Ten Thousand a-Year Volume I Part 27

While the lofty door of a house in Grosvenor Street was yet quivering under the shock of a previously announced dinner-arrival, one of the two servants standing behind a carriage which approached from the direction of Piccadilly, slipped off, and in a twinkling, with a thun-thun-thunder-under-under, thunder-runder-runder, thun-thun-thun!

and a shrill thrilling _Whir-r-r_ of the bell, announced the arrival of the Duke of----, the last guest. It was a large and plain carriage, but perfectly well known; and before the door of the house at which it had drawn up had been opened, displaying some four or five servants standing in the hall, in simple but elegant liveries, some half-dozen pa.s.sengers had stopped to see get out of the carriage an elderly, middle-sized man, with a somewhat spare figure, dressed in plain black clothes, with iron-gray hair, and a countenance which, once seen, was not to be forgotten. That was a great man; one, the like of whom many previous centuries had not seen; whose name shot terror into the hearts of all the enemies of old England all over the world, and fond pride and admiration into the hearts of his fellow-countrymen.

"A quarter to eleven!" he said, in a quiet tone, to the servant who was holding open the carriage door--while the bystanders took off their hats; a courtesy which he acknowledged, as he slowly stepped across the pavement, by touching his hat in a mechanical sort of way with his forefinger. The house-door then closed upon him; the handful of onlookers pa.s.sed away; off rolled the empty carriage, and all without was quiet as before. The house was that of Mr. Aubrey, one of the members for the borough of YATTON, in Yorks.h.i.+re--a man of rapidly rising importance in Parliament. Surely his was a pleasant position--that of an independent country gentleman, a member of one of the most ancient n.o.ble families in England, with a clear unenc.u.mbered rent-roll of ten thousand a-year, and already, in only his thirty-fourth year, the spokesman of his cla.s.s, and promising to become one of the ablest debaters in the House! Parliament having been a.s.sembled, in consequence of a particular emergency, at a much earlier period than usual, the House of Commons, in which Mr. Aubrey had the evening before delivered a well-timed and powerful speech, had adjourned for the Christmas recess, the House of Lords being about to follow its example that evening: an important division, however, being first expected to take place at a late hour.

Mr. Aubrey was warmly complimented on his success by several of the select and brilliant circle then a.s.sembled; and who were all in high spirits--on account of a considerable triumph just obtained by their party, and to which Mr. Aubrey was a.s.sured, by even the Duke of----, his exertions had certainly not a little contributed. While his Grace was energetically intimating to Mr. Aubrey his opinion to this effect, there were two lovely women listening to him with intense eagerness--they were the wife and sister of Mr. Aubrey. The former was a very interesting and handsome woman--with raven hair, and a complexion of dazzling fairness--of nearly eight-and-twenty; the latter was a very beautiful girl, somewhere between twenty and twenty-one. Both were dressed with the utmost simplicity and elegance. Mrs. Aubrey, most dotingly fond of her husband, and a blooming young mother of two as charming children as were to be met with in a day's walk all over both the parks, was, in character and manners, all pliancy and gentleness; while about Miss Aubrey there was a dash of spirit which gave an infinite zest to her beauty. Her blue eyes beamed with the richest expression of feeling--in short, Catherine Aubrey was, both in face and figure, a downright English beauty; and she knew--truth must be told--that such she appeared to the Great Duke, whose cold aquiline eye she often _felt_ to be settled upon her with satisfaction. The fact was that he had penetrated at a first glance beneath the mere surface of an arch, sweet, and winning manner, and detected a certain strength of character in Miss Aubrey which gave him more than usual interest in her, and spread over his iron-cast features a pleasant expression, relaxing their sternness.

It might indeed be said, that before her, in his person,

"Grim-visaged war had smooth'd his wrinkled front."

'Twas a subject for a painter, that delicate and blooming girl, her auburn hair hanging in careless grace on each side of her white forehead, while her eyes,

"That might have sooth'd a tiger's rage, Or thaw'd the cold heart of a conqueror,"

were fixed with absorbed interest on the stern and rigid countenance which she reflected had been, as it were, a thousand times darkened with the smoke of the grisly battle-field. But I must not forget that there are others in the room; and among them, standing at a little distance, is Lord De la Zouch, one of Mr. Aubrey's neighbors in Yorks.h.i.+re.

Apparently he is listening to a brother peer talking to him very earnestly about the expected division; but Lord De la Zouch's eye is fixed on you, lovely Kate--and how little can you imagine what is pa.s.sing through his mind! It has just occurred to him that his sudden arrangement for young Delamere--his only son and heir, come up the day before from Oxford--to call for him about half-past ten, and take his place in Mrs. Aubrey's drawing-room, while Lord De la Zouch goes down to the House--may be attended with certain consequences! He is in truth speculating on the effect of your beauty bursting suddenly on his son--who has not seen you for nearly two years! all this gives him anxiety--but not painful anxiety--for, dear Kate, he knows that your forehead would wear the ancient coronet of the De la Zouches with grace and dignity. But Delamere is as yet too young--and if he gets the image of Catherine Aubrey into his head, it will, fears his father, instantly cast into the shade and displace all the stern visages of those old geometers, poets, orators, historians, philosophers, and statesmen, who ought, in Lord De la Zouch's and his son's tutor's judgment, to occupy exclusively the head of the aforesaid Delamere for some five years to come. That youngster--happy fellow!--frank, high-spirited, and enthusiastic--and handsome to boot--was heir to an ancient t.i.tle and very great estates; all that his father had considered in looking out for an alliance was--youth, health, beauty, blood--here they all were;--and _fortune_ too--bah! what did it signify to his son--but at any rate 'twas not to be thought of for some years.

"Suppose," said he, aloud, though in a musing manner, "one were to say--twenty-four"----

"_Twenty-four!_" echoed his companion, with amazement; "my dear De la Zouch, what the deuce do you mean? _Eighty_-four at the very lowest!"

"Eh? what? oh--yes of course--I should say ninety--I mean--hem!--_they_ will muster about twenty-four only."

"Ah--I beg your pardon!--_there_ you're right, I dare say."--Here the announcement of dinner put an end to the colloquy of the two statesmen.

Lord De la Zouch led down Miss Aubrey with an air of the most delicate and cordial courtesy; and felt almost disposed, in the heat of the moment, to tell her that he had arranged all in his own mind--that if _she_ willed it, she had _his_ hearty consent to become the future Lady De la Zouch. He was himself the eleventh who had come to the t.i.tle in direct descent from father to son; 'twas a point he was not a little nervous and anxious about--he detested collateral succession--and he made himself infinitely agreeable to Miss Aubrey as he sat beside her at dinner! The Duke of---- sat on the right hand side of Mrs. Aubrey, seemingly in high spirits, and she appeared proud enough of her supporter. It was a delightful dinner-party, elegant without ostentation, and select without pretence of exclusiveness. All were cheerful and animated, not merely on account of the over-night's parliamentary victory, which I have already alluded to, but also in contemplation of the coming Christmas; how, and where, and with whom each was to spend that "righte merrie season," being the chief topic of conversation. As there was nothing peculiar in the dinner, and as I have no turn for describing such matters in detail--the clatter of plate, the jingling of silver, the sparkling of wines, and so forth--I shall request the reader to imagine himself led by me quietly out of the dining-room into the library--thus escaping from all the bustle and hubbub attendant upon such an entertainment as is going on in front of the house. We shall be alone in the library--here it is; we enter it, and shut the door. 'Tis a s.p.a.cious room, all the sides covered with books, of which Mr. Aubrey is a great collector--and the clear red fire (which we must presently replenish, or it will go out) is shedding a subdued ruddy light on all the objects in the room, very favorable for our purpose. The ample table is covered with books and papers; and there is an antique-looking arm-chair drawn opposite to the fire, in which Mr. Aubrey has been indulging in a long revery till the moment of quitting it to go and dress for dinner. This chair I shall sit in myself; you may draw out from the recess for yourself one of two little sloping easy-chairs, which have been placed there by Mrs. and Miss Aubrey for their own sole use, considering that they are excellent judges of the period at which Mr. Aubrey has been long enough alone, and at which they should come in and gossip with him. We may as well draw the dusky green curtains across the window, through which the moon s.h.i.+nes at present rather too brightly.--So now, after coaxing up the fire, I will proceed to tell you a little bit of pleasant family history.

The Aubreys are a Yorks.h.i.+re family--the younger branch of the ancient and n.o.ble family of the Dreddlingtons. Their residence, YATTON, is in the north-eastern part of the county, not above fifteen or twenty miles from the sea. The hall is one of those old structures, the sight of which throws you back a couple of centuries in our English history. It stands in a park, crowded with trees, many of them of great age and size, and under which two or three hundred head of deer perform their capricious and graceful gambols. In approaching from London, you strike off from the great north road into a broad by-way; after going down which for about a mile, you come to a straggling little village called Yatton, at the farther extremity of which stands a little aged gray church, with a tall thin spire; an immense yew-tree, with a kind of friendly gloom, overshadowing, in the little churchyard, nearly half the graves. Rather in the rear of the church is the vicarage-house, snug and sheltered by a line of fir-trees. After walking on about eighty yards, you come to high park-gates, and see a lodge just within, on the left hand side, sheltered by an elm-tree. Having pa.s.sed through these gates, you wind your way for about two-thirds of a mile along a gravel walk, among the thickening trees, till you come to a ponderous old crumbling looking red brick gateway of the time of Henry VII., with one or two deeply set stone windows in the turrets, and mouldering stone-capped battlements peeping through high-climbing ivy. There is an old escutcheon immediately over the point of the arch; and as you pa.s.s underneath, if you look up, you can plainly see the groove of the old portcullis still remaining. Having pa.s.sed under this castellated remnant, you enter a kind of court formed by a high wall completely covered with ivy, running along in a line from the right hand turret of the gateway till it joins the house. Along its course are a number of yew-trees. In the centre of the open s.p.a.ce is a quaintly disposed gra.s.s-plot, dotted about with stunted box, and in the centre of that stands a weather-beaten stone sundial.

The house itself is a large irregular pile of dull red brickwork, with great stacks of chimneys in the rear; the body of the building has evidently been erected at different times. Some part is evidently in the style of Queen Elizabeth's reign, another in that of Queen Anne; and it is plain that on the site of the present structure has formerly stood a castle. There are, indeed, traces of the old moat still visible round the rear of the house. One of the ancient towers, with small deep stone windows, still remains, giving its venerable support to the right hand extremity of the building, as you stand with your face to the door. The long frontage of the house consists of two huge ma.s.ses of dusky-red brickwork, (you can hardly call them _wings_,) connected together by a lower building in the centre, which contains the hall. There are three or four rows of long thin deep windows, with heavy-looking wooden sashes. The high-pitched roof is of red tiles, and has deep projecting eaves, forming, in fact, a bold wooden cornice running along the whole length of the building, which is some two or three stories high. At the left extremity stands a clump of ancient cedars of Lebanon, feathering in evergreen beauty down to the ground. The hall is large and lofty; the floor is of polished oak, almost the whole of which is covered with thick matting; it is wainscoted all round with black oak; some seven or eight full-length pictures, evidently of considerable antiquity, being let into the panels. Quaint figures these are to be sure; and if they resembled the ancestors of the Aubrey family, those ancestors must have been singular and startling persons! The faces are quite white and staring--all as if in wonder; and they have such long thin legs! some of them ending in sharp-pointed shoes. On each side of the ample fireplace stands a figure in full armor; and there are also ranged along the wall old helmets, cuira.s.ses, swords, lances, battle-axes, and cross-bows, the very idea of wearing, wielding, and handling which, makes your arms ache, while you exclaim, "they _must_ have been giants in those days!"

On one side of this hall, a door opens into the dining-room, beyond which is the library; on the other side a door leads you into a n.o.ble room, now called the drawing-room, where stands a very fine organ. Out of both the dining-room and drawing-room you pa.s.s up a staircase contained in an old square tower; two sides of each of them, opening on the quadrangle, lead into a gallery running round it, and into which all the bed-rooms open.

But I need not go into further detail. Altogether it is truly a fine old mansion. Its only constant occupant is Mrs. Aubrey, the mother of Mr.

Aubrey, in whose library we are now seated. She is a widow, having survived her husband, who twice was one of the county members, about fifteen years. Mr. Aubrey is her first-born child, Miss Aubrey her last; four intervening children rest prematurely in the grave--and the grief and suffering consequent upon all these bereavements have sadly shaken her const.i.tution, and made her, both in actual health, and in appearance, at least ten years older than she really is--for she has, in point of fact, not long since entered her sixtieth year. What a blessed life she leads at Yatton! Her serene and cheerful temper makes every one happy about her; and her charity is unbounded, but dispensed with a just discrimination. One way or another, almost a fourth of the village are direct pensioners upon her bounty. You have only to mention the name of Madam Aubrey, the lady of Yatton, to witness involuntary homage paid to her virtues. Her word is law; and well indeed it may be. While Mr.

Aubrey, her husband, was, to the last, somewhat stern in his temper and reserved in his habits, bearing withal a spotless and lofty character, _she_ was always what she still is, meek, gentle, accessible, charitable, and pious. On his death she withdrew from the world, and has ever since resided at Yatton--never having quitted it for a single day.

There are in the vicinity one or two stately families, with ancient name, sounding t.i.tle, and great possessions; but for ten miles round Yatton, old Madam Aubrey, the squire's mother, is the name that is enshrined in people's kindliest and most grateful feelings, and receives their readiest homage. 'Tis perhaps a very small matter to mention, but there is at the hall an old white mare, Peggy, that for these twenty years, in all weathers, hath been the bearer of Madam's bounty.

Thousands of times hath she carried Jacob Jones (now a pensioned servant, whose hair is as white as Peggy's) all over the estate, and also oft beyond it, with comfortable matters for the sick and poor. Most commonly there are a couple of stone bottles filled with cowslip, currant, ginger, or elderberry wine, slung before him over the well-worn saddle--to the carrying of which Peggy has got so accustomed, that she does not go comfortably without them. She has so fallen into the habits of old Jones, who is an inveterate gossip, (Madam having helped to make him such by the numerous inquiries she makes of him every morning as to every one in the village and on the estate, and which inquiries he _must_ have the means of answering,) that, slowly as she jogs along, if ever she meets or is overtaken by any one, she stops of her own accord, as if to hear what they and her rider have to say to one another. She is a great favorite with all, and gets a mouthful of hay or gra.s.s at every place she stops at, either from the children or the old people. When poor Peggy comes to die, (and she is getting feeble, now,) she will be missed by all the folk round Yatton! Madam Aubrey, growing, I am sorry to say, less able to exert herself, does not go about as much as she used, betaking herself, therefore, oftener and oftener, to the old family coach; and when she is going to drive about the neighborhood, you may almost always see it stop at the vicarage for old Dr. Tatham, who generally accompanies her. On these occasions she always has in the carriage a black velvet bag containing Testaments and Prayer-books, which are princ.i.p.ally distributed as rewards to those whom the parson can recommend as deserving of them. For these five-and-twenty years she has never missed giving a copy of each to every child in the village and on the estate, on its being confirmed; and the old lady looks round very keenly every Sunday, from her pew, to see that these Bibles and Prayer-books are reverently used. I could go on for an hour and longer, telling you these and other such matters of this exemplary lady; but we shall by and by have some opportunities of seeing and knowing more of her personally. Her features are delicate, and have been very handsome; and in manner she is very calm, and quiet, and dignified. She looks all that you would expect from what I have told you. The briskness of youth, the sedate firmness of middle-age, have years since given place, as you will see with some pain, to the feebleness produced by ill health and mental suffering--for she mourned grievously after those whom she had lost! Oh! how she dotes upon her surviving son and daughter! And are they not worthy of such a mother?

Mr. Aubrey is in his thirty-fourth year; and inherits the mental qualities of both his parents--the demeanor and person of his father. He has a reserve which is not cynical, but only diffident; yet it gives him, at least at first sight, and till you have become familiar with his features, which are of a cast at once refined and aristocratic, yet full of goodness--an air of hauteur, which is very--very far from his real nature. He has in truth the soft heart and benignant temper of his mother, joined with the masculine firmness of character which belonged to his father; which, however, is in danger of being seriously impaired by _inaction_. Sensitive he is, perhaps to a fault. There is a tone of melancholy in his composition, which has probably increased upon him from his severe studies, ever since his youth. He is a man of superior intellect; a capital scholar; took the highest honor at Oxford: and has since justified the expectations which were then entertained of him. He has made several really valuable contributions to historic literature--indeed, I think he is even now engaged upon some researches calculated to throw much light upon the obscure origin of several of our political inst.i.tutions. He has entered upon _politics_ with uncommon--perhaps with an excessive--ardor. I think he is likely to make an eminent figure in Parliament; for he is a man of very clear head, very patient, of business-like habits, ready in debate, and, moreover, has at once an impressive and engaging delivery as a public speaker. He is generous and charitable as his admirable mother, and careless, even to a fault, of his pecuniary interests. He is a man of perfect simplicity and purity of character. Above all, his virtues are the virtues which have been sublimed by Christianity--as it were, the cold embers of morality warmed into religion. He stands happily equidistant from infidelity and fanaticism. He has looked for light from above, and has heard a voice saying, "_This_ is the way, walk thou in it." His piety is the real source of that happy consistent dignity, and content, and firmness, which have earned him the respect of all who know him, and will bear him through whatever may befall him. He who standeth upon this rock cannot be moved, perhaps not even touched, by the surges of worldly reverses--of difficulty and distress! In manner Mr. Aubrey is calm and gentlemanlike; in person he is rather above the middle height, and of slight make. From the way in which his clothes hang about him, a certain sharpness at his shoulders catching the eye of an observer--you would feel an anxiety about his health, which would be increased by hearing of the mortality in his family; and your thoughts are perhaps pointed in the same direction, by a glance at his long, thin, delicate, white hands. His countenance has a serene manliness about it when in repose, and great acuteness and vivacity when animated. His hair, not very full, is black as jet, his forehead ample and marked; and his eyes are the exponents of perfect sincerity and acuteness.

Mr. Aubrey has been married about six years; 'twas a case of love at first sight. Chance (so to speak) threw him in the way of Agnes St.

Clair, within a few weeks after she had been bereaved of her only parent, Colonel St. Clair, a man of old but impoverished family, who fell in the Peninsular war. Had he lived only a month or two longer, he would have succeeded to a considerable estate; as it was, he left his only child comparatively penniless; but Heaven had endowed her with personal beauty, with a lovely disposition, and superior understanding.

It was not till after a long and anxious wooing, backed by the cordial entreaties of Mrs. Aubrey, that Miss St. Clair consented to become the wife of a man, who, to this hour, loves her with all the pa.s.sionate ardor with which she had first inspired him. And richly she deserves his love! She does, indeed, dote upon him; she studies, or rather, perhaps, antic.i.p.ates his every wish; in short, had the whole s.e.x been searched for one calculated to make happy the morbidly fastidious Aubrey, the choice must surely have fallen on Miss St. Clair; a woman whose temper, whose tastes, and whose manners were at once in delicate and harmonizing unison and contrast with his own. She has. .h.i.therto brought him but two children--and those very beautiful children, too--a boy between four and five years old, and a girl about two years old. If I were to hint my own impressions, I should say there was a probability---- be that, however, as it may, 't is an affair we have nothing to do with at present.

Of Catherine Aubrey you had a momentary moonlight glimpse at a former period of this history;[14] and you have seen her this evening under other, and perhaps not less interesting circ.u.mstances. Now, where have you beheld a more exquisite specimen of budding womanhood? but I feel that I shall get extravagant if I begin to dwell upon her charms. You have seen her--judge for yourself; but you do not _know_ her as I do; and I shall tell you that her personal beauty is but a faint emblem of the beauties of her mind and character. She is Aubrey's youngest--now his only sister; and he cherishes her with the tenderest and fondest affection. Neither he, nor his mother--with whom she spends her time alternately--can bear to part with her for ever so short an interval.

She is the gay, romping playmate of the little Aubreys; the demure secretary and treasurer of her mother. I say _demure_, for there is a sly humor and archness in Kate's composition, which flickers about even her gravest moods. She is calculated equally for the seclusion of Yatton and the splendid atmosphere of Almack's; but for the latter she seems at present to have little inclination. Kate is a girl of decided character, of strong sense, of high principle; all of which are irradiated, not overborne, by her sparkling vivacity of temperament. She has real talent; and her mind has been trained, and her tastes directed, with affectionate skill and vigilance by her gifted brother. She has many accomplishments; but the only one I shall choose here to name is--music.

_She_ was one to sing and play before a man of the most fastidious taste and genius! I defy any man to hear the rich tones of Miss Aubrey's voice without feeling his heart moved. Music is with her a matter not of _art_ but of _feeling_--of pa.s.sionate feeling; but hark!--hus.h.!.+--surely--yes, that is Miss Aubrey's voice--yes, that is her clear and brilliant touch; the ladies have ascended to the drawing-room, and we must presently follow them. How time has pa.s.sed! I had a great deal more to tell you about the family, but we must take some other opportunity.

Yes, it _is_ Miss Aubrey, playing on the new and superb piano given by her brother last week to Mrs. Aubrey. Do you see with what a careless grace and ease she is giving a very sweet but difficult composition of Haydn? The lady who is standing by her to turn over her music, is the celebrated Countess of Lydsdale. She is still young and beautiful; but beside Miss Aubrey she presents a somewhat painful contrast! 'T is all the difference between an artificial and a natural flower. Poor Lady Lydsdale! you are not happy with all your fas.h.i.+on and splendor; the glitter of your diamonds cannot compensate for the loss of the sparkling spirits of a younger day; they pale their ineffectual fires beside the fresh and joyous spirit of Catherine Aubrey! You sigh----

"Now, I'll sing you quite a new thing," said Miss Aubrey, starting up, and turning over her portfolio till she came to a sheet of paper, on which were some verses in her own handwriting, and with which she sat down again before the piano: "The words were written by my brother, and I have found an old air that exactly suits them!" Here her fingers, wandering lightly and softly over the keys, gave forth a beautiful symphony in the minor; after which, with a rich and soft voice, she sang the following:--

PEACE.

I.

Where, O where Hath gentle PEACE found rest?

Builds she in bower of lady fair?-- But LOVE--he hath possession there; Not long is _she_ the guest.

II.

Sits she crown'd Beneath a pictured dome?

But there AMBITION keeps his ground, And Fear and Envy skulk around; _This_ cannot be her home.

III.

Will she hide In scholar's pensive cell?

But _he_ already hath his bride: Him MELANCHOLY sits beside-- With her she may not dwell.

IV.

Now and then, Peace, wandering, lays her head On regal couch, in captive's den-- But nowhere finds she rest with men, Or only with the dead!

To these words, trembling on the beautiful lips of Miss Aubrey, was listening an unperceived auditor, with eyes devouring her every feature, and ears absorbing every tone of her thrilling voice. It was young Delamere, who had, only a moment or two before Miss Aubrey had commenced singing the above lines, alighted from his father's carriage, which was then waiting at the door to carry off Lord De la Zouch to the House of Lords. Arrested by the rich voice of the singer, he stopped short before he had entered the drawing-room in which she sat, and stepping to a corner where he was hid from view, though he could distinctly see Miss Aubrey, there he remained as if rooted to the spot. He, too, had a soul for music; and the exquisite manner in which Miss Aubrey gave the last verse, called up before his excited fancy the vivid image of a dove fluttering with agitated uncertainty over the sea of human life; even like the dove over the waters enveloping the earth in olden time. The mournful minor into which she threw the last two lines, excited a heart susceptible of the liveliest emotions to a degree which it required some effort to control, and almost a tear to relieve. When Miss Aubrey had quitted the piano, Mrs. Aubrey followed, and gave a very delicate sonata from Haydn. Then sat down Lady Lydsdale, and dashed off, in an exceedingly brilliant style, a _scena_ from the new opera, which quickly reduced the excited feelings of Delamere to a pitch admitting of his presenting himself! While this lowering process was going on, Delamere took down a small volume from a tasteful little cabinet of books immediately behind him. It was Spenser's _Faery Queen_. He found many pencil-marks, evidently made by a light female hand; and turning to the fly-leaf, beheld the name of "_Catherine Aubrey_." His heart fluttered; he turned towards the piano, and beheld the graceful figure of Miss Aubrey standing beside Lady Lydsdale, in an att.i.tude of delighted earnestness--for her ladys.h.i.+p was undoubtedly a very brilliant performer--totally unconscious of the admiring eye which was fixed upon her. After gazing at her for some moments, he gently pressed the autograph to his lips; and solemnly vowed within himself, in the most deliberate manner possible, that if he could not marry Kate Aubrey, he would never marry anybody; he would, moreover, quit England forever; and deposit a broken heart in a foreign grave--and so forth. Thus calmly resolved--or rather to such a resolution did his thoughts tend--that sedate person, the Honorable Geoffrey Lovel Delamere. He was a high-spirited, frank-hearted fellow; and, like a good-natured fool, whom bitter knowledge of the world has not cooled down into contempt for a very considerable portion of it, trusted and loved almost every one whom he saw. At that moment there was only one person in the whole world that he hated, viz. the miserable individual--if any such there were--who might have happened to forestall him in the affections of Miss Aubrey.

The bare idea made his breath come and go quickly, and his cheek flush.

Why, he felt that he had a sort of _right_ to Miss Aubrey's heart; for had they not been born, and had they not lived almost all their lives, within a few miles of each other? Had they not often played together?--were not their family estates almost contiguous?--Delamere advanced into the room, a.s.suming as unconcerned an air as he could; but he felt not a little tried when Miss Aubrey, on seeing him, gayly and frankly extended her hand to him, supposing him to have only the moment before entered the house. Poor Delamere's hand slightly quivered as he felt it clasping the soft lilied fingers of her whom he had thus resolved to make his wife: what would he not have given to have carried them to his lips! Now, if I were to say that in the course of that evening, Miss Aubrey did not form a kind--of a sort--of a faint--notion of the possible state of matters with young Delamere, I should not be treating the reader with that eminent degree of candor for which I think he, or she, is at present disposed to give me credit. But Kate was deeply skilled in human nature, and promptly settled the matter by one very just reflection, viz. that Delamere was, in contemplation of law, a mere _infant_--_i. e._ he wanted yet several weeks of twenty-one! and, therefore, that it was not likely that, &c. &c. &c. And, besides--pooh!--pooh!--'t is a mere _boy_, at College--how ridiculous!--So she gave herself no trouble about the affair; exhibited no symptoms of caution or coyness, but conducted herself just as if he had not been present.

He was a handsome young fellow, too!----

During the evening, Mr. Delamere took an opportunity of asking Miss Aubrey who wrote the verses to which he pointed, as they lay on the piano. The handwriting, she said, was hers, but the verses were composed by her brother. He asked for the copy, with a slight trepidation. She readily gave it to him--he receiving it with (as he supposed) a mighty unconcerned air. He read it over that night, before getting into bed, at least six times; and it was the very first thing he looked at on getting out of bed in the morning. Now Miss Aubrey certainly wrote an elegant hand--but as for _character_, of course it had none. He could scarcely have distinguished it from the writing of any of his cousins or friends;--How should he? All women are taught the same hard, angular, uniform style--but good, bad, or indifferent, this was _Kate Aubrey's_ handwriting--and her pretty hand had rested on the paper while writing--that was enough. He resolved to turn the verses into every kind of Greek and Latin metre he knew of--

In short, that here was a "course of true love" _opened_, seems pretty evident: but whether it will "run smooth" is another matter.

Their guests having at length departed, Mr. Aubrey, his wife, and sister, soon afterwards rose to retire. He went, very sleepy, straight to his dressing-room; they to the nursery--(a constant and laudable custom with them)--to see how the children were going on, as far as could be learned from the drowsy attendants of the aforesaid children.

Little Aubrey would have reminded you of one of the exquisite sketches of children's heads by Reynolds or Lawrence, as he lay breathing imperceptibly, with his rich flowing hair spread upon the pillow, in which his face was partly hid, and his arms stretched out. Mrs. Aubrey put her finger into one of his hands, which was half open, and which closed as it were instinctively upon it, with a gentle pressure.

"Look--only look--Kate!" softly whispered Mrs. Aubrey. Miss Aubrey leaned forward and kissed his little cheek with an ardor which almost awoke him. After a glance at a tiny head partly visible above the clothes, in an adjoining bed, and looking like a rosebud almost entirely hid among the leaves, they withdrew.

"The little loves!--how one's heart thrills with looking at them!" said Miss Aubrey as they descended. "Kate!" whispered Mrs. Aubrey, with an arch smile, as they stood at their respective chamber doors, which adjoined, "Mr. Delamere is improved--is not he?--Ah, Kate! Kate!--I understand!"

"Agnes, how can you"--hastily answered Miss Aubrey, with cheeks suddenly crimsoned. "I never heard such nonsense"----

"Night, night, Kate! think over it!" said Mrs. Aubrey, and kissing her beautiful sister-in-law, the next moment the blooming wife had entered her bedroom. Miss Aubrey slipped into her dressing-room, where Harriet, her maid, was sitting asleep before the fire. Her lovely mistress did not for a few minutes awake her; but placing her candlestick on the toilet table, stood in a musing att.i.tude.

"It's so perfectly _ridiculous_" at length she said aloud; and up started her maid. Within half an hour Miss Aubrey was in bed, but by no means asleep!

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Aubrey was seated in the library, in momentary expectation of his letters; and a few moments before the postman's _rat-tat_ was heard, Mrs. and Miss Aubrey made their appearance, as was their wont, in expectation of anything which might have upon the cover, in addition to the address--

"CHARLES AUBREY, ESQ., M. P.," &c. &c. &c.,

the words, "Mrs. Aubrey," or "Miss Aubrey," in the corner. In addition to this, 'twas not an unpleasant thing to skim over the contents of _his_ letters! as one by one he opened them, and laid them aside; for both these fair creatures were daughters of Eve, and inherited a _little_ of her curiosity. Mr. Aubrey was always somewhat nervous and fidgety on such occasions, and wished them gone; but they only laughed at him, so he was fain to put up with them. On this morning there were more than Mr. Aubrey's usual number of letters; and in casting her eye over them, Mrs. Aubrey suddenly took up one that challenged attention; it bore a black seal, had a deep black bordering, and bore the frank of Lord Alkmond, at whose house in Shrops.h.i.+re they had for months been engaged to spend the ensuing Christmas, and were intending to set off on their visit the very next day. The ominous missive was soon torn open; it was from Lord Alkmond himself, who in a few hurried lines announced the sudden death of his brother; so that there was an end of their visit to the Priory.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, calmly, rising after a pause, and standing with his back to the fire, in a musing posture.