who, as they marked the indescribable some thing in his manners and gestures, which denoted the perfect gentleman, but felt that some* unhappy combination of events must have consigned to obscurity one whose language and habits appeared so superior to his outward condition. Mr Desmond's family consisted of his wife, and an only daughter, offspring of a former marriage. Mrs Desmond was a smiling, good-natured Uttle woman, careful, and sensitive in the highest degree of her husband's approbation, to whom she made the most devoted wife ; though evidently her former station in society had been inferior to his. For some time the secluded life the Desmonds led, and their marked avoidance of social intercourse with the village worthies, impressed people with an undefined sense of their importance.

There was that, also, in the air and carriage of Mr Desmond and his daughter which repressed familiarity. Gra dually, however, the fact crept out that the Desmonds were poor — poor enough to render indispensable the strictest scrutiny on the outlay of every farthing expended in their household. Some irregularities in the discharge of the bills due to the village but cher and baker brought about this notable discovery, and at once the Desmonds' prestige vanished. Their mysterious retirement resolved itself into the most unromantic commonplace, and their reserve was con strued into the galling restraint imposed by imperious necessity. Poverty is the surest touchstone of worth. It strips a man of all imaginary qualifications in the estimation of others : he has no allurements of present profit or future gain to offer to his friends ; the vague forethought, also, that his friendship may some day prove useful, though it would puzzle them to explain in what way — one of the secret impulses, if all hearts could be read, which induce many to covet the society of persons totally uncongenial — must likewise vanish ; and if, after this pruning down of every interested and selfish motive, a man stands, it must be for some noble virtue intrinsic in himself.

Despite their poverty, therefore, the Desmonds -did maintain themselves in the esteem of the inhabitants of Woodthorpe; and though, on thefirst discovery of their very limited means, their popularity sank to zero, it speedily and swiftly rose again, notwithstanding that the romance of their seclusion had for ever vanished. Late one evening, not very long after the needy circumstances of the family had afforded subject for village gossip, a young girl hastily quitted Mr Desmond's house, and stood in silent meditation on the gravel-walk extending along its front. It was at that hour when, under the darkening skies, aU things repose in deep, dreamy silence. The breeze, which gently swayed the foUage variegated with beautiful autumnal tints, subsided into whispered murmurs ; and the flowers, one by one, shut up their fragrant petals, bending under the weight of the starry dew-drops ghttering like diamonds around.

The gloom gradually gliding over the landscape seemed to oppress the young girl's spirit also ; for there she long stood motionless, her figure slightly inclined forwards, her eyes fixed on the ground, and her hand often raised and pressed to her brow. Her bonnet hung from her arm, and the shawl that drooped from her shoulders displayed the exquisite outline of her figure and neck. Margaret Desmond was not a beauty in the com mon acceptation of the term. Her face and figure did not strike with admiration at a first glance ; for her features, with their faultless proportion, required study. No hasty survey could catch the varied expression of her dark blue eyes, or feel the fuU force of the soft persuasive eloquence contrasting at times, with the bright, gladsome animation of her glance. Shining bands of nut-brown hair, drooping low in graceful clusters of ringlets, shaded her cheek ; while thick tresses, which in their luxuriancy seemed almost to defy restraint, were gathered into a heavy knot on the back of her head.

Her nose was small and straight, her mouth beautifully cut, with lips round and crimson, curling with merry archness when parted by the dazzling smile which displayed her white, pearly teeth. But as she stood there, no smile lighted her features; and the profound tranquillity which reigned around, as all things were slowly enveloped in gloom, fell not soothingly on her spirit. Her brow was painfully contracted, and restless anxiety lurked in her eyes. Occasionally, too, a tremulous mo tion agitated her lips, and with a slight shudder her head drooped still lower on her bosom. Pre sently a step sounded within the house, and a voice uttered her name. Margaret started ; then hastily putting on her bonnet, she bounded across the tiny lawn, and passing through a gate, which opened into a field separating the cottage from the domain of Wood thorpe Park, sauntered slowly along.

The path she was pursuing — the footroad from the village to an adjacent hamlet — was sheltered by a thick hedge, and formed almost a broad terrace-walk ; so much higher did it he than the rest of the field, which sloped abruptly down to the park. Somewhat of the care that furrowed Margaret's brow vanished as the clear breeze circled round her, creeping along the summits of the lofty trees and scattering about showers of red leaves : for the cold blue skies and moist atmosphere of October had already committed sad havoc, and stripped many a stately branch of its foliage. Rumour had not exaggerated the extent of Mr Desmond's pecuniary embarrassment ; nor even, as is seldom the case, estimated nearly its magnitude. This sorrow it was that now shadowed the brow of his young daughter. Mr Desmond's was, that oft-told his tory of a youth of thoughtless levity and profuseness, followed by a manhood of poverty and care.

In his dis tress, as is always the case, more there were ready to censure his past improvidence, than to minister to his present necessity. Yet Mr Desmond's friends might have spared their reproofs, for the sins of his early days were perpetually rising against him, and proved as sorrowful a burden as their charitable anxiety for his amendment could desire. Debts, often long forgotten, pressed heavily upon him ; and such was the cause of the grief and consternation which overwhelmed his family on the day our story opens. A bill of long standing, to a very consider able amount, had been presented — three days' grace and its payment, or arrest at the end of this period, awaited Mr Desmond. One hundred a-year, the for tune brought him by his first wife, and his own small retiring pension from a clerkship that he formerly held in a government office, made up the amount of Mr Desmond's income.

Not a moment then was to be lost: his creditor was inexorable. But one course seemed open to him, which was to request the loan of the sum from his prosperous neighbour, Mr Compton. Generously and unconditionally, the money was instantly tendered ; but Mr Desmond insisted on giving Mr Compton his bond for its gradual repayment at an interval of six months. Thus, though the danger had been temporarily averted, Mr Desmond knew that the residue of his small income, until this sum was repaid, would be inadequate for the support of his family, even on the very limited scale of their present expenditure; so that their only alternative seemed to be to quit their pretty, retired cottage, and wander elsewhere in search of cheaper living and deeper obscurity. Sad and earnest had been their conferences together : for one little luxury had been graduaUy yielded, and then another, untU at length further retrenchment became impossible.

Margaret's was the voice which encouraged her father's faltering resolve ; and though it was with the deepest distress that she thought of leaving Wood thorpe, and sinking still lower in the scale of social distinction, she had strength and fortitude of character not only to counsel this step, but to act up to what her conscience told her was the just and right course. Another grief, likewise, pressed heavily on Margaret's heart, and made the words with which she urged on her father the necessity of relinquishing their present home almost die upon her lips : this was the know ledge that her encouragement of the timid suit of Mr Compton's only son would for ever cancel their debt. The respectful admiration evinced by young Compton for his daughter had long afforded much amusement to Mi Desmond ; whose patrician blood, however, would have boiled indignantly could he have supposed this silent homage capable of rousing a corresponding sentiment in Margaret's bosom.

Mi- Desmond rightly interpreted his daughter's feelings. No congeniality of habit or thought existed between herseU and George Compton; therefore, though she respected his principles and frank honesty of character, no warmer sentiment responded, on her part, to his attachment. Slowly and sadly Margaret pursued her solitary walk, musing on these things ; feehng keenly the bur den of being elevated by birth, education, and habits, above the sphere in which pecuniary circumstances restrained her. No privation can be more acutely felt than this — almost the worst of poverty's ills to endure. Without any undue presumption, Margaret felt herself a being of a different race from the people amongst whom her lot was then cast : her tastes, sympathies, and pursuits, were wide apart from theirs. Yet she knew that the enjoyment, intellectual and refined, which imagination daily pictured — that parti cipation in the poetry of life, which wealth and posi tion alone can give, must ever remain to her as it then was — an ideal.

Miss Desmond's, however, was not a character to exhaust itself in vain lamentations and secret repinings for a higher state of happiness VOL. I. B and prosperity than it had pleased God to assign to her. Therefore, though occasionaUy a sigh es caped her lips, and momentary depression damped her spirits when she thought of her solitude, she speedily chased away such unwelcome visitants by that best of remedies — active benevolence. At length Margaret paused, for the progress of her reverie had led her much further from home than she intended. The moon had just risen, bathing all things in a flood of pale subdued light. From her elevated position a wide expanse of park was visible, diversified by dark broad shadows cast by gigantic trees, and by patches of moonlight brilliant enough for the scene of some nocturnal elfin revel.

A large piece of water, outlined by masses of foliage, glowed with tremulous radiance in the distance, as every now and then a Ught cloud flitted across the moon's disc. The passive tranquillity of the scene was inexpressibly soothing to Margaret's spirit, and she stood absorbed in meditation, until the sound of a hasty step approaching made her lower her veil ; but ere she could resume her homeward progress, George Compton stood beside her. " Mrs Desmond sent me in search of you, Miss Margaret. She was alarmed at your long absence," said he, hesitatingly. " I am sorry to have occasioned you so much trouble. Mamma need not have been alarmed, as I have not wandered beyond this footpath," replied Margaret, walking slowly forwards. " Perhaps not. It might be only Mrs Desmond's kindness that induced her to send me, knowing that she could not confer greater happiness than by hon ouring me with this commission," hurriedly rejoined Mr Compton.

Involuntarily, Margaret quickened her pace, and made no rejoinder. The colour rose to the young man's brow. For some distance they walked on in mutual 'silence ; but it was easy to perceive from the nervous impatience of his step, and the difficulty with which he restrained its impetuosity within the bounds of his companion's progress, that some unusual emotion was stirring in his mind. Had the light permitted, or perhaps had not Miss Desmond so assiduously averted her head, she would have seen the colour gather and settle in Mr Compton's cheek, and a kind of determined expression to brave the worst gradually diffuse itself over his comely goodnatured face, — symptoms which would have infalhbly accelerated not a little her speed homewards. " Miss Desmond, I have heard to-day the most distressing rumour, which I grieve to say has just now been fully confirmed by Mrs Desmond.

Oh ! Margaret, say that you will not leave Woodthorpe ! " at length burst, in agitating accents, from Mr Comp ton's lips. His tones were expressive of such genuine distress and anxiety, that Margaret could not refrain from glancing upon him more kindly than she had ever before done in her life : besides, sympathy, even from Mr Compton, was soothing to her heart. " It must be ! My father cannot afford to live longer here. We must indeed leave Woodthorpe," replied she at length, slowly and sadly. " Nay, Miss Desmond, why should it be so ? Con sent to share everything my father and mother possess. They love you already as a daughter. Oh, Margaret ! may I not hope that at length the most assiduous devotion may sometime induce you to glad den our home?" exclaimed Mr Compton earnestly. He paused, and would have taken her hand.

Gently, though firmly, Margaret withheld it. Tears trembled in her eyes. " Mr Compton, I cannot permit you to talk to me thus. It pains me inexpressibly. Believe me, I am grateful, deeply grateful, for all the kindness I have received from you and yours," replied she quickly. A deep shade of disappointment gathered on Mr Compton's face. " And is this all, Miss Desmond ? Though we are fully alive to the disparity between your situation and that which I — we can offer to you, is it quite impossible, dear Margaret, that you could forget it ? Will not my earnest prayer induce you to reconsider your decision?" rejoined he, at length, in a voice fal tering with emotion. " Why will you compel me, Mr Compton, to re quite so ill what we owe you by persisting in this theme ? I cannot accept the home you so generously offer," replied Margaret, gently, though decidedly.

Mr Compton made no reply ; and for some time they walked on silently. Tears streamed down Mar garet's cheeks : the future presented an aspect so joyless — so utterly devoid of hope — that a chill feel ing of despondency crept over her spirits. The clapping of a gate on the footpath some little distance before them, disturbed at length the reverie into which both Margaret and her companion had fallen. In a few seconds, the dull sound of a horse's hoofs falling on the soft turf was distinctly audible. " Mr Somerton ! " said Mr Compton, as he took off his hat to a gentleman who at that instant passed on horseback. Margaret hastily raised her eyes. She perceived that Mr Somerton east a long scrutinizing gaze on herself and her companion as he passed. Suddenly he checked his horse, and brought it round towards them.

" Mr Compton, I wish to speak a few words with you— I will not detain you an instant ! " said he, in a full deep voice. George Compton immediately left her side ; then Margaret, now rid of her unwelcome companion, bounded swiftly forwards : not, however, before she fancied that she caught the sound of her own name pronounced by Mr Somerton's lips. Breathless and excited she stood at the garden gate, ere Mr Compton joined her. She turned and silently offered her hand ; for she could not then ask him to enter the house. He took it, and eagerly pressed it to his lips ; and so they parted.

Chapter II

When Margaret entered her home, not a sound was stirring. The shutters of the sitting-room window were closed, and the moonlight streamed through the open garden-door, partially illumining the passage and staircase. All was cheerless and solitary : no busy footsteps resounded, or voices echoed; and Margaret, as she threw aside her bonnet and shawl, felt deeper depression steal over her spirits. The dull murmur of voices in the adjacent parlour at length fell on her ear ; and with feelings of positive relief she hastily entered the room : its sole occupants were her father and mother. Mr Desmond was sitting in an arm-chair, with his elbow resting on the table. A reading-candle threw its strong glare on the open book before him ; a paper-knife carelessly lay across its page, and Mi- Desmond's eyes were averted.

A deeper gravity than usual rested on his pale, thoughtful features; r 24 AGATHA BEAUFORT, and the anxious solicitude of his glance, and the restlessness of his deportment, but too surely be tokened mental disquietude. Near him stood an open writing-desk ; and the table was covered with letters, fragments of paper, bills paid and unpaid, and a variety of other memoranda. Opposite, at the other end of the table, Mrs Desmond sat occupied with her needle. In spite of the sorrow and anxiety of the last few days, the same placid smile shone in her good-natured face, and she bent over her work with as much composure as if no untoward event had ruffled the tranquillity of the household. Mrs Desmond was one of those pliable, complacent persons, whose passions and desires, by some won drous process, are almost invariably bounded within the limits of what they happen at the moment to possess.

No present or future fears had power to rouse more than temporary uneasiness in her bosom ; or to banish the perpetual smile which beamed on her lips. Her character resembled the pohshed sur face of a mirror, which retains no aftervestige of the objects it has reflected ; while so reaUy impervious was she to the casualties of life, that had it been her fate to sink from the height of splendour to most abject penury, she would speedily have become reconciled to her lot. Mrs Desmond, however, though lacking warmth and sensibUity, was thoroughly just and up right in her conduct. She looked upon her husband and his daughter as prodigies of wisdom ; and, in her own mind, felt not the smallest doubt that their tact and knowledge of the world would quickly rescue them from difficulty. When Margaret entered the room, Mrs Desmond raised her eyes from her work and fixed them eagerly on the door ; then a slight shade of disappointment passed over her face as she assiduously resumed her employment.

" I have been calculating, during your absence, Margaret, how much our present expenditure will exceed the income at our disposal during the ensuing year. The result of my labour is as you see," said Mr Desmond gravely, putting into his daughter's hand a sheet of paper covered with figures. Margaret sat down, and glanced quickly over the paper. As she read, the serious concern resting on her face increased ; nor did she speak again for some minutes after finishing its perusal. " WeU, Margaret, you see we shall need a repeti tion of the miracle of the widow's cruse to struggle on anywhere with such an income as that ! To be sure my books would sell for something," resumed Mr Desmond bitterly, while his eyes surveyed with sorrowful regret the bookcases containing his small though choice library.