66 Watercresses for mother's supper," said the girl, shyly proffering her basket, "but if madam will have them, they're rare and wholesome for the blood this time o' year," and the ripe, pouting lips parted in a dewy smile. Lady Boothby put out a white hand for the cresses, on which flashed a magnificent sapphire. Hannah's eyes were caught by the sparkling jewel. "Your eyes are finer, child," said madam with a sigh, patting the girl's downy cheek. "Tell your mother to bring you to the Hall to-morrow. I must see you again." Then she drove away, and Hannah and little Bill stood and watched her coach till a bend in the road shut it out from their sight. "Sing again, Hannah," cried little Bill; "sing Willow, Willow;'" but Hannah walked on and sang no more that night. When she and her mother repaired to the Hall next day, they were very gra ciously received in the housekeeper's room, where Mrs. Tamar Bee was occupied in arranging much fine linen in large oaken presses. There was a fragrant smell of lavender all about. The French windows opened upon a little garden, where deep borders, set with sweet old fashioned flowers and herbs, entertained the bees and butterflies on sunny days. A flagged pathway led down through the middle of the garden, overhung here and there by overarching apple-trees, and a high hedge of hollies bounded the little enclosure, beyond which rose a murmur ous pine wood, from whose cool depths came evermore the wood-pigeon's soft, crooning proclamation of love and bliss. The small, precise old fairy who bore rule in this favored corner, was Mrs. Tamar Bee, housekeeper at Boothby Hall for five-and-twenty years. Her mother had been confidential maid and companion to a deceased Madam Boothby, under whose eye Tamar had been trained and educated so perfectly for her present post, that she naturally fell into it at the first opportunity. Boothby Hall was her world, and in her eyes no Boothby could do wrong. The present Lady Boothby was a dowager, and an earl's daughter, who had spent much of her life in foreign courts, whither her husband had carried her on his various diplomatic missions. He had died three years ago at Florence, and not many months afterwards, his eldest son, a delicate but promising young man, had followed him to the grave. The present owner of the Hall was a youth of nineteen or twenty, now serving his Majesty upon the seas, under Admiral Rodney, and the old family seat lay lonely and beautiful, waiting for the coming of the master. Lady Boothby had no daughter, and for female friendships she had little liking. Her tastes and habits were foreign, and her visits to the Hall were rare. She dabbled in art, drew and painted with some skill, and kept up a large correspondence with odd and eminent people. She sincerely mourned the loss of her husband, and regretted the political excitements from which his death had, in some measure, excluded her. Whimsical and eccentric, of proud, imperious temper, she yet exercised much fascination when she desired to please. She had secluded herself now at the Hall, to await tidings of her son, whose adventurous life at once touched her imagination, and awakened her maternal anxiety. She now saw before her in this beautiful peasant girl a source of interest, and kindling, as she ever did, at the presence of beauty, she insisted that Hannah should leave her father's cottage, and come to the Hall. The girl was nothing loth. She nestled under the wing of Tamar Bee, who taught her the delicate housewifely arts whenever my lady was tired of her plaything, and soon grew attached to the docile, graceful creature, who moved about in costumes of my lady's devising, gathered the lavender and roseleaves, washed my lady's laces, and brought sunshine and music into the quiet solitude of Boothby Hall. Old Ralph Somerby fretted for his daughter; | Oh, my boy! what tales you have to tell little Bill, and an elder brother, Ralph, me! missed the pretty, soft-hearted sister, who Then the vision faded, and Hannah had been at once playfellow and nurse. was back in Mrs. Bee's room with a flutThe rose was plucked from the home tering at her heart. Now began a time wall, and the cottage looked dull without of joyful excitement. The young heir it. But gentle, unselfish Mrs. Somerby was come to take possession. His friends would not complain. The girl was better crowded round him. He went and came, off, and learning what would lift her a and made a joyful stir. The tenantry step higher in life than her neighbors. were feasted, and my lady looked younger The child was too pretty for their rough by ten years when she cast aside her ways; and when Hannah would come in mourning garments. The hall was alive. for an hour, blooming and tenderly loving Horses, men, and coaches went and came, as ever, with a cake for the boys of her bringing gay company. The village was own baking, and a compliment of tea from en fête, and there was a thanksgiving serMrs. Tamar for mother, good Mrs. Som- vice at the parish church for the safe reerby exulted quietly, and took her double | turn of the wanderer from the sea and all burden of household labor without a its perils. Moreover, Mr. Boothby had grudge. And the year wore on. Public affairs were unsettled. England had proclaimed war with Holland; and from the American shores tidings came of the capture of one West Indian island after another from the Spaniards. But no news from Mr. Boothby had reached his mother, who grew anxious and dispirited. One day in spring, as my lady lay on her couch, turning over a portfolio of sketches by Mr. Hogarth, while Hannah hovered near, holding now one, now another, in this light or that, as she was bidden, the heavy silken curtain was parted which hung across the doorway of the chamber, a handsome, dark young face looked in upon the two women, and, in a moment, without further notice, Mr. Boothby was kneeling by his mother's side, kissing her hands. But the joyful surprise was too much for the poor lady, who, with a faint cry, swooned away. Pale and terrified, a scared look in her lovely eyes, Hannah flew to support her mistress, passed a round arm about her neck, and gazed speechless at the splendid apparition of manhood in all its bravery that stood before her. As in a dream, she saw and heard all the wonderful bustle of the next few moments, took the distilled water from Mrs. Bee's small, trembling fingers, and bathed the pale face whose eyes presently opened, and fastened with a look of hungry love upon her son. brought wonderful store of all strange and beautiful spoils from other lands, and much prize-money, which he displayed and gave with lavish hand. Many wonderful tales had he to tell, to which Hannah was often permitted to listen, as she sat at her mistress's feet, with eyes cast down, and an indescribable tremor at her heart. 'Twas Othello and Desdemona over again, with a difference. When she looked up to steal a glance at the sunburnt, animated face, such wonder shone in her eyes, that as a loadstone, they drew his down to meet them. One fatal flash, and the sweet eyes would fall abashed. But Jack could not brook such glances unscathed. Her beauty took his breath away; and it was not long before every shining hair on the girl's head had become precious to him. "Mother," he had said, the day of his arrival, "what rare blossom of beauty is that you have coming and going in the house? " "My little Hannah," she answered. 'Yes, yes; it is Ralph Somerby's daughter, one of the laborers' children quite a curiosity of beauty. I shall take her abroad with me next year. Sir Joshua must paint her. She is too choice a rose to bloom on a Lincolnshire hedge." Mr. Boothby quite agreed with his mother, and commended her taste of a handmaiden. Never had he dreamed of so choice a creature. But Hannah seemed to fear him, and went no longer unsummoned to her mistress's presence. Then the youth must visit Mrs. Bee with dutiful regularity; watch the boiling of preserves and the brewing of cowslip wine, while Hannah tripped about, bashful and silent. See the girl he must and would. One day he brought her a necklace of beads. 66 Let me have them, Mrs. Bee," said poor Hannah, piteously. She stretched out her hand, looking almost ready to cry, lifted them from the table, and hung them on her arm with a low, happy laugh. "Go, go, sir," now said Mrs. Bee. "Hannah and I have much on hand." The young fellow strolled off through the garden, and passed into the wood. Mrs. Bee was disturbed with a vague presentiment of evil, to which she could give no name. She kept Hannah always beside her, and was shorter to her than usual. Hannah bloomed more deliciously pretty than ever, and Mr. Jack had long fits of mooning. So Christmas-tide came on and passed, and then Mr. Boothby must join his ship again, sorely against his mother's will; but in this thing he would have his way. He had pledged his word to sail yet once more, to win glory with his mates upon the Spanish Main, and his time was up. After this voyage he would come home for good, and dwell with his mother at the Hall. So he went, and left sad hearts behind him. Hannah drooped and pined so visibly, that at last my lady noticed her pale cheeks. 66 "What ails you, girl?" she asked. Naught, madam," said Hannah, flushing scarlet. Mrs. Bee watched, disquieted. Two or three months glided away. Lady Boothby talked of a journey to town during her son's absence, and began in an indolent, purposeless way to get ready for it, when a terrible rumor came to the Hall, which a few days confirmed. A desperate engagement of twelve hours' duration had taken place with the French, off the island of Dominica. Admiral Rodney was victorious, and the French admiral was taken prisoner with the "Ville de Paris," and six ships of the line. But the English had lost two ships, and among the slain was Lieutenant John Boothby. He had died fighting bravely as an English gentleman should, and one long, gold curl lay upon his heart, which they did not take from him. Lady Boothby was childless, and the Hall without a master. When the poor bereaved lady awoke from her first trance of anguish, she called for Hannah; but Tamar Bee, paler and graver than ever, told her the girl was gone home to her mother, and talked long with her mistress. In a few days the old housekeeper accompanied Lady Boothby to London, and soon after returned alone to the Hall, which was once more left silent and solitary. Á cloud rested upon the village, and lay blackest on Ralph Somerby's cottage. Hannah was in trouble, and her trouble could not be spoken of. She lingered, sad and suffering, till she bore a son, and the same night she passed away without a word or a sigh, and a wailing, nameless baby took her place in the cottage. broken-hearted grandmother nourished it in her bosom. But Ralph passed out and in, heavy and displeased, and was never more seen to smile. He aged prematurely, and was carried to the churchyard a year afterwards. The When ten years had passed away, Susan Somerby said to the boy: "Jack, love, it's time thee was earning thy living." "Very well, mother," said he. "What mun I do?" "Thou mun go to Carraby next marketday, and seek out Mark Preston at the Golden Lamb. He is my sister's son, and has promised me to look after thee." Then she washed and mended him the clothes on his back, and a change in his hand, and when Farmer Sloman's cart stayed for the child at the foot of the lane, Mrs. Somerby was there with him ready. She put five shillings, rolled in many papers, into the boy's pocket. "It's all I shall ever give thee, child," she said. He kissed her with a sob, clambered into the cart, and was borne away, to begin life for himself. He never saw her again, or his native village, till forty years had passed away, and he stood once more before the cottage door, a grey-headed, prosperous gentleman. Two old men, wrinkled and bent, sat in the porch, eating their supper with horn spoons in the evening sun. The stranger looked at them fixedly. "This was once Ralph Somerby's cottage," he said at last. "Ay, ay, so 'tis still. I'm Ralph Somerby," said the older of the two men. "And you are Bill, then," pursued the questioner, with an odd twinkle in his eye. "May I sit down beside you, for old acquaintance' sake?” Bill looked hard, rose up slowly, and gazed at the stranger, but no recognition followed. Then he began to talk. In a few minutes, "It's never our Hannah's little Jack!" they cried. that made him welcome everywhere. Hon est, handy, and shrewd, he never lacked a job; at the forge, in the stable, or the courtyard of the inn, some bit of work lay waiting for him. If it baffled him, he never rested till he had mastered it. Of books he knew little; they seldom lay in his way, and he was too busy for reading. He had an old imperfect copy of the Bible, and a Prayer-book, with his mother's name in it. He always went to church. Early next morning John Somerby went to the churchyard, to see what time had When Jack was twenty years old, he left him of his past. It was Saturday, and had an acknowledged place in the world, the church door stood open. An old to which he had honestly fought his way. woman was sweeping out the week's dust. Two or three years later, Mrs. Tamar Nothing was much changed. A tablet Bee, dying in Lincolnshire, at Boothby in the chancel wall which he remembered, Hall, left four thousand pounds to Jack ran, "Sacred to the beloved memory of Somerby, with her blessing. He took John Everard Boothby, second son of good advice, and bought a thriving busi Joseph Boothby, Esquire, of Boothby ness in the north. The Featherstone Hall, Lieutenant in H. M.'s Navy. Killed Arms was one of the best houses on in the glorious action off Dominica, under the road to London. The Scotch mails Admiral Rodney, April 12th, 1780." Then passed that way, and traffic was rapidly he wandered into the churchyard, and, increasing: the world was beginning to after some searching, found a stone, sunk travel. Here Jack was his own master, almost out of sight, whose moss-grown the right man in the right place, and the letters traced three names. First stood ball at his feet, with golden Opportunity "Hannah Somerby, aged 17, died July 6th, holding out her hand to him._Jack took 1780." Then, "Ralph Somerby, January it, and strode on to fortune. He married 2nd, 1782." Lower down, "Susan Som-happily and wisely, an old soldier's daugh erby, December 12th, 1795." Here was ter, and the pair transmitted to a beautiful kindred dust, and many nettles. He only child, a full tide of life, and promise gathered two or three blades of grass, of happy fortune. placed them in his pocket-book, and turned away. CHAPTER IV. FORTUNE had favored Jack Somerby. She had played a rare game at ball with him, and tossed him here and there into many an odd corner, but she always picked him up again, and rolled him in neatly to the right place, at the right moment. He had plenty of bounce in him. Hard knocks never hurt him, and he was always in the thick of the game. Jack was dogged, plucky, and indomitable. His blood ran warm; he took his whippings as a matter of course; enjoyed his dinner, or could go without it; sleep as soundly under a haystack as in a bed; and picked up knowledge and halfpence anywhere, everywhere, as best he could. Fortune threw him many a chance, and he never lost one. He never forgot a face or a favor, never lied, and was never found in bad company. By-and-by he found, to his surprise, he had a character. He kept it. He sought no friendships, and made no enemies. There was something in his good-humored, steadfast, sterling nature As she reached womanhood her father withdrew to a small estate he had purchased, as a permanent home for wife and daughter. Fair was the home that arose at his bidding, amidst lawns and meadows, while slowly and steadily rose the house he had planned, under his shaping hand, and the sound of the mason's chisel, and the carpenter's plane, mingled with the lowing of his kine, and the barking of his pointers. The wise master-builder tasted the incommunicable joys of a creator. Day by day, his hand and eye prepared and arranged the landscape which his soul foresaw, a belt of plantation here, there a sweep of lawn, and with every tree was planted a hope, and a fair ambition lay imprisoned in every rising wall. But sweet Anne Somerby was presently lured from her father's side, away over the Border, by a “braw woɔer,” who had also prepared a dainty nest for a delicate bird. John Somerby never quite forgave his son-in-law. He had stolen the bird that should have sung in the Fairholm bushes. Year after year she would return, a smiling penitent, bringing a peaceoffering to the proud grandparents of baby daughters, a stumbling, prattling troop of | but no by the front door, lassies, — slip in blooming cherubs. I was the first-born of the flock. by the back. My Mary's up there washing the morn, and she'll sort ye afore grandmamma knows aught." Now the acts of these youngsters, and the games that they played, and the sins that they sinned, and the joys and the terrors of their rosy, blissful infancy, are they not chronicled in the memories of certain old ladies, who look through their spectacles across the tract of bygone years, fondly and sadly, to the place where the morning broke for them, golden and fair. They remember a certain Monday morning, when three of them, Lotty, Mary, and Bet, all arrayed in fresh calico dresses, and spotless sun-bonnets, sauntering in the Holm field with vague intentions of enjoyment, as opportunity might afford, arrived at the duck-pond, a considerable sheet of water, in the centre of which was an island, and the ducks' house. The only communication with the mainland was a plank, a foot wide, close to the level of the water. Satan (it could be no other) implanted in their bosoms a strong desire to call at Ducks' Island. He spoke by the mouth of Bet. The temptation was irresistible. It was a spot hitherto unexplored. There was a possibility of plunder, in the shape of ducks' eggs. Mary hesitated and dissented, not, I grieve to say, from a moral point of view, but from a nervous conviction that she should not be able to cross the bridge in safety. A proposal that she should remain behind, she scouted. To remain behind was ignominious, and not to be endured. It was finally arranged she should be placed in the mid-church, Tom?" said she. dle, I, Lotty, in the van, Bet in the rear, and that she should touch a supporting hand on either side. Forward we went, and had just arrived half-way, when Mary, casting a side glance at the water, without a word of warning, plunged with a faint screech into the pond, dragging both Bet and me down to perdition. Sinking to the waist in mud and water, we floundered to shore, and stood looking on one another, truly doleful objects. Bitterly we reproached the perfidious Mary, whose behavior was truly enraging, but she sullenly said she had told us all along that she should turn giddy, and she was right. Mary was always right. At this moment up came the farm horses to be watered, and seated on one was my staunch friend John Beatty, a "trusty servant." Without a word we followed his advice, and stole like thieves into the back court. There, as ill-luck would have it, stood my grandmother, bargaining with old Highland Nelly for fowls. Her eye instantly fell upon us, and there was no mercy in it. I suppose such misdemeanors are heinous in the sight of good housewives, and we must certainly have been disreputable objects, but it seems to me, nowadays, a pity old ladies don't laugh on such occasions. What an hour of martyrdom we endured in the washhouse that Monday morning! Yet another little episode. My grandmother was a charitable woman, and visited much among the poor people of the country-side. Sometimes she took me with her on these visitations. One of her pensioners was a disreputable old rascal named Tom Brown, who inhabited a mud-hovel on the road to C―. My grandmother warned me to beware, at the entrance, of a kind of circular ditch full of dirty water, which lay upon his threshold. I had to leap across it before I could enter the cottage, where bleareyed Tom sat smoking. He was a very uninviting-looking specimen of humanity in rags, and existed, I believe, on a small allowance from the parish. My grandmother addressed him with some sharpness in her accent. 66 Eh! Miss Lotty, and Miss Mary, where hae ye been, for pity's sake?" surveying us with a laughing eye. "Ye "How long is it since you were at But he "Three weeks agone last Sunday, Mrs. Somerby. The rector, he says to me, If you'll come to church, Tom,' says he, 'I'll preach you a sermon, all for yourself,' says he. And I went, ma'am. deceived me, did Mr. Featherstone. Ne'er a word on't touched my case at all. Ugh! 'twas all about the ordinary run of sinner, ma'am, quite commonplace; and when I'd walked four mile, and a broiling arternoon, 'twas downright unhandsome of him to put me off, and so I showed him, for when he was nigh half through what he'd got to say, I jist gev him a look, and walked out at the church door, I did. But, Mrs. Somerby" (with a villanous whine), “if ye want to do a good turn to a poor wretch, 1 want a pair o' specs, to read the Word o' God, mum.' My grandmother surveyed him grim ly. "There's a piece of beef for you, Tom, maun gae to the big hoose straight away, in the mean time. If you had stayed to LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXIII. 1667 |