"One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless grace,That waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face."
"One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless grace,That waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face."
Sedley was proceeding to compare in thought the merits of blondine and brunette complexions, eyes of bewitching animation or touching softness, hair of glossy black or silken brown, and in short the various charms, which united to form the perfect models of the opposite styles of beauty which Selina and Adelaide presented, when he was diverted from this agreeable occupation by Mrs. Sullivan screaming in his ear, "Law! Mr. Sedley, I vish I vas O'fat (probablyau fait) of what you're in such a brown study for; there's my daughter, Cilly, keeping herselfenragéall this time to dance with you." Of course he could not refuse this summons, and immediately led her to join the dancers, scarcely regretting that the set was nearly finished.
When Cecilia passed by, overloaded with finery, and encumbered with ornament, Mrs. Temple exclaimed, "Good heavens! how that handsome girl has contrived to disfigure herself! It is no wonder her mother complained of her being so long dressing: I hope, my dear Miss Wildenheim, you will never give into such follies." Adelaide smilingly replied, "I cannot invert the first axiom of mechanics, and say of the labours of the toilet,that we gain in power what we lose in time." "Never, my dear girl, as long as you live, mention the wordmechanicsagain, on pain of being pronounced a learned lady; which crime, in this country, is punished by tortures far more severe than thepeine forte et dureof the old French law. I assure you, in England, the reputation offemme savanteis scarcely less odious than that offemme galante. A fool with youth and beauty maybe quiterecherchée, but no mental or bodily perfection can atone for the blemish oflearningin a woman!" Mrs. Temple's attention was now attracted by seeing Mrs. Sullivan doing the honours to asoi-disantbeau, who scarcely heard what she said, being intent on copying the air of real fashion so striking in Mr. Sedley. "This here's the courting room, Sir—That there's the refrigerating house for drinking o-shot—And that there's my daughter Meely, and that there other one's my Cilly—we calls one Grace and Dignity and the other Little Elegance—I'm sure you must allow we've given them wery opprobrious names.—Look'ee here, Sir, Meely did all this here topography herself[11], entirely from her own deceptions; I assure you, Sir, she's pro-digiars clever." Mrs. Temple, finding Mrs. Sullivan's discourse utterly subversive of all decorum of countenance, left the dangerous neighbourhood, and took Adelaide to walk about the room, for the double purpose of composing her own features, and informing her young friend of the names and characters of such of the guests as she was unacquainted with. "Who is that lovely innocent girl, sitting near the transparency of Mirth and her crew, with her head on one side, and her eyes cast down with so much modesty?" "I dare say, Miss Wildenheim, she is at this moment, with affectednaïveté, saying something to the gentleman next her, whichhefinds unanswerable. She is a most incorrigible little flirt; and as she is no fool, her conversation is in my mind quite reprehensible. She was the daughter of a poor baronet of this county, and to counterbalance her want of fortune, was brought up in the most homely manner, being, for example, accustomed to iron her own clothes and go to market. Against the consent of her friends, she married apetit-maîtreparson, with little except a handsome person and agreeable manners to recommend him, and nothing but a curacy to support him and his beautiful young wife. They now live with his mother, who takes care of their children, the father being too constantly occupied in fishing, hunting, and snoring, the mother in dressing, dancing, singing, and flirting, to find time for the discharge of their duty to their offspring. Delicate as she looks, she will go through any fatigue to attend a ball or party: I suppose you will scarcely believe, that she has walked eight miles this morning, carrying her own parcel, to be here to-night." Before Adelaide could offer any comment on this portrait, Mrs. Temple's attention was attracted by another acquaintance: "Why, bless me, (said she) there is old Mr. Marshall: what can have brought him here all the way from Kingston, to night? except, perhaps, to have the pleasure of seeing his daughters admired: and it would delight any father's heart to look at that beautiful creature in blue, now showing the very perfection of a lady's dancing. That little laughing girl standing beside her is her sister, who is one of the pleasantest creatures I ever knew."—"Oh!" said Adelaide, "I believe she is the Miss Marshall I met lately at Huntingfield, who gave vent to as many ideas in half an hour, as would serve an economist in speech for a week; I could not help applying to her Mrs. Sullivan's adage, thatstores breed waste."
"And now, my dear Miss Wildenheim," resumed Mrs. Temple, as, weary of their promenade, they seated themselves, "if you are curious to inform yourself as to the beaux of this assembly, you have only to keep your eyes steadily fixed in the direction of that large mirror, and as they pass point them out to me; for I will venture to say there is hardly a young man in the room, who will not, in the course of the evening, stop opposite to it, and settle his cravat. Look there now, already! observe that youth adjusting his dress——I hope you saw the shake he gave his head when he had done, as if to ascertain whether he had any brains in it or not; much in the style of a thrifty housewife, who uses this method with her eggs, when she wishes to discover if any spark of animation lurks within. If he had applied to me," continued Mrs. Temple, "I could have saved him the trouble he has just put himself to, and would have solved the doubts the vacant countenance he saw in the glass excited, by answering in the negative without hesitation. This gentleman, at present, resides a few miles from hence, for the purpose of canvassing the town of——, in hopes to represent it in the next parliament. His travelling equipage is not exactly suited to the character of a British senator. In addition to the usual establishment of blinds, his carriage is fitted up on the outside with shades to save his complexion, and in the barouche seat are two monkeys trained to act as footmen. It is the received etiquette for every new candidate to make hisdébutaspatriot; he therefore, of course, talks loudly of 'Parliamentary reform:' perhaps he may have some ambitious views for the ape tribe; indeed I have heard it whispered, that one or two have been detected in both honourable houses before now."
Adelaide was much entertained by Mrs. Temple's volubility, but said she was inclined to differ from her friend as to the conclusion to be drawn from this singularcortège. "You know, my dear Mrs. Temple, to have 'grace enough to play the fool, craves wit,'senseis quite another affair; but I think it is only those that have at least some talent, who venture to take out this sort of temporary act of lunacy against themselves, well knowing they can give convincing proof of sanity when necessary. I have formed this conclusion from observing, that the English alone ever make these eccentric exhibitions; you will readily allow, that if any nation equals, none exceeds them in solid abilities. If the young gentleman in question is under twenty-five, I would risk something in favour of the contents of his head, on the strength of the two monkeys. What a pity Dr. Gall is not here to decide for us, by means of his soul-revealing touch; our craniologists, you know, tell us, they have wit, memory, sense, and judgment at their fingers' ends: it is to be hoped they have them elsewhere also." "What you say of Mr. B——," replied Mrs. Temple, "amazes me: I own, from you, who are one of the most rational of human beings in your own department, I expected no toleration of folly." "Oh, I think the case is far different in the conduct of women," said Adelaide: "our minds have not the strong re-active power those of men possess; they, in the regions of folly not unfrequently 'fall so hard, they bound and rise again,' but we are not sufficiently firm to possess such elasticity." "I believe you are right, my dear girl: would you like to visit the other apartments? I have not seen them yet." Miss Wildenheim consented with alacrity, and they accordingly proceeded towards the vestibule, where numerous groupes were promenading, as the dancing was for a time discontinued.
Adelaide, whilst amusing herself with Mrs. Temple's account of the company, by degrees herself became an object of general admiration. Although there were some women present of greater personal beauty than Miss Wildenheim, yet in her "La grâce, plus belle encore que la beauté[12]," won the eye from the contemplation of more perfect loveliness. "Who is she?" was repeated from mouth to mouth, as she crossed the vestibule; and when nobody could answer the question, it was asked with increased earnestness. All agreed she was foreign, and that there was something not English in her countenance, her manner of wearing her dress, but above all in her walk. As an epidemical mania for every thing continental once more reigns in England, the idea that Adelaide was a foreigner, above all things, stamped her the belle of the night; she was followed from room to room, and wherever she turned innumerable eye-glasses were levelled at her. The attention she excited at last becoming perceptible even to herself, with a look of anxious inquiry she said to Mrs. Temple, "Is there any thing remarkable in my appearance, that those people stare so?" "Yes, my dear, something very remarkable." "Then pray, pray tell me what it is." "Your ignorance of it is one of your greatest charms, and I am not envious enough to wish to deprive you of any of them." This reply covered Adelaide with blushes, and adorned her with a hue, which was the only beauty her fine countenance did not usually possess. For sorrow had breathed witheringly on the roses, that once had bloomed on her soft cheek.—Will the voice of joy ever recal them from their exile?
The Webberly family, finding Adelaide the admiration of the company, now came up to her, not to showherkindness, but to showtheir guestsshe belonged to them; and their ostentatious civility provoked a smile of contempt from Mrs. Temple, who had been indignant at their previous neglect. Miss Wildenheim was soon surrounded by a crowd of beaux and belles, who addressed her in good, bad, or indifferent French, Italian, German, or Spanish—some from the polite wish of showing proper attention to a stranger, others from a natural curiosity as to subjects of foreign interest. But a large number, from the pure love of display, gave utterance to as many scraps of any foreign language as their memory furnished them with from books of dialogues or idioms; and, as soon as these were exhausted, found some urgent reason for retreating to the very opposite part of the room, taking care to keep at an awful distance from her for the rest of the night. Many a poor girl was brought forward by her mother,bon gré, mal gré, to display her philological acquirements. Adelaide happened to overhear part of a dialogue, preparatory to an exhibition of this sort. "Italian, mama! Indeed, indeed, I can't: besides it is quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Temple says she speaks English fluently." "But you know, love," replied the matron, "it is such good breeding to address strangers in their own language." "Yes,dearmama, it is indeed; she is a German, and, I dare say, doesn't understand Italian." "That doesn't signify, come and speak to her directly, Miss." "Pray, pray, let it be in French then," said the girl, half crying; "I have only learned Italian three months, and it's ten to one if I happen to know what she says to me." "Why, you know, Maria, when I brought Flo—Floril—(you could help me to the name if you chose)—but, in short, that travelling Italian you had your flowers of, to talk to you, he said he took you for a native; but you may speak Italian first, and French afterwards, and that will be a double practice, my dear." There was no reprieve;—and a very nice girl, colouring crimson deep from shame and anger, stammered out a sentence of wretched Italian, whilst the mother stood by with an air of triumph, to see her orders obeyed, and observe who was listening. Adelaide, pitying the poor girl's confusion, replied in French, apparently for her own ease, and addressed to her a few sentences, which afforded an opportunity of throwing in that everlasting self-congratulating "oui, oui," which is the young linguist's best ally, even more useful than Madame de Genlis' "Manuel du Voyageur," which, by the bye, an adept in short hand might have taken down that night. The young lady and her mother soon left Adelaide, both highly delighted; and, however unwilling the former had been to make the experiment mama had enjoined, she certainly thought much more highly of her own attainments after this happy result. Adelaide was then introduced to a gentleman who spoke French with as much fluency as herself, and they soon got into that style of conversation, to which the termspirituelleis so justly applied, where appropriate diction and elegant idea lend charms to each other: in the language to which she had from infancy been accustomed, she expressed herself with peculiar felicity, and seemed to take the same sort of pleasure in doing so one feels in meeting a long absent friend. Mrs. Temple was now a silent and wondering spectator, vainly endeavouring to find out how such a girl as Miss Wildenheim could have become an inmate of Mrs. Sullivan's family; and remarked that her manner and acquirements always rose to the level of the scene which called them forth. At that instant she acquitted herself with as much grace of all those dues of society, which the passing moment demanded, as she, with cheerful sweetness, contributed to the amusement of her friends in the quiet family circle at the parsonage. Mrs. Temple was half angry at the ease of her manner in such a situation; but when she again looked at Adelaide, observed her varying blushes, vainly watched for any symptom of coquetry or attempt at display; and at last caught an imploring glance, which seemed to say, like Sterne's starling, "I can't get out—pray relieve me," she felt the injustice of her incipient censures. She was for an instant prevented from obeying the summons, by an old general officer asking her, "If that young lady was any relation of the Baron Wildenheim, who so much distinguished himself at the battle of Hohenlinden, and so many other desperate encounters of the same campaign?" "Possibly his daughter," replied Mrs. Temple; "but pray don't direct any question of that nature to her; for whenever such subjects are alluded to, she seems deeply affected." When Mrs. Temple again took Adelaide's arm, she found Mr. Webberly importuning her to dance. Mrs. Sullivan had made him promise that morning not to ask Adelaide to dance, for fear of making Miss Seymour jealous! But he could no longer deny himself the pleasure, for which he had most looked forward to this evening; and, in spite of his mother's frowns and signs, (seldom indeed much attended to at Webberly House) he solicited Adelaide with much earnestness, to dance a set with him, which he offered to procure express before supper. But as she steadily refused, he, to solace himself, prevailed on a city cousin, (whose wealth procured her admittance to her aunt's house) and his sister Cecilia, to exhibit themselves as waltzers. Cecilia's partner was thesoi-disantbeau, who had been so indefatigable in his polygraphie of ton; and the travesty of Lady Eltondale and Sedley was inimitably ludicrous to those who had a key to the libel. The company had long been tired of quizzing poor innocent Lucy Martin; equally fatigued with the amusements provided for them; were almost weary of admiring and comparing Selina and Adelaide, most of the ladies by this time having discovered, that though the latter had a certain "je ne sais quoi" about her that was taking, her hair was too black, and her complexion too pale, for beauty; and that the loveliness of the former defied criticism—an unwilling confession, which rendered their first triumph nugatory; so that the waltzers afforded a very seasonable diversion. Nothing could be fancied more laughable than the undextrous twirling of the quartet; and few things are more worthy, in every respect, to be the subject of that spirit of ridicule which so unfortunately pervades every society, than this anti-Anglican dance. Mrs. Temple whispered to Adelaide,
"So ill the motion with the music suits;"Thus Orpheus play'd, and like them danc'd the brutes."
"So ill the motion with the music suits;"Thus Orpheus play'd, and like them danc'd the brutes."
How could Mrs. Temple be so ill bred as to whisper?—The whole thing is 'mauvais ton' no doubt some decorous belle now exclaims. Gentle reader, if thou hast never sacrificed thy friend or thy love of theexacttruth to a joke, thou hast a right to vent thine indignation against this breach ofetiquette. When thine ire is exhausted, proceed to read, and thou wilt find that the cause of thine indignation is at an end.—Supper was at length announced; the company were conducted into rooms laid out in the same style of ornamental profusion as those they had already visited. After supper, dancing was resumed with increased ardour, and continued to an early hour. When the company separated, they exchanged the glare of candles for the light of the sun; and the sound of the harp, tabret, and all manner of musical instruments, for the song of birds and the whistling of the husbandman.
Stranger to civil and religious rage,The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.No courts he saw.—Pope.
Stranger to civil and religious rage,The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.No courts he saw.—
Pope.
Few people were ever endowed with a greater capacity of receiving pleasureable emotions than Selina Seymour, and the whole tenor of her joyful life had hitherto tended to increase this inestimable gift of nature. She had been as happy at Mrs. Sullivan's ball, as it was possible for any innocent being, without a care for the present or a regret for the past; and the pleasure of her own mind was reflected back to her tenfold in the approving smiles of her father and aunt. Her delight in the gay scene was unalloyed by envy or competition. She had never been taught to estimate herhappinessby her height in the scale of admiration; for her fond relatives, thinking her always charming, and ever considering her felicity more than the gratification of their own pride, had not tortured her by preparations for exhibition; and, as long as she danced with pleasure to herself, they cared nothow. The happy girl so keenly enjoyed the brilliant scene, was so grateful for the marked attention she received, that she had not time to stop to consider whether she wasadmiredor not; and, perhaps, if this query had even occurred to her mind, the answer to it might have been a matter of indifference—sufficient was it to her felicity to know she wasbeloved.
But all Selina's delight would have been turned to pain the more exquisite, could one fold of the veil of futurity have been raised to show her the near approach of misery. On that night she first saw pleasure decked in her festal robe, her brow crowned with flowers, her countenance radiant with smiles, presenting her enchantments with one hand—but saw not the other beckoning to the hovering forms of disease and death, to array her in the garb of wo:—a task they too quickly performed; for alas! this scene of gaiety was but the antechamber of grief.
Selina rose next day, refreshed with a few hours sound sleep; and, animated with more than her general vivacity, was skipping down stairs with her usual velocity, when she was stopped by Mrs. Galton; and, terrified at the expression of her countenance, "Good God, aunt Mary!" exclaimed she, "what is the matter you look so pale—are you ill?" "No, my dear, no; but I am sorry to say your father is very unwell. Don't be so much alarmed, my dear child—he is better now. Where are you going?" continued she, holding Selina fast. "To see my dear papa." "You must not, Selina, Mr. Lucas is with him, endeavouring to compose him to sleep.—Come to the library, my love, and let us have breakfast." They proceeded quietly and sorrowfully; and Selina, on entering it, perceived her aunt was in the dress of the night before. "Why, my dear aunt, you have never changed your dress. Oh, that vile ball! my dear dear father has got cold. I wish we had never gone;" and here, quite overcome by the acuteness of her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of tears. Mrs. Galton was not sorry to see her give way to her grief; but when she became a little composed, addressed her with much solemnity of manner, saying, "Selina, my dear Selina, command yourself! I require you to exert all your fortitude; you must not, in a scene like this, render yourself worse than useless. Do not selfishly give yourself up to your own feelings. Remember, my child, you may be of much comfort to your father." Selina answered but by a motion of the hand, and, retiring for a short time to a solitary apartment, threw herself on her knees, and, by a fervent supplication for support from Heaven, at last composed herself so far as to return to her aunt with a calm countenance, though still unable to speak. One expressive look told Mrs. Galton she was aware of her father's danger, and was prepared to make every proper exertion. Sir Henry had at Webberly House most imprudently accompanied his darling Selina in one of her visits to the hermitage; and, in consequence of the draughts of air and damps to which he had thereby exposed himself, was, on his return to the Hall, seized with the gout in his stomach in a most alarming manner. Mr. Lucas had been immediately sent for, and, pronouncing him in imminent danger, had requested that better advice might be procured without delay. At length the violence of the attack seemed to give way to the remedies administered; and Mr. Lucas was, as Mrs. Galton said, endeavouring to procure sleep for his patient, when she heard Selina's bell; and, taking a favourable opportunity of leaving the sick room, was proceeding to break the intelligence to her, when they met on the stairs. The ladies continued at the breakfast in perfect silence, Mrs. Galton not even addressing Selina by a look, as she well knew that a mere trifle would destroy the composure she was endeavouring to acquire. When they left the breakfast table, Mrs. Galton took Selina up stairs, to assist her in changing her dress, as she feared to leave her alone, and wished to employ her in those little offices of attentive kindness, which, by their very minuteness, disturb the mind from meditating on any new-born grief, though they only irritate the feelings, when sorrow has arrived at maturity. Mrs. Galton's watchful eye soon discovered Dr. Norton's carriage at the lower end of the avenue; and that Selina might be out of the way on his entrance, sent her to walk in the garden, promising to call her the moment she could be admitted to see her father. When Dr. Norton arrived, he immediately repaired to Sir Henry's apartment; and, on hearing it, gave a sad confirmation of Mr. Lucas's opinion, expressing his fears, that though his patient was tolerably easy at that moment, violent attacks of the complaint might be expected; and iftheyshould not prove fatal, the weakness consequent on them most probably would. Mrs. Galton entreated he would remain at Deane Hall till Sir Henry's fate was decided, which request he, without hesitation, complied with.
Had Dr. Norton conveyed his intelligence to Selina herself, it could scarcely have afflicted her more deeply than it did Mrs. Galton. Her regard for Sir Henry was great, and not less lively was her gratitude for the constant kindness he had for a long course of years shown her; so that had not another being on earth been interested in his life, she would, in her own feelings, have found sufficient cause for sorrow. But when she anticipated Selina's grief, should the fears of the physician be realized, her own misery was tenfold aggravated by her commiseration for the beloved child of her heart—the dearest solace of her existence!
These reflections even increased the usual fondness of Mrs. Galton's manner to Selina, when, on her return from the garden, she answered the anxious child's inquiries for her father. She had a hard task to fulfil—fearful of telling her too much or too little. To avoid any direct reply, she informed her she might now go to Sir Henry's room, and Selina, without a moment's delay, was at his bed-side. The poor old man, anxious, if possible, to postpone the misery of his child, assured her he was now easy, and desired her to tell him all she thought of the night before. The innocent girl, on hearing this request, flattered herself with all the delusion of hope, that her aunt's fears had exaggerated the danger; and, elated by the idea that her father's complaint had subsided, talked with much of her usual vivacity, which increased as she perceived her lively ingenuous remarks cheered the sick man's face with many smiles.—Little was she aware, they were the last her own would ever brighten on beholding.
An express, without delay, was dispatched to Mordaunt, requesting his immediate presence at Deane Hall. When Selina heard of her father's anxiety for his arrival, her spirits again sunk, and she reflected in an agony of sorrow, that "Yesterday she could not have supposed it possible the idea of seeing Augustus could have been a severe affliction to her." The night of that sad day Selina requested she might pass in attendance on her father. Her aunt, fearful of what the morrow might bring forth, gratified her desire. Dreadful were the reflections that night gave rise to, as she contrasted the awful stillness of Sir Henry's chamber with the noisy gaiety of the one, in which she had spent the night before.
Two or three days of dreadful suspense thus passed over Selina's head: whenever she was permitted she was at her father's bed-side, passing in an instant from the utmost alarm to hope. But though she saw despair expressed in every face, her mind still rejected it. She could not bring herself to believe her beloved father was indeed to die!
Those who most fervently love most ardently hope, and building their faith on the most trifling circumstances, cling to it with a force none less deeply interested can imagine. It is well they do. Their fond hopes make them use exertions, and bestow comforts, they would be otherwise incapable of. And thus affection is enabled to cheer the bed of death to the last moment.
And as for the survivors! no anticipation can prepare them for the overwhelming despair of the moment in which they lose what they most prize on earth!
Grief, rising supreme in this her hour of triumph, will have her dominion uncontrolled, and defies alike the past and the future,—even religion must be aided by time to subdue her giant force.
On the evening of the third day of Sir Henry's illness Augustus Mordaunt arrived at Deane Hall; the domestics flocked around him, each conveying to his agonized ear more dismal tidings,—he spent a dreadful half hour alone in the library, without seeing either Selina or Mrs. Galton, as Mr. Temple was at that time administering the sacred rites of the church to Sir Henry, whilst they joined in prayer in the antechamber. When Sir Henry had finished his devotions, he asked for Selina, and his voice brought her in a moment to his bed-side; where, kneeling down, in a half suffocated voice, she implored his blessing, which never father gave more fervently, nor amiable child received more piously.
"Selina! you have always been a good child, and obeyed me; when I am gone, mind what Mrs. Galton says to you. If I had followed her advice, I should have been better now." The baronet spoke with much difficulty, and, exhausted with the effort, closed his eyes in a temporary lethargy. Selina answered not, but with streaming eyes kissed his hand in token of obedience. At last, raising his head from his pillow, "Where is Augustus? he is a long time coming."—at that instant footsteps were heard slowly and softly traversing the anteroom. Selina opening the door admitted Augustus: she would have retired, but her father signed her approach; and recovering his strength a little, faltered out, "Happy to see you, my dear boy—I have been a father to you, Augustus, be a brother to this poor girl."
Augustus poured forth his feelings with more fervency than prudence, and was stopped in the expression of them by Selina, who perceived her father was quite exhausted: he once more opened his eyes, saying, "I die content;" he struggled for utterance, but his words were unintelligible, and he could only articulate, "Go away,—Send Mrs. Galton." Augustus flew to bring her, whilst Selina hung in distraction over her dying parent: as they entered the room, her exclamation of "Oh! my father, my dear father!" gave them warning, that all was over; and when they approached the bed, parent and child were lying side by side, the one apparently as lifeless as the other.
Augustus, in his first distraction, thought he had lost Selina as well as his beloved and revered friend, but being recalled to his senses by Mrs. Galton, assisted her in removing Selina to another room. At length their exertions revived Selina to a dreadful consciousness of her misfortune—how agonizing was that moment, when, in her frantic grief, she upbraided their kind care, and wished they had left her to die by her father's side! "I have no parent now." "Dearest child of my heart, have I not ever been a mother to you, and will you refuse to be still my daughter when I stand so much in need of consolation?" Selina threw herself into her aunt's arms, and gave vent, in tears, to the sorrow of her bursting heart; at length she cried herself to sleep, like a child, and her aunt remained at her side all night, ready to soften the horrors of her waking moments.
Selina, next day, being comparatively calm, was wisely left in perfect solitude to disburthen her heart: her grief was not insulted by officious condolence, too often resembling reproof rather than comfort. The aspect of grief is obnoxious to the comparatively happy, and they often use but unskilful endeavours to banish her from their sight, more for their own ease, than for the relief of the unfortunate beings who are bound down to the earth by her oppressive power. Those who have felt it, will with caution obtrude themselves on her sacred privacy, and will know when to be mute in the presence of the mourner.
But where shall the reign of selfishness end?—Her votaries intermeddle with sorrows they cannot cure, and absent themselves from scenes where they might bestow comfort: they are to be found in the chamber of the mourner, but fly from the bed of death, which their presence might cheer, leaving an expiring relative to look in vain for a loved face, on which to rest the agonized eye. The friends of the dying do not fulfil their duty, if they desert the expiring sufferer whilst a spark of life remains. For who can say the moment when sensebeginsto cease? Though the eye is closed, and the tongue mute, the grateful heart may yet be thankfully alive to the kind voice of affectionate care, or the last silent pressure of unutterable love!
Scenes of pain may be appalling to the delicate female. But should a wife, mother, daughter, or sister, shrink from any task, which may be useful to the object in which herdutyand her love are centred? This is the courage, this the fortitude, it becomes woman to exert!
Hark! at that death-betok'ning knellOf yonder doleful passing bell.Gilbert Cowper.
Hark! at that death-betok'ning knellOf yonder doleful passing bell.
Gilbert Cowper.
Immediately after Sir Henry Seymour's death Mordaunt wrote to inform Mr. Seymour of the event, who was the nearest male relative to Sir Henry then alive, but who had not lived on terms of any intimacy with the Baronet, having chiefly resided on his own estate in Cumberland. He, however, lost no time in repairing to the Hall, less out of respect to the memory of his relation, than in hopes of benefiting by his decease. The day after his arrival was appointed for opening the will, but in it he was completely disappointed; it had evidently been written but a few days before Sir Henry died; and, except small legacies to his servants, no bequest was made in it to any person but Mrs. Galton, Augustus, and Selina. To the first, Sir Henry gave a thousand pounds as a slight testimony of his friendship and esteem; to Augustus he left a small estate in Cumberland, and to Selina all his other property of every description, appointing Lady Eltondale sole guardian of her person; Mordaunt and Mr. Temple trustees to her estates till she married or came of age. The interest of a large sum in the funds was appropriated to her support till either of these events occurred; a considerable portion of which was to be paid to Lady Eltondale for her maintenance, as it was Sir Henry's wish that she should reside with her.
Mr. Seymour endeavoured to conceal his own disappointment by paying a variety of compliments to Selina and Augustus, whom he chose to class together, in a manner which, had either of them been sufficiently disengaged to observe it, would have been not a little embarrassing to both: fortunately, however, they were each too much occupied by their own feelings to attend to him; and, as his only motive for visiting Deane Hall was now at an end, he was glad to escape from the house of mourning, with as little delay as possible.
Sir Henry's generosity, which was totally unexpected by Augustus, served but to imbitter his regrets for the loss of his benefactor. In him he had lost his earliest friend; for his uncle he considered as an entire stranger, and of his parents he retained no recollection. Whatever had been the errors of Sir Henry's judgment, his benevolence had never failed towards Mordaunt; and, while his many virtues had always ensured respect, his kindness had sunk deep in the grateful heart of Augustus, as, in their intercourse, essential obligation had never been cancelled by casual caprice, or rendered irksome by ungracious austerity of manner. He however carefully suppressed his own feelings, in order the better to administer consolation to those of Selina; and while Mrs. Galton and Mr. Temple, with affection almost paternal, used every argument which religion and reason could suggest, to reconcile her as much as possible to her loss; Augustus endeavoured by the tenderest care and unremitting attention to divert her thoughts from her recent calamity, and thereby gradually soften the poignancy of her sorrow. Selina had, till the moment when she was deprived of her father, been totally unacquainted with grief; for when her mother died, she was too young to be sensible of her loss; and Mrs. Galton's almost maternal kindness had filled the void of her infant heart, while she was yet scarcely conscious of its existence. At first she could hardly be persuaded that Sir Henry really breathed no more; so sudden, and to her so unexpected, was his dissolution. But, after she had in some degree relieved her heart, by giving way to the first outrageous burst of sorrow, on being convinced he was indeed no longer in existence, she became almost stupified by the overpowering weight of her misfortune. Sometimes she would rouse herself from her torpor, by questioning herself, was what had passed but a dream, or an agonizing reality? Was it possible she should never more hear his beloved voice, or see the smile of parental fondness play round the cold lips, that were now closed for ever? Was she never again to feel the delight of cheering a parent's couch of sickness by the playful sallies of her imagination, or soothing the acuteness of pain by those considerate attentions affection only teaches us to pay. Alas! from whom could she now expect to hear the joyful sound of welcome, with which her return was always greeted, however short her absence might have been? or from whom could she now hope to meet the approving glance, that more than rewarded the merit it applauded; or experience that partiality, that accorded a ready extenuation of the errors it could not overlook? Whilst these reflections crowded on her mind, she felt as if the spring of all her actions was broken, and in the despondency of the moment, thought she would willingly have exchanged half the remaining years of her life to recal a few short moments of her past existence.
From these afflicting ideas she was however roused by receiving a letter from Lady Eltondale. It was couched in terms that were intended as kind, though the selfish feelings that dictated them were easily discernible. The viscountess drew the consolation she offered to the mourner, not from the source of religion, or that of friendship, but from the cold unfeeling calculations of interest. She congratulated Selina on her immense fortune, and on her speedy prospect of being emancipated from the cloistered seclusion in which she had hitherto lived; and then, assuming the tone of guardian, left Selina no pretext for refusing her "orders" immediately to come to reside under her roof, though theorderswere couched in the most polite terms of invitation. She concluded by asking Selina, whether Mrs. Galton meant to continue at the Hall, which was immediately understood by both as an intimation that she was not expected to accompany Selina; but the interdiction was rendered still more explicit by a postscript, that conveyed her Ladyship's compliments to Mrs. Galton, and her hopes, at a future time, to prevail on her to visit Eltondale.
Selina was indignant at this marked exclusion of her beloved aunt; and Mrs. Galton found some difficulty in prevailing on her to return even a polite answer to the Viscountess; but being persuaded from the tenor of her Ladyship's letter that excuses would be of no avail, she, at last, persuaded Miss Seymour to name that day fortnight for leaving the Hall, in hopes, her promptitude in obeying the summons, would, in some degree, conceal the mortification it had occasioned. Mrs. Galton also wrote to say, that she herself would accompany Miss Seymour to Eltondale, as she could, on no account, think of resigning her charge, till she delivered her in safety to her new guardian; adding, that Mr. Mordaunt had promised to escort Mrs. Galton from thence to Bath, whither she purposed proceeding immediately. When Selina saw these letters absolutely dispatched, and found the time was decidedly fixed for her parting from the beloved scenes of her infancy, she gave way to an extravagance of grief, that resisted all Mrs. Galton's reasoning, and even Mordaunt's anxious entreaties, that she would not thus endanger her health. While Selina thus resigned herself to an excess of feeling, which was one of the most conspicuous traits of her character; and indulged, uncontrolled, a sorrow that was too poignant to be permanent, Mrs. Galton was struggling against hers with that firmness, by which she was equally distinguished. She not only did not obtrude her misery on others, but her calmness, her mildness, her fortitude, proved she really practised her own precepts of resignation. However, her mental was superior to her bodily strength: and when she found she was suddenly to be separated, probably for life, from the child of her fondest affection; and recollected the pains, it was more than probable, her new guardian would take to eradicate from the too pliant mind of her young pupil, not only all the precepts she had so carefully instilled, but even all remembrance of the instructress; her spirits drooped under the painful anticipation: and her increased paleness, and declining appetite, betrayed the approach of disease, to which, notwithstanding, she was yet unwilling to yield. It was not, however, to be warded off, and, before the day appointed for Selina's departure, Mrs. Galton was confined to her bed in an alarming fever: for several days she continued in imminent danger, but at length the complaint took a favourable turn, and she was yet spared to the prayers of her anxious attendants. It was by no means an unfortunate circumstance for Selina, that Mrs. Galton's illness occurred, to divert her thoughts from the melancholy subject on which alone she had hitherto permitted them to dwell. By feeling she had yet much to lose, she imperceptibly became reconciled to the loss she had already sustained. And when Mrs. Galton was able to sit up in her dressing room, she, in some degree, resumed her natural character, once more contributing to the comfort of those she loved.
In this delightful task Mordaunt participated: when Mrs. Galton was able, he would sit for hours reading out to her and Selina, while the grateful smile that lightened the expressive countenance of the latter sufficiently rewarded his toil. Sometimes, when Mrs. Galton reclined on the couch, he would draw his chair closer to Selina's work-table, and continue their conversation in that low tone, which belongs only to confidence or feeling, which, therefore he doubly prized; but, though he thus momentarily drank deeper of the draughts of love, no word escaped his lips to betray the secret struggles of his soul. It is true, that profiting by the name of brother, which their long intimacy, in some degree, entitled him to use, he hesitated not to pay her every attention the most assiduous lover could devise. But yet he scrupulously respected the engagement her father had made, and studiously endeavoured to conceal, even from its object, the passion that prayed upon his soul. Nor was Selina insensible to his kindness; on the contrary, she felt it with her characteristic gratitude, and expressed her feelings with her usual ingenuousness; and such were the charms of Mordaunt's society, notwithstanding the sincerity and depth of her affliction for her father's death, the hours thus passed in the reciprocal interchange of kindness from those most loved were amongst the happiest of her life: and when, at length, Dr. Norton pronounced his patient sufficiently recovered to travel, the regrets at leaving the Hall were, probably, not a little increased on the minds both of Selina and Augustus, by the idea that such hours might possibly never again recur.
At last the day came, when Selina was to bid adieu to the only scene, with which happiness was as yet associated in her mind. It was a cold stormy morning in December. A mizzling rain darkened the atmosphere, and the leafless trees presented a scene of external desolation, that in some degree corresponded with the mental gloom of the travellers. The sun was scarcely risen, and the domestics, that flitted about in the bleak twilight, all eager to offer some last attention to their beloved young mistress and her respected aunt, seemed by their mourning habits, and sorrowful countenances, to sympathize in their grief; whilst the mournful present was contrasted in every mind with the recollection of those joyous days of benevolent hospitality, that season of the year had formerly presented. Mrs. Galton, suppressing her own feelings, to soothe those of others, stopped to take a friendly leave of all, while poor Selina, overcome by their well meant commiseration, rushed past them, and threw herself into a corner of the carriage in an agony of grief.
When they reached the outer gate of the park, they found a few of her father's favourite tenants, and some of the cottagers on whom Selina had formerly bestowed her bounty, assembled to offer their last token of respect and hearty wishes for her future happiness; but few of the number could articulate their simple, though honest, salutations. Unbidden tears trickled down their furrowed cheeks, as they thus parted with the last of their revered master's family. The old men stood in silence with their bare heads exposed to "the pelting of the pitiless storm," while their hearts gave the blessing their lips refused to utter. And the mothers held up their shivering infants to kiss their little hands as the carriage passed, in hopes their infantine gestures would explain the feelings they only could express by tears.
When they arrived opposite to the parsonage, they found its kind inhabitants equally anxious to bestow the parting benediction. Nor were their greetings as they drove through the village less numerous or sincere: most of the windows were crowded; and the few tradesmen Deane boasted were waiting at their doors, to make their passing bow, whilst poor Mrs. Martin and Lucy continued waving their handkerchiefs over the white pales, till the carriage was out of sight.
Alquanto malagevole ed aspretta,Per mezzo im bosco presero la via,Che, oltra che sassosa fosse e stretta,Quasi su dritta alla collina gia.Ma poiche furo ascesi in su la beltaUsciro in spaziosa pratiera—Dover il piu bel Palazzo e'l piu giocondo,Vider che mai fosse vecluto al mondo.[13]Orlando Furioso.
Alquanto malagevole ed aspretta,Per mezzo im bosco presero la via,Che, oltra che sassosa fosse e stretta,Quasi su dritta alla collina gia.Ma poiche furo ascesi in su la beltaUsciro in spaziosa pratiera—Dover il piu bel Palazzo e'l piu giocondo,Vider che mai fosse vecluto al mondo.[13]
Orlando Furioso.
In proportion as Mrs. Galton and Augustus approached Eltondale, their regrets increased from their anticipation of so soon parting with Selina; whilst, on the contrary, her spirits seemed to rise with the varying scene. Almost every object was new to her, and, as such, was a fresh source of enjoyment. It would be impossible to describe Selina's astonishment when she entered Leeds. She had never before been in any large town; for though York was within thirty miles of the Hall, it had been, in point of intercourse, as much beyond Sir Henry's circle as London itself. The throng of people, the constant bustle of passengers, the gaiety of the shops, and above all the comfort, and even elegance of the hotel where they slept—were all to her subjects of agreeable surprise. Even the rapid motion of the carriage whirled on by the post horses, whose pace was so different from the sober gait of poor Sir Henry's antiquated steeds, animated and delighted her. And will the confession be forgiven?—such was her ignorance, or perhaps her frivolity, that she not only felt, but was vulgar enough to acknowledge a childish pleasure in the races the postillions frequently entered into with the stage coaches. Augustus was enchanted with thenaïvetéof her observations, and gazed with delight on her sparkling eyes and changing colour, which needed no interpreter to express her varying emotions. But Mrs. Galton sighed to think how that pliability of disposition, that now rendered her so bewitching to others, might hereafter become dangerous to herself. Lady Eltondale, finding Mrs. Galton and Mordaunt were determined to accompany Selina to the end of her journey, had written a polite invitation to them to remain at her house some days; but they had both resolved not to avail themselves of this tardy civility, even for one night; however, unforeseen delays having occurred, they did not reach Eltondale till past nine o'clock in the evening. It was a dark stormy night; the wind, which blew in tremendous gusts, had extinguished the lamps of the carriage, and they with difficulty found their way through a thick wood, that climbed the side of a hill on which the house was situated; but when they emerged from this Cimmerian darkness, the superb mansion broke upon their view in an unbroken blaze of light. The exterior rivalled the elegance of an Italian villa from the lightness of its porticoes, the regularity of its colonnades, and the symmetry of its whole proportion. Nor was the interior less elegant. Almost before the carriage reached the steps of the porch, the ready doors flew open, and a crowd of servants welcomed their approach: and such was the brilliancy of the scene into which they were thus suddenly introduced, that it was some minutes before the travellers could face the dazzling glare of this sudden day. When, however, they were enabled to look round, thecoup d'œilcalled forth involuntary admiration. Three halls,en suite, lay open before them, all illuminated, particularly the centre one, which contained a light stone stair-case, that wound round a dome to the top of the house, only interrupted by galleries that corresponded to the different floors. Out of the hall in which they stood, a conservatory stretched its length of luxuriant sweetness. The roses, that were trained over its trellised arches, were in full blow, and formed a beautiful contrast to the icicles that hung on the outside of the windows, whilst the blooming garden itself was equally contrasted by the winter clothing of the adjoining halls. In them large blazing fires gave both light and heat; whilst thick Turkey carpets, bearskin rugs, and cloth curtains to every door, bid defiance to the inclemency of the severest season.
Before Selina had time to express half her rapture and surprise, the Alcina of this enchanted palace approached to welcome them. And such was the elegance, the fascination of Lady Eltondale's address, particularly to Mrs. Galton and Augustus, that they for a moment almost doubted whether they had indeed rightly understood her prohibitory letter. Lord Eltondale had not yet left the dinner table; but the moment he heard of the arrival of his guests, he bustled out, napkin in hand, to bellow forth his boisterous welcome: "Gad, I'm glad to see ye all. How do? how do? Why, Mrs. Galton, you're thinner than ever; but this is capital fattening ground. Selina, my girl, what have you done with the rosy cheeks you had last summer? Come, child, don't cry; you know you could not expect Sir Henry to live for ever—and you've plenty of cash, eh?" Lady Eltondale, perceiving her Lord's condolences by no means assuaged Selina's tears, took hold of her hand and that of Mrs. Galton, and with a kindness much more effectual, though perhaps not more sincere, led them away from her unconscious Lord, who, without waiting for reply or excuse, seized Mordaunt by the arm, and dragged him into the eating parlour, as he said, "to drink the ladies' health in a bottle of the best Burgundy he ever tasted."
The drawing-room, to which Lady Eltondale introduced her guests, was perfectly consistent with its beautiful entrance, for here,