Part 56 (1/2)

”No, Bunting, I fear not,” said Walter, spurring through the gates of the yard; ”Good day.”

”Augh, then,” cried the Corporal, hobbling breathlessly after him, ”if so be as I shan't see your honour agin, at which I am extramely consarned, will your honour recollect your promise, touching the 'tato ground? The steward, Master Bailey, 'od rot him, has clean forgot it--augh!”

”The same old man, Bunting, eh? Well, make your mind easy, it shall be done.”

”Lord bless your honour's good heart; thankye; and--and”--laying his hand on the bridle--”your honour did say, the bit cot should be rent-free. You see, your honour,” quoth the Corporal, drawing up with a grave smile, ”I may marry some day or other, and have a large family; and the rent won't sit so easy then--augh!”

”Let go the rein, Bunting--and consider your house rent-free.”

”And, your honour--and--”

But Walter was already in a brisk trot; and the remaining pet.i.tions of the Corporal died in empty air.

”A good day's work, too,” muttered Jacob, hobbling homeward. ”What a green un 'tis still! Never be a man of the world--augh!”

For two hours Walter did not relax the rapidity of his pace; and when he did so at the descent of a steep hill, a small country town lay before him, the sun glittering on its single spire, and lighting up the long, clean, centre street, with the good old-fas.h.i.+oned garden stretching behind each house, and detached cottages around, peeping forth here and there from the blossoms and verdure of the young may. He rode into the yard of the princ.i.p.al inn, and putting up his horse, inquired in a tone that he persuaded himself was the tone of indifference, for Miss Lester's house.

”John,” said the landlady, (landlord there was none,) summoning a little boy of about ten years old--”run on, and shew this gentleman the good lady's house: and--stay--his honour will excuse you a moment--just take up the nosegay you cut for her this morning: she loves flowers. Ah! Sir, an excellent young lady is Miss Lester,” continued the hostess, as the boy ran back for the nosegay; ”so charitable, so kind, so meek to all.

Adversity, they say, softens some characters; but she must always have been good. And so religious, Sir, though so young! Well, G.o.d bless her!

and that every one must say. My boy John, Sir, he is not eleven yet, come next August--a 'cute boy, calls her the good lady: we now always call her so here. Come, John, that's right. You stay to dine here, Sir?

Shall I put down a chicken?”

At the farther extremity of the town stood Miss Lester's dwelling. It was the house in which her father had spent his last days; and there she had continued to reside, when left by his death to a small competence, which Walter, then abroad, had persuaded her, (for her pride was of the right kind,) to suffer him, though but slightly, to increase. It was a detached and small building, standing a little from the road; and Walter paused for some moments at the garden-gate, and gazed round him before he followed his young guide, who, tripping lightly up the gravel-walk to the door, rang the bell, and inquired if Miss Lester was within?

Walter was left for some moments alone in a little parlour:--he required those moments to recover himself from the past that rushed sweepingly over him. And was it--yes, it was Ellinor that now stood before him!

Changed she was, indeed; the slight girl had budded into woman; changed she was, indeed; the bound had for ever left that step, once so elastic with hope; the vivacity of the quick, dark eye was soft and quiet; the rich colour had given place to a hue fainter, though not less lovely.

But to repeat in verse what is poorly bodied forth in prose--

”And years had past, and thus they met again; The wind had swept along the flower since then, O'er her fair cheek a paler l.u.s.tre spread, As if the white rose triumphed o'er the red.

No more she walk'd exulting on the air; Light though her step, there was a languour there; No more--her spirit bursting from its bound,-- She stood, like Hebe, scattering smiles around.”

”Ellinor!” said Walter mournfully, ”thank G.o.d! we meet at last.”

”That voice--that face--my cousin--my dear, dear Walter!”

All reserve--all consciousness fled in the delight of that moment; and Ellinor leant her head upon his shoulder, and scarcely felt the kiss that he pressed upon her lips.

”And so long absent!” said Ellinor, reproachfully.

”But did you not tell me that the blow that had fallen on our house had stricken from you all thoughts of love--had divided us for ever? And what, Ellinor, was England or home with out you?”

”Ah!” said Ellinor, recovering herself, and a deep paleness succeeding to the warm and delighted flush that had been conjured to her cheek, ”Do not revive the past--I have sought for years--long, solitary, desolate years, to escape from its dark recollections!”

”You speak wisely, dearest Ellinor; let us a.s.sist each other in doing so. We are alone in the world--let us unite our lot. Never, through all I have seen and felt,--in the starry night.w.a.tch of camps--in the blaze of courts--by the sunny groves of Italy--in the deep forests of the Hartz--never have I forgotten you, my sweet and dear cousin. Your image has linked itself indissolubly with all I conceived of home and happiness, and a tranquil and peaceful future; and now I return, and see you, and find you changed, but, oh, how lovely! Ah, let us not part again! A consoler, a guide, a soother, father, brother, husband,--all this my heart whispers I could be to you!”

Ellinor turned away her face, but her heart was very full. The solitary years that had pa.s.sed over her since they last met, rose up before her.

The only living image that had mingled through those years with the dreams of the departed, was his who now knelt at her feet;--her sole friend--her sole relative--her first--her last love! Of all the world, he was the only one with whom she could recur to the past; on whom she might repose her bruised, but still unconquered affections.