LOVERS AND FRIENDS.
A NOVEL.
Printed by J. Darling, Leadenhall-Street, London.
LOVERS AND FRIENDS;
OR,
MODERN ATTACHMENTS.
A NOVEL.
IN FIVE VOLUMES.
BY
ANNE OF SWANSEA,
AUTHOR OF
CONVICTION, GONZALO DE BALDIVIA, CHRONICLES OF AN ILLUSTRIOUS HOUSE, SECRET AVENGERS, SECRETS IN EVERY MANSION, CAMBRIAN PICTURES, CESARIO ROSALBA,
&c. &c.
“I hold a mirror up for men to see
How bad they are, how good they ought to be.”
VOL. IV.
London:
A.K. NEWMAN AND CO. LEADENHALL STREET.
1821.
LOVERS AND FRIENDS.
CHAPTER I.
“This man standing before me, whom I believed
The sea did separate, not more surprises
Than affrights me; to me his presence is
A fearful omen of approaching evil.”
“On eagles’ wings immortal scandals fly,
While virtuous actions are but born and die.”
“I will not doubt her innocence,
Though hydra-headed Scandal, with her countless
Tongues, do strive to blacken her fair fame:
I do believe her chaste¾and in that belief
Boldly stand forth her champion.”
I saw her breast with every passion heave¾
I left her torn from every earthly friend¾
Oh, my hard bosom! that could bear to leave!
SHENSTONE.
An unwelcome Intruder on an
Assignation—The
Child of an unmarried Lady Introduced—He-
nerous Confidence—Calumny confuted.
THE dread of again
encountering his injured friend Saville, hurried the earl of Torrington from
Brighton, and left his imprudent lady at liberty to appoint a meeting with the
fascinating major Norman, at a milliner’s, with whom she had laid out a good
deal of money in unnecessary articles, merely to win her to permit her
assignations with the major, as the distance to the farmhouse was inconvenient,
and she had a suspicion that its mistress only waited an opportunity to betray
their secret.
Mrs. Supple, the milliner, appeared
to understand modern customs, as well as fashions; and as the countess promised
to recommend her in her business, and had, besides, made her little girl a very
handsome present on her birthday, she could not refuse her back drawing-room
for an hour or two to so generous a lady, who had an affair of the utmost
importance to settle with major Norman.
At the appointed hour lady
Torrington repaired to Mrs. Supple’s, to meet major Norman, forgetful of the
promise given to her son, and the prohibition of her husband, and deriding his
menace of separation¾a measure she had nearly reconciled her mind to adopt; for such was the
power the insidious major had obtained over her weak understanding, by the
adoration he affected to pay her beauty, that his ascendancy had entirely
overcome every lingering sentiment of shame, and apprehension of the disgrace
which her licentious conduct would cast on her son, and the only repugnance
that now remained on her mind, and prevented her yielding to the pressing
solicitations of the artful major, who continually represented, with the misery
he endured from his excessive love for her, the delights that awaited them in
her favourite Italy, where, uncontrolled by a jealous husband, and the envious
reports of the world, they should live for each other and for love.
That these arguments did not succeed
with the countess of Torrington, was not owing to any virtuous sentiment that
remained in her bosom, but from an unwillingness to resign, even for the life
of delightful freedom the major so glowingly pictured, the rank, state,
splendour, and precedence, she commanded, while continuing to reside under the
roof of her husband.
In the course of their conversation
at the milliner’s, the major asked when she expected lord Torrington from town?
“Not till I see him,” replied her
ladyship; “and perhaps I should not express myself very wide of truth, if I
were to add¾if
that never happens, I think I could survive; but, my dear major, come when he
will, you must not expect me to meet you any more at that odious farmhouse, for
Smithson told me the woman behaved very odd, and asked a number of impertinent
questions. I remember too she came into the room once or twice on very
frivolous pretences.”
“Did she?” returned the major;
”devilish impudent behaviour! and I should have told her so, had I observed it;
but I had no thoughts but of the happiness I was enjoying, in the proud
certainty that you had left the adoration of the crowd to devote an hour to me,
the tenderest, the most impassioned of your admirers: but here, my Emily¾can we not meet here? Mrs. Supple being your milliner, no suspicion can
attach to your coming here: and she, I dare be sworn, will have no objection,
if we make it worth her while.”
“I shall take care of that point,”
said lady Torrington; “but I shall actually rejoice when we get to dear London,
where observation and curiosity are baffled in the immensity of population¾where we can meet when we please, without the fear of detection.”
“You only say this,” replied the
major, putting on the pathetic, “to prevent my falling into absolute
desperation; for I shall never be free from the torments of jealousy—never be
persuaded, my lovely Emily, that you are really attached to me, unless you
consent to adopt my plan.”
“What plan, you insinuating wretch?”
asked the countess; “have I not put my reputation to the utmost risk for you?
Oh! what a glorious triumph it would afford that snuffy old cat, lady Bromford,
and her inseparable friend, the immaculate Miss Jameson, if they could only
peep into this room! What a tale they would make for the gossipping loungers at
the library to-morrow! How my character would be cut up!”
“And all for having condescended to
bless me with your company for an hour!” said the major; “what gratitude do I
owe you!”
“And yet you are still encroaching
on my favour,” resumed the countess.
“Yes,” replied the major; “and I
shall never cease to entreat and persuade till I have convinced you that my
plan¾”
“What new folly,” asked the
countess, “do you wish to persuade me into?”
“Not into folly, my charming Emily,”
returned the major, fondly pressing her hand, “but into happiness.”
“What conceited creatures men are!”
said the countess; “and do you believe major, do you seriously think that you
have it in your power to make me happy?”
“It should be the study, the
unceasing employment of my life,” replied the major. “The Persian does not
adore the sun with half the devotion I should worship your eyes¾I would watch over you with more solicitude than a miser bestows on his
gold.”
Lady Torrington thought the major
talked like an angel¾the major never remembered being more eloquent; but similies and ideas
began to fail, and he brought his speech to a conclusion, with adding an
entreaty that she would accept his protection, and at once leave the earl of
Torrington to his gloomy morality.
“Morality!” repeated the countess, laughing—“he has a great deal on his lips, I grant you, but very little in his heart. If time would allow, I could treat you with a few pleasant anecdotes of the earl’s morality, but I must reserve them for a future opportunity. Lord Torrington, you must know, my dear major, affects to say, that he thinks with horror of his former gallantries¾that he feels no pleasure in public amusements and scenes of gaiety¾in fact, he is verging into the opposite extreme, and it is my opinion, will shortly turn Methodist; for he already preaches sermons, long, dull, and wearying, against cards, masquerades, and all the festivities of life.”
“And surely, my Emily,” said the major, “you must be enamoured of his gloom and stupidity, or you would never endure its annoyance. You have given me reason to believe my person, my professions of love, are not disagreeable to you; why will you not fly with me from this hated, this insensible husband?”
“Well, well, pray don’t look so doleful,” returned the countess, “and I will give you my promise to think seriously of your plan; for, entre nous, I am really quite ennuyée with lord Torrington’s everlasting philippies, and disgusted with his sober manière, as cold, precise, and formal, as if he belonged to the society of Quakers. I positively declare I scarcely remember the day when he appeared pleased with any thing I could say or do.”
“What a savage, a barbarian, he must be,” exclaimed the major, “when your beauty, your charming vivacity, my beautiful Emily, fails to please him! You are in person, temper, and elegance, so superior to all other women¾”
“You are such an agreeable flatterer,” returned the countess, “that I shall grow vain, and believe you, if I listen much longer; besides, I have to dress for lady Colloney's rout—adieu, dear major—I must be gone.”
“Not yet, my lovely countess,” replied the major, kissing and detaining her hand.
Lady Torrington chose to be girlish, and affected a little struggle to release herself from the major, who was clasping her in his arms, when, in the height of their toying, the door opposite to where they were sitting opened, and a gentleman entered the room.
The countess started from the encircling arms of the major, uttering a loud scream. The major extended his arm to prevent her falling to the ground, for she appeared near fainting, while in an angry tone he inquired of the intruder—“What the devil, sir, do you want here?”
For a moment the stranger gazed on the varying countenance of lady Torrington, totally regardless of the major’s loud and peremptory command that he should instantly quit the room; he then, with a look of mingled pity and contempt, exclaimed¾“And you are the once-lovely Emily Herbert, the present degraded countess of Torrington, a wife and a mother! Poor lost creature! what a situation do I find you in¾forgetful of your rank in life, dead to all sense of virtue! You have a son, of whom the public voice speaks highly¾have you no compunction for the disgrace you are bringing on him?”
The countenance of the intrepid major was fixed in amazement¾the countess hid her face on the arm of the sofa, as the stranger continued to say¾“At your age better thoughts should have possession of your mind, for you are past the giddy years of youth. A matron’s passions should be under the control of reason, and where is your reason?¾lost, sunk in licentiousness. That I escaped making you my wife ought to give me joy; but, alas! to find you thus profligate, thus abandoned, thus debased, from the pure artless being I once knew, renders the pangs your perfidy inflicted more intolerable; and while I reflect on the shame, the misery, your conduct must occasion the man I once called my friend, I am compelled to pity and forgive him; for what greater curse can enmity wish, or he endure, than the certainty that the cause of injured friendship is revenged by the infidelity of her for whose sake he became a villain?”
Having thus spoken, the stranger, darting a look of contemptuous indignation on the major, precipitately left the room; while he, stamping about the floor, muttered something like¾“Revenge for this insolence¾call the fellow out if he is a gentleman.”
The countess slowly raised her head, and seeing the enemy gone, clasped her hands, exclaiming—“Grace à Dieu! he is departed. I protest, my dear major, I never was so terrified since I was born.”
“Who the devil is the fellow?” demanded the major.
“A gentleman, I assure you,” replied the countess.
“Favour me with his name,” said the major; “as he is a gentleman, I shall do him the honour to send him a challenge.”
“Not for the world!” replied the countess¾“not if you love me.”
“Not call him out,” said the major, “when he has uttered such impertinent things?”
“If you challenge him, my reputation will be ruined,” resumed the countess; “for then our meeting, dear major, will be made public. Who could have expected to see Saville at Brighton, whom I have so long considered dead, or, if living, safe in the East Indies?”
“But who is this Mr. Saville?” again inquired the major; “and by what right has he presumed to say such insolent things to you?”
“Why, you must know, my dear major,” replied the countess, “this Mr. Saville was once a lover of mine, before I married the earl of Torrington; and being rich, he was greatly favoured by my parents; though, for my own part, I was perfectly indifferent about him: but I was very young and very dutiful at that time, and to oblige my father and mother, who thought it an excellent match for me, I certainly did promise Mr. Saville to wait for him till his return from Calcutta. But he should have married me at once, you know, if he intended it; because no person can answer for the change a few days even may make in their sentiments.”
“Very true,” returned the major; “a
few moments, my lovely Emily, have made a change in mine; my anger is converted
into pity for this Mr. Saville. Poor devil!” continued he, conceitedly, “he is
jealous, and the impertinence he uttered was the effect of envy at the
happiness he supposed I enjoyed in your favour.”
“And now, I suppose,” resumed the countess, “out of downright revenge, he will inform lord Torrington of the discovery he has made.”
“If he presumes,” exclaimed the major, “to breathe a sentence of our¾”
“Mr. Saville is a very decided character,” interrupted the countess, “and will not be prevented, by any dread of incurring your revenge, from doing what he thinks is proper: but this unlucky discovery brings me to a determination; and if the earl of Torrington talks to me again of a separation, I shall know what course to pursue.”
“You will at once abandon the gloomy tyrant, my charming Emily, will you not?” asked the insinuating major, “and take shelter in the arms of him who lives only to adore you?”
The countess smiled, called the major a presuming wretch; and at last gave him a solemn promise, that if things were brought to extremity, she would accompany him to Italy.
Mrs. Supple, the milliner, made many apologies and excuses for the alarm the countess had been put into by the abrupt entrance of Mr. Saville, who, she supposed, had made a mistake, and opened the door of the room she was in, instead of his own, which was the next to it.¾“But I wonder,” said Mrs. Supple, “the major or your ladyship did not turn the key in the lock, which would have prevented any disagreeable intrusion.”
The countess protested that the innocency of her thoughts and actions rendered such a precaution equally unthought of as unnecessary; but as she had refused her hand to Mr. Saville before her marriage with the earl of Torrington, he might, out of mere spite and revenge, spread reports to injure her reputation.
“Then he must write his reports from
France, my lady,” returned Mrs. Supple; “for he is now gone aboard a smack he
has hired to take himself and a sick friend to the nearest port; and as the
wind is fair, they will soon be far enough from Brighton.”
The countess, leaving the major to
inform the accommodating Mrs. Supple that the business he had met the countess
of Torrington upon being interrupted by the intrusion of Mr. Saville, they
should again want the room; and that to prevent her being any way a loser by
her very obliging behaviour, he would engage the whole of her lodgings during
the time of his stay at Brighton, which would be the surest way to prevent
future intrusion, though he should only occupy them a few hours now and then;
but this engagement, Mrs. Supple's good sense would tell her, must be sub rosa.
Mrs. Supple's understanding had
frequently been exercised in the same way; she looked archly, and told the
major she knew her own interest too well to betray secrets.
The countess returned home, relieved
from the fear of present detection; and being told by Smithson, after she was
dressed, that she looked handsomer than ever, she went to lady Colloney’s rout
in high spirits, where the evening passed very agreeably, till some person said
in her hearing, that the very first time the duchess of Aberdeen went out,
after spraining her ancle, she was seen to walk on the Steyne, leaning on the
arm of the honourable Mr. Drawley; and that it was currently reported and
believed, that her grace favoured his addresses to her daughter, lady Arabella
Moncrief.
This conversation was quite
sufficient to put the countess of Torrington out of temper with every thing and
every body; she sat down to a table to play gold loo, where, though she cheated
with admirable dexterity, she lost her money. Her evening’s entertainment was
quite spoiled; Drawley and lady Arabella Moncrief were uppermost in her
thoughts, and she ordered her carriage much sooner than her usual hour, to call
upon the duchess of Aberdeen, whom she found alone. An explanation soon took
place; they mutually upbraided each other with duplicity, and parted, with a
resolve never to be in future more than visiting acquaintance.
The countess returned home, to
confide her disappointments and mortifications to the sympathizing Mrs.
Smithson, who had always a tear at command, and an assenting word for every
thing her lady advanced, true or untrue. The faithful Mrs. Smithson assisted
the countess to rail at the deceit of the duchess of Aberdeen, the ingratitude
of the honourable Tangent Drawley, and the coquetry of lady Arabella Moncrief.
The next morning, in a tête-à-tête conversation with her son, the countess was
informed, that she had nothing to accuse either the duchess, lady Arabella, or
Drawley of—“For I,” said Oscar, “at my first introduction to lady Arabella,
informed her that my affections were irrevocably engaged; and Drawley, whom you
so bitterly accuse of deceit, was also in possession of my sentiments.”
“I dare say,” returned the countess,
reddening with passion, “you think your conduct extremely candid and generous;
but if the earl of Torrington would be guided by my opinion, and the duchess of
Aberdeen was not the next thing to an idiot, you and lady Arabella might be
taught obedience to your parents.”
“The earl of Torrington is the best
of parents,” resumed lord Rushdale; “and the duchess of Aberdeen has too much
feeling, as well as understanding, to wish to force her daughter’s affections,
which are placed on a deserving man, to whose family and fortune no reasonable
objection can be formed.”
“Pretty romantic nonsense!”
exclaimed the countess. “Affection!—give me patience! What can such a mere chit
as lady Arabella Moncrief know about affection, I wonder?”
“And yet, madam, chit as you are
pleased to call lady Arabella Moncrief, you have peremptorily insisted that I
should make love to her.”
“Certainly,” resumed lady
Torrington; “most certainly I did; and for the best reason in the world, the
Aberdeen alliance being, in all points, very desirable; and I have no doubt, if
you had obeyed my command, you would have secured the prize.”
“I think I can venture to assert I
should not,” replied lord Rushdale; “for I have great reason to believe lady
Arabella had bestowed her regard on Mr. Drawley before our arrival at
Brighton.”
“I seldom suffer any of my plans to
be defeated,” said the countess; “and it is a thousand to one but I find means
to disappoint Mr. Drawley's ambition, by breaking off his match with lady
Arabella Moncrief.”
“That avowal, madam,” said lord
Rushdale, “I am persuaded, is the mere ebullition of resentment; but if you
really intend what you say, I am convinced you may spare yourself any efforts
to separate lady Arabella Moncrief and Mr. Drawley; their attachment is
sincere, and entirely divested of ambitious or interested views; and if the
duchess of Aberdeen should oppose lady Arabella's preference of Mr. Drawley,
she will marry him as soon as she is of age; and for my own particular, I beg
to assure your ladyship, that I will never be a bar in the way of their union.”
“What!” asked the countess, with a
sneer, “is not the perfect Miss
Delmore forgotten yet? I really supposed that romantic caprice had yielded to
six weeks absence.”
“Then, madam, you did the stability
of my principles injustice,” returned lord Rushale; “for while I have a heart
to feel, and judgment to approve, never will Miss Delmore or her perfections be
forgotten.”
“Very sublime and pathetic, upon my word,” said the
countess; “spoken 'with good emphasis,'
but not much discretion; a great sound, meaning nothing at all.”
“You will find, madam,” returned
lord Rushdale, “that my words have a meaning; and that, satisfied that she
alone, of all her sex, can make me happy, it is my unalterable determination to
marry Miss Delmore the very day I am of age.”
“Mean-spirited wretch!” exclaimed
the countess, furiously ringing the bell, and ordering her carriage, “is it
possible that a son of mine can entertain such grovelling notions? marry
Cecilia Delmore, a girl of low origin¾brought up on charity! Get rid of your vulgar passion¾give up the idea of this degrading marriage, or I disclaim you.”
With an air of offended dignity, the
countess of Torrington stepped into her carriage, when, having composed her
ruffled spirits, and arranged her looks, she made a few calls, and alighted at
the library. Here she found her dear friends, lady Bromford and Miss Jameson,
to whom she related the conversation she had overheard at lady Colloney's rout,
respecting lady Arabella Moncrief's engagement to Mr. Drawley¾“And in this affair,” said lady Torrington, “the duchess of Aberdeen has
behaved to me with monstrous duplicity; for it was herself that proposed a
marriage between her daughter and lord Rushdale.”
“My dear lady Torrington,” replied
Miss Jameson, affecting great sympathy, “I am not at all surprised that you
feel hurt and offended at the conduct of the duchess of Aberdeen; for nothing
can be more shocking, more distressing to a susceptible heart, than the deceit
and ingratitude of those who profess themselves our friends; for, as the poet
says, 'when the
hand of friendship barbs the arrow, the wound is more painful.”
“But after all,” said lady Bromford,
“every sorrow has its solace; and who knows but your ladyship may yet have more
reason to thank than resent the duplicity of the duchess of Aberdeen?”
“No,” replied lady Torrington; “I
have been shamefully deceived; the childish folly of lady Arabella ought not to
have met encouragement from the duchess. Nothing can possibly reconcile my
feelings to the disappointment, or enable me to suppress my resentment.”
“This all appears very just and
proper,” rejoined Miss Jameson; “but it strikes me, that there is a trifling
circumstance that will reconcile you, my dear countess, to the breaking off
this match between lord Rushdale and lady Arabella Moncrief.”
“I cannot even guess at the
circumstance you allude to,” said lady Torrington, “nor have I an idea that any
thing can possibly reconcile me to the disappoint of a match I had set my heart
upon.”
Lady Bromford stuffed an enormous
pinch of snuff up her nose, and, with a shrug of her shoulders, observed¾“Heaven knows, we live in a strange world, where unthought-of
circumstances bring about uncommon events, uniting foes and separating
friends.”
“But it is the duty of a friend,”
rejoined Miss Jameson, “to present things in their true colours; I am sure I am
the last person in the world to say or do an ill-natured thing; but I think a
certain person, lady Bromford, ought to be made acquainted¾you understand me.”
“Oh, perfectly, my dear friend,
perfectly,” replied lady Bromford; “and as I always pay a deference to your
opinion, I think this morning as proper a time as any.”
Lady Torrington saw that Miss
Jameson and lady Bromford were brimful of some intelligence, which they longed
to communicate to her; and being curious to get to the bottom of their mystery,
she invited them to take an airing with her.
Lady Bromford proposed driving
towards Bramble Cottage, about two miles from the town, where a gardener lived,
of whom she wanted to bespeak fruit.
During their drive lady Bromford
took occasion to blame the folly of some mothers, who introduced their
daughters into public when they were mere babies, unable to conduct themselves,
or repress, with proper decorum, the freedoms of the men.¾“For my part, I was so tenacious of lady Caroline Bromford’s
reputation,” said she, “that I kept her in the nursery till she was turned of
nineteen; and I had the happiness to see the good effects of my care, for lady
Caroline married advantageously the following winter.”
“Yes, to a man old enough to be her
grandfather,” thought Miss Jameson; “advantageously, but not happily; the poor
girl escaped the tyranny of her mother, to suffer, in splendid misery, the
peevish humours of a valetudinarian husband.”
“Had the duchess of Aberdeen
followed my prudent example,” resumed lady Bromford, tapping her snuff-box,
with an air of self-gratulation, “lady Arabella Moncrief would, without doubt,
have been a different person in morals and conduct; and now her grace must see
the error of introducing a child of fifteen to fashionable parties¾But there are the gardens.”
Lady Torrington followed the
direction of lady Bromford’s finger, and saw a very neat cottage, covered with
roses and honeysuckles, and surrounded with smooth-trimmed hedges of white
thorn.
“That is Bramble Cottage,” said lady
Bromford, “where, if you please, we will alight and take a little fruit.”
There was no person in the cottage
but a girl of about seven years old, who was rocking a cradle, which was lined
and covered with fine corded dimity, as white as snow. Lady Bromford inquired
for the gardener, and was told he was out in the ground.
Miss Jameson asked—“And whose child,
my dear, are you rocking to sleep?”
“Not my little sister,” replied the
girl; “she was put in the pit, in the church-yard, and then mother took the
pretty lady’s baby to nurse.”
“And what is this pretty lady’s
name?” asked lady Torrington, suspecting she had been brought to the cottage to
learn a secret.
“Her name is¾is¾I
have forgot her name; but she is a very pretty lady, and a very good lady too,
mother says: and this,” said the little girl, catching up a cambric
handkerchief that lay on the cradle, “and this is her handkitchur; lauks, how
sweet it smells! and see here is letters along the connel of it¾great A; and mother says as how I shall larn to do fine work like that.”
The countess of Torrington saw a
coronet marked on the corner, and beneath it Arabella Moncrief in full.¾“My stars, what a discovery!” exclaimed she, reading the name; “but it
never can be possible¾this infant can never belong to lady Arabella Moncrief.”
“Yes, but it does though,” replied
the girl; “it is lady Arabella’s child, and she loves it dearly, so she does;
and she comes here every day, sometimes in her coach, so grand, with two men,
all silver lace, ahind on it; and she kisses it, and nurses it, and calls it
her own dear dear baby; and the baby’s name is Arabella too, the same as her
own; and sometimes a fine gentleman comes, with powder in his hair, and he
kisses it, and calls it poor little infortinit thing: but they shall never take
it away in the grand coach, for I love the baby, and mother and father loves
it, and the baby shall live with us always.”
Lady Torrington had heard sufficient,
and she returned to her carriage, turning up her eyes, and exclaiming—“Well,
certainly I never could have suspected this! Lady Arabella Moncrief’s child!
Astonishing!”
Lady Bromford having applied her
finger and thumb to her snuff, replied, there was nothing astonishing in the
affair, when lady Arabella’s education was considered—”But I presume,” added
she, “your ladyship is not now as much offended with the duchess of Aberdeen as
you were before this discovery?”
“I am positively so surprised,”
returned the countess, “that I am incapable of defining my own feelings, lady
Arabella Moncrief is so young.”
“She is old enough, you see,”
replied Miss Jameson, “to have made a faux pas, of which you have just seen the
living witness.”
“I can scarcely believe I am awake,”
said the countess; “lady Arabella Moncrief's child! It is a strange business.”
“But very true, for all that,”
returned lady Bromford; “and, for my part, I see nothing so very wonderful in
it; for when young girls are allowed a carriage, and are suffered to drive
about here and there, and where they please, such consequences are generally
the result of reprehensible indulgence, and a child might naturally enough be
expected to¾”
“But when,” interrupted the
countess, “or where could this affair have happened?”
“It is all clear as noonday,”
rejoined Miss Jameson. “Every body supposes that a Frenchman is the father of
the brat, a young man, a Parisian tailor or hair-dresser, who used to visit
lady Arabella’s governess, madame de Piere; and she was dismissed in disgrace
from the duchess of Aberdeen’s family, we all know.”
“Yes,” said lady Bromford; “and we
all know, that as soon as she arrived here, lady Arabella was taken ill¾that medical assistance was sent for from town, and that she was full three
weeks before she was seen abroad again.”
“Very odd though,” resumed the
countess, “that lady Arabella takes no care to conceal her disgrace.”
“She rather seems proud of it,”
replied Miss Jameson; “for you both heard, ladies, what the little girl at Bramble
Cottage said, which proves that lady Arabella is at no pains to prevent her
shame from becoming public. I should like to know if Mr. Drawley has had no
hint given him of lady Arabella’s little indiscretion.”
“He has my perfect consent to make
her his wife as soon as he pleases,” said lady Torrington; “for lord Rushdale
is now entirely out of the question.”
“If Mr. Drawley has not been
informed of the affair,” rejoined lady Bromford, “it is impossible it should
remain a secret long, lady Arabella visits the child so openly.”
“I am surprised I never heard it
before,” said the countess, “for it seems public enough; but doubtless my
friends, knowing how extremely anxious I was for the alliance, were delicate in
mentioning the affair before me.”
“Mr. Drawley,” rejoined Miss
Jameson, “is passionately fond of lady Arabella; and when he comes to hear of
her imprudence, the consequences are to be dreaded; I should not wonder if he
was to shoot her, and himself afterwards.”
“I should not believe,” replied lady
Bromford, “that his love is so violent; Mr. Drawley is a volatile unthinking
young man; he has been in love many times, or report errs, and has got over all
his tender passions without difficulty, or resorting to violent measures.”
The countess of Torrington resolved,
let the consequences be what they might, that Mr. Drawley should be acquainted
with the affair, before another day passed over his head; Miss Jameson had said
he was passionately fond of lady Arabella, and that was cause sufficient, in her
envious mind, to endeavour at making him miserable. Pleading an engagement, she
took leave of her dear friends, lady Bromford and Miss Jameson, and hastened
home to employ the ready agent of her mischiefs, Mrs. Smithson, in copying an
anonymous letter to Mr. Drawley.
The countess considered it necessary
to use the utmost precaution, lest suspicion should fall on her, as the author
of the intelligence to Mr. Drawley of lady Arabella’s indiscretion: Mrs.
Smithson received a strict command to be entirely ignorant in the story, while
she placed a seal on her own lips, and never dropped a hint, even to lord
Rushdale, of the important discovery she had made, leaving the circulation of
the scandalous tale to the indefatigable industry of her friends, lady Bromford
and Miss Jameson, through whose representations it was soon currently believed
that lady Arabella Moncrief was bona fide the mother of an illegitimate child;
and that the duchess of Aberdeen was doing all in her power to cover her
daughter’s disgrace, and draw in the honourable Tangent Drawley to marry her.
“A tale of scandal is believ’d,
And none suspect that they’re deceiv’d;
While if a noble act you do,
Folks wonder if the tale is true.”
Mr. Drawley had no sooner read the
anonymous scandal transmitted to him by lady Torrington, than his generous mind
at once pronounced it false; and glowing with honest indignation, he hastened
to communicate it to lord Rushdale; for though he despised, and gave no sort of
credence to the information, he was anxious to trace the inventor of such a
vile fabrication, and to remove every shadow of suspicion from the character of
his beloved Arabella.
Lord Rushdale confessed having
already heard the story at lady Bloom’s; but being equally incredulous with
Drawley, he advised that the anonymous letter should be immediately shewn to
the duchess of Aberdeen and lady Arabella Moncrief, who, without doubt, would
give such satisfactory explanation of the business, as would effectually
justify lady Arabella’s conduct, and clear her reputation from suspicion.
This advice was too good to be
neglected; the deeply-interested, but confiding Drawley shook his friend by the
hand.¾“Farewell!”
said he; “from my soul I believe Arabella innocent; I confess I am now agitated
a little, but when we meet in the evening, you will find 'Richard
is himself again.”
Drawley repaired, without further
delay, to the duchess of Aberdeen’s, where he was welcomed with smiles by lady
Arabella, who told him that she was very happy to see him, for the duchess and
herself had determined on spending the morning at home; and while they worked,
he should read to them.—”Here,” said she, handing a pamphlet to him, “here is a
very curious, though very improbable tale.”
“Not half so improbable or curious,”
replied Drawley, “as the tale this letter contains, which I must entreat the
duchess to favour me by perusing.”
The duchess took the letter.
“Now, I dare say,” resumed lady
Arabella, “you expect me to be extremely anxious concerning the contents of
that letter; but,” taking up her work, “I am determined to convince you that I
have no curiosity respecting it.”
“And yet,” said the duchess, “it
concerns you most nearly.”
“Concerns me!” repeated lady
Arabella; “that will not do, mamma; you are only trying my forbearance.”
“Listen, and be convinced,” said the duchess.
“SIR,
“Report says you are paying your addresses to lady
Arabella Moncrief;
it would perhaps be
well for your future peace, if you were to investigate the reasons that prompt
the haughty duchess of Aberdeen to acquiesce in your wishes. At Bramble
Cottage, two miles on the London road, is nursed a female child, which is every
morning visited by lady Arabella Moncrief, who calls it hers, and bestows on it
the most tender caresses; a cambric handkerchief, with a ducal coronet, and the
name of Arabella Moncrief, was left at Bramble Cottage. Perhaps the wily
duchess, or her sprightly daughter, may be able to clear up this affair to your
satisfaction, and find another mother for the infant Arabella, whose actual
existence reflects no lustre on the fame of lady Arabella Moncrief.”
A pause of a moment ensued; lady
Arabella blushed as Drawley sought in her eyes the confirmation of her
innocence.
“If you had attended to my advice,
lady Arabella Moncrief,” said the duchess, “this indelicate affair had never
been canvassed by the public.”
“No doubt, my dear mamma, you were
right,” replied lady Arabella; “but I could not bear to part with the dear
little innocent.”
“And you see the consequences,”
resumed the duchess, colouring with indignation; “the hitherto unsullied name
of Aberdeen is become the sport of licentious tongues. I pity the poor infant,
but must for ever condemn the imprudence that has exposed you to this scandal.”
Drawley listened in astonishment;
the speech and look of the duchess seemed to condemn and pronounce her daughter
guilty, but the countenance of lady Arabella betrayed no consciousness of
shame; her blush was the rosy emanation of purity; and, in spite of
appearances, his impassioned heart generously whispered¾“She is innocent.”
The duchess turned to Mr. Drawley,
and, with more hauteur than he had ever seen her assume, said—“And you, sir,
who have placed this insolent, mortifying scrawl before me, you, no doubt, join
the scandalous cabal, and condemn the indiscretion of lady Arabella Moncrief.”
“No, on my soul¾my sacred honour,” replied Drawley; “had I for a moment suspected the
purity of lady Arabella, you had not seen me here. No, believe me, madam, I
placed the letter in your hands, with the full assurance that you would enable
me to vindicate the fame more precious to me than my own life.”
The haughty features of the duchess
relaxed into complacency; she extended her hand to him, with a gracious smile,
while, in a softened voice, she said—”You are a noble-hearted young man, and
deserve our confidence.”
Drawley pressed his lips on her
hand, and replied, he was happy to be thought worthy the distinction.
Lady Arabella having perused the
letter, returned it to Drawley, saying—“You merit my warmest thanks for the
open generous conduct you have pursued. I acknowledge that you, above all
others, have a right to ask an explanation of this affair, and I will not
withhold it; but first, Drawley, on the honour of a gentleman, answer me—do you
believe me guilty?”
“No, so help me Heaven!” replied
Drawley; “there is in your look, in your manner, an air of angel innocence,
that speaks conviction to my heart¾that tells me you are wronged; and on my soul, I am ready to vindicate
your honour against a host of calumniators, even before I am acquainted with
the history of this child.”
Lady Arabella, with a delighted
look, rang for her writing-desk.
“That declaration, Mr. Drawley,”
said the duchess, “has won my heart; you think liberally, and have acted nobly.
Arabella, from this moment I permit you to receive Mr. Drawley’s addresses.”
Drawley warmly thanked the duchess,
and would have pressed lady Arabella’s hand to his lips, but, gently
withdrawing it, she said—”Not yet; let me first prove that I am worthy the
affection of a man of honour.” Then opening her desk, she took out three
letters, bearing the Leicester post-mark, and signed Maria Weston. These she
placed before Drawley, and insisted on his reading. They contained a most
humble and pathetic acknowledgment of a deviation from virtue, and the most
fervid and grateful thanks to the duchess and lady Arabella, for having
preserved her from the horrid act of self- destruction, and for the care they
were so humanely taking of her unfortunate child. The writer also expressed an
abhorrence of her barbarous seducer, major Norman, and a hope that she might
never again behold him.
Drawley now pressed lady Arabella to
his heart.¾“I
am not mistaken,” said he; “you are the angel I have ever believed you; you are
indeed worthy of all my love and confidence.”
Lady Arabella’s shining eyes evinced
the delighted feelings of her heart, while Drawley, addressing the duchess,
said¾“How,
my dear madam, shall I ever sufficiently evince my gratitude to you, for the hope
you have generously given me, that I shall call this angel mine!”
The duchess smiled, and jocosely
replied¾“You
will best evince your gratitude to me, Mr. Drawley, by forbearing to engage in
any whims that may endanger your life.”
“And have the grace and goodness,”
said lady Arabella, “to release my hand, which you will please to recollect is,
at present, my own property; and before I promise that you shall at a future
period have a right to it, you must engage to love my child, and pledge your
honour to bring it up; for it is such a darling¾such a little wax-doll, that I would not part with it for the universe.”
Drawley promised to love the little
Arabella for her sake; to help to nurse it, and to be its father through life.
The duchess of Aberdeen now informed
Mr. Drawley, that the unhappy Maria Weston was the daughter of a clergyman,
whose widow, unable to support her rank in life, had been reduced to the
necessity of keeping a lodging-house at Leicester, where major Norman,
happening to see Miss Weston, engaged apartments in her mother’s house, for the
sole purpose of seducing the inexperienced girl.—“Maria Weston was pretty, and
very young; the artful major took the utmost pains to lull the watchfulness of
the mother, and recommend himself to the favour of the daughter. Being certain
that he had gained her affection, with a thousand promises of marrying her as
soon as they arrived in London, he persuaded her to elope from her widowed
mother, and throw herself on his protection and honour, to which proposal the
miserable deluded girl consented, because she was afraid to meet the resentment
of her mother, on the discovery of her disgrace, which she was conscious must
soon happen, as she was in the way to become a mother. After remaining with her
a few weeks in obscure lodgings in London, and putting off their marriage on
various pretences, the major grew weary of her tears and reproaches, and
cruelly abandoned her, when she stood most in need of support and consolation.
Careless of the want and distress in which he left Maria Weston, the gay
profligate major Norman set off for Brighton, and without a single pang of
remorse for the sorrowing deprived widow, or her ruined daughter, he entered
into expensive amusements, and mingled with the most fashionable parties,
where, I am sorry to add,” said the duchess, “men of the major's licentious
character are but too favourably received. A letter, unintentionally dropped by
the major, informed the wretched Maria whither he was gone; instantly her
resolution was taken to follow him¾to endeavour to soften his hard heart; but on her arrival here, major
Norman inhumanly denied all knowledge of her; and boldly asserting she was a
woman of the town, he had her thrust from his door. The evening was closing in;
pennyless, and without a roof to shelter her, the unhappy creature, desperate
with her injuries, attempted to plunge into the sea, but was happily prevented
from accomplishing her dreadful purpose, by Mrs. Maynard, my woman, and Mr.
Jennings, the butler, who happened to be near, and by force dragged her from
the water. Mrs. Maynard is a sensible woman, with an excellent heart; she
placed Maria Weston in decent lodgings, and immediately informed me of her
situation and unhappy story. I need not tell you, we did all in our power to
convince the wretched girl of the double sin she would commit, by rushing
unbidden into the presence of her Maker; and while we administered to her
wants, we had the satisfaction to see that she was truly penitent for her
indiscretion, and anxious to be reconciled to her justly-offended mother. Lady
Arabella immediately wrote to Mrs. Weston, who joyfully consented to receive
her; the week after, Maria became the mother of a female infant; and as soon as
she was able to travel, set out again for her deserted home, and the protection
of her mother; but as taking the infant with her must at once have published
her indiscretion, I complied with Arabella’s request, and permitted her to
adopt it. Maria Weston,” continued the duchess, “is now addressed by a
respectable tradesman, who has been made acquainted with her misfortune, and is
willing to bring up the child, but Arabella will on no account part with it;
and as she goes every morning to Bramble Cottage to see the urchin, and always
calls it hers, I really wonder that the idlers and gossippers, who have no
other employment than to invent and circulate scandal, have been so long
silent. I have now,” said the duchess, “finished a long story.”
“Which does infinite credit, my dear
madam,” replied Drawley, “to your own and lady Arabella’s heart.”
“Very prettily observed,” said lady
Arabella; “and as you have behaved remarkably well in this business, by way of
reward, you shall go with me to-morrow morning to see my little marmoset. I
generally take Jennings with me, and I am rather surprised that he has not been
implicated in the scandal.”
Having first obtained lady
Arabella’s permission, Drawley informed lord Rushdale of all the particulars
relative to the child at Bramble Cottage; and while they commiserated the
erring Maria Weston, they mutually execrated major Norman, who, having seduced
the fair unfortunate, and decoyed her from her home, had the cruelty to abandon
her to misery, want, and despair.
At the library, next morning, when
lady Torrington and all the scandalous party were assembled, lady Arabella
Moncrief, quitting the side of a venerable old lady, with whom she had been in
conversation, invited Miss Sedgeley, lord Rushdale, and Drawley, to take a
drive with her as far as Bramble Cottage, to see her little girl.
All eyes were turned, with a stare
of astonishment, on lady Arabella, while with a smile, lord Rushdale, taking
Miss Sedgeley’s hand, said¾“I am certain, Miss Sedgeley, you must be greatly pleased with this
invitation; lady Arabella Moncrief’s child has been so much talked of, and has
created such interest in Brighton, that no doubt you have a curiosity to see
it.”
Miss Sedgeley wondered why she in
particular had been invited to see the child; but being convinced that lady
Arabella would not, in so very public in a way, have spoken of it, had she been
its mother, she suffered lord Rushdale to lead her to lady Arabella’s elegant
barouche, leaving lady Torrington and her party turning up their eyes in
amazement at lady Arabella Moncrieft’s effrontery.
Lady Bromford, while she
deliberately took an enormous pinch of snuff, began to see the possibility of
the child not being lady Arabella’s; and as she did not wish to be expelled
from the duchess of Aberdeen’s parties, was casting about in her mind how to
exonerate herself from having had a share in propagating the scandal, when the
venerable lady with whom lady Arabella had been conversing put down the
newspaper she had been reading, and having consigned her silver-mounted
spectacles to their green shagreen case, said¾“That young creature has the best heart in the world.”
“Lady Arabella Moncrief, I presume
you mean, ma’am,” returned Miss Jameson.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the stranger, “lady Arabella
first preserved the life of the mother, and sent her home to her friends, and
she now humanely provides for the child, which she has placed out to nurse at
Bramble Cottage, and calls it her own.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Miss
Jameson, “this is placing the affair in a very favourable light indeed: but are
you certain, ma’am, of what you assent? I assure you I have heard a very
different story respecting this same child.”
“I have no doubt, ma’am,” replied
the old lady, “but there are persons in the world sufficiently wicked to
traduce the fame of an angel; but I can take upon me to vouch for the truth of
what I advance. I am just arrived from the town of Leicester, where the mother
and grandmother of the infant reside; I have had the whole story from their own
lips; and so vile, so detestable a part has major Norman acted in this affair,
that I have no scruple to say I think he deserves hanging more than a highway
robber.”
Lady Torrington felt uneasy, and
unable to resist an opportunity of vindicating his reputation, she replied¾“Major Norman, ma’am, is a man of fashion¾an officer who has distinguished himself on more than one occasion; his
name¾”
“He has disgraced it,” interrupted
the old lady, “by the most villanous conduct; and I shall take care, while I
remain at Brighton, that major Norman is never admitted within my doors, or to
any assembly where I may have a voice.”
Two beautiful young women now
entered the library, and addressing the old lady, said¾“We hope we have not tired your grace’s patience.”
Lady Torrington stared¾a duchess was a person of too much consequence to be neglected; but
before she could contrive to get introduced, an elegant barouche drove up, and
the young ladies assisted their grandmother, the duchess of Singleton, into it.
“This is quite astonishing,” said
lady Bromford; “who could have suspected that queer-looking woman of being the
duchess of Singleton? I am sure I had not an idea of the little, shrivelled,
old soul, in a close bonnet and a plain pelisse, being a person of rank. Those
young ladies, I suppose, are lady Georgina and lady Ellinor Walworth. Well, I
am quite happy to think I had prudence enough to give no opinion respecting
lady Arabella Moncrief and the child, for it would be very disagreeable to make
an enemy of a person of the duchess of Singleton’s consequence.”
Miss Jameson’s pallid face grew red
with passion, as she exclaimed¾“Why, surely, lady Bromford, you will not pretend to deny that you were
the person who first mentioned to me that lady Arabella Moncrief had a child.”
“I am sorry, ma’am, to be obliged to
contradict you,” replied lady Bromford; “your memory must be very short indeed,
if you forget whispering in my ear, at lady Seaton’s rout, that lady Arabella
Moncrief looked very blooming, considering it was so short a time since her accouchement.”
“I solemnly protest,” returned Miss
Jameson, “I have not the remotest recollection of making such an observation,
though I certainly heard you say¾”
“Your memory, ma’am, is very
convenient,” interrupted lady Bromford; “but I positively declare, whatever I
may have said, has been merely repetitions of your reports.”
“My reports!” repeated Miss Jameson,
“my reports! why certainly you do not mean to accuse me of inventing the
scandal?”
“By no means, ma’am,” replied lady
Bromford; “I shall not take upon me to say who was the inventor; but this I
know¾I am
extremely concerned it ever was invented at all, and that I was so weak as to
lend an ear to the abominable calumny, for indeed lady Arabella Moncrief’s
extreme youth, and look of perfect innocence, were enough to convince the most
prejudiced person, and I cannot sufficiently congratulate myself that I never
took any trouble to¾”
“Why, surely,” interrupted lady
Torrington, who had sat silently enjoying the squabble between these dear
friends, “surely, lady Bromford, you will not deny having invited me to
accompany you to Bramble Cottage to see the child?”
“Yes¾no,” replied lady Bromford, upsetting her snuff-box on her lilac satin
pelisse, “no, lady Torrington, I did not invite you to see lady Arabella
Moncrief’s child¾I
merely asked you to drive to Bramble Cottage, that I might speak to the man who
supplies me with fruit: but I see, ladies, you have entered into a combination
to throw upon my shoulders the odium of this scandalous invention; but since I
fortunately perceive your intention, I shall take care that you come in for
your share of the opprobrium, I promise you.”
Lady Torrington’s only vexation
arose from having been duped by the reports of her dear friends, which, after
all, were likely to end like the fable of the ‘mountain and the mouse.’ She
felt too angry with the duchess of Aberdeen and lady Arabella Moncrief, on
account of Drawley, to trouble herself about removing the scandal from their
illustrious name; and though she had enjoyed the petit brule between lady
Bromford and Miss Jameson, she had no wish or design to take part with, or
embroil herself with either of them; because, from their insatiate passion for
scandal, she was constantly supplied with anecdotes, pathetic and ludicrous, of
the follies and improprieties committed in the extensive circles of haut ton.
“For my part,” said lady Torrington,
“I do not see what we have to do with lady Arabella’s guilt or innocence. Let
things take their own course¾no doubt the truth will soon come out. It is not worth while to dispute
about her reputation, and as to who invented or promulgated the report, it has
been so general, that I fancy it would be extremely difficult to trace it to
the fountain head; and whether the child proves to be hers or not, the most
unprejudiced person living must acknowledge that appearances have been very
much against her.”
To this opinion lady Bromford and
Miss Jameson assented; and after mutual apologies, the trio parted with great
apparent friendliness, while in their hearts they determined not to spare each
other, rather than be excluded from the duchess of Singleton’s parties.
During their ride to Bramble
Cottage, lady Arabella Moncrief, who had reason to believe that Miss Sedgeley
still nourished in her bosom a passion for the unprincipled and unworthy major
Norman, with great delicacy and tenderness, explained to her his base and most
inhuman conduct to Maria Weston, the unfortunate mother of the beautiful infant
they were going to visit. Lady Arabella made this communication, not for
ostentation, or the vanity of having her own generosity talked of, but in the
sincere hope that this fresh instance of major Norman’s depravity would effect
a thorough cure, in the virtuous and susceptible heart his desertion had
wounded, and restore the amiable Miss Sedgeley to that perfect health and
tranquillity his sordid and unmanly conduct had deranged.
Arrived at the cottage, the lovely
infant smiled, and held out its little dimpled hands to lady Arabella, who,
almost smothering it with caresses, called it her child, her own Arabella, her
marmoset, and her wax-doll.—Miss Sedgeley wept over the innocent babe, while
she deplored the fate of its deluded mother, whom she said she well remembered
at Leicester, a blooming animated girl.—Drawley took the laughing babe in his
arms, and played a thousand antics with it, declaring he knew how to nurse
better than any of them; then repeatedly kissing its soft rosy cheek, he
insisted on his right to be its father.
Lord Rushdale, in his turn, took the
babe; but whether he did not handle it so adroitly, or the child was weary, it
began to put up its coral lip, and whimper. Lady Arabella soothed it with the
tenderest affection, and, as if sensible that it was in the arms of its benefactress,
the babe again smiled, and lady Arabella, fondly kissing it, protested, let the
world invent what scandals it would, she would never part from her dear child.
“Our child, my Arabella,” said
Drawley.
“Very well,” replied she, “our child
it shall be; but do you know the dear babe has not yet been christened?”
“We will have this ceremony
performed as publicly as possible,” said Drawley, “and I take the liberty of
naming you, Rushdale, for one of the marmoset’s sponsors.”
To this lord Rushdale immediately
agreed; and while he caressed the engaging infant, expressed his surprise how
any man could be so destitute of natural feeling, as to deny and abandon his
offspring.
“No man can abhor,” said Drawley,
“such inhuman conduct more than I do; but, by-the-bye, the major, if report
does not exaggerate, would have a numerous family to maintain, if he
acknowledged all his children.”
Miss Sedgeley warmly thanked lady
Arabella, for making her acquainted with this fresh instance of major Norman’s
profligacy and want of feeling.¾“It will, I am certain,” said she, “cure me of the lingering regard
which, I blush to confess, I till this discovery nourished for him. I believed
and hoped he might repent his conduct to me, and sue to be forgiven; but Maria
Weston’s injuries and claims upon him are far greater than mine, and my pity
for her wrongs teaches me to scorn and despise her villanous betrayer.” She
then took the babe in her arms¾“It is very like its unfortunate mother,” continued she¾“it has the same lovely blue eyes and alabaster skin. I would offer
myself as a sponsor; but, doubtless, lady Arabella, you will prefer those of
higher rank and greater consequence than myself?”
“I have a reason,” returned lady
Arabella, “for wishing you to be one of my child’s godmothers, and I will not
suffer you to retract¾I wish you to convince major Norman that you are acquainted with his
base conduct to Maria Weston, and think of him as he deserves.”
The duchess of Aberdeen had not seen
the infant for some time, and generously wishing to keep alive her interest in
it, lady Arabella took the nurse and child with her in the carriage; and as
they were obliged to pass through the most public part of the town, her
appearance with it in the face of day had the good effect of putting an end to
the suspicion of its being her child, though two old spinsters of quality, whom
lady Arabella stopped the carriage to speak to, still retained their doubts and
surmises.
Lady Arabella presented the infant
to the antiquated virgins. They peered at the smiling urchin through their
glasses, pronounced it a little beauty, and having bade lady Arabella
good-morning, gave each other their opinion respecting the child, as they
slowly walked home¾lady Barbara Grizzle thought it the express image of the honourable
Tangent Drawley, while lady Mildred Blight declared she thought the child
vastly like colonel Annesley, an agreeable rattling Irishman, of some celebrity
in haut ton, with whom lady Arabella used to flirt before he went abroad.
The duchess of Aberdeen had been put
into such extreme good temper by the generous, manly conduct of Drawley, that
all he said and did was received in the most favourable manner; and when he
carried the child into the drawing-room, and placed it in her arms, she condescended
to caress it, and to admire its bright blue eyes and dimpled chin.
Drawley conceiving the present
moment favourable, proposed the child being christened; and the duchess of
Singleton fortunately calling while lady Arabella was persuading her mother to
be one of its sponsors, she had the pleasure to arrange every thing entirely to
her wish, by the venerable lady proposing herself for one of the godmothers.
“This poor babe,” said the duchess
of Singleton, kissing its white forehead, “has many claims upon the feelings of
humanity; and you must understand, my love,” turning to lady Arabella, “that
old women have to the full as many whims as young ones¾are you inclined to indulge one of mine?”
“Assuredly, my dear madam,” replied
lady Arabella; “for I am certain what you term a whim will prove to be¾”
“Not a word—not one word more,” said
the venerable duchess; “I am too old to be flattered: my wish is, that this
child should be christened in the most public manner possible, because I think
it will answer two good purposes¾it will entirely silence your defamers, and it may bring shame and
compunction to the heart of major Norman.”
Drawley declared, in a whisper to
lady Arabella, that if he was not irrevocably engaged to her, he would make
love to the duchess of Singleton, for she was a delightful old woman, and he
longed to kiss her.
The ceremony of christening lady
Arabella Moncrief’s adopted child took place with the utmost magnificence and
publicity; and when the company the duchess of Aberdeen had invited to dinner
met in the drawing-room, lord Rushdale having admired a beautiful antique vase,
placed it on a table.¾“We have just bestowed a name,” said he, “on this lovely babe¾let us give her an independence.”
Lord Rushdale was at that time the
fashion¾his
dress, his manner, his very look, were copied; no matter what was their
incentive, his proposal was instantly adopted. Lord Rushdale having premised
that he was the infant’s godfather, dropped bank-notes to the value of five
hundred pounds into the vase. Drawley immediately followed his example with the
same sum; and before the dinner-bell rung, the infant Arabella Georgina’s
fortune amounted to five thousand pounds.
“This sum, with the interest,” said
lady Hardy, “will be a very handsome thing when the child comes of age.”
“You forget to mention the compound
interest, lady Hardy,” returned her little bustling husband; “if I had pencil—I
wonder if I could borrow one?”
“Borrow what?” asked his lady.
“A pencil,” replied sir Peter Hardy;
“if I only had a pencil about me,” feeling in his waistcoat pockets, “I could
tell to a fraction how much five thousand pounds, interest and compound
interest, will amount to in nineteen years, eight months, and fifteen days.”
“You really make me blush, sir
Peter,” returned lady Hardy; “I really did not expect, when I took you from a
counting-house, to be annoyed with your everlasting calculations. Let me
request it as a particular favour, sir Peter, that you will forget, for this
one day, that you ever were a merchant; and do, pray, try to remember that you
are not now in company with traders, but with persons of the first quality and
fashion.”
Lady Hardy turned away; the abashed
knight repented having married a quality wife, and sighed for the freedom of
that counting-house, which he had bartered for the privilege of looking like a
fool, in the company of titled sharpers and rantipole women of fashion.
The accommodating Mrs. Supple, the
milliner, had shut up her shop, and gone on her travels with a French nobleman,
leaving lady Torrington at a great loss where to meet the fascinating major,
whom she had not seen for the tedious space of three long days. At last, aided
by the fertile invention of Mrs. Smithson, she pretended indisposition, which
furnished an excuse for not accepting the duchess of Aberdeen’s invitation to
the christening. Lord Rushdale, they knew, was engaged for the whole day; and
having given orders to admit no person, her lady being very unwell, the kind
convenient Mrs. Smithson introduced major Norman, disguised as a doctor, to her
apartment.
The public christening of Maria
Weston’s child had prepared the major for upbraidings and reproaches. Lady
Torrington thought this a happy moment to prove the strength of his affection
for her, and with an air of dignified seriousness she told him, she had sent
for him merely to say, that all intercourse between them was at an end; for his
barbarous conduct to Miss Weston convinced her, that no reliance was to be
placed on his professions, that she in her turn could only expect scorn and
desertion, and that to prevent so unpleasant a termination of their
acquaintance, she had determined it should conclude there.
The major vowed, knelt, wept, and
swore, and so artfully told his story, that the countess affected to believe
that he had been the seduced, not the seducer, in the affair with Maria Weston,
whom he represented as an adept in intrigue. The major protested, that so far
from having, as report represented, abandoned the artful girl, that he had
really intended to make her his wife, till he made the distressing discovery of
her criminal intimacy with his brother officers, “with one of whom,” said the
major, “she had been more than a week before I left town; and I leave you to
imagine, my adored Emily, my indignation and surprise, when I found the artful
girl had followed me here, and in the most unfeminine manner exposed herself
and me. I confess, in my rage, I did order her to be turned from my door, and I
am certain any other gentleman, with the same provocation, would have acted as
I did. At that moment I was under the influence of resentment; but, Heaven
knows, I did not intend to let her suffer want, ill as she had conducted
herself. In spite of her ingratitude, I designed to support her during her
confinement, to provide for the child, and, on her recovery, to send her back
to Leicester, to her mother, who ought not to have suffered her to visit the
apartments of her lodgers.”
“It certainly was very imprudent of
her,” replied the countess; “it was exposing the girl to temptation.”
“And if, giving way to her violent
passions, she attempted to throw herself into
the sea, am I to
blame?” asked the major.
“Certainly not, as you tell the story,” replied the
countess; “but are you sure it is not a little apocryphal?”
“Every syllable truth, my divine
Emily,” said the major. “You have heard in what way Miss Weston was preserved
by the duchess of Aberdeen’s butler, to whom, of course, she made her case
pitiable, by representing me as a monster; and as the duchess and lady Arabella
took upon themselves to provide for the mother and child, why, you see, my
lovely countess, they released me from what I should otherwise have considered
a duty imposed by humanity entirely; for as to love, or even esteem, her own
bad conduct had put that quite out of the question.”
The rhetoric of the engaging major
was not lost on the countess, who protested he was an insinuating, fascinating
wretch, born to delude and deceive poor, silly, believing women.
As the major was conducted through
the hall by Mrs. Smithson, one of the footmen stared him full in the face; and
just as he descended the steps, lord Rushdale met him. The height and gait of
major Norman were too particular to be passed unnoticed. The first impulse of
lord Rushdale was to follow, and satisfy his suspicion, for notwithstanding a
black coat and curled wig, the person of major Norman was ill disguised. The
idea of covering his mother with disgrace prevented lord Rushdale from pursuing
him; but as he entered the hall, he inquired who the person was he had that
moment met?
“The doctor that came to bleed my
lady,” was the reply.
Lord Rushdale asked no more, but
hastily passed up stairs.
“The doctor¾the devil!” repeated one of the servants, when lord Rushdale had left
the hall¾“I’ll
wager a crown that he was no more a doctor than I am, though I might lose too,
for he might have been doctor to the regiment before he was promoted, for what
I know.”
“He! what he are you talking about?”
asked the butler.
“Why, about major Norman,” replied
the footman; “if that was not he I opened the door for, I never saw him in my
life, that’s all. A doctor! fudge! the countess is as much sick as I am.”
“Hush! you long-tongued blockhead,”
said the butler; “if madam Smithson hears you, I would not give you a straw for
your place or your character. What is it to you whether the man you let out was
a major or a doctor?”
“Nothing at all, but¾”
“But you are a fool,” interrupted
the butler; “a still tongue puts money in the pouch. Do you think I should have
lived all these years in this family, if I had been given to prating? if you
wish to keep your place, you must hear, see, and say nothing.”
Lord Rushdale, agitated, and full of
resentment, entered his mother’s apartment; but perceiving her arm bound up,
and two china cups on the dressing-table, he became convinced that he had been
mistaken, and that it was possible the doctor might resemble major Norman, or
that he might have fancied a likeness that did not really exist. Having given
her ladyship an account of the splendid christening, lord Rushdale expressed
his wishes for her recovery, and bade her good-night.
Mrs. Smithson closed the door, and
having joined the countess in a laugh, drank the claret from the china cups,
and retired to bed, protesting the most sensible men were the easiest deceived.
The following week the earl of
Torrington arrived from town, and brought the news, that the count del
Montarino had proceeded from Torrington Castle to London, where he had found
out a money-lender, who had advanced Miss Maxfield thirty thousand pounds, with
which they had proceeded to Scotland, where they had got married, and from
thence had departed for Naples.
Lord Rushdale said he was extremely
sorry for Miss Maxfield.
The countess observed she was a
fool, and that the count had married her for her money.
“But if he uses her ill,” resumed
lord Rushdale, “being under age, the law can annul her marriage.”
“To whom is she to complain?” said
lady Torrington. “She speaks neither French nor Italian; she has committed a
glorious folly in marrying a foreigner.”
“If I was her brother,” replied lord
Rushdale, “I would compel the count to treat her kindly.'
“Her brother is so enamoured of lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne,” returned the earl, “that he has quarreled with all his
relations on her account; and to revenge herself on the 'child of nature’ and
her head-strong nephew, Mrs. Freakley, last week, at Tunbridge Wells, gave her
fair hand to lord Wilton.”
“What a mercenary wretch lord Wilton
must be,” exclaimed the countess, “to sacrifice himself to that frightful,
chattering, old woman, for the sake of her money! Well, I suppose in winter we
shall see lady Wilton waddling along in all the bridal pomp of white and silver¾a happy exchange! for my eyes actually used to ache with gazing on her
rose-coloured and her Waterloo-blue satin; and now she is married, I hope her
lord will oblige her to keep her nails clean; for what with snuff, and other
dirt, it was really disgusting to see her at a card-table.”
“I have not yet told you all the
news,” resumed the earl; “the tender loves of lord Melvil and lady Eglantine
Sydney are terminated.”
“In marriage, I suppose?” said lord
Rushdale.
“Yes,” replied the earl, “but not as
you suppose. At Weymouth lady Eglantine was introduced to the marquis of
Beverley, a fine dashing young man, newly returned from his travels, and just
come into possession of sixty thousand pounds a-year; for this new lover the
fair inconstant forgot all her tender vows to lord Melvil, who remonstrated by
letter. Lady Eglantine wondered what he could possibly mean, thought him
extremely impertinent, and returned his next billet unopened. Lord Melvil was
not so much in love as to fall into utter despair at her inconstancy¾he turned his attentions to the rich widow of an Armenian
diamond-merchant, who is reported to be worth near a million of money: they
were married last Friday; and the account of lord Melvil’s superb equipage, his
liveries covered with gold lace, and his pretty little bride glittering with
precious stones, fills half the newspapers of the day.”
“And they say Melvil’s bride is
pretty, do they?” asked the countess; “that must be a double mortification to
lady Eglantine.”
“I do not see,” rejoined lord
Rushdale, “how lord Melvil's marriage should mortify lady Eglantine; she had
rejected him, and certainly cannot consider his good fortune with displeasure.”
“There, young man, you are greatly
mistaken,” replied lady Torrington; “for when a lady sees it proper to reject a
gentleman, though she may not wish him absolutely to expire with grief, or live
in downright agony, she would not be displeased to know that he was a little
unhappy on her account.”
“Such vanity,” replied lord
Rushdale, “ought to be disappointed; and I am glad that lord Melvil has the
power to prove to lady Eglantine Sydney, that her inconstancy has neither
affected his spirits, nor marred his fortune.”
“On such subjects,” returned lady
Torrington, “the learned will differ.¾Any thing more in the way of news, my lord?”
“Yes,” returned the earl—”I saw lord
Alwyn Bruce in town; he told me he had just left Teignmouth.”
“How the proud lady Jane will fume
and fret, to find the heart of her brother seriously caught at last! This is
news indeed!” said the countess; “for I have no doubt but lord Alwyn Bruce went
to Teignmouth to offer his hand to Miss Delmore.”
“He went for that purpose solely,”
replied the earl.
“I am most sincerely glad to hear
it,” resumed the countess; “for nothing on earth would give me half so much
pleasure as to hear of Miss Delmore’s marriage.”
“That is a pleasure,” replied the
earl, “you will not enjoy just yet, for Miss Delmore’s marriage, I understand,
cannot take place for some time.”
“No matter; as long as she is
positively engaged,” said lady Torrington, “her immediate marriage is not of so
much consequence. To be certain she is affianced would make me perfectly
happy.”
“Then your happiness is certain,”
replied the earl; “for I give you my honour, that, with Mrs. Doricourt’s
consent, and my approbation, Miss Delmore is affianced.”
“This intelligence is delightful,”
said the countess, looking exultingly at her son, who, to her great surprise,
seemed perfectly composed. “But is your lordship quite certain¾did lord Alwyn Bruce tell you Miss Delmore had accepted his offer?”
“No, really,” replied the earl; “I
had not my information from lord Alwyn Bruce.”
“By letter, then, from Mrs.
Doricourt?” asked the countess.
“I did not hear from Mrs. Doricourt
while I was in town,” said the earl.
“How excessively teazing you are!”
returned the countess¾”you see I am expiring with curiosity, and you are resolved to torment
me¾Miss
Delmore, then, must have written you the account of her bonne fortune?”
“Not a sentence like it,” returned
the earl; “your ladyship is unfortunate in all your guesses: but at once to
relieve your curiosity, lady Torrington, I will candidly inform you Miss
Delmore has rejected lord Alwyn Bruce’s addresses.”
“She is a fool, an idiot!” said the
countess; “and I am certain Mrs. Doricourt is mad, or she never¾but stay, there is a mystery in your lordship's words—Miss Delmore, you
say, has rejected lord Alwyn Bruce’s addresses, but with Mrs. Doricourt’s
consent, and your approbation, she is engaged¾affianced; this is easily solved—Miss Delmore is affianced to some
one——”
“Whom she prefers to lord Alwyn
Bruce,” interrupted the earl. “To put an end at once to this mystery, lady
Torrington, Miss Delmore is affianced to your son; and it is my intention their
marriage shall take place the day he is of age.”
The countess was speechless with
rage; and to avoid further altercation, the earl took his son’s arm, and left
her ladyship to reconcile her mind to his determination in the best way she
could.
CHAPTER II.
______“Will pride make a man immortal? no:
Will pride hinder the worms from feeding on
The carcase after death? no: for your glutton
Worm feasts most luxurious on a pamper'd
Noble. Pride, that sin most sinful,
Is transform'd bright angels into devils,
And seeing that man is form'd of dust, and
Must return to dust again, why should he
Proudly scorn his fellow-men, who after
Death must mingle with him in one common
Mass?” Z.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“You shall find I am your lord, your head, your
master;
have you not sworn to honour and obey me? Unbend
that haughty brow, and put on looks gentle and sub-
missive. What, have I braved the raging elements; and
steered through seas that boiled, and foamed, and
swelled
in angry billows, to quail because a woman frowns? Go
to, my will shall be your law.'
ceiver deceived ¾ How to
rule a Wife.
THE pride of lord
Alwyn Bruce was by no means so excessive as that of his sister. The amiable
disposition, beauty, and accomplishments of Miss Delmore, united with her
highly-cultivated understanding, made him forgetful of her humble birth, and
rendered him a constant visitor at Mrs. Doricourt’s, to the last day of their
remaining in Cumberland.
Miss Macdonald had been informed of
his lordship’s daily visits to the Hermitage, and expressed her jealous
displeasure, in wondering how any person could cry up Miss Delmore for a
beauty; the girl was very well, but had a certain air, that plainly told she
was of low origin; and as to her accomplishments, she saw nothing wonderful;
but for her part she thanked Heaven she had sense enough to judge for herself,
and must declare Miss Delmore had never astonished her.
At length the day so anxiously
wished by Miss Macdonald arrived, and she heard, with undisguised pleasure,
that the trio of perfects, as lady Torrington had named them, lady Welford,
Mrs. Doricourt, and Miss Delmore, had left Cumberland.
Miss Macdonald believed that lord
Alwyn Bruce, having no longer a magnet to attract him to St. Herbert’s Island,
would be, as usual, a constant visitor at her uncle’s, sir Alexander Stuart,
and that his senses released from the witcheries of Miss Delmore, he would
become sensible of her superiority, and feel himself honoured in her notice.
Miss Macdonald, like many other
females in similar situations, believed as she hoped; but though lord Alwyn
Bruce did not decline sir Alexander Stuart’s invitations, he paid no more
attention to Miss Macdonald than he did to Miss Graham, or lady Stuart; and she
had the mortification to prove she studied Grecian attitudes, and robed her
tall figure in antique draperies, without even obtaining from him a word, or
even a glance of tender admiration.
After remaining at Keswick about a
month after Mrs. Doricourt’s departure from the Hermitage, lord Alwyn Bruce
asked his sister if she would accompany him to Teignmouth?
Lady Jane began to feel alarmed, and
to suspect that Miss Delmore was the incentive to this excursion; but being
herself deeply engaged in a matrimonial speculation, she was, though very
reluctantly, compelled to decline his invitation, and suffer him to proceed
alone: but previous to his setting off, she, in a very lofty tone, reminded
him, that the family of Bruce descended in a direct line from royalty, and
never had disgraced itself by a plebeian marriage, and expressed an oblique
hope, that he did not design to introduce the low-born Miss Delmore into a
family of their antiquity, rank, and consequence.
Lord Alwyn Bruce had often combated
the prejudices of his sister, but always unsuccessfully. Lady Jane, in his
eyes, had but one fault¾excessive pride; she was an affectionate sister; and as he knew it
impossible to reconcile her to his intention, he determined to let her remain
in ignorance till his fate was decided, “to be or not to be a husband;” and while he
made up his mind not to interfere in her choice, he determined not to let her
opinions influence his; he had seriously weighed every circumstance for and
against a marriage with Miss Delmore, and saw no possible objection that could
be made by the most fastidious, except her want of rank; and that to him, young
and in love, appeared of no importance, for in every other point she stood
proudly pre-eminent, and seemed “a creature of celestial mould.”
Ardent and full of hope, lord Alwyn
Bruce had not once entertained an idea that it was possible Miss Delmore’s
heart and hand might already be engaged. On his arrival at Teignmouth, he was
received by Mrs. Doricourt and Miss Delmore with many expressions of pleasure.
Love is apt to delude itself; and in the smiles of Miss Delmore, lord Alwyn
Bruce read the success of his suit. With all the fervour of youthful passion he
explained the motive of his visit to Teignmouth, and made her an offer of his
hand.
Miss Delmore esteemed and respected lord Alwyn Bruce
as a friend, but her love was irrevocably placed, and his heart felt many
severe pangs, when, with modest candour, she thanked him for the honour he
intended her, and confessed herself engaged.
Lord Alwyn Bruce was a man of
honourable principles; it was painful to endure a disappointment of his most
cherished hopes, but he did not attempt to persuade Miss Delmore to break the
faith plighted to a rival. He respected the honourable avowal she had made of
her preference of another, and entreated to be admitted to her friendship¾an honour he would in person claim, when time and absence had reconciled
him to his disappointment. This was a request not to be refused; and lord Alwyn
Bruce and Miss Delmore parted, with the sincerest good wishes for each other’s
happiness.
The beauty of Miss Delmore was now
completely restored, and no trace remained of the disorder from which her
rival, Miss Macdonald, had hoped so much. The health and spirits of Mrs.
Doricourt were also so much improved by the Devonshire air, that her repugnance
to society was lessened daily, and she ceased to regret having left the quiet
shades of St. Herbert’s to mingle with the world. Lady Welford had met several
of her acquaintance at Teignmouth, and with these Mrs. Doricourt had been led
to visit the theatre and the assemblies, at first for the sake of Cecilia
partaking the amusements of the place, and afterwards for the relief she found
they afforded to those sorrows too long and too fondly cherished.
The necessity of answering some
letters from abroad detaining Mrs. Doricourt at home, lady Welford and Miss
Delmore set out to make a few morning calls. At the house of general Amherst
they were introduced to sir Alan Oswald, an old gentleman of near ninety years
of age, who still walked erect, and was in full possession of his faculties.
Lady Welford soon understood that sir Alan Oswald was Mrs. Doricourt’s
grandfather; and in his lofty air, of which time had in no degree divested him,
lady Welford distinguished all the unbending pride which, in the days of Mrs.
Greville, had distinguished his character. Miss Delmore was certain Mrs.
Doricourt rather wished to avoid than meet sir Alan Oswald; but as he was come
to spend some weeks at Teignmouth, an interview was unavoidable, and lady
Welford undertook to mention sir Alan’s arrival to her friend.
Mrs. Doricourt received the
intelligence with far less emotion than Cecilia expected, who had sat in much
uneasiness while lady Welford made the communication. But Mrs. Doricourt had
never considered sir Alan Oswald as a relation; he had never seen or forgiven
her mother after her marriage with lieutenant Greville¾a man honoured by his country, and idolized by his family; and for
herself, he had never bestowed on her the slightest notice.
Lady Welford described sir Alan as
tall and dignified, with all the ceremonious formality of the old school about
him.
Mrs. Doricourt wished herself at the
Hermitage, for it afforded her no pleasure to learn she was in the vicinity of
a relation, whose unbending pride and relentless cruelty had rendered him
rather an object of aversion than respect to her mind; for she remembered, with
feelings of resentment, how often she had seen her mother weep at his harshness
and neglect¾that
mother, the most gentle and amiable of women; she remembered too the piety and
fortitude with which that dear and tender mother had borne up against the
cruelty and pride of her unfeeling family, and the unwearied solicitude and affection
with which she had watched over her youth: while these reflections passed in
succession through her mind, Mrs. Doricourt again felt the loss of this beloved
parent, and bathed her memory with tears of agony.
Resentful of the injustice and
hardness of heart of sir Alan Oswald, she felt a strong repugnance to meeting
him¾”My
mother’s only fault,” said she, “was loving and marrying a man of handsome
person, great intellectual endowments, and acknowledged bravery. Such was my
father, lieutenant Greville; and for loving him my lamented mother was
discarded and disclaimed.”
“These retrospections,” replied lady
Welford, “avail nothing; the past cannot be recalled. Sir Alan is anxious to
shew to you the affection he denied your parents, and he requested lady Amherst
to bring about an interview as speedily as possible. He is invited to dine at
the general’s where you know we have been engaged for near a week.”
Mrs. Doricourt could not bring her
mind to support an interview with sir Alan Oswald, and she requested lady
Welford to make her excuses to general and lady Amherst.
But against this hasty determination
lady Welford urged many arguments, particularly, that shrinking from an
interview with sir Alan Oswald would give rise to a thousand ridiculous reports.
She bade her reflect whether Mrs. Greville, if living, would approve her
shunning the presence of her grandfather, who had expressed a desire to be
introduced to her; and whether her piety would allow her to refuse sir Alan an
opportunity of bestowing on her the blessing he probably repented having
withheld from Mrs. Greville.
Mrs. Doricourt listened to lady
Welford’s arguments without being convinced by them. She felt reluctant to see
sir Alan from another motive she had not explained¾she was sufficiently rich, and did not wish the world to believe that
she entertained a design of worming herself into the favour of her grandfather,
with a view of participating in his wealth: but lady Welford would not give up
the point, and Cecilia joining her entreaties, Mrs. Doricourt yielded to their
opinion, not to her own sense of the propriety of meeting sir Alan Oswald.
It was late when they arrived at
lady Amherst’s, where sir Alan had been some time fretfully expecting Mrs.
Doricourt, every now and then exclaiming—“Refractory like her mother—little
respect can be expected from a daughter of lieutenant Greville’s¾equality and disobedience were his precepts.”
Lady Amherst, with a delicate regard
to Mrs. Doricourt’s feelings, took care that no persons should be present at
the interesting introduction but herself and lady Welford. When Mrs. Doricourt
was announced, sir Alan appeared much moved; he looked at her for a moment,
then exclaimed—“What mockery is this—she is not dead! this is my—this is Mrs.
Greville!”
Mrs. Doricourt gazed on the white
locks and venerable countenance of sir Alan¾nature throbbed at her heart, but the remembrance of her deserted mother
suppressed every tender emotion; she thought of his pride, of his hatred of her
brave father, and was near fainting.
Sir Alan saw she was sinking, and
too feeble to support her, with a countenance expressive of distress, he
entreated lady Welford to place her on the couch. Mrs. Doricourt burst into
tears, and sinking at the feet of sir Alan, earnestly entreated him to bestow
on her the blessing he had denied her mother.
Sir Alan raised her, pressed his
lips on her forehead, and pronounced the blessing she requested.¾“Your mother, Mrs. Doricourt,” said he, “was my favourite child, and on
that account her disobedience was more wounding. Had she married a man of
family, his poverty might have been overlooked, but the disgrace she brought
upon the house of Oswald was of a nature not easy to be pardoned.”
Mrs. Doricourt would have replied, but perceiving in her look a vindication of her mother, he hastily said¾“But the past not being in our power to recall, it is wisdom sometimes to forget.”
During the conversation that ensued,
it was evident to Mrs. Doricourt that time had effected very little alteration
in the character of sir Alan Oswald¾pride was still predominant, and rank his idol. Being taken by surprise,
his feelings had burst forth; but had time been allowed him for reflection, it
is probable he would have thought his offended dignity required him to demand
concessions, as well as solicitation, before he bestowed his daughter’s
forfeited blessing on her unoffending offspring. Of every class of persons
below nobility sir Alan Oswald spoke and thought with disdain; and while
running over a list of grand alliances Mrs. Greville might have formed, he did
not forget to express his contemptuous regret that the husband of Mrs.
Doricourt had made his fortune by commerce.
At table the person of Miss Delmore,
but more particularly the notice bestowed on her by lady Welford and Mrs.
Doricourt, exciting sir Alan’s curiosity, he inquired who she was? but being
informed that she was the protégée of his
grand-daughter, a person of no family, he took no further notice of her than to
observe it was pity she was so handsome, as her beauty might allure some
foolish young man of rank to marry her, and disturb the peace of his family,
which was always the case when unequal alliance were formed.
The figure of sir Alan Oswald was
still unbent by age; his cheeks were florid, his hair white as snow, and his
full dark eyes still retained a great portion of their brilliancy. This
venerable-looking old man would have awakened all the tender duteous feelings
of Mrs. Doricourt's heart, could she have forgotten his inexorable conduct to her
mother, or had he confined himself to speak on common topics; but whenever a
subject was touched upon in which rank or family had a place, the inordinate
pride of his heart became conspicuous; and sir Alan Oswald appeared, at the
very great age of near ninety, haughty, overbearing, and tyrannical.
Such a character was not likely to
conciliate the affections of Mrs. Doricourt, who, while she beheld the
coldness, almost bordering on disdain, with which he treated her darling
Cecilia, she wished she had declined being introduced to him. But while Mrs.
Doricourt felt neither respect nor affection for sir Alan, his pride in her was
strongly awakened. The rest of his family resembled him in disposition and
deportment, consequently were little admired or respected; but wherever Mrs.
Doricourt moved, she was followed by the voice of popular applause; her person,
her manner, her accomplishments, and, above all, her benevolence, were
enthusiastically spoken of. The haughty spirit of sir Alan was gratified to
perceive her society was eagerly courted by the highest circle at Teignmouth,
notwithstanding she was the widow of a man whose wealth had been made in a way
his pride despised.
The offer of lord Alwyn Bruce to
Miss Delmore had been spoken of before sir Alan, and while others thought she
had acted unwisely in refusing so noble a match, he condescended to praise her
conduct, observing, had she accepted his hand, she never could have expected to
meet any thing but contempt from his family, who, being all persons of rank,
would have felt themselves degraded, even while their respect for lord Alwyn
compelled them to admit her to an equality with themselves.
Mrs. Doricourt had mildly
endeavoured to reason these prejudices from her grand-father's mind, but they
appeared every hour to gather strength; and she was not sorry when rain, or any
other contingence, kept him from her house.
Miss Delmore, in the meantime, had,
with unwearied sweetness, strove to gain sir Alan’s favour; but whatever she
did, either to assist or entertain him, he received with the haughty air of a
superior, who condescended by accepting, rather than considered himself
obliged; and though this haughty ungracious manner of behaving to their
favourite induced lady Welford and Mrs. Doricourt to treat her with a double
portion of tenderness and respect, it made no sort of change in the conduct of
sir Alan Oswald, who publicly and privately condemned their fondness of an
inferior, which, sooner or later, he professed himself assured, would be
rewarded by ingratitude.
Mrs. Doricourt now looked forward
with anxious anticipation to the period that would release her from the
presence of a relative she found it impossible to respect or love. Sir Alan had
entirely given up visiting London, and always spent the winter at Oswald Abbey,
in Dorsetshire; but though Mrs. Doricourt wished to see the birthplace of her
mother, she positively declined sir Alan’s invitation to accompany him to the
Abbey, on the plea of business, which would detain her in town during the winter.
Cecilia regularly received letters
from lord Rushdale; the tenderness and liberal spirit breathed in every line
amply compensated for the hauteur
of sir Alan Oswald. They were filled with anxious wishes for the happy period
when they should meet in town, and the fondest protestations of love, which
absence had increased rather than diminished.
Having formed a very agreeable
acquaintance with young ladies of her own age, Cecilia would have found her
time pass very pleasantly at Teignmouth, but for the supercilious conduct of
sir Alan Oswald; though of this she never complained, for she saw that it
pained and displeased her friends equally with herself.
While matters remained in this
state, Mrs. Doricourt received a letter from Marseilles, relative to her late
husband’s property, which she wished to sell, but was informed it could not be
disposed of without her presence.
Mrs. Doricourt rejoiced in a
circumstance that would separate her from sir Alan, and release her darling
Cecilia from the presence of a person, who alone, of all her acquaintance, was
insensible to her merits.
Lady Welford determined on a trip to
France with her friends; and they had made their arrangements for quitting
Teignmouth, when sir Alan Oswald informed his granddaughter, that feeling
rather indisposed, he had determined on wintering in France, and would avail
himself of the opportunity of going over with her.
Mrs. Doricourt was vexed and
mortified; she tried to put the old gentleman from his scheme, by observing,
that during her short stay at Marseilles, her time would be entirely occupied
by lawyers and land-surveyors, her business there being to dispose of an
estate.
Sir Alan had determined on going to
the south of France; its air, he felt assured, would prolong his days, and no
suggestions of Mrs. Doricourt could alter his purpose.
“Sir Alan Oswald’s years have been
many,” said Mrs. Doricourt to lady Welford; “they may be near a close: his
daughters appear to have but little respect or affection for him, or they would
not thus commit him to the care of servants. I cannot be hypocrite enough to
say that I am actuated by any tenderer sentiment than humanity and general
charity towards him; I would much rather decline than accept his company; but
the world would call me unnatural¾nay, I fear my own conscience would upbraid me; and though it will
grieve me to the soul to part from Cecilia, yet I will not take her with me, to
be perpetually annoyed by the hauteur of sir Alan. Assist me, dear lady
Welford, with your advice; to whose protection, during my stay in France (and I
will make it as short as possible), shall I commit this dear child of my
affection?”
“Sir Alan Oswald’s determination, my
dear friend, has entirely altered mine,” replied lady Welford; “I have not your
reasons for putting up with his peculiarities, and would on no consideration be
an inmate in the same house with him. I am sorry to let you go alone, but
nothing would tempt me to visit France in company with sir Alan. You know I am
ever candid in my opinions, and will, I trust, pardon me for speaking my mind
thus freely; to me the pride of sir Alan is ridiculous, and his behaviour to
our sweet Cecilia unpardonable. If you consider me worthy the trust, I will
endeavour to make her abode with me as pleasant as it can be during your
absence from England.”
Mrs. Doricourt joyfully accepted
this kind proposal, adding, she would hasten her return; and hoped her business
would not detain her more than a month.
The parting of Cecilia and Mrs.
Doricourt was tender and affecting; Cecilia felt that she was separating from
her best and truest friend; she shrunk in terror from the reflection, that very
soon Mrs. Doricourt would be on that element which had often proved the grave
of those who embarked upon its swelling waves, full of brilliant hopes of
fortune and of lengthened days.
The piety and resignation of Mrs.
Doricourt had taught her to consider “death our necessary end,” without fear; but at
parting with Cecilia, it made no part of her anxious melancholy thoughts; ever
unhappily prone to look on the gloomy side of futurity, she had a dark
presentiment, that at her return from France she should find the blooming cheek
of Cecilia pale, and her present cheerfulness, through the dereliction of lord
Rushdale, destroyed, “for man regards not oaths nor promises.” Such
were the thoughts of Mrs. Doricourt; and as she pressed Cecilia to her heart,
and bade her farewell, she felt convinced that when they met again, she should
find her deprived of every hope of that felicity that now seemed to await her.
“Thank Heaven! my dear Cecilia,”
said lady Welford, “we have got rid of don Formallo Pomposo, who has, I
confess, put my temper and patience to very severe trials; and as to you,
certainly you merit lady Torrington’s appellation of perfect¾you are absolutely a saint in forbearance and patience; have you really
no human failings?”
“A great many, my dear madam,”
replied Cecilia; “but gratitude and affection to my dear Mrs. Doricourt made me
struggle with my feelings; and I am happy to think I disguised them so well, as
I would not for worlds have made her uneasy. Sir Alan is indeed proud, and
exacts more respect than the heart can voluntarily pay, at least mine, which
is, I know, much more haughty than it ought to be, considering, as sir Alan
often observed, my no family, and my dependent state; but it ought to be
remembered, sir Alan Oswald is very old, and¾¾”
“Very ill-tempered,” interrupted
lady Welford; “do not, my dear girl, attempt to speak one word in extenuation
of his fretful, imperious, contradictory humours; he is the most disagreeable
old man I ever met in the course of my life; I really hope Mrs. Doricourt will
not suffer her goodness of heart and notions of duty to confine her to his
side; he will wear out her spirits with his nonsensical pride and parade.”
Cecilia feared sir Alan would
persuade Mrs. Doricourt to reside with him at Oswald Abbey.¾“And then,” said she, tears trembling in her eyes, “I shall lose her
altogether.”
“No,” returned lady Welford, “that
will never happen. Mrs. Doricourt is too fondly attached to you to consent to a
separation, even if her own happiness was out of the question; but Mrs.
Doricourt has been for many years uncontrolled mistress of her time and
actions, and, I am certain, will never submit to be made the slave of sir
Alan’s haughty caprices, who, by-the-bye, has lived quite long enough, and can
now be very well spared; and I promise you, entre nous, I shall not be sorry to
hear he sleeps with his illustrious ancestors in the family vault.”
A few days after Mrs. Doricourt’s
departure, as lady Welford and Miss Delmore were coming out of a milliner’s
shop, they were, to their great surprise, accosted by lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne.¾“Bless
me, Miss Delmore,” said she, “I was told you had left Teignmouth!”
“I suppose you heard,” returned lady
Welford, “that we were all gone to France?”
“No, really, that was not the report
that met me on my arrival,” said lady Jacintha: “let me recollect—I love to be
correct; it was, that old sir Alan Oswald had insisted on Mrs. Doricourt
sending you, Miss Delmore, back to your aunt, Mrs. Milford—Milfred—Mildew—what
is her name?—the housekeeper at Torrington Castle.”
“My aunt’s name is Milman, lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne,” replied Cecilia, mildly, yet proudly, “of which she has
never yet given me reason to be ashamed. Report, your ladyship perceives, has
deceived you.”
“Oh yes, I find my intelligence has
not been quite correct,” said lady Jacintha; “but what are you doing, now Mrs.
Doricourt has deserted you? Does lord Torrington do any thing for you?
Teignmouth is a very gay place, I perceive, and rather dangerous, I should
think, for an unprotected female.”
Lady Welford had suffered lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne to run on, in the hope that Cecilia would silence her
impertinence; but finding she merely replied¾“I certainly shall profit by your ladyship’s caution,” she asked lady
Jacintha, who had informed her that Mrs. Doricourt had deserted Miss Delmore?
“Heavens, what a question!” returned
lady Jacintha. “I heard the report while I was bathing; but really I have no
recollection who mentioned it.”
“Permit me then,” said lady Welford,
“to enable your ladyship to contradict the report when you next hear it. Mrs.
Doricourt neither has, nor ever will desert Miss Delmore, who, notwithstanding
Teignmouth is, as your ladyship observes, a gay place, will, I trust, be
exposed to no dangers while under my protection.” She then took Cecilia’s arm,
and they wished her ladyship good-morning.
At lady Amherst’s, where they made a
call, they heard that lady Jacintha Fitzosborne had arrived at Teignmouth with
the widow of a Dutch merchant, a Mrs. Vanburgh, whose vulgarity she kindly
overlooked, in consideration of being allowed the use of her purse and table,
both which were plentifully supplied.
At Teignmouth lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne and her Dutch acquaintance attracted great attention, and obtained
little respect, for lady Jacintha’s dress, and that of Mrs. Vanburgh, were
fashionably indelicate, and their manners of a sort that, while they encouraged
the intimacy of the gentlemen, alarmed the modesty of the ladies, and by them
they were but little noticed or visited.
Among the gentlemen constantly seen
in the train of lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, was a Mr. Cheveril, a man something
“declined into the vale of years,” of reserved manners, sparing in
speech, and of awkward figure; but report represented his wealth as
incalculable. He had spent the best part of his life in Persia, and had been
only a few months returned to England.
Mr. Cheveril had been at some pains
to study the character of lady Jacintha; he knew she was poor, very mercenary,
and very satirical; he observed that only rank or wealth could obtain her
notice¾and
that, in the affair of marriage, her hand was to be purchased by the best
bidder.
Mr. Cheveril, in spite of all her
numerous imperfections, felt for lady Jacintha a sentiment approximating to
love; and he fancied, if she was his wife, he could tame the arrogance of her
spirit, soften the keen edge of her wit, and reform the principles that he was
willing to believe were the result of education, not the genuine offspring of
nature.
Mr. Cheveril had no ancestral
dignities to be proud of; his father had worked hard as a ship-carpenter, and
brought up a family honestly and creditably: of all his children, two only had
survived, George, of whom we are writing, and Charlotte, who had many years
been married to a banker at Exeter, of the name of Danvers.
When George Cheveril returned to
England, after an absence of full five-and-twenty years, he found all his
family dead, except Mrs. Danvers, to whose daughter he made a present of the
little property that fell to his share from the decease of his father, at the
same time placing a large sum of money in the hands of Mr. Danvers, and hinting
that his possessions exceeded their most extravagant thought.
Mr. Cheveril, in the course of the
summer, had been at most of the fashionable bathing-places, in the hope of
meeting a lady whom he could like well enough to marry. His choice fell on lady
Jacintha Fitzosborne, whose poverty was no objection, but whose rank was a
great incentive, for pride had some share in the mind of Mr. Cheveril, who
thought it would greatly add to his matrimonial felicity to have a titled wife.
The most sensible people have
weaknesses; Mr. Cheveril thought an alliance with nobility would place him upon
an equality with those who, remembering his father was an honest
ship-carpenter, and himself, at his first outset in life, the cabin-boy of a
merchantman, behaved with proud civility towards him.
Mr. Cheveril’s immense wealth sunk
sir Middleton Maxfield’s fortune into a mere competency; and, determined that
she would marry before she entered her thirtieth year, lady Jacintha did not
discourage the visits of Mr. Cheveril, though his genealogical tree wanted
supporters: many females of rank had married beneath themselves, without her
excuse of poverty; and if nothing else offered in the course of the winter¾but she would take time to consider; and, in the mean time, that Mr.
Cheveril might not prevent other offers from being made, she resolved to tell
all her acquaintance that he was Mrs. Vanburgh’s lover, not hers.
Mrs. Vanburgh’s vulgarity and want
of education did not prevent her having many admirers, who were so seriously in
love with her fortune, as to overlook deficiencies so trifling; but Mrs.
Vanburgh, to use her own phrase, had tumbled over head and ears in love with a
tall, black-whiskered officer of the name of Leland, to whom she spoke her passion,
as plain as looks could speak, whenever she met him, but without obtaining the
slightest intimation that the young man understood, or was grateful for her
condescension: the beauty of Miss Delmore had blinded the ensign to the more
matured charms of Mrs. Vanburgh; and without considering that he had only his
commission, and the little his family, persons in very moderate circumstances,
could spare, to subsist on, he was wasting his sighs and looks on her,
following a delusive Cupid, when he ought to have been worshipping at the
shrine of Plutus, and praising the simple elegance of Miss Delmore’s
appearance, at the moment Mrs. Vanburgh had decorated her person in all the
gaudy colours of the rainbow to attract his notice.
Lady Jacintha Fitzosborne did not
wish Mrs. Vanburgh to marry, for a husband might consider her friendship an
expence prudent to be dispensed with; and at present Mrs. Vanburgh’s house,
table, and purse, were very necessary to lady Jacintha, and she called forth
all her wit to set her against ensign Leland; she ridiculed his family, his
person, his connexions, and even did not stick at inventing a few falsehoods.
But it was in vain lady Jacintha tried to extinguish the flamme de Cupidon; Mrs. Vanburgh persisted
in declaring he was the most handsomest man she had seen since she left
Amsterdam; and as to his family, if they were not quality folks, he could not
help that, because he had not no choice given him before he was born.
Lady Jacintha was certain she was no
favourite with ensign Leland, and Mrs. Vanburgh’s avowed partiality put her
almost to her wit’s end; for if she married him, adieu to their friendship: the
ensign would take upon himself the direction of the household, all of which now
moved at her nod; he would also arrogate the management of her money, and lady
Jacintha saw herself deprived of those liberal supplies that now enabled her to
dress and indulge in fashionable extravagance.
Young Leland’s admiration of Miss
Delmore had not escaped the lynx eyes of lady Jacintha; and among many other
equally true arguments she made use of to cure Mrs. Vanburgh of her passion,
she positively asserted, that ensign Leland was paying his addresses to Miss
Delmore, and that they were to be married the second week in January.
This was cruel intelligence to Mrs.
Vanburgh; but while lamenting her hopeless passion, she suddenly recollected
having once or twice before caught her dear friend, lady Jacintha, telling
fibs, and it was not impossible, as she so much disliked the handsome ensign,
but she might be sophisticating a little now. “Once
to suspect,” is, as Othello says,
“once to
be resolved;” Mrs. Vanburgh was determined to be satisfied on this
point. The residence of lady Welford was not a hundred yards distant; and while
lady Jacintha was busily engaged detailing the news of the day with a party who
had made a morning call, Mrs. Vanburgh threw on her Ingee shawl and her Macling
whale, and slipped out unobserved. In a few seconds she stood on the steps of
lady Welford’s house, and with breathless haste gave a thundering rap at the
door; having sent in her name, she was admitted to the conference she requested
with Miss Delmore.
Not a little astonished at her
visit, as lady Welford had never called upon lady Jacintha Fitzosborne and Mrs.
Vanburgh since their arrival at Teignmouth, Cecilia received her with an air of
cold reserve, that would have sealed up the lips of any but a person deeply in
love, and determined to ascertain at once whether they might encourage hope, or
were to sink into the darkest gulf of despair.
Mrs. Vanburgh having curtseyed, and
said¾“Good
morning, Miss,” floundered into a chair, and throwing up her veil, leaned on
her elbows on the table that stood before Cecilia, fixing on her a stare that
lasted more than a minute.
The modest cheek of Cecilia was
suffused with a blush, as, with graceful dignity, she asked, to what cause she
was indebted for the honour of her visit?
“Why, as to the honour, Miss,”
replied Mrs. Vanburgh, “I don't know whether you think it a honour or not,
because you nor lady Welford have not, neither of you, called upon us, though
lady Jacintha Osborne, my partickler friend, who is on a visit to me, told me
she was intimate with lady Welford, and knew you very well down in Cumberland,
when she was wisiting the countess of Torrington; but that does not signify,
for we have got plenty of acquaintance.”
Cecilia merely replied¾“No doubt, ma’am.”
“I have been looking in your face,
Miss,” resumed Mrs. Vanburgh, “just to satisfy myself; and though my partickler
friend, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, will not allow it, I think you are a very
pretty young woman.”
Cecilia blushed deeper than before.
Mrs. Vanburgh was not troubled with
delicate feelings, and she continued to say¾“But a pretty face, Miss, is not a fortune.”
No woman breathing had less right
than Mrs. Vanburgh to make this observation, for she was the daughter of an
English shoemaker, who had settled at Amsterdam; she had gone to wait on the
first Mrs. Vanburgh; and after his wife’s death, her master, taking a fancy to
her face, had married her, and in less than three years died himself, leaving
her one of the richest widows in Amsterdam.
“What is a poor man,” resumed Mrs.
Vanburgh, “to do with a pretty wife? a fair skin, you know, Miss, and rosy cheeks,
won’t do nothing to support a family.”
“I really, ma’am, am at a loss to
understand you,” said Cecilia, offended at her vulgar familiarity.
“Dear heart, don’t you?” returned
Mrs. Vanburgh; “why, folks say you understand every thing. Well, I will try to
speak plain:¾please
to tell me, Miss, are you acquainted with a tall handsome man?”
Cecilia was ready to laugh at the
oddity of the question.—“I think, ma'am,” replied she, “I know many who answer
that description.”
“But one in partickler, Miss,” resumed
Mrs. Vanburgh, “who has offered himself to you for a lover. You must know who I
mean¾I am
sure you must.”
Cecilia thought of lord Rushdale,
and wondered what she could possibly have to say about him; but in the next
instant she discovered her mistake, by Mrs. Vanburgh continuing¾“Now this tall handsome young man, with black eyes, and very dark
whiskers¾”
“I have no acquaintance with any
such gentleman, I assure you, ma’am,” said Cecilia.
“That is mere quivercation, as my
partickler friend, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, says,” resumed Mrs. Vanburgh;
“and I come on purpose, out of goodwill, to tell you, Miss, if you marry this
tall handsome young man, you will be poorer than poverty itself; and your babes¾think of that, Miss¾your poor babes will be ragged little beggars, for he has not a shilling
but what he gets from his¾”
“I must beg, ma'am,” said Cecilia,
“that you will spare yourself the trouble of saying any thing more on this
subject.”
“What then,” asked Mrs. Vanburgh, in
a whimpering tone, “are you positively engaged to marry him? Well, mark my
words, you will repent; for when poverty comes in at the door, love jumps out
at the winder.”
“I assure you, ma'am,” replied
Cecilia, “I have at present no intention of marrying; and when I do, I shall
take care to provide against the poverty you describe.”
“Well then, Miss, if you don’t mean
to marry, you are acting a barbarous part by the young man,” said Mrs.
Vanburgh, “to suffer him to believe you like him, when it seems you care
nothing at all about him; you ought to tell him your mind plainly, Miss, and
give him a opportunity of making his fortune, which perhaps he might do, if he
was to open his eyes, and look about for favour.”
“I must again repeat to you, ma'am,”
replied Cecilia, “that I do not at all comprehend your meaning; while at the
same time I seriously deny having given encouragement to any gentleman here to
believe I approved him.”
“I wish I was quite sure you are not
sinfisticating, as my partickler friend, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, says; I
wish I was quite certain that you are not in love with a tall handsome young
man, with black eyes and dark whiskers.”
Cecilia, though vexed at the
impertinence of Mrs. Vanburgh, found it difficult to help laughing in her face;
but restraining her risibility, she again assured her she had no prepossession
in favour of any gentleman answering her description.
“He is so engaging, so fascinating,”
said Mrs. Vanburgh, “it is, I think, quite impossible to know ensign Leland,
and not to be in love with him.”
The murder was now out, Mrs.
Vanburgh’s mystery was explained, and Cecilia saw clearly the motive of her
visit.¾“I
beg to assure you, ma'am, on my word of honour,” said she, “that I never was in
company with ensign Leland but twice in my life¾that I never exchanged fifty words with him¾and were he to offer me his hand, I should refuse it at once, seriously
and for ever.”
“And I may depend that you are in
earnest, Miss, in this declaration?” asked Mrs. Vanburgh.
“As truth,” replied Cecilia.
“I am sure I am extremely obliged to
you, Miss, for being so candid,” said Mrs. Vanburgh; “and I am quite astonished
that my partickler friend, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, should lead me into such
a error; indeed I take it very ill of her, to tell me that ensign Leland was
your lover, and that you was to be married the second week in January. Well,
Miss, I wish you a good-morning, and I am extremely much obliged to you; and
pray, Miss, be so good as to make my compliments to lady Welford, and say we
shall be at home Saturday evening; but I will order my footman to call with
invitation tickets.”
Mrs. Vanburgh bustled away, leaving
Miss Delmore in astonishment at her vulgar effrontery, and absolutely at a loss
to guess at lady Jacintha Fitzosborne’s motive for wishing to persuade her that
she encouraged ensign Leland’s addresses, when he was not even a visiting
acquaintance at lady Welford’s.
Mrs. Vanburgh had esteemed herself
highly honoured, and uncommonly fortunate, to have a woman of title for her
particular friend, though she paid an extravagant price for the distinguished
favour of her acquaintance. Before they had been intimate a month, lady
Jacintha had flattered her into lending her money to liquidate all her debts,
on her promise of repayment, as soon as she married sir Middleton Maxfield,
and, as a very great secret, she informed her that she was bound by a solemn
engagement to give him her hand early in the following spring.
Mrs. Vanburgh had not received any
sort of acknowledgment from lady Jacintha for upwards of eleven hundred pounds,
being told by her that the word of a woman of rank was quite sufficient; but on
quitting lady Welford’s, Mrs. Vanburgh’s eyes began to open on the duplicity of
her ladyship; and remembering the money she had lent her, and other obligations
in matters of dress and jewellery, she thought her particular friend had
behaved ungrateful, and she was not a little offended with her, for having, in
the first instance, spoken in very degrading terms of ensign Leland’s person,
family, and connexions, and in the second, for having so solemnly assured her
that he was engaged to marry Miss Delmore.
Mrs. Vanburgh was yet a young woman,
but she wisely considered that she every day grew older, and, of course, that
the term of her enjoyments was shortening. She had often heard her particular
friend, lady Jacintha, say it was folly to let any opportunity of gratification
pass, and that money was only properly disposed of when employed to purchase
and obtain our wishes. All the gentlemen of their acquaintance allowed lady
Jacintha to be an exceedingly-clever woman; Mrs. Vanburgh thought she could not
err if she followed her precepts and opinions. She had married her first
husband¾a
man twenty years older than herself, to make her fortune; she was now deeply in
love with a poor man, about her own age, and she determined to marry him, and
make his fortune.
Mrs. Vanburgh thought the sooner the
affair was settled the better. She sent for the ensign, and in a few words
explained to him the extent of her affection and her fortune, and made him an
offer of her hand.
Ensign Leland felt he had no heart
to give in return for this generosity: but Miss Delmore, he understood, was
only a dependant, and to marry for love was nonsense. The ensign gave a sigh to
the beauty of Miss Delmore, as he contemplated the broad flat face of Mrs.
Vanburgh, her little grey eyes and snub nose; but recollecting that her wealth
had abundance of charms, he acted the passionate lover, gratefully accepted her
offer, and three days after they were privately married, without even dropping
a hint to lady Jacintha of their intention.
Presuming on the extreme good-nature
and ignorance of Mrs. Vanburgh, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne was infinitely more
mistress of the elegant house she had hired at Teignmouth than Mrs. Vanburgh
was herself; taking upon her to order every thing, to invite and reject what
company she pleased, and even to sit at the head of the table, making it always
appear that Mrs. Vanburgh was obliged and honoured by her condescending to be
in all things as troublesome and expensive as possible. Ensign Leland, now
master of the house, had borne the airs of insolence assumed by lady Jacintha
for two days with tolerable patience and temper, without even appearing to
notice her impertinent inuendoes, or the scowl of haughty contempt with which
she regarded him; but on the third day, when lady Jacintha was about to place
herself, as usual, at the head of the table, he took his wife by the hand, and,
in a tone of authority, said¾“The head of the table is your place, madam, and I insist that you
occupy it.”
Lady Jacintha still remained
standing, and, with a look that she meant to be awful and petrifying, asked him
what he meant by presuming to interfere?
“I merely mean, lady Jacintha Fitzosborne,”
replied he, coolly, “that Mrs. Leland shall sit at the head of her own table.”
“Mrs. Leland!” echoed lady Jacintha,
with an altered tone and countenance—”Mrs. Leland! can this be true?”
“Yes, indeed, it is very true, my
dear friend,” replied the bride; “it is three days since I changed the name of
Vanburgh for Leland.”
“And without even consulting me!”
said lady Jacintha; “you have used me shamefully—I did not believe it was
possible you could have acted so ungratefully.”
“Another time you can decide on
which side the obligation lies,” observed the ensign. “Will your ladyship be
seated?—the dinner cools.”
Lady Jacintha placed herself at the
right hand of the bride, and the dinner proceeded almost in silence.
When the cloth was removed, and the
servants withdrawn, the ensign informed lady Jacintha that business of
importance called himself and Mrs. Leland to Holland, and that they should quit
Teignmouth the following week.
“Since Mrs. Leland has thought
proper to act towards me, her friend, with such horrid duplicity,” said lady
Jacintha, “the sooner we part the better.”
“I am of your ladyship’s opinion,”
replied the ensign; “but before you bid each other adieu, I think,” taking out
his pocketbook, “it is proper, as probably you never may meet again, that all
pecuniary concerns should be settled between you.”
“Pecuniary concerns!” repeated lady
Jacintha; “you are pleased to be facetious, sir; or perhaps your good fortune
has deranged you a little. I have heard that a sudden accession of wealth has
frequently turned the brain of persons in the lower sphere of life.”
“I dare say you mean to be witty,”
said the ensign; “but unfortunately my brain is too dull to take in your
ladyship’s point; this, however, I clearly understand¾you are indebted to Mrs. Leland eleven hundred and forty-eight pounds.”
“You labour under a trifling
mistake, sir,” returned lady Jacintha; “you will not pretend to say this, Mrs.
Leland?”
“Yes, indeed I will,” replied Mrs.
Leland. “That money I lent you in good English banknotes, besides bills that I
have paid for you since we came to Teignmouth. Here,” taking from her husband’s
hand a memorandum of lady Jacintha’s own writing, “here is a list of your debts
that you made out yourself and gave me¾ ‘To Allen, shoemaker, sixty-three pounds thirteen shillings’¾ ‘To Havard, glover, ninety-seven—”
“Spare yourself the trouble of
reading, ma’am,” said lady Jacintha; “I utterly deny your ever having lent me
money, and shall laugh at Mr. Leland’s ridiculous demand, till he can produce
my acknowledgment of the debt; though I must confess this demand upon my purse
is a very grateful return, Mrs. Leland, for my great condescension in taking
you under my protection, and introducing you to the first society, which, but
for the honour of my acquaintance, you never could have been admitted into.”
“And it would be paying rather too
dear for the honour you have conferred on me, in making use of my house, table,
and carriage, for yourself and your acquaintance,” retorted Mrs. Leland, “if at
last I am to be swindled out of near twelve hundred pounds.”
“I shall quit your house
immediately, ma’am,” said lady Jacintha; “and shall ever lament having honoured
it with my own presence, or the introduction of my friends; but when persons of
rank associate with vulgar plebeians, they generally suffer for their
condescension.”
Lady Jacintha was about to withdraw,
when, with a slide and a bow, the ensign placed himself between her and the
door.¾“Your
ladyship will pardon me,” said he, “for detaining you; but before you deprive
us of your most agreeable society, I shall consider myself obliged if you will
favour me with your note of hand on this stamp, for the eleven hundred and
forty-eight pounds you are indebted to Mrs. Leland.”
“Let me pass, sir,” exclaimed lady
Jacintha; “do you presume to detain me?”
“I am extremely sorry to be rude to
a lady,” replied the ensign; “but our being on the very eve of quitting the
kingdom must plead my apology. I would certainly much rather receive the money;
but as I suppose that is not quite convenient to your ladyship, I will take
your note, payable on the day of your marriage.”
“I shall give no note,” returned
lady Jacintha.
“Well,” said Mrs. Leland, “I find
the honesty of a lady of title is not worth a nutmeg. Here is the list of your
debts, set down by yourself¾can you deny that they were paid with my money?”
“Whatever I am in your debt, ma’am,”
returned lady Jacintha, “I give you my word I will pay you.”
“Then you must pay me for the dress
on your back,” said Mrs. Leland; “for I am certain it is set down to my
account; and as to your word—you have told me so many falsehoods, that I would
not take your word for this filbert.”
“Does your ladyship choose to give
me your note?” demanded the ensign.
“Let me pass this instant,” said
lady Jacintha, “or I will swear that you have attempted to extort money from
me.”
“That menace decides me,” replied
the ensign.¾“Pull
the bell, Mrs. Leland.”
The servant who entered was desired
to request the attendance of an attorney who lived on the opposite side of the
street.
Lady Jacintha detested the name of
an attorney; she had often been in the hands of the law, and was sensible that
she never escaped without suffering loss. To be sure she knew the only witness
to her borrowing the money was Mrs. Garnett, and she thought she could depend
on her to say whatever she directed. But Mrs. Garnett had lived long enough
with lady Jacintha Fitzosborne to find that her wages were considerably in
arrear, and that all she got for her services of lying through thick and thin,
was now and then a cast-off dress, which lady Jacintha had worn herself as long
as it was good for any thing.
Mrs. Garnett was a very expert and
clever femme de chambre, and Mrs. Leland had dropped several broad hints that
she should like to engage her, if she had an intention of quitting her present
situation. These hints had not been thrown away¾the honour of being waiting-woman to a poor lady of title, Mrs. Garnett
began to think, was not so desirable as she once imagined, for she had neither
got well paid, nor well married; and hearing the dispute respecting the money,
she determined to secure herself a good place, by deserting the side of lady
Jacintha.
Mrs. Garnett being called upon for
her testimony, said she was monstatiously sorry to be obligated to tell truth,
but she could not do no sitch wicked thing as quivercate against her
conscience, and she sartinly was present when Mrs. Leland lent lady Jacintha
Fitzosborne eleven hundred and forty-eight pounds, and she did hear lady
Jacintha say after, that she would not give a straw for a friend, unless she
could make use of their money gist as if it was her own.
Lady Jacintha was quite confounded; the declaration of
Mrs. Garnett was a disappointment for which she was so unprepared, that all her
effrontery forsook her, and she could only exclaim against the treachery of her
servant, and declare she was bribed to witness against her; but finding the
ensign resolute to arrest her for the money, she at last gave him her note,
payable on the day of her marriage, “with sir Middleton Maxfield,” she wished
to have inserted; but Mr. Leland, much more wary than she expected, would only
have the words, “payable on the day of my marriage.” The ensign was so well
aware of her mercenary character, that he was convinced, if any match more
advantageous should offer, she would, without scruple, deny and break off her
engagement with sir Middleton Maxfield; and that he might be sure of his money,
if she ever did marry, he insisted on wording the note in his own way.
Mrs. Leland parted with her partickler friend, lady
Jacintha, on the worst terms possible, resolving never again to put herself
under the management of a poor lady of quality.
Lady Jacintha being unable or unwilling to pay the
demand of Mrs. Garnett, was compelled to hear that loquacious and eloquent
gentlewoman abuse her in her own phraseology; but as Mrs. Garnett's language
was above the comprehension of most persons, lady Jacintha thought it
impossible that her representations could be of consequence to her character;
and though she reviled Mrs. Leland for engaging her servant, she was not, on
the whole, sorry to part with her; for Mrs. Garnett, from being admitted to a
participation of her secrets, had become impertinent and presuming.
Ensign Leland prided himself on his generalship, in
getting rid of lady Jacintha, whom he compared to a leech, and to whom he had
taken a dislike, from the hauteur
with which she had always behaved to him, which dislike had been considerably increased
by Mrs. Leland communicating to him all the disparaging things her ladyship had
said of his person, his manner, and his family.¾“I am now even with her haughty ladyship,” said the ensign, triumphantly
lodging her note of hand with his attorney, giving him a strict charge to
demand the money the moment he heard of her marriage.—“And in future, Mrs.
Leland,” continued he, “I will prove to you, that rank is not of so much
consequence in life as these titled sharpers wish to have it believed. Take my
word for it, if you can afford to keep a handsome equipage, and entertain well,
the world will never be so impertinent as to ask how many quarters you have in
your escutcheon, nor trouble themselves to inquire whether your riches were
hereditary possessions, or had their rise in the muddy stream of Pactolus.”
“I never heard of Mr. Pactolus,” returned Mrs. Leland;
“but I know Mr. Vanburgh got the chief of his riches by trading to Ceylon; and
I know that at Amsterdam I was thought of some consequence, whatever I may be
in England.”
Lady Jacintha Fitzosborne heard of the departure of
the Lelands from Teignmouth with much satisfaction, and if any person happened
to mention them in her presence, she would request not to be reminded of her
misfortunes. She had, she confessed, taken pity on the female Hottentot, and
had endeavoured to model and reform her savage manners; but her marriage with
that presuming, ignorant, vulgar fellow, ensign Leland, had constrained her to
cut the connexion, and entirely separate herself from an acquaintance which it
was impossible for her to remember without blushing.
Mr. Cheveril was now a constant attendant on lady
Jacintha. She condescended to ride his horses¾she suffered him to drive her round the country in his curricle; and
finding that his fortune was a passport to the best company in Teignmouth, she
no longer persisted in denying his being her admirer.
Mr. Cheveril was pleased with the person of lady
Jacintha, and he thought he should like to manage the spirit of a woman who
kept every person of her acquaintance in awe. He had heard of her engagement
with sir Middleton Maxfield, and he one day bluntly asked her when she was to
be married?
Lady Jacintha protested she was under no engagement to
sir Middleton Maxfield. She would not deny that he had made her an offer of his
hand, and had proposed giving her uncontrolled possession of five thousand
pounds a-year; but seriously she had entered into no promise, and was at
perfect liberty to marry whom she pleased.
Mr. Cheveril perfectly understood the deep and
interested game lady Jacintha was playing; but having a design himself, he
affected to believe her declaration, and immediately replied, since her
ladyship was under no engagement to sir Middleton Maxfield, he should be the
happiest of men if he could render himself agreeable to her.
Agreeable, lady Jacintha thought absolutely
impossible; but his fortune was extremely desirable. She put on a look of
modest confusion¾hesitated,
and, as he became pressing, desired time for consideration; but Mr. Cheveril
was determined not to dangle after any woman; and anxious to conclude the
affair at once, he said he would settle twelve thousand a-year upon her, and
would give her twenty-four hours to consider his proposal; he would then,
within one week, become her husband, or take his leave of her for ever.
This hasty procedure did not exactly please lady
Jacintha, who wished her marriage to be conducted with splendour. She
considered the family of Mr. Cheveril, his person and education, with contempt;
but his wealth was incalculable—she should, by marrying him, be enabled to live
in a style of eastern state and magnificence¾she should, in the splendour of her establishment, the number of her
carriages, and her attendants, black and white, rival all her acquaintance;
interest prevailed¾lord Rushdale, sir Middleton Maxfield, all her admirers were resigned,
and Mr. Cheveril received her consent to be his as soon as the settlement was
ready.
Lady Jacintha now wrote to sir Middleton Maxfield, to
inform him that her family were very averse to her fulfilling her engagement
with him, and that she was certain his were equally ill-disposed to receive
her; and as their marriage would only be productive of discord and uneasiness
on all sides, she thought it much better they should give up all idea of an
union. She added, that she returned all the letters he had written her, and
expected, as a gentleman, he would return hers.
Sir Middleton Maxfield raved, swore, and tore his
hair; at last he made a packet of her letters, writing in the envelope, that he
felt extremely obliged to her for convincing him that the representations of
his friends respecting her principles of honour were true. He assured her that
he wished her all possible happiness, and begged her to believe that her
rejection of his hand would by no means lessen his.
But though sir Middleton Maxfield wrote thus
carelessly, he was seriously hurt at lady Jacintha’s ungenerous conduct; but
determined not to give way to melancholy, he set off to Tunbridge Wells, to
reconcile himself to his aunt, and congratulate her on her marriage with lord
Wilton.
Lady Jacintha Fitzosborne did not expect to get rid of
her engagement with sir Middleton Maxfield so easily; and as she threw the
packet of letters into the fire, she felt no little mortification that he had
expressed no regret at her conduct.
At the appointed time she found Mr. Cheveril punctual.
The promised settlement was brought for her inspection, and being approved, was
signed, sealed, and given into her possession; and no chance of any thing
superior offering, lady Jacintha, at the end of the following week, exchanged
the name of Fitzosborne for Cheveril, and as soon as the ceremony was
performed, set off with her husband to spend the honeymoon at Willow Bank, near
Exeter.
Lady Jacintha wished to invite a large party to
accompany her, as she was not so fondly inclined towards her husband as to
desire to spend a single day with him alone; but wishes and angry remonstrances
were equally unavailing; even on her wedding day Mr. Cheveril was so rude as to
remind her ladyship that she had vowed to obey; and that it was his will that
she should accompany him immediately and alone to Willow Bank.
Lady Jacintha frowned and bit her lip, but she had
twelve thousand pounds a-year at her own absolute disposal, and she resolved to
shew him a trick for this sudden display of his insolent authority. Into a
postchaise she most unwillingly ascended, with a newly-hired female attendant,
and her first bridal hours were spent in resolves not to yield, even in the
most trivial point, to her husband, or to allow him the prerogative of command.
At the close of the evening the carriage stopped
before a large old-fashioned building, and Mr. Cheveril saluting his bride,
bade her welcome to Willow Bank.
“This Willow Bank!” exclaimed lady Jacintha, almost
shrieking; “that gloomy prison-looking place—that your beautifully-situated
country-seat! But though you have deluded me hither, you shall never get me to
set my foot within the doors¾I insist upon going back to Teignmouth.”
“You are my wife, madam,” said Mr. Cheveril, sternly;
“and I insist that you submit to my pleasure.”
Lady Jacintha ordered the driver to take the road back
to Teignmouth; but he declared the horses were tired, and could not proceed
before morning.
Lady Jacintha scolded vehemently. She looked round,
and on all sides, but no house appearing in sight, nor any person she could
appeal to, she was obliged to suffer Mr. Cheveril to lead her into an
unfurnished hall, where a black man and woman waited to receive her. Lady
Jacintha threw himself on a window-seat, without bestowing even a nod in return
for the salutations of the sable attendants.
“You now perceive, my dear,” said Mr. Cheveril, “why I
did not suffer you to bring company to Willow Bank, which having purchased but
a few weeks ago, is not furnished; and knowing your exquisite taste, I left
every thing to your direction.”
Even this compliment failed to reconcile lady Jacintha
to her situation. She complained of being cold, and asked if fire had ever been
heard of in that out-of-the-way place?
The black woman, in broken English, replied, they knew
what fire was very well; and if she would walk into the parlour, she would find
herself quite comfortable.
This parlour was a room nearly twenty feet by sixteen;
at one end a small grate, with a newly-lighted fire, threw out such volumes of
smoke, that it was scarcely possible to see an article of the furniture.
“From the comforts of Willow Bank,” exclaimed lady
Jacintha, retreating again to the hall¾“good Heaven deliver me!”
“I thought you had possessed more philosophy, madam,”
said Mr. Cheveril, “than to suffer such a trifling inconvenience to disconcert
you; the chimneys at present are damp¾when they have had time to dry, no doubt the smoke will ascend¾if it should not, we must find a remedy; but as it is, my love, you must
make a virtue of necessity, and condescend to take your tea in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen!” repeated lady Jacintha, angrily; but
putting on a smile of disdain, she added¾“Oh certainly! in the scullery, if you think proper. Pray lead the way,
sir¾I
long to go over this elegant magnificent seat of yours.”
The kitchen was large, very clean, and enlivened by a
good fire, near which being seated, Zeila, the black woman, asked if madam
would have tea then?
Lady Jacintha haughtily replied, whenever she thought
proper.
Zeila bustled to set a little bright-rubbed oak table,
on which she placed, without a tea-tray, cups and saucers, and a large plate of
piled-up brown bread and butter.
“Make me some toast,” said lady Jacintha; “I never eat
bread and butter. Have you no rolls¾no manchet?”
“That is the bread,” pointing to a large loaf¾“we have none whiter,” replied Zeila.
“I cannot eat that,” returned lady Jacintha; “I must have
white bread.”
“Then you must fast, my dear, till tomorrow morning,’
rejoined Mr. Cheveril. “At the distance we are from Exeter, we cannot possibly
procure white bread this evening; besides, brown bread is much wholesomer.”
“And cheaper, I suppose,” said lady Jacintha, with a
sneer.
Mr. Cheveril replied—”Certainly, for it goes further
in a family.”
Zeila made a slice of toast, and at lady Jacintha’s
desire would have poured out the tea, but Mr. Cheveril chose to take the office
on himself.
Having drank two cups of tea, lady Jacintha declared
it was abominable smoky stuff, and the toast coarse and dry as chaff, which she
had no doubt would make her ill, by lying like lead on her stomach.
“A walk,” said Mr. Cheveril, “may perhaps be
serviceable; and as the evening is very mild, and the moon at full, you will be
able to judge of the capabilities of the garden.”
Mortified, disappointed, and out of humour with every
thing and every body, lady Jacintha listened to Mr. Cheveril’s intended
improvements with disdainful indifference; and when he paused, asked him if he
really could believe, after he had done his utmost to beautify and embellish,
that it would ever be possible to make a place, surrounded with high walls, a
summer residence fit for a person of her rank?
“I believe it will make a residence fit for me,
madam,” replied he; “and as you have done me the honour to accept me for your
husband, of course, what will suit me you cannot object to.”
“There you are greatly mistaken, Mister Cheveril,
returned lady Jacintha, “for doubtless you have been accustomed to live in a
style very different to any thing I can have an idea of; and if I had supposed
that I was to be hurried away from my friends, even on my wedding-day, and
brought to a gloomy mansion, where there is scarcely a chair to sit down upon,
I never would have accepted you for a husband, I promise you.”
“You can be candid, I perceive,” said Mr. Cheveril.
“I certainly expected that a man of your fortune,”
resumed lady Jacintha, “had a suitable establishment; and from your description
of Willow Bank, that it was a magnificent structure, furnished with Asiatic
luxury, I expected.”
“I know you did,” interrupted Mr. Cheveril; “from my
long residence in Persia, you expected to find the floors covered with costly carpets¾you expected sofas of gold and ivory, glittering with precious stones,
and canopied with oriental purple; you expected to be received by a crowd of
prostrate slaves, and that your vanity would be gratified, by bringing with you
a parcel of high-bred coxcombs, and unprincipled women of fashion, to laugh at,
and make a property of the man who had admitted you to a participation of his
wealth; but your intentions, madam, by no means coalesce with mine; your career
of folly has lasted too long; the world gives you credit for wit¾common sense is of infinitely more value; if you possess any, you will
accommodate yourself to my wishes, and become reasonable and rational; we shall
then live happily and lovingly together.”
“Like Darby and Joan,” said lady Jacintha,
disdainfully; “may I be permitted sir, to inquire whether solitude forms a part
of your plan of rational happiness? Is it among your wishes that I should live
without society in this delightful mansion of yours?”
“That question,” replied Mr. Cheveril, “is not very
flattering to me, who might reasonably expect that at present you would prefer
my society to any other; but I forgive you, because I know the amiable serenity
of your temper is a little disturbed. Believe me, I have no design to seclude you
from society; but I will take care that your company and amusements are such as
will not corrupt your morals, or increase your passion for extravagance and
dissipation.”
“You arrogate too much,” returned lady Jacintha, “in
supposing that I shall consult your opinion on the choice of my company or
amusements.”
“You shall do both,” interrupted Mr. Cheveril.
“You speak in a very lordly tone,” said lady Jacintha;
“but you are not now in Persia; recollect, Mr. Cheveril, English women are not
slaves.”
“If English wives were under the laws that regulate
those of the East,” replied Mr. Cheveril, “their husbands would not have such
frequent reason to repent the imprudence of their choice.”
“It is a pity you did not content yourself with one of
these slaves,” said lady Jacintha, “who would have been satisfied to live moped
up in a corner of your house, with no other society than you, her lord and
master.”
“I have no design to punish you so severely,” returned
Mr. Cheveril; “you shall have other society; to-morrow, madam, you will be
visited by Mr. Danvers, his wife and daughter. Mr. Danvers is not a man of
fashion, but, what is far more estimable, he can boast sound principles and
unblemished integrity. Charlotte Danvers is a lively little girl, and her
mother, my sister, a well-meaning, good sort of woman,” which, in lady
Jacintha’s idea, meant an insipid fool.
Determined not to suffer Mr. Cheveril to believe she
was at all intimidated by his conduct or declarations, she returned to the
house, and went through every apartment, which she protested was the worst
planned and vilest finished building she had ever seen in her life; dull and
gloomy enough to nourish melancholy, and bring on madness; and that however Mr.
Cheveril might reconcile his mind to live in such a prison, she never could;
and she was resolved to set off for Teignmouth the next morning.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Cheveril.
But the next morning brought disappointment and fresh
vexation to the pride of lady Jacintha. The chaise had left Willow Bank at
daybreak; and while she was protesting that she would not remain another day,
Mr. Mrs. and Miss Danvers were announced. Lady Jacintha’s love of ridicule
overcame her pride; in the hope of mortifying her husband, by quizzing his
relations, she constrained herself to receive the congratulations of a country
banker and his family.
Mr. Danvers was a man of good understanding; he was
disgusted with the haughty airs of lady Jacintha, and soon took his leave; he
mentally blamed his brother-in-law for marrying a quality termagant, though,
knowing Mr. Cheveril’s decided temper, he believed, if any man had power to
tame a shrew, he had.
Mrs. Danvers, though used to genteel company, had
never met any thing so high bred as lady Jacintha, who, whenever she attempted
to speak, either flatly contradicted or ridiculed every thing she said. Mrs.
Danvers respected her brother, and for his sake tried to accommodate herself to
the haughty capricious temper of his lady, who treated her with supercilious
contempt.¾“The
prospect from this window is very agreeable,” said Mrs. Danvers; “don’t you
think so, lady Jacintha Cheveril?”
“Prodigiously agreeable indeed,” replied lady
Jacintha; “to the right a stagnant pool, with half-a-dozen ducks swimming on
it; to the left a common, with not a tree, or even a furze bush, to rest the
weary eye upon; in front a group of miserable thatched huts, dignified with the
name of a village¾extremely
agreeable indeed, Mrs. Danvers!”
“Perhaps your ladyship is not fond of the country,”
said Miss Danvers, perceiving her mother was completely put to silence.
“Not very, I confess, Miss Danvers,” replied lady
Jacintha. “A watering-place for two or three months in the summer does very
well, because one is sure to meet fashionable company; but from a dull quiet
place like this, Heaven deliver me!”
“I should greatly prefer living here,” said Mrs.
Danvers, “to the noise of Exeter. But different people, to be sure, have
different opinions; and you, lady Jacintha Cheveril, have, I suppose, been used
to London?”
“Yes, ma’am,” returned lady Jacintha, “I have indeed
been used to London¾dear delightful London! I am certain I never could survive a winter out
of it.”
“My uncle has promised to take me with him to London,”
said Miss Danvers.
“Has he?” replied lady Jacintha. “That is not
consistent with his usual prudence; I think he had much better let you remain
at Exeter.”
Lady Jacintha’s haughty airs and unceasing
contradictions had worn out the patience of Mrs. Danvers, who fancying her
ladyship considered the expence of taking her daughter to town, observed, in a
tone of more spirit than she usually assumed, that her brother was rich enough
to afford to give his niece a jaunt to London; and as long as he did not spend
other people’s fortunes, nobody had a right to call him to an account about his
own.
“I am sure, ma’am,” said lady Jacintha, “I shall never
take the trouble; my remark did not proceed from any consideration of expence,
I promise you, but merely from Miss Danvers being so young.”
“What difference can that make,” asked Mrs. Danvers,
“when she will be under your care?”
“Under my care!” exclaimed lady Jacintha, casting a
look of disdain on Mrs. Danvers and her daughter¾“expect me to lead Miss Danvers about! You really design me an honour,
ma’am, that will be quite out of my power to accept; I shall have too many
engagements on my hands.”
“I don’t think my brother will go any where, without
taking Charlotte with him,” said Mrs. Danvers.
“To that I can have no possible objection,” replied
lady Jacintha, “except that it would be extremely ridiculous. When in town, Mr.
Cheveril and myself shall rarely meet, except at dinner.”
“Mercy on me! rarely meet but at dinner!” repeated
Mrs. Danvers. “Why, bless my soul, lady Jacintha Cheveril, what can you mean?”
“I mean, ma’am,” replied her ladyship, “that married
persons in high life have different acquaintance and different pursuits; but
your situation in life, placing you in so very opposite a track, Mrs. Danvers,
the manners and arrangements of haut ton
must be beyond your comprehension.”
“And to tell you the truth, lady Jacintha Cheveril, I
have no wish to comprehend such wicked ways,” said Mrs. Danvers; “but I am
certain my brother will never allow such doings; he has spirit enough to keep
proper order in his family.”
Lady Jacintha considered an altercation with Mrs.
Danvers beneath her. Mrs. Danvers thought her ladyship a proud insolent woman,
and in heart severely condemned her brother for marrying a titled beggar, who
treated himself and his relations with disdain, always endeavouring to impress
them with an awful sense of the honour she had conferred on them, in
condescending to mix her noble blood with their plebeian puddle.
Lady Jacintha believed her husband to be an obstinate
narrow-minded man, who, though immensely rich, had not the spirit to spend his
money like a gentleman; and she wondered how he had opened his heart to make so
liberal a settlement on her.
Lady Jacintha’s maid appeared to be as little pleased
with Willow Bank as her lady, and she had been easily brought to assist in
preparing for the elopement her ladyship projected to make from her husband the
very first opportunity.¾“Twelve thousand a-year, entirely at my own disposal from the hour of my
marriage,” said lady Jacintha. “Well, really, with all his caution, Mr.
Cheveril was a little overseen there; the silly man has amply provided for my
separating myself from him; he was in love, poor soul!”
Having prepared a packet of letters for town, lady
Jacintha thought it would be safest to lodge her settlement with a solicitor;
but previous to enclosing it with her letters, she broke the seals of the
envelope, to indulge herself with again perusing a parchment, that made her
independent of a parsimonious husband; but what was her confusion and dismay,
when, instead of her settlement, she held two blank skins of vellum. Lady
Jacintha shrieked aloud, and Mr. Cheveril and his sister, in alarm, rushed into
the room, and demanded what was the matter?
Lady Jacintha, with difficulty, articulated¾“Look there!” pointing to the blank parchment.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Cheveril, coldly. “I really
supposed something terrible had happened.”
“Is not this terrible!” exclaimed lady Jacintha. “Do
you not perceive that I am robbed¾defrauded?”
“It is of no consequence” returned Mr. Cheveril.
“Do you intend to drive me mad?” said lady Jacintha.
“It is of the utmost consequence to me. Was it not the settlement that induced
me¾”
“To deceive sir Middleton Maxfield, and marry me. I
will fill up the pause for you,” said Mr. Cheveril.
“I was not going to say any thing of the kind,”
replied lady Jacintha, looking pale and wild; “but you will renew the
settlement, dear Mr. Cheveril, I know you will.”
“I have no such silly intention,” said he.
“I see I have been taken in,” resumed lady Jacintha,
raving like a maniac; “I have been deceived—imposed upon; but I will proclaim
you to the world.”
“What will you proclaim?” asked Mr. Cheveril, with
provoking calmness; “will you tell the world, that, with a mind the most
mercenary, you married a man, whose family you despised, for the sake of
extravagantly spending the wealth he had endured hardships and toil under a
burning sun to obtain?”
“I will be revenged!” exclaimed lady Jacintha. “I will
have justice! All the world shall know how I have been taken in.”
“Proclaim your own detestable principles to the world
as soon as you please, madam,” said Mr. Cheveril; “tell them, that, informed of
your intention to elope, and spend my hard-earned fortune according to your
pleasure, I deprived you of the power to disgrace yourself and me. Yet, even
now, conduct yourself with propriety, and you shall have no reason to complain;
but I will restrict your extravagant expences—I will not have my fortune
dissipated at a faro-table.”
“I will be separated from you, if law can effect it,”
returned lady Jacintha. “What! have I disgraced myself and family, by marrying
a low-descended man, to be compelled to square my expences to his mean
contracted ideas? Shall I submit?”
“Yes, madam,” resumed Mr. Cheveril, “you shall submit
to live, not according to your will, but mine. And mark me, madam, if you leave
my house for a single night, never expect to be received into it again, or that
any part of my wealth shall maintain you in a state of separation; you brought
me no fortune, and I have dearly enough purchased you, for it appears likely I
shall expend a tolerable one in paying your debts.”
“It is false,” said lady Jacintha; “I have no debts.”
“Remember Mrs. Leland, and be silent,” returned Mr.
Cheveril; “I have this morning taken up your note, given to ensign Leland, for
eleven hundred and forty-eight pounds.”
“I wish I owed a hundred thousand pounds,” said lady
Jacintha; “but when I get to London—”
“Make your mind easy, madam,” interrupted Mr.
Cheveril; “you will not see London this winter.”
After a few days spent in upbraidings, lady Jacintha,
finding her husband of a temper on which neither tears, rage, nor sullens, had
the least effect, began to consider that it would be to her interest to put on
an appearance of affability and reconciliation; she wished to spend the winter
in London, and was willing to humble herself a little to gain her point: but
Mr. Cheveril kept his word¾he remained in Devonshire, but not at Willow Bank, which he had borrowed
of his brother-in-law, as the beginning of his plan to reduce the haughty lady
Jacintha to reason, and humble her pride. Perceiving a favourable change in her
temper, he removed to a modern-built villa, elegantly furnished; she had the
use of a carriage, and was properly attended, but still Mr. Cheveril maintained
his authority; and though her table, her wardrobe, and her purse, were
liberally supplied, on every occasion where her old propensities burst forth,
lady Jacintha found that Mr. Cheveril knew how to RULE A WIFE.
CHAPTER III.
The angel of affliction rose,
And in his train a thousand woes;
He pour’d his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled. MONTGOMERY.
“There is nothing under heav’n’s wide hollownesse,
That moves more dear compassion of mind,
Than beauties brought t’unworthie wretchednesse,
Through envie’s snare, or fortune’s freakes unkind.”
“This calumny is thine,
Thou hast invented this foul tale, to hold
Me faster in thy toils; but I have yet a
Friend in heaven, and he who knows my
Innocence will rescue me.”
Love a Disease seldom
incurable—A Rout and a
Discovery—Credulity and Deceit—An unplea
sant Journey.
THE fog and rains of November had driven the
gay fluttering votarists of fashion from the dreariness of the country, to seek
amusement in the ever-varying scenes of London. Lord Rushdale and Miss Delmore
had met, and considered all the inquietudes of absence overpaid, by discovering
in each other numberless improvements in mind and person, and in addition to
this pleasure, they found what indeed rarely occurs, that absence had actually
increased, not diminished, their affection. The earl of Torrington embraced
Cecilia with the tenderness of a parent; the countess met her with undisguised
haughtiness, and suffered no opportunity to pass, without giving her to
understand that she disapproved her son’s engagement, and would, to the utmost
of her power, oppose their marriage.
This disapprobation on the part of the countess, and
the absence of Mrs. Doricourt, who was unexpectedly delayed in France, were the
only troubles that alloyed the happiness of Cecilia, who having been introduced
to lady Arabella Moncrief, Miss Sedgeley, and several other young ladies of
fashion, whose party was soon augmented by the arrival of lady Jane Bruce, Miss
Graham, and Miss Macdonald, thought lord Rushdale unreasonable in his complaint
of the slowness of time; for with her it passed so rapidly, that she was
obliged to devote part of that allotted to sleep to write to Mrs. Doricourt and
her Cumberland friends: but though continually engaged with parties who
reversed the order of time, by turning night into day, Miss Delmore’s health
continued good, and her beauty so resplendent, that in all the circles of haut
ton, she was the envy of the women and the admiration of the men, who unanimously
declared she was the most lovely creature that had appeared for the last
century; wherever it was known that Miss Delmore was to be, the place was
crowded to suffocation; and no lady of fashion considered her entertainment
complete without the presence of Miss Delmore.
This universal approbation stung the countess of
Torrington to the quick, who, go where she would, met the praises of Miss
Delmore; her beauty, her accomplishments, her taste in dress, were the constant
theme, and heightened her dislike to the low-born girl, whose introduction to
her family she considered a misfortune; but while lady Torrington endeavoured
to throw contempt on Cecilia, by informing all her friends that she was the
niece of her housekeeper, many noble offers were made her, which would have
placed the low-born girl, as she termed her, in rank above her own; among these
the young and elegant duke of Arvingham made her an offer of his hand; but for
Cecilia, whose heart was fondly attached, the golden trefoils of a duke had no attraction;
in her eyes, Rushdale was superior to all mankind, and, blest with his love, a
desert would have been a paradise.
The earl of Torrington was a watchful observer of the
conduct of Miss Delmore; and he warmly congratulated his son, that in the midst
of flattery and temptation, she preserved a graceful humility and steady
propriety, that proved her mind truly noble.¾“This winter’s fiery ordeal past,” said the earl, “I will leave you at
liberty, Oscar, to act in the affair of your marriage as you think proper.”
Lord Rushdale was all grateful thanks to his father,
while his exulting heart was full of the happiness inspired by a confidence,
that Miss Delmore would never be won by flattery, or influenced by ambition, to
swerve from the faith that inclination had plighted.—”No,” said he, proudly,
“Cecilia is courted, followed, admired, but her affection is mine; my heart is
her world, my love the only treasure she is anxious to possess; dearest,
loveliest, angelic Cecilia, a few months more, and I shall indeed be blest, for
my indulgent father promises to join our hands¾to unite us in those happy bonds, which only death can dissolve.”
Lady Jane Bruce, on her arrival in town, among the
first news, heard of Miss Delmore’s engagement to lord Rushdale, for both the
earl of Torrington and lady Welford had spoken of it publicly. Lady Jane turned
up her eyes, and expressed surprise that the earl and lord Rushdale had not
more ambition; but feeling inclined to do justice to Miss Delmore’s merits, and
admire her in any character but that of her brother’s wife, she renewed her
intimacy with lady Welford; and finding that Miss Delmore was the comète flamboyante that attracted all the
men of fashion, she generally contrived to be one of her party whenever she
appeared in public.
Miss Macdonald, too, being convinced that Miss Delmore
had no design on the heart or title of lord Alwyn Bruce, declared she was every
way deserving of lord Rushdale’s hand, and thought lady Torrington very much to
blame to oppose their marriage.
The lively Miss Graham had several admirers; but a
little lurking passion for sir Middleton Maxfield, imbibed in Cumberland,
appeared to be gaining strength, from knowing that lady Jacintha Fitzosborne,
by being married, no longer opposed her hopes; but more particularly, from
being told that sir Middleton not only survived her perfidy, but still enjoyed
his senses, his spirits, and his appetite, a report confirmed by his calling
one morning at lady Welford’s when she happened to be there, a much-pleased witness
of his good looks and undiminished gaiety.
When rallied on lady Jacintha’s inconstancy, he
confessed he wore a willow garland one day, six hours, and five minutes¾“But though,” said he, “I raved and swore, and acted the disappointed
lover for that time, you perceive, ladies, I had sense enough neither to clap a
pistol to my head, or dangle in my garters; and when I began to consider the
matter calmly, I really felt obliged to her ladyship for jilting me; had we
married, we should have been a miserable pair; our tempers, I am certain, never
would have agreed; and, by the-bye, if report is to be credited, her ladyship
is not quite so happy as she expected to be, from marrying a man immensely
rich.”
“Lady Eglantine Sydney told me,” said Miss Graham,
”that lady Jacintha’s husband, Mr. Cheveril, is a miser, penurious in the
extreme, and that she has not a guniea that she can call her own.”
“Mr. Cheveril is, I understand, a second
Petruchio,” replied lady Welford, “and has undertaken to tame a shrew.”
“And, by George!” rejoined sir Middleton, “lady
Jacintha wanted taming; and it is said her lord let her know he would be
master, by beginning to humble her haughty spirit even in her wedding shoes.”
“Lady Eglantine called to see her, out of pure
curiosity, as she expressed it,” said lady Welford, “at a sumptuous mansion in
Devonshire, called Woodfield Priory; there she found her surrounded indeed by
wealth and magnificence, but without the power to enjoy it, for Mr. Cheveril’s
authority was visible in ever thing; lady Jacintha’s dress was elegant and
costly¾her
boudoir shone with Asiatic splendour, and was adorned with numberless
curiosities in gold and ivory; but in the midst of her magnificence lady
Jacintha appeared low-spirited, freful, and uneasy; her former amusements and
former acquaintance were entirely excluded from Woodfield Priory, and no
company admitted but Mr. Cheveril’s own relations¾a clergyman, his wife, and daughters, and a baronet’s family, all of the
old school, formal, ceremonious, and puritanical.”
“Adieu then to rouge
et noir and faro,” observed sir Middleton; “these enchanting games
must now give place to a rubber at sober whist.”
“I much question, from lady Eglantine’s report,
whether even that is allowed,” replied lady Welford; “every thing at Woodfield
Priory was so regular, so stupid, and so dull, that she protested she was quite
sorry for lady Jacintha¾ ‘For what,’ said she to lady Eglantine, ‘does it signify to reside in a
palace, if no one is to see its riches? one might as well live in a hovel; when
one can’t break the heart of one’s friends with envy at one’s possessions, one
might as well be poor.”
“Her ladyship’s mortifications have wrought no change
in her sentiments, I perceive,” remarked sir Middleton.
“Lady Eglantine declared,” resumed lady Welford, “that
during the three days she remained at Woodfield Priory, she heard nothing on
the part of Mr. Cheveril but contradictions, dressed in the most provoking
politeness, and on lady Jacintha’s, only murmurs and complaints, for she had no
will of her own in any particular. Lady Eglantine begged Mr. Cheveril would
allow lady Jacintha to come to London in February, to assist at her nuptials
with the marquis of Beverley; but he peremptorily refused, alleging, as an
excuse, that he would not hazard the loss of an heir, by allowing his wife to
racket about, and keep late hours, and plunge again into the ruinous
dissipations of a town life, from which, he flattered himself, he had nearly
weaned her.”
“The wealth lady Jacintha was so eager to ensure,”
said Miss Delmore, “has become her bane and punishment; she is married to a man
she does not like, and though surrounded by magnificence, lives a life of
splendid misery¾I
pity her most sincerely.”
“In that I believe then you are singular,” replied Miss
Graham; “for most of her ladyship’s acquaintance appear to rejoice at her
disappointed hopes.”
“She is rightly served,” said sir Middleton Maxfield,
“and I give Mr. Cheveril credit for knowing how to rule a wife.”
Miss Graham saw, with much secret satisfaction, that
sir Middleton was perfectly reconciled to the loss of lady Jacintha, and that
his heart felt no emotions of jealousy or regret; it also gave her no little
pleasure to see herself particularly distinguished by him whenever they met,
which occurred almost every day; but sir Middleton made no declaration of love¾the trick lady Jacintha had served him, though it did not prejudice him
against women, made him suspicious and wary, and determined him to see a little
into the disposition and principles of the fair one who should next engage his
regard, before he made her an offer of his hand.
Miss Macdonald having ceased to consider Miss Delmore
a rival, was now more than ever encouraged to believe that her indefatigable
exertions to attract the wavering inconstant lord Alwyn Bruce, would ultimately
be crowned with success. His visits at sir Alexander Stuart’s had been regular,
and she had fancied him more attentive to her than formerly. A few days had
passed in the encouragement of the delightful hope that she should yet obtain
the title of lady Alwyn Bruce, when, alas! at a ball given by lady Wilmington,
she had the misery to see him lead out Miss Sedgeley, at the very moment when
she believed he was approaching to ask her to dance. This disappointment so
deranged and disturbed Miss Macdonald, that she was near fainting, and catching
Cecilia’s arm, she entreated her to go with her into one of the retiring-rooms
for a few moments, where she thought the air would relieve her.
Miss Delmore was engaged to dance with lord Rushdale;
but precious as were the moments passed with him, she compassionated Miss
Macdonald’s indisposition, and entreated his excuse.
Miss Macdonald, in the strong violence of grief and
resentment, pushed open a door, which was held by some person in the inside;
and the discovery she made on entering the room, instantly removed her
indisposition, while it reduced Miss Delmore to a situation the most pitiable,
for she trembled, and her lips and cheeks changed to ashy paleness, as Miss Macdonald,
with a look of disdain, said¾“I really entreat your ladyship’s pardon¾when I pushed open the door, I had no idea that I was intruding on a tête-à-tête; I certainly had no
expectation that I should find the countess of Torrington and major Norman shut
up together.”
“Shut up together!” repeated the major; “you are under
a mistake, ma’am¾I
entered this apartment only the instant before yourself, by mere accident, not
supposing any person was here; and knowing how very censorious the world in
general is, I held the door, because I did not choose to expose lady Torrington
to misrepresentations and undeserved scandal.”
“Very gallant, very considerate, and very correct, I
dare say!” replied Miss Macdonald, sneeringly¾“come, Miss Delmore, I am much better; let us go, for fear the
censorious world should include us in its misrepresentations and scandal.”
The countess had sat on a sofa; perplexed, if not
confused, she now started up¾“Stay, Miss Delmore,” said she¾“I must request you will not misrepresent this affair to the earl of
Torrington and lord Rushdale, for major Norman’s explanation is, I assure you,
true to a letter.”
“From me, madam,” replied Cecilia, “you have no
misrepresentation to apprehend¾I would willingly forget having entered this apartment at all.”
“And you, Miss Macdonald,” resumed the countess, “you
will, I trust, remember it may be attended with very serious consequences your
mentioning having seen me with major Norman.”
Miss Macdonald replied only by a look of disdain; and
taking the arm of the pale trembling Cecilia, she was quitting the room when
they met the earl of Torrington; the sight of him increased Cecilia’s
agitation, and unable to support herself, she sunk on Miss Macdonald’s
shoulder.
Lord Torrington inquired what was the matter?
Miss Macdonald replied that Miss Delmore was unwell,
and made an attempt to move towards the ball-room.
“The heat of the ball-room will overcome her quite,”
said the earl; “you had better go in there,” pointing to the room they had just
quitted.
Miss Delmore now felt added alarm, and she fainted
articulated—”No, no, for Heaven's sake, no—I am better, indeed I am—I am quite
well;” but her look and tone contradicted her words.
The earl saw that something unpleasant had occurred,
his curiosity was awakened, and resolved to satisfy it, he attempted to open
the door. A strong opposition was made from within; but exerting all his
strength, the earl forced open the door, and beheld his own disgrace, and the
cause of Cecilia’s agitation and alarm. A scene of tumult and confusion took
place¾the
major drew his sword¾lady Torrington shrieked and fainted¾the company in the ball-room were disturbed: but fortunately the
indisposition of Cecilia being mentioned to lord Rushdale, he had flown to her,
and remained ignorant of the discovery of his mother’s frailty, till after the
major had left the house.
This event put an end to the entertainment of the
evening; lady Wilmington was suspected of having encouraged the intimacy of the
countess of Torrington and major Norman, by allowing them to meet at her house,
and that part of her guests who considered reputation valuable, retired in
disgust. Lord Rushdale, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow, accompanied his
no-less-distressed father home; and lady Welford withdrew, with Miss Delmore
and the other young people of her party.
Sir Middleton Maxfield was dancing with Miss Graham
when the news of lady Torrington’s exposure flew round the ball-room; the
anxiety with which she sought Miss Delmore, and the tenderness and feeling she
had expressed for all the parties concerned in the unpleasant business,
convinced him that her disposition was very different to lady Jacintha’s, who
would have enjoyed, with malignant pleasure, the discovery of her dear friend’s
indiscretion and disgrace.
Lord Torrington, after a long conversation with his
son, determined on a separation from the countess, and they waited in the
library in painful expectation of her return home, when the earl, in the
presence of his son, intended to bid her farewell for ever; it was past one
o’clock when they left lady Wilmington’s, and they had sat a long time silent,
busied in unpleasant reflections, but yet she came not.
The earl meditated on the justice of his punishment,
for he had forsaken a lovely innocent being, to marry a heartless creature,
whose ruling passion was vanity, and her dereliction of virtue, he mentally
acknowledged, was retribution for his own offences.
Not so the noble high-souled Rushdale. He sat with his
hands covering his face, down which, in spite of the burning indignation of his
soul, the big tears coursed one another; he wept the dishonour brought on a
noble house, and felt a double portion of agony in the reflection, that the
disgrace was inflicted by his mother. His father had let fall no hint that he
intended to call major Norman to account, but his spirit would not tamely
submit to the injury, and Rushdale determined on sending the seducer of his
mother a challenge¾little did the sorrowing Oscar know that mother, or he would have
acquitted major Norman of the guilt of seduction.
The earl of Torrington and his son saw the return of
day, and they retired to their beds, convinced she intended to return no more.
When the earl left his chamber the next day, he
inquired for Mrs. Smithson, and was informed she had left the house, taking
with her a large travelling trunk, and several smaller ones.
When lord Rushdale joined his father at breakfast, he
ingenuously told him he had been to call upon his friend Drawley, whom he had
fixed upon to be the bearer of a challenge to major Norman; but from him he had
learned that the major and his mother had left London at daybreak, on their way
to France. Lord Rushdale was for pursuing them; but this the earl opposed¾“It is utterly impossible we should ever live together again,” said he,
“and equally impossible to prevent her continuing this shameful intrigue.”
For many days the earl and his son felt unable to go
abroad, or admit company, and during this time the newspapers were full of
exaggerated accounts of the conduct of the earl, lady Torrington, and major
Norman; but however much the generality of lady Torrington’s acquaintance might
rejoice in the disclosure of her disgrace, Miss Delmore, lady Welford, and Miss
Graham, were among the few who deplored her ill conduct, and sincerely
commiserated the earl and his son, who seemed almost distracted, and bent to
the earth, with the conviction of his unfeeling mother’s frailty.
The earl of Torrington and his son had shut themselves
from society, and shrunk from the sneers and compassion of the world; but the
sensible arguments of colonel St. Irwin and lady Welford, joined with the
pathetic remonstrances of Miss Delmore, at length prevailed, and they found
that lady Torrington’s indiscretion was nearly forgotten, in the wonder excited
by some newer instance of infidelity.
The buz of admiration that every where followed Miss
Delmore, if it did not excite love in the bosom of the vain conceited sir Cyril
Musgrove, raised a passion equally as tormenting; and while he viewed her
beautiful face and symmetrical figure, he thought, if he could once secure her
favour, he might challenge the kingdom to produce a pair so handsome and
well-matched as themselves; but matrimony was considered by sir Cyril with
aversion, and that the
¾¾¾ “Names of wife and husband
Only meant ill-nature, cares, and quarrels.”
As a wife, sir Cyril never thought of
Cecilia; but to have so lovely and accomplished a creature for a mistress,
would increase the eclat of his gallantries, and render him the envy of the
fashionable world. But though sir Cyril got himself introduced at lady
Welford’s, and contrived to make one in every party where he knew Miss Delmore
was invited, though he had dropped the insolent freedom of his manner, and had
become one of the most humble and attentive of her admirers, yet she never
bestowed on him so much as an encouraging smile. Sir Cyril had also heard that
lord Rushdale was an accepted lover; but to this report he gave no credence,
believing that the earl of Torrington would certainly seek to match his heir
with a lady of equal rank and consequence with himself.
Miss Macdonald’s ambitious projects were now greatly disturbed, by lord
Alwyn Bruce being constantly seen at the side of Miss Sedgeley, who, perfectly
cured of her passion for the unworthy profligate, major Norman, seemed to
listen to his lordship with complacency and approbation; and, full of rage and
jealousy, Miss Macdonald appeared one morning at lady Welford’s, intending to
disclose her griefs and suspicions to Miss Delmore, whom she found prepared to
go to Richmond with lady Welford, who had a relation residing there.
“There is no person in the world so unlucky as I am,” said Miss
Macdonald; “you are going to Richmond, and I came on purpose to fetch you to
spend the day with us.”
“I am extremely sorry,” replied Cecilia.
“And Miss Graham will be here directly,” continued Miss Macdonald, “to
enforce my suit. Sir Alexander Stuart has got the gout, and is as cross as the¾, and we promised to bring you to sing to him, because we know your
melody will charm the evil spirit out of him, as David's did out of Saul.”
“I do not believe I possess such power,” said Cecilia.
“But I am certain of it, you are such a favourite with sir Alexander,”
returned Miss Macdonald; “and this disappointment will make him more fretful
than ever.”
“I am sure my dear Cecilia would be happy to banish pain from any
person,” said lady Welford; “and as she is not expected at Richmond, I will
readily relinquish the pleasure of her company to oblige sir Alexander Stuart.”
Miss Macdonald was grateful to lady Welford for her kindness; and it
was settled that Cecilia should spend the day in Albemarle-street, lady Welford
promising to return, if possible, time enough to dine at sir Alexander Stuart’s.
Lady Welford’s carriage had no sooner left the door, than Miss
Macdonald began to disclose her own particular grievances. Cecilia listened to
her account of lord Alwyn Bruce’s attentions to Miss Sedgeley with patience,
though it was given with much ill-nature and prolixity; and when Miss Macdonald
paused, she endeavoured to persuade her to think no more of lord Alwyn Bruce,
whose conduct so evidently demonstrated that he had no thought of, or intention
of addressing her.
But this was advice, though certainly wise and prudent, that Miss
Macdonald did not choose to adopt; she determined to hope,
“Though hope was lost,
Though heaven and earth her wishes crost;”
and she continued to exclaim most spitefully
against Miss Sedgeley, who had no pretensions to recommend her to such a match
as lord Alwyn Bruce would be in point of rank and fortune, at the same time
proudly enumerating the antiquity of the house of Macdonald, and her own
fortune and expectations.
Miss Delmore in vain tried to change the subject; but Miss Macdonald
could talk of nothing but lord Alwyn Bruce’s ridiculous penchant for the
sheepish-looking automaton, Miss Sedgeley, against whom she was violently
exclaiming, when Miss Graham entered, and gave a different turn to her
ill-temper.¾“You have kept me waiting till my patience is
quite exhausted,” said she; “your half hours, Miss Graham, are longer than the
hours of other people.”
“I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear Margaret,” replied Miss Graham;
“to me it has been the shortest half-hour I ever passed in my life; but I hope
my stay has not deranged any plan.”
Miss Macdonald proposed a walk in the Park.
“As the morning is so fine,” said Cecilia, “and that can take place
now; but I see,” continued she, “in your eyes a sparkling pleasure, that tells
me the last half-hour—”
“Has produced an event,” interrupted Miss Graham, “of sufficient
importance to make me happy or miserable for life.”
“Why bless me, Jessy, you are not married, are you?” asked Miss
Macdonald.
“No, cousin,” replied Miss Graham, “not absolutely married, but on the
high road—actually promised.”
“You astonish me, Jessy,” said Miss Macdonald, fretfully; “all my
acquaintance, I think, are on the high road to matrimony. Here is Miss Delmore
promised, and you, Jessy Graham, promised¾I wonder I am not promised.”
“I am not half so particular as you,” replied Miss Graham; “if I was to
wait for a man without fault, I should stand a fair chance of leading apes, and
so to avoid that terrible employment, I have consented. But, dear me! I believe
I ought to blush, and cast down my eyes, with several other young-lady tricks,
to shew my ‘maiden modesty;’ but as I cannot blush when I please, I will leave
it to your imagination to suppose me overwhelmed with confusion, while I¾”
“I hope, cousin,” interrupted Miss Macdonald, “you have entered into no
engagement without consulting sir Alexander and lady Stuart; remember how kind
and good they have been to you, even from your infancy.”
“You surely cannot suspect me of such ingratitude,” said Miss Graham,
“sir Middleton Maxfield¾”
Miss Delmore smiled¾“I congratulate you, my dear friend,” said she;
“with all my heart.”
“Sir Middleton Maxfield is like the rest of his inconstant sex, I
perceive,” observed Miss Macdonald, spitefully; “it was but the other day he
was dying for love of lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, and now¾”
“He is violently in love with Jessy Graham,” interrupted the lively
girl, laughing; ”and do you know, coz, I have the vanity to think he will be
constant.”
“I hope you will not be deceived,” returned Miss Macdonald; “but there
is no sort of dependence to be placed on men. I am sure I have seen lord Alwyn
Bruce in love with half-a-dozen different females in the course of as many
months.”
“But you know, coz,” said Miss Graham, “it was not sir Middleton
Maxfield that deceived lady Jacintha Fitzosborne; and surely it is not natural
to suppose that he would remain single all his life, for the sake of a
worthless woman.”
“Oh dear, no, certainly,” replied Miss Macdonald; “such instances of
persevering constancy are very rare in men; but let us drop the subject, for
the creatures are not worth so much conversation, and you see we have kept Miss
Delmore waiting a long time.”
In the Park the observation that Cecilia’s beauty attracted restored
Miss Macdonald to tolerable good-humour, for vanity suggested it was her
Grecian figure that occasioned several elegant young men not only to express
their admiration aloud, but to keep near them during their promenade.
Lady Wilton left her carriage to join the youthful trio, for the
pleasure, as she said, of enjoying a walk with them, but in reality to rail
against the countess of Torrington; for the salutation of the morning had
scarcely passed, before she said¾“So, Miss Delmore, your friend and patroness,
lady Torrington, has committed a fine faux pas; for my part, I was not at all
astonished¾I was perfectly convinced that there was
something not correct between her and that other vile wretch, count del
Montarino, as he calls himself, though I never did believe he had a right to
any title; no, no, he was certainly a dancing-master, or a hair-dresser, or
some low person of that sort. I dare say you remember the fire, and the count’s
gold snuff-box¾lady Jacintha Fitzosborne could have told a
pretty tale about that fire, I fancy.”
Miss Graham perceived how much Cecilia was distressed, and anxious to
dismiss lady Torrington from the loquacious lady Wilton’s thoughts, she
inquired if her ladyship had heard from her niece?
“No, not a syllable,” replied lady Wilton; “no one knows what has
become of her. Poor dear Jemima was quite a child of nature, all innocence and
simplicity; and having no deceit herself, never suspected it in another; no one
can tell where the fellow may have taken her; he may, for what we know, have
sold her to the Algerines, who are said to be monstrously fond of English
women. Poor Jemima! it is impossible to
tell what she is suffering.¾But pray, Miss Delmore, has the earl of
Torrington heard whether the countess and major Norman are gone to France or to
Italy? Who could have believed, at her years¾I dare say she is upwards of forty¾that she would have been so foolish as to elope? No doubt the earl will
be divorced; but as to damages, the major is as poor as a church mouse¾he has not a guinea, I believe, independent of his commission. Really
these are very serious times; wickedness of all sorts, and distress of all
sorts; but, of course, matrimonial infidelity is extremely distressing¾nothing can be more so; I don’t know, for my part, how people can be
happy a moment with the consciousness of having broken their matrimonial vows¾does the earl intend to be divorced?”
Cecilia was so much confused, she knew not what she said.¾“I really have not heard.”
“Not heard!” repeated lady Wilton¾“that is very odd indeed; I thought it was settled that you are to marry
lord Rushdale; and as that is the case, I wonder you are not acquainted with
the earl’s intention respecting his wife.”
The indelicacy of this speech so affected Cecilia, that she burst into
tears, and Miss Graham begged lady Wilton to drop the subject.
“With all my heart,” said lady Wilton; “for my part, I hate the
countess of Torrington¾I always disapproved her conduct, and am not at
all interested to know what becomes of her; I only mentioned her name by mere
accident.”
“I thought,” observed Miss Macdonald, “you had been on the most
intimate terms with the countess of Torrington. I perfectly remember last
summer¾”
“Don’t mention last summer, Miss Macdonald,” interrupted lady Wilton; “pray
don't speak of it—the recollection makes me quite ill; last summer was a most
unfortunate period for me¾I met nothing but vexation and disappointments
at Torrington Castle: poor dear Jemima! first her unfortunate elopement, then
my nephew, sir Middleton Maxfield, became infatuated with that deceitful,
unprincipled, satirical lady Jacintha Fitzosborne. Pray, Miss Delmore, did you
ever get paid the four hundred pounds you lent her?”
“No, madam,” was the reply.
“You are very foolish you don’t apply to her husband,” resumed lady
Wilton; “four hundred pounds is not a trifling sum to lose. Lady Eglantine
Sydney told me yesterday, that she had been to see her cousin at Woodfield
Priory, and that Mr. Cheveril is quite a bear of a man; but no one can be sorry
for lady Jacintha; I hope her husband will keep her in the country; I am sure
she was one of the persons that made Torrington Castle extremely disagreeable
to me.”
“How was it possible, lady Wilton,” said Miss Graham, “that Torrington
Castle could be disagreeable to you? Was it not the happy scene of your wooing?
It was, if my information is correct, at Torrington Castle you became
acquainted with lord Wilton, and received his first declaration of love.”
“I wish, with all my soul,” replied lady Wilton, “he had made love to
lady Jacintha Fitzosborne, and married her. With my first husband, Mr.
Freakley; as good a creature as ever drew the breath of life, I had no cross
looks¾no contradictions; I did as I pleased, and my
word was a law; but now lord Wilton talks so much about his dignity, and his
consequence, and his rank, that I really begin to think I have paid very dear
indeed for a title, particularly as his lordship spends my money among persons
that I have never yet been introduced to.”
“Gamblers and Newmarket jockeys,” whispered Miss Macdonald.
“I suppose you young ladies are invited to lady Eglantine Sydney’s
wedding?” resumed lady Wilton; “there will be most magnificent doings¾white and silver liveries, and a new carriage, with superb silver
mouldings; but with all the splendour and parade that is to attend the
ceremony, I can never persuade myself that lady Eglantine will ever be happy,
after using lord Melvil so ill.”
“Have you seen lady Melvil,” asked Miss Graham.
“No,” replied lady Wilton; “but I go with a party to call upon her
to-morrow morning. Lord Wilton has seen her, and says she is a very pretty
woman.”
“And very sensible and unaffected, I have heard,” said Miss Delmore.
“I wonder if lady Eglantine and she will visit?” resumed lady Wilton;
“tho', if lord Melville is wise, he will avoid the acquaintance of the marquis
of Beverley, who, if report speaks truth, will make a very bad husband.”
“What does report say of him?” asked Miss Macdonald.
“That he is very much given to women,” said lady Wilton; “and, for my
part, I know of nothing so likely to disturb matrimonial peace, as a husband
being fonder of every other female than his own wife; it is a disposition that
is certain to occasion uneasiness and quarrels; in short, a married man taking
notice of every face he sees is unpardonable, and would put a saint out of
temper.”
“Lord Wilton is given to philandering,” whispered Miss Graham.
“I dare say such behaviour in a husband would be very shocking,”
rejoined Miss Macdonald; “but if the marquis of Beverley has been given to
gallantry, lady Eglantine will reclaim him; and you know, my dear madam, it is
said, a reformed rake makes the very best of husbands.”
“I would not advise you to trust to that saying, Miss Macdonald,”
replied lady Wilton: “men never leave off their vices, take my word for it; let
their wives be ever so amiable, they think it no sin to go astray; and I am
certain, let lady Eglantine Sydney marry when she will, the marquis of Beverley
will give her cause to repent, for he will follow his old courses, like lord
Wilton.”
“Like lord Wilton!” repeated Miss Graham, with affected astonishment.
“Surely lord Wilton can never be so naughty as to abandon the society of so
superior a woman as yourself for other females?”
“Yes, my dear Miss Graham,” returned lady Wilton; “yes, he neglects and
forsakes me; it was only last week that I discovered the cruel barbarous man
keeps a mistress.”
“Shocking!” exclaimed Miss Macdonald.
“Worse, ten times worse than shocking,” resumed lady Wilton; “the base
ungrateful man spends my money on a harlot¾a concubine! when I am certain there is nothing wanting to his happiness
at home: but I will never rest till I ferret her out¾and woe betide them if I catch them together!
Poor Mr. Freakley, he was a well-conducted person; and after having had one
good husband, I was certainly bewitched to take a second.”
“You will have better luck with a third husband,” replied Miss Graham.
“A third! Heaven forbid that I should be destined to be plagued with a
third!” returned lady Wilton; “I am sure I would never persuade any person of
my acquaintance to marry at all, men are such deceitful hypocrites, so
attentive, and smiling, and tender before they get you to church, and
afterwards paying more respect, by half, to their dogs and horses; if I could
only have foreseen what a negligent husband lord Wilton would make, I would
have remained Mrs. Freakley to the hour of my death.”
Lady Wilton was compelled to wish the young ladies good-morning, being
engaged to go to an auction; but hoped they would not fail to be at her rout on
Wednesday evening.
“Poor lady Wilton!” said Miss Delmore, “she might have foreseen,
without any very extraordinary stretch of understanding, that lord Wilton, a
free-thinker, an avowed libertine, would make exactly the husband she
describes.”
“Does not her ladyship’s account of her matrimonial felicity frighten
you, cousin?” asked Miss Macdonald.
“Not at all,” replied Miss Graham; “I think sir Middleton Maxfield has
a good heart, and that by proper management I may wean him from his present
irregularities; at any rate, I must take my chance; marriage has, you know,
been compared to a lottery, in which there are many blanks to a prize: if I am
fortunate, I shall rejoice¾if I am otherwise, I will endeavour to bear my
ill luck, without exposing myself to the ridicule of the world.”
At sir Alexander Stuart’s Cecilia found an agreeable party; but lady
Welford did not, according to her promise, return from Richmond to dinner, and
Cecilia, finding it near eight o’clock, was growing very uneasy, when a note
was delivered her, which had been brought by one of lady Welford’s female
servants. It contained the unwelcome intelligence, that lady Welford’s
carriage, on her return from Richmond, had been overturned at Turnham Green,
and that her arm had been dislocated by the accident; that the bearer of the
note was the servant of Mr. Robinson, a surgeon, who would conduct her safely
to Turnham Green, to the surgeon’s house, where lady Welford remained, being too
much bruised to bear the motion of a carriage.
The surgeon's servant, a respectable-looking elderly man, had
accompanied lady Welford’s housemaid to sir Alexander Stuart’s, who said he had
brought his master’s carriage, the axletree and one of the wheels of lady
Welford’s being broke.
The man gave so clear and unhesitating an account, that bidding her
friends goodnight, Cecilia hastened home, to put up a few necessary things for
herself and lady Welford.
On inquiring for James, the footman who always attended her, Cecilia
was told he had been out ever since he left her at sir Alexander Stuart’s. Much
as she disliked trusting herself at that time of the evening in a strange
carriage, and with strange servants, she was impatient of any further delay, and,
stepping into the carriage, she bade them proceed with all possible expedition.
It was a dark foggy night, and, full of concern for lady Welford,
Cecilia paid no attention to the road, till she began to think they were very
long reaching Turnham Green; she felt for a check-string, but could find none;
she endeavoured to let down the windows, but they resisted her efforts. Her
repeater, which she happened to have about her, told her it was ten o’clock;
she had left London at half past eight¾it was impossible, going at the speed the
carriage did, but that Turnham Green must have been left miles behind.
Terror now seized her mind, for she was convinced that she had been
deceived. She remembered the carrying Mrs. Freakley off from Torrington Castle,
and had now no doubt but this was a contrivance of the same person’s.
Cecilia neither shrieked nor wept, but she fervently prayed to Heaven
for protection, and fortitude to sustain the trial that awaited her; she was
certain that her friends would be active to discover whither she was taken; she
pressed the ring, placed on her finger by lord Rushdale, to her lips and again
renewed her vow of faithful love, which no circumstance should ever have power
to shake; and while she thought with fear on her own unpleasant situation, a
tender regret, mingled with alarm for her own fate, to think that sorrow on her
account would be added to what he already endured for the misconduct of his
mother. Mrs. Doricourt was at present spared the painful knowledge of her being
thus artfully separated from her friends¾“And perhaps,” said Cecilia, “perhaps I may be
restored to their protection before she returns; at least I will hope so, for
Heaven is every where, and will not now forsake me.”
Not the most distant idea entered Cecilia’s imagination, of where she
was going, or by whom she had been spirited away; and the long tedious hours of
night were passed in silence, in regret, and surmises. Sometimes she thought
herself in the power of lady Torrington, who, to prevent her marriage with lord
Rushdale, was hurrying her away to confinement in some distant part of the
country; but if this was the case, she might find means to escape, or to inform
lady Welford. At length the grey of the morning shed a faint ray through the
windows of the carriage, and with anxious eye she watched the increasing light,
till she saw they were on a road that led through a flat country; but unable to
make much observation, from the rapidity with which they passed along, she sunk
back in a corner of the carriage, almost numbed with cold, and faint with
fatigue.
It was near eight o’clock when the carriage stopped at a little inn on
the roadside; the door was opened, and Miss Delmore was desired to alight; no
person appeared but an awkward country-girl, who gaped and stared, and led the
way up stairs to a bedroom. Cecilia would have detained the girl in the room,
but a bold-looking young man, who had opened the carriage door, bade her, in a
tone of authority, go down, and make breakfast as quick as possible, for he was
almost starved.
The girl obeyed his order, after having stared at Cecilia with stupid
wonder.
“Till you reach your journey's end, ma'am,” said he, “I am deputed to
attend you.”
“Whither are you taking me?” asked Miss Delmore; “and by whose orders do
you act?”
“These are questions, ma’am,” replied the man, “I am not at liberty to
answer.”
“Where is that elderly man who pretended to be the servant of Mr.
Robinson, the surgeon?” demanded Cecilia.
“He is returned to hismater,” was the reply.
“And who, in reality, is his master?”
said Cecilia.
“You will be in that secret, and many more, by-and-by,” replied the
man, in a tone of impertinent familiarity; “in the mean time, you had better
take some refreshment, and go to bed, as we shall not travel again till towards
night.”
“Send up the young woman to me, sir,” said Cecilia; “I prefer the
attendance of a female.”
The man laughed.¾“That young woman,” replied he, “would not
attend you alone, if you would give her twenty pounds.”
“Not attend me alone!” repeated Cecilia; “and why not?”
“Because she is afraid you will bite or scratch her,” returned the man,
laughing immoderately. “The girl believes you are stark mad, and so does the
mistress of the house, and that we are taking you to a private madhouse. You
see, ma'am,” impudently winking his eye, “we have cut our eye-teeth—we have all
our thoughts about us: we don’t blunder as they do in Cumberland.”
Miss Delmore, disgusted with his insolent manner, told him she wished
to be alone, and could dispense with his attendance. From what he had said
about the blunder in Cumberland, which certainly alluded to the carrying off
Mrs. Freakley, she supposed she was not in the power of lady Torrington¾“But let the projector of this villany be whom it may,” said Cecilia, “I
ought to struggle—I should not remain thus stupified with surprise and alarm,
but endeavour to make my escape.”
She started from her seat, and tried the door, but it was fastened on
the outside; she then applied to the window, but it was strongly nailed down.¾“Every precaution has been taken,” resumed she, “and I am completely in
the toils; but I will not give way to despair¾I will trust in Heaven, who will, I am
persuaded, deliver me from this trouble.”
Cecilia was on her knees, absorbed in devotion, when a key turning in
the door announced breakfast. The girl stood on the outside with a tea-try, but
seeing Miss Delmore move towards her, she shrieked aloud, and begged Mr.
Samuel, as she called him, to take the things, before she let them fall.¾“A looks very quiet, to be sure,” said she, “but a may bite for all
that; mad folks be always cunning, mun.”
“Never fear, Ciss,” replied the young man, “the lady will do you no
mischief.”
“No trust to be put in crazy folks,” replied Cecily; “I remember granny
Dawkins almost throttled me once; and ever since, mun, I be feared to come nigh
mad folks.”
“I am not mad, my good girl,” replied Cecilia, “I am as much in my
senses as you are; I have been forced away from my friends, and brought here
against my consent.”
“Did not I tell you the poor soul would say so?” said Mr. Samuel.
“Yes, to be sure you did,” replied the girl; “and, bless your heart,
old granny Dawkins used to say as how she was the queen of England; and that
all the country, corn-fields and meadows, and all, belonged to her.”
Cecilia sat down; she found it would be in vain to expect assistance in
that house, where the people were persuaded she was mad; she felt sick for want
of food, but resolved not to take any till she had first seen the man eat and
drink; she therefore bade him take a cup of coffee, that she might be convinced
it was not drugged.
Mr. Samuel instantly obeyed, observing the coffee and toast were so
good, that she might command him to finish his breakfast, if she pleased.
“You may now go to your breakfast, sir, if you please,” said Cecilia;
“when I want you, I will ring for your attendance.”
Being left alone, she partook of what was set before her, considering
that it would be wrong to waste the strength she might hereafter want, in
useless privations and regrets.
When Mr. Samuel returned to remove the breakfast-things, she inquired
at what hour they were to proceed?
Being informed at about six, she desired that she might not be
disturbed, as she should endeavour to sleep.
The man retired, locking the door after him. Miss Delmore then placed a
tolerably-heavy table against it, and threw herself on the bed, where, in spite
of all the grief and incertitude of her mind, she sunk in a few moments into
happy forgetfulness.
When she awoke, she found that it was near dark; and while she
reflected on her own unhappy situation, and the distress her friends would be
in on her account, a rapping at the door informed her it was time to rise.
Certain that resistance would avail her nothing, she arose, and having
refreshed her throbbing temples, by bathing her face with water, she opened the
door.
Mr. Samuel was waiting to conduct her down stairs to a parlour, where a
cloth was laid, near a window communicating with the bar.¾“You have a long way to go, ma’am,” said the man, “and you have come a
long way, and have taken very little refreshment; I have ordered a boiled fowl
and ham, which will be ready in a few moments.”
Cecilia knew that opposition on her part would answer no purpose; she made
no reply, but seating herself near the fire, kept her eye on the bar, in the
hope that she should see some person enter, to whose humanity she might appeal,
to aid her liberation from the hands of the villain who had deluded her from
her home.
While she sat, full of sad rumination, a carriage stopped at the door;
but supposing it the one that was to convey her farther from her friends, she
kept her seat, till a voice she knew sounding on her ear, made her start; in
another moment she saw sir Cyril Musgrove enter the bar, and heard him inquire
if he could have two pair of fresh horses for his carriage, as he wished to
reach London with all possible expedition?
Miss Delmore did not wait to hear the reply to this requisition, but
advancing to the bar window, she shrieked loudly, and, calling him by his name,
entreated his protection.
Cecilia’s spirits no longer supported her; the joyful hope of
assistance deprived her of sense, and when she recovered, she found herself
supported by sir Cyril and the landlady, who was holding burnt feathers under
her nose.
A few words explained her situation; sir Cyril swore vengeance against
the rascals who had brought her there; and protested, ’pon his honour, he would
have the license taken from the house, where a young lady of consequence, one
in whom he was so much interested, had been used so shamefully ill.
The landlady fell on her knees, wept and declared that she had been
imposed upon by the two men who brought the young lady there, they having sworn
that she was mad, and that they were going to take her to a madhouse, by the
order of her relations.
Sir Cyril ordered the landlady to send in the men to him, that he might
examine and compel them to give up the name of their employer.
The landlady was absent some time, which sir Cyril employed in soothing
the apprehensions of Miss Delmore, and assuring her that she might rely on his
word of honour, that he would never leave her till he had placed her in safety.
The landlady returned, full of grief and consternation, to say, that
the men had mounted the carriage, which had been ready some time, and drove off
full speed; and that, unfortunately, her husband being a cripple, she had no
one to send in pursuit of them.
Sir Cyril flew into a violent rage, and stamped and swore that she was
in league with the villains, but that he would bring her to a severe account.
The woman wept and sobbed, and protested her innocence with such
apparent earnestness and sincerity, that Miss Delmore, convinced she knew
nothing of the affair, tried to pacify sir Cyril, who at last becoming calm,
inquired if there was anything to be had to eat?
The fowl and ham being brought in, he prevailed on Cecilia to take a
seat at the table, observing, that if she travelled on an empty stomach, she would
certainly be sick.
Dinner being over, sir Cyril began to apologize for ordering the
carriage immediately, the urgency of his business obliging him to be in London
early the following day.
To Miss Delmore nothing could be more agreeable than setting off
directly; and in a joyful accent she replied, she was ready to attend him.
Seated by sir Cyril Musgrove in his carriage, she anticipated the
pleasure of her friends, and her own delight, in being restored to them; and
though she had always disliked sir Cyril, she now felt towards him the kindest
and most grateful sentiments.
Sir Cyril asked her if she could form no conjecture of the person who
had made use of this wicked stratagem to gain possession of her person?
Cecilia could suspect no one, nor could form an idea.
Sir Cyril mentioned Mr. Oxley, observing, he had been known to admire
her when at Torrington Castle; and he had heard it whispered the reverend
gentleman had made her an offer of his hand; might not the revenge of a
disappointed passion have instigated him to this desperate course?
Miss Delmore knew not whom to accuse; but there was something in her
mind that acquitted Mr. Oxley.—”No,” said she; “though I am utterly at a loss
to conjecture the author of this outrage, I have no thought that induces me to
suspect Mr. Oxley; I do not think he is the person.”
“Neither do I, ’pon my honour!” replied sir Cyril, to the astonishment
of Cecilia, who, from what he had said the moment before, supposed he did
suspect Mr. Oxley. “I do not,” continued sir Cyril, “believe that the reverend
gentleman has spirit enough for such an undertaking; but time, you know, is a
great tell-tale, and will, no doubt, reveal this secret, and at a moment
perhaps when you least expect it.”
At midnight they stopped to change horses and take refreshment, sir
Cyril declaring that travelling always gave him an immense appetite.
The hours of night passed in a close carriage are always fatiguing,
even when conversation beguiles the way of its tediousness. At daybreak Miss
Delmore perceived they were entering a town, which she supposed was London,
and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed¾“Thank Heaven! I shall shortly be at home.”
Sir Cyril smiled, and said¾“Pon my honour, Miss Delmore, you have had a
most miraculous escape; but, after all, I am prodigiously sorry¾”
“Sorry for what, sir Cyril?” asked Cecilia.
“Why, but don’t be alarmed, I entreat you,” resumed he, “I am only a
little apprehensive that there may be persons so ill-disposed as to think and
say that you left London with your own free will—that there was no sort of
compulsion used.”
“They will think and say truly, sir Cyril,”
replied Miss Delmore; “for sir Alexander Stuart’s family, with whom I had
dined, as well as lady Welford’s servants, are witnesses that I was impatient
to set off, under the idea that I was hastening to lady Welford, whom I was
taught to believe had met an accident that compelled her to remain at Turnham
Green.”
“The world, my dear Miss Delmore,” resumed sir Cyril, “the censorious
world, will not attribute the readiness with which you set off after dark, in a
strange carriage, with no other attendant than a man you had never seen before,
to concern for lady Welford; they will believe you went by appointment to a
lover.”
“Impossible, sir Cyril!” replied Miss Delmore; “the world, bad as it
is, cannot be so cruel and unjust. My engagement to lord Rushdale is well
known, and no one will believe me so base, so vile, as to encourage other
addresses.”
“It is a very wicked age we live in,’ returned sir Cyril; “and our most
praise- worthy intentions are mistaken and misrepresented. I sincerely wish it
was otherwise, for I think it extremely impertinent, ’pon my honour I do, for
people to make observations upon the conduct of others.”
Miss Delmore was not pleased with the look or conversation of sir Cyril
Musgrove; and perceiving they were again off the stones on the high road, she
asked how far they were from London?
Instead of replying to her question, sir Cyril continued to say¾“Now, for instance, my dear Miss Delmore, if any person was to see you
quietly seated beside me, in my carriage, it is a thousand to one but they
would have the insolence to say I was the happy fellow for whose sake you had
left the protection of your friends.”
Miss Delmore coloured with resentment, as she replied¾“My friends, sir, know me better than to suspect me of such indiscretion
and ingratitude; they will give credit to my assertions; they will not believe
you my lover, but they will feel grateful to you for being my protector¾for preserving me from the enemy who perhaps had a design upon my life.”
“Your life, my sweet creature! ha, ha, ha,
ha! that idea is too ridiculous¾excuse me¾’pon my honour, I cannot help laughing. No,
lovely credulity!” continued he, throwing his arm round her waist, “your life
is in no danger, be assured; no man would be so foolish as to deprive himself
of the pleasure of gazing on those beauteous eyes¾of hearing the silver tones of that melodious
voice.”
Miss Delmore endeavoured to release herself from
the strong clasp of sir Cyril Musgrove¾a sudden light seemed to flash on her mind, and
in him she was convinced she beheld the person who had failed to carry her off
from Torrington Castle, but had now, unfortunately for her, succeeded in
decoying her from the protection of lady Welford.
The road they were travelling was little
frequented. She looked anxiously on each side; but no person appeared; and in a
voice tremulous with terror, she demanded of sir Cyril whether they were really
on the road to London?
“That question implies a doubt,” replied he.
“What reason, Miss Delmore, have you to suppose I am deceiving you? ’Pon my
honour! I think it monstrously uncivil of you to doubt my veracity.”
“You will, I trust, pardon me, sir Cyril,”
said Miss Delmore, “when you reflect how much my mind has been agitated during
the last twenty-four hours; besides, you must remember you told me we should
reach London by daybreak, and it is now¾”
“Nine o’clock,” interrupted sir Cyril,
looking at his watch¾“tempus fugit! ’Pon my honour! my fair
interrogator, I expected we should have been at our journey’s end before this;
but take patience¾one other hour will satisfy all your doubts.”
Miss Delmore’s apprehensions were by no means
lulled by this assurance. There was a constant evasion in all sir Cyril’s
replies to her questions, that filled her with alarm, and made her anxiously
watch the road for the appearance of some person who might remove her doubts
respecting their approach to London; but no human being appeared, and in the
utmost trepidation she beheld the carriage quit the high road, and enter on a
broad, smooth-rolled gravel walk, which, by sinuous windings, cut through a
wood, led to an elegant, modern-built mansion.
Miss Delmore was speechless with indignation
and surprise, as sir Cyril, clasping her in his arms, exclaimed¾“The triumph is mine! Crown me, shadow me with laurels! Welcome, lovely
Cecilia, to Frome Hall; disguise is no long necessary¾in me you behold¾”
“A villain,” said she, repulsing him with all
her strength¾“a deceitful betrayer! but whatever may be your
intention in bringing me to this place, rely upon it, you have ensured to
yourself my eternal contempt and detestation.”
“Rage on, my fair reviler,” replied sir
Cyril; “for, ’pon my honour! your very anger is beautiful; let the storm rattle¾the louder its present fury, the more delightful will be the sunshine
that ensues. Will you allow me to assist you from the carriage?”
Resistance was of no avail; Mr. Samuel, the
same bold grinning fellow who had attended her at the inn, now appeared; and
Miss Delmore saw that she had been made the dupe of a concerted plan.
An elegant breakfast was ready laid out in a
parlour, where every thing gave indication that she had been expected¾“I trust you will find yourself perfectly happy at Frome Hall, my divine
Cecilia,” said sir Cyril; “though this is not the season of blossoms, I have
provided every thing I thought conducive to your pleasure¾harp, pianoforte, pencils, paint¾”
“And writing materials,” interrupted Miss Delmore,
“that I may acquaint my friends with my obligations to you, for having, by a
mean deception, a paltry falsehood, decoyed me from my home?”
Sir Cyril replied¾“Every other indulgence, except writing materials, you may command; but
come¾let me see you smile and eat.”
“It is not my intention to starve myself, sir
Cyril, I promise you,” said Miss Delmore; “for though it is my misfortune to be
your prisoner just now, I hope to enjoy freedom, and many happy days.”
“There is nothing wanting to your freedom and
happiness,” returned sir Cyril, “but your acceptance of my love.”
“Pray, sir Cyril Musgrove, let me understand
you,” said Cecilia; “you never gave me reason to suppose you beheld me with
partiality.”
“Pon my honour,” replied sir Cyril, “you must have less vanity than any
woman in the kingdom, or you must have read the ardency of my passion in every
look and action; you might have seen my extreme adoration,
‘For love was breath’d in ev’ry sigh,
And spoke in glances from my eye.’
“But as I had not sufficient vanity to see
all this,” said Cecilia, “will you have the kindness to tell me what are your
intentions respecting me?”
“With much pleasure,” replied sir Cyril; “for
it is but fair we should understand each other. My intention is, that you shall
possess my whole heart, participate my fortune, go with me every where, and be
in every thing, except the ceremony, my wife, for, ’pon my honour! I have an
unconquerable dislike to matrimony; and if a woman was as beautiful as Venus,
the very certainty that she was my wife would make her a Gorgon in my eyes.”
“The candour of your explanation, sir Cyril,”
said Miss Delmore, “demands an equally-ingenuous declaration on my part. Did
you honourably offer me your hand, I should reject it, because my affections
are unalterably engaged; but knowing from your own confession, your libertine
principles, from my soul I despise you. Your vanity must indeed be excessive,
to suppose that I would break my faith plighted to a noble youth, who will with
the entire approbation of his father, honour me with his title, to live the
degraded life of a mistress with you, whom I never did, never can, respect or
esteem.”
“You will alter your sentiments,” replied sir
Cyril; “you have not yet had time to find out my good qualities.”
“Do you process any?” asked Cecilia; “I fear
not, from the systematic villany with which you have conducted your designs on
me.”
Sir Cyril rang the bell, and ordered the
servant to remove the breakfast-things¾“To which,” said he, “the sauce piquante has
been rather too high flavoured.”
“Of which you may avoid tasting again,”
replied Cecilia, “by ordering your carriage to convey me to the nearest town.”
“Your company is infinitely agreeable,” said
sir Cyril, “so very pleasant and entertaining, that, pon my honour! I cannot
consent to part with it.”
“Since you are determined to detain me here,”
returned Miss Delmore, “I beg you will recollect, sir Cyril, that I have been
up all night, and repose is necessary.”
“You are so like a goddess,” replied sir
Cyril, “that, ’pon my honour! I am ready to forget you stand in need of
refreshment; but at Frome Hall you are queen and mistress, and your wishes will
be obeyed as soon as made known.”
“I wish then to be allowed to return to
London immediately,” said Miss Delmore, “where, I am certain, much uneasiness
is felt on my account.”
“Which will very shortly be removed,” replied
sir Cyril.
“In what way?” demanded Cecilia.
“Have patience, ma belle ange,” said sir
Cyril, “and you will see.”
A female servant appearing, was told by sir
Cyril to conduct her lady to her chamber.
Miss Delmore followed the steps of her guide
up stairs to a room furnished for repose with the utmost taste and luxury;
adjoining was a dressing-room, where the toilet was covered with elegant
trinkets and ornaments.
Miss Delmore inquired for her own small
trunk, which contained her night things? The waiting-woman produced it, at the
same time saying¾“Every thing, my lady, is provided; this
wardrobe is full of the most fashionablest things as could be got in Lunnon¾shall I reach one of the new nightcaps, my lady?”
“On no account,” replied Cecilia; “and I beg,
young woman, that you will not call me ‘my lady,’ for, I assure you, I am not
married to sir Cyril Musgrove.”
“No, we did not suppose you was married,”
said the girl, pertly; “but that is nothing to us servants¾that is your own concern; only sir Cyril gave orders to us all to call
you on my lady.”
“I perceive, young woman,” resumed Cecilia,
“that sir Cyril has artfully imposed on you the belief that I am his mistress;
but, in the face of Heaven, I declare it is false. He has, by a most wicked
stratagem, decoyed me from my friends¾I am here against my inclination¾I am innocent, and will suffer death before I submit to be the
dishonoured wretch sir Cyril wishes me to be.”
“Goodness upon us!” said the girl, “can this
sartinly be the case? Why, Samuel Sparks told me, Miss, that you fell in love
with our master, sir Cyril, down in Cumberlandshire, and run away with him from
your friends.”
“You are deceived by a false representation,”
replied Cecilia; “I never left the protection of my friends till last night.”
She then narrated at large the stratagem that had hurried her from sir
Alexander Stuart’s, and thrown her into the power of sir Cyril Musgrove.
The young woman turned up her eyes with
astonishment¾“Our master is a sad man,” said she, “and I am
sure¾”
Sir Cyril’s voice, calling “Susan,” made her
break off, and leaving her speech unfinished, she quitted the room. Cecilia,
having examined the doors and windows, and made them fast, recommended herself
to the protection of Heaven, and retired to bed.
The next day she was much indisposed, and
would gladly have remained in bed; but terror of a visit from sir Cyril
constrained her to leave her chamber, and to struggle with a torturing
headache.
Many days after this were spent by Cecilia in
contrivances to escape, and in trying to win over Susan to procure her some
mode of conveyance to Wimbourn, which she found was the town she had passed
through, sixteen miles distant from Frome Hall; but Susan stood so much in awe
of her sweetheart, Samuel Sparks, that she was afraid to assist, though she
sincerely pitied Miss Delmore, whose spirited resistance, and undisguised
aversion to sir Cyril, had convinced her that she was indeed innocent, and
detained against her consent.
After having passed more than a month at Frome Hall, one morning Cecilia found on the breakfast-table a newspaper, in which was a paragraph which filled her bosom with grief and horror—it was a long and most artfully-written account of her elopement with sir Cyril Musgrove, with whom it was said she was then upon the Continent.—“Monster!” said she, darting a glance of fiery indignation on sir Cyril “you have indeed succeeded in destroying my reputation; but the consolation of innocence yet is left me, and that will never be in your power to stain.”
“’Pon my honour, my adorable creature, replied sir Cyril, laughing, I should be extremely happy if you would put it in my power to contradict the report, by returning with me to London directly. If you would only suffer me to drive you in my curricle a few mornings in Hyde Park, those blunderers, the editors, would find their mistake, and be satisfied that we had never left the kingdom.”
“I should be happy,” said Cecilia, “to find some corner of the world where I might never be annoyed by your hated presence.”
Too much affected to partake the breakfast, she retired to her chamber to weep, not only for herself, but for the agonies of her friends—of lord Rushdale in particular, who, while sorrowing under the disgrace of his mother’s criminality, would have the pangs of her supposed frailty and deceit added to his sufferings. When Susan came to put her chamber to rights, she offered to give her the elegant gold repeater, which she often admired, if she would procure her writing materials, and convey her letter to the post town. Susan promised to try; but Samuel and his master kept so strict an eye upon Susan, that she had it not in her power to obtain the gold watch, which she often regarded with a longing eye. One day at dinner, Miss Delmore observed that sir Cyril tookmore wine than usual, and used much persuasion to induce her to follow his example. In his manner he was bold, and several times attempted to kiss her hand¾a freedom she invariably repulsed; and when she would have retired, as was her custom after dinner, he constrained her to remain, and insisted on the harp being brought, that she might play for his amusement.
“You may spare yourself the trouble of bringing the harp here,” replied
Miss Delmore; “for never shall my fingers strike a note while I remain under a
roof of yours, sir Cyril. You may frown, but I am not to be intimidated¾I am not your slave, and will not be constrained to contribute to your
amusement.”
“’Pon my honour! you are most extremely uncivil,” returned sir Cyril,
“and give yourself as high airs as if you were an empress. Every thing has its
time; you have been proud, coy, and haughty, for near two months; but I am
quite tired of your ridiculous prudery¾I have indulged your humours long enough¾I have suffered your obstinacy till I am quite weary. You have had your
turn¾now comes mine; and as I consider my friend Tom
Moore’s observation¾
¾— ‘Not to
be blest when you can,
Is one of the darkest transgressions
That happens ‘twixt woman and man,’
I am determined this very night to share your
chamber.”
Cecilia, with supernatural strength, threw sir Cyril from her, as he
attempted to clasp her in his arms.—“Beware,” said she, “how you attempt
approaching my chamber¾it will assuredly be fatal to you. I do not
fear to die, but I will never live dishonoured.”
Before sir Cyril could recover himself, Cecilia had flown to her chamber, and having made fast the door, sat down, full of agonizing thought and painful remembrances of the happiness she had been torn from, to pursue a work that, despairing of obtaining pen and ink, she had began in the hope that she might render it the means of procuring her release from sir Cyril Musgrove’s power, who never suffered her to quit the house, except himself or Samuel Sparks, attended her
steps. Cecilia’s reliance on Heaven was her support, even while shereflected on sir Cyril’s artful scheme to destroy her reputation. “Mrs. Doricourt,” said Cecilia, ?will not doubt the principles she formed, and Rushdale, my beloved Rushdale, he will surely believe it impossible I can be the wretch the newspapers represent.? While her mind was thus wandering to the dear friends from whom she was separated, her fingers were busily employed in marking, with her own hair, on a cambric handkerchief. On the third of January, Cecilia Delmore was decoyed, by an artful stratagem of sir Cyril Musgrove’s, to Frome Hall, in Dorsetshire, where she still remains in irksome confinement.?Cecilia’s eyes were dim with tears, but she diligently pursued her work, and when it was finished, she breathed on it a prayer that Heaven would graciously permit it to be the means of informing her friends of her distressful situation.
At the hour of repose it was not without considerable apprehension that Cecilia retired to bed, for she recollected, with terror, sir Cyril’s menace, and that Susan’s room was at a distant part of the house. A pair of scissors and a knife were all her weapons of defence, and these she placed on a chair close by her bedside; but this precaution was unnecessary, for sir Cyril having taken an overdose of wine, had fallen into a heavy sleep, out of which not even the most beautiful of Mahomet’s houri would have roused him, and Cecilia might have reposed securely, if fear would have permitted her to rest; but wakeful, and listening to every breath of wind, she thought over every occurrence of her past life, and dewed her pillow with tears of regretful tenderness, while she remembered the peace and happiness of St. Herbert’s Island, where she had passed her childhood, beloved, caressed, and respected. She wondered how her noble-minded Oscar bore her mysterious absence; and while she kissed the memorial of his affection, she prayed that his heart might acquit her of deceit and perfidy, that he might believe her innocent.
Of sir Cyril Musgrove she thought with increasing abhorrence, for his
atrocious conduct was not the sudden impulse of ungoverned passion; it had been
long meditated and contrived¾it was not love, but vanity, that had urged him
to destroy her happiness, by a plan of deliberate villany. She had been noticed
and admired in the great world¾sir Cyril only valued her as a fashionable toy,
the possession of which would give him eclat with beings heartless and vicious
as himself.
The character of sir Cyril’s steward, Samuel
Sparks, Miss Delmore considered with terror; in her opinion he was wicked
enough to be the perpetrator of any crime, however horrible; she recollected
with what diabolic mirth he had related to Susan the stupid blunder of his
Cumberland relations, in carrying off Mrs. Freakley from Torrington Castle, and
the boast he made, that he had never yet failed in the execution of any scheme
he had undertaken.
In uneasy reflections, tears, and regrets, Cecilia passed the long dark
hours of night, and the morning found her with swollen eyes and an aching head;
she could then have slept, but the fear of sir Cyril’s intrusion made her quit
her bed.
On descending to the breakfast parlour, Cecilia met a beautiful little
girl, of about three years old, who was running after a kitten. Cecilia kissed
the rosy cheek of the child, who put her little hand within hers, and suffered
her to lead her into the breakfast parlour.
Sir Cyril was already there, and made many, what he thought, witty
observations on Miss Delmore’s love of children. Seeing Cecilia continue to
caress the little girl, he inquired who the brat belonged to?
The servant in attendance replied, that she was the child of Thomas
Ellis, Susan’s brother, who had called to see his sister in his way to
Wimbourn, where he was going to take the little girl to live with her mother’s
sister, who was well married, and kept a druggist’s shop.
“Confound the druggist’s shop!” replied sir Cyril; “who the devil asked
for this history? All I desire is, that the brat may not stay here¾I detest the noise of children.”
The servant replied, she was going away with her father as soon as he
returned from the farrier’s, where he was gone to get his horse’s shoe
fastened.
Miss Delmore requested sir Cyril to allow her to give the child some
breakfast. The idea had struck her that she could make the little prattler the
instrument of her deliverance. Sir Cyril was dull and out of humour; he stormed
at the servants because the newspapers were not arrived; and when the packet
was delivered him, he raved because a letter had not been forwarded that he
expected.
Miss Delmore hastened to finish her breakfast; and while pretending to
play with the child, and arrange her dress, she contrived to place her lettered
handkerchief in the front of her frock, which she happily effected while sir
Cyril was tumbling over the newspapers.
Every moment now appeared an age to her impatience, so much did she wish
the departure of the child, who, full of prattle and of play, seemed delighted
with the caresses of Miss Delmore. At length the anxiously-expected moment
arrived, and with many a wish, and many a fervid prayer for deliverance, she
saw the child placed before its father, who was already mounted, and her eye
followed the steps of the horse till she could no longer distinguish them.
But the pleasure derived from having eluded the watchful eyes of sir Cyril, and effecting her purpose, was shortly after damped by his declaring, ’pon his honour, that he could no longer bury himself in the country, which, at that dreary time of the year, was his aversion; he was as bad as dead, and should not wonder if half the Fine women in London had put themselves into mourning on his account. “’Pon my honour!” repeated sir Cyril, ?I can bear it no longer ? I must put an end to it.” “You can very easily do that,” replied Cecilia; “restore me to liberty, and you will no longer be under restraint.” “That is much easier said than done, my fair prude,” returned sir Cyril; “besides, it would be barbarous in me to abandon you now; for having been so long absent, you cannot suppose lady Welford will receive you.”“Yes, I do suppose it,” replied Miss Delmore. “Lady Welford will give credit to my assertions¾she will be convinced of my innocence, and that my absence has not been my own act.”
“I adore you too much,” said sir Cyril, “to suffer you to run the hazard of being disappointed: no, lovely inflexible, we will try the air of another kingdom¾we will take a trip to France, the region of gaiety, of pleasure, and freedom¾nay, no contradiction, for, ’pon my honour! I have made up my mind to quit England. Some friends of mine are at this moment on the wing for Paris; we will join them; example may thaw your frigidity ? you may be induced to return my love. I perceive you do not approve of going to France, which is very ungrateful, as I shall undergo the horrors of sea-sickness entirely on your account.”
“I beg, sir Cyril—“ “And I beg, Miss Delmore,” continued he, rudely interrupting her, “that you will prepare to set off, as I shall not remain at Frome Hall more than a fortnight.”Cecilia’s heart sunk¾a fortnight would soon elapse, and if before then her handkerchief should meet no pitying eye, what would become of her? In France sir Cyril might throw off all restraint, and in a land of strangers, to whom could she appeal? of whom ask protection? ¾Of Heaven,” said Cecilia; “yes, of that gracious and omniscient Power who has supported and sustained me to the present moment. Oh! never let me forget the precepts of my more than mother!¾oh! never let me cease to supplicate that Almighty Being who watches over the injured and oppressed, and to whom the prayer of the afflicted ascends not in vain.”
CHAPTER
IV.
Oh, human life! how mutable¾how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joys!
A sunny island in a stormy main¾
A speck of azure in a cloudy sky! SCOTT.
Not all are blest whom Fortune’s hand
sustains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the
plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truth I tell¾
’Tis virtue makes the bliss where'er we dwell.
COLLINS.
¾—————————He
bade adieu
To all that hope, to all that fancy drew;
His frame was languid, and the hectic heat
Flush’d on his pallid face; and countless
beat
The quick’ning pulse, and faint the limbs
that bore
The slender form that wish’d to breathe no
more.
CRABBE.
Opinions of modern
Friends¾An old Friend¾
An unwelcome Discovery¾A voyage to Lisbon.
NEVER did sense of honour inflict deeper
wounds than in the bosom of the youthful Rushdale, whose pride, as well as his
heart, had received a severe shock from the discovery of lady Torrington’s
intrigue with major Norman; and though in the presence of his father and his
friends he appeared to have conquered his afflictive feelings, yet the burning
crimson of shame would flash across his cheek, and his spirit would rise
indignant against the disgrace that now tarnished the fame of the house of
Torrington, whenever any circumstance occurred to recall his mother to his
memory.
The earl of Torrington had removed from his presence every memento of
his wife; her name never passed his lips; yet the melancholy imprinted on his
countenance gave evidence that she was not yet banished from his remembrance.
The most pleasant hours of the earl and his son were spent at lady Welford’s,
where Cecilia, with angel sweetness, exerted all her various accomplishments to
amuse, and reconcile them to an unavoidable evil.
The return of Mrs. Doricourt to England was now looked forward to as an
epoch from which they were to date all future felicity; for the earl had
informed the youthful pair that their marriage should take place immediately on
her arrival: how cruelly this scheme of happiness was destroyed by the
mysterious absence of Cecilia, can be easier imagined than described.
On the night she left London, Miss Delmore wrote a hasty note to lord
Rushdale, informing him of lady Welford’s unfortunate accident; and he was
preparing to go to Park-street, to make inquires in person, when lord
Torrington, in much agitation, entered his apartment, with the distressing
information that lady Welford had just returned from Richmond alone, that she
had met no accident at Turnham Green, had never heard of doctor Robinson, nor
had seen Cecilia since she parted with her at her own house.
No doubt now remained that Cecilia had been decoyed from her home, and
made the dupe of some villanous stratagem, for the distracted Rushdale, and his
scarcely-less-distressed father, recollected with dismay the attempt made to
carry her off from Torrington Castle. Without a clue to trace her, they offered
rewards, and made inquires at all the towns in the vicinity of London, but
failed to obtain any information that could lead them to guess whither she had
been taken.
As usual in all mysterious cases, there were many who had professed
themselves her friends, who inclined to the belief that Miss Delmore, with all
her apparent modesty, had preferred the life of honour with some favourite
lover, to lord Rushdale, whose title had been in her eyes his sole attraction,
she is reality disliking his person, and more particularly the sentimental
romantic turn of his mind. Others who had been offended at the preference given
to Miss Delmore, observed lord Rushdale was properly treated, for having
neglected females of family and distinction for a low-born girl, who, luckily
for him, had discovered her licentious propensities before he married her, as
doubtless she would have followed the example set by the countess his mother.
Lady Welford, the duchess of Aberdeen, sir Alexander Stuart’s family,
and some few others, whom the modesty and timidity of Miss Delmore had charmed
even more than her beauty, warmly opposed these malevolent opinions, and
declared their positive belief that she was detained by force, and prevented
from giving her friends information that might relieve their anxiety respecting
her.
Not for a single moment did the afflicted Rushdale doubt the truth and
innocence of the adored of his heart; and neither himself, nor the earl his
father, ceased to offer rewards in the daily papers, or to make inquires
wherever they thought it probable they might obtain intelligence.
The footman who always attended Miss Delmore, on being severely
reprimanded by lady Welford, for being out of the way when the note was brought
by the man who pretended to come from Turnham Green, confessed, with much real
concern, that he had been invited by one of sir Cyril Musgrove’s grooms, to go
with him to a relation’s who kept a tavern, where, he protested, he only drank
a single glass of liquor, which had so stupified him that he was unable to walk
home, that he had fallen asleep as he sat, and did not wake till a late hour,
and was quite certain that something had been purposely given him to take away
his senses. The people at the tavern were examined, but they appeared ignorant
in the affair.
Suspicion now fell on sir Cyril Musgrove, and doubt was shortly after
converted into certainty, by paragraph after paragraph appearing in the
fashionable papers, all tending to render the character of Miss Delmore
despicable, and confirm the opinion of her having voluntarily accompanied sir
Cyril Musgrove to France. These vile fabrications constantly meeting the eye of
the earl of Torrington, his faith in Cecilia’s purity and principles began to
waver; though lord Rushdale, with all the generosity of confiding love,
persisted in declaring her traduced; and if indeed with sir Cyril Musgrove, his
compulsory companion.
The earl of Torrington’s commerce with the female world had not given
him the most exalted opinion of their virtues; he had, in early life, met one
angelic mind, but that he had basely deserted, and ever after he had been made
the dupe of the artful, the ambitions, and the mercenary; and the anguish of
lord Rushdale’s feelings was rendered more painful by perceiving that his
father grew every day less warm in advocating the cause of Cecilia, and less
anxious to ascertain her real situation. At last, wrought up to agony by the
severity of the earl’s remarks on her absence, he declared his resolution of
setting off for Paris; and if, as his lordship suspected, she was proved to be
the companion of sir Cyril Musgrove, he would force her from the arms of her seducer.
The earl made many objections, observing, that when a female had thrown
off all delicacy, and shewn such an utter contempt of virtue and propriety, he
thought her unworthy of the trouble.
“And can you really believe Cecilia guilty?” said lord Rushdale; “can
you indeed conceive it possible that, educated as she has been, her whole life
passed without the shadow of reproach, that she can at once have become
depraved and abandoned to vice? If it is possible that she has fallen from the
proud eminence on which she stood¾if her virtue has slumbered, let us not believe
it totally extinct. Oh, my father! let us hasten to snatch her from infamy¾to restore her to peace, which, I am certain, she never can enjoy while
leading a life debased by the protection of sir Cyril Musgrove.”
Won by the distress and supplications of the heart-wounded Oscar, the
earl of Torrington consented to accompany him to Paris, and to assist his
endeavours to separate the deluded Cecilia from her supposed seducer.
The day being appointed for their quitting London, the earl had been to
inform lady Welford of what he termed Rushdale’s romantic scheme, and of his
own design to visit Mrs. Doricourt, who had hitherto been uninformed of Miss
Delmore’s having quitted the protection of her friends. Crossing the square to
approach his own mansion, the earl was accosted by a person whom at first he
did not recollect; but when the gentleman announced himself as the reverend
George Dacres, and added, that he had intelligence of a very important nature
to communicate, lord Torrington’s emotions were so violent, that he was
constrained to accept the offered arm of Mr. Dacres, to enable him to reach his
home.
Having closed the door of the library, the earl sunk on a seat, and
covering his face with his hands, shuddered convulsively.
“I remember the time,” said Mr. Dacres, “when Wilfred Rushdale would
have met his friend with expanded arms; I am now, I perceive, an unwelcome
visitor.”
The earl’s reply was a deep groan.
“Before I quitted England,” resumed Mr. Dacres, “I joined your hand
with that of a young, innocent, confiding creature¾I left you, as I supposed, a happy husband, at the summit of felicity;
for your wife was lovely, gentle, and virtuous. I find you now surrounded by
rank and wealth, but your appearance bears no evidence of your happiness. Where
is your lovely wife? where is Edith?”
“Dead!” replied the earl, with a still deeper groan¾“Oh, Dacres, Dacres! severe have been my sufferings since we parted.”
“Can you, with an unreproving conscience, say they have been
undeserved?” asked Mr. Dacres. “I came not to flatter your vices, or palliate
the enormity of your offences¾I come to display, in all its glaring colours,
the guilt of your past life¾to demand from you the orphan's long-withheld
right.”
“I have wronged no orphan,” replied the earl¾“who dares accuse me of such guilt?”
“I dare,” returned Mr. Dacres¾“I am your accuser.”
“Of this crime,” said the earl, “I shall be found guiltless.”
This assertion Mr. Dacres staid not to contradict; but with a severity
of tone and look from which the earl shrunk in dismay, he asked¾“Did you not, with vows of love, and promises of eternal fidelity,
persuade Edith Saville to quit the protection in which her brother left her?
Did you not, in a few short months, after obtaining her hand, abandon her, and,
like a villain swayed by cursed lucre, contract an unlawful marriage with Miss
Herbert, the affianced bride of your deceived, betrayed friend?”
“Go on,” continued the earl; “your questions are daggers; but I deserve
the pangs they inflict, even did they wound more severely.”
“On the discovery of your baseness,” resumed Mr. Dacres, “did not the
forsaken Edith bury herself and her sorrows in a cottage, remote from the
scenes where you had deluded her, with heartless vows and empty professions?
There, with her infant—”
“She met a horrible death,” interrupted the earl, wildly, large drops
of perspiration rolling down his pallid face; “the cottage took fire—Edith, my
ever-loved though deeply-injured Edith, perished, with her infant, in the
flames. The dreadful picture of her sufferings never leaves my imagination; it
has pursued me in the mazes of dissipation¾it has been present at the banquet; waking and sleeping I have seen them
struggling in the flames¾I have heard the shrieks of Edith and her
babe.”
It was some time before lord Torrington was sufficiently composed to
listen to the assurance of Mr. Dacres, that Mrs. Rushdale and her babe had
escaped this horrible death, and taken shelter in a distant cottage.
The earl burst into tears, and grasping the hand of Mr. Dacres, with
strong emotion, asked¾“Does Edith, my injured Edith, live?”
Mr. Dacres mournfully shook his head, and replied¾“No¾she has long been released from the sorrows of
this evil world. But, answer me, lord Torrington¾where is that child you adopted at Torrington
Castle, Cecilia Delmore?”
The earl gave Mr. Dacres a brief account of every circumstance relative
to Miss Delmore, her engagement with his son, lord Rushdale, down to her supposed
elopement with sir Cyril Musgrove.¾“I had,” said the earl, “overcome every
prejudice, for in my eyes her virtue, beauty, and accomplishments, were
equivalent to rank and fortune; and had she not thrown off the mask of purity
that artfully veiled the vices of her character, she had before this been the
wife of my son.”
“Be grateful to Heaven,” replied Mr. Dacres, “that you are spared that
horrible affliction; Cecilia is your daughter¾the child of Edith¾the heiress to your fortunes.”
The earl sunk back on his seat, his eyes closed, and for some moments
he appeared to have lost all sense of present or future sorrows; when again
recovered, he wept bitterly.—“Oscar, my noble-minded Oscar!” said he, “how will
he support this intelligence?”
“That son, lord Torrington,” resumed Mr. Dacres, “of whom you speak so
feelingly, is illegitimate; and however this unfortunate girl may have erred, I
fondly loved her angel mother, and for that mother’s sake I will seek her out¾I will, if admonition and persuasion can prevail, restore her to virtue,
at the same moment that I instate her in her rights, for remember she is your
lawful heiress; and while I reflect on all that I have heard in Cumberland
respecting her goodness, and the high character bestowed on her by persons of
rank and reputation here, I am inclined not only to hope, but to believe her
innocent, notwithstanding newspaper reports, which have frequently been proved
false and scandalous.”
“Would to Heaven that I could prove Cecilia innocent!” said the earl;
“for I have ever loved her with the affection of a father; and have felt more
anguish than I have language to express, since by withdrawing from the
protection of lady Welford, she has given licence to the venomed tongue of
scandal.”
“No time must be lost,” replied Mr. Dacres; “Cecilia must be found. You
are imperiously called upon, lord Torrington, to recover your daughter, and, if
possible, restore her fame.”
“My daughter!” repeated the earl, relapsing into incredulity¾“no, I trust you are mistaken; I will hope I have not the shame of her
disgraceful conduct to endure; the degraded Cecilia Delmore, sir, is—”
“Your daughter,” interrupted Mr. Dacres, sternly; “if she is disgraced,
receive the affliction as a punishment for your offences; but seek her out, lest
her continuance in guilt add weight to your crimes. I am here to establish the
rights of Edith’s child, and bring with me incontrovertible proof.”
“I confess,” said the earl, “when I first beheld Cecilia in her
infancy, I was struck with her resemblance to my lost Edith; since grown to
womanhood, the expression of her countenance, her voice, her smile, have
continually reminded me of her whom my heart has never ceased to love and
lament; but this likeness may be accidental¾it does not confirm your assertion that she is my daughter; and before I
consent to deprive my noble, generous Oscar, of rank and possessions so long
considered his right, I must indeed have proof.”
“You shall,” replied Mr. Dacres, “for the requisition is just.” He then
drew forth a pocketbook¾“Do you recognize this memorial of love?”
Lord Torrington examined the book; in the cover was written¾“Edith Saville, the gift of her adoring Wilfred Rushdale.”
“Can you deny,” asked Mr. Dacres, “that being your writing?”
The earl acknowledged the pocketbook to have been a present of his to
Miss Saville, and the writing in the cover to be his also.
“These letters too are yours,” said Mr. Dacres, “in which you subscribe
yourself the faithful husband of Edith.”
The earl clasped his hands, and in a tone of agony exclaimed—“Oh! would
I had continued her faithful husband! how many years of misery had this
lacerated heart been spared!”
“And here,” resumed Mr. Dacres, “is a letter addressed to ‘Wilfred
Rushdale, esquire;’ and though the hand that wrote, and the woe-fraught heart
that dictated, are mouldered to dust, you cannot have forgot the characters of
Edith.”
The earl pressed the paper to his lips; he endeavoured to peruse its
contents, but a mist swam before his eyes, and he desired Mr. Dacres to read
it.
Mr. Dacres, with a tremulous voice, read as follows:¾
“WILFRED,
“The pulses of the heart your perfidy has broken beat faintly¾I shall soon sink to the grave, and be at peace; but you, false,
ungrateful, and perjured¾merciful Heaven! will you ever know peace? Will
not the injuries of the forsaken Edith¾the remembrance of your deserted lawful wife,
poison the enjoyments you hope to purchase by the sacrifice of all that is
honourable in man? Yet I mean not to upbraid you¾we are taught to forgive, as we desire to be
forgiven; of the full extent of this heavenly precept I am aware; yet only on
one condition can I promise to forgive you¾receive and acknowledge your child, my innocent
Cecilia¾bestow on her the tenderness I was denied¾rescue my fame from infamy. As you perform these my last requests, you
have my pardon, or my malediction. These, the last dictates of my breaking
heart, will be delivered to you by John Delmore, when my eyes are closed in the
sleep of death. His roof has sheltered me since the devouring flames consumed
all my little property, except the Indian casket, which I bequeath my cherub
child.
“Farewell, Wilfred, once the idol of Edith’s heart! be careful of the
happiness of my Cecilia.”
The earl wept, and Mr. Dacres turned to the window to hide his emotion,
and recover composure. After a pause of some moments, he subdued his feelings
sufficiently to produce a small square ivory and gold casket; it contained a
miniature picture of the earl, painted in the early days of youth, before care
had impressed its furrows on the smooth open forehead, and another of Edmund
Saville, folded in a paper, on which was written¾“The best and most deceived of men;” a locket set with pearls, and two
brilliant rings, were the contents of the casket.
“This locket,” said the earl, “I have seen hang on her ivory bosom; it
was the parting gift of her brother¾oh, Edith, Edith, for ever we are separated!
neither here nor hereafter, I fear, will thy pure spirit seek alliance with the
guilty Wilfred. But where have these sacred memorials of a departed angel been
so long hid? why was I not sooner informed that the wretched erring Cecilia was
my daughter? Alas, alas! heavy, though just, is the punishment of my offences!
Both my children—must I be punished in both? one debased by an illicit
connexion with a villain, the other devoted to misery by an incestuous passion!
Why did not this intelligence reach me before my boy became a sacrifice?”
“The present is the earliest opportunity that has occurred,” replied Mr.
Dacres. “You may remember that soon after your marriage with Miss Saville I
left England. To relate my vicissitudes of fortune for eighteen tedious years,
would be irrelevant to the present subject; suffice it, I was on my voyage from
Hindostan, when the ship in which I sailed fell in with a boat, in which were
three almost-famished men, the sole survivors of a foundered vessel. Two of
these unfortunate creatures recovered, the third lingered a few days, and
finding his end approached, expressed a wish that some Christian would pray
beside him, as he lay pale and expiring in the hammock where the humanity of
our sailors had laid him. I hastened to administer the holy consolations of
religion to the dying man, who told me his name was John Delmore.”
“Merciful Providence!” exclaimed the earl, “and from him—”
“I learned,” continued Mr. Dacres, “that Mrs. Rushdale, bearing her
infant in her arms, had sought shelter in his cottage from the conflagration
that destroyed her property and her servant. Delmore had been absent some
months, and on his return to his home he found his wife in the last stage of a
consumption, with two infants, her own puny and sickly, which expired in less
than a week after his return. The little Cecilia was lively, beautiful, and healthy,
and from his wife he learned that her mother had been buried about a month; she
had left a letter behind her, with a request that the little girl might be
conveyed to its father; but his wife had forgot the name, and in the bustle of
the funeral had mislaid the letter. John Delmore confessed he had always been
fond of drink, and finding, to use his own expression, ‘his wife wasted to a
notamy, and scarcely able to crawl, and every thing at sixes and sevens, he
drank harder than ever to drown sorrow.’ In a few weeks his wife died, and
shortly after he had an offer to go out captain’s clerk to America. Throwing
every thing portable that belonged to his wife into his chest, he prepared for
the voyage, his only trouble being how to dispose of the poor little girl. At
last it struck him that his wife’s sister was the housekeeper at Torrington
Castle; and as he thought he could prevail on her to take charge of the child,
if he passed it upon her for his own, he lost no time in taking the journey,
sometimes carrying the child for miles on his back, and sometimes getting a
lift outside a coach. At last he arrived at Torrington Castle, and succeeded in
his project to his wish; Mrs. Milman took the little smiling Cecilia, and for
her dead sister’s sake, promised to be a mother to her. When at sea, John
Delmore had time to overhaul the contents of his chest, among which he found
this casket, and the mislaid letter, which disclosed the name of Cecilia’s
father, to whom he determined to deliver his child, and all that belonged to
her, on his return to England. While in America, in a drunken frolic, he
engaged to go to the East Indies. Arrived at Bengal, being an able navigator,
he had a lucrative offer from the owners of a vessel that traded to China; and
though every year resolving to return to England, he still remained, making
money, and drinking like a fish, till a storm drove the ship to which he
belonged out of her course, and at last, after ineffectual efforts to save her,
drove on a reef of rocks, where she beat to pieces, himself and two others only
escaping of all the crew. You may judge,” said Mr. Dacres, “with what interest
I listened to this narrative, and with what earnest entreaties to see the
motherless Cecilia righted, the expiring Delmore consigned to my care the
important documents that were to assert her birth. On my return to England, I
visited the grave of Edith, and the cottage that had sheltered her; I found the
man-servant who lived with her when you deserted her, and who had assisted to
remove her to the solitude where she became a mother. Anxious to perform the
wishes of Edith, I hastened to Torrington Castle, where I heard from your
domestics such accounts of Cecilia’s amiable qualities, and your affection for
her, as left no doubt on my mind that you would rejoice to learn the child of
your adoption had real claims on your heart and fortune.”
“Yes,” replied the earl, “I have loved Cecilia with all the fond
affection of a father¾I have been proud of her transcendent beauty,
and have felt pleasure in drawing forth her various accomplishments; but now,
wretched Cecilia, how art thou fallen! and how terrible is my affliction, to
learn our affinity, at a time when disgrace and infamy sully the character I
once believed above the reach of error or vice! Oscar, too, my beloved,
noble-minded Oscar, must he resign the right of succession to a sister so
unworthy? Oh, Dacres, once my friend, have pity on me¾do not crush to earth this high-spirited youth;
already his heart is tortured with a passion for this erring girl, whom he had
my sanction to make his wife; think of his blighted hopes; he loves her, spite
of her unworthiness, with a most sincere and fervent passion; spare him, I
conjure you¾conceal from him, from the world, that he is
illegitimate¾I will settle on Cecilia any sum you shall
name; and you, my friend, my preserver, you shall command my services¾my fortune.”
Mr. Dacres surveyed the earl with a glance of scornful rebuke¾“Could you bestow on me the empire of the world,” said he, “it would not
bribe my integrity; the sainted Edith was the beloved of my youthful heart; she
preferred you¾I buried my passion in my own bosom, and I
constrained myself to join your hands, because I believed the union would make
her happy; how you fulfilled your vows, let your conscience answer; for myself,
I stand here determined to do her fame justice¾to assert the rights of her child. I pity the
feelings of your son; but if he is indeed the noble-minded youth you describe,
he will disdain a title and possessions to which he has not a legal claim.”
“Must I then endure the reproaches of my son?” exclaimed the earl;
“must I appear a wretch, destituted of principle and honour in his eyes¾the betrayer of his mother? Oh, Edith, this¾this is retribution!”
“Poor worldly-minded man,” replied Mr. Dacres, “you shrink from the
reproaches of your son¾you dread to encounter the censures of the
multitude; yet when you abandoned and left to wretchedness the lovely, amiable
Edith¾when you deceived Miss Herbert with an unlawful
marriage, you felt no compunction¾you feared not to offend the Almighty Power
whose altar you profaned¾you fear not to offend me, a minister of the
Gospel, by offering to bribe me to an act of base injustice; wretched man! the
vials of wrath are pouring out upon you; bend your proud spirit¾own the mercy that has so long withheld your punishment, and humbly
supplicate the pardon of offended Heaven!”
“My son, my son!” exclaimed lord Torrington, in frenzied accents, “who
shall bear to thee the heart-rendering intelligence, that thou art illegitimate¾that the titles to which, from thy birth, thou hast been considered
heir, are not thy inheritance? Who shall tell thee that Cecilia, the
tenderly-beloved though erring Cecilia, is thy sister? For me, overwhelmed with
sorrow and disgrace, I feel unable to make these disclosures; I cannot, dare
not meet his just indignation; conscious of the guilty part I have acted, I
shrink from the reproving glance of his eye.”
“It is the duty of my office,” said Mr. Dacres, “to reprove the guilty
and console the afflicted; painful as will be the task of communicating to a
son events that must place a parent’s conduct in a reprehensible point of view,
I will see the young man, and endeavour to dispose his mind to submit to
privations that honour and justice render unavoidable. Where shall I find Mr.
Herbert?”
The earl started.¾“Call him not by that detested name, I conjure
you,” said he; “to my ears it is agony; oh, what will it be to his!”
“Is not his mother’s name Herbert?” demanded Mr. Dacres, coldly.
“You know it was,” replied the earl; “but—”
“Say not,” interrupted Mr. Dacres, “that your mock marriage gave her
title to any other: her name is still Herbert; and the children of unmarried
women always bear the mother’s appellation.”
“Barbarous, cruel man!” said the earl, “in your inflexible severity,
you forget compassion and mercy.”
“Where,” asked Mr. Dacres, “was your compassion, when you deserted your
unoffending wife, a young innocent creature, who hourly expected to make you a
father? Where was your mercy, when, to possess yourself of old Blackburne’s
wealth, you persuaded the affianced bride of your friend to break her plighted
faith, and deluded her with a marriage you knew you were not at liberty to
contract? For you indeed I feel but little compassion; but I pray Heaven to
have mercy on you! for your son, whose estimable character I have heard from
lips whose praise confers honour, my heart bleeds; but I will not suffer pity
to overcome my sense of right. Cecilia, the daughter of Edith, your lawful
wife, shall not be defrauded by compassion of her inheritance; she shall be
acknowledged the heiress of the earl of Torrington, even were her errors
greater than the world represents them.”
“Oscar dashed from the pinnacle of greatness his virtues so eminently
adorn¾Cecilia, whom I believed all that was chaste
and amiable in woman, sunk in infamy!” exclaimed the earl, wildly; “my
punishment is more than I can bear. Hark! that is Oscar’s voice! he comes to
learn his father’s infamy and his own disgrace.”
“Wretched man, be calm and patient,” said Mr. Dacres; “the sooner these
disclosures are made the better.”
“The tale of dishonour will destroy him,” replied the earl; “the
knowledge of his father’s guilt will be death to him. Honour is Oscar’s idol,
and bereaved of that, he will abhor existence. Inexorable man, fulfil your
purpose; proclaim me a villain, but ask me not to face the resentment of my
guiltless boy.”
As lord Rushdale entered the library, the earl rushed wildly past him,
leaving the resolved, though deeply-affected Mr. Dacres to introduce himself.
Oscar listened with the calmness of desperation to the disclosure of
his father’s guilt, on which he made no comment; neither did he seem moved,
when he was told he must resign the titles and possessions to which he had
believed himself heir. Cecilia alone occupied his heart and imagination; the
terrible idea of their affinity seemed to possess his thoughts entirely, and
the words¾“Cecilia my sister!” alone murmured from his
lips.
The expression of deep melancholy that clouded the fine countenance of
Oscar induced Mr. Dacres to speak of his father’s vices in as gentle terms as
possible; and when the tale of guilt was at an end, he endeavoured, with every
soothing argument that religion and piety could suggest, to reconcile the
heart-wounded youth to his unavoidable destiny. He expressed his belief that
Cecilia was the involuntary companion of sir Cyril Musgrove¾still innocent and virtuous.
A momentary ray of pleasure lightened in the melancholy eyes of Oscar;
he pressed the hand of Mr. Dacres, and fervently exclaimed¾“Yes, my Cecilia is innocent; a thought of impurity has never
contaminated her angelic mind.”
Mr. Dacres spoke of the pleasure it would afford him, to be the means
of restoring to fame and to her friends a young creature so much beloved; and
declared his intention of going to Paris immediately, in search of her¾“I am assured,” said Mr. Dacres, “she has been conveyed from England by
force; and nothing shall prevent my bringing sir Cyril Musgrove and his agents
to punishment.”
The wretched Oscar listened, while Mr. Dacres enjoined him to subdue
his feelings, to avoid the indulgence of sorrow, and, above all, to respect the
penitence of his father, and harbour no resentment against him. “I need not
request you to exert all your powers to conquer your unholy passion for
Cecilia,” said he, “which divine and human laws forbid.”
The eyes of Oscar were fixed on Mr. Dacres as he spoke, but he
understood not a syllable; the agony of his mind had before produced fever, and
as he again thought of Cecilia as his sister, he fell senseless at his feet.
For several days, the lives of the earl of Torrington and his son were
despaired of, and Mr. Dacres, anxious as he was to ascertain the fate of
Cecilia, was compelled by humanity to remain in London, dividing his cares
between the wretched father and no less unhappy son. The earl of Torrington’s
health again gave signs of renovation, but the hapless Oscar, though free from
fever, sunk into profound melancholy; no sound or object seemed to attract his
attention¾his brain was unsettled¾he seldom spoke, and would sit for hours with his arms folded, and his
eyes fixed on vacancy; to the self-upbraidings of the earl, and his unceasing
entreaties for pardon, he would make no reply, except a hollow groan burst from
his bosom, or his pale lips unconsciously murmured¾“Cecilia, the adored of my soul¾Cecilia is my sister.”
The earl’s physicians pronounced an immediate voyage to Lisbon the only
measure likely to promote the recovery of lord Rushdale, to whose depressed
mind change of scene, and a warm climate, were necessary.
Preparations were directly made for the voyage, and the earl, still an
invalid, deputed to Mr. Dacres the charge of seeking out Cecilia, while he
watched over the health of his son, now dearer to his heart than ever, since
visited by misfortune.
On the same day that Mr. Dacres began his journey to Paris, the earl of
Torrington and his son, the shadow of his former self, set sail for the shores
of Portugal.
The sea air had a good effect on the debilitated constitution of the
earl, but the sunk eye of Oscar would follow the rolling billows, unconscious
that their course bore him from his native land. To him neither the wide expanse
of ocean, nor the blue arching sky, brought health or pleasure.
The earl of Torrington bore from England letters of introduction to
most of the families of distinction in Lisbon; he engaged a splendid mansion,
and established himself in a style consonant with his rank; but for many days
the unfortunate Oscar remained utterly unconscious of passing events, while the
earl, apprehensive that his reason was for ever extinguished, watched over him
with a heart tortured by remorse and anguish, the late-obtained knowledge of
Cecilia being his daughter adding acuteness to the misery her dereliction of
virtue occasioned.
The health of the earl again sunk in the conflict; sorrow and pain are
ill sustained by persons whose lives have been passed in ease, affluence, and
pleasure; yet the remembrance that his crimes had destroyed the health and
felicity of his son, urged the earl, though scarcely able to quit his couch, to
insist on being supported to his apartment.
The evening of a sultry day had closed in, and lights had been placed,
when the earl, in removing towards an open lattice, fainted in the arms of his
valet. This circumstance seemed to rouse a momentary attention in Oscar, who,
having mournfully gazed at his father, was again relapsing into gloomy forgetfulness,
when the earl, being restored to sense, in a faint voice, said¾“Oscar, my son, I believe I am not long for this life; let me not, I
conjure you, pass into eternity unblessed by your forgiveness.”
Oscar raised himself on his elbow; he placed his hand on his forehead,
and seemed to try to collect his scattered thoughts. At last he said¾“Now I remember all; I am illegitimate, and Cecilia is my sister; would
that I had died in Cumberland! I had then sunk to my grave, in the happy
blessed assurance that¾But, alas! alas! Cecilia is my sister! My
lord,” addressing the earl, “the gentleman who told me this unhappy story is a
clergyman; he said Cecilia is the daughter and heiress of the earl of
Torrington; he told me also, that Heaven commands we should forgive each other;
my brain wanders, and my heart is broken, but I believe I harbour no
resentment, except against the villain who has murdered the fame of my Cecilia.
My Cecilia! oh no, no, she is your daughter¾my sister; and to love her is become criminal:
yet while my heart throbs¾ while memory survives, I shall bear in my
wretched bosom incurable passion.”
“Oscar, my beloved Oscar!” said the earl, “give not way to unavailing
tenderness; remember this unhappy girl is your sister.”
I never can forget it,” replied
Oscar; “that she is my sister, is my grief¾my misery; were she not your daughter, I would still seek and woo her
for a bride; for here, in the sight of Heaven, I solemnly protest I believe her
chaste, innocent, and incapable of deceit.”
“Grant it, gracious Heaven!” said the earl, with a look and tone of
indescribable sadness; “grant me to behold you restored to health, and Cecilia
returned with unblemished fame, and I care not how soon I sink to¾”
“The grave,” interrupted Oscar, with a bitter smile. “No, my lord, you
must live to see your base-born son stripped of his borrowed honours, pointed
at, laughed at, scorned; but I can bear all this; the loss of titles, public
favour, wealth, is nothing; no, no, there was a treasure dearer to Oscar’s heart
than all the pageantries of fortune; but that is wrested from me; and now,
despoiled of all, the grave remains my only place of refuge.”
The earl, during this speech, had again fainted; and when the eyes of
Oscar fell on his countenance, he beheld it fixed, as in death.¾“Wretch that I am,” resumed he, striking his forehead, “my inhuman
reproaches have murdered my father.” He then flung himself at his feet, and, in
the frenzied accents of delirium, entreated him to live and pardon him.
The attendants having summoned the earl’s physicians, he was borne to
his bed, where he remained for some time in a state of such suffering, that
every moment was expected to be his last.
During this melancholy period, lord Rushdale’s health became better,
but his dark blue eyes regained not their sparkling intelligence; his spirits
had entirely lost their animated tone¾his cheeks were pale, and his figure
attenuated. Silent and melancholy, he constantly attended the couch of his
father, whose sufferings and penitence made him sincerely accord the
forgiveness he unceasingly supplicated; his hand smoothed his uneasy pillow,
and administered the medicines, which he feared were prescribed in vain. Many a
prayer for the earl’s recovery was breathed by the sorrowing Rushdale, whose
heart, though lost to happiness, and keenly sensible of his disgraceful birth,
gratefully remembered the unvarying affection of his father¾the indulgence lavished on all his wishes, and the care bestowed to form
his mind on the firm principles of virtue and humanity.
Softened by these grateful recollections, Oscar struggled with the
misery of disappointed fortune and hopeless love, that he might not increase
the anguish of his father, who having the comfort of seeing this son, so
deservedly beloved, constantly beside his couch, and hearing him directing the
services of his attendants, again gave hopes of recovery.
When sufficiently convalescent to venture abroad, the earl endeavoured
to divert the melancholy of his own and Oscar’s mind, by cultivating an acquaintance
with the nobility of Lisbon, and by an examination of all the antiquities and
curiosities of the country.
To these pursuits, entered into with avidity by the earl, Oscar,
neither by word or look, objected; he saw the intention, and was willing that
his father should believe his sorrows were diverted; but insensible to the
beauties of nature and art, the poisoned arrow rankled in his bosom; his
disgraceful birth, seldom absent from his memory, continually flashed the
indignant crimson of shame across his pale cheek, and his heart was tortured
with the anguish of hopeless love.
Still no intelligence from Mr. Dacres reached them; and while, out of
respect to the feelings of each other, the name of Cecilia never escaped the
lips of the earl or his son, yet both were anxious and impatient for an express
from France.
The earl of Torrington was by nature mutable and inconstant; he had
several times in his life believed himself in love; he had also felt, to a
certain degree, the unhappiness of disappointed passion, but in general he had
consoled himself for the perfidy of one mistress with the charms of another;
the only real affection he had ever felt was for Edith, the lovely wife he
deserted; but even her image, indelibly impressed on his heart, had not
prevented him from forming various other attachments. Judging Oscar’s
disposition by his own, he believed that time and new objects would console him
for the loss, if not entirely obliterate the passion for Cecilia from his
bosom; and to effect this most desirable purpose, even while his health was
unequal to the fatigue, the earl made frequent visits to those families where
youth and beauty held forth their attractions.
To gratify the wishes of his father, Oscar was a guest at many splendid
entertainments, and various places of public resort, where the handsome
melancholy Englishman was the admiration of many a fair one, while he, pensive
and regardless of inviting glances shot from the eyes of beauty, thought only
of his own blighted prospects and the lost Cecilia. For him the ball, the
concert, had no longer charms; music, once the delight of his enthusiastic
fancy, was now discord to his ears; and when he saw the gay bolero danced, his
feelings amounted to agony, for he remembered the graceful form and sylph-like
step of Cecilia, and with what animation he had seen her wind through the mazes
of the dance.
To the wretched Oscar, sounds of mirth and scenes of gaiety were
hateful; and whenever he could steal from observance, he would climb the
mountains, or hide himself in the lone recesses of the rocks, where,
uninterrupted, he could indulge in recollections of those happy days, when
prosperity, like a brilliant sun, shone above his youthful head¾when, high in rank and honour, he was surrounded by friends¾when love, hallowed by virtue and blest by paternal sanction, seemed to
invite him to happiness.¾“The vision, bright with the gay colouring of
youthful hope, fades,” said Oscar, mournfully, “and a sad certainty of
wretchedness succeeds; my birth disgraceful¾my love a crime, what solace can the world
afford me?¾what recompence for the treasures I have lost?
Yet were I assured that Cecilia is innocent¾could I learn that she is safe, it would be
some alleviation of my misery. Innocent! dare I believe that she is guilty? Can
I remember the bashful modesty, the blushing timidity, with which she always
received my avowals of affection, and believe that Cecilia is the voluntary
companion of a villain? Oh, never! Angel of purity, forgive me! My sister¾Cecilia is my sister! Would that I could banish from my mind the
remembrance of those blissful hours, when we wandered in the groves of
Torrington¾when Cecilia blest me with the assurance of her
love¾when she promised to be mine. Mine¾never! Alas! alas! we are already too nearly allied; another shall woo
and call her his, while I, condemned to unavailing repinings, shall wretchedly
waste my days, torn by the pangs of jealousy and disappointment. Yet, gracious
Heaven! though I am visited by sorrow, grant I may see her happy; let me behold
her restored to fame, and I will strive to bear the load of woe that presses on
my heart; I will vanquish pride—I will endeavour to forget that she was my
affianced wife¾when love was not a crime, and the future
presented smiling years of tender confidence and wedded happiness.”
With the miserable Oscar, what a fearful change a few short weeks had
made! to him, whose eyes were clouded by misfortune, the sky, the ocean, and
the earth, presented their beauties and their wonders in vain. Cecilia, the
splendid planet that illumined his existence, was sunk, and lost to him for
ever, and nature had no longer a charm to attract his eye or interest his
heart. Sometimes, starting from the wild delirium of disappointed passion, he
would endeavour to reason his distracted feelings into calmness, he would force
himself to consider Cecilia the daughter and heiress of the earl of Torrington,
and struggle to bend his spirit to bear the stigma of illegitimacy with
patience; but still, as the circumstance of Cecilia quitting the protection of
lady Welford, and the newspaper reports, rose to remembrance, his sunk eyes
would elicit sparks of indignant fire, and the blush of wounded pride would
redden on his pale cheek; the fame of the house of Torrington, sullied by her
supposed dereliction of virtue, would swell his bosom, and he would then, in
the frenzy of rage, pour heavy execrations on sir Cyril Musgrove, and vow
revenge for a sister’s ruined reputation; then suddenly recollecting his
illegitimacy, he would throw himself on the earth, and weep in all the
bitterness of sorrow.¾“Not by me can the villain be called to
account!” he would exclaim; “not by my hand can the seduction of Cecilia be
avenged! Oh, no, no, not by the base-born son of a wanton! Wretched, wretched
Oscar! the sins of my parents are severely visited on my head; I am become a
mark for scorn¾every eye will now behold me with contempt;
never again can I mix in the scenes, where once I was received with friendship,
respect, and homage; the heir of Torrington, to whom all deference was paid,
has vanished, and in his place a wretched, disgraced, unhappy being stands,
undone in fortune and in love; yet though my interference should be despised
and rejected by sir Cyril Musgrove, who, no doubt, would cast in my teeth the
opprobrium of my birth, what withholds her father tearing Cecilia from the arms
of a villain? he has claims upon her which none will dare dispute; he has
honourable birth too, and may demand satisfaction for injury, without apprehending
contumelious rejection.”
Sunk in the deepest despondency, hours would pass away unmarked by
Oscar, who, amid the wildest scenes of nature, would sit, with his eyes fixed
on the fathomless ocean, oftener vindicating than accusing Cecilia, picturing to
his irritated fancy her probable distress and misery, detained by compulsion
from those endeared to her by friendship and by love; for, spite of
appearances, the unhappy youth, in his calm moments, clung to the idea of her
innocence, and cherished the fond belief, that he still possessed the pure and
unaltered affection of her heart. Wrought to agony with the thought of her
sufferings he would rush into the presence of his father, to urge him to make a
personal search after Cecilia, whom he felt certain was forcibly detained by
sir Cyril Musgrove; but when the pale, feeble, drooping form of the earl met
his eye¾when he considered him weakened and emaciated
by recent illness, he saw the impossibility of his quitting Lisbon in the
present state of his health, and he buried deep in his fevered bosom the
boiling passions that hurried him to rage and impatience, lest he should
precipitate from its frail tenement the life of his father, who yet seemed
scarcely a step removed from the verge of eternity.
While Oscar piously and duteously did his utmost to conceal the anguish
of his heart, and never suffered the name of his mother to pass his lips, he
thought of her with feelings that excited his own wonder; for while contempt
and indignation rose in his bosom against her frailty, he was sensible of but
little wounded affection; he considered, that however deceived by the earl of
Torrington in the matter of her marriage, she never had cause to doubt being
legally his wife, and he had always behaved towards her with indulgence and
unbounded generosity. From the hour that Oscar was capable of reasoning on
passing events, he had thought the conduct of the countess highly reprehensible
towards all that concerned his attendance and accommodation¾she had manifested abundance of pride, but not the least tenderness; and
though a sense of duty had always governed his conduct, he never had felt for
her either the affection or respect a mother ought to command; he had observed,
with much displeasure, her behaviour while the count del Montarino was her
guest, and her elopement with major Norman had concentrated his feelings; all
she now excited was disgust and contempt.
His mother’s certain infamy, and the clouds of suspicion that hung
darkly over the character of Cecilia, had rendered England hateful to the
melancholy Oscar, and he secretly resolved never again to visit a country that
had witnessed the disappointment of his dearest hopes, and the disgrace of his
birth: there were many persons in England of whom he thought with respect and
regard; but circumstances were sadly changed with him; he had frequently heard
that the unhappy had no friends, and he determined to avoid meeting
supercilious pity from those who had once thought themselves honoured by his
acquaintance¾for the future he had been able to arrange no
plan, except that of resigning the title he had so long usurped.
While the nights and days of Oscar were devoted to regret and sorrow,
the mind of the earl was suffering all the pangs of remorse, for conscience
perpetually displayed, in all their hideous forms, the consequences of his
vices¾the dreadful spectacle of the noble-spirited
Oscar, bowed to the earth by the disgrace of illegitimate birth, was present to
his tortured sight, and the distracting idea of Cecilia made the victim of a
villain, who would not have presumed to approach her with dishonourable wishes,
had she been the acknowledged daughter of the earl of Torrington, added
poignancy to his feelings.
Fearful of explaining their thoughts to each other, they had each to
regret those delightful hours of confidence, when every wish of Oscar’s met the
approval of his indulgent father, and friendship of the most exalted kind
subsisted between them. This happy interchange of sentiments, feelings, and
opinions, was now at an end; the earl felt abashed in the presence of his son,
for conscience loudly proclaimed, that Oscar, formed by nature to fill the most
exalted rank, was disgraced by the vices of his father; and to shun his society
the earl forced himself to accept invitations, when his health and spirits
required tranquillity, and the tender soothings of filial affection.
At the splendid mansion of don Emanuel di Torrismond the earl was most
anxious to engage Oscar, for there the most polished society of Lisbon met,
attracted by the graces of don Emanuel’s daughter and niece, whose beauty was
the theme of universal praise; but neither the melting sensibility expressed in
the dark oriental eyes of donna Ismena, Emanuel’s heiress, nor the animated
glances of the little wild Isabella, his niece, for a moment charmed the
sorrows of Oscar, or made him forgetful of Cecilia, whose person was the
perfection of loveliness, and whose attainments excelled the most accomplished
maids of Portugal: yet in obedience to the wishes of his father, Oscar went
frequently to don Emanuel’s; he appeared to listen while donna Ismena sang or
swept the strings of her lute, but his fancy, at those moments, recalled the
lovely graceful figure of Cecilia, bending over the harp, and accompanying its
tones with the rich warblings of her angel voice.
The heart of Oscar was dead to the fascinations of beauty; the world
had lost its allurements, and he often meditated on retiring to the solitude of
a cloister¾“For where,” said he, “can the wretch, whose
desolated prospects and blighted wishes render society hateful, where can he
seek consolation, but in the holy stillness of a monastery? There religion may
subdue the agonies that an intercourse with the world increases¾the tranquillity of the cloister may impart its quiet to my perturbed
feelings, and I may become patient and submissive under the heavy chastisement
of adversity.”
When his intention of renouncing the world, and pronouncing the vows of
a monk, was hinted to the earl, it threw him into such agonies, that fearful of
becoming the destroyer of his father, Oscar solemnly promised to relinquish the
idea.
“To become a monk” said the earl, “you must renounce the faith you were
educated in¾you must adopt new beliefs; have you considered
this?”
“I believe,” replied Oscar, “that the ceremonials of religion will
neither forward or deter us on the road to heaven; the purity of our
intentions, and the performance of our duties, will alone, according to my
judgment, lead us to happiness.”
“A monk,” resumed the earl, “flies from the performance of his duties.
Man was placed on earth to assist his fellowman¾to¾”
“Proceed no further,” said Oscar; “I guess what you would say; but
though I consent to mingle with the world, I shall never perform the duties
allotted to man¾I shall never be a husband or a father.”
“Time,” replied the earl, “will, I trust, change your present
sentiments; time, my son, blunts the keen edge of affliction, and reconciles
the mind to disappointment.”
“Time may effect all this,” returned Oscar, incredulously¾“it may dull my memory¾it may render my feelings torpid, but I am
convinced it will never restore me that tranquil happiness, that innate peace,
which was once mine.”
The earl read the despondency of Oscar’s thoughts in his countenance,
and he proposed a visit to don Emanuel’s, but Oscar excused himself¾his mind was not disposed to bear the sentimental conversation of
Ismena, or the badinage of the playful Isabella¾he wished to enjoy, in solitude, the luxury of
grief, to indulge in visions of the past, and sigh over departed happiness.
After many days of tedious suspense, letters arrived from the reverend
Mr. Dacres, describing a fruitless journey to Paris, and several other places
in France, celebrated by tourists and pleasure-hunters. Mr. Dacres had not
obtained the least account of Cecilia, and concluded his letter with observing,
if she was in France, he must have heard of her; but that he was now positively
convinced that sir Cyril Musgrove had concealed her somewhere in England.
The letter of Mr. Dacres gave the earl a transient pleasure¾“I am now satisfied,” said he, “that Cecilia is innocent; the newspaper
paragraphs, that so confidently spoke of her being at Paris with sir Cyril
Musgrove, are proved to be scandals invented by some secret enemy.”
“And that enemy,” replied Oscar, his lips quivering, and his whole
frame agitated, “that enemy is my mother; knowing my attachment, she has, by an
artful scheme, decoyed the lovely girl from her friends, to prevent my contracting
a marriage which did not accord with her ambitious views¾she has barbarously invented scandals to destroy Cecilia’s reputation,
and prevent her return to the world. Yes, I am now fully convinced that the
woman I blush to call my mother, holds the dear suffering angelic girl in
confinement.”
The earl acknowledged there was probability in the idea, but was at a
loss to trace her route, and saw no possible means of ascertaining the fact, or
liberating Cecilia.
“She is your daughter, my lord,” returned Oscar, “and woe for me, she
is my sister; humanity and duty call upon us to do our utmost to restore her to
fame and happiness. I remember, before I left London, Mr. Drawley told me that
he had been informed by a friend of major Norman’s, that he had carried the
wretched partner of his guilt to Naples; suffer me to go¾I am persuaded I shall find Cecilia.”
“We will both go,” replied the earl; but as yet he was unable to
undertake the fatigue of travelling; yet that no time might be lost, and to
satisfy the impatient Oscar, he wrote to some persons high in rank and power at
Naples, who would, he was certain, make every inquiry, and give him speedy
intelligence.
Much as the mind and feelings of Oscar were at variance with
amusements, he was constrained to join the unthinking throng, who make pleasure
the business of their lives. A grand entertainment, given by the cardinal
patriarch, had assembled all the youth and beauty of Naples at his palace,
where various amusements were displayed, to enchant the senses, and call forth
the graces and accomplishments of the company. The earl of Torrington had
accepted the patriarch’s invitation for himself and son. In magnificent costume
they presented themselves at the palace, but to the woe-distempered Oscar,
Pleasure offered her glittering bowl and waved her enchanted wand in vain; he
saw not the glance of love shot from the dark melting eye of beauty, or the
smile that dimpled round the rich coral lip of youthful gaiety; in a palace,
decorated with a magnificence that spoke the wealth of the owner, surrounded by
the fairest maids of Portugal, each eager to attract his notice, Oscar thought
only of Cecilia; her image possessing his imagination, he was insensible to
their attractions¾his ears closed against the melody breathed
from a full band of various instruments, and Cecilia confined, aspersed, and
suffering, possessed his mind.
Perceiving the company about to form the dance, he moved to the lower
end of the hall, where folding doors opened on a spacious lawn, intersected by
groves of lemon and orange, which were now shedding their fragrant blossoms,
white as snow, on the short smooth turf; the yellow moon sailed majestic over a
deep blue sky, studded with innumerable glittering stars, and a soft breeze
wafted the odour of the flowers on the throbbing temples of Oscar.
As he left the giddy, laughter-loving throng, incapable of joining in
their mirth, or taking a part in the dance, the grove through which he
unconsciously wandered led to the rocks that overlooked the harbour; here all
was lonely and silent, for no sound met the ear, save the murmur of the waves,
as they stole in gentle undulations along the beach; the night was calm, and
the white sails lying at anchor, reposed in the moonbeams. An angle in the road
presented a little romantic spot, shadowed by a tall fantastic rock, which
forcibly reminded the unhappy Oscar of that beneath whose beetling front he
used to wait for Mrs. Doricourt’s yacht, to waft him to love and Cecilia.
A thousand tender and painful recollections swelled the heart of Oscar;
he drew from his bosom her ring, which he wore attached to a ribbon, and
pressing it to his lips, exclaimed, in tones of anguish¾“Lost! lost to me for ever!”
Stretched on the turf beneath the rock, for some time he watched the
beautiful fire-flies, floating like living diamonds in the air, and listened to
the rippling of the waves.¾“Were Cecilia here,” said he, with a heavy
sigh, “how her taste would be gratified with this scene¾those groves of orange and lemon, breathing fragrance on the air¾those distant spires glittering in
‘The silver light, that, hallowing tree and
tower,
Sheds beauty and deep softness o’er the
whole.’
“These would call forth her admiration, they
would afford subjects for her pencil; but to me they offer no charm, for the
misery of my soul darkens every object, and renders me alike incapable of
feeling, or delineating the beauties of nature; yet here all is tranquil¾all is lovely; no sound of sorrow¾no groans of anguish are heard, save those that
burst from my bosom. Cecilia, beloved of my soul, in such nights as these we
have wandered in the hallowed groves of St. Herbert’s Island¾we have gazed upon the stars¾we have watched the brilliant course of the
moon, and together adored the great Creator. We have spoke of our future
prospects, and laid down plans of felicity that now are destroyed. Alas! yes,
all our hours of bliss are vanished; we are separated, my adored, and all that
remains for the miserable Oscar, is the remembrance, that his prospects were
once bright and joyous, and the sad certainty that they are darkened for ever;
yet surely I may gaze upon thy beauty¾I may press thy hand¾I may claim a brother’s right. A brother’s! no,
no; the claim will not be admitted, for I am illegitimate¾my birth stamped with disgrace¾myself an impostor, set up as the earl of
Torrington’s heir, then branded with infamy, and stripped of my mock honours.
Cecilia, we must meet no more¾another shall call thee his¾another shall enjoy thy smiles¾shall possess the affection that once was mine;
while I, forsaken, despised¾madness would then be happiness; but where,
Cecilia, where, my sister, art thou confined? The honours and wealth that once
glittered round thy betrothed Oscar are now thine, and the selected of thy
heart is debased, degraded; Oscar, the base-born son of thy father, is become
the scoff of fools, the scorn of pride, and, oh, affliction harder to be borne
than all the rest! thy love, that formed the joy of my existence, must no more
be indulged¾Cecilia, to whom my heart clung with all the
fervour of affection, is, alas! my sister.”
Starting wildly from his stony couch, with eyes bent on the earth,
Oscar hurried forward; the past, the present, and the future, occupied his
burning brain, and, heedless of the path he had taken, or the distance at which
he was leaving Lisbon, he paused not till he had gained the centre of a forest;
fatigue now restored him to recollection, he gazed round him as if newly
awakened from a dream; on every side he was surrounded with thick woven trees,
and various paths, intersecting each other, presented themselves in every
direction; to retrace his way appeared impossible, as he had not remarked a
single object that might assist his recollection to regain the road to Lisbon.¾“I can die here,” sad Oscar, sinking to the earth; “my erring father
will regret me, but the disgrace of my birth will be buried with me, and all
uneasiness on my account will be forgotten in my grave; and when the gentle
Cecilia learns the fate of him she once loved, she will embalm my memory with
her tears; but joy shall revive in the bosom of Cecilia, when the turf covers
the remains of the miserable heart-broken Oscar.”
A chilling torpor stole on the senses of the unhappy youth, as, unable
to support himself, his head sunk on the root of a wide-spreading chestnut.
The earl of Torrington left the patriarch’s palace at an early hour,
and retired to rest, as was his custom, pleased with the supposition that his
son had been prevailed upon to join the dancers in the ball-room; but when
morning came, and he learned from his attendants that he had not yet returned
home, a thousand apprehensions seized his imagination: inquiries were made at
every place where the earl visited, but without gaining any intelligence. Many
of their friends had seen lord Rushdale at the patriarch’s palace in the early
part of the evening, but none afterwards.
The day past, and no tidings arriving, the almost-frantic father
believed that the unhappy despairing Oscar had terminated his own existence.
The dreadful idea of suicide was too horrible for endurance, and too feeble,
from recent illness, to combat this shock, the earl of Torrington was again
confined to a sickbed, from which, in the bitterness of sorrow, he prayed that
he might never more arise. To his particular friend, the earl of Portland, then
resident at Lisbon, lord Torrington expressed, without reserve, his fear, that
the distracted Oscar had deprived himself of life; an idea which was fearfully
confirmed by his handkerchief being found on the projection of a rock that
overhung the sea.
Within the mansion of the earl of Torrington all was gloom, horror, and
grief, the domestics, his own valet excepted, believing that their young lord
had destroyed himself; but he persisted in the opinion that his master was too
pious and too good to commit such a wicked act, though he had troubles enough
to turn his brain.
The sun had just risen, and was darting his golden beams through the
thick tangled branches of the forest, when a young peasant, driving a mule
before him, which he was cursing in a language half English and half
Portuguese, arrived at the spot where Oscar lay extended, and to all appearance
dead. The richness of his habit convinced the peasant that he was a grandee;
and he stood for a moment, gaping and wondering how he came there without
attendants; the notion then struck him, that he had been robbed and murdered;
but the ornaments about his dress contradicted the idea of his having been
robbed, and soon a groan, and convulsive catchings of his limbs, convinced the
astonished peasant that he lived. Stooping down, he endeavoured to raise him
from the earth; but finding his strength inadequate to the task, he hastened
home to call assistance.
The peasant’s mother, an Englishwoman, and his father, a Portuguese,
hurried to the forest, and soon bore the insensible Oscar to a neat pleasant
cabin, on the sunny side of a mountain, where industry had raised a blooming
garden, and vineyard of the choicest grapes of Portugal.
Having prepared a clean though homely pallet, Suzette laid the burning
head of Oscar on a pillow, and hastened to brew for him a posset of herbs,
which she knew were efficacious in fevers; and that the stranger had a fever
was certain, from his parched lips and burning palms.
Lopez, her husband, was going to the convent, two leagues distant, to
fetch father Juan; but this humane intention Suzette strongly opposed,
declaring herself certain that the young gentleman would do well. The truth
was, Suzette hated monks, and father Juan in particular, for he had more than
once called her a heretic, and said she would never reach heaven, unless she
adjured her Protestant errors, and embraced the Catholic faith. Suzette
disliked father Juan’s doctrine, and, determined against fasting and
mortification, chose to go to heaven her own way, in spite of the fryings,
burnings, roastings, and broilings, with which he threatened her heresy.
Three days elapsed before the fever-posset of Suzette evinced its
virtues, by making Oscar sensible of his situation; and when he had regained
the power of reasoning, he was too weak to inquire how he came to the cabin, or
to direct the humane peasants to relieve the anxiety of his father with a
knowledge of his safety and existence.
Another day passed, and having taken a little goat’s milk, he inquired
how far he was from Lisbon? being answered, he asked if he could be supplied
with writing materials? There was nothing of the sort to be had nearer than the
Franciscan convent, two leagues distant.
Oscar recollected he had a pencil about him; tearing a leaf from his
pocketbook, he wrote a hasty assurance of his safety to his father. He then
folded the paper, and giving it to the son of Suzette, directed him to the
mansion of the earl of Torrington at Lisbon.
Suzette said it was many long years since she left England, but she
remembered to have heard of the earl of Torrington¾“You, sir,” continued she, “I suppose, are his son?”
Oscar replied in the affirmative.
“And lady Torrington,” resumed Suzette; “she was called a great beauty¾is she alive?”
“The countess of Torrington,” replied Oscar, “is dead;” thinking, at
that moment, of the lovely unfortunate Edith.
“Dead!” repeated Suzette; “why bless me! she was but young; but, to be
sure, death spares neither young nor old. Pray, young gentleman, had she any
children besides you?”
“Yes,” replied Oscar, “lady Torrington had a daughter.”
“A daughter!” said Suzette; “I am very glad she had not a son.”
“You are glad!” returned Oscar¾“why what difference, my good woman, could the
sex of lady Torrington’s children make to you?”
“None in the world,” said Suzette, quitting the cabin.
Oscar thought her inquiries strange; but she was an Englishwoman, and
any thing relative to a family she had known in her youth might be interesting.
With languid eyes, Oscar beheld the rays of the setting sun gild the
brow of the mountain, and tinge the western horizon with rich shades of purple
and crimson¾he heard the industrious peasants cheerfully
singing as they returned from the labours of the day.
A young girl, the daughter of a neighbouring peasant, entered the cabin
soon after sunset, and inquired for Lopez?
“He is gone to Lisbon,” replied Suzette, “and will not be back before
midnight.”
The young girl’s countenance was instantly clouded.¾“It was very odd,” replied she, “that he should go without telling me;
and very unlucky that he went this evening at all, for my father has at last
consented that Inis shall marry Pedro, and we thought to make merry on the
occasion, and have a moonlight dance in the lime grove; but no one hereabouts
can play the piquedilla except Lopez, so there is an end of our evening’s
merriment.”
“Happy peasants!” exclaimed Oscar, as Suzette and the young girl left
the cabin together, “happy Lopez! thou art beloved, and it is thy absence, not
the loss of a moonlight dance, that will spoil the evening’s merriment. How
blest should I have passed my life in this seclusion, had Cecilia shared my
cabin! but destiny has placed an insurmountable bar between us. With some more
fortunate youth she may experience the felicity of connubial love, but I shall
remain lonely and wretched during life, for never can another female interest
the heart that adores her with an unconquerable though hopeless passion.”
Oscar had expressed an intention of sitting up to wait the return of
Lopez from Lisbon; but weakness and fatigue opposing his wish, he was obliged
to seek repose on his humble pallet; weariness soon lulled his senses, and he
enjoyed a calm refreshing sleep, that lasted till morning.
On opening his eyes, he beheld, to his great astonishment, his friend
Drawley sitting beside his couch, watching his slumbers. The surprise and joy
of this unexpected meeting having given way to inquiries for his father, Oscar learned
that grief and terror on his account had occasioned a relapse, and that the
earl of Torrington was again confined to his chamber.¾“But the happy intelligence brought by the young peasant last night will
do more for the recovery of his health,” said Drawley, “than all the
prescriptions of his physicians; the earl, I am satisfied, will do well; and
all we have at present to think of is removing you to the Franciscan convent,
where you can be accommodated till you are able to return to Lisbon. You can be
carried by a relay of peasants, for no carriage can reach this mountainous
spot.”
“I am perfectly satisfied, and will remain here,” replied Oscar, “till
I am able to mount a mule. In this little cabin I have met kindness,
hospitality, and attention; and though my food is not luxurious, it is
wholesome, and my coarse pallet is clean and comfortable. Remember I am no
longer the heir of Torrington; and it is necessary that I should accommodate my
wants and my desires to my depressed fortunes.”
Mr. Drawley warmly remonstrated, but finding Oscar determined to remain
at the vineyard cabin, he ceased to urge his removal to the Franciscan convent.
Suzette, with matronly tenderness, assisted to bear the invalid to the
shelter of a mulberry-tree, where, with his friend Drawley, he partook of a
breakfast of milk, cakes, and fruit.
Drawley declared he had never ate so delicious a meal.¾“The tranquillity of this pleasant spot,” said he, “and the cheerful
contentment that seems to glow in the faces of these kind-hearted people, would
almost tempt one to resign pride, vanity, and pomp, and turn peasant.”
Suzette having removed the remains of the breakfast, Oscar expressed a
curiosity to know what had brought his friend to Lisbon?
“The duchess of Aberdeen’s health, being prescribed a change of
climate,” replied Drawley. “Lady Arabella, knowing how anxious I felt on your
account, kindly persuaded her mother to take a voyage to Lisbon.”
“Amiable, generous lady Arabella!” exclaimed Oscar; “her loveliness is
her least perfection.”
“Come, come, my friend,” returned Drawley, “be less ardent in your
praises, or I shall grow jealous. A young handsome man, recovering from
illness, is a very interesting object, and my wife¾”
“Your wife!” interrupted Oscar.
“Even so, my friend,” replied Drawley; “and I marvel much you did not
read married man in the gravity of my countenance. I have exchanged for the
white hand of Arabella all my whims, follies, and eccentricities, and solemnly
vowed to be her loving husband, till death shall us part.”
“I give you joy with all my soul,” said Oscar; “may you never
experience an abatement of your present felicity!”
“Thank you, thank you!” returned Drawley; “you will also have to give
lord Alwyn Bruce joy on a similar occasion, for he has taken Miss Sedgeley to
wife, in spite of all his sister could urge respecting their family being
royally descended, and the mortifying degradation of unequal alliances.”
“Miss Sedgeley’s amiable qualities,” said Oscar, “will soon reconcile
lady Jane Bruce to her want of rank.”
“Your lively little favourite, Jessy Graham,” continued Mr. Drawley,
“has persuaded sir Middleton Maxfield to put on matrimonial fetters.”
“And Miss Macdonald?” asked Oscar.
“Still studies Grecian attitudes and antique draperies,” replied
Drawley; “the marriage of lord Alwyn Bruce was a terrible disappointment; the Chronique Scandaleuse said she had
strangled herself in a fit of jealousy, with lord Alwyn’s military sash; but in
utter contradiction of this report, she officiated, a few days after, as one of
her cousin Jessy’s bridemaids, in costume à
la Euphrosyne, and is now trying all her graceful attitudes to win
the classical lord Belgrave. But, my good friend, you must prepare to receive a
visit from the new-married folks, for after my report of your convalescence,
you may depend that nothing will prevent their coming hither.”
“Are they at Lisbon?” asked Oscar.
“They are,” replied Drawley, “and impatient to see you.”
“They do me honour,” said Oscar, a faint blush colouring his pale cheek
as he recollected his illegitimacy.
“Honour—nonsense!” returned Drawley; “they will do themselves pleasure
and honour; and Arabella, who is so partial to the country, will be delighted
with this hilly region.”
“It is indeed a charming spot,” said Oscar; “and if happiness were to
be found on earth, one might expect to meet it in this place, where, remote
from the contagion of cities, and removed from temptation to vice¾”
“Hold there!” interrupted Drawley, pointing to a young girl at a
distance, who was laughing as she ran from the pursuit of a peasant¾“don’t speak of being removed from temptation, when these olive-coloured
beauties continually cross your path.”
“To me,” said Oscar, with a sigh, “they offer no temptation. You have
not mentioned Cecilia, and your silence assures me you have obtained no
information on that distressing subject.”
“The fate of Cecilia is still involved in mystery,” replied Mr.
Drawley; “I have heard nothing.”
A deeper shade of melancholy fell on the countenance of Oscar; and
Drawley, unwilling to encourage the regret and distress of his friend, began to
describe, in his own ludicrous way, the sickness of his companions, their
unfounded terrors, and all the incidents that had attended their voyage from
England, to the moment of their casting anchor at Lisbon.
END OF
VOL. IV.
Printed
by J. Darling, Leadenhall-street, London.