OLD WOMAN.
A NOVEL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE HORRORS OF OAKENDALE ABBEY.
“Fear on guilt attends, and deeds of darkness;
“The virtuous breast ne’er knows it.”
HAVARD.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,
AT THE
MINERVA-PRESS,
BY WILLIAM LANE, LEADENHALL-STREET.
1800.
THE
OLD WOMAN.
LETTER I.
Mrs. St. Edward to Mrs. Safforey.
Arkley Castle, July
23, 1797.
THIS has been a long silence,
my dear Elinor; but the occasion must plead for my forgiveness.—I promised, in
my haste, to write immediately, and then I fully intended it. Indeed, for the
first few hours after we separated, I thought every little occurrence would be
worth relating, and appeared such as would interest my Elinor. Since that time
my mind has been in a whirl of variety and confusion, and scarce a moment has
been allowed to my heart to ascertain either its pains or its pleasures. I
have, during this time, written answers to a multitude of congratulatory notes
and epistles, all of which expressed the same uniform hackneyed sentiments. If
chance has thrown any of them in your way, and you form a judgment from their
language, you will have nothing more to expect; nothing either to hope or fear;
for they pronounce me the happiest of mortals.—Alas! my friend, they are indeed
the dictates of my pen; would that my heart could as easily subscribe to such
sentiments. You have a right to all its sincerity; and I am now writing, not
from the outward forms of etiquette, but the inward feelings of a mind undisguised
and open to your censure or applause.
From a very early period of our
lives, you have been acquainted with all its weaknesses, all its follies, and
may form some judgment of its present state; and yet, I think, you cannot have
quite a just idea of my present situation, or one at all equal to the agitation
of my mind;—I had almost said, to its tortures. Ah my friend! it is not too
strong a word. When in the aweful marriage service Mr. Goodworth pronounced
that sentence which must strike all thinking people with hope or fear; when
with that stern piety and emphasis for which he is so justly admired, he said,
“I require and charge you both, as ye shall answer it at the dreadful day of judgment, when the
secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,” &c. &c. What at that moment
did my mind undergo! You, my Elinor, are the only person who can form some
judgment of its emotion, for well you know its weak propensities, and yet
whatever you may suppose, will fall short of its agitation. Simpleton that I
was! I was upon the point of stopping the ceremony—I was going to cry aloud
there was an impediment—I was going to utter such things!—but my good or evil
genius (as it may henceforth prove) prevented me, and my trembling hand and
faultering voice resigned, and fixed my fate for ever.
You know how much I ever despised
and reprobated those disgusting airs of affectation and design, which are not
unfrequently practised by those whose hearts are firmly attached, and who would be indeed
wretched were they to be divided. This was not the case with me. My agitated
heart and trembling hand were but faint emblems of my distracted feelings.—Yet,
ought I to breathe such a confession? Only to you, my friend, who know all the
secrets of my soul, would I dare
thus to express myself. Nay, I have set bounds even
to my ideas; but there are moments when they stray beyond those limits, and
never so much as when I am addressing you, who, knowing all my failings, will
make all due allowances for a divided, torn, and wounded heart. It is when I am
writing to you, that my thoughts flow faster than my pen can express them; and
surely I may not be denied this relief from the cruel anguish of dissimulation,
in which I seem so involved, that I fear it will become habitual.—How am I dwelling
upon retrospection, when I should be relating events, and describing those
circumstances of joy and splendor, by which the heart of a bride is generally
elated! Not a word neither of my husband, who should now be the chief object of
my contemplations; and indeed, he is truly deserving of more praise and
gratitude than I can give. He is kind, tender, and affectionate. I could even
wish he were less so; for then my own duplicity would not give me so much
pain.—After we left you, he used every attentive endeavour to reconcile me to
my situation, and very kindly attributed all my agitation to extreme
sensibility.
During our journey to Arkley Castle,
he pointed out all the beauties of the country through which we passed. It
abounded in hills, rich dales, beautiful woods, and distant views, all of which
were justly worthy of my admiration; and the setting sun gilding the prospects,
formed a truly picturesque and fine scene. The castle is a stately old
building, of an immense size. I had never seen it since I was about eight years
of age, when the mind is too young for much observation, and receives no
impression beyond those of the moment. It was therefore new to me, and the
superb magnificence of its size and its antiquity inspired me with awe, not
altogether void of terror; for I remembered some idle stories of ghosts, which
never fail to excite the attention of a child, and which the uninhabited part
of the structure appears well calculated to inspire. I could have given way to
my fears, had they not been dispelled by the ring of bells from the
parish-church, the shouts of the peasants who surrounded the castle, expressing
every
mark of rustic congratulation, and all the clamorous joy of the domestics, some
of whom I remembered, and they all seemed to show me the most marked respect,
and to look upon me as a being of superior order. I hope I received all these
compliments properly, but my mind was in a chaos of confusion, and I fear I
acquitted myself with an ill grace.
The following day St. Edward led me
through all the apartments, and in a closet he opened a cabinet, which was our
grandmother’s, and presented me with a superb necklace, ear-rings, and cross,
of the finest brilliants I ever beheld. How would they have dazzled the
imagination, and pleased the sight of most women, particularly when presented
by a young and handsome husband, who likewise accompanied the action with
saying, “These, my Julia, were the jewels of our grandmother, and when they are
new set, will be an ornament to those charms, which will nevertheless eclipse
their lustre.” What a compliment! yet I received them with trembling hands and
faultering thanks. The idea of our
grandmother made me shudder. Ah my friend, first cousins are too nearly allied
to marry. The son of my uncle—the nephew of my father—the same blood—only two
removes from a parent—much the same as marrying my brother:—how repugnant not
only to the laws of nature, but to the nicer feelings of the heart. Perhaps you
have heard these sentiments from me before, and perhaps they are strengthened
by the singularity of my fate. I will not pretend to say how that may be, but I
think even my fondest attachment would be lessened by the knowledge of
relationship. This is not a time, however, to make these reflections, nor
should I have been led to have mentioned them at all, had not particular
circumstances awakened such ideas.
Yesterday, as I strolled through the
gallery of family portraits, the figures of my father and uncle upon the same
canvas, animated by the hand of the artist, seemed to possess the same soul.
Here they were figured as children; but when they were represented in different
pictures, and grown up, the same features, the same expression of countenance,
shewed their relationship, and gave me a disgusting thought that the son of
either should be my husband. We were certainly kindred bodies before our
marriage, and now ought to be kindred souls;—but does this follow? Alas! I am
running into a strain it was my intention to avoid.—I should have told you of
our numerous visitors—of going to church—of a thousand things I meant to have
said; but I have already trespassed on your time, and devoted too much of my
own to ideas which are to have no place in my future reflections. Let me hear
from you, let me know the welfare of all those most dear to you; allow me this
indulgence, my Elinor, and believe me
Ever
yours,
JULIA
ST. EDWARD.
LETTER II.
West Indies.
Ledcombe, July 31.
YOUR last letter, my
dearest George, brought me the best intelligence, and the greatest pleasure I
can know in your absence, that of your health. How have I offered up my grateful
thanks to the Almighty for having preserved you amidst that pestilence, which
has been so fatal to so many of our brave countrymen. May the blessing be still continued to
me; it is my constant prayer, and I trust will be heard; for, next to the
protection of Heaven, your own temperance will be a great means of preserving
you from infection; and I hope your next accounts will be still more favorable
respecting the fate of our men.—My brother too; I have much to say concerning
him; and I know not if the blow he may before this have received, may not be
infinitely more severe than any pain of the body inflicted by the fever. If my
intelligence is the earliest, break to him, my dear George, in the tenderest
manner you can, the marriage of Julia St. Edward. Yes, she is now the wife of
her cousin William St. Edward; nor do I see what could have prevented the
indissoluble knot. Such a combination of circumstances rendered their union so
necessary, that I think if any broken vows can be forgiven, her situation seems
to claim pardon. She is truly amiable, and will, I hope, be happy, although I
have not much encouragement that my wishes will be effectual, if I may judge by
a letter I received from her a few days after her marriage. Many of her
sentiments bespoke a heart but ill at ease, yet she mentioned her husband
handsomely, nay, even kindly. The great difficulty will be to keep him ignorant
of her first prepossession, and I fear she has too upright a heart to be a good
dissembler.
I know not myself all the family
reasons and motives for this alliance, but I am promised to have the whole
particulars related by Mrs. Clifford, who has had the care of Julia from
the time she lost her mother; and to whose kindness and friendship I am myself
greatly indebted. Not that I doubt my Julia;—I sincerely believe she has no
reserves from me;—I should not so well love her if she had:—for where confidence
is lessened either in love or friendship, the ardour of the passion dies away,
till all is diminished. This is a truth which experience will teach, and time
will confirm; and I say it to you, my George, because I know I can claim your
confidence as long as I deserve your love.
Mrs. Clifford is a sensible and a
good woman, and will relate events impartially, and knows every circumstance of
the family. I fear you will fancy my style is that of impertinent curiosity,
and that I have adopted the sentiments of those females, who are never easy but
when they are engaged in the business and concerns of other people; but be
assured I have too well observed your admonitions to fall into that error. The
present case is a particular one; and besides that, I am, I confess, sincerely
interested for my friend, and anxious for all concerning her. Yet the feelings
of my brother on this account, are not the least of my reasons for wishing to
know why it was necessary that he should lose the best of women, and why her inclinations
should be sacrificed to duty, or rather to obedience; and, perhaps, when he is
well informed of the real truth, there may be circumstances which may mitigate,
if not perfectly heal, the wounds this intelligence will inflict.
I have dwelt so much on this
subject, that I have allowed but little room for any other; indeed, the rest is
comprised in affectionate wishes and tender love.—Of public events, you receive
better accounts than I can give you, and I hope better than I hear.—One topic I
reserve for the last, as I used, when a girl, to preserve my plumbs and
sweetmeats for a bonne bouche. It is our dear child!—he must have a place for
himself, though so young. He is every day dearer to me by a million of charms
which I constantly discover, but none which endears him so much as the likeness
he bears to his beloved father. O my George, when I behold the likeness which
is expressed in every feature, I gaze at him with rapture till the tears gush
from my eyes, and I am ready to exclaim on the cruelties of war, and all its
train of severities. Ah surely no acquisitions can compensate for the loss of
thousands slain by the sword, or left a prey to the ravages of disease. The
cries of the widows and orphans must embitter the moments of victory, and dispirit
the bravest troops. These are reflections which are ever uppermost in my mind.
May Heaven avert a continuance of
the calamities of war, and preserve my husband to his Elinor, whose heart beats
only for those most dear to her. Let me hear from you by every opportunity.
Remember me kindly to my brother; and believe me, my dear George, all that the
fondest wife can remain,
ELINOR
SAFFOREY.
Accept loves and compliments from all friends, but they take up too much room to specify them. Adieu.
LETTER III.
Lord Fitzarnold to Lord Robert
Carrington.
CARRINGTON! I am fallen in love;—nothing but my own confession would convince you of this. Yes, there is another conviction;—could you behold the divinity of my adoration, you would not for a moment doubt my assertion; nay, you would be in love yourself:—but beware of that, for I should certainly in that case cut your throat. No, I have a rival sufficient in her husband; for she is a bride at present—a modest, timid, lovely, blushing bride; so no danger of matrimony for your friend, unless I effect a divorce, and even then I shall contrive to wave the galling fetters.
She is beautiful as an angel; but
this is not all. I can view flesh and blood, in its highest colouring, unmoved;
but when animated by such features!—eyes which bespeak the emotions of the
soul, with every attractive grace that can ornament the body!—it is not in
human nature to resist such united charms. I expect you will tell me you have
seen such a thousand times. No, Carrington, you never did. Yes, I have seen the
finest complexion, the finest eyes, the most perfect symmetry of form, and yet
I never before saw such a model of perfection. Here are three fine girls in the
same house with me; the eldest particularly handsome; but compared to Mrs. St.
Edward (for that is her name) they are mere dowdies. Their eyes are continually
upon the watch to see which feature is most regarded; their mouths are opened by certain
rules; and their limbs are thrown into motion by a kind of mechanic rule, which
conveys the idea of automatons moved by the springs of art, and robbing nature
of her choicest gifts.
As Mrs. St. Edward has received from
nature her most lavish favors, so she seems to return them by never departing
from her precepts. Every sentiment she utters is natural; every motion, every
gesture is natural; and every attitude in which she places herself, seems
directed by the most graceful natural ease. But I begin to anticipate thy
wishes, which, methinks, lead thee to have less of description, and more of her
history. But I shall fail in the latter, for as yet I know it but imperfectly.
St. Edward has been kept out of the possession of the family estate by some
derangements of economy, and a marriage with this sweet creature was the terms
of inheritance. They were no hard conditions for him; for her I am not so
clear. It seems she shewed a reluctance to the union, but was a sacrifice to
duty and obedience, from a thorough conviction of the rules of propriety and
rectitude. They are first cousins; and if I have any skill in physiognomy, or
rather in the observations of the heart, he is not the man she would have
chosen for her husband.
Good encouragement this for me, you
will say. No; my vanity does nothing for me on this occasion. She seems purity
itself; and appears at least to reverence her husband—I am mistaken if she
loves him. Not that he is an object by any means unlikely to inspire the tender
passion. He is handsome, well made, and what is generally termed agreeable. I
should conceive him to be quick, warm, and impetuous. His eyes seem rivetted to her charms; and when
she speaks, he looks round with a conscious value of his treasure. I know not
how the conversation turned upon the events in the West-Indies; of the numbers
we had lost there by the yellow fever. I sat near her—I observed her eye—I
observed her lovely bosom heave through her thin dress—and she could not
conceal a fluttering solicitude far exceeding common anxiety, when some
officers were named who had fallen victims to the contagion. She saw I observed
her; and the more she tried to suppress her feelings, the more conspicuous they
appeared. It is a point gained to know the subject which most interests the
heart of a female:—touch but the tender string, and the vibration extends to all
the soft chords, and beats with fond emotion.
When I am so happy as to be alone
with her, I shall introduce the subject by the most pathetic lamentations for
our dear countrymen. I shall pretend to have lost a relation there, whom I shall bewail with the
tenderest pity; what if she should make me in return the confidante of her
sorrows: let her once entrust me with a secret, and she is mine. Yes, my
fair-one, then thou art in my power; and well I know thy heart does not
palpitate thus for a brother, or any of thy kindred blood. No, it is for some
object infinitely more dear. Happy dog!—and my rival too,—detested fellow! I
must contrive thy destruction, if no lucky chance will do it for me.
Now, Carrington, don’t tell me I am
wrong, for that I know already; but I must at least indulge my wishes; and no
other pursuit at present interests me. I am tired of every thing besides; and
if thou wilt not indulge me in my only favourite theme, I shall write to thee
no more. Lovefield teazes me with the merits of his hunters, his hounds, and
all the etceteras of the sport; but I have no more relish for them than I have
for the country dinners and cards of invitation, on which his wife is
continually descanting. Nor can I, for my soul, admire the girls when they are thumping
at the harpsichord, or straining their throats for my amusement. I am sick of
all. Even books have lost their charms. Try thy hand at a letter, but write to
me of Julia St. Edward, or I shall find no pleasure in anything thou canst
relate.
Yours,
Baintree Park. FITZARNOLD.
LETTER IV.
Mrs. Clifford to Mrs. Safforey.
Crayborne, August 2.
MY DEAR MADAM,
YOUR laudable
curiosity, and your kind wishes, should have been sooner answered, had not a
variety of events intervened to prevent my writing, trifling in themselves,
perhaps, but such as sufficiently served to divest my mind of those powers of
recollection necessary for the relation of events, in which I wish to be
particularly minute.—When I am writing upon the subject of my dear Julia St.
Edward, I am at once flattered and pleased; for the request you have made encourages me to hope that I
shall, from time to time, be made acquainted with occurrences, about which I
must ever be particularly interested; and I am well assured, that, as you know
the concern I take in the events of my Julia’s life, the known goodness of your
heart leaves me no doubt in believing, that you will favor me with any
intelligence you may have relating to her.
I have known her
from her childhood, and I know her to be all that is
good and amiable. I likewise know all the secrets of her heart; and although I
have every reason to believe she would not wish to hide them from me, yet there
is a distance which the difference of age always creates, and naturally places
between that familiarity and unreserve, which I know subsists between younger
people, and is best adapted to that congeniality of ideas which a more advanced
period of life renders less communicative. I do not mean to be understood by
this, that I am unacquainted with the great secret of her heart; on the
contrary, I know it well;—for me it shall ever remain one, and may it be
always as sacredly preserved;—for to be divulged, would be absolute ruin both
to her and to her husband’s happiness.—I only mean by the above sentiments to
make an interest in your favor, in the hope of your placing that confidence in
me, of which I trust you will find me deserving, and which I cannot now so well
claim from Mrs. St. Edward herself.
Pardon, dear
madam, my running into length upon a subject so evident, as well as detaining
you from a relation of circumstances, about which you are so desirous to be
informed.——It is not my intention to enter into a detail of my own misfortunes,
farther than may be necessary to elucidate the history of those, concerning
whose fate you are so justly solicitous.——I am the widow of an officer who fell
early in the American war of 1776;—since that period every event has appeared
to me comparatively small. We had been married only a few months, but years had
impressed the knowledge of each others hearts, and the virtues we fondly
supposed they each possessed; for we loved too well to be sensible of faults in
either.—The first few months after I received the fatal intelligence of my
husband’s death, I was incapable of attending to anything. I wept incessantly;
and the petition I made in my daily prayers was for a speedy death to end my
sufferings. Impatience under afflictions was a crime I had not then learned to
subdue, and a long and severe illness was a just punishment for my murmurs
against the all-wise Dispenser of events.—I had chiefly resided in the
neighbourhood of Arkley Castle, and from a very early age I was impressed with
an idea of the riches and goodness of its inhabitants. I have but a very faint
remembrance of the old gentleman and lady, but a grand funeral for their only
daughter dwelt upon my recollection; and during my childhood I remember
listening to the current reports of their two surviving children being wild,
dissipated, and extravagant; that the timber was cut down to supply them with
money, and that when their profusion and ill conduct had made a mortgage upon
the estate a necessary measure, I heard my uncle say, he was sure it would be
the death of the old people, who had lived so many years in such high
respectability, practising the virtues of charity and benevolence in their
fullest extent. They never left their home; and if their lives were not marked
by elegance of manners, and superiority of knowledge, they were nevertheless
eminent for the good example they set. The most unbounded hospitality was the
result of excellent economy; and the whole tenor of their lives exemplified all
the Christian virtues.
The old gentleman
had been persuaded to give his sons a very liberal education; they were,
therefore, sent to the public seminaries of learning, where mixing with the
most extravagant associates, and being allowed unlimited power to draw for what
sums they pleased, (the old people being utterly unacquainted with the depravity
of the times), they soon made such demands as occasioned vast and cruel
depredations on this once rich and valuable domain, and reduced it to the state
before mentioned. The old gentleman and lady survived each other but a few
days. The loss of their daughter, and the folly of their sons, hastening the
debt of nature, they died in a premature old age, lamenting that they had not
brought up their sons in the simplicity and ignorance of their
forefathers. What remained of the estate
was remitted to these young men, who were squandering it in every act of
extravagance and dissipation, never coming to the castle, great part of which
was entirely shut up, and only an old part of it was reserved for the
habitation of three old servants, who were allowed some small portion out of
the estate for the remainder of their lives.
I was then in the
fifteenth year of my age; stories of the horrible kind are then most apt to
excite the attention. I listened with avidity to tales of ghosts and spectres, which the appearance of the castle in some degree authorized;—the
approach to it was overgrown with weeds, the trees darkened the avenues, the
rooks flew about in armies, the battlements were broken and crumbling to decay,
and time had made cruel devastation throughout the whole building. Often have I
looked through the broken casements in the daytime (for at night no one would
venture) with an eager curiosity, expecting and almost wishing to behold some
of the airy forms, of which I had heard such marvellous accounts from the
common people in the vicinity. I could, however, never discover any thing but a
scene of desolation, which seemed to pervade the whole building.
Soon after this
period, the youngest of the brothers, Godfrey St. Edward, took a small house in
the village where my uncle then resided. He brought his wife and an only
daughter, then a child, the present Mrs. Julia St. Edward. They remained in
this place about two years, during which time I contracted an intimacy with
Mrs. Godfrey St. Edward; and the young Julia, though many years younger than
myself, always expressed a partiality for me. At the death of Godfrey St.
Edward, which was occasioned by a fall from his horse, Mrs. St. Edward and her
daughter left the country, soon afterwards I left it also; and during that
period of happiness, which was confined to a very short space, I was entirely
absent from this county; and before my return, my worthy uncle was removed to
Crayborne, where Mrs. Godfrey St. Edward, then a widow, soon took a small
house, and resided there with Julia. The latter was much improved, and promised
all those graces and beauty for which she is now so universally admired.
There had always
been a shade of melancholy over the features of Mrs. St. Edward, which conveyed
the idea of misery, when I was a stranger to it. Now that my mind had experienced the greatest of all misfortunes, in the loss
of a kind and tender husband, I was more alive to the feelings of others; and
her recent loss still adding to her melancholy, we became more closely united
by misfortune; and although I never knew or pried into the secret causes of
her grief, I frequently heard her say, she laboured under a secret which she
wished to reveal, but durst not. It certainly preyed upon her health; and my
spirits were but just beginning to recover, when they were again deeply oppressed by the death of Mrs. St. Edward. She very earnestly recommended her
daughter to mine and my uncle’s care, observing that quarterly remittances
would be sent by her uncle, William St. Edward, for her use; and that he was to
have the sole direction concerning her in future. Mrs. St. Edward died, as she
had lived, oppressed with some secret, which, I have reason to think, was
buried with her, as I never heard her daughter allude to it, nor do I believe
she had any suspicion either of that, or of her own destiny.
The distance of
Crayborne from Arkley rendered the castle too remote to be an object of
contemplation. It was seldom mentioned; nor did we for a length of time hear
any thing of Mr. William St. Edward, except that he was punctual in sending the
remittances to my uncle. He never came to Crayborne, although it was said he every year visited the castle, which, in consequence, had undergone
some repairs. He was a widower, with one son, who, it was reported, would
reside at Arkley when he became of age. As to Julia, she was a composition of
all that was lovely. Her visits to you constituted her chief
happiness; and the knowledge I had of your family gave me the highest opinion
of every branch of it. Julia spoke of your brother as the counterpart of
yourself, and I had no need of a higher encomium. When Mr. Delafore accompanied
you to Crayborne, during the time you were on a visit there, I immediately saw
he had no common share in her esteem; and at that time I apprehended no evil
from an attachment which seemed to promise all that was desirable.
Soon after this
period, Mr. William St. Edward arrived at Crayborne, late in the evening. Julia
was then on a visit at your house. Never shall I forget the agitated appearance
of Mr. St. Edward; his looks bespoke the perturbation of his mind. He had a
long conference with my uncle; and when he took his leave, I heard him in a
peremptory tone, yet trembling voice, enforce something of an important nature to
my uncle, whose melancholy looks and unusual manner indicated the agitation
which the abrupt and unexpected visit of Mr. St. Edward had occasioned. He did
not make me acquainted with what had passed, but appeared to be musing on
something very perplexing. He said that Julia must immediately be sent for
home; intimating that he was sorry she had ever passed so much time where it
appeared she had formed an attachment which must now be given up.
“Yes,” added my
dear uncle, “the fate of Julia has been fixed by her father and her uncle long
before she was capable of distinguishing the nature of choice. The most solemn
vows were made by each brother that their children should be united. Mr. St.
Edward has this day repeated his oath, and enjoined me to see it fulfilled. I
represented to him the cruelty, nay, even the sin of forcing the
will, which the heart did not sanction; but he would not admit my argument. He
appears to be agitated by enthusiastic zeal; says he has too long neglected the
completion of their vow, and has been warned by a departed spirit to hasten the
ratification, as the only terms of peace to a mind torn by affliction.—“What,”
said my uncle, “can be offered to a man under the influence of such a
persuasion? You must prepare Julia for the reception of her cousin, who will be
here in a few days; after which, you are to inform her that he is to be her
husband; that nothing can alter the decree; and she must shortly be mistress of
Arkley Castle.”
What a task was
mine (who so well knew the influence of the tender passions,) to endeavour to
root it from her heart! yet, faithful to the trust reposed in me, I represented
to her, in the most persuasive language, the necessity of her compliance. My
uncle also enforced the same doctrine, while his heart bled for her
misery.—Never can I forget the day she was informed of her father’s will. She
had then seen her present husband, young William St. Edward, and had been
speaking of him with that affectionate regard their relationship warranted;
when my uncle told her she must entertain a still more tender love for him, and
that he must be her husband.—It was evident what an interest she had gained in
his heart, for he had spoken of her with rapture.—She absolutely shuddered with
affright.
“No—no—no!” she
repeated, “never! What, the son of my uncle!—Save, protect me from such a
fate:” and then, as if more determined—“My will,” said she, “cannot be forced.
My heart is not mine to bestow; it is given to the worthiest of men; the most
pious vows have sealed the covenant, and Heaven would punish perjury like that
of breaking them. My uncle never could approve it—nor you, my friends; and why
torture me with fears of such a nature?” She seemed now to assume a countenance
so satisfied, that my uncle could not then urge the subject farther, but only
said, in his mild persuasive tones, “We will talk this matter over at some
future time; till when, my dear child, be composed, and trust in the wise
Disposer of all events for happiness in this world, as well as in that which is
to come, for he alone can give it.”—She stood like a trembling victim, with the
tears running down her cheeks, and seemed to have lost every power of exertion.
My own feelings were little better than her’s; her distress recalled to my mind
ideas of too tender a nature to admit of my offering her consolation, and the
subject was not resumed again for some days; nor had my uncle either
spirits or inclination to attempt it, till a letter from Mr. St. Edward again
pointed out the necessity of the case, when it was again renewed, and enforced
by the most gentle and kind persuasions. It was represented to her that, by
refusing to comply with the will of her father, she deprived herself of all
inheritance whatsoever, as by some unaccountable agreement between the
brothers, that circumstance made a part of the contract.
She heard these
remonstrances and expostulations with the same anguish as before; she
endeavoured also to preserve the same firmness; and she offered to relinquish
all right and claim to any part of her share in the inheritance, and give it
up, without the smallest reserve, to her uncle and her cousin, if by so doing,
she might preserve her liberty, and not be compelled in her choice. “Yes,” said
she, (wringing her hands,) “leave me destitute even of the necessaries of
life; let me procure my livelihood by the work of my hands—let me be any thing
but a perjured wretch. Oh Sir, I have vowed to be the wife of Henry Delafore,
and never to be another’s; he has declared the same to me; and Heaven has
witnessed our plighted faith. Can any institution, even so sacred as that of
marriage, set aside vows like these?”
My uncle was
prepared for this offer, and assured her it would not be accepted. He told her,
hard was the task imposed on him, to endeavour to alter sentiments so resolved,
and inclinations so attached; but since he knew her fate to be so inevitably fixed, and since her cousin had declared his violent love for her, he
still wished she could bring her mind to that degree of compliance, as would
make what was an irrevocable destiny appear like a duteous choice. He
represented the shortness of life, and how valueless the choicest of its
blessings were, when compared with the rewards of duty and obedience in that
which would be everlasting. Above all, he urged the strongest reasons to
prevent her from giving Mr. St. Edward the most distant idea of her attachment
to your brother; and as that gentleman had been absent so many months without
any accounts of his safety being received, he ventured to hint at the
probability of his having fallen a victim, amongst the multitude of others, to
the unfavourable climate whither he was gone, and this was still more to be
feared, as he had never written a syllable either to her or to any of
his friends. She could not bear this idea; and her sufferings were greater than
I can describe.
It would be only
a repetition to dwell upon the arguments my uncle used to enforce the necessity
of her compliance, and the constant refusal she gave and persevered in for a
length of time, and which no persuasions seemed to lessen; and I am firmly
persuaded that when she did at last consent, it was in a perfect belief that
she should not survive the conflict it occasioned in her mind.
Three days before
her marriage took place, she asked me if I did not think her looks much changed. I told her she was thin, but not less lovely.
“Oh Mrs. Clifford!” she replied, “less tortures than my mind has suffered,
would have deprived many people of life; but I am not to die; it pleases the Almighty
to prolong my existence, although I have so ardently prayed for a period to it.
My father and his brother,” she continued, “entered into a solemn agreement it
seems, that their children should be united, in order to cancel the obligations
they were under to each other. My cousin and myself, the innocent offspring of
two unhappy fathers, were made the victims of their rash vows, which, I
understand, were rendered sacred by the most awful oaths and dreadful
imprecations of everlasting happiness or misery to the survivor, if they were
not fulfilled;—and shall so poor a creature as I am dare to break a covenant
like this?—No;—my present design is to marry my cousin, and render myself a
sacrifice to their vows. Cruel, indeed, has been the conflict; nor were the
vows I made less binding, though they implicated no curses on posterity.—I have
prayed (I hope they were not presumptuous prayers) that death would have
decided my fate before I had given the fatal promise. Heaven has pleased to
order it otherwise, and I submit to its decrees. Your good uncle has comforted
me with the assurance that my submission will be rewarded, at least by an
approving conscience. But of this—Oh! my friend, do not I break a vow as sacred
as any my father could have made? and am I not more immediately answerable for
that than for any other? Whither do these ideas lead me? Oh hide me from
myself!”—She then rested her head upon my shoulder with a
sigh that pierced my heart, and I would have given worlds to have comforted
her, but tears choked my utterance; I could not articulate words sufficient to
express my sentiments. She saw my distress, withdrew her face from my bosom,
and soon quitted the room. I had not any more conversation with her on the
subject; we seemed both to make a point of avoiding it; and on the day she was
married, she assumed a placid appearance, except during the ceremony, when she
seemed much agitated. She left us soon afterwards; and when I saluted her cheek
on taking leave, it felt as cold as marble; but she preserved an easy and not
altogether uncheerful countenance.—Pray heaven she may be composed; happy I
dare not suppose. From your friendship I know she will derive great
consolation; her own good sense will regulate her conduct; and I have every
reason to believe she is married to a man who truly loves her. She asked me to
write to her, and to visit her when my uncle could spare me. As yet I have done
neither. In writing I could say nothing that would not in some degree, recal
former remembrances; and I think the more new scenes in which she is engaged,
the better.
I fear the length
of this letter will tire you, but I have a pleasure in obeying your request
upon a subject in which I am too much interested to be limited. I trust it will
need no further apology. I shall think myself much favored, if you will have
the goodness to inform me of any particulars you may chance to know concerning
Mrs. St. Edward; and I remain,
Dear Madam,
Your truly obliged and
obedient servant
ANN CLIFFORD.
LETTER V.
Lord Robert
Carrington to Lord Fitzarnold.
Brighton, August 2, 17—.
DEAR FITZARNOLD,
YOUR letter was forwarded to me at this place. I wish you were here, or
(I had almost said) at any other than your present residence. This I know would
have given a scope to your wit.—You insist upon my writing to you of Julia St.
Edward; so I will, and no other subject shall have a place in my letter. Does
it not please you? I think I cannot pay her a higher compliment.—You desire me
not to tell you, you are wrong, for you say you know it;—why then, I shall
spare myself the trouble: but you do not prohibit me from saying, I am right, and that I will proceed to
prove.
You say Julia St.
Edward is not happy; and yet, instead of endeavouring to restore her happiness,
you are studying the means of making her more wretched; for as you suppose her
to be virtuous, you may rest assured, that every attempt you make to shake that
principle, will not only contribute to her misfortunes, but at the same time defeat
your own purpose. If she entertains a partiality for some distant friend, you
may be very certain, as a woman of virtue, she is using her utmost efforts to
correct and subdue every idea that is not consistent with the purity of her
heart; and will you raise obstacles to this design? Will you light up the
embers of a (perhaps) dying flame, and which, after all, may only exist in your
wild imagination? Even were it otherwise, how would you be benefited by
recalling remembrances forbidden and prohibited, and which, but for you, had
been forgotten. It must at least be bad policy to introduce a rival in the
breast where you seek an interest for yourself.—This is reasoning you cannot
disallow, which your judgment must approve, though your wishes may condemn. Leave,
then, Mrs. St. Edward to the protection of her husband, and to those peaceful
virtues which are the reward of an innocent heart, and hasten from the
fascinating object to thy ever faithful friend,
ROBERT CARRINGTON.
LETTER VI.
Mrs. Safforey
to Mrs. St. Edward.
Ledcombe, August 19, 17—.
YOUR letter, my dear Julia, should not have remained so long
unanswered, but I knew you did not expect from me a formal congratulation;
neither was I willing to break in upon the many engagements and new avocations
which must necessarily occupy the hours of a bride, particularly in the
situation you so deservedly fill. You will judge of the sincerity of my heart,
by the kind of letter I shall write to you; for I study no forms when I am
addressing my dearest friend: I write just what comes into my head, as I used
to do, for I hope, my dear Julia, our friendship will continue the same as it
ever was; indeed, I see no reason why it should not. I know you are incapable
of changing, and I know my own heart; but besides this, your own dear husband
said, he should always value my friendship, and hoped it would for ever be
continued. I am persuaded, my Julia, you are a happy woman. I will hear none of
your gloomy sentiments. You are the envy of your sex. How many females are
there who would gladly be in your situation! Miss Langton told me, she never
saw so handsome a man as Mr. St. Edward, and that when you drove past their
house, she thought it was the lot of very few to be so happy: indeed the value
of a kind and tender husband is incalculable. Tell me no more foolish nonsense
about first cousins:—where did you pick up such obsolete notions? How many
instances do I know of first cousins marrying, and being perfectly happy. Why
should they not? In former ages it was considered a crime not to take a wife of
our own kindred, and it is said to have grieved the hearts of the parents when
their sons went out to see “the daughters of
the land.” Really, my dear, I should have supposed that part of your
letter to have been written by your nurse, or some superanuated old woman, and
not by the pen of Julia St. Edward. Away with such superstition, never to be
tolerated but in those days when we were silly girls, and used to consult dame
Freedom upon the fortunes which were to mark our lives, and fancied she could
tell us future events by poring into the grounds of a coffee-cup, or reading our
destiny in a dirty pack of cards. Methinks I see her now spitting on her
thumbs, and relating wonderful things of the lovers we were each to captivate;
the profusion of riches which were to be showered upon us; of the delightful
journies we were to take, or the superb presents which awaited us; with a
thousand other promises, equally idle and ridiculous. Yet in those youthful
hours we were as pleased with the old woman’s predictions, as we were with
dressing our dolls at a still earlier period.
But a few years,
my Julia, make as great an alteration in our sentiments as in our persons; and
we look back upon them with wonder, that our minds could ever have received
amusement from any trifles of this nature. As we grow to a more mature age,
reason expands, and we consider those juvenile days, not less happy perhaps,
but, very inferior to the more interesting pursuits which then occupy our
minds. I know not any person whose prospects promise fairer than your’s. You
are united to a man who appears to adore you, and by this union you are
entitled to that fortune, which not only gives you the ample enjoyment of the
good things of this world, but enables you to diffuse, with a liberal hand,
those blessings to objects which may want or merit them.
You are placed in
the seat of your ancestors, to honour their memory by imitating their example.
No profession calls your husband from your arms: unless by choice, you need
never be separated. No hostile mandate tears him away, nor between you does a
boistrous ocean roll. These, my Julia, are inestimable blessings, and which you
will, I hope, justly prize. These will bind you by stronger ties than even duty
and obedience. Affection will rivet them; and you will look with pity upon
those who feel almost the pains of misfortune under the dread of uncertainty;
and none but those who suffer them, can tell how bitter is the potion. From
evils like these you will be exempt; and amidst the choicest of your comforts,
you may anticipate a race of St. Edwards adorned with virtues like your own.
You will be engaged in the delightful task of forming their minds to all that
is lovely and good. I am the more anxious to have this wish realized, because
it must be that of your husband. You are the only remaining branches of the
family. Your uncle, from not having been heard of so long, is either dead, or
living in some retirement, secluded from all belonging to him; and there is
every reason to suppose he will never more visit Arkley Castle. Indeed, I
understand, he made some such resolution when he was last there; and the last
years he has passed, have been marked by such a train of eccentric ideas and
odd fancies, that I should not be surprised to hear he was turned hermit, and
would never associate again with his fellow creatures.
I beg you will
write to me as often as you have leisure or opportunity. Be assured that no one
living can be more interested in your happiness than I am, which I entreat you
will promote, as well for your own sake as for your husband’s. The welfare of
both will chiefly rest in your power, and from you much will be expected. You
have always been held out as a pattern to all that was amiable in the unmarried
state:—in the married one you have an opportunity of being more conspicuously
eminent. Let me, then, hear no more of your woes: you are, I am persuaded, too
good a Christian to repine at a fate for which so many are inclined to envy
you, and would gladly make an exchange with you. Let me have the pleasure of
hearing that you will approve and take my counsel, which will afford the
sincerest satisfaction to
Your faithful
ELINOR SAFFOREY.
LETTER VII.
Lord
Fitzarnold to Lord Robert Carrington.
Baintree Park, September 2, 17—.
YOUR letter, Carrington, has not made an atom of difference in my
sentiments or my designs: you know I told you it would not.
You meant it well, my friend, but you have never seen my Julia. Yes, my Julia!
I will have it so. Mine she must be, the Fates have so ordained it; and you
know there is no resisting their decrees. Besides, it would be too much for
such a fellow as St. Edward to possess entirely a jewel of such magnitude and
brilliancy; it would be absolute monopoly. Yet don’t think I rave; I am acting
methodically; and I will endeavour to arrange my plans, and to write them in
order.
Carrington, I
have conversed with Julia on a tender subject; one, too, that is next her
heart. I was right in my conjecture: she is not married to her love. She did
not tell me this in express words, but what she said amounted to an avowal of
it; and yet she has more sense than all the females I ever conversed with; and
I had almost said, more prudence. But against that thou wouldst have cried out,
“I wish you would come here, and engage the girls here from persecuting one,
when I could wish to be otherwise employed.” Miss Lovefield absolutely makes
advances, and I should have no great trouble to have her, I believe, upon any
terms: but no!—one dishonorable pursuit is sufficient at a time. You see I do not pretend to palliate, and call it by any name
it does not deserve. And, indeed, when the heart is deeply engaged, as mine undoubtedly is, the attentions of all other women are impertinent and
disgusting. I can but just bring myself within the rules of common decency and
complaisance.
Mrs. Lovefield is
quite the country squire’s lady. Her vulgarisms are extreme; and she has not
the most distant idea of elegance. Such a fine
creature as Mrs. St. Edward seems beyond her comprehension, and therefore she
abuses that angel, and says, “I do not know how ’tis, but there seems to me
to be something monstrous awkward in that Mrs. St. Edward. She is so grave and
formal. She certainly has not seen much of the world. No; she has none of the
ease of a person of fashion, and there is no being intimate with her.”
No;—well I know
there is not, for Julia is of a different order of beings from this woman, who
thinks good breeding consists in being familiar, and calling all her neighbours
Mrs. G. and Mrs. B.; and then alludes to some silly joke, of which the rest of
the company are ignorant. She has likewise, in some degree, taught her
daughters this pretty sort of behaviour; for they stretch their mouths from ear
to ear, and nod and look significant; with a hundred other grimaces with which
my sweet Julia is as little acquainted as they are with her excellencies. I
could not hear her named with disrespect; and therefore told my
slanderous hostess (with as much civility as I could muster, after such an
affront to my feelings,) that she had entirely mistaken the character of Mrs.
St. Edward; that she was reserved from diffidence, and grave from habit and
modest good breeding. But they all stared as if they did not understand me; and
I was afraid to be too elaborate in her praise, least they might take whims in
their heads which I would on no account engender.
During this
conversation, my friend Lovefield enjoyed a comfortable repose, an indulgence he never fails to yield to soon after dinner,
unless the sports of the field or the merits of his hunters are the subject. He
has, however, kind soul! invited me to stay during the shooting season; and
were his slumbers prolonged, his wife’s vulgarity increased, and the daughters
persecutions insupportable, I would still accept his invitation, for it places
me in the vicinity of all that is charming and desirable in this world. If you
can indulge me in this darling theme, if you can point out any new plans by
which my schemes may be successful, write to me without delay; but if thou
canst only repeat truths which, though they may be truths, only fill me with
disgust, (for conviction without resolution is a tormenting fiend,) keep thy good
counsel for thine own use, and leave to chance, and her blest
propitious favor,
Thy friend,
FITZARNOLD.
LETTER VIII.
Mrs. St.
Edward to Mrs. Safforey.
Arkley Castle, Sept. 4, 17—.
MY DEAR ELINOR,
YOUR intention is, I doubt not, very good, in sending me a letter
which, except its assuring me of your health, could not possibly
afford me any comfort. You rally me unmercifully on my low spirits and my
superstitious sentiments, but you do not sooth me, and you know not how much I
stand in need of that consolation. Indeed, my friend, were you a little to
humour my failings, it might have a better effect. There are moments when my
opprest mind flies for relief to some kind pitying heart, congenial with its
own, and in seeking for such an asylum, I have, I fear, discovered, in some
degree, the great secret of my soul to another besides my Elinor. It was a
moment of weakness which nothing but the fullness of my heart could excuse. I
have every reason to hope that the breast in which I have dared to repose it,
is replete with honour.
Not to keep you
in suspense, I must begin by introducing a family who are my nearest
neighbours. They are the Lovefields of Baintree Park. He is a plain country
squire, devoted to the sports of the field, and not a very brilliant companion.
His wife is one of those notable dames who, having full power in her own
department, and indeed usurping authority far beyond its extent, takes upon her
not only to regulate the economy of her own household, but would be busy in the
arrangement of all her neighbours. She appears to me vulgar, impertinent, and
underbred. She has three daughters—the eldest a very fine woman;
and one son a child. The girls have been well educated, but from the constant
example before their eyes, they have imbibed some of her ideas, and have,
besides, a great deal of conceit and affectation. Upon the whole, they all seem
favorites with Mr. St. Edward. He is himself a great sportsman, and the horses
and hounds have their full share in the conversations he holds with Mr.
Lovefield. Do you think I have given you as yet any character to whom I could
confide a secret; no, none of this group I have yet named: but there is one who
at present forms a part of their family, and Heaven knows how he came to be a
visitor to such people, or for what reason he prolongs his stay. It is Lord
Fitzarnold. His manners are very pleasing, and he seems to possess an
understanding far superior to any to which I have been
lately used. He is certainly a man of the world, and as such, may adopt
sentiments very different from his heart. But I know not how
it is, his manners appear to be so regulated by decorum, and at the same time
he shews such an interest and such a sensibility in all he expresses, that he
imperceptibly gains upon the understanding, while his generous and liberal
opinions lead you to unreserve, and divest the mind of all suspicion. Thus it
was with me; and although I think well of Lord Fitzarnold, yet I
did not mean to entrust him with the dearest secret of my heart: you may
believe me, my Elinor, I did not. No,—let all its weakness be confined to the
narrow circle which has hitherto contained it.
The subject of
war happening to be introduced between us, he lamented in terms so pathetic the
loss of a near relation in the West-Indies, as at once awakened my attention,
and led me to ask particulars. I fear my looks and manner betrayed an emotion
the more apparent by endeavouring to conceal it. He looked at me as if he would
penetrate my heart, while he expatiated upon the virtues of this beloved
friend. “Yes,” he continued, “he was in a few weeks to have returned, and been blest by the hand of a woman, lovely almost as Mrs. St. Edward.” I
attended not to the compliment, but eagerly asked how she bore the loss, and if
she was yet unmarried. “Yet, and ever will remain so, my dearest madam,” he
replied; “for can you suppose that vows faithful as their’s, approved on earth,
and registered in Heaven, could ever be transferred to others, even though one of
them were no more.” This sentence, uttered with energy and warmth, was too much
for my weak spirits. I felt my heart palpitate; I trembled from head to foot;
and some inarticulate sentence involuntarily burst from my lips. I cannot say
what it was, but I thought his looks seemed to express pity mixed with
astonishment at what I had so inadvertently declared. In a moment I saw the
danger as well as the folly into which I had been betrayed, and collecting all
my resolution, I recovered myself, and I think came off pretty well. I said, “I
have a very dear friend, whose husband is exposed to the dangers of the climate
we have been speaking of, and I am so interested in whatever concerns her, that
I cannot hear of its dangers without shewing an agitation, as if it were a
husband of my own.” I know not if he gave me credit for the truth of this, yet
I cannot help fancying that he has ever since viewed me with pity: but whenever
he has again led to that conversation, I have immediately changed it; for never
more will I trust myself with a subject in which I have so little command of my
feelings.
Lord Fitzarnold
seems, by an easy politeness, and a redundancy of goodnature, to accommodate
himself to all our humours. As to the Lovefields, it is impossible he can like
them; yet they all speak of him in the highest terms. Mr. St. Edward too, seems
pleased with his company; and, to speak truth, his sensible observations,
sometimes seasoned with the most poignant wit, have beguiled, if not enlivened,
some hours which would otherwise have hung heavily with your poor friend; for,
my Elinor, to disclose a secret which will I know be as safe in your breast as
in my own, Mr. St. Edward has but little conversation. I have tried on various
subjects to engage his attention, but none seem to fix him for a moment. He is
what the world calls good-humoured, that is, he always appears gay and pleased,
yet is ever looking forward for a pleasure which never seems to arrive.
The amusements of the field seem to engross much of his attention; and I
believe it is a common observation, that where horses and dogs are in very high
estimation, the more rational pleasures of society are less valued. When we are
to dine at Baintree Park, or that family to dine with us, he anticipates the
pleasure of it with as much joy as others would express on
occasions of much higher delight, and has once or twice wondered that I was not
equally elated with the idea; yet, when the day has arrived, any common
observer would suppose that I was the happiest person of the two; for when the
enjoyment is actually in his possession, it seems to have lost its charms, and
he is then expatiating on the pleasures of some future day. This may be a happy
sort of disposition to be always looking forward to felicity; it is surely
better than to be looking back upon joys that must be thought of no more,—ah!
never, never to return. I envy this happy propensity more than I can express. O
that I could obliterate all the past, and only look forward to the joys which
may be to come; yet I fear, those reserved for your Julia lie in a very narrow
space.—You remind me of our juvenile days, when we consulted the old woman’s
astrological abilities, but you do not add how truly she prophecied my destiny. Did she not repeatedly tell me I should not be married to
the man of my heart? that I should be miserable, and he would not be happy? Few
of those people tell you such unwelcome truths, but you must well remember she
did, although at that time I did not believe her:—no, not a twelvemonth since
would a far superior power have persuaded me that I should now be Mrs. St.
Edward; that I should—Oh! but I will forbear: I grow giddy at
retrospection.—Elinor, you do not use me well. You write me a nonsensical
letter, and try to evade my questions, and amuse me by a trifling style of
writing unlike yourself, and as if I were a child. You do not name your
husband: surely, that is a subject about which you cannot even affect to be
indifferent. You might at least have told me whether or not you had heard from
him. You are not to learn that we should write to each other as more than
common correspondents, or that there is little occasion to ransack our brains
for fine sentiments, or witty sarcasms: you must remember you desired me to
write you every thought of my mind; a heart like mine finds great relief in so
doing, and I have strictly obeyed your injunction; but you have not fulfilled
your part, and unless you do, expect to be treated with a reserve unworthy of
our friendship, and truly foreign to the heart of
Your affectionate
JULIA ST. EDWARD.
LETTER IX.
From the same
to the same.
Arkley Castle, Sept. 14, 17—.
I WILL not wait, my dear Elinor, for your answer to the last; I will
suppose you have taken some time to consider its contents, and, according to my
desire, improve your style, and lay aside your reserve. I am now alone: St.
Edward is gone to London. You cannot think with what childish impatience he
looked forward to his journey; but upon this disposition I have before
enlarged, and the subject had, I believe, better drop. I was invited to go with
him, but as he went upon business, and the journey would have afforded me no
pleasure, I thought it best to remain here. Would you could come to me, for I
feel myself very sad and forlorn in this great castle quite alone. My mind,
opprest with sorrows, is weakened almost into fear. I am not superstitious; and
used to possess a degree of courage which some of our sex think unfeminine; but
now I seem to be less under the dominion of reason than formerly, although I
cannot account for it.
I sat last night
in a small dressing-room at the end of a long gallery. It is not very near my
chamber, but I chose it for the fine view it has of the most beautiful part of the grounds and the adjacent country. I have decorated
the brown oak wainscot with some of my paintings, ornamented with fanciful
frames of my own making, which have a pretty effect, and I prefer it so
to a more modern style.—There are many parts of this castle in which I have
never been; and its antiquity and mode of building must render it suitable to
the residence of airy inhabitants. I confess this idea pleased and amused me
when I first came, and I welcomed the notion of supernatural forms and noises
with the pleasure the novelty inspired; but we think and talk of things at a
distance with different sensations from those we feel when we really engage in
them.—I suppose it may be rats which infest the rooms, and, perhaps, they have
bred for many generations in some of the uninhabited parts of this castle; but
I was really terrified last night at the strange and unaccountable noises I
heard. To be sure I have no faith in ghosts and goblins, and yet I started from
my chair several times, and was at last compelled, through absolute fear, to
ring my bell; and when Lucy attended me, she discerned so much alarm impressed
on my countenance, that she ventured to speak upon the subject of terrors
occasioned by supernatural appearances, without that fear of my displeasure by
which she had been hitherto restrained; for, on my first coming, the servants
had told her a thousand frightful stories, the repetition of which I had
prohibited, being replete with folly and superstition, and gathering additions
each time they were related, until they were increased to a mass of the most
incoherent nonsense you can suppose. It was now, however, that my courage and
resolution deserted me, and I allowed her, unreproved, to tell a tale, the
recital of which may, perhaps, divert you, although I confess it terrified me.
To keep you
therefore no longer in suspense, Lucy began by saying, (in a hesitating voice
and a countenance strongly impressed with terror,) “Law, mame! you look
frightened;—sure you hav’n’t seen any thing! O dear me, mame, this house is
sartainly haunted. I have heard sitch noises as none but spirits could make;
and as sure as I stands here alive, the t’other night, as I was a coming through the gallery where all the pictures be, I heard a noise,
and as I turned my head, (tho’ I generally shuts my eyes if I comes that way,)
law! I thought I should a died; for the great picture of the ould lady as
fronts the door, and I always thinks looks at me, but now its eyes moved, and I
saw them as plain, mame, as I now see your’s move. Well—I runs screaming back
again, and just as I got to the great stairs I met Mary housemaid, and so she
seeing me so frighted, we took fast hold of one another, and shut our eyes, and so
we run down stairs; and when I told her what had made me so frightful, she was
not at all surprised, for she said she had seen it more than once or twice; and
when she told it in the kitchen, Mr. Harding, master’s gentleman, said there
was no occasion to be afeard, for sitch things did happen now a-days; and said
as how he had read a book called the Castle of Trantum, where pictures walked
out of their frames, and sighed; and I think he said, sometimes spoke! Lord
bless us! it makes me shake now but to think on’t. However, I have never
ventured through the gallery since; but I believe it is the same in every place
in the house; for the dairy-maid, who is up sometimes before ’tis light, says
she has seen lights and faces a looking through the windows in the lower
buildings, and heard sitch noises, as she’s sure the ghosts must be playing
strange gambols.”
Lucy was going
on, and indeed I know not where she would have stopped, for the subject seemed
to be inexhaustible; but here I interrupted her. I told her she was not to
attend to all the idle stories she heard; that as to the eyes moving, which she
knew were only painted on a piece of canvas, it was folly in the extreme to
suppose it; and as to the book she mentioned, neither herself or the man
understood it. It was written by a very
ingenious man, in order to display the powers of fancy upon the subject of terror,
but by no means intended to be considered as truth, and was called the Castle
of Otranto. I reasoned with her a long time upon the absurdity of her fears,
and used all my rhetoric to dissuade her from her belief in supernatural
appearances or noises. Unfortunately for my argument, just as I had pronounced
that the latter was occasioned by rats, a most uncommon noise assailed our
ears, and, as if to disprove my assertion, such as was impossible to have been
produced by a rat. We both started;—I endeavoured to collect my ideas so as to divest my countenance of fear, although I confess I knew not
what to make of it. I hardly know how to describe it, but it appeared like
three sharp strokes of a stick or cane upon a door which opens upon
the top of three steps leading to a colonnade. This was not all, for in a
moment after I distinctly heard several chords of music, sounding like those
produced from a guitar or mandoline. The sounds then died away, and soon after
entirely ceased. How am I to account for these things, my friend? Can you
wonder at my surprise, not to say my fear? I kept Lucy with me for the
remainder of the evening, and I used all my endeavours to dissipate her fears,
at the same time I stood greatly in need myself of some able reasoner to dispel
my own.
Perhaps I have
never told you that Mr. St. Edward retains some very old servants in the
castle, consisting of a steward, a butler, and a female servant, who all lived with our grandfather, and are, from age and infirmities, past service,
but are allowed to remain here during their lives, and as a reward for
their fidelity and attachment to the family in all its vicissitudes. The
steward is infirm, but sensible and clear; the butler very sickly; and the
female servant more alive and alert than either, notwithstanding she is the
oldest of the three.
I frequently make
a visit to these good people, and I always find
myself in better humour after hearing their praises of my ancestors,
their gratitude for the comforts they enjoy, and the abundant blessings they
pray may be continued to the posterity of the St. Edwards. To this ancient
circle I made a visit the next morning. They received me with their usual
respect and cordiality. The butler, whose name is Arthur Bennet, is a very fine
old man, with his hair as white as silver. He always wears a green apron; and
on very particular gala days, will still stand at the sideboard. Mr. Bond, the
old steward, is too far advanced in age to make any such distinctions, or
bestow much notice on anything.
Alice Grundy, the
female, is a cheerful neat old woman, with a sharp nose, and a pair of eyes,
which, I have no doubt, did execution in their youth. She wears her gown laced
down her stomacher, and a mob cap tied under her chin, and as tight as a drum
upon her head. Her faculties are so little impaired by time, that she is still of use, and spins and knits for the family. She will always resign her wicker
chair to me, and overwhelms me with compliments and praises.—After enquiring
the health of each, and observing on the weather, I alluded to old times, and
asked Arthur Bennet, in a careless manner, if the castle had not been always
famous for strange and unaccountable noises. “Yes, good madam,” he replied,
“that it has; but I never minded the nonsense that was talked. I have lived in
it nine-and-forty years come next Michaelmas, and, thank God, never see’d
anything uglier than myself. As to noises, ’tis impossible that in such a great
rambling place, but there must be noises. Why I reckon there be rats as old as
I am, or nearly; and then the wind makes its way in all the long passages and
staircases enough to startle a bold man. But I hope, my dear lady, you have met
with nothing to fright or terrify you; and I am sorry you did not go to London
with his honour: such a sweet couple should never be parted. My old master and
mistress were never divided for fifty years, and then only by death. But
fashions be changed since then, and they say as nobody lives in that sort of
way now a-days,—the more’s the pity; for when two people loves one another,
they should always be together.”
Perhaps I might
have been more willing to subscribe to Arthur’s opinions than most modern
ladies would have done, but no matter, the subject made me grave, and a silence
ensued, which was broken by Alice, who asked me, in a low voice, and an
enquiring eye, if I had heard or seen any thing to alarm me. I replied, “No,
nothing but what had just been accounted for, as occasioned by the wind, the
rats, or various other causes, by no means worth investigating; except,” I
added, “the sound of music, which, not knowing any person in the castle
practised besides myself, I could not easily account for.” “Music!” repeated
Arthur and Alice, both in a breath, and with looks of unfeigned surprise, “that
cannot be!” “Certainly,” I said, “it was, and heard not only by myself, but
likewise by my maid, who was with me; that we distinctly heard several notes
repeated upon the kind of instrument before mentioned; that I had made enquiry
amongst the servants, and found that not one of them played upon any instrument
whatsoever.” The old man and woman viewed each other with what I thought very
significant looks, but still doubting what I had affirmed; and finding I could
gain no information, I concluded my visit with good wishes for their health.
This day’s post
brought me a letter from St. Edward. He does not talk of returning, on the
contrary, he is going to Margate with a family of whom he speaks in a strain of
rapture, which, from the pen of an adored husband, might create no small
jealousy. Why it has not that effect
on me I will leave to your
penetration to discover, and content myself, as a good wife should, under such
unfortunate circumstances. I have written you two long letters, and I think the
least you can do is to answer them without delay, as well to console me in my
widowed state, as to comfort me with the assurance that I may rely on your
friendship; and ever remain,
Truly yours,
JULIA ST. EDWARD.