CHAPTER XXVII.

HANNAH OLLIVER’S “YOUNG MAN.”

“The branch is stooping to the hand, And pleasant to behold; Yet gather not, although its fruit Be streaked with hues of gold.

For bitter ashes lurk concealed Beneath that golden skin; And though the coat be smooth, there lies But rottenness within.”

_Smedley._

Adam Olliver, as our readers may remember, had a daughter, Hannah by name, who was a servantmaid at Waverdale Hall. She was a bright, good-looking lass, with no graver faults than those which often attach to an unrestrained vivacity and a considerable weakness for “ribbins, frills, an’ fal-de-rals,” as her plain-spoken father called them, which, though purchased by her own money, were scarcely in keeping with her position. Even if they had been, they were sorely at enmity with good taste. Greens and violets, blues and buffs, orange and red, and other hues equally self-assertive, were worn in combinations which would have alarmed a _modiste_ and driven an artist into hysterics. Hannah was a dressy girl, and being remarkably chatty, not to say loquacious, she was not the unlikeliest girl in the world to pick up a sweetheart--_a_ sweetheart, did we say? It would be venturesome to fix on any number of briefly happy swains on whom she had conferred that honour, and had then peremptorily dismissed. Hannah was evidently a coquette. At the time when Philip Fuller was hovering between life and death, and soon after Lucy Blyth had been installed by his bedside, Hannah Olliver’s evanescent and volatile affections were placed for the nonce on a fine Adonis-looking young fellow, with whom she had become acquainted through her intimacy with a housemaid at Cowley Priory. His name was Aubrey Bevan, and his somewhat aristocratic cognomen did not seem to Hannah’s admiring eyes to be at all inappropriate to the dark curly locks, neatly-trimmed moustache, semi-Bond-street attire, and jauntily-set hat of her favoured lover.

Aubrey Bevan had been a kind of valet--a sort of gentleman’s gentleman to Sir Harry Elliott’s eldest son, a fast young gent of horsey tastes and gaming proclivities, who cut a considerable dash amongst the young bloods, who, during the season, mustered in great force at Almack’s, Tattersall’s, and Rotten-row. With him, however, we have scant business, but from his quondam valet, discharged for some occult reason, we cannot at present part company. The discipline as regarded servants and their followers was somewhat strict at Waverdale Hall, and so Hannah’s interviews with her “intended” had to take place either when she was off the premises, or in stealthy meetings in the park or gardens under cover of the night.

Mr. Bevan, at the outset of his wooing, was exceedingly assiduous and demonstrative, but as all this only served to develop his young lady’s ingrained propensity to coquetry, he changed his tactics, and with a cleverness which brought its own reward, he feigned indifference, as though his loveflame was considerably dwindling down. This had the desired effect, and may afford a hint to ardent swains whose chosen ones are given to fluctuations and indecision. Latterly Hannah had shown a steady loyalty to her lover, as though at last she had found her fate. One evening, as she and the courtly Bevan were holding a stolen interview beneath a spreading beech-tree in the park, some evil spirit entered into Hannah, and led her to throw out vague hints and insinuations that he was not so certainly the “man in possession” as he seemed to think. She intimated that there was another “Richmond in the field,” and, true to Sir Walter Scott’s description of woman, who is,

“In our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,”

she succeeded in annoying and perhaps alarming her lover with the idea that his mittimus was looming in the distance. Aubrey Bevan brought out his final weapon for repelling the attack, and coolly informed her that he was about to leave for London, the elysium of valets, the paradise of love and beauty. This startling information was more than Hannah bargained for. There was a perceptible change in her voice, speedily noted by Mr. Bevan, as she said,--

“You are not really going, are you, Aubrey?” which only brought the unrelenting answer,--

“Yes, my prairie flower. I am really going. ‘My bark is on the sea, and the wind blows fair.’” Rather an awkward position, surely, if he was an intending voyager; but Mr. Bevan was nothing if not poetic.

“Oh dear, Aubrey! How can you?”

“Does my impending departure flutter the heart of my little gazelle?” said the poet, with a tremulous intonation which would have melted a colder heart than Hannah’s.

“Don’t go, Aubrey; you mustn’t go. I cannot spare you.”

“Fair syren of my soul! I thank thee for that word! ‘Had I a heart for falsehood framed.’” There were those who had the honour of Mr. Bevan’s acquaintance who would have said, in answer, “Yes, most decidedly!” “My charming angel! ‘Where duty calls I must away. Hark! hark! the drum.’”

A little more of this gay troubadour line of business, and Hannah was fairly subdued.

“Cheer up! my sunflower!” said the gallant Bevan. “My visit to the great metropolis will be but temporary. A few weeks, and on the wings of the wind I shall again ‘fly to the Bower by Bendemeer’s stream,’ and ‘talk of love and Hannah.’ But I cannot leave without another look, a sweet adieu. I’ll come again to-morrow night. I will be at the garden-gate by twelve o’clock; I cannot come earlier; and as your orderly household will then be in the arms of Morpheus, you can come down to the door leading out to the stable-yard, and then I shall carry with me in my exile the sweet memory of that last good-bye!”

In vain the foolish girl objected, and referred to difficulties as to time and place. Mr. Bevan showed her, with a marvellous knowledge, gained unwittingly from her own chatty tongue, of all the topographical peculiarities of the place, how it could be done; and having extorted a definite consent, he swore eternal fealty to his fair companion, and turning away, was speedily lost in the darkness of the night.

O foolish Hannah Olliver! Did no qualms of conscience follow that ill-advised consent? Did no good angel whisper in your ear to disobey the voice of the charmer? Go to your chamber, unsuspecting simpleton, and dream of the dreadful plot, to the train of which your own unconscious hand will lay the spark!

Mr. Aubrey Bevan had special business on hand that night. After having kept one assignation, he made all haste to keep another. The second one, however, was of an altogether different nature, and if Hannah Olliver could have seen with whom he whispered and consorted during the hours of that night, it would have broken the spell which he had cast around her far more effectively than the discovery of some rival recipient of his gay blandishments and poetic flights.

* * * * *

While these events were transpiring at the Hall, joy and gladness reigned in the cottage of Adam Olliver, for at length the long-expected letter, with a pleasing monetary inclosure, had been received from Pete, who had been long struggling with adverse fortunes in the Western States of North America. At length his circumstances had taken a definite and effective turn for the better, and now his hope was that in a little while, having obtained a competency, he should be able to retrace his steps to dear Old England, and be able to supply his failing parents with the comforts which they needed in their old age. When Nathan Blyth called at their little cottage, he found old Adam, sitting in his arm-chair, with spectacles on nose and the precious letter in his hand, slowly spelling out his son’s somewhat difficult caligraphy, while dear old Judith sat on the opposite side of the fire, listening, and smiling through her tears. The old hedger had every now and again to wrestle with his feelings, and to gulp down a choking in the throat as Pete’s warm, loving sentences unfolded themselves to his delighted gaze.

“Judy, my lass,” he said, when the whole epistle had been deciphered. “Thoo sees the Lord is as good as His wod. Thoo an’ me’s been prayin’ fo’ wer lad an’ commendin’ ’im te God. We begun te think ’at t’ answer was a lang while o’ cumin’. It tarried, bud we wayted fo’ ’t, an’ noo it’s cum, an’ booath thoo an’ me’s livin’ an’ hearty te hear it. The Lord keeps us waytin’ at tahmes, bud He nivver cums ower leeat. His hand’s allus riddy for a deead lift, an’ noo I hae faith te beleeave ’at we sall see wer lad feeace te feeace.”

“The Lord’s varry good tiv us,” said Judith, looking lovingly at her dear old husband, through her tears of joy. “Ah’ve done wi’ dootin’, an’ if He’ll only let me see my bairn ah sall go te my grave in peace.”

“Natty!” said Adam. “You’ve just cum i’ tahme te hear t’ good news, an’ ah’s seear you’ll be glad te join us i’ givin’ thenks at t’ Throne o’ Grace.”

Then the old Christian poured out his soul to God in fervent prayer. The little room was radiant with the presence of the Abiding Friend, and when they rose from their knees, Adam shook Blithe Natty by the hand, and said, with a smile,--

“Pete ’ll be i’ Nestleton be’ Can’lemas, an’ ’im an’ t’ Methodist chapil ’ll cum tegither!”

At the Sunday service in Farmer Houston’s kitchen, Adam returned public thanks for the light which had come to him and Judith from across the sea. There, too, old Kasper Crabtree, somewhat feeble and pale yet, and scarce recovered from the severe treatment he had received on his way home from Kesterton Fair, was present to join in earnest worship with the faithful few whom he had long persecuted and despised. As he bowed his head in prayer, we may be sure that, mingling with his requests for personal grace and help, there rose an earnest petition that God’s best blessing might rest for ever on the fair evangelist who had led him, while on the bed of sickness, to seek the Crucified; and through whose gentle instrumentality the moral darkness of a lifetime had been dispersed, and light and love divine had streamed in upon his melted soul.