[CHAPTER XIII.]
“No green star trembles
On its top, no moonbeam on its side.”
“The blast of the desert comes,
It howls in thy empty courts.”
There happened to be a young man at this time expected in the village, who had received his early education at S— B— school, and who had been, for many years, the mate in mischief of Henry St. Aubin.
The young man, of whom we are speaking, was the only child of a lone woman who kept the bakehouse of the village. His father, whom he had never seen, had been, in the youthful days of his mother, a scholar lad. The mother was determined that her son should be, as his father had been, a gentleman! She devoted, therefore, the fruits of a life’s industry to educate him for the church. After such an exertion, however, she had no pocket-money left to give her darling, who, consequently, often wanted cash. He was selfish, and had no principles. His habits were low, yet, in their own petty way, expensive. His present return to the village was after a considerable absence. Henry hastened to the bakehouse at the moment of his arrival, and, taking him aside, asked him if he was yet ordained, “because,” continued Henry, without waiting for a reply, “if you are not, tell David you are, and pretend to marry me to Betsy. We’ll have rare fun and carousing at the wedding: and the next time my aunt fills my purse, I’ll go halves with you.”
Now, the young man was in orders already; but so good an offer as a carouse and even half a purse, was not to be cast away without consideration. Besides which, it might be ‘very convenient’ to have St. Aubin in his power; for though it was perfectly well known that Henry did not inherit any thing from his father, his future prospects from his aunt were equally well known not to be despicable; and, at any rate, she behaved so handsomely to him at present, that as a scholar-lad his purse was always tolerably well lined; it was not likely, therefore, that she would ever let him be without money, when he went into the world as a man. The conscientious young divine, accordingly, without more time for his calculations than whilst Henry spoke, told his friend that he was not yet ordained, and, at the same time, undertook that his mother should tell David (as well she might) that her son was in orders. “Indeed, for that matter,” he added, “it will be the safest way to make her think so herself.”
After this, it was easily arranged, with all parties, that Greyson (such was our hopeful churchman’s name) should perform the ceremony. It was to take place among the roofless ruins of S— B— Abbey, poor David having a prejudice in favour of his child being married in church, and the repaired part of the building, which is the present church, being of course locked. The little party, in contempt of canonical hours, left David’s house after midnight. They passed down the street, and all was silent. As they approached the little bridge, situated half-way between the village and the abbey, Betsy saw a man leaning over the battlements, seemingly looking on the water as it glided from beneath the one low arch. She was sure, doubtful as was the light, for the moon was much obscured, that the figure was that of the young farmer. When they came to the gate which divides the road and school-house from the wide-spread ruins, they found it fastened, and were obliged to get over the stile. When elevated on the upper step of this, Betsy gave one look towards the bridge. The figure had left its position there. She passed her eye along the road, and could still discern it following at some distance.
“Make haste!” whispered Henry, hurrying her down the steps rather roughly. “You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?” he added, sneeringly.
Betsy’s heart misgave her, and she answered, with a heavy sigh, “If I have changed it ance, Henry, it’s no you ’at sould reproach me!”