Chequered Shade. A tale

Chapter I

(Tffc AN you not look up for one moment, my £gd dear Mary, to sympathise with me?" Sq* said Emily Vivian to her sister Mary, who, intent upon her drawing, was seated in the oriel window of a morning room at Bury Lodge, one fine, bright winter's day, when the sun came sparkling into the room, and the pleasure ground and park beyond were covered with hoar frost. " Oh, yes. What is it that makes you so very unhappy ?" and a gentle, playful smile showed that no very painful disclosure was expected from the bright, fair, happy girl of seventeen, whose usually beaming countenance did now bear a slight shade of vexation. B " Now, my dear Mary, do not laugh at me ; for it really is a disappointment. There is an invitation to the Fete at Alford for next Thursday — the very day on which Mrs. Murray so particularly wished to see us ; and, as we are engaged, Mamma does not think we can go to Alford, so it must be given up : but, oh dear !

I wish we could have gone. It is not likely that there wdl be another for some time, and it wdl be so charming. Do you think me very silly for caring so much ?" "No, I do not think it silly; and I am sorry too that these pleasant invitations come together. I should have liked especially the Alford fete ; and to go with you for the first time would have been charming." "Well, it cannot be helped; and I don't think I care quite so much about it now that you have sympathised with me, and will try to think of something else, and not hinder you with your drawing any more." So Emily sat down and began to read, and was soon ab sorbed in her book. Mary and Emily Vivian lived with their mother in the retirement of the country ; where, occupied with the care and cultivation of her two daughters, Mrs. Vivian found her chief consolation for the early loss of a devoted husband, whose life had been lost in his country's service.

For some years she had been able to indulge her own inclination by living in seclusion, and in the tranquil discharge of her duties, and the winning affection of her children, had all that she now wished for; but as time went on, and the young girls grew into womanhood, she had thought it right to throw aside her own inclination and to take them into that world where they would have their part to play ; and at the period at which we are relating their history, Emily, the youngest, was just about to enter into society, her sister having already for a shorttime been her mother's' companion to whatever the neighbourhood afforded of gaiety. Mrs. Vivian was an agreeable and good woman ; her piety sincere and simple, and her b manner and conversation were the demon stration of a true and refined character, wholly free from affectation.

Mary's disposition was quiet and retiring; her characteristic was chiefly that of a well regulated, well-proportioned being, mind and body seeming to move in a perpetual harmony. Her small and well-shaped head, with hair smoothly braided over her calm, fair forehead ; her countenance wearing that composure which assures us of the purity and peace within; were true outward indications of the equable nature of Mary. There was great power in her calm gentleness, and it was impossible to live with her and to be indifferent to her love and approbation. Emily's sweet, lively, loving temper, and bright, happy looks, were like sunbeams in the home of her mother, cheering and enlivening all around her; and, although the sunshine was sometimes dimmed by a passing cloud and shower, the clouds were light, the showers sparkling and transient.

Having introduced my readers to this little family group, we will now proceed to relate their history at that period of their lives when we are beginning to make their acquaintance. The sisters continued their different occupations rather sdently, and the morning passed into noon, when Mrs. Vivian came in to remind them of their intended walk with her to Alford — one of their usual morning walks. The day was very cold, yet greatly did they enjoy the fine, frosty air, which had crisped everything upon their path ; the bright yellow beech leaves crackled under their feet ; nothing but brisk walking could make such a day pleasant, but with this it was delightful. The country looked lovely in its misty veil ; the distant hills soft and blue, the fore-ground clear and distinct — every minutest object brought out into strong relief by its fringe of hoar frost, and becoming important, however insignificant in itself, through its delicate sparkling outline of silver— the bright sun giving brilliancy to everything, and a degree of warmth very acceptable and exhilarating.

Their way was through the park, close under the magnificent abode of the great man of the neighbourhood ; and it was at this princely mansion that the fete, to which we have alluded, was to be given. This naturally led to some talk upon the subject, as such an event in a country neighbourhood is too important to be soon forgotten. Society was very scattered in this far-off country, and a ball was an event, gathering neighbours far and wide for many miles around. The splendid and beautiful mansion of the Duke of was not often honoured by his grace's presence in the winter; and it was, therefore, with all the prestige of novelty that the coming fete was hailed. The kindness and good nature of this amiable nobleman did not leave out any of those who could in any way be included in such an invitation, and it may, consequently, be imagined how much pleasure was caused by such an entertainer.

Mrs. Vivian and her daughters continued their walk; and just as they were returning home they saw a figure in the distance, soon recognised as their neighbour, General Murray. After the usual greetings were over, the conversation turned upon the expected fete, and General Murray said — " I suppose you are going ?" " Well, we are invited; but Mrs. Murray expects us on that day," replied Mrs. Vivian. " We have also an invitation," said the General; "so if it would be agreeable to you and jour young ladies, suppose you were to come to us the week after." Emily was quite enchanted at this idea, and it was soon all settled. The General continued leading his horse and walking by their side; and then he added — " I have a piece of news. We are expecting Henry : his regiment is ordered home, and we hope he will be in time for the ball."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Enfily; "how glad we shall be to see him." And so said Mrs. Vivian. Mary said nothing, but took the little Fido up in her arms and began caressing him. And so they went on, chatting and talking, till the General said he must now go home, and, wishing them good morning, rode off. On their return to Bury the answer was written to the Duke's invitation ; and now for a few days the preparations for this great event occupied a great deal of the attention of the whole party— Emily's dress for her first ball being the chief subject of interest, and requiring thought and deliberation fitted for so important a subject. What young lady does not remember her first ball ? It must always be an event ; but how various are the causes for such remembrance ! To some, from the timidity attending a first appearance in public, the remembrance would be painful; to some, the universal delight of dancing to beautiful music, with all the fascination of the brdliant scene around; some with less innocent feelings; and some, perhaps, whose future fate has depended upon that one evening, and to whom the beginning of a new life has opened from the impression of that night.

But the expectation of such pleasures has often a charm of more power than the reality : Emily's mind and imagination were filled with vague and varied images of all that was to be hoped and expected. We will pass over the next few days, as too uninteresting to record, the greatest event being the delight of Emily's old nurse, now retained as housekeeper, at seeing her sweet child in her ball dress of flowing white, adorned with lilies of the valley — and arrive at the moment when Mrs. Vivian's carriage drove up to the door of Alford. b

Chapter II

" Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart — Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining." Bybon. JV.S Emily's foot stepped from the carriage li? into the brilliantly-lighted hall, she felt a little fluttering of expectation and timidity mingled, which was hardly pleasure ; but as she advanced, with her mother and sister, along the extended suite of rooms, amidst a profusion of lovely flowers, dazzling lights, and gay and happy looking crowds it seemed liked fairy-land, and her timidity soon gave way before the enchantment of the scene, and left only the most exquisite sense of enjoyment. The splendid suite of rooms was opened for the occasion — the ball room, library, dining room, sculpture gallery, and orangery formed one long vista of varied beauty : the crowds of happy people which filled them, thoroughly THE BALL. enjoying themselves, were a source of real happiness to the noble owner, who was never so much in his element as when conferring o happiness upon others.

His tall and graceful figure glided amongst the crowd, with a kind word and look for each amongst it, and a quiet appreciation of what was required for the happiness of all — a tact which led him to introduce the right persons, and to take the right time for doing everything. There was a party of the elite at the end of the room; amongst them were the gentle dames of this bachelor Duke's family, who have been well named by the poet, the "Sweeteners of Society," so free from pride and hauteur, so kind and gentle their de meanour to all — a true example to the world of dignity and sweetness combined. There are some of the highest rank who do not deserve such praise, but who have all the vulgar rudeness of the lowest orders of society. So well has it been said that Christianity is a code of good manners as well as of morals: a perfect gentleman or lady must be a good Christian.

Emily's enjoyment was complete. She danced with all the gaiety of a child upon a sunny lawn, bestowing, it must be confessed, very little thought upon the vapid attempts at conversation of her fashionable and self admiring partner, Mr. Henry Fitzhugh, who thought her a pretty girl but too rustic and uninformed to be worth much trouble. This exquisite was handsome and elegant, and graced by a well-trained beard, carefully cul tivated, and never profaned by a razor. He was the only son of Mr. and Lady Isabella Fitzhugh, heir to an immense fortune, and consequently was not allowed to think too humbly of himself; naturally good natured and good hearted, Society was doing all in its power to spoil him, and certainly it was succeeding very rapidly in making him vain and selfish. No good influences ever came near this young man.

In his own home Pride and Folly were the ruling powers, and utter selfishness the THE BALL. 17 atmosphere in which he lived and breathed ; and so, altogether, it seemed that one who, from his naturally good disposition and abilities, might have been a useful member of society, was fast falling into a state of fatuity painful to behold, and it was no wonder that Emily thought him very silly and affected. Dance succeeded dance, and the evening passed away delightfully, and when the time arrived for leaving this brilliant scene, it seemed far too soon for the gay and happy Emily. Of all the partners she had danced with none had made much impression; some were more agreeable than others, and it was pleasant to dance with an old acquaintance, Charles Hamilton, the son of an early friend of her mother's, and Henry Murray being amongst the number ; but her chief feeling was that of a happiness and enjoyment, associated with the sense of being a loved and loving sister and daughter, and the greatest interest she had felt. was in the extreme loveliness of her darling Mary, to whom the excitement had lent a flush and glow unusual to her pale and delicate cheek.

To Mary this evening had brought far different feelings ; and as the carriage which conveyed them home drove through the Avooded park, the bright moon gleaming through the trees upon the white and wintry scene, whilst Emily was fast asleep in one corner of the, carriage, she looked out upon the country, and thought of one who had been long far away, and whom she had seen with feelings which had surprised and startled herself. Henry Murray had been for some years abroad with his regiment, and the time which had passed since he left England had only strengthened the boyish love with which he had regarded Mary, and on his return, hi all the vigour of manhood, he found her girlish charms changed only to be increased by at taining that of woman. Each felt that that evening had sealed their fate.

Mrs. Vivian's thoughts went back to former THE BALL. years, sweet and tender recollections mingling with her present meditations upon her two young daughters. Emily, as a child, had fluttered through the mazy dance, heart whole, careless and happy. But Mary ! — who that had seen her lovely head bent down, and her eyes shaded beneath the glance of those dark eyes so tenderly bent upon her, could doubt that, although once like Emily, a " bird of free and careless wing," that time was past. How much is there to touch the mother's heart at the first conviction that her child loves and is beloved ! When the carriage stopped at the door of their own home, each was aroused from a reverie as deep as the slumbers of Emily ; and it was with feelings of sure and holy trust in that Almighty Father who cares for his children that Mrs. Vivian took leave of her daughters for the night.

In the silence of her chamber that mother's prayers rose for those dear ones ; whilst Mary almost fearfully asked her own heart of the nature of those feelings which had revealed themselves Emily's heart rose in thankfulness for the happiness of her young life. Stillness reigned in the house long before the mother's lamp was extinguished.

Chapter III

Pleasures are like poppies spread : You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or, like the snowfalls in the river, A moment white, then melts for ever. rj|r( HE morning sun had long shone into the \^^. breakfast room at Bury Lodge before 3. Mary and Emily Vivian made their appearance Mrs. Vivian sat with her book indeed in her hand, but not much were its contents studied this morning ; thoughts unbidden would in trude themselves, and her mind, musing on many things, vividly recalled past scenes of happiness which crowded upon her remembrance and interrupted her reading. With a smile, and with a sigh, it was at length resumed and continued, until her fair daughters came to her with their morning greeting, and were met with the same cheerful caress as ever. None could have guessed how much had passed through that mother's mind since their last meeting.

Full of youthful happiness, Emily's heart gaily opened itself, and her talk flowed on about all that had been so new and so charming to her. More seriously glad, and yet how supremely blessed, Mary entered into all her sister's joyous delight ; and their mother listened with sympathy to all that interested them. The breakfast was not very soon over, and when it was concluded — "Now, dear mamma," said Emily, "you will think I have talked enough of all this; yet I cannot help thinking of it, and I really cannot settle to anything this morning." " Did you get a message from Mrs. Ayler?" " No ; did she send to me ?" " She did, and told Jones to let you know ; but I suppose she thought you were not dressed. Mrs. Ayler's message was that Mr. Ayler was not very well to-day, and that if you were not too much tired to spend the day there, she would be very glad to see you."

" Oh, I am not hi the least tired. May I go immediately ?" " Certainly," said her mother. So Emily ran upstairs, her hat and cloak were on in a few minutes, and she was on her way to the Parsonage. The morning seemed to her especially bright, and fresh, and charming. Her spirits rose lightly in the morning breeze. It was very cold, and the frost still sparkled upon every tree and bush. When she reached the little garden gate, opening into a shrubbery, a httle girl, a sweet child of seven, ran out to greet her, saying — " I am so glad you are come, dear Emily!" and, clasping her little arms around her, con tinued, " Papa is very ill to-day ; and mamma is rather ill too." " Dear little Ellen, I am so glad to come ; take me to Mamma." A cottage of the smallest dimensions, but where the hand of taste was everywhere to be traced, was the abode of the clergyman of Bury — the truest Christian pastor who ever watched over a village flock or lived in this world.

But, alas ! as the best thing's do not long remain hi this cold, hard world, but as they become more nearly perfect are the more surely fleeing away from it, so now was this faithful pastor fast fading away from all its cares, and duties, and happiness. Cares, how patiently endured; duties, how resolutely performed ; happiness, how thankfully enjoyed ! His tender, loving wife, truly a " help meet for him," watching, with sad, prophetic fears, his declining health, exerting herself in every way to lessen his cares and to assist in his duties — sweet privilege and dearly appreciated ! But she was now almost overwhelmed by her burthen of anxiety ; and with her two young children also to claim her mother's care, had more upon her hands than she could well perform. Emily, with ready activity, was able to give real help ; for she knew them so well that there was no ceremony, and she knew at once where she could be useful and how not to be officious.

In a few minutes she was set down to copy some papers of consequence, which were to be sent by that day's post ; and while she sat, pen in hand, ready to execute Mr. Ayler's wishes, his wife rested upon the sofa. It was sad to see the flickering light which played upon the intellectual countenance of the rector as he dictated a letter, engaging to do some duty which it was but too likely he might never live to perform; the faithful wife, with unwilling forebodings, watching every look and gesture, and half persuading herself that the flush and animation caused by his occupation were indications of returning health, whilst in her heart of hearts she knew that he was passing away from her. Alas ! how hard it is to admit the belief that all which is most dear to us must leave us in this world alone ; where all is so bright and when with those we love : so dark and dreary when they are gone from our sight.

It was a small room, with scanty furniture. A bookcase, with few books, but choice — a little store room of treasure — enough in that small space to furnish mental food for many a-year ; a tew Aery lovely flowers, well arranged ; and the writing and working materials hi use, were the whole of the contents of that small apart ment. A clock on the mantelpiece, and just the necessary articles of use, plain and simple, yet with such an air of taste in their arrange ment as quite struck one upon entering the room, and almost puzzled one to analyze. How is it that one person sitting hi a room for a few hours will give it an air of comfort and elegance; and another, with everything the same, will cause you to feel a sensation of discomfort ? There certainly is a magic in the touch of some people, something which comes from within, and makes a halo around them !

Emily gave herself up to her morning's work, and truly she was a comfort to those dear friends. When, after finishing all that was required, she proposed to take the letters to the Post in the village, little Ellen accom panying her; leaving the husband and wife free from pressing duties, and somewhat relieved by the repose of the morning. Little Ellen's cheerful spirits formed a striking contrast to the quiet and sorrowful, yet serene, tone of the home she lived in ; and the blessing of a child was never more fully appreciated. Her innocent talk, unconscious of the threatening storm, and yet fully alive to all the changes of her father's illness, and feeling and sympathizing •with her mother in all her anxiety, yet looking no farther than the present, always hopeful that dear Papa would be better for the doctor's medicine ; or that the fine day would make him quite well ; or that nice little dinner, which was so carefully prepared, would make him so strong; the careful hushing of the house when he was likely to sleep, and the anxious care to still her baby brother ; — all these, -with no prophetic fears to damp the ardour and energy of her youthful exertions, were a blessing to her parents and wonderful in one so young.

It is strange to see the early development of thoughtfulness and consideration in children accustomed to poverty and anxiety : when we compare them with others of their own age brought up in luxury, the seemingly hard fate often truly produces the best and sweetest fruit. The ball of the day before was almost forgotten by Emily, as she went with little Ellen down the village, amusing her all the way, passing a few scattered houses, and as they returned to the Parsonage, Emdy met one of her partners of the night before, Mr. Hamilton. A few words spoken, and they were each on their way again — EmUy to her own home, after leaving her little companion at the Parsonage.

Chapter IV

Oh ! why should Fate, sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae sweet a flower as Love Depend on Fortune's shining ? Burns. §Cj)UT, alas! the sweet flower of Love does q^ depend very much upon Fortune's shining ; and, although it may be fostered and cherished by the very obstacles and difficulties opposed to its enjoyment by Poverty, yet, with an undying love, does its victim sometimes wither beneath the chilling blast. On the morning after the ball at Alford — which had been spent by Emily at the Parsonage — two young men were sitting at a late breakfast in the room of an hotel at Belton — a neighbouring -watering place. Nothing could be more lovely than the view from the ■window ; Winter's rude touch had stripped the trees and shrubs, which clustered over the rugged rocks, of their green and russet. r clothing, to change it for a bright and glistening dress of silver.

Slightly acquainted, and yet not very con genial spirits, these two young men lingered over their morning meal, newspaper in hand, and occasionally speaking a few words. Harry Fitz Hugh, the spoilt child of Fortune, was becoming daily less suited to be the companion of Charles Hamilton, on whose early youth Fortune had never deigned to smile. The realities of life had somewhat sternly shewn themselves to Hamilton; the necessity for exertion and self-denial which had been forced upon him since the death of his father, whom he had lost at a very early age, had given a deep and earnest purpose to his life. With a mother chiefly dependent upon his exertions, his strong motive for working had afforded him little time for amusement, and had given a solidity to his character, and a shade of gravity to his countenance, somewhat unusual in one so young.

His large, thoughtful brow, clear, bright, intelligent eye, and manly bearing, made Charles Hamilton one of those men who command not only admiration but respect ; and no one ever thought whether or not. he was handsome, he was most agreeable, and one forgot in his society that he was also very good looking. Of Harry Fitz Hugh, on the contrary, one thought chiefly that he was eminently handsome. A clear, dark face, with bright lustrous eyes, glossy black hair, finely formed features, and a wonderful smile — sometimes changed for an equally astonishing scowl, still always handsome; delicately-formed hands and feet, fine figure, and an altogether refined appearance. There was something which ought to have been fascinating, but spoilt — all spoilt for the present by selfishness and affectation.

He had never had any one to think of but himself; his father had sent him to Eton, made him a ridiculously handsome allowance there, per mitted him to be as idle as he liked, and his naturally good abilities had enabled him, withc2 out much trouble, to get through creditably ; he had made also great proficiency in all manly sports, and was very popular. At Oxford, the command of as much money as he wished for led him into much folly ; and by the time he had passed through, to him, that farce of learning, he had become rather a fine gentleman, and many of his good qualities were smothered, for want of air and room to breathe, by the stifling atmosphere of selfishness. A season in London, when all the ladies, (I blush to say it) with few exceptions, were at his feet, finished the work, and established a firm conviction in his mind that he was irresistible ; that he had only to throw the handkerchief to whom he pleased and to be adored.

Travelling abroad did not do him much good, for there was still the gold worship which never allowed him to know how much was given for Harry Fitz Hugh — how much for hhn as a Mdord Anglais, rolling in riches. As these two young men sat together, one much occupied with his own thoughts, the other lazily swinging his foot and hardly to be said to think of anything, a rather long silence was broken by Fitz Hugh — " That Httle Emily Vivian's rather a pretty girl!" he remarked, yawning, throwing down the paper and running his fingers through his rich, perfumed hair, giving a twirl to his moustache and stroking his youthful beard affectionately, and then getting up, stretching himself, and examining minutely and carefully all his perfections in the looking glass — a piece of furniture wisely provided at inns and hotels, to give the visitors the agreeable view of their own charms, and to afford them at least one unfading source of amusement, in the event of a rainy day, or the utter absence of all interest, which sometimes afflicts travellers in search of pleasure.

Hamilton assented drily to this remark of Fitz Hugh A person less occupied with himself would have seen that the subject was not indifferent to his companion, but Fitz Hugh saw nothing but his own reflection in the glass, and continued — "I think I shall ride over to Bury this morning — there's nothing to do here : it would be rather amusing to flirt with that little unsophisticated girl ; and perhaps I might fall in love a httle for a change." Another very complacent glance at the mirror, and a very close inspection of the regular features, symmetrical figure, and re cherche costume of the speaker. A look of mdignation, wholly lost upon its object, was the only answer with which Hamflton could trust himself. " Perhaps you don't think it worth the trouble; but really one has nothing to do."

" And so you think it best to try and do mischief. Suppose the young lady should take your play for earnest?" And it is impossible to describe the feelings of indignation with which these few words were spoken. " Oh ! well she must take care of that. One can't help it if girls are so sflly; and being tolerably good looking, and all that, it really is not one's fault if a few hearts are broken." "But one can help," began Hamilton; but he felt it was really degrading to Emily to talk any more about her in such a strain, and he held his peace, as the saying is ; but certainly the peace of his tongue did not reach his mind, and he was too indignant to trust himself with another word, and being unwilling to betray his own feelings to Fitz Hugh, he left the room, and walked out into the fresh morning air, to recover his ruffled temper.