After presenting Dr. Percival to his visitors, whom both seemed pleased to meet, Mr. Warburton begged them to be seated, and resumed his easy chair, while the doctor sat down beside him.
“It is very kind of you to come to me, my good friends,” said the old gentleman. “I have had a very severe blow from which I shall long suffer, if I ever entirely recover from it.”
“We would fain offer you all the consolation in our power,” said Mr. Hatton. “I know not when I have been more grieved and shocked than by the sudden death of your beloved daughter, just when she had been so wonderfully restored to health by the skill of Dr. Percival.”
“You are very good to speak of me in such terms,” said the Doctor.
“They are richly deserved, sir,” said the Rector of Thorne. Then turning to the Squire, he added, “This sad accident has been a cause of real affliction to your numerous friends, Mr. Warburton. They were well aware that your chief hopes of happiness were centred in your daughter, and will quite understand the anguish you must have endured.” Here he received a look of caution from Dr. Percival. “However, we sincerely hope you will not take her loss much to heart.”
“That is my advice to Mr. Warburton,” said the Doctor. “He has been a most affectionate father, as we all know, but he must not sacrifice himself. He must not give way too much to grief, or we shall lose him as well as his daughter.”
“And we cannot spare him,” cried Mr. Hatton.
“No, I don’t know any man, who would be a greater loss to the whole county than Mr. Warburton,” said the Rector. “He is universally beloved and respected, and we hope and pray that he will live for us, if not for himself.”
“I am sincerely obliged to you, gentlemen, for your good wishes,” replied the Squire brightening up a little, “and if anything can restore me, it is such kind expressions as you use. But I must needs say a word in regard to the funeral. I have left the arrangement of that melancholy business entirely to my son-in-law, Mr. Stanley Brereton.”
“We are quite aware of it, sir,” replied Mr. Hatton, “and we understand it will take place at the end of the week.”
“On Saturday,” said Mr. Warburton. “It is my wish that it should be strictly private. But I hope you will officiate, sir, in conjunction with Mr. Hatton,” he added to the Rector.
“I have already expressed my anxious desire to do so,” replied the other.
At Dr. Percival’s express request, the interview was not prolonged, and the two reverend gentlemen went downstairs to the ladies, with whom they remained for some time in conversation.
They were then interrupted by a message from Stanley, who begged them to come to him in the library. They obeyed, and found him with Mr. Lacy, an undertaker of Chester, and after a little conversation they proceeded to the church — Mr. Warburton’s wishes being then fully explained, all preparatory arrangements were made.
From the church Stanley and Rose repaired to the chamber of death. Sister Aline and her attendant were still watching and praying by the body, which was covered with freshly-gathered flowers, and looked as saintly and beautiful as ever.
The two divines were greatly struck by the sight, and deeply affected. Mr. Lacy did not advance till they had retired, but though accustomed to such scenes, he was greatly moved. Stanley, who stood at a little distance, had great difficulty in maintaining his firmness. Before leaving the room, both clergymen spoke a few kindly words to Sister Aline. Stanley likewise informed her that she would not see Mr. Warburton that day.
“I did not expect him,” she replied. “I hope he is somewhat better.”
“Not much, I fear,” replied Stanley. “Dr. Percival is constantly with him. I shall not feel easy till the funeral is over.”
Mr. Lacy remained for a short time after the others, and then took leave most respectfully of Sister Aline. At their earnest request the Comte de Clairvaux and Sir Randal were permitted to see the unfortunate lady, and were taken to the room in which she was lying by Lady Starkey. They were accompanied by Lady Talmash and Rose.
Like all who had preceded them, they were greatly struck by the spectacle, and almost overpowered. Till they beheld her in death neither of them had supposed Mildred was so beautiful. They now regarded her with astonishment and admiration. Lady Starkey said nothing to them, but allowed them to form their own opinion. The Comte remarked, “I have never beheld such a beautiful sight before.” And Sir Randal was of the same opinion.
By Dr. Percival’s advice, Mr. Warburton did not come down-stairs, but received his friends in his own room. He saw his beloved daughter’s remains once more, and then she was placed in the coffin, which was half filled with flowers. But he was obliged to be removed by force, and uttered a loud cry when dragged away.
It was a most heart-rending scene; and it was extremely fortunate that Dr. Percival was present at the time. But for him Lady Starkey felt certain that the poor Squire would have died.
The interest respecting Mildred at this juncture was extraordinary. All that had formerly been felt respecting her seemed revived.
The house was beset by callers, who were received by Lady Starkey and Stanley, for the poor Squire was unequal to the effort, and in some instances deputed Dr. Percival to see the visitors.
No doubt the few days left of the week passed in a most melancholy manner. Still those staying in the house did not depart, but seemed determined to remain over the funeral.
At length the sad day arrived.
The inner coffin had been closed the day before. Sister Aline had said her last prayers over the body of her departed friend, and had exerted all her strength to maintain her firmness, but with very imperfect success.
It had been Mr. Warburton’s especial request that his daughter’s funeral should be strictly private. But the wish could not be fulfilled. On the contrary, the little church was crowded. Not only the whole of the large household was in mourning — but the whole of the numerous tenantry and their families — while all the worthy Squire’s friends desired to be present, and could not be refused. Of course the chief mourners were Stanley and Mr. Warburton, but Sister Aline was likewise conspicuous.
Stanley bore his grief firmly, but Mr. Warburton never raised his head, and on him every eye was fixed. Dr. Percival was with him and watched him carefully. The coffin, covered with a black velvet pall edged with silver, was placed near the altar, and not far from the entrance of the vault which was open.
The service was admirably performed by the two divines, and in the sermon preached by Mr. Hatton, he spoke with great feeling of the afflicted father.
At this juncture there was not a dry eye in the church, but Mr. Warburton’s face was buried in his handkerchief.
At length the sad ceremonial was ended, but not for some time after was the church cleared — for very many persons wished to view the coffin more closely.
When it was borne to the vault, Mr. Warburton arose, and, taking Dr. Percival’s arm, followed it. But he could not remain, and after seeing it placed returned to the mansion.
Among the few who entered the vault were Sister Aline, but she did not go there until the church was quite cleared. She was attended by Georgette. Stanley was there at the time, but he bowed and quitted the sombre spot as she entered. It was lighted up by a few tapers, but these were sufficient. Her object was prayer, and to bid farewell for ever to her friend. For the present the coffin was still left upon the bier, which was still standing in the middle of the vault. Georgette threw down a cloak on the floor, and on this Sister Aline knelt.
During this interval Georgette remained at the door of the vault, and after the lapse of some quarter of an hour she came to warn her mistress that some persons were approaching.
Sister Aline immediately arose, uttered a few valedictory words, let fall her veil, and passed out of the vault.
The persons who entered at the same moment were Lady Talmash and Rose, but they did not attempt to stop her. All her preparations had been made for immediate departure
, and nothing now remained to do, except to bid farewell to Lady Starkey. Sister Aline had begged that this final interview might be private, and the request was granted.
What passed between them matters not, except that her ladyship behaved with the utmost kindness, and was much affected.
“We shall probably never meet again in this world,” said Sister Aline, “but I shall ever remember you in my prayers. I cannot sufficiently thank you for your extraordinary kindness to me — kindness that has left an ineffaceable impression on my heart Farewell! May Heaven bless you!”
On quitting Lady Starkey, Sister Aline entered a carriage that was waiting for her, and attended by Georgette, drove to Chester, whence she proceeded by rail to Newhaven, and without delay embarked for Dieppe.
On arriving there, she immediately entered the Retreat, telling the Lady Superior and the sisters, who warmly welcomed her, that she would never leave them more.
Georgette was amply rewarded for her faithful attendance. Before parting with her, her mistress bestowed upon her a very handsome sum of money, which subsequently formed her marriage portion.
Not long did Sister Aline survive Mildred. Her strength suddenly forsook her, and she died in less than a month after her return to the Retreat
CHAPTER XLVII.
AN EVENT THAT MAY HAVE BEEN EXPECTED.
A HAPPIER period, we rejoice to say, has, at length, arrived.
Our worthy Squire has recovered from the dangerous illness caused by the loss of his beloved daughter, and is now in as good health as he can ever expect to be.
Lady Talmash has become Comtesse de Clairvaux. The marriage took place in Paris, and Lady Starkey and Rose, with Stanley and Sir Randal de Blundeville were present on the occasion.
The union promises extremely well, for the pair are exactly suited to each other. The Comte has the greatest admiration for his wife, whom he thinks one of the most charming persons he ever met; while, owing to his distinguished manners and perfect good breeding, he suits her infinitely better than a younger man, unaccustomed to the best society, like poor Charles Kynaston, would have done. They remained for some time in Paris, at the Hôtel Continental, and entered into all the amusements of the gay city.
Stanley’s union with Rose may now be regarded as settled, and will, in fact, take place with the full approval of Mrs. Brereton, Mr. Warburton, and Lady Starkey in six months after Mildred’s decease.
We shall, therefore, hasten on, and come at once to the period when the preparations for the marriage are completed.
The Comte and Comtesse de Clairvaux, who have been invited, have just arrived from Paris, and Sir Randal is expected. At Beaucliffe all traces of gloom have disappeared, and owing to Lady Starkey’s judicious treatment, the worthy Squire has completely regained his former cheery look.
The important day finds all prepared. Stanley, who is staying at Brereton Hall, comes over betimes, bringing with him his mother and a couple of friends, Sir Richard Hyde and Captain Leigh, who are intended to serve as his best men.
The four bridesmaids, all of whom are uncommonly pretty, are staying at the house, and are now just finishing their toilettes. The bride has already come down-stairs, and looks quite charming. The sun shines brilliantly, and everything appears most propitious.
At eleven o’clock the wedding party enters the church, already filled with well-dressed company. The bride is leaning on the arm of Mr. Warburton, and attended by her four lovely bridesmaids, each bearing a large bouquet She walks along the crowded aisle towards the altar, while the wedding hymn is sung by the choir, the organ being played by Mrs. Hatton.
When she arrives at the chancel, the bridegroom, who is standing there with his two friends, comes forward to meet her, and the service is immediately commenced by Mr. Hatton, who is assisted by the Rector of Thome.
Mr. Warburton gives the bride away, while Lady Starkey stands beside him. The pair are then joined together, and both feel it to be the happiest moment of their lives.
Hand-in-hand, they then move to the altar, while the psalm is sung, and all formalities are completed.
None of the numerous company depart, but stay to offer warm congratulations as the bride and bridegroom proceed to their carriage, the path outside being strewn with flowers.
The wedding breakfast is sumptuous, and all the guests (among whom is our old acquaintance, Sir John Lambert) are very lively. As far as can be discerned, no painful recollections haunt our worthy Squire. He predicts a very happy future for the newly-wedded pair, and we rejoice to say that his good wishes have hitherto been fulfilled.
The honeymoon was spent in North Wales — spent most delightfully — and when the happy pair returned they yielded to the Squire’s entreaties, and instead of taking up their abode at Brereton Hall, which was quite ready for them, came to Beaucliffe.
It would seem as if Stanley were doomed to be defeated on this point. Mr. Warburton will have him at Beaucliffe; while Lady Starkey is so fond of her niece, who suits her exactly, that she is unwilling to part with her. So there they are still, and likely to remain.
But after all, nothing can be better than Beaucliffe. It is the pleasantest house we know, and the best conducted. Generally, it is full of company, but whenever you go there you are certain of a warm welcome and if there shouldn’t be room, you can move on to Brereton.
Stanley and his charming wife are cited — and we believe with truth, — as the happiest couple in Cheshire; and it is said of her, that although passionately fond of her handsome husband, she is never jealous of him. But, perhaps, he gives her no cause.
THE END
The Shorter Fiction
Manchester Grammar School — where Ainsworth was educated
DECEMBER TALES
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
MARY STUKELEY.
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE.
THE ENGLISHER’S STORY.
THE MUTINY.
THE CHURCH-YARD.
THE TEST OF AFFECTION.
WANDERINGS OF AN IMMORTAL.
THE SEA SPIRIT.
THE THEATRE.
RECOLLECTIONS.
L’ENVOY.
TO
THE REVEREND GEORGE CROLY, THIS VOLUME
IS INSCRIBED
BY HIS MOST SINCERE FRIEND,
AND EARNEST ADMIRER,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
A LONG Preface, like a long grace, which detains the guests unseasonably from the feast, is both impertinent and tedious. I shall not, therefore, in violation of my own maxim, oppose any unnecessary bar to the immediate enjoyment of the reader; but, fishing him a fair appetite, and good entertainment, suffer him to take up his knife, to cut into my pages, and begin.
MARY STUKELEY.
I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no vanities to consult by these confessions. I know not whether I shall be laughed at, or heard seriously. Such as they are, I commend them to the reader’s attention; if he finds his own case any way touched, I have told him what I am come to: let him stop in time.
ELIA
MARY STUKELEY
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goods is but vain hope of gain:
The day is fled — and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live — and now my life is done!
CHIDIOCK TICHEBOURNE.
I AM no fatalist; but if ever individual was subject to the influence of a prevailing destiny — a destiny which has blighted his hopes, and run counter to all the views and prospects of his life, and changed completely his situation, habits, feelings, and almost transformed him into a different being — I am that one.
But I have no wish to extenuate my faults or crimes, with the flimsy excuse that my actions were controlled by some unknown but powerfully operating cause compelling me to pursue a pre-ordained course of existence: on the contrary, I am persua
ded that such a doctrine is wholly inconsistent with the principles of religion, and subversive of morality: no; I feel — I know that I was free from the first to choose between good and evil; that I had a perpetual option of adopting or rejecting any given course of action: unhappily, my choice was an erroneous one, nor did I perceive my mistake till it could not be rectified.
Without violent passions, and naturally disposed to quiet and retirement, I have been, by a concurrence of circumstances, reduced to a state of misery, which has dried up the natural current of my feelings, and rendered my heart, once the habitation of the tenderest emotions, a wilderness and place of burning sorrow. —
The early years of my life I pass over as being of no importance to my story. They passed in a regular, uninterrupted course of happiness. They are days that we recur to with feelings of pleasure and regret; days of joy, that once gone never again return; “for life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.” Yet, though we dwell on them with feelings of rapture, they are times of which little can be said by the biographer of his own life. Their very serenity, and the uniformity of their placid delights, precludes the possibility of making them part of a narration. Like a landscape of level country, which we look upon with pleasure, but without intense feelings of admiration, they present no prominent points of view on which a writer can dwell. It is with unusual occurrences — with narrations of deep misfortune or vivifying joy — the harsh rocks and dazzling beauties of the landscape of life, that he has to deal.
I was about the age when youth begins to be lost in manhood, when I saw Mary Stukeley. I was on a visit at a friend’s. Rambling one morning among the most beautiful scenery I ever knew, I saw this fair creature. I saw and loved her. I know these first-sight affections are not much in vogue at this time of day. I even acknowledge the justness of the ridicule which is thrown out with an unsparing hand against them: like most other reasoners, making an exception in favour of my own peculiar case.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 828