Love versus Law; or Marriage with a Deceased Wife's Sister. A novel

Chapter I

Gold ! Heart hath not power to conceive, nor pen to pourtray, the magic influence of the precious metal. It is the Baal before which every knee bows down — the shrine upon which every human offering is laid. One of the earliest and most important lessons of childhood is, ' get gold ;' and as the experience of after life too frequently proves, let man acquire what he may — honour, approbation, esteem — it will avail him but little if he neglect this, the first prudential warning, — and lay not up for himself a goodly store of Gold ! It is a stern and startling truth, but who will have the hardihood to gainsay it B VOL. I. The mammon of unrighteousness works miracles ! The senator— the advocate— the scholar — the man of business — and the artizan — may toil early and late — each wearing out the very pith of life in the almost hourly pursuit of his avocation — and yet if he wins not wealth as his reward — cut bono ?

We love virtue — esteem integrity — applaud industry and perseverance — but we worship Gold ! The Millionaire, let him be who he may, or what he may, is the man above all others ! — the man of weight — the man of influence ! There is a music in the ducat's ring, surpassing even the sweetness of the voice's purest eloquence ! Gold ! Gold ! ! How the ear opens, how the heart throbs at the sound. Whisper but the word, and there are a thousand listeners in a moment at your feet; say where and how it may be won, and there are, at once, a thousand eager votaries in pursuit. No danger, no privation, is sufficiently startling to deter them from the task— suffering, disease, even death itself, may stare them in the face, and yet such is their longing after Gold that? rather than throw away one chance of its acquirement, they are ready to peril all.

Show me your El-Dorado ; I will leave its Gold untouched, and weep above the human hecatomb ! There is not, perhaps, throughout the county of York, (rich as it unquestionably is in noble mansions and princely domains,) a more magnificent residence or estate than that of Temple-Thorpe. It is situated at a distance of some five or six miles from the large manufacturing town of L , and in a district proverbial for its fertility^ and luxuriance. The mansion, which is composed of that peculiarly dark and imperishable brick so much in fashion duringthe respective reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, is of a triangular form ; its centre or principal front being ornamented with various devices worked in stone slabs, peculiar to the age in which it was built, while the right and left wings of the building, though less elaborately adorned, have each also a fair share of orna mental masonry, standing out in bold relief from their dark, and otherwise, it might seem, cold background.

The large portico over the principal door-way presents also as fine and perhaps as perfect a specimen of masonic art as may be met with either in this or inany other country ; and the heavy stone mullionsand deep sills of its small-paned windows, of which, by the way, there are an unusual number, are in perfect keeping and narmonize well with the general style and character of the whole. Round the top of the building and throughout the whole length of the triangle (the roof on every side being perfectly hid), runs a bold trellicing of iron work, inwrought on the principal front with large and legible gilt letters, setting forth the motto of the house — " Rex est qui metuit nihil Hocregnum sibi quisque dat." The park, which consists of some five or six hundred acres, is profusely stocked with large clusters of immense forest trees, many of which, judging from their strong and gigantic proportions, one might readily fancy of a growth and date anterior even to the mansion itself.

The ground, for some distance from the house, runs with a slow and gradual descent, towards the banks of a wide and rapid streamlet, which may here and there be seen pursuing its tortuous and snake-like course from one side of the landscape to the other ; beyond this the country assumes a different aspect, the land at first slightly hilly and undulating-, rises suddenly to an im mense height, displaying every now and then a thickly wooded gorge or ravine not very dissimilar (excepting in its fertility), to what one so frequently meets with in many of the mountainous districts of Scotland. The whole landscape, in fact, when we look beyond the streamlet — presents as perfect and pleasing a picture of luxuriant mountain scenery, as a poet or a painter could desire. In the lavt. extreme distance, and as far almost as the eye is capable of discerning one object from another, stands the principal entrance to the estate — forming1 a chaste and not unclassical object from the windows of the principal reception rooms of the mansion.

Here and there, too, at different points of the landscape, may be seen various ornamental temples, gothic buildings, and rustic seats, and all so skilfully and artistically arranged as to give an additional charm to a scene which, had they not been there, one would have thought incapable of improvement. The principal, and by far the most imposing, object in the landscape, however, is the old Abbey of Temple-Thorpe, which stands embowered amidst a thick cluster of oak and beech trees, at a distance of a mile or a mile and a half from the mansion. Although now fast falling into ruin and decay, it still presents sufficient indications of its original extent and architectural design to render it an object of interest to the tourist as well as to the antiquarian. For the latter, indeed, it possesses no ordinary attractions, being linked with many historical recollections ; and presenting in certain portions, which have escaped the ravages of the devastating tyrant Time, the most perfect specimens of the architectural art of a by-gone age.

The cloisters and refectory are especially remark able, remaining to all appearance perfect, almost as they were some three or four hun dred years ago, and surpassing in magnitude every thingof the kind to be met with else where. At the period of our story, which is of comparatively modern date, a beautiful cottage had been formed in the interior of the building, and so arranged that a small portion of the ruin itself was converted to the purposes of this modern residence. It was a dull gloomy-looking place ; and yet there was an air of witchery about its gloominess that could scarcely fail to win the admiration of the most careless and indifferent observer. The dark rooms — the long vaulted passages — the massive, arched door-ways, and strongly mullioned windows, were dull and melancholy enough — but then the in ternal arrangements and domestic garniture, were all of so charming and useful a character that one could not but feel impressed with an involuntary sense of the comforts, or perhaps more properly it might be said of the luxuries, which there presented themselves.

They were luxuries, however, purchased by the cost of a refined taste and g-ood management — rather than by the prodigal outlay of wealth. It were impossible to look upon that dwelling, or to survey even its meanest apartment, without feeling that the presiding deity of the place was of no common and ordinary nature. Nor was this feeling at all dissipated when one turned for a moment to contemplate the few, and evidently much treasured, articles of art and virtu which were arranged, here and there, throughout the principal rooms. Few, indeed, they were— but they were one and all of the highest character. Paintings, bronzes, statuettes, which would not have disgraced the studio of the most scrupulous virtuoso in the lan^l It was evident, even to the mere casual observer, that those works of art were treasured not only for their own intrinsic worth, but from a deep devotion to art itself!

None, save one possessing the most refined and artistic taste, could so have arranged the works of a Rosa or a Caracci — could so have placed them that every alternation of light and shade brought out some new beauty, and laid bare some further proof of the painter's thorough mastery of his art. Many there are who treasure such thing-s hut they treasure them for the pounds, shil lings, and pence value, they have attained in the eyes of the world, rather than from any higher and more classical feeling. This, however, was not the case with the tenant of the Abbey Cottage. B

Chapter II

Having briefly described the mansion and estate of Temple-Thorpe, it now behoves us to say a few words of its inhabitants. Mr. Percival Andre Belmont, the owner and occupier of the mansion, was a man between fifty and sixty years old, and a thorough martyr to all the infirmities usually attendant upon so advanced an age. His appearance, (which, even in the prime of manhood, had never been vei*y prepossessing), was disagreeable and repulsive— and it were impossible for his most intimate friends to feel perfectly easy and at home in his presence. The cold, selfish, sarcastic expression, that lit up his thin cadaverous features and the sharp penetrating glance of his small grey eyes, were sufficient of themselves to raise an involuntary feeling of distrust in all who beheld them ; nor did they, in the least, belie the true character of their owner.

A prouder, or a more selfish and penurious man, it would have been difficult to meet with — and these harsh and forbidding traits of character were relieved by none of those finer feelings, or better sympathies, which may occasionally be found existent in the most hard and depraved hearts. There are instances, indeed, where the redeeming cha racteristics of a repulsive nature are, at times, almost sufficient to induce us to overlook the evil in our admiration of the good. Such, however, was not the case with reference to Mr. Belmont. His was a harsh, rough, and impenetrable nature, which each succeeding year, as it came round, bringing with it its increased amount of physical prostration and debility, seemed only to render more stubborn and confirmed. He had been educated, in early life, for the profession of the law ; a profession, perhaps, of all others the least calculated for a man of a narrow and naturally selfish disposition, inasmuch as the daily avocations of a lawyer are almost certain to bring him, more or less, into contact with the selfishness and chicanery of others, until he becomes so accustomed to, and fa miliarized with, the most questionable trans actions of every-day life, that he ceases to look upon his own personal failings as in firmities of character, and glories rather in the conviction that he is enabled, by the depth of his superior foresight and cunning-, to overreach others as they themselves have overreached their neighbours.

It may truly be said, thnt the introduction of such men into the profession has contributed more than any other cause, to bring that profession into its present universal bad odour and disrepute ; and we cannot but occasionally feel, that there is much truth in the poet's satire — " He saw a lawyer killing a viper On a dunghill beside his own stable ; And the devil he smil'd, for 't put him in mind Of Cain and his brother Abel." At the time of which we are now speaking- Mr. Belmont had been in possession of the estate of Temple-Thorpe for a period of fifteen or sixteen years. How he had become possessed thereof, and how his fortune was built upon the wreck of others — the sequel of our story must shew, for the present it is sufficient to remark, that his title to it was generally admitted to be strictly legal, and as such it may fairly be presumed unimpeachable.

His wife, who was a woman of superior character, possessinggreat moral and intellectual powers, had died within twelve months after his accession to fortune, leavinghim but two children (one, at that time, a fair high-spirited boy of twelve years of age, the other, a gentle, delicate girl, of some seven years) to enliven the solitude of his widowhood, and to lessen the weight of his irreparable loss. A loss, by the way, of which even the proud and selfish Mr. Belmont could not but feel deeply sensible. Reginald (such was the boy's name) in herited many of his father's fadings and in firmities ; he was proud, rash, and impetuous, and directly opposed both in temper and disposition to the mild and unassuming- Marian — who seemed, like her deceased pa- * ..... rent, to be endowed with a spirit of unvarying gentleness and humility.

Nor did either of them, as they advanced in years, become materially changed ; their early characteris tics, despite the influence of schooling and education, still survived. And when, after the lapse of some years, the brother and sister, having passed the period of their pupillage — one at college, the other in London — again returned, to take up their abode under the paternal roof— it was evident to all that their childhood's nature still predominated. Softened and subdued it may be — but still there it was — deeply rooted as ever. We will now turn to the Abbey Cottage. Its tenant, Mrs. Belmont, or as she was generally called, and as we shall hereafter designate her, the Widow Belmont, was sister-in-law to the present owner of Temple- Thorpe. She was a staid delicate woman, and although somewhat advanced beyond the meridian of life, her features still bore evidence of the surpassing beauty of her earlier years . and had it not been for the sad expression of her bright hazel eyes, and the melancholy smile which would occasionally steal across her cheek, one might almost have come to the conclusion that Time had passed her by with an unusually gentle and sparinghand.

Not so, however; the Widow Belmont had had many bitter trials, and her sweet fair i\.c<.> served only to belie her crushed and lacerated heart. She was good, gentle, and noble-hearted, as she was beautiful ; and few, if sin\ , who had onee become intimately ac quainted with her were ever heard to utter a word in her dispraise. True it is, the tenant of the Abbey Cottage had her failing's and infirmities (and who indeed has not?) but she had so accustomed herself to commune with her own heart, to familiarize herself with her own nature and character, that, although she might not wholly succeed in eradicating, bIm « as ever successful in concealing those failings and infirmities from the eyes of a prying and ill-natured world. And yet, she was no trickster— she did but carry on that mental antagonism which all who have any regard for their own welfare, or for the veneration of others, must sooner or later become accustomed to practise.

Plunged at an early age into the furnace of affliction, left as it were like a scathed tree in the wilderness, desolate and cast down, she had fled from the noisy and turbulent world, and passed the mid* day years of life in solitude and seclusion. Then it was that she first began really and truly to understand her own heart, to know her own nature — and then it was, having gained this, the most important of all human knowledge, that she first began to ennoble and purify her character, giving full play to the nobler faculties with which by nature she was en dowed, and schooling to the best of her ability all those secret and insidious prompt ings of the heart, which if left to themselves, unfettered and unrestrained, lead us into a thousand errors, and entail upon us an incaltillable weight of care and suffering.

In a word, the Widow Belmont, naturally gifted With the highest qualities both of head and heart, had been purified, ennobled, spiritualised by affliction and solitude. Having said thus much, it is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that few women possessed higher intellectual attainments, or were more thoroughly impressed with a due sense of their incomparable worth. The small wellehosen library, the collection of paintings, and the tew articles of virtu she had been allowed to retain as her own, and to remove from the mansion at the time it had fallen into the hands of Mr. Pereival Andre Belmont, were treasured with miserly care. It might be, however, that another feeling, still more powerful than admiration for the works of genius, had some weight in this matter. There was scarcely an article in the Widow's collection of ornamental treasures which had not connected with it some pleas ing memory aud association of the past.

Be this as it may, her books, her pictures, and her folios, had afforded many a weary hour's pleasure to the Widow Belmont. They were old, familiar things! loved for themselves as well as for the memories they recalled. The principal, and in fact we may say almost the sole companion of her last sixteen years' solitude had been her only chdd ; at the time of his father's death a tender and delicate boy — now, however, a hale, well-formed, vigorous and active man. That Walter Belmont should be alike the pride and treasure of the Widow's heart, few can wonder. He was the last, the only link in the chain of her early affections that had not been snapped asunder ; and on him she had long been accustomed to concentrate her every feeling of love and adoration. The son was worthy of the mother ! High-minded, warm-hearted, frank and ingenuous, Walter Belmont had ever been to her, even in the early days of her widowhood, when he himself was far too young fully to estimate her loss, or to fathom the deep bitter ness of her grief; a kind companion, a ready loaje versus law. comforter.

He was the very image too of his deceased parent, alike in lineament and in mind ! Again and again, as she sat gaz ing upon his face, drinking in the liquid eloquence of his dark penetrating eyes and listening to the gentle counsels of his youth ful voice, would she cheat herself into the belief that the cold earth had given up its dead, and that she was once more in the presence of him, whose love had been the one bright day-dream of her youth — whose memory she had so closely enshrined within her heart in older and sadder years. Oh ! that the loved and loving tenants of the Abbey Cottage might be spared the further bitter changes and chances of the world ! That they might live in solitude and quiet — enjoying, to the last, the elysium of their humble home — ' The blest abode of harmony and peace.' Not so — not so \ even at this moment a dark cloud is gathering above their heads — the avalanche is ready to fall upon and crush them ! Trials — bitter trials are at hand.

Chapter III

A beautiful summer's day was drawing to a close. The sun had just sunk below the headlands of the distant hills, and the first deep shades of twilight were advancing gradually over the sky, while a spirit of quiet and repose stole almost imperceptibly over the earth. Not a sound, save the low murmuring of the distant streamlet, or the occasional carol of a weary bird as it wended its flight towards its accustomed roost, disturbed the death-like silence which every where prevailed. Nature, like man, weary and oppressed, seemed ready for repose — and anxious to la}7 down her head on the quiet and revivifying lap of night. Beautiful, in deed, is it to go forth at such an hour amongst the green fields and blossoming hedge-rows— to ramble to and fro in solitude and quiet — indulging the heart's most secret and cherished thoughts, and conjuring back the pleasant memories of long ago.

It is at such an hour perhaps, above all others, that the influence of the external world is most powerfully and beneficially felt; the mind, yielding to the impression from with out, borrows, whatever may be its state, somewhat at least of the universal quietude and repose. Hear what the poet says — for, after all, your true poets are the best authori ties on such matters— and few, perhaps, bet ter than him from whom we quote — William Motherwell : '■' Oh God ! this is an holy hour : Thy breath is o'er the land ; I feel it in each little flower Around me where I stand — In every dew-bead glistening sheen, In every leaf and blade of green— And in this silence grand and deep, "Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep." The inhabitants of the little hamlet which lay within the precincts of Temple-Thorpe, were for the most part a-bed and asleep long ago ; and it was only here and there that an occasional straggler might be seen loitering along the path leading from the hostelry towards his own home, having indulged somewhat longer than usual in the witching potations of John Barleycorn, and the society of the gossip-loving Boniface.

Amongst these was an old man of some fifty-five years of age, whom one would have thought from his appearance would have preferred the quiet of his own cottage hearth to the noise and bustle of a public assembly. Not so, however. Old Frank Hartwell was a man of too much importance amongst his neighbours to absent himself from their society whenever an opportunity occurred of his sharing it, which usually happened about six nights out of seven in every week ; for every night, Sunday night only excepted, might old Frank have been found at his post in the tap-room of the village hostelry. It must not, however, be thought that he was an intemperate or a dissipated character; he had one measure for all occasions, and that by no means an excessive one, and there he took his stand. A couple of pipes of to bacco and one pint of honest Boniface's home-brewed ale, constituted the sum total of Frank's nightly expenditure, and we verily believe, as he himself used to sa}7, " The de'il himself would have hard work to tempt him to go beyond it."

It is strange enough, however, that this very night the old man had broken through his resolution — his one pint had been multiplied into two, and had it not been that the lateness of the hour began to call away his companions one after another until he was left alone, it is more than probable that he would not have been contented even with these. What could be the meaning of this sudden change? Boniface was staggered with astonishment when old Frank called for his pint to be re plenished, but he was a wise man, and too much alive to his own interest to make any remark ; such, however, was not the case with the guests ; one and all uttered an exclamation of surprise, and some even ven tured so far as to jeer the old man on his intemperance ; while one, a stout jovial looking fellow, and by far the youngest man of the party, hazarded a still more pointed remark, and congratulated him on his really having at last become "hale fellow well met."

Old Frank gravely shook his head, laid down his pipe for a moment upon the table, and then turning and addressing him self to the last speaker, said in a slow but somewhat indistinct tone, " Mat, Mat, thou art a good natured lad, an' would be the last i' the world to say aught that might hurt an old man's feelings. I know thou meant it not — but, don't lad, don't joke me. Manv and many a time I've said the de'il himself couldn't tempt me to drink more than one pint of ale a -night, but what the de'il can't do grief and vexation may, an' does some times accomplish. Its here, lad, here "—and Frank laid his hand on his heart, " an' for the life of me I can't help it." No one, after this ventured to question the old man further on the subject ; he was evidently sad and dispirited ; and his friends, one and all, prompted by that innate feeling of delicacy which is so often found to exist in the breasts of the most unlearned and uneducated men, in a degree not at all inferior to those who are in a position far above them, remained silent, or hazarded only such general remarks as could have no reference to the condition of their companion.

Frank Hartwell was born and had lived from childhood to old age on the estate of Temple-Thorpe. He had been in the service of its former owner up to the time of his death, and after the happening of that event, he had elected voluntarily to follow the fortunes, and to ally himself to the reduced establishment of his widow, rather than to enter into the employment of its new master, Mr. Percival Andre Belmont, towards whom, by the way, it may at once be as well to observe, he enter tained no very respectful — much less very friendly— feeling. A long and faithful servi tude had placed him in that familiar position vol. I. C with the family, which tried and good servants are so apt to obtain. He had sufficient good sense, however, never to forget his own place, nor to be guilty of any neglect of duty.

The only license old Frank ever took was a most extraordinary liberty of speech. He always said what he thought, and was ever the first to take up arms against any one who might venture to say a word that might in the most remote degree reflect upon the character of his employers. The Widow Belmont and her son Walter were, in his estimation, the only two people in the country really worthy of the name of gentlefolk; the only two people whom, in fact, he would care to serve. And that he w7as sincere, in this last opinion, at all events, may be safely taken for granted? inasmuch as it was generally known that old Frank had been a prudent and money-saving man in his younger days, and might have retired from service and have lived upon the produce of his savings some years ago, had he been so minded.

On the removal of the widow Belmont to the Abbey Cottage, he had been installed into the office of gardener, and in this capacity, notwithstanding his advanced years, he acted up to this very day. All, however, who had known him previous to that time could not fail to observe the change which that sad event had wrought upon his temper and disposition. He suddenly became gloomy and dispirited, and might occasionally be heard talking to him self in a rambling and incoherent manner ; but never were even his most intimate com panions able to draw from him the secret of his trouble and dissatisfaction. The most that could ever be gathered from him, was a few words to this effect : " It's no matter," said he, " I know what frets and bothers me well enough, but there's no help for it ; there fore I may as well bide quietly, as kick up a stir and flustration : it would do no good, no good whatever, and might only vex and harass those who have been vexed and ha rassed enough already.

The lawyer says it's all right and according to law, but I'll be d d if it's justice." And whenever Frank Hart well came out with an oath, everybody who knew him knew well that it was no common or triflingmatter that an noyed him. This manifest disinclination to obtrude the secret cause of his grief on others had served effectually to allay that prying curiosity which might, and would in all probability, under other circumstances, have made it matter of public notoriety long ago. Never before the evening in question had old Frank Hartwell been heard voluntarily to speak of his troubles, and it was evident that even then he did so to save himself from further bantering and annoyance, rather than from any desire to enlist the sympathy of his friends. On leavingthe village hostelr}-, the old man, instead of proceeding directly towards his own home, turned into a narrow by-path which diverged from the hamlet across three or four small meadows, and ran directly over the brow of a steep thickly-wooded hillock, from which might be seen, at a single glance, the mansion and park of Temple-Thorpe, v the Abbey, and the Abbey-Cottage.

From this point, perhaps, above all others, one had the most artistic and delightful view to be met with on the whole estate. The landscape was perfect, and required but the pencil of a Claude Lorrain to have invested it with immortality. It was while gazing on this scene, that Frank Hartwell, though still sad and dispirited, became imperceptibly influenced by the quiet stillness and death-like repose of the hour. Harsh words died upon his lips — bitter thoughts passed quickly from his heart. His grief, though nothing-abated, took a higher and more purified character. He had been standing, gazing upon the landscape, and chewing the cud of his melancholy reflections, for some few minutes, when the sound of a light step fell upon his ear, and the next moment his young master, Walter Belmont, was seen ascending the opposite side of the hill, and ere the old man had time to retire, as his first impulse would have led him to have done, he had been hailed and recognized.