LOVERS
AND FRIENDS.
A
NOVEL.
Printed
by J. Darling, Leadenhall-street,
LOVERS
AND FRIENDS;
OR,
Modern
Attachments.
A
NOVEL.
IN
FIVE VOLUMES.
BY
ANNE
OF
AUTHOR
OF
CONVICTION, GONZALO DE BALDIVIA, CHRONICLES OF AN ILLUSTRIOUS HOUSE,
SECRET
AVENGERS, SECRETS IN EVERY MANSION, CAMBRIAN
PICUTRES, CESARIO ROSALBA,
&c.
&c.
“I
hold a mirror up for men to see
How
bad they are, how good they ought to be.”
VOL.
II.
A.K.
NEWMAN AND CO. LEADENHALL-STREET.
1821.
LOVERS
AND FRIENDS.
CHAPTER
I.
“In a frivolous age like this, while fantastic Folly
jingles
all her bells, Genius, Sensibility, and Modesty, are
treated
with contempt.”
“Why, Fashion has clapp’d a fool’s cap on his head,
and
persuaded him, that he who can make himself most ridi-
culous is most eminent.”
“When those baneful passions, envy and jealousy, take
pos-
session of a female bosom, she is transformed by their
influence to a fiend.”
Party—Modern Friendship.
TWO days, not the
most pleasant of her life, having passed since her arrival at the castle,
Cecilia on the third arose with the sun, to write, as she had faithfully
promised, to Mrs. Doricourt, an account of all that had occurred since she left the Hermitage.
Miss Delmore did not make a single
comment while narrating her introduction to the Countess of Torrington, nor on
the fashionable party with which she was associated; yet in the warmly-expressed
wish to return to the calm delights, the rational amusements of the Hermitage,
and her tender friendship, it was evident to Mrs. Doricourt, that her gentle
mind had been greatly shocked at the reception given her by lady Torrington,
and that her good sense and virtuous principles disapproved the free manners of
her guests, though they were all of them persons of rank, and that the earl of
Torrington and his son were the only persons exempt from her mental censure.
Of Oscar lord Rushdale, described by
the ingenious Cecilia as affable, elegant, and well-informed, Mrs. Doricourt
thought with much apprehension; her beloved child had a heart to bestow, and
she endured ten thousand fears lest the inestimable prize should be given,
where unfeeling pride, incapable of appreciating its value, would oppose, and
eventually destroy its happiness. But while distressing her own too-sensitive
mind with unpleasant presentiments and anticipations of evil, Mrs. Doricourt
was careful not to drop a hint of her apprehensions to Cecilia; she merely requested her to be careful of forming hasty judgments, and of
suffering her eye to mislead her heart; she tenderly reminded her that the
Hermitage was her home, and that whatever new friendships she might be led to form, she should always tenaciously cling to her
right of being always considered her mother, and most affectionate friend. Mrs.
Doricourt in her letter did not dwell on the regret she felt at their
separation, or urge Miss Delmore’s return to the Hermitage; but Caleb Baldwin,
the venerable domestic, commissioned by Mrs. Doricourt to deliver her letter,
and a beautiful silver and gold filligree casket, informed Miss Delmore, that his mistress had been but poorly ever since she had been away; and though he was not desired to say so, yet
he was sure his mistress felt the loss of her company, and longed to see her.
“And she shall see me,” returned
Cecilia, eagerly, her bright eyes filling with tears of grateful sensibility,
“Yes, Mr. Baldwin, I will return to the Hermitage directly; there is no place
to me so pleasant. There is no being on earth half so dear to me as Mrs.
Doricourt; I will hasten to her, and prove, by my unremitting attention, that
the heart she formed cannot be sensible of pleasure, with the knowledge that
she is unwell or unhappy. I will go back with you, as
soon as I have informed the earl and countess.”
“My dear young lady,” said Baldwin,
“let me beg of you not to be so hasty; my mistress is not alarmingly ill, and
will be angry with me for having put you into such a flurry; and she will be
sadly vexed too, should you affront the earl of Torrington by leaving the
castle so suddenly; besides, I know my mistress does not expect you to return
home yet awhile, for she has sent your harp, and your drawing-box, and a large trunk full of fine things, that
arrived from London yesterday.”
“How shall I ever repay her
generosity, her more than maternal solicitude?” said Cecilia.
“Why by always remaining as good as
you are now, my dear young lady,” replied honest
“Offended! no, Mr. Baldwin,” replied
she, pressing his old withered hand between both hers; “on the contrary, I am
sincerely obliged to you for your kind counsel; and be assured it will be my
pride to deserve the approbation of a worthy man like you.”
Old Baldwin kissed the white hands
that so gratefully pressed his, and begged her, when she intended a visit to
the Hermitage, to write a few lines to Mrs. Doricourt, to prepare her for the pleasure¾”Because, you know,” said the old man, “her nerves are so weak, she cannot bear surprises, even though they are joyful ones.”
Cecilia promised to be guided by his
advice; she then dismissed him to Mrs. Milman's parlour, where she hoped he
would not be annoyed by the intrusion of fashionable valets and pert
chambermaids, whose assurance and conceit even exceeded their masters and
mistresses.
She then hastened to her own
apartment, to examine the magnificent casket delivered to her by Baldwin; it
contained a complete set of oriental pearl ornaments, among which was a chaplet
of lilies for the hair; the necklace, armlets, and bracelets, had superb
brilliant clasps. A beautiful cross of emeralds and diamonds, attached to a
curiously-wrought gold chain, with several costly rings of various jewels, made
up this elegant and valuable present.
The trunk was filled with dresses,
made in the first style of fashion, and of the richest materials. One was of
lace, to be worn over white satin; the sleeves and bosom of this dress were
trimmed with pearls, in the form of lilies, chains, and tassels.
Cecilia stood astonished. Mrs.
Doricourt’s own dress was always black, extremely plain, though made of the
very best materials; nor did she recollect ever to have seen her wear an
ornament of any kind, except mourning rings; that she should procure for her
dresses and trinkets so rich and expensive, surprised and pained her; for
though, like other young
women of her age, Cecilia was pleased with elegant dresses and costly
ornaments, yet a sentiment of delicacy, the remembrance that her mother was
sister to the present housekeeper of Torrington Castle, made her hesitate, and
doubt the propriety of wearing satin and jewels fit for the daughter of a
nobleman; but while the blush of timidity crimsoned her cheek, and a tear of
conscious inferiority trembled in her eye, she beheld a folded paper at the
bottom of the trunk; it was addressed in the hand-writing of Mrs. Doricourt—“To
Cecilia Delmore, the child of my affection.” On opening it, bank-notes, to the
amount of one hundred pounds, and the following words, met her sight:—“The sum
of one hundred pounds, my beloved Cecilia, will in future be your quarterly
allowance; you will perhaps think and say that I have left you no occasion for
money; but I am far better acquainted with these matters than you are, and know
that a young lady received into the fashionable parties of the countess of
Torrington will assuredly have demands upon her purse. In a word, to satisfy
your delicate scruples, I am rich, and can afford, if I see it necessary, to do much more for you than this. I hope, my love, you like
your dresses; they were made under the direction of the celebrated madame de
Cloude, Pall-Mall, the present goddess of taste, who will be worshipped till
some new arbitress of fashion, by the invention of a vest, or a trimming,
supersedes, and decrees her obsolete and antideluvian. Remember, my Cecilia,
that it is my pleasure that you wear what I have sent you; my fortune will
allow these trifles; and though I no longer dress, it is my will that you do.”
This was not a hard command, yet
Cecilia’s modesty made her wish the dresses had been less expensive; she feared
the countess of Torrington would think her presuming, and accuse her of
attempting to outvie herself and her guests in the splendour of dress; she
shrunk from the idea of incurring ridicule, and provoking animadversions on her
birth and dependent state. But it was the will of her more than mother that she
should wear those elegant dresses, and her will she had ever considered a law.
Consigning the pearls to their
magnificent case, she wrote a letter to Mrs. Doricourt, expressive of her
heart’s grateful feelings, which having given with her own hand to Mr. Baldwin,
and charged him with kind remembrances to all at the Hermitage, she hastened to
select one of the plainest of the dresses, wishing at the same time to do
honour to the countess, whom she knew expected an addition to her present
party.
When her toilet was completed, her
watch told her she had yet full two hours before the company would assemble in
the salle-à-manger; and
wishing to inquire after her harp, she entered the library, with an intention
of ringing for a servant, when the first objects she saw were her harp,
portfolio, and drawing-box.
Cecilia had not heard a note of
music since she left the Hermitage, and she flew to the harp, with sensations
joyous as those we feel when we hasten to embrace a friend, from whom we have
some time been separated. Her fingers
passed rapidly over the strings; but notes of joy did not assimilate with the
emotions of her heart; these were sorrowful, for she thought of the
supercilious conduct of lady Torrington, and contrasted her hauteur with the tender generous friendship of Mrs. Doricourt, till unconsciously the sprightly measure changed to a plaintive air, of which her friend was particularly fond, and
accompanying the notes with her voice, she sang—
Ah, where are now those eyes of light,
That made the passing hours so bright?
I never mark’d time’s rapid flight,
So lucid were their beams.
Ah, where is now that rosy smile,
So full of beauty and of guile,
That I did ne’er suspect the while
I ere should rue its pow’r?
Yet though
those eyes, that smile no more,
This cheated bosom can adore,
Yet I their falsehood shall deplore,
Till silent in the grave.
While thus employed she cast her
eyes towards the folding-doors at the end of the room, and beheld the earl of
Torrington, pale and agitated, gazing on her. In an instant the strain ceased,
and blushing and apologizing, she would have withdrawn.
“Stay, Cecilia,” said the earl,
advancing towards her—“stay, and inform me where, and by whom, you were taught
that air, for it never was published? it was written and composed——”
“By a gentleman of the name of
Saville,” interrupted Miss Delmore.
The eyes of the earl gazed wildly on
her, and his lip quivered as he asked—“How came you by this knowledge—who told
you this?”
“Mrs. Doricourt informed me, my
lord,” replied Cecilia, “that the words and music were composed by the brother
of a very dear friend of hers—a Miss Saville.”
“And what more did she tell you?”
asked the earl, in an eager agitated tone.
“Nothing more, my lord,” replied
Cecilia, “only that this beloved friend was dead.”
Miss Delmore had before seen the
earl strangely agitated, but his emotions were now stronger than ever; his face
was ghastly pale, and large drops of perspiration started on his
forehead—“True, true,” said he, covering his face with his hands, “she is
dead—she is happy; her abode is with angels, pure and innocent as herself.”
Cecilia wondered how the name of
Miss Saville should produce these terrible conflicts, and began to believe that
the earl was affected with temporary fits of insanity, when he relieved this
apprehension by asking, in a composed voice, Mrs. Doricourt’s maiden name?
“It was Greville,” replied Cecilia;
“her mother was the youngest daughter of sir Alan Oswald.”
“I thought so,” replied the earl,
striking his forehead: “retribution comes. I remember Julia Greville; she would
have persuaded, she would have preserved, but it was ordained that I should be
wretched.”
Of these broken incoherent sentences
Cecilia could make nothing, and she rejoiced when the paroxysm going off, he
became sufficiently restored to himself to request to see her drawings.
Cecilia opened her portfolio. A
beautiful view of the castle, as seen from the lake, a romantic dell on the
margin of the Derwentwater, and the rocks, temple, and cascade, seen from the
windows of Mrs. Doricourt’s boudoir, were all the finished drawings it
contained, except two heads—a Hebe and a Bacchus, so admirably and correctly
pencilled, that the earl was lavish in commendation of them, when the countess,
her friend lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, and
lord Rushdale, entered laughing.
“I came to announce to your
lordship,” said the countess, “that lady Welford and her party will be with us
to dinner.”
The earl, without taking his eyes
off the drawing he held in his hand, replied—“I shall be glad to see lady
Welford; for the fools she brings in her train, I cannot venture to promise so
much.”
“I really think we ought to beg
pardon for our very abrupt intrusion,” said lady Jacintha, turning her eyes
with a malicious glance from Cecilia to the countess; “I actually believe we
are interrupting a very interesting tête-à-tête—study,
I mean.”
“You have spoken truly, lady Jacintha,”
returned the earl, with a look of undisguised contempt; “but allow me to assure
you, the drawings before me are so worthy of
admiration, that praise is a just and voluntary impulse, not a studied
compliment.”
“Some Italian artist’s pencil, I presume,”
rejoined the countess, approaching the table; “very beautiful and clever, I
dare say; every thing done by the natives of delightful Italy must be
charming.”
“But these drawings, lady
Torrington,” said the earl, “are not the productions of an Italian, but a very
youthful English artist, whose modest blushes would betray her, even if I were
inclined to withhold from her the meed of praise.”
“Miss Delmore’s pencil!” exclaimed
lord Rushdale; “these views are indeed correctly beautiful. How exquisite is
the delineation of that dell! how soft the shadow of that tree! and here is the
east front of Torrington Castle. How bold and perfect the touches of the pencil
on that tower! and there, on the distant Skiddaw, how admirably the perspective
is preserved!”
Lady Jacintha frowned and bit her
lip, while lady Torrington, affecting a laugh, said—“Oscar is quite an
enthusiast in paintings and if Heaven had not thought fit he should be born the
heir to an earldom, he would have made a tolerable artist himself. For my part,
I like to look at a pretty drawing, but do not pretend to be a judge of its
beauties or defects.”
“Nor I, thank my stars,” rejoined lady Jacintha, spitefully; “I leave these important decisions to men of
genius who have money to throw away, and persons whose want of money renders it
necessary for them to cultivate and employ their talents. I always remembered
Chesterfield’s advice to his son; and knowing that pictures were to be bought,
seldom troubled myself to attend to the instructions of my drawing-master.”
“If you had,” returned lord
Rushdale, “you would have found your pencil a delightful resource in the hours
you pass alone.”
“Alone!” exclaimed lady Jacintha, “what a notion for a young man of rank! Alone! you really make me
smile! Why I never have half an
hour to myself, from the beginning to the end of the year! what with dressing,
shopping, paying and receiving visits, the park, the theatres, the opera,
masquerades, auctions, concerts, balls, and the thousand other amusements a
person of fashion is obliged to attend, I promise you I have scarce time to
sleep; but, bless me! what a superb harp that is! I did bestow a little attention upon this divine instrument, because
our attitude-master recommended learning the harp, to shew the grace of the
figure, and the beauty of the hand and arm.” She then placed the harp before
her, and without waiting for a request, played very indifferently a popular
air. Then addressing lady Torrington—“This is your harp. Well, how modest to
conceal your accomplishments from your friends! I declare, countess, I will
never forgive you, for not introducing this ravishing instrument, when you knew
how I doat upon music.”
“Really, my dear friend,” replied
the countess, “I never beheld that ravishing instrument till now. Lord
Chesterfield’s opinion has
also governed me. I think he says, there is no occasion for persons of rank to
be themselves musicians, while they can purchase the abilities of others; but
music, I suppose, is another of Miss Delmore’s accomplishments; the harp, I
presume, is hers.”
“Yes,” said the earl, “that harp
belongs to Miss Delmore; and I am proud to say she is of that as perfect
mistress as of the pencil; and I promise myself, lady Jacintha, with the
assistance of yourself, lady Eglantine, the count del Montarino, and lord
Melvil, to form an agreeable musical party. Oscar breathes a tolerable flute,
and I can beat a tamborine.”
The eyes of lord Rushdale,
expressive of delight and admiration, had wandered too often to the face of
Miss Delmore to escape the watchful glances of lady Jacintha; and as she had
fixed on him, by the advice of the earl her father, for her partner in wedlock,
she was not a little chagrined and disappointed to find that the unstudied
graces and genuine talents of Cecilia, a nobody, were likely to deprive her of
his attentions, and defeat her scheme of obtaining a wealthy husband, her own
fortune being inadequate to the support of her rank. Full of spleen, she again
turned to the harp, affecting to admire its ornaments—“It is very handsome,”
said she; “to the full as magnificent, I think, as the duchess of Eltham’s, for
which she told me she paid a hundred and fifty pounds. Pray, my lord, if it is
not a secret,” glancing her eye insidiously towards the countess, “what might it
cost?”
“Not being a purchaser, madam,”
returned the earl, “I cannot reply to your question.”
“Not the purchaser!” repeated lady
Torrington, incredulously; “why I understood Miss Delmore had been brought up
entirely at your lordship’s expense.”
The earl saw how much Cecilia’s
delicacy was wounded by this gross allusion to her dependent state; and his
tone and manner evinced the displeasure he felt, as he replied—“This, madam, is
a subject I should have thought politeness would have prevented your introducing
before persons in no way concerned in my private transactions: but since it is
thus indelicately brought upon the tapis, with Miss Delmore’s permission I will
inform you she has not cost me one single guinea for the last ten years; her
education had been conducted by Mrs. Doricourt, who has also supplied every
other necessity with so liberal a hand, that she has only left me the title of
Miss Delmore’s father—a title which I shall proudly arrogate to myself, till
she shall choose herself a dearer protector in a husband.”
Cecilia’s eyes were suffused with
tears as she modestly bent to the earl; the countess and lady Jacintha smiled
contemptuously; while lord Rushdale, with a suppressed sigh, said—“How enviable
will the lot be of that mortal whom Miss Delmore honours with her affection!”
Lady Jacintha liked neither the
speech nor the look of lord Rushdale, and determined, if possible, to mortify
Cecilia, she asked—“Pray, Miss Delmore, can you tell me what were the
configurations of the planets at the time of your birth?”
Smiling at the strangeness of the
question, she replied—“Not really, madam.”
“Well, certainly,” resumed lady
Jacintha, “if any faith is to be placed in astrology, you, Miss Delmore, were
born under a lucky constellation of stars: no doubt your friend, this Mrs.
Dor—Dorland—what is her name, is very rich?”
“Certainly she is,” replied Cecilia,
with a dignified air of reproof, “for money never appears an object to Mrs.
Doricourt; in her charities she is most liberal and diffusive; and in her
presents to those whom she honours with her regard, she is generous even to
profusion.”
“I really congratulate you on having
so munificent a friend, Miss Delmore,” said lady Jacintha; “I suppose those
yellow cornelians on your neck were her gift; they are handsome if they are
real.”
“Madam!” said Cecilia, colouring
highly, “Mrs. Doricourt would not allow me to wear any ornaments that were not
real.”
“Indeed!” returned lady Jacintha;
“very genteel people though wear imitations; and they are now brought so near
perfection, that only jewellers and lapidaries can tell the difference; if
yours are real, they cost a pretty sum; earrings, broach, and bracelets to
match—a very handsome present indeed! My jeweller charged me fifty guineas for
my set, and they are not so large nor so handsomely cut as yours.”
“Mrs. Doricourt’s presents are
costly presents indeed!” said the countess.
“Pray, Miss Delmore, who makes your dresses? some person at Keswick, I suppose;
this is a pretty peach-coloured satin of yours, and is trimmed very smartly for
the country. I want a few things done; and as Smithson’s hand is at present
disabled, I will thank you to give her the address of your——”
“This dress, madam,” said Cecilia,
vexed to see her very clothes provoke the spleen of these high-bred ladies,
“was made by madame de Cloude, of Pall-Mall, and is very inferior to some
others Mrs. Doricourt has just sent me.”
Lady Jacintha almost shrieked at
this intelligence, but affectedly applying her eye-glass to the trimming, which
was tastefully composed of blond and white roses, she observed it was
tolerable—“But De Cloude,” continued she, “has exhausted her fancy, and is
sinking fast in the estimation of ladies of rank. She has now, I believe, poor
creature! leisure enough to work for merchants’ wives, or even persons of an
inferior class, if they can come up to her price.”
The drift of this speech, and the
contemptuous look that accompanied it, did not escape the earl; he also saw the
indignant crimson on Cecilia’s cheek, and instantly replied—“I cannot pretend
to prop the fame of madame de Cloude, which your ladyship asserts to be
sinking, but I must beg permission to set you right in one point. Mrs.
Doricourt, though retired from the deceits and frivolities of the haut ton, has prominent claims to that
rank on which you so peremptorily
insist, and on which you appear to place so high a value, being herself a
branch of one of the highest and most ancient families in England.”
The countess and lady Jacintha
listened with surprise, as the earl continued to say—“Mrs. Doricourt is a
granddaughter of sir Alan Oswald, and her mother’s sisters, the one the
duchess of Alverston, the other the marchioness of Inglesfield, would, I
believe, be not a little astonished and offended to hear your ladyship herd
their niece with merchant’s wives, and persons of even an inferior class to
these.”
Lady Jacintha was really
disconcerted by this rebuke. She protested that she had no sort of intention to
offend against Mrs. Doricourt’s dignity, though she was unacquainted with her
family and pretensions to class with persons of rank; “but your lordship,”
continued she, “must be sensible that I am quite correct, when I assert that
money will effect almost any thing.”
“And while I subscribe to the truth
of that remark,” replied the earl, “I sincerely wish it had the power of
removing from the female heart, envy, hatred, and arrogance, particularly from
those who, possessing beauty, rank, and accomplishments themselves, ought to be superior to such mean and debasing passions.”
The oblique compliment conveyed in
this speech did not blunt its severity, and stung to the quick lady Jacintha,
who coloured through her rouge.
Cecilia, feeling she was the
occasion of this unpleasant conversation, wished herself back at the dear
Hermitage, where the evil passions, envy, hatred, and arrogance, never entered.
Lord Rushdale saw her uneasiness,
and anxious to remove it, spoke of some beautiful songs, composed by Emdin,
whose music was gaining great celebrity in the fashionable world.
The countess, offended at the earl’s
severity to her friend, and more at her son’s assiduity to the housekeeper’s
niece, was luckily prevented from uttering her displeasure by the abrupt
entrance of sir Cyril Musgrove, covered with dust—“You are under an infinitude of obligations to me,” said he, gasping and panting for
breath.
“Have the goodness to inform me,”
replied lady Torrington, supposing herself the person addressed, “what mighty
favour you have conferred on me?”
“Why I am choked with dust, and have
rode, at the imminent hazard of breaking my neck,” said
sir Cyril, “to inform you, that lady Welford and her party are, at this present
moment, within half a mile of the castle.”
“I confess my obligation,” said lady
Torrington, with a stately bend.
“Who does lady Welford bring with
her?” asked lady Jacintha; “what beau? Come, leave off gasping and panting,
which I know is all affectation, and satisfy my curiosity.”
“That you may prepare your nods, becks, and wreathed smiles,”
returned sir Cyril. “Well then, as all the world knows the pleasure I feel in obeying the commands of a fair
lady, lady Welford’s barouche is driven by lord Wilton.”
“What, is that coxcomb of the
party?” said lady Jacintha. “But I don’t want to hear the order—I only wish to
know the persons who form the train of lady Welford. There is another proof of
the power of money—that woman’s wealth—But deuce take her wealth! Dear sir
Cyril, who is coming?”
“Sir Middleton Maxfield, and his
sister Jemima,” replied sir Cyril, “the sweet child of nature, as her aunt Mrs.
Freakley calls her.”
“And is that insufferable old fool
of the party?” asked the countess.
“The sweet child of nature,”
returned sir Cyril, “is, you know, a ward of Chancery, and wants three years of being of age; and her aunt is so afraid of the
lovely innocent being run away with, that she never trusts her out of her
sight; besides, I was present when you told her you should be happy to see her
in Cumberland. The rest of the party are the honourable Tangent Drawley and
colonel St. Irwin. How fortunate that you are all dressed! I must hasten to put
off the savage and adonize. Rushdale,
’pon my soul, I envy you the happiness of handing the child of nature from the
carriage! take care of your heart, or her leaden—pshaw! her blue eyes I mean,
will shoot through it like a pair of bullets. Pardonnez
moi! can’t stay to answer another question,” and sir Cyril withdrew as abruptly as he entered.
“Miss Maxfield’s fortune,” said lady
Jacintha, “is a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, besides great expectations. I suppose, my lord,” addressing
Oscar, “you will improve the hint given you by sir Cyril.”
“I have not yet, madam,” replied he,
“become so great a worshipper of wealth as to sacrifice happiness at the shrine
of avarice.”
“No,” said the earl, “no, Oscar—I
trust not; for miserable is that wretch who deludes himself with the hope that
wealth will supply the place of mutual love; wretchedly will he be deceived,
who fancies wealth will prove an equivalent for happiness.”
Lady Torrington cast a glance of
disdain on her husband, in whose words she found an allusion to their own
marriage, formed by interest, without attachment on either side. Perceiving
lady Welford’s barouche entering the gates, she took her son’s arm, and
requesting lady Jacintha to assist in receiving her guests, they left the
library.
They were no sooner alone, than the
earl, taking Cecilia’s hand, said—“I am sorry, my sweet girl, that you should
have been subjected to the impertinence of lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, who is a
compound of pride, affectation, and envy, though it gave me an opportunity of
witnessing your equanimity of temper. The insolence and folly of lady Jacintha,
failing of the effect she wishes, will subside; and as she cannot mortify, she
will learn to respect you.”
Miss Delmore’s pride had compelled
her to hide her mortification, but she had poignantly felt the contempt thrown
upon her by the countess and lady Jacintha, and most happy would she have been
to return to Mrs. Doricourt; already she had seen enough of fashionable manners
to convince her, that it was scarcely possible to associate with the great, and
preserve the bosom free from evil passions: ardently did she wish to return to
Mrs. Doricourt, endeared to her by a comparison with the countess and lady
Jacintha; from her lips she had never heard contumelious speech—her every look
and action expressed affection and
approval.
But the earl would not hear of her
quitting the castle; he had that very morning dispatched a letter to Mrs.
Doricourt, requesting permission to wait upon her—“And if she consents to
receive my visit,” said the earl, “you shall accompany me.”
With this promise Cecilia was
obliged to be content.
“As yet,” resumed the earl, “you
have seen nothing of life; and I consider it my duty not to let your youth, your beauty, and talents, be buried in the seclusion of St. Herbert’s
Island.”
Cecilia could with truth have said, the specimen she had seen of life and high breeding, since she
had been at the castle, had decided her preference for retirement; but respect
for the earl prevented her so freely declaring her sentiments; and the second
ringing of the dinner-bell put an end to their
conversation.
Conducted by the earl, she entered
the salle-à-manger, where the guests
were already assembled.
The earl of Torrington was instantly
surrounded, and saluted with many flattering compliments; but though all gazed
on the beautiful confused Cecilia, she remained unintroduced, till the earl,
irritated at the marked neglect of the countess, reminded her, in a manner
unusually stern, of her inattention to the unpleasant and awkward situation of
his adopted daughter.
The countess did not choose to
offend her lord by a downright opposition to his will; she pleaded
forgetfulness, made a slight apology to Cecilia, and introduced her to her
guests, as the protégée of the
earl of Torrington.
Lady Welford, a good-humoured,
lively widow, without any striking claims to beauty or wit, was greatly
admired by the gentlemen, for she had fifty thousand pounds a-year, without
child or encumbrance. She was sensible that though warmly pressed to spend the
summer at Torrington Castle, she was no favourite with the countess, or her
friend lady Jacintha Fitzosborne; but the beaux that fluttered in her train
were men of high ton, and consequently desirable acquisitions to their party.
Lady
Welford had no pretension to genius, but she had amiable qualities, that amply
compensated for shining talents; she possessed a generous and feeling heart.
The countenance of Miss Delmore had, at the first glance, made an impression in
her favour, which the cold and rude neglect of the countess confirmed; and lady
Welford resolved, as she placed the diffident girl next herself at table, to
make the “earl’s protégée” the
object of her particular attention.
Miss
Maxfield, a ward of Chancery, was just emancipated from a boarding-school, to
reside under the protection of her aunt, Mrs. Freakley, who, having a most
devoted reverence for titles, was determined that her niece should marry an
earl; for, as her father was a baronet, and her own fortune was very large, and
her expectations still greater, she made no hesitation in saying, she thought
Jemima might, without being accused of presumption, aspire to the rank of countess.
Mrs. Freakley had heard much in favour of the youthful lord Rushdale; report
had represented him of a sentimental turn, singular in opinions and habits, to
the young nobility who had courted his acquaintance. In Mrs. Freakley’s eyes
her niece was all sweet simplicity and engaging innocence; and as there was
rank to recommend the alliance, she thought this sentimental youth would be
exactly such a husband as she could wish for her child of nature. Full of this
project, with indefatigable perseverance, Mrs. Freakley worked herself into
every party where she knew the countess of
Torrington was invited; and having discovered that she was weakly fond of
flattery, she so successfully complimented her person, taste in dress, and
equipages, that her endeavours were crowned with an invitation to Torrington
Castle.
Miss Maxfield was a complete hoyden,
with an alabaster complexion, flaxen hair, and lead-coloured eyes; she was of
the middle height, and a good deal warped, which irregularity of shape was, as
far as possible, concealed by padding the sunk shoulder. Her features, though
not bad, were insipid; her mind was a blank, and she had profited little by an
expensive education; but it was a favourite position with Mrs. Freakley, that
money was more valuable than sense or education; and though her sweet Jemima
was not a wit, she had a very large fortune; and, as far as her own observance
of life and manners went, she had always found that men hated clever women.
The company had seated themselves at
table, when lady Eglantine Sydney was led into the room by lord Melvil. She
lisped an apology for her late appearance, but really had no idea of its being
dinner-time, being so pleasantly engaged.
“With a love tale,” said lady
Jacintha, “in which there is nothing new or marvellous.”
“No, Heaven knows,” replied Mr.
Drawley; “the subject is worn ‘to
tatters, to very rags,’ as some poet says. I really wonder any lady can lend an
ear to such stuff!”
“Or any gentleman take the trouble
to repeat it,” said lord Wilton. “Did I not hear you tell lady Welford this
morning, that her cruelty would drive you to despair, and that it was only for the happiness of being near her that you came into
Cumberland?”
“Pray, my lord, don’t put Mr.
Drawley to the trouble of recollecting his tender speeches,” said lady Welford,
“which, I promise you, have no more place in my memory than his own.”
“Dear, how odd!” observed Miss
Maxfield. “Well, I never forget what a gentleman says to me.”
“Your memory then must be like old
lady Napper’s lumber-room,” rejoined lady Jacintha, “in which there is not a
single article that you can depend upon as fit for use, or that is worth preserving.”
“But
when she spoke,” said lord Wilton, “forth
from her coral lips even satire broke.”
“Nonsense
you mean,” returned lady Jacintha; “but I pardon you, on the consideration that satire would be lost on people determined to play
the fool.”
Drawley bowed affectedly; said he
was perfectly sensible of her ladyship’s compliment, but that the fatigue of
talking prevented his expressing his gratitude—“Really,” said he, yawning, “I
am so wearied, so inert, that I don’t believe I shall be able to utter another
syllable to-night.”
“Not speak again to-night!”
exclaimed Miss Maxfield; “why I never knew any body before that did not love to talk! I am sure I should think it a great punishment if I was obliged to hold my tongue; should not
you, Miss Delmore?”
“To be constrained not to speak,”
replied Cecilia, “would certainly be far from pleasant; yet, in my opinion, a
less punishment than to be compelled to converse.”
“When neither the person nor the
subject were interesting,” said lord Rushdale.
“But this is liberty hall, Miss
Maxfield,” observed the countess; “and I trust all who favour me with their
company will feel themselves under no restraint.”
With the second course sir Cyril
Musgrove made his appearance—“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, bowing
profoundly, “I beg leave to offer an apology for——” but seeing the removal of
dishes and plates, he placed himself at the table—“any apology,” said he, “is
unnecessary, for you have not waited.”
“We never wait,” replied the
countess; “that, with various other tiresome ceremonies, is gone by.”
“And very properly,” remarked
colonel St. Irwin, “or a dinner might spoil, while a coxcomb sat under the
hands of his valet, or admired his person in a mirror.”
Sir Cyril did not choose to resent
any thing said by colonel St. Irwin; he contented himself with replying—“Your
late campaign, colonel, has not blunted the edge of your wit; that I perceive is keen as ever. But if I do waste a little
time under the hands of my valet, or in consulting my mirror, I have the
pleasure to know it is not time thrown away.”
“It would be far better employed,”
replied the colonel, “in the study of books—in the cultivation of your mind;
for you will pardon me the remark, sir Cyril—however handsomely dressed the
outside of your head may be, I never heard any person praise its inward
adornments.”
“Thank you, thank you for your
advice, my good friend,” said sir Cyril; “sorry I can’t follow it; but whenever
I take up a book, I fall asleep over it.—This leveret is dressed exquisitely!
Now, after the acid, a little of that sweet sauce, if you
please.—Lady Elgantine, ’pon my honour, you look celestial!”
Lady Eglantine simpered, and bowed
to the compliment.
“Celestial blue,” returned lady
Jacintha.
“La! lady Jacintha,” said Miss
Maxfield, tittering, “do you mean to say your cousin looks blue? When I was at
school, we used to say the teachers looked blue when they were cross.”
“Very smart, ’pon my honour,”
returned sir Cyril. “But no, my charming Miss Maxfield! I did not mean to
accuse lady Eglantine of looking cross, but, like a sylph, or a seraph,
surrounded by clouds of celestial blue.”
“Is that poetry, sir Cyril?” asked
Miss Maxfield; “for I had a task to learn once about seraphs and blue clouds.”
This question occasioned a general
laugh.
Sir Cyril declared he hated poetry,
and in plain prose had expressed his admiration of lady Eglantine’s dress.
“It is particularly elegant,” said
lord Melvil; “blue becomes lady Eglantine’s transparent complexion.”
“Nay, now I am sure you are
flattering me,” returned lady Eglantine, with a smile of conscious beauty.
Lady Jacintha hated compliments,
except when paid to herself, and she prevented the adulation issuing from lord
Melvil’s lips, by saying—“Sir Cyril, you have doubtless heard of a scarlet and
yellow fever, but possibly not of a blue one.”
“No, really,” replied he; “but there
may be a fever of that sort abroad, for any thing I know to the contrary.”
“I shall not travel abroad for
confirmation on this point,” resumed lady Jacintha, “because I know it rages
with great violence in England——”
“Not at this time, I hope,”
interrupted Mrs. Freakley; “not in this part of the country, I trust; I am so
alarmed at the thought of having a fever.”
“You have nothing to apprehend at
present, madam,” returned lady Jacintha, with a look of disdain, “though
certainly with your embonpoint a
fever might be dangerous.” Then again addressing sir Cyril—“I never heard of a
blue fever till I became acquainted with lady Jane Osbright, whose
lead-coloured eyes some needy sonnetteer
celebrated in witless rhymes, denominating them sapphire and azure; and so
infatuated has she become with blue, that now her satins and velvets, the
draperies of her drawing-room, her liveries, the lining of her carriage, the
hammercloth, are all blue—celestial blue. Pray Heaven my cousin may not be
infected by her ladyship! for I perceive strong symptoms of a blue fever.”
Sir Cyril had sense enough to see the envy couched under this speech. Lady Eglantine’s
dress was new and elegant; and as her cousin’s fortune would not allow her to
indulge the love of show, she always felt mortified when lady Eglantine appeared
in any thing new.
Lady Welford, during dinner,
bestowed all her attention on Miss Delmore, because she perceived that the
countess of Torrington and lady Jacintha Fitzosborne honoured her with very
little regard; nor was she at any loss to account for their neglect. Youth,
beauty, and elegance, she knew, were possessions sufficient to render her
hateful in their eyes; and as much to mortify them as gratify herself, when
they retired to the drawing-room, she took her arm; and as they walked up and
down, she asked several questions relative to the improvements on St. Herbert’s
Island, and particularly inquired after the health of Mrs. Doricourt.
“Do you know Mrs. Doricourt, madam?”
asked Cecilia.
“When I was Lucy Archer, I knew
Julia Greville,” replied lady Welford; “and when you have an opportunity, I
will thank you, Miss Delmore, if you will say to her, that I shall feel most
happy to be permitted to renew my acquaintance with her.”
Cecilia had just time to say she
would remember her ladyship’s request, when the gentlemen entered the room, and
a general conversation took place, in which Cecilia observed Mr. Drawley took
no part; for, withdrawing to a distant window, he had thrown himself on an
ottoman, in an attitude of fatigue, appearing to take no sort of interest in
any thing he heard or saw.
Miss Maxfield, who admired his fine
person, and had fixed upon him for her lover, endeavoured to draw him into a
conversation; but to all her remarks and questions he appeared deaf and dumb,
and as insensible and motionless as a statue, till provoked and tired with his
obstinate silence, she flew up to lady Welford, and half crying, asked her if
she had heard Mr. Drawley speak since they rose from table?
“Why really, Miss Maxfield, I do not
remember,” said lady Welford, “nor is it a matter of any importance, I believe;
for when he does speak, it is very little to the purpose.”
“La! do you think so?” returned Miss
Maxfield. “Sir Middleton says he is a very sensible young man, and he must
know, because they were schoolfellows together at Eton.”
“I shall not presume to dispute sir
Middleton’s judgement,”
said lady Welford; “I can only say that his silence affords me equal pleasure
with his speech.”
“Well now, that is very odd,”
replied Miss Maxfield, “for I like of all things to hear him talk; and I will
make him speak—I will go again and plague him till I make him talk.”
“It is a pity,” said lady Welford,
as she ran towards Drawley, who still maintained the appearance of lassitude
and insensibility, “it is a great pity that silly girl has so large a fortune;
her money will induce some indigent man of rank to marry her, who, ashamed of her ignorance, will afterwards treat her
with neglect and contempt.”
The earl of Torrington proposed
going to the music-room, to which lady Jacintha Fitzosborne gave her immediate
assent, vanity whispering that she could have no rival in voice or finger.
Lord Rushdale selected the music,
and lady Jacintha, taking her place at the piano-forte,
attempted a bravura song of Bishop’s; but wishing to distance all competition,
she strained her voice to an absolute squall; and though loudly and flatteringly applauded, every critical ear was
convinced she sung out of time and tune.
Lady Eglantine Sydney protested she
was hoarse—that it was inhuman to solicit her to sing¾declared that she was out of spirits—that she had not sufficient confidence in her
ability to oblige; and after a thousand other such excuses, was at last
prevailed on by lord Melvil to do what she from the first intended. Accompanied
by lady Jacintha at the pianoforte, and lords
Melvil and Rushdale on the flute and clarionet,
she sang, in a very affected style, an Italian canzonet.
The applause that succeeded this
having subsided, and half reclining on the assiduous adoring Melvil, lady
Eglantine had resumed her seat.
Cecilia was called upon to
contribute her share to the general entertainment. Never having sung but to
Mrs. Doricourt, and other friends equally indulgent, she felt considerable
alarm to make her début before so
many strangers; but encouraged by the earl of Torrington, lord Rushdale, and
lady Welford, she gracefully swept the strings of her harp, and, with
enchanting sweetness, sang a simple Scotch ballad. Her voice, naturally clear,
full, and melodious, had received every aid from taste and science. When she
ceased, a burst of rapturous applause followed her song; even lady Jacintha,
though swelling with envy and spite, was compelled to acknowledge Miss
Delmore’s voice, style, and execution, were not to be excelled.
Lady Torrington condescended to
relax from her hauteur, and
confess herself so much delighted, as to join the general request that Miss
Delmore would repeat the ballad.
Ever ready to oblige, Cecilia
complied; and as her timidity had in some measure passed off, she acquitted
herself better than at first.
Some hours were now delightfully
spent in the music-room. Cecilia sang duets with lord Rushdale and sir
Middleton Maxfield, who had a fine voice, and sung in tolerable good style.
Actuated by the spirit of envy, lady
Jacintha exerted all her powers to rival Cecilia’s performances, but neither
her voice nor science would bear comparison.
Lady Eglantine declined the contest,
by affecting a cough, and protesting her constitution too weak for the great exertion
required in singing.
Colonel St. Irwin had before
expressed his admiration of Miss Delmore’s person; but her
voice, her superior style of singing, he spoke of in terms of rapture to lord
Rushdale, who declared that, in his sight, Miss Delmore was the most perfect of
Heaven’s creatures—“If it was possible,” said he, “to escape the fascinations
of her beauty, her voice would lead the heart into captivity.”
Mr. Drawley, who was lounging on a
sofa, and had not before opened his lips, now started up, and laying his hand
on lord Rushdale’s arm, said—“You speak my sentiments exactly; Miss Delmore
looks, moves, and sings, like an angel.”
“Only hear!” shouted Miss Maxfield,
clapping her hands, “only hear, good folks—Mr. Drawley spoke!”
“Is there any thing so very extraordinary in that?” asked the silent youth, affecting to suppress a
yawn, and relapsing into his former lounging attitude.
“Yes, indeed, I think it very
extraordinary,” replied Miss Maxfield; “for I am sure, before we left the
drawing-room, I asked you a hundred questions, and told you ever so many droll
things that happened while I was at school; but not a word did you speak, good,
bad, or indifferent. I am certain I have not heard the sound of your voice but
once since we left the inn at Keswick.”
“It is so vulgar to talk,” said
Drawley, shrugging his shoulders; “it is really horrible to be put to the
labour of finding ideas for conversation; it is an immense exertion of mental
and corporal faculties, and nothing but the extreme pleasure I felt at hearing
Miss Delmore sing, could have animated me to sustain this wordy labour.”
Lord Wilton now joined the
conversation by saying—“What, is Drawley actually speaking?
‘I’ve read that things
inanimate have mov’d,
And, as with living
souls, have been inform’d
By magic numbers and
persuasive sounds.’
And so you have been
speechifying, my boy? Bravo! go on, let me entreat you. Here, Musgrove,
Maxfield! Proceed, Drawley, proceed, my good fellow.”
Sir Cyril Musgrove and sir Middleton
Maxfield having obeyed the call, he bade them prepare their cash; then slapping
Drawley on the shoulder, told him that his loquacity had won him a thousand
pounds.
“I feel immensely happy to have been
so fortunate as to supply you with what I know you want,” said Drawley, “though
talking is undoubtedly excessive vulgar, as one’s valet, or one’s tailor, makes
use of expressly the same organ that we do to express ideas.”
“Suppose then,” replied sir Cyril,
“by way of a change, you were to adopt the plan of writing yours.”
“It would never answer,” returned
Drawley; “writing would be even more wearying than speaking.”
“Well, then, invent a certain number
of signs to express your thoughts,” said sir Middleton Maxfield.
“It has been done already,” replied
Drawley. “No; without novelty it would not do for me; besides, if I were to be
at the fatigue of inventing signs, how could I impart comprehension to other
people? and then the exertion attending on gesticulation would be unbearable.”
“What will become of you,” asked Mrs.
Freakley, “if you marry? for it is not natural to expect
that your wife will have as great a dislike to talking
as you have, or, in compliance with your out-of-the-way whims, that she will
put a seal on her lips.”
“And for that very reason,” replied
Drawley, “I will never marry.”
“More shame for you to say so!”
returned Miss Maxfield, angrily; “if all the gentlemen were of your mind, Mr.
Drawley, I wonder what would become of all the young ladies of my acquaintance.”
“Why they would all be doomed to die
discontented old maids,” said sir Cyril Musgrove. “But cheer up; there is no
danger, my charming Miss Maxfield, of your belonging to that unhappy class.”
“I hope not,” replied she, “for I
assure you, sir Cyril, I intend to be married, but not to Mr. Drawley, for I
will talk as much as I please; and indeed I should be greatly offended if my
husband was to yawn, and shrug his shoulders, and wave his hand, and say ‘my
head aches—pray don’t speak—you weary me—it is so immensely vulgar to talk.”
“Bravo, Jemima!” said her brother;
“’pon my honour, you are a capital mimic!”
“It was really a most excellent
imitation,” replied lord Wilton. “It was just your air, voice, and manner,
Drawley.”
“Very likely,” returned he; “I am
prodigiously happy to have afforded you entertainment; but as the expenditure
of breath required in speaking affects my nervous system, you will pardon my
declining for the present the honour of your conversation.”
“Your oratory, my good fellow,” said
lord Wilton, laughing, “has won me a thousand pounds, and you have now my
permission to close the portal of your perceptions and conceptions as soon and
for any length of time you please.”
“Is it possible,” said Miss Delmore,
as she walked up the room with lady Welford, “that Mr. Drawley can be pleased
to sit in that listless posture, neither joining in conversation, or partaking
the amusements of the company?”
“It is evident,” replied lady
Welford, “that you, my sweet girl, are unacquainted with the manners of the haut ton. The honourable Mr. Drawley, I
will venture to assert, feels the utmost uneasiness in affecting lassitude and
constraining himself to silence; but he is one of these empty-headed young men
of fashion, who will even punish themselves to astonish the gaping multitude.
Last winter he was a dashing, rattling, four-in-hand character—a Stentor in
voice, a Hercules in strength. You now behold him reduced to a machine, a
moving statue, disclaiming thought and speech as wearying exertions; but in the
midst of this seeming inanity, you will discover that no fatigue, no privation,
is too great to obtain the eclat of singularity.”
Cecilia smiled, and acknowledged she
had no idea of such a character as Mr. Drawley being in existence.
“In the great world, my dear,”
replied lady Welford, “you will find every one assuming a character different
to their real one. But more of this another time, for our conversation will not suit the lady who approaches.”
This was the countess of Torrington.
Cecilia’s singing and execution on
the pianoforte and harp had given general delight. Lady Eglantine, casting a
languishing glance from her blue eyes on lord Melvil, declared she had never
heard any one sing so charmingly as Miss Delmore.
Lord Melvil, pressing her hand,
assured her, that to his ear her voice was infinitely more delightful.
Lady Eglantine smiled, and said she
thought Miss Delmore’s voice and style greatly superior to lady Jacintha’s.
“Oh, certainly!” replied lord
Melvil; “I am entirely of your opinion.”
“And so you would have been, most
courteous lord,” said lady Jacintha, who had overheard their conversation, “if
this discerning, sensible divinity, had asserted that Miss Delmore croaked like
a raven. I thank your lordship though for the very high compliment you have paid me, in placing my voice and
style below lady Eglantine’s. Upon her musical abilities I shall make no comment; but permit me to observe, that did she
sing with the monotonous note of a cuckoo, I am aware that you have motives
that would induce you to declare she warbled like a nightingale.”
This speech was far from pleasant to
either lady Eglantine or lord Melvil, particularly the latter, whose conscience
felt its truth; but lady Eglantine imputing it to envy of Miss Delmore, gave
lord Melvil a languishing smile, and suffered him to conduct her to the
supper-room.
When the countess of Torrington
retired, lady Jacintha tapped at the door of her dressing-room—“Not feeling
disposed to sleep, I am come,” said she, “to chat half-an-hour with you.”
At that time lady Torrington could
have dispensed with her dear friend’s company; she had promised to admit the
count del Montarino to a private conference. Lady Jacintha’s presence
disappointed the interview, as their intercourse was a secret she could not
venture to confide even to the bosom of friendship. A glance of her eye was at
once understood by the comprehensive, convenient waiting gentlewoman, who took
an opportunity to visit the count’s apartment, with intelligence that sent him
quietly to bed.
The count would have been well
content to give up the assignation, for he was tired of acting the passionate
lover; but his purse was empty, and he wanted to draw upon her ladyship’s for a
supply. The wager laid by sir Cyril Musgrove and sir Middleton Maxfield, that
the honourable Mr. Drawley would not speak before supper-time, was a convincing
proof to the wily Italian, that they had more money than wit, and that it would
be no very difficult matter to make a transfer of their superfluity to his
necessity; and the time that he intended to bestow in making love, he now
devoted to planning the means of making money.
Lady Jacintha perceived an air of
constraint in the manner of lady Torrington, and observed that her eyes often
turned towards the door. She saw she was an intruder, and suspicions, not very
honourable to the reputation of her friend, rose in her mind; but suspicion was
not proof, and lady Torrington’s acquaintance was of great importance, for her
father had suggested to her that Oscar lord Rushdale, the heir to a rich earldom,
would be a very advantageous match for her.
“Bless me!” said the countess, “your
spirits, lady Jacintha, are astonishing; for my part, I am worn out, and half
asleep. Why,” looking at her watch, “it is near two o’clock!”
“I really felt it impossible to
sleep,” replied lady Jacintha, “with so many alarms on my mind.”
“Alarms!” repeated the countess,
affecting to yawn, “what has happened to alarm you?”
“I positively could not rest,”
resumed lady Jacintha, “till I came to put you on your guard.”
“You have now communicated your
alarm to me,” said the countess, her assignation with the count darting on her
mind; “what have I to fear?”
“Every thing from that artful
creature, Cecilia Delmore,” replied lady Jacintha.
The countess smiled
contemptuously—“I am sorry so insignificant a cause,” said she, “should have
kept you from retiring to rest; for my part, I perceive nothing in the girl to
cause alarm, or prevent me from sleeping with my usual tranquillity.”
“I congratulate you most sincerely,
my dear friend,” returned lady Jacintha, “on your happy indifference. Some
wives would be highly offended, if not absolutely jealous, if their lords
bestowed such looks of tender admiration, such devoted attention, on another. I
am sure the earl’s glaring attention to the girl rendered me quite
uncomfortable all the evening on your account; and my friendship for you made
me resolve to put you on your guard before I retired to rest.”
Lady Torrington’s tone was ironical,
as she said—“I certainly must be vastly grateful to the friendly solicitude
that has deprived you of sleep, and brought you here at this hour, to put me on
my guard against a rival in my husband’s love; but at once to tranquillize your
kind apprehensions for my peace, I beg to inform you that the earl of
Torrington is at perfect liberty to bestow his admiration and attentions,
wherever caprice or inclination directs, provided I am not the object. When we
married, ours was an union brought about
by Plutus, not Cupid; and as the early part of our wedded life was not
enlivened by jealous squabbles, I believe I shall be able to proceed, without
making myself ridiculous in the opinion of the fashionable world, by affecting
uneasiness that I do not feel. Miss Delmore has awakened the earl’s tender
passions—I really am much obliged to her, as, while this caprice lasts, he will
be entertained, and prevented from becoming cross, peremptory, and gloomy,
which was the case when madame la duchesse de Valencourt no longer enlivened
our parties.”
Lady Jacintha felt and looked
disappointed; she had deprived herself of an hour’s sleep, on purpose to light
the torch of discord, and inflame the bosom of lady Torrington with jealousy;
she had encouraged the hope of instigating her dear friend to insist on Miss
Delmore being sent from the castle. This scheme proving abortive, she
determined on trying if her apathy respecting her son was equal to that she
avowed towards the conduct of her lord.
“Though you are content that the
earl should flirt with this girl,” said she, “because you are certain no
consequences of any importance to yourself can be the result, yet it would not
be very gratifying to your pride, my dear countess, if lord Rushdale should be
weak enough to fall into the snares of this Armida.”
“You apprehend things absolutely
impossible,” returned the countess.
“To me it does not appear
impossible,” said lady Jacintha, “that a noble lord may marry a maid of low
degree; such occurrences have taken place.”
The countess drew herself up
indignantly—“Lord Rushdale,” replied she, “has too much proper pride to suffer
the niece of his father’s housekeeper to inveigle his affections; he knows the
heir of Torrington must form an alliance with rank equal to his own. I am
really surprised, lady Jacintha, how you can suffer such absurd notions to
enter into your head. Cecilia Delmore marry lord Rushdale! ridiculous! But, to
tell truth, my dear friend, I begin to suspect that this girl’s
accomplishments, which you have affected to despise, are the thorns which have
made your pillow so uneasy. I am sorry that I cannot send her from the castle
to oblige you; but you have yourself noticed what a fuss the earl makes about
his adopted daughter, and how impossible it is for me to interfere in the
matter, without incurring the odious imputation of being fond of my husband. I
shall talk with Oscar to-morrow, and let him understand where I wish him to
place his affections.”
“You have selected a wife for him
then,” said lady Jacintha, in a flutter of hope and fear.
“Oh yes,” returned the countess;
“lady Arabella Moncrief, the second daughter of the duchess of Aberdeen.”
“Why she is a mere child, and is
frightfully marked with the smallpox!” interrupted lady Jacintha, spitefully.
“She is exactly three years younger
than Oscar,” said the countess, “who is now barely eighteen. He will not marry
before he is of age, and then her youth will be no objection; and as to her
being marked by that frightful distemper, doctor Bingley, who attended her,
assured me she would not be at all injured; and she was allowed to have fine
eyes, and a lovely complexion; but where such very great advantages will result from the alliance, beauty is but a minor consideration.”
It required all the dissimulation
lady Jacintha was mistress of, to hide her rage and disappointment. She had
given up a party going to Weymouth, on purpose to make lord Rushdale sensible
of her attractions, and to discover that his mother had already planned a
matrimonial engagement for him, was almost too much for her patience to endure.
She rejoiced when the countess
said—“I really must wish you good night, for, in spite of politeness, my eyes
will close.”
Lady Jacintha saw, in this haste to
get rid of her, an intention beyond that of going to rest, and she determined
to watch what was agitating. Bidding the countess good night, she extinguished
her taper, and concealed herself in the dark recess of a window, from whence
she had a full view of the dressing-room door. Presently she saw it unclose,
and lady Torrington advance a little way into the gallery, where having
remained a few seconds, she again retreated.
Soon after her ladyship’s woman
appeared, and lady Jacintha was in the utmost trepidation, lest the lynx eyes
of Mrs. Smithson should see her, crouching in a corner, in the mean act of
eaves-dropping; but, apparently half asleep, Mrs. Smithson passed on, and
entered the dressing-room.
Blessing her lucky stars that she
had escaped detection, lady Jacintha rose from her uneasy posture; and
perceiving that day was breaking, hurried to her chamber, satisfied in her own
mind that she had interrupted an assignation with the count del Montarino, to
whom the glances of the countess were so invariably and unequivocally directed,
that it was evident to her there was a perfect understanding between them. But
though lady Jacintha had failed to detect the criminality of her dear friend
the countess, she determined the discovery should be made; for lady Torrington,
by unfolding her intentions respecting lord Rushdale, had roused all the
malignant passions of her bosom; and, to accomplish her own purposes, it was
necessary to have the countess completely in her power, who, dreading the
exposure of her guilt, would be compelled to forward any scheme she should lay
down.
“The heart of Rushdale,” said lady
Jacintha, “is yet free; or, if it has yielded to the siren Delmore, may be
recovered. The task be mine,” said she, “to transform his goddess into an
erring mortal. Be it my task, too, and that immediately, to unmask the haughty
lady Torrington. Her dread of public exposure will make her a tool in my hands.
Yes, yes, her reputation, once in my power, she will be glad to purchase my
silence at the easy rate of pointing out to lord Rushdale the advantages that
will result from an alliance with lady Jacintha Fitzosborne.”
CHAPTER II.
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne’er, or rarely, been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, ’tis but to hold
Converse with nature’s charms, and see her stores
unroll’d.
But midst the crowds, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world’s tir’d denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour, shrinking from distress!
None that with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued;
This is to be alone—this—this is solitude! BYRON.
Reasons for not liking
Catholics—Hints for com
posing a Sermon—A Declaration of
Love.
WHEN disgusted with
the world, Mrs. Doricourt formed the resolution of fixing her residence on St.
Herbert’s Island; her diseased and
deeply-wounded mind believed, in that peaceful solitude, remote from other
habitation, she should find solace for those rending sorrows, those cruel
disappointments, that had almost driven reason from its seat; she fancied that,
in contemplating and examining into the grand and beautiful works of the
creation, in climbing to the steep summits of rocks, in wandering through
waving woods, in listening to the melancholy lapse of streams, in viewing the
glories of the rising and setting sun, her soul, released from the trammels of
grief, would be elevated above earthly pursuits and passions, and that,
resigning herself to the inspiration and guidance of religion, she should again
be restored to the enjoyment of tranquillity.
But how fallacious are such hopes!
in employment, in active pursuits, the mind can alone hope to detach itself
from sorrow; by flying to solitude, Mrs. Doricourt deceived herself; the
summer, with its warbling birds, its sunny skies, its emerald groves, and
odour-breathing flowers, brought painful recollections of those lovely halcyon
days, when she believed herself the sovereign of Henry Woodville’s affections,
when she had wandered with him through the romantic groves of Richmond Villa,
and fancied that his truth and her happiness were unfading. The winds of
autumn, scattering the leaves, and blighting the silken flowers, renewed on her
brain the agonizing remembrance of the perfidy that had so cruelly withered her
hopes; and the dark convolving clouds of winter, the naked trees, shivering
beneath the fury of the howling tempest, presented a faithful picture of her
heart, desolated by treachery and ingratitude.
In unfolding and cultivating the
talents of Cecilia Delmore, Mrs. Doricourt found some relief from mental torture; her quick perceptions and endearing manners
made the task of tuition every day less irksome; by degrees it became
delightful, for the sensibility, the gratitude, and the tenderness of the
lovely orphan, repelled and conquered the misanthropic feelings, that were
hastening to deform a noble and truly-benevolent heart, and taught her there
was yet a being who could awaken her affections and solicitude, and reconcile
her to the world.
It was not till the arrival of the
earl of Torrington recalled Miss Delmore to the castle, that Mrs. Doricourt
reflected their separation might be for months—perhaps for ever—that she again
became sensible of her lonely situation, of the absolute solitude in which she
lived.
The morning came, but Cecilia no
longer drew back her curtain, and with a countenance bright with smiles, and
glowing in beauty, met her eyes—Cecilia no longer sat at the head of the table,
to carve, or persuade her to eat the delicacies she selected—Cecilia’s song no
longer awoke the echo of the rock—she was no more the companion of her evening
ramble, on the margin of the lake—within the house all was mournful silence,
for Cecilia’s fingers no longer
swept the harp, and without all was gloom and solitude.
While Mrs. Doricourt wept the loss
of the lovely girl, whose buoyant spirits, and animated conversation, had
prevented the wish for other society, and banished the idea of loneliness, a
feeling of jealousy mingled with the bitterness of grief; for in this visit to
the castle, this introduction to strangers, she dreaded a forgetfulness, if not
an estrangement of the heart of Cecilia—she foresaw a division of that tender
affection, which, till the present period, had been exclusively her own.
Sunk in these unpleasant reflections
and forebodings, Mrs. Doricourt had wasted four days; on the fifth the earl of
Torrington’s letter was delivered to her. It did not surprise, for it was a
compliment she had expected. The request to pay his personal respects was made
in polite and flattering terms; and while she hesitated whether she would
receive or decline the earl’s visit, another letter from Cecilia, informing her
of the strange effect the song and mention of Miss Saville had produced on lord
Torrington, brought Mrs. Doricourt to a decision. From the earl she might
obtain a clew to discover her early friend, whose fate still remained wrapped
in such mystery, that she had never been able to ascertain whether she was
living or dead. Besides, her darling Cecilia informed her, that if she consented to receive the earl, she was to accompany him to the Hermitage.
These considerations fixed the
wavering resolves of Mrs. Doricourt, and she hastened to accord, by the earl’s
messenger, the permission he requested. Cecilia was informed by a letter to
herself, that Mrs. Doricourt expected their visit, which was afterwards
confirmed by the earl, who very politely referred the hour of their setting off
for St. Herbert’s Island to herself.
In the drawing-room their intended
excursion to the Hermitage being mentioned by the earl, lady Welford again
reminded Miss Delmore of her request respecting the renewal of her acquaintance
with Mrs. Doricourt.
Sir Cyril Musgrove, to whom Cecilia’s beauty was every
hour more attractive, and who cherished the profligate hope of obtaining her,
whenever he chose to make the agreeable in earnest, observed, that an
introduction to the “Lady of the Lake,” the epithet by which he designated Mrs.
Doricourt, was the thing of all others he most desired.—“But then,” said he, “I
understand there is no landing on her enchanted island, or approaching her
crystal palace, without going through certain examinations and tedious
ceremonials; and then the difficulty of obtaining an audience is increased by
the discouraging circumstance of her hating men; though, ’pon my honour,”
conceitedly surveying his person, “I can scarcely credit that report, it is so
extraordinary, so immensely singular.”
“What is singular?” asked the honourable Tangent
Drawley, as if newly awakened from a trance, “what is singular?”
“That you have spoken twice within the last half
hour,” replied sir Middleton Maxfield.
“You prodigiously increase the consequence of my
speeches,” returned Drawley, “by noting the periods when they were uttered.”
He then resumed his recumbent attitude, and with his
eyes half shut, appeared to detach himself from the conversation. Sir Cyril
Musgrove observing him fold his arms, and drop his eyelids, with the
affectation of languor, laughed aloud—“Poor Drawley!” said he, “I really feel
for you; the length of your last speech must have tired you prodigiously, and
the arranging of your ideas must have been an immense exertion.”
“Pray, Miss Delmore,” asked lady Jacintha Fitsosborne,
“is it true that Mrs. Doricourt has cut off her
hair, and dresses in the exact costume of a nun?”
“No, madam,” was the reply.
“But she always dresses in black, and she is a Catholic—is she not?” demanded lady Eglantine
Sydney.
Cecilia’s answer was confined to a simple affirmative,
for she was displeased to be questioned on any point relative to her friend, by persons incapable of
appreciating her worth.
“Dear me, a Roman Catholic!” exclaimed Miss Maxfield;
“only think of that! Well, I am sure I should not have liked to live with her,
as you did, Miss Delmore, on that desolate island.”
Cecilia smiled, with the grateful remembrance of the
uninterrupted happiness she had enjoyed while living with Mrs. Doricourt, and
was on the point of removing Miss Maxfield’s prejudice against Catholics, by
expatiating on the accomplishments and virtues of her respected friend, when
she was prevented by lord Wilton asking Miss Maxfield why she supposed she
should not like to reside with Mrs. Doricourt?
“Why, because you know,” replied Miss Maxfield, “all
Roman Catholics fast Wednesdays and Fridays, and I don’t know how many days
besides in the year; and then they wear horse-hair next their skins, and beat
themselves with cords tied all over in knots.”
“I don’t wonder, Miss Maxfield,” said sir Cyril, with
an air of grave acquiescence in her opinion, “that your delicacy shrinks from
the severity of such frequent fasts, and the barbarity of such cruel
castigations.”
“But as long as you were not made to fast,” said lady
Welford, “and were not beat with knotted cords, what difference could it possibly make to you?”
“Why be—because—indeed I don’t know,” returned Miss
Maxfield; “but I am quite
sure I should not like to live in the same house with a Roman Catholic, for I
have heard they are very savage inhuman people; and I read in some book, when I
was at school, I have forgot the name of it, that the Catholics made a great
large bonfire, and burnt ever so many bishops, and little infants, and I have
always been sadly afraid of Catholics ever since.”
“A very shrewd reason indeed!” observed colonel St.
Irwin; “and on the same principle, Miss Maxfield, no doubt you dislike
soldiers, and are afraid of them, because they have performed their duty, by
destroying the enemies of their country.”
“Dear me, no!” replied Miss Maxfield, “that is quite
another thing. I am very fond of the army, I assure you; there is nothing I
admire so much as a scarlet coat and gold epaulets, and the plume and the
cockade; la! they make a gentleman look so handsome and so grand! besides, we
ought to like soldiers, because of the reviews, and the balls, and the public
breakfast, that the officers give.”
“And is the regimental coat, the pageantry of a
review, the fopperies of a public breakfast and a ball,” asked the colonel, in
a tone of mingled asperity and contempt, “all that recommends a soldier to your
favour, Miss Maxfield?”
“Why, la! yes, to be sure,” replied the young lady;
“and is not that enough?”
“Oh, certainly, quite enough,” said the colonel, “for
so young a mind as yours.”
The strong emphasis laid by the colonel on the words—“young a mind as yours,” tingled in the
ears of Mrs. Freakley.—“Jemima is quite a child of nature,” observed she, “and
speaks exactly as she thinks upon every subject, and that, you know, colonel,
must be expected from a mind so artless and ingenuous; and you must allow it is
quite natural, at her age, to be pleased with every thing that appears gay, and
promises pleasure.”
“In explaining Jemima’s feelings, aunt,” said sir
Middleton Maxfield, “you have, no doubt, defined the sentiments of the sex in
general: they all love scarlet coats, fine sights, and gay amusements.” Then
turning to the reverend Mr. Oxley, he asked when they were to have the pleasure
of witnessing his débût in
Cumberland?
The word débût,
approximating, in the divine’s opinion, with a theatrical first appearance, was
extremely offensive to his consequence; but smothering his displeasure, with
great solemnity he replied—“I have the honour to inform you, sir Middleton
Maxfield, that the village church having undergone the necessary repairs, I
venture to flatter myself with the gratification of seeing the present company
assembled there next Sunday morning, to hear a sermon I have prepared for the
occasion, on sound orthodox principles.”
“It is a principle with me,” said lord Wilton, “to
follow the example of the ladies; if they take their morning lounge at church,
I shall be found in their suit. I beg to premise, Mr. Oxley, that I expect to hear a sermon, not a lecture, for I have
heard of divines who constantly make their sermons vehicles to vent their own
private dislikes and resentments, to the annoyance rather than the edification
of their congregation.”
“Well observed,” rejoined sir Cyril Musgrove; “and I
trust, Mr. Oxley, that you will not, as some clergymen do, interlard your
sermon with scraps of Latin, merely to shew your learning, for, ’pon my soul, I
have entirely forgotten my college exercises, and I fancy there will be but few
of your congregation able to translate those brilliant quotations, particularly
the ladies, who will, no doubt, form the major part of the assemblée.”
“No,” replied lady Torrington; “a quotation from
Tasso, Petrarch, or Ariosto, would be better understood by us. But, of all
things, Mr. Oxley, let me entreat you to keep clear of personality.”
“Oh yes, for Heaven’s sake!” rejoined lady Jacintha,
“remember that injunction—no personality; let us and our follies alone—stick to
divinity, Mr. Oxley, but do not presume to commence censor.”
“And pray don’t let your sermon touch upon
novel-writers or novel-readers,” said lady Eglantine; “for I am passionately
fond of works of that description, and should positively expire of ennui, but
for the entertainment I derive from novels.”
“And I am persuaded,” observed lady Welford, “that a
well-written novel, while it amuses the mind, conveys more improvement to the
heart than a hodge-podge sermon, garnished with Greek and Latin, from the lips
of a pragmatic conceited parson.”
“Your ladyship speaks my opinion exactly,” said sir
Cyril Musgrove; “I do not affect to despise novels—I always read a page or two
while my hair is dressing.”
The reverend gentleman did not relish this
conversation; but the rank of the speakers operated like a charm, and prevented
any ebullition of his resentment; and in reply to an empty compliment of Mrs.
Freakley’s on his mental endowments and oratorical powers, he expressed the
hope that he should produce a sermon that would give general satisfaction.
Since the earl of Torrington’s heart had been released
from the witcheries of beauty, his reason and understanding had found leisure
to examine persons and things, that had passed entirely unnoticed while he was
under the dominion of love; among others, the reverend Mr. Oxley, whom he had
received as a tutor for his son, from the recommendation of a friend, had come
under his observation, and he had found him pedantic, superficial, conceited, and intolerably proud; he now remarked, that with vanity unbecoming his cloth, he
wished to impress them with a high opinion of the merits of his intended
sermon; and, with a look and tone calculated to damp his arrogance, he
addressed him.—“Prepare such a sermon, sir, as Christianity dictates; remember,
as a minister of the gospel, it is your duty to warn and admonish the wicked,
to inform the ignorant, and support the weak; let it be so worded, that the
meanest capacity may understand it, for it is scriptural truths, not the
flowers of rhetoric, that should be delivered from the pulpit; let your
doctrine prove that you are no respecter of persons. I should be shocked to
hear the gospel preached by a servile time-server, who, to preserve the
goodwill of men, would subvert the important doctrine of religion.”
This speech of the earl’s seemed to disconcert most of
the company. The countess placed herself, with an air of graceful negligence,
on a sofa, and having drawn a circle round her, desired the count del Montarino to fan her, protesting that Oxley’s conceit, and the earl’s
solemnity, had overcome her.—“Churches and sermons,” said the countess, “ought only
to be mentioned on Sundays; an hour or two, once a-week, is, in my opinion,
quite sufficient to wear a grave face and be doleful in.”
The count del Montarino complimented her ladyship’s
charming vivacity; his was a mind sunk in sensuality, devoted to vicious
pursuits, and insensible of the blessings and comforts diffused by religion;
the present life and its enjoyments were all he considered worthy of thought;
the contemplation of a world to come he left to those whom age or infirmity
rendered incapable of entering into, what he called, scenes of delight. But
while surrounded by all the pleasures most consonant with his gross libertine
ideas, he was aware of the possibility of seeing them, “like the baseless
fabric of a vision,” pass away, and perceived the necessity of striking out
some bold plan, that might place him beyond the apprehension of poverty; the
large fortune of Miss Maxfield was not only extremely desirable, but absolutely
necessary to him, who was now entirely subsisting on the caprice of a woman,
that woman one of the weakest and vainest of her sex, who, possessing an ample
share of all their fickleness, might suddenly entertain a tendresse for another, and cast him off,
destitute of resources. Could he accomplish a marriage with Miss Maxfield, her
fortune would render him independent of unpleasant contingencies; it was true,
she was not very far removed from idiotism, but her deficiency of sense was
greatly in his favour, as was her egregious vanity and impatience for a lover.
The count had made such accurate observations on the
understanding and disposition of Miss Maxfield, as convinced him that her
discretion would offer but slight opposition to his scheme of an elopement.
Having seen Mrs. Freakley deeply engaged with the countess and lady Jacintha,
in an important dispute respecting the dress of a lady at a recent masquerade,
he contrived to draw Miss Maxfield to a window, under pretence of shewing her
the polar star.
Miss Maxfield said it was very bright, but could not
think, for her part, how any body could find that star in particular, among so
many others, all shining so bright and beautiful.
The count gently pressed her unreluctant hand, and
vowed the lustre of her brilliant eyes outsparkled all the stars.
Miss Maxfield simpered, and said, she believed he
flattered her.
The count laid his hand on his heart, and protested
his sincerity.
Miss Maxfield thought him much handsomer than the
honourable Mr. Drawley, who never had spoken a word in praise of her beauty,
though she had teazed him incessantly.
The count perceived he had made an impression on her
vanity, and pursuing his advantage, complimented her blue eyes and flaxen hair,
and sighed and vowed he was expiring for love of her, till the silly girl was
won by his flattery to promise that she would meet him at sunrise the following
morning.
Secure of his conquest, the count cautioned her to be
secret; and having compared her to all the goddesses he could think of, he
suggested the possibility of their being observed, and the propriety of their
separating, to which she very unwillingly subscribed.
The countess of Torrington being made sensible of the
count del Montarino’s want of cash, and having listened with the utmost
composure to his intention of engaging sir Middleton Maxfield and sir Cyril
Musgrove at some game of chance, where his skill in shuffling the cards would
ensure him success, supplied him with a more sparing hand than usual, at the
same time observing, that the earl’s increasing parsimony made it horribly
disagreeable, and indeed a dreadful task, to introduce the subject of money to him¾“And, really, my dear count,” added she, “I have at this very time several
pressing demands from tradesmen, which, coming to my lord’s ears, would
inevitably draw upon me his severest philippies, from the horror of which I
should not recover for a month—and I am sure I need not tell you his capability
in that way.”
The count’s suspicions were raised; he fancied he saw
in her manner, and the small sum she had given him, a visible decrease of that
vehement love that she had so often vowed would never know abatement.
The count was neither surprised nor hurt at this
change; he was not in love, and he had before experienced the inconstancy of
woman. His thoughts, his hopes, now centered in Jemima Maxfield, and making
himself master of her fortune—that point secured, he could laugh at the
countess, and, by absolute indifference, prove that her affection was of no
consequence.
The count del Montarino was not altogether wrong in
his suspicions; the vain erring lady Torrington beheld the count in a different
light in England to what she had considered him in Italy. She began to grow
weary of him; other men were handsomer and much more agreeable; besides, he was
a terrible tax upon her purse. He had often talked of selling an estate he
possessed near Naples, and repaying her the various sums she had lent him; but,
latterly, she had heard no mention of this estate, and
began to believe that he had no possessions whatever; his demands on her purse
she found it very inconvenient to answer; he was growing ugly, rude, and
disagreeable; in short, the honourable Tangent Drawley was much more elegant
and fashionable, and his present singular insensibility was a stimulus strongly
urging her to try whether her charms would not make him try the agréable, for she thought it a great pity
so fine a young man should adopt insensibility, and wish to make it
fashionable.
Miss Maxfield had indeed been at some pains to animate
the statue; but Drawley had not thought proper to hear or regard the child of
nature—it required beauty more attractive, manners more refined, and
understanding of a higher standard, than Jemima possessed, to allure the
honourable Tangent Drawley to a new pursuit—him, whose idol was fashion, whose
greatest ambition was to be thought singular.
The natural politeness of lord Rushdale had led him to
pay such polite attention to lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, as he conceived due to
his mother’s guest; but, beyond this, his thoughts had never glanced. There
was, in lady Jacintha, an obtrusive desire to be considered a wit, which often
prompted her to elicit brilliancies, at the expence of good manners and
delicacy. An assuming confident character was not likely to conciliate the
esteem of the sentimental Oscar, whose refined ideas of feminine softness and
propriety made him shrink in disgust from the undaunted eye, the unblushing cheek, and decided tone of lady Jacintha, who flattered
herself with dazzling the young enthusiast with her wit, and throwing over his
heart fetters forged by beauty, and polished by fashion.
The few evenings they were together in town, he had
listened to her volubility with astonishment, which she mistook for
admiration—he had gazed on her with wonder at the confidence of her manner, and
her vanity converted his surprise into love.
During their journey into Cumberland he had been
attentive to her, because she must, but for him, have been neglected. Lord
Melvil had neither hands or eyes but for lady Eglantine Sydney—sir Cyril
Musgrove appeared only solicitous for his own ease and accommodation—the earl
of Torrington was wrapped in discontent, and noticed no one—the count del
Montarino devoted himself to divert the chagrin of the countess, who, during
the journey, talked incessantly of the delights she had left behind in Italy,
and of the dreadful ennui she was
certain she should endure in a gloomy old castle, deprived of the pleasure of
the enchanting conversazione that
had made her evenings glide away so pleasantly at Naples.
Every gentleman of the party having a particular
object of attention, lady Jacintha would have been left to her own reflections,
but for lord Rushdale, who constrained himself to entertain her, and beguile
the length of the way.
But while lady Jacintha deceived herself with the
belief that she had inspired the elegant Rushdale with a tender passion, she
considered what the countess his mother had said respecting an union with lady
Arabella Moncrief, as an obstacle thrown in the way of her wishes, that
required no common skill and management to get over. She had, more than once,
heard the earl of Torrington express sentiments in favour of marriages
brought about by mutual affection; and from these sentiments she was convinced,
that having once secured the son’s affection, she should have nothing to
apprehend from the opposition of the father. Lady Torrington, artful, scheming,
proud, and ambitious, was much more difficult to be won.
The family of the duke of Aberdeen was more ancient,
and ranked higher than hers; and the fortune of lady Arabella was known to be
very large; these were obstacles of magnitude, sufficient to puzzle the
Machiavelian brain of lady Jacintha, and keep her thoughts in a state of
uneasiness. But when next under the hands of Mrs. Garnett, her femme-de-chambre, from some hints dropped
by that loquacious gentlewoman, her fertile genius felt a project “peering on
her brain,” the accomplishment of which would place the countess so completely
in her power, as to leave her no alternative between an absolute agreement with
her wishes, and an irrevocable promise to promote, with all her powers, her
marriage with lord Rushdale, or public exposure.
“My dear friend, the countess of Torrington, shall aid
my plans, or let her beware my revenge!” said lady Jacintha, mentally, while
she considered the compulsatory measures she intended to pursue; “she is yet to
learn, perhaps, that modern vocabularies explain the word attachment,
convenience; and really, when it is remembered that the earl of Torrington’s
father was a bankrupt banker, and the countess the daughter of a petty
apothecary, they may think themselves honoured by an alliance with lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne, whose family has never yet known the disgrace of a
plebeian marriage. And how do you like Torrington Castle, Miss Garnett?” asked
lady Jacintha, while that paragon of slip-slops turned her ladyship’s glossy
ringlets over her short thick fingers.
“Why is it a fine Gothric speciment of anticrity, to
be sure, my lady,” replied the waiting gentlewoman; “but I can’t say that it
shutes my taste; give me Brighton or Weymouth in perforance to this Cumberland
excression. For my part, my lady, I think all the earl’s people as we found
here at the castle, like nothing in the world but Gorths and Vandelers: why
they stared at us fashernable folks gist as if we were mounterbacks or
rareeshews. And then this Miss Milman, the housekeeper, she gives herself sitch
hairs—though I have heard,” tossing her head disdainfully, “that she is no
better than she should be; yet, for all that, my lady, I purtest she is as
proud as the old gentleman.”
“What old gentleman?” asked lady Jacintha; “do you
mean the earl?”
“The earl!” repeated Mrs. Garnett; “dear me, my lady!
no, not the earl—I meant the devil; though, if I was to take the liberty to
speak my mind, I might say that he—But I would not for the world be so
undiscrit, to speak in that there way of my betters; and nobody can say that
ever I was ill-mannerdly, or at all given to hannivert, or speak opinions about
hanny body.”
“But when you have my permissions to speak, Mrs.
Garnett,” said lady Jacintha, “that is quite another thing, you know; and
really your accounts are very clever and correct, and your descriptions of
these odd bodies so extremely entertaining, that I am quite amused. And so you
don’t like Mrs. Milman?”
“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Garnett, delighted with the encouragement given to her idle reports, “not a bit; she is as proud and as purcise as if she had never stepped awry; and people do say, that Miss Delmore, as they call her, is her own natural daughter by the earl. Why, would you believe it, my lady, the stuck-up thing does not remit any of us to her parlour, with the deception of Mrs. Peters, lady Welford’s woman! and she is an ugly old maid, and a methody into the bargain.”
“Well, but you have a parlour to yourselves, I
suppose?” said lady Jacintha.
“Oh, certainly, to be sure, my lady; the Hottenpots
could not treat us so hill has to turn us like wild beastes altogether into the
servants’ hall. But then you know, my lady, it would have been wastly pleasant
to sit with the earl’s people, and hear little droll nanecdotes.”
“Very true,” said lady Jacintha, with an ironical
smile; “for if it was not for intelligence picked up by the servants and their
embellished communications, the affairs of families would never find their way
into the world. But tell me, my good Garnett, do you never hear any hints
dropped, and little observations made, upon this Italian count?”
“Dear me! yes, my lady, a great deal; but then, as you
are very detached to the countess, you would be very angry.”
But here Mrs.
Garnett was mistaken, for it was on her dear friend's
indiscretion with the count lady Jacintha's
hope of success in her own scheme hung, and she eagerly replied—"Not
at all, Mrs. Garnett, for if my friends act imprudently, it can attach no blame
to me. Thank Heaven! I am not to answer for their misconduct."
“So I said, my lady," resumed the talkative abigail—“so I
said; and, says I, if the countess of Torrington has a little crim. con. with this here Nipoliter count,
why my lady is not to be concluded in their armour; my lady’s virtue is not to
be inspected, though Mr. Simkins, sir Cyril Musgrove’s gentleman, had the
howdaciousness to assinuate, that ‘birds of a feather always flock together.”
In the earnest desire to murder the reputation of her
friend, lady Jacintha passed over the impertinence of a remark levelled at
herself, and impatiently asked—“Do the servants then really believe, Garnett,
that there is any thing criminal in the intimacy of lady Torrington and the count del Montarino?”
“Dear me,” returned Mrs. Garnett, in a half-crying
tone, “I hope your ladyship is not angry with me for exporting other people’s
opinions! I am sure I am vexed to the heart to think I should have been reduced
to hutter a sinable.”
“You mistake me, Garnett,” interrupted lady Jacintha;
“I am not angry with you; on the contrary, I beg you will tell me, without
reserve, all you have heard of this affair.”
“Oh, certainly, my lady,” said Garnett, dropping the
whining tone, “and to be sure it is nothing but propriety, as I told lady
Eglantine Sydney’s woman, that our virtuous ladies should be told all about it,
for fear that karacters should suffer; and I devised Mrs. Painter to deform
lady Eglantine, by reason I thought it was fit she should know all about it.”
“Of course then,” replied lady Jacintha, “it is proper
I should be informed also; and I beg, Mrs. Garnett, that you will be quick, and
tell me all you have heard, for I am absolutely dying with curiosity.”
“Well, my lady,” resumed Garnett, “the count’s
gentleman swears that his master is not worth a foot of land, and that he has not a penny of his
own in the world.”
“Indeed!” said lady Jacintha, in an inward voice. “If
this account be correct——”
Mrs. Garnett only caught the last word, to which she
eagerly replied—“Oh, no, my lady; the count dares not correct him, for he owes
mounseer a power of money, and mounseer is deep in all his secrets.”
“But what of the countess?” asked lady Jacintha.
“Why, my lady,” replied the communicative Mrs.
Garnett—“Mounseer does not sophiscate at all about her, for he plainly sinuates
that the count is quite tired of lady Torrington, and cares no more for her now
than he does for his grannum, only for the sake of her money, which he draws
upon as freely as if he was her husband.”
“Well, dear Garnett, and what more does his valet
say?” demanded lady Jacintha, her eyes sparkling with malicious pleasure.
“Why, mounseer says, my lady, when they were abroad at
that there places—Aples, I think he called it, the earl and countess had extinct apartments.”
This required a pause to make it clear to the
comprehension of lady Jacintha, who, though accustomed to the phraseology of
Mrs. Garnett, was at a loss for a moment to understand her “extinct
apartments.” At length her apprehension was clear, and, with a smile of
encouragement, she said—“Separate apartments!”
“Yes, my lady, separate apartments,” continued Mrs.
Garnett; “and mounseer says, it is all the same here; and what is that for?
mounseer winks his eye, and laughs, and puts his finger aside his nose, and
purtests, if the earl wishes a disvorse, he can furbish him with surficient
proofs of her ladyship’s fidelity.”
“So, so; this may be turned to good account,” said
lady Jacintha.
“Yes, my lady,” resumed the waiting-gentlewoman. “Mr.
Tripton, lord Wilton’s gentleman, says the earl would be monstrous glad to get
a disvorce, on account of his being over head and ears in love with Miss
Delmore.”
“What, do they suspect that the earl is in love with
Miss Delmore?” asked lady Jacintha.
“Oh dear me, yes, my lady! and all the gentlemen, is
seems, are gist wild about her,” said Mrs. Garnett, with a disdainful toss of
her head; “though, for my part, I can see nothing so exturnary in her; but then
Mr. Simkin says, and he ought to know, for he was a driveller once, and used to
write for the lawyers, that it would be incesterous for the earl to think of
marrying Miss Delmore, because it is inspected that she is his own flesh and
blood.”
“And is it really believed,” asked lady Jacintha,
“that Miss Delmore is the earl’s daughter?”
“Not ginerally, my lady,” replied Garnett. “There is a
decision in our parlour on that subject; one party desists that she is no
relation to the earl, and that he gives discouragement to lord Rushdale, which
would not be the case if there was hany definity between them.”
“Lord Rushdale!” exclaimed lady Jacintha; “what are
you talking about, Garnett?”
“Why, my lady, it is exported in our parlour that lord
Rushdale pays Miss Delmore the most prodigious retention and disrespect, and
that he will certainly marry her.”
Lady Jacintha pushed the officious waiting-maid from
her, and in a voice almost shrieking, repeated—“Marry her! Lord Rushdale marry
that minx! Garnett, you are raving mad! What could have put so preposterous an
idea into your head?”
“Indeed, my lady,” returned Mrs. Garnett, “it is all
the talk at our table, that lord Rushdale is infiriently in love with Miss
Delmore.”
“Can this be possible?” said lady Jacintha. “But no; I
will never believe he can be such a fool.”
“Ay, so I said, my lady,” resumed Mrs. Garnett; “but
my mouth was stopped by sir Cyril Musgrove’s gentleman, who read a paper that
one of the housemaids had found, crumpled up in lord Rushdale’s room, all over
rhymes, about stars, and flowers, and divine Cecilia.”
“Who could have believed,” said lady Jacintha, “that
lord Rushdale would have been guilty of such egregious folly! write verses,”
continued she, with evident vexation, “to expose his debasing infatuation!”
“So I said, my lady,” responded Mrs. Garnett; “I said
he was a great fool to write verses about a low-lived person, as had no
inventions to gintility, and one who was unsufferable proud already, without
having her head filled with sitch nodamontade stuff. But I assure you, when I
was gist speaking my mind, as we was fetching a walk yesterday, Mr. Moreton, my
lord Rushdale’s gentleman, tooked me up as sharp as a needle, and said
forsooth, that the earl of Torrington would be monstrous defended, if hany
person spoke a word respectful of Miss Delmore, and that he wished, from the
bottom of his heart, when lord Rushdale married, he might have a wife as
beautiful, and as virtuous, and as sensible, and as—I can’t remember half what
besides, as Miss Delmore, who was an accomplice good enough for an empress.”
Lady Jacintha had now heard more than she wished, and
in no very amiable temper she dismissed her attendant, with strict injunctions
not to tell any one that she had dropped a hint to her respecting the suspected
amour of the countess of Torrington and the count del Montarino. When the door
of her dressing-room closed on the communicative Mrs. Garnett, lady Jacintha
sat some time approving and rejecting schemes for detecting her dear friend's amour, that having
her reputation completely at her mercy, she might compel her, in spite of
former arrangements of interest and ambition, to promote her designs on lord
Rushdale, to whose elegant person she was far from indifferent, and whose
immense wealth was of the utmost consequence to her, whom the narrow fortunes
of her illustrious house constrained to look out for a husband whose possessions would support
her rank, and indulge her desire of extravagant expenditure. If lord Rushdale
really felt a passion for Cecilia, it would be an additional difficulty in her
way; and to prevent the possibility of any transient liking expanding into
love, now became a grand object in her scheme. The countess of Torrington had
rejected the idea of her son attaching himself to Cecilia Delmore as
ridiculous; but though her ladyship treated the notion with contempt, the earl
might perhaps be inclined to treat it more seriously; and she resolved to make
use of every art to alarm his pride, and, if possible, get this sorceress, who
was inveigling the hearts of all the men, banished to St. Herbert’s Island,
where, as she understood Mrs. Doricourt received no company, it was very
unlikely that lord Rushdale and she would meet again while he remained in
Cumberland; and when he was no longer within the circle of her enchantments,
she would trust to the various amusements of London, the engagements of
fashionable life, and her own attractions, to detach his mind from a silly
passion, inspired by a low-born creature.
Among all the gentlemen at Torrington Castle, Miss
Delmore saw none so handsome, so elegant, and graceful, as lord Rushdale. Sir
Cyril Musgrove’s person was shewy, and his teeth remarkably even and white, but
he was a finished coxcomb, and so presuming, that he fancied he inspired a
tender passion in the bosom of every female he met. Lord Wilton was a little
man, with high cheek-bones, sunk eyes, and a very sallow complexion: he was a
freethinker, and, like sir Middleton Maxfield, fond of gambling and the turf.
The honourable Tangent Drawley was remarkably handsome, and so remarkable for
courting notoriety, that it was doubtful in the fashionable world, whether he
was most a fool or a madman. Colonel St. Irwin was a brave officer, who had done the state some service; his form was
dignified, and his countenance expressive of good sense; his address was
polite, and his manners gentlemanly, but he was many years the senior of lord
Rushdale, and wanted those attractions, those nameless graces, that hover in
smiles round the lips, and shed irresistible beauty on the actions of youth.
Cecilia thought, had her rank in life been equal to
lord Rushdale’s, she could have preferred him to all mankind; and at this
thought a sigh would rise, and a wish, that she suppressed as soon as it was
formed. She saw the immense distance between them, and wisely determined to
think of him and his perfections as little as possible, and to carefully guard
her heart from encouraging romantic desires, that there could be no hope of
realizing.
But while Cecilia fortified her mind against visionary
expectations of future elevation, Mrs. Milman, far less prudent, had carefully
picked up the hints thrown out by the servants; she flattered herself with the
probability of her niece’s great beauty, and still greater accomplishments,
raising her to rank; she saw, with a satisfaction that increased her own
consequence in her own opinion, the influence Cecilia had, in the few days of their
acquaintance, gained over the earl; and though she had reason to believe he was
excessively proud, yet she also knew from experience that he was very generous, and that he loved his son beyond any thing on earth—“And if this darling son, this
only child’s happiness,” said Mrs. Milman, debating the affair with herself,
“depends on his marrying Cecilia Delmore, why to a certainty the earl will
never let him pine away to a skeleton, and die for love. No, no; he could never
be so cruel; he would give his consent, and I shall, no doubt, see my niece
lady Rushdale; and then I know her first care would be to provide handsomely
for me; I should have a neat house, keep a footman, and ride in my own gig at
last.”
But while these chimerical plans had the effect of
exhilarating the spirits of Mrs. Milman, and keeping her in perfect
good-humour, Mr. Wilson saw the castles he had built melting into air. In the
first place, Mr. Oxley was so insinuating, and so artful, and so adulative to
the earl and his son, that he saw, with inexpressible envy and mortification,
all the livings in the earl’s gift disposed of to him; and after his having, at
a very great expence, educated his nephew, Solomon Scroggins, to fill these
very livings, to be obliged to resign his long-cherished hopes, and seek about
for another patron for him, was a circumstance disappointing and vexatious in
the extreme: and then Cecilia, whom he had even from her cradle fixed upon for
his nephew’s wife, she was so surrounded by fops of rank, that it was next to
impossible that he should ever see his wishes accomplished, though he was still
persuaded they were exactly the pair that ought to come together; and if he
could bring himself to mention his designs to the earl, he might be mortified
with finding that he had other views for her, and he should only be more hurt to have his proposals
scornfully rejected.—“Ay, ay,” said Wilson, “delays
are dangerous;’ this is the way; this comes of procrastination, of ‘putting off till to-morrow what may be done to-day.’
I remember, when I was a young man, I might have married a very pretty
agreeable girl, with a tolerable fortune; but while I stood shilly-shally, and
delayed speaking my mind, egad! another suitor, with more assurance than
Pill-Garlic, put the question, was accepted, went to church off hand, and left
me a solitary bachelor to lament my own diffidence; and this Mr. Oxley, this
prig of a parson, now I warrant his bashfulness will be no sort of impediment
in the way of his preferment—I warrant he will lose nothing for want of asking.
I have a good mind to go and open my mind to the earl at once.” But,
unfortunately, the earl was gone to Keswick, and Mr. Wilson was again obliged
to postpone declaring the plan he had formed for the happiness of Cecilia and
his nephew Solomon, neither of whom were acquainted with his designs, or knew
each other but by name.
Cecilia’s impatience to see Mrs. Doricourt had roused
her at daybreak; and in order to be ready to attend the earl immediately after
breakfast, she deserted her pillow before her usual hour; but finding it would
still be long before the earl left his chamber, she finished her toilet, and
descended to the library, to beguile the time with a book. Having read a few
pages, she opened her drawing-box, and prepared to finish a picture, on which
she had already bestowed uncommon pains.
The library windows faced a plantation of evergreens,
and other ornamental trees, through which serpentine walks were cut to a
grotto, ornamented in the interior with a beautiful representation, sculptured
in white marble, of the goddess Amphitrite, reclining on the backs of two dolphins,
who, as if proud of bearing their beauteous mistress, sportively spouted two
streams of pellucid water into a polished bason, elegantly bordered with
Egyptian lotus and other aquatic plants.
Seated near the window, Cecilia had been some time
busily employed in giving the last touches to a miniature of lord Rushdale,
which, unconscious of the partiality her young heart entertained for him, she
had painted from memory, as she believed merely to give Mrs. Doricourt an idea
of his interesting countenance, and the beautiful intelligence of his deep blue
eyes, shaded by long dark fringes.—“No,” said Cecilia, holding up the ivory in
a proper light for judging the accuracy of the likeness, “no; those charming
eyes of his are not to be expressed by any art of the pencil. How provoking! I
may imitate their form and their colour, but I cannot give them their brilliant light, their melting
softness.” Dissatisfied with her work, she gave it a few more touches; then,
throwing aside the pencil, exclaimed—“It is a fruitless attempt; I might as
well try to paint the splendid blue of heaven;” and as her eyes glanced
from the sky to the opposite plantation, to her utter astonishment she beheld
Miss Maxfield emerge from the shade of the trees, her white morning dress soiled,
and wet nearly half way up the skirt, and her hair hanging in strings from
beneath her bonnet.
Perceiving Cecilia at the open window, which she was
obliged to pass, she walked in, regardless of the disordered state of her
dress; and throwing herself on a seat, exclaimed—“La! Miss Delmore, who could
have thought of meeting you here! You can’t think how tired I am! Well, dear
me, I never knew that you was such an early riser before! Gracious! now do but look how
wet my boots are! aunt would talk enough about my catching cold, if she saw the
condition I am in. I suppose, Miss Delmore, you got up so soon this morning to
meet your lover. La me! you need not blush so if you did,” smiling and nodding her head. “I
am no tell-tale—I never blab; I can keep a secret, I promise you—I have been
trusted with many secrets; you need not be afraid of me.”
“As I have no secret to keep, Miss Maxfield,” replied
Cecilia, gravely, “I have no occasion to be afraid of your divulging it. But
may I take the liberty of asking where you have been at this early hour of the
morning, and how you got in that wet and dirty condition?”
“I have been to the grotto,” replied Miss Maxfield;
“and as to my wet and dirty condition, la! bless you, Miss Delmore! why that is
only dew, that I have swept from the grass.”
Cecilia wished to ask if she had been to the grotto
alone, but delicacy forbade the question.
“You have no notion,” resumed Miss Maxfield, “how
pleasant it is to take a walk so early in the morning; the little birds
warbling so beautiful, and the roses and honeysuckles smelling so sweet! I
could have staid out a great while longer, only I was so wet and so tired; it was so
agreeable, you have no notion. Did you ever see the sun rise, Miss Delmore?”
“Frequently,” replied Cecilia.
“La! have you? well, only think of that! You must have
got up very early then,” said Miss Maxfield. “I always hated to get up early,
because I was so sleepy; but I shall try to get over that, for I should like to
see the sun rise again; it looked like a wheel all fire, turning round and
round; and then an early walk is so delightful you can’t think!”
But Cecilia did think, and felt ashamed and sorry for
the silly girl before her, for at that moment she caught a glimpse of the count
del Montarino, stealing cautiously towards a gate that opened on a green lane
that led to the stables. Cecilia blushed for the imprudence of Miss Maxfield,
who had so incautiously placed her reputation in the power of a man who was but
the acquaintance of yesterday. But while the scrupulous delicacy and timidity
of Cecilia suggested all the train of disagreeable consequences that might, and
would, in all probability, result to Miss Maxfield from her morning ramble, she
felt it her duty to warn her of the danger she had so unthinkingly incurred.
But while she hesitated in what manner to introduce
the unpleasant subject, and make the imprudence of her conduct clear to her
very limited understanding, the child of nature rudely caught up the miniature
from the table, from whence Cecilia, in her astonishment at seeing Miss
Maxfield, and her subsequent discovery of the companion of her morning ramble,
had forgotten to remove it.—“Well now, I am so glad,” said Miss Maxfield,
laughing, and grasping the picture—“I am so glad that I have found out your
secret, Miss Delmore, for all you would not trust me.”
“I have no secret, Miss Maxfield,” replied Cecilia,
“and I request you will restore the miniature.”
“La! you need not look so serious about it,” returned
Miss Maxfield; “you shall have it presently, only let me look at it. I would
not give a pinch of aunt Freakley’s snuff for lord Rushdale’s picture, for I
think him a very proud, disagreeable young man, I declare, though it is as like
him as can be; and I see, Miss Delmore, though you don’t go a-walking of
mornings, you get up to paint lord Rushdale’s likeness, all out of your own
head; and I am sure you must think a good deal about him, or you could never do
it so well.—La! here is the little mole on his nose; never go to deny it, Miss
Delmore. But if you did not love lord Rushdale, you could never paint such a
good likeness of him.”
This was an accusation Cecilia was unprepared to meet,
and her deepening blushes might have looked suspicious in the eyes of less
prejudiced judges than Miss Maxfield, had it not been acknowledged that there
is a blush of innocence as well as of guilt. Cecilia did not believe she loved
lord Rushdale; and in denying the accusation, she forgot the advice she
designed giving her tormentor, who would not be talked out of the persuasion,
that in painting his likeness, Cecilia had given a strong and incontrovertible
proof of a tender partiality for lord Rushdale.”
“And if you are in love, how can you help it, you
know?” said Jemima, attempting to look wise; “but you may be sure I wont tell a
living soul about it. Bless you, I have been let into many love secrets before
now! I used to read all the sweet pretty letters Miss Corbett had from ensign
Digby of the Guards; and though he had nothing at all but his commission, he
used to write that he despised her money, for all she had eighty thousand
pounds for her fortune, and that all he wished or wanted was her beautiful
self; and I am sure,” continued Miss Maxfield, “that was real true love, to
despise such a fortune, and to think Fanny Corbett beautiful, when she squinted
so bad you can’t think; but I never told a word about it till after she ran
away from madame Chantillion’s, and was married.”
Cecilia vainly endeavoured to remove her error
respecting lord Rushdale having inspired any thing like love in her bosom; but
repeating—“You need not take the trouble to deny—I can keep a secret—you need
not be afraid of me—I wont blab,” Miss Maxfield hurried from the library.
Cecilia wept for vexation, and her first impulse was
to destroy the unlucky miniature, that had exposed her to suspicion and
impertinence; but the likeness was excellent; the rich coral lips seemed to
plead, and the deep blue eyes to implore for preservation. Her second thoughts
determined her to shew it to the earl; and by candidly explaining for what
purpose she had painted the resemblance, remove any impression that might
otherwise be made by the communications of the silly Jemima, on whose secrecy, though
so highly boasted, she placed no reliance. Having determined what line of conduct to pursue, she
committed the miniature to her pocketbook. While replacing the paints and
pencils in
her drawing-box, the reverend Mr. Oxley entered the library. The compliments of
the morning being reciprocally given, Cecilia would have withdrawn. Mr. Oxley
sincerely hoped he had not the misfortune to disturb her; he protested, on the
word of a man of honour, his intrusion was altogether unintentional, and that
he should be quite hurt if his presence had the unpleasant effect of sending her
from the library.
Cecilia replied she was on the point of quitting the
room when he entered, and then, with a graceful bend, she moved towards the
door.
Mr. Oxley had wished for an opportunity of speaking to
Miss Delmore alone; the present was too favourable to be neglected. After many
hems and bows, he begged she would indulge him with a few moments’
conversation.
Cecilia wondering what he could possibly have to say,
took the seat he offered her.
Mr. Oxley seemed labouring with the importance of his
subject, yet hesitated to begin. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead,
raised up his collar, affectedly displayed the ring on his little finger, and
with a loud hem, having cleared his throat, he at last, with much pomposity,
said—“Miss Delmore, being possessed of much more discernment than falls to the
share of females in general, you must, in spite of your great modesty, have
perceived the very great admiration with which, from the period wherein I had
the pleasure of being introduced to your acquaintance, I have beheld you.” The
hems and pauses that accompanied this elaborate speech made it difficult for
Cecilia to refrain from laughing in his face, though utterly unsuspicious of
what was to follow—“and though my various learned pursuits, and serious avocations,”
resumed Mr. Oxley, “might reasonably have been supposed to guard, madam—to
place a shield as it were before my heart, yet I think, Miss Delmore, you must
have been aware—you must have observed the great impression your personal and
mental graces, your amiable qualities, have made.”
Cecilia felt confused; she had neither wished to
inspire, or expected to hear, a declaration of love from the reverend
gentleman. She looked towards the
door, and would gladly have made her
retreat; but perceiving he sat full of importance, waiting her reply, she
merely said —"No, really, sir, such an idea
never once presented itself to my imagination.”
“How unlike the impertinent vanity of other young
females is this amiable unconsciousness of possessing beauty and endowments!”
returned Mr. Oxley, again applying his cambric handkerchief to wipe away the
drops that were rolling down his ample cheeks; “but, madam, having heard me
deliver a true statement of my feelings and sentiments, I trust to obtain a
place in your esteem, and that you will not think me precipitate in urging you
for an immediate reply, or that I arrogate too much in flattering myself with
having won your regard.”
“I have always been taught, sir,” replied Cecilia, “to
reverence gentlemen of your sacred calling—every clergyman, but more
particularly, the earl of Torrington’s chaplain, is entitled to my respect.”
She now attempted to quit her seat, but swelling with
consequence and self-sufficiency, he took her hand, and opposed her intention
of leaving the room.—“I have not yet, Miss Delmore,” resumed he, “divulged—hem!
hem!—spoken, madam, to the earl of Torrington on the subject of my love; but I
can entertain no doubt but he will remunerate my acknowledged merits with his
usual liberal acquiescence, that is, madam—hem! hem! hem!—when his lordship is
given to understand that there is a reciprocal regard between us, he will, with
a becoming generosity, being sensible of my capability and zeal in the service
of the church, without further procrastination, induct me into the livings now
become vacant by the decease of the late worthy and venerable incumbent, and
bestow on you, madam, such a portion as will place his munificence and
generosity to his most amiable adopted daughter beyond question.”
“Really, sir,” said Cecilia, colouring with offended
delicacy, “you astonish me! This is a subject to which I have never given a
thought, and most certainly did not expect to hear even hinted at by you; and I
must seriously entreat——”
“Another proof of your innate modesty, madam,” interrupted the persevering divine. “You shrink, with the timidity of the sensitive plant, from receiving or confessing affection; but the unworthiness of the object, Miss Delmore—the unworthiness, I say, madam, of the object alone, should create diffidence and hesitation; but I trust,” surveying his person with an eye of approbation, at the same time raising his cravat, and displaying his ring—“I trust, madam, your choice will, in the opinion of the world, justify your partiality.”
“My choice!” repeated Cecilia, “my partiality! really,
sir, I am at a loss to understand what part of my conduct towards you could
have induced you to believe it was possible I could mean to encourage your
addresses; and I beg you will not so far mistake my meaning, as to construe the
respect paid to your cloth into partiality for your person.”
“Mistake!” echoed Oxley, with more than usual
pomposity; “I fancy, madam, it will be allowed that my discernment is not
liable to mistakes; and I hope and trust, madam, that, sanctioned by the earl
of Torrington, and honoured by his approval, you will allow me to offer myself
to your acceptance, and permit my endeavour to win your regard.”
“As yet, sir,” replied Cecilia, “I have never even
thought of bestowing my regard; and you will pardon me the observation, but I
must say, I think the disparity of our ages a sufficient objection to my
selecting you, did no other exist.”
This was an observation, of all others disagreeable to
Mr. Oxley. He was intolerably vain of his clumsy person, and wished to sink at
least a dozen years of his age. He frowned; again applied his cambric
handkerchief to the drops that were oozing from his capacious forehead.—“As to
age, madam,” said he, “that is a matter, madam—hem! hem!—that can seldom be decided
upon with any thing like accuracy. Some persons, madam, from a loftiness of
height, a dignity of figure, an inclination to fullness—to what the French
denominate embonpoint, appear
much older than they really are. Possibly, madam, I may be a few years your
senior. Allowing it is so, from the prudence of your deportment, Miss Delmore,
it might be concluded, that in a matrimonial engagement, you would prefer a
protector a few years older than yourself; and I entertain no doubt but the
earl of Torrington, and the lady by whom you were educated, will not only
greatly approve, but actually persuade you to marry your senior, with the very
natural expectation, that such a husband will be competent to direct and advise
your inexperience.”
Mr. Oxley having talked himself out of breath, gave
Cecilia an opportunity to say—“On such important subjects as love and
matrimony, I beg leave to repeat, sir, I have never yet allowed myself to
think, and with the greatest sincerity I also assure you, that it is not my
intention, for some years to come, to seek any other protection than that so
generously afforded me by Mrs. Doricourt and the earl of Torrington.”
Mr. Oxley was so disconcerted, so disappointed, his
vanity was so wounded, that he did not, for above a moment, discover that Miss
Delmore had withdrawn, and that he was alone. His face grew red as a firebrand;
it was the first time a female had presumed to hint at his age, and Cecilia was
the only female in whose eyes he had a desire to appear irresistible, though infinitely
mortified at her impertinent allusion to age. He remembered that she had not
expressed any dislike to his person, or hinted at a predilection for another—he
considered and reconsidered, and having turned their late conversation over in
his memory, he found, to his extreme satisfaction, that the case was by no
means hopeless; for young ladies, either from bashfulness or perverseness—the
latter he believed—very rarely spoke their sentiments in a love affair. Under
this impression, he believed it not only possible, but very probable, that Miss
Delmore would accept him; if the earl favoured his suit, there was no doubt of her acquiescence. His
attention to the improvement of lord Rushdale—his unwearied assiduity—his
solicitude in all that concerned the cultivation of the talents of his pupil,
deserved greater remuneration than his yearly salary; therefore, of the livings
in the earl’s gift, Mr. Oxley held himself secure, and fancied that nothing
more would be necessary to complete his happiness, than the left hand of the
beautiful Cecilia, adorned with the wedding-ring, and her right holding out to
him the marriage portion given by the earl. Mr. Oxley took another survey of
his colossal person, lifted his collar, wiped the perspiration from his face,
and protested that Miss Delmore’s unpolite remark on his age had put him into as great a heat as
ever he endured from preaching a sermon, divided into six heads, to a yawning
congregation.
Cecilia, according to appointment, met the earl of
Torrington at the breakfast-table. Her recent vexations had heightened the
bloom of her cheek, and added to the lustre of her eyes. The earl had brought
himself to behold and converse with her, without betraying the emotions that
her likeness to a being loved too late, lamented when gone for ever, excited in
his bosom; and he remarked, that taking her in his hand, Mrs. Doricourt would
be sure to receive him graciously, since her bloom had suffered no diminution
from being at the castle.
Cecilia was conscious that no inconsiderable
part of her bloom was owing to irritation; and to prevent any further
uneasiness arising from misrepresentation, as soon as the breakfast-things were
removed, she produced the miniature of lord Rushdale, and rendered Miss
Maxfield’s promised secrecy of no avail.
The earl extolled the beauty of the painting, and
admired the likeness, which, he said, was more correct than any that had been
taken by celebrated artists—“So high a compliment,” said the earl, “as a
likeness painted by a young and beautiful lady, might well, by its refined
flattery, make a young man vain; but Oscar, thank Heaven! has a mind of a
superior cast, and incapable of idle vanity, will appreciate the honour you
have done him as he ought.”
Cecilia explained her intention respecting the picture,
and added—“She would on no account have lord Rushdale made acquainted with the
circumstance.”
The earl fixed on her a look of penetrating regard, as
if to read what were the motives that made her shrink from the
acknowledgments of his son—“And why not?” asked the earl; “Oscar would consider
it as a testimony of sisterly regard, proving to him that Cecilia thinks of,
and estimates her brother.”
A blush and a sigh were Cecilia’s answer; the earl
turned his head to give some orders to a servant, and they passed unnoticed and
unquestioned.
Cecilia, artless and inexperienced, did not herself
understand the meaning of her blush and sigh; she felt gratified and honoured
by the earl calling lord Rushdale her brother, though the fluttering emotions
of her heart might have told her he was dearer to her affection than any
brother; but Cecilia was yet to learn that the preference she felt for lord
Rushdale was love.
Satisfied with having secured herself from any
unpleasant imputation that the silly loquacity of Miss Maxfield might have
fixed upon her respecting the miniature, she smiled with the cheerfulness of
innocence, and, in her present satisfaction, forgot the consequential overtures
of the pompous Mr. Oxley.
The carriage being announced, she gave her hand to the
earl;
but, before the carriage-door was closed upon them, lord Rushdale stood beside
it.
After affectionately saluting the earl, he addressed
Cecilia, with a hope that she did not intend to remain all night at the
Hermitage—“We have planned an entertainment,” said he, “Miss Delmore, and
cannot do without your assistance.”
Cecilia feared she should not be able to meet his
wishes.—“Mrs. Doricourt will doubtless expect me to remain to-night; and did I
not so tenderly love her, she has claims upon my gratitude, that would oblige
me to sacrifice my own pleasure to hers.”
“Mrs. Doricourt is happy to possess such influence in
a heart like yours,” said lord Rushdale.
“Yes,” returned the earl, “and I am, I perceive,
envied the privilege of escorting Miss Delmore to the Hermitage; for I see the
eyes of sir Cyril Musgrove and lord Wilton fixed on me at this moment, with a jealous desire to
occupy my place.”
Lord Rushdale bade them good morning.
Cecilia beheld him gazing after the carriage, and she
wished that Mrs. Doricourt was not so averse to receiving visitors, because she
was certain that she would be delighted with the sensible, elegant lord
Rushdale.
The morning air, impregnated with a thousand sweets,
seemed by its refreshing influence to impart new life and spirits to the earl.
Cecilia had never before found him so cheerful and communicative; he talked of Italy, and its
productions, natural and artificial, and, by his animated conversation, so
amused her, that she did not believe they were more than half way, when the
carriage stopped on the margin of the lake, and beheld Mrs. Doricourt’s
beautiful yacht waiting to convey them to St. Herbert’s Island.
As the light vessel flew over the smooth surface of
the lake, the earl thought he had never seen Cecilia look so beautiful—the soft
breeze gently fanned her chestnut ringlets, and her eyes sparkled with more
than their usual brilliancy.
“I am now,” said the earl, “like some adventurous
knight in a fairy tale, wafted over a stream by a blooming enchantress to the
island of calm delights.”
“Where the queen of the island awaits your arrival,”
replied Cecilia, smiling, “arrayed by the Graces, and wearing on her bosom a
powerful talisman, bearing the radiant impression of VIRTUE and TRUTH.”
CHAPTER III.
“Have you not seen a sweet, an early flower
Expand its buds, and raise its dewy head?
Have you not seen a cold, a chilling shower
Wither each leaf, and all its blossoms shed?
So the young heart, when fann’d by hope’s soft breeze,
Expands its folds to catch affection’s breath;
But a cold night will soon each blossom freeze,
Blight ev’ry leaf, and sink its bloom in death!”
…………
———She passes praise:
A withered hermit, fourscore winters worn,
Would shake off fifty, looking in her eye.
SHAKESPEARE.
“——Bred in the midst of wily plotters,
I was early taught to turn each circumstance
To my advantage.”
A Suspicion confirmed—Disappointed Hopes—A Discovery, and fashionable Compromise.
AS soon as the yacht had doubled the rock, where it had been
stationed to wait the arrival of lord Torrington and Miss Delmore, St.
Herbert’s Island burst upon the sight, like a woody amphitheatre, towering
above its sister isles; and as they drew near, the earl several times expressed
his admiration of its picturesque effect, seen from the lake, where a beautiful
view of temples, lawns, bridges, and groves, their various foliage bright with
all the glowing colours of summer, seemed, like the fabled groves of Shadaski,
to invite to pleasure, refreshment, and repose.
Cecilia
beheld her beloved Mrs. Doricourt on the Chinese bridge, where, a few days
before, she had parted from her; and such was her impatience to spring to the
embrace of her friend, that she would have taken a dangerous leap from the side
of the yacht, but for the timely observance of the earl, who with difficulty
restrained her, till the vessel made the marble stairs where they were to land.
Mrs.
Doricourt, forgetful of ceremonious etiquette, indulged the warm feelings of
her heart, by clasping Cecilia in her arms, who returned her caresses with the
same sincerity they were bestowed. When the emotions of joy, which they were
not fashionable enough to restrain, had subsided, Mrs. Doricourt made a
graceful apology to the earl, and courteously bade him welcome.
The
earl had scarcely remembered that he remained unnoticed, so much was he
astonished at all he beheld. Wherever he turned his eyes, he saw a beautiful
transformation of barren ground into a perfect Elysium. Though so long
accustomed to the classic scenery of Italy, the earl’s judgment confessed that
nothing could exceed the taste that had planned, adorned, and cultivated the
barren soil of St. Herbert’s Island, where every turn presented some unexpected
object of elegance to admire; and as he approached the house, raised on a gentle
eminence, and beheld its light colonnades, entwined with flowers, then glowing in their richest, most
luxuriant bloom, he almost believed he walked on enchanted ground, and was
approaching the delightful palace of a fairy.
The
decorations of the interior bore a corresponding elegance with the beauty of
the grounds; and the earl, charmed out of his usual reserve, in very animated
terms expressed his pleasure and surprise, at beholding the spot he had left so
wild and sterile, cultivated beyond his idea of its capability, and exhibiting
the utmost refinement of taste, yet preserving all the grace of natural beauty.
Nor
did the earl less admire the elegant person and dignified manner of Mrs.
Doricourt; her countenance to him was
interesting beyond the charm of beauty; her eyes, though their general
expression was sadness, were at some moments lit up with a splendour that, like
a luminous exhalation brightening the darkness of night, gave a glowing lustre
to every pensive feature.
While
gazing on her face, his imagination saw in its varied expression the lofty
workings of superior genius, and he could fancy she possessed more than mortal
talents and endowments; while reason, coolly examining the intelligent expanse,
would have believed it possible that her life had been marked by uncommon
suffering, severe as singular.
After
having partaken some refreshment, Cecilia obtained permission to visit her
friends and favourites.
Old
Baldwin and his wife rejoiced to see her, as if she had been absent from them for
months; and many a hope escaped them, that their dear young lady would remain
at home, and suffer the earl of Torrington to return to the castle alone.
Cecilia
flew to visit the dogs and her birds; all were well, and seemed to recognise
her with grateful joy. Her flowers and plants had suffered no neglect in her
absence; they were blooming in healthful beauty. From the conservatory and
parterre she hastened to the urn of Triton; his grave was covered with a thick
short turf, smooth as velvet, and thickly sprinkled with violets. Cecilia read
the tablet that commemorated his worth, and heaved a sigh of tender regret, to
the memory of her old friend and playmate.
In
the meantime an interesting conversation had taken place between the earl and
Mrs. Doricourt; she had questioned him concerning the mysterious elopement of
Miss Saville; and his replies had confirmed the suspicion she entertained of
his being the seducer of her unhappy friend, of whose death she was now made
certain. But the agony the earl suffered while speaking of his lovely victim,
who had fearfully expiated her errors before she was quite eighteen, gave her
reason to believe he was sincerely penitent, and that his conscience, impressed
with a sense of his enormous guilt, did unceasing penance—was she then, herself
the slave of error, whose heart, in its secret recesses, cherished a weak and
guilty passion for an unworthy object, was she to condemn, with unrelenting
severity, the faults of others? Oh no! while she wept the fate of her early friend,
and deeply regretted the fatal consequences of the earl’s excess, she was
constrained to pity the remorse and anguish he endured, and to pray that Heaven
would pardon his offences, and receive to its mercy the erring being who, in
her love for the creature, had neglected to supplicate her Creator, whose power
could alone have preserved her from the snares into which she had so unhappily
fallen.
“For
that wealth which has neither brought me peace or joy,” said the earl, “I have
sacrificed truth, innocence, and loveliness—I have cut asunder the bonds of
friendship, and made myself, of all men, the most wretched!”
“Retrospections
are vain,” replied Mrs. Doricourt, in a soothing voice; “every soul that lives
bears in his bosom the remembrance of some act, committed in the hour of giddy
folly, which his more sober judgment laments the impossibility of recalling. To
repent of error is all that man is capable of doing, and we are promised by Him
whose word is truth, that the tear of sorrow, the prayer of contrition, shall
not be rejected.”
“Angel
of consolation!” said the earl, “your words are balm to my afflicted soul. I
know, and I repent, the injuries I have committed; yes, could Edmund Saville,
the man I have most wronged—could he behold my sufferings, even he would pity
and forgive me.”
Mrs.
Doricourt beheld the pale trembling state of the earl, and feared to pursue the
melancholy subject further; her own oppressed feelings told her that air would
be of service to them both.
Opening
a glass door, she invited him to walk; as they entered on a winding path,
ornamented with flowering shrubs, Mrs. Doricourt explained to the earl, that it
had been cut through rocks—“And will,” said she, “be a lasting proof of the
possibility of rendering the most barren soil capable of embellishment.”
The
earl’s mind had become composed; he felt the influence of the air, and the
charm of refined conversation, while every instant he became more astonished at
the comprehensive mind of Mrs. Doricourt, which seemed to embrace universal
knowledge; for while they walked, she spoke of the nature of soils, and the
properties of plants, and convinced him that she was perfectly acquainted with
agriculture and botany.
They
were now in sight of a cascade—its sparkling water falling from an immense high
rock, and bounding over its numerous unequal ledges, formed a beautiful object
in that solitude, where the turf presented a more vivid green, and the flowers
shed a richer perfume, owing to the little stream that wandered among their
roots.
Rank
and wealth had not vitiated the earl’s taste; he could feel the sublimities of
nature, and admire its beauties. To the right of the cascade its waters
collected in a broad stream, on the clear bosom of which two stately swans
reared a numerous progeny of snowy cygnets; they knew and obeyed the voice of
Mrs. Doricourt, and fed without fear from her hand; but seeing a stranger, they
evinced alarm by spreading their downy wings, and collecting their young ones with the most affectionate
solicitude, and hastily retiring to the concealment of their reedy habitation,
under the branches of the osiers that hung over the stream.
Mrs.
Doricourt being assured by the earl that he was not fatigued, led the way
through an arch formed by jessamine, woodbine, and clematis, to a rocky
excavation, where shells, coral, and spar, were tastefully arranged, and rustic
seats invited the weary to rest. Here, on a marble table, were placed grapes
and peaches, with which the earl allayed his thirst. While he lingered to admire
some beautiful specimens of the buccanim and volute, a strain of music was
heard. The earl looked at Mrs. Doricourt—“Are you indeed an enchantress?” asked
he, smiling; “certainly you are possessed of more than mortal powers, or whence
those harmonious sounds?”
“No,”
replied Mrs. Doricourt, “I disclaim all knowledge of magical spells, and
possession of superhuman powers; but if
your lordship has a wish to see the musician, you have only to follow me.”
The
earl bowed, and said he should be much gratified, being particularly fond of
music.
Mrs.
Doricourt led the way up a flight of narrow steps, which had escaped the earl’s
notice; a door, artfully constructed, covered with shells and spar, yielded to
her touch.
In
the next instant the earl found himself in a Chinese temple—the walls were
superbly panelled with stained glass, on which were described the feast of
lanthorns, palaces, gardens, amusements, and remarkable places near Pekin; the
seats were formed of bamboo, inlaid with ivory; the cushions and draperies were
of rich chintz, lined with rose-coloured taffeta; large gilt cages, with
foreign birds; and crystal globes, with gold and silver fish, hung at the open
lattices, the gilded recesses of which contained beautiful porcelain vases,
with exotic plants and flowers, that filled the temple with their perfume. Here
they found Cecilia; but no instrument of music being visible, the earl looked
surprised, and inquired by what means she had produced the sounds which he had
heard in the grotto, and which certainly were not vocal?
Cecilia
smiled.—“Do you not remember, my lord,” said she, “that sir Cyril Musgrove
called this an enchanted island? Can you not suppose the ‘Lady of the Lake’ has
attendant spirits, who, at her potent bidding, utter magic sounds?”
“Be
you then subject to my spells,” replied Mrs. Doricourt, catching Cecilia’s
lively tone, “and instantly produce, for the earl’s amusement, an instrument
that will at once gratify his eye and ear.”
Cecilia
gracefully bent to the command—she touched one of the panels—it slid back, and
disclosed a recess, which contained the most magnificent organ the earl had
ever seen. Cecilia drew forth a stool, and placing herself at the instrument,
played several of the earl’s favourite airs. She then resigned her place to
Mrs. Doricourt, who, anxious to divert the melancholy of her guest, sang duets
with Cecilia, till she supposed it was near the hour of dinner.
The
earl pressed their hands respectfully to his lips, expressed his delight, and
declared them both enchantresses, and that every part of the island was
calculated to inspire the romantic idea of magic.
“It
is all the reality of nature,” said Mrs. Doricourt, “aided by the labour of
human industry. The accomplishment of my plan cost me some thought, trouble,
and expence; but it now amply rewards my pains. St. Herbert’s Island,
independent of its own beauties, commands prospects unrivalled in sublimity and
loveliness, and while I wander over my little domain, inhaling the breath of
heaven, and the odour of the flowers, I feel that I ought to be happy.” A tear
trembled in her eye as she spoke; but, suppressing the lucid intruder, she
added—“With your lordship’s pleasure, we will now return.”
Cecilia
slid back another panel, and they descended a flight of marble steps, to a part
of the ground ornamented with Chinese railings and bridges.
The
earl looked back on the temple, and found that it was built in the exact
Chinese style, with its appropriate decoration of gilded bells and painted
minarets.
Having
conducted the earl to the library, Mrs. Doricourt and Cecilia retired to dress;
but as the toilet occupied but a small portion of their time, they returned to
converse for half-an-hour on literary subjects, where the earl had a fresh
opportunity of admiring the modesty of Cecilia, who had concealed her knowledge
of Italian and German, both of which she read with fluency, and understood
correctly.
The
announcing of dinner spared the blushes of Cecilia, and released her friend
from the pain of receiving thanks and praise from the earl, who had never
before met so much learning or so little pedantry.
Mrs.
Doricourt did the honours of her table with a grace and elegance that evinced
an intimate acquaintance with fashionable manners; and though the party was so
very small, the earl never sat down to greater delicacies, or saw them more
magnificently served up; the table-service consisting of silver, and the most
expensively-cut glass.
The
evening drawing to a close, the earl proposed departing. Mrs. Doricourt requested
that Cecilia might remain at the Hermitage.
The
earl looked at Cecilia; her countenance spoke the wish of her heart.—“I need
not ask,” said he, “your wishes—I read them in your eyes; and I will not only
deprive myself of the pleasure of your company, but will also make your excuses
to lady Torrington, on one condition.”
“You
are too good,” replied Cecilia, “too generous to make the condition a hard
one.”
“It
is,” said the earl, “that you prevail on Mrs. Doricourt to accompany you to the
castle, where, I am certain, the countess of Torrington will consider your
visit an honour.”
Mrs.
Doricourt would have excused herself from accepting this invitation, on the
plea of delicate health, and being, from the long seclusion, almost a stranger
to the forms of fashionable life.
The
earl would not admit this excuse; and Mrs. Doricourt gave a reluctant promise
to visit Torrington Castle.
The
earl had not for many years spent a day so pleasantly or so rationally; and
when he bade the ladies farewell on the Chinese bridge, he warmly repeated his
invitation, that Mrs. Doricourt would accompany Cecilia to the castle.
When
seated in the yacht, he reflected on the lovely form, superior mind, and
uncommon attainments and accomplishments of Mrs. Doricourt; he wondered what
strange events had driven her from a world she was formed to adorn, and sighed
to think that the beauteous blossom he had precipitated to the grave might have
expanded to as bright a flower; while, for the sake of that wealth, now
considered with contempt, he had linked his destiny with a being destitute of
understanding and accomplishments.
Mrs.
Doricourt thought of the earl of Torrington with pity; high in rank, surrounded
with luxury, he envied the meanest peasant that moistened his hard crust in the
running stream, while himself possessing all things but content, was a
melancholy proof of the insufficiency of wealth to ensure happiness.
The
communications of Cecilia did not exalt the characters of the countess of
Torrington, or her guests, in Mrs. Doricourt’s opinion; but this very
circumstance made her resolve to quit the tranquillity of the Hermitage, and
mix once again with the cold heartless votaries of fashion, particularly as she
found lady Welford was at the castle, which would secure her the society of one
rational female, whose observations might aid her to ascertain whether Cecilia
might, without danger to the purity of her mind, remain under the protection of
lady Torrington, should the earl make a point of her spending the winter with them
in town.
The
representations of Cecilia by no means impressed her with respect for lady
Torrington, added to which, the worthy Baldwin, on whose plain understanding
and honest principles every reliance was to be placed, had heard such accounts
of lady Torrington and her guests, as made the old man, full of anxiety on
Cecilia’s account, communicate the unfavourable reports that had reached his
own ear to Mrs. Doricourt.
Her
knowledge of the world taught her that report always exaggerated; but the
innocence and reputation of Cecilia were of too much consequence to be exposed
with persons whose characters appeared to be of no value, even in their own
esteem. Of these persons she determined herself to judge; and if she found the
least reason to doubt their being proper society, remove Cecilia from the
contagion of vice, even at the hazard of the earl’s displeasure. Mrs. Doricourt
considered her own fortune quite sufficient to provide amply for this darling
child; but were it much less, she would preserve to her an approving
conscience, and virtuous poverty was infinitely preferable to guilty wealth.
Miss
Delmore being absent from the castle, lady Jacintha had no rival to divert the
attentions of lord Rushdale from herself; and knowing his great partiality for
music, she contrived every evening to draw him into the music-room, where,
unconscious of the comparison he was drawing between her bold intrusive manner,
and that of the timid, retiring Cecilia, she played and sung his favourite
airs, much more to her own satisfaction than his, who, though wearied and
disgusted, was, by her art, kept constantly at her side at table, and in their
morning walks and rides.
This
manoeuvring of lady Jacintha did not escape the observation of the countess of
Torrington, who, aware of the slender fortune of her dear friend, and of her
father’s hopes that she would secure to herself a wealthy husband, began to
suspect her design on the heart of the sentimental Oscar, whose opinions on all
occasions she seemed anxious to consult; and whose taste for reading she had
lately flattered, by passing hours with him in the library, while the rest of
the party were contriving amusements to kill the time she devoted to study. But
though of rank equal to her own, lady Torrington considered that lady Jacintha
was a full seven years older than her son—a disparity on the wrong side; and
that her qualities of mind, and certain fashionable propensities, particularly
her passion for gambling, were not exactly what she should approve in his wife.
Besides, when she was in town, it was agreed between the duchess of Aberdeen
and herself, that a union of their families would, on several accounts, be
extremely desirable. Oscar was exactly of an age when the heart yields itself
to tender impressions, without considering either interest or consequences; and
at once to acquaint her son with her own intentions, and guard him against the
acts of lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, she summoned him to a private conference in
her dressing-room. To the countess of Torrington, Oscar had ever conducted
himself with the respectful duty of a son, but it was duty governed by a
principle of right, not influenced by the warm impulse of filial affection, he
believed, and accused himself of being unnatural; but he did not love his mother;
he saw all her faults and inconsistencies; and her weak indulgence of his
boyish follies served to convince him, that she consulted the gratification of
her own idle whims, and the indolence of her own temper, rather than the
improvement of his understanding, or the forming of his principles, by putting
him under proper restraints. Lady Torrington was not over delicate in
disclosing to her son the treaty she had entered into with the duchess of
Aberdeen—“With which I am certain, Oscar,” said she, “you must be delighted.”
“I
am of a temper, madam,” replied he, “not easily moved to ecstacies.”
“Why,
positively,” resumed the countess, “you are becoming as solemn and frigid as
your father, or you could not be so insensible to beauty. Surely you must remember
lady Arabella Moncrief?”
“Yes,
madam, perfectly,” replied lord Rushdale; “I remember she is a spoiled child,
rude, pert, and uninformed.”
“Lively,
artless, and beautiful as an angel,” said lady Torrington, determined not to
give up the point.
“If
angels in any way resemble Arabella Moncrief,” returned Oscar, “I shall always
prefer the company of sensible mortals.”
“Nay,
that is being too severe upon the beautiful romp,” said lady Torrington; “you
ought to remember her youth, and what improvements the acknowledged abilities
of madame St. Piere may produce; the duke of Aberdeen has engaged that
wonderful woman, at a monstrous salary, to complete the education of lady
Arabella. All the world knows that madame St. Piere is the first singer in the
kingdom, and that she dances like a goddess. When lady Arabella comes out next
winter, you will see her——”
“Sans mind, sans taste, sans every
thing,” returned Oscar. “Madame St. Piere may give instruction, but she cannot
infuse into the vacant mind of her pupil the etherial genius that embodies
idea—she cannot inspire her with virtue, feeling, and sense.”
“How
ridiculous and romantic!” said lady Torrington, contemptuously. “There are very
few men of the world but will very readily dispense with the last-named qualification;
they are not generally ambitious of having clever wives. Men are tenacious of
their privileges, and seldom approve of females trespassing on their ground; a
pretty face, and a heavy purse, is, I believe, the prevailing sentiment.”
“With
a sensualist or a miser, probably it may,” returned lord Rushdale; “but I lay
no claim to either of these characters: far from bowing at the shrine of
Mammon, I am not avaricious, and have never yet considered wealth an equivalent
for happiness. If ever I marry, I must be certain that congenial mind, and
mutual affection——”
“What
romantic nonsense!” interrupted lady Torrington; “I really supposed that pedant
Oxley had given you different ideas, and taught you a proper respect for rank
and wealth. I am certain the rich enjoy pleasures the poor can never attain,
and without abundance of that money you affect to despise, I see no possibility
of a person’s being happy.”
“Happiness,
madam,” said Oscar, “does not depend, as you erroneously believe, on wealth; on
the contrary, I fear its possession is frequently the source of more
wretchedness than ever poverty inflicted.—Happiness is oftener found in a
cottage than a palace, where the moderate desires, and simple pleasures of its
inhabitants, leave no stings behind them, where their wants are few, and
circumscribed to their situation.”
“It
is really a pity,” replied the countess, scornfully, “that you were not born a
cottager; how prodigiously happy you would have been with some pretty rustic!”
Lord
Rushdale thought of Cecilia Delmore, and his deep blue eyes sparkled with more
than their usual lustre, as he said—“Had such been my destination, madam, I
have no doubt but I should have enjoyed that sunshine of the mind which does
not depend on high birth, or the possession of wealth, but is the actual result
of rectitude, from a consciousness of having performed the duties which
Providence allots to every state of life; and with a rustic wife, whose mind
would have understood mine, of whose affection I was assured, and on whose
virtue I could confide, I am certain I should have been too happy to desire
greater pleasures than were to be found in my own cottage, or in the rural
sports of my equally-contented village neighbours.”
Lady
Torrington tried to laugh, but the conviction that happiness was indeed the
offspring of virtue made her serious, in spite of her efforts to appear
gay.—“You have drawn a very pretty picture certainly,” said she; “but
recollect, the golden days of Arcadia are over, and shepherds have ruder employments
in this age than dressing the crook of the favourite shepherdess with flowers,
and tending with her a flock of snow-white sheep. But for my part, I do not
presume to believe that I have understanding sufficient to combat your
opinions, which may, for ought I know, be orthodox, as your pompous tutor says;
but of this I am certain, the duke of Aberdeen’s alliance will be extremely
advantageous to you; and as lady Arabella Moncrief is very young, and has not
entered into fashionable pleasures, I think you would act wisely to antecede
other proposals; and as she is so perfect a novice, you may mould her as you
please, and make it as tender and romantic as your own; and then you may create
an Elysium for yourselves, and live as rural and innocent as cottagers.”
“Whenever
I marry, madam,” said lord Rushdale, “I trust to live both innocent and happy;
but as I have determined to bestow my heart with my hand, I assure you lady
Arabella Moncrief will never share the Elysium I may create.”
Lady
Torrington frowned; she had not expected such obstinate contradiction—“You are
yet too young,” said she, “to see all the advantages attending this alliance:
you will, when your judgment is matured by an intercourse with the world, get
rid of your idle sickly sentiments, fit only for the hero of a romance. Who, in
fashionable life, ever thinks or speaks of such ridiculous nonsense as mutual
love? What well-bred man cares about the sense of his wife? I really blush for
your folly!” Oscar blushed for his mother, who continued—“But these vulgar
notions of yours, I believe to have been inculcated by that prosing animal
Oxley; and as you can walk without leading-strings, I think the sooner the
consequential porpoise is dismissed the better; for, in my opinion, his
instructions have the pernicious effect of rendering you totally unfit for the
rank you are to hold in life.”
“There
you do Mr. Oxley great injustice,” said lord Rushdale, “for, truth to tell, I
believe no man in existence can more devoutly worship rank and fortune than he
does. Wealth, in his estimation, is the sovereign good, before which the claims
of genius, the social charities, love, friendship, all fade, all sink to
insignificance.”
“The
man has more sense than I have given him credit for,” returned lady Torrington;
“and, I trust, his wisdom will eradicate your folly, and teach you to set a
proper value on the advantages you appear to despise.”
“You
err, madam,” replied Oscar, “if you suppose I despise rank and fortune; as
bestowing the power of being useful to my fellow-men, I value them highly; but
considered as the means to indulge in ostentations splendour, to procure the
heartless homage of the multitude, and obtain what your ladyship calls
pleasure, I confess they lose respect in my eyes; and I believe that every
rational mind estimates them as I do.”
“I
am sick and fatigued with this controversy,” said the countess, “and shall be
infinitely obliged to you for a rational answer to a plain question—Are you
disposed to favour my wishes, by considering your hand engaged to lady Arabella
Moncrief?”
“Certainly,
for a cotillion,” replied lord Rushdale, “at the very first ball your ladyship
gives the ensuing winter, but not for matrimony. Plainly, I do not like lady
Arabella; and I see no rational cause to induce the heir of Torrington to
sacrifice himself to pertness and ignorance.”
“This
contradiction to my will,” said the countess, “is a grateful return for my
having always indulged your humours. But I see it all. I understand your love
in a cottage perfectly; I have not been blind to the arts of lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne; I perceive where her ambition points.” Lord Rushdale was not so
clear-sighted, till the vehemence of his mother quickened his apprehension.
“But you must be mad,” resumed her ladyship, “to think of her for a wife! so
many years older than yourself, proud as if she was a princess, and so poor,
that she is a perpetual tax upon her acquaintance; in temper envious,
satirical, and malicious.”
“Your
particular friend, your inseparable companion, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne!
surely, madam,” said lord Rushdale, “you cannot be speaking of her?”
The
countess felt the look and question of her son; but too well-bred to appear
confounded, she resumed—“I am so far her friend, as to invite her to my house,
because I know her own finances are too slender to support her rank. But
friendship does not make me blind; I see all her faults; she is the last woman
in the world to wish an alliance with; and if you expect happiness with lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne——”
“I
shall be greatly deceived,” interrupted lord Rushdale. “Be satisfied, madam,
lady Jacintha Fitzosborne will never be my choice; she is too deeply initiated
in the mysteries of the haut ton; affected
softness, and studied graces, will never endanger my heart.”
“No,
it must be beautiful simplicity, blushing to display its own excellence,
graceful timidity, in the form of Cecilia Delmore,” said the countess, in a
tone of irony; “but beware, young man, of encouraging the idea of making her
your wife. Do not imagine that the earl or myself will ever consent to so
preposterous, so debasing a union; I should expire with shame to hear it
whispered in fashionable circles, that my son had married the niece of my
housekeeper.”
“Yet
her mother,” returned lord Rushdale, calmly, “was the daughter of a clergyman,
and her father was the son of an apothecary.”
Lady
Torrington’s eyes flashed fire; in a voice scarcely articulate from rage, she
commanded him instantly to quit her presence.
Lord
Rushdale bowed and obeyed, glad to escape a controversy in which he might be
led to betray his passion for Cecilia. She was indeed the gentle lovely
creature his reason and his heart approved; but as yet they were too young to
marry, and a disclosure of his affection would only expose her to the enmity of
lady Torrington; he therefore resolved to conceal in his own bosom the
tenderness she inspired, till being of age, he should be master of his actions,
and at liberty to place her beauty and accomplishments in their proper sphere.
The
count del Montarino found Miss Maxfield credulous as he could possibly desire,
persuaded that he thought her the most beautiful of all beauties, and that he
adored the very earth on which she stood. The silly girl agreed to elope with
him, as soon as he could arrange the affair in a way to prevent discovery and
pursuit. Deeply smitten with the count, and full of gay projects for the
future, when she should burst upon her astonished acquaintance in all the
grandeur and consequence of a countess, debating within herself whether she
would receive her wedding visits in white and silver, or pink and gold, Miss
Maxfield left off teazing the honourable Tangent Drawley, who was beginning to
believe he had acted the INDOLENT long enough, particularly as a friend informed
him it did not take in town—a severe mortification to Mr. Drawley, who had
always enjoyed the extreme delight of seeing his eccentricities eagerly adopted
and imitated; and his only consolation under the present disappointment was, to
believe that the character was too difficult, and that his copyists had not
brains sufficient to counterfeit lassitude and inanity.
While
divided in his own mind, whether to continue the INDOLENT a little longer, or
to order his carriage, make his congee, and start a new character at Weymouth,
he met the intelligent glances of lady Torrington. The invitation they conveyed
made him give up Weymouth, and resolve to rival the count del Montarino, whose
attentions to the countess were glaringly evident to every person, except the
earl and lord Rushdale.
The
count del Montarino did not forget to engage sir Cyril Musgrove and sir
Middleton Maxfield at play; but they knew how to shuffle the cards as
dexterously as himself, and he found, to his great disappointment, that he
should never pluck them of a sum sufficient to enable him to carry off Miss
Maxfield. To apply to the countess was the only expedient that promised
success; and lest any unforeseen circumstance should prevent his carrying off
Miss Maxfield, he resolved she should immediately supply him with the means.
But the mind of the countess had undergone a revolution; she no longer watched
for the signs, that, like another
free-masonry, made them intelligible to each other. This was
vexatious to the count, and obliged him to write a note, requesting an
interview. This the countess would, if possible, have denied; but the count,
confirmed in his opinion of her indifference, and sensible of his own
precarious situation, assumed a determined tone, and insisted on her admitting
him to her dressing-room.
Mrs.
Garnett, ever on the alert to pick up intelligence for her lady, met the
count’s valet sauntering in the gallery, where he was waiting for the
convenient Mrs. Smithson, who had promised to bring him an answer to the note
he had a few moments before committed to her care.
“Bless
me! mounseer,” said Mrs. Garnett, “what are you in retendance here for?”
The
Frenchman caught her hand—“Vill you give von littel kiss for know?”
Mrs.
Garnett affected to struggle; but suffering him to take a kiss, she said—“Well,
there now, mounseer, I have paid for your secret; let me have it.”
“I
vait de reply to von littel tendre billet de
count sen to lady Torrington,” replied the Frenchman; “de count make de
assignation, an vy we not be happy so vell as dey? Ma belle ange! vill you
admit me to de tête-à-tête vid
you, vile de count make de lofe to de countess?”
Mrs.
Garnett asked at what hour the assassination was to take
place?
The
Frenchman told her, when every body retired to their beds. He then repeated his
request that she should admit him to her chamber.
Mrs.
Garnett disdainfully snatched her hand from the astonished Frenchman—“How dare
you resume, you yeller-faced monkey,” said she, “to result my virtue by making
sitch a hinsolent purposal?—Take that!” giving him a smart slap on his cheek,
“and larn how to inspect a modest person for the future.”
Before
the disappointed valet could recover from the smart of her fingers, Mrs.
Garnett had informed lady Jacintha Fitzosborne of all she had gleaned from
mounseer.
Lady
Jacintha received this confirmation of her friend’s frailty without any feeling
of sorrow: her face glowed indeed, but it was with malignant pleasure at the near prospect of exposing her criminal
conduct, and of rendering her humbly subservient to her will.
During
the day, the count del Montarino so narrowly watched the glances of the
countess, that he prevented her bestowing her regards on the honourable Mr.
Drawley, who, having entirely thrown off the INDOLENT, danced, sung, talked
loud, and played the fool, like the rest of the company. Sir Middleton Maxfield
betted fifty pounds with sir Cyril Musgrove, that his late inactivity had
rendered Drawley so weak, that he could not run a hundred yards without losing
breath.
Drawley
being made acquainted with this wager, offered to run a race with sir Middleton
Maxfield for a hundred pounds. The bet was instantly accepted, and the avenue,
half a mile in length, the appointed ground.
“La!
Mr. Drawley,” said Miss Maxfield, “I am sorry you have laid this wager, for you
will be sure to lose.”
“Indeed!
you are sure of that are you?” returned Drawley.
“Yes,
quite sure,” resumed Miss Maxfield, “for Middleton is such a runner you can’t
think!”
“Yes,”
said sir Cyril Musgrove, “my friend Mid runs in debt with every body that will
trust him.”
Sir
Middleton laughed; but his sister, throwing an
angry glance on sir Cyril Musgrove, told him he
was a great story-teller.
Sir
Cyril bowed.
“La!”
said Miss Maxfield, “I am sure you need not bow, for I did not mean to pay you
a compliment, sir Cyril. But, dear me, Mr. Drawley, half a mile is a long way
to run; won’t you be monstrous tired?”
“Not
in the least,” replied he, “I am never tired.”
“Dear
me! how can you say so,” resumed Miss Maxfield, “when it was no longer ago than
yesterday, when I scolded you for pouring lobster sauce upon my turkey, you
folded your arms, shut your eyes, and
bade me not speak, for you were tired to death?”
“I
had a very good night’s rest, Miss Maxfield,” replied Drawley, “and woke this
morning quite refreshed, and strong enough to carry you on my shoulder to the
end of the race.”
“No,
thank you, sir,” said Jemima; “I don’t at all like to be carried; for when I
was at school, we used to carry one another pin-pan, make believe a sedan-chair, you know, and so I got a
sad fall, and bruised my forehead, and cut my arm, and tore a long slit in my
frock; my forehead was so black you can’t think! and my arm was bad ever so
long after. I think I had enough of being carried; don’t you think I had, Mr.
Drawley?”
“Yes,
truly,” replied he; “and after so many disasters, I shall not press to have the
pleasure of carrying you.”
The
race of sir Middleton Maxfield and Mr. Drawley occasioned a bet between the
count del Montarino and lord Wilton for twenty pounds. Colonel St. Irwin had
seen many athletic feats performed by the honourable Tangent Drawley, and his
opinion sided with him, in opposition to the opinion of the earl of Torrington and lord Rushdale, who viewed
the florid complexion and firm-knit
limbs of sir Middleton Maxfield, as sure indications of success.
Lady
Eglantine Sydney, more soft and languishing than ever, thought a foot-race very
clownish and vulgar. She assured lord Melvil, that it would shock her beyond
measure to see him broiling and covered with dust, to gain the fame of being a
swift runner, in which accomplishment she was certain her footman would excel
either sir Middleton Maxfield or Mr. Drawley.
But
though lady Eglantine objected to such vulgar sport, the rest of the ladies
entered into its spirit; and being informed by the erudite Mr. Oxley, that
footraces made a part of the ancient Olympic games, where the victor was
rewarded with a crown of olive, lady Torrington declared her entire
approbation, because it was classical. But, what a misfortune! they had no olive-trees.
“Laurel
will do equally as well,” said lady Jacintha; “for laurel is sacred to the hero
as well as the bard.”
This
point arranged, a wreath was prepared to crown the victor.
Mr.
Drawley, at setting off, appeared to be sinking into the INDOLENT, for he gave
sir Middleton Maxfield considerable advantage. Lord Wilton felt so certain of
winning, that he offered to double his bet; but the count del Montarino,
sensible that twenty pounds would make a deep hole in his purse, affecting not
to hear his lordship’s proposal, shifted his ground, which he afterwards
severely repented; for in the next instant he saw Drawley shoot with the
swiftness of an arrow past his opponent, and reach the goal, while sir
Middleton Maxfield remained several yards behind.
Shouts
and acclamations rent the air; some congratulated, others condoled, while, to
prove a fashionable indifference to her nephew’s failure, and herself too
well-bred to think any thing of losing a hundred pounds, Mrs. Freakley proposed
that the child of nature, being the youngest of the party, should crown the
victor.
But
Jemima positively refused the office, telling her aunt it was quite unnatural
of her to propose such a thing, when her own brother had just lost a hundred
pounds—any body that liked might crown Mr. Drawley, but, for her part, she
should do no such thing, and she wondered how her brother could shake hands
with him.
Mrs.
Freakley endeavoured to pacify the child of nature, while lady Torrington
gracefully placed the wreath on the head of Drawley, who declared he felt more
pleasure in being crowned by the hand of beauty, than of the victory he had
gained.
Lady
Torrington gave him one of her sweetest smiles.
Sir
Middleton Maxfield paid the money, and swore he would have it out of Drawley
another time.
Jemima
said she should not have minded her brother losing, if Mr. Drawley had not
taken him in with always pretending to be so tired, just as if he was not able
to move a limb, and, after all, to run as fast as he did; it was quite a
shameful trick, that it was; and she should hate him for it as long as she
lived.
Drawley
laughed, and hoped she would forget her anger.
The
count del Montarino received lord Wilton’s twenty pounds with the regretful
remembrance that he might so easily have made it forty; and this regret was
more poignantly felt, as the mere want of cash was all that delayed his
elopement with Miss Maxfield, to whom he was fearful of declaring his poverty,
after having boasted to her of his Neapolitan estates, his beautiful villas,
rich vineyards, and mulberry plantations; his sole hope now rested on obtaining
a sufficient supply from lady Torrington; and rather than be defeated in this
grand stake, he was ready to throw aside entreaty, and enforce his demand by
menace.
Mr.
Oxley took an early opportunity to solicit the earl’s consent to address Miss
Delmore as a lover.
Lord
Rushdale, who was present when this unexpected permission was asked, started
from his seat, and felt as if he could have struck the divine to the earth for
his presumption.
The
earl’s features relaxed into a smile, as he viewed the self-sufficient, portly,
middle-aged gentleman.
This
smile gave Oxley confidence, for he was too much in favour with himself to
suppose it could be derisive or contemptuous; and while lord Rushdale felt
every pulse in his body agitated with as painful emotion as if his very
existence hung on the earl’s lips, Mr. Oxley arrogantly hinted his own merits,
and flattered himself with the hope he had founded on the earl’s liberality and
just discrimination, would not be deceived by his refusing his approbation and
concurrence in the present momentous affair.
The
earl having waited patiently for the conclusion of this elaborate speech, which
did not appear to make the impression, or have all the effect the reverend
gentleman expected, very calmly asked—“Pray, sir, is Miss Delmore apprised of
your predilection in her favour?”
“Certainly,
my lord,” replied the divine, “certainly; Miss Delmore is apprised—is informed
of my wishes and expectations in their fullest extent.”
“And
does Miss Delmore listen to your love?” asked lord Rushdale, eagerly; “can she
approve—does she consent to be yours?—does Cecilia indeed encourage your
addresses?”
Mr.
Oxley drew up his collar—“Miss Delmore,” said he conceitedly, “has acted with
becoming modesty on the occasion.”
“And
referred you to me?” asked the earl.
“Not
absolutely referred,” replied the parson, “nor did she forbid the application;
I have therefore acted,” continued he, with a consequential smile, “on the
axiom of silence gives consent.”
Lord
Rushdale, fearing he should betray his feelings, took up a book, which he was
not conscious he held the wrong way upwards; his eyes were fixed on the page,
but his faculties were concentrated; he was all ear, and listened with
agonizing impatience for the earl’s answer.
“I
am not surprised, Mr. Oxley,” said the earl, “that you should entertain a
passion for Miss Delmore; she is beautiful and highly accomplished; but I
remember she is little more than seventeen, and her extreme youth, and
consequent inexperience, are with me strong objections to her entering into any
serious engagement. She has been bred in such absolute retirement, that she
cannot possibly judge what would be her choice. Matrimony is an affair that
will involve the happiness of her life, and I can by no means accord my
approbation to hasty measures. It is my intention that Miss Delmore shall spend
the next winter in London; and if after that ordeal she prefers you, I will not
withhold my consent; though you will pardon me, Mr. Oxley, if I suggest that a
wife nearer your own age would be more likely to ensure your comfort in the
matrimonial state.”
“Surely
the disparity is too great,” rejoined lord Rushdale, his spirits calmed by the
earl’s decision; “Miss Delmore is young enough to be your daughter, Mr. Oxley.”
This
was a remark extremely ill-bred and disagreeable, in the reverend gentleman’s
opinion, who wished to be considered a young man. He coloured highly, coughed,
and wiped his forehead, to conceal his vexation, when he so far forgot his own
consequence, as to propose marrying the niece of Mrs. Milman. He did not
calculate upon his age forming any sort of objection; he supposed the earl
would be glad to get her off his hands, at the expence of a few thousand pounds. But he now began to
suspect that the report of her being his daughter might be true, and that his
pride, though she was illegitimate, looked for a better husband for her.
Mr.
Oxley was highly offended, but self-interest taught him to smother his
resentment. He acknowledged he was a few years older than Miss Delmore, but
flattered himself the trifling difference of age would be no objection with
her; and he humbly entreated to know if he was to consider himself honoured
with his lordship’s permission to endeavour at winning her regard?
Lord
Rushdale threw down the book he had still held, and, as if fearful of the
permission being granted, hastily replied—“Surely it is necessary to consult
Miss Delmore’s inclinations, to learn whether she approves——”
“Undoubtedly,”
replied the earl; “and till from her own lips I am put in possession of her
sentiments, I must beg to remain neuter in the business. Cecilia is candour
itself; she will at once speak ingenuously; and if she approves your addresses,
Mr. Oxley, I shall not suffer any opinion of my own to militate against her
wishes.”
The
earl moved from his seat; he saw Mr. Oxley was preparing another speech, but
not approving the reverend gentleman’s pretensions, he did not feel inclined to
listen to any arguments he might offer in favour of a marriage with Cecilia. Bending with more than his usual stateliness,
he wished Mr. Oxley a good-morning, and telling his son he wished his opinion
respecting an alteration in the banqueting-room, they left the divine swelling
with indignation.
Mr.
Oxley’s consequence had never before been so lowered. He had entertained no
doubt of the earl’s approval, nor of Miss Delmore yielding implicit obedience
to his will; all the projects in which he had placed such unbounded confidence,
seemed in a single moment to fall to nothing. Miss Delmore, the rich livings in the the earl’s gift,
popularity, dignity, and lawn sleeves, were all likely to elude his grasp. Lord
Rushdale too, the boy whose ignorance he had enlightened, whom he had made
acquainted with Greek and Latin, and taught to imitate the eloquence of Cicero
and Demosthenes—he had not uttered a sentence in his favour, but had appeared
displeased at his pretensions, and had, rather than aided, constrained the earl
by his remarks to reject his suit.—“Perhaps,” said Mr. Oxley, after a little
consideration, “perhaps the boy has cast an eye of inclination on her
himself.—Yes, it must be so; I now recollect many little circumstances to
confirm the idea. Lord Rushdale is himself in love with Miss Delmore, and would
not forward my views. But what will lady Torrington say to her son so degrading
himself? She will never consent to receive
Cecilia Delmore, the niece of her housekeeper, as her daughter.”
“You
are perfectly correct in that opinion, Mr. Oxley,” said the countess, who,
during the latter part of his soliloquy, had entered the room unheard; “but,
pray, sir, inform me, for you have greatly awakened my curiosity, what has
occurred to provoke you to utter your thoughts so loud and incautiously? for
surely, if lord Rushdale is so forgetful of his rank and dignity to encourage a
partiality of this degrading nature, you, as his tutor, ought to be sensible of
the indelicacy of publishing his disgraceful weakness. But I request, sir, that
I may be no longer kept in ignorance; let me hear the extent of lord Rushdale’s
folly. Has he confessed a passion for Miss Delmore?—Has he solicited the earl
to consent to their marriage?”
Mr.
Oxley, always in the “melting mood,” applied his cambric handkerchief to his
forehead; his cunning whispered that he might turn the hauteur of the countess to his advantage.
With much mock humility he apologized for his indiscretion in giving vent to
his wounded feelings aloud; he then informed her ladyship of his application to
the earl respecting Miss Delmore, with the little encouragement his proposals
had met—“The agitated manner, and, pardon me, madam, if I say, obtrusive remarks
of lord Rushdale, led me, who am ever anxious for my pupil acting up to his
rank and high expectations, to suspect that his not advancing my cause, as I
certainly expected he would, proceeded from himself feeling a passion for the
young lady——”
“The
young lady, as you call her,” interrupted lady Torrington, with a sneer, “shall
never be the wife of Oscar Rushdale. But pray sir, inform me, did the earl
mention any engagement he had formed for her?—Did he seem at all to understand
that his son was guilty of the folly of liking Miss Delmore?”
“To
look into the thoughts of another, your ladyship must be aware, is beyond human
penetration,” said Mr. Oxley.
“But
we may guess them pretty accurately,” returned the countess. “Could you learn
nothing from lord Torrington’s countenance?”
“Nothing,”
replied Mr. Oxley, “except that he looked very cold on my request.”
“Really,
Mr. Oxley,” resumed the countess, “I think you have greatly honoured Miss
Delmore by your regard, and you may depend that I will take an early
opportunity of letting the earl and lord Rushdale know my sentiments on the
business. To see Miss Delmore eligibly married, must be gratifying to her
friends; and I see no reasonable objection that can possibly be made to you.”
Mr. Oxley bowed. “You may depend, Mr. Oxley,” continued lady Torrington, “I
will warmly advocate your cause; and if I have any influence, you may promise
yourself success.”
Mr.
Oxley was all gratitude; he bowed lower and lower, as the countess, retiring, bade him hope. But
doubts still hung upon his mind: Miss Delmore might accept him—the earl might
be persuaded to give his consent; but if it was not his own voluntary approval,
he could withhold the livings—he could reduce the fortune of his adopted
daughter to hundreds instead of thousands. In short, he might obtain a pretty
wife, and lose all the advantages that he hoped to grasp by marrying; and a
wife without a good fortune seemed, in Mr. Oxley’s idea, like being condemned
to climb a high mountain with a huge load on his back. He had never considered
the matter so seriously before, and till he clearly understood what the earl
intended to do for Miss Delmore, he determined not to throw himself away.
Lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne had kept a watchful eye on the countess during the day,
and her penetration had discovered that for some cause or other, she did not
appear as solicitous to engross the attentions of the count del Montarino as usual; but this might be merely an artful manoeuvre to elude
observation. She was certain, from Garnett’s report, that an assignation had
been made, and she resolved that nothing should prevent the execution of her
plan to discover and subjugate the countess to her power.
When
lady Jacintha retired for the night, she artfully complimented Mrs. Garnett on
her fidelity, propriety of conduct, and personal attractions, till finding she
had wound up the silly creature to her purpose, she asked if she could keep a
secret?
Mrs. Garnett purtested she had been
the expository of many secrets.
“But
you must swear,” resumed lady Jacintha, “that you will never divulge what I am about to confide to you, till I desire
you to tell it.”
Mrs.
Garnett would have taken fifty oaths to satisfy her curiosity, and she was
greatly disappointed when lady Jacintha having made her swear, informed her
that she must accompany her to lady Torrington’s chamber, as she was that night
resolved to convince herself whether there was any truth in the report of an
improper intimacy between the count del Montarino and lady Torrington. Mrs. Garnett
began to tremble and cry bitterly—“Oh, dear! dear! I have brought myself into a
pretty dulelma,” said she; “the countess will have me hanged for speaking crim. con. against her.”
It
was some time before lady Jacintha could pacify the alarms of Mrs. Garnett; but
at length it being artfully suggested to her that lady Torrington would make
her a handsome present to keep her secret, she dried up her tears, and promised
to obey lady Jacintha’s directions.
Having
put on her night-clothes, lady Jacintha, followed by her abigail, stepped
cautiously along the gallery to the countess’s dressing-room, the door of which
they found a-jar. Lady Jacintha pushed it
open, and saw Mrs. Smithson fast asleep, with a candle so near her, that it was
next to a miracle that her muslin dress had not taken fire. Lady Jacintha took
advantage of this circumstance; and pushing down the candle in an instant, the
unfortunate waiting-woman was in a blaze. Mrs. Garnett and lady Jacintha
screamed, and busied themselves to extinguish the flames, which caught the
toilet and window curtain.
Mrs.
Smithson, in her terror, was thrown completely off her guard; and running to
the chamber-door, shrieked out—“My lady! count! you will be burnt to death!”
Lady
Torrington’s voice was now heard calling to Smithson, who, coming to herself,
and seeing the fire out, begged of lady Jacintha to return to her own
apartment. But this was by no means her intention. She began explaining that
the smell of fire having alarmed her, she had roused up Garnett, and full of
apprehension for the safety of her dear friend, had hastened to inform her of her danger.
“Yes,”
said Mrs. Garnett, “if my lady had not forternately awaked when she did, you would have been burnt up
to a cinder, Mrs. Smithson. But what in the world do you do out of bed at this
time? if your constertution was as dilercate as mine, you would be gist dead to be up till sich hours.”
“Hush,
Mrs. Garnett; don’t talk so loud,” replied Mrs. Smithson; “my lady is very
unwell, and you will disturb her. I sat here, fearing she might be worse.”
“And
the count del Montarino, he is sitting up also?” said lady Jacintha.
“Not
that I know of, my lady,” replied Smithson, much confused.
“Oh,
yes; you forget yourself, Mrs. Smithson,” returned lady Jacintha; “you called
upon the count to leave the countess’s chamber not many moments ago.”
“Me
call upon the count! No, as I hope to live,” said Mrs. Smithson; “you have made
a mistake. Pray, my lady, return to your bed; you will take cold.”
“No,”
returned lady Jacintha, “as the countess is ill, I will step into her chamber;
no doubt the noise we have made has alarmed her; I will just see how she is.”
“On
no account, my lady,” said Mrs. Smithson, in great trepidation; “pray don’t go
to awake her.”
“She
must be dead,” resumed lady Jacintha, “if she is not awake already.—Pray stand
aside,” (Smithson had placed herself before the door), “for I am determined to
see lady Torrington.”
Mrs.
Smithson fell on her knees, and wept, and entreated; but lady Jacintha pushing
her aside, entered the chamber, followed by Garnett. Flushed with triumphant
malice, she threw back the curtains of the bed, and beheld the countess of
Torrington, who, starting up, inquired what was the matter?
Lady
Jacintha’s eyes rolled in disappointment round the chamber; they rested on a
gold snuff-box, which she knew to be the property of the count del Montarino.
“Return
to the dressing-room, Garnett,” said lady Jacintha; “that creature Smithson,
whom terror has deprived of prudence, may want assistance. Unhappy woman!”
resumed lady Jacintha, as the door closed on Mrs. Garnett, “unhappy woman! your
guilt is discovered.”
“Guilt!”
repeated lady Torrington; “I really am at a loss to understand.”
“Smithson,
in her terror, (for the dressing-room has been on fire,) had confessed that the
count del Montarino was this night in your chamber—nay, more, she thought him
with you at this moment; but though he has escaped, he has left behind him a
witness of your criminality.” As lady Jacintha spoke, she took up the snuff-box—“Can
you deny that this belongs to the count?”
Lady
Torrington tried to account for the appearance of the box; she had borrowed it
of the count.
“Poor
creature!” resumed lady Jacintha, “I pity you from my soul! but your guilt is
confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt; and all that remains for me, whom you
have so cruelly deceived, is to hasten my departure, for I can by no means
think of putting my reputation in doubt by remaining longer under this polluted
roof.”
Lady
Torrington caught her arm; she wept—she besought her to remain—“You will not,
surely, you will not expose me!” said she; “you will not be the means of
separating me from the earl!—you will not render me an object of hatred to my
son!”
Lady
Jacintha for some time seemed inflexible; she suffered the countess to weep and
entreat, while she talked in high-flown terms of her virtue being contaminated,
her reputation tarnished by remaining at the castle, and affording her
countenance, so degraded, so fallen. At length she affected to weep, and lament
the necessity of giving up a friendship so prized, at a moment too when she had
formed wishes. Here she paused.
But
though extremely mortified at being found out, lady Torrington was not so
overcome with grief as not to perceive that lady Jacintha expressed much more
abhorrence of her error than she really felt; she was certain her dear friend
had some point to carry, by which her silence was to be bought. Catching her
tone, the countess declared, with many applications of her handkerchief to her
eyes, that being cast from her friendship would actually break her heart, and
that if she could be any way conducive to her wishes, though they were to part
for ever, she should be more than happy to promote their accomplishment.
Lady
Jacintha sighed heavily—wished it had not been her cruel misfortune to find a
shade in the character of a friend she so truly loved and admired—a friend,
whom she had formed the romantic wish of regarding still more nearly—“Oh,
Oscar! beloved Oscar!” exclaimed lady Jacintha, covering her face with her
handkerchief, and affecting to weep.
The
countess now discovered the intention of lady Jacintha, whom she hated worse than ever. But this was not a moment to contend or seem
averse—“How blind I have been,” said lady Torrington, “not to see this
partiality! but if you indeed honour Oscar with your regard, you will surely,
for his sake, conceal the error of his mother?”
“Alas! poor human creature,”
returned lady Jacintha; “we are all liable to error; the brightest characters are
not exempt from failings; and such is my pity for you, and love for your son,
that I might be induced to forget the unfortunate discovery of to-night, if I
thought you would in gratitude give up your engagement with the duchess of
Aberdeen.”
This was a sacrifice of no great
magnitude, for the strong repugnance her son had expressed to a marriage with
lady Arabella Moncrief, gave her but little hope of bringing that scheme of
aggrandizement to bear. The countess gave one sigh to the blighted hope she had
so fondly cherished, and promised lady Jacintha that she would never again
mention the duke of Aberdeen's alliance, but would use all her influence with
the earl and her son, nor ever give up the point till she saluted her lady
Rushdale.
Lady Jacintha embraced the countess,
promised to consign her error to oblivion, and bade her resume her gaiety, for
the abigails knew their own interest better than to prate.
The waiting gentlewomen being called
in, lady Torrington presented Mrs. Garnett with five guineas, for the
assistance she had rendered in extinguishing the fire.
Lady Jacintha then very kindly
begged Mrs. Smithson would take care of her arm (which she had been the means
of scorching); and with many obliging wishes for her dear friend’s repose, she retired
exultingly to her own chamber.
The unfortunate Mrs. Smithson had to
encounter a storm of rage, for having neglected to lock the dressing-room door,
through which oversight that detested creature, lady Jacintha, had gained
admittance.
Mrs. Smithson said she had locked
it, and that it was all the count’s fault; he ought to have waked her when he
went away. It was not to be supposed she could keep her eyes open for ever, any
more than other people; and though far from being pleased with the demolition
of her new muslin dress, she added, “it was lucky the door was not locked, for
it had most likely been the saving of their lives.”
“But it has been the ruin of my
reputation,” returned lady Torrington; “it has placed me in the power of an
envious, malicious woman—it has engaged me in a hateful promise; I would sooner
see him dead than married to that detestable creature—poor Oscar!”
“My beautiful new sprigged muslin is
burnt to pieces,” said Mrs. Smithson, crying; “if I had been allowed to go to
my bed, I should not have met that loss. There is not so much of it left as
will make me a frill; and here is my arm all blistered. I am sure I meet
nothing but losses and crosses.”
Lady Torrington was too much in the
power of her woman to let her suffer any sort of loss; she immediately gave her
five guineas to buy a new dress, and told her to take an expensive muslin she had only worn twice.
Mrs. Smithson ceased to complain;
she thanked her lady, and retired to sleep; while the countess, though she
closed her eyes, was kept awake with the reflection that she was completely in
the toils of lady Jacintha, who, no doubt, at that very moment, was exulting in
her disgrace, and laying plans to catch the heart of her noble-minded son.
Lady Jacintha was indeed exulting;
she had laughed heartily at the terror of Smithson, and at lady Torrington’s
weakness, whom she had actually talked into a confession of that guilt, which, had
she stoutly denied, it would have been impossible to prove against her.
“I suppose, my lady,” said Mrs.
Garnett, “having diskivered this crim. con. affair, you will set off
directly. I shall be rather sorry to go too, for that Mr. Tripton is sitch a
droll creter, with his kan-mag nanecdotes, as he calls them.”
“You will certainly have the pleasure
of enjoying Mr. Tripton’s agreeable society some time longer,” said lady
Jacintha. “I have no proof, Garnett, against the countess; and if I had, I
don’t expect to find my friends saints; and if there was really any thing
wrong, why the vices and errors of our acquaintance are not catching.”
“So I say, my lady,” returned
Garnett, highly pleased they were not to depart, Mr. Tripton having made the
castle a very agreeable place.
Lady Jacintha rewarded Mrs. Garnett
with a lilac sarsnet dress, almost as good as new; and bidding her remember
that she had sworn, and been well paid to keep lady Torrington’s secret,
dismissed her to repose.
Lady Jacintha then sought her
pillow. In her dreams the scene with the countess was renewed; and when she
awoke at a late hour the following day, her first thought was triumph; her
first words were—“Lady Torrington is now my slave; her reputation is in my
power. Lord Rushdale will be obliged to offer me his hand, or I expose his
mother, and cover him with disgrace.”
But second thoughts, and a
consultation with her prime minister, Mrs. Smithson, had inspired lady
Torrington with resolution to put lady Jacintha to defiance.
CHAP. IV.
All that the world affords of art,
All that of cunning you can find,
Is nourish’d warm in woman’s heart,
Is bred in her deceitful mind.
And all that’s good, or chaste or bright,
In truth is found in woman too:
Her rosy smile’s the beam of light
That points to heav’n man’s erring view.
Ye youths, be careful how you love;
Place, when you do, your choice aright,
For woman, when a wife, will prove
An angel pure—or devil quite!
…………
“Good gentlemen, I thank you for your loves:
But neither will I wed, so please you.”
Disappointment—Castle-building.
THE reflections of
the countess of Torrington, on the following morning, were not of an enviable
nature; she severely condemned herself for want of that presence of mind so
essential in fashionable dilemmas; she blamed herself for being deficient in
that necessary assurance, by the aid of which she might have confounded and
confuted the bold artful lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, who, by the torrent and
rapidity of her accusations and reproaches, had thrown her entirely off her
guard, and, by mere dint of effrontery, had talked her into criminating
herself.
Lady Torrington was no stranger to
the malignant disposition of her dear friend, and she wept for vexation to
think that, by her own folly, she had so committed herself to the power of a
woman, who would have the greatest delight in exposing her errors.
But second thoughts were always
considered best—a brilliant idea dried up lady Torrington’s tears. She boldly
determined on denying every syllable of what had passed between her dear friend
and herself; and having given the ductile Mrs. Smithson a preliminary lesson,
she became quite composed and easy, convinced that this measure would
effectually emancipate her from the toils of the wily lady Jacintha, whom, she
was quite certain, lord Rushdale would never accept for a wife, even if she
could so far overcome her aversion as to receive her as a daughter.
Having arranged this disagreeable
affair to her entire satisfaction, she requested Smithson to shake up her
pillows, and issued a command, on no account to disturb her before noon.
The countess of Torrington always
took her déjeuné in her
dressing-room, of which lady Jacintha frequently partook; but this morning
Smithson had orders to say the countess was extremely unwell—an unnecessary
caution, for so satisfied was lady Jacintha with the success of her scheme,
that she reposed supinely in the arms of the drowsy god, nor even dreamt that
the half-witted countess had concerted its complete bouleversement.
When these dear friends met in the
drawing-room, a few minutes before the bell rang for dinner, even the undaunted
lady Jacintha Fitzosborne envied the unvarying cheek, and air of perfect
oblivion, with which the countess received her salutation; but this envy was
succeeded by absolute astonishment, when she saw her ladyship present the count
del Montarino with his gold box.
“Your snuff, count,” said she, with
an air of perfect innocence, “is most excellent; it afforded my head great
relief, and I am infinitely obliged to you, though the ease it procured me was
productive of rather a serious accident.”
The earl of Torrington asked—“What
has happened?”
“Why poor Smithson,” replied the
countess, “who fancied me much worse than I really was, determined, entirely
without my knowledge, to sit up in my dressing-room, that she might be at hand
if I wanted any thing; but sleep overcame her good intentions, and
unfortunately she set herself and the draperies of the toilet and window on
fire.”
“Has Smithson suffered much?”
inquired lord Rushdale.
“Only a little scorch on her arm,
and the loss of a new muslin dress,” returned the countess; “but Heaven knows
where the accident would have ended! most fatally, I fear, if lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne had not smelt fire, and came in time to prevent any further loss
than a few yards of silk and muslin, which is of no consequence, and is good
for trade, you know.”
“It is well it is no worse,” said
the earl.
“But the best part of the story,”
resumed the countess, “remains to be told. Smithson, it seems, had been
dreaming that I was married to the count del Montarino, and waking, in terror,
ran to my chamber-door, calling upon the count and me to save our lives—Ha, ha,
ha, ha, ha! I declare I have laughed excessively to think, lady Jacintha, what
your ideas must have been at seeing the confusion of poor bewildered Smithson.”
Most of the party laughed, though
the mind of each made its own comment.
Lady Jacintha, trembling with rage
and disappointment, muttered—“Matchless effrontery!”
Lord Rushdale indistinctly caught
her exclamation, and coloured scarlet deep.
The earl threw a glance of scrutiny
on the count.
And lady Torrington then said a few
words, in a low whisper, to colonel St. Irwin, who replied—“You will do well to
effect it as soon as possible.”
From this moment the countess did
her utmost possible to avoid being alone with her dear friend, who perceived
that she had nothing to expect from the promise she had extorted, and that the
counterplot of the countess had left her no dependence but upon her own
allurements and attractions.
Lord Rushdale was still polite; and
if she could but keep that young witch, Miss Delmore, at a distance, she might
make an impression on his heart; it would be double triumph to mount the
towering height of her ambition without the assistance or concurrence of the
countess. To this end she put on a gentle serious behaviour, and affected the
affable and sentimental.
While, with all the artful softness
she could throw into her look and voice, she was reading Prior’s “Nut-Brown
Maid” with lord Rushdale, sir Middleton Maxfield burst into the little
drawing-room, and, after a loud and boisterous laugh, said—“Are you two
studying love or politics?”
“Neither, sir,” replied lady
Jacintha, gravely.
“Shut up your book then, and
prepare——”
“For what?” asked lord Rushdale.
“By Jupiter, she is coming! I had
the honour of a bow and a smile; such a rosy blush, such a dimpled smile! How
you stare, instead of returning me thanks for the happy tidings!”
The envious feelings of lady
Jacintha informed her it was Miss Delmore sir Middleton meant. To hide her
vexation she again pretended to read.
Lord Rushdale, scarcely less
agitated, asked—“Who is coming, sir Middelton?”
Lady Jacintha felt a shock, worse
than the chilling touch of the torpedo, when sir Cyril Musgrove joined them,
exclaiming—“Take care of your hearts! The renowned ‘Lady of the Lake,’ the
‘Queen of the Island of Calm-Delights,’ the fairy Benigna, is arrived!”
“What influence the earl of
Torrington must possess, to persuade the recluse to quit her cell!” said sir
Middleton. “Oh that I possessed the persuasive powers of lord Torrington! I
know a little charming——”
“Pshaw, your charmer!” interrupted
Sir Cyril, “compared to the charmer Mrs. Doricourt brings in her suit, is a
mere Blowzabella; and though I confess my curiosity to see this rara avis, this ne plus ultra of all perfection, the ‘Lady of the Lake,’ yet
I would gladly resign that pleasure to be favoured with one approving smile
from that dove, that bird of Paradise, that phoenix!—help me to some terms,
Rushdale, to express timidity, sweetness, unparalleled beauty!”
“If it were past the dinner hour,”
said lady Jacintha, disdainfully, “I should really suppose, sir Cyril, you had
taken too liberally of your favourite pink champaigne.”
“Pink champaigne!” repeated he,
“flat as the drainings of your grandmother’s posset-bowl, compared with the
beauty I am speaking of! a single glance of her eye is a thousand times more
exhilarating than nectar! and, ‘blest as the
immortal gods is he——’ No, I am wrong there—will he be, is the
proper phrase—who shall call the divine, enchanting, beautiful, adorable Cecilia his!”
Sir Cyril had talked himself into a
heat—he threw himself on a chair, and requested lady Jacintha to fan him.
“I had forgot,” said lord Rushdale,
rising, “that I have some arrangements to make before dinner.”
“I wonder I was not informed,”
rejoined lady Jacintha, haughtily, “that Mrs. Doricourt was expected to dinner;
but, n’importe, my toilet is soon
made.”
Lord Rushdale had left the room, and
lady Jacintha was about to follow, when sir Cyril, starting up, placed his back
against the door.—“Your beauty is resplendent enough,” said he, “and wants no
improvement; you cannot fear being eclipsed by the little dryade.”
“Of such a consequence resulting
from her beauty,” returned lady Jacintha, scornfully, “I have assuredly not
thought; nor, indeed, to confess the truth, of her possessing beauty at all. I
really pity the poor thing! she will be flattered into a belief that she is a
divinity.”
“Envy, by Jove!” rejoined sir
Middleton Maxfield; “sheer envy! There is no flattery in the case, for we all
think her angelic.”
“We!”
echoed lady Jacintha; “that we is
truly ridiculous. Do you arrogate to yourself the plural of royalty, sir
Middleton?”
“Certainly not, lady Jacintha,”
replied he. “Do I, Musgrove?”
“On the subject of Miss Delmore’s
beauty,” replied sir Cyril, “there is—there can be but one opinion—‘She is the
peerless Rosaline!”
“Upon my word, gentlemen, you
enlighten my ignorance,” said lady Jacintha, endeavouring to smother her
resentment; “I never before understood that Miss Delmore was considered more
than tolerably pretty.”
“Elegant, beautiful, divine!” said
sir Cyril.
“Charming, graceful, fascinating,”
rejoined sir Middleton.
“More
than painting can express!” returned sir Cyril.
“Or
youthful poets fancy when they love!” exclaimed sir Middleton.
Their intention was to torment lady
Jacintha, and they succeeded to their utmost wish.
“’Pon my honour, lady Jacintha, Miss
Delmore is the brilliant cynosure on which all male eyes fix: if you doubt my
assertion,” continued sir Cyril, “ask Wilmot, Rushdale, Montarino, Maxfield, St. Irwin—nay, even the earl of Torrington; they will all
tell
you——”
“Nothing that I have the smallest
ambition to hear,” interrupted lady Jacintha; “and, really, gentlemen, your
detaining me here, to fatigue me with a subject so little interesting, is not
very creditable to your politeness. I insist, sir Cyril, you will allow me to
pass—I shall be too late to dress.”
“Beg ten thousand pardons; sorry to
have discomposed—detained I mean. ’Pon my honour, I must go and pay my devoirs
to my reflector.”
“Curse reflection!” rejoined sir
Middleton; “I never reflect—it makes me dull and stupid.”
“Time enough yet though, to adonize,”
resumed sir Cyril, pulling out his watch.
“Oh time, what an
enemy art thou to youth and beauty!”
“Make the most of it then,” said sir
Middleton, “while it lasts; live while you can, that’s my motto.”
Lady Jacintha’s patience was at the
last gasp, when sir Cyril resumed.—“The divine Cecilia is worth a little
attention to the graces; and, if I don’t take care to improve every advantage,
Rushdale will cut me out.”
“Do you suppose,” asked lady
Jacintha, affecting indifference, “that lord Rushdale troubles himself about
how he appears in the eyes of the housekeeper’s niece?”
“He has no other care on earth,”
replied sir Cyril; “he is in love with her unnumbered fathoms deep—no plummet
can sound the depth of his affection——”
“Or of your folly,” said lady
Jacintha, angrily. “I will be kept here no longer, sir Cyril—let me pass!”
“Not till you promise me to employ your muse in writing an ode.”
“To nonsense?” asked lady Jacintha.
“A triumphal ode,” said sir Cyril.
“On what occasion?” demanded lady
Jacintha.
“On the rapturous occasion——” sir
Cyril paused; “no,” said he, “no, the time is not ripe.
‘Still be the secret
lock’d within my breast—
I would not have my
cherish’d purpose guess’d.’
’Pon my veracity,
that couplet is my own—egad, I believe if I only applied a little, I should
soon rival lord Byron, Walter Scott, and Tom Moore. I have infinitely
undervalued my own abilities, no doubt; with a little, a very little study, I
might be able to compose and ode
myself on the happy occasion.”
“On what occasion?” again asked lady
Jacintha.
“A very joyous one to be sure,”
replied sir Cyril; “every line glowing with transport, bliss, delight; flutes
breathing, graces dancing, Venus scattering roses, Cupid, with golden bow and
flaming torch——”
“And Hymen,” said lady Jacintha,
“bringing——”
“Brawling and squalling,”
interrupted sir Cyril, “tears, hysterics, murmurings, contradictions, and
repentance—Nothing in the shape of matrimony, I am much obliged to you. I have
not the least objection to give a diamond ring to a fair lady, but not a plain
gold one. It is time enough for me to submit my shoulders to the jugum conjugale.”
“You are right—my maxim exactly.
None but fools marry,” rejoined sir Middleton Maxfield.
“At any rate,” replied sir Cyril,
“it will be time enough for me to do penance for my sins twenty years hence.”
Again sir Cyril looked at his watch—
“My hour is come,” said he, and
removing from the door, suffered lady Jacintha to depart.
“’Pon my honour, she bore it
famously, Maxfield,” said sir Cyril; “but we must never hope to be forgiven.”
Sir Middleton laughed.—“If her eyes
had been swords,” replied he, “the spiteful devil would have run us through. I
never knew lady Jacintha allow another woman beauty in my life. Our praise of
Miss Delmore has, I am certain, deprived her of all appetite—she will eat no
dinner.”
That sir Cyril Musgrove had some
project floating in his brain, lady Jacintha had no doubt. Perhaps it was as
well she should be ignorant in the business, if it concerned Cecilia, to whose
fate, good or ill, she was altogether indifferent, so it removed her from lord
Rushdale. From her dressing-room window she beheld the object of her hatred,
glowing in youthful beauty, and near her stood lord Rushdale. He gathered a
rose, and presented it to Cecilia, who received it with a smile, and placed it
in her bosom. Mad with jealousy, lady Jacintha found a thousand faults with
Mrs. Garnett, whom she had almost fatigued to death with
putting on and pulling off the whole of her wardrobe. At last Mrs. Garnett,
with smothering her resentment, grew quite ill, and sinking on the ground, fell
into hysterics.
Lady Jacintha was now reduced to the
necessity of finishing dressing herself, and with that, and exclaiming against
servants pretending to be fatigued, and having fine feelings, she so exhausted
her spirits, pretty well strained before by sir Cyril Musgrove and sir
Middleton Maxfield, that she was obliged to take sal volatile, and apply to her eau de luce, before she was able to descend to the drawing-room,
where she had to undergo the disagreeable ceremony of introduction to another
prodigy of beauty and perfection.
“Heaven defend me,” exclaimed she,
“from a femme savante! I detest
all wit but my own, and on that account refused an introduction to the Blue
Stocking club; and now to be sickened with a beauty and a wit!—it is too much
for mortal endurance. And here comes another of my torments,” said she,
mentally, as lady Eglantine Sydney inquired if her toilet was finished? “From
this faduer, this petit beguele, this worse than automata, if worse can be, Heaven deliver
me!” thought lady Jacintha. “If I were but heiress to the wealth of her father,
I cared not how soon she reposed in the monument of her ancestors.”
Lady Eglantine Sydney having settled
in her own mind a very important point, came to the dressing-room of her
cousin, to announce her intention of setting off in a few days for Weymouth,
from whence her aunt, the honourable Mrs. Mabel Oldstock, had written, to
request she would join her, as soon as politeness would allow her to take leave
of the earl and countess of Torrington.
“What, in the name of all
extraordinary things, can have taken the stately old maid to Weymouth?” said
lady Jacintha. “I greatly fear this journey augurs contempt on the right
honourable name of Oldstock; as sure as fate, Eglantine, aunt Mabel is gone to
Weymouth, to try the force of her charms; weary of ‘single blessedness,’ she is on the look-out for a husband.”
“For shame, cousin,” lisped lady
Eglantine, “don’t speak so disrespectful.”
“Well, I admire you for that,”
returned lady Jacintha; “disrespectful, truly!—Pray are not you anxious to
enter the respectable state of matrimony? and is not every single woman on the
look-out for a husband?”
“No,” replied lady Eglantine, “for I
am quite certain——”
“You have secured one,” said lady
Jacintha; “the incomparable youth lord Melvil. Don’t trouble yourself to
contradict me, my sweet gentle coz.”
“I declare, Jacintha, you are the
strangest creature—I am sure I wish——”
“I know you do,” resumed lady
Jacintha; “you wish aunt Mabel would die.”
“Me, cousin!” exclaimed lady
Eglantine; “me so unnatural as to wish so kind a relation to die?”
“Yes, you, cousin,” replied lady
Jacintha; “and for my part, I see nothing unnatural in the wish; she is an old
woman, gouty, and asthmatic—you are a young woman, handsome, and in love; now
if you could persuade her to die, her fourteen thousand a year would be a very
pretty beginning for you and Melvil.”
“How careless you talk about aunt
Mabel’s fortune, cousin,” said lady Eglantine, “when you know you have as much
right as I have to expect——”
“Not a single foot of her land, or a
guinea of her cash,” returned lady Jacintha. “I have offended past all hope of
forgiveness: ever since the unfortunate likeness I discovered between her and a
picture of Shakespeare’s Sycorax, she never called me niece, or gave me an
invitation to her house; and having, when we met at lady Norberry’s, thrown out
some little witticism about ‘withering on
the virgin thorn,” the old lady, craning her scraggy neck, and
placing her skinny hands before her, with more than her usual formality,
said—‘Lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, your rudeness is intolerable, your attempts at
satire despicable, and your manner so bold, that I fear I shall never see you
so respectable a character as an old maid.’ She then screwed up her portal of
intelligence, as Wilton calls it, and never on any occasion afterwards honoured
me with the slightest recognition. ‘Unwary
pleasantry’ has lost me aunt Mabel’s favour; depart this life when
she may, she will bequeath me only her displeasure, and unless I can persuade
some rich fool to marry me, have no better prospect than sinking into aunty’s
respectable character of an antiquated virgin.”
Lady Eglantine, tender, gentle, and
silly as she appeared, was as deep a plotter as her cousin, and had artfully
kept alive her aunt’s resentment, which, but for her insinuations and false
reports, would have been forgotten. But lady Eglantine knew that her father, ambitious
and mercenary, would never consent to her marrying lord Melvil. She was deeply
in love—in her eyes Melvil was all perfection—besides, he had sworn to destroy
himself if she deceived him; and he doated on her with such an extravagance of
passion, and had her interest so much at heart, that he persuaded her to go to
Weymouth, where her aunt being unwell, would consider her leaving the gaieties
of a young party at Torrington Castle, as an incontrovertible proof of her
affection, and most amiable disposition; and when at Weymouth, he hoped to
persuade her to a private marriage; his apprehension, if not his jealousy,
being excited by a letter he had been permitted to read, from lady Eglantine’s
mother, in which she was bade to prepare herself to receive the marquis of
Dudley, on his return from his travels, who, through the duke of Abberville,
his uncle, had made proposals for her fair hand. But lady Eglantine had vowed
to be the wife of Melvil, and the approbation of fathers and uncles was of no
consequence.
Lord Melvil acted the jealous and
despairing lover—he raved and entreated—she wept, consented that he should
follow her to Weymouth, and promised that she would marry him, as soon as the
ceremony could be performed without the dread of discovery.
By the poor lord Melvil this was “a consummation devoutly to be wished,” for
the fortune of lady Eglantine was necessary to support his rank; of her person
he was already weary, even before marriage, and he was eager for the
performance of the ceremony, that he might be at liberty to act the perfect
indifference he felt.
Lady Jacintha, of proud unyielding
spirit, had never been able to conform to the formal restrictions and
old-fashioned decorum of her aunt Oldstock; and she reconciled herself to the
probability of lady Eglantine being her heiress, with the hope of obtaining
from her weakness what she had lost by her own flippancy.—“Poor aunt Mabel!”
said she, as she descended with her cousin to the drawing-room; “I ought to
have remembered that a woman, let her age be what it may, never pardons or
forgets a reflection on her person.”
When the cousins entered the
drawing-room, Mrs. Doricourt had been introduced to all the party, themselves
excepted, and, spite of lady Jacintha’s effrontery, she felt insignificant
beneath the glance of her dark eye, which seemed to pierce into her inmost
thoughts.
Cecilia’s dress, a white sarsenet,
simply but elegantly trimmed, occupied lady Eglantine’s thoughts; her coral
earring and necklace set off the dazzling whiteness of her neck, and lady
Eglantine determined to have a set of coral exactly like Miss Delmore’s,
because they were so pretty and becoming.
Lady Jacintha’s eyes, in restless
movement, wandered from Cecilia to lord Rushdale, to discover the effect her
beauty had upon him. His countenance was bright with pleasure—he was no longer
pensive, but joined in the sprightly jest and elegant repartee, with all the
gaiety of happiness.
Lady Jacintha was mortified; his
eyes had never sparkled, nor his lips smiled on her, in the way they now did;
and on whom? a girl of low birth, a dependant. Pride and indignation swelled
her bosom; but when dinner was announced, and she saw him lead Cecilia into the
salle-à-manger, and placed
himself between Mrs. Doricourt and her, utterly regardless of her own superior
rank, her melancholy reproachful glances, it required all the art of the haut ton to prevent her looks and words
from crushing to the earth her unconscious rival, whose innocent mind felt only
sensations of pleasure. She beheld her almost-worshipped friend receiving the
homage due to her superior elegance of mind and manner—she saw the smile of
affability on the rich coral lip of lord Rushdale—she heard him addressing her
in a voice of respectful tenderness, and she had not one uneasy thought or wish
ungratified.
Lady Jacintha was placed opposite
the trio, between lord Wilton and sir Middleton Maxfield; the one spoke of
Drawley’s wonderful resuscitation, who was now all assiduous attention to the
countess, and was uttering bon mots to
the astonishment of Miss Maxfield.
Her brother talked of his
determination to win back his hundred pounds in some way or other.
Lady Jacintha’s thoughts were on the
other side of the table; and when applied to by the gentlemen, blundered out a negative
for an affirmative, in reply to their questions: bent upon disturbing lord
Rushdale’s pleasure, whenever she saw him engaged in conversation with Cecilia,
she contrived to want to be helped to something that stood near him, or to ask
him some question; to which having replied, to her great mortification, he
resumed his attentions and conversation with Mrs. Doricourt and Cecilia.
The countess, informed of the family
and great wealth of Mrs. Doricourt, paid her a marked attention, which was
highly pleasing to the earl; but this conduct, almost servile, did not impose
on Mrs. Doricourt, who perceived at once the homage paid to her adventitious
possessions; the sauve of the
countess to herself did not eradicate from her mind the recollection of the unfeeling
hauteur with which she had
insulted the lovely innocent Cecilia on her introduction; but this the countess
having herself condescended to forget, she did not suppose any other person
would have the temerity to remember.
As lady Welford, Mrs. Doricourt with
much pleasure recognised a pupil of her mother’s; and, though she had never
evinced brilliant talents, Mrs. Doricourt remembered many instances of her
goodness of heart; and now, after the lapse of years, she was happy to find,
among so many flirts and coxcombs, one woman of rank escaped from the contagion
of folly, and preserving an unblemished reputation, with whom she could
converse rationally, and whose dress and manners neither outraged decency, nor
descended to vulgarity.
When the ladies retired to the
drawing-room, Mrs. Doricourt took out her netting, and Cecilia, seated near
her, prepared to finish a gold chain.
“La, how pretty!” said Miss
Maxfield; “well, I declare, I should like to make a chain too; only I don’t
think I should have patience, and then it seems so difficult.”
“Not at all,” replied Cecilia; “I
shall have much pleasure in teaching you.”
“Dear, you are very good; well,
then, I will begin to-morrow.”
“To do what, Jemima?” asked Mrs.
Freakley.
“To make a chain to hold her lovers
with,” said lady Eglantine.
“The chain must be a gold one,”
rejoined Miss Maxfield.
“Sans
doute,” said lady Jacintha, “no other will be strong enough.”
“Why, la! it does not require to be
strong,” returned Jemima, “just to bear a locket.”
“Pardonnez
moi,” said lady Jacintha; “I thought it was to bear matrimony.”
Mrs. Freakley looked displeased, for
though her niece did not take her ladyship’s meaning, she did, and with some
tartness she replied—“I hope, with her gold chain, Jemima will secure herself a
husband before she is thirty, for I should be very sorry to see her an envious
old maid.”
Lady Jacintha did not choose to
suppose this speech directed to her, and throwing herself in a graceful
attitude, on a chaise lounge, she
protested her amazement that Drawley had relinquished the INDOLENT, while the
weather continued so very warm.—“I really feel inclined to take up the
character,” said she, “only I detest being a copyist.”
The countess admired the different
works of Mrs. Doricourt, Lady Welford, and Cecilia—declared she was ashamed of
her own idleness; but example was every thing, and she would positively
endeavour to work a flounce—“That is, if I have time.” said she, “for, à-propos, Mrs. Doricourt, we are going to
astonish all our neighbours with a fête
champêtre and a masquerade.”
“Oh
charmante! que ravit!” exclaimed lady Jacintha, “what an opportunity
for a display of talent!”
“The person may be shewn to great
advantage in a Polish dress,” said lady Eglantine.
“I was never at a masquerade—what is
it like?” asked Miss Maxfield.
“Every thing that is droll and
comical,” replied Mrs. Freakley; “a masquerade is like—dear me, nothing in the
world that I know of; it is an assembly where people meet together, in the
habits of all nations, with masques on their faces, and dance, and sing, and
talk scandal, and tell one another disagreeable truths.”
“Admirably described!” said lady
Jacintha.
Mrs. Freakley took irony for
compliment, and her bend of thanks had nearly produced a general laugh, when the
countess resumed—“And we are planning a theatre, Miss Delmore, where we expect
to shine, for part of our corps dramatique are
veterans in the histrionic art.”
Cecilia expressed much pleasure at
the prospect of witnessing a dramatic entertainment.
“Why where in the world have you
been buried all your life, Miss Delmore, never to have seen a play?” asked Miss
Maxfield. “La, how odd! I dare say I have seen a thousand.”
“A thousand! dear me, Jemima,”
observed Mrs. Freakley, “any person would believe you are an old woman, to hear
you talk; consider, my love, it was only last winter you came out.”
“La! aunt, you need not tell every
body when I came out,” replied Miss Maxfield; “but there you only do it to make
me look like a child; but never mind—I am not so very young, but I may get a
husband before you think for.”
Cecilia thought of the count del
Montarino, who that instant entered the room, with the rest of the gentlemen.
Mrs. Freakley laughed at what she
called the innocence of the Child of Nature.—“No fear, Jemima, my love,” said
she, “but what you will have offers enough—whether you will get a good husband
is the question.”
“To be sure I shall,” replied Miss
Maxfield; “I warrant I shall know how to choose, and to manage a husband,
though I am so young, as well as the rest of my acquaintance. La! Miss Delmore,
I have hardly had an opportunity of speaking to you since your return. I missed
you so, you can’t think; well, and how do you do, after your rustication, as
sir Cyril Musgrove calls it? I declare Mrs. Doricourt is very handsome, only
somehow she makes me afraid of her.”
“Because she is a Catholic?”
asked Cecilia.
“No,” replied Miss Maxfield, “not
for that altogether; but her eyes—I never saw such eyes—they look as if they
saw into one’s thoughts.”
“And have you any thoughts you wish
to conceal?” asked Cecilia.
“La! no, to be sure,” returned Miss
Maxfield, “what should I have to think about? Only look at lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne, how she shews her ancles—if any
body else was to loll in that way, she would be the first to say it was
indelicate. What can she be saying to the count? I hate her so, you can’t
think.”
“For speaking to the count del
Montarino do you hate her?” asked Cecilia, archly.
“Dear me, no—what do I care for the
count? La! Miss Delmore, you look at me as if you did not believe me,” said
Miss Maxfield, colouring, “just as if you suspected the count was going to run
away with me.”
“That would be a service of danger,
as you are unfortunately a ward of Chancery,” observed the honourable Tangent
Drawley, whose ear caught the latter part of Miss Maxfield’s speech; “so, vice versâ, child, you must run away with
the gentleman.”
“La, Mr. Drawley, how droll you
are!” replied Miss Maxfield; “how can I run away with a gentleman?”
“The easiest thing imaginable; if
you are determined on a matrimonial frolic, give me all your attention, and I
will put you in a way to baffle the big wigs and long gowns,” said Mr. Drawley;
“you must tie your lover, hand and foot, and throw him into a carriage; then
you must have a pair of loaded pistols, or a blunderbuss, to convince the gentlemen of the long robe, the big wigs, you know, that you used force, and put
him in bodily fear.”
“I never heard of a lady running
away with a gentleman,” returned Miss Maxfield, “and I am sure you are only
joking.”
“Serious as matrimony,” replied
Drawley, putting on a look of gravity; “why I would have run away with you
myself.”
“Would you though,” interrupted
Jemima; “and why did not you?”
“’Pon my veracity,” said Drawley,
ready to laugh, “because I was afraid of the consequences.”
Card-tables being set, this
conversation, so interesting to the Child of Nature, was interrupted.
Mrs. Doricourt and lady Welford
still remained at the work-table, while lady Jacintha, who always contrived to
win, was eagerly forming a party for rouge
et noir.
Cecilia knew nothing of cards, and
remained quietly engaged with her chain.
The count del Montarino had heard
Mrs. Doricourt was rich, and in the hope of easing her of some of her superfluous
cash, he used all his rhetoric to persuade her and lady Welford to join the
card-players; but Mrs. Doricourt had an opinion of her own, from which she
always acted, and the count, cursing her inflexibility, was obliged to give up
his point.
“You must learn to play at cards,”
said the earl of Torrington to Miss Delmore, “or what will become of you when
we get you to town? Come, I insist on your joining the rouge et noir party.”
Cecilia played like a novice; at
first she won considerably, but fortune was, as usual, capricious; and before
she rose from the table, she lost eleven guineas, which the earl insisted on
paying.
“ I am certain I shall never be a
gamester,” said Cecilia.
“And why not?” demanded the earl;
“our first women of fashion play deep.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” returned
Cecilia; “this fashionable amusement neither adds to their beauty, nor the
goodness of their tempers. Lady Jacintha and Mrs. Freakley really frightened
me! No, I shall never be a gamester.”
“Because you have been unfortunate
to-night?” asked the earl; “to-morrow you may be more successful.”
“I should never like cards,” replied
Cecilia, “even if I were sure to be a winner.”
“And wherefore?” demanded the earl.
“Because,” replied Cecilia, “I
should be satisfied that the money I won ought to
have been applied to the paying of more worthy debts than those contracted at a
card-table; and if I lost, I should regret having thrown away money that might
have been far better employed in acts of charity.”
The earl held a small note-case in
his hand. “You prove to me,” said he, “that you understand the real value of
money: receive this from your father, Cecilia—I will not have my first gift
refused.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said Cecilia;
“I have already to-night been indebted to your liberality.”
“You merely complied with my
desire,” replied the earl; “it was only fair that I should defray the expence of your being initiated. The approaching festivities will, of course,
require decoration—if you find the sum contained in this case,” presenting it,
“insufficient, do not hesitate to inform me. Mrs. Doricourt must not deprive me
altogether of the pleasure of providing for your wants.”
Cecilia would have excused herself
from accepting his present, but the earl closing her hand on the note-case,
added—“From me, Cecilia, who have pledged myself to be your father, you may,
without incurring the charge of impropriety, accept a present.”
He then joined colonel St. Irwin,
whose arm he took; they seemed in earnest conversation, and often turned their
eyes on Cecilia, as she seated herself beside Mrs. Doricourt, to whom she
repeated what had passed between herself and the earl of Torrington.
“I did not wish my Cecilia should
have obligations of a pecuniary nature, even to the earl of Torrington,” said
Mrs. Doricourt, “but you must not offend him by refusing his gift; as he
persists in considering you his daughter, there certainly can be no impropriety
attached to his making you a present.”
Lady Welford joined in Mrs.
Doricourt’s opinion, and Cecilia placed the note-case in her bosom.
The countess of Torrington now
joined them, and inquired of Cecilia if she had made a fortune at rouge et noir?
Cecilia mentioned the amount of her
loss.
“A mere trifle!” said the countess;
“but pray who was the winner?”
Cecilia believed lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne.
“As usual,” resumed the countess;
“no woman in England better understands mêler
bâton les cartes than lady Jacintha Fitzosborne; indeed some of her
acquaintance do not scruple to say her wardrobe is supplied by the board of
green cloth; but females of rank, who have slender fortunes, must support
appearances, or how are they to establish themselves in life?”
At this moment the earl approached,
and asked Mrs. Doricourt if she would allow him to conduct her to the
music-room?
Mrs. Doricourt, disgusted with lady
Torrington’s exposure of the woman she called her friend, was glad of an
opportunity to withdraw from the conversation.
Lord Rushdale took the hand of the
delighted Cecilia, and they passed on to the music-room.
As the countess followed, leaning on
the arm of Drawley, she said, with an affected sigh—“Malheur pour moi, I am neither gifted with a dulcet voice,
or a scientific finger.”
“Heureaux
fortune pour moi,” replied
Drawley, “or you would be too charming.”
“What flattery!” said the countess;
“mais allons, or we shall fall
under the censure of my doughty lord, for not paying sufficient homage to
madame, the reigning favourite.”
“Is it possible the earl can have a
favourite except yourself?” asked Drawley.
“How ridiculous!” exclaimed the
countess; “surely you must have been asleep for the last hundred years, or you
never could ask so absurd a question; with all his nonsensical pomp and
solemnity, I must do the earl of Torrington the justice to say, he pays, in
some points, a strict attention to fashionable customs; he is as politely
indifferent to his wife as any well-bred man need be.”
“And to other ladies?” said Drawley.
“Pardonnez
moi,” returned the countess; “as I am not at all inclined to
jealousy, I am not observant of his actions, and the whom, the when, and the
where, so far from rendering me uneasy, never enter my imagination.”
“How superlatively happy it would
make me,” said Drawley, “to know I had a place there!”
The countess turned her
really-handsome eyes on him, with a glance not calculated to annihilate him;
neither did her voice express displeasure, as she replied—“You! what confident
creatures men are—how they presume, if one condescends to bestow on them the
most trifling notice!”
The reply Drawley would have made
was prevented by Miss Maxfield.
“La! lady Torrington, did you hear
Mrs. Doricourt sing?”
“Yes,” replied Drawley; “we have not
stuffed our ears with cotton.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the countess,
vexed at the interruption of a conversation that was growing very interesting.
“Dear me, no!” said Miss Maxfield;
“the words are very sensible, I assure you—all about love being like a rose.
La! don’t you think Mrs. Doricourt sings better than lady Jacintha Fitzosborne?”
“Much better,” returned Drawley;
“she sings like a nightingale that has swallowed a jelly.”
“What a droll creature you are!”
said Miss Maxfield, tittering; “that’s the best joke I ever heard.”
Finding she could not get rid of
Miss Maxfield, lady Torrington moved towards the pianoforte, to join in
complimenting Mrs. Doricourt, who had just finished a beautiful canzonet from
Camoens. Lady Torrington had not heard a single note while Mrs. Doricourt sang;
but that did not signify—she was as loud in praise as those who had enjoyed the
delight of hearing her.
Cecilia’s alabaster arm rested on
the harp, on which she had been requested by lady Jacintha to accompany her in
a song she was selecting.
Lady Jacintha was in voice, and
would have got through extremely well, had she not observed the eyes of lord
Rushdale fixed on Cecilia, with such evident admiration as left no doubt of his
sentiments; love beamed in every feature of his fine face—love for a low-born
girl, a creature brought up upon charity, a dependant! Envy and indignation are
no friends to harmony—lady Jacintha was out of temper, and she sang out of
tune; but too polite to notice what was evident to every ear, the company
applauded, and lady Jacintha rose from the instrument with a haughty air, casting
looks of displeasure at the countess, who appeared to have entirely forgotten
their treaty of alliance, and her former contempt of Cecilia, to whom she
seemed desirous of atoning by every possible attention.
While lady Jacintha’s bosom was the
seat of anarchy, and she felt all the tortures of jealousy and offended pride,
the rest of the party appeared more than usually happy; nothing like discontent
appeared, every one willingly contributed the talent they possessed to add to
the general hilarity.
Lord Rushdale and Cecilia sang
duets, and Mrs. Doricourt and sir Middleton Maxfield joined in glees and trios.
Lady Eglantine Sydney warbled a pensive rondeau, and lady Jacintha, though
boiling with rage at the absolute desertion of Oscar, determined not to yield
the palm to her rival. She exerted all her powers of look and voice to win back
the wanderer; but, insensible to her allurements, lord Rushdale remained near
Cecilia; nor, at any period of his remembrance, had he enjoyed such perfect
felicity; he touched her hand, soft and white as the down of the cygnet; he saw
her smile, and heard her utter the refined sentiments of an innocent
unsophisticated mind; he felt that he loved her with a devoted affection, and
his heart made a vow never to marry unless Cecilia was his wife.
Lady Jacintha had noticed the
note-case in the folds of Cecilia’s dress, and jealousy prompted the belief
that it was a gift from lord Rushdale; with much satisfaction she saw it drop
from her bosom, and having the power to gratify a mean curiosity, she slyly
raised it from the ground, with the malicious hope of discovering something
that might render Cecilia less perfect in the opinion of lord Torrington.
It was not till Cecilia undressed,
that she discovered her loss, and to what extent she knew not. She had seen
that the note-case contained bank paper, but the amount she had not examined.
Her aunt Milman had been some time retired to bed, and she thought it useless
to disturb her; she therefore contented herself with telling the maid who
attended her to search for the note-case in the music-room, and where they had
supped; and having no doubt of its recovery, she soon fell asleep, unsuspicious
that lady Jacintha Fitzosborne was at that very moment arraigning fate, and execrating her malignant stars, that she could not
appropriate to her own use the four hundred pounds the note-case contained, the
signature of the earl of Torrington being so conspicuously written on the back
of each of the notes, as to render the erasure impossible; neither was there
any petit billet in the note-case
to confirm her own jealousy, or degrade Cecilia in the eyes of others. Throwing
the note-case on her toilet, she sat beating the carpet with her foot, and
exclaiming, that she was, of all created beings, the most unlucky; all her
schemes had failed, all her wishes had been disappointed, and, unless something
could be effected to separate Cecilia and lord Rushdale, she should be utterly
undone; all her creditors, whom she had put off with hints of her speedy marriage
with the heir of Torrington, would be clamorous for their demands, and nothing
but flight to a foreign country would preserve her from the horrors of
incarceration.
Lady Torrington, since the moment of
her presenting his snuff-box to the count in full assemblée, had
actually regarded lady Jacintha with an eye of defiance, and seemed to menace a
determined purpose to deny her confession of error, of which, unhappily, she
had no proof beyond assertion; and though her account might be believed by some, it
would militate but little against her dear friend’s reputation in haut ton, where her rank, her power of
giving splendid entertainments, would always attract the idle and dissipated,
who would neither see or hear what was likely to deprive them of pleasure.
These uneasy reflections kept lady
Jacintha tossing on her pillow long after the countess had sunk to rest, for
the consciousness of
error disturbed not her bosom; she had defeated lady Jacintha, whose wit she had often envied; and her triumph made
her forgetful that a moment might yet arrive, when she should stand exposed to
the resentment of her husband, the scorn of the world, and the remorseful
upbraidings of her own conscience.
With the morning came new
reflections—the handsome person of the late insensible Drawley, who, having
thrown off the INDOLENT, was a very charming young man. As to the count del
Montarino, he was grown odious to her remembrance; she wished, with all her
soul, he was hanged, his neck was broke, he was married, or had met any other
disaster, no matter what, that would take him for ever from her sight.
While the countess of Torrington sat
sipping her chocolate, and musing on the means of getting rid of the
troublesome, disagreeable count, the earl, her husband, suddenly entered her
dressing-room. A kind of consciousness gave an uneasy twinge to her mind; but
she was too great an adept in the effrontery of bon ton to suffer it to suffuse her cheek, or embarrass her
manner. Lady Torrington received her lord, if not with the smile of innocence,
with the assumption of smiling affability; she held out her white hand to him,
called him dear Wilfred, and said it was so kind, so gallant of him to take his
déjeuné with her—she was quite
delighted, it was such an unexpected pleasure, so nouveau, that he should prefer a tête-à-tête with his wife, when there were so many more jeunes belles at the castle.
The earl did not even smile at this
pretty badinage. He gravely
seated himself at the breakfast-table; and when the countess had exhausted her
exclamations of surprise and pleasure, he bade Smithson leave the room.
This appeared the prelude to
a storm, and her ladyship, unwilling to encounter it alone, said—“But if
Smithson goes, who is to attend? for I never admit the men-servants here.”
“We will wait upon ourselves for
once,” replied the earl; “it will be novelty, and must on that account prove
agreeable.”
Lady Torrington, convinced she was
to undergo a lecture, prepared to receive it with the spirit and dignity of a
fashionable wife.
The door closed on Smithson, who was
glad to escape, and the earl very provokingly said—“Do not let your ladyship’s
vanity set down my visit to the score of compliment or gallantry; I am not come
to flatter, but to have a little serious conversation with you.”
“Mon
Dieu, serious!” repeated lady Torrington. “No, for pity’s sake! you
will vapour me to death; I detest every thing serious.”
“I seriously believe you, upon my
honour,” resumed the earl; “but though I may chance to displease—nay, to give
you the vapours, I shall persevere in telling you what I consider necessary to
my own dignity——”
“Ciel!”
interrupted the countess; “what are you going to tell me?”
“That I am heartily tired, madam,”
said the earl, “of the count del Montarino’s extended visit.”
“I am sure so am I,” returned the
countess; “I was never so weary of seeing any person in my life.”
“And more than this,” continued lord
Torrington, “his particular attention to you, and the encouragement you have
given him, have raised suspicions that I——”
“That you have no right either to
feel or mention,” interrupted the countess. “When did I ever appear piqued, or
interfere with your gallantries? Pray, my lord, did I resent your attentions to
Miss O’Rooke, the Irish beauty, though every body at Belfast saw your
attachment? Did I ever once appear offended, or take the least notice of your
amour with the duchess de Valencourt?”
“I confess,” said the earl,
ironically, “you have been most gentle, amiable, and uncomplaining.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the countess,
“common justice obliges you to allow that.”
“But if you had been uneasy, if you
had upbraided me, Emily, it would have been a proof that my affection was of
some consequence to you. But do not suppose that the infidelity of a husband
authorizes the libertinism of a wife, or that the vices——”
“Libertinism! vices!” echoed the
countess, resentfully. “Really, my lord, your language goes beyond my
comprehension. Whatever your own vices may be, I am not conscious that I
deserve to be reproached with any.”
“I will soften the term,” resumed
lord Torrington; “to accommodate your delicacy, I will speak of your errors.”
“You are superlatively polite,”
returned the countess, with a sneer; “but I do not remember having acknowledged
any errors.”
“Possibly not,” said the earl, “and
they may perhaps exist only in suspicious idea. I trust it is so; but you must
acknowledge, Emily, that the world will judge from appearance, and the count
del Montarino, not my friend, but yours—not my guest, but yours, may—nay, does give
license to the tongue of slander; and remember, whatever stains your fame, must
communicate its plague-blotch to your husband’s.”
“I am sure I wish I had never seen
the count,” replied lady Torrington. “Who could have believed he would have
fixed himself upon us when he came to England? I should be excessively glad to
get rid of him; but how to manage his dismissal without being absolutely rude——
“It must be done, manage it in what
way you will,” said the earl. “I will not be made a subject of ridicule to fops
and flirts—I will not suffer the world to point me out as an easy fool, a
blind, convenient husband.”
“I am sure,” returned lady
Torrington, “the world is too well bred to behave so absurdly; and I believe
the circle of my acquaintance have errors of their own to attend to, without
commenting upon mine.”
“You are mistaken,” said the earl;
“it is those who are most conscious of impropriety, who are the first to seek
and point out the failings of others. But of this you cannot be ignorant; and
understand me, Emily, the manners of Italy will not be countenanced in England;
here fashion itself does not allow a cecisbeo.
The count del Montarino must quit the castle.”
“The things is quite impossible at
present,” replied the countess. “At this particular time the count is so
useful.”
“I have so seldom contradicted your
whims, madam,” said earl, “that you presume on my indulgence; but in the
dismissal of the count you will find me peremptory; it is my command that he
quits the castle, and I will be obeyed.”
“Contre
mon gré!—bon gré, malgré!” exclaimed the countess. “You astonish me!
Where on earth could you pick up that obsolete word command? But jesting apart, I assure you, my lord, this
assumption of authority does not at all add to your agrémens. I have assured you that I am as weary of the count
as you can possibly be, and that I am to the full as anxious to get rid of him;
but then one must sacrifice a little to convenience; at this time the count’s
services will be extremely useful and absolutely necessary; indeed it is
impossibly to dispense with them, for how can I conduct the fête champêtre without his assistance? and
to do him only common justice, you must allow he has infinite taste, and is
extremely clever.—Yes, Wilfred, you must confess the disagreeable wretch is
perfectly au fait in these
entertainments, and understands the appropriate emblems, devices, and
decorations: when the fête champêtre
and the masquerade have taken place, the count can be spared—yes, yes, the
theatricals can be managed without him.”
“There are persons in town,” said
the earl, “who can manage these entertainments as well as the count. Send to
London for artists and mechanics, for I insist upon it, lady Torrington, that
you inform the count, that his visit has been disagreeably prolonged.”
“Pardonnez
moi,” replied the countess; “I can do any thing but be rude; you
know I have such an aversion to being rude.”
“Let it be my rudeness then,” said
the earl. “Tell him that the earl of Torrington, your husband, desires his absence—tell
him——”
“That you are jealous,” returned the
countess, laughing. “Well, really till now I never believed you cared about me;
but jealousy is a proof of love.”
“This trifling is ridiculous,” said
the earl, sternly. “Tell the count, madam, that I consider his removal as
necessary to your reputation.”
The countess let the spoon with
which she had been playing drop from her fingers—“My reputation!” reiterated
she, with a look which she intended to be dignified. “Does your lordship intend
to insult me?—Do you mean to insinuate a belief of impropriety in my conduct?”
The earl’s temper was naturally
irritable, and he warmly replied—“When a man is seen continuously following a
woman, like her shadow—when he eats, and sleeps, and actually lives under the
same roof with her, the world will take the liberty of making such comments as
they think applicable to the case; and if they are not altogether favourable to
the virtue of the lady who indulges her friendship in defiance of established
rule, she has no great reason to be offended.”
“Indulge!” repeated lady Torrington,
angrily. “I have never indulged myself in greater freedoms than other woman of
my rank allow themselves—I have never indulged my friendships in the way your
lordship has done—witness your passion for——”
“Emily, Emily,”
said the earl, “this is idle and useless recrimination. I confess I have been
much to blame; but remember, in these cases, no stain attaches to the character
of a man, while similar indulgences degrade a woman for ever. Custom authorizes
a freedom of conduct in our sex, which it never pardons in yours.”
“More shame for the customs of the
world then,” said the countess, “for if infidelity is sinful and infamous in
woman, it is equally so in man; and I think it very unjust indeed, that the
same act should be a matter of triumph and fame to one sex, while it stamps the
other with shame and disgrace. But man, when he made laws, took care they
should all be in his own favour.”
“This is a point I have not leisure
to argue,” replied the earl, “or I could convince you.”
“Indeed you could not.” said the
countess; “I must be an idiot not to perceive that man has done his possible to
make woman a patient, submissive slave.”
“Think as you please,” returned the
earl, rising. “Having explained the motive of my visit, I will take my leave; I
fear I have greatly trespassed on your time. Will you accept my apology?”
“Bless me! how excessively polite!”
exclaimed the countess, happy to be released from what she had all along
considered a wearying visit.
“I trust,” said the earl, “I have
never given you reason to complain of my rudeness.”
“Oh, no, my lord, certainly not,”
replied the countess; “you have always been extremely well behaved; I am sure
no one ever heard me complain of your want of politeness, whatever I might do
of your want of affection.”
“Emily, have you a heart?” asked the
earl, with a look and tone of seriousness.
“A heart! yes, I believe so,”
replied the countess. “Has not every person a heart? I never heard of any one
without one.”
“Can you say,” resumed the earl,
“that yours was bestowed on me?”
“Hem!” said the countess, pretending
to cough.
“Recollect, Emily,” continued the
earl, “ours was not a match of love.”
“Why not exactly, I believe,” said
the countess.
“Did you ever seek to gain my
affection?” asked the earl.
“Of that,” replied the countess,
“you ought to be able to judge.”
“True,” said the earl; “and I have
judged, and can, I believe, with truth aver, you never did. Vanity, not
affection, Emily, has had the empire of your heart; to be admired has been your
ruling passion—to be thought beautiful, your utmost wish; your own person is
your idol, and my mine acquits you of every other worship.”
“Vastly obliging indeed,” returned
the countess, surveying herself in the opposite mirror. “That I possess one
virtue, you must acknowledge, in an eminent degree.”
“Yes,” returned the earl, “a
constant, unvarying adoration of self; and let this amour proper prompt you to get rid of the count del
Montarino; do it in the way most agreeable to yourself, but let it be done
quickly. For the sake of your fame, Emily, I do not wish to quarrel with him,
which must inevitably be the case if I dismiss him; neither do I wish to assume
the authority of a husband, but in this instance I will be obeyed.”
“Grace
à Dieu!” exclaimed the countess, as the door closed on lord
Torrington. “Most assuredly I will obey, as is the duty of an obedient wife,
because in so doing I shall conform exactly with my own will. What can the poor
man have got in his wise head, I wonder. N’importe,”
continued she, with a nonchalante shrug of her shoulders; “it
is impossible to guess. The count del Montarino shall be informed that his
presence displeases the earl.—Yes, he shall certainly make his congee, because
it is my pleasure to dismiss him, or—But no matter; I will be a submissive
wife; the count SHALL depart; but not till he has arranged every thing for my fête champêtre and masquerade. Till then it is impossible
that I can spare my machinist, my chief director, till his inventive genius has
insured me the astonishment and envy of the whole country; then, nothing hurt
by le brandon de Cupidon, I shall
say—‘Adieu, mon cher ami, de tout mon coeur.”
The loss of the note-case did not
keep Cecilia waking, or obtrude on her dreams, but her first inquiry on
quitting her chamber was, whether it was found? The apartments had been
carefully searched, but nothing of the sort had been seen.
Vexed and angry with herself for
having been so very careless, Cecilia was about to communicate her loss to Mrs.
Doricourt, when she was prevented by the entrance of the earl of Torrington,
whose censure she felt she deserved, for having paid so little attention to his
gift, of which she did not even know the value.
Mrs. Doricourt had rested well, and
replied to the earl’s morning salutation with such cheerfulness, that his own
manner became lively, and he displayed a vein of pleasantry that rendered his
observations on men and manners entertaining as well as instructive. Having spoke
of the superstitions of different nations, the earl asked Mrs. Doricourt,
whether she believed in witchcraft?
Cecilia smiled as Mrs. Doricourt
replied, she had but little faith, and must be made to suffer before she could
believe.
“Cecilia then will find an advocate
in you,” resumed the earl, “for she is actually accused of having, with certain
magical spells, better known by the term—fascinating glances, shot from a pair
of beautiful hazel eyes, and with dimpled smiles—yes, madam, with ‘nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,’ she
has subjugated the heart of the reverend Mr. Oxley.”
“I positively deny the glances,
nods, becks, and smiles,” said Cecilia, blushing. I never——”
Regardless of this interruption, the
earl continued—“And this poor man, suffering all the wounds and torments thus
cruelly inflicted on him, humbly prays that I will use my judicial authority,
and closely examine the offender on the question, whether she will, in the face
of all men, make satisfaction?”
“Pray say no more, my lord, I
entreat you,” said Cecilia.
“Surely there is something more than
jesting in your lordship’s words, or wherefore should they occasion such
confusion?” asked Mrs. Doricourt. “Cecilia, my love, what am I to understand?”
“Only, my dear madam,” replied the earl,
“that the reverend Mr. Oxley has solicited my approbation and interest with
this fair lady, to whom he flatters himself that he shall render his addresses
agreeable. But what says Cecilia to this?” said the earl, fixing his dark eyes
with a scrutinizing glance on her face; “what answer does she return to the
pressing suit of this impassioned lover, ‘who fears, and hopes, but still his
hopes prevail?”
Cecilia was silent; from the earl’s
manner, half jesting, half serious, she believed he meant to advocate Mr.
Oxley’s suit; and she felt fearful of offending him, by rejecting a person of
his recommendation, though honour and inclination prompted her decided refusal
of a man she was certain she could never love.
Mrs. Doricourt was not attracted by
the person or manner of Mr. Oxley, though to her he had been most obsequiously
polite, from the moment of his introduction; but it was not impossible that
Cecilia might regard him with a more favourable eye. Well she knew that love
has the magical power of veiling imperfections, and decorating, in brilliant
attributes, the object of affection. Mrs. Doricourt dreaded, yet was anxious
for Cecilia’s decision—“Speak, my love,” said she; “do you approve Mr. Oxley?
Are you inclined to accept his addresses?”
Cecilia’s countenance bespoke the
perturbed state of her mind, as she falteringly replied—“I am too young to be
capable of deciding on a subject of such importance.”
“Speak to the point, my dear child,”
said Mrs. Doricourt. “Do you like Mr. Oxley?”
“I really don’t know,” returned
Cecilia; “I have never heard him in the pulpit.”
“Little prevaricator!” rejoined the
earl. “You are not questioned whether or not you approve him in his clerical
character; answer truly, do you like his person?”
“I have seen much handsomer men,”
replied Cecilia.
“Will you accept his addresses?”
asked the earl.
“Indeed,” returned Cecilia, “I had
much rather decline the honour.”
Mrs. Doricourt’s eyes brightened,
and one of her magical smiles played on her lip.
“And so you reject Mr. Oxley’s
addresses,” resumed the earl. “Can you have the cruelty to blight with your
scorn this lofty-minded man? Will you chill with disdain his aspiring hopes? I
see you pity the wounds you have inflicted—you will recant.”
“Never!” returned Cecilia; “indeed,
my lord, I am convinced I could never be happy with Mr. Oxley; there is too
great a disparity in our ages, our tastes, our dispositions; I am obliged to
him for the preference he has given me, but must decidedly decline taking
advantage of his partiality, and sincerely wish him happiness with another.”
“My dear child!” said the earl,
assuming his natural gravity, and affectionately pressing her hand, “your
candid refusal proves the goodness of your heart; your decision, my sweet,
ingenuous girl, meets my warm approbation. Mr. Oxley is by no means the husband
I should select for you; and I am pleased that you reject him.”
Cecilia’s mind was again at ease,
and her lovely face was radiant with smiles.
Mrs. Doricourt wondered that a man
of Mr. Oxley’s apparent age should have thought of marrying a person so many
years younger than himself.
“Mr. Oxley, madam, has much worldly
wisdom,” said the earl, “and had weighty reasons, independent of love, for
wishing that I should bestow Cecilia’s hand upon him—reasons which will
assuredly be disappointed; the reverend gentleman, it appears to me, is fated
to be crossed in fortune as well as love.”
“My beloved Cecilia is still very
young,” rejoined Mrs. Doricourt; “I should wish her to see more of the world
before she marries; unhappiness is too frequently the result of hasty
engagements.”
“Be under no apprehension, my dear
madam,” said Cecilia; “I am too happy in your affection, too sensible of the
blessings I enjoy in the earl of Torrington’s adoption, to wish to exchange my
present unalloyed felicity for the arduous duties of a wife.”
“Perhaps then,” said the earl,
smiling, “I may as well put off the hour of disappointment, by deferring, to a
more propitious time, another lover’s permission to be admitted to your favour.”
“Another lover! this is really
astonishing,” exclaimed Mrs. Doricourt. “Cecilia, my love, in spite of that air
of naïveté, I shall begin to
believe you do practice witchcraft.”
“Indeed, madam,” returned Cecilia,
“I am ignorant of the offence, and believe the earl is merely jesting with me.”
“In sober sadness,” said the earl,
“nothing can be more remote from my present thoughts than jesting. Seriously
and truly, madam, colonel St. Irwin, the immediate heir to the dukedom of Ardenbrooke, has commissioned me to express
his sincere respect and admiration, and to solicit for him the hand of Cecilia
Delmore.”
Mrs. Doricourt turned to Cecilia;
her own countenance expressed approbation; that of Cecilia confusion and
perplexity—“It is a great and generous offer, my love,” said Mrs. Doricourt.
“Colonel St. Irwin is a man of sense and education, of noble family, and
affluent fortune.”
Cecilia turned pale; she grasped the
hand of Mrs. Doricourt, and faintly articulated—“I am honoured, distinguished
by colonel St. Irwin’s preference, but I dare not, cannot accept.”
“Do not alarm your spirits
unnecessarily, Cecilia,” said the earl; “this is a matter on which your own
judgment and choice can alone decide. I shall merely point out the advantages
that will result from your acceptance of colonel St. Irwin; no persuasions will be offered, no dictates used. It is true, St. Irwin is full twice your age, and this, I think, is
the only objection that can possibly arise against him; for in person he is
handsome and dignified; in manners a gentleman. His natural good sense he has
improved by studying the best authors; that he is a brave man, will be
acknowledged by enemies as well as friends; rank and fortune accompany the
offer of his hand.”
“Above, far above my humble expectations,”
said Cecilia, “are such munificent offers.”
“I will not admit this
humility,” replied the earl; “I would have you consider the advantages that
will result to yourself, the delight it will afford your friends, to behold you
honourably elevated to rank and fortune.”
Cecilia’s eyes filled with tears,
but struggling with emotion, she said—“I have considered, my lord, and perceive
the path I ought to pursue. Colonel St. Irwin is your friend, Mrs. Doricourt
approves him, and I—yes, my lord, duty and gratitude command my obedience—I am
ready.”
“To confirm the hopes of colonel St.
Irwin,” asked Mrs. Doricourt, “to accept him for your husband?”
“I perceive,” resumed Cecilia, pale
and agitated—“I perceive you think it proper I should accept him. Do with me as
you please; you have a right to all my obedience; I should be a monster of
ingratitude if I suffered my own wayward fancies to oppose the judgment of
friends to whom I owe so much.”
Cecilia could utter no more; she
sunk back on her seat; the tears rushed from her eyes; they relieved her
oppressed feelings, and prevented her fainting.
“Dearest Cecilia!” said the earl,
affectionately pressing her hand, “recover your spirits; nothing repugnant to
your own inclination will be exacted from your obedience. We are your friends,
not your tyrants; and believe me, my sweet girl, I should regret to see you
seated on a throne, if I thought your elevation was effected only by a
principle of gratitude; nor would the knowledge that obedience to the wishes of
your friends gave him your hand, satisfy a mind delicate, sensitive, and
refined as St. Irwin’s. No; his heart, replete with every generous and noble
feeling, would require, to constitute its felicity, a warmer sentiment.”
Cecilia being restored to composure,
Mrs. Doricourt said—“I entreat you, my beloved child, let not duty and
gratitude, however highly the earl of Torrington and myself may appreciate
these virtuous impulses, influence you on a point so important as this.
Remember, that vows plighted at the altar involve not only your earthly, but
your eternal felicity. For myself, I solemnly affirm, and I am persuaded that
the earl is actuated by the same sentiment, I would much rather behold you
happy than great—Speak to me, Cecilia, and I charge you, be not allured with
the expectation of a title, or the glitter of wealth—Can you become the wife of
colonel St. Irwin with the cheerful concurrence of your heart, and the
unequivocal approval of your conscience?”
Cecilia’s expressive countenance
underwent many changes from red to pale, at this solemn appeal to her heart and
conscience, at the moment that rank and splendour presented themselves in
glittering array to her imagination. The interesting form of the elegant Rushdale pressed on her
heart, and conscience whispered—“How can you solemnly pledge your faith to St.
Irwin, when you are certain that you prefer another?”
Mrs. Doricourt trembled, lest the
dazzling advantages of title, wealth, and worldly consequence, should get the
better of Cecilia’s virtuous principles; but suspense on this point became
torture, and again she requested a candid reply.
The face of Cecilia sunk on Mrs.
Doricourt’s shoulder; for a moment, and only a moment, she remained silent and
undecided; but virtue was triumphant—“I respect,” said she, “I esteem colonel
St. Irwin; but I am certain I can never love him.”
“Then Heaven forbid,” returned the
earl, “that you should marry him! Look up, Cecilia; the friends who are anxious
for your advancement in life can never wish to obtain it by the sacrifice of your happiness. Be ever thus
ingenuous, my sweet girl; and whenever you marry, let the chief inducement be
affection, not ambition.”
Cecilia pressed the hands of the earl and Mrs. Doricourt to her lips,
with tears of grateful pleasure, faithfully promising to be always guided by
their advice.
Mrs. Doricourt, ever an enthusiast,
clasped Cecilia to her heart, and extolled her conduct in refusing the noble St. Irwin, since her
heart could not invest him with its dearest affections.
The earl promised to convey
Cecilia’s grateful thanks to the colonel, and to use his best endeavours to
convince him of the propriety of her refusal.
When the earl had withdrawn, Cecilia
informed Mrs. Doricourt of her loss of the note-case, and of her never having
examined its contents.
Mrs. Doricourt expressed concern,
but was inclined to believe the servants must have picked it up; and previous
to informing the earl, she advised acquainting Mrs. Milman, who might cause an
examination among the household.
Mrs. Milman was seated in earnest
confab with Mr. Wilson, when Cecilia, affectionately saluting them, placed her
hand in Wilson's, and seated herself by his side.
“Well,” said Mr. Wilson, “this is
something like former times, and does not smack of pride; and I am very glad,
Miss Delmore, for of course it must not be Cecilia now, to see you look so
well, which I did not expect, for late hours do not amend the looks.”
“And why not Cecilia as usual?”
demanded she, with one of those artless smiles that he had always thought so
beautiful and engaging; “and why not your Cecilia now as well as formerly, Mr.
Wilson?”
“No, no,” replied he, shaking his
head, “you are now company for ladies and lords—a very different person from my
Cecilia, who used to put her little hand in mine, and trip like a fairy by my
side over the fields, and amuse me with her engaging prattle.”
“I may be altered in person, my
estimable friend,” replied Cecilia, “but in mind, in affection, believe me I am
still your Cecilia.”
“And then,” resumed Wilson, in a
querulous tone, “you are going to be married to this high priest, this Mr. Oxley, who seems to
look down upon every body with such pride and consequence. A parson ought to be
meek and humble, like the doctrine he preaches; instead of which, he is proud
as the——and lord Torrington is to give him, as a fortune with you, the rich
livings that I did certainly suppose——”
“Is this true, Cecilia?” interrupted
Mrs. Milman; “those livings will be a handsome portion indeed, for they are
very valuable. I much wonder though, child, that you never mentioned a word to
me, that the earl had settled this marriage for you with the reverend.”
“Believe me, my dear aunt,” replied
Cecilia, “the earl has no such intention; and I assure you, Mr. Oxley would
never be my choice, if the earl could make him a bishop.”
“Dear me! and why not?” asked Mrs.
Milman; “I am sure, child, the reverend is a fine, comely, portly-looking man,
and holds up his head just as if he was somebody of consequence already. I
declare,” smoothing her clear muslin apron, “I don’t think I should refuse him,
if he was to make me an offer, and my own father was a reverend. But perhaps, Cecilia, you are looking higher
than Mr. Oxley—a lord, or a baronet. Well, child, nobody knows what luck they
are born to; and you are but just out of the egg-shell, as one may say—a mere
chick; you have got time enough yet to look about you, and pick and choose.”
“I perfectly agree with you, my dear
aunt, that I am too young even to think of marriage,” said Cecilia; “and I am
happy, so very happy in my present state, that let me change it when I may, I
scarcely dare hope for such felicity. But come that period soon or late, if I
know my own principles at all, I shall never be allured into matrimony by the
nonsensical vanity of being called my lady, or with the ostentatious wish of possessing more
wealth than I know what to do with, or than others more deserving than myself
of the gifts of fortune.”
“You are still my Cecilia,” said
Wilson, kindly shaking her hand; “you are what I always thought you—a sensible,
upright-minded girl; and since I find this high
priest, this stiff-necked parson, is not your choice,
why perhaps things may all be right yet, and marriages may take place, and
livings may be given, tol lol de dol lol.” Wilson sang a bit of a tune, rubbed his hands, then addressing Mrs.
Milman—“Do, my good woman, give me a glass of your peach brandy; I protest it
is the finest cordial in the world.” Mrs. Milman, gratified with his praise of
her cordial, rose to reach it from a liquor-case, while he continued to say—“I
declare I am quite happy to find—to see, I mean, that Cecilia is not corrupted
by these high-flyers, these town-bred fops and devildums of quality—Pshaw! the
only qualities they possess are pride, assurance, vanity, and deceit. Well,”
drinking off the cordial, “Mrs. Milman, here’s the completion of all our honest
desires.”
“Amen, Mr. Wilson, with all my
heart!” responded the housekeeper, settling her frills.
Cecilia’s lips did not utter an
audible amen, but her heart felt a wish, in which lord Rushdale was included,
and a sigh and a blush made the response.
Cecilia having mentioned the loss of
the note-case, left her aunt more than ever convinced, that her extraordinary
beauty could not fail to make her fortune; and so absorbed was she in ideas of
her own future grandeur and consequence, that she had actually forgotten the
presence of her friend Wilson, till suddenly starting from his chair, he
exclaimed—“DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS; I will conquer my plaguy bashfulness, and
speak my mind at once boldly.”
Mrs. Milman had often flattered
herself that her comely person, her prudent behaviour, and good management, had
not been overlooked by Mr. Wilson; she had, year after year, till many had
passed away, expected that he would make her an offer of his hand—an offer she
had made up her mind not to refuse, because it was well known to every body
that Wilson was a monied man. He had lately built himself a very neat house,
and had consulted her taste in the furniture, which he certainly would not have
done, if he had not designed she should be its mistress; and more than this, he
kept a handsome gig; besides, the man was in the prime of life, his person was
far from disagreeable, and his temper appeared to be very tolerable. When he
talked of speaking his mind boldly, Mrs. Milman was all over in a twitter, and
she sat expecting the realizing of her hopes, and rather impatient for the
declaration of his passion.
Perceiving he stood pondering, as
she believed, on the important “to be, or
not to be, a husband,” Mrs. Milman kindly endeavoured to relieve his
perplexity, by asking, what he was going to speak his mind about? “I am sure,
Mr. Wilson.” said she, putting on an agreeable smile, “if you have any favours
to ask, nobody has a better right than you to expect to have them granted.”
“I am obliged to you, Mrs. Milman,
for your good opinion,” returned he.
“Dear bless me! not at all,” replied
she, smiling kindly on him, “not at all, Mr. Wilson; and I am sure, if I have
any concern in your wish, you have only to ask and have.”
“Thank you, thank you kindly, Mrs.
Milman,” said Wilson; “you are as good a woman as ever lived, and I am greatly
obliged to you; but the favour I have to ask is from the earl, and yonder he is
alone; I will go and speak to him directly.”
Wilson hurried
out of the room.
“The man’s a fool, a downright
blockhead, an ass, an idiot!” said Mrs. Milman, quite disappointed and vexed to
think he could not take her hints. “But perhaps this may be for the best,”
continued she, “after all; for if Cecilia marries a lord, why no doubt she will
provide better for me than if I was to have Wilson. No one knows what they are
born for, and one great event leads on to another. Cecilia becomes my lady—a countess, no doubt—she places me
in affluence—I am neither old nor ugly, of course I shall be introduced among
great people; and if I have the good fortune to attract some baronet myself,
why I shall bless Wilson for not offering to marry, and make me mistress of his
new brick-house and his handsome gig.”
END OF VOL. II.
Printed by J. Darling, Leadenhall-Street, London.