Fernley Manor. A novel

Chapter I. Anticipated Change

Shortly after this conversation between the sisters, Edith wrote to her mother, in forming her, in the first place, of the loss she had sustained, and adding a brief, but perfectly truthful record of her own life since she had left Italy. The letter was affectionate, earnest, and even eloquent — for Edith was most anxious to win her mother's vol. in. B EP.RNLEY MANOR. love, and quite prepared to give an un limited measure of filial affection in re turn. Margaret's description had certainly not been very promising ; but then her simple, straightforward nature, so detested all kinds of mystery, that Edith could not help think ing she had been prejudiced by the previous conduct of her father's wife, and that this prejudice made her still see everything re lating to her in an unfavourable point of view.

At any rate, the daughter was de termined to hope for the best, and she waited with great solicitude for an answer to her letter. The sisters were sitting down to breakfast one morning — it was the week before Christmas, — when a servant brought in two letters, and laid them on the table beside Edith. She glanced hastily at the ad dresses, became very pale on seeing a strange female hand, but left that where it had been placed, and opened the other first. " From dear Annie," she exclaimed, after having read it hastily through. " She writes in rather better spirits. Mrs. Boisragon's recovery progresses slowly but satisfactorily — they will go abroad as soon as she is able to travel — in the hep-inning; of spring, Annie hopes. But you may read it, if you will Margey, for I see this one," (laying her hand quite tenderly upon it) is from my mother."

Margaret took the offered letter in silence, knowing well what her sister must feel at such a moment, and Edith, with trembling fingers and palpitating heart, broke the seal of the one she held in her hand, and eagerly devoured the contents. In a few minutes, Margaret looked up to see if it was finished, and to judge, by Edith's countenance, how far her expect ations had been realized. This, however, was not so easy, for the latter had buried her face in her hands, and appeared to be thinking intently ; while the letter, which B FERXLEY MINOR. Margaret could see was very short, lay open on the table beside her. " Now let me send you some tea, dear Edith," she said, quietly, as though nothing had happened ; "I am sure we require something to warm us this cold morning." " We do indeed," the other repHed, with a faint, odd smile, and Margaret fancied there had been tears hastily brushed away.

" Yes, do give me something to warm me, Margey," she resumed presently, after another little thoughtful pause. " This letter," (glancing slightly at it) " is scarcely calculated to produce that effect. Read it, however, and give me your opinion." Margaret obeyed and read, with less surprise than her sister, the following — " I thank you, my dear Edith, for the candour of your communication. I had certainly hoped to welcome a single, and not a married daughter, to my solitary home. Of course, however, this will make no difference to my conduct, and of feelings it would be idle now to speak. I shall expect you on Christmas Eve at the subjoined address, which will be your future residence. " Yours in anticipated affection, " Emily Lascelles." " Woodleigh Cottage, Hampstead, " Near London." " Well, Margaret, what do you think of it ?"

"It is concise, certainly, and not par ticularly warm ; but it would be very un fair to judge your mother by her first letter, Edith. It is possible that she fears from your having been married, that you will have no affection to bestow on her. Do not let this make you uncomfortable, dear " " I will not — if I can help it," said Edith, slowly folding up the letter, and putting it in her pocket. " But now, dearest Margaret, I must think only about you." Of course Edith's proposed plan of having Margaret with her in her new home, was done away with, for the present, at least, by the coldness and formality of her mother's letter ; but still she could not endure the thoughts of a total separation, especially under the new aspect that her re-union with this unknown parent had assumed. Margaret was no less affected at the idea of parting with Edith, but she tried to speak cheerfully of it, and to an ticipate brighter days.

In reference to her sister's suspicions, concerning Mr. Howard, the present rector of Fernley, she now said — " Had any distinct engagement existed between us, be assured, you, dear Edith, would not have been left in ignorance of it, but this is far from being the case. That he likes me better than any of the marriageable ladies of his acquaintance, I certainly believe ; that he will one day ask me to be his wife, I think probable — and I have no hesitation in saying to you, Edith, that when that day arrives, unless my present feelings greatly change, I shall accept him." " Dear, dear Margaret," said Edith, half smiling through her tears as she grasped her sister's hand, " you do and say everything in such a nice, clear, simple way — so different from other people — Oh, I do hope that he will propose, since you really like him ; and that you will be very, very happy."

That week was spent by the sisters in making arrangements for leaving Fernley Manor (which though taken on lease they had the privilege of under-letting), and of dividing those possessions, such as books, music, drawings, &c, which they had hitherto shared in common. A trifling in cident occurred during this latter occupa tion, which brought back all the past most vividly to Edith's mind, and quite upset her for the remainder of that day. Margaret was seated at a table with several large portfolios before her, contain ing the sketches they had both taken at different periods of their wanderings ; aud though the number of her own greatly ex ceeded that of her sister's, she was making an equal distribution, placing Edith's share on one side, and her own on the other, as they came. " I wonder," she said, with an effort to talk away their mutual depression, " to whose lot that last sketch I took in Florence, will fall.

The scene at moonlight, I mean. that you admired so much, Edith." " To yours, Margey, I daresay ;" was the reply, " you are always luckier than I am." And it turned out that she was right. But Margaret, with her usual unselfishness, proposed giving it up, and taking the next herself. " Indeed, dear," she urged, " I do not care at all about it, and it is a favourite of yours. Do let me put it amongst your col lection ; I am quite sure I shall prefer the next." " And what is that ." asked Edith, who was busy with the music books, and at some distance from her sister. " I don't know yet — its back is turned towards me, and I will not look till you promise to have this Florence sketch." " Oh, but I won't, Margey — not for the world, because I am quite certain, from your pressing it upon me, that it is one greatly esteemed by yourself.

Besides I have a particular fancy for the next — some thing tells me that it will be of a spot or a scene that I shall have infinite pleasure in recalling." As Edith spoke, she walked across the room to Margaret's table, and laid her B hand upon the drawing that was next in succession to the disputed one. " There, this is mine, Margey — I claim it, and we'll see if it does not turn out to be more valuable than yours." She raised it suddenly, and exhibited — not a fair Italian scene, not a group of Norman peasants or Swiss muleteers, or Spanish dancing girls (all of which were in Margaret's varied collection) but the rustic bridge at Fernley, leading to the He ther Dell Edith looked at it for a moment and then let it fall on the table again, while she turned away without uttering a word. " How _tupid of me," exclaimed Mar garet, looking almost as pale and discom posed as her sister, " I believed that all the English sketches had been placed in a separate portfolio — Dear Edith, we will leave the rest of this work for to-morrow ; and take a little walk now while the sun is shining." * * The last evening, at length, or, as the sisters would have said, too soon arrived, and Margaret reminded Edith that she could no longer delay a duty which she had some time ago proposed, but lacked courage to perform.

This was to call upon the old ladies at Feruley Cottage — henceforth Margaret's home — and renew, before part ing, those feelings of friendliness which had necessarily been interrupted by Edith's own conduct, but which the elder sister felt convinced they were now quite pre pared to restore to the penitent offender. Edith had not once been in their house since the evening of the orchard party, and she shrank nervously, as one who has suffered greatly, from having those old associations revived. Nevertheless, feeling it her duty, and knowing that every fresh trial was but a just recompense for her former errors, she immediately, on Margaret's suggestion, prepared for the walk, and set forth unaccompanied but by old Peter and her dog Nero, as on the occasion of her first memorable visit to the cottage.

It was impossible not to recall with peculiar vividness the evening in question. The village streets had precisely the same quiet, monotonous, unbusiness-like appear ance. The same old women stood idly at their cottage doors — the same children. (or what seemed to Edith the same) dropped their awkward curtsies as she passed — the same dingylooking poultry pecked about the narrow gutters ; and the very wind appeared to blow with the same hollow and melancholy sound. " The change without how dimly seen, The change within how clearly felt." Arriving at her destination, Edith was still more painfully struck with what seemed to her a mysterious similitude be tween her first visit and her present one, which would probably also be the last. In walking up the garden, she saw the three old people sitting by the fire, just as they had been sitting then ; the favour ite cat upon its accustomed stool, and Mr. Simeon again holding in his hand an open letter.

For a moment, the young widow almost fancied the past a dream, and that she was only going now, as Miss Lascelles, to form the acquaintance of her pleasant looking neighbours, and the relatives of one who, though then unknown, had al ready mingled in many of her girlish visions of the future. Alas ! the black dress and the wedding ring — to say nothing of the wasted hand it shines upon — soon dissipate the mists from her sight ; and she knocks timidly at the spinsters' door, with a full and op pressive consciousness of all her errors and misfortunes, since that comparatively happy and unclouded time. Nothing, however, could be kinder or more affectionate than the reception the old people give her ; nothing more considerate and thoughtful than the topics of conver sation they select. Not a word, not a hint referring to the past is suffered to escape their lips, and Edith is only reminded of it by Miss Eliza (with whom she had always been an especial favourite) bursting into tears when she took her hand. and saw the wedding-ring, which was now "a world too wide" for the widow's shrunken finger.

" Poor dear, poor dear !" Miss Eliza had said then, as if quite uuable to restrain her compassionate feelings. " I do hope your mama will make you drink quarts of goat's milk every morning, or I don't know what you'll come to by and bye." Edith fully appreciated the kind con sideration with which she was treated, and which she could not but acknowledge far exceeded either her deserts or her expec tations. But still she felt anxious about the letter Mr. Simeon had so hastily put away on her entrance, and longed to know whether it was from Scotland or from Devonshire. Finding they had no intention of al luding to it, she summomed courage, at last, to say — " Have you heard from Nettia or her mother lately ?" " Not since last week, my dear," was the reply ; " and then the invalid was going on pretty well."

Edith still looked anxious and restless ; and Miss Eliza, after a hastily exchanged glance with her sister, said, rather ner vously — " The letter Simeon was reading, when you came in, my dear, was from Sir Stuart Bernarde, who is just on the point of going abroad. It relates to some business matters, which — " " Which, perhaps, Eliza," interrupted her sister, " it will be as well to explain to Mrs. Boisragon, for you see, as Alick's widow, she may have an interest in them." Miss Eliza then explained what the reader already knows in part — that Sir Stuart had made over to his cousins the half of his fortune, and that he had done this in such a way, as to render it impossible for them to restore it to him without additional law proceedings, which would be beyond their means to enter upon. He communicated this to Mr. Cargill, because Mrs. Boisragon had refused the gift, on the part of her children, and Sir Stuart wished it to be distinctly understood, by some member of the family, that this refusal had done nothing to alter the former position of affairs- — that the money was still theirs. and would continue to accumulate in their names, as long as they refused to claim it.

From this letter to Mr. Simeon Cargill it was evident that the writer of it was still in ignorance, both of Alick's marriage and death, and he hinted that it would be a satisfaction to him to hear occasionally of the family. " This, my dear," said Miss Eliza, in conclusion, " is the substance of the baronet's communication, and we shall now consider it our duty to inform him of certain events which have recently oc curred. As for the money, I do not believe our cousins will ever touch it ; but, as Sir Stuart has plenty without this, I see no harm in letting it remain as it is, for the present. There no saying what may happen by-and-bye." Edith had listened with the deepest attention to the foregoing statement, which Miss Eliza's very minute and circum stantial style of language, rendered rather a long one ; but she only thanked the well meaning spinsters for the confidence they reposed in her, and made no other comment whatever.

Shortly after this, Peter and Nero returned to conduct her home, and she parted from these kind old friends with sincere emotion, which, on their part, was demonstrated by loud sobs, and repeated embracings, accompanied by fervent wishes, and prayers for her future welfare and happiness. Mr. Simeon struggled for a few painful moments, with his fear of Nero, and his desire to offer an arm to the very interesting young widow, who bore, too, the honoured name so long cherished in his heart. Let him not be too severely judged, when it is acknowledged that his gallantry gave place, at last, to the weakness of many long years standing, and that he suffered his youthful guest to depart, as she had come, followed closely by her two faithful guardians. FERNLEY MAXOR. 19

Chapter II. The Parting Of The Sisters

"Such a day, my poor Edith, for 3'our journey," said Margaret, entering her sister's room, before she had risen on the following morning. " The snow is already quite thick upon the ground, aud there is a sharp easterly wind that seems to chill one to the very bone. Will you have a fire lighted here, my love, and take your breakfast in bed V " Oh, Margey, not for the world," replied Edith, springing up immediately, and beginning to dress with all possible speed ; " I would not lose a single instant of your society, to purchase every comfort under the sun. But indeed, Margaret, T scarcely feel the cold. My mind is too full of sad and anxious thoughts." When they were seated together at breakfast, Margaret asked her sister if she had traced out any distinct plan for her future mode of life, or if she intended to submit herself unreservedly to the will and guidance of her mother.

"If," replied Edith, speaking with very deep and earnest feeling, " I am fortunate enough to gain my mother's love and confidence, I shall be only too happy to yield in all things, which my conscience does not disapprove, to her. If otherwise. — as I have thought of late may possibly be the case — I shall still endeavour to fulfil every duty towards her ; but retaining, at the same time, the privilege of thinking and acting for myself. My life, Margaret, now, has only two great objects— earthly objects, I mean, for I hope I understand, at length, wherefore we were created, and that I can never again be indifferent to the interests of the Eternal world. But these two earthly objects are very near to my heart, and I can imagine no regular plan of life which would not have their accomplishment in view, which would not, in some way, assist me in bringing them to pass.

Putting these aside, it is my earnest desire to be enabled to do some little good with the means that have been given to me ; and although I don't know very well how to set about it, I have no doubt opportunities will arise to me as they do to other people." Margaret could not tell whether Edith had forgotten to name the objects of which she had spoken, or whether the omission was intended. She would not, however, risk the chance of paining her, by asking questions; and the conversation soon turned into different channels. FERNLEY MANOR. It had been arranged that both sisters should leave the Manor about the same time, that neither of them might be ex posed to the trial of remaining alone in the deserted house, after the other had gone. Old Peter was to bring a post-chaise for Edith at ten o'clock, and Miss Eliza Cargill, or her brother, had promised to fetch Margaret punctually at that hour.

Punctuality, however, which, with some people, means half an hour after the time, with others, means half an hour before ; and the amiable spinsters of Fernley Cot tage, happened to belong to the latter class of individuals — so that the sisters had scarcely risen from the breakfast table when a carriage rattled up briskly to the door (the snow having been carefully swept away from the entrance drive) and dis closed the cheerful face of Miss Eliza, half hidden in her squirrel furs, and the no less agreeable one (I suppose, Margaret thought it infinitely more so) of Mr. Howard, peeping, half-shyly, half-laughingly, over his companion's shoulder. " Dear Margey," whispered Edith, kiss ing her sister's fair and blushing cheek, " I am so glad he has come ; because now, you will go away quite cheerfully ; and really, I have scarcely seen my future brother-in law yet.

I like his face extremely, Mar gey, now he is looking merry and happy — I do, indeed." Margaret had only time to say — " Hush, dear !" before the lady and gentleman entered the room, Miss Eliza divided most uncomfortably between an intense desire to be eloquent about the weather, and an ardent wish to explain that she had met Mr. Howard, half frozen in the village, and persuaded, or rather obliged, him to enter her carriage, and come on with her to fetch Miss Lascelles. Mr. Howard was a young man of about nine-and-twenty or thirty, with an ex tremely pleasant and sensible face, and the unmistakeable air of a thorough gentleman. FERNLEY MANOR. It did not require an abundant degree of penetration to discover that he admired Margaret — and Edith saw plainly that he only wanted sufficient encouragement to declare himself her lover.

They both looked very happy and satisfied with each other at present ; and, altogether, the party des tined to depart first, seemed as well assort ed, and as pleasant a one as could possi bly be imagined. Poor Edith could not help picturing to herself the manner in which their Christmas Eve wouldbespent. The chairs drawnround the blazing fire, the hissing urn, the spin ster's cheerful, social faces, their brother's quiet jokes aimed at the unheeding lovers — the lovers themselves, talking in low tones, and forgetting all but that they were together. " Dear Margaret," said the younger sis ter, as they went upstairs for Miss Lascelles to put on her bonnet and cloak. " I almost forget my own sorrows in seeing your happiness. You must write and tell me the moment it is all settled — for it will be settled very soon, I know."

Margaret replied by taking Edith in her arms — and assuring her that, at this moment, the thoughts of leaving her, occu pied far more of her thoughts than her own future prospects. She could not en dure the idea of going first, either — Edith would feel so wretched till her carriage came. But then those poor horses shiver ing in the cold, and Mr. Howard's numerous pastoral duties must be remembered too. Edith had thought of these, and she assured her sister that she should feel no additional pain in remaining a few minutes iu the house alone. So, at length, with one prolonged and mute embrace, these two, who had, for so many years, been all in all to each other, parted for an indefinite time ; and Edith, refusing to shew herself again down stairs, stood at the window, and watched the car riage drive away.

It was not till it had really gone, till the VOL. III. c last faint sound of the wheels had died in the distance, that her poor heart became fully conscious of what it had lost, and of the dread feeling of utter loneliness. Amongst the varied sufferings which mortal beings are compelled, during their pilgrimage, to taste, I suppose there is none which, for the time it endures, is more bitter and sickening to the soul than sud den and complete solitude — not a solitude that is to last a week or a month only, but a solitude of which we cannot see the end ; a deprivation by death or unbending cir cumstance, of those who have been the recipients of all our thoughts, the sharers of all our joys and pains — our com panions and friends from unremembered time. All this and far more, Margaret had been to Edith, and the desolate girl felt, in the first moments of anguish, that it would be impossible for her to persevere in the new path she had chosen ; impossible to ex change this ever tender, loving sister and friend, for an unknown mother, whose affection she almost despaired of gaining.

But then came the thought that this dear sister, whose long, unwearying devotion, was at present so vividly before her, had now admitted other tenants into her heart, or rather one who would fill all its vacant places, and beside whom, even she, the long cherished darling, would be as no thing. Alone then for evermore ! Life without sunshine or moonlight ! Such seemed the prospect remaining for her who had once been endowed with magic power to draw all who gazed at her, to her feet. There was one, it is true, whom neither sorrow nor sin could ever have changed, one whose love would have shielded her through storm and tempest, who would have clung more closely when all others forsook, who would have held her to his heart during the long journey of life, and gloried in every care or pain he could have borne for her dear sake.

C But he was sleeping far, far away in the quiet church-yard, and the cold rains and the drifting snows, and the wild winds of the stormy north swept alike unheeded, over his grave.