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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-28 19:21:12 -0700 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-28 19:21:12 -0700 |
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diff --git a/75982-0.txt b/75982-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e56c0b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/75982-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17872 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75982 *** + + + + + +STANDARD + +NOVELS. + +N^o CXIV. + +“No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of +life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by +the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. +APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by +his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived +the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.” + + +RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON. + +COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. + + +LONDON: +RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET; +AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH. +1849. + + + + +NOTICE. + + +The Proprietors of CIRCULATING LIBRARIES in all parts of the country +are compelled by the new Copyright Act to discontinue purchasing and +lending out a single copy of a foreign edition of an English work. _The +mere having it in their possession ticketed and marked as a library +book_ exposes them to + + A PENALTY OF TEN POUNDS. + +By the new Copyright Act and the new Customs Act, even single copies of +pirated editions of English Works are prohibited both in Great Britain +and the Colonies. Copies so attempted to be passed are seized. + +☞ These measures will be rigidly enforced. + +[Illustration: + + _Clara Cawse, pinx._ _G. Cook sc._ + +RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON. + +_Isabella looked surpassingly beautiful when bending over the marble +basin, while she laughingly twisted dahlias into her hair._ + +_London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1848_] + + + + + RECOLLECTIONS + + OF + + A CHAPERON. + + + EDITED BY + + LADY DACRE. + + + LONDON: + RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET; + AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH. + 1849. + + + + + LONDON: + SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW, + New-street-Square. + + + + +RECOLLECTIONS + +OF + +A CHAPERON. + + + + +INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. + + +I was left a widow with seven daughters. I have married them all, or +rather, I have let them marry themselves; for I never took any active +measures towards bringing about a result which I own to be a desirable +one in a family consisting of seven daughters and one son. + +I have seen manœuvring mothers succeed; but I have as often seen them +fail in their matrimonial speculations. I have seen dignified mothers +with modest daughters, pass year after year, unnoticed and unsought; +but I have also seen the unobtrusive daughters of retiring mothers +form splendid alliances; and at the very beginning of my career as a +Chaperon, I came to the conclusion that, as there was no rule which +could ensure success, it was safer and more respectable to do too +little than to do too much; better simply to fail, than to fail and to +be ridiculous at the same time. + +Accordingly, when I had mounted my feathered hat and black velvet gown, +or my white satin gown and flowered cap, as the occasion might require, +and patiently taken my station upon the chair, seat, or bench which I +could most conveniently appropriate to myself, I beguiled the weary +hours by studying those around me, trusting for the rest to chance, and +to the principles which I had endeavoured to impress upon the minds of +my girls; viz. not to flirt so as to attract attention,—not to think +too highly of their own pretensions,—and, above all, not to be betrayed +into laughing at any man before they knew him, by which means more +than one girl of my acquaintance has been obliged, for consistency’s +sake, to repulse a person whom, upon further acquaintance, she might +have sincerely preferred. + +My daughters were not beautiful enough, nor did they marry brilliantly +enough, to excite the jealousy of other mothers. I had brought them +up to avoid a fault odious in all, but especially so in the young, +that of being more ready to perceive the failings than the merits of +their companions: we were, therefore, a popular family. I had myself +the happy knack of being interested in the concerns and distresses of +others, and I listened with pleasure to details however trifling: I had +consequently many intimate friends. + +As people never were afraid of me, transient emotions, and harmless +weaknesses, which would have been concealed from a sterner, cleverer, +or more important personage, were confessed, or, at all events, +permitted to escape in a _tête-à-tête_ with the good-natured, quiet, +inoffensive Mrs. ——. But what am I doing? I wish to preserve my incog., +and only hope I have not already betrayed myself by the mention of my +white satin, and my black velvet gowns. + +I will write no more, lest some unguarded expression should give a +clue to my name: I will simply add, that my last daughter having +been comfortably established a year ago, “Othello’s occupation is +gone;” and my purse being somewhat drained by the purchase of so many +_trousseaux_, I have occupied my leisure, and, I trust, shall recruit +my finances, by portraying characters and feelings which I believe are +true to nature, although under circumstances and in situations not +founded on fact. + + + + +THE SINGLE WOMAN + +OF + +A CERTAIN AGE. + + +CHAPTER I. + + _Duke._ And what’s her history. + + _Viola._ A blank, my lord. + +Why is it that the bustling matron, who (having, without preference +or selection, married the first man who proposed to her,) has spent +her days in the unsentimental details of a household, a nursery, and +a school-room, merely considering her partner as the medium through +which the several departments are provided for?—why is it that the +languid beauty, who has sold herself to age or folly for an opera-box, +an equipage, a title?—why is it that the scold, who has jangled through +a wedded life of broils and disputes—and the buxom widow, whose gay +and blooming face gives the lie to her mourning garments?—why is it +that they all cast a pitying glance of contempt on the “single woman +of a certain age” who ventures an opinion on the subject of love? Why +do they all look as if it were impossible she could ever have felt its +influence? + +On the contrary, the very fact of singleness affords in itself +presumptive evidence of the power of some strong and unfortunate +predilection. Few women pass through life without having had some +opportunities of what is commonly called “settling;” therefore the +chances are, that betrayed affections, an unrequited attachment, or +an early prepossession, has called forth the sentiment of which they +are supposed incapable—and called it forth, too, in a mind of too much +delicacy to admit the idea of marriage from any other motive than that +of love. + +The following story, which is ushered into the world by so unattractive +a title, might afford an example, that a life which appears “a blank” +in the history of events, may be far from “a blank” in the history of +feelings. + +By the death of her father, Lord T——, Isabella St. Clair found herself, +at the age of nineteen, an orphan possessed of a considerable fortune, +of great personal attractions, and of all the accomplishments which, +in these days of education and refinement, are expected to grace young +ladies of fashion. Her brother, the young Lord T——, was not of an age +to serve as her protector, and accordingly she removed to the house of +her uncle and guardian, Sir Edward Elmsley. + +Sir Edward and Lady Elmsley were of that respectable class of English +gentry who, by not attempting to move in a more elevated circle than +that in which they are naturally placed, command the esteem and respect +of those above, as well as of those below them. Their daughter Fanny, +although of the same age as her cousin Isabella, had not yet been +initiated into the pleasures and the pains of a London campaign. + +Isabella, who had been accustomed to a life of excitement, was not +sorry, at the expiration of her mourning for her father, to join in +whatever gaiety was going forward, and to exercise once more the power +of that beauty which, even in London, had attracted its full share of +admiration. + +In the country, where beauty, rank, fashion, fortune, and +accomplishments are not so common, of course the brilliant Miss +St. Clair was the star of every ball; and all the young men of any +pretensions in the county vied with each other in obtaining a word, a +smile, a look from the lovely Isabella. + +Nor did the charms with which she was really endowed lose any thing +from want of skill in the possessor. She had the art of keeping an +indefinite number of persons occupied with her alone; she had left her +shawl in the next room, and, with a thousand graceful apologies, she +asked one person to fetch it for her, at the same time holding her cup +in a helpless manner, and casting a beseeching glance around her, which +brought a hundred eager hands to set it down. Then she looked timidly +confused at having given so much trouble. Presently she had a message +to send to her cousin Fanny, with which she despatched one admirer, +while she hinted in a low voice to another, who was pressing her to +stand up in the next quadrille, that she did not like to do so while +Fanny was sitting still. The devoted youth flew to dance with Fanny, +claiming as his reward the hand of Isabella for the ensuing waltz. She +knew how to pique and to excite the vanity of each: to one she implied +she had heard something of him which certainly had very much surprised +her; to another that she understood he had been abusing her horridly; +she playfully scolded a third for not admiring Fanny half as much as +he ought, and wondered how he could be so blind. She assured a fourth +that he and all the world had quite mistaken her disposition; indeed, +that scarcely any one did understand her; implying there was depth of +character and feeling beyond the reach of the multitude, and thereby +piquing and interesting the sentimental youth to discover these hidden +treasures. + +Fanny, meanwhile, placid and contented, enjoyed what she met with +that was agreeable, without its ever crossing her imagination to feel +envy or jealousy of her cousin. She was not mortified, for she saw +her so beautiful, so brilliant, that all rivalry seemed out of the +question. They were happy and affectionate with each other. Isabella, +constitutionally gay, good-humoured, and joyous, was never crossed +or thwarted by Fanny, and, although an acute observer might discover +in her fondness for her cousin, a tone of superiority, a protecting +kindness, Fanny so completely acquiesced in that superiority, that it +never for a moment wounded her self-love. + +About a year after Isabella’s arrival at Elmsley Priory, the society +of that neighbourhood received a very animating addition in the young +Lord Delaford, who, soon after his return from his travels, established +himself at his beautiful Castle of Fordborough. He joined to the +most prepossessing appearance and manners, an excellent character, +considerable talents, and extensive possessions. He paid a visit to Sir +Edward Elmsley, and of course Isabella counted upon him as her devoted +slave, and thought such a conquest was not to be neglected. + +She was rather surprised that he handed the quiet Fanny to dinner, +but she satisfactorily accounted for this circumstance by supposing +he considered it a courtesy to which the young lady of the house was +entitled. But when, in the course of the evening, he voluntarily +seated himself by Fanny, and appeared interested by her conversation, +she certainly was very much astonished, and not much pleased. + +To Lord Delaford, who had lately come into the country, wearied and +disgusted with the dissipation of Paris, and the turmoil of London, +the style, the vivacity, and even the beauty of Isabella, were too +much what he had been in the habit of seeing every day, to possess any +peculiar attractions for him; while the calm brow, the placid air, the +perfect innocence and unconsciousness of Fanny’s manner, appeared to +him as soothing and refreshing as the green trees and verdant meadows +after the glare and confusion of the streets. In conversation he found +her modest and well-informed, and he sought her society the next day +and the next. By degrees his manner assumed a tone of admiration which, +to a person accustomed as she was to be placed in the shade, had more +than the usual effect attributed to admiration, that of enhancing the +charms by which it was first excited. + +Those who imagine they do not please, often neglect the means by which +they might do so; whereas, if they once become aware that all they say +and do finds favour in the sight of others, they are no longer ashamed +of being charming, or afraid to be agreeable. + +People in general were astonished at the wonderful improvement in +Fanny, but her mother remarked that, when Lord Delaford entered the +room, her soft brown eyes shone with a lustrous consciousness, that +if he addressed her, the colour mounted in her pale and delicate +complexion, and she understood full well the cause of this improvement. + +If Lord Delaford had been originally attracted by the unruffled +placidity of her expression, he was infinitely more so by finding +that his presence had the power of disturbing that placidity. Though +he could not doubt that he possessed many qualities which might make +him an object of preference to young ladies, and every adventitious +qualification to make him approved of by the old; though he must have +known he had been sighed for by daughters, and sought by mammas; +still he was not one of those men who are piqued by coldness, and +inflamed by the difficulty of winning the object. On the contrary, +there was a natural diffidence about him which made him vulnerable +to the attentions of women, and easily daunted by any appearance of +disinclination. + +Fanny was too amiable and too humble ever to have felt jealous of her +cousin, but she was not insensible to the pleasure of finding herself +suddenly preferred by the one person whose favour all were desirous +to gain. Every thing seemed to prosper to the utmost of her or her +parents’ wishes. Lord Delaford became every day more serious in his +attentions, and there appeared to be no reason why Fanny should not +yield to the engrossing fascinations of a passion which, if felt for +the first time at the age of twenty, combines with the freshness of a +first love the depth and strength of which the more formed character is +susceptible. + +In the mean time Isabella no longer found the same gratification in +the insipid crowd of common-place admirers, whose suffrages had before +elated her. She felt, truly enough, of how much more value were the +sincere esteem and affection of one true heart, than all the frivolous +admiration of people she did not care for; all her former conquests +lost their value in her eyes; she, for the first time, felt herself the +forgotten and neglected one. Vanity, like ambition, only becomes the +more insatiable by being fed, and, as the single Mordecai, who refused +to bow before the pomp of Haman, embittered all the glories of his +triumph, so the one person who was proof against her charms outweighed, +in her estimation, the herd who acknowledged their power. + +She had too much tact, too much knowledge of the world, too much +spirit, to allow these feelings to be visible to the eyes of common +observers. Lord Delaford and Fanny were so completely occupied with +each other that they could not remark any thing about Isabella; +but Lady Elmsley, with maternal quick-sightedness, perceived her +mortification, and with pride, which may perhaps be pardoned in a +mother, could not help being pleased that, at length, her daughter’s +merits should be valued, as they deserved, above those of Isabella. + +Occasionally Isabella caught a glance of triumph which escaped from the +eyes of Lady Elmsley, and she resolved to let slip no opportunity of +gaining the attention of Lord Delaford. + +Mortification is but half felt while it is only felt in secret. It is +not till we perceive it has been remarked by others, that it becomes +one of the most painful sensations to which the weak, the vain, and the +worldly, are liable, and one from which the most humble and pure minded +can scarcely boast of being entirely free. + + +CHAPTER II. + + _Gerarda._—Que todo se aprende hija y no hai cosa mas facil que + engañar a los hombres de que ellos tienen la culpa; porque como nos + han privado el estudio de los ciencios en que pudieramos divertir + nuestros ingenios sutiles, solo estudiamos una, que es la de + engañarlos, y como no hay mas de un libro, todas lo sabemos de memoria. + + _Dorotea._—Nunca yo le he visto. + + _Gerarda._—Pres es excellente letura, y de famosos capitulos. + + _Dorotea._—Dime los titulos signiera. + + _Gerarda._—De fingir amor al rico y no disgustar el pobre. + + De desmayarse a su tiempo, y llorar sin causa. + + De dar zelos al libre y al colerico satisfacciones. + + De mirar dormido, y reir con donayre. + + De estudiar vocablos y aprender bailes. + + * * * * * + + Y de no enamorarse por ningun acontecimiento, porquè todo se va + perdido, sin otros muchos capitulos de mayor importancia. + + LOPE DE VEGA. + +Isabella had attentively studied the character of Lord Delaford, and +she felt sure that if she could once get him within her toils, she +should be able to keep him there. She had discovered, that although +too refined not to be disgusted by any open attempt to attract him, +there was a considerable mixture of vanity and of humility in his +composition; and she flattered herself she could work upon both these +feelings. + +She one day happened to sit next him at dinner, and contrived, with a +tact for which she was peculiar, to turn the conversation upon himself. +She said she never knew any one of whom she was so much afraid: to +which he replied, + +“That is very odd! I have always been reckoned a good-natured sort of +fellow.” + +“Oh, yes!” she answered; “I am sure you are good-natured; but your very +good-nature helps to frighten me. You are so unlike other people; and I +feel so awed when you are present.” + +“Well, that is strange! I don’t think I ever awed any body before. Do I +look so cross?” + +“Oh! it is not that; but you are so good; and you always say just what +you should say, and no more. I should be afraid to utter, or to do any +thing foolish before you.” + +“Well, I should be as useful to you as Prince Cheri’s ring in the fairy +tale. It is a pity I am not always by your side!” + +“Oh! but then I should always be in a fright;—not that I mean it is a +disagreeable sort of fright.” And she turned the conversation, fearful +of showing any design of attracting him. + +In the evening, he, as usual, turned over the leaves of Fanny’s +music-book, while she was singing, or forgot to turn them over, while +gazing with delight upon those melting, yet innocent eyes, which met +his so kindly and so trustingly—eyes, that looked as if there lurked in +the heart beneath, depths of unawakened and unexplored feelings, which +only waited to be excited. + +But when he was alone, the remarks of Isabella recurred to his +recollection, and he wondered what in him could have struck her as +being so singular and so reserved. The next day, when they were riding, +he found himself near her, and reverted to the conversation of the +preceding day. + +“I have been quite uneasy, Miss St. Clair, at finding I am so +disagreeable as I must be, if I am the precise, formal, measured person +you describe me to be.” + +A certain step is gained, when, instead of starting a new and +indifferent subject, the topic of the preceding conversation is +resumed. Most coquettes know, by intuition, that the best mode of +accomplishing this is to talk to persons of themselves. Isabella’s +heart beat quicker at finding how well she had succeeded in awakening +his curiosity; but assuming a nonchalant manner, she answered, + +“Disagreeable! Surely I never could have said any thing half so +uncivil?” + +“Oh, certainly you did not tell me in so many words that I was +disagreeable; but you implied it.” + +“No, no! Indeed, I think I said every thing most flattering—that you +were so very good.” + +“Well, I suppose if I am so very good, I must not consider being good, +and being disagreeable, as synonymous terms; and yet you made it appear +yesterday as if they were!” + +“Oh, Lord Delaford! how can you accuse me of saying any thing so +shocking? I only declared you were so good, so superior, I was afraid +of you.” + +“But a person who makes you fear him, must be disagreeable to you.” + +“No, indeed: I like to be awed. I am fond of an organ in a cathedral; +and I admire lofty mountains, and beautiful stormy skies, and every +thing that is grand and sublime in art and in nature! Could one +bear to hear one’s own feeble voice mingle itself with the pealing +reverberations of the organ in the glorious pile of St. Peter’s? And +does one not feel one’s own nothingness when among the mountains, the +torrents, the precipices, the peaks, the glaciers of the stupendous +Alps? Yet surely these are pleasurable emotions! With me, at least, awe +and pleasure are very compatible sensations.” + +As she spoke her large and brilliant eye glanced upwards for a moment, +with an expression of lofty enthusiasm. + +Lord Delaford gazed upon her, and mentally exclaimed, “That girl has +a soul!” Presently, relaxing into a smile, as if ashamed of her own +eagerness, she added, “I believe Doctor Spurzheim would discover in me +the bump of veneration;” and putting her horse into a canter, the whole +party became mixed together, and she addressed herself to some one +else. Lord Delaford mechanically found himself by the side of Fanny; +but it was some time before they became engaged in any thing that +deserved the name of conversation. + +By degrees, however, the unobtrusive gentleness of Fanny had its +usual effect upon him; and they discoursed calmly and agreeably upon +subjects of literature, or the immediate events of the neighbourhood; +but that day there were none of those flattering turns of phrase, +that deferential manner of listening, which, not appearing in the +common-place form of compliment, have the effect of flattery, without +putting one on one’s guard against it. + +Fanny returned from her ride less exhilarated than usual. She thought +the wind was rather cold, and her beautiful, thorough-bred horse, not +quite agreeable. + +At dinner Lord Delaford sat between Isabella and herself, and his +attention was, to say the least, divided between the cousins. Isabella +was in high spirits. She was animated by the desire and the hope of +pleasing. She caught an uneasy look from Lady Elmsley, and she could +not suppress an emotion of gratified pique. She had too much the +tone of good society ever to run the risk of being noisy; her flow +of spirits only showed itself by being exceedingly droll and lively; +and though perhaps she amused in some degree at the expense of the +absent, her dancing dark eyes glanced with such brilliancy, such +merriment, such a look of gay archness, that no one could suspect her +of harbouring a feeling of ill-nature towards any one. Nor in truth +did she harbour any such feeling; she only wished to amuse; and there +are few people who have not occasionally been led by the intoxicating +pleasure of causing a laugh, into ridiculing persons towards whom +they felt no ill-will. Lord Delaford was entertained, and laughed +incessantly at her quaint ideas. He wondered why Fanny did not seem +more to enjoy sallies which appeared to him so full of talent and of +wit. He thought it argued a want of imagination, which disappointed +him. Fanny meanwhile was depressed, she knew not why; but when she +retired to rest, in the stillness of her chamber, she made a discovery +as painful as it was humiliating. + +Surprised to find herself so very serious when others were so much +amused, in doubt and trembling she looked into her own heart, and +she found it to be nearly engrossed by one overwhelming passion. +She had always intended to keep herself “fancy free” till she could +devote her whole soul, her pure unhacknied affections, to one only +object for ever. From the easy footing of society in a country-house, +her intercourse with Lord Delaford had been free and unconstrained; +his attentions, although constant, were not marked, and nothing had +occurred to call her mind to the effect they were gradually, but +surely, producing. It was not till the fear came over her that he did +not care for her, that she discovered she had ever believed in his +preference; it was not till she felt how inexpressibly painful was that +fear, that she discovered her affections were fixed on one only object +for ever. + +She was suddenly aroused from her fancied security, and found +within the heart which she had imagined fresh and uncontaminated, +love,—unrequited love, and jealousy,—jealousy of her dearest friend. +She thought herself degraded. She was miserable. But she did not allow +her mortification to swallow up all other feelings. Maidenly pride +remained, and she determined he should never perceive the power she +had allowed him to acquire over her. + +Lord Delaford, on his part, reflected upon the increased attractions of +Isabella, and upon the want of vivacity of Fanny. Though no coxcomb, +he thought it possible Fanny might entertain for him feelings which, +his conscience told him, would have been wounded by the unusual degree +in which he had been occupied with Isabella. His goodnatured heart +smote him at the idea of giving pain to so gentle and lovely a being, +and he joined the breakfast party the next morning full of kindness +and interest for Fanny, flattered by the interpretation he had himself +given to her coldness, and well prepared to return any indications of +preference which he might perceive in her manner towards him. + +Fanny had schooled her heart, and the more she was really agitated, the +more was she resolved to wear a calm exterior; the more she knew there +was a sentiment within her bosom which could not be confessed, the +more was she resolved no human eye should discover it. She was aware +that sudden coolness might be construed into pique, and she determined +to be merely careless and indifferent. She did not remember that she +might, by this means, lose what most she wished to gain. She did not +calculate. The abstract idea that any woman should love any man better +than he loved her—that any woman should be won unwooed, roused her +pride for the sex in general; and that she herself should be one of +these poor, weak, infatuated creatures, gave her a sense of humiliation +against which her very soul rebelled. + +Lord Delaford watched for some indications of the sentiments he had in +his own mind attributed to her; but he found her as she intended to +appear,—gay, careless, cold. He did not perceive any affectation in her +gaiety, or any thing studied in her carelessness. + +Lady Elmsley precisely read the state of her heart, and put the right +construction upon the trifles which constitute encouragement or +repulse, and which denote preference or indifference; but Lord Delaford +was quite puzzled, and somewhat mortified. + +It is said there is an instinct which teaches every one to read +their fellow-creatures where love is concerned. This is true of +all indifferent spectators, who can decipher emotions, often not +acknowledged by the individuals to themselves. Not so the persons +most interested. Sometimes they twist appearances to suit their hopes +or fears. Sometimes, being aware that their judgment is likely to be +prejudiced, they dare not trust to their natural impressions. Lord +Delaford watched the countenance, the eyes, the expression, the words +of Fanny for a day or two, and he became each day more convinced his +own self-conceit must have misled him. He had studiously avoided such +attentions as might commit him, and he now took care to divide them +equally between the two cousins. To Fanny, who had been accustomed to +his exclusive devotion, this was a virtual withdrawal of them; and +she set a more strict watch than ever over all her words and looks. +Isabella, who was exhilarated at receiving half, when she had been +accustomed to none, was _pétillante de graces_. The more Fanny was +aware of Isabella’s attractions, and the more she perceived that Lord +Delaford became aware of them, so much the more she wrapped herself +up in impenetrable, but good-humoured reserve. Her manner lost that +confiding, innocent gaiety, which a short time before had been one +of her greatest charms, without regaining the bashful ingenuousness, +which had at first attracted him from its novelty. She laboured hard +to appear calm, and unfortunately succeeded but too well in her +endeavours. Lord Delaford was half provoked with himself for having +been so ready to fancy he was irresistible; and half provoked with +Fanny, for having given rise to his dissatisfaction with himself. + +He was in this frame of mind when an accident occurred which confirmed +him in his opinion of her coldness. He was riding a restive horse, +which he alone had succeeded in subduing, and which he thought was so +completely tamed, that he might venture to ride it with the ladies. +Isabella admired a flower in the hedge, and he turned his horse round +to gather it for her. The animal, who had proceeded quietly by the side +of the others, did not like being separated from its companions; and +rearing suddenly, fell backwards with its rider. + +Isabella was close to him at the moment of the accident, and was +naturally dreadfully frightened. He had contrived to slip off on one +side, and was not hurt; but there was a moment when horse and rider +appeared as if they would be crushed together. + +Fanny was some yards in advance, and only turned round in time to see +him as he was getting up from the ground, and was therefore spared the +first alarm. She was not a nervous, hysterical person; and although +she turned pale, and trembled, she did not fall from her horse, or +do any thing that attracted attention to herself. Isabella, really +agitated, and really nervous, (as indulged and flattered people are +very apt to be,) shrieked aloud, and burst into tears—real tears—for +she affected nothing; she only gave way to what she felt, from the +consciousness that she was charming, and that her emotions would not +appear disagreeable and uninteresting. + +She was lifted off her horse, in a fainting state. Lord Delaford was +supporting her. Every one was busy about her. In the confusion, her +hat fell off, and all her ringlets were floating on the wind: her +eyes were half closed; and the long lashes looked beautifully dark on +her cheek, which was really pale. Fanny thought she never saw any one +look so lovely! Lord Delaford watched her revival with an expression +of intense interest; and Fanny sat still on her horse, unnoticed and +unregarded, with feelings of hardness and bitterness which never before +had been the inmates of her gentle bosom. This protracted exhibition +of sensibility appeared to her perfectly unnecessary; and she could +not help thinking that Isabella might have recovered much sooner; +that she might have twisted up her own hair, and tucked it under her +hat, without any assistance from Lord Delaford; and that there was no +occasion for several ringlets to be allowed to escape, and to stray +over her face and shoulders. + +Such were her thoughts when the party remounted, and proceeded +homewards; and she “hoped Lord Delaford was not the least hurt,” in a +guarded, constrained, and scarcely soft voice, which grated on his ear, +after the languid accents of the fainting Isabella. He turned away from +Fanny, and devoted himself entirely to her cousin, whose interest in +his safety gave her a sort of right to his care and solicitude. + +As soon as they reached home, Fanny rushed to her room, and there +paced the apartment in an agony of mind which frightened herself. +She envied Isabella the interest she had excited, while she felt she +would rather have died than have betrayed such emotion: yet she was +angry with herself for having appeared cold and unfeeling. Presently +she heard footsteps approaching her door; and hastily composing her +looks, she seized a book, and appeared buried in its contents. It was +Lady Elmsley, who came to tell her there was some company expected at +dinner. She longed to open her heart to her mother, who, she was sure, +by the increased tenderness of her manner, had read the state of her +feelings: but Lady Elmsley never sought, or encouraged confidence upon +the subject. She saw that Isabella had superseded her Fanny in Lord +Delaford’s heart, and that her child’s hopes were blighted—she knew +that an acknowledged preference was far more difficult to eradicate +than one which had never been confessed—that pride, and constancy, and +consistency, had induced many a girl to persevere in a devotion which, +if it had never been avowed, would have died away; and she judged of +Fanny by the rest of the world. + +The end of this day passed off as many succeeding ones did—in sad and +bitter calmness on the part of Fanny—in flattered vanity, and growing +love, on the part of Isabella—in gratitude, admiration, amusement, and +pique, which were fast ripening into love, on the part of Lord Delaford. + + +CHAPTER III. + + Though Marian’s frolic mirth so gay + The sultry hay-field cheer, + Say, when the short, cold, sunless day, + Shall close the parting year, + + Will her gay smile then beam as bright, + And beam for only thee? + Will winter’s toils to her seem light + As they had seem’d to me? + + Say, will she trim thy evening hearth? + Duteous, thy meal prepare? + Nor know, nor dream, a bliss on earth, + Save but to see thee there? + + _Unpublished Poems._ + +At length the decisive moment came. Lord Delaford made his proposals +to Isabella, and was accepted. Isabella herself, in all the flush +and agitation of the event which decided her fate for life, came to +Fanny’s room and told her what had happened,—not to triumph over her. +No: she had of late been so completely occupied by her own feelings, +that she had almost forgotten those she had suspected in Fanny, and +she came simply in the fulness of her heart, to give vent to all +the mingled emotions which every woman must experience on such an +occasion. Fanny had for some time prepared herself for this termination +to all her hopes and fears. Yet when the fact was certain, when she +heard it with her own ears, it came upon her like a thunderbolt. She +turned deadly pale; she thought that she was going to faint; but the +recollection that she should be committed, not only to her successful +rival, but through her to Lord Delaford himself, again restored her +self-possession, and after a momentary struggle, which, thanks to +the dim light of the embers over which they were sitting, and to the +engrossing nature of Isabella’s own thoughts, escaped observation, +she was able to say, “God grant you may both be as happy, as from the +bottom of my heart I wish you both to be!” + +She spoke with earnestness and solemnity; and Isabella gazed on her +for a moment with surprise. The tone was not exactly that in which +young ladies usually converse upon such subjects, and Isabella’s former +suspicions flashed across her mind. But she looked at Fanny’s tearless +eyes, and satisfied herself that it was “only Fanny’s way. Her cousin +always had a more serious turn of mind than most girls.” + +Perhaps she was as willing not to see, as Fanny was anxious to conceal, +the true state of the case; for though her thirst of admiration might +lead her to do that which was most painful to another, she was not more +unfeeling than a coquette must necessarily be. Moreover, prosperous +love opens and softens the heart, and for the time at least produces an +amiable disposition of mind. Though consideration for Fanny could not +have prevented her attempting to gain Lord Delaford, yet now that she +had succeeded in her object, it would have been exceedingly distressing +to her to know the pangs under which her gentle cousin was at this +moment writhing. + +The half-hour bell rang. Isabella hurried away, and Fanny was left +alone with her dreary, desolate, mortified, crushed, hopeless heart. + +At dinner the engaged couple did not sit next each other. As there +were strangers among the company, Lord Delaford thought it more +delicate towards Isabella not to bring observation upon her. As a safe +person he offered his arm to Fanny, and consequently sat next to her. +Totally unsuspicious of her preference, and feeling on the contrary +that her coldness had nipped in the bud the affection he had at first +been inclined to entertain for her, he spoke to her of his happiness +with the frankness of a friend. He expatiated on the perfections of +Isabella, on the beautiful union of liveliness and of gaiety with that +depth of feeling, which, though people in general might not suspect it, +formed the true basis of her character. + +Lovers always invest the object of their love with such merits as they +have settled in their own minds to be indispensable qualifications. + +There is also something particularly fascinating in the idea that +one has discovered hidden treasures of mind that have escaped the +observation of the common herd. + +Every word that Lord Delaford uttered was a several infliction on +Fanny. All he said of Isabella’s liveliness and gaiety she felt was an +unflattering contrast to what her manner, of late at least, had been. +All he said of Isabella’s sensibility she knew to be far from true; +and she, who was wrestling with a thousand conflicting feelings, was +treated by implication, as a calm, cold, philosophical automaton, by +the very person who was torturing them almost past endurance. Every +word that he spoke of hope and happiness, was answered by an internal +groan of hopelessness and misery. + +But her countenance was unchanged; and her eyes, which were habitually +downcast, only remained the more firmly riveted to the table-cloth, for +fear they should allow any of the emotions that were working within, to +shine through them. + +When the ladies retired, the mammas congratulated Lady Elmsley in +audible whispers upon the brilliant prospects which they perceived were +opening before her daughter, and the daughters looked arch when they +asked Fanny what sort of a person their new neighbour Lord Delaford was. + +The fire and earnestness of his manner at dinner, and the downcast +reserve of Fanny’s, coupled with the reports which had previously been +abroad, in consequence of Lord Delaford’s frequent and protracted +visits to Elmsley Priory, had been misconstrued by them all, and they +fancied the case so clear, that it was fair to congratulate, and to +quiz. + +In vain Fanny repelled all their insinuations with something +approaching annoyance and peevishness. Isabella cast a meaning glance +of amazement, and of mutual understanding, which only confirmed the +young ladies in their preconceived notion; and when the gentlemen +came into the room, they contrived to leave a place vacant by Fanny, +while they crowded round Isabella at the pianoforte, to look at a new +song, and be rapturous over a new _galop_. Lord Delaford, who thought +he had done his duty in avoiding Isabella at dinner, was only intent +upon gaining a place next her, and did not even perceive Fanny, who +had been detained from joining the young set, by an old lady who was +very particular in ascertaining the stitch of Fanny’s work. By the +time Fanny had completely explained the mysteries of the stitch, Lord +Delaford was among the youthful party, and she then felt it utterly +impossible to get up, and to walk across the room to that side of it +where he was. + +She saw Lord Delaford’s devoted manner to Isabella: she felt herself +deserted! she knew by intuition, that all the people who had just +been complimenting, congratulating, and quizzing, were in the act of +becoming aware that she was not the object of his attention, that she +was not the attraction to Elmsley Priory. + +Such trifles as these, when the blighted prospects of a life are in +question, seem to an observer, and to the person concerned, when once +they are past, as not deserving of a thought, yet, at the moment, they +add not a little to the bitter feelings of an already crushed spirit. +Singing became the order of the evening, and Fanny was of course called +upon. She had had time to reflect upon her present position, and also +to resolve it should ever remain unknown to others; she roused all her +energies, and the unusual excitement brought colour into her cheeks, +and animation into her eyes. There were other gentlemen in the room, +and they were enthusiastic in their admiration of the power, sweetness, +pathos of Miss Elmsley’s voice. But what were these praises to her? +They fell cold and sickening on her heart; Lord Delaford had been in +low and earnest conversation with Isabella in the embrasure of the +window, and scarcely knew that she had been singing. When the music +was over, however, they left their retirement, and both were struck +with the fire, the gleam of worked-up resolution in Fanny’s eyes, +and Lord Delaford whispered to Isabella, “How brilliant your cousin +looks to-night!” These few words made her heart beat with a joy at +which she was herself shocked, and when she retired for the night, +she looked courageously into her own feelings, and severely reproved +herself for having felt pleasure in exciting a look of admiration +in the betrothed of her cousin. She determined no longer to give +way to sad retrospection—to dwell no more on blighted hopes, but to +further, as far as in her lay, their future prospects of happiness. +She knew Isabella’s character thoroughly, and could not but be aware +there were many points in it which were not calculated to make a +happy _ménage_. Love of admiration, a consciousness of power, and a +delight in exercising that power, were among the most conspicuous. She +also thought Lord Delaford was a man likely to be much influenced by +those he loved, and lived with—and she resolved, if possible, to lead +Isabella’s mind towards using her influence over him for none but good +purposes. + +She came down to breakfast the next morning placid, and even cheerful. +Isabella, whose mind had been quite relieved from the lurking +apprehension of having cut out her gentle and unpresuming cousin, +by the brilliancy and animation of Fanny the preceding evening, and +had settled that she could not care about Lord Delaford, as she was +so evidently elated by the admiration of the other gentlemen, was +completely confirmed in this notion by her cheerfulness at breakfast, +and by the manner in which she opened the conversation upon Isabella’s +marriage when they were alone. + +In vain did Fanny try to inspire her with the same notions of devotion +and self-sacrifice which she herself entertained. Isabella was in love +with Lord Delaford—that is to say, she preferred him to all others, +and exceedingly liked his love of her; but as for considering his +happiness, his pleasure, his advantage, his interests, before her own, +the idea seemed to her an idle romantic dream. + +Weeks elapsed, and the settlements were arranged; the wedding clothes +prepared. + +Lord Delaford had returned, after a fortnight’s absence, for the few +days preceding the marriage, which was to take place in the village +church of Elmsley Priory. Fanny was glad that the ceremony was to be +performed in the church, for she thought that the solemnity of the +scene, and the holiness of the place, would more completely eradicate +from her bosom the feelings which she feared were rather smothered, +than destroyed. + +It was, indeed, a day of trial, almost beyond the strength of even her +chastened spirit to endure, without betraying the struggle. She was +bridesmaid, and she had to stand unmoved during the whole of a ceremony +which, to the least interested, is touching and affecting. She heard +him utter the solemn vow which separated him for ever from her—she saw +their plighted hands—she heard the priest’s benediction on the youthful +couple as they knelt before him. She did not shed a tear, she scarcely +trembled, when Isabella, half-fainting, leaned on her for support. +She sustained her graceful bending form, she whispered her words of +encouragement, till, at the close, the bridegroom proudly led his +wedded wife from the altar. + +They returned to Elmsley Priory that the bride might change her dress; +Fanny, of course, assisted her friend to take off the wedding-garments, +the Brussells lace veil, the orange flowers, &c. which were to be +replaced by a more quiet travelling costume, and accompanied her to +the room in which breakfast was prepared, and the intimate friends and +relations, who had been collected for the occasion, were assembled. + +Isabella flushed, agitated, happy, blushing, looked all one could wish +a lovely bride to look. Fanny was calm, deadly calm. + +At length the travelling carriage came to the door; the packages were +all arranged, the servants were on the box, and Lord and Lady Delaford +took leave of the family party. The parting kiss went round—Lord +Delaford, as one of the family, dutifully embraced his new uncle, his +new aunt, his new relations. Fanny saw her turn would come, and she +thought she could bear any coldness rather than this kindness; she felt +her heart beat as he drew near the side of the room where she stood, +she was almost inclined to slip away; but pride got the better; she +resolved to do nothing that could look like emotion, or might possibly +attract attention, and she stood her ground. When he took her hand and +approached his lips to her cheek, she felt a cold shudder run through +her, and she became, if possible, paler than before. He scarcely +touched her cheek; she looked so coldly, purely immoveable, that he +instinctively durst not give to her the kindly kiss which, in the joy +and warmth of his heart, he had given to the elder branches of his new +family. + +They hurried through the hall, and, in a moment, the sound of their +carriage-wheels was heard rolling by the windows. All rushed to take a +last look at them, and Fanny remained, as it were, petrified, fixed on +the spot where she had parted from him. + +All the visions of her days of hope crowded on her memory; every +sign of affection, every flattering attention he had ever shown her, +appeared at one and the same moment present to her mind—all that had +subsequently passed seemed like a dream; she felt for an instant as if +she had been robbed of her betrothed; she had to rouse herself and to +look round at the signs of the wedding feast, the cake, the ices, the +fruits, and to assure herself of the sad reality. Fortunately, before +the attention of the guests was withdrawn from the window, she had +recovered her self-possession, had sent back all the feelings which she +now considered as positively criminal, back to the depths of her heart, +till she had leisure to drag them forth once more to the light, to +examine into them, and to expel them resolutely from their fastnesses. + +Her head bewildered with all the thoughts she would not think, and all +the feelings she would not feel, she mixed among the guests, and was +again the kind, the gentle, the well-bred Fanny, attentive to the wants +and wishes of every one; and although she did once help a good old +aunt to jelly, when she asked for chicken, and gave ice to a cousin, +who wanted champagne—though she did put a black satin cloak on the +shoulders of a worthy old clergyman who was taking his leave, still, in +the confusion, these inadvertencies escaped all remark, and the only +observation made was, that Fanny was a sweet, amiable creature, but +she had not much feeling—they never saw a girl so unmoved during the +ceremony, which generally made people cry, and she did not show any +sorrow at parting from her charming friend and cousin, who must be such +a loss to her. + +“Well,” added a maiden friend, “there’s no use in such a deal of +sensibility. Fanny has just enough—enough to make her amiable and kind, +and not enough to make her unhappy.” + +There was one heart which had read poor Fanny’s—one person who had +watched her during the few moments when she had stood transfixed—who +had remarked the trifling mistakes she had made in her civilities; and +a keen observer might have read Fanny’s secret by the devoted attention +which her mother showed her, if he had not already discovered it by +the coldness with which Lady Elmsley returned the affectionate embrace +of the bride and bridegroom. Time does not stand still, though it +sometimes moves but slowly, and at length the company dispersed. + +The pieces of bride-cake were all directed by Fanny, till her hand +was weary of writing “With Lord and Lady Delaford’s compliments,” or +“love,” or “kind regards,” according as the degree of intimacy might +require. + +The dinner succeeded, a large family dinner, very formal, consisting of +the Dowager Lady Delaford, an old admiral, uncle to Lord Delaford,—his +wife, and a very missish daughter, who thought it odd her cousin should +have overlooked her charms when he was thinking of a wife;—Lord T——, +the bride’s brother, a youth at college,—two school-boys, Fanny’s +brothers,—the clergyman who performed the ceremony, who had been Lord +Delaford’s tutor, and was a total stranger to the inhabitants of +Elmsley Priory,—and the lawyer, an old friend of the family, whose +eternal flow of prosy anecdotes concerning people whom no one knew +by name, proved, for the first time, invaluable,—they prevented the +clatter of knives and forks, and the creaking of footmen’s shoes, from +falling so sharp on the ear as they would have done, if they had had no +accompaniment except the low, gentle voice of Fanny, who was imparting +to the worthy clergyman all the details he wished to know concerning +the charity-school in the village. When the cloth was removed, the +health of the bride and bridegroom was drunk, and the garrulous old +lawyer, who had not forgotten in his quirks and quibbles his original +taste for beauty, expatiated till the tears stood in his pale glassy +eyes upon the virtues, the discretion, the gentleness of the bride, +all which hidden qualities had been made manifest to him by the rosy +lips, the blooming cheeks, the dark eyebrows, the white forehead, the +glossy ringlets which had dazzled his eyes the preceding evening when +she had signed the settlements. Inspired by the subject, warmed by the +generous wine, the happy lawyer, directing his eyes across the table +to Fanny, begged leave to propose another toast—that, before six months +were over, he might again find himself at Sir Edward’s hospitable +board on as pleasing an errand; and he hoped the bridegroom might be +just like Lord Delaford—he could not wish his young hostess a more +charming husband! All eyes turned to Fanny—her brothers, with a loud +“Ha! ha! Fanny!—catch your fish, Fanny!”—Miss Melfort, the admiral’s +daughter, with a suppressed giggle; and Lady Elmsley, with a face full +of anxiety and fear lest her child might betray herself. Fanny, who +had never deviated from the calm and collected manner she had resolved +to maintain throughout the whole of this trying day, upon finding +herself suddenly the object of remark, felt the colour rush over her +forehead, her neck, her arms; she scarcely knew what they were wishing +her; she thought he was wishing her married to Lord Delaford. Every +thing became confused—her eyes grew dim; when Lady Elmsley, pretending +that she was overcome by the heat, made the signal for departure, and +the ladies left the dining-room. Fanny’s trials were not yet over: +Miss Melfort, naturally curious upon such subjects, wished to hear +all about the whole affair—how it began—how long they had suspected +it—whether he fell in love at first sight—whether he or she was most +in love—whether he proposed for her to Sir Edward, or whether he spoke +first to Isabella herself; and then, as she was dying that Fanny should +wonder how he could have been insensible to her attractions, she began +to wonder how it was, that he should have preferred Miss St. Clair to +Fanny; that, for her part, she did not admire such tall people, nor did +she admire such very long ringlets. She was little herself, and her +hair was exceedingly _crêpé_. + +There is an end to all things: at length the wine and water came, and +every one retired to rest, and Fanny found herself alone in her own +room, and she sat down to indulge in all the luxury of grief. Yes, +there is “a joy in grief:”—she revelled in letting her tears flow, and +her sobs succeeded one another without interruption, till, exhausted +and spent with weeping, she fell asleep the moment she laid her head on +the pillow, and never woke till morning. + +She was not a person whose eyes betrayed that she had been weeping; +and she went down to breakfast, with no outward traces of all she had +suffered, but inwardly feeling guilty in having allowed herself to shed +such bitter tears for the husband of another. They were, however, to +be the last. She saw that her mother read her heart, and was grieved, +and she would not throw a gloom over the declining years of the parent +she adored, and whose health, always delicate, had of late become more +so. She stifled all vain repinings; she was cheerful, and full of +occupation. Her hand did shake when she opened her first letter from +Lady Delaford, and her heart sickened when she saw her signature for +the first time; and it took a long time to write her first answer, +and, perhaps, when finished, it was somewhat measured and cold: but +all such letters are more or less constrained, and Fanny was not +_demonstrative_, and it all passed off very well. + +Lord and Lady Delaford went abroad soon after their marriage, and she +was not put to the trial of a meeting. + + +CHAPTER IV. + + Surtout les femmes nourries dans la mollesse, l’abondance et + l’oisiveté, sont indolentes et dédaigneuses pour tout ce détail. + Elles ne font pas grande différence entre la vie champêtre et celle + des sauvages de Canada: si vous leur parlez de bled, de cultures de + terres, de différentes natures de revenus, de la levée de rentes, et + des autres droits seigneuriaux, de la meilleure manière de faire des + fermes ou d’établir des receveurs, elles croyent que vous voulez les + réduire à des occupations indignes d’elles. Ce n’est pourtant que par + ignorance qu’on méprise cette science de l’économie.—FENELON. + +Poor Fanny’s thoughts were soon called off to real and actual sorrow, +in which all other griefs were absorbed; and she almost wondered how +she ever could have felt so much about any thing that did not concern +her mother. Lady Elmsley’s health declined rapidly; and the whole +family repaired to Clifton, in hopes that she might derive benefit from +the springs. In vain! Fanny was doomed to endure that sorrow, to which, +as being in the due course of nature, some say the mind reconciles +itself with more calmness than to many others. But notwithstanding +all the arguments of cool philosophy, the loss of a parent is one of +the most acute and lasting griefs to which human nature is liable. It +often befals the young and the prosperous, and, coming upon them in the +midst of health, strength, and happiness, finds their minds unprepared +and unchastened by any previous suffering. Moreover, it is a loss, +absolutely irremediable, which, though time may soften, can in no +length of time, ever, ever be replaced. + +During the whole of her mother’s illness, Fanny was so occupied in her +anxious attendance upon her, that every other thought was banished +from her mind. When Lady Elmsley once, and once only, alluded to the +state of Fanny’s affections, and spoke favourably of an amiable young +man, of excellent connexions, and fair prospects, whose attentions had +been unequivocal, she was able to assure her mother, with truth, “That +although Mr. Lisford had not succeeded in making himself agreeable to +her, all prepossession for another was quite over.” + +It is vain to dwell on the melancholy details of gradual decay. Suffice +it to say, that Fanny watched, with agonised feelings, the last moments +of a beloved parent; and only conquered her own emotions, to alleviate +those of her father. + +After the funeral, they returned to their desolate home. Their hearts +sank within them as they drove along the well-known avenue, which led +straight to the front of the house, on which the hatchment met their +eyes, for the last half-mile of their approach. + +Fanny supported her father into the drawing-room, where every object +which met their eyes was but a renewal of grief. The easy chair, with +cushions of every shape, to procure ease to a frame wearied and worn +out—the invalid sofa-table, the footstool, just where Lady Elmsley +had last used it—the portable book-case, containing her favourite +authors, stood on the table as usual—the large basket of carpet-work, +which was deemed too cumbrous to be taken to Clifton—the glass vase, +which Fanny always kept replenished with the choicest flowers, and +which the gardener had now filled with care, that the room might look +cheerful, and which the housemaid had placed on the accustomed spot, +all combined to make their return more painful, if possible, than they +had anticipated. + +The next morning, when, before her father left his room, Fanny altered +the disposition of the furniture, and removed the things which so +forcibly reminded them of her for whom they mourned, she felt it almost +a sacrilegious act to touch them. + +Time, however, rolled on, and Sir Edward became calm and resigned; +but Fanny’s spirits did not rally. She had fervently loved her mother; +she missed her in every occupation, in every duty, in every amusement. +Strange to say, her thoughts, which during her mother’s illness had +been so completely weaned from the subject of her own disappointment, +in her present quiet and solitude would revert to former scenes. + +She did not recur to the happy days of delusion, when she believed +herself the object of Lord Delaford’s preference; she felt that +would have been a sin: but she fancied that by dwelling only on +recollections, in which the images of Lord Delaford and of Isabella +were blended together, she was accustoming herself to the idea of their +union, and preparing her mind for seeing them, as man and wife, when, +on their return from the Continent, they were to pay their promised +visit to the Priory. She forgot that, + + “En songeant qu’il faut l’oublier, + Elle s’en souvient.” + +As she wandered about her lonely flower-garden, she at one time +remembered how Lord Delaford had gathered some of the beautiful double +dahlias, and had called Isabella’s attention to the rich blending of +their various hues; how Isabella had laughingly twisted them into +her hair: and how surpassingly beautiful she had looked when bending +over the marble basin (she had used it, as nymphs of old, for her +looking-glass,) while the evening sun just tipped her dark brown +curls with a golden hue, and tinged her downy mantling cheek with a +more mellow bloom. Fanny could almost fancy she again saw the eyes of +rapturous admiration with which he watched her graceful action. + +At another time, if she were training the straggling honeysuckles +over the treillage, she recollected how her hopes had received their +death-blow, when, on entering the drawing-room before dinner, she found +Lord Delaford and Isabella in their morning dress, still occupied in +reducing the unruly tendrils to obedience; and how Isabella blushed +to find it so late, and Lord Delaford insisted it must be Fanny who +had mistaken the hour. In recollecting these circumstances, she again +experienced the same painful feelings of mortification and despondency; +she did not thus acquire forgetfulness, or indifference. + +After an absence of about a year, Lord and Lady Delaford announced +their return to England, and their intention of finding themselves +very shortly at the Priory. Fanny believed herself rejoiced at the +intelligence, and began setting every thing in order for their arrival. + +She was agitated when they actually came, but at that moment the +recollection of her mother, and of the sad change that had taken place +in her home, was uppermost in her mind, and almost all the tears she +shed, were from a pure and holy source. + +Isabella was truly sorry for the loss of her aunt: Lord Delaford was +all kindness, although the sort of _gêne_ which exists between the +dearest and most intimate friends, when they meet after any severe +misfortune, prevented their at first deriving much pleasure from each +other’s society. The persons least interested do not feel sure how far +they may venture to allude to the sad event, how far they may venture +to be cheerful, and their fear of not exactly falling in with the tone +of feeling of the mourners, imparts to their manner a want of ease +which is infectious, and prevents a free and unconstrained flow of +confidence. + +This, however, did not last long. Fanny soon poured forth into +Isabella’s ear every melancholy detail of the last moments of her +beloved parent, and found her heart warm towards the person to whom she +could dwell upon the subject. + +When nothing occurred to call forth her love of admiration, her love +of power, or her love of the world, her naturally good heart, and her +constitutional good temper, rendered Isabella as loveable as she was +lovely. Her faults had been fostered by her early education, while her +good qualities had not been cultivated. + +Since her marriage, the devotion of her husband had rendered her fully +aware of her unbounded influence over him; while, at the same time, the +society with which she had mixed on the Continent, and the unsettled +life of travellers, had been peculiarly unfavourable to the acquirement +of domestic habits. + +When Fanny, in return, inquired into the manner which Isabella had +passed her time abroad, preparing her mind for a picture of conjugal +bliss, and resolving to rejoice in the happiness of two people for +whom she felt so sincere a friendship, her feelings were put to a +very different trial from that which she anticipated. All Isabella’s +descriptions were of the gay parties at Florence; the delightful +riding parties from Rome; the agreeable Dukes, and Princes, and +Cardinals, and Monsignores, they had met with: the brilliant fancy +balls, the entertaining masquerades, the gorgeous fêtes, the select +soirées, the exclusive _petits soupers_, and Fanny wondered that Lord +Delaford should be grown so fond of dissipation. Yet she remarked than +when he spoke of foreign scenes, he seldom dwelt on those which alone +had formed the subject of Isabella’s descriptions. He frequently spoke +of home and of rural occupations as delightful, and conversed with Sir +Edward on the state of the agricultural interest, and that of the poor. +On such occasions Isabella would laughingly interrupt him, and beg the +gentlemen to be more gallant, and not to discuss subjects which could +be of no possible interest to them. Fanny, who had been accustomed to +consider attention to the humbler classes as one of the duties of the +rich, could not help one day saying to her, when the gentlemen left the +room, + +“But don’t you think, Isabella, it is rather interesting to us, who +live in the country, to learn how one may do good, and not run the +risk of doing mischief, when one wishes to be useful to one’s fellow +creatures?” + +“But, my dear, you don’t imagine I am going to be buried in the country +all my life, enacting the part of a Lady Bountiful at Fordborough +Castle. I have no objection to supplying the money, but, as to staying +to distribute it, I leave that to the clergyman’s wife, whose business +it is to attend to that kind of thing.” + +“But Lord Delaford is so fond of the country, and he always talks +of what he means to do at his own place. Depend upon it he means to +live in the country a great part of the year; I have heard him say he +thought it right.” + +“Oh, yes! You know it is never worth while to argue a point—I hold +it out of the question for a man and wife to dispute; but I have not +the least idea of letting him put these golden-age romantic notions +in practice. Not that I have the least objection to the country at +Christmas, or at Easter, or occasionally in the autumn, in a reasonable +way; but, as for taking up my abode at Fordborough Castle, I shall not +do it.” + +“But every thing is prepared for you now. He has had the drawing-room +and saloon new furnished, and your own boudoir is made lovely!” + +“Oh, you know it could not be left as it was in my good mother-in-law’s +time, with straight-backed chairs, and pembroke-tables; but I shan’t +live there, you will see if I do.” + +“But, Isabella, I am convinced Lord Delaford wishes it.” + +“Oh! he fancies it would be vastly agreeable; but, in fact, he would be +moped to death there, and so should I.” + +“Well, I don’t understand being moped to death with a husband one +loves,” and she felt a slight blush rise to her cheek, which she +attributed to the little rebuke implied in her answer; and she added, +half smiling, “you know, you do like him very much, Isabella!” + +“Like him! to be sure I do. He is the best creature in the world; and, +after all, nobody looks so like a gentleman. He was generally the +best-looking man in the room, except Count Pfaffenhoffen, and he was +so foolish that one was ashamed to be seen talking to him, though one +endured his conversation for the sake of his waltzing. He is the most +becoming waltzer! He is just the right height, and he does not bend too +forward, nor too far back, and he holds his arm just right. What a pity +it is he should be so silly!” + +Soon after this conversation Lord and Lady Delaford went to their +own place, where they established themselves very comfortably. Fanny +spent a day with them. She began to flatter herself that Isabella’s +worldly notions were only to be found in her conversation, and not in +her actions. She left her very busy, and apparently happy, in making +discoveries of curious old China, and arranging it in the drawing-room. +While these and similar occupations lasted, she was amused and +contented, and her husband was delighted to see her, as he thought, +acquiring a taste for the country. + +One short week afterwards, Fanny received a note from her, written as +she was setting off for London, to meet her dear friend Lady B——, who +was only in town for a few days, on her way from Paris to Ireland. + +She soon again heard from her, that she was very unwell, and that +Doctor S—— had ordered her warm sea-baths, and that she was therefore +obliged to go to Brighton. + +There they remained till Christmas, when they returned to Fordborough +Castle, and brought with them a large party of friends. Fanny was to +join them at the particular wish of Sir Edward, who lamented that she +did not regain her natural spirits. + +She found Lord Delaford looking harassed and oppressed. His company +was not of his own choosing, and wearied him. Of his wife he saw but +little, and he had no time for his own occupations. + +One day he had to do the honours of the place to a party of particular +friends, for whom he did not care a straw; another to provide shooting +for a set of young men, who thought it a very bad day’s sport if the +birds did not get up as fast as two _gardes de chasse_ could load their +guns. + +There is nothing more agreeable than the exercise of hospitality +towards those whom you like, and who like you in return; but when every +point in which the accommodation and luxuries of your house, fall +short of those at such a hall, or such a castle, where every amusement +you may be able to provide, merely provokes a comparison between the +sport Lord so and so, and the Duke of so and so, gives his friends; +the delightful and poetical rites of hospitality, become a tiresome +tax upon the time and patience of the luckless possessor of an ancient +mansion and an extensive domain. + +This fashionable, but most unsatisfactory party dispersed, and Lord and +Lady Delaford were on the point of going to town for the meeting of +Parliament, when they obtained a promise from Sir Edward, that Fanny +should pay them a visit in London after Easter. To do Isabella justice, +she felt real affection for Fanny, and sincerely regretted seeing her +so joyless, and conscientiously believed that the pleasures of London +would prove a balm for every sorrow. + +Fanny was unwilling to leave her father, and had a vague dread of being +so entirely domesticated under Lord Delaford’s roof. Had her mother +been still living, she would have interfered to prevent her child’s +feelings and principles being put to so unusual, and so needless a +trial; she would have taken care that the peace of mind she had striven +so hard to regain, should run no risk of being disturbed; but Sir +Edward would not hear of her dutiful regrets at leaving him; and if she +harboured any other thought in her mind, it was one which could not +be hinted at,—one she scarcely dared own to her secret soul, without +implying a mistrust of herself. + +To London, therefore, she went. She found Lady Delaford in the full +vortex of dissipation. She possessed beauty, rank, talents, and riches. +Many women who might boast of these advantages, are not the fashion. +But Lady Delaford added to them all, the wish, and the determination +to be a leading person in society. What wonder, then, if she instantly +accomplished her object, when, without any of the qualifications before +enumerated, it is often attained by simple, strong volition. + + +CHAPTER V. + + Nae mair of that, dear Jenny: to be free, + There’s some men constanter in love than we. + They’ll reason caumly, and with kindness smile, + When our short passions wad our peace beguile: + Sae, whensoe’er they slight their maiks at haine, + ’Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. + + _Gentle Shepherd._ + +Lord Delaford, though considerably occupied with politics, was not +entirely engrossed by them, and he wished extremely for the quiet +enjoyment of domestic life. When he returned from the House, he would +fain have been greeted by his wife, or at least he would have been glad +to know where he might join her; but among the many engagements for +each night, he did not know where to find her; and after having once or +twice followed her through the whole list of parties, he gave up the +point, and went to bed, jaded and out of spirits. + +She seldom came down-stairs till so late, that he had long breakfasted, +and was on the point of going out to some committee. Sometimes, +being free from business, he determined to remain at home, and to +devote the morning to the society of his young and lovely wife. +On these occasions he usually found her so beset till two o’clock +by her maid, by milliners, by tradesmen, by innumerable notes to +answer, and arrangements to make, that she could only answer him +with an absent air, her thoughts evidently intent on the organizing +of some plan of amusement for that, or the ensuing day. After two +o’clock, her drawing-room was of course crowded with dandies whipping +their boots—with sage politicians, a race who peculiarly enjoy the +_délassement_ of a pretty woman’s society,—and with literati, a tribe +who are very apt to find peculiar gratification from the favourable +suffrage of the lovely and titled, though upon the most dry and +abstruse work, into which the fair critic had never looked, and which, +if she had looked into it, she could not possibly have understood. This +select crowd (for none but the most distinguished of each genus was +admitted) did not disperse till the carriage had been long announced, +and the hour of some appointment was long past; when, hurrying away +from the admiring throng, she drove from her own door without having +given a moment of her attention to her husband. + +Lord Delaford’s anticipated morning of conjugal felicity generally +ended in his seizing his hat and stick, and marching forth at a quick +pace, and in no very enviable frame of mind. + +Fanny was at first bewildered by this mode of life, but she accompanied +her friend through the whole routine, till she found that neither her +spirits nor her health could stand such constant wear and tear; she +was obliged occasionally to remain at home, while Isabella continued +her giddy round of pleasures; and she could not avoid perceiving that +Lord Delaford was a man formed for all the charities of life—and that +Isabella was throwing away happiness such as seldom falls to the lot of +woman. + +The gradual decline of wedded happiness is a melancholy subject of +contemplation to the most indifferent by-stander; how much more +so to one deeply interested in the welfare of both parties! She +felt justified in her dejection. Perhaps, if she had witnessed the +unrestrained flow of confidence, the fulness of mutual devotion, +she might not have found the sight so exhilarating as she sincerely +believed it would have been. However that might be, reassured by her +sorrow at not seeing her wishes for their happiness fulfilled—that her +joy, if they were fulfilled, would be as great, she reposed in fancied +security that the interest she took in his welfare was that of simple +friendship, and she did not think it necessary to avoid him, if he +found her alone in the drawing-room, where he in vain sought the wife +of whom he was still deeply enamoured. + +He would sometimes sigh to find her still absent, and would +occasionally express his desire of a more domestic life; he even +confessed feelings of discontent and dissatisfaction—he wished his +wife would give him more of her society—he wished her disposition was +more like Fanny’s. + +These words fell on her ear with a sensation she scarcely knew how to +define. Was it pleasure?—was it pain? + +It is a dangerous situation for any young woman to be the confidante +of any young man’s sorrows, especially if they proceed from blighted +affections and deceived hopes; but to Fanny, how tenfold dangerous! + +The world is scarcely sufficiently indulgent to those who are deprived +of the tender vigilance of a mother; nor are the young who enjoy such +a blessing, sufficiently thankful for possessing it. Had Lady Elmsley +lived, Fanny would never have been placed in the position of confidante +to the domestic sorrows of the man who had won her young affections, as +the lover approved of, and courted by, her parents. Was it in nature +that she should not think, “If I had been his choice, the happiness of +which he so feelingly deplores the loss might then + + ‘Have blest his home, and crown’d our wedded loves.’” + +Another circumstance occurred, which roused her from the security into +which she had lulled herself. + +Among the multitudes of young men who frequented Lady Delaford’s +house, some were sensible to the unpresuming charms of Fanny, and +especially Lord John Ashville became seriously attached to her. There +was no possible objection to him, and Isabella flattered herself she +should have the pleasure of announcing to Sir Edward that, under her +auspices, Fanny had made a brilliant match. Both she and Lord Delaford +were astonished when he was rejected, and Fanny herself was grieved to +find she could not love him, as she thought it her bounden duty to love +the person to whom she should swear eternal constancy. She would have +been glad to prove to herself that former impressions were completely +obliterated; but she could not succeed in persuading herself that she +preferred him to all others. + +Nothing is more common than that a person under the influence of +mortification and disappointment should rush headlong into a fresh +engagement; but this most frequently occurs when the mortification is +one of which others are aware, and such a measure, it is hoped, will be +a virtual disproval of the fact. Though a dangerous experiment, it is +one which succeeds oftener than might be expected from so desperate a +remedy. Fanny’s sense of right and wrong, however, could not reconcile +itself to the plain fact of solemnly vowing an untruth, and she already +found the duty of watching over her secret affections sufficiently +difficult, not to venture to impose upon herself the additional one of +loving where she was not inclined to do so. + +Perhaps time and perseverance might have conquered her objections, +but, a proposal once made, and once rejected, an opportunity is seldom +afforded for further acquaintance. + +This event had an unfavourable effect upon her mind. It proved to her +that her heart was not free, that she had combated in vain. + +She was one day looking back upon her wayward fate, and reproaching +herself for her weakness, when Lord Delaford entered the room, and +inquired for Isabella. + +Fanny told him “she was walking in Kensington Gardens with the Miss +Merfields.” + +“And when do you expect her home?” + +“Lady B—— takes her from Kensington Gardens to Grosvenor Place, where +they dine together; and she accompanies her to the French play in her +morning dress, so I am afraid she will not be at home till she returns +to prepare for the balls.” + +“Balls! why how many is she going to to-night?” + +“Oh, there are five on the list; but she is only going to two.” + +“And what becomes of you?” + +“I dine with my father’s old friend, Mrs. Burley, and then I shall go +quietly to bed; for I was at the Duchess’s ball last night, you know.” + +“So, I suppose, I must dine at my club, for I hate a solitary dinner +in my own house. If I cannot have the comforts of home, I will play at +the independence of a bachelor. Well, when I married, this was not the +life to which I looked forward. But how comes it you are so quiet? Why +do not you run the same course? Why are you not at all in the ring? +You can endure the sight of your own fireside. You can find time for +conversation, for reading. Your mind is not in a perpetual whirl.” + +“Oh, but you know I am not very strong; I could not do so much.” + +“But have you, then, the inclination?” + +“Why, not quite; I like it very much in its way; nobody can enjoy +society more, I am sure, only——” + +“Only you have room in your heart for other things; you are not wholly +engrossed by that all-devouring passion for the world. Ah, Fanny, if +you had been able to like me when first we were acquainted, I should +have been a happier man.” + +“Lord Delaford!” exclaimed Fanny, in a voice of doubt and fear. + +“Why, you know, when first I went to Elmsley Priory, you were the +person I should naturally have liked, only you did not care for me, +and Isabella did. Kind and affectionate as you are in other respects, +you seem to have no room in your heart for love, as poor Lord John has +experienced also. But Isabella! she then seemed made up of feeling!” + +Fanny dared not speak, breathe, move, for fear of betraying her +agitation. Did she hear from his own lips that he had loved her? Did +she hear him accuse her of coldness, while her brain was dizzy, and +her heart throbbing with feelings, which, for two long years, she had +attempted (she now felt how vainly attempted) to quell? And must she +sit still and allow him to think her insensible and heartless? Yes! +religion, principle, and duty, forbade her betraying, by word or look, +emotions which might have invested her in his eyes with the only charm +in which he fancied her deficient. Impossible to let him ever guess she +could harbour an unlawful preference for the husband of another, that +other her kind and unsuspecting cousin. The very idea made her recoil +with horror from herself. A pause ensued. She longed to break it—could +she trust her voice to speak? What would Lord Delaford think of her +silence? But, if he should perceive that her voice trembled! She was +relieved from her difficulty by his exclaiming,— + +“No! it could not have been my own infatuation! Isabella was then all I +believed her to be!” + +Fanny perceived he was not thinking of her, and she had time to compose +herself. The love to which he had so calmly alluded, had left not a +trace behind, unless the confidence he felt in her now, might owe its +origin to the esteem he had then imbibed for her character. + +Following the course of his own thoughts, he continued to compare what +Isabella once was, to what she was now become. He regretted their tour +on the Continent, and attributed her present dissipation to the habits +acquired in Italy and at Paris. + +Fanny was able to utter common-place hopes that her cousin would soon +be weary of this useless life, and assurances that her heart was still +true and warm. + +When she was alone, Fanny found herself fearfully happy. A load seemed +taken off her mind. Painful as it might be to know that, by her own +pride, (false pride, perhaps,) she had lost the happiness of her life; +the joy of finding that she had not let herself be won unsought,—that +she had not wasted the whole affections of her young pure heart upon a +person to whom they had always been a matter of perfect indifference; +that her love had not been wholly unrequited,—relieved her from that +humiliation which had constantly sunk her to the earth. + +She was, however, convinced, that a longer residence under Lord +Delaford’s roof would not be conducive either to the peace or the +purity of her mind. She had been considering what excuse she should +make for wishing to return to Elmsley Priory, when, in the course of +conversation, Lord Delaford one day spoke of her presence, her example, +her advice, as the pillar on which he rested his hope of reclaiming +Isabella to the quiet duties of a wife, and he entreated her to use all +her influence over her cousin towards the accomplishment of this object. + +This request gave a new current to her thoughts. If it was true that +she had influence over Isabella, that she might reclaim her from the +worldly course she seemed likely to run, would she be justified in +leaving her friend at this moment? If she could be the means of causing +his happiness, though through another, would she refuse to attempt it? + +People often argue themselves into believing it their duty to do what +their inclination prompts. In this case, however, Fanny really wished +to find herself once more under her father’s roof. She trembled at +the undertaking before her—she felt a salutary fear and doubt of her +own heart, which she had found so weak, and she humbly strengthened +herself for the task imposed upon her. She looked with satisfaction to +the prospect of being really useful to others, and she thought that, +next to being the object of his love, the most enviable situation was +to be the object of his gratitude. + +Modest and unpresuming, she had never ventured to remonstrate seriously +with Isabella upon her mode of life; indeed, she had always experienced +a degree of shyness in alluding to Lord Delaford, and to the feelings +of a wife, which had prevented her saying what she might naturally have +done. She had also an instinctive horror of interfering between man and +wife—on most occasions, a praiseworthy fear; but which, in complying +with Lord Delaford’s wishes, she thought it right to overcome. + +But how to introduce the subject? + +Common and trite observations upon the duties of matrimony, she knew +would only excite Isabella’s raillery upon her antiquated notions; but +perhaps, by alarming her fears, she might have some chance of arresting +her attention. + +Fanny was so little accustomed to having any plan, any ulterior object +in her communications with her fellow-creatures, that her heart beat, +and she felt almost guilty, as she seized the first opportunity when +they were alone, to say,— + +“I wonder, Isabella, you are not afraid of quite losing Lord Delaford’s +affections.” + +“Quite lose his affections, Fanny! What can you mean? I certainly do +not anticipate any such misfortune,” she answered, smiling; and her eye +glanced complacently over the mirror, at which she was trying on the +hat which she was to wear that evening at a _bal costumé_. + +“Why, my dear Isabella, you must be aware he is not what he was—that +your indifference is beginning to have a corresponding effect upon him.” + +“Nonsense, Fanny, you are joking!” But she took off the beautiful hat, +and sat arranging and re-arranging the feathers, though in a manner +which would have been far from satisfactory to the artiste, who had hit +off that particular disposition of feathers, in a fortunate moment of +inspiration. + +Instinct had served Fanny on this occasion, as well as a deeper +knowledge of the world; for vanity and affection can both take alarm +at the idea of losing the devotion they have been accustomed to. She +now remained silent, simply because she did not know what she had best +say; but her silence had the effect of piquing Lady Delaford. After a +pause of several minutes, Isabella added: + +“Lady B—— and Mrs. Clairville tell me they never saw any husband so +devoted as mine; they wish I would impart my secret, that they might +profit by it.” + +“They mean he is kind, and lets you have your own way; that he is +the least selfish of human beings: but you must know, and feel, that +he is not the contented, cheerful person, he once was; that his +countenance does not brighten when he sees you, as it once did; that +he is silent, abstracted. You cannot be happy, Isabella, and see +your husband—and such a husband!—gradually weaning himself from your +society, his confidence lessening, his affections cooling? Did I say +he was indifferent? No, not indifferent! But he is hurt—wounded! he +is shutting up his heart from you! Oh, Isabella! and can you let such +a heart close itself to you? you, who might have all the treasures of +that noble mind, that manly understanding, that warm generous soul, +poured out at your feet—can you throw away such happiness?—you, who +might be the happiest woman in the whole world!” + +Her voice faltered—a tear trembled in her eye—she dared not trust +herself to speak another word. Isabella was struck by Fanny’s manner, +though she jestingly replied: + +“One would think I was the worst wife in the world! Now, I could name +you a dozen, much worse, among our most intimate acquaintances.” + +“But, Isabella, are you satisfied with not being a bad wife? Don’t you +wish to be a good one?” + +“Well, I do not see what harm I do. I am never cross; I never worry +him; I do not run in debt; and I am very civil to all his friends, +whenever he asks them to dinner, however great bores they may be: and +it is not every wife who can say as much for herself!” + +“But, Isabella, of what comfort are you to him? If he has any +annoyance, does he find you ready to sympathise with him? If he has +any joy, are you there to share it with him? When do you communicate +your thoughts, opinions, pleasures, pains, to each other? You do order +dinner for him; but really I cannot see what other advantage he +derives from having a house, a home, a wife, _une maison montée_.” + +“Well, I see what you are driving at, all this time; I will make +breakfast for him to-morrow morning—that will be quite right and +wife-like.” + +At this moment, the servant entered to say that the box at the French +play, which her ladyship had wished to have, had been given up, and +that it was at her service for that evening. + +“Oh, Fanny, that is charming! We can go there for the two first pieces, +and come home to dress.” + +“But Lord Delaford was to dine at home, and he will dine alone if we +go.” + +“Oh! he does not mind that.” + +“Doesn’t he?” said Fanny, in a low, marked tone. + +Lady Delaford desired the servant to let the man wait; and Fanny felt +she had gained something. + +“Now, I don’t think he will care a pin whether we are at home or not; +and he goes back to the House afterwards.” + +“Not till ten o’clock, he said.” + +“Married people should not see too much of each other. _Toujours +perdrix_ is insipid!” + +“How much have you seen of him to-day?” + +“Why, let me see! he looked in, did he not, just as we had done +breakfast, about one?” + +“Yes; and your Italian improvisatore came two minutes afterwards, whose +energetic rhapsodies of gratitude for your patronage, and admiration +of your talents, were delivered in so stentorian a voice, that he took +his departure, to prevent the drums of his ears from being broken. And +yesterday—what did we see of him yesterday?” + +“Why, he dined out, you know, at a political man-dinner—that was not my +fault—and in the morning we were at Lady F.’s breakfast.” + +“And the day before?” + +“Oh! that was the day of our water-party to Greenwich; and that +occupied the whole day. Well, I see how it is—but you will make me +spoil him; and then, when he is quite unmanageable and untractable, I +shall reproach you!” + +“Well, dearest Isabella, I give you full leave to do so—then!” + +Lady Delaford rang the bell, and sent back the tickets. + +“Now, how bored we shall all three of us be to-day at dinner! I shall +be thinking all the time of that dear little Mademoiselle Hyacinthe.” + +“No, no, you won’t, dear Isabella. You will be your own gay, agreeable +self.” + +Lord Delaford came home to dinner, and seemed pleased to find so small +a party. Isabella told him, with an arch glance at Fanny, that he was +very near finding a still smaller one; that the tickets for the best +box at the French play had been sent to them after all. + +“And why did you not go?” asked Lord Delaford. + +Isabella did not like to take all the credit, when she felt she +deserved but little, and she answered: “Why, I believe Fanny suspects +you of having a bad conscience; at least she thought you would not like +to be alone.” + +Lord Delaford cast a glance of gratitude towards Fanny, which made +her heart beat with a joy for which she had no occasion to reproach +herself. He thanked them both for their attention to him, and was more +gay and communicative than he had been for some time. The dinner was +agreeable. Isabella was pleased to feel she was doing right, although +she did not know that was the reason she was in spirits. Lord Delaford +was gratified, and full of hope that more domestic days were about +to dawn upon him. Fanny was animated; but there was a flutter in her +animation, she scarcely knew wherefore. + + +CHAPTER VI. + + Trepideva pur anche per quel pudore che non nasce dalla triste scienza + del male, per quel pudore che ignora se stesso, somigliante alla paura + del fanciullo che trema nelle tenebre senza saper di che.—_I Promessi + Sposi._ + +The next morning Isabella did come down to breakfast; but it was a +great effort, and she soon relaxed into her former habits. Engagements +previously formed could not be broken through, and one engagement led +to another. Occasionally, however, Fanny persuaded her to give up one +or two of the many evening-parties, and she succeeded in making her +rather more quiet in the morning, so that her husband sometimes found +her at liberty, and he could sit down and converse upon the passing +events. + +When he was alone with Fanny he almost invariably talked over his +future prospects, and attributed to her every symptom of improvement +in his wife. Though these thanks and praises fell on her ear as the +most delightful music, still she felt rather uneasy at the kind of +understanding that existed between them. Though the subject was one +so wholly unconnected with herself, and so conducive to his future +conjugal felicity, she could not help a guilty consciousness, when, +upon the entrance of Isabella, they changed the topic of their +conversation. She resolved, when once she had accomplished the grand +object of persuading Isabella to take up her abode at Fordborough +Castle, she would rescue herself from her trying situation, return to +her father’s house, and devote herself with redoubled energy to being +the consolation and solace of his widowed home. + +London was growing thin. Balls became more rare: water-parties more +frequent; well-laden carriages, awfully encumbered with wells, +imperials, boots, trunks, and bonnet-boxes, &c., were constantly seen +whirling along the streets. One day they happened, all three, to be +standing at the window debating whether the weather was sufficiently +settled for Mrs. Clairville’s rural fête to take place, when they were +amused by watching the immense number of nurses, children, boxes, and +bundles, which were crammed into an immense coach, one of the three +carriages which were getting under weigh at the opposite door. Lord +Delaford thought this would be a good moment to enter on the subject, +by asking, in an easy tone, but well aware of the difficulties he was +going to encounter, + +“And when shall we go to Fordborough Castle, Isabella?” + +“Heavens, Lord Delaford! London is just beginning to be agreeable. All +the bores are gone, or going, and society is becoming really select, +and every thing on an easy, sensible, pleasant footing. The sight we +see opposite, gives one a delightful promise of what London will be! +Don’t you hear that sound?” as the three carriages were set in motion, +and rumbled heavily along the street. “Society will be as light and +elastic when cleared of such heavy component parts, as the air after a +thunder-storm!” + +“And have you not had enough of society yet? I am almost sick of my +fellow-creatures’ faces, and yet I am no misanthrope! Do you not long +to see green fields and trees and flowers, and to smell the sweet +smells of the country?” + +“That is just the reason why I like water-parties, and excursions into +the country, and Mrs. Clairville’s breakfasts, so much! How lovely +the evening was as we rowed down the river from Richmond! and as for +flowers, where can you see any half so beautiful as at Lady P——’s +enchanting villa? You can have no taste, no refinement, if you do not +doubly enjoy all the beauties of nature in the society of the most +polished, the most gifted, in short, of the master spirits of the age! +to say nothing of all the prettiest women.” + +“I do not wish to see all the pretty women;” and he added with some +bitterness, “I only wish to see one woman, who, if she was as perfect +in mind as she is in person, would be all-sufficient for my happiness; +though,” and his tone changed to one of deep mortification, “I see how +little I am so to hers,” and he left the room. + +Isabella was somewhat startled. Fanny looked at her with a beseeching +face of woe, and eyes full of tears. + +“You are playing a dangerous game, Isabella. Heaven grant you may not +repent it! You have nearly destroyed the happiness of one of the most +perfect of human beings. Heaven grant you may not alter his nature +too! Heaven grant that may remain unchanged! To see his kindly temper +soured, his manly character degraded into the mere obsequious husband +of a London fine lady,—I beg your pardon, Isabella, but it would indeed +be a melancholy sight!” + +“You seem to take a very lively interest in his welfare,” answered +Isabella, a little frightened at the effect she had produced on her +husband, and consequently half inclined to be pettish. + +Fanny rejoined with warmth,— + +“Who can see one woman wilfully cast from her a fate which would be the +summit of happiness to almost every other, and not feel warmly?” + +“Why, Fanny, I never saw you so animated; I believe you have fallen in +love with him yourself, and are envying me this same fate of mine.” + +Fanny’s face became suddenly crimson. She had been carried away by her +feelings—she had forgotten her own secret, she was so moved at seeing +him mortified, and wounded, that she thought only of him. + +Isabella’s half-joking speech recalled it all to her; she felt +betrayed, discovered, and her confusion knew no bounds. Isabella, +surprised at the effect she had produced, in a moment recollected the +suspicions she had once entertained, but she was just smarting under +the mortification of finding she had over-calculated her complete +influence over her husband, of finding that Fanny was right in her +advice, and of feeling she deserved her rebuke, and she exclaimed,— + +“Well, I never saw such a guilty face.” + +Fanny was thunder-struck, bewildered—she burst into tears, and, hiding +her face with her hands, she exclaimed— + +“Spare me, Isabella! spare me! if you have discovered my secret, spare +me!” and, throwing herself on her knees, she hid her face in Isabella’s +lap. “Yes, I have loved your husband, but I loved him before you +thought of him, and I have struggled and combated, and fought to subdue +my feelings; indeed I have. And I have loved him with a holy love,”—and +she lifted up her tearful face with an expression of solemn grief and +earnestness which was almost sublime: “Yes! I call Heaven to witness, +never, for a moment, have I ceased to wish for your happiness, to pray +for it, to use every endeavour to forward it. Is it not true? Isabella, +I appeal to yourself?” + +“Get up, my dear Fanny! For Heaven’s sake! I had not an idea—I did not +mean”—and Isabella burst into tears also. She remembered, what she had +almost forgotten, how she had once believed him attached to Fanny; she +remembered, what she had often persuaded herself was not so, how she +had used every art in her power to wean him from her, and she felt +almost as guilty as Fanny did. + +She had never intended to inflict such keen anguish on any one, and +she was grieved to see what she had done. Had there been any thing to +excite jealousy, or that might have touched her vanity, perhaps she +would not have felt so amiably; but she was perfectly certain poor +Fanny’s love was unrequited, and there was nothing mortifying in her +husband’s having inspired so deep and fervent an attachment. Moreover, +an uncontrolled burst of feeling, in a person habitually placid and +reserved, is in itself almost an awful sight. + +The two friends stood mutually abashed before each other, when Fanny +exclaimed,— + +“Do not utterly despise me, Isabella. Oh! if you knew half what I feel +at this moment you would pity me. And I have been venturing to lecture +you, to teach you your duty! But, indeed, I spoke from pure motives, +indeed—though—I have—loved him”—and she again blushed crimson, her +cheeks, her temples, her neck, at hearing herself speak words which, +till that day, had never found utterance from her lips, “it was for +your sake, as well as for his——” + +“Dearest Fanny,” interrupted Isabella, “do you think I doubt your +motives? No! they are pure and excellent as your own innocent heart. I +spoke in jest—you so entirely succeeded in concealing your feelings——” + +“But do you not utterly despise me now? Me, whom you once thought +retiring and dignified, to have been so lavish of my affections as +to love one who is devoted to another, to pass my life nurturing a +hopeless and an unlawful preference! Oh! that thought almost maddens +me sometimes. You must look down upon me as a poor, abject, weak, and +wicked creature.” + +“Fanny, don’t speak so of yourself, you make me miserable—it is I who +ought to beg your forgiveness—it is I who have been guilty towards +you—my foolish, selfish vanity could not bear to see him prefer you, +and I did all I could to take him away from you; but I had no idea you +really cared about him so much; I only meant to try my own power; and +then, if you had seemed unhappy, I would have desisted,—at least I +thought I would. But you appeared so cool, so indifferent, and then I +liked him myself, and then I thought, if you cared so little, why there +was no reason why I should give up so brilliant a _parti_, and then—I +forgot all about you, and thought only of myself.” + +“You do think, then, he did like me once?” + +“It was that which piqued me so much; but, if I had known what you were +feeling, dear Fanny——” + +“Oh, Isabella, this is ridiculous! You are, as it were, defending +yourself to me—to me, who stand here self-betrayed—self-accused. Oh! +it is all wrong; this must not be; we must forget all this—bury it in +oblivion—let it be as though it had never been. Only make him happy, +dearest Isabella, for your own sake—for his sake, and a little for my +sake too. Make him happy, and I shall rejoice in the fate that has made +you his wife; make him happy, as you value your own happiness and his, +in this world and the next. But I forget myself again. It is not for me +to guide others—weak, erring, sinful creature that I am.” + +She sank on the sofa, and, pressing her hands upon her eyes, and +resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she strove to command and to +subdue herself. + +Isabella stood motionless beside her, in thought as deep and as +painful. A mist seemed to have fallen from her sight. She looked on +life with different eyes from what she had done an hour before. + +The broken-hearted quivering form before her read her a lecture upon +the effects of worldliness, which she had never thought of before. She +saw, for the first time, what havoc blighted affections might cause. +She thought of her husband, and she said to herself, “Shall I, through +my own wilful folly, cause the misery of two good and amiable beings? I +have already blasted the prospects of one, shall I throw a blight over +those of the other, and that other the being I have sworn to love as +long as I have life? Shall I have robbed poor Fanny of what would have +made her happiness, and shall I not value the prize myself?” + +A flood of tender and self-reproachful feelings rushed over her soul. +Fanny’s grief cut her to the heart; she gazed upon her till she felt +herself cruel and odious. She pictured to herself what sufferings she +must have inflicted upon her during the days of her courtship, on +her wedding-day, on a thousand other occasions; she remembered her +unfailing, uncomplaining gentleness; she thought of the good advice she +had given her at various times, and felt how generous and how judicious +it had been. + +Seating herself by her side, she gently lifted her head from the +sofa—she kissed her—she wept with her—she used every tender and +endearing epithet—she implored her to be comforted. + +“I am weeping for my own degradation,” she replied, “that the secret I +scarcely dared own to myself should be uttered in positive words, and +to you, to his wife!—and you will betray me to him, you will tell him, +I am sure you will. Oh! that I should have come to this!—I, who hoped +to have passed through life with a fair, untarnished name, though my +wretched heart might break! Oh, Isabella! in pity keep my secret—spare +me this last bitter drop in the cup of life! He respects me now, and I +think it would kill me to be despised by him.” + +Her broken voice was choked by sobs—she again hid her face in her +hands—she seemed to shrink into herself. + +“Dearest Fanny! what shall I say, what shall I do? If you knew how your +anguish harrows my very soul! I will promise any thing, I will do any +thing that can relieve your mind.” + +“Will you indeed do any thing that I ask?” said Fanny, looking up from +her tears with a face in which beamed a high and lofty hope: “Then, all +I ask of you is, to be happy: and to be truly so, you must place all +your happiness in him; you must let no other feelings interfere with +what is conducive to his welfare, his respectability. Promise this, +Isabella, and I ask no more.” + +“I promise you, dearest Fanny!” and, kneeling at her feet, her hands +clasped and laid on Fanny’s knees, Isabella solemnly repeated, “I +promise you that, for your sake, as well as for his own, I will love, +cherish, and obey him, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, +in poverty or in wealth: I will strive to be unto him a loving, +dutiful, and virtuous wife.” + +“Thank you, my own Isabella!” exclaimed Fanny, and, throwing themselves +into each other’s arms, they mingled tears and embraces. At length +Fanny added, “It is a weight off my mind that I have no longer anything +concealed from you, Isabella; and if I could but feel sure that you, +and you only, should know my weakness——” + +“Shall I promise?” + +“Do, dearest Isabella; let me hear a vow of secrecy pass your lips, and +I think it will go farther towards eradicating every vestige of former +folly than anything else can do.” + +“I promise you that no one word of this day’s conversation shall pass +my lips; and I promise that, except by my future conduct, you shall +never be reminded of it. Will that satisfy you?” + +“Oh, yes, generous, kind, good Isabella! You are only too good, too +kind, and make me feel so inferior to you.” + +“But, Fanny, we must make haste and go into the country. How soon +can we go? I wish we could set out to-morrow; I long to begin my new +career; I am so afraid of growing worldly again in London,—I mean +worldly in my inclinations; my actions I can control, and my vow is +sacred. But how shall I set about opening the subject to my husband? He +was really angry to-day.” + +“What so easy, dearest Isabella? Go at once to him, and say you saw he +was annoyed, and that you are sorry he was so, and that, rather than +annoy him, you are ready to go whenever he wishes.” + +“He will think a very sudden change has come over me: however, I will +try.” + +That evening Fanny pleaded a headache, and went to bed. She was totally +unfitted for society, and could not have ventured into Lord Delaford’s +presence; so that, when he came in, he found Isabella alone. + +For the first time he wished for company; he felt a _tête-à-tête_ with +his wife awkward and unpleasant. He was displeased and disappointed: +it was evident to him he was not loved as he loved, and he was not +yet worked up to the point of accomplishing by authority, what he +fain would have accomplished by affection: his manner was cold and +abstracted. + +Isabella perceived that Fanny’s advice was not given before it was +needed. + +After a silence of some minutes, during which she had twisted a note +into every variety of form of which a note is capable, and he had +turned over the leaves of a very old Review, in which there was not one +entertaining article, she resolved to break the ice at once. Shaking +back her long locks, she looked up in his face, and, holding out her +hand to him, she said— + +“I want to make friends, Henry.” Then, smiling with a frankness of +manner, which, when combined with any thing of emotion, was in her +almost irresistible—“I don’t want to lose your affections by being +obstinate and wilful, and I am ready to go into the country whenever +you please.” + +“Are you in earnest, Isabella, or am I dreaming?” + +“I am in real good earnest, and you had better take me in earnest, for +fear my good resolutions should evaporate. I do really wish to go into +the country, and to be very good;—as good as Fanny.” + +“But can you be happy with only me?” + +“Why, I mean to try;” and she gave him a glance, such as a pretty woman +can give when she feels she has regained her power, but means to use it +in the most agreeable manner. + +“Then I am the happiest of men!” said, and thought, Lord Delaford. + +Reconciliations, joy and peace of mind, are totally uninteresting; +therefore, the sooner the present story is brought to a close the +better. Lord and Lady Delaford went almost immediately to Fordborough +Castle—Fanny returned to her father. She experienced real pleasure in +finding herself again at home, and in ministering to the comforts of +her kind parent. + +By some odd turn of the human mind, the avowal of her secret feelings +to the very person towards whom they were an injury, went farther +towards eradicating them, than all her own reflections and resolutions. +Her conscience felt lighter; she looked back upon them as a matter of +history; and her affection for Isabella had warmed into a real and +ardent friendship. Every one loves a person whom they have served, +essentially served; and every one loves a person over whose conduct +they feel they have great influence. + +One morning, Lord Delaford, having rode over to Elmsley Priory, took an +opportunity of telling Fanny that he was the happiest of men, and that +he was aware he owed all this happiness to her. Then did Fanny enjoy +pure and unalloyed satisfaction! She felt she had not lived in vain: +she had been of service to her fellow-creatures, and she felt raised in +her own estimation. + +Isabella, meanwhile, laboured hard to put in practice all the good +advice she had received from Fanny. The happiness she found she had the +power of bestowing, repaid her for her self-denial in relinquishing the +exciting pleasures of the great world; and before she had time to weary +of her domesticity, she found herself in a situation which called forth +other, and as tender, feelings. + +While she was in Italy, a premature confinement had prevented her +knowing the engrossing affection of a mother, and had allowed her to +plunge again into the vortex of dissipation. + +A growing family is an excellent nostrum for keeping down an active, +restless spirit. Time, health, and thoughts must be, in a great +measure, devoted to their children, by those mothers who do not utterly +neglect their duty; and the constant intercourse with such a mind as +Lord Delaford’s, and the frequent visits which, after a time, Fanny +paid at Fordborough Castle, gradually produced in her character a +reformation of all that was reprehensible. + +Fanny found new objects of interest in Isabella’s children: she was +full of occupation at home; she was her father’s darling. Her life was +a retired one, especially when Lord and Lady Delaford were in London +in the spring; and as there are not many very charming _partis_ in the +immediate neighbourhood of Elmsley Priory, and as she would doubtless +be somewhat difficult in her choice, and as she is no longer quite as +young or as blooming as she has been, it is more than probable she may +become a “single woman of a certain age.” + +Though such should be her fate, may she not be allowed to have an +opinion, should “affairs of the heart” be discussed in her presence? + + + + +MILLY AND LUCY. + + +CHAPTER I. + + Affection true and strong, and simpleness + His goods and chattels, and her bridal dower! + Riches more sure two wedded hearts to bless + Than fortune’s proudest gifts in partial hour: + Unknowing to define by words the power, + That held their spirits in that blissful thrall; + Pride cannot chill nor jealous anger sour, + Each other’s wish they evermore forestall, + And of Love’s darts and flames they never talk at all. + + _Manuscript Poems._ + +“Well, nurse, a wedding is not a merry thing, after all. I could not +help crying bitterly to-day when my sisters were married, and yet it +is what we have all been wishing for so much. I am sure papa and mamma +were in the greatest of frights when they thought Captain Langley +would sail without proposing to Lizzy; and when Sir Charles spoke out +to papa, after we were all gone to bed, I never shall forget what a +banging of doors there was, mamma popping into all our rooms to tell us +the good news!” + +“Ah, poor young ladies!” said nurse Roberts, as she was undressing the +blooming Lucy, the evening of the day on which two of her sisters had +been safely disposed of to two gentlemen, the connection with whom gave +great satisfaction to Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield. + +“Poor young ladies!” repeated Lucy in a tone of surprise: “why do you +pity my sisters, nurse?” + +“La, Miss, I don’t justly know; but somehow ’tisn’t the sort of wedding +as I likes.” + +“Why, what sort of wedding do you like?” + +“Ah, Miss Lucy, I am an old woman, and I have old-fashioned notions; +but I likes to see young people marry as has a respect for one another.” + +“Why, nurse, I am sure Captain Langley and Sir Charles were quite +respectful. What can you mean?” + +“There wasn’t no time, Miss, no time for them to get to have a respect +for one another. I have heard talk of love at first sight, to be sure, +but to my mind there wasn’t no love at all; and that’s the truth of it. +’Tis my belief the Captain he wanted to take a wife to India, because, +as I’ve heard say, ladies are scarce there, and here there’s more of a +choice; and Sir Charles he wanted a lady to sit at t’other end of the +table, and be civil and genteel to the gentlefolks when they comes a +visiting to him; and as for poor Miss Sophy and Miss Lizzy, I don’t +see that they liked these two gentlemen a bit better than twenty other +gentlemen as have been here at one time or another.” + +“Well! I never should have guessed you were so romantic, nurse. Do you +know this is really the true spirit of romance?” + +“No! no! ’Tan’t romance, nor book-nonsense, as I’m talking about. But +when a woman’s once married, she may have many trials and troubles. +There’s Miss Lizzy going into foreign parts, and there’s no knowing +what a wife may have to go through for her husband, first or last, +whether at home or abroad; and if she has not a spirit in her that she +does not care where she goes, nor what she does, as long as it’s for +his sake, why, sometimes ’tis hard to bear.” + +“But when people marry, they marry to be happy, not to go through +trials and troubles.” + +“And do you think, Miss, unless Miss Lizzy loves Captain Langley +dearly, she will be happy when she is a thousand and a thousand miles +away from her friends, and in a strange country? No! no! I knows what +’tis to be alone among strangers, and I knows ’twould have been hard to +bear, if it had not been for poor John’s sake!” + +“Were you very much in love, then, nurse?” and Lucy’s eye twinkled +with an arch glance of amusement as she asked the question, for at the +moment she saw reflected in the glass her own blooming cheeks, rounded +chin, rosy lips, and flowing locks, and the withered face, thin lips, +grey hair, and close-crimped cap of the old woman. “Were you very much +in love?” she repeated, in rather a drawling sentimental tone. + +“I don’t know about that, Miss; but he was true to me, from the time I +was quite a slip of a girl, and it would have been hard if I had been +the one to change. I told him I never would; and I kept my word.” + +“And did he keep his?” + +“That he did, poor soul! There was not a better nor a truer-hearted man +anywhere, than my poor John was. And though I had known some trouble +before, I never knew what ’twas really to grieve till I lost him!” The +poor old woman gave a deep sigh; and Lucy said, in a kind and feeling +tone of voice,— + +“Was it in America you lost your poor husband? I know you once were +there.” + +“Ah! sure enough was it, my dear young lady; and not a friend nor a +relation (besides my two fatherless babes) had I that side of the +water, when I saw my poor John put into the ground. ’Tis that makes +me think so much about Miss Lizzy. I am old, Miss, and I have known +troubles and crosses; and I can’t help looking forward to what may +happen.” + +“But Captain Langley, you know, has friends and relations in India; +and every body says Lizzy will have so many people to wait on her, and +beautiful jewels, and all kinds of things! How could you, dear nurse, +go into a foreign land, if you had no friends and relations there?” + +“Oh, Miss Lucy! ’tis a long story; and you had better go to bed, and go +to sleep.” + +“Now do tell me to-night, nurse? I can’t go to sleep, I am sure; and I +do feel so interested about you and your poor John.” + +The old woman’s heart warmed at hearing her husband’s name spoken so +kindly; and she was nothing loth to begin her story. + +“Why, you see, Miss, John and I, we were neighbours’ children, and +we used to come home from school by the same path; and we often went +nutting and gathering blackberries together, and he was always a +civil, good-tempered boy, and the folks used to call us the little +sweethearts; and so, when we grew bigger, we wished to get married: but +father he said, ‘No, by no means! he would not hear of it!’” + +“But why did your father object to such a respectable young man?” + +“Why, you see, Miss, he was a ropemaker, and was in a good way +of business, and had got above the world; and John, he was only +under-gardener at the Squire’s. He was a handy, sharp young man; but +he had not any thing but just what he earned from week to week; and +father said, he would not hear of no such nonsense, and we must leave +off courting. We both saw that father was right not to agree to our +marrying then; but we thought it hard that we were not to speak to each +other any more. My own mother was dead; and my father’s second wife she +aggravated him against us, and said, if we saw each other as usual, +we should be sure to marry; and then he would have to keep us off the +parish; and that I was a likely, fresh-coloured girl, and might do +better for myself, and might get somebody who would be a help instead +of a hindrance to the family. So I told John I would not marry without +father’s leave, for I knew that would be wrong; but that I would never +have any body but him, if it was ever so. + +”My stepmother, she never let me out of her sight, and always kept me +to my work at home; and I never saw John to speak to him. Of a Sunday, +when we came out of church, he always stood near the hand-gate, and +sometimes, if there was only father, he opened it for us: and as long +as he did that, I was sure he was true to me. + +“One morning, about a year after my father had said he would not hear +no more of John Roberts, and that his girl should marry somebody as +had a house to take her to, and enough to keep her when he had got her +there; ’twas a Monday-morning, and I had washed up the tea-things, and +swept up the hearth, and was just holding a bit of wood-embers in the +tongs for father to light his pipe by, before he went to his work, +when what should I see but John’s face as he went by the window to the +door. I was like to let the tongs fall, it came upon me so sudden! +John knocked at the door, and I shook all over, as if I had got the +ague; for I thought, to be sure, father would be in a towering passion. +Father, he never turned round; but he kept drawing in his breath to +make the pipe light, and he said, ‘Why don’t you go and open the door, +girl?’ So I went to the door, and opened it, and in stepped John; and +he said never a word to me, he only just gave me a look, and he went +straight up to father, and said:— + +“‘Mr. Ansell, don’t take it amiss if I am come to say a few plain words +to you. You won’t let me have your daughter—you think we shall come +into trouble, and be a burthen upon you; and you think Milly can do +better for herself?’ + +“‘Yes!’ said my father; ‘you speak right enough.’ + +“‘But Milly has told me, she’ll never have nobody but me; and you know, +Mr. Ansell, she’s a girl of her word; and you know you could not get +her to marry Mr. Simpkins, the tailor; no, nor you won’t be able to +get her to marry no other lover, if she should have a dozen—I know you +won’t; and I won’t have no other girl! But that’s neither here nor +there—what I’ve got to say is this:—I have just had sent me a letter +from my brother as is in Canada; and he tells me, if I want to make +my fortune, I have only to take ship at Liverpool, and come to him at +Halifax; and there, he says, any man as knows a little of gardening, +and such like, has no more to do, but to get as much land as he likes, +to set to work, and he will have a good market for his vegetables, and +he can be made a man of in no time. He sends me money enough to pay my +expenses out, and he says he will see that I want for nothing, till I +get into a regular way of business. And now, Mr. Ansell, if Milly an’t +afraid to venture over the seas with me, I think we shall be able to +shift for ourselves; and we need never be no burthen to you, nor none +of our friends; and if she won’t go,—why, I’ll go by myself; and I’ll +try to make my fortune alone, and come back and marry her some day or +another, please God to spare me.’” + +“What did your father say to this, nurse?” + +“Why, father seemed very angry when first John began to speak. I +looked at him, and my heart sank within me; then I looked at John, and +his face was flushed like, and his eyes seemed quite bright, he was +so full of hope, and I thought I could never bear to disappoint him. +My stepmother had come in when she heard John’s voice, and so father +turned to her, and said,— + +“‘Well, Sarah, what do you think of this young chap’s notion? I don’t +much like to have my Milly go away from me altogether, and beyond seas +too; though she has been a little testy, or so, about John—I don’t half +like it!’ + +“I felt so, I did not know what to do; and I began to cry and to sob; +and John said to me then,— + +“‘Milly,’ said he, ‘speak your mind. Do you think you could venture +across the water, all the way to America, with me? You know I’ll work +hard for you, and I’ll be as tender of you as if you were a babe; and +whichever way it is, I’ll be true to you, if so be I live.’ + +“Then father said,—‘Milly, if you an’t willing to go along with him, +why there’s an end of it at once, and so speak out.’ + +“I looked at John again, and the longest day I have to live I never +shall forget his face that minute. He was as pale as ashes, and his two +eyes were fixed on me with such a beseeching look! I thought I could do +any thing, and bear any thing, sooner than have him go quite away by +himself, and so I said,— + +“‘Father, I am ready to go anywhere that John takes me to; I know he +will always be kind to me. I an’t afraid with him.’ + +“Poor John! To be sure, how his face did change! his colour came again, +and he looked up so proud and so kind like! I thought nothing would be +a trouble to me for his sake then. + +“Father did not half like what I answered; but his wife was very +good-natured, and said, that perhaps we should do very well in America; +she had a cousin once that made a great fortune somewhere beyond seas, +and that it was very true what John said, we should be no burthen to +our friends when we were so far off.” + +“She was evidently very glad to get rid of you,” interrupted Lucy. + +“Maybe ’twas so, for sometimes father and she had words about me. +Father never could bear to see me put upon; however that was, she was +very kind now, and by degrees we brought father to think about it. And +then John, he had to tell him we must get married out of hand, for the +ship was to sail in a week, and we had to go to Liverpool, and to buy +the things as were wanted on board ship.” + +“Only a week! That was very short notice indeed!” + +“Yes, Miss, and father flew out sadly at first. But there was no help +for it, if I went at all. So John went to the minister, and talked to +him about it, and the minister helped him how to get a licence; and on +the Tuesday, John walked to the town, seven miles off, and he bought a +licence, and a deal of money he paid for it; but his sister gave him +something towards it, and he bought the wedding-ring, and he came to me +Tuesday evening, and showed them both to me, and I thought to be sure +it was a dream. Next morning I was to be married, and I dressed myself +as neat as I could.’ + +“Ah, by the by, what did you do for wedding clothes?” + +“Why, I had a light-coloured gown as good as new, and the minister’s +daughter gave me a new straw bonnet, and my stepmother gave me her +second-best shawl, and we went to church, and my little sister was +bridesmaid, and all the girls round about, as I knew, came to the +wedding. Poor father, how he did cry! and the minister, he was obliged +to stop once, and put down the book to wipe his eyes. He said it was +awful to see two such young things going out into the wide world, so +left to themselves like—but he was not against it, for all that; and +John, he cried too. The rector told father he had never seen so many +people crying at a wedding in all his ministry. Well, it was a sad day +to us all; now that I was married to John, and was sure I was not going +to lose him, it almost broke my heart to see father take on so, and +to look round at the chairs and tables, and the dresser I had cleaned +so many times, and the plates and jugs and cups I took such pride +to set in order, and the strings of birds’ eggs as I had hung over +the chimney-piece, with two peacock’s feathers John and I had picked +up in the Squire’s park, and the sweet-brier we had planted when we +were children, and which grew up quite tall by the house. Ah, sure, +it seems all as plain before me as if it was yesterday. Father sat +with his hands on the top of his stick, and his chin resting on his +hands, looking at the fire, and he took little notice of any of us. My +stepmother, she was bustling about, and seemed to wish to do all she +could for us the last day. + +“Next morning, Thursday, we parted from father, and brothers, and +sisters, and all, and we got on the top of the coach, and we went off +so fast, it made me quite dizzy as it were. We got to Liverpool, Friday +evening; I seemed as though I was lost in that great busy place, but, +whenever John saw me begin to look sad or frightened, he thanked me so +for coming along with him, that I felt I cared for nothing as long as +he was contented. + +“On the Saturday we got all the things they said we must take in the +ship with us, for there are shops as sell every thing ready to hand. +And Sunday we went to church for the first time together as man and +wife, and for the last time together in our own country. As we came out +of the church-door, John said to me, ‘Milly, I am glad we have been +able to go to church together once more in Old England; we don’t know +what places of worship there may be in this new country. But we can +read our Bible wherever we go.’ + +“The vessel was to sail Monday, just one week from the day John +surprised us so as I was making our own little kitchen tidy at home. We +were all on board ship early in the morning. To be sure, how frightened +I was! but I had made up my mind not to be down-hearted, and I bore up +against it all. We had a good passage, and, as soon as we had got our +little matters safe on shore, we set out to look for John’s brother, +who kept a shop for seeds and such like; we soon found the shop, but +it was a sad time for us when we got there. But la, Miss,—there’s the +clock striking twelve, and you not in bed! What will your mamma say to +me for keeping you awake with my old woman’s tales? but it is not often +I talk of by-gone days, and when once I begin I hardly know how to +stop.” + + +CHAPTER II. + + What spirit e’er so gentle shall be found, + So softly reared in humble privacy; + What form so fragile on wide earth’s vast round, + Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky, + That will not brave severest destiny. + Bear, uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong, + And look on danger with unblenching eye, + If love have made that gentle spirit strong, + Love, pure, approved by Heav’n, led that frail form along. + + _Manuscript Poems._ + +Lucy would not hear of going to bed till she had heard the rest of +Milly’s adventures. + +“You must go on, nurse. I cannot let you stop—you know I love any +story, and you know I love you, and so you may guess how much I must be +interested.” + +“You are very good, Miss, to say so. Mine’s a very plain homely tale, +but you always was a kind young lady, and somehow, when I have got over +the first talking about my poor husband, and all our troubles, I can’t +say but there is a kind of pleasure, like, in going over it all again.” + +“Now there’s a good nurse, mind you tell me every thing. What had +happened when you got to your brother-in-law’s?” + +“Ah! poor man! he was dead—dead and buried. He died just three weeks +after he wrote to John; and, though the widow kept on the shop, she +could not do for us as he would have done. Poor soul! she was left with +five young children, and she was almost beside herself with care and +trouble. However, she took us in, and told us we should not have to pay +for lodging while we stayed there, but she could not afford to keep us. +She told John who was the proper person to apply to, to get what they +call a grant of land, and he went next day to see about it, for he was +loth to be a burthen to the poor widow. + +“He found he could not get any garden nor any land near the town, but +he must go a great way off to the back woods, where there were new +settlers, and where he must cut down the trees and dig up the soil +fresh for himself. This was a great disappointment, and he lost a deal +of time trying if he could not get something that would suit better. +But you see, ma’am, every thing goes by interest in one country just +like another; and now his brother was gone he had nobody to put in a +good word for him, and he found there was no use in haggling on any +longer. So he set about buying the goods and the tools which they said +were quite necessary for a new settler, and by the time he had got his +grant of land, and had bought his things, all our money was pretty well +gone, and I was not in a way to be much of a help to him. Poor John! +He said he would not have me begin a long journey in this condition, +and when I got to the end of it have no roof over my head, and be in +a lonesome place with nobody to do for me when the time of my trouble +came. My sister-in-law was very good, and she promised to take care of +me. She got me needlework, and I could earn enough for my own keep; and +so John set off all alone to this land that was to be his. He was to +get the trees felled, and a log-house built, and some ground trenched, +and every thing quite comfortable in a manner; and he was to come back +for me in the spring. I did not half like this. As long as I was with +him I felt as if I could do any thing; but when he was gone, I don’t +know how it was, but I had no spirit to any thing. But he would not let +me go. He said, ‘No! he had told father I should be treated tenderly, +and he would never let me be worse off than the very gipsies in Old +England.’ + +“The autumn seemed very long to me; but I worked hard, and earned +enough to get every thing nice for my baby, and to have a few household +things ready to take with me when the spring came. After my child was +born, I began to grow quite happy with thinking how pleased John would +be to see it. I had got together all my little goods, and had packed +them up, and I was waiting every day for him to come. I thought every +step I heard at the door might be him; for there was no post in those +outlandish parts, and I had only heard from him twice by a private +hand since he went. One day I was startled by hearing a strange voice +ask for me. It was not John, I knew well enough; and there came such +a fright over me I could not answer, nor I could not go to the door. +Though I was always wishing John would come, and wondering he did not, +yet it never before came into my head to be frightened, I felt so sure +he would come at last; but I don’t know how it was, I thought now there +was something bad in store for me. + +“My sister-in-law went to the door, and she brought me up a letter. It +was in his own hand-writing. But when I had got it, I could hardly read +it, I was in such a hurry, and all over in such a tremble. However, it +told me he had been very ill; he had had a bad rheumatic fever, and +was not able to come for me yet; but he was getting better, and hoped +to be able to set off before summer came. I made up my mind directly +what I would do—to set off the next day as ever came, and go to him. +So I went down stairs to the man as brought me the letter, and I asked +him which was the road, and what were the names of the places I had to +go through, and how I was to find out his settlement. I was a pretty +middling scholar, so I wrote it all down from his mouth. That night +I packed up my bundle, and I sold the linen and things I had bought, +for I could not carry them, and I knew I should want the money. My +sister-in-law lent me a little she was able to spare, and next morning +I set out. I reckoned I could walk fifteen miles a-day, and that, as it +was three hundred miles up the country, it would take me about three +weeks to get to him. I was very tired the first day, for I had to carry +my bundle on my back, and my child in my arms; but I did not care. I +thought so of getting to John, I hardly knew that I was tired. I found +a decent little inn, and a civil woman, who made me pretty comfortable +that night, and I had nothing to complain of for several days more; but +after a week or thereabouts, the country was very bare, and there were +but few houses to be seen. One day I had to walk better than twenty +miles before I could get taken in, and, after all, the place was a +miserable hovel, and the woman as kept it was so old, and dirty, and +smoky, and she spoke so short to me, and looked at me so sharp, that +I felt frightened, and almost sorry, when, after a little haggling, +she let me into the hut. It seemed to belong to her; but some men who +came in after me, ordered her about as if they were masters of her and +all she had; and she did not think of refusing them any thing, and +they swore at her terribly, and made themselves quite at home. I had +got away into the inner room when I saw them coming, and I never went +back into the kitchen. The old woman seemed no ways anxious that I +should. I begged her to let me lie down, and she said I might do as I +would; so I tried to get some rest; but I could see these men through +the chinks of the logs, and I could hear most of what they said. They +drank, and they sang, and, by their way of talking, I think they led a +rough sort of robber-like life; but I could not half understand what +they said. At last they rolled themselves up on the floor, and went to +sleep, and I went to sleep too. All my little stock of money, which +was getting very low, but which was my only dependence for reaching my +poor husband, was under my pillow, and I resolved I would not part with +it if I could help it. In the middle of the night my child began to +cry; I felt sure these strange men would wake and rob me, and perhaps +murder me too. I heard one move, and I could see him sit up, rub his +eyes, stretch himself, and he wondered what the noise could be; but I +managed to pacify the child, and he settled himself again. To be sure, +I was glad when I heard him breathe quite hard! I did not sleep any +more that night, and by day-break the hunters (for they had guns, and +powder-pouches, and bags—so I suppose they were hunters) were astir, +and left the hut. I asked the old woman who they were, and which way +they were likely to take; but she did not like being questioned, and +so, when I thought they had been gone about an hour, I set out again on +my lonesome journey. + +“That day the road lay through a great forest of very tall trees, +taller than any trees we have here. I never did feel so lonesome +before; there was not a creature to be seen anywhere, and the tall +trees made the road so dreary, and it was all dark and hollow each +side; for in those great woods the trees stand clear of each other, +and there is no underwood, nor bushes, nor briers, but the boles go up +straight, and the branches meet at top, and one may go miles and miles +and never see the blue sky over one’s head. There was no telling what +might come out from those dismal hollows, and I kept looking round +every minute, and trying to see into them, but ’twas impossible: I +could see the trunks of the trees for a little way, and then ’twas all +as black as night. It made one feel so alone, and yet one did not know +what might be near one; and I thought what would become of me if I was +benighted in this dreary place; and I thought of the wild Indians, and +of the bears, and of my poor innocent babe; but then I thought again of +my husband on his sick-bed, and I took courage. + +“It was past the middle of the day, and the sun had sunk some way below +those tall dark trees, when I sat down to rest myself, and to drink +from a clear stream by the roadside. I was wondering how much farther +it could be to the end of the forest, where I had been told I should +find something of a decent hut, when I was startled at hearing voices +and the report of a gun; and presently three of the men who had passed +the night in the old woman’s hovel came out from among the gloomy trees +on the other side. + +“They looked surprised to see me, and came straight up to me. I don’t +know how it was, but when the time came I did not seem so timid as I +thought I should. I remembered how poor I was, and it could not be no +object to any body to rob me; and I knew I was doing my duty in going +to my husband, and I thought God would protect me. I sat quite still, +and did not tremble nor shake. One of them asked me how I came there? +So I told him the truth, and spoke quite civil, and yet, as it were, +bold and steady, that I was walking from Halifax to my husband at the +far settlement. So another of the men said, quite sharp—‘If you have +got a husband, he had better keep a sharper look-out after such a tight +lass as you are.’ + +“The first man said—‘You have got a long journey before you, my girl.’ + +“And I answered, ‘Yes, sir; but I have got safe through more than half +of it, and I hope, with the blessing of God, to get safe through the +rest of it to my husband, to nurse him in his illness.’ + +“‘Oh! he’s ill, that’s it,’ said the second. + +“‘Well, you can’t be travelling all this way without money,’ says the +third, who had not spoken yet. + +“‘Come, come, poor girl,’ interrupted the first, and gave a wink to the +last speaker, ‘we won’t hinder your journey any longer: you had better +push on, or you’ll be in the dark.’ And he took the other by the arm, +and he seemed to persuade them both to go away; and when I saw them go +off into the woods again, I thanked God for his goodness, and thought +he was indeed a Father to the fatherless, and that he never did desert +them as put their trust in him in the time of their need. + +“I hugged my baby close, and quite forgot how tired I had been a little +while before, and walked and ran till it was nearly dark, when the +trees grew thinner, and I thought I could see lights glimmer in the +distance. I made all the haste I could, and at last I got to a small +settlement of half a dozen log-houses. I stopped at the first door, and +I never felt so happy as when I saw a light, and a fire, and a woman’s +face again. She had a child in her arms too, and I felt quite safe. + +“Next day I was very tired, and the woman at the little inn wished me +to stay all day, and rest myself; but when I was walking and toiling, +I did not feel so much about John: the moment I was still, I thought +how ill he might be, and I could not bear to keep quiet. Besides, the +woman’s husband was going part of the same road, to make a bargain +about some furs; so he kept me company through the rest of the forest, +and he begged the fur-merchants, as he came to speak to, that they +would see me safe to the village where I was to stop that night. This +day my baby began to grow fretful, and no wonder; for, though I did the +best I could for it, ’twas next to impossible to get any thing fit for +a baby at the places I stopped at, and I lived so hard myself that I +made but a poor nurse. + +“My shoes were quite worn out, and my feet were so sore, I thought +I must afford myself a pair of shoes, as I should not have another +opportunity. They were very dear, for every thing was brought from +Halifax. I was sorry afterwards I did not make shift without them. +Next morning my baby was so ill I went to the doctor, for there was +a doctor there, and they said he was the only real doctor anywhere +for miles and miles. He gave me something as quieted the child; but, +when I had paid for this too, my purse was so low, I began to fear I +should not have enough to buy me any thing to eat after the two next +days; and as for begging, I had never been brought up to think of such +a thing. I touched nothing but the coarsest and cheapest food I could +get, and drank nothing but cold water, and I walked farther each day to +get sooner to the end of my journey. I was almost worn out, and (as I +reckoned) I had still three days’ travelling between me and my husband +when I paid away my last farthing. I scarcely hoped ever to reach him, +but I walked on till I got to a small settlement, and then I sat down +by the way-side, and thought what should I do? + +“I could not help crying, and thinking what would father say if he +could see me then; and it hurt me so! for I knew he would feel angry +with John, and fancy it was through him his child was brought into such +trouble, and forced to beg her bread; for there was no help for it, if +I wished to see my husband, and not to let my baby die, I must that +night ask charity of strangers. So I knocked at the nearest door, and +I told my story, and asked for food and lodging. I have often thought, +a mother with her infant in her arms has something which goes to the +hearts of their fellow-creatures, if they have any kindness left in +them. I’m sure I never see a poor beggar-woman with a baby at the door +but I think of myself that weary night, and I never have the heart to +send them away without some little trifle, though, maybe, I’m often +imposed upon. + +“Well! the man as opened the door took pity upon us directly, and bade +me come in and sit by the fire. His daughter, a nice girl of fourteen, +brought us some potatoes and some milk, and let me share her bed. They +would have given me enough to pay my way for the next two days if they +had had it to give; but I was forced to ask charity again that night, +but it did not seem to give me such a choking in the throat as it did +the first time; and I thought how soon we lose our spirit when we get +low in the world, and how easy it is to go on from bad to worse! The +next night I hoped to get to my husband. They told me to keep along +the banks of a great river on my left, where there was something of a +path, but ’twas so overgrown with the long rank grass, ’twas not easy +to find. The new settlement was near the river-side, for the trees, +which the settlers cut some way higher up, drifted down the river till +they came to this place, where the ground was particular rich, and +then they pulled them ashore, and built themselves log-houses. There +were about seven families together, as they told me, and my husband’s +house was the farthest but one. How my poor heart did beat all the way +I went! I longed so to get there, and I dreaded it so too. I walked on +and on, and still I saw no people, nor no huts, nor no fields, and I +began to think I must have come wrong; for, though it was all open and +flat, I could not see very far before me, for the grass was long, and +the rushes very tall, sometimes, by the river-side. Of all the day’s +journeys I had come, this did seem to me the longest; but I suppose +’twas only because I was so impatient to get to the end of it. I looked +at the sun, and it was not above half-way down. Just then there was a +rise in the road, and I could see some smoke, and the roofs of some +low huts, and some little patches of ground that were cultivated, and +I strained my eyes to try and make out the last but one. I don’t know +how I got over the ground, but I soon did reach the first house, and I +saw a child at play, and I asked him which was John Roberts’s. I could +hardly breathe while he answered, ‘He lives out yonder.’ He lives! and +when I heard him say that, I first knew I had been afraid of never +seeing John again. + +“I ran as well as I could to the hut. It looked wretched and half +finished; the door was ajar—I pushed it open—there was nobody in the +kitchen—I heard no noise—I listened—I did not dare step on. Just then +my child cried, and a voice from within said, in a hollow tone, ‘Who’s +there?’ I ran into the bed-room, and there lay my husband, sick, pale, +and weak, but it was my husband alive, and all seemed well.” + +“Oh, nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I never heard any thing half so +interesting in my life. Poor souls! and how was your husband? He got +well?” + +“Yes, Miss, he did get well after a time. He fretted so much to think +he could not go for me, that it had kept him back, and he had nobody +to make him any thing nice, nor to do for him; leastways not to do for +him as I could, though the neighbours looked in now and then and made +his bed, and boiled his potatoes for him, and such like. Sure! how +overjoyed he was to see me, and how pleased he was to see the babe. He +soon began to mend, and then he was so vexed to think he had not been +able to get the place to rights a bit before I came. + +“The fence outside was all broken down, and the garden was only +half-planted; but I had not been there a fortnight before I got it all +to look quite different. I cleaned up the house, and settled the few +things he had got in it, and I helped him to mend the fence, and he was +soon able to dig again, and the things grow very quick in that rich +soil, and our house and garden were quite decent, and we were so glad +to be together again, that we did not see no faults in any thing. + +“In the winter-time John had been lucky in shooting, and had sold +some furs for enough to buy him a cow, and some chickens; and then, +being a pretty middling gardener, he had helped his neighbours, and +put them in the way to crop their gardens as they should be; and most +of them gave him a trifle, some one thing and some another, so that +now he was pretty well, and I was there to keep matters tidy, we were +very comfortable. The winter was cold and long, and in the spring he +had another touch of that nasty fever, as was so common in them low +swampy grounds. In the summer I had my Betsy—you know my Betsy, as is +married to Farmer Crofts?—some of the neighbours were very kind to me, +and I got over it pretty well. Of a Sunday we used to read our Bible +together, and think how true John’s saying was, when we came out of +church at Liverpool, that there was no knowing what places of worship +we might find where we were going to. But John often said all places +might be made places of worship if one had but the mind to it, whether +it was a real church, or the tall, dark, still woods, or the damp wide +savannah, or our own log-hut; and so, I hope, when we read our prayers +there, it did us as much good as if there had been a minister and a +pulpit, and all as it should be. + +“I believe I was too happy then for it to last. With the spring came +the rheumatic fever again, and my poor husband was quite laid up. He +could not do any thing, and he fretted so to think his land was not +trenched, nor any thing seen to! and, what with the children, and the +house, and the cow, and the things out of doors, and poor John to +nurse, I had more than one pair of hands could well do. This would not +have signified if John had but mended when the summer came, but he got +worse and worse. He was so weak, and he suffered a deal of pain, and +there was no doctor. Then I did wish we had never left England, and +I thought it would have been better we should both have worked and +laboured in our own country, till we had got old, and earned enough +to marry upon. But we did for the best; and if John was so set upon +coming, even without me, why, then, it was best I came too, for he had +some one to do for him. It was all written, I suppose; and perhaps +’twas for our good—but this was hard, very hard to bear. + +“One evening I had got the children off to sleep, and I had taken my +bit of work, and was sitting by John’s bedside, when he said to me— + +“‘Milly, you must not stay here when I am gone. If you sell all the +little matters we have got together here, you’ll have enough to pay +your journey to Halifax, and your passage home too, as I reckon. Your +father will be good to you, I think—I hope. Tell him I meant for the +best when I persuaded you to come.’ + +“Oh, Miss Lucy, I never thought to see that day: I had always hoped I +should have been the first to go. But it pleased God otherwise.” + +The poor old woman sat with her apron to her eyes, in quiet, silent +tears. Lucy took one of her withered hands, and pressing it between her +own, told her, with tears in her eyes, how much she felt for her, and +how much she admired her husband’s kind and manly character. She found +this was the chord to which, after so many years, the old nurse’s heart +still vibrated. + +“Yes, Miss Lucy,” and her faded eyes flashed with almost youthful +brightness; “he was the kindest-hearted, the truest-hearted, and the +bravest-hearted man as ever lived. He feared nothing, but to do wrong, +and to part with me. His thoughts were always on me; and when he was +taken, the last words he ever spoke were, ‘my own Milly,’ and the last +look he ever gave was for me, and my hand felt the last pressure his +ever gave.” + +Lucy’s tears flowed fast. She had read many novels, but the fictitious +woes of their heroines did not seem to her half so touching as her old +nurse’s plain story. + +“Well, Miss Lucy, I buried him there; he lies by the banks of that +great river, and there’s the roaring sea, and miles and miles of dreary +land between me and my poor John; and, what’s more, when I die, we +shan’t lie near each other; that frets me sadly sometimes; but he told +me to come home, and so, Miss, I could not do no other. I thought when +I turned my back on the log-hut, where we had passed some such happy +days together, and when I passed by the place where he was buried, at +the other end of the settlement, I thought my heart must have broke; +and, if it had not been for the children, I should have thought it a +mercy if it had. + +“There was some people going to Halifax, and I travelled with them. +I fancied myself in trouble when I went that road before, but now I +thought how happy I was then, for I was going to see my husband’s +face again. But God is very merciful, he never gives us more than +we can bear. I bore it all, and I got to Halifax, and I went to my +sister-in-law. She was a kind woman, and she was sorry for me, for she +knew what it was to be a widow. I took my passage on board a vessel for +England, and I and my two children left America. Though my husband’s +grave was so far up the country, I felt when I left the land, as if +I was more parted from him than ever. But ’twas on board ship that I +learned to be thankful to God for what was left, and not to grieve too +much for any of his creatures. My little boy sickened and died, and he +was not buried, decently buried in the earth, but my poor child was +thrown into the sea. I could not get over that for a long time. It did +seem so unnatural like. But I learned then never to think myself so +low, but what God might afflict me more, and I learned to be grateful +for my Betsy. And she has been a blessing to me—a kind and a dutiful +girl—and one as will never let her old mother come to want, as she gets +in years.” + +“My poor, dear nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I can’t bear to think I should +ever have been a naughty pettish child, and have plagued and worried +you when I was little, and you with all these heavy afflictions on your +mind.” + +“Lord bless your sweet heart! you never plagued me; and, as for your +little vagaries, I believe they made me love you all the better.” + + +CHAPTER III. + + “Il faut très peu de fond pour la politesse dans les manières: il en + faut beaucoup pour celle de l’esprit.” + + LA BRUYERE. + +This simple history of such interesting feelings made Lucy reflect a +good deal. She looked back on her sisters’ courtships and weddings, and +could not persuade herself they had either felt or inspired sentiments +half so noble, or so disinterested, as John’s and Milly’s; and she +resolved, in her own mind, she would never marry unless she was really +in love—very much in love. + +It seldom happens that people, on the subject of matrimony, act +according to the plan they have proposed to themselves. The girl who +settles she will marry a tall dark man, is sure to marry a little fair +man; the man who resolves he will have a meek and gentle wife, is +caught by some wild coquette, to whom he tamely submits for the sake of +a quiet life. So the young lady, who has made up her mind that love is +folly, and that, if she repents, it shall be in a coach and six, runs +away with a pennyless captain; and Lucy, though extremely anxious to +emulate Milly, never found the object to which she could thus devote +herself, and ended by repenting in a coach and six. + +In the empty dandies and lounging officers who frequented L——, the +watering-place near which Colonel Heckfield’s small property was +situated, she saw nothing superior to Captain Langley, or to Sir +Charles Selcourt; and Nurse Roberts had decidedly not thought Sophy or +Lizzy in love with either. But she was very young, and she had plenty +of time to look about her. Her three elder sisters were married; her +two younger ones had not yet emerged from the school-room; her numerous +brothers looked on her as the pet and the beauty of the family, and +they all reckoned she was to captivate something brilliant in the way +of a _parti_. There was a floating wish in her mind to be heroically +devoted, as, through her homely language, she perceived Milly Roberts +had been; and yet a desire not to disappoint the expectations of +father, mother, brothers, sisters, and governess. + +All their acquaintances exclaimed at the good fortune of the Heckfields. + +“They did not know how Mrs. Heckfield managed it, but her daughters no +sooner appeared than they were snapped up—they were pretty, certainly. +Harriet, the eldest, was a fine rosy girl, but she never had an air of +fashion. Lizzy had pretty eyes and fine teeth, but her features were +decidedly bad. Sophy had a beautiful figure, but she was so pale!” +(Sir Charles Selcourt thought that a little rouge would make her look +exceedingly well at the head of his table.) Lucy was the beauty, so +they supposed she looked very high. + +About this time Lord Montreville came to the watering-place of L——. +He had but lately succeeded to the title of his elder brother; +having passed through the career of a gallant gay Lothario, with the +reputation of having been the most irresistible, and the most discreet, +but the most general of lovers. + +As the charming, but half-ruined Lord Arthur Stansfeld, he had been +safe from the machinations of mammas; but the hearts of the daughters +had not been safe from his. Secure in the impossibility of his being +considered as an eligible _parti_ for the very lovely and high-born +beauties who alone could attract his notice, he had not feared to +pay such attentions as generally excited a preference on the part +of the young ladies. As to the married women, whose names had been +coupled with his, in a manner more gratifying to his vanity than to +their honour, the list would be painfully long. Still he had avoided +any _éclat_, and no one could accuse him of betraying, by a word or +a look, any consciousness of his own powers of attraction. On the +contrary, he preserved enough of the tone of the _vieille cour_ to +make his manner respectful and devoted, and he had acquired enough of +the ease of the present day to prevent its being the least formal. +He had arrived at that age when, if he had not been so good-looking, +so attentive to his dress, so lively in society, he would have been +called by the young an old man; but, as it was, he was only called an +agreeable man, without any reference being made to the number of years +that had passed over his head. Having now succeeded to the family +title and estates, he began for the first time to think seriously of +marriage. But every charm which had formerly proved attractive to him +now filled him with alarm. He had had every opportunity of becoming +acquainted with the foibles and the faults of ladies of fashion, and +none of estimating their good qualities. He regarded with suspicion +style, manner, vivacity, talents, grace; and he resolved to choose some +young, unsophisticated creature whom he could mould according to his +own views, and who should be as unlike as possible to all those with +whom he had had any former connexion. + +He was accidentally introduced to Lucy, and she appeared to him +precisely the thing of which he was in search. She was decidedly very +pretty, and lacked nothing but what a week’s tuition would give, to +have _un air distingué_. Her head was small—it was naturally well put +on. Her figure was slender, her foot was not large; and, though her +hands were a little red, they were well-shaped. Some almond-paste, the +best shoemaker, and Mademoiselle Hyacinthe, would set all quite right. +He thought he should not alter the style of her coeffure. The back of +her head was so Grecian in its contour, she might venture upon her own +simple twist and long ringlets. + +Having thus made up his mind, he proceeded to ingratiate himself with +the family. There was a public ball at the concert-rooms, and thither +he went. + +He never danced: he knew he was too old, and he never affected youth. +But, when Lucy was dancing, she often found his large, intelligent, +expressive eyes fixed on her from beneath the very dark eyebrows which +shaded them, without giving them any look of harshness. She felt +flattered, without being distressed, for the expression was that of +kindly pleasure in seeing a lovely young woman innocently gay. The gaze +expressed that he did think her lovely, though it contained nothing +that could alarm the most shrinking modesty. + +In the course of the evening he conversed a good deal with Mrs. +Heckfield, in whose common-place remarks he seemed to find much pith +and substance. + +Between the dances, when Lucy returned to her mother, he rose to give +her his seat, not as if he was merely doing an act of common courtesy, +but as if it afforded him real heart-felt pleasure to be of any +possible use to her, and it was with kindliness, rather than gallantry, +that he flew to fetch her some tea, or some lemonade. + +He handed Mrs. Heckfield to supper, and sat between her and Lucy, who +found her partner quite dull and stupid, in comparison with this very +agreeable new acquaintance. He did not talk much; he said nothing which +she could afterwards remember as being either clever or amusing. But +he had a manner of listening with a deferential air, his eyes fixed +with attention on the speaker, while his countenance seemed to say, the +remark made was new and luminous, something which had never struck him +before, so that people believed themselves delighted with him, while, +in truth, they were delighted with themselves. + +In a cabinet-council, Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield agreed that, as he +appeared to find so much pleasure in their society, they might venture +to ask Lord Montreville to dinner. But who to invite to meet him? That +was a question of much consideration. The Bexleighs were agreeable, but +they were so numerous, that it would make the party dull to have so +many of one family. It is dreadful if members of the same household get +near each other; they cannot seize that moment for talking of family +affairs, neither can they make conversation like strangers. + +“Let us have the Thompsons, my dear,” said the Colonel. + +“La! Colonel Heckfield! Mrs. Thompson! so fat and vulgar, and Mr. +Thompson, so silent, unless you talk of stocks or consols.” + +“Well, then, Colonel Danby and his daughter.” + +“They will do pretty well; but I was thinking of Mrs. Haughtville, who, +you know, has always lived in the first circles.” + +“What! that deaf old woman? I can’t see of what use she can be.” + +“Why, my dear, it won’t do to ask just common-place country neighbours. +We must get somebody Lord Montreville is likely to know.” + +“Very true! And then my friend Dolby, he knows every body, and can talk +thirteen to the dozen.” + +“He knows every body who has been in India, but I very much suspect he +does not know any body that Lord Montreville would think any body,” +answered the lady, who never could endure her husband’s jolly friend, +who certainly did eat, drink, talk, and laugh thirteen to the dozen, +but who, she not unwisely thought, would be a very bad ingredient in +this refined party; “Surely Sir James Ashgrove, the member for the +county, would be a better person; we can give him a bed, you know.” + +“Very well—Ashgrove is a good fellow, and a sensible fellow, but he +never gives you much of his conversation, unless you talk of the last +division in Parliament, and then he will tell you which way every +member voted, and the reasons of his vote into the bargain.” + +“But he is a man of good birth and good connexions, and quite a friend +of the family besides; James’s godfather and all.” + +“Then, if we ask our good parson and his two daughters, we shall have +quite enough. I don’t like a great let-off; it is much best to take +matters quietly.” + +“Good heavens, Colonel Heckfield! you cannot be in earnest. What! +that old proser, who makes a comma between every word, and a full +stop nowhere! and those two Misses, one as old as the hills, and the +other as giggling a girl as ever I saw. Besides. Lucy and she will get +laughing and gossiping together, and Lucy never appears to advantage +when Bell Stopford is with her.” + +“Whom had we best have then, my love?” responded the Colonel, who began +to be weary of the discussion. + +“Why, first of all, Mrs. Haughtville,” answered Mrs. Heckfield, who +had long ago prepared her list in her mind, “and Sir James Ashgrove +(as _you_ wish), and young Mr. Lyon, Lord Petersfield’s nephew, and +Sir Alan Byway, the great traveller, and Miss Pennefeather, who wrote +those sweet novels; she is quite the lion of these parts, and people of +fashion like to meet a genius; and then, my dear, I thought of asking +Lord and Lady Bodlington.” + +“Mercy upon us, wife! why I don’t know them by sight.” + +“But I do, Colonel Heckfield, and a sweet woman she is. I was +introduced to her at the ball the other night, and it would be but +civil to ask them to dinner.” + +“I think it would be much better to have Mr. Denby and his nice +daughter. But it is all the same to me; I don’t like running after fine +folks, who care not a rush for us, that’s all.” + +“Well, if Lord and Lady Bodlington cannot come, then we will ask the +Denbys. But I really am half pledged to ask them, for Lady Bodlington +said the other night she heard I had the prettiest green-house in the +world: and I said I hoped to have the pleasure of showing it to her.” + +“But we do not dine in the green-house?” + +“I assure you, my love, I understand these little matters better +than you do, and it would seem quite marked if we did not ask the +Bodlingtons.” + +Colonel Heckfield did not quite understand what would seem marked, but +he acquiesced. + +The distinguished personages mentioned by Mrs. Heckfield proved +propitious, with the exception of Sir Alan Byway, whose place was +filled, though most inadequately filled, by a young shy lordling, who +was at a private tutor’s in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Heckfield preferred +him, on account of his name, to the Indian friend Dolby, whom Colonel +Heckfield, on the secession of the loquacious traveller, made another +attempt to insert. + +The eventful day arrived. Mrs. Heckfield, in her secret soul, was in a +great fuss, though she maintained a tolerably placid exterior; she was +so afraid, after all her pains to exclude any unworthy guests, that +the party might prove dull, or not _bien assorti_. Colonel Heckfield +was really composed and easy: he did not like seeking great people, +but, if they fell in his way, they did not annoy him. The place, though +small, was pretty; the house was _bien montée_; there was nothing to be +ashamed of, and he did not see how it could much signify whether one, +out of the many pleasant, cheerful dinners, which had taken place under +his hospitable roof, proved, or did not prove, the quintessence of +perfection. + +Not so Mrs. Heckfield. She had settled that, on the impression made +that day, depended the future fate of Lucy. When she let herself alone, +she was a pleasing, popular woman; but on this occasion, she wished to +be more elegant and well-bred than usual. Mrs. Haughtville being rather +deaf, could not hear a word she said; and, as Mrs. Heckfield would not +commit the vulgarity of speaking loud, every word they addressed to +each other, might have figured very well in the game of cross questions +and crooked answers. Lady Bodlington was a good-humoured very insipid +little woman! Lord Bodlington the most common-place man imaginable. +Mr. Lyon was an empty dandy, and he was unfortunately seated next to +Miss Pennefeather, whom he regarded with horror, fear, detestation, +and contempt, as a blue—and, worse than all, a country blue! Miss +Pennefeather, in a yellow toque and red gown, sate up, waiting to be +drawn out—but—she waited in vain. The fashionably low tone of voice in +which the mistress of the mansion spoke, and her studied desire to be +perfectly well-bred, communicated a _gêne_ and formality to the whole +party, which, re-acting upon the suffering hostess, would have made the +evening one of unmitigated pain to herself, and of unmitigated bore to +her company, if Lord Montreville’s tact and good breeding had not come +to the relief of all parties. + +He asked Miss Pennefeather some questions upon modern literature, which +gave her an opportunity of pouring forth her stores of information +into the ears of the loathing dandy. He made a remark concerning the +number of members who had paired off upon the last important division +in the last session of Parliament, and Sir James Ashgrove was in his +element. He informed Lady Bodlington what was the proper name for that +species of sable of which her boa was composed, and she became eloquent +to prove that, whatever its name, it was of the most approved sort—in +Paris at least—whatever it might be in Russia. He told young Lord +Slenderdale he ought to look at Captain Charles Heckfield’s brown mare, +for she was the cleverest hack he had seen for a long time, and the two +young men soon found themselves able to speak. He complimented Colonel +Heckfield on his wines, and Mrs. Heckfield on the beautiful china of +which the dinner service was composed; and he told her in a friendly, +confidential manner, the only place where such rare china could be +matched. By degrees the conversation became general, and then he +listened to each, so as to make each person—each lady at least, believe +herself an object of interest and attention to him. + +Mrs. Heckfield felt quite at her ease concerning the fate of her +dinner, and perfectly intimate with Lord Montreville, but not quite +happy about Lucy, who, since the first awful silence, had given way +to a comfortable universal clatter, had grown so merry with her +brother and Lord Slenderdale, that Mrs. Heckfield felt convinced Lord +Montreville would set her down in his mind as a missish hoyden, and +entirely dismiss her from his thoughts. In vain were sundry maternal +glances levelled at poor Lucy—knittings of the eyebrows (suddenly +smoothed and converted into sweet smiles if any one looked her way), +all were wasted on the unconscious girl, who, in the gaiety of her +heart, continued to laugh and to talk till she was on the verge of +laughing a little too loud, and, as Mrs. Heckfield thought, of losing a +marquisate. + +But she was mistaken. Lord Montreville knew the sex well, and he saw +that it was an innocent, gay, natural laugh—that there was neither +freedom nor coquetry in her merriment; he knew how quickly women catch +the tone of good society, and he still thought she would do. + +Mrs. Heckfield hastened the signal for the departure of the ladies, +in consequence of Lucy’s ill-timed mirth, and they all sailed out, +Lady Bodlington first, the Honourable Mrs. Haughtville next, Miss +Pennefeather followed after, and Mrs. Heckfield was able quietly, but +angrily, to whisper to Lucy, “that she giggled just as if Bell Stopford +had been with her.” + + +CHAPTER IV. + + Il n’est pas bien honnête, et pour beaucoup de causes, + Qu’une femme étudie et sache tant de choses. + Former aux bonnes mœurs l’esprit de ses enfans, + Faire aller son ménage, avoir l’œil sur ses gens, + Et régler la dépense avec économie, + Doit être son étude et sa philosophie. + Nos pères sur ce point étaient gens bien sensés, + Qui disaient qu’une femme en sait toujours assez + Quand la capacité de son esprit se hausse + A connaître un pourpoint d’avec un haut de chausse. + Les leurs ne lisaient point, mais elles vivaient bien, + Leurs ménages étaient tout leur docte entretien; + Et leurs livres, un dé, du fil, et des aiguilles, + Dont elles travaillaient au trousseau de leurs filles. + Les femmes d’à present sont bien loin de ces mœurs, + Elles veulent écrire, et devenir auteurs.—MOLIERE. + +There is no moment more trying to the mistress of a house than that +in which the ladies first gather round the fire when they leave the +dining-room. If a silence ensues, or if the conversation is begun in +too low a tone of voice, that voiceless utterance which denotes and +produces shyness, the die is cast—the character of the evening is +stamped. + +Unfortunately Mrs. Heckfield, in her anxiety to be attentive, just as +the ladies were crowding round the fire, asked them if they would not +“take a seat,” and was sufficiently wanting in tact to allow them to +settle themselves, in something very nearly approaching a circle, and a +circle some way removed from the fire. + +In vain were the sofas stuffed with cushions, in vain were the ottomans +as low as possible, and the arm-chairs so deep that no one under seven +feet high could reach the back of them; in vain were all the tables so +orthodoxly covered with snuff boxes under glass cases, miniatures in +beautiful frames, French souvenirs with liliputian artificial flowers, +annuals in every variety of binding, prose albums, poetry albums, +drawing albums, china cups and Sevres vases, Dresden inkstands, and +mother-of-pearl letter pressers, till it was impossible to find a spot +on which a cup could be safely deposited; all these appliances and +means to boot will not produce ease if it is wanting in the mind of the +hostess. From which, by the by, might be deduced the superiority of +mind over matter. + +Mrs. Haughtville was a fine lady, and was anxious Lady Bodlington +should not labour under the erroneous impression that she was in her +element with Miss Pennefeather and the Heckfields. She therefore took +an early opportunity of asking Lady Bodlington how many Miss Heckfields +there were, and whether this Miss Heckfield was older or younger than +Lady Selcourt. Lady Bodlington answered truly and simply, that she +did not know, as she had only met them once before at the ball. Mrs. +Haughtville did not hear, and Lady Bodlington, who was straightforward +and good-humoured, and did not wish to be uncivil, was quite distressed +to know how to answer. Mrs. Haughtville continued to ask questions +about the people present, forgetting that though she asked in a +whisper, she could not hear the whispered answer. + +Mrs. Heckfield, who thought if Miss Pennefeather would talk every one +must be delighted with her cleverness, was occupied in leading her to +subjects on which she fancied she would shine and edify her audience; +but Miss Pennefeather, who had found the dandy very unsatisfactory, and +was not much pleased with the _insouciance_ of the ladies of fashion, +and who thought herself privileged to have the sensitive pride of +genius, was not so easily drawn out. Lucy, who had been daunted by her +mother’s remark as they left the dining-room, was meek and silent. + +It was up-hill work for Mrs. Heckfield. At length she thought of some +Italian views which had lately been sent to her by her eldest son, who +was on his travels. + +“Have you seen these prints, Miss Pennefeather, that Henry has sent me? +They are quite in your way, such an Italian scholar as you are.” + +Miss Pennefeather revived; she piqued herself on her pronunciation of +Italian. She looked at them with interest, read the names of each with +great emphasis, scrupulously called Leghorn, Livorno, and Florence, +Firenze; and expatiated on the beauties of each place, as if she had +lived there all her life. + +“I thought you had never been abroad, Miss Pennefeather?” said Lucy, +timidly and simply. + +“No! I have never been abroad, exactly,” replied Miss Pennefeather, +with a slight embarrassment, but, instantly recovering, she added +with enthusiasm, “but I have heard and read so much of these hallowed +spots, I feel as if I knew them perfectly; as if I had roved with +Il Petrarca, through the shady groves and by the purling streams of +Valchiusa; as if I had accompanied the great author of the Divina +Commedia in his wanderings; and I can almost fancy I had made one of +that party of congenial souls in the enchanted skiff with Guido and +Lappo, + + ‘E Monna Vanna, e Monna Bice poi, + E quella sotto ’l numer delle trenta!’ + +I never see a print of La bella Firenze, without thinking of her exiled +poet, and,” she added with a sigh, and an upward glance, which was +intended to speak volumes, “feeling with him— + + ‘Come sa di sale + Lo pan altrui, com’ è duro calle, + Lo scender, e ’l salir per l’altrui scale.’” + +Miss Pennefeather was poor, and her friends were extremely kind in +frequently inviting her to stay at their houses, where she appeared to +enjoy herself exceedingly, and gave no signs of sympathising with Dante. + +“What did she say?” asked Mrs. Haughtville. + +“Something about salt bread, and its being very hard to go up and down +stairs,” answered the good-humoured Lady Bodlington. + +“Oh!” said Mrs. Haughtville. + +Miss Pennefeather cast a glance of contempt at the high-born pair, +and relapsed into a dignified silence. Coffee came: that was a real +blessing. Tea succeeded, which was some comfort. Mrs. Heckfield’s eyes +turned frequently and more frequently towards the door; still the +gentlemen came not. In her despair she bade Lucy give them a little +music. + +“You are fond of music, I believe, Lady Bodlington?” + +“Oh, yes! passionately fond of music!” answered Lady Bodlington, with a +suppressed yawn, and poor Lucy seated herself at the pianoforte. + +She had a pretty voice, but she was very much frightened. Miss +Pennefeather was a critic, and Mrs. Haughtville looked so cold. +Lady Bodlington she did not mind—she seemed good-natured, and the +circumstance of her being a viscountess, had not the same effect on +Lucy’s nerves as on her mother’s. + +She did her best, and Lady Bodlington, with a sweet smile, thanked her +for that pretty Spanish air. + +“It is German!” said Lucy, with the _naïveté_ of youth; and both felt +uncomfortable. Lady Bodlington, at having made a wrong hit, Lucy, +at not having pronounced her words more distinctly. Lady Bodlington +should have known better than to utter any phrase of commendation which +committed her, as to the language in which a young lady’s song is +couched. Lucy should have known better than to set her right, when she +had made the mistake. + +“If Miss Pennefeather would favour us!” humbly suggested Mrs. +Heckfield: “One of your own unique compositions, my dear Miss +Pennefeather. Miss Pennefeather composes words, and music, and all, +Mrs. Haughtville, and they are the sweetest things!” + +This account of Miss Pennefeather’s multifarious talents excited +a slight emotion of curiosity in Mrs. Haughtville’s mind, and she +accordingly begged Miss Pennefeather to grant their request. Lady +Bodlington was very anxious indeed; and the poetess, whose pride, +though easily wounded, was, through the medium of her vanity, as +easily soothed, found the two fine ladies were more intellectual, and +consequently more worthy of the efforts of her genius, than she had at +first imagined. + +After a little bashful reluctance, she seated herself upon the round +stool. She was short and thick, with a very small waist and a very full +gown, and she sat extremely stiff and upright. Her arms were short, and +when she meant to play _staccato_, she caught up her hands as high as +her shoulders, and then she pounced down again on the affrighted notes +as a kite upon a brood of chickens. The “sweet thing” she selected for +the occasion was in a German style. A love-lorn damsel who sold herself +to the spirit of darkness, that she might rejoin her murdered lover’s +ghost in another, but not a better, world. Miss Pennefeather’s nose was +small, and somewhat _retroussé_; her eyes were large, black, and round +(they were her beauty); her mouth would not have been ugly, but that it +was difficult to decide where her chin ended and her throat began, so +that, during the vehement and energetic passages which the nature of +the subject called forth, when the head was thrown back, and the black +eyes were darting their beams towards the ceiling, the double chin +protruded rather beyond the natural and original one. + +The gentlemen entered just as the maiden was torn away to the realms +below by the infernal crew, and, having repented her of her unholy +compact, was invoking beings of the upper air to her rescue. The poor +pianoforte reeled under the astounding accompaniment, in its lowest +bass to the deep-toned exultation of the demons, and to the shrieks of +the maiden in its highest treble; the Sappho’s cheeks were suffused +with the excitement of the moment, the feathers in her yellow toque +were waving as rapidly as the plume of a hero in the thickest of the +fight. The sight, the sounds, were awful! + +The dandy reached the door—he saw—he heard—and, he fled. He retreated +to the hall, and hastily seizing a hat (which, by the by, happened to +be Lord Montreville’s instead of his own,) and throwing around him his +military cloak, he boldly sallied forth in a drizzling wet night to +walk two miles to his lodgings. + + “He’d brave the raging of the skies, + But not”—Miss Pennefeather. + +The other gentlemen were less easily intimidated, and made good +their entrance. Lord Montreville seated himself by the side of Lucy, +and, without speaking enough to be uncivil towards the performer, +he contrived to make Lucy perfectly understand that he preferred +her conversation to Miss Pennefeather’s singing, although he was +passionately fond of music, and should like of all things to hear her +sing. + +When the performance was concluded, he assured the Corinne of the +evening that her composition was one which could be heard with +indifference by no one. Miss Pennefeather was charmed, and asked if his +Lordship was an admirer of the new style of English music, which had +been introduced since the Captive Knight and the Treasures of the Deep +had made such a sensation. + +“Of course you know the Treasures of the Deep? They tell me I have +caught something of the inspired authoress’s expression.” Lord +Montreville really trembled. He had heard it sung by the inspired +authoress, and he hastened to avert the sacrilegious attempt, by +begging for another of her own composition. + +Charmed and flattered, Miss Pennefeather again burst forth in a +perfectly original piece, under cover of which Lord Montreville +entered into a most agreeable conversation with Lucy. His dark, +lively, expressive eyes, looked at her with so much consciousness +of being understood, that she immediately felt quite intimate, and +perfectly satisfied that he was as much amused as she was, by Miss +Pennefeather’s exhibition. These looks of mutual intelligence and +amusement prevented her feeling any awe of his age or his rank, while +his very age made her feel perfectly safe and innocent in immediately +giving in to the intimacy which so suddenly sprang up between them. +Their communication did not confine itself to a little good-humoured +ridicule of the self-constituted Corinne; he had the happy knack of +leading the conversation to topics interesting to the individuals with +whom he conversed; and Mrs. Heckfield overheard Lucy, in the fullness +of her heart, giving a detailed account of the death of a Newfoundland +puppy, which was supposed to have been bit by a mad dog! + +Mrs. Heckfield was in agonies: she looked unutterable things; but her +looks were utterly thrown away. Lucy’s heart and soul were in her +subject, and her eyes were sufficiently tearful to look very bright +and melting. Lord Montreville thought this extremely countrified +simplicity, charming, though he did not intend it should last for +ever. He was himself a professed lover of animals, and he gave her, in +return, an account of a horse who neighed when he came into the stable, +and would put his nose into his pocket to find the bread he was in the +habit of feeding him with. + +Lucy thought him the nicest, best-natured creature she had ever met +with; and Mrs. Heckfield saw her, in the midst of his story, draw her +chair nearer to him, her whole mind intent upon the sensible horse. +Mrs. Heckfield thought, “How improper! how forward! how vulgar! What +can ail Lucy to-night?” + +When the company dispersed, what was her horror to see Lucy put out +her hand towards Lord Montreville, and shake hands with him cordially, +heartily, and frankly; but her horror was mixed with astonishment, when +Lord Montreville begged permission to call the next morning, as Miss +Heckfield had promised to show him some beautiful puppies, and to allow +him to select one, as he was a great dog-fancier. + +“What can be the meaning of this?” thought she, “he must be disgusted +with Lucy’s manners to-day! They could not have been worse if Bell +Stopford had been here!” + +When the last carriage had driven from the door, Mrs. Heckfield threw +herself into a chair. + +“Well, Lucy! I think you have done it to-day! When you knew I wished +you to behave like a girl of fashion. When we had all the best +company within ten miles round assembled here, just this one day, to +giggle and laugh all dinner-time, and then to entertain a man of Lord +Montreville’s refinement and taste with your dog’s death, and your +puppies’ birth! He must think you have been brought up in the stables, +rather than in the drawing-room.” + +“Oh, dear mamma! I assure you he asked me all about poor dear Hector’s +death!” + +“Asked you about Hector’s death! How could he have known such a dog as +Hector ever existed, if you had not begun about your own dog and your +own affairs? Don’t you know that egotism should be avoided in every +way, and that it is the most ill-bred thing in the world to talk of +yourself and your concerns?” + +“So it is, mamma;—very true. I did not mean to talk of myself, and +I am sure I do not know how I fell into it: but you don’t know how +interested he seemed. I do not think he was bored, really: he says he +is so fond of animals—just like me.” + +“Pooh, child!—he is a very well-bred man, and was too polite to let you +feel you bored him. You must learn not to be led into pouring your own +histories into people’s ears.” + +Mrs. Heckfield forgot that at dinner she had given Lord Montreville a +very long account of the manner in which she had become possessed of +the china he had admired. + + +CHAPTER V. + + “Enfin ils me mettaient à mon aise: et moi qui m’imaginais qu’il y + avait tant de mystère dans la politesse des gens du monde, et qui + l’avais regardé comme une science qui m’était totalement inconnue, + et dont je n’avais nul principe, j’étais bien surprise de voir qu’il + n’y avait rien de si particulier dans la leur, rien qui me fût si + étranger; mais seulement quelque chose de liant, d’obligeant, et + d’aimable.” + + MARIVAUX. + +Lucy went to bed uneasy at having had such bad manners, and yet not +altogether mortified; for, though she implicitly believed all her +mother said of her behaviour, she did not think it had quite produced +the effect she imagined upon Lord Montreville, “for mamma did not know +how good-natured he was.” + +She generally chatted with Milly, as she was undressing; and Milly, +who was aware that the party of that day was one which had excited +some anxiety in her mistress’s bosom, inquired of Miss Lucy “how the +gentlefolks had been pleased, and whether every thing was right at +table.” + +“We were all pretty well placed, I believe, only mamma says I am not to +sit so near Charles again, for if we get near each other we make too +much noise; and Mr. Lyon did not like Miss Pennefeather at all.” + +“I am sorry for that, miss; but I meant how the cross-corners did, for +poor Mrs. Fussicome was in such a way. The jelly would not stand, and +it looked so shocking bad when it was in the dish, that what did we do +but beat up some raspberry cream in no time, and sent it in instead; +but then it made two reds at the cross-corners; but I should hope +nobody noticed it.” + +“I am sure I did not, nurse, and I don’t think mamma did; at least +she said nothing about it. Every thing looked very nice, tell Mrs. +Fussicome.” + +“Yes, miss, that I will, for she has been quite put out about it; she +said she could not enjoy her supper a bit, and she thought the soufflet +was not quite right.” + +“Mamma did not say any thing about it: indeed she saw no faults in the +dinner, they were all in me. How I do wish I had not such spirits. I +mean to be so quiet and demure, and as soon as the people begin to +talk to me I forget. I do really believe Lord Montreville is very +good-natured, and will not think the worse of me.” + +“La! miss, I’m sure your mamma can’t think there is any harm in talking +and laughing with such an old gentleman.” + +“He is not so very old, Milly,” answered Lucy, though if Milly had not +said so, she might have been the first to say it herself. + +About one o’clock the next morning, Lord Montreville arrived at Rose +Hill Lodge, and was surprised to find Lucy shy, reserved, timid, +and rather awkward. Mrs. Heckfield, anxious to efface from Lord +Montreville’s mind all impressions concerning the kennel, and the +stables, and the dog-hutches, led his attention to the flower garden, +which was remarkably pretty, and to her small conservatory, which was +in excellent order, at the same time taking care to let him know that +the disposition of the flower-beds was according to Lucy’s taste, that +Lucy had arranged the vases in the manner which excited his admiration, +that the training of the creepers in festoons from one tree to another +was Lucy’s fancy. She pointed out a beautiful new geranium which had +been named after her little “madcap Lucy; for madcap as she is, Lord +Montreville, she has a decided taste for botany and that kind of +thing,” added Mrs. Heckfield, with a sweet smile at Lucy, who certainly +that morning had not deserved the name of “madcap.” + +Lord Montreville immediately understood the state of the case, and +was well pleased; he thereby perceived that Lucy was docile, easily +subdued, and easily managed. However, as his present object was to win +her confidence, preparatory to attempting her heart, he alluded to Miss +Heckfield’s promise of a puppy of their beautiful breed of setters, and +he begged to be taken to the kennel, as he was to be allowed to choose +for himself. Mrs. Heckfield entreated Lord Montreville would allow +her to send for the dogs. Lord Montreville insisted on not giving so +much trouble, when the servant was seen issuing from the drawing-room +windows, showing the way to Lord and Lady Bodlington, who had called +to see the conservatory. Mrs. Heckfield had a fresh demand on her +politeness, and after the proper greetings, Lord Montreville whispered +Lucy that she must not allow him to be cheated of his puppy, that he +had quite set his heart upon seeing the whole family, and entreated +her to lead the way. She was at first somewhat confused, and looked +uneasily towards her mother, who was some way in advance; but she did +not know how to refuse, so they proceeded through the back-yard, by the +coal-hole, and the bottle-rack, through the drying-ground, past the +pigsties, to a range of out-houses, where Lufra and all her family were +shut up. + +The moment Lucy opened the door, up jumped Lufra, to the great +detriment of the pretty muslin gown which that day made its first +appearance. + +“Oh, my best new gown!” exclaimed Lucy. “O dear! Why would mamma make +me put it on?” + +She had scarcely uttered the words when it flashed across her why mamma +had wished her to be smart and to look well. She stopped short, and +blushed up to the eyes. + +“This is too _naïf_,” thought Lord Montreville; “but _naïveté_ soon +dies away if it is not encouraged. Her mother wishes to catch me, I +know; but the girl has no plan; I shall be able to mould her to my +liking.” + +A young man would have flown off upon perceiving the mother’s views; +but Lord Montreville had seen them plainly from the very beginning, and +it did not affect his opinion as to whether Lucy _était son fait_, or +not. Because Mrs. Heckfield wished to catch him, there was no reason he +should be caught; and he continued his observations of Lucy, and his +calculations whether she would easily become the sort of wife he wished +to have. + +After a long discussion concerning the several merits and beauties +of the several puppies, in which Lucy found Lord Montreville’s taste +in dogs perfectly coincided with her own, the puppy was selected, +and Lucy’s heart had again opened, her reserve had vanished, she had +made up her mind that, for once, mamma was wrong, and she was right; +that her’s had been the most correct estimate of Lord Montreville’s +character. She asked him if he admired young donkeys. He confessed that +if he had a weakness, it was for a little baby donkey, with a shaggy +forehead and a pointed nose. Lucy’s eyes sparkled at such a proof of +sympathy in her companion. She proposed to show him her pet. He eagerly +assented, and they proceeded through the chicken-yard to the paddock +where the donkeys were grazing. The chickens expected to be fed, and +all gathered round Lucy’s feet; the donkeys instantly set up a most +sonorous braying, and galloped to her with their uplifted heads. Lucy +was amused, and began to laugh, and to pat, and stroke, and pinch the +dear sensible creatures, when a turn in the shrubbery walk brought Mrs. +Heckfield, Lord and Lady Bodlington, and Mr. Lyon to the opposite side +of the paddock, which commanded a view of Lucy and Lord Montreville. +Lucy felt her cheeks glow, and her mirth subside. Her mother, who +could not but know through what ignoble paths she must have led Lord +Montreville, would be more displeased than ever. She was sobered in an +instant. Lord Montreville perceived the blush, and the change in her +countenance, and flattered himself there was something gratifying to +himself in her emotions. They retraced their steps, but Lucy was silent +and abashed, and looked heartily ashamed of herself when they rejoined +the party. + +Lord Montreville immediately addressed Mrs. Heckfield, informed her +that “Miss Heckfield, at his earnest request, had allowed him to +inspect the puppies, and to select the one he fancied; and that he had +a childish passion for young donkeys, which she had also most kindly +indulged.” + +Mrs. Heckfield saw that no harm was done, and she was soothed. Lucy +thought him more good-natured than ever in thus averting the storm she +saw impending, and gratitude was added to cement the union of their +congenial souls. + +He now became a frequent visitor at Rosehill Lodge, and his manner +gradually assumed more the tone of gallantry. Reports arose. Lucy was +rallied by her young friends, and began to look into her feelings. + +She had seen his beautiful equipage, his four blood bays; she had +seen engravings of his magnificent seat in Staffordshire, of his +lovely villa near London, of his ancient castle in Wales. She was +proof against the splendour of Ashdale Park, and the elegancies of +Beausejour, but the castle had a decided effect upon her heart. The +walls were nine feet thick; there was a donjon keep, at the top of a +tower nine hundred and forty-one years old; and Lord Montreville’s +teeth were extremely good, almost as good as Captain Langley’s. From +the vaults under the Caërwhwyddwth Castle subterraneous passages, to +the end of which no one within the memory of man had penetrated, were +supposed to extend to the ruined monastery of Caërmerwhysteddwhstgen; +and then Lord Montreville was quite thin, not the least inclined to +corpulency. He was older than Sir Charles Selcourt, but he was much +more agreeable; he was certainly a great deal older than Captain +Langley, but then Captain Langley was not the least clever. All +their tastes agreed exactly. He was enthusiastic upon the self-same +subjects,—puppies, donkeys, goslings, and Lord Byron. + +Her mind was in a wavering state, when the following conversation took +place between herself and Milly:— + +“This is poor Miss Lizzy’s birth-day, miss, and we have all been +drinking her health and happiness to-night at supper. She is twenty-two +this very day.” + +“And I shall be nineteen next birthday, Milly. We are all growing very +old. It is almost time I should be married. How old were you when you +married?” + +“Nineteen, Miss Lucy.” + +“Just about my age. And how old was John?” + +“In his twenty-one, miss.” + +“Dear! I don’t think that was difference enough. A man ought to be a +good deal older than his wife, that he may advise her, and guide her, +and all that, as mamma says, when she is out of sight of her mother.” + +“I can’t say, miss. The Bible says, ‘I will make an help meet for +him;’ so I suppose the woman is to help the man, as well as the man to +help the woman; and if they are to help one another, why I reckon they +should be something of an age.” + +“Perhaps that may be best, nurse, where they both have to work, and +where the man should be young and strong to labour for his family; but +in another line, nurse,—among richer people, you know,—where there is +no occasion to be strong and to work hard, it is such a thing for a +giddy young girl to have a steady sensible man, who can tell her all +she ought to do—a man much cleverer than herself, a person she can +quite look up to.” + +“Maybe it is, miss.” + +“And then, as mamma says, a married woman, if she is not quite ugly, +is liable, you know, to have men—young men—talk to her,—talk to her a +good deal,—more than they should; and then it is such a thing to have a +husband who can tell her exactly whom she should talk to, and whom she +should not talk to.” + +“But sure, miss, I should think every woman, married or single, might +know when a gentleman said any thing as was not becoming for her to +listen to.” + +“Yes, certainly; but mamma says that in the great world a young woman +might get herself talked about just for talking all about nothing +at all, to one of those fashionable dandies, and that if she has a +husband who knows the world well, he will tell her just how far she may +listen to such people.” + +“Well, my dear Miss Lucy, we poor folks don’t understand about talking, +and being talked about, and listening, and not listening. For my part, +for as long as I have lived in this wicked world—and a wicked world it +is in some ways—I never knew a young woman as was married to a young +man as was the man of her heart, as ever lost her good name for all +she might be affable and pleasant like with her neighbours. But the +gentlefolks knows best, to be sure.” + +Milly was unsatisfactory: she saw what was going on in the family, and +she could not like it: it was no business of hers, and she would never +think of stepping out of her place. Lucy was uncomfortable. She loved +Milly, and, moreover, she had settled in her own mind to love like +Milly. She longed to know what she thought of Lord Montreville, and at +length she plunged into the subject. + +“Don’t you think Lord Montreville is a very pleasing-looking man, +Milly?” + +“Yes, miss; he looks very well for his years.” + +“He is so clever, you can’t think.” + +“Is he, miss?” + +“And so very good-natured!” + +“That is a good thing for all his servants, I am sure, miss.” + +“And for every one else who is connected with him.” + +“Yes, certainly, miss.” + +“He is the most agreeable person, and loves all sorts of animals, and +seems to like to have every thing about him happy.” + +“Sure, miss.” + +“Do you know, Milly, I should not be very much surprised if you might +some day have an opportunity of trying whether he made those around him +happy or not.” + +“Indeed, miss!” + +“Mamma says she is convinced he likes me very much;” and she added, in +a coaxing manner, “now what shall we do, you and I, Milly?” + +“I am sure, miss, it is just as you please.” + +“Yes, I know that well enough,” answered Lucy, with a shade of +pettishness in her tone; “I can say no as well as anybody, if I please, +and mamma says she would not influence my choice for the world; but +it certainly is very true what mamma says, that I am so giddy I should +always be getting into scrapes if I was to marry anybody as young +and as giddy as myself. It was only yesterday she was talking about +it, after Lord Montreville had brought me that beautiful bouquet of +orange-flowers; and she asked me whether I had any objection in the +world to him, and whether I did not think him clever, and agreeable, +and good-natured, and whether there was any body else I thought more +clever, or more agreeable, or more good-natured, and I’m sure I can’t +think of any body just now. Lord Slenderdale and Mr. Desmond are +handsomer, to be sure; but mamma would be shocked to hear me talk about +beauty in that kind of way. It does not sound well in a girl, you +know,” Then, after a pause, she added, “Did you think John handsome?” + +“I believe other folks called him a fine young man, but I am sure I +never thought nothing at all about his looks.” + +“Oh!” thought Lucy, “mamma is quite right; girls should not set any +value on the exterior—one should only think of the mind. Besides, Lord +Montreville is still very good-looking.” Presently she continued, “Did +you think John very clever, Milly?” + +“La! miss, I don’t know, I am sure. The schoolmaster never said no +other than that he was a very good boy at his book, but I never thought +about his scholarship. That was no business of mine.” + +“Was John agreeable, and pleasant, amusing, you know, to talk to.” + +“He was always pleasant to me, I’m sure; he never gave me a bad word +nor an unkind look in his life, and he was always very agreeable to +any thing I wished; and, as to being amusing, why we always had other +things to think of, than amusing ourselves, so I can’t justly say.” + +“Oh!” thought Lucy, “he was a good creature, but evidently very stupid +and dull; and Lord Montreville is so lively and agreeable!” + +The result of this conversation was, that Lucy went to bed, pleased +with Lord Montreville, and not quite pleased with Milly. She went to +sleep and dreamed she was the Marchioness of Montreville, chaperoning +her sister Emma to Almack’s. People cannot prevent their dreams. “In +vino veritas.” Likewise, in dreams, there is truth. Many a weakness, +many a secret preference, which the waking thoughts would not be +guilty of harbouring, have been revealed to the dreamer in visions +over which he, or she, had no control. The emulator of Milly’s pure, +disinterested, uncompromising, uncalculating affection, would never +wittingly have allowed the idea of worldly vanities and splendours +to have influenced her mind; but I fear we should lower our heroine +too much in the opinion of the young and romantic reader, were we to +inquire too deeply into the degree in which they did influence her view +of the subject. + +The next morning she jokingly repeated her dream to Emma. + +“Oh! Lucy,” exclaimed Emma, “what a charming dream! And you know mamma +says, if you marry, I may come out at seventeen, and, if you don’t, I +must stay in this poky school-room till I am eighteen. You never can +refuse Lord Montreville.” + + +CHAPTER VI. + + “A l’age où j’étais on n’a pas le courage de résister à tout le monde, + je crus ee qu’on me disait tant par docilité que par persuasion; je me + laissai entraîner, je fis ce qu’on me disait, j’étais dans une émotion + qui avait arrêté toutes mes pensées; les autres decidèrent de mon + sort, et je ne fus moi-même qu’une spectatrice stupide de l’engagement + éternel que je pris.”—MARIVAUX. + +What with the jests of others and her mother’s counsels, both open +and implied, Lucy had no doubt of Lord Montreville’s intentions. The +whole affair seemed only to depend upon herself. What was her surprise +when at seven o’clock, instead of Lord Montreville, a note arrived, +apologising for his absence, on the plea that he had been summoned away +upon business. Lucy thought lovers were to be devoted things, who were +to have no business but that of gaining their lady’s favour. + +There was a party that day, and she saw people looked surprised at +hearing Lord Montreville was gone away so suddenly, and she felt a +little mortified. “I am certainly in love,” she thought, “for every +thing seems dull to-day. Yes, it is all a blank now he is gone (how +much is implied by the simple pronoun _he_ or _she_); just as Milly +said when John was gone to the back woods, and she was left at Halifax.” + +The resemblance between her situation and feelings, and those of Milly, +would not have been so evident to others. + +Several days elapsed, and nothing was heard of Lord Montreville. His +saddle-horses were seen to pass towards London with their horse-cloths +packed upon their saddles, in travelling costume. Lucy thought he was +certainly gone quite away, without proposing, and she felt acute pangs +of mortification and disappointment. She was ready to cut out her +tongue for having, of her own accord, spoken to Milly of her prospects +in life, when those prospects were evidently mere conjurings of her +own self-conceit; she could have beat herself for having repeated her +foolish dream to Emma, who had repeated it to Mary, who had repeated +it to the governess, who had made Lucy blush more than once by her +allusions to it,—she could cry at thinking how faintly she had rebutted +Bell Stopford’s innuendoes, and she worked herself up to a state of +soreness and agitation, not unlike that which might be produced by the +tender passion itself. + +It is not easy to distinguish how much of the emotions on such +occasions proceeds from real preference, and how much from gratified or +mortified vanity. I believe it does not often fall to the lot of any +one, to feel the real, pure, passion of love to the highest degree of +which their nature is capable; but the combination of other, less noble +passions, will produce considerable pains, pleasures, blushings, and +flushings; hearts will beat, cheeks turn pale, hands shake, knees even +will knock a little together, and the symptoms pass muster very well, +as love, true love. If the affair ends in marriage, and the parties +suit, it does as well as love, and often ends in becoming love itself. +If, on the contrary, the flirtation ends, as many flirtations do, these +symptoms are mentally laughed at and forgotten, as having only been +passing ebullitions of gratified vanity, or indignant pride; the heart +is supposed, and really is, free, and ready for a real true passion +whenever it may be called forth. + +Lucy passed a restless and uncomfortable week—annoyed, when they were +asked where Lord Montreville was gone—annoyed, when they were obliged +to answer they did not know—annoyed, when they were asked when he +returned—annoyed, at being again obliged to reply they could not +tell—annoyed, when people looked surprised at their answers—annoyed, +when they looked wise and cunning, and treated these answers as +discreet evasions. + +At length, on the tenth day from Lord Montreville’s departure his +servant was seen riding up the coach-road, towards the back-door. +Lucy’s heart beat very quick, and she thought it quite abominable of +John not to bring the note up-stairs immediately. She would fain have +told her mother that she had seen the servant arrive, and that John was +evidently waiting to finish his dinner, and to prepare the luncheon, +before he brought the note; but she was ashamed to show her impatience, +and she resolutely continued to copy music. + +John, it is presumed, had a good appetite that day, at least the +time appeared unaccountably long. At length, however, luncheon was +announced, and the note delivered, with the information that Lord +Montreville’s servant was to wait for an answer. + +“It must be the proposal; and the servant is not to return without the +answer,” thought Lucy, and her eyes felt dizzy. She glanced at the +exterior of the note—it was three-cornered! It could not be a proposal. +No! Never did a proposal come in the shape of a three-cornered note! It +was very short, announcing his return, and begging if Mrs. Heckfield +had finished the third volume of some novel which he had lent her, +that she would return it, as he was sending back a box of books to the +library. + +Lucy durst not ask what were the contents of the note; but her mother +threw it to her, bidding her look for the book. She read the momentous +communication, the withholding of which by John had so excited her +internal wrath, and she thought it the shortest, oddest note, she ever +read!—so abrupt! evidently written in such a hurry! There could be no +doubt, however, what it meant to convey—a complete breaking off of the +intimacy with their family;—even sending for his book in such haste! + +Meanwhile, she hunted for the volume, and she packed it up, resolving +in her own mind to beware of the base deceiver, man; and feeling +herself a slighted damsel. + +Lord Montreville’s absence had been caused by business connected +with the intentions he entertained towards Lucy; but if he had acted +upon a plan, he could not have shown more consummate policy. Every +one values more highly whatever they have lost, or believe themselves +on the point of losing; and when, in the course of that very day, he +himself called at Rosehill Lodge, Lucy felt very happy, and greeted him +with a blushing cheek and conscious face, which made him think he had +really inspired the young thing with the tenderest interest; and Lucy, +when she felt her heart beat, said to herself, “This is love—it can be +nothing else.” + +They were prepared for their walk, when Lord Montreville called; and +he begged leave to accompany them. Mrs. Heckfield stopped to give +some directions to the gardener, Lord Montreville proceeded along +the shrubbery-path with Lucy, and Mrs. Heckfield was not so swift +of foot as to overtake them without exerting herself more than she +thought there was any occasion to do. The three-cornered note had not +appeared to her such decisive evidence of a wish to withdraw from their +acquaintance. + +Lord Montreville expressed his pleasure at returning to Lyneton,—not +that he liked Lyneton—he thought it an odious place; but he was so glad +to find himself once more in the neighbourhood of Rosehill Lodge: but +great as was the pleasure he felt, he could hardly flatter himself his +return could give any corresponding pleasure; if he could suppose so, +he should indeed esteem himself fortunate. + +“It is coming,” thought Lucy; and she now felt as much afraid he should +propose, as she had before felt afraid he would not. Her whole wish was +to avert the momentous explanation. + +“Oh, yes,” she answered, “mamma is always very glad to see you. Where +is mamma? perhaps she has missed us; we had better find her;” and she +turned and mended her pace. + +“May I not hope to detain you one moment, Miss Heckfield?” asked Lord +Montreville, in a voice of earnest persuasion. + +“Oh! it is as good as come!” thought Lucy; “what shall I do?—Oh yes, +certainly,” she answered, but walked on faster than ever. + +“If you would allow me a few moments’ conversation, Miss Heckfield, I +have much to say that interests me deeply.” + +“Where can mamma be?” rejoined Lucy, in a tone of fear and trepidation. + +“For a few moments you must listen to me!” &c. &c. &c. + +Suffice it to say, Lord Montreville then proposed. The words of a +proposal are horridly stupid to the ears of all but the parties +concerned; and in what precise terms Lord Montreville couched the offer +of his hand, heart, fortune, and titles, has remained, and will ever +remain, unknown. A terrified “O dear!” uttered by Lucy when he began to +unfold his mind, were the only words which escaped her lips. When he +pressed for an answer, she did not say “No!” but she still walked on, +her pace increasing every second, her close garden-bonnet well pulled +over her face, which was rigidly directed on the gravel-walk before +her, so that no one who was not immediately opposite had a chance of +catching a glimpse of her countenance. Even Lord Montreville began +to feel a little awkward. He had made love often enough, but he had +proposed but once before; and that was in his early youth, to a very +rich heiress, who had soon after married a duke. Fortunately for the +nerves of both, they came upon Mrs. Heckfield at a turn in the walk. +She saw with a glance that something decisive had taken place, and she +hastened to relieve Lucy, and also to clench the matter. + +Lucy slipped her arm within Mrs. Heckfield’s, and feeling comparatively +easy and secure, now she had interposed her mother between herself and +her suitor, she walked on in silence, carefully contriving to make each +step so exactly keep time, that the somewhat rounded form of the matron +should completely eclipse the slender form of the girl. + +Lord Montreville explained himself in becoming and graceful terms; and +Mrs. Heckfield, in a rapture of scarcely concealed joy, declared with +what pleasure she should communicate Lord Montreville’s flattering +declaration to Colonel Heckfield. + +“But, my dear Mrs. Heckfield, I have not yet been allowed to hope. Your +daughter has not given me one word, one look of encouragement, and I +need your kind influence to induce her——” + +“Lucy, my dear, you have not been so uncivil as to—My dear child, don’t +be so silly. You must excuse her, my dear Lord Montreville, she is so +young, and so little used to these agitating scenes. _I_ know what her +feelings are, and although she is not at this moment able to speak for +herself, I think I may answer for it you need not despair. Perhaps, if +you were to leave her for a short time to compose herself, she would be +more able to enjoy your society by dinner-time.” + +“Must I then depart without hearing my fate? But I would not distress +Miss Heckfield on any consideration, and I had rather pass some hours +of suspense and wretchedness myself than that she should feel one +moment’s annoyance. I trust she will allow me to prove by my future +life that such are my sentiments.” He took her unresisting hand, and +pressing it between his own with an air of gallantry, he took his +departure with very little doubt or suspense as to the result of +the family colloquy. But he wished not only to be accepted, but to +be preferred. He was himself totally incapable of again feeling the +passion of love, if indeed any of the _liaisons_ and flirtations in +which he had been engaged deserved such a name; but he wished to excite +it, and it was to him an amusing and a gratifying study, to watch the +flutter and the trepidations of the young thing who was apparently now +experiencing them for the first time. + +As soon as he was fairly out of sight, Lucy burst into tears, and threw +herself upon her mother’s shoulder, saying, “Oh, mamma, I am as good as +married!” + +“Well, my love, and do you wish to live single all your life?” + +“O no, mamma!” + +“And do you dislike Lord Montreville?” + +“O no, mamma!” + +“You seemed to me very uneasy and restless when he went away without +proposing.” + +“Yes, mamma, so I was, certainly.” + +“And you looked very happy when he called just now. Were you not glad +to see him?” + +“Yes, mamma, I certainly was.” + +“Well, my dear, if you were sorry he went away without proposing, you +must be glad he has come back, and has proposed.” + +“Yes, I suppose I am, but I do not feel as if I was.” + +“Do you wish me, then, to refuse him? I would never force any girl’s +inclinations, as I have always told you, and I am ready to take +the whole thing upon myself if you please; for really, after the +encouragement you have given him, I do not see how you can consistently +say he is not agreeable to you.” + +“Have I encouraged him so very much?” + +“I do not know, my love; but you allowed him to take your hand just +now, and you always appeared to have neither eyes nor ears for any one +else when he was present.” + +“He always had so much the most to say.” + +“Well, you know best: I can say no more than that if you dislike him, I +am ready to refuse him for you. Do you wish me to do so?” + +“Oh, no! not that——” + +“Then you wish me to accept him, in your name?” + +“Oh, not quite that, mamma.” + +“My dear, girls must say Yes or No. As I have always told you, I will +not put any force on your inclinations.” + +Nothing persuades people so much, as saying you would not persuade +them,—nothing constrains them so much, as saying you would put no +constraint upon them. This Mrs. Heckfield felt from female tact. It +was from intuition, not by design, that she used these expressions, +while at the same time she thereby re-assured herself that she was not +hurrying Lucy into a worldly marriage. + +“Do you wish me to tell Lord Montreville that, although you may have +seemed to prefer his society to that of others, you do not in fact +prefer him, and that therefore you must decline the offer he is so +flattering as to make you. Shall I say so?” + +“No, mamma; I should be very sorry, I am sure.” + +“Then you wish me to say yes?” + +“I suppose I do, mamma.” + +“Well, my love, I think you have decided very wisely for yourself, and +no girl ever had more reason to be delighted with her prospects. You +have been selected from all the rest of your sex by a man who has been +universally reckoned most fascinating and irresistible, and whom all +the ladies were in love with, when he was only a younger brother; and +now that he has a noble fortune, and high rank, and might choose from +all the first beauties in the land, he picks out my little Lucy, who is +crying like a child, at having got—just the very thing she was ready +to cry because she thought she should not get, for I saw your face this +morning when the note came.” + +Lucy smiled through her tears; the picture of the conquest she had made +was agreeable to her self-love, and the picture of her inconsistency +was undeniably true. + +Mrs. Heckfield kissed her, and hastened to Colonel Heckfield to +communicate the important intelligence. + + +CHAPTER VII. + + Oh, never may the hope that lights thine eyes, + Sweet maid, be changed to disappointment’s gloom; + Never th’ ingenuous frolic laugh I prize + To the forced smile that care must oft assume; + But may the blissful dream of thy young heart,— + That dream from which so many wake too late,— + Of joys that love requited shall impart, + Be realised in thy approaching fate! + +Colonel Heckfield was a quiet, easy, amiable man, whom everybody loved. +He was in the habit of thinking his wife understood such matters +better than he did, and that as she had hitherto married all his girls +extremely well, there was no need of his interference. He always +considered the affair as appertaining to Mrs. Heckfield, and never felt +as if his daughters had any other share in the whole transaction, than +that of being the instruments employed by Mrs. Heckfield’s master-hand. +So much did he look upon her as the principal, that he was once heard +to say, “when my wife married Sir Charles Selcourt—” + +The happy mother proceeded to inform Mademoiselle Hirondelle of the +high honours which awaited her pupil. + +“Ah, madame, I thought well when Miss Lucy had such a bad headache +yesterday _que c’était l’objet_. Miss Lucy was in anger with me, but I +had reason. I know myself what it is _de se consumer dans l’absence_.” + +Mrs. Heckfield dreaded the history of mademoiselle’s faithless lover, +the bookseller at Caen, who had not written to her for three years, +seven months, and three weeks, and she hastened to tell Emma that she +might now look forward to coming out very soon. + +“And I shall go to Almack’s with Lucy, after all, mamma?” + +Neither did Mrs. Heckfield fail to tell Milly of the lofty station to +which her nurseling would be raised. + +“Sure, ma’am! and so Miss Lucy is going to leave us,” said Milly, +with a calm and stoical manner, very unlike that she usually had when +any thing most remotely affecting one of the “dear children” was in +question. + +“Yes, nurse; and I do think I am the most fortunate of mothers.” + +“La! ma’am, to have all your children leave you so soon? Sure, you will +be very lonesome when they are all married and gone?” + +“Oh, nurse, we mothers are never selfish. We wish for nothing but our +children’s advantage.” + +How many parents sacrifice the happiness, under the firm conviction +they are promoting the welfare of the children, for whom they would +themselves be ready to endure every privation. + +Lucy had received her father’s cordial blessing, Mademoiselle’s +Frenchified embrace, her sister’s thoughtless, merry congratulations, +and Milly’s thoughtful, serious, good wishes. She came down to dinner +with a cheek flushed by vague emotions, and conscious eyes, which durst +not rest on any one. She looked really lovely. + +Lord Montreville was received by Mrs. Heckfield with unfeigned joy, by +Colonel Heckfield with heartiness, by Lucy with a pleased tremor which +was perfectly satisfactory. A look from Mrs. Heckfield, and he seated +himself by Lucy’s side. + +“You will, then, allow me to prove by my future life, as I did this +morning, when I sacrificed my own wishes to yours, that I prefer your +gratification to my own.” + +“Indeed you are very good. I hope always——” + +Dinner was announced. Lord Montreville offered his arm to Lucy as the +accepted lover, instead of to Mrs. Heckfield, as merely the visitor of +highest rank. + +There was no retreating after this, even supposing she had wished to do +so, for the Denbys and several others were present. He was more than +usually amiable. His attentions were not too marked; his manners were +so frank, and so polite to every one, there was nothing that could +make her shy or uncomfortable, so that she felt quite grateful to him +for putting her so much more at her ease than, under the circumstances, +she could have thought possible. + +In the course of the evening, Mrs. Heckfield communicated the great +event of the day to her friend Mrs. Denby, under a strict promise of +secrecy, to which Mrs. Denby rigidly adhered; notwithstanding which, +the small town of Lyneton, and the adjoining village of Purley, and +half the country houses in the neighbourhood, were apprised of the +fact before the next sun sank into the Western Ocean. The propagation +of a secret is a mystery; every body promises, and nobody breaks their +promise; and yet the propagation of the secret is rapid in proportion +to the strictness of the promise; I cannot, and therefore will not +attempt to explain this paradox. + +That night, when Milly attended Lucy’s _coucher_, her countenance was +unusually serious, and Lucy felt uncomfortable in her presence. She +knew not what to say; and yet she was so much in the habit of making +Milly a party to all the innocent pains and pleasures of her short +life, that she felt awkward in not discussing this most momentous +occurrence. + +“Nurse, I hope you will like Lord Montreville.” + +“I am sure, my dear Miss Lucy, I shall like any gentleman that makes +you a good husband.” + +“He told me, to-day, he had rather be wretched himself than give me one +moment’s annoyance.” + +“Sure, miss! No gentleman can’t speak no fairer than that.” + +“I suppose that is what all lovers say, though. I suppose John said +that kind of thing to you?” + +“Lord save your sweet heart, miss! John never said such fine things +to me. He was but a plain-spoken young man; though he was always for +saving me any trouble that he could, poor fellow, and nobody could work +no harder for his family while he had health to do it.” + +“Won’t it be nice, having Emma to stay with me, and taking her out to +the great balls? And then mamma has been longing to give Mary a good +singing master. I can have her with me, you know, in London, where +there are all the best masters; and poor mademoiselle would be so glad +to see her sister; and I will have such a charming school for poor +children (by-the-by, they shan’t have brown frocks, I like green so +much better); and I shall be sure to have a beautiful horse, for all +the ladies ride in the Park now. Oh! and I can give Dame Notter the new +red cloak I have so long wanted to get her, only my pocket-money was so +low. Do you know the Montreville diamonds are supposed to be the finest +in England after the Duchess of P——’s? And when I am in London, where +you know I must be while Lord Montreville is attending Parliament, I +shall see Harriet every day, and all those dear children! I wonder how +far St. James’s Square is from Upper Baker Street?” + +“I can’t say for certain, miss; but I think ’tis a good step.” + +“Well, it does not signify, for of course I shall have carriages; and I +can send for them constantly when I do not go to Baker Street.” + +“Ah! you are a kind-hearted young lady; and good night, and God bless +you, and may you be as happy as you expect to be, and as you deserve to +be.” + +Milly sighed to think how much the notion of grandeur and of fine +things of this world had taken possession of her young lady’s mind; +“Though, to be sure, ’twas all in the way of being kind and good to +others.” + +The next few days passed off agreeably enough. When among the rest +of the family, Lord Montreville was so generally pleasing, that she +felt happy and contented; but whenever they were alone, she felt +unaccountably shy, and, if possible, she either left the room with +her mother, or detained her sister by her side. The kind, protecting, +almost parental manner, which had at first so won upon her confidence, +while at the same time it flattered her vanity, was exchanged for +something more of the lover; and the ease she had felt in his society +was gradually diminishing, at the very moment it was most desirable +it should increase. Moreover, she occasionally found that it was not +impossible for her to do amiss in his eyes. Her inordinate passion for +animals, which he had appeared to think so very _naïf_ and fascinating, +did not always meet with the same looks of amused admiration, which +had, unknown to herself, encouraged her in her avowed fondness for +them. He frequently remonstrated with her upon running out without her +bonnet, and upon taking off her gloves when she was arranging the +flowers, by which means she dirtied, and occasionally even scratched +her fingers. He was dreadfully particular about shoes! + +These were trifles; but it seemed to her odd, that the very things he +had appeared to think natural charms, “snatching a grace beyond the +reach of art,” should now be the very points he wished altered. + +She was not aware how often the fault which excites disapprobation, +allures, while it is condemned;—how often, also, the virtue which +charms, is most perseveringly undermined by the person who peculiarly +feels its attraction. + +Mrs. Heckfield insisted upon going to London to procure the +wedding-clothes. Poor Lucy! Many people have a distinct abstract +love of dress;—happy is it for them!—for as there is no doubt that +a tolerably good-looking woman, very well dressed, will, in these +days, eclipse a much handsomer one who is ill-dressed, surely it is a +fortunate thing for those who can thus amuse, and embellish themselves +at the same time. But this was not Lucy’s case. She was glad to look +as well as she could, but the means of doing so were to her irksome; +and she would fain have trusted the whole affair to mamma and to +Mademoiselle. But no! Lord Montreville was exceedingly particular and +anxious upon the subject. He especially recommended the only shoemaker +who, to his mind, had an idea of making a shoe; and Lucy had at least +half-a-dozen pair made, fitted, and descanted upon, before he was +satisfied that they did justice to the shape of her foot, which proved +extremely good when it was properly _chaussé_. She was half angry +at his numerous criticisms and remarks upon the make of her gowns, +and considerably bored at the number of times he wished to have them +altered; still he did it all in so kind and so good-humoured a manner, +she could not do otherwise than submit. But when he recommended his +own dentist, and various tinctures, and tooth-powders, she felt half +insulted. With the full consciousness about her of youth, and health, +and ivory teeth, she thought, though he might have occasion for +dentists and dentifrices, she needed not such things, and she felt for +a moment the full difference of their ages. It was but for a moment—she +was his plighted wife—her young affections were vowed to him; and she +would have fancied herself guilty, to wish him other than he was. + +There were moments when her spirits were somewhat depressed; but at +others, she was dazzled and excited by the beautiful presents that +arrived every day. The diamonds, the Montreville diamonds, which were +now her’s. The large pearl, which had belonged to Henrietta Maria, and +which had been given by her to an ancestress of Lord Montreville’s; +a diamond ring, placed by Charles II. on the taper finger of the +beautiful wife of a Sir Ralph Montreville, a short time previous to +his elevation to the peerage; an antique aigrette, presented by Queen +Anne, on occasion of a royal _fête_! Ornaments of more modern date +were showered upon her; but the heirlooms which assorted so well with +the Welsh Castle, with its unpronounceable name, its donjon-keep, its +subterranean passages, and its massive walls, were much more suited to +her taste. + +Lord Montreville had neither father, mother, brother, nor sister, to +whom he need introduce his bride elect; and as all his cousins and +other relatives were out of town at this season of the year, he lived +entirely with his future family, without being called upon to introduce +them to any of his own circle. This was precisely what he wished. +Little did Lucy imagine, when, in the warmth of her heart, she was +anticipating the kind things she would do to brothers, sisters, aunts, +uncles, and cousins, how little Lord Montreville intended to marry the +whole family. Want of knowledge of the world, or rather of _l’usage du +monde_, was _naïveté_ in the blooming youthful Lucy, but not so in the +middle-aged parents, or the hoyden younger misses. Lord Montreville +was not much of a politician; he was not a man of deep reading, though +his mind was sufficiently cultivated to give grace, if not depth, +to his observations: he was not witty, though he was often droll, +and consequently it was on living people and passing events that his +conversation chiefly turned. Any one who knows every one worth knowing, +and can talk of them and their concerns with some tact, and not much +ill-nature, is reckoned agreeable; but he felt that his _histoirettes_ +lost half their piquancy from the ignorance of his audience respecting +the persons alluded to. Though it had amused him to enchant the whole +family, especially while he had an ulterior object in view,—that object +once gained, he found their society insipid, and in London he became +peculiarly sensible how inexpedient it would be to transplant them +into his own circle. Mrs. Bentley, the eldest daughter, and the dear +children of whom poor Lucy meant to see so much, were wholly out of the +question. + +Country gentlefolks not of the first water of fashion (for the +Heckfields were not vulgar—their dress, their house, their equipage +were all perfectly presentable), are infinitely less objectionable to +the very refined, than London gentility not of the first class. Mrs. +Bentley was very rich, and her house in Upper Baker Street was a very +good one, and she dressed in the extreme of the fashion; but she wanted +the air _distingué_ which was natural to Lucy. Though handsome, she was +inclined to be large and red, and withal, she was a little languishing, +and she was especially languishing for Lord Montreville. She looked as +strong as a horse, but she complained of nerves; she was a good woman, +and loved her children, but she talked as if she could not bear to have +them with her, and declared that their noise distracted her; and, in +short, she took every possible pains to make herself appear as little +amiable, and as unlike what she really was, as possible. + +Sir Charles and Lady Selcourt came to attend the wedding, and Lord +Montreville soon perceived that Lady Selcourt was an unexceptionable +person for Lady Montreville, or any other lady, to appear with in +public; but he doubted whether her society at home would be as +advantageous for any newly-married young woman. Her figure, which was +always beautiful, was dressed in the most perfect taste; her eyes, +which were very large and very dark, became lustrous from the addition +of rouge, which, as we anticipated, she now habitually wore; and in the +evening her skin, which by daylight was yellowish, became brilliantly +white. There was not a fault to be found in her own manner; but Lord +Montreville soon perceived by Sir Charles’s that she had proved not the +weaker, but the stronger vessel. + +The morning after Lady Selcourt’s arrival in London, the sisters went +shopping together; and after tossing over various silks and gauzes, +they both fixed upon one which they pronounced to be quite lovely; when +Lucy suddenly checked herself, saying— + +“Oh, no, I won’t have it though, for Lord Montreville does not like +pink!” + +“Well, but he is not going to wear it himself,” answered Lady Selcourt. + +“But, I mean, he does not like that I should wear pink.” + +“My dear Lucy, you are not going to yield to all his fancies in this +manner? You will entirely spoil him; you will make a tyrant of him. It +would not do with a young man!” + +“It would not do with a young man,” grated rather unpleasantly on +Lucy’s ears. However, when they were once more seated in the carriage, +she resumed, + +“But, my dear Sophy, one must please one’s husband, you know; and +though you would have that pink gauze sent with the others we are to +look at by candle-light, I do not mean to buy it. Surely it is not +worth while to annoy any one, for the colour of a gown.” + +“My dear Lucy, you are very young; you do not know what you are about; +of course, in marrying, your idea is not to be merely an old,—a +middle-aged man’s, play-thing. You owe it to yourself, to the station +you will hold in society, I may almost add to Lord Montreville himself, +not to be a mere cipher, but to be an independent and a reasonable +person—a free agent. And, depend upon it, if you begin in this manner, +you will never be able to rescue yourself from any thraldom in which +he may wish to keep you. Every thing depends on the first start—I know +it—and so did Sir Charles’s old French valet, for when we got into our +carriage on the wedding-day, I had my beautiful in-laid India work-box, +which you know is rather large, and I overheard old Le Clerc whisper +to his master, ‘Sire Charles, Sire Charles—you band-box to-day, you +band-box all your life!’ Sir Charles accordingly complained of the size +of the box, and begged me to let the servant take care of it behind, +but I felt, if I yielded then, I was undone. I explained to him the +value I had for this particular box, and that it would break my heart +to have it spoiled: and he saw I was so hurt at the idea of its being +scratched or injured, that he gave up the point. Indeed, I must say, +I have always found him very reasonable, and it is quite impossible +for two people to go on better together. I never think of opposing +his wishes when I am indifferent upon a subject. He knows, therefore, +my anxiety to oblige him, and so he never thwarts me when he sees I +am determined on any thing. Depend upon it, Lucy, if you begin in +this manner before marriage, you will be no better than a slave after +marriage.” + +Sophy always had such a flow of words, and such a multitude of good +arguments to adduce, that Lucy knew it was useless to dispute with her; +besides, she was older, and she was a married woman, and she always +was the cleverest; and Lucy was more than half persuaded there was a +good deal of truth in what she said. Accordingly, she showed Milly the +gauzes as she was dressing for dinner, and promulgated her intention of +having a gown of the pink one. + +“La, Miss!” said Milly, “I thought my Lord did not like pink, and that +he made you send back the pink hat.” + +“Yes, but do you not think it is great nonsense to let one’s husband +interfere about such trifles? What can it signify to him whether I wear +pink or blue?” + +“I don’t know, Miss, as it can signify much to anybody; but I should +think it signified more to him than to anybody else.” + +“But this is to be a smart gown to wear in company, and not at home +with him.” + +“But sure, Miss Lucy, you don’t want to look well in any body’s eyes +more than in your own husband’s.” + +“That is very true,” thought Lucy; “it would be very wrong to wish to +be admired by other people, and not by one’s husband.” + +In the evening the gauzes were spread out, and Sophy expatiated on the +beauties of the pink one. Lucy timidly admired it, and cast a glance +towards Lord Montreville; she was half ashamed of appearing afraid to +buy it, and was acquiescing in its merits, when Lord Montreville said, + +“I suppose you are afraid of my admiring you too much, as you are bent +upon the only colour which I do not think becoming to you.” + +“Do you really dislike pink so much?” asked Lucy. + +“The colour is a pretty colour, but you know I think you look prettier +in any other. Perhaps other people may admire you in it.” + +“I am sure I do not want other people to admire me. It would be very +wrong if I did, now. Do you like that _vapeur_, Lord Montreville, or +this white one? The white is the prettiest after all. Yes, I do like +the white best, Sophy, and the white I will have.” + +And she put a resolute tone into the last sentence, that her +submission should not look like submission in Sophy’s eyes. Why is it +many amiable people are as much ashamed of appearing amiable, as many +unamiable ones are of appearing unamiable? + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + _Calantha._—To court, good brother, ere her bloom of mind + Be set for fruit? Oh, take her not to court, + Where we be slaves to petty circumstance + Of empty form and fashion. Where the laugh + Pealed merrily from the joy-freighted heart, + Gives place to measured smiles still worn by all, + As ’twere a thing of custom, and alike + Lavished on friend and foe; where your fair child, + For coronals of buttercups and hare-bells, + Must prank her youth in gorgeous robes of state, + And where sweet nature’s impulses must all + Be curbed, suppressed. + + _Manuscript Poems._ + +At length the awful day arrived. Lucy was married, and the Marquess +and Marchioness of Montreville drove from St. George’s Church in the +neatest of dark-green chariots, with four grey horses, leaving Colonel +Heckfield sad, but satisfied, Mrs. Heckfield joyful, but dissolved in +tears, Emma full of delight, wonderment, and awe, at her sister Lucy +being actually a marchioness, Mademoiselle feeling herself the person +most peculiarly concerned, inasmuch as it must have been entirely owing +to the superior education she had given her pupil that she had been +deemed worthy to be raised to so lofty a station in the peerage. Milly +watched the carriage till it was out of sight, with tearful eyes, and +left the window with a foreboding shake of the head. + +The bride and bridegroom spent the honeymoon at Ashdale Park, and Lucy +was much edified by the grandeur of the place. The park was extensive, +the pleasure-grounds immense, the gardens perfect. She had nothing +to do but to enjoy all she saw. She went round the pictures several +times, till she thought there was no pleasure in making her neck +ache with looking up, and her eyes ache with peering through Claude +Lorraine glasses; she repeatedly walked about the gardens, but she +dreaded the sight of the gardener; he used such hard names, and he +was such a gentleman, that she scarcely ventured to ask him the name +of a flower, much less to suggest any fancy of her own. The house was +completely _montée_. The _maître d’hôtel_ sent in the bill of fare, but +she could never have presumed to propose any alteration in the repast. +She had heard that Ashdale Park was famous for bantams, and she one day +expressed a wish to see them. Lord Montreville ordered the pony phaeton +to drive her to the poultry establishment. + +“Oh, let us walk, dear Lord Montreville; I had much rather walk.” + +“It has been just raining, my dear Lucy, and your shoes are thin.” + +“But I can put on thick ones in a moment.” + +“I hate to see a woman’s foot look like a man’s. Nothing so ugly as +great coarse shoes upon a pretty woman’s little foot.” + +“Oh! but nobody will see me.” + +“Yes, I shall see you,” answered Lord Montreville, and Lucy felt +frightened lest he should think she could have meant he was nobody. So +the pony phaeton was ordered. In about three quarters of an hour it +appeared, and a groom on another beautiful little long-tailed pony to +follow, and Lucy’s wadded cloaks, and Lord Montreville’s fur cloak, and +the boa, and the parasol, and the umbrella, and the reticule, &c. were +all duly packed and arranged, and they entered the carriage, and drove +about a mile to the end of the park. + +Having summoned the poultryman, Lady Montreville was introduced to +all the different yards and coops, the winter roosting-place, and the +summer roosting-place, and the coops for early chickens, and the places +for fatting; and Lucy soon felt that the poulterer, who did the honours +of the establishment, was much more the master of the whole concern +than she could ever be; so, having bestowed the requisite portion of +approbation and admiration, she was departing without any particular +desire to revisit the scene, when a young gosling waddled past her +feet. She stooped to pick it up—it escaped her—she ran after it—she +succeeded in catching it—she brought the pretty little yellow thing +back to Lord Montreville in great delight at having secured it, and +fully expecting that he would sympathize in her feelings. + +“Look at the pretty creature!—Is it not a love?—dear little thing!” + +“My dear Lady Montreville, it will dirty you all over—its feathers +are coming off: I beg, I entreat, you will put it down!” added Lord +Montreville in a tone of annoyance. + +Lucy let the gosling go, and followed Lord Montreville to the carriage. +When they had remounted, and again arranged the cloaks and shawls, Lord +Montreville said— + +“My dear Lucy, you must remember that now you are a married woman, and +my wife: these are little girlish ways that do not sit well upon you. I +am sure your own good sense will point out to you that there ought to +be something more _posé_ in manner for your present situation.” + +Lucy acquiesced, and resolved not to catch goslings any more. + +They lived in the most perfect retirement. Lord Montreville did not +mean to enter the world till he had tutored his wife into being +precisely the thing he wished. + +She found the time hang rather heavy on her hands; she read, but she +could not read all day; she wrote to her mother and sisters, but she +had not much to say, and a bride’s letters are always very dull. No +part of the household required her superintendence: she did not work +much, for where was the use of working when she had plenty of money, +and could buy every thing so much better than she could make it? She +always hated torturing a piece of muslin, till the muslin was dirty +and the pattern out of fashion. She played and sang a little; but Lord +Montreville liked Italian music, and she sang English ballads. She +liked long walks; but Lord Montreville always thought she would get +tanned if the sun shone, and red if the wind blew, and wet if it had +been raining, or was likely to rain. Then there were so many rooms, +she never found any thing at the moment she wished for it: when she +was at luncheon in the ante-room, she missed her reticule, which was +left in the library, where she passed the morning; when she retired to +her boudoir after her drive, she found she had left her letters in the +saloon, where they breakfasted: in the evening, when they sat in the +great drawing-room, she wanted her work, and the work-box was in the +library. Lord Montreville rang the bell, and a servant was despatched +to bring the work-box. He returned, but the one skein of silk of the +right shade was missing, and it ended by her lighting a candle and +going to look for it herself. In the morning, after hunting all over +the library for the book she was reading, she remembered she had left +it the preceding evening in the drawing-room; and she sometimes thought +it would be vastly comfortable to live in one snug room, where one had +all one’s things about one. + +Lord Montreville had so far tamed her, that she did not think of +setting out to trudge alone beyond the precincts of the shrubbery: she +had learned not to pat every dog she met, or to kiss a donkey’s nose; +and she was as steady from a gosling or duckling as a good fox-hound +from a hare. When she wanted any thing at the other end of the room, +she did not run, neither did she ever jump over the footstool, and +she carried a candle perpendicularly, instead of horizontally. Lord +Montreville thought it was time to ascertain a little what her manners +would be in society, before he ventured to ask any of his own set to +his house; and they sent forth a regular invitation to Mr. and Mrs. +Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Delafield, Major and Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith’s +sister, Miss Brown. + +Lucy was a little appalled at the prospect of making the signal after +dinner. Every woman must have felt that the first time of making +this little mysterious bow is an epoch in her life. Lucy was sure +she should stay too long or too short a time. Then, to which of the +ladies was the sign to be made? Lord Montreville told her that when the +conversation took the turn of horses, hunting, dogs, or partridges, +which it invariably did somewhere between twenty minutes and half an +hour after the servants had left the apartment, all women with any tact +or discretion took advantage of the first pause to depart; and that the +lady whom he should hand in to dinner would almost invariably prove the +one towards whom she should direct her eyes. + +The dinner went off very well. Lucy’s manners were perfect. She never +was awkward, and her thoughts were sufficiently occupied with the +idea of making the dreaded signal at the right moment to render her +rather shy, and to prevent her spirits running away with her. She +watched narrowly every thing that was said after dinner; and upon +Major Smith asking her if she was fond of riding, she cast a glance +towards Lord Montreville, to see if that was near enough the mark for +her to rise; but, upon the whole, she thought not, as the question was +addressed to herself. This occurred precisely eighteen minutes after +the last servant had changed the last plate on which there had been +ice; and sure enough it led the way to the usual turn of gentlemen’s +conversation before twenty-two minutes had expired. + +Lucy had answered, “Yes, but Lord Montreville had not yet found a horse +he thought fit for her.” + +Mr. Johnson remarked, that “Nothing was so difficult to procure as a +good lady’s horse.” + +“Except a good hunter for a heavy weight,” said Mr. Delafield. + +“I can scarcely agree with you, Delafield,” rejoined Mr. Johnson; “for +a lady’s horse should be so very safe, and all horses will stumble +sometimes, and temper and mouth are so indispensable, besides action +and ease.” + +“Temper is as necessary for a good hunter,” interrupted Mr. Delafield, +“or they knock themselves to pieces; and I know that a heavy man like +me can’t afford to have a horse take too much out of himself at first.” + +The moment was decidedly come; and Lucy, with a slight palpitation of +the heart, looked at Mrs. Johnson. But Mrs. Johnson did not give a +responsive glance: she was talking to Miss Brown. Lucy looked again; +Mrs. Johnson was putting on her gloves, and did not raise her eyes. +The conversation became every moment more sporting, and Lucy felt +that if she had any tact or discretion she ought to depart. Her heart +positively beat, but she could not venture to say any thing out loud, +and she kept looking and looking, when Major Smith again addressed her, +and she was obliged to answer him. He rejoined, and she found herself +entangled in a fresh discourse. The half hour—more than the half hour +must have elapsed! She answered with an absent air, still glancing +uneasy glances, till at length Miss Brown nudged Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. +Johnson looked up, and Lucy hastily rose from her chair in the middle +of Major Smith’s sentence. + +Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Delafield made a great ceremony at the door, +during which time the gentlemen stood bolt upright, with their napkins +in their hands, waiting with exemplary patience while the ladies gave +each other _le pas_. At length they marched out arm-in-arm, with a +slight laugh to carry off their uncertainties. Lady Montreville, in +her shyness, slipped her arm within Miss Brown’s, and thanked her for +making Mrs. Johnson look round. + +“Why could I not catch her eye before?” + +“Oh, don’t you know? She is only the wife of a younger son of a +Baronet, and Mrs. Delafield is the wife of the eldest son of a Knight, +so you know she was afraid of putting herself forward.” + +This was a new light to Lucy, who had never before been aware of these +niceties. + +Miss Brown was rather pretty, with gay laughing eyes, and a lively +countenance; and Lucy was so glad to meet with a person of her own age, +and who looked as if she could be merry, that she forgot it was her +duty to attend to the married ladies. + +She had shown Miss Brown all her diamonds and trinkets, and the +wedding-gown. Miss Brown had half confessed she should soon be in +want of such an article herself. Lady Montreville was in the act of +trying to find out who was to be the happy man. They were in deep, +interesting, and rather giggling conversation, somewhat apart, while +Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Delafield were sitting up quite +prim, when the gentlemen entered. Lord Montreville was not pleased. +Lucy, who was accustomed to her mother’s countenance when Bell +Stopford was in question, instantly recognised the expression, and was +frightened out of her wits. She was conscience-stricken; she broke off +her discourse with Miss Brown; she came forward to the other ladies, +and began talking to them with all her might. + +If people are easily offended by any want of attention from the great, +in return they are easily soothed. The consciousness of being slighted +is so unpleasant to the _amour propre_, that if the intention to be +civil is made manifest, they readily accept the will for the deed; and +they soon forgave the lovely young Marchioness when they found there +was no intentional neglect. + +The evening passed much like other evenings after a dinner in the +country. There were no new people whom Lord Montreville wished to +charm; they were old country neighbours, with whom there was no object +to gain, and he let things take their course. He had merely wished to +accustom Lucy to sit at the head of her table. + +When the company had all departed, he thus addressed his wife— + +“Lucy, my dear, what did I hear you saying to Miss Brown about Monday?” + +“I only asked her to come here. She is such a nice girl—is she not? I +said I would send for her, that was all.” + +And Lucy began to fear that “all” was a great deal. It seemed so +natural to ask Miss Brown to her own house at the moment she did so; +but now that she told Lord Montreville what she had done, it did not +seem so natural. + +“This will never do, my dear Lucy: Miss Brown is not at all the sort +of person I wish you to be intimate with,—not at all the sort of +person with whom I wish my wife to appear in public; and, if you are +intimate in private, you must be the same in public. I hold it out +of the question to begin intimacies you cannot keep up;—it exposes +people to being accused of caprice and finery, which are very different +things from the proper pride and self-respect which should make them +move in their own sphere, and associate with persons in their own +station. You understand me, my near Lucy?—and you will remember what +I say:—and now let us see what can be done. Her coming here is wholly +out of the question. If she is the first person who visits you after +your marriage, it is proclaiming her your friend. I want to see my +lawyer some time soon, and, instead of sending for him here, we will go +to St. James’s Square for a few days; and you can write a very civil +note—mind, a very civil note—(I never affronted any body in my life), +and tell her we are obliged to go to town on particular business.” + +All this was said in the sweetest and kindest tone imaginable; but +Lucy was confounded and stupified when she found her having invited +Miss Brown to her house for a day had brought on this complete +_déménagement_. She felt herself a cipher; she felt herself perfectly +helpless. But the tone was so kind, and at the same time so decided, +that she had not a word to say. Lord Montreville turned to other +subjects,—told her he had seen her distress after dinner,—laughed with +her at the rival dignities of the lady of the Baronet’s youngest son, +and the lady of the Knight’s eldest son,—and was most gay and agreeable. + +Lucy did not quite like so entirely giving up her point without a +struggle. If he had spoken a little longer, if he had harped upon the +subject, she would have rallied, and said something; but before she had +recovered her first surprise, the whole affair was settled and done, +and she did not know how to recur to it. + +The next morning, after breakfast, Lord Montreville said, “Lucy, my +love, write your note; and, as I am going to the stables, I will order +a groom to be ready to take it to Miss Brown.” + +He left the room. There was no time to remonstrate. Lucy thought of +Lady Selcourt,—she thought of her mother. Lady Selcourt would simply +not have written the note; her mother would have had a thousand +arguments before Colonel Heckfield had finished half his first +sentence. She had not cool courage for the first line of conduct, nor +had she had presence of mind for the latter. There was nothing left +for her to do but to submit; so she wrote the note (not without three +foul copies), sealed it very neatly, rang the bell, and gave it to the +servant with a heavy heart; not that she cared for Miss Brown, but she +felt herself imprisoned and enthralled. + + +CHAPTER IX. + + Une belle femme est aimable dans son naturel, elle ne perd rien à être + negligée, et sans autre parure que celle qu’elle tire de sa beauté + et de sa jeunesse. Une grace naïve éclate sur non visage, anime ses + moindres actions: il y aurait moins de péril à la voir avec tout + l’attirail de l’ajustement et de la mode. + + LA BRUYERE. + +To London they went on Monday. Lucy was languid and out of spirits +during the first part of the journey, but the rapid motion of the +swinging vehicle and the four horses revived her young spirits, and the +busy streets of London roused her, and the first sight of her house in +London pleased her. The excitement, however, did not last. The hall was +grand, the staircase noble, the rooms were vast, but they were not set +out in order, as the family were not to take up their abode in London +till the meeting of Parliament. + +The magnificent lustres were in canvass bags, the sofas in brown +holland covers, the carpets only put down in the dining-room and the +smaller back drawing-room. One day, while Lord Montreville was occupied +with his lawyer, Lucy, from real _désœuvrement_, perambulated the +desolate apartments, and uncovered the end of a sofa and the corner of +an ottoman. She found them beautiful,—she longed to see the effect; she +set to work, removed canvass bags, and paper coverings, &c. Her blood +began to flow, and her spirits to rise, at being actively employed: she +took care not to send for the housemaid; she was quite glad to work +hard. She was in the act of dragging forth a beautiful _chaise-longue_, +her bonnet tossed aside, her hair all out of curl, her gloves as gloves +must be that have come in contact with London furniture, her shawl +having slipped off her shoulders on the floor, her fine embroidered +handkerchief covered with dirt and dust off some delicate little +ornaments on the chimney-piece, the room spread with all the different +envelopes she had abstracted from the furniture, when Lord Montreville +entered, and, with him, a very handsome, very well-dressed, very +pleasing-looking young man. + +Lucy stopped short in her employment, and no little boy caught by +his schoolmaster in the act of stealing apples ever looked more +shame-faced, more confused, more guilty. Worse and worse. Lord +Montreville introduced the stranger as his cousin, Lionel Delville. +Lucy knew he was the oracle of the world of fashion, and the person for +whose opinion Lord Montreville had more deference than for any other +person’s living. She stammered, blushed, and stood abashed. + +Lord Montreville, however, showed no outward signs of annoyance; but, +with a smiling countenance and easy manner, he said:— + +“You seem to have been very busy! Well! I dare say you will settle the +rooms with much more taste than ever they were arranged before: women +have ten times more tact in making a house look inhabited, than any +man—always excepting my cousin Lionel. You must take him into your +counsels, Lucy, if you wish your suite of apartments to be perfect;” +and Lord Montreville led the way back into the boudoir. + +Lucy was comforted at Lord Montreville appearing to take her _équippée_ +so quietly, and she in some measure recovered her self-possession. + +She looked exceedingly pretty in her dishevelled state, and Lionel +Delville thought his cousin, the untutored, rustic Marchioness, a +most piquante creature. But though Lord Montreville himself had been +originally attracted by this same manner, it was not the manner by +which he intended that his wife should charm; and when Mr. Delville +took his leave, the lecture which Lucy flattered herself had passed +away, arrived with accumulated seriousness. + +His wrath was not disarmed by the degree in which he had seen Lionel +pleased. He wished him to approve; but he did not at all wish to see +him attracted. When he advised Lucy to take him into her counsels, it +was from the fear Mr. Delville should read how little he wished she +should do so. + +Lucy quaked at the tone in which he addressed her. + +“Do you think, Lucy, I have had reason to be pleased at the mode +in which I have been obliged to present my wife to the first of my +relations who has seen her? Do you think your appearance and your +occupation were calculated to make a favourable impression upon my +family?” + +“I am so sorry, dear Lord Montreville! but I did so long to see those +pretty things!” + +“Could you not send for the housemaid?” + +“Yes; to be sure I might; but I had nothing to do; and I only meant +to take one peep, and I never thought of any body calling; I thought +there was not a soul in London; and then, I know so few people—I never +thought of being caught!” + +“You forget that I have a very large acquaintance, and that you are +my wife; and you also forget one thing, which I have often tried +to impress upon your mind—that a woman should never be unfit to be +seen—that she should never be _caught_, as you term it, employed in any +manner unsuited to her rank and station in life—that your pleasures +should be such as befit the situation in which I have placed you; and +that my wife should always act as if the eyes of the world were upon +her. Let me hear no more of being _caught_—the expression is worthy of +a school-miss in her teens.” + +Lucy blushed rosy red. She blushed for shame; for she felt there was +something undignified in the expression: but she blushed more from +anger at being treated as a missish girl—at being, in fact, accused of +vulgarity. She was on the point of crying, but the servant entered with +the tickets for the play; and he put on coals, and swept up the ashes, +and lighted the lamps, and shut the shutters. Lucy had time to recover +herself, and Lord Montreville to reflect that he should not do wisely +to frighten her too much; that his own annoyance had perhaps caused him +to speak more angrily than the thing deserved. + +It was, therefore, in a gay and good-humoured tone, that he bade her +make haste and dress; though, at the same time, he gave her a hint to +be simple in her costume, as it was not good _ton_ to be too smart at +the play. + +They dined alone; but Lionel Delville and a friend joined them late in +the evening. If he thought her pretty in the morning, he thought her +lovely in her present quiet, but most _soigné_ and fashionable attire. + +He seated himself by her side, and gave her very little opportunity +of enjoying the drollery of the afterpiece. But he did not, he could +not, flirt with her. There was a complete simplicity—a straightforward +frankness in her manner, which rendered it impossible to know how to +begin. Moreover, she believed herself in love with her husband; and +besides, being dutifully and religiously devoted, she was particularly +anxious to give him satisfaction after her errors of the morning; and +her real thoughts and attention were on him and for him alone. He could +not but be pleased; knowing women to their heart’s core, as he did, he +saw the genuine innocence of her manner, and he felt assured that it +must take a long apprenticeship to the world to contaminate the purity +of her mind. He resolved to watch attentively over it. + +The kindness of his manner towards her the next day gratified her. He +presented her with a magnificent real Cashmere; and the next day with a +beautiful guard-ring. She thought him very kind, and she determined to +do every thing to please him, which was, in fact, never to do any thing +except to dress well, sit on the sofa buried among cushions (not bolt +upright engaged in any employment), and especially to fling herself +back into the corner of her carriage with an elegant _abandon_ when she +went out airing. + +Her efforts to do nothing were crowned with success: he thought her +extremely improved; but this _dolce far niente_ to her was not _dolce_, +especially when they returned into the country, and she could not go +shopping every day—an occupation to which he had no objection, as her +pin-money was so ample that she could not easily be distressed. + +He now thought he might venture to gather some of his own friends and +relations around him, and before Christmas there arrived a large party, +all people of the very highest fashion, pleasing and agreeable. They, +like their host, seemed in their conversation to have adopted the motto +of “_Glissez mortels, mais n’appuyez pas_;” and though the hours might +fly swiftly and pleasantly in their society, there was nothing about +them sufficiently original or individual to deserve recording. + +Lucy behaved exceedingly well; she had been properly drilled before +their arrival: she was in an interesting state, which, assisted by +the lectures of the apothecary, and the constant solicitude of Lord +Montreville, and the ennui occasioned by being headed, as a sportsman +would term it, whenever she attempted to stir hand or foot, gave to +her whole carriage and deportment a most excellent languor. She no +longer felt any flutter when she made the signal after dinner, and, +upon the whole, Lord Montreville thought the result all he could wish, +except that he would fain have had her join a little more in general +conversation, if he could have been quite sure of no exuberance of +spirits. + +Was she happy in the midst of her splendour? Her husband exceedingly +attentive, and the most agreeable society collected around her. No: she +was bored—from morning till night, constantly suffering from ennui. +She was grateful for her husband’s attentions, but they invariably +prevented her doing the thing she wished to do; and she sometimes +wondered how so many little chubby children were running about the +village in health and safety, who were not heirs to titles and +properties. + +The society of her husband’s friends did not amuse her; they were +all the intimates of one clique; and, notwithstanding their habitual +good-breeding, she could not help often being unable to understand, +or, at all events, to join in their conversation. A slight tone of +persiflage and of quizzing in their mode of treating all subjects, also +made her feel less at her ease, than she would otherwise have done +after ten days’ residence under the same roof; and she often longed for +a hearty laugh with Bell Stopford, a long scrambling walk with Emma +and Mary, or a quiet chat with the dear, honest, affectionate Milly. + +Lucy occasionally suggested how glad she should be to see her parents; +but the house was always filled with a succession of visitors. The +Duke and Duchess of Altonworth announced their intention of taking +Ashdale Park in their way to London, and Lord Montreville inadvertently +exclaimed, “Whom shall we get to meet them, for this party disperses on +Wednesday?” + +“Oh, then, now we can have papa and mamma, and Emma and Mary!—that will +be nice!” + +Lord Montreville’s countenance fell—he looked blank and dismayed. Lucy +saw she was wrong, but she could not imagine that papa and mamma were +not fit company for any duke or duchess in the land; so she awaited the +result, blank and dismayed in her turn, but wholly at a loss to guess +what was the matter. Lord Montreville soon rallied. + +“I do not think that would quite do, my dear Lucy: a family party is +always a dull thing, and the Duchess is very clever, and altogether——My +dear Lucy, I am sure you perfectly understand me.” + +This time, however, Lucy could not and would not understand. + +“But it will not be a family party to the Duchess, and I am sure mamma +is clever too: some people call her blue.” + +“Very true, my love; but the Duchess is clever and not blue, and she is +a person who is very exclusive; she has retired habits, and does not +like new acquaintances; and, in short, we must either get somebody whom +she would decidedly like to meet, or we had better have nobody.” + +“But we are going to town in a fortnight, and mamma has not been here +yet,” said Lucy with more pertinacity, and even humour, than she had +ever yet shown. + +“We shall be here again at Easter, and in the summer certainly, and +then you shall have them all, Emma and Mary, and your old friend Milly +too, if you like it;” and Lord Montreville resolved he would do it once +for all, well and thoroughly. + +Lucy acquiesced, though she did not exactly see why Ashdale Park should +be open to so many slight acquaintances, and yet that a visit from +her parents should be so difficult of accomplishment. She was also +somewhat appalled at the idea of this clever, exclusive Duchess, whom +she should have to entertain herself, for no one whom Lord Montreville +thought worthy of meeting her could be found on such short notice. +Lucy was sure she should dislike her; she was angry with her for, as +she thought, keeping away her own family, and she determined to bear +patiently the infliction of her presence for the few days she remained, +and never to seek her any more. She was free from the vulgar awe which +simple rank inspires to the _parvenu_, though she was not free from +the _gêne_ which most people feel when in company with persons who are +wedded to their own set, and who do not give themselves any trouble to +please those who are not of it. + +The day arrived, and Lucy, who was not constitutionally shy, and had +now become perfectly at her ease in the discharge of her every-day +hostess duties, awaited with composure the entry of the disagreeable +Duchess. + +She was rather surprised when a little, quiet, middle-aged woman, in +a close bonnet, and a black cloak, slid into the room, followed by a +large, gaunt, lordly-looking man. Lord Montreville was not present. +Lucy rose to receive them; the Duchess introduced herself and the Duke, +in a gentle, kind, frank manner. + +They sat down, and the Duchess being very cold drew her chair close to +the fire, put her feet upon the fender, and dropped out little natural +sentences, which half amused, half pleased Lucy, and before they went +to dress for dinner she felt more intimate with the dreaded Duchess +than with any of the other people who had yet been her inmates at +Ashdale Park. + +At dinner Lord Montreville was in his most agreeable vein; the Duchess +was charming, so unaffected, so straightforward, and, withal, there was +something singular and original in her turn of thought, with a graceful +_bonhommie_ which was peculiar to herself. The Duke was a sensible, +hard-headed, high-minded man, silent in large society, but conversable +enough in small ones. Lucy was interested and amused all the time, and +would have talked more than she did, but that she liked to listen to +the Duchess, and to watch the pleasing expression of her countenance, +and the wonderful manner in which, without youth, features, or +complexion, it lighted up into something more attractive than beauty. + +Upon further acquaintance she found her as good as she was +fascinating. She spoke of her married daughters, of her grand-children, +of her home, her garden, her son, and his wife and children, who lived +at Altonworth, when in the country; of her school, of the poor people, +and Lucy perceived that, in fact, her heart was so completely filled +with the near and dear charities of life, that it was not strange she +had no inclination to seek for other objects in the world. + +Lucy’s genuine feelings thawed to her immediately; and the Duchess was +also pleased with the innocence and simplicity of her young hostess. +Lucy was more delighted and flattered at the hope of being admitted +into her intimacy, than she had been since the ball, at which she had +first met Lord Montreville, when he had first made her feel herself a +person altogether superior to the common run of girls. + +Lucy and the Duchess parted with a mutual wish to meet again; on the +part of one, amounting to a passionate desire, on the part of the other +to a kindly inclination. + + +CHAPTER X. + + Kingdomes are bote cares, + State ys devoyd of staie, + Ryches are ready snares + And hasten to decaie. + + HENRY VI. _King of England_. + +When in London, Lucy, although in perfect health, and peculiarly active +and alert, was not permitted to go out. She was chained to the sofa, +till she almost longed to be a little ill to give her some occupation. +She did muster a little attack of nerves, and an occasional whim, +which, unfortunately for her, served to justify Lord Montreville in the +continuance of his precautions. + +Lord Montreville was often at the House of Lords, and as the season +advanced he was more and more absent from home. Lucy thought the peers +really worked very hard, and sacrificed a great deal of time to the +good of their country. However, it was so right and praiseworthy to do +so that she could not complain. + +Numberless persons left their cards with her, and she sent her’s in +return; but, as she was not allowed to keep late hours, she did not go +out of an evening, and her circle of acquaintance did not increase as +rapidly as she expected. Lord Montreville did not allow her to admit +gentlemen of a morning, and he did not encourage her seeing much of +Mrs. Bentley and her “sweet children;” so that, except the visits of +the Duchess of Altonworth and her daughters, with whom she soon became +intimate, and the drives into the country, which she sometimes took +with them, nothing could exceed the monotony of her life. + +She heartily wished the spring over, and her confinement over, and +another spring come, that she might revel in the anticipated delights +of a good London season. + +In the course of time the spring was over; they returned to the +country, and Lucy reminded Lord Montreville that he had promised her +parents should pay them a visit. The invitation was despatched, and +they arrived, father, mother, sisters, and Milly. + +Lucy’s situation afforded an excuse for not seeing much company, which +suited Lord Montreville very well; but not so well Mrs. Heckfield, who +had passed four days in London, on her way to Ashdale Park, for the +purpose of providing herself and daughters with apparel fit for the +succession of distinguished company which she there expected to meet. + +Neither did it suit Emma and Mary, whose hearts palpitated at the +prospect of wearing their new wardrobe, and at the effect it was +to produce. Vague images of barons, viscounts, earls, marquesses, +and even dukes, were floating in their minds, and Mademoiselle had +certainly intimated she did not see why if one of her young people had +married so brilliantly, the others should not do as well, especially +as Mademoiselle Emma played with much more execution than Madame la +Marquise, and Mademoiselle Marie had begun learning German. + +One and all were wofully disappointed when day after day elapsed, and +the family party received no addition, unless it might be the clergyman +of the parish, Lord Montreville’s solicitor from the county town, once +his agent from Lancashire, and once the Delafields. + +Mrs. Heckfield appeared in perfect caps from Devi’s, in the last new +Parisian hat from Carson’s; Emma and Mary in the crispest of white +muslins, over the cleanest of white satins. In vain! Neither duke, +marquess, earl, viscount, baron, or even baronet, made his appearance. +A fortnight had already slipped away,—the time for departure was +approaching, when Mrs. Heckfield one day said to her daughter,— + +“Well, my dear Lucy, I hope when your confinement is over, you will +lead a gayer life. I fancied you had your house always full of company. +Your letters constantly contained a list of visitors as long as my arm, +and I am sure since we have been here, scarcely a soul has crossed your +threshold. We have ten times as much society at Rose Hill Lodge.” + +“Lord Montreville takes too much care of me, and that is the reason we +have been so dull. I was afraid Emma and Mary would be disappointed, +but whenever I proposed asking people to come, Lord Montreville seemed +so afraid of my being ill. I am sure I am well enough, if he would but +think so.” + +“Well, my dear, it is quite right that husbands should be attentive, +and I cannot but rejoice that your’s is so peculiarly so. Certainly +your father never took half so much care of me. However, I hope the +next time we pay you a visit we may find you well, and strong, and able +to have your house full, and that I shall have the pleasure of seeing +my Lucy the life of a brilliant society.” + +Lucy sighed, for she had begun to understand Lord Montreville’s dislike +to introducing her friends to his friends, and she feared it would be +long before she had them all around her again. It was not that their +visit gave her all the pleasure she had anticipated from it: she felt +that her husband was bored; she was aware that he avoided his own set; +she was in an agony if any of her family did any of the things which +he thought out of the question; and her sisters, who were not “come +out,” although they “dined down,” as they termed it, often made her +uncomfortable. + +One day her mother asked a gentleman opposite if he would “take” +some of the dish before her, and Lucy looked timidly towards Lord +Montreville to see if he had caught the sound of a word which was +peculiarly obnoxious to his ears. Emma, on another occasion, exclaimed, +what a “delicious” trifle, and she felt a chill run through her, for +she knew he had a particular aversion to an epithet, which to him +seemed expressive of gluttony. + +Mary (who had never dined down before) was so delighted with the +variety of excellent dishes before her, that she was much inclined to +go the round of the second course, and needed many admonitory nods and +frowns from her mother. She also frequently tipped her chair on its two +fore-legs while she was writing or working, and this Lucy knew was an +unpardonable sin. + +Both girls were gay and wild, and had, as most sisters have, till +they have been a little schooled in the world, the habit of talking +over each other, and sometimes of interrupting the person speaking in +their eagerness to rejoin. On such occasions Lord Montreville stopped +short, and betook himself to a silence which was most painful to Lucy, +although it was entirely unperceived by the culprits. + +Lucy occasionally attempted to give them gentle hints upon these +subjects, but they only seemed to think she was grown quite fine, +and very difficult to please, and they could not conceal their +disappointment at the retirement in which she lived. + +The result was, that at the end of three weeks, when the large coach +which contained them all drove from the door, a sensation of relief +mingled itself with the sorrow she felt at parting from them. + +Milly remained at Ashdale Park, and Lucy looked forward with unmixed +pleasure to the prospect of having always about her a person so +thoroughly attached, and in whom she had such perfect confidence. + +In the autumn the long-expected event took place,—Lord Montreville was +made happy by the birth of a son, and Lucy was delighted to think she +should soon be a free agent again. + +They had removed to London for the occasion. Lord Montreville was a +great deal from home, and, as there were very few people in town, the +time hung heavy with Lucy; for she was so impatient to leave her sick +room and her sofa, that she did not find every thought and feeling +wholly absorbed in the new-born babe. She was very young in years, and +still more so in character: she had by no means had enough of youth and +gaiety, and was not yet ripe for the tender affections and dull details +of maternity. She was charmed with her baby, and was very unhappy if +it cried, but it did not suffice her for amusement to watch it all day +long. She wished Lord Montreville would stay at home, and read to her, +or would bring her home some news, or that somebody would come, or +something happen. + +Milly was her comfort. She sometimes conversed with her for hours, and +listened with sympathy to the details of her life in America, and with +interest to her unsophisticated view of things in general. She thought +that after all there was nothing half so good or so sensible as Milly, +except the Duchess of Altonworth;—indeed, she fancied she perceived a +considerable resemblance between their characters. + +They returned to the country. When the first excitement was over, of +bells being rung and oxen being roasted—when the servants, the tenants, +the neighbours, had all looked at the wonderful child, and pronounced +it to be the very finest they had ever seen, Lucy relapsed into her +former state of ennui. She began to think she must be ill. + +“Milly, I do not think I am well,” she one day promulgated to Milly, as +she was sitting in the nursery. + +“La, my lady! I am sure you look the very picture of health! What ever +is the matter?” + +“I do not know, exactly.” + +“You have not the headache, sure?” + +“No! my head never aches.” + +“Perhaps, my lady, you feel tired if you walk too far.” + +“No! I do not think I ever feel tired with walking, but I feel very +tired if I do not walk.” + +“Sure, my lady!—that’s comical too!” + +“I never feel merry as I used to do; and I think it must be my state +of health that prevents my being so. I have thought of consulting Dr. +Bolusville, only I do not know what to say to him. I have no symptom +that I know of—only I ought to be so very happy. I possess every +thing that a person can sit down and wish for, and yet I feel low. I +sometimes think, if I had more occupation, I should be better; but Lord +Montreville is so kind, he will not let me take any trouble about any +thing. Now, I dare say you did not feel low when you were in your log +hut, on the banks of your swampy river—did you?” + +“No, my lady! I never did, certainly;—when poor John was middling well, +that is.” + +“Ah, yes, for you had plenty to do! that must have been the reason. +When I was a child, I always worked harder in my garden than my +sisters; and the old bailiff once gave me a silver knife, because he +said I had earned it haymaking. How I do wish Lord Montreville would +let me help him to manage the house, and that he would consult me, and +talk with me; but you see he never has any thing to say to me, except +a kind word now and then, just as he has to the child. I should like +to go hand-in-hand with my husband, as you and John did, and ride +about his woods, and his park, and his farm with him, as the Duchess +of Altonworth does with the Duke; and I should like to have a school, +and to be useful. But he would not let me go to the school—especially +now—he is so afraid of my bringing back the measles, or any complaint +to the child.” + +“Well, my lady, the baby will soon be business enough for you. What a +sweet fellow he grows! Look! he knows you already!” and Milly tried to +turn her attention to the child; for she thought all the mischief lay +in Lord Montreville’s being so very little like John Roberts; and as +that evil was without a remedy, the less it was dwelt upon the better. + +The wished-for spring came, and Lucy was at once launched into the +circle, which, to those who are not admitted, appears far to exceed in +glory and delights Dante’s “_Paradiso_.” + +Lord Montreville did not approve of her going out quite every evening, +nor did he like her being seen at four or five parties the same night; +but he allowed her a fair proportion of dissipation. He generally +accompanied her himself; and without appearing to watch her, he +contrived to know exactly what she was doing: but he did not make +a point of never letting her stir without him: he took care to do +nothing that should make her feel herself doubted, or that should cause +either her or himself to appear ridiculous in the eyes of others. His +proceedings were, as usual, dictated by the head, rather than by the +heart; and were, as usual, framed with reference to the effect to be +produced on the world, rather than to any abstract notion of right and +wrong. In this instance, however, morality and expediency pointed out +the same line of conduct. + +Lucy was charmed with all she saw, and she was also delighted at +finding herself considered charming; but her gaiety was as frank and +natural as ever, although more subdued than in her girlish days. She +ventured to talk more in society, and there was still enough left of +the madcap Lucy to give a certain raciness and originality to what she +uttered. Speeches, which in themselves were nothing, pleased from being +so like herself. + +Lord Montreville had now sufficient confidence in her tact not to fear +any outbreak which could offend the most fastidious; and he rendered +justice to the perfect innocence of her manner, in which there was so +complete an absence of prudery or of coquetry, that no one presumed to +pay her any marked attention. + +This was the happiest period of her wedded life. The charms of London +society had not yet palled on her, and, although her head was not +turned with it, still she could not be insensible to the _éclat_ of +her present position. She gradually became quite reconciled to seeing +less of Mrs. Bentley and her children than she had at first wished, and +she was not so much annoyed as she thought she should have been at not +having Emma with her at Almack’s. + +The Duchess of Altonworth was most kind, and she passed many agreeable +evenings with small parties at her house. + +Upon the whole, time no longer hung heavy. Lord Montreville now had +seldom occasion to set her right on any point of etiquette; and +when she saw him in private, he appeared pleased and satisfied with +her. But, although she did not always see his name in the House of +Lords, still he was frequently absent of an evening, except when they +were engaged to some pleasant party, in which case he almost always +accompanied her. + +The season drew to a close. They left London, and, to her great +delight, removed to the Welsh castle, to pass some of the summer weeks +among the wild beauties of nature. + +All she had heard or imagined of the awful glories of the castle were +more than realised. It was as vast, as dark, as gloomy, as massive, as +uncomfortable, and as ghostly as heart could wish; and when first she +arrived with all the spirits which the London season had infused into +her, she was enchanted with the small windows in the thick walls, and +the delightful look-out into the square courtyard. + +There is no saying how long she would have found amusement in wandering +about the oaken passages, and the winding stairs, and in finding +likenesses for her boy among the grim warriors and furred judges whose +portraits adorned the sides of the gallery; or how soon she would have +longed for some of her friends to explore and to admire with her, for, +soon after their arrival at Caërwhwyddwth Castle, an event occurred +which gave a completely new current to her thoughts and feelings. + +Lord Montreville, who had been out on horseback with his agent to +inspect some improvements that were making on the property, was one +evening brought home senseless. In descending a narrow footpath to +examine the foundations of a new bridge, the horse slipped. He was +precipitated down a considerable declivity, and a blow on the head +produced a concussion of the brain, from which the most serious +consequences might be apprehended. + +Lucy’s horror and grief were such as might be expected. The doctor +from the nearest town arrived as soon as possible. His report of +the patient’s state was most alarming, although he gave hopes of +ultimate recovery. All the usual remedies of bleeding, blistering, +and extreme quiet were recommended; and Lucy sat night and day by his +bed-side, watching with intense anxiety for the symptoms of returning +consciousness. + +The doubt had sometimes crossed her mind whether she did love her +husband as she had wished and intended to do, and as Milly had loved +John. But now, in his present helpless and suffering state, she felt +herself so capable of doing any thing for him, of enduring any thing +for him,—she felt that on his recovery all her future happiness so +completely depended, that she was quite reassured as to the extent of +her affection. She reflected with gratitude on his having selected her +from all the world; she forgot his little particularities, she thought +only of his kindnesses, and she nursed him with all the devotion and +forgetfulness of self with which Milly could have nursed her John. + +Weeks elapsed, and he did not recover his memory, nor did he seem to +recognise those about him. + +In the mean time agents, servants, stewards,—all required orders and +directions. There were law affairs pending. Lord Montreville’s letters +had been carefully set aside in his study till he himself might be +well enough to open them, when Lucy received a formal epistle from +the agent, informing her that among these letters there were some +containing papers which it was absolutely necessary should be returned +for signature. Lucy made up her mind that she must open the letters. + +Before she went to Lord Montreville’s study to proceed with the +necessary routine, she looked into the sick room, to see that all was +quiet and comfortable. + +She was again closing the curtains, when she was almost overcome with +joy at hearing him utter, in feeble accents, “Lucy, do not leave me!” + + +CHAPTER XI. + + Se a ciascuno l’interno affanno + Si leggesse in fronte scritto, + Quanti mai che invidia fanno + Ci farebbero pietà. + + METASTASIO. + +Lucy could scarcely command herself so as to answer her husband, +without betraying a degree of emotion which might have been prejudicial +to him in his present state of weakness. He thanked her for her +attention to him; he told her he had often been aware of her presence, +though he had not had the power to show it. She bathed his hand with +tears of joy and gratitude; and at that moment, when he was endeared to +her by long watching and by deep anxiety, she felt as if Milly’s love +for John could not have exceeded her’s for her husband, her guide, her +protector, the father of her child. + +The doctor came, and pronounced the patient convalescent; but +prescribed the most perfect quiet, and the avoidance of every thing +which might in any way arouse his feelings. Lucy told him of the letter +she had received from the agent, and asked his opinion and advice upon +the subject. + +He declared it out of the question that Lord Montreville should be +allowed to attend to matters of business for weeks, nay, perhaps months. + +Under these circumstances, Lucy resumed her intention of opening +Lord Montreville’s letters, and of acting according to the best +of her judgment. Several were most uninteresting and unimportant +communications, which required neither comment nor answer; some were +letters of correspondence, which she laid aside as soon as she found +they did not contain the papers of which she was in search. At length +she came to one written in a delicate female hand, beginning, “Dearest +Montreville,” and signed “Your Alicia Mowbray.” + +“Alicia Mowbray!” she thought; “I never heard of her,” and her eye +glanced upon words which filled her with astonishment and horror: +“cruel absence,” and “consuming grief,” “counting the moments,” and +“happy meeting,” and “sad parting,” and “distress for money,” and +“necessary expenses,” winding up with an urgent request for a fresh +supply of a hundred pounds. + +Could this be intended for Lord Montreville! She looked again at the +direction at the beginning of the letter. There could be no mistake: +it was most assuredly addressed to her husband,—to the husband whom in +health she had so dutifully studied to please,—whom in sickness she +had nursed with such unwearied attention,—from whom, though exposed to +all the fascinations and allurements of a London life, she had never +for one moment allowed her thoughts to wander! That he, whom she had +always looked upon as the appointed guardian of her honour and her +morals, should have been habitually, deliberately breaking his nuptial +vow, preferring to her pure and true affection the hired caresses of a +mistress,—and, above all, exposing her to the eyes of the world as the +neglected wife of an old profligate, old enough to be her father! The +letter fell from her hand; her brain went round with the multitudinous +thoughts that rushed almost simultaneously through it; but rage, +indignation, and disgust superseded, for some moments, all more tender +emotions. + +Then came pity for herself, who had thus wasted the bloom of her early +feelings, and she wept bitter tears over her blighted youth, her +worthless beauty; for at this moment she suddenly became aware that she +was one of the most lovely and most admired of women,—admired by all +around her, except her husband,—lovely in all eyes but his! + +Lucy had married almost from the school-room. Lord Montreville had +drawn a veil over his own former career; he had studiously avoided +initiating her into the frailties of fashionable life; he had +wished to preserve the purity he found; so that she still retained +that freshness of mind which refuses itself to the conviction of the +existence of vice, but which, when once unwillingly convinced, sees it +in all its natural deformity. + +From long acquaintance with the world, the imagination becomes +familiarised with what at first inspired horror; or from experience of +the weakness of human nature, the temptations to which it is exposed, +and the gradations by which one error often leads on to guilt, the +charitable learn to pity the sinner, while they condemn the sin. But +Lucy’s perceptions of right and wrong were not blunted by habitual +intercourse with the faulty, nor softened by the consideration of their +temptations or their repentance. She saw but the broad distinction +between virtue and vice, and she looked on the latter with the +indignant horror of youth. Charity is not the characteristic virtue of +the young. + +While she was absorbed in such new and painful reflections, there came +a tap at the door, and her maid informed her that Lord Montreville +was awake, and was incessantly asking for her. She started at the +interruption, and, quickly dismissing the maid, stood for a few moments +paralysed. + +She had looked with loathing at the letter, till her tears had all +retreated to their cells. She roused herself, and hastily pushing the +other papers into an escrutoire, she stopped to pick up the fatal +epistle. + +At that moment the servant entered. She instinctively crammed it into +her bosom, but as instantly pulled it forth again, as if its very touch +was contamination. + +Lord Montreville was so impatient for her return, that a second +messenger had been despatched to hasten her. She rushed to her own +apartment, where she placed the letter under lock and key, and then was +obliged, with what composure she could muster, to repair to the bedside +of her husband. + +He greeted her with a pleased smile,—he extended his pale and emaciated +hand to take her’s. “Dearest Lucy,” he said, “it seems an age since you +left me; it does me good to know my kindest and best nurse is near me. +I cannot bear to feel that what I love best is absent from me.” + +His hand lay passively in hers; her soul recoiled from him. She could +not return the pressure of his hand, she could not meet his eyes. +“Falsehood upon his lips,” she thought, “when scarcely snatched from +the jaws of death, when still trembling on the verge of the grave.” + +She made an effort to speak, and, assuring him the doctor forbade all +excitement or emotion, she begged him to compose himself to sleep. + +“You will not leave me, then?” + +She promised she would not, and she seated herself by the bedside. All +was quiet; he gradually dozed off into a light slumber; and there she +sat bewildered, confused, fancying all that had occurred must be a +dream! Could he speak so kindly, so tenderly, and yet be false? Could +he address her as the being he loved best, while he preferred to her +this Alicia? Could he, with death staring him in the face, thus add a +deliberate lie to all his other sins? Yet there existed the letter—the +letter which expressed implicit reliance on his affections! + +She gazed on him as he slept, and looked back to the moment when he +had first recognised her, and thought, was it possible one little hour +could have worked such a wondrous revolution in her mind? + +The truth was, that Alicia had been a mistress of former days, on whom +he had settled a handsome annuity at the very time when his absence +from Lyneton had excited such surprise in the inhabitants of Rose Hill +Lodge, and from whom he had then parted, as he intended for ever, but +who had once more succeeded in getting him within her toils. + +For some time after his marriage he had neither heard nor seen any +thing of her; but when he came to London in the spring, he received +from her a letter, stating that she had been robbed of the money he +allowed her—that she was deeply in debt, and was threatened with an +execution in her house, and with the prospect of being sent to prison. +He could not do otherwise than ascertain the truth of this history, +and interfere to save her from such wretchedness. She was still very +handsome, in deep grief, and in great agitation at again seeing him. +He relieved her immediate wants, and occasionally visited her; for +which visits she expressed the greatest gratitude, and from which she +contrived to extract considerable additions to her allowance. He did +not thoroughly believe in her passionate devotion to him, but he could +not be cruel to a person who had acquired the sort of hold over him +which is obtained by long habit. + +He did not consider that this renewal of his former acquaintance at all +interfered with his making an excellent husband, for he treated his +wife with all possible respect and attention; she had every thing that +an unlimited command of money could procure her, and he imagined that +the whole guilt of infidelity consisted in its coming to the knowledge, +and consequently hurting the feelings, of the wife. + +If he had been obliged to make his election between them, he would +not have hesitated for a moment; but there was nothing, to his mind, +incompatible in the two connexions. + +In fact, his sentiments for Lucy had of late rather increased than +diminished in warmth; for he could not but respect the singleness of +heart with which she passed through the ordeal of a London season, +so dangerous to a young and lovely married woman of high rank, and +especially to one who was the fashion. As the mother of his son and +heir, she had an additional claim on his affections that no other woman +had ever possessed; and the attention with which she had nursed him had +now awakened in his bosom stronger emotions of tenderness than he had +thought himself capable of feeling. + +The expressions which fell from his lips came straight from his heart, +although, at that moment, they appeared to Lucy to be an insulting +refinement of deceit. + +During the hour which she passed watching his slumbers, she seemed +to live a long life of bitter and confused thoughts, and she was +unutterably relieved when the entrance of the physician enabled her to +make her escape, and to lock herself into her room, there to meditate +on the past, the present, and the future. + +On looking back she remembered a thousand circumstances which to her +unsuspicious mind had seemed of no import at the time, but which +now proved to her that this connexion was one of some standing. She +remembered having heard persons allude to debates in the House of +Lords, at which he had been obliged to confess he had not been present, +although he had been absent from her all the evening. She remembered +how little she had seen of him during her confinement; she looked at +the fatal letter, and felt certain she had often seen notes in the same +hand-writing, and she became more and more indignant to think she had +long been a neglected, an injured, and a duped wife. She recollected +the rigid notions of female propriety which he professed; she thought +the care he had taken of her morals, the censorship which he exercised +over the books she read, an insulting mockery. She could almost smile +in bitterness at his having forbidden her reading Delphine, and made +her return Adam Blair to the library,—and at the remark he made to some +one who wondered she had never yet read _La Nouvelle Heloise_—that he +was surprised at any woman who had read the first three lines of the +introduction owning she had read any further. + +“And I was grateful to him,” she thought, “for thus watching over +me. I fancied it argued affection for me, and a love of virtue in +himself, while he was thus treating me like a fool, and laughing at his +childish dupe! No wonder he wished to preserve the ignorance which was +so convenient to him. This taste for purity in which I so rejoiced, +was but the veil to conceal his own vice. And I am bound for life to +this man. I must drag on a weary existence, forced, Heaven knows how +unwillingly, to break my marriage vow; for how can I love, how can I +honour, what I despise and condemn?” + +Floods of tears came to the relief of her bursting heart and bursting +head. She wept, till she was once more calm, and could look with some +degree of composure upon the actual position in which she was placed. + +In the first instance she resolved, although she could never again find +pleasure in the performance of her duty, that she would rigidly adhere +to it, that she would command all outward expression of her emotions, +and that she would continue to nurse Lord Montreville, if possible, +with the same devotion as before. She made up her mind that when she +had succeeded in finding the papers for which the lawyer had written, +she would lock up all the letters together, and when Lord Montreville +was well enough to attend to his own affairs again, she would explain +the circumstances under which she had been obliged to search for these +papers, and give him the key of the escrutoire without any farther +remark. + +When she had despatched the papers, and safely deposited the letters +according to her intention, she felt somewhat relieved, and was enabled +to return once more to the sick room, and take her station there as +usual. + +Fortunately he spoke but little, and she was spared any fresh +ebullitions of tenderness on his part. In the evening she repaired to +the nursery, where Milly was rapturous in her congratulations upon his +lordship’s wonderful improvement. + +“Well, my lady, your good nursing has its reward at last! La! when +first he called you by your name, and spoke so kind and tender like, +Mrs. Gauzelee told me she never saw such a moving sight. And to see +you, my lady, take his hand and kiss it, and my lord calling you ‘his +own Lucy.’ Well! it does my old heart good to think you have known such +a blessed moment; for I remember, as I pushed open the bed-room door +of our log-hut, when my poor John said, ‘Why, Milly, t’an’t you,’ I +thought the joy of hearing my husband’s voice speak my name again would +have quite got the better of me.” + +Few people like to be told they felt this or that, on such or such an +occasion; still more disagreeable is it when, although they cannot +disclaim the emotions attributed to them, they are conscious of +experiencing those the most diametrically opposite. + +Lucy held her child in her arms. She contrived to bury her face in its +little bosom, and to remain bending over it, till her voice and her +countenance were sufficiently under control to venture an answer: “The +doctor seems to think that, with perfect quiet, Lord Montreville may +soon be quite himself again.” + +Milly was surprised at the cool and measured reply. Lucy’s devotion had +been such, that she could not doubt the love she bore to her husband. +Her lady looked ill. She thought, perhaps, she had harassed herself +too much, and she entreated her to go to bed early. But no! she was +resolved to watch as before. + +“My actions,” she said to herself, “shall be under command, though my +feelings may not be so. I will do the same I did before,” and she took +her station in his darkened room, where, by the glimmer of one shaded +candle, she usually passed a great part of the night in reading. + +That night her eyes in vain glanced over the words, they conveyed no +corresponding ideas to her mind. She imagined long conversations and +explanations; she fancied reproaches, excuses, she pictured penitence +and sorrow. She convinced herself that, when Lord Montreville examined +his letters, and found this one opened, he would be overwhelmed with +shame and self-reproach, and that he would throw himself on her mercy. +She considered how it would then be her duty to act; she consulted +her own heart whether she should then be able to restore him to the +same place in her affections. She tried to lower her standard of manly +excellence; she tried to frame to herself a less exalted scale of +morals. Alas! is not this but too likely an error to fall into, as the +frailties and follies of human nature open upon the young and gentle, +to whom it is painful to condemn and despise their fellow-creatures? + + +END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. + + + + +VOLUME THE SECOND. + + +CHAPTER XII. + + Les gens vertueux sont rares, mais ceux qui estiment la vertu ne le + sont pas; d’autant moins qu’il y a mille occasions dans la vie, où + l’on a absolument besoin des personnes qui en ont.—_Marivaux._ + +Lord Montreville recovered slowly, but satisfactorily. The doctor, the +servants, Milly, all on different occasions, and in different manners, +conveyed to his mind an impression of Lucy’s unceasing attention to +him during his illness. Indeed, the old doctor had imbibed such an +enthusiastic admiration for Lady Montreville’s unpresuming, frank, and +affectionate character, that he could scarcely speak of her without +tears in his eyes. + +Lord Montreville found his gratitude daily increase his affection; and +when she brought him his child whose caresses and opening intelligence +awoke in him emotions from as yet unexplored recesses of his heart, his +love for his wife assumed a new character, and he felt for her as he +had never yet felt for woman. He had hitherto seldom considered them +in any light but as a mistress, a plaything, a necessary appendage to +a large house and an establishment, or an object of conquest, either +gained or to be gained. He had thought absence of harm, their highest +recommendation. In Lucy he had first discovered that strong affections, +strength of mind, patience, and perseverance could be perfectly +compatible with almost childish candour, and singleness of heart. + +While this revolution had taken place in Lord Montreville’s feelings, +what were Lucy’s? The increased tenderness of his manner perplexed and +confounded her. At moments, especially when her husband was playing +with her boy, and watching with delight his attempts to walk, marking +his recognition of familiar objects, and listening to the first +half-uttered lispings of infancy, she almost yielded to her longing +desire to be happy and affectionate, when the thought of Alicia Mowbray +shot through her heart, and chilled the kindly smile on her lip, the +soft expression of her eye, the tender intonation of her voice. + +One day the child was playing on Lord Montreville’s sofa, when he +beckoned her to sit there likewise. He passed his fingers through +the curls of the boy’s fair hair, and looking at him with tenderness +remarked, “I never knew before what engaging creatures children were! +that clear white forehead, and those blue eyes, with such shady +eyelashes, are just like yours, Lucy, and I do not love him the less +for that.” + +She thought how delightful such expressions would have been to her, +could she have trusted them, and yet she felt almost guilty at +receiving them so coldly. He passed his arm round her waist as he +spoke. She dared not repel the caress, but she burst into tears, and +suddenly rising, she said, “I must not be so foolish and nervous. I +believe I want a little fresh air, for I have not been out these two +days. I will go and take a turn in the park this lovely evening.” + +She hastened to quit the room, leaving Lord Montreville surprised, and +yet pleased, for he could not attribute this agitation to any cause +except love for himself. + +She sought the most retired part of the park. The sun was getting low, +and lighted up the grey rough boles of the old oaks, while the slant +beams tipped every object in the landscape with gold, and increased +the rich variety of foliage, of form, and of colouring. The distant +mountains were purple, the nearer ones adorned with every hue and tint, +which blended most softly into the other. The young fawns were skipping +and sporting on the smooth glades, between the tufts of trees, while +the belling of the deer among the fern mingled with the hum of bees, +the chirp of birds, and the summer sounds of evening. + +She gazed around and thought, “How lovely, how beautiful is nature! +How calm and cheerful every thing looks! It is more painful to feel +unhappy while every thing seems so gay around one, than if all was as +dreary and desolate as one’s own heart. Oh! how I do long to be happy!” +and she began to think that perhaps she tormented herself foolishly; +that there might be some excuse for her husband, of which she was not +aware; that it was impossible any one could seem so affectionate as +Lord Montreville, without feeling what he showed: she yielded to the +genial influence of the scene around her, and vaguely hoped that all +would yet come right. + +“He will soon be well enough to read his letters,” she thought, “and +as I am sure he is very fond of me now, whatever he may have been +hitherto, he will be miserable when he finds the letter from that +shocking woman; and he will be humble and penitent, and tell me the +whole truth, and then I will forgive him, and then he must love me a +great deal better than ever, for being so very kind.” + +With the exception perhaps of a few singular persons who seem to +enjoy being miserable, there is so strong a desire of happiness in +the youthful mind, and something so painful in a continued state of +depression, that the spirits will spring up, unless new causes of +unhappiness arise; and Lucy returned from her walk with an elastic +step, and a sensation as if a weight had been taken off her mind, +although nothing had occurred which in the slightest degree altered her +situation. + +Lord Montreville was now able to bear the full light, and to move into +the next room. He became anxious to see his letters. He asked for the +key of the escrutoire, in which they were locked up. The moment was +come when she had to impart to him that she had ventured to break the +seal of some of them. With a beating heart, and trembling hand, she +showed him that she had received from the agent, and told him how she +had in consequence been obliged to open some of his letters, to find +the papers required. + +Lord Montreville’s colour changed. He repeated his request for the key, +and without making any farther remark, he rang the bell for his own +man, and taking his arm, walked into his morning-room. He dismissed the +servant, and Lucy heard him lock the door, as if to preclude all chance +of interruption. + +She sat with a palpitating heart, counting and calculating the time +it would take him to read through the mass of papers which had +accumulated, and wondering when he would rush to her feet to crave +mercy and forgiveness. It was evident by the change in his countenance, +by his silence, by his ringing for his servant, instead of asking for +her supporting arm, that he expected letters from this woman. She +remained hoping, doubting, fearing. + +Dinner-time arrived. Lord Montreville was not yet well enough to dine +with her, so she ate, or rather could not eat, her solitary morsel. + +They generally drank tea together. She wondered whether she should find +him in the drawing-room as usual. She wondered how he would receive +her. She did find him there as usual, but with him the nurse and child. + +That evening their boy first toddled alone from the father’s sofa +to the mother’s knee, and Lucy caught him up, and devoured him with +kisses, in a transport of delight and pride, that mothers, and mothers +only, can comprehend. “Oh!” she thought, “he will own all to me +to-night, and I shall forgive him for the sake of that dear child.” + +The boy went to bed—the candles came—Lucy took her work, and sat down +with her back rather turned towards Lord Montreville, wondering when +the moment would arrive. “He is waiting till tea is over—the servants +will be coming in and out.” + +Tea did come. It was generally with them a meal, as Lord Montreville +dined at two o’clock. It was however a meal, to which neither of them, +that evening, did justice. At length urn, toast, butter, bread, and +cakes, were removed, and Lucy’s heart might almost have been heard to +beat, when the last servant shut the door. + +“He must speak now,” she thought. But the silence continued unbroken, +and she determined not to be the first to break it. She sat, imagining +in what words he would open the subject, till the first sound of his +voice made her almost start from her seat. He asked her to put the +shade over the candles a little lower down. He had to repeat the +request, before she could collect her thoughts so as to comply with +it. “He is ashamed I should see his countenance, when he speaks of +this disgraceful connexion,” she thought; and she remained again in +expectation. + +Another silence succeeded. For very awkwardness Lucy wished to say +something, but she could think of nothing that did not either lead away +from the subject uppermost in both their minds, or else indirectly +lead to it. Every sentence she planned, sounded either too formal, or +too tender. At length she fell back upon the never-failing resource +of the bankrupt in conversation; and after ten minutes’ reflection and +consideration, she promulgated “It is very hot to-night!” He agreed, +and begged her to look at Moore’s Almanack, to see what weather was +there predicted. He continued to say a vast deal upon the subject, to +which she replied in absent monosyllables. + +There was no more to be extracted from this topic. Lord Montreville had +foretold drought, and rain, wind and heat, storm and sunshine, and Lucy +had assented to the probability of each in succession, when another +silence ensued. She began to feel angry at being treated with such +coldness, and such contempt, that he did not even deem any apology or +explanation due to her; as if he imagined her only fit to be a nurse, +only capable of talking about the weather. Her heart, which had been +yearning towards the father of her child, became suddenly chilled and +shut up. + +Her wrongs rose before her eyes in fearful array against him; and if +he had then entered upon the subject, he would have found her in a +very different frame of mind from that in which she had been at the +commencement of their tête-à-tête. She made a variety of the most +insipid common-place remarks, in the most dry and indifferent tone +of voice. Never was dialogue kept up between two strangers in a more +constrained tone, than between this couple, who really entertained a +great affection for each other, and on the evening of the day on which +their first child had first walked alone. + +The fact is, that Lord Montreville was thunderstruck when he found his +letters had been opened; though, under the circumstances, he confessed +to himself there had been no other course for Lucy to pursue. He was +still more horrified, when he found the fatal letter among the number +of those of which the seal had been broken. Even according to his own +idea of morality, such a proceeding became wrong when it reached the +wife’s knowledge: and his attachment to that wife had latterly so much +increased, that he found his opinions upon the duties of matrimony +vastly more strict than before his illness. The liaison which had +appeared to him a matter of such trifling importance while he believed +her ignorant of it, suddenly assumed, even in his eyes, the character +of a sin of the first magnitude when he felt it known to a being so +innocent, so conscientious as the young wife whom he had now learned +to respect, as well as to love. He half persuaded himself it was +impossible she could have read, or at least have comprehended the +purport of the letter, or she could never have nursed him with such +unremitting attention, without ever speaking, implying, or looking a +reproach. + +He also had awaited the evening meeting with dread and agitation, half +expecting that he must go through a scene of tears and explanation. As +she alluded not to the subject, he half hoped at first that she had not +read the letter. He had instinctively availed himself of the weather to +attempt a conversation on indifferent subjects; but, adept as he was at +giving what turn he pleased to conversation in society, he was unequal +to the task now. She did not assist him, and he became nearly convinced +by her taciturnity that she knew all, and then his spirit felt abashed +before her’s. + +He mentally resolved to break off entirely with Alicia, and for the +future to be the most exemplary of husbands; but he had not the +nobleness of character to be able willingly to own his fault, and to +throw himself on her mercy for forgiveness. Indeed, though he could +not choose but admire her conduct, supposing she was acquainted with +his errors, still the admiration he felt did not attract him. On the +contrary, the consciousness of inferiority, from which he could not +defend himself, _vis-à-vis_ of a woman, and of one whom he had raised +from comparative obscurity, chilled the love which had been gradually +increasing in his heart, with the growth of his newly-awakened parental +affection. This evening, and many succeeding evenings and mornings, +passed off in _gêne_ and coldness. + +Lucy’s generous impulse of forgiveness had changed to a feeling +of disgust for his unblushing immorality, contempt for what she +thought was hypocrisy in his tender expressions towards herself, and +indignation at the insult offered to her as a wife, a mother, and a +young and lovely woman. She wrapt herself up in cool reserve. + +If at first Lord Montreville could not work himself up to a full +confession in all contrition and humility, still less could he do so, +when the soft, the mild, the timid Lucy, had assumed a certain calm, +composed, and self-possessed manner, which repelled, rather than +invited confidence. + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + Mais ne savez-vous pas que notre âme est encore plus superbe que + vertueuse, plus glorieuse qu’honnête, et par conséquent plus + délicate sur les intérêts de sa vanité que sur ceux de son véritable + honneur.—_Marivaux._ + +In the mean time, Lord Montreville had completely recovered his health. +They left Caërwhwyddwth Castle, and established themselves at Ashdale +Park for the winter. Their house was soon full, and Lucy tried to +drown all sense of her cares in the succession of company, with which +she was as desirous as Lord Montreville could be, to keep their house +constantly replenished. They each equally dreaded finding themselves +alone with the other. + +The breakfast hour was late; before luncheon the excursion for the +day was organised; after luncheon the preconcerted ride or drive took +place; the company was constantly changing, and Lady Montreville’s +presence was frequently required in the drawing-room, to speed the +parting, or to greet the coming guest. It was only in the nursery that +the face which in society she had learned to dress in smiles, relaxed +into an expression of languor and joylessness, which astonished and +distressed the faithful Milly. When the child’s gambols and caresses +called forth a smile, it was so melancholy a one, that Milly’s eyes +would often fill with tears as she looked upon her lady. + +One day, when among the foolish questions with which poor little +children are tormented, Lucy said to him, “Charlie loves mamma, does +not he?” He answered, “Me love papa.” The boy meant nothing, but the +words fell on Lucy’s heart, as if they doomed her to utter lonelessness +and lovelessness! as if her own child cared not for her! and she burst +into a passionate flood of tears, which alarmed and confounded Milly. + +“La, my lady! sure you are not crying for that? Why you would not but +have the dear babe love his own papa?” + +“I do not believe any body or any thing loves me in this world—except +you, Milly;” and Lucy’s sobs redoubled. + +“Oh, my lady! how can you speak so? And to think of my lord, how he +used to be asking and calling for you when he was so ill, and that’s +the time when people call for them as they really love best; and ’twas +then my lord could not bear you out of his sight, though may be, now he +is well, he takes pleasure in the other gentlefolks too.” + +Lucy had pride and dignity enough not to open the secrets of her +domestic wrongs, even to Milly; and exerting all her self-control, she +dried her tears, and tried to smile at her silly maternal jealousy. +But Milly was not so deceived. Simple as she was, the warmth of her +own feelings rendered her quick-sighted in all that regarded those +of others. She was sure that her lady’s lowness of spirits had some +deeper source than the child’s little speech, though she was quite at a +loss to divine what the cause might be. She had been so well satisfied +with Lord Montreville’s love for her, when first he recovered his +recollection, that she did not suspect it could be occasioned by any +unkindness on his part. + +At this period of our story, Sir Charles and Lady Selcourt arrived at +Ashdale Park. Lucy was overjoyed to see a face that reminded her of +the happy days of her childhood, a person who was bound to her by ties +of blood, who distinctly belonged to herself. Although not perhaps the +one whose character was most congenial to her own, still she was her +sister; they had played the same plays, wandered about the same fields, +studied in the same school-room, had shared the same parental cares, +and in the present desolate state of her feelings, her heart went forth +towards Sophy with warmth. + +Lady Selcourt was a worldly woman, and a coquette, but she was not +a common-place coquette. She never made any advances towards men; +she never apparently sought them; but she dressed herself quite +beautifully, and sat still with an expression of conscious charms, +combined with strict propriety, which seldom failed to bring all the +men in the room hovering round the sofa on which she sat. + +She was not witty, or learned, or talkative, but she looked very soft, +and occasionally very arch; and when she did speak, implied a great +deal more than she said. All girls hated her, for she occupied the +gentlemen, without being so openly a flirt, that they could console +themselves by thinking “any body can gain the attention of men, who +will go such lengths to obtain it,” for she went no lengths. Yet most +men, and all women, knew it was not simply by superior charms that she +did attract them. + +Pretty as Lucy was, pleasing as were her good-humour and her +simplicity, much as all men admired her in speaking of her, it was +round Lady Selcourt that they congregated; her dress was the subject of +conversation; it was to give her their arm that they rushed when dinner +was announced; it was upon her cards at _écarté_ that all were anxious +to bet. + +As the sisters were sitting one day in her boudoir, Lady Montreville +remarked to Sophy that she almost wondered Sir Charles should like to +see so many men fluttering around his wife, while she appeared so much +more occupied with others than with him. “For Sir Charles is very fond +of you, Sophy,” she added, with a sigh. + +“To be sure he is, and he would not be half so fond of me, if others +did not flutter around me, as you call it. Nothing keeps a man up to +the mark so well, as seeing that his wife is valued by others. Do you +not invariably see dawdling devoted wives, with careless indifferent +husbands?” + +“Indeed I am not sure that devotion is the way to fix one’s husband,” +rejoined Lucy, in a desponding tone. + +“It only spoils the men, Lucy. Husbands are things that ought to be +kept in hot water, if one wishes to preserve one’s influence over them, +which every woman of sense must perceive is one of her first duties. +And I own I should not like to be considered as a domestic drudge, who +have fulfilled the end of my existence when I have provided heirs to +the estate, can keep my husband’s shirts mended, and know precisely +when the kettle boils. Women have souls, and they have hearts” (so they +have! thought Lucy), “and understandings—sometimes the best of the +two; and it always makes my blood boil to see them treated as beings +of an inferior order! People do not judge for themselves. If you are +overlooked by others, your husband thinks nothing of you; if others +admire and seek your society, he is proud that so _recherchée_ a person +is his wife. Of course I would not have any woman commit herself by +word or deed. As you know, I would not walk across the room for any man +that breathes: no one ever saw me do any one thing derogatory to the +dignity of our sex; but there is no reason why one should not dress +well, and make one’s-self agreeable. _On vaut ce qu’on veut valoir_, +especially in one’s husband’s eyes.” + +Lucy began to think it was as much the bounden duty of every married +woman to flirt, as to love, honour, and obey. + +“I think,” added Lucy, “very submissive wives often have faithless +husbands.” + +“It stands to reason they should. Men have had flirtations, and +liaisons, and love affairs of all kinds, up to the time they marry. +They have been accustomed to excitement, and they can never sit down +contented with a humdrum wife, always hemming and stitching quietly at +home. Unless a woman has something in her, the husband will seek for +amusement abroad.” + +“This is rather hard upon some women though, who have never had all +these flirtations, and who do not want to flirt, but would fain give +their whole hearts to their husbands; at best they can only hope to be +last of many loves.” + +“Why you could never have expected to be your husband’s first love, my +dear! Really! Lucy, you are the oddest mixture of romance and worldly +wisdom, that ever I met with. One would think you had married all for +love, or the world well lost. Yours is the most sentimental mode of +making a good _parti_ I ever knew.” + +“I was not alluding to myself,” Lucy hastily interrupted; for she +dreaded to have her secret annoyances laid bare to the eyes of any one, +especially to those of Sophy. + +“Why I suppose not; for if you had wished to be your husband’s first +love, you would have chosen a youth certainly not past nineteen. But +sometimes you have such a melancholy, sentimental expression in your +face, I scarcely know what to make of you.” + +“You have such spirits, Sophy! I think you have ten times the spirits +you had when you were a girl, which is so odd!” and she thought of the +halcyon days of donkeys and puppy dogs. + +“Not at all odd! When one is a girl, one does not know what one’s fate +is to be; and though one has some pleasant and agreeable hours, one has +mortifications also; but when one’s fortune is made, when one has a +husband who is proud of one, and (though it sounds vain to say so) when +one feels that one is admired and courted by others, I do not see why +one should not be in spirits.” + +Lady Selcourt had been gratified that morning by a noble dandy’s +compliance with her request to prolong his stay at Ashdale Park, in +order to join in some charades which were proposed for the evening’s +amusement, when he had resisted the general solicitations of the +rest of the party. If Lucy had seen her at Sir Charles’s seat in +Oxfordshire, with her husband and her children around her, in the +bosom of her family, she would not have thought her flow of spirits so +enviable. + +Arguments, the unsoundness and sophistry of which would be apparent +enough at other times, appear conclusive and convincing when they are +in accordance with the feelings of the moment. Lucy was thoroughly +discontented with her husband, and her own manner of life; her mind +was unsettled—she was in a state of mortification, while at the same +time she thought more highly of her own charms than she had ever done +before. She saw Sophy with half her personal beauty, but with an +adoring husband (for she had succeeded in making Sir Charles admire, +as well as fear her; she had enthralled him, and he dared not even +struggle in his shackles, but appeared to look on them as precious +ornaments); and she also saw her receiving the incense of that +conventional complimentary manner which all women can command, if they +choose to require it. + +If she had been happy at home, she would have despised and condemned +such unmeaning homage; but as it was, she did not like to be altogether +eclipsed by Sophy, and her manner instinctively assumed a tone which +encouraged men to talk to her. There was a characteristic simplicity +in her view of subjects, and in her mode of expressing herself, which +amused, as being peculiar to herself. She ventured to be droll. She +was pleased at success, her spirits rose, and she began to think that, +after all, one might make oneself very tolerably happy without the +romantic affection which Milly’s story had taught her to sigh after. + +Another spring arrived, and Lady Montreville went to London with the +full intention of shining as the most attractive of women, and of +having a train of admirers—humble admirers, who should be kept at a +most respectful distance, but who might show her husband what others +thought of her. + +She had little difficulty in succeeding in her object. With rank and +beauty, a lively manner, and a husband so much older than herself, the +difficulty was to keep them off, not to attract them. Lionel Delville +became a frequent visiter in St. James’s Square. He no longer found it +impossible to pay her a compliment, although, as yet, he dared go no +farther. Captain Lyon claimed acquaintance as an old friend. Although +he had scarcely found out she was alive as the fourth daughter of +Colonel Heckfield, he proclaimed her the most fascinating of her sex, +as the Marchioness of Montreville. Indeed, he insinuated that he had +been the first to discover these fascinations, and to point them out to +Lord Montreville. He affected to patronise her to all his friends. + +Statesmen, warriors, poets, were to be found in her train. Among +others, Lord Thorcaster, a deep politician, who was particularly strong +on political economy, the bullion question, the poor laws, and free +trade. She was quite pretty enough to be exceedingly agreeable to this +man of deep reading and comprehensive mind. He did not make love—no: +he talked politics; but her eyes were so blue, and her teeth so white, +that he thought her political _aperçus_ astonishingly luminous; +especially when one day that the question of free trade was discussed, +she exclaimed in her simple manner,— + +“Why can they not let it all alone! and then every body, and every +country, will naturally manufacture what they can do best, and what +they are most fitted for; and everybody will buy where they can get the +best things for the least money. That must be good for all parties, +and there would be an end of all this fuss about duties on imports and +exports.” + +“My dear Lady Montreville, you have in one sentence condensed all +the arguments that it has taken the two houses of Parliament years +to discuss. I have urged this very train of reasoning myself. If our +legislators were but endowed with the clear and powerful understanding +of a certain young and beautiful woman, it would be well for our poor +country! But it is not every mind that can thus grapple with a subject, +divest it of all the false colouring thrown over it by sophistry, and +at once seize the real point at issue.” + +“Dear me! have I done all this? It seemed very natural to say what I +said.” + +“Very natural to persons of decision, who can shake themselves free +from the trammels of prejudice.” + +“But I never thought upon the subject before, so I had no prejudices to +shake off; I merely said what struck me as plain and obvious.” + +“Indeed! astonishing you should at once seize all the bearings of the +case.” + +Lucy felt a little like M. Jourdain, when he discovered that he had +been speaking prose all his life; and was rather elated at finding she +was so clever. She had heard she was pretty, and had perceived she was +attractive, and had sometimes felt that she amused, but she had never +before been told she was clever. + +Lord Thorcaster was a man who stood high with a certain set; his +suffrage was decidedly worth having, for he was reckoned very +fastidious; and Lucy was much exalted in her own estimation by his +opinion of her talents. She now listened with attention to political +discussions; fancied she greatly preferred such subjects to the +frivolous conversation of women; she occasionally retailed the +arguments she heard adduced by others, and sometimes hazarded an +opinion of her own. Lord Thorcaster was charmed; but as he was neither +young nor handsome, the degree in which he frequented St. James’s +Square gave no umbrage to Lord Montreville, nor ground for scandal to +the world. + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + J’ai vu une jolie femme dont la conversation passoit pour un + enchantement, personne au monde ne s’exprimoit comme elle, c’étoit la + vivacité, c’étoit la finesse même qui parlait: les connoisseurs n’y + pouvaient tenir de plaisir. La petite vérole lui vint, elle en resta + extrèmement marquée, quand la pauvre femme reparut, ce n’étoit plus + qu’une babillarde incommode.—MARIVAUX. + +Although no consequences attended Lord Thorcaster’s admiration of Lady +Montreville, as far as he himself was concerned, it had a visible +effect upon her manners. People are always more vulnerable to flattery +with regard to the merit for which they are least remarkable, than +that on which they themselves are not in doubt. Lord Thorcaster’s +compliments upon the strength of her understanding caused her to set up +for a superior woman, _une tête forte_; and she sometimes astonished +those who knew her best, by having a decided opinion upon some subject +of which women are seldom supposed competent judges. + +These little fits of pretension, if they did not add to her +attractions, tended very much to increase the number of persons +attracted. It was evident there must be vanity, when a new character +was assumed for the purpose of shining; and this conviction gave +courage and audacity to the herd of aspirers to her favour, who had +hitherto been kept at bay by the candour and openness of her manner. +The back of Lady Montreville’s opera box was always thronged with men. +The door was constantly opened, and quickly shut again, by persons who +could not find standing-room; and woe to the neighbours on each side, +if by any chance they loved music, and wished to listen to the sweet +sounds they had paid their money to hear. + +Lionel Delville, who from the first had been exceedingly favourable +to Lucy, now found his cousin’s house the most agreeable in London; +and took advantage of the privileges of relationship to be always in +attendance. It seemed to be a settled thing, that he was her most +obsequious slave. Open conventional gallantry, and cousinly intimacy, +were so skilfully blended, that it was difficult to ascertain when and +where real gallantry commenced. She was proud of the admiration of the +oracle of statesmen, and pleased with the devotion of the oracle of +fashion. She was the life of society; she became a great talker, and +her spirits rose with the exertion. Her voice was by nature so sweetly +modulated, that no one could be tired of hearing it; her countenance +was so soft, that although she occasionally sported the most decided +opinions, they did not seem _tranchant_, when delivered by her. + +If success in the great world could constitute the whole happiness of +any person with naturally good feelings, she might now have been happy. +But was she so? No. + +She had not been brought up without some attention to religious +subjects. She always went to church, and would have felt uneasy if she +had omitted to do so; she had a general desire and resolution to do +what was right, and a horror of doing what was wrong. Her own domestic +discontents, Sophy’s arguments and example, the natural desire after +happiness inherent in our nature, and the vanity which is lurking at +the bottom of most hearts, had combined to lead her thus far on the +road to wrong; but she could not be happy, unless she felt satisfied +with herself. + +She often thought, “How cheerful the Duchess of Altonworth is! How +placid she looks! Nothing ever worries her, and every thing worries me. +It makes me unhappy and discontented with myself to see her;” and the +result was, that she frequented her quiet and select _soirées_ less and +less; for when not in a whirl of engagements, she invariably felt weary +and listless. Though the constant tribute paid to her charms afforded +her but little pleasure, she felt the want of it, if by any chance it +was withheld. Then she became fastidious upon the subject. She despised +the homage of common-place empty youngsters; she ridiculed the _doux +yeux_ of old men; she was disgusted with fulsome compliments; but +Lionel Delville knew how to flatter, without appearing to do so; he had +learned in his cousin’s school, and Lord Montreville saw his own arts +practised upon his wife. + +He had taken no notice of the tribe of general admirers, for, feeling +himself not immaculate, he instinctively avoided what might lead to +recrimination. He had not heeded Lord Thorcaster’s attentions, for +he was nearly as old as himself, and much less good-looking;—but the +increased devotion of Lionel Delville gave him serious uneasiness. From +the beginning he had felt a dread of his particular friend, and had +sought his company as little as possible, since he married. Until now, +Lucy’s manner had been such, that she might safely have bid defiance +to the most malicious; but the revolution which the last few weeks had +effected in her rendered him serious and thoughtful. He was uncertain +what line to take; and in the mean time he was not particularly +good-humoured, and frequently spoke of the frivolity and the vanity +of women, in a manner which sounded harshly in Lucy’s ears, when she +thought of the immorality and the hypocrisy of men. + +Often would she lament having ever seen the fatal letter; often did +she wish herself once more deceived; often did she look back, as to a +happy time, to that when she sought only to please her husband. She +almost wished to be again ruled, and thwarted in all her everyday +pursuits; for she now thought these petty annoyances were more than +compensated by the satisfactory sensation of fulfilling the duties of a +good wife, and the hope of securing the affections of her husband. It +was with sorrow and regret that she reverted to the days when she did +so sincerely wish to secure them. Those days were gone—gone, never to +return! + +The respect she had felt for him, as her wedded husband, as her guide, +her superior in understanding, and in knowledge—was gone, and with it +the halo she had willingly thrown around his age. She now looked upon +him as a _passé_ profligate, to whom in a moment of infatuation she +had linked her youth; one whom his own inconstancy had exonerated her +from loving, and to whom she only owed the bare duties of obedience and +fidelity, in compliance with her marriage vow. + +She no longer felt bound to sacrifice her own tastes to his; and she +adopted an independent tone, which was by no means agreeable to Lord +Montreville, although, by having slacked the reins when first he feared +his own aberrations were discovered, he found it somewhat difficult to +again tighten them. + +He had kept his resolution of breaking off all connexion with his +former mistress; and he began to look upon himself as the most +exemplary of husbands, to forget Lucy’s devotion and forbearance, and +his own errors, and to feel that the blame lay all on her side. + +He was seldom absent from home; and he acquired the habit of constantly +coming in and out of the drawing-room during the morning, Lucy felt +watched and suspected—unjustly suspected by him. Her spirit rebelled +at the unfairness of mankind. Though meek, while she was anxious to +please the husband she looked up to, the sense of injury had aroused +in her a spirit which had heretofore lain dormant; and strong in the +consciousness that she did nothing wrong, she did not alter her mode +of proceeding, but continued to admit morning visiters, and to allow +Lionel Delville to lounge away many an hour in St. James’s Square, +before she went out in the carriage. + +He had frequently of late presented her with bouquets of the most rare +and beautiful flowers, which he professed to bring with him from his +sister’s villa at Roehampton; and Lucy had no scruple in accepting the +nosegay which her husband’s cousin brought from the country. + +It so happened that Lord Montreville one day accompanied some ladies to +Colville’s nursery garden, and they there admired a row of beautiful +nosegays, which were delicately tied up, and arranged in order. They +wished to purchase one of them, when the nurseryman begged to cut +some fresh flowers, as these were all bespoken by Lord so and so, for +Mrs. so and so; and by Sir something somebody, for Lady such a thing; +and by Mr. Delville, for Lady Montreville. The other names were all +notoriously coupled together; and that his wife’s should be mixed up +with such, was enough to irritate any husband. Lord Montreville changed +colour, and bit his lips. No more passed. Fresh flowers were procured, +and the party proceeded on their ride. + +Lord Montreville returned home at dressing time, and came up-stairs in +no very placid frame of mind. He knew so much of the vice of the world, +that if roused to suspect at all, he suspected a great deal. While +Lucy was the simple unsophisticated creature she once was, he rendered +justice to her purity; but with him there could be no medium. He could +respect perfect innocence; but the first bloom of that innocence passed +away, he made no allowances for the foibles of human nature, but +fancied it either already plunged, or on the point of plunging, into +reckless vice. + +When he entered the apartment, the first sight which greeted his eyes, +was Lionel Delville assisting Lucy to put the identical nosegay in +water, that it might be fresh for the evening’s ball. + +Lord Montreville could scarcely command himself. His blood boiled to +his fingers’ ends. But, stronger than insulted pride, than love, than +jealousy, was in the man of the world, the fear of appearing ridiculous +in the eyes of another man of the world. + +To an indifferent observer, his greeting would have appeared perfectly +calm; his manner to Lionel cordial; that to his wife kind; but they +all three knew the world, and none was deceived. Lionel saw his +cousin’s feelings, and was annoyed; for it would be vexatious to have +his pleasant morning visits disturbed, and quite a pity that Lady +Montreville’s home should be rendered uncomfortable. Lucy, who had +learned more of the workings of the human mind in the last year than +in all her previous life, also perceived Lord Montreville’s inward +irritation; and, although she had nothing really to reproach herself +with, her conscience led her to guess pretty accurately what caused the +storm she saw impending. + +Lionel felt his situation as third distressing, and did not linger +long after Lord Montreville’s entrance. He took a gay and sportive +leave; Lucy bade him remember to get the new march from his military +band; Lord Montreville added, “Mind, you dine with us to-morrow, my +good fellow!”—the door closed. + +Lord Montreville patiently awaited while he heard the clank of his +boots as he hurried down the stone stairs; he waited till he heard the +porter close the street door upon him, and then, turning to Lucy, he +said, in a tone of choking calmness:— + +“Lady Montreville, this will not do. I must put an immediate stop to +your present mode of life.” + +Lucy could not help feeling frightened out of her wits; but she +remembered Alicia Mowbray, and she remembered that Lionel Delville had +never spoken a word of love to her, and she roused herself to the onset +with a feeling of desperation, and of contempt for her monitor. + +“What will not do, Lord Montreville? What do you mean to put a stop to?” + +“I mean to say that it is not my intention that the house of +Montreville should be disgraced while I am its head; and that I shall +take every precaution in my power to prevent such being the case.” + +“Indeed, Lord Montreville! I approve of your resolution, and agree with +you, that all who bear so noble a name should be _sans peur, et sans +reproche_.” + +“Madam!” and for a moment he looked fiercely upon her: “Whatever you +may mean by that insinuation, you may remember that bravery is the +virtue indispensable in men, while in women it is—chastity; and I tell +you fairly, that I shall not be the convenient husband of a wife who +flirts with half London, and keeps her favoured lover tame about the +house.” + +“Heavens! Lord Montreville, do you say such things to me? Do you dare +say such things?” Her momentary pride was gone; she burst into a flood +of tears, and clasping her hands, exclaimed: “Fool that I was, I +mistook polished manners for real refinement, and fancied those coarse +and vulgar, who would never have insulted as you have done!” + +“It is certainly a pity you did not choose some one more suited to your +unambitious taste; but as you did marry me, and as I have the honour of +being your husband, I may be allowed some control over your actions; +and I therefore repeat it, I expect you will conduct yourself in such a +manner, as is consistent with your reputation and my own.” + +Lord Montreville left the room with coolness and dignity in his air, +but with rage and indignation in his heart. Indignant at having been +reproached by the creature he had raised to her present brilliant +situation, and whose conduct latterly had destroyed the _prestige_ +which her behaviour to him in his illness had thrown around her. + +Lucy remained in an agony of shame and anger, such as had never yet +overpowered her. She rushed to her own room, and was found by Milly, +who looked in to ask if she would like to have the child, rocking +herself backwards and forwards in her chair, with her face buried in +her hands, and sobbing audibly. + +Milly exclaimed in terror, “Oh, la! my lady, whatever is the matter? My +dear young lady, my sweet Miss Lucy, what has happened? Do speak, my +dear Miss Lucy! what has happened to any of the dear family?” + +“Milly, I am miserable! I am the most miserable wretch in the world!” + +“Oh! my lady, don’t say so! I can’t bear to hear you talk in that way!” + +“Did I not give him my first affections? Have I not been as truly +devoted to him, as if he had loved me with the fervour of youth? Did I +not yield to all his old bachelor fancies? I ask you, Milly, could I +have nursed him with more tenderness, if he had been as dear to me as +John was to you? And he was almost as dear; yes, it was with my whole +heart that I gave myself up to my attendance upon him. And what do you +think has been the return I have met with? That he should prefer to +me a mistress! a horrible, wicked, abandoned woman, whose very vice +constitutes her charm!” + +“Sure, sure, my lady, somebody has told you false tales. This can never +be true.” + +“It is too true, Milly—I know it! Would I could have any doubt upon +the subject! While I was shut up here, not allowed to enjoy myself in +society, but passing long tiresome days of seclusion and dullness, and +thinking he was attending to his duties, his parliamentary duties, +the good of the nation, the welfare of his country, he was carrying +on this shameful affair. During my confinement, when I was ill and +suffering, he was amusing himself in the company of this woman. Oh! it +makes me sick to think of! I have borne it all—I have done my duty—I +have not complained—I have not reproached him—I have sat up with him +night after night in his illness—I have not murmured? And now it is he +who reproaches me, for at length trying to make myself happy without +his affections, when he chooses to lavish them upon a shameless +creature! He is angry with me, because everybody does not think me as +little agreeable and as little charming as he does! He would wish me to +be odious and ugly, to justify himself!” + +“I am sure, my lady, nobody that knows you can think you odious or +ugly.” + +“It is not my fault, if people will think me otherwise.” + +“Certainly, my lady; one could not expect that gentlefolks should not +think you a good, kind, pleasant lady, as you are; nor one would not +wish them not to think so; but——” + +“But what, Milly?” + +“Why, my lady, though my lord may have done what he should not have +done, still, my lady, you are a married woman.” + +“I know that, Milly; and I would rather die than ever be led to forget +it. If I had allowed the dandies to make love to me—if I had given any +one of them reason to imagine I had the least preference for him—if I +had in any way deserved such treatment——” + +“And do you think, my lady, you would be any the happier if you felt +you did deserve it?” + + +CHAPTER XV. + + So as there is as much difference between the counsel that a friend + giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel + of a friend and of a flatterer; for there is no such flatterer as a + man’s self, and there is no such remedy against flattery of a man’s + self, as the liberty of a friend.—LORD BACON’_s Essays_. + +Lucy stopped short. There was something in this simple answer of +Milly’s that overthrew all the chain of argument with which she was +going to bewilder herself. She looked back, and was obliged to +confess to herself how little real enjoyment she had felt from all the +dissipation of the last season. + +“Happiness, Milly! I have done with happiness for ever. All I can now +look for is amusement.” + +“Oh, my lady, depend upon it, a good conscience is all in all. If any +body has every blessing this world can afford, it is of no use, as long +as their conscience tells them they have not done what is right; and if +it so happens that they are in trouble, why a good conscience is the +only happiness they have left. It is not balls, nor plays, nor such +like, that can cure trouble. I beg your pardon, my lady, for talking so +to you; but, indeed, I do believe that if God sees any of us poor frail +creatures fighting against our sorrow with a pious heart, He will help +us to bear up against it, and we shall feel something nearer happiness +than we ever shall by amusing ourselves with the pleasures of the +world. I am sure I ought to be ashamed to speak so to a lady like you; +but I am an old woman, and I love you, Miss Lucy; I love you as if you +were my own child!” + +“Dear Milly, you are my only comfort, and I do not know what would +become of me if I had not you, to whom I could open my heart. You are +quite right, and I am sure I would not do any thing wrong that I know +of.” + +“I am sure you would not, my lady; but I have sometimes thought of +what you once said to me before ever you was married, about gentlemen +talking to ladies, and ladies being talked of. I did not rightly +understand you at the time.” + +“What can you mean, Milly?” + +“Why, my lady, I scarce know how to tell you; but since you have let me +make so bold as to speak to you, I did hear some of the servants——” + +“The servants, Milly! what on earth could the servants say?” + +“Why servants will talk, my lady, and there’s no use in thinking of +hindering them; and the truth is, I heard John say to Thomas, ‘So my +lady has taken up with a lover at last!’” + +“Impossible! Milly.” + +“Yes, my lady, it is true enough; and Thomas made answer, ‘I thought +how ’twould be—many ladies makes a show of being better than their +neighbours at first, but they all will run their rig.’” + +“Oh, horrid! horrid! But they did not mention any name?” + +“Why, yes, they did indeed; for John answered, ‘He supposed my lord +would not mind it, as ’twas all in the family.’ ‘Not mind it?’ says +Thomas; ‘It’s my belief my lord will kick Mr. Delville out of the house +one of these fine days.’” + +“Stop! stop! Milly, I cannot bear to hear another word. Oh that I +should live to be so spoken of by my own servants! I cannot bear it! I +will turn them all away, the impertinent wretches!” + +“’Tis shocking, to be sure; but them London footmen, they stick at +nothing. And servants will talk, my lady! there’s no help for it—they +will talk, if there is any thing to talk about.” + +“But there is nothing to talk about. Oh! what shall I do? What shall I +do? If I change suddenly, and break off with Lord Montreville’s cousin, +it will seem so odd; it will justify these dreadful suspicions; and +besides, he is the only person whose society is the least agreeable to +me.” + +“Oh, la! my lady! Then I am sure it is time you should not have so much +of his company.” + +“But, Milly, he never pays me half as many compliments as other people +do; and he never said a word like being in love with me; and he never +spoke a word against Lord Montreville; and he never told me I was too +young or too pretty for him—he never said any of the things I have +been put on my guard against, as being the first advances of a man who +wishes to flirt with a married woman; for I have sometimes watched to +see whether he did, for fear he should be making love before I was +aware.” + +“You know best, my lady; but I should think you would not have been on +the look-out for it, if he had no such thing in his head.” + +“Why, Milly, you are as bad as all the rest of the world! But what +shall I do? My husband says I must not go on as I have done; and then +he has asked Mr. Delville to dinner to-morrow—and what can I do? What +can I say? How am I to behave to him?” + +“Sure, my lady, just be civil and pleasant.” + +“That is all I have ever been, Milly! O dear! O dear! If I had but +married some good young man who had loved me truly, and whom I could +have loved and respected, as I would fain love and respect my husband, +how easy it would have been to do my duty, if he had been ever so poor +and humble!” + +“Now don’t you be fretting in this way, my lady. Some has one trial, +and some another; and people always think their own trial the hardest +to bear. I thought mine were very hard to bear; but in all my troubles +I had one comfort—my duty always lay straight before me—I always knew +what I ought to do, though ’twas a hard matter sometimes to do it +without murmuring.” + +“I will not go to the ball to-night! Yet perhaps Mr. Delville may guess +why—I had better go. By the by, this is the Duchess of Altonworth’s +evening for being at home. I will go there. It will not seem so odd as +not going out at all, and Mr. Delville is very seldom at her parties. +Besides, I shall have an opportunity of asking the Duchess if she will +receive me early to-morrow. She is good, kind, and judicious, and she +knows the world well, too. I will tell her what an uncomfortable state +I am in, and she will advise me.” + +Lord Montreville dined out at a political dinner, and they met no more +in the course of the evening. + +To the Duchess of Altonworth’s Lucy went, filled with a desire to do +what was right, but at the same time with a strong conviction of her +own wrongs, and in consequence a feeling of martyrdom. + +The first person she saw, as she entered the Duchess’s, was Lionel +Delville. She was not prepared for this, and it annoyed her +considerably. She was forced into his society before she had by any +means decided on the line of conduct, or rather the tone of manner (for +the whole question was an affair of manner), which she meant to adopt. +He instantly greeted her with a serious air of tender interest and +concern, and ventured to look in her eyes with an inquiring expression, +as if he expected to ascertain how her tête-à-tête with Lord +Montreville had gone off. His eyes disconcerted her. She was distressed +at meeting them. She looked in every other direction; but although she +might avoid seeing them upon her, she could not avoid feeling them +upon her. She made careless, indifferent, insipid remarks, in rather a +higher pitched voice than was common to her. + +Lionel saw that she had been lectured, perceived that she was no longer +at her ease, and took courage from her evident _gêne_. He expressed +his happiness at meeting her again “so soon;” said he had come to the +Duchess’s because he had imagined it likely she might prefer a quiet +party to a ball “that evening,” and enquired whether he might call “as +usual.” His whole air had in it something confidential, as if there +existed between them a mystery, which both understood, without any need +of explanation. In vain Lucy tried to be easy, and to laugh—to be any +thing but mysterious. She answered, “Oh, yes!” or “to be sure,” and “I +suppose so,” in an affectedly loud and unconcerned tone, to all the +half-whispered expressions of solicitude which he was pouring into her +ear. Whatever subject she started, he contrived to throw a shade of +sentiment over it. She thought herself safe in dashing into the last +speech of Lord Thorcaster, and loudly declared her admiration of his +eloquence; for she had passed the preceding night with her head through +the ventilator of the House of Commons. This led to a discussion upon +eloquence, and Lionel said “he could imagine circumstances in which +there might be more eloquence in three short words, than in all the +flowing sentences, the rounded periods, the flowers of rhetoric, +employed by sages and senators since the world began.” + +“Eloquence in three words! What can they be?” + +He kept his face looking straight forward, but uttered, in a low, +clear, musical voice, which reached her ear, and her’s alone, “What +think you of the three words ‘I love you?’” + +Lucy felt hot all over; but she rejoined, with what calmness she could +command, “I should say those three words conveyed an agreeable,—or, +perhaps, a disagreeable fact, in the plainest and simplest manner, and +had nothing to do with eloquence.” + +Lionel saw he had gone too far. “When your little boy first lisps, +‘Mamma, I love you!’ I think you will agree with me, that there can be +eloquence in the words.” + +Lucy felt it certainly would be delightful to hear them from his lips; +and an air of tenderness succeeded to her confusion; she became +conscious that to all lookers-on the appearance was that of a desperate +flirtation. She felt her cheeks flush; she felt her eyes gleam with +excited emotions of all kinds, and she was afraid to raise them from +the ground. Lionel thought her eyelashes quite beautiful, as they +almost swept her cheek, while they evidently only veiled the brightness +beneath: he thought her confusion bewitching, and he was irresistibly +attracted. + +The Duchess was surprised, and grieved, at the change which she feared +had come over Lady Montreville during the last few weeks. Lucy caught +her eyes upon her, and read in them an expression of pity, and of +blame. She could not bear that look. Jumping up from her seat, she +exclaimed, “I have something particular to say to the Duchess; I beg +you ten thousand pardons;” and she left him in the middle of a tirade, +upon the folly of those who, by groundless suspicions, justify what +they dread. + +He remained _planté_, and bit his lips in pique and provocation. Lucy +meantime passed her arm within the Duchess’s, and saying she must +arrange with her some plan for seeing the Dulwich Gallery, she led her +aside and sat down by her. “Do not look at me with that expression of +countenance, my dear Duchess. I cannot bear it. I have enough to annoy +me, and I cannot have you look so coldly and unkindly upon me.” + +“If my looks expressed coldness or unkindness, they belied me. I feel +any thing but indifference, I can assure you.” + +“Let me come to you to-morrow morning, and promise to listen to a +long history, in which, if I am to blame, I am more sinned against +than sinning—indeed, till to-night, I thought myself a pattern of +discretion; but I begin to think I may have been a little imprudent.” + +“Well, we cannot discuss that point just now,” answered the Duchess, +smiling. “Come to-morrow morning, and I will not be at home to any one +else.” + +Lucy kept close to the Duchess the rest of the evening, and did not +give Mr. Delville any opportunity of speaking to her again. The next +morning she breakfasted in her dressing-room, and at twelve o’clock she +went to the Duchess, resolved to tell her her whole history, to ask her +advice, and, if possible, to follow it. She did not feel as if there +would be any great difficulty in giving up the attentions of others, +but she felt she could not accomplish being the affectionate wife she +once was, if that should be the thing required of her. + +When she found herself alone with the Duchess, she told her her tale +of woe and injury. “Now what can I do? What shall I do? I am ready +to confess that last night Mr. Delville did seem inclined to make +love, though just when I thought it was really coming, he turned the +conversation, and talked about my child. However, I am not at this +moment so indignant as I was yesterday, when I thought the suspicion +ridiculous and insulting. I am ready to do any thing that shall be +calculated to prevent him, or any one else, flirting with me; but what +have I done, or said, to encourage them?” + +“It is very odd that last year, though you were as pretty as you are +now, you had no difficulty of this kind, had you?” + +“No, none at all. I went out a great deal, but no one paid me +particular attention; and I did not feel afraid of any constructions +put upon this thing and that thing; and yet I am sure I was not half so +attentive to appearances, and did not think half as much about them.” + +“I should think, then, there must be some change in yourself.” + +“Yes; that there is! I thought my husband loved me then, and my study +was to please him.” + +“That is the thing! Men have such tact in finding out when a woman is +discontented at home.” + +“And how can I be contented? That does not depend upon me.” + +“Not exactly. But do you not think that from having been mortified at +home, perhaps you have sought for gratification to your vanity abroad, +that you have wished to be reassured concerning your own attractions?” + +“Why, perhaps I may. It is so mortifying, you know, to be married to a +man old enough to be one’s father, and then that he should neglect and +despise one. I just did want to ascertain that the fault was not in me, +but that it was all owing to his bad taste. Oh dear! why was I dazzled +with rank and fashion, polished manners, and good breeding. I was at +the play the other night, and I was so struck with those lines of Anne +Boleyn’s, that I came home and learned them by heart. + + I swear ’tis better to be lowly born, + And range with humble livers in content, + Than to be perked up in a glistering grief + And wear a golden sorrow. + +If I had but married an honest, true-hearted man, with ardent +affections—one to whom I had been all the world, as he would have been +to me—I could have buffeted cheerily through the storms of life, hand +in hand with him.” + +“And how many of your acquaintance are blessed with the fate (which I +grant you is the happiest in the world) for which you so frequently +sigh?” + +“You are.” + +“So I am! but do not fancy I have not had my share of sorrow, though I +am cheerful,—more than cheerful,—and most grateful for my very large +share of happiness. But remember I lost a son, my first-born, in the +full vigour of youth and intellect; one who was all that a mother’s +love or pride could wish or dream. God grant you may be spared that +trial, my dearest Lady Montreville!”—her voice faltered as she spoke. +“Depend upon it all others are light in comparison. Not that I murmur. +Heaven knows that I bow in submission, and acknowledge myself still a +person to be envied; but you need not envy me so very much,”—and a tear +glistened in her eye. + +Lucy thought of her boy, and trembled. She confessed to herself she had +not sufficiently prized the blessing vouchsafed to her. She thought +also that what Milly had said to her was very true,—“Some have one +trial, some another.” + +“You will not find many more so fortunate in their marriage as I am,” +added the Duchess. + +“Lord and Lady John Ashton.” + +“They have been married four months and a half!” + +“Well then, Mr. and Mrs. Stanton.” + +“Yes, they are very happy now. He married her from pique, because my +niece Jemima refused him. But it has turned out particularly well, and +Mrs. Stanton suits him ten times better than Jemima would have done.” + +“Oh, I should not like to have been married out of pique! Well then! +those dear old souls the Hartleys. It is a pleasure to see them +toddling so cozily down the hill together. He is charming, and so fond +of her!” + +“So he is! But the greater part of his youth was spent in devotion to +other women. However, her gentleness and patience have their reward at +last. He loves her now as she deserves.” + +“Oh! I cannot emulate her there. I cannot wish to win back the +affections of a person I have left off respecting; but indeed I wish to +do my duty. I have the most ardent desire to be a virtuous wife, if I +cannot be a loving one.” + +“Well now! to begin, you must constantly and invariably repress vanity. +Vanity is the stumbling-block of most women. Vanity has led more women +astray, than feeling, or vice, or any thing else. You must give up +showing your husband you can charm others.” + +“Sophy told me that was the way in the world to keep one’s husband! Not +that I did it exactly with the view of keeping him, for I had given up +that point; but I did wish to show him what he had lost.” + +“My dear Lady Montreville, you have been playing a dangerous game. By +your own confession, then, vanity has been the true mainspring of your +actions of late!” + +“Oh, not quite! only a little; but, after all, what can be done without +a little bit of vanity? As Sophy says, every body would sit still, and +do nothing; people would not try to be pleasing and clever; heroes +would not fight; legislators would not legislate; there would be no +arts, or sciences, or improvements in the world. Sophy says vanity is +as necessary in the economy of the mind, as fire in the economy of the +world. That without it all things would stagnate.” + +“Very true! But like fire, if once allowed to get beyond your control, +it rages, destroys, and devours every thing. Like fire, it is the best +of servants, the worst of masters.” + +“Oh, so it is! If I could but have thought of that when Sophy and +I have been talking! but as I could not answer her, I thought her +arguments were unanswerable. Well, then, I will not give way to vanity +any more. I always was taught that it was wrong to do so, till Sophy +persuaded me one ought to try to be agreeable, that it was a duty one +owed to society. Still, how shall I get through our dinner to-day? My +husband so angry! and Mr. Delville to be one of the party!” + +“Shall I tell you what to do? Go home to Lord Montreville, and ask him +how he wishes you to behave to his cousin, and assure him you are ready +to follow his directions in all respects.” + +“What! quite humble myself before him, as if I was an erring wife, and +he an immaculate angel? Oh, my dear Duchess, I scarcely think I can do +that! Think of Alicia!” + +“But your husband having failed in his duties, is no reason you should +not perform yours. Your vow was not conditional. Your duties remain the +same. Moreover, asking Lord Montreville how he wishes you to conduct +yourself, is not expressing any approbation of his conduct. In short, +it is the right thing to do; and you will find yourself happier, if you +do what is right, simply because it is right, than you can be in any +other way.” + +“That is just what Milly said!” exclaimed Lucy. “And if you and Milly +both say so, it must be true. I will drive home as fast as I can, and +catch him before he goes out.” + +Lucy rang for her carriage, and kissing the Duchess with heartfelt +gratitude for her sympathy and good advice, she hurried away, and went +straight into Lord Montreville’s morning-room, without giving her pride +time to rise up again within her bosom. + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + When all is done and said, + In the end, this shall you find, + He most of all doth bathe in bliss + That hath a quiet mind. + + Our wealth leaves us at death, + Our kinsmen at the grave; + But virtues of the mind unto + The Heavens with us we have. + + THOMAS LORD VAUX, 1521. + + “Il n’y a rien qui rafraîchisse le sang comme avoir su éviter de faire + une sottise.”—LA BRUYERE. + +Lord Montreville was sitting before a table, covered with papers and +books, with a novel open before him, of which he had not turned over a +leaf for at least thirty-six minutes. He was thinking how innocent Lucy +had been when first he had married her; he was lamenting the total +change which he believed had taken place in her; he was wondering how +far she had become acquainted with his connexion with Alicia Mowbray, +and he confessed to himself that he could date the alteration which he +had perceived in her, from the period when she had an opportunity of +perceiving that fatal letter. That she had read it, was now evident, +from her taunting allusion the preceding day. He was persuading himself +that pique and jealousy might have driven her to flirtation, and he +did not feel so chilled, so awed, so daunted, as when her measured, +cold, though dutiful behaviour had made him painfully aware of his own +errors, and of her merits. Neither was he so indignant, as when, in his +anger, he attributed the whole change to mere indifference to himself, +and love of the admiration of others. + +As Lucy approached him, her cheek was slightly flushed; her clear blue +eyes looked full at him, with a gentle but determined expression which +seemed to say, I have no thought which shuns the light, inquire, and my +heart shall be laid open before you. + +“Lord Montreville,” she said, “you were angry with me yesterday for +seeing so much of your cousin, Mr. Delville. You have asked him to dine +here to-day, and I want to know how you would wish me to conduct myself +towards him. I wish to be guided by you. I wish to see those whom you +approve, and I wish to see no more of them than you approve. I value +my own good name as much as you can do; and although I yesterday felt +very angry at the manner in which you took me to task, my anger has +subsided, and I only want to do what is right. You will find me willing +and anxious to follow your directions, whatever they may be.” + +Lord Montreville was taken by surprise. He could not look in her face +and refuse to believe in the perfect candour and sincerity of her +address to him. Her manner was neither humble, as if she had any thing +to be forgiven; nor was it bold, as if she meant to brave him. The +train of his own thoughts had rather tended to soften than to inflame +him, and simple truth generally carries conviction with it. + +“Lucy! I own I was angry yesterday, and can you assure me I had no +cause for being so?” + +“None that I know of.” + +“Answer me honestly,—Has not Lionel Delville made love to you?” + +“I have no wish but to answer honestly. Yesterday morning I should have +said, never; and even now I can scarcely say he has, though yesterday +evening, when I met him at the Duchess’s, his manner was changed. +I think that if I had given him any encouragement, he would have +made love to me; and it is in consequence of finding you were so far +justified in your suspicions, that I now come to you, and beg you will +direct my conduct. My wish is to fulfil my duties. I am convinced that +by so doing alone one can know happiness,—or rather contentment (for +she felt at that moment that life presented but a blank and cheerless +prospect to her)—happiness I have long ceased to look for.” + +“Lucy! this is not kind or flattering to me.” + +“I am very sorry for it, but it is the fact!” She sat down, half +overcome by her feelings of determined duty and of self-commiseration. + +“Lucy, why should you not be happy?” + +“Can _you_ ask, Lord Montreville?” and she gave him a glance, in which +the flash of indignation was tempered by a reproachful tear, which swam +in her eye. + +“Oh, Lucy! do you allude to that—that letter—which you so +unfortunately——?” + +“Yes, I do allude to that letter, which I so unfortunately saw; and to +that woman, that shameless woman, whom you prefer to me. But I do not +wish to reproach you—the time is gone by. I have made up my mind to +being the neglected wife of a faithless husband. But I wish to do my +duty, for my own sake, for the sake of my conscience. Tell me what to +do, and I will do it!” + +“Lucy, I never preferred that woman to you. I have never seen her since +we left Wales, and I never will see her again as long as I live.” + +“I am very glad for your own sake to hear you say so. For whatever +you and other fashionable men may think, you may rest assured it is a +great sin—though I have latterly been so bewildered about right and +wrong, and I have tried so to find excuses for those around me, that I +believe, if it had not been for the Duchess, and for Milly, I should +scarcely have known which was which.” + +Lord Montreville, though not a strict moralist, could not help being +struck with these few words, which so forcibly expressed the mode by +which the most amiable become contaminated by bad examples. He felt +he had been the cause of her thus trying to reconcile morality to +practice, instead of practice to morality. + +A pause ensued. Had Lucy been in love with her husband, most likely +her heart would have entirely softened towards him; and though she +would have poured forth a much more vehement torrent of reproaches, +she would have been more ready to restore him to his former place in +her affections. As it was, she heard his assurance with satisfaction, +but with calmness. It did not produce any instantaneous revulsion in +her feelings. It did not now affect her as it would have done on the +evening at Caërwhwyddwth Castle, when his silence had so seared her +heart. Since then she had had leisure to look back upon her marriage, +and to decipher what her feelings had then been, and to become +convinced how little of real love there was in her preference of him. +She now knew how easily we can deceive ourselves. The spell was broken! +The halo her own imagination had thrown around him was dispersed. + +Although with a mind so naturally well disposed as hers, if his conduct +had always been such as to ensure her respect, the spell would never +have been broken, the halo never dispersed; still it was not at her +option again to conjure up the one, or to invest him with the other. +She saw him as he was; but he was the father of her child, and she +rejoiced that the silence and reserve which had so long been maintained +between them, was at length broken through. She did not wish it should +ever be resumed, and she continued,— + +“I hope we now both wish to perform our duties, and I really need your +instructions with respect to my behaviour to Mr. Delville.” + +At this moment Lord Montreville felt his own errors had been so much +more serious than hers, that he was grateful to her for expressing +herself as if they each had something to forget and to forgive; and +his jealous feelings had vanished into thin air before her candour and +sincerity, in a manner which surprised himself. + +“Lucy,” he said, “I trust to you; there can be no deceit under that +open brow. I have known many women, but none so free from guile, so +single-hearted as yourself. You are now aware that Lionel’s attentions +to you have given me uneasiness, and I feel convinced you will conduct +yourself as you ought to do. I only wish you felt the same confidence +in me.” + +“Indeed, Lord Montreville, if you assure me you have broken off all +connection with that woman, I implicitly believe what you say. But, +to tell the honest truth, I cannot get over your having ever done any +thing so wicked. I may be able to forgive the insult to myself, but how +can I look up to you as I once did, when I know you have been led into +such wickedness?” + +“Dear Lucy, you do not know with what free notions men are educated; +you do not know how difficult it is for a man to shake off a woman who +has once acquired power over him, and who tries to get him back into +her toils, even although the inclination he has once felt for her has +long, long passed away.” + +“Then it was not since your marriage that you first became acquainted +with her?” + +“No. When I married, I meant never to see her again. It was her +distress, and mere pity for her wants and miseries, that ever led +me back to her. I did not then know what you really were. I thought +you beautiful and gentle, but it was not till later that I learned +to honour you as a being of a holier, higher nature than any I had +yet met with. At the very time when you shut up your heart from me, +mine was filled with admiration, respect, and affection for you. Half +the jealousy I felt was, I believe, sorrow to see the first and only +being in whose unsullied purity I had firmly believed, on the point of +becoming contaminated by collision with the world.” + +Lucy was touched by this homage to the rectitude of her intentions, +and she thought there would be something satisfactory in redeeming her +whole sex in his estimation. She also thought if she could lead him to +see the real guilt of those errors which he had hitherto looked upon +as so venial, she should be promoting his welfare in this world and +the next. With these feelings she answered smilingly, “I am glad you +entertained such a good opinion of me, and I should be very, very +sorry to forfeit it. You shall continue to respect me.” + +“And to love you, dearest Lucy. Though I could not have reached the age +at which I married without having been in love before, still, to love +you as I never loved any woman but you——” + +“Thank you,” answered Lucy, and she sighed to think that his +tenderness awakened no corresponding emotion in her bosom; that it was +forgiveness, satisfaction, kindness, that she felt, but no responsive +love. + +On the contrary, the word rather chilled her; for she felt it +impossible to return the sentiment expressed; and she hastily added, +“Well, good by; I see your horses in the street, and I am going to take +the child to play with the Duchess of Altonworth’s grandchildren.” + +They parted in kindness, and they met again before dinner in the same +frame of mind. + +Lionel Delville, who had calculated upon finding Lucy alone, as Lord +Montreville was apt to be late for dinner, entered the apartment before +any of the rest of the company had arrived. At first he thought the old +fellow must be very jealous to have made so unusual an exertion; but +he soon perceived that a perfect understanding subsisted between them, +and that Lord Montreville’s countenance no longer betrayed any sign of +uneasiness at his approach. + +He sat, as usual, by Lady Montreville at dinner, and he again found +the open, straightforward manner which, when first he met her, had +so completely baffled him. The _gêne_ and shyness which were the +consequence of feeling herself suspected, had completely vanished. +She knew that her husband now had perfect confidence in her; she knew +that he did justice to the purity of her intentions, and she mentally +resolved he should never, never have cause to doubt them. + +Lord Montreville’s knowledge of the sex, which rendered him jealous +and umbrageous when there was any, the remotest, cause for being so, +also enabled him to understand and to appreciate her behaviour on the +present occasion. Lionel saw the game was up, and had the tact to slip +back into the open conventional gallantry, from which he had been +gradually advancing into serious gallantry. + +Lucy that night retired to her room satisfied with herself, thoroughly +convinced that every effort made in the cause of virtue produces its +own reward, resolved to be thankful for the blessings she possessed, +and strong in the determination to do her duty in that state of life +in which she was placed; while at the same time she could not deny to +herself that the duties of those who are united to a person suited to +them in age, disposition, and pursuits, are the most easy to fulfil. + +Lord and Lady Montreville have lived many years in comfort and good +fellowship. Lady Montreville is the best of mothers, and finds in +the sportive tenderness of her children, happiness far beyond the +contentment which at one time was all to which she dared aspire. Yet +sometimes, as she watches the innocent gambols of her two lovely little +girls, she sighs to think those halcyon days of youth, which to herself +were days of such unalloyed joyousness, cannot last for ever, and that +the time must assuredly come when they too will think of love and +marriage. + +Such reflections were passing through her mind, when she one day +exclaimed to Milly, “Nurse, how sorry I shall be when those children +grow up, and one has to go through for them all the agitations +attendant upon lovers, and going to be married. Marriage is such a +lottery, you know!” + +“Ah, well! I shall be dead and buried before ever that time comes; but +whatever you do, my lady, be sure they choose gentlemen that have the +fear of God before their eyes. Ah, bless their little hearts!” she +added, as she followed their light, graceful forms with eyes of pride +and tenderness, “they may grow up ever so pretty—as pretty as yourself, +my lady, and they can’t be much prettier, but it’s a poor hold a woman +has over a man if it’s only the hold her own beautiful face, sweet +manners, and gentle temper can have. It is to the man’s good principles +a woman must look, to keep her husband constant and true to her.” + + + + +WARENNE; + +OR, + +THE PIPING TIMES OF PEACE. + + +CHAPTER I. + + So I, by vent’rous friendship led, + + * * * * * + + Wad fain thy dauntless valour sing, + Resistless as the tempest’s wing + That wave on wave does dashing fling + Upon the shore, + Yet mild thy soul as breath of spring + When war is o’er. + + _Unpublished Poems._ + +One evening in the winter of 182—, a large party of the officers of the +—— dragoons were dining together in the best room of the Green Dragon, +the principal inn of ——, on the southern coast of Ireland. The district +around was under military law, but though occasional outrages marked +the wild and turbulent spirit which reigned, since their arrival in +their present quarters no disturbances had taken place of sufficient +magnitude to cause them serious alarm; and it appeared probable that, +notwithstanding the efforts of the agitators to excite tumult, men’s +passions would subside, and affairs resume their wonted, if not happy, +current. To men under such circumstances, without danger to animate, or +occupations to interest them, dinner is a meal of much importance, and +the young cornets or captains were busily employed in dispelling their +_ennui_ according to the received rules of social indulgence. + +Some two or three of the neighbouring gentry had been invited to join +the mess; and as the generous wine passed quickly round, many a loud +laugh and many a light jest told the gay and unconstrained merriment +of the festive meeting. There was, however, one individual at the +table, who, though he apparently shared in their mirth, and though +no trace of uneasiness on his brow betrayed the working of the mind +within, looked upon the proceedings of his young friends and their +guests with feelings of an anxious nature. Their commanding officer, +Lieutenant-Colonel Warenne, feared that he could perceive, amid the +joyousness of their good-humoured revelry, impending discord and +confusion. + +Warenne, though young in years, was a gallant and very distinguished +officer. He had entered the army a boy, at the commencement of the +Peninsular war, and was entirely employed from that time till its +close. Promotion came quickly to the survivors in those days of +perilous glory, and he had successively risen step after step, until he +found himself in the spring of 1814 first major of his old regiment, +the —— dragoons. At Waterloo his lieutenant-colonel was killed, and +Warenne obtained the high rank he held at the moment of which we +are writing. Thus, after several years of peace, he was not quite +thirty-four. Daring, cool, and firm, with quick perception, great +knowledge of his profession, and much general information, he was +looked upon by his seniors as one who, if opportunity should be given +him, could not fail to raise himself to the highest honours of his +profession; kind of heart, and gentle in manner, he was the idol of +the soldiery. His form and his features coincided with the character +of his mind. Tall and muscular, but spare and active, his broad chest +and clean limbs showed at once strength, and capability of continued +exertion. His dark and piercing eye bespoke quick comprehension; +while his mouth, beautifully formed, and expressing, as its natural +characteristics, benignity, and perhaps humour, when through agitation +it became compressed, bore the stamp of decision. + +On the night in question, a bystander might have detected somewhat of +Warenne’s anxiety to keep up a tone of conversation throughout the +party rather higher than that which usually graces a mess-table, but +otherwise no outward signs denoted his anticipations. He had learnt by +accident, in the course of the day, that one of the gentlemen, whom he +had invited to dinner, was closely connected with the agitating party; +and he every instant expected to hear him break out into some abuse of +existing powers, which might not be brooked at a table of his majesty’s +officers. He watched therefore the increasing effects of the wine upon +his guests with a melancholy foreboding, and was on the alert to put +a stop to any discussion that seemed likely to terminate angrily. He +turned his keen eye round on all his young subalterns in succession, to +see if the colour was yet mounting to their cheeks, or if their knit +brows showed symptoms of provocation. More especially did he observe +the bearing of two at the table. For the first he was interested by +the tie of blood; the second had been committed to his care, a few +months previously, by one whom he was strongly disposed to think the +handsomest and most charming of her sex. + +Frank Warenne was the lieutenant-colonel’s only brother, about six +years the younger, a gay, dashing, intelligent puppy, very handsome, +and a good deal spoilt, that is to say, as far as a disposition, by +nature incorruptibly good, could be deteriorated by the admiration of +women, and the good-nature of friends. The affectionate kindness of +Colonel Warenne himself had perhaps contributed, as much as any other +cause, to render Frank what he was. + +Their father, a younger son of the noble house of Warenne, had died +when his eldest boy Gerald was only thirteen years old, having, shortly +before his death, vested his small property in land. His widow had +hoped to be able, with the income arising from this, to educate her two +children well, and she had placed Gerald at Eton. Before a year had +passed, she too was gathered to the tomb. Mr. Warenne had bequeathed +the estate in fee to his wife, trusting to her to divide it between her +two sons as she might deem best for their future interests. + +She died, however, without a will, and it devolved on Gerald as sole +heir. From that moment, Gerald, with the decision and nobleness +which formed so prominent a part of his after character, determined, +not only to take charge of the instruction and support of Frank +during his minority by making over for that purpose a portion of +the allowance given him by Chancery, but, on his coming of age, to +divide his inheritance equally with him; a resolution which he carried +into practice, shortly after his return to England from the army of +occupation, in the winter of 1815. + +He obtained for Frank a commission in the same regiment with himself, +as soon as he was old enough to hold it; and the young cornet fought +his first battle at Waterloo under his auspices. + +In this manner, under his brother’s fostering eye, Frank had grown +up to his present age of manhood, in perfect freedom from care, in +the enjoyment of as much money as he needed, with the advantages of +birth, of friends (for his brother’s friends were his), and of personal +beauty—a pleasant introduction into life; but not one to bring to +maturity the seeds of good implanted by nature. The consequence of this +was, that though Captain Warenne was an excellent officer, and a gay, +agreeable companion, he wanted that vigour of mind and intellectual +superiority which Colonel Warenne himself possessed. + +The other object of anxiety to Warenne, on this evening, Henry Marston, +was a wild, thoughtless, impetuous boy, with high and generous +feelings, undisciplined by education. When he joined the regiment, only +a few months before, he first quitted the paternal roof beneath which +he had been brought up under a private tutor, who had consulted his +own ease more than his pupil’s advancement, and had never attempted +to teach him the necessity of self-command, or even of concession +to the prejudices and opinions of others. From him, therefore, +Warenne momentarily expected some burst of temper, or some passionate +interruption of his Irish guests, which must lead to a quarrel. +His fears were not without reason;—by degrees the little softening +remarks which he from time to time threw in were less attended to, +while the agitator grew more violent and seditious in his language, +louder in tone, and more offensive in his gesticulations. By degrees +Henry passed from a state of good-humoured amusement to a feeling of +intense provocation, which hardly permitted him to observe the usual +courtesies of society; and the former at last venturing to declare in a +threatening manner, that “England, if she chose still to continue her +galling oppression of Ireland, should remember that Irishmen had hearts +and hands, and that she did it at her peril,” he angrily demanded,— + +“Peril! of what?” + +“Do you ask of what?” rejoined the indignant orator. “Of war, war to +the knife. Ireland cannot—will not—longer be the slave of England. We +bid her, and her bloodthirsty myrmidons defiance.” + +In an instant more than one young officer started from his seat, and +together with Henry, who was thoroughly exasperated, loudly took him to +task for his ill-timed and ill-placed tirade against their country. At +this moment the well-known voice of their lieutenant-colonel was heard. + +“Mr. Marston, Mr. Kennedy, Captain Warenne; I beg of you to remain +quiet.” + +The clear stern tone in which these few simple words were uttered, +permitted not any hesitation. The young soldiers reseated themselves, +and a general silence ensued. + +“Gentlemen,” continued he, speaking slowly and calmly, “this for the +present is my table, these gentlemen my guests.” Then addressing +himself to the unlucky cause of the disturbance. “Mr. O’Neil, as the +countenances of my young friends do not seem to promise much more +agreeable conversation, perhaps we had better retire.” + +He rose from his chair as he concluded, and bowing, led the way to the +door. The Irishman followed him, and they all left the room. Colonel +Warenne quietly walked before them from the door to the court-yard +of the inn, courteously showing the way; as soon, however, as he had +reached a spot where he could not be overheard, he turned round and +said,— + +“After what has passed, Mr. O’Neil, you must be aware that you and +I cannot again meet as friends without some explanation; I must +therefore wish you good night. To-morrow morning, perhaps, your present +feelings of excitement will be past away, and you will be sorry for the +intemperate language you have used. I shall be happy to find that such +is the case, when I send my friend Major Stuart to wait on you.” + +O’Neil seemed struck by the collected and business-like tone of this +address, but made no answer, and departed with his companions. + +As soon as they were gone, Warenne sought Major Stuart’s apartment, +and placed the matter in his hands. He then retraced his steps to the +mess-room, revolving in his mind many various schemes for preventing +all inquiry, on the part of his young friends, into the measures he +had taken, or was about to take, when, fortunately for him, an orderly +rode into the yard with orders from General Unwin, who commanded the +district, to move the regiment the next day to ——. With the despatch in +his hand, he re-entered the dining-room, where, during his absence, his +conduct had been canvassed. The younger officers were strongly disposed +to think that he had treated the impertinent stranger with too much +consideration; and, as he returned, Henry Marston was in the act of +saying to Frank, that he was inclined to quarrel with his brother for +not allowing him to kick the rascal out. He quickly, however, silenced +their incipient questionings, by occupying their attention with the +change of station to be effected on the morrow, with the line of route, +&c.: and soon afterwards, breaking up the party, dismissed them to +their rooms in utter forgetfulness of the mischance which had thrown +them into such disagreeable confusion. + + +CHAPTER II. + + “When honour is a support to virtuous principles, and runs parallel + with the laws of God and our country, it cannot be too much cherished + and encouraged; but when the dictates of honour are contrary to + those of religion and equity, they are the greatest depravations of + human nature, by giving wrong, ambitious, and false ideas of what is + good and laudable, and should therefore be exploded by every good + government, and driven out as the bane and plague of human society.” + + ADDISON. + +Frank Warenne alone was not deceived, and could not doubt that his +brother would resent the insult which he had received. He knew too +well Warenne’s delicate sense of honour; and, recognising in the +tranquillity of his demeanour the settled calmness of decision, he +intuitively guessed the truth. Want of fraternal affection was not one +of Frank’s failings, and he sought his chamber in a state of serious +disquietude. He saw no means by which a rencontre could be prevented, +nor any by which he might transfer to his own person the danger that +threatened him he loved so dearly. He felt that honour, according +to military custom, demanded from Warenne himself that he should +require an apology from O’Neil; that in all probability O’Neil would +not apologize; and they must therefore necessarily meet each other. +He could not rest—he did not even attempt to lie down, but paced his +room in restless anxiety hour after hour, forming a thousand different +schemes to ensure his brother’s safety, yet unable to find one which +should not compromise his fame. At last, about five o’clock, resolving +to ascertain whether his fears were well founded, he stole across the +passage to the door of Warenne’s room, and gently opened it. Warenne +was writing, but started up at Frank’s entrance. + +“Is it you, Frank!” he exclaimed. + +“Forgive me, Gerald,” rejoined Frank, “but I am certain you are going +to fight that scoundrel O’Neil, and I am wretched about it: I have +passed the whole night in utter misery. Gerald! this may be our last +meeting,” and as he spoke he flung himself upon his brother’s neck. + +“Do not unman me,” said Warenne; “just at this moment I have need of +all my firmness, for I will not deny your conclusion with respect to +O’Neil. Would that I could! for I abhor duelling from my soul. I cannot +disguise from myself that it is a wicked and abominable practice, +expressly contrary to the law of Him, in whom, notwithstanding the +irregularities of my soldier’s life, I most sincerely trust,—if I may +dare to say so in such an hour as this; neither can I forget that I +am perhaps about to appear before him with the crime of murder, in +intention at least, upon my soul. Still I have not the moral courage +to break through custom, when the alternative is disgrace—but I must +not think of these matters now. Let us talk of something else, Frank—I +had just finished a letter to you as you came in, which I meant should +be delivered to you in case I fell;—put it in your pocket, and return +it to me, if all goes well—nay, do not read it. It contains only a +few words of advice from your old Mentor, who would fain have you do +justice to his instructions, and to yourself.” + +As he proceeded, Warenne regained his habitual self-command, and +Frank, his mind unconsciously imbibing a portion of his brother’s +calmness, became more tranquil. They talked on with composure, and +even cheerfulness, of the future prospects of the latter. It was now +six o’clock, and Warenne begged Frank to leave him to a few minutes +repose. The sad conviction that this might be their last interview +once more forced itself on the mind of the latter, and he would have +relieved his bursting heart by tears, had he not feared to give pain +to one he loved better than himself. He lingered for a while on his +brother’s neck, pressed him yet closer to his heart, then invoking +every blessing upon his head, and receiving from him a fond but solemn +benediction in return, he rushed to his own chamber, where he threw +himself on his bed, and, after a few minutes, fairly sobbed himself to +sleep. + +About a quarter before seven Stuart knocked at Warenne’s door, with +the intelligence that O’Neil would not apologise. Nothing remained +therefore to be done but to proceed to the meeting, and in a few +minutes the two friends were on the road to a sequestered spot a short +distance from the town, which Stuart and O’Neil’s second had selected. +It is not necessary to relate the particulars of a duel; suffice it to +say, that the affair was properly conducted, and that O’Neil fell at +the first fire, severely, but not dangerously, wounded; while Warenne +received his antagonist’s ball in the fleshy part of his right arm, +just above the elbow. As soon as the latter saw the effect of his fire +he ran up to O’Neil, and endeavoured as well as he could to raise +him up, with a feeling of anguish he alone can estimate who finds +himself with blood upon his hand, shed, not under excitement, nor in +a moment of passion, but coolly and unnecessarily, in compliance with +the customs of the world. Nor was his distress alleviated, when as he +waited with impatience the opinion of the surgeon on the nature and +extent of the injury he had inflicted, the wounded man took his hand +and said— + +“If I die, I forgive you; my own folly has been the cause of my death.” + +He could have cursed himself for his crime. His suspense, however, +lasted not long. The surgeon, after an accurate examination into the +direction of the ball, pronounced that no vital part was injured, and +that “Mr. O’Neil would be as sound a man as ever in three months.” + +Never did sounds of sweetest melody fall so pleasantly on Warenne’s +ear, as the oracular dictum of his old fellow campaigner, Mr. Morris, +the regimental Æsculapius. There seemed to be a weight taken from his +breast, which he felt it would have been impossible for him to sustain. + +“Thank Heaven!” murmured he to himself, “I am not a murderer!” Then +turning to O’Neil, he said aloud, “We part friends, I hope, not the +less that you are to live.” + +O’Neil smiled faintly, and once again held out his hand. Warenne shook +it warmly, and immediately proceeded on his return to ——, that he might +procure further assistance, and the means of conveyance for his former +foe. + +As he turned to leave him, he laid his hand, as he supposed, on +Stuart’s arm for support—it was Frank’s! Poor Frank had slept but for +an instant, and on awakening, had sought his brother’s apartment. +Finding that he was gone out, he had immediately ran down, through the +court-yard of the inn, to a spot in the high road from whence he could +command a view over the adjacent country, where catching a glimpse of +two figures, about a mile from him, quitting the beaten track, he had +rightly conjectured they were Stuart and his principal. He followed +as fast as he was able, and arrived on the ground just in time to see +O’Neil fall. He had then stolen up during the interval of confusion +which ensued, and behind his brother had awaited the surgeon’s decision. + +Warenne recognised Frank, but simply pressed his arm with affection. +His heart was too full for utterance, and the silence was not broken, +until the latter exclaimed, “Thank God! Gerald, you are yet spared to +us!” + +“Thank God, indeed!” replied the other. The deep but subdued tone of +his voice expressing the sincerity with which he acknowledged the mercy +of that Being, not only in preserving his life from destruction, but +his conscience from a horrible crime. + +Stuart soon afterwards joined them. “Warenne,” said he, “I congratulate +you on being so well out of this business; for the wound in your arm is +a trifle. Of all life’s disagreeable accidents, in my opinion, there is +nothing so unpleasant as a duel; nothing so unsatisfactory; nothing—I +beg your pardon—so foolish.” + +“Do not beg my pardon,” replied Warenne; “all you say is true, and if +the encounter ends in the death of either party, nothing so dreadful, +both with regard to him who is hurried from the very act of sin, into +the presence of his Maker, and to him who survives, to wear out a +melancholy existence in unavailing remorse.” + +Such weak and unstable creatures are we! Knowing the better line of +conduct, but preferring the worse; afraid of the breath of our own +species, who can only hurt the body, yet scrupling not to incur the +anger of Him who can destroy both body and soul. + +Warenne, a man of excellent principles, of commanding talents, and +in the habit of controlling his passions, though he acknowledged the +heinousness of the offence he was about to commit, and though he avowed +his obligations to obey the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill!” could +not subdue his worldly pride, but shrank from the danger of disgrace. + +A quarter of an hour’s walk brought the party to their quarters; and +Warenne, having thanked his old friend Stuart for the kind fulfilment +of the disagreeable office which had devolved upon him, retired with +Frank to his apartment. + +When the two brothers were again alone in that room in which, not +much more than two hours before, they had parted from each other +with such painful emotions, Warenne, who could not reconcile to his +conscience the steps which he had taken, though he had wilfully blinded +himself to their inconsistency with his duty as a Christian, and was, +moreover, much agitated with his narrow escape from more serious and +irretrievable guilt, gave way to his feelings, and hastily saying, +“Frank, you must pray for forgiveness for me!” threw himself on his +knees by his bedside, and earnestly entreated pardon of his offended +Creator. + +Frank silently placed himself beside him, and for a few minutes both +were absorbed in their devotions; those of the latter, perhaps, +assuming the tone of grateful thanksgiving, rather than of anxious +supplication. Warenne then rose composed and calm, and looking +affectionately on his brother, whose tearful countenance betrayed the +sincerity of the feeling in which he had prayed, bade him hasten to +prepare for their march. How lightly, how gladly did Frank now obey him! + +In an hour the bugles sounded, and the busy scene of departure +commenced. The street was alive with men and horses, as the small +parties came up from their different billets, and respectively fell +into their places. Warenne had taken advantage of the interval to have +his wound examined and dressed, and walked down the ranks to assume +the command of his regiment with his cloak drawn over his bandaged +arm, a little paler, perhaps, and graver than usual, but collected and +self-possessed. A glance at his men showed him, that in the short time +which had elapsed, the particulars of the duel had transpired. They +were standing by their horses ready to mount; and as he passed along +their front, one or two of the old veterans, who had fought through the +peninsular campaigns with him, and considered him almost to belong to +them, ventured to murmur reproachfully,— + +“Surely, sir, _you_ need not have gone to show your courage; if any +thing had happened to you, what would have become of us? It’s a’most +too bad of you.” And in a second more Henry Marston came up with a +flushed face, and asked him how he could think of putting his life in +danger to cover his foolish disputes with the Irish guests. + +“Why,” said he earnestly, “did you not let some one of us young ones +fight O’Neil?” + +Warenne’s pale cheek received a slight tinge of colour, as he heard the +affectionate remonstrances of his old soldiers; but he answered them +only with a look of kind acknowledgment; to Henry, however, he replied +smilingly, “Never mind now, Henry, I promise you that you shall shoot +the next man who behaves ill at our mess; in the mean time I’ll try +if I cannot occupy you more profitably.” Then hastening to mount his +horse, he gave the signal for immediate departure. + + +CHAPTER III. + + “I think thee all that e’er was tenanted + Of noblest worth in loveliest female form.” + + JOANNA BAILLIE’S “_Constantine Palœologus._” + + “His countenance was troubled, and his speech + Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse + At fits constrained, betrays a heart disturbed.” + + SOUTHEY’S “_Roderick_.” + +During the whole of that winter, the —— dragoons were kept on constant +duty in the district in which they were quartered; thanks, however, to +the unceasing activity of their commanding officer, his easy and kind +manners to the people; his ready perception of their humour; his strict +observance of justice and open-handed generosity, which made them deem +him a “raal” gentleman—it passed without bloodshed or disturbance. In +the following spring the regiment was ordered to England, and several +of the officers, of whom Henry Marston was one, obtained leave of +absence. + +Warenne himself only waited till he should have placed his men in their +new quarters at Calbury, to proceed to town for a few weeks, leaving +Frank behind him, to amuse himself with the pleasures and occupations +of a country town in the summer months. A few hours served to bring +Henry to his paternal home in Charles Street, and to the arms of those +he loved best in the world, his father and his sister. + +Lord Framlingham was a good-natured man, much attached to his children, +devoted to politics, and almost wholly engrossed with the cares of an +office of some importance, which he held under the ministry of the day. +He had ever been a fond parent to Henry, and Henry repaid his love with +true filial affection. His sister was his earliest friend, the sharer +of his boyish hopes and fears; and now that he had grown to manhood, +the object of his fraternal pride. In truth Adelaide Marston was a +sister of whom any man might justly be proud. She was at the present +time in her twenty-fourth year, the eldest of the three sisters and +brothers who composed Lord Framlingham’s family. Tall and beautifully +made, her head sprang from her neck, as that of a Grecian statue of +old. Her brow was marble itself; her nose thin and sharp cut; her large +dark lustrous eyes teemed with expression; and her mouth, perhaps, +after all, the most remarkable feature in her countenance, gave a +character of loveliness to the whole. Whether she stood before you in +silent thought, with her raven hair quietly shading her brow, or shook +back her locks in innocent mirth, her bright teeth positively flashing +on you as she smiled, she was altogether as glorious an object as eye +could look upon. The charms of her mind, though perhaps really as +great, were not so evident as those of her person. Her manners were in +public rather cold and reserved, and in the eyes of many who did not +know her, bore the semblance of pride. Never, however, did there exist +a breast in which pride was less an inmate. The truth was, she was shy +from too great humility. + +She had never been a favourite with her mother, who was a foolish +woman, and disappointed that her first-born was a daughter, and she had +been from infancy subjected to all those checkings and thwartings which +unwise mothers are apt to exercise injudiciously. She had found her +sisters constantly preferred to her; and not the less, after they had +grown up and made brilliant matches. These circumstances, which, with a +disposition less innately good, would probably have produced a soreness +of temper, and a disdainful disregard of the opinions of others, in her +occasioned only a degree of reserve in general conversation. + +Thus, with greater personal attractions than her sisters, and more +excellent qualities of mind, she yet remained Adelaide Marston, +while they were ennobled matrons. Could the world have seen beneath +the surface, how differently would it have judged her—it would have +found there strong affections, and kind and gentle feelings, united +to a nobleness of spirit, an enthusiastic generosity, and a love +of truth, which, while they caused her to render scrupulously unto +every one their due, made her scorn to receive credit to which she +did not conceive herself justly entitled. Shrinking and retiring on +common occasions almost beyond feminine timidity, when called upon for +exertion, she was frank, straightforward, decided, and uncompromising. +She was altogether a person whom an inferior mind could not estimate, +but whom a superior one could never sufficiently admire. + +Her mother was now dead, and she lived with her father, his sole +companion. To her, therefore, Henry’s return was a source of more than +ordinary joy, and the sister and the brother met as if they had been +separated for years instead of months. + +A day or two after his return, as Henry was relating to Adelaide the +adventures of his _début_ as a soldier, he naturally came to the +mention of Warenne’s name. + +“Adelaide,” said he, “what a man that is! it is worth something to know +him, if only to have the benefit of his example, and he has been the +kindest friend to me possible. You do not know how much I owe you for +recommending me to his care.” + +Adelaide listened, unconsciously perhaps, with increased attention; +and Henry, thus encouraged, gave the reins to the generous feelings of +his warm heart, and did ample justice to Warenne’s merits. He detailed +all he knew himself of the object of his praise, both with regard to +his character and to his life; and all he had gleaned from his brother +officers, and from the old soldiers, with whom some of Warenne’s early +and more dashing exploits were a favourite topic of conversation; +especially, dilating upon his conduct in the duel with O’Neil, which +Henry was conscious he had himself principally provoked. + +“Your friend is a perfect _heros de roman_,” exclaimed Adelaide, +smiling, as he concluded. “Is he so entirely without fault?” + +“Without fault!” replied Henry, half angrily; “of course he has faults: +every one has. I do not wish to make him out ‘a faultless monster, +which the world ne’er knew;’ but he has better qualities than any other +man I ever saw. I shall not say person, because I think you as near +perfection as he is, though your question is enough to provoke one; but +you shall judge for yourself, and see whether I have said too much. +He will be in town in a few days, and I hope my father will make him +consider this house as a second home. He has been, I am sure, a brother +and a father to me, since I have been with him. I do not believe that +I should stand here alive now but for him. I was for ever getting +into scrapes when I first joined, owing to my home education, which +prevented my learning how to command my temper, and I should never have +extricated myself from them without his assistance.” + +“Indeed, Henry, I did not mean to be provoking,” replied Adelaide. +“I have every disposition to admire one you love so much; but why +give yourself a bad character? Praise your friend, but do not abuse +yourself.” + +“I do not think I deserve much commendation,” said Henry, smiling in +his turn; “when I can fire up at an innocent expression from you, my +actions would belie my words.” + +Had Henry been able to read Adelaide’s heart, he would not have +suspected her of a wish to treat Warenne’s good qualities with +lightness. She had been impressed with a very favourable idea of +him during the three weeks she had passed in his society at Norton +Chenies, and was sufficiently disposed to admire a character, in many +respects congenial with her own. Not that she had, what is commonly +called, fallen in love with him, but that she had been pleased with +his spirit, his superior intelligence, and his high-minded chivalrous +tone of sentiment. He had also appeared to appreciate her from the +first moment of their acquaintance, and she was grateful to him for +his discernment. When Henry left her, she could not help reflecting +upon what had formed the principal topic of their conversation, and +she certainly did not find her esteem for Warenne decreased by Henry’s +commendation. She thought over, one by one, the little incidents which +had been mentioned, with a secret feeling of satisfaction at his strict +observance of her request to him; and though she did not yet think of +love, Warenne, it may not be denied, would have been gratified, had he +known how much his image occupied her mind: to him the three weeks at +Norton Chenies had been the bright epoch of his life. + +In a few days Warenne came to town; and after notifying his arrival +at the Horse Guards, &c. &c., was brought by Henry to his father’s. +Lord Framlingham received the man who had been so true a friend to his +son with marked consideration, and pressed him to come frequently to +Charles Street—an invitation which Warenne was not the less disposed to +accept, when Adelaide, with extended hand, and radiant looks, welcomed +him, and thanked him for his kindness to her brother. + +From that time he was a constant visiter at Lord Framlingham’s. A club +of military men possessed small attractions for one who sought in +London a _délassement_ from military duty; and the cold civility of +Lord Warenne, and of other connections of his family, did not lead him +to desire a greater degree of intimacy with them. Thus he had leisure, +as well as inclination, to profit by Lord Framlingham’s hospitality; +and when the old lord himself appeared to like his society, and to +derive pleasure from conversing with him on the interior policy of the +country, its power, its laws, and its sources of wealth (subjects on +which he had reflected much, and accumulated much information in his +wanderings through the different garrison towns of England); when Henry +seemed gratified by his coming; when, above all, Adelaide seemed to +meet him with gladness; he, on some pretence or other, found himself +almost daily in Charles Street. + +His admiration of Adelaide quickly ripened into love, pure and ardent +love, and to hear her speak and see her smile, became his only wish. He +could listen for hours to her sweet voice as she joined in conversation +with her father and himself, or with Henry talked over the incidents +of the day; and he knew no greater happiness than to trace the high +character of her mind, as, in the intimacy of friendship, she gave +scope to her generous feelings. + +Adelaide, too, had learned to love, and her heart, which had passed +unscathed through the gay dawning of her career, throbbed with the +tumultuous impulses of imperious passion. She loved, and life to her +was now one dream of pleasurable emotion, for, with a woman’s intuitive +tact, she could trace the workings of Warenne’s heart more plainly +than those of her own, and she saw that she there reigned undisputed +mistress of his affections. That commanding spirit, which was wont to +assert its mastery over the feelings, and to control and discipline +them within the bounds of wisdom, lived on her every look. If he spoke, +he turned to discover if she approved; if he did aught, he was not +satisfied till he knew she deemed it well done. Conscious thus of her +power over him, she for a while drank of the cup of joy which hope +presented to her lip, and permitted it not to be embittered by any fear +for the future. + +Her father perceived what was going on, but gave no outward sign +that he should oppose himself to the result to which circumstances +were apparently leading. In fact, he had not come to any decision +on the subject, for though he was a worldly-minded man, and wished +his daughter to make what is termed a good match, he was aware that, +with her small fortune, she could not command one; and he knew from +experience, that she would never sacrifice her feelings to the prospect +of a brilliant establishment. He was not, therefore, disinclined to +her marrying a person of moderate means, for whom she had conceived an +affection. Adelaide interpreted silence to mean consent, and feeling +complete confidence in Warenne’s love for her, gave him, in return, the +full affection of her maiden heart. + +What happy and blissful hours were these, when each, though they had +not told their love, lived but for the other. They lasted not long. +Warenne soon awakened to the real difficulties of his situation, and +took himself severely to task for the headlong impetuosity with which +he had set at hazard his own, and, perhaps, another’s happiness. +Had he a right to ask one who had been from childhood surrounded by +every luxury affluence could purchase, to descend, for his sake, to +comparative indigence? Could he request her to quit the brilliant +circle she adorned to become the inmate of a barrack yard? His soul +revolted at the thought. What was he, that he should outweigh in her +estimation privations such as these? She would, he doubted not, if she +loved him, despise all worldly advantages, but should he subject her to +them because she loved him? + +For the first time in his life his want of riches galled him; he felt +as though he were guilty of presumption in loving Adelaide, and he +hesitated to make the avowal which for ever hovered upon his lips. +Adelaide perceived his disquietude, and from some expressions he +inadvertently let fall, pretty accurately conjectured its cause. At +first she was inclined to be angry with him, under the false impression +that he conceived her capable of being influenced by a regard for +wealth; but she could not retain her anger when she overheard him one +day say to Henry, who had been blaming an acquaintance of theirs for +not proposing to a lady to whom he was tenderly attached, “Henry, you +forget that Compton is a poor man. How can he ask Miss Thornton to +leave her comfortable home and share his poverty?” + +There was a bitterness in the tone with which he uttered these words, +which betrayed the secret feeling that prompted the reply. Then she was +aware that he considered a woman of any refinement to be singularly +misplaced in the midst of the quarters of a regiment, for, in the +earlier days of their intimacy, when laughing and talking with her and +her brother, over the _agrémens_ and _desagrémens_ of a soldier’s life, +he had often expressed an opinion to this effect. + +She reflected on the sentiments which he evidently entertained on +these points, and her resentment vanished. She might, perhaps, deem +his delicacy over-strained, but she knew, if he left the army, that +he must forfeit, not only his fair hopes of fame and advancement, but +also a large proportion of his income; and she could not blame him +for being unwilling to subject her to the discomforts of a profession +which he might not with any degree of prudence desert. But when she +had arrived at this better understanding of Warenne’s motives, she was +perplexed how to act. Her affections had been given; they could not be +recalled; she could not retrace her steps; yet how proceed? She was +ready to submit to whatever sacrifices might be necessary for the sake +of him she loved, but till he afforded her an opportunity, by first +openly declaring his own passion, she could not acquaint him with her +determination. She longed to bid him throw aside his scruples, and give +her liberty to decide in her own cause; but maidenly reserve prevented +this virtual avowal of her preference for him—reserve which, in her +shrinking and timid nature, might be with difficulty overcome, even +under happier circumstances. There remained no alternative but to wait +for Warenne’s proposals, though when he would make them, or whether +he would make them at all, seemed a matter of uncertainty. He still +lingered on in town, unable to tear himself from her presence, yet +fearing to speak; living but for her society, yet far from satisfied in +his own mind of the propriety of his continuing to seek it. At length, +one morning that he called in Charles Street, to know if he might +accompany Adelaide and her brother in their ride, he was so depressed +in spirits that she could not avoid asking him, with some appearance of +anxiety, if he was unwell. + +“I am, indeed, Miss Marston,” exclaimed he, forgetting for a moment his +resolutions of prudence in the emotions which the kind manner of her +inquiry had conjured up; “but not in body; I am ill in mind, displeased +and angry with myself, for wanting the courage, when my duty and +inclinations clash, to sacrifice the latter to the former; but I cannot +do so, were my life the forfeit.” + +He spoke hastily and passionately; Adelaide made no reply, she did not +even raise her eyes from the ground. Warenne looked at her earnestly +for a moment, then feeling that as they were at present circumstanced, +he had said either too much or too little, he resolved to proceed. He +could not, however, utterly control the contradictory impulses which +distracted his mind, and his words appeared to flow from despair, and +scorn of his own presumption, rather than from love. + +“Tell me,” said he, “is not a man unjustifiable who would have another +submit to sacrifices for his own welfare?” + +He paused for her answer. Adelaide pitied him from her soul; she felt +how much mental agony he must have endured ere he could thus, on a +point where his whole happiness was at stake, so frame his questions as +if he wished her to decide against him. She therefore replied timidly +and evasively, + +“Surely, Colonel Warenne, this must depend very much on the +circumstances of the case, on the extent of injury to be inflicted, and +the degree of advantage to be obtained.” + +“True,” rejoined he, his voice gradually losing its tone of bitterness, +and becoming mournfully tender, “true,” said he, “and I cannot disguise +from myself that though the benefit to myself would be inexpressibly +great, greater far than I have any right to hope for, yet the injury +which I should inflict would be certain and considerable. Would to +Heaven I could come to a contrary conclusion, but I cannot.” He buried +his face in his hands on the table which stood before him; a second +afterwards, however, he looked up, with a deep flush crimsoning his +very brow, and continued in a hurried manner, “I cannot, however, +renounce my chance.” + +Henry’s voice at this instant was heard at the door, and Warenne ceased +abruptly. Henry came to tell Adelaide that her aunt was waiting for her +below in her carriage. Adelaide obeyed the summons, and with a lighter +heart than she had borne for many days, ran down the stairs to her +aunt. “He must speak out now,” thought she; “he must confess his love:” +and in the certainty that an explanation would take place when next +they met, she forgave Henry his interruption of their interview. + +Warenne departed under the influence of very different feelings. He +was ashamed of his own irresolution, and afraid that he had acted +dishonourably in betraying the state of his mind to Adelaide. Ere +he reached his lodgings, however, the very consciousness of having +committed himself relieved his breast of much anxiety. He had not +again to weigh the value of the different arguments which love and +honour suggested, for the adoption of one line of conduct or the +other. Henceforth he had one only measure to embrace, viz. to lay his +fortunes, such as they were, at Miss Marston’s feet. He resolved to try +his fate on the following morning. + + +CHAPTER IV. + + “Est-il point vray, ou si je l’ay songé, + Qu’il m’est besoin m’éloigner ou distraire + De votre amour, et en prendre congé? + Las! je le veux, et ne le puis faire— + Que dis-je, veux! Non, c’est tout le contraire, + Faire le puis, et ne le puis vouloir.” + + Attributed to FRANÇOIS I. + +The next day accordingly at an early hour, Warenne sought the residence +of Lord Framlingham in Charles Street, when, on his knocking at the +door, the servant who opened it presented him with a note from Henry, +stating, that in the course of the preceding night an express had +reached them from Epworth Castle, the seat of Mrs. Honoria Epworth, who +was Adelaide’s godmother, desiring them to set off immediately if they +wished to find her alive, and that his sister and himself were in the +act of commencing their journey at the moment at which he wrote. + +Poor Warenne, who had hoped to ascertain his future destiny before +he again quitted Charles Street, was sadly disappointed at this +intelligence. The evil, however, was without remedy, and he was obliged +to retrace his steps towards home, there to await the hour of their +return in all the misery of suspense. During this period he received +the following letter from Frank:— + + “MY DEAR BROTHER, + + “Who do you think has just called upon me? Henry Marston. I never was + so surprised in my life. He tells me that he came the night before + last to Epworth Castle with his sister, to attend the death-bed of + poor old Mrs. Honoria Epworth. She died a very few hours after their + arrival, and has left every thing she possessed to Miss Marston. Henry + says his sister will not have less than ten thousand a year, besides + the old castle, which is beautiful;—did you see it when you were + here?—it is not more than two miles from this town. What a charming + godmother! I wish nevertheless that she had given Henry a slice of her + property, for though he will eventually be Lord Framlingham, and rich, + yet he would do great credit to a few thousands a year in the interim. + He and his sister remain at the castle till after the funeral, when + they return to London. When are we to see you again? Stuart rides + in often from Oldham, and gives a good report of the two troops he + has there, and I can do the same of the officers and men at Calbury. + I command the four troops you left under my orders with a species + of sedate authority deserving, though I say it, of much admiration. + I have only one little _équippée_ to tell of, which is that I have + fallen desperately in love, and that my love is returned; do not be + frightened, Gerald, _l’objêt_ is a blind Irish-woman, who sells cakes + and bulls-eyes on the sort of boulevard there is to this town. She is + my delight, but our loves are too long, so God bless you! + + “Oh! I have forgotten the most important portion of my letter, which + is, that I am making great preparations for the coming hunting season. + I have sold Croppie, and bought two clippers, and I want you to let me + be doing something in your stable. I should positively be a happier + man if I might rescue your two old horses’ tails from their degraded + state of switch, and square them a little. Once more, God bless you. + + “Your affectionate brother, + + F. W.” + +Warenne at first read over this letter from his brother with pleasure, +and natural delight at the increased prosperity of his friends, but a +second perusal of it filled him with anxiety and doubt. Was there not +now an insuperable barrier raised against his pretensions to Adelaide? +If indeed he had made known his passion, it were not impossible that +a woman with her nobleness of spirit might only regard the addition +to her fortune as a means of increasing their mutual happiness. But +could he with honour ask her hand for the first time under these +changed circumstances? Must he not appear to her, and to the world, a +contemptible fortune hunter, who could live in her society for weeks, +and find her only worthy of attention when she became an heiress? + +“O, Frank!” cried he aloud, as he paced his room despondingly, “your +gay letter is a bitter one to me. I must learn to tread in the dust +the bright visions fancy had formed; to crush my aspiring hopes, and +with blighted prospects, and a broken heart, to banish myself from that +sweet presence in which I would fain have passed my days—but better +that, than dishonour. There is no spot as yet on my name, and I will +not now sully it. Yes, the die is cast, I will rejoin my regiment.” + +Though Warenne thus briefly settled the part which it became him to act +in this emergency, it cost him many an hour of bitter anguish before +he could carry his resolution into effect. He had never really loved +before, and he now loved with his whole soul; it seemed to him as if +his love was an essential portion of his existence, and that to tear +it from his breast was almost to destroy within him the principle of +vitality. He wrote however to Frank, to say that he should join him in +a few days; went to the Horse Guards to inquire if they projected any +alteration in the quarters of his regiment (for Calbury was not a town +in which troops were usually stationed), or had any orders for him with +respect to their particular employment; and called on Lord Framlingham +to inform him of his determination. + +The old Lord received him with much civility, but, as it appeared to +Warenne, with less than his usual cordiality. There was also a degree +of earnestness in the manner in which he encouraged him to quit town +immediately, and assured him that government had received accounts of a +very unpleasant spirit pervading the neighbourhood of Calbury. + +Warenne could not help perceiving that his absence was desired. +In truth, Lord Framlingham, immediately upon Adelaide’s increase +of fortune, had begun to renew the views of aggrandisement which +he had reluctantly laid aside; and, conceiving that Warenne might +very possibly prove an impediment to the success of his schemes, he +sincerely wished him out of the way. It was not, perhaps, strictly +consonant with the gratitude he professed towards Warenne for his +kindness to Henry to repel attentions which he had hitherto tacitly +encouraged; but, in his anxiety to accomplish his purposes with respect +to Adelaide, he did not much regard her lover’s feelings, and certainly +assumed not a delicacy which he did not possess. + +Warenne was intensely hurt by Lord Framlingham’s manner. Was he already +deemed an intruder? It was indeed time for him to depart; he would only +see Adelaide once again, and bid her farewell for ever. + +The travellers returned; and Henry, having heard from his father of +Warenne’s determination to rejoin the regiment, proceeded immediately +to his lodgings to propose their quitting London together, his own +leave of absence being on the point of expiring. + +After their first greetings were over, and Henry had had time +for closer observation, he was much struck with an appearance of +ill-health, and with a degree of severity of manner in Warenne; he +loved him, however, too sincerely, and respected him too highly, to +venture a remark on the change that had occurred. He at once entered +upon the object of his visit, and soon concluded an arrangement for +their travelling together to Calbury; then, thinking it probable +Warenne in his present state of mind would rather be alone, he begged +him to call in Charles Street the following morning, to see him and +Adelaide, who was not, he said, so afflicted by the loss of her +godmother, with whom she had never lived, as to shut the door upon +old friends; and with an affectionate pressure of the hand wished him +good-b’ye. + +Warenne shook the offered hand, accepted the invitation, stood for a +moment after his departure with a bewildered air, then hurried forth +to occupy his attention with professional avocations,—for he durst not +give way to the feelings that invitation had awakened, or to reflect in +solitude on the impending wretchedness of the morrow. + +The morrow came, and about the hour Henry had mentioned as that at +which his sister would probably receive him Warenne found himself in +Charles Street. Henry was alone in the drawing-room when he entered; +but in a few minutes Adelaide joined them. She had scarcely recovered +from the anxiety occasioned by the melancholy scenes she had so lately +witnessed, and was pale and languid, but the snowy whiteness of her +brow accorded well with the serious expression of her countenance, and +poor Warenne thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She received +him kindly; for, satisfied that he loved her, she saw no reason for +controlling the natural impulse of her heart; and for some little +time the whole party conversed on the events which had taken place +without hesitation, if not with cheerfulness. After a while, Henry, +who shrewdly suspected the state of his sister’s and of his friend’s +affections, found some excuse for quitting the room, and requesting +Warenne to await his return left him with Adelaide. The conversation +flagged—presently ceased altogether—Warenne, firm to his purpose +(but, much as that purpose had already cost him, knowing not until +this instant the utter misery he was about to entail upon himself) +could not bring himself to speak. Adelaide’s spirits had not regained +their usually cheerful flow, and their depression was increased by his +manifest uneasiness. The awkwardness of their situation each moment +became greater; at length Warenne, making an effort, in a hurried +manner uttered some common-place remark on an indifferent subject. +Adelaide gave the necessary assent, and again there was silence. He +made a second and a third attempt, but with no better success. He now +grew confused, and spoke at random upon every topic which presented +itself to his over-excited mind, until Adelaide, who could not but +recollect the very different manner in which their last interview had +concluded, knew not what to think. As she looked, however, on his +flushed cheek and unsteady eye that would not meet her’s, a suspicion +of the truth flashed across her mind. Could it be that he had formed +so unworthy an opinion of her as to conceive that her affections could +be influenced by her accession of fortune?—a moment’s reflection +assured her that his generous nature would spurn the thought; yet how, +since she knew not that her father had almost turned him from his +door, was she to interpret his behaviour? She was hurt, and angry with +him, and even, as by degrees she obtained a clearer insight into his +feelings, could not altogether divest herself of indignation, though +she pitied his sufferings. He might, she thought, if he really loved +her, sacrifice for her sake his fantastic notions of honour—for so they +then seemed to her,—and let her decide for herself whether or not she +thought his hand worth acceptance. She became colder and more formal, +until at length Warenne, unable to endure any longer her altered looks +and his own excessive wretchedness, hastily left the room in the full +conviction that he had injured himself in her esteem, and caused her +to think ill of him by the very course which, at the price of his own +happiness, he had deemed it his duty to pursue. + +A few days afterwards, Henry and Warenne quitted London for Calbury. + + +CHAPTER V. + + How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful! + The sun, who sheds on thee his parting smiles, + Sees not in all his wide career a scene + Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blessed + By bounteous earth and heaven. + The time has been when happy was their lot, + Who had their birthright here. + + SOUTHEY’S _Roderick_. + +The state of the agricultural population around Calbury, at the time of +the return of the two friends to their regiment, was by no means such, +in outward appearance at least, as to justify the apprehensions which, +according to Lord Framlingham, were entertained by the government. +The greater demand for labour, and the consequent increase of wages, +which the summer had occasioned, seemed to have extinguished the stormy +passions kindled by cold, hunger, and compulsory idleness. + +The country itself looked bright and gay, and the fields with their +rich crops of corn gave promise of plenty, comfort, and tranquillity. +Warenne was tempted to hope that the fear of disturbance was +ill-founded, and that the symptoms of insubordination, on which it was +grounded, had arisen from a temporary pressure, which was past and +would not recur. The first hours after their arrival were dedicated to +the inspection of the troops, the order and discipline of which were +highly commended, to Frank’s infinite delight. + +This necessary duty concluded, the two brothers and Henry retired to +Warenne’s apartments, and Warenne called on Frank to give some account +of his proceedings during the time he had held the command of the +regiment. + +“Why, I have had but a dullish _séjour_ in this place, I must say,” +replied Frank; “my chief occupation has been to preserve my dignity; +and, if it were not that once or twice I have been seduced into a smile +by the earnest admiration of sundry blue and black eyes which encounter +me in my perambulations, I should say I had succeeded admirably. People +assert that the labourers in the neighbourhood are discontented; but I +cannot say that I perceive it. I see them on a Sunday as happy as beer +and love can make them. They are not refined, perhaps, in their mode of +carrying on the war; and the fastidious might think it unsentimental +at least, if not indecorous, in the women, to wait round the doors +of the public-houses, and take possession of the men as they come +forth red with beer, and reeking with tobacco; but I am above such +prejudices, and have no doubt that the rogues enjoy life extremely.” + +“Have you observed no signs of an evil spirit abroad in other +quarters?” interrupted Warenne. + +“Faith, none,” rejoined Frank, “unless you deem such the curious +specimens of division of labour which have been displayed here lately +by the beggars and trampers. In former times, it was thought that one +man might sell, if not make, many bundles of matches. Now, it is no +uncommon thing for two men to be occupied in the sale of one bundle; +in the same way, generally speaking, there are two to hawk one boot +lace, and always two to buy a hare skin or a rabbit skin. Then, again, +there are always two sailors, who have been ship-wrecked together, and +saved together, and who have preserved from the wreck precisely the +same things, viz. a very clean white shirt and white pair of trowsers, +and for whom therefore one story serves when they ask your charity. I +never in my life saw such a number of these vagabonds as now, and they +beg in a tone which, in a bye-place, can hardly fail to alarm women, if +not men. Seriously speaking, Gerald, though it may to you sound foolish +to say so, I do not know what to make of these fellows; I cannot +understand how they all exist, unless they have some secret mode of +obtaining a livelihood, different from the ostensible one. I don’t half +like them, and I do not think my better genius, Nanny Rudd, is more +pleased with them than I am.” + +“Who the devil is Nanny Rudd, Frank?” said Henry. + +“Not to know Nanny,” continued Frank, “argues yourself unknown. She is +the most important personage in the town, in the eyes at least of all +the little boys and girls who play about its public walks. She is the +queen of heart-cakes, and bulls-eyes, _et l’objet de mes plus tendres +amours_. Do not be frightened, Gerald—she is a dear blind old Irish +beggar-woman, the widow of a man of the name of Rudd, whose brother +keeps that little ale-house, the Rose and Crown, as you enter the town +by the London road. + +“Rudd was a private in the Guards, and went with them to Egypt under +Abercromby, where he was wounded and died. She accompanied him thither, +and nursed him till his death. She afterwards herself unfortunately +caught the ophthalmia, and lost both her eyes. The officers and men, +with whom she was a great favourite, brought her carefully to England, +and by her own wish settled her in this place among her husband’s +relations. She lives now on a small pension with her brother-in-law, +who is very kind to her, and she ekes out her little modicum by the +sale of her cakes.” + +“But what can a blind old woman know of the state of the country, or +how does it happen that she is a friend of yours?” interrupted Henry. + +“You are so impatient, Henry,” replied Frank, “you would know every +thing, and the reasons thereof at once; but I shall not spoil the story +of my best adventure during your absence, to satisfy your impetuous +curiosity. _Il faut toujours commencer au commencement._ You must hear +the narrative of our first introduction, or you close my lips for ever +on the subject of Nanny Rudd; for if there is an action in the course +of my military career of which I am proud, it is the deed of ‘derring +do,’ as Ivanhoe would have called it, which first won me her esteem.” + +“Come, be quick then,” said Henry, laughing; “when, how, and where did +you meet with this wondrous lady?” + +“More questions! Henry? you are positively incorrigible! Our first +acquaintance was on this wise: a parcel of young urchins were playing +on the walk where she usually sits with her basket, and one of them +attempted to obtain some of her tartlets without going through the +necessary form of paying for them. Nanny, who hears like a mole, made +a dash at the young rogue, just as he had his hand in the basket, +and seizing him with a hand of iron began to thrash him well with +her stick, reproving him at the same time for his misconduct with a +considerable flow of military eloquence. The other boys came to the +rescue. Nanny kept her hold, and brandished her stick. Their charge, +however, was not to be resisted; they released their companion, +gained possession of the basket, from which Nanny had wandered in the +struggle, and were retiring triumphant, when I reached the field. + +“In an instant I flew to the succour of the discomfited fair, routed +her insulting foes, and recovered for her her (empty) basket. Cæsar +would have said, _Veni, vidi, vici!_ I then led her to her old seat, +and having given her half-a-crown was taking my departure, in order to +enjoy in solitude the satisfaction of having exhibited both valour and +generosity, when she said to me in her own sweet accents,— + +“‘I’ll sit a bit, your honour, and catch my wind; them little +blackguards blowed me;—and then I’ll go home. I’ll never draw a +halfpenny the whole day, unless I bait my basket with a cake.’ I asked +her if I could assist her on the road. ‘No, no; thank you all the +same,’ continued she; ‘but if you’d just tell me who your own self +is, that comed in the nick of time to presarve me from them childer, +I’d be obliged to you. You are a soldier by your step—I can tell that +as well as if I saw you; and an officer by the softness of your voice +and the delicacy, not to say iligance, of your expressions.’ Mark you +that, Henry. I told her my name, rank, &c. and we parted. The next day +I came to inquire after her health, and we had a long gossip together +about her own dear country, since which I have paid her a visit almost +every day, and I flatter myself have entirely won her heart. ‘Captain +Warenne,’ said she to me the other day, ‘I like you; you are always +very kind to me, and can always find time to spake a word or two to me, +which is more than many will do to the like of me. You are a soldier, +too. I loves a soldier. I wish you had been _fut_, for _fut’s_ more +natural to me; but all can’t be _fut_, and I’ll never forget you if I +can do you a good turn.’” + +“Your Nanny is charming,” interrupted Henry; “and having heard her +opinion of you, I am really anxious to know what she thinks of the +beggars who have moved your spleen.” + +“She entertains little doubt,” answered Frank, “that they are the +emissaries of some evil-disposed parties in the country, and the medium +of communication between different districts and the metropolis; and +her conclusions are drawn from the remarks which she has heard fall +from the labourers and mechanics in this town, with whom her brother’s +alehouse is a favourite place of resort.” + +“Indeed,” said Warenne; “and does she think that they are likely to +produce a disturbance?” + +“She certainly does,” replied Frank; “for about three or four days +ago, when I paid her a visit, she bade me be cautious not to be seen +talking to her. ‘I sits,’ said she, ‘in my brother’s chimney-corner of +an evening, with my bit duddeen; and because I’m blind, folks believe +I can’t hear. There’ll be a row after harvest, or Nanny’s a liar; but +your honour shall know in time. A’n’t I a soldier’s widow, and bound to +keep the peace? I’ll just reconnoitre the ground for you cleverly; but +you must not be seen spaking to me daily, or I’ll be suspected. You can +drop past me as you go to see your men at the Boot of a morning; and, +if the coast is clear, say ‘Good morrow, Nanny;’ you would go to your +men natural like, and then I can asy tell you if I have larnt any news, +without putting it into men’s heads that I’m thick at head-quarters.’” + +Warenne recommended Frank to keep up his acquaintance with Nanny Rudd, +observing that it was only by employing every, even the humblest means +in their power of obtaining an insight into the actual condition +of the country that they could hope to preserve tranquillity. His +long acquaintance with a disturbed district had taught him that very +frequently a little circumstance would better indicate the real spirit +of a population than their actions, as a feather or a straw thrown into +the air will more readily point out the direction of a current of wind +than any more ponderous body. + +Warenne now turned his attention to the magistracy in the town and +neighbourhood, and sought every opportunity of mixing in their society; +in which endeavour Henry and Frank were both of much use to him; the +former from the position in which he stood as brother to the heiress of +Epworth and the latter from his having, during the summer, by his gay +off-hand manner, and happy disposition, made himself a welcome guest +at many houses in the vicinity. To the different persons of influence +he suggested the advantage of arranging a constabulary force, upon the +system of a noble lord in a neighbouring county, and the propriety of +their previously fixing on some definite plan of action, in case the +apprehensions of the government for the repose of the country should be +realized. + +It is a very difficult thing to give advice; and all people hate it, +unless they have decided on their line of conduct; in which case they +have, generally speaking, no objection to prove the superiority of +their own views on the subject to those of their advisers. Warenne, +however, was so mild, so gentle in manner, so entirely free from all +appearance of dictation, so ready to listen, so well informed on +all points, and so practical in his measures, that he succeeded in +effecting the preparations he desired. By the time harvest was over his +precautions were completed. + +At this period, Adelaide and her father were daily expected at Epworth, +and Warenne’s heart sunk within him at the thought of being again +thrown into her society, now that their relative position was so +changed; but he was not permitted to dwell long upon this topic without +interruption. + + +CHAPTER VI. + + As there are certain hollow blasts of winds and secret swellings of + seas before a tempest, so are there in states. + + Ille etiam cæcos instare tumultus + Sæpe monet, fraudesque et operta tumescere bella. + + LORD BACON. + +The head-quarters of the —— Dragoons were, as we have seen, at Calbury; +two or three troops being stationed in the surrounding villages. An +order now arrived from the Horse Guards, directing that one troop +should be sent to Fisherton, a town about forty miles distant, near the +sea-coast, and that a second should be placed in some situation, as +nearly as possible midway between Fisherton and Calbury, in order to +preserve a ready communication between these two extreme points. + +To delegate to another a duty incumbent on himself was not consistent +with Warenne’s character. He immediately sent forward his servant with +horses, and on the following morning himself started at an early hour, +to ascertain the best mode of carrying into effect the instructions +which he had received. His intentions were to examine the _locale_ of +Fisherton, and, as far as he could, to discover the disposition and +pursuits of the surrounding population, so that if any disturbance +should arise there, he might be competent to act with decision. + +He found Fisherton a large straggling town, with some appearance of +wealth, arising from its communication with the seaport of D——, by +means of the river Swale, irregularly built, though nearly divided +into four equal quarters by the London and coast roads, which crossed +each other about its centre. As he entered by the former of these +roads, the place presented on either side an imposing row of goodly +houses; he could perceive, however, that this fair show was limited to +the principal streets. On looking down the smaller streets, or rather +passages (for they were passable only by pedestrians) which branched +off from the highway, he could distinguish nothing beyond the ordinary +cottages of labourers and mechanics. On the banks of the river might be +seen warehouses and cranes, and other signs of trade, but nowhere else: +the rest of the town bore an ambiguous character, and it was difficult +to determine whether its prosperity depended on commerce or agriculture. + +Warenne rode into the yard of the principal inn, which occupied one of +the angles caused by the junction of the roads, and had large gates +opening into each of them, intending to establish himself there for the +night. Having put up his horses, he quickly sought an opportunity of +conversing with the landlord, in the hope of extracting from him some +information relative to the state of society in the immediate environs +of Fisherton. + +The communications of the worthy Boniface were any thing but +satisfactory. He assured Warenne that the labourers in the +neighbourhood, for ten miles round, were a bad set at the best of +times; many of them professional smugglers—all of them occasionally +engaged in running goods; and that, at the moment in which he was +speaking, they were in a state of great discontent and irritation from +the distress incidental to the existing depression of wages. + +“I’m sure, I hope,” said mine host, sufficiently animated by the theme +to draw one hand out of his breeches-pocket, and extend it in an +emphatic manner, “that they won’t break out, for if they do, it will be +an awful business. The exciseman what lodges at my house, tells me that +they are afraid of nothing, and care for nothing; and then they have +such means of letting one another know when any thing is a-foot. Lord +bless you, sir, if there’s a smuggling vessel makes a signal off the +coast at dusk, by twelve at night there are a thousand people collected +near the shore to run the goods, and they laugh at the Preventive +Service.” + +Warenne was inclined to suspect, that the account given by his landlord +of the numbers and desperation of the people engaged in these lawless +pursuits might be exaggerated. There was, however, evidently enough +of truth in the report to make him wish to send another troop to +Fisherton. But his orders were positive; and the officer appointed to +the chief command of the district was one from whom he could not expect +to obtain an alteration of them. He was a man well known in the army +for his wrong-headed obstinacy, and pertinacious regard to the minutiæ +of military discipline. It was also said of him, that having been in +India during the time of the Peninsular war, and therefore without +opportunity of distinguishing himself in any European campaign, he had +a mean jealousy of those who had served in Portugal and Spain, and was +disposed to treat them with captiousness, when they had the misfortune +to be employed under him. Warenne determined, nevertheless, to write to +General Mapleton a respectful request to be permitted to increase the +force at Fisherton. + +He had been walking round the town, and was entering the inn-yard by +the London gateway, when almost at the same moment a gentleman, on a +remarkably neat well-bred cob, rode in from the coast road. As they +encountered each other, the new visiter, who was a fresh-coloured fair +man, of about his own age, dressed in sporting costume, looked at +him earnestly. The countenance was familiar to him, but he could not +recollect where he had seen it. He was in the act of having recourse +to the landlord, for the purpose of ascertaining its owner, when the +gentleman himself, having more quickly obtained his master’s address +from Warenne’s servant, came up to him, and claimed his acquaintance. + +“Warenne; how are you? You forget me, I dare say, for it is a long time +since we last met; but I remembered you the moment I saw you, though I +could not give you a name without the assistance of John there. Do you +not recollect Jack Nicholas, at Dame Twyford’s, just over Barn’s Pool +Bridge, at Eton?” + +Warenne immediately recalled to mind a heavy, good-natured boy of that +name, who resisted every attempt made by his tutor to instil into his +brain any classical lore, but who was an expert fisherman, and not a +bad foot-ball player. + +Nicholas continued, “What are you doing in this place? You had much +better come over and dine with us. My father lives little more than +five miles from the town, and will give you a hearty welcome. Do come, +we can give you a bed. Well, certainly, I never thought of meeting you +to-day. How lucky it was I rode over to take a look at the fish-market! +I have got the nicest brill, too.” + +Warenne replied that he really should have been happy to accept his +invitation, but that his horses were tired with their day’s work, and +that he was obliged to leave Fisherton at a very early hour on the +following morning. + +“Oh! I can arrange all these matters,” said Nicholas. “You shall have +the landlord’s own nag, and a very clever one it is, I can tell you—few +better. And if you must be off so early to-morrow, you can return here +to-night; though if you would stay all night with us we should like it +better, and I would ride over with you in the morning. I shall most +probably come here, for to-morrow is the day when our magistrates hold +their weekly sessions; and if I have nothing else to do, I usually +attend to hear the news. That’s a good fellow; you will come, I see. +I’ll call for you in ten minutes, as soon as I have seen that our cart +takes the brill.” + +Warenne, having obtained a loan of the landlord’s horse, was ready to +join Nicholas on his return from the fish-market. They quitted the +town by the coast road, which for rather more than a mile proceeded in +a south-easterly direction. It then bent more to the southward, when +they quitted it, and proceeded along a narrow lane, with high hedges +on each side, keeping the same course as the portion of the road over +which they had already travelled. There was not here much opportunity +for observation; and Warenne, willingly diverting his thoughts from the +disagreeable lucubrations to which his landlord’s discourse had given +rise, entered unreservedly into conversation with his old schoolfellow. +He answered Nicholas’s questions concerning his different campaigns, +and in return sought to extract from him the history of his past and +present life. + +“You went,” said he, “to Oxford, if I recollect rightly, after you left +Eton?” + +“Yes, I did,” answered Nicholas, “and I liked it much; it just suited +me. I hardly ever attended a lecture; and I kept three very clever +hunters in full work—but it was too happy a state to last. The old Dean +of Christchurch, when I had been there little more than a year, gave me +a hint which I might not misinterpret, that I had better see the world; +and my father made me travel through Scotland and Ireland, which was +all the world Buonaparte would let a man see in those days, unless he +turned soldier and went to Spain. This was dull work, though every +now and then I got some good fishing, and once or twice some capital +grouse-shooting; so I returned home as quickly as I could, and have +been living with my father here at the Plashetts (for that’s the name +of our place) ever since. I have four as nice hunters as you ever saw, +and get plenty of shooting and trout-fishing, without going a yard off +his manors; so I make it out pretty well. If it happens any day that +I neither hunt, fish, nor shoot, I trot over to Fisherton to see what +fish there is in the market.” + +Warenne smiled at the complacency with which Nicholas reviewed his +useless life. “Are you not a magistrate?” inquired he. + +“No,” replied his friend, “they wished to make me one, but I have +refused myself to every application on the subject. There is no fun in +being interrupted at all hours of the day by a pack of greasy fellows, +making complaints against each other for assaults in their drunken +squabbles overnight; nor in being condemned to sit from eleven o’clock +to six one day in every week, to hear the idle blackguards of the +neighbouring parishes abuse their overseers. No, thank you, said I, I +am not going to be one of your ‘glorious unpaid,’ with the press firing +into me for every little mistake I might make, and never giving me +credit for the sacrifice of my time and comfort; I know better.” + +By this time the character of the road had undergone some change. The +hedges had disappeared, and instead of the narrow trough, if I may so +term it, in which they had been travelling, wherein their view was +limited to the hot sun and clear sky above them, they had now, on +either side, a broad strip of waste land, beyond which to the north lay +a large extent of wild low brushwood; while to the south there were +some newly inclosed fields. Presently all signs of arable cultivation +ceased, and they came out on a wide common. Just at this point the road +bent rather more to the southward, and the line of brushwood going off +from it nearly at right angles and then sweeping round to the east, +till it joined some large trees, formed a sort of boundary to the +waste. + +“Mark this corner of the brushwood,” said Nicholas, “that you may not +miss your way as you return to-night; for we now leave the road, and +cross the common to those trees where the brushwood closes in again. +The Plashetts lie very nearly due east of Fisherton, and the carriage +road is a mile round. From those trees there is an avenue leading +directly to the house.” + +Warenne took due note of the bearings of the ground, and they +proceeded. When they had passed over a considerable portion of the +common, the turf, which hitherto had been soft and swampy, became firm; +and Warenne, whose powers of observation had been called into play by +Nicholas’s late caution, remarked that it bore signs of having been +much trodden. + +“Have you had a fair here, or races?” asked he of Nicholas. + +“No,” was the reply; “the sheep, I believe, keep unmolested possession +of the common from year’s end to year’s end. But why do you inquire?” + +Warenne simply answered that the grass appeared trampled, and turned +the conversation. They soon reached the Plashetts; and Nicholas, +the elder, greeted his son’s friend with a hearty welcome. He was +a cheerful, light-hearted old gentleman, and the evening passed +pleasantly, if not gaily. + +About ten o’clock Warenne remounted his horse, and at a gentle pace +began to retrace his road to Fisherton. The moon was just rising, but +it was a cloudy night, and a sharp south-wester blew directly in his +face. As he entered the avenue he could not help recalling to mind the +state of the grass on the firmer part of the common; his reflections +upon it caused him some anxiety. He had never, he thought, seen ground +so trodden, but on places where soldiers were drilled and exercised. +Could it be that there was truth in the report which he had heard, +that the labourers held nightly meetings for the purpose of training +themselves to the use of arms? As the idea presented itself, he hugged +the trees to the southward more closely, so as to envelope himself +completely in their shade. Presently he fancied that he heard in the +wind the sounds of steps and voices. He stopped, and listened with +attention, and soon became certain of the fact; they seemed however to +proceed from persons at some distance. He advanced slowly, trusting +to the wind to drown the noise of his horse’s hoofs. Again he +stopped,—the sounds reached him more plainly. Using now still greater +caution, he pushed forward towards the edge of the common, and he there +beheld the realisation of his worst fears. + +By the light of the moon, which fell fully and clearly on the open +space, he saw a considerable body of men, marching backwards and +forwards, dividing and subdividing themselves, then reuniting again; +in a word, going through a regular system of drill, though not perhaps +with military exactness. He watched them for some time, endeavouring to +ascertain their number, &c. &c. till he conceived it likely that they +would soon disperse. + +It then became a question with him, how he himself should proceed. He +was unwilling to return to the Plashetts, and alarm its inmates by +acquainting them with the true reason of his return. He could not cross +the common, for in that case he should have to pass through the very +centre of the persons collected; he dared not to await the breaking +up of their assemblage, lest some of the men should come upon him in +their way to their cottages, which of course lay scattered about in +every direction. He did not hesitate long; he remembered that a few +hundred yards back he had passed three or four large single trees, +which stood out on the broad glade between the two lines of elms which +formed the avenue, making, as it were, a gate to the pass. To that +point he quickly retraced his steps, and seizing a moment when the +moon was obscured, crossed to the opposite side of the avenue; then +forcing his horse into the brushwood, he made his way through it in the +direction of the lane he had travelled in the morning, and continued +his course, carefully avoiding too near an approach to the exterior of +the wood which was lighted up by the moon, until he reached the hedge +which separated it from the road. There, thinking himself safe, or +at all events at too great a distance from the men at exercise to be +discovered, he dragged his horse through the fence, and, remounting +him, galloped as quickly as he could to Fisherton. + + +CHAPTER VII. + + Concerning the materials of sedition, it is a thing well to be + considered; for the surest way to prevent seditions (if the times do + bear it) is to take away the matter of them; for if there be fuel + prepared, it is hard to tell whence the spark shall come that shall + set it on fire.—LORD BACON. + +The insight which this adventure gave Colonel Warenne into the real +state of the country induced him to alter his plans. Instead of setting +off for Calbury at an early hour the following morning, he determined +that it would be more advisable for him to remain at Fisherton for +the greater part of the day, in order to see Nicholas, and put him +on his guard, and also to obtain through him some acquaintance with +the magistrates, who were about to meet there on that day, and who +were those to whom he must look for co-operation, in the event of any +commotion. + +About eleven o’clock the next day, Nicholas rode into Fisherton, and +was surprised to find Warenne still at the inn. + +“What, not off yet?” said he, “you might as well have slept at the +Plashetts; our beds are as well aired as those of mine host here.” + +Warenne requested him to come to his room, and recounted to him what he +had seen on the preceding night. Nicholas was startled, if not alarmed, +at hearing of such preparations for tumult in his own immediate +vicinity. + +“What is to be done?” said he, “it is extremely disagreeable! My poor +sisters will be frightened out of their wits. Cannot some means be +found to put a stop to such proceedings?” + +Warenne doubted whether an attempt to prevent the meetings would not +have the effect of setting the people on their guard, without deterring +them from their purpose, and was rather inclined to watch them, so as +in some measure to discover their intentions, when it might be easy to +baffle them. + +“If, indeed,” said he, “we knew what grievances pressed most heavily +upon the labourers, we might, by relieving them, be able to repress the +disposition to riot, and escape the necessity of having recourse to +coercion.” + +“One need not go far to find their grievances,” interrupted Nicholas; +“the poor fellows are not half paid; the farmers only give them +wages enough to keep body and soul together, and whatsoever else they +require for the maintenance of their families, is made up to them by +the parish, in proportion to the number of their children. Thus they +are, every one of them, made paupers; and the consequence is they work +as paupers. The farmers quarrel with them for their idleness, and the +overseers devise schemes for making them earn, as they term it, the +pittance they allow them. About a fortnight ago, as I passed through +Oathampstead, I saw a man marching fifteen or twenty others up and down +the village; and on my inquiring the reason of this proceeding, I was +told that the men were out of regular employ, and that the overseer, +resolving that they should do something for their money, had given one +of them, who was a militia man, a pot of beer to act as corporal over +the rest, and drill them. They will have enough of the drilling system +now, I reckon.” + +“Could you put an end to such fatal mistakes as these,” Warenne +resumed, “you would do more to quell the turbulent spirit, of which I +fear we shall soon see some melancholy indications, than if you were +to quarter a regiment of soldiers in each village. But now you must +give me some information on another point. What magistrate had I better +apply to in case of a disturbance in this neighbourhood? Who will be +most disposed to act in concert with me, and assist me in repressing +it?” + +“Oh, I know who is the best man for you,” answered Nicholas—“at least +in my opinion; Charley Seaforth: but you shall judge for yourself, +if you will wait a quarter of an hour. The magistrates meet in the +old ball-room of the inn here at twelve; we will get our friend the +landlord to admit us first into the gallery, where the musicians sit +when there is a ball, and make our observations; after which we can +descend, and I will introduce you to any or all of the bench, as you +please.” + +Warenne gladly acceded to his friend’s proposal, and they were soon +seated in the orchestra Nicholas had described, which, though at the +opposite end of the room to that at which the magistrates sat, was yet +sufficiently near to them to enable its inmates to hear all that was +going on. The magistrates recognised Nicholas as one of the intruders +upon their deliberations, and did not attempt to drive him from the +position he had taken up. The business of the day speedily commenced, +to which Warenne gave his most earnest attention. As occasions arose he +whispered the result of his observations to Nicholas. + +“I like your chairman,” said he; “he is a clear-headed, sensible man; +but I fear he is too old to take an active part in putting down a riot.” + +“There is not a better magistrate or man in England,” whispered +Nicholas in return; “but, as you say, he is past fast work, to say +nothing of the gout to which he is a martyr. Make him but fifty again, +and he would be with you, I warrant, go where you will, or do what you +will; he is out of the question now. You must choose between three I +will point out to you: that fellow, the tall, athletic, handsome man +with grey hair, a hook nose, and a sharpish eye, with his chin thrust +out so as to give him what he considers to be a look of decision.” + +“I mark him,” interrupted Warenne, “but I do not much fancy him; for +he always differs from the chairman in a pompous sort of way, and when +asked, cannot assign any reasons for his differing, but shakes his head +importantly, puts on an air of wisdom, and then coincides with him at +last, though so as to make it appear that he is certain he himself is +right, and that he yields only for the sake of peace.” + +“You have not judged your man amiss, Colonel,” replied Nicholas; “Mr. +Fownall, for that is his name, is a mighty man in his own conceit. You +should see him at a county meeting: he will begin his speech with such +graces; he will raise himself up, and put on a solemn look of wisdom +that would deceive any man who is not aware that he is no conjurer; and +then, in very strong language, accuse the government of profligacy, +extravagance, and corruption, taking care to select, when he comes to +his proofs, the only parts of their conduct which are defensible. Oh! +he is a bother-headed one.” + +Warenne thought his companion also a better judge of men and their +capacities than he had imagined him to be; he had not done Nicholas +justice, who, though uneducated, was by no means without natural +shrewdness, especially on points on which he was excited, as on country +politics, in which he was forced to mix, from the position held by his +father in the country. + +“Mr. Fownall will not do for me,” said Warenne, “if I can get another +magistrate. Now for your next man,—which is Mr. Seaforth?” + +“I shall show our Charley last,” replied Nicholas. “My second subject +for your choice is that round fat little man to the right.” + +“He is a sharp fellow, is he not?” inquired Warenne; “I have seen the +chairman refer to him several times.” + +“Sharp enough,” continued Nicholas; “he is a retired lawyer. He has the +law at his fingers’ ends; but he will not suit you, I think.” + +“Why, is he not firm and resolute?” + +“Too firm, too resolute by half; the truth is, he has lived in town the +greater part of his life, and he does not know how to manage the poor +at all. Though an excellent, well-meaning man, he is hard in his words +and in his ways, and the poor do not like him. He would not conciliate +enough for you, though in other respects he would do admirably.” + +“Bar equitation!” said Warenne, smiling. “He can never ride with those +round fat legs; and if any tumult does occur, we shall require a +magistrate capable of quick locomotion.” + +“No, no, Mr. Raymond is no rider,” rejoined Nicholas; “but now for +my friend Charley. Do you see that very quiet looking, middle-aged, +rather pale man, with a remarkably intelligent eye, sitting behind the +chairman?” + +“He is rather a silent one, is he not?” observed Warenne. + +“Silent or not silent,” said Nicholas, roused to eagerness in behalf +of his favourite, “he is the best magistrate on the bench next to the +chairman, and knows as much sessions law as Raymond. If he has not +spoken lately, it is because he agrees in opinion with the chairman. He +would speak fast enough if he differed from him.” Just at that moment +the chairman leant back to ask Mr. Seaforth a question. “You see, he +is ready enough with his answer, when it is wanted. Then he is beloved +by all the poor; he is so kind-hearted, and so kindly spoken to them. +The very men he sends to prison say they would rather be convicted and +condemned by him, than only tried before another person. He always +treats the labourers as _fellow men_ in a different station of life, +and that is what they like. If you seem by your manner to consider them +as an inferior race, they are annoyed and sore at it; but talk to them +as man and man, and they will willingly pay you the deference due to +your superior rank in life, and listen to you into the bargain. Again, +if you want a fellow who can ride, I will match Seaforth against any +man you can bring from Melton for the season through, for a hundred.” + +Warenne smiled at Nicholas’s animated description of his friend; but he +saw so much natural shrewdness in him, that he was inclined to place +confidence in his opinion. + +“Then as for firmness and nerves,” continued Nicholas, “you should see +him _make_ a young horse, though, that, perhaps, has not much to do +with the matter in question—it is beautiful to see him put a young, +raw, five-years-old, at a fence; seriously speaking, he is the boldest +and coolest fellow you ever saw, though you are a soldier. I may say +this of him, for he has been tried. Last year there was a dreadful +fight between the preventive service men and the smugglers, in which +the former were driven off, and one or two of them killed. Seaforth, +who was the nearest magistrate, took it up, and never rested till he +had apprehended the murderers, though he had to go into places where +half the men in England would not venture to set foot, and to fight his +way through some desperate scuffles. He got Jem Emlett, who has been +ringleader in every row, robbery, or smuggling transaction for the last +twenty years, and his whole gang; and though Jem broke out of prison +the night before the assizes, that was not his fault. Besides, Charley +is bred to be a good one. There have been wild ones of his blood, +perhaps, but never any that wanted game.” + +“Mr. Seaforth is the man for me,” said Warenne; “get your friend out of +court, and introduce me to him.” + +Nicholas had not overrated Seaforth. Warenne found him a person of +great intelligence, and peculiar animation of character, far more +so, indeed, than he had anticipated. The unassuming demeanour of +Seaforth amongst his brother magistrates had led Warenne to consider +him a sensible, and Nicholas’s panegyric to believe him a brave, +man; but neither the one nor the other had prepared him for meeting +an eager, impetuous spirit, ready to devote his whole powers to what +he conceived to be his duty, and in whom mind so far predominated +over body as to cause alarm, lest by its restless activity it should +undermine and exhaust the physical strength. But a few minutes had +elapsed from the time of their introduction, before Warenne was +perfectly satisfied with the choice he had made of a coadjutor. + +He recounted to Seaforth what he had seen; and they were soon in deep +consultation. It seemed evident to them that the nightly meetings +originated in an organised combination to resist the law,—a combination +extending far beyond the immediate neighbourhood of Fisherton. + +The agricultural labourers were not persons likely, without some strong +external excitement, to sacrifice a night’s rest to an employment they +hated so sincerely as learning the manœuvres of soldiers; neither were +the smugglers, though they were doubtless to a man engaged in the +business; and the conclusion to which Warenne and Seaforth came was, +that agents from London and Manchester must have lighted up this strong +flame of disaffection. + +What, then, was to be done? Could they in any way suppress the +meetings? Seaforth proposed to be present at one of them, and to try +the effect of expostulation; but this course, though one in which _he_, +if anybody, would have succeeded, from the affection borne him by his +poorer neighbours, was too dangerous and imprudent to be listened to +for an instant, at a time when the smugglers were peculiarly irritated +against him for the apprehension, and consequent execution, of some of +their comrades only a few months before. + +It appeared useless, on the other hand, to attempt to control the +meetings by military or constabulary force; for there could be little +doubt that the proceedings of both magistrates and soldiers would be +watched, and information so conveyed to the parties assembling, that +by the time either of them could reach the ground there would not be +a soul to be seen. All that it seemed possible to do was to adopt +an intermediate mode of action, viz. to collect a greater number of +troops in the neighbourhood, to hold them in readiness, and to take +advantage of any opportunity of acting which might be afforded by the +indiscretion of the conspirators; while in order, if possible, to deter +the misguided men from plunging hastily into violence, and to prevent +unnecessary shedding of blood, Seaforth undertook to watch the conduct +of some particular men whom he suspected, and with whom he imagined +himself to have some influence. They would thus, it is true, set the +rioters more on their guard, but then, even if they failed in their +endeavours to put an end to the chance of disturbance by gentle means, +they would escape the responsibility of having tacitly encouraged +disaffection up to a certain point that they might more severely and +effectually quell it afterwards. + +It was arranged, therefore, that Warenne should endeavour to obtain +permission from General Mapleton to send another troop to Fisherton, +and that Seaforth should try the effect of private conciliation, either +party keeping up a constant communication with the other, and both with +Nicholas, who readily promised to give them every assistance in his +power. This settled, they separated, and Warenne retook the road to +Calbury. + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + Tristes pensamientos, + De alegres memorias. + + _Spanish Romance._ + +The prospect of a protracted stay at Calbury gave Colonel Warenne +no promise of a return to tranquillity of mind. The apprehension of +danger past, the routine of military duties usual in country quarters +alone demanding his attention, his thoughts naturally recurred to his +blighted hopes, and the distressing situation in which fortune had +placed him. + +Adelaide was at Epworth—only two short miles separated them. Henry and +Frank were living more at Epworth than at Calbury. It was necessary, +unless he determined to set at defiance the common rules of civility, +that he himself should visit those with whom he had so lately lived in +intimacy. He must again undergo the torture of meeting her he loved +with the degree of coldness consistent with his ideas of duty, and her +father’s more than hinted opinion of his supposed pretensions. There +was no alternative; in ordinary courtesy he was bound to make the +attempt, even at the expense of increased wretchedness. + +After a delay of some days, during which Warenne persuaded himself that +he was detained in Calbury by business, he rode over to Epworth, with a +tolerably calm exterior, though with a beating heart. His visit seemed +to have been foreseen by Lord Framlingham; for as the servant ushered +Warenne into the drawing-room, he entered it by another door; and as +his lordship appeared to have correctly calculated the precise moment +of Warenne’s calling, so did he seem to have determined to ascertain +the exact duration of his stay beneath his daughter’s roof, for he did +not quit the drawing-room until Warenne had departed. + +This behaviour on the part of Lord Framlingham, though it rather +irritated Warenne at the time, yet served to render his visit less +painful than he had expected to find it. There was no temptation in +the presence of a third person, directly opposed to his wishes, to lay +aside the measured friendliness of manner which he had adopted. + +A second, and a third time, that Warenne called at Epworth, Lord +Framlingham observed a similar system of precaution; but at last, +either bored with playing the part of a Duenna, or becoming satisfied +with Warenne’s conduct, he relaxed in his vigilance; and one day that +the latter had ridden over to Epworth with Frank and Henry, who wished +to arrange some shooting excursion with the gamekeepers, he found +himself once again alone with Adelaide. He felt his hour of trial to +be at last come. He was now to show his self-command, to keep down the +tumultuous and passionate thoughts to which he burnt to give utterance. +His love had not diminished through the obstacles which fortune had +thrown in his path to happiness; on the contrary, it burnt with a +stronger and a steadier flame than when he had, without interruption, +enjoyed the pleasure of her society in London. + +Adelaide, though possessed of every requisite to grace the most refined +circles, appeared yet more lovely in the calmer occupations of the +country. In the easy intercourse of her immediate friends her shyness +forsook her, and she did justice to the beauty of her character. All +he had seen of her, all he had heard of her since she came to Epworth, +tended to foster his luckless passion. The poor had already learnt to +bless her name. With her wonted enthusiasm she had commenced plans for +their improvement; and though her schemes might perhaps be a little +visionary, Warenne was not inclined to quarrel with their want of +practicability, while they developed the benevolent spirit of their +author. + +Adelaide also had reasons for feeling distressed at the interview. She +had perceived her father’s manner to Warenne, and became satisfied that +Warenne could not honourably have pursued any other line than that he +had chosen; but her conviction on this point, while it took from her +the little anger she had conceived against him, made it difficult for +her to preserve the coldness of manner which she had latterly assumed; +thus both parties felt awkwardly situated. It is true, that one word +might have produced a right understanding between them; but that word, +Adelaide could not, and Warenne would not, speak. Still the visit could +not be passed in silence;—at least so thought Warenne, and acting upon +this supposition, in a shy and constrained manner, he asked, + +“Have you ridden much, Miss Marston, since your return to the country? +I am informed there are beautiful rides in this neighbourhood.” + +“No! not much; my father is not able to ride far, and Henry is always +out shooting. He has promised, however, to ride with me in a day or +two.” + +“You must make him keep his promise quickly, or the leaves will be off +the trees, and they will have lost their autumnal beauty.” + +“I fear so.” + +How gladly would Warenne have offered her his escort, had he dared! +how gladly would Adelaide have accepted it! But this might not be; and +to check the vivid workings of his imagination, he hastily changed the +subject. + +“I hear we are to have a gay neighbourhood this winter; Frank, who, +I believe, has an instinctive knowledge of a ball, as a vulture of +a horse that drops in the desert, tells me that the Merivales and +Dashworths each mean to have one in the course of the next month.” + +“I have not the pleasure of knowing them,” observed Adelaide, coldly. + +“Of course they will call upon you, as an act of civility towards a +person newly come into the county.” + +“Perhaps so; but they have not visited me yet.” + +Adelaide’s manner did not contribute to restore poor Warenne to +serenity of mind. + +I know, thought he, that I have chosen a very stupid subject for +conversation, although perhaps a safe one; but what can I do? If +I speak on more interesting topics I shall betray the state of my +affections, and exactly do that which in honour I am bound not to do. +He blundered on: “My brother tells me, that Miss Merivale is extremely +pretty and dances beautifully.” + +“Does she?” was the reply; “I shall like to see her, if they ask me to +their parties.” + +Warenne could proceed no further with the tiresome subject; he turned +therefore to another upon which, though more attractive to both parties +than the former, he thought he might yet converse without emotion. “You +are devising, I believe, schemes for the improvement of the condition +of your poor.” + +Adelaide’s eye brightened. + +“If it is not too great a liberty, I should like much to hear what you +intend to do.” + +“Oh! I fear,” said Adelaide, smiling, “that my views are not quite so +practical as they might be. I have not long had the power of playing +the Lady Bountiful, but I will tell them to you, and you shall give me +your opinion. You have, I know, turned your attention to such matters +more than soldiers generally do.” + +Warenne thought there could be no harm in her explaining to him her +plans, or in his assisting her with his advice upon them; and in a few +moments they were busily discussing the merit of Penny Banks, Savings’ +Banks, &c.; but after a while he found his thoughts wandering from the +charities to the founder of them, and that he was on dangerous ground. + +As Adelaide gave herself up, with the full warmth of her kind heart, +to the development of her benevolent intentions, and spoke to him +again with the freedom of former intimacy (perhaps glad in her inmost +soul to have a legitimate reason for resuming it, and perhaps even +not without a hope of leading him in turn to throw off restraint), he +became conscious, that should he attempt to speak, his voice would +falter, and that his eyes were but too ready to tell the forbidden tale +of constant unvarying affection. He dared not trust himself further +to temptation; making therefore a violent mental effort, and putting +even more than his former coldness into his tone, he hastily concluded +the conversation by remarking that her goodness in thus considering the +welfare of her poor fellow-creatures was above all praise. Adelaide +looked up, almost with astonishment, at this formal approbation of her +virtue, but said nothing. He coloured, as he felt her eye glance upon +him, yet firm to his purpose, would not recur to the subject of the +charities again. He sat silent and confused; turned over the leaves +of a book lying upon the table, hoping to extract from thence matter +for the continuance of their conversation, but in vain; his eyes could +neither follow the lines, nor his brain take in their purport. In +despair he returned again to the beauty of the country and the weather, +and once more there was a sound of voices. Badly, however, as they had +succeeded in conversing before their hearts had in some measure opened +to each other, now their attempt was ten times worse, and it was a +positive relief to both parties when Lord Framlingham accidentally came +in. Had he arrived a quarter of an hour sooner, he might not have been +satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which was decidedly inauspicious +to his schemes; as it was, they seemed to prosper, and he was pleased. +He spoke to Warenne with more kindness than usual. This filled the cup +of poor Warenne’s misery. He had looked to Lord Framlingham’s marked +repulsiveness of manner towards him, as the one circumstance that could +give Adelaide a favourable explanation of his own conduct towards her. +Muttering, therefore, something about seeking his brother and Henry, he +hurried away from Epworth, with the determination of never revisiting a +spot where he had endured such utter wretchedness. + +Whether he would or could have executed this resolution it is +impossible to say, for the position in which he was placed was doomed +to undergo a change. + + +CHAPTER IX. + + Libels and licentious discourses against the state, when they are + frequent and open; and in like sort false news often running up and + down to the disadvantage of the state, and hastily embraced, are among + the signs of troubles. + + LORD BACON. + +It is now necessary to relate the march of events up to this period. +General Mapleton, in reply to the letter which Warenne had addressed +him on his return from Fisherton, requesting that he might be allowed +to send an increased force to that place, returned a most dry and +positive negative. His answer was to the effect,—that he was very sorry +to receive from Colonel Warenne such a proof of the disaffected spirit +which prevailed in the district to the command of which he had been +appointed by his majesty, but that being responsible for the employment +of the troops under his orders, he must be permitted to station them in +such manner, and in such numbers, as in his own judgment he considered +best for the interests of the country; and that he must desire Colonel +Warenne would on no account detach from himself a larger force than +that which he had authorised. It was his wish that Colonel Warenne +should send one troop to Fisherton and another to Charnstead, or some +place midway between Fisherton and Calbury, and that at the expiration +of every month the Fisherton troop should return to head quarters +of the regiment, and the Charnstead troop move on to Fisherton. “In +conclusion,” wrote the general, “I must particularly request that +Colonel Warenne will on no account alter these arrangements, nor absent +himself from the quarters of his regiment without leave.” + +The soreness and readiness to take umbrage evident throughout this +letter gave much disturbance to Warenne, who had written to the general +in the fullness of his heart, and with the sincere wish of setting him +on his guard against times of peril; but he was too sensible a man, and +too zealous an officer, to suffer his uneasiness to be seen even by +his most intimate associates. He resolved diligently to conform to the +orders he had received, and was really anxious that they might prove +effectual. In truth, the general, though the principal motive for his +refusal had been a low jealousy of Warenne’s European honours, was not +without reasons for the negative which he had sent. Much about this +time reports came in almost daily from the surrounding villages that +the labourers were using threatening language to the farmers, insisting +upon an increase of wages, and upon the demolition of their threshing +machines; that they threatened to pull down and burn the machines of +those who would not comply with the demands; and that the farmers in +consequence were in a state of great alarm. Some had yielded to the +demands of the rioters, partly from fear, and partly also from an idea +that they might make their sufferings a plea for a diminution of rent +and tithes—others again had resisted them; but the cunning or cowardice +of the former had added exasperation to the anger of the peasantry +against the latter, so as to put an end to all feeling of security +with regard to life and property. It was said, also, that there were +assemblages every evening round the alehouse-doors, where orators in +clouted shoes and smock frocks held forth upon the rights of men; while +there were not wanting persons who came from “no one knew where,” to +inculcate the same doctrines with more force and greater dexterity—men, +who from their education were enabled to make the worse appear the +better reason, and heighten the evil passions that were abroad. Thanks, +however, to the vigilance of the magistrates, who were not afraid to +employ the civil power, now that they were backed by a military force, +all these evil signs ended without disturbance. There might be a +drunken riot or so; but the mobs uniformly dispersed, as the effect of +the intoxicating liquors by which they were excited wore off, or, as +Nanny Rudd expressed herself to Frank, “as the beer died in them.” + +About this time also occurred an event, which, though not of immediate +importance to the story, is interesting as characteristic of the +period. The two brothers and Henry were engaged to dine at Epworth. +Dinner was served, but Frank and Henry did not make their appearance. +At last, but not before the party assembled had become exceedingly +anxious for their arrival, they came in, heated and agitated. + +“What can make you so late?” asked Adelaide; “you must have finished +shooting several hours ago.” + +Henry did not answer; but Frank said, “We must, I suppose, confess—we +have had a row with some poachers.” + +“Good heavens! you are neither of you hurt, I hope,” asked Adelaide +again, in alarm. + +“Oh no,” replied Frank, laughing, “not in person, at all events, though +in honour.” + +“What has happened is this,” interrupted Henry. “We had been shooting +in that large wood of yours which adjoins the road leading to +Charnstead, and having given our guns to the keepers, were on our +return home; that is to say, were walking back through the wood to the +Dolphin to get our horses. We had left our game in one of the rides +through which we had to pass; when we arrived at the spot we found a +party of men quietly filling a light cart with it. For a moment we +thought they might be some of our beaters, but finding our mistake, we +called to them, and ran up to arrest their proceedings; in an instant +we were surrounded, thrown to the ground, and kept there until they +had finished packing the cart, when, politely thanking us for our +good-nature in shooting for them, off they all went into the high road.” + +“In short,” said Frank, “never did two officers in his majesty’s +service suffer a worse defeat or greater disgrace.” + +This incident alarmed not only Adelaide and Lord Framlingham, but +also the surrounding neighbours. So gross and deliberate an outrage +destroyed all feeling of security, and though every attempt was made to +trace its perpetrators, they could not be discovered. + +Warenne argued that it had been committed by some of the people who +were endeavouring but too successfully to excite disturbances in the +country; for that their calmness in the execution of their scheme +betrayed consciousness of power. “If they had thrashed you,” said he to +Frank, “and left you half dead, I should have considered the whole as +the action of common poachers, determined not to be taken nor detected.” + +Frank was thankful that “his friends,” as he termed them, were such a +superior style of men, considering the disadvantage at which they had +Henry and himself,—though doubtless it would have been better for the +nation, had it been otherwise. By no party, however, was light ever +thrown upon the transaction. + +These various signs of the prevailing disaffection among the peasantry +occupied much of Warenne’s time and attention, and his anxiety was +increased by his receiving from Seaforth a fearful account of the +state of the neighbourhood of Fisherton. Seaforth had attempted, in +conformity to the proposal previously made by him, to converse with +those individuals whom he suspected to be implicated in the conspiracy +which evidently existed; but they had refused to listen to him, and had +even insulted him, giving him to understand that his every movement was +closely watched. + +Under these circumstances Warenne again petitioned for an increase of +force at Fisherton. Again General Mapleton returned him an answer in +the negative—if possible, couched in yet more peremptory language than +he had hitherto used. Still no actual riot took place either at the one +place or the other, and Warenne began to hope that the winter would +pass over without further disturbance. These fallacious expectations +lasted but for a day or two. All at once, on every wall throughout +Calbury, and the neighbouring villages, appeared chalked up—“Bread +or blood,”—“Liberty or death,” and similar short expositions of the +popular feelings. + +Nanny Rudd also warned Frank that some project was on foot, though she +could not yet discover the particulars of it. Warenne patiently waited +for further information, which at last he obtained through the means of +his brother’s faithful ally. + +“Captain, dear,” said Nanny to Frank, as he passed her one morning on +his way to the stables, “you may just bid your men stand at ease, if +you mean to stay at Calbury; there will be no row here. It’s the coast +you must look to! Last night some strangers came into my brother’s with +two of the Rusbrook men, who fit agen the ’Stabulary t’other day, and +they were talking how they had managed finely, and frightened you all +so, that you dare not move a foot from home. Dare not! the blackguards! +As if they knew the soul of a jintleman soldier. And then they cast +up, that they should have it all their own way where they were going, +for that the whole county was ready to join them,—let alone quite a +raal army of smugglers. Them’s a bad set, my dear captain,—particular +bad,—they wouldn’t drink none, but seemed to think only of killing and +plundering; and when my brother came in, they was as hush! They’d talk +afore me, a poor old blind body, as they thought couldn’t move off my +settle without help, but they wouldn’t open their ’tato traps afore +him. Publicans must look to their licence, says they! you’ll see that +afore long there will be an outbreak towards the coast. One rascal said +roundly, ‘We’ll give ’em some bonfires before the fifth of November +this year.’” + +These indications of the popular feeling were further accompanied by +acts of incendiarism. There were frequent alarms of fire at night, +which increased in number as the end of the month approached. With +regard to these, however, Warenne remarked, that though some had been +caused by the private malice of individuals, yet that, generally +speaking, it was an haulm stack, or a parcel of straw, or a rick, which +lay far from any farm buildings that was set fire to; from whence he +was the rather inclined to give credit to Nanny Rudd’s conjectures, +that the demonstrations in the neighbourhood of Calbury were solely +with the view of occupying the attention of the military, and diverting +it from the real point of danger. + + +CHAPTER X. + + Give good hearing to those that give the first information in + business, and rather direct them in the beginning, than interrupt them + in the continuance of their speeches; for he that is put out of his + own order will go forward and backward, and be more tedious while he + waits upon his memory, than he could have been if he had gone on his + own course—LORD BACON. + +Affairs remained in this unpleasant state until the evening of the +30th of October, when between seven and eight o’clock a man on a jaded +horse, and covered with mud, galloped up to the door of Warenne’s +lodging. He hastily ascertained from the servant that his master +was within; threw the rein to him, and dashed up the stairs. It was +Nicholas. + +“Warenne,” cried he, as soon as he entered the room, “you must be +off, and quickly, if you wish to save Fisherton. It will be attacked +to-morrow night by a large body of men, and sacked and burnt, if you +are not there to prevent it.” + +“When?” asked Warenne; “to-morrow night? for heaven’s sake tell me what +you have heard.” + +“I will,” replied Nicholas, “all in order; but the upshot is this,—that +Fisherton will be plundered to-morrow night, and that there are more +smugglers engaged in the business than are sufficient to set your one +troop at defiance.” + +He then proceeded to state that he had been shooting that very morning +on some property of his father’s between the Plashetts and the coast, +when a woman in great distress had run up to him, and begged him to +come and speak with her husband, who was dying. “He wished,” she said, +“to speak to some clergyman, or magistrate, or to Mr. Nicholas.” + +Nicholas accordingly accompanied her to her cottage, where he found +a poor fellow, to whom his father had behaved with much kindness the +previous winter, lying with both his legs broken, and his back severely +injured, from a fall of ground in a chalk-pit. Clarke, for that was his +name, was in great agony, and evidently could not live many hours. On +seeing Nicholas, and receiving his condolences, he said, “My body is +bad enough, to be sure, but it is nothing to my mind. I could not die +easy till I had seen you, Mr. John. Tell the women to leave the room, +sir. I must speak to you; if I die before I make a clean breast, I can +never find no mercy. Why don’t the women leave the room?” repeated he +fiercely. “Now, then, they are gone, and no one is here but ourselves. +Come nearer to me, if you please, sir. You know, sir, about our nightly +meetings. I have been one as has regularly attended them. God forgive +me, I wish I had never heard of them. Last night, sir, last night,” +as he repeated the word he raised himself in his bed, casting his +eyes inquiringly about the room, as if he dreaded a witness to his +disclosure, and sank his voice to a whisper, “it was agreed that we +should make an attack on Fisherton as to-morrow night. The troops are +changed to-morrow: the one as is at Fisherton goes to Calbury, and the +Charnstead one comes into Fisherton; and we reckoned that the new men +would not know the ground, and having just marched in, would be tired, +and off their guard. So we settled to collect together at certain +places after dusk, and then, in company with the smugglers, who were to +join us there, to enter the town, and set fire to it in several parts, +and plunder it in the confusion. That ever I should have agreed to such +wickedness! I never should, Mr. John—I never should, if I had not been +fool enough to listen to those villains, who persuaded us that we were +all deprived of our rights by the rich, and that it was appointed that +we should all share and share alike. I see it all quite different now. +Do you think, sir, I shall ever be forgiven?” + +Nicholas, shocked and alarmed, tried to soothe the wretched man—“That +is a question I can hardly answer, for I am no divine; but I should +think you might be, if you are really sorry for what you were going +to do. One thing I am sure of, the best way of making amends for your +crime is to confess all you know.” + +“I know no more,” replied the poor fellow. “Our leaders never told +us any more than I have just said, that we were to attack the place +to-morrow between nine and ten o’clock, by which time we thought people +would be beginning to go to bed.” + +Nicholas having thus ascertained all that could be extracted from the +wounded man, considered that between the present hour and the morrow’s +night there was but little time for communication with Warenne, on whom +the safety of the town depended, and he became anxious to depart; but +Clarke, seizing his hand, exclaimed— + +“Pray, sir, don’t leave! I am no ways prepared for death.” + +Nicholas observed to him, “Clarke, if I do not go, I cannot prevent the +attack, and your confession will do no good.” + +“Oh no!” replied Clarke, withdrawing his grasp, “nor me no good +neither. I had forgot that—go sir, go—but no—stay one moment. Oh, sir, +when I am gone, don’t give me up—don’t let people know as I ever split; +they would murder my wife and children. And do you, Martha—pray, sir, +call my wife—Martha, I say, I charge you never, as you value your life, +tell a soul as Mr. John has been here to-day.” The poor frightened +woman promised acquiescence. “Now then go, sir,” said he; “God bless +you! I will try and pray.” + +Nicholas immediately made the best of his way to the Plashetts, sent +off an express to Seaforth, and himself started for Calbury on the best +horse in his stable. + +Warenne listened patiently to Nicholas’s story, for he knew well that +the quickest mode of obtaining the truth from any man is to let him +speak what he has to say in his own manner. At its close he seemed for +a moment to be lost in thought, then, turning to Nicholas, he asked +him if he had seen a magistrate, or could say that he was sent by any +magistrate to ask the assistance of the soldiery. Nicholas replied +in the negative, and Warenne began to pace up and down the room in +deep thought, and apparently under much anxiety. At last he stopped, +and exclaimed, “Well, then, I must take the responsibility on myself. +Communication with head-quarters is impossible. I must disobey orders, +and abide the consequences: I cannot, for any hazard to myself, suffer +a town to be burnt, and its inhabitants to be massacred.” + +He rang the bell; and bade his servant send Captain Harris to him, and +also his brother; and he resumed his meditative walk, until it flashed +across him that he was treating Nicholas with great inhospitality. + +“I beg your pardon, Nicholas,” said he, “I make you but an ill return +for your kindness in bringing me this news yourself in person; but the +truth is, I am so awkwardly placed, that I am forced to employ all my +wits in considering what will be my best line of conduct.” + +“Oh never mind me,” answered the good-natured fellow; “I shall go and +hunt out your cook, and take care of myself. You have plenty on your +hands, without attending to the wants of a hungry man.” + +A few minutes brought Captain Harris to his colonel’s apartment. +“Captain Harris,” said Warenne, “you will immediately call out your +troop, and proceed with it in the direction of Charnstead, so as to +reach that place to-morrow morning before eight o’clock. Rest there +until Captain Paulet moves his troop to Fisherton, and do you then +accompany him. You will meet the Fisherton troop between that place +and Charnstead; take them back with you. As soon as you arrive at +Fisherton, if I am not with you, notify your arrival to Major Stuart. +He will probably have quarters ready for you; but whether you see him +or not, do not unbridle, and keep your men standing by their horses.” + +Captain Harris, who had received many similar orders the previous +winter in Ireland, merely bowed and left the room, and in twenty +minutes was with his troop in march on the Charnstead road. + +Frank came in as Captain Harris left the room. Warenne briefly +explained to him how matters stood. “And now, Frank,” said he, “I shall +leave you with the remaining troops to take care of this neighbourhood. +No (seeing Frank about to interrupt him), I cannot take you with me. +On the contrary, I must leave you here. I must have some one on this +ground who will value my honour as his own, and I look to you as the +person I can best trust on earth. Should a disturbance take place here, +and get to a head while I am absent, I am a ruined man. If you love me, +you will stay here.” + +Frank _did_ dearly love his brother: he was flattered too by the +unlimited confidence reposed in him. He therefore said not a word about +going, but simply asked for his orders. + +“You are almost as good a soldier as I am,” said Warenne, “and must be +guided by circumstances. I hardly think that you will be called on to +take any very serious measures. It will be well, however, to keep a +watchful eye on all that is going forward, and to make as much parade +as you can with your soldiers. Never mind harassing them a little, +for a day or two; but multiply their numbers as much as possible, by +showing them in different parts of the town. Make your one hundred and +fifty men appear five hundred if you can. Should you be required to +act, be decisive.” + +The two brothers then proceeded to arrange some minor details, when a +knock was heard at the door, and a voice saying, in rather a tone of +authority, “Colonel, I must come in.” + +“By all that is sacred, it is Nanny Rudd!” exclaimed Frank, “what can +she want here at this hour?” He ran to the door and opened it. “Come +in, Nanny; what are your commands to-night?” + +“Captain Warenne,” answered Nanny, “ye’ll give that girl, as come +with me, and brought me here, a crown. I promised her the same; and +whiles you are taking it out of your purse, I’ll spake a word with your +brother. I have business with him.” + +Warenne came forward, and laying hold of her hand, inquired what she +had to say to him. + +“Is the captain,” asked Nanny, with emphasis, “giving the girl the +crown?” + +Frank knew Nanny’s ways, and guessed that she wished him to get the +girl out of the room. “Here, my good girl,” said Frank, stepping into +an adjoining room, “here is not a crown, but a guinea for you. You +are a kind-hearted lass to lead about a poor blind old woman, who is +neither kith nor kin to you.” + +The girl was delighted both with the guinea and with Frank, and +immediately began telling him how she came to accompany the old lady to +Warenne’s lodgings. + +In the meanwhile Nanny bade Warenne close the door. “I don’t want,” +said she, “that poor lass to hear what I am saying. She has nothing of +the soldier about her, and don’t comprehend the necessity of keeping an +asy tongue on all occasions, and she might tell tales, and get herself +and others into trouble. Colonel,” continued she, when she ascertained +that the door was shut, “I could not rest on my settle till I got to +you to-night. How should I, when I receives the King’s money as I +do? There’s going to be a row somewhere on the coast. I should guess +to-morrow night, but I didn’t hear particulars.” + +“Indeed, Nanny,” said Warenne, “what have you heard?” + +“I’ll tell your honour,” answered Nanny. “There’s a man been staying +at my brother’s house these last ten days; a pretty bad one, I reckon. +I couldn’t make out why he kept staying on so. Well, to-night, just +about six o’clock, he comes into the kitchen,—with Will Sharpe, whom +you’ve heard speak of, I dare say, in this town, as a big thief and +vagabond,—as I suppose ready-dressed for travelling; for Will says to +him,— + +“‘Then you’re off now?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘in less than five minutes; +my job is done, and well done. We’ve flammed the beaks (that’s the +magistrates, you know) finely. I was to stay here till the latest +moment I could this evening, to ascertain that the bloody redcoats—them +was his words, a nasty blackguard!—was quiet, and nothing suspected, +and then to get down, you know where, in time to make the necessary +arrangements for to-morrow.’ ‘You’ll be there,’ says Will, ‘early +to-morrow morning?’ ‘I’ll be on the Plashetts Green by twelve +to-night,’ answers t’other, ‘or I’ll know the rights on it.’ With that +he jumped into his gig or light cart, and went away like a madman. Will +Sharpe came back into the kitchen, and had some beer, and I did not +dare to move till he was gone; but at last he went, and I stole out +into the back-yard, and got my brother’s girl to lead me here.” + +“About six did the man set off?” asked Warenne. + +“Yes,” answered she, “and I would have been here an hour ago if that +prying divil of his companion had gone away at first, as he ought. I +hate a man to sit and drink by himself; it is not neighbourly.” + +He was off, then, thought Warenne, before the troops had started; so +far, so good. Nicholas, too, came the cross-road, so he did not meet +him. + +“But now, Colonel,” said Nanny, interrupting his calculations, “I must +go, or the girl will get into a scrape at home.” + +Warenne asked her if she wanted anything for herself. + +“If you mean pay, for doing my duty as a soldier’s widow ought,” said +Nanny, “I’m above it; but you didn’t mean that, I reckon; for I am told +you’re quite the gentleman, thof I do think an officer in his Majesty’s +infantry would have had more delicacy; but no, no, I want nothing; +we’ll talk of that some other day. Where’s the wench? Betsy! Betsy!” + +Betsy returned with a radiant face at having had nonsense talked to her +for a quarter of an hour by a very handsome captain of dragoons. + +“Betsy, where are you?” muttered the old woman; “I didn’t do right to +send that captain out with you. I heard him give you a guinea, too. +They are all alike, them captains. I hope he has not turned your head; +that would be but a bad return for your coming along with me this +night.” + +“Lawk, Nanny!” said Betsy, laughing, “do you think I don’t know the +value of an officer’s talk, and they quartered here for three months?” + +“You are a giddy child, Betsy,” answered Nanny; “but I’ll hope for the +best.” + +Warenne informed Frank of the confirmation given to Nicholas’s story +by Nanny’s intelligence. “We shall be a match for them yet, I trust,” +continued he; “but now I must to work. I must send off an express to +head-quarters—tell the adjutant to have one ready for me. The general +will not thank me for the step I am about to take; so I must e’en write +him as conciliatory a letter as I can. Good night.” + +Warenne composed his letter with the greatest care; stated his extreme +reluctance to disobey the orders which he had received; hoped that, +under the circumstances of the case, he should merely anticipate his +general’s wishes by the arrangements which he had made to prevent the +loss of life and destruction of property, which could not fail to be +consequent on the execution of a plot such as he developed; and added +the informations of Nicholas and Nanny Rudd. + +This done, for the first time since Nicholas’s arrival, he ventured +to turn his mind wholly to the difficulties of his situation. To the +charge of disobedience, to the risk of disgrace, when so important an +object was in view, he had reconciled himself without a struggle; but +now that he had leisure to reflect, there was much to appal him in the +enterprise which he had undertaken. + +He was about to stake his military character on a single cast; +to disobey the strict orders of his general, to act upon his own +responsibility; wherefore, if he failed, he must expect to be dismissed +from the service. He doubted for a moment whether it would not have +been wiser to adopt the safe line—obey orders, and avoid danger of +every sort—but it was only for a moment; the next, his generous nature +spurned the thought. His self-devotion, however, was tasked to the +utmost when he contemplated the effect that might be produced on +Adelaide’s mind by his being disgraced. + +Hope, spite of reason, had hitherto remained an inmate of his breast; +and had whispered that a day might come when he could venture to +declare to her his passion; but can this, he asked himself, ever take +place if I am dishonoured? Can I, with a tarnished reputation, ever +ask her to wed me? or can she ever believe my vows, when I now leave +this spot, where danger is supposed to threaten, and trust her to the +protection of any arm but my own? + +These ideas, in every variety of form, for a time pressed upon +Warenne’s heated imagination; but wrestling with the rebellious +feelings of his heart, he would not suffer his love to unman him. +His only hope was in success—a poor hope, perhaps; for even success +might not rescue him from censure for presumption and disregard of +discipline. Still it was his only hope; he would not, therefore, +willingly throw it away, by yielding to thoughts which, at the best, +could but enervate him. + +He forced his mind from the reflections which he had allowed to +bewilder him, and tried to compose himself for the night—how well, let +those declare who have endured the torments of uncertainty. Certainty, +even of the worst, may be borne; the condemned criminal sleeps, who is +to rise to execution; but while hope has power to frame visions for the +future, which fear shall the next moment dissipate, sleep is chased +from the eyelids of the unfortunate, and forgetfulness is a boon which +they are not permitted to enjoy. + + +CHAPTER XI. + + A voi parlo, in cui fanno + Si concorde armonia + Onesta, senno, onor, bellezza, e gloria; + A voi spiego il mio affanno + E della pena mia + Narro, e’n parte piangendo, acerba istoria. + + TASSO. + +Before day-break on the following morning Warenne arose. In his +midnight meditations he had persuaded himself that before he started +for Fisherton, he should do well to communicate with Lord Framlingham, +who possibly might be able to befriend him, should his character be +aspersed; who, at all events, would thus have it in his power to inform +Adelaide of the truth, and explain to her the difficulties of his +position. + +Accordingly he bent his course to Epworth, and on being admitted to +Lord Framlingham, he frankly laid before him the circumstances of his +case. + +The old diplomatist heard Warenne with much attention, praised +his zeal, approved his measures, and promised that they should be +represented to ministers in their right light; but, the moment +afterwards, proceeded to qualify his praise, and explain away his +promises, with the true refinement of his profession. + +“Colonel Warenne must be aware, that he spoke only as an individual; +that he must not be considered as authorising Colonel W—— in his +undertaking, for that his official power was limited to its peculiar +sphere; neither could he hope to influence in any way the opinion which +the commander-in-chief might be pleased to form upon the subject.” + +Warenne smiled within himself at the wiliness of the politician, and +at his own folly in believing that he could induce him to interest +himself about one who, according to the rules of probability, might not +hereafter be of use to him. Preserving, however, his external gravity +of demeanour, he respectfully bade the noble lord good morning, and +resolved for the future to depend solely on his own resources. + +He was passing through the hall, in order to leave the house, when he +met Adelaide. The temptation of once again speaking to her, while yet +he remained a _chevalier sans reproche_, was not to be resisted. He +followed her into the drawing-room. + +She looked upon his care-worn countenance with surprise. “Has +anything,” she asked hesitatingly, “occurred to harass you? You look +fatigued and full of anxiety, as though you had been called out in the +night to take measures against some rioters.” + +“You are not far wrong in your conjectures,” answered Warenne; “change +but the time, and instead of supposing me to have been engaged with +them the past night, think me about to meet them to-night, and you will +be right?” + +“Are the thoughts, then, of a rural campaign,” demanded Adelaide, more +gaily, “sufficient to cloud Colonel Warenne’s brow? I thought the +spirit of so renowned a warrior would have risen at the approach of +danger.” + +“You would scarcely jest, Miss Marston,” replied Warenne, gravely, “if +you knew the extent of the danger which I apprehend. Houses burnt, +lives lost, and a town sacked, are not matter of merriment.” + +“Heavens! no,” said Adelaide; “but how could I dream of such horrors as +these? I thought but of some bloodless disturbance, of the same nature +with those we have lately witnessed. Tell me, if I may know, what makes +you anticipate such dreadful events?” + +Warenne thought that he violated no duty if he seized this chance of +placing his character in its proper light before Adelaide; he therefore +simply related to her the occurrences which had taken place, and the +measures which he had determined to adopt. + +“I leave,” said he, as soon as he had finished his explanation, “three +troops still behind me at Calbury, under the command of Frank, so that +you will not be destitute of protection.” + +“Oh, I am not afraid for myself,” answered Adelaide; “but have you told +me all? I beg your pardon, if I have asked an impertinent question; do +not answer it if I have; but there is a tone of desperation in your +manner which alarms me.” + +At this moment it flashed upon Adelaide’s mind that Warenne’s feelings +might in some way have reference to herself; she therefore hastily +added, “Forgive me. I am too inquisitive.” + +“I know not,” replied Warenne, “why I should withhold from you the +causes of my uneasiness. You will perceive, that in my present +position I am forced to act upon my own responsibility, in opposition +to the express and repeated orders of my commanding officer. Whether +I succeed in my undertaking, or whether I fail, I make myself liable +to be brought to a court-martial for a breach of military discipline; +and I confess that I have not that confidence in General Mapleton, +which encourages me to hope that he will overlook an opportunity of +establishing his authority over an officer whom he considers, though +God knows without reason, as inclined to treat him with impertinence. +I can hardly look forward to anything but disgrace in this affair, +view it which way I will. This is not a pleasing reflection, nor one +that reconciles me to the prospect of a bloody affray with some of +my misguided fellow-countrymen. I have little enough to boast of; +but if of any thing, it is my fair fame as a soldier—that lost, I +am poor indeed;—but forgive me, Miss Marston, I have no right to +talk thus of myself to you. There is no limit, it would seem, to my +presumption,—yet, as I have said thus much, let me beg you not to +condemn me hastily;—when the world points its finger of scorn at me, +and when I am a dishonoured and ruined man, think of the difficulties +in which I have been placed, and do not, I beseech you—do not cast me +from your remembrance as utterly unworthy of all esteem. I can bear +anything but _that_—_that_ (as he spoke he pressed his hands violently +upon his eyes, as if to shut out some object of horror), I could not +bear. You know not what value—but why do I speak thus to you? I am a +fool, a madman! Pardon me—forget that I have dared to express the wild +and presumptuous feelings of my heart. I have been wrong in giving +utterance to them; but I can assure you, that I meant not to have +spoken, that I did not seek this interview. I will not again betray my +folly before you. Whatever I may feel, I will bury it in silence. God’s +mercy protect you!” + +Having rapidly and passionately poured forth these broken sentences, +Warenne rushed from the room, long before Adelaide, who, from the tone +which had prevailed in their recent meetings, had been little prepared +for such an avowal, had time to compose herself sufficiently to answer +him. Ere she had regained her presence of mind, he had mounted his +horse, and was on his road to Charnstead. + +At first Adelaide gave herself up to the happy consciousness of being +beloved by him to whom she had surrendered the first affections of her +heart. In spite of all his proud resolutions, he had avowed it; and +though she knew not when her hopes might be realised, she pictured to +herself future years of happiness. After a while these bright visions +faded from her mind, and she was tempted to despond. Warenne would not +have looked so gloomily upon the case, had he not had reason so to do. +Even success, she had been told, could hardly justify disobedience +in military matters; and she herself saw, that no general could be +responsible for the operations of an army, if each subaltern under +his command claimed the right to dispose of his own immediate force +as he pleased. Then she dreaded the effect of disgrace upon Warenne’s +mind—proud and gallant as he was, he was sensitive on the score of +honour, to a degree which his military education alone could explain. + +By degrees she drew herself again from this train of thought; fixed +her mind upon his unhesitating sacrifice of himself in the fulfilment +of his duty; recollected his gallant actions in the Peninsula, which +had won him his high name; thought of his calm courage in the hour of +danger, and the almost instinctive sagacity with which he was wont to +meet it; repeated to herself the many stories to his credit, which +Henry and Frank had gleaned from the old soldiers of the regiment; and +comforted herself in the hope of his happy return amid the blessings +of his rescued fellow-countrymen. His military fault would be pardoned +for the zeal he would show, and for the ability with which he would +counteract the designs of the conspirators. She would see him return, +crowned with fresh laurels, more beloved, more admired, more honoured +than before. + + +CHAPTER XII. + + There may be joys + Which to the strange o’erwhelming of the soul + Visit the lover’s breast beyond all others; + E’en now, how dearly do I feel there may! + But what of them? they are not made for me, + The hasty flashes of contending steel + Must serve instead of glances of my love. + + JOANNA BAILLIE’S _Basil_. + +While Adelaide thus soothed her perturbed spirit, Warenne’s rose as he +approached the scene of danger. His dark eye sparkled, and his noble +brow expanded, when he again looked upon his old comrades, with whom he +had passed triumphantly through so many fields; he turned his mind from +the busy reminiscences of love, and with that power of abstraction, +which practical men possess, fixed it on the probable events of the +coming evening. Adelaide’s form, perhaps, sometimes met his mental eye, +when it should have fallen upon the serried ranks of armed warriors; +but he did not suffer even her form to occupy him to the prejudice of +his duty. Its only effect was to stimulate him to a desire of fresh +honours, that, whether he stood or fell, he might be deserving of her +good opinion. He arrived at Charnstead about three o’clock, and found +there the troop he had sent forward, and the Charnstead troop, neither +of them having yet started on their route to Fisherton. An express had +arrived in the morning from Major Stuart, stating that in consequence +of information he had received, he should only send the Fisherton troop +as far as Swalesford, a place about five miles from Fisherton, and +begging Captain Paulet to join them there, in time for them to enter +Fisherton in a body shortly after dusk. Warenne immediately proceeded +forward with the two troops, and picked up the Fisherton troop at +Swalesford; when about a mile from the town, he galloped forward by +himself, in order to communicate with Stuart about the disposition of +the troops. He found that officer, and Mr. Seaforth, occupying his old +quarters at the inn. + +“I thought,” said his friend Stuart, holding out his hand, “that yours +would be the first soldier’s face we should see to-night.” + +“And you would rather have seen any other,” answered Warenne laughing. +“A senior officer is a sad bore on occasions like this. But what shall +we have to do?” + +Stuart laid before him the intelligence he had been able to collect +since the alarm given by Nicholas, and Seaforth the result of his +observations and inquiries, which he had unceasingly continued since +their last interview. Both reports agreed in confirming the account +of the intended attack upon the town, and stated the force of the +insurgent peasantry at from seven to eight hundred, which was to be +joined, shortly before entering the place, by a body of smugglers, +mounted and well-armed, in number from one hundred and fifty, to two +hundred. To assist in the defence of the town, Seaforth had sworn in +as special constables all the most respectable inhabitants, and such +of the working classes as could be trusted. Warenne, in turn, informed +them of the troops he brought with him, and of the disposition of +them which he contemplated. They soon completed their arrangements. +The soldiers were to be concentrated in the yard of the Cross Keys +inn, which, as has been said, commanded both the entrances into the +town. The by-streets, which were not practicable for cavalry, were +consigned to the care of the constables, of whom a party was ordered +to remove the women and children from the houses most open to attack. +Arrangements were made to receive these poor outcasts in the dwellings +of the wealthier townspeople, and in the parish church. Some of the +neighbouring gentry who had come in, volunteered to act as scouts, +and to give notice of the approach of the enemy. These measures being +taken, Warenne placed himself under Seaforth’s orders. + +“I will not, you may depend upon it, call upon you unnecessarily,” +said Seaforth in return. “Till the work of devastation is commenced, +or is so evidently on the point of commencement as not to be prevented +by other means, I would not have you stir. I shall ride to meet the +fellows, as soon as we hear of their approach, and try to deter them +from their enterprise; if I fail, I must have recourse to you.” + +“You will fail,” said Warenne, “and you will incur great danger in +meeting them.” + +“Very likely,” replied his spirited companion, “but it must be done.” + +During this time the three troops had arrived, and Warenne placed them +for the present in some large farm stables and barns which were at the +back of the inn. The horses remained bridled, and the men by them, +ready to act on a moment’s notice. He and Stuart then walked all over +the town, and carefully examined each street, in order to be certain +that no barricades were erected in any part, nor preparations made to +embarrass the soldiery. + +It was now past seven o’clock—the constables had brought in the +inhabitants of the houses which they expected to be fired, and all was +ready for the reception of the rioters. Eight o’clock struck—nine—ten, +and Warenne and Seaforth were beginning to doubt whether the night for +the attack had not been changed, when one of their most advanced scouts +returned with the intelligence that all the labouring population, +between Fisherton and the coast, seemed to be collecting on the coast +road, about three miles from the town. + +Soon another and another scout came with similar reports; and lastly +Nicholas, who had returned from Calbury to the Plashetts at an early +hour, and had ridden in to be of service to his friends, brought an +account that a large body of mounted men had come up, and that they +were marching together on the town. Warenne immediately drew his men +out in front of the inn. Seaforth rode gently forward to meet the +insurgents. They had halted to drill their ranks, and their leaders +were ordering their variously armed forces to their respective places, +having brought forward to the front the mounted smugglers, who were all +armed with pistols and a cutlass. + +Seaforth, with one or two of his friends, cantered up to them. He +pulled up short, when within about two horse-lengths of the leading +rank, and with a loud voice demanded the meaning of the present +tumultuous assembly, and the cause of their entering Fisherton at such +an hour of night. + +“I warn you,” said he, “that you are breaking the king’s peace, and +acting contrary to the laws. I am a magistrate, and I charge you in the +king’s name to disperse immediately.” + +“We know you well enough, Mr. Seaforth,” said a rough voice beside +him, which he had heard before in his life, and which recalled +unpleasant recollections; “I have reason to know you; take yourself +off, or perhaps I shall give you reason to know me.” + +“Emlett?” exclaimed Seaforth. “Nay then, I fear I shall do little good, +if you are at the head of this business; I know of old that you are +not easily shaken from your purpose. Nevertheless, some of these poor +misguided men may listen to me;” and raising his voice to the highest +pitch, again he warned them to retire, repeating the words of the Riot +Act. + +“Beware,” said Emlett, “we are not to be trifled with,” then adding a +tremendous execration, he bade Seaforth “begone, or he would settle old +scores with him there as he stood.” + +“You will do as you please,” answered the gallant magistrate. +“Disperse, I pray you, my men; we are prepared to receive you—we have a +strong body of dragoons just arrived.” + +“Take this, then, you prattling fool,” growled Emlett, exasperated at +his undaunted defiance of his threats, and alarmed lest his address +should shake his followers; and he fired his pistol at his head. +Happily for all who knew, and what was the same thing, valued Seaforth, +he missed his aim, and the voice of his intrepid antagonist was again +heard— + +“Even now, deluded men—” but it was soon drowned in the savage +exclamations of Emlett, who, with the most horrible curses at himself +for his awkwardness, called out to his comrades— + +“Cut him down, kill him, stop his tongue any way you can,” at the same +time spurring his horse at him, and raising his cutlass to strike him. +Seaforth just wheeled his horse round upon his haunches in time to save +himself, and galloped back at speed into the town. Emlett and his men +pursued him a little way, and then returned to the main body. The first +person he met was Warenne, who had advanced a short distance in front +of his men. + +“Colonel Warenne,” said he, “I believe I must call on you,—yet wait one +moment.” The rioters were now within the street. + +“Firemen,” cried Emlett, “to your work, and do you, my men,” speaking +to the peasantry, “get possession of the by-streets; we’ll manage the +soldiers.” + +It had been his plan, as was afterwards ascertained, to have entered +the town before the inhabitants were aware of his approach; and having +surrounded with his men the different public-houses at which the +soldiers were billeted, to have disarmed them, or at least prevented +their assembling; and then taking possession of the streets, to have +systematically plundered the town from one end to the other. Finding +the townspeople on their guard, and hearing from Seaforth that the +troops were prepared to receive his attack, he gave up the former +part of his design. But not believing that any increase of force had +arrived, and calculating that the troop which in the common course of +events would have replaced that previously quartered at Fisherton, +would not know the ground, and therefore would be unable to act +with decision;—being also himself an outlaw—being recognised by +Seaforth—with all to gain, and nothing to lose, he now determined to +fall vigorously on the soldiers with his band of smugglers, who he knew +would stand by him to the last gasp. + +“Comrades!” shouted he, “it is not the first time we’ve had a brush +with the red-coats—forward!” and spurring his horse, with the whole +body of his associates at his heels, he galloped up the town. At the +same moment a glare of light burst from three or four neighbouring +houses, and discovered a party of constables retiring in confusion from +the post they had been directed to occupy. + +“The police! down with them, cut them down!” was heard at once from an +hundred voices; and in an instant the wretched special constables were +knocked down, and ridden over by their fierce pursuers. + +“Now, Colonel Warenne,” said Seaforth—before he could finish his +sentence, Warenne was at the head of his men. + +“Stuart, keep one troop in reserve, the other two come on with +me—steady, my men—forwards, charge.” The two bodies of cavalry clashed +together. The soldiers had not had time nor space to get to their full +speed; their charge therefore lost the effect it would have had, if the +order had been received a minute sooner. It was sufficient to check the +advance of the rioters, and no more. They had still to conquer their +antagonists, who in this sort of encounter, hand to hand, and man to +man, were opponents not to be despised. For some minutes the conflict +was savagely and equally maintained on both sides. The smugglers fought +desperately, as men with halters around their necks. After a while the +better horsemanship and swordsmanship of the dragoons began to prevail, +rendered doubly effective by the consciousness of superiority, which +habitual use gives a man in the practice of his profession. At first, +by the light of the blazing houses, the soldiers, easily distinguished +by their bright shakos from the smugglers, who had fur caps on their +heads, seemed completely outnumbered. They clung, however, closely +together, and amid all the flashing of swords, and firing of pistols, +moved steadily on, a compact, well-disciplined body; by degrees they +appeared more adequate to the other party in point of numbers, and +to be pressing their adversaries back; still the conflict raged—the +smugglers rallied—for a moment even turned the tide of war in their +favour. It was their last effort. Presently one, and then another of +them withdrew himself from the _mêlée_, and, with frocks stained with +gore, galloped out of the town. Soon two or three small parties from +the same side fled hastily in a similar direction. + +On this the soldiers, perceiving their advantage, redoubled their +efforts, and fairly established their superiority, though some of the +most desperate of the smugglers, Emlett among the number, with his +head uncovered, and streaming with blood, fought on, without receding +an inch. At last he, and his more immediate followers falling, the +remainder seemed to give up all hope at once; and turning their horses’ +heads, endeavoured to save themselves by the rapidity of their flight. +The dragoons pursued them without mercy to the end of the street, both +parties dashing through the mob of peasantry, who were coming forward +to the support of their friends. There, having received orders from +Warenne on no account to venture into the open country, the dragoons +wheeled round, and returned to clear the town of the foot people. But +these last, as soon as they discovered the result of the fight, did not +wait to be dispersed. Throwing away their weapons, and plunging into +the by-streets, they made the best of their way to the fields, and to +darkness. + +After the lapse of about an hour from the time that Emlett had fired at +Seaforth, the town was restored to comparative quiet, except where the +inhabitants were busily engaged in quenching the flames of the burning +houses, and where the groans of the dying and wounded fell sadly upon +the ear. + +Above thirty of the smugglers had been killed, and four or five +soldiers. The wounded of the two parties were in an inverse proportion, +there being several of the dragoons who had received severe injuries, +and not above half-a-dozen of the smugglers, and these so dreadfully +hurt, as to forbid all hope of their living beyond a few hours; all +those who had sufficient strength to do so, had dragged themselves out +of the town. + +Emlett was not quite dead when Warenne and Seaforth went over the field +of battle. He survived to throw one look of stern defiance on the +latter, and to strike out his arm against him with impotent fury; then +with a half-uttered imprecation, he turned his face to the ground, and +died. In a few hours more the flames were all suppressed; the wounded +removed to a place where they might receive proper attendance; and the +soldiery, with the exception of one troop retained on duty for the +protection of the town, established in comfortable quarters. + +The night passed without disturbance. The following morning Warenne +went round the town with Seaforth, took minutes of the devastation it +had suffered, inspected the wounded men, gathered from the smugglers +yet alive what information they were inclined to give, and forwarded an +exact and detailed account of the whole transaction to head-quarters. +After which, leaving the Charnstead and Fisherton troops under Stuart +to guard the town, escort prisoners, &c., and directing the other +to return as quickly as possible to its former station, he himself +hastened back to Calbury, in order that he might be absent as short a +time as possible from his command. + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + A soldier’s reputation is too fine + To be exposed, e’en to the smallest cloud. + + JOANNA BAILLIE’S _Basil_. + +It will be remembered that Warenne, before he left Calbury, had written +to General Mapleton a detailed account of the reasons which induced +him to break through the repeated orders he had received. Seaforth +had also sent to him, as general of the district, a formal request +for assistance, as soon as he had been apprised of the outrages in +contemplation. Through some error of the messenger, this last letter +did not reach General Mapleton till the day after the riot had taken +place, or it is possible that he might have pursued a different line +of conduct. As it was, the receipt of Warenne’s letter, unaccompanied +by the explanation which that of Seaforth would have given to it, +irritated him beyond all power of endurance. + +He was not only thoroughly exasperated at what he deemed Warenne’s +presumption, but most unjustly imagined that he could trace throughout +his proceedings an intention of putting a personal indignity upon him, +and of accusing him indirectly of incapacity in his command. + +Under this impression, he wrote to the Horse Guards in the strongest +possible terms, desiring that Warenne might be immediately brought to +a court-martial; and requesting, in case of refusal, that he might be +allowed to retire from his appointment. Colonel Warenne’s conduct, he +observed, was the most inexcusable and wanton act of disobedience he +had ever witnessed in the service. At the very moment when he had, in +consequence of particular information received, commanded that officer +to concentrate his forces in Calbury, he had chosen, without any +requisition from a magistrate, on the evidence of a frightened country +gentleman, and a foolish old woman, to leave his post, and set at +hazard the safety of the important town which had been entrusted to his +protection. He wrote, he said, before ill success could aggravate or +good success justify the steps which Colonel Warenne had taken; looking +merely to the necessity of enforcing obedience in inferior officers, if +their superiors were to be made responsible for the execution of the +duties they superintended. He added, that in anticipation of the orders +of the commander-in-chief, he had directed that Colonel Warenne should +be placed under arrest the moment he returned to Calbury. In fact, the +orderly who had conveyed Warenne’s despatch to head-quarters brought +back the order for his arrest; and Frank, in the exercise of the +temporary command which had devolved on him, was constrained to execute +that order upon his brother. + +Warenne arrived late at night. Frank was waiting to receive him. The +first few minutes of their interview were occupied with the relation +of the transactions at Fisherton; but the time soon arrived, when it +was necessary that the latter should fulfil his melancholy task. His +brother demanded the general’s answer. Frank held it out to him in +mournful silence. Warenne read it. + +“Arrest!” said he; “does he put me under arrest? This is a strong +measure, indeed; he might have heard me, surely, before he took so +decided a step; it is, of course, preparatory to a court-martial. Well, +Frank, there’s my sword; I would sooner yield it up to you than to any +other living being:” poor Frank burst into tears. “Nay, do not weep, I +would not for worlds have done otherwise than I have done; and though +disgrace is hard to bear, it is much less so, when not deserved. I +suppose they will hardly put me on my trial for desertion of my post, +for that charge will affect life. General Mapleton will be satisfied +with less than that. Come what come may, they will not make me out a +coward; _au reste_, I must take a soldier’s chance.” + +The next morning Warenne’s arrest became generally known; and Henry, +anxious that his sister should not be informed of it by an indifferent +person, rode over to Epworth with the news. He found her pale and +agitated (for since her last interview with Warenne, she had given +fuller indulgence to her feelings, legitimatised, as it were, by his +avowal of his love for her), eager to learn the success of the troops +at Fisherton, and scarcely allowing herself to doubt of its being such +as to call forth approbation upon him who had commanded them; yet +dreading, she knew not why, some harsh measure from General Mapleton. +Hope had predominated over fear, and she was bitterly disappointed +by Henry’s intelligence. For a moment she gave way to grief; but +recovering herself— + +“Henry,” said she, “thank you, thank you for coming to me at this +moment. I need not now tell you how truly you have read my heart; but I +must not be selfish. Think no more of me, but of him on whom the whole +weight of the blow has fallen; it will crush him, I fear, he is so +sensitive to even the semblance of dishonour.” Henry strove to comfort +his sister. “His friends must support him,” added she; “they must not +let that gallant spirit sink.” + +Her brother promised to do his best. He assured her that she viewed +matters too despondingly; that a man was not disgraced by being put on +his trial, but only by the condemnation of the court; that he would +see Warenne on his return, and endeavour to speak comfort to him, +though he must confess, that as yet his ideas on that head threatened +to concentrate themselves in the simple Americanism, “G—d pretty +particularly d—n” General Mapleton. + +Adelaide smiled amid her tears at Henry’s projected mode of +consolation; and he, glad to find that his nonsense had succeeded +in calling forth a smile, went off with a lightened heart to fulfil +his commission; a commission, as he then thought, easy of execution, +but which appeared to him in a very different light, when he became +aware of the irritated state of Warenne’s mind, and his almost morbid +apprehensiveness of disgrace. + +The interval which elapsed between the arrest and the sitting of the +court-martial was not long. The commander-in-chief, from a recollection +of Warenne’s services and character, had acceded to General Mapleton’s +request with much reluctance, which was increased when he received the +despatches from Fisherton, most punctiliously forwarded to the Horse +Guards by the general, who though a weak was an honourable man. To +mitigate the severity of the proceeding, he expedited the necessary +arrangements as much as possible. He forthwith sent officers to form a +court, and desired General Mapleton to deliver in his charges. It is +unnecessary to record the forms, &c. of the court; suffice it to say +that General Mapleton made his accusation, limiting it to the act of +disobedience, without cause; and that Warenne in his defence, admitting +the act of disobedience, rested his claim to an acquittal upon the +impossibility, under the circumstances of the case, of his acting +otherwise, with a due regard to his majesty’s service. He produced at +the same time a letter of thanks from the inhabitants of Fisherton, +and the testimony of Seaforth and Nicholas, as to the necessity of the +line of conduct which he had adopted. The question lay within a small +compass, and the court soon finished its sittings. The result, however, +of its inquiries was not declared. Warenne was doomed to undergo a +period of agonising uncertainty. + +It is not for a civilian to impugn the policy of military +arrangements, but one may perhaps be allowed to say, that unless +some strong reason can be adduced for the suspense, which an officer +awaiting the sentence of a court-martial is forced to suffer, the +infliction of it is a needless piece of cruelty. Why should not the +sentence of a court-martial be confirmed, or annulled, and in either +case declared, as soon as time had been given for its consideration +at the Horse Guards? In the present case, weeks intervened before +Warenne’s fate was decided, during which his feelings were outraged +and lacerated in a manner totally inconsistent with real justice. Not +only had he to combat with his own over-excited susceptibility on the +score of dishonour, and his dread of appearing disgraced in the eyes +of Adelaide, but with the abuse and calumnies of the public press, or +rather that part of the public press which is ever ready to support +the cause of the rebellious and licentious against the control of the +powers that be. + +The radical papers failed not to paint the affair at Fisherton in +such colours as to make it seem an infringement of the liberty of the +subject, and a massacre which called aloud for vengeance. In vain did +the juster newspapers point out that night was not a proper time for +people to meet in great numbers, nor arms the proper accompaniment of +such assemblages. In vain did they tell of the attempt on the life of +Seaforth, and of houses in flames before a sword had been drawn. In +vain did they argue that the poor inhabitants of Fisherton had rights—a +right to dwell in security; a right to enjoy their little property +without molestation; a right to protection from the government of their +country. These truths would not help the editors of the * * and * * * +to sell their papers; they therefore refused to listen to them; and, +on the contrary, filled their columns with reports of what they called +the profligate waste of human life by the soldiery, and vehemently +expressed hopes, that Colonel Warenne might meet with immediate and +condign punishment. This was a species of torment to which Warenne +had not looked forward. It had been pain to him to hear his actions +arraigned in a court of justice; but his defence followed close upon +the accusation, and he had been enabled to bear it with fortitude. To +be represented to the people of England as a monster thirsting for the +blood of his fellow-countrymen, and deserving of universal execration, +was almost more than he could endure. + +Henry and Frank were unremitting in their endeavours to comfort him; +yet no words, or arguments they could use, availed to remove from him +a sensation of despair. He acquiesced in all they said, but as one who +heard them not,—except indeed when they pressed him to go with them to +Epworth; then he spoke readily and positively. “I will not show myself +to Miss Marston a dishonoured man.” In vain did they urge that he was +not, could not be disgraced, until condemned by the sentence of the +court, which had sat in judgment on his conduct. He would answer,—“I +will admit that I am not disgraced by the word of authority, but do you +think it nothing to have one’s name called in question? to be made the +sport of the papers—no, not their sport, but their execration? Venal +they may be—wicked they may be; still they are read by many—believed +by many.” If they argued, that no one who knew him would credit any +report injurious to his character upon the assumptions of a newspaper, +he would thank them for their kind opinions, but refused to be +persuaded that he could ever resume the place he had formerly held in +public estimation, or that his character could ever be restored to its +primitive purity. + +One only circumstance seemed to alleviate the anguish of his wounded +feelings, and this was the conduct of the soldiers of his regiment. +On the return of the troop which had been engaged at Fisherton, the +men had naturally expatiated on their colonel’s activity and gallantry +before their comrades; consequently, when his arrest was made known, +and the recompense he received was seen in immediate and strong +contrast with the services he had rendered, one feeling of indignation +and resentment pervaded the whole regiment; threatening for a moment to +manifest itself in some mode inconsistent with military discipline. + +Luckily for their reputation and for his, Frank’s bawman, an old +campaigner, gave his master some intimation of their intentions, and +Frank desired him to tell his friends that they would best show their +regard for his brother, and most effectually gratify him, if they +proved the high state of discipline to which they had been brought +under his command, by performing their several duties, with, if +possible, increased zeal and patience, during his temporary suspension +from authority. The soldiers listened readily to advice emanating from +such a source, and the consequence was, that never, from Warenne’s +first joining the regiment, had there existed so little room for +censure, or such cheerful and exact compliance with every order, as +from the time of his arrest to the promulgation of the sentence of +the court-martial. This proof of the affection of his soldiers was to +Warenne a real comfort and support. + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + There’s a thanklessness + In our fallen nature that too lightly holds + The good too lightly won. Fortune’s minion, + Whose pamper’d sense the luscious banquet courts, + Ere he can say, “I hunger,” coldly thanks + The bounteous Giver for his daily bread; + And hearts that have not unrequited, loved, + Feel not the bliss of loving, loved again. + ’Tis Cupid’s wanton fashion still to vex + His dearest vot’ries, that they may exalt + His tyrant godhead by a truer worship, + More pure, more holy, sober, strong, and lasting. + + _Unedited Poem._ + +About a month after the termination of the court-martial, Henry, +finding that all endeavours were fruitless to restore Warenne to +cheerfulness, and that his unceasing anxiety was wearing out at once +his body and mind, determined again to communicate with Adelaide. He +rode over to Epworth, and told her his firm conviction, that unless +some means were discovered of diverting Warenne’s thoughts from the +channel in which they were running, his life or his reason would be +endangered. He had besought him to come to Epworth, but he would not +hear of it. + +Adelaide was not wholly unprepared for this intelligence; she so +thoroughly understood Warenne’s character, that in some measure +she expected it, and she felt that the time was come when she must +herself make an effort, or permit the happiness of both parties to be +sacrificed. She asked Henry if he thought Warenne would come to Epworth +at _her_ request. Her brother said, that with her permission he would +make the trial. She authorised him to do so. + +Henry departed. Not a word fell from her lips to stay him, for she +wished not to unsay that which she had spoken. Yet when he was gone, +she remained transfixed to the spot where he had left her, alarmed +at her own boldness; confounded at the change one short moment had +made in her fortunes. The tramp of Henry’s horse galloping down the +avenue recalled her to self-possession, and she soon taught herself +to rejoice in the step she had taken. The world, thought the generous +girl, might blame me, if it knew of my request; but he will not,—for he +loves me. Love will plead my cause, if I have been too forward,—love, +which I should ill deserve, did I permit a fear of the world, or my own +false pride to close my lips, when, as I believe, and trust, and hope, +one word from them can cheer his gallant spirit, and win him back to +happiness. + +Henry found Warenne brooding over his misfortunes, sad and dispirited +as usual; but his dark eye lighted up, and the blood crimsoned his +cheek, as he listened to Adelaide’s message. + +“Your sister wish me to go to Epworth? Impossible!” said he. + +Henry assured him of the fact. A request from her was not to be +refused, and though Warenne had determined not to quit his apartment +while yet a cloud should remain upon his reputation, he at once made +ready to depart. + +A few minutes before, and he would instinctively have shrunk from the +broad glare of day; but now he passed unheeding beneath the sun’s +meridian splendour, for his heart was full of feelings he could not +utterly suppress, and his head busied with surmises as to Adelaide’s +motives in urging her request. Could it be that she was interested in +his fate? he dared not cherish the hope. Yet why should she wish to +see him? Alas, Henry had informed her of his wretchedness, and in the +kindness of her nature, and because she felt that her kindness would +not now be misinterpreted, she sought to amuse him, and divert him from +his sorrows. This latter idea predominated when he reached Epworth. + +He found Adelaide alone. She was prepared for the task she had imposed +upon herself, and though her heart beat quickly as she heard his well +known step, she advanced to welcome him with an unfaltering voice and +apparent composure. + +“Will you pardon me, Colonel Warenne,” said she, “for the liberty I +have taken in requesting you to come and see me?” + +“Miss Marston need not ask Colonel Warenne’s pardon for her kindness to +him,” was his formal and measured reply; for he feared to be thought +capable of presuming upon the kindness which he thus acknowledged. + +Adelaide hesitated before she spoke again; the melancholy tone of his +voice unnerved her; forcing herself however to proceed, after a pause +she resumed,— + +“My brother tells me that you will not listen to reason, but torment +yourself with visions of disgrace impending over you from this +court-martial. Will you let me chide you for your folly?” + +“Folly!” ejaculated Warenne, keeping his eyes on the ground. + +“Yes,” repeated Adelaide, “folly; you cannot think it wisdom to imagine +disaster, and suffer under its pressure, when in all probability the +evil you anticipate will never reach you, and even if it should arrive, +cannot injure you in the manner you apprehend. Whatever may be the +sentence of the court, every fair, every humane person must approve of +your conduct.” + +“Heaven bless you for these words of kindness!” replied Warenne, +despondingly; “but you say what you wish me to believe, rather than +what you believe yourself.” + +“No,” said Adelaide, with much animation, “I speak as I think—as I +feel.” + +Warenne raised his eyes from the ground, and looking sadly on her, +continued, “I once told you, in a moment of forgetfulness, which I +trust you have pardoned, that there is no person whose good opinion I +so much ambition. I am deeply sensible of your goodness.” + +“When you first spoke the words you have just repeated,” said Adelaide, +reproachfully, “you did not speak with the cold formality you now do.” + +The colour rushed to Warenne’s face, but he restrained his feelings. +“I spoke in passion then,” said he, “and I speak coldly now, because +I dare not trust myself to use the language my heart would dictate; +besides I am not what I was. I had then an unsullied character.” + +“Must I repeat,” rejoined Adelaide, “that in my estimation your +character stands as high as ever?—but”—she paused for an instant, +and then continued, “you must pardon my boldness,—but I cannot help +doubting, whether your grief is solely caused by your apprehension of +disgrace.” + +Warenne would not deny the truth, and he could not acknowledge it, +without in some measure trespassing, as he conceived, upon the kindness +of one who, to soothe his sorrows, had perhaps overstepped the strict +bounds of prudence; he preserved therefore silence, and she proceeded:— + +“Your hesitation confirms me in my opinion, and now I recall to mind +(as she spoke, her heart beat almost audibly, and the eloquent blood +mantled her very brows, at the outrage she forced herself to inflict +upon her maiden modesty), that some weeks ago, long before this present +business occupied your thoughts, when I asked you if you were ill, you +replied, that you were ‘ill in mind, and harassed, because you could +not determine to pursue a certain line of conduct you were anxious to +adopt, lest in the attempt to acquire your own individual happiness, +which you confessed to be at stake, you should injure another +person;’—perhaps you are still undecided?” + +Again she paused, but not as before, overpowered by the struggle within +her breast. The Rubicon was passed, and—she sat before Warenne, calm +and pale, with her head proudly thrown back, and her dark eye glancing +with the consciousness of single-minded innocence, as though she dared +the world to look into her heart, or question its purity. + +He turned a wondering and admiring gaze upon the beautiful being who +thus questioned him, as it were with authority, and answered slowly, +“No, I have no indecision now to torture me; my path is clear before +me, and a joyless one it is.” + +“I had guessed as much,” resumed Adelaide, “from your compressed lips, +and sterner manner, even had you not acknowledged it. Am I equally +right in my further surmise that you have decided against yourself, +and that, not because you are convinced of its being your duty so to +do under the circumstances of the case, but because the circumstances +themselves have changed—because, though the benefit to yourself, in the +world’s opinion at least, may be greater, you consider that you have +less right to ask it of the person?” + +Warenne interposed. “Miss Marston, you cannot know—you cannot +understand—yet you assuredly speak the truth.” + +Adelaide continued. “Have you forgotten your conversation with me +the last time we met? Might not that help me to read the riddle of +your thoughts? and now (a deep blush again resuming the empire of her +cheek, as she in a clear low tone, but with rapid utterance, made the +demand)—that person, is it not myself?—that purpose, was it not to ask +my hand?” + +Warenne flung himself at her feet. “Pardon, pardon my presumption,” +said he, “I had, indeed, such aspiring hopes, before fortune raised +you far above me, and before your father by his manner implied his +disapprobation of my pretensions; but I have endeavoured to check and +conceal them, as in honour I felt bound to do, and since this late +unhappy affair, more than ever. You now force me to speak. You must, +therefore, hear me, though the next moment you drive me from your +presence. I have loved you almost from the first hour that we met. I +love you now, fervently, fondly, passionately. I honour you as one +of the noblest of living beings. I would peril every earthly thing I +possess, to know that I hold a place in your affections. As I hope +for mercy, the bitterness of my present sorrows arises, I will not +say, solely, for honour is ever the soldier’s idol, but, principally, +from the consciousness that henceforth I may not dare to think of you; +pardon my presumptuous words, you have wrung them from me.” + +“I will pardon you, now that you have spoken,” replied Adelaide, with +a faltering voice, and relapsing into her wonted timidity of manner, +“though, perhaps, had you remained silent (a sweet smile of reproach +strove with the tears which trembled in her dark eyelashes), I should +not have forgiven you. You do not deserve forgiveness, for you would +have sacrificed”—she hesitated—“your happiness to your vanity.” + +Warenne seized the hand she tremblingly held out to him. + +“Will you then listen to me?” asked he impetuously; “but no, I dream—it +cannot be!” + +“Must all the assurances come from me?” rejoined Adelaide, fixing her +tearful eyes upon the ground. + +“Oh, pardon me, the transition from despair to hope is so sudden that +I can scarce believe it—but,” said he inquiringly, “you said you would +listen to me. Will you—can you?” + +“I have not actually said so,” replied Adelaide timidly, “but I can—I +will.” + +Warenne doubted no longer, but gave himself up to the full certainty of +his happiness, while again and again he told Adelaide the tale she knew +full well, but was nothing loth to hear. + +From that moment fortune seemed to smile on Warenne. He had hardly +reached his quarters when a letter arrived from the secretary to +the commander-in-chief, informing him, that the king’s decision was +forwarded to the commanding officer of the regiment; and that he hoped +Colonel Warenne would be gratified with its purport. It was to the +effect, that, though the act of disobedience was proved, (as, indeed, +it had been admitted by Colonel Warenne himself,) yet, in consideration +of the peculiar circumstances of the case, and the great zeal and +ability manifested by Colonel Warenne, his majesty deemed it right +(carefully guarding against such a construction of his sentence as +might tend to the commission of similar breaches of discipline for the +future,) to omit the penalty by course of law devolving upon him for +the act of disobedience; and further ordered, that his thanks might be +publicly expressed to him, by the officer in present command of the +regiment, in proof of his approbation of Colonel Warenne’s endeavours +to preserve the peace of his subjects. + +Warenne’s heart bounded lightly as he read the welcome note:—“Thank +Heaven!” he exclaimed, “I can now honourably ask Adelaide to be mine;” +and hastily inclosing it to her, with a few lines expressive of his own +happy feelings, he despatched it without delay to Epworth. + +The night was passed in a state of bewildered excitement, amid the +congratulations of friends and delightful anticipations of the future. +On the morrow the regiment was formed in square in the market-place. +Thousands of people soon collected around the soldiery, and every +window and house-roof that overlooked the scene became thronged; for +Warenne’s activity in the protection of the people of Fisherton, and +mild conduct in command of his regiment at Calbury, had interested all +hearts in his favour. + +Frank, as the officer in command, came forward with his brother into +the centre of the square. Instantly the hum of the voices around was +hushed, and a silence pervaded the whole assembly,—so still, and +perfect, that every syllable of the despatches, which Frank immediately +proceeded to read, in a clear though occasionally faltering voice, +was distinctly heard by the surrounding multitudes. At the former +part of them, wherein it was recited that Colonel Warenne was proved +guilty of an act of disobedience, there appeared a look of anxiety +upon the countenances of some of the bystanders, who feared lest they +had been misinformed as to the true purport of the sentence; but by +degrees all brows cleared. Frank declared his Majesty’s approval of his +brother’s conduct, and restored to him his sword. Then (but not till +then) was the attention of the assembly interrupted. The blacksmith of +the regiment, who was the father of the corps, and its pride for his +various exploits, was seen to raise his hand, and in an instant there +arose one loud, heart-given cheer from every soldier in the regiment. +This was too much for Warenne—he burst into tears; he soon, however, +recovered his self-possession, and thanked his brother officers, and +brother soldiers, for the kind interest they had taken in his fate; +then resuming his command of the regiment, he hastened to dismiss it, +that he might fly on the wings of love to Epworth. At his door he found +Lord Framlingham’s carriage; in his lodgings Lord Framlingham and +Adelaide. Her fond and faithful eye had witnessed his restoration to +honour. + +It need hardly be said, that Lord Framlingham’s consent was not +withheld, when he found that Adelaide’s affections were fixed on +Warenne, nor that their marriage took place in the proper course +of time. No accident occurred to prevent their happiness, and they +are now continuing to enjoy it in as great, or perhaps greater, +perfection than when they were first united. Warenne has resigned +the lieutenant-colonelcy of his regiment, though he is ready to +take the field, should war again break out. Stuart has succeeded to +the lieutenant-colonelcy; Frank to the majority vacant by Stuart’s +promotion. Henry is in parliament,—a liberal politician, but abstaining +from the full expression of his sentiments from regard to his father, +who is opposed to every sort of change. Seaforth and Warenne are become +intimate friends, and Nicholas not unfrequently drops in at Epworth, +when the best preserves are shot, or favourite fox-coverts drawn in +the neighbourhood, or when a severe south-wester prevents the usual +supply of fish at Fisherton market; while last, but we trust not least +in the affection of our reader, Nanny Rudd is—not united to Frank, as +might be presumed from the long flirtation which existed between them, +but quietly established in the lodge at Epworth, with Betsy to wait on +her—her greatest pleasure to talk a little soldiering with Warenne, +Frank, or Henry, whenever they can listen to her, and to explain to +them the superiority of (Ruddicè) “the _fut_ over the _os_;” (Anglicè) +of the infantry over the cavalry. + + + + +AN OLD TALE, + +AND OFTEN TOLD. + + +CHAPTER I. + + Amor che a null’ amato, amar perdona + Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, + Che, come vedi, ancor non m’abandona. + + DANTE. + +Of late years education has become a subject of general care and +attention. But there may be excess even in so amiable a feeling as the +devotion of a parent to a child; that very devotion may be productive +of mischief to its object. No pains are spared in cultivating talents, +in giving grace, accomplishments, useful information, deep learning; +but it may be a question whether the wholesome training of the feelings +is as judiciously attended to as that of the understanding. May not +the very importance attached to all concerning the young, lead them to +think too much of themselves? Unless they are early taught to consider +the feelings of others, is not one strong motive for controlling their +own (that most difficult and most necessary of all lessons) utterly +neglected? May not the excessive care taken to preserve the purity of +the weaker sex sometimes lead to consequences the most opposite? + +When the follies, the frailties, the weaknesses, of their nature are +so carefully concealed from them, how can they acquire the habit of +regulating feelings, the very existence of which they have never +learned, and against the errors of which, therefore, they can never +have been cautioned? + +“’Tis an old tale, and often told;” yet, perhaps, the frequent +occurrence of such events as are related in the following story may +induce one to look back to the possible causes of their frequency. + +Colonel Fitz-Eustace was a person peculiarly calculated to inspire +an enthusiastic passion to a warm-hearted and devoted girl. He was a +soldier, and had but lately returned from the seat of war. The fame +of his exploits had preceded his arrival, and in the social circle +to which the young Eleanor Morton was admitted, as she emerged from +girlhood to womanhood, he was received as one of the brave defenders of +his native land, to whom England owed her eminent position in the scale +of nations. + +Although military glory is in itself almost a passport to the female +heart, its effect is certainly enhanced when the outward appearance is +correspondingly heroic—and Colonel Fitz-Eustace looked like a hero. The +commanding step, the lofty brow, the dark flashing eye, which might +almost gaze on the sun without being dazzled; the deep, clear, sonorous +voice, the rapid yet distinct utterance, which seemed as if it could +make its commands heard and obeyed, through the roar of cannon and the +din of battle, combined to form the _beau ideal_ of a warrior. And if +that flashing eye should invariably beam with every softer expression, +when it dwelt on one favoured object,—if that clear deep voice should +suddenly become modulated to the low thrilling tone of tenderness when +it addressed one person, what marvel if the bewildered girl yielded up +her whole soul to the new and engrossing feeling which stole upon her, +under the mask of admiration and gratitude! + +If ever love, fervent, pure, intense, found its shrine in the heart +of woman, it did in that of Eleanor Moreton. But Colonel Fitz-Eustace +was poor, and it was not till after many years of constancy on both +sides that her parents consented to their union. She had passed long +months of absence, long days of sickening hope, long nights of watching +when, by the death of a distant relation, Colonel Fitz-Eustace became +heir presumptive to the earldom of Sotheron, and in the mean time the +possession of a competency which enabled their marriage to take place. + +Alas! it was not for Eleanor to know unmixed happiness. Climate and +severe service had undermined her husband’s constitution; and although +they both fancied that the life of untroubled serenity they had before +them would restore him to health, she had the mortification to see him +daily become weaker, paler, thinner. She could not blind herself to +his illness; but she fancied in the autumn that the clear fresh air of +winter would brace his feeble frame; in the winter, that the mildness +of spring would give him renewed vigour; in the spring, that more +settled weather would confirm his health; in summer, that autumn would +bring the desired change. + +When, however, that autumn came, she had really to sit by his sick +bed, to smooth his pillow, to watch his waning strength, and at length +to hear him, in distinct audible words, speak of their approaching +separation. She had never, even in her imagination, admitted such an +idea, far less ever embodied it in actual language. When first he spoke +she tried to smile,—a faint incredulous smile. But no! She looked +on his haggard cheek, and the appalling truth was there too visibly +written. She sat motionless, speechless. Nor did tears come to her +relief till he alluded to the prospect of her becoming a mother—then +the floodgates were opened—she sobbed convulsively, she covered his +emaciated hand with kisses—she hid her head. + +From that moment she never left his room; she scarcely ever took her +eyes off him. She would not allow any of her family to be summoned; for +she seemed to dread the participation of another in her attendance; +she would have been jealous of his receiving attention or service from +any hand but her own. She wished to catch every sound of his voice, to +hoard up each word, each look, in her memory, as a treasure for after +years. The moment came,—he died, and she survived. + +Three months afterwards she became the widowed mother of a boy. That +moment of rapture, when a mother’s eyes are blessed with a sight of her +first-born, was to her a moment of agony. Then her loss seemed to burst +upon her with redoubled force. She thought of the happiness she had +anticipated, of the tenderness with which her husband would have hailed +the intelligence of her safety, of the pride with which he would have +looked upon his boy; and she almost turned away in anguish. + +This was but a passing feeling. The next instant she clasped the infant +to her bosom; she felt as if the beloved of her soul was not wholly +torn from her: she had something still to live for, something to which +her existence was necessary; and the whole affections of that loving +and blighted heart were poured forth upon the unconscious infant. She +recovered slowly, but she did recover. + +Time wore away. She was still young, and might have hoped for +happiness in a second marriage—but her’s was no common love. It had +taken root in early life,—it had been nurtured in sorrow, almost in +hopelessness,—it had for many long years been her thought by day, her +dream by night,—it was so interwoven with her existence, that it could +not be destroyed but with herself. Devotion to her child, to _his_ +child, alone afforded relief to her sorrow and her love. She remembered +all the treasured words of him who was gone; she thought over all the +plans they had together formed for her little Walter’s education, +and she considered no sacrifice too great that might by possibility +be conducive to his health or to his advantage. Alas! by so doing, +perhaps, she only fostered feelings which, in after life, led to most +unfortunate results. + +In the common acceptation of the word, she did not spoil her boy. She +never gave him the plaything he cried for; she never yielded to his +entreaties in allowing him what she imagined could be hurtful either +to his body or his mind; but every action of her own, and of every one +belonging to her, had reference to him alone. + +The best room in the house was his sleeping-apartment, as being the +most airy and wholesome; the largest sitting-room was appointed for his +playing nursery; if he looked pale, an air of consternation pervaded +the whole household; if he was naughty, the wretchedness of his mother +was reflected in the serious faces of his attendants; if he was good, +every one appeared revived; and rewards and pleasures were provided, +however inconvenient it might be to gratify his fancy of the moment. + +Those who were interested for his mother, and wished to gratify her +feelings, knew that she was only accessible to pleasurable emotions +through her boy, and they vied with each other in attentions and +kindness to him. + +Nothing could be more natural, more amiable, than the widowed mother’s +devotion to her only child; and she fancied that she was training his +mind to all that was right and virtuous; for these indulgences were +rewards for good behaviour. Alas! in her anxious tenderness one great +lesson was neglected. She forgot to impress upon his mind that he was +only one of many creatures, all equal in the sight of their Creator. +Walter necessarily felt that the universe was formed for him alone, and +that every thing ought to be subservient to his welfare. + +He was a beautiful and an intelligent boy, with all his mother’s +depth and tenderness of feeling; with all his father’s energy in +accomplishing his purpose; but being accustomed to find those vehement +feelings, those energies, the ruling principle of the little world +around him, he early learned to rule over that little world with the +most despotic sway. He loved his mother; but he loved her as tyrants +love that which ministers to their pleasure. She did not dive so deeply +into his little heart, satisfied with feeling herself necessary to +his happiness. Her gentle and habitually melancholy countenance could +be lighted up with joy at any proof of affection on his part; and she +looked round with proud exultation when he cried, and wept aloud, at +the prospect of her leaving him to pass a few days with a friend. She +did not leave him. She yielded to this passionate expression of his +ungoverned feelings, and by so doing confirmed him in the habitual +indulgence of them. + +The period came when it was deemed proper that he should go to school. +This was a severe trial; but here her duty was plain before her. +She knew that it would be sacrificing her boy’s welfare to her own +gratification if she persisted in keeping him at home. + +At ten years old he went to Eton; and here his natural talents, and +his animated disposition, soon made him a favourite with his master +and with his companions. Now, for almost the first time, Eleanor +tasted unalloyed happiness. She was proud of her son; she heard him +praised by his superiors; she knew he was loved by his comrades; and +when he returned for the holidays, she looked on him with a thrill +of rapture, such as she had never expected to feel again. Of course +no indulgence could be too great for her good, her clever boy. Every +wish was gratified, every request forestalled. For some years she was +comparatively a happy woman. + +Walter increased in health and strength, and beauty and talents. He +was impetuous, but that was natural in youth; he could not bear to be +thwarted, but then his wishes were generally the offspring of some +amiable feeling. If he saw distress, his was the open hand to relieve +it. Though he might perhaps give a guinea to a ragged impostor, and +have not a sixpence left to bestow on a starving and industrious +family, this was only the excess of a generous impulse. How could he +be blamed for yielding to it? + +He left Eton with the character of an excellent scholar, and of a +fine fellow. He passed through his career at Oxford with more than +common credit, and his friends augured that he might one day make +a figure in public life. His future prospects were brilliant, and +he was in possession of a fortune which rendered him independent of +any profession, but which was not sufficient to stand in lieu of +a profession. A large landed property, well attended to, and well +administered, is occupation in itself, and affords scope for great +utility; but there is a certain medium which prevents exertion, and +enables a person to pass a life of most complete idleness. + +Such was Walter Fitz-Eustace’s situation, when at twenty-one he plunged +into the vortex of London dissipation, with an ardent imagination, +impetuous temper, amiable, but ill-regulated feelings, and a strong +determined will, which had never been controlled, and would never +brook control. These were faults which might lead to much mischief, +but which could not make him less beloved by a doting mother. This was +a disposition to make him fearfully the slave of love, should it once +gain dominion over him. However, he returned to his adoring mother in +the summer with heart as light, and eyes as gay and careless, as when +he left her. She was overjoyed to have him once more by her side; once +more to lean on his arm when she took her evening stroll, and to look +up in his beaming face, and trace in those noble features, the forms, +the expression of his father’s; to listen to his animated accounts of +debates in Parliament; to see his cheek glow, and his eye flash fire as +he talked of liberty, of justice; and to anticipate the moment when the +talents, of which there seemed to be so rich a promise, might excite +admiration in the senate. + + +CHAPTER II. + + Nous, qui sommes bornées en tout, comment le sommes nous si peu quand + il s’agit de souffrir?—MARIVAUX. + +The following spring Fitz-Eustace again passed the season in London. He +had been disappointed in his hopes of being returned for a borough; +the scenes of dissipation which had completely occupied him the first +year had lost their power to interest; and his animated nature was +beginning to feel the want of some fresh excitement, when he became +acquainted with Lady Ellersville. + +She had been married about three years to a dull, proud, cold, handsome +man, whom she neither liked nor disliked. Let it not be imagined that +her character was therefore necessarily cold and heartless. She had +been brought up in the seclusion of her school-room. She had not been +allowed to associate with other girls, for fear of contamination; she +had read no books, that had not been previously perused with care by +her mother or her governess. Her time had been divided between her +masters and the proper exercise for her health; but in these walks she +had never visited the cottages of the poor, lest she might be exposed +to infection, or hear tales of woe that might be injurious to the +innocence of her pure unsullied mind. + +The school-room was apart from the rest of the house, and she had never +been permitted to leave it except at stated and appointed times. Nor +were any visitors admitted within the sacred precincts to interrupt +the course of her studies. When with her parents, she was treated with +all kindness and affection, but she had nothing in common with them. +She knew not their objects of interest; their friends were almost +unknown to her except by sight; she could not enter into the subjects +of their conversation; and when she came forth into the world, she +had learned as many languages, read as much history, acquired as many +accomplishments as any young lady of her age, and had reflected as +little upon any subject that has to do with real life. She imagined, as +many girls do, that marriage was as much the object of being brought +out, as dancing is the object of going to a ball, and looking well, the +object of dressing for that ball. + +When, therefore, Lord Ellersville proposed to her, and was considered +by her parents as an unexceptionable _parti_, young, handsome, rich, +she accepted him calmly, dutifully, and without hesitation. She +meant to love him, knowing it was right so to do, and she persuaded +herself that she really did like him very much. In high life, romance +is not the besetting sin of very young ladies. Their characters do +not unfold, like Ondine; they do not find out they have a soul until +it is sometimes too late. Matches, apparently the most worldly and +heartless, are occasionally formed by those, in the recesses of whose +hearts the warmest affections, the most disinterested feelings, are +lying dormant. Often, very often, their minds are well regulated, their +principles strong, and these affections, if they cannot find vent in +love for their husbands, concentrate themselves on their children. But +alas! too often also they lead to the most lamentable results. + +Lord Ellersville unfortunately was not formed to attach such a woman +as Maria. He was devoted to field sports. In August he repaired to the +moors to shoot grouse, from whence he only returned when partridge +shooting commenced, and later in the season he went to Melton with a +perfect stud of horses. This was not flattering to a young and lovely +woman. Her vanity was mortified. In the spring he attended the House of +Lords regularly, although he never spoke, and his vote merely served to +strengthen the government majorities. Women are alive to fame of all +kinds, and if her husband had distinguished himself, Lady Ellersville +was one of those who would have lived upon his glories; for there was +a fund of loftiness in her nature which would have enabled her to make +pride in her husband supply the place of love for him. When with her, +he was careless and indifferent; for having married at the instigation +of his mother, in order that the honours of Ellersville might not +become extinct, her principal claim upon his affection, or rather his +consideration, ceased, when the young heir was snatched by death from +its doting mother. + +There is something in maternity that opens the heart to all kindly +emotions of every sort, and it was not till she lost her child, that +Lady Ellersville first felt what a blank and cheerless existence was +that of the unloved wife of an unloved husband. She then first owned to +herself that she did not, could not, love the man to whom her fate was +united, but that there did exist within her warm and ardent feelings +which now must never be called forth. + +A fearful barrier is broken down when such a confession is made in +the secret soul. Pride, however, was one ruling principle in her +nature, and she resolved that no one should perceive that she imagined +herself neglected, or that she felt mortified. She mixed in the world. +She wished to show her husband that she had charms for others, and +she gloried in the train of admirers that the fascination of her +person and manners attracted around her. She thought pride must ever +secure her against any weakness. Alas! pride is a poor substitute for +principle. Walter had heard of her as the admired Lady Ellersville, +who piqued herself upon her indifference, and upon her powers of +attracting, without courting, the homage of the other sex. + +He soon became one of her train, and almost as soon, tired of being +only one among many, on whom she lavished the varied charms of her +conversation. He could not endure to be thus confounded among the +crowd. He wished to ascertain that she considered him as superior to +the common herd of empty young men, and to do so he naturally put forth +all his powers of pleasing. His eye was more animated, his jest more +pointed, his political opinions expressed with more eloquence, when she +was present. + +Had any one said to him, you are leading a virtuous woman from the path +of duty, he would have denied the imputation with horror. Yet such +was indeed the fact. Scarcely a day elapsed in which they did not see +each other, though without any preconcerted plan on either side; and +the ball, the assembly, seemed dull and insipid at which he did not +meet the lively, the agreeable, the lovely Lady Ellersville. He began +to feel indignant that the man who was united to such a woman should +appear so little aware of the treasure he possessed. He then wondered +whether she had ever loved him, whether she had ever preferred anybody; +whether, if circumstances had not prevented her indulging such a +feeling, she could ever have liked him. + +His thoughts became wholly engrossed by her; when she was present he +had no eyes, no ears for any one else; and although he never breathed +a word which could alarm the most rigid virtue, the tact with which +all human beings are endowed upon that subject, gave her heart the +delightful consciousness of being loved, though nothing was said which +forced such a conviction upon her understanding. + +The refinements of polished life threw a halo round the first +approaches of vice—of vice, which if it appeared in its own form would +be recognised as such, and avoided with loathing; but it assumes the +mask of all that is harmless and engaging—innocent conversation, gay +sociability—and does not throw off the disguise, till it has already +made deep inroads on the peace and on the morals. + +To the fallen and degraded, whom distress, misfortune, friendlessness +may have driven to a life from which their conscience and their +feelings often revolt, how wilfully, how wantonly criminal must the +pampered minion of luxury appear, who errs in the midst of plenty, +pleasure, honour! Alas! it is that very profusion which gives leisure +for the heart and the imagination to go astray. The lowly know not +the dangers to which the great are exposed. Still less can the great +estimate the temptations to which the poor and friendless are liable. +Let each be lenient to their erring sisters! Nor let those who, +united to the object of their choice, are happy in the interchange of +mutual affection, exult too proudly in their irreproachable character +and untarnished reputation. Rather let them thankfully and humbly +acknowledge the mercy that has cast their lot where their inclination +and their duty coincide; which has spared them the misery of warm +feelings sent back upon the ardent heart which gave them birth, and +the temptation of meeting with kindness, where it would be sinful to +indulge the emotions such kindness is calculated to excite. + +Why should I trace the progress of events unfortunately of too common +occurrence? Walter was the first whose eyes were opened to the nature +of his own feelings; but Lady Ellersville, whose heart, under her +guarded exterior, was teeming with all the affections which are doomed +to form the joy and respectability, or the misery and degradation of +woman, at length made the fatal confession to herself. She would have +avoided him, and sought safety in flight; but Walter was too little in +the habit of self-denial quietly to relinquish the society he found +necessary to his happiness. Had Mrs. Fitz-Eustace been aware what were +the dangers to which her son’s morals and his welfare were exposed, +how little would she have rejoiced in his accession to the earldom of +Sotheron, an event which occurred about this period, and which promised +to afford scope for those talents which were his mother’s pride. She +had scarcely allowed her heart to dilate with the pleasurable emotions +from which even her chastened spirit could not defend itself, when she +was doomed to a new and unlooked-for sorrow. + +The assumed coldness of Lady Ellersville only excited and increased +the ardour of Walter’s passion; for he loved her with the uncontrolled +vehemence which characterised all his feelings. + +The sequel may easily be guessed. The moment came when the confession +locked in the secret bosom of each, was made to the other. Lord +Ellersville at length became jealous and umbrageous. Her proud spirit +could not endure to quail under the glance of a man she despised. To +avoid suspicion she plunged into actual guilt. + +Oh! if those who headlong follow their own impulses could pause to +contemplate the misery they inflict! What were the past sorrows of +Eleanor Fitz-Eustace to the agony she now endured, when her son, the +consolation of her widowhood, the pride of heart, to whose future +career she looked forward with high aspirations after fame and honour, +whose name, when it was mentioned, made her faded countenance light up +with a gleam of exultation, became a degraded and sinful man; that name +avoided by her acquaintance, and only mentioned by her friends in a +low, subdued, mysterious voice! + +Those only who have felt the delightful, trembling hopes of a parent, +who have witnessed the gradual unfolding of the infant mind, watched +the ripening intellect, revelled in the anticipation of future +excellence, can estimate the full measure of wretchedness which now +overwhelmed the unfortunate Eleanor. + +Meanwhile were the erring pair happy? No; after the first wild tumult +of mingled emotions had subsided, Lord Sotheron attempted to write to +his mother. But many days elapsed before he could bring himself to +finish a letter which he felt it possible to send to his virtuous, +his devoted, his broken-hearted parent. From that moment began the +punishment of their misconduct. He was not accustomed to conceal his +feelings in order to spare those of another. Restless and agitated +himself, he tore the unfinished scrawls to pieces; he paced the +apartment with hasty strides, not remembering that every sign of +uneasiness in him was a severe pang through Maria’s heart. + +Fearful of being recognised, shrinking from the eye of her very +menials, Lady Ellersville experienced all the tortures that persons +naturally proud and susceptible, yes, and naturally virtuous, must +endure, when conscious that every one has a right to look down upon +them. + +Under a feigned name they resided at an obscure watering-place, +anxiously expecting the moment when the divorce should pass, and hoping +that she might at least become the wife of Lord Sotheron before the +birth of a child, whose illegitimacy would be a lasting reproach to +them. Unfortunately, by some unlooked-for circumstances, the divorce +did not pass till the following session, and a boy was born, in whose +unconscious face its mother could not look without a feeling of guilt +towards the innocent child. + +Lord Sotheron meanwhile was listless and unoccupied. He was never +unkind; but his mode of life was little suited to an animated young +man in the very flower of manhood, and he could not, indeed he did not +often attempt, to veil his ennui. She was bowed down with humiliation; +she could not exert herself. Where were all her brilliancy, her wit, +the variety, the grace of her conversation, which had so enchanted +all around? She felt she was dull, and that he on whom her every hope +depended would be driven to other society for amusement. She strove to +be entertaining; but how different was that forced pleasantry from the +gaiety of a mind at ease, inspired by the consciousness of success and +admiration. He guessed her motive, and for a moment exerted himself to +appear amused. But how different also was that forced laugh from the +admiring glance which once beamed applause at her every word, which +unconsciously followed her every movement! + +In wedded life there are a thousand common subjects of interest, little +domestic concerns to be discussed; preparation for the reception of +friends to be arranged; there are a thousand pleasing recollections +of past scenes of enjoyment, and anticipations of the prospects of +their children, which prevent the _tête-à-tête_ from wearying those +whose characters and tempers are really in unison. But Walter and Lady +Ellersville had no friends to prepare for, none to talk of, in all the +unrestrained confidence of intimacy; they could not revert to past +scenes without recalling those from whom she was for ever divided; they +could not retrace the first dawnings of their mutual affection without +reviving the recollection of errors over which they would gladly draw a +veil; and then—they dared not allude to the future lot of their child, +for that was a subject of unmingled pain to both. + + +CHAPTER III. + + And is this eye, with tears o’erfraught, + To thine no longer known? + This eye that read the tender thought + Erewhile soft trembling in thine own; + By thee, alas! to weep since taught, + And all its lustre flown? + + _Unpublished Poems._ + +At length the divorce passed, and Maria became the wife of him whom she +loved with increasing tenderness; for all she had given up for his sake +only endeared him the more to her. Man, on the contrary, though he may +feel kindness, pity, gratitude, to woman, for the sacrifices she has +made to him, considers her as in some measure responsible for those he +has made to her. + +Maria was now for the first time to see Lord Sotheron’s mother. Mrs. +Fitz-Eustace, though bowed down by this last heavy affliction, was too +gentle to be soured by it. She promised to receive her, when once she +was really her daughter-in-law. She only wished to contribute, as far +as in her lay, to the welfare or the comfort of the beloved son, who, +though no longer the pride and joy of her heart, was still to her the +most precious thing on earth. + +What were Maria’s feelings as she drew near the abode of that devoted +mother, whose fate, already sad, she had so utterly blasted? When she +thought of presenting to her a grandchild who might not bear the name +to which the eldest son of Lord Sotheron ought to have been entitled? +No village bells were ringing to greet their arrival, no old and +faithful servants crowding the door to welcome their master’s bride. +She thought of her reception at Ellersville Castle. The approach was +thronged with villagers, the air resounded with the chimes of the +neighbouring parishes, the castle terrace was surrounded with the +tenantry, the great steps were lined with servants, all eager to +show attention to their new lady. She was then happy, thoughtless, +innocent; she could then look back into herself without remorse or +shame, and she felt, as the carriage drew up at Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s +door, and as they waited till the servant answered the bell, that not +all the fervour and depth of her devotion to Walter could compensate, +even in this world, for the loss of self-esteem, and of respectability +in the eyes of others. + +They were ushered into the drawing-room by a grey-headed man, who +greeted Walter with respectful but serious affection. He said he would +let his mistress know. They heard doors open and shut rapidly, hurried +steps in the passage, the whispering of subdued female voices, still +Mrs. Fitz-Eustace did not appear; and they felt that his mother had +need to summon all her courage for the dreaded interview. At length she +entered, and her subdued, mild, broken-hearted countenance, went more +to Maria’s heart than all she had hitherto experienced. + +Mrs. Fitz-Eustace embraced her son with the tenderest affection; she +kissed Maria, she took her grandchild in her arms, she did every thing +that kindness could prompt; but they saw the quivering lip, they heard +the unsteady voice, and Maria’s shame and remorse nearly overpowered +her. Mrs. Fitz-Eustace asked some indifferent questions about the +weather and the journey, and Maria answered it was hot or cold, the +journey long or short, without knowing what she uttered. Lord Sotheron, +anxious to escape from a position that was so unpleasant to him, left +the room, and they remained alone. A few more attempts were made to +keep up a languishing conversation; Maria longed to throw herself at +the feet of Walter’s mother, and there to breathe forth all her agony +of self-accusation, and to implore her pardon for the sorrow she had +brought upon her grey hairs, but there was a gentle reserve about +the grief of Eleanor that awed, while it touched, that repressed all +outpourings of the heart, while it deeply interested; and Maria took +refuge in busying herself over the baby till Mrs. Fitz-Eustace proposed +to show her her room. + +When Maria at length found herself alone, she gave way to tears that +were perhaps more bitter than any she had hitherto shed. She had wept +for herself, she had wept her fault, she had wept her degradation, but +never did she feel that degradation so acutely as at this moment. Her +sorrows appeared to her such guilty ones, that they revolted her; while +Eleanor’s, on the contrary, wore a character of holiness, of sanctity. +And that she should have filled the measure of her bitter cup,—that she +should have crushed the broken spirit! oh! it was almost too much for +endurance. + +The dressing-bell rang. It is wonderful how much those who have lived +in the world, and whose feelings may be least under the salutary +control of principle, mechanically submit to that of _les convenances_ +of society. She repressed her tears, she calmed her sobs, dressed +herself, and went down to dinner with a composed voice and tranquil +manner. The dinner was as uncomfortable as one might expect it to be, +under the existing circumstances. The succeeding days were passed in +the same restraint. The moment never came in which they alluded to past +events, and although they all felt kindly towards each other, there +was not the free interchange of thought which alone renders a domestic +circle truly happy. + +It was not till they had resided for some months under the same roof +that the barrier of reserve between them was broken down. + +Soon after the birth of a second boy, Maria was lying on her sofa, +while the young Edward was playing on the floor. Eleanor caught the +expression of anguish with which Maria gazed on the eldest; their eyes +met, and that glance revealed to each all that was passing in the mind +of the other. At that moment all coldness, all reserve, was broken +through. Throwing herself at the feet of her mother-in-law, and hiding +her face in her hands, Maria sobbed out, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! +pardon the ruin I have brought on your son, the disgrace I have brought +on your grandchild! No—no! it is impossible! kind and gentle as you +are, you must—you must hate me, as well as despise me.” + +Touched and alarmed at this agony, Mrs. Fitz-Eustace raised her, +soothed her, bade her be composed. But having once opened upon the +subject, she poured forth all the pent-up feelings of remorse and shame +that had so long been consuming her. They mingled their tears, and +Eleanor’s gentle words of compassion and forgiveness restored her to +something like composure. + +From this time there was no thought of her soul hidden from her +mother-in-law, and Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s maternal partiality saw, in the +irresistible attractions of her son, an excuse for Maria’s fault, which +made pity almost usurp the place of blame. It became the mother’s task +to console her who had blighted all the prospects of that beloved son; +for Maria saw and felt too well that the life of aimless, listless +idleness that Lord Sotheron led, was affecting his spirits, his temper, +and his character; she knew and felt to her heart’s core that her +eldest boy would always have to struggle against the flaw in his birth. + +By Eleanor’s advice they resolved to pass some time on the continent, +till the painful notoriety at present attached to their name had in +some measure subsided, and it was not till after the lapse of two or +three years that they took possession of their magnificent mansion of +Stonebury. + +Many were the family discussions to which the arrival of Lord and Lady +Sotheron gave rise. The gay wished to participate in the society which +they thought would probably be assembled at Stonebury; the easy and +good-natured understood that Lady Sotheron had conducted herself with +the greatest propriety since her present marriage, and were inclined +to forget any past misconduct; the vulgar enjoyed the opportunity of +protecting a person of rank and fortune. On the other hand, the rigid +urged the unanswerable argument, that unless a decided line be drawn +between virtue and vice, there must be an utter end of all morality in +the land. They naturally were shocked that the woman who had abandoned +all her duties should be at the head of society, enjoying rank, +fortune, and even respectability. + +Alas! if they could have read the heart of her whose worldly prosperity +thus excited their virtuous indignation, they would have found her as +much an object of pity as those who have erred should ever be, to those +who need not shrink from the reproaches of conscience or the judgment +of their fellow creatures. Not one of these visits passed without some +occurrence, which to a sensitive mind gave exquisite pain. + +Children are usually a great resource during the formal quarter of +an hour which precedes a dinner in the country, and on one of these +occasions a young lady, in talking to the eldest boy, called him Lord +Stonebury. This touched Maria where she was most vulnerable, when the +young lady’s mother immediately addressing the younger boy by the +title of Lord Stonebury, covered her with tenfold confusion. It proved +that her story was all known, and all remembered; and she, who was +once the high-bred, the self-possessed Lady Ellersville, whose manner +of receiving her company had been the admiration of the most polished +society, was awkward, hurried; she addressed people by wrong names, +did not hear when she was spoken to; there was a restlessness in her +eye, and a rapidity in her utterance, very unlike the careless grace +with which, without appearing to do anything, she once contrived to +put every one at their ease. She feared she was not civil enough, +and a sensation of humility prompted her to change her seat for the +purpose of addressing some one to whom she had not already spoken,—then +a movement of pride made her spirit rebel at so courting vulgar +people, who would once have thought themselves honoured by a passing +acknowledgment from her. This gave her manner an air of constraint. +There was something out of keeping, and many wondered where was the +charm of address which had been reckoned so bewitching. + +On another occasion the conversation happened to turn on the +comparative beauty of the Lady D——s. One person remarked, that she “had +always thought poor Lady Anne’s countenance the most attractive of +all.” “I never saw her,” observed another, who had lately taken a place +in the neighbourhood. “Oh, no! She married unfortunately, poor thing! +and ran away with Captain B——. It was a sad business.” + +Maria’s burning face betrayed her confusion. The lady had scarcely +uttered the unfortunate words, when she recollected before whom she +was speaking. She stopped short, and a dead silence prevailed. She +tried hastily to speak on some other subject, but every one felt +awkward, and her unassisted efforts again subsided into silence. Lady +Sotheron, distressed at the allusion, was confounded at its being +seized by others, and the whole evening was to her one of painful +endurance. At other times she suffered almost equally from the studious +avoidance of topics that might in any way be applicable to herself. +In solitude her reflections were all bitter, and in society something +constantly occurred which brought her situation more painfully to her +recollection. + +Walter meantime found his home disagreeable. He was beset by people +not of his own selection, and who were not in any way suited to him. +He determined to repair to London, to attend the House of Lords, and +to seek interest and excitement in the line which he had often been +told he was formed to pursue with success. Maria was delighted at this +resolution. She felt that if he could fulfil an honourable political +career, she should not be so guilty of having blasted his fate; his +mother might once more be proud of her only child, instead of mourning +in secret over his blighted prospects. + +They went to London, and Lord Sotheron again mixed in the society he +at once liked and adorned. His spirits revived, his eager temper was +on fire, and he gave himself up to politics with an ardour the more +vehement from the state of indolent vacuity in which he had latterly +passed his time. She was rejoiced to see those eyes again beam with +animation, to perceive energy in every movement, instead of the +listless languor she had so often deplored. She scarcely remarked that +she passed hours, days, alone, so engrossed was she in his interests; +and when he made a brilliant and successful maiden speech, she felt +proud, nay, almost happy, and wrote to his mother with more confidence +than she had ever done before. + +Lord Sotheron soon became a person of some importance, and he was +invited to all the political dinners of the party to which he had +attached himself. He thought it necessary to give dinners in return—and +now arose discussions which made Maria’s situation more galling to +her than ever. The wives of these great personages did not visit her, +and how awkward to preside at one of these grand entertainments with +no ladies to support her, except the two or three, who from family +connections associated with her, but who were in no wise connected +with the persons whom Walter wished to cultivate! Her sensitive mind +recoiled from the whole discussion. + +She entreated him to give only men dinners, not to struggle after +that which they could not accomplish; and she assured him she had +rather remain in her own room, than go through the mortifications +and difficulties that must attend her making one of the party. He +but faintly opposed her resolution, for in fact, ambition had taken +possession of his soul, and he blindly followed its impulses. His time +was completely occupied with debates, committees, dinners, which became +more and more frequent, and Maria sat in her boudoir, eating her +solitary morsel, and hearing the bustle of the servants waiting upon +the party feasting below. Still she would not let herself repine at his +having at length found scope for his talents. She would not wish it +otherwise, but she could not help feeling miserable. + +She attended still more to her children. They were always with her, +and in their infantine prattle she often found pleasure; but even from +that source she occasionally drank the bitter draught of shame. One day +they had just returned from a walk in the square, where they had been +playing with some young companions, when Edward said to her, “Mamma, +why don’t they call me lord? That little boy in blue says, he is called +lord, because he is the eldest. Now, I am the eldest, and yet Charles +and Emily are called lord and lady, and I am not.” + +This was more than she could endure. She tried to murmur something, +but her lips refused to move, her tongue to utter. She blushed, she +quailed under the innocent enquiring eye of her child. She hid her face +in his curly locks, she drew him closer to her, she smothered him with +kisses, she wept over him, she sobbed, till the child, frightened at +the violent emotions he had so unconsciously excited, felt there was a +mystery, and ever after avoided the subject with that precocious tact +which children so often evince. + +Another time he was reading a childish History of England, and when +he came to a passage that treated of hereditary succession, he said, +“Yes—the kingdom descends to the king’s eldest son, as papa’s land will +descend to me;” anxious, as children always are, to illustrate by some +familiar example. She thrilled through every nerve; but she thought +it would be too cruel to bring him up in this error, from which he +must one day be painfully undeceived. She summoned up all her courage, +and without daring to reflect on what might be his next question, she +forced herself to utter. “My dear! you will not inherit your father’s +lands.” There was a constrained solemnity in the tone which awed the +boy. He felt he was on forbidden ground, and he said no more. + + +CHAPTER IV. + + For I have drunk the cup of bitterness, + And having drunk therein of heavenly grace, + I must not put away the cup of shame. + + SOUTHEY. + +Years rolled on. Lord Sotheron was more and more engrossed in public +affairs, and the time at length arrived when Maria regretted those days +when he was unknown, and unnoticed, but when she at least enjoyed the +society of him for whom she had sacrificed every thing. + +Her boys went to a public school. It was not till they had been there +for some time, that Maria remarked there was a great change in Edward. +His spirits, which had been constantly and exuberantly gay, were +now only occasionally elevated. His temper, formerly mild and even, +was now sometimes stern and morose; if his brother thwarted him, he +yielded immediately, but it was with a sort of proud humility. Instead +of asking the servants to mend any of the implements of his boyish +amusements, and applying to them for all the various little services +so often asked, and so willingly performed, he would pass whole days +mending his own tools; he would walk off to the village to get his +knife sharpened, and scrupulously pay for it; in short, there seemed to +pervade every action, a desire not to be beholden to any one. He was +tender to his mother, fond of his sister, kind to his brother; still +there was something unsatisfactory in his manner. + +His pursuits were solitary; he did not want the companionship of his +brother; and Charles, in his turn, would say, “Oh! Edward goes his own +way, so I shall go mine.” It sometimes occurred that both could not +ride, or that both could not shoot, or that there was only one place in +the carriage on some excursion of pleasure. On such occasions, Edward +invariably said he preferred staying at home. At length the feeling +that was rankling in the bosom of the elder boy was inadvertently +betrayed. + +Edward had seated himself next to his mother at dinner, when Charles +said, laughingly, “This is too bad, Edward; you sat by mamma yesterday; +it is not fair play. Come, turn out!” + +With a flushed cheek, and an angry eye, the colour mounting to his very +temples, he exclaimed in a tone but little justified by the occasion:— + +“I won’t! I have as good a right as you to sit by my mother at least. +From _this_ place you shall not turn me out.” + +Charles answered, “Why, Edward, you are grown so crabbed, I don’t know +what is come to you; however, I shall have merrier playfellows than +you, when I get back to school.” + +Maria more than suspected that Edward had learned the history of his +own birth; and she also perceived that the indignant sense of honour, +and the independent spirit, which if properly directed, might lead to +all that is most brilliant and admirable, were likely, in Edward’s +unfortunate circumstances, to spoil a disposition naturally amiable and +noble. + +Oh! how painfully did it then strike her, that her fault was thus +visited upon her children! She saw the probability of disunion between +the brothers, and it was only by true and cordial affection that their +relative situations could be sweetened to either of them. She reflected +deeply and bitterly upon the subject. Profiting perhaps by the errors +in her own education, she had long come to the conclusion that the +best mode of fitting human creatures for the world in which they are +to live, and the station they are to fill in that world, is to tell +them the truth upon all subjects, and to make them acquainted with the +feelings and interests of their parents. + +On all other topics she had done so, as much as possible; but in this +instance, could she herself be the person to lay bare her own and +their father’s errors? And yet, if Edward already knew the fact of +his illegitimacy, it were better he should learn to view his mother +with pity, than with contempt; better he should know how truly she +repented her fault, than imagine she was hardened in guilt; better that +Charles should learn his own superior prospects in a manner that should +open and soften his heart towards his brother. And then her daughter +Emily! Would it not be cruel to leave her in ignorance of her mother’s +situation till she came out into the world, when the painful truth +must be forced upon her in the most humiliating manner, by a thousand +inevitable circumstances? + +She confided her mental struggles to Mrs. Fitz-Eustace, who almost +constantly resided at Stonebury, and from whom she had now no hidden +thought. + +Eleanor kindly offered to spare her the painful task; but she recalled +to her the restraint that had chilled their intercourse, while the one +subject of strong and mutual interest had been avoided; and she also +reminded her, how, from the moment they had poured out their hearts to +each other, all coldness, all reserve, had vanished for ever. + +“How necessary is it, then, that I, and my children, should understand +each other’s hearts! Yes, whatever it may cost me, I will tell them +all; and if by suffering, guilt may be atoned, I shall thus, in some +degree, expiate my offence, for Heaven alone can judge how keenly I +shall suffer?” + +Lord Sotheron had been for some time absent, nor was he likely to +return. His party had lately come into power, and he was eagerly +desirous of a public situation of trust, for which his talents +particularly fitted him. His absences were become so frequent, and of +such long duration, that Maria had lost the habit of referring her +every action to him. + +Emily was thirteen, and Edward fifteen; when Maria one morning +summoned them all three to her dressing-room. Her cheek was pale, her +eye, though sad, was resolved. She called each to her side, and she +imprinted upon each smooth open brow, a fervent kiss. Then clasping her +hands, she uttered:— + +“May God bless you, my children, and strengthen you and preserve you in +that innocence which is the only thing to be truly and earnestly prayed +for! May He in his mercy bless you! My children, the blessing of a +mother is good for the souls of her children, let that mother’s errors +be what they may. Come nearer, dears. Let me hold your hands; and you +must promise you will still love me. I am going to confess to you, my +children, the error;—yes, I will utter the word—the crime of my youth. +I was a married woman when I first knew your father. But he to whom I +was married did not care for me; perhaps it was my fault he did not—I +will not throw any blame on him. My heart was desolate! Your father saw +me unhappy, and he pitied me—he loved me. I forgot my duties, forgot +the vow I had breathed at the altar, in the sight of God; I left the +husband I had sworn to love, and gave the love which was his due to +another. This is a dreadful, a heinous sin, my children, and this sin +did your mother commit! But you have been early taught to read your +Bible, and you have there learned that there is more joy in Heaven over +one repentant sinner, than over ninety and nine just men who need no +repentance. Oh, blessed words! How many thousand thousand times have I +read, and re-read ye! Ye alone have preserved me from sinking under the +load of my guilt. Yes, my children, I have repented; deeply, earnestly, +bitterly, unceasingly. I may truly say, my sin is ever before me. Oh! +if repentance can find mercy at the throne of Heaven, let it find mercy +at your hands, my children! Pardon, pardon your erring mother!” and +worked up beyond her powers of endurance, she threw herself on her +knees at their feet. + +They rushed to her, they kissed her, they raised her to the sofa, +they soothed her, they wept over her, they lavished on her every most +touching expression of affection, they assured her of their love, their +respect, their veneration. + +“Stop! stop! beloved ones. Do not let your tenderness to me blind you +to the reality of my sin. Love me! Yes, love me still, but I must not +let that love confound in your young minds the distinctions between +virtue and vice. I am not yet come to the end. I have to tell you how +the errors of the fathers are visited upon the children. + +“Even you, my Emily, know that unless parents are solemnly married +according to the law of the land, the children do not inherit their +name or their property, and alas! alas! you, Edward, came into this +weary world, before my former marriage was cancelled. Upon your head +are my sins visited. Yes: and upon yours Charles, and yours Emily, for +you have a mother, whom you must not honour, for whom you must blush +before the world.” + +“Oh, mamma, mamma,” they cried at once, “we love you, we honour you! +Oh! that we could prove how much we love you,—better than ever!” + +“Thanks, thanks! my own dear, innocent, good children! And would you +really do all you can to sooth my anguish, to lessen the keenness of my +remorse?” + +Edward exclaimed, “Oh, mother, don’t talk so—any thing—every thing!” + +“Then listen, Edward! I have remarked your altered manner. I felt +certain that at school you had heard some of the circumstances of your +birth, and I resolved that from my lips you should all learn the truth, +the whole truth. It was, if possible, more painful to imagine you +hearing your mother scornfully spoken of, than to be my own accuser. +Oh! my boy! if you knew the agony of self-accusation that racked me, +when I saw you thus reserved and melancholy, you would have thrown off +your gloom. I know you would! Oh! Edward, in pity to your penitent +parent, be once more your gay, ingenuous self. You know how dear you +are to every one in this house. You need not wrap yourself up in +solitary pride. If my children should not love each other, then am I +punished indeed!” And she pressed her hands tight over her eyes, as if +to shut out the horrid picture. + +Edward burst into tears, threw his arms round Charles, and gave him a +warm, and heart-felt fraternal kiss. + +“And you, Charles, who have bright prospects before you, as far as +worldly prosperity tends to happiness, think whose fault deprives your +brother of these advantages, and for my sake love him, Charles, more +dearly than brother ever loved brother.” + +“That I will indeed, mamma,” cried Charles. + +“My Emily! If you would honour your mother, prove to the world that she +could guide your mind to the strictest virtue. Let your conduct be such +as in some measure to redeem my fame!” + +The effect of this scene upon her children was such as to repay Maria +for all it had cost her. The brothers were inseparable. Edward became +cheerful, and he willingly accepted all the little kindnesses that +Charles omitted no opportunity of offering him. In Charles, there was +a tone of deference to his elder brother, which was very winning, and +which went straight to the generous heart of Edward. + +One fine winter’s morning Mrs. Fitz-Eustace and Maria were watching +the two noble boys, as with keepers, dogs, and guns, they were before +the windows preparing for a shooting expedition. They were talking +and laughing joyously with each other, and Maria turning to Mrs. +Fitz-Eustace with tearful, but beaming eyes, exclaimed, “I was right, +dearest mother, was I not, to tell them every thing? Painful as it +was, it has had the desired effect. Oh! how can parents who have +nothing to blush for, maintain a causeless and mysterious reserve +towards their children! Perhaps many a prodigal might have been prudent +and thoughtful, if he had known how, for his sake, his parents were +struggling to keep up a decent appearance in the world. Confidence +produces confidence, and children would have the habit of communicating +each feeling as it arose, and while it was yet capable of being +checked, or guided aright.” And as she spoke, she thought if she had +felt that tender, fearless, confidence in her parents, perhaps her +mother might have read the guilty secret of her heart, and have guarded +her against its fatal consequences. + +The office which Lord Sotheron had so eagerly sought was given to +another, and there appeared in the papers a paragraph alluding to +the disappointed hopes of a certain noble earl, and the necessity +that morality should be upheld by the private, as well as the public, +character of those in high official situations. + +This paragraph met the eye of the two persons to whom it could give the +most acute pain. It crushed, it humbled Maria to the very dust. She +felt she was, in truth, a blight upon her husband’s prospects, and she +sunk under the painful conviction. + +Lord Sotheron returned to his home, humbled also, but soured and +embittered. He was angry with himself for having condescended to +solicit, indignant with ministers for having refused, and estranged +from Maria, whom he looked upon as the clog which must ever prevent +his rising in the career for which he felt himself formed. Hitherto, +although neglectful, he had never been unkind; indeed, on any occasion +of illness or distress, he had been attentive and devoted; she had +flattered herself that, although often dormant, his affection for her +was still all there. But ambition, like the love of gambling, when once +it possesses the mind, gradually swallows up all other feelings, and he +was now captious, sullen, he spoke sharply to her, seemed bored with +what she said, and occasionally implied that she could know nothing of +what was going on in the world. She suffered in silence. This was not +a case in which open communication would be of any avail. When did a +discussion ever call back to life extinct affection? Affection once +extinct, what material had she to work upon? There were moments when +she thought it hard _he_ should be the person, in manner, if not in +words, to reproach her for her error. At least that error was mutual, +and she remembered the arguments, the entreaties, the vows, the oaths +he had employed to lead her to the very step for which he now despised +her. But oftener, far oftener, she found excuses for him in that heart +where he was so dearly cherished; she reflected how galling it must be +to a proud and eager temper to have sued in vain; she looked back with +tenderness and gratitude to the many proofs of affection he had given +her in former times, and she pitied rather than resented his present +irritation. + +Mrs. Fitz-Eustace remarked with sorrow the altered temper of her son, +but her health, which had been of late declining, had in some measure +communicated its languor to her mind. She was gradually fading away, +but so gradually, that it was not till she was very near her end, that +her son began to take alarm. + +Extreme in every thing, he was angry with her for not having warned him +of the state of her health. He reproached her for having allowed her +sickness to creep on without calling their attention to the alarming +symptoms of which she was herself aware. She gently smiled, and told +him death had no terrors for one, for whom life had no charms. + +“If I had seen you happy—” she added, “but as it is, I look forward +almost with impatience to the moment of re-union with him from whom my +heart has never for one moment been severed.” + +As Walter and Maria knelt by their mother’s death-bed, as she blessed +them both with her faint sweet voice, their hearts once more opened to +each other, and they mingled tears of sorrow which to Maria were not +wholly devoid of sweetness. + +As she gazed on the marble brow and the closed lids of that placid +countenance, she envied the spirit that was at rest, the heart that +was not torn by a thousand conflicting feelings, and she longed to be +laid in the quiet grave beside her. Alas! she had not yet exhausted the +varied sufferings awaiting one + + “Who, loving virtue, but by passion driven + To worst extremes, must never, never more + Honour herself——” + +Yet Maria had been more fortunate than many under the same +circumstances. She had not been deserted by him for whom she had +sacrificed every thing; on the contrary, he had made every reparation +in his power. She had been kindly received by his family, she enjoyed +rank and riches, her children were dutiful and affectionate, no +adventitious circumstances aggravated her wretchedness. + +The miseries described in the preceding narrative are simply those to +which every erring woman is liable. + + +CHAPTER V. + + “But guilt, + And all our sufferings?” said the Count. + The Goth replied, “Repentance taketh sin away, + Death remedies the rest.” + + SOUTHEY. + +Emily was nearly eighteen, and she was to appear in the world as became +the daughter of Lord Sotheron. They went to London. Maria made up her +mind never to accompany her daughter, even to the few places where +she might be kindly received. She thought there was more dignity in +voluntarily retiring than in appearing occasionally at some houses, and +consequently proving that she was not seen elsewhere because she would +not be admitted. + +Invitations for Lord Sotheron and Lady Emily Fitz-Eustace flocked to +the house, and Maria received the cards from the porter’s hand with a +tightness of heart, a difficulty of breathing, at which she was herself +surprised. “Can I,” she thought, “who have endured such real sorrow, +be so moved by a contemptible invitation to a foolish ball?” But she +blushed crimson, as she felt her daughter’s eye glance over the card on +which her mother’s name was omitted. + +However, she rejoiced that Emily knew the truth; that she had not now +to learn it. The evening came, when the lovely Lady Emily Fitz-Eustace +was to make her _début_ in the great world. Her mother presided at her +toilet. She smoothed every curl, she arranged every fold. Her hands +trembled, her eye was haggard, her voice was unsteady, but she fought +hard not to allow her emotion to be visible. She would not cloud the +innocent young creature’s anticipated joys. + +Lord Sotheron was waiting below, and before they entered the carriage +Maria wished to know if he approved of his daughter’s dress and +appearance. As she held a candle that he might examine some ornaments +he had just given her, he was forcibly struck by the contrast between +the glowing cheek; the sparkling eye, the fresh _parure_ of the +blooming young girl, and the neglected dress, the homely morning cap, +and, above all, the fearful expression of countenance of the mother. A +pang of remorse shot through him, and he inquired if she felt ill, in a +tone of unusual tenderness. + +“I am quite well,” she answered, hurriedly, and they went down stairs. +She remained suspended till she heard their carriage drive away, when +her over-strung nerves gave way, and she flung herself on the sofa, +in an agony of tears. She could not go to bed. She felt it impossible +to try to sleep while thus constrained to desert the natural duty of +a mother. Sick at heart, she sat expecting her daughter’s return, and +listening to the eternal carriages rolling in endless succession to +scenes where she could not be admitted to watch over her child. + +At length she heard the growing sound of approaching wheels, and the +clatter of the horses’ feet stopping at the door. Emily was surprised +to find her still up, but was hastening to describe all the brilliant +scene she had witnessed, when her attention was arrested by the +woe-worn countenance, and swollen eyes of her mother. + +“Mamma,” she said, “I will never go out again. I see it makes you +unhappy. These foolish flowers, these fine necklaces—how you must have +suffered while you were decking me out in them! And I! giddy thing, +only thought of the unknown wonders I was going to see. Oh, mamma! how +cruel, how unfeeling of me!” + +“My child, my child,” interrupted Maria; “it is true I have acutely +felt seeing you launched on the dangerous and stormy sea of life +without my watchful eye to guard you. I should deceive you if I +attempted to disguise my pangs of mortified affection, of mortified +pride; but believe me, I should suffer far, far more, if I thought my +fault condemned my innocent child to a life of seclusion; if I thought +she was to be cut out from all society, because I have forfeited my own +place in it. I am not so selfish! Mix with the world, dearest Emily, +and trust me, that to see you and your brothers good and happy, can now +alone give this aching heart one throb of pleasure;” and she pressed +her hand to her left side, where she had of late felt considerable pain +and uneasiness; “and now, good night, my love, I do not feel quite +well.” + +Habit did not deaden the keenness of her mortification. Every night +when Emily returned home, Maria underwent the same ever new sufferings. +To her sensitive feelings which were morbidly alive to every the most +indifferent circumstance, scarcely a day or an hour passed in which +something did not occur which wounded them. + +If in ordering a dress for Emily, the milliner made use of those +expressions so common in the mouth of every _marchande de modes_. “On +ne le porte plus.”—“C’est la mode passée;” she shrunk into herself, and +thought “Even the milliner is aware I am excluded from society, and +thinks I can know nothing that is going forward in the world.” + +One morning a young friend of Emily’s called on her at the moment when +Lord Sotheron was leaving London to pass a few days in the country, and +she thoughtlessly exclaimed, + +“Oh! what will you do, Lady Emily? You must go to the Spanish +ambassador’s ball to-morrow night, and who can you get to chaperon you?” + +Maria could scarcely command sufficient composure to remain in the +room, and to appear engrossed with the book which she had been reading. + +It often happened that in some morning excursion, Emily was joined by +one or two of the young men with whom she had become acquainted. On +such occasions the duty of introducing them to her mother devolved on +Emily, and she performed the necessary little ceremony with grace and +modesty, but with a certain air of shyness and distress. Maria felt +that in her case the usual order of things was reversed. She felt that +Emily’s acquaintance would look her over with curiosity; she felt that +if any one was a serious admirer, his intentions towards the daughter +might be influenced, by the disgrace of the mother being thus forced +upon his recollection; she felt that Emily was shy, and she fancied she +must feel ashamed of her. + +In this manner all the mortifications of the first years after her +divorce were renewed with tenfold bitterness. Perhaps the constant +state of painful excitement in which she lived, combined with late +hours (for she invariably sat up till Emily’s return), might have +aggravated a disorder that soon after assumed a more serious character. +Before the London season was over, she became so ill that Emily could +no longer be induced to mix in society, but devoted herself to +soothing her mother’s hours of sickness. She had a constant difficulty +of respiration, a gasping for breath, a palpitation at the heart, for +which the physicians recommended quiet of mind and body. When they had +left her one day after a long consultation, she smiled, and looking up +at Emily, said, + +“They cannot minister to a mind diseased. It is here, my child, here!” +pressing her hand to her heart. “The canker has long been consuming +me, and now it will soon have done its work. I wish your brothers were +in London, for my end may perhaps be sudden, and I would not pass away +without giving them my blessing.” Poor Emily communicated her mother’s +wish to Lord Sotheron, and Charles and Edward were summoned from +college. + +Lord Sotheron was constant in his attentions, and spared no pains to +soften and alleviate Maria’s sufferings. He had once truly loved her; +and when he felt assured he was about to lose this devoted being, she +rose before his imagination, beautiful, and brilliant, the cynosure of +all hearts and eyes, as when he had first known her, and his conscience +told him he had himself blasted all he had so passionately admired. + +One day Maria was much exhausted by a more than usually severe attack +of palpitation, and they had moved her towards an open window. They +were all anxiously attending upon her, and she gazed round upon the +group with tenderness and thankfulness. + +“I am better now,” she said, “so do not look so much frightened, +dear children. It is going off for this time. Still there is no use +in our deceiving ourselves and each other. I have long felt pain and +oppression, which I thought would one day prove fatal. But I bless a +merciful Providence who has granted me time for repentance and for +preparation, and now I bless that Providence who will soon release me +from my life of penance. + +“I trust that the time allowed me has not been allowed me in vain. +Each bitter pang that I have endured, I have considered as part of my +atonement, and I have offered it up to offended Heaven. There is one +pain I have been spared! one joy I have tasted! you have been all a +mother’s heart could wish—continue as you are. Be good, my blessed +children—be good, and trust to Providence for the rest. Walter, in +virtue alone there is true happiness! Is it not so! Dearly as I have +loved you, and how dearly even you yourself can scarcely know,—Heaven +alone, who knows how I have wrestled with my love, can know—dearly, +devotedly as I have loved you, not for one moment, even when you +seemed to love me with affection equal to my own, have I known +happiness—happiness—that is only for the guiltless.” + +“_Seemed_ to love you, Maria!” whispered Lord Sotheron in a half +reproachful tone. + +“I did not mean to say that, dearest Walter. Thank you for your past +affection, thank you for your present tenderness. Oh! it is all here, +Walter! that love of many years, is all here, in this breaking, this +bursting heart, but I hope sanctified by our long union. If it is +sinful to feel it on the threshold of the grave, Heaven be merciful to +me!” and she clasped her hands. “Pray for me, my children, now, and +pray for me when I am gone. Your innocent prayers will win me mercy! +Pray for me! pray for me!” and she sank back exhausted. The state of +excitement into which her feelings had been worked, brought on a fresh +attack of palpitation more severe than the former, which was followed +by a fainting fit. From this time she spoke but little, and before +the close of the following day, her spirit, we will hope her purified +spirit, passed from its earthly tenement. + + +END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + + +VOLUME THE THIRD. + + + + +ELLEN WAREHAM. + + _Calantha._—Away, away, call not such passion love! + A man so loves his horse, his hound, his hawk, + For that these things to’s pleasure minister; + He’s proud to boast such peerless beauty his— + Does gloat upon it—would have others gaze, + And pine with envy. What’s this but self-love? + Now mark, Antenor! He who loves indeed, + With his whole soul! His study but to honour + His lady’s name an hundred thousand ways! + His sole joy, her contentment; and sole sorrow, + Her disquiet. He with true devotion + Approaches her, as something pure and holy, + His bright incentive to high deeds. The beacon + To light his path to virtue and to fame! + + _Old Manuscript Play._ + + +CHAPTER I. + + Ten amor el arco quedo. + Que soy niña y tengo miedo.—_Spanish Romance._ + +In a small but neat drawing-room, in the principal town of ——shire, +Captain Wareham and his family were assembled at breakfast. Captain +Wareham himself was sitting with the newspaper in his hand, his back +half turned to the breakfast-table, and his feet resting on the fender; +Caroline, his eldest daughter, was presiding over the tea-pot; Ellen, +the second, was patiently waiting till the tea _had brewed_; the two +elder boys were kicking at each other’s legs under the table; the +youngest daughter was strumming away at a most unmusical piano-forte; +and the youngest boy was amusing himself by adorning the slate, on +which he was supposed to be doing a sum, with specimens of the graphic +art, in the shape of helmeted knights and galloping war-horses. + +“Caroline,” said Captain Wareham, “do not give me water bewitched, by +way of tea, this morning, I entreat!” + +“I hope it will be good, papa: the water does boil to-day.” + +Captain Wareham took his tea, and having added the cream and sugar, +tasted it. + +“Caroline, you have let the tea stand too long! You know I hate it when +it gets that rough disagreeable taste.” + +“Shall I put in a little water, papa? It is very easy to make it +weaker.” + +“No! there is no use in doing that. If the tea is once too strong, you +cannot make it right by adding water. Give me the toast.” + +Ellen handed him the toast. + +“It is all cold and tough. I cannot eat it!” + +“It has been here so long, dear papa; but you were so busy with the +newspaper, I did not like to interrupt you.” + +“You know I hate cold toast!” + +“Shall I ring, and ask for some more?” + +“Ask for more! I never can teach any of my children that people who are +poor must conform to their means. One would think I was made of gold, +to hear the wasteful manner in which you talk!” + +“Shall I toast it afresh, papa?” interrupted Ellen; “that will make it +almost as good as ever again.” + +“No, no! be quiet, child. How you pester me! Do you not see I am +reading the newspaper? There is no possibility of understanding a word +one reads, you all keep up such a clatter!” + +George, who all this time had continued his attempts to reach Henry’s +feet, as they sat at opposite ends of the table, at length gave it a +tremendous shake. + +“Do be quiet, boys!” exclaimed Captain Wareham, in a voice of thunder; +“and do stop that eternal strumming at the piano-forte—give one some +peace, Matilda!” + +Matilda, delighted to be released, jumped up from her half-finished +tune, and ran to assist James in his labours at the slate. + +“Caroline, why do you set Matilda to practise just at breakfast-time?” + +“Why, papa, you said Miss Patterson was to come at ten o’clock for the +future; and you said Matilda should practise an hour before she came; +so I did not very well know how to help it.” + +“Nonsense! You always contrive to do the disagreeable thing.” + +He turned round, and was again absorbed in the important intelligence +contained in the newspaper; for at that time Buonaparte had just +returned from Egypt, and the proceedings in France were watched by +all Europe with intense anxiety and interest. The second dish of tea +remained by his side untasted. + +After about a quarter of an hour he turned angrily to Caroline, saying— + +“Why on earth do you not send away the breakfast things? Nothing +shortens the day so much as letting the breakfast remain late upon the +table—this is another thing I can never teach you!” + +“I thought you might wish to drink your tea, papa,” answered Caroline, +timidly. + +“I do not want any more; it is so horribly bad!” he replied. “And now, +I suppose, we must have the weekly bills, and I must give you some +money!” + +Caroline’s spirit sank within her. The first Monday in every month was +to her a weary day; and she anticipated that this would indeed be black +Monday, as papa did not seem to be quite well. + +The apparatus for the morning repast was removed. Caroline brought the +household book and the bills, and presented them one by one to her +father, who was horrified at the amount of each. + +“Why, here is beef again!—there is no occasion to feed the whole family +on beef! If the servants have their beef on Sunday, surely that is +enough. You know, Caroline, I can scarcely afford to live as I do, and +yet it seems you become every day more expensive in your housekeeping.” + +“I am very sorry, papa, but you told me to have some luncheon in case +the Jenkinsons called last Wednesday; and you have often said you hated +cold mutton, and that it was painful to you that any one should imagine +you were inhospitable; and I thought it did not make much difference, +and there would be the cold beef, which always looks handsome.” + +“So, I suppose you mean to imply it is my fault that the bills are +high. I am sure no man can spend less upon himself than I do! I wish +you would tell me where to get the money, that is all!” + +The entrance of Miss Patterson, a prim, middle-aged lady, who came for +a few hours every day to superintend Matilda’s education, put an end to +the discussion. Captain Wareham paid the money without another word, +took his hat and stick, and sallied forth to avoid the infliction of +Miss Patterson, the music, &c. + +Captain Wareham was a half-pay officer, with a broken constitution, +and a very limited income. He had taken up his abode in the county +town, that his eldest daughter might have the advantage of going to the +winter balls; his second, that of receiving some finishing lessons in +singing from the organist of the cathedral; his third, that of having +a day-governess; and his youngest boy that of attending an excellent +school, as a day scholar. + +He was a dignified-looking man, very tall and thin, with a high pale +forehead, light eyes and hair, and there was altogether something +melancholy and gentlemanly in his appearance. His connections were +good, his conduct irreproachable, and he maintained an uncomplaining +reserve upon the subject of his pecuniary embarrassments, which gained +him the respect and consideration of the surrounding squirearchy. +Whether his difficulties on the score of money might not be the true +cause of the captious temper which rendered his home any thing but a +happy one, either to himself or to his family, is another question. +In society he was courteous and polished, his daughters were gentle +and dutiful, and although among the gossip of a country town an +unauthenticated rumour now and then prevailed that Captain Wareham was +a tyrant at home, he upon the whole bore the character of an exemplary +man. + +Mrs. Wareham had died just as her eldest daughter had attained +the age of womanhood, and upon her death the care of the younger +children devolved upon Caroline. Caroline was by nature indolent and +sweet-tempered. It was to her a most wearisome duty to inspect the +bills, and to see that the lessons were prepared by the time the day +governess arrived. She was pretty, and her very indolence gave her +something fashionable in manner,—at least, it prevented any thing +approaching a bustling fussiness, which is in itself essentially +vulgar. She was much admired by the beaux of the neighbourhood, though +there is a vast difference between admiring and proposing to a pretty +pennyless girl. + +As she considered marriage the one and only means of escaping from +a home and mode of life exceedingly distasteful to her, she did not +discourage the admiration of those who paid her any attention. Several +had appeared to be deeply smitten, but still the magic words upon +which her future fate rested had never passed their lips, and she was +gradually becoming hopeless and distrustful. Her second sister, Ellen, +was now seventeen, and was to make her appearance at the next county +ball. + +On the morning after our opening scene, Captain Wareham was returning +from his usual stroll, when, as he mounted the steps, a neat little +damsel, with a milliner’s wicker basket on her arm, tripped lightly +down them, dropping a graceful, coquettish curtsey as she passed. +Captain Wareham wore a discontented aspect as he entered the +drawing-room. “Caroline, was not that Miss Simperkin’s girl whom I met +at the door?” + +“Yes, papa, she has been trying on Ellen’s ball-dress for to-morrow +night.” + +“And so you run me up bills at the milliner’s, do you?” + +“This is Ellen’s first ball, papa,” answered Caroline in a deprecating +tone, “and you know you are always annoyed if I do not look as nice as +other girls, and so I thought you would wish Ellen to make a favourable +impression at first. I have the beautiful gauze my aunt gave me, and I +felt sure you would not like to see Ellen less well-dressed than me.” + +“Ah, well, I suppose it cannot be helped. I do not wish people to pity +you for being shabbily dressed. I hate to be pitied.” + +At this moment a carriage and four drove up to the door. Ellen ran to +the window. + +“Oh, Caroline! it is Lady Besville and her daughters; run and take off +that black apron. Dear me! the room is all in confusion with Matilda’s +lesson-books. There, put away the slate and the backboard.” + +Ellen inherited something of her father’s sensitiveness to the _qu’en +dira-t-on_ of the world. + +“I wish it was summer,” whispered Caroline, “or that papa could afford +us two fires.” + +The room was rendered tolerably tidy for the reception of Lady +Besville, who always paid an annual visit to the Wareham family, +although she was not in the habit of visiting the other country town +gentry. It was a sort of tribute to the respectability of their conduct +and of their connexions. + +Lady Besville was duly astonished at Matilda’s growth, she admired +the stoutness of James, asked Ellen if she enjoyed the thoughts of +her first ball, and said all the sweet little nothings, which are +civilities and attentions, from the great to the little. + +Captain Wareham pressed some luncheon upon her ladyship; she owned she +was very hungry, having had a long drive. Captain Wareham rang the bell +with a vigorous pull, as if he felt assured a sumptuous repast only +waited to be sent for, and in an easy and confident tone desired the +one footman (who, if it had not been for his plush breeches and white +stockings, would have been a footboy) to bring the luncheon. + +Caroline knew the servants had just devoured the last morsel of cold +meat; she saw the look of blank dismay with which her father’s order +was received by John, and she sat uneasily in her chair, wondering what +would happen. She could not leave the room, it would look so odd; and +she scarcely knew whether to rejoice, or to grieve, when she saw her +father depart, ostensibly in search of a pamphlet on the times, which +he particularly recommended to Lord Besville’s perusal, but in fact, +as Caroline believed, to take some energetic measures upon the subject +of luncheon. She dreaded his coming to the knowledge of the unprovided +state of the larder, and, on the other hand, she equally dreaded +having her housekeeping brought to utter shame before strangers. Poor +Caroline! she was not by nature a manager. She was meek and gentle, +and, perhaps, if she had not been frightened, might have succeeded as +well as her neighbours, but she always felt she should do wrong, and +never ventured to do right. There is a certain portion of decision +necessary even in the ordering of dinner, and choosing between a leg of +mutton and a shoulder. + +Captain Wareham, after a small delay, returned with the pamphlet, and +he conversed with fluency and eagerness upon its contents. Ellen, +meanwhile, had become tolerably intimate with Lady Harriet, who was +also to make her first appearance at the approaching ball; and Caroline +listened with a face expressive of much interest to the discussion +upon the fates of nations, while she secretly revolved in her mind +what would be the cook’s resource in this unforeseen exigency. The +half-hour which thus elapsed seemed to her interminable; she thought +Lady Besville would be quite tired of waiting, and she saw her begin to +fidget on her chair, and to look towards the window. + +At this critical juncture Caroline heard the jingle of one glass +against another, as John mounted the stairs. This delightful promise +of a forthcoming repast of some sort or another, was to her ears as +the horn of a German post-boy, when he approaches the town, to the +benighted traveller, or as the tinkling of the camel-bells of a caravan +to a solitary pilgrim in the desert. + +The door opened—the tray entered—Caroline cast a trembling, furtive +glance: to her delight and astonishment, she beheld a tongue, a fowl, +a dish of puffs, some cakes, some fruit, and wine. She breathed more +freely, and performed her part of hostess with ease and quietness. The +Besvilles did ample justice to the meal, and departed impressed with +the comfortable and respectable manner in which Captain Wareham lived, +the good-breeding of Caroline, and the good-humour and liveliness of +her father. + +But Caroline’s troubles were to come. Captain Wareham reproached her +for having no cold meat, and told her how he had been obliged to send, +in one direction to the eating-house to buy a cold fowl at twice its +value—to the pastry-cook for some puffs—to the fruiterers for some +fruit, to conceal her bad housekeeping. “You would not have people go +away from one’s house hungry, would you? Though I am poor, I cannot +submit to that.” + +Caroline knew that to remind him of what he had said the day before +would only increase his wrath, and she bore it in unreplying meekness, +while she secretly wondered whether Mr. Weston was likely to be more +serious in his attentions than Major Barton had proved. + +The momentous evening arrived: Captain Wareham looked with paternal +pride at his two daughters, as he led them into the ball-room—the +fair and delicate Caroline, with her small but beautifully rounded +form, her regular features, and her alabaster skin, and the tall and +sylph-like Ellen, whose beauty was of a loftier character. Her straight +and clearly-defined eyebrows, her broad white forehead, and her noble +cast of countenance, were softened and subdued by a pensive grace which +rendered her appearance as interesting as it was striking. The full +white eyelids were fringed with long and black eyelashes which almost +swept her cheeks; and when she raised those eyes, there was a liquid +lustre in the depth of their dark blue, which might have found its way +to the coldest heart. + +Mr. Cresford, a young and wealthy London merchant, was not one whose +coldness rendered him proof against these same eyes. On the contrary, +he was an impassioned and impetuous youth, who fell in love with Ellen +at first sight, danced with her all night, sat by her at supper, and +never left her side till he had handed her to her carriage. + +The next morning the sisters were preparing to take their accustomed +exercise, and Ellen had put on her common straw bonnet, when Caroline +remonstrated. + +“It is quite fine, you may just as well wear your Sunday bonnet to-day.” + +“This will do very well for the garden. I promised Will Pollard to help +him to pot the geraniums for the winter.” + +“Surely, Ellen, you are not going to poke about in our little confined +garden. Do let us walk into the town. There are all the people we met +at the ball last night; we shall be sure to see some of them.” + +“But I promised the gardener to help him. You know papa cannot afford +to have him more than three days in the week, and if we do not assist +him a little, the garden can never look nice.” + +“Any other day will do just as well for your gardening. Now do, dear +Ellen, let us take a good long walk, it will refresh us after the ball. +I never knew you unwilling to oblige anybody before. Besides, I must +go to the shop to buy some things for George, before he returns to +school; and I want you to help me. It is so difficult to give poor papa +satisfaction. I am sure I do my very best, but I do get so wearied, +and so worried at home, what with the housekeeping, and the lessons, +and having to keep the boys’ things in order, and never being able to +do any thing right, that I want a little relaxation.” + +Ellen yielded, for she often pitied Caroline, who was decidedly not +made for the lot which had befallen her. She put on her best bonnet, +and the three sisters sallied forth. From the shop they walked along +the river-side, under the shade of some spreading elms, which made this +terrace the favourite resort of the inhabitants of ——. They had not +long been there before Mr. Cresford joined them. + +He walked by Ellen’s side, and any acute observer might have perceived, +by the obsequious air, the flushed cheek, and the agitation of his +whole demeanour, that his was not a common-place flirtation to kill +an idle morning, but that his feelings were deeply interested. Ellen +was shy and reserved, but her reserve only increased the ardour of the +passion which had so suddenly been awakened in his breast. + +The next day Ellen could not be persuaded to extend their walk beyond +their own garden. + +“When Mr. Cresford is gone away, Caroline, we will walk wherever you +please, but I do not like appearing to seek him.” + +“Why do you dislike him? He is evidently smitten with you.” + +“I do not dislike him particularly, but I think I am more comfortable +and happy gardening with Will Pollard; and if I liked to meet him ever +so much, I had rather die than appear to seek him, or any body else.” + +“So would I, Ellen!” cried little Matilda; “when I grow up, I will be +so proud! it shall never be said that I care for anybody.” + +“I am sure I should be sorry to do any thing forward,” answered +Caroline, “only one must take the air sometimes. Perhaps, however, you +are both right, and I am sure I would not have any girl care for any +man, till she is quite sure of him, and it is very difficult to know +when they are in earnest.” + + +CHAPTER II. + + _Cleanthes._—She’ll be a castaway—my life upon ’t. + _Hermione._—Man argues from his fiercer will, nor knows + True virtue’s quality in woman’s breast. + My daughter, sir, is virtuous, and virtue + Will to herself subdue e’en rebel Nature. + Had she been linked in love with one her choice, + She had been all soul, following her wedded lord + Through life’s worst perils, frankly, fearlessly; + But matched, ere yet her young heart spoke, with one + She cannot love, she’ll give her love to duty, + And cheerful, although passionless, perform it + Calmly, contentedly, nor ever dream + Of joys she must not know, and so pass on + Into the quiet grave. + + _Old Manuscript Play._ + +Mr. Cresford soon found some excuse for calling upon Captain Wareham, +and in the course of his visit contrived to give himself a commission +to execute, which justified another visit, another and another. + +Captain Wareham thought the symptoms were auspicious, and entertained +some hope of honourably disposing of one daughter in marriage, but +Caroline, profiting by her own experience, warned Ellen not to place +any reliance on these signs of preference. + +“You do not know the world yet, Ellen,” she said; “you do not know how +often the same sort of thing has happened to me. Remember Major Barton +last winter, and poor Mr. Astell—however, I do think he would have +proposed if he had lived. Talk to Mr. Cresford as much as you please, +for, as my aunt says, ‘nothing can come of nothing,’ but do not let +yourself like him, till he has actually proposed. Remember what I have +already told you, a woman cannot guess whether a man is in earnest or +not, till he does propose.” + +Ellen thought her sister was very prudent and sensible, and she +resolved to follow her advice. Nor did she find the task a difficult +one. + +Mr. Cresford, although handsome, was not pleasing, and the very +vehemence of his love rather alarmed and confused the young Ellen. This +was the season of gaity at ——, and there were frequent dinners and +parties among the canons and prebends. Caroline regularly asked Ellen +every night, whether Mr. Cresford had proposed, and for ten days Ellen +answered, “No, not quite.” Caroline continued her warnings, and Ellen +her watch over her heart. + +At length Mr. Cresford waited one morning upon Captain Wareham, and +in good set terms asked him for his daughter’s hand. Captain Wareham +accepted his proposal, and informed Ellen of the event. + +There did not seem to exist a doubt in any of their minds as to what +her answer would be. The whole question had been from the beginning, +whether or not he would come to the point, and the lady’s privilege of +saying no, seemed in that family to be utterly forgotten. Ellen was too +young and too timid to discover it for herself, and she found herself +the affianced wife of a man, whom a fortnight before she had never +seen, and whom, during that fortnight, she had been taking care not to +prefer. + +The affair was decided. The lover was all rapture—Captain Wareham +all satisfaction—Caroline all surprise that Mr. Cresford should have +behaved in so gentlemanlike a manner, not keeping her sister in +any uncertainty, but setting her mind at ease at once. She was too +good-natured and too affectionate, to feel any thing like envy, but she +wished Captain Barton had behaved in the same noble manner to her. + +Ellen was surprised not to find herself happier on so quickly arriving +at that result, which had been the object of her sister’s wishes for +six years and a half. But she was afraid of Mr. Cresford. He was +easily hurt, easily offended; he was expecting, and jealous; he would +not allow her to go to any more of the balls; he scarcely liked to +see her acknowledge, much less shake hands with, any of her former +acquaintance. Ellen was subdued, rather than elated, by her approaching +nuptials. Caroline one day remarked upon her unusual seriousness, and +asked her if she and Mr. Cresford had not had a lovers’ quarrel. + +“Oh, no,” replied Ellen; “but it is difficult, you know, sister, to +love a person all at once, particularly when one has been trying not +to like him at all. However, I dare say I shall soon, when I am more +accustomed to him. It is not easy to do just right; for a girl is not +to like a man till he proposes, and then she ought to love him very +much as soon as ever she is going to be married to him.” + +Mr. Cresford was the only son of wealthy parents, and was accustomed +to find his wishes laws to those around him. His father had died when +he was barely twenty-one, and had left him at the head of a thriving +mercantile house. + +He fell in love with Ellen at first sight,—he proposed at once, had +been accepted, and, following the course of his own impetuous passions, +was now eager that the wedding-day should be fixed. Captain Wareham had +no wish to postpone it, and in three weeks more Ellen left the paternal +roof as the wife of Mr. Cresford. + +She was astounded and confused at the whole thing; she had not been +allowed time to become attached to him, even if he had been all a +maiden’s imagination could picture in its happiest day-dream. But there +was a want of refinement in the headlong course of his love, a want of +consideration; in fact, there was a selfishness, which did not win its +way to the heart of a very modest, very young, and very sensitive girl. + +In London she found herself surrounded by all the luxuries of life. +She had an excellent house, a handsome equipage. He showered presents +upon her—jewels and trinkets without number,—each new ornament daily +invented to satisfy the caprice of the idle and the wealthy. His +delight was to see his lovely bride’s beauty set off to the utmost +advantage. But she must be decked out for him alone; he was annoyed if +any other eyes seemed to dwell with gratification upon the loveliness +which he had taken such pleasure in adorning. + +Cresford had a large circle of acquaintance, not, perhaps, in the +first style of fashion, but among gentlemanlike and agreeable people; +persons with intellects as well cultivated, minds as refined, manners +as essentially well-bred, as can be found in the highest coteries, +though perhaps one of the initiated might perceive the want of that +nameless grace which more than compensates for a certain coldness +frequently pervading the most select _réunions_. The very fashionable +are exceedingly afraid of each other. They may sometimes have been +accused of insolence towards those whom they consider in a grade below +themselves, but their worst enemies cannot say they do not stand +in awe of each other. There was in Ellen a gentle dignity, which, +combined with her extraordinary beauty, would have caused her to be +distinguished in any society: of course, therefore, in this she could +not but excite notice and admiration. Yet proud as Cresford was of her, +anxious as he was to show to the world how lovely was the bride he +had chosen for himself, he never returned from a party or an assembly +without a cloud on his brow, and something restless and suspicious in +his manner. + +She began to fear he was constitutionally jealous. Others came to the +same conclusion. Young men in all ranks of life find peculiar pleasure +in tormenting a jealous husband; and not all the shrinking modesty of +Ellen’s manners could prevent their openly showing the admiration they +felt. She hoped, by the extreme quietness of her behaviour, to give him +no cause for disquiet; but though she might avoid affording him any +opportunity of blaming her, she could not prevent his being irritable +and violent whenever they had mixed in any society. + +She would gladly have led a very retired life, she would fain have +dressed herself in a homely and unpretending style,—her whole object +was to escape notice; but such was the nature of his love for her, +that he was not satisfied unless her charms were set off by every +ornament; and his fear of being laughed at was such, that he would +not give occasion for saying he shut up his beautiful wife. Ellen was +consequently obliged to mix in the world, and she learned to set a +strict watch over her very looks, and to be tremblingly alive to the +_on dits_ of society. She, as well as her sister Caroline, was timid +in her nature; she was, moreover, shy and reserved upon all subjects +connected with the feelings, and she dreaded lest his jealous fancies +should ever openly burst forth, and bring blame or ridicule on either +of them. She had at times stood in awe of her father, but the fear she +felt of her husband was more constant and unceasing. + +Still she had been accustomed to humour and to yield to a captious +temper, and she considered that it was the lot of women to bear with +the caprices of men. She frequently reminded herself of the gratitude +she was bound to feel towards him, for having taken her portionless +from her father, and for the unbounded command of money which he +allowed her. She excused his jealousy on account of the passionate love +he evinced for her, and she concluded the two feelings were necessarily +inseparable. + +His generosity on the subject of money afforded her one great pleasure, +that of making various presents to her sisters, and of assisting +her family in divers manners. He took her eldest brother into his +mercantile establishment, and she rejoiced in having thus been the +means of relieving her father from one care which pressed most heavily +upon his mind. + +They had been married about four years, and Ellen was the mother of two +lovely children, when the peace concluded between France and England, +at the period when Buonaparte was First Consul, enabled the English to +flock abroad. To Mr. Cresford it was a matter of great importance to +conclude some arrangement with foreign merchants. For this purpose he +made up his mind to leave his wife for a month or two. + +It was, however, most unwillingly that he tore himself away: it +seemed as if some presentiment warned him not to depart. He postponed +his journey from day to day, from week to week. At length his +correspondents became impatient, and the day was fixed. He took Ellen +and his children to reside with Captain Wareham during his absence, +and she willingly promised to live in the strictest seclusion till his +return; but it was with a melancholy foreboding that he bade her adieu, +and he returned again and again to take one more last lingering look at +her beautiful face, as though he felt he might never again thus gaze on +it. + + +CHAPTER III. + + ——Love’s sooner felt than seen: + Oft in a voice he creeps down through the ear; + Oft from a blushing cheek he lights his fire; + Oft shrouds his golden flame in likest hair; + Oft in a soft, smooth cheek doth close retire; + Oft in a smile, oft in a silent tear; + And if all fail, yet virtue’s self will lure! + + PHINEAS FLETCHER. + +Caroline was now seven-and-twenty, and she had many histories to pour +into Ellen’s ear of the deceitful conduct of sundry naval or military +heroes, and briefless barristers. One old nabob had laid his fortune +at her feet, but he was too disagreeable, and she preferred even the +eternal household bills, and the last finish of Matilda’s education, +and the increased peevishness of her father’s temper to being the wife +of Mr. Pierson. + +But there was a person—a most amiable man—a clergyman, who had long +appeared to prefer her—who did not pay her compliments, but who often +visited them in their quiet home, and who admired her for qualities +which had never attracted the notice of the captains nor the majors—her +patience, her sweet temper, and her absence of selfishness. She owned +to Ellen that, if circumstances ever enabled him to come forward, she +should rejoice in the chances which had prevented her marrying earlier. + +In the course of a short time Ellen had an opportunity of becoming +personally acquainted with Mr. Allenham, and she thought her sister +would indeed be a fortunate woman if she should ever become his wife. + +To Ellen his intentions seemed manifest; but Caroline, who had so often +been deceived, scarcely ventured to believe what she so much wished: +all pleasure in the society of others was, however, completely gone, +and she sighed to fix the affections which had so long been without a +resting-place upon a person for whom she could feel entire respect, and +in whom she could place complete reliance. Caroline was now as little +inclined to mix in the world as Ellen, and Mr. Cresford would have been +satisfied, if he could have witnessed the retirement in which they +lived. + +He had not been gone more than a month, when the sudden renewal of +hostilities gave rise to the greatest alarm among those who had friends +upon the Continent. Still, no one was prepared for that gross violation +of all the usual courtesies between civilised nations, of all the +charities of human life, which astounded the European world, when +Buonaparte detained the harmless traveller, the peaceable merchant, +and doomed them to drag out the best years of their lives in weary, +unprofitable imprisonment at Verdun, or in the fortress of La Bitche. + +At first no one could believe that this would last; they all looked to +a speedy termination of their captivity. Ellen received letters from +her husband, who was among the _detenus_ at Verdun, which filled her +with pity and alarm. His jealousy, which could not be completely lulled +when his virtuous and modest wife was constantly under his own eye, now +raged like a devouring flame. He threatened to commit some crime which +could only be atoned by his life, rather than endure the living death +which consumed him. He braved the authorities—he would not accept his +parole—he would not preclude himself from attempting every means in his +power to again see the wife whom he adored. His letters were written in +a state of mind bordering on distraction. In vain Ellen described to +him her quiet mode of existence, entreated him to wait with patience +till he could return in health and safety to his family, and promised +faithfully to continue in the seclusion which he had prescribed. She +communicated to him her intention of taking a cottage near her father +and sisters, where the children might have the benefit of country air, +and where she might be in some measure under the protection of her +father without joining in the society of the town. + +The other partners in Mr. Cresford’s house were now obliged to transact +the business. All that could be done was to await the events which +time might bring forth, and meanwhile to take every opportunity of +transmitting to him funds which might enable him to exist in such +comfort as might be found within the walls of a prison. + +Ellen never deviated from the line of conduct which she had marked out +for herself. She felt perfectly confident that her husband would soon +return, and she so dreaded what might be his anger if he heard of her +having joined in any the most innocent amusement, that she never left +her home except to visit her father, and she never received any one +except her own immediate relations. She shrank from the appearance, +or the suspicion, of the slightest impropriety with as much sensitive +horror as many would from any actual breach of decorum. + +The even tenor of Ellen’s monotonous life was one day most agreeably +broken in upon by the entrance of Caroline, who, with a face of joyous +mystery, made her appearance at her sister’s cottage immediately after +breakfast. + +“I have such news for you, Ellen. You have been right all along, and +Mr. Allenham has proposed. He came to dinner yesterday, and told papa +that his uncle’s friend, Lord Coverdale, had presented him to the +living of Longbury, and that he might now look forward to possessing a +competency, and that he had long been attached to me; and then he says +that the house is a very nice one, and that he is to remove to it from +his curacy in about six months.” + +“But you do not tell me what answer you have given him,” replied Ellen, +smiling. + +“Oh, Ellen, do not laugh at me; it would be affectation in me to +pretend I am not very, very happy at the prospect before me. You know +well enough that I have long preferred him to any one, but you cannot +guess how ardently I wish I had never before fancied myself in love. +All that has gone before seems to me now like a dream. My former +likings have been nothing compared to this. Still I would give the +world that my heart was quite, quite fresh and pure; that I could have +given it to him wholly and solely. I envy you, Ellen, having married +so early that your feelings had never been tampered with, as mine have +been.” + +Ellen was surprised at the warmth with which Caroline spoke, and +thought in her heart that she had never felt all this for Mr. Cresford. +Caroline resumed— + +“I wonder how a being so good, so superior, so excellent as Mr. +Allenham can have ever found any thing to please him, in such a poor, +weak, frivolous creature as I am! I do feel so grateful to him! And I +am sure if the devotion of my life can render me worthy of him, I may +deserve him in that manner, though I can in no other.” + +Ellen was astonished at this burst of feeling in her sister. She had +seen her, as she believed, in love before, that is to say, she had +seen her pleased and flattered by the attentions of men; she had seen +her ardently desiring to get away from her home, and she had seen her +unhappy when a flirtation ended in nothing; but she had never before +seen her love with all the devotion of which an affectionate heart is +capable. A real true attachment exalts and refines the mind, and Mr. +Allenham was a person with whom no one could associate without becoming +better. + +The meekness and forbearance with which Caroline bore the eternal +worry of her father’s temper, the asperity of which had increased with +years, first attracted him; he admired her beauty (for a woman of +seven-and-twenty, provided she enjoys good health, is as pretty as ever +she was), and her evident pleasure in his preference, which, when it is +accompanied with modesty, proves an almost irresistible charm to most +men, combined to fix his affections. Her kind manner to all inferiors, +and her gentle attention to any of the poor with whom she was brought +in contact, satisfied his reason that she would make the best of wives +for a clergyman. Nor was he mistaken in this expectation. + +But Captain Wareham, whose disposition inclined him to look on the +dark side of every picture, now felt somewhat unhappy at the thoughts +of losing the daughter who had been so long accustomed to his ways; +although he had often been bitterly disappointed at Caroline’s failing +to make a good establishment; a disappointment which he had been at no +pains to conceal, and which did not contribute to make her own fall +more lightly upon the poor girl. + +“I suppose you must marry Mr. Allenham, Caroline; but what is to become +of me?” he one day said, in a desponding tone. “How can a man see to +all the details of a household, and the boys, and everything?” + +“Why, papa, you always said I was but a bad housekeeper,” replied +Caroline, who, in her new-born happiness and brightened prospects, had +found a certain degree of courage, and sometimes ventured to reply half +playfully to her father’s lamentations; “you will do all the better +without me, I dare say.” + +“No, no! I shan’t! You have been a good girl, Caroline, and I shall not +be able to do at all well without you. You will all marry, and I shall +be left alone in my old age.” + +“Why, papa,” interrupted Matilda, “I have heard you regret a hundred +times that Caroline did not marry, and say that it preyed upon your +mind to think that we were unprovided for; and that if we were but +married, you should be quite happy.” + +“In the meantime, my dear papa,” said Caroline, “Matilda can take my +place. She is seventeen now, and I was not older when my poor mother +died.” + +“Ah! but she is not so steady as you were. I cannot manage you, +Matilda, as I can Caroline,” answered Captain Wareham, in whose +estimation Caroline had risen wonderfully, now he was going to lose her. + +“Well, then, I will manage you, papa, and that will be much best,” +replied the blunt and light-hearted Matilda, who was not easily either +daunted or vexed. “I am so glad Caroline is going to marry that dear, +good Mr. Allenham, that I shall not mind casting up those abominable +bills. But I will tell you what, papa, you must not scold me as you do +Caroline; I shall never bear it as she has done.” + +Caroline looked at Matilda, and tried to silence her, but without +effect. And, strange to say, Captain Wareham would bear from Matilda +jokes, and even lectures, which he would never have endured from her +elder sisters. The fact was, that Matilda had a high spirit. She meant +no harm; she did not mind a sharp word; and she gradually obtained a +sort of mastery over her father. + +The marriage was not to take place till Mr. Allenham was settled at +Longbury, but all things proceeded placidly and cheerfully with the +Wareham family, except that the letters which Ellen received from Mr. +Cresford were more and more distressing. They were written in a state +of dreadfully low spirits. He complained of mental and bodily miseries. +Still she was little prepared for the shock which awaited her, when one +morning she read in the papers an official return from the depôt at +Verdun, and among the deaths she saw the name of Charles Cresford, Esq. + + +CHAPTER IV. + + And such the colouring fancy gave + To a young, warm, and dauntless chief,— + And as a lover hails the dawn + Of a first smile, so welcomed he + The sparkle of the first sword drawn + For vengeance and for liberty. + + _Lalla Rookh._ + + Buscas en Roma a Roma o peregrino + Y en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas, + Cadaver son las que ostentò murallas + Y tumba de sì propio el Aventino. + + _Sonata de Quevedo._ + +The shriek which Ellen involuntarily uttered brought her maid to her +assistance. Her father and sister were sent for, and soon arrived to +support and to console her. + +Though she had never been able to return the passionate love which her +husband had evinced for her, though she had never loved him as she was +capable of loving, still she was dutifully attached to him, and she +mourned for him with sincerity and truth. She expected to receive some +parting word, some last injunctions, from one who had been so fervently +devoted to her. But nothing of the kind ever reached her. She had +no friends among the _detenus_ to whom she could write, and she was +obliged to rest contented with no farther details of the melancholy +event than the report of Colonel Eversham, who had been one of those +who followed his remains to the grave, and who had, soon afterwards, +effected his own return to England. He told her that Cresford had made +various and desperate attempts to escape, which had all failed, and +that his friends attributed his illness to mental agitation, as he did +not seem to labour under any particular or positive complaint. + +She heard with some satisfaction that his remains had been decently +deposited in the Protestant burying-ground without the town, and that a +considerable number of the most respectable of his fellow prisoners had +attended his funeral. She grieved sincerely for his untimely fate, and +she felt it the more from the belief that his passion for her, and the +jealous feelings which he could not master, had, in all probability, +hastened his end. + +By her marriage settlements she was entitled to a handsome jointure, +for poor Cresford was noble and generous with regard to money, and did +not dole out the jointure of the wife according to the fortune she +brought, but proportioned it to his capabilities of providing for her. +The partners preserved a share in the business for her son, and her +daughter was also amply portioned. + +Ellen continued to live in the pretty cottage in which she had for some +time resided. After a short delay the marriage of Caroline and Mr. +Allenham took place, and all things resumed the even tenor of their +course. Ellen found pleasure in the society of her children, whose +opening intelligence rendered them each day more capable of becoming +her companions, and she devoted herself to the pleasing task of leading +their young hearts and minds in the right way. + +At the end of the first six months of her widowhood she paid a visit +to Mr. and Mrs. Allenham, and it was a cordial to her heart to see +poor Caroline, who had always been frightened and subdued at home, +the joyous creature she now was. Her adoration of her husband knew no +bounds; she thought him the best, the cleverest, the wisest of human +beings. Her loving heart had at length found its proper resting-place, +and her humble service and devotion would have made any man, except +Mr. Allenham, appear in the light of a tyrant. But he was so gentle and +so kind, he smiled so gratefully at the little attentions which she +incessantly paid him, he so habitually preserved towards her the sort +of polished deference with which a man should always treat a woman (in +manner, at least, though he need not the more yield to her in deeds and +actions), that Ellen began to think it was possible for matrimony to be +a much happier state than she had found it. + +It was not long after her arrival at Longbury, that she was one day +walking with her sister and her children in a retired green lane, which +was nearly bowered over by the trees on each side, when a gentleman on +horseback approached. A widow in her weeds is always an object of some +interest, and the horseman was wondering who that graceful creature +could be,—he was watching the sportive boundings of her children, +without attending to his own path, when a bough knocked off his hat +just as he was about to pass, and was trying to ascertain whether the +face corresponded with the form he admired. The little boy ran to +pick it up, and advanced fearlessly towards the horse. Ellen turned +round, half alarmed for her child. The stranger leaped to the ground to +receive the hat, saying at the same time, “Thank you, my fine fellow; +you are a brave boy.” + +Ellen looked up with a pleased smile at the commendation of her darling +George, and the stranger thought he had never in his life seen so +beautiful a vision as that of the young widow with her close cap, her +marble forehead, her straight-marked eyebrows, and those lustrous eyes, +which gleamed so softly from beneath the hanging crape of her widow’s +bonnet. He bowed with profound respect, remounted his horse, and rode +on. + +He longed to look back, but there was something so serenely pure and +holy in the expression of her countenance, that he felt it would be +almost sacrilege to betray even common admiration. + +Caroline, whose career as a country town beauty had made her somewhat +alive to the glances of passers by, could not help saying to Ellen, +“That gentleman seemed quite struck when you turned round; I saw him +give a start of surprise, and the colour came into his face.” + +“Oh, Caroline, how can you talk in that manner? there is something +horrid in the notion of a widow exciting any feeling but pity.” Ellen’s +delicacy shrank from such an idea, and they proceeded on their way in +silence. + +The stranger was a visitor at Lord Coverdale’s, and at dinner he +mentioned having seen this lovely widow in the green lane. “Oh, it must +have been Mrs. Cresford,” said Lady Coverdale; “she is our clergyman’s +sister-in-law, and they say she is very handsome. I am dying to see +her, but she never appears when I call on Mrs. Allenham. Her husband +was one of the _detenus_, and the poor man died six or seven months ago +in France.” + +Mr. Hamilton left Coverdale Park the next day, but + + “Those eyes of deep and most expressive blue,” + +came between him and his midnight dreams + + “Oftener than any other eyes he ever knew.” + +Ellen returned to her cottage, where she still continued to reside, +devoting great part of her liberal jointure to the assistance of +her father, and to the advancement of her brothers in their various +professions. The eldest was active and industrious, and was, through +her means, enabled to become a partner, though but to a small amount, +in the concern. + +The first year of Ellen’s widowhood had more than expired, and she +again visited her sister and Mr. Allenham. She had changed her +mourning, and etiquette no longer required that she should persevere in +her seclusion. + +She now accompanied the Allenhams when they dined at Coverdale Park, +and all who met her were struck by her beauty and attracted by her +manners. Though her countenance still retained its habitually pensive +expression, a smile would now occasionally light up her features, and +he must have been a cold critic who could perceive any fault in the +perfection of her loveliness. + +One day when they arrived at Coverdale Park, Ellen found herself +greeted with a bow of profound respect, and a smile of recognition, +by a tall, distinguished looking man, of whom she had not the +slightest recollection. She acknowledged his salutation in the polite, +half-doubting manner which is usual on such an occasion. Lady Coverdale +immediately introduced him as Mr. Hamilton, and added that he had +returned from a solitary ride last year, quite enchanted with her noble +boy, who had so fearlessly brought him his hat, under the very feet of +his horse. + +Ellen remembered the circumstance, and the name of Hamilton fell on her +ear as being connected with a romantic history, not common in these +unchivalrous days. + +Mr. Hamilton, when scarcely twenty, had taken his only sister to +Naples for the recovery of her health. After having watched her +gradual decline with tender and almost feminine attention, he had +committed to the grave the remains of his only near relation, and found +himself, without any tie, alone in a foreign land, at the moment when +Buonaparte’s invasion of Italy had awakened the love of liberty, which +though slumbering, was not totally extinguished in the souls of a few +of her sons. With the true English spirit which considers as brethren +those engaged in the struggle for freedom, he felt warmly for that +lovely land— + + Italia a cui feo la sorte + Dono infelice di beltà! + +On several occasions he fought as a volunteer among the Italians, +whom, in the enthusiasm of youth, he venerated as the descendants of +the ancient Romans, passing over in his imagination the many centuries +during which the national character had been degraded by submission to +foreign powers. He forgot that the natives of the soil had for ages +past allowed themselves to be mastered and controlled by hireling +troops of strangers, and hoped that if once restored to independence, +they would rise regenerate from their ashes. + +He had formed an ardent friendship with a young Italian, Count Adolfo +Melandrini, who was in command of a small squadron of troops. He +acted as a sort of aide-de-camp to his friend, and fought by his +side with all the generous impetuosity of his character. The star of +Buonaparte, however, was in the ascendant: neither Melandrini’s nor +young Hamilton’s heroism could do more than rouse the spirit of those +immediately around them. + +Many of the states had been compelled to purchase an armistice by the +sacrifice of their treasures of art. Melandrini’s indignation knew no +bounds. His national pride was touched in the tenderest point, and in a +skirmish which occurred shortly afterwards between his squadron and the +advanced-guard of the French, in which his dispirited men were on the +point of yielding, he dashed with headlong desperation into the midst +of the enemy’s troops. + +Hamilton, who loved his friend with passionate devotion, and regarded +him as the one being in whom the spirit of the olden time still +survived, watched over his safety with almost religious veneration. + +They both performed prodigies of valour; but at length Melandrini sank +covered with wounds, and faint from the loss of blood. Hamilton stood +over the body of his friend, defending it with the energy of despair, +and firmly resolved that while he retained life, it should never +fall into the hands of the foe. The troops in the mean time rallied, +and, returning to the charge, drove back the enemy. Hamilton was +found still protecting the almost lifeless form of the Italian chief, +which he never quitted for a moment, but bore in his own arms back +to the entrenchments. His efforts to save his friend were, however, +unavailing: Melandrini had found the death he sought, and only survived +long enough to express his gratitude to Hamilton, whose gallant feat +was soon noised abroad, and reached the ears of many who were not +personally acquainted with him. + +The surrender of Mantua put an end to all idea of further resistance. +Italy allowed herself quietly to be plundered of all her most precious +and holy ornaments, even including the famous image of our Lady of +Loretto, and Hamilton, in disgust abandoning the wretched land, +returned to his own free and happy country. His paternal estates were +considerable, and he resolved to devote himself in private to the +welfare of those who were dependant upon him, and in public to the +preservation of that liberty which he believed to be the basis of all +that ennobles man. He distinguished himself in parliament, at first, +perhaps, by too great vehemence, on the liberal side; but his own +clear head and maturer judgment soon tempered what might have been +extravagant in his enthusiasm, and at the age of nine-and-twenty he was +as practically useful a member of society, as he had originally been a +romantic advocate of liberty. + +Ellen, who long ago had accidentally heard the history of his +achievements, looked on him with a certain degree of respect, as +the hero who, to her girlish imagination, had realised the stories +of Paladins of old. It was with pleasure, therefore, that she found +herself seated by him at dinner. + +His appearance and his address did not disappoint her. His flashing eye +seemed formed “to threaten and command;” his athletic form might well, +single-handed, have kept at bay a host of common men; while she could +imagine that from those expressive lips might flow streams of eloquence +to sway the listening senate. Still he was peculiarly simple and +straight-forward: with all his fame about him he had a frank manner, as +though what was said by him, carried with it no more weight than if it +had been uttered by the most undistinguished individual in the room. +Yet every thing he said was well said; all showed reflection, reading, +sound judgment, and refined taste. He was, in all respects, so superior +to any one with whom Ellen had ever yet been thrown, that he appeared +to her a being of another order. + +The enthusiasm which we have described as being a leading feature of +his character, although tempered by judgment in political matters, +was still all there; and the impression produced by the first sight +of Ellen in her weeds, was not weakened by further acquaintance. The +lightning of her smile, when usurping the place of her usually pensive +expression, reminded him of the days of youthful romance, when he and +his friend Melandrini used to study Petrarch together, and reading of +the “lampeggiar del angelico riso,” would picture to themselves what +must have been that Laura, who could render the poet, + + Si da se stesso diviso + E fatto singolar da l’altra gente. + +He now thought, if she had resembled Ellen, there was nothing to marvel +at in the poets’s long and hopeless devotion. + +During the two years which she had passed in retirement, she had read +a great deal; and the education which she had thus given herself had +tended more to cultivate her mind than all the accomplishments with +which governesses cram the common run of young ladies. The more he saw +of her, the more he became convinced that the qualities of her head and +heart fully corresponded with the loveliness of her person. + +Lord and Lady Coverdale found their most agreeable friend, Mr. +Hamilton, vastly more willing to prolong his visit than usual. He +seemed much struck with the excellence of Mr. Allenham’s opinions +upon the subject of the poor laws, and he frequently walked to the +parsonage, to discuss the subject with him. + +The eagerness with which Mr. Hamilton accepted their invitation to +repeat his visit made them begin to suspect that the youthful widow +had more to say to the attractions of the parsonage than Mr. Allenham +and the poor laws. Still, though he evidently admired Mrs. Cresford, +there was nothing which could justify any reports. He was so afraid +of alarming her by any indiscreet avowal of his preference, that he +continued merely to seek the society of the family in general. + +Caroline, however, who was not so very delicate upon such subjects as +her sister, could refrain no longer. + +“Well, Ellen! I suppose, now you have been seven months out of your +weeds, I may venture to say that Mr. Hamilton admires you? and it is my +belief, though I am not apt to place much reliance on men in general, +it is my belief he intends to propose to you.” + +“Oh no, Caroline! he has never said any thing like it.” But Ellen’s +heart beat quicker, and the colour mounted in her cheeks. + +“Yes, yes! you think so too! You are blushing ten times more than when +poor Mr. Cresford proposed.” (Caroline always disliked Mr. Cresford, +for she was exceedingly afraid of him.) + +“Hush, Caroline! Do not speak so of my poor husband! He was very fond +of me; and nothing in the world should ever induce me to do any thing +that was the least disrespectful towards his memory.” + +“Well, but you are not bound to remain a widow, from the age of +three-and-twenty, for evermore!” + +“I am not out of mourning yet, Caroline.” + +No more passed; but this conversation made Ellen appear more conscious, +and less at her ease in Mr. Hamilton’s presence, than she had +previously done. From this sign he gathered hope. + +The remarks of friends, the quizzing of acquaintances, the reports +of the world, greatly accelerate matters when there already exists a +real preference, though they often completely nip a slight one in its +bud. There is a particular moment at which they fan the flame, and a +previous one at which they blow it out. + + +CHAPTER V. + + What voice is this, thou evening gale, + That mingles with thy rising wail, + And as it passes sadly seems + The faint return of youthful dreams. + + JOANNA BAILLIE. + +Mr. Hamilton’s manner became more and more marked, and before the +expiration of his second visit to Lord Coverdale’s, be one day took +courage and spoke his sentiments to Ellen. + +She received his avowal with all the confusion of a girl who, for the +first time, hears expressions of love addressed to her. It was that +now, for the first time, she felt the passion herself. She could not +deny her preference, and he was made happy by hearing from her own lips +that she esteemed him, that she believed she could be happy as his wife. + +But she persisted in a resolution to see him no more till the two years +of her widowhood had expired, and till then not even to correspond with +him. He thought her delicacy rather over-strained—he thought her almost +prudish—but a man does not love or value a woman the less for erring on +the side of decorum, especially when he is confident he has undivided +possession of her heart; and the speaking eyes, the trembling hand, the +faltering voice, all assured him that such was the case. + +She made him promise to confide to no one their engagement, and he +tore himself away, to get through the four months which intervened as +best he might. He almost repented having spoken to her at all, and at +moments doubted whether the delightful certainty of being loved quite +compensated for the loss of her society. + +She, on her part, half repented of her decision in banishing him, and +quite repented of her prohibition to correspond. Her affection for him +increased rapidly in absence. This is frequently the case with women. +When in the presence of the person they love, reserve and modesty +prevent their freely giving way to what they feel, but in absence they +dwell without fear on every word and look, and the imagination supplies +food to the feelings. + +Ellen consulted with herself whether she should impart what had +occurred to her sister, and, upon the whole, she thought it best to +do so. It seemed unkind to conceal such an important circumstance from +one who took so tender an interest in all that concerned her, and, +moreover, she should have some one to whom she could expatiate upon the +perfections of Mr. Hamilton. + +Caroline was half angry at not having been at once let into the secret, +but she was so pleased at the prospect of her sister’s enjoying such +happiness as she now knew, that she soon got over her little vexation. + +As Ellen expected, she proved an invaluable confidante in one respect; +she listened with delight to any tale of love; but in another respect +she rendered the task she had imposed upon herself more difficult, +as she was constantly arguing with Ellen upon the over-strained +delicacy of sending Mr. Hamilton away for the next few months. But +the more Ellen longed to break it, the more firmly she adhered to her +determination. She accused herself of ingratitude towards him who was +the father of her children, in feeling so very happy as she did, and +she resolved to pay this tribute of respect to his memory. + +The four months elapsed. Ellen had remained all this time with her +sister, and it was to Longbury that Mr. Hamilton returned when the time +of his probation was over. + +If Ellen’s passion had increased in absence, Mr. Hamilton’s had not +cooled, and never were two people more thoroughly attached, more +romantically in love, and what, in the long run, conduces still more to +lasting happiness, more entirely suited in disposition, than Ellen and +her future husband. + +Their approaching marriage was now declared, and Lady Coverdale rallied +Mr. Hamilton upon his thirst for information concerning the poor laws. + +Captain Wareham, who was an affectionate father, although an irritable +man, rejoiced in the bright prospects of his daughter, and he was +much gratified by the connection. Mr. Hamilton’s situation in life +was such as to render his alliance eligible to any one, in however +high a station; and to a man who had been reduced by poverty below +his original position in the scale of society, it was peculiarly +satisfactory. + +The marriage was to take place at Longbury, and after the delays +necessary for settlements, &c. the day was fixed. Mr. Allenham +performed the ceremony. Her father gave her away. There was no pomp; +Ellen wished to have the whole quiet and unostentatious. Deeply as +she was attached to Mr. Hamilton—confident as she was in his love for +her—much as her reason, as well as her heart, approved of the step she +was about to take,—a vague dread came over her as the day approached. +Sounds as of other days were ringing in her ears. At times she almost +fancied she heard the cathedral bells of her native place, the chime of +the Minster clock striking the quarters. + +Who has not, without any concatenation of ideas which he can trace, +when dropping asleep perhaps, or when plunged in a dreamy reverie, felt +as it were the vibration of well-known sounds, and with effort roused +himself to the recollection that he was far away from the home which +was thus brought to his mind? + +On the eventful morning, the full deep swell of the cathedral bells, +which rang out so sonorously on the morning of her first marriage, +seemed to make themselves heard through the merry peal of the three or +four tinkling bells which were all the boast of Longbury church. + +As Mr. Allenham pronounced the words, “Those whom God hath joined +together, let no man put asunder,” that sound again rang in her ears—a +mist came over her eyes—she fancied it was Mr. Cresford’s hand in which +her’s was placed, and she fainted in her husband’s arms. + + +CHAPTER VI. + + For contemplation he, and valour formed; + For softness she, and sweet attractive grace; + He for God only, she for God in him. + + MILTON. + +The last few words of the ceremony were quickly hurried over. Ellen +was supported into the vestry, where she quickly recovered; and the +circumstance of a bride’s fainting was not an event of such rare +occurrence as to excite much surprise. + +Mr. Hamilton’s place was situated in a lovely country on the borders +of Sussex and Surrey. Hanging woods, extensive oak copses mixed with +birch, sandy lanes, hedges which are enlivened by large hollies with +their glossy leaves and their red berries—wild patches of heath, +studded with juniper bushes—fern and innumerable wild flowers in +the shaws and dingles—banks blue with violets, and dells yellow with +primroses, are the characteristics of that most enjoyable part of +England. + +Belhanger, which was the name of his place, was in the Elizabethan +style. A spacious hall, in which was an immense fire-place, surmounted +by the antlers of some patriarchal stag, communicated with a large, +low, oak dining-room, and through some smaller apartments to a +drawing-room, which was hung with tapestry, and adorned with beautiful +oak carving; the crossings of the beams in the ceiling were ornamented +with wooden rosettes, in the most antique taste, while the rest of +the room was provided with all the essentials requisite for modern +comfort. A broad and massive staircase of black oak led, as is usual +with buildings of that period, to a gallery on the upper floor, which +extended the whole length of the south front, and which, with its two +fire-places, and its innumerable windows of all shapes and sizes, +admitting every ray of sun, was one of the most delightful winter +apartments imaginable. + +The exterior of the mansion was as irregular as the most ardent lover +of the picturesque could desire. It was built of grey-stone, and +composed of gable-ends of every possible angle. As its name indicated, +it was built upon the side of a hill, which had originally been covered +with hanging woods. The woods had been partially cleared away near the +house, and a sloping lawn led down to the small but romantic deer-park +in the valley. + +Ellen thought Belhanger the very _beau ideal_ of an English manorial +house, and, if she had not been too much in love, and too happy in the +affections of such a man as Mr. Hamilton, to find room in her heart for +emotions that were not connected with him, she would have thought the +possession of such a place as Belhanger an additional pleasure. + +The poor people, too, were a more primæval race than those who have +not lived in that part of the world would expect to find at so short a +distance from the metropolis. The bright blue smock-frocks which are +there the common dress of the men, and the red cloaks which the women +still wear, gave a picturesque appearance to the peasant congregation +as they trooped out of church, and wound down the steep road, by the +beech-crowned knoll. + +Ellen was charmed with all she saw, but, perhaps, she would have been +equally charmed had her home been less perfect in itself, for she had +that within which would have made a cottage appear to her a palace—a +desert a paradise. + +The judicious kindness of Mr. Hamilton to her children, the eldest +of whom was now six years old, gave him still another claim on her +affections and her gratitude. He counselled with her on the best +course of education, the proper method of training a boy’s mind, and +entered into the subject with all a father’s eagerness and anxiety. +Ellen rejoiced that she had given her son such a protector, and looked +forward to his making, under such guidance, a useful and an exemplary +member of society. + +Mr. Hamilton found in Ellen new charms, new virtues, each succeeding +day. She was one of those shrinking and sensitive creatures who cannot +put forth half their powers of pleasing except in the intimacy of +domestic life, and under the fostering hand of kindness. Before her +first marriage she had been but a child, a timid frightened child—while +the wife of Mr. Cresford, although adored by himself, he had been so +fearful of her appearing too attractive in the eyes of others, that +she had acquired the habit of trying to glide through life unobserved, +in order to avoid any ebullitions of jealousy on his part, rather than +of attempting to shine as an agreeable person. She was astonished and +delighted when she saw her husband’s expressive eyes follow her as she +spoke, and gleam on her with kindly pride when others seemed to admire +her. + +Life was to her a new state of existence: not that she had hitherto +been an unhappy person; she had always repeated to herself how much +cause she had for gratitude: but the inward dancing of the heart she +had never before experienced, and she often said to her husband, +“Algernon, you make me too happy. This cannot last; something must +happen: I do not deserve to be so blessed above the rest of womankind.” + +He would reply with a smile, “Do you fancy, Ellen, you are the only +woman whose husband loves her?” + +“No, but I am the only woman in the world who am loved by you. Am I +not?” she added, with a playful glance of entire confidence in his +devotion. + +When parliament met, they repaired to London, and she then moved in a +sphere vastly more elevated than that to which she had been introduced +as Mrs. Cresford. But she had so much native grace and dignity, that +she did not appear to be transplanted into a new soil, but rather to be +now restored to that which was natural and congenial to her. + +She had the rapture of hearing her husband spoken of with respect, and +of seeing him treated with deference, by every one. By his own party +he was looked up to as one of its most influential members, more from +the weight of his personal character than from that of his property and +situation, although they also were of considerable importance. By his +opponents he was considered as the one fair man, who, though decided +in his own opinions, was ready to render justice to the uprightness of +those who differed from him. There can be no condition of life happier +than that of Ellen at this moment, none more respectable in the scale +of human beings, than that of the wife of an Englishman of unblemished +reputation, who holds a distinguished position in the senate of that +nation whose laws and constitution have been the admiration, and the +model, of nearly every civilised country in both hemispheres. + +Ellen again became a mother, and the birth of a little girl, if +possible, cemented more strongly the bond of union between herself, her +husband, and her children. + +Nearly two years had now elapsed since she had become the happy wife of +Mr. Hamilton; and he had for nearly two years enjoyed the society of +the lovely and devoted woman for whom his affection daily increased, as +her valuable qualities continually opened upon him. She was adored by +all around. The poor showered blessings upon her name whenever it was +mentioned,—their richer neighbours had nothing but acts and words of +kindness to record of her. Her eldest brother took every opportunity +that his avocations allowed him, to run down to Belhanger. Her father, +when with Mr. Hamilton, seemed to lose his captiousness; for there is +a magic in very high breeding which renders any ebullition of temper +almost impracticable. Matilda, who was become a fine showy girl, often +passed some time with her sister Ellen, and had profited much by her +example and advice. + +Mr. and Mrs. Allenham were at this moment in the house; Lord and +Lady Coverdale, and their daughter, had just arrived, and some other +persons, political friends of Mr. Hamilton’s. + +Lady Coverdale had been telling Ellen she thought her the most +fortunate woman in the world; she had been speaking of Mr. Hamilton, +whom she had known from his infancy, in terms which even Ellen +thought worthy of the theme, and had been saying how happy she should +esteem herself if she could ever see her daughter blessed with such +a husband, and possessed of such a home; Algernon’s friends had been +gaily complimenting him upon his good taste, and his good fortune, +and declaring they had sufficient discrimination to appreciate such a +woman, if they could only have the good fortune to meet with any one +at all resembling Mrs. Hamilton, when one morning at breakfast Ellen +received a letter from her brother, enclosing one directed to her as +Mrs. Cresford, and addressed to the house in London which she had +formerly inhabited. + +The post-mark was foreign, and there was something in a letter +addressed to her by that name, which struck her as being so strange +that she did not open it, but folding it again in her brother’s +envelope, she waited till she could retire to peruse its contents. She +continued to perform her part of hostess at the breakfast-table, and +told herself it must be a begging letter, from some one, perhaps, who +had known Mr. Cresford at Verdun. + +Still the letter haunted her, and she could scarcely smile at the gay +jests which passed round the breakfast-table, or listen to the news +and gossip contained in the correspondence of the other members of +the society. The outside was so covered with post-marks, and various +directions, that she had not remarked in what sort of hand the name +was written, and she quietly took it out of the envelope, just to see +if it did look like a begging letter. Her former name always made her +shudder, she could not tell why, and she had often reproached herself +for the feeling, as an unkind and ungrateful one towards the memory +of him who was gone. It was that strange instinct which had made her +so quickly put this letter aside, and it was with an unaccountable +trepidation that she again drew it forth to examine the hand-writing. +She looked and looked again, till her eyes swam. It was very like the +writing which was only too familiar to her. It was,—it must be his +writing,—she could not be mistaken; only it was impossible.—quite +impossible. Yet it might contain his last behests, which had, from +some cause, never been delivered before. She could not open it. She +hastily concealed it, and turning deadly pale, she sat, scarcely +conscious of what passed around her, till the last person had been +helped to his last cup of tea. + +She longed to know the contents, but there came a sickness over her +heart, which made her postpone the dreaded moment. At length the +company rose one by one, and straggled towards the windows. She +summoned all her might, and walked steadily to the door—she sought her +own boudoir, and seating herself upon the sofa, she again unfolded the +envelope, she again gazed on the outside—she had not yet courage to +break the seal. + +There was something dreadful in thus receiving the dying injunctions of +one husband, one who had loved her, too, so passionately, in reading +the ebullitions of his vehement affection, when she was the adoring +wife of another. She felt as though he were about to speak to her from +the grave. + +She looked at the post-marks. There were upon it, in various coloured +inks, Gratz, Vienna, Dresden, Magdeburg, Hamburgh. No Verdun post-mark! +How strange! Wonder, terror, conquered all other feelings—she tore open +the seal—it was indeed his own hand-writing!—the date, Gratz, June +1808—What could it mean? She looked at the end—it was his own, very +own name!—it was addressed to her! It began, “My beloved wife, my own +Ellen!” She could read no more; the letter dropped from her hand, and +she fainted on the floor. + +She was in this state, when Mr. Hamilton, alarmed by her paleness at +breakfast, sought her in her boudoir. He raised her from the ground, +and calling her maid, soon succeeded in restoring her to herself—To +herself? No! She could never again be what she had been! + +She gazed around with wild and haggard eyes; then motioning the maid to +leave the room, and watching with agonized fear till the double doors +were both closed, she screamed rather than said,— + +“He is alive! he is alive! I am not your wife, Algernon! I am not +yours!” and she threw herself into his arms, she clung to him, she +clasped her arms around his neck, with desperate energy, as if she +thought thus to rivet the tie she felt was severed. + +“Ellen! dearest Ellen! my own gentle Ellen, are you raving? You must be +ill! What is the matter? You really frighten me!” he added, attempting +to smile. + +“Look there, Algernon! there it lies! I have only read the first line, +and would to heaven I had died! Oh! if I could but die now, with my +head on your bosom,—your arms around me,—my eyes fixed on yours! +Dearest, dearest Algernon! I love you better than any thing else in the +whole world—better, ten thousand times better than myself! Words cannot +express the thousandth part of the agonizing love I feel for you! and +it is all a crime! Look there! read that!” and she pressed her hands +against her eyeballs, as if to exclude light and consciousness. + +This burst of passion was so unlike his retiring Ellen, whose +affection, though evinced by every action of her life, implied by +all she said, had still seemed frightened back into her heart, if in +any moment of tenderness she was called upon to couch it into actual +language, that Mr. Hamilton was lost in astonishment! In dread and +wonder he took the letter in his hand—he saw the beginning—he looked at +the date—he staggered to a chair, and exclaiming, “Merciful Heaven!” he +too remained stupified, unable to utter, and scarcely to think, or to +comprehend the extent of the misfortune which had befallen them. + +At length reason in some measure resumed its sway, and he suggested, +“May it not be a forgery? Are you sure it is his hand?” A momentary +light flashed athwart her mind; she seized the paper, and they sat +down together to the perusal of that letter, on which their fates so +completely hung! + + +CHAPTER VII. + + Son ilusion mis dichas + Son realidad mis penas. + +It was with difficulty that Algernon and Ellen could fix their eyes +upon the paper; every thing swam before them. They read in silence +the following letter—with what feelings may be better imagined than +described. + + “My beloved Wife, my own Ellen, + + “You must have been astonished at not hearing from me the result of + the desperate attempt to escape from Verdun, of which I informed you. + It succeeded! so far, at least, as getting safe out of that horrible + dungeon, disguised as one of the mourners at my own funeral, according + to the plan I hinted at in my letter by Maitland, and which he + promised to describe to you more fully when he reached England. I made + my way across the Rhine into Germany; but I found the examinations + so very strict, and the officers at the custom-houses so exceedingly + suspicious, that I fancied I should be safer if I advanced farther + into Germany, and tried to work my way to Hamburgh. + + “I was, however, almost immediately seized as a spy. My ignorance of + the language was supposed to be a feint, and I was passed on, from + authority to authority, from governor to governor, till I believe they + began to think me a person of great importance. + + “I was at length cast into a prison at this place; and here I have now + languished more than four years. + + “I did not venture to write to you while wandering in France. All + letters being opened, they might have led to my being traced and + identified; and from the moment I was in the power of the Germans, I + was not allowed the use of pen and paper, lest there might be some + hidden meaning in any thing I might despatch to England. + + “I have now endured four years of mental anguish, such as man has + seldom survived. There hangs a mist over some of the horrible + years spent in this abode of misery. The wretches who drove me to + desperation, treated me as a madman for resenting their cruelty, and I + found myself at one time pinioned in a straight waistcoat! + + “Was it not enough to madden a cooler head than mine, to gall a calmer + heart than mine, to be thus severed from the creature one adores, to + know one’s lovely wife, left lonely and unprotected, in the bloom of + youth, amid all the temptations of this corrupt world? Oh, Ellen! I + shall go mad if I think of that! But you are virtuous, Ellen!—Yes, + yes—if there is virtue in woman it is in you. And yet—five long years + of absence! Oh! you will have forgotten me. You cannot have loved me, + and me alone, in all these years! Oh God! if you should have loved + another! My brain goes round! Be faithful to me, Ellen, as you value + my reason, and your own welfare, here and hereafter. + + “But I am altered, fearfully altered. I am grown grey; I am twenty + years older than when we parted. But I love you, Ellen—I love you with + more ardour, more burning, maddening fervour, than when I first bore + you in your maiden bloom from the home of your childhood. + + “Write to me, my love, my wife, my own, own blessed wife! Your letter + will reach me in safety if you inclose it to the new governor, who is + a kind-hearted man, and has given me permission to bid you do so. He + pities me. He will stand my friend. He promises to forward a petition + which I am now drawing up, direct to the Emperor, and a ray of hope + has dawned upon me. I may yet return to you, my Ellen, and to my + children— + + “In life and in death, + + “Your adoring husband, + + “CHARLES CRESFORD.” + +Ellen and Algernon spoke not—moved not. They sat transfixed—they did +not venture to raise their eyes to each other. Neither could entertain +any doubt of the authenticity of the letter. It would be folly, worse +than folly, to utter what neither could believe. They who had been all +the world to each other—they whose love had been so pure that angels +might have looked down from heaven and smiled upon it—what were they +now? They dared not think. + +At length Ellen murmured in a low and almost choked voice— + +“Is he my husband, Algernon? Does the law say he is my husband?” + +“Ellen, do not make me speak my own doom.” + +“It is enough,” she said, “and my child is—” she paused for a moment, +and after a short struggle, continued,—“is illegitimate!” + +He was silent. + +“Oh, merciful Heaven!” she screamed, “it cannot be true,” and she +started from her seat with a wild look of hope. “It is a dream! Tell me +so, Algernon, my own Algernon, my husband, tell me so. Speak to me!” +and she threw herself on her knees at his feet, with clasped hands, +and beseeching eyes, looking up in his face. + +He lifted her from the ground, and whispered,—“We can fly, Ellen. There +are other lands than this. There are countries where we may be beyond +the reach of British laws, where we may have the clear blue sky of +heaven above us, where Nature pours forth her treasures to man with a +bounteous hand; where we may live in freedom from the trammels of human +institutions, but bound by the most sacred ties—our own vows of eternal +constancy, which surely have been registered above.” + +“Live with you, as your mistress! No, never, Algernon!” and she drew up +her slender form to its full height, and stood the very personification +of female purity and dignity. “Never, Algernon! Any thing would be more +tolerable than to have you cease to respect me.” + +She seemed to have regained her self-command. An almost supernatural +strength for a moment inspired her. + +“Now what is to be done? What is it our duty to do? But oh! the shame, +the dreadful shame, of being exposed to the world as having lived for +two years in sin.” + +At this moment the voices of the children were heard in the passage; +they flung open the door, and came bounding joyously into the room with +the wild flowers they had gathered in their walk. The sight of them +softened and overcame the mother,—she burst into a flood of tears. + +“They are his children,” she exclaimed, “and he will take them from me. +I know he will—whichever way I turn fresh horrors surround me!” + +The poor little things, astonished at their reception, stood aghast. +Mr. Hamilton hastily bade them leave their mother, told them she was +not well, and hurried them out of the room. + +“Ellen, dearest Ellen,” he said, and approached her. He took her hand, +when she started away. + +“You must not touch me, Algernon! It is a crime. You say yourself I am +his wife, and he is coming home. Algernon,” she said, in a clear, low, +sepulchral voice, speaking very slowly, “I cannot be forced to live +with him again. No law can compel me to do that. Tell me the law,—let +me know the truth.” + +“I cannot say exactly; we will inquire. Compose yourself; let us do +nothing rashly. Perhaps he may never return,—perhaps he may not live to +return; we do not know.” + +“But I am not your wife?” + +“This letter may still be a forgery.” + +“No, no, it is too true! and I am not your wife,” she repeated, with +the accent of utter hopelessness. + +He stood in silence; he could not say she was. He endured agony equal +to her’s, except that he did not feel the guilt and the remorse which +were added to all her other sufferings. They remained silent till she +could endure it no longer. “Algernon, no law can be so cruel as to +separate us: it is impossible. After all, we were lawfully married in a +church: no one forbade the banns,—no one answered the awful adjuration, +‘Let him now speak, or ever after hold his peace.’ Yes, we must be +lawfully married. We are, are we not? Say so, my own Algernon, my +husband?” and she wound herself round him, and looked up in his face +with all the winning tenderness she could put into those melting eyes. +“I am your wife, your wedded wife, am I not, dearest?” and she tried to +smile, a sweet, sad, heart-rending smile. + +This was too much for poor Hamilton. He took her in his arms, he +pressed her to his bosom. “You are my own Ellen, my life, my love, the +joy of my heart; without you life would be intolerable.” + +“I am your wife, dearest; say so,—in pity say so!” + +“Yes, yes, you are! In spite of ordinances, human and divine, you are; +you shall be my wife!” + +“No,” she said, slowly shaking her head—“no! if you speak so, then I am +not your wife.” + +She gradually relaxed her hold, her arms dropped by her side, and she +sank into a chair. + +He looked on her for a few moments with a fixed gaze of despair, then +striking his forehead he rushed out of the room, darted down the +stairs, out of the house, and plunged into the most retired part of the +park, where he wildly paced the ground, beating his bosom, and almost +dashing his head against the trees. + +When Ellen saw him hurry from her presence she gave one shriek. + +“He is gone!” she cried; “gone—I have lost him for ever!” + +In the mean time, the maid, who had heard her master quit the +apartment, came to inquire how her mistress felt after her attack of +faintness. She was terrified when she saw her countenance. However, +her entrance had in some measure the effect of forcing Ellen to rouse +herself. She begged her maid to leave her, assuring her she was quite +recovered. She rose, and staggered to the window to prevent meeting the +eyes of the faithful Stanmore, who had lived with her from the time she +first married. + +Stanmore respectfully retired, but she was so much alarmed at the state +in which she found her mistress, that she went to Mrs. Allenham’s room, +to tell her that she feared Mrs. Hamilton was seriously indisposed. + +Caroline hastened to her sister, and found her dissolved in tears, +which at length flowed copiously. To all Caroline’s questions she +answered only by continued weeping, and sobs which succeeded each other +so quickly that she could not have uttered, if she had wished to do so. + +The fresh air had in some measure restored Mr. Hamilton. He had +recovered the powers of his mind. He had reflected that many unforeseen +accidents might still prevent the return of Mr. Cresford; that the +idea of his being alive, if once noised abroad, would throw a shade +over their future lives, even should it eventually prove an unfounded +notion. He persuaded himself once more it might be a trick for the +purpose of extorting money upon the supposition that he would attempt +to bribe the first husband to silence. He was not acquainted with Mr. +Cresford’s hand-writing, and his hopes revived. At all events, the +report once circulated could not be crushed, and he hastened back to +the house, if possible, to calm Ellen, and to bind her to secrecy. + +He entered her boudoir just as Mrs. Allenham was trying to extract from +her the cause of her distress, when Ellen, springing from her seat, +rushed into Algernon’s arms, exclaiming, + +“You are not gone for ever. Thank God, I see you again!” + +Mrs. Allenham looked on in surprise. Could it be that Ellen and her +husband had quarrelled? They whose conjugal felicity had become +almost proverbial? Such scenes never occurred between herself and +Mr. Allenham! Ellen was as good-tempered as she was; and though +Mr. Hamilton was a more high-flown romantic sort of man than Mr. +Allenham—not so religious perhaps—not so much in the habit of +regulating his feelings by the exact measure of duty, still he was an +excellent man, and a good-tempered man. What could it all mean? + +However, she felt she could be of little service, and that as Ellen had +some one with her who would take care of her, should she again feel +unwell, she left them together. + +“Compose yourself, dearest Ellen,” Mr. Hamilton said, in a soothing +tone; “I have much to say, and you must listen attentively to my +arguments.” + +“Any thing to hear your voice—to still look upon you,” and she seated +herself opposite to him, and fixed her eyes upon him, as if she would +drink in every word which fell from his lips, and indelibly fix in her +mind every lineament of that face which she was soon no more to see. + +“Listen to me. There is a possibility that this letter may not be +authentic.” + +She shook her head sorrowfully. He continued, + +“All things are possible. Then there is more than a possibility, that, +if alive, he whose name I cannot bring myself to speak, may never +reach England. His health seems to be impaired,—he may sink under his +sufferings. If he should never return, why should we have wilfully +proclaimed to the world our disgrace?—for disgrace it will be in the +eyes of the world, though no guilt is ours.” + +“But we should be guilty now, knowing what we do know.” + +“We are not quite sure: let us wait for confirmation before we breathe +one word concerning this letter to any living being. Remember, that +if we were to learn the next day that the poor prisoner had fallen +a victim to his miseries, that he was at rest, though we might then +be lawfully united, our child, our innocent child, would, by our own +imprudence, be proved illegitimate.” + +Ellen’s countenance changed: she listened with a persuaded air. Mr. +Hamilton resumed, + +“We must, for her sake, hide for the present all we feel; we must, +if possible, assume a calm exterior, and trust to Providence for the +issue.” + +“I wish I knew what was right. And yet what you tell me must be so. +But I cannot,—I cannot show my face to-day; I am sure if I did, I +should betray all.” After a pause, she added, “I will tell you what you +must do, Algernon, though it breaks my heart to say so:—you must either +allow me to pay my father a visit, or you must yourself go away for a +time,—make a tour,—visit the lakes,—go to Scotland. We must not live +together, till this dreadful mystery is cleared up, till our fate is +ascertained one way or another.” + +“What! leave the company we have staying in the house? Impossible, +without exciting such observations.” + +“They will be gone in three days, and then—then—Yes, it is better to be +miserable only, than to be miserable and guilty also!” + +“If it is your wish, Ellen, I will leave you. It is best I should be +the one to go: if you were to quit this roof it would feel more like a +real and final separation.” + +“My fainting fit will be an excuse for my not appearing to-day. Indeed +I do feel so ill. I could not bear my part in society. To-morrow I will +try to do as you wish. I will strive, for the sake of my poor little +Agnes.” + +The whole of that day was spent by the wretched Ellen in a state of +stupefaction. The misfortune which had befallen her was too great and +too overwhelming to be completely comprehended. Her overstrained nerves +could bear no more, and she sat in a state of comparative calmness. She +expressed no wish to see her children, no desire for any thing, and +Mrs. Allenham bade the maid remain in the adjoining apartment. + +She returned to the company herself, and informed them of her sister’s +sudden indisposition. She tried, with all the tact of which she was +mistress, to extract from Lady Coverdale whether Mr. Hamilton had ever +been subject to starts of temper, but she elicited nothing from her, +but a recapitulation of his virtues. + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + We that did nothing study but the way + To love each other, with which thoughts the day + Rose with delight to us, and with them set, + Must learn the cruel art how to forget. + ——Like turtle doves + Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears + Unwind a love knit up in many years. + Now turn we each from each—so fare our hearts, + As the divorced soul from its body parts. + + _The Surrender._ + +Mr. Hamilton had half succeeded in persuading himself the whole +thing was a cunning forgery. The story seemed so improbable. No +letter had ever arrived from Cresford—no Maitland had ever brought +any intelligence of this attempt to escape. Colonel Eversham had +seen him carried to the grave—the funeral had taken place at night, +by Mr. Cresford’s dying request, he said. How unlikely, whatever +might subsequently have been the difficulties of his situation, +that if alive, he should really have allowed so much time to elapse +without writing to the wife with whom he was so madly in love! These +reflections all presented themselves to his mind, and by dinner-time +he was able to take his accustomed seat, and to do the honours of his +table with tolerable self-possession. + +Towards evening Mrs. Allenham was alarmed by a recurrence of Ellen’s +faintness: it was immediately after her children had been brought in to +wish her good night. + +Mrs. Allenham was urgent that a physician should be sent for. Ellen +appeared to revive, to express her vehement desire that no one should +be summoned. She only wished that her maid should sleep on a sofa in +her room, in case she should be worse in the night. Mrs. Allenham +thought Mr. Hamilton rather remiss in not sending for medical advice. + +“Mr. Allenham,” she thought, “though he does not make such a fuss about +his love for me, would never let me be as ill as Ellen is, without +sending for all the doctors in the neighbourhood; but different men +have different ways, and one must take people as one finds them.” + +One thing, however, she resolved upon, that if Ellen was not better +the next morning, she would speak her mind openly to Mr. Hamilton, and +insist on his having the very best advice. + +Ellen was no sooner in her bed than she dropped into a profound +slumber, from which she awoke early the next morning, refreshed in +body, and with only a vague recollection of the tremendous change which +had taken place in her fate. By degrees her actual situation opened +upon her. + +How dreadful is the waking from a real sound sleep of forgetfulness, +after any severe misfortune has befallen us! The temporary oblivion of +our sorrows scarcely compensates for the agony of recollection. + +She was, however, aware of the necessity of concealing what she felt, +if she wished to preserve the illegitimacy of her child from becoming +public, while there was yet a hope of its remaining unknown. She passed +some time in humble prayer, imploring guidance from above, judgment to +know what was right, and strength to execute it. + +She rose from prayer in a calmer frame of mind—she felt herself +fortified for the task before her— she thought that if Algernon left +her at Belhanger alone, there could be no crime in delaying the +promulgation of the dreadful secret, for the chance of saving herself +and her child from unmerited disgrace. + +She went down to breakfast, and she made an attempt to smile in return +to the salutations and inquiries of her friends. She was in the act +of assuring them she was quite well, when Mr. Hamilton entered the +apartment. She started as she heard his well-known turn of the lock, +she faltered in her speech as he entered, her paleness was replaced by +a vivid glow, which overspread her face, but she turned not her eyes +upon him; she studiously avoided meeting his; the first sound of his +voice thrilled through her very being. + +She took her station at the breakfast-table, upon the same spot where +yesterday she had received that fatal intelligence which had so +completely broken up her happiness. She took her station as mistress of +the mansion to which she had no longer any right. She felt she was an +impostor. + +Mr. Hamilton, who had the preceding day buoyed himself up with +something more of hope than she had done, had passed a night of anxious +restlessness. Sleep had not for one moment weighed down his eyelids; +and when at length Ellen ventured almost by stealth to take one look at +that beloved countenance, her heart was pierced to see it so wan, so +haggard. + +Their object was to avoid exciting remark. A plan was proposed, and +acceded to, of driving to see a fine castle in the neighbourhood, in +which was a collection of pictures. Ellen accompanied the ladies in an +open carriage, and Mr. Hamilton took the gentlemen across the country +on horseback. + +While others were engaged in admiring some of the masterpieces of art, +Ellen found herself near Mr. Hamilton. + +“Algernon, you look very ill,” she said: “it breaks my heart to see +you!” + +“Can it be otherwise, Ellen? Even you can scarcely know the tortures I +endure.” + +“We must not speak to each other. I shall lose the self-command I have +so struggled to obtain. But I have behaved well, Algernon. I have +conducted myself according to your wishes?” + +“Yes! yes! May God bless you, dearest and best! I cannot trust myself +to say another word.” + +He hastened away, and went to the stables, as though to see for the +horses and the barouche. Ellen busied herself in examining a picture, +of which she did not see one form, and drove back her bursting tears, +and stilled the tumult of her soul. + +On their way home, Lady Coverdale was eloquent on the beauties of this +part of the world, on the charms of Belhanger, and discussed with much +interest the plan for the flower-garden which Ellen was making along +the terrace in front of the house. + +“When your shrubs have grown, and the creepers cover that bowered +walk to the left, it will be quite beautiful. Are you not always +very impatient at the slow growth of plants? One has to wait so long +before one sees any result produced. I think it is a great objection +to gardening. However, you are very young, and you may look forward to +many years of enjoying your improvements.” + +These simple words shot like daggers through Ellen’s heart. She could +not reply, and notwithstanding all her efforts to appear at her ease, +the conversation flagged. Caroline had seen Ellen speak in a low voice +to Mr. Hamilton, while others were engaged with the paintings; she had +seen him suddenly leave the room, and perceiving how oppressed Ellen’s +spirits were, became thoroughly convinced some serious disagreement had +occurred. + +“Well,” she thought, “I suppose it will all come right again. Everybody +cannot go on so smoothly as dear Mr. Allenham and I do!” + +When they returned from their excursion, Ellen retired to her room. +She had not the heart, as usual, to repair to the nursery or the +school-room. The sight of her two elder children harrowed her soul, +from the fear that she possessed them only for a time, that they would +be torn from her just when their opening intelligence, their amiable +dispositions, had superadded to the instinctive love of a mother, the +affection produced by their own good qualities. The sight of her little +girl was scarcely less agonising, from the conviction that she must +soon be a nameless outcast! + +She had again recourse to prayer, and she again rose from her devotions +strengthened and resigned. + +At that moment a gentle tap at the door was heard, and Algernon entered. + +“I must see you, I must speak to you, Ellen! Human nature cannot endure +this continued state of effort. Let us unbend for a few short moments. +Tell me you love me, and that, let our fate be what it may, your heart, +your whole heart, is mine.” + +“Oh, Algernon! I have just been praying for strength and resignation, +and I thought I had obtained my prayer. Do not speak to me in those +tender tones. They melt away my whole soul, and I will, I will be firm. +I must no longer allow myself to use such expressions; but I cannot +even try not to feel all and more than I ever felt before. Spare my +weakness, Algernon, and remember that dearly as I prize your love, +I prize your good opinion still more. That is the one thought which +enables me to exist, I believe.” + +He looked on her with admiration, almost amounting to awe. + +“My good opinion! You are as much superior to me, or to any other +living being, as the angels of heaven are to the common run of mortals. +I adore you, I venerate you, as one of them.” He knelt at her feet. +“Speak, and I will obey you. I place myself under your guidance. I will +regulate my actions by what you deem calculated to ensure your own +peace of mind. I will prove to you that I can equal you at least in +self-devotion; though my heart may break, I will not yield to you in +that!” + +“Get up, Algernon. Do not kneel at my feet. I cannot bear to hear you +speak in such a manner. These scenes must not recur. We only agonize +each other, and render ourselves unfit for our task. Leave me, dearest; +leave me to compose myself!” + +“You bid me leave you, and I will do so. But will you not give me your +hand?—that dear hand which, after all, was pledged to me at the altar!” +He took her unresisting hand. “It was I who placed that ring upon your +finger, Ellen; you then swore to me eternal fidelity, you swore to love +me ‘till death us did part.’ Can any thing cancel that vow?” And he +drew her gently towards him. + +“O God! nothing, nothing!” She dashed his hand from her, and rushed to +the opposite corner of the room. She glared wildly upon him. “Nothing, +nothing can cancel that first dreadful vow! Oh! do not remind me of +those words. It was then the vision came over me! He, whom you tell +me is my husband, seemed to rise up between us, Algernon! It was a +forewarning of what was to happen! I ought to have obeyed the warning—I +should have stopped before”—her voice faltered, but she continued in a +tone of unutterable sweetness—“before those words made me the happiest +woman in the whole world!” She hid her face with her hands, and burst +into tears. + +“Bless you for what you have just said, my own Ellen!” + +“Do not call me your own Ellen; I am not—can never be! In mercy leave +me—this agony is not to be endured!” + +Slowly and reluctantly he withdrew: he stood for a few moments at the +door, and then he closed it, and she remained alone. + +She had prayed for strength, and she found it. She did not weep, but +meekly sat, patient and uncomplaining. The hour for dressing arrived, +and she mechanically proceeded with her toilet. Her maid had prepared +the dress, the ornaments she thought she would wear. Mechanically she +sate before the looking-glass, mechanically she arranged her ringlets +round her face; she placed in her hair the ornamental comb her maid +presented to her, fastened her ear-rings, held out her arm to have her +bracelets clasped, and, when she was dressed, wondered at herself for +having tricked herself out in all these gewgaws. + +“How strange,” she thought, “that I should have been able thus to deck +this wretched form!” But such is the force of habit: it does not come +into any body’s head to leave off the feathers, the diamonds, the +flowers with which they are in the habit of adorning themselves, though +the heart beneath may be breaking—and yet it seems a mockery! + +Before dinner Lady Coverdale begged that the children might be sent +for, and little Agnes appeared in a beautiful cap which Miss Coverdale +had embroidered for her. The beauty of the child’s eyes was discussed. + +“If Agnes grows up according to this promise, Mrs. Hamilton”—(Ellen +started at the name)—“you will have a pleasant task in acting as her +chaperon.” + +Ellen almost sank at the prospect which was thus brought before her. +She could not answer, but, hastily turning away, stirred the fire with +great energy, at the same time exclaiming, “How hot it is!” + +They went to dinner; she was seated at the head of the table, opposite +to Mr. Hamilton. She felt a sort of melancholy pleasure in being, as +it were, forced to appear as his wife; but never did two such bursting +hearts pass calmly through an evening of society. + +Another day succeeded, and it was spent in the same struggle. On the +third the Coverdales departed, thinking that, for so happy a couple, +they were the most fashionably cool they had ever seen; the Allenhams, +fearing that Mr. Hamilton, charming as he was, must have an odd corner +of temper, for, as to Ellen, they knew her too well to imagine for a +moment that she could be in fault. + +They all drove from the door, and the wretched couple were left alone +with their love and their misery. + +“And now _you_ must leave me, Algernon; we must not remain here alone, +and I even doubt whether I ought to remain under your roof.” + +“Oh, Ellen! one would think you wished to believe we were severed, for +ever severed! There is still hope.” + +“None for me! I know that hand-writing too well.” + +“Must I go to-day?” + +“To-day, if you value my peace, and the little remnant of honour I may +yet hope to preserve.” + +“This is hard, this is cruel; but you shall have an approving +conscience, my own Ellen; and if your conscience will be easier when +I am gone, I will not linger: I will order every thing for my journey, +and I will go at dusk to-night. Till then, you will let me be with you; +till then, I may look on your face—I may listen to your voice—I may +breathe the same air with you!” + +He flew to order his departure, and in another instant was by her side. + +There was a melancholy satisfaction in being together, and yet, when +they were so, they could not speak: what could they say that was not +fraught with wretchedness? + +“I must see our children, Ellen.” + +He had been in the habit of calling all the children “our;” but the +little word, which from the force of habit escaped him, struck daggers +to the hearts of both. The two elder were his children who might soon +be at home to claim them. + +They all three came, and poor Hamilton devoured them with kisses. The +little Agnes was just old enough to know him, and to hold out her arms +to him with a smile of joy. They could neither of them endure this +long; they could not talk to the children—they could not play with +them—they could not listen to their prattle, and they were soon sent +away. + +Strange to say, these last few hours, whose flight they so much +dreaded, hung heavy. They wished to arrest the course of time, and yet +they knew not how to pass it. They strolled into the garden: every +thing there spoke of hope and promise; every thing within their own +bosoms boded unheard-of wretchedness. + +They had several times paced in silence round the sheltered parterre, +when Ellen turned deadly pale, and stopped for a few moments. + +“You must lean on me, Ellen! You must take my arm.” + +Her feebleness compelled her to do so, and once more he had the +happiness of feeling that lovely form rest on him for support. + +Neither spoke again. Both hearts were too full for utterance. In +silence they bent their course homeward. They again returned to the +drawing-room. They once more sat down there together. They could not +bring themselves to quit each other for a moment,—to lose one instant +of these few precious hours; and yet to each, the presence of the other +was oppressive. This state of misery and _gêne_ was worse than that +occasioned by the presence of others. + +They could not, at such a moment, speak on indifferent subjects; and if +they alluded to their own situation, it must lead to passionate bursts +of feeling, which she considered as criminal, and which he also dreaded +for her sake. + +At length the hour of departure came. The carriage was announced—and +he went up-stairs alone once more to give his parting blessing to the +children. He returned to her. + +“I think we may correspond,” she said, “there can be nothing wrong in +that, till our fate is quite decided.” + +“Oh yes, yes; you must write every day,” he replied. “I shall find out +some retired spot in Wales, and I shall remain there in utter seclusion +till your mind is made easy by hearing no more. In three months you +will conclude it was only a forgery?” + +She shook her head. “I know the writing.” + +“In six months? In a year, you will—name some time—set some term to my +banishment!” + +“We will write—I am not capable of knowing or understanding what is +right in your presence. You must leave me, Algernon, or I think I shall +die, now, at your feet!” + +“And are we to part thus?” + +She stood like a marble statue, as cold, as pale, as motionless. + +“Are we to part thus? Impossible!” and he snatched her to his bosom, +and imprinted on her lips one kiss of deep, fervent, unalterable love. + +He tore himself away, and plunging into the carriage, in a few moments +was borne far from the scene of all his happiness. + +When she heard the sound of the wheels, she made a desperate rush to +the window, and remained fixed there to listen for their sound, and to +fancy she still heard it, long after it was possible to do so. + + +CHAPTER IX. + + From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers, + I am not gone, + In the deep hush of midnight’s whispering hours + Thou art not lone! + Not lone when by the haunted stream thou weepest, + That stream whose tone + Murmurs of thoughts the holiest and the deepest + We two have known. + + MRS. HEMANS. + +He was gone—quite gone—and slowly and wearily she dragged herself back +to the sofa, and gave free vent to all the agony which had been eating +away her very being. + +She was thus drowned in tears, when the footman entered the room, +upon some pretence of closing the shutters, or of making up the fire. +The servants could not but perceive that something unusual was going +on, and their curiosity was excited by the mysterious looks of their +master and mistress, and by the sudden departure of the former. Ellen, +to avoid the inquiring gaze of the footman, hastily retired to her +boudoir, whither she had no sooner retreated than her anxious maid +peeped in to see if she might want any thing. + +Pleading a violent head-ache, she bade her say she should not require +any dinner, and assured her that nothing but entire quiet could relieve +the pain under which she was suffering. The faithful creature would +prescribe all the nostrums that ever were invented for head-aches, +and poor Ellen thought she never should be allowed to weep in peace. +At length she was relieved from the troublesome attentions both of +the inquisitive and of the kind-hearted, and was left to her own sad +thoughts. + +She accused herself of not having sufficiently valued the one last +morning she had passed with him. She remembered a thousand things she +meant to say—a thousand things she ought to have said. She thought she +had been cold, she thought she had been unkind, and yet she reproached +herself for having allowed him to take that one farewell kiss; for she +felt and knew she was not his wife. She could not deceive herself into +a momentary belief that the letter was an imposture. She knew that +her lawful husband was alive, and that every feeling of her soul was +therefore criminal. Still, though she scarcely indulged a hope of ever +being re-united to Algernon, she had not the courage to declare the +truth. She wished, if possible, to preserve her reputation, and her +child’s position in the world. + +She now had leisure to reflect upon the line of conduct it behoved her +to adopt, and she came to the conclusion, that, provided she received +no further communication from Mr. Cresford, and that there seemed no +fear of open exposure, the only mode of preserving her fair name, and +her virtue at the same time, was to induce Mr. Hamilton to consent to +an amicable separation on the score of incompatibility of temper. + +This was her best hope! How dreadful the other alternative! to be +claimed by the indignant Cresford, to be held up to the eyes of the +world as a base culprit, guilty of the crime of bigamy! It was almost +too degrading to contemplate. + +Some days had now elapsed; she had every morning received the letters +with a sickening dread which almost paralysed her. With fear and horror +she had hastily turned over the exterior of every letter, and, with +inexpressible relief, she had found none that bore the dreaded foreign +post-mark. Each morning brought a long epistle from Algernon, written +in the spirit of the highest, purest, most devoted affection. + +These were some balm to her heart. These were treasured up and perused +over and over again. But she was an altered creature—all around +wondered at the change. The children found that mamma could only kiss +them, and weep over them, and they became thoughtful and subdued in +her presence. The poor people wondered their bounteous lady no longer +came among them. She could not do so. She dreaded the eyes of her +fellow-creatures—their very blessings were painful to her—she felt as +if she had obtained them under false pretences. All that had given her +pleasure in this lovely place, this delightful country, now only filled +her with regret, when she thought that the next day might find her an +exile from this Paradise. Every walk, every tree, every view, every +spot she visited, reminded her of him whom she no longer ventured to +call husband, and with whom she had no hope of ever seeing them again. + +Two or three weeks had now slowly dragged their weary length away, +and no fresh intelligence had arrived. It was nearly a month since +she had received the first, and she almost began to think he found it +impossible to make his escape. The friendly governor might be removed. +The mental aberration might, from over-excitement, have returned. She +felt wicked in, for a moment, anticipating such a circumstance with any +thing approaching to satisfaction; and yet the horror of another, and +still more appalling, solution of the difficulty, that he had succeeded +in his petition, and that he was on his way home, filled her with +dismay, which almost bewildered her senses. + +One morning when she, as usual, received with trembling hands the +packet of letters, she perceived one from her brother with an +enclosure. With dizzy eyes she tore open the cover, and within found +another, with the same dreaded post-mark of Gratz. Despair gave her +courage to open it. It was indeed from Cresford, and be there told +her the governor had proved his kindest friend; that the Emperor had +listened favourably to his petition, and that he had every prospect of +being able to commence his journey to England in a few days,—that as +the time approached he felt ten thousand fears pass through his bosom. +How much might have happened since he left his home. His Ellen, to +whom he was now writing in the fulness of his heart, might possibly +be gathered to the dead. His children! were they still in existence? +“Oh, my dearest wife,” he continued, “you can form no conception of +the distracted and confused state of my mind when I think of the +changes that may have taken place among you. Of one thing I believe +I may rest assured, though my own wayward disposition has sometimes +been prone to unreasonable bursts of—jealousy, shall I say?—no, rather +sensitiveness,—for you will do me the justice to confess I never was +jealous of any individual,—of one thing I may rest assured, that I +shall find you pure, true, and virtuous as I left you. The knowledge +of your virtue has been my only consolation,—that conviction alone has +supported me through all my misfortunes. In one short month I shall be +at home, my Ellen, never, never again to part from you.” + +This confirmation of what she most dreaded came upon her with almost +as great a shock as the first announcement of her misery. Yet she felt +ungrateful at making such a return for all the affection expressed by +Cresford, affection which had stood the test of time, which had been +his guiding principle in absence, imprisonment, even in madness. + +The next moment she fancied that by such emotions she wronged Algernon, +her own adored Algernon, who was for ever torn from her, and doomed to +sufferings equal to her own. + +In another month Cresford said he should be at home. The time had +nearly elapsed: he might arrive any day. There was not a moment to be +lost! + +In her distraction she almost forgot to open the daily letter of Mr. +Hamilton. It breathed of hope! He had always been more sanguine than +herself, and in this he pleaded strongly to be allowed to return. He +argued that the protracted silence almost proved, beyond a doubt, that +the whole had been a false alarm. + +She placed the dear letter next her heart, and, hastily gathering +together the rest of her correspondence which had been cast aside, was +preparing to arrange all things for her instant departure, when her +attention was arrested by a second epistle from her brother Henry. She +knew the worst; she had no more to fear, and she perused it with a +desperate calmness. + +Henry began by saying that he, and all the other partners, had been +much distressed by a communication they had received of so strange a +character that he scarcely liked to disturb her mind by reporting it; +that yet, as he had forwarded to her by the same post a letter which +appeared to come from the same quarter as the one they had received, +and as, if he mistook not, he had some time ago sent her another with a +similar direction and post-mark, perhaps she might be prepared for what +he was going to tell her. + +The fact was they had received a letter purporting to come from Mr. +Cresford, and full of incomprehensible allusions to an escape from +Verdun, and to a mock funeral; that they scarcely knew whether to +consider it a forgery or not; that he grieved to say those who were +most conversant with his hand-writing seemed most persuaded of its +authenticity; that they were all in the greatest perplexity, but, upon +the whole, agreed it was best to keep the circumstance secret for the +present. + +He dreaded to think what her feelings must be; that for himself, he +was firmly convinced it was an imposture from first to last,—that he +remembered how circumstantial had been Colonel Eversham’s account +of the funeral of poor Cresford, performed by torch-light, according +to his own particular request, and attended by Colonel Eversham +himself, by Captain Morton, and several more of the _détenus_ who +were on parole. “And do you not remember his dwelling upon the awful +circumstance, that in one short week from the time Captain Morton +had acted as chief mourner at Cresford’s interment, he was himself +committed to the grave? Do not worry yourself, therefore, my dearest +sister. Depend upon it, it is a trick, with the view of extorting +money; but I thought it would not be right to leave you in ignorance of +the unpleasant doubt. + +“I should have been myself the bearer of this strange despatch, but I +am unavoidably detained in town to-day by business. I will be with you +soon after you receive this.” + +“It is all true,” she thought to herself, “and it is all known. It must +now be published abroad; there is no escape!” and she looked wildly +around her. This was no moment for deliberation or indecision. + +She commanded post horses to be instantly sent for; she summoned her +maid; she desired the nurses, the children, the _bonne_, to prepare +instantly for a sudden journey, and she sat down to write the appalling +news to Algernon, to dash all the hopes which he had fostered, to doom +him also to a future as blank and cheerless as her own. + +She began, “I have scarcely the power to write what I am now compelled +to impart to you. In a few more hours I shall have left this beloved +home; in a few more hours I shall be an outcast from this blessed +place, where I have lived as your most happy, and your honoured wife. +Thank you, Algernon, for the unutterable happiness I have for two years +enjoyed: thank you for all your love, all your tenderness. + +“I am going to my father. Poor man! he little knows the shame and +misery which await the decline of his life; he who so valued the +opinion of the world! Oh, Algernon, I am doomed to bring a curse on all +who are connected with me! I shall bring his grey hairs with sorrow +to the grave; I have cast a blight over the dignified and prosperous +career which awaited you; I have been the bane of that unhappy man +whose ungoverned, ill-fated love for me led him to practise the deceit +which has worked us all so much woe. My name will be a lasting +disgrace to my children,—all of them! + +“Algernon! when I think of you, my heart is near breaking; when I think +of your return to your desolate home, when I know how you will miss +me,—for I judge too well from my own, what your feelings will be,—when +I think how you will miss the children, too! Heavens, I have just +ordered the nurse to prepare herself and Agnes for our sad journey!—But +what right have I to do so? She is your child, Algernon, and shall +I deprive you of that one consolation? Shall I deprive her of an +honourable station to drag her with me into shame and degradation? No! +my wretchedness can scarcely know increase, and you shall be greeted on +your return by her smiles, her out-stretched arms, her lovely attempts +to prattle. I leave you that precious legacy. She will remind you of +her who loves you still with tenfold fervour, though it is now a crime +to do so. + +“There is a sort of pleasure in sacrificing something to you: you shall +keep her and cherish her. I expect my brother every moment: he and the +other members of the house have likewise received communications from +Gratz. I cannot add another word—I cannot sign myself,—for, oh! what +name do I now bear?” + +She hastily sealed her letter, and, without giving herself time to +retract, she flew up-stairs, and told the nurse that she and Agnes were +to remain at Belhanger—that only George and Caroline were to accompany +her. The nurse was astonished at the sudden change; but her mistress +looked so ghastly and so wild, she did not venture any question or +any remark. Ellen snatched her child to her heart—kissed it with such +vehemence that the terrified creature screamed—then, almost thrusting +it again into the nurse’s arms, she rushed out of the room, not daring +to trust herself another moment in its sight. + +She now hastened into her own apartments, and, without allowing herself +time for tender emotions or reminiscences, she began to pack up her +papers, her letters, a few favourite books of devotion, some of the +many tokens of affection she had received from Algernon, and above all, +his picture—that picture which she gazed upon every day, ten times +every day, during his absence. + +While thus employed, she saw her maid arranging her diamonds, and other +jewels, for the journey. + +“Do not put up those,” she said in a clear, calm voice; “they must be +left here.” + +“Dear ma’am, we always take them with us wherever we go; I always think +they are safest when they are under my own eye.” + +“They must remain, Stanmore,” answered Ellen almost sternly. + +“Just as you please, ma’am, certainly,” replied the abigail, whose +feelings on the subject of the diamonds were so acute that she could +not look with indifference upon any thing that concerned them, although +she saw something had certainly happened which greatly discomposed her +mistress, and was really tenderly attached to her. + +“Would you please to leave all the trinkets, ma’am?” she added with +rather a mortified, injured accent. + +“No, Stanmore; I must take these rings, these bracelets, all these +things—they were all given to me by dear friends.” + +“I am sure, ma’am, I should have thought you might have wished what Mr. +Hamilton had given you to go along with us.” + +“Say no more, Stanmore; I cannot bear it.—Only make haste,—all possible +haste!—I must go to my father to-day.” + +“Dear me! I beg your pardon, ma’am; but is Captain Wareham ill?” + +“No—Yes—I am not sure—I believe he is pretty well.” + +Ellen left the room, having secured the few articles she much valued; +and having told Stanmore to carry the diamonds to the housekeeper, and +bid her give them to Mr. Hamilton when he returned. + +“How strange!” said Mrs. Stanmore to herself. “Master and mistress +must have quarrelled desperately, somehow or another. And to think +how loving they did seem to be till just at last! Well, they say such +violent love is too hot to hold. I shall think of that when next Mr. +Perkins says a civil word to me, and give him a civil word in return, +for all he is not the man of my heart; for it’s my belief all the love +should be on the man’s side. How well my poor mistress and Mr. Cresford +went on, though he was so queer; and now she has got a husband she +loves, this is the end of it all! Ah! it does not do to make too much +of the men. If one has a man one does not care for, one has one’s wits +about one, to know how to manage him.” + +While Mrs. Stanmore was making these sage reflections (in which there +is much deserving attention from the young and inexperienced), Ellen, +who could not sit still, and who was afraid to trust herself with her +child, wandered like an unquiet spirit about the house, longing to +visit every well-known room, and to bid each a sad adieu; but she met +servants in every direction carrying trunks and imperials in all the +bustle of departure. + +She took refuge in her boudoir, from which the few things she meant to +carry with her were already removed. She looked round in silence and +in calmness. There was not an object which did not remind her of some +act of kindness of Algernon’s. A tap at the door startled her from the +abstraction in which she stood. + +Mrs. Topham, the stately housekeeper, made her appearance. + +“If you please, ma’am, I come for orders during your absence. If you +thought, ma’am, you should be away some little time, the furniture in +the chintz-room wants washing sadly, and perhaps, ma’am, it would be a +good opportunity to get it calendered.” + +“Do just as you please, Mrs. Topham. I cannot attend to those things at +this moment.” + +“Certainly, ma’am, I would not trouble you for the world; but Miss +Mason wished to know whether you would have them go on with master’s +neckcloths, or whether you wished the table-linen to be put in hand +immediately at the school.” + +“Oh yes, Mrs. Topham.” + +“What, the table-linen? or the neckcloths, did you mean, ma’am?” + +“Either: it matters little! Mr. Hamilton will be at home in a few days, +and he will tell you. I am very ill, Mrs. Topham. I cannot—I cannot +answer you.” And tears for the first time that morning flowed from her +eyes. + +There is nothing so strange as the causes which open the flood-gates of +woe. The vexation of being troubled with these trifles, and the feeling +that she had no longer a right to regulate them, that it would no +longer be her care to see to all these little household details, melted +her to tears, when all the deep and overwhelming bearings of the case +had not produced an inclination to weep. + +Mrs. Topham departed, surprised, grieved, and a little offended. + +“She never knew her mistress in such a way before. She had always +behaved so considerate to her, and spoken in such a kind and feeling +way, she was sure there was something wrong, and that her mistress had +something upon her mind.” + +Ellen now thought she would once more see his study. She should there +be safe from intrusion, and she would look at every thing, and fix it +so firmly in her memory, that it should serve as a sort of picture +to which her mind’s eye might at any time recur. She marked every +chair and table, the very pattern of the cornice, the mouldings on +the book-cases, the carving of the chimney-piece. She touched all the +papers, the parliamentary reports which crowded the table, and which +might have been touched by him. + +At this moment a chaise drove up to the door, and her brother Henry +leaped out of it. In another moment Ellen was in his arms, and clinging +to him in the full abandonment of long pent-up sorrow, which at length +is allowed free vent. There was a degree of relief in the presence of +one to whom she might unburthen her whole soul, from whom she need have +no secrets, and with whom she need be under no restraint. + +This weakness, however, was not of long duration. She quickly shook +it off, and rousing herself, she uttered in a firm, though hurrying, +manner:— + +“We must be gone directly, Henry. You will take me to my father’s; you +will go with me, dear brother, will you not?” + +“Where is Hamilton?” he answered. + +“He has not been here since I received the first packet you enclosed +me. We parted then!” She pressed her hand for a moment tightly upon her +eye-balls. + +“Do you then consider the case so hopeless, my poor dear sister?” + +“Alas! I have from the very first, although he would scarcely believe +me.” + +“Oh, dreadful! dreadful! What is to be done?” + +“I must go to my father, and I must leave the rest to Providence. I +have not wittingly done wrong, so I hope God will assist me to bear +that with which it is pleasure to visit me!” + +“My poor, poor Ellen!” + +“Do not pity me, Henry! I have prayed for strength, and hitherto I have +been mercifully supported. Do not pity me, or I shall not be able to go +through what must be done this day.” + +“Ellen! By Heavens you are the most high-minded, courageous, and noble, +as well as the gentlest and loveliest creature I ever saw! Whatever the +result may be, you are certainly doing what is right. I am ready to +accompany you.” + +“Every thing is prepared, Henry. I have only one task left, that of +bidding adieu to my baby—my little Agnes!” + +“Do you leave her behind you?” + +“I cannot rob Algernon of that which will remind him of me, and yet +give him pleasure, instead of pain. Neither will I heap more shame and +disgrace on my child’s head than is unavoidable.” + +Ellen left him, and with a slow and heavy step she for the last time +mounted the oak staircase. She went to the nursery, and solemnly taking +the child away, she carried it into the room which was her own. Bolting +all the doors, she knelt as she held the infant in her arms, and +offered up for it prayers as fervent and as pure as ever ascended to +the throne of grace. Then kissing its eyes, its forehead, its lips, + +“May the God of mercy bless thee, my babe! may He bless thee with +virtue, principle, rectitude! whatever may be thy fate in this world, +may He bring thee to that place where the wicked cease from troubling, +where the weary are at rest!” + +She rose from her knees, and carried the child back to the nurse. In a +calm and steady voice, she bade her, as she valued her peace of mind +here and hereafter, to do her duty by the infant; and begging God to +bless them both, she steadily went down the stairs, and without looking +to the right or to the left, passed through the hall. When she reached +the door, she paused, and turning round, she saw the servants who, half +wonder, half sympathy, had collected at the different doors, and were +pressing forward. She tried to speak—her voice failed her; she made +another effort, and at length uttered,— + +“You have all done your duties by me, and may God reward you for it!” + +A burst of tears and sobs, they scarcely themselves knew wherefore, was +all the answer they could make. + +Henry supported her into the carriage. Her elder children and their +attendants entered the other, and she was rapidly conveyed from a spot +where she had endured the two extremes, of mortal bliss and mortal woe. + + +CHAPTER X. + + En songe, souhaid, et pensée, + Vous voye chacun jour de sepmaine + Combien qu’estes de moi loingtaine + Belle très loyaument amée. + + Du tout vous ay m’amour donnée; + Vous en povez être certaine, + Ma seule dame souveraine, + De mon las cœur moult desirée + En songe, souhaid, et pensée. + + CHARLES DUC D’ORLEANS, A.D. 1446. + +How did poor Hamilton meanwhile pass the time of his weary exile? It +would have been wretchedness to him to have been recognised, to have +been obliged to answer the usual inquiries after his wife and children, +with which a married man is invariably greeted; to endure all the +common courtesies of life. Yet his acquaintance was so general, his +name so well known, from having on many occasions borne a prominent +part in politics, and from having lived much in the world, that he +could scarcely find a spot where he would not be exposed to them. + +He therefore, under an assumed name, retired to the most desolate +fishing village he could find in the neighbourhood of M——, and passed +his days wandering upon the shore, and mixing with none but the +fishers, who plied their dangerous trade upon the wild Welsh coast. + +Every morning he walked into the town, and claimed his letters at the +post-office, then hurried to the shore, there to feast upon the lines +traced by his beloved Ellen’s hand. The enthusiastic turn of mind, +which we at first described him as possessing, enabled him, better +perhaps than another man, to endure the life of abnegation of self, +which he here led. His passion was of so pure, so refined a character, +that in sober truth, he had rather sit alone on a sea-girt rock, and +think of her whom he worshipped with so holy a love, than be in the +society of any other living being, however lovely, however fascinating. + +Weeks however elapsed, and even his highly wrought nature was beginning +to tire of this protracted uncertainty. He formed a thousand desperate +plans; he nearly convinced himself that they were both sacrificing +their happiness to a frivolous punctilio; that Mr. Cresford never would +return—that if he did, still in the eye of Heaven she was his, not +Cresford’s wife, and that there would be no guilt in their flying to +the uttermost parts of the earth, and there existing for each other +alone. + +But although he might think such thoughts, he never ventured to commit +them to paper when writing to her. He never again proposed their +living together, if their union was not sanctioned by the laws. There +was a spotless lofty purity about her that he dared not outrage by +word, or look. He knew also, that even supposing he should succeed in +persuading her to fly with him, still, that with her disposition, her +religious principles, she could never find happiness in his devotion, +if remorse was an inmate of her bosom. He had courage to endure all +ills, rather than to meet her reproachful eye;—to feel he had caused +that innocent heart to know the pangs of a wounded conscience;—to feel +that her religion, which was now her only source of consolation, had, +through his means, been converted into a source of terror. The romantic +adventures and feelings of his own early life did not lead to his +experiencing the same orthodox scruples himself, but the enthusiastic +devotedness of his disposition made him respect them, even while he +thought them over-strained. + +His despair, therefore, when he received Ellen’s last communication, +knew no bounds. It destroyed his only hope. He paced the shore. It was +a stormy morning, as if in accordance with his feelings: the sea-gull, +with its wide-spread wings, gleaming white against the lead-coloured +clouds, screamed as it passed over his head. The surf was wildly +beating against the beach. The fisher vessels which had been out all +night were striving to regain the land, before the threatening storm +burst upon them. He looked upon the little boats as they neared the +shore with an emotion of envy.—“Perhaps,” he thought, “perhaps the next +few waves may swallow up the brave fellows, who are there exerting +themselves to preserve life. They know not for what a miserable +possession they are struggling. They know not what may await them if +they escape the present danger! Blighted affections, ruined hopes, +the torture of losing those they love, or of seeing them exist in +wretchedness, may bring them to regret they had not now sunk, secure +from experiencing any more of the sufferings human nature is heir to. +Would I were in one of those boats! It would be no sin of mine if the +waves were to close over it.” + +The wives and mothers of the fishermen, who were inured to the +venturous life of their relatives, proceeded with their ordinary toil. +They had so often seen them weather a storm in safety, that they felt +little alarm at what would have struck others as awful. One young +woman, however, stole forth alone; her loose cloak shivered in the +wind; the wild gust brought with it the spray and dashed it in her +face, but still her eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of one frail +bark. She knew not that her bonnet was blown back, that her dishevelled +hair streamed upon the blast. She gradually drew nearer to the spot +where Algernon stood in his desperate musing. + +She was a stranger: a girl from the midland counties, who had married +one of the hardy young fishermen of this secluded village, and she was +not yet accustomed to let the blast howl unheeded round her dwelling, +while he she loved was on the wide salt sea. + +She approached Algernon. In her loneliness she felt safer when near a +fellow-creature. + +“Do you think there is any danger, sir?” she said in a hesitating voice. + +“The storm seems to be gathering,” he answered; “but most likely you +have more experience than I have.” + +“I have not been here long,” she said, “and those great waves, with +foamy tops, always terrify me sadly.” + +“Are you anxious for any one at sea, my good girl?” + +“My husband, sir, is in one of those boats.” + +“And does he love you? Do you love him, and are you lawfully married?” + +“Oh, sir! to be sure we are!” and she drew back abashed, and half +angry. + +“Then—then you are not to be pitied. In life or in death you are his. +You are bound together by the ties of love and of duty, of religion +and of law! He will return to you, my girl. See, the boats are getting +nearer every moment: they will beat the storm—you will be reunited. You +need not weep.” + +He darted away among the rocks, and sought the little room in the +single ale-house, which had been his home for the last month. + +His first impulse was to return to Belhanger—to revisit the spot which +breathed of her, and having once more beheld the precious child which +she had left there as a pledge of her affection for him, to send +her with the nurse to rejoin her mother at Captain Wareham’s. His +resolution was no sooner taken than it was executed. + +Ellen and her brother had ere this arrived at the end of their journey. +They reached Captain Wareham’s just as he, Matilda, and the Allenhams, +who were at this moment paying him their annual visit, were seated at +their dessert. They were surprised at hearing an unusual bustle in the +house, and still more so when Ellen, leaning on her brother, entered +the apartment. They all pressed round to greet her. Matilda, with +youthful delight at this agreeable surprise, Caroline and her husband +with kindness, Captain Wareham with some kindness but more annoyance, +which annoyance was, however, in some degree tempered by the respect he +had felt for Ellen, ever since she had made so good a marriage as he +considered that to Mr. Hamilton. + +“Well, my dear Ellen, this is really very good of you to take us so +by surprise, but you certainly do take us by surprise. I do not know +how in the world we are to lodge you, and the dinner is just gone. +And you too, Henry?” (annoyance was rapidly preponderating) “I do not +know what we can do with you. And I suppose Hamilton is of the party; +you might have given one a line. I should have thought, Ellen, you +must have remembered how inconvenient this kind of thing is in a small +establishment.” + +By this time Ellen had sunk in a chair, and Caroline began to be +alarmed at her paleness, and at the altered expression of her +countenance. The children had just landed from their vehicle, and their +voices were heard in the passage. + +“Mercy on us! and the children, too!” exclaimed poor Captain Wareham, +in a tone of despair, annoyance having thoroughly mastered the vague +respect inspired by the superior style of all which surrounded the +Hamiltons. “Well, this certainly is rather inconsiderate, Ellen; but +when people make great matches they grow fine, and you seem quite to +forget your poor old father’s means are not quite so ample as Mr. +Hamilton’s.” + +He turned round, but started at the ghastly appearance of Ellen. +Henry had suffered agonies for his sister, and had tried to lead his +father aside, that he might briefly explain to him the case, without +proclaiming it to the whole household. Ellen answered with the +composure of despair. + +“You must let me stay in this house, father—I do not care where—only I +must have the shelter of your paternal roof.” + +“I can go to the inn perfectly well, dear father,” added Henry. + +“And Ellen can have her old room,” interposed Matilda; “little Caroline +can sleep with me, and George can sleep on the sofa in Mr. Allenham’s +dressing-room; and now it is all arranged, so don’t you be cross, +papa. Ellen looks quite ill, and I dare say she is faint for want of +something to eat, so leave it all to me, and don’t make a fuss, that’s +all, papa,” and she gave her father a playful tap on the cheek. She was +a high-spirited, warm-hearted, ingenuous girl, in many respects the +precise opposite of her sisters. If her father was cross, her spirit +rose; and she consequently possessed that sort of control over him +which the most decided, positive, and wilful, generally obtains over +the less resolute temper, whatever may be their relative positions. She +was also an excellent manager, always had cold meat in the house, and +was never at a loss for an expedient on any emergency. + +Caroline was exceedingly uneasy at the appearance of Ellen, and +remembered her fainting fits when she had been last at Belhanger. +Her look of settled grief, coupled with the absence of Mr. Hamilton, +made her fear that, notwithstanding the affection which had formerly +subsisted between them, their quarrel must have been a serious one, and +that her unannounced arrival must mean that they were separated. She +found, also, that only the two Cresford children accompanied her; and +this served to confirm her fears. + +Even Captain Wareham began to be alarmed at the subdued yet resolute +manner of Ellen; and looked from one to the other, perplexed, amazed, +and annoyed. + +“I suppose you want something to eat, Ellen?” + +“No, father! I could not touch any thing.” + +“And the children must have supper.” + +“Matilda, you will give them some tea, poor little things?” she +answered, turning towards Matilda. + +“I could not eat a mouthful either,” said Henry, “so do not get any +thing for me, father. I wish you would just step this way, I want to +consult you which inn I had best go to.” + +“My dear boy, it is very chilly to-night, and you may just as well +consult me here by the fire.” + +“Ellen,” added Henry, “would you not be better up-stairs on the sofa? +Ellen is not well, father, and we must take great care of her!” + +“You do not seem well indeed, Ellen. Why, you look ten years older, +girl, than when I saw you last!” + +Ellen had risen from her seat, and was mechanically obeying Henry in +walking up-stairs, when he said, + +“Do give Ellen your arm, Allenham, she is faint and weak. I have some +things to arrange, and will follow you presently.” + +Captain Wareham, whose parental tenderness had been awakened by the +expression of suffering in Ellen’s face, was following also, when Henry +laid his hand upon his arm, and forcibly detained him. He closed the +door after them. Captain Wareham turned round. + +“What does all this mean, Henry? Really it is very disagreeable, and +you quite frighten me; I wish you would not be so odd and mysterious.” + +“Listen to me, father. I scarcely know how to break to you the news I +have to impart.” + +“Speak, for Heaven’s sake. I always hate being kept in suspense.” + +“Cresford is alive! alive, and coming home, as he thinks, to the arms +of his beloved wife!” + +“Impossible, Henry! you are jesting;” and Captain Wareham attempted to +smile; but he dropped powerless into his chair, and clasped his hands, +adding, “If this is a jest, it is a cruel one!” + +Henry then, in a few words, gave him an outline of the case, and told +him that Ellen and he had agreed, that until Cresford arrived, and +that the truth was past all hope of concealment, it was best to treat +it as an amicable separation on the score of temper. Henry had advised +Ellen not even to confide the truth to Mrs. Allenham; for amiable and +kind-hearted as she was, still she was not free from an inclination +to gossip, and she would never be able to prevent such a secret from +escaping her lips, to some of her old and dear friends in her native +place. + +Captain Wareham, whose good heart and high feeling of honour rendered +him, in fact, an estimable man, approved of all that his unfortunate +daughter had done; and was cut to the soul when he looked forward to +the miserable fate which probably awaited her. + +“And when Cresford does return, Henry, how will he conduct himself? I +dread his violence!” + +“I dare say he will make her a liberal allowance,” answered Henry; +“for he was always noble about money; but at the same time I cannot +help fearing he will take the children from her. In common justice, he +cannot visit upon her, farther than that, the consequences of his own +rash imposture.” + +“I hope not; but you were too young when he went to France, to know +the full violence of his character—the vehemence of his ungoverned +passions. But we must go to my poor, poor unhappy child.” + +Her sisters had been all kindness to Ellen, though Matilda, in her +thoughtless fondness, had asked a thousand painful questions concerning +Mr. Hamilton, her pet Agnes, &c.; but Caroline, who was quite persuaded +she understood the whole case perfectly, discreetly avoided every thing +that led to such subjects, till Matilda went to see to her hospitable +arrangements for their accommodation, and they were left alone. + +“Dearest Ellen!” Caroline then said, “I was afraid it would come to +this, when I left you a month ago. Who would ever have thought that Mr. +Hamilton could have turned out so ill, for I am sure you could never +have been the one to blame; nobody ever saw you out of temper in your +life.” + +Ellen looked up. + +“Breathe not a word against him, Caroline: he is the most perfect, the +most faultless of human beings! I always thought my happiness was too +great to last, and it has proved so. May Heaven, in its mercy, protect +and bless him!” + +“Ah, you always were a gentle, forgiving creature!” answered Mrs. +Allenham. + + +CHAPTER XI. + + See the poor captive from his dungeon break, + Where long he pined, and hail the light of day, + With eyes that in the broad effulgence ache, + With smiles that ’mid deep lines of anguish play! + How eagerly he meets the morning gale + With lab’ring lungs that each sweet breath would seize! + How fondly views the hill, the plain, the vale, + Green meadows, brooks, fields, flowers, and waving trees! + And, “Gods!” he cries, “how dear is liberty! + Is there in Heaven’s large gift a boon beside? + The world is mine, and all the good I see!” + But soon, too soon, his raptures wild subside, + And sighing sad, “Not Freedom’s self to me + Is sweet,” he cries, “if one to share it be denied.” + + _Unpublished Poems._ + +The next day Henry was obliged to return to London: indeed, he wished +to be upon the spot, in case of Mr. Cresford’s arrival; and Ellen was, +on the same account, equally anxious he should depart. + +Mrs. Allenham made several attempts to learn from Ellen the particulars +of her separation; but Ellen assured her the subject was at present +too painful to dwell upon; and they remained together in melancholy +calmness not unmixed with _gêne_, for Caroline was somewhat hurt at +Ellen’s reserve. + +She had one conversation with her father, in which he was all kindness +and sympathy, and she now sat down to a task which she deemed one of +absolute necessity, although of the utmost difficulty, namely, to +write to Mr. Cresford a letter which should meet him on his arrival in +London, and convey to him the dreadful intelligence, which sooner or +later, must reach him. + +It was as follows:— + +“I know not how to address you, and I dread lest you should have heard +from some other quarter all that has occurred, and may cast aside the +letter of one whom you deem untrue to you, without reading her own +statement of the facts. + +“Believe me, when I swear by every thing we hold most sacred, that +the first communication I received from you, from the time I read the +official account of your death in the public newspapers, was the letter +I received last month, dated from Gratz. I had then for two years +believed myself the wife of Mr. Hamilton. + +“As I write these words, my spirit quails at the effect I know they +must produce on you; my heart bleeds for the pain I am inflicting on +you; for, indeed, I do justice to the strength of your affection for +me, and I grieve to be thus the cause of anguish to one who loves me! +It is a cruel return for all the fidelity you have preserved to me; but +you must know the truth, and I had rather you should learn it from me, +than from common report—from the busy tongue of slander. + +“Mr. Maitland never brought me the letter to which you allude. I +have never seen any of your companions in misfortune, except Colonel +Eversham, who told me how he followed your remains to the grave, and I +have yet to learn by what means you effected your escape from Verdun. +For two years I mourned you in sincerity and truth. During all that +time I regulated my conduct by what I supposed would have been your +wishes, if you had been able to express them to me before your supposed +death. + +“Some months after the expiration of my two years’ mourning, I accepted +the hand of Mr. Hamilton. You must feel, that, although this second +marriage is null and void, and that in the eye of the law I am your +wife, an eternal barrier is placed between yourself and me. + +“Upon the reception of your first letter, Mr. Hamilton left me, +and I have not seen him since. Upon the confirmation of this first +letter (in the authenticity of which we scarcely believed), I removed +with—the—two children to my father’s.” [She had at first written +“_your_ two children;” but she felt as if by that word she were tacitly +yielding them up to him, and she substituted _our_. This she feared +might imply that their reunion was not impossible, and she wrote +_the_.] “Indeed, indeed, my conscience acquits me of having wilfully +done any thing wrong, though I am aware I have cast a blight over the +fate of all those whose happiness I would gladly die to secure. Would +I could die! But it is our duty to suffer and submit. Misfortune has, +I hope, taught you likewise the duty of resignation. Pray, as I do, +for strength to fulfil our pilgrimage here on earth in unrepining +patience and humility, so that we may hereafter be deemed worthy of +our Maker’s promised blessings to those who do his will in this world. +Our misfortunes have not originated in guilt: in that reflection let +us find a supporting hope; and rest assured that, had I known you +to be living, no length of absence, no human power, no imaginable +circumstances, should have shaken my adherence to my maiden vow of +constancy: you should have found me as you left me— + + “Your faithful wife, + “ELLEN CRESFORD.” + +With what unutterable anguish did she write that name! For some minutes +she held the pen suspended before she summoned courage to trace the +dreaded characters. Yet why, when her whole letter avowed herself his +wife, why fear to write the word? She forced herself to do so; but as +she wrote, she felt guilty towards Algernon. She had been so completely +in the habit of doing every thing with reference to him, of being +guided by him, of acting as if his eye was always upon her, that she +thought what would be his emotions, if he saw her thus deliberately +deny him! Yet this was indeed her name, and if she avoided it, she +might irritate him who was in very truth her husband; him, who had a +right at any moment to tear her children from her! She would no longer +hesitate—she would not give herself the opportunity of altering the +signature; she sealed the letter, she directed it, she enclosed it to +her brother, and when all was done, she felt her separation from him +she loved more complete than ever. A gush of tenderness came over her +soul. If Algernon had at that moment been at her feet, there is no +knowing whether she might not have consented to fly with him to the +wilds of America, or to any spot on earth where human institutions +could not reach. + +When Algernon arrived at Belhanger, a few days after Ellen’s departure, +he lost no time in sending little Agnes to rejoin her mother. He +thought the presence of her child,—his child,—might afford her the +sensation nearest approaching to pleasure of any thing she was now +capable of experiencing. It was not without many a bitter pang that he +brought himself to part from the only object that remained to him, of +all that a few short weeks ago had made him the happiest man alive. +But, in addition to his anxiety to lessen by any means within his +power the bitterness of her fate, it is possible that a lingering hope +mingled itself, that she could not refuse to let him occasionally see +his child, and that he might perhaps thus obtain an interview with +herself. + +His home was now utterly desolate. He wandered as she had done before, +like an unquiet spirit, from room to room. He pictured to himself +what must have been her feelings when she tore herself from them. +He longed to know how she had passed that last sad month; he wished +for every trifling detail concerning her occupations, her looks, and +yet he did not like to question the servants. He saw in their faces +an expression of wonder and dismay; they moved about with stealthy +steps, and spoke with subdued voices, while in the part of the house +which he inhabited; or else, as he passed by the offices, he heard +the loud laugh proceeding from the servants-hall, or the blithe carol +of the laundry-maids over their wash-tub, which jarred his feelings, +and he was tempted to exclaim mentally against the heartlessness of +menials. Their curiosity, and their want of sympathy, both checked the +inclination to question them concerning Ellen, which his restlessness +caused frequently to arise in his bosom. Moreover, he scarcely knew in +what terms to speak of her. + +Mrs. Topham, however, spared him the trouble of deciding for himself. +A few days after his return, she made her appearance to receive his +orders about the furniture of the chintz-room, saying that Mrs. +Hamilton had desired her to ask him what he wished to have done, and +also to inquire his pleasure concerning the neck-cloths. He begged her +to use her own discretion on those subjects, but still detained her in +conversation, hoping she would, of her own accord, allude to Ellen. + +Finding that Mrs. Topham’s discourse was strictly confined to her +business, he ventured at length to say, + +“I am afraid your mistress was not quite well when she left Belhanger?” + +“Why certainly, sir, Mrs. Hamilton did not look so well as she used to +do. There was not a servant in the house that did not remark it. But it +was very lonesome for her here by herself, and we thought perhaps that +was the reason she appeared so low. I am sure, sir, we all heartily +wished for you back again, if it was only for our poor mistress’s sake.” + +Mrs. Topham, whose curiosity had only been repressed by her respectful +discretion, had no mind to lose this opportunity of ascertaining +whether her master and mistress were really parted or not, and of +satisfactorily clearing up the mystery of their late proceedings. + +“I suppose, sir,” she continued, “my mistress will be coming back +soon;—do you not think it would be a good thing to get the muslin +curtains in the boudoir washed before her return?” + +Poor Hamilton had wished to lead the conversation to Ellen, and now he +had succeeded in doing so, he writhed under the questions,—he thought +it better not to hear her name mentioned at all, than to be subject to +them, and hastily bidding Mrs. Topham see to all those things in her +own department, he hurried out to mount his horse, and to gallop like a +maniac over the country, as if he could thus escape from the corroding +care which followed faster than he could fly. + +When, in violent exercise alone, did he experience temporary relief +from misery. At home every thing breathed of Ellen, and, though it was +agonizing to him to see traces of her on all sides, he could not tear +himself from the spot; he would pass whole hours in her morning room, +looking over her books, turning over the leaves of the blotting book, +in which were notes, memorandums, various little matters which belonged +to her. He would gaze for several minutes upon any half-bound book, +which had “Ellen Hamilton” written in her hand on the outside. Those +two words contained for his heart a world of passionate and blasted +feelings. The very household accounts were not without a charm in his +eyes—for they perpetuated the memory of a time when she was his wife. + +There is no need to dwell upon the emotions of Ellen when the nurse +brought her child. The smiles of the infant and the letter which +accompanied it were a momentary balm to her heart. Algernon expressed +his conviction that, whatever their own fates might be, he could in +no way so effectually secure the ultimate and eternal welfare of +their child, as by causing its young mind to be trained to all that +was virtuous, under Ellen’s own immediate eye. She could not but be +gratified by his opinion of her, and grateful for his kindness. It was +about a fortnight from the period of their final separation, when Henry +Wareham was one day called out of his office to speak to a gentleman +who awaited him in a private apartment. Henry’s heart misgave him. His +worst fears were on the point of being realized. It must be Cresford. + +The room was dark. Henry’s eyes were dizzy with intense anxiety; he +thought he did not recognise the face; but it was Cresford’s voice +which asked, + +“Are you Henry Wareham?” + +“Heavens! Cresford. Is it indeed yourself?” + +“Where is my wife?” uttered Cresford, in a choked tone of defiance. + +“Ellen is with her father,” stammered Henry. + +“Why was she not here to receive her husband?” continued Cresford. + +“Here is a letter, Cresford, which she desired me to give you, and +which will explain all.” + +“Then what I have heard is true!” exclaimed Cresford in a burst of +uncontrollable passion. “Your virtuous sister thought I was safe in +an Austrian dungeon, and she has given the loose to her profligate +fancies, under the specious veil of marriage! Well done, your +sanctified hypocrite! The mourning widow of Ephesus with a vengeance!” +And he laughed an appalling, withering laugh, which made Henry shudder. +His eyes glared with the fire of madness. Henry almost shrank with the +involuntary terror from which the bravest cannot defend themselves if +they suspect mental aberration in a fellow-creature. + +“Cresford, read this letter, and I think you will not make use of such +hard expressions. Though you may be miserable, you will not be so +angry.” + +“So, because I have loved her with mad idolatry, because my passion +for her has driven me to acts of desperation,—has driven me to set at +nought my life—my safety, you think I am such a besotted fool, that +three lines traced by her hand, are to turn the whole current of my +feelings; that she can persuade me quietly to yield her to the arms of +my rival.” He paused, then added in a deep and thrilling voice, “You +neither of you know me. You know not half I have gone through.” + +“Cresford, all I implore is that you will read my sister’s letter. We +all believed you dead. The partners in the firm all believed it.” + +“It was their interest—it was your interest to do so,” he answered with +a bitter smile. + +However, he took the letter. + +“Oh, how I have longed to see any thing belonging to her. And now—” + +A tear gathered in his eye. Henry augured well of that omen, and stood +in silence, somewhat apart. + +He had leisure to remark the havoc which time and suffering, and, as +he began to fear, madness, had worked in the fine features of his +brother-in-law. They were sharper, his nose more prominent, his lips +thinner, and more compressed. His brow low on his eye, which glanced +quickly and suspiciously from beneath it. Although still young, for +Cresford was not yet thirty, his hair was considerably mixed with grey. + +Henry watched the varying expression of his countenance as he +proceeded with poor Ellen’s letter, and he sincerely commiserated the +wretched man, who was now a prey to the most agonizing passions of our +nature—blasted hope—indignant jealousy. + +When he came to the part in which she spoke of having for two years +believed herself the wife of Mr. Hamilton, he stamped upon the floor, +and crushing the paper in his clenched hand, Henry thought would have +destroyed it, in the paroxysm of his rage. However, he proceeded, and +a softer shade stole over his face when he read of her grief at making +such a return for all his kindness and affection. A tear trickled +down his cheek as he came to the part where she described her strict +adherence to his wishes; and when she mentioned her having parted from +Mr. Hamilton upon the reception of his first letter, he vehemently laid +his hand on Henry’s arm. + +“Is this true?” he said. “Did she part from that man at once?” + +“Indeed she did, and has not seen him since.” + +“Henry, did she love him?—answer me that.” + +Henry hesitated—“They seemed to live comfortably together, whenever I +have seen them.” + +“Madness! distraction! Did they love each other?” + +“I saw but little of them, for I was always in the office,” replied +Henry evasively. + +“I must see her—I must see her herself; I must know the truth!” He +resumed the letter, but hastily passing over that part which spoke of +resignation, “There is no use in preaching resignation to me! She might +as well attempt to chain the ocean!” He glanced at the signature. “Oh, +merciful Heaven! that I could forget all that has gone before; that +I could annihilate the preceding words, and preserve nothing but the +last, ‘Your faithful wife, Ellen Cresford!’” + +He gazed in rapturous tenderness upon the words; his tears flowed fast; +he kissed the name again and again. Then hastily turning to Henry, he +added, “I must see her once again, and then—God knows what will become +of me!” + +He rushed out of the house, and before many minutes had elapsed was on +his road to Captain Wareham’s residence. + + +CHAPTER XII. + + Shall then, in earnest truth, + My careful eyes observe her? + Shall I consume my youth, + And short my time to serve her? + + Shall I beyond my strength, + Let passion’s torments prove me, + To hear her say at length + “Away,—I cannot love thee!” + + GEORGE WITHER.—A.D. 1588. + +Ellen was one morning quietly seated in the back drawing-room which had +been given up to her and her children; the elder ones were employed, +George in reading to his mother, and Caroline in working, seated on a +stool at her feet, while the little Agnes was playing on the floor. +Ellen heard a knock at the door. Every sound made her start. She heard +a loud voice in the passage! A voice! His voice! Yes it was his voice +whom she had so long believed in the grave, uttering in loud and stern +accents, “Show me to Mrs. Cresford,—I must instantly see her,” and he +darted by the servant up the stairs. + +“Not into the front room, sir,” the servant called out; “there is +company in the front room! the back room, sir, if you please.” + +Cresford burst open the door, and stood before her, pale and haggard. +She did not faint, she did not scream: she had risen from her seat, and +she stood transfixed! + +She was as beautiful as ever. Sorrow could but dim her brilliancy,—the +finely chiselled features, the marble brow, the angelic expression, the +feminine dignity, were all there. Cresford gazed in agonized admiration. + +“How I have longed for this moment!—this moment, which proves one of +torture! Ellen, Ellen, you never loved me, or you could not have done +what you have done. But I was resolved to see you again.—Yes, if heaven +and hell had conspired against me, I would have gazed upon that face +again.” She hid her face with her hands. “No,” he said, and forcibly +removed them, “I will look upon those features. It was the recollection +of those eyes, of that brow, those lips, which made me cling to life, +while they induced me to hazard it a thousand times to gain another +sight of them; it was to gaze on them that I practised the imposture by +which I escaped from my prison; it was to gaze on them that I preserved +my life, though treated as a spy, a prisoner, and a maniac!” + +Ellen shook from head to foot. Fear, simple, deadly fear, absorbed +every other feeling. She spoke not, she struggled not. + +“Ellen, do you love me still? Have you thought of me in absence? Have +you wept for me? Is your heart faithful?” + +A horrible surmise crossed her. Surely he could not contemplate the +idea of taking her back.—“Do you love me, Ellen?” he repeated, and he +still held her hands. + +“I pity you from the bottom of my heart.” + +“Do you love me?” and he dashed her hands from him. + +“No!” she exclaimed, clasping them earnestly, “No! my whole heart, +soul, and affections are Algernon’s,” and she sank on the floor. + +“And do I live to hear you avow your guilt? Shameless, abandoned +creature! You, whom I so worshipped! now, now,—in truth my brain will +madden!” He struck his forehead with his clenched hands. Then looking +round, “These are my children, are they not?—I believed them mine. Yes, +yes, they are mine, and mine they shall be! Come with me, children; you +shall not remain to be contaminated by the example of a creature who +glories in her shame. And this,” he added, and lifted the little Agnes +from the floor, “this, this is _his_ child! Take it,—take it, before +I commit any crime I may repent of!” Ellen rushed to it, tore it from +him, and hugged it to her bosom. “But these are mine!” he continued, +and “these are mine, by every law of nature and of man!” He seized one +in each hand. She flew to him,—she clung round his feet. He looked down +on her in triumph. + +“Oh, spare my children! Oh, Charles, have mercy upon me,” and she +desperately held the children who clung round her. + +At this moment Captain Wareham, who had heard the tumult, entered, + +“Captain Wareham, you see a man who claims his children—his children—by +the law of the land, his! I conclude you will not interfere with the +exercise of my rights as a free-born Englishman.” + +Ellen had sunk exhausted and sobbing on the floor, feeling that her +father would protect her, and preserve her children. + +“Surely, Mr. Cresford, this is not the manner in which an Englishman, +and a gentleman, would enforce his rights.” + +“I have been taunted by that woman with her love for another man, and I +cannot leave my children in her keeping. They must be delivered up to +me.” + +“They shall—they shall, Mr. Cresford. I pledge myself that before +evening they shall be sent to you, at any place you may appoint.” + +“I am at the hotel opposite, sir, and there I await them within the +next two hours.” + +He darted down the stairs, and out of the house. + +The terrified children hung round their mother; Captain Wareham +supported her; Caroline—Matilda rushed in. Concealment was no longer +practicable—despair and consternation prevailed through the whole +house. The two Miss Parkses, who had been “the company in the front +drawing-room,” discreetly took their departure, but not before they had +seen and heard enough to be perfectly _au fait_ as to the cause of the +confusion, and, in a quarter-of-an-hour, the fact of Mrs. Hamilton’s +first husband’s return was known in every house in the Close, and in +half-an-hour more throughout the whole town. But one feeling, however, +prevailed—sincere sorrow for the unfortunate Ellen! + +Her manners were so gentle, she had not an enemy—her conduct so +irreproachable, that even the slander of a country-town coterie had +never approached her name. Every one felt disposed to be angry with Mr. +Cresford for being alive, and many a parent made use of the event to +impress upon the minds of their children the dreadful consequences of a +deviation from truth, under any circumstances whatsoever. + +Why should we return to the scene where Ellen is helplessly kissing +her two elder children, while they are as helplessly hanging around +her? The idea of resistance never for a moment crossed her. The strong +arm of the law she knew could wrest them from her—there was no hope of +touching Cresford’s heart. Ellen thought this was the bitterest drop +of all, in her cup of woe. To be parted from the beings over whose +welfare, bodily and mental, she had so carefully watched; in whom she +had with tender, and patient care, sown the seeds of good, which she +now saw every day bearing fruit according to her most sanguine wishes! +The instinctive bond between mother and child may be equally strong +at all ages; but when, in addition to the natural pang at such a tie +being severed, there is the sorrowful and disappointing prospect of +seeing your labour of love all wasted, and the grief of seeing your +sorrow shared by the innocent sufferers, there can be no anguish more +poignant, more hopeless. + +In man there may exist a preference towards the children of the woman +he loves, over those of the woman he has not loved—not so in the +gentler sex. It frequently happens that maternal affection is the more +powerful principle in those who have been disappointed in their hopes +of conjugal happiness. The heart whose tenderness has been repelled +in one quarter, expands and fixes itself in the one other lawful +direction, and Ellen’s love for her elder children fully equalled that +she felt for the child of Algernon. + +She has taken her last kiss of them; she has for the last time wrapped +the handkerchiefs close round their throats to defend them from the +chill of the evening; she has for the thousandth time bade them be +good children, and implored them to remember all she has told them +concerning their duty to God, and to their fellow-creatures. Above all, +she made them both promise never to forget to say their prayers, and +added, “never forget to pray for me, my children.” + +“No, no, mamma; but we shall see you again soon.” + +“We will hope so, my loves—we shall, I trust, meet again, here, or +elsewhere,” and her eyes sought that Heaven to which her spirit longed +to flee, and be at rest. + +“We are not always to remain with that pale dark stranger?” + +“He is your father, my children. You owe to him the same duty you owe +to me.” But she could not bid them love him, obey him, watch his every +look, and attend to his every word, as they did to hers, for alas! +she remembered but too well what was his violent uncertain temper in +happier days, and she trembled to think to what guardianship their +helpless innocence was committed. + +“If strangers,” she added, “should speak slightingly of me, +darlings,—my own dear good children will not believe them. I know they +will not.” + +Once more they were locked in a long and close embrace—gradually she +relaxed her hold. Matilda, Caroline, Captain Wareham gently unwound +them from her. The awe-struck children let themselves be quietly +withdrawn, and when Ellen recovered from her swoon, they were with +their father some miles on the road to London. + +What were Cresford’s emotions?—Such was the tumult of his soul they +could scarcely be defined. The circumstances under which the children +had been introduced to their father were not such as to inspire them +with filial affection; and, notwithstanding their mother’s parting +injunction, they looked upon him with fear and horror, as the stranger +who had made mamma so unhappy, and had taken them away from her in such +a hurry. They could not the least comprehend what was meant by this +man’s being their father, for they remembered wearing black frocks for +a long time, because their father was dead. + +Cresford saw the instinctive terror with which, when he kissed them, +and bade them love him, they shrank from his caresses. With increased +bitterness he exclaimed, “She has taught them to hate me! My own +children hate me,—my wife disowns me! I am an outcast on the face +of the earth! It had been better, a thousand times better for me to +have consumed away the remnant of my existence in my dungeon! There +I had hope!—I could think of my Ellen,—of my children! and fancy the +time might come when I should once more know happiness with them. Oh! +for those visionary days of fancied bliss!—how much better than this +horrible waking certainty of endless misery! But I will be revenged! If +I am miserable, those who have made me so shall not be happy!” And at +that moment he took the resolution of availing himself of every power +which the law placed in his hands, of bringing her, who had caused him +to be the wretch he was, to open and public shame. + +The rest of the journey was performed in silence. His heart had been +too long seared by suffering, to open to parental affection. His +children showed none for him; he was not in a state of mind to attempt +to win it by patient kindness, and he felt injured as a father, as +well as a husband. In truth, a calmer, gentler disposition than his +might have had all the milk of human kindness turned to gall, in his +situation. He had most truly loved his wife, and his case was as +pitiable, and as hopeless a one, as can well be imagined. The mental +aberration to which he had slightly alluded, and which had prevented +him for some years from even attempting to make his imprisonment in +Austria known, either to his friends or to the Government, had been +brought on by the vehement and ungoverned nature of his passions; +which, as might be expected, did not meet with the soothing treatment +calculated to allay them, but, on the contrary, with every thing +tending most to inflame and irritate them. The reason which might have +controlled them remained, in some degree, weakened, while the passions +themselves were in full force. + +Upon his arrival in London he deposited his children at an hotel, and +sallied forth in search of a lawyer. He walked to Lincoln’s Inn, and +knocked at the first door that presented itself. He was admitted, and +was shown up to a middle-aged, quiet little man, with spectacles upon +his nose. + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + _Gomez._—And wouldst thou bare thy bosom’s grief to one, + A dull mechanic, who but stares on thee + With cold unmeaning wonder? I had rather + The secret pang should rankle at the core, + And eat my life away, than my dear thoughts + Be made thus stale and common. Hast no friend, + No tried companion, whose unwearied ear + Would ease thy o’ercharged breast? + + _Pedro._— ... Not one—not one! + I am alone, with such a sum of ills + As o’erturns reason. + + _Manuscript Tragedy._ + +“Sir,” said Cresford to the lawyer, “I come to you for justice. You +see before you a man who has been deeply injured in his honour, his +affections, and his rights as a man, a husband, and a father.” + +Mr. M‘Leod pointed to a chair, and begged the gentleman to be +seated—professed his willingness to lend any assistance in his power to +a person who appeared to be suffering under such injuries, and begged +him calmly to detail to him the circumstances of the case, that he +might judge in what mode he could best render this assistance. + +“I am calm, sir: if you knew all, you would wonder at my calmness. +During the year of peace in 1802, I was called to France on mercantile +business. I left a wife I adored—Oh, sir! she was the loveliest +creature that ever walked this earth—she seemed as pure as she was +lovely. I worshipped her as the Persians of old worshipped the sun. She +was every thing to me! I scarcely suffered the wind to blow on her. +The gaze of another man appeared to me almost pollution to a creature +so sacred. I left her with her father, as I thought, in honour and in +safety, and with her my two children. + +“Every one knows the fate of those who were found in France upon the +declaration of hostilities. I was one of the _détenus_, and at Verdun +I was condemned to drag out many, many weary months, in absence from +her I so madly adored. A vague jealousy, a fear of what might occur +in my absence, racked my brain almost to madness. I would not accept +my parole: the severity of my imprisonment was nothing to me. Of what +avail was the liberty of wandering a few miles from the town, to one +whose whole soul was in another land? It mattered little to me where I +was detained, if I was far from her, and I would be bound by no ties +of honour from attempting every thing in my power to make my escape. +Several times I had nearly accomplished it, but each time the vigilance +of my jailers overtook me. + +“At length I thought of a plan which proved successful. I wrote a +letter to my wife, informing her that I intended to counterfeit +illness,—on my feigned death-bed, to obtain permission to be buried by +torch-light in the Protestant burying-ground outside the town, and with +the assistance of my friend and only confidant, Morton, to follow my +own funeral procession, at night, wrapt in a military cloak, as one of +the mourners. Every thing succeeded to my wishes. I was considered as +falling a victim to my mental sufferings, and my fate excited pity. I +obtained the permission required. Morton administered a strong sleeping +draught, and as he was my constant attendant, he pronounced me dead. I +was placed in my coffin, and on the evening of my funeral, which was +the next succeeding my supposed death, he begged to be allowed to weep +in private over the bier of his best friend, and took that opportunity +of opening the coffin, dressing me in the clothes which he had conveyed +into the room, filling the coffin with some billets of wood which had +been brought to make up the fire, and of concealing me in an adjoining +closet till the moment arrived for the procession to move on. I then +mixed among the mourners, and by favour of the darkness, escaped +detection. As most of the other officers were on parole, there was +no difficulty made as to the number who passed the gates, and with a +palpitating heart, I found myself, unfettered by any pledge of honour, +beyond the walls of Verdun. + +“It was not till all present were occupied in actually lowering the +coffin into the ground that I ventured to absent myself. I took that +moment to steal away, and plunging into a neighbouring thicket, I +remained there closely concealed, till they had all wound their way +back into the town. + +“Morton had placed for me a peasant’s dress, a bag of provisions, +and some money, in a hollow tree, the situation of which he had so +accurately described to me, that I found it without much loss of time, +and having changed my dress, and carefully concealed my military +costume, I dashed right onwards, and before morning had cleared three +leagues. I need not tell you how I made my way from day to day—how +I crossed the Rhine in an open boat, which in my wanderings I found +moored to the shore; how I was, in Germany, immediately seized as a +spy, and how for four years, I was enabled still to endure the tortures +of an Austrian dungeon, by the distant hope of some day being restored +to my Ellen,—_my_ Ellen! I thought her _mine_ then! I have escaped from +my dungeon—I have returned! I came to my home—no one knew me—I asked +for my wife—I received no answer—I inquired for my children—they were +at Mr. Hamilton’s!—for that is his name—that is the name of the man who +has robbed me of my wife—my wedded, lawful wife!—for she is my wife! By +the law of the land, she is my wife, sir? There is justice for me in +this land of law, of liberty, of impartial justice, is there not? She +can be prosecuted for bigamy, sir. She must be found guilty. I come to +you to learn how to proceed—Do you advise me, guide me. Oh! my brain is +confused and maddened! I cannot, cannot think!” + +Cresford paced the apartment in violent agitation. The quiet lawyer +looked up from his spectacles, and half wondered whether his would-be +client was quite in his right senses. Cresford had not paused for a +moment. There was a relief in thus disburthening himself of all that +had long been pent up in his soul. He had found those who were nearest +and dearest to him, severed, eternally severed from him. All other +ties and affections were as nothing before those which had been thus +rudely rent asunder, and having once begun to speak to this stranger, +he poured forth all his tale as to his best friend. He might also be +prompted to indulge in this confidence by a feeling unknown to himself, +that a person totally unacquainted with Ellen would be more likely +to listen with complete sympathy to his wrongs, than any one who had +known, or even seen her. + +Mr. M‘Leod answered, + +“Indeed, sir, your case appears to be a very hard one. You wrote, you +say, to your wife to inform her of the plan you meant to adopt?” + +“I wrote to her explaining the whole thing, and sent the letter by my +friend Maitland, who succeeded in making his escape a month before I +put my plan in execution. I waited to make sure he got off in safety. +He wrote to me the evening before he sailed in a fishing-vessel for +England.” + +“And you are confident she received this letter?” + +“She says she did not—but she had fallen in love with Hamilton! She +never loved me, I am now sure she never loved me,” he repeated in +a tone of deep despondency, but he continued with more bitterness: +“It was very convenient to her to believe in my death; convenient +to my partners in trade, to divide the profits of the business—very +convenient for her brother to be admitted to a share. Ha, ha, ha! they +have all revelled in my spoils—they have thought me safe in my dungeon! +But I am here—I am alive—they cannot prove me dead. I will wrest my +wife, my children, my property, from the spoiler’s grasp!” and he +laughed a wild laugh of desperation. + +It had been Mr. M‘Leod’s fate frequently to see people under a state +of great excitement, so that, although he feared his visiter’s mind +might be somewhat warped by his misfortunes, he did not doubt there was +ground for all he stated, and he now inquired methodically into his +name, his connections, his residence. + +He remembered the name as one of considerable note in the mercantile +world, and he had some recollection of having heard his death +mentioned, as one of the melancholy consequences of the cruel and +unjustifiable act of arbitrary power, which must always be a disgrace +on the name of Napoleon. + +“Indeed, Mr. Cresford,” rejoined M‘Leod, “I pity you most +sincerely—whether your wife may be to blame or not.” + +“Whether my wife may be to blame or not? And do I hear an Englishman, +whose profession it is to right the injured, to procure justice for all +indifferently—do I hear him advocate the cause of the faithless wife? +then, indeed, have I little chance of redress!” + +“My good sir, you misunderstand me entirely. I do not mean to advocate +her cause, or anybody’s cause. I merely mean to say, that I am very +sorry for you, whether your wife did ever receive the letter you wrote +to her, or whether she did not.” + +“She did receive it—she must have received it; and, if she did not, +she should have waited for some more positive and certain information +of my death than common report!” + +“Very true, Mr. Cresford—quite true, sir; yet, if you had been dead, +it would not have been easy for you to write her word you were dead, +though she might have expected to hear from you that you were alive.” + +“Is there justice for me in the laws of my country, or is there not?” +repeated Cresford sternly. + +“Certainly, sir. In this country there is justice for everybody.” + +“Then how am I to seek redress? In what court?” + +“Why, if by redress you mean revenge, that is to be obtained by +prosecuting your wife for bigamy, in which case the trial would take +place at the assizes of the county in which the marriage ceremony was +performed: but, under the circumstances of the case under which the +crime of bigamy was committed, I conclude, that if she quits the roof +of her second husband——” + +“He is not her husband, sir; I am her husband, and I will prove it. +She, the immaculate—the refined—who seemed to shrink from my love as +too impassioned—she shall be proved to have been living in sin with +another man!” + +“Does she still reside with Mr.——I beg your pardon, what was the name +you mentioned?” + +“Hamilton—Hamilton is his name—and curses on it!” exclaimed Cresford, +goaded to madness by the cool and methodical manner of the lawyer, who, +though a lawyer, was an honest straightforward man, with plain manners +and a good heart. + +“Does she still reside with Mr. Hamilton?” + +“No! she is with her father. She had not the face to live on with +Hamilton when she knew I was alive, and on my way home.” + +“And your children, sir, does she make any difficulty about sending +them to you?” + +“No! I brought them away with me yesterday.” + +“Then I do not exactly understand what redress you seek at the arm of +the law.” + +The clear head, and the kind heart of the lawyer, made him begin to see +that, although a most singular and lamentable case, it was one in which +all parties were more deserving of pity than of blame, and it seemed +to him that the poor woman had acted as well as she could under the +unfortunate circumstances. + +“Have you and Mrs. Cresford had an interview since your return, and in +what manner did she comport herself?” + +“I saw her yesterday. I saw her in all her loveliness—I could almost +have forgotten every thing—for the moment it was such rapture to gaze +on her again; when she told me, in so many words, that her whole heart +and soul were his—my rival’s.” + +“Poor woman!” ejaculated Mr. M‘Leod. + +“And is it she whom you pity? Am I doomed to be scorned and persecuted +by the whole human race? To be hated by all who are bound to me by the +nearest and dearest ties? Are even strangers to take part against me? +But I will have revenge, if I cannot have sympathy. I will be feared, +if I cannot be loved. I would fain be loved; it was my nature to love, +and to wish for love in return.” His voice softened, and the tears swam +in his eyes. “But I have never been loved—no, she never did love me! +He had her first affections—her whole affections! Oh, how those words +ring in my ears!” + +Mr. M‘Leod was moved by his expressions of wretchedness, and rising +from his seat, he took his hand kindly. + +“Though I am a stranger to you, sir, I pity you most sincerely,” he +said, “and I wish I could persuade you to look more calmly on the case.” + +“Can you—will you assist me?” + +“Explain to me in what mode you wish for my assistance.” + +“Will you undertake the prosecution of Ellen Cresford for bigamy?” + +“Why, I must consider a little about it. I am an odd sort of fellow, +and though I am a lawyer, I have a corner of conscience,” and Mr. +M‘Leod smiled. Cresford hated him for being able to smile. “I do not +engage in any thing till I know a little more about the matter. I am +very well off in the world, and I do not want to make money, by causing +my fellow-creatures to be more unhappy than they need be. I can’t tell +what I might do if I was poor; but, thank God, I can afford to dismiss +a client, if I think that no good can come of gaining his cause.” + +“Then you dismiss me, Mr. M‘Leod?” + +“I do not justly say that; but I should like to know how truly your +wife believed you were dead and buried, and whether she had got +acquainted with the other gentleman before she heard the news of your +death, and a few more such questions; for it runs in my head, that +though your case is a hard one, hers may be a hard one too; and that +the best thing you could both do, would be to let each other alone, and +bear your misfortunes as well as you can.” + +“It is easy enough to preach forbearance, and patience, and submission, +and resignation. You would not find them quite so easy to practise. I +did not come to you, Mr. M‘Leod, for ghostly counsel! I came to you for +professional advice. Thus much I have ascertained, that the offence +will be tried at the county assizes, and the punishment——?” + +“Mercy upon me, sir! You do not really wish your wife to be +transported, when you deceived her with a false report of your death! +I will have nothing to say to the matter, Mr. Cresford. You may find +another solicitor, who is sharper set for a job than I am.” + +Cresford seized his hat, and muttering between his teeth, “Friend and +foe, stranger and the wife of my bosom,—all leagued against me!” he +made a slight bow to the honest lawyer, and again found himself jostled +in the busy throng of London. + +One thing, however, he had ascertained,—that the prosecution would +take place at her native town, and he felt a certain pleasure in the +idea that she would be held up to disgrace there, among the very people +who knew he was the betrayed and the detested husband. Those who were +aware of the humiliating situation in which he was placed, would be +witnesses of his revenge. + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + And sudden hurricanes sweep all around, + That strip the tender leaves, and whirl amain, + While dread convulsions heave the shuddering ground, + And rocks, and caves, with hollow moan complain; + For anger hight, the lord of this domain, + Who when he fondly deems the ruin brought + On others’ fame and fortunes, his dear gain, + Finds that his own destruction he hath wrought, + And on himself hath wreaked the vengeance that he sought. + + _Manuscript Poem._ + +One other mode of vengeance Cresford was determined to pursue, namely, +to call out Mr. Hamilton. He returned to the hotel, and there he sat +down to write a challenge couched in language such as he thought must +goad any man to give him the satisfaction for which he pined. + +Having from the red-book ascertained the direction to Mr. Hamilton’s +place, he sent it by the post, for there was no one to whom he could +apply on this emergency. He had not yet communicated with any of the +partners of his house; he had seen no one except Henry Wareham; he felt +that all living beings were his foes, and he therefore could not bring +himself to have recourse to any of those who formerly called themselves +his friends. He fancied he should only thereby expose himself to +meeting with fresh unkindness and want of sympathy. + +When he had despatched his letter to Hamilton, he sent for his children +into the room where he was sitting. They came pale and frightened. He +tried to talk to them. He strove to adapt his conversation to their +age. He asked them how they liked London, whether they had walked in +the streets, and told them they should go to Kensington Gardens; but +his eye was wild, his manner fierce and hurried, and they scarcely +ventured to answer him. He soon sent them back to their attendant, his +feelings rather embittered than softened by the interview. + +When he was able to fix his mind to the consideration of any subject, +he became aware that he ought to arrange something more proper and more +advantageous for them than their present mode of life, and he resolved, +provided he did not fall by the hand of Hamilton, to take a small house +in the immediate vicinity of London, where they might reside with +their _bonne_, who had been with them for some time, and where they +might also have the advantage of masters. + +He impatiently awaited Hamilton’s answer. It came; and in the first +rage of disappointment he tore it into a thousand fragments. Hamilton +distinctly and positively refused to meet Mr. Cresford, and told him +that no taunts, no insults, should ever induce him to do so. + +Cresford threw himself into a chaise, and in half an hour was on the +Portsmouth road. When he arrived within sight of Belhanger, he gave a +second letter to a messenger, and desired it to be instantly delivered +to Mr. Hamilton. In this he branded him with the name of coward, and +he flattered himself it was such as must secure to him the revenge he +coveted. + +Dismissing his chaise, he approached the scene of Ellen’s former +happiness, and prowled around the precincts with redoubled feelings +of jealousy. The loveliness of the place excited his envy—the +venerable-looking manor house, the old oaks, the deer! Yet from these +things he gleaned a momentary consolation. Perhaps it was the splendour +of the connection that tempted her! But, oh no! the expression of her +countenance, when she said her whole heart, soul, and affections were +Algernon’s! Those words sounded again in his ears, and he longed to +find himself in mortal struggle with the man of whom she could so speak. + +He hurried back to the inn, hoping his last letter must have provoked +an answer consonant to his wishes. He found an envelope containing his +own despatch unopened. + +There was no further redress to be sought; and he had but to retrace +his steps to London, if possible more infuriated than before. + +Algernon had not trusted himself to read this second letter. He had +resolved that no earthly power should tempt him to lift his hand +against her husband: he was determined to commit no act that would +place a barrier between himself and Ellen, which neither time nor +change of circumstances could remove. Cresford was mortal, as well as +himself or Ellen; and if, although he might wait till extreme old age, +there was a possibility of their ever being reunited, no act of his +should have rendered their reunion impracticable. + +Cresford returned to London, and he quickly put into execution the plan +for the establishment of his children. It was necessary to enter into +something like an arrangement with his partners. As yet he had taken +no measures towards resuming his place among them; he had made himself +known to none of his old acquaintances; he had communicated with no +one, except those we have already mentioned. + +But money now became necessary to him. He revisited the house, and +begged he might be immediately put in possession of his share of the +receipts. His place of residence became known, and many left their +names for him at the hotel; but even with the few whom he occasionally +saw, he preserved a moody silence—to none did he speak of his +misfortunes or of his intentions. + +The only person whose house he frequented, was an old bachelor who had +been a friend of the family, who was his godfather, and who had taken +advantage of that sort of connection to lecture him, and to find fault +with him, when he was a boy. He had always disliked him, and why he +should now be the only person whose society he selected, was one of the +strange and unaccountable freaks of a mind ill at ease with itself, to +which the spectacle of content and cheerfulness is irksome, while it +finds a kind of relief in the contemplation of another equally joyless. + +Sir Stephenson Smith had in his youth esteemed himself a man of +gallantry. He had never been handsome, but he had thought himself +insinuating; and he had been made a fool of by many a fair one of +his day. He had always professed to be on his guard against the +machinations of the sex; and, as he fancied, had preserved his liberty +up to the present day;—that is to say, he had been by turns the tyrant +and the slave, of any woman who had art and vice enough to think it +worth her while to dupe him. His conversation chiefly turned upon the +coldness and the heartlessness of women. To most others it would have +been a shocking sight; but Cresford found a strange satisfaction in +watching the blind and helpless old man, as he sat in his arm-chair, +surrounded by all the luxuries, which to him were of no avail, and +receiving, with querulous impatience, the attentions of a bustling +nurse, who, through evil report and good report, whether he was cross +or not, conscientiously did her duty by him, and quietly performed the +offices for which she was hired. + +Cresford was one day paying Sir Stephenson his diurnal visit. He +had sat for some time in silence; his two hands rested upon his two +knees, his eyes looked vacantly, but fixedly, into the fire, when his +meditations were broken in upon by the peevish lamentations of the old +man. + +“There! that tiresome woman has not given me my snuff-box!” and +his feeble, palsied hands, strayed over the table in search of the +snuff-box which was in his pocket. “She has no feeling for me! she does +not care whether I am comfortable or uncomfortable, as long as she gets +her money and her perquisites—that is the way of women! Talk of their +kindliness! They care for nothing but themselves. They can pretend to +care for one, when one is young and handsome—and when one has plenty +of money in one’s pocket too; but I never knew one of them who had a +grain of feeling! I have been a pretty fellow in my youth, and have had +as many women make love to me as my neighbours, but hang me, if any +one of them ever loved me for myself. There is this Sarah Purbeck, she +cares no more for me——” + +“What an infatuation it is,” exclaimed Cresford, “which can make +us worship such fickle, heartless creatures! as variable as the +weathercock, which changes with every wind that blows! But that time is +past—I have awoke from my day-dream—I know what their love is worth +now!” + +“Ay! and so do I, my boy. I never thought it worth much; and now I know +it is worth—nothing at all! However, if I have not given them much of +a heart-ache,” he added, laughing a feeble, old, cracked laugh, “they +have not given me much of a heart-ache either!” + +“Do you think they are capable of loving truly and sincerely? Do you +think they can love, though you and I may have lived unloved?” + +“Yes; they can love themselves, and their clothes, and their +opera-boxes, and, sometimes, some man they ought not to love.” + +Cresford bit his lips, and knit his brows, and his fist lay clenched +upon the table. A long silence ensued. At length the old man fidgeted +about, rang the bell, and asked for his chocolate. He struck his watch: +it was five minutes past the hour. He scolded Mrs. Purbeck for her +inattention, and when she left the room, he said in a dejected tone— + +“It is a sad thing to have nobody to care for one: that woman does not +love me. Perhaps, after all, if I had married, I might, in a wife, have +found an affectionate nurse.” + +“Affection!” exclaimed Cresford—“affection in a wife! Have not I a +wife?—and have I met with affection?” He several times paced up and +down the apartment, and then hastily took his leave. + +These visits did not tend to put him in good humour with human nature, +or with womankind: they still more soured and embittered his temper; +and when he had put his affairs in train, had resumed his situation as +partner, and measures had been taken for Henry Wareham’s withdrawal +from a concern in which he found himself frequently and painfully +brought in contact with Cresford, he left London, his mind fully made +up to pursue his unfortunate wife according to the rigour of the law. + +He had ascertained from Mr. M‘Leod that the trial would take place +at the assizes of the county in which the second marriage had been +celebrated, the very one in which she at present resided. He took up +his abode in a neighbouring village. His first care was to obtain the +certificate of his own marriage at the cathedral church of ——. He +proceeded to procure that of the second marriage at Longbury, for which +purpose he sent to the minister of that place, a regular application +for the extract from the parish register. + +Mr. Allenham had no option—he was obliged to comply; but he was +inexpressibly alarmed at the application, and lost no time in informing +Captain Wareham of the circumstance, while Caroline wearied herself in +conjectures, and hopes, and fears as to what Cresford might meditate. + +This communication did not render Captain Wareham more easy and +comfortable in his mind; and although the kindness of his heart +prompted him to conceal his fears from Ellen, the additional weight +of care rendered him more than usually difficult to be pleased. The +Allenhams had returned to their own home soon after Ellen’s arrival, +and her two poor elder children having been removed, the last few +weeks had been passed in melancholy quiet. Still Matilda found her +task more than usually difficult, and she was so subdued herself by +the misfortunes of her sister, that she had no longer the buoyancy +of spirit which enabled her, half gaily, half resolutely, to bear up +against the daily worries of her father’s temper. To Ellen he never, +on any occasion, spoke with captiousness; but he often appeared +annoyed with the little Agnes, who was old enough to toddle about the +room, to pull away grandpapa’s toast, to stumble over his foot as it +was extended towards the fire, to frighten him lest she might fall +against the fender, and to do the hundred things which are charming and +attractive to those whose hearts are light, and who can give themselves +up to watching the graceful awkwardnesses, the winning _espiégleries_ +of infancy, but which are inexpressibly wearisome when the mind is +oppressed with deep and serious care. + +Ellen saw that her child, her only remaining child, was often +troublesome to her father, and she kept it out of the room as much as +possible. He was then vexed that the child should not be with them, and +his good-nature made him fear he might have hurt Ellen’s feelings. + +Cresford having obtained the two certificates, now waited upon Mr. +Turnbull, a country gentleman and a magistrate, and producing the +two documents, informed him that he wished to indict his wife, Ellen +Cresford, for bigamy, and required him to issue a warrant for her +apprehension. + +Mr. Turnbull, although not personally acquainted with the parties, +knew the respectability of their situations, and had heard under what +circumstances the second marriage had been contracted. He attempted +to dissuade Mr. Cresford from carrying matters to such an extremity; +to which Cresford sternly replied, as he had previously done to Mr. +M‘Leod’s remonstrances, that he did not apply to him for advice, that +he simply waited upon him to demand the performance of his duty as a +magistrate—that the case was clearly made out before him, and he was +not to counsel, but to act. + +Mr. Turnbull, although he did so most unwillingly, had no choice but +to grant the desired warrant. It was with a feeling of triumph that +Cresford seized the paper, and, bowing to Mr. Turnbull, abruptly +quitted him, before he had time to adduce any arguments in favour of +delay. + +Cresford proceeded to the county town, and delivering the warrant to +the constable, desired him to perform his duty. + +It so happened, that the constable to whom he addressed himself, was +the very Will Pollard who had once lived as gardener with Captain +Wareham, and who had known Ellen from her childhood. He had inherited a +little money, and had set up for himself, as nurseryman and seedsman. +He stood aghast when the paper was placed in his hand, and declared in +round terms, that nothing should induce him to be the bearer of such a +thing, “to Miss Ellen that was.” + +“Take back your paper, sir! If you are for taking the law of her, sir, +you must find somebody else—I’ll have nothing to say to it,” and he +shoved the paper back to Cresford in no very civil manner. + +“You cannot help yourself,” Cresford replied with an exulting calmness. +“You must execute a magistrate’s warrant—you cannot help yourself.” + +“I a’n’t bound to do such a thing as this?” asked Pollard the gardener, +of Simpson the shoemaker, who happened to be present. + +“I don’t know what right you have to refuse,” answered Simpson, who was +a man of wisdom, and read all the newspapers. + +Pollard hesitated. He had not long been established in a concern of his +own, he was new in office, and he looked up to Simpson for advice and +guidance: after having scratched his head, brushed his hat with his +sleeve, and pruned a thriving young shrub considerably more than it +required, he said, + +“Maybe if ’tis to be done, I may be able to speak kinder to her than +another, and she always was partial to me from a child.” So he took the +paper and held it doubtingly and distrustfully in his hand. “No,” he +said, again scratching his head, “I don’t half like the job; you had +better get Mr. Clarke the carpenter, on the left-hand side, to do it +for you, sir. He is a constable as well as me.” + +“Mr. Pollard, the law must have its course. You know that, as well as I +do. You had better take the warrant I have now given you, and bring the +person therein mentioned before the magistrate, as the law directs.” + +“Well,” said Pollard, “what must be, must be, and it don’t signify +argufying. And when is it to be served?” + +“To-day, sir! Now!” answered Cresford in a stentorian voice. “I expect +to meet you at Mr. Turnbull’s with—with the person specified in that +warrant, in your custody. In three hours I shall be there.” + +Cresford departed, leaving poor Pollard perplexed and confounded. It +went against him sadly to do what was required of him. He turned in +his head how he might open the business to Miss Ellen “just easy like, +without putting her in a fluster;” and in the first place he resolved +to change his dress. “He wasn’t no ways tidy to appear before Captain +Wareham and his family. He would look clean and decent at least. He +would do nothing as was not respectful by the family.” So Pollard +retired to repair his toilette, feeling that he thereby softened the +blow which was hanging over poor Ellen. + +His wife was surprised to see him all in his Sunday’s best. + +“Why, what merry-making are you ever going to, Will?” said she: “is it +your club day?” + +“No, ’tan’t my club day, woman; you know well enough that a’n’t till +next week?” + +“Why, in the name of fortune, where are you going to, then? You are not +going to Tharford fair, sure!” + +“No! I a’n’t going to no fair, nor no merry-making,” and he stood +brushing his hat round and round with the sleeve of his coat; “I am +going where I have no mind to go.” + +“Why, Will, you quite fright me! You can’t have done any thing wrong?” + +“No! But I’ve got a warrant to sarve.” + +“Why, Lord bless us, this is not the first warrant you have had to +sarve! But I never knew you dress yourself out so fine to sarve a +warrant before,” and Peggy smiled. + +“You would not laugh, if you knew who that warrant was made out +for—It’s for my Miss Ellen as you have heard me talk of, many and +many’s the time. She’s the one, as I’ve often told you, was as quick +up the ladder as I was myself—and such a one as she was to sow seeds! +and she could make cuttings almost as well as I could myself! Miss +Caroline, she was always for walking in the streets, and looking out +for the beaux, but Miss Ellen, she would hoe and rake for me all her +play-time, if they would let her.” + +“A warrant for her, Will? You are dreaming.” + +“No, I a’n’t; But hold you tongue, and mind your business. There’s no +good in prating—we must all do what is appointed us.” + +Will marched out at the door with a tear called up by his own eloquence +gathering in his eye. + +He proceeded to Captain Wareham’s. He knocked at the door. + +“If you please, James,” said he, “if you please, I want to have a word +with Mrs. Hamilton—that is—Mrs. Cres—Miss Ellen that was—my Miss +Ellen.” + +“Step in, Master Pollard, I’ll tell her directly.” + +Pollard stood twirling his hat, and debating within himself how he was +to open his business, when James came back, and bade him walk up. + +“Mrs. Cresford is alone—she bids us all say Mrs. Cresford now,” he +whispered; “she says there’s no use in standing out about a name,—and +yet she takes her letters every morning as if she did not half like to +touch them.” + +Pollard entered the room where Ellen sat, meek and dejected, with +little Agnes in her lap playing at the table—she looked up with a +faint smile. + +“I have not seen you a long time, Pollard; I hear you are become a +married man since you left my father.” + +“Yes, ma’am, so I am, an’t please you.” + +“I hope you are quite comfortable; I should have been to call on you, +but I have not been out lately.” + +“Thank you, ma’am, all the same for thinking of me. ’Twould be a pride +and a pleasure to me, to show you how nice and comfortable I’ve got +every thing about me—but——” + +“Speak out, Pollard; you are a very old friend: you were a great +play-mate of mine in my childhood. If you have any little favour to ask +of me, I shall be glad to do my best, though I am not quite so rich now +as I once was.” Her eyes dropped, and a paler hue stole over her cheek. + +“No, ’tisn’t that, bless your kind heart, ’tisn’t that. I had rather by +half ask a favour of you, for I know ’twould be a pleasure to you to +grant it. But I’ve got a bit of paper here, ma’am. You see, ma’am, I’m +a constable, and they have put this upon me. They say as I must give +you this here bit of paper, and I scarce know what will come of it.” + +Ellen received the paper from Pollard’s trembling hand, while with +the back of the other he brushed off a tear. She still thought some +misfortune had befallen his family,—that most likely it was a +petition,—and it took her some moments to collect her thoughts so as +to comprehend the full purport of the warrant. + +The idea that she could be prosecuted for bigamy had never before +crossed her imagination. The misfortune of no longer being the wife +of Algernon, and the disgrace and shame of having lived with him for +two years, had completely occupied her whole soul. She had not been +able to imagine any misery beyond this. No one had ever hinted at +such a possibility, nor indeed had any one believed that Cresford, +however keenly he might himself suffer from the consequences of his +own imprudence, would have wreaked his useless vengeance upon his +unfortunate wife. + +Ellen was thunder-struck! The poor constable begged her pardon, +entreated her to believe it was no fault of his; that he was bound to +obey the law. “We can’t help ourselves, ma’am; we must do what the law +directs,—them as have to execute the laws, and them as have to obey +them,—’tis all one for us both.” + +Poor Ellen begged him to find her father, and to bid him come to her. +She was scared, frightened. She could not be more completely separated +from Algernon,—her children were already torn from her. She was, +therefore, simply, vaguely frightened. + +Captain Wareham came. She gave him the paper. He guessed the purport +but too well, and turned deadly pale: “When is this summons to be +attended, Pollard?” + +“Why, sir, Mr. Cresford said we must meet him at Squire Turnbull’s +in three hours from the time he was at my house, and that was at two +o’clock, just as I had done dinner.” + +“Meet him! Am I to meet Mr. Cresford? Oh, father! any thing but that!” + +“Dearest child, there is no avoiding it. You must exert all your +strength of mind: you must not give way. Mr. Turnbull is a good sort +of man, and there will be no one else present. Cresford is a brute, an +unmanly brute! If you could feel half as angry with him as I do, your +anger would give you strength to go through the interview.” + +“I am too miserable to feel angry, father. Besides, I am sorry for +him:—I have made him very unhappy. I know what pain it is to be +separated from what one loves, even when one knows one is loved in +return. What am I to do, father?” she meekly added. + +“The sooner we get this unpleasant business over, the better, my +dearest child. Go and put on your things; I will order a chaise +immediately.” He hurried Ellen out of the room; he longed to be for +a moment freed from her presence; he knew that this summons was the +prelude to a prosecution; he knew that the punishment of bigamy might +be transportation. Though he had no idea matters would ever be brought +to such an extremity, he felt awed and nervous in the extreme, and he +paced the apartment in the greatest agitation. Pollard stood still, +perplexed and grieved. “Get along, Pollard,” exclaimed Captain Wareham, +angrily; “can’t you wait down-stairs? Why do you stand here watching +me?” He rang the bell violently, and ordered the hack chaise to be +instantly procured. + +Captain Wareham kept no carriage. Ellen had strictly conformed to her +father’s mode of life: she would not consent to live in splendour upon +the money Mr. Hamilton would fain have forced upon her. + +The hack chaise came to the door. The lovely, the graceful Ellen, who, +as the wife of Mr. Cresford, had been used to all the luxuries of life, +and, as the wife of Algernon Hamilton, to all its refinements, ascended +the jingling steps, and, rustling through the straw, seated herself +at the farther corner of the narrow seat, while the constable of the +parish, mounted on the bar before, conveyed her like a common culprit +before the magistrate. + + +CHAPTER XV. + + Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a desperate saying against perfidious or + neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable. “You shall + read,” saith he, “that we are commanded to forgive our enemies, but + you never read that we are commanded to forgive our friends.” But yet + the spirit of Job was in a better tune: “Shall we,” saith he, “take + good at God’s hands, and not be content to take evil also?” and so + of friends in proportion. This is certain, that a man that studieth + revenge, keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do + well.—LORD BACON. + + Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief + Which festers there that hath bewildered him. + + SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_. + +The events of the morning had been so sudden and so bewildering, that +Ellen scarcely comprehended what was happening. The knowledge that she +was again to be brought into the presence of Cresford, was the one +idea that possessed her mind. “What does he want me for? What am I to +say to him, father? What is this to lead to?” + +“I scarcely know, my child. You have nothing to do but to answer the +truth. Your conduct has been irreproachable. You have nothing to blush +for.” + +“Oh, how I dread meeting those eyes again! Keep close to me, father.” + +They arrived. Ellen, pale and trembling, was supported by her father +into the hall. They were instantly shown into Mr. Turnbull’s study, +where he waited to receive them. He offered Ellen a seat. There was a +dignity in her timidity that awed, while it excited compassion; and +Mr. Turnbull, though a plain matter-of-fact man, treated her with more +polite deference than usually appeared in his manner towards women. + +“I believe,” he said, “I must now summon Mr. Cresford, that he may go +through the form of his deposition.” + +Ellen bowed assent, and trembled through every limb. But she kept her +eyes on the ground, and moved not. Cresford entered,—she did not stir. + +As he approached the table, he gazed on her, though it was rather in +triumph than in love; but her veil was down, her bonnet tied close, +her form enveloped in a cloak. The oath was administered. Mr. Turnbull +said:— + +“I believe, madam, you must for a moment remove your veil, that the +complainant may identify you.” + +Ellen drew it aside, and turned on him her pale, sad face; but still +she raised not her eyes. Cresford advanced a step towards the table, to +take the Bible, and to swear that the prisoner was Ellen Cresford, his +wife. She instinctively seized her father’s arm, and sheltered herself +behind him. + +Cresford showed his marriage certificate. The servant who had formerly +lived with him, and the clerk of * * * *, were present to prove the +celebration of the marriage. He then produced the extract from the +Longbury register. + +Mr. Turnbull asked Ellen what she had to say in reply. In a faint +voice, she answered “Nothing!” She had but one absorbing feeling—that +of bringing this painful interview to a close. But Captain Wareham +interposed. + +“I cannot allow this cruel and unjust statement to be made, without +simply mentioning the circumstances under which my daughter’s second +marriage was contracted. Mr. Cresford chose to publish an account +of his own death—he chose to enact his own funeral—his friends +and relations mourned him as dead. Two years and two months after +the receipt of the paper containing this account of his decease, my +daughter contracted a second marriage. Should any man in justice, in +honour, prosecute such a case?” + +“Certainly not,” was Mr. Turnbull’s concise reply. He looked at +Cresford: “Do you wish me, sir, to proceed?—it is yet time to pause. +You will no longer be at liberty to retract. If I make out the +commitment, you are bound over to prosecute.” + +“I know it, sir! It is my intention so to do.” + +“Madam, my duty is a painful one, but I must proceed according to +the provisions of the Act!” and Mr. Turnbull drew out the warrant of +commitment; at the same time he informed the constable that he would +himself attend that evening, with a brother magistrate, to admit her to +bail; and that he authorised him to conduct her back to her own house, +there to await his arrival, rather than at the county gaol. + +“Father, father! I am not to be taken to prison! Impossible! He cannot +mean to bring such disgrace upon the mother of his children?” + +“My dear madam, I will attend you at your own house: as the presence +of two magistrates is necessary, I will bring Sir John Staples with +me. Captain Wareham can then give us bail for your appearance at the +ensuing assizes.” + +“The assizes! Oh! he cannot be in earnest! This is too, too cruel! +Drag me before the eyes of the whole county! blazon our misery, and +our shame to the world! bring upon us the mockery of the coarse and +the unfeeling mob! Oh, Charles! what have I done to deserve this?” She +burst into an agony of tears. + +“What have you done? Have you not blasted my happiness, broken my +heart, and maddened my brain?—and she asks what she has done!” he +added, turning round to those present, with a wild and fearful laugh. + +Mr. Turnbull hastened to bring the scene to a close, and lost no +time in leading poor Ellen back to her hack chaise. He almost turned +Cresford from the door, and instantly galloped off himself in search of +Sir John Staples, to proceed with him to Captain Wareham’s house, and +there to admit Ellen to bail, that, at least, she might thus be spared +one painful and ignominious part of what she was doomed to endure. + +Ellen threw herself, sobbing and weeping, into the corner of the +carriage. + +“So I am to be tried, father—tried for bigamy, I suppose! Oh! have +mercy Heaven! tried like a common malefactor! placed at the bar, with +all the lawyers to look at me; and the dirty mob to laugh, and bandy +jests upon me! Oh! I never, never thought of this! And must it be? Is +there no escape?” + +“Alas! alas! my poor Ellen, I know of none. There is no chance of +bringing Cresford to reason; every attempt to do so seems but to +incense him. I really think his intellects are affected,—he is +scarcely in his right senses.” + +“I have done that!” she said, in a dejected tone. “It is not for me to +be too hard upon him.” After a pause of some length, she added, “And, +father—the punishment?” + +“Oh, my child! do not think of that! no jury on earth can find you +guilty.” + +“But I am guilty, father!—it is true I have committed the crime! I am +guilty of bigamy—though it is not my fault.” + +“They will not condemn you.” + +“But if they should? I should like to know the worst.” + +“Why, under aggravated circumstances, the punishment may be +transportation for seven years; but they will never pass such a +sentence, so think no more of that.” + +“I had rather it had been death,” she replied, in a quiet tone of +despair. After another pause she asked, “If I were to be transported, +would that annul my marriage? Should I be free?” + +“No, my love, even that would not annul your marriage.” + +“Perhaps it is best so. I am glad it would not: I would not mar his +glorious and honourable career in his own country. It is enough to have +the ruin of one fellow-creature on one’s conscience.” She spoke no more. + +They arrived at home. In less than an hour Mr. Turnbull and Sir John +Staples arrived, and with them Lord Besville, whom Mr. Turnbull also +called upon, and who became bail, with Captain Wareham, for her +appearance at the assizes. + +The constable was dismissed. Poor Will Pollard! Never had the law of +the land a more unwilling assistant in its execution. When he returned +to his cottage late in the evening, he threw down his hat on the table. + +“Well,” he muttered to himself, “this has been the worst day’s job that +ever I had to do. I would not have such another, no—not to be justice +of the peace, and a squire to boot. Why,” he exclaimed in a louder +voice, and striking his fist on the table, “why, that fellow had no +more business to come back alive, after having sent word he was dead, +than I have to bring in my bills twice over! Shame upon him!” + +It was some time before Peggy got at the rights of the case. + +“So, ’tis her second husband as is her true love. Poor soul! Well, ’tis +very hard. Why ’tis almost worse than if it was her husband’s ghost +come to haunt her—not that I should any ways like to see the ghost of +my first lover Tom Hartrop, as was drowned off Ushant.” + +Peggy had been a beauty, and was rather fond of talking of her first, +her second, her third, and her tenth lover. Will Pollard was in no mood +to listen, and, with a manner unusually surly, bade her, “hold her jaw, +and make haste with his supper.” + +It was a sorrowful evening at Captain Wareham’s. Ellen retired early +to rest, or rather to weep. Captain Wareham sat up late preambulating +the small drawing-room, while the measured creaking of his shoes, and +periodical stamp of his foot, were heard by Ellen in her apartment +above, and by Matilda in hers, as they each passed the greater part of +the night in painful watching. + +Ellen sat down to write to Algernon for the first time since she had +quitted his roof, and resumed the name of Cresford. To him she now +looked for succour. The cruelty of Cresford seemed to have widened the +breach between them, and to draw her irresistibly towards one whose +conduct throughout had been dictated by the very spirit of honour, +generosity, and tenderness. + +She detailed to him all which had that day taken place. She told him +she was to be tried, publicly tried; that she must, in vindication +of her own fame, produce every proof that they had received the most +authentic accounts of Cresford’s death. She begged him to take every +means towards finding a copy of the newspaper containing the official +return of the deaths at Verdun. She begged him to inquire for Colonel +Eversham, and, if possible, to discover what had been the fate of +young Maitland, to whom Cresford had entrusted the letter which was to +apprize her of his plan. + +“I write to you, Algernon,” she continued, “because I know you will +leave nothing unattempted to serve me, and to rescue me from the only +one additional misery which can now be heaped upon me—that of being +supposed to have sinned knowingly. Perhaps I may always have been +too much alive to the opinion of the world. Perhaps one ought to be +satisfied with knowing one’s intentions to have been innocent, and it +may be nobler to despise the idle gossip of those one neither loves +nor esteems; but my error, if it is one, is the safest for woman; and +you, who know that I would neither see you, nor correspond with you, +till I fancied the two years of my widowhood expired, can alone guess +what I feel at thus having my miserable history dragged before the +public. I have been stunned, annihilated by the blow. The idea of such +a consummation to my earthly woes never crossed my mind before. But now +my one only hope is at least to prove I sincerely believed myself free +when I gave myself to you,—that I did not wittingly involve you in the +misery which attends all in any way connected with me. + +“You must secure for me the best lawyer. In short, I trust every +thing to you. This will be expensive; it has not been pride, but my +deference for that world before whom I am doomed to be degraded, which +has hitherto prevented my allowing you to contribute to my support. +I know full well that all you have might be mine; I know from my +own what your feelings are, and for this cause, for the cause of my +honour, I am ready to let you incur whatever expense may be necessary. +I write to you at once that not a moment may be lost. The assizes are +to be held the 20th of next month. If possible, discover the fate of +Maitland.—Adieu! I write no more—but you may communicate with my +father. May Heaven preserve you to be a blessing to all who are allowed +the happiness of belonging to you! + +“Our child—oh, there is still one link which binds us together!—our +child is well and lovely. + + ELLEN.” + +Algernon, upon the receipt of this letter, was nearly frantic with +rage and indignation. If Cresford longed to find himself hand to hand +engaged with his rival, not less did Algernon burn to meet him in +mortal strife; but still Cresford would have been safe with him in a +desert, so closely did he cling to some distant hope of reunion with +Ellen. + +Though he was wild with indignation at Cresford’s unmanly and cruel +revenge, there was a sense of relief to him in having a definite object +to pursue. He had hitherto remained in utter seclusion and inactivity. +He feared to injure or to distress her, by any measure he could take, +and he had lived the life of an anchorite, wandering among his own +woods, far from public business, useless alike to himself and to +others. At length he was roused to exertion, and, horrified as he was +at the image of his lovely, refined, delicate, shrinking Ellen being +exposed to the gaze of a public court, there was a comfort in being +actively employed in her behoof. He threw himself into his carriage to +fly to London, and there to begin the necessary inquiries. + +He first drove to the house of the most eminent lawyer of the day, +to secure him as counsel. Cresford had been there before him. He had +retained him; and although he was so engaged that he did not attend +this circuit, he was effectually prevented from affording Algernon any +assistance. He proceeded to another, whose name stood high as a man of +overpowering eloquence, when he had justice on his side, although not +perhaps equally skilled in making the worse appear the better cause. He +found him free, and he was instantly retained. + +He next repaired to the newspaper offices, and there having stated the +date and the title of the paper of which he was in want, they gave him +every hope of soon procuring it. + +And now to find Colonel Eversham! He looked in the army-list. He +found the name. He proceeded to the Horse Guards. He there learned +that Colonel Eversham was with his regiment in Spain, having joined +the army under the command of Sir John Moore. He instantly applied +to the adjutant-general. He wrote to the military secretary of the +commander-in-chief. He explained the case, and implored that leave of +absence might be despatched to Colonel Eversham to quit his regiment, +and if possible to return to England before the 20th of the ensuing +month. + +The most difficult point remained. Maitland! He had no clue whereby to +discover who or what Maitland was. The army-lists and navy-lists, for +the years 1801, 1802, 1803, were turned over and over again. No one +appeared whom he could make out to have been a _détenu_. + +At length he thought of applying to the Court Guide, and of personally +calling at every house in London inhabited by any one of the name of +Maitland. He might by chance discover whether any relative had been a +_détenu_, and thus ascertain his fate. + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + For peace is with the dead, and piety + Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn + O’er the departed. + + SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_. + +With the guide-book in his hand, Algernon proceeded in his search. It +was the time of year when London was very empty, and at many houses he +found the family were out of town. On such occasions he ascertained the +address of the master of the house, resolving to write his inquiries +should other means fail. At one large mercantile house in the city, he +found a portly old man, who said a brother of his had a natural son, +who had been abroad some years ago, and was now in India, he believed; +but “he had been a wild chap, and he did not rightly know what had +become of him.” This sounded as if he might be the person in question; +but if so, the prospect was most unsatisfactory. Still Algernon was +not disheartened. The next house at which he continued his inquiries +was that of a widowed lady, in Upper Quebec Street. He knocked at the +door. He asked for Mrs. Maitland. He was shown up-stairs into a small, +two-windowed drawing-room, very tidy, very clean, and very formal. Not +a chair was out of its place; the sofa was against the wall. At one +side of the table, with her knitting, sat an oldish lady, very neatly +dressed, and with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance. +On the other sat a younger person, evidently her daughter; but pale +and faded, and decidedly past the bloom of youth. She was engaged in +needlework. + +They both rose on the entrance of the stranger, and the elder lady +begged him to be seated, with a gentle formality, while she and her +daughter resumed their seats, and mildly awaited what he had to say. +Their calmness and their politeness made him experience a sensation +more akin to awkwardness than was usual to a person so accustomed to +the world, and so gifted with a prepossessing manner. Moreover, a sort +of intuitive conviction came over him, that he spoke to a widow who had +lost her son, whether or no, she might be the parent of him of whom he +was in search. + +It was with a certain degree of hesitation that he opened his story, +and explained, that for reasons which were of the most vital importance +to himself and others in whom he was deeply interested, he was anxious +to know what had become of a young Mr. Maitland, who had been a +_détenu_ at Verdun, and had effected his escape thence in the beginning +of the year 1804. He saw the daughter look anxiously at the mother, and +drop her work. He saw the mother’s hands shake as she knitted two or +three more stitches before she spoke. + +His kind heart grieved for the pain he had evidently given, but yet he +felt a throb of pleasure as he hoped he had succeeded in discovering +the object of his search. Mrs. Maitland laid down her knitting, and +taking off her spectacles, replied in a calm voice,— + +“My only son was a _détenu_, sir, and he never returned to me. He was +lost in an open boat, off the coast between Antwerp and Bruges.” + +The mother slightly clasped her two hands, as they fell quietly on +her knee, in the attitude of a person who is meek, and resigned, and +accustomed to her sorrow. + +He turned to the daughter. + +“It gives me infinite pain, madam, to continue to ask questions upon +a subject which must be so trying to your mother’s feelings, but if +you knew how much the peace and respectability of the person on earth +most dear to me is implicated in the replies to my questions, you would +pardon me for persisting.” + +He then briefly stated his and Ellen’s story to Mrs. and Miss +Maitland. They listened with kindness and attention, and told him, in +return, that young Maitland had been travelling in France for pleasure, +and to see the world; that in a year he would have been of age, when +he would have come into a large property which was strictly entailed +upon him. That he would then have placed his mother and sister in a +situation of comfort and affluence. But the war broke out. He became +a _détenu_. She said that he had often mentioned Mr. Cresford’s name +in his letters, and had alluded to the impatience with which he bore +his imprisonment. That they had never heard from him, from the time +of his making his escape, but that from all they could learn, he had +reached Bruges in safety. That he had there waited for some time in +hopes of being able to row to some English vessels which were cruising +off the coast. That at length he and some companions had one night made +a desperate attempt to do so. But the weather was too tempestuous for +the small fishing-boat which they had succeeded in unmooring from the +shore, especially as it was manned by young men who were not accustomed +to the perils of the sea. That only two, out of the five, had survived, +having been picked up by the English vessels when the daylight dawned. + +The young man having thus perished before he came of age, the mother +and sister had continued to live in poverty and seclusion. Care had +long since impaired the bloom of his sister, who it seems was some +years older than the youth, who had been the hope, the joy, the darling +of them both. + +The parties had become mutually interested for each other, and Hamilton +easily obtained from them a promise of committing to paper their +statement of young Maitland’s death, and allowing it to be produced +upon the trial. If possible, he would spare them the unpleasantness of +being subpœnaed to appear in person. + +They parted in kindness, and Algernon returned home, anxiously +expecting his answer from the Horse Guards. He was informed that +Colonel Eversham’s leave would be granted; that he should be allowed +to return to attend at the assizes, and, wind and weather permitting, +there was every prospect he would arrive in time. He despatched a +letter to Colonel Eversham to inform him of the purpose for which his +presence was so necessary, and entreated him to use all diligence in +reaching England. + +In the course of time, the newspaper was found which contained the +account of Cresford’s death, and Algernon felt some satisfaction in +reflecting that every thing was now in a fair way to clear his Ellen +from any suspicion, or shade of blame. He obeyed her injunctions by +communicating only with Captain Wareham. His whole soul was bent as +devotedly as hers could be, to the object of making her innocence shine +forth untarnished. + +The report of the trial which was to take place soon became public, and +excited the greatest sensation and interest in the whole neighbourhood. +Every one felt for Ellen, and all were anxious to prove their pity +and their personal respect for her. Captain Wareham’s humble door was +literally besieged with carriages and inquirers. Every one of any note +in the vicinity left their names, as a sort of homage to her character. + +Lord Besville, who had so kindly come forward at the first moment, +offered his carriage to conduct her to the court, when the awful day +arrived, and his offer was accepted with thankfulness. + +These tokens of approbation, and the support of all around, were some +consolation to poor Ellen. She hated notoriety; she had rather have +retired into obscurity, and, hoping that her fate was unnoticed and +undiscussed, have hid her head in peace and humility: but, if she +must be brought before the world, these testimonies of the esteem +of her friends and neighbours in some measure soothed her feelings. +People are seldom so wretched, that the proofs of sympathy in their +fellow-creatures are not agreeable to them. The list of the inquirers +is read with interest and gratification, by the sick and by the +mourner. No feeling more bitter than that your sufferings, whether +mental or bodily, are uncared for. + +Ellen had written her wishes to Algernon. She knew that every measure +which human zeal and foresight could pursue to clear her fame would +be adopted: upon that subject, therefore, she rested in security, +and she passed her time schooling her mind to bear the worst and +seeking strength and assistance from the one only unfailing source of +consolation, under misfortunes such as hers. + +She believed her father, when he told her it was next to impossible +that, supposing the sentence of transportation should pass, it would +be carried into execution; and yet she thought it would be wiser to +accustom her mind in some degree to such a possibility, than to allow +herself to be so completely taken by surprise as she had been, when +first the idea of undergoing a trial had opened upon her. Visions +of the hulks, of foreign lands, of being associated with horrible +criminals,—a thousand half-defined, ill-understood horrors would visit +her. In her dreams she fancied herself torn from her remaining child, +a stranger, and an outcast, at Botany Bay; and though, when she woke, +and shook off the images conjured up by sleep, she assured herself +that such a result was most improbable, she could not be certain that +such was impossible. She knew not what farther evidence Cresford might +adduce of his having duly warned her of his intentions: her proofs +were all negative; and sometimes the anticipations of what might be +her future fate were so appalling, that her ardent desire to exercise +the virtue of resignation, and her fear of increasing the misery of +others, were not strong enough to save her from paroxysms of terror and +despondency. + +Mrs. Allenham had, upon the first intelligence of what was to take +place, hastened to her sister. Captain Wareham was so full of care, +and so unhappy, that he rejoiced in the presence of some one who +should spare him the task of giving hopes, which, from the despondency +of his own nature, he was far from feeling. Ellen would weep by the +hour together, with the sympathizing Caroline, who, as usual, was all +kindness and gentleness. Matilda, who was younger, and scarcely able +to enter into the full and complicated miseries of the case, attempted +to inspire Ellen with a proud feeling of disdain for her unjust +accusations, and a confident expectation of an honourable acquittal. +The three sisters were one day sitting together, and Ellen was +bidding Caroline watch tenderly over her little Agnes, if their worst +anticipations should be fulfilled, when Caroline could not help saying— + +“But, Ellen, if you really believe there is a chance of any thing so +dreadful, I almost think, if I were you, I would fly the country with +Mr. Hamilton, and your child. You were married to him too, after all.” + +“Caroline, I resisted Algernon when he pleaded. If Algernon’s voice, +if Algernon’s beseeching countenance, if Algernon’s eyes, failed to +persuade me, fear will not! No; my fair fame shall be tarnished by no +wilful act of my own.” + +“That is right, Ellen!” exclaimed Matilda; “I would die sooner! +Respected as you are by everybody now, I would die sooner than be +looked down upon!” + +“Well, you are quite right; it was very wrong of me to have thought of +such a thing. And I, a clergyman’s wife too! But, I am afraid, if Mr. +Allenham was to try and persuade me, I should not be so firm as you +are.” + +“But he is your husband, Caroline.” + +“Yes, quite true; and then if he said it, it must be right, whatever it +might be.” + +Time stole away. Hamilton watched with anxious eyes the vane of the +neighbouring church, the smoke of each chimney of the houses opposite. +He had arranged everything with Ellen’s counsel, and a fortnight before +the day fixed for the trial he went to Falmouth, there to look out for +the arrival of every packet, every transport, every fishing vessel, +that he might be sure not to miss Colonel Eversham. + +The wind had been favourable for conveying the despatches which +contained Colonel Eversham’s leave of absence, but it continued in the +East, long after Algernon had wished it to veer round. Steam-vessels +were not then in use, and every thing depended on the elements. + +The morning of the 18th arrived. Colonel Eversham had not yet +appeared—Algernon was in despair—but leaving his servant to watch +for him, he could no longer remain absent from the spot where his +beloved Ellen’s fate was to be decided, and he hastened to ——. On the +evening of the 19th he had an interview with Captain Wareham, and was +obliged to tell him that Eversham had not yet landed, but that he had +Mrs. Maitland’s account of her son’s death, and that their counsel was +confident of success. Mrs. Maitland was in the town, that in case her +statement was not considered sufficient she, if necessary, might be +called into court. + +Hamilton was so painfully interested, and so occupied with business, +that it was not till the busy streets were quiet, the tumult of the +well-filled hotel hushed, and midnight approaching, that he had time to +reflect how short a space divided him from Ellen and from his child. + +How his heart yearned towards them! how he longed to be allowed to +see them! but he determined to do nothing, till the eventful morrow +was passed. His counsel should be able to aver, with truth, that they +had never met from the time they heard that Cresford was living. He +would not even indulge himself by walking before the house, and looking +at the exterior of the dwelling which contained his soul’s treasures, +lest any one might recognize him, and might fancy he had visited her +clandestinely. He passed the night, however, in restless sleeplessness. +He sat at the window of his bedroom, and having thrown open the sash, +he gazed out upon the clear deep blue, quiet heavens: the busy hum of +men had subsided; the streets were deserted; the lights one by one had +been extinguished; not a sound was to be heard but the monotonous call +of the watchman, pacing his rounds. A gentle breeze just whispered +through the poplar trees of a neighbouring garden, and brought with it +the refreshing smell which the dews of evening extract from them. It +was a season for gentle and holy musings. + +“And yet,” he reflected, “how many beings are now enduring the utmost +pangs of human anxiety! The culprits in the gaol—their relatives—my +poor Ellen—her father, and myself—Cresford too—the wretch whose +very name makes my blood boil; he—even he, must suffer! He must +feel remorse, repentance—he must have been hurried into this act of +unreasonable, useless cruelty, by a sudden impulse of passion. I pity +the unfortunate man! Yes, I pity him—for he has lost her! Is not that +enough to madden him? Oh! what will the morrow bring to us all? What +will be our fate?” His eyes glanced to the heavens; “Whatsoever may be +our fates on earth, that placid Heaven, those innumerable stars, those +signs of Omnipotence, speak to us of another world, in which happiness +must assuredly be my Ellen’s portion, and where I may humbly hope to +share in that heavenly joy, which we cannot conceive nor comprehend, +but in the truth of which we may firmly place our trust!” + +Ellen, meanwhile, was in some measure spared the overwhelming anxiety +of that night, by another source of disquiet. Agnes was feverish and +unwell: perhaps it was a fortunate occurrence for her, that such was +the case; under any circumstances she could not have slept. While +sitting by the sick bed of her little girl, her thoughts were drawn +away from her own miseries; and when, at length, the child dropped off +into a calm and easy sleep, the sense of relief almost resembled joy. +But to this succeeded the dreadful thought, + +“If I should be torn from her! If this should be my last night of +watching over her! If she should be worse to-morrow, and I far away! +Imprisoned! alone! and my sick child away from me! It is possible—very +possible! and I shall survive this; for I have survived being torn from +Algernon, and from my poor George and Caroline!” + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + For thyself + Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps + The cup was sweet; but it hath left behind + A bitter relish. + + SOUTHEY_’s Roderick_. + +Little Agnes was better in the morning. Ellen’s name was not the first +on the list; a common case of burglary was nearly disposed of when she +was summoned. + +Lord Besville’s carriage, as previously arranged, conveyed her to the +court-house. The curious mob gave way, with an expression of pity, as +Ellen, assisted by her father, and by Lord Besville, and accompanied by +Mr. Turnbull, alighted from the carriage. She was supported through the +crowd of black, shabby-genteel, greasy-looking attendants, who are to +be found about the purlieus of a court of justice. She had to wait some +minutes in the passage, till the thief who had preceded her at the bar +was removed. She was then led in, and placed where he had stood. + +There was an universal whisper and commotion throughout the assembly, +as her graceful form took the place of the coarse, vulgar, brutal +figures, which had usually occupied that spot. + +A silence of a moment succeeded. She held by the iron bar before her, +as if to sustain herself. A request for a chair was heard from every +quarter, and in a few seconds she was enabled to seat herself. There +was another pause—Mr. Cresford’s lawyer then rose. He felt he had +the sense of the court against him—that all instinctive and human +feelings must be in favour of the delicate and shrinking creature +before them. + +She sat shrouded in a wrapping black cloak, her face concealed by a +close bonnet and a thick veil. Scarcely any thing was visible except +the slender, rounded, swan-like throat, and one white hand which +occasionally clutched the iron bar. + +Though one of the ablest men in his profession, he had scarcely his +usual self-possession when he began; but he soon warmed with his +subject. The fact of bigamy was clearly to be proved; and he expatiated +upon the feelings of the adoring and deserted husband, and made use of +the very interest excited by her appearance, as an argument for the +sympathy he deserved, an enhancement of the injury received. + +Hamilton had, unobserved, crept into a retired corner. He had heard +the eloquent appeal. Accustomed to read the effect produced upon his +fellow-creatures by public speaking, he had perceived that the able +counsel had affected his audience; that in truth the very interest +excited by Ellen did tell against her. He could not bear the situation +any longer. He rushed into the street, and paced it up and down in +agonized perturbation. He longed to madness that Colonel Eversham +should arrive. His evidence was material. He had continued to hope +against all reason that he would appear, and he now felt ready to +accuse him and the Government, the winds and the waves, of cruelty. + +At the close of the case for the prosecution, Ellen for the first time +raised her eyes, and saw the large round green table, surrounded by +the youthful faces of the lawyers in their powdered wigs. She took +one fearful glance at their countenances, to see if, accustomed as +they were to make their harvest of the woes and the crimes of their +fellow-men, there might not be a lurking expression of levity or mirth +among them. She ventured one look at the judge. He was a firm, but a +venerable and mild-looking man; and she hoped for justice, tempered +with mercy, at his hands. One other look towards the jury. She thought +she recognized some faces she remembered in her youth. + +“Ah! they will have pity on me,” she thought. + +The certificates of the two marriages had been produced—the witnesses +were called. At this moment a voice was heard in a loud whisper +addressing one of the counsel, + +“Colonel Eversham is come!” + +Ellen looked up. She saw on the right of the judge’s seat, at the door +by which the lawyers, the high sheriff, &c., had free ingress and +egress, Algernon’s eager beaming face! + +It was the first time she had seen it since they had parted at +Belhanger. She gave a faint scream, and uttering his name, fell back in +her chair. The assistants who were near at hand quickly lifted up her +veil; they took off her bonnet, and in their awkward attentions, they +loosened her comb, and her long black hair fell in showers around her. +The marble brow, the fringed lids, the pencilled eyebrows, the oval +face, the graceful form, caused a sensation of enthusiastic admiration +and pity, and tears fell fast from the eyes of the few ladies who had +had nerves to attend the trial. They handed smelling-bottles and drops, +and in a few moments she revived. Her father was close at hand, and he +supported her drooping head, while the tear-drops coursed one another +rapidly down his pallid cheeks. + +Cresford stood apart, stern and immovable. He had seen the cause of her +agitation; he had watched the direction of her eye, and the fiend of +jealousy possessed his soul and scared every softer emotion. + +The case for the prosecution was quickly closed. Ellen’s counsel rose, +relieved by finding there was no further evidence produced against his +client than what he was fully prepared to meet, and inspirited by the +comfortable assurance that Colonel Eversham was at hand. + +Of course he did not attempt to disprove the fact of the two marriages; +but in a clear and circumstantial manner he stated the events with +which the reader is already well acquainted, and wound up the whole +with so touching a description of the sufferings and virtues of the +“exemplary lady then writhing under the unmerited disgrace of being +placed in the situation in which they beheld her,” that most people +present agreed with Will Pollard, that Cresford had no business to be +alive. Making a forcible appeal to their feelings, he continued:— + +“And when we contemplate such unmerited sufferings, does not every +thing that is human in us array itself in her defence? Do we not feel +ourselves rather called upon to minister relief than to inflict +punishment? Good God, gentlemen, when we see this blameless lady, the +victim of an imposture (for although perhaps an excusable one, still it +was an imposture, an enacted lie),—when we find her, in consequence +of this imposture, deprived of the name to which she was an honour, of +the station in society of which she was so bright an ornament,—when we +see her torn from her children, and her children bereft of a mother’s +watchful care,—when we see her thus doubly widowed, severed from +the man to whom in innocence and purity of thought she had given her +affections at the altar,—from the man who so well deserves and still +possesses those affections, of which, gentlemen, we have even now +witnessed such affecting evidence,—can we, can we, I say, contemplate +such accumulation of unprecedented distress, and call it guilt? Forbid +it reason! Forbid it justice! Forbid it truth! And what, in her +sorrows, her privations, her bereavement, what does this injured lady +ask? But to live in virtuous singleness and seclusion—to devote her +days to her aged father, to her innocent child—the babe from whose bed +of sickness she has this day been dragged before you?” + +But one feeling prevailed throughout the court. Captain Wareham, +Hamilton, Henry Wareham, all felt confident of the result. Every +thing that had been stated in favour of Ellen was amply borne out by +the newspaper, the account of Maitland’s death, and the evidence of +Colonel Eversham, who distinctly detailed each particular concerning +the supposed death of Cresford, and also declared he had reported +every detail to Mrs. Cresford upon his own return to England, which he +effected a short time afterwards. + +The judge clearly and concisely summed up the evidence, and told the +jury it was for them to decide whether the prisoner was, or was not, +guilty of the crime with which she was charged. + +The jury retired for a few minutes. To Ellen they appeared an age. The +whispered hopes and consolations of those around, fell on her ear, +without entering into her mind. She had suffered so much, that she +durst not give way to hope. + +The jury could not do otherwise than bring in the verdict “guilty” +of the crime, though at the same time they recommended the prisoner +to mercy. She heard but the first word. A mist came over her eyes, a +rushing noise sounded in her ears; she fainted before she had time to +hear the sentence of the judge. + +He premised that bigamy came under the head of felony, which by the +statute 35th of George III. rendered persons liable to the same +punishments, pains, and penalties as those who are convicted of grand +or petit larceny. Under aggravated circumstances, therefore, the +punishment might be transportation for seven years;—but under those of +the present case, he commanded the prisoner to be fined one shilling, +and to be forthwith discharged. + +Though unseen himself, Hamilton’s eyes had been riveted upon her. He +instantly darted to her side when he saw her fall. The impulse was +uncontrollable. The sentence had passed, and before he had time to +think, to feel, to reflect, to calculate, he had taken her from Captain +Wareham’s trembling arms, and had carried her into the lobby. She was +still insensible, but he supported that beloved form, and the moment +was one of rapture! + +She faintly opened her eyes, and it was from his voice that she first +heard, “You are free, Ellen, you are free!” + +“Free?” and she gazed wildly around her. “Free, from him? May I become +lawfully your wife?” + +Her scattered senses were not yet collected—she scarcely knew what had +passed, or where she was. The words “you are free,” sounded in her ear +as if the fatal tie was dissolved. He had not the courage to undeceive +her, while, under this impression, she leaned weakly and trustingly on +his arm. + +Captain Wareham was preparing to explain the meaning of his words, when +Cresford rushed forward. His eyes flashed fire, and hastily pushing +aside all around, he forced his way by her father, he seized her +helpless form, and sternly fixing his hand against Algernon’s breast, +he forcibly repelled him. + +“The law of the land has just pronounced this woman to be my wife, and +you—her paramour.” + +“Unmanly wretch!” and Hamilton’s dark eye flashed on him with as +infuriated a glance as his own, his lip quivered with rage, but he +restrained himself. “Say what you will—insult me—strike me—to me you +are sacred.” Hamilton drew himself up to his full height, and looked +with proud contempt upon Cresford. + +Ellen had strength enough to struggle from Cresford’s grasp, and to +fling herself into her father’s arms, who implored him to have pity +upon his poor worn-out child, and not to make her the subject of a +common brawl, in the public sight. + +Angry as Cresford was, he felt that he was only exposing himself to the +ridicule, as well as to the blame of all around, and turning to Captain +Wareham, he said,— + +“In your hands—in the hands of her father I am content to leave her. +But I owe it to myself, that she should be preserved from one who +is avowedly nothing to her. I trust my wife’s honour in your hands, +Captain Wareham. When I have seen you and your daughter safely placed +in the carriage, which awaits you, I shall depart.” + +Sternly folding his arms, and placing himself between Hamilton and +Ellen, he watched them into Lord Besville’s carriage. + +Hamilton, ever fearful of adding to Ellen’s sufferings, commanded +himself, restrained his feelings, and saw her dear form depart, without +making a movement to follow or to assist. When the carriage had driven +away, Cresford and Hamilton, for one short minute, gazed fixedly on +each other; each seemed to wish to look the other dead, but neither +spoke. Cresford was not so deprived of all sense of reason, and honour, +as to farther insult a man who would not raise his hand against him. +Hamilton still maintained his resolution that no provocation should +urge him to place an impassable barrier between himself and Ellen. + +Each turned on his heel and walked away, with a storm of turbulent and +angry passions raging in his bosom. They returned to their respective +hotels. + +Did Cresford feel the happier for having accomplished his revenge? No! +he only felt, if possible, more injured, more miserable, than ever. +It is true he had increased the wretchedness of Ellen, but had that +afforded his own any alleviation? He had merely given her the occasion +of proving how innocently she had contracted her second marriage, and +how exemplary had been her conduct, how conscientious and considerate +that of his rival, since they had discovered that he was still in +existence. He had merely given the world an opportunity of knowing how +little share he had in her affections, how dear to her was Hamilton. + +Algernon’s mind was scarcely less agitated. The sight of Ellen had +distracted him. How were they to drag on their weary lives in hopeless +absence? The blank and cheerless prospect before them, never struck +him so forcibly as now. The excitement of the last six weeks had kept +up his spirits. There was something to be done, something to look to, +something to hope, something to fear. He felt it impossible to seek +again his solitary home; impossible to pursue any regular fixed course +of life, to which there seemed no period, no end, except in the grave. +His child, too! his only child was ill. He had a father’s longing to +see it; he knew not what to do, or how to act. He would not expose +Ellen to another outbreak of Cresford’s passion, and he at length made +up his mind, that if the next day his child was going on well, he would +leave the neighbourhood, but that, when Cresford had also departed, he +would arrange with Captain Wareham that he should occasionally see his +little Agnes. + +Poor Ellen had reached her home. Exhausted by the overwhelming emotions +of the day, she had scarcely feeling left, to comprehend any thing +beyond being restored to her child. Caroline, to whose care she had +committed her, and Matilda, whom her father had not allowed to attend +the trial, received her in their arms, and almost carried her to her +child’s bedside. + +Little Agnes was better, and Ellen sat close by her, with a vague weak +feeling of gratitude to Heaven for re-uniting them. They persuaded her +to lay herself on the bed by her side, and in a very few moments she +was wrapped in slumber, as calm, as placid as the child’s. + +It was late in the evening before she awoke. Caroline and Matilda were +both in the room. She started up. “Is it over?” she cried; “is the +trial over? or did I only dream it?” + +“It is over, all well over, dearest sister, and you are restored to us.” + +“Thank you, dear creatures. And my child, she is better; she is +sleeping nicely, and quite close to me. Oh, the relief of finding +myself among you all, without the fear of those dreadful hulks! Where +is my father, my poor father! He has gone through a great deal to-day.” + + +“He has just stolen out of the room. He has been here, looking at you +and Agnes, as you both slept, till the tears streamed down his face.” + +“Oh, let me go to him!” She hastened down-stairs, and poor Captain +Wareham felt almost happy when he saw a smile, though it was a troubled +and an unquiet one, upon Ellen’s lips. + +“Oh, father, I scarcely thought I should ever again feel any thing +so near akin to joy as this. If you knew how the horrible idea of +transportation preyed upon my mind! I did not like to own how much I +thought of it. At least, I can look round and feel that from all of +_you_ I need not now be parted. Yet mixed with this sensation of joy, +which is so strange to me, there comes such a yearning for George and +Caroline, my poor dear children, whom I must not see. Oh! if I could +kiss them once, if I could look upon them, if I could know they were +well! My poor dear innocent children!” She sat down and wept freely, +weakly, gently, as a person utterly worn out, body and mind. + +Latterly she had not spoken much of her elder children; her mind +had been bent to the one point, and the fear of another, still more +dreadful misfortune, had prevented her dwelling so much on their +absence. But now that her heart, for the first time, gave way to this +unwonted feeling of happiness, she longed for their presence, with a +passionate desire. + +She breathed not Algernon’s name. But when they all retired to rest, +and she found herself alone in her chamber, she seated herself in an +arm-chair, and covering her eyes with her hands, she yielded herself up +to a sort of dreamy but delightful consciousness that she had seen him, +heard him; that her eye had met his, that her head had rested on his +shoulder, that his voice had sounded in her ear. She dreaded to move, +and to rouse herself to the sad prospect that she was to see him no +more—that days, months, years, must roll on, and she must meet those +eyes, and hear that voice no more! + +But this weakness was not to be indulged; she shook it off, and calmed +and refreshed her soul with humble and grateful prayer. + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + Cher petiot, bel amy, tendre fils que j’adore, + Cher enfançon, mon souicy, mon amour, + Te voy, mon fils, te voy, et veux te veoir encore, + Pour ce trop brief me semblent nuiet et jour. + + CLOTILDE DE SUUVILLE, 13th _Century_. + +The next morning Captain Wareham, at Ellen’s request, wrote a note to +Algernon to tell him she was well, and that little Agnes was rapidly +recovering, and also to assure him that Ellen’s mind was comparatively +at ease. In his answer to Captain Wareham he told him that having +heard so satisfactory an account of those in whose welfare his every +feeling was centered, he should quit * * *, as he feared his presence +in the town might occasion Cresford’s also remaining there, in jealous +irritation; but that he trusted, when every thing was quiet, and +Cresford (as he flattered himself he would) had resumed his habits of +business, he might be allowed to visit his child; that he likewise +claimed some pity, and that a father’s heart yearned towards his only +child. He said no more. He wished to accustom her to the idea that he +must, that he ought to see Agnes, and he hoped by degrees to persuade +Ellen to allow him an interview herself. + +Cresford, as Hamilton had anticipated, left * * * when he had +ascertained his rival’s departure, and he returned to London. He then +entered with ardour into the concerns of the house,—peremptorily +insisted upon the speedy adjustment of the affairs, which had been +rendered perplexed by his return, and resolved that he would make +himself a name as the first and greatest of English merchants. If, in +private life, he stood in the contemptible position of the discarded, +the deserted husband, in the world he would be respected as one of the +most leading men in the city. But his mind, weakened, excited, and +unsettled by what he had undergone, was not equal to accomplishing all +he undertook. His schemes were wild and visionary, and neither added to +the stability nor to the consideration of the house. + +Henry Wareham, who had lost no time in withdrawing himself, had found +little difficulty in gaining admittance into another establishment of +equal, if not greater, note; his capital, which, though not large, +had increased during the time he had formed one in the Cresford +partnership, his character for steadiness and industry, and his clear +practical head, making him an acquisition in any concern, while the +cause of his retirement from his present business excited an interest +in his favour. + +There is no want of generous and kind feeling in this country. A case +of undeserved misfortune, if once known and understood, rarely fails to +create friends and protectors. + +Ellen’s ardent desire to see her elder children increased, rather +than diminished, with time. The savage wildness of Cresford’s eye and +manner filled her with uneasiness for their fate. Henry had ascertained +that he had taken for them a small house at Brompton, and that he +visited them once or twice a week. The _bonne_, whom she had placed +about them, she knew to be a good creature, although not possessed +of much information, nor by any means the person to whom she would +willingly have entrusted the complete guidance of their minds and +characters. Still she was grateful that he left them under her care, +and she rejoiced that he did not habitually live with them, and that +consequently they were not exposed to the starts of passion which, even +in better days, had been formidable. + +She thought if she could once see them, unknown to themselves,—merely +see them as they passed by, and ascertain that they looked healthy and +happy, that she should feel more contented. + +She opened this idea one day to Captain Wareham, who treated it as +fanciful and romantic. The irritability of temper, which, during the +time of great and serious distress completely subsided, had gradually +again grown into a habit. He was too old to alter, and although +his heart was most kind, his feelings for Ellen tender, yet in the +every-day intercourse of life she could not avoid sometimes perceiving +that she brought much trouble and discomfort upon him in the decline of +life. + +She proposed a visit to Caroline and to Mr. Allenham, who had urged +her completing the cure of little Agnes by trying change of air. She +knew that the kind-hearted Caroline would willingly agree to any plan +which might promise her a moment’s comfort, and, if Mr. Allenham would +give his consent, she could not have more respectable sanction and +assistance. + +Caroline, as she expected, was all good-nature, nor did Mr. Allenham +disapprove of the idea. He saw that she was in so restless a state, +that she was so possessed with the notion that if her children were +sick, she would not be apprised of their illness,—that they might +be dying, and she remain in ignorance,—that he really thought it +desirable her mind should be relieved upon this subject. One thing he +premised,—that she should not make herself known to them. If it ever +came to Cresford’s ears, he might secrete them where she would have no +means of hearing or knowing about them; and at all events it would be +wrong to excite curiosity, useless regrets, or premature sensibilities +in the children; still more so to accustom them to mystery and +concealment. She saw the reason of his arguments: all she begged was to +be allowed to disguise herself in the dress of a common maid-servant, +and to walk in the street near which they lived, till she could once +see them pass along, healthy and cheerful. + +In compliance with her wishes, they all three repaired to London. Ellen +and Caroline dressed themselves in the most homely apparel, and Ellen +solemnly promised Mr. Allenham to do nothing which might cause herself +to be recognised. They entered a shop nearly opposite the dwelling +which contained her children. Mrs. Allenham busied herself bargaining +for threads, tapes, and ribbons, while Ellen stood near the door, half +out of sight, watching with a palpitating heart, and eyes which were +almost blinded with intense gazing, the windows, the doors of the house. + +After some time the sash was thrown up, and she saw her own little +Caroline run into the balcony. The child looked well and blooming; her +fair hair hanging down her back in glossy ringlets, her laughing eyes +sparkling with gaiety, her cheeks glowing with health! Those ringlets +which she had so often fondly twisted through her fingers, those eyes +she had so often kissed, those cheeks which had so often been pillowed +to rest upon her bosom! + +She had pledged herself to do nothing to attract attention,—and she +kept her word. But a fearful chill ran through her. Where was George? +Why was not he playing with his sister? Was he ill? She could no longer +watch every graceful movement of Caroline, so agonizingly did she look +for her boy. George, the playful, the high-spirited George, what could +keep him within? The suspense was almost too much to endure without +betraying herself. She had nearly made up her mind to ask the shop +people, in as unconcerned a tone as she could command, whether they +had lately seen the little boy who lived opposite. She had approached +Mrs. Allenham, and had grasped her arm in almost speechless tremor, +when she saw George appear for one moment at the window, and beckon his +sister in. She breathed again, and, seating herself for a few moments, +recovered her self-possession. Mrs. Allenham had turned round with an +anxious look of inquiry. + +“It is nothing,” whispered Ellen, “it is all right now!” + +“Are you ready to go,” rejoined Caroline. + +“Yes—oh, no, wait a few minutes longer.” She returned to the door to +look once more. All was quiet—no one was to be seen at the window. At +length Caroline could devise no fresh articles to purchase, and they +left the shop. At that moment the door opened, and bounding down the +steps, she saw both children with rosy cheeks and active forms, and +radiant faces. + +She stopped, trembling, and gazed till they were out of sight. They +passed on, unconscious and contented, each holding a hand of the good +old _bonne_, and jumping as they went with the light-hearted merriment +of childhood. She faithfully made no sign, nor movement that should +attract attention, and turned her steps towards their temporary +domicile, satisfied and relieved; but, such is the inconsistency of the +human heart, that, anxious as she was to know them happy, a painful +feeling shot through her to think how joyous they were without her. +While she—yet she wished them to be joyous, though it was bitter +to think her children should grow up without any love for her, any +recollection of her. + +If such thoughts did cross her mind, they found not utterance in words. +She professed herself satisfied, and they returned to Longbury. She +loved Longbury; it was there she had first seen Algernon. It was there +he had first breathed his vows of love; it was there she had, as she +then fancied, bound herself to him by ties, which death only was to +sever. + +Since the trial, Cresford insisted upon her receiving alimony from him. +It was painful to her to do so; but he would have been furious at the +idea of her being beholden to Hamilton. Her father, though he had the +will, had not the means of supporting her; and feeling also that her +miseries tended rather to depress him, and to throw a gloom over the +youth of Matilda, she retired to a very small cottage in the outskirts +of the town, and there resided in the deepest retirement, seeking +consolation in the performance of the few duties which remained to her +to fulfil,—devotion to her child, and attention to the poor around +her; her only amusement, the cultivation of her tiny flower-garden. + +The neighbouring peasants soon learned to look upon her as their +friend, and applied to her in all cases of distress. She had heard +Algernon’s opinions upon the mischief produced by indiscriminate +charity, and she tried so to regulate her’s, as not to reward the idle +and complaining, while the frugal, industrious, and contented, were +unnoticed, and unassisted. She felt, while making this her study, that +she was in some measure executing his wishes. How well she succeeded +in doing real good, is another question. The task is one of great +difficulty; but she succeeded in making herself loved by all the best +of her poor neighbours, though she might occasionally be imposed upon +by some of the worst. + +Her gentle words, her good advice, her attempts to convert the wicked, +and to console the suffering, could do no harm, even when they failed +of effecting good. + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + Las! Si j’avois pouvoir d’oublier + Sa beauté, sa beauté, son bien dire, + Et son tant doux, tant doux regarder, + Finiroit mon martire. + Mais, Las! Mon cœur je n’en puis ôter; + Et grand affollage + M’est d’esperer, + Mais tel servage + Donne courage + A tout endurer. + Et puis comment, comment oublier + Sa beauté, sa beauté, son bien dire, + Et son tant doux, tant doux regarder? + Mieux aime mon martire. + + _Complainte à la Reine Blanche, par Thibeaut._ + +Some months had now elapsed. Algernon ventured to write to Ellen +herself, describing to her his life of loneliness. He assured her that +if he might look forward to the prospect of seeing her and his child +at stated periods, however rare, however distant, he might again be +able to exert himself, and strive to be an active and an useful member +of society. That at present his existence appeared so aimless, so +hopeless, that he could not rouse himself to attend to public any more +than to private affairs. + +These arguments were to her irresistible. She knew too well what were +the yearnings of a parent for his child, and she would not inflict upon +Algernon what she herself endured. + +His fame too! His position in the world! His utility to his +fellow-creatures! Her pride in his fame was second only to her love +for himself, and though she would not have consented to that which was +wrong in itself, even for his sake, she thought she might promise to +see him once in every six months, and in the presence of her father, +without compromising herself. + +Having consulted Captain Wareham, and obtained his consent to this +plan, she wrote Algernon word, that she agreed to his proposition, but +that he must give her due warning of his coming, and that she would +not see him except in the presence of her father. That she would meet +him as a dear and valued friend, but they must not indulge in vain +repinings, or in useless or sinful hopes. + +Her letter was calm, it cost her much to make it so—but it was calm. + +Such as it was, it infused new life into Algernon. He doubted not her +love. He respected her scruples. He was so happy at having gained that +much, that he did not quarrel with the measured style. He should see +her again! He should again hear the music of her voice! And his eye +beamed once more with hope—he moved with a more elastic step. + +The very servants observed the altered aspect of their master, and Mrs. +Topham remarked, as he walked by the windows of the housekeeper’s room +to the stables, that she “had not heard her master tread so light and +quick, since her poor mistress went away;” she wondered “whatever had +come to him!” + +He appointed the day following that on which Ellen should receive his +answer—the hour one o’clock. And meanwhile he was in a restless state +of joyful expectancy, which allowed him to fix his mind to nothing. + +He thought a hack chaise was the most unobtrusive mode of conveyance, +and that which was least likely to excite observation, and he departed +on his journey alone. + +With what feelings did Ellen await his arrival? She strove to preserve +the even composure of her mind, but in vain! + +“Algernon will find me sadly altered,” she thought, as she arranged her +dress with more attention to what was becoming than she had done for +many months. “This mode of dressing my hair makes me look ten years +older, and my cheeks are grown so thin!” She checked herself for the +vain thought: “What business have I to wish to look well in his eyes +now? I ought not to think of such things.” But we will not pledge +ourselves that she might not pass rather more time at her toilette +that morning, than she had usually done; perhaps she was almost sorry +she had adopted the habit of wearing her hair smoothly parted on her +brow, instead of in the luxuriant ringlets which used to fall in +showers on her cheeks. Yet had she nothing to regret. The touching, +holy, Madonna-like expression of her countenance at present, fully +compensated for what she might have lost in brilliancy. + +To Agnes’s appearance, however, she devoted herself without any fear of +doing wrong, and the blooming little creature amply repaid her cares. +She was now able to lisp a few words, and Ellen had taught her to say +papa, and bade her be sure so to call the gentleman who was coming, as +soon as she saw him. Captain Wareham had walked down early to Ellen’s +cottage, and they remained waiting in perturbed expectation. Ellen felt +confused. Her situation was so strange—so new. There was no precedent +by which to shape her conduct. But she had the best of guides: her +guileless heart, her innate purity. + +Exactly as the clock struck one, a post-chaise drove to the door. +In one second, Algernon sprang from it; in another, he was in the +drawing-room. + +Ellen’s heart beat, till she thought her bosom would burst. Algernon +rushed towards her—but she extended her hand to him before he +approached her, and he merely pressed it to his lips in speechless +agitation. + +“Look at your child, Algernon,” she said, as soon as she could command +utterance; “she looks quite well now.” + +“I will, I will—but at this moment I can see nothing but you.” + +Ellen withdrew her hand, and seated herself in an arm-chair. + +“You have not spoken to my father,” she added. + +Algernon brushed his hand across his eyes, and turning to Captain +Wareham, he pressed his in silence. + +Little Agnes whispered, + +“Mamma, is that the gentleman I am to call papa?” + +“Yes, my love, go to him!” and the obedient child timidly advanced +a few steps. Algernon caught her in his arms, and devoured her with +kisses, while the tears flowed fast down his manly cheeks. + +The tears of a man are always powerfully affecting. What must the +tears which Algernon shed over their child have been to Ellen? She did +not weep. She had worked herself up to be firm, and not to allow this +interview to lead to any out-pourings of the heart, to any expressions +of feelings, for which she might afterwards reproach herself. + +At length Algernon spoke. + +“Our child, Ellen, is not like you,” and he looked from one to the +other with eyes of such melting tenderness, that it would have been +difficult to say, to which, at that moment, his heart went forth most. + +“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “thank Heaven, she is like you!” but she +presently added, in a more composed manner, “She has quite recovered +her looks, and her strength now.” + +She loved to hear Algernon say _our_ child. And yet how strange to see +the father of her child clasp it to his bosom, shed tears of love over +it, and to be obliged to keep up a calm, company, conversation! + +Captain Wareham now inquired which road Algernon had taken, whether +the rain had not made it very bad travelling, and a few more such +interesting questions. + +“Did you come straight from Belhanger?” asked Ellen in a low and +tremulous voice. + +“I left it yesterday afternoon.” + +“It must look very pretty, now the spring is come; and is my—is the +garden very nice?” One silent tear stole down Ellen’s cheek as she +spoke. + +“_Your_ garden is lovely! It might be a paradise! but to me, it is a +place of torment.” + +“Oh do not say that! Algernon. But you do not look well. You have come +a great way this morning; you must be hungry; will you not have some +luncheon?” + +“Hungry!” he said, and gave her a half reproachful glance: “thank you, +I could not eat!” + +Captain Wareham now inquired what Hamilton’s political friends thought +of the Spanish war, and whether the Spaniards were sincerely attached +to the cause of liberty. + +“I do not know, my dear sir. I never communicate with my political +friends. I know nothing about them.” + +Ellen’s heart smote her, that she should be the cause of his abandoning +a career for which he was so well fitted. + +“This must not be,” she said; “you ought to exert yourself, Algernon. +Indeed this is not right!” + +“But tell me, Ellen, how do you pass your time? What occupations have +you?” + +“I will tell you what she does, Mr. Hamilton,” interrupted Captain +Wareham, “she goes about doing good, and there is not a poor distressed +creature within miles, that does not know her, and bless her.” + +Algernon at first felt vexed with Captain Wareham for taking up the +answer to his question, for he longed to hear the music of Ellen’s +voice; but he no longer regretted it was her father who had spoken, for +the report of her good deeds was equally sweet in his ear. + +“God will bless you also, Ellen!” + +“I wish to remember all you have told me about the management of the +poor, and I hope I do not encourage the idle; but I have no influence +here, and I cannot give them good cottages, and gardens, as you have +done, and have thus enabled them to live comfortably, without charity. +Are the cottages as nice as ever?” + +“I believe they are. Yes, they look very neat as I ride by.” + +“And how is poor old Amy Underwood?” + +“Dead!—poor old soul! She died last winter.” + +“Poor Amy! So she is at rest! Who takes care of her little +grand-daughter?—She made me promise I would always be a friend to her +when she was gone. Algernon, you will see that the child is religiously +and virtuously brought up. I cannot,—you know.” + +“Yes, yes! that I will! Can you think of nothing else for me to do? +Tell me more protégés of your’s, that I may attend to them. Express +your wishes, give me your orders. You will invest anew Belhanger with +interest in my eyes. You will give me something to live for.” + +Ellen smiled faintly, and gratefully. + +“Have pretty Jane Earle and her husband got a cottage yet? If they had +a tidy cottage to themselves, it might confirm him in his reformation; +now he has such a pretty wife too.” + +In this manner Ellen endeavoured to lead him to again interest himself +in his peasantry, while to herself there was a certain melancholy +pleasure in uttering the names, and picturing the spots, once so +familiar to her. + +Agnes meantime had nestled herself comfortably into his arms. Perhaps +she had some indistinct recollection of him; perhaps it was merely the +caprice which sometimes makes children immediately attach themselves to +one person, while they take an antipathy to another, but from the first +moment she seemed attracted by him. Ellen looked at them, and thought +how happy were those who might, in peace and honour, gaze every day of +their lives upon their child, and the father of their child. + +The hour for departure approached. At four o’clock the chaise was again +to be at the door. Captain Wareham’s dinner-hour was five, and he had +to walk back into the town. + +In a clear and gentle voice Ellen addressed Algernon— + +“One thing I wished to ask you, Algernon, before you went. Should you +not like to have Agnes pay you a visit at Belhanger?” + +“Not for worlds, Ellen, would I rob you of her for a moment!” It was +true that he would not have robbed her for a moment of that which was +her only pleasure; but he also wished to put an end to such an idea, as +it would deprive him of his one excuse for seeing Ellen. “And are we +not to meet again for six months, Ellen?” he added, after a pause. + +She exerted all her might, and answered— + +“Not for six months.” + +“I may write to you?” + +“No; we must not correspond. If Agnes should be ill, of course I will +let you know; and if you should be ill, you must write to me. For God’s +sake, write if any thing should be the matter!” she repeated with an +expression of terror from the image she had herself conjured up. + +The chaise had been some time announced. Captain Wareham, though from +the bottom of his heart he pitied them both, thought there was no use +in prolonging this distressing interview—to himself doubly so, for he +felt himself a third; and yet Ellen had made him promise to give her +the support of his presence. She thought, if the interview should not +remain unknown (and what does remain unknown in the present civilised +state of society?), her fair name could not suffer if it was conducted +under the sanction of her father. + +Algernon had kissed his child; he had wrung Captain Wareham’s hand; +Ellen had risen from her seat, and again held forth her hand to him. + +“May heaven bless you, my dear and valued friend!” she said. + +“Ellen! my own Ellen!” + +“You had better go now,” she gently replied. “My father is not so young +as he was, and we must not make him too late for his dinner. This day +six months we meet again!” + +Algernon replied not. Slowly and reluctantly he left the room: he dared +not remonstrate; he knew her firmness to do what she deemed right, and +he feared by word or deed to lose the grace he had obtained: he threw +himself into his carriage, and drove away. + +Captain Wareham walked home to dinner, and Ellen at length gave way to +the tumult of feelings which she had resolutely subdued. + +It would be impossible to say whether joy at having seen him, or sorrow +at having parted from him, preponderated: she certainly found it +more difficult to resume the occupations to which she had accustomed +herself; but still she had a point to look to, a bright speck in the +distant horizon, to lead her on through the cheerless desert of life. + +Algernon religiously executed all Ellen’s innocent behests, and, for +her sake, did resume in some measure his former habits of practical +utility: he attended parliament—he was put upon committees—his eye +once more flashed with fire—his countenance recovered its animation, +his manner its energy. + +His re-appearance in the world was hailed with joy by all who knew, +and consequently loved and respected him. Though there was still a +corroding care within—though there was still a cheerless void in his +heart, yet when once he began again to mix with his fellow men, and to +enter into public affairs, there were so many objects to interest and +occupy a man, that the next six months were not to him so immeasurably +long as to Ellen. + +At the appointed day and hour he was again at the cottage, and claimed +her approving smile for his obedience to her wishes. She had carefully +spelled every newspaper, waded through columns of parliamentary +debates on subjects she could not comprehend, for fear of missing, or +not properly appreciating, some short reply of his; but it had been +with joy she had seen his name frequently among the speakers, and her +approving smile was not wanting to reward him. + +When his parliamentary duties were over, he found his lone and loveless +home so cheerless that he again became a frequent visiter at Coverdale +Park, and Ellen often heard of him when there, through Caroline. It +was a consolation to him to see Ellen’s sister, and to talk to her +of past happiness. Lord and Lady Coverdale were friendly people, and +Miss Coverdale was a gentle, pleasing girl, who loved Ellen with the +enthusiastic warmth of admiration, which girls often feel for a young +married woman a few years older than themselves. + +The consciousness that she did full justice to his beloved Ellen, that +she had tact and discrimination enough to perceive her superiority to +other people, formed a bond of union between them, and the Coverdales +were almost the only family of his former acquaintance, from whose +society Algernon appeared to derive any pleasure. + +From his frequent visits, and from the intimacy which subsisted between +him and Miss Coverdale, reports arose which immediately came to the +ears of Mrs. Allenham. Some people have the faculty of always hearing +news, and Caroline was one of those. + +She knew how totally groundless was such an idea; but she thought if +such gossip should reach * * *, it might be very unpleasant to Ellen, +and that she should do well to warn her against giving any credit to +it. In short, to prevent her hearing it, she immediately wrote her word +of it. + +She told her “It was quite a foolish notion of some meddlesome +neighbours; that Algernon’s pleasure in the society at Coverdale was +principally on account of their all knowing Ellen so well, and because +Coverdale was so near Longbury;” and she bade her “not fret herself at +all, if she did hear such silly things said.” + +The very possibility that Algernon should think of any other wife, or +that people should imagine he could think of any one else, was almost +agonizing to Ellen. She instantly drove the suspicion from her mind. +She felt too certain of his unceasing affection for her. Yet when she +had done so, she reproached herself for selfishness in wishing to +doom him to a life of singleness—him so formed for every domestic +affection. She told herself she ought rather to wish he should find +happiness with another, as she was for ever precluded from contributing +to it. + +“But I am sure,” she thought, “quite sure, there is no truth in the +report. I know him too well!” + +Still the rumour having ever arisen was disagreeable. Implicit as was +her reliance on his devotion, it proved how completely he was looked +upon in the world as a free man. How entirely null and void the world +considered her marriage to him. She knew it. The fact had been too +painfully proved and ascertained! but she experienced a sense of +humiliation, that it was so decided by the law of opinion, as well as +by the law of the land. + + +CHAPTER XX. + + God doth not leave the unhappy soul, without + An inward monitor, and till the grave + Open, the gate of mercy is not closed. + + SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_. + +Cresford, as we have before mentioned, had given his mind to business; +but his visionary schemes of aggrandizement had not proved successful. +He had, on the contrary, involved the concern in considerable +embarrassments, and to retrieve all, he ventured on a still bolder +speculation,—which failed! + +In a few words, the house broke. + +He had gone through much during the time that these difficulties had +been thickening around him, and when at last the storm, which had been +long gathering, broke upon his head, it found him totally unequal to +bearing up against it,—in impotent anger against himself, and every +one else. + +It was galling to his spirit to find that by his rashness and +imprudence he had reduced from affluence to a state of indigence, men +who had been honestly labouring all their lives. For himself, if he +could not make himself a name, as one of the richest merchants of the +great emporium of commerce, he cared not if he were the poorest. But he +felt for his children. He loved them, though it was not with a tender +love. He meant his son should be as great a man as any in the kingdom; +he intended that his daughter should be the most accomplished of girls; +he would have spared nothing for their education. + +Ellen first learned the failure of his house from the public papers, +and she mourned over the altered fortunes of her children. She +grieved, too, for the unfortunate man who seemed doomed to have his +hopes blasted in this world, while his earthly sorrows had not as yet +softened or prepared his heart for happiness in another. + +Her brother Henry soon wrote her word of some further particulars, and +informed her that the firm would be able to pay a good dividend in the +pound; so that, although a bankruptcy, it would not be a disgraceful +one. He had called to inquire about Cresford, and the answer was, that +he had been ill, but was now better, though not well enough to receive +visiters. Henry could not ascertain what prospects there were for his +future provision; but promised to let her know when he could learn any +thing farther. + +Pity swallowed up all other feelings, and she anxiously awaited the +result. Henry again wrote to her. He had called a second time, and was +refused admittance. The servant shook his head, and said “he feared +his master was very ill. The doctors said they could do nothing for +him unless his mind was kept quiet; and as for keeping his mind quiet, +that was impossible. He was night and day poring over papers, and the +lawyers were with him two or three times a day; if they did not come, +he kept sending for them; so there was no use in telling them not to +trouble him till he got a little better.” The servant added, he thought +“it would be a good thing if he would go to Brompton, and be with his +children for a while; but it made him worse to talk of that. He said he +could not bear to think of his poor ruined children, much less to see +them.” + +Ellen’s heart bled for him. She sometimes considered within herself +whether duty did not call her to him in his present miserable state. +But perhaps her presence might only irritate him; and even if he +did wish for it, could she bring herself to attend his summons? She +scarcely thought she could do so. She begged Henry to discover whether +he ever mentioned her name. It would be a relief to know he did not +think of her. + +Henry, the next time he called, sounded the servant, who was an old +acquaintance of his, as he had been porter at the time when Henry +belonged to the house. He could not find that Cresford ever alluded to +his wife. Once, when he was very ill, he had said, “If I get worse, let +her be written to!” without mentioning any name. + +Ellen’s mind was set at ease upon this subject. She had nothing to do +but patiently to wait the event. + +It was some time before she heard again, and then it was from Henry, +to say he had seen Cresford; that, having learned he was considerably +worse, he had again called, and had ventured to send up word that he +was there; that Cresford had admitted him, and that he had been shocked +at the havoc which a few months had made in his appearance; that he was +certainly very ill, but he thought it was the mind, which preyed upon +the body—the sword consuming the scabbard: his face was haggard—his +eye was restless—his voice feeble and hollow. There seemed to be no +positive complaint, except a slight but frequent cough. He spoke much +of his affairs—said he did not care for himself, but he lamented the +fate of his children; that, perhaps, his schemes had been imprudent, +but that his partners hampered him. They would not enter into his +views, and their timid prudence prevented his projects being carried on +in the only manner which could lead to a successful termination, boldly +and gallantly as they had been conceived. + +“God knows,” he added, “what remnant of fortune may be saved from the +wreck, or whether I may have anything to allow—your sister. That +thought torments me past all others. She will be supported by Hamilton +after all!” + +Henry added that he had done all he could to tranquillise his mind—had +told him how few her wants were; that he and Captain Wareham would do +their utmost to supply them—in short, said all the soothing things he +could. He had left him with the promise of calling again in a few days. + +Before these few days had elapsed, Ellen received an express from +Henry, imploring her to come forthwith to London—that a change for the +worse had taken place, and that the physicians thought Cresford could +not survive many days, perhaps not many hours; that, upon being made +aware of their opinion, he had expressed a passionate desire to see +her; and that he thought she ought to lose no time in acceding to it. + +In two hours from the moment she received Henry’s letter, Ellen was +on her way to London, having left little Agnes with her father and +Matilda. Captain Wareham was not well, and was quite unequal to so +sudden a journey. + +The journey was long. She had time to think, and to think of every +thing—of every probability, of every possibility. But there was one on +which she dared not allow her mind to rest. + +What was to happen if Cresford died? She felt it criminal to look +forward to what would then ensue. If he recovered, what then? Would her +visit to his bed of sickness be a reconciliation? Could he wish to take +her back, when he knew her whole heart was another’s? What would, what +could happen? She strove not to look forward beyond the present moment. +She had but one course to pursue. She could not refuse such an appeal +from a dying man, and that man her lawful husband. The path of duty +was clear; for the rest, she must trust to Providence for guidance and +support. + +She first drove to her brother’s lodgings: she found him there. His +countenance betrayed anxiety, his brow was care-worn. + +“He is yet alive,” he said; “I sat up with him all night. In your +absence he will scarcely allow me to leave him.” + +“Oh, Henry, this is an awful meeting! How will he receive me? Does +he feel kindly towards me? Or must I endure his reproaches from his +death-bed?” + +“He is entirely changed; he is gentle and forgiving now; all his former +love for you seems to have revived.” + +“That is almost worse! Poor Charles! his love has ever been a source of +woe to both of us.” + +Henry lost no time in conveying her to Cresford’s house, which was +attached to the office, and, although not in the most fashionable part +of London, was roomy and commodious, and was usually inhabited by the +head-partner of the concern. In that house she had passed four years as +his wife. + +It was with painful recollections, and painful anticipations, that +she traversed the stone-hall, and mounted the broad but dismal oak +staircase, once so familiar to her. + +Henry left her in the drawing-room, while he went up-stairs to prepare +Cresford for her arrival. She looked round; there were the curtains +which she had chosen, the carpet, the sofas, of her selection—now +dirty and dingy with years of London wear. + +Henry returned. He said the physicians were at that moment visiting +their patient, and that when they left the room he would apprise him of +her arrival. She had still to wait. When once the mind is worked up to +the performance or the endurance of any thing disagreeable or painful, +a few additional moments of suspense are almost agonising. + +She mechanically took the hand-skreen off the chimney-piece. It was +one she had herself ornamented with wafer cameos, and little scraps +of verses. The gold paper was all tarnished, the cameos broken, the +writing half effaced; but she could still distinguish some lines, which +carried her back to the feelings of former days, and the emotions under +which they had been selected, till the flood of recollections which +crowded upon her almost bewildered her. + +In the course of ten minutes the physicians entered. Ellen felt awkward +and confused. They must think her presence so odd! She knew not what +tone to take, and it was with timidity and shyness that she ventured to +ask what was their opinion of Mr. Cresford. + +The taller, a pale slender man, with a sweet countenance, and +soft manner, informed her, “that he could not venture to say the +symptoms had improved; that the lungs and the heart both seemed to +be affected, and that although he might linger some time, or indeed +might ultimately recover, still a fatal termination might take place +in a few hours—that it was a case in which medicine could do little +or nothing!” and having delivered this most conclusive and luminous +opinion, he sat himself down to a table, and there wrote prescriptions +for some draughts, some pills, an aromatic mixture, a liniment, and a +warm plaister for the chest, and prepared to take his leave. + +The second physician, who was a short, thick man, with a bob-wig, stood +quietly by, while there played around his mouth something approaching a +smile, at the inutility of all these measures at the present stage of +the disorder. + +Ellen ventured to turn to him with an inquiring countenance. + +“Madam,” he said, “if you wish to know my opinion, it is that he cannot +recover. He is too far gone for that. But we do not justly know what +his complaint is, so we may prove wrong, and while there is life there +is hope. So I wish you a good morning!” and away he trudged, having +made a short, abrupt bow to Ellen. + +When they were gone, she sat down for a few moments, and tried to +collect her thoughts for the interview which approached. + +She heard Henry’s step on the stairs; her heart felt sick within +her—his hand was on the lock of the door. + +“Now, Ellen!” he said, “Cresford is tolerably composed. But how pale +you are! Shall I get you any thing?—a glass of water?” + +“Nothing! thank you; I am quite well now.” + +She took Henry’s arm, and he led her up stairs. He gently opened the +door—the apartment was darkened. As they entered, the nurse discreetly +slipped past them out of the room. + +Coming from the full light, Ellen could scarcely see. She approached +the bed; he was propped up with pillows and cushions, almost in a +sitting posture. She could distinguish that he looked ghastly; she +shook from head to foot, and leaned heavily on Henry’s arm. + +“Ellen! are you come at last? I was afraid you would not have arrived +in time. I am ill—very ill—and I wished to see you once more; you +will soon be free of me, and then—but I wished to see you, and to +forgive you for all I have suffered on your account, and to ask your +forgiveness for having made you miserable too. I ought not to have +brought you to a trial;—it was a bad feeling of revenge which drove me +to it, and I repent it now; but I was maddened—goaded to desperation. +Ellen! I have loved you fearfully! I have loved you unto death—for I +am dying of a broken heart! The doctors do not know my complaint—I can +tell it them!” + +Ellen had sunk on her knees by the bedside. She sobbed audibly. + +“Tell me you are sorry for me,” he continued; “and tell me that you +forgive me, as truly as I forgive you.” + +“Oh, Charles! you know I do pity you, and I have from the beginning. I +have not wilfully done any thing to increase your wretchedness. As for +forgiving you, that I do, indeed, from the bottom of my heart.” + +“Well, I have your pity!—and your forgiveness!—your love I never had!” + +There was a mixture of dejection and of hardness in the tone in which +the last few words were uttered. Ellen could not reply. It would have +been a glaring falsehood, to say it was true love she had ever felt for +him; an impious, and an useless falsehood, to lie to one on the verge +of eternity. + +Turning to Henry, he inquired,— + +“Are the children come yet? I wanted to bless them, and to bless my +wife too; for you are still my wife, Ellen!—as long as I am alive, you +are my wife—I am your husband!” + +There was a shade of his former stern and violent manner, which made +Ellen shudder to her inmost soul. + +“Are my children coming?” she faintly asked. + +“Yes! I sent for them hours ago. Why do they not come, Henry Wareham?” +he inquired, in a peremptory and authoritative voice. + +“I expect them every moment,” replied Henry. + +“Ellen, come nearer!” She drew nearer. He extended his thin and bony +hand. “Give me your hand—no! the other!” He took her left hand, and +looking solemnly in her face, “Who put that ring on your finger?” he +said. She could not reply. She had never had the heart to take off +the ring Algernon had placed there; and in all the agitation of the +last day, she had not remembered any thing concerning the rings. “Is +that the ring I placed upon that finger?” and he held her hand with a +firmness that appalled her: “answer me, and answer me truly!” + +“No!” she faintly replied. + +He dashed the hand he held away from him, with a strength of which all +who had seen him for the last few days would have deemed him utterly +incapable. + +She tremblingly drew off the ring, and offered it to him, as a token of +submission, and recognition of her duty to him. + +“Take it away!—destroy it!—I cannot look on it!” He turned away his +head, and spoke with a vehemence which alarmed them. “Throw it into the +fire—let me know it is consuming.” + +In humble penitence for having, by her inadvertence, so embittered the +last moments of the unhappy man’s life, she walked to the fire, and, as +he bade, committed the treasured ring to the flames. As she was doing +so, she felt her soul die away within her. + +He had raised himself up with the unnatural strength of great +excitement to witness the execution of his behest, and he fell back +exhausted and faint. He gasped for breath. Henry and Ellen hastened +to him. They thought his last moment was approaching; but he rallied. +“Where is the ring I placed upon your finger?” + +“It is at home: I put it carefully away when—” + +“Speak on; finish your sentence.” + +“When—the other—was placed there.” + +“You have kept it, then? You did not cast it away?” + +“Indeed I preserved it religiously. Are you not the father of my +children?” she added in a gentle deprecating tone. “Oh, Charles, do +not thus agitate yourself! Be calm, be patient. We are all weak, +frail, erring creatures; we should mutually forgive, as we hope to be +forgiven. Your children will soon be here, and let them not see their +father thus perturbed and restless.” She paused. + +“Speak on; your voice does soothe my perturbed and restless spirit; +speak on, Ellen,—and come here to the light. Open the curtains, Henry; +let me look on her face while my eyes can yet see.” + +She stood trembling beneath his fixed and melancholy gaze. “Oh, Ellen, +how I have loved you! I am too near the grave to curse any one, or +else I could breathe forth a malediction on that tyrant, who, in his +unmanly, deliberate, and useless vengeance, has blighted the prospects, +ruined the characters, and blasted the hopes, both in this world and +the next, of hundreds of unoffending fellow-creatures. I am not his +only victim! Mine is not the only ruin of body and mind for which he +is answerable! But I will forgive, as I hope to be forgiven. Ellen, +repeat the Lord’s prayer to me; I think from your voice it will do me +good.” + +Ellen and Henry knelt by the bed-side, and Ellen reverently and humbly +obeyed him. As she spoke, his eyes gradually closed, and soon after he +fell into a short but refreshing slumber. + +When he awoke, the nurse stole in to inform them that the children were +come. He bade them enter. + +It was now more than a year since they had been parted from their +mother, and when they unexpectedly saw her, they ran to her arms in +silent joy. They made no exclamation, for the subdued voices of all +the attendants, the darkened room, the vague awe of a death-bed, +overpowered their young minds, and prevented any burst of delight. +They clung round her, and she folded them to her bosom, with mingled +emotions, in which pleasure bore no inconsiderable part. + +“Children,” said Cresford in a gentle tone. + +“Your father speaks,” Ellen hastily whispered; “go to him, my loves.” + +“My children,” he continued, “kneel here by my bed-side: I wish to +give you my blessing, my parting blessing. Be good, and never let your +passions get the better of you. Mind what your mother says, for she is +an excellent and a conscientious woman, and she will teach you your +duties. Ellen, I give you my blessing, too; may you be happy!” + +Ellen was on her knees. She seized his pale hand as it lay feebly on +the bed, and covered it with tears and kisses. He smiled faintly and +gratefully upon her, and pressed her hand. He soon again dropped off to +sleep. + +The children were removed, but Ellen remained. She had an earnest wish +to do her duty by him to the last. + +In the evening, when the physicians came, they found him considerably +better; the sleep he had enjoyed had refreshed him. His pulse was +steadier, he was able to take some nourishment, and they appeared +almost to imagine permanent improvement might take place. + +These words fell strangely on Ellen’s ear. She could not but rejoice in +his amendment. Dreadful as was the prospect for herself, it was not in +the nature of any thing so gentle, so feminine, so forgiving as Ellen, +to watch the painful breathing, the feeble smile, the hectic cough, +and not wish the breathing less painful, the cough less frequent. + +The comparative tranquillity of his mind had a wonderful effect upon +his frame, and for two whole days it almost seemed as if the natural +vigour of his constitution would conquer. On the third, however, a +violent fit of coughing caused the rupture of a blood-vessel, and there +was no doubt but that a few hours must close his sad existence. + +The effusion of blood could not be stopped. He gradually became weaker +and weaker. As his strength declined, his tenderness towards Ellen +increased, and all angry feelings vanished. From her hand alone would +he receive either food or medicine. She watched over him with unwearied +attention; and when at last his spirit quietly departed, so calmly, so +gently, that the by-standers could scarcely ascertain the moment when +he drew his last breath, it was her hand that closed his eyes, and she +imprinted on his cold forehead, clammy with the dew of death, one pious +kiss of duty and affection. + + +CONCLUSION. + + Methinks if ye would know + How visitations of calamity + Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there! + Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky, + Sailing alone, doth cross in her career + The rolling moon! I watch’d it as it came, + And dream’d the deep opake would blot her beams; + But, melting as a wreath of snow, it hangs + In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes + The orb with richer beauties than her own, + Then passing, leaves her in her light serene. + + SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_. + +Ellen remained in the house till the last duties had been performed. +The funeral of poor Cresford was conducted without pomp or show, and +she then returned, with her restored George and Caroline, to her own +cottage. + +She put his children in the deepest mourning. For herself, she also +wore deep mourning; but she did not dress herself in weeds: she felt, +under all the circumstances, that it would be a mockery. + +She had not written to Algernon to inform him of Cresford’s death. She +had felt a superstitious horror when his wedding-ring was committed +to the flames; and the last parting scenes with Cresford had to her +feelings sanctioned and confirmed anew her first union, so that at the +moment when she was free to give herself for ever to Algernon, she felt +herself more severed from him than she had ever yet done. + +She knew not where he was; she had not allowed him to correspond with +her; and though she felt it was scarcely kind not to be the first to +inform him of the event, she had not courage to write to tell him she +was free. She had never believed the rumours which had arisen from +his frequent visits to Coverdale Park: she had been so sure of his +devotion, that she would have felt guilty of ingratitude towards him, +if she had allowed them to give her any uneasiness: yet now, for the +first time, the recollection of the report would recur to her mind. It +was possible, just possible, there might have been some foundation for +it. She had heard, she had read a thousand times, that while there was +hope, man might remain faithful; but that it was woman and woman only +who could live a life of hopeless devotion. She should have no right +to complain, if he had at length looked elsewhere for domestic bliss. +He would still have been true and kind to her, beyond what she had any +right to expect. + +As she did not write at first, from a feeling of delicacy towards the +memory of Cresford, she now felt unwilling to do so from the shrinking +sensitiveness which had always formed a leading feature in her +character. + +She was not long, however, kept in suspense. Algernon had been in +Scotland at the time, and more than a week elapsed before he learned +the event. He instantly returned to London. He there found that Ellen +was at her cottage, and he followed as fast as four horses could carry +him. + +She was startled from a reverie of much hope, mixed with a little fear +and wonder, by the clatter of a carriage at her door. Her heart leaped +within her; she doubted not who it was, and in two seconds she found +herself pressed to Algernon’s bosom. + +She did not, this time, insist upon two years of widowhood; but +consented, at the end of one month, to be privately re-married. + +They agreed to renew those vows, to which their hearts had so strictly +adhered, at Longbury Church, and to Mr. Allenham’s they speedily +removed: Captain Wareham and Matilda followed, and Henry arrived from +London. + +It was late in the month of October. The party had gathered round a +cheerful, blazing fire, on the evening preceding the ceremony. It was +long since they had met together with feelings of peace and happiness, +such as they now experienced, although in some of the party it was +happiness chastened and subdued by all they had previously endured. + +Algernon’s eyes were fixed on Ellen with an expression of holy love, +which bordered on veneration. Matilda remarked upon his steady gaze, +and told him he would put Ellen quite out of countenance. + +“I was thinking,” he replied, “that if she had not been as virtuous +as she is beautiful, as pure as she is kind, as firm as she is +affectionate, if she had listened to me, when I wished to fly to +America, we should never have known this hour of unalloyed happiness.” + +“Well,” answered the lively Matilda, “those thoughts were very +respectful, and respectable thoughts. I cannot find any fault with +them!” + +Ellen smiled through the tears of virtuous gratification which +Algernon’s words had called forth. + +“It is quite a comfort to see you smile, Ellen,” said Caroline; “I +thought I should never have seen those white teeth again! And when do +you mean to curl your hair? I long to see your glossy black ringlets! +Do not you, Mr. Hamilton? Do not you miss the ringlets very much?” + +“I miss nothing!” replied Algernon; “Ellen is once more my Ellen. I +have scarcely looked to see how she dressed herself.” + +“Now that is what I call true love,” exclaimed Matilda; “Algernon does +not look at Ellen’s beauty. Ellen is Ellen, and that is enough for him. +You all call me proud and difficult, but when any man like Algernon +loves me as Algernon loves Ellen, then I will love him as Ellen loves +Algernon.” + +“Do you give this as a proof you are not difficult, Matilda?” replied +Ellen, smiling almost gaily: “there are not Algernons to be met with +every day!” + +“Then I will stay and take care of you, papa. You know you would not +manage at all well without me! you would have nobody to scold! and, +what is more, there would be nobody to scold you,” she added, playfully +tapping her father on the cheek. + +“I will tell you what, Matilda,” replied Captain Wareham, who was too +happy to be angry, “you must keep down this same spirit of your’s, or +nobody will put you to the trial.” + +Matilda looked archly at Caroline, as if Caroline and she knew +something that disproved Captain Wareham’s prognostics. + +The marriage was to take place early in the morning, as they meant to +reach Belhanger the same day. The children had been already sent there, +that they might be ready to greet them on their arrival. + +Before eight o’clock the whole party walked quietly up the hill to the +church. + +There Mr. Allenham again pronounced over them the nuptial benediction. +They both repeated after him, clearly, distinctly, and fervently, each +word of their vow; and with a delightful but sober certainty of waking +bliss, of assured happiness, the small party wound their way down again +to the parsonage. + +It was a fine October morning, and the sun was quickly dispersing the +vapours which still hung in the low grounds. + +The valley had, half an hour before, appeared almost like a lake, as +they looked down on the mist below. The trees, the spires, the knolls +of higher ground were gradually emerging, and in a few minutes all was +clear and joyous, dancing in the morning sunshine. The robin redbreast +sung cheerily from the dewy hedges, which were still bright in their +rich autumn livery. + +“All Nature smiles upon us, Ellen,” whispered Algernon: “So the clouds +of our early life are dispersed! All before us is bright and serene.” + + +THE END. + + + LONDON: + SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW, + New-street-Square. + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes: + + +Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained. + +Perceived typographical errors have been changed. + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public +domain. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75982 *** |