A SONG."Say, by what name can I impartMy sense, dear girl, of what thou art?Nay, though to frown thou darest,I'll say thou art ofgirls the pride:And though that modest lip may chide,Mary! I'll call thee 'fairest.'"Yet no—that word can but expressThe soft and winning lovelinessIn which the sight thou meetest.But not thy heart, thy temper too,So good, so sweet—Ha! that will do!Mary! I'll call thee 'sweetest.'"But 'fairest, sweetest,' vain would beTo speak the love I feel for thee:Why smilest thou as thou hearest?""Because," she cried, "one little nameIs all I wish from thee to claim—Thatpreciousname is 'dearest.'"
You will not, I conclude, imagine that I remember these songs only from having heard them that night, especially as they have very little merit; but the truth is, I was so pleased with them, because I fancied them applicable to my own feelings, that I requested them of the gentlemen who sung, and they were given to me.
Lord Charles meanwhile listened to the singing with great impatience, as he had had enough of the company, which was very numerous, and by no means as select as it had been before. Indeed at one table were many persons in whom the observant eye of Lord Charles discovered associates whose evident vulgarity made him feel himself out of his place. However, he could not presume to break up the party; and as our indefatigable host and hostess still kept forcing the talents of their guests into their service, song succeeded to song, and duet to duet. From one of the latter, however, sung by a lady and gentleman, I at length derived a soothing feeling; and in one moment, an observation of Seymour's, with, as I fancied, a correspondent and intended expression of countenance, removed a load from my heart, and my clouded brow became consciously to myself unclouded again.
The words of this healing duet were as follows:—
DUET."Say, why art thou pensive, beloved of my heart?Indeed I am happy wherever thou art:My eyes I confess toward others may rove,But never, believe me, with wishes of love.And trust me, however myglancesmay roam,Of them, andmy heart,thou alone art the home!"ANSWER."Perhaps I am wrong thus dejected to be;But my faithful eyes never wander fromthee.On beauty and youthI unconsciouslygaze,No thought, no emotion in me they can raise;And ah! if thine eyes get the habit to roam,How can Ibe certainthey'llever come home?""Oh! trust thy own charms! See the bee as he flies,And visits each blossom of exquisite dies;There culls of their sweetness some store for his cell;But short are his visits, and prompt his farewell;For still he remembers, howe'er he may roam,Thathoard of delightwhichawaits him at home."Then trust me, however thy Henry may roam,I feel my best pleasuresawait me at home.""I'll try to believe, howsoever thou roam,Thy heart's dearest pleasures await thee at home."
"That is a charming duet," cried Seymour when it was ended. Then leaning behind Lady Martindale and Lord Charles, and calling to me, he said, with a look from which my conscious eye shrunk, "Helen, I admire the sentiment of that duet. I think, my love, we will get it—we should sing itcon amore, should we not?" I could not look at him as I replied, "Icould, I am sure."
"Silly girl," he added in a low and kind tone, "and so, I am sure, could I."
I then ventured to raise my eyes to his; and his expression was such, that I felt quite a different creature, and was able to enjoy the rest of the evening.
But why do I enter into these minute and unimportant details? Let me efface them—but no, perhaps they may chance to meet the eyes of some whose hearts have felt the anxieties and the vicissitudes of mine, and to them they may be interesting.
Lord Martindale was now requested to favour the company with a song, and with great good nature he instantly complied;—while Lord Charles whispered across me to my mother, "What a disgrace that fellow is to the peerage!"
"By his vices I grant you," replied my mother, "but not by his obliging compliance."
Lord Charles shrugged up his shoulders and was about to reply, when Silence was vociferated rather angrily by the lady of the house, who had not been blind to the airs which, as she said, Lord Charles had given himself the whole evening. Lord Martindale, as may be supposed, was greatly applauded, on the same principle as that mentioned by the poet with regard to noble authors:
"For if a lord once own the happy lines,How the wit brightens! how the taste refines!"
and the noisy expressions of admiration which rewarded a very mediocre performance did not increase the good humour of our noble guest, against whom I saw an attack preparing at the bottom of the table. At length a very pretty girl, and who had sung with considerable skill, tried to engage the attention of Lord Charles; and finding "Sir" was not sufficient, she added "Mr. Belmour, Sir!" But some one whispered, "He is a Lord;" on which she said, "Dear me! Well then, My lord, Lord Belmour;" and Lord Charles turned towards the pretty speaker, while a half-muttered. "Vulgar animal!" was audible to my mother and myself, and formed a ludicrous contrast to the affectedly respectful attention and bent head with which he listened to what she had to observe.
But when he found that the young lady was requesting him to sing, and that she declared she had a claim on him, his expression of mingledhauteur, astonishment, and indignation, was highly comic, and we who knew him were eagerly expecting his answer, when we heard him say, having bowed and smirked his hand affectedly to his heart at the same time, "with the greatest pleasure in life;—which wine, claret or Champagne?"
"Dear me," cried the young lady, "I did not ask you to drink, but to sing, my lord."
"Oh! Champagne; very good. Carry a glass to that young lady:" but she indignantly rejected it, and repeated her request.
"I beg pardon," replied theimpracticableLord Charles, "I thought you said Champagne: then take claret to the young lady," who in vain exerted her voice. He remained quite deaf, holding his ear like a deaf person, much to the amusement of the company and the confusion of the fair supplicant, who had been encouraged by the admiring glances which Lord Charles had till now bestowed on her, to think that any request from her would have been attended to.
Thus far Lord Charles's endangered dignity had come off with flying colours, as it was no great affront to be requested to sing by a pretty girl, even though she had told him that he had a singing face, and looked like a singer; for the turn which he had given to her application got the laugh on his side, and he was very sure that she would not so presume again. But he was not to be let off so easily; for Mr. Oswald, who, being almost "as drunk as a lord," felt himself quite as great as one, now came behind Lord Charles, and giving him a sounding blow across the back, exclaimed with an oath, "Come, now, Belmour, there is a good fellow, do sing, for I have heard you are a comical dog when you like."
If a look could have annihilated, that instant would the little fat man have disappeared from off the face of the earth. The glance of Lord Charles was powerless even to wound Mr. Oswald; and he was equally unmoved when, scorning even to answer his importunate host, our friend suddenly addressed my mother, saying, "I think, Mrs. Pendarves, you desired me to call your carriage?"
"You are mistaken, my lord," replied my mother, with a reproving look which he well understood; and his tormentor was going to assail him again, when Seymour, to relieve Lord Charles, drew him into conversation; and I had just advised his still irritated guest to remember that Oswald was intoxicated, when our attention was attracted to a conversation between Mrs. Oswald and another lady, of which Lord Charles was the subject; and it was evident that Mrs. Oswald spoke of him in no friendly tone.
"Yes, my lord," said she, "you may look; we were certainly talking of your lordship."
"You do me much honour, madam."
"That is as it may be, my lord; but I was trying to do you justice, for my friend said it was pride that prevented your singing; butIsaid—" (and here she raised her voice to a shriller and more ludicrous pitch than usual) "yes, I said, says I, 'That is impossible, my dear; it cannot be pride; for if a real peer of the realm,' says I, 'the real thing, condescends to sing and amuse the company, surely Lord Charles Belmour need not be above it, who is only a commonly called, you know.'"
Instantly, to my consternation, and afterwards to his own, Lord Charles, thrown off his guard by this sarcasm, echoed her last words, and gave her tone and manner so exactly, that the effect upon the company was irresistible, and a general laugh ensued; which, to do him justice, shocked more than it gratified the self-condemned mimic, who could only for a moment be provoked to violate the rules of good breeding; and he was completely subdued, when Mrs. Oswald, with a degree of forbearance and good-humour which exalted her in my esteem, observed, "Well, my lord, you have condescended to exert your talent of mimicry, though you would not sing; and though it was at my expense, I am grateful to you, as you have contributed to amuse my company."
"Admirably replied!" exclaimed my mother.
"Excellent, excellent, bravo!" cried Pendarves; while Lord Charles, admonished, penitent and ashamed, was not slow to redeem himself from the sort of disgrace which he had incurred. Rising gracefully and bowing his head on his clasped hands, he solicited her pardon for the liberty which her evident nature had emboldened him to take, declaring at the same time, that if she forgave him, it would be long before he should forgive himself.
Mrs. Oswald, who was really as kind-hearted as she seemed, readily granted the pardon which he asked, and he respectfully pressed her offered hand to his lips. He did more; for while the carriages were called, he suddenly disappeared, and in a moment we could have fancied ourselves at the door of Drury-lane or Covent-garden; for the offered services of link-boys, the cries of "Coach, coach," and "Here, your honour," with all the different sounds, were heard in the hall; and while the guests listened delighted to this new and unexpected entertainment, the Oswalds were, I saw, evidently gratified at finding that it proceeded from the talent of Lord Charles. O the unnecessary humiliation to which pride exposes itself! Had he civilly though firmly refused the young lady's and Mr. Oswald's request to sing, and not discovered in the evening his haughty contempt for the company and his host, or insulted his hostess, he needed not to have condescended to an expiatory exhibition from which under other circumstances his pride would have properly revolted.
Thus ended this to me disagreeable evening, which extended far into the morning. The drive home was pleasant; for Lord Charles, having reconciled himself to himself by his ampleamende honorable, and by the generous candour with which he received our reproofs, thought he was privileged to indulge his less amiable feelings by turning some of the company into ridicule, and exhibiting them to the very life before us. I must own that I again felt an ungenerous pleasure in some part of the entertainment, namely his mimicry of Lady Martindale, which I vainly endeavoured to subdue, and I was glad that, as Pendarves rode on the box, he did not witness my degradation. I must add, that both my mother and myself were gratified to observe that Lord Charles forbore to mimic our kind but vulgar host and hostess; and my mother took care to let him know indirectly that his delicacy was not lost upon her.
Another performance was fixed for that day week; the original Letitia Hardy, however, was expected, and most gladly did I offer to resign my part to her. Still, I was mortified to see with how little concern Pendarves heard me offer my resignation, and saw it accepted. Alas! not even Lord Charles's and my mother's joy at my being removed from a situation which they thought unworthy of me, could reconcile me to his indifference on the subject.
The next day Lord Charles was to leave us; but I saw that his departure was more welcome to my husband than to my mother and myself. In the morning he had requested Pendarves to walk with him round the grounds, and they returned, I observed, with disturbed countenances.
Lord Charles then called, and sat some time with my mother. What passed between them I do not know; but their parting was even affectionate, and his with me was distinguished from all our other partings by a degree of emotion for which I could not account.
"How I shall miss you!" said I, softened by his dejection.
"Thank you! I can bear better to leave you now:" and springing into his carriage he drove off and I felt forlorn; for I felt that I had lost a friend: and I also felt that I wanted one who, like him, had some check over my husband.
What more shall I say of this painful period of my life, for which, however, painful as it was, I would gladly have exchanged that which soon followed? One day was a transcript of the other. Pendarves, ever good-natured and kind while he was at home, seemed to think that he was thereby justified in leaving me continually; but as I was not of that opinion, to use a French phrase,je dépérissois à vue d'œil;and though I affected to be cheerful, my mother saw that my feelings were undermining my existence. But not even to her would I complain of my husband and she respected my silence too much to wish me to break it. However she was with me,—she, I felt, never would forsake me, or love me less; and while I had her, I was far from being completely miserable. Alas! what was she not to me? friend, counsellor, comforter!
But the decree was gone forth, and even her I was doomed to resign!
Not long after Lord Charles had quitted us, I perceived a visible alteration in my mother's appearance. I saw that she ate little, that she was very soon fatigued, and that her fine spirits were gone. I had no doubt but that she fretted for my anxieties. I therefore laboured the more to convince her that I was not as uneasy as she thought me.
But how vainly did I try to veil my heart from her penetrating glance! if there be such a thing as the art of divination, it is possessed by the eagle eye of interested affection, and that was hers.
My mother saw all my secret struggles; she pitied, she resented their cause; and I have sometimes feared that she sunk under them.
One morning, Pendarves on his return from Oswald Lodge came in with a very animated countenance, and told us a new description of amusement was introduced there, namely, archery, and he must beg me to go with him the next day, and learn to be an archer. "Lady Martindale," cried he, "already shoots like Diana herself."
"The only resemblance, I should think," said my mother, "which she has to Diana. But what do you say to this proposal, Helen? I must take leave to say that, as your mother, you can never go to Oswald Lodge again with my consent on any terms: and to engage in this new competition, oh! never, never!"
"And why not, madam? There is nothing indelicate in such an exhibition; and I own my pride in Helen, as a husband, made me wish to see her fine form exhibited in the graceful action of shooting at a target. Besides, as I really wish if possible to associate her in all my amusements, I was delighted to think this new pursuit would have led her to join me in my visits to the Lodge, and I am really desirous to know on what grounds you object to her obliging me."
"On account of the company there. Mr. and Mrs. Oswald are weak, vain people, fond of courting persons of quality; and so as they can but be intimate with a Lord and Lady, they care not of what description they are. This Lord Martindale is, I find, a man not much noticed by his equals; and as to Lady Martindale, the woman who could so expose her person in the dress of a Statue is not a fit companion for my daughter, nor your wife."
"You are severe, madam; but what says Helen?"
"That my mother does not make sufficient allowances for the difference of manners and ideas between a French and an English woman; and that the dress which shocks us in the former does not necessarily prove incorrectness of conduct."
"Incorrectness of conduct! and can your mother suppose I would introduce my wife to a woman whom I knew to be incorrect in her conduct?"
"No, Seymour, no: I do you more justice. But it is my duty to inform you that it is suspected this person is Lord Martindale's mistress only, not his wife."
"Not his wife!" interrupted Seymour.
"No, so I am informed. As to him, you know his character is so infamous that one can wonder at nothing he does; and he has been suspected of being a spy for the French convention, as well as the lady."
"Madam," said Seymour, "I thought you had been above listening to tales like these, and I cannot think myself justified in acting upon them. On the contrary, by taking my wife to the Lodge, I think it right to show my disregard of them, especially as by staying away, and by her distant manner when there, Helen has already injured the character of Lady Martindale, and made even my attentions to her the source of calumny. This the afflicted lady told me with tears and lamentations, and Helen's renewed visits can alone repair the injury her absence has done."
"So, then, this is the real reason of your wishing to make Helen a sharer in your amusements, and to exhibit her fine form to advantage!" exclaimed my mother indignantly. "But, Mr. Pendarves, if your constant visits are injurious to the fame of this afflicted lady, you know your remedy—discontinue them; for never, with my consent, shall my virtuous daughter lend her assistance to shield any one from the infamy which they deserve."
"Deserve, madam!" cried Seymour, as indignant as she was: "repeat that, and, spite of the love and reverence I bear you, I shall exert a husband's lawful authority, and see who dares dispute it."
"Not I," she replied, folding her arms submissively on her breast, "and still less that poor trembling girl. No, Pendarves, my only resource now is supplication and entreaty: and I conjure you, by the dear name of your beloved mother, and by the memory of past fond and endearing circumstances, and hours, to grant the prayer of a dying woman, and not to force your wife to this abode of revelry and riot. I feel my days are already numbered; and when I am taken from you, bitter will be your recollections if you refuse, my son, and soothing if you grant my prayer. I know you, Seymour, and I know that you cannot do any great cruelty without great remorse."
It was some moments before Pendarves could speak; at length he said—"Your request alone would have been sufficient, without your calling up such agonizing ideas. Helen, my best love, tell your mother you shall never go to Oswald Lodge again." He then put his handkerchief to his eyes, and rushed out of the room.
"The foolish boy's heart is in the right place still," said my mother, giving way to tears, but smiling at the same time.
But I, alas! could neither smile nor speak. She had called herself a dying woman; and through the rest of the day I could do nothing but look at and watch her, and go out of the room to weep; and my night was passed in wretchedness and prayer.
The next day I found my husband cold and sullen in manner; and I suspected that, having engaged to bring me to Oswald Lodge, he was mortified and ashamed to go thither without me, and would, I doubted not, make some excuse for my staying away which was not strictly true.
No one could feel more strongly or more virtuously than Pendarves: but good feelings, unless they are under the guard of strict principles, are subject to run away when summoned by the voice of pleasure and of error: and before he set off for the archery ground, he told me he sincerely repented his promise to my mother.
I did not reply, but shook my head mournfully.
"Psha!" said he, "that ever a fine woman like you, Helen, should wish to appear in her husband's eyes little better than a constantmemento mori!Helen, an arrow cannot fly as far in a wet as in a dry air; and a laughing eye hitswherea tearful one fails. You see I already steal my metaphors from my new study. But, good bye, sweet Helen! and when I return let me find you a little less dismal."
This was not the way to make me so; nor were his daily visits at this seducing house, which began in the morning, and lasted till he came home to dress for dinner; he then returned thither to stay till evening. At last he chose to dress there, and he did not return till night; nor, perhaps, would he have done that, had there not been some house-breaking in our neighbourhood, and he was afraid of leaving the house so ill-defended. I think that pique and resentment had some share in making him thus increase in the length as well as constancy of his visits; for I saw but too clearly that he continued offended with my poor mother: and I doubted not but that he had owned she was the cause of my refusal to visit at the house, and that Lady Martindale had added full force to this bitter feeling.
But he soon lost all resentment against my beloved parent.—Not very long after his painful conversation with her I was summoned to her, as she was too ill to rise, and had sent for medical advice.
"Go for my husband instantly," cried I.
"My mistress forbade me go for him," replied her faithful Juan (one of my father's manumised slaves), "and I canno go."
"Then she does not think very ill of herself?" said I.
"No, but I think very bad indeed."
And when I saw her, my fears were as strongly excited.
"I am going, I am going fast, my child," said she: "but I do not wish to have Pendarves sent for yet: I wish to have you a little while without any divided feelings, and all my own once more; when he comes, the wife will seduce away the child."
"How can you think so?" said I, giving way to an agony of grief; "and how can you be so barbarous as to tell me you are dying?"
"My poor child! I wished long ago to prepare you, but you would not be prepared. For your sake I still wished to live. You would have better spared me years ago, Helen! but this is cruel; and I will try to behave better."
As soon as her physician arrived, and had felt her pulse, I saw by his countenance that he was considerably alarmed; and the first feeling of my heart was to send for my husband, for him on whom I had been accustomed to rely in the hour of affliction. But I dared not, after what had passed! and I tried to rally all the powers of my mind to meet the impending evil, while I raised my thoughts to Him who listens to the cry of the orphan.
The physician had promised to come again in the evening. He did so; and then I learnt that there was indeed no hope; and I also learnt, by the agony of that moment, that I had in reality hoped till then; and, more like an automaton then aught alive, I sat by the fast exhausting sufferer.
Pendarves returned at night, and heard with anguish uncontrollable, not only that my mother was dying, but had forbidden that he should be sent for; and he arrived at the house in a state little short of distraction, nor could he be kept from the chamber of death.
His countenance, as he stood at the foot of the bed, told all the agony of his mind. They tell me so, for I saw him not; I could only see that object whom I was soon to behold no more!
My mother knew him; read, no doubt, all his wild wan look expressed; and smiling kindly, held out her hand to him. He was instantly on his knees by her bed-side; and she seemed, from the look she gave him, to feel all the maternal love for him revive which she had experienced through life.
Your husband, my dear friend, now came to perform his interesting duty, and we left her alone with him.
Oh! what a night succeeded! But Pendarves felt more than I. My faculties were benumbed: I had made such unnatural efforts for some time past to appear cheerful, while my heart was breaking, that I was too much exhausted to be able to endure this new demand on my fortitude and my strength; therefore already was that merciful stupor coming over me, which saved, I firmly believe, both my life and my reason.
My mother frequently, during that night, joined my hand in that of Pendarves, grasped them thus united, while her eyes were raised to heaven in prayer, but spoke not. At length, however, just as the last moment was approaching, she faltered out—"Seymour, be kind, be very kind to my poor child; she has only you now."
He replied by clasping me to his breast; and in one moment more all was over!
You know what followed; you know that for many weeks I was blessedly unconscious of every thing, and that I lay between death and life under the dominion of fever. My first return of consciousness and of speech showed itself thus:—I heard voices below, and recognised them, no doubt, as female voices; for I drew back the curtain, and asked my mother's faithful Alice whose voice I heard. But the joy my speaking gave the poor creature was instantly damped, for I added—"But I conclude it is my mother's voice, and I dare say she will be here presently."
Alice, bursting into tears, replied—"Your blessed mother never come now."
"Oh, but by-and-by will do:" and I closed my eyes again.
Alice now ran down stairs to call my husband, and tell him what had passed. The voices I heard were those of Mrs. Oswald and Lady Martindale, who had called every day to inquire for me; and Pendarves had been this day prevailed upon to go down to them. But he bitterly repented his complaisance when he found I had heard them talking; though he rejoiced in my restored hearing, which had seemed quite gone. He hastily, therefore, dismissed his visitors, and resumed his station by my bed-side. I knew him, and spoke to him; but damped all his satisfaction by asking for my mother, and wondering where she was. He could not answer me, and was doubtful what he ought to reply when he recovered himself.
At this moment the physician entered; and hearing what had passed, declared that the sooner he could make me understand what had happened, and shed tears (for I had shed none yet), the sooner I should recover, and he advised his beginning to do it directly.
Accordingly, when I again asked for her he said—"Do you not see my black coat, Helen? and do you not remember our loss?"
"O, yes; but I thought our mourning for the dear child was over."
"You see!" said Pendarves mournfully.
The physician replied—"Till her memory is restored, though her life is spared, a cure is far distant; but persevere."
In a fortnight I was able to take air; but I still wondered where my mother was, though I soon forgot her again.
But one day Pendarves asked me if I would go and visit the grave of my child, which I had not visited for some time. I thankfully complied, and he dragged me in a garden chair to the church door.
It was not without considerable emotion that he supported me to that marble slab which now covered my mother as well as my child, and I caught some of his trembling agitation.
"Look there, my poor Helen!" said he.
I did look, and read the name of my child.
"Look lower yet."
I did so, and the words 'Julia Pendarves;' with the sadet cetera, met my view, and seemed to restore my shattered comprehension.
In a moment the whole agonizing truth rushed upon my mind; and throwing myself on the cold stone, I called upon my departed parent, and wept till I was deluged in tears, and had sobbed myself into the stillness of exhaustion.
"Thank God! thou art restored, my beloved, and all will yet, I trust, be well," said my husband as he bore me away.
From that time my memory returned, and with it so acute a feeling of what I had lost, that I fear I was ungrateful enough to regret my imbecility.
I now insisted on hearing details of all that had occurred since my illness; and I found that my uncle and aunt had come down to attend the funeral of my mother, and that Lord Charles had attended uninvited to pay her that tribute of respect, nor had he returned to London till my life was declared out of danger. How deeply I felt this attention! I also heard that the ladies at the Lodge pestered my husband with letters, to prevail on him to spare his sensibility the pain of following my lost parent to the grave: but that, however he shrunk from the task, he had treated their request with the utmost disregard, saying, that if he had no other motive, the certainty that he was doing whatIshould have wished, was sufficient.
When I was quite restored to strength, both of mind and body, Pendarves gave me the key of my mother's papers, which he had carefully sealed up. My mother left no will, as she wished me to inherit every thing; but in a little paper directed to Pendarves she desired that an income might be settled on Juan and Alice, which would make them comfortable and independent for life; that her friends the De Waldens might have some memorial of her given to them; and that Lord Charles might have her travelling writing-desk.
Oh! what overwhelming feelings I endured while looking over her papers, containing a sketch of her life, her reflections and prayers when I married Pendarves, a character of Lady Helen, of her husband and of my father, and many fragments, all indicative of a mother's love and a mother's anxiety! But tender sorrow was suspended by curiosity, when I found one letter from Ferdinand de Walden! It was evidently written in answer to one from her, in which she had described me as suffering deeply, but, on principle, trying to appear cheerful, and for her sake dutifully trying to conceal from her the agony of my heart. What else she had said, was very evident from the part of the letter which I transcribe, translating it from the French.
"Yes! you only, I believe, do me justice. I should have been a more devoted husband than Pendarves; having my affections built, I trust, on a firmer foundation than his, viz. a purifying faith, and its result, pure habits. Still, I know not how to excuse his conduct towards such an angel! for oh! that faded cheek, and that shrunk form, that dejection of spirits from a mother's sorrows which seem to have alienated him, would have endeared her to me still more fondly—"
"Yes! you only, I believe, do me justice. I should have been a more devoted husband than Pendarves; having my affections built, I trust, on a firmer foundation than his, viz. a purifying faith, and its result, pure habits. Still, I know not how to excuse his conduct towards such an angel! for oh! that faded cheek, and that shrunk form, that dejection of spirits from a mother's sorrows which seem to have alienated him, would have endeared her to me still more fondly—"
I had resolution enough, my dear friend, to pause here, and read no more: nay, distrusting my own strength, I had the courage to commit the dangerous letter to the flames, and that was indeed an exertion of duty.
I shall pass lightly and rapidly over the next few months.—My husband gradually resumed his intercourse at the Lodge; while I, to conceal as much as possible his neglect, paid and received visits; and Mrs. Ridley and my aunt were by turns my guests, for I had now lost my dread of the latter. She had nothing to tell but what I knew already, except that she believed my husband more criminal than I did or could think him, and that I positively forbade her ever to name him to me again. I also visited you, and did all I could to fly from that feeling of conscious desolation which was ever present to me since I lost my mother. In all other afflictions I had her to rely upon; I had her to sooth and to comfort me: but who had I to console me for the loss of her? on whose never-to-be-abated tenderness could I rely? Other ties, if destroyed, may be formed again; but we can have parents only once; and I had lost my mother, my sole surviving parent, at a moment when I wanted her most. Still, I roused myself from my lethargy of grief, and 'sorrowed' not like 'one without hope.' But the misery of disappointed and wounded affections preyed on me while tenderer woes slumbered, and my health continued to fade, my youth to decay.
My kind aunt and Mrs. Ridley were both just come on a visit to me, when Pendarves signified his intention of accompanying his friends on a tour to the Lakes. He said his health had suffered much from his anxiety during my illness, and he thought the journey would do him good.
"Then take your wife a journey," cried my aunt bluntly: "she wants it more than you do."
"She will not accompany my friends," replied he; "and my word is pledged to go with them."
"Is a pledge given to friends more sacred than duty to a wife, Mr. Seymour Pendarves?"
"Is it a husband's duty never to stir without his wife, madam?"
"My dear aunt, you forget," said I, "how unfit I am to travel: quiet and home suit me best."
"It is well they do," said my aunt; and Seymour left the room.
I will pass over the time that intervened before Seymour's departure: suffice that I tried to attribute his still frequent absences from home to his dislike of his aunt's society; and in the meanwhile I masked an aching heart in smiles, that no one might have the authority of my dejected spirits to found an accusation of my husband upon.
At length the day of Seymour's departure arrived, and we had an affectionate and on my side a tearful parting: but I recovered myself soon; and though I deeply felt the unkindness of his leaving me after my recent affliction, I declared it the wisest thing he could do, and that I hoped he would find me fat and cheerful at his return. But I saw I did not convert my auditors; and that Lord Charles Belmour, who called to inquire after my health, absolutely started when he found that Seymour was gone away on a journey. I could not bear this, but left the room; for I could not, would not, either by word or look, blame my husband; and I could not bear to observe that he was blamed by others.
At the end of three weeks my uncle came down to fetch his wife; and I heard, with a satisfaction which I could not conceal, that my uncle hoped he should be able to prove that Lady Martindale, as she was called, was a spy of the Convention, and that he could get her sent out of the country on the Alien Bill; for that she was undoubtedly the mistress, not the wife, of Lord Martindale. I also learnt that Lord Charles had been indefatigable in using his exertions and his interest to effect this purpose, in hopes, as my aunt said, of opening my husband's eyes; and she thought, when he saw that his uncle and his friend were thus active and watchful to save him from perdition, that he could not refuse to be convinced and saved.
Alas! we none of us as yet knew Pendarves. We did not know that in proportion to conscious strength of mind is the capacity of conviction—and that no one is so jealous of interference, and so averse to being proved in the wrong, as those who are most prone to err and most conscious of weakness. My uncle and aunt went away in high spirits at the idea of the good which was going to accrue to me from their exertions, and left me much cheered in my prospects, little thinking of the blow which these exertions were ensuring to me.
My husband wrote to me on his journey about twice a week; but as he rarely did so till the post was just going out, or the horses were waiting, I was convinced, either that he had lost all remains of tenderness for me, or that, conscious of acting ill, he could not bear to write.
When he had been gone two months, I was expecting his arrival in London every day, and with no small anxiety; for my uncle had written me word, that as soon as Annette Beauvais (for thatwasher real name) arrived in town, she would be seized by the officers employed by Government, and be shipped off directly for Altona—whither Lord Martindale, who was reckoned a dangerous disloyal subject, would be advised to accompany her.
But while I was pleasing myself with the idea that Pendarves, when convinced of the real character of those with whom he associated so intimately, would return to me thankful for the discovery, and that in the detected courtesan and spy he would forget the fascinating companion, a very different end was preparing for the well-intentioned plans of our friend and relation.
Pendarves, not choosing to fail in respect to his uncle, and resolved to consider himself as on good terms with him, called at his house in Stratford Place; but unfortunately found only Mrs. Pendarves. The consequence you may easily foresee. She reproached him with his cruel neglect of his wife, and then triumphed in the approaching discomfiture of that wicked woman who had lured him from her; informing him with great exultation, that his uncle had procured her arrestation; that she would be taken up directly, and sent abroad; and that his angel-wife was expecting his return to her with eager and affectionate love.
"And was my wife privy to this injustice and this outrage?" asked Pendarves, with a faltering voice and a flashing eye.
"To be sure she was."
"Then she may expect me, madam, but I will never return!" Having said this, he rushed from the house, and hurried back to the lodgings. He found Lady Martindale, as she still persisted in calling herself, in fits, and Lord Martindale threatening, but in vain. The warrant was executed, and the lady forced to set off, her lord having a hint given him, which made his retreat advisable also.
"You shall not goalone, my friends," said Pendarves, as soon as he saw that their banishment was certain; "and as my family have presumed to procure your exile, they shall find that they have exiled me too."
So saying, he left the house, gained a passport as an American, which you know he was, as well as myself, by birth, and soon overtaking them, he travelled with them, and embarked with them for Altona.
He wrote to me from the port whence they embarked, and such a letter! I thought I should never have held up my head after it. He reproached me for joining the mean cabal against an injured and innocent woman, and declared that as I and his uncle had caused her exile, he felt it his duty to sooth and to share it.
In a postscript he told me he had drawn for all the money that was in his banker's hands, before he set out on his journey: that he wished me to let our house, and remove into my mother's, which was still empty; that he trusted I would not let him want in a foreign land; for in some respects he knew I could be generous; but that he feared the income of his fortune must be appropriated to the payment of his debts, which were so many, he feared he could not return, even if he wished it, except at the danger of losing his personal liberty. He trusted therefore that I would join my uncle in settling his affairs; and if he wanted money to support him, he knew I would spare him some out of the fortune which came to me on the death of my mother, the income of which I, and I alone, could receive.
In the midst of the wretchedness inflicted by this letter—for it was my nature to cling to hope, I eagerly caught at the high idea of my conjugal virtues which this cruel letter implied; and I trusted that, when intimate association had completely unmasked this Syren and her paramour, he would prize me the more from contrast, and hasten home to receive my eagerly-bestowed forgiveness. But the order to let the house was so indicative of a separation meant to be long, if not eternal, that again and again I went from hope to despair. But there was one sorrow converted into rejoicing. Till now I had grieved that my mother was no more: but now I rejoiced to think that this last terrible blow was spared her; that she did not live to witness the grief of her worse than widowed daughter, nor to see the degradation of the beloved son of her idolized Lady Helen. Degradation did I say? Yes: but I still persisted to excuse my husband, and would not own even to myself that he was without excuse for his conduct. I thought it was generous in him not to forsake his friends in their distress, nor would I allow any one to hint at the probability that his female companion was his mistress.
I also resolved to justify his reliance on my exertions and my generosity. I wrote to my uncle, I made myself acquainted with all his embarrassments, I dismissed every servant but Alice and Juan, and I set apart two-thirds of my income also for payment of the debts.
My uncle would fain have interfered, and advanced me the money; but I had a pride in making sacrifices for my husband's sake, and I wished Mr. Pendarves to leave him money in his will, as a resource for him when he should return to England, and I should be no more; for I fancied that I was far gone in a rapid decline. But I mistook nervous symptoms, the result of a distressed mind, for consumptive ones; and to my great surprise, when I had arranged my husband's affairs, and had, while so employed, been forced to visit London once or twice, and associate with the friends who loved and honoured me, my pain of the side decreased, my pulse became slower, my appetite returned, and I recovered something of my former appearance. But it was now the end of the winter of 1793, and the reign of terror had long been begun in France, while we heard from every quarter that the English there were in the utmost danger, on account of the unpopularity of the English Government; that all were leaving France who could get away; and Pendarves was gone to Paris! But then he was an American. Still, I could not divest myself of fears for his life; and the horrible idea of his pining in a foreign land, in a prison and in poverty, (for, though he had written to say he was arrived in Paris, he had not drawn for money, nor given his address,) haunted me continually. To be brief: you know how the idea of my husband's danger took entire possession of my imagination, till I conceived it to be my duty to set off for Paris.
You remember, that you and your husband both dissuaded me from the rash and hazardous undertaking; and that I replied, "I have now but one object of interest in the world, the husband of my love! True, a romantic generosity, and what he calls just resentment, have led him for the present to forsake his country and me; but that is no reason why I should forsake him; and who knows but that the result of my self-devotion may restore him to me more attached than ever?" You know that you listened, admired, and almost encouraged me; and that you have always considered this determination, as the crown of my conjugal glory, and held it up as a bright example of a wife's duty. But, my dear friend, my own sobered judgement and the lessons of experience, together with reproof from lips that never can deceive, and a judgement that can rarely err, have convinced me that I rather violated than performed a wife's duty when I set off on this romantic expedition to France.
No: if ever I deserved the character of a good wife, it was from the passive fortitude and the patient spirit with which I bore up against neglect, wounded affections, and slighted tenderness. It was the sense of duty which led me to throw a veil over my husband's faults, which held him up when his own errors had cast him down, and which led me still, in strict compliance with my marriage vows, to obey and honour him by all a wife's attentions, even when I feared that he deserved not my esteem.
But to go on with my narrative. My uncle and aunt came down to reason me out of my folly, as they called it; and my uncle thought he held a very persuasive argument, for he told me he felt it indelicate for me to intrude myself and my fondness on a husband who had showed he did not value it, and had chosen to escape from me.
"But I do notmeanto intrude upon him," I replied; "I mean to be concealed in Paris, and with Alice and Juan to attend me; I fear nothing for myself, nor need you fear for me."
"What!" cried my aunt, "be in Paris, and not let the vile man know you are there?Ishould discover myself, if it were only for the sake of reproaching him; for I should treat him very differently, I assure you.Ishould show him