Book: Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXIX.

V >> Various >> Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXIX.




"Well, sir, how does London look?" enquired the doctor, "are the folks
as mad as they used to be? What new invention is the rage now? What
bubble is going to burst? What lord committed forgery last? Who was the
last woman murdered before you started?"

I confessed my inability to answer.

"Well, never mind. There isn't much lost. I am almost ashamed of old
England, that's the truth on't. I have given over reading the
newspapers, for they are about as full of horrors as Miss
What's-her-name's tales of the Infernals. What an age this is! all crime
and fanaticism! Everyman and everything is on the rush. Come, Fairman,
take your wine."

Mr Fairman sat gazing on the fire, quietly, and took no notice of the
request. "People's heads," continued the medical gentleman, "seem turned
topsy-turvy. Dear me, how different it was in my time! What men are
about, I can't think. The very last newspaper I read had an
advertisement that I should as soon have expected to see there when my
father was alive, as a ship sailing along this coast keel upwards. You
saw it, Fairman. It was just under the Everlasting Life Pill
advertisement; and announced that the Reverend Mr Somebody would preach
on the Sunday following, at some conventicle, when the public were
invited to listen to him--and that the doors would be opened half an
hour earlier than usual to prevent squeezing. That's modern religion,
and it looks as much like ancient play-acting as two peas. Where will
these marching days of improvement bring us to at last?"

"Tell me, Mayhew," said Mr Fairman, "does it not surprise you that a
girl of her age should be so easily fatigued?"

"My dear friend, that makes the sixth time of asking. Let us hope that
it will be the last. I don't know what you mean by '_so easily_'
fatigued. The poor girl has been in the village all day, fomenting and
poulticing old Mrs Barnes, and if it had been any girl but herself, she
would have been tired out long before. Make your mind easy. I have sent
the naughty puss to bed, and she'll be as fresh as a rose in the
morning."

"She must keep her exertions within proper bounds," continued the
incumbent. "I am sure she has not strength enough to carry out her good
intentions. I have watched her narrowly, and cannot be mistaken."

"You do wrong, then, Fairman. Anxious watching creates fear, without the
shadow of an excuse for it. When we have anything like a bad symptom, it
is time to get uneasy."

"Yes, but what do you call a bad symptom, Doctor?"

"Why, I call your worrying yourself into fidgets, and teazing me into an
ill temper, a shocking symptom of bad behaviour. If it continue, you
must take a doze. Come, my friend, let me prescribe that glass of good
old port. It does credit to the cloth."

"Seriously, Mayhew, have you never noticed the short, hacking cough that
sometimes troubles her?"

"Yes; I noticed it last January for the space of one week, when there
was not a person within ten miles of you who was not either hacking, as
you call it, or blowing his nose from morning till night. The dear child
had a cold, and so had you, and I, and everybody else."

"And that sudden flush, too?"

"Why, you'll be complaining of the bloom on the peach next! That's
health, and nothing else, take my word for it."

"I am, perhaps, morbidly apprehensive; but I cannot forget her poor
mother. You attended her, Mayhew, and you know how suddenly that came
upon us. Poor Ellen! what should I do without her!"

"Fairman, join me in wishing success to our young friend here. Mr
Stukely, here's your good health; and success and happiness attend you.
You'll find little society here; but it is of the right sort, I can tell
you. You must make yourself at home." The minister became more cheerful,
and an hour passed in pleasant conversation. At ten o'clock, the horse
of Doctor Mayhew was brought to the gate, and the gentleman departed in
great good-humour. Almost immediately afterwards, the incumbent himself
conducted me to my sleeping apartment, and I was not loth to get my
rest. I fell asleep with the beautiful village floating before my weary
eyes, and the first day of my residence at the parsonage closed
peacefully upon me.

It was at the breakfast table on the succeeding morning that I beheld
the daughter of the incumbent, the favourite and companion of my pupils,
and mistress of the house--a maiden in her twentieth year. She was
simply and artlessly attired, gentle and retiring in demeanour, and
femininely sweet rather than beautiful in expression. Her figure was
slender, her voice soft and musical; her hair light brown, and worn
plain across a forehead white as marble. The eye-brows which arched the
small, rich, hazel eyes were delicately drawn, and the slightly aquiline
nose might have formed a study for an artist. With the exception,
however, of this last-named feature, there was little in the individual
lineaments of the face to surprise or rivet the observer. Extreme
simplicity, and perfect innocence--these were stamped upon the
countenance, and were its charm. It was a strange feeling that possessed
me when I first gazed upon her through the chaste atmosphere that dwelt
around her. It was degradation deep and unaffected--a sense of shame and
undeservedness. I remembered with self-abhorrence the relation that had
existed between the unhappy Emma and myself, and the enormity and
disgrace of my offence never looked so great as now, and here--in the
bright presence of unconscious purity. She reassured and welcomed me
with a natural smile, and pursued her occupation with quiet cheerfulness
and unconstraint. I did not wonder that her father loved her, and
entertained the thought of losing her with fear; for, young and gentle
as she was, she evinced wisdom and age in her deep sense of duty, and in
the government of her happy home. Method and order waited on her doings,
and sweetness and tranquillity--the ease and dignity of a matron
elevating and upholding the maiden's native modesty. And did she not
love her sire as ardently? Yes, if her virgin soul spoke faithfully in
every movement of her guileless face. Yes, if there be truth in tones
that strike the heart to thrill it--in thoughts that write their meaning
in the watchful eye, in words that issue straight from the fount of
love, in acts that do not bear one shade of selfish purpose. It was not
a labour of time to learn that the existence of the child, her peace and
happiness, were merged in those of the fond parent. He was every thing
to her, as she to him. She had no brother--he no wife: these natural
channels of affection cut away, the stream was strong and deep that
flowed into each other's hearts. My first interview with the young lady
was necessarily limited. I would gladly have prolonged it. The morning
was passed with my pupils, and my mind stole often from the work before
me to dwell upon the face and form of her, whom, as a sister, I could
have doated on and cherished. How happy I should have been, I deemed, if
I had been so blessed. Useless reflection! and yet pleased was I to
dwell upon it, and to welcome its return, as often as it recurred. At
dinner we met again. To be admitted into her presence seemed the reward
for my morning toil--a privilege rather than a right. What labour was
too great for the advantage of such moments?--moments indeed they were,
and less--flashes of time, that were not here before they had
disappeared. We exchanged but few words. I was still oppressed with the
conviction of my own unworthiness, and wondered if she could read in my
burning face the history of shame. How she must avoid and despise me,
thought I, when she has discovered all, and how bold and wicked it was
to darken the light in which she lived with the guilt that was a part of
me! Not the less did I experience this when she spoke to me with
kindness and unreserve. The feeling grew in strength. I was conscious of
deceit and fraud, and could not shake the knowledge off. I was taking
mean advantage of her confidence, assuming a character to which I had no
claim, and listening to the accents of innocence and virtue with the
equanimity of one good and spotless as herself. In the afternoon the
young students resumed their work. When it was over, we strolled amongst
the hills; and, at the close of a delightful walk, found ourselves in
the enchanting village. Here we encountered Miss Fairman and the
incumbent, and we returned home in company. In one short hour we reached
it. How many hours have passed since _that_ was ravished from the hand
of Time, and registered in the tenacious memory! Years have floated by,
and silently have dropped into the boundless sea, unheeded, unregretted;
and these few minutes--sacred relics--live and linger in the world, in
mercy it may be, to lighten up my lonely hearth, or save the whitened
head from drooping. The spirit of one golden hour shall hover through a
life, and shed glory where he falls. What are the unfruitful,
unremembered years that rush along, frightening mortality with their
fatal speed--an instant in eternity! What are the moments loaded with
passion, intense, and never-dying--years, ages upon earth! Away with the
divisions of time, whilst one short breath--the smallest particle or
measure of duration, shall outweigh ages. Breathless and silent is the
dewy eve. Trailing a host of glittering clouds behind him, the sun
stalks down, and leaves the emerald hills in deeper green. The lambs are
skipping on the path--the shepherd as loth to lead them home as they to
go. The labourer has done his work, and whistles his way back. The
minister has much of good and wise to say to his young family. They hear
the business of the day; their guardian draws the moral, and bids them
think it over. Upon my arm I bear his child, the fairest object of the
twilight group. She tells me histories of this charmed spot, and the
good old tales that are as old as the gray church beneath us: she
smiles, and speaks of joys amongst the hills, ignorant of the tearful
eye and throbbing heart beside her, that overflow with new-found bliss,
and cannot bear their weight of happiness.

Another day of natural gladness--and then the Sabbath; this not less
cheerful and inspiriting than the preceding. The sun shone fair upon the
ancient church, and made its venerable gray stones sparkle and look
young again. The dark-green ivy that for many a year has clung there,
looked no longer sad and sombre, but gay and lively as the newest of the
new-born leaves that smiled on every tree. The inhabitants of the
secluded village were already a-foot when we proceeded from the
parsonage, and men and women from adjacent villages were on the road to
join them. The deep-toned bell pealed solemnly, and sanctified the vale;
for its sound strikes deeply ever on the broad ear of nature. Willows
and yew-trees shelter the graves of the departed villagers, and the
living wend their way beneath them, subdued to seriousness, it may be,
by the breathless voice that dwells in every well-remembered mound.
There is not one who does not carry on his brow the thoughts that best
become it now. All are well dressed, all look cleanly and contented. The
children are with their parents, their natural and best instructors.
Whom should they love so well? To whom is honour due if not to them? The
village owns no school to disannul the tie of blood, to warp and weaken
the affection that holds them well together.

All was quietness and decorum in the house of prayer. Every earnest eye
was fixed, not upon Mr Fairman, but on the book from which the people
prayed, in which they found their own good thoughts portrayed, their
pious wishes told, their sorrow and repentance in clearest form
described. Every humble penitent was on his knees. With one voice, loud
and heartfelt, came the responses which spoke the people's acquiescence
in all the pastor urged and prayed on their behalf. The worship over, Mr
Fairman addressed his congregation, selecting his subject from the
lesson of the day, and fitting his words to the capacities of those who
listened. Let me particularly note, that whilst the incumbent pointed
distinctly to the cross as the only ground of a sinner's hope, he
insisted upon good works as the necessary and essential accompaniment of
his faith. "Do not tell me, my dear friends," he said, at the conclusion
of his address--"do not tell me that you believe, if your daily life is
unworthy a believer. I will not trust you. What is your belief, if your
heart is busy in contrivances to overreach your neighbour? What is it,
if your mind is filled with envy, malice, hatred, and revenge? What if
you are given over to disgraceful lusts--to drunkenness and debauchery?
What if you are ashamed to speak the truth, and are willing to become a
liar? I tell you, and I have warrant for what I say, that your conduct
one towards another must be straightforward, honest, generous, kind, and
affectionate, or you cannot be in a safe and happy state. You owe it to
yourselves to be so; for if you are poor and labouring men, you have an
immortal soul within you, and it is your greatest ornament. It is that
which gives the meanest of us a dignity that no earthly honours can
supply; a dignity that it becomes the first and last of us by every
means to cherish and support. Is it not, my friends, degrading, fearful
to know that we bear about with us the very image of our God, and that
we are acting worse than the very brutes of the field? Do yourselves
justice. Be pure--pure in mind and body. Be honest, in word and deed. Be
loving to one another. Crush every wish to do evil, or to speak harshly;
be brothers, and feel that you are working out the wishes of a
benevolent and loving Father, who has created you for love, and smiles
upon you when you do his bidding." There was more to this effect, but
nothing need be added to explain the scope and tendency of his
discourse. His congregation could not mistake his meaning; they could
not fail to profit by it, if reason was not proof against the soundest
argument. As quietly as, and, if it be possible, more seriously than,
they entered the church, did the small band of worshippers, at the close
of the service, retire from it. Could it be my fancy, or did the wife in
truth cling closer to her husband--the father clasp his little boy more
firmly in his hand? Did neighbour nod to neighbour more eagerly as they
parted at the churchyard gate--did every look and movement of the many
groups bespeak a spirit touched, a mind reproved? I may not say so, for
my own heart was melted by the scene, and might mislead my judgment.
There was a second service in the afternoon. This concluded, we walked
to the sea-beach. In the evening Mr Fairman related a connected history
from the Old Testament, whilst the pupils tracked his progress on their
maps, and the narrative became a living thing in their remembrances.
Serious conversation then succeeded; to this a simple prayer, and the
day closed, sweetly and calmly, as a day might close in Paradise.

The events of the following month partook of the character of those
already glanced at. The minister was unremitting in his attendance upon
his parishioners, and no day passed during which something had not been
accomplished for their spiritual improvement or worldly comfort. His
loving daughter was a handmaid at his side, ministering with him, and
shedding sunshine where she came. The villagers were frugal and
industrious; and seemed, for the most part, sensible of their
incumbent's untiring efforts. Improvement appeared even in the cottage
of the desperate Warden. Mr Fairman obtained employment for him. For a
fortnight he had attended to it, and no complaint had reached the
parsonage of misbehaviour. His wife had learned to bear her imagined
wrongs in silence, and could even submit to a visit from her best friend
without insulting him for the condescension. My own days passed smoothly
on. My occupation grew every day more pleasing, and the results of my
endeavours as gratifying as I could wish them. My pupils were attached
to me, and I beheld them improving gradually and securely under their
instruction. Mr Fairman, who, for a week together, had witnessed the
course of my tuition, and watched it narrowly, was pleased to express
his approbation in the warmest terms. Much of the coldness with which I
thought he had at first encountered me disappeared, and his manner grew
daily more friendly and confiding. His treatment was most generous. He
received me into the bosom of his family as a son, and strove to render
his fair habitation my genuine and natural home.

Another month passed by, and the colour and tone of my existence had
suffered a momentous change. In the acquirement of a fearful joy, I had
lost all joy. In rendering every moment of my life blissful and
ecstatic, I had robbed myself of all felicity. A few weeks before, and
my state of being had realized a serenity that defied all causes of
perturbation and disquiet. Now it was a sea of agitation and disorder;
and a breath, a nothing had brought the restless waves upon the quiet
surface. Through the kindness of Mr Fairman, my evenings had been almost
invariably passed in the society of himself and his daughter. The lads
were early risers, and retired, on that account, at a very early hour to
rest. Upon their dismission, I had been requested to join the company in
the drawing-room. This company included sometimes Doctor Mayhew, the
neighbouring squire, or a chance visitor, but consisted oftenest only of
the incumbent and his daughter. Aware of the friendly motive which
suggested the request, I obeyed it with alacrity. On these occasions,
Miss Fairman used her pencil, whilst I read aloud; or she would ply her
needle, and soothe at intervals her father's ear with strains of music,
which he, for many reasons, loved to hear. Once or twice the incumbent
had been called away, and his child and I were left together. I had no
reason to be silent whilst the good minister was present, yet I found
that I could speak more confidently and better when he was absent. We
conversed with freedom and unrestraint. I found the maiden's mind well
stored--her voice was not more sweet than was her understanding clear
and cloudless. Books had been her joy, which, in the season of
suffering, had been my consolation. They were a common source of
pleasure. She spoke of them with feeling, and I could understand her. I
regarded her with deep unfeigned respect; but, the evening over, I took
my leave, as I had come--in peace. Miss Fairman left the parsonage to
pay a two-days' visit at a house in the vicinity. Until the evening of
the first day I was not sensible of her absence. It was then, and at the
customary hour of our reunion, that, for the first time, I experienced,
with alarm, a sense of loneliness and desertion--that I became
tremblingly conscious of the secret growth of an affection that had
waited only for the time and circumstance to make its presence and its
power known and dreaded. In the daily enjoyment of her society, I had
not estimated its influence and value. Once denied it, and I dared not
acknowledge to myself how precious it had become, how silently and
fatally it had wrought upon my heart. The impropriety and folly of
self-indulgence were at once apparent--yes, the vanity and
wickedness--and, startled by what looked like guilt, I determined
manfully to rise superior to temptation. I took refuge in my books; they
lacked their usual interest, were ineffectual in reducing the ruffled
mind to order. I rose and paced my room, but I could not escape from
agitating thought. I sought the minister in his study, and hoped to
bring myself to calm and reason by dwelling seriously on the business of
the day--with him, the father of the lady, and _my master_. He was not
there. He had left the parsonage with Doctor Mayhew an hour before. I
walked into the open air restless and unhappy, relying on the freshness
and repose of night to be subdued and comforted. It was a night to
soften anger--to conquer envy--to destroy revenge--beautiful and bright.
The hills were bathed in liquid silvery light, and on their heights, and
in the vale, on all around, lay passion slumbering. What could I find on
such a night, but favour and incitement, support and confirmation,
flattery and delusion? Every object ministered to the imagination, and
love had given that wings. I trembled as I pursued my road, and fuel
found its unobstructed way rapidly to the flame within. Self-absorbed, I
wandered on. I did not choose my path. I believed I did not, and I
stopped at length--before the house that held her. I gazed upon it with
reverence and love. One room was lighted up. Shadows flitted across the
curtained window, and my heart throbbed sensibly when, amongst them, I
imagined I could trace her form. I was borne down by a conviction of
wrong and culpability, but I could not move, or for a moment draw away
my look. It was a strange assurance that I felt--but I did feel it,
strongly and emphatically--that I should see her palpably before I left
the place. I waited for that sight in certain expectation, and it came.
A light was carried from the room. Diminished illumination there, and
sudden brightness against a previously darkened casement, made this
evident. The light ascended--another casement higher than the last was,
in its turn, illumined, and it betrayed her figure. She approached the
window, and, for an instant--oh how brief!--looked into the heavenly
night. My poor heart sickened with delight, and I strained my eyes long
after all was blank and dark again.

Daylight, and the employments of day, if they did not remove, weakened
the turbulence of the preceding night. The more I found my passion
acquiring mastery, with greater vigour I renewed my work, and with more
determination I pursued the objects that were most likely to fight and
overcome it. I laboured with the youths for a longer period. I undertook
to prepare a composition for the following day which I knew must take
much thought and many hours in working out. I armed myself at all
points--but the evening came and found me once more conscious of a void
that left me prostrate. Mr Fairman was again absent from home. I could
not rest in it, and I too sallied forth, but this time, to the village.
I would not deliberately offer violence to my conscience, and I shrunk
from a premeditated visit to the distant house. My own acquaintances in
the village were not many, or of long standing, but there were some half
dozen, especial favourites of the incumbent's daughter. To one of these
I bent my steps, with no other purpose than that of baffling time that
hung upon me painfully and heavily at home. For a few minutes I spoke
with the aged female of the house on general topics; then a passing
observation--in spite of me--escaped my lips in reference to Miss Ellen.
The villager took up the theme and expatiated widely. There was no end
to what she had to say of good and kind for the dear lady. I could have
hugged her for her praise. Prudence bade me forsake the dangerous
ground, and so I did, to return again with tenfold curiosity and zest. I
asked a hundred questions, each one revealing more interest and ardour
than the last, and involving me in deeper peril. It was at length
accomplished. My companion hesitated suddenly in a discourse, then
stopped, and looked me in the face, smiling cunningly. "I tell you what,
sir," she exclaimed at last, and loudly, "you are over head and ears in
love, and that's the truth on't."

"Hush, good woman," I replied, blushing to the forehead, and hastening
to shut an open door. "Don't speak so loud. You mistake, it is no such
thing. I shall be angry if you say so--very angry. What can you mean?"

"Just what I say, sir. Why, do you know how old I am? Seventy-three. I
think I ought to tell, and where's the harm of it? Who couldn't love the
sweetest lady in the parish--bless her young feeling heart!"

"I tell you--you mistake--you are to blame. I command you not to repeat
this to a living soul. If it should come to the incumbent's ears"--

"Trust me for that, sir. I'm no blab. He shan't be wiser for such as me.
But do you mean to tell me, sir, with that red face of your'n, you
haven't lost your heart--leave alone your trembling? ah, well, I hopes
you'll both be happy, anyhow."

I endeavoured to remonstrate, but the old woman only laughed and shook
her aged head. I left her, grieved and apprehensive. My secret thoughts
had been discovered. How soon might they be carried to the confiding
minister and his unsuspecting daughter! What would they think of me! It
was a day of anxiety and trouble, that on which Miss Fairman returned to
the parsonage. I received my usual invitation; but I was indisposed, and
did not go. I resolved to see her only during meals, and when it was
impossible to avoid her. I would not seek her presence. Foolish effort!
It had been better to pass hours in her sight, for previous separation
made union more intense, and the passionate enjoyment of a fleeting
instant was hoarded up, and became nourishment for the livelong day.

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