The Lady's Book. November, 1838 || The Rochester Gem. Volume XV. 1843, August 19
Written for the Lady's Book.
THE PEASANT BRIDE.
BY MISS M. MILES.
“Without one tie of kindred or of love To bind her to the earth.” * * * “To that soft and pleading eye Who is there could suit deny.” * * * “And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His Nourmahal.”———
'TWAS a sweet summer sunset, and the lingering beams fell soft upon an English cottage with its clustering roses, and grass plat in front, so pleasant and green. It seemed fitted for the abode of peace and happiness, yet the stillness around it, the carefully closed casement, and neglected garden, bespoke it the abode of sickness or sorrow. The sunset hues faded, and the shadows of evening fell deeper, and, as a dim light appeared in one window of that lonely cottage, two travellers dismounted at the inn opposite, and having refreshed themselves strolled through the village.
“Well!” exclaimed the older of the two, in a tone that plainly denoted vexation, “of all your wildgoose vagaries, this is the most outré! What on earth tempted you, Roscoe, to leave Castle Clarendon, and set forth like some doubty knight without your retinue, upon an unfrequented road, merely because your lady mother informed you of the approach of the beautiful Miss Leston, the heiress?”
A smile passed over the handsome features of the Earl of Clarendon, one of the most popular young noblemen of the day, who had just come into possession of a large unincumbered estate, but he vouchsafed no reply to the petulant inquiry of his friend, who continued in the same tone:
“Now, Roscoe, I really believe you were afraid of the arrows tipped with gold, or you would never have made so precipitate a retreat merely because she was expected upon a visit at the Castle. She is reported to be young and pretty.”
“She may be all these,” answered the young nobleman, with something of a curl upon his handsome lip, “and withal not suited to fill the station of Lady Clarendon, for which my lady mother designs her, without a thought that her only son may choose to please myself in this most momentous case—now clear that brow, George, and let us for one month lay aside the 'pomp and ceremony' of our rank, and wander where
“There is no sound of festival
Echoing from the lighted Hall.”
“I am weary of being the 'lion' of the hour, and for the ensuing four weeks am plain Mr. Wilmot.”
“That aristocratic bearing will betray the friend,” exclaimed Capt. Beaumont, “and as I am a younger son with nothing but my good sword to recommend me, I will retain my own cognizance, it being one but little known in these barbarous regions.”
The young men sauntered by the banks of the pretty stream that ran meandering through the village till the moon was high in the blue vault; and then turned towards the sun. In passing the cottage which was retired from the road, they stopped a moment to admire its lonely beauty, and were standing within the pretty yard when the house door was thrown open, and a girl apparently about fifteen, of surpassing beauty, stood in the moonlight, the rich curls flung back from her brow, as she gazed upon the intruders with a bewildered look. Suddenly she sprang towards Roscoe, and grasping his arm, cried in imploring accents:
“Oh! my father is dying, do come with me, for he is so wild”—and she wrung her hands in agony.
The beauty and artlessness of the girl, joined to his own kindly feelings, induced him to comply, and with Beaumont he entered the low door-way.
Upon a bed was extended the corpse of the father, evidently the victim of intemperance, and the death-pang no doubt terrified his child in her lonely watch till she rushed forth for assistance. The life had but just departed, and it was long ere they could persuade the desolate girl that he was no more. When the dreadful truth rushed upon her mind, she buried her head in the clothes of the bed sobbing convulsively, and muttering to herself—
“All! all! alone! I wish that I could die too—Jeannette has now no home!”
Every feeling of compassion and pity was aroused in Roscoe's mind, as he gazed upon the sad and beautiful being thus cast upon a rude world deprived of all natural protectors.
“Can we leave her thus?” burst involuntarily from his lip.
“No!” was the immediate response of his friend. “Remain, Roscoe,” he added, “and I will go for some one to assist this poor girl.”
The young Earl did not think his dignity lowered as he stooped to raise the bereaved child from her painful position beside the corpse. He seated her beside him, and used every argument to soothe and console. Her convulsive sobbings gradually became stilled, and by the time that Capt. Beaumont arrived with the landlady of the inn, she was restored to a state of calmness; but with an expression of such utter forlornness imprinted upon her lovely face, as powerfully affected the two young men, and putting a purse into her hand, they hastily left the cottage to conceal their emotions.
From the idlers round the inn, they learnt the history of Jeannette Gray, the “Village Flower,” as she was called by the peasantry round. Her father had removed there about two years before, and had neither held communication with the inhabitants or suffered his young and beautiful daughter to mingle in the village sports—and excepting the old gray-headed school-master—who loved the child, and occasionally gave her instruction, none entered the cottage. The father was a cold and stern man, and it was rumored that many a dark act had compelled him to seek the shelter of that quiet spot—and at last he became a thing for the finger of scorn to point at; seeking in deep inebriating draughts an oblivion for memory.
A few of the peasants assembled to pay the last duties to the old man, from a feeling of pity for the child; and as the grave was filled up, turned carelessly away—whilst she flung herself upon the small mound weeping passionately, notwithstanding the efforts of the kind landlady to console.
“Law, now, don't grieve so, you shall come home with me, and every one will do you a kind act—do not grieve so—poor girl”—and she drew her from the church yard to her own dwelling.
Days passed on, and Roscoe and his friend spent their time in rambling over “hill and vale,” but evening invariably brought them back to the village inn. Capt. Beaumont began to feel uneasy. Why was Clarendon so unwilling to leave? Why almost petulantly tell him that he might return to the Castle when he pleased, if he was tired of ruralizing? He knew his friend well, and that with all his great and good qualities he was romantic and enthusiastic in the extreme—and Jeannette was one to realize a poet's dream—
“Not the face of heaven
In its serenest colors, nor earth in all
Its garniture of flowers, nor all that live
In the bright world of dreams, nor all the eye
Of a creative spirit meets in air,
Could in the smile and sunshine of her charms,
Not feel itself o'ermaster'd by such rare
And perfect beauty:—yet she bore herself
So gently, that the lily on its stalk,
Bends not so easily its dewy head.”
Well might he fear for him—for the haughty spirit of the young noble had indeed bowed low to the innocence and holy purity enshrined in the bosom of the lowly peasant girl.
“This is worse than madness,” exclaimed Beaumont at the close of a long argument, “what can Jeannette be to you but a passing dream. Consider your long line of ancestors—your rank in society—the prejudices of all your titled connexions; and last, not least, her utter want of education, of accomplishments to fit her for such a high station, and then whether your proud name would not be tarnished by such an alliance.”
“And look abroad into the world, Beaumont, and see amidst its tinsel glare if you know of one heart as pure from corrupting passions as hers, beauty as perfect without a touch of woman's vanity to mar it. Seems she not more like a guileless child, free from a taint of worldliness or sin?”
“When the whisper of adulation is on her ear, when crowds bow and offer up incense at the shrine of the new beauty, and she is surrounded by splendor and wealth, think you she will retain this simplicity, this purity!—You are fascinated now, Roscoe, but with all your intellectual gifts, you will find that mind as well as beauty will be wanting to constitute happiness. But I have warned you, and shall leave you to yourself.”
“Not without giving me your word as a man of honor not to betray my confidence,” replied Roscoe, with something of pique in his tone.
“On this you may rely,” said Beaumont, and they separated.
Beaumont was obliged to leave his friend and rejoin his regiment, and dearly as he had loved him from his boyhood, Roscoe was glad to be relieved from the restraint his presence imposed.
Jeannette was his constant companion in his rambles, by the side of the river and over the pleasant meadows. Her sadness has worn off, and there was a sweet playfulness in her manners, joined to her entire dependence upon him, that completed the conquest of his heart. He saw in her, indications of native talent, and the mildness and beauty of many of her ideas just suited his romantic turn of mind. And she, that beautiful being, whose every look betrayed his influence over his affections, whose eye so timidly turned to his for approval, was she to bow as some sweet flower, because the stormcloud was near. Her destiny remains yet to be told.
They were wandering one evening by the river's banks, and after watching the waves reflect a thousand radiant colors from the beautiful sunset, Clarendon drew her towards a rustic seat in silence. He felt the time was drawing near when he must leave her, and many contending emotions were swelling in his proud heart. She gazed into his face with something of fear, for the expression of it was different from what she had ever known it. He caught the look, and smiling sadly said:
“Do not be frightened, Jeannette, I am perfectly well.”
“Then why do you look so, Mr. Wilmot?” for so she had been accustomed to call him, “Have I offended you?” and a tear started to her eye.
“Offended,” he repeated—“Blest angel as you are, you could not offend.” Then seizing her hand he added impetuously—“Jeannette will you unite your fate with mine? Will you give me a husband's right to protect you?”
Jeannette covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently, and even her neck was stained with the deep crimson. He needed no other reply, and folding her to his heart, whispered “mine forever.” Then it was that her tears burst forth, and she wept on his bosom from excess of happiness.
They were wedded in the village church, and then for the first time did the astonished girl learn, that instead of Mr. Wilmot, she had wedded the wealthy and powerful Earl of Clarendon, whose name had reached even that secluded spot. All were glad for the “Village Flower,” and blessed her as she passed through the church-yard, where she had so lately been a mourner, a young and happy bride.
But when Roscoe folded her to his heart as his own, and called her by the sacred name of wife, a cloud dimmed her brow, and the smile that had before wreathed her lip faded. “Do you repent already, my own Jeannette?” he asked in the deep tone of strong affection. “Dearest, I shall take you to my own proud home, ere many weeks are over, whose sunshine you will make. I long to present my beautiful bride to my kindred.”
“But will not those kindred despise me?” she asked in a low, sad voice. “Will they not look down on the peasant girl with scorn? Better had it been that we never had met.” And Roscoe, even whilst he fondly soothed her, could not but acknowledge to himself that her fears were not wholly groundless. But she was now his own, and the solemn tie could only be broken by death.
Some weeks passed on, and Jeannette saw with the quick-sightedness of woman, that her husband, although tender and kind as ever, was ill at ease. The time was drawing near when he must present his young bride to his family, as he could not remain longer from his home. Innocent and lovely as was the being who looked up to him with such confiding tenderness, he felt that she was incapable of appreciating the powers of his mind. The magic touch of education was wanting to render her perfect. One evening he was sitting buried in reverie, unmindful of the presence of his wife, who was standing by a distant window. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Oh! that she possessed the knowledge, the accomplishments of others!” Jeannette's quick ear caught the words, and her trembling limbs almost refused their support; but she succeeded in leaving the room unobserved. What a world of misery was opened to her view. She threw herself upon the bed and wept long and bitterly. But though lowly born, she was possessed of a more lofty spirit than one would have deemed could dwell in that timid girl. She felt that she was not fitted for the wife of one so gifted. “He is ashamed of his choice,” was her thought, and even amidst those passionate tears was her resolution taken. She knelt down to ask aid from above, for when her father in her childish days sternly forbade her to pray, she would wander forth and in some lonely place, with only the canopy of the deep blue sky above, pour forth the orisons of her innocent heart. She arose from that prayer, sad indeed, but calm and collected; and sought her husband. He raised his eyes upon her entrance, and putting out his hand drew her fondly towards him, and kissed her cheek. “You have been weeping, dearest,” he said, as he gazed anxiously in her pale face. “Have you any sorrow unshared by me?”
Jeannette laid her head upon his shoulder, so as to screen her face, and for one moment her resolution wavered; but she soon nerved herself to speak—and with all the artlessness of her character told him that she had heard his exclamation and long read his thoughts.
“I am not worthy of you, dear Roscoe,” she said in conclusion—“and you ought to have sought a bride amongst those in your own rank—but our fate is one. Send me from you awhile, and I will try and learn those accomplishments, and gain the knowledge you prize so much. I already bless the good old schoolmaster who did not let me grow up in utter ignorance;” and overcome by her feelings, she covered her face and wept.
Clarendon was both affected and pleased, although his heart sunk at the prospect of separation; but he had been communing with himself, and felt all the disadvantages to which he had subjected her. He knew with her natural abilities, that a few months would model the tinged child into the intellectual woman—and he was touched to the heart with the generous sacrifice she was willing to make. He soothed her with many a tender word of affection and approval, and smilingly said— “Only a few months dear Jeannette, and then my kindred shall be proud of my beautiful bride. 'Till then no one shall even have a glimpse of that sweet face”—playfully kissing away her tears.
* * * * * *
The curtains in the small but pretty drawing room of Mrs. Everard, (a widowed sister of the Dowager Lady Clarendon, who was a rare and superior character, and having early known sorrow, had withdrawn from the world upon a limited income) were closely drawn, for it was a damp and dreary evening. The candles were lighted, and a good fire in the grate, although it was early in the fall. She was busily engaged in reading, when a ring, somewhat louder than usual, roused her attention, and her servant ushered the Earl of Clarendon accompanied by a female into her presence. She started from her seat to welcome her favorite nephew, and after warmly embracing him, turned a look of inquiry towards his companion. With one hand he put aside the veil that shaded the surpassing beauty of his Jeannette, and leading her to the lady, said with a look of pride and love—
“My wife! my dear aunt, and to your care and kindness I must commit her.”
There was an expression of innocence and purity in the countenance of the young creature before her, that won her heart, and she kissed her fair brow and bid her welcome as warmly as if she had known her for years; without a single inquiry for the solution of what seemed to her a strange mystery. But soon was the romance of the past weeks confided to her, and in a moment she felt how all important it was for Jeannette to be other than she was, ere she could be presented to his ambitious and aristocratical family, whose pride would at best meet with a severe blow, and and though she lamented her nephew's imprudence, she would for his sake save his sweet bride from the chilling influence of his titled connexions.
“I will not betray your confidence,” said she to him, when they had discussed many plans—“Jeannette is but a child yet. Leave her one year with me, and go abroad, and when you return, she shall be all you wish. Till then, she shall pass a protégée of my own; and that look of love tells how she will for her husband's sake employ the hours of absence.”
Captain Beaumont remained with his friend a few weeks at the castle before the latter went abroad, and laughingly told him, that as he chose to give up the heiress, he would win her himself. Maria Leston was one calculated to please him—lively and affectionate, with a warm heart, but a mind wholly undisciplined; this, however, was not perceptible in every-day intercourse, and he soon became one of her most devoted admirers. “Take care,” said Roscoe, who had studied her character with more attention from the time he had seen his friend's predilection. “Remember—I in turn warn you. But now dear Beaumont, I leave my cause in your hands. Use your influence with my mother, and remove her prejudices against unequal alliances, ere I return; for I have expressly told her I should not select a bride from the ranks of fashionable society.” And they parted to meet again, under what different circumstances.
* * * * * * * * *
Month after month passed away, and Mrs. Everard saw with surprise and delight the facility with which Jeannette acquired those accomplishments necessary to the high station she was to occupy. She studied early and late, and though her cheek was a shade paler, yet her countenance bore an expression of intellect that greatly added to its charm. She seemed to rouse as from a dream, and her mind drank deeply at the fountain of knowledge. Of music, Roscoe was fond, and had delighted to hear her warble simple airs she had caught from the village girls—for her voice and ear were both fine, and when after passing hours at either the harp or piano, she would rise pale and exhausted from weariness—the thought was constantly, “Roscoe shall not be ashamed of his wife!”
Mrs. Everard often intreated her to desist, fearing such unremitting attention might undermine her health; but a playful smile was her answer, as she reminded her protectress that in a few months more her husband would return. Dearly did the lady love the sweet girl, and she gazed upon her with a feeling of reverence, as she felt the beauty of her character, and the holiness of her young love. Their days passed peacefully on, interrupted only by frequent letters of encouragement and affection from Clarendon, when a message from Lady Clarendon, announcing her intention of visiting her sister, threw Mrs. Everard into a state of perplexity. To refuse the visit was impossible, and to expose Jeannette to the scrutiny of this woman of the world equally so. Jeannette herself immediately proposed remaining in her own apartments until the lady left. Her heart grew heavy, she knew not why, at the idea of being under the same roof with Roscoe's mother, and when she first caught a tone of her voice as she passed at a distance, she wept without being able to give a reason for her tears.
A night or two before the intended departure of the lady, Jeannette felt more than usually oppressed. She threw open her window, and gazed forth upon the beauty of the scene. It was calm and clear, and the blossoms that clustered beneath it, whose fragrance was “borne upon the night wind,” were glittering in the moonbeams. It was midnight, and although so late, she felt no inclination to retire. Her thoughts were afar with the wanderer, and she thought of all his love, and the state of lowly dependence from which he had rescued her, with a feeling of veneration and gratitude, blended with the deep strong devotion of woman, till tears mingled with the prayer she murmured for his safety. A light slumber surprised her even where she sat. How long she remained she was incapable of telling, but she roused from an uneasy dream in wonder at the position in which she had fallen asleep. Her hair was damp with the night dew, and gathering up its rich folds she was preparing to seek her bed, when a distant grating sound fell on her ear. She listened, and again she heard it, as if some one was attempting to force a window. She cautiously approached one from which she had a view of the front entrance, and plainly distinguished a ladder planted against the house. Throwing a shawl over her head she stole gently from the room to that part of the house where the servants slept. Not a feeling of self intruded, and though her face was a shade paler, her step was firm. Opening the door of the room of an old servant of Mrs. Everard's, she went directly up to the bed, and rousing him gently, whispered in deep concentrated accents—
“Hugh! your mistress is in danger—there are persons even now attempting to force an entrance into the house. Hush! make no noise for your life, but wake the men servants, and come quick to the street door.”
She had no time for more, for a loud scream burst upon her ear—she sprung from the room into the passage—another and louder shriek made her heart almost sink within her, but rallying all her energies she ran swiftly along in the direction from which it proceeded, and paused almost breathless before the door of lady Clarendon. A stifled sound as of distress, left her not a moment for reflection, and bursting open the door she recoiled a moment in horror. A strong and dark looking ruffian had drawn a handkerchief round the lady's throat, and she was already purple in the face. The noise caused him to turn round, and the beautiful girl heedless of her own danger, had only time to spring past him, and catch the handkerchief from her neck and raise her up, when she felt her own hands grasped tightly, and a glittering weapon flourished above her head. She did not scream—she did not even quail as his laugh rang through the apartment, she only felt that death was near, and her soul went up in prayer. Whether it was her firmness, or look of angelic purity that intimidated the ruffian she knew not, but the knife glanced aside, and fastened securely in the floor. Ere he could draw it forth, the room was filled with the servants and Mrs. Everard, and he was secured. All necessity for exertion was over, and she fainted. When she recovered, she found herself upon a sofa in her own room, and surrounded by anxious faces.
“Where am I?” she exclaimed, starting up with the impression of horror fresh on her mind.
“With friends, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Everard, folding her to her heart, “and free from danger, but how much do we all owe you!”
From the confessions of the man, they gathered that he had heard of the arrival of the Countess at Mrs. Everard's, and knowing her to be wealthy, had left a gang to which he belonged at a little distance, 'till he had secured an entrance; but her screams exasperated him, and fearful of detection, he resorted on the most effectual mode of silencing her.
In consequence of the fright and agitation she had undergone, the lady was confined for a few days to her room; and Jeannette again resumed her employments. The third evening after, she was playing a sweet and plaintive air, when the countess suddenly entered. She rose hastily, and stood blushing and trembling beneath the earnest gaze of the mother of her husband. The proud lady stooped and kissed her brow. “Young and beautiful maiden,” said she, “you have saved my life, I know not who you are, but whatever boon you ask of the lady of Clarendon, it shall not be denied you.”
Jeannette's forehead was stained with crimson one moment, and she turned deadly pale the next, as kneeling before her, she answered:
“Your affection, and blessing, lady, is all I seek.”
“Methinks it were easy to love such a one as thou,” said the lady with a smile, “but I must know who it is upon whom I must bestow this blessing.”
“Upon the wife of your absent son, lady,” she replied, rising with an air of gentle dignity, “and the only boon she craves is the blessing of his parent.”
The lady started back in astonishment, and looked at Mrs. Everard, who had entered the room, for an explanation. In a few words, simple, but full of feeling, she told the events of the past months. Lady Clarendon was a woman of the world, and few deemed her to possess acute feelings—but she had a warm heart, that early sorrow had somewhat chilled. Thoughts of other days came over her, and she remembered, that in giving up one who had loved her well, to fulfil a father's stern command, and wedding the earl, she had passed through life with blighted affections. Her pride was lulled to rest, as she thought of the high-minded girl who had risked so much for her. “Shall I condemn them to a life of sorrow?” was her question to herself—“No!” and whilst both her sister and Jeannette waited tremblingly for her next words, she laid her hand upon the clustering ringlets of the latter, as she solemnly said:
“Bless you my sweet and noble child, and may you be blest in your young love,” and amidst many tears drew her to her bosom.
* * * * * * * * *
A year had gone by, and again the young Earl of Clarendon set foot upon his native shores. His heart bounded with delight as he came in view of Mrs. Everard's pleasant dwelling; but it sunk within him as he saw, that excepting in the servants' rooms, the shutters were closed. With a foreboding of something wrong, he rung, and old Hugh presented himself.
“Where is your mistress?” was his hurried question.
“At the castle with your mother, my lord,” said the man, as he looked in surprise upon his agitated face.
“And—my wife,” he was about to say, but recollecting himself, turned hastily away, and throwing himself into his carriage, he told them to drive on to the castle, where he was received with open arms by his mother and aunt. The next day was his birth-day, and great preparations having been made to celebrate it, his appearance was hailed with every demonstration of joy.
Mrs. Everard drew her nephew aside, and told him that as she was obliged to visit his mother, that she had carried Jeannette to pass the time with her husband's sister. “So you see my dear Roscoe I have placed your treasure in safe hands, and as you cannot leave to visit her 'till after to-morrow, you must clear your brow, and do honour to your guests by amusing them. I am not so certain Jeannette would feel as anxious to run to you,” and with an arch smile, she left him.
* * * * * * * * *
The halls of Clarendon Castle resounded with mirth and revelry—but there was no smile upon the lip of its master. He wandered about restless and uneasy. The sound of distant music fell on his ear, and there was something in it that soothed his harrassed spirits, and he drew near the room from which floated such bewitching harmony. The lady sat with her back towards him, but his mother, and Beaumont, who was one of the few who surrounded her, beckoned him in. A veil hung in loose folds around her person, and concealed her features. She rose from her seat, and at the same moment, lady Clarendon raising the veil, said:
“It is in this way that I punish the want of confidence in my son,” and rich in beauty, and warmed into life by the Promethean touch of mind, he clasped to his bosom his own Jeannette.
“What think you of my peasant bride?” asked Roscoe of his friend, as she gracefully returned the greeting of her husband's kindred and acquaintances to whom his stately mother presented her—“Is she not lovely?”
“Lovely indeed, and good too withal,” replied his friend in a melancholy tone, as he glanced toward his own gay and thoughtless wife, the once courted Miss Leston. “I would that Maria possessed but a grain of yon fair girl's gentleness. Her jealous whims embitter every moment of my life.”
“Jeannette shall try her influence over her,” was Roscoe's reply—“Perhaps her magic wand may transform her.”
“Pray heaven it may, for there is but little happiness for either.”
And she did transform the proud and haughty girl into a being gentle as herself; for her sweetness and persuasion made her to see her own folly, and in the renewed confidence and happiness of his married life, George Beaumont acknowledged that he blessed the hour in which his friend wedded his peasant bride.
Hingham, August, 1838.
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