“He hath sworn falsely.”
“He hath sworn falsely.”
“He hath sworn falsely.”
“He hath sworn falsely.”
“Howdo you do? how do you do?” said Henry, as, the next evening but one, he entered the drawing room, at Lodore, and stretched two fingers to each of the party. “So you have had Edmund here, I find,” he continued.
“Only for one day, poor fellow,” replied Mrs. Montgomery.
“He told me he could stay but one day,” said Henry. “The Arandales are in town, andhe wants to be as much as possible with them, while the ship is refitting. His hopes in that quarter are revived, he tells me,” he added, turning to the sisters, and looking, with malicious triumph, full in Julia’s face, till her cheeks tingled again, under his continued stare.
“You might have looked for a more affectionate salutation from your aunt, I think, Henry,” observed Mrs. Montgomery reproachfully, “after having been in a dangerous engagement.”
“I thought, ma’am,” he replied, accepting her offered embrace both coldly and awkwardly, “that no one cared what became of me!”
“Don’t talk idly, my dear,” said his aunt. “But how could you, Henry,” she added, “be so inconsiderate, as to write the alarmingletter you did, while there was any uncertainty?”
“There was no uncertainty on my mind at the time I wrote, ma’am. I was, as I believe I mentioned, in the Tender alongside, waiting to carry intelligence to the fleet, as soon as the last of the enemy should be seen to strike. Edmund was standing in a very conspicuous situation, just over me, (out on one of the flukes of the anchor;) when, bang! and in one moment I saw the ball coming towards him, and the next his heels lifted above his head, and his legs and arms going round in the air, like the wings of a windmill! I thought, of course, he must be blown into a thousand atoms! What else could I think?” he added, observing Julia’s involuntary shudder, with a look of gratified malice. “And I supposed,” he continued, still addressing his aunt, “that you would ratherhear it from a friend, than see the first of it in the papers. So I wrote on board the Tender, and, as soon as we joined the fleet, sent my letter by the first opportunity. I think I was very considerate! We had our order to sail, you see, the moment the enemy struck; so that I had no time to hear that he was not killed.”
“I am sure, the papers, or any thing,” said Frances, “would have been better than your letter, Henry; which was worded, I think, much in the same delicate manner that you expressed yourself just now. But you never lose an opportunity of giving pain, Henry. I dare say, if the truth was known, you took quite a pleasure in writing that cruel letter, and fancying how wretched it would make us all!—For Edmund is not like you; every body loves him, poor dear fellow!”
“Candid, at least!” observed Henry, with a sneer. “But I am always fortunate in possessing Lady Frances’s good opinion. Sailors, however, have no time to be nice,” he added. “When fellows die, or are killed, (which is the same thing, you know) we throw them overboard, and if the fighting’s done, pipe to dinner! Edmund will do as much for me, or I for him, one of those days; just as it may happen. Edmund, to be sure, is likely to kick the bucket as soon as any one, for he’s cursed rash!”
Frances saw, with kindling resentment, the pain that every word was inflicting on poor Julia.
“There is nothing of your strange jargon comprehensible,” she said, “but such expressions as are calculated to wound the feelings; those, as usual, are obvious enough.”
“If young ladies choose to volunteer their feelings for every fellow in His Majesty’s service,” retorted Henry, “they’ll have something to do now-a-days. There’s many a better man than Edmund, and that would be a greater loss to his friends too, that will feed the fishes yet before the war is over, I can tell you!” “It’s capital fun,” he added, glancing at Julia, “to see a villain of a shark, after he has followed the ship the length of a day, just make two bites of a fellow!”
“Strange notions of fun, you have, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.
“How should you like it to happen to yourself, Henry?” asked Frances.
“Not at all, I thank you,” he replied. “But just fancy Edmund between the rascal’s teeth, snipping him in two at the small of the waist!”
“You should not speak in that manner, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.
“Speaking don’t make it more likely to happen, ma’am,” he replied; “more unlikely things have happened, tho’! What do you say to a wager, Frances, eh? What will you bet, I say, that a hungry shark, don’t make a dinner of Edmund, the very next time he goes to sea?”
“Fie! fie! Henry,” interrupted Mrs. Montgomery; “this is a subject on which we have all felt seriously, too lately, to be disposed to jest upon it at present.”
“It’s not quite such a jest neither,” he answered, sulkily. “If the ball had hit him, instead of the fluke of the anchor, (as it might just as easily have done,) I maintain it, there would not have been two inches square of him left in any one piece! And what’s to preventthe next ball, I should be glad to know, from hitting him, or me, or any other fellow that goes in the way of it! People must prepare their fine feelings for such things,” he continued, looking after Julia as she was leaving the room. “He has been devilish lucky, I think, to get on as he has done, and make so much money too, without getting knocked on the head long ago! But his turn will come next, I dare say,” he added in great haste, lest Julia should reach the door before it was said.
“It cannot be at all necessary to your professional character, Henry, to be either unfeeling, or inelegant,” observed Mrs. Montgomery. “What can be more the opposite of both, than Edmund; and you will allow, I believe, that he is a good sailor.”
“Yes,” said Frances, “he is certainly aninstance, that to be a brave officer it is not necessary to be a sea-monster! And I really do not perceive what right those have to be the latter, who cannot even offer in their apology that they are the former.” And she followed her sister with tears of vexation in her eyes.
“You should not, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery, as soon as the door closed after Frances, “address such expressions to your cousins, as that—‘young ladies need not volunteer their feelings to every fellow in His Majesty’s service!’ and such language, at any rate, can never be applicable in the present instance. It would indeed be very unnatural, and unamiable too, of them, if they did not feel when Edmund was in danger.”
“If you don’t mind what you’re about, ma’am, I suspect you’ll have some naturalfeelings to manage that you won’t much like!”
“What do you mean, Henry?”
“I mean, ma’am, that Frances, who you see makes no secret of her adoration of Edmund, will be running off with him one of those days!”
“Oh dear, no!” said Mrs. Montgomery: “Frances’ undisguised affection is evidently that of a sister. Besides, I have the most perfect confidence in Edmund’s honour.”
“Oh, very well, ma’am,” answered Henry, carelessly. “As for Julia,” he added, “of course, I don’t like to see her too prodigal of her feelings to any one.”
“Henry!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I now tell you, once more, what I have already often told you: If you persist in this indelicate display of your very misplaced, and, you mustbe aware, hopeless attachment to your cousin, I shall consider it my duty (and it must be a painful one) to forbid you my house, till the return of her father places her under his protection.”
“I don’t see why my case should be so hopeless as you say: Julia will soon be her own mistress; and if she chooses to have me, I’d be a cursed fool not to secure such a good hit! Indeed, I tell you fairly, that as soon as she is of age, if she consents to run away with me, I shall have no scruples on the subject. She has enough for us both, and has every right to please herself!”
“I have questioned Julia, and she assures me that she neither authorises your addresses, nor returns your preference.”
“Till she is her own mistress, and can end disputes at once, she has no fancy, I dare say,for being lectured every day of her life by her wise friends! However, I say nothing; time will tell!”
Here the conference ended.
“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”
“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”
“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”
“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”
Abouta week after Edmund’s hasty visit to Lodore, the postman’s knock was heard, and no servant appearing with letters, inquiries were made. A footman replied, that Mr. St. Aubin had been passing through the hall, and had taken the letters from the man. Henry was applied to; but disappointed the hopes of all by saying, there was but one, which was for himself. “It’s from Edmund,” he added carelessly.
“And what does he say?” inquired every one, at the same moment. “An order to join, I suppose?” added Frances.
“No,” he replied.
“You are very laconic, Henry!” observed Mrs. Montgomery.
“Why, really, ma’am—I—don’t know that it is quite fair to talk of young men’s love concerns. However, my amiable cousins, I believe, know all about it; whether they have thought fit to inform you, ma’am, or not. Indeed, you saw something of it yourself. It was a foolish affair from the first: I never thought it would answer.”
“What was a foolish affair?” asked Frances.
“Oh all that fudge about your nonsuch fancying that Lady Susan Morven was to accept him, forsooth, because some peoplehave blown him up with conceit and impertinence, by choosing to make fools of themselves about him. But it seems she is married to the Marquis of H⸺, and Edmund, of course, is in great despair about it—that’s all!”
“I cannot believe that he ever loved Lady Susan!” said Frances.
“I have only his own word, and his own hand-writing for it,” replied Henry.
“Will you shew me the letter?” asked Frances.
“Why, do you doubt what I assert?” said Henry, angrily, and at the same time putting his hand in his pocket, to feign an intention of shewing a letter he had never received. There was one in his pocket, however, which he would have been very sorry to have shewn.
“I like the evidence of my own sensesbest,” replied Frances, holding out her hand.
“On second thoughts,” said Henry, “I shall not shew the letter. Indeed, I don’t think it would be honourable in me to do so. By the bye,” he added, “I took a couple of papers from the man at the same time. I forgot them, I believe, on the writing-table in the library. The marriage will be in the ‘Morning-Post,’ of course.”
“My dear, what could you have been doing to forget the papers? I thought the servants were airing them,” said Mrs. Montgomery.
Frances flew for them. Julia was, or seemed to be, very busily engaged about something at her portfolio; and took wonderfully little interest in the discussion, considering the regard (in the way of friendship, we mean) which she had always professed to entertainfor Edmund. Frances returned with the papers. The marriage of Lady Susan Morven to the Marquis of H. certainly did appear printed in legible characters. Frances herself read it aloud. Various comments were made. Mrs. Montgomery expressed herself certain that Lord L. would be much dissatisfied with Julia for having refused so splendid a match.
“I never said I refused him, ma’am,” faltered out Julia, in a timid voice.
“He told your uncle you did, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery.
“Did I not tell you, ma’am, that my fair cousin here would choose for herself?” observed Henry with emphasis: and going towards Julia, he leaned on the back of her chair with well-feigned tenderness of manner.
Mrs. Montgomery looked with a surprised and inquiring expression at her granddaughter,who coloured to excess; for she thought of Edmund, and was also painfully aware of the false light in which Henry wished her to appear. The blush of consciousness was deepened by indignation, not the less strong that it was suppressed. She could not now say, as she had done when a child, “No, I hate Henry, and I love Edmund!” He knew she could not, and she knew that on this knowledge he presumed. A look, indeed, of resentment, she attempted. Mrs. Montgomery saw it, thought it one of intelligence, and felt alarmed.
Frances, who had turned over the paper two or three times, now exclaimed, “Oh, here is something about Edmund’s friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and she began to read aloud as follows:—
“It is with heartfelt grief, we perform the melancholy task of stating, that the youngEarl of Fitz-Ullin, whose late gallant conduct gave so bright a promise of his following in the glorious track of his father, has disappointed every hope, blighted his budding laurels, and ended his short career, by that crime of which alone the perpetrator can never repent: we mean, an act of suicide. The cause is said to be a love affair, of at least doubtful character; the rank of the lady being much beneath that of his Lordship. The female in question is, in fact, we understand, the daughter of his Lordship’s nurse; but very beautiful, and, unfortunately, brought up at a fashionable boarding school, with accomplishments and ideas quite out of her sphere. We understand, further, that his Lordship became acquainted with his fair enslaver at first as one of the young ladies of a certain fashionable establishment, withoutbeing aware of her birth, or even her name, till after many rural, and, we believe, clandestine meetings had taken place; and that the attachment existed even in the life-time of his Lordship’s father; but was then, of course, kept a profound secret. The rival, whose later success with the frail fair one has caused the dreadful catastrophe above related, is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the——” Here Frances suddenly stopped short, and exclaimed, “Nonsense!—Impossible!”
“Go on! go on!” cried Henry, (he had read it before.)
“What nonsense!” said Frances again pettishly, as she continued looking over the paragraph to herself.
Henry snatched the paper, and after a moment’s search, went back upon and finishedthe sentence in a loud and exulting tone, thus: “is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the gallant Captain Montgomery.”—“Well, faith,” he said, “it was too bad of Edmund to carry on an amour of this kind at the very time when, I know, he had hopes (however ill-founded) of being accepted, by Lady Susan.”
“It must be all false together,” said Frances.
“You are Edmund’s sponsor, it seems,” observed Henry. “You would not allow that he loved Lady Susan, so perhaps it is this other lady, or rather woman, he loves; and that he only wished to marry Lady Susan’s fifty thousand. Or, perhaps, your ladyship knows best, or possibly has the best right to know, among so many aspirants for the heart of this gallant adventurer, which is the favoured fair one!”
“No! no!” said Mrs. Montgomery, replying to the part of Henry’s speech which inferred that our hero designed to carry on an amour of inclination with one woman, and marry the fortune of another. “That Edmund may have a virtuous attachment to one or other lady, is very possible; indeed, I always thought, and so, I believe, you all did, that he liked Lady Susan. Or that he may have rivalled his friend, unintentionally, or been mistaken in the character of the lady, is also not impossible: but, that he has behaved dishonourably or unamiably, I will not, on any authority, believe! Therefore, my dear, if you know that he did hope, so lately, to be accepted by Lady Susan, there can be no sort of truth in the other affair: it must be mere newspaper conjecture.”
Mr. Jackson had hitherto sat apart, affecting to read to himself the other paper; to evince, by this seeming inattention to the conversation, his contempt of the accusations brought against Edmund. He now arose, and indignantly strode towards the fire-place. He stood with his back to it, and, in visible emotion, pronounced the words, “Contemptible falsehoods!—No;” he proceeded, after a tolerably long pause, during which he compressed his lips, and planted his heels firmly in the rug, “Licentious excitements (he would not condescend to a perverted world, by miscalling such, pleasures) have no temptations for a mind constituted like Edmund’s! His affections are of the heart: they borrow not a deceptive glow, either from the passions, or from the temper; as do those,” he added, “of but too many hot-headed, cold-hearted,selfish rakes, who pass on a thoughtless world for good-natured fellows.”
“I know nothing about any body’s good-nature,” said Henry; “nor am I editor of the ‘Morning Post,’ to be accountable for whose amours may figure in its columns for the amusement of the public. All I assert of my own knowledge is, that Edmund either was, or thought fit to say he was, in love with Lady Susan Morven; that he was coxcomb enough to fancy he would be accepted; and is fool enough to be in despair about her Ladyship’s marrying a man of rank, suitable to her own.”
“Your statement, young gentleman,” said Mr. Jackson, “contains, to speak mildly, many egregious errors! Edmund is neither fool nor coxcomb! Neither was your observation, just now, more applicable: A braveofficer, in the regular service of his own king and country, is noadventurer!”
Julia was endeavouring to leave the room unobserved. Henry, with an unusually officious zeal of politeness, flew to assist her in opening the door. While doing so, he contrived in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, to look full in her face, with a hatefully offensive expression of perfect intelligence. His unshrinking eye stood still, till it cost Julia an effort to break the spell, and withdraw her’s. He knew what she must have felt during the late discussion; and she felt that he did so. He had often, in private, insolently taxed her with her preference of Edmund; and, so taxed, though of course she had made no confessions, she had been too proud to descend to falsehood, and deny the fact: and thus she felt that the secret ofher heart’s affections, which timid delicacy induced her to conceal from those she loved and respected, was laid bare to the view of him, with whom, of all the world, she had least sympathy!
Her sickening sensation, consequently, while now she endured his gaze, somewhat resembled what we can imagine might be experienced by a modest woman beneath the exulting eye of a libertine, were it possible for that eye, by its audacious stare, to dissolve the personal screen of decent clothing.
Julia was again present when the papers of the next day were read. They said, that they were very happy to state, that Lord Fitz-Ullin was only wounded, and that hopes were entertained of his Lordship’s recovery. That, strange to relate, his rival was now in close attendance on the couch of his injuredfriend: and that, still more strange, the fickle fair one herself assisted her new lover in the task of nursing her old one.
The next paper undertook to gratify the public with curious particulars respecting a late interesting occurrence in high life. A certain young nobleman, it was now confidently affirmed, had, in the first instance, actually laid his title and fortune at the feet of a certain fickle fair one; who had, notwithstanding, perversely preferred a certain gallant captain, who, it is thought, though he had no objection to receive very unequivocal proofs of the lady’s love, had no idea of marrying her; and that theeclaircissementhad taken place at the altar.
Another paper asserted, that an old woman, calling herself the mother of the lady, had rushed into the church, wrested the sacredvolume from the hands of the clergyman, and in the most frantic manner, put a stop to the ceremony. And further, that the said old woman had proceeded to make such confessions to the intended bridegroom respecting, it is supposed, the lady’s late connexion with the gallant Captain, as had effectually prevented the marriage. That the Earl had, in the handsomest manner, sent for his rival, and resigned the lady to him; after which, in a paroxysm of despairing love, he had gone home to his splendid residence in ⸺ Square, and shot himself.
“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whitherDoth it roll along, when it carries with itAll our joys?”
“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whitherDoth it roll along, when it carries with itAll our joys?”
“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whitherDoth it roll along, when it carries with itAll our joys?”
“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whither
Doth it roll along, when it carries with it
All our joys?”
A fewdays more brought a letter from Edmund, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery; now it was hoped all would be explained; Mrs. Montgomery broke the seal, laid the letter open on her knee, took out her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on. But soon tears dimmed the glasses, and the old lady’s head shook a little, as on occasions ofdeep emotion. “What can he mean?” she said, as she gave the letter to Julia, desiring her to read it aloud. Julia, on receiving it, turned extremely pale. As soon as her eyes ran over the first few lines, she trembled visibly, and cast a beseeching look at her sister.
Frances took the letter from her, saying, that she could read Edmund’s hand particularly well. She began, like the rest, by looking over the letter to herself. Soon tears were seen stealing over her cheeks, as she read on, while from time to time she exclaimed, “What can he mean? What can have happened?”
“Read aloud, my dear! Do pray read aloud!” said Mrs. Montgomery. And Frances, endeavouring to keep down the choking sensation that arose in her throat, commenced as follows:—
“I must, for a time at least, bid farewell to all; yes, even to her, who sheltered my infant head; who protected my infant years; who was my friend when I was friendless; who gave me bread when I was destitute. But I cannot—no—I cannot see Lodore again! Lodore, that home of happy childhood!
“At such a crisis of my fate, there is much I ought to say to one so dear—one so generously interested in the wretched Edmund; but, at present, I am incapable of a rational recital.
“At a future time, perhaps—but I wander—you have doubtless seen all, ere this, in the public prints. Yet, surely they were not the proper medium—Pardon me; I know not what I write—the blow has indeed been severe!
“Perhaps I deserve it all; to have hoped was madness! treachery! Yet, I did hope!Yes—or why my present despair? Yet was it a hope so mingled with fear and with remorse, that it was torture! Yet it was hope!—Heavens! must I believe it? Was it all a dream! a delirium! Was there nothing real? Or is friendship, then, so like love? No! within my own breast, how wide the wild distinction!
“Why then was I deceived? Oh, farewell! I go, I know not where.—But I leave England—perhaps, for ever! Yet, think me not ungrateful! Think not, that the fondest affections of my blighted heart, withered and worthless though they be, shall not for ever cling to the remembrance of the dear, dear friends, the ever to be beloved, respected, and revered benefactress of my infant years. Your unhappy Edmund.”
The letter bore no further signature; aswas habitual with our hero, from a painful consciousness that his second name was but borrowed.
The exclamations and interruptions had, of course, been many. The subject was now discussed by Mrs. Montgomery and Frances. Also by Mr. Jackson; for he generally came in soon after the post hour. Julia did not venture a word. Lady Susan’s marriage was agreed upon by all as, of course, the principal cause of Edmund’s “ridiculously violent despair,” as Frances pettishly called it.
Mr. Jackson, with evident mortification, was obliged to confess that he had certainly expected more sense from Edmund. He hoped, however, he added, that feelings of such boyish violence would exhaust themselves in a proportionately short time, and leave his young friend a more reasonable man for therest of his life. There might, however, Mr. Jackson suggested, be some unpleasant circumstances respecting this business which had made so much noise in the papers, in which Edmund, even without fault of his own, might find himself involved. His feelings, his name, might be painfully implicated. There might be particulars, which delicacy towards his friend rendered it difficult to explain to the public. He thought it impossible that Edmund could talk of leaving England for ever, merely on account of his disappointment about Lady Susan; that would be too irrational: though from his despairing expressions on the subject of love, it was evidently the one on which he felt most bitterly just at present.
The result of the conversation was, a determination on the part of Mr. Jackson, togo up to town immediately. His assistance, or at least his advice, might be useful to his young friend.
“And give me my desk,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I will write to him. He shall come to me, foolish boy, before he takes any rash step.”
Henry had left Lodore some days since, or he would doubtless have favoured the family party with some good natured observations. He had, however, to confirm opinions of still more consequence to his plans, in another quarter—a quarter, which he had lately, by no very honourable means, discovered to have become more dangerous than ever. Had he been present, he could have resolved every mystery, and shewn all to be simple that seemed extraordinary: not that he would have done so.
Julia and Frances had been just going totake a walk, when the letter was brought in; they now pursued their original intention, with an additional motive; the wish to converse together uninterruptedly. As they went out, Frances pressed her sister’s hand without speaking.
They happened to turn their steps towards the fall of Lodore. The spot is curiously sequestered, and the space on which the water precipitates itself, from an immense perpendicular height, does not appear larger, than the dimensions of a small room. The steep and rugged rock rises on three sides till roofed by the sky; the central side of the hollow square, is that over which, broken at various elevations by black projections of flinty stone, the torrent rushes; from both the other sides, mountain ash and various sort of trees, rooted in every crevice, stretch their branches across, betweenthe eye of the spectator, and the white sheet of descending foam. The fourth side, or ground facing the fall, is a steep sloping bank, thickly covered with large trees, beneath the shade of which, a narrow path leads down to the edge of the water. Here a seat is placed, on which two persons may find accommodation; and if disposed to tell each other very profound secrets, feel quite secure from the danger of being overheard; for the fall, which is exactly opposite, plunges at their very feet, with a din so tremendous, that the most attentive listener, standing at but a few yards distance, though he should see their lips in motion, could distinguish no sound of their voices, and would be tempted to fancy, they conversed but in dumb show.
Julia and Frances descended this path, and took possession of this seat. Julia instantlyturned, and throwing her arms round her sister’s neck, murmured in a slow whisper, “Oh! Frances, why did you say it was me he loved?”
It is a curious fact, that, in this situation, persons quite close to each other, can hear whispers more distinctly than they could the voice in its natural key. It would seem that the open tones were more prone to assimilate with the loud sounds abroad, and so become confounded with them.
“I thought so, Julia,” answered Frances, who also whispered, “and I should think so still, even by the very wording of that letter; but that I know, you have not said or done any thing of late, to change, so suddenly, any hopes he may ever have ventured to entertain, into all this mighty despair! Yet, who else has shown him a friendship that could be mistakenfor love? as he seems to infer. With whom else has he had time or opportunity to indulge in this ‘dream, this delirium of unreal bliss;’ of which he talks so wildly?”
Julia thought of her late parting with Edmund, and paused a few seconds: then sighed, and said,
“No! no! there has nothing passed of late to change whatever may have been the usual tenor of his feelings towards me. It must be Lady Susan he means. The expressions you speak of, Frances, must allude to the time spent in her society, both here, and at Arandale. You know, whatever intimacy there was, commenced the very first evening he danced with her; and very soon afterwards, you know, she herself told you, that he wanted her to marry him; and that she intended to do so, if Lord and Lady Arandale would give theirconsent. Now, it is evident, that they have not consented, and that it is Lady Susan’s having married the Marquis after all, that Edmund thinks such a dreadful disappointment, such a blow, as he calls it.”
“It must be so,” said her sister.
“Yet, Frances,” recommenced Julia, “I had, some how, lost sight of the possibility of his preferring one, still, as I thought, a comparative stranger. I had contrived to persuade myself, that the whole business about Lady Susan, was either some mistake, as you once suggested, or a momentary fancy; perhaps, a feeling of gratitude for her preference; and I had dwelt with delight on the praises bestowed on him by all the world, and Mr. Jackson in particular, who is so sensible. I had thought, that I too might highly esteem—might—might—regard—with even—a greatshare of—affection, one, whom every one seemed to admire, and whom, I knew, that you and grandmamma loved so much. And, oh, Frances! when, in the midst of the congratulations of his friends, and the high compliments paid him by every one, I have seen an expression of melancholy mix itself with his smile; and then thought, (I don’t know why, but I did think so,) that it was in my power to make him quite happy—with what feelings have I said—he shall be happy! Frances, in such moments, I have resolved to—to—be his, (that is, some time or other. And now—I, who did so resolve, am as nothing in his eyes! My friendship for that at least he knew he possessed,) is cast away, because the love of a stranger is denied. Nay, my very existence seems to be forgotten! He is going away, he says, perhaps, for ever, and he makes not the slightest mentionof being sorry to part, either from you, or me.”
And she stopped, vainly attempting to check the tremor of her lip, while tears, that it was useless to try to hide, were rolling silently down her cheeks. After a long pause, she added:—
“Were he happy, Frances, I might strive to forget a folly, which has existed, it would appear, only in my own thoughts; but while he is miserable, as he says he is, I know I shall never be able to feel towards him, as now I see I ought.”
This was not a spot, where warning footsteps could be heard; and Lord L. stood before his daughters, ere they were aware of his approach. He took his children in his arms. They had not beheld him since their infancy, but nature found means to make herself understoodwithout words, ere Mrs. Montgomery, who had accompanied him, had time to say, “Girls, your father.”
In the course of the evening, the newspaper account of young Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, became the topic of conversation. Lord L. treated the subject with gravity, and some degree of reserve. He said, however, that he feared there must be some foundation for a report, which was spoken of so universally, and with so much confidence. “Fitz-Ullin’s father,” he added, “they were all aware, had been his most particular friend; he very naturally, therefore, felt interested.”
When Mrs. Montgomery had left the room for the night, which she generally did a little before the rest of the party; Lord L. said to his daughters, “I do not wish to alarm yourgrandmother, unnecessarily, by mentioning the circumstance before her, as it may not be true; but,” and he lowered his voice, “it is now reported, in town, that it was not Fitz-Ullin, but our young friend, Montgomery, who shot himself.”
Frances, fearing for Julia’s presence of mind, interposed quickly, exclaiming, “Impossible! The account of Lord Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, has been in the papers this fortnight, and grandmamma has this very day had a letter from Edmund.”
“I am really glad to hear it,” said Lord L., standing up as he spoke. “Montgomery bears a very high character; and your grandmother has, I know, a strong affection for him; for reasons,” he added, with a suppressed sigh, “which ought to weigh, at least, as much with me.” After a short pause, he continued,“It is impossible to place any dependance on reports. On this very subject there are half a dozen differing in every essential point. One is, as you have heard, that Fitz-Ullin had shot himself; another says, that he was shot by his friend; and another, that he had shot his friend; while there is yet a fourth version, as I have just told you, purporting that Montgomery had shot himself. They all agree in one thing only, that a lady has been the cause of whatever mischief has taken place. I was but one day in town myself; but being very anxious about both young men, in consequence of all those reports, I called at Fitz-Ullin’s house. On demanding of the servants if Lord Fitz-Ullin was at home, and, (with an air of doubt, I believe,) how he was, they answered, as much to my surprise as relief, that he was quite well; but added, that his Lordship couldnot see any one at present. I did not, therefore, send up my name; for, satisfied that he was well, it was quite time enough for me to see him on my return to town. I enquired of the servants, however, if they could give me any information respecting Captain Montgomery; (for I had not even his address, you know.) They looked at each other, rather strangely, I thought; and an elderly man, after some little hesitation, came forward and replied, that he had not yet received orders from his Lordship, to speak on this subject. This sounded rather strange; and, at first, made me stare at the fellow: but it immediately occurred to me, that the young men had been engaged in some foolish affair, which it was the wish of both parties, to hush up as much as possible. I therefore, as you may suppose, asked no further questions of servants.”
This was the sum of Lord L.’s information; and after many comments on the incomprehensibility of the whole affair, the family party separated for the night.
“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,In his worser hand, his martial’s batonIn the right, he passed mid a people’sSympathy!”
“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,In his worser hand, his martial’s batonIn the right, he passed mid a people’sSympathy!”
“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,In his worser hand, his martial’s batonIn the right, he passed mid a people’sSympathy!”
“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,
The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,
Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,
In his worser hand, his martial’s baton
In the right, he passed mid a people’s
Sympathy!”
Atbreakfast, Lord L. requested that his daughters would be ready to accompany him to town, on an early day which he named.
He was evidently ill at ease at Lodore: he made every effort, however, to conceal such feelings, and assigned the following commonplacereason, for the hasty departure he meditated. He had, he said, already issued cards, for what he intended should be a very brilliant affair; given for the purpose of introducing his daughters at home, to what he considered his own private circle, previous to their public presentation at court.
Ere Lord L. and his daughters departed, Mrs. Montgomery discharged the painful duty she had imposed upon herself, of informing Lord L. of every particular of Henry’s very improper conduct, respecting his attachment to his cousin. Lord L. was, at first, distressed and alarmed; but, on questioning his daughter, was so perfectly satisfied by her assurances of indifference to Henry himself, and repugnance to his addresses, that he determined to treat the young man’s presumption, with the contempt it merited. Should St. Aubin,however, in future, persevere in making himself troublesome; his Lordship would, of course, forbid him his house.
A passing visit to Beech-park, prolonged by the delight the girls took in exploring its groves, so far retarded our travellers, that they did not arrive in London, till the very day, on the evening of which the projected ball was to take place.
The preparations, however, had gone on in pursuance of former orders, and every thing was found ready.
Lord L., the moment he had welcomed his daughters beneath the paternal roof, went out to call on the son of his old friend, and endeavour to induce him to join the family party at dinner, preparatory to the gaieties of the evening.
No card had been sent; for, on account ofall the strange reports that were current, Lord L. had determined to make the invitation in person, should he find Fitz-Ullin in a state to accept it.
… “Truth,Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!No darkness travels o’er his brow.”“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:Great nature’s ornaments!”
… “Truth,Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!No darkness travels o’er his brow.”“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:Great nature’s ornaments!”
… “Truth,Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!No darkness travels o’er his brow.”
… “Truth,
Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!
No darkness travels o’er his brow.”
“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:Great nature’s ornaments!”
“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:
Great nature’s ornaments!”
“I haveseen Fitz-Ullin,” said Lord L., as he took his seat at the dinner table, where, for this day, sat his daughters only, “and I like him amazingly!” When the servants had retired, he renewed the subject, by saying, “Fitz-Ullin is just what I should have expected from the son of my old friend.”
Julia listened in breathless expectation, hoping to hear something of Edmund. Frances understood her thoughts, and watched for an opportunity of putting a judicious question.
“On sending up my name,” continued Lord L., “I was instantly admitted. He received me with visible emotion, and said, that had he known of my being in town, he should have waited on me. I told him, of course, that I had but that moment arrived from Cumberland. He is extremely handsome! very like his mother.”
“Did you ask if he knew any thing about Edmund?” enquired Frances. Julia pressed her sister’s hand, under shelter of the table.
“Certainly,” replied Lord L., “indeed, as soon as I had spoken to him of his father, and made some few preliminary remarks, I opened the subject, by inquiring if he could oblige mewith Captain Montgomery’s address. He looked somewhat confused, and said, ‘Lord L., I am very desirous to have an opportunity of explaining to you the business to which you allude.’ ‘I have no right to make allusions, my Lord,’ I replied; ‘but’—and I hesitated, ‘newspaper reports are not very satisfactory sources of information; and, it is natural that I should be anxious respecting my young friend. Indeed, at present, I do not know even where to find him.’ ‘You have every right, Lord L.,’ he said, ‘to make inquiries, and to have them answered; you are, not only, the friend of my father, but you and your family have been, the kind, the generous friends, of poor Montgomery, when he most wanted friends; to you every thing shall be explained. At present I am not quite equal to the task; but permit me to call on you to-morrow morning.’ Ibegged he would dine with me to-day. He however declined, pleading an engagement which rendered that impossible; but saying, ‘that he should be able to get away about ten, (this evening I mean,) when, if I would permit him, he would wait on me, and bring Montgomery with him.’ As he said this he smiled, though certainly with no very gay expression; yet, his smiling at all, was quite sufficient to show that there were no mortal wounds, in short, nothing very fatal, or irremediable, in the business.
“It just occurred to me, that I would let them come, without saying any thing of the ball. The surprise was a liberty, which I thought I might take with the son of an old friend. Let me see,” added Lord L., considering, “it is now some eight or ten months since his father’s death: yet I feared, from the evident depression on hisspirits, that he might not be prevailed on to join us, were he aware of the gay scene which awaited him, before he was actually at the door; after which, I should think, he would scarcely turn away.
“It was very plain, that he wished, as much as possible, to avoid all mention of Montgomery; and I did not urge my inquiries, as he means to bring him with him this evening, declaredly for the purpose of some explanation. Indeed, it is clear to me, as I have all along said, that the young men have had some silly quarrel, in which, I can now perceive, Fitz-Ullin believes himself to have been the aggressor. There was a consciousness, a hesitation in his manner: I fancy he means to be vastly heroic this evening, confess himself in fault, and make Montgomery an apology in my presence. But, as I before remarked, there can be nothing very terrible inthe affair; for when I asked him how Montgomery was, he answered, ‘Quite well, thank you;’ and smiled again, though languidly. ‘He was not wounded then,’ I ventured to add. ‘Oh, no!’ he replied with quickness. ‘Nor your Lordship, I hope?’ I continued. ‘Why—no,’—he said, after a moment of hesitation. ‘And when you know all,’ he added, ‘you will not suspect me of wishing to injure your friend Montgomery.’
“I saw I was distressing him, so I took my departure, declaring that I entertained no such suspicions.
“Well,” added Lord L., after a momentary pause and a smile, “I trust, from the sadness of the love-stricken youth, that Montgomery has been successful with the fair source of their rivalship; for I have other views for Fitz-Ullin.
“By the bye, I saw three ladies thereas I passed a drawing-room, the door of which was half open. Two of them seemed to be in widows’ mourning; and the third, who appeared much younger, wore something black too, I think: but she was so beautiful, that during my momentary glance, I had no leisure to examine her dress. She was standing near the door, and seemed earnestly questioning a person who looked something like a physician. I heard him say, as he was making his exit, ‘You may rest quite satisfied; every dangerous symptom has now disappeared.’ This was as I went in, and before I had seen Fitz-Ullin; so that I expected, of course, to find him in an easy chair and wrapping gown, just recovering from a dangerous wound.”
Then it is Edmund, thought Julia, who is only recovering; and who, perhaps, may not recover after all!
“If that charming creature,” continued Lord L., “was Fitz-Ullin’s fair inamorata, and that he has been rivalled in her good graces, I am not much surprised at his despairing looks: and, certainly, he has not the elastic step, or triumphant eye, of a successful lover. We must contrive to console him, poor fellow.
“In the first place, Julia, I intend that he shall, should he arrive in time, open the ball with you to-night; after which, should he, on longer acquaintance, prove what the son of my immortal friend ought to be, I shall have no objection to his securing your hand for a longer period. Do not look so seriously alarmed, child! I certainly shall not offer it to him. The hand of Lady Julia L. is a prize which may, I think, be sought even by the sole representative of all the honours, hereditary and acquired, of the great Fitz-Ullin!Talking of such things, what did you do to the Marquis of H., to cure him so quickly, and so effectually?”
“Nothing,” replied Julia.
“Yes, you refused him; and that without consulting me.”
“Had I had the least wish to accept him, sir, I should have consulted you,” said Julia, “but—I did not know—that it was of any consequence—if—”
“Well, take care you don’t refuse Fitz-Ullin without consulting me,” said her father. “I have taken quite a fancy to the young man. There is sweetness of disposition, and nobleness of nature, in every expression of his countenance. And, as the son of his father, I should prefer him to the Marquis, brilliant as that connexion would certainly have been. You too, Frances,” he said, turningto her, and putting aside some of the redundant curls that floated on her snowy forehead, “have, I understand, been casting loose the chains of your captives also, without consulting me. We must have a reform in this department of administration; I consider myself entitled to some (perhaps my daughters may think) obsolete privileges in the way of patronage, which, however, I do not mean entirely to waive.—There now, fly and dress yourselves, or you will be late.”
Both the girls having risen from their seats at the word “fly,” hesitated, and approached their father, as if they had wished to say, that they were not quite so undutiful as he imagined. Lord L. seemed to comprehend the manner; for he put an arm round each, and kissed the forehead of each.