Her father and family lived in that quiet and learned retirement which neither sought nor invited, as they did not require, the excitement of continual company, to enable them to get through life without weariness. A tasteful and elegant, though simple, home afforded to them far higher pleasures than all the genteel riot and conventional affectations of happiness which occupy so much of the time and attention of the great body of that class of society to which they belonged, and in which they might have shone so gracefully conspicuous. But Mr. Calvert the father was too much a man of mind to precipitate either himself or his family into the whirl and eddy of what may be termed fashionable life. At the risk of being thought dull and spiritless,—of having his daughters neglected, and his sons regarded as “very unlike what one naturally expects young men would be,”—he preferred to all other pleasures that sound moral and mental education of his children,—that social, or domestic, training of them up, and that quiet and pleasing attention to the whole economy of his estate, and of all who were on it, which, whatever its defects in the eyes of the world, never fails to produce the greatest amount of real happiness to the possessors, as well as to render them the most capable of becoming the sources of greatest happiness to others. Hence, his daughters had never been presented a dozen times, if not ostensibly, at least virtually, like bills for acceptance, but to be refused. Neither had his two sons—for two he had—any knowledge of those peculiar vices which, though they might have added to their character as young men of spirit, could not by any means have done them credit on any other account.
Besides their own mutual stores of ever fresh mental enjoyment, this happy and well-judging little family found abundant recreation in a large and admirable library, which Mr. Calvert had himself selected: as well as amusement in an old-fashioned garden of extensive dimensions which enclosed the house on three sides, and overshadowed the roof with its tall elm trees,—planted there perhaps in the days of Addison; and which threw a quiet secluded air over the whole scene. Mr. Calvert's taste, indeed, was so far that of the time to which I have alluded, that Miss Jenny had been so christened after some favourite in the Spectator; while the eldest son Roger had, in like manner, received his cognomen though his father's veneration at once for the genius of Addison and his admiration of the character of Sir Roger de Coverley. When Jane once jerked her pincushion into the pond, he reminded her of some tale of a watch being similarly dealt by, as told in his favourite book; and not unfrequently spoke of that particular age of British literature as one in which he should have been most happy if it had been his fortune to live.
With such a man, and in a family with such an attraction in it as the one I have before described, it is not to be wondered at that Colin soon found himself happier than ever he could have believed. His own good looks and love of learning recommended him, while the natural powers of his mind carried him through, where else, perhaps, his previous want of habitual intercourse with similar society might have exposed him to inevitable annoyances.
Happiness, however, and especially in love, seems to have been considered in the economy of human nature,—like the sun-light in the world,—as too bright to endure without intervals of darkness and of shade. Not long had Colin and Jane Calvert been thus acquainted,—they had just learned to speak confidingly, and to breathe to each other those thoughts which before had only trembled on the lips and been stifled in the utterance,—when Colin was astonished and surprised to find in the behaviour of Mr. Calvert a marked and strong difference from that which hitherto he had pursued towards him. It was not essentially less kind than before, but seemed more marked by regret than by offence; as though the bosom in which it originated felt like that of a friend who secretly knows that he must part,—not that he would, or wished to do so. Jane, too, seemed downcast; but her regret spoke in her eyes, not words: in long painful suspenses of thought, as it seemed,—though in reality in deep worlds of thought traced out in the brain until they seemed to have no end. And then sometimes, when her father, or her mother, or brother, or sister, chanced to catch a momentary glance of her countenance,—they would find those pretty eyes wet, as if the little well-spring within would come to the top and overflow in spite of her. Did they ask her what was the matter, she smiled without feeling, and replied,—“Nothing!”
But instantly she would leave the room and go alone to her own chamber; thus telling it was something, though a something not to be told. And little do I know of human nature if, when there, those tears, denied innocently by the tongue a moment before, did not fall rapidly as she clasped her hands over a little bible which lay on a white cushion by her bedside, and prayed voicelessly that she, and he she loved, might yet be happy.
These things, it was observed by Colin, first occurred some short time after Mr. Lup-ton and Mr. Calvert had had an interview of several hours' duration in a private room; and during which, he now felt little doubt, the question of the possible future union of the young people had been seriously discussed.
Still it was not easy for him to imagine the cause of this strange difference; nor could he for a while arrive at any explanation from either party at all satisfactory on the subject. All that he knew was, that nearly the whole family, with the exception principally of Mr. Roger Calvert, even Jane herself,—and that was worst of all,—conducted themselves towards him in a manner which left little doubt upon his mind that some strong cause or other was in operation; which, in their eyes at least, appeared to render the continuance of his acquaintance with the young lady in question unadvisable, and a course to be decidedly avoided. Still there was no harshness,—no decided neglect, no offensive carriage, from any party. The feeling seemed to be that Jane should decline his acquaintance as gradually and as kindly as possible,—but that declined somehow it must be, and forgotten and given up for ever must be the affection, the deep affection, I may properly say, he had conceived for that excellent young creature. One day, however, as he was rambling amongst the shrubberies with Roger Calvert, the most blunt and open-hearted friend he had in the family, Colin mentioned the subject to him, and ventured to ask plainly what was the real cause of this coldness towards him.
“Perhaps,” replied Roger, “I am not doing exactly right by telling you; though, for my own part, I think you ought to know. But since you have so plainly required me to name the reason, I will do so. Mark, however, beforehand, that I do not agree with my father and mother in their opinion about the matter,—I hold that whatever may be said in the Old Testament, it is not Christian of us—it is not our duty—nor do I see how we can justly do it,—to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.”
Conviction flashed on Colin's mind like a burst of light. His cheeks became pale and then red, while he would have burst into tears had not his pride of heart forbidden him.
“I told you,” continued Roger on observing his emotion, “that I did not know whether it was right or not to tell you; but as you wanted to know, and I am no keeper of secrets, it is no blame of mine. Frankly, I tell you it is all owing to the story of your birth, which your father told to mine some days ago together with all the rest of what he meant to do for you, in order that there might be no misunderstanding afterwards between the families. My father and mother, indeed the whole family, like you uncommonly well; and as for myself, I think you a regularly good-hearted fellow, and should have no objection any day to make the second at your wedding with Jenny; but then their rigid and straitened notions are not mine, although I have on several occasions told them just as plainly as I am talking to you now, that they and I are by no means alike in opinion. I can assure you it is nothing else; for though in fact such a match would be quite equal to anything Jane could ever expect, if not greater, as Mr. Lupton volunteered to make a will in your favour, as well as to give you a handsome fortune down before the marriage, yet with them, especially with my mother, it is a sort of matter of conscience which they do not seem at present as if they could overcome. It is the source of much grief to them, that I can tell you; and especially as Jane seems to have taken such a liking to you: but then, you see—however, I can only say this,—and I am her brother, and would not see a hair of her head touched, nor a lash of her eye wet unnecessarily,—no, not for the best man in England! but this I promise you, that if I were in your place and in love with any young person that I cared anything particular about, I would make up my mind to have her, and have her I would, let anybody, either man or woman, say or do whatever they liked! That is my spirit,—though I should not have told you so if I had not cared something about you.”