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THE SCOTCH PASTOR'S BRIDE.
“Come hither, Annie;” and Lord Maxwell's fair daughter
glided to his side, and sat down on a stool at his feet. It was
a pleasant scene, — that quaint old drawing-room, with its dark
cornices of richly-carved oak, its chair-covers and tapestry
wrought in the most approved fashion of our grandmothers'
days, its black-walnut reading-desk with the large family Bible
chained on it, and the hassock standing before it on which Lord
Maxwell's chaplain, the young and godly George Herbert, was
wont to kneel at hours of morning and evening prayer. In a
high arm-chair sat Lord James Percy Maxwell, a worthy representative
of the gentleman of the old school, with his flowing
wig, his bright knee-buckles, and blue coat and golden buttons.
At his feet nestled the sweet and winsome Annie.
We are sorry, for the romance of the thing, dear reader, that
we cannot tell you Annie Maxwell was peerlessly beautiful; but
we must content ourselves with saying, in broad Scotch, that
“she was a sweet and sonsie lassie.”
Her eyes were very blue, and their gentle mirth was softened
into a look of demure propriety by their long, golden fringes.
Her brow was neither high nor low, though it was sweet
and womanly; and her hair, of a rich brown, was brushed
smoothly away from her sunny face, and knotted behind with a
exquisitely well her clear, soft complexion; and, altogether, she
was as winsome, cheery a little maiden as ever graced hall or
cottage; and so thought Lord Maxwell, as, with her hands
crossed over his knee, she sat and looked into the fire.
“Annie, pet bird, how would you like to be married?” The
girl said nothing, but the blush deepened on her cheek, and a
half-smile played about her rose-bud mouth. “Say, darling,
would you not like to be mistress of some stately castle, and be
guided through life by some kindly hand?”
“Nay, father, dear,” — and now the smile faded from about
her lips, — “nay, father, ask me not to leave you; do not send
me away from Maxwell Grange, for I fain would dwell here
always!”
“Nay, darling,” — and, with a fond pride, he smoothed back
her sunny hair, — “nay, but you must leave me some time, or,
Annie,” — and his voice grew solemn, — “some time I must leave
you, and I would not that it should be to loneliness. Annie, my
child, I am an old man, and must soon die.”
But she twined her white arms round his neck, and besought
him not to leave her, his motherless girl.
“Nay, dearest, be calm,” and he gently put her from him.
“Nay, love, I must leave you; and, Annie, will you not let me
leave you the wife of Lord Say? He is good and noble, and
the proudest earldom in England would be his wedding present
to his sweet Scotch bride! He has been to see me again to-day,
and I have promised my influence in his favor.
“You are twenty-two now, dear child, and I fain would see
you will be Lady Say.”
But her only answer was a gush of passionate tears, as she hid
her fair head on his bosom.
“Annie,” — and this time his voice trembled, though one
could not tell whether with grief or anger, — “Annie, do you
love another?” Still there was no answer, but the flush deepened
on the maiden's cheek, and the long lashes drooped over her
tearful eyes.
“You do, Annie! Who is the wretch that has dared to steal
that innocent heart? Speak, child; your father commands it!”
And this time the maiden spoke. Rising from his arms,
she stood erect, her slight figure drawn to its fullest height.
“Father, he is no wretch, no villain! — I love George
Herbert!”
“George Herbert, forsooth!” and the proud man looked at
her fiercely, as if he would have dashed her from his sight.
“And so he is the pitiful traitor who has stolen into my house,
in Christian garb, to ruin the happiness of my innocent child?
Villain! — but he shall answer for this!”
“Father,” — and the young girl stood before him, her white
hand laid upon his arm, and his own haughty spirit looking
forth from her clear blue eyes, — “Father, George Herbert is
no traitor; — never has he said to me, by word or act, that he
loved me; and, if I love him, 't is because, seeing how good and
noble he is, I cannot help it; and, should he never love me, I
will go down to my grave unmarried; for I love him, and, as
God hears me, I will marry no other!”
“And, as God hears me, you shall marry Lord Say!”
“Never!” and Annie Maxwell's lips seemed to move involuntarily.
“Hear me, girl, hear me! If you do not make up your mind
to wed Lord Say within ten days, then will I turn George Herbert
from my door, and drag you to the altar by force, if it must
be so; for the word of a Maxwell can never be broken!” and,
turning away, he entered the door of his own room, and locked
himself in. O, how many times, in after years, did James Maxwell
regret those harsh words! How many times did his brow
throb, and there was no gentle hand to lave it; his heart ache,
and there was no soft voice to whisper words of consolation!
Annie Maxwell turned away, with her heart swollen almost to
bursting, and, ascending the long, oaken staircase, entered
George Herbert's study. The young pastor sat there, his head
buried in his hands, and seemingly busied in intense thought.
Annie stole gently to his side, clasped her arms about his neck,
and, pressing her lips to his brow, murmured, “George, you love
me; I cannot tell how I learned it, but I know it; and I have
come to give myself to you, to ask you if you will indeed call
me your little wife. George, dearest, tell me!” and she sank
into his arms.
For a full moment, George Herbert held her there in that
embrace; then, brushing back her sunny hair, he looked into her
eyes, and spoke:
“Annie Maxwell, you have well said; — I do love you more
than all things else, — more than life itself. God knows how I
love you, Annie, but I thought not to have told you this; — the
vows of God are upon me, and I cannot do so great wickedness
as to ask your father's daughter to share a lot so far beneath
upon the floor.
“O, George, you will not cast me off!” and Annie Maxwell
knelt on the floor at his feet, and told him of Lord Say, and her
father's fierce words and determined threat. George Herbert
knew Lord James Maxwell well; he knew that he would do all
he said; and he raised Annie from the floor, and whispered, “Go
down to the library, dearest, — I will be with you soon; this is a
hard matter, and I dare not decide without much thought and
prayer.
And for two weary hours George Herbert knelt in fervent
supplication in his little study, and Annie Maxwell sat the while
in the library down stairs, weeping — not noisily, not wildly,
but quietly, and very still — the bitter tears of an unutterable
anguish.
At last the door opened, and George Herbert entered, and,
folding her to his heart, pressed his lips to hers in a first, fond
passion-kiss, and whispered, “My own, my dearest — my little
wife — look up, my sweet one, for already I feel that God has
given thee to me. Sad as 't will be for thee to wed against thy
father's will, 't would be worse, ay, ten thousand times worse,
for thee to do such solemn mockery as give thy hand where
thy heart goes not with it. 'T is but a humble lot I have to
offer thee, my darling. I have a brother, who is vicar of a small
and poor country parish; he will understand me, and believe
that I am acting aright. I can be his curate. Say, Annie,
darling, canst thou be a poor curate's wife? — thou, a nobleman's
daughter, — my own, my beautiful!” Very trustfully
sweet Annie Maxwell laid her hand in his, and answered,
shall be my people, and thy God my God!” and once more
he caught her to his heart, as he whispered, “Then, dearest, we
will go forth to-night!”
It was a humble wedding, that of gentle Annie Maxwell, in
the small country church of St. John.
There were no diamonds on her brow, no orange-blossoms in
her hair, and no delicate and costly veil floating over her like a
cloud. You would have been puzzled to tell what were the
“worldly goods” with which George Herbert had vowed to
“endow” his beautiful bride, as he led her into her new home —
a little white cottage, over which the woodbines and climbing
roses had wrought out a fairy poem.
And here sweet Annie Maxwell reigned, undisputed mistress
both of her bird's-nest home and the heart of her husband. For
a time Lord Maxwell had searched for her, but, on hearing of
her marriage, he immured himself in his castle, a prey, some
said, to regret; others, to a proud, fierce shame, that he had
been compelled to forfeit his plighted word to the bold Lord Say.
Lord Say brought home another bride, on short wooing, and the
world jogged on as of old.
There were just as many tears in it as before, — just as many
sighs, — but there was more happiness; for, in a sweet nook, far
away from the din of the great world-life, George Herbert and
his Annie rejoiced in their pure young love.
They were poor, and it made his heart ache sometimes that
his sweet bride must lead a life so different from that to which
see her bright face, as she went dancing about his home like a
fairy, or to hear her merry voice, instructing the good-humored
Scotch lassie, who was the only assistant in their simple cuisine.
And their evenings, — O! what happy hours they had then!
In the morning there was housekeeping to attend to, and sermons
to write; in the afternoon, callers to be entertained, and parishioners
to be visited; but the evenings — ah! then they had only
to be happy. How proudly George would smile, when he had
drawn the round study-table before the brightly-blazing fire, and
wheeled the study-chair beside it, and his sweet wife would come
and lay her head on his bosom, sometimes smiling, sometimes, all
too intensely happy even for silent smiles, she would look into
his eyes, with the bright joy-tears trembling on her long lashes!
And there they would sit, with the fire-shine brightening over
them, and the kitten lying at their feet and purring.
Sometimes he would lay her fair head back on his shoulder,
and sing to her, till her heart went beating time to the music of
his voice; and then she would talk to him, in her own sweet
tones, of all things good and beautiful, — of poetry, and the
wondrous songs that fairy whispers seemed trilling through the
cloisters of her own pure spirit.
And, at last, they would kneel together, with his fond arm
clasping her, and bless God for all this happiness; and though
their earthly father was far away in the gloom of his stately
castle, love-rays floated over them from the throne of their
Father in heaven, — angels watched over them, and they slept
like the blest!
Time passed on, and another visitor came to gladden their
now their evenings were merrier. How proudly the young father
held his little Lilias; and Annie — O! love had smiled all the
jealousy out of her heart, and she heeded not that another occupied
her old, time-won place in her husband's arms.
And when, at nine o'clock, the nurse came to take the sweet
Lily away, what kisses and blessings and good-nights there
were! and then, as in the old time, would the girl-wife nestle
fondly in her husband's bosom.
Three years passed by, and Lilias had grown strangely beautiful.
She inherited her father's classically regular features, and
her mother's deep, soft eyes, and golden hair. Hers seemed “a
face to look upon, and pray that a pure spirit keep her.” She
loved the beautiful, too, with all her mother's passionate devotion;
and would sit for hours in her little high chair, drawn to the
window, and look forth, with her spiritual eyes, over the waving
woods and distant mountains, rising, dim and soft, up into the
clear blue sky, until Annie would almost tremble lest she should
see angel-faces in the clouds, and hidden voices should call her
away from the earth-land.
But, no, — she lived, grew, and brightened before them, until
now she was nine years old; and, by a succession of providential
events, George Herbert had been called to the pastoral charge
of the church at which Lord Maxwell was an occasional attendant.
The young clergyman had looked forward with dismay to
the prospect of meeting the grim old lord; but they had been
settled in their new abode for three weeks before they saw him.
One evening Lily and her nurse went forth for a long walk
over the hills.
The girl had left the beautiful child for a few moments, in
order to exchange a few words with an old friend; and the sweet
Lily had wandered onward, till she thought herself lost, and,
sitting down by the road-side, wept bitterly.
Presently a carriage stopped before her, and an old gentleman
alighted, who, apparently, had been attracted by her beauty.
“Why do you cry, dear child?” he asked, at the same time
caressingly brushing back her curls.
“Because, please, sir, I am lost!” and the little maiden looked
up into his face with her spiritual eyes.
“Well, dear child, will you go with me? I have nobody to
love me, and I will give you a beautiful castle, and pearls, and
diamonds, and pictures.” The sweet child had never heard of
pearls or diamonds; but she had seen a castle, and she thought
pictures must be pleasant things, because Mamma had said that
their new home, at Sutherland rectory, looked like a picture; and
the old man's words seemed very beautiful.
But she thought a moment, and answered, “No, thank you,
sir, I cannot go with you; Papa would cry so, and then I must
go home, and say my prayers at Mamma's knee.” And, as she
spoke, there was a music in her voice which thrilled the old
man's heart strangely, and made him wonder he had not noticed
it before. Almost mechanically he asked, “And what do you
pray for, little one?” more for the sake of hearing her voice
again, than from curiosity as to what would be her answer.
“For Ma, sir, and Pa, and Grandpa!” and she smiled into
his face with her large, trustful eyes.
“And what do they call you, child-angel?” and he lifted her
fondly to his bosom.
“Lilias Herbert is my name, sir, but Papa calls me his Lily.”
“My child, my child!” and the old man covered her sweet
face with tears and kisses, as he told her he was that unseen
grandpa for whom she had prayed these many years.
The fair Lily looked at him, with all the innocent trust of
childhood, and whispered, “Please, sir, won't you go to see
Mamma?”
“Yes, child-angel, I will go to see your mamma, and you
shall all come and live at Maxwell Grange.”
And so the sweet child was carried home in that handsome
carriage, and the old man raised his Annie, when she would have
knelt at his feet, and whispered, “It is I that should ask you to
forgive, but I will not; I 'll only ask you, darling, if you 'll
come again, and gladden the old man's home?”
And there were tears, and smiles, and joyful kisses, and once
more Annie Herbert's gay laugh echoed through Maxwell Grange;
and little Lily went roaming over its broad halls, in her snow-white
garments, like a beautiful spirit.
O, what a blessing seemed to brighten all their lives! and the
proud old man learnt lessons of wisdom and purity from the little
one whose white arms were wreathed about his neck.
One evening, George and Annie left them together, — the old
man and the beautiful child-angel, — and sought the little study
which had witnessed their first, strangely-spoken vows of love.
There was a bright fire burning, as in the old time, and the
old books were neatly ranged, their gilded lettering glowing in the
fire-light; and still, as then, George Herbert sat in the old study-chair;
but this time he did not put his Annie from him: there
she lay, her head resting on his bosom, peacefully as an infant in
George had been recalling all the fond pride with which he had
watched his bustling little wife in those early days, till a tear
glistened in Annie's eyes, as she answered, “Ah! dearest, I am
happy with you, and Lily, and father, in my dear old home; but
the jewels he has given me are not half so sweet as the roses you
used to twine in my hair; and, amid all my after life, memory
will never sing me a pleasanter tune than those dear old chimes
of our love in a manse.”
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