STELLA
OF THE NORTH.
A
NOVEL.
LANE,
MINERVA-PRESS, LEADENHALL-STREET.
STELLA
OF THE NORTH,
OR
THE
FOUNDLING OF THE SHIP.
A
NOVEL.
IN
FOUR VOLUMES.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF ADELAIDE DE NARBONNE, &c.
“Virtue
can itself advance
“By
fortune seem’d design’d;
“Virtue
can gain the odds of fate,
“And
from itself shake off the weight
“Upon
th’ unworthy mind.”
PARNELL.
VOL.
II.
LONDON:
PRINTED
AT THE
MINERVA-PRESS,
FOR
LANE AND NEWMAN,
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1802.
STELLA
OF
THE
NORTH.
“Feeling does not stay to
calculate with weights and balance
the
importance and magnitude of every object that excites it:
it
flows impetuously from the heart, without consulting the
cooler
responses of the understanding.”
GODWIN.
A TEMPORARY pause succeeded these reflections,
which seemed to have somewhat tranquillized her late perturbed mind: she rose,
and slowly ascending the steps, proceeded to complete its entire recovery, by
continuing the task of self-examination a few minutes longer in the grotto.
Stella had already proved the fallacy of hope and the
disappointment of hasty conclusions on this subject: success, however, appeared
still within her reach; and with the short-sighted ardour of youthful
impetuosity, the same system of reformation was once more adopted, while the
bare possibility of an unsuccessful termination to the attempt was not
permitted to damp expectation, or reckoned amongst other probable chances in
the catalogue of human accidents.
On
entering her favourite retirement, Stella placed herself amongst the flowering
shrubs in the window, and pensively marked the last rays of the sun glittering
on the distant bosom of the ocean. A passing shadow momentarily caught her eye;
but the woodbine and sweetbriar that hung in festoons on the exterior side,
prevented her from discovering by what it was produced. After leaning
ineffectually forward for that purpose, she resumed her contemplative posture,
and the incident was presently forgotten in reflections of a more interesting
nature.
The
door had been left unlatched on her entrance; it was now gradually pushed open,
and a very beautiful spaniel appeared, whose motions indicated the loss of his
master, for he traced the floor repeatedly with his nose to the ground, and
then approaching the window, stopped before Stella, looked up in her face,
wagged his tail, and seemed evidently to court particular attention by the
fawning caresses and playful gambols with which he strove to attract her
notice.
“Some
sportsman from the grove is probably on his way home,” thought Stella; “perhaps
Captain Montague; if so, he may now be in the Hermitage with Mrs. Bertram.
But,” continued she, stroking the dog’s head while she spoke, “you have got a
collar I perceive; by it I shall soon discover if I am right in my
supposition.”
She
bent downwards to examine the inscription, and the name of Major St. Vincent
met her view! The truant heart of our heroine palpitated at the sight. The
animal was invited to place himself on a part of the seat she occupied: she saw
him now to greater advantage: he seemed the most beautiful creature of his
species in the world; she caressed him with ardour, and felt gratified by the
readiness and patience he evinced to remain with his head and his two forefeet
resting upon her knee.
The
name so unexpectedly discovered, and the spot where she was now seated,
recalled to her remembrance the accidental interview that had formerly taken
place in the vicinity. It might almost be considered as the first she had had
with Montague or his friend; for the short space the latter appeared to her in
the shrubbery, was not of a nature to come under that denomination.
The
unruffled ease of mind—the thoughtless gaiety of heart—the happy indifference
respecting futurity, which then pervaded her bosom, when, blithe as the soaring
lark, she carolled forth the note of harmony and content, officiously rose to
her view, and presenting the sad contrast between past and present sensations,
filled her breast with all the thousand melancholy images which retrospection
ever produces on similar occasions; but the conscious existence of
self-reproach withheld the powers of articulation from venting the poignant
feelings of regret in words, and once more deluged her eyes in tears. The
spaniel looked up, as if sympathizing in her sorrows, and placing his foot upon
her shoulder, attempted to lick her cheek.
Stella
now recovered the power of speech: she gently removed his foot, momentarily
gazed upon him with an expression of the most interesting tenderness, and
suddenly clasping her arms round the animal, gave way to a still more violent
burst of anguish, exclaiming, as the drops chased each other down her face—
“Oh
Heavens! this is too—too much indeed!—Would to God I had expired at the hour of
my birth!—would to God I had been permitted to rest in my watery cradle!—then
would my lacerated heart have escaped this continual warfare between prudence
and inclination; then no even unintentional dereliction of principle would have
torn it with perpetual remorse! Oh St. Vincent!—beloved St. Vincent! fatal to
me was the moment that first presented you to my view; fatal the ill-starred
night that conducted you to—”
She
was proceeding in broken sentences to discharge some of the secret burthen that
oppressed her saddened heart, when a profound sigh was heard from the door, to
which her back happened to be turned: she started, and looking hastily round,
perceived the shadow of a person slowly retreating from the threshold.
At
this instant the dog gave a sudden bark, expressive of pleasure, and leaping
from his resting place, sprung to the entrance.
Stella
intuitively followed him in trembling emotion. The door was yet but half open;
she laid her hand on the lock, but presently withdrew it, and shrunk from
advancing upon hearing the sound of a voice that vibrated through her bosom.
A
timid glance discovered Major St. Vincent leaning against a projection of the
rock. The dog was placed in his arms, and he caressed it with the fondest
expressions of affection.
“Oh
happy—happy little animal!” he softly articulated, “what would I not give to be
in thy enviable situation!—Free, unfettered, at liberty to follow the
unchangeable dictates of inclination!—Oh God!” he continued, abruptly placing
the dog on the ground, and striking his forehead in a paroxysm of despair, “why
was I preordained to this late discovery of additional wretchedness? To be
miserable alone was at least some consolation: even that solitary comfort is
now removed; and, miserable myself, I am likewise doomed to constitute the
misery of her, who, in spite of every tie, human or divine, is dearer to me
than the air I breathe, than the ruddy drops that visit my sad heart!”
The
dog continued to leap round him while he spoke, and at length bounded back to
the grotto.
St.
Vincent, agitated and unhappy, stood irresolute whether to advance or remain
where he was. He raised his eyes to the door: Juba had pushed it further open
in the hurry of his entrance, and Stella appeared supporting herself against
the wall. Her face was covered from observation; but deep and convulsive sighs
marked the acute nature of the sensations which now shook her frame to agony,
and produced an effect no less painful on the feelings of the Major.
Propelled
by the impulse of the moment, St. Vincent’s former resolutions no longer
fluctuated on the verge of propriety—they instantly and entirely disappeared
from view; he sprung
forward, and catching hold of the hand that hung almost lifeless by her side,
pressed it to his lips and heart before she was aware of his intention.
Stella
started from a reverie replete with anguish, and suddenly raising her head,
gazed upon him for a moment with a look in which confusion and tenderness
seemed struggling for pre-eminence. The deep shade of melancholy it spread over
the face of St. Vincent was too legibly written on his fine features to be
easily mistaken. Though the period for observation was short and transient, our
heroine saw enough to recall her wandering senses from the dangerous direction
they had taken: she withdrew her hand, and was hastily advancing to the door
without uttering a syllable, when her visitor, in a voice of the most
persuasive entreaty, implored her to hear him only for five minutes.
“No!
not for one, Sir!” replied Stella, in a tremulous voice; “I have already heard
too much!”
“Miss
Bertram,” cried St. Vincent, in a solemn accent, “your peace, your honour are
not, cannot be dearer to yourself than they are to me; nor would I injure you,
in any respect, for the world! To bury in my own bosom the secret anguish that
has long corroded it, has hitherto been the stern, the unalterable purpose of
my soul. In that resolution I should have persevered—in that resolution
probably died, had not the disclosure—the fatal disclosure I will call it, of
your sentiments in my favour deprived me of all self-command, and—”
He
was proceeding, when his trembling auditor, in spite of her recent hurry to
retire, still remained stationary, unconscious of the magnetic influence that retained
her steps, again interrupted him by uttering exclamations against her own
folly, and the most pathetic entreaties to forget the imprudence of which she
had been guilty.—“Never more, Sir,” added she, “let me see you here!—any
further intrusions on your side can only be regarded in the light of an insult
by me: and, be assured, however weak or unguarded you may think yourself
entitled to imagine her whose sentiments are now supposed known to you, those
principles of which she is nevertheless possessed, will ever protect her from
failing in that respect which is due to her own character, and teach her to
turn with virtuous abhorrence from the bare idea of listening to a married man
on any subject that will not bear the broad glare of day, and the approving ear
of an impartial world! Adieu, Sir!—we meet no more, or only meet as strangers!”
“Meet
no more!” repeated St. Vincent, in a voice of unrestrained anguish. “Heavenly
Powers! what a sentence! But I submit to the imperious fiat of necessity;—I know my fate is
consummated, and my destiny irretrievable! You shall therefore be obeyed: yet
not unconditionally, for my bursting heart pants after comfort, however
inadequate the allotted portion may prove to assuage its sorrows. Stella,
then—dear, angelic Stella! one word—only one word more, I beseech you!—Quit me
not without affording the much-valued gratification of knowing you will not be
a sufferer on the occasion.—Say you will endeavour to be happy, whatever
becomes of the wretched St. Vincent! Oh give me this satisfaction before we
part for ever! Will you not speak to me!—not accord the poor indulgence of one
consolatory sentence? Inhuman Stella! you commiserate not the woes you inflict;
your heart is alike callous to pity, as your determinations are inflexibly
severe!”
He
grasped her reluctant hand, of which he was again in possession, in order to
prevent her farther retreat; and once more rivetted the imploring eye of misery
on her varying and agitated countenance, as he stopped her on the first steps that
led from the grotto.
CHAP.
II.
“Aimas-tu
comme moi?—Sous mes maux je succombe.”
STELLA, thus in a manner forcibly detained,
felt at once the necessity of some exertion to liberate herself from a
situation so trying and painful. She attempted to speak, but distress and
confusion held her silent, and the inarticulate sentence died on her lips
before it reached his ear.
Abashed
and disconcerted by the state of her feelings, and the situation to which she
was reduced, she covered her face, and, in spite of every endeavour to suppress
her emotion, wept aloud.
Once
more inconceivably affected, and no longer able to restrain the impulsive
violence of those agonizing reflections that tumultously throbbed in his bosom,
he snatched her abruptly to his heart, and as abruptly relinquishing his hold,
dropped on one knee before her, in order to deprecate the resentment which
evidently flushed her late pallid cheeks, and darted from eyes yet humid with
sensations of a very different description.
At
this interesting moment a rustling noise was heard amongst the underwood near
the grotto, and immediately a person rushed from behind some of the
neighbouring bushes, who suddenly turning into the adjoining plantation,
disappeared amid the gloom of the overshading foliage, now considerably
deepened by the sombre tint of retiring twilight.
Astonished,
confounded, alarmed, by a circumstance that seemed to mark them for objects of
particular observation, St. Vincent instantly started from the ground, and,
like Stella, followed with his eyes the direction apparently taken by the
fugitive, in silent consternation.
After
the lapse of a few minutes, our heroine in a firm voice, and with an air of
impressive dignity, thus silently addressed her musing companion—
“You
see, Sir, the consequence of your ill-judged intrusion! The appearance of that
person at so late an hour; the concealment from whence he emerged; his evident
solicitude to elude discovery; all—all evince more of formed design than casual
accident, on the occasion! Yes! the reason is but too obvious:—your steps have
been watched, and my hitherto unspotted fame—that first of female treasures,
and, till now, almost my sole possession on earth, must probably henceforth the
sacrificed to your rash, your unjustifiable proceedings. Such, alas! is the
cruel effect of a single deviation from any of the moral duties, that the
innocent is often unavoidably involved in punishment of the guilty!”
The
voice of Stella here began to falter; she paused for a moment, wiped off a conscious
tear, and then proceeded in a firmer tone—
“Shame,
remorse, and self accusation are the sure attendants on premeditated error.
From the latter, however, I am free: of the three former I cannot, perhaps, say
so much; it is fit, therefore, I suffer for my unguarded folly. In the light of
correction I shall consider whatever evils may arise from the degradation to
which I have incautiously subjected myself, by weakly condescending to listen
for a single moment to the prohibited professions of personal regard from a
married man!”
St.
Vincent’s emotion increased, and he attempted to interrupt her in extreme
agitation.
“One
more, and for the last time, adieu!” cried our heroine, hastily waving her hand
with a repulsive motion. “Reflect on the past; amend the future; and remember
however deficient in the adventitious circumstances of rank or fortune, Stella
Bertram is at least your equal in the superior advantages arising from a sense
of conscious rectitude, and a rigid adherence to those principles of virtue and
morality, which alone lead to happiness through every station allotted for our
sphere of action to move in below.”
The
solemn accent in which these words were uttered; the look of inborn worth that
accompanied them; the bright beam of intelligence that irradiated her
countenance while she spoke, all conspired to make a forcible impression on the
mind of her unhappy auditor, who, totally overpowered by the intensity of his
feelings, permitted her at length to depart without exerting any farther effort
to procure her attention.
Apparently
rivetted to the spot, he retained the same position for some time after her
departure. With folded arms and a dejected air, her retiring form was mentally
traced long after it had ceased to become visible, and as the farthest gate of
the garden was heard to close on the woman he must henceforth endeavour to
exclude from his thoughts, a chilling sensation pervaded his whole frame, and
ran with distressing, but resistless rapidity though every vein. Slowly he
returned to the grotto. From the landing-place at the porch a view was obtained
of the Hermitage: a light soon appeared in one of the little apartments; his
eye insensibly rested upon it. The window shutters were left open, and a female
figure was distinctly perceived pacing the room with irregular steps. By the
handkerchief which she frequently raised to her eyes, she seemed to be weeping;
and every movement, as far as could be ascertained by the distance, indicated
some internal agitation. The heart of St. Vincent whispered it was Stella whom
he now gazed upon; and again he remained stationary. At the end of a short
period the window shutters were closed—he sighed to find her no longer visible:
a conviction of the lasting deprivation of hope, peace, and happiness seemed to
have taken hold of his mind. He entered the grotto, the door of which our
heroine had neglected to close in the moment of alarm and perturbation, and
throwing himself upon the seat she had recently occupied, covered his face, and
gave way to a sudden burst of uncontrollable anguish; from which having
procured a temporary relief, the unhappy St. Vincent fled from the spot with
the precipitation of confirmed despair, and reached Rossgrove in a state of
mind easier to be conceived than described.
On
his arrival, the voice of mirth and gaiety resounded from the farther end of
the hall. His heart sickened at the idea of mingling, in its present situation,
with the votaries of mirth. He knew several guests were then in the house, with
some of whom he was but little acquainted; and to use the exertions politeness
rendered requisite should he join them, appeared at this juncture impossible.
While
he yet paused to consider on his next motions, the parlour door suddenly
opened, and approaching footsteps were heard. St. Vincent retired behind one of
the pillars till the person, or persons, had passed him. It proved to be Mrs.
St. Vincent, who was met by her maid at the opposite end of the lobby, and
after a whisper from the latter, the purport of which he could not distinguish,
they retired together.
This
discovery at once determined his motions. He concluded his wife was gone to her
own apartment; and the momentary, half-formed intention of retiring for the
night under-pretence (indeed it was more than pretence), of indisposition,
instantly vanished before the reluctant sensation he felt to her presence in
the existing situation of his mind. Equally unwilling, however, to gain the
happy group from which she had just retired, he opened a glass door that led to
the shrubbery, and taking the first path that offered, slowly pursued his way,
in the hope of tranquillizing his thoughts so far as to escape the chance of
any particular observation on the singularity of his present dejected
appearance.
With this object in view, he exerted his best
efforts for its accomplishment; and absorbed in mental cogitations, entered a
walk which, from its solitary and secluded situation, seemed peculiarly adapted
to the soothing purpose of meditation, even at a period of the day more liable
to intrusion than the late still hour in which it was now visited.
At
length, conceiving his mind sufficiently composed to join the family, and
anxious to return home, lest his absence, already too much prolonged, should
subject him to the very scrutiny he felt solicitous to avoid, St. Vincent
crossed the shrubbery, and was proceeding along a path that lay on one side of
a small pavilion, surrounded by tall overhanging trees, when the sound of his
own name, pronounced with uncommon emphasis, caught his ear from an open window
under which he was passing at the moment.
Astonished
by a circumstances so totally unexpected, his progress was instantly arrested,
and instinctively he stopped to ascertain from whence it originated.
A
temporary pause succeeded; but his suspense was not permitted to be of long
duration.
CHAP. III.
“Une
éternelle chaîne
“M’impose
le tourment d’une éternelle peine.”
“WHAT! clasped in his arms!—on his knees before
her! You rave, Jenny—it cannot be possible!” said a voice, which he speedily
recognised to be that of Mrs. St. Vincent.
“You
may depend upon the truth of this information, Madam; James never told me a
falsehood since the first moment of our acquaintance,” was the reply.
Mrs.
St. Vincent said something in return, which the Major could not distinctly make
out; but what followed tolerably supplied the deficiency, for the girl
immediately answered—
“Yes,
indeed, Madam. James left them together, I do assure you; and from the hints he
dropped, it seemed more than probable the Major would pass the night with her.”
Mrs.
St. Vincent’s rage now burst forth in the most violent exclamations against the
supposed perfidious conduct of her husband, which Jenny, either from folly or
design, continued to augment by sympathy she attempted to administer on the
occasion.
The
Major had heard enough, however, to convince him that the idea of Stella was
well founded in regard to the intention of the man whose abrupt appearance had
recently alarmed them. Shocked at the meanness of his wife, who could thus
condescend to bribe a domestic to watch the motions of her husband, his first
impulse was to enter the pavilion, to acquaint her with his knowledge of her
ill-judged proceedings, and not only to insist upon a change of measures in the
first instance, but likewise the immediate dismission of her female confidant,
as a preliminary step to the prospect of future reformation; while, on his
side, their auxiliary, James, who was one of the grooms, should instantly
receive a similar order, and be discharged from his service with every possible
mark of ignominy.
This
resolution was upon the point of being put into execution, when the design was
speedily relinquished, from a momentary reflection on the consequent evils
which would probably accrue to the innocent Stella, should the transaction be
attended with any degree of public éclat;
and that such would prove the case could scarcely be doubted, since the two
inferior culprits would naturally tell the story in the light they conceived
most favourable to their own individual share in the business, while he had
every reason to apprehend they would be supported in the attempt by their
employer, who, it evidently appeared, was capable of adopting any measure for
the accomplishment of her project.
Another
consideration perhaps weighed equally strong on this side of the question. The
principal facts alledged against him were certainly incontrovertible, and he
was incapable of adding falsehood to error, by denying what he knew to be true,
if interrogated on the subject. Should he happen to be placed in this
predicament, his veracity might or might not be established, according to
existing circumstances; but no succeeding effort would be sufficiently powerful
to protect the guiltless and noble-minded Stella from the malice of the
calumniator, or the effects of her jealous suspicions, which, he was but too
well convinced, would perpetually be levelled at her unoffending head, and
bursting forth with renewed violence on the most trivial occasions. Besides, it
would not be denied that appearances were extremely against them; and the late
hour, no less than the secluded situation of the spot where their interview had
been witnessed, were circumstances particularly inimical to the fair fame of
our heroine, under the probable supposition that both were fixed upon by her
own appointment, for the purpose of a premeditated assignation. Such a
representation of the affair was by no means unlikely, especially when
recollected that neither of the foregoing incidents could have been effected by
force, nor apparently conducted without the knowledge, or, at least,
acquiescence of Stella.
Averse
to risk conclusions eventually so fatal to the character of her he adored, and
at the same time so well calculated to gain unlimited credit in the present
depraved state of society, St. Vincent checked the propelling impulse by which
he was at first actuated, and adopting one less hostile to his fears, prudently
determined upon leaving the result of the whole to chance, without dropping any
hint by which the extent of his knowledge might be ascertained, till necessity
obliged him to alter the system of forbearance, for one of a less pleasing
description.
In
pursuance of this design he stole softly past the pavilion, and reached the house
while some of the guests were yet too much occupied by the orgies of the gaming
table to notice his absence.
No
regular supper was served up at Rossgrove; but a well furnished sideboard,
abundantly replenished with the choisest delicacies, stood ready prepared for
those visitors who might be inclined to partake of its various accommodations.
Fortunately for St. Vincent, the parlour in which it stood was unoccupied by
any person when he entered it. On the mantelpiece lay two letters which had
arrived during his absence. One of them required an immediate answer:
inclination led him to delay it till the following morning; but second thoughts
are said to be best, and having swallowed some wine and water, he determined to
put them in execution without farther loss of time.
Writing
materials were always at hand in this room; and St. Vincent was occupied in
obeying the injunctions of his correspondent, when some of the company from the
other apartment came to pay a visit to the sideboard.
It
was a rule under the Nabob’s roof to leave every person master of his own time
and actions; little notice was, therefore, taken of the Major’s absence, and
his present companions naturally concluded that business, similar to what he
was engaged with on their entrance, had hitherto deprived them of his presence
in the drawing-room, whither, after having finished his letter, he accompanied
them, and at the particular request of one of the ladies, took his place at a
card-table.
St.
Vincent’s mind was not much in tune for any occupation that required a superior
degree of attention at this juncture. The stakes were high, and he would soon
have found himself a considerable loser, had not what is usually called
goodluck, that undefinable, but propitious friend, proved his better genius,
and by almost constantly supplying an uncommon run of successful cards,
remedied the mental abstraction which otherwise must have created no small
degree of surprise, and rendered him an object of embarrassing observation to
those who were accustomed to regard him as their superior on similar occasions.
The
clock had already announced the hour of midnight, and expectation hovered
eagerly over the conclusion of a game on which a large sum of money depended,
when the door opened, and Mrs. St. Vincent appeared in the room! The Major
raised his eyes at the noise caused by her entrance: a sudden flush overspread
his features, and the card he was in the act of playing dropped from his
trembling hand on the floor. He stooped to take it up, and during the momentary
pause it produced, self-recollection resumed its usual station in his bosom.
Mrs.
St. Vincent’s surprise and agitation was not inferior to that experienced by
her husband. She had not the smallest idea of finding him in the house; but
strongly prepossessed with the notion that he would pass the remainder of the
night at the Hermitage, had already formed several resolutions on the nature of
her future proceedings, relative to his supposed reprehensible conduct, with
which she was secretly determined to acquaint her father on the succeeding
morning; and in the interim, by the calmness! and dignity of her manner, evince
how little the meditated separation (for she condescended to think of nothing
less at present), from one, now indubitably unworthy of her affections, would
cost her.
To
discover him stationary at a card table, apparently in good spirits, and, to
all appearance, much interested in the fate of the game which he was then
engaged with, seemed wonderful—most wonderful, after all heterogeneous mass of
information so recently received. The capricious Margaret began to question the
evidence of her own senses: she advanced nearer; his embarrassment had
vanished, unperceived by the company, and given place to the usual easy
elegance of manner for which he was so generally admired.
“How long pray has St. Vincent been of your
party?” said she, in a low whispering voice, as she leaned over Mrs. Arabin’s
chair.
“Upon
my word, I cannot precisely say,” replied her friend, arranging her cards as
she spoke; “but we have all reason to wish the period had been of shorter
duration than it was proved, for he wins our money most unmercifully.”
“You
know not then at what time he entered the drawing-room after I left it?”
Mrs.
Arabin turned quickly round on this second interrogatory, and fixed a look of
silent surprise on the enquirer, without paying any farther attention to her
demand.
The survey, though transient, convinced her
there was more than met her eye in the case, and on stealing a momentary glance
at the Major, she perceived he was regarding them with some degree of interest
and anxiety, in spite of the careless air he chose to assume on discovering he
was observed.
Impatient
for a satisfactory answer to her query, and conceiving Mrs. Arabin’s attention
too much engaged by her cards to obtain it from her, Margaret now made a
similar application to another lady at a neighbouring table, whose reply shewed
her equally deficient on the subject.
One
of the gentlemen, however, who had found him writing in the parlour, overheard
this latter enquiry, and immediately observed, that though the Major himself
was certainly the proper person to gratify her on the occasion, yet he would
venture to take the task upon his own shoulders, by informing her that Mr. St.
Vincent had been occupied during a great part of the evening in letter writing,
after which he had joined them in the drawing-room.
“And
where was he thus occupied in letter writing?” demanded Margaret, in a quick
tone of voice.
“In
the parlour, Madam,” was the laconic answer.
“You
no doubt saw him there?” returned Mrs. St. Vincent, with a look of supercilious
incredulity.
“I
certainly did so,” said the gentleman, in a manner that seemed not much
calculated to encourage any further suspicions of his veracity.
Margaret
remained for the succeeding minute silent and thoughtful.
Meanwhile
Mrs. Arabin contrived to get her place supplied at the card-table, and putting her
arm through Mrs. St. Vincent’s, let her insensibly to the other side of the
room.
Her
efforts, however, to dive into the thoughts of the latter proved abortive;
either ashamed of the confidence reposed in her domestics, or nearly convinced that her
husband had in this instance been wronged by their intelligence, Margaret
parried every attempt made by her friend for an explanation of her late
apparent solicitude respecting the Major’s motions, and secretly determined to
be sure of the ground on which she stood, before she laid herself open, once
more, to the severity of those animadversions Mrs. Arabin had formerly made
upon her conduct, in a situation similar to the present one.
CHAP.
IV.
“Ye
must never taste
“The sweets of
Hymen.”
MAURICE.
IN about half an hour after Mrs. St. Vincent’s
re-appearance in the drawing-room, the ladies retired to their respective
apartments for the night, and the gentlemen soon followed their example.
Mrs.
St. Vincent was in her dressing-room, attended by Jenny, when the Major entered
that usually occupied by himself. A thin partition divided them; but his lady
happened to be too much occupied by the topic nearest her heart to recollect
his probable vicinity, by which means he obtained a pretty tolerable knowledge
of the nature of their conversation, and discovered the fluctuating opinions
entertained by his fair helpmate, whose ardent wish was now to find him
innocent of the accusation lately preferred against him.
This
inclination in his favour was no sooner ascertained by the penetrating and
artful Jenny, than her sentiments seemed to undergo an instantaneous change on
the same side the question. The burthen of her recent communication was
therefore speedily saddled on the shoulders of their late coadjutor, James, the
groom, who, Jenny had now discovered, to be unworthy of credit, and ever ready
to perform any foolish action, provided the reward was commensurate to his
expectations.
James,
the groom, must nevertheless be spoken with, before his mistress could possibly
think of retiring to rest, and accordingly Jenny went in search of him.
Unfortunately,
the stipulated reimbursement for his services had been paid down on the
execution of his mission; and being afterwards sent to the post-house by Mr.
Ross, he could not resist the temptation of depositing a part of the cash on a
tenement seldom much celebrated for the productive nature of its interest.
In
plain English, James had encountered some of his acquaintances, with whom he
adjourned to an ale-house, and afterwards returned to Rossgrove “as drunk as an
Emperor.”
Mrs.
St. Vincent was therefore obliged to resign her intention of interrogating him
till a more favourable opportunity occurred for the purpose; and incapable of
submitting to necessity or disappointment, with a good grace, she retired to
bed, half-doubting, half-satisfied, sullen, and restless.
When
the Major, on joining her, made some commonplace enquiry relative to her
health, she answered him captiously, that whatever might be the state of her
health, she had not, at least, injured it by rambling on secret excursions at
midnight.
The
Major carelessly answered, he hoped she had more prudence than to risk it by
making so injudicious an experiment.
“Some
people’s prudence,” she replied, with quickness, “was not to be much applauded
on that score.”
He
presumed she did not include her own in the number.
She
was sorry she could not return the compliment.
The
Major professed himself ignorant of her meaning.
His,
she protested, was infinitely more incomprehensible.
“Since
our understanding appears thus equally defective, had we not better try to
remedy the failure by a few hours’ repose: I never was more drowsy I think.”
“The
pretense is convenient, and on a footing with its prototype, letter writing,”
retorted Margaret.
This
was what might justly be called a broad hint; but St. Vincent permitted it to
evaporate in silence, and the lady, finding her rhetoric remained unnoticed,
soon after followed his example.
On
the following morning he left his chamber at an earlier hour than usual, and on
enquiring for James, was informed he had returned to the ale-house on the
family retiring to their apartments, and had not again re-appeared at the
Grove.
Major
St. Vincent had already taken his resolution in regard to this man from what
had transpired relative to his inebriety on the foregoing night. This
additional intelligence, therefore, only served to strengthen that resolution,
and both combined to finish a plausible pretence for his immediate dismission;
which took place on his return to the mansion.
Neither
the fellow nor his late employers entertained any suspicion of the real cause
in which his discharge originated; and as he was gone before Mrs. St. Vincent
left her apartment, no probable opportunity remained for procuring the
necessary information from himself on the subject.
Some incomprehensible, intuitive sensation
seemed continually to haunt her thoughts in respect to Stella however, and the
dread of any accidental circumstance throwing her once more in the way of St.
Vincent, frequently occurred to disturb her most tranquil moments. Under this
impression a thousand plausible reasons were assigned to Mrs. Ross for the
prolonged absence of our heroine; while the latter continued ignorant of that
lady’s ardent desire to see her, every invitation intended to procure her
company at the Grove, being carefully concealed from her knowledge by the
particular direction of Mrs. St. Vincent.
The
perturbation of mind, and that interesting air of dejection that usually
accompanies secret sorrow, would have proved inconceivably distressing to Mrs.
Bertram, as she contemplated the pale face and tearful eye of poor Stella on
her appearance after the last interview with St. Vincent, had not a flying
report previously reached her of the meritorious conduct she had exhibited in
behalf of the little girl during the transaction of the field-day. To this
circumstance therefore, the altered looks of her darling were ascribed; for
common report, as usual, had magnified the danger, and exaggerated the
consequences which were supposed to attend it, far beyond the real sate of the
case; and Mrs. Bertram was upon the point of dispatching a messenger to Mr.
Adair’s, in order to learn her situation, when this design was rendered
abortive by the arrival of Captain Montague, who assured her, whatever
agitation the spirits of Stella might have suffered, her personal enquiries
were happily of too trifling a description to create a moment’s uneasiness on
the subject of their speedy and fortunate termination.
Though
sufficiently acquainted with the magnanimity of her protégée’s mind to be convinced she would make light of
circumstances under the pressure of which numbers would sink overwhelmed with
anguish, this knowledge did not contribute to relieve her fears; on the
contrary, she felt them increase as the evening advanced without returning the
object of her solicitude to the maternal bosom that throbbed for her safety;
and her apprehensions were become almost insupportable as the lingering hours
lagged heavily along, when the sound of the closing gate caught her ears, and
Stella in the succeeding moment stood before her.
But
Stella was not long able to stand before her:—she sunk into a chair, overcome
by contending emotions, even more acute than those formerly experienced on a
similar trial of her fortitude, and would instantly have fainted, but for the
timely assistance afforded her.
Mrs.
Bertram forbore to fatigue her by requiring any repetition of the past
transaction at Wigton, till she was in a condition better calculated for the
office of an historian; and in the meantime exerted herself with her usual good
sense, to recompose her mind and spirits, by every means most likely to produce
that effect.
The
benevolent exertion was not unattended by success. Stella became gradually
better, and on separating at an early period of the night, insisted on
accompanying her beloved benefactress to her apartment; from thence she
proceeded to her own little chamber, with a heart softened by the pious
benediction bestowed upon her by the worthy Mrs. Bertram, and would possibly have
enjoyed the soothing calm which it infused into her bosom for a much longer
period, had not her eyes, in crossing the floor, rested upon the fatal spot on
which she had parted, perhaps for ever, from the only man who had hitherto ever
interested her feelings. The candle had been placed in a corner of the room
near the door, and interfered not with the bright and beautiful moon-beam that
shed its silvery influence over the prospect, exhibiting the grotto and its
vicinity distinctly to view.
A
burst of agony again swelled the heart of Stella: she tore herself from the
torturing contemplation, and paced the room with an agitated and irregular
motion.
The
night proved a sleepless one to our unhappy heroine. There were moments when
she resolved to open her whole heart to Mrs. Bertram, and implore her advice
and direction for the line of conduct that ought to be adopted in future; but
the idea was speedily checked from an apprehension of the pain it would
probably occasion, and the conviction that, in all human likelihood, no
repetition of the same occurrences would ever again take place to put her
fortitude any longer to the test; in which case it would be no less cruel than
unnecessary to create uneasiness in the mind of her kind benefactress,
respecting the result of evils, which, perhaps, had ceased to exist on one
side, while it was a certain duty she owed her own character to prevent their
baneful progress on the other.
If
Mrs. Bertram, nevertheless, obtained any superficial or accidental knowledge of
the foregoing transactions, and ever questioned her on the subject, it would
then be time enough to become explicit, and explicit in that event she
undoubtedly meant to be; at present her conduct must be ruled by circumstances,
and these, if no longer of a pressing or critical nature, might as well be
confined to her own bosom, already sufficiently wretched, as promulgated, for
the purpose of rendering a dear and valuable friend almost equally so.
Sleepless,
faint, and languid, she found herself totally incapacitated to appear below
stairs, and Mrs. Bertram, extremely alarmed, insisted on procuring medical
advice without further loss of time.
To
this proposal Stella, however, would by no means agree: she knew the whole materia medica could not reach the seat of
her disorder, and wished not to expose herself to enquiries she was inadequate
to satisfy without trenching either on delicacy or truth. Two days she remained
an invalid, confined to her chamber; on the third she was able to quit it for
the parlour, to the no small joy of her worthy benefactress.
Mrs.
Wallace, the first and early preserver of her youth, had now for some years
been settled in Ireland, but happened to be at this juncture on a visit to her
niece Sally, who, it may be remembered, was in the service of Mrs. Bertram at
the period of our heroine’s infant introduction at the Hermitage, and had
latterly been married to a respectable farmer in the neighbourhood. For her
little foundling the good woman still retained all the affection of a tender mother;
and her attachment met with the most lively gratitude from Stella, on whom she
insisted upon attending during her illness, not more with a view to indulge her
own feelings, than to spare Mrs. Bertram from the fatigue of a sick room, which
in her precarious state of health she was ill qualified to undergo.
CHAP.
V.
“Care
sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
“Of
dauntless courage.”
MILTON.
BEFORE the conclusion of the week, Stella,
assisted by youth and a tolerable, though not strong constitution, once more
resumed her usual occupations in the family: but though her health was
apparently restored, the same could not be said of her spirits; and she found
it, at times, utterly impossible to struggle against the overwhelming sensation
of dejection that occasionally oppressed them.
Captain
Montague had called on the second day of her illness, with which she had
particularly requested he might not be made acquainted: some plausible reason
was consequently assigned for her absence from the parlour; and an order he
received on the succeeding morning obliging him to set out for a distant part
of the country, where one of the troops happened to be quartered, prevented a
repetition of his visits at this juncture.
This
circumstance, therefore, accounted for the apparent neglect of a man, whom she
wished, yet feared to see, from a knowledge of the intimacy that subsisted
between him and the person whose image she was striving to efface from her
memory.
Another
incident, however, surprised her in a far greater degree. About the period of
Captain Montague’s departure, two ladies had called at the gate of the
Hermitage, who expressed much polite anxiety to see her. Mrs. Wallace remarking
the solicitude of Stella to conceal her indisposition from the knowledge of her
male visitor, concluded the request might possibly be intended to implicate his
female successors, whom, she understood from themselves, to be strangers.
Prepossessed with this idea, she apologized for the absence of Stella, and
regretted that Mrs. Bertram (who was then sitting by the bed of her protégée), could not have the pleasure of
attending their commands from the unfortunate interference of a prior
engagement. She then opened the gate (from whence she was retiring when their
approach prevented her) and offered to conduct them to the parlour: this,
however, they declined, under the supposition she was only an occasional
visitor, like themselves; and after expressing their admiration of the
situation and surrounding scenery, they turned into the plantations, through
which she perceived them enter one of the winding paths that led to the Grove.
This
little incident was mentioned to Stella on her recovery; but she could form no
probable idea of those to whom it alluded, for she had not the smallest intercourse
with any of the inhabitants at the mansion-house; even Mrs. Ross herself, as it
now evidently appeared, having totally ceased to remember her.
Mrs.
Bertram, whose ill health seemed much improved of late, was one evening absent
from the Hermitage, where she had left Mrs. Wallace in the parlour with Stella;
from whom, however, the former was soon under the necessity of separating by
the arrival of an unexpected summons from her niece.
Our
heroine, thus consigned to her own meditations, seated herself in a small bow
window, overshadowed by the spreading foliage of the creeping honeysuckle and
jessamine. Her only companion was the beautiful Seasons of Thomson, by the
charming pages of which she was entirely occupied, when the closing sound of
the garden gate reached her ear, and she imagined some voices issued from that
direction. The window at which she was placed, did not afford a competent view
of the entrance to the house; but she naturally concluded Mrs. Bertrams’ return
was the cause of what she heard, and her undivided attention once more rested
on the volume before her.
In
a few minutes the maid threw open the door, and Captain Montague appeared on
the threshold! He did not seem alone: and the book dropped from her trembling
hand as she rose to receive him, while her eyes were directed to the door in
fearful apprehension of what was to follow.
Montague
hastily advanced, took her hand, and, after the compliments customary on
similar occasions, requested permission to introduce two ladies whom he had had
the pleasure of accompanying from Rossgrove.
“Ladies!”
burst faintly from the faltering lips of Stella, while conflicting sensations
throbbed in her bosom, and an expression of something bordering on
disappointment seemed to mark her features with the idea of a very different
visitor.
The
momentary look of surprise this repetition of his words called forth from
Captain Montague restored her recollection, and a rosy blush suffused her late
pallid countenance as he led her to the door.
A
deeper shade of the same colour succeeded when Miss St. Vincent was announced
as one of his companions. The other lady proved likewise a guest at the
mansion-house.
Uncertain
of the motive in which their appearance originated, Stella was at a loss what
judgment to form on the occasion: the presence of Captain Montague a little
reassured her mind however, and by degrees she recovered her self-possession,
convinced nothing inimical to her tranquillity would be permitted to molest her
in his company.
Stella
entertained not a thought which angels need have shrunk from acknowledging; but
the semblance of guilt seemed to pursue her, when the circumstance of the
person who had evidently watched her motions at the grotto glanced across her
memory; and she knew not how far Miss St. Vincent might, or might not, be
acquainted with that mysterious and disagreeable affair.
But
though this degree of uncertainty on a subject so important to her peace, gave
an air of timidity and embarrassment to the manners of our heroine which had
seldom before been the case, it lessened not the prepossession in her favour
already entertained by the strangers; on the contrary, it only served to render
her more interesting in their eyes; and the lapse of a very short period had
scarcely been concluded, ere the visitors and the visited were equally at their
ease, and equally charmed with each other.
“But
tell me,” cried Montague, looking earnestly in the face of Stella during a
pause in the conversation, “what is become of the rosy hue that formerly was
stationary on your cheeks?—It has fled, I think, since our arrival, and left
not a trace behind!”
“Upon
my word,” said the lady who accompanied them, “this observation reminds me of a
similar circumstance relative to your brother, Louisa.—Don’t you think he is
much altered of late?”
Stella
caught the eye of Montague steadily regarding her with a serious pensive look.
On perceiving he was remarked, it was instantly withdrawn, and he turned to
address an evasive reply to Miss Williams, before Louisa, affected by the idea
of her brother’s supposed ill health, could return her an answer.
The
cheek of Stella grew paler, and the transient tint produced by the intelligent
eye of Montague, vanished almost in the very moment of its creation.
She
and Louisa, now equally silent, seemed solely absorbed in their own individual
reflections. Not so with their two companions:—in that quarter the conversation
by no means flagged: it was indeed studiously supported by Montague, who at
length turned to Stella, and requested she would shew the beauties of the place
to her fair guests.
Any
change in her present situation was desirable, and might conduct her thoughts
into another channel; she therefore acquiesced, and retired to procure her
bonnet.
Meanwhile
the strangers employed themselves in taking a more minute survey of the little
apartment than had yet been the case. The walls were covered with blue paper,
of a shade peculiarly favourable to a number of very fine drawings, the
workmanship of Stella, which hung round in plain, but neat looking frames. A
small recess, opposite the window, was fitted up for the reception of books,
and seemed well stored with many of the most valuable productions of the press.
The window itself afforded a most romantic, though rather limited prospect, as
it extended but a short way beyond the garden; and the mantelpiece was adorned
with a great variety of spun and shell work, fancifully formed and arranged by
the elegant taste of our heroine. The chairs, and a sofa near the recess, exhibited
similar proofs of taste and industry in the well-designed pattern and close
imitation of nature displayed in the shading of the various flowers judiciously
chosen to adorn them.
This
room, though commonly known by the appellation of the parlour, was in fact the
principal apartment in the house: Mrs. Bertram thought her situation not
sufficiently exalted to sport any other in the superior style of a
drawing-room; but its appearance nevertheless well entitled it to that
distinction. It was never used as an eating place, a still smaller chamber on
the opposite side being appropriate to that purpose, and, except in name, bore
no resemblance to any thing of the latter description. The family usually sat
in it during the summer season; in the colder days of winter the lesser
apartment was preferred, as more comfortable for the small number by which it
was occupied.
In
a few minutes Stella again appeared, and conducted her guests through the
garden towards the grotto. Had this been the first time of her visiting the
spot since the unfortunate interview with St. Vincent, Stella would have
required all her fortitude to support her under the scrutinizing eye of
Montague, and in the presence of Louisa, whose name and striking resemblance to
her brother perpetually recalled his image to her view; but sensible she could
not renounce her favourite retreat without producing an adequate reason for
such a step, or at best creating much food for curiosity by the singularity of
her proceedings, Stella wisely concluded that of two evils, it was most prudent
to chuse the least, and accordingly determined the first excursion she ventured
upon after her recovery, should be to the grotto and its environs.
But
though this wise resolution had been put in practice, the recollections that
occurred were of two painful a nature to inspire any wish for indulging them by
prolonging her visit: and gladly would she have observed the same line of
conduct on the present occasion, could such have been adopted with proper
regard to the rules of politeness; but of that there appeared little
likelihood, for her companions, delighted with all they saw, seemed far more
inclined to remain than depart; and Stella, accustomed to extract good from
evil, found herself in some measure rewarded for this tax upon her feeling, by
the sensation of returning ease that gradually spread over her mind, while the
ladies kept her constantly employed in answering questions relative to the
various objects that attracted their notice, and by that means prevented her
thoughts from dwelling on a subject that might otherwise have too keenly
engrossed their attention.
Louisa
St. Vincent, an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of nature, seemed highly
gratified by those which were now presented to her view in the grotto and its
surrounding romantic scenery. The air of elegant simplicity that reigned
through this favourite retreat of our heroine—its appropriate furniture,
singular situation, and the lovely interesting girl who seemed to preside over
and direct the arrangement of the whole—a whole so well calculated to make its
due impression on a heart formed of materials congenial with her own, spoke
forcibly to the feelings of Louisa, and seemed already to bind her to Stella by
that strong, but imperceptible ligament of sympathy which connects kindred
souls with each other, before its secret, though irresistible influence, has
had time to develop the nature of the new-born sentiment, or try its
indefinable sensations by the criterion of reason.
From
the objects around her, Louisa alternately turned a look, expressive of
admiration and pleasure, on the face of her beautiful conductor, who, on her
part, seemed particularly attached to her new acquaintance, and gratified by
the opportunity that now offered for evincing her solicitude to oblige her;
while Captain Montague, sensible that her modest, unassuming character required
the assisting hand of considerate friendship to shew it in all its genuine
lustre, missed no possible opening to render her merit conspicuous, or place
the superior advantage she possessed, in the most favourable light on every
occasion that occurred for the purpose.
CHAP.
VI.
“To
a mind resolv’d and wise
“There
is an impotence in misery
“Which
makes me smile, when all its shafts are in me.”
YOUNG.
OPPORTUNITIES for rendering her this service
were not indeed difficult to be met with at present; for the topic which proved
most propitious to his design seemed to be the spontaneous effects of situation
and existing circumstances, while the discussions to which they led were
exactly of that description best suited to the taste of Stella, and peculiarly
calculated to draw her genius and abilities for conversation into public
notice. The distant view of the cascade, and its monotonous sound—the lengthened
shadows of the old ruin, and the fantastic forms of innumerable rocky
projections in the vicinage—the white walls and cottage-looking aspect of the
Hermitage, placed on a small adjoining eminence, beneath the sheltering foliage
of a few aged and wide-spreading trees, with its little Gothic casements just
visible amidst the creeping tendrils and fragrant boughs which nearly concealed
them from observation on this quarter of the building—the mansion-house and
fine plantations of Rossgrove, towering in proud magnificence over every
similar object in the neighbourhood—the distant ocean, here and there dotted
with a smooth-gliding sail—the mild refulgence of a setting sun, that fringed
the edges of a few scattered clouds with the most beautiful colours, while its
oblique rays danced on the bosom of the deep, and silvered the woods with its
passing and chastened radiance—all, all exhibited room for contemplation, when
sensibility and taste united to discriminate their various beauties, and
estimate them according to their intrinsic value.
Neither
did the fine echo amidst the rocks escape their notice: Louisa and Montague
happened to be scientific performers in the musical line, and were easily
prevailed upon to try their powers on the present occasion. Stella, who had
lately made some progress in the same way, aided by the friendly instructions
of the latter, took up the harp in her turn, and though her execution might not
perhaps equal that displayed by Miss St. Vincent, the melody of her vocal
strains were certainly superior.
The
air she sung was particularly requested by Captain Montague, and happened to be
one of those he had formerly heard her warble in the grotto, on the evening
when the military band played at Rossgrove. In one of the most interesting
parts of it, her eyes insensibly fell upon the splendid residence of the Nabob,
and her voice became all at once tremulous as she perceived the principal door
suddenly open, and several ladies and gentlemen issue from the house. Mrs. St.
Vincent made one of the number: she leaned upon the arm of Mr. Jones (the
Lieutenant whose free address had so much disgusted our heroine at the old
Castle of Wigton), and appeared entirely engrossed by some interesting
conversation, in which they were evidently engaged as they wound through the
walls in the pleasure grounds, and separated from the rest of the party.
The
door yet remained open, and the eyes of Stella still dwelt involuntarily upon
it. In a few minutes her voice became more agitated; it grew fainter, and in
the following instant entirely ceased. Her auditors, wholly occupied by the
charms of her harmonious notes, and inattentive to every other exterior
circumstance, finding she remained totally silent, at length raised their heads
from a listening attitude, and looking at her with astonishment, were upon the
point of expressing the alarm her pale countenance and altered appearance
created, when Louisa, following the direction of her still immoveable eyes,
turned abruptly round, and immediately discovered her brother’s tall elegant
figure deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Arabin. They seemed not to have
observed the party at the door of the grotto, and entered a path that led
directly to the vicinity of the Hermitage.
“It
is my brother!” exclaimed Miss St. Vincent in a joyful accent: “see—he and Mrs.
Arabin are certainly coming this way to join us!”
Stella,
sick at the bare idea of such an event, tried to suppress a sigh; which,
however, burst forth in spite of her wishes to the contrary: and retreating
backwards, she sunk upon the window seat.
Previous to this last movement, she assured
her guests she was perfectly well; in consequence of which the ladies had
advanced a few steps to observe the motions of St. Vincent and his companion,
with whom they seemed solicitous to meet; but their hopes speedily vanished,
for he and Mrs. Arabin struck into another path, and soon after disappeared at
an angle of the grove.
Our
heroine, who had secretly watched their steps in fearful expectation of the
event, found herself happily relieved from the embarrassing situation such an
interview must have placed her in; and starting from her seat in order to join
Louisa and Miss Williams, who appeared to be returning to the grotto, she was
hastening forward from the recess of the window, when, to her no small
confusion, she perceived Captain Montague leaning on a stone pillar near the
door, and regarding her with every mark of the deepest attention.
This was not the first time a similar
circumstance had occurred to disconcert her. Montague’s manner and looks had
more than once struck her as singular and incomprehensible; and conscious but
of one cause that could produce this effect, she felt the pride of secret
innocence swell her heart, on the supposition that her emotion might be
ascribed to a wrong motive, when the genuine source from whence it sprung
remained no longer problematical.
Occupied
by this idea, she remarked not that the ladies seemed to have changed their
recent intention, and instead of ascending again to the grotto, were amusing
themselves with examining some cavities in the adjoining rocks. Roused from the
temporary pause that succeeded her observations on the conduct of Montague, she
again prepared to join them, when, hurt by the expressive glance of mingled displeasure
and vexation which passed over her countenance, he abruptly seized her hand as
she attempted to quit the threshold, and arresting her progress, protested he
could not permit her to leave him in anger, or allow of her departure till the
reason of his apparently extraordinary behaviour was explained, which, he
flattered himself, it was possible to accomplish without subjecting his motions
to the imputation of officious curiosity.— “I have frequently, my sweet girl,”
continued he, “been astonished at the undefinable nature of my sentiments in
your favour—but be not alarmed, the confession that follows is not of a
description to call up your blushes: yet, perhaps, it requires some apology;
and did I not believe you superior to most of your sex, I should certainly
consider such as necessary preliminary before I venture to avow, that it is not
love, in the common acceptation of the word, which binds me to you:—no; it is
something less turbulent than passion—less ardent than attachments of the
heart; yet it is warm as the emanations of friendship, and calmly tranquil,
like the sensations existing between the nearest and most affectionate
relatives: it is such, in short, as I never experienced before for any other
casual acquaintance, and can only be accounted for, I will not say entirely on
the score of real merit, though that has undoubtedly no small share in it, but
from a most striking resemblance you bear to a person who—”
Montague
abruptly paused—hesitated when he attempted again to proceed, and seemed
unusually agitated. At length he thus renewed the subject:—
“Often
has this incomprehensible similitude forcibly struck me; but never before the
present evening did it appear in so conspicuous a point of view. Domestic
occurrences are uninteresting to those not naturally connected with them,
otherwise—but, no!—it cannot be! the idea is absurd!—”
Again
he paused, apparently absorbed in thought: an air of pensive dejection stole
over his countenance, and his eyes continued for some time rivetted on the ground.
Wounded
pride and every sensation of displeasure vanished from the bosom of Stella as
she contemplated his whole appearance; while a faint resemblance to some person
she had seen likewise occurred on her side, and she wondered this expression of
his features had never been discovered till the present moment, when melancholy
recollection taking possession of his mind, spread a sombre hue of chastened
sorrow over the tout ensemble of
his face and figure, and recalled to her fancy the image of those she
entertained a confused recollection of having formerly seen, but where she knew
not, though that such did, or had existed, she thought could not admit of a
doubt.
“There
appears a strange coincidence in opinion,” said Stella, after a short pause:
“you hint at my resemblance to a friend of yours, while the same notion has
taken hold of my mind in regard to a similar occurrence, on your account; for
your features this moment exhibit a something, though faintly portrayed, yet
(now that you call my attention to the subject) of such a description as to
convince me the idea does not altogether proceed from the effects of an ardent
or mistaken imagination. It is singularly strange, however, that the discovery
has never been made, on my side, before; while yours, you tell me, it is not a
new one. Perhaps it may partly be accounted for by never having remarked your
face with an equal degree of observation, or seen you in a mood so very serious
as at this juncture: from whence,” added she, smiling, “it is to be presumed
the original of our imaginary similitude is some mighty humdrum character,
whose general disposition happens to be nothing less than chearfully
inclined.”—But, see—the ladies are at length approaching; I must join them.”
“Your
remark, Stella, has increased my curiosity, without furnishing one single item
to gratify it; for it is exactly the serious expression of your own countenance
that conveys the likeness I mean, most forcibly. I shall call at the Hermitage
very soon, but unaccompanied: the present topic can then be more fully
discussed.”
He
was going to say something further, but the vicinity of Louisa and Miss
Williams put a stop to his words, and the two latter, having requested
permission to repeat their visit, soon after took the road to Rossgrove,
escorted by their male attendant, having previously confessed themselves much
gratified by their ramble to the Hermitage.
Mrs.
Bertram was at home when Stella returned to the house, and the warmth with
which she dwelt upon the praise of Louisa St. Vincent made her regret the
unavoidable call which had taken her from home, when that young lady honoured
them with a visit; but a repetition of it being promised, she consoled herself
with the idea of its arrival; and meanwhile secretly mused over those other
parts of our heroine’s intelligence relative to the resemblance hinted at by
Montague, which she could not help thinking might possibly allude to that
already discovered between her and the miniature picture in Mrs. Bertram’s
possession: of any or the smallest similitude it bore to Captain Montague no
recollection, however, had hitherto struck her; though, like Stella, she
sometimes imagined the cast of his face not totally unknown to her.
CHAP.
VII.
“Hope!
beautiful as are thy visions, in how much anguish
and
agony do they clothe the terrors of disappointment!”
GODWIN.
IT may perhaps appear strange that a woman of
Mrs. Bertram’s steady and prudent character, should not only tolerate, but, in
a manner, authorize the occasional visits of a young, gay officer, like Captain
Montague, whose appearance and behaviour were peculiarly pleasing, and whose
unremitting attention to her protégée
evinced the warm interest he took in her happiness and welfare.
Mrs.
Bertram, whose knowledge of the world was founded on long experience, and whose
acute penetration seldom failed her, had reasons for her conduct, which, in her
opinion, sufficiently justified the proceeding. Stella was not, she knew, one
of those very susceptible ladies who are continually in danger of forming
attachments with every new acquaintance; on the contrary, she proved rather
remarkable for an uncommon degree of indifference on all such occasions. It is
true, no man possessed of so handsome a figure, or manners so fascinating, had,
as yet, been a visitor at the Hermitage; and when this circumstance, in
conjunction with the natural delicacy of her taste, was taken into
consideration, it could not have appeared surprising if the consequence had
been fatal to her future tranquillity: but, according to a French proverb, “the
first step is the most critical,” and from this first step Mrs. Bertram soon
discovered there was little or nothing to be apprehended. She paid the
strictest attention to their every look and action for some time after his
introduction under her roof, and clearly perceived no due object for rational
alarm need be dreaded on his account; while many advantages accrued to Stella
in other respects from the obliging solicitude he constantly evinced to add to
her stock of useful knowledge, or to render her acquisitions in the ornamental
parts of education more conspicuous. Drawing and music were favourite
accomplishments with Montague: he was himself a proficient in each of these
sciences; and the instructions she received from him were of a description to
render her equally so before much time was elapsed.
This
circumstance was of no small importance to the future success of Stella in the
line of life her maternal friend had eventually destined her to fill; and as
she usually made one of the number when he was engaged with his scholar, it was
presumed no censure could attach to the conduct of our heroine while thus
occupied under the eye of her benefactress.
In
addition to this reason for authorizing his presence, another powerful one lent
its co-operation. At the commencement of their acquaintance it one day
transpired, during some conversation on trans-Atlantic affairs, that he had had
an opportunity of rendering a very essential piece of service to a British
lady, unexpectedly left a widow with a large family, in the vicinity of
Charlestown. Mrs. Bertram knew that the preservation of this lady, who happened
to be her sister, with the critical protection afforded her fatherless
children, was solely due to the humane interference of a military gentleman;
but that this military gentleman should prove to be Captain Montague was never
even suspected, till the circumstance became known in the course of some
anecdotes he was relating for their amusement soon after his introduction at
the Hermitage.
Captain
Montague at the period alluded to, was in the infantry; and the corps to which
he belonged, was reduced on its return to Europe, at the conclusion of the
American war.
Warm,
gentle, and strongly attached to the memory of an unfortunate sister, who,
together with her family, had after-wards lost their lives at sea, while
returning to Britain, Mrs. Bertram considered herself particularly indebted to
her guest for his friendly exertions in her behalf. The disclosure of the
above-mentioned incident, therefore, confirmed the favourable impression
already received of his character, and ever afterwards secured him a welcome
reception at the Hermitage.
But
while Montague enjoyed this indulgence, he, who was by no means deficient in
penetration, more than his hostess, soon perceived that the utmost
circumspection and undeviating propriety of behaviour were expected to be
strictly observed on every occasion; and consequently, it was easy to see that
an attempt to procure a similar introduction for any of his corps, would be
disagreeable and difficult of attainment. Convinced of this fact, the
experiment was not made; and he submitted with the utmost nonchalance to the inundation of
witticisms which were continually poured forth at the mess, on the topic of his
solitary rambles to the habitation of “the lovely Stella Bertram,” for by that
appellation she was frequently toasted at the convivial board since the
transaction of the field-day, which had procured her some degree of celebrity.
At
the Hermitage, Captain Montague tasted those pure and tranquil enjoyments
calculated to charm the mind of genuine sensibility; but which, as we have
formerly observed, are seldom to be met with in the more splendid, though less
happy scenes of fashionable life: he tasted them, too, unalloyed by any
apprehensions for futurity, any latent presentiment of after regret; for the
society of Stella continued to be courted more for mental, than personal
attractions.
Another
consideration induced him to persevere in a repetition of his visits, which,
though not of a selfish description, was not less capable of influencing his
actions. This proceeded from a friendly solicitude to prevent any farther
intercourse between St. Vincent and our heroine, or, rather, the chance of such
an occurrence again unexpectedly taking place; for he imagined himself
sufficiently acquainted with the excellent principles of each party, to
apprehend an event of that nature would happen from any other source than some
unfortunate or unforeseen accident, the effects of which, if not totally done
away, might nevertheless be greatly mitigated by his watchful care and
presence.
Attached
to the Major by ties stronger than those of blood, and on his side equally dear
to his friend, their bond of union seemed mutually strengthened by the delicate
embarrassing situation of the one, and the unceasing attentions of the other,
even though those attentions were actively employed to disappoint the secret
inclinations of him for whose honour and future peace of mind they were put in
practice.
The
nearly uniform indifference evinced by the Major, and his freedom from all
tender attachments of the heart, prior to his marriage, afforded Montague but a
slender cause for congratulation. He knew the mind of St. Vincent was of that
description which only receives the most forcible impressions, and when
received, was formed to retain them with strong and lasting perseverance.
Margaret Ross was not likely to inspire a passion of this kind; and should
another woman have the power to effect it, and at period unfortunately too late
for its honourable gratification, he trembled for the fate his friend, whose
terrestrial happiness must, in that case, be inevitably ruined.
When
he called on the following evening, his countenance had assumed a more serious
cast than usual, and an air of uncommon melancholy marked his whole deportment.
After the first compliments were over, Mrs. Bertram and Stella resumed their
work, and a momentary silence ensued, during which their visitor paced the room
with an agitated and irregular step. At length he became stationary before the
latter, who, on looking up from a flower-piece she was painting, perceived him
regarding her with a look of the deepest attention. His arms were folded, and
his whole deportment bespoke some secret sorrow that preyed upon his heart,
under which he seemed undetermined how to conduct himself.
“Good
God! Captain Montague, are you not well?” cried Stella, in a voice of the
utmost astonishment.
Mrs.
Bertram suddenly dropped her knitting, and turning hastily round, made a
similar enquiry.
Roused
from his reverie by their friendly solicitude, he started from his musing
posture, and apologizing for the unfounded alarm he had given, endeavoured to
assume a more chearful air; but the effort appeared forced, and again his face
bore testimony to a mind ill at ease.
The
anxiety of his female friends was no longer to be partially repressed; a second
time it broke forth in yet more excessive terms. He raised his head from the
table on which he was now leaning, and fixing a steady eye on Stella, reminded
her of the hint respecting a resemblance between her and a near relation of his
own, which had been noticed by him on the preceding evening.
“I
recollect it perfectly,” replied she; “but the subject appeared of a painful
nature, and I wished not to obtrude it unnecessarily on your memory; though,”
continued she, with a smile, “my curiosity is by no means silent on the
occasion.”
“It
was—it ever must be a painful subject,” rejoined Montague, in a faltering
voice; “but—to see you without recalling it, is impossible! The similitude I
formerly mentioned daily increases, and though sensible of the absurdity and
final disappointment unavoidably attendant on the investigation I am about to
enter upon, still I can no longer refrain from commencing it. Pardon me then,
my good friend, (turning to Mrs. Bertram as he spoke) if I begin the
distressing task by entreating to know the exact nature of those family ties
which connect my young favourite, Stella, with her worthy relative: pardon me,
likewise, when I add that some unsatisfactory reports which have recently
reached me on this head, in conjunction with a secret cause only known to
myself, stimulate an enquiry you may possibly deem impertinent, and, which, I
confess, certainly carries that appearance while the motives of it remain
hidden from your view. You may safely trust me, however, when I solemnly aver
that nothing less than idle curiosity actuates me on the occasion. Condescend,
then, to indulge me with an explicit answer to the foregoing question, I
beseech you.”
Mrs.
Bertram seemed at a loss what to say: she fixed her eyes upon the floor, and
for some minutes remained entirely absorbed in silent reflection. Stella,
during this momentous pause, appeared strongly agitated, and alternately
regarded her two friends with a look of the deepest interest, without venturing
to utter a single syllable, lest the smallest interruption should retard the
expected eclaircissement which apparently hovered over the next sentence that
would issue from their lips. The long regretted mystery which had hitherto
enveloped her birth was now perhaps on the verge of being removed for ever and
her real rank in society finally ascertained! With its hitherto dubious nature she
had for some time been made acquainted; but the information Mrs. Bertram
thought proper to give on the subject, was of too guarded a description, to
inspire ideas superior to the station of life in which she had been educated: a
certain something, however, now whispered that, on a full investigation of
circumstances, it might appear she was born to hold a higher rank. Whether she
was, therefore, to rise above, or sink below the level of her present
condition, was a matter of not little importance; and she waited the solution
of the business in all the trembling anxiety of a youthful heart may be
supposed to experience when an event of such magnitude is rapidly approaching
its crisis.
CHAP.
VIII.
“He
took it up;
“But
scarce was it unfolded to his sight
“When
he, as if an arrow pierc’d his eye,
“Started,
and, trembling, dropp’d it on the ground.”
YOUNG.
“YOU seem averse to gratify my curiosity, dear
Madam,” said Montague: “if the question I have asked is an improper one, think
no more of it, I beseech you; and I will endeavour to do the same, whatever
self-denial the attempt may cost me.”
He
gazed at her for a moment or too in silence; and then, after an ineffectual
effort to dispel the mournful air of dejection that overspread his features,
endeavoured to turn the conversation into a more chearful channel. The heart of
poor Stella was too full, however, to second his design: she answered him not,
but sat immersed in mental abstraction, her eyes bent upon vacancy, and her
head turned towards the window. Mrs. Bertram continued equally absorbed by her
own reflections; and another pause, as if by mutual consent of the parties,
again ensued.
Captain
Montague once more traversed the room in ill-concealed perturbation: he then
seated himself near the table on which the drawing materials of Stella lay
scattered. An accidental movement of his arm displaced a few loose sheets of
paper, and something dropped from amongst them upon the carpet. He stooped to
lift it up:—in a moment surprise shook his frame, and the darkest shade of
crimson blushed every agitated feature. He started from his chair, and
approaching Stella, hastily demanded by what means that picture had come into
her possession. It was the miniature picture formerly made mention of, which
had been left at the Hermitage by the mysterious travellers. Stella replied
that it belonged to Mrs. Bertram.
To
the latter therefore he now addressed himself, and solemnly conjured her to
answer his question.
“First
tell me,” said she, astonished at the evident emotion of his manner, “why you
are thus solicitous for this information?”
“Because,”
he returned in a hurried, yet faltering accent, “because the original of that
picture is—my mother!”
Mrs.
Bertram and Stella mutually regarded him with a look of increased surprise.
“Your
mother!” repeated the former.
“Yes,
too surely my mother!—my unfortunate mother! Oh tell me, I beseech you, what
you know of her! Where is now this ill-starred parent? Would to God she may
have seen and retracted her errors long ere this time!—If so, the past shall be
buried in oblivion, and the future may yet exhibit happier days! Speak, dear
Mrs. Bertram—I burn with impatience to learn her fate!”
Unwilling
to add the pang of disappointment to the anguish that visibly wrung his heart
by candidly confessing her total inability to gratify his wishes on the subject
of his mother’s present situation, Mrs. Bertram knew not well what to reply.
His enquiries, however, were too strenuously urged to be easily eluded: having
therefore premised her communication with endeavouring to enforce the necessity
of acquiring more composure and some degree of self-command, she proceeded to
acquaint him with the limited nature of her knowledge, and the accident by
which she became possessed of the miniature. During the short recital he gazed
alternately on Stella and the picture: the resemblance between them seemed to
increase at every glance: the period of its being left at the Hermitage
likewise tallied with the years she numbered; and Mrs. Bertram had tacitly confessed
her birth was involved in mystery.
Occupied
by reflections on a chain of events, the links of which appeared to his mind’s
eye inexplicably connected with each other, the narrator had already concluded
her little story, and some minutes of silence elapsed before the sound of her
voice appeared no longer to vibrate on his ears. At length he once more became
a listener; but the historian, in her turn, was now mute, and seemed by no
means inclined to continue the topic.
Though
what he heard of the picture served to confirm the idea previously entertained
respecting his mother having formerly been in that quarter of the country,
still the most material part of the business remained uncleared up while left
in ignorance relative to the real birth of Stella. To account for his present
anxiety on that head, it is necessary to mention an occurrence which had
recently taken place.
A
short time before this period, the husband of Mrs. Bertram’s maid, Sally, (who
resided with her at the juncture when Stella first became one of the family)
happened to be met by Captain Montague as he was crossing one of the farmer’s
fields on a shooting excursion. Affability and urbanity of manners in a
superior seldom fail to fascinate the minds of the vulgar:—the Captain entered
into conversation with his rustic companion, and the man, naturally of a
talkative disposition, became gradually so much pleased with his new
acquaintance, that he insisted upon being permitted to shew him the particular
spots most frequented by the feathered victims of the sportsman. In the course
of their perambulation, the Hermitage was occasionally mentioned; and, from
less to more, the history of his wife’s former attendance on Mrs. Bertram, with
the detail of his courtship and marriage. One thing led to another:—Sally’s
regret at parting with the mysterious strangers, and the liberal remuneration
her services obtained, were by no means forgotten; while the discovery of the
little foundling by Mrs. Wallace, (with the particulars of which he was but partly
acquainted, however,) and her subsequent introduction under the roof of her
benefactress, formed features no less prominent than extraordinary in the
domestic picture he loquaciously exhibited. Montague had private reasons for
being struck with the tout ensemble,
or, at least, some part of this communication, when more at leisure to reflect
upon particular circumstances apparently connected with it.
On
the morning of the preceding day he called upon the wife of this man, in order
to learn something farther on the subject. Astonished at being questioned by a
stranger on topics so long past, and ever so cautiously avoided by her old
mistress, Sally shrunk from the scrutinizing eye of the enquirer; and by the
evasive and confused manner in which her answers were given, together with the
broken sentences which now and then unconsciously escaped her, fully confirmed
what they were intended to conceal—namely, the existence of a secret, in which
his heart unaccountably whispered he was himself somehow or other interested.
The effect in this instance, however, preceded the cause, if we may venture so
to express ourselves.
In
fact, the increasing, though lately discovered resemblance Stella bore to his
mother, served more than any other circumstance to establish an idea of this
description when Mrs. Bertram’s reserved manners, on every allusion to our
heroine’s birth, was recollected: suspicion was therefore created, but only
received additional force from the recital and conduct of his new
acquaintances; while some intelligence of a domestic nature, which had shortly
reached him, rendered an investigation into the truth or falsehood of these
incidents more than ever necessary to his feelings.
Fraught
with this conviction, and strengthened in the design of enquiry by the
unexpected discovery of his mother’s picture, he determined to draw Mrs.
Bertram from the strict reserve hitherto maintained on that topic, by hinting
at one or two of the leading events particularly connected with her protégée’s first introduction to her
notice. This manoeuvre had the desired effect: she became more explicit, and
finally rendered him master of the whole transaction as far as she herself was
enabled so to do.
To
be yet farther “puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with error,” was nevertheless
all the advantage he derived from her communication; for by it the fate of an
unhappy parent still remained as undecided as ever. On the particulars of her
unfortunate story he appeared extremely unwilling to dwell; Mrs. Bertram
consequently forbore to press on the bruised reed, and merely contented herself
with knowing that the errors of this misguided woman were of a description too
painful to be enumerated by a son possessed of filial piety, or the smallest
degree of sensibility.
As
for poor Stella, her lot remained involved in its usual shade of obscurity; for
no connexion could possibly be supposed to exist between her and the lady
delivered of a dead child at Martin’s inn: the gay dream of high-born
relatives, and every splendid prospect for futurity, faded from her view as the
subject was discussed; and the unacknowledged Foundling of the Ship speedily
sunk from visions of imaginary grandeur to her former state of humble
dependance on the bounty of the benevolent and friendly Mrs. Bertram.
In
numberless situations of life the real vicissitudes of fortune, and the
illusive deceptions of a sanguine mind, produce equal misery in the human
breast:—such was not, however, the case with Stella: the pang arising from
disappointed expectation was but of short duration, for her thoughts had not
wandered far in the wide field of conjecture: ashamed at permitting them to
approach even its fascinating verge, she gave a sigh to the past, and snatching
the hand of her benefactress, pressed it to her lips with fervour.
“Yes,
beloved friend of the orphan Stella!—parent, guide, supporter—every tender name
in one!—still must the fatherless, unprotected foundling remain a burden on
your charity! Yes, it must be so, I see!—The golden dreams of a foolish girl,
whose principal wish was to possess the power of repaying your parental cares,
are now over! Then, farewel to them! You, I know, want not any indemnification
on my account: for myself, a change of condition would be instantly rejected,
if attended with the necessity of a separation from you. My dear Madam, ease my
heart by an assurance of your continued affection, for nature seems to have
marked me for your own!”
Mrs.
Bertram folded her to the most benevolent of human bosoms, while the scalding
tears of affection and gratitude mutually mingled in one stream on their
glowing cheeks.
Captain
Montague beheld this scene with deep, but silent emotion: his feelings at
length became too powerful to be suppressed: Stella, in every movement and
look, seemed the express image of a long lost mother. The idea was not indeed
new; but casual resemblances are frequently met with: it had therefore been
hitherto carefully confined to his own breast; where it might possibly have
died away unheeded, but for the strange combination of events which thus forced
it into notice.
Those
events still continued to haunt his fancy with a thousand chimeras on the
occasion; and what part of his mother’s conduct came within his knowledge, in
some measure justified their encouragement. After the foregoing occurrences, he
found it therefore in vain to attempt divesting himself of the notion that
Stella was not an alien to his blood: but the circumstances under which their
claim to propinquity might hereafter be established, appeared deadly to the
honour of his mother, and such as in all human likelihood could never be
acknowledged with propriety.
The
miniature picture lay uncovered before him as these reflections passed in sad
succession through his mind: he snatched it suddenly from the table—gazed upon
it, till a truant tear glistened on its glassy surface—then throwing it hastily
down, darted from the room with his handkerchief at his eyes, and entering one
of the more retired walks in the garden, continued to traverse it with a
perturbed step and an air of the deepest dejection, till the shades of evening
gradually closing around warned him to retire.
Having
procured his hat by means of the maid, whom he encountered at the gate, he left
his compliments to the ladies, and returned to Rossgrove, without attempting to
bid them personally adieu.
CHAP.
IX.
“Self-importance
of man, upon how slight a basis do thy
gigantic
erections repose!”
GODWIN.
THE attention of the worthy Mrs. Bertram and
her amiable protégée was speedily
turned from individual considerations relative to their own feelings, when the
situation of the agitated Captain Montague presented itself to their notice.
Consolation, however, they knew not well how to administer, for the nature of
the wound remained unknown to them; and while endeavouring to probe one part,
they feared to lacerate another yet more severely: that it was deep and
dreadful to the feelings of a man of honour, his actions sufficiently evinced.
No common event, they were fully persuaded, could have taken so keen a hold on
his mind; and they mutually regretted that it should have been his lot to have
the sensibilities of his nature thus called into view by any accidental
occurrence taking place under the hitherto peaceful roof of the hermitage.
The
remainder of the night was spent in conversing on the foregoing transactions,
and at a later hour than usual they resigned themselves to calm, undisturbed
repose commonly (though not always) attendant on the slumbers of the virtuous
and the good, happy in the consoling reflection that if a state of mediocrity
was all they could boast of, it was yet uncontaminated by guilty pursuits, or
the torturing pangs of a reproachful conscience, that worst and most
insupportable of human afflictions.
Early
on the following morning Captain Montague presented himself at their breakfast
table: his look, though it still bore the traces of recent sorrow, and he
sometimes relapsed into a temporary fit of abstraction, seemed now more
tranquil. The subject of the preceding evening was, however, carefully avoided
by all parties; and chearfulness, or at least the semblance of it, soon
appeared to have resumed its former residence at the Hermitage.
About
an hour after the removal of the tea equipage, a note arrived from Mrs. Adair,
entreating Mrs. Bertram would have the goodness to spare Stella for a few days,
as one of her daughters was taken suddenly ill, and expressed a strong desire
for her company. This request was immediately complied with, and an answer
returned to that effect.
Captain
Montague, on hearing her intention, declared his determination of being her
escort. The walk was not to commence till the evening; he therefore remained
with them till the clock warned him that their early dinner hour was rapidly
approaching, and then returned to the mansion of the Nabob, but not before the
period of Stella’s departure for Woodside was precisely settled.
Montague,
on his reappearance at the humble dwelling of Mrs. Bertram, seemed by no means
exhilarated by the effects of Mr. Ross’s splendid board, or the great variety
of costly and choice wines with which it was always so plentiful furnished; on
the contrary, his spirits seemed unusually depressed, and it was only by a
forced exertion of fortitude that he evidently supported any share in the
conversation.
Mrs.
Bertram and Stella apprehended he was indisposed, and under that idea entreated
he would not think of accompanying the latter. He pretended to laugh at the
supposition, and declared his health never had been better.—A walk, were he even
ill, would prove beneficial—in his present state it must consequently be doubly
so; and Stella was requested to prepare for it without further delay.
Before
they reached the second plantation the same gloomy influence again cast a shade
over his countenance. A pause of some length succeeded, during which his
companion repeatedly regarded him with a look of tender concern and the deepest
interest. He once caught her eye while resting upon his face, fraught with the
most lively expression of sympathy.
“Stella,
my sweet girl,” he suddenly exclaimed, “you pity me, I see: but why that look
of alarm?—nothing very new has occurred? One unfortunate affair is indeed
drawing to a crisis little expected:—with this affair I have recently been made
acquainted, and even wished to have consulted Mrs. Bertram on the occasion: yet
I know not how it happened, my courage always deserted me on the point of
disclosure. To you, I think, I can lay my errors open with less reluctance.
They are not premeditated ones; of this you may be assured: start not then, my
sweet friend, from the confession of the penitent sinner; but hear me with
patience, and generously grant me that assistance which one human creature owes
to another in distress!”
He
paused, apparently waiting for a reply. Stella in a low, softened voice begged
him to proceed. He pressed her hand to his lips, and heaving a deep sigh,
proceeded.
“The
error principally alluded to, might, perhaps, receive some palliation in the
eyes of many people when the circumstances under which it was committed are
duly considered; but the pleas of youth, of intoxication, and bad example,
though they might be justly urged on this occasion, shall not be permitted to
bias your opinion, unless I appear on trial to merit the indulgence—yet let me
see—the second of these, when I reconsider the matter, cannot be entirely
discarded, since, from the consequences of inebriety originate the chief part
of my misconduct—but I keep you too long in suspence. Pardon what may bear the
semblance of indelicacy in the following disclosure; and as I have ever
supposed you superior to the generality of your sex in the possession of every
feminine virtue, so let me find your friendship equal to the call now made upon
its exertions in my favour.
“Soon
after the corps to which I belong arrived in this quarter of the country,
several of the officers were invited to dine at a gentleman’s house, where a
numerous party of ladies were assembled for the purpose of having a dance in
the evening. A few of them we had once or twice seen at the parrade; to the
remainder we were strangers. The young lady who sat on my left hand during the
time of dinner, happened to prove one of the former: I recollected her face
immediately, and we soon became mutually pleased with each other’s
conversation. I engaged her hand for the evening before the female party
retired from the table, and as she rose to depart, promised to attend her at an
early hour in the drawing-room.
“And
here let me interrupt my little narrative to observe how necessary it is for
parents, or those, of whatever description, to whom the care of the young and
the beautiful belong, to prove ever watchful and strictly observant of the
character, principles, and conduct of the company with whom they are permitted
to associate. Unhappily, my new acquaintance had no guiding hand to warn her of
the hidden quicksand towards which she was verging.
“My
companions of the blade were by no means men of the strictest morals; on the
contrary, every appearance of rigidness in that respect was considered as fair
game, and treated accordingly. It was previously known that the mistress of the
mansion had long renounced all private pretensions to the title of a reformer;
although in the eye of the public she contrived to keep up appearances, and was
visited by numbers who secretly despised her character and proceedings.
“The
husband of this lady is a man of a very eccentric turn, and said to be easily
duped by her artifices. He is much attached to his bottle, and fond of company.
In consequence of this bias to conviviality, his table is usually well
attended, and his house a constant place of resort for all who chuse to become
its inhabitants. Possessed of a weak head, in more respects than one, a small
portion of the juice of the grape suffices to steep his senses in speedy
oblivion; and the licence occasionally taken by the male part of the guests,
when the master of the mansion is no longer able to control their tongues or
actions, proves frequently far from pardonable. This happened to be the case on
the day I speak of; and, to our shame be it mentioned, when we entered the
drawing room, no human beings whatever could possibly be less calculated for
the society of virtuous, or even commonly decent women, than those who, at this
ill-judged period, approached them. Coffee and tea were handed round—our hearts
became more composed; and at a late hour the dancing commenced.
“Perhaps
I was at this juncture the least intoxicated man of the company: but if my
faculties were clearer in one instance, in others they had little to boast of.
A dangerous sensation pervaded my senses, produced no doubt by the loose and
unprincipled language which had recently been sported in the dining-room. My
partner, however, did not appear hurt by the freedom of my behaviour; and the
passive forbearance of her manner (not to give it a harsher appellation)
contributed to increase the delirium of mind, by the facility with which every
succeeding liberty on my side was pardoned by this misjudging girl, with whom offence
and forgiveness were apparently synonimous terms.
“The
elder part of the guests were placed in an adjoining apartment, and too
seriously occupied in the orgies of the card-table to notice the gayer
proceedings of their juniors. A variety of refreshments and rich wines of every
description were plentifully supplied from the surrounding sideboards while the
exercise of dancing was continued: of course, the blood of each individual
became gradually more and more inflamed, and the effects of the draughts taken
immediately after dinner were not permitted to evaporate. The same round of
unrestrained festivity being repeated at the late supper hour, completely
accomplished the overturn of reason and every remaining degree of reflection.
The master of the house had long renounced all pretensions to either, and was
now snoring off the fumes of intoxication in a distant apartment.
“My
fair partner, it appeared, was a ward of our entertainer, and at this juncture
on a visit to the family. She, and the few females who now formed the rest of
the domestic circle, remained with us for some time after the guests of the day
returned to their respective homes. Myself, and four others of the corps
accepted an invitation to pass the night in our present abode, in order to accompany
our host on a shooting excursion on the following morning. Relieved from the
presence of her husband, his wife seemed to lose sight of every other
consideration, the promotion of noisy mirth and a moderate freedom from
fastidious restraint excepted. The inspiring song—the meaning sentiment—the sly
double entendre, alternately
succeeded each other; in short, liberty of thought, word, and deed appeared
gradually establishing its voluptuous empire, unencumbered by any disguise, but
a covering of the most flimsy texture. A little spirited romping at length
commenced. The clock struck two: our hostess called upon her three female
companions to retire: we opposed this design, and a violent struggle was the
consequence. The candles were unfortunately extinguished during the contest;
and our opponents better, better acquainted with the direction of the dark
winding passages, effected their escape to different apartments in the gallery:
unwilling to be outdone in generalship, the fugitives nevertheless were soon
overtaken. Either from negligence or want of time, the first door I reached was
unlocked: I opened it:—a faint exclamation convinced me my fair, but imprudent
partner was the inmate. Darkness, solicitude, and opportunity formed a
treacherous combination too formidable to the then state of my mind to combat:
the disorder of my senses increased, and soon communicated its influence to my
companion. In short, the remainder of this fatal night was passed in one and
the same apartment: and the consequences that have resulted from a proceeding
so censurable and weak, have reduced me to the necessity of this humiliating
detail.”
CHAP.
X.
“What
proof, alas! have I not giv’n of love?
“What
have I not abandon’d to thy arms?
“Have
I not set at nought my noble birth,
“A
spotless fame, and an unblemish’d race,
“The
peace of innocence, and pride of virtue?”
ROWE.
AT the conclusion of the last sentence the
feelings of Montague seemed entirely to overpower him for several minutes.
Stella
meanwhile maintained an obstinate silence: her indignation seemed directed more
to the female, than male part of the offenders; and, in fact, they were
certainly the most blameable of the number: but though this appeared evidently
the case, still she felt averse to condemn even where acquittal was impossible.
Her delicacy, too, seemed to be wounded by a recital so new, so unexpected; for
that women in a superior rank of life should have so conducted themselves, and
exhibited so total a dereliction from every principle of virtue or common
decency, appeared perfectly inexplicable to the pure and uncorrupted heart of
our heroine. To commiserate and pardon the failings of her fellow-creatures had
been one of the first lessons imprinted on her young and ductile mind by the
good and worthy Mrs. Bertram: but, in the present instance, premeditated
depravity of manners in the erring female group, thus introduced to her
knowledge, apparently steeled her bosom against them; and the pity, that under
different circumstances would have throbbed through every vein, was now too
much mingled with contempt, to admit of immediate utterance.
Montague,
who was sufficiently acquainted with the upright nature of her disposition to
suspect the impression such a recital would make, had purposely dwelt on every palliating
circumstance, in order to lessen the idea of guilt unavoidably attached to such
a mode of conduct and cast the chief part of the blame on the preceding
incidents, which had previously prepared the mind for the admission of error,
and finally led to so great a defalcation from the general principles of moral
rectitude. In vain, however, he waited to hear the sound of her voice: she
continued to walk slowly on in silence.
“You
seem too much disgusted to afford me any further attention, Stella,” said her
companion at length, in a low, hesitating accent:—“tell me, am I permitted to
conclude my unfortunate relation or not?”
“Well,
Sir, proceed,” she replied, “and inform me in what manner my assistance can be
required in such a business.”
He
bowed, and thus continued:—
“Your
own purity, my sweet friend, (for I must still presume to address you by that
appellation) cannot hold the character of a practised seducer in greater
detestation than the man before you has invariably done:—I reprobate—I abhor it;
nor would I be answerable for the accumulated anguish of which it is
productive, to obtain the empire of the world: but in this instance, as in
every other of my life, I thank Heaven I stand self-acquitted on that account.
Do not, however, suppose that by such an avowal I mean to exculpate myself from
actual error at the expence of my unhappy companion in misfortune.—No;
certainly I am the chief aggressor, however unintentionally; for I ought to
have resisted the temptation thrown in my way; and but for the fatal disorder
of my senses, occasioned by antecedent events, I assuredly had done so:—yet,
allow me just to hint that perhaps few young men so circumstanced, and meeting
with an equal degree of—encouragement—dare I call it?—would, possibly, have conducted
themselves better, or displayed any greater portion of self-command.”
“Spare
your comments, Sir,” interrupted his auditor, who, while she tacitly owned the
justice of the remark, deeply blushed at the idea of the light and disgraceful
view in which a part of the sex were thus implicated— “spare your comments,
Sir, and hasten to a conclusion: the distance from Mr. Adair’s house rapidly
diminishes, you see.”
“I
perceive it,” returned Montague, “and will not much longer encroach on your
patience.—On the morning that succeeded this fatal adventure I let the roof of
my host before the family, fatigued with the sports of the foregoing day,
quitted their respective apartments. In vain were tears and entreaties
alternately employed to break my declared resolution of returning no more: the
momentary delirium of pleasure had fled, and its galling successor,
self-reproach, was but ill calculated to soothe my tortured mind. Before our
separation, however, I endeavoured to lessen the weight of that self-accusation
which now pressed acutely on her feelings, by representing myself as the
principal criminal, and one who undoubtedly merited her lasting displeasure.
This latter sensation, nevertheless, seemed entirely absorbed in tenderness and
attachment to her undoer; and I had the additional agony of perceiving myself
alike the destroyer of her fondest hopes and honour.”
Montague
here paused for a moment, unable to suppress the workings of the complicated
feelings which agonized his bosom.
“It
is impossible to express what my sufferings were on this discovery of her real
sentiments in my favour, and the violent, but ineffectual remorse that agitated
her frame on every recurrence to her recent dereliction from virtue.
Reflections on the past were now, however, of no farther avail than as far as
they contributed to guard her conduct against similar events in future. I have
reason to believe the heart and intentions of this unfortunate victim to malign
circumstances are naturally good; but the force of example is great, and has
been known to effect a change in the dispositions of those possessed of more
experience and fortitude than fell to her share. Her occasional and frequently
too much prolonged residence with the second wife of her guardian, who
concealed a corrupted and unprincipled mind under the most specious and
fascinating manners, certainly pleads in her behalf; especially as I have since
learned she has little or no claim for advice or protection on any other human
being beyond the limits of this artful woman’s power, or her husband’s
jurisdiction.”
“Alas!”
cried Stella, involuntarily sighing, “how I pity the lost, infatuated girl!”
“Yes,
my sweet, benevolent Stella!” exclaimed Montague, extremely agitated—“yes, I
knew you would finally commiserate her sufferings, however the commencement of
the communication might offend your delicacy! But how will pity, that emanation
from the Divinity, be augmented, when subsequent events reach your ear—when I
add that the consequences of our mutual folly must speedily become known, if
proper measures are not quickly taken to elude the chance of public notice!”
Stella
started, and changed colour at this, to her, unexpected intimation:—the pangs
of unrequited love, in conjunction with the whispers of a lacerated conscience,
seemed sufficiently terrible without any additional aggravation; that
aggravation, nevertheless, was destined to be her portion, and contempt,
lasting as ignominious, was ready to overwhelm all her future prospects in
life! Our heroine became suddenly sick at heart, and after seating herself on
the road-side, Montague was forced to procure her some water from a
neighbouring brook in his helmet.
The
application produced almost an immediate effect: she soon found herself able to
pursue her walk, assisted by his offered arm, which was now readily accepted,
though it had been repeatedly declined at a more early period of his narrative.
CHAP.
XI.
“From
public haunts,
“And
all the gay delights of social life,
“Driv’n
with disgrace.”
MAURICE.
“THOUGH I have hitherto strictly adhered to my
first formed resolution of avoiding all future personal intercourse with this
unhappy girl,” resumed Montague, “several letters have, notwithstanding, passed
between us, in spite of every wish on my side to the contrary. Two, recently
received, confirm the existence of the foregoing circumstance, which in others
had only been obscurely hinted at.
“To
expose her to public infamy is not to be thought of. Stella, my dear Stella!
say, how shall I conduct myself in this trying emergency?—how afford the advice
or assistance she pathetically implores me to grant? Every better particle of
human nature revolts at the bare idea of inattention to the sufferings of my
own creation. Speak—tell me how the apprehended evil may be avoided—how the
publication of her shame may be prevented, ere it prove too late to make the
attempt!”
“One
mode of safe, of honourable, and timely reparation alone remains,” said his
youthful counsellor to this solemn request. “I am sorry you should find it
necessary to consult me, or any person whatever, on a subject so obvious to
every right-judging mind: your hand can solely effect a cure—it must and ought
to be exclusively hers whom you have injured.”
“Impossible!”
exclaimed Montague, in a firm, yet agitated voice; “it is already promised to
the sister of my dearest friend—to Louisa St. Vincent! and must not be
separated from the heart that has long been in her possession!”
“I
have done then, Sir,” returned Stella, slowly withdrawing her arm from his, and
proceeding at a quicker pace: “further, or other advice, is beyond my ability
to bestow!—Was it generous to distress me, however, by the recital of
irremediable evils, which you previously knew I had not the power to mitigate?”
“Oh,
yes, you have the power!” cried Montague, again seizing her half-reluctant
hand, and replacing it as before. “Though Maria’s principles have suffered a
temporary perversion, her heart, as I have before observed, is not a corrupt
one, and her intentions I believe to be good: she sees her former errors, and,
though perhaps unable to separate them entirely from an ill-fated attachment to
their principal cause, would yet willingly regain the path to virtue, if a
restoration can possibly be accomplished without the eclat of notoriety—a circumstance, the dread of which is
particularly formidable to her feelings. Say then, my noble minded friend, say
you will rise superior to the misjudging weakness generally imputed to your sex
on similar occasions;—tell me you will see, and seeing speak comfort to the
repentant sinner—that you will endeavour to raise her from her present state of
sorrow and humiliation, not precipitate her farther down the gulf of error by
the stern look of silent reproach, or the repulsive hand of cold, unforgiving
prudery!”
“I
have already told you, Mr. Montague, that whatever may be my inclination to
serve you, the ability is wanting for that purpose.”
“And
I have already told you the reverse,” he replied, with quickness. “Though a
representation of this case to Mrs. Bertram might excite in her breast feelings
repugnant to my purpose, yet the influence you possess over that worthy lady
might be exerted in the most beneficial manner, to the arrangement of this
vexatious affair:—would she but condescend to undertake the management of the
wretched girl’s situation, at, and during the term of her approaching
confinement, every apprehension on her account would instantly subside, and my
gratitude for the kindness be inexpressible as lasting.—Is it not possible to
accomplish this point, think you?
“Why
did you not personally make the proposal?” asked Stella; “it would have come
better from yourself than a second person.”
“Perhaps
so,” he replied; “but, upon my soul, I had not sufficient courage to attempt
it! After hinting at the miseries entailed on her family by a like conduct in
my unhappy mother, was it possible to acknowledge myself so lost to all feeling
and example, as to be the means of reducing an innocent girl to a similar state
of guilt and wretchedness?—No: to one so much my senior as Mrs. Bertram, I
could not prevail with myself to make the humiliating confession, though able
to accomplish it to her gentle, unassuming Stella, on whose goodness and
humanity I rest my cause for absolution, and something of even more importance
in the existing state of affairs.”
Our
heroine was on the point of returning an answer, when a casual glance was
obtained of one of the Miss Adairs, apparently advancing to meet her.
“Tell
me quickly what I have to hope from your friendly interference?” whispered
Montague, in a hurried and perturbed accent.
“Every
thing, be assured, it can possibly effect,” was the satisfactory, but laconic
reply.
A
tear dropped upon her hand as he silently raised it to his lips in token of
acknowledgment.
“I
shall call at Mr. Adair’s to-morrow; in that event may I hope for a few minutes
private discourse with you?”
“Certainly,
if practical to accomplish it.”
“Enough,
my sweet friend—my gentle Stella!—may Heaven, for Heaven alone can do it,
reward such unexampled goodness!—You know not the burthen your humanity has
removed from my bosom!”
The
near vicinity of Sally Adair now put an end to the subject. He proceeded with
his companions to the house, and after paying a short visit, returned to
Rossgrove.
Stella
was welcomed with their usual kindness by her worthy hostess and all the
family; and on entering the chamber of the invalid, she had the unexpected
gratification of finding her by no means so bad as her fears had represented
her.
Although
our heroine kept her station by the bed of her friend through the chief part of
the night, she was nevertheless dressed and ready to receive Captain Montague
on his arrival.
A
favourable opportunity for a private interview was not long unattained: under
pretence of procuring a little fresh air, Stella repaired to the garden,
accompanied by her military friend. Here the topic of the preceding evening was
speedily introduced, and underwent a second discussion. With the family to whom
the unfortunate Maria owed the original perversion of her principles, Stella
was personally acquainted; but it had frequently been mentioned in her hearing
as no less noted for what is vulgarly termed hospitality, than the gay and
dissipated manners of its mistress. The ward of her husband happened to be an
orphan, who possessed not one near relative on the face of the earth, and who,
by the express terms of her father’s will, was under the necessity of spending
two thirds of every year under the roof of her guardian till the completion of
her minority was accomplished. Unhappily for her, his first wife expired in
child-bed soon after she became an inmate of his house; and the successor of
the deceased was but ill calculated to supply her place as a moral instructress
to the young and uneducated Maria. The natural consequences which too commonly
result from such an example and situation have already been detailed; may they
serve as a beacon to others in similar circumstances!
Placed
by the silent pillow of her sick friend during the preceding night, our heroine
had sufficient time to think on the different circumstances related by Captain
Montague, and to weigh causes and effects in the impartial scale of cool,
unbiassed reflection. The conclusion of this investigation proved indeed rather
more favourable to the male than female culprit, as the temptation to error
apparently originated on her side of the question; but, upon the whole,
everything being considered and re-considered in the most charitable point of
view, neither of the parties appeared quite so unpardonable as more fastidious
judges, in the effervescence of untried virtue, might probably have deemed
them: she therefore determined to use her best endeavours in their behalf; and
was not long in communicating this intention to her pleased and grateful
auditor.
Before
they separated, it was agreed that Stella should make some plausible excuse for
a short visit to the Hermitage in the course of the succeeding day; when Mrs.
Bertram (from whose benevolence and prudence he was desired to expect every
thing) was to be entrusted with the whole detail of this distressing business,
and, if willing to accept of the task, have its future arrangement entirely
confided to her care.
Montague
would gladly have prevailed with Stella to promise a private visit to poor
Maria (whose place of residence lay at not great distance) prior to the
intended disclosure of her condition to Mrs. Bertram; but this appeared a step
of too much importance to be taken without the knowledge or approbation of her
benefactress; and finding his arguments decidedly ineffectual on the subject,
he forbore at length to urge it any further, but left his young assistant to
the guidance of her own better judgment, persuaded he might safely rely on its
unerring dictates where the cause of humanity was implicated, or relief
required for the unfortunate, of whatever description.
CHAP.
XII.
“Of
all the paths which lead to human bliss,
“The
most secure and grateful to our steps
“With
mercy and humanity is mark’d.”
GLOVER.
WE trust our readers are long since convinced
that Mrs. Bertram was not one of those rigid moralists, who, (self-supposed)
beyond the fear of temptation themselves, disdain to make any allowance for the
effects of its influence on others of a less happy temperament. She heard our
heroine with patience, though not unmixed with some unavoidable portion of
regret, approved of her conduct in the affair, and promised to consult her
pillow on the proper measures necessary to be adopted for the regulation of her
future motions. Stella, gladdened by the exhilarating smile of this excellent
woman, and enriched by the blessing that followed it, received, with heartfelt
pleasure, her permission to request a visit from Captain Montague at the
Hermitage, and again departed for Mr. Adair’s, accompanied by a little girl in
the neighbourhood, who, when not otherwise employed, sometimes attended her to
the opposite side of the plantations.
Before
the limits of these were nearly attained, Captain Montague appeared in view. To
him the success of her embassy was speedily related, and the invitation from
Mrs. Bertram was no sooner delivered, than accepted with delight. Peace once
more seemed to shed her tranquil influence over his mind, and Stella was
overwhelmed with a profusion of acknowledgments, as the principal source from
whence it flowed.
To
conceal the nature of his transgression from the ear of Louisa St. Vincent was
an object no less momentous to his view for the future, than the assistance so
ardently wished for on Maria’s account. He knew her character was of that
description, and her notions of moral rectitude so religiously strict, that the
positive renunciation of his hand, in favour of Maria, would prove the certain
consequence of a discovery, whatever might be the acute nature of her own
feelings on the occasion. Apprehensions of this kind now, however, began
gradually to subside: the forced semblance of cheerfulness which for some time
past he had obliged himself to assume in company, was no longer fictitious.
Stella saw and felt, with infinite satisfaction, the importance of the mission
with which she had been intrusted, and mentally experienced that “to do good to
others, is to be ultimately happy ourselves.”
Though
Miss Adair was soon in a convalescent state, she could not think of parting
with Stella till the perfect reestablishment of her health was effected: of
course, our heroine’s visit at Woodside was prolonged much beyond its original
limits. Meanwhile Mrs. Bertram and Captain Montague had several consultations
on the business which the former had agreed to arrange; and the principal
outlines of their plan were no sooner compleated, than she prepared to put them
in practice.
In
the life time of the first Mrs. Harris (the name of Maria’s guardian) she had
been a visitor at Green-Bank, and rather on a footing of intimacy with the
family, by whom she was much esteemed. On the second marriage of that
gentleman, their former intercourse gradually ceased; for the gay and
fashionable manners of the present Mrs. Harris accorded but ill with her
notions of propriety, or the quiet, retired manner in which time smoothly and
rationally glided along at the Hermitage.
Before
a woman is allowed to possess too much influence over the mind of her husband,
he ought to be well assured of her inclination and ability to exert it
properly. Mr. Harris was too greatly infatuated with the personal charms of his
fashionable wife to suppose this inquiry a matter of any moment. Unfortunately,
the lady soon perceived his inattention in this respect, and her empire was
speedily established on a foundation too secure to be easily shaken. The
consequences of this circumstance may be readily imagined:—ever thing underwent
a total alteration at Green-Bank: the house, the furniture, all was modernized;
for how could a high-bred dame, born and educated in the metropolis of the
three kingdoms, possibly exist amidst the Gothic barbarism of such antediluvian
objects, as every where surrounded her. Here had she stopped, however, all
might still have been well; but the spirit of innovation was not to be so
easily satisfied; and the master of the house gradually became converted from a
character of respectability, to one somewhat the reverse: at least such
happened to be the opinion of the thinking and sensible part of his neighbours
on the occasion; to which, however, his female helpmate evidently paid very
little attention.
His
ward, the unfortunate Maria Campbell, had been consigned to his care at a very
early period of life by her father, who died in the island of St. John, and
left his countryman, Mr. Harris, then in Nova Scotia, his sole executor.
Had
the first Mrs. Harris survived a few years longer, it is probable that her
instructions and example, in conjunction with the natural upright bent of
Maria’s mind, would finally have preserved her from the subsequent misery, by
which, from a different mode of education, she was now overwhelmed.
Mrs.
Bertram knew and loved her when a child, not more on her own account, than on
that of her departed friend’s, with whom Maria was a particular favourite.
After that lady’s death, she was placed at a boarding-school in the north of
England, and on her guardian’s second appearance at the altar, removed to one
of the most fashionable seminaries in London, where she was taught every modern
accomplishment, and untaught every moral one formerly acquired.
Mrs.
Harris, to whom the entire direction of her conduct was now entrusted, found it
necessary, however, to take her home before the second year of her residence in
the metropolis terminated. To Maria the change indeed proved of little
consequence, for the force of bad example was destined to be equally her
portion. On the part of her guardian’s wife the case happened to be widely
different; for the annual sum allotted for the maintenance of his ward, was,
like the education of poor Maria, left, without restriction or superintendance,
at her command. The expensive and vain disposition of this woman frequently
involved her in occasional difficulties, against which she soon judged it
convenient to guard herself by appropriating the whole amount of Miss
Campbell’s yearly allowance to her own use. The result of this prudent
determination brought Maria back to Green-Bank before the critical period of
fourteen summers had been numbered from the first period of her existence; and
the tender plant, which had just begun to expand its leaves in one hothouse,
speedily arrived at its last stage of maturity in another.
To
hear that Maria Campbell was thoughtless and giddy, had long ceased to be new
intelligence in the neighbourhood: no imputation of a more criminal nature,
however, had yet fixed a stigma on her name, though now in her nineteenth year;
and whenever she was mentioned at the Hermitage, Mrs. Bertram still secretly
hoped that the early rudiments of virtue instilled into her young and ductile
mind by her first worthy instructress, would yet prove sufficiently powerful to
preserve her from continued error, in spite of the bad example perpetually
before her eyes. The mistress of the Hermitage encouraged this idea from a
mistaken notion that
“Vice
is a monster of so frightful mien,
“As
to be hated needs but to be seen.”
An assertion certainly true where an
uncorrupted heart first views it in all its natural deformity; but the case
becomes altered when the youthful mind is habituated to all its various
gradations, and the insinuating influence of pleasure permitted by
imperceptible steps to establish its dominion in the bosom.
Mrs.
Bertram, though under any circumstances she would deeply have regretted the
fall of a fellow-creature from the paths of virtue and the station in life she
seemed born to fill, felt her concern doubly increased by the knowledge that
Captain Montague proved an equal sharer in her guilt: however, it was vain to moralize
where active exertions could alone be serviceable, and these she had promised
to adopt without farther loss of time.
On
fixing her final residence at the Hermitage some little affairs of her
husband’s remained unsettled, and the advice of Mr. Harris had often been
usefully followed on the occasion. One or two of the papers relative to the
business had been left at Green-Bank: these were considered at the time of
small or no importance, and therefore never enquired after. It now, however,
occurred to her, that, under pretence of asking for them, she might form a
plausible excuse for renewing her former intercourse with the family. The
scheme succeeded to the extent of her expectations; and a few introductory
lines from Captain Montague soon procured her the unlimited confidence of
Maria, whose situation was already become critical and alarming.
CHAP.
XIII.
“All
things invite
“To
peaceful counsels, and the settled state
“Of
order.”
MILTON.
IT was not, however, without infinite
difficulty that she could prevail on this infatuated girl to suppress the
self-deluding hope of a legal connexion with her undoer. Attached to him by the
strongest ties of affection, her passion seemed to acquire additional force as
the dreaded time approached when she was to become a mother. On Montague she
fondly doted—to Montague still looked up as her future partner through life,
the source of her own felicity, the indulgent father of her unborn offspring,
who, by acknowledging a private marriage, would hereafter restore their
innocent child to all the privileges of legitimacy. The sensibility of mind
possessed by Montague had prolonged this deception, till the idea almost formed
part of her existence. Conscious of the injury he had done her, and his
inability to repair it according to her wishes, and shocked at the effect an
explicit declaration of the latter circumstance would probably produce on the
intellects of a woman whose letters contained the most violent and unqualified
professions of unalterable love, Montague had fatally augmented the evil by the
very means he took to soothe it. The few unavoidable answers she received,
though an impartial reader could not easily have mistaken their tenor, were
willingly misapprehended by poor Maria, and every entreaty they contained for
her forgiveness converted into a certain proof of an intended reparation, legal
as honourable.
Mrs.
Bertram, on a perusal of these short and affecting epistles, was astonished at
the persevering obstinacy with which she continued to delude herself, and
sometimes felt disposed to undeceive her at once, by procuring an incontestible
acknowledgment of the truth from the hand of Montague; but, on second thoughts,
she renounced this design till the hour of confinement was elapsed, lest the
final destruction of her fondest hopes might be attended with fatal
consequences in her present precarious condition.
Though
continually occupied in parties of pleasure with the military, and daily
immersed in the vortex of folly and thoughtless dissipation, Mrs. Harris could
not fail to remark the alteration which had latterly taken place in Maria’s
spirits and appearence. If the real source of that alteration, however, was
suspected by her, she either chose to preserve the semblance of ignorance, or
affected to believe it proceeded from the late hours and racketting style of
life which people of fashion (she sometimes condescended to allow) were
frequently necessitated to comply with. On a second declaration of this opinion
Mrs. Bertram determined to profit by it, and in the course of her third visit
at Green-Bank, easily prevailed with its mistress (who detested the idea of an
invalid in her domestic establishment) to indulge her with Maria’s company for
a few weeks under the calm and orderly roof of the Hermitage.
It
had been preconcerted by the parties most interested in obtaining this leave of
absence, that every apprehended obstacle to its success should be done away by
an assurance from Maria that the advantages accruing from her residence with
her guardian should be continued, without any deduction, in the same manner as
if she was still an inhabitant of his house.
This
intimation settled the matter at once; and Maria, two days after it was
concluded, accompanied Mrs. Bertram to her peaceful retreat at the Hermitage,
in somewhat more than the seventh month of her pregnancy.
Maria,
from a knowledge of friendship entertained for her present hostess by Captain
Montague, now fondly cherished the hope of procuring that interview with the
latter which had hitherto been so often ineffectually attempted. But she little
knew the woman she had to deal with, when such an idea took possession of her
mind. Mrs. Bertram’s disposition, though fraught with the milk of human
kindness where the tearful eye of misery besought her interference, was yet
inflexible to what she conceived the voice of persevering error; and she
declared her decided resolution of renouncing all further share in the
approaching event, if her arrangements were not unconditionally complied with.
Maria,
who dreaded the publication of her disgrace, lest the total loss of character,
which must unavoidably follow it, should prove an insuperable barrier to her
future union with the father of her child, was again forced to submit to the
hard law of necessity, and trust to what chance or a change of measures might
hereafter produce.
Meanwhile
an alteration in the motions of the military took place, which proved by no
means agreeable to the female part of their acquaintance in this quarter of
Galloway. The greater part of the regiment was ordered to Kirkcudbright,
Dumfries, and the vicinity. Amongst those destined for the latter place
happened to be Captain Montague. Major St. Vincent, Mr. Jones, and one other
gentleman alone were to continue for some time longer in their present station.
On
the day prior to their march, Stella received a few hurried lines from
Montague, containing this intelligence: he likewise mentioned his intention of
calling upon her in the course of the evening.
The
family at Woodside were engaged to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Harris; and as Miss
Adair could not yet accompany them, Stella was suffered to stay behind with the
invalid. The latter usually lay down for an hour or two in the evening; and her
attendant had hardly left the chamber before Captain Montague made his
appearance.
This
was not the most cheerful of all possible interviews: their spirits seemed
equally low, and the nature of those subjects which formed a chief part of
their conversation, appeared but ill calculated to exhilarate them. Stella
leaned pensively on the side of the open window, while he poured forth the
grateful and friendly effusions of his heart, and dwelt on the regret that
filled it on the near prospect of a separation from his beloved Louisa St.
Vincent, and his much esteemed Stella: Maria, too—the undone Maria! might soon
be no more!—might be sent to her final account by his means, and, like the
accusing angel, carry his future condemnation along with her to the throne of
immutable Justice! The softened mind of Montague shuddered at this picture of
its own creation; and snatching the hand of the weeping Stella, he grasped it
to his heart, imploring her by all her hopes of a hereafter, never to desert
the wretched girl, or her unfortunate offspring.
Stella,
in much emotion, raised her eyes to give him the solemn assurance so movingly
requested, when a sudden exclamation of surprise that burst from her lips,
called his attention to another object. It proved to be one very little
expected at the time.
Placed
amongst some trees growing near a window from whence every look and motion of
Stella and her companion could be easily distinguished, appeared Mrs. St.
Vincent on horseback. Mr. Jones, on his charger, was at her side, and leaned
familiarly on the crutch of her saddle: while the malignant glance and
sarcastic whisper alternately succeeded each other during the momentary
observation a very short survey afforded of our heroine and her visitor.
Montague
started from his seat, and regarded the companion of the lady with a stern,
indignant eye. His meaning seemed to be pretty legibly written on his
countenance; for the subject of it immediately resumed a less familiar posture,
and apparently shrunk into his natural insignificance. Not so with Mrs. St.
Vincent:—she cast another look of sneering contempt at the two friends—honoured
her redoubtable beau with something of the same description, and then bursting
into a loud laugh, put her horse to a canter, and vanished, with her escort, in
a few minutes from sight.
“That
cruel woman,” said Stella, recoiling intuitively as Margaret passed the window,
“that cruel woman seems to take a most unaccountable pleasure in mortifying me
on every possible opportunity: one would suppose she was too happily situated
to trouble herself about a poor, unassuming foundling, so much in every respect
her inferior!”
At
the words “too happily situated” an involuntary sigh marked her meaning, and
Montague could not refrain from raising his eyes to her face. The flush of
insulted, but conscious worth that burned on her lovely cheeks was accompanied
by the intrusive tear of bitter recollection. He silently gazed upon her for a
moment, and suddenly dropping her hand, paced the room in visible, though mute
emotion.
“I
have frequently,” resumed Stella, without noticing his agitation, “envied those
fortunate mortals who have brothers or near connexions to protect them from
unmerited insult: had I been in possession of such, Mr. Jones, perhaps—but it
does not much signify; I must bear inevitable evils as well as I can.”
“Damn
the stupid dog!” cried Montague, with a vehemence of manner that startled her:
“surely you cannot apprehend any thing from such an insignificant puppy!—If he
presume only to mention your name with the slightest degree of disrespect, I
will cane him through the regiment.”
Stella
soon perceived the error she had committed by letting complaints of such a
description escape her lips; but a full heart is not always a prudent one:—she
endeavoured, however, to repair the mischief by turning the discourse on more
general topics; and had nearly succeeded, when Mr. Adair’s carriage drove to
the door. Montague remained a few minutes after the return of the Adair family,
and then, with evident regret, bade them adieu.
The
next direction of his steps was to the grotto of the Hermitage, where the few
interviews which had taken place between him and Mrs. Bertram, since the
residence of Maria with that lady, were generally held. His intended visit was
announced by a note similar to the one received by Stella; and the good lady,
having apologized for her absence to her fair guest, whom she requested to
remain within doors till her return, had already been some time in expectation
of his appearance, before he presented himself to her view.
The
grateful heart of Captain Montague shewed itself on this occasion in the
genuine colours of unadulterated nature; and Mrs. Bertram became more than ever
interested in the welfare and happiness of a young man whose feelings revolted
so strongly from the idea of even unintentional error, and whose principles had
escaped the infection of example, though his manners and address bespoke the
first polish of fashionable life.
CHAP.
XIV.
“Friends
should part kind, who are to meet no more.”
HILL.
THE key of the private garden-door usually kept
by Stella, had been in the possession of Captain Montague from the time that
Maria became an inmate of the Hermitage; and on quitting the grotto, Mrs.
Bertram accompanied him along the covered walk that led to it.
Their
progress was slow, and their conversation carried on in low whispers: they
moved with caution, and were within a few yards of the spot that was to
separate them, when a rustling sound amongst some of the neighbouring bushes,
followed by an abrupt and wild exclamation, suddenly interrupted a discourse
that seemed altogether calculated to absorb their whole attention.
Mrs.
Bertram stopped short in the midst of a sentence she was uttering with uncommon
earnestness of manner, and turning round to discover from whence this
unaccountable circumstance proceeded, a female figure was seen to rush from the
opposite hedge, who, darting across the road, threw her arms round Captain
Montague, and instantly sunk in a fainting fit at his feet.
The
whole of this strange transaction was so rapid and unexpected, that the
astonished spectators scarcely knew whether to believe it real or imaginary.
Mrs.
Bertram was the first who appeared to recollect herself and comprehend the
mystery: the truth flashed upon her at the second glance cast upon the
apparently expiring object before them, who was quickly recognised for the
unhappy Maria Campbell. Montague, softened by the previous discourse that had
taken place relative to her unfortunate condition, could not behold this victim
to a momentary error without the keenest sensations of remorse and compassion.
He raised her from the ground, and conveyed her in his arms to a small covered
seat there at hand; where, still acting as her supporter, he mournfully
surveyed the sad alteration a few months had produced in her features and whole
appearance, as her head lay reclined on his bosom, without evincing the
smallest degree of sense or motion.
“Are
you mad?” cried Mrs. Bertram, softly endeavouring to unclasp his hands and
remove her from his hold: “retire—depart instantly, before her recollection
returns! otherwise the consequences may prove fatal.”
“I
cannot leave you in this situation,” replied he, in a low tremulous voice,
while a tear trickled down his cheek and fell upon her forehead, as his eyes
remained fixed on her languid countenance.
“Not
leave me!” repeated his companion: “you must indeed, however, Captain Montague!
and that speedily too—indeed you must!”
“And
how is she to be got back to the house, then?—you cannot possibly support her
so far without additional assistance.”
“Commit
the management of that matter to me, Sir,” replied Mrs. Bertram, in a firm,
determined voice; “and do me the favour to believe I am competent to the task
of arranging it properly: you evidently are not so at present. Respect her past
sufferings, and increase not those to come by agonizing her already wounded
mind with the presence of him in whom all her misery has originated.—I insist
upon your absence.”
Every
word pronounced by Mrs. Bertram, and her determined manner and commanding look,
spoke strongly to the tortured soul of Montague. Silent and sad, he now
prepared to obey her; and aided by her endeavours to free him from his burthen,
had nearly accomplished the meditated retreat, when the movements and change of
posture occasioned by this attempt, apparently operated to the restoration of
the animal powers, and Maria once more regained her senses.
Their
return, however, was productive of fresh difficulties:—she clung to him with
strength almost supernatural, and wildly declared her intention of henceforth
living or dying in his arms—of sharing his fate—of remaining with him for ever!
Mrs.
Bertram tried the force of expostulation and reason; but expostulation and
reason were unattended to amidst the frantic ravings of passion and the
delirium of despair. At length exhausted nature gave way to corporeal weakness,
and another fainting fit succeeded. Montague, mute and miserable, now saw the
prudence of the sacrifice required by necessity; and Mrs. Bertram’s former
request being again urged, no longer met with resistance: he dropped another
liquid witness of heartfelt penitence on the pale cheek of the unconscious
Maria—pressed his trembling lips on her cold forehead—imprinted a kiss on the
hastily snatched hand of his inestimable friend, and sighing profoundly as he
burst from the half-relaxed hold of the former, and casting a farewell,
melancholy look on them both, rushed forward to the door, from whence his
receding form soon ceased to be visible.
At
the entrance of the first plantation he met Mrs. Wallace in her way to the
Hermitage. She would have passed him unnoticed, however, had not his appearance
alarmed her, and produced an enquiry after his health. The unhappy young man
started at the sound of her voice,
and suddenly stopping, raised his eyes to her face. She was speedily
recognised; and on her asking for Mrs. Bertram, he directed her where to find
her, accompanied by a request to hasten forwards without loss of time.
Mrs.
Wallace, apprehensive from his perturbed and agitated appearance, that some
untoward accident had befallen her friend, instantly obeyed his injunctions.
She found Mrs. Bertram supporting Maria, whose senses were again on the
recovery: but mental anguish was now absorbed in corporeal sufferings:—the
pangs of a premature labour had seized her, brought on by the conflict she had
this evening undergone. She was, with difficulty, conveyed to her apartment;
where a restless, agonizing night preceded the apprehended event, which took place
on the following morning, and gave birth to the secondary cause of all her
misery in the form of a female infant; which, though small and apparently
delicate, appeared, notwithstanding, likely to live.
Just
as Mrs. Bertram was going to forward a note to Stella, in which was contained a
request to see her at the Hermitage, a messenger arrived from Woodside, with
intelligence that Miss Adair had had a relapse; and therefore as the presence
of our heroine could not be dispensed with, her maternal friend was entreated
once more to prolong her leave of absence, which was otherwise to have expired
in the course of a few days. The mother of the invalid seemed so much
interested in the success of this petition, that Mrs. Bertram could not find in
her heart to refuse her acquiescence, and a favourable answer was accordingly
returned. Stella, of course, remained ignorant of the recent event at the
Hermitage; for her worthy benefactress feared to trust it to paper, and a
verbal message was out of the question.
Soon
after the servant was dispatched from Woodside on this commission, the sound of
the trumpet was heard approaching from Wigton. Stella knew it announced the
departure of the troops; she therefore stole softly from the chamber of her
patient, and entering her own, threw up the sash to observe their motions. The
martial strains, grand, solemn, and impressive, reverberated at intervals
amidst the surrounding hills for some time previous to the appearance of the
performers. At length the helmets of the soldiers were discovered, glittering
in the sunbeams of the morning, as they emerged from a plantation of Scotch
firs, that concealed a part of the road through which they had to pass.
A
gentleman, of an elegant figure and commanding air, occasionally appeared amongst
the multitude, as the movements of a high mettled, fiery charger made its way
through the crowd of spectators that encompassed, and, at times, nearly
retarded their march. The heart of Stella throbbed as she first glanced her eye
over this elegant horseman; and she shrunk back from the window under an idea
that it could only be St. Vincent who thus shone conspicuous above his
companions. Her mind became soon, however, reassured, from the recollection
that he was yet to remain in his present quarters for some time to come: she
therefore returned to her former situation at the window, and, convinced the
cause of her alarm could not possibly be the person she had supposed, again
leaned forward, in expectation of discovering her friend Montague in the number.
This
wish was not long ungratified. Montague, hitherto placed in the rear, suddenly
galloped up to Colonel Arabin, who rode at the head of the men; and after
conversing with him for a few minutes, he was returning to his former station,
when, upon casting a hasty glance in that direction, he perceived Stella at the
window.
Montague
moved his helmet, and was advancing to bid her a second adieu, but the Colonel
having some further directions to give, called him abruptly back.
The
troops in the interim moved on, and before their discourse terminated, the
officer who had attracted her notice joined the two former. The late
apprehensions of Stella were now not merely renewed—they were confirmed: it was
indeed St. Vincent, as her heart had already hinted. She sickened at the
conviction, and in much agitation turned from the ardent and melancholy gaze
with which he evidently regarded her. Montague speedily remarked the air of
pensive dejection that immediately spread over the countenance of his friend.
He said something to him in a low voice, but with much seeming earnestness: the
Major suddenly started from his reverie, and each profoundly bowing to our
heroine, passed the house without taking any farther notice of her.
The
road lay within a short distance of this side of the mansion, and the trampling
of horses again attracted her attention. Another division of the troops
appeared in view, under the command of Lieutenant Jones. The scene of the
preceding evening recurred to his memory, and on looking toward the open
window, Stella was perceived leaning against the side of the sash, from whence
she imagined herself least likely to be observed.
In
the hope of remaining unheeded, she was not, however, long permitted to
indulge. Mr. Jones had no sooner reached the vicinity of the window than he
instantly rode up, and accosted her in a manner that determined her to retain
her position as the most explicit proof she could give of the unimportant light
in which she regarded him, and a distant and slight movement of the head was
the sole return his first address was honoured with.
“Nay,
my fair maid of the Hermitage,” said the incorrigible, familiar puppy, “for
Heaven’s sake, do not let your grief thus absorb every sentiment of politeness!
though that happy dog Montague is upon the move, those who remain will do their
best to supply his place: believe me, you will find Harcourt and myself
tolerable substitutes. I wish, pro bono
publico, I could say as much for the Major; but a married military
man is no better than any other unfortunate devil in the same predicament, when
his wife is at his elbow.”
“The
Major!” involuntarily exclaimed Stella, inattentive to every other part of this
witty harangue,
and wholly thrown off her guard by the sound of a name so interesting to her
feelings— “what of the Major?” repeated she, bending forward as she spoke with
a look of earnest enquiry.
Jones
burst into a loud and sarcastic laugh; but seeing her about to retire from his
view, with a countenance expressive of the profoundest contempt for a conduct
so unpardonable, he endeavoured to restrain his mirth, and ludicrously bowing
as he advanced nearer the window, begged leave to illustrate the nature of what
he had said, by adding that though the Major, Harcourt, and himself were now upon
their march with the rest of the light horse, their intention was merely to
accompany them a few miles on their way, after which it would prove equally the
endeavour and inclination of the two latter to supply the loss of those who had
hitherto, in some people’s opinion at least, (again bowing) obtained a
preference over them. As for Captain Montague—
Stella
had already heard all she desired, and feeling perfectly indifferent to the
conclusion of his information, closed the sash with a dignified air of cool
disdain, without permitting him sufficient time to finish the sentence.
Jones
seemed at first disposed to be offended; but on perceiving the object of his
intended displeasure no longer in view to witness its formidable appearance,
the design was quickly converted into another loud peal of unmeaning laughter,
in the midst of which the disconcerted warrior clapped spurs to his charger,
and galloped after his leaders.
CHAP.
XV.
“We
are creatures of sensation: our worst calamities
derive
as much of their pungency from the accessories by
which
they are accompanied, as they do from their intrinsic
value.”
GODWIN.
TWO of the younger Miss Adair’s, who, unperceived by Stella,
had been observing all that passed from an upper window, now joined her. Convinced
that their former suspicions relative to Captain Montague were by no means so
unfounded as she seemed willing to persuade them, our heroine at length
silently acquiesced in an opinion, for the farther combating of which her
spirits were at present by no means adequate: her teasing companions of course
seemed to think a reciprocal attachment between her and the Captain henceforth
established.
In
the evening Mrs. Wallace called at Mr. Adair’s, and taking Stella side, related
to her the event that had happened at the Hermitage. She heard the recital in
much agitation of mind, and at its conclusion insisted upon accompanying the
good woman back to their mutual benefactress. This design was, however,
presently negatived by the former, who declared Mrs. Bertram had expressly
prohibited her return till the time already determined on for that purpose
should arrive. As she knew her visitor was far better calculated than herself
to be an useful assistant in such an emergency, Stella at length acquiesced,
and consented to remain at Woodside for the specified time, provided nothing
material occurred in the interim to require her presence at home.
A
fortnight from the morning on which the troops had passed Mr. Adair’s was
already elapsed without producing any occurrence of consequence, except the
restoration of his daughter to her former state of convalescence. The term of
our heroine’s visit was now arrived, and, accompanied by two of the young
ladies, after taking an affectionate farewell of the family, she set off for
the Hermitage.
The
stile which led to the private path through the park, by some accident had been
broken down, and its place was now filled up with stones and furze until it
could be properly repaired. This occasioned a trifling disappointment to the
young ladies, who saw themselves under the necessity of proceeding by the
public road, although extremely dusty, and considerably about: no probable
alternative, however, appeared; and while the Miss Adair’s stood regretting the
circumstance without attempting to remedy it by advancing forward, Stella, sunk
into mental abstraction, was retracing in idea the various incidents of the
formidable bull adventure which had occurred in the vicinity of their present
station. Absorbed in the train of painful reflections that naturally followed,
she perceived not that her companions had removed to the opposite side of the
road, and were speaking to a gentleman in a shooting dress, who was pointing to
the principal gate of the park, that lay at some distance before them. At
length she heard the voice of Sally Adair repeating her name, and recollecting
herself, immediately issued from behind a hawthorn bush, the full form of which
had accidentally concealed her from their view. The stranger turned round upon
her approach, and a sudden flush of crimson spread over every feature.
“Come,
Stella,” cried one of the Adair’s, in a gay accent, “our difficulties are
ended: Major St. Vincent is in possession of a key to the park, and kindly
offers the wanderers admittance to its apparently prohibited regions.”
Stella
started at this intimation, and raising her eyes from the ground, on which they
had been hitherto rivetted, met those of St. Vincent fixed upon her face with
an expression of the deepest interest: her looks were again bent downwards; and
the whole party now moved on to the gate.
During
this period the Major compelled himself to converse on a variety of topics: but
forced exertions of this description are not always successful: frequent pauses
broke in upon the detail of those events on which he discoursed; and the
anxiety with which he endeavoured to repair his error, evinced a mind
struggling under some powerful and, occasionally, ill-suppressed anguish.
At
length they came to that part of the road where he had placed Stella on the
exterior side of the park-wall, and supported her in his arms while fainting
under the terror and apprehension to which the dread of her expected sufferings
from the bull had given birth.
St.
Vincent’s temporary abstractions increased as they drew nearer this memorable
spot. Arrived at it, his eyes and thoughts appeared solely occupied by Stella.
The whole of his conduct now became too pointed to pass longer unnoticed. The
Adairs remarked this circumstance; but mistaking the cause from whence it
originated, thoughtlessly added to the distress of the parties most interested
by the ill-timed raillery that succeeded their observation.
“Ah
Stella! you are a sly girl,” cried Elizabeth, with a provoking archness of
manner, “and under that downcast look think to conceal the sensations produced
by a first review of this never-to-be-forgotten spot after the departure of
your truant swain, your gallant protector!—Trust not appearances, however,
Major; nor fear that your absent friend runs any risk of being expunged from
remembrance; for I aver, and Sally there can corroborate what I say, that we
never pass that identical portion of the wall, either on this or the other
side, without a look, a sigh, or some incontestible proof of particular
attention escaping that demure little gipsy.”
“Good
God, Elizabeth!” exclaimed Stella, in a voice of the deepest distress.
“Nay,
nay, child,” cried Sally, laughing as she spoke, “two against one will gain
credit in any court in Christendom.”
“This
is too much!” said Stella, in a low, tremulous accent— “it is cruel—very cruel
indeed!—I entreat the subject may be changed—if you value me, I entreat it!”
The
Major, after a perturbed look at Stella, had previously advanced a few steps
without being conscious of the circumstance.
A
servant, breathless with haste, now appeared, and accosting the Miss Adair’s,
informed them their presence was instantly required at home, where some
visitors had arrived soon after their departure, who impatiently awaited their
return, which he had been dispatched to accelerate without loss of time.
“Major,”
cried the gay Elizabeth, beckoning him back, “to your protection we commit this
forsaken damsel; pray see her safely across the park, lest some furious animal
should again start up to impede her progress, and Captain Montague summon you
to a court-martial for negligence in the execution of your duty.”
“Adieu,
my silent friend!” rejoined her laughing sister. “We shall meet again in the
course of a few days: meanwhile I trust Major St. Vincent will be enabled to
give the absent red coat a good account of you.”
“Is
this treatment generous?—is it delicate?” asked Stella, in a reproachful
whisper.
“We
will discuss the merits of this question at a more favourable opportunity,”
replied the giddy Adair’s, and curtsying to the Major, hurried instantly away.
The
situation of those who remained, was at this juncture by no means enviable.
They walked on in silence: but the deep and half-suppressed sighs which
repeatedly burst from the bosom of her companion reverberated on the trembling
heart of poor Stella, who, at length, sick and overcome by the conflicting
emotions of her soul, would have sunk to the ground in a fainting fit, had not
the feeble groan that announced her situation roused the unfortunate St.
Vincent to a sense of it. She was now reduced to the dilemma of either resting
herself upon the side of the ground, or accepting the offered arm of her
conductor: she preferred the latter, as least liable to objection; and they
slowly continued their progress.
The
approaching sound of horses’ feet now gradually reached them, and Mrs. St.
Vincent, with her constant companion Lieutenant Jones, abruptly appeared at a
sudden turning of the road.
Stella
started, and involuntarily attempted to withdraw her hand; but conscious of her
inability to support her trembling frame, St. Vincent resisted the effort, and
grasped it more firmly in his.
CHAP.
XVI.
“Are
these the proofs of tenderness and love:—
“These
endless quarrels, discontents, and jealousies:—
“These
never-ceasing wailings and complaining—
“These
furious starts—these whirlwinds of the soul,
“Which
every other moment rise to madness?”
ROWE.
MRS. St. Vincent regarded them with an uncommon
degree of malevolence; and checking her horse, which was so placed as to
prevent them passing her, sarcastically accosted her husband with—
“Your
servant, Major St. Vincent!—Is not this a charming evening?”
“Such
I presume you think it, Madam, otherwise I had scarcely had the pleasure of
seeing you on horseback.”
“Humph!—the
pleasure!—witty too!—Well, but, Sir, pray where is the wonder of my being on
horseback when your
pedestrian companion has already acquired sufficient strength to quit her
apartment?”
Stella
raised her eyes to the speaker; but not comprehending the meaning of what she
heard, nor supposing herself implicated in its explanation, instantly withdrew
them again.
St.
Vincent did not seem more enlightened on the subject; but his look of enquiry
passed unheeded in the laudable eagerness manifested by his lady to mortify our
unfortunate heroine.
“Upon
my word, Miss Bertram,” the Miss was pronounced with peculiar emphasis, “you
really evince an immense portion of courage thus to encounter the night air at
so early a period of emancipation from the confinement of a sick chamber!”
Stella
once more looked up with an air of the utmost astonishment; but immediately
recollecting that she probably alluded to her late attendance on Miss Adair,
and being besides uncertain whether she spoke in earnest or jest, though from
the general tenor of her former conduct the latter appeared most likely, the
eyes of our heroine were a second time dropped in mute forbearance.
“Pretty,
ignorant, modest innocent!” cried the scoffing Mrs. St. Vincent, turning with
an expressive sneer of supercilious contempt to the obsequious Mr. Jones, whose
white teeth were just beginning to show themselves at the commencement of a
ready approving smile, when the stern contracted brow and indignant eye of the
Major speedily closed his lips, and spread a degree of ludicrous solemnity over
every working feature.
“A
convenient double,” resumed Mrs.
St. Vincent, “is one of the most useful items in a modern man of fashion’s
inventory of indispensible necessaries. I think, Major, you and your friend
Montague are of this opinion: no doubt he would have been equally ready to
serve his counterpart under similar circumstances; but, perhaps, in the present
instance, your partnership may be formed on one and the same system of
reciprocity; and then in that case—why the article of commerce becomes a mutual
concern, you know!”
Another
expressive glance was directed to the Lieutenant, who nevertheless began to
feel by no means at home in his saddle, which, with the particular construction
of a bridle he had seen twenty times before, was examined and re-examined with
the most persevering assiduity, every instant.
“You
have been invisible for some time at the Hermitage, I think, Miss Bertram?”
continued Mrs. St. Vincent, bowing with an air of ceremonious, but affected
respect to Stella.
“I
was from home, Madam,” faintly replied the agitated girl.
“Or
denied when there!” retorted Mrs. St. Vincent, with malignant quickness.
“Madam!”
said our heroine, with increased surprise.
“Sweet,
unconscious innocent!” again cried her tormentor, with an hysterical kind of
laugh.
Stella
made another and more successful effort to free herself from the arm of the
Major, and gliding past the horses, walked on as well as her trembling limbs
and mental perturbation would permit.
“And
now, Mr. St. Vincent, when you have no burthen but that of your own reflections
to support, may I presume to enquire how you met with that well principled and
modest-looking lady who had just discovered she can move off with out your
officious assistance?”
“Suppose
I plead privilege, Madam, and refuse to gratify impertinent curiosity?—Your are
my wife, not my Father Confessor.”
“And
treated accordingly!” retorted the enraged Mrs. St. Vincent, bursting into a
flood of tears.
“Ride
on, Mr. Jones,” said the Major, in a tone of evident displeasure: “however your
presence may be necessary to Mrs. St. Vincent, her husband can at present
dispense with it.”
“No,
stay, Mr. Jones,” sobbed the lady, “and bear witness to the treatment I am
going to experience!—going!” she reiterated— “when has it ever been otherwise?”
Mr.
Jones seemed unwilling to disoblige either party, and, though, like the Yorkshireman, he preferred
“eating to fighting,” scarcely knew how to act in so critical an emergency.
“Ride
on, Sir!” vociferated St. Vincent, in a voice that speedily determined the
matter, and admitted not of further hesitation: “your evidence shall be called for when wanted!”
Mr.
Jones bowed, and shewed his wisdom by a prompt and ready compliance with the
will of his commander.
St.
Vincent now endeavoured to expostulate with this perverse woman on the folly
and absurdity of her conduct; and, for the sake of poor Stella, to whom he well
knew she ever bore the most inveterate malice, finally condescended to explain
the accidental nature of his recent appearance in her company.
Where
reason is not a native of the soil, like other exotics, it frequently proves
difficult to rear. Mrs. St. Vincent heard him at first with every indication of
impatience and incredulity: the result of some former altercations of the same
nature had, however, made her rather fearful of exceeding certain bounds, at
the climax of which she began to feel herself nearly arrived: his influence
was, besides, still predominant over her mind; therefore, when she saw him
almost wearied out, and visibly disgusted with the violence of her temper, the
dread of a lasting rupture being the consequence of such repeated provocations
at length operated as usual, and her passions gradually subsided into a state
of more apparent calmness.
“You
will now, however, accompany me home, Sir, and I will walk across the park with
you?” said she, in a half-sullen, half-humble voice.
“No;
Jones must supply my present deficiences in point of attendance: I have tacitly
promised to see Miss Bertram through the plantations, and cannot possibly do
otherwise.”
“The
claims of a wife must then, it seems, yield to those of—”
“Honour!”
interrupted the Major, perceiving her eyes sparkle, and her deepening colour
indicate an approaching relapse.
“Yes,
the honour of a modern husband!” she replied, with a disdainful toss of the
head.
“Margaret!”
said St. Vincent, fixing a stern and significant eye on her face.
The
word was too emphatically pronounced to fail of making the intended impression:
she knew from experience how little was to be gained with the Major by
ill-humour or violence; and apprehending a return of both, resisted the recall
of Jones no longer, but silently permitted herself to be escorted home by her
now crest-fallen conductor.
In
spite of her wish to proceed alone, the weeping Stella was soon overtaken by
St. Vincent, who, on reaching her, attempted to apologize for the foregoing
scene; but the words died away, and his voice became nearly inarticulate before
the first sentence was concluded.
“Leave
me, Sir—I entreat you, leave me!” said Stella, after a temporary, and affecting
pause. “Alas! why am I thus perpetually destined to be the victim of fallacious
appearances!—why for ever doomed to encounter the punishment of guilt, without
the most distant inclination to wander from the narrow path of moral
rectitude!—hard—hard fate!”
Her
tears streamed afresh at the melancholy picture of the past and the future,
which a sanguine imagination now presented to her view; and in the mute
contemplation of anguish so unmerited, St. Vincent seemed to have forgotten the
heavy portion of individual misery which had fallen to his own share, while
hers possessed sufficient influence to throb with accumulating force through
his every vein.
Persevering
to refuse his offered arm, and equally cautious in avoiding every possible
degree of conversation—sick at heart, weak, and weary, she at length reached
the garden gate of the Hermitage; where, afraid to trust her voice with a last
farewell, she raised her humid eyes, and fixed them for a moment on the
agitated St. Vincent with a look of unutterable woe, who, torn already by a
thousand conflicting passions, was totally inadequate to the task of sustaining
this unexpected proof of tenderness. He struck his forehead with violence, and
suddenly snatching her hand, pressed it first to his heart, and afterwards to
his lips, in all the agony of incurable despair; then abruptly rushed from her
presence, and darted into the thickest part of the plantations.
CHAP.
XVII.
“Blustering
when courted, crouching when oppress’d;
“Wise
to themselves, and fools to all the world;
“Restless
in change, and perjur’d to a proverb.”
DRYDEN.
TO account for the dark, mysterious hints
thrown out by Mrs. St. Vincent, in which our heroine seemed evidently
implicated, it is here necessary to observe that an old woman in the
neighbourhood of the Hermitage, remarkable for her gossiping disposition, had
somehow discovered that a child was supposed to be born in that house, whose
mother was carefully screened from public notice. This person had not heard of
the unfortunate Maria’s residence there, for it had hitherto remained a
profound secret in the vicinity: of course, the little stranger, if such really
existed, was immediately saddled upon poor Stella, whose reported absence
received no manner of credit from an idea that it was merely fabricated for the
purpose of deception and temporary concealment. This story, circulated at first
in whispers amongst the country people, at length reached the ears of Mrs. St.
Vincent’s maid Jenny, from whom it was speedily communicated to ascertain the
truth.
An
imputation so inimical to the character of our innocent heroine was greedily
listened to by this unfeeling woman, and every means of investigation
instantly, though secretly adopted, to ascertain the truth.
Where
the stigma of error is ardently wished to be fixed on the conduct of an enemy,
the slightest appearance may suffice for the designs of calumny, and every
trifle judged sufficient to build a foundation upon: the foregoing attempt was
therefore, in due time, imagined to be successfully accomplished, as far as
related to the birth of the child; but the partner in her guilt still remained
to be ascertained.
After
every possible scrutiny was practised for this purpose, little or nothing
appeared to criminate Major St. Vincent, who, upon the whole, stood tolerably
acquitted of the charge, though his affectionate wife still harboured some
private suspicions on the occasion.
Not
so with Captain Montague, however:—his frequent visits to the Hermitage were no
secret in the neighbourhood; neither was his partiality for our heroine
unknown. The interesting situation in which Mrs. St. Vincent had herself
discovered them at Mr. Adair’s seemed to corroborate the general notion of a
particular attachment between them. The prominent features of this interview
instantly recurred to her memory: the lady in tears—the gentleman pressing her
hand to his bosom—the visible consternation of the parties on perceiving they
were observed—all, all seemed conviction “strong as proofs of holy writ,” and,
in the jaundiced eye of a predetermined accuser, of the most decisive
description, though not exclusively calculated to exculpate her husband from a co-partnership
in the affair; for, in spite of every effort to bring him in as a
fellow-offender having failed, her unjustifiable hatred to poor Stella still
induced her to retain the supposition that opportunity was alone wanting to
pursue a similar line of conduct with one whom she more than suspected had
formerly viewed the detested girl with no small degree of secret partiality.
Under
this view of the business, Mrs. St. Vincent felt comparatively happy, if a
disposition like hers can be supposed capable of such a sensation; for she
concluded her husband would soon cease to indulge a prepossession in favour of
a woman already the mistress of his dearest friend; or should the fascinating
delusion continue a little longer, it would still prove but temporary, and
would not be followed by any consequences that ought seriously to alarm her for
producing a permanent estrangement of his affections.
Had
Mrs. St. Vincent been reasonable enough to think thus rationally for any length
of time, it had been fortunate for herself; but uniformity of conduct on such
occasions formed no part of her character; and this unlucky encounter with the
reprobated Stella, in such company, speedily overthrew all the small stock of
wisdom on which she had previously laid so instable a foundation for domestic
tranquillity. The case might nevertheless be exactly as he had represented it,
respecting the accidental nature of their interview; and this idea furnished
some small degree of consolation, although inadequate to the task of totally
removing every intrusive suspicion which occasionally obtruded itself on her
versatile and irascible mind.
Mrs.
St. Vincent proved of that order of being who are “every thing by starts, and
nothing long:” her attachment to the Major reigned, notwithstanding, paramount
over every other passion; and the partial interruptions it at times received
from the ungovernable violence of her temper, were usually succeeded by an
increase of affection, which frequently rendered the effects of some subsequent
and capricious cause of offence more than ever intolerent and provoking. Strict
in principle, and steady in all his actions, St. Vincent nevertheless
endeavoured to overlook consequences in causes: he knew he was greatly in
arrears on the score of what is generally understood by the word love; he knew
that to her preference of him was owing the peace of his family, and the chief
part of all he could now call his own in the world; and he likewise knew that
his heart was entirely in the possession of another woman, in spite of the
foregoing obligations to Margaret Ross. These considerations operated as they
ever will do in a good and generous mind: they rendered him indulgent to
foibles, and patient under the provocations which would have driven men of an
inferior character to extremities; and it was only when a sense of what he owed
himself rendered coercion necessary, when he conceived his honour or his
respectability implicated by a different mode of proceeding, that he adopted
strong measures, or judiciously exerted the legal and decisive authority of a
husband for the purpose of recalling her to considerations of duty and
propriety. In this predicament he found himself placed on the recent occasion;
and the remedy, though repugnant to his nature, was necessarily practised with
its usual success.
After
separating from Major St. Vincent, Stella entered her home in a state of
extreme perturbation, which was not lessened by the anxiety her appearance
created in Mrs. Bertram, and her kind enquiries on the subject.
“Stella,
my love, you are not well!” said her worthy benefactress, regarding her with a
look of the utmost solicitude: “has any thing happened to distress you?”
“Nothing
new, my dear mother,” (so she usually styled her truly maternal friend) was the
reply, as she threw herself languidly on the sofa.
“Perhaps
your walk has fatigued you, then?—the evening has proved uncommonly close and
sultry.”
Stella
sighed, but spoke out.
Mrs.
Bertram threw open the sash in order to procure her a little fresh air; and having
made her swallow some hartshorn and water, enquired for Mrs. Wallace, who, she
said, had left her a few hours ago, on a short visit to her niece, and proposed
afterwards walking on to meet Stella in her way back from Woodside.
“I
saw her not, however,” replied our heroine.
“You
surprise me,” cried the old lady: “I certainly perceived some one with you:—the
evening, indeed, is far advanced, and with the distance might have deceived me
as to the person; but surely in crossing the Grove you were not alone?—in that
circumstance I could scarcely be mistaken.”
Stella
repeated her former answer, in a voice expressive of chagrin and vexation.
“Then,
my love,” resumed Mrs. Bertram, without noticing the increased emotion of her
auditor, “you are still ignorant, I presume, of the last new arrangements at
the Grove. Mrs. Ross is ordered by her physicians to the milder climate of the
south, and sets off accordingly in a very short time, to try what effect change
of air will produce on her enfeebled frame. But this is not all:—Mr. Benson
called with a message from her this morning, requesting to see me in the course
of the day. I obeyed the summons immediately, and being conducted to her
apartment, soon learned the cause of the invitation. She wishes, my dear child,
to obtain your company and attendance during the term of her absence.
Independent of her former obligations, I conceived the advantages to be derived
from a situation so eligible far too important to be declined without your
previous approbation and knowledge. After some further discourse on the
subject, it was agreed to await your return before any final determination
should take place.—What say you, Stella—are you willing to comply with this
request, and oblige your kind benefactress at the Grove?”
A
short pause ensued, during which our heroine appeared much agitated. At length,
perceiving an answer unavoidable, she replied, in a tremulous accent—
“I
have insuperable objections to the scheme you mention, my dear Madam.”
“Insuperable
objections, Stella!” repeated Mrs. Bertram, with a look of astonishment: “I do
not comprehend you meaning child.”
Stella
threw her arms round the goody lady’s neck, and wept upon her bosom.
Mrs.
Bertram’s surprise augmented: she requested an immediate explanation of words so
mysterious and incomprehensible.
Stella,
shocked and hurt by reflecting on the suspicion and weak conduct she had
displayed, gradually acquired more self-command and mental exertion: she spoke
of a violent head-ache, to which the depression of her spirits was ascribed; of
her inability for a situation so superior to her expectations, and the
repugnance she must assuredly feel to be placed at so considerable a distance
from her best and dearest friend at the Hermitage; in short, every topic was
introduced most likely to disguise the truth, and prevent any further arguments
in behalf of Mrs. Ross’s proposal: and, at length, when all her attempts for
that purpose proved ineffectual, she declared, in a faltering voice, her
unconquerable dislike to any station in life, however beneficial in other
respects, that must subject her to the daily insults of such a woman as Mrs.
St. Vincent, who, as her kind friend well knew, had long harboured the most
decided, though inexplicable aversion for her, which, she was so far from
wishing to conceal, that no possible opportunity for displaying her unmerited
hatred was permitted to escape without exhibiting some fresh instance of its
virulence.
Stella
spoke with a bitterness of expression till now unpractised; but the late scene
pressed heavy on her remembrance, and her heart swelled at the idea of tamely
acquiescing in her own humiliation by accepting an offer so well calculated to
gratify the unceasing malice of a capricious, ill-tempered enemy.
“Mrs.
St. Vincent, my dear, does not accompany her mother,” said Mrs. Bertram, after
regarding her protégée with a
look of fresh astonishment; “she remains at the Grove till the regiment removes
to its next destination. It is in consequence of her declining the performance
of her filial duties that you are requested to supply her place. Poor Mrs.
Ross! how I pity her!—My Stella would not desert a parent under such
circumstances: but wealth and happiness are by no means synonimous terms.”
Stella
thought of St. Vincent, and sighed as she pensively answered— “Too surely they
are not!”
CHAP.
XVIII.
“I
feel my genial spirits droop,
“My
hopes all flat—Nature within me seems
“In
all her functions weary of herself,
“And
I shall shortly be with them that rest.”
MILTON.
RELIEVED by the foregoing intelligence from an
apprehension yet more formidable to her mind than all the ostensible terror
Mrs. St. Vincent’s malevolent disposition was supposed to inspire, an
apprehension that a residence under the same roof with Major St. Vincent would
neither prove conductive to the re-establishment of his peace or her own, but,
on the contrary, be attended with the most probable evil to both, Stella began
to see the business in a different point of view, and flattered herself that
change of place, and a succession of new objects, might be of material service
in producing an alteration in those sentiments which at present blasted every
enjoyment, and obscured every prospect in disappointment and secret anguish.
After
much conversation on the subject, it was determined to delay its final
discussion till the following day: that discussion, however, was to be made as
subservent as possible to the wishes of Mrs. Ross, to whose early indulgence
our heroine was so infinitely indebted for the many great and incalculable
advantages derived from the sources of extensive knowledge and superior
education.
The
two chief considerations which could occasion a moment’s hesitation, were now
totally out of the question: the Major would be far removed from all future
chance of interfering with her meritorious struggles for the restoration of her
lost tranquillity, and Mrs. Bertram would not be left without a companion while
Maria Campbell remained under her roof; a circumstance which was likely to
prove of some duration, as her guardian and his fashionable helpmate were now
in Yorkshire, attending a widowed sister of the latter, from whom they expected
a considerable increase of fortune on the event of her demise, which, from an
incurable state of bad health, seemed gradually approaching: at any rate, Mrs.
Bertram had been long engaged to spend some time with her friends in Ireland;
and consequently was equally prepared in either case against the likelihood of
passing the term of her protégée’s
absence in total solitude.
These
considerations partly reconciled the mind of Stella to a temporary separation
from her maternal friend: nevertheless, she determined to stipulate for
permission to revisit the Hermitage, should any unforeseen occurrence require
her return before the expiration of their intended residence in the south. This
arrangement afforded her affectionate heart no small pleasure, as its adoption
appeared to unite the reciprocal duties of gratitude to Mrs. Ross, and filial
attention to her chief benefactress, the friendly Mrs. Bertram.
Maria
Campbell, whose recovery had latterly appeared somewhat dubious, happened to be
rather more indisposed than usual this evening; which was probably owing to the
agitation she experienced at the idea of a first interview with our heroine,
whom she had not yet seen, but to whose humane interference in her affairs she
knew herself infinitely indebted: Stella, therefore, was not allowed to satisfy
her curiosity by an immediate introduction into the chamber of a woman of whom
she had heard so much, and who, in a great measure, owed her present
comparative state of safety from public exposure to the exertions she had used
for that purpose.
Breakfast
was no sooner concluded next day, than the suspense by which they were both
agitated, was speedily brought to a termination.
Solitude,
sickness, and misfortune are great promoters of sober reflection; and Maria had
benefited very considerably by the two latter; whilst the former was only
occasionally broke upon, to admit the instructive and sensible conversation of
her kind hostess, whose salutary precepts seemed to have made their proper
impression on her young and naturally uncorrupted heart. The gay, the giddy,
the fashionable pupil of the dissipated Mrs. Harris no longer appeared to view;
melancholy personified seemed to have taken her place, accompanied by that look
of pensive dejection and broken-hearted submission to irremediable evils, which
is frequently exhibited in a countenance expressive, like Maria’s, of all that
passes in the secret recesses of the soul—a soul deeply wounded by the fatal
conviction of voluntary error and self-created wretchedness. Her pallid face
and emaciated form seemed to announce the journey of dissolution commenced,
which was to raise her
“Above
“The
reach of human pain—above the flight
“Of
human joy.”*
When
Mrs. Bertram, on entering the room, mentioned the name of her protégée, Maria, supporting herself on the
arm of the easy chair in which she was seated, attempted to receive her
standing: her corporeal and mental frame, however, were at this moment equally
inadequate to the task imposed upon them; and the trembling, enfeebled girl was
under the necessity of replacing herself almost instantly. She leaned her
throbbing forehead against the back of the chair, and whilst her hand was
extended to Stella, a violent burst of anguish took place, which, though it
deeply affected her new acquaintance, proved of material service to herself, as
it probably prevented a return of those fainting fits to which she had latterly
been subject. But though the bloom of her cheeks had vanished, and the once
sparkling lustre of her dark eyes was no longer visible—though the playful
smile of light hearted innocence sported not, as formerly, on the coral lip of
beauty, or dwelt in the fascinating dimple that added an additional grace to
the tout-ensemble of the late
glowing picture, Stella, as she mournfully gazed on the now humbled victim of
error, fancied she could easily trace the sad change that grief had produced,
and judge, by what remained of the almost ruined fabric, how eminently lovely
it must have appeared in the pristine days of its glory; she saw, she felt the
fatal contrast, and her eyes were instantly suffused in tears of the deepest
regret and commiseration. Maria’s conduct corresponded with the nature of her
feelings; and softly raising the hand she still grasped in hers, with a look of
ineffable sweetness, pressed it to her bosom in all the ardour of warm and
grateful acknowledgment.
Mrs.
Bertram, who thought it best to let the first effusions of acute sensibility
subside of themselves, unchecked by the interference of cool and dispassionate
reason, was for some minutes a silent spectator of this scene; but
apprehensive, if too much prolonged, of the effect it might produce on the weak
and shattered nerves of poor Maria, she at length interposed; and the
interrupted, desultory sentences hitherto uttered, were succeeded by others of
a more connected description; during which the young people appeared mutually
pleased and interested in behalf of each other, and alike happy in the idea
that this hitherto formidable interview was finally accomplished.
On
retiring from the chamber of the invalid, Stella could not help expressing her
anxiety for the recovery of their guest, who apparently looked forward to the
hour of expected dissolution with a degree of calmness and composure extremely
affecting to her young visitor. The subject was then changed for that of the
preceding evening; after which they prepared to call at the Grove, and acquaint
Mrs. Ross with the result of their determination, which they had previously
agreed should be favourable to her wishes.
From
the bearer of that lady’s message to the Hermitage, Mrs. Bertram understood the
other members of the family were engaged to spend the whole of the day from
home. This circumstance was casually repeated to our heroine during the first
intimation she received of the business, and proved a seasonable relief from
the apprehension of any accidental rencontre
with the Major. After their arrival they reached the apartment of Mrs. Ross
without seeing a single individual, the servant who announced them excepted.
Stella
had not visited her early patroness for some time; and the death-like
expression marked in legible characters on every placid feature almost overcame
her fortitude, as she paused to contemplate the sad alteration but too apparent
since their last meeting.
“I
thought you had forgotten your poor sick friend, Stella,” said the faintly
smiling invalid, as she presented a hand still more emaciated than Maria
Campbell’s; “but I ought not to expect young people would quit the cheerful
scenes of health and happiness for the dreary seclusion of such a room as this:
at least,” continued she, sighing, “I have not been much accustomed to
sacrifices of this description; and from you, my good girl, it would be cruel
to exact what the nearest relative thinks too much to bestow on a dying
parent.”
“Good
God!” exclaimed Stella, with energy, and raising the hand she still retained to
her lips: “I was ready at all times to obey your summons, my dear, my revered
benefactress; why then have I not been called upon to gratify my own feelings
by being permitted to administer to your wants and wishes?”
“Permitted,
my dear!” repeated Mrs. Ross, in a voice of surprise; “why you excused yourself
from accepting my invitation so frequently of late, that at length I determined
to try my influence with good Mrs. Bertram here, since what I once possessed
over your inclinations seemed apparently too much upon the wane to leave any
flattering prospect of success from a direct application to yourself.”
“Indeed,
indeed,” exclaimed Stella, emphatically, “you wrong me, Madam!—nothing should
have detained me from attending your commands, except the positive prohibition
I received.”
“Prohibition!”
“Yes,
my dear Madam: Mrs. St. Vincent ordered me to be informed that you were too
much indisposed to admit visitors, but that I should be sent for when my
services were wanted; till then, I was given to understand, they could be
dispensed with.”
“Enough,
my good girl,” said Mrs. Ross, while a profound sigh accompanied the tear that
glistened in her downcast, languid eye: “my suspicions, I find, were just!
Alas! when—but,” added she, suddenly checking herself, “where the evil is
irremediable, complaint proves equally childish and ineffectual.”
Mrs.
Ross, after a momentary pause, now entered on the topic of their projected
journey to the south, and expressed the highest satisfaction at the visible
alacrity with which Stella agreed to accompany her. To Mrs. Bertram she poured
forth the warmest acknowledgments for her ready acquiescence in a plan the
successful accomplishment of which seemed to afford her no small satisfaction,
and repeatedly assured her guests that her gratitude and remembrance of their
goodness could only terminate with her existence.
“Alas!”
thought Stella, “is the great, the opulent Mrs. Ross, she who ought to command
and be obeyed by her numerous train of domestics—is this woman, at whose nod the
good things of this world are ready to descend in torrents, necessitated to
look for consolation and attendance from the humble and lowly inhabitants of
such an abode as ours—from the friendless widow and unacknowledged
foundling?—Oh Providence! thy levelling hand is here visible indeed!—that hand
which places the poor and needy, but virtuous and contented offspring of the
cottage on an enviable equality with the proud and prosperous possessor of
thousands, and forces the latter to look down from the summit of earthly
grandeur, from the dazzling pomp of adventitious success, on a fellow-creature
whose sole wealth possibly consists in an upright heart and a virtuous
conduct!”
Such
were the secret reflections of our heroine while the sick and dejected Mrs.
Ross was conversing with the mistress of the Hermitage; and as they passed in
quick succession through her mind, she felt alike the inefficacy of wealth to
procure happiness, or the pride of grandeur to banish corroding anguish from
the bosom that sighed for the less glaring, but more rational enjoyments of
life.
CHAP.
XIX.
“Gently
scan your brother man,
“Still gentler sister woman;
“Tho’
they may gang a kennin wrang,
“To step aside is human:
“One
point must still be greatly dark—
“The moving why they do it;
“And
just as lamely can you mark
“How far perhaps they rue it.”
BURNS.
MRS. BERTRAM returned home before dinner; but,
at the request of Mrs. Ross, permitted Stella to become her guest for the
remainder of the day. It had of late been customary with the lady of the
mansion to lie down in the afternoon, in order to recruit her debilitated
frame, which the smallest exertion was apt to fatigue: she retired therefore
about the usual period allotted for this purpose, and requested our heroine
might amuse herself in the interim with a new publication, that would be found
on the window-seat in the drawing-room.
The
work was well written; but the subject appeared dry and uninteresting: the
perusal of very few pages sufficed to satisfy her curiosity, and she threw the
volume aside in disgust. The sun shone mildly refulgent through the shrubbery,
and exhibited the varigated tints of the flowering plants in the most pleasing
point of view. At length some of his glittering beams rested on the little
glass casement of a small cottage, picturesquely situated in a well wooded
corner of the pleasure-grounds. Stella recollected having formerly visited this
romantic spot in company with her young friends, Maria and Emma. It was then
inhabited by Mr. Ross’s huntsman and his family. The wife of this man happened
to be a particular favourite with all the three, and she now determined to call
upon her.
The
good woman was alone, and appeared to be highly delighted with this mark of our
heroine’s attention. She ushered her into the best apartment—wiped the dust
from an old fashioned high backed chair that stood near the chimney, and moving
it to the window, entreated her guest to be seated. A small table, covered with
a coarse, but clean napkin, was then placed before her, and oaten bread, with
the produce of her little dairy, ostentatiously displayed for her acceptance.
It
was not in the nature of Stella intentionally to offend any human being; and
she forced herself to partake of the articles so hospitably offered, and so
profusely recommended by her kind hostess, in spite of the dinner she had so
recently partaken of at the Grove.
“Ah,
welladay!” said the worthy creature, as she pensively leaned on a corner of the
table, and addressed herself in a low restrained voice to her visitor, “times
are sadly changed, Miss Stella, since the illness of our good lady! For my
part, I wish I were any where but here, and so I continually tell my husband.
Poor folks, however, must do as they can: he says we may not be bettered by
flitting*;
and to be sure the house is beyond what we expect, and the wages far greater
than ever we had before. I should not be sorry, however, to see some people who
call themselves my superiors a little more attentive to appearances, for
‘handsome is that handsome does,’ says the old proverb.”
From
the position in which Stella happened to be placed at the window, a distant
prospect of the very spot where she had been consigned to the care of St.
Vincent by the mischief-loving Adairs, struck her view. Like the attractive
nature of the loadstone, this discovery fixed her thoughts instantly on one
object, and rendered them inattentive to every other; she therefore heedlessly
replied, that it might be so, and that she believed Mrs. Blair was perfectly in
the right, without comprehending a single syllable of what the poor woman
alluded to.
“Nay,
Miss Stella,” exclaimed the latter, a little piqued at the evident inattention
of her auditor, “I am sure you do more than believe so, otherwise you had never
proved so great a favourite with our good lady at the mansion-house.—Alas!
alas! how badly have things gone on since her place in the family has been
supplied by another! Perhaps they may mend, however, when the remainder of the
soldiers leave us. I wonder what kept that Jones behind! if I were the Major—”
“The
Major!” interrupted Stella, with a sudden start—“what did you say of the
Major?—he is not approaching, I hope?”
“No,
no,” answered Mrs. Blair, with a significant shake of her head; “there are
others who take solitary walks as well as the Major. As for him, he is not only
the handsomest, but the best gentleman in the world: I wish I could say half as
much of some folks but too nearly connected with him.”
The
emphatical manner in which these words were pronounced struck Stella: her
mental abstraction was now no longer visible; she became all ear, and eagerly
requested her entertainer to explain herself.
Mrs.
Blair drew her seat closer to our heroine, and after a few preliminary
cautions, proceeded to inform her that Mrs. St. Vincent’s conduct with Mr.
Jones had latterly been much remarked and animadverted upon by the lower class
of people; that she was frequently seen at all hours walking with him in the
plantations and shrubbery; and what particularly provoked their censure was,
the open and daring manner in which she often ventured to notice him under the
very eye of her husband, who was universally adored by every human being on the
Nabob’s estate; while she, on the contrary, seemed an object of general dislike
and secret reprobation.— “The covered walk, yonder by the side of the river, is
a favourite haunt of the Major’s; he is frequently seen there for an hour at a
time: and, would you believe it, Miss?” continued the narrator, with an
additional portion of energy, “his strange, unaccountable lady thinks nothing
of meeting him in that out-of-the-way place with only the vile, conceited
fellow Jones in her company; who, however, shews one sign of grace at least,
for he appears always much graver than Miss Ross, and never joins in the loud
laughs she sets up in her husband’s hearing: but we need not be surprised at
any thing after the treatment she is known to give her good mother.”
“But
how does Major St. Vincent bear this behaviour of his lady?—does he take no
notice of Mr. Jones’s share in it?”
“Why,
Miss Stella, to tell you a secret, it is thought the Major cares very little
about her; and, in regard to Jones, he is said to consider him in too
contemptible a light to apprehend any serious liking on the part of his wife
for such a puppy: at least, so the Major’s gentleman told my husband. But, dear
Miss, for the love of God, do not repeat a single syllable of what I have said,
otherwise we may perhaps be brought into some quandary about them! young Madam
would stop at nothing to be revenged on us in that case; and poor folks, you
know, cannot always command a house to put their head in, if turned into the
open air at a moment’s warning.”
Stella
assured her talkative companion that she had nothing to apprehend on that
account; and promising to repeat her visit at some future opportunity, soon
after quitted the cottage. Her steps, however, instead of carrying her to the
mansion-house, insensibly conveyed her to the “favourite haunt of the Major,”
where, uninterrupted and alone, she pursued the train of reflections produced
by Mrs. Blair’s recent intelligence.
In
regard to the imputed guilt of which Mrs. St. Vincent seemed pretty clearly
suspected, the upright heart of our heroine entertained a very different
opinion from that adopted by the public: that she appeared imprudent was
undeniable; but, badly as Stella thought of her in general, she could not admit
the possibility of real error, when the husband she possessed was put in
competition with the despicable insignificant substitute assigned him; nor did
she imagine Mrs. St. Vincent’s principles so corrupt, or her haughty
disposition yet so humbled, as to carry her to so criminal an excess of
unjustifiable passion. The adduced instances of supposed boldness and depravity
brought in accusation against her by Mrs. Blair, seemed, in the more candid
judgment of our gentle heroine, to imply nothing farther than a wish to
rekindle his dormant tenderness, (if for her he had ever experienced a
sensation of that description) by calling those particles of jealousy which are
inherent in our nature from their present state of apathy into action, and
thereby ascertaining the positive extent of her actual influence over his mind,
in the degree of resentment her apparent preference of another might produce:
indeed, her mode of proceeding before the Major could scarcely admit of a
different construction; unless she had irretrievably reached the last stage of
infamy, and become hardened, in the most unexampled manner, at the very
commencement of vice; a circumstance not commonly usual even in characters
where the bias to profligacy had long reigned predominant before practice took
place of theory, and gave a loose to the secret inclinations of the unfortunate
and erring mortal over whom its degrading sway had unhappily proved too fatally
successful. That Mrs. St. Vincent, however, could not yet have attained this
climax of female misconduct seemed fully ascertained by the behaviour of her
husband, who, though the nature of his feelings on her account rendered him
perfectly indifferent to her proceedings in the common and trifling occurrences
of a modern woman of fashion’s transactions, would by no means have remained a
passive or inactive spectator of those in which his own honour and the respect
due to himself were seriously implicated.
But
though Stella called to her aid all these auxiliary reflections in favour of
Mrs. St. Vincent’s innocence, and was willing to imagine the foregoing motives
might have influenced her secret inclinations in the adoption of such measures,
she could not help condemning the means by which they were to be effected. “To
do evil that good may arise from it,” was rather a dangerous experiment, and it
was to be feared the mind that could stoop to make it, might afterwards be led
by imperceptible gradations to the commission of the very deed, from the
contemplation of which, at an earlier period, she would have turned with every
sensation of abhorrence and disgust.
At
any rate, however, the peace of Mrs. Ross and the happiness of her son-in-law
seemed for ever fled: of this melancholy truth the former had given many
indications in the course of the day; and, in regard to the latter, suspicion
had long taken the form of certainty in the opinion of the public. The fetters
that necessity sometimes binds us with in the ordinary and unavoidable
situations which commonly connect us with each other through life, are at best
of a temporary construction, and usually cease with the casual circumstance
that created them; but from those forged on the altar of matrimony, divorce or
death can alone set us free: the first of which was remedy only to be resorted
to in the last emergency, and always stamped its objects with notoriety; the
second—Stella shuddered at the thought of uniting the image of St. Vincent in
the same idea that introduced an allusion to our final dissolution, and
hastened to banish the tormenting reflections that spontaneously succeeded it,
by endeavouring to turn them from their present course to subject of a less
interesting description.
CHAP.
XX.
“Pleasure
never comes sincere to man,
“But
lent by Heaven upon hard usury:
“And
while Jove holds us out the bowl of joy,
“Ere
it can reach our lips, its dash’d with gall
“By
some left-handed God.”
DRYDEN and LEE.
AT an angle of the walk stood a small pavilion,
romantically situated on a rock that projected over the river. It consisted of
two rooms, one above the other, with light closets attached to each. The lower
apartment served the double purpose of a bathing-room (for the water was
conveyed thither by pipes, and then received into a marble reservoir,
sufficiently large for the accommodation of any person who wished to benefit by
such an indulgence,) and a green-house in miniature; a profusion of tall and
very fine exotics being scientifically arranged round its walls, and in many
places bending their varigated forms over the sides of the bathing place, so as
to give it more the appearance of a shady arbour than the interior of a stone
building. The upper room was finished with much taste: it contained a book-case
and several musical instruments, and commanded one or two confined views
through the surrounding plantations. Stella recollected that in the absence of
the heads of the family, her beloved governess had frequently dispensed her
instructive precepts in this favourite retirement to her young and attentive
pupils. She felt a propelling inclination once more to revisit it, and
ascending the steps, soon entered the apartment.
The
view from a small Gothic window opposite the door, was nearly the same with
that which had fascinated her eye at the cottage: it rested on the well-known
side of the park where she had more than once encountered the man whose image
was but too seldom absent from her thoughts; and had this additional advantage
from its lofty situation, that the prospect reached even to the grotto at the
Hermitage, which formed a picturesque and beautiful termination to the
lengthened scene thus judiciously carried though every intervening impediment.
On
the window-seat lay a book, which on examination proved to be Hammond’s Love
Elegies. Stella casually opened it at the lines beginning—
“Oh
say, thou dear possessor of my breast!”
and a piece of paper, bearing the name of Major
St. Vincent, dropped upon the floor. This incident ascertained the last peruser
of the volume; and Stella, in trembling emotion, continued to regard it with an
additional degree of interest, unconscious of the fatal indulgence to which she
was thus weakly giving way.
The
poetical merit of the beautiful verses which had evidently occupied his recent
attention, seemed to increase every time she threw her eyes upon them, and
reflected in whose possession they had been.—“Perhaps,” thought Stella, “my
image was before his mental vision when he read this charming poem!—Ah, yes!”
continued she, raising her eyes to the park and more distant grotto as she
spoke, “the objects that present themselves from this window convince me I am
not mistaken in such a supposition: the well-known scene could not have been
contemplated without that combination of ideas which I ever experience on all
similar occasions!—But what have we here?” she added, perceiving a second piece
of half-folded paper lying near her: “Oh, it is another marker that has fallen
from this precious book, I dare say! it shall again be replaced in some of the
pages, however—Heavens! what do I see?—my own name!—How in the world came it
here?”
Astonishment
took possession of every faculty at a circumstance so totally unexpected.
Curiosity, however, speedily whispered that so strange a discovery authorized a
farther and more minute investigation of the matter: Stella instantly obeyed
the impulsive sensation of the moment, and, without permitting herself time for
longer reflection, proceeded to examine the mysterious paper.
It
appeared to be the remnant of a letter from Captain Montague, whose half-torn,
mutilated signature was with difficulty made out: the superscription, however,
happened to be totally wanting; but the contents plainly shewed it could only
have been addressed to Major St. Vincent; and the justice of this supposition
soon became apparent on a farther perusal.
It
is here necessary to observe that Louisa St. Vincent had been summoned from
Rossgrove almost immediately after the departure of that division of the troops
which was ordered to Dumfries. The cause of her sudden and unexpected return to
England originated in the declining health of Mr. St. Vincent, whose former
complaints had again resumed their late threatening aspect; chiefly brought on,
it was imagined, by the persevering misconduct of his eldest son, and an
accidental discovery of the domestic unhappiness he himself had proved the
principal instrument of entailing on the Major. He was not, however,
apprehended to be in any immediate danger; but Louisa had always been his
favourite attendant on such occasions: and the marriage of one of her sisters,
which took place about this time, rendered her presence doubly necessary to
their mother.
In
the abovementioned fragment frequent allusions were made to some previous
subject of conversation, which, it appeared, had been recently discussed
between her and Montague, as she passed through Dumfries in her way to the
south. What the precise description of the tête-à-tête
was, Stella could not possibly divine, for the paper happened to be much torn
in that particular quarter; but from the paragraph that followed, it seemed to
intimate at something about the unhappy situation and prospects of her brother,
which (ignorant of Mrs. St. Vincent’s jealous suspicions of our heroine) Louisa
ascribed to the natural bad temper of his wife; and she had expressed great
anxiety to learn his real sentiments respecting her conduct; a circumstance
which, this affectionate sister complained, was nevertheless studiously
concealed from her knowledge, though she had reason to believe some secret
sorrow preyed upon his mind, in spite of the evasive and even ludicrous style
in which he treated her often repeated apprehensions when topics of this kind
were casually introduced between them.
The
subsequent observations made by Captain Montague on the source of Louisa’s
solicitude for the abovementioned explanation, with the dark hints and
reiterated, but wholesome advice which followed them, seemed to glance at the
probable consequences of an unfortunate attachment to some other woman than his
wife, in no very equivocal terms. The cheeks of our heroine glowed at the
internal conviction that this woman could only be herself; and she felt deeply
mortified on reflecting what the private sentiments of the writer must
necessarily prove of her principles, under the degrading supposition that she
was accessory to, or acquainted with, the Major’s imprudent predilection in her
favour. A thousand instances immediately occurred to her mind in which Captain
Montague appeared to have observed her motions with no common degree of
interest whenever his friend became occasionally the subject of discourse, or
was even named before her. The pang that shot through her heart on the
intrusion of all such recollections was acute and painful in the extreme; and
bitter self-reproach silently whispered the additional mortification, that what
she now suffered was justly merited for the blamable gratification secretly
experienced on a fresh conviction of his attachment not many minutes prior to
the humiliating sensations which at present oppressed her wounded spirit.
One
discovery, nevertheless, afforded some prospect of indemnification for the
past, and proved the source of considerable satisfaction in the midst of many
sorrows. To the great disappointment of our heroine, the first visit of Miss
St. Vincent at the Hermitage had never been repeated. For this singular
circumstance no explanatory or adequate reason had hitherto transpired, though
the whole tenor of that young lady’s conduct at the time gave cause to expect a
very different mode of proceeding. One short sentence in this letter now
dispelled the late existing mystery: but, similar to the paragraph already
quoted, all connexion with what preceded it was broken off by another
unfortunate chasm in the disjointed intelligence. What remained, however,
proved sufficient for the purpose of removing the veil of obscurity which had
long hung over her conjectures on the subject; for it hinted that Mrs. St.
Vincent was, in fact, the groundwork of the whole, by prohibiting all farther
intercourse with the inhabitants of the Hermitage, as people to whose society
she entertained secret, but insuperable objections: and it appeared that
Louisa, solicitous to keep her capricious sister in good-humour, if such an
herculean undertaking could possibly be effected, had, in consequence of this
intimation, instantly sacrificed her own inclinations as a peace offering to
fraternal tranquillity.
The
discovery of this circumstance was extremely grateful to the feelings of poor
Stella, who had frequently deplored the short-lived nature of Louisa’s friendly
professions, and apprehended the total neglect she experienced from that quarter
might have proceeded from a knowledge of the Major’s ill-judged sentiments in
her favour. Instead of blaming Louisa for instability and forgetfulness, she
now fully exculpated her from every charge of the kind, and felt her returning
admiration of her conduct augment in proportion to the supposed injury she had
formerly sustained by the bad opinion appearances had given rise to. The
meditations of our young moralist, however, were soon interrupted by the sound
of approaching footsteps; and fearful (should the paper be hereafter perceived)
that her knowledge of its contents would end in something more than suspicion,
Stella in great perturbation thrust the tell-tale page into her bosom, and
waited for what was to follow in anxious expectation.
The
agitation of her mind quickly subsided on the appearance of a servant, who
informed her that his mistress had left her chamber, and requested to see her
again.
Stella
cast a longing, lingering look on the volume of poems, which, at this moment,
seemed the most desirable of human possessions.—“I wish to give it a farther
perusal,” said she, mentally, “and can return it in a day or two.”
The
latter part of the sentence removed every remaining degree of hesitation, and
the Love Elegies were speedily deposited in her pocket.
CHAP.
XXI.
“Fool,
do not boast!
“Thou
canst not touch the freedom of my mind
“With
all thy pow’r, altho’ this corp’real rind
“Thou
hast immanacled, while Heav’n sees good.”
MILTON.
LET not the starched prude, or the furious
censurer, too severely anathematize our poor little heroine for thus yielding
to the bias of the moment, and the temptation of opportunity; happy might all
of the above description be considered, if the frailties of human nature, so
circumstanced, proved with them equally venial and trifling. It has often been
observed that those most violently bent on the condemnation of others, are
generally the first to err themselves—I say generally, for far be it from me to
affirm there are no particular exceptions in the case, and that interest, a
sensation of fellow-feeling, or some other secret cause of equal potency, does
not now and then supply the place of principle, and restrain us from being too
severe in a self-conceited virtue: no, I am experimentally convinced to the
contrary; for it has more than once been my lot to see the innocent condemned
on the most fallacious appearances, and the guilty supported, when living
proofs of their criminality were actually present. There was this material
difference in the business, however—poverty damned the one, riches purified the
other: so true is the old adage, that “some people may sooner steal a horse,
than others look over the wall.”
The
fashionable modes of noticing vice, and the various criterion by which it is
established, are numerous; not indeed according to the gradations of its
magnitude, but the weight of the erring mortal’s golden capabilities in the art
of what is vulgarly styled hush-money.
In this necessary article Stella was rather deficient; and the pains and
penalties incident to a defalcation in the one
thing needful would certainly have produced an immediate effect, had
not chance stood her friend, by concealing the extent of her imprudence from
the observation of the servant.
“The
contents of that strange letter have disturbed and agitated me,” whispered
Stella to herself, as she proceeded to the mansion-house; “but Hammond’s
beautiful verses will restore my mind to its usual state of
tranquillity.—‘Misjudging girl!’ answered sober-thinking Prudence; ‘will not
the very circumstances connected with their perusal, produce a contrary
effect?’
Stella
dreamed not of that; her heart was free from the most distant idea of
intentional error, and she suspected not that censure could attach to a conduct
equally innocent in fact as, she rashly concluded, it was in appearance: but “l’innocence n’est pas toujours une sureté, parce que
la malice va à son but par des artifices qu’un coeur droit ne peut imaginer,
contre lesquels, par conséquent, il lui est impossible de se garder.”
As
the evening advanced, Stella became proportionably solicitous to depart, lest
procrastination should again render her the victim of accident, and the return
of the visiting party interfere with her motions. But something was still to
settle relative to the projected journey; new arrangements perpetually occurred
as to the mode of their route: and it was not till a late hour that she found
herself able to accomplish her retreat. On quitting the room, Mrs. Ross made
her a handsome pecuniary present, for the purpose of procuring those
fashionable articles of dress which the occasion might render necessary. This
Stella would gladly have declined; for her maternal friend at the Hermitage
generously supplied every want of the kind in a suitable and genteel manner:
Mrs. Ross would accept of no refusal, however; and she was therefore obliged at
last to acquiesce.
The
evening, though fast drawing to a close, was not yet dark, and Stella could not
resist the inclination she felt to take another peep into the volume purloined
from the window-seat of the pavilion. The private and solitary path through the
shrubbery seemed to afford a favourable opportunity for this coveted
indulgence, whither withdrawing, she drew it from her pocket accordingly.
Entirely
engrossed by the interesting nature of her subject, our heroine insensibly
wandered form the right path; and entering another, without paying the least
attention to her steps, or even conceiving the possibility of a mistake, slowly
moved on in a direction very different from that she imagined herself pursuing.
The
chief anxiety experienced by Stella during the latter part of her visit at the
Grove, was concentrated in her wish to get clear of the house unnoticed by
those she most dreaded to encounter: this object had been successfully
effected, and her mind, of course, became more tranquillized; for she flattered
herself there could be little remaining chance of any untoward accident taking
place in a quarter of the pleasure-grounds almost exclusively appropriated to the
convenience of the domestics, and scarcely ever resorted to by any of their
superiors. All this was very true; and nothing but a small degree of
observation on her own side was wanting to realize the idea she entertained of
her probable security on the occasion.
Hammond’s
beautiful verses, and he to whom Hammond’s beautiful verses most probably
belonged, were each of them, however, too predominant in her mind to admit of
any attention to the trifling circumstances of right or wrong: the dulce more than the utile occupied every thought; and time and
space appeared considerations entirely estranged from the mind of our heroine,
though once in her estimation of great importance.
From
this state of unconscious wandering and mental delirium, the rattling sound of
carriage wheels suddenly roused her. Stella raised her eyes from the favourite
volume, and, with inconceivable astonishment, perceived the dreaded absentees
turning an angle of the public road, and almost at her elbow. With increased
surprise, and in extreme perturbation, she cast a hasty glance round, in order
to discover the cause of an encounter so perfectly incomprehensible and
unexpected, and could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses when she found
herself on the verge of the north-west side of the plantations, and close to
the high road that led through the park.
Confounded
and thunderstruck by the obvious mistake thus committed, and the disagreeable
predicament in which it placed her, the mischief-making volume dropped from her
fingers; and unable to proceed or retreat, she stood immoveably fixed to the
spot.
The
phaeton in which Mr. Jones was driving Mrs. St. Vincent, abruptly stopped when
it reached Stella, and both seemed apparently much entertained by her visible
embarrassment and distress.
“Your
servant, Miss Bertram,” cried the Lieutenant, bowing with a ludicrous air of
affected respect, as he checked the horses: “you seem immersed in the deepest
abyss of philosophical contemplation; we shall shortly have a learned
publication on the beauties of Nature, I presume.”
“Or,
perhaps, Miss Bertram may favour us with a dissertation on highway exhibitions,
and entitle it ‘The critical Minute, or a new Mode to attract Notice, en passant,’ said his companion, with her
usual sarcastic sneer.
“Or
suppose the lady tried her hand on the ‘human face divine’ under a
light-horseman’s helmet?” asked the Lieutenant, with a significant wink at his
unfeeling fellow-traveller.
“And
the light-horseman, in return, places her on the pedestal of Niobe’s statue, as
the most picturesque figure of the two,” retorted Mrs. St. Vincent, while the
military wit laughed immoderately at what he styled the à-propos conceit of this bright idea. “But
alas! alas! man delights not her, nor woman neither?” resumed this female
tormentor, mimicking the vacant look and still motionless attitude of our poor
disconcerted heroine.
“Oh,
trust me for that!” exclaimed the other, with quickness; “our modern Pylades
and Orestes understand the Promethean art, and will soon bring her to sing
‘How
happy could I be with either! &c.’
Yes, faith! they are practitioners of some
standing, and allowed by the corps to be tolerable adapts in these
matters—egad, I know them!”
A
conscious smile, that indicated more than met the eye, and a look, intended to
be particularly sagacious, accompanied these very clever remarks.
“Wretch!”
cried Mrs. St. Vincent, gaily tapping him on the shoulder with her parasol as
she spoke, “you will really put the modest Miss Bertram to the blush, and spoil
my projected representative of Niobe, if you proceed at this rate any longer!”
The
Lieutenant, in reply, whispered something slyly in her ear; to which no answer
was given; but the heightened colour of his amiable coadjutor deepened at the
communication, and her eyes sparkled with an additional degree of malevolence
as they fiercely darted over the trembling form of her still motionless victim.
Any further vent to her feelings was at this period, however, denied; for
another carriage rapidly approached, from whence (apprehensive no doubt that
something was the matter with the phaeton, on perceiving it stationary,) a
voice hastily demanded to know what had happened. Of this enquiry no notice
whatever was taken; all that marked its being heard was a sudden motion of the head,
and a glance cast towards the speaker. The Lieutenant then smacked his whip,
and the impatient horses abruptly set off at a gallop.
The
post-coach followed the phaeton, and speedily passed Stella. In it was the
Nabob, Mrs. Arabin (who still remained behind her husband at Rossgrove),
another lady, and Captain Harcourt.
Mr.
Ross regarded our heroine with a stern and inquisitive air; Mrs. Arabin’s
countenance implied a strong degree of surprise, but she bowed with apparent
affability; and the remainder of the party stared with the most visible
symptoms of curiosity and astonishment.
The
expression of displeasure that marked the features of the first, and the
conciliatory smile of the second, affected her infinitely more than all the (to
her) incomprehensible jargon of her late tormentors, whose mean and unmerited
insults were not half so wounding to her gentle spirit, as the galling
conviction that she had drawn them upon herself by her own imprudence and
inattention. She gazed after the carriage for a moment, and then pulling her
bonnet further over her face, burst into a flood of tears.
CHAP.
XXII.
“Be
not over exquisite
“To
cast the fashion of uncertain evils:
“For
grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
“What
need a man forestal his date of grief,
“And
run to meet what he would most avoid?”
MILTON.
BEFORE the first violence of bitter
self-reproach had subsided, two horsemen rode up, and stopped within a few
yards of the weeping, unhappy girl, whose mind was then too much absorbed in
the melancholy nature of her own reflections to observe what was passing around
her.
The
travellers seemed alternately occupied in speaking to each other and watching
her motions. At last one of them suddenly dismounted, and springing forward,
caught hold of her hands, which he grasped in his.
Stella,
her eyes drowned in tears, and unable to speak, started involuntarily aside,
and, with her face still concealed in her bonnet, endeavoured, though
ineffectually, to disengage herself from his hold; till the welcome, but
unexpected voice of Captain Montague reached her ear, and banished every
remaining apprehension.
A
fresh flood of tears now burst again from her overcharged heart, in which
shame, surprise, and pleasure were mingled in equal proportions, while a
thousand enquires rapidly succeeded each other respecting the cause of his
speedy reappearance in this part of the country.
This
was easily accounted for:—regimental business with the Major had called him
back to Galloway; were his visit, he said, might probably be repeated before
the final departure of the troops from Scotland.
The
eye of Montague at this moment was cast upon her handkerchief, which, wet with
tears, had dropped from her hand on his first accosting her. Near it lay the
ill-starred volume of poems. He lifted them up together, and presented both to
our heroine just as the Major rode up to whisper a few words, en passant, to his friend. St. Vincent
appeared spell-bound for a moment; then bowing low to Stella, clapped spurs to
his charger, and instantly followed the carriages.
“Oh
God! Oh God!” exclaimed Stella, emphatically, “for what further humiliations am
I reserved?”
The
supporting arm of Montague was never more seasonably offered: but she closed
her eyes on a second tender of the book, and repulsing it with her
half-extended hand, protested she would never touch it more.
Ignorant
of her motives for this rejection, Montague conceived there must certainly be
something of importance concealed in the mysterious leaves of the little
volume, the outer covering of which was remarkably elegant: he began,
therefore, to open it, for the purpose of elucidating this matter, when our
heroine recollecting the name on the title page, and the certain conviction of
Montague’s former suspicions, which would unavoidably follow such a discovery,
abruptly snatched it from his hand, and hurried it into her pocket.
Montague
recoiled a few paces, and gazed at her averted, glowing cheek in the utmost
astonishment. A momentary silence ensued, during which either a sudden
recollection of the book, or a suspicion of the truth, darted through his mind;
whichever proved the case, no further questions on the subject were asked; and
the subsequent conversation turned immediately on the situation of Maria and
his little infant.
Stella
was yet too much agitated and disconcerted to carry on a connected
conversation: exertion in the present state of affairs was, nevertheless, too
requisite not to be attempted; she therefore endeavoured to do her best, and
succeeded tolerably in the task thus self-imposed on her fortitude.
Montague
was not to return to Dumfries before Thursday morning; this was Tuesday night:
and after many solicitations and much entreaty, she was at length prevailed
upon to promise him a sight of his poor little daughter on the succeeding
evening. At a convenient distance from the Hermitage he retired, and Stella
finished her eventful walk alone.
“What
ails you, Stella?” cried Mrs. Bertram, on her entrance: “upon my word these
solitary walks shall no longer be permitted; you constantly return from them
indisposed of late.”
Stella
could have fully accounted for her present agitated appearance, had she chose
to have made known her recent adventures: a strong sensation of repugnance,
which she found utterly impossible to conquer, however, retrained her from
making the communication, and she merely answered—
“I
have seen Captain Montague, Madam.”
“Captain
Montague, child!—how—where is he?—not here, I hope?”
Stella
replied in the negative, and related some circumstances of the foregoing scene.
“You did wrong,
my love, to promise him a sight of the infant,” said Mrs. Bertram, mildly;
“disagreeable consequences may possibly ensue from the ill-judged indulgence.”
“I
am sorry, my dear mother, you disapprove of it: but pardon me for saying I do
not perceive what evil consequences can be produced by such an event.”
“Young
people, Stella, seldom think about consequences till too late to prevent the
mischief they occasion.”
“I
can only repeat, Madam, that I am sorry for my error, and shall endeavour to
repair it by prevailing on the Captain to refrain from exacting the
accomplishment of my promise.”
“By
no means, my dear girl; your present promise shall be held sacred: only in
future be more cautious, and enter into no engagement whatever without
bestowing a little previous reflection on the propriety of the measure you are
requested to adopt.”
Stella
avowed her determination to abide by this salutary advice, and protested it
should henceforth be held in remembrance as a guide and preserver from similar
errors.
The
subjects which succeeded Mrs. Bertram’s departure from the Grove, those at
least that passed between Mrs. Ross and her young visitor, were next discussed;
and Stella was gratified to find that every part of her conduct, in this
instance, met with the entire approbation of her maternal monitor.
Maria,
it seems, had frequently enquired after her during the long period of her
absence; Mrs. Bertram therefore desired her protégée
to see the fair invalid before they retired for the night. With this request,
under resent circumstances, she would gladly have dispensed; but the will of
her benefactress was omnipotent; and she instantly complied with it, in spite
of the secret reluctance experienced thereto.
The
spirits of poor Maria appeared unusually low and depressed; those of our
heroine were not in a much better state. The former ventured to mention her
child, which was the first time it had been named before Stella, and melting
into tears, deplored her hard fate in being so seldom permitted to water its
little face with the repentant drops of maternal anguish.
“Oh
Stella!” cried she, with clasped hands and a look of unutterable woe, “pity me,
Stella, and cast me not from you with indignant contempt, when I acknowledge
that the author of all her misery is still dear to the devoted Maria!—dear as
the ruddy drops that visit this sad heart—a heart bursting with concealment,
but which dare not attempt to disburden its sorrows before the good and
venerable friend who deigns to shelter the head of the penitent from the load
of public infamy one fatal, one incautious moment has suspended over it! Oh
Stella! to be virtuous and to be happy are too surely synonimous
terms!—Remember, she who speaks from sad experience tells you so; and may her
sufferings prove a beacon to preserve you from a similar destiny!”
Miss
Campbell’s voice here became nearly inarticulate; and covering her face, she
wept aloud.
Stella
was deeply affected; she felt this scene more acutely from the recollection of
her previous interview with Montague: but while she sympathized sincerely with
the unhappy mourner, a secret pang for herself sometimes shot across her bosom,
and added considerably to the interest taken in the sorrows of another.
“Alas!”
thought our heroine, “if virtue and happiness are, as Maria says, synonimous
terms, why then is innocence so frequently oppressed, and vice, on the
contrary, triumphant? I am happily a stranger to the feelings of this poor
unfortunate girl, and even free in idea from guilt of any description: ought I
not, then, to be happy according to her doctrine?—and am I so?—Ah, no, no, no!
Comparatively so, she should have said—and in that case I might have ventured
to agree with her; for certainly, though felicity belongs to neither of us, my
sensations must be far more enviable than hers, who has to sustain the sting of
self-reproach for actual error, along with the disappointment of her dearest
hopes, and the apprehended horrors of public and, what is yet worse, merited contempt.”
The
short silence that each seemed disposed to observe in the present disposition
of their mind, was first broken by Maria.
“Oh
Miss Bertram!” said she, in a low, mournful accent, “you are good; virtuous,
and gentle: I see you enter into my sufferings, and commiserate an unhappy
fellow-creature, though fallen—even so fallen as I am! Pardon the distress I
occasion you, and kindly make allowances for the double portion of it which
wrings this nearly exhausted heart—yes, a double portion of misery is too
surely mine! I love, to distraction love, a man who cruelly disclaims all
future knowledge of me, and, though my earthy prospects are for ever clouded
through my fatal acquaintance with him, refuses to grant me the poor indulgence
of hearing my last sentence from his own lips! My child, too—alas! wretched
little being! destined to an ignominious lot in life, and torn from the
maternal bosom, that bosom alone interested for thy welfare through the wide
circle of this extensive globe—thee, too, my hapless child, I am scarcely
permitted to see! Privileges enjoyed by the human race in general, even by the
very brute creation, are prohibited to me: in vain I languish to clasp her
unconscious form in my arms, or die to allay the agonizing solicitude of a mother’s
fears, by once more beholding the innocent proof of an erroneous and
ill-placed, but unconquerable tenderness! This blessing, hitherto bestowed with
a scanty and reluctant hand, is henceforth to be totally withheld, from the
supposition that it acts as a strengthener of that attachment I must ever
retain for her dear, but unfeeling father. Miss Bertram, say, will you plead
for me?—will you try to prevail with our worthy and benevolent friend to
withdraw this harsh and overwhelming sentence? If any one possesses that power
it is you: and surely, surely my future prospects are liable to sufficient
privations in other respects, without this heart-rendering addition to the
number! say, then, dear Stella, tell me I shall yet be permitted to see my
ill-starred infant!”
“Alas!”
replied Stella, with sensations of the utmost regret, “I dare not give hopes
which may, in the end, prove illusive, and by that means finally increase the
evil they were intended to remedy! my dear mother will not, I much fear, be
influenced by me on this subject.”
“You
previously knew then of her determination,” cried Miss Campbell, with
quickness, “and have kindly endeavoured to soften her heart in my favour?—God
in heaven for ever bless you, my good and generous Miss Bertram, and grant you
may never stand in need of an intercessor on such an occasion!”
“No,”
answered Stella, “I must not assume a merit to which I have no just claim—I was
ignorant of the foregoing circumstance till you mentioned it. I pity, I regret,
I sympathized in the anguish it causes; but indeed, by dear Miss Campbell, this
is all I can do for you.”
Maria’s
tears flowed afresh at this intimation, and a silence again ensued. Before it
received any interruption, Mrs. Bertram joined them; and reminding Stella of
the late hour and long visit she had paid the weeping Maria, they wished her a
good night, and retired.
CHAP.
XXIII.
“Oh,
what a pain to think, when every thought,
“Perplexing
thought, in intricacies runs,
“And
Fancy knits th’ inextricable toil
“In
which herself is taken!”
YOUNG.
MRS. BERTRAM perceived that Stella was
apparently more affected than usual, and she now enquired the cause of it.
“I
have no concealments from you, my dear mother,” Stella would have said, as the
words rose spontaneously to her lips; but she remembered St. Vincent, and
merely confined her communication to the affairs of others, by relating what
had passed in the course of the foregoing conversation.
“I
applaud your prudence, my love,” said Mrs. Bertram, when our heroine ceased
speaking. “Few are those who deserve advice, because few are those who profit
by it: you have shewn you belong not to this class of incurables; and I rejoice
to find my opinion of you invariably well founded. You cannot imagine, my dear
child, how much your conduct gratifies and pleases me on every trying
emergency!”
The
ingenuous nature of poor Stella revolted at the idea of applause, in her
opinion, so unmerited, and she felt considerably distressed by it. The poet
says—
“Praise
undeserv’d, is flatt’ry in disguise.”
Such, however, she well knew was by no means
the case in the present instance; and the accusing angel seemed to stand before
her “mind’s eye,” arrayed in more than his usual terrors. With her protectress,
Stella immediately determined to be explicit; but before the mode of
communication could be mentally arranged, Mrs. Bertram resumed her discourse:
and time being thus allowed for cooler reflection, our heroine’s former
repugnance to entering upon the painful topic, recurred with its usual force; and
the late intended confession was again withheld from the knowledge of her
maternal friend.
Without
remarking the palpitating heart or glowing cheek of her agitated protégée, the good lady proceeded to
explain her motives for adopting a measure that, to appearance, was certainly,
as Maria had styled it, a harsh one. Caustics, however, are sometimes necessary
to be applied when milder remedies prove ineffectual; and such was the state of
the matter at present.
Mrs.
Bertram had early observed that Maria Campbell’s disposition was yielding as
wax, and apt, not only to receive, but retain, every favourite impression,
however inimical to her character or peace. The child happened to prove
extremely like its father; and the ecstatic delight she took in tracing this
cherished resemblance considerably augmented the force of that partiality, the
secret indulgence of which was continually encouraged as the first and dearest
object of her existence.
For
her future, as well as present, tranquillity of mind, her worthy hostess
entertained many just and alarming apprehensions; and perceiving the
susceptibilities of her nature rather increased by gentle measures than
otherwise, she reluctantly resorted to those of a more coercive nature, in
order to try if it were practicable to rouse some little degree of magnanimity,
or even common fortitude, as an occasional support under the unavoidable evils
generally attendant on the lot which had befallen her.
As
the first and most necessary step for this purpose, the child was prohibited
from appearing so frequently, as usual, at the Hermitage.
In
the reasons assigned for the adoption of this new mode of proceeding, it was
impossible not to acknowledge the justness, propriety, and wisdom of such a
regulation. Stella saw and felt all this, but without being able to sanction
the whole with her undivided approbation; for she likewise experienced the
pangs of disappointed passion and hopeless despair, and though free from the
actual commission of error, or the apprehended opprobrium that follows any
dereliction from moral rectitude, her feelings secretly sympathized with the
unfortunate Maria, and she could not help thinking that the evils under which
she previously groaned, were indeed sufficiently overwhelming and severe to
require every alleviation and indulgence in the power of those around her to
bestow.
These
sentiments, however, our heroine wisely chose to keep to herself: and at a very
late hour she retired to her own little apartment, where, harassed, weary, and
miserable, she sunk upon the first chair that offered. The soothing aid of
balmy sleep seemed, nevertheless, to fly her heavy eye-lids; though the night
wasted fast, and a solemn stillness reigned in every quarter, Stella felt not
the smallest inclination for repose. Alone, and at liberty to indulge the
conflicting emotions of her heart, she now gave a loose to the luxury of
unrestrained anguish, which burst forth with additional violence in proportion
to the time and difficulty with which it had been suppressed. Thought, that
busy active principle which retraces the past, and anticipates the future, held
its despotic sway over her mind, and continued to banish every idea of present
rest, while the incidents of this eventful day perpetually recurred, and filled
her bosom with a thousand painful reflections on their probable consequences.
Amongst
the quick succession of these self-created tormentors, Hammond’s Love Elegies
were not forgotten, nor appeared the least conspicuous of the number. Slowly,
and with a trembling hand, Stella drew them from her pocket, and after gazing
upon the volume for some time with a melancholy mien, threw it aside with a
new, but momentary sensation of anger, to which the sight of it apparently gave
birth. It seemed to be regarded as the evil Genius of the day, and the source
from whence all her subsequent vexations flowed to it she owed the reproaches
of her own mind, which incessantly condemned the culpable weakness, the
imbecile wish that had instigated her to purloin it from the pavilion. One
wrong step frequently leads to another, and so on till the climax of error is
gradually accomplished by imperceptible degree. This sad truth was fully
ascertained by experience: for had the inclination to examine the contents of
this book been properly checked on the first discovery of its owner, the
possession of it would not have been afterwards coveted, nor would it in the
end have been taken from its place; of course, no deviation from the road to
the Hermitage would probably have happened, and the bitter humiliation that
succeeded would have been spared her.
For
the childish, yet malignant insults of Mrs. St. Vincent and her empty
companion, no sensation, but that of contemptuous pity, remained; and she
wondered how either of them could ever have produced a single moment’s
uneasiness, more especially as the purport of their meaning was totally
incomprehensible and unknown, though its aim evidently appeared that of
mortification. The stern glance of the Nabob rather made a deeper impression;
because she had not accustomed herself to consider him in the same point of
view with the two former. But, distressing as the whole occurrence certainly
proved at the time, their power to wound her feelings seemed, at this period,
trifling, when put in competition with the circumstances of the succeeding
interview; and her apprehensions lest the fatal volume should be equally
recognised by the two friends, whose looks and manner, she sometimes fancied,
implied this idea, was but too well founded.
“The
smallest infringement on propriety is generally productive of the most
unpleasant effects; so my kind monitress my dear mother, has frequently told
me.” thought Stella: “and after what I now suffer, can the justice of the
remark be doubted?—An, no, no! I feel it cannot! May my first error, however,
prove the last! With the example of poor Maria Campbell before my eyes, I
should be doubly inexcusable were I to fail in the respect due to my own
character, by a repetition of the like weakness—a weakness that must even degrade
me below the level of her I now commiserate, in as much as the education and
morals of the one have been infinitely more attended to than the other. A
married man, too! Oh good Heaven, preserve my senses!”
She
shuddered at the succession of images this recollection embodied, and covering
her face with both hands, sunk back in the chair, overwhelmed with anguish.
In
this manner, sleepless and unhappy, passed the lingering hours away, till the
early beams of the morning darting through her little casement, announced the
rapid approach of day. She then fell into an interrupted kind of slumber, from
which little or no benefit could be expected; for during its continuance every
recent object of waking distress haunted her in dreams, and brought in its train
a fresh accumulation of terror. Amidst these visionary starts of a perturbed
imagination, Fancy, on forward wing, placed her in the grotto with Montague,
and his infant daughter in her arms: she saw him fold it to his bosom, imprint
a kiss on its little forehead, and, as he returned it to her care, felt one of
her own hands suddenly raised to his lips with the warm pressure of silent, but
heartfelt gratitude. At that interesting moment an enormous snake seemed to
issue from the nearest plantation, and writhing itself round an obelisk in the
pleasure-grounds of Rossgrove, fixed a fiery and threatening look on its
terrified observers, who attended its motions in anxious expectation of what
was to ensue. At length the monster seemed to be collecting all its force, and
abruptly bounding through the air, directed its course to the grotto; where
Stella, in imagination, already conceived herself its victim, when Montague
springing forward, seized it by the throat and after a conflict of some
minutes, threw it with violence from the landing place: in the following
instance it reared a mortified, though still furious aspect, and hissing at our
terrified heroine in a manner that made her blood almost curdle in her veins,
speedily glided from view amidst the underwood bordering on the path that led
to the Grove.
Stella,
thus relieved from imagined destruction, immediately felt her late torpid
senses return: she grasped the hand of her deliverer in token of
acknowledgment, and attempted to express her feelings by words: the power of
articulation, however, was apparently denied. A repetition of the tremendous
hissing sound which had recently appalled her, again vibrated in her ears: she
looked hastily up—the same terrific monster appeared, writhing itself as before
round the obelisk: but it was not now alone; the helpless devoted daughter of
her late protector lay entwined in its scaly folds, and seemed doomed to
instant destruction.
What
the apprehensions of Stella could not effect, this dreadful sight accomplished.
As an excruciating shriek seemed to burst from the little wretch, her agony
became extreme; it broke the fetters of sleep, and quickly relieved her from
the influence of those illusive horrors, which, though generated amidst the
baseless fabrics of a dream, almost shook the mental faculties to distraction.
She started up in a state of utmost agitation, cast a timid, inquisitive glance
round the room, as if fearful of finding the visionary cause of her alarm
realized; when having fully ascertained the truth, she sunk upon her knees in
fervent acknowledgement to Heaven for granting this termination to the ideal
distress of the foregoing scene.
CHAP.
XXIV.
“Ah
me! that fear
“Comes
thund’ring back with dreadful revolution
“On
my defenceless head”
MILTON
TO think of obtaining any further repose at
this time was totally out of the question; the experiment, of course, remained
untried: and her anxiety entirely turned upon the most effectual means of
repairing the mischief already committed, so as to prevent Mrs. Bertram from
suspecting the cause of her haggard looks and languid appearance, both of
which, she was conscious, might subject her to no common degree of observation.
Having changed her dress, and endeavoured to assume an air of tranquillity, foreign
to the present nature of her feelings, she left her apartment to encounter the
unknown vicissitudes of the day.
As
Mrs. Ross’s departure from the Grove was speedily to take place, some
preparation on the part of our heroine became unavoidably necessary; and her
intention, on the preceding evening, had been to walk over to Wigton this
morning, in order to make a few purchases for the occasion: a violent headach,
however, interfered to prevent the execution of her design; and she passed the
greater portion of the day in Maria’s chamber, where subjects, suitable to
their present turn of mind, engaged their attention.
As
the evening approached, and the appointed period for her interview with Captain
Montague drew near, the thoughts of our heroine became more abstracted, and
wandered at intervals from the scene now before her, to that in which she was
shortly so interestingly to engage. The dream, and its attendant horrors,
recurred to her memory, accompanied by a thousand apprehensions of lurking
evil, either to herself, or the poor little infant, who, almost prohibited the
arms of one parent, was upon the point of being placed in those of the other,
whom she had never yet seen.
A
restless solicitude likewise seized our heroine respecting the extent of Montague’s
knowledge of Hammond’s Love Elegies, and the probable discovery by St. Vincent
of their being in her possession. If the gentlemen were both acquainted with
this vexatious circumstance, their opinion of her conduct appeared to her of
too humiliating a description to be reflected upon with patience; and the
colour of Stella alternately varied its hue as she secretly moralized on female
weakness and human possibilities. At length the clock struck six, and reminded
her that one hour more only remained to prepare for the reception of Captain
Montague.
The
circumstances which had taken place on the first introduction of herself at the
Hermitage, and the success that attended their arrangements on the occasion,
suggested a similar mode of conduct in the management of Maria’s affair. Her
child was consequently put to nurse with Mrs. Thompson (the ci-devant Sally Wallace, who happened
about this period to be delivered of a female infant, which did not long
survive its birth,) and a plausible story being propogated to answer the
purpose of deception, every thing apparently succeeded to their wish; for the
whispered slander of the gossiping neighbour already noticed, like the
suspicions entertained by Mrs. St. Vincent, were as yet equally unknown to the
inhabitants of the Hermitage, where Maria was represented as continuing to
reside for the benefit of her health, on account of a consumptive habit, with
which she had been threatened before her guardian and Mrs. Harris left the
country.
From
the house of its ostensible mother, Mrs. Wallace or her niece had sometimes
been permitted to convey the little creature to the arms of her to whom it owed
its miserable existence. Miss Campbell’s apparent declining condition seemed to
plead hard for the occasional and stolen indulgence its presence visibly
afforded her: but the consequences which followed a repetition of this
gratification proved very different from the original expectations entertained
of their efficacy; and Mrs. Bertram, it may be remembered, found herself finally
necessitated to prohibit a remedy so ill calculated for producing the desired
effect.
Stella,
her heart full of the approaching occurrence, stopped for a moment at the door
of Maria’s chamber, and regarding her with a look and most expressive and interesting,
hastily wiped off a pitying tear, and then hurried to her own apartment.
“I
shall soon see the two beings so coveted, so beloved by poor Maria!” thought
our heroine, as she tied on her straw bonnet, “Those beings from whom she seems
unavoidably and eternally separated!—Alas! with what transports would she not
have flown to such an interview, if permitted to have taken my place! Ah! would
to Heaven such had proved the case! for the unaccountable reluctance I
experience to my part in the transaction momentarily increases with the lapse
of every intervening instant of time: but it signifies not, I will perform my
promise; and if contempt is really the result of Captain Montague’s knowledge
of my late proceeding in the pavilion, why conscious innocence in other
respects must just support me under the trial as well as it is able.”
Her
mental soliloquy finished; and ready to sally forth, she descended the
staircase, and enquired for Mrs. Bertram: the latter, however, was at her
evening devotion, during which no one presumed to disturb her. Stella looked at
the clock, and perceiving there was no time to lose, hastened to the habitation
of farmer Thompson, from whose wife she received the little infant. Halt an
hour more brought her to the grotto; where Montague soon after joined her.
The
usually gay, fashionable friend of our heroine seemed here to have renounced
all the adventitious advantages he had hitherto possessed, and permitted Nature
to operate in her most interesting form. Stella, previously acquainted with his
situation in regard to Louisa St. Vincent, could not help admiring the delicate
manner in which he conducted himself through the whole of this trying affair.
The new, the delightful sensation of parental affection seemed to throb in
every vein, and while he caressed the little infant, his attachment for his
offspring appeared to banish every recollection of the mother’s errors;
without, however, lessening the indifference he experienced for her, or
softening his resolution to see her no more.
Possessed
of innate good principles and great sensibility of heart, any casual deviation
from the former was deeply regretted, and whatever interested the latter
acutely felt; but while he deplored the fatal effects of bad example, and the
propelling impetuosity of youthful passions, which were apter to lead him
astray than any evil propensities of his own, his determination to avoid the
particular source in which his late misconduct originated, was invariably
adhered to with the most scrupulous exactness; for a repetition of what his
cooler judgment told him was materially wrong, appeared a double aggravation of
the fault. Such were his sentiments on the present occasion, and by them he
intended immoveably to abide. The child, however, was innocent; and every
feeling of humanity called upon him to indemnify his unoffending offspring for
the injury entailed upon it through life by the circumstances of its
unfortunate birth. Naturally of a tender and affectionate disposition, he felt
himself moved as he ardently gazed upon its little face, and thought less of
the unhappy mother than his adored Louisa, whose image he vainly strove to
trace in the features of the smiling infant.
The
future charge he meant to take of it appeared the only possible reparation that
could now be made to Maria, whose situation, in regard to pecuniary matters,
set any indemnification of that description totally out of the question on her
own individual account, though to their child it might hereafter be of
consequence to fulfil the duty of a parent in this respect.
As
the modern man of fashion, when an exterior compliance with the tonish habits
of high life rendered simulation and conformity necessary, he generally
acquitted himself in a style that seemed to say he was only in his proper
element, and met with his equals alone in the first circles of elegant society;
but the real character of this young and amiable man never appeared in its true
colouring to such advantage, as, when freed from the trammels situation and
circumstances frequently imposed upon it, he found himself at liberty to follow
the genuine bent of inclination, which secretly pointed to rational enjoyments,
pleasures unaccompanied by the sting of after reproach, and a participation in
all the milder and more tranquil virtues to be met with in the less elevated
stations of private life. This had proved so much the case since his
introduction at the Hermitage, that it had now become almost the ruling
principle of his mind, and nearly taken the lead over every factitious
sentiment hitherto adopted in his former intercourse with gayer scenes of the
world. No wonder, then, if all his better feelings were, at this period, roused
into action, and the sensibility of his soul called forth by the powerful
demands nature made upon them.
At
length Stella thought it necessary to interfere; having therefore reminded him
of the time that was elapsed, she insisted upon being permitted to retire with
her little charge—a request which he did not, however, seem at first much
disposed to comply with. The child had fallen asleep in his arms: these had
never before formed a cradle for such a purpose; and it was not without more
than one remonstrance from our heroine that she finally prevailed with him to
relinquish the precious burden.
As
he softly replaced the unconscious innocent on her bosom, and with parental
fondness bent forward to imprint a farewell kiss on its little forehead, a
sudden exclamation of mingled surprise and horror, burst from Stella, which
speedily fixed his eyes on her face with an air of astonishment scarcely
inferior to her own. He followed the now silent direction of her looks, and
discovered a female figure, rising from a garden chair near the obelisk, whom
he instantly recognised for Mrs. St. Vincent. On perceiving she was observed,
she curtsyed in a style of derision peculiar to herself, and then disappeared
in the plantations.
“The
supposed illusions of sleep are thus, then, converted into sad reality!” sighed
Stella, languidly sinking upon the window-seat as she spoke; “yes, they were
not, as I would willingly have persuaded myself, the idle chimeras of a
disturbed imagination, but apparently commissioned to forewarn me of
approaching evil in the form of my persevering an unrelenting enemy. I have
slighted the gracious intention of my guardian angel, and must abide the
consequences. Save your innocent child, however!—she, too, was implicated in
the same scene that presented itself in the course of my last night’s perturbed
and, as it now seems, portentous visions. Nay, Captain Montague, restrain that
incredulous smile till you are better acquainted with the cause of my alarm,
and then I trust you will acquit me of a bias to superstition, when I declare,
that from the bottom of my soul I regret the facility with which I agreed to
indulge you with this interview, and no less the weak and childish attention to
appearances which led me to leave the door of the grotto open in order to avoid
an inferior evil, should any casual intrusion happen to break in upon the secret
and mysterious nature of our interview.”
Our
heroine, as well as her agitation would permit her, now proceeded to relate the
particulars of her dream, as already mentioned, and the deep impression it had
at the time made upon her feelings; an impression ultimately renewed and
strengthened by the wonderful coincidence of circumstances which had thus
recently occurred, and which Montague, in spite of all his subsequent attempts
to eradicate from her mind, either by the force of reason or ridicule, could not
help privately reflecting upon as something peculiarly strange and
incomprehensible.
CHAP.
XXV.
“I
am involv’d
“And buried in the
web myself have wrought.”
YOUNG.
IN the course of this discussion, Stella
frequently mentioned the unequivocal marks of enmity perpetually shewn her by
Mrs. St. Vincent; and expressed much astonishment that such should be the case,
when no conscious offence had ever been given on her part to merit treatment so
cruel and unprovoked.
The
solicitude evinced to ascertain the motives of that lady’s actions, and the
touching manner in which she spoke of her feelings when subjected to the
influence of Mrs. St. Vincent’s capricious humours, sensibly affected her
auditor; and, for the first time since the commencement of their acquaintance,
he ventured to glance at the probable cause of her displeasure.—“I presume not,
however, to direct you, my dear Stella,” he added, “in an affair of so delicate
a nature: nevertheless, were I sure of being pardoned for intruding my advice
unasked, I would just hint at the necessity of avoiding all opportunities
calculated to promote any further degree of intercourse with Major St. Vincent
and——”
He
was proceeding, when Stella, extremely hurt and agitated by the implied censure
on that part of her conduct apparently contained in this admonition, rose from
her seat with a dignified air, and entreated he would spare his premature
caution, as the danger on her side was, she could assure him, more imaginary
than real.
“In
one point of view certainly so,” he relied; “for are you not good and virtuous?
and is not my friend the noblest fellow under the canopy of heaven? But yet—”
The
latter part of this sentence seemed to vibrate on a softened chord, and her
countenance beamed with a ray of inexpressible delight; but the momentary
gratification afforded by the impressive euloguim on St. Vincent instantly
disappeared, when the humiliating circumstance to which it alluded recurred:
she resumed the same look of disapprobation, and once more abruptly interrupted
him in the middle of something he was going to say.
“Good
evening, Sir!” with a cold and reserved air, said the secretly agitated Stella;
“it grows late, and the child ought to be at home.”
“You
leave me in displeasure, Stella!—I cannot consent to part with you thus.—Say we
are friends?—say you pardon me?”
“When
good is the end in view, we must overlook the disagreeable mode in which it is
sometimes dispensed, even by friends.—I pardon you, Sir.”
“What!
with that frigid air, and cold severity of accent!—indeed, Stella, my dear
Stella, we part not on such terms.”
The
heart of our heroine began to swell, “more in sorrow than in anger:” she bent
over her still sleeping charge to conceal a truant tear that refused to be
restrained within its proper limits, and again moved towards the threshold.
“Good
Heavens! my sweet friend, how have I merited this unlooked-for reproof, this
silent contempt? If the most disinterested esteem, the most sincere solicitude
for your welfare, have unhappily led me to wound your feelings, the fault is
surely venial, and ought not to be attended with consequences so seriously
distressing. By my soul, I repeat it, we separate not on such terms!—give me
your hand, and say the past is consigned to oblivion, as shall henceforth be
the subject from whence the whole has originated!”
The
transient displeasure of our heroine had already subsided; but her increasing
emotion prevented an articulate reply. She now blamed herself for thus giving
way to the weak sensations of wounded pride, when conscience whispered the
suspicions of Captain Montague had probability at least for their basis; and
extending the hand he requested, which was speedily conveyed to his lips, she
burst into tears, and again sunk upon her seat.
A
tacit agreement, however, seemed to have taken place, for the purpose of
avoiding the former forbidding theme. Montague, after a short silence, began to
speak on less interesting topics; and, amongst other, mentioned the continuance
of his intention in regard to returning to Dumfries early on the following
morning. He likewise presented her with a few guineas for the nurse of his
little girl, to whose house he accompanied them when returning composure
permitted her to depart from the grotto. Montague did not, however, enter the
habitation of Mr. Thompson, lest others than the immediate members of the
family should happen to be present, and his appearance create either curiosity
or suspicion in the spectators. At a small distance from the house, he waited
her return; and having conducted her to the vicinity of the Hermitage, after an
affectionate adieu, struck into a path leading to Rossgrove, while his late
companion proceeded alone to the abode of her benefactress.
It
had been the intention of Mrs. Bertram either to become the bearer of the child
to its father, or to accompany Stella in the execution of that office, as she
judged it improper for her young protégée
to be the sole agent in such a transaction. Unfortunately, this design was,
some how or other, neglected to be mentioned in time to our heroine; while on
the part of her nominal mother, the appointed hour for the interview was
mistaken, and a later one chosen in its place. Mrs. Bertram, therefore, made no
immediate enquiry after Stella, on the termination of her devotions; and when
the supposed period arrived for the above purpose, she discovered our heroine
had already been absent too long to think of putting her scheme in practice. To
remedy the evil in part was, nevertheless, yet in her power, and she determined
to join the party in the grotto, in order to walk back with Stella.
Disappointment seemed to be the allotted portion of Mrs. Bertram this evening:
her wishes were again frustrated by the unexpected arrival of the clergyman’s
wife; and she was at length forced to renounce every thought of attending the
child.
Stella
gave a faithful account of all that merely related to the father and child: for
her own share in some part of the evening’s transactions, some reservation was
supposed necessary, and of course adopted. Mrs. Bertram, however, appeared
satisfied; and unable to see miss Campbell after so recent a separation from
the two beings who usually proved the chief subject of their tête-à-têtes, our heroine pleaded a return
of her morning headach, and retired at an early hour to her chamber.
Harassed
and overcome by the effects of the preceding night’s distressing occurrences,
in conjunction with those of the day, she hurried into bed, where corporeal
fatigue proving superior to every other sensation, the torpor of deep repose
immediately succeeded, and soon obliterated every painful reflection, for the
present, from her memory.
The
casual discovery of the interview at the grotto afforded Mrs. St. Vincent a
sensation of pleasure to which she had long been a stranger: for bad
dispositions can never experience more than a short-lived and transient
gratification from the indulgence of their evil propensities. This enjoyment
had indeed been pretty frequently obtained by Mrs. St. Vincent of late; but in
proportion to its magnitude at the time, the consequences that succeeded
generally proved detrimental to her peace; for the breach between her and her
husband became gradually widened on every return of ill-humour; and unjustly
blaming Stella for what was merely the natural effects of her own caprice, the
antipathy she had long encouraged for a character so diametrically opposite to
her own daily increased, and led her to seize every plausible opportunity that
occurred to vent the spiteful effusions of her rancorous heart.
After
what has already appeared, it cannot, nevertheless, be denied that her
suspicions were not altogether groundless; but candid, or well-disposed minds,
would have rested perfectly secure on the prior knowledge they possessed of the
principles and conduct of those they subjected to such an imputation: an
imputation which could not, however, attach any actual blame on either side of
a personal description; and for what merely related to mental feelings, no
human being ought to be considered answerable, as long as they are confined to
the bosom which gives them birth, and not permitted to interfere with the
interests or tranquillity of society.
In
the present instance, that accusation even the prejudiced Mrs. St. Vincent
herself had no right to bring against them; for the suspected parties seemed
mutually bent on maintaining their integrity, and avoiding every circumstance
that could render them liable to the censure of the world, or the far more
insupportable burden of self-reproach. Her own violent and ungovernable temper
proved the cause of all those ideal torments she frequently suffered, and
sufficiently avenged the injured objects of her hatred by the poignant nature
of the anguish they inflicted: thus may it ever happen, that
“Evil
on itself shall back recoil,”
and the unmerited mischief done to another,
finally lacerate the breast of the inflictor!
END
OF VOL II.
LANE,
MINERVA-PRESS, LEADENHALL-STREET.