And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refin'd and clear—A tear so limpid and so meek,It would not stain an angel's cheek;'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head.Lady of the Lake.
And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refin'd and clear—A tear so limpid and so meek,It would not stain an angel's cheek;'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head.
Lady of the Lake.
That day which had nineteen times been passed at Ballinamoyle in solemn sadness, as the anniversary of the death of its lovely heiress, arrived once again—and was again marked by those outward signs of woe, which gratified the feelings of a disconsolate father, as a tribute of respect to the memory of her, who still in the freshest youth lived in his heart.
No stranger on that day approached the desolate mansion, to partake of its hospitality, or receive its charity. The domestics, habited in deep mourning, flitted about the halls and passages in total silence; every countenance was impressed by a dejection, that affected the most thoughtless with unusual seriousness—even Mrs. O'Sullivan's servants spoke in a whisper.
When the visitors assembled in the breakfast-room, neither their host nor the priest appeared; and Theresa informed her guests, that the former always passed this day in solitude. The same depression which pervaded the rest of the house, seemed to exert its saturnine influence in this apartment also. Mrs. O'Sullivan and her son were both too much irritated, and each too completely engrossed in forming plans to circumvent the intentions of the other, to offer a single word of conversation. Adelaide and Miss Fitzcarril were occupied by a train of distressing reflections, little aware, that they were caused in the mind of each by the same event. The Miss Webberlys only interrupted the general silence, by occasionally indulging in that pettish crossness, which the sight of unparticipated sorrow always produces in weak and selfish minds, whilst their fretful words and looks terrified the timid little Caroline.
In the mean time Mr. O'Sullivan, after assisting in that service, by which the Catholic Church permits the living relative, with fond anxiety, to extend its cares beyond the grave, retired with the reverend priest to his own apartment.
"Oh, my friend," said the afflicted parent, "you received my child into the bosom of our holy church; you heard her first innocent confession, you sanctified her fatal marriage vows, and how soon after did you offer up the prayers of my broken heart for the repose of her departed soul!"
"She was almost as much the child of my affections as of yours," replied the priest, greatly moved: "and how graciously did Heaven reward my endeavours to form her mind to the practice of every virtue! Never did a purer spirit inhabit a human form! Let us rejoice in this," continued he, his countenance beaming with the cheering hopes of devotion; "we have both hitherto offended by a grief that 'would not be comforted.' Shall we, standing on the brink of the grave, still presume to murmur? Let me exhort you to break through the accustomed indulgence of unavailing sorrow, that would vainly strive against the will of Heaven: you have always shunned consolation, seek it humbly and sincerely, and it will be sent from above!"
The old man sighed deeply, and made that devotional sign which marks the pious Catholic. His eyes were cast upwards, and his lips moved as if in prayer. Whilst the creature addressed his Creator, the holy minister of religion paused in reverential silence; but when the spontaneous supplication had ceased, he again addressed his friend. "I would fain impose a trial on you—a bitter one I confess; but could you accomplish it, you would hereafter feel as becomes a mortal sufferer. The solitude, the lugubrious forms of this day, nourish the grief it behoves you to struggle against. The presence of strangers is a fortunate circumstance, and will afford you an assistance your own domestic circle is incapable of. Return to society; receive your guests as if this were to-morrow and to-morrow will rise with a feeling of satisfaction, to which you have long been a stranger."
Though O'Sullivan afterwards pondered on these words till he almost believed them to have been an inspiration from Heaven, he at the moment vehemently asserted the impossibility of his making such an exertion. A considerable time elapsed, before the remonstrances of Father Dermoody could overcome his reluctance to wrestle with "this cherished woe, this loved despair;" but at last the advice of the friend, the admonitions of the pastor, prevailed; and Mr. O'Sullivan, accompanied by his reverend guide, appeared amongst his visitors, who were still assembled in the breakfast-room. On entering, he bowed profoundly to all, then seated himself in silence, with a mournful sternness that repelled every body from addressing him, farther than to manifest that respect, which was always involuntarily testified towards him. Miss Fitzcarril could scarcely have been more surprised, had she seen the apparition of Rose herself, than she was by the sight of her father on this morning; lifting up her hands and eyes, she whispered her astonishment to Father Dermoody, who requested her to abstain from exhibiting any further token of it. Some of the party continued their occupations, some their idleness, but no one spoke; and all, from time to time, anxiously looked towards the windows, to judge from the increasing gloom of the sky, how near the tempest it foreboded approached.
The aspect of nature was at that moment as dreary as O'Sullivan's heart. That stillness, which sometimes precedes the coming storm, reigned unbroken. Clouds of portentous blackness were slowly congregating, to dart the forked lightning; but not a leaf moved, not a bird flitted in the motionless air; and as the dark veil hung over the lake, its dormant waters gave but the idea of fearful profundity. The silence of night is awful, yet the soul confesses it the repose of nature; but when this dread torpor appals the joyous day, every animate and inanimate object seems fearfully resigned to await her dissolution. While the ear paused in expectation of the hollow thunder, and the eye half closed as it anticipated the vivid flash, a wild cry arose—"Good God! what's that?" was the general exclamation. It was the wail, with which the children of this mountain region deplored their dead. No softening gale lent it beauty; the winds that were wont to sport with the accents of human woe, wafting them to the mountain's rugged brow, or saddening the smiling valley at its foot, now slumbered in the slowly rolling clouds. Horrible and harsh the lamenting voice of hundreds smote the ear. Once it was reverberated from rocks as lifeless as the being it bemoaned, whilst the mourners and their sad burden were hidden from the view.
O'Sullivan started, and his eyes rested on the figure of Adelaide. As she had compassionately viewed his sorrowful countenance, memory had too faithfully depicted to her mind the anguish, which had always marked this eventful day to her father. The sudden doleful lamentation had completely overcome her spirits, and with her hands clasped in agony, torrents of tears were streaming down her cheeks, whilst, as the chilled blood recoiled to her heart, her dark hair threw a melancholy shade on her palid face. The impulse of humanity overcame the silence of sorrow; O'Sullivan instantly seized her hand, and as her eyes mournfully met his, exclaimed, "Desmond has told me all; you grieve for your father, I for my child. A desolate old man like me has little comfort to offer. But for her sake, whose living image you are, in my heart's core could I hide you from all trouble." Adelaide, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed aloud.
Mrs. O'Sullivan, inflamed by anger at her son, and by jealousy of the tenderness expressed in her brother-in-law's countenance for the lovely mourner, whose confiding attitudes seemed to repose her affliction on his solacing compassion, now whispered to Amelia, "This istoobad; that artful baggage has got him under her thumb too;—mayhap he may devize his fortin toherinstead of Caroline, after all—I'll tell him what she is." So saying, passion accelerating her utterance and crimsoning her face, she addressed Mr. O'Sullivan with, "Sir, sir, that Miss that's putting a sham upon you is a wagabond; and if she doesn't look to her ways, I'll have her sent home by the alien act, as Meely bids me. She tells up about English relations; but in two years she's lived with me, she wouldn't never tell me who they were: she's an imposter, and vill make a cat's paw of you, as she did of your brother, and——" "Gad zooks, mother" interrupted Webberly, "what odds is it who's her relations; when she marries, her husband's family is all she has to look to." "Jacky! Jacky! you'll never come to no good—you're an undutiful son! I'll get her packed off to Germany as sure as——" "What's all this, madam?" said Mr. O'Sullivan, with a look of contemptuous displeasure, that produced instant silence: "I will stand in the place of my brother to this young lady, if she will honour me by committing herself to my protection. Your threats against the unoffending ward of your husband are shameful." "Sir," said Adelaide, commanding herself to composure, "the gratitude I feel is inexpressible! But on this day there is no impediment, to prevent my satisfying Mrs. O'Sullivan's desire to know my parentage; of this she is well aware. My father, madam," continued she, with grave steadiness, "Reginald Baron Wildenheim, was the youngest brother of the present Earl of Osselstone. Soon after my birth, he renounced his family name of Mordaunt, and adopted his German title." O'Sullivan essayed to speak in vain; his lip quivered, but no sound met the ear of man; and his half palsied hand trembled as it passed a sign of deepest import to the priest, who darting forward, exclaimed, "Your mother's name, young lady—speak, did she die at Hamburgh?" "Alas! yes, on the day I was born; her name was one which, honoured and lamented here, I trembled to pronounce—it was Rose!" The old man uttered an hysterical laugh, and clasping her in his arms, faltered out, "Her child then was saved!" "Produce your proofs!" exclaimed the priest; "by every sacred name I conjure you, produce your proofs!" Mrs. O'Sullivan, raging with passion, vociferated, "She is an impostor; an artful minx, come to cheat Caroline." The Miss Webberlys screamed in Adelaide's ear, "Produce your proofs if you dare!" Their brother, with equal fury, interfered on her behalf. Little Caroline clung crying to her knees, "They shan't hurt you, dear Adele, they shan't hurt you!" Whilst Theresa, with terror in her looks, went from one to the other, saying, "For God's sake have done; leave the room if you can't be quiet; Mr. O'Sullivan will never get over such a piece of work on this day, of all days in the year!" But Adelaide was unconscious of all; she had taken her grandfather's agitated laugh, his unintelligible words, for a wandering of reason, on hearing a name resembling his daughter's unexpectedly mentioned; and, horror-struck, had sunk lifeless in his arms. When he saw the paleness of death in her cold cheek and blanched lip, stamping on the floor, he exclaimed, "You have killed her! Unfeeling wretches, you have killed her!" Father Dermoody and Theresa hastily stepped forward to offer that assistance he was incapable of bestowing, and immediately removed her to a neighbouring apartment, excluding every body else.
It was long ere Adelaide revived. When consciousness returned, she found herself in a strange apartment. The gloom almost of midnight was around; the storm had burst, and was raging with awful fury; the thunder rolled tremendously above her head, and a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the countenance of one kneeling at her side, on which she saw despair—the despair of venerable age, depicted. With an involuntary shudder she averted her head, and raised both her hands, as if to save her from the terrific vision. "Father of mercy!" exclaimed O'Sullivan, "I lost my child, and lived—lived but to see hers shun me." "Oh, my God!" ejaculated the agonized girl, "have mercy on him!—poor old man! poor old man!" and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. When she recovered a little from the racking emotions which tortured her, she mournfully took his hand, and said, "I do not shun you; God knows to console yours would be a delightful solace to my own afflictions. But I implore you to pause before you cherish these delusive ideas; a few minutes will suffice to convince you of the fatal error you have fallen into." She then, in a whisper, entreated Miss Fitzcarril to procure her portfolio, as she feared to irritate Mr. O'Sullivan's mind, by leaving him herself. Theresa fulfilled her request, and then with true delicacy retired.
Adelaide eagerly tore open the important packet, and the first paper that presented itself was one directed to Mr. O'Sullivan, which, with inconceivable trepidation, she presented to him; but at the sight of the writing he dashed it from him with looks of fury—"Never will I read another from that detested hand, that last blasted my every hope of earthly happiness!" The priest seizing the letter, hurried him out of the room. "Unfortunate man!" exclaimed Adelaide; "Oh, why did I mention his daughter's name, after the warning I received from Colonel Desmond?" In an agony of mind not to be described, she attempted to read a letter addressed by her father to herself; but when it informed her of such of the particulars of his life as were necessary to explain her relationship to her present venerable protector, she was so bewildered, that she half despairingly pressed the letter to her heart, and silently implored a supporting power from above. When she had again composed her mind sufficiently to comprehend its contents, she was so stunned with surprise, that she had scarcely power to feel how happy she ought to be, as she repeated, "My grandfather! can it indeed be possible?" But she was roused to a painful sense of anxiety and acute perception of sorrow, when she came to the following paragraph, "Let it be your consolation, my beloved child, that all the happiness I have known since your angelic mother's death, has been your boon. Heaven permitted her to leave you to me, as a gift of love, as a pledge of its mercy. I bequeath that filial piety, which has been the solace of my existence, to her father, as a reparation for the loss of his daughter. For my sake he may be harsh to you, perhaps refuse to receive you; but pardon him, and, if he will permit you, soothe the sorrows of his old age; he has much to forgive your erring father." With indignation she now recollected how his letter had been received, and every softer feeling, every selfish consideration, was swallowed up in offended filial affection, as she thought, "Never will I accept of kindness from one, who could spurn me from resentment to my adored father!"
At that moment she heard O'Sullivan's step. Oh, who shall tell the tide of tumultuous thoughts that overwhelmed her soul, as his hand tremulously turned the lock of the door? 'twas but an instant—but how much of misery cannot the human heart suffer in this short earthly denomination of time!
He entered; and, as he approached, her heart seemed to die within her. At first she could not move, but gazed almost unconsciously on his face, and seeing there the mildness of grief, the benevolence of pity, the warmth of paternal love, she knelt at his feet in speechless emotion, whilst her looks, her attitude, implored his benediction. "Oh, may the God of mercy bestow those blessings on you, that were denied your mother!" He pressed her in his arms, and wept as he said, "My child, my beloved child, I have not lived these years of misery in vain! Bless you, bless you!" And now "joy and sorrow strove which should paint her goodliest. You have seen sunshine and rain at once—her smiles and tears were like a better May—those happy smiles, which played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes, which parted thence as pearls from diamonds dropp'd."
When the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the anxious parent looked at his loved treasure, first fearfully, and then a happy smile seemed to say, "Thank God, here at least she is safe from every storm!" with that a closer embrace pressed her to his heart. "My father!" were the first words she attempted to articulate. "Adelaide," interrupted the old man, "whatever may have been his errors, you will, on reading that letter, easily believe I no longer resent them. I erred deeply, sinfully, in not receiving the prodigal son when he first implored my forgiveness; but passion blinded me, and I have been severely punished. I knew him not then! Oh! did he live now, my heart would warmly open to him." Adelaide was nearly suffocated with her sobs. O'Sullivan supported her to the window for air: for the elemental strife was now over, and the rushing torrents had ceased to fall. The rippling waters of the lake laughed in the beams of the sun, and softly rolled on their verdant banks. Every bough waved in the wanton air, and from bush and brake innumerable birds poured forth joyful melody. The cottage cur once more barked at the stranger, and the peaceful herds again grazed the green islets. Adelaide felt the composing power of the scene, and, drying her tears, read the letter she had received.
To Cornelius O'sullivan, Esquire.The misery I feel at this moment is not less, than that which rent my heart when last I addressed you. Time has but made the remembrance of my beloved Rose dearer, more afflicting to my soul; and her child, who for nineteen years has been my only earthly happiness, I now resign, as the sole reparation I can make, to Heaven and to you, for the errors of that guilty course, which have not been expiated by years of misery and penitence. I once again implore your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have occasioned you. Oh, my God! what a wreck of happiness I have made for myself and others! I have been a misfortune to all connected with me. What a stab must I not give to my daughter's heart, when I tell her we partto meet no more! What tears of bitter anguish will she not shed, when she hears the recital of those misdeeds, so degrading to the memory of the father, whom she fondly thinks the first of human beings! Yet the misery of her mind on hearing my errors would be felicity compared to the anguish mine has endured, when, for her sake, I have undergone the martyrdom of her praises. My lovely child!—Had you seen the happy smiles, the endearing caresses, with which she bid me good night, but a few minutes ago, and known thedespairof my soul, as I thought, never shall I behold that unclouded smile again; but once more hear those words, you would say, the forfeit of his guilt is paid; and lament for the unfortunate being you have hitherto cursed. By every sacred name, by the memory of her sainted mother, by the agonies of a wretched father, I conjure you, protect, cherish, and console my child. All that a parent's heart could wish, all that the daughter of Rose should be, she is—and we part for ever. I shall not survive to have my miserable days cheered by the affection, with which I know you will treat the inheritor of the virtues of your beloved Rose, but my last moments will be brightened by the joyous hope——"Enclosed you will find papers written at a calmer moment, for the benefit of Adelaide—pardon him you once called son. As you value your eternal hopes, I charge you to be kind to my child. She has never offended you; her mother's form is renewed in hers; her mother's virtues perpetuated in her mind. Say not that Rose exists no more—in Adelaide she is again restored to your arms."
To Cornelius O'sullivan, Esquire.
The misery I feel at this moment is not less, than that which rent my heart when last I addressed you. Time has but made the remembrance of my beloved Rose dearer, more afflicting to my soul; and her child, who for nineteen years has been my only earthly happiness, I now resign, as the sole reparation I can make, to Heaven and to you, for the errors of that guilty course, which have not been expiated by years of misery and penitence. I once again implore your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have occasioned you. Oh, my God! what a wreck of happiness I have made for myself and others! I have been a misfortune to all connected with me. What a stab must I not give to my daughter's heart, when I tell her we partto meet no more! What tears of bitter anguish will she not shed, when she hears the recital of those misdeeds, so degrading to the memory of the father, whom she fondly thinks the first of human beings! Yet the misery of her mind on hearing my errors would be felicity compared to the anguish mine has endured, when, for her sake, I have undergone the martyrdom of her praises. My lovely child!—Had you seen the happy smiles, the endearing caresses, with which she bid me good night, but a few minutes ago, and known thedespairof my soul, as I thought, never shall I behold that unclouded smile again; but once more hear those words, you would say, the forfeit of his guilt is paid; and lament for the unfortunate being you have hitherto cursed. By every sacred name, by the memory of her sainted mother, by the agonies of a wretched father, I conjure you, protect, cherish, and console my child. All that a parent's heart could wish, all that the daughter of Rose should be, she is—and we part for ever. I shall not survive to have my miserable days cheered by the affection, with which I know you will treat the inheritor of the virtues of your beloved Rose, but my last moments will be brightened by the joyous hope——
"Enclosed you will find papers written at a calmer moment, for the benefit of Adelaide—pardon him you once called son. As you value your eternal hopes, I charge you to be kind to my child. She has never offended you; her mother's form is renewed in hers; her mother's virtues perpetuated in her mind. Say not that Rose exists no more—in Adelaide she is again restored to your arms."
Adelaide had wept, when there was something of consolation, of tenderness, in her emotions. But now her anguish admitted not of tears; the universe presented but one idea to her mind—the agony of her father's soul when his hand traced the words her eyes rested on. O'Sullivan addressed her in accents of the tenderest affection; she answered him but by that bitter smile, with which misery sometimes loves to make her devoted victims confess her empire. He was alarmed by her fixed looks, and said, "Rouse yourself, Adelaide; I will leave you to compose your agitated feelings, but not in solitude: come with me to the companion of many a sad moment." He opened an inner door, and grasping her hand with convulsive earnestness, said, "There is your mother's portrait; and at the foot of that altar she daily poured forth her grateful thanksgivings. There the supplications of her father daily ascend to the throne of grace." He hurried away, and Adelaide long and fervently prayed in a spot so hallowed. Her tears again flowed, as she turned to gaze on the resemblance of that form, which had never blessed her conscious sight, and mournfully exclaimed, "Both, both lost to me!"
Rose had been drawn as Astarte inscribing her lover's name on the sand. The dejected expression of her heavenly countenance sadly contrasted the brilliant beauty of her youthful charms. Was it the melancholy ofAstartethe painter's art depicted? or had the fair being, whose form he traced, been already struck by the hand of sorrow? O'Sullivan's grief was daily renewed as his heart whispered, "Not thus my child looked under this roof.—So soon was all her innocent gaiety gone?"
Adelaide was so absorbed by the ideas which rose in her mind, that she did not perceive the entrance of nurse, who came to perform her diurnal task of dressing the altar, and who standing behind her, now said, "That's the picture, dear, that Mr. Mordaunt sent his honour from London, six months after Miss Rose married him—an unlucky day that same! And a black-hearted false man he was, to leave my sweet angel, and run away wid another woman." Fire flashed from Adelaide's eye; the indignation which deprived her of utterance was expressed in her whole figure. Nurse awed, and as it were fascinated, by a look from which she could not withdraw her gaze, stared at her for a second or two, and then evidently terrified, exclaimed, "The blessed powers presarve me!—Who are you?—What are you? You're the very moral of Miss Rose! What brings you in her room this day of the year? No mortal has ever darkened the door since she died but myself and his honour. You're like enough to be her fetch, come in the storm to take him away from us. I pray God I may die first," continued she, weeping bitterly: "my heart was broke when I lost my sweet child. I trust in his mercy I haven't lived on these weary years, to drag my ould bones to his grave!"
"Dear, dear nurse," said Adelaide, kissing her affectionately, smiles and tears struggling for mastery in her eyes, "I'm not come to take him away from you, but to make you both happy—I'm your own Rose's daughter." The old woman set up a shout of joy, and kissed her, and hugged her, and drew back to a little distance, resting her hands on Adelaide's shoulders to look at her from time to time, saying, "The very moral of her! the very moral of her! Her daughter! You wouldn't be so mischievous as to make an ould body crazy? It's not joking you are, jewel?"
Half a loaf is better than no bread.Old Parr.
Half a loaf is better than no bread.
Old Parr.
"So Caroline may do with the twenty thousand?"——This was Mrs. O'Sullivan's reflection as her carriage, for the last time, drove out of the demesne of Ballinamoyle. How she came to this conclusion, the reader must now be informed. Neither Miss Wildenheim nor her grandfather was visible for the remainder of the day, on which the trying scenes, that have just been related, occurred. But immediate steps were taken to prevent the celebration of Caroline's birthday, as had been intended, on the following morning; and Mr. Dermoody waited on her mother, to explain the reasons for this disappointment. He accomplished this task with much difficulty, as she interrupted him every three minutes with, "I can't understand nothing about it, Sir. She's an odorous imposter—I tell you, Sir, she's an abominable imposter." And she, in fine, threatened to take the law of Mr. O'Sullivan:—she'd see her child righted, cost what it would, and bring that artful baggage to shame. Mr. Dermoody then reminded her, that Caroline had norightto her uncle's estate, who had given her father a large sum to cut off the entail; so that if Miss Wildenheim's claims were absolutely nugatory, it was entirely in his own disposal; but that as this transaction had taken place since her birth, it was invalid, as Adelaide was the heir at law in preference to Caroline's father; but that, to put the matter beyond doubt, the present proprietor intended to bequeath his estate immediately to his grandaughter, who would thus inherit it by a double tenure. He was too much incensed at that moment to tell her his belief, that Mr. O'Sullivan would also provide for his favourite little Caroline. "Wery vell, Sir, wery vell, I see how it is; she has set you up to cheat me. All these outgoings for nothing! I'd have seen your shabby old place at the dickens before I'd have come so far, if I'd guessed how it would have turned out. Me and mine will be off to-morrow, Sir;" so saying, she flounced out of the room.
Father Dermoody had scarcely finished this discussion with one unreasonable woman, when he had to encounter a second with another. Miss Fitzcarril way-laid him in the passage from Mrs. O'Sullivan's apartment, to remonstrate on the folly of suffering all the expense and trouble, which had been incurred in the preparations made to entertain the tenantry, to go for nothing: "Why put off the meeting?—Wasn't Adelaide as good an heiress as Caroline? Another sort, on my conscience! I vow and declare I think it's very hard there shouldn't be just as much made of her as the other." "But you don't consider the indelicacy of such a thing; Mrs. O'Sullivan's feelings are sufficiently mortified." "Indelicacy, indeed!" retorted Theresa, sputtering, as she always did in the heat of an argument; "she knows just as much about delicacy as my foot does; and I should like to see her mortified just for her impertinence." The priest muttered something about an unchristian spirit, and rather gravely said, "If you won't listen to reason, madam, I must inform you in brief, that Mr. O'Sullivan won't suffer it; his pleasure you know is final." Theresa walked off, gesticulating with both her hands, and muttering, "Good Lord! was there ever any thing half so provoking! These men never have the least consideration, after all the trouble I have had! I'm sure I don't know what's to be done with theloadsof things that have been got!"
The following morning Caroline did not, as usual, come to Adelaide's room. She rightly guessed she had been prohibited; but as she was proceeding to obey a message from Mr. O'Sullivan, to breakfast with him in his study, as he was too unwell to see more than one or two people at a time, she saw the little girl leaning over the bannisters of the stairs, sobbing as if her heart would break. "What's the matter, my darling?" said she, taking her fondly in her arms. "Unkind Adele!" sobbed out the afflicted child, "I wouldn't have hurt you for the world; and mama says you're my bitterest enemy. This is a dismal birthday to me; mama's going away, and I shall never see you again, Adele; and nobody loves me but you." Here the poor child, throwing her arms about her friend's neck, cried bitterly. "Dearest little Caroline, every body loves you." "No, no, Adele, my heart will break when I leave you." "We will not part," said Adelaide, straining her to her heart; "come with me." And taking Caroline to her grandfather, she placed her on his knee, and drew forth a repetition of her artless tale. "Mr. Dermoody has told me," said the generous girl, "that you have changed your intentions in her favour. How it would grieve me to injure her prospects! I am amply provided for; I do not desire any increase of fortune; all my heart requires is some being whom I maysecurelylove and be cherished by; and in you is not all this granted? Look at this little angel, and pity her, my dear parent. Oh! her heart will be either broken, or I should never forgive myself the destruction of this lovely creature, whom Providence has, I trust, employed me to save. On condition of your giving her your estate, I'm sure her mother would resign her to my charge till her minority expires." "Adelaide," said the old man, whilst the tears stood in her eyes, "you are as like your mother in mind as in person. Till now I thought no mortal could be as perfect as she was. Caroline shall stay with us, if I can accomplish it. My estate I cannot, will not, give her; but I have much to bestow besides, which I will offer her mother, on the conditions you mention." He proceeded immediately to Mrs. O'Sullivan, to execute this benevolent commission. Pride, and some remains of natural affection, made her hesitate to accept his offers. She retired to consult her elder children, and promised to return an answer in an hour. When she informed them of Mr. O'Sullivan's proposition, Mr. Webberly said, "As far as a few thousands goes, I have no objection to humour the old Don; and Caroline would be welcome to live with us. You needn't fret, mother; if this new heiress marries me, isn't the estate ours after all?" "That's true, so it is, Jack; you'd best make her an offer with all speed." "Do, brother," said Miss Cecilia Webberly, with an eagerness that little accorded with her usual languid delivery; "as I understand the matter, you'd be nephew to Lord Osselstone, and then Meely and I would befier ton." When Mr. Webberly went in search of Miss Wildenheim, he was told she was in her own room, and could not be seen. "What was to be done?" As there was no time to lose, it was then settled in the family conclave, that Mrs. O'Sullivan should endeavour to gain admittance to the lady, who was now, like Dr. Lenitive's mistress, possessed of "ten thousand charms," for the purpose ofsolicitingthat hand for her son, which four and twenty hours before she had so openly disdained!
When she entered, Adelaide naturally supposing she came on no very friendly errand, received her with a curtsy of the most repulsive dignity; and with a cold gravity of manner, that made her visitor feel she had undertaken a commission she should find great difficulty in executing. She fluttered, and coloured, and hemmed, and played with the costly seals of the watch she always ostentatiously wore on the most conspicuous part of her person, till Adelaide, advancing towards her, said, "May I beg to know your commands, Madam? I own, I scarcely expected the honor of this visit." "Why, Miss Wildenheim, I just vanted to speak to you about my little Carline." "I shall be happy to hear any thing you have to say regarding my dear Caroline, Madam: will you do me the favour to sit down?" Adelaide, taking a chair opposite to the one on which Mrs. O'Sullivan deposited herself, fixed her dark eyes attentively on her face, whilst the former, in a style and dialect that almost conquered her command of countenance, proposed that she should not only take charge of Caroline, but commit herself to the guidance of Mr. Webberly. Offering her as adouceur, to have all hergrandfather'sestate settled on herself; and also half the sum he intended to give Caroline; and promising moreover to "make Jack a fit husband for ere a duchess in the land." The astonished girl, rather doubting her ability to fulfil this latter gracious promise, and highly amused by the attempt to bribe her with Mr. O'Sullivan's fortune, replied, as soon as she could speak with proper decorum of feature and tone, "I cannot pretend to say that I have not perceived the polite attentions which Mr. Webberly has been in the habit of favouring me with; you will, I hope, Madam, do me the justice to acknowledge that I have never encouraged them: you might have been spared much unnecessary uneasiness, if you had looked on my conduct with unprejudiced eyes; for, (pardon me, Mrs. O'Sullivan,) your son was not a man that I could, under any circumstances, have married. I should not make these observations, but that I am anxious you should understand, that the occurrences of yesterday have made no change in my sentiments; and though—" "Forget and forgive ought to be the word amongstfriends," hastily interrupted her auditor. "Some things Icannotforget," returned Adelaide; "I can never forget, that you are the widow of an uncle from whom I received so much affectionate kindness; nor, that to yourself I owe many personal obligations, for affording me an asylum in my hour of adversity, when I had none other to fly to!" And then, in all the winning charms of her captivating manner, she held out her hand, saying, "Though I cannot consent to any nearer connexion, whenever you are inclined to consider yourself my aunt, I shall be happy to show you the duty of a niece."
Mrs. O'Sullivan, quite overcome, said, "You were always a good girl; I wasn't as kind to you as I ought to have been, but—" "I do not wonder," interrupted Adelaide, "that you should have been inclined to dislike me; it was very natural, under all the circumstances; but we are quite cordial now; so pray don't distress me, by referring to a period when you were less my friend than at this moment. If you will confide in me, so far as to resign Caroline to my care, I shall owe you an everlasting obligation." "I will leave her with you," replied the poor woman, bursting into tears; "for I know you will breed her up to be more dutiful to me than the rest; but that's all my own fault. God bless you, if you make my child a comfort to me in my old age." Adelaide said every thing to console her; and Mrs. O'Sullivan, on retiring to her children, addressed her son, with "She wont have you, Jack, and I'm sorry for it; she's the best girl in the world, after all; but your cousin Hannah Leatherly, is a sweet cretur too." When the hour appointed for the departure of the Webberly family arrived, Caroline, while she held fast hold of Adelaide with one hand, lest she should be torn from her, clung with the other to "her own mama," weeping to part with her; and perhaps, if her mother had not been hurried away by her elder daughters, she could not have withstood this demonstration of her child's awakened affection; but they took care she should not have time to reflect on what she was doing. Adelaide, and her quondam guardian separated in perfect amity, but the Miss Webberlys to the last kept up their envious dislike, and scarcely curtsied whilst they refused her offered hand. Their brother, on the contrary, could not conceal his sorrow, as he bid her good bye; and, touched by it, she cordially shook his hand, and with much sincerity, wishing him every happiness, thanked him for the good-natured attention he had always shown her. When Miss Fitzcarril saw him depart, she said to herself, "Well, well! Judy Stewart didn't spey itallright, after all; but, to be sure,winteris not come yet!" At the moment in which Mrs. O'Sullivan made the reflection with which this chapter commences, Colonel Desmond rode past, and her son's spirits were not much enlivened, as he pictured to himself his mission to Ballinamoyle, and its probable success.
Nobly he yokesA smiling with a sigh: as if the sighWas that it was, for not being such a smile.Cymbeline.
Nobly he yokesA smiling with a sigh: as if the sighWas that it was, for not being such a smile.
Cymbeline.
About the time of Adelaide's arrival at Ballinamoyle, Lord Osselstone and Augustus sailed from Dover, and took the direct road to Brussels, intending to stay in the principal towns through which their route lay, as long as would afford them opportunity of seeing such curiosities as principally deserved their attention. From Brussels they proceeded to Liege, and stopping a few days at Spa, crossed to Bonn, and from thence enjoyed the delightful scenery which the banks of the Rhine presented. The melancholy with which the remembrance of his brother was connected in the Earl's mind, threw a softened shade of sadness on his manners, which perhaps won more on the affections of his nephew, than the most brilliant sallies of wit or imagination could have done. For every sigh that escaped Lord Osselstone found an echo in the heart of Augustus. The concentrated susceptibility of his natural disposition, and the peculiar turn of his education, had equally contributed to give a stability to his feelings, beyond what his age would have promised: impressions made on a mind so formed were not easily to be effaced; as the marble, though impervious to slight incisions, if once impressed, loses the form but with its own existence.
He had never known the endearing cares of a sister,—never had enjoyed the blessing of maternal smiles. In Selina Seymour alone all his first affections were centred, and as his matured reason watched her opening charms, his judgment sanctioned his love.
It was true, that in the vortex of dissipation into which she had lately been plunged, he had found something to reprove in her manners, and a great deal to deplore in her conduct to himself; yet with the lenity which belongs to true affection, he sought excuses for what he most condemned; and though with the resignation of despondency he had given up all hope of being dear to her, he did not endeavour to discover flaws in the chrysolite, because the precious jewel was not to grace his coronet. But the contending emotions of his soul preyed on his health; and in his faded cheek and saddened brow Lord Osselstone read the too plain indications of a grief smothered, but not subdued.
It was towards the end of July when the travellers reached Bonn, and the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood of that town, where they first saw the Rhine, tempted them to prolong their stay in it for some days. At length however they pursued their journey, and as the weather was sultry, preferred travelling in the cool of the evening. The shades of night are however little adapted to German roads or German drivers. They had scarcely traversed half the distance between Andernach and Coblentz, when their postillions carelessly drove against the roots of a tree, and overturned the carriage. Fortunately neither of the gentlemen received any injury, but the accident occasioned a considerable delay, as the carriage was much shattered, and they were obliged considerably to lighten it of its luggage, before it could reassume its proper position. At last, after the drivers had indulged themselves in a variety of oaths and ejaculations, and the two gentlemen, aided by their servants, had made use of more effectual means of repairing the disaster, they were enabled to proceed, though at a greatly retarded pace; and at last reached Coblentz, without further accident.
The master of the hotel, but too happy to receive once more "Des milors Anglais" as his guests, with alacrity provided them the best supper his house could afford, and the Earl and Augustus were congratulating each other on their escape, when the door suddenly opened, and Lord Osselstone's gray-headed valet burst into the room, rage and dismay struggling for pre-eminence in his countenance; "There, my Lord," bellowed he, "there, I knew how it would be. I told you you'd get no good by travelling in this damned country: they have robbed you; they have stolen it, that's all;" and he was leaving the room with as much precipitation as he had entered it, when his master called him back, to inquire calmly what was lost. "Only your red box, that I know you wouldn't part with for a thousand pounds." In an instant, to Augustus's inexpressible astonishment, he beheld Lord Osselstone's countenance convulsed with contending passions—he started up, and seizing the trembling old man by the collar, "Find it, find it, villain, or never see me more," said he, in a voice of thunder; and with one thrust pushed him out of the door. Then holding his burning forehead with both his hands, he traversed the room with hurried steps, and soon retired precipitately to his own chamber. This scene was perfectly incomprehensible to Augustus; but instead of bewildering himself in conjecture, he, with his usual promptitude, immediately exerted himself to repair the loss which so much agitated his uncle. Conceiving it possible the box might have fallen out of the carriage when it was overturned, he instantly dispatched one of the postillions in search of it, offering a large reward for its recovery. After about two hours of suspense, during which time he did not venture to intrude on the Earl, the messenger returned with the lost treasure, which was almost broken to pieces. Augustus however joyfully seizing it, hastened with it to his uncle, who opened the door, and snatched it from him in silence. But the box was so shattered that in doing so the bottom of it gave way, and most of its contents, consisting principally of letters, fell to the floor. A miniature case rolled to some distance, and lay open on the ground. Augustus ran to pick it up, but on viewing it, exclaimed abruptly, "Good God! my mother! this surely is a copy of the portrait of her my father left me;" and turning with an inquiring look to Lord Osselstone, he perceived his lip trembling with emotion, the cold drops of agony bursting from his forehead, and his frenzied eyes fixed on Mordaunt, with an expression which made him shudder. "Audacious boy!" at last muttered the earl, in the deep tone of smothered passion, "how dare you seek to know the sorrows of my heart?" Augustus, pitying his evident suffering, approached him, and laying his hand on his, with involuntary affection, said, "I do not seek to know them, I only wish to soothe them: consider me as a friend, as a son, who—" "Son!" exclaimed Lord Osselstone, shrinking from him with horror; "Son! God of Heaven! do I live to hear the child of Emma Dormer mock me with the name of father? leave me," continued he sternly, "and never again blast me with your presence. Fool, fool that I have been to cherish the viper that stings my heart; your cradle was the grave of my happiness; and you have but lived to fester the wounds your parents made." Indignant at such unmerited reproaches, Mordaunt hastened to leave the room, but turning to take a parting look at his last surviving relation, who thus spurned him, he beheld the man, whose calm unbending dignity had so often awed the wondering crowd, trembling with unconquerable feelings, whilst the scalding tears chased each other down his face. He stopped—"I cannot leave you thus," said he; "to-morrow will be time enough to part." Lord Osselstone turned towards him in silence. The look was not to be misunderstood; and in an instant Augustus was pressed to his bosom. A long pause ensued. At last the Earl, wringing Mordaunt's hand; "Augustus!" said he, "I believe you sincere in the regard you profess for me: but beware of deceiving me." He stopped to recover himself, then proceeded, in a hurried tone: "When I was about your age, with a heart as warm as yours is now, and feelings even more susceptible, I fixed my affections on Emma Dormer. I believed her mind as faultless as her person; and loved her to adoration. She pretended to return my passion; and her father was happy, nay eager, to see her share my title and fortune. The time was fixed for our marriage; but two days before the one appointed for it, she eloped with the man she had the cruelty to tell me was her first, her only love. My own brother was my rival!" A deep groan burst from the Earl; at length, he continued, "I never saw her afterwards; though, when her extravagance and my brother's dissipation hurried them into ruin, she often wrote to me,yes,to me, for assistance; and I have the satisfaction of thinking, that I relieved the wretchedness of her who plunged my life in misery. She died four years afterwards, and my brother survived her but ten months. Even in death he wronged me; for, mistrusting my feelings towards you, he chose Sir Henry Seymour for your guardian. When I first saw you, Augustus, your hated likeness to both your parents froze my blood. When you came to Oxford, I was a constant though secret observer of your actions; and, prejudiced as I was, I thought I saw in your youthful follies and marked alienation from myself, the errors of your father's character hereditary in yours. Accident and time changed my opinion of you; and, contrary to my predetermination, nay, even against my inclination, my heart has once more been open to feelings of interest and affection; if I am again betrayed——however the poison will find its own antidote. Now, Augustus, good night.—Yet, one word more.—I charge you, as you value my friendship, as you regard my peace, never recur to this subject again—never recall the occurrences of this night."
It would be impossible to describe the various feelings this recital occasioned in the heart of Augustus. He retired to rest, but his thoughts were entirely engrossed by the Earl; and while he shuddered at the duplicity and ingratitude of his parents, he bitterly lamented his own precipitancy, which had led him so much to misjudge his uncle's character. When however they met the next morning, all trace of the storm had vanished. The surface of the wave, that had so lately been agitated almost to fury, was again calmly bright, if not transparent. Augustus could almost have believed the scene of the night before was but a vision of his distempered fancy, had it not been for the silent and almost imperceptible pressure of his hand, which accompanied his uncle's first salutation.
One other change was also apparent. They had scarcely commenced breakfast, when Lord Osselstone sent for his valet, to desire him to make some other coffee, as his Lordship had just recollected that he always preferred what he prepared to any other. The alacrity with which the old man obeyed the command, showed how much he valued the compliment thus paid to the very point of his character on which he most valued himself, next to his talent for arranging full-bottomed periwigs, which he always contended were the most becoming dresses ever invented for young gentlemen. When he returned with the coffee, "There," said he, with a look of triumph, "I have taken pains with that, and you'll find it ten times better than these jabbering Frenchmen can make, here in the heart of Germany; but you'll get nothing fit to eat till you get back to Old England; I always told you so." His expostulations were however unavailing, as the travellers pursued their journey towards Vienna, where they arrived in the beginning of September. Not the most distant allusion was made by either to the confidence Lord Osselstone had reposed in Augustus, though the almost indefinable tokens of increased kindness, that now marked the Earl's manner to his companion, showed that, however painful the communication had been at first, yet his grief in being shared was lightened. As when the soft breath of spring dissolves the icy chain that binds the torrent, though it may at first burst in desolating fury, yet its streams gradually subside in peace, and glide in smoother currents, blessed and blessing on their way.
Could I, not prizing thee, give thee my hand,I should despise myself—and how not prize thee?Lloyd.
Could I, not prizing thee, give thee my hand,I should despise myself—and how not prize thee?
Lloyd.
Immediately on their arrival at Vienna, Lord Osselstone commenced his researches after his brother; and, through the active exertions of the gentleman who had formerly been Reginald's banker, first ascertained the existence of Adelaide, and also other testimony concerning her and her father, that served most satisfactorily to corroborate the intelligence that now reached him from Ballinamoyle, as Mr. O'Sullivan, even more anxious than Adelaide herself to receive the sanction of Lord Osselstone for the child of his beloved Rose, had prevailed on Mr. Dermoody to be himself the bearer of the letters addressed to the Earl; and the venerable priest, with unwearied zeal, followed the travellers from London to Vienna, where he finally was more than rewarded for his anxiety by the cordiality and readiness with which both his Lordship and Augustus acknowledged her claims.
The purpose for which Lord Osselstone had undertaken this journey being thus accomplished, though in a very unexpected manner, he and Augustus immediately prepared to return to England, both anxious to be introduced as relatives to Adelaide, whom Augustus recollected having admired when he only knew her as the ward of Mrs. Sullivan, but for whom he now already felt the partiality of a cousin; and his description of her elegant person and captivating manners prepossessed Lord Osselstone in her favour, even more than the exaggerated, though sincere encomiums of Father Dermoody. He willingly accepted the Earl's proposal to accompany them back to London in his carriage, from whence it was settled he should hasten home for the purpose of escorting Adelaide to Osselstone House, provided she accepted her uncle's invitation of coming to reside with him for a few months, and that Mr. O'Sullivan could be prevailed upon to part with her. When they reached Calais, they found a packet ready to sail by the following tide for Dover, in which they secured their passage; and Mr. Dermoody meantime profited by the opportunity afforded him by a few hours' delay, of visiting some of his early friends; whilst the Earl and Augustus beguiled their time in reading a variety of English newspapers of different dates, which their host procured for them.
They had not very long been thus engaged, when Lord Osselstone's attention was attracted by the evident agitation of Augustus, who, starting with a convulsive shudder, threw down the paper he was reading, and paced up and down the room with quick and uneven steps. Lord Osselstone glanced his eye on the rejected newspaper, and immediately attributed his emotion to the following paragraph:
"Viscount Eltondale left town this morning for Deane Hall, preparatory to the celebration of his Lordship's nuptials with its lovely and accomplished heiress."
"Viscount Eltondale left town this morning for Deane Hall, preparatory to the celebration of his Lordship's nuptials with its lovely and accomplished heiress."
For some minutes he only expressed by looks his commiseration for his nephew's feelings; but at length addressing him, "I own," said he, "I did not expect Lady Eltondale would have succeeded in her designs on Miss Seymour. I watched her closely and unremittingly while in London, and from some trifling circumstances I was led to believe, she would have made a far different choice. But my dear boy," continued he, with parental kindness, "though we have both been deceived, your misery is not aggravated as mine was. Do not despond; if Selina was capable of being either the tool or the dupe of Lady Eltondale, she was unworthy of you. Perhaps it is all for the best; perhaps the charming Adelaide you already so much admire, may yet repay you for all your sufferings." Though Augustus was incapable of receiving consolation, or listening even to reason at the first moment, yet he could not long remain insensible to the deep interest Lord Osselstone's looks and manner evinced; and in unburthening to him his whole soul, he felt a temporary relief from the grief that oppressed him; and thus, from a strange coincidence of circumstances and similarity of situation, the only confidant of his passion, except Mr. Temple, was the very man whose usual impenetrability of character repulsed all intimacy, and forbid even approach. Augustus, feeling the impossibility of communicating, even by letter, with Lord Eltondale on the subject of Selina's property, determined immediately to resign his charge as trustee, and was no less impatient for their arrival in London than his companions, in hopes, if possible, of anticipating in that respect the hated marriage. The very evening on which they reached town, Augustus hastened to Portman-square, to inquire whether his Lordship were still at Deane. He there learned that the Viscount had left it a few days before; and the servant, with agonizing precision, informed him, that orders had that day been received for the house in town being without delay put in order, as his Lordship expected to be married immediately, and he believed he was then at Eltondale, making similar preparations. Poor Augustus scarcely heard the concluding sentence, and returned to Lord Osselstone in a state almost of distraction. "I will go myself to Deane to-night," said he; "most of the papers are there in my bureau. I may get in time to deliver them to Mr. Temple before Lord Eltondale returns there.—It will be my last visit."
In prosecution of this plan, Augustus left London that night in the York mail; and such was his agitated impatience, that he scarcely thought even that conveyance sufficiently rapid. Anxious to avoid being either recognized or impeded in passing through the village of Deane, he alighted from the mail at a few miles distance from that place, and by a more unfrequented road entered the Park at one of the most retired gates. His feelings rose to agony as he again viewed all the well-known haunts of his infancy; and more especially when he recollected, that nearly at the same time the year before he had returned thither, to receive the dying benediction of the kind-hearted Sir Henry. Wishing to escape these sad remembrances, and desirous, if possible, to fly even from himself, he sprang forward, and darting into a neighbouring grove, was scarcely conscious of his near approach to the house. A rustling in the trees at last attracted his attention, and he turned towards the place from whence it came. In a few moments he perceived his favourite dog Carlo bounding towards him, and in an instant the faithful creature lay panting at his feet. A little basket, filled with chesnuts, was hung round his neck, in which, in former days, the dog had often carried the flowers Selina used to gather in their rambles. But almost before Augustus could caress him, Selina's voice calling "Carlo," thrilled to his heart, and springing from behind a fence with no less activity than the truant animal she pursued, she stood beside him like a bright vision of former days. "Selina!" "Augustus!" each exclaimed at once; and looks more eloquent than words told their mutual feelings.
But soon Selina endeavoured by language also to express her pleasure at once more beholding Mordaunt; and, forgetting at the moment all her disappointments, all her resentment for his apparent neglects, she gave her cordial and artless welcome with unembarrassed joy. Not so Augustus. Her unconcern he attributed to indifference, her evident happiness to her approaching marriage; and thus to his distempered judgment her vivacity almost appeared an insult. Selina quickly and resentfully perceived the coldness of his manners, and turning her head aside to hide the starting tears, invited him, with formal politeness, to accompany her to the house. But there the delighted Mrs. Galton was waiting to receive Augustus. She had seen him from the windows, and hastened to express her happiness at once more beholding him. The faithful old servants crowded round to bid him welcome. All congratulated him on his return to Deane, except its mistress. "And where has Selina flown to?" exclaimed Mrs. Galton; "we shall no doubt find her in her favourite room. Come, Augustus, I will introduce you, though you are already acquainted with it." His heart palpitated as he followed her through the well-known cedar hall, and up the massy staircase he so well remembered. But what were his emotions when she led him into what was once their school-room, and had been afterwards his own study! Selina had fitted it up with every elegance of modern improvement, arranged with her own peculiar taste, and in it she had assembled her various occupations of work, drawing, music, and books. When they entered, she was herself standing at a writing-table; her bonnet lay beside her, and her luxuriant hair, discomposed by her race, fell in loose ringlets on her shoulders; whilst the tear of wounded feeling stood on her beaming cheek. Augustus stopped, and casting his eyes around the altered room, "Isthisyour favourite apartment, Selina?" said he, while love, joy, and gratitude glowed in his countenance. "I sometimes sit here to enjoy the morning sun," answered she, blushing deeply; whilst his ardent and penetrating gaze increased her confusion. At last withdrawing the glance that evidently distressed her, his eye rested on the bronzegarde de feuille, which represented Carlo. He took it up, and was examining it attentively, when Selina, with an expression of pique, observed, "That is scarcely worth looking at, Mr. Mordaunt; it is as trifling as the donor; I really forgot both, or I should not have kept it here;" and with an air of unusual dignity she left the room. "Incomprehensible, girl!" exclaimed Mordaunt, after a pause. "Tell me, Mrs. Galton, what am I to understand?" "Nothing," said she, "but that Selina refused Mr. Sedley, who gave her that dog: for the same reason she has since refused Lord Eltondale." "Refused Lord Eltondale?" repeated Augustus, quite bewildered. "Yes;" replied Mrs. Galton, "his Lordship came here express, hoping to sayVeni, vidi, vici; and proposed himself to Selina before he was three days in the house. Of course, even if she had been actuated by no other motive, she would have declined a proposal that could only be for her fortune, and she accordingly refused it almost with resentment. Lady Eltondale manœuvred, and stormed, and raved, but to no purpose; and finally, much to our satisfaction, set off for Brighton." Mrs. Galton might have continued her discoursead infinitum. Augustus had turned to the window to conceal his emotion. There he caught a glimpse of Selina passing towards the shrubbery; seizing his hat, he rushed past Mrs. Galton, exclaiming, "There she is!" She smiled, and took up her book; but anxiety scarcely permitted her to comprehend one word of its contents. At length, after an absence of two hours, which to her appeared an age, and to them a second, Selina and Augustus returned arm in arm. Mrs. Galton looked up through her spectacles, and guessing the result of their conversation from Selina's blushes and Mordaunt's countenance, "Thank God!" exclaimed she, clasping her hands, whilst the tears rolled down her cheeks, "I have lived to see my two dear children happy!"
Lord Osselstone was scarcely less rejoiced than Mrs. Galton, at receiving Mordaunt's letter, informing him of Selina's having promised him her hand. In his answer to it he said, "I have myself written to the very charming niece you are going to bestow on me, to express a part of the joy I feel on the occasion; but as I have much more to say on the subject, will you obtain her permission for me to pay my compliments to her and Mrs. Galton, in person, at Deane Hall, when I hope to make my peace with Miss Seymour, for having told you the story of Carlo's portrait, as you have no doubt already obtained her forgiveness for obtruding his little bronze duplicate into her cabinet."