From those rain scenes, where fancied pleasure reigns;From crowds that weary, and from mirth which pains;From flattering praises, from the smiles of art,Sweet to the eye but faithless to the heart;From guilt which makes fair innocence its prey,Sighs but to blast, and courts but to betray;From these I fly, impatient to caressAll lovely Nature in her fairest dress.Oh, sweet retirement! Oh! secure retreatFrom all the cares and follies of the great!Here lavish Nature every charm bestows,In softness smiles, in vivid beauty glows!Here May presents each blossom of the spring,And balmy sweetness falls from Zephyr's wing.Yet while I stray, in tranquil quiet blest,Fond mem'ry presses at my anxious breast;And as I rove 'mid scenes so justly dear,Remembrance wakes the tributary fear!The mental eye perceives a sister's form,And even these peaceful shades no longer charm."Yes!" I exclaim, "'twas here she lov'd to stray,Smiling in beauty, innocently gay!Oft by yon streamlet, in the echoing vale,Her voice would swell upon the evening gale,Charm from the care-fraught bosom half its woes,And hush the wounded spirit to repose!"While these delightful hours I thus retrace,And dwell on every recollected grace,Thy sister's soul, my Agatha, forgetsThatthouart blest in that whichsheregrets;Forgets that pleasure crowns thy happy hours,And fond affection strews thy path with flowers;Anxious thy way with rose-buds to adorn,And from those buds remove each lurking thorn.Ah! selfish heart, lament thy loss no more,Nor thus thy recollected bliss deplore;Content thyself to know thy sister blest,And calm the plaintive anguish of thy breast!Be still serenity thy future state;Far from the pomps and perils of the great;Unnotic'd, quiet, shall thy peace ensure,Peace, when the world forgets thee, most secure.—Yet, yet, my Agatha, affection swellsThe trembling heart where thy lov'd image dwells;Still bids me look to thee for all that cheersIn lengthen'd life, and blesses ling'ring years:My spirit, form'd asocialbliss to prove,Dares but to hope it from thy future love.Deceived by him on whom it most relied,Pierced in its fondness, wounded in its pride—Yet, yet, while throbbing through each shatter'd nerve,Disclaims to thee the veil of low reserve;Owns all its weakness, will each thought confide,And what it dares to feel, disdains to hide;Owns, though no more the storms of passion rise,That from the thought of selfish bliss it flies,Still feels whate'er had once the power to charm,Faithful affection, sensitive alarm;But from the pangs which once it felt relieved,No more will trust where once it was deceived;To thee alone will look for future joy,And for thy bliss each anxious wish employ:Absorbed in thee, and in thy opening views,Its pains, its pleasures, nay its being lose:One we will be, and one our future cares,Our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers.LAURA.
From those rain scenes, where fancied pleasure reigns;From crowds that weary, and from mirth which pains;From flattering praises, from the smiles of art,Sweet to the eye but faithless to the heart;From guilt which makes fair innocence its prey,Sighs but to blast, and courts but to betray;From these I fly, impatient to caressAll lovely Nature in her fairest dress.Oh, sweet retirement! Oh! secure retreatFrom all the cares and follies of the great!Here lavish Nature every charm bestows,In softness smiles, in vivid beauty glows!Here May presents each blossom of the spring,And balmy sweetness falls from Zephyr's wing.Yet while I stray, in tranquil quiet blest,Fond mem'ry presses at my anxious breast;And as I rove 'mid scenes so justly dear,Remembrance wakes the tributary fear!The mental eye perceives a sister's form,And even these peaceful shades no longer charm."Yes!" I exclaim, "'twas here she lov'd to stray,Smiling in beauty, innocently gay!Oft by yon streamlet, in the echoing vale,Her voice would swell upon the evening gale,Charm from the care-fraught bosom half its woes,And hush the wounded spirit to repose!"While these delightful hours I thus retrace,And dwell on every recollected grace,Thy sister's soul, my Agatha, forgetsThatthouart blest in that whichsheregrets;Forgets that pleasure crowns thy happy hours,And fond affection strews thy path with flowers;Anxious thy way with rose-buds to adorn,And from those buds remove each lurking thorn.Ah! selfish heart, lament thy loss no more,Nor thus thy recollected bliss deplore;Content thyself to know thy sister blest,And calm the plaintive anguish of thy breast!Be still serenity thy future state;Far from the pomps and perils of the great;Unnotic'd, quiet, shall thy peace ensure,Peace, when the world forgets thee, most secure.—Yet, yet, my Agatha, affection swellsThe trembling heart where thy lov'd image dwells;Still bids me look to thee for all that cheersIn lengthen'd life, and blesses ling'ring years:My spirit, form'd asocialbliss to prove,Dares but to hope it from thy future love.Deceived by him on whom it most relied,Pierced in its fondness, wounded in its pride—Yet, yet, while throbbing through each shatter'd nerve,Disclaims to thee the veil of low reserve;Owns all its weakness, will each thought confide,And what it dares to feel, disdains to hide;Owns, though no more the storms of passion rise,That from the thought of selfish bliss it flies,Still feels whate'er had once the power to charm,Faithful affection, sensitive alarm;But from the pangs which once it felt relieved,No more will trust where once it was deceived;To thee alone will look for future joy,And for thy bliss each anxious wish employ:Absorbed in thee, and in thy opening views,Its pains, its pleasures, nay its being lose:One we will be, and one our future cares,Our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers.
LAURA.
With both these little pieces Ellen was perhaps more pleased than their intrinsic merit warranted; but we naturally look with a partial eye on the performances of those we love. After looking over several other poetical attempts, and some beautiful drawings, they returnedto Juliet's apartment, where they spent a delightful evening; for Juliet seemed materially mending, and Laura's spirits rose in proportion.
Thus, and in similar pleasures, passed the time till the beginning of March, varied indeed by the occasional visits of the neighbouring families. One day, after a long solicitation, the St. Aubyns, Cecils, and some more of the most fashionable people near them, dined with Mrs. Dawkins, where they also met her tender friend and shadow, Miss Alton, who this day, for the first time in her life, was destined to offend thatsweet woman, Mrs. Dawkins; for charmed to find herself seated on a sofa between "herdearestLady St. Aubyn," and thatmost delightfulman, General Morton, a veteran officer in the neighbourhood, at whom it was supposed Miss Alton had longset her cap, as the phrase is, she attended not to the hints, shrugs, and winks of her friend, who, not keeping a regular housekeeper,and being extremely anxious for the placing her first course properly, wished Miss Alton just to slip out and see it put on table: but vain were her wishes; and the cook, finding no aid-de-camp arrive, after waiting till some of the dishes were over-dressed, and others half cold, was obliged to act as commander-in-chief, and direct the disposition of the table herself; in which, not having clearly understood her mistress's directions (for in fact her anxiety to have all correct made them vary every half hour), she succeeded so ill, that when, after all her fretting and fuming, poor Mrs. Dawkins was told dinner was on table, that unfortunate Lady had nearly fainted at perceiving, when she entered the dining-room, that half the articles intended for the second course were crowded into the first, and roasted, ragoued, boiled, fried, sweet and sour, were jumbled together, in the finest confusion imaginable!
"This is allyourfault," said Mrs.Dawkins, in a low voice, but with the countenance of a fury, to poor Alton: "you could notstirto see it put down;" and pushing rudely by her, she left her staring with surprize, and wondering what had made the dear soul so very angry: but when she saw the blunders which were so obvious in the arrangement of the table, and recollected her own negligence (for in fact she had promised to see it set down), she was in her turn quite shocked.
Insupportable was the delay and confusion in putting down this second course; even curtailed as it was, Mrs. Dawkins's servants were not perfectlyau faitat such things, and at last Lord St. Aubyn gave a hint to his own man, who waited behind his chair to assist, which he did so effectually, that every thing was soon placed as by magic, and the rest of the dinner and dessert passed over tolerably well. After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing-room, and listened, withtheir usual patience, to fresh lamentations from Mrs. Dawkins, and renewed sympathies on the part of Miss Alton, who sought, by even increasing her usual portion oftender sensibility, to regain her wonted place in Mrs. Dawkins's good graces; but that lady continued so haughty and impracticable, that poor Alton came at last withrealtears, to complain to the good-natured Ellen and Laura of her hard fate, and the impossibility, do all she could, of pleasing some people; and they really were so sorry for her vexation, that when Lady St. Aubyn's carriage was announced, she rescued her from the visible unkindness of Mrs. Dawkins, by desiring to have the pleasure of setting her down, and made her quite happy again, by asking her to meet a small party at the Castle the next day, which, as it was understood to be rather a select thing, and confined to those most intimate there, assured Miss Alton a renewed importance with Mrs.Dawkins and all her friends, as she should have much to tell, which they could by no other possibility know any thing about.
Sweet Juliet, that with angels dost remain,Accept this latest favour at my hands,That living honour'd thee, and being dead,With funeral praises do adorn thy tomb.Romeo and Juliet.
Sweet Juliet, that with angels dost remain,Accept this latest favour at my hands,That living honour'd thee, and being dead,With funeral praises do adorn thy tomb.
Romeo and Juliet.
The day was now fixed at the distance of a week for the removal of the St. Aubyns to London. Ellen lamented much the impossibility of having Laura Cecil with her, who would have been such a support to her in a situation so new; but nothing could be urged on that point, as it was impossible she could leave Juliet, who appeared sometimes better sometimes worse, but always patient, gentle, and pious to a degree that was really angelic.
Ellen felt sincerely grieved to leave her, and proposed that she should be removedto London for better advice, but found this expedient had been before resorted to, and Doctor B——'s advice frequently renewed by letters since, and that it was thought the air of London did not agree with her. The weather now, for the time of year, the second week in March, was remarkably mild; and the medical man in attendance on Juliet, who had now been for some days tolerably free from the low fever which generally hung about her, permitted her to go out once or twice in a garden chair, for the benefit of the air: the returning verdure of spring seemed, for a time, to revive her: but whether the exertion was too much, or some unobserved change in the atmosphere affected her delicate frame, could not be known; but she was suddenly seized with one of those attacks of fever which had so frequently brought her to the brink of the grave; and on the day before that fixed for Ellen's leaving Northamptonshire, a note from Laura announced that the life of this admirable young creature was despaired of.
"She is perfectly sensible," added the afflicted sister; "the dear angel retains all her usual pious composure; she wishes to see you. Could you, dear Lady St. Aubyn, without being too much affected, come to her?"
Ellen, bursting into tears, put the note into St. Aubyn's hand, saying, "Oh, my dear Lord; let me go—pray let me go directly!"
"Be less alarmed, be more composed, my dearest love," replied he, after glancing over the contents, "or I cannot consent to your going. I wish it had not been asked."
"Oh, indeed, dear St. Aubyn, I am quite composed, quite easy; but I shall suffer much more in not seeing the dear, dear creature once again, than even by witnessing this sudden and most unexpected change."
"Well, my love, we will go together; but do not be too much alarmed; she may yet recover: Laura's fears may outrun the occasion: Juliet has often been very ill before; but we will go: they will both, I know, be pleased at your coming."
He then ordered the carriage, which was soon ready; and half an hour brought them to Rose-hill. Ellen was immediately shewn to Juliet's room: by the bed-side sat Laura: her cheeks, lips, and whole countenance, were the colour of monumental marble; not a tear fell from her eyes; not a sigh heaved her bosom; but the woe, the deep expressive woe which marked every feature, no language could describe: she rose, and advanced a few steps to meet Ellen, grasping her hand with one which the touch of death could alone have rendered colder; her lips moved, but no articulate word broke the mournful silence.
Ellen turned pale, shuddered, andlooked ready to faint; Miss Cecil made a sign to an attendant, who, bathed in tears, stood near her: she placed a chair for Lady St. Aubyn, and brought her a few drops in some water; she wept, and was relieved.
"Oh, why did I send for you!" said Laura, in a low tone, and speaking with difficulty; "I fear it is too much."
"Don't be frightened, my Lady," said the nurse: "Miss Juliet is a little easier; she is dozing."
In a few minutes Juliet moved and spoke, but so faintly, her voice could hardly be distinguished. In an instant Laura was on her knees beside her, and catching the imperfect sounds, replied in a voice which betrayed not the anguish of her soul, "Yes, my love, she is here—will you see her?"
Then turning to Ellen, she motioned her to approach. Ellen rose, and went to the bed-side; she looked on Juliet, and saw that sweet angelic countenance,slightly flushed, and looking as composed as ever; and ignorant of the appearances of disease, fancied her better, and was, in some measure, comforted. Juliet faintly articulated a few words, expressive of the pleasure she felt in seeing Ellen, and would have said more, but the nurse, for the sake of all, interposed, and requested that Miss Juliet might not be allowed to speak much. With difficulty she held out her feeble emaciated arms to Ellen, who tenderly embraced her, and half dissolved in tears, retired to the window, whither she drew Miss Cecil. Still the wretched Laura shed no tear; and the deep grief, impressed on her fine countenance, was much more painful to the beholder than the loudest expressions of sorrow could have been.
"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speakWhispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"
"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speakWhispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"
"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura," said Ellen, "endeavour to take comfort; surely she is better—she will recover!"
Laura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, "Indeed, Madam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off these two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment passed her lips this day."
"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food," cried Laura, "I can partake of neither."
Ellen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands upon her heart, she replied, "Oh no, oh no—I could not; indeed I could not. Go," she added, "my dear friend—go, this is no place for you; nothing but the request of ——; nothing butherrequest should have induced me to send for you."
"But now Iamhere," said Ellen, "surely you will allow me to stay; I may be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet."
In vain she urged. Laura sacrificed allselfish considerations, and insisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet wish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to request his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and looking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily dozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another shower of tears, left the room.
St. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home, though she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.
"Laura," said he, "judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly: you could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly improper; you must not think of it."
Two days of the greatest anxiety now passed, and at the end of that time the fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were attended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might well have taught the worldly "how a Christian could die!"
For many days Laura was confined to her bed, and it was feared she would follow her sister to the grave; but by degrees she shook off the excess of her sorrow, and for her father's sake endeavoured to recover from the dreadful shock she had received.
Sir William Cecil, who had long been convinced that Juliet would not live many months, was more easily consoled. The St. Aubyns of course had delayed their journey to London on this event; and finding that Sir William Cecil was disposed to make an excursion to Bath, which his gouty habit indeed rendered almost necessary, they endeavoured to prevail on Laura to come to them at St. Aubyn Castle for a short time, and then go with them to London. From this proposal, especially the latter part, she for some time shrunk, and wished to beallowed to remain at Rose-hill alone: but that her friends would not permit: and Sir William having arranged to go to Bath at the same time with a neighbouring family, and to be in the same house with them, Laura was at length prevailed on to remove to the Castle, and from thence, after a short stay, to accompany her friends to London, where they promised her an apartment exclusively her own, and that she should see no other till she herself wished it.
"Yet why," said she, "my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, why should I burden you with one so powerless to add to your comforts, or partake your pleasures?"
"Is not that an unkind question?" said Ellen; "or do you really believe me insensible to the gratification of soothing your mind, and supporting your spirits? Whenever you will permit me, I will be your visitor in your apartment; whenever my company would be irksome, I will leave you to yourself, provided I do not find you the worse for the indulgence."
All was therefore thus arranged, and Miss Cecil, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn in one carriage, and Miss Cecil's maid, and Ellen's talkative but faithful Jane, in another, with out riders, &c. in great style left Northamptonshire, and arrived the next evening at the Earl's magnificent house in Cavendish-square.—Lady St. Aubyn's first care was to select such an apartment for the mournful Laura as would make her easy, and free from restraint; and having conducted her to it, she told her she was entirely mistress there, and never should be interrupted unless she chose it.
Ellen, who had made several little attempts in verse since she had seen those of Miss Cecil, now soothed her sorrow for the loss of the sweet Juliet by a few stanzas, which, when she thought her able to bear them, she gave to Laura,who was gratified by this little tribute to her loved, lamented sister's memory.
How mourns the heart, when early fades awayThe opening promise of a riper bloom;When youth and beauty, innocently gay,Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn,Arose superior to that childish frame,(Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn,To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care,Which future years perhaps had bade the prove;A heart so tender, and a form so fair,Ill with the perils of the world had strove!Thy heart expanding at affection's voice,How had it borne in native kindness warm,To check the rapid fire of youthful choice,And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!To thee were graces so benignly given,A soul so tender, and a wit so rare;A love of harmony, as if kind HeavenHad bade thee for an early bliss prepare.Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace,The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain;Thy winning manners studiously retrace,And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.Nor shall that heart to present scenes confineIts views and wishes; but with worthier care,Seek to preserve an innocence like thine,And humbly hope thy happiness to share.
How mourns the heart, when early fades awayThe opening promise of a riper bloom;When youth and beauty, innocently gay,Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!
Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn,Arose superior to that childish frame,(Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn,To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.
Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care,Which future years perhaps had bade the prove;A heart so tender, and a form so fair,Ill with the perils of the world had strove!
Thy heart expanding at affection's voice,How had it borne in native kindness warm,To check the rapid fire of youthful choice,And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!
To thee were graces so benignly given,A soul so tender, and a wit so rare;A love of harmony, as if kind HeavenHad bade thee for an early bliss prepare.
Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace,The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain;Thy winning manners studiously retrace,And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.
Nor shall that heart to present scenes confineIts views and wishes; but with worthier care,Seek to preserve an innocence like thine,And humbly hope thy happiness to share.
To such how fair appears each grain of sand,Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand!A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view.———See with what art each curious shell is made:Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid!What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn,Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!S. Jenyns.
To such how fair appears each grain of sand,Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand!A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view.———See with what art each curious shell is made:Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid!What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn,Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!
S. Jenyns.
The arrival of the St. Aubyns in London opened a wide field for conjecture and conversation in the fashionable world. It was known, for St. Aubyn's haughty relations had not failed to publish it, that he had married a young woman far inferior to him in rank, and absolutely without fortune. It was also known that she was uncommonly beautiful; and great anxiety, mixed with no small share of ridicule, was excited by her expecteddebut; but the modest Ellen was in no haste to afford the starersand sneerers so rich a treat: she merely went to a few morning exhibitions, attended only by her Lord, for the first fortnight of her stay in town; and indeed St. Aubyn hoped, notwithstanding her present distance and displeasure, to induce his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt, to chaperon Ellen to some of the public places, being fully sensible what an advantage it would be to her to be so supported: he therefore acquiesced in her wishes, till he could bring about this desirable arrangement, and allowed his wife to spend most of her evenings at home.
Several ladies had however called on Lady St. Aubyn, some of whom had left their cards, and others she had seen. Most of these visits she had returned; but one of those, who had shewn the greatest desire to see more of Lady St. Aubyn—indeed, a distant relation of the Earl's, she had not been yet to see.
One morning Lord St. Aubyn said hewould go with her to see the museum of an old friend of his, who lived at Knightsbridge, who was a great collector of every thing rare and curious, particularly shells, pictures, and gems. "He is quite a character," added he: "but I will not anticipate your surprize: we can go there early. I told him we would go to-day, or to-morrow; and after we have been there, you can call on Lady Meredith, who gave herself a trouble so extraordinary, as actually to alight from her carriage and make you a personal visit."
"You will go with me?"
"Pardon me, my love, that is not necessary, and you really must learn togo alone, and not depend so much on me."
"I hope her Ladyship may not be at home."
"Indeed, my love, I hope she may; for dissimilar as they are in every respect, my aunt, Lady Juliana, spends a great deal of her time there. She is so fond of finding fault, and differing inopinion from others, that I really believe she goes to Lady Meredith's chiefly for the pleasure of lecturing her, who is so indifferent to the opinion of any one, that she does not think it worth while to be at the trouble of resenting the sharp things Lady Juliana says to her."
"What a strange motive for being intimate with any one."
"Strange enough: but when you see more of the world, you will discern that affection is not the only bond of union between those who call themselves friends."
"I think I have seen that already in Mrs. Dawkins and Miss Alton."
"True: convenience, the wish of finding a patienthearer, accident, the want of a more pleasing companion, are amongst the numerous inducements which form what we are pleased to call friendship. Nay, I once heard a good lady say she was sure a family she mentioned had proved themselvesreal friendsto her, for they had sent her alarge plumcake[A]."
Ellen laughed at this curious definition of friendship.
"Well," said St. Aubyn: "but to return to Lady Meredith. I hope she may, by reporting well of you to Lady Juliana, induce her to become more friendly towards us: you know how anxious I am to have you in her good graces—not, believe me, on account of her immense fortune, but because, with all her pride and stiffness, she has a warm heart and excellent qualities, and would be to you a most valuable friend; so pray do your best to please Lady Meredith."
"Very well: but will you tell me the most likely way to succeed?"
"I am afraid it will be difficult: she will think you too handsome, unless indeed she intends soon to have a large party."
"How is it possiblethatshould have any thing to do with the matter?"
"Why, Lady Meredith's great ambition is to outshine all her competitors in the number and fashion of those collected at her routes; and as sometimes, in spite of her charms, and the lustre of her abundant jewels, there are some obstinate animals who will be uncivil enough to recollect they 'have seen them before,' consequently become rather weary of them, and desert her for some newer belle. Lady Meredith may think you (so new to the world, and so beautiful) a desirable reinforcement, and may therefore honour you with an invitation: pray accept it, if she does, and take great pains at your toilette to-day: for my friend, Mr. Dorrington, is a great admirer of beauty, and will shew you his fine collection a great deal more readily if he admire your's, particularly if he should fancy you like a bust he has of thebona Dea(at least he gives it thatname, though it is so mutilated, he confesses he does not exactly know for what or whom it was designed), which he almost idolizes."
Ellen hastened to obey, but she wished herself at Castle St. Aubyn, for she had not liked the little she had seen of Lady Meredith, and she shrunk from the idea of this formidable morning visit. Conquering her fears, however, as well as she could, and looking uncommonly beautiful, she rejoined her Lord. Her milliner had just sent home a most elegant and expensive morning dress, bonnet, and cloak, all of the finest materials, and in that delicate modest style, which she always chose, and was to her peculiarly becoming. St. Aubyn thought he had never seen her look so well, and gave great credit to Madame de —— for consulting so admirably the natural style of her beauty, as to embellish, without overloading it. The barouche was at the door: she had therefore only time to say"farewell" to Laura, and stepping hastily in, half an hour brought them to Mr. Dorrington's.
As the carriage stopt at the house, the figure of a fine old man with grey hair caught the eye of Lady St. Aubyn: he was at the instant ascending the steps to knock at the door, and was so meanly dressed, that she supposed him a mendicant, or at least extremely poor, and her ready hand sought her purse, intending to give relief to the infirm looking old man. What then was her surprize, when, just as she stretched out her hand for that purpose, the old man, looking into the carriage, and seeing Lord St. Aubyn, advanced, and taking off his hat with the most courtly air imaginable, displayed a fine commanding forehead, expressive eyes, and a contour of countenance so admirable, as, once seen, could never be forgotten.
"Ah! my dear St. Aubyn," he exclaimed, "how rejoiced I am to see you!I am really happy that I returned in time to receive you: as you did not say positively you would come to-day, it was all a chance; but come, do me the favour to alight: I have just succeeded in making the finest purchase—a shell, a unique: you shall see it."
By this time St. Aubyn had alighted, and giving his hand to Ellen, introduced her to this extraordinary man. Nothing could be more polished than his address, nothing more elegant than the grace with which he received her, or more spirited than the little compliment he made St. Aubyn on his happiness, and the beauty of his lady.
Whoever looked at Mr. Dorrington, when his shabby old hat was removed, must instantly see the man of sense and superior information: whoever heard him speak, heard instantly that it was the voice and enunciation not only of a gentleman, but of one who had lived in the very highest circles; and yet his appearance, at first, would have led any one to suppose him, as Ellen did, in absolute poverty. He led the way into his favourite apartment, indeed the only one he ever inhabited, except his bed-chamber; and into neither would he ever suffer any one to enter unless he was with them. No broom, nor brush of any kind, ever disturbed the sacred dust of this hallowed retirement: in the grate, the accumulated ashes ofmany monthsremained; the windows were dimmed with the untouched dirt of years: and nothing but the table on which his slender meals were spread (for his temperance in eating and drinking were as remarkable as his singular neglect of personal attire), and two or three chairs for the reception of occasional visitors, were ever wiped. In one of these he seated the astonished Ellen, who gazed around her at treasures, the value of which exceeded her utmost guess. A handsome cabinet with glass doors contained a variety of curiousgems, vases, and specimens of minerals: some invaluable pictures stood leaning against the walls: heaps of books in rich bindings, which Ellen afterwards found were either remarkable for their scarceness, or full of fine prints, lay scattered around.
"Now, my Lord," said Mr. Dorrington, "I will shew you and Lady St. Aubyn my new purchase: I said it was unique, but it is not exactly so: I have another of the same sort; but these are the only two in the world: I think this is a little, a very little finer than that I had before; I bought it at ****'s sale, and gave a monstrous price for it; but I was determined to have it: it was the only thing in his collection I coveted."
He then displayed his new purchase, and descanted for some time on its various beauties; and seeing Ellen really admired it, pleased also with her beauty and sweetness, he proceeded to shew her his collection, and even those rare articleswhich never appeared but to particular favourites, saying she was "worthy to admire them." Some beautiful miniatures particularly pleased her, and he was delighted that she seemed to understand their value. He also produced some fine illuminated missals, and explained every thing with so much grace and perspicuity as quite delighted her.
Two hours fled swiftly in examining these wonders, and even then they had not seen half, but promised to visit him another day. He told Lady St. Aubyn he should be at her command at any time; and then most politely attending her to her carriage, he with a courteous bow took his leave.
On their way home, St. Aubyn told Ellen that the extraordinary man they had just left had for many years led a life of dissipation, by which he reduced a large fortune almost to nothing; but that having once, in consequence of his extravagance, been obliged to sell a collection still finer than that he now had, he had determined to gratify his passion forvirtu, without the risk of again ruining himself, and therefore denied himself every thing but the bare necessaries of life; and was, consequently, enabled to purchase rare articles at any price, and to outbid other collectors, who had different demands on part of their incomes. He kept no man, and but one female servant; and St. Aubyn said, that when he had called on him a few days before, he found him in a storm of rage with this poor servant-girl, for having dared, while he was engaged with some company in his sitting-room, to brush out his bed-chamber, in the door of which he had,par miracle, left the key.—"And I am sure, Sir," said the girl, crying, "I never touched nothing but that great wooden man" (meaning a layman which always stands in Mr. Dorrington's room), "that's enough to frighten a body; and he I only just moved, for master never won'thave nothing like other people; and I thought if he brought the gentlefolks in his bed-room, as he sometimes will, it was a shame to see such a place, and such a dirty table cover; so I was only just going to make it a little tidy, and I never broke nothing at all."
"I comforted the poor girl," said St. Aubyn, "by giving her a trifle, and advised her by no means to provoke her master, by presuming to touch a brush in his rooms again without order: and she promised me she would in future be contented with cleaning her own kitchen and passages—'And never touch nothing belonging to master's rooms, nor any of them outlandish things, that be all full of dust, and enough to breed moths and all manner of flies all over the house.'——And I think," said he, laughing, "she appears to have kept her promise very exactly."
—— So perfumed, thatThe winds were love-sick with it.—— She did lieIn her pavilion, cloth of gold.Antony and Cleopatra.
—— So perfumed, thatThe winds were love-sick with it.—— She did lieIn her pavilion, cloth of gold.
Antony and Cleopatra.
Lady St. Aubyn set down the Earl in Cavendish Square, and proceeded alone to the house of Lady Meredith in Portland Place. A carriage which appeared to be in waiting drove from the door to make way for her's, by which Ellen guessed Lady Meredith had company. To the inquiry whether her Ladyship were at home, she was answered in the affirmative, and requested to walk up stairs. Ellen was now tolerably well accustomed to magnificent houses; but there was something in the style of this different from any thing she had yet seen: the hall was not only warmed by superb stoves,but bronze figures, nearly as large as life, stood in different attitudes in every corner, and all bearing censers or urns, in which costly aromatics perpetually burnt, diffusing around a rich but almost overpowering perfume. As she ascended the staircase she found every possible recess filled with baskets, vases, &c. full of the most rare and expensive exotics, which bloomed even amidst the cold winds of March, with nearly as much luxuriance as they would have done in their native climes; for every part of this mansion was kept in a regular degree of heat by flues passing through the walls and beneath the floors communicating with fires, which were not visible: when, on the other hand, the weather became warm, the cambric sun-blinds at every window were kept perpetually moistened with odoriferous waters, by two black servants, whose whole employment it was to attend to this branch of luxury; indeed, to luxury alone the whole mansion appeared to be dedicated. The floors were not merely covered, but carpetted with materials, whose softness and elasticity seemed produced by a mixture of silk and down: the sofas, ottomans, &c. were not merely stuffed, but every one had piles of cushions appertaining to it, filled with eider-down, and covered with the richest silks or velvets. To the presiding goddess of this superb temple Lady St. Aubyn was presently introduced. In her boudoir Lady Meredith sat, or rather lay, not on a chair or sofa, but on piles of cushions, covered with the finest painted velvet. Her majestic, though somewhat large figure, appeared to great advantage in the studied half-dress in which she now appeared; yet there was something in her attitude, in the disposal of her drapery, from which the modest eye of Ellen was involuntarily averted. Her dress was of the finest and whitest muslin that India ever produced, and clung around her so closelyas fully to display the perfect symmetry of her form: the sleeves were full, and so short, they scarcely descended below the shoulder, which not the slightest veil shaded from the beholder's gaze, while the delicate arms thus exposed were decorated with rows of what she called undress pearls: they were of an extraordinary size and beauty, and were formed into armlets and bracelets of fanciful but elegant fashion: two or three strings, and a large Maltese cross of the same, were the only covering of her fair bosom, and a few were twisted loosely amongst her dark but glossy and luxuriant hair. At her feet sat a lovely little girl about four years old, with a low hassock before her, on which she was displaying the contents of one of mamma's caskets of jewels, as well amused as the great Potemkin himself could have been by arranging his diamonds in different figures on black velvet; a favourite entertainment of that extraordinary man.
On one side of Lady Meredith sat a gay young officer in the uniform of the guards, and on the other a stiff formal looking old lady in a dress somewhat old fashioned, but more remarkable for being excessively neat and prim: she had a sour contemptuous look, and her stays and whole figure had the stiff appearance of a portrait of the last century. She levelled her eye-glass at Ellen, as she followed the servant who announced her into the room, and with an emphatichumph!(not unlike poor Mrs. Ross's) let it fall again as if perfectly satisfied with one look, and not feeling any wish to repeat it; yet repeat it she did, again and again, and, as if the review displeased or agitated her, her countenance became still more and more sour. In the meantime Lady Meredith half rose from her cushions, and holding out her hand, languidly said:—
"My dear Lady St. Aubyn, how good you are to come and see me! I am delighted I happened to be at home. Andrew," (to the servant, who, having placed a chair, was retiring) "don't give Lady St. Aubyn that shocking chair: bring a heap of those cushions and arrange them like mine: do rest on them, my dear creature; you must be fatigued to death."
"Excuse me," said Ellen, smiling with modest grace; "I am not accustomed to such a luxurious seat, and prefer a chair."
"Do you really? Is it possible!" exclaimed the languishing Lady, sinking back again as if the exertion of speaking had been too much for her. "Well, I should absolutely die in twelve hours if I might not be indulged in this delicious mode of reposing."
"Nonsense!" said the stiff old lady, in no very conciliating tone; "how can you be so ridiculous: pray how do you manage when you sit six or eight hours at pharo, or go to the Opera—you have none of those silly things there?"
"Oh, as to pharo, dear delightful pharo, that keeps me alive, prevents my feeling fatigued even when my unfortunate feet cannot command so much as a poor little footstool; and as to the Opera, I wonder your Ladyship asks, for you know very well, my box, and the cushions belonging to it, are stuffed with eider-down, like these," and she sunk still more indolently on her yielding supporters. "Apropos of the Opera," added she; "have you obtained a box there, Lady St. Aubyn?"
"No," replied Ellen: "Lord St. Aubyn had one offered to him, but as it is so late in the season, and our stay in town will not be long, I begged him to decline it."
Lady Meredith here exchanged a smile of contempt with the officer, which seemed to say "how rustic that is!" then half yawning she said:—
"Oh, but indeed that was very wrong: what can a woman of fashion do withouta box at the Opera? I am sure, from all I have heard of the former Lady St. Aubyn, for I had not the honour of knowing her, she would not have lived a month in London without one."
"Very likely," said the old lady, "but for all thatIthinkthis young personquite in the right, and as to the late Lady St. Aubyn, I am sureshewas no pattern for any body, and I wonder, Lady Meredith, you will name her in my hearing."
"I beg your Ladyship's pardon," replied Lady Meredith; "I forgot."
"Well, no matter; don't say any more."
To paint Ellen's surprize would be difficult: the odd epithet this strange lady had applied to her, "this young person," the allusions to the late countess, of whom she never heard without an indescribable sort of emotion, and the suspicion she now entertained that her ungracious neighbour was Lady Juliana Mordaunt, all conspired to overpowerher; and the heat of the apartment, the strong smell of perfumes from immense China jars, with which the room was ornamented, completed it; in short, though wholly unaccustomed to such sensations, she had nearly fainted. The young officer, who had long been watching her interesting and lovely countenance, saw her change colour, and said hastily:—
"The lady is ill."
"What's the matter, child?" said the old lady; and rising hastily, she untied her bonnet and the strings of her mantle, which, falling aside, discovered enough of her figure to render her situation obvious.
"So!" exclaimed the old lady; but whether the interjection expressed surprize, pleasure, or what other sensation, was not easy to discover. "Do, Colonel Lenox, exert yourself so much as to open the door and ring for a glass of water: the air of this room is enough to kill any body."
"Pardon me," said Ellen, the colourreturning to her cheeks and lips, "I am sorry to give so much trouble; I am much better."
"That's well," said the old lady. By this time the water was brought; Ellen drank some, and quite recovered, begged leave to ring for her carriage.
"Don't go yet, child," said the old lady; "perhaps you may be ill again."
"No: pray don't go yet," said Lady Meredith, who all this time had been holding a smelling bottle to her own nose, affecting to be too much overcome to do any thing for the relief of her visitor. "You have frightened me enormously; stay a little to make me amends; besides, you still tremble and look pale: are you subject to these faintings?"
"Not in the least," said Ellen. "I believe the heat of the room overcame me."
"No wonder," said the old lady; "it is a perfect stove, and enough to unstring the nerves of Hercules, especially whenaided by the powerful scent of those abominable jars."
"Oh, my dear sweet jars," cried Lady Meredith; "now positively you shall not abuse them; any thing else you may find what fault you please with, but my sweet jars I cannot give up:—have you ever read Anna Seward's poetical recipe to make one?"
"Not I," replied her friend in an angry tone, "nor ever desire it; all the poetry in the world should never induce me to fill my rooms with such nonsense."
During this conversation, the little girl, who had tired herself with looking at the jewels and trinkets, rose from her cushion, and said:—
"Pretty mamma, dress pretty Miranda in these," holding up some fine emeralds.
"No indeed, child: go to Colonel Lenox, and ask him to adorn you; I cannot take so much trouble."
"No, Miranda won't; Miranda go topretty, sweet, beautiful lady;" and she went to Ellen, who, admiring the lovely little creature, kissed her, and indulged her by putting the shining ornaments round her little fair neck and arms, and twisting some in the ringlets of her glossy hair.
"Now I beautiful," said the child, looking at herself. "Is not Miranda pretty now, mamma?"
"Yes, my love, beautiful as an angel: come and kiss me, my darling."
The child, climbing up the load of cushions, laid her sweet little face close to her mother's and kissed her.
"Is not she a beauty and a love?" said the injudicious mother to the Colonel, clasping the little creature to her bosom, with an air more theatrical than tender. He whispered something, in return to which she replied with affected indignation, "Oh, you flattering wretch,thatshe is, and a thousand times handsomer;but she will never know what[B]her mother was, for before she is old enough to distinguish, I shall either be dead or hideous, and then she will hate me." She heaved a deep sigh, and looked distressed at the idea, which the child perceiving, fondly twined her little arms round her mother's neck, and answered:—
"No, dear mamma, Miranda always love you, you so beautiful."
"See," said the old lady, "the effect of your lessons; you teach her to love nothing but beauty, and if you were to lose your good looks, she would of course cease to care any thing about you."
"Yes, that is exactly what I dread."
"Then why do you not endeavour to prevent it, by giving her more reasonable notions? If she is led to suppose beauty and fine dress the only claims to affection, if she is never taught that virtue and an affectionate heart can alone ensure unfading esteem, she will grow up a mere frivolous automaton, and probably throw herself away on the first coxcomb with a handsome face and red coat she meets with."
The Colonel coloured, laughed, and bowed.
"Nay," said the old lady, "if you choose to apply the character to yourself, with all my heart, settle it as you please; but, I suppose, all red coats are not mere coxcombs."
Lady Meredith and the Colonel laughed, but did not appear entirely pleased even with this half apology.
"Well, but," said Lady Meredith, "what, Ma'am, would you have me do with Miranda? Can I prevent the childfrom observing that beauty is universally admired?"
"That," said Colonel Lenox, with a bow, "would indeed be impossible while withyou."
The old lady shrugged up her shoulders, with a sour contemptuous frown, and said:—"Then put her into a better school."
"A school!" replied Lady Meredith, half screaming; "what, would you have me send the dear creature from me? No, my only darling, thou shalt never leave me."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the old lady, with even encreasing sourness; "well, if fashion absolutely demands thisextraordinarydegree of tenderness, for very good mothershavesent their children to school before now, at least, do get the child a rational and sensible governess, and let her employ herself in something better than admiring your jewels, or even your beauty, all the morning.—Ah! I wish," said she,turning abruptly to Ellen, "I wish she had such an instructress asyour Miss Cecil."
Ellen's surprise at this sudden address from one with whom not even the ceremony of introduction had passed, yet who seemed to know her and all her concerns so well, almost deprived her of the power to reply; she rallied her spirits, however, and said, that any mother might think half her fortune well bestowed, could it purchase such a preceptress: "But," added she, "such excellent qualities as Miss Cecil possesses, are rarely to be met with in any rank of life: my experience of character has, indeed, been very limited, but Lord St. Aubyn says, for elegance of manners, sweetness of temper, and strength of mind, her equal will hardly ever be found."
The blended modesty and spirit with which she spoke appeared to please the old lady, who, with an approving nod, again took up her eye-glass, and viewed Lady St. Aubyn from head to foot, though she saw that the steadfast gaze embarrassed and covered her with blushes.
Lady Meredith said something to the old lady in so low a tone, that the word "introduce" was alone audible, to which she replied with some tartness: "No, I can introduce myself."
Ellen now once more rose to depart, and Lady Meredith detained her another minute, to mention a large party she intended having in about three weeks, for which she said she should send Lady St. Aubyn a ticket; and requested her to tell St. Aubyn he might come also, "For I hear," she said, "you always are seen together."
"So much the better," muttered the old lady, who seemed, however, to be speaking aside, so no one took any notice of her. She rose when Ellen left the room, and returned her graceful courtesy with a not ungracious bend, and bade her good morning with an air more conciliating than she had shewn on her entrance.
On relating the particulars of this visit to her Lord, Lady St. Aubyn found there was no doubt the old lady she had seen was Lady Juliana Mordaunt: he made her repeat the conversation that had passed, and when she told him that the old lady had made use of the disrespectful term, "this young person," in speaking of her, he coloured excessively, and execrating his aunt's pride and impertinence, told his wife she ought to have quitted the room immediately. He smiled when Ellen mentioned Lady Juliana's attention and kindness on her fainting, and said, "That is so like her: her warm heart thaws the ice of her manners when she sees any one ill or distrest."
When Ellen repeated the mention which had been made in the course of conversation of the late Lady St. Aubyn, he changed colour, and said, "Well,Ellen, were you not surprized? You did not, I believe, know—you never heard I had been married before."
"Pardon me, my Lord, I was previously acquainted with that circumstance."
"You knew it!—from whom? Where did you hear it?"
"From Miss Cecil, from Miss Alton, accidentally."
"And were they not astonished you had not heard it before?"
"I had heard it before from Mrs. Bayfield, the day after we went to Castle St. Aubyn."
"From Mrs. Bayfield—she told you of it?—She told you—What, Ellen, did she tell you more?"
"Nothing, my Lord, but that your lady was young and beautiful, and died abroad."
"And why did you never mention the subject before? Why this reserve, my love?"
"Because I thought as you never told me of it yourself, you would rather the subject were not mentioned."
"Dear creature!" said St. Aubyn, sighing. "I have always had reason to admire the excellence of your judgment and the delicacy of your sentiments. Believe me, Ellen, I withhold from you only those things which I think will give you pain to know. Our acquaintance commenced under such singular circumstances, that I had hardly opportunity to tell you this before we were married, and in fact, that name, that recollection is so hateful to me, is connected with so many painful ideas, that I cannot bear to recall, to dwell upon it! Why that tear, my love—are you dissatisfied with me?"
"No, dearest St. Aubyn: whatever you do, appears to me wisest and best to be done—but I was pitying—I was thinking——"
"Whom were you pitying?—Of what was my Ellen thinking?"
"Pitying a woman, who, having once possessed your love, lost it so entirely, as to render her very name unpleasant to you. Thinking—ah, heaven!—thinking—should such ever bemylot!"
She paused, struggling with a sudden gush of tears, and sobs which almost choaked her.
"Impossible, impossible!" exclaimed St. Aubyn, clasping her to his bosom: "you will never deserve it, never bring disgrace and dishonour on my name, and blast with misery the most acute, the best years of my life!—Agitate not yourself, my best love, with these frightful ideas. Ah, had the hapless Rosolia been like thee!—but oh! how different were her thoughts and actions!——No more of this, compose yourself, my love, and tell me what more passed with this strange proud woman."
After a few moments, Ellen recovered enough to repeat the remainder of the conversation, with the result of whichhe appeared very well pleased, and prophesied from the latter part of it they should soon be on good terms with Lady Juliana Mordaunt, an event for which he appeared so anxious, that Ellen could not fail to wish it also; and, indeed, that lady's good sense and just sentiments had made a very favourable impression on her mind, though her manners were so sour and repulsive.
This day Miss Cecil dined with her amiable friends, as they had no other company; indeed, except by a few gentlemen, their dinner hour had generally passed uninterrupted, Ellen not being yet sufficiently acquainted with any ladies to mix with them in dinner parties. The report of St. Aubyn's male friends had, however, been so favourable towards her, as to incline Lady Meredith to wish a more intimate acquaintance, and to attract so much youth, beauty, and grace to her evening parties, while Lady Juliana was pleased to hear thatshe possessed qualities in her eyes far superior, namely, modesty, talents, and a demeanor towards her husband equally delicate and affectionate.
After dinner, St. Aubyn having some engagement, left the fair friends alone, and they enjoyed a long and confidential conversation.
From Laura, Lady St. Aubyn learnt that Lady Juliana was well known to her, and that in spite of her austere and forbidden manners, and the pleasure she undoubtedly took in contradicting almost every thing she heard, she was yet a woman of good sense, and would most certainly, could her esteem be once engaged, prove to Ellen a steady and valuable friend: "Especially," added Laura, "should any thing happen to Lord St. Aubyn, for she is his only near relation to whom he could confide the future interests, either of his wife or child; and young and beautiful as you are, my dear Ellen, no doubt St. Aubyn thinkssuch an additional support would be highly desirable for you." Seeing she was deeply affected, for Ellen now believed she could discern the cause of St. Aubyn's anxiety for her being on good terms with his aunt, and connected it with the painful circumstances he had told her were hanging over him, Laura now added, with a pensive smile, "Nay, my dear friend, do not be distressed. I have of late thought so much of mortality, I was not sensible how much you would be pained by the suggestion; but certainly, St. Aubyn will not leave you a moment the sooner for my hinting the possibility of such an event."
Ellen endeavoured to shake off the painful ideas which forced themselves upon her, and asked Miss Cecil if she had known much of the former Countess. "Not very much," said Laura: "she was very handsome, but the character ofher beauty was so different from yours, that I have often wondered how St. Aubyn came tochoosetwo so different; though, indeed, I believe I should hardly say choose, for Lady Rosolia de Montfort was not so much his choice as that of his relations—at least, I believe he would never have thought of her as a wife if they had not."
"Who was she? Do tell me a little about her: I am quite a stranger to all particulars."
"I know little more than I have told you, except that she was the only daughter of the late Earl de Montfort, a distant relation of Lord St. Aubyn's. Lord de Montfort, during the life of his elder brother, went to Spain in a diplomatic situation, and there married the daughter of the Duke de Castel Nuovo: this marriage with an English protestant, was, for a long time, opposed by the lady's relations: but, at length, movedby fear and compassion for her, whose attachment threw her into a lingering disease, which threatened her existence, they consented on one condition, namely, that the sons of the marriage should be educated Roman Catholics, and on the death of their father, be placed with their maternal grandfather, while they permitted the daughters to be brought up in the Protestant religion, hoping, perhaps, that the influence of a mother over females might ultimately bring them also over to her faith: but the Countess died young: one son and one daughter were her only children, the boy some years younger than his sister: they both remained with their father (who soon after his marriage became Earl de Montfort), sometimes in Spain, sometimes in England, till the marriage of Lady Rosolia with Lord St. Aubyn, though she was frequently his mother's guest, both in London and at St. Aubyn Castle, where the young Edmund also oftenspent some time: he was a very fine and amiable boy, and excessively attached to his sister.
When Lord de Montfort died, the son was claimed by his maternal grandfather, and Lord and Lady St. Aubyn went to Spain with him, where she died: report spoke unfavourably of her conduct during her abode on the Continent; indeed, in England, the gaiety of her manners, especially after the death of Lord St. Aubyn's mother, approached more nearly to the habits of foreign ladies than those of England. It was said, that while abroad, Lord St. Aubyn was involved in many unpleasant circumstances by her behaviour: certain it is, that on his return, he appeared overwhelmed with melancholy, which was the more extraordinary, as it was well known they had not lived on very affectionate terms even before they had quitted this country."
"And what became of her brother: where is the young Lord de Montfort?" asked Ellen. "He has remained ever since in Spain," replied Laura; "but as he will very soon be of age, he must then, I suppose, return to England to take possession of his estates, of which Lord St. Aubyn is the guardian."
"Oh," thought Ellen, "is it to his return St. Aubyn looks with so much apprehension and dismay? What! O! what is the strange mystery in which this story seems to be involved?"