The house, itself, was a fine old building, well suited to the habits of a country gentleman, though not so large as the gardens and plantation surrounding it, might have admitted. These had been gradually acquired by each successive owner of the mansion, who took pleasure in adding to the family estate by purchasing all property immediately adjoining, but had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling the house itself.
Captain Clair was determined to admire every thing; he had got up unusually early, and that in itself was a meritorious action, which put him in perfect good humour with himself. It was a very pleasant morning, too, numbers of insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of since he was a boy, attracted his attention, and flew out from the dewy hedges, over which the white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace. The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sunshine—and the bee went forth to the busy labors of the day, humming the song of cheerful industry. All combined to bring back long forgotten days of innocent childhood and boyish mirth; the pulse which an Indian clime had weakened, beat quicker, and his spirits revived before the influence of happy memories and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, as the morning advanced, he lingered to watch the movements of the villagers, and to muse upon the characters of the inmates of the different cottages as he passed them, and to observe that those who dwelt in the neatest were those who stirred the first. The labourers had gone to their work, and now the windows and doors were opened, and children came forth to play.
As he returned again to reach the rectory in time for its early breakfast, he perceived one dwelling much superior in character to those around it, with its antique gable front ornamented with carefully arranged trelliswork, over which creepers twined in flowery luxuriance, and the simple lawn sloping down towards the road, from which a low, sunk fence divided it. Here, careless of observation, a young child had seated herself—her straw hat upon the turf beside her, while she was busily engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild lily, forgetful that in a few minutes its beauty would perish; she was a lovely child, the outline of her infantine features was almost faultless, and her little face dimpled with smiles as she looked up from her occupation to nod some brief salutation to the poor men as they passed her on their way home.
Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all the objects he had observed that morning, none should make so deep an impression as the sight of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, as he thought of her twining those fading flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked at nothing further, but still found himself musing on the delicate features of that young face.
When he reached the garden gate, he found his uncle strolling about, waiting for him.
Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling over a wide and expansive forehead. Though a little under the middle height, there was a gentle dignity in his manner that could scarcely fail to be noticed, or if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He was neither very witty, nor very learned—yet none knew him very long without liking him. His face, not originally striking, had become more handsome as he had grown older—for the struggle between good and evil, which must be in every well principled mind, a perpetual struggle, had been carried on by him for many years, and so successfully, that each year brought heaven nearer to the good man's thoughts; and now, as the race was so nearly finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his conscience more tender; fearing, lest, after a life spent in his Master's service, he might be found lingering at the last, and lose the prize for which he had been so long striving. In his eye was that look of serenity and peace which seemed to say, "he feared no evil tidings;" for he walked continually under the protection, which only can give that feeling of security which those who have it not would bestow great riches to possess. We have lingered longer than we at first intended in description, but, perhaps not too long.
When we look back to the innocence of childhood, we sigh to think that we can never be children again; we recall that happy time when the world had not written its own characters of sin and falsehood in our hearts; we sigh to think that childhood is gone—but no sigh will recall it. But when we see an old man who has passed the waves of this troublesome world, true to the faith with which he entered life, we feel that here is an example which we may follow. Childhood we have left behind, but old age is before us, and if we live on, must come; and, as the body decays, do we not feel that the spirit should increase in holiness and strength, preparing itself for that beautiful world of light which it must enter or die.
Mr. Ware had resided for many years at Aston; when a younger man, he had been tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, the present possessor of the Aston property—and though with his pupil, only during a tour through Italy, the attachment between them was such, that the young man solicited his father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that living became vacant, partly, he told him, from his wish to secure himself a friend and companion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware gratefully accepted an offer which at once placed him in independence; and, as soon as he had settled himself in his new house, he carried one of his favourite projects into execution, by sending for his only sister, who had been obliged to procure her livelihood as a governess; his own small means being, since their father's death, insufficient for both.
It was not then for his own sake entirely that he rejoiced in his improved circumstances. When he drove his neat little carriage to meet his sister, and when he brought her home, and shewed her his house—their house as he called it—with its pretty comfortable sitting-room, looking out upon the garden, and the neat little chamber, where all her old favourite books—recovered from the friend who had taken charge of them during her wanderings—rested upon the neatly arranged shelves, he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And when, with eyes glistening with pleasure, he assured her that it was her home as long as she lived—he said what he never found reason to repent, for the cheerful face of his companion bore perpetual remembrance of his brotherly kindness.
He had once thought of marriage; but the idea had now passed away entirely. In early years, he had been sincerely attached to a school friend of his sister's, whom he had met during one of his Oxford vacations; but she died early, leaving her memory too deeply impressed, to make him wish to replace it by giving his affection to another. His sister, now almost his only near relative, had sympathised, most sincerely, in his loss, and had endeavoured to aid his own manly judgment in regaining that cheerfulness of tone so necessary for the right discharge of the every-day duties of life. She had been rewarded by the more than usual continuation of a brother's early love and esteem, and she had, therefore, no scruple of accepting his offer of protection, and a home.