Deerbrooke Parsonage. A novel

Chapter I

" I gazed, aud felt upon my lips The unfinished accents hang; One moment's bliss, one burning kiss To rapture changed each pang. " And though as swift as lightning's flash Those tranced moments flew, Not all the waves of time shall wash Their memory from my view." Campbell. " Oh, Edmund, at last I have you with me again ; I am so happy." " It is, indeed, happiness, dear Lucy, for us to meet again. How I have longed for this moment." VOL. III. B " Ah ! Edmund, your longing could not have been greater than mine. I was thinking of you when you came in, but I had no hope of seeing you so soon; it was a joyful surprise indeed." " You may be sure I should not postpone such a pleasure as this. I started the instant I received your welcome summons, and I have traveled day and night since ; 1 do not think I lost one moment on the road, and now all my exertions are amply repaid.

I could not but hasten to such a happy meeting." " My own Edmund, I can feel how eager you would be from my own heart. You must be very much fatigued, sit down and rest your self." Since Edmund's entrance, they had remained standing, but now they sat down together on the sofa from which Lucy had risen. " What an age it seems since I have seen you; I have been wondering whether you would be at all changed, but I can see no differenc, except that the Italian sun has given a darker shade to your face, all but your forehead," she said as she tenderly swept back with her little hand the curls that clustered round his still white brow. "You, too, are very little changed, Lucy," he answered as he looked at her with love and ad miration beaming in his eyes. " I think you have grown, if possible, more lovely than ever, my beautiful Lucy."

"Do not turn flatterer, dear Edmund." "It is no flattery. You must know how beautiful you are. Among all the famed beauties of the south I have seen none like my Lucy." " I thought very little about how I looked till lately, but now I am very glad to know that I have anything that can please you, Edmund. I should care very little for being beautiful if I did not wish you to think me so." " You may be perfectly easy about that, dear Lucy, for I could not wish you to be anything but what you are; no alteration could be an im provement." " Pray stop, dear Edmund, or you will make B me quite vain. Tt gives me great pleasure though to know that you think so." " I have no fear of awakening any vanity in you, nothing could be more foreign to your nature." " Do not try, however, for if anything will do so, it is your praise.

You know how highly I should esteem your opinion, if I did not fear that love made you a partial judge." " Cupid has no need to blind my eyes. But, Lucy, your features are all unchanged, is your heart so too; do you love me as you did when I left you?" " I should be very much pained if I thought you were serious in asking such a question, but I am sure you do not doubt me." " You are right, my Lucy. No fear, for your constancy has, for one instant added to the pain of absence, but I long to hear you repeat the words that have made the happiness of my life " " You know my feelings too well to need me to speak them, Edmund ; you can read my heart without words." " I can, indeed, in those speaking eyes which seem melting with love, but you know what pleasure my words of affection give you, and so you can guess what I feel."

" Well, Edmund, I suppose you would think me very cruel if I refused to do anything to please you this evening," she said with a blush. " I do love you dearly ; more even than before our parting. My love is so great indeed that I have been miserable all this time, but now it makes my happiness the greater." " You have found, then, as I have, that ab sence only increases true affection. Mine has grown till my only fear is that you would think it too great, too engrossing." " I am afraid I could hardly think that, even if I knew I ought to. Oh, Edmund, you do not know how greedy I am of love." " You shall not be disappointed then, Lucy, if the devotion of a whole life can satisfy you. Yes, my Lucy, it must and shall be so; we have met, I hope, to part no more. I could not en dure the pain of leaving you again."

" Heaven grant it! How I hope that it may be so." " It shall, Lucy. In the morning we will tell your father all, for I can remain no longer in suspense." " I am so glad, Edmund, that you have de termined to do so, for it pains me very much to be compelled to have a secret from him." " I am sure it must, but that pain will soon be removed. I am very glad to see that you are more sanguine than you were when you forbade me to appeal to your father before, as I wished to do." " I must hope, where despair would be such agony. But I fear, too, when I think of his character; he will never sanction us in letting our feelings influence us rather than the know ledge of what is right." " I feel confident, Lucy, that he will not think it right that we should be doomed to such misery as would be ours if we were separated for ever.

I am sure that I am right in my opinion in spite of your scruples." " I hope it is so, dear Edmund, but whatever his decision may be, I shall feel sure that it is right." " Our love will make us plead so earnestly, that he will not be able to refuse his consent. Do you not think so? " " Yes, Edmund, he loves us both so much, and he is so kind-hearted, that he must find it im possible to deny us the only thing that can se cure the happiness of both of us." " Is it so, my Lucy, can you tell him that un less you are mine, you can never be happy? Nay, my darling, my own Lucy, why should you hesi tate to give me an answer while your beautiful blushes and downcast eyes tell me what that answer would be ? May I tell him that it is so, may I give him a reason for consenting which he will find it is impossible to resist?

Yes, dearest, we must succeed, for I know how much he loves you, and I do not think he would object to me as a son-in-law." " How could he do so, Edmund." " I fear every one would not have such a good opinion of me as you, my Lucy, but I feel sure that your father likes me." " He does, indeed ; he often made my heart throb with joy by his praises of you." " Then I can have no more doubts; in a few hours I shall be able to look forward with cer tainty to the time when you will be mine — my bride, my wife." Joy and bashfulness struggled in her counte nance as she murmured, — " Your wife ! ah, how little hope I have had of such happiness." " What pleasure your words give me, that most tender of all titles is, indeed, music from your lips. You, too, will have another name of affection for me; your love for your husband will not be less than for your lover.'' " Nothing could lessen it.

But I fear to trust in such happiness, for the disappointment would be unbearable." " There will be no disappointment. Your father must yield." "God grant it!" " By-the-bye, in the pleasure of being once more with you, I have not noticed his absence till now. Why is he not here ! I hope he is not ill." " No, he is very well, but he was tired and went to bed an hour before you arrived." " How glad I am that I found you, and alone too. I was very fortunate." " If it had been a few minutes later I should have already gone, but I sat thinking of your coming, aud the time passed unheeded. See how late it is; I ought to stay no longer now." " No, dear Lucy, I cannot let you leave me so soon after our long separation. I am sure you will not go yet." " 1 find too much pleasure myself in our being once more together, to be very willing to shorten the time.

I have been so lonely during your absence, everything around seemed changed." " My own dear Lucy ! I can hardly grieve for such a proof of your love for me. I have felt equally desolate ; this has been my most cherished B companion in your absence," he said, drawing out his portrait of Lucy. "I was glad to think you had it, dear Edmund, while you were away from me." " It was the greatest pleasure I had to be able to gaze on those beautiful features, and to think that they were those of my own Lucy, of her who should one day be my wife, when that dismal banishment was over. Hardly an hour has passed without my looking at it, and with fresh pleasure each time." "Have you worn it constantly, Edmund, since that melancholy day when you left Deer brooke?" " I have never laid it aside even for one in stant.

I told you, do you not remember, that it should remain next my heart, till I could hold yourself there once again." As he spoke he encircled her with his arm, and drawing her unresisting form towards him, suited the action to the words. " How long it seems since I have held you so. You would smile, dear Lucy, if you knew how foolishly I have often longed for one embrace like this, for one kiss." " I could hardly smile at any proof of your love, Edmund," she said, as soon as her lips were again at liberty, gently releasing herself from his embrace as she spoke. Edmund had been holding the portrait in his hand, but now he replaced it. "I have thought sometimes," he said, "that you might have liked to have had a likeness of me. Should you have done so, Lucy?" She smiled, but seemed rather embarrassed, aud did not answer him.

For a sing'e instant she gave one quick glance down, but transient as was this slight movement, Edmund's quick eye observed it, and followed the direction of her look. " Is it possible," he exclaimed, " have you got my likeness by some means? " She blushed deeply, and after opening her lips to speak she closed them again, as if she did not know what reply to make. At this moment Edmund caught sight of a gleam of light upon her white neck, and on looking more closely, he saw that it was a fine gold chain, which he knew she valued very much as having belonged to her mother, and formerly, instead of wearing it, she had kept it carefully locked up as a relic. "What have you got attached to that chain; is it really my portrait? Will you not tell me, my Lucy, and let me see it if it is?" With some reluctance she complied with his request, and drew from its hiding-place a beautiful little enamelled case.

It was scarcely the size of a crown piece, and looked more like a locket than the case of a portrait, but when Lucy touched a spring, it flew open, and re vealed an exquisite miniature within. " It is a likeness of me, then, Lucy. But what an admirable painting, where could you have got it?" " It was sent to me not very long ago under cover to old nurse Little. There was no name given, but I felt sure that it was from your friend Mordaunt. What was his christian name?" DEERBROOKE FARSONAGE. " Walter." " Then it certainly was from him, for see here are the initials, W. M., in this corner. There were merely the words, 'From Edmund's friend,' written on the paper that enclosed it." " It is just like Mordaunt, always anxious to give pleasure, and in such a kind and thoughtful manner." " I could hardly have had anything that could have pleased me more."

" I can well understand that, Lucy, from my own feelings." " I fancied, from the description you gave of your friend, that he might have done it like this without your knowledge, and I should not have mentioned it to you if you had not found it out so quickly." " Why, what motive could you have for con cealing it?" She hid her blushing face against his shoulder as she answered, — " I am afraid of letting you see how much I love you, Edmund." " You must not let any such feeling remain in your heart, dearest," he said, pressing his lips to her smooth brow, " I am sure you are not ashamed of your love for me." "Ashamed of it! No, I glory in it, for I know you are worthy of all the affection I can bestow." " I wish I could think so too. So you have kept it enshrined in your bosom ever since you received it, and wished to continue to do so without letting me know what an honour was paid to my likeness."

She made him no answer, but with a blush and smiling look of affection she returned it to its resting place next her warm, innocent heart, so full of love and devotion. "I daresay you have examined it well; is it not beautifully painted?" "It is indeed; I should very much like to see some of his pictures, for from your description his talent must have been wonderful." "You will be able to see and judge for your self as soon as my luggage arrives ; for the day before he died, poor fellow, he gave me some of his favourite paintings." " How distressed you must have felt at losing him." "I did indeed; the only happy hours I en joyed during our separation were those I spent with him." " You spoke to him of me, Edmund, of course, or he could not have sent me your portrait." " I told him all that had passed between us, and his sympathy gave me great pleasure, and consoled me in spite of all my previous wretched ness.

He thought, too, as I do, that there were no obstacles that ought to divide us, and his prophecies of good inspirited me greatly, for I was confident that I had told him the real facts of the case, so as to enable him to form an un biassed judgment." "Did you show him your portrait of me?" " Yes, dear Lucy ; I had resolved to let no eye but my own behold it, but I could not resist making the exception for him. Should you not like to know what he thought of it?" "Yes, I should very much." " You said that I flattered you, but you cannot bring the same accusation against him. He told me that he had never beheld anything so lovely, and if you had seen the beautiful faces that seemed to live on the canvass around, you would have thought it high praise. His admiration was most enthusiastic, but no more so than it should have been."

" Plush, dear Edmund, do not talk so but tell me of yourself, and what you did when you were so far away from me. What a shock the early death of such a friend must have been to you!" " It would have been much greater, but I had expected it for some time, and though his loss was very painful to me, I could not grieve much for him, for he seemed to welcome death so gladly. Some day I will give you an account of his last hours, but I cannot do so now." " I should like to hear it very much, for what you have already told me of him, has interested me greatly." " His early death is a sad loss to art. You who have such good taste will be able properly to appreciate the talent shown in the pictures he has given me. By the bye, have you painted at all lately?" " I have occasionally, but very little.

I had not the heart to take much interest in it or in any other of your old pursuits; the whole world seemed such a desert. You cannot think how desolate and miserable I have been during all this long year. I hope I shall never have to suffer such pain again, for I could not have borne it much longer." " Oh ! Lucy, it wrings my heart, to think that I have been the cause of so much sorrow to you. From the time I began to love you, I seem to have brought you nothing but pain instead of joy. Often lately when filled with grief and pain I have felt that you must be suffering equally. I have thought that you would have been far happier without my love, without having loved me." " You could not easily displease me, Edmund, but you will if you talk like that. I have told you before how you pain me by such words.

Our love for each other gives me a happiness now, and will do so, I hope always for the future which would recompense me for any sufferings I have ever undergone on account of it. But even if it were not so, I could wish for no change in our feelings ; I have rejoiced in our mutual affec tion in the midst of the greatest pain it has ever caused me. If fate should be still against us, it could not deprive us of the comfort — of the happiness of our love for each other. Do not ever pain me by speaking so again; your love ought to make it impossible for you to do so." " Such words shall never again pass my lips, but I cannot help feeling grieved at the thought that our love inflicts one pang upon your tender heart." " Ah, that is very different, Edmund, and I have had the same feelings about you, but I hope we shall no longer have any cause for such regrets.

We can look forward now — " " To our marriage. You need not hesitate to speak the words, Lucy. Will it not be happi ness ? How ardently I long for the time to come, when you will be all my own, when no one will have the power to separate us. I have no fear that our love will decrease; we shall constantly find fresh pleasure in all that we do for each other, and our joys will be all the greater for being shared between us, while on the contrary, any troubles will be lessened by it. United, never to part till death, our lives will be one scene of happiness. Do you not feel the same, my Lucy ?" " I must do so, Edmund, since my love is the same. Why are you not contented with reading my heart, without making me put my feelings into words?" " Because those words give me such pleasure. How often I have thought since that afternoon, of the first words of love I heard from your lips ; the remembrance has soothed me even in the moments of my greatest sorrow.

Have not you too, dearest, sometimes recalled to mind that happy hour?" DEERBROOKE TARSONAGE. " Yes, Edmund, and I have seared that you might have thought me too open, too bold; but I cannot be reserved, when my feelings are strong they will show themselves in spite of my self." " Do not, my Lucy, be uneasy about that. That very openness and frankness is a charm which for worlds I would not have you lose. There is nothing unwomanly in it, on the con trary it is the necessary result of a true woman's loving, earnest nature, guileless and unsuspicious of evil. Do not wish yourself any other than you are, for you are already all that is love able." " Your praise is so sweet, dearest Edmund, that I cannot scold you as I ought." " You would not scold me to-night at anyrate ; I am so happy at being with you again, that I am almost beside my self with joy.

Since I received your summons the other day, I have felt like another being. You can imagine with what pleasure it filled me, though I must own I was rather disappointed at not getting a long letter instead of one little word, which wras, however, sufficient to drive away all my sorrows." " If I had followed my own inclination, I should have written much more, but I was de termined to adhere to what I knew was right for me to do." " Were you not surprised when you first saw my letter? " " Not very much, for I was so wretched my self, that I felt certain you would be so too, and I almost expected you to try by some means to shorten the time which we had fixed upon for our separation." " You were glad, then, to see it, Lucy, and were not at all annoyed with me for breaking my promise ? " " It filled me with joy, instead of the dreary despondency that was fixing upon my heart, and your loving words, dear Edmund, were doubly welcome from having been so long unheard."

" And what I required from you, did that please you?" " Did not my answer show? My longing to see you again had become so great that I rejoiced that you pressed me too much for me to be able to refuse you what you asked." " I had not much fear of a refusal, but for all that I was very anxious till your answer came." " You could have remained but a very little time after you received it." " Yes, I had everything prepared beforehand so as to be able to start at once." " I expected, Edmund, that you would have written to my father, so as to have prepared him for your coming." " No, I could not wait even for that, Lucy. I suppose you have seen all my letters to him." " Yes, Edmund, I was reading them just before you came in." " What ! reading them again ! " " I had kept them all, and read them often and often.

As you could not describe to me yourself what you had seen and done, the greatest pleasure I could have was to read your words." " If you cared so much for my letters to your father, how you would have valued those I might have written to yourself." " I should indeed have done so Edmund, and I have often since repented of having refused to let you write. It seemed to render our separation still more complete." " I would have given worlds for a letter from you sometimes, or even for the permission to write to you; it would have lightened a trial which, as it was, was almost unendurable." " Well, dear Edmund, you must console your self with the thought that it is over now; and, we shall, I hope, have no need to write letters to each other for a very long time." " No, my Lucy, we shall be together now, and we shall be even happier than we were before."

" And yet, Edmund, we have spent many very happy days here." " That we have, my darling, but now the only draw-back to our enjoyment will be removed, and you will be able to rejoice in our love for each other, and the happiness it gives us without any secret doubt as to whether you are doing right. We shall learn hardly to regret all that we have already endured, for the contrast will make our enjoyment of the present so much greater. And yet I shall always look back with a shudder to the misery I have undergone. It is gone now, howTever, never to return, and in our old pleasures and pursuits we shall forget the dreary time that has intervened." " While you were away, dear Edmund, I could not interest myself in them. If I sat down in our favourite arbour it recalled my loss so pain fully that I could not remain.

When I at tempted to paint, or sing, or read one of our favourite books, I found it was the same, and I was obliged to lay them all aside again." " Ah, Lucy, I should be difficult to please in deed, if I were not satisfied with such love as you have given me. Our old pleasures will now re sume their former virtues I hope." "Yes, all will be very different now I have you, my Edmund, with me again. One of the first things I should like to do, will be to look at your sketches. I hope you have taken a great inauy." " Yes, you will be satisfied with the number, if with nothing else; I knew you would like to have some, and I took a melancholy pleasure in being able even then to do something to please you, though I should never have touched a pencil if it had not been for your sake." " Thank you, Edmund, you are always so kind and thoughtful ; to-morrow, then, we shall be able to look them over together, and by your descriptions, I shall be able to follow your travels."

" How I should have enjoyed them if you had been with me, my own Lucy. They would have exceeded even the fondest expectations I used to indulge in, instead of having fallen so far short of them." "It would have been very delightful, Edmund, there is nothing I should have liked so much." "You shall have your wish then some day, my Lucy, as you shall every other, if I can ob- VOL. III. c tain it for you. I daresay it will not be very long before we take a tour together." " And in the mean time I suppose I must content myself with your description and sketches; and, above all, with having you with me." " Yes, I daresay we shall be able to wait with tolerable patience for the present; I shall not, however, be able to show you my sketch-book so soon as you wish, for it is not here yet, though it will most likely arrive in a day or two with my other things To-morrow, too, I shall have something to think of, which is of far greater importance to us, for it will decide our future happiness."

" Oh, Edmund, how earnestly I hope that you may be successful." " We must succeed, Lucy, for failure would be unendurable. I cannot have any fears for the result." " I am afraid to be so sanguine, Edmund; my anxiety will be dreadful till I have learned our fate." too, long for it to be over, but we have only a short time longer to wait. In a few hours now your father will know all; and will, I hope, have made us both very happy." "I fondly trust it will be so, Edmund; but you are right in saying there are only a few hours left, see how late it is." " I had not the least idea we had been here so long." " Nor I either, I have been far too happy to notice the flmht of time." " Our meeting is enough to make us forget all else, my Lucy, is it not." " However, I must now give up the happiness for the present.

I ought not to stay any longer, daar Edmund." •' I cannot part with you yet, Lucy, after such a long separation, be kind and stay for a short time more." " I do not feel so willing myself to leave you that I can refuse you, Edmund. It seems as if we had our year of absence and sorrow to make up for." C cannot think how I can have passed through it or have endured it so long. In fact I must have given up the struggle before if I had not met Mordaunt at Rome, but the painful in terest I took in him had some effect in relieving my mind of the torments which had seized upon it, and in enabling me to bear our separation. As soon as I lost him you know how quickly I yielded to ray longing to return." " I was in hopes that you would have found some benefit in the society of your friend Lord Ernest Howard.