Willoughby was fidgeting in and out of the drawing-room, looking at his watch every five minutes, drawing off and on his gloves, and whistling out of tune, although his ear was excellent. Alfred was seated in a corner reading a book, which he said he was anxious to finish, having on that plea, though in general so obliging, refused to walk out with his sisters. The fact was, that he was miserably desirous to watch the movements of Willoughby, and be on the spot to hear from himself the earliest account of the result of his intended visit at Lady Palliser's. Willoughby suspected as much, but neither had the courage to speak to his brother on the subject, though they had the room quite to themselves, and knew that they enjoyed each other's confidence. At length Willoughby, after looking at his watch rather longer than usual, put it abruptly back into his pocket, once more drew on his gloves, but now so hastily that he deprived one of a thumb; he then took his hat and smoothed it round and round three several times with the wrist of his coat, paused irresolutely between each deliberate performance of the operation, as if intending to say something, and yet at length, without speaking at all, rushed through one of the French windows which opened on the lawn, and disappeared. Alfred, as soon as he was alone, raised his head from his book, and with parted lips held his breath, to listen for the tread of his brother's foot on the gravel, first in their own garden, then in the adjoining one. He next heard his knock, and a few moments after could distinguish, though not the precise words, Willoughby's voice inquiring, of course, if Lady Palliser were at home. Lastly he heard the entering step and closing door.
Now it was Alfred's turn to pace up and down the apartment. He did so with hurried and unequal steps for about ten minutes, then flung himself on a sofa, and lay perfectly motionless, his eyes vacant of expression, for their sight was turned inward, where fancy was busily pourtraying the scene probably passing at the moment in Lady Palliser's drawing-room—that very room in which he had lately spent so many blissful hours; in which he had so often yielded to the fatally fascinating conviction that he was beloved by a heart too innocent to hide its feelings; that very room in which he had finally been accepted with seeming confidence, with seeming tenderness; and yet in which but a few hours after, he had been as capriciously, as unfeelingly rejected; nay, rejected with the most unequivocal symptoms of personal aversion, and that without any possible cause being assigned, except the lady's having, in the mean time, met with and determined to captivate his elder brother, who was a much richer, and as head of the family, a greater man. And she had accomplished her end. Willoughby was probably at this very moment declaring his love! How did Caroline listen? He pictured her such as she had looked while he had himself spoken; and the most pitiable agitation overwhelmed him. After the lapse of half an hour he again heard footsteps on the gravel. He started up—he stood at the window; he saw Willoughby approaching, his countenance beaming with satisfaction. How strange were his own sensations; the exquisite pang instantly checked by the bitterest self-reproach. Was it possible?—Could he when he beheld the face of his kind, affectionate, dear brother, expressive of happiness, grieve at the sight?—Oh, for shame! it was not so—it should not be so—as to his own disappointment, that had been an ascertained thing long before;—why recur to it now! By this time Willoughby had entered and grasped his hand. Alfred mastered his emotion, and cordially returning the pressure of the hand, said with a forced smile, "I see you have been accepted?"
"I have—it is not however to take place for several months; so Lady Palliser has invited me in the mean while to stay some time with them in ----shire; and after I have been to Arden, and made all my arrangements there, I am to join them in Paris, whence we are to proceed through some parts of Italy and Germany; all previous to—to—the ratification of our engagement. They will leave Cheltenham, I believe, to-morrow or next day; but I am to spend this evening with themen famille, when I shall know all their plans."
Fortunately for Alfred, the walking party returned at this moment, which spared him the painful necessity of either hearing more or speaking at all, beyond the one warmly expressed ejaculation, "May you be truly happy!"
Each of the girls was attended by her respective lover; Louisa indeed by both of hers, and Mrs. Dorothea was chaperon, as she was on all occasions when Lady Arden felt fatigued; for the young people knew very well they had only to get about their good-natured aunt and declare they could not do without her, to make sure of her services.
"What has become of Mr. Cameron?" asked Mrs. Dorothea. Madeline had been thinking the same question. "Surely he has not slipped away without bidding us good morning!" continued the old lady, "he came to the door with us."
The object of their enquiries now made his appearance; he had merely in passing through the hall slunk behind the party a little to comb up the side curls; and they had either been more unmanageable than usual, or their owner had become more than ever anxious about his personal appearance.
A long luncheon-table was laid in the dining-room, furnished with many good things which had adorned the supper of the night before; with this resource, a little flirtation, and a good deal of music—for all the girls sang and played on various instruments, nothing could be more gay and agreeable than the party. Even Henry Lindsey was in high good humour; for Louisa had that morning bestowed on him two smiles for each one she had vouchsafed Sir James.
Lady Arden, who was never early after a night of raking, joined them in the midst of their merriment, looking, however, rather serious herself; for Willoughby had been up to her dressing-room, and had confided to her his pleasing prospects, and though she could not absolutely grieve at the happiness of any of her children, she certainly could not help regretting in this particular instance that Alfred had not been the successful suitor. Setting aside a peculiar overflow of tenderness for him as the secret favourite of her heart, she considered that, in a pecuniary point of view it would have been a most desirable match for him, while his brother did not require fortune. And then she had watched Alfred, and had traced, or at least thought she could trace, effort in his manner, and even in the very tones of his voice a cadence that was not quite natural. There was something, in short, in the sound, that made her look at him while he spoke, and pained her, she could not tell why. He sat opposite to her at the said luncheon-table, and had just offered to help her to something. She met his eyes and saw that they rose and fell unsteadily before the enquiring expression of hers. The first time they were alone, or at least thought themselves so, her enquiries were so tender that he could no longer act a part. His eyes filled with tears; ashamed of these he hid his face for a few moments, then, as if to apologise for his weakness, with a vehement burst of feeling confessed the ardour of his attachment; the hopes he had been authorised to entertain—nay, how he had been on the morning of the very evening on which Willoughby arrived, actually accepted; and then on the very morning after as absolutely rejected, and from interested motives he could not doubt; there was no time for preference. And here, he added some bitter reflections on the misery of being a younger brother, till his more generous feelings prevailing again he spoke with his usual affection of Willoughby, and of his chief consolation being in the thought of his happiness, for the sake of which it was that he had struggled, and still would struggle to conceal, and ultimately subdue every feeling of his own.
Geoffery had been all this while layingperduon a sofa in the adjoining drawing-room, the folding doors to which were open; he had therefore heard enough of the foregoing conversation to be tolerablyau faitof the family secrets of which it treated, sufficiently so at least for a future purpose, of which, however, he was not, indeed could not be at the time aware. On the philosophical principle, however, that "knowledge is power," perhaps he thought it as well to have all the knowledge he could obtain. A knowledge of peoples' affairs does sometimes, there is no question, place them in our power.
Without therefore announcing his presence he retained his unseen position till Lady Arden and Alfred had severally quitted the room.
In the evening, when Willoughby was preparing to go to Lady Palliser's, he received a miniature note from her ladyship, saying, that Caroline's cold was so much worse that she was not able to leave her room, which untoward circumstance compelled them to resign the pleasure of seeing him that evening.
He was of course much disappointed. The next morning, and for several succeeding ones, he called regularly; sometimes saw Lady Palliser, sometimes not; but Caroline was still invisible, being confined to her apartment by severe indisposition. Alfred, who felt that his fate was now sealed, longed for the quiet of Arden; and on the pretext of shooting, had proposed going thither. But Mrs. Dorothea would not hear of his leaving Cheltenham till after her party; and Lady Arden wished him, if possible, to be present at his sister Jane's marriage. Our kind-hearted hero therefore, the least selfish of beings, though fatigued by the perpetual effort to force his spirits imposed by society, consented to remain for the present.
Madeline, in pursuance of the prudent resolve she had formed, received Mr. Cameron's attentions in so amiable a manner, that he became very shortly a declared and received lover, and the happiest of men. She too, was for the present, or at least thought herself quite happy. Being the least striking of the family she had hitherto had rather an humble opinion of her personal attractions; she was therefore highly flattered and gratified by Mr. Cameron's absolute adoration. Her imagination too, dazzled by anticipations somewhat resembling the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, learnt to revel in the prospect of splendours heaped on splendours, as offerings at the shrine of her own charms; while, never having entertained a preference for any one else, her better feelings also found a pleasing resting place, in the thoughts of the promised fond devotion of her future husband. She could now sit like one really in love, and muse with delight on the prospect of the accomplishment of her every wish—the indulgence of her every whim—the worship of her very faults, which she flattered herself she was securing for life by marrying Mr. Cameron. In short, she was in high spirits; and in such good humour with fate, that she even began to think she should not have been half so happy had she been about to marry a younger man, who would have met her on more equal terms; or, had he been a man of fortune, would have thought perhaps that he was doing her the favour.
Louisa's mind, on the contrary, was in a very unsettled state. Sir James had proposed to her more than once. He had certainly not been accepted, but he had as certainly not been rejected with any thing like rational decision. But people did not seem to think it necessary to be rational with poor Sir James. She had told him, it is true, again and again, in a pert and childish manner, that she never would marry him; but she had laughed the while, and he had taken it all in good part, saying, that the girls liked to be tantalising. He had asked her at length for the measure of her finger: she had given him that of her wrist. With this he had repaired to a jewellers.
The shopman had assured him there must be some mistake; but at the same time recommended his taking the lady a very splendid bracelet, which was, he added, a present that should always precede the presentation of the ring.
Though Sir James was by no means careless of his money in general, he was now too much in love to give prudential considerations a thought; he therefore allowed the man to put up the highest priced bracelet in his whole collection. Its beauty pleased Louisa, and she was silly enough to accept and wear it: nay, Sir James himself was allowed to clasp it on her arm. This produced a scene with Henry: for our little baronet, vain of his unusual munificence, had kept the circumstance no secret. Louisa, beginning to fear she was getting entangled with a man whom she could not seriously decide on accepting, was vexed and out of spirits, and consequently staid at home that evening from the walks, on pretext of a headache.
Henry, always violent and imprudent, the moment he saw that she was not of the walking party, quitted the promenade, and repaired to Laden Arden's villa.
It was late and almost quite dark when, unannounced, he entered the drawing-room from the lawn by an open French window.
Louisa, who was alone and had flung herself on a sofa, thus taken by surprise, had but time to rise partially from her reclining position.
He approached. It so happened that though the apartment was without lights, a stray beam from a lamp at the distance of the little lawn gate, was caught and reflected, as Louisa moved her arm, by the bright jewels of the luckless bracelet.
Henry seized the arm with the fierceness of a highwayman, wrenched the snap, and flung the bracelet to the further end of the room; then suddenly calmed by a sense of shame and contrition at his own brutal violence, stood petrified without attempting to utter a syllable. Louisa rose proudly. "By what authority, Mr. Lyndsey," she exclaimed, "have you dared to offer me this insult?" While speaking she was crossing the room to ring the bell and order the intruder to be shown out. Guessing her intention, he started from his state of stupor, flew to intercept her, flung himself at her feet, seized both her hands, and leaning his face against them, sobbed violently.
"Hear me!" he exclaimed in broken accents. "My ruffianly, my wholly unjustifiable conduct, was at least unpremeditated; I had no thought of even uttering a reproach. I entered here but to bid you an eternal farewell! Louisa, I am a miserable, a desperate man——I am about to quit England for ever."
Louisa, who was speaking at the same time, was commanding him to quit her presence instantly, or suffer her to reach the bell; but when he mentioned quitting England for ever, her voice became less firm. Yet she persisted in telling him that he must be gone—that she must not incur the unjust suspicion of having remained at home to receive his highly improper visit. How soon such commands were obeyed is not precisely known; when the party however returned from the walks Louisa was alone, though in manner strange and abstracted, and in a state of agitation so great, that when requested, as the only one who had not a bonnet to remove, to make tea, the small bunch of keys fell twice from her trembling fingers ere she could contrive to open the caddy; while every other part of the simple ceremony was performed in an equally bungling and insufficient manner: from all which it seems scarcely more than fair to infer, that whether the scene concluded in a reconciliation or a last farewell, the lady had had but little time to compose her nerves between the departure of her lover and the entrance of her friends.
Aunt Dorothea had fixed her ball for the evening of the day of Jane's marriage, that it might be a kind of wedding party; and such had been the mighty preparations for a day, thus doubly momentous, that what with selecting and displaying wedding finery—finding out where to hire cheapest coloured lamps, waiters, and forms—hurrying milliners, and seeing packing-cases carefully opened—hunting up newly-arrived beaux, begging evergreens, admiring jewels and new carriages, ordering ices and rout cake, bargaining with confectioners about a standing supper, and ordering in some wine; for, as a single lady, she had of course no cellar; then planning where the said wine had best stand, that it might not be drank by the waiters instead of the company; and, lastly, considering where to put the music, that it might be heard by the dancers, without taking up room; that, as Sarah said, when dressing her mistress for the great occasion, "It was surprising that she had a foot to stand on at last." The feet were a little swollen, it must be confessed, which obliged her, so Sarah, in support of her assertion to that effect told Mrs. Johnson, to snip the binding of her new white satin shoes.
She had got on wonderfully however; had gone to church with the wedding party—been of great assistance to Lady Arden in getting through the public breakfast; seen the happy couple off; helped to send away packages of cake and gloves; refused to dine at her sister-in-law's, on the plea of all she had to do at home; eat a mutton chop in her bed-room, the dining-room being already occupied by the standing supper, the drawing-room by a great step-ladder, and two workmen hanging a hired lamp from the centre of the ceiling; the spare bed-room with card tables, the bed being taken down; and lastly, the dressing-room being fitted up with the already mentioned evergreens, as a grotto for the refreshments. The mode in which they were here arranged was Mrs. Dorothea's happiest invention, and one on which she greatly prided herself.
At the upper end of the grotto was erected a pile of real ornamental rock-work, which had been brought in on purpose from the garden. Between the crevices of the rocks were stuck all manner of flowers and flowering shrubs; at the top of the heap, on a large space purposely made level, were placed a well-known common kind of dessert dishes, of green china, in the shape of large leaves, and on those dishes moulds turned out of different coloured ices, resembling so many painted specimens of variegated spars and marbles; while among and around all were scattered rout cakes in abundance, which formed a very tolerable imitation of pebbles, shells, and mosses. The grotto was furnished with rustic seats and a rustic table, also borrowed from the garden; and on the table lay a supply of the small leaves, or small plates, of the said green china dessert set, with spoons, of course; so that, as Aunt Dorothea said, the gentlemen must be very stupid if they could not take the hint, and help their partners to a spoonful of marble or spar, and a few pebbles or shells, as taste should direct. There was very little fear, however, of mistake or oversight; for the grotto was Mrs. Dorothea's hobby, so that she not only showed almost every couple the way to it herself, but favoured each with geological lectures on the virtues and properties of all itsnaturalproductions. That all might be in perfect keeping, the only light admitted to this favoured spot, proceeded from a single ground-glass lamp, of the size and shape of the moon, and so ingeniously placed among the evergreens, as to bear a respectable resemblance to the queen of night, rising to view from behind a forest.
Mrs. Dorothea, by another excellent contrivance, added much to the effect of her drawing-rooms, which, like those of most watering-place villas, were on the ground floor, and had French windows. The end one of these looked directly up one of the public walks, which the proprietors were in the habit of illuminating on occasion, and which was therefore provided with lamps. These Mrs. Dorothea had obtained permission to have lighted, so that the long vista from her open French window, looked very beautiful; particularly as some of the least prudent of the company thought fit, between the dancing, to step out and walk up and down.
It happened to be one of the few very hot summers we are occasionally blessed with in this country. So that though it was now the middle of September, the weather was still very sultry, and it was only late at night that there was any thing like a refreshing coolness in the air.
Lady Caroline Montague was still so unwell as to keep her room, so that neither her ladyship nor Lady Palliser were able to come out. This was a great disappointment to others besides Mrs. Dorothea; it was one, however, for which Willoughby was fully prepared; for though he had of course called every day to inquire for Lady Caroline, she had not been well enough to see even him. The ball was, nevertheless, going off with great spirit. Being a wedding party, in the first place, gave itéclat; and then Aunt Dorothea had insisted on its being opened by her favourite Madeline and that far-famed hereditary beau of her own, Mr. Cameron, whom she was so proud and so pleased to have handed down to her niece in such high preservation.
Fate, however, had ordained that Mrs. Dorothea Arden's ball should be marked by more than one memorable event.
Louisa, after dancing with Sir James, had also, as she generally did, danced with Henry Lindsey; who, instead of quitting England, had made his appearance at Mrs. Dorothea's with a flushed cheek, an angry eye, and a hurried, absent manner. When the quadrille had concluded, they were among theimprudentcouples who ventured to promenade the illuminated walk. Henry seemed to think the affair of last night forgiven or forgotten, for he began in his usual passionate strain to talk of the fervour of his own attachment, and reproach Louisa with comparative coldness.
For the gratification of a culpable vanity, as well as from really feeling a secret preference for Henry, Louisa had so long listened to such language as this, and thus authorised him to believe himself beloved, that she now literally knew not how to pacify him; although she was far from having made up her mind to sacrifice, either to his feelings or her own, the title and brilliant establishment which still awaited her acceptance, if she could but bring herself to take the advice of her friends, and marry his brother.
Henry could not be blind to what were the wishes of Louisa's family; and he had of late had many reasons, besides the acceptance of the bracelet, to suspect that she herself hesitated. The idea drove him almost mad. The interview of last night, though it had convinced him of his power over Louisa when present, had by no means silenced his fears as to what she might be persuaded to do or to promise in his absence; he had determined, therefore, to bring matters to a crisis. He besought her, with all the eloquence of which he was master, to end his suspense, and pronounce his doom. She hesitated—she knew she should never be permitted to marry Henry; and thinking that she had already indulged too long in an idle flirtation, a foolish preference that must end in nothing, she confessed at last how much it was her mother's wish that she should marry Sir James. Henry lost all self-command; overwhelmed her with reproaches; raved at her perfidy, her cruelty; and after working himself up to a perfect phrenzy, threatened to put a period to his existence that very night—that very hour, and before her eyes.
As his agitation increased, his step quickened, till it was almost impossible for Louisa to keep pace with him; while, as the interest of the conversation deepened, he led her first as much apart from the other couples as possible, and finally, turning short round a corner, quitted the general promenade altogether. He then, with his really alarmed companion, entered a cross walk, which was shrouded in almost total obscurity, except that at the furthest point of its long and unfrequented vista, one solitary lamp glimmered, as if but to make the surrounding gloom more apparent.
Louisa's terror was now extreme: she felt certain that he had dragged her to this gloomy spot to witness, as he had declared she should, the horrible act of suicide he was about to commit.
Arrived about midway in the long dark walk, Henry at length paused. What with agitation and the quickness of his pace, he seemed himself exhausted, while Louisa, faint with alarm and fatigue, was no longer able to stand unassisted, much less to walk. There was no seat near, he was obliged to support her by an arm round her waist. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sobbed hysterically. His resentment now gave way to tenderness. Her alarm could only be for his safety—the thought soothed his chafed spirit—he whispered the fondest expressions of endearment mingled with incoherent apologies for his violence. He ascribed all his faults, as he had done on the evening before, to love and jealousy. When the bare possibility, he said, of loosing her but crossed his imagination, he was no longer an accountable being—he should be ranked with the veriest madman in bedlam! She only sighed in reply, but it was a sigh from which no lover could fail to derive encouragement, nor did it falsely report what was passing in the bosom whence it came. The ardour of Henry's manner, assisted by her late fears for his safety, had driven all prudential considerations from her thoughts, reduced the vanities of wealth to a mere puppet-show, and for the moment at least made all the bliss of earth seem concentrated in the enthusiastic devotion and actual presence of such a lover. Encouraged by the tremulous tenderness of her sigh, and the gentle quiescence of her manner, Henry ventured to whisper that his leading her from the frequented walk was not altogether accidental, but that driven to distraction by alternate hopes and fears, he had that evening determined at all hazards to make one desperate effort to secure a happiness that it was intoxication even to think of, and would be phrensy to lose—that he had consequently taken the daring step of having a carriage in waiting, which was now not many yards distant. He then entreated her with all the eloquence of wildly excited passion, instead of resenting his audacity to end the cruel doubts which had thus stung him to madness, and fly with him at once.
"I must not, Henry!" she exclaimed, "indeed I must not—I must not," she repeated. But in fluttering broken accents of tenderness and joy, so encouraging, that the arm which was still round her waist, continued the while with a gentle violence propelling her forward; and so light, so willing, though tremulous were her steps, that the tiny white sattin slippers, twinkling like little stars, scarcely touched the earth.
"Oh! Henry, dear Henry, my mother will be so grieved—my brothers will be so angry! Let us go back—and I will promise you to—to—." But she faltered.
"Never, Louisa, will I trust you out of my sight again, till by the sacred name of wife you are mine for ever!"
The passionate tone of voice in which this was uttered sank into whispers of tenderness. Louisa attempted no reply, but all her remaining scruples vanished, and recklessness of consequences came over her: the whole of life seemed comprised in the present moment—the whole world seemed to contain but herself and her lover. A chariot and four was now visible outside a gateway which they were approaching. They glided through the portals, and Louisa suffered Henry to assist her into the carriage. He sprang in after her—the door was closed—"All right," said Henry's man, though begging his pardon it was all very wrong, and off set the horses at their full speed.
It was some weeks before Louisa remembered the gifts of fortune she had resigned, or Henry thought with painful misgivings of the meditated abandonment of him and his love, which he had so strongly suspected before he had been driven to take the violent step we have just described.
What will Tommy Moor say to this, after having declared thatsweetbriaris the safest fence for the "Garden of Beauty;" nay, that there is more security in it than in the guardianship of that unamiable duenna, the "Dragon of Prudery, placed within call."
Now, every one knows that the Cheltenham walks are hedged with sweetbriar. Perhaps Louisa Arden, not being a daughter of the Emerald Isle, may account for "that wild sweetbriary fence" which the poet has pronounced their characteristic barrier, not proving effectual in her case. But to return to our ball.
"I wonder which room Miss Louisa is in," said Sir James to Lady Arden; "I have been looking in all the rooms for her, and I can't find her."
"I hope she is not gone into that foolish lit-up walk," replied her ladyship, looking rather anxiously towards the window. "I am afraid it will give all the young people cold."
"I never thought of that," said Sir James, bustling off.
"I wonder what is become of Louisa," said Mrs. Dorothea, coming up to Lady Arden. "Sir James," she added, calling after the retreating baronet, "do bring Louisa here; I want another couple for this quadrille in the next room."
"Oh, yes, I'll bring her if I can find her," said the little man, "but I don't know where she is."
"Where can Louisa be?" said Madeline.
"In the ball-room, I suppose," replied Mr. Cameron. "They were in the refreshment-room."
"Where can Louisa be?" asked Alfred, who was in the ball-room, "my aunt is looking for her."
"In the refreshment-room, I suppose," replied the person questioned.
"What can have become of Louisa?" asked Willoughby, looking round the supper-room. "My aunt wants her."
"Is she not in the ball-room?" said Geoffery.
"No, I have just come from thence."
"Nor in the refreshment-room."
"I have not looked there," and away went Willoughby.
In came poor Sir James, looking very silly.
"She is not there," he said, addressing Geoffery.
"Who?"
"Why, Miss Louisa, she promised to dance the next set with me, and I can't find her any where."
"But where have you been looking for her, Sir James?" asked Geoffery, who never missed an opportunity of quizzing the little baronet.
"I looked in all the rooms first, and now I have been to the far end of the lighted walk, up one side and down the other, and I can't find her anywhere."
"But did you not try any of the dark walks?"
"I never thought of that, but I don't think she'd go there."
"She must be somewhere, Sir James; you say she is not in any of the rooms, nor in the lighted walk, therefore, she must be in one of the dark ones!"
Sir James, looking innocently convinced by the force of this logic, replied, "Well, I'll go and see," and turned to depart.
"But you can't see in the dark; had you not better take a lantern?"
"I never thought of that," he replied, and making the best of his way into the hall, he asked every servant and waiter who crossed his path for a lantern to look for Miss Louisa. They all stared at him in turn, and seemed more likely to stumble over him in their bustle, than either to comprehend or grant his request. At length he perceived Sarah in the back ground, filling her office, as warden of cloaks and boas, and tossed off for the occasion in a net fly cap, quite on the back of her head, to display her innumerable curls; and decorated with bows of pink ribbon full a quarter of a yard long, made stiff with wire in the inside, to give them an enviable resemblance to horns. By her assistance he obtained the illuminator used by Mrs. Dorothea when she was returning home on foot from evening parties; and thus provided, set forth on his voyage of discovery. He was secretly followed at a certain distance by Geoffery and a knot of wags, who concealed themselves behind trees and shrubs, and when Sir James, holding up the light at the entrance to each dark avenue would cry, "Are you there, Louisa?" they would answer simultaneously in all directions, and in feigned voices of course, "Yes, I am here——" till our puzzled little baronet would stand, looking now before him—now behind him—now on the one side—now on the other, literally not knowing which way to turn, to the infinite amusement of his hidden tormentors, to whom he was, with his lantern, a conspicuous object, whilst they, in their various dark retreats, were invisible to him.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, that Sir James's researches proved fruitless.
By the time he returned to the house the alarm was becoming serious. Indeed it was beginning to be an ascertained thing, not only that Louisa was missing, but that Henry Lindsey had also disappeared, which latter circumstance afforded a solution of the young lady's absence by no means agreeable to her family. The news spread quickly, and every one was looking amazingly amused, except they happened to meet the eye of Lady Arden or Mrs. Dorothea, when they thought it necessary to quench their smiles; and if they were particular friends, add a few inches to the length of their faces.
It was now very late, and the rooms were thinning fast, though many were induced to delay their departure by the spur and zest which so fair an opportunity of making ill-natured comments had given to conversation. Yet who can say that we do not live in a good-natured considerate world, when we can assert, as an incontestable fact, that poor little Sir James, as soon as it was whispered about that his intended bride had gone off with his brother, received the sweetest possible smiles from several young ladies, who had scarcely taken any notice of him ever since his engagement had been generally known. What but the most generous compassion for the forsaken baronet could have dictated so sudden a change of manner.
Had it not been for this untoward accident, Mrs. Dorothea would have insisted on setting up another and another quadrille,ad infinitum; for the pride of a dance is in how late you can keep it up, however tired of it host and hostess, chaperons, musicians, and dancing gentlemen may be; as to young ladies, they are never tired of dancing, except theydon't dance.
Mrs. Dorothea, however, now courteseyed to her retreating guests with an anxious countenance, and an absent manner, without making any attempt to dissuade them fromrunning away, as she would have designated their departure, but for the realrun away, which caused her very serious uneasiness: first on her niece's account, and secondly on her own; for she was mortified beyond expression to think that her grand party, which had cost her so much trouble, and would cost her so much money, should have been so sadly broken up.
She need not however, good lady, so far as her party was concerned, have afflicted herself; for it was pronounced the next day to have been so enlivened by the elopement that it was quite delightful.
Willoughby and Alfred, having ascertained that a chariot and four, the horses' heads to the east, had been seen driving off from the Montpelier gates the night before at a furious rate, set out in pursuit on the road thus indicated. They soon, however, lost all traces of the fugitives, and after an absence of two or three days, returned to Cheltenham. Lady Arden had by this time received a letter announcing the marriage, and begging pardon, and so forth. There was therefore nothing more to be done, and Willoughby accordingly repaired to Lady Palliser's, to inquire after the health of Caroline. As he crossed the little lawn, he observed great ladders set up against the front of the house, and persons within and without apparently employed in cleaning the windows. The hall door was open, and a slatternly looking woman, not the least like a servant, on the steps, washing them down and rubbing them white with a stone. He knocked, and another woman, who was crossing the hall at the moment, armed with a broom and a duster, threw them aside, came forward, and asked him if he was wanting the lodgings. "They will not be quite ready for coming into before twelve o'clock to-morrow," she continued, without waiting for a reply; then fancying that Willoughby looked disappointed, she added, "If you're particular about coming in to-night, sir, I'll set more hands to work, and see what can be done; but the family only left this morning, and they kept so many servants, that there is no saying all there's to do after them; for as for servants, as Isais, they always makes more work than three masters, or their mistresses either, which was the cause why I was endeavouring to assist a little myself just with dusting the book-shelves."
"Has Lady Palliser then left Cheltenham, or only changed her house?" asked Willoughby.
"Oh, left Cheltenham, sir. Her ladyship was not likely to change from my house while she staid, if it had been seven years. Indeed, situation and all, where could she be so well, except it were next door, which also belongs to me. Sixteen guineas a week, sir, is the lowest farthing I can take! Indeed they should have been twenty, but you seem such a nice civil spoken gentleman that——"
"Thank you," interrupted Willoughby, "I don't want the house; it was Lady Palliser I was inquiring for."
"And where were your eyes that you didn't see the bill on the window; as if I'd nothing to do but stand talking to you!" and away she flounced.
During Caroline's protracted illness, Willoughby had had some uncomfortable misgivings; not that he had confessed his feelings even to himself, yet he had thought that during convalescence, he might have been permitted to see a lady to whom he now considered himself betrothed. True, he had frequently been admitted, and been received very graciously by Lady Palliser; and on such occasions he had tried to feel satisfied with the excuse that Caroline had not yet been able to quit her room. He had addressed to Caroline very many and very tenderbillet doux; to all of which he had received very gracious and encouraging replies, though written by Lady Palliser, to spare, as he supposed, the invalid the fatigue of being her own amanuensis. This was all perfectly proper, yet though he told himself so again and again, he could not help feeling that some more direct communication would be much more satisfactory.
So sudden a recovery as was implied by this journey, undertaken too during the few days of his absence, seemed so strange, that every painful feeling was instantly increased tenfold. Yet he knew not what to apprehend; suspense, however, becoming wholly intolerable, he resolved to set out immediately for ——shire.
He did so within an hour, but without communicating any of his doubts or fears even to Alfred. As soon as Willoughby had set off, Alfred also hastened to quit Cheltenham, where every object, and every circumstance, which used formerly to yield him delight, was fraught with the most miserable associations.
He went to Arden; nor could he have chosen a better retreat: for the instantaneous effect of a sight of its well-known scenes was for a time to give to the feelings and affections of childhood and boyhood a most salutary preponderance over the newer and more vivid, but far less uniformly happy sensations of the last few months.
Lady Arden, about the same time, set out for her house in town, accompanied by Madeline, her only remaining daughter. Mrs. Dorothea, thus left alone, began to ponder on the prudential step of breaking up an establishment, which she found much too expensive for her means—more so, infinitely, than she had anticipated. For it so happened, that her maid-of-all-work cook, whom she took with the house, was one of a set, who not being sufficiently reputable to get places in private families, are frequently employed by speculators in furnished houses, to take charge of the same when vacant, living on their wits the while, and on their lodgers when they can get them. Moreover she belonged to a club for supplying servants out of place with broken meat. Poor Mrs. Dorothea, therefore, was sadly puzzled about the consumption in her kitchen. At last she ventured to consult her confidential abigail, Sarah.
Servants, however, though they had been pulling caps five minutes before, always stand by each other in the grand common cause—defence of extravagance! Sarah, therefore, assuming an expression of countenance, in which sauciness and sulkiness were combined, replied,
"You can't expect to be much of a judge, ma'am, not being used to housekeeping; I'm sure I never see no waste; but people must have enough to eat of something."
"I am far from wishing any person undermyroof not to have sufficient to eat," replied Mrs. Dorothea, with offended dignity, "but I certainly expected of you, Sarah, that you would not see me imposed upon by lodging-house servants."
"I never seen you imposed upon, ma'am; but you seem to forget that you've got a man now to feed. Where there is a man, there's no end to the consumption; in particular butcher's meat, and they will have it. It's no place of mine, however, to see the larder, and I am not a going to get myself mobbed, meddling with other servants."
Sarah was ordered to leave the room, and send the cook. There had been a shoulder of mutton at the table the day before, in which Mrs. Dorothea had made the usual first gash with the carving-knife, intending to help herself, but changed her mind; the meat had, of course, separated a little, as in a shoulder it always does.
"You have the cold mutton for your own dinners," commenced Mrs. Dorothea: the servants dined some hours before she did.
"The mutton, ma'am!" repeated Jones, such was the cook's name, "I believe John picked the bone for his breakfast: but, really, the joint was so severely cut in the parlour that I didn't think it worth looking after."
Mrs. Dorothea explained; but jerks of the chin were all the satisfaction she could obtain.
Jones's blotted account of the last sovereign she had had for small expenses was given in.
Mrs. Jones would have made a good M. P., for her hand was as illegible as it was large. The first item in the account certainly seemed to be a bag of ground salt for the bird. The canary having been added to the establishment only the beginning of the last week, Mrs. Dorothea was obliged to enquire what this meant.
"Groundsel, ma'am, for the bird; I paid a boy for gathering some, you can't get people to do things for nothing." This was not the only expense the bird had occasioned—he was the alleged cause of a great additional consumption in many things: eggs for boiling hard, bread for crumbling into his tea, white sugar for sticking between the wires of his cage, &c. &c. &c.; while there was a charge for bird-seed every second day, half a pound each time. So much for the bird. The charge for soap had always been enormous, but this week it was twice as much as usual. Mrs. Dorothea remonstrated: "You told me," she said, "that the reason you had used so much soap hitherto, was, that there were so few glass towels, that you were obliged to wash them continually; I got a dozen new ones accordingly, and here is more soap than ever charged."
"It stands to reason, ma'am, where there is more linen, it must take more soap to wash it," answered Jones, with the coolest effrontery possible; and having, of course, no change to return out of the sovereign, she retired to the kitchen, to pronounce her mistress themost meanestlady she had ever met with—indeed no lady at all; to grudge people the mouthfuls of meat they had earned, and the poor bird its two or three seeds; but what was worse than all, she wouldn't have them to wash their hands, for fear of using a bit of soap.
"Considering the difference a canary bird has made," thought Mrs. Dorothea, "it is a fortunate circumstance that I was not persuaded to add an errand-boy to my establishment, as Jones so much wished." Jones, by some sort of accident, happened to have a son of eight or nine years old, whom, of course, she wished to see provided for.
If one could but afford it, proceeded Mrs. Dorothea, I don't know a greater luxury than the peace of allowing oneself to be plundered without seeming to see it. Mrs. Dorothea had had so much experience of the discomforts of lodgings, that she had entertained some thoughts of trying a boarding-house; indeed she had dined at one, one day of the last week, by way of seeing how she should like the kind of thing; but the company had been so different from the refined society she had been living among lately at Lady Arden's, that she had felt quite uncomfortable. Her neighbour on one side had entertained the party in a loud, almost angry voice, the whole time of dinner, with accounts of accidents on rail-roads; she heard afterwards that he was a great holder of canal shares. Her neighbour on her other hand had quite disgusted her, by eating of every dish at table; at the same time that he had made her laugh, by mentioning to her, in confidence, as a sort of apology for his gluttony, that never having been much out of his own part of the country before, he wished while in such a fine new fangled place to get all the insight into the world he could. And after all, if eating a certain number of dinners give a knowledge of the law, why should not eating a certain number of dishes give a knowledge of the world.
After this essay Mrs. Dorothea had given up the idea of a boarding-house. She had even began to turn her thoughts again towards her old lodging with the good carpet. Winter was now coming on and the heat of the oven would no longer be an objection. And she could stand out for the sofa, and the key to the chiffonier, and the drops to the chimney-lights, before she went into the lodging at all. To be sure the new carpet, that had made the room look so respectable, might be getting faded by this time; she would step in, however the next day and see how it looked, and inquire what the set could be had for during the winter months. As she formed this resolve a vague remembrance of past annoyances came over her mind, producing a sense of the utmost dreariness.
It was getting dusk, for she did not dine till six, and while she sat looking at the fire the days of her youth returned. She dwelt on the thoughts of Arden Park, then her home, and of her father's princely establishment. Now all belonged to her nephew; while she was an outcast, almost hated, because she could not afford to be cheated; and paying more than the half of her small income for a single sitting room, not so good as that in which at Arden her own maid used to sit at needle-work. At this moment the train of her reflections was interrupted by a voice of complaint under her window. She looked out. It was raining, but there was still twilight sufficient to discern a poor creature sitting on the ground, and looking through the iron railing in at the kitchen-window, where the light for cooking made the preparations for dinner visible. The poor woman, was miserably clad! and, from her accent, Irish. She was eloquently appealing to the compassion of the cook, while she carried in her hand, as a sort of shield against the vigilance of English policemen, a bundle of matches to sell, worth perhaps one half-penny.
"Ye that's warm and well fed yonder, pity the poor crathur could and wet and hasn't broke her fast this blessed day!"
The cook's shrill voice was heard in a key of reproof.
"Oh, mistress," proceeded the mendicant, "but it ill becomes the face that the fire's shining upon and the mate roasting before, to look round in anger on the desolate. Sure I wouldn't be troubling you here in the could this night if I had a hearth or a home of my own to go to!"
Mrs. Dorothea was struck with compassion for the poor wanderer. She opened the window, handed her money from it, and ringing the bell ordered her to have some dinner. "What a cheerful thing fire-light is!" she thought, as she resumed her seat, unconsciously made happy by the performance of a good action. She now remembered her late murmuring thoughts with shame, as she contrasted her own situation with that of the really destitute and became conscious that the source of her discontent was not any actual deprivation, butpride, a pride too, fostered into supernatural growth by the constant contemplation of the wealth and splendour belonging to the head of her own family, "If I could but afford to retain such a home as this," she thought, "how truly happy I might think myself. However, the poorest lodging I am at all likely to get into is a better shelter than many of my fellow creatures possess; let me not, therefore, murmur!"
A dapper double rap here startled her from her reverie. "Who could be calling at so late an hour?"
A gentleman entered whom Mrs. Dorothea had never seen before. He apologized for being so late. He had been detained by a client from the country, and had a journey to perform at an early hour in the morning. The writings had not been completed till that day, and he feared that before his return Mrs. Arden might have had the unnecessary trouble of moving from a house which was now her own freehold property. He then explained, that by order of Sir Willoughby Arden he had effected the purchase of the premises, with the fixtures, furniture, &c. &c., every thing as it stood; and was instructed to present her with the deeds, which accordingly he did.
This was, as may be well believed, welcome news to Mrs. Dorothea. She was thus not only comfortably settled in the home she liked so much, but rendered for her quite a rich woman; as her income, hitherto so insufficient, would, now that she was relieved from her heaviest expense—rent, be ample for all her other wants.
Willoughby, the most liberal and generous of mortals in money matters, had frequently heard his sisters talk over Aunt Dorothea's adventures in lodgings, and lament that she could not afford to keep her nice pretty house which suited her so well. He had, in consequence given the orders we have just seen executed, and from a feeling of delicacy had said nothing of his kind intentions, which had thus invested the transaction with the character of an agreeable surprise.
While Willoughby is travelling towards Lady Palliser's, or rather Lady Caroline Montague's magnificent country seat, we shall endeavour to account for some of those contradictory circumstances and inconsistencies of manner which to him seemed so unaccountable; or rather for which he was so unwilling to account by that solution which yet pressed itself upon his judgment as most probable.
Caroline, though from her extreme timidity the worst of actresses, had yet ventured to form a vaguely conceived plan, for the execution of which she hoped one time or other to summon courage. In the mean while, perhaps unconsciously, the thoughts which were passing in her mind affected her manners, and sometimes even the expression of her countenance, and thus led to the most fatal misconstruction of her sentiments. Her total ignorance of the world, too, occasioned by that want of communication with any one older than herself already mentioned, as one of the evil results of her mother's harsh and heartless system of education, rendered tenfold the dangers of her difficult situation.
Lady Palliser had informed her daughter that she meant to marry her to Sir Willoughby Arden. Caroline's attempt to remonstrate had been silenced, as usual, with the most tyrannical violence. What was to be done?—poor Caroline felt quite unequal to open opposition: she had recourse accordingly to the dangerous expedient alluded to. She resolved to make a friend of Sir Willoughby; and the first time that by a declaration of his sentiments he gave her an opportunity of speaking on such a subject, to cast herself on his compassion, and entreat him to withdraw his addresses, without making it known to her mother that she had rejected him. This it was which gave to her manner that gentle acquiescence in his attentions, and especially that willingness to listen, which it is impossible to define, but which is, above all things, encouraging to a lover. And this it was which at Lady Arden's ball had produced the scene of misunderstanding, from which Willoughby re-appeared in the dancing room with a countenance so delighted. The interview in the veranda had commenced by some lover-like speeches, which, while they could not be misunderstood, did not absolutely call for reply: and Caroline, unwilling to seem too ready to comprehend, became uneasy and anxious, but yet did not speak. The ardour of Willoughby's manner increased; more than once Caroline moved her lips to commence her difficult task, but no sound proceeded from them; while every moment she grew more miserably conscious that her silence would be—must be misconstrued. At length, by way of exordium, she murmured a few scarcely audible words, thanking him for his flattering preference; but what she wished to add required so much courage—so much explanation, that she knew not how to proceed. She faltered, and became silent; and while striving to find words in which to recommence, she suffered so intensely from the tumult of her agitation, that she lost much of the purport of the enthusiastic declarations of attachment which Willoughby was now pouring forth. When he began, however, to talk of his gratitude for the favourable hearing she had granted him, she felt the necessity of speaking, and in fearful trepidation commenced: "The—the confidence I—I am about to place in—in you, Sir Willoughby——"
"Will never be abused by me," he exclaimed, with fervour.
"I—I fear—" she recommenced, colouring, stammering, and withdrawing her hand gently, but in the utmost confusion. At this moment several other couples, who seemed to have just discovered the veranda, entered from different windows almost simultaneously.
"May I then call to-morrow morning?" said Willoughby, in a hasty whisper, "and be permitted to——"
"Yes; but speak to me alone!" she replied, resolving that to-morrow she would make the painful explanation, now more than ever necessary. It was on their returning to the dancing-room at this juncture, that Alfred had remarked the delighted expression of Willoughby's countenance.
The last injunction of Caroline, to speak to her alone, sounded odd; but surely it was kind and encouraging. The whole interview, in short, amounted to as favourable a reception of his now fully declared passion as he could desire. In the course of the evening he found an opportunity in an aside conversation with Lady Palliser, of expressing his rapturous hopes, and alluding to the visit he was to pay by permission on the next morning.
The ball concluded—the morning arrived—and Lady Palliser at breakfast told her daughter that she was happy to find from Sir Willoughby, that she had shown a proper sense of obedience, in accepting the offer of his hand, which he had made her the evening before.
Poor Caroline's attempt at manœuvring was thus entirely defeated. She had, as we have stated, resolved to entreat Sir Willoughby, by withdrawing his addresses apparently of his own accord, to shelter her from the rage of her mother; but she was quite unprepared for taking herself an active part in the deception, and maintaining that part by bold and decided falsehood: completely thrown off her guard, she exclaimed with fervour, "Oh no, no! he has entirely misunderstood me; I feared he had, but I have not accepted him—I never can—I never will accept him!"
"Do you dare assert that you will not obey my commands?" said Lady Palliser, rising, and assuming that fierceness of aspect before which our heroine habitually trembled.
Caroline sunk on her knees, and promising never to listen to any one of whom her mother did not approve, only intreated permission to remain single.
Lady Palliser was well aware that her daughter might at her leisure command many much more splendid matches than the one now in agitation; but in the first place she was determined, from the spirit of tyranny, to be obeyed; added to which there was a second motive, which though too contemptible to be confessed even to herself, had no doubt a certain influence on her present conduct.
The time had been when the loveliness of the infant, held on the knee purposely for effect, had added interest to the matured and lustrous charms of the beautiful mother: but now that mother and daughter had become two distinct objects, and that the eye of the beholder not unfrequently passed with hasty indifference over the still striking countenance of the former, to pause in evident delight on the fresher charms of the latter, an irksome sense of secret mortification incessantly assailed Lady Palliser. In childhood she had treated Caroline with harshness, from the united effect of a worthless nature, and a mistaken plan of education; but now the constant proximity of one who was the innocent cause of the diminution of those triumphs which had hitherto formed the sole charm of her existence, was becoming irksome to her; and awaking feelings closely allied to angry aversion! And therefore it was though, as we have said, she would have blushed to have confessed it to her own heart, that her ladyship was impatient to rid herself of annoyances such as these; of, in short, the meek unconscious rival who was, notwithstanding, the only being that had ever disputed with her the reign of vanity she had so long enjoyed, and even still felt that she recovered whenever she appeared in public without her daughter. For it must be allowed that her ladyship's beauty was at the very time of which we speak, still of so striking and splendid a character, that it lost little by comparison with any loveliness but that of Caroline, whose similarity of feature seemed to render the advantageous dissimilarities of extreme youth and infinite superiority of expression peculiarly conspicuous.
Lady Palliser was inexorable, and Willoughby's knock being heard, while our heroine was still at her feet, she commanded her to retire to her own apartment and remain there till prepared to render implicit obedience to her commands.
The lover on his entrance was told with the sweetest smiles imaginable, that Caroline had taken cold the evening before, and was unable to leave her room. He was, however, encouraged to make known his sentiments and his wishes to Lady Palliser, who both accepted his proposals on the part of her daughter, and in the most gracious manner possible pronounced her own approval of his suit. Then followed the arrangement respecting the visit to ——shire, and the tour on the continent, &c. mere manœuvres of her ladyship's to gain time, in case Caroline should prove untractable.
All this, it may be remembered, Willoughby mentioned to his brother on his return from his morning visit already described. His not having seen Caroline herself, however, he suppressed; he felt he knew not why, an insuperable objection to mention the circumstance; not that he deduced from it at the time a doubt of his happiness, of which he felt he thought perfectly secure. He longed, it is true, for evening, and could not help thinking that his felicity would be still more complete when his fate had been pronounced by Caroline's own lips; yet surely the night before in the veranda she had accepted him quite as explicitly as young ladies generally do. His disappointment again that evening annoyed him very much; and during our heroine's protracted illness, the anxiety it was natural he should feel respecting her state of health, was mingled at times with gloomy apprehensions, which had yet another and a more agitating source.
At length he left Cheltenham as we have seen for Montague House. His last interview with our heroine herself was that already described as having taken place in the veranda on the night of Lady Arden's ball.
The secret of Caroline having never since been visible, was, that she still continued to resist Lady Palliser's tyrannical commands, while her ladyship, astonished at conduct so unparalleled, on the part of her hitherto submissive child, and unaccustomed to be baffled, was more than ever determined that she should finally yield.
Accordingly she had put off the lover from day to day with promises and excuses which yet she scarcely expected him to believe, and with which in fact she cared very little after all, whether he was or was not satisfied, being with her usual whimsical inconsistency fully prepared, whenever he refused to playblind-man's-bluff, as she called it, any longer, to laugh excessively and turn the whole affair into an excellent jest. In the mean time she derived quite as much gratification from the amusement of quizzing Willoughby, as from the prospect of tyrannizing over her daughter.
For it was a part of Lady Palliser's character, which was as absurd as it was worthless, to think it exceedingly witty to succeed in deceiving any body, though by the gravest, and therefore of course the dullest lie imaginable: we mean in the April-fool style, not vulgar business lying—that would have been out of her line.
On Willoughby's arrival at Montague House, Lady Palliser, though scarcely able to keep her countenance, attempted to carry on the farce by saying, that she had removed her daughter in the hope that change of air might prove beneficial, but that she was still unable to leave her room. This went on for a day or two, during which her ladyship, more than ever anxious to carry her point, because now getting tired of the business, treated the still inflexible Caroline with great harshness. The third morning, a female servant, who had evidently watched her opportunity, entered with great caution the breakfast-room where Willoughby was alone, and handing him a letter vanished again. He read the epistle, turned deadly pale, gasped for breath, read it again, rose, paced the apartment, stopped, looked wildly round him, threw open a window, the room being on the ground floor, and rushed into the lawn. It is difficult to say what he might have done, or whither directed his steps, had he not perchance encountered his groom, who had been exercising his horses and was bringing them home.
With a vague idea that it was necessary to affect perfect composure, Willoughby waved to the man to stop, and his signal being obeyed, walked quietly to the side of the led horse, and laying his hand on its neck, raised a foot as if with the intention of mounting; the absence of the stirrup however rendering the movement abortive, he stood for a moment looking confused.
"Shall I saddle him, sir?" enquired the groom.
"Do," replied Willoughby, with the air of one relieved from a great embarrassment, and walking on as he spoke.
"Where will you please to mount, sir?" asked the servant, following a step or two, with his hand to his hat.
After a few moments employed in recalling ideas, which had evidently already gone forth on some far distant execution, Willoughby answered, "Any where."
John, as the best mode in his judgment, of obeying commands so far from explicit, returned to the stable, exchanged the body cloths of the animals for the saddles, and following in the direction he had seen his master take, soon overtook him, walking slowly on the side of the road, with his arms folded, and his head uncovered. John had before observed that Willoughby was without his hat, and had been thoughtful enough to bring it with him. He now presented it, then held the horse; Willoughby put on the hat, mounted the animal and rode on, followed by John, without a word being spoken on either side: nor was it till they had performed one stage of their journey towards Arden, and were lodged at an inn, that John ventured so far to obtrude himself upon the evident abstraction of his master, as to enquire if they were going home. He received an answer in the affirmative; on which he made bold to ask further, whether Sir Willoughby had left orders with the other servants to follow with the carriage, &c. To this enquiry he received a reply, first in the negative, then in the affirmative, and again finally in the negative.
On which he begged permission to dispatch a line to the coachman himself. He stood ten minutes without obtaining any answer, and then taking silence for consent, proceeded to do as he had suggested.
The exertion of mind necessary to comprehend and reply to John's queries, or even a part of them, seemed to recall Willoughby to some recollection of the duties he had himself to perform. He must write to Lady Palliser—he must account for his abrupt departure. That he might do so in strict compliance with the request contained in the letter of this morning, he applied himself to the reperusal of the epistle which had already caused him so much affliction. It was, as our readers have probably anticipated, from Caroline. Driven to desperation by her mother's perseverance in her determination of marrying her to Sir Willoughby, and terrified by her violence, which at every interview increased, she was at length compelled to conquer all the timid reluctance she felt to take what to her seemed the boldest of steps, and address to Sir Willoughby the letter we have seen him receive in so frantic a manner.
After a hesitating, and almost unmeaning commencement, consisting of broken sentences, and awkward apologies, she went on to say: "Yet if I would avoid calling down upon myself your just resentment, by appearing in your eyes to be guilty of the most unjustifiable caprice; I must I fear relate a circumstance which—I have been so unwilling to mention, that—I have—I know—in consequence—delayed this explanation much too long. But before your arrival in Cheltenham, before ever our acquaintance had even commenced, I had promised to—to—accept—the hand of—of—Mr. Arden, your brother; and though by my mother's positive command, I was compelled the next day to withdraw that promise, I cannot—I never can—I am sure too—you will think.—But I know I express myself very badly—very confusedly, yet I hope you will see—at least that my being quite—quite unable ever to enter into the engagements my mother has wished to form for me, does not proceed from any caprice or change of mind on my part, or any want of gratitude for the flattering regard with which you have so kindly honoured me.
"What I now entreat of your compassion is, that you who have nothing to fear from my mother's anger, would generously interpose yourself between me and a storm, before the very thought of which I tremble till my hand can scarcely hold the pen with which I attempt to write.
"I know I ought to have made this explanation long since, but a foolish, a culpable fearfulness, made me ever ready to believe no opportunity a fitting one. At Lady Arden's ball I did attempt it, but we were interrupted; so that I only made things much worse. I was so confused too, I was glad of the respite. I thought I could say what I have now written, when you should call the next morning;—but on that occasion my mother interfered, and has never since allowed me to see you."
On finishing Caroline's letter for the second time, Willoughby, in a sort of desperation, wrote a hurried scrawl to Lady Palliser, towards whom he felt strong resentment for the deception she had practised. His epistle was written in strange incoherent language, but its general purport was that he considered himself trifled with in having been so long debarred from seeing Lady Caroline Montague; and in consequence, begged leave to withdraw his addresses finally. Nor was the truth in this much disguised, for he felt that had he been permitted to see Caroline from the first he should much sooner have been undeceived.