Back Aa

Nature And Art

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> As Henry and his son, after parting from the poor labourer, approached the late bishop’s palace, all the charms of its magnificence, its situation, which, but a few hours before, had captivated the elder Henry’s mind, were vanished; and, from the mournful ceremony he had since been witness of, he now viewed this noble edifice but as a heap of rubbish piled together to fascinate weak understandings, and to make even the wise and religious man, at times, forget why he was sent into this world. Instead of presenting themselves to their nephew and cousin, they both felt an unconquerable reluctance to enter under the superb, the melancholy, roof.  A bank, a hedge, a tree, a hill, seemed, at this juncture, a pleasanter shelter, and each felt himself happy in being a harmless wanderer on the face of the earth rather than living in splendour, while the wants, the revilings of the hungry and the naked were crying to Heaven for vengeance. They gave a heartfelt sigh to the vanity of the rich and the powerful; and pursued a path where they hoped to meet with virtue and happiness. They arrived at Anfield. Possessed by apprehensions, which his uncle’s funeral had served to increase, young Henry, as he entered the well-known village, feared every sound he heard would convey information of Rebecca’s death.  He saw the parsonage house at a distance, but dreaded to approach it, lest Rebecca should no longer be an inhabitant.  His father indulged him in the wish to take a short survey of the village, and rather learn by indirect means, by observation, his fate, than hear it all at once from the lips of some blunt relater. Anfield had undergone great changes since Henry left it.  He found some cottages built where formerly there were none; and some were no more where he had frequently called, and held short conversations with the poor who dwelt in them.  Amongst the latter number was the house of the parents of Agnes—fallen to the ground!  He wondered to himself where that poor family had taken up their abode.  Henry, in a kinder world! He once again cast a look at the old parsonage house: his inquisitive eye informed him there no alteration had taken place externally; but he feared what change might be within. At length he obtained the courage to enter the churchyard in his way to it.  As he slowly and tremblingly moved along, he stopped to read here and there a gravestone; as mild, instructive conveyers of intelligence, to which he could attend with more resignation, than to any other reporter. The second stone he came to he found was erected To the memory of the Reverend Thomas Rymer, Rebecca’s father.  He instantly called to mind all that poor curate’s quick sensibility of wrong towards himself; his unbridled rage in consequence; and smiled to think; how trivial now appeared all for which he gave way to such excess of passion! But, shocked at the death of one so near to her he loved, he now feared to read on; and cast his eyes from the tombs accidentally to the church.  Through the window of the chancel, his sight was struck with a tall monument of large dimensions, raised since his departure, and adorned with the finest sculpture.  His curiosity was excited—he drew near, and he could distinguish (followed by elegant poetic praise) “To the memory of John Lord Viscount Bendham.” Notwithstanding the solemn, melancholy, anxious bent of Henry’s mind, he could not read these words, and behold this costly fabric, without indulging a momentary fit of indignant laughter. “Are sculpture and poetry thus debased,” he cried, “to perpetuate the memory of a man whose best advantage is to be forgotten; whose no one action merits record, but as an example to be shunned?” An elderly woman, leaning on her staff, now passed along the lane by the side of the church.  The younger Henry accosted her, and ventured to inquire “where the daughters of Mr. Rymer, since his death, were gone to live?” “We live,” she returned, “in that small cottage across the clover field.” Henry looked again, and thought he had mistaken the word we; for he felt assured that he had no knowledge of the person to whom he spoke. But she knew him, and, after a pause, cried—“Ah!  Mr. Henry, you are welcome back.  I am heartily glad to see you, and my poor sister Rebecca will go out of her wits with joy.” “Is Rebecca living, and will be glad to see me?” he eagerly asked, while tears of rapture trickled down his face.  “Father,” he continued in his ecstasy, “we are now come home to be completely happy; and I feel as if all the years I have been away were but a short week; and as if all the dangers I have passed had been light as air.  But is it possible,” he cried to his kind informer, “that you are one of Rebecca’s sisters?” Well might he ask; for, instead of the blooming woman of seven-and-twenty he had left her, her colour was gone, her teeth impaired, her voice broken.  She was near fifty. “Yes, I am one of Mr. Rymer’s daughters,” she replied. “But which?” said Henry. “The eldest, and once called the prettiest,” she returned: “though now people tell me I am altered; yet I cannot say I see it myself.” “And are you all living?” Henry inquired. “All but one: she married and died.  The other three, on my father’s death, agreed to live together, and knit or spin for our support.  So we took that small cottage, and furnished it with some of the parsonage furniture, as you shall see; and kindly welcome I am sure you will be to all it affords, though that is but little.” As she was saying this, she led him through the clover field towards the cottage.  His heart rebounded with joy that Rebecca was there: yet, as he walked he shuddered at the impression which he feared the first sight of her would make.  He feared, what he imagined (till he had seen this change in her sister) he should never heed.  He feared Rebecca would look no longer young.  He was not yet so far master over all his sensual propensities as, when the trial came, to think he could behold her look like her sister, and not give some evidence of his disappointment. His fears were vain.  On entering the gate of their little garden, Rebecca rushed from the house to meet them: just the same Rebecca as ever. It was her mind, which beaming on her face, and actuating her every motion, had ever constituted all her charms: it was her mind which had gained her Henry’s affection.  That mind had undergone no change; and she was the self-same woman he had left her. He was entranced with joy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2