University of Virginia Library

CONCLUSION.

Several years rolled away after the event recorded
in the last chapter, without affording any
thing worthy the attention of the reader. The
persons to whom our narrative relates, were enjoying
that calm happiness, which as has frequently been
remarked, affords so little matter for history. We
must accordingly conclude the story with the incidents
of a somewhat later period.

It was the season of the Christmas holidays.
Edward and his blooming wife with their two lovely
children, were on a visit to his father, and had come
to pass an evening at the Rectory. Lady Mary too
was there. She had recovered from the wreck of
her husband's property enough to support her genteelly,
and had found an asylum with her old preceptor
and guide, in the only place where she had
ever enjoyed any thing like solid happiness.

The Rector, now rapidly declining into the vale
of years, afforded a picture of all that is venerable
in goodness; his lady retained her placid and amiable
virtues, although her activity was gone; and
the worthy Mrs. Cavendish, still stately in her carriage,
and shrewd and decisive in her remarks,
presented no bad counterpart to her milder sister.

Last but not the least interesting of the cheerful
group which was now assembled around the fireside
of the Rector, was Lucy Blakeney. Her beauty,
unimpaired by her early sorrows and preserved by

the active and healthful discharge of the duties of
benevolence, had now become matured into the fairest
model of lovely womanhood. It was not that
beauty which may be produced by the exquisite
blending of pure tints on the cheek and brow, by
fair waving tresses and perfect symmetry of outline—
it was the beauty of character and intellect, the
beauty that speaks in the eye, informs every gesture
and look, and carries to the heart at once the conviction,
that in such an one, we behold a lovely
work of the Creator, blessed by his own hand and
pronounced good.

The Rector was delighted to find the three
orphans once more met under his own roof, and
apparently enjoying the blessings of this world in
such a spirit as gave him no painful apprehensions
concerning the future.

“I cannot express to you,” he said, “how happy
I am to see you all here again once more before my
departure. It has long been the desire of my heart.
It is accomplished, and I can now leave my blessing
with you and depart in peace.”

“You cannot enjoy the meeting more highly
than we do, I am sure,” said Aura, “the return
to this spot brings back a thousand tender and delightful
associations to my mind, and I regard
among the most pleasing circumstances which attend
our meeting, the degree of health and enjoyment
in which we find all our old friends at the Rectory.
But how do all our acquaintances among the cottagers?
Is the old serjeant living?”

“He is in excellent health,” replied the Rector,
“and tells all his old stories with as much animation
as ever.”

“And your protegés, Lady Mary, the distressed
family which you found out,” rejoined Aura.

“They are well, and quite a happy industrious
family,” answered Lady Mary, with a slight blush.

“How goes on the school, Lucy,” said Edward,
“I regard that as the most effective instrument of
benevolent exertion.”

“I hope it has effected some good,” answered
Lucy. “There has been a considerable number
from the school who have proved useful and respectable
so far; several of the pupils are now married,
and others are giving instruction in different parts of
the country. A circumstance which has afforded us
considerable gratification is, that a pupil, whose
merit has raised her to a high station in life, has
visited us lately, and presented a handsome donation
towards rendering the establishment permanent.”

After a short pause in the conversation, Mr.
Matthews expressed a wish that they might have
some intelligence from their absent friends.

“I have this day received a letter from America,”
said Edward, taking it from his pocket and looking
inquiringly at Lucy.

“I think you may venture to read it to us,” said
she.

It was from Mrs. Franklin, and informed him
that she had purchased a beautiful seat on the banks
of the Delaware, and was living there in the enjoyment
of all the happiness, which was to be derived

from the society of her family and the delightful
serenity of nature. One circumstance only had
happened since her departure from England to mar
this enjoyment, the account of which must be given
in her own words.

`My oldest son, your friend—no doubt you have
often heard from him. He soon grew tired of the
India service, and was at his own desire exchanged
into a regiment which had been ordered to join the
army in Spain. There, his career was marked with
the heroism and generosity which had ever distinguished
his character. A young officer is now visiting
me, who accompanied him in his last campaign.
He informs me, that my noble son never lost an opportunity
either of signalizing himself in action or
relieving the distresses of those who suffered the
calamities of war.

`In one of the severest battles fought upon the
peninsula, it was the fortune of my son to receive
a severe wound, while gallantly leading his men to
a breach in the walls of a fortified town. The English
were repulsed, and a French officer, passing
over the field, a few hours after, with a detachment,
had the barbarity to order one of his men to fix his
bayonet in him. His friend, who was also wounded
and lay near him, saw it, but was too helpless himself
to raise an arm in his defence.

`The same night, the town was taken by storm.
When the English force advanced, the unfortunate
officers were both conveyed to safe quarters, and
my poor son lived thirty-six hours after the capture
of the place. During this time, the story of his

inhuman treatment reached the ears of the commander
in chief. Fired with indignation, he hastened
to the quarters of the wounded officers.

“`Poor Franklin,” says his friend, “was lying
in the arms of his faithful servant and breathing
heavily, when the illustrious Wellington entered
the room. It was apparent to all that he had but
a few moments to live.

“`Tell me,” said the General, “exert but strength
enough to describe to me the villain who inflicted
that unmanly outrage upon you, and I swear by the
honour of a soldier that in one hour his life shall
answer it.”'

`Never did I see the noble countenance of Franklin
assume such an expression of calm magnanimity
as when he replied,

“`I am not able to designate him, and if I could
do it with certainty, be assured, Sir, that I never
would.”'

`These were his last words, and in a few minutes
more his spirit fled to a brighter region.'

If there are sorrows which refuse the balm of
sympathy, there are also consolations which those
around us “can neither give nor take away.”
Through the remaining years of her life, the orphan
daughter of the unfortunate Charlotte Temple evinced
the power and efficiency of those exalted principles,

which can support the mind under every trial, and
the happiness of those pure emotions and lofty aspirations
whose objects are raised far above the variable
contingencies of time and sense.

In the circle of her friends she seldom alluded to
past events; and though no one presumed to invade
the sanctuary of her private griefs and recollections,
yet all admired the serene composure with which
she bore them. Various and comprehensive schemes
of benevolence formed the work of her life, and
religion shed its holy and healing light over all her
paths.

When the summons came, which released her
pure spirit from its earthly tenement, and the history
of her family was closed with the life of its last
representative; those who had witnessed, in her
mother's fate, the ruin resulting from once yielding
to the seductive influence of passion, acknowledged,
in the events of the daughter's life, that benignant
power which can bring, out of the most bitter and
blighting disappointments, the richest fruits of virtue
and happiness.