A Woman's Life

Chapter I

'■' A family is an instrument which must of necessity get out of tune sooner or later." NCE upon a time, and not very long ago, a glorious sunset brought to its close a delicious day in the " merry month of May." Birds old and young carolled in the newly-clothed branches of umbrageous trees ; flocks and herds contentedly cropped fresh green herbage ; the face of Nature wore its most beaming aspect, while soft murmurings of hilly streamlets gliding from their native heights and flowing through their sedgy courses to the sea, added trilling melodies to the charms and beauties of the exquisite sylvan prospect stretching far and wide around a picturesque cottage, low, long, and rambling, thatched in some parts and covered with slates in others, embowered in luxuriant shrubs and fragrant creeping plants, which stood upon a fertile table-land VOL. I. B overlooking the wide expanse of ocean that bounds and laves a southern district of the " Green Isle."

There were a few fine old trees dotting here and there the fields and well-cultured lands that surrounded this rustic dwelling, and its trellised porch and latticed windows were wreathed with the tender tendrils of sweet honeysuckles and various odorous parasites. Above it piles of lofty hills rose towering to the clouds, with patches perchance scattered over their rugged sides of young heather, wild plants, and soft yielding sward, pure, verdant, and brilliant as the hues of old Erin's native emeralds. A very beautiful flower-garden extended itself the whole length of the southern side of the cottage, and bore ample testimony to the taste and care of its culture and adornment. It was stored with rare and costly flowers, and a tiny greenhouse glowing in re splendent beauty gave protection and defence to the delicate treasures, too fragile to endure the saline breezes in their rude and unchecked approaches.

It opened from one of the windows of the drawing-room, of which there were three, and on this especial evening they were all thrown wide open. They were French casements, and descended to the ground ; through them the inhabitants of the pretty and unpretending rural dwelling could be distinctly seen. They were in number six — a father, mother, and four daughters. The apartment in which they were seated was large, airy, and from its possessing a coved ceiling, was high and lofty. The furniture of it was tasteful, neat, and simple, but every article plain and inexpensive, ex cepting a piano, which was not only a handsome piece of furniture, but an excellent instrument, newly im ported from the hands of the incomparable Broad wood. Taste and judgment had been exercised to make the pretty room what it was — a very charming though very unpretending one.

The evening meal of tea, cold meats, and preserves, was laid temptingly upon a round table covered with a snowy cloth. Everything about it was in good keeping — pretty simple china, well-kept and ancient articles of plate, fresh flowers, and exquisitelycooked viands, all and each laid claim to especial notice. Near to the table was a couch, thickly overspread with soft and yielding cushions, spotless pillows, and warm shawls. It was partly enclosed by a large and ponderous green-baize screen drawn round a portion of it. Upon this couch, and surrounded by her parents and sisters, lay a very young and pretty girl, pale as monumental marble, and much attenuated, but on whose exquisite features the Almighty had set His seal ; there legibly was stamped — " Come life, come death, come agony or bliss, I'm thine in other **rorkls, as thine in this."

As the evening merged into night, the " chaste Learns" of the moon, burnishing all things with splendour, struggled through the curtains of clouds which the o-ently rising breezes slowly dissipated, and caused b2 to melt away from the fair face of Heaven. " One by one the pure bright stars crept forth" to silver "the waves of ocean, which were slumbering in repose." Then for the young invalid's sake, and on her account only, the windows of the drawing-room were closed, to exclude the night breeze, the curtains were drawn, the lamps brought in, and the fair picture of domestic comfort was shut in from sight. The sick maiden just mentioned was not the only being in the group worthy of remark. There was a benign and still beautiful woman, the mother of the family, over whose head not more than forty summers had revolved.

Her air was quiet and dignified, her countenance full of peace and resignation. The father, a man of sixty or sixty-five years, was grave, serious, and sedate ; he seemed like one to whom sorrow had been known, and on whom fate had cast a deep cloud not yet past off. His name was Gerald Erskine. He had once been joyous and prosperous, wealthy and affluent, the favoured child of fortune. But times had changed wofully : the wheel of the fickle goddess had revolved, and he had become a ruined man, a broken merchant, and con sequently a prey to deep and great affliction. He had had amazing losses : his name had been made free with and forged by a trusted clerk in his employ ; his most valuable ships had foundered at sea; his most precious merchandize, the produce of every clime and country, had been destroyed by fire • his enemies ruthlessly trod upon him, and his friends forsook and forgot him.

Those painful losses and trying vicissitudes had been hard to bear, and under them his mind at one time nearly gave way. But he had, indeed, a " silver lining to his cloud of trouble," a comforter in all his griefs, a consoler in all his afflictions — his wife. Early in life he had been deeply immersed in business, too much so to think of marriage. When he was past forty he was considered almost an old bachelor, but he surprised every body by falling in love, and marrying a very lovely young girl twenty years younger than himself. It turned out a very happy marriage, though Mr. Erskine's losses and bankruptcy occurred in a very few years after, involving him in total ruin, and leaving him only a miserable pittance to support his family with the necessaries of life. Years crept over him in a foreign land, but towards the decline of his life he had by his wife's advice decided upon removing to his present residence, which was heathful, econo mical, and situated upon the sea-coast in a southern county of Ireland.

And a very beautiful residence it was — a little harbour of refuge from the cares and worryings of life. " The waves that poured their drowsy murmurs on the shore" beneath his dwelling, washed stupendous cliffs and romantic hays around it, and conduced to make it a picturesque home, as beautiful a one as any imagination could desire, any heart wish'to enjoy. His daughters were four, he never had a son, and he never regretted the want, for his girls were all that the fondest father could wish them to be, amiable and interesting young creatures, the eldest twenty, the youngest fifteen. They had been well educated, greatly cared for,and highly accomplished in Germany, where Mr. Erskine had resided after his losses, for economical reasons. The utmost care and attention had been paid to their children's education by both parents, as it had been imagined the poor girls would have been obliged to depend upon their own exer tions hereafter for support.

A change of climate had been declared absolutely necessary for the invalid child, and therefore the family had turned their steps to the south of Ireland as a healthful locality and a very cheap one. Though Cliff Cottage itself and its little demesne was a very charming spot, and a very desirable place of abode in many respects, there were many disad vantages and many drawbacks to it. It was far from a good convenient town, and it could boast of no society during the winter months, but in the summer time a neighbouring pretty village, close to the sea, with romantic caves and good strands, induced nu merous persons to visit it from the midland counties for the benefit of sea-bathing. The resident neighbours were only the quiet, ex cellent clergyman, Mr. Massey, who had been the cause of inducing the Erskines to take up their residence at Cliff Cottage ; Dr. Edwardes, who was worked to death by his patients, and smothered under the burthen of ten little children — wild, noisy crea tures; and the coast-guard officer, who was poor, and rather given to whisky-punch.

To those, however, who did not entirely depend on varied society for enjoyment and happiness, the loca lity in which Mr. Erskine's house was placed was peculiarly attractive. Wild and picturesque scenery spread far and wide about it ; pure air and healthful breezes played over it, peace and contentment dwelt in it. Mrs. Erskine had been in her youth a very beau tiful woman, the first and only love of her unalter ably attached husband. And even when four grown children claimed her as their mother, she bore the impress of her early beauty undimmed. Her temper aud disposition kept away every seam of time — not a wrinkle of discontent was to be seen, not a silver thread wandered through her raven hair, soft as floss silk, black as ebony ; no trace of " fading away" marred her appearance, she was, as it were, the eldest sister of the fair group.

The love of God dwelt in her heart, and guided every action. The loving, untiring care for her hus hand, the devoted and mindful training of her children, the careful tending and nursing of their slender means, the pious example of her whole life and conduct, made her a wife and mother loved, worshipped, and respected. In all the years of her wealth and splendour, when as the wife of one of Britain's richest merchants she had money and wealth at her command, in the sad days of adversity — nay, sometimes of want — in sickness, in health, in riches and poverty, she held the even tenor of her way, possessed of " contentment of mind and godliness," in which she found "great gain." To render her home a comfortable and a happy one for her precious family, she worked hard and strained every nerve.

Her husband was her first care, and his peace of mind and serenity her most anxious charge. Then came her children, her treasured darlings, nursed on her own maternal bosom, reared by her own tender care, educated by her own teaching. Incessant watchfulness had made them what they were, and well did they promise to repay in love, dutifulness, and affection her devotion to them. As for the girls themselves, they aided their mother's exertions with the most prompt activity, sharing in all her troubles and cares, trying who could do most for her and for each other. Attending with fond solicitude to all her wants and wishes, and loving her with an affection pure and deep, such as she merited from them. They were likewise devoted to their father, whose sad losses had totally overthrown his equanimity of temper, and rendered him peevish, at times, and unreasonable.

The mother and her daughters never for one moment left him to him- A WOMAN'S LIFr. 9 self; they comforted, nursed, petted, and waited on him with persevering affection not to be repulsed. The varied talents of the whole family were called forth for his pleasure and amusement. Truly they were a happy family, and only for Mr. Erskine's fits of nervous despondency and their beloved Fanny's sad and hopeless state of health their felicity would have known no bounds. They went on from day to day hopeful and trustful, ignorant of the deceitfulness of the world before them, its cares and miseries. However, not all the fond and unceasing attentions of his family could wholly annul the mental sufferings and regrets of Mr. Erskine. His remembrances and memories were painful in the extreme, and from time to time fits of gloomy reserve and stern coldness crept over him, and his petulant hu mours and nervous uneasiness were very, very painful and distressingto his wife and his daughters, and most prejudicial to his own health.

He had had a stroke of paralysis before he, left Germany, and never completely recovered his strength. For days and weeks he would remain silent and dull, not to be brought round by any exertions but those of his favourite child, Madeleine. Those gloomy fits were great trials to Mrs. Ers kine, who was never at ease till returning tranquil lity brought her suffering husband to himself, thereby restoring peace and contentment to the whole family. Mrs. Erskine's acquaintance with Mr. Massey, the I0 A WOMAN'S LIFE. clergyman of the parish, had been formed in her youth, when she had been an intimate friend in his family. He was a just and pious servant of the Master whom he served, and was a man of good family, though he had very slender means. He knew many influential people, and through this medium he was able to introduce the Erskines into better society than that to be met with in their imme diate neighbourhood.

By these means the young ladies might have been enabled to pay occasional visits in different counties, where, when once known, they would have been constantly invited, and always welcomed, but, in their quiet way of living, society was not much valued or wished for, and they would much rather remain quietly at home than wander from house to house, selfishly amusing themselves away from the house where perhaps they were needed, and surely wished for. Their means were very small — they had not as much to live upon each year as Mr. Erskine once gave to his cook or butler; but their expenditure was so well and so accurately managed, that they lived on without owing any one anything, aud were able to enjoy life moderately and healthfully. The eldest daughter was named " Helen," a sweet, innocent, ladylike girl, the least beautiful of all her family.

She was very small, with a fairy figure, slight and sylphlike, a fresh, blooming countenance. Though the eldest of all the sisters, she looked to be the youngest, so youthful and childlike was her appearance. She was her family's right hand, their ready resource in every time of need — unselfish wholly and entirely. But she had no talent ; unlike her sisters, she was difficult of appreciation, and could not easily be taught. Nevertheless, she was a little darling, her mother's pet, and the cherished one of all in the house. Madeleine came next, totally different in every way from Helen. She was tall, full formed, and exqui sitely made — a noble, distinguished-looking girl. She was eighteen, and had reached that age increasing day by day in grace and beauty. Fanny, seventeen years old, was a very sad and confirmed invalid.

A terrible fall in her infancy had rendered her lower limbs nearly powerless, and almost useless. Hope, which lives ever in a mother's breast, had comforted and supported Mrs. Erskine, and filled her with expectations of recovery for her child — never, alas! to be realized. Flattering physicians had prophesied that increasing years and strength would bring all right, and restore this darling lamb of her flock to health and strength ; her own heart had echoed the prophecy, and even now she was not hopeless. The young sufferer herself felt that there was no recovery for her, and she bowed humbly with resignation to the Holy fiat. In mind, and temper, and disposition Fanny was indeed lovely, and her rich, harmonious voice was ever attuned to the praises of that God who in his wisdom had seen it good to place her on a bed of ceaseless pain.

Then came, last, Martha, not quite fifteen, the darling of everybody. Nature had been very, very bountiful to her in looks, for she was very lovely indeed, and much resembled Madeleine, though in complexion they differed, for while Madeleine was a clear and beautiful brunette, Martha was a sparkling blonde, with deep violet eyes, and waving curls of pale gold, which gave her the appearance of a seraph. When the Erskines went to Cliff Cottage they brought with them their own simple but comfortable furniture, musical instruments, and many of the com forts of better days. Their house, garden, and all connected with their rural establishment, was en joyable and pleasing. They had their children's old and attached nurse, who acted in every situation as commander-in-chief, and with the aid of a nice girl, her niece, the work of the cottage was well and carefully performed.

Mr. Erskine had an unceasing source of comfort and gratification within himself, it he chose to use it, in the recollection that his conduct throughout his business life had been strictly honourable and up right. Though he was unhappily a bankrupt, he had paid at last everybody to whom he had been in debted, and no murmur against his honesty had ever been breathed. Mrs. Erskine was thankful for the knowledge of this truth, and therefore a regret for her lost splendour and wealth never rose to her lips, or found a place in her bosom. Her husband was just, good, and up right, her children promising and happy ; what did she need more ? — nothing ! In all the domestic details of every-day life, and all their attendant exertions, Helen's prompt help was to be depended upon. She was a great manager, an active, energetic housekeeper.

W7ith her assistance Mrs. Erskine was always prepared and ready for everything, and if she was not well, all the house ar rangements went on in their proper courses as well as if she (the mistress) was at hand herself. . Then Made leine was the general scribe, she attended to all her father's wants and fancies. Her needle was ever ready for all and everybody's assistance, and she gave music lessons with care and judgment to Martha. Fanny would read for the family's amusement, or devote herself to the newspaper on her father's behalf; Martha would tend the flowers, and guide Fanny's Bath chair in her daily airing assiduously and affec tionately, thus accordingly, " Toute leur e"tude dtait de se complaire et de s'entr'aider."

Chapter II

" Be still, sad heart, and cease repining, Behind the clouds is the sun still sliiuing.' HOUGH Mr. Erskine continually exerted himself to struggle against and resist his dark gloomy tempers, 1 at times he found them unconquerable. For some months after his arrival at Cliff Cottage he had remained for an un usually long time calm and collected. He wandered round and about the neighbourhood with his children, seeming to enjoy their society ; he projected im provements, and actually himself aided in them ; he entered with interest into the details of his little farm, and, in short, was more than usually at ease with him self and everybody about him. But unfortunately, after a while, he relapsed into lowness of spirits and despondency, and became careless of everything ; a long, gloomy fit of deep disquiet crept upon him, from which he did not rally, thereby poisoninothe peace of all his family, and rendering himself very seriously ill.

Not all the thousand gentle kindnesses of Mrs. Erskine, or the indefatigable filial attentions of her children, could charm away the demon of disquiet which kept him in his dull uncomfortable humours. The post one day brought in, amongst the other letters, one from a friend whose writing was ever hailed with pleasure by Mr. Erskine ; it came from General Hartleigh, an old and very valued friend of his. The sight of it acted like a charm upon the fretful and wayward man who received it, and imme diately a happy change in his spirits and feelings was discernible. It was read and re-read again and again, and its influence was each time more apparent ; it acted like a gleam of sunshine on his mind, dis pelling the shades of gloom aud darkness. This General Hartleigh was a man of family and station in Wiltshire.

He had been in the army, and had had a prosperous career in it. When a boy he had been sent to a school where he formed a very great intimacy with Gerald Erskine, a youth very little older than himself. The friendship and affection of those early years had never ceased. It con tinued warm and unchanging through their whole lives, at least until Hartleigh went abroad. After they both left Eton, Gerald Erskine entered into the old respected counting-house of " Erskine and Co.," a firm that had stood honourably and wealthily during more than a century, as a junior partner, and Hart leigh went off to the Cape, whence he marched hither and thither till his friend married. The correspon dence hitherto kept up between them then died away, and at last they knew nothing of each other. So matters remained for years ; General Hart leigh got tired of soldiering, and sold out, and took possession of his estates, which were extensive and flourishing.

Always of a stern, unbending disposi tion, Hartleigh made few friends, and his retiring from the army was really caused by his being an object of dislike to every officer who had anything to say to him. He was aware of this general feel ing against him, but his haughty spirit refused to bend or alter. Disgusted with men in general, and those of his own profession in particular, he took up his abode at Hartleigh Manor, where he was more thought of and of more consequence than elsewhere. He had not long settled at home before he re gretted having done so, and fumed and fretted about it till he wearied himself and tormented every one connected with him. One day, when in no peaceful mood, he took up by chance a copy of the Times, and while scanning its varied contents, turned to the column over which the " Money Market" an nouncements stood pre-eminently attractive to the monied readers.

In it he read with deep astonish ment and real regret the tidings of his old friend Gerald Erskine's complete ruin and bankruptcy. There are moments in which the coldest aud most worldly hearts are softened and overcome by strong emotion ; so it was with General Hartleigh. At once he was overpowered by old feelings and kindly remembrances still alive in his heart, though so long unthought of and unfelt, and he was deeply moved — aye, moved to tears. He set off next morning to London to see his friend, and offer him every support and assistance in his power. For weeks and months he remained there, exerting himself in every possible way to com fort and assist the ruined man. He addressed him self energetically to the arrangement of Mr. Erskine's affairs, and greatly benefited him by counsel and advice.

Mrs. Erskine and her children had been sent off to Germany before the ruin of the house was declared, so that the General's society and com panionship had been invaluable to his friend. After a time the firm of " Erskine and Co." fell away from its proud position amongst the merchant princes of England ; it faded out of the recollection of the busy world ; it took up its place for ever amongst its brother insolvents, never again to rise. At last the affairs of the house were honourably and creditably wound up, and Mr. Erskine separated from his best and only adviser to join his wife abroad ; but a continued and cordial intercourse by writing was maintained between the two friends, and was ever a source of comfort and consolation to Mr. Erskine. 1 It was a letter from this valued being that had VOL. I. C wrought so marvellous a change over the broken merchant, and had almost, like a flash of lightning, brightened his spirits, and dispelled the clouds of his late despondency.

What a welcome letter to each member of his family it was ! how thankfully and affectionately they felt towards the writer of it. They all had heard of him, and knew him as their best friend, but they had never seen him. They felt the charm of his friendship and the comfort of it, as the returning tide of peace came upon the husband and father. He was able in a few hours to answer the letter, and before evening had of his own accord joined the family party in the drawing-room, and taken a seat by the side of Fanny's couch. By degrees his at tention was arrested with a book she was reading aloud, and he was able to read himself for her in return when she became fatigued. Mrs. Erskine felt relieved ; her spirits began to rise, and, seeing her husband thus happily engaged, she left him, and with her other children strolled forth to enjoy the evening air in a mountain ramble.

They had a long walk over the magnificent head lands in the vicinity of their dwelling, and at last, somewhat wearied, they sat down to rest themselves upon a lofty cliff overhanging the ocean. They had ascended up the steep rocks, and then through a thick wood, the paths of which were gloomy and dark, till a sudden turning in one of them brought the little party into an open space which commanded a magnificent view of waters gor geously illumined by the refulgent beauty of the setting sun. The bosom of the sea was studded here and there with gleaming sails, and nature was exquisitely lovely in its aspect ; a deep silence reigned around, and, saving the rich and melodious notes of the black birds, nought was heard in the lone and tranquil region. "Is not this very lovely, mother dear?" said Helen, the eldest daughter of Mrs. Erskine, after some time spent in quiet and repose; "is not all around supremely lovely? — that noble bay, that golden sun set, those distant shores ! all so calm, so very beautiful.

But, oh ! how deeply do we value each varied beauty that we behold in this place surrounding us, when seeing you, our own dear mother, restored to peace of mind, soothed into forgetfulness of the last weeks of trial." Mrs. Erskine smiled, but it was sadly, on her first born daughter, as she answ*ered — - " Yes, Helen ; I feel, too, the beauty of all around us no less than you do, dearest. Though my heart has been darkened by its cloud of trial, it is again serene and at peace. My children's love could dispel every cloud, no matter how lowering and how chilly it appeared to be." Martha, whose head lay upon her mother's lap, c2 whispered, as she tenderly caressed her fond parent's hand, and pressed it to her lips again and again, " Oh ! mamma, would that we could banish from you every care and every pain ; you know not how wretched we ever are, all and each of us, at every cause you have of suffering.

You cannot, will not, ever know or think how very deeply grieved and pained your children are, and have been those last sad weeks, at witnessing our dear father's misery and unhappiness, and your consequent trials. Would that we could bear, or help to bear, your grievous burden of mind and body." The mother stooped down and kissed the fair forehead of her youngest darling with tenderness, as she replied — " I know well, darling, your wishes, the anxieties of all and each of you. And your father, too, dear, sufferer as he is, he has not been unmindful of his precious children's soothing and tender affections. In all his trials and sufferings, and mental ills, his daughters' untiring loves have shone on him, like angels' comfortings ; every fond and gentle word you spoke to him, every tender care you bestowed upon him penetrated to his soul, and was treasured in his heart.

You must make allowances for your good and noble father's mental struggles, and help me, too, in combating against them ; who knows but we may be the happy instruments of working out happier days for him." " Doubt not your children, mother," were Made leine's first words that evening ; " we would be indeed ungrateful to you and to my father, we would be unworthy to possess such parents, did we not aid in every way the great object of our lives — your hap piness and his. W7e would not lose the comfort and joy of possessing you both for all this world could offer us. No matter what trials may be ours, no matter what troubles we may share, so that our lots are cast together, and our sufferings are shared one with the other. A being like you, my mother, who is so keenly alive to the feelings, joys, and sorrows of others ought to be herself happy and at peace.

Our only real trial would be to lose you — no matter where we are or how we are, if we are spared to each other as we are we shall be happy and contented and satisfied, and we shall wish no more." " Would, my dear Madeleine, that we could hope to be ever as we now are during the remainder of our lives. Would that our feelings and wishes for a continuance of our present state could never change. But that is not to be expected ; the changing cares of life, its uncertainty, new ties, altered prospects, and the varied et ceteras of existence, must and will in time create changes in all our wishes and sentiments. Continuance of unchecked family communion such as ours would be impossible, and perhaps not alto gether desirable either. Yet, my darlings, we must ever bear in mind that disunion of any sort must bring with it unhappiness, any division of interests must ensure distrust.