Now, it so happened that one afternoon in October, when the periodical excursions of the anglers, becoming gradually rarer and more rare, had altogether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was summoned from his parlour in which he had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his cabbages, by a little white-headed boy, who came to say there was a gentleman at the inn who wished immediately to see hima strange gentleman, who had never been there before.
Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, and, in less than five minutes, he was in the best room of the little inn.
The person there awaiting him was a man who, though plainly clad in a velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air and mien greatly above those common to the pedestrian visitors of A. He was tall, and of one of those athletic forms in which vigour in youth is too often followed by corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the full prime of manhoodthe ample chest and sinewy limbs, seen to full advantage in their simple and manly dresscould not fail to excite that popular admiration which is always given to strength in the one sex as to delicacy in the other. The stranger was walking impatiently to and fro the small apartment when Mr. Price entered; and then, turning to the clergyman a countenance handsome and striking, but yet more prepossessing from its expression of frankness than from the regularity of its features,he stopped short, held out his hand, and said, with a gay laugh, as he glanced over the parsons threadbare and slovenly costume, My poor Caleb!what a metamorphosis!I should not have known you again!
What! you! Is it possible, my dear fellow?how glad I am to see you! What on earth can bring you to such a place? No! not a soul would believe me if I said I had seen you in this miserable hole.
That is precisely the reason why I am here. Sit down, Caleb, and well talk over matters as soon as our landlord has brought up the materials for
The milk-punch, interrupted Mr. Price, rubbing his hands.
Ah, that will bring us back to old times, indeed!
In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after two or three preparatory glasses, the stranger thus commenced: My dear Caleb, I am in want of your assistance, and above all of your secrecy.
I promise you both beforehand. It will make me happy the rest of my life to think I have served my patronmy benefactorthe only friend I possess.
Tush, man! dont talk of that: we shall do better for you one of these days. But now to the point: I have come here to be marriedmarried, old boy! married!
And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and chuckled with the glee of a schoolboy.
Humph! said the parson, gravely. It is a serious thing to do, and a very odd place to come to.
I admit both propositions: this punch is superb. To proceed. You know that my uncles immense fortune is at his own disposal; if I disobliged him, he would be capable of leaving all to my brother; I should disoblige him irrevocably if he knew that I had married a tradesmans daughter; I am going to marry a tradesmans daughtera girl in a million! the ceremony must be as secret as possible. And in this church, with you for the priest, I do not see a chance of discovery.
Do you marry by license?
No, my intended is not of age; and we keep the secret even from her father. In this village you will mumble over the bans without one of your congregation ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here a month for the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a relation in the city. The bans on her side will be published with equal privacy in a little church near the Tower, where my name will be no less unknown than hers. Oh, Ive contrived it famously!
But, my dear fellow, consider what you risk.
I have considered all, and I find every chance in my favour. The bride will arrive here on the day of our wedding: my servant will be one witness; some stupid old Welshman, as antediluvian as possibleI leave it to you to select himshall be the other. My servant I shall dispose of, and the rest I can depend on.
But
I detest buts; if I had to make a language, I would not admit such a word in it. And now, before I run on about Catherine, a subject quite inexhaustible, tell me, my dear friend, something about yourself.
.......
Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the arrival of the stranger at the village inn. He had changed his quarters for the Parsonagewent out but little, and then chiefly on foot excursions among the sequestered hills in the neighbourhood. He was therefore but partially known by sight, even in the village; and the visit of some old college friend to the minister, though indeed it had never chanced before, was not, in itself, so remarkable an event as to excite any particular observation. The bans had been duly, and half audibly, hurried over, after the service was concluded, and while the scanty congregation were dispersing down the little aisle of the church,when one morning a chaise and pair arrived at the Parsonage. A servant out of livery leaped from the box. The stranger opened the door of the chaise, and, uttering a joyous exclamation, gave his arm to a lady, who, trembling and agitated, could scarcely, even with that stalwart support, descend the steps. Ah! she said, in a voice choked with tears, when they found themselves alone in the little parlour,ah! if you knew how I have suffered!
How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest, which the hand writes and the eye reads as trite and commonplace expressionswhen spoken convey so much,so many meanings complicated and refined? Ah! if you knew how I have suffered!
When the lover heard these words, his gay countenance fell; he drew backhis conscience smote him: in that complaint was the whole history of a clandestine love, not for both the parties, but for the womanthe painful secrecythe remorseful deceitthe shamethe fearthe sacrifice. She who uttered those words was scarcely sixteen. It is an early age to leave Childhood behind for ever!
My own love! you have suffered, indeed; but it is over now.
Over! And what will they say of mewhat will they think of me at home? Over! Ah!
It is but for a short time; in the course of nature my uncle cannot live long: all then will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth, stationa name among the first in the gentry of England. But, above all, you will have the happiness to think that your forbearance for a time has saved me, and, it may be, our children, sweet one!from poverty and
It is enough, interrupted the girl; and the expression of her countenance became serene and elevated. It is for youfor your sake. I know what you hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me, this is the last murmur you shall ever hear from these lips.
An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage ceremony was concluded.
Caleb, said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman aside as they were about to re-enter the house, you will keep your promise, I know; and you think I may depend implicitly upon the good faith of the witness you have selected?
Upon his good faith?no, said Caleb, smiling, but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk! He will have forgotten all about it before this day three months. Now I have seen your lady, I no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never beheld so lovely a countenance. You will be happy! And the village priest sighed, and thought of the coming winter and his own lonely hearth.
My own love! you have suffered, indeed; but it is over now.
Over! And what will they say of mewhat will they think of me at home? Over! Ah!
It is but for a short time; in the course of nature my uncle cannot live long: all then will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth, stationa name among the first in the gentry of England. But, above all, you will have the happiness to think that your forbearance for a time has saved me, and, it may be, our children, sweet one!from poverty and
It is enough, interrupted the girl; and the expression of her countenance became serene and elevated. It is for youfor your sake. I know what you hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me, this is the last murmur you shall ever hear from these lips.
An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage ceremony was concluded.
Caleb, said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman aside as they were about to re-enter the house, you will keep your promise, I know; and you think I may depend implicitly upon the good faith of the witness you have selected?
Upon his good faith?no, said Caleb, smiling, but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk! He will have forgotten all about it before this day three months. Now I have seen your lady, I no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never beheld so lovely a countenance. You will be happy! And the village priest sighed, and thought of the coming winter and his own lonely hearth.
My dear friend, you have only seen her beautyit is her least charm. Heaven knows how often I have made love; and this is the only woman I have ever really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins my uncles house. The rector is old; when the house is mine, you will not be long without the living. We shall be neighbours, Caleb, and then you shall try and find a bride for yourself. Smith,and the bridegroom turned to the servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as a second witness to the marriage,tell the post-boy to put to the horses immediately.
Yes, Sir. May I speak a word with you?
Well, what?
Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day before we left town.
Aha!indeed!
And I could just pick up among his servants that he had some suspicionat least, that he had been making inquiriesand seemed very cross, sir.
You went to him?
No, Sir, I was afraid. He has such a way with him;whenever his eye is fixed on mine, I always feel as if it was impossible to tell a lie; andandin short, I thought it was best not to go.
You did right. Confound this fellow! muttered the bridegroom, turning away; he is honest, and loves me: yet, if my uncle sees him, he is clumsy enough to betray all. Well, I always meant to get him out of the waythe sooner the better. Smith!
Yes, sir!
You have often said that you should like, if you had some capital, to settle in Australia. Your father is an excellent farmer; you are above the situation you hold with me; you are well educated, and have some knowledge of agriculture; you can scarcely fail to make a fortune as a settler; and if you are of the same mind still, why, look you, I have just L1000. at my bankers: you shall have half, if you like to sail by the first packet.
Oh, sir, you are too generous.
Nonsenseno thanksI am more prudent than generous; for I agree with you that it is all up with me if my uncle gets hold of you. I dread my prying brother, too; in fact, the obligation is on my side; only stay abroad till I am a rich man, and my marriage made public, and then you may ask of me what you will. Its agreed, then; order the horses, well go round by Liverpool, and learn about the vessels. By the way, my good fellow, I hope you see nothing now of that good-for-nothing brother of yours?
No, indeed, sir. Its a thousand pities he has turned out so ill; for he was the cleverest of the family, and could always twist me round his little finger.
Thats the very reason I mentioned him. If he learned our secret, he would take it to an excellent market. Where is he?
Hiding, I suspect, sir.
Well, we shall put the sea between you and him! So now alls safe.
Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the bride and bridegroom entered their humble vehicle. Though then November, the day was exquisitely mild and calm, the sky without a cloud, and even the leafless trees seemed to smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the young bride wept no more; she was with him she lovedshe was his for ever. She forgot the rest. The hopethe heart of sixteenspoke brightly out through the blushes that mantled over her fair cheeks. The bridegrooms frank and manly countenance was radiant with joy. As he waved his hand to Caleb from the window the post-boy cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on the dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot,the clergyman was left alone.
To be married is certainly an event in life; to marry other people is, for a priest, a very ordinary occurrence; and yet, from that day, a great change began to operate in the spirits and the habits of Caleb Price. Have you ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for some time quietly in the lazy ease of a dull country-life? Have you ever become gradually accustomed to its monotony, and inured to its solitude; and, just at the time when you have half-forgotten the great worldthat mare magnum that frets and roars in the distancehave you ever received in your calm retreat some visitor, full of the busy and excited life which you imagined yourself contented to relinquish? If so, have you not perceived, that, in proportion as his presence and communication either revived old memories, or brought before you new pictures of the bright tumult of that existence of which your guest made a part,you began to compare him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that what before was to rest is now to rot; that your years are gliding from you unenjoyed and wasted; that the contrast between the animal life of passionate civilisation and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear,feeling all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave? And when your guest has left you, when you are again alone, is the solitude the same as it was before?
Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to his village. His guest had been like the Bird in the Fairy Tale, settling upon the quiet branches, and singing so loudly and so gladly of the enchanted skies afar, that, when it flew away, the tree pined, nipped and withering in the sober sun in which before it had basked contented. The guest was, indeed, one of those men whose animal spirits exercise upon such as come within their circle the influence and power usually ascribed only to intellectual qualities. During the month he had sojourned with Caleb, he had brought back to the poor parson all the gaiety of the brisk and noisy novitiate that preceded the solemn vow and the dull retreat;the social parties, the merry suppers, the open-handed, open-hearted fellowship of riotous, delightful, extravagant, thoughtless YOUTH. And Caleb was not a bookmannot a scholar; he had no resources in himself, no occupation but his indolent and ill-paid duties. The emotions, therefore, of the Active Man were easily aroused within him. But if this comparison between his past and present life rendered him restless and disturbed, how much more deeply and lastingly was he affected by a contrast between his own future and that of his friend! Not in those points where he could never hope equalitywealth and stationthe conventional distinctions to which, after all, a man of ordinary sense must sooner or later reconcile himselfbut in that one respect wherein all, high and low, pretend to the same rightsrights which a man of moderate warmth of feeling can never willingly renounceviz., a partner in a lot however obscure; a kind face by a hearth, no matter how mean it be! And his happier friend, like all men full of life, was full of himselffull of his love, of his future, of the blessings of home, and wife, and children. Then, too, the young bride seemed so fair, so confiding, and so tender; so formed to grace the noblest or to cheer the humblest home! And both were so happy, so all in all to each other, as they left that barren threshold! And the priest felt all this, as, melancholy and envious, he turned from the door in that November day, to find himself thoroughly alone. He now began seriously to muse upon those fancied blessings which men wearied with celibacy see springing, heavenward, behind the altar. A few weeks afterwards a notable change was visible in the good mans exterior. He became more careful of his dress, he shaved every morning, he purchased a crop-eared Welsh cob; and it was soon known in the neighbourhood that the only journey the cob was ever condemned to take was to the house of a certain squire, who, amidst a family of all ages, boasted two very pretty marriageable daughters. That was the second holy day-time of poor Calebthe love-romance of his life: it soon closed. On learning the amount of the pastors stipend the squire refused to receive his addresses; and, shortly after, the girl to whom he had attached himself made what the world calls a happy match: and perhaps it was one, for I never heard that she regretted the forsaken lover. Probably Caleb was not one of those whose place in a womans heart is never to be supplied. The lady married, the world went round as before, the brook danced as merrily through the village, the poor worked on the week-days, and the urchins gambolled round the gravestones on the Sabbath,and the pastors heart was broken. He languished gradually and silently away. The villagers observed that he had lost his old good-humoured smile; that he did not stop every Saturday evening at the carriers gate, to ask if there were any news stirring in the town which the carrier weekly visited; that he did not come to borrow the stray newspapers that now and then found their way into the village; that, as he sauntered along the brookside, his clothes hung loose on his limbs, and that he no longer whistled as he went; alas, he was no longer in want of thought! By degrees, the walks themselves were suspended; the parson was no longer visible: a stranger performed his duties.