CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
I.
When now (that morn) Aurora ope’d the course,
And Sol strode forth, eight charmers bid discourse;
Their firstling-notes, borne on the balmy breeze,
Bestirr’d the rooks in the adjacent trees;
“Ring, ting, ting, tong, this is our song,”—say they—
To rouse ye sleepers for the holiday:
A thousand flues erst wind their dingy smoke;
Whilst children run, half nude, to have a look,
And listen to the mimic guns as they
Peal forth applausive of th’ auspicious day:
The streets are now invaded by gay youths
Prebent already on the comfit booths;
And as the morning grows show signs of love
Whilst sauntering through the artificial grove:
The gentry-residents command the throng,
And at the time appointed march along
Towards the bound’ry, there (some frolicking)
They ’wait th’ arrival of their local king.
II.
He comes, he comes: hurrahs denote the deed;
And then harmoniously the host proceed
With pompous pride, concordant, through the town,
In meet obedience to Sir Humphrey Brown,
Who marshall’d them; and as they onward march—
In civil order ’neath the banner’d arch—
Loud shouts of triumph reach the distant ear,
And loud hurrahs responsive fill the air.
Full sixty horses, led the fairy way,
Adorn’d with choice rosettes, in meet array;
Each favour’d beast bore on its gladsome guest,
In twenty rows arear, and three abreast:
Then follow’d Tympanum,[234] the lord of sound,
And his train’d band, which shook the very ground;
They blew their instruments so mighty loud
It drown’d the chorus of the motley crowd.
Next, came Lord Mountjoy, in his chaise-and-four,
Waving his hat obeisant to the poor,
The maim’d, the aged, who belined the street;
Who with huzzas the noble stranger greet:
Among the townsfolk, marching in the line,
A hornpipe-dancer, bacchus’d up with wine—
Or some commodity—with healthful pride,
Timed out his joy with his Brazilian hide.
Some gentle ladies, at a branching street,
Had (’midst some evergreens, arrang’d so neat
As to attract Lord Arnold’s searching eye)
Affix’d a sentence—which was, by-the-bye,
Nought less than this: “God bless Jane Hollybrand.”(!)
He saw it, ’rose, and, silencing the band,
Gave forth the signal for three loud hurrahs
For those young damsels, and their sweet mammas;
Sir Humphrey saw, and held his ’kerchief out,
And urged this beacon for another shout—
’Twas done: and then Lord Mountjoy spoke aloud:
“I thank you, ladies, for I’m very proud
Indeed to see, this day, my choice approved;
I do assure you that my heart is moved:
Some future time I hope ’twill be my fate,
My joy, to welcome you at Rollingate.”
Going by the church, the band clash’d with the bells;
Which, with the cannons’ boom at intervals—
And oft—produced the most discordant sounds,
Resembling yells of hungry kennell’d hounds.
At length the second archway strikes the eye:
The glossy banner, stretch’d across the sky,
Reveal’d those sacred words—“God give him health.”
(Now, as ’twas certain Arnold lack’d not wealth,
Nought else could typify, to that extent,
Their love, as this spontaneous compliment.)
Then forth three furlongs from the sylvan grove,
He bade adieu, and hasten’d to his love.
The host return’d, and banqueted the poor,
And much rejoicing reign’d till a late hour.
[234] The drum.
III.
Far in the west, the clouds were gathering fast
About the space in the celestial vast,
Where the great Trav’ler takes his eve’s repast,—
That famed dispenser of eternal light,
Who bathes his rosy form in depths of night,
And bids the world behold him gently steep
His swollen body in the radiant deep;—
There, like a whale beneath the liquid main,
Retires in confidence; and comes again
Refresh’d, and strengthen’d, for returning day:
But he, unlike the monsters of the sea,
Whose days are number’d, shall for ever rise—
For ever wander through th’ unbounded skies!
Two hours, or nearly, Horus had to march,
Ere he could reach the buttress of the arch
Which spans the ocean of ethereal air:
There, cloudlings waited for the golden fare—
That unmatch’d crimson, to edge round the robes—
The night apparel of the king of globes.
IV.
When Arnold gain’d the summit of the hill
(Where stood the ruins of an ancient mill),[235]
The last uprising on his homeward course,
And where the village baker came for gorse,—
Conveying it in paniers, on his horse
(For in abundance on the hill it grew),
The turrets of his mansion ’rose to view:
Then did his noble heart within him leap;
And when he first beheld the grazing sheep,
In those prolific slopes, down in the vale
(Where many a hunter’s blast had rode the gale—
Whilst in pursuit of the despairing fox,
And where Sir Humphrey and Sir Edward Knox
Had often tried the mettle of their steeds,
With Arnold’s father’s ——, ’cross those daisy-meads,
And woodland-acres, and yon distant Down,
Where nimble Reynards for their lives had flown);
Then did Lord Arnold picture to his mind
His lovely Jane, so beautiful and kind.
But yet he had to traverse o’er a mile
Before he could behold the beam, the smile,
The tender tear of joy; and hear that voice
Articulate the language of his choice:—
“Ah! Slash,”[236] he said, “I see the pale-blue smoke,
From the Lodge-chimney, ’scending through the oak.”
Five minutes more, the horses gently swerve,
And canter gracefully, around the curve,
Through the Lodge-gateway; there stood Hollybrand,
As meek as ever, with his hat in hand:
Arnold saluted him with right good will,—
“I’d hoped to ’ve seen you in at Ruttendell;
How is it, George, you were not there to-day,
Astride your pony, with my tenantry?”
George modestly replied—“I thought, good Sir,
My greatest comfort would be first to hear
Thy welcome voice near to my sacred home!”
“And are you happy?” “Yes,” he said. “Then come,
Secure the gate, and make your dwelling right;
And spend an hour with us at home to-night.”
[235] A windmill.
[236] The coachman.
V.
Up on a hill, about three furlongs off,
The stable-boy (not far from being a dwarf)
Was sent by Jane, and caution’d how to raise
And wave on high a strip of scarlet baize,
So soon as he beheld his master’s chaise.
(A beacon-signal to the anxious Jane,
Whilst she sat peeping through the window pane;
For on this hill a distant view arose
Of the high-road, ’long which the traveller goes
When journeying to and fro near Ruttendell.)
Jane saw the streamer rais’d! then knew full well
Her lover soon would be within her sight;
She wept for joy, so great was her delight.
The south-west breeze bore up the greenwood vale
The chaise’s rattle,—thanks to the sweet gale:
An instant more the whistling whip was heard:
Jane look’d, and lo! across the grassy sward
She saw the moving mass advancing swift;—
No longer of her love is she bereft!
(Dear Mistress Toogood fired her aged breast;
And, venturing forth to meet the lordly guest
Beneath the portico,—dress, “bishop-sleeved,”—
Bestowed her saintly blessings; thus relieved
Her dear old heart of two years’ sobs and sighs;
Yet even then she scarce believed her eyes,
For seventy years and five had made them dim;
But when she heard his voice she knew ’twas him!)
VI.
On came the carriage: Arnold drops the reins;
Descends, and instantly his love entwines—
Dumb with emotion at his kind embrace.
Whilst gentle drops stole down Jane’s blushing face,
Lord Arnold’s own bright eyes, keen to behold,
’Came dimm’d with joy: yes! could he but have told
One half the feelings wrought upon his heart,
Not even then a tithe could he impart:
He saw, at once, her tutors, when they wrote,
Had partially concealed how they were smote;—
Not, as he naturally might have inferr’d—
That they’d contriv’d to please him, and conferr’d
One with another: no, this wasn’t the case,
For he beheld her now endowed with grace;
Her comeliness and rare symmetral form
Surpass’d his hope, and ’flam’d his bosom warm.
Recovering from this reverie of bliss,
Jane spoke in silvery tones; her tale was this—
“I’ve learn’d to love thee, in thy absence, dear;
Pray pardon me, if now I love thee here;”
So placed her hand immediately in his,
And seal’d his lips with her first earnest kiss.
Arnold, in raptures with this stroke of love,
Glimpsed her two joys; and envied not high Jove!
VII.
At eight o’clock, Jane’s father had arrived:
With all his power he zealously contrived,
But fail’d, to be excused from the repast;
And therefore, being prevail’d upon at last,
He dined, for the first time, with his good lord;
Dear Jane assisting him with her kind word.
(’Twas now too late for Toogood to be there,
As habit had compell’d her to repair
Unto her bedroom, for the night’s repose.)
The cloth remov’d, Lord Arnold, quite jocose,
Related one of his adventurous tales,
In which the plunder of some foreign mails
Form’d part the story: Jane felt much amused;
But Hollybrand himself appear’d confused;
As though assured, by its similitude,
His own mishap was really understood:
Then Arnold, in his wonted happy mood,
Perceiving Hollybrand confounded, smil’d,
And said to George: “It is your own dear child
Who sent me tidings of that dread affair;
I’ll lay a wager, George, you’ve taken care,
When going to town upon a market-day,
To guard against a similar affray!”
“Yes, yes,” said George, with smiling countenance,
“You may depend, dear sir, I’ve ever since
Ta’en this precaution—never more to start
To Ruttendell, alone, with horse and cart.”
Then Arnold, after this tale, told in jest,
Touch’d on the subject which his heart lov’d best,—
Of making dearest Jane his loving wife;
“On whom,” he said, “depends my love of life.”
VIII.
A serious conversation then ensued—
The retrospect and future well reviewed—
Lord Arnold delicately sought to name
The nuptial-day, and urg’d the blushing Jane
To fix the date; but she, with subdued voice,
Begg’d courteously to be excused,—“the choice,”
She softly said, “dear Arnold, should be thine;
And what your wish may be, that shall be mine.”
He then, most fondly, kiss’d her modest cheek,
And named it for the following Wednesday-week:
“Shall it be so?” he said * * * “come, dear, express
Thy pleasure, and enhance my happiness!”
She press’d his hand, and breathed the mono-word[237]
To which George Hollybrand at once concurred:
And silently pour’d forth this orison,—
“O righteous God, bless Thou this gen’rous man!”
[237] Yes!
IX.
Sleep’s slumbering influence now began to fall,
And Arnold must have felt it most of all,—
The day had been a double-day to him;
His dark blue eye had lost its sparkling beam
(And only those who pass through similar scenes,—
Who are the objects of such welcomin’s,—
Can comprehend one half th’ attendant pain,
Extreme of pleasure forces on the brain).
Night now had enter’d in th’ eleventh hour.
The sun was on his antipodal tour;
But heav’n was not forsaken by its queen,
For she was silv’ring o’er th’ expansive green;[238]
With all her wonted grace she shed her rays,
And number’d this as one of her bright days,
She lit the path, in which George had to roam,
That he, in safety, might regain his home:
Each other bade adieu, George homeward sped;
And Arnold Mountjoy sought his lonely bed.
(Twelve other nights, he[239] knew, must be bygone,—
Twelve other suns must cross the temperate zone,—
Ere her[240] virginity—which by the law
Is reckon’d sacred—shall be broken through.)
Jane had retir’d; her evening pray’rs were flown;
A snow white pillow form’d her peaceful crown.
The night was still; all Nature seem’d to lull;
And God, alone, the guardian of the hall!
Thus closed a day, one of unusual mirth,—
One more fleet joy, on this revolving earth.
[238] The Park.
[239] Arnold.
[240] Jane.
X.
Again great Horus, the vanguard of day,
Rolls up th’ horizon, and paints o’er the sky.
Eight harvest labourers bask on yonder hill,
Partaking of their early breakfast-meal;
Refresh’d they rise and scythe the bearded corn,
And nurse it till ’tis ready for the barn:
From field to field the sickle rushes forth;
The master[241] meditates upon its worth:
He bushels it, and bags it in a cart,
And takes it to a profitable mart;
Receives the coin, and cheers his trusty heart.
But while those peasants laid the hill-side bare,
The mansion inmates had their daily care;
And Rollingate was now all joy within,
Preparing for the matrimonial scene.
The different tradesfolk came from Ruttendell
With their resources for the festival;
And stores of every kind were now being brought.
(The wedding-ring already had been wrought.)
Upholsterers were busily at work
From early morning till the day grew dark:
Two suites of rooms were thus being re-arranged;
And sundry goods appropriately changed.
(Arnold, himself, took special interest—
Observing everything done in its best.)
Three decorators, from one Mr. Small’s—
Were renovating ceilings, doors, and walls.
[241] The proprietor.
XI.
The country jew’ler[242] made an extra call,
And urged his trinkets for the coming ball;
Round to the back[243] he plied his hollow trash,
And smil’d in secret as he told the cash.
(The cunning fellow thought this was, of course,
A splendid chance, some of his wares to force;—
He guess’d aright—for housemaids, cooks, and scullion
Bought his mosaic, contentedly, for bullion.)
A genteel “Packman,”[244] who for years had made
His regular calls, now, following up his trade
With silks, and satins, cottons, every shade—
Avowing cheapness, with a wondrous knack—
Consid’rably reduced his holy pack:
All gather’d ’round him with an earnest zeal:
His India silks, if not, were looking real:
So one and all, including old John Swift,[245]
Bought something of the man before he left,—
Determin’d were they to be prim and gay
Upon their noble master’s wedding-day.
[242] A hawker of watches and jewellery.
[243] Among the servants.
[244] A wandering draper.
[245] John Swift, a very old servant (formerly coachman) of Arnold’s father; who still was an inmate of the mansion, though almost incapable of doing any kind of work.
XII.
The fattest buck which trod the vast domain
Was for the banquet seasonably slain;
And choice provisions, of the daintiest sort
(Full meet to grace the table for the court),
Were being selected with the greatest care
By one[246] who was himself a connoisseur.
Day after day had flown with magic haste;
The banquet-room was ’ranged with nicest taste;
And everything throughout seem’d neat and clean
(Fit for the habitation of a queen).
All invitations had been duly sent;
Lord Arnold look’d quite happy and content:
Naught now remain’d but to pluck fresh the flowers,
And plant the banners on the two high towers.
[246] Lord Mountjoy.