THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. (continued 6)

The illness of their children first awakened Blanche and De Molton to a knowledge of their real feelings towards each other.

The children caught the measles, a complaint which had at that period proved peculiarly fatal. The eldest girl, who was at that most engaging of all ages, when, without losing the graces of infancy, the mind opens into companionship, became alarmingly ill. In their tender assiduity by the little bed of the sufferer, all feelings of asperity, all feelings of coldness, were quickly forgotten.

Together they watched with intense anxiety, together they listened to the short and frequent cough; one held the cup of cooling beverage with which the other moistened the parched lips of their child. No! it is not possible that parents can bend over the sick bed of their first born,—the creature equally dear to both,—the creature whose first accents of tenderness have been framed to utter their names,—the creature whose first emotions of love have been for them, whose first notions of right and wrong they have together laboured to form!—no! they cannot bend over the sick bed of this loved creature, and harbour any recollection of former unkindness. The impression may fade away; new causes of irritation may subsequently arise; but, for the time being, surely it is impossible that any but feelings of affection can find a place in their hearts.

With Blanche and De Molton all that had ever passed was utterly wiped away, as, with the sickening dread of hearing their worst fears confirmed, they followed the physician from the sick chamber. They scarcely knew in what terms to couch the dreadful question to which they feared to receive a still more dreadful answer,—that question which is asked in a broken and quivering voice, but sometimes with a faint smile assumed to re-assure the questioner,—that question which is oftener put in the form of an assertion, "You do not think there is any danger."

"Why, certainly, our little patient is in a very uncomfortable state," replied the physician, who considered it his duty to prepare the parents for the event which he thought only too probable.

The false hollow smile faded from the countenance of the agonised father: he knit his brows, and bit his compressed lip, till the blood almost started; but Blanche, worn out with fatigue and agitation, his poor Blanche, unable to meet this death-blow to her hopes, staggered towards him for support, and the husband mastered the feelings of the father, to sustain her fainting form, to soothe her more over-whelming agonies.

There are sufferings on which it is painful to dwell,—sufferings too real, too true, too common,—sufferings which have been often endured, and which, alas! many have in store for them,—sufferings which equal in intensity any of which human nature is capable.

For two days and two nights did they watch each varying symptom, count with trembling accuracy the minutes, the seconds, which were passed in undisturbed repose, and listen with painful rapture to the sweet voice, the plaintive and endearing "papa," "mamma," which the poor child often uttered, when, in the restlessness of illness, she wanted, she knew not what.

How sad and painful an effort was it to veil under a semblance of playfulness the anxiety which consumed them, while they attempted to amuse the infant sufferer! to tell her childish tales, in a gay tone of voice, while the heart was bursting! to smooth the brow, to affect a smile! How often during these two long days, these two interminable nights, did Blanche reflect upon her folly and her ingratitude!—her folly in not enjoying to the uttermost the happiness which, a few short days before, was within her reach,—her ingratitude to Providence for the blessings till then vouchsafed to her!

A horrible chill ran through her!—perhaps it was this very ingratitude which had deserved so severe a chastisement. How did she now wonder that petty annoyances should have so ruffled her! What to her were now the sneers of Stapleford, the pity of the world, the absence of elegancies, of comforts! Dry bread to eat, a shelter from the weather, and her children once more healthy, now appeared to her the summit of earthly happiness.

De Molton, too, when he beheld his still-loved Blanche bowed down with grief, when he found her once more overflowing with tenderness to himself, wondered how he could ever have imagined her to be estranged from him, and he watched over her as tenderly as over his child.

On the third day the physician perceived a slight improvement. He allowed them to hope; and the revulsion of feeling, the unbounded joy with which this permission was hailed by Blanche, alarmed him by its vehemence. He attempted to qualify his opinion, but it was in vain!—she was allowed to hope; and, stronger than reason, her ardent nature made her jump to the delightful conclusion that her child was safe.

De Molton, fearful of a relapse, tried to subdue her raptures; but no sooner had the physician left the room, than, throwing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, "Our child will live, Frank! I know she will! She will live, and we shall be happy—entirely, perfectly happy! Nothing can ever make me unhappy again!"

Short-sighted mortals! We little know what the next week, the next day, the next hour, the next moment, may have in store for us!

The hopes of Blanche, however, were not doomed on this occasion to be disappointed: the little girl rapidly recovered; the other children had the complaint mildly; and Blanche, indeed, thought herself beyond the reach of misfortune. She felt gratitude, fervent gratitude, to Heaven for its mercies; but affliction had not yet taught her to "rejoice in trembling." She did not remember how, always, at all times, and in all places, our happiness is in the hands of an all-wise, all-powerful, but merciful Being, whose chastisements are dealt in pity.

This truth was forced upon her mind when, just as the children were convalescent, she saw her husband become listless and oppressed: she heard him frequently cough, and she felt some alarm on his account.

It had always been a matter of doubt whether a slight rash he had in his boyhood was or was not the measles. He had never remembered this doubt while attending his child, and it was not till he felt unaccountably languid and suffering that he recollected he might possibly have caught the infection.

The suspicion which he then hinted to Blanche shot through her frame with the conviction of impending woe; and when the physician confirmed the fact, the agonizing, but not uncommon dread which often overtakes those in affliction recurred to her mind with increased intensity. Were their sorrows the visitations of an offended Providence, called down upon their devoted heads by their own want of submission to its decrees?—was she unworthy of a happiness which she had failed to value?—was the moment come when her repinings and her discontent were to be requited with a terrible retribution?

Nothing that Doctor A. could utter was capable of reassuring her. She shook her head mournfully, and redoubled her attentions to her husband. When told that "she ought to place more reliance in that Power which had raised her child from a much more desperate state of sickness," she answered mournfully, "I do not deserve it."

"We none of us deserve the mercies we meet with," replied the kind-hearted physician: "if we were dealt with according to our merits, well might we all despair." For a few moments such arguments would cheer her, but again she would relapse into despondency; and when, after some days, Dr. A. confessed that the pulse was very high—when his tone of encouragement changed to one of consolation and condolence, her spirit completely sunk—hope died away within her bosom.

In what fearful array did her own faults towards him rise up against her! How completely did she forget the little tone of harshness which had once appeared to her to excuse and to justify her in disputing his wishes and opposing his plans! She felt she could never do enough to expiate her faults, that a whole life of devotion could scarcely suffice to atone for them; and, extreme in everything, she now looked upon herself as having been the most sinful of creatures.

De Molton, whose affection had only been suspended, not destroyed, by the coldness he had met with, now, when he found her tender, gentle, and indefatigable, felt for her all, and more than he had ever felt before. One day she had been tending him with even more than her usual solicitude, when he said, "Thank you, Blanche; you are a kind and excellent nurse; and it grieves me when I think to what a dreary home of sickness, penury, and drudgery, I have been the means of bringing you. Without me, you would have been now enjoying the splendour, the brilliancy of your father's house, even supposing you had never deigned to adorn any of the other happy homes which courted your acceptance. I know that you have suffered much from the privations unavoidable in our situation; you have at times thought me harsh; but indeed, my dearest Blanche—my dear, dear wife, you do not know how much it has cost me to refuse you anything on earth."

"Oh, Frank! do not speak in that manner! I now know how unreasonable, how ungrateful, I have been. Do not talk of what is past. Believe me, you should not agitate yourself."

"It will do me good to say what is upon my mind: it is possible I may not recover."

"Oh, Frank!" She looked at him reproachfully, as if he was unkind in saying what it was so painful to hear.

"Nay, do not cast at me so frightened and so accusing a glance. I am not so very ill yet; and anticipating what is possible, will not make it more probable. Dr. A. says there are still hopes."

"Oh, Frank! I cannot bear it; indeed I cannot!"

"Dearest love, if it should please God to take me from you, you must bear it; and, what is more, you must exert yourself. You will be left with four young children, and, I am sorry to say, with less than ever to support them and yourself. I have ensured my life; but that could be but to a small amount, though to the utmost I could succeed in saving. It was this, as I thought, indispensable duty which contributed to render us so very poor."

"Oh! you were doing everything that was right; and, indeed, if I had known all, I think—I believe—I should have behaved better. I think, if you had told me——"

"I ought to have done so, perhaps. It was a kind of mistaken pride. The whole thing was so distressing to me! I desired so ardently to have been able to gratify every wish of your heart, that my spirit rebelled at being able to gratify none. Still, my sense of duty and of strong necessity made me resolve not to transgress one inch the line of prudence I had marked out for myself. The more your notions seemed unfitted for the fate we had embraced, the more I thought it my bounden duty to resist them, and to impress upon you the plain naked truth of our condition in life. I was wrong; I feel now that I was wrong. I should have made you the partner of my thoughts and plans, as well as of my affections."

"No, no! it was not you who were to blame: you were all that was admirable; yours was strict, uncompromising rectitude, firmness of mind, everything that was manly and noble; while I!—oh, that I can have so misjudged you!—oh, that I can have so wasted these past years, which I now feel ought to have been years of such unmixed, such unalloyed happiness!"

"Now, when perhaps it is too late!" he added in a low faint voice; then perceiving the expression of her countenance, he added, "but better late than never, my love;" and he held out his hand to her, with a smile half playful, half sad, attempting, as sick people often do, to familiarize their own and the minds of their friends with the idea of a final separation. He drew her hand towards him, and placing the other upon it, he continued with earnestness and solemnity: "We have been both to blame—both of us. When I am gone, do not torment yourself with useless regrets, but remember what I now say—that I am conscious of having been to blame on my part. If I had treated you with entire confidence and openness, I might have won on your generous nature to submit cheerfully to any privations. But I am reserved, I am proud. I am at length aware of these constitutional faults; and I trust, if I should be raised from this bed of sickness—if I should be spared to you, dear Blanche—that I shall in future know my duty better, and that I shall pursue it resolutely, and never again allow pride and reserve to chill our intercourse."

"Oh, Frank, if we are but spared to each other, in spite of all outward circumstances, we will be so very, very happy! But we will rejoice in trembling. We are now too well aware how precarious is our happiness, and we shall prize it the more from that very consciousness. We shall learn to be grateful for the sterling blessings we possess."

"And we shall know, my love, as I do now, that, when we meet death face to face, those points only on which we have done our duty can afford reflections in which there is any comfort,—those alone on which we have failed to perform it can give unmitigated pain!"

"Alas, alas! how much have I to repent of! Instead of making your happiness, have I not caused you vexation and disappointment? Have I always honoured, always obeyed you?—have I been really a helpmate to you? Oh, Frank! forgive me! Indeed, indeed, I need your forgiveness; and even that can never reconcile me to myself!"

"Have you already forgotten my injunctions, my love? Remember what I so earnestly wish to impress upon your mind,—that we have been both to blame,—both."

"Thank you, my good, kind, beloved husband,—thank you; and may God in his mercy preserve you to guide my mind, and direct me in the path I should go!—then I shall never err again."

"A weak and erring mortal, like yourself, is a poor guide to lean upon, dear Blanche; we must look within ourselves for the ardent and sincere wish to do what is right, but we must seek from above the strength to perform it. It is easy to know our duty; the difficulty is to persevere in its performance."

"I shall be able to persevere, with you to support me!"

He looked upon her with an expression of unutterable tenderness and pity, and pressed her hand in silence.

The more the fear that they might be for ever parted grew upon her, the less could she admit any allusion to it, the more did she cling to the idea that their union was indissoluble.

CHAPTER XX.

Some manne hath good, but chyldren hath he none; Some manne hath both, but he can get none healthe. Some hath all three, but up to honour's throne Can he not crepe by no manner of stelth. To some she sendeth chyldren, riches, welthe, Honour, worship, and reverence all his lyfe, But yet she pyncheth him with a shrewde wyfe— Be content With such reward as Fortune hath you sent. Sir Thomas More.

De Molton's health remained for some weeks in a most precarious state, during which period they had time and opportunity for opening their whole hearts to each other.

The religious sentiments which, although never before much called forth, were latent in both their bosoms, were more fully developed; and in sorrow, in fear, and in distress, the communion of feeling and interchange of thought became more complete than in the earlier years of their marriage.

When he recovered—for he did recover,—they found themselves thoroughly, entirely, and reasonably happy. The first time that he came into the drawing-room, when she had arranged his arm-chair by the fire, and drawn the narrow curtains, placed the table close to him, and settled little Emma on a stool at his feet, she looked round with delight, and could not help expressing that she thought the room an exceedingly nice one, and that really a horse-hair sofa was not so very uncomfortable.

"Take care, Blanche," replied De Molton, playfully; "we must be happy without deceiving ourselves: we must see things as they really are. Do not, because you are glad to see me here, fancy this little room a splendid apartment, or a horse-hair sofa a luxurious seat, lest the moment of disenchantment should come. No, no! we will be happy in spite of a bad room and wretched furniture; but we will indulge in no visions."

"How right you always are! All will go well, now you are recovering. Yes, you will at last make me reasonable too: and you will teach me to keep all my feelings, good as well as bad, under proper control! And yet, I do not know how it is, the room does really look different in my eyes; and I almost think I do not slip off the sofa as much as I used to do!" He smiled at her again; and she laughed gaily at herself.

As he gradually recovered, some friends were admitted to see him. Lady Westhope rejoiced, not only at the restoration of his health, but at the restoration of confidence between them. Mr. Stapleford pathetically lamented that De Molton should have been taken ill in this horrid nutshell, and asked when they should move to a more habitable part of the town.

"Not at all," answered Blanche.

"You are not in earnest? What can you find to admire in this apartment, dear Lady Blanche?"

"Its cheapness," replied Blanche resolutely: "do you not know, Mr. Stapleford, that we are very poor?"

The courage to utter these few words would spare many persons many moments of doubt, and hesitation, and awkwardness, and many unavailing efforts to make an effect.

Mr. Stapleford bowed with much respect, and a glance, which seemed to say, "You have made a bad bargain! with your beauty, thus to have thrown yourself away!"

But his glance met that of Lady Blanche, which seemed to answer, "I am very poor, but I do not repent my bargain."

Blanche's object was no longer to make a decent appearance in the eyes of others, but to render her husband's home happy. De Molton no longer felt humbled at their poverty, when she no longer seemed affected by it. He candidly detailed his expenditure and his plans: she took great pains to dress her own hair, and soon acquired the proficiency of a Mrs. Jones, or of a milliner's apprentice; she gaily sprung into a Brighton fly with a bounding step, and willingly went into any agreeable society that presented itself: and she found that, though no longer the leader of fashion in point of dress, she was handsome and agreeable enough to be equally sought and liked.

In one of her tête-à-têtes with Lady Westhope, they were both exclaiming at the worldliness of some mutual acquaintance, who courted a woman whom no one esteemed or loved; whom no one thought either agreeable or handsome, solely on account of her position in the world.

"At least Frank and I have one comfort," exclaimed Blanche, in the corner of whose heart there still lurked a remnant of vanity: "if we are sought, it must be for our intrinsic merits. There can be no interested motive in any attention or kindness that is shown to us; and that is a reflection which puts one in better humour with one's self."

"Yes," answered Lady Westhope; "and if we were so inclined, we might moralize on this subject as well as on more serious ones. 'This is a world of compensations,' as Lady Montreville says she has learned from her old nurse. You remember Milly Roberts, who was always toddling after her lovely children in St. James's Square? It is quite refreshing when one is in London to converse with Milly Roberts, and hear good sense, good feeling, and philosophy uttered so unconsciously. Lady Montreville says she has taught her almost all she knows of right and wrong; and, among other things, that we must not look for perfect happiness in this world,—that the most fortunate are not without their troubles, as she expresses it, nor the most unfortunate without their own peculiar blessings. I have reasoned myself into a very respectable degree of contentment, and I only hope that the sight of you and your husband, as you now are, may not disturb my philosophical, and, I hope I may add, religious view of my own fate, as much as the sight of you three months ago tended to confirm and strengthen it."

Blanche had time to prove that her cheerfulness under privation was not the effort of a moment, but a resolution founded upon principle, and persevered in from the same motive; and De Molton also had time to prove that the tenderness of his wife had softened the sternness which was the only flaw in his character; and to become as gentle as he was firm in the performance of his duty; when an event occurred which prevented their late-acquired virtues from being any longer put to so severe a trial.

By the death of a very rich godfather, De Molton became possessed of a small independence. It was very small; but it enabled him to retire on half-pay, till he might be wanted for the active service of his country, and to take a small cottage in the immediate vicinity of Cransley, where Blanche was able to realise her preconceived notions of refined poverty and elegant indigence. They kept a cow, and their butter equalled that at Temple Loseley; their cream was no longer blue milk; they baked at home; and instead of a knocker on the door, they had a bell with a respectable countrified sound. They had a garden, a small one certainly; but its flowers were as bright as those at Cransley, and the primroses decidedly blew a week earlier! They had a veranda, and it did not darken the room much. In short, they had all appliances and means to boot requisite for real happiness.

They were enabled, while their children were so young, to lay by something to assist in their education as they grew older; and they began to think that Milly Roberts was wrong, and that some fortunate people were without "their troubles," when Mr. Stapleford paid them a morning visit from Cransley, and enlightened their minds as to the one only point on which their fate might admit of amelioration.

After expressing his astonishment at their not knowing all the innumerable pieces of scandal which he retailed to them; at their not having read all the new novels of the last spring; at their not having seen the new actress, heard the last singer, visited the last exhibition, and become intimate with the last brides of the season; he exclaimed, "Why, dear Lady Blanche, you will let the grass grow over your intellect, as you are letting it grow over the gravel before your door! One can see by your road and your conversation that Cransley has been uninhabited, and that Lady Westhope has been in London, while you have been in the country, for the last six months!"

"Oh, come and help us, Mr. Stapleford! we will soon get rid of the weeds out of doors. Emma, fetch the gardening basket; Henry, bring your old knife; Arthur, where is my rake? and Frank, if you will get the roller, we will make our little bit of gravel quite nice before Lady Westhope calls."

"Of course I am à vos ordres, Lady Blanche; but, I assure you, I shall be vastly more useful in polishing your mind than your garden. People who ruralize all the year round, and cannot therefore be au courant of what is going on in the world, should never let slip an opportunity of instruction."

"There is some truth in what you say," replied Blanche, as she looked up from her labours, with sparkling eyes, and a complexion dazzling in its brightness from the warmth of the day and the nature of her employment: then shaking back her curls, she bade him seat himself on the bench beneath the young acacia, and tell her "everything, about everybody."

"Well then, Lord D. did not propose, after all, to Miss C.; but set off for Paris, just as the family was on the tip-toe of expectation, thinking every double knock was the peer come to propose in person, and every single knock was a special messenger bearing a written offer of his hand and heart."

"I did not know Miss C. was grown up: does she turn out pretty?"

"Heavens! Lady Blanche, she has been out these two years! and everybody thinks her quite gone off. She was pretty when the duke made such a fuss with her at her first ball; but Mrs. L. thought it an insult to her charms."

"Mrs. L's charms! I thought she was so very plain!"

"Plain! why, she has been a beauty these three years. Lady G. betted Captain S. an amber-headed cane, to an ivory fan, that within a month she would talk her into being a beauty: and she did so, in three weeks and two days,—five days within the prescribed period. When once Lady G. had given her a start, she had the ingenuity to keep it. Her portrait now adorns the Annuals, and the Duke has worn her chains for two years and a half.—But I must not linger here any longer, or I shall be late at dinner. Good morning, dear Lady Blanche; your simplicity is quite piquant, and absolutely refreshes me. You dine at Cransley to-morrow, when I will finish rubbing the rust off your mind."

That evening Lady Blanche remarked to De Molton: "The only little drawback to our perfect happiness is, that certainly one does grow very dull, and very stupid, knowing nothing that goes on in the world! Yet, after all, how much better to be like you, than like Mr. Stapleford! Yes, notwithstanding the grass that has grown over our minds, I do believe ours is the happiest position in life,—that we have the fewest troubles and the greatest number of blessings. I think I may now say with truth, and without enthusiastic nonsense, that we are happier than if we possessed the mines of Golconda. I told you so when we left Sir Frederick Vyneton's villa after our honeymoon; and you then declared how happy you should be if I said the same at the end of two years. I could not have said so then; but I can now, after eight years of marriage." We need not add that De Molton was indeed perfectly happy, nor that he told his wife he was so.

THE END.

London: Spottiswoodes and Shaw, New-street Square.