The Wilmot Family

Chapter I

Much to Annie's disappointment, Miss Walcote did not call, and Mrs. Wilmot declared that, though she did not care the least for her society, she yet thought that it was a very uncivil omission on her part. It might be, however, to be sure, that she did not think herself qualified by her station in life to pretend to their friendship ; for being but a half-pay Lieutenant's daughter, of course she was much beneath them : still, as she under stood she had visited at the Hall in the late Mr. Wilmot's time, she could not well see how this motive — a very proper motive, certainly — was likely to influence her. As to Mr. Walcote, he was so lame, that a visit from him was out of VOL. II. B the question, and could give rise to no specula tion of any kind. If Mrs. Wilmot soon dismissed the subject from her mind, as a matter of no consequence, or indeed, when she thought of it at all, as a subject of congratulation that Richard should escape the danger of making the acquaintance of a handsome, penniless, and insignificant young lady, Annie still continued secretly to regret Miss Walcote's most evident disinclination to make the acquaintance of herself and family.

For, putting aside the omission of a visit, Annie remarked that, on meeting her occasionally in the village, Miss Walcote always looked aside as she approached her. Even more, when chance brought them together in some cottage, Miss Walcote invariably quickly retreated. It was so new to Annie to be shunned, that the motive for such conduct was a source' to her of frequent speculation. One day in particular, this studied desire on Miss Walcote's part to avoid her was shown in the most marked manner. Hearing that a child in the village had met with a severe accident, Annie called at the house where the boy lived, to inquire for him. As the door was closed, Annie knocked, and at the summons a very respectable looking elderly woman opened it. It was the first time Annie had seen her. " Good morning, Mrs. Marsh," said Annie.

" I hear your grandson has broken his leg. I hope he is going on satisfactorily." " I am obliged to you, Miss Wilmot," replied the woman, somewhat stiffly. " The doctor says he is doing well." " How old is he ? " " Going on six." " Poor little fellow ! Is there nothing he would like, that we could send him ? " " Nothing, ma'am, thank you." If the words were civil, the tone and manner in which they were uttered were so ungracious, that Annie was turning away, when a girl from the village rushing up in a hurry, exclaimed, " Please come, Mrs. Marsh, quick, and see little Johnnie, for he is coughing like anything ; such a queer cough, too." " Ah, the croup, most probably. Yes, I'll go instantly, Jane," returned Mrs. Marsh. " Please excuse me, ma'am," she said, turning to Annie ; and with these words she went away.

" The poor little boy shall not be left alone; I will go and sit with him during his grand mother's absence," thought Annie. b Entering the cottage, she soon found the object of her sympathy ; but he was not alone, for beside his bed was Miss Wralcote, who, in stantly rising up on Annie's entrance, bade the boy good bye, saying she had already sat too long, she must hurry away; and, with a slight bow to Annie, she left the room. Vexed, and indeed somewhat hurt, by this marked avoidance, Annie found it difficult to exert herself to amuse the child. However, she succeeded sufficiently well to divert the boy's attention from his suffering. She had just finished a story when the grandmother returned. " Granny," cried the boy, " that lady has told me such a nice story, and she says she will bring me a bunch of grapes to-morrow.

A bunch of red grapes, too, such as you used' to give me sometimes when you lived at the Hall ! " I am sure, ma'am, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness to my boy," said Mrs. Marsh, quite warmly. " Oh, not at all. I wish I could do more for him. Pray let me know if he fancies anything I could send him." " I am sure I am very thankful to you, but he wants for nothing." " Did you live long at the Hall ? At this question the old stern expression returned to the face of Mrs. Marsh, and it was in quite an ungracious tone she answered, " Yes, ma'am, some ten years' time, as housekeeper." " Were you at the Hall when Mr. Wilmot died ? " " I was ; but, begging your pardon, ma'am, I have things to do in the house that can't well be put off." On this very intelligible hint, Annie went away.

Here was another perplexity for Annie. What could the marked changes in Mrs. Marsh's looks and manners mean ? Before the day ended, she had still further subject for meditation in the words of mad Jock, a poor, harmless, half-witted creature, who lived a wan dering life in the vicinity of Eddingham. " Give me a halfpenny, miss. Give a half penny to poor Jock ! " said the man to Annie, as he met her in the village. Annie instantly pulled out her purse, and gave the applicant a sixpence. " A sixpence ! a whole silver sixpence ! " ex claimed Jock, delightedly, as he gloated over his new acquisition. " What will you do with it, Jock ? " " Keep it, to be sure ; keep it along with the money I am saving up for Master Ned. I have got a stocking half-full already : when it is full, I shall buy Thornely Hall for Master Ned.

" Who is Master Ned ? " " Sure, every one knows Master Ned. A handsome gentleman is Master Ned. When I buy back the Hall for Master Ned, you will see him." " Hush, Jock ! " said a girl passing by. " Don't you know that is Miss Wilmot ? " " What ? " exclaimed Jock, as he stared at Annie. " No, no. You look too good to be her. If you were Miss Wilmot, you would not have given Master Ned a silver sixpence." " But I am Miss Wilmot." " Then I won't have your money," said Jock, as he dashed the money on the ground with angry vehemence ; " and I won't talk to you, and I won't look at you, for Master Ned's sake, whom you have ill used and cheated." Saying these words, Jock turned away, muttering angrily. " Who can this Master Ned be, I wonder ? " said Annie to herself, as she turned homeward. " I must ask Mrs. Beacham, the first day I see her."

The subject, however, had passed from Annie's mind when, two days subsequently, she went to Eddingham to call on Mrs. Beacham ; whom she found at home, and who received her with her usual frank cordiality. " I am so glad you are come back ! " said Annie ; " the ten days you have been away have appeared so long to me." " I declare, you have been taking lessons in the art of flattery during my absence." " No flattery ; no, not at all. I miss you very much when you are gone, for you are my only friend here, — my only friend," repeated Annie, with mournful emphasis. " Your only friend ! Wrhat would Arabella Parkinson say to that ? She told me, the other day, that you and she were the greatest friends possible." " Well, she is always very civil to me, and I try hard to like her; but I find I cannot do it," said Annie, in a self-reproachful accent.

" What a piece of wickedness in you ! " said Mrs. Beacham, smiling. " But as I am a fellow sinner in this respect, as you know already, you and I may shake hands upon the matter. I should be loth, however, to give up Arabella's society, for she is about the choicest specimen I know of full-blown, silly, empty-headed young ladyism, — a class of the genus feminine that affords fine food for laughter. She would have ignored my existence long ago, if I hadn't been the granddaughter of an earl, and my husband the son of a baronet. That is the only thing that has saved me from being excluded from her visiting list ; and when she writes to me, she always spells my name Beauchamp, in spite that I have told her that, since I was called Beacham, I would spell my name in that manner — Burke's ' Baronetage ' in defiance.

I do so hate shams. My house itself, with its honest red-brick face, guiltless of plaster aping the look of stone, is a kind of advertisement to all the world of my nature. But, talking of Arabella, I suppose she has given you the bio graphy of all the Dainham family ? She rarely condescends to talk of any one that is not related to the peerage ; but the Dainhams are the especial conversational hobby which she loves to ride. You have heard, doubtless, some fifty times, that Lord Dainham is a most de lightful person ? " " Indeed, I think so." " That Lady Dainham is most affable and charming?" " Yes, most frequently." " And that Lord Melverton, Lady Caroline, and Lord Eustace are such nice persons ? " " Yes, the precise words." " That reminds me I should give you some hints on fashionable feminine phraseology.

It is your incumbent duty to use the word ' nice ' on every practicable occasion. You must say, a day is nice, a book is nice, a baby is nice, a dinner is nice, a picture is nice ; in fact, ' nice ' is to be heard every two minutes in your con versation. ' Fancy' has also at present a decided run in its favour — to be used as a note of admiration. For instance, if I tell you I walk ten miles a day, you must express your astonish ment at the performance by saying ' Fancy ! ' If I tumble down in the mud ; if I discover that Jane has been purloining to a large extent my tea and sugar ; if the butcher's boy is tossed up by the bull ; you must always, on my commu nicating to you such and similar facts, express your feelings on the occasion by the use of the interjection ' Fancy !' I hope, my dear, you will attend particularly to my instructions."

" I despair of ever being able to put them in practice," said Annie, smiling. " You need not despair of that, if you frequent Arabella's company. Only attend to what she says, and you will soon be as accomplished as herself in the fashionable jargon of conversation. She'll teach you, too, the fashion able slang term of the day, for she learns it from the Dainhams. One year, I remember, ' Spicy ' had a tremendous run. Everything was spicy, from a lady's dress to a rasher of bacon. Then ' Nobby ' came into vogue ; but as to what is the present reigning word, or words, for they are legion, you must ask Arabella." " I shall have a deal to learn," said Annie, laughing. " Oh, certainly, a great deal indeed, before you are a highly fashionable person. You'll hear young dandies, too, of the most superfine description, swearing frequently ' By Jove ! ' to the great contentment of the most refined young ladies ; whilst if any unfortunate plebeian were to rap out ' By God ! ' in their presence, there would be an immediate scream of horror at the profane and vulgar fellow.

But I needn't really go on telling you about these things, for you will have a much more efficient instructress in Arabella. Who knows but you may under her tuition arrive at the pitch of boring me, and every one else, about the doings and sayings of the Dainhams ? " " I hope your prophecy will not come true." " Well, I can't say, my dear, that I hope it will ; but you will be a very strong-minded woman indeed if you resist the contagion. Last year you had a better chance of escape in Ara bella's society, for the Dainham subject was quite eclipsed by the Hamilton Selby topic in interest. The Dainhams, in fact, retreated to the position of stars in the Parkinson con versational horizon, and Hamilton Selby blazed out then as the sun at noon in size and brilliancy. Have you seen Mr. Selby yet?"

" Yes, once." "And, of course, was fascinated with him, as every young lady is by a rake of the first magnitude. Pretty moral dears they are, truly ! — turning away with scorn and loathing from a fallen sister, the victim probably of some villain's arts and falsehoods : whilst thorough profligates, under the mild title of 'fast young men,' are welcomed by them with beaming smiles, because the worthless fellows happen to be rich and agreeable. Shame upon the world ! I say, with its false sympathies and false moralities. Thank God! there is a different class of qualities required for gaining admission to Heaven from that which is a passport to the favour of fashionable society ; and that truth I hope will come home to Mr. Selby yet before he sets off on his last journey." " I am sorry to hear this of Mr. Selby ; for I fear Richard likes him exceedingly," said Annie, sadly.

" Oh, of course he does : he would have a wiser head than generally sits upon young shoulders if it were otherwise ; but it would be well of you to put him on his guard in respect to this same handsome, frank, and agreeable young gentle man. A mass of selfishness from head to foot, he knows no other object and aim in life but that of pleasure ; and that aim he will pursue through every crooked path and filthy by-lane of existence. He scorns and abuses behind his back the old uncle by whose money he is en abled to play the fine gentleman. Gratitude, reverence, and religion, he has none ; except the infinitesimal portion of that latter commodity which leads him occasionally to go to church on a Sunday to stare at young ladies." " And did Miss Parkinson like this young gentleman ? " " Like him, my dear ? she delighted in him.

He was her love, her pet, her darling, last summer, when young Hamilton, having nothing better to do, condescended to flirt with her, just by the way of making the time pass quicker than it was disposed to do when he was housed with his old uncle in the country ; and during that time Arabella raved about the young gentle man. His name occurred at least three times every five minutes in her conversation. It was too much for me to stand at last; so I promised her one day to buy her a pound of lollipops if she did not mention Hamilton Selby's name to me for the next month more than six times in the course of every conversation." "And did she accept your offer?" said Annie, laughing. " Oh she was very indignant, of course, drew up her little person to its utmost height, and at first looked knives-and-forks at me, for making such an impertinent suggestion.

But Arabella is too much afraid of my tongue to quarrel with me openly ; so contenting herself with saying I was very odd, and said extremely odd things, she turned the conversation ; but my hint was of use, and from that day forth she never bored me with the sayings or doings of Hamilton Selby." " I should think, from her looks, that Miss Walcote was a very different person from Miss Parkinson." "Fire and water, my dear, are not more un like than Emily Walcote and Arabella Parkin son. Day and night do not contrast more strongly than do their minds and dispositions ; the one all frivolity and weakness, the other all depth of feeling, and strength and energy of character. Poor Emily! I love her well, and feel deeply for her trials." " Her father seems to be very sickly." " Yes, a hopeless invalid, and turned by ill ness into a fretful, complaining character.

The poor girl has a hard lot of it with him ; but she never murmurs, is unwearied in her attentions, and tries to meet his wishes in every way. Poor girl ! she has been severely tried." " She looks as if her lot were not a happy one. " How could it be otherwise — an ailing, fretful father, a beggarly pittance to live upo,n, and a lost lover." " Do you mean that her lover died ?" " What ! don't you know all about Emily and her lover, young Edward Graham?" exclaimed Mrs. Beacham, in a tone of surprise. " I never heard his name before." "Never heard of Edward Graham — never heard of his name ! Is it possible ?" " I am most perfectly ignorant on the sub ject ; pray tell me about Miss Walcote, since it seems to be no secret. Was she engaged to this Mr. Edward Graham?" " Yes," said Mrs. Beacham, laconically.

Annie waited to hear more ; but nothing more on the subject being apparently forthcoming, she rejoined — " And did Mr. Graham desert her?" " Oh, no, nothing of that kind occurred." Mrs. Beacham paused again, but as Annie questioned her most earnestly with her eyes, she continued — " It is but the repetition of a story often heard. Edward Graham was entirely dependent on an old rich relation, whose heir he was brought up to be ; and, naturally enough, he fell in love with Emily Walcote, whose father had not a farthing in the world, save that which he derived from the half-pay of a navy lieu tenant. The rich relation refused to give his consent to the match, and told Edward Graham he was to marry a certain titled lady, who, it was said, smiled kindly on him. This, Edward refused, and told his relative that he would marry no other lady than Emily.

Then came a fearful quarrel, a terrible rupture on this point. Edward would not give in, neither would the old man ; and so it ended by Edward being cast off and disinherited utterly." " But the old man — the relative of Mr. Graham — will probably relent?" said Annie, eagerly. "There is neither relenting nor repenting in the grave, Annie!" said Mrs. Beacham, solemnly. " The old man died, then ?" " Yes, he died, my dear, and left all his gold to others. Edward is now next door to a beggar." " This is very sad ! " said Annie ; " did it happen lately?" " Yes, not more than a few months ago." " And where did Mr. Edward Graham live ? " " Oh not far from this." " Not far from this?" repeated Annie, musingly. " Surely it could not have been in this neigh bourhood that this rich old man" — she stopped, almost started, as she said these last words, for the fool's ' Master Ned ' recurred to her ; and an expression of fear and anxiety crossed her features as she looked up at Mrs. Beacham, who had taken her handkerchief to wipe away apparently some speck of dust on the table.

" 1 wish Jane would be more attentive," murmured Mrs. Beacham. "Mrs. Beacham," said Annie, vehemently, " I must hear the end of the story." " But I have told you the whole story. The old gentleman died, as I said, and Edward was disinherited." " But there is something more I want to know — something yet you have not told me. What relation was Edward Graham to the old gentleman ?" "His sister's son — his nephew." " And one more question — only one," said Annie, as she grasped Mrs. Beacham's hand, and looked at her with a countenance upon which evidently the shadow of a great fear had fallen. " The name of this old man — this rich old man — who disinherited his nephew — I want to know it ; tell me what it was, I entreat you ! Mrs. Beacham thus adjured, turned her face, apparently unwillingly, towards the agitated girl, and said in a low but distinct voice — " His name was Richard Wilmot."

"I guessed so!" gasped Annie, and covering VOL. il o her face with both her hands, she burst into a flood of tears. "Plague on this tongue of mine!" muttered Mrs. Beacham, " what business had I to go talking about the matter ? Just like me, always saying the thing I should not. Oh ! what a blessing it is to be able to hold one's tongue ! "

Chapter II

Discontented as Annie was with her new life, before having heard Mrs. Beacham's tale, it may readily be imagined how much it added to the burden of her regrets and sorrows. It was truly a distressing thought, that she and her family had no equitable right to the fortune and station they now enjoyed, and that they owed their pre sent position solely to an old man's tyranny and vindictiveness. The conduct of Edward Gra ham commended itself, in the strongest manner, to her sympathies ; and she could not brook the idea that her family had been made the means of inflicting on him a tremendous injustice. In nocent, indeed, they were of all participation in the old man's sin ; but while they profited by it, and while the rightful heir was an outcast and a c beggar, it seemed to her that they were in some degree participators in the iniquity of the trans action.

For one brief moment the thought sug gested itself to her mind that her family, made acquainted with the circumstances of the case, would yield their place to the more rightful in heritor ; but this hope quickly vanished when she recalled the keen delight which her mother and Richard took in their new dignity and position ; and she saw well how her own and her father's views and wishes on the subject would be over borne by their loud remonstrances, and deter mined opposition. Thoughts such as these pre sented themselves tumultuouslv to her mind during her return to the Hall ; and when Annie entered the drawing-room where her mother was sitting, traces of strong emotion were very visible on her countenance. Mrs. Wilmot was in a somewhat irritable state of temper when Annie entered, for she had met with a terrible misfortune — no less than that of upsetting an ink-bottle on her new bright-green silk dress — an accident by which the two front breadths of the skirt had been ruined irretriev ably.

" What a long time you have been away ! " she said to Annie, on her entering. " I was at Eddingham, paying a visit.'! " To whom ? " "To Mrs. Beacham." "Upon my word, Annie, I cannot make out why you should take such a fancy to that lady ! as for me, I think her exceedingly rude, and disagreeable, and vulgar ; even though she is the granddaughter of an Earl." " She does not intend to be rude, I am sure ; it is only her way to say out everything she thinks on every subject." " Well, I am sure, I wish she would learn to keep her opinions to herself; for she says things at times that sound to me downrightly imper tinent : for instance, when I was wearing my nice new green silk the other day, she told me that brown, grey, or black was the proper livery to wear for ladies turned of forty. I daresay if she was here now she would be delighted to find how that pretty dress of mine was spoilt altogether by the ink I had the misfortune to spill.

No, indeed, Mrs. Beacham is not to my taste at all ; and Miss Parkinson joins with me in con sidering her very unmannerly and rude. I must say I do not at all approve of your frequenting her society as you do." " Oh ! do let me keep Mrs. Beacham as a friend ! " exclaimed Annie, beseechingly ; " she is the only one I have — the only one I am likely to have here." " Well, then, please yourself on the matter, since you take it so much to heart ; but I declare you have the very oddest tastes of any girl I ever knew, to pass over that agreeable and pleasant Miss Parkinson — quite a suitable com panion in point of age — and take up instead with a crabbed, ill-natured, rude old woman." " Mrs. Beacham is very kind to me," expos tulated Annie. " Well, I am sure that you don't look as if she had been very kind to you, or as if you had been particularly happy in her society," said Mrs. Wilmot, as her glance happened to fall on her daughter's countenance.

" You look, upon my word, as if you had been crying." " Yes, I confess I was," rejoined Annie ; " Mrs. Beacham told me a tale that made me feel very sorrowful — a tale, too, that concerns us in a great degree." "Concerns us! what do you mean?" rejoined Mrs. Wilmot, in a tone of eager curiosity. " The story was about the late Mr. Wilmot, who left us this great property. We knew that he had no children ; but we did not know that his widow-niece, Mrs. Graham, who died lately, had a son called Edward, who lived here with his granduncle at the Hall, in the recognised position of the old gentleman's heir." " Well, what of him ? of this Edward Gra ham ? " said Mrs. Wilmot quickly, with an un easy expression of countenance ; " he is not surely going to try to turn us out, and take our fortune from us ?

" " Oh, no, indeed ! I believe you have nothing to fear from Mr. Graham in that respect ; for his uncle had the right to leave the property to anyone he pleased ; but Edward Graham's was a very hard case, and I do think it was a great shame for Mr. Wilmot to disinherit him because he refused both to give up the lady he liked and to marry one he did not like, and I honour him for his conduct. Oh, mother ! it does seem very unjust that we should now be at Thornely Hall, and this young man who acted so nobly a beggar and a wanderer." " Upon my word, Annie, I never heard such a strange thing as that for you to say ! " rejoined Mrs. Wilmot, angrily. " Unjust for us to be here, indeed ! when Mr. Wilmot, of his own free will, left my husband the property. Of course, Mr. Wilmot had a perfect right to do what he liked with his money; and, besides this, Edward Graham was only a step nearer to him in relationship than your father."

Annie was silent. "And very likely, too," continued Mrs. Wilmot, " this young man gave very just cause to his uncle to be angry with him, by want ing to marry a girl quite unsuited to his station in society. To people of our rank, you know that is a very important consideration. I am sure it would break my heart if you or Richard were to marry some vulgar, low-born person. " But the lady that Edward Graham wanted to marry was neither vulgar nor low-born," ex claimed Annie ; " for it was that very pretty young lady, Miss Walcote, who lives at Edding ham." "Evidently quite an unsuitable match for the heir of old Mr. Wilmot — a girl who lives in a miserable little cottage, not half the size of this room, and who dresses so shabbily. I remarked her bonnet on Sunday : it was the coarsest Dun stable plait, with scarce a bit of trimming upon it, nothing almost but a yard of the commonest brown ribbon, that went quite plainly over the front, and was tied beneath her chin ; and as to her gown, I assure you it was nothing but a gingham of the cheapest kind."

Annie made no reply ; for she felt how vain it was for her to try to make her mother under stand or enter into her feelings. Disheartened and unhappy, she leant her head upon her hand, whilst her eyes swam with tears, which slowly trickled down one after another over her pale cheeks, as her mother proceeded — " Quite right, indeed, it was for Mr. Wilmot to object to such a marriage. After making his splendid fortune, and purchasing such a magnificent place, he had a good right to expect that his heir would marry a lady holding a distinguished position in society — an Earl's daughter even ; for there was that Mr. Pembroke, who lived near Marwood, with a fortune not half so large, and a place not half so fine as ours, who married Lady Fanny Penthurst, the daughter of the Earl of Colchester, as you may remember.