Redmarsh Rectory. A tale of life

Chapter I

Agnes Fairfax had sat in her usual quiet way during the animated discussion between Lucy and her brother-in-law. She had listened to all, and it had but helped to strengthen her own conclusions with regard to the book that was attributed to Annette. Agnes said nothing. She declined all argument with Mr. de Vere, although she listened with keen attention to all he had to say, and by VOL. III. E a few well-directed monosyllables managed to sustain the conversation to which she added no remark, either of suggestion or denial. Mr. de Vere could not make play with his usual weapons with Agnes, for she never retorted never even parried an attack, but sat with her large grey eyes full upon his face, taking in every sentence that he spoke, every intonation of his voice, listening with wrapt attention, and, as he imagined, with appreciating delight to his eloquence.

Once, only once, he felt afraid of her; it was when Lucy, forgetting everything but her anger, told him that she hated a lie, — he caught Agnes' eye glittering with ill-concealed pleasure — he read his sister-in-law truthfully then, he felt that she knew both him, and his true value. The look faded quickly from Agnes' face, and, as it did not return, and she almost immediately took up a book, appearing entirely engrossed with its contents, Mr. de Vere deferred the dislike he felt shoot into his heart, till he was better certified of its justice. Agnes sat up very late that night, and in a short time, a sharp, clever review of the unfor tunate " Peep at Religious Houses" appeared in one of the leading magazines. Lucy Demster coloured as she read it, for she found her own unhappy speech immortalized — the review briefly summed up the merits of the work by saying that " it was simply an untruth from the beginning to the end."

" It is true, quite true," said Annette, shewing the review to Laura, " the thought of that book makes me miserable, but it is but a part of the deception I live in from day to day. My life is like a protracted nightmare : 1 endure the misery of a Tantalus, peace and rest are for ever presented to my gaze, almost within my reach ; but when I stretch out my hand to grasp them, they elude my touch. Oh Laura, may you never know what it is to feel that the Romish Church is not Christian, and that the English Church is not Catholic." b " Dear Annette, if you are not happy, why do you not consult some Priest ? I think papa could help you ; he is very well read — and if you are forbidden to consult a Priest, ask Sir Henry, for he knows even more than papa does of Church history." " Hush, Laura ! Mr. de Vere might hear you — oh I must not, I dare not look back.

That dreadful review ! alas, my life, as well as my book — how absurd to call it mine ! — has been untrue from its beginning to its end." " Dear Annette, the end may be perfect truth — the past is past — its shortcomings and errors have been borne by another than yourself upon the cruel cross, the penalty paid, the forgiveness granted — but the future is all your own — dear friend, dear Annette, for His sake make it pure and true, follow the dictates of your conscience and trust in the Cross." " I cannot. I dare not ! hush Laura, you will be overheard. Mr. de Vere has a hundred ears and eyes, no, there is no hope for me ; I am in a tangled web from which there is no extrication ; and I feel that the end is nearer than any suppose. The last few weeks, since I have been free from external excitement, have been utter torment to me ! hush !"

"Annette," said Mr. deVere, opening the door, " Father Francis is waiting in the library to see you. What ! you have been crying again ! you are ill dear, go up stairs and wash away the traces of your indisposition, take sal volatile, anything to make you like yourself, Father Francis must not see my convert anything but happy looking." " Oh Horace," said Annette quickly, trying to smile, " I am not at all ill, only I have been laughing and it always makes me cry — indeed I have," as his keen eyes searched hers, " have I not Laura?" " Ah well, never mind dear, run up stairs and make yourself presentable. I will go and engage good Father till you are ready ; although Miss Beresford," he said, as Annette closed the door, " my good wife has more sympathy with priests than I have — they lead wearisome lives poor fellows : I must say that converting is much more to my taste, than the care of the converted, what do you say ? — I fancy you share my predilection, Annette's tears prove it, do they not ? silly girl, she must be taught to restrain them in future."

Laura dare not refute Mr. de Vere, he knew that, when he took this round-about way of dis covering the cause of his wife's swollen eyelids. Mr. De Vere was a disappointed man, and his disappointment had arisen from the simple promised gratification of his long cherished desires. He had married Annette in the hope of raising himself in the political world, through the influence of her relations. He had persuaded her to become a Roman Catholic, more from thought of the eclat which he knew such a step would bring upon himself, than from any love of religion : and now, he was disappointed, because through the unexpected death of his brother, he found himself, if not in the position, at least next heir to the position he courted — and because he felt that all he had desired would have been his, without the assistance of a wife, whose disposition, tastes, and pursuits were dissimilar to his own : for Annette, with her wild, unsubdued will, found it harder, as a wife, to mould herself to her husband's tastes, than it had been as a lover — the romance was gone — and the high principle that should have con verted her duty into her dearest pleasure, was wanting.

Annette feared Mr. de Vere too much, and he loved his wife too little, to cause the small amount of sympathy between them to become strengthened or cemented. Mr. de Vere became daily more hard, cold, and sarcastic, and Annette was utterly miserable. When unmarried, she had lived in a dream of love and romance, from which she now awoke to the bitter reality of — her husband ! Even the comfort of religion was denied her, for although her heart and feelings had been enlisted on the side of Rome, her understanding had been unconvinced ; and she found herself bound and fettered by a thousand observances, that her reason, which she could not kill, told her were at least absurd. Edward Sidney never forgot a friend — the old street-sweeper, who had been true to him, when, deserted by all the world beside, Edward had so desperately battled with life in the dreary London garret — had been constantly and grate ully remembered.

Within a short distance of Redmarsh Rectory, by the side of a babbling brook — tributary to the river — where children dabbled and played through the live-long sum mer days, sailing their tiny, mimic fleets, or angling for tadpoles — where — when winter chained the rippling stream with its icy fingers — still the same laughing voices sounded cheerily in the breeze, as the merry groups went sliding along, or slipped heedlessly through the trea cherous ice into the cold water below — where oaks and weeping willows spread their branches around, or stretched them over the stream, that the children may cling to them as they swing backwards and forwards in their play — by the side of the rustic bridge, formed out of the well worn trunk of a huge old oak, there stood a whitewashed cottage, with roses clustering about the windows, and a cheerful garden at its side.

Three months had passed away since old John Darlison had first been seen clearing the weeds from the somewhat neglected flower bor ders, and putting all things in military order for Miss Beresford's expected first visit. Dearly, had the old man learned to love the sight of the "bonnie blue eye" that always lighted so kindly on him; dearly did he love to fight his battles over again to the never weary listener, and to describe to her with all a soldier's enthusiasm, that noble Duke, who — when the poor soldier lost his arm on the field of battle- — promised to befriend him — that was the honor : true, a pension of ninepence a day was but a small recompense for the loss of so important a limb, but had not the noble Duke himself com plimented him ? had he not said " there was never a braver soldier than John Darlison in the British army ?"

Laura had so often repeated these conversa tions to her father, that at last Mr. Beresford thought that an application to the Duke of Wellington for an increased pension for the old soldier, who at one time served in the Duke's regiment — might meet with a favourable answer, and one day, during the time of his recovery from his illness, he and Edward con cocted a very humble petition to the Duke upon the subject. In due course, for the Duke was most polite in answering every application to him — came the following reply. " F. M. the Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr. Beresford. Mr. Beresford is mistaken. The Duke has no powTer — he never had any, in relation to the amount of pension granted to any soldier. John Darlison must apply to those who pensioned him — an increased pension, or to the commanding officer of the regiment, or to the Adjutant-general of the army.

The Duke has no power — no influence in such cases. He cannot interfere in any case, unless his advice or assistance should be required by the sovereign, her ministers, or by the General commanding the army in chief. " Original papers must not be sent to the Duke of Wellington. He does not fill any political office. He is not a notary-public. He cannot take charge of such." On the receipt of this rather fiery epistle, Mr. Beresford wrote back a few simple words begging pardon for any want of form or etiquette he might have been unwittingly guilty of, with re ference to sending the old soldier's testimonials to the Duke : but making no further application. A few days only elapsed before another Ducal missive reached the Rectory. " The dear old Duke has relented," exclaimed Laura, " or perhaps it is only to say ' he would if he could, but he can't and is sorry.' " Mr. Beresford took the letter and read as follows : — " F. M. the Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr. Beresford.

" The Duke wrote him a clear, distinct and true answer to his application. He has as usual re ceived an answer written on the supposition that the Duke was offended when he wrote. " Does Mr. Beresford suppose that the Duke is a fool ? or that he takes offence for no reason whatevef? The answer contains the strict truth, but that is exactly what nobody likes to hear. As soon as Mr. Beresford found that in truth the Duke of Wellington had it not in his power to do anything for his protege, he must find fault with the Duke, and say he won't be cause he is unreasonably offended. The Duke answers that he is not a fool. But he has stated fairly, plainly, and in truth how he is situated. He desires that Mr. Beresford will not trouble him again with his observations." But Mr. Beresford did. Whether it was that he felt the Saxon blood of Alfred through a dozen generations, when the Celtic forefathers of the Duke were yet in barbarism, tingle in his veins, or whether his late illness had left hi;n more irascible than was his wont, I know not, but I do know that the next post carried a shell into the enemy's camp, the materiel of which was as follows.

My Lord Duke, " I respectfully deny your right to interdiet further observations from me, when infer ences in your Grace's communications call for a refutation in my own vindication ; and, there fore, I beg now to state that I never considered your Grace an attorney — a notary-public — or a fool. I do like the strict truth, and I never found fault with your Grace, and said you would not attend to my request because you were unreasonably offended. Had I considered your Grace an attorney or a notary-public, I should have expected a willing compliance with my request — but with a bill of charges for trouble, etc. Had I looked upon your Grace as a fool, I should have stamped myself as one. Did I not like the strict truth 1 should belie the profession in which I have had the honor to serve without reproach.

And had I said that your Grace would not attend to my request, because you were unreasonably offended, I should have been guilty of attributing motives to your Grace which I had no right to do. But I do now charge your Grace with want of courtesy, which in the great and noble of the land, is calculated to produce, especially in evil days like these, very serious injury." What effect this letter had, Mr. Beresford never knew. The Duke did not relent, and old Darlison's pension remained unaugmented. The old soldier was never told anything but the result of the application, so to this day his faith continues firm, " that if the Duke could have done it, he would, only he couldn't, and so he took to the crossing, and there he should have been to this day only for Mr. Sidney, God bless him ! and Miss Laura too for she be worthy not only of him, but of the noble Duke himself, and that be saying a deal."

And John Darlison, the soldier hero, con tinues to live on in the white cottage by the babbling brook, pensioned by Edward Sidney's grateful heart with a nobler pension than his country could afford, and passing his time in cultivating his little garden, and telling the stories of his country's victories to groups of open-mouthed wondering-eyed little children, with whom he was a grand favourite. Edward bought an annuity for the old man. In whatever Sidney now undertook, there ap peared to be no looking beyond the morrow, his projects and plans seemed to narrow in, his former buoyant voice when speaking of the joyousness of the unexplored future, had given place to a trembling hesitating tone. " Why buy an annuity for old John ? " Laura would say, " as long as he lives he will be our care, it is very pleasant to me, trying to pay him back some of his honest love for you during those terrible London days."

" Laura, I may not live." " Do not give way to gloomy anticipations dear Edward, the present is very bright and joyous — let us live in it with grateful loving hearts." " May it always be bright to you, darling ! but for me shadows must come." " Why need they ? if we strive to love and serve God with all our hearts, He has promised to bless us, and to overlook our imperfect obe dience. Oh, Edward, I feel so glad, as if it were always mid-day with me when you are by, and sorrow only a thing to read of in books ! " Laura stopped suddenly. Edward looked so hope lessly miserable. " Pardon me, dearest," she said, " I vex you with my foolish gaiety, sit down and I will b good." She stole to the piano, and the tones of her voice sunk into one of the airs she knew he loved so well. After a time he looked up brightly, saying, " The night is passed, darling, and the morning come.

Chapter II

Redmarsh was doomed to be the victim of popular excitement. Scarcely had the remem brance of the robbery died a little away ere another wonderful event threw the whole village into commotion. There was an elopement — a bona-fide elopement — a postchaise and four — escape by night, everything in short to con stitute a runaway match, excepting that nobody felt the least inclined to run after the runaways. The news traversed the village with the speed of lightning, and Lucy was early at the Rectory to communicate the particulars to Laura. " So very provoking," said Lucy, " so foolishly absurd ! Laura, what do you think ? that silly Fred has ran away with Kate O'Grady ! I cannot help laughing although I am so vexed, for nobody wished to prevent their being married in a decent, respectable way ; and papa talked to Fred about it several times, and offered to take him into partnership if he liked to marry Miss O'Grady, but he always made some excuse ; and it's my belief that the wild Irish girl was determined to go off with a fizz and a bang, like a bottle of soda-water, taking sober people's breath away ; instead of waiting patiently and quietly till the proper preliminaries were settled.

They say Mrs. Lowe is furious, and poor papa is most terribly annoyed." Lucy had hardly stopped to take breath, when Mrs. Lowe was announced. Everybody flew to Laura when they needed sympathy or help. " Oh, Miss Beresford !" exclaimed Mrs. Lowe in breathless, exhausted tones. " Oh Miss Demster, you too ! oh how shocking, how horrid, doubtless you have heard Miss Beresford, such a bad thing for Kate ! pardon me, Miss Demster, but you really must consider my feelings. Lord Sanssou will break his heart, only imagine Miss Beresford ; Kate descended from a whole line of Irish kings !" "Has Miss O'Grady left no letter? no clue to tell you where she is gone ?" " Oh yes, she desired Mary not to call her till ten o'clock this morning as she had a head ache, just fancy, and when Mary went, there was nothing but this note."

Mrs. Lowe gave the note to Laura, who read it aloud that Lucy might hear. " Sweetest Coz. : " I've ran away. Don't blame Fred it's all me. I hated the bore of asking papa and blessing, and crying, and all that ; so I just told Fred I wouldn't have him if he didn't cut the whole thing, which he agreed to do after a world of persuasion. We have managed glo riously : we had the banns put up at a little village not a hundred miles from this, where the funny old Parson drones so that nobody can hear a word he says. It would make you scream to hear Fred mock him. Well, we are to be married as soon after eight as possible. I'm afraid there has been a little bribery and cor ruption, but the Parson leaves all to the clerk, and the clerk — well I won't say a word against him, for he has been the dearest old boy.

Now my dear Coz, you must make papa forgive me, you know how miserable it is at home, and how thin I always grow there on half rations ; so I shall trust all to you, my sweetest Coz, and remain for ever your affectionate Kate Demster. I must just put it to see how it looks, very tidy I think, considering, don't you ?" " Well," said Lucy, " I suppose we ought to think that this is one degree better than going to Gretna." " Oh dear, nothing could be more shocking I'm sure," said Mrs. Lowe, " it has quite upset me. Of course Mr. Demster will provide for his son without obliging him to remain in the mill." And Mrs. Lowe pronounced the last word as if the effort in doing so were too much for the daughter of an honourable with a weak digestion. "My father cannot do without Fred," said Lucy pointedly, " and as Miss O'Grady has chosen to run away with my brother, I suppose that when it suits her convenience, she will run back with him."

Mrs. Lowe looked very mortified. " I beg your pardon for that last speech," said Lucy, quickly and honestly, "this foolish marriage will be a cause of deep vexation to us all, we must try to bear it without annoying each other ; but you see Mrs. Lowe, Fred is entirely dependent on my father, and he is ex ceedingly annoyed at his marrying in this way, so we must make him as pleased with the mar riage as we can, or poor Fred and his wife will be badly off. I'm very glad Charles comes to night," she said, turning to Laura. " Oh, so am I, he will turn the current of your father's thoughts. Perhaps your brother will meet Miss Williams, for she too arrives to night." Mrs. Lowe was fuming and fidgetting on the sofa, when the door opened, and admitted to the astonished gaze of the trio, no others than Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Demster.

" Oh Fred," " Oh Kate," burst simultaneously from two of the ladies, followed by a most ex pressive " Good gracious me!" from Mrs. Lowe. Poor Fred looked very red in the face, and very much ashamed of himself, and remained con cealed in the back ground — not so the redoubtable Kate, who, as Fred afterwards told Lucy, " had the pluck of an Amazon and no mistake !" Mrs. Demster rushed at her cousin, and ad ministered a shower of kisses with so much energy that Mrs. Lowe fell convulsively back on the sofa, while one of her prunella shoes was flung to some considerable distance by the sud denness of her overthrow. From Mrs. Lowe, Kate flew to Lucy. " Now you dear old thing, you must kiss me, for I'm your sister you know — look at my ring, isn't it a beauty ? and only fancy you being here. I made Fred come home at once to beg pardon and get all that over, that we might have a nice tour ; and do you know that he was such a frightened fellow, that he said he would not go unless Miss Beresford went with us to make peace ; now wasn't he silly ? but I must not scold him to-day, for he has let me have mv own wav in everything, and we mean to be so happy."

It was useless to talk sense to the bride in her present mood, so Lucy turned to Fred. " Fred, how could you treat papa so wrongly?" " Dear Lucy, don't scold. Upon my word I couldn't help it, she would you know ; and, my father is not very angry, is he ?" " He is more vexed than angry, no one would have prevented your marrying Miss O'Grady if you wished to do so." " Now I declare you sha'n't scold Fred, it's all my fault you dear old thing, and it will all be right directly, if only Miss Beresford will put on her bonnet and come with us. You must know that all this is excessively boring, for I am dying to be off to Paris, we should have been half way there by this time, only Fred had not much money, and I had none, and so — come along Fred, now dear Miss Beresford, you must u come. " Do," said Lucy, " Papa will want a steady VOL. III. c unprejudiced voice to help him in deciding what is to be done ; poor papa."

There was little time left for decision when the deed was done. Frederick Demster was very humble and crest-fallen, and ready to accept any terms that his father offered, and Mrs. Fre derick cared for nothing but to " get it over," as she called it, and be off to Paris, so that Mr. Demster had nothing to do but to give cheques to his son ; and after a short time, the newly married pair were sent on their journey with as hearty a blessing as the father could muster, and the house resumed its usual look of order and quietude, a look very much at variance with the hearts of its owners. The father and daughter could hardly believe what had happened, it was so contrary to Fred's reliant disposition. He had however pleased himself, and Lucy, with a sister's unselfish love, was ready to set about concocting plans for their future happiness.

A house must be procured, servants hired, and a hundred things done and got ready for her brother and sister's return. Kate had frankly and generously said that she would leave " all that to Lucy." " Poor Fred," said Lucy, as the door closed upon the young couple, " and yet he loves her ! oh happy Kate to be the possessor of honest hearty love ! " Laura remained some time after the departure of the bridal pair, trying to put the matter (as she always tried to put all the untoward events of life) in the brightest possible light. " Mrs. Demster is very cheerful and good tempered," she said, " and perhaps your son will be happier with her than with a more sedate person, and this runaway-marriage has saved you a great deal of trouble." " I always wished my children to please them selves in their marriages," said Mr. Demster.

" I have tried to bring them up as honest men, and Christians, leaving them as far as I could c leave them, masters of their own future ; and it cuts me to the heart for a son of mine to act deceitfully and dishonorably." " But Mrs. Demster declares that her father and mother will be glad to get rid of her — that she has hinted, and that Mrs. Lowe has written to them about Fred, and that they did not wish to prevent her marrying him. She says that she has thirteen brothers and sisters, and that they live in extreme poverty." " Still Miss Beresford, the poorest man would not like his child to act as my poor son's wife has, it is as disrespectful to herself as to her family, it also casts a slur upon me." " Oh, no one could blame you." " They will. The world will say I winked at it because I was pleased that my son should marry above his station ; and yet, God knows, Miss Beresford, I would rather that my son had wooed and married the most homely girl in the parish, in an honest honourable way, than have acted as he has done."

"You must forgive him dear Mr. Demster." " I have forgiven him. I am too old to live for one day with an unforgiving heart — but I am pained deeply, deeply grieved. I have for years looked forward to this day, I fancied that marriage would improve Fred, and besides, an old man loves to live his youth over again in that of his children and grand-children." " It will all end well Mr. Demster ; Mrs. Lowe is very fond of Mrs. Demster, and you will learn to be so also, and will forget the little cloud that darkened her entrance into your family, and dear Lucy will find pleasure in her new sister." Mr. Demster looked up fondly at Lucy, who was sitting quietly listening to her friend — a tear gathered in the old man's eyes and fell. " Lucy will never leave me as Fred has done," he said. " I shall never be tempted perhaps," answered Lucy brightly.

" I'm sure we shall like Kate, father, she will make the winter evenings bright for you." " We will hope so Lucy — hope is a panacea for all trouble." Laura rose to leave. " You will have the carriage Miss Beresford." " No thank you, the day is so bright I will walk through the fields." Lucy " sent" her friend on her way, " accord ing to the customs of the Welsh country," she said laughing. When Lucy left her, Laura followed the course of the river till it entered the Rectory fields. She had not been idle in her walk, her hands were laden with spoil — the h edges had been ransacked for a fresh supply of ferns— the holly had given its berries, and the wild travellers' joy had added its light feathery tresses to her burden. The robin was singing blithely the glories of the coming Christmas, and Laura's heart bounded within her and her sweet plaintive voice echoed the robin's song.

Another voice mingled itself with hers, she started and turned, Sidney was by her side. " Oh how pretty Signorina ! those brilliant berries shew daintily amidst the fairy clematis — still it is not perfect, stay," and in a few minutes the shining leaves and berries of the ivy are added, and Laura looked admiringly as she thanked Edward for the addition. They were standing beneath the old elm by Laura's favorite seat ; Laura had put down the evergreens upon it that she might rearrange them more carefully — there was silence for a few minutes and then Edward spoke. " Laura do you remember my first morning at Redmarsh, and your finding me here tres passing ?" " I have just the very faintest recollection," said Laura smiling, " of a tall pale young man, with large dreamy eyes monopolizing my seat as he held familiar discourse with the Naioades."