Jane Brightwell : or, The Beggar's petition. A romance

Preface

. If any finish the perusal of this volume without sometimes being betrayed into a hearty laugh, and at others, " albeit unused to the melting mood," abandoning themselves to the more serious parts of the story, it will be on y such as are offended by the shafts which the author occasionally launches against oppressive aristocratic tyranny and vice. The tale is an epitome of life in all its details, and the incidents are such as one feels might happen to himself ; while the characters are similar to those met with in our ordinary traffic with the world, where faults and virtues are alternately predominant. The heroines and heroes are neither Venuses nor Apollo's — but consist of the haughty lordling — the striving tradesman — the daring adventurer, whilst one or two of society's off-casts mingle with the dramatis personœ, to fill up more effectively the " page of life's mystery.'' In the unfilial acts of the heroine (from whose name the volume derives its title) we but discover the extremes to which the female heart will en*, when evil affections destroy the goodness and purity of her mind, and the heavy price at which she will purchase redemption from dishonour, when '• art shall fail to justify the exercise of love." December. JANE BKIG-HT WELL: on, THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.

Chapter I

" It was in the merry month of May, When bees from flower to flower did hum." THE OLD ENGLISH FAEMEB. — A BIED's-EYE VIEW OF HHIGHTWELL FARM. HOPES AND FEARS. — A RIVAL'S HATRED. — WHO SHOT THE HARE? It was a bright and beautiful May morning ; the trees, in all their fresh greenness, were gently ruttlini* their young leaves in the morning air ; a thin white mist, which had hung like a transparent veil upon the fair face of nature, No. 1. lending an additional charm to many of the beauties it but partially concealed, was yielding to the influence of the much-welcomed sunshine of spring. Slowly it rose, and rolled like a glassy curtain up the sides of the hills which bounded the horizon, revealing as highly-cultivated and beautiful a valley as England could boast of. The dew-drops hung trembling and sparkling like gems of the purest lustre upon every leaf ; the waving young grass was heavy with moisture, which, like fairy beads, had settled on each tender blade; the hedge-sparrow twittered in every bush, and occasionally a lark, with its sweet song, would pursue its airy evolutions, up, up, up, till it became a mere speck in the blue sky, and. its song died away in the regions of mid air.

This valley was within some fifteen miles of the ancient town of Salisbury; and standing like the everlasting monuments of an age long past, clearly defined againBt the sky between the valley and the city, might be seen those gigantic and wondrous remains of human, labour, which have conferred a celebrity upon Salisbury Plain for many ages — Stonehenge. The valley was in the highest state of cultivation, and comprised a space of upwards of six hundred acres, which, for several generations, had beentknown as Brightwell Farm, and had continued in the hands of the same family, descending from father to son, that had first yoked the plough upon the virgin soil. The most prominent feature in the landscape to any one standing in the valley would have been Brightwell; Farmhouse, with its extensile offices, and air of antiquated comfort, were it not for a large castellated mansion that stood on an eminence in the immediate vicinity of the vale, the pleasure grounds and game preserves of which mansion onlj lerminated at the highly-cultivated corn fields and orchards of Brightwell.

It was in the year 1802, on such a morning in May, that Robert Brightwell, the occupier of Brightwell Farm, stood upon a piece of rising ground which com manded a view over the entire vale, and for many miles beyond. He was the picture of an English farmer — tall, robust, and with that healthful bronze upon his cheeks, which pure air and a mind ut peace can alone impart. Robert Brightwell was at this time in the very prime and vigour of his existence. He was forty-two y eais of age, and ifhe had lost someof the lightness and elasticity of youth, it was fully made up by the matured strength and dignity of his noble bearing. With hair still os black as the raven's wing, and an eye as clear as the bright morning he looked upon with so much pleasure, the farmer was a man to challenge admiration, and command respect.

Robert Brightwell had apparently been early abroad, for the hat which lay at his feet was saturated with dew, and two dogs (retrievers) that marched at his heels were, with lolling tongues, panting from the morning's fatigue. The farmer carried a light fowling-piece gracefully upon his left arm, while with his right hand he shaded his eyes from the sun, and took a long look at his own fertile fields, and the mansion in the centre, which was endeared to him by so many tender and dear recollections. With a smile of giatifiacation upon his lips, he scanned field after field, and marked the progress of the young, vegetation. The lowing of his own cattle, and the plaintive bleating of the sheep from his own pastures, came more pleasantly to his ears, than would strains of the most scientific music.

A flush of honest pride mantled his cheeks as he gazed upon all the indications of prosperity which his farm presented, and he exclaimed, — " Ought I not to be happy ? Ought 1 not to be consent ?" As he spoke, a light cloud obscured the brilliancy of the sun for a moment a d it seemed as if some sombre mantle had been suddenly drawn across the feitile fields and waving trees. Robert Brightwell sighed, and let the stock of the gun fall heavily to the ground . To tbat sudden gloom of nature, there was an answering cloud across the sunshine of the farmer's heart. The dogs rose as the gun-stock struck the ground, and stood watching the look' of their master intently ; but Robert BrightweU heeded not his faithful companions but leaning upon his fowling-piece, he seemed for a short time lost in deep and anxious reflection.

At length he spoke, and it was in a tone of voice as if wishing to assure himself of something which his heart told him might be fallacious. " Why," he said, "why torture myself by doubts and fears? AU'may be — nay, must be well. Why I might go on a plodding farmer for twenty years more without acquiring a tithe of the fortune that, by some one lucky enterprise, is made in London in a week — nay, sometimes in a day. Yes, yes, I have done right, quite right ; I can entirely trust Markwell ; he would not deceive me. 'Tis true I have parted with all my savings, and even the current rent of my farm — but what then ? The cautious, timid policy that would have closed my purse-strings would have still kept me but what I am." He cast his eyes again across his farm, and his figure seemed to expand a3 he cried, in a voice of exultation, — "To think, to dream of what I may be, is intoxicating to the mind.

If these speculations in which I am engaged succeed, and they must succeed, Markwell assures me they must, Farmer Brightwell may hold his head higher even than the proud and scornful patrician, who considered his alliance and the mixture of hia yeoman blood with that of their race a reproach and a stain." " Yes, Matilda," he continued, after a pause, during which the blood had rushed to his eheeks and brow in an impetuous torrent, as he thought how he had been scorned and insulted by the relations of his wife, — "yes, for thy sake, for thy dear sake, have I sought to raise myself to a height far above this boasted wealth an aristocracy. My name is pure "and unsullied; the reputation of my race " _>re spotless than the sun's disc. With wealth, wealth beyond the wildest dr am of avarice, wbat may I not accomplish?

The honours, titles, and proud du.inctions which Farmer Brightwell may in vain sigh for, will all come within the grasp of one of the richest commoneis in England." The farmer's eye sparkled, and he drew his breath short and quick, as his imagination painted to him in glowing colours a future career of honour, glory, and distinction. Again he cast his eyes proudly around him, and for a few minutes he fixed them with a longing gaze upon the old farmhouse — the dear home of his father, and his father before him — the well-loved and remembered home of his own infancy — tbe birth-place of his child, his dear, idolised Jane. A tear came unbidden to Robert Brightwell's eye as he gazed, and he felt that there might possibly be some drawback upon the joy and eestatic felicity he had painted to himself.

" And must I leave thee, BrightweU ?" he said, mournfully. " Must I remove from beneath thine hospitable roof — the roof which has sheltered me and mine so long ? That is a pang — but — but it must be. The house of the possessor of half a million of wealth cannot be an antiquated farmhouse. Yet — yet I will cherish the old house ; it shall be to me like an old friend living at a distance, whom I can visit when I please. From my business in London, or my villa in the country, I can come to see the old Brightwell House, and wander beneath the shelter of your old walls. Yes, yes, that will be delightful. I had thought ef levelling the old house ; but no, no, I could not do it — I could not do that.'' Again the farmer mused, and leant upon his gun. Any one might have seen that his mind was engaged with pleasant fancies, for a smile would occasionally play about his mouth, and the aspect of his countenance denoted that he was revelling in the world of imagination, and indulging in a daydream of rare felicity.

" Let me reflect," he said. " Half a million — Markwell says half a milUon. Yes, he does, I'm sure. Five hundred thousand pounds ! 'Tis glorious .' I am sure he says so much ; 1 have his letter here. T_ • me see." He took a letter from his pocket, and read with a smile of gratification and exultation : — JANK BRIGHTWELL. London, May 3rd, 1802. "Mv Dear Brightwell, "Really you are a fortunate fellow; everything goes on most swimmingly and delightfully. The Bears are bothered, the Bulls are looking blue, and when it comes to the last, we shan't have a few lame ducks — oh no, not ut all, _ We must net half a million — we can't help it — we can't indeed. Upon my soul it's absurd to talk of five hundred thousand pounds one moment, and in the next of a paltry, mean, contemptible, insignificant two hundred.

Ha ! ha ! I know you'll laugh ; you can't help it, you must laugh — but don't forget to send me the two hundred pounds by return of post. "Haifa million !— Five hundred thousand pounds! Think of that. Why, I'm told that a banker bought a baronetcy the other day, and is now Sir Fungus , Bart., for ten thousand pounds. What's ten thousand out of five hundred thousand? Ha I ha ! ha I It's really laughable. You must laugh, you can't help it— but don't forget to send the two hundred pounds by return of post. "Believe me, " My dear Brightwell, to be " Yours very faithfully indeed, "Joseph Markwell." " Yes,'" continued Brightwell, returning the letter to his pocket, " he does say half a million. I have sent him the two hundred, although it has left me but thirty pounds. No matter, no matter. Half a million — half a million !

Sir Robert Brightwell, Bart., will read well and sound well. Oh, how happy Matilda will be, and Jane, our darling Jane. Their carriages — their attendants — sumptu ous liveries! Markwell is very close, though; he don t tell me how all the money is being made. I am glad I have kept the matter, al together a secret from Matilda and Jane. Let me see. Jane is fifteen — time enough yet to wed a coronet. But — but — it's very possible — but now and then I feel as if a piece of ice was laid upon my heart. I — I don't doubt Markwell — I must not doubt Markwell. No, no, and yet — God of mercy ! if he were to play me false ; if — no, no, I must not thinkso. Haifa million ! half a million I A glorious sum to be mine — all mine I" As he glanced his eyes proudly around him and threw his fowling-piece into the hollow of his arm, his gaze fell upon the castellated mansion which we have already mentioned as standing in the vicinity of the cultivated fields of Brightwell Farm.

In an instant an angry flush came across his brow, but it quickly subsided, and was replaced by -.smile of scorn and contempt. "And there," he said, "resides Squire Grantley— ha ! ha! — the great Squire Grantley, upon his two thousand a year ! He — he looks down upon me. Well, well, 'twill not be now for loDg. He is my landlord, and has shown himself, on more occasions than one, my most ferocious enemy. He was my rival for the hand of Matilda, she who preferred to wed the man of her choice, although he was but tbe humble tenant of his rival, rather than sacrifice herself to wealth. Since then he has become my bitterest foe. Ha ! ha ! Squire Grantley, we shall see how the petty squire, with bis two thousand per annum, will look upon the possessor of a half million sterling, a sum which will with ease ensure me an annual income often times the amount of the great Squire Grantley's. My wife'sproud relatives too !

By Heavens ! I'll purchase their mansion over their very heads ! They shall not be able to stand on an inch of ground between here and the fair town of Salisbury that does not call me master ! They shall bask afar off in the smiles of her whom they turned from their aristocratic mansion because she wedded with me. They shall " The farmer's reflections were suddenly cut short by the sound of a gun from the other side of a thick hedge, which bounded a preserve belonging to Squire Grantley, and he walked close to the spot from whence the sound proceeded Before, however, he could reach it, he saw a hawk flying overhead. In an instant he levelled his piece, and, with an unerring aim, brought down the bird of prey. The dogs immediately started off to bring in the bird, but Farmer Brightwell called them back, and proceeded close to the hedge which bounded tbe preserve of Squire Grantley.

As he approached, a mar. attired in a coarse smock-frock and leathern leggins forced his way through the hedge, with a hare in his hand. " Hilloa! " cried Brightwell. " Hilloa ! " answered the man, with great calmness. " I don't know you," said the farmer, looking intently at him. " I wishes as a great many people as I could name," answered the man, " was in the same blessed and comfortable state of ignorance." " Who and what are you ? " inquired Brightwell. "A poacher," answered the man, very coolly stuffing the hare beneath his smock-frock. "Upon my word, you take it easy, my friend," said Brightwell. "Squire Grantley is a relentless persecutor in such cases." " But you isn't a going for to stand in the way of a poor cove, Farmer Brightwell ?" " You know me, it seems, though I don't know you."

" I knows you," replied the man. " You had better go your way at once," cried Brightwell. "Be off with you." " Who fired that shot?" cried an imperious voice, from within the enclosure. The poacher disappeared in a moment. Farmer Brightwell knew the voice well, and he proceeded very coolly to reload his piece without even turning his head. The voice was that of Squire Grantley, who now, with a face crimsoned with passion, glared fiercely at Brightwell as if waiting for an answer. At length, receiving none, he cried fiercely,^ V Farmer Brightwell, can you tell me what was shot ?" " I can, Squire Grantley," answered Brightwell. "What, then?" " A hare and a hawk." "Who shot the hare?" "Ay," said Brightwell, with provoking coolness, "who shot the hare?" " D — n you, sir ! " cried Squire Grantley, almost inarticulate with rage.

" I— I ask you who shot the hare? " Brightwell turned suddenly round with an expression of countenance that made Grantley recoil a few paces involuntarily, although there was a. thick hedge between them, and he was on his own land. " Beware, sir! " cried the farmer. "Beware?" repeated Squire, Grantley, — "beware ? Beware of thee?— ha! ha!" " Yes, Squire Grantley," sai<_kBrightwell, " beware of me. I know you are my enemy — my secret and insidious foe. Beware, then, I say, and tempt me not, bv your personal insults, to take personal vengeance." " Fool ! " cried Grantley, "know you whom you address ? I am your landlord." _' I know it well," replied Brightwell. " You take good care that I shall know, sir, and had it net been that on these lands my race have lived for centuries, and that yon farmhouse has witnessed the births and deaths of many that I have held most dear, I would have fixed my home in the wildest, barrenest waste in the world, rather than I weuld have called myself a tenant of thine." 8 " Trash, trash," answered Grantley.

"The time is, however, coming, sir," continued Brightwell, reddening with anger, "when you and yours, as compared with me and mine, will be in far different relative positions than those on which we stand at present." " Indeed," said Grantley. "The height," continued Brightwell, "on which we shall stand, will be so far above your ken, that you may gaze from afar in wonder, and vainly hope to reach it." " Perhaps," said Grantley, who knew the fiery temper of the man he had to deal with, and was aware that nothing provoked him so much a3 calmness, " perhaps you will condescend to pay your rent in the meantime. My steward shall see you in the morning, Farmer Brightwell, in case, should there be any further delay, be may not, poor man, be able to reach the height on which you are going to be placed."

A pang shot across the heart of Brightwell as he reflected upon his present nearly penniless condition ; but he was not a man to bend to eircunstances, or trim his feelings to his present situation, and he replied, — " I neither expect favour nor consideration from you. The events that occurred sixteen years ago are still fresh in your memory ; you have not forgotten for one moment since then who was your successful rival." The very lips of Squire Grantley turned pa'e with rage, as he replied, — " Nor shall you ever forget what I then promised." "You said you would be my evil genius, Grantley; but know that I have triumphed over even your malice, and now stand upon the brink, upon the very verge of the possession of a fortune which will crush you with its very sound." A dark scowling smile passed across the face of Squire Grantley as BrightweU spoke.

It was such a smile as a fiend might have given when he saw his victim for ever and ever his. " You smile," said Brightwell. " I like you to be incredulous, the shock will be greater." "Who shot the hare ? " said Grantley. Farmer Brightwell made no reply, but casting a look of scorn and defiance at Grantley, he whistled to his dogs, and turned his back upon his landlord. " Come, pups, come," he cried. Without casting another glance at the squire, he strove onwards towards his own farmhouse. For a few minutes Squire Grantley watched his retreating form, and then the same, dark ominous smile which had before played across his features returned, and he shook his clenched fist in the direction that Brightwell had taken. " My hour of triumph," he said, " my hour of revenge has come. Exult, riot in imagination, Brightwell, your fall will be the greater.

You are in the toils — ha ! ha ! 'tis glorious ! Farmer Brightwell, even now, while the flush of pride and excitement is upon your brow, and tbe consciousness of unbounded wealth in your heart, even now you are a beggar."

Chapter II

" Art thou a spirit of bliss or goblin damned ? " THE WILD WITCH OF STONEHENGE. — JANE BRIGHTWELL. — THE STORM ON SALISBURY PLAIN. Robert Brightwell, sixteen years before the date at which this narrative commences, had wooed and Jwon Matilda Hargrave, the daughter of Sir Philip Hargrave, who was so incensed at the match, which was a secret one, that he not only refused to see his daughter again, but actually sold his estates and left the country in his indignation. Squire Grantley had at the same time been a suitor for the hand of the fair Matilda, who was the boast and admiration of the whole country. There can be little doubt but that Farmer Brightwell would have ceased imme diately upon his marriage to be a tenant ot Squire Grantley's, had he not held his farm by a lease, which he (Brightwell), for many reasons, the principal of which was his attachment to the old house, would not on any conditions surrender.

Thus the farmer and the squire continued in the relative positions of tenant and landlord, notwithstanding the feud that subsisted between them, and which was continually manifesting itself on the part of Squire Grantley, by little petty acts of oppression and annoyance, which his position as a magistrate and the lord of tbe manor, gave him the ready power of inflicting upon any one he chose. The old Game Laws were then in full operation, and every person who chose to pay four pounds, thirteen and sixpence could not then, as now, carry a gun with which to shoot game. It was quite common, however, for the wealthy landed proprietors to allow their unlicensed tenants to carry a gun into their preserves occasionally, and to wink at any little infractions of the law, which was made more particularly for the purpose ef putting down the trade of poaching.

No indulgence of the sort, however, was granted to Farmer Brightwell, and most gladly would Squire Grantley have caught him on the hip as an infringer of the laws which protected tbe game even upon the very lands he paid a high rent for. At the earnest solicitations of his wife, BrightweU had been so very cautious as to give his enemy no opportunity of wreaking his spite upon him — a spite which seemed to grow stronger daily, and to possess all the character of an accu mulate-l wrong. Thus for sixteen years had matters continued in this unsatisfactoiy state between the farmer and his landlord. Robert Brightwell had thriven on his farm, and but that a wild and feverish ambition arose in his mind — an ambition which had been awakened in his mind by a desire of trampling over those who had heaped scorn and reproach upon his head on account of his marriage, he might have been happy.

But one child had followed his union with Matilda Hargrave, and she, at the date of our story, was just fifteen, and excelling in all nature's riches, grace, and beauty. Jane Brightwell was not of that order of beings that a critic would call fault lessly beautiful. There was hardly a feature in her face that might not be fcund fault with, and yet theie was that indescribable charm about the whole — that beauty and grace of expression — that all who came to criticise stayed to wonder and admire. Well has the Bard of beauty, music, sunshine, and flowers sung — There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny copse of a summer's day night, Shining on — shining on by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty — oh, nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss; But that loveliness ever in motion, which plays, Like the light upou autumn's soft shadowy days.

Now here, now there, giving warmth as it flies, From the lips to the cheek — from the cheek to the eyes — Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams. — Moore. This was indeed the beauty of Jane Brightwell — the idolised darling of both her parents. Squire Grantley, immediately upon the marriage of Matilda Hargrave, and the disappointment of bis hopes, had married a woman considerably his senior, who had borne him one child, a son, just two months before the birth of Jane Brightwell. Mrs- Grantley survived her accouchement but a few hours, consigning, with her dying breath, her child to the affectionate care of her husband from whom she had, herself, received nothing but harsh usage. The sudden death of his wife seemed to move tbe stubborn heart of Squire Grantley, and he lavished upon his infant son and heir all the tenderness tbat his nature was capable of feeling; at the same time that his hatred and detestation for the name of Brightwell seemed hourly to gain strength.

His former affection for Matilda Hargrave, now Mrs. BrightweU, was turned to the deadliest hatred, and, in the vehemence of his passion, he would sometimes drive every one from the room by his wild imprecations against the whole of the Brightwells, even including the innocevt Jane, whom he could not bear to hear mentioned. Once only had he seen her, accidentally, and a severe fit of illness was the consequence of the wild state of excitement and rage into which he was thrown at the sight of her extreme beauty and angelic sweetness of expression. He could not bear that Brightwell should be so blessed, and the thought of the pleasure that the farmer and his wife must feel in the contemplation and society of their beauti/ul and amiable child, almost drove him to distraction. Young Grantley, who was named Edgar, grew up possessed of one of those forms and minds which, while they are too weak to resist the allurements of vice, are yet continually feeling that they are not in the right road to happiness, either here or hereafter.

From his .'earliest infancy his father had taught him to hear tbœ name of Brightwell with contempt and loathing, and as Edgar grew in stature and years, a feeling of malignant ferocity began to develope itself in his character, which rendered him an apt scholar in receiving his father's precepts of revenge. Edgar was now at Grantley Lodge, having just returned from London, whither he bad been for a few weeks on a visit to some of his relatires. When Farmer Brightwell left Squire Grantley so abruptly, he walked onwards for some distance towards his own farmhouse ; but as the fever and excite ment of his mind subsided, his steps became slower, and at length he paused, saying,— " It is now full early. Why should I lose one half my morning's sport because I bave been chafed by yon ancient enemy of me and mine?

I wil) not return yet. How little does he know the triumph that will eventually be mine." Robert Brightwell looked up to the sky, and scanned it with a critical eye, saying, — " All gives promise of a glorious day. I may find some sport worth powder and short between here and the plain. Squire Grantley, I will not be scared from my sport because I have had the misfortune to cross you this fine morning." He whistled cheerfully to his dogs, and turned his face in the direction of Stonehenge. "The morning is, indeed, most beautiful," he cried. " Under what aspect do we view the face of nature, and yet if the heart be properly attuned to the sight, there is no time at which it is not beautiful. To me, feeling myself, as I do, the virtual possessor of a princely fortune, these gigantic trees, this waving young grass, yon old grey ruins, all — all seem beautiful and picturesque.

Ah! it is the sunshine of the heart which gilds all things into rare beauty. Now that Grantley — confusion seize him, his very name chafes me. I will mention bim no more. Come, pups, come. The dogs gambolled on before him in all the delight ofa fine morning, and the dry, cool delightful grass, to roll over and over in. Thus wandering on, and occasionally bagging a bird or two, Robert Brightwell, after a couple of hours, found himself upon the open plain, and within a few minutes' walk of the majestic ruins of Stonehenge. " I like the old massive ruins," said Brightwell, after he had regarded them for some time in silent awe and veneration. " How many ages," he continued, " have crumbled into the grave, and all their deeds and acts perished, since this gigantic monument of the labour of man has occupied this plain 1" Occasional clouds had been obscuring the brightness of the sun, but Robert Brightwell had beeD too much engaged in his own reflections to notice that for the last hour the appearance of the heavens had been growing momentarily more threatening.