SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW;
OR, THE
FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTERS OF
A Patchwork Story.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT AND SHADE; EVERSFIELD ABBEY;
BANKS OF THE WYE; AUNT AND NIECE, &c. &c.
Artless and unadorn’d she pleas’d the more;
- - - -
The other dame seem’d e’en of fairer hue,
But bold her mien, unguarded mov’d her eye.
VOL. III.
MINERVA PRESS,
FOR A. K. NEWMAN AND CO.
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1812.
SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW.
CHAP. I.
Dear friend! so pleasant didst thou make those days,
That in my
heart, long as my heart shall beat,
Minutest
recollections still will live,
Still be the
source of joy. SOUTHEY.
AT the departure of
Henry, Mary returned to her usual occupations; it was by activity and
employment that she endeavoured to dissipate the uneasy thoughts which
oppressed her mind, but spite of herself they would recur; and she frequently
revolved over the probable consequences which would ensue to his union with
Lauretta Montgomery: her partial regard for Henry Elwyn did not blind her to
his faults; she saw—she knew them all—she saw that his senses were dazzled by
the brilliant display of Lauretta’s attractions, that the pride and the
ambition of his nature were both gratified in the knowledge of her partiality
for him; but when his imagination was sobered, and his enthusiasm was cooled,
would he find in her the domestic companion, calculated to sooth his
impetuosity of disposition, who would oppose gentleness to his irascibility,
who would oppose steadiness to his instability? in his serious and reflecting
moments, could he think that lady Lauretta Montgomery was fitted for educating
her daughter to fill the station of a virtuous matron? her romantic fervour of
expression, her effeminate and affected languor, were not these directly
opposite to that precedent which a mother ought to
set before her child? for was not the whole strain of her deportment and
conversation calculated to impress her with the highest notions of personal
attractions, while all the sober train of solid and substantial endowments were
forgotten? The behaviour, too, of lady Lauretta towards general Halifax (though
it might approach the very climax of Platonism and sentimentality) bordered
very closely, in the idea of the modest Mary, on all that was immoral and
indecorous; and her ladyship’s total neglect and disregard of the woman whose
guest she was, and at whose hands she was consequently receiving favours,
proved her lamentable failure in that feeling, and that benevolence, about
which she could talk so fluently and so figuratively.
“The shadow
of these amiable propensities may glide before her imagination,” thought Mary;
“but surely she knows nothing of their substance; had
she one spark of true benevolence, she would minister to the misfortune of Mrs.
Halifax, she would attentively try to alleviate it, and not ungenerously take
advantage of it, by engrossing the whole attention of her husband; and is Elwyn
blind to all this? his perception, his
discernment, are usually not defective; is it possible that he cannot see it?
or is it possible that I see it through a prejudiced medium?” and then would
she take herself to task, and try to discover, whether to malice, envy, or
uncharitableness, she could impute her opinions on this subject; and rigid as
Mary was ever inclined to be in judging herself (except that her partiality for
Henry Elwyn, and her warm interest for his happiness, might incline her to see
things in a stronger light than others, if they bore a reference to him), she
could here stand acquitted to her own heart—a heart which, though tenderly
attached to the object of its ruminations, would have throbbed with pleasure at
witnessing his happiness, even with Lauretta
Montgomery, could she have imagined that Lauretta Montgomery could have
promoted it.
Mary felt herself in a very awkward
predicament; to advise with Henry would have been at once her pleasure and her
wish; but she had seen, with the most painful emotions of wounded delicacy and
humbled pride (we mean that pride of
modesty which is a “pearl of prize in beauty’s crown”), that he had taken up the idea which had gone abroad (and which
Mrs. Elwyn had foolishly strengthened by her coarse
cautions and obvious inuendoes),
of her attachment to himself.—“Ah!” cried Mary, and the crimson dyed her face
at the moment when she sighed out the words—“Ah! why is a pure and
disinterested attachment so incomprehensible? why is it so uncommon? it is,”
said she, after a pause, and answering herself, “it is because selfishness is a
leading trait of the human character; it is that the gratification of every
whim, of every caprice, is attended to, while the subjugation of self is
entirely forgotten; and yet, as my dear Mrs. Elwyn used to ask me, is there any
thing more seriously, more strongly enforced in that rule of life, which ought
to be the Christian’s study?”
The foolish and teazing repetitions
of Mrs. Elwyn, and the heavy and inert stupidity of her husband, were both
sustained with patient and exemplary sweetness by Mary; when she found a
sensation of irritability rise in her mind as she viewed the uniformity of the
patches, and as she heard the same remark a fiftieth time repeated in a
morning, she remembered that God had thought fit to place her in that
situation; that she had been rescued probably from a life of penury and guilt
by her lamented protectress; and while she ministered to the imbecility of Mr.
Elwyn, and endeavoured to infuse some portion of animation into his sunk and
dormant mind, she felt a soothing, a gratifying reward in the reflection, that
by such conduct she was evincing her grateful remembrance of the maternal
affection with which she had been regarded by his wife; for that such conduct
would have been sure to have gained her approbation and her favour (had she
been permitted to witness it), did not admit a doubt.
So passed the first week of Henry’s
absence, unvaried by incident, unenlivened by conversation; the monotony of the
Hall was unbroken; when one day Mrs. Elwyn said—“Suppose now, as you have no
objection to a walk, Miss Mary, that you were to go over to Salcombe Lodge this
afternoon, just to make my inquiries and compliments (in a polite, genteel way
you see) after Mrs. Halifax; she would take it kind—very so indeed; I would
order the coach myself, and go along with you, but only I want to finish these
here corner patches, for when these are done, the worst part of it will be
over—you like a walk, I know—a walk is very healthy for young people—when I was
your age, I frisked, and jumped, and bounced about—didn’t I, Mr. Elwyn—didn’t
I, sir? and the cherry net, you know, my dear—don’t you mind how I caught
somebody in the cherry net?—Mr. Elwyn, my dear, I say, don’t you remember how I
caught you in my net?—Mr. Elwyn, don’t you hear me? pray, sir, don’t you
remember when I caught you in the net? do speak, sir!” getting up from her
seat, and giving him a shake by the shoulder.
“Yes, yes,” said Elwyn, half
sighing, and pouring out a glass of wine, “yes, yes, I was taken in the toils.”
“Oh! I thought nothing any toil
then; I was as brisk as a bee, and as gay as a lark, and such a colour in my
cheeks, they were as red as a carnation—didn’t you use to admire my colour, my
dear Mr. Elwyn?—sir— I ask you, hadn’t I a sweet colour—wasn’t I a beautiful
creature?—speak now, Mr. Elwyn;” and again she shook him by the shoulder; “now
wasn’t I very pretty when you fell in love with me?”
“Yes, yes, Ellen, very true.”
Satisfied with having drawn this
acknowledgment from her sleepy partner, Mrs. Elwyn, after a little more detail,
a little more circumlocution, and a little more animadversion, on her
extraordinary youthful beauty, dispatched Mary to inquire after the health of
Mrs. Halifax. Mary was not displeased at the embassy; she liked Miss Letsom
very much, and had some hopes of finding her disengaged, as she guessed that
ere she could reach the Lodge, Mrs. Halifax would have resigned herself to the
influence of her afternoon’s nap; so making all possible speed, and crossing
the fields by a much nearer way than the road, she soon arrived.
CHAP. II.
Were, like a
tyrant’s slumber, sullen looks,
Eyes turn’d
on me, and whispers meant to meet
My ear. SOUTHEY.
IT was just as Mary
had expected—Miss Letsom received her alone, and with smiles—“I am particularly
glad to see you at this time,” said she; “for now I am enjoying the only hour
which I can call my own.”
“Yours must be an irksome life,”
said Mary.
“I don’t know that I ought to call
it so,” replied Miss Letsom; “my avocations and occupations here are so
perfectly independent of mind, and my body is so frequently mechanically engaged, that I can often amuse myself with
reflections on a variety of subjects, which are wholly irrelevant to my
employment; this, I believe, may be in some respects a bad habit; I rather
think it gives me an abstracted air, and makes me appear ‘distrait’
and embarrassed, when I would wish to be otherwise; but I thought I took it up
from a good motive (at least I hope it was not a culpable one); it was to
secure my peace of mind.”
“It was
a good one, most assuredly,” said Mary; “and I earnestly hope that it has
succeeded.”
“It has, in part,” returned she;
“the story of my situation, I will not call it of my life,
is very short; perhaps I shall be trespassing upon your good nature if I were
to relate it to you?”
“Not in the least,” answered Mary,
with warmth; “I shall rejoice if you will give it to me—I shall consider it as
a proof of your friendship.”
“You shall have a proof both of my
friendship and of my confidence,” said Miss Letsom; then looking cautiously
round the room, as if to be sure that no other ear could profit by the
communication, she said—“I will confide to you the secret
of my birth—I am the niece
of Mrs. Halifax.”
“Her niece! is it possible?” asked
Mary, starting with surprise.
“Yes, it is possible,” answered Miss
Letsom, smiling; “it is more than possible, for it is the fact: my grandfather
was a clergyman, who died unbeneficed and insolvent, leaving a widow and two
girls behind him: my mother staid with her remaining sorrowing parent, while
her sister joyfully accepted an offer that was made her of accompanying a
family who were going to India, and left her relatives and her country, to
tempt untried friends on untried shores: at the age of seventeen, the defects
of her shape were scarcely visible; and, with the ruddy hue of health on her
countenance, immediately on her landing, she attracted the notice of an old and
wealthy nabob; this speculation she thought a good one, and her friends heard
from her no more: meantime my mother attentively administered to the wants of a
declining and broken-hearted parent; not eminent for beauty, and without the
recommendation of money, she had lived to the age of twenty, without attracting
the particular regard of the other sex, when death taking from her her only
friend and solace, she found herself thrown upon the world, a distressed and
isolated orphan: my grandmother’s maintenance had been derived from an annuity
which had ceased with her life; thus the prospect of extreme indigence was
added to the other sources of regret which filled my mother’s bosom: it was at
this juncture that a gentleman of the name of Letsom came to reside in our
native village, which was situated on the extreme verge of Cumberland; amongst
the wild and picturesque scenery of this country, Mr. Letsom delighted to roam;
he was a half-pay officer, and passed the meridian of life, a widower of broken
heart and broken fortunes, the illegitimate son of a nobleman, who, giving him
a commission in the army, thought he had made for him a sufficient provision;
and, strange as it may appear, the knowledge of his origin was at once the
source of pride and shame to my father; he did not like to associate with those
above him; he felt a haughty contempt for those beneath him; and he shunned all
society, because his tone and look of superiority naturally drew invidious
inquiries, and mortification and humiliation were sure to succeed; frequently
in his solitary rambles he encountered my mother; the deep mourning which she
wore, and the look of sadness which was seated on her pallid countenance, at
length raised his curiosity; he heard the history of her misfortunes; he introduced
himself to her; they met, and walked together; and while the streaming eyes of
the one pourtrayed all a parent’s sufferings and all a parent’s love, the
agitated voice of the other was heard lamenting his broken prospects, his
father’s cruelty, and his widowed love! like Desdemona, my mother pitied, and,
like Othello, my father loved her that she pitied him—they were married; and
the most exemplary of daughters became the wife, the nurse, and even the
domestic of her husband! grateful to him for an asylum, neither fastidious with
respect to the nature of her employments, nor chary in engaging in them, my
mother took the whole business of their little cottage on herself; and always
remembering that her husband’s origin was superior to her own, although his
birth had happened under disgraceful circumstances, she duly and daily
administered to his wants, to his comforts, and even to his caprices, not
grudging the most unwearied pains of the most indefatigable attention, but on
the contrary, taking a pride and a pleasure in doing every thing for him, and
seeing him enjoy that leisure which she called his ‘inheritance;’ indeed it
might be called his only one; idleness to him who have been used to the active
bustle of a soldier’s life, solitude to him who had been accustomed to nurse
the feelings of discontent, and contracted circumstances to him who had high
and lavish notions, these all contributed to embitter the temper, and to sour
the spirit of my father. My mother did not know what she had undertaken when she
became his wife, but most nobly did she sustain her part—the querulous
complainings of her husband were heard with meek forbearance, his peevish
murmurings with patient fortitude, his whimsical caprices were passed over; and
she taught me, by the influence of her example, in some measure to emulate her
virtues.—I was a child of quick comprehension, and of active intellect; my
father fancied me a prodigy, and declared that he would himself become my
instructor; my mother was pleased with this plan; she thought that it would
interest his mind, and she said, that ‘if Mr. Letsom would condescend so much, she made no doubt but
that her Maria’s progress would keep pace with his wishes.’ Irregular in his
instruction, sometimes imposing tasks upon me which were impossible for me to
learn, at others letting me remain unoccupied for days together; now chiding me
with severity, now indulging me with dangerous fondness; not thoroughly
grounding me in my studies, nor pursuing any systematic plan—my father soon
found that he had imposed on himself a task which he was unequal to; but
finding that my youthful imagination was early taken captive by the witcheries
of poetry and the charms of eloquence, and being himself an enthusiastic
admirer of the fine flights of genius, he pronounced me one already in embryo,
and always argued, that ‘I should one day make a figure:’ my dear mother
thought that Mr. Letsom must know best,
and she dared not breathe a word that seemed to militate against his allowed
superiority of judgment; but she sedulously tried to impress upon my youthful
mind the dangers which are ever attendant on a too sanguine disposition, and
the benefits derivable from genuine humility. I listened to my father, but I
listened to my mother also; and while I caught some of the ideas, and much of
the irritability of the former, I hope I derived some benefit from the mild
virtues and the wholesome counsels of the latter. Blind and insensate must I
have been, a being without feeling, and without soul, could I have witnessed
the cheerful assiduity with which she attended my father in his last long
illness, and not have felt an emulative spark glowing in my breast; incessantly
did she attend to his complainings, unremittingly did she administer to his
necessities, sweetly did she sooth his pains, and patiently did she endure his
chidings—he died! the being, who had been the impulse of my mother’s existence,
who had been her sole care, who had engrossed her whole time for the last
twenty years, was now no more! she felt a vacuum, which her child could not
supply. By my duteous attentions, I tried to reconcile her to her loss; but it
had been the whole business of her life to bestow, not to receive attentions; my cares, my anxious solicitudes,
reminded her of the grateful satisfaction which she had felt in similar duties;
life was a blank; the whole creation a dreary “boundless waste;” like a nurse
pining after a petted child, she drooped, she sank, and in twelve months she
followed her husband to the tomb—a rare instance of that faithfulness, that
devotedness in woman, which will sometimes flourish in the most ungenial soil.
“Behold me then, my dear Miss Ellis,
like my hapless mother, thrown desolate and friendless on the world, and at
nearly the same age, for I had just passed my twentieth birthday. I had high
and somewhat singular notions of independence, which I inherited from my
father; from him, likewise, very sensitive feelings, and much warmth of temper;
timidity, activity of spirit, and some small stock of patience, descended to me
from my other parent; without indulging those extravagant ideas of my genius,
which my father had frequently sounded in my ears, I fancied that I could
manage to support myself decently and honourably by my pen; I had a taste for
the rudely-sublime scenery which I saw around me, and descriptive poetry, if
drawn from nature, and with the pencil of truth, must, I thought, come home to
the tastes and the feelings of all readers; but without interest, without a name, without a recommendation, I soon found that it was an
Herculean labour to get a bookseller to read my poem, so I was forced to lock
it up, with all its beauties, and set myself,
with renewed courage and renewed perseverance, to the fabrication of a novel.
Productions of this kind were, I knew, in general request; every body read
them, therefore I should be sure of a purchaser. I have naturally a little turn
for satire—ah! Miss Ellis, you look doubtingly; but believe me, it has been no
easy matter to mould these tell-tale features into one unvaried sameness of
expression, to teach this tongue one uniform and passive tale. I had seen
little of the world certainly, but I had been an observer of the general
manners, sentiments, and opinions of those persons with whom I had occasionally
mixed and conversed: though I had resided in a remote part of England, yet the
universal taste for the romantic beauties of nature (or the universal profession of such a taste) had drawn numerous individuals
to our neighbourhood, who had afforded me an opportunity of studying the human
character; and the romantic and eccentric manners of some, the air of mystery
and concealment which had been worn by others, the follies of fashion, as
exhibited in these remote wilds, and contrasted to the rude simplicity and
almost savage boorishness of the native peasantry, all these afforded scope to
one who had any talent for description, and who should be equal to the task; so
I thought, and I essayed the trial; I did not attempt at fine flights or bold
invention; my portraits were from nature alone; and as there were no terrific
images, no improbable adventures, no northern galleries, no ‘peopled palaces,’
no dying sounds of nightly music, nor clanking chains at the dead hour of
midnight, I had very little chance of success
with one class of readers, namely, the devourers of ghosts
and goblins; while those who were fond of
the highly-wrought, glowing colouring pictures of the imagination
and the heart, were equally disappointed: my
book was thrown by with apathy and disgust, and doomed to eternal oblivion—not
so the poor authoress; my occupation had been suspected, and suspicions were
soon substantiated into facts; and from that moment I was stared at, as though
I had not belonged or appertained to the human species. If
I know my own heart, not a feeling had actuated it in the prosecution of my
labours, which could have militated against that great law of the Christian’s
code, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you;’ neither malice,
rancour, or envy, had ever guided my pen; but it was impossible to convince the
world of this; every character in my book had the name of some person in the
neighbourhood affixed to it; and though the characters and names were changed
about by every reader, according to his or her fancy (and
as frequently as the cameleon varies its hue), yet each was sure to make an individual application, though each might be different. If I
happened to come into company, a general screw up of the person, a general
whisper of ‘here comes the authoress!’ set the whole room in commotion, and a
strict examination of my whole form, of every feature in my countenance, and of
every article in my dress, was my invariable reception; if I was silent, I was
supposed to be lying in wait to hear some eccentric remark, or to discover some
odd turn of character, in order to note it in my book; if I was chatty, ‘there was no bearing me, I was
got so insufferably conceited and opinionated since I had commenced authoress;’
though Heaven knew there was nothing to boast of, either in the merit of the work,
or in the rapidity of the sale, to make me so;
then it was found out that ‘I had always been singular and odd, and been
suspected of having a little twist about me;’ and by general consent, I seemed
to be shunned and avoided, as a person with whom it was dangerous to associate.
“I had no objection to solitude or
to retirement; but to be utterly excluded from all social converse, to be
shunned as a criminal, and to be dreaded as a censor, when I was free from
guilt as from malice, and when I had only exerted my humble abilities with the
hope of earning a decent and an honest maintenance—all these cut me to the
quick; all my prospects seemed blighted in the bud; my energies were stagnated,
my spirits drooped, my feelings had received a sore wound, all my
self-confidence was lost, and I resigned myself, inert and desponding, to the
most gloomy and painful reflections.
It was at this period that I
received a message from a lady (who was just come for the second summer to
inhabit a marine cottage which bordered one of our lakes,) desiring me to come
to her; I had seen and frequently remarked this lady the preceding summer, but
knew nothing of her, and had never been in her company; she had a bold, dashing
air, and a handsome countenance; she was about the meridian of life, and was
generally spoken of as a fashionable woman: ‘Who knows,’ thought I, and again
the glow of hope lighted in my cheek, ‘who knows, this lady may discern some
merit in my productions, though others cannot; and if I should be so fortunate
as to gain her patronage, I may still be able to bear myself up against the
malicious shafts of ill-nature and detraction.’
“Lady Sawbridge was seated on a
sofa; a book, which was turned down, lay on the table before her—‘Miss Letsom,
my lady,’ said the footman, who ushered me in.—‘I have sent for you, child,’
said her ladyship, ‘to return you my thanks, for the amiable
portrait which you have taken of me in this unique
production; the likeness is a
very striking one certainly; but, may I beg to know, if it be not an impervious secret, by what means you became so accurately acquainted with my birth, parentage and
education, and the most minute incidents of my life?’ I was at a loss to
comprehend her meaning, till she put a volume of my own novel into my hand, and
I saw it opened to the character of a lady, who, to say the truth, was not
drawn as the most amiable being in creation. Utterly confounded, I was at first
at a loss for a reply, but the dark and bold eyes of lady Sawbridge were fixed
upon my agitated countenance, and recollecting that my silence would be
interpreted into an indirect acknowledgement of the intention with which she
had charged me, with all the spirit I could muster, I answered, ‘I will not affect to misunderstand your ladyship, neither
will I deny that I am the author of the trifling work which you have put into
my hands; the errors of the head will be
excused by a candid and liberal reader; for other errors,
there can, there ought to be no excuse, and if I were guilty of them, I should
stand condemned at this moment: may I ask, without being accused of presumption
or assurance, how your ladyship came to imagine, that in pourtraying this lady,
I meant to depict you?’—‘Oh! it is very obvious, child, to the whole world,’
answered lady Sawbridge, with affected carelessness; ‘but, thank God, it cannot
injure me.’—‘I thank God,’ answered I with
fervour, ‘that I know it cannot—how is it possible
that such an idea could have gone abroad? it is too ridiculous to be thought of
seriously for one moment: at the time I wrote the pages which have excited your
ladyship’s attention, I had never heard your name, neither did I know that you
were in existence.’—‘Miss Letsom,’ interrupted she, ‘you would try to persuade
me out of my seven senses—is not this me? have you not taken me off here? is
not this me whom you allude to, as ‘mixing with the gay world, and entering
with avidity into all its dissipations?’ is not sir James Sawbridge represented
here as a ‘tame and easy husband?’ and have you not talked in terms, that
cannot be misunderstood, of my little arrangement with lord——that is, have you
not pointed out a particular character in your
marquis of Borrowdale? ’—‘Believe me, lady Sawbridge,’ answered I, ‘when I
aver, on the word of a woman of veracity and of principle, that I am quite
ignorant what nobleman you allude to’—‘Oh! nonsense, nonsense, child, talk to
those who know no better—look here,’ snatching the book out of my hand, and
hastily turning over the pages, and then reading with much emphatic
earnestness, ‘Borrowdale was handsome, insinuating, and well bred—a dangerous
guest;’ and here again, ‘skilled in the arts of flattery, and elegant in his
conversation; what a contrast did this young nobleman afford to his plain and unpolished
host!’ can any thing be more striking?’—‘Till now,’ answered I, with some
spirit, ‘it has failed to strike me; but
your ladyship has taught me to consider that it does
bear some resemblance to the private history with which you are making me acquainted.’—‘I
am surprised at your insolence,’ cried she, reddening, rising from her sofa,
and pulling the bell, ‘yes, Miss, I am surprised at your impertinent and bold
denial of your designs, when, as if to make it legible to the capacity of a
chambermaid, you have even depicted the colour of my cap—the very cap which I
wore the first time I made my entrance at the marine cottage—the cap which I
invented—which I brought into fashion—every domestic in my house could swear to
me.’
“Roused to a retort at seeing the
fury of her countenance, and at hearing the insolence of her expressions, I
answered, with tolerable nonchalance, ‘Your ladyship must excuse me, but till
this moment I had no idea that the cap fitted you.’—‘Show this young woman the
door,’ cried she, almost foaming with passion. I made a slight curtsey, and
quitted the marine cottage, mortified that the hopes with which I had entered
were destroyed, but my conscience entirely at ease with respect to her
ladyship’s accusations—and yet, my dear Miss Ellis, the idea of being thought
capable of such a design was not calculated to give much ease to my irritable
nerves; often did I forswear the beggarly trade of authorship, and as often
recur to it again, when I recollected that any thing was preferable to eating
the bread of dependence—servitude, I then thought I should have preferred,
servitude in a menial capacity, to the life which I now led: but if I do not
tire you, I will conclude my little narrative; it is not often that I have an
opportunity of talking so long, and you find I am determined to make use of
it.”
“Believe me,” replied Mary, “when I
tell you that I am much interested in your relation.”
“You are very good,” said Miss
Letsom, pressing her hand, “if I did not think you were, you would not find me
so communicative.”
CHAP. III.
I learnt to
bound my wishes here. SOUTHEY.
“ONE day,” said Miss
Letsom, continuing her story, “I was called from my sad ruminations to a lady,
who was waiting in my little parlour to see me; on my entrance I saw a
stranger, plain in her person, and showy in her attire; her manners were
affected, and her whole air displayed much conceit and self-consequence; taking
my hand at my entrance, and lisping at every word she spoke, she said, ‘Amable geel! sweet child of genius and of talent, accept my
thanks!’ and she put a bank-note into my hands; I looked at it with surprise,
and felt even more confused than when lady Sawbridge put my own book there; but
I said, returning it again, ‘There must be some mistake, madam—you will excuse
me—you cannot be indebted to me—I am wholly a stranger to your person.’—‘Oh no!
no indeed, my dee geel, you are not—sooly you forget—look, look at me again—now
don’t you recognise your own Zulima? my dee geel, I am Miss Marlow, I am the very creature whom you pourtrayed
as the heroine of your last tale—every incident of it the very same as my own
life—the birth—the beauty—the graces—the virtues—you have flattered me a
little, sweet geel—a little—little bit—and the denouement too,
for,’ whispering in my ear, with affected modesty, ‘Clarford has not declared
himself yet.’
“I began to think my visitor
deranged; for, could I look at the being before me, and believe that, in her
sober senses, she could fancy herself the heroine of a novel, an heroine whom I
had certainly depicted as all that was lovely, and worthy of being beloved in
woman? ‘My dear madam,’ said I, ‘my Zulima was entirely an imaginary
character—I had not the least idea
that——’—‘Don’t say
another word, my dee geel,’ said she, ‘don’t say a
word about it—take this little bit of paper, and I will send you the fellow to
it, when Clarford has declared himself; and you shall write two more
volumes—yes, two more volumes, and entitle them, ‘Zulima in her married State!’
Of course I was inclined to laugh, when this vain and eccentric being left me;
I recollected the fable of ‘The Painter, who pleased every body, and who
pleased nobody;’ but I could not make up my mind so as to pocket the douceur of
Miss Marlow; I felt that I had not deserved it from her, as she was the very
last woman whom I should have singled out for my heroine, though I feared that
if I were to copy from what I saw, I might be in danger of drawing affectation
and Miss Marlow in the same page, when I attempted a new work: with a civil
note, in which I acknowledged my grateful sense of her intended favour, I
returned her present. The spirit of independence was still ardent in my bosom,
and I preferred earning a scanty maintenance by my own exertions, to accepting
favours from those whom I could not respect.
“I was one morning taking a solitary
ramble, when I was accosted by a third lady, of a quite different appearance
from the other two, and one who bore the character of an amiable and worthy
woman; she had resided some years in the neighbourhood, and frequent instances
of her benevolence and kind-heartedness had fallen under my own observation;
she approached me with an air of civility, and an aspect of kindness—‘Miss
Letsom,’ said she, ‘I have lately been much amused with reading a publication
of yours.’ I felt embarrassed, and my blushes proclaimed the detected
authoress. ‘Do not be ashamed,’ said she, ‘of a work which does no discredit to
your abilities; I do not blame you for concealing your name; perhaps it may be
as well, all things considered; our acquaintances do not like to be lashed openly; plain truths
must not be spoken at all times, though it is impossible to view the ridiculous
follies of those with whom we mix, without giving them an oblique stroke—you
find it so, I dare say, my love?’ and she looked as if she expected me to
answer.—‘I do not comprehend your meaning, madam,’ answered I, gravely;
‘general folly and general turpitude call for the author’s lash, and this may
be done openly, and with honest courage; but to aim an oblique shaft, in order
to wound the breast of an acquaintance, is neither the part of the moralist or
the Christian.’—‘You take me too seriously,’ said Mrs. Bannister; ‘if we see
marking traits of folly and eccentricity in an individual, is it possible not
to make them the objects of our ridicule? believe me, those kind of productions
which mean ‘more than meet the ear,’ are far more likely to gain the tide of
popular favour than those humdrum and prosing periods which fail to interest or
to strike; real characters are sure to be snatched at with avidity; and if you
would gain a name, you must follow my hint.’ I
was silent: Mrs. Bannister’s sentiments were so wholly inimical to mine, so
wholly different to what I had expected of hers, that I stood mute with
astonishment—‘Now there is lady Sawbridge,’ continued she; ‘I declare I would
give you something handsome myself, as a stimulus, if you would produce a
pretty strong likeness of her in your next work; her shameless effrontery, her
bold and daring manner, and the high tone which she still assumes in all
places, and in all companies, notwithstanding her known infamy, deserve to be
taken off; do not spare, my dear Miss Letsom; get every anecdote you can
procure of her past life; insert them as a sort of episode to your main story;
it will lengthen it amazingly, it will give zest to the reader, and it will
afford a nice contrast to the character of your heroine, who, like all other
heroines, I conclude, will be a piece of perfection; but, whatever you do, pray
do not fail to make the likeness of lady Sawbridge apparent; make it plain to
every reader, I beseech you, and, lest it should not be sufficiently obvious,
call her lady S——. Do this, my dear girl, and I will promise you to take fifty
copies.’—‘If you were to take five hundred, madam,’ answered I, with emotion,
‘I would not be guilty of so base an action: to gratify the private pique of an
individual, shall I wickedly pry into the faults of a fellow-being, and hold
them up to the scorn and odium of the world? those faults are known only to her
own heart and to her God; may they be owned by her
with humble penitence! may they be heard by Him with mercy
and forgiveness!’ I turned away as I uttered these words; the passion of lady
Sawbridge, the vanity of Miss Marlow, were nothing—in my estimation they were
amiable characters, when compared to Mrs. Bannister; I could not look at her
again—what an insult she had offered me!—I felt her hand upon my shoulder ere I
had proceeded many paces—I heard her soft voice, as she said, ‘Stay one
moment;’ I looked back—her eyes were filled with tears; ‘forgive me, dear Miss
Letsom,’ cried she ‘forgive me the severe trial which I have inflicted on you,
and believe me, when I add, that these tears proceed from admiration of your
sentiments—yes,’ said she, ‘unqualified admiration! I will confess to you, that
my ardent wish to be of service to you was checked by my prejudice against the
generality of females of your turn; I knew that abilities of the kind which you
possess were in some hands most dangerous weapons; I was told that you exerted
yours alike on friend or foe, and that you were feared and shunned, instead of
being loved and sought; there was something, however, in the retiredness of
your manners, and the modesty of your appearance, which would not permit me to
give implicit credence to all I heard advanced on this subject, and I
determined to seek an opportunity of sounding and discovering your sentiments;
the event has been what I hoped and expected; and now behold me your sincere
friend, your zealous champion, and say what shall I do to serve you? ’—‘Ah,
madam! ’ cried I, overcome by her affecting address, ‘say, what,
indeed! In trying to be independent of the world, I have drawn down all its
odium on my defenceless head. Heaven knows that I never protruded myself as an
author, to gratify any feelings of ambition or of vanity; how lamentably should
I have suffered for my folly, had this been the case, for I have met with
nothing but contumely and mortification! From my father I inherited a high
spirit—a spirit which taught me to rely on my own exertions, rather than on the
favours of others. I acutely feel that the choice which my disposition pointed
out in the pursuit of independence, was a most unwise and unproductive one.
‘The post of honour is a private station,’ says the poet; how infinitely just
the remark, when applied to our sex! How my name was first discovered as an
authoress, is entirely unknown to me; but ever since have I been carped at,
contemned, scorned, and hunted down, as if I were indeed a social pest!
the world is weary of me, and I am weary of the world.’—‘Say not
so,’ cried Mrs. Bannister, taking my hand with the most endearing kindness;
‘pursue the track you have chalked out; be assured of the approbation of your
own heart.’—‘That is not enough for me,’ cried I,
with a melancholy shake of the head; ‘I must not be suspected
of such base, such culpable designs—I cannot bear to be the victim of malice—I
must seek some other method, free from reproach, from detraction, and from
slander, by which to get my bread.’—‘And where in this world of failing shall
such a place be found?’ asked Mrs. Bannister.—‘No matter,’ said I; ‘I must
essay the trial; I will unlearn all I have been learning, I will desert all in
which I have delighted, I will burn my papers, I will throw aside my pen, I
will divest myself of all relish for mental occupation, I will be as
mechanical, as methodical, as fairly metamorphosed in the whole tenour of my
life, as even my enemies could wish me.’
“Mrs. Bannister saw the bitter
asperity with which I spoke; she did not rebuke me, for she pitied the wounded
state of my feelings: she left me with a promise of trying to procure me some
situation, which might at once secure me from want, and from those malicious
censures, which I was too powerless to resist.
“Mrs. Bannister departed for London
in a few weeks after our conversation; she was not unmindful of my interests; a
friend of hers was introduced to Mrs. Halifax, on her return from India; the
nearly total deafness of this lady rendered it necessary for her to have a
companion, and, through the medium of Mrs. Bannister, I was applied to, to
undertake the office. Ah! Miss Ellis, my heart fluttered in my bosom; a feeling
of affinity, of relative affection, was its impulsive movement.
“A year or two previous to the
demise of my dear mother, she had accidentally been informed of her sister’s
second marriage with a gentleman of the name of Halifax; to have been an humble
dependent, a hanger-on to a stranger, would have severely wounded my pride and
mortified my spirit; but to contribute to the ease and happiness of my nearest
relative, there was something gratifying in the idea, and there was something
which soothed the romantic turn of my disposition, in keeping Mrs. Halifax in
ignorance of my claim to her notice; for I should perform that from a principle
of duty and singleness of heart, which she might otherwise have imputed to
interested or mercenary motives.
“Mrs. Bannister knew nothing of my
connexions; I believe she was rather surprised that I so readily acceded to
this proposal, and that, without an objection, I consented to accept the very
narrow stipend which Mrs. Halifax offered. Satisfied at having gained a
respectable asylum, and feeling a pleased consciousness at the idea of its
being my natural one, I determined that no difficulties, no unpleasantries,
should make me quit it.
“I found Mrs. Halifax more
ungracious, more captious, and more impatient, than I could have imagined she
would have been; but the knowledge of our relationship enabled me to bear with
her much better than I expected: the careless inattention, yet mock civility of
her husband, was a stimulus to me; I really felt for her infirmity; it called
for the forbearance and pity of every one; and while I steadily endeavoured to
fulfil all the duties of my station, I as steadily determined that neither by
word, by look, or action, would I betray that literary taste, which had once
been my bane, but which is now become my antidote—yes; now I find the flights of my imagination, and
my former pursuits, are a great resource to me, and fill up those parts of my
time which would otherwise be miserably vacant. When Mrs. Halifax is unusually
petulant and tiresome, I sit at her side, with my work in my hand, and while
thus notably engaged, I am, perhaps, planning
an heroic poem; and when some of her
high-bred guests have been treating me with marked rudeness, I have, perhaps,
been all the while engaged in arranging a little essay on true
politeness. But oh, my stars!” cried she, “how I have been prating! you will
not call it true politeness for me thus to have engrossed all the conversation,
and then to run away—but I hear Mrs. Halifax’s bell; and you
must be my excuse for her being obliged to have recourse to it; for she usually
expects to see me at her side when she awakes.” Mary rose to take her
leave—“Indeed,” said Miss Letsom, “I have behaved very shamefully—I wanted very
much to have talked to you upon another subject; but you see how it is—when we
begin to talk of ourselves, we know not where or
when to stop; at this time,” said she, “I have the only hour which I can call
my own—will you come again to-morrow? say you will—I hear the bell again—pray
say you will.”
“With pleasure,” answered Mary, as
she pressed the hand of her hastily-retreating friend. Miss Letsom’s story had
at once excited her pity, surprise, and admiration: it was the custom of Mary
Ellis to derive some profit to herself from most passing occurrences—“If I was
not born with the genius or the abilities of Miss Letsom,” thought she, “I have
been spared from its mortifications and its penalties; and if she can so cheerfully bear the querulous peevishness of Mrs.
Halifax, if she can patiently pursue one unvaried routine of mechanical
occupation, how happy ought I to think
myself—how much more pleasant is my situation—how grateful ought I to be to a
merciful Providence, who has shielded me from contempt and contumely!”
CHAP. IV.
The
mediatorial task. POLWHELE.
THE two succeeding
days Mr. Elwyn was much indisposed, and Mary Ellis would not leave him to keep
her engagement with Miss Letsom: on the third day, however, he appeared better,
and she again sallied forth towards Salcombe Lodge; but, ere she had proceeded
far, she was met by Mr. Munden—“Where are you going so fast?” asked he, “and
all alone too! plague take it, what are all the young men thinking of? in my
youthful days, it was not much the fashion to let a fair damsel take a solitary
walk—come now, tell me all about it; how is the old
squire, and where is the young one?”
Mary knew Mr. Munden, and was
accustomed to his abrupt manner; she answered, that “Mr. Elwyn was better, and
that Henry was gone on an excursion of pleasure with general Halifax and the
Montgomerys.”
“When, where?” cried Mr. Munden,
“pleasure indeed! may it turn out a pleasurable excursion, that’s all the harm
I wish him—come, come, walk on, and I’ll walk with you a bit. And so the old
deaf trumpet-woman is left at home? I tell you what it is, Mary Ellis, I was
fairly sickened of that whole party the last time I was there; and if they were
to stay in the country till Doomsday, I
believe I should never go near them again. How Harry Elwyn, who really does not
want for discernment on most subjects, how he can suffer
his fool’s noddle to be so worked upon by
those affected trumpery fandango women, is to me astonishing! There’s that
bombastic mock sentimental lady Lauretta calling out every minute; and then
again directly, ‘light of my eyes,’ and shade of my nose, and such cursed nonsensical jargon, it is enough to
sicken any body; and all of it is meant to draw the attention of the company
upon her affection, and her daughter’s beauty forsooth! not a breath do I believe of the one, for
all that; and as to the other, why you, my little homespun girl, have all the beauty of this Lauretta, without her d—d art and
affectation; she has tried all in her power to get away Harry Elwyn from you.”
“From me!” interposed Mary, in a
tone of surprise, and burning blushes dyed her cheeks; “indeed, Mr. Munden——”
“Well, and indeed, Miss Mary,” said
he, putting his hand before her mouth, “I don’t want you to interrupt me. If
this Lauretta succeeds, Elwyn will be bound to curse his stars, and may as well
hang or drown at once, if he marries that silly creature, and forsakes the girl
that seemed set apart for him, by circumstances, by education, and by the care
and affection of one, whose judgment he ought to have respected and followed.”
Mary looked down; she felt confused and affected; a tear moistened the eyelid
of Mr. Munden—he paused a moment—“Hang me,” said he, “if I can bear to go to
Elwyn Hall now; I pity poor Elwyn—he is a lost man—lost to censure—to shame—to
feeling—to respectability—but to see that fiddle-de-dee two-penny simpleton of
a woman sitting in the seat of Clara, and fancying too that she is equal to her
in dignity and importance! I don’t blame her; but
she is in a perfect fool’s paradise; but if I cannot bear to look at it, it is
my own fault if I go near them, that’s all—And this general Halifax—excellent
generalship, faith!—he leaves old madam at home, dozing in her easy-chair, and
off he marches, to take care of the favourite sultana. One would think he
thought the old woman was blind as well as deaf; but if Harry Elwyn makes the
daughter of lady Lauretta his wife—I say, Mary, if
he does,” and Mr. Munden struck his stick with much emphatic earnestness on the
ground, “if he does, he deserves every thing that
may happen to him.”
“The advice of a man of your
experience,” said Mary——
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried Munden,
interrupting her, “these hoity-toity young fellows will not hear any body or
any thing which shall oppose their own inclinations; they have a mighty high
opinion of their own judgment, and their own penetration; but as to reason or
argument, they must be entirely set aside; and, by and-by, when they are out of
their dream, they will rub their eyes, and staring blankly round them, cry out,
‘Dear me! who could have thought it? Lord, how I have been deceived!’ and who
will pity them then, I should like to know? they may ‘go to the d——l and shake
themselves,’ for aught that any body will care.”
“I remember somebody
who frequently used to chide you for using such improper expressions,” said
Mary.
“And I
remember somebody, whose chidings were attended to, my little saucy girl,”
answered he, “because her
practice was always in conformity with her precepts—ah, Mary, Mary! we shall
neither of us see her like again.” Tears now rolled down the cheeks of the
grateful protegée, and they proved her perfect
accordance with this sentiment. “I am an old hard-hearted coward,” said Munden,
snatching her hand, “thus to distress a female—and one that I love too—yes,
Mary! I love thee for the sake of poor Clara. God will bless you, I hope, my
dear child; but if Harry Elwyn forsakes thee, he deserves to be hanged; if he
forsakes thee for that jointed baby, he will have his punishment; but keep up
your spirits—keep up your
spirits—don’t let him triumph over your peace of mind—don’t let him see that
you mind it—don’t afford him that gratification, for God’s sake, don’t.”
“Believe me, sir,” answered Mary,
“there is no occasion for these cautions; I see the kindness of your motive, I
acknowledge it with gratitude; but indeed I have
never been so foolish or so vain as to
suppose that Mr. Henry Elwyn——”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Munden;
“I neither want to bring you to a confession or a denial; I dare say you are a
good girl enough, as times go, and better than most, or my poor friend Clara
would not have loved you; and I think Harry Elwyn would be better off with you
than with that silly doll—however, as he brews, so may he bake. Well, fare you
well—good-bye—I can’t go any further with you now; for though I have no
objection to a Seville orange, when my stomach
requires a strong bitter, yet I find no manner of
fun in bawling till my voice is hoarse, and my lungs are expended, to be
answered with a peevish ‘What? ’ or a flat ‘No.’ I should pity the old woman
from my soul though, and I might endeavour to make her hear what a complete
tool her husband makes of her, only that she seems quite unconcerned about it,
and eats, and drinks, and sleeps; hers is the conquest of matter
over mind, I believe, and faith, in her
situation, it is, perhaps, the wisest plan she can pursue—well, good-bye!” and
off Mr. Munden stumped, leaving Mary not a little embarrassed; for though
accustomed to his abruptness, and his plump manner of delivering his opinions,
she felt mortified at observing that general credence had been given to the
report of her attachment to Henry Elwyn, and that if a marriage should take
place between him and Lauretta, she should find herself an object of general curiosity
and observation. To disclaim such an attachment would be of no avail; she felt
that it would not be true; she had only to show, by her conduct and sentiments,
that she could rejoice in the happiness of Henry Elwyn, were his destiny
entirely unconnected from her own.
Waiting a few moments to compose her
countenance, and to recall her scattered thoughts, ere she entered the house,
Mary was soon met by her expecting friend.
“I was fearful,” said Miss Letsom,
“that Mr. Elwyn might be still too ill for you to leave him, and am
half-ashamed to say how impatient and anxious I was beginning to get; I
perceive,” continued she, “that I have not yet acquired that conquest over my
feelings with which I had flattered myself; however, my ardent wish of seeing you,
originated partly in the interest I take in the happiness of a friend of
yours.”
“Of whom do you speak?” asked Mary,
in a tone of anxiety.
“Of Mr. Henry Elwyn,” answered Miss
Letsom.
Taken off her guard, Mary asked with
quickness—“Say, tell me, what of him?”
“Nothing,” answered Miss Letsom,
mildly, and without appearing to notice her emotion. “A fortnight has nearly
elapsed since the departure of the general and of our guests, yet Mrs. Halifax
has not had a single line from her husband; he is never used to write
frequently; but I believe my aunt feels this entire neglect, though she does
not acknowledge it; for within the last two or three days, she has become more
fretful and more petulant than I have ever known her; but imputing it to this
cause, it does not operate on my nerves, or my temper, as you might imagine:
but I will not relapse into egotism, though it seems as if I were again
determined to be chief speaker; but not knowing how soon Mrs. Halifax may ring
for me, I am impatient to say all I wish. You must perceive, my dear young
friend, that I talk to you with the most undisguised confidence; the character
I fill, in our family-parties, is that of silence and insignificancy; yet,
though I am mute, I am not always unobserving: there is something in the open
character, and ardent spirit of Mr. Henry Elwyn, which forcibly attracted my
notice; indeed I fear a snare is laid for him—indeed I believe that lady
Lauretta and her daughter have a design upon him.”
“If you mean that he is likely to
become the husband of Miss Montgomery,” said Mary, “I believe his own wishes
have outstepped any designs which those ladies could have had.”
“That he has fallen in with their
designs is obvious; but I do suspect, and call me not uncharitable for so
doing, that these ladies have a deeper scheme than they dare avow,” continued
Miss Letsom. “If it was the affection of
Lauretta for Mr. Elwyn, if it was this which was her instigator, I should pity
her weakness, and perhaps be inclined to befriend it; but I have every reason
to believe, that had any other man, with as good expectations, taken the bait,
he would have been just as particular an object of regard.”
“I suspect that Henry owes something
to his being the acknowledged heir of Mr. Elwyn,” said Mary.
“More than you are aware of,”
returned Miss Letsom. “Lauretta has from her mother imbibed most boundless
notions of expence; lady Lauretta, I fancy, cannot spare her much; and though
general Halifax can minister to the extravagancies of the one, yet he would perhaps
find that the mother and daughter were too heavy a tax even upon his purse; for
I have been told, that a great part of my aunt’s property proceeds from a
life-annuity, and that at her death, it will revert to the nearest relatives of
her first husband. I have been sometimes amused in watching the hopes and fears
with which lady Lauretta and Miss Montgomery have been actuated, as the
attentions of Mr. Elwyn have been renewed or slackened; I know,
from conversations (which, from being supposed unintelligible to me, were
carried on in my hearing), that this house was taken by general Halifax, merely
from its contiguity to Elwyn Hall, although they made it appear that their
first meeting with Mr. Henry Elwyn was so purely accidental; I know too that
when he had left them so suddenly at Cheltenham, that both ladies began to
suspect his having eluded them entirely.”
“Why adopt so much art—so much
duplicity?” asked Mary.
“These questions I cannot answer,
except by giving you my conjectures over again,” said Miss Letsom; “at any
rate, I know that the journey to Malvern was
undertaken suddenly, and from my observations, I concluded that you were in
part the cause of it.”
“Me?” asked Mary; “how is that
possible?”
“There is a little teazing feeling
called jealousy, my love,” said Miss Letsom,
“which not unfrequently springs up in the female bosom. Mr. Elwyn had certainly
not been here as often—you were always at the
Hall.”
“Oh dear! I don’t think I had any thing to do with it; indeed, Miss Letsom, I could
not.”
“Pray, my dear Mary, excuse me, but
I am sure you had—I am sure both ladies were afraid of you; when your likeness
to Lauretta was remarked, it always appeared to excite the apprehensions of her
ladyship; she feared, and justly feared, that Mr. Henry Elwyn would begin to
draw comparisons; and the sudden journey to Malvern was planned entirely from
this idea: now they have got him to themselves—and now—yes, now, my dear Miss Ellis, it is the part of a true friend to
warn him of his danger.”
“And will you do it?” asked Mary,
with anxious earnestness, “kind, good Miss Letsom, will you do it?”
“Me?” asked Miss Letsom; “no, my
love, that would be too ridiculous;
Mr. Henry Elwyn has never observed or noticed me, but merely as that mechanical
automaton which I wish to appear at the bottom of general Halifax’s table: were
I to come forwards to give him advice and caution, he would very naturally suspect my
motive, reject the one, and despise the other; I could only bring suspicions,
where he would require proofs; and he would naturally conclude, that I must be
actuated by base and unworthy motives. I have more than once thought of giving
him an anonymous warning, but that would not be attended to by one of his open
and impetuous disposition; he would treat it with the silent contempt which he
would conclude it merited, and perhaps might accuse an innocent person of being
the author of it, and I might thus be calling down odium on the head of
another; neither of these plans would be of service; but you, Miss Ellis, who
have been bred up with him on terms of intimacy, you, who have been the
confidante of his youth, you may still be said to have the first
place in his heart.”
A faint sickness came over Mary, her
colour fled her cheek, she put her hand upon Miss Letsom’s, as she said—“And
what would he think of me? no, dear
Miss Letsom, I cannot do it; oh! much, much more than what you have just suggested will be imputed
to me—I shall be despised—I shall be
contemned—I shall be degraded! dear as is the
happiness of Henry Elwyn to my peace of mind, yet I cannot consent to barter my
own dignity, even in appearance, by
such conduct: and what could I advance,” cried she, after a pause,
“presumptions only—the presumptions of another too, whose name must be
concealed—ah, dear friend! presumptions are not proofs; already has the busy
meddling world made free with my poor name; and shall I myself assist the
natural vanity of Elwyn, in teaching him the same
belief? alas! I cannot.”
“For worlds would I not have
distressed you thus,” said Miss Letsom, taking her hand; “forgive me, dear Miss
Ellis.”
“Forgive you!” sighed Mary; “the
kind interest you take in my happiness, and in the happiness of my best friend,
Harry Elwyn, demands my warmest gratitude: we must leave him to himself, my dear
Miss Letsom; he is a proud mortal, and has high notions of his own discernment,
and of his own superiority; his feelings are quick, and his temper
enthusiastic; and, at this moment, I dare say he would quarrel with the whole
world, if but an hint were breathed against this idol of his imagination.”
“May she continue such!” said Miss
Letsom. The bell of Mrs. Halifax now sounded with violence; and pressing her
lips to the hand of Mary, and saying, “come again soon,” Miss Letsom hastily
ran off.
CHAP. V.
Whisper the
solemn warning in mine ear,
That I may
bid my weeping friends good-bye.
KIRKE
WHITE.
“THUS am I doomed,”
thought Mary, as she pursued her melancholy walk home, “thus am I doomed to be
tormented with a thousand anxieties on the subject of Henry Elwyn, to have the
fears and the suspicions of others added to my own; and yet I cannot, dare not
breathe them to the object of them; yet surely it would be the part of true
friendship to warn him of his danger; true friendship would despise every
selfish motive; what would my dear, my lost protectress have done, had she
received the communication of Miss Letsom? would she
not have cautioned, would she not have
reasoned, would she not have
advised with him, and shall I, from weak and feminine fears, shall I shrink
from the task? if the happiness of another is in question, shall I be daunted
by any selfish scruples of delicacy, from doing my duty?”
Mary had nearly brought herself to
the resolution of essaying an ungrateful task, and of writing to Henry Elwyn,
when a little way from the house she met Mrs. Elwyn, who quite diverted the
current of her thoughts; for, running towards her, and, at the same time,
clasping both hands together, she cried—“Here’s a sad story—here’s a sad story
indeed, Miss Mary! only think of it! Mr. Elwyn, poor man, is fallen into a fit,
and is like one dead; I can get neither speech nor sound from him; I have sent
for the doctor, and now I was come after you.”
Mary was very much alarmed, and
hurrying on as fast as she could, she said, “Dear madam, where is he?”
“Oh! I have had him put into bed,
and in the orange room; for you see, Miss Mary, there’s no knowing what may happen; ’tis all, you see, in the hands of God, and if his time is come, so it must be—but I thought the new
patchwork bed, as it never has been used,
you see, why ’twas a pity to do so now—as well not, you see, Miss Mary; and
when the men were carrying him, why the orange room was only a few stairs
further.”
Mary scarcely heard this prudent speech, but hastily ran to the apartment, where,
stretched on the bed, lay Mr. Elwyn, to all appearance bereft of life; the old
housekeeper was standing by his side, and vainly endeavouring to restore him to
animation: Mary put her hand upon his heart; she felt it beat—“He lives!”
whispered she; “if Mr. Leonard were but come to open a vein, all might be well
again.”
While Mary chafed his temples, and
assisted the housekeeper in rubbing his hands and feet, Mrs. Elwyn walked about
the room, saying—“What a stout heart you must have, Miss Mary! I cannot go near
him—I cannot bear to look at him—and to think what he once was—oh! he will be a
very great loss—a very great loss indeed—to the bench of justices—he is in the
commission, you know, Miss Mary—he is a magistrate—and then to the servants—oh,
he will be a very great loss indeed—a loss to the whole country! And I shall be a widow—yes, I shall be an inconsolable widow—oh!
dear me, dear me!—the changes and chances of this mortal life—but ’tis all as
it pleases God—all entirely. If his time is come, we
cannot help it: does he move now, Miss Mary? well, to be sure, you have a stout heart!”
While Mrs. Elwyn was walking about,
and praising the stout-heartedness of Mary, she was
mentally returning thanks to that merciful Providence, who had spared poor
Clara from this affecting sight, and she was inwardly beseeching for an
extension of his mercy towards the unhappy being before her, who neither, by
his life or conduct, had evinced a proper sense of those rich bounties which had
been so plentifully showered down upon his head.
Mr. Leonard at length arrived;
having surveyed his patient with a countenance which did not infuse any
sanguine hopes into the breast of Mary, he immediately pulled out a lancet—“You
said so—if you didn’t say so, Miss Mary,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “law, mercy help us!
I cannot look that way for the whole world; the very sight of poor dear Mr.
Elwyn’s blood would make me faint away.”
“Pray God we
may have a sight of it,” said the old housekeeper, (whose name was Scot), “or
it will be all over,” as she came forward with a bason and napkins.
“What some hearts are made of, I
can’t imagine for my part,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
“Thank God, he breathes again!”
cried Mary, with fervour.
“He does,” said Mr. Leonard, “and he
will revive soon; but there is great danger of a relapse.”
“Should not Henry Elwyn be sent
for?” asked Mary.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Leonard;
“for,” added he, “there is no doubt of this seizure being of the apoplectic
kind; and in Mr. Elwyn’s present state, from his corpulent habit, and his late
lethargic indisposition, I confess I should not be at all surprised if——”
Mary waited to hear no further; she
left the room, and writing a line to Henry, she instantly dispatched a
messenger with it, ordering him to change horses at each stage, and not to stop
till he reached Malvern.—“Who knows,” thought Mary, as she wrote the letter,
“the death of my dear, dear Mrs. Elwyn
once tore Harry Elwyn from this alluring Lauretta; may not the illness of his
father once more break the spell—may not all my recent fears on this subject be
speedily dissipated? ”
Mary returned to the
sick-chamber—Mr. Elwyn had spoke—and though he still lay in an almost
motionless state, it was plain that his torpid powers were restored to some
degree of action.
“Do you think he will die now, Miss
Mary?” asked Mrs. Elwyn, in a loud whisper.
“On the contrary, at present,”
answered Mary, “I think there seems every chance of his amendment.”
“Well now, that is very
wonderful—quite a miracle indeed—that bleeding I believe was a good thing, for
all I could not bear to look at it—well then, Miss Mary, if you will just stay
here, and see that all’s going on as it should do, why I’ll just go a bit
below, and see how the maidens are going on with their sewing; so then every
thing will be minded, you see; I’ll stay just to cut out a few patches, for you
see, I suppose we shall both of us be sitting here, and we may be as well doing
of a little work, as sitting with our hands before us, looking upon one another.”
“What some hearts are made
of, I can’t imagine, for my part,” said the attentive Scot, as she
saw Mrs. Elwyn leave the room, and as she watched the quick heavings of her
master’s breath. Mr. Elwyn continued in this state during the whole of the night;
he dozed at intervals; but when he awoke, he lay as still as if in a slumber,
and it was only by the opening of his vacant eye that his awakening was
discovered—he took the medicines administered to him by the assiduous hand of
Mary Ellis, who never quitted him; but he seemed ignorant from whom he received
them.
Mr. Leonard had been very candid in
saying, that he thought the next attack would carry him off; and as Mary judged
of the feelings of Henry Elwyn by her own, every hour that wore away without
his appearance was passed in the most fearful anxiety.
The distance from Malvern to the
Hall was only thirty miles—“Surely, surely,” thought Mary, “Henry would not
willingly have retarded his journey.”
The last gleams of the setting sun
were faintly illumining the window of the sick man’s apartment, when Henry
entered it; his manner was agitated, his air disordered; he hastily approached
the bed; Mary was bending over the almost lifeless form of Mr. Elwyn; one arm
supported the pillow on which reclined his head; she was gently wiping his
melting forehead with a handkerchief; the partial light, admitted by the
opening of the curtain, fell on her countenance; it wore the celestial
expression of a ministering angel. Pale, extended, his features changed and
livid, Mr. Elwyn seemed expiring—what a sight was this for Henry! he remembered
the indulgent kindness—the more than paternal affection of his early
benefactor—his friend—his father! he remembered a similar scene; there too he
remembered Mary Ellis—her hasty summons had then called him
to the bed of death—he remembered every thing
which he would have forgotten—he pressed his quivering lip to the
coldly-moistened hand of his father—he burst into tears—he gave way to the
agony of conflicting emotions; his eyes met those of Mary Ellis, beaming with
tender compassion; he turned from her, and hiding his face in the counterpane,
his convulsive sobs were audible.
“Take care, take care, Mr. Henry,”
said Mrs. Elwyn, now approaching the bed; “you will disturb Mr. Elwyn, sir, and
that will be a great pity, a very great pity indeed—see how quiet and how
composed I am—nothing moves me—nothing at all—I am quite myself—always calm and
collected—very so indeed.”
A faint groan from the invalid
seemed to recall Henry’s self-possession—“Harry! is Harry here?” said he, as he
feebly (and for the first time voluntarily) spoke.
“Here, here, dear sir, here is your
own Harry Elwyn,” said Henry, as he hastily rose and took his father’s hand.
“And who is this?” asked he, feeling
the soft hand of Mary on his forehead.
“’Tis Mary Ellis, sir,” answered
she.
“Your nurse—your kind, your gentle
friend,” added Henry.
“Aye, a good girl—a good girl! Clara
used to say so,” said he; “Harry, you must reward
her.”
Henry’s whole frame shook; his eyes
were bent on the ground. Mrs. Elwyn now thought it her turn to be noticed—“How
d’ye do, Mr. Elwyn? how d’ye find yourself by this time, my dear?”
“Ellen!” said he, “you are here, are
you?”
“To be sure, sir, here am I; do you
think I would leave you, my dear?”
“Harry, Harry! give me your hand,
Harry,” said Mr. Elwyn, “give it me—and yours—and yours,” added he, eagerly
catching that of Mary; with a convulsive grasp he held them both; he rose
himself in the bed, and casting up his eyes, he said, “Oh! remember not my old sins, but have mercy upon me—oh! remember not the sins
and offences of my youth;” and in the fervour of that petition he resigned his
breath.
Mary was the first who perceived
that his spirit was for ever fled; and, while gently withdrawing herself from
the inanimate corpse, she piously, but mentally reiterated the dying petition
of the poor departed; she contrasted, in her mind’s eye, the difference between
his last sickness, and that of the resigned and collected Clara. A ray of light
had indeed seemed to break in upon Mr. Elwyn’s benighted soul, at the moment of
dissolving nature—“Oh! why—why was it not extended to him sooner?” it was a
fearful, an awful subject—she dared not pursue it.
Her attention was now called to the
living—with hysteric screams, Mrs. Elwyn was wringing her hands, and saying—“He
is gone—he is dead—I am an inconsolable widow—yes, now I’m a widow indeed! a
miserable woman—very so indeed!—what will become of me? oh! Mr. Henry, my best
friend is gone.”
“You have still a friend left, my
dear madam,” said Elwyn, as, overcome with real grief, he took the hand of his
mother, and fervently pressed it to his lips.
Henry had a very feeling heart; he
had loved Mr. Elwyn, from the moment when he first awoke to recollection—his
indulgence, his kindness, his fond partiality, had gained him a warm interest
in his grateful breast; and though duty and principle would have taught him to
love and to respect his father, yet
when that affinity had been made known to him, there were so many circumstances
to lessen his character in the estimation of his son, that he still clung to
the idea of his early benefactor, rather than to
the parent of his ripened
years.
It was in this
character that he now seemed to lament him; all the instances of his indulgent
love came fresh before his memory; his faults were forgotten; and he gave way
to the most unqualified sorrow: taking the hand of Mary, he sighed, but could
not articulate; but he seemed to give his mother to her care; and then breaking
from them both, he locked himself into his own apartment.
Mrs. Elwyn’s was that kind of sorrow
which seems likely to evaporate in words; she made incessant bemoanings, called
herself “the most unhappy of women, the most miserable creature in the whole
world, very so indeed, a most inconsolable widow!” then would wonder who had
got the will, and “whether Mr. Henry would like it to be read before the
funeral or after?” said, “she supposed crowds and crowds of people would attend
the corpse to the grave, as Mr. Elwyn was a man of such fortune, and so very
much respected—and then the mourning for the servants—that, you see, Miss Mary,
will cost a great deal—men and maidens, all of them in
black—oh! I am to be sure the most miserable woman in the world!—I am a mournful widow now—very so indeed—and then I must order
the beef to be stuck with rosemary at the funeral, for that, you see, is always
the custom, and I must think of every thing—oh
dear—oh dear, I am a miserable woman indeed!”
CHAP. VI.
of funeral woe. POLWHELE.
WE shall pass over
the few days which intervened between the death of Mr. Elwyn and his interment;
Henry gave himself up to the indulgence of that grief, which an impetuosity of
disposition, never checked in its ebullitions, rendered very violent; he
suffered acutely; and it was in vain that the gentle and reasonable Mary
essayed to give him comfort, for he would not hear reason; he refused to be
comforted; he continued to seclude himself from the family; and only that daily
dispatches with letters were sent to and from Malvern, he would scarcely have
been heard of as an inmate of the Hall.
In conjunction with the old butler
and housekeeper, Mary arranged every thing for the funeral (for though Mrs.
Elwyn talked a great deal of her orders, and the
great bustle it was to her, yet she busied herself about things which she did
not understand, and generally bred confusion, instead of order,
when she interfered).
Out of respect to the memory of the
deceased, Mary determined to attend the mournful ceremony with Henry; he had supported her with his presence during the last
painful funeral; it was now her turn to support him; and to her encouraging
look, to her steady seriousness of manner, Henry was indebted, for conducting
himself with tolerable composure.
After the ceremony, the whole family
were convened in the drawing-room of Elwyn Hall, and the confidential lawyer of
Mr. Elwyn prepared to read the will.
Mr. Munden (who, with several of the
surrounding gentry, had attended the funeral) was desired by Mr. Sargent (the
lawyer) to be present at this scene. Mrs. Elwyn, dressed in her weeds, sat down
with an air of consequence, and with very little semblance of delicacy, though
she frequently told Mr. Munden, “that she was the most miserable of women!”
While Henry Elwyn looked with fearful anxiety on Mr. Sargent, he also looked
with an air of watchful solicitude towards Mary Ellis; “if
his father had done justice to the fame of his mother, if he had declared the
legitimacy of his son, would not the deep injuries of Clara become glaringly
conspicuous? would not the ardently-attached Mary feel them in her inmost
soul?”
Mary Ellis had nothing to expect;
she had nothing to hope or to fear for herself; her dear lost friend had made a
sufficient provision for her; she had never wished its augmentation; and she
well knew that Mr. Elwyn would never have thought of doing it.
All eyes were fixed on Mr. Sargent;
he broke the seals, and then opened two small papers, which were placed
immediately within the envelope; the first he read was a certificate of the
marriage of Henry Elwyn and Ellen Harley, with dates and proper attestations;
the second was the copy of the register of the birth of Henry Elwyn, the son of
that marriage. Henry Elwyn rose from his seat; his chest seemed to expand; he
stood erect in the room; as if by an involuntary and intuitive motion, all the
domestics made an obeisance to their lineal lord.
Mrs. Elwyn drew herself up with an
air of importance, as if to show that she was brought
out as conspicuously as her son by this discovery.
Mary Ellis caught the back of Mr.
Munden’s chair, to save herself from falling; she had long suspected,
she had even known the secret of Henry’s
birth; but this public declaration of it—this public acknowledgement of the
injuries which had been heaped upon the poor Clara—“Oh!” thought she, “can I
ever regret her more? can I ever be sorry that she was taken from the evil to
come—that she was spared from an explanation like this?” Her whole countenance
betrayed the working emotions of her heart; her tottering limbs refused their
office; Henry caught her in his arms, and placed her on a sofa, for she refused
to retire; and having desired that her indisposition might not interrupt the
business which had drawn them together, and Mrs. Elwyn having “wondered what
should thus have overcome Miss Mary, who was always
so stout-hearted,” and Mr. Munden having frowned on her, instead of answering,
Mr. Sargent proceeded——
After a few legacies to the
servants, Mr. Elwyn had bequeathed the whole of his property to his son,
charging the estates with a jointure of four hundred per annum
to Mrs. Elwyn. Mr. Munden was appointed the trustee for the widow. Mary’s
legacy, which was bequeathed to her by her late benefactress, was specifically
mentioned; and Henry Elwyn was charged to pay her the yearly interest of it,
till she should become of age, or was married.
Mrs. Elwyn was not pleased; her
countenance lowered—“What, not leave me the Hall for
my life!” said she. “Oh, I am a most miserable woman! very so indeed!”
“The Hall is
yours, for your life, my dear madam,” said Henry, respectfully taking her hand,
“and all, and every thing you wish.”
She did not receive this generous
speech with her usual cordiality, but answered—“It certainly ought to have been mine by will.”
Henry turned immediately from her,
and thanked Mr. Munden for his friendly attendance.
Munden shook him cordially by the
hand, as he turned a commiserating glance on Mary; and, in a whisper, but which
was loud enough to reach her ear, said—“Elwyn, whatever you do, be a friend to
that poor girl; in your kindness to her, show your sense of the injuries which
your father—well—well—let it pass now.”
“My friendship for you, dearest Mary,”
said Elwyn, approaching her, and taking her hand, “can cease but with my
existence; a regard for Mary Ellis was infused into my heart with its first
feeling; look on me as your guardian—your friend—your brother!” his voice fell
as he uttered the last word, and he let the hand which he had taken drop
resistless on her lap.
“When—when?” cried Munden, as the
word ‘brother’ faintly reached his ear.
Elwyn recovered himself from his
momentary embarrassment, and addressing the domestics, in that tone of conciliating
freedom which finds its way to all hearts, he thanked them for their past
kindnesses, while ignorant of his claim to them; he told them that he would
endeavour to make their lives as comfortable as they had been; and that he
hoped they should all grow grey-headed together; he then told them to consider
Mrs. Elwyn (pointing to his mother) as their mistress, and to treat her with
the utmost respect and attention.
When the company were dispersed,
Elwyn again sought Mary—“I have some necessary matters to arrange, during the
remainder of this day,” said he; “to-morrow I shall leave the Hall, perhaps for
some time; I shall see you before I go; but, lest another opportunity should
not offer, I avail myself of the present, to ask you to continue here, and to
be still the companion of my mother?”
Mary hesitated—she did not like to
refuse any request of Henry Elwyn; at such a moment, it would be cruel and
unfeeling to do it; and as he was appointed her guardian by the will of his
father, perhaps she had no right to do so; but she painfully felt that the
society of Mrs. Elwyn could afford her no gratification, and she scarcely knew
that Mrs. Elwyn would herself wish her to remain; these ideas ran through her
mind, while the asking eyes of Henry were still fixed on her face. Henry Elwyn
was pleading for his mother! a refusal was impossible; she answered—“While I
think my society is acceptable, or that I am useful to Mrs. Elwyn, I will not
quit her.”
“You are a noble, generous
girl—acceptable I should think it must always be—useful, my dear Mary, I am confident you must be to my poor
mother, who, bred up with contracted ideas, and confined notions, she has no
idea of her own deficiencies—your forbearance, your sufferance with her, has
often called forth my surprise, and will ever demand my warmest gratitude. My
dear Mary, I speak to you with the greatest unreserve; I know that my mother is
not fit to live alone—from the time of her acquaintance with my——” (he could
not utter the word father, for his
eye at that moment caught the portrait of Clara)—“From the era of her
acquaintance with Mr. Elwyn until a very recent period, she was entirely shut
up from the world. She is now in a new situation, for independence is entirely
new to her; and I consider her as helpless, and as inexperienced a being, as an
infant who had just escaped from its leading-strings, and is first trying its
emancipated limbs—Do not leave her, my dear friend—do not quit our mother:” the plural our called up a
blush of crimson in the cheek of Mary; its shadow seemed to glow over the manly
countenance of Elwyn, as he added, “Do not leave her, my dearest sister,” and
with these words he quitted the room.
The appellative sister had again
recalled Mary’s thoughts to a subject, from which they had been diverted by
recent occurrences; it was the part of a sister, of a tender, of an
apprehensive sister, to give advice to her fraternal relative—to warn him of
his danger; she had not forgotten one syllable of Miss Letsom’s conversation;
neither had she forgotten the determination, which she had nearly made, of writing her sisterly
cautions to Henry Elwyn; he was now under the same roof with her; there was no
occasion for writing—she could speak to him; it was now become necessary that
she should do so, for did he not talk of leaving the Hall the next day, and for
some time? and was it not more than probable that he was going to join the
party whom he had quitted? was he not now become independent? master of a noble
patrimony—had any human being a right to controul his actions? these were
serious questions—but ah! how could the sensitive, the conscious Mary Ellis,
approach Henry Elwyn on such a subject, and at such a time? might he not impute
to her a motive, very lowering to her character, if she were to investigate his
sentiments concerning Lauretta? would not her cautions wear the hue of
jealousy? would not his vanity lead him to deduce every reason but the right
one for her interference? and would not her confusion and her embarrassment
make her appear before him like a convicted culprit? and yet to suffer him to
go, without one hint, one friendly hint—would this be generous or proper?
CHAP. VII.
“Away, away, my early dream,
Remembrance
never must awake.”
THUS canvassing the
matter over and over again in her own mind, without coming to any fixed
determination, Mary passed the whole of the night: at the breakfast-table she
found Miss Lawson, who had come “on the wings of friendship to see her dear, suffering Mrs. Elwyn, and to console her for her irreparable loss!” how much was the inexperienced Mary
astonished at the renewed civility of this good lady towards herself! for she
could not be aware that the circumstance of her having appeared, the preceding
morning, with Henry Elwyn, as one of the mourners at his father’s funeral, and
the mutual good understanding which had been remarked to have subsisted between
them, had already been circulated through the village of Norton, and that she was again set down for the wife of Mr. Elwyn.
Miss Lawson was more scrupulous than
an Eastern devotee in bowing to the rising sun; getting up to place a chair for
Mary near the fire, she desired that she would permit her
to officiate for her at the breakfast-table, adding—“I know, my amiable friend,
that you must be quite exhausted—and how is Mr. Elwyn to-day? poor man, how I
felt for him yesterday! though I am told that he looked most charmingly
graceful and interesting—and you, my dear Mary, you—why, they say you looked like a little heroine! they may tell me what they
will of their Laurettas, and Eastern manners, and the Italian
School, but give me plain English, Mary, and the school of nature.”
“I
thought Miss Montgomery had been a great favourite with you,” said Mrs. Elwyn;
“I really thought so indeed, Miss Lawson.”
“A favourite, ma’am! I don’t know
what you mean by a favourite—yes, a favourite—certainly, I believe—that is—I
admired at her—there is, certainly, as Mr. Henry
Elwyn (Mr. Elwyn, I mean), there is, certainly, as Mr. Elwyn has been heard to
say, a good deal of dash and speciousness about them; but as Mr. Elwyn said to
a particular friend of mine, in confidence—‘Where,’ said he, ‘is the sterling
one? what are lady Lauretta and Miss Montgomery?’ asked he again, ‘spectacle,
mere spectacle!”
The breakfast-room at Elwyn Hall was
hung with tapestry; it opened into the library by a private door; Miss Lawson
did not hear the soft opening of that door, but Mary Ellis did, and almost
enjoyed her confusion, as she looked up, and saw the form of Henry Elwyn standing
in the doorway, habited in mourning, his eyes fixed upon her face; she
started—affectedly screamed, to hide her confusion, and cried—“Good Heavens!
Mr. Elwyn, how could you frighten me so? I really thought you were a ghost.”
“Spectacle, mere
spectacle, Miss Lawson,” said Elwyn, with some degree of severity; “but pray go
on; do not let me interrupt you; were you not good enough to entertain these
ladies with some opinions of mine?”
Elwyn took a chair next to Mary, and
began his breakfast with a serious air; the disconcerted Miss Lawson could not
recover herself; her hands trembled as she attempted to pour out the tea; she
could not face Elwyn; but snatching up her tippet, and saying—“She believed she
should not get the better of her fright for the day, and that she should fancy
a ghost was pursuing her wherever she went,” she flung out of the room.
“Law, bless my heart! Mr. Henry,
sir, you have certainly terrified Miss Lawson out of her senses!—hadn’t you
better go after her, Miss Mary, and see what is become of her?”
“No—for Heaven’s sake, sit still!”
said Elwyn; “if I have terrified her into a little shame of falshood, I have
done her a vast deal of good; however, I am glad she is gone, at any rate, for
I wanted to speak to you both on a subject of importance. You love your son, my
dear madam; and you, my dear Mary, you love your brother,” and he took a hand
of each—he stopped, and looked confused—he looked down—Mary’s breath was held
in, in trembling expectation of his next address.—“You both wish my happiness?”
said he.
“Certainly, sir, to be sure we do,
very much indeed,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
“Fervently!” sighed out Mary; for
she perceived that Elwyn waited for an answer.
“Then congratulate me upon it,” said
he, “for it is secured—I am married!—Lauretta Montgomery
is my wife.”
Did Mary Ellis hear aright? did she really hear those words? she hastily withdrew her hand from
Elwyn’s; she retreated a few paces from him; her whole frame felt paralysed;
she tried to speak, but something swelled at her throat—the words died on her
tongue—she walked to a window, and burst into tears.
“Married!” said Mrs. Elwyn, “you
married, Mr. Henry! and to Miss Montgomery! well, sir, I wish you joy with all
my heart; and my son married to the daughter of
a lady too!—but dear me, Mr. Henry, wont she want to come and to live here? and
then, you see, I shan’t be mistress—oh! sad
doings—sad doings!—I am a miserable
woman now, I am an inconsolable woman indeed!—when Mr. Elwyn went, I lost my
best friend—I thought how ’twou’d be!” and Mrs. Elwyn relapsed into one of her
hysterical moanings.
“Be calm, my dear madam,” cried
Henry; “assure yourself that it will never be the wish of my Lauretta, that it
will never be my wish, to dispossess you of
this place.—Mrs. Henry Elwyn will always make it her study to pay you every
proper attention.”
“Well, well, that is very handsomely
said of you, indeed, Mr. Henry—but when did all this take place, sir? when did
it happen? how very comical!—very so indeed!—very comical! and you only to tell
us of it this very minute!—why, Mr. Henry, are you sure you an’t dreaming?”
“From such a pleasing dream, oh, let
me never wake!” cried Henry, with proud emotion.
Mary remarked the warmth of his
expression; her heart, her affectionate heart, rejoiced in his happiness, and
it chimed with his in this wish; she gathered courage with the enthusiasm of
her feelings, as advancing towards him once more, and extending her hand with
the genuine freedom of her nature, she said, “Allow something, dearest Henry,
to the surprise of your intelligence, which almost overcame me, but believe me
that I shall ardently pray for the continuance of your felicity.”
“Thank you—thank you!” said he,
gratefully kissing her proffered hand; “thank you, and bless
you!”
“But, Mr. Henry, how was it, sir—a wedding and a burying
together, sir, how was that? do you think it will be lucky, Mr. Henry?—when was
it, sir?—I hope it won’t be unlucky!”
“Not ominous, I hope and trust, my
dearest madam,” said Elwyn; “but certainly I should not have chosen the day
which closed on my father’s existence to dawn
on my marriage; but at the moment when the express arrived, I was tortured with
a thousand fearful presentiments—I knew not the period of my detention
here—lady Lauretta Montgomery seemed undecided, and somewhat reserved, in
regard to her stay at Malvern, and also as to the place where she should
afterwards bend her course.—I could not get her promise of returning to
Salcombe Lodge—once I had been separated from my Lauretta, and had been in
danger of losing her for ever; such an idea was not to be borne again—Mary, you are acquainted with my impetuosity, you know my warmth
of disposition, you can imagine my distracted state—I pleaded—I knelt—I
entreated—general Halifax was kind enough to stand my friend, and previous to
my setting out for this place, I received from his hands my amiable, my lovely
bride.”
“Law bless me, how very
extraordinary! why, Mr. Henry, it is really quite a history, sir—quite a
history indeed! and where do you mean to live?”
“At present, madam, I know nothing,”
answered he; “do not suppose that all my ideas were engrossed on this subject;
having once secured my Lauretta beyond the reach of fate, I turned with anxious
tenderness towards my suffering father: you know the melancholy scene which
followed—you saw that even the prospect of unalloyed happiness with Lauretta,
could not sooth a breast, which mourned with grateful affection over its first
and earliest friend.”
“Yes, yes, you were very much
affected—very so indeed!—and so we were all of us; for that matter, I’m sure,
for my part, I am the most miserable creature
in the world—but how extraordinary and comical is all this that you have been
telling me!—Miss Lawson, you see, was very much mistaken—for I dare say, Mr.
Henry, you never said a word, that she said you did, to that particular friend
of hers?”
“You may not only dare say it, but dare swear it, my
dear madam; do you think that I would hear a syllable, which was breathed by another, against the elected of my soul? then
do you think I would basely traduce her myself?”
“No, no, sir, it was not mighty
likely, to be sure—but how Miss Lawson will stare when
she hears it!”
After a little general conversation,
and having given his mother directions, and unlimited power over the
establishment at the Hall, which he desired her to keep up in every respect as
it had been during the lifetime of his father, and after recommending her and
Mary Ellis mutually to the care of each other, Elwyn took an affectionate leave
of them both, and quitted the Hall.
Mrs. Elwyn seemed to lose a great
deal of her sorrows, in finding herself sustaining a situation of greater
consequence than she had previous to Mr. Elwyn’s death; for as she constantly
remarked to Mary, “now all the charge lies upon me, Miss Mary—you see I am now
both master and mistress—a great charge upon one head, very so indeed,
especially where there are both men-servants and maids to direct, and to look
after—not but what they all seem to be very
respectable, and very civil, and very well behaved, and very sober—but yet a head-piece is required—I say, Miss Mary—nothing at all is to
be done without a head-piece.”
Mary Ellis did not give way to
unavailing repinings, or to fruitless wishes; Henry Elwyn had now decided his
own fate; she could only hope that it would turn out propitiously; she felt
great comfort in reflecting, that her indecision had been of no consequence,
for had she given her cautions to Henry, they would have been too late, her
conversation with Miss Letsom having taken place only on the evening previous
to Elwyn’s marriage; had it been possible for her to have delayed it by her
advice, and thus have given him time for reflection, she would have severely
blamed her own irresolution; but, under the existing circumstances, she was
much rejoiced that she had not breathed a hint on the subject: she wrote
immediately to Miss Letsom, and informed her of the confession which Elwyn had
made, previous to his departure; and in answer, that lady joined her wishes
with those of her friend, for the happiness of the new-married pair, and hoped
that time would prove the injustice of her surmises with regard to the
Montgomerys.
“If lady Lauretta’s fortune is
limited,” thought Mary, after reading Miss Letsom’s letter, “it was natural
enough for her to be anxious for her daughter to secure such an eligible
alliance as that of Elwyn’s; he has enough
to satisfy the profuse desires even of Lauretta, supposing them to be as
profuse as Miss Letsom believes them; Lauretta must be void of the common
feelings of humanity, if she be not affectionate and grateful to such a man as
Elwyn; and lady Lauretta cannot be
culpable in her conduct, with regard to general Halifax, else Henry Elwyn would
never have made her daughter his wife.”
On the whole, Mary was inclined to
hope that Miss Letsom, without intending to do so, might have exaggerated the
disagreeable features of this party; “Her own principles are so very correct,”
thought she, “her own conduct so strictly uniform, that she might be led to view
any thing through a prejudiced medium, which should a little diverge from her
own straight rule of right.”
At any rate, it was for Mary’s peace
of mind to hope that this was the case—while believing Henry Elwyn happy, she felt so; if he were the contrary, she knew that she
should experience great uneasiness of mind.
The coterie began to assemble as
usual at Elwyn Hall, and the whist-table again made its appearance; it was not
thought decorous for the “new-made widow” to join in the rubber; so, while the Lumleys, Mrs. Buxton, and
Miss Lawson, were the active parties, she looked on, made her remarks on the
progress of the game, and cut out patches.
All the ladies
were astonished at the mildly-placid look of Mary Ellis.
Miss Lumley “thought that if she had
been used so, she would have let all the world know that she was not to be
trampled upon with impunity;” while Miss Lawson “never did
think there was much feeling in Mary Ellis—a good sort of a humdrum bide-at-home girl;” she made no doubt “but there was
more sentiment, more soul,
more refinement, in the little finger of
sweet Lauretta, than there was in the whole body of Mary Ellis.”
Miss Ellis, meantime, cared very
little for the remarks of Miss Lawson; she had the approbation of her own
heart; and by a steady performance of the duties of her station, and a firm
reliance on the mercy of a good and an all-wise Providence, who she considered
as the supreme disposer of all human events, she endeavoured to secure its
continuance. Mary’s disposition was neither that of indolence or supineness—she
did not forget disappointments as soon as they
were passed, but by active exertion she endeavoured to divert her mind from the
contemplation of them; when the weather would permit, she frequently strolled
over to Salcombe Lodge, though, as the days shortened, and as Miss Letsom had
only one disengaged hour, she found becoming impracticable; and the friends
determined on exchanging notes, when they were no longer able to have
interviews.
Scarcely any weather prevented Mary
from fulfilling her allotted engagements in the village of Norton; and while
the poor blessed her approaching and her departing steps, lisping infants could
number her amongst their benefactors, for through her exertions they were
brought up “in the nurture and the fear of the Lord.” It is thus that a
well-regulated and a virtuous mind can bear itself up against what the world calls trouble and
disappointment—it was thus that Mary Ellis practised the precepts of her
lamented friend.
General Halifax had not returned to
the Lodge; and the peevishness and irritability of his forsaken lady was almost
more than her unfortunate niece could support; she had a long winter before
her, and she almost regretted that she had forsaken the wilds of Cumberland, and
the trade of authorship, for peevish discontent, and ungracious petulance.
CHAP. VIII.
Accomplish’d only in defects. MOORE.
OUR new-married pair
(with their mamma and her faithful
friend) had worn away the honeymoon at Cheltenham, and had for some
weeks been gone to Bath: delighted in the possession of his fascinating
Lauretta, and flattered at the buz of admiration which followed her charms
whenever and wherever she appeared, Elwyn treated her with the most unbounded
indulgence, and his purse was ever open to supply all her extravagancies; and
Lauretta was always in smiles, because she had always her own
way. At their house in Bath, lady Lauretta was the guest of her daughter; and
without having received any particularly
pressing invitation from Elwyn, general Halifax made up the quartetto with the
greatest nonchalance. At Bath, Elwyn ascertained
what he had previously suspected at Cheltenham, namely, that general Halifax
was addicted to high play; Elwyn had no right to interfere in these matters,
for, perhaps, he was himself in the habit of betting higher than was prudent;
but he remarked, that the frequent absences of general Halifax were not
suffered to pass with that habitual inattention with which lady Lauretta
appeared to regard every other passing occurrence. Though the eyes of the
infatuated lover had been completely hood-winked, yet those of the secure
husband became rather more clear-sighted; and when general Halifax talked of
returning for a short time to Salcombe Lodge, and Elwyn heard lady Lauretta
propose to leave her daughter, in
order to accompany him thither, he took the first opportunity of conversing
with his Lauretta, in terms of confiding friendship—“For worlds, my love,” said
he, “would I not breathe a hint which should wound the unsullied delicacy of
your respected mother; but her ignorance of our customs renders her conduct
open to the censures of an envious and a carping world; her friendship for
general Halifax is not understood; the charms of lady Lauretta Montgomery,
still undiminished, are seen and allowed by all—do, my dearest Lauretta,
prevail on your mother to give up her intention, and to remain under our roof
during the general’s visit to his wife.”
“Oh! indeed, Elwyn, I cannot say a
word on the subject; my mamma never contradicted me in her life; and I dare say
she has set her heart on going, or else she would not have proposed, and I dare
say she could not bear a disappointment; I am sure I
could not, when I had set my heart on any thing.”
“Now you jest, my love; for you well
know that the heart of your mother seldom diverges her from this sweet object of attraction,” and he tenderly kissed her
cheek—“Come, tell me that you will persuade her.”
“I shall not tell you any such
thing; I dare not disoblige my mamma; and besides, I dare say that she would
not remain with us when the general had left us—she would find it mighty
flat—and why should she indeed? you know I am married now, and cannot expect to
have her always living with me.”
“But you wish
it, Lauretta, and I wish it too; surely your mother
cannot find a more eligible or a more desirable situation?”
“Every woman, when she is married,
likes to be her own mistress, I believe; mamma is welcome to come as often as
she likes.”
“Welcome,
Lauretta?”
“Yes, very welcome, Elwyn; but if
she is inclined to take this little jaunt with the general, who has any right
to prevent her?”
“No one has any right,
certainly; but I confess to you, my Lauretta, that I have the wish, for the reasons which I have given you.”
“And I have told you that I choose
to have nothing to do in the business—so that is ended,”
answered Lauretta, with more asperity in her manner than Elwyn had ever seen
her use.
A feeling of mortified pride
struggled in his bosom; with difficulty he smothered his emotions; and turning
towards her, he said—“Come, come, I have found out a way of settling this
matter,” willing to bring back the smiles to her bewitching countenance, “and
that without any interference on your part; I really want to take a trip to
Elwyn Hall; my mother will take it very kind of you to pay her an early visit;
we may travel en suite, and make quite a
sociable thing of it; you shall go with me to my mother; and lady Lauretta can
be the guest of Mrs. Halifax, if she prefers it.”
“What! go back to that horrid dull
place in the winter?” asked Lauretta, in a tone and with a look of the greatest
dismay, “and leave all the dear delights of Bath—cruel, cruel Elwyn!” and she
burst into tears. “It is thus then that you already shew me that you are my husband.”
“Forgive me, dearest Lauretta,” said
he, “I meant not to distress you; I know that the country is not very enticing
at this season of the year; but I had flattered myself, that in the society of
your happy and grateful Elwyn, you would not have found it wholly insupportable
for a short time, especially as I must otherwise leave you alone.”
This half reproof, though couched in
the gentlest terms, was not unremarked by Lauretta; pouting her lip as she
turned from him, she said—“And how long do you mean to stay there?”
“Only a few days, my love,” answered
he.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Lauretta,
“I must consider of it;” then turning to him with an air of childish and
playful coquetry, as she took down a diamond tiara from the mantle-piece, she
said, “look at this; did you ever see any thing more beautifully brilliant?
now, look at it again on my head—Riviere swears the lowest farthing must be
five hundred guineas—don’t you think it must be dear?”
As Elwyn admired the polished brow
which it surmounted, he could not think it dear—a compromise seemed to be made,
and the first matrimonial jangle was
settled—Elwyn paid five hundred guineas for the tiara, and Lauretta consented
to leave Bath, and to bury herself
for a few days at Elwyn Hall.
When Mrs. Elwyn was informed of the
approach of her guests, she was “quite overcome with the idea of receiving them
in a proper manner;” she hurried all over the
house, and put every thing out of its place, that she might have it all in
order; and having countermanded her directions to the old butler as frequently
as she had given them, till she had quite bewildered his faculties, she left
him in a pet, saying, “Timothy was worth twenty of him;” and calling Timothy
into the butler’s room, she told him that “she believed old Joseph was doating,
for he did not remember one single
thing she had said to him; and so, Timothy, I am now going to make you sensible.”
Timothy had not lived a great while
in the family; he was a young man of a smirking air, and a dapper look; and as
from time to time Mrs. Elwyn remarked to him, that “without a head nothing was
to be done in a family,” he answered—“Very true indeed, ma’am, and with so much
upon yours, I really wonders how you
keeps it upon your shoulders.”
“No bad remark that,” thought Mrs.
Elwyn, drawing her head back, as if to feel that it was still safe in its
place: “well then, Timothy, you mind all I have said to you, every single word
of it, you see, and see that you have it all right, for else, you see, I shall suffer, for all the
responsibility is mine; this it is to be without a
master—nobody to advise—nobody to direct but myself.”
Mary Ellis did not interfere in
these arduous arrangements, being well assured that notwithstanding her
complaints of the irksomeness of it, Mrs. Elwyn liked the bustle into which she
put herself, as there was not the least occasion for her exertions, her
domestics being very equal to perform the offices they filled; but Timothy was
become the right-hand of his mistress; and though his official capacity in the
house was under the butler, yet she put him in every department in turn; he was
dispatched to the housemaid, to see that the sheets were aired; he was sent to
the larder, to inspect the provisions, and to the garden, to forestall the
gardener, in the decorations for the table. Mrs. Elwyn even spread out her
patches for the approbation of Timothy, as she formerly used to do to her two
maid-servants.
Many sly nods and winks were already
seen round the servants’-hall; and when the parlour-bell rang after dinner,
Timothy was sure to skip off, and to be followed by the laugh of his
companions.
Mary Ellis had forgotten all the
contemptuous airs of Lauretta Montgomery, in her good-will towards the wife of
Henry Elwyn, and she determined to exert herself, by every means in her power,
to evince her disinterested and pure regard for him, in her attentions to his
lady.
The travellers did not arrive till a
late hour of the evening; fatigued with her journey, Lauretta scarcely spoke a
word, after declaring—“that travelling in winter was a horrid bore.” She then
kicked off her shoes, and put her feet upon the fender, turning her back
completely on Mrs. Elwyn and on Mary. Soon after, she desired Elwyn to ring the
bell for her abigail, “as she must go to bed.”
Mrs. Elwyn got up with great
officious consequence, to precede her to her apartment, and Mary offered to
follow; without noticing the civility of either, she took the arm of her
servant, who stood at the door, and walked languidly up the stairs, Mrs. Elwyn
tripping on before, to see that all was right, and Mary following, because she
would not appear to notice her rude inattention to herself, and because she did
not at this moment wish for a tête-à-tête
with Elwyn; he had left the room when she returned to it, and she saw him no
more for that night.
The next day, having kept the
breakfast waiting much beyond its usual hour, Lauretta at length sent to desire
that she might have hers in her chamber.
Elwyn had been up some time, and
walking about the grounds, and talking to his steward; his countenance
expressed mortification when he saw that Lauretta was absent from the
breakfast-table; but he talked with cheerful freedom on indifferent subjects.
Mary sustained her part very well. Elwyn mentioned his having engaged to take a
ride with the steward to one of the adjoining estates, which had just fallen
into hand, and which was the immediate cause of his present visit to the Hall;
and having finished his repast, rose from his seat, on seeing his horse brought
to the door.
Mrs. Elwyn and Mary followed him,
and were standing to see him mount, when a sash was thrown up of the window of
Lauretta’s room, and putting out her head, with her hair hanging dishevelled on
her shoulders, she cried out—“Elwyn, where are you going to?”
“Oh, good morning to you,” cried he,
with a careless air; “I am glad to see you are at last awake, my love.”
“I ask you, whence you are going,
Mr. Elwyn?” repeated she.
“I am going to take a long ride on
business.”
“And leave me here, all alone, to be
killed with the ennui and vapours! indeed, Elwyn,
it is very, very unkind of you to bring me to this frightful place, and then to leave me all alone.”
“You forget, Lauretta, that my
mother and Miss Ellis are both here, and will be very happy if you will give
them your society.”
“I thought how it would be,” said
Lauretta, holding her handkerchief to her eyes, “I thought that you were coming
here for your own pleasure—I know I should be
miserable and wretched, to be shut up here amongst rooks and owls—I said so
when I left Bath—you know I told you so.”
Mary Ellis could not look at Henry
Elwyn; she knew that he was putting a great restraint on himself, in not giving
way to the ebullitions of passion; Mrs. Elwyn, however, said—“Mr. Henry, you
had better go up to the poor lady, and try to comfort her; tell her there is
nothing to be afraid of here; and tell her, that we will do all in our power to
make it pleasant and comfortable—pray tell her so, sir.”
Half ashamed at his condescension in
thus going to sooth this childish ill-humour, Henry took the advice of his
mother, and went up stairs; after remaining half an hour, he came down again,
and without speaking, mounted his horse, and rode off.
In another half hour, Lauretta made
her entrance into the room where Mrs. Elwyn and Mary were sitting at work; to
the kind inquiries of Mrs. Elwyn, as “to how she liked her apartment, and the new patchwork bed, which had never been slept in before?”
she answered—“Then I am confident it
has not been slept in now by me—oh,
ma’am! it was horrid—it dazzled my eyes, and confounded my senses—for Heaven’s
sake, keep it to frighten the birds from your fruit, or give it to some merry
Andrew, some motley fool, to shew off in at one of your country wakes; but in mercy, never put any human being to sleep
under it again—I have nothing but angles, right angles, circles, and
semi-circles, squares and octagons, floating before my eyes—my whole visual
faculties are disordered.”
“I am very sorry,”
said Mrs. Elwyn, as she rose from her seat, and walked across the room with a
discomposed air, which proclaimed that she was very angry, “I am very sorry; I really
thought I was paying you a proper compliment, as Mr. Henry’s wife, in putting
you into what I think the best bed in the house—however,
I suppose I was wrong—yes, I suppose I was wrong—the orange room, you see, I
did not think would be so well—however, you shall move to that—yes, you shall
move to that—though that bed has never been lain upon since the death of poor
dear Mr. Elwyn—he was a great loss, a very great loss indeed!—I have no friend
to stand by me now;” and she took out her handkerchief to conceal the tears,
which were as much produced by the affront which was put upon her new patchwork
bed, as by the remembrance of her husband—“I have lost my best friend,”
continued she; “a weak woman like me is in want of a friend to stand by her;
but now all is lost—and as to my new patchwork
bed, why, you see, Miss Mary, we have only been making scarecrows!”
“Dear ma’am,” said Lauretta, “my
nerves are quite hurt at the sight of your distress; what can have produced it?
surely I have not been unfortunate enough to have been the cause of it?—pray
don’t disturb yourself on my account; I am the easiest creature in the world; I
have already ordered the carriage, and am going to my dear mamma—I always feel
perfectly at home at Salcombe Lodge; Mrs. Halifax is so easy, she never puts
herself out of her way for any body; I am sure you
will be much more at home without me; you can then pursue your eternal sewing, and your dexterous
companion can assist you—I dare say I shall look in on you now and then—I shall
be always sure of finding you well employed—I think the carriage is now driving
round, so good morning to you—good day, good day.”
“Why, law bless us and preserve us,
you are not going off in such a hurry as this comes to?” said Mrs. Elwyn; “do
stay a bit, if only till Mr. Henry comes—what will he think of it?”
“Pray stay till the return of Mr.
Elwyn,” interposed Mary.
“Oh, ma’am, don’t alarm yourself on his account,” said Lauretta; “I informed him of my intention
just now—having paid my duty in due form to his mother, surely my own sweet, dear mamma has now a claim
upon me.”
The carriage was really in waiting.
Mrs. Aubrey (the abigail of Mrs. Elwyn), was waiting with her packages and
bandboxes in the hall; so, very coolly stepping into the carriage, Lauretta
kissed her hand as it moved off.
“Great cry and little wool!” said
Mrs. Elwyn. “I have taken a good deal of trouble for nothing it seems—a very
short visit really—but if Mr. Henry’s lady did not find herself happy, why, so
be it.”
Mary thought so too; and did not
envy the sweet mamma her capricious and peevish companion.
CHAP. IX.
Arrogant of sole dominion. MOORE.
HENRY Elwyn had
married a woman whose whole existence depended on her being the object of
admiration, and in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the world; spoiled by
early indulgence, her mind was enervated and weakened; her temper was more
wayward than that of a petted infant, who is but just recovering from a
dangerous illness; the accomplishments on which she had rested, as her chief
means of attack, in taking the hearts of men, had been acquired with this view
only, and had been the stimulus to that application, which had not been exerted
in one really praise-worthy or beneficial pursuit: confidence in her own beauty
and attractions, an impatience of the slightest contradiction, an affectation
of infantile helplessness, were the marking traits of her character; her whole
ideas and wishes were centered in self; her own charms—her own enjoyments—her
own tastes—her own caprices, were the objects of her contemplation—of her
pursuit—of her aim—of her gratification; she thought not of the feelings of
others; she cared not whom she offended of her own sex, provided she gained the
homage of the other; and her insolence and peevishness was extended towards all
those who did not fall in with her humour, flatter her vanity, or minister to
her enjoyments.
On her setting out from Bath, she
had determined to make herself so disagreeable a companion, as not to make
Elwyn wish to bring her into the country again; it was now that she must exert
her power if she meant to ensure it—“Mary Ellis had always been the object of
her inveterate dislike; she had merely suffered her,
while she could not help it; but now that she was become her own mistress, she
might do as she pleased, and act as she pleased, and not stay with people who
were disagreeable to her, and punish herself, while she was not pleasing them.”
These were the words with which she
had concluded her speech when Elwyn had quitted her; in vain had he besought
her to remain at the Hall, and to continue his mother’s guest, during the short
time which he meant to remain in the country. She flatly refused; “she declared
that her head already ached with the worrying questions of Mrs. Elwyn; it might
be very well for him, she was his
mother, and he could make allowances; but she would go to her own dear, sweet
mamma, and the charming general, who was one of the most polite, the most
complaisant, and most engaging men in the world.”
“After having so directly given my
sentiments on this subject,” thought Elwyn, “previous to my leaving Bath, is it
possible that Lauretta can mean purposely to provoke me by this language?” he
half began to think that he had been a fool to throw away five hundred guineas
in a diamond tiara, for it had not purchased the good humour of his wife; he
mounted his horse in no enviable state of mind.
The idea of his being deceived in
the character of the woman whom he had chosen for his wife, was insupportable
to one of his proud and unsubdued spirit; he had only to put the best face upon
the matter which was in his power—“it was natural that she should feel uncomfortable
at knowing herself so near lady Lauretta, without being under the same roof;”
at least, thus he must make it appear to his mother and to Mary Ellis—as he
thought of the latter, he sighed involuntarily; and as he recollected her
correct conduct, and the justness of her sentiments, he believed that he should
have matter to impose upon her, by making the “worse appear the better reason,”
though her good-nature would, he was sure, incline her to make every
extenuation for his Lauretta’s conduct: he rode back to the Hall ere he went to
Salcombe Lodge, and offered every apology in his power for the conduct of his
wife; he soon smoothed away the frowns from his mother’s brow, by his
conciliating manner; she promised him to call at the Lodge the next morning;
and Mary, who always felt too insignificant in her own estimation, to take
umbrage at any rudeness which was offered to her, very readily agreed to be of
the party.
Mrs. Halifax had been displeased at
her husband’s long absence, and when at length he returned, accompanied by lady
Lauretta Montgomery, she did not think it at all incumbent upon her to put
herself out of her way, in order to shew any civility to a guest who never paid
her the least attention. She had for some time made a sitting-apartment of the
dressing-room which adjoined her bed-chamber, and she did not move out of it to
pay her compliments to lady Lauretta.
“Ease,” the general always made a
point of saying, “was the characteristic of every house which he inhabited, and
likewise of Asiatic manners.”
Lady Lauretta stationed herself,
with her accustomed nonchalance,
without even asking after Mrs. Halifax; and the general, when he paid his first
visit of polite inquiry, desired Mrs. Halifax to make herself perfectly easy and comfortable, for he
would shew every civility to their engaging
guest; and at the same time he returned his grateful thanks to Miss Letsom, for
the devotedness of her
attention to his amiable wife.”
Miss Letsom knew perfectly how far
she might estimate the lip-deep professions of the general; she understood an
hint for her continuance, as the companion of
Mrs. Halifax, to be conveyed in this apparent compliment; and she was rejoiced
at being spared from mixing in a party which was very uncongenial to her taste.
The very easy
arrangements of Salcombe Lodge did not please Henry Elwyn; he
did not feel at all easy at finding himself the
constrained guest of a man whose behaviour he condemned; his respect for lady
Lauretta was considerably lessened, for though he did not imagine that there
was any thing directly culpable in her
conduct, yet it was not what he would have wished in the mother of his wife;
with these impressions on his mind, he felt very impatient to get away, and
thus met the inclinations of Lauretta, who was also very anxious to do so.
Lady Lauretta, on the contrary,
“declared that there was something in the tranquil solitude of Salcombe Lodge,
which she found very refreshing, and soothing to her soul, and that as her dear friend did not mean to leave it so soon, she should
remain to be his companion, and to console him by her presence, during the
tedious confinement of Mrs. Halifax.”
Such a bold avowal, in any woman but
lady Lauretta Montgomery, would have called forth the most unqualified
expression of his sentiments from Elwyn; but he stifled them as well as he
could in the present instance, and began to think that the sooner he separated
Lauretta from her mother, the better, and that if they were to meet but seldom,
the more beneficial would it be to the daughter, and to his own peace of mind.
In the mean time, Mrs. Elwyn and
Mary had paid their promised visit. Lauretta received them with her accustomed
careless sang froid, and did not appear to think
any further apology requisite for following her own inclinations, and acting as
she thought proper.
“To be sure,” thought Mrs. Elwyn,
“Mr. Henry has married a beauty, and her mother’s a real lady with a title, and
all that; but somehow, I think, if he had chosen Miss Mary, she would have
suited me full as well—only, to be sure, that would not have done, because of what Miss Lawson told
me about the last Mrs. Elwyn, and that comical journey to Brighton.”
Miss Lawson was very early in paying
her compliments to her “enchanting Mrs. Elwyn and fascinating mamma!”
“How rejoiced am I,” said she, “to
find you filling that station which you ornament and
adorn!—I always said you were born for Henry Elwyn.”
Lauretta no longer wanted Miss
Lawson; she answered these fine speeches with great conciseness, and asked her
“how she could think of fatiguing herself by taking such a long tramp in the cold?” adding, “you used, I remember, to ask
for a lift in Mrs. Elwyn’s old leathern
conveniency, which she calls a coach.”
From Mary Ellis, such a speech would
have called forth all the indignation and resentment of Miss Lawson; but “every
body must put up with the whimsical humour of such an angelic creature as
Lauretta;” so with what she meant for
an expressive look of sentimental tenderness, Miss Lawson said—“She should have
thought no walk long, no weather cold, when she
had the cheering prospect in perspective, of seeing so beloved a friend!”
“Oh dear, you are vastly polite!”
returned Lauretta; “I had no notion that we
were so intimate; but ‘ma chere amie, excuse
moi,’ I cannot return the visit—I make it a principle to return no visits to the country families;
and if I once break through the rule which I have set down, I shall be fatigued
to death, and not able to stir out, when I get back to dear, delightful Bath.”
“What then, am I to see no more of
you?” asked the mortified Miss Lawson (who had enjoyed the idea of having paid
her compliments before the Lumleys, and of their
seeing the elegant landau of Mrs. Elwyn stopping the next morning at her door);
“what, am I doomed only to have this transient view?” asked she in an
affectedly sorrowful tone.
“Don’t look so shocking, for
Heaven’s sake!” said Lauretta; “I protest you remind me of Mrs. Buxton; and I
never could bear to look at any thing that was ugly
in all my life.”
Mrs. Buxton was the plainest woman
in the neighbourhood, or she would not have been singled out for this
comparison.
Miss Lawson saw that the tables were
completely turned, so she turned her back upon her “charming
young friend,” in her heart calling
her the most capricious and insolent of human beings.
During the few days which Mrs. Henry
Elwyn remained at Salcombe Lodge, she was, or pretended to be indisposed;
Henry’s enthusiastic fondness was all awake, at the voice of her complaint; he
reproached himself for urging her to accompany him into Gloucestershire; to
indisposition he now attributed her apparent ill-humour, and he hurried over
his business, in order to get back to Bath, with all the apprehensive eagerness
of his disposition.
The morning previous to his
departure, he breakfasted at Elwyn Hall, and conversed with his mother and with
Mary, in his wonted pleasant and familiar manner—“My Lauretta’s health is
delicate,” said he, in answer to his mother’s inquiries; “the air of the
country is, I believe, too keen for her; I think we shall winter in Bath—let me
hear from you, my dear madam,” said he, rising, “and if any thing should occur,
in which I can be instrumental to your comfort, though in the remotest way,
pray do not hesitate to inform me; and you also, my dear Mary,” said he,
“remember I am your guardian
now—always apply to me, as you
would to an affectionate brother; and be assured, that I shall feel flattered
at every additional instance of your confidence—I would ask you to come and see
us at Bath, but that I would not rob my mother of her only companion.”
“Ah!” interrupted Mrs. Elwyn, “’tis
very true, sir, very true indeed, I have lost my best
friend.”
“But still you have two faithful
ones remaining, my dear madam,” said Elwyn.
“Ah, Mr. Henry! I say, a woman who
loses a good husband loses every thing;” and she put her handkerchief to her
eyes.
Elwyn hastily shook the hand of his
mother, and pressing Mary’s to his lip, he put a paper into it, and immediately
quitted the room, saying—“Health and happiness attend you both!”
For some moments Mary continued
motionless, and standing with vacant eye in the apartment he had quitted, when
perceiving that Mrs. Elwyn had also disappeared, she opened the paper which
Elwyn had given her; it enclosed a bank bill for two hundred pounds, with these
lines from Elwyn—
“Your delicate spirit, my dear friend, might
scruple to apply to me, for that which is your due. I enclose the first year’s
interest of your fortune; I have dated it from the day on which I commenced my
stewardship; it will always be my proudest hope to merit the title of your
brother and your friend,
“HENRY
ELWYN.”
The tears streamed down the cheeks of Mary, at this proof of Henry’s
kindness; she fervently wished his happiness, though, alas! her discernment had
recently given her many painful presentiments of the contrary. Elwyn had
forestalled her wants; but she would not hurt his generous spirit by returning
the note; she should now have it in her power to be more liberal to her poor
friends in the village; and what better prospect of amusement had she, for a
blank and dreary winter, than by thus turning her thoughts to the alleviation
of the wants of others?
CHAP. X.
THE Elwyns left
Salcombe Lodge; the general and lady Lauretta remained only a few days after
them, and then set off for London—“And there let them go, in God’s name, if
they choose it,” said Mrs. Halifax, talking more openly than Miss Letsom had
ever heard her before; “the general chose to bring
me here in the first place, and here I’ll stay—I am sure I did not want to come, but now I am here, I wont
go again to please him—I can’t keep moving about, for my part—he talks of the
expence indeed of keeping up this house and establishment—I
do not mind it, and why should he? my own fortune is equal to it; he spends his
how he likes, and with whom he likes,
and I don’t see why I am to save
for him; so he leaves me to myself, and lets me live and die my own way, I am
contented.”
With the most unwearied patience,
Miss Letsom bore the complaining fretfulness of her aunt; she had the inward
consolation of knowing that she was performing her duty, in attending on her
nearest relative; and when she thought that were she to relinquish the
situation, it would in all probability be occupied by some unprincipled and
unfeeling mercenary, she resolved never voluntarily to forsake the post, which
appeared to have been pointed out to her by the finger of Providence.
The situation of two young women,
who were so near each other, so formed for the enjoyment of each other’s
society, and impressed with a mutual regard, was very peculiar.
Mrs. Halifax never suffered Miss
Letsom’s attendance to relax, except at the hour (when, as we have previously
stated) she took her afternoon’s nap; and at this dark hour in the cold and
cheerless month of December, even Mary’s courage sunk at the idea of taking so
long a walk; so she contented herself with good wishes and kind messages, and
spent the long unbroken evenings in the monotonous society of Mrs. Elwyn, who
daily made her complaints of the loss of “her best friend,” and who, as winter
approached, had suffered the most ridiculous terrors to take possession of her
weak mind; she declared it “was her firm belief that somebody walked the house
at night; and when Mary tried to argue her out of such a foolish idea, she grew
angry, and said, “things might be made a jest of, by those who knew no better;
but there were others that had heard strange noises,
as well as herself; there were others that
could not rest in their beds at night, though Miss Ellis might make a joke of
it, and try to disprove it.”
“My dear madam,” said Mary, “I do
not joke—I only wish to quiet your mind, and to calm your fears—your horrors
are weak—and——”
“No, Miss Mary, I am not weak—but I am sure I am a most miserable woman thus to
have lost my only friend!—That this house is
haunted, I am very certain,” continued she; “all the night long I hear strange
noises—very so indeed—and I am not the
only one.”
Mary saw that argument was useless;
she talked on the subject, however, to the housekeeper, and desired her to tell
the rest of the servants, that it was very improper to intimidate their
mistress, and to confirm her in her fears by telling their own.
“Indeed, my dear Miss Ellis,” said
the honest domestic, “I do not think that one of us—of the old set,
I mean, would think of alarming Mrs. Elwyn—ah! I am sure, if any of us saw a
ghost, I should be likely to be the person, for
often and often do I walk into my late lady’s room, and look around me, and
almost wish to see her back again—ah! dear Miss
Ellis, she was a loss to all—to every one of
us—she was an injured angel—and let them
say as they will, but my poor master never once held up his head again from the
day when she died; she was an angel while she
lived on earth, and now she is one in heaven.”
The grateful heart of Mary
overflowed at her eyes, while she delightedly listened to the honest fervour of
praise, which this good creature bestowed on her departed mistress.
Mrs. Elwyn still continued to
complain of her desolate and deserted state, though there were no apparent
symptoms of the unhappiness which she talked so much about; and with the
blessings of health, with all the luxuries of life around her, and with the
means of extending her usefulness in benefiting her fellow-creatures, Mary
could not help considering her as an ingrate to that Providence who had so
plentifully showered down his bounties upon her head.
There was something mysterious, and
very unaccountable, in the behaviour of Mrs. Elwyn; though she unceasingly
lamented her watchful frights, yet she would not be prevailed upon to let a
servant, or to suffer Mary Ellis to sleep in her room; and though she talked of
the dreariness and gloom of the house, yet she was frequently walking about the
retired part of the offices of an evening; and though the shades of night were
fast closing round her, refused to let Mary accompany her.
The work which used to be her only
pleasure, and her most sedulous employ, was now forsaken—she had not forgotten
the affront which her daughter-in-law had put upon the new bed;
and when Mary proposed to her to resume her former amusement, and offered to
assist her, her answer was—“No, Miss Mary,
what’s the use of taking so much trouble to frighten the birds,
and to dress a merry Andrew?—’twill only be laughed at, after all.”
The evening coterie, which used to
be so delightful, was now very seldom convened
at the Hall.
Pitying the unsettled state of Mrs.
Elwyn, and the distaste which she evinced to every occupation, Mary Ellis
wished her to invite the ladies more frequently, hoping that their company
would amuse her; but Mrs. Elwyn had generally an excuse—sometimes “the weather
was too bad to ask them to come out;” when Mary proposed sending the coach to
fetch them, she was more than once answered, “that the servants might take
cold, and that they had feelings as well as others.”
Mary was very uneasy at this evident
change in Mrs. Elwyn, not on her own account, because she was more at liberty
to pursue her amusements and occupations than she had ever been, but because
she thought it a melancholy spectacle to see any human being without a resource
or an employment, because she had been told that idleness could rarely be
indulged at any period of life, without being productive of ill effects, and
because her benevolent disposition could not let her see the unsettled and
fidgeting temper, which deranged and disordered the whole family, without
feeling much regret—“Surely,” thought Mary, “this constant uneasiness must
proceed from disordered nerves; and if such are the effects which are already
produced on her weak mind, by the foolish fears which she entertains, what may
be the consequence?”
Yet while Mary sometimes asked
herself the foregoing question, and while her goodness and humanity, and her
regard for Henry Elwyn, led her to do every thing in her power to make Mrs.
Elwyn more tranquil, she could not, on sober reflection, impute to unhappiness or to real dejection,
the strange and singular behaviour which she lamented; on the contrary, at
times Mrs. Elwyn appeared to be in very high spirits; and though Mary suspected
that these might be in part forced, as she observed that they generally rose
during the hour of dinner, and that then she would frequently recount, with
great apparent glee, the romping feats of her girlish days, and relate the
story of the cherry-net, with no little merriment, while Timothy was standing
behind her chair, and old Joseph retained his position at the sideboard, yet
there was something in their inequality which was quite as alarming as total
depression; for when, on the cloth being removed, and the servants withdrawn,
Mary tried to keep up the ball of conversation, and in her
turn to entertain, by innocent pleasantry, or cheerful remark, the absent look,
and the altered tone of Mrs. Elwyn, forcibly proclaimed to her mortified
companion, that supineness and inanity had succeeded to her transient
exhilaration.
To write to Henry Elwyn, on the
subject of his mother’s altered manner, would only be to causelessly alarm him;
for Mary had nothing to alledge, which ought to raise any serious fears in him,
either with regard to her health or peace of mind—“It is only,” thought Mary,
“one who is shut up, as I am, from day to day, with Mrs. Elwyn, whom the
changes in her behaviour and her conduct would strike, and perhaps I give the
subject more seriousness than it deserves.”
We have hitherto never represented
our Mary as a heroine, because she is of too
retired a character to stand forth in the lists with the protruding heroines of
modern days; but if to see the man whom she loved married to another, if to
regulate her affection for him by those rules prescribed by principle and
religion, if to sustain her cheerfulness in a situation which would have
severely tried the temper of half her sex, if to continue her exertions for the
use of those around her, independent of self, or self-interest, if to refer
every thing to the Supreme Disposer of all human events, yet not to slacken in
her endeavours, or to falter in her duty, from such a reference, if these can entitle her to the designation of a Christian, we
desire no other title, no other heroine for our tale, for she has gained the best meed which
can be allotted to her here below.
CHAP. XI.
I
do remember when I was a child,
How
my young heart, a stranger then to care,
With
transport leapt upon this holiday,
As
o’er the house, all gay with evergreens,
From
friend to friend with eager speed I ran,
Bidding
a merry Christmas to them all;
Those
years are past, their pleasures, and their pains.
SOUTHEY.
THE season of
Christmas was arrived, but it was neither a season of festivity or hilarity to
Mary Ellis; on the contrary, the most depressing and painful retrospections
took possession of her mind; she recalled those halcyon days of peace and
happiness, when it had been her delightful employment to be the almoner of her
departed friend, and when her little hands were laden with the gifts which the
benevolence of that friend bestowed on all around her.
Mr. Elwyn had given orders to his
steward to distribute a sum of money to the suffering poor; Mary had been
consulted in the distribution; but she felt that the remembrance of her who once gave a charm to every scene, and who now, “deep
in the grave, a mouldering victim lay,” had impressed her heart with
melancholy, even at those moments when it used to throb with pleasure, and she
seemed spontaneously to cry out—“How much more blessed is it to give than to receive!”
but not relaxing in her duty, because it no longer gave her unmixed delight,
and not relinquishing her active exertions, because the enthusiasm of her
spirit was damped, Mary still continued to employ her time to some purpose; and
going to visit a poor family one morning in a severe frost, a sudden thaw came
on before she returned home, and the next day she was too much indisposed to
quit her room; a slight fever hung about her for several days; her whole frame
became enervated and languid; and her spirits sunk in consequence.
The old housekeeper was unwearied in
her attentions, and in using every means for her speedy restoration to health;
grateful and quiescent, Mary acceded to every thing that she proposed; and she
did not regret that Mrs. Elwyn was not much in her sick chamber; for the
worrying manner, and incessant volubility of that good lady, were not
calculated to sooth the weak mind of an invalid; and Mary felt particularly
disposed to quietness and tranquillity, for the slightest noise affected her
nerves, and agitated her whole frame.
It was more than a week before Mary
found herself sufficiently recovered to leave her room; the housekeeper had
prepared her breakfast about nine o’clock; and Mary, never accustoming herself
to have any assistance in dressing, had put on her clothes, and about twelve
descended, with tottering and uncertain steps, to the parlour, where Mrs. Elwyn
usually sat; she found it empty, however, and there were no symptoms of its
having been occupied that morning; it felt cold and chill; there was no fire in
the grate; she rang the bell, but no one appeared to the summons; a strange
confusion and noise seemed to pervade the house; at intervals she heard the
loud and coarse laugh of some of the under-servants; she tried to walk to Mrs.
Scot’s room, but her feet refused to perform their office; her temples throbbed
violently; she held by one of the pillars, as she would have endeavoured to
cross it, but she would have fallen to the ground, if at that moment she had
not been held by the sustaining arm of Elwyn, who opened the hall-door in
extreme agitation, and hastily throwing off his hat, sprang towards her: he was
followed by Mr. Munden.
“Something has happened!” cried
Mary, in a voice impeded by weakness and emotion, observing the wild air of
Elwyn.
“Yes, I know it—I know it all!” cried he, in a tone of passionate vehemence; “I am
disgraced—the name of Elwyn is disgraced!—it is allied to
infamy!—Infamous!—infamous woman!” and he smote his hand against his forehead,
in an agony of passion.
“Good Heavens! Henry, dearest Henry,
what are you saying? what do you tell me? what do I hear?” cried the trembling
Mary.
“Do you not know?” asked he; “I
thought you knew it—I thought you told me something had happened—are you not
acquainted with my shame—my dishonour—the eternal degradation of——”
“You will frighten her out of her
senses, Henry,” said Mr. Munden; “I am sure you will.”
“Oh! I have been very, very ill,” said Mary; “I have seen nobody, I have heard
nothing—I am very weak now—but I can
bear it—I can bear it—compose yourself, Harry, and tell me all!”
Mr. Munden led her back into the
parlour, and seated her on a sofa.
“You have been too violent,” said
he; “Harry, you have almost frightened her to death!”
“I am frantic—I am mad, I
believe,” said Elwyn, walking about the room in an agony; “I know not what I
do, or what I say.”
“Why, you are making a bad matter
worse, by your passion and your vehemence—do pull the bell, and order something
for this poor girl.”
With the same violence of manner,
Elwyn now had recourse to the bell, and laid the string on the carpet: the old
housekeeper and butler both appeared at the door together; Mrs. Scot lifted up
her hands and eyes—“What a day is this with us all!” said she; “I declare I do
not know what I do, or what I say—oh that I should have ever lived to see it!”
while old Joseph, hanging down his venerable head, seemed afraid to lift up his
eyes; he seemed afraid to look at his young master, lest that look should tell
him of his disgrace.
“Give her something to take,” said
Munden, pointing to Mary; “and do you light a fire, and give us some
breakfast,” said he to the butler; “Harry Elwyn has travelled all night; and
though a cursed Jezebel has lighted up a flame within him, yet a little fire without would do him no harm.”
“Have you indeed travelled all
night, Henry?” asked Mary, in a tone of anxiety. “Where is Mrs. Elwyn?” said
she, addressing the housekeeper; “I don’t think she knows of her son’s arrival,
or she would have been here to welcome him.”
Mrs. Scot turned away her head.
“When, when?” cried Mr. Munden;
“curse——” he stopped.
The old butler left the room.
“My mother!” cried Elwyn—“my
mother!—Oh, Mary, Mary! I have no mother! I forswear her—I contemn her—I abhor
her—I cast her off for ever! I consign her to eternal infamy and shame! she has
disgraced me—she has disgraced herself—she has fixed an indelible stain upon
her sex—upon her name—upon the name of Elwyn!—she has—oh,
torture—madness—distraction!—I cannot—cannot speak the words; she has
married——” he threw himself down, he writhed on the carpet, he ground his teeth
together, he gave way to all the frenzied fury of passion.
“Silly, passionate, mad-headed boy!”
cried Munden, “you are killing this poor thing as fast as you possibly can.”
Elwyn was recalled to himself; his
eye with hasty glance was turned on the almost convulsed countenance of Mary;
he run towards her—he fell on his knees at her feet—he hid his face in her
lap—he sobbed aloud.
Mary joined her tears with those of
Elwyn; they fell in soft showers upon his burning head; she felt herself
relieved by them; a terrible weight had been removed from her mind, as Elwyn
had avowed that his mother was the
cause of his present distress; the apprehensive, the affectionate heart of Mary
had trembled, lest another, lest a nearer sorrow
might have driven him into this wild paroxysm of passion—“This is all strange,
incomprehensible to me!” said she; “your arrival, and the absence of——”
“How long have you been ill, child?”
asked Munden, bluntly interrupting her.
“I have been confined to my room
more than nine days,” said Mary.
“And during this time, it seems,
this nine days wonder has been brought
about.”
“What can you allude to, sir?” asked
Mary: “I am still in the dark.”
“What a poor, unsuspicious little
creature you must have been!” said he; “why surely you are more blind than a
beetle!—all the country have seen it for the last month—all the gossips in the
country have talked of it for the last two months—I
heard it at last, but too late for my friend Harry here to prevent it—I
dispatched an express to him at Bath—he came off without a moment’s delay; but
he was just two hours behind the time; for as we passed through the village,
the bells informed us that the knot was tied, and that Mr. Timothy Piff had
just received the hand of——”
“Don’t, for God’s sake, don’t speak
it!” cried Elwyn, putting his hand before the mouth of Munden. “Mary knows—Mary
hears—Mary understands all now—oh,
Mary, Mary, pity me!”
Mary had awoke as from a dream,
while Mr. Munden had been speaking—a thousand incidents, a thousand
circumstances, which had previously seemed strange and unaccountable, were now
explained; she wondered at her own stupidity, she blamed her dulness of
perception, she lamented that she had not seen, that she had not prevented
it—“Oh, Henry!” cried she, holding out her hand to him, “could I have a
suspicion, could I have an idea of such a mortifying event as this?”
“Impossible!” answered he; “you could not have an idea of the kind—could delicacy, could
purity, like yours, have imagined that such a degrading, such a——”
“Whew, whew!” said Mr. Munden; “now you are set off again—Done
is done—your part as guardian to this young
lady is now to consider what she is to be
done with, and mine as trustee or guardian, if
you please, of the old one, is to
see that this Mr. Timothy Ticklepitcher has not got the management of her
income.”
“You must go back to Bath with me,
Mary,” said Elwyn.
“Oh! no, no!” cried Mary, with
eagerness, “that is quite impossible!”
“And why is it impossible?” asked
Elwyn, with some reproach in his manner. “Lauretta will, I am sure, be very
happy—that is, I am sure—under my roof—under the roof of your brother, Mary, you must find a proper protection.”
“And why not remain here?” asked
Mary.
“Remain here!” repeated Henry “what!
to be subservient to the insolence and vulgarity of a low-born menial? What
were the last accents of an expiring saint? to whom did she turn her closing
eyes? for whom did they entreat? Oh, Mary, Mary! were you not then given to my
charge, and shall I ever relinquish it?”
“Indeed, indeed!” returned Mary,
“you are very kind, you are very good; but I must remain in the country; I am
weak in health, I am weaker in
spirits; I am not fit to become the guest of Mrs. Elwyn; I cannot consent to
become an intruder on your domestic comfort.”
Elwyn sighed, his lips quivered, his
eyes were hastily turned from Mary, though the moment before they had been
fixed upon her in pleading earnestness—“Pray, pray let me remain in the
country!” said she, “any sequestered spot, any little retired nook.”
“Whew, whew!” again cried Mr.
Munden; “come, come, my good girl, take heart, and believe a rough fellow, who
speaks all he thinks—I see you want change of air, and change of scene—you have
done all you could, and you have borne up as long as you could; but at your
time of life society is necessary—go to Bath, I say—you want to see a little of
the world.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Mary, “I have
already seen enough of it.”
“Poh, poh, enough indeed! I tell
you, child, you have seen nothing of it—you are but just out of your
egg-shell—you have seen nothing of it—you know nothing of it—go to Bath, you
must—and you shall—what! will you remain here, and bring your own name into
scandal with that old madam Patchwork’s? why, child, if you were to live with
them, all the world will swear you were privy to the whole business of their
love intrigue, and the healer is always thought as bad as the stealer—no, no,
we will have no more sequestrations,
or by-and-by we shall have the old butler hobbling off to church with you;
besides, my little chicken, you are not of age; my friend Harry is constituted
your guardian by the will of his father, and he has a right to dispose of you
as he chooses.”
“I know it, I know it, sir,” said
Mary; “but surely he will not constrain me to go against my inclinations?”
Mary could not but remember the
marked rudeness which had always accompanied Lauretta’s behaviour towards
herself; she remembered it, without retaining a shadow of ill-will towards her;
but she was determined never voluntarily to become her guest; and heroine as Mary was become over the early prepossessions of
her heart, yet she felt that the roof of Henry Elwyn was the last under which
she ought to reside; besides, the whole tenor of Lauretta’s behaviour and
conversation was so entirely at variance with her own sentiments, that she felt
it would be utterly impossible for her to experience any comfort in her
society; as she said the words—“Surely he will not constrain me to go against
my inclinations?” the mortified air of Elwyn proclaimed his inward sentiments,
as he turned from her.
Munden stood for some moments in
silent observation before Mary, his head resting on the cane which he still
held in his hand; at length, looking up at her with an approving smile, while
he cordially shook her by the hand—“I believe,” said he, “you are a good girl;
nay, I think you are a girl of ten thousand—Hear me, Harry—I say, hear me,
Harry Elwyn, and don’t look so cursed glum—I am quite of your opinion as to
Mary’s going to Bath—I say so, and I think so; but remember I do not say,
neither do I think, that your house will be the best place for her—you have a
wife of your own, you know, one of your own choosing, and all that, and to say
the truth (though I have never been married myself, and therefore do not speak
from my own experience), yet I have always thought a third person must be
d—nably in the way: now, for instance, suppose that such an odd accident should occur, as a little bit
of a matrimonial squabble, I should like to know which side this poor thing is
to take?”
“You are pleased to jest, sir,” said
Henry, in a grave, and somewhat haughty tone.
“Oh yes, I am
jesting; I thought I premised that I meant it for a jest,”
returned Munden; “however, to cut the matter short at once, hear my proposition—I have a sister now at Bath, a good buxom
widow, but with too much pride to find a Timothy to her mind; she is a very good-tempered creature,
and will be very well pleased to have such a companion—go to her, my dear Mary,
go to her; take up your quarters with Mrs. Ripley for the present; and if she
does not thank me for my introduction, my name’s not Humphrey Munden, that’s
all.”
Under the blunt, and apparent
uncouthness of Mr. Munden’s manner, Mary discerned the delicacy of this
arrangement; and though she might feel it awkward to appear before a stranger,
yet she did not think it right to decline this proposal also, and to appear
ungratefully averse to every plan that was offered to her consideration.
Elwyn seemed hurt that she acceded
to Mr. Munden’s offer rather than to his; but Mary did not appear to notice it;
she could not explain her reasons, and she had the approbation of her own
heart, to support her in the determination which she had made.
CHAP. XII.
Enjoy’d the
most that innocence can give.
SHENSTONE.
THOUGH Mary had been
occupied by mental inquietude, she could not but feel that her corporeal frame
was at present ill fitted to undertake a journey; and when Elwyn and Mr. Munden
talked of her setting out on that day, she desired them to consider, that “she
had but recently arisen from a severe illness.”
“We know, we consider all that,”
said Elwyn; “you shall go as slowly, you shall go by as short stages as you
wish, you shall receive every attention, you shall receive every care; but I
cannot consent to your remaining here, to be subject to the painful humiliation
of an introduction to the object of my mother’s degrading choice.”
“And when does Mrs.—when does she
return?” asked Mary, tremblingly.
“This very evening,” replied Elwyn;
“it seems, that on her departure this morning, she informed the servants that
she was going out for the day only on particular business, and that she should return
again in the evening. To you, my good sir,” added Elwyn, addressing himself to
Munden, “to you I refer the painful task of talking to this foolish woman—I am
by no means equal to it—I am sure if I were to come in contact with this fellow
(whom I dare not call her husband), that I should forget every thing due to
myself; for her—for her, whom I still ought to
remember as my mother—what respect—what affection can exist in this breast?
Never, never can I voluntarily behold her more—Tell her so, Mr. Munden—through
you, if you will condescend to undertake the office, shall she receive her
jointure regularly; I told her this house should be hers as long as she chose
to remain in it; I will not forfeit my word: as the widow
of my father, at my own expence I retained her former establishment about her;
but I think I shall be disgracing myself, if I were to keep a retinue for Mr.
Timothy Piff—let him have the arrangement of his own household: you must arrange every thing for me,
my very good friend: I cannot expect, I cannot wish that the old and faithful
servants of the Elwyn family should remain here now;
but let them not depart with empty hands; see that they have the comfortable
means of subsistence—I do not wish them to barter their principles, or to
forego their sense of right, by remaining in a servitude which would affix a
stigma on their name; but in relinquishing it, they must not suffer any
pecuniary inconveniences, which would affix a stigma on mine.”
“Harry, you are a noble fellow,”
said Mr. Munden. “Why did you ever consent to give up this house to that silly
woman? Why did you not come and sit down amongst us yourself? Why did you not
come and live among your tenants, and, by your presence, cheer the hearts of
your poor neighbours? Why did you not come, and once more bring the name of
Elwyn into repute? If you had done this, and something else, that I could
mention, these doors would have opened to me much oftener than they have of
late—Ah, Harry, Harry Elwyn, you have not acted like a sensible man!”
Elwyn walked to and fro the room in
extreme agitation.
“The young men of the present day,”
continued Munden, talking to Mary, “have taken a strange aversion to those
places where their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers were born, lived,
and died contented—the country is too dull for
them—they must live in the world forsooth; and what does the world afford them
in exchange for all that they relinquish for it?—Tell me, Harry Elwyn,” turning
to him, “if one solid advantage will accrue to you,
in the long run, from having forsaken this your paternal inheritance? for as to
giving it up to your mother, that was all romantic nonsense; and you see what a
fine return she has made to you already! a little snug house in a village,
where she could have gossiped with the women, and Timothy could have junketted
with the men, would have been much better suited to them both.”
“My Lauretta does not like the
country,” said Elwyn, “and I could not put a constraint.”
“Whew, whew!” interrupted Munden;
“like, indeed!—I say like! a good wife will like what her
husband approves—Here’s one,” said he, pinching the pale cheek of Mary, which
was presently suffused by the richest crimson; “had you got her for your wife,
my life for it, she would not have said nay, if
you had proposed to live in the country.”
Elwyn’s countenance became flushed,
he struggled with himself, he seemed to bridle his passion, as he
answered—“Excuse me, sir; I did not say that my Lauretta refused to reside
here—I never proposed it to her—for my mother——”
“Aye, aye, she was willing to get
all she could, and to keep all she could—and so no matter, for done is done.”
Mary now retired, in order to make
the necessary preparations for her journey. The old housekeeper attended her;
and while her hands were busily employed, her tongue was not idle. Mary was
obliged to be a spectator and a hearer only; her weak frame was unfit to take
any part in the packing, and her tongue refused its office, though her heart was
full: while apparently listening to Mrs. Scot, who was giving her a long
account of all the suspicions, and all the surmises which had filled her mind
with regard to her mistress, “and which (as she had feared to divulge them) had
disturbed her rest by night, and all her comfort by day;” and while she
accounted for the noises which Mrs. Elwyn and Timothy only
had heard, by supposing, that after the family were in bed, they held their
nocturnal meetings, and that in order to elude suspicion, they had thought it
politic to intimidate the rest of the family with these imputed terrors; while
Mary seemed to be attending to this garrulous old domestic, she was engrossed
by various new and conflicting emotions; she was now going to leave a spot,
endeared to her by a thousand local and affecting recollections; she was going
to leave the dear scenes where she had wandered with her beloved friend; the
paths where, in childhood, she had strayed with Henry Elwyn.
These scenes were now to be
relinquished by the only being who regarded them with partiality; the
unhallowed mirth of the vulgar domestic, raised to a level with his mistress,
would now break the silence of those embowering shades, which were once sacred
to the purest and the most refined contemplations; where the virtuous and
suffering Clara, “once the lov’d mistress of the sylvan scene,” poured out the
sorrows of her heart in the depths of solitude, and sought consolation from
that rich fount where only it could be found. Dear to the breast of
unsophisticated nature, are retrospections like these; dear are the haunts of
our infancy, dear are the spots which were visited in our childhood; much
dearer do they seem, much closer do they twine round the heart and the
imagination, at the moment when we are about to quit them—and perhaps for ever.
The weak state of Mary’s health, and
the severity of the weather, both operated as preventions, otherwise she would
have felt a romantic satisfaction in taking a last look of the woods, the
groves, the fields, the lawns which she loved, though now despoiled of their
foliage, and robbed of their verdure, and fain would she have taken an
affectionate leave of those humble cottagers who had been the daily objects of
her attention; but to the kindness and the activity of Mrs. Scot they were referred; and that good woman, while she held the
purse which Mary deposited in her hands for the precious trust, and while tears
of genuine and unaffected sorrow filled her eyes, besought her young lady to
take it back again, assuring her that the liberality of the young squire would
amply provide for her poor friends—“and what can I
do better than attend to them, and coddle them up, and doctor for them as
usual?” said Scot; “I shall go from hence, you may be
sure, and I shall take some little cottage about the village, just to pop my
head into, and there I can remain, till my dearest Miss Mary wants me—when she pleases to demand my services, I am ready at a moment,
and I will live and die with her.”
Mary caught the hand of Scot (filled
with gratitude at this proof of affection), and pressing it warmly to her
bosom, she said —“How grateful ought
I to be to a good God, for such kind-hearted affection!—dear, good Scot! I
cannot arrange any thing at present; I am not my own mistress; but who knows
whether it may not indeed be permitted us to live and die together?”
In about an hour, Elwyn sent to
inform Mary that he was ready to set out. Scarcely knowing what she did, she
attended the summons.
A table was laid with refreshments,
and observing her agitated manner, and pallid countenance, Mr. Munden poured
out a glass of wine, and held it to her lips—“Drink this, my dear girl,” said
he, “and may Heaven preserve and keep you!”
Mary tasted it, and endeavouring to
acquire resolution, she took a biscuit, which Elwyn at the same moment offered
her.
Every thing was ready for their
departure; a chaise was at the door, and standing at it, and equipped for a
journey, Mary saw the housemaid Susan, who had generally attended upon her in
the lifetime of her benefactress, and whom Henry, with delicate and refined
attention, insisted on her taking as a servant. Mary had nothing to object to
this arrangement; she looked, but could not speak her grateful acquiescence;
she felt that her present weak health required an attendant, and she felt the
propriety of having a third person of their party.
The carriage drove off, followed by
the prayers and good wishes of the domestics; and Mr. Munden soberly reseated
himself in the parlour, and taking a book, said, “he was determined to stay and
pay his compliments to the new married couple.”
The journey of our travellers was
performed by slow stages; Mary was too weak in spirits, and in health, to be a
talkative, or a lively companion; Henry treated her with the most respectful,
yet affectionate kindness; he anticipated her wants, and did every thing in his
power to prevent her from feeling fatigue or inconvenience; but he was silent
and dispirited—his pride, his unconquered pride of heart, had received a
mortifying stab, in the disgraceful conduct of his mother; he had never aimed
at any conquest over this besetting sin of his soul; he had indulged it,
without attending to the dictates of reason or of propriety; for had Harry
Elwyn seriously asked himself what he had to be proud
of, and had the answer been given with candour, on
what foundation could he have built, for the indulgence of the sentiment? he
had been educated and fondled by Mr. Elwyn—true; but his birth had been
shrouded in mystery; he had been looked on as the illegitimate child of his
benefactor; he had been supposed to have owed his origin to the guilt of his parents—was this a situation to be proud of?
Only one little month after the
death of a virtuous, an exemplary wife, Mr. Elwyn had brought home another to the Hall; she had been introduced too as the mother of Henry; the world recognised her as such—and could
the pride of her son receive any addition in the
questionable light in which she was viewed? With the death of his father, the
legitimacy of his birth was ascertained; but could a thinking and a virtuous
child pride himself in the obloquy which that discovery attached to the name of his parent? and could
all the sophistry of this engrossing failing teach him to sink the remembrance
of lady Lauretta Montgomery’s disgraceful connexion with general Halifax, in her high-sounding name, and imposing title? In the recent
imprudence of his mother, there was nothing to extenuate, there was nothing to
soften, but there was every thing to lower the pride of human nature, and to teach it that wholesome, that
beneficial knowledge, that “pride was not
made for man!” but the high spirit of Henry Elwyn still resisted itself against
conviction; he could be sullen—he could be vindictive—he could be furious—but
he could not be humble.
CHAP. XIII.
Here languid Beauty kept her pale-fac’d court,
Bevies of
dainty dames, of high degree,
From every
quarter, hither made resort.
THOMSON’S
Castle of Indolence.
A MESSENGER had
preceded our travellers, in
order to apprize Mrs. Ripley of the approach of her visitor; it was late in the
evening ere they entered Bath, and Elwyn ordered the carriage to be driven
immediately to the house of that lady, in Gay-street.
Fatigued with the journey, agitated
at the idea of encountering a stranger, and of coming, an unbidden guest, to
take up her abode under her roof, Mary’s suffocating emotions prevented her
from thanking Elwyn, as she wished to have done, for his friendly and kind
attentions.
As he assisted her from the carriage,
he pressed the hand he held with fervour to his lips, saying—“God bless you, my dear Mary, and
speedily restore you to your wonted enjoyment of health! I have no doubt of
your finding this an eligible asylum for the present; but as you are not to be
stationary here, turn over any plan in your mind, to which your wishes may
point, and assure yourself,” added he, with a smile, “that it will meet with
the concurrence of your guardian,
as he is well assured that prudence and propriety are always admitted to your
counsels: and yet,” added he, and the smile was vanished, and a sigh struggled
to be heard, though he still assumed a gaiety of manner, “and yet I shrewdly
suspect that any plan which you may now lay
will speedily be frustrated; for blind and insensible must be the whole race of
beaux, if your modest and endearing graces and virtues are not seen and felt,
as soon as you are known,
and if this hand is not coveted by many.”
“That is very improbable,” said
Mary.
“The contrary would be improbable,”
returned Henry; “but however you may decide, whenever, wherever you bestow this precious treasure, may that happiness which you deserve
be yours without alloy! may he on whom you
bestow it be worthy of the invaluable boon!” and hastily turning from the door,
and leaving her to be ushered into a parlour by the servant, he jumped again
into the chaise, and ordered to be driven to his own house in Great
Pulteney-street.
Mary’s eyes were filled with tears
when the door opened, and Mrs. Ripley entered the room; she advanced towards
her with the most unaffected freedom, and taking her hand, said—“Miss Ellis, I am very glad to see you, and hope you do not feel much
inconvenience from your journey; I am much obliged to
Humphrey, for providing me with so nice a companion,
and hope I shall be able to make Bath agreeable to you. I always think ceremony
the very bane of sociability, therefore you are to do as you please in every
respect; I thought you would perhaps prefer retiring to your chamber, to the
formality of a company supper and a stiff tête-à-tête;
your room is prepared, and I shall not take it at all amiss to be left: you
have been an invalid, I find; you look rather delicate still.”
Reassured by the kind familiarity of
this address, all restraint was immediately removed from the manner of
Mary—with grateful thanks she accepted Mrs. Ripley’s offer of retiring; and
conducted to her chamber by her hospitable hostess, she was there left to the
care of her maid; and having taken a glass of negus, soon felt the refreshing
influence of balmy sleep.
Mrs. Ripley, though some years
younger than her brother, Mr. Munden, was yet passed the meridian of life; she
had been early left a widow; and, having a good jointure, good health, good
spirits, and no family, she lived half the year in Bath, where she had a house,
and the other six months she passed in different places, either in visiting her
friends, or in scenes of public resort. Mrs. Ripley was a good-natured, cheerful woman; she was contented to take the world as she found it;
she was a pleased participater in all the goods which it offered to her
acceptance; and her sensibility was not so acute, as to make her susceptible to
many of those minor evils which disturb the peace of a more fastidious portion
of society: she adopted
for herself some certain rules of action, which she scrupulously maintained,
such as the following—she never went but to one amusement
in one evening; her stake at whist was always limited to half-a-crown; she
never made a bet; she never attended a card-party of a
Sunday; she never accepted an invitation to a rout, after the twenty-fifth of
March, or before the twenty-ninth of September: thus she had a settled system
in her pursuit of pleasure, which gave her the character of regularity and
prudence, in a place where party succeeds to party, and one scene of amusement
to another; and morning frequently dawns on the devotees of fashion, as they are returning from the play, the party, and the private-ball,
while the thundering knocks of their footmen, or their chairmen, alarm their
more sober neighbours.
Mrs. Ripley did not read, for this
substantial reason—that she had no time; for her time was completely filled up
by the stated avocations of the day; she knew how every hour was to be
employed; and without appearing to be the least hurried, or to feel the least
fatigue, she went through the four-and-twenty hours, with as much mechanical
precision as the elegant little clock which stood upon the chimney piece in her
breakfast-parlour. At nine she arose, at ten she breakfasted; from that hour
till one she spent in answering letters—writing cards of thanks—of inquiry—of
acceptance—or of invitation; from one till four she paid or received morning
visits, or passed in shopping; from four till five she was at the toilet; at
five she dined; and if she had no company, she looked over the cards which had
been left for her during the morning, in order to arrange her plan of action
for the ensuing day; and at seven or eight, according to the formality or informality, the
dress or the undress
of the party, she performed her evening’s engagement; at eleven she returned
home, and was always in bed (unless she was detained at a late private ball or
supper) before midnight; on Sunday, she always went to church in the morning,
and invariably to the Crescent or to the Pump-room afterwards; while there were
a certain part of her female acquaintance (invalids, who never went to parties,
and for whom Sunday was consequently the only open day—decayed gentlewomen, who
were glad of a comfortable dinner, or professional people whom she had been
desired to notice), that were glad to make a circle round her well-spread board
on this day, and who tried, by their cheerful conversation, to evince their
sense of the attention. Mrs. Ripley never invited any fortune-hunting men, or
any of questionable character, to those friendly parties; and for decorum,
circumspection, and regularity, no widow lady in Bath stood higher in the
estimation of the public—the old liked her, because she was attentive to them;
the young, because she was good-natured and cheerful; the fashionable, because
she dressed well, and looked smart; the unfashionable, because she did not
gamble, or leave off all her
petticoats.
Mary Ellis could not have gone to
any lady, under whose protection she would have been sure of more universal
suffrage; for Mrs. Ripley had no enemies—she
had no spirit of competition or rivalry, hence she was not an object of envy;
and if the question was asked—“Do you know Mrs. Ripley?” the answer was
generally returned—“Oh yes, to be sure I do—what a charming, good-humoured
creature she is!”
Though much renovated by a
comfortable night’s repose, yet Mary did not feel herself well enough to join
Mrs. Ripley, either in her morning’s round of visits, or in her evening’s
engagements; and when she heard these called over at the breakfast-table, she
pleaded her inability.
“Oh! don’t trouble to make any
apology about it,” said Mrs. Ripley; “you shall stay at home as long as you
like, and till you are quite well; I shall be always glad to have you with me,
but I shall never be offended if you are not; and till you are quite recovered,
I think the more cautious you are, the better; I will not act so much in the
ceremonious way as to offer to stay at home with you; that would be putting
myself quite out of my track, and I should not know how to get right again, for
my hands are quite full, and every day brings its own business; and if I do not
quit scores, I shall get over head and ears in debt. Yesterday was one of my
stay-at-home mornings; in consequence, I had a great many visitors; and if I do
not return them to-day, only think how they will be increased upon me by
to-morrow!”
“I am quite pleased that you treat
me in this manner, my dear madam,” said Mary; “I should never be able to
reconcile myself to the intrusion, if it were not for the kind and easy
reception which you give me.”
“Don’t say a word about it,” said
Mrs. Ripley; “I am always happy to oblige Humphrey, independent of every other
consideration, for he is a good creature, though not fit for a Bath beau; but
in this instance, I suspect that I am obliging myself, and I almost wish that I
could enjoy a little more of your society this morning—but you see how it is,” pointing to the
pile of visiting-tickets which lay before her; “these must all be left in propria persona, at least I must be the bearer of them,
though in all probability I shall not be let into one of the houses.”
“In that case, could not your
footman spare you the trouble?” asked Mary.
“Why, my dear Miss Ellis, one would
think that you had lived in Bath all your life—you are really quite dashy in
your ideas—that is the very tip-top of ton—No—I never will come into that
absurd plan—now I am ready to make my entrée, if my
friends are at home, and choose to admit
me, in the other case I could not see
them—no, I will always be rational in my
amusements.”
“But surely there must be a great
fatigue in having to return visit for visit, in this formal manner.”
“Not the least, my dear, when once a
regular method is established. These little bits of paper,” taking up one of
the cards, “may be considered as the very cement of fashionable society; they
are of the utmost possible use in maintaining an uninterrupted and social
intercourse with our friends; many, very many ladies of my intimate
acquaintance, I have not spoken to for the whole winter, though I may have
visited them, and they may have visited me once
a-week, or a fortnight at furthest—perhaps I may have met them accidentally of
an evening, seated in a part of a room where it has been utterly impossible to
get to them; and our familiar nods have evinced to one another that our
intimacy is as undiminished as it had been the preceding winter, though our
personal intercourse has been unavoidably suspended.”
“You must have so much to attend
to—so much upon your mind,” said Mary.
“No, my dear girl, it is brought by
me into so regular a routine, that I assure you I am never the least perplexed;
put me out of my way, send me to two or three parties of a-night, to balls
first, and suppers after, to Sunday
card-meetings, and evening breakfasts, and
I should be out of my head, and soon have my senses bewildered; I could not
bear the dissipated lives of the fashionable world. I take things moderately
and soberly—I use, but not abuse—some
people never tire, never weary in the pursuit of pleasure—but pleasure would
cease to be pleasure to me, if I could not follow it in my own methodical and
strait-forward manner—I must now answer some of these notes.”
“Can I assist you, ma’am?” asked
Mary; “you cannot oblige me more than by making me useful.”
“No, my dear, I thank you, I am
entirely independent—it is no trouble to me; for this is as much the business
of the morning as my breakfast—but I had like to have forgotten to ask if you
like reading?”
“Very much,” answered Mary.
“Then I will order George to go to a
library and subscribe, that you may get some books.”
“Don’t put yourself to that
unnecessary trouble, on my account, I entreat you, ma’am,” said Mary.
“Oh, my dear, the trouble is none.”
“But any from your own library.”
“I have no
library, my dear child—I have no time for
reading, and consequently, a library would be useless to me—mere lumber. At Mr.
Ripley’s death, I sold off all my books, except my Bible and Prayer-book, Hoyle
on Whist, and Blair’s Sermons (as I always make a point of reading a sermon on
Sundays, if I can’t go to church), and a Guide to the Watering-places, for that is necessary to take with me on my summer
excursions—now this is literally my
library; it would be down-right folly in me to talk of books which I have not,
and which, if I had, I should not read—I dare say there are many pretty things
to be got at the libraries—I hear people talking about books frequently; but as
I do not read myself, I remember nothing about them; however, when I meet with some of my reading acquaintances, I will get
them to set down a few titles for me; but George shall ask Mr. —— to recommend something for to-day.”
From this specimen of Mrs. Ripley,
our readers will be as well acquainted with her, as if they had been her inmate
for a month; she was perfectly easy, unaffected, and good-humoured; but the
little niceties of sentiment and feeling, the traits of genuine sensibility,
the resources of mental cultivation, the discriminating eye of taste, the
vitality of religion, none of those were hers.
Grateful to Heaven, and thankful to
Mr. Munden, for having placed her in a respectable asylum, Mary felt very much
relieved when Mrs. Ripley sallied forth on her morning’s duty, and she was left
to pursue her own amusements; her enfeebled frame, and the late agitation of
her spirits, both required rest, and she was happy at being freed from any
troublesome intruders; but with all the apprehensive anxiety of a mind which
was still feeble and tremulous from illness, she fancied every knock at the
door was the knock of Mrs. Elwyn, who, though she almost dreaded to see, she
yet expected to call upon her; but that lady did not make her appearance; and
though spared from the unpleasant sensations which must inevitably have ensued,
from an interview with a person who had always evinced such insolent
superiority over her, yet she grieved to think that Henry Elwyn’s wife was of
such a stamp, and that he should have united himself to a woman so wholly
opposite to himself in every generous quality.
In the course of the morning, Elwyn
called at the door with a message of inquiry, and being told that Mrs. Ripley
was out, and that Miss Ellis was tolerably well, he merely left his
compliments, and did not ask admittance.
Mary was pleased at this delicate
behaviour; for though Elwyn was her guardian, he was yet a very young man for
that office; the world in the country had already joined their names more than
once; the world at Bath might do the same; and if Mrs. Elwyn refused to notice
her, the particular regards of her husband might be viewed with the eye of
suspicion.
Such were some of the ruminations of
Mary, during the absence of Mrs. Ripley; but in order to show her sense of that
lady’s attention, she began to peruse the books, and spent two hours very pleasantly:
Mr. —— had been judicious in the selections, and she
derived both amusement and instruction from the employment.
CHAP. XIV.
Enchanting, as if aught so sweet
Ne’er
faded. Do thy daughters wear the weeds
Of
calm domestic peace, and wedded love?
BOWLES.
WHEN Henry Elwyn had
turned from the door of Mrs. Ripley, having there in safety deposited his fair
ward, he was much affected at the separation: Mary Ellis had entered into all
the humiliating feelings which had wounded him, as he contemplated the
disgraceful conduct of his mother; she had sympathized in his distress; she had
tried to sooth his perturbed soul; the warm interest which he still took in the
happiness of the gentle girl with whom he had been bred up in habits of early
intimacy; the ravages which her recent illness had made upon her delicate
frame, and something, perhaps, nearly allied to compunction, as he took a
retrospect of the past—all these had combined to give much pathos and
seriousness to his parting address; but his sanguine spirit again sprang with
elastic anticipation towards his lovely, and still fondly-beloved Lauretta; the
little female foibles which he had noticed in her were forgotten, in the idea
of once more folding her to his breast; after this forced, this painful
absence, she should be the sweet soother of his cares, the repository of his
sorrows; to her he should reveal the mortifying, the distressing recollections
which still unmanned him; when a mother’s frailty, a mother’s imprudence,
called the indignant blush into his cheek, Lauretta should speak peace to his
wounded soul; she would feel for him; the soft accents of affection from her
lips would be a cordial balm to his heart.
The messenger who had preceded Elwyn
to Bath, to apprize Mrs. Ripley of the approach of her guest, had also been
ordered to inform Mrs. Elwyn when she might expect her husband.
Elwyn did not wait to be announced;
he ran up immediately into the drawing-room, but it was deserted; the fire was
scarcely alive in the grate, and cast a melancholy light over the apartment;
the candles were placed on the table, but were not lighted. Elwyn rang the
bell; a servant appeared—“Is your mistress unwell? is she gone to bed?” asked
he, in a tone of hurried agitation.
“Oh, no, sir,” replied the man; “my
mistress is very well indeed, sir—never saw her better—she left her compliments
for you, sir, when she went out, and bid me tell you, sir, that she went first
to the play, sir, and then to lady Sawbridge’s ball and supper; she said she
supposed they should keep it up late, sir: she desired, sir, if you came home
in time, that you would follow her to my lady Sawbridge’s, as your name was in
the card.”
“Not to-night,” thought Elwyn.
“Light the candles, and leave me,” said he aloud; he folded his arms across,
and leant his head on the mantle-piece—“Would Mary Ellis have been absent at
such a time?” asked he, mentally; the question was a dangerous one—he did not
pursue it, but he felt all the rebellious passions of his nature struggling in
his breast: “is it thus,” cried he, “that Lauretta can enjoy herself in my
absence? she knew the recent shock which I had
felt—she knew that I was coming—she expected me
to-night—Does she not love me then?—has Harry Elwyn lavished his fondness, and
bartered his liberty, to one who loves him not?”
he walked round the room in a distempered agony of mind, which baffles
description—“Impossible!” said he, pausing, and the natural vanity of his
disposition again triumphant, “Impossible!—did I not view the delight (a
delight which female coyness vainly tried to hide) which sparkled in her eyes,
which glowed in her dear cheek, when we accidentally met at Salcombe? and did I
not view the distress, the tender sensibility, the fearful apprehension, which
overcame her, which subdued reserve and timidity, when the express reached me
at Malvern, when a separation was about to take place between us? but when all
doubt was changed to certainty, and she was mine for ever—oh, Lauretta!
dearest, sweetest Lauretta! why art thou absent?”
Elwyn took a seat—he tried to
read—the book was dull—the style uninteresting—the story spiritless—he thought
of going to lady Sawbridge’s; but he cast his eyes in the glass, and seeing the
disordered state of his dress, he gave up the idea; for he was too much
fatigued to engage in the duties of the toilet that night.
The servant reappeared, to ask if
his master chose supper?
“Aye, you may bring some in,” answered
Elwyn, scarcely knowing what he said. He ate a mouthful of cold chicken, and he
hastily swallowed several glasses of Madeira; his spirits rose in
consequence—he could not remain in the house—he knew that several of his
acquaintances were assembled at —— house, and that at this hour they were
deeply engaged at play; dress would be inconsequential there; it was more easy
to amuse himself for an hour in looking at them, than in undergoing all the
parade of dress, and attending to the imposing laws of etiquette. He went out,
and was soon welcomed by the party at —— house, who received this voluntary
visit with the highest satisfaction.
At first, Elwyn resisted all
entreaties to engage in the amusement; but the turbulent state of his mind did
not exactly tally with the character of a calm and disengaged spectator;
insensibly he became interested in the scene he was contemplating; he betted
highly; the enthusiasm of his spirits rose with success; he betted again; he
doubled the former sum—he lost! and, fatigued and exhausted, he returned home
at five in the morning, dissatisfied with himself, and ready to throw the blame
of his ill fortune on Lauretta, whose absence from home had been the original
cause of this imprudent visit.
To his inquiry concerning Mrs.
Elwyn, he was answered that “she had been returned home an hour, that she had
expressed great surprise at not having seen him at lady Sawbridge’s, and that
she had gone to bed immediately.”
“Poor Lauretta!” thought Henry, and
immediately his feelings were brought into their wonted channel; “hurt, no
doubt, at this seeming neglect of thee; thy tenderness wounded at my not
following thee to lady Sawbridge’s; at my absence, when thou hadst expected me
to hail thy return with eager fondness, thou hast retired to the privacy of
thine own apartment, to the solitude of thine own chamber, to hide the
overflowings of thy feeling heart, to pour them out upon thy pillow.”
With cautious and gentle steps Elwyn
entered the chamber of his wife, certain of finding her awake, and ready to
chide his absence; he approached the bed; those eyes, which he had pourtrayed
as beaming with tenderness upon him (while they were yet moistened by the tears
of apprehensive affection), tears which would upbraid him for his long delay,
tears which would reproach him more than words, tears which he should kiss
away, those eyes were closed in sleep—in sleep
sound and undisturbed! no traces of tears were seen on her cheek, no signs of
anxiety were perceptible on her tranquil countenance—“It would be cruel to
awaken her,” thought Elwyn, as he gazed upon her; and fearing lest the light of
the candle should fall on her face, he set it down on the dressing-table.
There, strewed in confusion, lay the ornaments of his lovely wife, there lay
the diamond tiara which had adorned her hair, the strings of pearls which had
graced her neck and arms; the disorder which was there apparent, proved that
overcome by fatigue, she had hastened to bed, without even allowing her abigail
time to put her trappings aside. There was something very mortifying in this
thought, yet it would recur, and force itself upon the mind of Elwyn. The
speaking witnesses of Lauretta’s insensate indifference seemed to lie before
him, in the discarded decorations of her beauty; he did not stay to analyse his
own sentiments, but snatching up the candle, he retired to the next room; he
felt a malicious kind of satisfaction, in the idea of Lauretta’s surprise and
mortification when she should awake in the morning, and find that her apartment
had not been occupied by her husband.
Elwyn threw himself upon a bed, but
his slumbers were neither unbroken or tranquil—“distempered visions of the
night” stole over his perturbed imagination, and disturbed his soul; he lay
until a late hour, and awoke with an aching head, and a feverish pulse.
He arose—his first inquiry was for
Lauretta; she had not yet rang her bell; he sent to ask after her health, and
to let her know that he was ready for breakfast; the answer she returned him
was that “she was very lazy, but that she would try to get up.”
Elwyn went into the drawing-room,
and throwing himself upon the sofa, by the time he took up a book, and held it
in his hand, turning over the leaves without reading, for nearly an hour, when
the door opened, and in a loose wrapping-gown, and a dishabille which evidently
proved that she had not been long at her toilet, Lauretta entered, and rubbing
her eyes, and saying—“Elwyn, you naughty man, how could you be so cruel? you
awoke me out of the sweetest sleep in the world.”
“My dearest love,” replied Elwyn,
tenderly pressing her to his breast, “I thought you would not be sorry to come
to me after an absence of four days—oh, Lauretta! a cruel absence has it been
to me! much, much has your Elwyn suffered—and much has he longed for the solace
of your society.”
“It was plain you longed very much for it,” said Lauretta, with an air
half-jesting, half-chiding, “by your not following me to lady Sawbridge’s, when
I expressly left a message to desire that you would.”
“My love, I was harassed in mind and
body,” replied Elwyn, “and ill suited for a scene of gaiety.”
“But you went out somewhere,” said
Lauretta, “and you were out when I returned home, Mr. Elwyn,” in an accusing
tone; “may I ask whither your fatigue impelled you?”
“Alas!” thought Elwyn, “it was you, Lauretta, that impelled me;” but he tried to parry her
question; for though Lauretta might not chide him, his heart recoiled from the
painful confession. Henry Elwyn dared not avow that he had spent the night at a
gaming-table; and thus ever is it with novices in vice—they blush to own—they
are ashamed to acknowledge their first
transgression, when the acknowledgement might, perhaps, prevent a repetition of
the fault—the temptation recurs a second time, the first offence still
undiscovered, still shrouded in secresy—it is repeated, and by degrees the
fearful sinner becomes the open and bold offender, with feelings callous, with
conscience seared—“I did not go where I enjoyed myself,” said Elwyn, with a
languid sigh.
“You tell me
so,” replied Lauretta, sarcastically.
“I had much to unhinge, much to
unman me,” returned he; “ah, Lauretta! judge of my sensations, when I found I
came too late to save my mother from disgrace! yes, I have cast off my only
remaining parent—I have cast her off for ever!”
“And what is there in that?” asked
Lauretta, with the utmost nonchalance;
“nothing to make you look so solemn, Elwyn—it is rather a comic than a tragic
tale—Mrs. Elwyn cast you off, and has chosen a companion more suited to her
taste—Lord bless you! leave all the world to be happy in their own way, and
don’t trouble about it.”
“And can you really talk with so
much coolness on a subject which so nearly affects me?” asked Elwyn.
“I really see nothing at all to make
a fuss about,” answered Lauretta; “these things are done every day; I dare say
your mother is extremely happy with Timothy for her husband, and her friend
Miss Mary for her sempstress.”
“Lauretta,” said Elwyn, with
seriousness, “do not class those names together; do you think I suffered Mary
Ellis to remain at the Hall? do you think I would expose purity, delicacy like
hers, to the gross familiarity of such a man as the one whom my mother has
chosen?”
“Bless me, what harm could he do
her?” said Lauretta; “he would be too much taken up in attending to his old
lady, to have time to spare to the young one; and, by-the-bye, I believe,
Elwyn, if we were to trace things to their sources, we should find that this
Miss Mary Ellis has no great right to be fastidious, and that she, of all people, need not turn up her nose at Mr. Timothy
Piff.”
“No right! fastidious! turn up her
nose! Timothy Piff! Lauretta, do I really hear you? Are you speaking of Mary
Ellis, the humblest, the most virtuous of human beings?”
“And pray,” asked Lauretta, nettled
at the warm approbation in which her husband spoke of Mary Ellis, who had
always been the particular object of her aversion and contempt, “and pray, sir,
will you suffer me to ask what asylum you may, in your wisdom, have selected for
the humblest and the most virtuous of human beings?”
“That of respectability, madam,”
said Elwyn; “I brought Miss Ellis with me to Bath, and have placed her under
the protection of Mrs. Ripley in Gay-street, a lady who mixes in polite
society, whose conduct is marked by prudence and propriety, whose sanction is
sufficient introduction, as she is well known here, and who is the sister of
Mr. Munden, our old friend and neighbour, through whose kind interference his
sister’s countenance was bespoken for my ward.”
“Brought her to this place!—brought
her to Bath!—heavens and earth! what could induce
you to do so ill-judged a thing?” cried Lauretta.
“I am utterly at a loss to know why
it was ill-judged,” replied Henry, with steady coolness; “as guardian of Mary
Ellis, it is my duty to promote her happiness;
her merits and attractions entitle her to an advantageous establishment; here
she will have opportunities of being seen, and of being known, which she could
not have had in the country; and though the imprudence of my misguided parent
has affixed an indelible stigma upon her character,
and planted a thorn in this breast, yet eventually it may be beneficial to my
lovely and interesting ward.”
“Lovely and interesting!” repeated
Lauretta, passion rising in her flushed cheek; “this is most
extraordinary!—your nocturnal, your mysterious visit is now accounted for, Mr.
Elwyn; guardian to this perfect being, you assume the office by night, as well
as day, it seems, and watch even her slumbers.”
“Ridiculous accusation!” cried
Elwyn; “you do not believe it yourself, Lauretta, though for the sake of
peevishness you choose to say it.”
“But I do believe it, and I will believe it,” said Lauretta, in a querulously impatient
tone; “I do believe it, I say—I know it—I know you do every thing you can to
teaze and torment me.—My dear, sweet, good mamma never said a word to hurt me
in her whole life—no, she did not, Mr. Elwyn;” and Lauretta flung herself on a
chair, and whimpered like an infant.
It will perhaps occur to our readers,
as it did to Elwyn, that though lady Lauretta spared the rod, she had spoiled
the child; but he merely walked to the window, and looked out for some minutes
with a would-be careless air, and apparently
regardless of the reiterated sobbings of Lauretta: at length, turning hastily
round, and walking towards her, and seizing both her hands, he said—“Lauretta,
dearest Lauretta, you know that I
love you to distraction, you know that on yourself the whole tenderness of this
heart is lavished—for God’s sake take care what you do! do not let mere female
caprice and idle spleen get the dominion over you; do not let them stand
between you and happiness—I am hasty—I am impetuous—but you have it in your
power to make me what you like—oh, do not raise those tumultuous throes of
agony in my bosom, which cannot be allayed!—oh, do not let me for one moment
think that you sport with my feelings—that you
can take a malicious pleasure in torturing me; for that
moment,” and his eye flashed rapid fire, the whole fire of his countenance
changed, and his voice was raised almost to a frenzied pitch, “that moment would show Henry Elwyn that he had been deceived—that Lauretta Montgomery acted the dissembler’s part, when she said
she loved him.”
Lauretta was intimidated by the violence
of his manner—“I am sure I cannot think what this is all about, for my part,”
said she. “Oh, my dear mamma——”
“Lauretta,” interrupted Elwyn, with
more calmness in his manner, “hear me—no more of this—this continual reference
to your mother is at once childish and ungenerous—are you not a rational and an
accountable being? you have chosen a companion for your life—I am that person; if you object to any thing in my conduct,
my sentiments, or my behaviour, ingenuously tell me so; but do not thus, by inference,
invocate lady Lauretta to come and witness against me—rather, much rather rejoice that she is at a distance—that you, her
child, are spared from hearing the unpleasant remarks which are passed upon her
extraordinary conduct.”
Lauretta was silenced; she had never
before heard Elwyn speak so openly on the subject of her mother’s intimacy with
general Halifax; she felt that she could urge nothing which would extenuate it;
she looked humbled and convinced.
Elwyn saw her look, and in a moment
felt it; his proud spirit was appeased and softened; he reproached himself for
giving the slightest shadow of uneasiness to so lovely, so charming a being—he
folded her in his arms, he imprinted the warm kiss of reconciliation on her
lips, and they breakfasted together in perfect harmony. Mary Ellis’s name
seemed to be avoided by mutual consent, though Elwyn would fain have learnt
whether Lauretta intended to call upon her, hoping that she would do so, and
not liking to propose it to her—but nothing was further from Lauretta’s
intention; it never occurred to her that it was proper; and as it was not
pleasant, as it did not meet her own wishes, it never entered her head: she
pursued her daily routine of amusement with unslackened avidity, and Elwyn
contented himself with a mere inquiry after Mary Ellis.
END OF VOL. III.
Printed by Lane, Darling, & Co. Leadenhall-street,
London.