Soffri che in traccia almenDi mia perduta pace,Venga il penner sequaceSu l'orme del tuo piè.Sempre nel tuo cammino,Sempre m'avrai vicino.[6]
Soffri che in traccia almenDi mia perduta pace,Venga il penner sequaceSu l'orme del tuo piè.Sempre nel tuo cammino,Sempre m'avrai vicino.[6]
"I have seen the original of that admirable portrait," said Lord Osselstone, in a tone of inquiry, as he politely returned the drawing to its mistress; while at the same time his dark penetrating eye rested full upon hers. She looked down instantly, and blushing deeply, replied, "Perhaps your Lordship may have seen the dog: I meant it for Carlo. I only drew it from recollection:—it's a mere daub of no value now;" and so saying, she tore the drawing into a thousand pieces. Mr. Sedley uttered a volume of apologies and regrets; and Lady Eltondale, half laughingly half sarcastically, remonstrated at her not having sooner been informed of Miss Seymour's talent for taking dogs' portraits; alleging that she would now make Mignon sit for his picture. Then seeing that Selina's embarrassment was increased, and Lord Osselstone's observation of it not withdrawn, she proposed adjourning to Selina's boudoir, to see some of her other miniatures that adorned it. Here her various occupations, her books, her harp, her work-box, all of which had evidently been lately used, served by Lady Eltondale's address as fresh subjects of conversation; and the current of Selina's thoughts being as rapidly turned, she soon resumed her natural gaiety; and perhaps Lord Osselstone's regret was scarcely less manifested than Sedley's, when the arrival of Lady Eltondale's carriage put an end to their visit.
The Viscountess made no further mention of Carlo's portrait, and both the original and the picture seemed to have entirely vanished from Selina's recollection, till a few days afterwards she discovered on her writing table in the boudoir an exact representation of Carlo himself in agarde de feuille. The dog was in bronze, on a marble pedestal, and on his collar were engraved the words, "Je la garderai pour mon maitre." Selina was not less delighted than surprised at this unexpected present; and immediately ran to thank Lady Eltondale for it, conceiving her to have been the donor. But she denied any knowledge of it, and they both concluded the gallantry must have been Sedley's. Accordingly the next time they met him, Selina made her acknowledgements for the gift. At first he expressed, in the most natural manner, his surprise at her address, and affected total ignorance of the occasion of her gratitude. But notwithstanding his laughable confusion and affected unconcern, both the Viscountess and her niece attributed the present to him;—a circumstance that gave room for reflection to both their minds, though the feelings it occasioned in each were far different.
The enchantress summons to a splendid hall:—— —— In gay festoons aroundBloom'd many a wreath with rose and myrtle crown'd.—The nymphs, who late encompassing their queenRound her bright throne, like hov'ring clouds were seen,Now range themselves to wind the magic dance;The magic dance of pow'r, the dead to raise,Or draw embodied spirits down to gaze;Now pair by pair, now groupe by groupe unite,The loveliest forms in thousand folded light.Sotheby's Oberon.
The enchantress summons to a splendid hall:—— —— In gay festoons aroundBloom'd many a wreath with rose and myrtle crown'd.—The nymphs, who late encompassing their queenRound her bright throne, like hov'ring clouds were seen,Now range themselves to wind the magic dance;The magic dance of pow'r, the dead to raise,Or draw embodied spirits down to gaze;Now pair by pair, now groupe by groupe unite,The loveliest forms in thousand folded light.
Sotheby's Oberon.
Before the day arrived which had been fixed for Lady Eltondale's ball, to which Selina alluded in her letter to Mrs. Galton, a note from Lord Osselstone was received by the Viscountess, desiring her commands to Vienna, and informing her, that he and his nephew purposed immediately commencing a tour to the continent they had long meditated.
Selina felt almost relieved by the certainty of Mordaunt's absence, for she still felt a degree of painful embarrassment in his presence, though she had taught herself no longer to expect any attention, and scarcely even recognizance from him in public. Nor was she much more at ease in the society of Lord Osselstone. Whenever he was near her, whatever might be his apparent occupation, she still felt an indescribable consciousness, that she was the object of his peculiar attention. Sometimes a sort of reflected sensation in her own eye led her to believe, that his was fixed upon her; though often, when this feeling made her look round to meet his glance, she would perceive it was directed elsewhere. At other times, if engaged in conversation, when she had no idea whatever of his proximity, she would discover, by some casual observation, that he had heard all she had said; and his Lordship would then continue the discourse, be it what it might, in the strain best adapted to the moment; for Lord Osselstone particularly excelled in the talent of conversation:—he could—
"Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in itCatch, ere she change, the Cynthia of the minute."
"Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in itCatch, ere she change, the Cynthia of the minute."
Whether the subject was lively or sententious, gay or serious, his abilities seemed equally applicable to all. At times his wisdom would call forth Selina's powers of reasoning; at others he would encourage the playfulness of her wit, till it "touch'd the brink of all we hate." But beyond that verge no temporary exhilaration of spirits ever betrayed the chasteness, the delicacy of Selina's judgment. And yet, notwithstanding the urbanity and politeness of Lord Osselstone's manners to Selina, she never felt herself perfectly at ease with him. She could not be secure of what his real sentiments were, therefore, by a natural consequence, she was diffident in the expression of her own. She once described her feelings in regard to the Earl, by saying to Lady Eltondale, in her usual playful manner, "When I talk to Lord Osselstone, I always feel as if my mind was on stilts; and, though he seems only to follow my lead in conversation, I get almost out of breath, lest I should not keep up to my traces; but when I talk to Mr. Sedley, his chat runs on with mine in its own natural way, sometimes scarcely creeping along, and at others setting off in a full gallop: a Frenchwoman would say, "Je débite avec l'un et cause avec l'autre.""
By this fortunate continental tour Selina was relieved from the dread of encountering, on the festive night, the only two people whose presence ever damped the amusement she derived from those scenes of gaiety in which she now shone so conspicuous; and, with unmixed delight, did she anticipate the fête, which, in her opinion, would eclipse all that ever had preceded it. The munificent allowance which, by her father's will, was made to the Viscountess for Selina's residence with her, was by no means an unacceptable addition to Lord Eltondale's income; for though he "never had time" to look into his own affairs, and was little aware of the real extent of their derangement, yet the constant remonstrances of his steward convinced him most unwillingly, that they were in a very embarassed state. It was not, however, Lady Eltondale's intention, that the sums received for the maintenance of her niece should be appropriated to the discharge of any of her husband's debts;—she claimed them as her own, and expended them in increased extravagance and dissipation. So sensible was she of the advantages she derived from Selina's remaining with her, that, though anxious for the match ultimately being made between Miss Seymour and Mr. Elton, she was by no means anxious, that their union should take place before the expiration of her minority, at which period she knew that her niece would of course form an establishment of her own.
The ball, which was now announced by the Viscountess, was ostensibly given for Selina; and all that taste could design, or expense procure, was put in requisition for the magnificent display. Selina, who had never by deprivation been taught the real value of riches, was delighted at the splendid preparations, and became a docile pupil in the arts of profusion under the admirable tuition of her aunt. Lady Eltondale was the character above all others most dangerous for the guidance or imitation of youth. Her faults were so varnished by the specious elegance and charms of her manners, that even the experience of age hesitated to bestow on them the stigma of vice, while the most thoughtless could not fail to discover, that she neither revered nor understood the fixed immutable rules of virtue. It is true the breath of scandal had never sullied the gloss of her fair fame; but for this, perhaps, she was more indebted to the frigidity of her heart, than to the rectitude of her principles; and that total annihilation of all feeling, which she recommended both by precept and example, was more likely to eradicate the better sentiments of benevolence and generosity, than to serve as an effectual preventive against the temptations of passion.
Lady Eltondale was scarcely less anxious than was Selina, that her entertainment should stand foremost in the annals of fashionable dissipation; for many little springs of self-interest were now set in motion in the calculating head of the Viscountess. She was arrived at that age, not only of her natural life, but of her existence in the world of fashion, when she felt it not undesirable to procure some auxiliaries, to support her on that pinnacle she had for many years occupied. She could not forget, that before her marriage she had been followed and flattered as a beauty, nor that, when she assumed her present title, she had been still more courted as a leader of ton; but she now felt conscious, that both those enviable distinctions were beginning to fade, and she was therefore not unwilling to profit by the various advantages she derived from the society of her niece, whose more novel attractions drew renewed crowds to her assemblies, and fresh visitors to her door. Nor did any personal jealousy interfere with the more substantial pleasures she enjoyed by beingchaperoneto Miss Seymour. Lady Eltondale was well aware, that their beauty was so dissimilar, that their individual admirers would always be distinct; nor did she believe that any person, who was capable of duly appreciating the high polish of her more matured grace, would be diverted from their admiration by the unstudied, though exuberant charms of a girl of seventeen. It was therefore with more satisfaction than envy, that Lady Eltondale contemplated the unparalleled success of Selina's toilet on the night so eagerly anticipated by both, as she appeared—
"In brilliancy of art array'd,Jewels and pearls in many a curious braid,Show that the unnotic'd di'mond's sunlike raysFail to eclipse the self-resplendent blaze,Which round the unrivall'd charms of native beauty play'd."
"In brilliancy of art array'd,Jewels and pearls in many a curious braid,Show that the unnotic'd di'mond's sunlike raysFail to eclipse the self-resplendent blaze,Which round the unrivall'd charms of native beauty play'd."
"Vhy, Miss Seymour, I never seed nothing like that ere sprig in my life," said Mrs. Sullivan, bustling through the crowd up to Selina, who had just finished the first dance with the young Duke of Saltoun. "All the vay as you vent up and down the middle, it nodded about and sparkled so—you looks for all the 'versal vorld like the queen of dimonds." "Or rather the queen of hearts," said young Webberly, with a low bow and a deep sigh; while Selina, meeting Sedley's glance, could scarcely receive his compliments with a becoming composure of countenance. "Or if," said Sedley, advancing, "you want a simile, Webberly, suppose you call Miss Seymour the planet Venus, shining at night with unrivalled splendour;—that will do, you know, ma'am, both for the sprig and the lady," continued he, turning with a ludicrous reverence to Mrs. Sullivan. "Vhy as for the matter of that there, Mr. Sedley," replied the indignant matron, "my Jack could raise a smile himself in no time, without no promoting of any one's else's whatsomdever. He's not such a ninny-headed feller neither as you seem to take him for, Mr. Sedley. He can see as far into a millstone as e'er a one, Mr. Sedley; and, as far as his mother tongue goes, he can talk orthography with you or any one else." "No doubt, my dear ma'am," returned he, with immoveable gravity, "and nothing can surpass his mother's tongue;—
"'In herThere is a prone and speechless dialectSuch as moves men: beside she hath a prosp'rous art,When she will play with reason and discourse.'"
"'In herThere is a prone and speechless dialectSuch as moves men: beside she hath a prosp'rous art,When she will play with reason and discourse.'"
"Aye, aye, Mr. Sedley, you may go on as you please; preside in your own vay, but remember I knows what's what. I can tell Miss Seymour here, impudence is a bad prostitute for honesty." Though Selina could not quite understand the full import of Mrs. Sullivan's observations, which she endeavoured to render still more significant by shrugs and gestures; yet by the heightened colour of the lady's complexion, and a transient gravity that passed over the countenances of both gentlemen, she plainly discovered the conversation had taken a turn unpleasant to all parties; therefore, with that true politeness which arises from natural benevolence, she endeavoured to soothe the irrascible feelings of each, by diverting their thoughts into another channel. To Mrs. Sullivan she paid an elegant, and not very exaggerated compliment on Cecilia's particularly good looks. To Mr. Webberly's request that she would dance with him, she acceded with an alacrity, that seemed to verify her expression of regret that her other engagements obliged her to postpone hers with him for some dances; and by sending Sedley on an embassy to Lady Eltondale, she prevented a renewal of the skirmish between him and the offended mother, which the equivocal expression of his countenance led her to believe was not an impossible event. "Lawk, mama!" exclaimed Miss Webberly, in an elevated tone, as soon as he had left the groupe, "I wonder you can condescend to notice him so;—you're always fighting him now." "Vhy I know, Meely, I oughtn't to demon myself to such a feller; but I can't bear, not I, to see him ballooning (lampooning) poor Jack there, while every feature in his physiology shows that he's mocking him up all the time:—I can't bear no such hypercritics, not I." Cecilia now warmly undertook his defence, which she entered upon with still more zeal as the subject of her mother's philippic had made anamende honorableto her at least, by engaging her for the same set that her brother was to dance with Miss Seymour, who in the mean time having succeeded in parting the combatants, had gone to resume her station amongst the dancers.
The time at last arrived for the fulfilment of Selina's engagement with Webberly, and they stood up together. At first the youth was so busily engaged in settling his cravat, putting on and taking off his glove, and eyeing askance his neighbour the Duke of Saltoun, all of whose motions he endeavoured to imitate, that he had no time to attend to his fair partner. At last he recollected his duty, and hastily stepping across the dance, prepared to give utterance to a tender speech he had composed in the morning. But as he stooped forward to pour the soft accents in his fair one's ear, having, like the simple partridge, safely deposited his head, he became careless of the rest of his person; and unfortunately his noble prototype the Duke, at the same moment exerting himself vigorously in a Highland fling, came unexpectedly in contact with the dying swain, and threw him sprawling into the arms of his mistress, before either were prepared for so novel a situation. The salute was as little agreeable to poor Selina as it was unexpected, and she hastily disengaged herself from Webberly before he had succeeded in recovering his balance, or the Duke had uttered more than half his apologies. At last the youth accomplished regaining that erect posture, which is man's first characteristic, and returned in silence to his place opposite Selina, where he occupied himself, indefatigably in pulling down his coat behind, pushing up his hair before, and looking sternly round, in the vain hope of suppressing the titter that buzzed on all sides of him. Thus without his renewing the attack, did they reach in silence the top of the dance, and before the effect of his disaster was obliterated from his mind or his countenance, their turn came to begin. He now determined, by increased exertions, to make amends for his unfortunate commencement, and by dint of manual labour to eclipse even the Duke of Saltoun in agility. His figure was athletic, and his limbs were ponderous; but art, in nature's despight, had made him at least an active dancer. And now he cut, and he leapt, and he sprang into the air, till the perspiration burst from his forehead. If by chance he got foremost down the middle, he dragged Selina's fragile form after him,vi et armis, the whole length of the set; but this inconvenience she did not often encounter, for he generally spent so much longer time than necessary in his coupees, and his settings, and his pirouettes, that he was forced to sail down the middle after his partner, like another Johnny Gilpin, while with terror in their countenances all beholders cleared the course before him. It was impossible for Selina long to endure the danger and fatigue of such a partner; and before they had half measured the length of the set, (except by the flying visits before mentioned) she proposed retiring to the bottom. But that situation was not more propitious to our hero than the top had been; long before he became stationary his breath was exhausted, and that gradual extension of the lungs, which he intended to be the
"Softest note of whisper'd anguish,"Harmony's refined part,"
"Softest note of whisper'd anguish,"Harmony's refined part,"
became an audible and protracted groan, whilst his eyes, starting from their sockets from the violence of his exertions, were any thing but the messengers of passion. "Good God! Miss Seymour, what is the name of your partner?" exclaimed Sir James Fenton, as he calmly surveyed the gasping hero through his spy-glass:—"Mr. Weatherly do you call him? Poor young man! he must dance for the good of his health! Tam O' Shanter himself never saw such 'louping and flinging' as he has exhibited to-night—pray introduce me to him." Then without waiting for the solicited presentation, he advanced to the new Vestris, and, with all possible gravity, began to compliment him on "his astonishing performance." Each compliment called forth a fresh specimen from the flattered beau, as he was turned, or otherwise joined in the dance, to the infinite amusement of the surrounding crowd; and what between the necessary application of his pocket handkerchief, the exhibition of his extraordinary talent, and the proper returns of bows and smiles to every address of the malicious Sir James Fenton, he had no time left for courtship.
Supper was at length announced, and Sedley, who with his partner had been standing near Selina, offered her his arm, alleging, that Mr. Webberly was too busy just then to attend to her: "Yes, (replied Selina laughingly, passing her arm through his) my Achilles seems only vulnerable in the heel to-night." But Cecilia not choosing to lose any share of Sedley's attention, roared out, "Why, brother! brother John, what are you capering there for, like a great jack-ass, as you are, and leaving Miss Seymour to take care of herself?" The hint was not lost upon him—he made oneentrechatwhich cleared the intimidated throng, and brought him to Selina's side, then seizing her hand, he led her triumphantly off before she had time to remonstrate, or he to recover sufficient breath to apologize for his previous inattention. However he fully determined to make up for his lost opportunity at the supper table; and therefore, fearful of interruption, was by no means desirous to find room for his mother and sister, who with Sedley and Cecilia joined them. But Miss Seymour's politeness to her guests counteracted his design; and while he was fortifying himself with a copious draught ofchampagne, as a necessary preliminary to the declaration he purposed making, Mrs. Sullivan was endeavouring to insinuate herself into the little space which her daughters had reserved for her, with more attention to their own comfort, than to their parent's circumference. At last, however, she became seated, and, with maternal solicitude, immediately turned her anxious eye on her beloved son's countenance. But great was her dismay, and rapid was her utterance, as the following eloquent address burst forth in a sharpcontraltokey, "Vhy, Jack! Lord deliver me, Jack! you be all of a lather! And your nose, child, as smutty as a sweep's, from one end to t'other; why what, in the name of mercy, have you been about? Oh! vhy your hands be puxzy, I suppose, and so they have taken all the japanning off Miss Seymour's fan here, I suppose."—"Mother can't ye mind your own business, and leave mine alone," roared the dutiful son, in a voice of thunder, at the same time profiting by the hint he condemned, and again wiping his face.—"Vhy I only tell you for own good, Jacky; but you are grown so copious of late, there's no wenturing to speak a vord, and my advice never makes no oppression on you, else I'd discommend your buttoning your waistcoat; and if you impress that ere wiolent perspiration you're in, I shall have you laid up in a titmouse fever, that's all Jack.—I know it ba'nt the fashion to mind any thing a parent says, now-a-days; but if I vasn't your own mother that bared ye, you'd attend to me, fast enough; though, (continued she, turning to Selina,) Miss Seymour, a vife is another guess matter to a young man; and Jack would make a wery good husband, I'm certain, if you'd but fancy him, though he's not quite so diligent to me as he might be."
Meantime, poor Jack, his faculties almost benumbed with his mother's rhetoric, and his own previous exhaustion, had allowed her to proceed without interruption, while he busied himself in buttoning the unfortunate waistcoat, that had called forth her animadversions. But his evil stars still pursued him: in his agitation he also buttoned up the greater part of the very pocket handkerchief which had before been in such constant requisition; one unlucky corner alone escaped; and, as he stood up to help himself to a fresh bottle ofchampagnethat was at some distance, this singular appendage struck his anxious parent with fresh dismay. Her exclamations, at his extraordinary appearance, were too much for the risible muscles of the rest of the company. A universal shout of laughter burst from the whole table. In vain did Mrs. Sullivan roar out, "Button it up, Jack! button it up!" In vain did Jack cast the most indignant glances, not only upon her, but upon the whole company. The laugh was not to be repressed; and, starting up, with a tremendous oath, the unfortunate Webberly rushed out of the room.
It may be supposed, Selina did not much regret his absence; and in the following dance, Sedley's inimitable caricature of the whole family amply compensated to her for the trifling mortification their vulgarity had occasioned. To use the language of the Morning Post, "The dancing was continued till a late hour, when the company departed, highly gratified by the splendor of the entertainment, the elegance of the hostess, and the unrivalled charms of her accomplished niece."
Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too, she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies.Merry Wives of Windsor.
Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too, she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies.
Merry Wives of Windsor.
As fate had hitherto been so unpropitious to young Webberly, and his anxious mama, in their personal interviews with Miss Seymour, they decided, at their nexttête à tête, which was generally of a much more friendly nature than their public communications, that he should not any longer delay making his proposal in form, which Mrs. Sullivan could not believe she would hesitate in accepting; for, like the monkey in the fable, she thought nothing equalled her own progeny. On this occasion at least, her son implicitly followed her directions; he was aware that his finances were so reduced, he should never be able to stand another London campaign, without some new resource, and the gaming table had lately not been as productive a one as he usually found it. With the assistance of his sisters, he therefore composed a letter full of darts, and wounds, and happiness, and agitation, and gratitude, and eternity; and "used the arts that lovers use;" in hopes, by the superabundance of his professions, to compensate for his real indifference. For, in truth, he cared only for Selina's fortune, as he actually loved Miss Wildenheim, as much as it was in nature for so selfish a being to love any body. And though he was equally as incapable of justly appreciating her character as of understanding Selina's, yet her talents were so veiled by the calm dignity of the manners, that he felt less intimidated by them than by the brilliant vivacity of Selina's. But, in anticipating the possibility of becoming Miss Seymour's husband, he fully, in imagination, indemnified himself for the temporary mortifications her undoubted superiority now occasioned him, by the magnanimous resolution of treating her, when she became his wife, with all possible contempt; believing, as many husbands do in similar situations, that an ostentatious display of authority will persuade others, that the dependent is really the inferior being, like the boy on the ladder, who tramples on that which alone supports him.
Selina and Lady Eltondale were together, when the Viscountess was presented with an enormous packet, sealed with a coat of arms as ample in its expansion as it was modern in its date; "Good Heavens!" exclaimed her Ladyship, holding up the cover, "arms! and the man; here, Selina, the envelope only is for me: yournouveau richeadmirer requests I will present to you this inimitable manuscript." Selina hastily ran over the composition, which had cost some hours to indite; and then, no longer able to keep her countenance, burst into a hearty fit of laughter, while her cheeks mantled with blushes, "Well, at last, Lady Eltondale, here is the promised proposal: I had no idea what a real love letter was—pray read it." "No my dear; excuse me, my dear: all such tender professions are similar, they 'consistent à dire aux femmes avec un esprit léger et une ame de glace, tout ce qu'on ne croit pas, et tout ce qu'on voudrait leur faire croire[7].' I am much more curious to know what your answer will be."—"A refusal undoubtedly," replied Miss Seymour; "but I must request of you, Lady Eltondale, to convey it for me." "You know, Selina, you are your own mistress; it is unnecessary for me to offer any advice." Selina felt the rebuke; but before she could make any apology, her aunt continued, "In this instance I think you right: title, my dear, is the only thing to marry for; it is terrible to be obliged to purchase one's place in society; and even the richest commoners are only valued in proportion to their expenditure; whereas a nobleman maybe as poor and as shabby as he pleases, his wife must always have precedence." "But surely, Lady Eltondale, you would not have me marry for precedence." "It is what ninety-nine girls out of a hundred marry for," resumed the Viscountess, with perfectsang froid; "and as I do not see much difference in your character from that of the rest of your sex, I conclude what makes others happy would satisfy you." "I think," replied Selina, hesitatingly, "I should never be happy, unless I married a man whom I loved and esteemed, and who, I was very sure, loved me." "Ha! ha! ha! very sentimental, indeed! Child, that would do admirably for a novel, but in real life, take my word, such nice distinctions are but little attended to: fine feeling is an essence, that soon evaporates when exposed to common air; it is generally adviseable to have something substantial at bottom, to fill up the phial when the effervescence subsides." "But, is it possible, Lady Eltondale, that you would have me marry a man I could not love or esteem, or who did not love me?" inquired Selina, in a tone of gravity more approaching to censure, than her noble aunt had ever before heard her use. "Pian! piano! carissima! half your proposition is defensible; and to that half I willingly accede. When a woman marries, the only thing necessary for her to be assured of, is her own heart, or rather her own mind. Every man, when he asks your hand, will certainly profess to love you; time and experiment can only prove his sincerity, or his steadiness;—but you, with all Mrs. Galton's philosophy in your head, must acknowledge, that all a woman's comfort in life depends on her not knowing the pangs of repentance." "Assuredly." "Well then, a woman who marries for love, generally sacrifices nine tenths of her life to a passion, that can, at best, last but a few months; and spends her remaining years in regretting her 'fond dream:' but she who calculates well before she marries, and weighs calmly thepourandcontreof the lot she chooses for life, can, at all events, never repent the choice, which she made deliberately. But, however, why should we cavil about words, when there is not a chance of our ever dissenting in action?" Then reaching out her beautiful hand to Selina, with a bewitching smile, "Come, my love," added she, "tell me what I am to say for you to yourinamorato." And then, by Selina's dictation, she returned a polite, but positive refusal to the obsequious Webberly.
The time now approached for Lord and Lady Eltondale's leaving London, if so might be called that removal of their physical bodies to another scene of action, where their habits, their pursuits, and their associates remained the same. The Viscountess had not yet completed the annual circle of dissipation, and it was therefore determined, that while Lord Eltondale returned home alone, her Ladyship and Selina should, by a visit to Cheltenham, protract for a still longer time their return to the comparative retirement of Eltondale. Of course the due preparation for this new scene of gaiety served as an excuse for renewed visits to the whole circle of shops. In one of these expeditions Lady Eltondale had left Selina at Mrs.——'s, in Bond Street, while she paid a visit in the neighbourhood; and Selina was just in the act of trying on a bonnet, that the officious milliner declared was supremely becoming, when her ears were suddenly assailed by the loudest tone of Mrs. Sullivan's discordant voice, "Yes, it be wastly becoming, to be sure; but, for my part, I thinks a little servility and policy, much more becoming to a young lady, be she never so much of an airy-ass. Aye, Aye, Miss Seymour, you may stare and gobble; but it's to you, and of you, I'm a speaking." "Of me, ma'am?" returned the half frightened girl. "Yes, Miss, of you, with all your looks of modesty and ingeniousness;—but in my day, whenever a young lady got a love letter from a young man, she never lost no time in supplying to him; and, for my part, I think a purling answer to a civil question would never do nobody no harm, if it was the queen herself, in all her state of health." "If you allude to a letter from Mr. Webberly"—"To be sure I do," interrupted the zealous parent, "what else should I delude to? And if you did receive Jack's pistol, Miss Seymour, why didn't ye condescend to answer his operation yourself?" "I thought, my dear madam, Lady Eltondale could express my regrets much better than I could." "Aye! Aye! Lady Eltondale, that's it—I'll tell ye vat, Miss Seymour—that 'ere Lady Eltondale vill make a cat's paw of you, if ye don't mind. As to my Jacky, he doesn't care for your refusal a brass farthing—but ye may go farther, and fare worse—he's healthy and wealthy, as the saying is; and he's not a man for a girl to throw over her shoulder—ye mayn't meet such a carowzel as his, every day in the veek.—But now I'll tell ye vat, once for all—ye see me and mine be a-going to Ireland; and it may so be, that ve may never see each other no more.—Now, ye see, I always respected your old father, and so out of compliment to him, I'll just give you a piece of my mind; and that is, that that Lady Eltondale, with all her valk-softly airs, has some kind of a sign upon you, depend upon it, or she'd never take all the trouble she does about ye, for it's not in her nature to do it for mere affection to you or your father either; and that 'ere sheep-faced Mr. Sedley, with all his aperient indifference, and no shambles (nonchalance), as they call it; he's playing the puck with you too, I can see that, fast enough; and so, now, as I have given you varning, and wented my mind a little, I'll just shake hands with you, for old acquaintance sake." The reconciliation was scarcely effected, before Lady Eltondale returned for Selina, who most joyfully escaped from hersoi-disantfriend. She casually mentioned the rencontre to the Viscountess, but did not mention the hints she had received; thus showing to her instructress her first essay in the practice of her own lessons in the art of dissimulation. By nature Selina's disposition was candid, even to a fault. For she was not only willing to confide all her actions, all her thoughts, to those she loved; but so necessary did she feel it to her happiness to be able to repose all her feelings, and even the responsibility of her conduct, on the bosom of another, that she would have preferred having an indifferent friend to being deprived of a confidant. But her intercourse with Lady Eltondale had already, in some degree, seared her best feelings. She had already, even then, acquired that general anxiety to please, which appertains more to vanity than to benevolence, and which never fails, in time, to wither the finer sensibilities of the soul. The natural superiority of her talents enabled her, to discover the true character of those she associated with. But even her penetration was dangerous to her purity. She saw hypocrisy was the means, and self-interest the end, pursued by all: even the stronger passions were brought under their control: and in being convinced, that in the crowd that surrounded her there was no individual she could love, she experienced a chasm in her heart, which left it more open to the reception of those petrifying principles, that Lady Eltondale so sedulously inculcated. At this moment, in Selina's history, she stood on that narrow line, which separates vice and virtue. Her avidity of praise, by teaching her how best to improve and exercise her talents, had as yet but increased her charms; and her distrust of others first taught her to exercise her own judgment. Circumstances were still to decide, whether her strengthening reason would serve to control the affections of her heart, or whether the school of stoicism, in which she was now entered, would entirely eradicate its better feelings: whether her natural volatility was to be corrected by reflection, or matured into coquetry by artifice: in short, whether the dormant seeds of a rational education would finally spring up in the very hotbed of fashion, which called forth the premature weeds of folly and extravagance; or whether the intoxicating incense of flattery, aided both by the precept and example of the designing Viscountess, would destroy them in the bud, and offer up one more heartless victim as a sacrifice to that world, which but repays with present scorn and future repentance the devotion of its wretched votaries.
There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night.Croma.
There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night.
Croma.
Whilst Selina thus brilliantly moved in the gayest scenes of fashionable splendor, Adelaide Wildenheim, unknown, unnoticed, was endeavouring, in the calm retirement of the country, to acquire fortitude to support a weight of misfortune, by which a less firm mind would have been crushed, and which, from time and space, seemed but to gain increased momentum.
In the beginning of winter, each day to her had passed by but as the sad shade of its miserable anniversary; for, at that period, she had not even the consolation of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Temple, and the inhabitants of Webberly House becoming hourly more repugnant to her feelings, she was insensibly falling a prey to that habitual depression of spirits, which is equally fatal to the mind and body of those who indulge in it; and which is indeed commonly but a refined name for discontent, or ill temper. Some trifling circumstances roused her to a sense of the state of her mind, and she immediately determined to struggle against it; resolving, as the best preliminary, to look her situation steadily in the face, and ascertain whether it was in her power to remedy it; well knowing, that if once convinced it was unavoidable, she should acquire strength to bear it, not only with resignation but cheerfulness. Though she but too acutely felt, that in losing a beloved parent, she had lost all that had formerly constituted the happiness of her existence; yet, in her rigid self-examination, she confessed she harboured more of repining sorrow at being deprived of this blessing, than of gratitude to Heaven for having so long enjoyed it; and acknowledged it was unworthy of a religious or a rational being, to convert the felicity of one period of life into a curse for the remainder by vain comparison. Turning therefore from the past, she accused herself of being too fastidious in her sentiments towards the companions of her present lot; and, with laudable self-delusion, endeavoured to think her dislike of Mrs. Sullivan and the Miss Webberlys unreasonable; and that from the affection of the charming little Caroline she derived a pleasure more than equivalent to the annoyances occasioned by her mother and sisters. But here the mother and sisters very naturally brought the brother to her mind, and with him a long train of reflections, which ended in her adopting the wise but simple plan, of laying her situation open to Mr. and Mrs. Temple, in order to consult them, as to the propriety of her quitting Webberly House at the expiration of her minority.
Young Webberly's attentions to Miss Wildenheim had, previous to his last visit to town, been unremitting; and no less marked was his mother's disapprobation of them, arising partly from interested motives, partly from the idea of Adelaide being the natural sister of Caroline; which made Mrs. Sullivan regard the prospect of her marrying her son with a sentiment little short of abhorrence. But these objections had but little weight with Mr. Webberly, who, when Selina was not present to awaken his vanity or his cupidity, found no counterpoise to his conceited passion, which was more piqued than restrained by the dignified simplicity of Miss Wildenheim's manners; and had she given him any encouragement, no remonstrance from his mother would have prevented his making the most explicit declaration of his attachment; for it was the practice of this amiable family, to set their mother at defiance, whenever she, in the slightest degree, interfered with their wishes. Adelaide's pride and sense of propriety equally prompted her desire to relieve Mrs. Sullivan from the presence of a person, who was evidently a cause of quarrel between her and her son; and therefore, when the Webberly family proposed visiting London, in the beginning of March, she wrote the subjoined letter to Mrs. Temple:—
Miss Wildenheim to Mrs. Temple.My dear Mrs. Temple,The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarrassing situation. I am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the circumstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide. Though all matters of business are best discussedvivâ voce, yet there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and simple—all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no approving smile to look for!My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to practise his own lessons of resignation and fortitude, I must banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably associated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a British peer. But some unfortunate circumstances, with which I am unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the continent, where he continued to reside, principally at Vienna, till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago, to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution of visiting England. His health, which had always in my recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined, and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and during that time passed so rapidly from one public place to another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr. Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy. When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr. Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving this fatal sentence:—the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains, that I cannot tell you when we meet.Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,Adelaide Wildenheim.
Miss Wildenheim to Mrs. Temple.
My dear Mrs. Temple,
The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarrassing situation. I am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the circumstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide. Though all matters of business are best discussedvivâ voce, yet there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and simple—all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no approving smile to look for!
My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to practise his own lessons of resignation and fortitude, I must banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably associated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a British peer. But some unfortunate circumstances, with which I am unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the continent, where he continued to reside, principally at Vienna, till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago, to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution of visiting England. His health, which had always in my recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined, and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and during that time passed so rapidly from one public place to another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr. Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy. When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr. Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving this fatal sentence:—the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains, that I cannot tell you when we meet.
Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,Adelaide Wildenheim.
The day after Mrs. Temple received the above letter, she called on Miss Wildenheim, and invited her to remain at the Parsonage, if she had any dislike to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to London; saying, in conclusion, "Mr. Temple told me the other day you looked so ill, he was afraid you would suffer from the journey; and desired I would make my best speech to induce you to stay with us. Indeed it would be an act of charity, for we have had so great a loss in the dear family at Deane Hall! If you will afford us the gratification of your society, we can at leisure discuss the subjects you wish to consult us upon, and you shall have my opinion; and, what is of much more value, Mr. Temple's, to the best of our judgment. You know not how sincerely we commiserate your misfortunes, nor what an interest we feel in your welfare." Adelaide gratefully accepted her friend's invitation, assuring her she felt convinced, that spending a little time at the Rectory would more effectually mitigate her grief, than any other probable occurrence. Mrs. Temple immediately applied for Mrs. Sullivan's permission, who gave it with a joy that defied concealment, as by this means what she supposed the only obstacle to her son's union with Miss Seymour would be removed; for whenever Adelaide was present, his interest and inclination were at constant variance.
One fine evening in March, the Webberly family commenced their journey to London, and stopping as they drove past the Parsonage, left Miss Wildenheim to the care of its friendly owners. Mrs. Temple and her children were setting out on their evening walk, and Adelaide, begging she might not disappoint the little folks, joined them in their ramble with the utmost delight. It would be difficult to say, whether the mother or children were most pleased to see her—the latter joyfully recollected her skill in story-telling and singing; and Mrs. Temple, feeling most sensibly the want of her accustomed intercourse at Deane Hall, would have welcomed a much less agreeable guest, and therefore received her young friend with even greater pleasure than usual. The whole party walked long enough in a brisk blowing wind, to make them relish, on their return, a blazing fire, and a tea-table rather more substantially provided, than is commonly to be seen in more modish families.
When the children went to bed, Mr. Temple, saying he had letters to write for the next morning's post, retired to his study, in order to give Adelaide an opportunity of opening her heart to his wife. "Come, my dear Adele," said Mrs. Temple, "neither you nor I shall be comfortable, till we have had this conversation, that I see hangs so heavily on your mind. Tell me what it is that distresses you, my love, and, if possible, we will find a remedy for it."
Adelaide, with as much composure as she could command, informed Mrs. Temple, that during the short period Mr. Sullivan survived her father, though he treated her with great kindness, yet he had taken no steps to fulfil the promise he had given of introducing her to her family. Immediately on his death, Mr. Austin came to Webberly House, and expressing his regrets that circumstances rendered it impossible for him to receive her into his own family, as he was on the point of taking an invalide daughter to the Madeiras, advised her nominating Mrs. Sullivan her guardian in conjunction with himself. Adelaide, abhorring all clandestine proceedings, earnestly solicited Mr. Austin's permission, to inform Mrs. Sullivan for what purpose she was placed under her late husband's protection. To this he consented only in part, refusing his sanction to this lady's being acquainted with the name of Miss Wildenheim's noble relations; charging her, on the contrary, to conceal it carefully from all the world till she came of age, as he feared her claims would meet with decided opposition from part of her family, and little support from any; and informing her, that a premature disclosure might ruin her future prospects; and that law proceedings would be more costly, and less efficacious, while she was a minor, than when she could act directly for herself. In pursuance, therefore, of this advice, Adelaide, with the reservation of this one point, told Mrs. Sullivan all the particulars she knew of herself and her father; and in so doing, went through a series of interrogations of the most distressing nature, as Mrs. Sullivan, having little delicacy of feeling herself, was really almost unconscious of the wounds she inflicted on that of others. After deliberating a few days, she, as has been before mentioned, consented to accept the proposed guardianship; and Mr. Austin immediately proceeding to the Madeiras, his ward was therefore temporarily deprived of his protection or advice. After relating these particulars, Adelaide endeavoured to explain to Mrs. Temple her reasons for wishing to leave Webberly House; and in executing this unpleasant task, was much embarrassed between the necessity of doing herself justice, by showing she was not actuated by any unreasonable whims or caprices, and her respect for the laws of hospitality, which made her regard as sacred the transactions of any family she domesticated with. But, indeed, she seldomthought, and neversaid, the worst the actions of those she associated with would warrant. However, Mrs. Temple was one of those who could understandà demi-mot, without waiting for a harassing detail sufficient to satisfy a court of law, and often listened to rather from a love ofslanderthan ofjustice. "I am well aware," continued Adelaide, "that the reception I shall meet with from my relations very much depends on the respectability of the manner, in which I first present myself to their notice. The moment I am of age, Mrs. Sullivan may, and probably will, withdraw her protection from me; for she has lately hinted once or twice, that she much regretted having ever granted it. I therefore think the most advisable course for me to pursue is, to write her a polite letter, conveying my thanks for the asylum she has hitherto granted me, but expressing my doubts of its being agreeable to her longer to continue it: requesting, if my surmises are well founded, that she will have the goodness to seek an eligible home for me; or," continued she, looking mournfully at Mrs. Temple, "permit me to apply to myonlyfriend to aid me in the search: but that, if on mature deliberation she can satisfy her mind, that she really doeswishmy continuing to reside with her, I shall prefer doing so to domesticating myself in another family, till I can ascertain whether my own will receive me; but that, when this point is once decided, either for or against me, I do not mean to trespass further on her hospitality. And now, my dear Mrs. Temple, this is the subject, on which I am so anxious to obtain your opinion and that of Mr. Temple. I know not what apology to make for having so long trespassed on your patience by this tedious recital." Mrs. Temple begged to consult her husband, before she expressed her own ideas, as she feared to trust to her unassisted judgment on a point of so much importance. But before she left the room, she took up a volume of Patronage, and laughingly pointed out to Adelaide's notice the following passage:—"You will never be a heroine—What a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will never get into anyentanglements, never have any adventures; or, if kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the luxury of pity, because we should always know, that you would be so well able to extricate yourself,—so certain to conquer, or,—not die—but endure."
Mrs. Temple, in the first spontaneous benevolence of her heart, had nearly been tempted to offer Adelaide an asylum at the Rectory, till her future line of life should be finally decided; but quickly recollecting what was due to Mr. Temple, repaired to his study, more for the purpose of suggesting it to him, than for that of stating her young friend's queries; which dispatching in as few words as possible, without further preparation, she proposed her own plan in the most abrupt manner possible; and as quickly read in his countenance his marked disapprobation of her inconsiderate project. "My dear Charlotte," said he, after a short pause, "the goodness of your heart makes you always so zealous to promote the happiness of others, that you quite forget your own. But, my love, you must respect the sanctuary of your domestic peace; it, like the Paradise of our first parents, admits of no intruder. I am inclined to believe Miss Wildenheim to be a most estimable young woman. The prudence and uprightness of her present proposition strengthens my former good opinion of her. As long as these impressions remain, I shall be happy to receive her occasionally as a visitor, and will most willingly do any thing to promote her welfare, short of domesticating her in this house. But, setting yourself out of the question, my dear Charlotte, do you think you would act justly towards your daughters (recollect Anna is now eleven years old), by introducing into the very bosom of your family a girl we have so superficial a knowledge of; and whose situation is so doubtful and extraordinary, and who may after all be but a foreign adventurer?" As Mr. Temple said this, his features wore an expression of unusual gravity. "Oh, James!" exclaimed his wife, "don't let your prudence make you unjust: go to her, and if you will impartially look on her ingenuous countenance, and observe her simple manners, you will never pronounce her a foreign adventurer. Besides, after knowing Mr. Austin so many years, can you suppose him capable of being an accomplice in a fraud?" "You are right, my dear Charlotte: I was most unjust," replied Mr. Temple, his brow relaxing from the austerity that had overcast it a moment before. "And I," said she, extending her hand with a smile of conciliating sweetness, "was equally imprudent." In this confession she was perfectly sincere; she hardly wished to dissuade her husband from his sage resolution; for he had convinced her judgment, though perhaps her feelings were yet unsubdued.
It may here be remarked, that there is something in the ties of relationship, which acts as a sort of necessity, and makes us excuse the faults, which a domestic scene displays in the most perfect characters. But it is far otherwise in friendship; and those who there court too great intimacy, resemble the man in the fable of the golden eggs, and often destroy in a day riches, that, by wise forbearance, might have lasted their lives.
Mr. Temple, on going up stairs to Adelaide, told her, that the line of conduct she had marked out for herself was the most proper she could adopt, giving it his unqualified approbation. He then proceeded to give her much sage advice, adding to it the most comforting assurances of support and protection. Adelaide poured forth her gratitude and her pleasure, with all the ardency of feelings long suppressed. Her spirits rose in proportion to their previous depression. She once more had the happiness of hearing a reverend voice address her in tones of approbation for her virtues, and of consolation for her distresses. Perhaps the evening of this anxious day was one of the happiest of her life.