Lucy Aylmer. By the author of 'The curate of Overton'

Chapter I

They surprised His easy nature ; took him when his heart Was soften'd by their blandishments. They wrought him to their purposes ! more's sacred dramas. Two years had passed away since that summer whose bright sunshine saw Lady Flora and Lucy's wedding-days. Two years ! It seemed a long time to look forward, but it soon glided by. Spring flowers put forth their pure and lovely blossoms, faded and died; summer roses fused the air with their perfume and passed away ; the long grass grew, and the mowers scythe went over it ; the swallows made their nests beneath the VOL. III. B portico of the old Manor House, watched their young, then emigrated again to southern shores. The beds of St. Walburga rang marriage peals and funeral knells ; old men were carried to their rest beneath the sdent yew, and infants were brought to the font in baptism ; and the weeks went spinning, spinning on.

Time had made a few changes in Forsted ; but Squire NeviUe was still the same. No grey yet sprinkled his brown hair ; his cheek still wore its ruddy hue, and he rode his swift horse and tally-hoed after the hounds with aU his w7onted zest. Maude had grown handsomer, more brilliant ; but continued as light-hearted and careless as of old. Augusta Neville abode at the Manor — that was one change. Another was at Castle St. Agnes. Poor old mansion, its pride and glory seemed departed; closed shutters and empty rooms gave it a most dismal appearance ; and the ancient house keeper, and her few maidens professed to lead a solitary life. AU the family were abroad, and had not been near St. Agnes since the day after Lady Flora's departure, when the Countess had left suddenly, ordering the greater part of the furniture, ornaments and pictures to be sent to the HaU in Essex, rebuilt for their use, but now, like Castle St. Agnes, tenantless.

St. Walburga's beUs rang a great deal — for every saint had his especial day kept, and St. Walburga's priest did strange things during the service, not mentioned in the Prayer-book, which some folks liked and some grumbled at. Ever bright, serene and changeless, was the little wife at the Par sonage gate, on a July evening, wearing a plain white dress and some wild flowers wreathed in and out her fair hair — holding on one arm a bright, sunny child, whde with her right hand she pushed open the gate and looked down the lane, with its shady over hanging trees and clear rippling pond at the end. There was a delicious fragrance of new mown hay in the air, and some nightingales were singing and answering each other's song most melodiously. The little wife seemed very happy, and laughed at her baby, and shook flowers in his face, which the bright one year old boy crowed and snatched at with all his might.

After a little whde, Lucy shut the gate and sauntered out into the lane, and culled wdd flowers and threw them over her baby's little fair, shining head, who opened wide his bright blue eyes in the extent of his glee, and looked vastly like the Squire. Numbers of bright moths flew past, and swarms of knats which Lucy flapped away with the flowers — there was a lovely evening glow over everything, and the old weather-cock on the church spire, glittered like gold. Hay-makers and farming men slowly plodded home from their work, making respectful bows to Lucy, and smiling as they passed at the pretty chdd, who looked back at them over her shoulder. Lucy stopped to one old man, very bent and aged, and spoke kindly and familiarly to him ; and she put the baby's soft fair hand in his hard wrinkled one.

The old man was Robbins, the Manor House gardener. When Lucy turned away from him, she suddenly caught sight of a well-known figure in the distance, and calling merrily, " Harry look — there's papa !" hurried nimbly along to meet him. Robert dusty and tired, and making use of his walking-stick, brightened up when he saw the white little figure coming towards him, and forgot his long walk when her voice greeted him, her lips pressed his, and the rosy little Harry was taken in his arms, danced, caressed — and then with his little wife linked to his arm, the country parson went to his home, happy on that July eve. " Have you any news to tell me, Robert ?" Lucy asked as they went along. " Nothing of any moment. Your uncle is canvassing most actively, and giving dinners by the dozen." " Do you think he will get in ?"

" He has every chance of success. When ever did you know him fad in any under taking ?" " I hope he wdl succeed for poor Flora's sake. Did you hear anything of her when you were in London ?" " I saw her, my dear, in her very elegant barouche, driving towards the Park." " How did she look ?" " Her costume was surpassingly elegant ; but if you ask after personal looks — she more resembled a dressed-up dead creature, than anything else." Lucy sighed deeply. " She did not see me," Robert went on. " I was crossing Bond Street, and on the opposite side strangely enough, at the same moment, Lord Glendowan was passing — you should have seen his look as he bowed to her — the most unfeigned pity ! I did not watch Flora ; but I should think she has lived long enough to repent bitterly her rejection of that good hearted feUow."

" Do you imagine Uncle Archer is kinder to her now ?" " Lady TyrreU caUed him a ' brute,' in speaking to me. So you may draw your own conclusions." Lucy shuddered. " He so soon changed towards her ; yet he loved her so deeply at first. I am sure that was not feigned." "My dear Lucy, you do not understand the whole thing. In the first place, your Uncle has a vile temper of his own : he never showed it to his sister. I think he stood in awe of her ; but was there ever a better person on whom to vent all his humours, than his wife — a weak-minded, complaining creature. Everything that goes wrong is sure to he visited on her ; and instead of showing some independent spirit, she implores and caresses ; and finally, when this faUs, she goes off into fits of misery, and keeps her room for days, untd she is dragged out rouged and decorated, to do the noble lady for him at some dinner either at home or abroad."

" What a dreadful life !" " StiU it is true ; and in the second place, he is disappointed. In marrying into the family of De Walden, he expected to mount on their greatness ; instead of which the Lady Flora Erresford's friends refused to visit the Lady Flora Tyrrell ; and her family showed pride enough to make the man hate the whole set." " But stdl, Uncle Archer had such a wide circle of his own. It surely might have con tented him." " Nothing would satisfy his ambition. If he could possess the wdiole w7orld, he would, like Alexander, sit down and weep, because there was no more to win. The fact is, your Uncle aimed too high. He fancied he would rise on his wife's rank, and she was just the very woman to be retiring and shrinking, instead of pushing into, and seeking those circles to which, by her birth, she was entitled."

" It is an unhappy story," said Lucy ; " and yet some persons, wdio cannot see behind the scenes, would envy Flora's position." " Cecd is in a great state of mind about her. I never knew him so indignant." " Because of her marriage, Robert ?" " No, not he ! Provided a man is a gentleman, and honourable, and right-minded, he never cares about rank. But no fellow likes to see his sister so bullied and trampled on. I know I should not." " It must be a great drawback to his pleasure in returning home. How does he look?" " Oh ! he is a glorious fellow — better and handsomer than all the w7orld beside ! He asked many questions about you and his godson, and sent remembrances and messages by wholesale." " And has Lord De Walden benefited by his long absence ?" i " I assure you, my dear, he has become quite reasonable and agreeable, only he rather bored me with American anecdotes.

He spoke in glowing terms of his brother when Cecil was out of the way, and told me he owed to Erresford his restoration of mind and body." " Good Cecd !" exclaimed Lucy. " A-propos of good folks, I met Mostyn in the course of my London rambles — he talks of coming here for a few weeks. Noble feUow7 ! he always reminds me of St. Augustine, or one of the early fathers of the church." Lucy made no remark, and Robert continued : " I wish Lucy, darhng, you liked him better." " I should respect him if he were a Roman Catholic," said Lucy gravely. " That is bigotry, Lucy bird. He is a noble son of the Anglican Church ; and long may he continue in it." " But, dear Robert, if he were only less narrow-minded and less rigid in his doctrines ?" " Narrow-minded ! why, Lucy, his mind is capable of grasping the universe !"

Robert exclaimed. " Oh ! I know he is very clever. I did not mean that, but then he has no of toleration except towards Catholics. " You do not understand him, Lucy, or you would appreciate him as highly as I do." -He is so different from Cecil," Lucy said gently. " It is possible to admire extremes, Lucy. The only fault in Cecd is, that his views are too general." Lucy looked puzzled. " Do not look so solemn, little Lu. Cecil and you might be stauncher members of the Anglican Church, that is aU I meant to infer; but that will come by and bye, when old familiar prejudices are worn off." " I do not think mine ever wiU be, Robert dear," said Lucy smiling. " Well, never mind about that now. When Mostyn comes, we will waive controversies for your sake, dear little woman !" Robert opened the gate, and Lucy skipped across the lawn, forgetting her Anglican membership, in the delights of surprising Robert with some improvements she had been making in his study, during his absence.

Robert pronounced her the " best little wife in the world !" and happily they sat down to take tea in the sunny parlour, with its glass-doors open, letting in a perfume of jessamine and honeysuckle, with which the verandah was trained. The weeks glided by very smoothly with Lucy. Maude and she were as much together as before her marriage, and the Squire played con amore his part of grandpapa to the vicarage baby. The child was a ludicrous likeness of himself, and though named " Harry Cecd," after Robert's father and Erresford, the Squire persisted in caUing him " Little Phil," to the no small amusement of Maude. The Squire's economical resolutions had soon vanished — 'his old habits were too deeply rooted to be eradicated, and he hunted and betted with all his former gusto, encouraged. though under a semblance of regret, by his brother, from whom he had been compelled to borrow another loan, and thus had the mortgage become heavier over the old house and property.

At first, Maude had been troubled by this ; but she never mentioned her anxiety to Lucy, and not having Cecil near to give her VOL. III. b warning and advice, her light-heartedness soon made her forget it, on the plan of the old proverb — " What can't be cured, &c." It was on one of her father's hunting mornings, shortly after the conversation between Robert and Lucy, just related, that Maude came in to see Lucy, whom she found busily .engaged in the domestic occupation of preparing fruit for preserving. Maude threw off her bonnet and gloves, and com menced helping her sister, seating herself on the floor, with a series of baskets around her. " I say, little Lu, I came in this morning especiaUy to condole with you," Maude began. " About what, my dear girl ? I was not aware I needed condolence," said Lucy, laughing.

"I declare Lucy, you are a philosopher. Robert told me yesterday evening, when I encountered the young man in the fields, that he is about to inflict on you the society of that attenuated morsel of holiness — Hubert Mostyn !" " Did he say that ?" exclaimed Lucy. "He did not use my form of speech, of course ; but he gave me to understand the holy brother meditates a descent on your retire ment." "You must come and help me entertain him, Maude." " My very dear little child, I came with the express purpose of desiring you to hoist a handkerchief from the top window in intima tion of his arrival, that I may avoid the house . Let black be the signal of his presence— white of his departure ; then I shaU return in peace, and learn a detailed account of the miseries inflicted on you during his residence at the jessamine-covered elysium.

" Now, Maude, it wiU be very shabby of you if you desert me — you have no idea how difficult he is to entertain. Everything seems to go wrong when he is here, and he walks about with his eyes cast down, that he is per petually stumbling." Maude laughed merrily. " He will be falling over poor little Harry, and crushing him." " Oh ! I shall be obliged to send Harry up to you, for he cannot endure children." " The wretch !" exclaimed Maude ; " and if the truth were told, I do not think he feels much love for you." " He thinks Robert did wrong in marrying," replied Lucy. " No doubt ; the gentleman wanted to add another to the class ' fools,' to which he him self belongs," Maude said in a comical tone. " He always had an eye to Robert for St. Margaret's brotherhood," Lucy answered; " he told Robert so one day."

" If I "had been Mrs. Robert, instead of you, you meek little thing — I should just have made St. Hubert acquainted with my senti ments on the subject." " He never attends to what women say — he regards us as a species of nonenity." " Nasty creature ! I think I shall come every day and tease him, till I have made his life so wretched, that he speedily departs. No, a better thought has struck me. I know he eschews matrimony— I wdl pretend to be vastly in love with him !" Maude jumped up in her glee, and overturning a basket of gooseberries, sent them rolling about the floor. Lucy laughed brightly at Maude's disaster, and refused to assist her in her perambula tions over the carpet in search of the truant fruit. " That comes of making fun of my husband's friend," said Lucy. " I reaUy am ashamed of myself."

" I like it," replied Maude. " You may depend, if my husband brings home friends without my approval, I shaU not spare my criticisms. But then I never shaU arrive at being such a piece of propriety as you are ! When does St. Hubert make his appearance ?" " To-morrow afternoon. Robert goes to Branstone to meet him." "lam going to try a new horse to-morrow ; and I might as well ride through Branstone as in any other direction. The meeting will be worth seeing." " Oh ! don't, Maude ! It is very wicked of you !" said Lucy, trying not to laugh. " I cannot help it, my dear, if it is ; and I shall come in my most killing dress to-morrow evening and take tea with you. I shall count on being regaled with strawberries and cream. " Oh ! to-morrow is Friday ; and Mr. Mostyn always fasts. Breakfast is his only meal."

" Miserable young man !" exclaimed Maude, throwing up her hands. " Well, never mind, I wdl make him break through his rules." " Oh, Maude ! don't do anything absurd for Robert's sake," said Lucy, anxiously. " Let me alone, Lu. If we do not expose the young man's foUies, we shaU have Robert plunging into the fraternity himself." " Oh, dear ! Maude ! what dreadful nonsense you talk ! You wdl be dubbing me a sister next ; and then what is to become of Harry ?" " A future brother ! Let me see, was there ever a saint Harry in the calendar ?" Here Maude spied the chdd in the garden with his nurse, and darted out to have some gambols with him on the lawn. Lucy went on quietly and diligently with her household duties, that she might be able to give her undivided at tention to her husband's guest when he arrived.

True to his time, the four o'clock train depo sited Hubert Mostyn at Branstone. True to her playful threat, Maude mounted on a beautiful horse, rode by the station, just as the attenuated, bent form of the young devotee was entering a fly. Maude drew up her horse, spoke saucdy to Robert, shook hands with Mostyn, made friendly enquiries after his health, regretted seeing him look so iU. Then, with an au revoir tdl the evening, when she counted on the pleasure of meeting again, she rode on, with a speed that astonished her groom, who was lost in amazement at " that there rum gentleman." Little Lucy Aylmer was ready to receive Hubert on his arrival, having banished her baby to the care of the Miss Perkins, who had carried " Master Aylmer" triumphantly off to spend the evening at the farm. Good Lucy ! at the expense of her own pleasure, she determined Hubert's first evening should not be disturbed by little Harry's presence.

She greeted Hubert kindly, then hastened to have a sumptuous tea spread beneath the elms on the lawn, hoping he would forget to fast that day. Every imaginable country dainty her thoughtfulness could devise, she prepared and placed w7ith her own hands, and decorated with fiWers to tempt the frail-looking guest, whose coming she had dreaded, but whose first appearance called forth aU the pitying feelings of that tender heart ; and she formed numberless plans for his comfort and happi ness, trusting that his visit might bring a little bloom into his hollow, pallid cheeks, and some vigour into his form. He spent the two first hours after his arrival in Robert's study ; and when the bustle of preparation w7as over, Lucy sat patiently at the tea-table in her snowy white dress ornamented with a bou quet of blue nemophida, awaiting their arrival.

But Maude was before them, and her roguish eyes danced with glee as she recounted to Lucy her afternoon's rencontre. She was dressed with unusual care — in a pink and white dress, a wreath of ivy round her dark hair. She told Lucy she had passed a whole hour studying head-dresses ; and ivy made the most effect. Lucy was stiU admiring her beautiful sister, when Hubert Mostyn and her husband crossed the lawn. Maude rose ; welcomed Hubert to Forsted ; and, after watching where he would choose his place, established herself by his side. Robert looked rather uncomfortable ; and Hubert Mostyn devoutly fixed his large eyes on the ground, with the resolute determi nation of not noticing the beautiful girl by his side. Lucy dispensed tea and sweet smiles, and joined with Maude in pressing her home-made dehcacies on the self-denying brother ; but not one morsel would he touch, though he looked fainting from his long fast.

Lucy was so distressed, that actuaUy the tears stood in her soft eyes ; and she was just beginning to hope he w7ould not fad dl at the vicarage, and wonder if the Miss Perkins were taking good care of her baby, when the gate across the lawn swung to. Maude gave an ex clamation of surprise, while the colour mounted up to her high forehead. With rapid strides, Cecd Erresford crossed the lawn after his long absence, looking so handsome and manly, that, as he passed Mostyn to greet the little wife, the brother of St. Margaret's seemed crushed beneath the weight of his shadow. Cecd looked around beamingly upon them aU ; begged them not to disturb their happy circle ; and when aU the greetings were gone through, he sat down amongst them. He seemed much pleased to find himself there again ; and not even Hubert's automaton presence disconcerted him.

Maude entirely abandoned her meditated flirtation with Robert's friend, and relapsed into what was, for her, great quietude; untd Cecil turned and related peculiarly to her a number of Yankee anecdotes, when all her vivacity returned. And Hubert Mos tyn was heard to sigh — perhaps over his own youth's brightness which had fled and gone for ever, crushed by the false austerities of his life. Suddenly, Cecil looked around, and asked Lucy where she kept his godson. " In exile !" replied Maude, " Lu, let me go and fetch him." Lucy looked at Hubert appealingly; but those large grey eyes rested ever on the ground. " Mr. Mostyn, my sister has imbibed an idea that you do not like children," Maude began, in spite of Robert's remonstrating looks. Hubert Mostyn said he was extremely sorry — he seemed addressing the grass.

Would he object if Maude fetched her little nephew ? Hubert told the grass he should be glad to see him. That was all Maude needed, and in two minutes more, she was going towards the gate. Cecil inspired by some sudden resolu tion, rushed after her ; and down the shady lane they went, side by side, the sun shining in among the interlaced branches of the trees on Maude's head and its long ivy wreath. Lucy looked longingly after them, as she poured Hubert out his sixth cup of tea, and became convinced he was going to have a fever. Cecil gazed admiringly at the blooming Maude, and regretted, with great gaUantry, that he had not an umbrella to hold over her. Maude declared she liked the sun, then asked how he thought Lucy looked. " Exactly as I left her," he replied. " It will take many, many years to alter the depth of calmness and peacefulness on that sweet face ; but what can induce Robert to bring that eccentric being to his house ?"

" Oh ! he is a peculiar pet of Robert's. I think he venerates him as much as Lady Anne did." " I hoped he had given up that set. I can not see wdiat he wants with them." " Robert is soaring slightly high himself," replied Maude, laughing at the grave expression on Cecil's face. Cecil turned towards her anxiously as she spoke. " Oh ! do not look alarmed," Maude said. " Robert does no harm ; he only perpetrates a few peculiarities in church sometimes. The people have become accustomed to them, and those who still dislike them go elsewhere." " Ah ! has it come to that ?" said Cecd, gravely. " I always said Mostyn was a bad companion for him. But where are we going, Miss Nevdle?" " To Perkins' farm. Lucy made over little Harry to the girls for the evening, for fear Mr. Mostyn should betake himself to fainting at the sight of the child."

Maude fancied Cecil muttered Mostyn's name in connection with the word ' fool,' but she was not certain. " Does Mrs. Aylmer like Mostyn ?" Cecil asked. " She endures him," Maude replied. " Ah ! I thought so. I must look to Robert. I cannot let him take up with that set : he is much too good for them." " So I tell him ; but he thinks Mr. Mostyn is akin to perfection !" said Maude. " Robert is ten times the better fellow of the two : but how goes it with your father ?" " Oh, papa is always bonnie ! he has gone to Dyke Moor to-day ;" then recaUing to mind Cecil's advice two years ago, she added, "papa cannot hve without hunting — it is part of his nature." " Ah ! I suppose so ; but do you still accompany him sometimes, Miss NeviUe ?" " I ? oh, no ! my first hunt was my last. I always remembered what you advised me, and have indeed never led papa to it, Mr. Erresford," replied Maude, with the utmost frankness.

" 1 am glad to hear you say so," was Cecd's rejoinder. "How natural Forsted looks again, everything in statu quo, even the widow pond half dried up, as it always is at this time of the year," he added. " The Castle is very desolate," said Maude. " Is it not going to be inhabited again ?" " I fear my mother wdl never choose it as a residence. Neither she nor Anne has any wish to return." " Is it true, Lady Anne is going to enter the Roman Catholic Church ?" Maude asked, but repented the question immediately after, for Cecil's pleasant expression changed to one sadly grave, as he replied : " I hope it is only report ; but neither of my sisters reposes any confidence in me." Cecil threw back his head as if to relieve himself from a weight of care — then returned his own peculiar smile, and Maude thought among the many people she had seen, none were so handsome as he !

Perkins' farm was before them, a great low, gable-ended building, with an air of snugness and comfort about it, and a trim garden in the front, at the gate whereof, two damsels smartly attired were standing, one dancing a baby at the other. The instant they caught sight of Cecil, both disappeared with a marveUous rapidity which set Maude laughing ; however, when Cecil was ushered into the best parlour, after a little delay, the young ladies made their appearance, as if they had not been seen before, blushing and simpering, and very much disappointed at losing " Master Aylmer," whom Cecd carried back to the vicarage; the Miss Perkins watching his tall figure side by side with Maude ; and the short Miss Perkins tiptoeing over her sister's shoulder, was heard more than once to call it " a case."

Though what she meant by this expression, was best known to herself. But Cecd Erresford thought the remainder of that evening, that it was a " case " to be sorry for — that his dear friend and former protege should have fallen into the hands of Hubert Mostyn. It seemed fated that people should be come ill at the vicarage. Not two years before, Lady Flora had passed weeks there between life and death, and was only restored through the carefid nursing of Lucy Aylmer. Now, Hubert Mostyn, completely broken in health, by the long years of austerities, and suffering from an intermittent fever, in stead of three weeks, was detained as many months under Robert's roof. The young vicar was unremitting in his attention to his guest ; indeed, so much time did he devote to reading, conversing, and otherwise amusing his sick friend, that the little wife began to grow dud and miss his vol. in. c society.

In these autumn months was also the beginning of an occasional sadness, which almost in spite of herself, crept over her. No one noticed it but Cecd, and he traced it to its source — the source from whence sadness should least have come to the little wife — her husband ! Ah ! the brother of St. Margaret's had fallen ill at Forsted to some purpose. He had taught Robert to fast on Fridays as weU as himself ; he had taught Robert to observe a rigid for mality of speech and manner, greatly at variance with his natural temperament ; he had taught him to be reserved to his little wife ! Hubert Mostyn thought nothing of Lucy's religion. Austere, it certainly was not — formal it was not — but conscientiously she fulfiUed her duty towards all — even to her husband's strange guests ; and for Robert, she ever wore the serenest smiles, ever had the most winning words.

And surely his home was very sweet to him ; it was always wont to be so. But time rapidly sped on, and Hubert was taken back convalescent to St. Margaret's by Robert, who remained with the fraternity nearly a week, and returned home looking very tight and straight in his dress, and bereft of the brown curls which gave such a boyish, pleasing look, to his refined coun tenance. Lucy wept in secret over the curls, but not one word of remark did she make to Robert — nay, she even gravely took his part, when Maude laughed at him. The Squire seemed very much perturbed in mind, having become possessed of the idea, that Robert was meditating something that would be of harm to Lucy, either enroling himself among St. Margaret's brotherhood, or else leaving the Protestant church altogether. Therefore it was that the Squire remonstrated with his son-in-law, but to no effect.