CHAPTER VII. What damp hangs on me? These sprightly tuneful airs but skim along The skilful touch, my joyless heart lies dead! Young. THE reader cannot have gone thus far without observing that, with all his faults and follies, Sir John Fairland was capable of strong impressions of what was good and right; of much natural affection when called forth by circumstances, or by an extraordinary appeal to his feelings. The great fault of his character was a fluctuating, an inconstant temper, arising from a want of steady principle. We need not illustrate these remarks by any other reference than to the scene in which we saw him act so prominent a part, where his right feelings overcame both his prejudices and his passions, so that he recalled his first and suffering wife at the very moment he was about to part from her for ever. But it has also been seen how transient was the impression; he had not resolution enough to make that recall a happy one, either to her or to himself. On the whole, allowing for a defective education and the want of a better example in early life, Sir John might be said to be rather a very weak than a very wicked man. It is, however, true that weakness often becomes the abettor of wickedness by a spiritless non-resistance of evil on the part of those who do not exert the authority they possess to check it. So had it been with Sir John Fairland. He had never intended to become the enemy of his own children; but he was made such by the supine and cowardly yielding up of his own legitimate authority as a parent to the arbitrary power of his second wife. We have seen how much he was moved by the just remonstrances of his son; he had not been so touched since Mrs. Morton, some years before, had spoken to him in behalf of the children of his first marriage. But the hoped-for effects of this memorable interview with his son were in a great measure neutralized by his own irresolution, his ungoverned temper, and the vacillations of his conduct. In vain had he enjoined on that son wariness and caution, when he observed neither himself, and by his own folly might be said to have defeated his own plans. There could not be a doubt that his jealousy had so betrayed itself, that it put both Graves and Lady Fairland on their guard. Even on the next morning a very close observer might have seen a change in their demeanour to each other and to all around them. Lady Fairland showed some little acts of kindness and attention to Charles and his sisters, and Graves was civil to them, and did not meet any one of the young ladies in the hall or in the galleries of the old Abbey without affording them a smile and a bow. This complacent humour, hitherto so unusual, lasted for the next two days; and a party of pleasure being proposed for the young people on the third, no objections were started. It was that they should go with Mrs. Elford and her niece to be present at the sports of a harvest-home in the neighbourhood. The farmer about to celebrate it with all the Devonshire customs (then far more numerous and generally observed than in the present day) was a man of substance and great hospitality, and had made known his purpose to entertain both rich and poor on the occasion. At the date of our tale there were few things more joyous than a harvest-home in the west of England. The spacious farm-house, the indications of good cheer, the well-stocked barns, the ricks of hay, and the animated farm-yard, where the very poultry strutted, cackled, and crowed with a seeming consciousness of their own importance among the living subjects of so princely a domain, under the absolute government of the opulent master, were all objects of joy. But though few can look on the sight of corn and plenty in their own country without a feeling of thankfulness to a good Providence that has blessed their native land and made it fruitful, it was not alone the sight of sheaves I and plenty which so much interested the young party, more especially the lovers, Charles and Isabella, on that day. The scene around them was one of peculiar loveliness; it was pastoral, and truly English. The hills were seen in gentle slopes, here and there animated by flocks and herds; the tender green of the meadows was studded with the rich hues of summer flowers; and in the hedges, the foxglove, that grows with such extraordinary luxuriance in Devon, was seen in great abundance. Even the stubble fields, now alive with men, women, and children of all ages, presented such a picture of rural life, and added such cheerfulness to the scene, that many higher born might have envied, did they form a more just estimate of the distribution of human happiness than they are wont to do. Among the many young women with tanned and glowing cheeks and laughing eyes, some pensive Ruth might perhaps be seen gleaning for some aged Naomi, whom years and infirmity kept at home; and as the master of the land was neither |