The Cravens of Beech Hall

Chapter I

Jenny Craven had taken her book and sketching apparatus with her, to have a lonely walk on the beach, and, whilst enjoying the fresh air, to indulge herself now and then in the pages of a new romance lent her by Miss Thelwall, and to enter into her small collection of views another drawing of the rocky and romantic coast in which she took so great a delight. Jenny had not had quite so superficial VOL. II an education as most young ladies retire with from a London seminary. Indeed, she could speak French well and intel ligibly; could draw with much taste and execution ; and had, above all, a fine in telligent mind, without which, modern education can only accomplish a certain mediocrity, which will enable its possessor to pass in a crowd, escaping observation simply, but not attracting attention in any way.

So it was that Jenny had turned to advantage the training she had received, and her resources were such as not only Would make her sought for in society, but would increase and amplify her own personal enjoyments in solitude. Thus, the days, solitary as she was, had no weariness in them ; and, although no one would have taken greater pleasure in social companion ship, still, as it was partly denied her, she turned with confidence and pleasure to her inner self, and lived and luxuriated in the simple and pure enjoyments offered her. Charlie, too, was coming in a day or two. She had written and told him of their cousins being here ; and he had pro mised to speak to his father, and petition that they might be allowed to associate with them. Why should they quarrel with and shun the innocent children of their dead uncle ?

And Jenny pondered and read, and then sketched ; and with all the buoyancy and elasticity of youth, promised and pictured to herself all sorts of happiness for the next month, with Charlie's company, and perhaps Harry's, and Amy's. The afternoon was drawing on, and she turned homewards. She had come so far by the sands, and determined to return by the summit of the cliffs. She toiled her way up the difficult ascent, and in a few minutes was standing breathless and heated at its edge. As she turned towards the sea, she beheld the rock on which Augusta still was, now nearly submerged, and Jenny could discern the faint waving of the scarf, by which she was still hoping to attract at tention. By this time, Edgar's boat had left her, and Jenny could only look for a moment with horror on the impending fate of the unfortunate woman on the rock.

Whose figure it was, she could not discern ! She only looked a moment, then darted away with all the speed she could command in the direction of the fishing hamlet. She flew up and down the slight un dulations, and threw away from her the books, parasol, and camp-stool, so as to be as little encumbered as possible ; her hat had fallen from her head, and with flushing cheeks and hair disordered, she suddenly came on Mr. Seymour. She had never spoken to him, but this was not a time for ceremony ; and as she came up to him, she seized hold of his arm, and dragging him to the edge of the cliff, pointed to the rock on which was still waving, although fainter and fainter, and at rarer intervals, the blue scarf. " See there, on that rock, a poor soul in peril : oh, help her ! help her ! " Mr. Seymour gazed but for a moment with horror — his plan was conceived and acted on at once.

" That boat-house down there, we must get to it : there is no time to go for help now. Can you assist? but you — you are so slight, so young." " Try me. I can assist you ; try me. only try me,'' returned Jennj7, almost breathless, but with eagle eye and flushing cheeks. "This way then, and God grant it may not be too late ! This slight breeze has freshened the tide ; if only she has strength to hold out, and keep her footing, we may yet save her !" Without wasting more words, he sprang down the cliff, occasionally turning to help Jenny, and they soon reached the small boat-house which belonged to Mr. Clifton. It was locked, but Seymour, taking a heavy stone, broke the door open, and drew forth with some difficulty a small boat ; with Jenny's assistance, who proved herself no mean help, he dragged it to the water, and launched it in a moment. ■' Do you think you could steer?— it would help me and hasten us.'' "I am sure I could.'' She jumped in, and Seymour, taking the oars, pushed out rapidly towards the rock.

Jenny's eyes, as she managed the rudder, were distended and fixed on the sinking figure — for it was sinking now. The faint flutterings of the scarf were over. Whether the sufferer had seen the ap proach of succour, or whether she had resigned herself to her inevitable and dreadful fate, it was hard to tell. The waves were now washing up to her waist, and there seemed little hope that she could hold out another three minutes. Mr. Seymour strained every nerve ; he gathered from the expressive face before him that the unfortunate being still ex isted. They were within a few yards now of the rock ; and Jenny, straining her eyes, recognized Miss Thelwall. The brave girl had withstood the sweeping of the waters until now, — now that help was near, she could control herself no longer: with a faint cry she threw up her arms, and sinking down, the waters closed over her head. ** Gracious heavens ! she is gone ; oh, what are we to do ? — what are we to do ?"

Seymour turned round ; he beheld nothing but the waste of waters and an indistinct wave of a white dress, which bubbled up and fluttered for a moment, and then sank again. He did not stay to speak to Jenny, he threw down the oars and sprang over the gunwale of the boat. She readily divined the best course to pursue, and taking the oars, steadily guided the boat in the direction of the spot where she too had seen the white garment disappear. It was a moment of dreadful anxiety — a moment in which, although one lives in the present, yet every horrible recol lection of death comes sweeping over the mind. As she impelled the boat still nearer, to her joy, she beheld Seymour rise to the sur face of the water, bearing up the now in sensible figure. She guided the boat, and assisted him in placing Augusta in safety ; but her pale, pale face, her limp and helpless form, struck Jenny with terror.

" She must be dead," she uttered in a hoarse whisper. Xl I think not ; I'll take the oars : will you chafe her hands?'' Jenny did as she was desired, without another word, and with all the speed he could command Seymour made for the shore. Half way there they met Edgar returning hurriedly, but he recognised them, and only gazed for a moment on the pale figure extended at their feet, and turning round, followed, awe-struck and silent, in the wake of the boat which he believed contained the dead body of Augusta. They reached the shore. By this time, some fishermen's wives had left their cots and crowded down, children too, and there was Sir George in a frantic state, having been in formed in a few incoherent words, by Edgar Manly, of the peril of his sister, and the immediate necessity of his returning to her assistance, after placing Mary in safety.

He was the first to rush to the boat's side, and to take the pale form in his arms. " Good God ! She is dead, then ?" " No, not dead," hurriedly answered Jenny. " Her heart still beats. Take her up to a cottage, at once. Do not lose a moment." Followed, then, by them all, Sir George bore his sister to the nearest cottage. There, excluding the curious crowd, and shutting the door, they endeavoured to restore consciousness to the sufferer. Jenny, young as she was, took the lead, and with that presence of mind which can be summoned, in cases of emergency, by many of the weakest and most fragile of the sex, she recalled the methods she had often heard for restoring the half-drowned ; and, after some patient application of them, she had the delight of seeing Augusta's eyes once again open, and, although closed again languidly, yet shortly revealed with restored consciousness in their gaze.

Poor Sir George sank back in a chair with a sigh of relief; and, if truth were to be told, with a quiet burst of tears, which bespoke his past agony of mind, and his present sense of gratitude. Jenny, now that her suspense was over, and the necessity for active exertion passed away, turned pale and faint, and retired to a distant corner of the cottage, where she sat, with silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Sir George at last commanded his voice, to turn with thanks, almost too deep for words, towards the Pastor. " Do not thank me, Sir George ; it was that young lady who really saved your sister." And, in a few words, he recounted the history. Sir George and the revived Augusta listened, and, with eager looks, sought Jenny, who was called from her retreat. It was clearly impossible at this moment to say all they felt.

They both hoped to testify in time to come that which lacked words for expression now. In the fast gathering twilight, the suc courers and the succoured wended their. way silently to the Mill Cottage. Jenny and Augusta were side by side ; whilst Sir George and the clergyman followed, watching their languid footsteps anxiously. The moon was rising over the blue water, and glistening in a brilliant flood of silver on its bosom. How beautiful and calm that treacherous sea looked ! " But for you — you — under Providence, I should have been dead now," softly and tremblingly uttered Augusta. -* And what would poor George have done ?" " Thank God ! it is over now, and you are here in safety. But, oh ! I shall never forget the moment when I saw you disappear from off the rock — your dress ! your pale face !"

" And I never shall cease to be haunted by the sight of those waves, coming on one by one, higher and higher, and nearer and nearer. Oh, God !" Jenny pressed her hand as it leant on her arm, but she did not speak. One of those moments had arrived for both, when words are impossible with their limitable expression ; when only in the boundless realm of thought one can live.

Chapter II

Mrs. Villiers, after the first impulse of gratitude at the safety of her only child, was inclined to quarrel with the individual chosen by Providence to rescue her. Here was lost a fine opportunity for Sir George to have made for himself a claim on the consideration of the beautiful widow. Had he, now, seen her first in her perilous position, had he secured the boat and gone off to her assistance, it would, indeed, have been well ! But there ; things would always turn out so contrary. Where was the good of her scheming and managing and contriving, if Sir George was always in the wrong place, and Edgar always in the right? So, after seeing her daughter in bed, and administer ing many a sage curt piece of advice, in the intervals of her really anxious inquiries about her late predicament, Mrs. Villiers betook herself to the sitting-room, and her brother having arrived with Harry, both with excited and inquiring looks and words, she sat down and gave a detailed account of the whole affair, and with a peevish air spoke of Edgar in rather disparaging terms than otherwise.

" But, sister ! he saved your child. For heaven's sake, be grateful for that. It makes me shiver to think of their posi tion ! Had the wind only freshened a bit more, and nothing could have saved that fine spirited girl, Augusta ! Manly tells me she would not hear of coming off with him and Mary ! And, had it not been for Seymour, and that nice girl at the mill, she must have been lost." " Captain Manly had no business to leave her alone ; he ought to have sunk the boat first," returned Mrs. Villiers, in her anger and mortification, forgetting her daughter's safety altogether. " Now you do forget yourself, sister. Let us be grateful for the means which has been mercifully provided for their safety." "And now you will see, mark my words, that Mary's sneaking partiality for that Manly will be confirmed.

Women are always so weak and stupid about men who have done them a service of this sort." " And if they are, it is to their credit, in my opinion," returned Mr. Clifton, inwardly thinking how the world had hardened his sister, and how lightly she regarded anything not appertaining to it. The next day the party were revived and restored after the terrible excitement and peril of the preceding afternoon ; and, seated by the window looking over the sea, Mary was pondering on her late escape, and the means by which it had been brought about. •Mrs. Villiers, indeed, was not wrong in believing that these late events had confirmed her daughter's partiality for Edgar Manly, had it indeed needed this seal ; and as Mary sat there, and pictured to herself her peril, and her present safety, and by whose hands this last was secured, she felt her heart thrill again; and valued her dear Hfe dearer still, that it had been his gift !

Her pale face suddenly flushed scarlet, as the door opened and admitted the sub ject of her thoughts. Yes, there stood Edgar, with fond eyes o VOL. looking down on her, and in a moment with her hand clasped in his. They neither of them spoke. The silent pressure of each hand proclaimed what it did not need the tongue to tell: her eyes were cast down, whilst the trembling lips betrayed the emotion which agitated her — he, with gaze riveted on her, seemed to dwell on the precious jewel which he had been the means of rescuing. Some moments thus passed ; at last he began in a faltering voice : " Mary, it is useless now to dissemble ; you know my heart — how I love you — would die for you ! you know it now." Mary answered nothing, but turned her head towards the sea, whose mild bosom was now dark and threatening — a heavy cloud sweeping over the sky and re flecting its gloomy aspect on the before tranquil blue water.

He continued— -- That which I tell you in words now, you have known for months and months — nay, longer ; say so, and say, too, I do not love you in vain." "Why should I conceal it, Edgar?" she returned, in a low and trembling voice. That confession from the lips of a woman a man holds as dearest on earth, was not received with unmixed feeling ; a flash of joy illuminated Edgar's face as he heard those words, but it speedily gave place to an air of anxiety and per plexity, as he looked at her. "Thanks, thanks, for this assurance; but, Mary, how can I ask you to share my fate — how ask you to leave your home and its luxuries, to which you have so long been accustomed — for the rough life of a soldier's wife ? " " Ah, Edgar ! women hold such con siderations as valueless, when they are inseparable from the fate of those they love."

" Then there are other things to con sider — in fact, Mary, beloved, and dear to me beyond words— Mary, I must tell you everything, — how I am situated, — how we are situated ; if your love is strong enough to stand the test to which I shall put it — then, then, we may still have many a happy day in prospect : if not, then it is better, far better, we should part. Heaven knows that it would be a bitter pang to me, for I have not had many cheering looks or loving hearts to soften my rugged path since I grew to man's estate ! " "But part, Edgar! why should we?" We have confessed that we love each other. What should separate us now?" Mary ventured to look at him as he stood over her, with his dark anxious look. Oh, how unlike the accepted lover she had often pictured to her self! Sounds of footsteps along the narrow passage disturbed them.

Edgar hastily dropped the hand he had held ; and, as the door opened, and Sir George appeared, accompanied by his sister, he was found leaning from the window — whilst Mary was vainly endeavouring to rise and receive her guests with common ease and self-possession. Poor Sir George ! He looked at the lovely widow with admiration tenfold increased by the knowledge of her late most perilous position. Yet his was not an age when the feelings are very rhap sodical ; and it may, perhaps, hardly be credited, that his first awakening that morning had been attended with the sole thought of gratitude for Augusta's preservation. The quick eyes of the sister divined that they had interrupted a most inter esting We-d-tete. She was puzzled how to act : whether to tell Sir George of her suspicions of the mutual attachment she was sure existed between the widow and the guardian ?

Then she considered how unlikely it was that this selfish worldly schemer would seek to add to his burdens the almost dowerless Mrs. Craven, beautiful as she might be ; and, if so, her brother might win her yet — and yet, she hardly wished to see that. She could not think Mary was worthy of him — weak, selfish, and indolent as she was ! All these thoughts coursed each other swiftly through her mind, as she leant silently back in her chair, half listening to the somewhat lengthy and prosy con gratulations of her brother to Mrs. Craven, intermixed with allusions to his own feelings of suspense and distress, when he heard that Edgar had gone to their succour in the small boat, and knew not whether or not he would be in time to rescue them from the impending destruc tion. Mary, with her mind full of the recent conversation, could give but a languid attention to Sir George.

Her eyes were every now and then seeking Edgar, who, after the first salutations to the Baronet and his sister, continued to lean from the window, not uttering a word, or even casting a glance at the party in the small room. His gaze seemed riveted on the sea, which now was looking wild and gloomy, as the clouds, driven along by an increasing breeze, swept hurriedly over the sky. He, at last, wrote a line on a card, and leaving it on the sill of the window which was by Mrs. Craven's side, he made a hasty bow to Sir George and his sister, and disappeared; When/ at last, they, too, had taken their departure, Mary turned to the slip of card, which she had longed to read for some time past, but which the unwelcome presence of Sir George prevented her doing. There were only a few words. " Can you meet me on the sands by the large cave, this evening, at half past eight ?

I will tell you all then." Poor Mary ! In her feverish anxiety, to be with him, to hear him again say he loved her, was happiness enough. She did not care to know what it was which made the difficulty at which he dimly hinted. She believed love, such as hers and his, would break down every barrier, clear away every impediment. She fancied her troubles were about to end, her perplexities to cease. She felt that the relinquishing her luxurious home would be no sacrifice. The lot as his wife would be too blessed and too per fect for any one to dwell for a second on the contrast which Vould ensue on a change from Beech Hall to the country quarters wherein his regiment might call him. Children, mother, home, all, all, was forgotten in the one absorbing passion of her heart ; and, kissing the card, and concealing it in her work basket, she began to wait and count the hours until they should meet again at the appointed spot.