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Title: Yes and no, Volume 2 (of 2)
A tale of the day
Author: Constantine Henry Phipps
Release date: January 16, 2026 [eBook #77720]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Henry Colburn, 1828
Credits: MWS, PrimeNumber, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YES AND NO, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***
YES AND NO.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
YES AND NO:
A TALE OF THE DAY.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “MATILDA.”
Che sì e no nel capo mi tenzona.
DANTE.
At war ’twixt _will_ and _will not_.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1828.
YES AND NO.
CHAPTER I.
Gentlemen, welcome! ladies, that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns, will have a bout with you:
Aha, my mistresses! which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,
I’ll swear hath corns; am I come near you now?
You are welcome, gentlemen!--Come, musicians,
A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls!
SHAKSPEARE.
The events of the last chapter, combined with Lady Latimer’s rather
deliberate devoirs at her dressing-table, had so much postponed her
arrival, that by the time she entered the room, the ball was at its
zenith. For two hours previously had the motley assemblage been
collecting; and various as the character and rank of the company, had
been their modes of arrival.
First, the ostentatious old grandee, who had insisted on the dignity
of his coach-and-six, though at every turn of the narrow streets the
leaders’ heads had smashed a shop window, and the hind wheel had
carried off the scraper from the opposite door.
Then, drawn by a pair of the farm-team, slowly rolled on the family
chariot, whose single seat was as warmly contested as if it had been
a parliamentary one: the proper pretensions of a bodkin being very
differently considered by brother Bill, whose tight “knees” resisted
sitting in too acute an angle; and by sisters Selina and Georgina, who
insisted on ample space for their lower garments, and elbow-room for
their gigot sleeves.
Here too, but for the convenient darkness, might have been seen, from
under a carefully-gathered gown, a well-turned leg, and slim ancle,
tottering over the crossing beneath the weight of cumbrous clogs; papa
having been too stingy to hire a chaise to go a hundred yards, and Miss
herself too impatient to wait for the twentieth turn of the single
sedan which the town boasted.
How little know they, whose London mornings are spent in a fastidious
discussion of the half-a-dozen “at homes,” from which they are to
make a selection, of the pleasure felt by the country girl in the
anticipation of her only ball! With all the languor of the last night’s
raking still upon her, the disciple of fashion finds out, as she
contemptuously tosses over the offered engagements for the evening,
that Lady G. has not got Collinet; that Mrs. H. lives in Bryanstone
Square, and she makes it a rule never to cross Oxford Street except
to the _corps diplomatique_, who, as foreigners, have a right to live
in outlandish parts; that Lady Mary is always so civil, and means this
for a squeeze; and that if they go to Mrs. D.’s, they must ask her in
return; and their “very small, very early,”----impossible!
On the other hand, the rural nymph, to whom an engagement of this
kind is an extraordinary event, wakes earlier in the morning, for
fear she should not be in time, counts the hours impatiently till
dressing, whilst the habitual glow of health is heightened by the flush
of excitement. And what can be a more gratifying sight than such a
collection of happy faces--if they did but know how to dance!
Germain had miraculously escaped from his election-dinner, only so much
elevated with all he had swallowed, as made him the more likely to go
through the remaining labours of the evening with spirit, and therefore
with success.
Not so Mr. Macdeed and Captain Wilcox, who were both as much cut as
the occasion warranted, and walked about the early part of the evening
arm-in-arm, each thinking that he was taking care of the other. The
wine rendered Macdeed facetious, the captain only familiar.
“My friend the captain,” Macdeed repeated several times with an
accompanying laugh; “though only a single vote after our dinner has
turned out a plumper.”
“Macdeed, my man, don’t talk nonsense; and take care, or you’ll run
against the ladies,” replied the captain, pulling him away.
Mr. Stedman was solemn and sober, but looked wonderfully clean, till
after the dancing had set in with such severity as to cause the first
fall of powder upon his coat, which, though antique in cut, was new
for the occasion; nor was his double-breasted white dimity waistcoat
as yet stained with snuff; and his stout legs, shown to advantage in
ribbed silk stockings, seemed to want nothing but elasticity to qualify
them for the labours of the evening. Yet for all this, there was not
a young lady whose situation in the county entitled her to dance with
one of the members, who did not put up a secret wish that the young
and handsome Germain might first offer to lead her forth, and that she
might not be left to be dragged up and down by the main force of the
old squire.
Germain, who was not very learned in the etiquette of these occasions,
had entertained some vague sort of intention of opening the ball with
Lady Latimer, but her late arrival put that out of the question, and it
was lucky for his popularity that it did so. It was suggested to him,
that to dance with a bride would prevent jealousies about any other
pretensions; and Mrs. Captain Wilcox, both on account of her father’s
situation in the county, and her husband’s recently acquired property,
would be a proper person.
Our old friend Fanny was not dressed as a bride--it would have been
better if she had, for the combined election colours which she thought
her husband’s opinions required on the occasion, were not becoming.
Hers was not a taste which could be trusted with the indiscriminate
use of two such colours as blue and red, particularly as she of course
had no very accurate idea of the peculiarly delicate shade of the real
“_feu d’enfer_.” Her shoes, however, were red, which Germain could
not deny was giving a very fair allowance in point of quantity to his
colour. Still her general appearance was dowdy; and as Germain stood
opposite to her waiting to begin, though it was impossible to find
much fault with any thing that looked so good and fresh, and happy and
healthy, yet he could not help wondering at his former self, as he
recollected some of the day-dreams of his early sentiment.
There, too, stood his formerly revered, always respectable Mentor, her
father, who certainly was not in the same state as the captain and Mr.
Macdeed; but this arose not so much from any abstemiousness on the
occasion, as from having ascertained from long habit exactly how much
he could drink with decency. Germain fancied, when he first observed
him, that his features had the cunning compression of a man who knows
that he has drank enough, and he was confirmed in his opinion by the
maudlin tone in which he said, as he passed, nodding at Fanny, “Old
times, eh, Mr. Germain?”
When Captain Wilcox at that moment touched him on the other side, and
nodding and smirking, said, “Much flattered, I’m sure, Mr. Germain;
you’ll make Mrs. Wilcox quite sport high at opening the ball with
the Member ----,” Germain felt almost gratified by the captain’s
interruption, from the consciousness he thence derived that ‘old times’
could not be really revived.
Reply was prevented by the commencement of the dancing; and Fanny swam,
and bounced, and floated, and jumped, as if she was determined to show
her sense of the honour.
“’Tis pity,” thought Germain, “that where the heart is so light, the
heels should be so heavy.”
At length, to his infinite relief, though his exertions had kept no
pace with those of his partner, they reached the bottom. At this moment
Lady Latimer entered the room alone, and took her seat at one end of
it by Mrs. and the Misses Luton. She had depended upon having Miss
Mordaunt to accompany her. Lord Latimer had declined to come from a
feeling, perhaps unnecessarily squeamish in those days, that a peer had
better not personally interfere in elections. Fitzalbert, in a fit of
indolence, had staid with him.
The first glance satisfied Germain that Lady Latimer never looked
more beautiful; and she took the same opportunity to signify her
congratulations at his success by a slight inclination of the head,
and a finger half raised to point out the colours she wore. But from
where he stood, Germain could see her but imperfectly; for between them
was the figure of Mrs. Wilcox fanning herself, and swinging about her
not very transparent person. The captain, too, came up to them again,
saying, “Fanny, my dear, hadn’t you better be seated; now I declare
you are quite warm, and I’m sure you must be leg-weary.”
“Me! oh no, I could dance down ten times more, with pleasure.”
“_Dieu m’en défende!_” thought Germain.
“But are you sure it’s quite prudent, my dear?” enquired the captain,
winking and nudging Germain, who was not learned enough in family
matters to comprehend the meaning of the inuendo, though it added to
the already deep die of Fanny’s skin.
As they were (to use the new idiom of the day) being danced up, he
observed Lady Latimer, who was really short-sighted, and never used
a glass offensively, stealing hers up to her eye, and directing it
towards the expansive but unconscious front of his partner, which was
turned towards her. This was evidently followed by an inquiry of Mrs.
Luton, and he did not at all like the tale-telling manner in which
that lady prepared to answer it; for he had a disagreeable recollection
that she had lived near his tutor’s, and that she could no otherwise
account for the indifference he then showed to the advances of any,
and indeed all of the Misses Luton, than by supposing a domestic
prepossession at Mrs. Dormer’s. He felt sure, too, that she would
detail every thing in the most malicious manner; and he could not deny,
as he looked at Mrs. Captain Wilcox, that it wanted no assistance to
make her, and consequently himself, ridiculous.
The apparently interminable dance at length concluded, he hastened to
Lady Latimer, and began expressing his regrets, which were certainly
very sincere, that she had not arrived in time for him to open the ball
with her. “Oh,” said she, laughing, “pray don’t think it necessary to
make speeches which we know how far to believe. You remember the old
proverb, ‘_On revient toujours_;’ need I go on, or does your conscience
fill up the rest?”
Germain felt that he looked sufficiently foolish for him to wish to
avoid Lady Latimer’s eye, he therefore carried his down the line
beyond, where it encountered Mrs. Luton’s malicious grin, Miss Luton’s
suppressed smile, Miss Anne Luton’s silly simper, and a certain
expression which twittered about the little pursed-up mouths of the
whole line of Misses Luton.
Now Germain was not aware that he had given what was considered very
serious ground of offence to every one of these young ladies. The elder
ones recollected the manner in which he had formerly slighted their
charms, and all of them considered, that as they were the only young
ladies in the room who had actually been at Paris, and who bore about
them the outward and visible signs of it, that this ought to have
superseded every other claim to precedence, and left, as the only
choice for Germain, which of the sisters he should open the ball with.
Germain felt what has been felt by less diffident characters when
exposed alone to a whole line of ladies, that if he was not actually
making a favourable impression upon one, he was probably making an
unfavourable one upon all, and therefore to extricate himself from this
false position, he proposed to Lady Latimer to dance the next dance
with him.
“I think I am growing too old,” said she, evidently not very seriously;
“I am losing the elasticity of youth,” looking down at her pretty
little foot, which certainly seemed to come much more under the
description of the “light fantastic” than that of his last partner.
What gallant reply he might have thought it necessary to make is
unknown, for at that moment he felt his elbow touched, and turning
round he beheld the persevering Captain Wilcox.
“Sweet woman that, the Viscountess Latimer; would you do me the honour
to present me to her in due form?” Germain did not know how to refuse,
and therefore mentioned the request to Lady Latimer. “What,” said she,
“the successful rival? you generous man!” The introduction effected,
the captain began--
“My lord’s not here, I understand. I hope not indisposed. I am sure
you look charming well, my lady, in spite of the hot room--perhaps,
as assistant-surgeon Jackson used to say at Madras, the hotter the
healthier, because----”
“And so you insist upon my standing up this dance,” said Lady Latimer
to Germain, taking his arm, and interrupting the captain, and then
continuing, as she walked away--“That was a little too bad, Mr.
Germain. So I was to have occupied the good, easy man, whilst you--Oh!
for shame!”
There was much in all this that annoyed Germain; he was, as has been
seen before, always peculiarly sensitive to ridicule, and the tone of
banter so successfully assumed by Lady Latimer, he could not conceal
from himself was most probably founded on indifference. However, though
she was soon satisfied with the sensation her presence had created
in the ball-room, and retired early, he resolutely remained much of
the night, as in duty bound; and it was a very late hour ere the
festivities concluded.
CHAPTER II.
Oh, Grief hath changed me since you saw me last;
And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,
Have written strange defeatures in my face.
SHAKSPEARE.
The night was dark and stormy, a circumstance of which most of the
revellers amid the dust and noise and glare of the ball-room were, or
affected to be, unconscious. True, the proprietor of the coach-and-six
had it hinted to him, and departed accordingly; but the fair owner of
the clogs danced indefatigably till dawn, without wasting a thought
upon the increasing difficulties of her return, and then ran laughing
and hopping home, having deposited one of her clumsy protectors stuck
deep in the first miry crossing.
But there was one to whom the tempestuous state of the weather during
that tedious night added to the dreariness of her situation. Helen
found her progress seriously retarded by the severity of the storm. For
though Lady Latimer’s servant, spurred to exertion by his mistress’s
express injunctions, did all in his power to facilitate their advance,
yet as the road they had to travel was a cross country one, it required
at each of the inns where they changed horses, no small powers of
persuasion to convince the sleepy postboys, harassed and jaded as they
and their horses had latterly been by the election, that any one could
really wish them on such a night as this to leave their warm beds, and
drive ten or fifteen miles.
At each of these unwelcome checks to her impatience, Helen sat
motionless, absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts, intently gazing
upon the front window, against which the beating rain never ceased to
patter, her eye following mechanically the copious streams in which it
descended the glass, and equally unconscious of the tears which more
silently trickled down her own cheeks.
Her mother had been all in all to her: she had never seemed to have
any separate existence from that of her child. As the incidents of her
early life now passed rapidly through her mind, with an accuracy and
yet a variety which nothing but the concentrated feelings of such a
moment could condense into so short a space, she could not recollect
any one act of her parent’s which was not dictated by the most anxious,
and yet the most judicious regard for her welfare. And she had enjoyed
a mother’s affection in all its purity and all its strength, undiluted
by division--unalloyed by the slightest dross of self, and yet she
had been absent from her during a serious, perhaps a tedious illness,
and had thus missed the only occasion, when she might have attempted
to repay, though imperfectly, those fond attentions which she had
always experienced from her in all the ills of childhood. She might
well have thought that the prospect of such a final separation, under
such circumstances, would have been incapable of aggravation; but in
anguish she now admitted that a most cruel aggravation had been but too
successfully attempted, and by whom--she could hardly bear to think.
Oakley’s last words still rung in her ears. She rejected them as the
ravings of passion, till her mother’s apparent confirmation forced
itself on her recollection. “You from whom I have had no secret.”
And was it from him, in whom confidence seemed to have been so
unworthily placed, that she must receive the only cureless wound?
Mortal separation, even heart-rending as that with which she was
threatened, as the common lot of humanity, is not entirely incapable of
alleviation--pious resignation may sooth its pangs, till all-healing
time has slowly worked out his cure. But how would nature and reason
have made their first efforts to assuage the hitherto uncontrollable
bursts of grief? By fondly pointing to the spotless memory of her that
was gone; and this blessed consolation had been wantonly and abruptly
destroyed by him, from whom, least of all, she would have expected such
wrong. As the morning advanced, and she approached her destination,
these thoughts for the time faded before the more immediate fear that
she might have arrived too late.
Mrs. Mordaunt’s dwelling was rather prettily situated on the skirts
of a little village. It was of the cottage order; and the garden and
little ground about it had all those marks of care and attention which
are found when the owner’s first resource is in the works of nature.
It was hence that Helen had derived her earliest recollections. It
had been purchased for Mrs. Mordaunt, and had been legally settled on
her, though the annuity had not, and was therefore all she possessed
independent of Oakley. Helen’s tottering steps, as she descended from
the carriage, were supported by old Dorothy, who without administering
much further comfort, relieved her anxious doubts as to her mother’s
being still alive.
Old Dorothy had been with her mistress as long as Helen could remember,
and all her infantine grievances, such as they were, had been confined
to the very short and constantly diminishing intervals when her
mother’s authority had been transferred to her as her deputy; for
nature had not endowed Dorothy with a good temper, and perhaps her
limited experience of life had not improved it. The wayward fancies
of childhood had therefore often irritated and incensed her. In later
days, what had most soured her and excited her spleen, was Helen’s
increasing beauty. Whether this arose from her own original deficiency
in this respect, or from some other cause, she used always to say: “She
know’d nought but mischief comes of your fair skin and your fine form.”
“The canker feeds on the fairest rose,
And the brightest eye will soonest close.”
But she showed withal a most invincible, dogged fidelity to her
mistress, over whom Helen had early observed that she had no slight
degree of influence. She had also always remarked that Dorothy was
kinder at a period of calamity or distress, and that not so much from
any apparent effort to exert herself more at such times, as that it
was a state which appeared best suited to her own habitual frame of
mind. It was long therefore since Helen had been so warmly greeted by
her as she was upon the present melancholy occasion of her return. As
she supported her with one arm, she gently turned the stray hair off
her forehead with her other withered hand. Perhaps she was softened
and thrown off her guard by her own distress--perhaps the havoc that
grief had made in Helen’s beauty caused her to view it with unusual
complacency, as she said: “God bless your dear face, it does one good
to see it again--how you have been crying! Oh! Miss Mordaunt, to think
that you should return when there is no hope left. She has been much
worn away within the last week; before that I never found it out: she
never complains, you know it’s not her way. I thought to myself that
she seemed to grow a bit thinner; but I’ve seen over many and great
changes in her, poor lady, in my day, to mind a trifle; and then my
eyes are not so sharp as they have been; and I minded it not so much,
for that I guessed your being away might make her a bit lonesome, for
she needs other company than her own thoughts; and I spoke to her more
sharply than I’ve done this many a long year, that she should send
for you here, and that she ought to ken well enough you’d get no good
gadding where you were; and then she took on so, poor soul, that I was
sorry for what I’d said, though I meant it all for the best. And the
next day was the first she was over weak to get as far as your garden
to tend your flowers. She’d ne’er missed a day since you went, and that
she minded worser than any thing, and so she sent for the doctor, and
together they settled to have you back.”
By this time they had crossed the garden to the front door, and Helen
eagerly inquired whether she should go in at once to her mother, or
whether Dorothy had best break her arrival to her.
“Why, I reckon she has just dropped into a sort of dose, for you must
know she was rather on the look out for your return all yesterday, and
that fretted her into a worse fever. I don’t know how it was, she had
her own way of sending to tell you; if she had but left it to me, I’d
have had a care there should have been no mistake; but so it was, she
kept peering and pining for you all the afternoon, and though it was to
be looked for she should not sleep all night, as I told her she might
thank herself for managing matters so ill; and so at last she’s gone
off into a sort of slumber from sheer weakness.”
Helen seized the opportunity of escaping from the officious old
Dorothy, who returned to take the consignment of her things from the
carriage, and with a light tread she stole to the door of her mother’s
apartment. All seemed perfectly still within. She gently opened the
door. There had been no precautions taken to procure the sleep in which
her mother’s senses had been overcome. The morning sun shone full upon
the bed where Helen’s anxious eyes were directed.
Mrs. Mordaunt’s was a frame where sorrow had preyed upon the substance
without defacing the filmy covering. Her clear skin was still free from
furrows, though it seemed but to rest upon the bone. Such as she then
appeared in that unconscious trance, the interest she must have excited
in one less partial than her daughter was beyond that of mere mortal
beauty. The hectic spot upon one point of the cheek seemed to touch the
long eyelashes which in sleep hung down towards it. Her silken hair,
which time and grief had thinned not turned, strayed unconfined over
her pale forehead. The expression of her colourless lips was tranquil
and free from pain. Her thin transparent hands, more than any thing
else, told the tale of approaching dissolution. Around the bloodless
fingers of one hand was twined a long lock of Helen’s hair, the other
was stretched towards a book of common-prayer which lie open upon the
bed. Mrs. Mordaunt’s devotion had never partaken of the character of
fanaticism, that mistaken cordial of diseased minds. She thought it
best became a sincere penitent to study and practise the plainest
precepts of religion, rather than to pride herself upon the gloomy
perversion of its most disputed dogmas.
As Helen bent over the still and passionless form, where amid the
traces of bodily suffering so much seemed to recall the recollection
of recent virtues, so little to confirm the suspicion of former guilt,
she felt her throat swelling with a sudden burst of indignation, which
being utterly unable to control, she hastily left the room, and then
gave vent to the bitter thought: “_He_ has dared to defame _her_, and
to me!”
After she had to a certain degree succeeded in restoring to herself the
degree of composure necessary to prepare her for the interview she must
soon have with her mother, she attempted to sustain herself by a survey
of the well-known contents of their common sitting-room. Every thing
was much as she had left it. Her sketch-book, however, which she had
put by, was open, as if it had been recently examined. Her birds too
had not been neglected, from the appearance of the green food and water
in the cages; it seemed as if they must have been replenished no longer
ago than the evening before. This was an attention quite out of old
Dorothy’s line. It must have been her mother then who had thus employed
the moments while she had been, as stated, fretting for her return.
She was soon again summoned to the bed-room. After the first agitation
of meeting had subsided, Mrs. Mordaunt raising herself said: “And have
you not suffered from cold, my poor child? I could not sleep till the
storm had subsided, with the thought that you might be out in it.”
“Think not of me; to find you thus--ill, very ill, I fear,” said
Helen, unable to bear the unnatural brilliancy of her mother’s eye,
which alarmed her more than any of the symptoms of decay which she had
observed whilst she was still asleep.
“His will be done!” said Mrs. Mordaunt; “it is perhaps on many accounts
better as it is. Better for you, I mean, which is my only care. You
are formed to ornament society. It would have been out of my power to
accompany you into the world; you must have observed that I have always
avoided society; I have not been without my reasons for it.”
As Mrs. Mordaunt paused, Helen felt a slight shudder, as this conduct
of her mother occurred to her in a new light.
She then continued: “I shall never again perhaps be stronger than I
am at present, so I may as well now communicate one or two facts with
regard to your future circumstances, which it is necessary you should
know. It is not much I can bring myself to say, but if I have had,
and still have any concealment from you, it is only what an anxious
consideration for your happiness has, upon mature deliberation,
determined me to pursue.”
“There is one, however,” thought Helen, “from whom she has had no
secret;” and she almost dreaded that in what was about to follow she
should hear any allusion to that name, which it would previously have
gladdened her heart to have heard mentioned with praise by her mother.
“I will not deny that your absence has been painful to me, but I shall
at least die with the consciousness that it has been far from useless
to you. The sense of obligation must always be irksome, when gratitude
is extracted only by the act itself, and does not flow naturally from
regard for the benefactor. Judge then of the pleasure I derived from
the unsuspicious encomiums you passed upon the character of Mr. Oakley,
and the gratification you seemed to derive from the intercourse with
so superior a person, when I tell you that it is to his bounty that we
have latterly owed the means of subsistence; indeed every thing, except
the roof over our heads. I can no otherwise diminish your surprise at
my acceptance of such a favour than by saying, that your relationship
to a member of his family, from whom he derived his property, gave you
a sort of claim in equity to his consideration. But, oh Helen! the
manner in which it was done, so feeling and delicate, was so like the
fine generous creature you described in your letters!”
Helen dropped her head upon the bed to hide her contending emotions,
whilst her mother continued:--
“Had it been otherwise, had his disposition been different, fickle,
liable to change, or subject to the influence of the baser passions
of our nature, the perplexities of the present moment would have been
increased tenfold. I hardly know what I would not have endured rather
than my child should have been subject to a sudden shock, such as--but
what am I saying? I feel that under any circumstances my strength would
not have been equal to any further exertion. And I trust in heaven ’tis
better as it is. There is an all-seeing eye which penetrates our most
secret thoughts, and Heaven knows that it is only for my child and her
sake that I would----” The rest of the sentence hovered trembling on
the mother’s lip, but reached not the daughter’s ear.
I must draw a veil over their final separation, which, heart-rending as
it would have been even if there had been no necessity for reserve, was
aggravated by many pangs which the mother feared to communicate.
CHAPTER III.
----My project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me.
SHAKSPEARE.
Helen had been but four-and-twenty hours returned when her mother
expired in her arms; and as she slowly recovered from the immediate
stupor of despair, the first sound that jarred discordantly upon her
returning senses was the merry chime of the village bells summoning the
rural congregation to morning-service, for it was Sunday.
The powers of sound upon the brain in awakening dormant associations,
have been felt by many, independent of time or space. And even in
declining life, an accidental imitation of the well-known tone of the
bell that used to disturb the slumbers of the schoolboy, has recalled
for a moment the remembrance of the long-forgotten hopes and fears
of childhood. But the summons, which with its unwelcome jingle and
ill-timed cheerfulness now grated upon Helen’s ear, was one which had
never hitherto been unpleasing either to her or her mother. And the
last time she had heard it--it seemed but yesterday--how different
had been her feelings! In the sameness of their tranquil life, the
return of the Sunday had always furnished the principal event, and
the consequent periodical return of Mrs. Mordaunt’s walk to the
parish-church had for some time been the extent of her rambles
beyond her own garden. Upon these occasions the severe simplicity,
though studied neatness of Mrs. Mordaunt’s attire, had added to the
impression created by her striking though no longer blooming figure.
And now Helen recalled with an astonishing accuracy the whole of her
appearance, dress, and deportment, the last time that they had together
started to obey that summons to church. She recollected too, and it was
consolatory to her in her present state, the increased cheerfulness
with which her mother always returned from thence; but it occurred to
her, with some slight sensation of reproach, that she had not then been
warned by the first symptom of bodily weakness shown by her mother, in
requiring the assistance of her arm on their walk homewards the day
before she had last left her on her visit to Lady Latimer.
Still that distractingly cheerful sound continued, and with the
desperation with which one sometimes turns one’s attention to that
which is painful, Helen half opened the window-shutters. It was a
bright autumnal morning. At the distance of the garden she could see,
on one side, small parties of the peasantry, all in their gayest
clothing, and hearts as gay, hastening towards their morning duty,
but opposite her own little gate, there was a still, and apparently
increasing group, and all, as they passed, paused a minute, as it were,
listening on the skirts of this group, and then, as they resumed their
way, it was easy to observe in the awkward gait of all, and in the
unfolded handkerchief of many of the women, that they had just heard
heavy news. For Mrs. Mordaunt had been the best of neighbours to the
poor, her charity had been, not only of the hand, but of the heart,
and there are few so ignorant as not to appreciate the distinction.
From this melancholy sight, Helen turned inwardly to the consolation
that she thought she might derive from the good offices of Mr.
Saunders, the respectable clergyman, whose influence on his
parishioners had only been commensurate to his merit. She mentioned
this to Dorothy, with the desire that she might see him after the
duties of the day were concluded.
“Aye, I thought of the same thing myself,” said Dorothy, “how fashous
it was, and how disappointed you’d be when you heard it; why, he’s
removed too--no, not dead,” seeing Helen much shocked,--“he’s gotten
a better benefice, that’s all, and I don’t believe there’s fifty
pound a-year difference, neither; and it was na like him, to leave
us all for that, and go among strangers, and here I’m certain there
are those who would have made up the difference to keep him--and now
we’ve gotten a beardless boy, that drived himself down in a dog-cart,
and that I should guess, had to learn more than to teach. He’s civil
enough too, for when one of his sporting dogs, nasty brute, strayed
into our grounds and destroyed one of your carnation-beds, and my poor
mistress was sorely grieved, for she’d cared it every day for your
return, and I went to give him a piece of my mind about it, instead
of flying out too, he was so sorry, I couldn’t say half as much as I
meant to have done, and he bid me say he’d rather hang all the dogs he
had, than it should happen again. But he’s ow’r young for his business,
that’s certain, and I’m thinking that you’d not like to speak to
him yourself; but if you’d leave all to me, to settle about my poor
lady’s last”----Here even Dorothy’s tough nature yielded to her better
feelings, and her grief choked her.
“No, I’ll go through it all myself, if I can,” said Helen.
The Hon. and Rev. Henry Seaford called the next morning, to ask the
intentions of the orphan girl as to the funeral of her parent, and
Helen forced herself to see him. He was a raw youth just from college,
but apparently with the manners of a gentleman, and the feelings of
an honest man; very much embarrassed, however, at the distressing
situation into which the duties of his new profession had brought him,
but probably with nothing but his youth and inexperience, (of which he
would soon be cured,) to prevent his adequately fulfilling them. Such
as he was, though Helen felt at once that it was impossible for her to
ask or expect any advice from him, on the difficulties of her present
situation, which were most seriously aggravated by the removal of her
old friend, Mr. Saunders, who would, at such a moment, have been an
invaluable monitor. But, after she had in some measure, recovered from
the effects of the harrowing sight of watching the earth close over the
remains of her only acknowledged relation, she felt that it was then
for her to decide something as to her future fate.
Whichever way she turned, the prospect seemed gloomy enough; one thing
she had firmly resolved, that after Oakley’s insulting and offensive
allusion to the terms and nature of the provision he had made for
her, she would no longer live a dependent upon his bounty; and this
she determined to decide irrevocably, as she knew the weakness of
her heart, whilst she found it attempting to frame excuses for his
conduct, in the excitement, perhaps jealousy of the moment. “No,”
thought she, “if he heard the case as of an indifferent person, how
base would he think her, who, under such circumstances, after such an
injury, could consent to continue receiving the offender’s stipend?”
And thus unconsciously she confirmed her own fears as to the weakness
of her heart, by allowing her notions of his opinions to influence her
conduct, even in rejecting his assistance.
What was therefore to be done? Sometimes her thoughts turned to Lady
Latimer, but her proud spirit could not bear the idea of a life of
useless dependence; and then, too, though from Lady Latimer she felt
sure she should always receive the most considerate attentions which
friendship could offer, yet, even if she had been ready to accept
from her substantial assistance, when she recollected, in spite of
that lady’s brilliant position in the world, how little command of
ready money she ever had, she doubted very much whether, without
inconvenience, she could supply her to the extent that would be
necessary to maintain her as her companion in the world.
This plan, therefore, appeared as impracticable in itself, as
unpalatable to her feelings; and as any communication to Lady Latimer
would not only probably lead to a proposal of this kind, which she
could not accept, but also entail confidences which she would rather
avoid, she determined, for the present, to drop any correspondence with
her.
She would have found in the old governess, with whom she had first met
Lady Latimer, a ready confidant, and a useful assistant in any scheme
she might wish to adopt, to make her talents available for her support,
but unfortunately, during her absence from home, she, and Lady Latimer,
had together regretted the not untimely death of that worthy person.
Having taken the resolution that the best way to rid herself of
Oakley’s annuity, would be silently to omit to claim it at the bankers
where it was deposited, as her feelings told her, that ostentatiously
to reject it, would lead to attempts to alter her determination which
might harass, but, she thought, could not convince her. She therefore,
both as the necessary consequence towards avoiding any attempts of that
kind, and, indeed, as the only way of procuring immediate means of
subsistence, determined to let her present residence and leave it.
It was necessary to communicate this intention to old Dorothy, though
she had not consulted her upon the reasons which had induced her to
form it. For Dorothy’s was a character which was estimable, only for
the perfection of one virtue--fidelity. Hers was not a disposition to
conciliate confidence, or to render her services, when not necessary,
particularly acceptable. But now that Helen was about to leave all
the associations of her childhood, old Dorothy had in her eyes a
peculiar value:--she was the only living thing, that could remind her
of her mother, and with whom she could have the melancholy pleasure of
talking of her that was gone. But besides this, her active services
would be useful in disposing of the house, and wherever she afterwards
went, till finally settled as governess in some family, (which was her
intention,) the presence of a person of Dorothy’s age and appearance,
would be a necessary protection to one so young and unguarded.
“You don’t know, perhaps, Dorothy, how completely a beggar I am left.
I have no money, or any means of raising any, except by letting this
house.”
“Letting this house! and would you think to turn me, in my old days,
out of the snug chimney-corner, where I have sat these eighteen
years?” answered Dorothy, her first impression partaking rather of the
selfishness of age.
“It is no fault of mine, if I am forced to seek a livelihood elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere! and whither would you go, Miss, now you are your own
mistress?”
“To London, in the first instance,” said Helen.
“To London!” screamed Dorothy, “with such a face, and in want too, and
let poverty and passion fight which first should ruin you? No, never,
if I can prevent it by fair means or foul!”
“My conduct will be neither dependent on place or circumstances,” said
Helen, rather proudly; for she thought that her ancient attendant
rather presumed upon her present situation to give vent to her
ill-humour.
“Would I could think it, seeing what I’ve seen of you and your’n. Well,
may peace be restored to those that are gone, and never lost by those
that are left!” and her forbidding features were softened by an unusual
fervency of expression.
Helen was struck with the apparent confirmation of some dreadful secret
hanging over her own birth, and her mother’s conduct, which these words
seemed to imply, and feared lest the continuation of what Dorothy was
evidently preparing to address to her should furnish further proof.
But Dorothy’s thoughts had taken another turn, for she began again.
“No, I’m clear determined you shall not leave this house if I can help
it. I have not been forty years in service without putting by a penny.
You never was a fanciful child: your wants are not hard to tell. You
just let me market as I have done, and ask no questions about it;
and, on your part, you’ll just let me end my days in the old kitchen
chimney-corner, which is just the warmest I ever kenned.”
Helen was much touched by this proposal, which was both essentially
kinder than she could have expected from Dorothy, and in its framing
more delicate than the old woman’s habitual want of manners would
have led her to expect; but as, of all species of dependence, it was
the least inviting, she was as firm in declining it as profuse in her
thanks.
The old woman paused a little, and then, as if armed with sudden
resolution, said, “Then I shall just write mysel’ to some of your great
kin, what claims I know you have upon them.”
“How do you mean?” said Helen, with a consciousness that some great
disclosure was in Dorothy’s contemplation, unwilling to check her, and
yet afraid to hear it.
“Why should I fear to tell it? It canna hurt her now; she that
has done her best to atone to a Heavenly Father canna fear a frail
daughter’s forgiveness; and as for you, it was no fault of yours--why
should you care that you came into the world with shame, so as you can
but go shameless out of it?”
She then gradually unfolded to Helen the history of Mrs. Mordaunt’s
frailty, such as that lady had herself confessed it to Oakley, only
that Dorothy told it in her own way, and much less favourably to Lord
Rockington.
“And wasn’t it enough to sicken one of vanities, to see what she might
have been and what she was? But it was na only by her that I learnt
the curse of comeliness. I felt it nearer home--not myself, no--Heaven
be praised there never was aught about me to catch a leering eye. But
I had once a sister, a gentle, light-haired, blue-eyed girl, with a
skin like a lady’s. When she left our home for London, she carried
with her the sighs of many a stout heart; but she soon forgot them and
us, and never wrote more. It was some years after, when I was in my
first service in London, I was sent an errand of a moon-shiny night; at
the corner of a street, a half-frantic, tipsy creature seized me with
horrid loathsome oaths. I turned to free myself. It was my sister Sarah
sure enough: but she had no beauty left to boast. No, she had cured
herself of that; and, ever since, I can never bring her to my mind,
save as I saw her on that awful night. That would have sickened one of
good looks; but then, my poor lady, you have seen what a jewel her soul
would have been if Providence would only have set it in an ugly case.
When I first knew her, she sacrificed every thing to the vain love of
her own sweet person; sure she had more temptation than most folk, but
it is sad to think of her as of the fallen!”
So thought poor Helen; but though there was much in old Dorothy’s
relation most painfully interesting, there was nothing that did not
rather tend to confirm her in her previous determination to depend
upon her own exertions alone for subsistence, rather than run the risk
of spreading the disgraceful tale by seeking relief at the expense of
reposing confidence.
It required no small powers of persuasion to convince Dorothy that this
was a desirable course to adopt. But when, by a display of firmness on
her own part, she had made it obvious even to the obstinate old woman,
that there was no longer any use in contesting the point;--
“Well then,” said Dorothy, “I must e’en trundle off with you, for I
have now no other care in this world than to keep you out of harm’s way
if I can.”
The house, through her means, was easily let, furnished, to Mr.
Seaford, who preferred it to his own, in which he intended to establish
a curate; and the half year’s anticipation of the moderate annual rent
of fifty pounds was almost all with which Helen tore herself away from
the scenes of her youth.
Upon the journey, and still more upon their arrival in London, she
suffered many additional inconveniences, to which she found the
asperities of Dorothy’s disposition would constantly subject her. For
though it was good feeling which had induced the old woman to determine
to follow her young mistress, yet her temper was not improved by the
discomforts to which this determination necessarily exposed her. She
would, as it appears, have been very ready herself to furnish the means
which might have enabled Helen still to live in her own house; but that
proposal once rejected, she was not over scrupulous in the demands
which her selfish wants made upon the slender purse of her young
mistress.
It had been Helen’s intention, at first, to endeavour to procure some
situation as governess in a good family, for which her accomplishments
peculiarly fitted her. But now she found the difficulty of presenting
herself any where without recommendation or introduction; and how was
she to procure these, without applying to some one who would disclose
her actual situation? She therefore determined, for the present, to
take a quiet lodging in a respectable part of the town, and support
herself by the disposal of fancy-work for some of the bazaars. And it
was soon obvious to her, that she must exert herself to the utmost in
this line, as, after Dorothy had indignantly rejected several lodgings
as uncomfortable, with which she would herself have been very well
contented, she was at last obliged to pacify that difficult person by
taking one which she herself disliked, and for which she paid a guinea
a-week; something more than what she was receiving for the house she
had forced herself to quit.
CHAPTER IV.
This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas;
And utters it again, when God doth please:
He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
SHAKSPEARE.--_Love’s Labour’s Lost._
He must be told on’t, and he shall; the office
Becomes a woman best; I’ll take’t upon me:
If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister!
SHAKSPEARE.--_Winter’s Tale._
“See the conquering hero comes!” said Fitzalbert to Lady Latimer, as
from the terrace where they were strolling, they observed Germain
arriving at Latimer a few days after the election.
“Very well indeed--nothing could be better, I hear from every body,”
said Lord Latimer, receiving the new member; “quite perfect from
top to toe: it was hard to tell where your exertions were most
successful--haranguing on the hustings, or dancing down the dowdies of
the ball-room.”
“Nay, don’t make a merit of that,” said Fitzalbert; “‘the labour we
delight in physics pain;’ and our modern Alexander was not without
his rival queens. I have not forgotten the soft Statira we met at
----; I hope her foot was lighter on the boards than on the beach; for
I remember it left an impression on the soft sand, that would have
frightened Robinson Crusoe.”
“Perhaps, now she’s married, she’s on another _footing_ with Germain,”
added a Mr. Starling, who was one of the party.
Now all this was, on many accounts, very disagreeable to Germain; in
the first place, it confirmed what he had before suspected, that no
part of the ridicule of the meeting on the sands had been lost upon
Fitzalbert; but it touched him more nearly, as from thence it was
evident that Lady Latimer had, upon her return from the ball, made
ludicrous mention of his first partner. And if there could otherwise
have been any doubt as to his having been previously talked over on
this head before his arrival, the attempt at a joke on the subject by
Mr. Starling would have been evidence enough that it was not new to
him; for he was one who literally laboured at easy conversation, and it
is incredible the midnight toil with which he used to prepare himself
to ‘hold his own’ in the probable topic of the coming day. His great
object in life had been to be always favourably received in a certain
round of first-rate country-houses; and to prevent the possibility of
his being forgotten in his absence, he used to book himself for another
visit, in the lady’s album, before his departure. Neatness was the
leading characteristic both of his person and mind, and this to such a
degree, as to give a studied appearance to both. As Fitzalbert, with
whom he was no favourite, used to say, “Neither the flow of his curls
nor of his conversation seemed natural--both had the appearance of
having been previously committed _to paper_.” However this might be,
neither _papillote_ nor common-place book, was ever positively detected
by the most prying of housemaids. He never opened his mouth but with an
attempt at point at least in the tone of his voice; and when he did not
say a good thing, he looked as if he had, which often did just as well.
Having a fair fortune, and being of a good family, he had latterly
entertained serious thoughts of endeavouring to establish himself by
some more permanent tenure in his favorite haunts, and a union with
Lady Jane Sydenham had occurred to him as a very agreeable mode of
carrying that point.
It happened that at the juncture of this his periodical visit here,
Lady Latimer, missing the resource of Miss Mordaunt’s society, had felt
a wish to have one of her sisters with her; and whether it was from a
dislike so far to forward her mother’s plans as to ask Caroline to meet
Sir Gregory Greenford, who was then staying there, or whether it was
merely that she preferred Jane herself, it happened she accidentally so
far forwarded Mr. Starling’s views as to have Jane to meet him. Lady
Flamborough had readily acceded to her daughter Louisa’s request to
send her youngest sister, from recollecting that Germain would probably
be there after the election.
There were few people whom Germain’s easy nature could bring him to
dislike, but he certainly had rather an aversion to Mr. Starling. This
might have arisen merely from the difference of their characters, for
nothing could be more perfectly natural and unaffected than Germain;
or perhaps he only felt the re-action always caused by hearing a
man cried up beyond his merits. But from whatever this arose, it
made him view with a distaste for which he could not account, Mr.
Starling’s attentions to Lady Jane. It could be of no consequence to
him, and yet the indifference with which she received the studied
advances of her methodical admirer, gave him a very high opinion
of her discrimination. “She is not so brilliant as Lady Latimer,”
thought he, “and yet perhaps her taste is more correct”--recollecting
a little dispute he had had with her ladyship as to the merits of
some namby-pamby verses of Mr. Starling’s in her album, to which she
might have been supposed to lend rather a favourable ear from its
subject-matter, which was a high-flown compliment to herself. Even
the theme, Germain declared, had not been able to inspire the writer
with an easy flow, and that his verse merited the name of a _strain_,
rather from its apparent effort, than its poetry. But he had by no
means undivided leisure for these observations, for there was in what
Fitzalbert called “a quiet way,” a good deal of play in the evenings
at Latimer; and Germain entered into it with an eagerness and avidity,
which had only wanted an occasion to call it forth ever since his luck
at Peatburn Lodge. This, however, did not now continue the same: the
game was chiefly _écarté_, at which both Fitzalbert and Lord Latimer
played much better than he did; and though the stakes were not always
very high, he found that night after night the difference of play told;
and what Fitzalbert called a “quiet way,” meant that it was amongst so
few, that he had no means of recovering from others what he had lost to
him. So that very soon, the balance of what had been called, ever since
the play at Peatburn Lodge, “the running account between them,” shifted
very considerably to the other side. True, he sometimes won a little
from Sir Gregory Greenford, but not so much as he might have done, for
Fortune seemed at present to have taken the baronet under her most
especial protection; so much so indeed, that Fitzalbert said, “there
must be witchcraft in it,” and that the weird sisters had prophesied of
him as of Banquo, “Thou shalt _get kings_, though thou be none:” for
hardly a deal passed, without Sir Gregory’s marking his majesty, so
that Germain was the chief and constant loser. Whilst this was going
on, another new and alluring enticement to expense was opened to him.
“Suppose we go and look at my young things,” said Lord Latimer one
morning.
“I did not know,” said the Count St. Julien, a foreigner on a visit,
“dat milord was de papa of any little people.”
“Adopted children,” answered Fitzalbert; and they wound their way
through a sheltered part of the park, to the paddocks where Lord
Latimer’s fine stud was to be seen, and examining the foals, they
stood for some time learnedly discussing the various merits of little
creatures with crooked legs, large knees, no bodies, and bushy tails.
From thence they went to the yearlings, and as these galloped gaily
round the paddock, Sir Gregory Greenford, who was resting his chin upon
the gate, said; “Look at that chestnut, with a white hind leg; I’ll bet
a hundred to one against him the first time he starts.”
“Ten thousand to a hundred, if you please,” said Lord Latimer; “his is
in a large produce-stake with many others, and we’ll make it for that
if you like; as I don’t wish to tie you down to your offer whenever he
starts.”
“So be it,” said Sir Gregory; “for I’m sure he’ll never win a saddle.”
“Got a slight strain the other day,” whispered Lord Latimer to
Fitzalbert, as he was booking the bet; “and still goes short and
stiff, but has the best action of the whole set, and seems as if he
would beat them all. Take it again.”
“Again, a thousand to ten, Sir Gregory?” enquired Fitzalbert; “No,
that’s enough, I think,” answered the baronet; “for I should never
forget the thousand, even if it was in no danger; and I doubt whether
you would remember the ten pounds, even if you lost it;” and this was
supposed to be the sharpest thing Sir Gregory ever said.
“Come Germain, you shall have half my bet,” said Lord Latimer; “we must
have you upon the turf; I’m sure you will like it.”
And so thought Germain, naturally fond of horses and all that concerns
them; he had always enjoyed the exhilarating bustle of a race-course
as an uninterested spectator; and as a mere means of excitement,
it struck him that a fine animal was a happier medium than packs of
painted paper.
“And you must come with me next time I go to see my Derby horse,” added
Lord Latimer; and an incident which occurred shortly afterwards induced
him readily to accept this proposal.
For Germain, in spite of the occasional distraction of play, and
the amusement sometimes afforded him by disconcerting some of Mr.
Starling’s regularly laid approaches to a bon-mot, (an amusement that
was not a little increased by his believing that it was equally enjoyed
by Lady Jane,) yet in spite of all this, he still was, or fancied
himself to be, desperately in love with Lady Latimer, an illusion, if
it was one, likely to be very much assisted by the listless, lounging
sort of life that he was then leading. His attentions had not been
generally remarked by any of the party. Lord Latimer had been so long
in the habit of seeing his wife the object of admiration to every one
but himself, that he very coolly, and in this instance very wisely,
determined to have neither fears nor cares on the subject.
But the apparent earnestness of Germain’s devotion to her had more than
once been the source of uneasiness to Lady Latimer; for she had really
a regard for him, as an agreeable, unaffected, good-humoured addition
to her society, and had therefore not the least wish to be obliged to
break with him, still less had she the least idea of participating in
the warmth of his feelings.
She therefore at last took her resolution, and one morning that they
had strolled out together in the park, when he had been unusually
sentimental in his adoration, she turned to him with an expression
half serious, half playful--
“Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Germain,” said she, “that a person might
habituate himself to the soothing effects of small doses of laudanum
without the slightest intention of taking it as a poison?”
“A very common case, I believe,” replied Germain, not knowing what was
coming next.
“And would it surprise you that such a person should make a distinction
between the careful hand that distilled it drop by drop, and the
heedless creature that seemed determined to pour down a deadly
quantity?”
“What can you mean?” said Germain.
“I dare say you think I’m talking nonsense,” replied she, “but it is
only very good sense in a thin disguise. You are young in the ways of
the world, and must take a little good advice from one who is older.
Nay, don’t look so shocked at that; I’m not wrinkled yet, I know, but
forgive me if I say the fault is on your side for being so very, very
young. Must I explain myself further? Most people would think me over
candid in saying what I have done. If admiration has been the cordial
draught in the delirium of which I have sought forgetfulness of the
aching void within, ’tis a voice, I own, like that of the opium-eater;
and like his, habit has made it second nature; but be assured of this,
I never mean to _poison_ myself--you understand me--and I have said
enough when I have added that you are intended for better things than
to administer drop by drop my daily dose of flattery; so help me in
this crossing.” And as she lightly touched the hand he offered, said:
“We shall always be friends, I’m certain; and now don’t look so
doleful, for here comes Fitzalbert, if he suspects any thing, he will
quiz _perhaps both_, but certainly _you_.”
This was the strongest inducement she could have held out for
discretion, and it was not without its effect; and perhaps upon the
whole the interruption caused by Fitzalbert was not entirely unwelcome,
for however much annoyed Germain might have been at the tone taken by
Lady Latimer, there was in her manner, with much kindness, an air of
superiority, a coolness, and an entire absence of all embarrassment,
which convinced him that remonstrance would have been entirely in vain,
and thus his only hope of continuing her friend, was never to attempt
to be more.
It was in the state of things produced by this interview that he
thought a little absence would not be amiss, and therefore readily
accepted Lord Latimer’s proposal to accompany him to see his Derby
horse.
CHAPTER V.
I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.
SHAKSPEARE.
After the abrupt termination of Oakley’s last interview with Helen, he
had quitted Lady Latimer’s lodgings in a state of mind bordering on
distraction; and could Helen have seen his deportment during the rest
of that night, it would have confirmed her first impression, created
by his incoherent reproaches, that they could be but the ravings of
insanity. He mounted his horse, and rode furiously away, not knowing
or caring whither he went; as it was merely from himself and his own
reflections that he sought to escape. But the pangs of self-reproach
are not so easily avoided, though many were the efforts he made to
convince himself that he was not so much in the wrong. He attempted
to consider Helen as fickle and frivolous, the child of circumstance,
and the willing slave of fashion. But it was all in vain! She always
recurred to him patient in suffering loveliness, and bending under a
load of grief, the burden of which had been doubled by the ebullitions
of his ungovernable temper, and his wanton perversion of a sacred trust.
Towards dawn his horse began to remind him that the reasons for the
continuance of their headlong course were not mutual, and he was then
not displeased to find that he was quite in a different direction
from Goldsborough Park, and much nearer Rockington Castle, to which
he determined for the time to turn his steps, as best suited to his
present gloomy frame of mind.
The outward appearance of every thing still remained the same--still
the same stamp of solitary misanthropy on all around. He would not
have been able, even if he had been willing, so soon to remove the
desolating, characteristic traces of the late proprietor. But did he
himself return the same? In one respect he had certainly maintained
to the letter the resolution he had formed upon the acquisition of
his property. In all the ordinary every day relations of life, he
had always shown the same cold distrust towards those who sought his
favour--the same haughty dislike to stoop to seek the favour of others.
But to this general rule in one instance the noble, and in another, the
softer feelings of his nature had sought to establish two exceptions,
and in both they seemed to have failed. Patriotic ambition had fired
him with a desire to represent his native county in parliament. He had
entered into the contest with the most disinterested intentions of
benefiting the county by his active services. He had retired from it,
the victim, as he thought, of the treachery of false friends, and the
corruption of base competitors. Sometimes, to be sure, in spite of his
desire to crush it, there would rise on his mind a suspicion that he
might not have been sufficiently gracious upon his canvass, and that
individual courtesy was sometimes esteemed no bad criterion of the
sincerity of general good intentions.
Of the infinitely more painful impression left by a review of his
conduct on the other occasion, he was unable to analyse the mixed
nature. The ready relief which in the first instance he had hastened
to grant to Mrs. Mordaunt, upon her appeal, was almost the only act
in the disposal of his immense property upon which he could reflect
with any feelings of peculiar complacency. To many of the more obvious
claims upon his liberality to which his present situation had of course
exposed him, he had felt averse, from a dislike of the very semblance
of ostentation; to some more pressing demands for charity he had turned
a deaf ear, from a constitutional fear of imposition. As to the expense
incurred in a contested election, he thought his had been managed with
the strictest economy; that is to say, an abuse of money to which few
look without regret after success--none after failure. As to the more
transient sources of enjoyment which a large fortune opens to him
who delights to forget the graver cares in promoting the convivial
intercourse of the world, to these his unsocial disposition placed a
bar, which he had not as yet attempted to surmount.
From the first, therefore, he had experienced no pleasure from the
possession of his splendid property, equivalent to that of placing
the child of his benefactor above want. Afterwards, upon becoming
acquainted with her, this satisfaction was blended with sensations of
a stronger nature; and the impression made upon him was more powerful
in proportion, as his heart was not habituated to feelings of this
description. He would then have thought no sacrifice on his part
too great to insure her happiness; and so far from considering the
circumstance of her birth as a degradation, he only esteemed it an
additional reason why he should endeavour to be the medium of endowing
with his uncle’s worldly goods the only living relic he had left behind
him.
And yet in an unguarded moment of passion, all these hopes and
intentions had been overthrown. Though he would not have endured that
any other person should insinuate that Helen was other than perfect,
yet had his distrustful nature allowed him to imbibe the most absurd
suspicions, and the most ridiculous jealousy, and under their influence
to forget himself so far as to make disclosures which he could never
sufficiently repent.
The longer he remained at Rockington Castle, the more acutely did these
reflections prey upon his harassed mind. Every thing that reminded him
of his uncle, gave him an additional pang of self-reproach, ashamed,
as he could not but be, of having been the means of publishing his
foibles where he would most have wished them concealed. Every time that
he passed by the gallery where hung the portrait of Lord Rockington,
which, from the first, had made so strong an impression upon his
imagination, it recalled to his recollection the indignant expression
which Helen’s countenance had assumed when repelling his insinuations
against her friend.
All this he forced himself for some time to suffer, till he at
last became sensible that he ought no longer to delay returning to
Goldsborough Park, where many matters of various descriptions required
his presence. One of the most urgent, was the state of the borough from
which the park took its name.
Goldsborough was a neat little market-town, situated just at the
park-gate. It had no peculiar claims to consequence, founded on trade,
or manufactures, but it abounded in those never-failing signs of
independent competency, green doors, with bright brass knockers, fenced
in by white railings, containing five feet of gravel walk, and as much
of border on each side crowded with hollyoaks and sunflowers.
In most of the dwellings so situated, resided the electors, who had
been long accustomed to attend to the wishes of their near neighbours
at the park, in the choice of their members. In the early part of Lord
Rockington’s life, this had not been without its advantages, as far
as a quiet little inland market-town, with no particular pretensions
of any kind, could desire. Latterly this interest had been kept up,
as much as was in his power, by Mr. Gardner, and was one of the many
instances in which he had attended to his employer’s interests beyond
the strict line of his duty.
Since Oakley had come into possession, he had given many causes of
offence: not the least was, that from a dislike to intrusion upon
his privacy, he had shut up the park, and by that means deprived the
corporation and the wives of its members of their regular Sunday
stroll, where, from time immemorial, they had always carved true love
upon the trees, and picked chicken bones under them. This had been a
grievous offence, and had been aggravated by many other instances of
neglect; so much so, that when Oakley wished, in case he should fail in
the county, at least to gain a seat in parliament by returning himself
for Goldsborough--unexpected grumblings occurred. These, however, were
luckily checked, instead of encouraged, by one of the leading members
of the corporation, the ex-mayor, whose consequence shone conspicuous
in double the usual width of white rail, and double the usual width of
gravel walk.
This gentleman was a retired member of the medical profession, and
during a successful practice, had been present at most of the exits
and entrances that the fluctuating population of the neighbourhood had
been subject to, for twenty years. He was a very worthy man, and a very
popular character in the town, and finding his leisure hang rather
heavy on his hands, it had occurred to him that he might as well turn
his attention from physical to political constitutions, and take to
prescribing for the state.
The representation of his native town seemed quite within the reach of
his ambition, and he thought that to enter into such a compromise with
Oakley, as to share the representation with him as his colleague, would
be the best means of obtaining that object.
Oakley at this moment was rather harassed with the difficulties of
the county election, and only anxious to secure his own return.
Entertaining notions on the subject of reform, which were incompatible
with dictation if he had had the power to enforce it, (which he had
not,) and having no friend of his own to propose, he made no objection.
The other eleven electors on their part, were quite satisfied with
such an indication of their independence, as taking away from Oakley
the nomination to one of the seats, and not a little pleased with
the manner of doing it, by making a ‘parliament man’ of one of their
own body. The medical member, however, soon afterwards found his
fellow-townsmen not a little dissatisfied with his colleague’s
subsequent conduct. His absence at the election had been easily
accounted for, by his being occupied with the county contest; but they
did not by any means approve, subsequently to his defeat, of his not
coming near them, or taking any notice of his new constituents. This
having been communicated to him by his colleague, had determined him
to go back to Goldsborough; and as he had felt the inconvenience of
indulging his natural disposition, he arrived among the electors with a
resolution to be as civil and courteous as possible.
He had arrived late one night at the park, and as he was coming down
stairs the next morning, he already found symptoms, as he thought, of
his new colleague having arrived, for he saw, pacing round the space
before the door, two saddle-horses, the collar-marks on whose necks
seemed to indicate that their matching so well was not accidental. On
the back of one, was a saddle of the most brilliant newness, the other
was mounted by a gawky lad, who had, of course, the brevet rank of
groom, though his dress, consisting of a cerulean coloured frock-coat
and red plush breeches, with gaiters, showed that his avocations were
not limited to the stable department.
Oakley, descending to the saloon, and not meeting the servant who was
in search of him to announce the visitor, there encountered, not his
colleague the ex-mayor, and new member, but our old acquaintance,
Captain Wilcox, who had recently established himself in the
neighbourhood, and was come to pay his respects.
It will be recollected, that Mr. Gardner had been very anxious
that Oakley should purchase a freehold property then on sale, which
overlooked his grounds; but he, suspicious that there was some
advantage intended to be taken of him in the business, had not been
able to make up his mind to give an assent.
This property had fallen into the hands of Captain Wilcox, who being
desirous to change his ingots for acres, had immediately set about
building upon it. As Oakley never encouraged his steward to make
communications of this kind, they were no longer made to him; and as it
was quite dark when he arrived the night before, he had not seen any
symptoms of recent proprietorship.
He had never previously been acquainted either with his new colleague
or new neighbour, and there was nothing in the appearance of the
gentleman whom he found in the saloon, which might not as well belong
to a retired member of the medical, as of the military profession,
or at all to indicate the sort of deaths in which he had formerly
dealt. He therefore acted upon his lately-formed determination to
be peculiarly civil, and welcomed his visitor with great courtesy.
Encouraged by this, (for he had previously been a little abashed at the
idea of Oakley’s stiff manner,) the captain began.
“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to offer my compliments upon your return.”
Oakley, who imagined this to refer to his election, answered very
graciously: “You must allow me to say, I consider you as the cause of
my return.”
“Oh, you are a great deal too good to say so, but I hope we shall be
mutually agreeable in our new situation.”
“I can assure you, such is my intention.”
“I hope, too, that you will acquit me of wishing to intrude myself upon
what you may almost have considered as your property.”
“Indeed, nothing can be farther from my notions, than to reckon as
property, what can neither be bought nor sold; I considered it as a
sacred trust, and am perfectly satisfied as it is.”
“Oh, you thought it trust-property, and not to be bought; and, to be
sure, you ought to be satisfied, for you had pretty pickings without
buying a bit--but I was very anxious to purchase a seat.”
“You surely don’t mean,” said Oakley, “that you have paid for it?”
“Indeed, but I have, and much more since. The house, I hope, will be an
object you will rather like to look to.”
“I have always considered it the great object of my admiration and
envy.”
“Oh, let me beg at least you’ll never think of making speeches,” said
the captain, rather overpowered with the apparent hyperbole of the
expression.
“Sir!” said Oakley, surprised in his turn; and then checking himself,
he added, “I can only repeat, that my great desire has for some time
past been to be in it.”
“I’m sure I shall be most happy to see you there, and so will my
Fanny,” moving to depart.
“Who?” enquired Oakley, completely puzzled.
“Fanny, my Fanny--Mrs. Wilcox. I dare say you can see her in the garden
from this window,” drawing aside the blind, and disclosing for the
first time, to Oakley’s horror, a staring half-finished bright brick
tenement upon a rising knoll, only half a mile from him.
“Upon my word you are right, sir; Wilcox House is a very fine object
for you from hence. I thought of calling it Wilcox Abbey, for the
stable has a high narrow window in it, but _House_ sounds more snug and
substantial. Oh yes, I declare that will be delightful for you: you
can distinguish Mrs. Wilcox in her yellow gown among the roses. You’ll
excuse me, sir, I’ve not let her wear a green gown since the election.
You’ll excuse me,--I’m glad to see it’s all ‘forget and forgive,’ and
that we shall always be as neighbourly as if nothing had happened. We
are almost within _hail_, and quite within _call_,--you understand the
difference.”
With this he took his leave, smirking and bowing, and so much pleased
with the reception given him in the early part of his visit, as to
be unconscious of the sudden change in Oakley’s deportment at the
concluding discovery he had made as the captain began his last speech,
the course of which he would have doubtless interrupted immediately,
had there not been something so painfully ludicrous in the situation,
that he felt his tongue tied at the moment.
Long after his visitor had left the room, and even after he had, with
much effort and no slight fear, restored himself to his new saddle,
and departed, Oakley continued gazing with uncontrolled disgust at
the obtrusive expanse of red brick before him; and it was no pleasant
part of his reflections, that this he might have prevented if he had
not chosen, without any adequate ground, to suspect Mr. Gardner of
intending to deceive him. Now he would gladly have given five times
the sum to be able to toss it, brick by brick, into the river; but
from what he had seen of the situation in life and manners of his late
visitor, it was evident that this would not now be so easy, and that
the captain would probably consider one of the great advantages of a
long purse, the power of boasting that he was above being bought out;
and that, if he once found how galling his late acquisition was, the
idea of elbowing a grandee would add much to the value of the property
in his eyes.
Still, as he walked from window to window, there it was, staring him
full in the face; he felt it impossible to bear this, and therefore
abandoning his good intentions of propitiating his constituents,
which had so unfortunately been baulked when he was prepared to put
them into practice, he determined, as the season was advanced, and
parliament about to meet, to start for London.
CHAPTER VI.
Oh that I knew he were but in by the week!
How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And shape his service wholly to my behests.
SHAKSPEARE.
A similar concurrence of circumstances had brought up to the metropolis
most of the other individuals, in whom it is hoped the reader is
interested. Germain had not returned to Latimer, after having
accompanied his lordship to see his Derby horse. He was not yet quite
reconciled to the new footing upon which he must be prepared to
meet Lady Latimer; and as her treatment of him had left that feeling
of vague dissatisfaction which is exactly the state when any new
excitement is most welcome, he had been very much amused with all Lord
Latimer had let him into, of the mysteries of the training-stable: and
having been allowed to be present at a most satisfactory trial of the
Derby horse, he had eagerly accepted Lord Latimer’s offer to let him
stand half of his bets upon him; and upon coming to town, had backed
him himself to a large amount, and in his usual sanguine disposition,
began to reckon what he might win upon him as part of the available
funds of the season.
If he had ever thought much upon such a subject, he might sometimes
have been rather uneasy as to the state of his finances. The election,
though Lord Latimer and several others had literally fulfilled their
engagement of sending up all the votes they could influence, free of
expense to him, had nevertheless been a heavy drain upon his resources;
and there was more truth than Lady Flamborough had been willing to
believe in Major Sumner’s story, that he had forestalled much of his
ready money at Paris during his minority.
Among the few people already come to town upon his first arrival, he
found Lady Flamborough and her daughter, Lady Jane, who had been taken
up by her mother at Latimer on her way to town. This was a time of the
year peculiarly favourable to Lady Flamborough’s manœuvring--no bustle
or distraction, and her house really a resource to those who happened
accidentally to be in town. Amongst them, too, were such fine subjects
as young men driven up from hunting by the weather, when every thing
is frozen but their hearts--then such fine opportunities afforded to
ripen real flirtations, or give a colourable appearance to incipient
ones, by nightly parties in private boxes to the play. But though Lady
Flamborough did not on that account desist from her customary attempts
to attract all she could, yet the object of her particular pursuit
certainly was Germain. On this, however, as on former occasions, she
found her daughter by no means a ready assistant. Nature had gifted
Lady Jane with both delicacy and judgment, which were equally _de trop_
when she was desired to forward some of her mother’s schemes.
Upon her first introduction to Germain, she had been inclined to view
him with a favourable eye, as a pleasant, unaffected young man; and had
his attentions then been directed towards her, it is probable they
might not have been unwelcome: but she had seen him, as she had seen
many others, dazzled by the brilliancy of her sister’s beauty, and
forgetting every body else in his exclusive devotion to her. Though she
knew that this would end as she had seen more than one other affair of
the same kind, yet it prevented her from thinking any more about him
till they next met after the election at Latimer. There, the humorous
manner in which he had sometimes conspired with her to thwart Mr.
Starling, had established a sort of confidential understanding between
them; and though his still obvious attentions to her sister made her
view him in no other light than as an agreeable acquaintance, yet it
certainly was with pleasure she heard of his arrival in London--a
feeling that would have been more conspicuous in her welcome to him,
had she not been afraid of the inferences her mother would immediately
draw, and the schemes she would immediately found upon any reciprocal
cordiality at first meeting.
A few days afterwards, when at breakfast with her daughters, Lady
Flamborough said, “Pray, Jane, how long is it since you have taken a
dislike to Mr. Germain?”
“What makes you ask that, mamma? I am not conscious of any such
feeling.”
“Then I must say you were most pointedly rude to him last night.”
“Indeed! I listened to all his remarks most attentively, and answered
all his questions most categorically, even when I had rather have
listened to the play.”
“No; what I mean is, that when he offered to call the carriage and get
your shawl, you in the mean time accepted old Lord Chelsea’s arm, and
when Germain returned, he found you thus occupied.”
“Well but, mamma, if Mr. Germain, instead of being an easy _insouciant_
acquaintance, was the most captious of lovers, he never could be
jealous of old Lord Chelsea.”
“All I know is, when he came jumping up the stairs, he ran against Lord
Chelsea and nearly knocked him over, for the poor old lord is not very
steady upon his legs; and as soon as he saw who it was he was handing,
it was evident he was very much disappointed, and indeed so confused,
that you might have observed he huddled all our shawls upon you, and my
fur tippet into the bargain.”
“Well, but if I did discompose a young gentleman, I delighted an old
one. Poor Lord Chelsea! he is never so happy as when he is, as he
thinks, protecting a young lady; and with all the ridicule of his
tottering gallantry, he is really so good-natured, and what is no small
merit in an old beau, so uniformly cheerful, that I could never bear to
affront him by refusing his proffered assistance.”
“All this would be very well, if it was merely a matter of indifference
between the two: but I suppose you have no thoughts of marrying Lord
Chelsea?”
“Not exactly,” said Lady Jane, smiling.
“And I suppose you don’t mean to say the same of Mr. Germain?”
“Exactly, mamma.”
“And what, may I ask, is your objection to him?”
“That is not the question, my dear mamma. Even _you_ don’t mean me to
propose to him, and he doesn’t mean to propose to me.”
“But I think he does. Why did he fasten himself to the back of your
chair all the night, where he could not see a bit of the play, whilst
there were front places vacant? Or why is he in town at all now,
instead of being at Latimer? Indeed, even Fitzalbert said, that last
time he was there, he did all in his power to thwart Mr. Starling in
his attempts to make up to you--and I can assure you, I sometimes think
that all the attention he paid to Louisa arose from his liking to you.”
“That never occurred to me, certainly,” said Lady Jane; “but even if it
is the case, he ought to furnish me with some _double_ of himself, to
whom alone can I be obliged to acknowledge my sense of his favourable
opinion.”
“Well, I must say, I think it very ungrateful of you,” observed Lady
Flamborough, provoked at the apparent impossibility of bringing Lady
Jane seriously to the point. “Caroline shows much more good sense and
respect for my experience in these matters; and both of you know that
there is nothing I dislike so much as your making any advances to men;
therefore you might trust to my opinion. You may recollect, Jane, how
much I lectured you at Boreton against encouraging Major Sumner.”
Lady Jane could have replied, that there might have been other reasons
for this, besides the mere impropriety of the act; but she prudently
checked herself, and handed her mother her replenished tea-cup without
further reply, while Lady Flamborough continued.
“There’s Caroline, you see, succeeded in persuading Sir Gregory
Greenford not to return to Melton till after he had accompanied us to
the play last night. How did he take leave of you, my dear?--did he
mention any time for his return?”
“Oh, yes! he said he should see me on Monday if he was _alive_; for
that Fencer, and five other famous hunters, were for sale that day at
Tattersall’s.”
“Ay! then I suppose we shall have your brother Flamborough up too. I
am afraid it will be impossible ever to make any thing of him: he is
not the least improved in his taste since, as a little boy, he used
to steal the napkins that were laid for dinner, to make horse-cloths
for his poney, that he might ride round the field like a groom at
exercise. He is now near twenty, and if he would ever show himself in
good society, who knows but Miss Stedman, old Stedman’s only child
and heiress, who is coming out this year, might take a fancy to him?
And it would be very convenient, for certainly your poor father was
unaccountably careless, and left his property terribly embarrassed.”
The young ladies had nothing to say in defence of their brother, and
were perhaps not a little relieved that their mother’s schemes were no
longer exclusively confined to them: and the conversation dropped.
The winter passed over--the season advanced--and London rapidly filled.
The playhouses were no longer ‘the thing,’ and even the exclusive
attraction of the opera (that pet preserver of flirtations) was broken
in upon by engagements of various kinds. Parliament too had met, and
necessarily occupied both Germain and Oakley much. Not that they
entered into their duties by any means with equal avidity. Germain
executed the business of his constituents faithfully and punctually,
because he considered himself bound to do so; but it was by no means
an occupation of first-rate interest to him. He was always easily led,
and was unfortunately much _recherché_ in a very agreeable society, the
members of which always preferred a dinner to a debate, thinking that
they could not live without the one, but that they might vote without
the other. He therefore was in the frequent habit of _pairing_ till ten
o’clock--a practice founded on a compromise of conscience, which makes
a man satisfied at voting on a question of which he knows nothing,
provided one on the other side is equally ignorant. Upon his return, he
would attempt sometimes to force his attention to a speech for a couple
of hours, and wonder he did not understand the reply to an argument
which he had not heard.
Nor was this all: it was not only that he often felt distracted with
the recollections of the early and convivial part of the evening, but
the anticipation of the excitement with which it was to conclude,
often gave a sense of tedium to the course of a sometimes dull, always
unnecessarily protracted debate. When a man does not know whether,
before the night is over, a shake of the dice or a shuffle of the
cards may not, without any reason at all, make a difference to him
which he shall feel for years, he is not in the frame of mind most
favourable for digesting a train of abstruse reasoning in which he can
have no immediate interest. No possible combination of numbers that
the division can produce, will excite a care in one pre-occupied with
the simple difference between eleven and deuce-ace. And this it was, I
am sorry to own, which often made Germain’s parliamentary career less
interesting to him than he had anticipated.
Not so Oakley. To him the House was all in all. That it was a ready
excuse for avoiding that society which otherwise his situation in the
world might have forced upon him, was an additional recommendation
in his eyes. He entered into all its proceedings with an intense
interest to be expected from the singleness of his feelings. He had,
upon sundry occasions, taken part in its deliberations with credit to
himself. The earnest sincerity with which he spoke had never failed
to win attention, though some of his opinions were reckoned rather
extraordinary, or what in party slang is called _crotchetty_. The
excitement he here experienced, absorbed for the time that discontent,
with which his experience of the world had tainted him, and for the
moment he thus forgot the anguish and self-reproach caused by his own
conduct upon the occasion of his most recent disappointment--a feeling
which, however, never failed to accompany him upon his return home.
CHAPTER VII.
----His addiction was to courses vain,
His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow,
His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports;
And never noted in him any study,
Any retirement, any sequestration
From open haunts and popularity.
SHAKSPEARE.
“Almack’s is sadly gone off this year,” said a lady whose single
subscription was out. “I shan’t go there any more.”
I only believed the last part of what she said. I should have been
sorry to have found the first true; for in spite of the murmurs
of turbulent spirits, who describe it as a sort of a female Holy
Alliance, conspiring to as absolute a dominion over the persons,
as their male prototypes did over the minds of mankind, there is no
comparison either as to the disinterestedness or benefit of the two
institutions. Dr. Paley (an odd authority about Almack’s) says of
civil government, that obedience to it must be founded on one of three
things--prejudice, reason, or self-interest. Now as to one of these,
reason, perhaps, like Joseph Surface’s honour, we had better ‘leave it
entirely out of the question:’ but I shall be satisfied if I can ground
obedience to this petticoat republic upon the other two, as a majority
of the doctor’s three elective foundations. Prejudice is rather a
question for the past than the future; but that Almack’s has such a
proscription in its favour, is attested sufficiently in the shoals of
little three-cornered applications which, on every succeeding Monday,
for seasons past, have drifted down St. James’s Street--the answers
to which have been anxiously expected by rank, fashion, and beauty.
But that self-interest is concerned in its perpetuity, I think I shall
have no difficulty in proving, as much among many who never entered its
walls, as from its regular frequenters. To the latter it must certainly
be preferable to be sure, at least one night in the week, of meeting in
a room where there is elbow-room to dance and be seen, than to spend
one half of the evening jammed fast upon some ladder-like staircase,
and the rest in hunting from house to house the somebody who is hunting
them elsewhere.
But what a blessing it is to the papas and elders of families whose
abomination is a ball! It enables them to satisfy their daughters with
a few seven shillings’ worth of gaiety, whereas otherwise they must
each in turn have been turned out of their house because their wives
were “at home,”--have probably been kept in town till after their hay
was cut and their turnips sown, waiting for a night, and the next
morning be condemned to sit grumbling over the bills in a study that
still bore traces of having acted the part of supper-room the night
before.
“But then,” say the opponents of Almack’s, “such a foolish fuss as
is made about tickets, and such a ridiculous favour in granting
them!” If this is so, depend upon it, it is in that more than either
the cheapness or convenience of the institution that its attraction
consists. Difficulty of access can make even dullness desired--and
exclusion would give a fictitious value to the amusements even of the
Escurial. The court is in most countries the criterion of society; but
for many years in England the patronesses of Almack’s have been the
ladies commissioners for executing the office of court.
Such as it is, with all its exaggerated pretensions and demerits,
it was attended upon the last night of the first set by most of the
persons whom the reader of these pages would expect to find there.
Lady Latimer had not previously appeared any where since her arrival
in town. She had remained at Latimer quietly during the last few
weeks, the interval between the breaking up of the members of the last
_battue_ at the close of the shooting season, and their departure for
London, being the only break in upon Lord Latimer’s otherwise unceasing
round of boundless hospitality. This short period of repose had in this
instance been unwelcomely intruded upon by his man of business, who
begged to press upon his consideration the increasing difficulty he
found in supplying funds for this unlimited expense.
But Lord Latimer never either would or could understand how a man of
his rent-roll could be embarrassed. “Besides, his Whisker colt would
win the Derby, and that would be ten thousand more than usual this
year.” As his communications with his lady were never frequent or
detailed, he had at least the good taste to take care that those he
did make should not be disagreeable. He therefore hinted nothing about
the disorder of his circumstances, and she remained unconscious of any
difficulties of the kind.
Lady Latimer had not met Lady Boreton since they separated before the
election. But as her manner towards that lady had always been rather
civil than cordial, she had no difficulty, particularly as she was on
the winning side, in being just as glad to see her as usual; and if
Lady Boreton on her side felt any coolness, she did not think Almack’s
the right place to show it.
“Is Miss Mordaunt still with you?” said Lady Boreton, wishing to start
an indifferent subject.
“No,” replied Lady Latimer; “she left me some months since, on
account of illness in her family, and I have since been unable to
hear any thing of her, though I have written several times to the
place I thought she lived at. By the by, perhaps, as it is in his
neighbourhood, your friend Mr. Oakley might be able to give me some
information about her. Is he here?”
“No--this is not exactly in his line. He is probably attending his duty
at the House. I see Mr. Germain _is_ here.” And the patriotic lady was
content at thus far hinting her opinion of the mistake the county had
made in its choice between the two candidates.
“It is certainly very noisy here,” said Lady Flamborough, from a seat
under the orchestra, where she had established herself with her two
daughters. “Can you see, Jane, who that is Mr. Germain is talking to,
there on the other side of the opposite rope?”
“I can only see the top of her head; but it looks to me like Lady
Singleton’s eternal coral comb.”
“I can’t stand this noise any longer,” said Lady Flamborough; and
accordingly, when it had entirely ceased at the end of the quadrille,
and the fall of the ropes left a free passage across the room, she made
the best of the way across, steering by Lady Singleton’s coral comb.
Her ladyship she found stationary where she expected; but Germain was
flown. She was in despair. Again seating herself between her girls on
the nearest sofa, her quick eye caught the figure of Germain strolling
listlessly that way between the hind sofa and the wall.
“You’d better sit up there behind, Jane, and leave room for Lady
Boreton here. I am very anxious to speak to Lady Boreton.”
This succeeded perfectly; for though Lady Boreton seemed to have much
more to say to her than she had to Lady Boreton, yet she had still
opportunity to observe, whilst apparently listening attentively, that
Germain made a full stop behind that part of the back sofa where she
had posted Lady Jane, and seemed, in spite of his position blocking up
the passage, not the least inclined to move.
“I have been telling Flamborough,” said Fitzalbert, coming up to Lady
Flamborough, “that he ought to have Smith to cut his hair. He has come
here with a head like a stable-boy’s.”
“Is that your son?” said Lady Boreton. “I never saw him before. What is
his turn? Is he literary?”
Lady Flamborough hesitated how to answer this query, but Fitzalbert
replied for her: “Oh yes! very. He made a book _upon the Oaks_ last
year.”
“A pastoral poem, I presume,” said Lady Boreton, to whom he spoke in
enigmas.
“Not exactly: a modern eclogue,” said Fitzalbert, laughing; and here
the subject of the conversation joined them. At the same moment the
music struck up, and Lady Flamborough’s eyes glistened with pleasure as
she saw Lady Jane working her way through the defile of the sofa, led
by Germain. But her happiness was short-lived. They were met by young
Lord Flamborough, who said: “Oh, by the by, Germain, you are a member
of ----’s Club. I wish you would just go there, and help to make a
ballot for me, for I am up to-night.”
“But I am just going to dance with your sister. Afterwards I will go,
if there is still time.”
“But there won’t be time; and I’ve just got the number if you’ll go;
and I’m sure Jane don’t care about dancing with you--she’ll find plenty
of partners here.”
“Flamborough, for shame,” said his mother half aside: “what does it
signify to you to belong to ----’s Club? I am sure you are just as well
without being a member of it.”
“But I am not just as well without it,” said he; “for it would be
somewhere to pass my evenings, without the bore of staying at home, or
the trouble of dressing.”
“You had better go, if you don’t much dislike it,” whispered Lady Jane
to Germain, “for if you don’t we shall never hear the last of it at
home. A wilful child, you know--and that’s what he is--must have his
way.”
So pressed, Germain’s good-nature urged him to go, accompanied by
Fitzalbert, whose prophetic spirit, as to the future situation in the
world of a noble minor with a large rent-roll, prevented his openly
showing all the contempt he felt for young Lord Flamborough: but as he
descended the stairs with Germain, he broke out--“A most unlicked cub,
indeed. This comes of boys playing at men without first learning the
game.”
And so ended Lady Flamborough’s hopes for the evening. Neither
Fitzalbert nor Germain returned. The fact was, that as the result of
the ballot produced only _one white ball_ out of _twelve_, it was
impossible that they could both have played their young friend fair;
and though from the openness and good-nature of Germain’s character it
was next to impossible that he should be suspected of such treachery,
yet it was an awkward state of things for any of the party to have to
explain, where the odds were just eleven to one against your being
believed. So they determined to stay where they were, and sit down to
_écarté_, an arrangement that was mutually agreeable, and peculiarly
advantageous to Fitzalbert.
At last, at three o’clock, all hopes of their re-appearance having been
lost by Lady Flamborough, she had her carriage called. “Home,” yawned
out her ladyship to the sleepy footman, and “Home” was repeated to the
no less sleepy coachman; and it was expressed through the medium of the
whip to the more sleepy horses.
Lady Flamborough drew up the side-window. This is a moment of the
four-and-twenty hours most dreaded by young ladies who are in the
habit of suffering under maternal lectures; the only protection upon
such an occasion being the actual presence of a good match, who has
incautiously accepted the offer to be set down: otherwise the drive
home is the opportunity most usually taken by the chaperon, (whose
temper has not been improved by the tedium of the last few hours,)
to comment upon awkwardnesses committed or oversights observed; to
expatiate upon the encouragement of “detrimentals,” or the slight of
good parties; to inveigh against the sin of having said too much; to
inquire into the misfortune of having danced so little.
It was a part of the evening to which both Lady Caroline and Lady
Jane, but particularly the latter, always looked forward with horror.
But in this instance they felt safe. Their brother had been the great
delinquent, and accordingly Lady Flamborough began: “I must say, you
behaved very ill, Flamborough, in quite spoiling the evening by sending
away Mr. Germain and Fitzalbert.”
“I am sure there were enough people left there without them. I know I
wish there had been one less, and that’s myself. I don’t know why you
made me come. I hardly knew a woman there, except old Lady Marsden, who
used to come to my father’s; and she asked me how my little poney was,
as if I was a child still.”
“I am sure you behave very like one,” said his mother, who here broke
off the conversation, not wishing to prolong the dispute at the
imminent risk of losing the little influence she still possessed over
him.
CHAPTER VIII.
Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d,
The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,--Oh! and is all forgot?
SHAKSPEARE.
When the name of Miss Mordaunt was mentioned to Lady Latimer casually
at Almack’s by Lady Boreton, she really felt at the moment more
uneasiness as to the fate of her young friend, than would have been
believed by any who saw the radiant smile of conscious beauty with
which she received the next passing acquaintance. A London spring
is not the season best calculated for the cultivation of the softer
sympathies of our nature, which flourish rather in shade and solitude,
and are parched up beneath the scorching sunshine of the ball-room. Yet
often in the course of the evening did Lady Latimer, while watching the
gay groupes, amongst which she saw none so fair, wonder what could have
become of Helen Mordaunt.
Little did she think how near her in local position, but how estranged
by change of circumstances, her former protégée at that moment was!
It was almost within sound of the merry music, the highest notes of
which came upon her ear, mingled with the oaths of drunken coachmen,
and the frequent lashing of whips, that Helen Mordaunt sat in her
solitary lodging, endeavouring to eke out a scanty subsistence, by
protracting even to that late hour, such work as candlelight did
not prevent her from executing. Her difficulties had latterly much
increased. It has been mentioned that Dorothy had taken upon herself to
exercise the right of placing a veto on the choice of many humbler, but
cheaper, and equally convenient lodgings, with which Helen would have
been well contented. But though her choice had been at last consulted,
this had not prevented her from soon finding as many faults with that
which had been taken, as if she had been the unwilling party, and she
took a very inconvenient mode of justifying herself from the imputation
of unfounded caprice, by being very soon laid up with a really severe
fit of rheumatism. This is an infliction which never improves any
temper; but upon Dorothy its effects were dreadful. It required Helen’s
almost angelic patience to bear with her mingled ebullitions of pain
and passion. The disorder not only prevented Dorothy from lending her
that small assistance which, considering herself always more in the
light of a duenna, than an attendant, she had ever attempted, but it
made her conceive that she had a constant claim upon Helen’s attention
to all those alternate complaints about herself, and lectures to her
young mistress, which, now that she was bodily disabled, formed her
sole occupation. London was her never-failing theme of abuse.
“It was but to be expected that I should lose my precious health; I, a
sober well-conditioned body when I came, God forgive me! to such a sink
of iniquity! What with the draughts down the streets, and the damp,
and fog, and bad air--no one could live in it but by drunkenness, and
debauchery; and that I should have been over-persuaded by a foolish
girl, that’s like enough to go the way she should not!”
Much of this was often muttered to herself, or so interspersed with
groans, that Helen did not feel obliged to take any notice of it,
which she knew from experience of her old nurse’s character, had she
done, would only have made bad worse. She was often inconveniently
interrupted in her own work, by piteous requests, that she would alter
the position, or make some other attempt to alleviate the pain of the
sufferer.
She had also other annoyances, arising from disappointments. With
the sanguine expectations of youth, she had never doubted that those
talents and accomplishments, which had always met with the ready
encomiums of frivolous equals, when only exercised by her for her own
amusement, would be eagerly purchased, when offered for sale for her
support. The repose of a constant residence in the country, and the
habits of occupation thus engendered, had caused her much to excel in
all sorts of fancy-work, and any little specimens, whether of drawing,
or some other device, which had been casually observed at Boreton Park,
had always been the theme of unqualified admiration; for at that time
it would have been treason against good taste, not to admire any thing
that had been touched by the fair hands of Miss Mordaunt. But when, in
the full confidence of the impression thus created, she completed some
articles of the same kind, with infinite care, and offered them to a
shopwoman at the bazaar, who retailed toys and trinkets, she tossed
them slightingly over, saying, “Very pretty, I dare say; not that I’m
much a judge of these things myself; but I’ll tell you what, they
won’t do. The ladies have taken to this sort of thing themselves, and
there’s an end to employment for the like of you; for though I dare say
it would be as great a charity as any, if I was to give you, my young
woman, half what they get for theirs, yet I should be out of pocket
by it, for nobody will buy those sort of things, unless all the world
knows they’re doing a charity. However, if you like to leave them here,
you may, and then they’ll be seen, you know; and if I can get any thing
for them, why, I’ll account to you, that’s all;--and as you seem an
ingenious sort of body, if you could hit upon something new, such as
has never been seen, why, I’d make it worth your while to have puzzled
it out a bit.”
Disheartened by the reception of her first effort, yet having no
resource, Helen left them as desired, and returned home with the vague
hope of being able to invent something which should have the charm
of novelty, and therefore be more attractive. This, trifling as the
resource may seem, occupied her more than if it had been the mere
labour of the fingers in which she was engaged, and therefore prevented
her from reflecting so incessantly upon the dreariness of her situation.
At length, having succeeded, as she thought, in producing several
little fancy articles of different descriptions, which had some novelty
in their design, she again returned with them to the same stand in the
bazaar. She was more favourably received than the first time, and she
observed that the things she had then left had disappeared. “A friend
of hers,” the woman said, “after she had been tired to death of every
thing there, had, at length, consented to take them cheap, as part of
the stock she must get in, for a new shop at a distant watering-place,
before the next season;” and with this she handed over to Helen a
poor pittance, which was certainly not what she ought to have got for
them, but, at the same time, more than Helen, discouraged by her first
accounts, had latterly expected them to produce. The woman was more
liberal in her remuneration for some of those last brought, with one or
two of which she was particularly pleased, and desired Helen to keep
herself incessantly employed, in as many exact repetitions of the same
articles as she could execute, to be furnished in as short a time as
possible.
It was in this tedious mechanical labour that Helen had been without
intermission engaged, even to the late hour mentioned above. Her
spirits were completely exhausted, and her health began to suffer
under confinement, to which she was so little accustomed, and the
atmosphere, too, of the rooms, which Dorothy regulated by her own
rheumatism, was often oppressively close. Having, at length, finished
her task, so as to be able to take it to the bazaar the next day, she
threw up the window for air; and as the chill night wind rushed into
the apartment, it brought with it the confused noise of the bustle
below, and the often-repeated cry of “Lady Latimer’s carriage,” struck
upon Helen’s ear. As she listened, past times and changed circumstances
rushed upon her recollection.
“How differently,” thought she, “have the last few hours been passed
by Lady Latimer, and by one who, but some short weeks since, she would
never have allowed to be considered as other than her equal in every
thing--the partner in all her pleasures--concurrent in taste--and
alike even in dress!” And with this, came across her the recollection
of the unlucky ball-dress of the election night, and all the mischief
that had been caused by the colour of a ribbon--“and can she then so
soon have forgotten me?”
She could just distinguish the carriage which she knew contained
her friend, and as its rumbling sound slowly died away in the
distance,--“Even so,” thought she, “has all trace of her she formerly
loved, faded away from her mind!”
But a moment’s reflection served to banish this morbid idea as unjust
to her friend. How could she tell that Lady Latimer was in any respect
changed, or even cooled towards her? The estrangement, such as it
was, had all been her own doing. “My very silence alone is an unfair
reproach to her, and a treason to our former friendship. What right
had I to suppose her other than sincere, in those kindly feelings she
has so often expressed? There was nothing of brilliancy in my former
state which could of itself have captivated her. Why should I imagine
that my present forlorn condition, so calculated to excite sympathy,
should produce, on the contrary, alienation or estrangement?”
It was not so easy to act upon this conviction as to entertain it.
Delay had very much aggravated the difficulties of explanation. How
was it possible that she could now present herself to Lady Latimer’s
notice, without giving some reason why she had not, at an earlier
period of her distress, made that application which seemed to arise
so naturally out of their former connexion? It would now be more than
ever necessary to enter into painful details respecting her family,
and to sacrifice the memory of her who was no more, or to submit to
a suspicion as to her own motives in adopting her present doubtful
mode of life, which could no otherwise be accounted for than by
acknowledging that _somewhere_ there existed cause for concealment.
For a moment the thought crossed her mind that Lady Latimer never had
known, and now never could know, her of whom she would have to speak;
and that therefore no injury could be inflicted by confiding to her
the truth. “But shall not _I_ know of whom I am speaking; and even in
hinting at her frailty, how could I bear to recall the fond expression
of that mild blue eye that never looked reproach upon me?”
The result of her reflections was the determination to rise as early
as possible the next morning, and to carry all her little productions
to the bazaar the moment it was open. It was indeed early. The streets
were still empty--the windows still closed. The doors were only just
opened: and no spirits were stirring, except the Undines of the front
steps, who were sporting their usual morning water-works. Many of
them stopped for a time their twirling mops, whilst they followed
Helen with a stare, in which admiration was blended with a certain
difficulty in reconciling something in her air and appearance, with the
disadvantageous moral construction, which naturally arose from their
rarely seeing any one, at that early hour, at once good-looking, and
looking good.
As Helen, in hurrying abruptly on, turned a corner, she almost ran
against two gentlemen who were standing in earnest conversation,
and in whom, to her no small dismay, she recognized Fitzalbert and
Germain. Though she had passed them, before she was aware of this, and
at first she hoped unobserved by them, yet she soon became conscious
she was followed, and she fancied known. She was somewhat reassured
as to this last point, by hearing one say to the other, “A beautiful
figure, by Jove!” in an audible whisper, just as they passed her. They
then slackened their pace, and seemed determined that she should pass
them again. She drew her veil closer and thicker over her face, and
attempted to walk steadily by. She at first hoped and believed that
they were no longer following, but soon again she heard them close
behind, and talking in French to each other, evidently about her,
though not so pointedly as to have been remarked by one ignorant of
that language, which they no doubt supposed her to be. She could not
bear the idea of being known, which she had no doubt would be the case,
if she was traced to the bazaar; she therefore turned from it, sharp
round a corner, in the direction of her own home, hurried her pace by
degrees even to a run, and never looked behind till she reached her own
door.
When she made this sharp turn, Germain held her other pursuer back
by the arm, saying: “No, this will never do; it will be too marked;
besides, I am sure you are mistaken, and that we are a real annoyance
to her.”
“Admirably acted, that’s all: and indeed so successfully, that even _I_
feel my curiosity excited. Time was that the glimpse of a well-turned
ancle, whether cased in silk or worsted, would have led me over half
the stiles in the country; but one lives to learn, and experience has
taught me this, that every woman who studiously conceals her face, has,
depend upon it, derived from Dame Nature, very sufficient reasons for
so doing. However, she is the best goer I ever saw--that I will say for
her. I have a great mind to try whether she’ll last.”
“Stop! it’s past eight o’clock, and you’re not exactly in a hunting
dress for such a wild-goose chase”----pointing to his Almack’s costume
of the evening before, in which they had played all night.
“That’s very true--so good night to you, and good morning to her.”
Helen meanwhile rushed up stairs to her own apartment, threw herself
upon the sofa, crouching like a hunted hare; and whilst her heart beat
violently against her breast, listened anxiously for the dreaded sounds
of pursuit: and though a few minutes reassured her upon this point,
in vain she attempted throughout the day to regain her accustomed
composure.
CHAPTER IX.
Behold this ring,
Whose high respect, and rich validity,
Did lack a parallel.
SHAKSPEARE.--_All’s Well that ends Well._
You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.--
O, all you gods!--O pretty, pretty pledge!
Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes this, must take my heart withal.
SHAKSPEARE.--_Troilus and Cressida._
The morning after Almack’s, Lady Flamborough called rather early upon
Lady Boreton, not from any great wish she felt to see her ladyship, but
from a prospective inclination to repeat her visit in the summer to
Boreton Hall.
A dowager’s summer and autumn are apt to hang a little heavy on her
hands. A watering-place is rather an expensive resource; she can’t
bespeak plays and patronise balls for nothing; and, after all, she
is often of the same opinion as the manager, or the master of the
ceremonies, that “_Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle._” Then, as to
a trip to the Continent, a pretty precocious girl may sometimes be
married before the age at which she would be “out” in England. But
neither Lady Caroline nor Lady Jane were quite so green as to require
to be forced forward; and to lose a London season would be, in their
case, a dangerous experiment. Lady Flamborough had been very much
pleased with the party she last met at Boreton; and though nothing had
actually occurred in consequence, much had then been put in train.
She had certainly some difficulty as to the adverse part that many of
her connexions and relatives had since taken at the election; but
she had been glad to observe, the night before, that Lady Boreton did
not appear to retain any unpleasant feelings on this head. She was
prepared too, this morning, to introduce a topic which might afford
an opportunity of descanting on the pleasures of the visit, without
recalling the troubles of the election. She therefore began:
“Who do you think is come to town this morning? Henry Seaford, my
cousin, Lord Waltham’s third son. You know, he was intended for the
_diplomatique_; but, at nineteen, he wanted to marry a _figurante_
at Naples, so his father very properly determined he should go into
the church. And Lord Waltham certainly has been very kind to him ever
since; and has just got him a capital living in a beautiful hunting
county, and so he is come up from the place where he has been upon
probation. And whom do you think he has been telling us about? You
remember that girl, who was a sort of _protégée_ of Louisa’s, and whom
you were kind enough to invite to that delightful party we had at
Boreton? My girls always say, they never were so happy. You know who
I mean; Miss ----. It was a strange fancy of Louisa’s. I told her, I
thought it was taking a great liberty with you: however, Fitzalbert
cried her up, so every body admired her. Miss Melville was it?--No,
Mordaunt.”
“Miss Mordaunt, to be sure,” said Lady Boreton; “A very pretty pleasant
girl. What of her?”
“Why, Seaford says, she’s left quite a beggar. Her mother died when he
first came there; and she’s gone no one knows where. It’s a great pity!
To be sure, she had a very neat taste in dress, and might make a very
good lady’s maid; only, I can’t bear pretty ladies’ maids; they are
always looking over one’s shoulders at themselves in the glass.”
It so happened, that Oakley just at this time came in to make a morning
visit to Lady Boreton. He was very much out of spirits, having seen
that morning by his agent’s accounts, that Helen’s annuity had never
been claimed. This had made him very uneasy; he determined himself to
leave town to examine into the cause; and had therefore called on Lady
Boreton previous to his departure, to arrange some county business with
her, which it was impossible that he could leave unsettled. It will
have been observed that, to use a vulgar phrase, there was “no love
lost” between him and Lady Flamborough.
He was therefore rather disconcerted, at finding her there; and she,
on her part, abruptly concluded her visit on account of his coming in;
but, as it was impossible with her well-practised eye for incipient
flirtations, that his former attentions to Helen Mordaunt could have
entirely escaped her observation, she said rather maliciously, just as
she went out: “Indeed, my dear Lady Boreton, any thing one could do
to get her in a decent line, would be quite a charity for her, poor
thing! It is shocking to think of the temptations to which she may be
exposed; for she certainly was rather pretty. You had better talk it
over with Mr. Oakley; he is a governor of so many of those charitable
institutions. The Magdalen, is it? No; that is not exactly what I mean:
however, I’ll leave you to settle it all with him. Good morning.”
When Lady Boreton explained to Oakley that it was Helen Mordaunt
of whom they had been speaking, he turned as pale as death; and had
her ladyship not been engrossed in many projects on which she had
long wished to consult him, she could not have avoided observing his
emotion. It was in vain, however, that she attempted to command his
attention, whilst she expounded to him several joint-stock schemes, in
which she was then anxiously engaged. “You must take a hundred shares
in this, Mr. Oakley, it is the best of all. It is called the ‘Joint
Stock Staff of Life Company.’ You know there is nothing in which one
is so shamefully abused as in the London bread. Well, we propose to
bake in one immense oven, and the dough is to be kneaded by steam.
Fitzalbert says, that if the dandies must go into the city for money,
they had better give up fishmonger’s companies, and go into the _best
bread_ society, where they will be very much _kneaded_. Very good
that, Mr. Oakley.”
But even this appeal did not force from Oakley an unconscious smile at
Fitzalbert’s execrable pun, much less rouse him from his abstraction;
though he rose mechanically, at Lady Boreton’s desire, to examine
the model of the oven. In showing it off, Lady Boreton’s wrist got
entangled in the machinery, and her bracelet broke and fell to the
ground. Oakley stooped to pick it up, hardly knowing what he was doing,
till his eye accidentally glancing upon that which he held in his hand,
his attention instantly became riveted, whilst Lady Boreton went on
indefatigably explaining that at which he was no longer pretending to
look. The bracelet was made of hair, and irresistibly reminded him of
one he had seen Helen Mordaunt, at Boreton, making of her own hair for
Lady Latimer: it had been of a peculiarly ingenious manufacture, lately
invented at Paris, and had not been previously known in this country;
he remembered too being struck, at the time, with the admiration
the company then bestowed on the workmanship; and not a little
disgusted at the frivolity which could single out this, of all Helen’s
accomplishments, the most to admire.
That which he now held in his hand, was of the same fashion, the same
plaiting; and could he have believed it, he would almost have said, the
same hair.
Lady Boreton, having finished her unheeded lecture on machinery,
offered to take the bracelet away. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Oakley, the
clasp is broken, I perceive. Bazaar goods never last.”
But Oakley was unwilling thus to part with it, and offered himself to
take it there to be repaired; thinking that, by that means, he might
perhaps obtain a clue to the discovery of Helen.
Lady Boreton looked not a little surprised at such an offer on his
part, as it was a civility quite out of his usual line; but she
nevertheless accepted his services.
Oakley hastened out of the house, went direct to the bazaar, and found
out the stall mentioned by Lady Boreton; but, once there, he almost
omitted his commission, and entirely forgot the explicit direction he
had received as to the new setting, in the eagerness of his enquiries
about the person from whom it had been procured. The shopwoman, having
still some pretensions to good looks herself, gave not an over partial
account of the personal appearance of her, the mere description of whom
seemed to blind her hearer to the more obvious charms before him; but
even from her account, Oakley extracted enough to convince him that it
was Helen herself.
“You will oblige me with her direction,” said he. There was a strange
expression, which was meant for propriety, on the shopwoman’s
countenance, as she replied, “that indeed she knew nothing at all about
her--that her goods were brought there for sale, and she paid honestly
for them; but, as to any thing further than in the way of business, she
knew nothing about her, nor she didn’t desire.”
“But I have to order another bracelet similar to this,” said Oakley,
restraining himself: “when are you likely to see her again, as there is
some hurry about it?”
“Oh, if it’s for that, sir,” said the woman, “I expected her here this
morning; but I’m afraid she may have been a bit idle. Perhaps some
other gentleman has been asking after her,” added she, meaning to look
sly; but she checked herself, on seeing nothing in Oakley’s face which
made it, on any account, expedient for her to do so.
“I think it is impossible that she should miss coming to-morrow
morning; and she’s very early when she does come.”
Having, at length, extracted this piece of information, Oakley
departed; and the shopwoman muttered, as he went out: “I should have
guessed as much: it is always your demure-looking ones who are the
worst.”
CHAPTER X.
You remember
The daughter of this lord?
Admiringly; my high-repented blames,
Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
All is whole;
Not one word more of the consumed time.
Let’s take the instant by the forward top,
For on our quick’st decrees
The inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals ere we can effect them.
SHAKSPEARE.
The succeeding night Oakley passed in the House of Commons, and was
surprised to find it impossible to fix his attention, as usual, to the
course of a long and interesting debate. Returning from thence after
day-break, he took his station at once where he could command from
a distance the entrance to the bazaar. He had, as might have been
expected from the earliness of the hour, some time to wait: but at
length he beheld a figure in black slowly, almost timidly, advancing:
a single glance sufficed to convince him it was the object of his
search. There was a hesitation in her step, and an embarrassment in
her deportment, caused by the narrow escape of being recognised,
experienced by her the day before, which seemed to call for support
and assistance; and, but that he felt unequal to command his feelings
sufficiently for a meeting in the open streets, he would have rushed
forward to offer her his protection. As she returned from the bazaar,
he followed at a distance, and traced her to her lodging, but hesitated
to enter after her.
Helen’s situation was now more than ever distressing. The day before
she had received, through a relation of old Dorothy’s in the city,
where, to prevent discovery, all her letters were sent, a communication
from Mr. Seaford, to state, that having been promoted to a better
living, he was obliged to give up her house, the last quarter for
which, paid in advance, was just out. This rendered it almost
indispensable for her to give up her present expensive lodging; but old
Dorothy’s state, crippled and helpless with rheumatism, seemed to make
the proposal of it for the present impossible; as even, had she been in
health, she was sure it was a point that would not have been carried
without a contest. Independent of the regard which long habit had made
her feel for the old woman, her protection was too necessary to the
respectability of her present situation to be lightly dispensed with.
The shopwoman, too, not having found the novelty of her last batch of
fancy articles so attractive as she had expected, had made a favour of
taking even those she had just finished, and had confined any further
orders to another bracelet similar to the broken one which she said had
been ordered by the gentleman who brought the lady’s to be repaired.
This bracelet, purchased by Lady Boreton at the bazaar, had been a
single experiment of the kind, attempted by Helen in her endeavour to
produce something new; and doubtful of success, she had sacrificed a
lock of her own hair to see whether it would answer. What was now to
be done? At first she thought of purchasing some hair as nearly as
possible of the same colour as her own, of which to make it; little
guessing that such a substitute would have made all the difference to
the person by whom it was ordered. Then again, the expense of such a
purchase was such as the present state of her funds could ill afford;
and she determined to sacrifice some more of her own beautiful locks.
As she loosed her long and luxuriant hair of matchless brown, a passing
feeling of pardonable vanity interposed to check her hand, but she had
almost subdued it with the reflection, “Is this a time for pride of
person?”--when at the moment the door opened, and Oakley once again
stood before her, unexpected and unushered.
Far different, however, was the first impression made upon him by
Helen’s appearance now and upon the last occasion, when that fine hair,
which now flowed unconfined, about to be sacrificed to her necessities,
had, dressed with consummate art, been to him offensively blended with
his adversary’s colours. Now the splendid robe of gala gaiety had been
exchanged for a simple dress of the deepest mourning.
It is said, that few are seen for the first time in mourning without
their beauty being apparently enhanced, and of this few Helen was not
one. Confinement and suffering had somewhat blanched her cheek, but
the more depressed and humiliated she appeared, the more unworthy did
Oakley think himself of her; and this feeling for the time overpowered
him. Helen, on her part, was for an instant kept silent by a mixture of
sensations which she would have been unable to analyse, and unwilling
at all to attribute to their true source. This it was that at first
imparted a tremulousness to her voice as she said: “I am sure you need
only be told, that this room is mine, and recollect that I am alone and
unprotected, to see at once the impropriety of this intrusion.”
“Forgive me one moment, and I will explain--but to see you thus
degraded--in a situation so unworthy of you--”
“Degraded,” said she, “I can never feel but by some fault of my own;
and however at variance my present situation may be with that in which
you last beheld me, it was then, not now, that I was misplaced. For
none can know better than you, that a forlorn and destitute orphan,
with no kindred claims of any kind, can best by her own exertions
escape reproach.”
“And it is my brutality,” exclaimed Oakley, “which has made you think
so but too justly--how you must hate me!”
“No, indeed,” said she, “such an idea is unjust, alike to all your
former kindness, and to my grateful sense of it. Neither of these is to
be effaced by an injury inflicted in a momentary burst of passion.”
As she said this, even these kind words failed of imparting that
consolation to Oakley which he derived from an object which
accidentally met his eye. Strange, and trivial, and apparently
unworthy of observation, at such a moment, was that from whence he,
nevertheless, imbibed comfort.
A volume of Byron’s works was open upon the table before him. Byron was
a genius peculiarly suited to excite admiration in a person of Oakley’s
disposition. He well remembered, during the days of his acquaintance
with Helen, that he had often repeated passages to her of that author,
with whom she was then unacquainted, as Mrs. Mordaunt’s secluded
mode of life had confined her reading principally to the standard
classics of the language, in all of which she was perfectly well read.
“Even, then, in her present embarrassments, she has remembered my
recommendations, and cultivated my tastes,” thought he; “this is not
the conduct of indifference or dislike.” So ingenious is a lover in
extracting encouragement from apparently the most unlikely sources! As
soon, therefore, as she had finished, he addressed her with somewhat
more of confidence: “Talk not of my services; they are nothing; but let
me hope----”
“Pardon me,” said Helen, interrupting him; “I have said that I did not
consider my present situation degrading; but I am not insensible to
its peculiar disadvantages; not the least of which is, that it lays
me painfully open to groundless suspicion. My character must remain
unblemished; ’tis all I have; and the continuance of this interview----”
“I see it,” said Oakley. “No, I will not again aggravate your
misfortunes; but say, at least, that you forgive me.”
“That I do, as freely as would that Christian spirit to whom the injury
was done. Had she even known your recent offence, she would still have
died as she did--almost her last breath murmuring a blessing on your
name. Her end was that of a person whose former errors, such as they
were, had, by separating her from this world, the better prepared her
for the next. And that I, her daughter, who so revered and adored her,
should be obliged to consider her.--But this is a subject on which I
cannot bear to think, much less to speak. As far as you were to blame,
most heartily do I forgive you. God bless you, Mr. Oakley!”
“I cannot leave you, even till a better opportunity of saying all I
wish, unless you will allow me again to restore what I consider as
your legal provision.”
“Do not ask this. I cannot quite forget as well as forgive, if I have
that constantly to remind me; and I would fain learn to think of you
with unmixed gratitude for all your kindness to the orphan girl. Any
other proof of my forgiveness----”
“There is one proof which I would, yet dare not ask. Oh, Helen! might
I but hope that you would allow me, by devoting my life to your
happiness, to insure my own--that you would, as mine, consent to share
with me that situation in the world which should be yours by right!
I hardly know what I am saying; but this I know, that I cannot live
without you. Helen, for God’s sake, look up--speak to me.”
When Oakley’s meaning first broke on Helen’s mind, the flash of
excitement, even before the words were uttered, dispelled all traces of
languor and suffering from her previously pale cheek. Her eye, for an
instant, glistened with a peculiar brightness till dimmed with tears;
when, hiding her face in her hands, and dropping it on the table, she
sobbed hysterically. The sudden revulsion had been too much for her
shattered spirits. While Oakley hung anxiously over her, she had time
to recover from this involuntary weakness, which she soon did so far as
to say: “No, no, no: I feel that this cannot, must not be.”
“Why? wherefore?” exclaimed Oakley, passionately: “who can dare to
object, if you allow me to hope?”
“No,” said Helen; “it is a connexion every way unworthy of you; and I
cannot allow that your generous nature, excited by the idea of injury
inflicted, and softened by pity, should give to a passing predilection,
an influence upon your fate which, in cooler moments, your judgment
would regret.”
“Believe me, Helen, you now wrong me for the first time.”
“Let me entreat you to hear me,” said she; “I have hardly powers for my
task, even if I may attempt it without interruption. If I have you to
contend against as well as myself, it will be impossible. I will not
deny that in the day-dreams of my solitude, the thought of this has
often occurred; but I have convinced myself of its impossibility.”
Oakley was again about to protest against such a conclusion; but the
imploring look with which she met his attempt silenced him, and he
listened with breathless attention, whilst she continued:--
“That your character has been no uninteresting one to me, I fear my
recent weakness has but too plainly shown; but the more I have thought,
(and I have had leisure for reflection,) the more convinced I have
become, that yours is a disposition which would be rendered peculiarly
unhappy by an unequal match.”
“But how unequal, except that I am every way unworthy of you?”
“Nay, is not my present situation open to misconstruction and reproach?
You, yourself, called it degradation; and though my own feelings would
not so acknowledge it, yet I cannot deny that it will be so considered
in the eyes of the world.”
“But there is not a man living that feels more contempt than I do for
the opinion of that knot of knaves and fools which calls itself the
world.”
“That it would not force you to bow before its worthless idol, I
can well believe; but prone as your nature is to distrust, even of
yourself, how can you answer that you could be proof against the
galling, though groundless taunts of the malicious?”
“But how can this affect you?”
“Simply thus; for I will not remind you that you cannot always command
yourself. Your regret for what once passed, is too sincere for that to
be necessary; but, for your happiness, it behoved you to have chosen
one already known and acknowledged by the world; and, must I add, one
of unblemished birth?”
Her voice faltered a little as she said this; but she continued:
“My present line of life is one that I have adopted from the purest
motives, and as the only way to extricate myself from difficulties;
but my reasons were of a nature which evaded explanation. How, then,
could you bear the thousand misinterpretations to which, should it be
known, it may expose me? Nay, are you even sure that you could always
steel your _own mind_ against suspicion?”
As Helen uttered these words, Oakley’s brow became suddenly clouded,
whilst hideous visions, like the confused creations of the nightmare,
crowded past him. But with an effort he succeeded in banishing them;
and answered emphatically: “Suspect you, Helen? No, by Heaven,
impossible!”
Having once allowed her to finish all her objections, he became more
earnest in his entreaties and protestations. It was not to be expected
that she should long resist herself as well as him. She had thought it
her duty to state why she feared for his happiness. Having done this,
I hope that the reader will not like her the less for having been too
much of a woman, and too little of a heroine to attempt more. Indeed,
she could not help flattering herself, from the proof of unbounded
confidence he had just given, that her influence over him would be such
as to overcome his constitutional failing. Upon one point, however, she
was resolute: that, till the expiration of her mourning, they should
meet no more. Nothing should be declared, nor ought it to be considered
by him in the light of an engagement.
“The home of my childhood being at present vacant, I will return there;
and shall now have no scruple in again accepting that which we used to
receive from my----from the person whose property you have inherited.”
As she said this, a noise as of one moving with difficulty,
accompanied with much groaning and coughing, was heard in the next
room. This was caused by Dorothy’s efforts to raise herself in
consequence of hearing a man’s voice. At length, in answer to her
repeated calls upon her name, Helen opened the door, whereupon the old
woman, seeing Oakley and Helen, screamed out--“A man in Miss Mordaunt’s
room! I ought to have known it would come to this, though I could never
have believed it of her.”
“This gentleman,” said Helen calmly, “is Mr. Oakley, Lord Rockington’s
heir.”
“So much the worse; he comes of a bad sort, and I doubt for a bad end.”
“You need not have feared suspicion,” said Oakley to Helen, smiling;
“such a duenna would have been a sufficient antidote to the doubts
even of a Spaniard: but I think her faithful apprehensions merit
confidence; and that she at least should be an exception to the silence
on the subject of our engagement which you prescribe.”
To this Helen consented, and Dorothy was quite satisfied upon hearing
that at the expiration of the mourning, she was to resign her anxious
care of her young mistress into the hands of a husband, in the person
of Mr. Oakley.
As soon as Helen was deprived of the delight of Oakley’s presence,
was relieved from the torrent of Dorothy’s questions, and had reason
to reflect on the change in her future fate, which the last two
hours had produced, she indulged fondly in unmixed anticipations of
happiness. The doubts of Oakley’s disposition, which had been formed
in the sadness of solitude, and which she thought it her duty to
state, had lost their influence when she had ceased to urge them; and
she now rather reproached herself with coldness and ingratitude in
having so distrustfully received the passionate declaration of the most
disinterested attachment.
CHAPTER XI.
----This thou tell’st me;
But saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me,
The knife that made it.
SHAKSPEARE.
“Don’t you think Lady Jane Sydenham a most delightful girl?” said
Germain to Fitzalbert, as they were breakfasting together at the house
of the former.
“_You_ do--which is more to the purpose,” answered Fitzalbert. “Did I
not always say it would be so? I shall set up for a prophet; for did
I not also foresee that you would first fancy Lady Latimer?--but that
wouldn’t do. No, no; she had too much to lose, and like many of our
fair countrywomen, however fond of flirting, she was not likely to run
any such risk _pour vos beaux yeux_.”
“I think,” said Germain, recollecting what had been said at Boreton,
“Lady Latimer rather wants heart.”
“Well, nobody can accuse you of that except when it’s in _hand_, as
they say of a newspaper. However, I’m very glad that it’s likely to be
so. You and the Latimers will make a snug coterie together. It will be
the very thing for me. I only hope that ass Greenford won’t marry Lady
Caroline--that would be too great luck for Lady Flamborough; besides,
Sir Gregory is not exactly the sort of fellow one would present with
the fee-simple of one’s society. I let him out my acquaintance on
short leases--and he sometimes pays heavy fines for renewal,” he added,
half to himself, as he walked towards the window, doubting whether it
was prudent to acknowledge so much.
Any further confidences of this kind, even if he had been imprudent
enough to hint them, were prevented by the entrance of Oakley. Since
his reconciliation with Helen, he had begun to think that he had never
been sufficiently indulgent to the natural defects in the character of
his early friend, who, on his part, had always been very patient under
the much more annoying faults to which Oakley himself was subject. He
had met Germain, accidentally, the day before, and the first advances
he had then made to a reconciliation, had been at once received with
that cordiality which Germain’s good-natured and placable disposition
would have led one to expect. Oakley had felt much happier since this
interview had taken place; and his present visit was intended, not only
as a further peace-offering, but as an advance towards renewed intimacy.
This amiable temper of mind was a little ruffled by finding Fitzalbert
there. It is impossible to conceive any two men who had a more
thorough dislike of each other. Fitzalbert, to be sure on his side,
was a pococurante in every thing, and scarcely troubled his head
about Oakley, when he was not, as he called it, oppressed with his
presence; but it was observed that when that was the case, his jokes
flowed less naturally, and there was more sharpness, and less ease in
his conversation. Oakley had a thorough contempt for the character of
Fitzalbert, joined to a certain dread of his satire, which did not
the less exist, because he would never have acknowledged it, even to
himself.
Fitzalbert prepared to evacuate upon this irruption of his enemy. “Then
you are not for tennis this morning, eh, Germain?” said he. A strange
idea, at the instant, occurred to him, and he afterwards said that he
could not account by what chain of thought it first struck his fancy.
“By the by,” he added, “do you remember that devilish fine girl we gave
chase to yesterday morning--I always thought I had seen her before.
Who do you think I really believe it was? You remember Helen Mordaunt,
who used to live with Lady Latimer. It was stupid of me not to know
her at once. There is no mistaking that air and figure when once seen.
The light springy walk too! Nobody knew what had become of her. I
always heard she was of a low family. Who knows but she may be very
come-at-able?”
This was said carelessly, and with no other object than to annoy
Oakley; and with the view of watching its effect, he advanced towards
the mirror over the chimney-piece, and whilst still speaking, and
apparently examining Germain’s dinner-engagements, which stuck round
the frame, he stole a glance in the glass. But the impending storm
which he saw on Oakley’s brow, was so much more formidable and
threatening than he had expected, that his retreat was like that of
a man who has no objection to admire a tempest from a distance, but
is not prepared unnecessarily to expose himself to its violence. He
therefore wished Germain an abrupt good morning; at the same time,
however, whistling “Di tanti palpiti,” with the most successful
precision.
He had descended the stairs, and finished the tune, before Oakley had
recovered from his astonishment, or had decided in what way he could
most successfully annihilate him. He then seized Germain’s hand with
appalling earnestness, saying, “Tell me, for God’s sake, what is this
frightful story that puppy has been alluding to? Helen Mordaunt, and
Fitzalbert,--what can they possibly have in common? Did he follow
her?--did they speak?”
Germain, not having been informed of Oakley’s engagement to Helen,
was, on his side surprised at his vehemence, but readily explained
that on the previous morning he had been dragged on by Fitzalbert, in
pursuit of a woman, whose figure had struck him, but it had never for
an instant occurred to him, that it could be Miss Mordaunt, and his
ignorance, as to whether it was or was not, was a sufficient answer to
the other question, whether there had been any communication between
them.
“True! true!” said Oakley; “what a fool I am to mind the idle
insinuations of a coxcomb like that! Still he certainly used to be very
attentive to her at Boreton.”
“You have not told me,” said Germain, “whether you have any particular
reason for wishing to find her out, but if you have, now that
Fitzalbert has mentioned the likeness, I have no doubt that it was she
we saw yesterday morning, and her anxiety to avoid us, confirms me in
the idea.”
“Yes, I believe, so far the conceited fool was right; but I may as well
confide to you at once my precious secret; for, to say the truth, I
shall never be quite happy till Helen is again safe under your friend,
Lady Latimer’s protection; and you must arrange this.”
This proposal, on the part of Oakley, to re-unite Helen with Lady
Latimer, was principally intended to show the extent of his repentance
for his offence on the memorable night of the quarrel, which had
originated in his wanton attack on that lady’s character; but though he
was hardly aware of it himself, this good intention was not a little
accelerated in action, by an anxious uneasiness at what Helen might
be exposed to, in her present unprotected situation. He communicated,
without alluding to their quarrel, his discovery of Helen, her distress
since the death of her mother, and their present engagement. Whilst
Germain rejoiced in the happiness of his friend, he began seriously to
turn over in his mind the intention of being equally happy with Lady
Jane.
“And now,” said Oakley, “one word upon the credit of our old
friendship. Public report spreads too widely to be entirely without
foundation, that you are dreadfully embarrassed. I once told you,
that whatever ready money I could command, and that is not a little,
should be at your service; and you have not so entirely forgotten me,
as to think that I ever made an offer which I did not mean should be
accepted.”
“A thousand thanks!” replied Germain, not a little touched at this
revival of former kindness, “but at present, I am in no want; for next
week, when Lord Latimer’s colt wins the Derby, I shall sack twenty
thousand.”
“Or lose----?” inquired Oakley, shaking his head.
“Oh! nothing to signify; and besides, he can’t lose. I know all about
him.”
“Well, we shall see; or rather, you will _see_ and I shall _hear_--for
nothing should tempt me there.”
When Oakley, having left Germain, returned homewards, he in vain
attempted to banish from his recollection the offensive tone in which
Fitzalbert had mentioned Helen. He tried to persuade himself that, even
if it was done purposely to annoy him, circumstanced as he was, it was
impossible openly to resent it, and therefore to allow him to succeed
in his object, was giving an unnecessary triumph to his enemy.
Yet, in spite of these suggestions of his better reason, he could not
get over the disagreeable impression it had left behind--he could not
endure that Fitzalbert should ever have presumed to look at Helen for a
moment even in passing, with that feeling, which he had dared to avow
had induced him to follow her in the open streets. The intolerably
confident expression of countenance with which he had pronounced her
_come-at-able_, was ever obtruding itself on his recollection, and
rankling at his heart. Was it to be borne, that he should always be
subject, without redress, to similar insults? If the last were repeated
in its recent shape, he felt resolved, that not even his desire to
put off the declaration of his engagement till Helen was creditably
settled, should prevent his inflicting summary punishment on the spot.
But this was not all he had to fear, when even the announcement of
his intended marriage should secure him from the repetition of such
conversation in his hearing. He dreaded lest Fitzalbert, having once
ascertained that he was right, in supposing that it was Helen whom
he had seen in such a doubtful situation, should take a thousand
circuitous ways of hinting disadvantageous constructions upon her
conduct, the effect of which might meet his eye, without reaching
his ear; and that, being unable to trace this home to him on whom
his suspicions rested, or to make Fitzalbert answerable for the
contemptuous curl upon another man’s lip, he should be left entirely
without redress. There was much of morbid feeling in all this; but
it was in Oakley’s nature for such things to give him uneasiness;
and after torturing himself in vain, the only practical, though
not rational conclusion at which he arrived, was to take the first
opportunity of fastening a quarrel upon Fitzalbert.
Meanwhile, Germain gave himself up without alloy to agreeable
anticipations. That Lord Latimer’s horse should win the Derby, he
looked upon to be as certain as that Lady Jane would accept him. There
had certainly not been much romance in the attachment of the two;
but there was much that was just as likely to tend to their mutual
happiness. There was a buoyancy in Germain’s spirits, which it seemed
to be impossible for circumstances to depress. There was a sunshine in
his mind, which imparted a glowing light to all that it touched, which
was peculiarly attractive to a girl of Lady Jane’s cheerful, but not
thoughtless turn. Her natural good sense certainly led her to perceive
that Germain’s facility of temper caused him to be much too easily led,
but at the same time she saw that he was most in the power of those
with whom he lived the most, and this conviction was rather consolatory
as to the advantages a wife might derive from that circumstance.
Certain it is, that though Lady Flamborough still manœuvred as
if there were difficulties to be overcome, yet she experienced as
little real unwillingness, as she showed open opposition to the
arrangement--that while she, Caroline, and two others, went inside the
carriage, Jane and Germain should share the barouche-box down to Epsom.
CHAPTER XII.
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
* * * * *
What recketh he his rider’s angry stir?
What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur?
SHAKSPEARE.
“We could not make a House: it is the day of the Derby,” said a
treasury-hack to Oakley, as he met him in Parliament-street. And that
is not the only house by many thousands that is on that day deserted.
Private, as well as public concerns give way to the all-engrossing
excitement of the moment; though there are many who do not know, and
still more who do not care what “the Derby” means, whether it is a wild
beast, a giant, a house, or a horse. There never was any expedition
on which every one of the hundred thousand goes so entirely, because
the other 99999 do so. To be sure, whatever other advantages they may
derive from it, all have that of receiving in full the “price of a
king’s ransom, a peck of March dust,” which, our climate being apt to
be in arrear, is usually paid at two months after date, and is just due
about this time, with its usual accompaniments of a hot sun and a cold
wind.
Upon this occasion, however, the weather was more than usually
propitious, and as for Lady Flamborough--no bustle bewildered, no
dust blinded, no sun dazzled her watchful eyes, as she marked the
proceedings on the barouche-box. She thought she could not be
deceived, for there was a more than usual animation in Germain’s
profile; and there was a peculiar tinge on the little she could catch
of Jane’s delicate cheek, as it was turned away from him.
She was right; the proposal had been made, and accepted. It may be
objected to Germain’s discretion, that he chose rather a public
opportunity for his declaration; but his is no singular case. Secluded
woodbine bowers are not to be found from March to August; and less
favourable moments have sometimes sufficed; and though it was by no
means a sentimental journey on which they were bound, yet in their
present position, they might at least be said to be elevated above the
rest of the world.
Arrived at the course, the business of the morning obliged Germain,
even after what had just passed between him and Lady Jane, to leave
her, to attend to his own immediate interests. Upon entering the
paddock where the horses were parading, it was easy for him to
distinguish Lord Latimer’s, from the crowd which surrounded him, and
moved across to meet him again, as he walked round. He was indeed a
noble animal; but from the enthusiastic encomiums passed upon him,
one would have imagined that his like had never been foaled. “Capital
legs!” cried one; “how well he steps!”--and another, “What thighs and
houghs?”--“Depth in the girth!”--“Never saw such a shoulder!”--“And
such a pretty blood-like head too!” All these agreeably greeted
Germain’s ear, as he mingled with the crowd.
“And what’s that washy looking animal with a white tail?” asked Lord
Latimer.
“Mr. Snooks’s chestnut colt, by Woeful.”
“What will any body take about Snooks?” said Germain.
“I’ll take forty to one,” said Snooks himself, who was watching his
horse.
“I’ll bet you twenty thousand to five hundred,” said Germain. “I can’t
hear of Snooks’s winning the Derby:” he added, aside to Lord Latimer.
The bell now rung for saddling, and Germain prepared to return to
Lady Jane; but in the anxious confusion of the moment, and amid the
labyrinth of carriages which had collected since he left her, this was
no easy task. As he was endeavouring to guess his way through, he was
suddenly brought to by a whole carriage-full of the Misses Luton. “Oh,
Mr. Germain, do just stop and tell us all about it; we were never here
before. Does Lord Latimer ride himself?--and who do you think will
win?”--“I hope pink will; it will be so pretty to see it before the
rest.”--“I wish you would make us a lottery; but you mus’n’t win it
yourself.”
Whilst Germain, suffering under this untimely infliction, was
good-humouredly complying, Lord Latimer came galloping up, his face as
white as a sheet, and seizing hold of Germain’s arm, so as to make him
drop all the Misses Luton’s lottery-tickets, whispered in his ear, “He
canters quite short; he is dead lame!”
Germain, muttering an unintelligible apology to the young ladies,
spurred his horse after him, and was soon in the centre of the betting
ring, endeavouring to hedge some of his money; but it was too late. If
there had previously been any doubt, the anxious face with which he
offered to bet against the horse, would have prevented any odds being
taken about him, and from first favourite, he was soon at a hundred to
one.
Germain was obliged to submit to his fate, and patiently await the
result. He attempted to console himself with thinking that the horse
upon inspection did not seem so lame, and hoping that he might not run
much the worse. He waited near the top of the hill to see them pass.
Lord Latimer’s was well in front; and the jockey seemed comfortable
about him. As Germain scampered across in a fearful crowd of stumbling
horses and tumbling riders, he could not keep his eye constantly fixed
upon the race, but at the last corner, Lord Latimer’s yellow jacket was
decidedly leading, and the space between him and the others appeared
increasing. Still, as he looked again, that gap between him and the
rest was occupied by a single horse, rode in pink. He could not
recollect whose colour that was. At this time a man without hat or wig,
and holding tight by the mane, crossed Germain’s path, just grazed
against him in passing, and dropped off his horse. This interrupted
his view for an instant; when he looked again, the pink jacket had
decidedly gained upon the yellow.
He had now reached the brow of the middle hill, and pulling up his
horse, could see more distinctly: they were neck and neck. The struggle
was tremendous, from the distance to the winning post. He fancied he
could sometimes see a line of pink behind the yellow jacket which was
nearest to him; sometimes he feared that a pink stripe appeared in
front. Undistinguishably linked together, they both vanished behind the
crowd, and he was left in uncertainty.
He hastened down the hill, to learn the result: and his ready ear
caught the name of Lord Latimer rising above the other murmurs of the
multitude. He passed close to Lady Jane; she actually trembled with
anxiety, but her countenance lighted up brilliantly, as a gentleman
passing at the time said, “Lord Latimer, I should think.”
Germain got nearer: “Lord Latimer, I believe,” cried a second.
He advanced, and met Fitzalbert returning. He just gasped out, “Who’s
won?”
“Snooks, by a head.”
“Who told you so?”
“The judge.”
And all doubt was at an end!
Fitzalbert having cantered on, Germain was again left to his own
thoughts. He was at first quite bewildered at the extent of the
unlooked-for disappointment. With his usual sanguine turn, he had
always looked upon Lord Latimer’s winning the Derby as next to a
certainty; and had actually calculated upon the money he was thus to
win, as part of his available resources. For some time, therefore, he
did not call to mind the extent of his misfortune; but of this he was
soon to be reminded in no agreeable manner. He slowly turned his horse
towards the hill, and with a parched mouth, aching head, burning cheek,
and shivering back, prepared to look as if he did not care at all about
it.
When he had just magnanimously made up his mind to the effort, his
resolution was called into play, by hearing “Mr. Germain! Mr. Germain!”
repeated by a voice which, such was the present confusion in his head,
he did not at first recollect, till looking up, he beheld Mrs. Wilcox
and some others in a gorgeous carriage, which had been built upon her
marriage.
Though the lady was actively engaged in tearing asunder the leg of a
cold turkey, she found leisure to address Germain: “What a delightful
jaunt it is! You were quite right, Mr. Germain, when you used to tell
me of the pleasure of a trip to Epsom; but you don’t know you must wish
me joy about the race. Mr. Snooks is my Wilcox’s first cousin, and
he has let me win twenty pounds with him. Would you believe it, Mr.
Germain, some foolish person betted him twenty thousand to--I don’t
know how little--just before the race?”
This painfully recalled to Germain’s recollection who that foolish
person had been, and added not a little to his difficulties; but Fanny
heeded not the effect of what she said.
“Only think--we were just as near losing poor Mr. Snooks as he was
near losing the race. Some awkward fellow ran plump up against him, and
knocked him off his horse. I hope you don’t feel much shook, sir?” she
added, turning to a figure who was leaning back in the carriage, his
head wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief, whom Germain had no difficulty
in recognising at the same time for the clumsy cavalier whom he had
unhorsed, as well as for the individual with whom he had made the
unlucky bet.
This was too much for endurance, and wishing the party as much joy as
he could spare, he rode in quest of his own friends. Lady Flamborough
he found also engaged in the interesting occupation of luncheon, though
in somewhat less ravenous a scramble than Wilcox and Co. Lady Jane
he could easily perceive looked uneasy and distressed; and she took
the first opportunity of saying to him, in an under-tone: “You have
lost--_much_ I’m afraid.”
“Dreadfully,” he muttered in reply.
“Well, never mind,” said she. “I care not, but--” she added in an
earnest manner, “pray make light of it to mamma, if she mentions the
subject. You have no idea of the mischief it may do.”
“I ought not to deceive her, nor indeed you. I cannot yet recollect the
extent of my ruin.”
“You will not be obliged, I trust, to sell your estates; and for
temporary embarrassment, however great, those who have known you best
have long been prepared.”
“Indeed, ’tis very true! But how should you have known it?--not from
Lady Flamborough?”
“No; she would not have believed it even if she had heard it. No
matter how I learned it: but it is as well,” added she, faintly
smiling, “that it should not now have come upon me by surprise, and
that you should know it was not in ignorance of this that I allowed you
this morning to put your own construction upon my silence.”
“You are too good, too considerate, to recollect at such a moment how
much I stood in need of such a consolation;” and he was proceeding
with more vehemence than the opportunity permitted, though not than
the occasion warranted, to protest the warmth of his attachment, when
interrupted by Fitzalbert, who, having sought out the carriage in
pursuit of some wine and water, cried out: “Is that Germain? By the by,
Germain, how came you and Latimer to make such a mistake as to back
such a beast as that colt of his? I never saw such a rip in my life.
He has no fore-legs, and his action is dead slow--any one might have
seen that.”
At any other moment Germain would have been rather amused at the
different opinion given of the same animal before and after the race;
but being now completely jaded and dispirited, he had not a repartee
left in him, and instantly attended to Lady Flamborough’s desire to
find the horses and prepare for their return to London.
CHAPTER XIII.
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart!
My dearest lord, blest, to be most accursed,
Rich, only to be wretched;--thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!
He’s flung in rage from this ungrateful seat
Of monstrous friends; nor has he with him to
Supply his life, or that which can command it.
I’ll follow and inquire him out;
And ever serve his mind with my best will.
SHAKSPEARE.
Lady Jane had no opportunity in the course of that evening of
explaining to her mother the interesting communication that had passed
between her and Germain upon the barouche-box, and the next morning
at breakfast Lady Flamborough took the subject into her own hands,
saying: “I really think Mr. Starling a very agreeable man, with a very
proper horror of gambling. I have asked him to dinner to-day; and I
hope, Jane, that you will be prepared to treat him more civilly than
you are in the habit of doing. I could hardly believe at first all he
told me last night about Mr. Germain, but every one I asked since has
confirmed it. He is, I should think, irretrievably ruined. He has, it
appears, been dreadfully involved all this year, and his last losses
will make his former creditors clamorous. I can’t help thinking how
lucky it is that you always showed a proper unwillingness to encourage
his attentions. I own in that you were more clear-sighted than I was
myself, and I applaud your prudence.”
“Your praise, my dear mamma, you will be sorry to hear, is singularly
ill-timed:” and she then proceeded to detail the proposal and
acceptance of the morning before; for which, however, Lady Flamborough
was well prepared, though she had thought it expedient to affect
ignorance.
“Singularly indiscreet, indeed, you foolish girl! but of course it was
all conditional--to depend upon my approbation--and to be at once at an
end if I withheld my consent.”
“There was no such stipulation. You had never given me to understand
that there could be any doubt about that which seemed to you the first
object in life.”
“But I tell you, he is a ruined man--won’t have it in his power to make
a settlement for years; and if he was to marry now, he would have a
grown-up family while his estate was still at nurse. Your own opinion,
I am sure, my dear Jane, must be altered by what you now hear, which of
course you could never have expected.”
“Excuse me; it so happened that in a round-about way, through an old
servant, I was perfectly aware that Mr. Germain was an embarrassed man,
and therefore was perfectly prepared for what has happened, when I
accepted him.”
Lady Flamborough looked at her daughter for a moment, perfectly
puzzled, and endeavouring to find out whether she could be in earnest.
“Well, you are the strangest child I ever knew: this must be mere
contradiction; and that you should prefer such a shatterbrained
spendthrift to Mr. Starling, who is just as agreeable a companion, and
of whom all the world speaks well----”
“You must be aware, my dear mamma, that even if I were disposed to
agree with all the world, the time is past when there could be any use
in discussing their comparative merits.”
“I don’t know that; you can’t mean to consider this engagement any
longer binding?”
“But indeed I do. I should as soon consider a change in worldly
circumstances as a reason for deserting my duty if actually married, as
for forfeiting my word when once pledged.”
“Well, I see there is no use in arguing with you at present: in a
little time you will think better of these things; but let me remind
you, that there is no use either in being rude to Mr. Starling, or in
proclaiming an engagement to which I will never consent.”
“It is not a subject that I am likely to mention, unless questioned
by some one that has a right to do so, particularly as I must of
course wait patiently for your consent; but as to not being rude to
Mr. Starling, if you mean by that, leading him to understand that his
attentions are welcome, that is what I never did, and am not likely now
to begin.”
“Upon my word, Jane, your conduct to me is worse than Louisa’s ever
was; for she never would have thought of making such a connexion as
this.” But this was a quarter from which also Lady Flamborough was
shortly to experience unexpected mortification.
Lady Latimer’s fête at the beginning of June was one to which the world
of fashion had for several days looked forward with expectations of
unrivalled pleasure. Nor were they disappointed--every body was there
who ought to have been present, and no one who ought not. The house
was one of the best in London, and the lovely Mistress of the Revels
never looked more beautiful, or seemed more happy. At last, even the
favoured few who had remained there to talk over those who had not
that privilege, had departed, and Lady Latimer, being left quite
alone, remembered, for the first time, that his lordship had not been
there all the evening. There had been, it is true, a House of Lords
that night; but this was an hour quite beyond peerage constitutions.
Upon inquiry, she found that Lord Latimer had been some time at home,
and had retired to his study below. Not a little inclined to reproach
him for his neglect, she hurried through the brilliant wilderness,
where countless candles shone but upon senseless hangings, and pushing
open his study door, found Lord Latimer sitting by the light from a
single flat candlestick, crunching a biscuit, sipping wine and water,
and surrounded by papers, of which the shape was too long, and the
handwriting too round, for any one to suppose them of an agreeable
nature.
Lady Latimer, hardly observing how he was occupied, cried out:
“Latimer, you stupid man! you have no idea what you have lost. It
was much the most perfect thing of the season. Fitzalbert positively
insists upon my giving another.”
“Then, I presume, Fitzalbert positively means to pay for it.”
“What do you mean?--are you dreaming?”
“Sit down, Louisa, I have much that I can no longer avoid telling you.
I am a very bad hand though, even at talking business, much more at
managing it; but the short of the matter is, that there must be an end
of ball-giving, and many other follies besides. The infernal tool who
lent me above two hundred thousand pounds, has been sent for by his
master before his time, obeyed the summons, died, and has left me to
pay his executor instantly. I could as soon pay the national debt.
To-morrow there will be an execution in the house.”
Whilst Lady Latimer, breathing thick and painfully with the surprise,
listened to this concise but sufficiently explanatory statement, a
confused chaos of the favourite images of all she was about to lose,
crowded into her mind. The matchless splendour of her universally
admired equipage--the studied comforts of her crowded boudoir--the
numberless varieties of her unrivalled wardrobe--the recent éclat of
her much-praised fête--and all the other incidental expenses which
had always furnished so many opportunities for the exercise of her
acknowledged taste--were for ever gone.
Lord Latimer continued: “If I had even had any ready money to keep
them at bay--but this unlucky Derby has left me without a shilling at
present.”
When she heard this, her resolution was taken, and removing, one after
another, her splendid diamonds from her neck and hair, she said,
eagerly, “Would this, and this, and this, be of any use? If so, take
them, and use them as you like.”
“No, my dear, generous Louisa, upon no account would I think of that,”
said Lord Latimer, much touched with her liberal proposal; “besides,
if for no other reason, it would avail nothing--they would be known
at once, and the rumour of our distress would bring a hundred other
harpies upon us. No, there is nothing for it, but to retire into the
country together for a time.”
“To Peatburn, I hope!” said Lady Latimer,--“dear Peatburn; if you would
but go there with me again, I think I could almost reconcile myself to
any thing. Say it shall be Peatburn,” said she, hanging over him, and
kissing his forehead.
“I think it would be rather cold at Peatburn as yet,” said he, “but we
will see about it. For the present, a friend has lent me his villa at
Wimbledon, where I mean to go to-morrow.”
Accustomed, as Lord Latimer had long been, to think with indifference
of his wife, it was impossible to view, entirely without emotion, that
beautiful figure bending anxiously over him, and eagerly pressing upon
his acceptance those splendid jewels which, within an hour, she had so
highly prized as exciting the admiration of hundreds. Though the long
dormant feeling which this sight revived, was not strong enough to make
him jump at the idea of an immediate retreat to Peatburn Lodge, at
the very commencement of a cold June, it nevertheless opened to him an
unexpected source of consolation in his distresses.
Lord Latimer had been but too accurate in his prognostics of the coming
storm. His embarrassments once known, a torrent of unexpected claims
broke in upon him. It was a few days after the conversation mentioned
above, that Germain returned to town. He had been engaged, almost ever
since his last losses, upon a remote property of his, endeavouring
to sell some land, and making the best arrangement he could of his
affairs, and the most prompt settlement of the more pressing demands;
for, though he never doubted the sincerity of Oakley’s offer to
accommodate him with any money he might want, yet he was very unwilling
to lay himself under an obligation which he could not help fearing
would not tend to the permanence of their friendship.
Upon arriving in London, as it was not till the evening that he could
meet his man of business at his chambers, Germain strolled, as a
matter of course, to Lord Latimer’s house, not having heard what had
happened. Raising his eyes instinctively to the windows, he was much
amazed to see them stuck all over with bills, and the truth at once
rushed upon his mind. The door was open: he entered without asking
any question, and was met by a demand of a shilling for a catalogue.
The sad reverse conveyed by this little incident struck him forcibly.
The entrance within those walls had always been one of the few things
which money could not purchase. Fashion, caprice, or prejudice, might
all occasionally have exercised an undue influence in the choice of
its inmates; but in vain would the man of mere wealth have attempted
to edge in more than his card--and now a shilling’s worth of catalogue
laid it open to every one.
The doors were all placed ajar, and he made his way, without
impediment, straight to Lady Latimer’s boudoir. “And here,” thought he,
“where hardly any were allowed to penetrate, and the favoured few who
were, yielded so entirely to her powers of fascination, that criticism
would have been impossible, and admiration unavoidable--here now must
all her little whims and fancies be exposed to the stupid stare, or
contemptuous wonderment of the vulgar!”
The course of his meditations was interrupted by the free entrance,
among others, of Captain and Mrs. Wilcox, who were both very busy
with catalogues, and pencils, marking intended purchases. The captain
addressed him.
“Pretty pickings here, sir, for those that have the ready. I am sorry
though, that my lord should have smashed.”
“I thought at first,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “that they had huddled all the
furniture of the house into this room, but I find that it was always so
crowded.”
“Her ladyship ought to have been the wife of an upholsterer,” continued
the captain.
“Poor lady! she certainly must have been very silly,” exclaimed Mrs.
Wilcox.
“And is it come to this,” thought Germain, “that Lady Latimer should be
the object of the contemptuous pity of Mrs. Captain Wilcox!”
“Oh, look here, Wilcox!” said the lady, “I must have this ‘_chaise
long_,’ as the French call it.”
“Why, my dear, once down you’d never be able to get up again:” an
apprehension which seemed not improbable, judging by the figure of his
wife, at present not improved by temporary circumstances of a family
nature.
“However,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I’ll soon show you.”
But Germain could not bear to remain to witness the experiment. It
seemed little less than sacrilege to him, that Lady Latimer’s own chair
in her favourite corner, where her delicate form had so lately reposed,
should be condemned to groan beneath the weight of Mrs. Wilcox.
Not a little distressed at the sad reverse he had just unexpectedly
witnessed, and to the misery of which his own difficulties made him
peculiarly sensible, he hastened to quit the house, and hurried
towards that part of the town where he was to find his lawyer.
CHAPTER XIV.
Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,
Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,
Full of comparisons and winding flouts,
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit.
SHAKSPEARE.
It was on the same day that Germain had been thus employed on his
return to town, that Oakley was dining alone in the coffee-room of ----
Club. The time of probation fixed by Helen had almost expired, and he
ventured to look forward to the immediate reward of his patience.
There was another table laid for three in another part of the room,
but those who were expected to occupy it had not arrived when he began
his solitary meal. His back was turned towards their table, and their
entrance taking place during a pause in his own dinner, when he was
agreeably anticipating his future prospects, and apparently occupied
with the evening paper, he did not turn round to remark who came in.
They talked in rather an under-tone, but with that quick ear which one
has for his own name, he thought he heard his repeated in a whisper,
and presently after, in the same voice, that of Miss Mordaunt. He
turned hastily round, and opposite to him, sitting between two other
gentlemen, he beheld Fitzalbert, and, as he fancied, with the same
intolerably insolent expression of countenance which had disgusted him
at Germain’s. He longed immediately and openly to notice it, but the
mere mention of a name presented no tangible ground of offence.
Sir Gregory Greenford was one of Fitzalbert’s companions; the other was
an officer on the eve of departure to join his regiment in Portugal.
They now conversed together in a louder tone, and the subject was
Germain and his losses. Fitzalbert spoke slightingly of him, and
mentioned rather boastfully the sums he had himself won of him in the
course of the year.
Oakley could bear this no longer, and turning round, said: “I believe,
Mr. Fitzalbert, you consider yourself as much Germain’s friend as I am;
but my idea of that character would be rather to relieve his distress
than to ruin him first, and ridicule him afterwards.”
This was in itself not an over-conciliatory address, and Oakley had
condensed into his delivery of it all his long-suppressed dislike of
Fitzalbert, who, on his side, answered very coolly:
“The very natural distinction between having more money than you know
how to spend, and spending more money than you know how to get.”
He then continued talking on the same subject to his two companions,
saying: “As to Germain, no Mentor could have saved him six months: I
never saw any one so devotedly determined to lose.”
“Better to lose like Germain, than win like some others!” audibly
ejaculated Oakley; but at the same moment the waiter was asking
Fitzalbert’s orders as to what claret he would choose. He therefore did
not catch the words, and here the matter might have rested, but for
Sir Gregory Greenford, who furnished another proof that a fool is the
surest mischief-maker, by saying to the military gentleman: “That’s
meant as a cut at Fitz, I think.”
The military gentleman looked grim, and shook his head. Fitzalbert’s
attention was thus called to what had passed, and he turned towards
Oakley: “If you did me the honour to address any thing further to me,
Mr. Oakley,” said he, “I have to regret that the more interesting
occupation of choosing my claret prevented my hearing it. I am now
perfectly at leisure.”
“I don’t feel myself bound to repeat what you found it convenient not
to hear.”
“If you mean that I myself should have regarded it as not of the
slightest consequence, you are quite right; but as those gentlemen seem
to attach some importance to it, I must request Sir Gregory to tell
me what it was you said, and then I shall know whether it is worth my
while to require you either to repeat or retract it.”
Sir Gregory gave it word for word, and so repeated, it certainly
seemed to convey an insinuation which might have been missed when
originally spoken. Fitzalbert’s cheek reddened with indignation at the
idea of being suspected of foul play, of which he was quite incapable,
though sufficiently ready to avail himself of what are called “fair
advantages.”
“Mr. Oakley,” said he, “your words certainly mean to impute something
to somebody, as even you, I suppose, are not Utopian enough to conceive
the mere act of winning to any amount, worse than losing, independent
of some disgrace attached to the manner of doing so. As this sentiment
followed immediately after a lecture on friendship with which you were
kind enough to favour me, I feel myself bound to ask, what under other
circumstances I certainly should not have conceived possible, whether
you meant any allusion to me?”
“I stated my opinion generally; you may apply it particularly where you
know it to be best deserved.”
“Excuse me, sir; it is not a riddle you have given me to guess, but
an accusation you have hazarded: and either to support or retract it,
since you have presumed to call my character in question, you must be
now prepared.”
“I am not prepared to think such a subject worth any further trouble,”
replied Oakley.
There was much in all this, and in what followed, like what occurs in
most quarrels of a similar description, which both parties would have
been at once ashamed and surprised at, had it been shown to them in
writing on the following morning, and which is therefore very little
worth commemorating. It is sufficient to state, that it led to the
application of words which are rarely uttered, and still more rarely
retracted. The inevitable result must have been guessed. A meeting was
arranged for the next morning, and in this instance the time and place
were rather unusually fixed by the two principals, who felt too much
mutual animosity to allow the intervention of any other parties to
delay the settlement of so important a point.
Fitzalbert immediately dispatched a note to Lord Latimer, desiring
to see him on particular business, without mentioning what it was.
The military friend, who had dined with him, was to set out that very
night to join his regiment in Portugal; and Fitzalbert was not at
all desirous to trust the arrangement of so serious an affair to Sir
Gregory Greenford.
Oakley, on his part, his habits being little gregarious, was rather
at a loss for a second, even had he been aware of Germain’s return
to London; and his having been innocently enough the cause of
the immediate quarrel would have put him out of the question. He
accidentally met a casual House of Commons acquaintance in the streets,
and not having any one with whom he was more intimate, to whom he could
apply, he asked and obtained of him a promise to accompany him in the
morning to Wimbledon.
When Lord Latimer received Fitzalbert’s note, he hastened up to town
immediately, and repaired straight to the Club, where he found his
friend still awaiting him. Upon its being mentioned to him with whom
the quarrel was, he at first positively declined having any thing to
do with it, and that, he said, for reasons of a private nature which
had been mentioned to him in confidence that day, but which had no
reference whatever to Fitzalbert.
“But,” said Fitzalbert, “hear at least the whole case, and then say,
whether you think I am in a situation in which you are prepared to
desert me.”
When the quarrel was detailed to Lord Latimer from the beginning,
the unprovoked nature of the attack inferred from Oakley’s words by
Fitzalbert, and the odious imputation upon his honour which had been
first insinuated and afterwards maintained, was fairly submitted to his
consideration, he shook his head, and said, “Certainly no concession
can originate with you.” After thinking a little, he continued: “And
you are really anxious that I should be your second in this affair?”
“I consider it as of the highest possible importance. I told
Greenford, who was present at the time, that I had written to you
for that purpose, and should you decline, the most disadvantageous
constructions will be put upon my conduct.”
“Well,” said Lord Latimer, “allow me but another hour to act as a free
agent on my own account, and then, if you still require me, of course I
will not disappoint you.”
It was with a heavy heart, and very faint hopes of success, that Lord
Latimer went direct from the Club to Oakley’s house.
Since the Latimers had retired to their friend’s villa at Wimbledon,
they had of course been much alone, and habits of confidence had
revived between them. Within the last two days, they had been joined
by Helen. Lady Latimer felt it impossible to conceal from her husband
the delight she felt at the happy prospects of her friend; and she
obtained permission to communicate them at once to him, particularly as
this seemed to be a very good opportunity for at once putting an end to
the foolish coolness between him and Oakley, which had continued ever
since the election.
Lord Latimer was delighted with what he heard; for even amidst so many
other pursuits he had not been before insensible to Helen’s merits, and
the good sense and good feeling which she showed in her conversations
with Lady Latimer on the subject of their present distresses had
confirmed his former very favourable impression. He therefore had, that
very evening, readily undertaken, at Lady Latimer’s request, to ride
up on the morrow, the day of the expiration of Helen’s mourning, to
London, to extend a friendly hand to Oakley, and bring him down with
him to see his betrothed bride, a distinction which, they none of them
doubted, would at once make Oakley forget any soreness he might once
have felt towards a now-welcome ambassador.
As Lord Latimer slowly walked towards Oakley’s, in vain endeavouring to
make up his mind as to how he was to execute the difficult task with
which he had charged himself, the sad contrast between his present
business, and the happy mission on which he expected to have been sent,
oppressed him heavily, and of the still more melancholy catastrophe to
which it might lead he could not bear to think.
CHAPTER XV.
I thank you, gracious lord,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe
In your rich wisdom, to excuse, or hide
The liberal opposition of my spirits,
If over-boldly I have borne myself
In the converse of breath.
SHAKSPEARE.
Lord Latimer had much difficulty in obtaining admittance to Oakley.
The servants said that their master had returned home, but had retired
to his library, and given directions that he should not be disturbed.
However, upon Lord Latimer’s insisting that they should take in his
name, this was at length done; and very shortly afterwards he was
ushered into the library--a long, low, gloomy-looking apartment, at one
end of which Oakley was seated, busily engaged in writing. He rose to
receive Lord Latimer, and, motioning him to a chair, said: “I presume,
my lord, that you come on the part of Mr. Fitzalbert--if so, and there
is any thing else to arrange, you will oblige me by communicating with
my friend, Mr. Sandford.”
“You mistake: it is on my own part I come, and it is with yourself that
I wish to communicate.”
“I own you surprise me: perhaps then some other time will answer your
purpose: at present I am engaged on very particular business.”
“It is on that very business that I wish to speak to you.”
“That can hardly be--uninvited by me, unauthorized by the other
party----”
“My character,” said Lord Latimer, avoiding a direct answer, “does not
often lead me to undertake the management of other people’s concerns;
on the contrary, I oftener neglect even my own: but, at the risk of
being reckoned officious, I cannot allow this affair to proceed further
without doing my utmost to prevent it. It is a very foolish business,
Mr. Oakley.”
“Allow me to ask you, my lord, from whom you have derived the account
of this foolish business?”
“From Mr. Fitzalbert.”
“Then you can hardly expect me to agree with you in an opinion of it
which you derive from such a source.”
“You have not lived much in the world, Mr. Oakley; I have; and
nobody who knows me will suspect that if I thought your honour at all
concerned in the prosecution of this affair, I would put any impediment
in the way of it; rather would I do all in my power to bring it as
speedily as possible to its inevitable conclusion: but I cannot think
it necessary that you should bind yourself down to maintain a few hasty
words spoken in a moment of irritation, and probably without very
accurately weighing their import.”
“But this is not exactly the case. Circumstances led me irresistibly
to give my real opinion of Mr. Fitzalbert. It is not often in the
intercourse of society that one is called to do so of any man; but
having chosen to avail myself of an opportunity in this instance, I
certainly shall not retract it. And having said thus much, I think, my
lord, it cannot be unexpected by you, if I ask what has so suddenly
given your lordship an interest in my concerns?”
“I thought you might have guessed the source of that interest, which
undoubtedly must otherwise appear extraordinary. Lady Latimer has a
friend, Mr. Oakley, at present staying with us, on whose account I
hoped to-morrow to have seen you on a different footing, having been
deputed to announce to you the termination of her mourning. If you ask
what it is that brings me here now, it is anxiety for her happiness,
which I would not see wantonly hazarded.”
“That is a part of the subject on which I have endeavoured to avoid
thinking,” said Oakley, after a deep sigh.
“And why so? Were the quarrel unavoidable, I should be the last person
to bring forward this or any other topic which might unman you; but I
cannot endure that rather than own yourself in the wrong, when you most
undoubtedly are so, you should run the risk of rendering her miserable
for life, who has already had sorrows enough.”
Lord Latimer stopped--and there was a long pause of anxious expectation
on his part, and an evident agitation on that of Oakley, who, at
length, in a softened tone inquired: “What then is the course which you
recommend?”
“It is a state of things which appears to me to offer no alternative:
the same line of conduct which, if I was already acting for Fitzalbert,
as I perhaps shall be, I should then deem satisfactory to him, is
the only one which, in sincere goodwill, I should recommend to you
to adopt--to disclaim most distinctly any allusion to him in the
discreditable insinuations you let fall, and to apologize for those
hasty expressions which afterwards gave a colour to such an application
of your words.”
“That is quite out of the question!” Oakley warmly exclaimed; “humble
myself before him?--Never!”
“It is certainly not pleasant to own one’s self in the wrong, but it is
better than to continue so--knowing and not acknowledging it. The fault
originated with you.”
“But I do not consider myself to have been in the wrong. What I said of
Fitzalbert is what I really think.”
“On what grounds do you rest that opinion? Have you any proofs?”
“Proofs?--not perhaps any positive facts--but besides the enormous sums
lost by Germain within a year, of which Fitzalbert has won by much the
largest portion----”
“That will not do,” interrupted Lord Latimer, provoked at Oakley’s
attempting to draw an inference which he thought so monstrous: “you
yourself must perceive at once there is no argument in that.”
“Well, perhaps not. I do not mean to insist upon it; but to come to the
point at once--whether I was thoroughly justified in saying what I did
without some proof which I could bring forward, it is now useless to
discuss. Confirmed and credited or not, my opinion still remains the
same; and to say that I did not mean Mr. Fitzalbert in what I said, is
a falsehood to which I never will stoop, and therefore----”
“One moment--will it alter your opinion, and consequently your conduct,
if I state to you, that having known Fitzalbert all my life as fond of
play and generally successful, I give you my honour I believe him to
be incapable of any thing ungentlemanlike?”
“That is a point which I had rather not discuss with you. It is a test
by which you must excuse me if I decline to try my opinion. It is
sufficient that if I were to attempt to say I did not mean any attack
upon Fitzalbert, my look would belie my words, and I should degrade
myself without being believed. This being the case, I have only to
return you my most sincere thanks for your kind intentions, reminding
you at the same time that there can be no use in pressing the matter
further.”
At this hint Lord Latimer slowly and unwillingly rose to depart,
saying: “I am very sorry, Mr. Oakley, that we part thus: when next we
meet I shall probably be employed by Fitzalbert. I would enter into no
engagement till I had endeavoured to accommodate matters on my own
responsibility. Having failed in this, and feeling that Fitzalbert has
been subjected by you to odious imputations upon his character, which
I utterly disbelieve, I cannot, without gross injustice, refuse to
accompany him. When there, it will be my endeavour to keep the door
open for accommodation to the last moment, hoping that you may see
reason to alter your unfortunate determination; and then I shall accept
that as satisfactory to Fitzalbert, which I beg leave earnestly to
repeat to you as the best advice I can give as a gentleman and a man of
the world.” Oakley shook his head, but parted with Lord Latimer with
more cordiality than an hour before he would have thought it possible
he could have felt towards him.
When Lord Latimer returned to the Club, he communicated to Fitzalbert
his vain attempt to bring Oakley to reason, without, however, dwelling
fully upon the obstinacy he had shown. “Oh!” said Fitzalbert, “I don’t
desire the man’s life; only let him make me an explicit apology before
Sir Gregory Greenford, who was present, and write by the first Lisbon
mail to my friend, the major, who is off for Portugal, to say that he
has done so, and I am satisfied; but he must unsay every word of it, or
by the powers that made him, I shall certainly shoot him!”
Lord Latimer shuddered as he recollected the consummate skill of the
person who said this.
When Oakley was left to himself, it was in vain that he endeavoured to
banish from his mind those considerations which had been pressed upon
his attention by Lord Latimer. His attempts to do so were considerably
impeded by his finding it impossible even to satisfy himself with
his own conduct in the affair. He had been so long accustomed to view
Fitzalbert personally with dislike, and to think of his character
with distrust, that in his own opinion he had set him down as little
better than a sharper. But in vain he now attempted to fix upon any
ostensible grounds for such an imputation--and was he to risk his own
life, and attempt that of his adversary, in the obstinate support of a
mere suspicion? This was a state of things to which he could not look
forward with satisfaction, and yet the alternative was one which he
could never adopt--to be forced to assert that he meant no allusion
to Fitzalbert in those insinuations which he felt that those who had
heard him must still remain convinced could bear no other construction,
and which, had they been in themselves doubtful, had been rendered
more obvious by the angry altercation which followed. And was he
then to submit to be branded in the eyes of the world as one who had
maliciously hazarded groundless accusations, and afterwards wanted
courage to support them?
This last consideration was conclusive; and though he could not
contemplate the situation in which he had placed himself without some
self-reproach, as well as uneasiness, he no longer had any doubts as to
the inevitable course he must pursue.
Neither of the principals passed so restless a night as Lord Latimer.
He could not at all combat his melancholy forebodings as to how
different a day the morrow might prove to those he had left behind at
Wimbledon, from that which they fondly anticipated. His mind always
required some object of interest to occupy it, and during his present
pecuniary difficulties, and his consequent retirement from those gay
scenes whose excitement had always been at his command, his attention
had been much engrossed by the unexpected prospects of Helen, for whom
he felt a sincere regard.
When he received Fitzalbert’s note, guessing the sort of business
on which he was summoned, he had made his own affairs, at that time
naturally requiring much of his attention, an excuse for going to town,
stating that he should not return till the morning.
“And then, mind,” said Lady Latimer, “I shall not forgive you unless
you bring Mr. Oakley back with you.” Helen said nothing; but the
expression of her countenance as Lady Latimer said this, still recurred
to him every time he attempted to compose himself to sleep.
Wimbledon Common had been mentioned between Oakley and Fitzalbert,
as the appointed place of meeting. Heavily the morning dawned which
was to light them on their cheerless way. The air was cold and chill,
and a fog, unusually thick for the time of year, gathered round their
carriages, and almost impeded their progress. Little communication
passed between Oakley and Mr. Sanford. The latter was always rather
afraid of Oakley; and embarrassed at the task he had undertaken, which
he had only accepted from not knowing how to refuse, and which Oakley
would never have asked of him but from accidentally meeting him, and
not knowing how, at such short notice, to procure another second.
Fitzalbert was much more amusing than Lord Latimer, yet the flow of
his fun was not so natural as usual; for, even to the coolest, it
is no exhilarating destination. “The last time I was up at this
unconscionable hour it was just such another foggy morning. I was at
your place then, by the bye--Peatburn. It rather interfered with my
_shooting_ then too.”
Lord Latimer not making any attempt to muster even a smile at this
misplaced pleasantry, Fitzalbert relapsed into silence, and occupied
himself in watching the progress of the fog, which slowly rolled away
as they approached the higher ground to which they were bound. Arrived
there, both parties left their carriages, and proceeded on foot to
a more retired part of the heath. As Fitzalbert strode on before,
Lord Latimer stopped a little for Oakley, who was following with Mr.
Sandford, and once more addressed him. “I wish you would allow me to
think, Mr. Oakley, that you have better considered what I suggested
last night. It is not by any means too late.”
“Any thing that you may have now to communicate to me, my lord, had
better be addressed through my friend, Mr. Sandford; but if he makes
any appeal to me, I should certainly say that I did not come here to
be bullied, and that any interruption, or hesitation, at this moment,
unless on some fresh ground, must certainly have that appearance.”
Lord Latimer looked at Mr. Sandford, but he could see no attempt, on
his part, at any opening for further negociation, and as they had now
reached the ground, he could only hope that, after the first fire, the
renewed attempts he then determined to make at explanation, might be
more successful, as the idea of misconstruction, as to his motives,
which seemed to influence Oakley’s conduct, would then no longer have
the same weight.
Fitzalbert had been led to expect, from what Lord Latimer told him
the evening before, that Oakley, in his cooler moments, would see the
unjustifiable nature of the imputations he had ventured, and he was
therefore more exasperated at the obstinacy with which he appeared now
to defend them.
It was arranged by Lord Latimer, with the concurrence of his coadjutor,
that to avoid premeditation, the parties should not face each other
till a given signal--that they should then immediately level their
pistols and fire.
At the given signal, Oakley turned round, and stretched forth his arm
steadily, but with what accuracy of aim was never known. Fitzalbert,
upon facing his adversary, raised his hand with apparent carelessness,
but, as it proved, with too fatal precision, for almost within the
same second of time in which the instrument of death reached the level
of his unerring eye, Oakley staggered and fell.
All the parties, among whom was a surgeon, who had been brought down on
purpose, hastened to his assistance. As soon as Oakley could speak, the
first person he addressed was Fitzalbert.
“You had better go--I feel you had--but first, before these
gentlemen--you could do no otherwise than you did. The blame was
entirely my own--most heartily do I forgive you.”
It was some time before the medical gentleman thought it safe to
move Oakley at all, as the ball appeared to be in the immediate
neighbourhood of the lungs; but when a litter was procured, as it
was highly important that he should be carried as short a distance
as possible, they attempted to remove him to Lord Latimer’s villa at
Wimbledon.
CHAPTER XV.
Speak, is’t so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear’t; howe’er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for mine avail,
To tell me truly.
SHAKSPEARE.
Lady Latimer and Helen had that morning, after breakfast, been talking
over the future prospects of the latter.
“I only hope, my dear Helen,” said Lady Latimer, “that you may be as
happy as you deserve to be. The doubts I have expressed as to some
parts of Mr. Oakley’s character, have only been stated that you might
early correct their evil tendency, not from any desire to take from
the value of your very promising prospects; and now, having said thus
much, for my letter-writing; for before post-time, I trust, one may
announce it as certain.”
Soon after Lady Latimer had retired at one door, Lord Latimer came in
at the other. Helen’s back was turned towards him, and he advanced
hastily to her, evidently mistaking her for Lady Latimer; for, upon
perceiving who it was, he shrunk back with an expression which did not
escape her observation, and immediately conveyed a foreboding of some
evil tidings to her.
“Where is he?--will he not come?” she abruptly enquired; though it was
the first time that the subject of Oakley had escaped her lips to the
ears of Lord Latimer.
In the course of a complicated intercourse with the world,
Lord Latimer had, of course, often been placed in situations of
embarrassment and difficulty, but he had never felt so unequal to any
thing, as to the painful task of having to break to the interesting
orphan-girl before him the sudden overthrow--the utter extinction--of
all her fond hopes and brilliant expectations. He could only stammer
out: “He is, I believe, in the house.”
“Where? Why not here?” she anxiously asked.
“He is hurt--rather--I fear; but, I trust, not very much.”
A servant came in, whose manner was evidently confused and disturbed,
and before Lord Latimer could motion him to silence, he said: “The
doctor, my lord, must see you again immediately.”
Lord Latimer could not but feel partially relieved by this momentary
escape from his difficult duty. He said: “I will return immediately,
Miss Mordaunt, and you shall know all--but compose yourself--I trust
there is still hope,”--and he hastily left the room.
“Hope!” cried Helen, bewildered. “Good God! what has happened?”
The idea that first suggested itself was of a fall from his horse, or
some other accident in coming down; forth at there should have been
a quarrel--a duel--and yet that he should be there, was an idea that
with no apparent probability could have presented itself. A few moments
she waited Lord Latimer’s return in a state of trembling anxiety,
when, no longer able to bear the agonizing suspense, she staggered
to the stairs. At the head of the first flight there was a half-open
door, through which, she fancied she heard Lord Latimer’s voice in low
and earnest conversation. She succeeded in reaching that door. It
opened into a dressing-room, but there was no longer any one in it.
Opposite to that, through which she had entered, there was another door
closed--they must have disappeared through that--and Oakley must be
there. Endeavouring to compose her scattered spirits, she retired to
the open window, gasping for breath, and overcome with apprehension.
Whilst she remained here, half hid by the falling curtains, Lord
Latimer and the surgeon came through from the inner room without seeing
her.
“No hope, my lord, no hope!” said the medical man: “he may linger a few
hours longer; but he is mortally wounded.”
“Poor Helen!” said Lord Latimer, and they passed on.
She made an attempt to stop them, and enquire further, but the words
died away on her lips. She then determined to enter Oakley’s apartment,
and with her own eyes learn the worst; a moment of irresolution and
maiden modesty succeeded. “This is no time for such considerations,”
thought she. Endeavouring to gather strength for this great effort,
she leant, in passing, against the back of an arm-chair, when, with
freezing horror, she perceived that one side of it was wet with blood.
Revolting from thence, her eye wandered unconsciously to the table,
where the pistols had been carelessly thrown, and the whole dreadful
catastrophe rushed at once upon her mind.
When, by the exertion of the most extraordinary self-command, she had
so far recovered as to attempt entering Oakley’s room, she beheld him
stretched on the bed, his eyes half closed, his countenance, which was
naturally pale, but little altered. She glided in so softly, that he
was not at first conscious of her entrance. She dropped gently on her
knees by the side of his bed, and taking his hand in hers, bathed it
with her tears.
“Helen, sweet Helen!” murmured Oakley, and words of comfort were rising
to his lips; but when he looked at the orphan-girl, and recollected
that he was all in all to her, the half-formed phrase of consolation
choked him, as he felt that such attempt would be a mockery to the
desolation of her heart, and he could only feebly and indistinctly
repeat: “Poor--poor Helen!”
He never spoke more: and when Lord Latimer, a few minutes afterwards,
entered the apartment, having, in vain, sought Helen elsewhere, he
found her senseless on the dead body of her lover; and when returning
consciousness brought a knowledge of the events that had blasted
her happiness for ever, the distraction that followed, rendered her
recovery from that death-like swoon, a thing which it was doubtful
whether her friends durst rejoice at.
CHAPTER XVI.
CONCLUSION.
Our revels now are ended; these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
SHAKSPEARE.
By Oakley’s will, which bore the date of the evening before the duel,
and in framing which, he had been engaged when visited by Lord Latimer,
his immense property was divided between Helen and Germain. To Miss
Mordaunt, was left Rockington Castle, (where his interview with her
father had taken place,) and all his other detached property of every
description. To Germain he bequeathed, with many kind expressions of
regard, the fine estate of Goldsborough Park and its appendages.
After a time, Helen retired to Rockington Castle, where she soon found
ample employment of a tranquil nature, best suited to the state of her
feelings, in restoring the deserted dwellings, which now disfigured
that property, to their former cheerful condition; and it was not long
before she felt to a certain degree consoled, in the active exercise of
that Christian charity and universal benevolence, which brought with it
its own reward, in the striking contrast it furnished to the withering
influence of her father’s misanthropy.
Fitzalbert had hurried abroad the very morning of the duel, and
returned, after a time, much changed in character and sobered in
spirits, by the sad remembrance which, in spite of every effort to
suppress it, would rise again every day, almost every hour,--that he
had deprived a fellow-creature of life.
Lady Flamborough remarked, even during the very first days when people
were still talking of the duel, that, in spite of all his foibles,
Germain had always been her favourite. Need it be added, that she had
been the first to learn the settlement of the Goldsborough Park estate?
Fortune seemed at this time to favour all her ladyship’s schemes;
for Sir Gregory at length made up his mighty mind to propose to Lady
Caroline. It need hardly be added that he obtained the lady, though he
did not at the same time obtain her fortune of ten thousand pounds,
which he was obliged to transfer to his new brother-in-law, Lord
Latimer. For though his lordship had been obliged to sell off all
his stud, yet, in other hands, the yearling colt, against which Sir
Gregory had so rashly not only hazarded an opinion, but betted ten
thousand pounds, won the produce stakes in a canter--and this windfall
was very welcome to Lord Latimer, who was at the time economising
abroad.
Mr. and Lady Jane Germain retired to Goldsborough Park for the
honeymoon, and afterwards passed much of their time at that delightful
place. If there was any drawback to Germain’s enjoyment of it, it
certainly arose from the unfortunate propinquity of Wilcox House. He
was but too often in the habit of seeing in the person of the idol of
his boyish fancy, the mistress of that mansion, a perpetual memento of
the fallibility of human taste. However, he managed so far to outlive
his feelings on this subject, as to go very satisfactorily through the
duties of neighbourhood; and at the annual dinner there, to which he
and Lady Jane were always invited, he regularly availed himself, as a
signal for their departure, of the moment when Mrs. Wilcox (no longer
able, even in honour of her guests, to resist her daily afternoon doze)
was stretched at full length on the identical _fauteuil_ which she had
purchased at Lady Latimer’s sale.
The political changes which have lately occurred, have made Lady
Boreton acquiesce very readily in Germain’s continuing a member for the
county, as there no longer exists any substantial difference between
them.
In domestic affairs, if Germain has not yet learned to think for
himself, he at least allows Lady Jane the exclusive privilege of
thinking for him--a custom in which he is countenanced by many more
worthy men than would choose to acknowledge it: and by whatever
private arrangement such a happy result is produced, it is undoubtedly
to be desired, that those who are to pass their lives together, should
somehow concur in the suitable and timely alternate application of
those two most important monosyllables--
YES AND NO.
FINIS.
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
Transcriber note
Spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected.
Italics have been enclosed in underscores.
Small capitals have been capitalised.
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