Volume 1 — From The Lamp. MANY YEARS AGO AT UPFIELD.

In the last decade of the last century, Upfield was a very healthy, pretty, prosperous town in Suffolk. Its centre was a green; undulating, irregular, and from four to five acres in area. Round it were laborers' cottages, a forge, the inn, the veterinary surgeon's house, the doctor's, the vicarage, and the Grey House, each with land proportioned to its character. A little, very little way off, was the church; belonging anciently to a Carthusian monastery, of which some ruins still existed; and beyond that, but within a quarter of a mile of Upfield, was Edward's Hall, the fine baronial residence of the Scharderlowes, who had owned it since the reign of Henry IV., and never forsaken the Catholic faith. Upfield was eloquent about the past, as well as actually charming. The church, early English, was little injured exteriorly. Inside it reminded one of a nun compelled to wear a masquerade dress. The beautiful arches and lofty roof had defied time and the vulgar rage of vicious fanaticism; so had the pavement, rich in slabs imploring humbly prayers for the repose of the dead who lay under it; but devotion and taste mourned over the changed use of the sacred building, and the characteristics thereof; for instance, a singing-gallery in the western end, with the royal arms done in red and gilded plaster, fastened to it; high deal pews for the mass of the congregation, and the squire's praying-made-comfortable one within the carved oak screen in the south transept, where had been the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament.

The Grey House was low, rambling, picturesque; the beau-ideal of a happy, hospitable old English home. It had been built by instalments, at distant intervals; and had derived its name from a Lord Grey, of Codnoure, who had formerly possessed lands in the neighborhood. At the time whence this story starts, it had been for a hundred years or more in the family of the Wickhams, who claimed to be descended collaterally from William of Wykeham—whether they were or not, had never been discussed, and therefore never formally established; nor did any one in the neighborhood, except Mr. Scharderlowe and his family, know that a former Wickham had bartered his religion for a wealthy Protestant wife, and allowed her to bring up their children in her own way. In January, 1790, George Wickham, the head of the family, died at the Grey House, of inflammation of the lungs, in his forty-second year, and no one was ever more regretted. A kinder-hearted man had never breathed. His attachments had been warm and numerous; he had helped every one whom he could help, been peculiarly gentle to the poor and his dependents, hated nothing but wickedness, and believed in that only when it was impossible to be blind to it. "Poor dear Mr. Wickham," said Mrs. Scharderlowe, when her husband told her the news; "I'm heartily sorry. I always thought he would become a Catholic—he was so liberal in all his feelings; only the last time we met, conversation taking that turn—I forget why—he said it was too bad that we could not worship God as we pleased, without suffering for it; and that he was ashamed of Englishmen who forgot that their noblest laws were made, and their most glorious victories won, in Catholic times. What a loss he will be to Upfield and his family!" "Yes," returned her husband, "that poor pretty little widow is about as helpless and ignorant of the world as possible; she never had occasion to think of anything but how to make {399} home happy, which I believe she did; they were a particularly united family. I hope he made a will; but I think it is likely he did not; his illness was short and painful, and previously to it no one ever had a fairer prospect of long life than he had."

Mr. Wickham's funeral was talked of in Upfield and the neighborhood many years afterward. Mr. Scharderlowe sent his carriage; the county member, and persons of every class, attended. The clergyman from an adjacent parish, who had been requested to perform the burial-service, because the vicar, Mr. Wickham's nephew, felt unequal to it, burst into tears, and had to pause some minutes to recover himself. The widow fainted; and her eldest son Robert, a youth in his nineteenth year, tried to jump into the vault when his father's coffin was lowered.

There was a will, made during Mr. Wickham's last illness, and the vicar was sole executor and trustee, with a legacy of £500. There was ample provision for the younger children; and Robert was, when of age, to succeed to a brewery, which his father had started many years previously, and which was the most lucrative in the county. He was to learn its management from James Deane, the confidential clerk, whose salary was to be raised, and to whom £100 was left in token of Mr. Wickham's appreciation of his services. The Grey House, and everything in it, with £200 a year, was to be Mrs. Wickham's, and at her disposal at death.

The brewery was half a mile from Upfield; Mr. Wickham had built it where it would not injure the prospect, and Deane had a pretty cottage attached to it, where he, a widower, lived with his sister and only child, a daughter. He was a Catholic, son of a former steward of Mr. Scharderlowe's, and extremely attached to Mr. Wickham, who had taken him when a boy into the brewery, and advanced him steadily. He was a well-principled, intelligent man, who had improved himself by taking lessons in geography, grammar, and algebra, as the opportunities offered; and he was, from his position, well-known in the neighborhood. He told his sister that he feared that Mr. Wickham's death was only the beginning of trouble for his family; for he distrusted Mr. William, the vicar. "It isn't that he's a dishonorable man, Lizzy; but it isn't likely that a crack shot, a bold rider after the hounds, a gentleman who is as fond of a ball as anyone, and who takes no trouble about his own affairs, will do justice to a dead man's, though I don't doubt he means it now."

"But what harm can he do, James?"

"Why, he can ruin the younger children. Everything except the brewery and what is left to Mrs. Wickham is as much in his power as it was in his uncle's. I doubt if the poor dear gentleman wouldn't have arranged differently if he'd had longer time: it's an awful lesson to be always prepared for death; I'm sure I thought Mr. Wickham might live to be a hundred. No doubt pain and sorrow confused his mind, and anyhow it was natural that he should trust his own relations."

"He had better have trusted you, James."

"That was not to be expected, Lizzy, and I mightn't have been fit for it. There's plenty on my hands. It is a large, increasing business, and I have to teach it to Mr. Robert; and one can't tell how he'll take to it; I've been afraid he would be unsteady, but he has taken his father's death to heart uncommonly, and I hope he'll try to be as good a man."

About this time people had begun to remark that Polly Deane, then in her fifteenth year, was growing up a remarkably pretty girl; she was an old established pet of the Wickhams; her mother had been the daughter of a tenant, and so great a favorite that when she married Deane, the wedding was celebrated at the Grey House. When, two years later, she was dying of fever, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham promised to watch over her child. All that {400} they undertook they carried out generously, and Polly lived as much with them as with Aunt Lizzie, who did her part toward her well—loving her fondly, keeping her fresh, healthy, and merry, checking her quick temper, teaching her her prayers, and taking her often to Mr. Scharderlowe's, to get his chaplain's—Father Armand's—blessing; and when she was old enough, to mass and the sacraments. The fact of the Wickhams having no daughter increased their tenderness for her, and her father was delighted and flattered by Mrs. Wickham's watchfulness over her dress and manner, and Mr. Wickham's care for her education; it was the best that could be had in Upfield, and good enough to make her as charming as she need be. She did plain sewing extremely well, and some quaint embroidery of hideous designs in wool and floss silks; she had worked a cat in tent-stitch, and a parrot of unknown species in cross; her sampler was believed to be the finest in the county; she could read aloud very pleasantly, spell wonderfully, write a clear, stiff hand, which one might decipher without glasses at eighty; she could not have gone up for honors in grammar, but she talked very prettily; she had never had occasion to write a letter; as to geography, she believed that the world was round, for her father and Mr. Wickham said so, and she had heard that Captain Cook had been round it; but only that she was ashamed, she would have liked to ask some one how it could be, and how it was found out; it was such a contradiction of observation, if only because of the sea; she had never seen the sea, but she believed in it, and could understand water remaining on level ground; there was the horse-pond, for instance, but that thousands of miles of roaring, angry, deep water should hold on to a round world was too much for her. You could not puzzle her in the multiplication table, but she did not take kindly to weights and measures. She had learned no history, her father could not get a Catholic to teach her, and would trust no one else, but she had picked up a few facts and notions; for instance, she had heard of Alfred the Great and his lanterns; of St. Edward the Confessor, and that he made good laws; of King Charles I., and those wicked men—she fancied Guy Fawkes was one of them—had cut his head off; when he lived she was not sure, and she hoped Mr. Wickham would never ask her, for she should not like to say that she did not know, and she was sometimes afraid that he would when he talked of Carlo's being a King Charles spaniel. It was puzzling, because she remembered Carlo a puppy, and she was sure that the king's name had been George ever since she was born. She had an exquisite ear for music, and a voice of great promise. Mr. Wickham was passionately fond of music, and therefore, appreciating peculiarly this talent of Polly's, had engaged a good master from the county-town to teach her to play on the piano. She had profited well by his instructions, and only a few days before Mr. Wickham was taken ill, she had played the accompaniment when he sang "From the white-blossomed thorn my dear Chloe requested," "O lady fair," and "Oh life is a river, and man is the boat;" and he had patted her head and kissed her, and asked her for the "Slow movement in Artaxerxes" and "The harmonious Blacksmith," and—she was so glad—she had played them without one mistake. Of course she danced, and made cakes and pastry, beauty-washes, elder-wine, and various preserves and salves; knitted her father's stockings and her aunt's mittens, and read a romance whenever she could get one, but that was very rarely.

The vicar made, at any rate, a good start, fulfilling his uncle's instructions exactly; apprenticed his second son, Alfred, to the College of Surgeons—that was the most liberal way in those days of entering the medical profession—and placed him {401} to board with an old family friend, an opulent practitioner. The third son was articled to an eminent attorney; the others were sent to school. The void made by the death of those even most important and most fondly loved is soon filled up externally; how otherwise could justice be done to the living? The widow acquiesced in the separation from her children; it was her husband's plan, and for their advantage. She was sure she could not long survive him; she might even be sinful enough to wish to die, but for her sons' sakes, she was so utterly lonely. They loved her truly, the darlings; but they could not understand her, never would, unless—which God in his great mercy forbid—they ever came to suffer as she suffered. To lose such a husband! so manly, yet so tender and thoughtful. She had always looked forward to his nursing her in her last illness, and receiving her last breath. He would have grieved for her truly, she was sure of that; but he could have borne it better; he would have been of more use to the boys. Thus she mused often, weeping plentifully; but she never denied that she had many consolations. No one could have suited her better than Polly, and she was never more than a day or two absent from her. They were alike in character—simple, self-sacrificing, and affectionate in an uncommon degree. Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse her; the gentle girl felt how much more she could have done had Mrs. Wickham been accessible to the comfort in which her own, the dear old faith, abounded; and prayed daily that it might soon be hers, and did her best. She never attempted direct consolation, but interested the mourner in some trifle, or coaxed her into conversation or employment. Sometimes she really could not arrange some obstinate flowers; sometimes her work was all wrong, and no one but Mrs. Wickham could show her how to put it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought to have the garment that evening. Once, when all her ingenuity failed, she was actually delighted by Betty's running in with her darling kitten, wet to the skin, just saved out of the water-butt; Mrs. Wickham dried her eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly wiping it, and arranging a cushion inside the fender for it; and at last smiled at the endearing nonsense she talked, and told her she was more than a mother to it.

Robert was quite steady; regular at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of course it would have been dull for him without Polly: her youth, beauty, and sisterly at-homeness made a glow in the dear old house. Did he or his mother ever calculate on what was likely to come of that near companionship? No: their actual life engrossed them. He first drew his mother to look on while he and Polly played cribbage or backgammon, and then to play herself a little. He took in the Gentleman's Magazine, and showed her the curious old prints, and read the odds and ends of news aloud. Music was unendurable to her for some months; but she conquered herself by degrees, and came to enjoy it. Then Robert and Polly sang every evening, she playing the accompaniments. Summer brought the boys home for holidays, and that did good. When the anniversary of the father's death came round, its melancholy associations pressed evidently on the widow, and she spent the greater portion of the day in her room; but she was resigned, and better than those who watched her lovingly expected her to be.

The great feature of those Christmas holidays was Alfred's return in an altered character. He had left Upfield a lout—the despair of his mother and the maids; who were the more provoked, because he was undeniably the handsomest of the family. To keep him clean, or make him put on his clothes properly, had been impossible. He had credit for talent; for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote what were deemed wonderfully pretty {402} verses, and he was quick at repartee and sarcasm; but he had been in perpetual disgrace at school, and silent and awkward—sulky as a bear, his brothers called him at home. He made a great sensation on the first evening of his return from London: he was fluent in conversation, perfectly well dressed, and—chief marvel—had clean, carefully-shaped nails. Polly smiled, wondered, and said to herself that he was really very handsome, and sang beautifully. All the Wickhams sang, but none of them, she thought, could be compared to him. The change was not agreeable to Robert, and he showed it; grumbled in an undertone about fops; and asked his brother if he could play cricket or quoits, or skate, or take a five-barred gate, or shoot snipe.

Alfred yawned, and replied:

"My dear Bob, don't you remember that I was never fond of trouble? Those rough amusements are very well for country gentlemen and farmers; and I give them up to them with all my heart. As to skating, you none of you know anything about it; you should see the gentlemen, and elegant ladies too, cutting out flowers, and other complicated figures, on the Serpentine."

Then addressing himself to his mother and Polly—Robert's countenance lowering as he observed the innocent girl's natural interest in such-topics—he talked about the last drawing-room and the fashionable plays. He had seen The School for Scandal and The Haunted Tower, at Drury Lane; Othello and The Conscious Lovers, at Covent Garden, and he recited—really well—some of the tender passages in Othello. Next he described the lying-in-state of the Duke of Cumberland; the trial and execution of Jobbins and Lowe for arson; the recent storms, which had not touched Upfield, but had been terrible elsewhere—chimneys killing people in their beds, the lightning flowing like a stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And no one interrupted him, till Robert said, savagely:

"That fellow will talk us all deaf."

"Not this time, Bob: you and I will sing 'Love in thine eyes' now. I know Polly will play for us."

They did it; Alfred directing the sentiment to her, so as to make her feel shy and uncomfortable, and his brother vowing inwardly that "he'd give that puppy a good thrashing before he went back to London, if he didn't mind what he was about."

Alfred had seen a good deal of what country folk call "finery" in London; but he declared that breakfast at home was unrivalled, particularly in winter. There was the superb fire of coal and oak blocks, throwing a glow on the massive family plate and fine, spotless damask: such a silver urn and teapot were not often seen. Further, the young gentleman inherited a family predilection for an abundant show of viands; liked to see—as was usual at an everyday breakfast there—a ham just cut, a cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate clear honey, with other sweet things, for which his mother's housekeeping was famed. This was not all. The room formed one side of a light angle in the picturesque old house, and from two sides of the table one could see a magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast between its scarlet berries and the table-cloth positively delicious.

Robert and Alfred lingered one morning after the rest of the family had left this room. Alfred was considering that it might be possible to enjoy life in the country; Robert was watching him, half-curiously, half-jealously: he did not believe that his brother was handsomer than himself; but he detested the ease of manner and ready wit that gave him ascendancy disproportioned to his years. He threw himself back in a large armchair, stretched his legs, and said: "I'm not sure that I don't envy you, Bob, after all."

"Your condescension is great certainly. Have you been all this time finding out that it is a good thing to be George Wickham's eldest son?"

{403}

"Ah, yes!—eldest son. Well, it's a comfort for the younger ones that there's no superior merit in being born first. But I'm not going to philosophize; it's too much trouble, and not your line. But, really, to breakfast here every morning in all this splendid comfort, the prettiest and gentlest of mothers pressing you to eat and drink more than is good for you; and that lovely fairy, Polly—that perfect Hebe —flitting about—is more than even an eldest son ought to enjoy. How sorry you will be next year, when you come of age, unless"—and he looked searchingly, through half-closed eyes, at Bob.

"Why, pray? And unless what?"

"Only that I conclude you will then set up a house of your own, unless— as it is evident my mother could not part from pretty Polly—unless you arrange to live here, and marry our pet."

Strange flushings and palenesses passed over Robert's face, and he had to master a choking in his throat and heaving of his chest before he spoke. He had never had his hidden feelings put into words before—he had not even any definite intention about the young girl whom his eye followed stealthily every where, and whose voice, the rustling of whose dress even, was music to him. He only knew that he should throttle any one who laid a finger on her. He had not guessed that any one connected him with her, even in thought; and now here was all that was most secret and sacred in his heart dragged out, and held mockingly before him by a boy two years younger than himself. It seemed to him hours instead of seconds before he spoke, and his voice had the passionate tremulousness which betrays great interior tumult; he was sure that he should say something he would rather not say, but conscious every moment's delay gave an advantage to his abhorred tormentor. Without raising his eyes, he said hoarsely, "The Wickhams are proud—they don't make low marriages."

"Upon my word, Bob," returned his brother patronizingly, "I respect you; I did not give you credit for so much good sense. The girl's a perfect beauty, no doubt. What a sensation she'd make in London! But, after all, she's our servant's daughter, and old Molly Brown's grandchild. Then, again, that unlucky religion of hers! The Scharderlowes throw a respectability over it here, for they are well-born and wealthy, but anywhere else it would be extremely awkward for you. I confess I had a motive for sounding you. Farmer Briggs's eldest son hinted to me yesterday that he should be happy to lay West Hill at Polly's feet."

"He 's an insolent rascal!" said Robert furiously.

"My dearest Bob, why? The poor fellow has eyes, and uses them; and one would not wish our Hebe to be an old maid."

"I say," reiterated Robert, deadly pale, and stamping, "he's an insolent rascal; and if I catch him coming to this house I'll tell him so. A rustic boor like that to hint at marrying a girl who has always been my parents' pet, and is my mother's favorite companion—"

He stopped abruptly; and his brother, who was a perfect mimic, continued in precisely his tone, "And is so dear to Robert Wickham, that he will not hear her name coupled with another man's—"

He had gone too far; Robert's indignation boiled over—he sprang at him—and before he had time to stir, struck him a blow between the eyes, which brought sparks from them, and blood from his nose. A crash and struggle followed, which Polly heard. She ran to the room, anticipating nothing more than that some of the large dogs, privileged to roam about the house, were quarrelling over the cold meat. Amazed, beyond all power of words, she stood silent and very pale. Then, feeling, young as she was, instinctive womanly power over the disgraced young men, and holding herself {404} so erect that she looked a head taller than usual, she said, coldly and firmly, "I am ashamed of you!"

By that time they were ashamed of themselves. Alfred, covering his disfigured face with his handkerchief, left the room slowly. Robert, who had received no visible hurt, threw up a sash, jumped out, and when he turned to shut the window, looked earnestly and sadly at Polly, so as to bring a strange unwelcome sensation to her heart.

There was an awkwardness at dinner that day. Polly had removed the traces of the fray, and kept her counsel; but Alfred's features defied concealment. He stayed in his room with raw beef on them, and mutton-broth and barley-water for his regimen. His mother and Betty could get nothing out of him but that Bob was a fool, and had licked him for teasing him. He was by no means given to repentance; but his bruises, and a message from the vicar, desiring to see him early next morning, led him to the conclusion that he had better have "kept his tongue within his teeth." He was sufficiently humbled to receive silently unusually severe reproofs from his guardian, who had informed him that he had sent for him in order to avoid the risk of paining his excellent mother. It was not only that he knew all that Betty could tell of "the row" between the brothers, and that he denounced the "ruffianliness" of "brawling in a widowed mother's house," but that Mr. Kemp, in whose house in London he lived, had inclosed bills of disgraceful amount, in a letter complaining that Alfred's taste for pleasure threatened to be his ruin; and regretting that justice to his own family compelled him to decline retaining him as an inmate after the approaching midsummer. The young man's unusual power of pleasing, he said, made his example peculiarly dangerous.

"And now," said the vicar, "I ask you if your heart is not touched by the thought of the pain that this letter would give your dead father, were he living; and if you could bear your mother to know it? It is only for her sake that I spare you. I will beg Mr. Kemp to retract his resolution to dismiss you, if you become steadier, and I shall charge him to let it be known that I will not pay any bills that exceed the limit of your very handsome allowance: and I warn you that my natural easiness and indolence shall not prevent my being severe if you require it. As to the affair yesterday, I shall not inquire into it; but I warn you that the recurrence of anything so disgraceful shall prevent your spending your vacations at home; and I am sorry to say to one of my good uncle's sons, that I am glad he must return to town the day after to-morrow."

Alfred was surprised and alarmed, and made professions of penitence, and promises of amendment.

There was a visible change thenceforward in Robert. He became more manly in his bearing; and variable in his manner to Polly, saying even at times very sharp things to her. The sweet-tempered girl gave no provocation, and felt no resentment; but hid sometimes a tear. She did not like to displease any one whom Mrs. Wickham loved. Robert attended to business, took his proper place in society, and was popular; and she felt it a relief when he was out, and she had not to play for him. It was within three months of his twenty-first birthday, when, on one of the frequent occasions of his dining with the vicar, that gentleman asked him what were his plans. He replied that he hadn't any.

"But, my dear boy, my authority over you is near its end, and so is your enforced residence with your mother. It is time to think where you will live."

"I don't think my mother will turn me out."

"No; but as her allowance for you ceases with your minority, you must, in fairness to her, either contribute to {405} the household income, or get a home of your own."

"I don't anticipate any difficulty about it."

"Merton Paddocks is to be let," continued William. "It is a nice little place, and suitable to you in many ways. If you let it slip, you may regret it. Your marrying is to be calculated on, and in that event your living with your mother might not be agreeable to all parties."

"I don't think of marrying."

"Oh, nonsense! every man's turn comes; and why should you escape?"

"As you escaped, perhaps." "Me!—one old bachelor in a family is enough in two generations; and my case may not be obstinate. I'm not actually too old."

"May I ask whom you think of elevating to the vicarage?" asked Robert, laughing; but there was a pause which, he could not imagine why, made him uncomfortable, before his cousin said:

"I have thought of Polly—do you forbid the banns?"

The room seemed turning round with Robert; but he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and said, as carelessly as he could, "That child!"

"Child! I don't know—she's seventeen, and I'm thirty-two—the difference there was between your parents' ages when they married; and Polly is two years older than your mother was then."

"Perhaps I'm no judge of the matter, William, but as you have broached the subject, excuse me if I ask if you have any notion that Polly is attached to you."

"None whatever; but any man can marry any woman provided he have a fair field and no favor. What has really kept me doubtful has been a distinct difficulty about pretty Polly's birth. It is awkward; and the Wickhams have always been sensitive on such points; but I've nearly resolved to sacrifice pride to Polly's charms. Her beauty and grace would adorn any position; and as soon as my guardianship, and consequent business relations with her father, ceases, I shall probably ask my aunt's consent and blessing. It will be great promotion for her pet, and insure her having her near her for life. Meanwhile, Bob, I rely on your silence."

"Certainly."

Poor Robert! Here was one of his own family seeing no difficulty about marrying the girl of whom he had spoken as beneath himself! another man talking with assurance of being Polly's husband as soon as he thought fit! while he, who had been domesticated with her from her infancy—had never dared to give her a playful kiss since they had ceased to be children—had never ventured on the least demonstration of the fondness that tormented him for expression. He made an excuse to go home early; walked in the shrubbery, wretched and irresolute, till midnight; went to his room, threw himself undressed on the bed, had some uneasy sleep, rose early, walked again, and appeared at breakfast haggard and irritable. His mother observed it, and was distressed. He had sat up too late, he said; and, for once, William's wine was bad. He would not go to the brewery that day; but, if she liked, he would drive her and Polly in the phaeton to Larchton, and they could give Betty a treat by taking her. She was always glad to visit her native place, and he knew she had not been there for a long time. His mother was willing. Larchton was a two hours' drive; and they put up the horses there.

Mrs. Wickham and Betty went to see some old people; and Robert proposed to Polly to take a walk. She remembered afterward that she had had an unusual feeling about that walk. They had often walked together before, as a brother and sister might.

For the first time, however, Robert said, "Take my arm, Polly."

She took it; and they proceeded in silence in the fields for some minutes.

Then he said abruptly, "Do you {406} ever think of getting married, Polly?"

"No," she replied with an innocent laugh; "what would Mrs. Wickham do without me?"

"And do you expect never to love any one better than my mother?"

"I really don't think it would be possible."

"But, Polly, you're not a child. You know there's a different—love the love my father had for my mother."

"I have never thought about it," she said carelessly.

Her manner gave him courage; it was so easy and unconscious. Taking the little hand that was on his arm, and holding it so firmly that he could not feel her effort to withdraw it, he went on: "Polly, I made an excuse to come here that I might talk to you without interruption. The love that my father had for my mother, I have for you. I cannot tell when it began; but I first knew how strong it was when Alfred came home first from London. I was madly jealous of him because he was forward and I was bashful. Do you remember the morning you found us fighting in the breakfast-parlor? He had provoked me so much by something that he said about you, that I could not help striking him. I don't know what I might have done if you hadn't come in then; and I've never been happy since. I've been irritable, and sometimes, I know, cross and disagreeable. Something occurred last night which I can't tell you now—I may another time—which made me wretched; and I made up my mind this morning to put myself out of suspense, and ask you, Polly, to be my wife."

He had been too full of his story to look at her while he was speaking, but he looked then eagerly for her answer. He could not read the lovely countenance which new and various feelings made different from anything he had ever seen. The soft eyelids down, the lashes moist, the lips trembling, the flush so deep that it would have spoiled a less delicate skin. She was surprised to find how much he loved her; grateful to him; sorry she had made him unhappy, and believed him ill-tempered. Then came a rapid thought of how handsome he was; but, sweeping everything away, perplexity followed. What would Mrs. Wickham and her father wish her to do? What would Father Armand say?

Robert could not guess all this; and there was almost agony in his voice as he said, "Oh, Polly, Polly, do speak to me!"

She made a great effort, and replied, "I don't know what to say, or what I ought to do!"

"Say, at any rate, that you don't dislike me."

"Oh, no!" she said readily, almost laughing to think that he could suppose that possible.

"One thing more, Polly; do you prefer any one else?"

She hesitated a minute, for her quick wit told her that the question involved a great deal; but she answered firmly, though shyly, "No; I do not."

Distrustful as he had been of his power to please her, this was enough for the time to make him almost beside himself with delight.

He said "God bless you!" heartily; and was silent awhile because he could not command his voice. He resumed, "As to your 'ought to do,' don't say anything to any one till I've spoken to my mother. We'll go and look for her now." He talked a great deal of nonsense on the way, and Polly said very little then, or during the drive. She was ashamed to look at Mrs. Wickham, and was glad that her attention was drawn from her to Robert. He "touched up" the young horses so wildly, that she declared he should never drive her again, if he did not behave better. Directly they got home, he told her that he wanted to speak to her that moment alone; and he poured out his story. Such an old, old story! So like what her own dead and buried George had told her long, long ago. She stand in the way of an innocent love, and between two of the creatures dearest to her on earth! She would be very glad {407} to have Polly as a daughter—she loved her as one. As to pride and such nonsense, people who had loved and lost, as she had, knew all its profound folly. Polly's beauty and goodness might make any husband proud, any home happy. As to William, there was no injustice done him. In the first place, she was sure that Polly could never be brought to think of him as a husband. She looked on him as quite an old man—he was getting very bald; and in the next place, if he had had any real love for her, he could not have spoken so coolly and confidently of winning her. Robert said that the last observation was corroborated by his own experience, and that his mother was a remarkably sensible woman. Thereupon she smiled, and kissed and blessed him, and advised him to go directly and tell the simple truth to the vicar.

Polly, meanwhile, sat alone in her pretty bedroom—her face buried in her hands, her rich golden hair unbound and falling loosely over her shoulders, dreading to go down to dinner. Not that she was ashamed of dear, dear Mrs. Wickham. No; she could throw her arms around her neck and hide her face there, and make her a confidante without any fear of being repulsed; but how could she look at Robert, much less speak to him? and of course the servant would see and understand all about it. She wished she might stay in her room. If she had but a headache! but she was really perfectly well; and false excuses she never dreamed of making. Robert would be talking to her again as he had talked in the fields. Really, really she did not know what to say to him. Indeed she had never thought of getting married. She had looked forward to living between the Grey House and her father's, beloved and welcome in both; adding to his and Mrs. Wickham's happiness more and more as they grew older and wanted greater care. Why could not this go on, with only the difference that Robert should never be displeased with her? That had made her unhappy. She did like him very much; better than any one, next to her father and Mrs. Wickham; better than good old Aunt Lizzy. He was very handsome, and sang well, and so attentive to his mother; and ever since his father's death he had been quite fond of home. How could he ever have supposed that she preferred any one else? But as to being his wife—he was a Protestant. How she should feel his never going to mass with her, his thinking confession useless, his not believing in the dear Lord in the Blessed Sacrament! She had often felt it hard that conversation about these things must be avoided in the dear Grey House, and that her friends there, fond as they were of her, wished her religion different. If she married Robert, it would be worse, for she should love him better than any one on earth then; her anxiety about his salvation would be so great as to make her quite wretched, and he might not like her to talk to him about it. From her earliest childhood, she prayed for the conversion of the Wickhams. She began by saying one Hail Mary daily for the intention; and since she had been older, she had said many novenas, and offered many communions for it. She really did not think her father would give his consent; and Father Armand would at any rate look grave and sad. She had heard him tell pitiful stories of the unhappiness that had come of mixed marriages among persons whom he knew. She did feel truly unhappy. She walked to her window; she could see thence dear venerable Edward's Hall, and knew exactly where the chapel was. She knelt down, fixing her eyes there, and her heart on her divine Lord in the tabernacle, and asked him that, for the love of his blessed mother, he would help and direct her, and convert her friends.

Robert had not expected to feel it formidable to tell his story to his cousin, and he was equally grieved and surprised by the way in which he received it. He changed countenance so that he looked ten years older; walked rapidly up and down the room; {408} threw himself into a great chair, and buried his face in his hands; asked Robert to ring; ordered sherry, and drank several glasses. Robert, utterly mystified, was trying to say something soothing, when he interrupted him.

"My dear fellow, I'm not simply love-sick; but circumstances, which I will explain another time, do make this a terrible shock to me. I have been such a fool! To any one but myself, your falling in love with Polly would have seemed the most natural thing in the world; but I was blinded, stultified, as men who have—never mind now—go away—I'm not fit to talk—I will call or write to you tomorrow. Blame you! Certainly not. Give my love to your mother and Polly. God bless you all!"

Next morning early came a note stating that he was going from home for a few days; and that if he did not return, he would explain himself fully in the following week.

Worthy of a peerage as Polly Deane seemed to Robert, he could not be ignorant that to marry him was great promotion for her; and though delicacy in her regard, and real respect for her father, made him ask his consent with the utmost deference, he felt that this was a mere matter of good manners.

Mr. Deane was visibly gratified; said that he could never have expected a proposal so complimentary to his child, though he might be pardoned for saying that he thought any one might be proud of her. His obligations to the Wickham family were of many years' standing; in fact, he owed everything to Mr. Wickham. He could never, making all due allowance for Polly's beauty and goodness, express how honored he felt himself and her on that occasion; but—and he made a long pause in evident difficulty how to express himself; and Robert was mute with surprise and alarm.

"But is it possible, Mr. Robert, that Mrs. Wickham and you don't see one very great objection?"

"In the name of heaven, what is it?" gasped Robert.

"Why, surely, sir, the dear child's religion."

"Now is it possible, Deane, that you think we would ever interfere with that? Have we ever done so by word, or look, or deed, in all the years we've known you? Have not you, ever since you came into this business, been free to observe your holy days in your own way? Have we not always been ready—even when my mother's spirits were at the lowest—to spare Polly to go to mass or confession? I am really hurt, and feel that we don't deserve this?"

"It is all true, Mr. Robert, and the Lord reward you, as he will; but don't you see it might be different—I don't say that it would; but I'm bound to do my best for my girl's soul no less than her body—if she was your wife, and so completely in your power? There's no doubt that a young man in love will promise anything, and mean to keep his word too; but ours is a despised religion (God be praised for it!'); it is one among many signs that it is the true one; and you might come to be ashamed that one so near and dear to you belonged to it, and that would breed great unhappiness. Then, again, you might have children, and I should not dare give my consent to their being reared Protestants. Perhaps, if some ancestor of yours had been firm in such a case as this, you and yours might be still of the old faith."

"I'm sure, as far as I'm concerned, Deane, I wish we were. No one will go to heaven, if Polly doesn't; and the religion that would take her there can't be bad for any one. She might make a Catholic of me."

"God grant it, sir; but don't you see that I must not act on chance? If the child was breaking her heart for you, and"—smiling—"it's not come to that yet, I could not let her risk her soul, and perhaps her children's souls."

"Look here, Mr. Deane: I'm quite ready to give you a written promise {409} that I will never interfere in any way with Polly's practising her religion, and that all her children—boys as well as girls—shall be brought up in it; and I'm sure my mother will make no difficulty."

"You cannot say more, Mr. Robert; but still, if you please, I will take a week to think the matter over, and talk about it to Father Armand and Polly, and for that time I think she'd better come home. She must feel awkward in the same house with you under present circumstances. Will you give my respects to Mrs. Wickham, and say that I will call for the child this evening?"

Numerous, and all wide of the truth, were Mrs. Wickham's and Robert's conjectures respecting the vicar. They began even to consider whether he had ever shown any symptoms of insanity, and were thankful to know that it was not hereditary in the family.

The week stipulated for by Mr. Deane passed; and after consulting Father Armand and Mr. Scharderlowe, he agreed to give his consent to Polly's marrying Robert at the end of a year, if he were then equally willing to bind himself by a written promise to respect her faith, and have his children brought up in it. They said they thought that the kind, liberal, honorable character of the Wickhams being considered, and having been proved in all their conduct to the Deanes, and the difficulty of Catholic marrying Catholic (which was far, far greater in England then than it is now) being weighed, the case was as hopeful as a mixed marriage could be.

Robert grumbled about the delay, every one else approved of it. His mother thought a man young to even at twenty-two; and the time seemed to Polly none too long for becoming accustomed to new feelings and new prospects.

Two days after all this was arranged came the vicar's anxiously-expected letter, dated Scarborough. It said:

"MY DEAR ROBERT,—The punishment of my youthful sins and follies, which has been pursuing me for years, has at last fallen so heavily upon me, that I feel inclined to cry out, like Cain, that it is greater than I can bear. Try to believe, as you read my humiliating confession, that the bitterest portion of my suffering is the fact that I have injured my uncle's family; and that I shall regret my pangs less if they prove a useful warning to you and your brothers. I can hardly remember when I was not in debt. Before I was eight years old I owed pence continually for fruits, sweets, toys. I suffered torture for fear of detection while these trifles were owing, but directly they were paid, I began a fresh score. At school I borrowed money of every one who would lend it, and had a bill at every shop to which a boy would be attracted. The misery I continued to endure while I could not pay was always forgotten directly I had paid; and I was in the same difficulty over and over again. I must own, moreover, that I was absolutely without excuse. I had as much money and indulgence of every kind as any boy of my age and position. I went to the university. My allowance was liberal, but my debts became tremendous. I gave endless wine-parties; drove to London frequently; entered into all its pleasures, made expensive presents, bought horses, and betted; and was of course done; finally, I got into the hands of Jews. It is singular that my father never suspected my delinquencies, and that I was wonderfully helped by circumstances. I was young when I succeeded to the living and a large amount of ready money. All was swallowed up in the dreadful gulf that my unprincipled extravagance had made. Year after year the greater portion of my income has gone in payment of exorbitant interest. Your dear father's legacy went that way; and my infamous creditors, having ascertained that his will placed a great deal in my power, threatened me with exposure—which would have {410} been fatal to a man in my position—till I had pacified them with thousands not my own—with, in fact, a considerable portion of your brothers' inheritance. "At first I stifled my conscience by representing to myself that being released from pressure which had worried me for years, I should have a clear head for business; and recover, by judicious speculation, the sums that I had appropriated—as I hoped—but for a time. I have speculated unfortunately, and made matters infinitely worse; for whereas my previous creditors were rapacious rascals to whom, in justice, nothing was due, my present ones are the helpless children of my warm-hearted, trustful, dead uncle. "By this time old Smith is, I suppose, dead, and you are aware of his will—as singular as all we know of his life—but he is necessary to my story. A day or two before I told you that I thought of marrying Polly he sent for me, said that he felt himself breaking, and wished me to witness his will, and be aware of its purport, that it might not be said, when he was gone, that he had acted at the priest's instigation. He said that at that moment no one knew he was a Catholic, that he had led a godless life for years, but he meant to make his peace with God before he died. He had no relations who had any claim on him; he had left £100 to Mr. Armand for religious uses, and the rest of his money—nearly £20,000—to Polly. I thought the man mad, and humored him. He understood me, and said so; told me that existence had ceased to be more than endurable when, twenty years ago, he entered Upfield a stranger; and that therefore he had confined himself to the necessaries of life, and been glad to be believed poor. That he had thought of leaving his money to a hospital; but that Polly had become so like the only woman he had ever loved—and whom he had lost by death—that he had grown to feel very fatherly toward her; and his intention to make her his heiress had been decided by a little fact very characteristic of Polly. She was walking with your mother one very windy day, when he was out for nearly the last time, and his hat blew off. He was too infirm to follow it, and every one but Polly was too lazy or too much amused to do so. She ran for it, and brought it to him with a kindness which seems to have thoroughly melted him. If he be still living, this must not be mentioned; but, as I said before, I think it is impossible. It is an old saying that 'drowning men catch at straws.' Oppressed as I was by hopeless remorse, I caught at the notion that I would marry Polly. Her father, I thought, would be pleased with her elevation. I did not anticipate any difficulty in making such a gentle creature love me. I intended to do my utmost to make her life happy; and I knew that she would give up anything to do good to your family. I calculated that, living moderately, my income would be ample, and that I could appropriate Polly's fortune to repaying what I had misused, and still without wronging her—for that, as my wife, she would have advantages far beyond her father's expectations. How all this scheming is defeated, you know. The only reparation now in my power, I make willingly. Deducting a curate's stipend and eighty pounds a year for myself, I will furnish you with full powers to receive the residue of my income, and apply it to your brothers' use. I will appoint Deane guardian in my stead, and furnish him with all necessary documents. If I live—and I pray that I may live for that object—your brothers will not suffer ultimately. I have made my will, and left them whatever property I may possess when I die. I have, you know, expectations from the Heathcotes. "There is, I hope, some guarantee for my reform in the willingness with which I accept my punishment. I am glad that, with luxurious tastes, I must exist on very narrow means for years; {411} that with sturdy English prejudices I must live among foreigners. I had not courage to make my shameful confession verbally, or to see any of you afterward. I cross hence to Hamburg to-morrow. My further course is undecided, but I will write to you; and Hangham and Hunt, Fleet street, will forward letters to me. Think of all I have lost, of all I have suffered secretly, for years, of my dreary prospects, and try to be merciful to your miserable cousin,—WILLIAM WICKHAM."

Polly had returned to the Grey House. Mrs. Wickham fretted, and Robert—to be candid—was disagreeable in her absence. Shy and conscious though she felt, she was quite willing to go back. Her father was never at home till the evening—not always then. Aunt Lizzie wanted no help or cheering up, and Polly's happiness depended mainly on her being necessary to some one. There is, moreover, no denying that, differently educated as she had been, her aunt's habits and notions were not hers; and I could not say positively that she did not miss Robert, and admit to herself that it was pleasant to expect him at certain times, and to spend a good deal of time in his society. When the vicar's letter arrived, she was at the breakfast-table, doing the duties of president deftly and satisfactorily, as she did everything—housewifely genius as she was.

"What a long affair!" exclaimed Robert, as he glanced at the letter. "What can he have to say? I can't wait to read it now; I must be off to the brewery. Here, my mother, you take it, and tell me all about it when I come back."

She put it in her pocket, remembering that Polly was concerned in it, and not liking to read it before her without mentioning its purport. The thoughtful, methodical damsel soon departed for an hour's duty among birds and flowers, and then the thunderbolt fell on poor Mrs. Wickham. Her darling younger sons were not only fatherless, but almost dependent on their brother. She was no woman of business; but she guessed that there would not be more than £300 a year to come from the vicar, when the deductions he mentioned had been made. She could of course spare £100. What did she want with money? This would meet all the expenses of education, supposing the vicar lived—and if he died! In any case there was no capital to start her sons in their professions; and, unluckily, Alfred, who would want it first, had never been a favorite of Robert's. His assumption of superiority and his sarcasm had nettled him extremely; and he dropped expressions occasionally which showed he had not forgiven him. But Robert would be very well able to help. Even supposing that—as she hoped he would— he did marry Polly, and have a family, his brothers would be off his hands before his children became expensive. If the story about poor old Mr. Smith proved true, he would be a rich man. Polly would of course do something handsome for her father and aunt, and yet have a large fortune. That incident about the hat Mrs. Wickham remembered perfectly; the poor old man looked enraptured when, lovelier even than usual, glowing from her running and good-nature, she gave it to him. It was, however, very wonderful. How much had happened in quiet Upfield during the last two years! Then she began to pity the vicar heartily; to make excuses for him, and forgive him. The sacrifices he made proved the sincerity of his repentance: how miserable he would be for years, poor and lonely in a foreign land! In those days anywhere "abroad" seemed to simple inland folk something terrible. He might get yellow fever, or the plague. She believed them to be imminent anywhere out of the British Isles. She must talk to Polly, and have her for a staunch ally before Robert came home. He had not his father's noble impulsiveness, but he was just and honorable, and she and Polly could do a great deal with him. Of {412} course she should omit telling her about the vicar's having thought of marrying her, and the story about old Smith. One fact would be painful to her; the other might be untrue.

The two guileless creatures agreed fully that Robert must be worked upon to forgive his cousin, and do all that was necessary for his brothers. They were so radiant with hope and charity that their countenances struck Robert peculiarly when he returned, and he said he saw plainly that they had good news to tell him. It was an awkward beginning: his mother feared that the contrary character of her intelligence would displease him the more, and said timidly, "You had really better read William's letter yourself, my dear boy; he tells his story much better than I can."

The rush of events at Upfield seemed, for a few days, overpowering to those whom it concerned; and those whom it concerned not were very much excited. There was the vicar gone—no one knew wherefore or whither, or for how long; and a curate with a wife and seven children had taken possession of his trim bachelor's hall. Then there was Mr. Smith, not very old, probably not more than fifty, dead. And he had turned out to be a rich man! why who could have guessed it? He had appeared one day at the inn, as suddenly as if he had dropped from the clouds—had evidently come a long way afoot—had no luggage but a valise; and was altogether so equivocal-looking that Mr. Mogg, the veterinary surgeon, would not take him as a lodger without his paying six months' rent in advance. He had paid his way regularly, certainly; but no one could have supposed that he had anything to spare. He would never talk of his affairs except to say that he had out-lived all his near relations, and been a great deal in foreign parts. People had suggested that he might be an escaped felon, a man resuscitated after hanging, a deserter, a Jew. On the strength of the last notion Mr. Mogg tested him with roast pig; and he liked it.

Then he never went to church. To be sure he was not the only person in Upfield of whom that might be said; but no one guessed that he was a papist. They had, at last, no proof that he was; but it was understood, though not formally acknowledged, that the librarian at Edward's Hall was a Catholic priest, and that persons of his communion could and did benefit by his ministrations. Such things were winked at, in spite of penal enactments, in the case of some Catholics of high social standing, like Mr. Scharderlowe.

Now this librarian, Mr. Armand, had been sent for by Mr. Smith when he was taken ill, had visited him frequently, and been with him when he died. No doubt he was a papist. That might be the reason he left his money to Polly Deane. Well, well! what luck some people had! Upfield wouldn't be surprised if Robert Wickham married her; and the neighborhood supposed it must call upon her, whether he did or not. It wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Wickham had known all along of Mr. Smith's intention; it wouldn't be surprised; there was something odd in the way they had educated the girl, and taken her out of her sphere. But, after all, Mrs. Pogram said, she mightn't like Robert Wickham; and with such a fortune as hers, she could afford to please herself. Mrs. Pogram's own sons were decidedly finer young men, had more dash, and were in the army—every one knew that girls liked red coats. Lancaster would be coming home soon, on leave. She would call at once; let others do as they pleased. Deane was a highly-respectable man, and no one could be ashamed of his daughter.

A year later there was a large family-gathering at the Grey House at dinner, and Mrs. Wickham presided. Her grief had settled into a placid, subdued character, which, with the weeds, gave a kind of moonlight tone to her appearance, and became her so {413} well that no one could wish to see her ever otherwise.

Robert and Polly, man and wife, had returned that day from a bridal excursion to the English lakes. The younger brothers were assembled to meet them. Aunt Heathcote was there with her ear-trumpet; and queer-tempered Mrs. Trumball, all smiles. Mr. Deane, of the firm of Wickham and Deane, urbane in shorts, black-silk stockings, and silver knee and shoe buckles, was a father of whom the lovely bride felt proud, as she did too of Aunt Lizzie; who looked as if she had worn silks and laces, and kept her soft white large hands in mittens all her life. Deep in every one's heart was the memory of warm-hearted, generous George Wickham, gone for ever from those whose meeting there, and in their mutual relations, he would have made more joyous; but no one named him, for no one could have done it then and there in a voice which would not have been thick with emotion. Tears must have followed any mention of him; and who would have caused their flow at such a happy gathering? Every one knew what every one was feeling and what a long pause meant, which Robert broke by saying with a sigh, "Well, I do wish that poor dear William were here; I am so happy that I wish every one else was; and I hate to think of him, hospitable, affectionate creature, dragging out his days among fat phlegmatic Dutch boors, without a single soul to speak to." Polly, at his side, contrived to give him, under the table, a little squeeze expressive of the fullest approbation.

"I'm glad you have forgiven him, Bob," said his mother.

"Well, really, mother, it was but natural that I should be savage at first. Men can't be quite as tender-hearted as women, I suppose; and they see the consequences of pecuniary frailties more clearly, and suffer more from them, than they do; but I must be a brute if, happy as I am, I didn't wish well to everybody, especially to that good fellow. Now don't cry, Polly."

Her father observed that there were great excuses for the vicar, and that every one must admit that he had done his utmost to make reparation.

"Yes," said Alfred, with mock gravity. It was his delight to puzzle Aunt Lizzie; she never could make out whether he were joking or oracular. "I have learned wisdom through the rudiments of a painful experience; and, steady reformed man of mature years as I find myself, I pronounce that William might have done much worse."

"Shall I write and urge him to come back?" asked Robert.

"Do! do! do!" resounded in various voices all around the table.

"Very well; I'm more than willing. Polly told me confidentially a few days ago that she had no turn for extravagance; and I feel so domestic and moderate, that I fancy we may manage to provide for the fine young family that William's indiscretions have thrown on our hands, though he will be able to give less help than if he remained at Rotterdam."

"Mr. Ridlem's stipend would be saved, you know, Bob."

"Not exactly, mother. William couldn't live at home as he lives now; that would be painful to us and impossible for him."

"True; I forgot that."

"It is difficult for me to put in a word," said Alfred, "because I've been a great expense to Bob, and he hasn't done with me yet; in fact I've no right to make a suggestion; but it is my full intention to reimburse him one of these days. I shouldn't have said so, only the chance of helping to bring William back—"

"You're a good fellow, Alfred; I believe you; and must confess that I have found you less trouble than I expected."

The result of the consultation was a letter to the vicar, signed by every one present, entreating him to return forthwith; a letter over which he cried like {414} a girl. It brought him back speedily, a wiser and not a sadder man. He said indeed that, though down among the dykes, he had never been so happy as since he made all square with his conscience.

To follow the affairs of Upfield and the Wickhams further would involve a series of stories. It must suffice to say that Robert's marriage turned out really well; and that from the day of her betrothal, the dearest wish of Polly's heart was gratified; for he, unasked, joined her and the other stragglers who—the laws notwithstanding—made their way on Sundays and holidays to a side-entrance in venerable old Edward's Hall, and were admitted to mass in the little well-loved chapel; Mr. Armand the librarian, identical with Father Armand the priest, thanking God devoutly for the addition to the fold.