The Mother's Recompense Volume II Part 22

Grahame, on the entrance of his happy child, folded her to his bosom; his blessing descended on her head, mingled with tears, which sprung at once from a father's love and self-reproach at all the suffering his irritability had occasioned her. And that evening Lilla indeed felt that all her sorrows, all her struggles, all her dutiful forbearance, were rewarded. Not only was her long-cherished love returned, not only did she feel that in a few short months she should be her Edward's own, that he, the brave, the gallant, honoured sailor, had chosen her in preference to any of those fairer and n.o.bler maidens with whom he had so often a.s.sociated, but her father, her dear father, was more like himself than he had been since her mother's death. He looked, he spoke the Montrose Grahame we have known him in former years. Edward had ever been a favourite with him, but he and Lilla had been so intimate from their earliest childhood, that he had never thought of him as a son; and when the truth was known, so truly did Grahame rejoice, that the bitterness in his earthly cup was well-nigh drowned by its present sweetness.

Innumerable were the questions both Lilla and Grahame had to ask, and Edward answered all with that peculiar joyousness which ever threw a charm around him. The adventures of his voyage, his dangers, the extraordinary means of his long-lost uncle being instrumental in his preservation, Lord Delmont's varied tale, all was animatedly discussed till a late hour. A smile was on Grahame's lip, as his now awakened eye recalled the drooping spirits and fading cheek of his Lilla during those three months of suspense, when Captain Fortescue was supposed drowned, and the equally strange and sudden restoration to health and cheerfulness when Ellen's letter was received, detailing her brother's safety. Lilla's streaming eyes were hid on her lover's shoulder as he detailed his danger, but quickly her tears were kissed away; thankfulness that he was indeed spared, again filled her heart, and the bright smile returned. He accounted for not seeking them earlier by the fact that, while they remained at Richmond, his uncle, whose health from long-continued suffering was but weakly established, could not bear him out of his sight, and that he had entreated him not to leave him till they returned to Oakwood. This, young Fortescue afterwards discovered, was to give Lord Delmont time for the gratification of his wishes, which, from the time he had heard the line of Delmont was extinct, had occupied his mind. Many of his father's old friends recognised him at once. His father's and his sister's friends were eager to see and pay him every attention in their power. He found himself ever a welcome and a courted guest, and happiness, so long a stranger from his breast, now faded not again. To adopt Edward as his son, to leave him heir to his t.i.tle and estate, was now, as it had been from the first moment he recognised his nephew, the dearest wish of his heart, "if it were only to fulfil Sir George Wilmot's prophecy," he jestingly told the old Admiral, who, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, warmly seconded his wishes.

The necessary formula met with no opposition, and the same day that gave to Edward his promotion of captain, informed him of the secretly-formed and secretly-acted-upon desire of his uncle.

In the time of Edward's grandfather, the Delmont estates, as some of our readers may remember, were, from the carelessness of stewards and the complete negligence of their lord, in such an embarra.s.sed state, as barely to return a sufficient income for the expenses of Lord Delmont's establishment. Affairs, however, were not in a worse state than that a little energy and foresight might remedy. The guardian of Henry Manvers, who, as we know already, became Lord Delmont when only three years old, had acted his part with so much straightforwardness and trust, that when Manvers came of age he found his estates in such a thriving condition, that he was a very much richer n.o.bleman than many of his predecessors had been. Well able to discern true merit, and grateful for the services already rendered, his guardian, by his earnest entreaty, remained his agent during his residence with his mother and sister in Switzerland. There, living very much within his income, his fortune acc.u.mulated, and by his early death it fell to the Crown, from which Lord Delmont, on his return from his weary years of slavery, received it with the t.i.tle of earl, bestowed to prove that the tale of a British sailor's sufferings and indignities had not fallen unheeded on the royal ear. The long-banished seaman was presented to his Majesty by the Duke of Clarence himself, and had no need to regret the gracious interview.

His intentions concerning the young officer Captain Fortescue met with an unqualified approval. Ardently loving his profession, the royal Duke thought the more naval heroes filled the n.o.bility of his country the better for England, and an invitation to Bushy Park was soon afterwards forwarded, both to Lord Delmont and his gallant nephew.

Edward, already well-nigh beside himself by his unexpected promotion, no longer knew how to contain the exuberance of his spirits, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of his domestic circle; particularly to his quiet, gentle sister, who, as she looked on her brother, felt how truly, how inexpressibly her happiness increased with his prosperity. She too had wound herself round the heart of her uncle; she loved him, first for his partiality to her brother, but quickly her affection was extended to himself. Mrs. Hamilton had related to him every particular of her history, with which he had been deeply and painfully affected, and as he quickly perceived how much his sister's gentle firmness and constant watchfulness had done towards forming the character of not only Edward and Ellen but of her own children, his admiration for her hourly increased.

A very few days brought Lord Delmont and his niece Ellen to Mr.

Grahame's cottage, and Lilla's delight at seeing Ellen was only second to that she felt when Edward came. The presence, the cordial greeting of Lord Delmont removed from the mind of Grahame every remaining doubt of his approbation of the bride his nephew had chosen. As a faithful historian, however, I must acknowledge the wishes of Lord Delmont had pointed out Lady Emily Lyle as the most suitable connection for Edward.

Lady Florence he would have preferred, but there were many whispers going about that she was engaged to the handsome young baronet Sir Walter Cameron, who, by the death of his uncle Sir Hector, had lately inherited some extensive estates in the south-west of Scotland. When, however, Lord Delmont perceived his nephew's affections were irrevocably fixed, and he heard from his sister's lips the character of Lilla Grahame, he made no opposition, but consented with much warmth and willingness. He was not only content, but resolved on being introduced to Miss Grahame as soon as possible, without, however, saying a word to Edward of his intentions. He took Ellen with him, he said, to convoy him safely and secure him a welcome reception; neither of which, she a.s.sured him, he needed, though she very gladly accompanied him.

A few weeks pa.s.sed too quickly by, imparting happiness even to Ellen, for had she been permitted the liberty of choosing a wife for her Edward, Lilla Grahame would have been her choice. Deeply and almost painfully affected had she been indeed, when her brother first sought her to reveal the secret of his love.

"I cannot," he said, "I will not marry without your sympathy, your approval, my sister--my more than sister, my faithful friend, my gentle monitress, for such you have ever been to me," and he folded her in his arms with a brother's love, and Ellen had concealed upon his manly bosom the glistening tears, whose source she scarcely knew. "I would have you love my wife, not only for my sake but for herself alone. Never will I marry one who will refuse to look on you with the reverential affection your brother does. Lilla Grahame does this, my Ellen; it was her girlish affection for you that first attracted my attention to her. She will regard you as I do; she will teach her children, if it please heaven to grant us any, to look on you even as I would; her heart and home will be as open to my beloved sister as mine. Speak then, my ever-cherished, ever faithful friend; tell me if, in seeking Lilla, your sympathy, your blessing will be mine."

Tears of joy choked her utterance, but quickly recovering herself, Ellen answered him in a manner calculated indeed to increase his happiness, and her presence at Llangwillan satisfied every wish.

Unable to resist the eloquent entreaties of all his friends and the appealing eyes of his child, Grahame at last consented to spend the month which was to intervene ere his daughter's nuptials, at Oakwood.

That period Edward intended to employ in visiting the ancient hall on the Delmont estate, which for the last three months had been in a state of active preparation for the reception of its long-absent master. It was beautifully situated in the vicinity of the New Forest, Hamps.h.i.+re.

There Edward was to take his bride, considering the whole estate, his uncle declared, already as his own, as he did not mean to be a fixture there, but live alternately with his sister and his nephew. Oakwood should see quite as much of him as Beech Hill, and young people were better alone, particularly the first year of their marriage. Vainly Edward and Lilla sought to combat his resolution; the only concession they could obtain was, that when their honeymoon was over, he and Ellen would pay them a visit, just to see how they were getting on.

"You must never marry, Nelly, for I don't know what my sister will do without you," said Lord Delmont, laughing.

"Be a.s.sured, uncle Charles, I never will. I love the freedom of this old hall much too well; and, unless my aunt absolutely sends me away, I shall not go."

"And that she never will, Ellen," said Lilla earnestly. "She said the other day she did not know how she should ever spare you even to us; but you must come to us very often, dearest Ellen. I shall never perform my part well as mistress of the large establishment with which Edward threatens me, without your counsel and support"

"I will not come at all, if you and Edward lay your wise heads together, as you already seem inclined to do, to win me by flattery," replied Ellen, playfully, endeavouring to look grave, though she refused not the kiss of peace for which Lilla looked up so appealingly.

The first week in July was fixed for the celebration of the two marriages in Mr. Hamilton's family. As both Edward and Percy wished the ceremony should take place in the parish church of Oakwood, and be performed by Archdeacon Howard, it was agreed the same day should witness both bridals; and that Miss Manvers, who had been residing at Castle Terryn with the Earl and Countess St. Eval, should accompany them to Oakwood a few days previous. Young Hamilton took his bride to Paris, to which capital he had been intrusted with some government commission.

It was not till the end of July he had originally intended his nuptials should take place; but he did not choose to leave England for an uncertain period without his Louisa, and consequently it was agreed their honeymoon should be pa.s.sed in France. It may be well to mention here that Mr. Hamilton had effected the exchange he desired, and that Arthur Myrvin and his beloved Emmeline were now comfortably installed in the Rectory, which had been so long the residence of Mr. Howard; and that Myrvin now performed his pastoral duties in a manner that reflected happiness not only on his paris.h.i.+oners, but on all his friends, and enabled him to enjoy that true peace springing from a satisfied conscience. He trod in the steps of his lamented friend; he knew not himself how often his poor yet contented flock compared him in their humble cottages with Herbert, and that in their eyes he did not lose by the comparison. Some, indeed, would say, "It is all Master Herbert's example, and the society of that sweet young creature, Miss Emmeline, that has made him what he is." But whatever might be the reason, Arthur was universally beloved; and that the village favourite, Miss Emmeline, who had grown up amongst them from infancy, was their Rector's wife--that she still mingled amongst them, the same gentle, loveable being she had ever been--that it was to her and not to a stranger, they were ever at liberty to seek for relief in trouble, or sympathy in joy, was indeed a source of unbounded pleasure. And Emmeline was happy, truly, gratefully happy; never did she regret the choice she had made, nor envy her family the higher stations of life it was theirs to fill.

She had not a wish beyond the homes of those she loved; her husband was all in all to her, her child a treasure for which she could not be sufficiently thankful. She was still the same playful, guileless being to her family which she had ever been; but to strangers a greater degree of dignity characterised her deportment, and commanded their involuntary respect. The home of Arthur Myrvin was indeed one over which peace and love had entwined their roseate wings; a lowly yet a beauteous spot, over which the storms of the busy troubled world might burst, but never reach; and for other sorrows, piety and submission were alike their watchword and their safeguard. Lord St. Eval was the only person who regretted Arthur's promotion to the rectory of Oakwood, as it deprived him, he declared, of his chaplain, his vicar, and his friend. However, he willingly accepted a friend of Mr. Hamilton's to supply his place, a clergyman not much beyond the prime of life; one who for seven years had devoted himself, laboriously and unceasingly, to a poor and unprofitable parish in one of the Feroe Islands; in the service of Mr. Hamilton he had been employed, though voluntarily he had accepted, nay, eloquently he had pleaded for the office. To those of our readers who are acquainted with the story of Home Influence, the Rev. Henry Morton is no stranger. They may remember that he accompanied Mr. Hamilton on his perilous expedition, and had joyfully consented to remaining there till the young Christian, Wilson, was capable of undertaking the ministry. He had done so; his pupil promised fair to reward his every care, and preserve his countrymen in that state of peace, prosperity, and virtue, to which they had been brought by the unceasing cares of Morton; and that worthy man returned to his native land seven years after he had quitted it, improved not only in inward peace but in health, and consequently appearances. A perceptible lameness was now the only remains of what had been before painful deformity. The bracing air of the island had invigorated his nerves; the consciousness that he was active in the service of his fellow-creatures removed from his mind the morbid sensibility that had formerly so oppressed him; and Mr. and Mrs.

Hamilton perceived, with benevolent pleasure, that life was to him no longer a burden. He had become a cheerful, happy member of society, willing to enjoy the blessings that now surrounded him with a truly chastened, grateful spirit: Oakwood and Castle Terryn were ever enlivened when he was present. After the cold and barren living at Feroe, exiled as he there had been from any of his own rank in life, the Vicarage at Castle Terryn and the society those duties included, formed to him indeed a happy resting-place; while his many excellent qualities soon reconciled St. Eval and his Countess to Myrvin's desertion, as they called his accepting the rectory at Oakwood. No untoward event occurred to prevent the celebration of Percy and Edward's bridals as intended.

They took place, attended with all that chastened joy and innocent festivity which might have been expected from the characters of those princ.i.p.ally concerned. No cloud obscured the happiness of the affectionate united family, which witnessed these gladdening nuptials.

Each might, perhaps, in secret have felt there was one blank in every heart, that when thus united, there was still a void on earth. In their b.r.e.a.s.t.s the fond memory of Herbert lingered still. Mr. Grahame forgot his moroseness, though he had resolved on returning to his cottage in Wales. He could feel nothing but delight as he looked on his Lilla in her chaste and simple bridal robes, and felt that of her he might indeed be proud. Fondly he dried the tear that fell from her bright eyes, as she clung to him in parting, and promised to see her soon, very soon at Beech Hill.

It was the amus.e.m.e.nt of the village gossips for many a long evening to discuss over and over again the various merits of the two brides; some preferring the tearful, blus.h.i.+ng Lilla, others the pale, yet composed and dignified demeanour of Miss Manvers. Some said Captain Fortescue looked much more agitated than he did when he saved his uncle's life off Dartmouth, some years before; it was marvellously strange for a brave young officer such as he, to be so fl.u.s.tered at such a simple thing as taking a pretty girl for better or worse. And Mr. Percy Hamilton, some said, was very much too serious for such a joyous occasion; if they had been Miss Manvers they should not have liked it, and so unlike himself, too.

"Hold your tongue, silly woman," a venerable old man interposed, at this part of the conversation, "the poor lad's thoughts were with his brother, to whom this day would have been as great a source of joy as to himself. He has not been the same man since dear Master Herbert's death, and no wonder, poor fellow."

This observation effectually put an end to the remarks on Percy's demeanour, and some owned, after all, marriage was somehow a solemn ceremony, and it was better to be too serious at such a time than too gay.

Percy and his bride stayed a week in London, and thence proceeded to Paris, which place, a very short scrutiny convinced Percy was internally in no quiet condition; some disturbance, he was convinced, was threatening, though of what nature he could not at first comprehend. He had not, however, left England a fortnight before his family were alarmed by the reports which so quickly flew over to our island of that extraordinary revolution which in three short days completely changed the sovereign dynasty of France, and threatened a renewal of those horrors which had deluged that fair capital with blood in the time of the unfortunate Louis XVI. We have neither s.p.a.ce nor inclination to enter into such details; some extracts of a letter from Percy, which Mr.

Hamilton received, after a week of extreme anxiety on his account, we feel, however, compelled to transcribe, as the ultimate fates of two individuals, whose names have more than once been mentioned in the course of these memoirs, may there perhaps be discovered.

"Your anxiety, my dearest mother, and that of my father and Ellen, I can well understand, but for myself I had no fear. Had I been alone, I believe a species of pleasurable excitement would have been the prevailing feeling, but for my Louisa I did tremble very often; the scenes pa.s.sing around us were to a gentle eye and feeling heart terrible indeed, and so suddenly they had come upon us, we had no time to attempt retreat to a place of greater safety. Cannonb.a.l.l.s were flying in all directions, shattering the windows, killing some, and fearfully wounding many others; for several hours I concealed Louisa in the cellar, which was the only secure abode our house presented. Mounted guards, to the number of six or seven hundred, were das.h.i.+ng down the various streets, with a noise like thunder, diversified only by the clash of arms, the shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce cries of the populace. It was indeed terrible--the butchery of lives has indeed been awful; in these sanguinary conflicts between desperate men, pent up in narrow streets, innocent lives have also been taken, for it was next to impossible to distinguish between those who took an active part in the affray, and those who were merely paralysed spectators. In their own defence the gendarmes were compelled to fire, and their artillery did fearful havoc among the people.

Crossing the Quai de la Tournelle, at the commencement of the first day, I was startled by being addressed by name, and turning round, beheld, to my utter astonishment, Cecil Grahame at my elbow; he was in the uniform of a gendarme, in which corps, he told me, with some glee, his brother-in-law, Lord Alphingham, who was high in favour with the French court, had obtained him a commission; he spoke lightly, and with that same recklessness of spirit and want of principle which unfortunately has ever characterised him, declaring he was far better off than he had ever been in England, which country he hoped never to see again, as he utterly abhorred the very sight of it. The French people were rather more agreeable to live with; he could enjoy his pleasures without any confounded restraint. I suppose he saw how little I sympathised in his excited spirits, for, with a hoa.r.s.e laugh and an oath of levity, he swore that I had not a bit more spirit in me than when I was a craven-hearted lad, always cringing before the frown of a saintly father, and therefore no fit companion for a jolly fellow like himself.

'Have you followed Herbert's example, and are you, too, a G.o.dly-minded parson? then, good day, and good riddance to you, my lad,' was the conclusion of his boisterous speech, and setting spurs to his horse, he would have galloped off, when I detained him, to ask why he had not informed his family of his present place of abode and situation. My blood had boiled as he spoke, that such rude and scurrilous lips should thus scornfully have spoken my sainted brother's name; pa.s.sion rose fierce within me, but I thought of him whose name he spoke, and was calm. He swore that he had had quite enough of his father's severity, that he never meant to see his face again. He was now, thank heaven, his own master, and would take care to remain so; that he had been a fool to address me, as he might be sure I should tell of his doings, and bring the old fellow after him. Disgusted beyond measure, yet I could not forbear asking him if he had heard of his mother's death. Without the least change of countenance or of voice, he replied--

"'Heard of it, man, aye, and forgotten it by this; why it is some centuries ago. It would have been a good thing for me had she died years before she did.'

"'Cecil Grahame!' I exclaimed, in a tone that rung in my ears some hours afterwards, and I believe made him start, daring even as he was, 'do you know it is your mother of whom you speak? a mother whose only fault towards you was too much love, a mother whose too fond heart your cruel conduct broke; are you so completely devoid of feeling that not even this can move you?'

"'Pray add to your long list of my good mother's perfections a weakness that ruined me, that made me the wretch I am,' he wildly exclaimed, and he clenched his hand and bit his lip till the blood came, while his cheek became livid with some feeling I could not fathom. He spurred his horse violently, the spirited animal started forward, a kind of spell seemed to rivet my eyes upon him. There was a loud report of cannon from the Place de Greve, several b.a.l.l.s whizzed close by me, evidently fired to disperse the mult.i.tude, who were tumultuously a.s.sembling on the Pont de la Cite, and ere I could recover from the startling effects of the report, I heard a shrill scream of mortal agony, and Cecil Grahame fell from his horse a shattered corpse.

For several minutes I was wholly unconscious of all that was pa.s.sing around me. I stood by the body of the unfortunate young man, quite insensible to the danger I was incurring from the shot. I could only see him before my eyes, as I had known him in his boyhood and his earliest youth, full of fair promises, of hopeful futurity, the darling of his mother's eye, the pride of his father, spite of his faults; and now what was he? a mangled corpse, cut off without warning or preparation in his early youth. But, oh, worse, far worse than all, with the words of hatred, of defiance on his lips. I sought in vain for life; there was no sign, no hope. To attempt to rescue the body was vain, the tumult was increasing fearfully around me; many gendarmes were falling indiscriminately with the populace, and the countenance of Cecil was so fearfully disfigured, that to attempt to recognise it when all might again be quiet would, I knew, be useless. One effort I made, I inquired for and sought Lord Alphingham's hotel, intending to obtain his a.s.sistance in the proper interment of this unfortunate young man, but in this was equally frustrated; the hotel was closely shut up. Lord and Lady Alphingham had, at the earliest threatening of disturbances, retreated to their chateau in the province of Champagne. I forwarded the melancholy intelligence to them, and returned to my own hotel sick at heart with the sight I had witnessed. The fearful tone of his last words, the agonized shriek, rung in my ears, as the shattered form and face floated before my eyes, with a tenacity no effort of my own or even of my Louisa's could dispel. Oh, my mother, what do I not owe you for guarding me from the temptations that have a.s.sailed this wretched young man, or rather for imprinting on my infant mind those principles which, with the blessing of our heavenly Father, have thus preserved me.

Naturally, my temper, my pa.s.sions were like his, in nothing was I his superior; but it was your hand, your prayers, my mother, planted the seeds of virtue, your gentle firmness eradicated those faults which, had they been fostered by indulgence, might have rendered my life like Cecil Grahame's, and exposed me in the end to a death like his. What would have availed my father's judicious guidance, my brother's mild example, had not the soil been prepared by a mother's hand and watered by a mother's prayers? blessings, a thousand blessings on your head, my mother! Oh, may my children learn to bless theirs even as I do mine; they cannot know a purer joy on earth.

"We have arrived at Rouen in safety. I am truly thankful to feel my beloved wife is far from the scene of confusion and danger to which she has been so unavoidably exposed. I am not deceived in her strength of nerve, my dear mother; I did not think, when I boasted of it as one of her truly valuable acquirements, I should so soon have seen it put to the proof; to her letter to Caroline I refer you for all entertaining matter.

"I have been interrupted by an interview as unexpected as it promises to be gratifying. One dear to us all may, at length, rejoice there is hope; but I dare not say too much, for the health of this unhappy young man is so shattered, he may never yet embrace his mother. But to be more explicit, I was engaged in writing, unconsciously with the door of my apartment half open, when I was roused by the voice of the waiter, exclaiming, 'Not that room, sir, if you please, yours is yonder.' I looked up and met the glance of a young man, whom, notwithstanding the long lapse of years, spite of faded form and attenuated features, I recognised on the instant. It was Alfred Greville. I was far more surprised and inconceivably more shocked than when Cecil Grahame crossed my path; I had marked no change in the features or the expression of the latter, but both in Alfred Greville were so totally altered, that he stood before me the living image of his sister, a likeness I had never perceived before. I was too much astonished to address him, and before I could frame words, he had sprung forward, with a burning flush on his cheek, and grasping my hand, wildly exclaimed, 'Do not shun me, Hamilton, I am not yet an utter reprobate. Tell me of my mother; does she live?"

"'She does,' I replied; instantly a burst of thanksgiving broke from his lips, at least so I imagined, from the expression of his features, for there were no articulate sounds, and a swoon resembling death immediately followed. Medical a.s.sistance was instantly procured, but though actual insensibility was not of long continuance, he is p.r.o.nounced to be in such an utterly exhausted state, that we dare not encourage hopes for his final recovery; yet still I cannot but believe he will be spared--spared not only in health, but as a reformed and better man, to bless that mother whose cares for him, despite long years of difficulties and sorrow, have never failed. In vain I entreated him not to exhaust himself by speaking; that I would not leave him, and if he would only be quiet, he might be better able on the morrow to tell me all he desired. He would not be checked; he might not, he said, be spared many hours, and he must speak ere he died. Comparatively speaking, but little actual vice has stained the conduct of Greville.

Throughout all his career the remembrance of his mother has often, very often mingled in his gayest hours, and dashed them with remorseful bitterness. He owns that often of late years her image, and that of his sister Mary, have risen so mildly, so impressively before him, that he has flown almost like a maniac from the gay and heartless throngs, to solitude and silence, and as the thoughts of home and his infancy, when he first lisped out his boyish prayer by the side of his sister at his mother's knee, came thronging over him, he has sobbed and wept like a child. These feelings returned at length so often and so powerfully, that he felt to resist them was even more difficult and painful than to break from the flowery chains which his gay companions had woven round him. He declared his resolution; he resisted ridicule and persuasion.

Almost for the first time in his life he remained steadily firm, and when he had indeed succeeded, and found himself some distance from the scenes of luxurious pleasure, he felt himself suddenly endowed with an elasticity of spirit, which he had not experienced for many a long year.

The last tidings he had received of his mother and sister were that they were at Paris, and thither he determined to go, having parted from his companions at Florence. During the greater part of his journey to the French capital, he fancied his movements were watched by a stranger, gentlemanly in his appearance, and not refusing to enter into conversation when Greville accosted him; but still Alfred did not feel satisfied with his companions.h.i.+p, though to get rid of him seemed an impossibility, for however he changed his course, the day never pa.s.sed without his shadow darkening Greville's path. Within eighty miles of Paris, however, he lost all traces of him, and he then reproached himself for indulging in unnecessary fears. He was not in Paris two days, however, before, to his utter astonishment, he was arrested and thrown into prison on the charge of forging bank-notes, two years previous, to a very considerable amount. In vain he protested against the accusation alleging at that time he had been in Italy and not in Paris. Notes bearing his own signature, and papers betraying other misdemeanours, were brought forward, and on their testimony and that of the stranger, whose name he found to be _Dupont_, he was thrown into prison to await his trial. To him the whole business was an impenetrable mystery. To us, my dear father, it is all clear as day. Poor Mrs.

Greville's fears were certainly not without foundation, and when affairs are somewhat more quiet in Paris, I shall leave no stone unturned to prove young Greville's perfect innocence to the public, and bring that wretch Dupont to the same justice to which his hatred would have condemned the son of his old companion. Alfred's agitation on hearing my explanation of the circ.u.mstance was extreme. The errors of his father appeared to fall heavily on him, and yet he uttered no word of reproach on his memory. The relation of his melancholy death, and the misery in which we found Mrs. Greville and poor Mary affected him so deeply, I dreaded their effect on his health; but this was nothing to his wretchedness when, by his repeated questions, he absolutely wrung from me the tale of his sister's death, his mother's desolation: no words can portray the extent of his self-reproach. It is misery to look upon him now, and feel what he might have been, had his mother been indeed permitted to exercise her rights. There is no happiness for Alfred Greville this side of the Channel; he pines for home--for his mother's blessing and forgiveness, and till he receives them, health will not, cannot return.

In prison he remained for six long weary months, with the consciousness that, amidst the many light companions with whom he had a.s.sociated, there was not one to whom he could appeal for friends.h.i.+p and a.s.sistance in his present situation, and the thoughts of his mother and sister returned with greater force, from the impossibility of learning anything concerning them. The hope of escaping never left him, and, with the a.s.sistance of a comrade, he finally effected it on the 27th of July, the confusion of the city aiding him far more effectually than he believed possible. He came down to Rouen in a coal-barge, so completely exhausted, that he declared, had not the thought of England and his mother been uppermost, he would gladly have laid down in the open streets to die. To England he felt impelled, he scarcely knew wherefore, save that he looked to us for the information he so ardently desired.

Our family had often been among his waking visions, and this accounts for the agitation I witnessed when I first looked up. He said he felt he knew me, but he strove to move or speak in vain; he could not utter the only question he wished to frame, and was unable to depart without being convinced if I indeed were Percy Hamilton.

"'And now I have seen you, what have I learnt?' he said, as he ceased a tale, more of sorrow than of crime.

"'That your mother lives,' I replied, 'that she has never ceased to pray for and love her son, that you can yet be to her a blessing and support.'

"Should he wish her sent for, I asked, I knew she would not demand a second summons. He would not hear of it.

"'Not while I have life enough to seek her. What, bring her all these miles to me. My mother, my poor forsaken mother. Oh, no, if indeed I may not live, if strength be not granted me to seek her, then, then it will be time enough to think of beseeching her to come to me; but not while a hope of life remains, speak not of it, Percy. Let her know nothing of me, nothing, till I can implore her blessing on my knees.'"

"I have ceased to argue with him, for he is bent upon it, and perhaps it is better thus. His mind appears much relieved, he has pa.s.sed a quiet night, and this morning the physician finds a wonderful improvement, wonderful to him perhaps, but not to me."

Percy's letters containing the above extracts, were productive of much interest to his friends at Oakwood. The details of Cecil's death, alleviated by sympathy, were forwarded to his father and sister. The words that had preceded his death Mr. Hamilton carefully suppressed from his friend, and Mr. Grahame, as if dreading to hear anything that could confirm his son's reckless disposition, asked no particulars. For three months he buried himself in increased seclusion at Llangwillan, refusing all invitations, and denying himself steadfastly to all. At the termination of that period, however, he once more joined his friends, an altered and a happier man. His misanthropy had departed, and often Mr.