SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW;
OR, THE
FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTERS OF
A Patchwork Story.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT AND SHADE; EVERSFIELD ABBEY;
BANKS OF THE WYE; AUNT AND NIECE, &c. &c.
Artless and unadorn’d she pleas’d the more;
- - - -
The other dame seem’d e’en of fairer hue,
Fat bold her mien, unguarded mov’d her eye.
VOL. II.
MINERVA PRESS,
FOR A. K. NEWMAN AND CO.
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1812.
SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW.
CHAP. I.
———Ever
was he seen
A
faithful pastor! POLWHELL
THOUGH Mr. Elwyn had received from nature a
good understanding, yet he had not been gifted with much strength of mind; his
father’s indulgence had not permitted him to discern this weakness in his son’s
character; and under little parental discipline or mental controul, encouraged
in pursuing every thing which he liked; and while he kept within the bounds of
propriety, receiving no check in his pleasures, it is not surprising that he fell
into those errors which embittered his future life. His heart was rightly
formed, his temper was good, his morals were not vicious; but neglecting to
fortify his own imbecility with the firm rock of religion, he shrunk appalled
from every thing which opposed his wishes; and unaided by the stability of
principle, or the consolations of piety, he sacrificed every virtuous
sentiment, and ultimately became the voluntary victim of vice! How frequently
are the words of sacred writ realized before us! how often do we see “the sins
of the parents visited on their children!”
The extravagance of Elwyn’s father,
the profusion which in the days of youth had impaired and hurt his fortune, and which he had not then
considered as an injury to his son, was brought to his reflection and his
conscience at the decline of life, when avarice not unfrequently takes place of
the opposite quality in the human breast.
The peculiar situation, the extreme
youth, the relative affinity of the orphan heiress, and the reversionary claim
of his son, all pointed her out to the doating father as the person destined to repair his errors; and Henry’s first
lesson from his father had his cousin Clara for its object. Of an inactive
disposition, nurtured in luxury, and addicted to its enjoyments, nothing
appeared more congenial to the wishes of Henry; and Clara’s partial eyes soon
viewed her cousin in the light which her uncle desired. Her kind and judicious
aunt, who loved this amiable girl with an affection equal to that which she
felt for her son, was pleased at the prospect of the happiness of these two
beloved objects centering in one another; and hoped that while the fortune of
Clara might add to Henry’s opportunities of doing good, his affection and
gratitude would ensure her felicity.
Henry Elwyn went through the usual
routine of education at a public school, and afterwards at college, with
credit, though not with distinction; his easy good-nature and inoffensiveness
of manners, made him generally liked; and as no spark of emulation existed in
his character, he never excited envy or jealousy.
With the flattering prospects which
were before him, his father did not hesitate to supply him with the means of
gratifying every wish that he formed; he soon perceived that his inclination
did not lead him towards his cousin Clara, although she was eminently gifted,
both in person and manners, to rivet the heart which should once acknowledge
her influence; but Mr. Elwyn’s notions on this score were by no means romantic;
and he concluded, that when Henry had taken his fill of the world and its
pleasures, he should see him sit down soberly and contentedly with his cousin,
a married man.
Henry Elwyn had a perfect
appreciation of the character of Clara; and while he saw it so entirely
disinterested, so free from selfishness, while he observed her gentleness and
humility, at the same time that her superiority in intellect, in judgment, and
discrimination, was painfully pressed upon him by the bright light of truth, he
was uneasy and awed in her presence; a humiliating, a degrading feeling
oppressed him; his own interested and mercenary views, in seeking to form a
connexion with her, were forcibly presented to his mind, by the suggestions of
his yet unseared conscience; but he had neither
resolution to oppose himself to the wishes of his father, nor strength of mind
to bear the privations to which a limited income would subject him; neither did
he possess the application and stability requisite to embark in a genteel
profession, and to secure, by his own meritorious exertions, those indulgencies
which he had been accustomed to consider as the necessaries of life.
Seeing Clara Elwyn as he saw her, thinking so differently from her, yet at the
same moment admiring the virtue which he dared not imitate (and which he was
about to act in direct contradiction to), while she was to become the
sacrifice, is it wonderful that Elwyn’s absences from home became more
frequent, as the period fixed upon for his marriage drew nearer?
At college he had been acquainted
with Edward Harley, a young man of slender hopes and narrow fortune. The
easiness of access, and unassuming manner by which Elwyn’s character was
marked, had given this humbler son of fortune courage to approach him, for
modesty and diffidence were his characteristic traits; and hope blighted ere it
had budded in him, by the consciousness of his forlorn situation, and the
isolation of his prospects. With the death of his parents he had lost every
thing on which he had leaned, and in his turn he now saw himself the only stay
of his lovely sister.
The parents of Harley had moved in
an inferior situation; but having the advantage of a classical free-school in
the town where they lived, they naturally wished to obtain an education for
their son, which might so essentially benefit him, when they could do it free
of expence to themselves; and accordingly he was entered on the foundation, and
obtained such credit with the master for his assiduous application and general
good conduct, that he was one of the youths who prosecuted his studies
afterwards at Oxford, on the same endowment, by succeeding to a scholarship
annexed to it.
With a sense of inferiority, and no
soothing ideas derived from a consciousness of his own merit, Harley felt much
gratified when he found that Mr. Elwyn received him with a good-humour and
ease, which was seldom evinced by his fellow-collegians; he was grateful for
that sufferance, which had been so seldom his lot to meet with; and his advice
and opinions on the subject of Elwyn’s studies (opinions which had been derived
from close reading and application), had more than once been of use to that
idle and unstable young man, who had thus gathered the fruits which another had
ripened.
The humility and natural modesty of
Harley gave Elwyn no fear of his assuming on this superiority of knowledge; on
the contrary, he became more respectful in his behaviour, and wore the air of
the obliged, rather than that of him who had been conferring obligations.
With the usual tenor of Elwyn’s
disposition, he would probably have forgotten his college friend intirely, if
accident had not once more presented him before him.
Having spent some weeks amongst a
set of choice companions at Southampton, he was returning towards
Gloucestershire by a circuitous way (the party having separated), and being
almost overcome with lassitude and ennui with his first day’s exercise, at the
close of evening he sauntered, rather than rode, through a picturesque and
lovely village, situated in a romantic and luxuriantly-wooded valley; he
mechanically checked his horse as he saw a person approaching him, and inquired
the name of the place. As he to whom he had addressed himself answered “Beech
Grove,” their eyes met; their voices had previously and reciprocally rang in
their ears. Elwyn sprang from the saddle, and with friendly hand met the hand
of Edward Harley. He readily yielded to the wish of the village pastor, and any
place being at that period preferable to home in his estimation, he consented
to pass a few days in this lovely retirement. The servant was directed by
Harley to lead the horses to the parsonage, and Elwyn, taking his friend’s arm,
they crossed the church-yard by a nearer way.
“This is a sweet situation,” said
Elwyn.
“Yes,” replied Harley, stopping,
looking round him with enthusiasm, and lifting up his eyes towards heaven, as
if in thankful gratitude; “I am happy!”
“It is a good living, I conclude,”
said Elwyn, “for this is a rich tract of country. I heartily give you joy,
Harley; how long have you had it? I never heard of your preferment.”
“The living is a good one, I
believe,” answered Harley, with carelessness; “I do not know what it may be
worth; I leave that to my rector; I am only his curate, on sixty pounds per
annum, and think myself well paid for being made happy.”
“Sixty pounds per annum—a curacy—and
happiness!” Here was a lesson for Elwyn; but it was
an incomprehensible one to him. “How is it possible that you can live, Harley,
on such a paltry pittance?”
“You shall see,” answered the young
clergyman. “Ah, my dear Mr. Elwyn, I often think how just are the words of a
poet whom I always admire (because his simple and natural descriptions cannot
fail of touching the heart alive to rural beauties, and rural manners)—
‘Man wants but little
here below,
Nor wants that little
long.”
As he repeated the last line, he
pronounced it in a low and tremulous cadence, as if, with a prescient eye, he
had seen that the limits of his own destiny were nearly closed.
“You are an enthusiast, Harley,”
said Elwyn.
“I would teach you to become one
too, if you would look with me ‘through nature, up to nature’s God,” answered
Harley. “Look, Mr. Elwyn, can any thing be more beautiful than this scene?
Behold the setting sun gilding our village spire; observe those finely-spreading
beeches, which form a grove beyond it (and which gives the place its name);
listen to the little choristers of these sylvan scenes, as they are chaunting
their evening orisons; see those ‘laughing meads,’ so beautifully studded over
with sheep; listen to the lowing herd; and look but just beyond the church-yard
wall, and see the innocent children intent on rustic pastimes; even the river,
as it glides through the vale below, conveys a sound sonorous to my ear, and in
low murmurs speaks of happiness.”
Elwyn had been used to seek
happiness in far different scenes, and different objects; and although perchance he never found her, he could almost have laughed
outright in the face of his friend; but he thought it inhuman to break the
spell of his enchantment, and walked on, unconscious that ere a few hours were
passed, he himself should feel as much entranced.
A green door from the church-yard
wall opened upon a grassy terrace; and the whitened parsonage, a small but neat
habitation, was in their view, the beams of the setting sun gilding its
casement windows.
“I dwell with Simplicity,” said
Edward, as he opened the door on the terrace.
Elwyn preceded his friend, the door
not being sufficiently large to admit them both at once—“And even Simplicity
has her snares,” cried Elwyn, laughing on perceiving himself suddenly enveloped
by a large net, which had been thrown over his whole person, by some one who
had lain in ambush behind a large rose-bush, which grew at the side of the
door-way.
Edward laughed; a stifled laugh was
also heard from the place of concealment. Harley motioning his friend to keep
silence, dragged the criminal to light, in the form of a blooming dimpled Hebe,
who, on perceiving her brother at liberty, and a stranger enveloped by the net,
sprang from his retaining hold, and with the agile swiftness of a young fawn,
bounded over the grassy terrace, and ran into the house.
“Who is it that has thus fairly
caught me in her toils?—who is this lovely Atalanta, Harley?” asked Elwyn.—
“If such thy haunts,
Simplicity,
Oh, lovely maid! I’ll dwell with thee.”
“This dear girl is my sister,”
answered Harley; “and a more unsophisticated creature there exists not upon
earth. For her there cannot be a more desirable
situation than this; her mind has had little cultivation, for till I was
settled myself, I could not have her with me; and she was brought up amongst
those whose ‘ignorance was bliss.’ She is of an age when impressions are easily
made; her temper is affectionate and chearful; she is the very spring of my
existence, for her vivacity enlivens my rather too sombre disposition. She is
very grateful to me for any instructions which I give her; I mean to cultivate
her mind sufficiently to teach her to enjoy the comforts of life, without
giving it too much refinement or fastidiousness. I hope she will turn out a
good girl.”
“Why seek to alter what is in itself
so charming? Can you, by cultivation, add to the pure simplicity of the native
snowdrop?”
“No,” said Harley; “the works of God
are perfect; but there is a sully—a stain—a human taint,
for which principle, discipline, and wholesome counsel, are necessary.”
“You talk like the divine, I perceive,” said Elwyn, with something sarcastic in
his manner.
“Rather say the Christian, my good
sir,” replied Harley.
Elwyn was soon ushered into the
sitting-room of the parsonage, and to the bewitching girl, who in timid and
blushing confusion apologized for her unintentional rudeness, saying, that
“Edward had told her to wait for him in the garden, and that he would come and
assist her in covering a cherry-tree with a net; but that he had lingered so
long, that she was quite tired, and to revenge herself, she had, on hearing
approaching steps in the church-yard, hid herself behind the rose-bush, and
instantaneously enveloped the person of him who first set his foot on the
terrace, concluding that it must be her brother, and that he had been detained,
and was accompanied (as was frequently the case) by the parish clerk.”
The apology was received with
delight; and the next morning saw Elwyn divested from ennui and lassitude, and
assisting the smiling Ellen in protecting her cherries from the dangerous
truants of the grove.
Every day, and all day long, Elwyn
was at the side of Ellen Harley; he was taken captive by the fascination of her
artless beauties; he felt no sensation of inequality here, as in the presence
of his cousin Clara; he did not now hesitate, ere he made a remark, to know if
it was well timed or appropriate.
Ellen seemed to approve every thing
which he uttered, and to laugh at a jest, even where no jest was intended; her
remarks might be called trifling and unimportant, to those who are accustomed
to weigh and examine every sentence ere they granted a cold assent; but Elwyn
must have been a cynic and an insensate
not to have listened, when they came in such sweet tones to his ear, and were
accompanied by such bewitching smiles and artless innocence of expression.
Harley did not at first observe the
dangerous situation in which he had placed his friend and sister; and when at
length he did discover it, the warm entreaties, the fond professions of that
friend—the silent pleadings of that sister’s looks, triumphed over the
rectitude of his principles, and he consented to their mutual wish, and joined
their hands.
Here was a dereliction from the path
of duty, which ill assorted with the otherwise undeviating tenor of our village
pastor’s conduct; but who shall say, if thus tempted, he might not thus have
erred? For himself, for his own advancement, Harley
would have steadily refused every prospect which had been held out to him, if
it must have been accompanied with the slightest deviation from the line of
duty; but to secure a protector to his beloved Ellen—to forward her
happiness—to place it beyond the frail tenure on which his own existence hung
(for his delicate constitution seemed daily to predict an early dissolution)—to
place her in so eligible a situation, surely he might, without dishonour to
himself, consent to the entreaties of Elwyn, and conceal the marriage, till he
should have gained his father’s approbation.
Harley tried to reconcile his own
conduct to his principles; but it was only when he was witnessing the happiness
of the fond pair whom “Love had joined,” that he could feel intirely free from
self-upbraidings.
Elwyn had never hinted to his
deceived friend his prior engagement to Miss Elwyn; and had merely urged, as a
reason for a clandestine marriage, his own impetuous wishes, and the cruel and unnecessary suspense in which he should wear away the hours
of absence, till he should have settled the formal preliminaries with his
father, for the ceremonious celebration of that
event on which his happiness depended, and of which, when it should have taken
place, he was assured of obtaining the consent of his indulgent parent. Passion
gave Elwyn rhetoric and animation unknown to him before; and Harley, as we have
seen, was softened to his wishes.
It was at Elwyn’s first return home
from Beech Grove, that Harley was seized with an illness that proved fatal to
him; a few days terminated his existence; and the simple Ellen was not alive to
his danger in time to send for her husband, otherwise it is probable that in
witnessing the last moments of Harley, his mind might have been happily impressed,
and he might have pursued a different course to that which he unfortunately
took.
Elwyn’s return home had been
triumphantly hailed by his father; his affairs had lately become more and more
embarrassed; and his son’s numerous calls upon his purse had not a little
contributed to bring them into their present awkward state; he pressed Henry to
a speedy marriage with his cousin; Elwyn hesitated; but irresolutely forbore to
acquaint his father with the insuperable obstacle which he had himself created
to the union.
While in a state of doubt as to what
conduct to pursue, fearing to incur his father’s everlasting
displeasure—fearing to wound his cousin’s peace of mind, but, most of all,
fearing to relinquish those pleasures and those luxuries on which he had hitherto
revelled, even to satiety, he received a letter from his Ellen; it implored him
to come to her immediately; it was couched in terms of distress and affliction,
which Elwyn, who knew the tenderness of her brother’s affection, could well
reconcile to this her sudden loss of him. He lost no time in obeying the
summons; and in removing this artless and simple girl from the retirement of
Beech Grove, to an asylum which he provided for her, in a village near the
metropolis, here she assumed the name of Belford, at his request; and here, a
very few months afterwards, he succeeded in making her believe that the
ceremony of their marriage had not been legally solemnized between them, and
that she was not his wife; and that though this had proceeded from an oversight
in her brother, yet that his character would severely suffer in the eyes of the
world, were it ever brought to light; and, finally, that finding his father
inflexible to all his intreaties, and resolutely bent on casting him off
without a shilling, should he act in opposition to his will, in a moment of
desperation he had united himself to a lady of his
selection, and had thus rendered himself miserable for ever.
Poor Ellen had nothing to oppose to
this intelligence, but sighs and tears; she had lost him who would have
assisted her with his counsel, and strengthened her weak and ductile mind by
his advice. Her poor bark was now put on ocean’s tide, without rudder or pilot.
She credulously, fondly believed Elwyn’s vows of
eternal love, and fancied, because he told her so,
that he had been more unfortunate than faulty. He called all the powers above
to witness to his solemn asseverations of making her his wife, whenever it
should please death to take his present lady; he forgot not to hint at the
apparent delicacy of her constitution; and he gave ample proofs of the comforts
which her fortune would enable him to bestow
on his Ellen.
That Ellen still listened to the
“voice of the charmer,” whom she had first known in the Beech Woods of
Hampshire; and while she yielded up her child to his care, she had not
resolution to order the father to discontinue his visits to herself, but
through a term of twenty years, received him as her guest, at his occasional
absences from Elwyn Hall; and, during that period, received her maintenance at
his hands, and still lived on the idea of taking Mrs. Elwyn’s station at a
future day, and becoming the mistress of Elwyn Hall.
CHAP. II.
No
more at dawning morn I rise,
And
sun myself in Clara’s eyes.
SCOTT’S
LADY OF THE LAKE
HARLEY’S description
of his sister had been perfectly just; her mind was like a sheet of blank
paper.
When Elwyn made his appearance at
Beech Grove, Harley, but newly settled in his parsonage, had scarcely began the
labour of cultivation; Elwyn never
thought of it; his love for Ellen (if we may call it by that name) had nothing
intellectual in its nature; and, as we have seen in his behaviour towards the
hapless Clara, in the pursuits of a refined and discriminating mind, there was
nothing congenial to his taste. If, after an absence of some months, Ellen
received him with her wonted smiles and caresses, he was well pleased; and even
when the dimpled season of blooming youth was past, and the tint of fairest, freshest beauty had departed from the cheek of Ellen, he yet
retained his first preference, and listened to her prattle, with none of that
uneasiness and tedium which attended a tête-à-tête
conversation with Mrs. Elwyn.
A young female, living in seclusion,
in a village near the metropolis, under the sanction of a married name, yet
seeing her nominal husband only at stated periods, and then under mysterious
circumstances (as during his visits to Feltham he was never accompanied by a
servant), could not fail of drawing forth some remarks amongst the neighbours;
nobody thought of visiting Mrs. Belford; indeed she
was generally beheld as a woman of more than suspicious character.
Left to herself, with no resources,
no taste for study, no wish for improvement, and entirely confined to the society
of her two maid-servants, is it wonderful if the understanding of Ellen, never
very brilliant, daily became more limited and more “mediocre;” her conversation
imperceptibly assumed the style of common-place and hacknied sentences, an
hundred times reiterated in the course of the twenty-four hours, and in
questions which the gossiping tribe of female domestics are in general well
inclined to answer. The affairs of the whole village were canvassed by Mrs.
Belford and her two damsels; the chandler’s-shop was the mart of intelligence;
and no sooner was it there procured, than it was conveyed by these prompt
messengers to their mistress, who sat in her parlour, from morning till night,
cutting out patchwork, and listening to the news of Sally and Betty.
That beauty which at fifteen had
been dazzling, and which had owed much of its attraction to sparkling youth, to
ruddy health, and to a swan-like skin, had, during the lapse of twenty years,
lost almost every trace of what had most distinguished it; the colour on her
cheek had gradually faded; her skin had assumed a deadened hue of sickliness;
and even her actions and movements, no longer seen as those of a lively romp of
fifteen on the grassy terrace of Beech Grove, but cooped up in a little
parlour, had at once an air ungraceful and uncouth.
There was no mischief, no malice, in
the composition of Ellen; she asked for intelligence merely to say something,
and to have answers; her mind was as devoid of vicious as virtuous
propensities; she might really be said to vegetate rather than to live, except
when Mr. Elwyn appeared at Feltham; for then
she became unusually animated, though from being unused to see him, and during
his absence shut out from the rest of the world, her manners insensibly wore an
air of constrained respect while she conversed with him; and though still very
fond of him, and always hoping that the time would arrive when she should be
mistress of Elwyn Hall, and in her “own rightful place,” as she called it, yet
she not unfrequently found it a little relief to retire awhile from Mr. Elwyn;
and while he was taking his afternoon’s nap, assembling Sally and Betty, she
would exhibit to their admiring eyes the “lovely presents”
he had brought her.
The informality of her marriage,
Ellen had always considered as her misfortune rather than her fault; it had
never occurred to her, that on making the discovery, it was her immediate duty
to break off all further intercourse with Elwyn, and to consider him in future
only as the husband of another. She never thought of Mrs. Elwyn but as an
interloper between herself and happiness; she never thought of Elwyn’s father
but as a cruel tyrant, who had forced his son into a marriage which he
abhorred; in fact, she thought only as
Elwyn would have her, and all his representations she literally
believed; but never, even in those moments when the artless endearments of
Ellen had called forth all the fervour of Elwyn’s love, never had he breathed a
syllable which could be construed into disrespect for Clara. There was in her
goodness, her virtues, and her understanding, something so superior, and so
imposing, that he scrupulously veiled her from the observation and the
discussion of the simple Ellen, with much of that sacred caution with which a
superstitious devotee would shroud the relics of a favourite saint from each
unholy touch.
It is more than probable, that had
no impediments arisen to Elwyn’s connexion with Ellen (and had he introduced
her as his wife, with the approbation and sanction of his father), that he would
long since have repented of his youthful choice, and have turned from her with
apathy, if not disgust; but being obliged to visit her clandestinely, always
received with smiles, and parted from with tears, and charges of a quick
return, there was an attraction in the intercourse which gave some interest,
the interest of variety at least, to his
otherwise inactive mind.
Of
late years, when the beauty of Ellen had visibly faded, and when the health of
Mrs. Elwyn had daily declined, without being entirely undermined; when he had
seen her nobly, cheerfully struggling with sufferings, both bodily and mental,
under which most women would immediately have sank; when he had seen her eye,
though divested of its primeval lustre, still faintly beaming with a softened
expression as it turned towards him, he had more frequently quitted home to fly
from his own thoughts, and from the reproaches of conscience, than for the
pleasure of seeing his once-adored Ellen; with her, his feelings were blunted
and obtuse; he resigned himself to a vacuity of mind, and a lethargy of
intellect: but this was almost impossible in the presence of the injured Clara;
the momentary, yet inartificial display of her good sense, her patience, and,
most of all, her piety; the discrimination which enabled her at the first
survey to distinguish between the sophistry of false sentiment, and sterling
and immutable truth; her rectitude of conduct, her innate humility, her strict
manner of judging her own conduct,
and the lenity which she observed with regard to that of others, all wounded
him to the quick; and while he acknowledged the majesty of Virtue, he trembled
before her shrine, and fled from her all-imposing power.
Never had a man ventured greater
lengths to secure happiness than had Elwyn; never had any man wandered further
from the mark. Those pleasures, and those luxuries, for which he had bartered
so much, palled, without gratifying his senses. That rank in life which he had
attained by his marriage with his cousin, he could not enjoy, for an accusing
angel, in the form of Clara, was always pointing out his aggravated crime; and
even in the retreat of Ellen, while lavishly heaping upon her those gewgaws
which were so flatteringly received, he often turned his own condemner, and
asked himself by what right, either of honesty or honour, he thus disposed of the fortune of Clara?
A prospect of relief presented
itself to Elwyn in the form of his son; his easy and softened nature longed to
have him near him; we have seen how he succeeded in gratifying this wish, and
the engrossing fondness with which he regarded him. The love which he once felt
for the mother, seemed now transferred to her child; and Elwyn’s visits to
Ellen had, from thenceforth, been passed in pourtraying the engaging charms, and
the promising talents, of this incomparable boy.
Ellen’s feelings were not very
quick, or her maternal anxieties very acute, but her vanity was flattered at
hearing she had such an all-accomplished son, and she listened to Elwyn’s
accounts of “Mr. Henry,” as she always respectfully termed him, with an
interest which she had never taken in any one subject, save in the praises of
her own beauty, which had stolen on her youthful imagination in the luxuriant
groves of Hampshire. The monotony of her life—the mechanical movement of her
fingers, in cutting triangles, squares, and octagons for patch-work, the daily
retailers of the village gossip, from the retail shop,
were now likely to fade, “like the baseless fabric of a vision, and leave not a
wreck (though perchance many a shred) behind.”
Mrs. Elwyn was dead. Ellen received the intelligence
with joy; she was told to expect a visit from her husband.
CHAP. III.
The glass revers’d, by magic power of spleen,
A
wrinkled idiot now the fair is seen.
MISS
AIKEN.
ALWAYS enthusiastic,
always impelled by his feelings, impatient of controul, unused to
disappointment, apt to be taken by outward appearances, and tremblingly alive
to the censures and the plaudits of the world, with more impetuosity in his
disposition than augured well either for his happiness or his principles, we
may conceive the perturbation of Henry Elwyn as he drew near the habitation of
his mother. A thousand interesting and affecting traits of their first
interview had been flitting before his heated imagination; he had supported
this fainting, this already adored
parent, as, overcome by emotion, she had vainly endeavoured to strain her child
to her maternal bosom; he had knelt at her feet, and been raised to her arms,
while the warm tears of affection had watered his face; he had heard the soft
and mellifluous tones in which she had bestowed her blessing.
Mr. Elwyn, on the contrary, had
relapsed into his usual solitary and abstracted mood, which seemed to proceed
rather from a suspension of mental action, than from intense rumination; but to
the eager—the earnest—the oft-repeated inquiries of his companion, he at length
answered, “That the habitation which contained her who was henceforward to be
known as Mrs. Elwyn was in sight;” and they were soon driven up to the door.
The heart of Henry panted; his whole
frame was agitated, as he assisted his father in descending from the carriage.
Mr. Elwyn preceded him into the house, where, at the parlour door, he was met
by—was it possible?—could this be his mother?—could this be the lovely, the
bewitching Ellen Harley? Dressed in a showy and vulgar-printed linen, with more
of deep rose-coloured ribbon on her cap than would have been thought sufficient
by the bar-maid of a country inn, she stood before her astonished—her
wonder-struck son; and as she received the kiss of Mr. Elwyn, with coolness,
but with a sort of respectful acquiescence, she turned towards her son, who was
utterly motionless; all his high-wrought feelings were flown at the first
glance; it seemed as if the revulsion had destroyed all animation—all
sensation; he was fixed as a statue.
“Ellen, do you not speak to our
son?” asked Mr. Elwyn.
“Oh! certainly, sir,” said Mrs.
Elwyn, taking his hand. “How do you do, sir? I am very glad to see you—how dye
do, Mr. Henry?—I hope I see you well, sir?—Dear me! only but to think what a
fine stout young gentleman he has grown!—very so indeed—very much so!”
Henry bent his head on the hand of
his mother; he touched, but did not press it with his lips; but the touch
seemed to recall him to some sense of his situation. He remembered that she was
his mother; but he turned to the window to
conceal the tear which trickled down his manly cheek, while Mrs. Elwyn
addressed to her husband reiterated questions of “And when did you leave home,
sir?”—“You had pleasant weather—very much so”—“The roads are very good now, I
suppose?”—“Pleasant travelling, I dare say”—“I thought you would be here to
dinner—I was saying so this morning to Betty.”
What an utter dispersion of all the
romance, the sentiment, and the enthusiasm of Henry, had this short specimen of
his mother’s conversation occasioned! He could not bear the excess of
disappointment, the cruel mortification which he had experienced. On pretence of
looking at the garden, he stole out of the room; but he there gave way to the
agony of his mind.—“And had the happiness of Clara Elwyn, that superior, that
almost perfect creature, been sacrificed for such a coarse, such an underbred
woman as this? Was this indeed the parent for whom he had bespoken the love and
the respect, the attention and the deference of Mary Ellis—Mary Ellis, who had
been accustomed to the refined conversation, the elegant manners, to the fervid
affection of her beloved protectress, who had caught from her bright example
all that was excellent and praiseworthy, and whose quick discrimination would
enable her instantaneously to perceive, that there existed neither feeling,
sentiment, or refinement, in the person who was to supply her place?—And the
world,” cried he, “what will the world say of Harry Belford’s
mother? will they not, from her appearance—from her language, deduce all that is lowering to my pride and my feelings?—Shall I
not be daily wounded through her?—Shall I not be ashamed of her whom I ought to honour and to revere? Oh! Mr. Elwyn,
into what a cruel predicament has your blind, your infatuated passion placed
your offspring in! Rather would he have remained for ever in ignorance of his
birth, than be thus oppressed by the weight of degrading feelings!—A father,
still keeping himself concealed—I shall only be pointed at as the illegitimate child of her who has
usurped the place of Mrs. Elwyn. The proud—the courted—the hitherto happy Harry Belford, will now be doomed to hear the voice of
ridicule and sarcasm levelled at his mother!—He will—no!—he will not!” cried he, answering himself, with that furious
expression of quickly rousing spirit, which he was not in the habit of
controuling, or submitting to the dictates of reason, “No! The being who dares to cast an insinuation on my
mother, shall find a way to the heart of her son with his sword, or shall atone
for the insult with his own life-blood!”
This heroic
and magnanimous resolve, seemed, in some
measure, to have appeased the boiling fervour of his soul, and he walked
himself into a more temperate frame of mind, and was lowered to something more
like animal heat,
ere he returned to his father and mother.
“If
such thy haunts, Simplicity,
Oh,
lovely maid! I’ll live with thee.”
Such had been the words which Mr.
Elwyn had used two-and-twenty years ago, on first seeing Ellen Harley; had he
made use of them at this period, to
the person who sat on the opposite side of the fire, they would have been
laughed at as a burlesque. Associating only with minds of the lowest order for
such a length of time, can it be thought unnatural that the simple taste of
Ellen should have been perverted and tortured?—that the native graces which
were hers in extreme youth, should have fled with mature years, and that
awkward and forced attempts at gentility and politeness should have usurped
their place?
Mr. Elwyn had seen the gradual change without noticing it; he still
beheld the traces of that beauty which had once charmed him; and in proportion
as Ellen’s loveliness and attractive simplicity had vanished, so had his
acuteness of perception been blunted, and his understanding and discernment
been clouded.
In recounting his own history to his
son, the emotions which were raised in his mind had carried him back to that
period when he had felt with ardour, and admired with enthusiasm; and he had,
unfortunately, described things that had been in
such glowing colours, that Henry Elwyn had foolishly and fondly imagined they still were.
Called to be a witness of Mr.
Elwyn’s second union with his mother, it required all Henry’s resolution to
support him through the scene; he felt that this union would place him in a very questionable light to the world; but the
heart-piercing entreaty of his father, as he had knelt at his feet at Elwyn
Hall, and had besought him to spare his character from infamy while he lived,
was not forgotten—and he witnessed the ceremony.
Mrs. Elwyn appeared wholly
unembarrassed, and to have no unpleasant retrospections with respect to the
former ceremony; she had no tremours, or fears, although she was still taught
to believe that her son had no legal claim to the fortune of his father; but
this was such an old matter, that it was no longer a subject to employ her
mind.—“Mr. Henry was a very fine sensible young man, very much so indeed—and a
great favourite with Mr. Elwyn—a very great favourite indeed—She was now going
to be taken home—and to be the mistress of Elwyn Hall—and she must conduct
herself like a prudent lady—and be very affable—and very genteel—and speak well
of every body—and show the world that she had not one bit of pride.”
Henry could not determine on
accompanying his father and mother back to the Hall, he therefore urged a wish
of staying to partake a few of the pleasures of the metropolis; and Mr. Elwyn,
always indulgent, consented, while his sagacious lady
observed, “That it was very natural, very much so indeed, for so young and fine
a gentleman as Mr. Henry, to wish to show himself a little, and to take a little
recreation in the season of youth; but,” she added, “that she should expect him
again soon, for she should greatly feel his loss—very so!”
Mary Ellis meanwhile had been
sedulously endeavouring to prepare herself for the reception of the new
mistress of Elwyn Hall; she was assured that she could never behold a second Mrs. Elwyn, who could, in her
estimation, equal the first; she could not reconcile the idea of strict
propriety and so hasty a marriage; she allowed a great deal for the high tone
of Henry’s feelings, at the idea of being introduced to this parent; and much
of his glowing colouring she attributed to the enthusiastic heat of his
imagination; Mary expected, therefore, neither a perfect, nor an angelic, but a
human being.
CHAP. IV.
On the kind
females’ favourites at the Hall.
CRABBE.
ALTHOUGH Mary Ellis
would have tried to check every rebellious feeling on the approach of Mrs.
Elwyn, in conformance with her well-grounded principles of duty and religion,
yet another motive was in co-operation with these, a motive which was more
powerful than she herself suspected.
The being in the whole world who now
professed to feel for her any portion of regard or affection, was Henry; it was
his mother whom she was to receive, and
she felt something gratifying and soothing to her self-love, in the idea of
receiving her in a way which he would approve and applaud. How then was she
mortified and humbled when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Elwyn return, but unaccompanied
by Henry! how greatly did she feel the want of his encouraging, his approving
eye, as she first approached Mrs. Elwyn! how was she astonished at the
unpolished, yet unconfused manner of that lady! how was she wounded by the cold
abstraction which still marked the deportment of Mr. Elwyn, who neither
assisting the awkward curiosity of his wife, or the trembling diffidence of
Mary, seemed as perfectly shrouded in his own reflections, or in vacant
listlessness, as if he had already been shut up, and reclining in the great
chair in his library!—“Had not Henry sent a letter?—a word? had he not breathed
a hint to account for his absence?—had he not thought it possible
that she might stand in need of support—of encouragement?” These were some of
the heart-aching inquiries which passed in quick succession before Mary; but
she had no time for reflection.
The new mistress of the Hall, eager
to view her new possessions, proud of her “brief authority,” and anxious to
gratify a silly curiosity, almost inundated her with questions, and almost
deprived her of breath; for running from room to room, she was touching and
admiring every thing she saw, asking the cost of each article, and the names
and uses of many, declaring, “It was all very pretty, beautiful, and elegant,
very so indeed.”
Her manner, so totally different to
what Mary had been accustomed, her person, her appearance, her behaviour, all
so entirely the reverse of her expectations, she could scarcely restrain her
feelings; she felt worried, teazed, almost irritated, by the constant
volubility which assailed her, and she longed to creep into some quiet corner,
where she might relieve her full heart by a plentiful shower of tears; but Mrs.
Elwyn held her by the arm, and while she went on with “pray, Miss, what is
this?” and “dear Miss, do tell me what is that?” and “was this the last Mrs. Elwyn’s doing?” and “is that the last Mrs. Elwyn’s work?” a negative, an affirmative, or an
answer of “I do not know,” fell in rapid succession from her lips.
The drawing-room, hung with
portraits of the Elwyn family, afforded a wide field for declamation; the names
of each venerable personage, long since numbered with the dead, were called
over. A predecessor of the family, who had been eminent in the law, and had
risen to the dignity of a judge, was an object of marked respect.
“I shall know the judge again by his
wig, you see,” said the wise lady; “very fine—very fine indeed!—how much it
must have cost him, when he had it new! And the divine, Miss Mary, I shall
remember by his band and gown; so there you see, I have found out two of the
family already—there’s the judge, you know, and the doctor.”
Mary scarcely attended, for her
heart was palpitating; she saw Mrs. Elwyn tripping on to the portrait of her
beloved, her lamented protectress—a portrait which she had been in the habit of
contemplating daily for the last month, which she had never
viewed without emotion. The likeness was striking; the serious yet placid
expression of Clara’s features, had been preserved by the happy pencil of
Romney; and the delicacy of that countenance, which had been the index of a
truly delicate and refined mind, had almost sanctified the touch of the
painter, and had spread over it an air of something more than mortal—at least
so Mary thought, and so she delighted to behold it.
It had been taken in the days of
youth and hilarity, when a gay vista of delight had apparently opened to the
view of Clara; it had been taken previous to her marriage with her cousin; but
the pensive prescient expression of her soft blue eye, as the lifted lid was
turned towards heaven, seemed, even then, to intimate that she must look beyond
this nether world for happiness.
“And who is this here lady?—who is
she?—more modern, I perceive, by the frame.—Who is this lady, Miss?” asked Mrs.
Elwyn.
“This is the portrait of Mrs. Elwyn,
madam.”
“Of the last
Mrs. Elwyn?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“Dear me—dear me! only to think—I am
quite surprised. Why I had taken it into my head that she was a great beauty.
Law bless me! this picture could never have been at all like her, if she was.
Was it thought a likeness, Miss What-do-you-call-em?”
“Oh it is a great—a striking
likeness!” answered Mary.
“Well, for my part, if ever I was
more surprised in all my born days—Law, bless me! how formal she looks! and so
thin—and so spare—and then no fine colour in the cheeks, and the eyes no
roundness in them—Well, commend me to such a beauty as that; for my part, I
see no beauty there—do you, Miss?”
“Yes, ma’am, I see a great deal,”
said Mary, as she moved mechanically on to the next picture.
“And so that was the last Mrs. Elwyn?” said the lady; “so that was the beauty I have heard so much of?” muttering in an under tone
to herself, and casting a lingering look at the picture, as she followed Mary
to the next.
Bitter were the feelings which
struggled in the affectionate bosom of poor Mary, at such an indelicate survey
of the object of her admiration; her heart would have been too full to have
named the next portrait, but Mrs. Elwyn saved her the trouble. “Ah! there he is
indeed!—there he is to the very life!—there’s Mr. Elwyn to a T!—Ah, he wore
that very coloured coat when he first saw me in Hampshire! and that was the way
he dressed his hair too!—See Miss, how nice he looks—how much of a gentleman!—oh,
very so indeed! that picture should have
been mine by right. Well, there is no crying over spilt milk; better late than
never. To be sure what a handsome man he was in those days! and Mr. Henry, my
son, Miss, he is a very fine young man, don’t you think so? but he does not
come up to his—to Mr. Elwyn, do you think he does, Miss?”
“Not knowing Mr. Elwyn at the period
you speak of, madam, I cannot be a judge,” answered Mary, who seeing that Mrs.
Elwyn meant to be civil, and that her coarse remarks were entirely the result
of ignorance, earnestly endeavoured to acquire resolution, and to behave with
composure.
“No, that is very true, as you
observe, you can’t be a judge, Miss—what is it? I always forget your name; but
I believe you are never called Elwyn.”
“No, ma’am, my name is Ellis.”
“Ah, so it is—I remember now, Mr.
Elwyn told me all about it—and Mr. Henry too; Mr. Henry spoke very handsome of
you, very so indeed; and I promised to be very kind to you, and I dare say we
shall be very good friends.”
“I hope so, ma’am.”
“Do you understand patchwork, Miss?”
“I do not know that I do, ma’am.”
“Oh you will very soon learn, I dare
say, and you shall help me; I make no doubt but when I come to tumble over Mrs.
Elwyn’s old hoards, I shall find a good many odd bits of one sort or another;
and we will set to, and I dare say between us, shall make some very pretty
quilts, for I waste nothing; the least bit that is can be joined to another,
you know; and if I did not bring a fortune
to Mr. Elwyn,” and she gave a sneering toss of the head towards Mrs. Elwyn’s
unconscious resemblance, “I will save one.”
The meek figure on the canvas seemed
to preach patience and piety to her beloved child, as she threw an almost
imploring look towards it; while Mrs. Elwyn, seizing her by the arm, cried,
“Come, Miss, what shall we see next? ’tis all very well worth seeing, I’m sure,
and very grand, and very pretty.”
It has been remarked, and that not
unfrequently, that the minor trials of life, those every-day occurrences which
are constantly operating on the temper, and harassing the mind, are more
difficult to surmount, and contribute, in a greater degree, to the perfections
of the human character, than those striking events, which, by calling forth a
sudden display of resolution, are frequently a mere flash in the pan (if we may
be allowed the expression), and attended with no beneficial result.
It had been the zealous labour of
the deceased Mrs. Elwyn to lay the ground-work of Mary’s character on a stable
foundation; this foundation enabled her to bear
with patience her present trials; the habit of retrospection
had been cultivated for a beneficial purpose; when she met with any thing
unpleasant, she recollected how much more unpleasant had been the situation
from which her benefactress had rescued her; when her delicacy was wounded, and
her sensibility hurt by the ignorance and the coarseness of Mrs. Elwyn, she
recalled the long period of happiness which she had enjoyed under the indulgent
eye, and the sensitive kindness of her beloved protectress; when she was
wearied with the silly remarks, and weak garrulity of her present companion,
she recollected with gratitude the many hours of refined enjoyment which she
had spent in the improving converse of her last; and thus by looking backwards
gratefully to past days of unmerited happiness, and forwards with humble hope
to a never-ending period of felicity, and to a reunion with her departed
friend, “in the realms of light and love,” she tried, by retrospection and
anticipation, to lose the painful sense of the present.
Full of her own importance, Mrs.
Elwyn always appeared in a complete bustle, and was never weary of making
arrangements and alterations in the domestic economy at the Hall, which may be
easily guessed to have turned out alterations rather than improvements; for the
well-digested plans of Clara, and the soundness of her judgment, the steadiness
with which she had issued her orders, the benefits which had been derived from
their adoption, had been seen through a long term of years, during which period
the Elwyn fortune had flourished under her management—the domestics had smiled
as they had grown old in her service, and the whole neighbourhood had felt the
effects of her discriminating bounty.
The present lady’s mind was as
contracted as her understanding; she was as ignorant of the necessary expences
of a genteel establishment, as she was of the necessary forms of genteel life;
by attempting to be prudent, as she
called it, she became parsimonious, in matters where the saving or the
expenditure was of little consequence; and by a partial
investigation, things of greater moment were in danger of being lavished
without a thought. She delighted in rattling her keys, and calling herself her own housekeeper;
while the faithful domestic who had retained that station under the auspices of
the judicious Clara, and who was well qualified, both by practice and
principle, to perform the office, was still retained in the family, in a sort
of nondescript situation, and received the
wages of a housekeeper, for the most part to sew together patches of nondescript shapes, for nondescript
purposes; while the self-installed housekeeper was always searching in her
pocket for the keys which she had lost, sending for the smiths to repair the
locks which she had hampered, and turning the whole house into confusion, by
neglecting to put things in their original places, or purposely seeking out new
ones, in order to hide them from the domestics; and as her memory, amidst this
multiplicity of business, was not very tenacious, there was often a hue and cry
for some indispensable article of the table, which the lady of the mansion had
put out of sight; fancying that every thing she did was very wise, she was
never weary of recapitulating her exertions; and the repast was generally
enlivened by a petty detail of the most minute occurrences of the morning.
Mr. Elwyn scarcely ever appeared to
listen, so it was the part of the patient Mary to seem
an attentive hearer.
Mrs. Elwyn appeared at the parish
church of Norton in all due form as a bride. Three or four of the villagers
formed a squad to pay their respects; and “she was so affable, so obliging, and
so civil,” that they were from that moment on an intimate footing at the Hall.
Mrs. Elwyn pronounced them all in one
breath to be “very genteel, and very sensible, and very polite,” because they
came finely dressed, talked of the weather,
admired the Hall, and smiled assent, as soon as she had opened her lips.
The families who had been accustomed
to keep up a friendly intercourse with Clara, and who were really
well-bred and well-informed, still kept aloof, not liking the “questionable
shape” in which this lady so soon appeared at the Hall, and not relishing the idea of
having their lamented neighbour so soon superseded; but in the gossip of the
attorney’s wife, in the flattery of an apothecary’s widow, who had a grown-up
daughter to dispose of, and in the assistance of a maiden gentlewoman in making
patches, Mrs. Elwyn had nothing more to desire. She said, that “really the
village of Norton afforded the most agreeable society, very so indeed—very
genteel ladies all; and how pleasant
that Miss Lawson should be so extremely fond of patchwork!”
These under-bred females, who would
have feared to approach the ear of the dignified Clara with a tale of scandal,
with broad compliments, or with offers of assisting her in her refined pursuits
and occupations, could easily fathom the depth of the present lady’s
understanding; and while neither abashed by her superior elegance, or awed by
her superior virtue, they were loud in their plaudits and admiration, and
extolled her as “a being without a grain of pride or consequence,” and talked
of “now feeling themselves at ease at the
Hall,” which they “must say, never could have been
the case in the last lady’s time.” So pleasant do we find it to censure those whose characters are beyond our imitation—so
pleasant is it to applaud those who rise only to
our own level—in fact, so grateful is it to extol ourselves.
Although Mrs. Elwyn had never made a
direct communication to Mary of her early history and her former marriage, yet
her frequent allusions to it were so plain, and her hints were so broad, that
within a very few days after her arrival at the Hall, she had nothing to learn
on the subject; and added to her other unpleasant feelings, she had the bitter
regret of knowing, that while she had been one of the most
amiable, her late friend had also been one of the most injured of women. Her
natural diffidence and restraint in the presence of Mr. Elwyn, was encreased
into something like aversion from this knowledge, and it required all her
fortitude, it exercised all her patience, to be commonly cheerful before
him.—“Henry Elwyn neither came or wrote; he was
partaking in all the pleasures of the gay world, mixing, with careless avidity,
in all its amusements, unmindful of the companion of his early days, alike
indifferent to her weal or woe.”
Such were sometimes the bitter
ruminations of Mary Ellis; at others, her disinterested spirit rejoiced that he
was spared from the many mortifications which would have assailed his proud
heart, in witnessing the vulgarity and coarseness of his mother.
In fact, as we have before observed,
Henry had fled away from the contemplation; he could not bear the idea of
beholding the contrast which she would form to the late Mrs. Elwyn; he thought
with commiseration of Mary Ellis, and knew the trials which she must
necessarily encounter; but he left her to brave them alone; and in the mad
pursuit of pleasure, he sought to bury the remembrance of the first
mortification which had ever assailed him; but it returned when the fevered
pulse prevented his tranquil slumber; it pursued him when he came fatigued and
enervated from the midnight party; he then felt that even pleasure had its
alloy—that dissipation had its intervals of ennui; and in those moments the
image of the gentle, the soul-consoling Mary, like a benignant angel, flitted
before his imagination, and he would ask himself whether the mad tumult of
revelry, and all its meretricious allurements, could, by a rational creature,
be one moment preferred to the sober and placid conversation of that
much-esteemed girl?
It was one day that his head aching
from the noise and nonsense of the foregoing night’s pleasure,
his heart reproaching for “time mispent, and talents mis-applied;” his
exhausted purse reminding him that he could not stay much longer in the
metropolis, without making another application to Mr. Elwyn to recruit it; and
his conscience telling him, that though such an application would be attended
to, yet that his duty required his return to the Hall, when he knew that his
father had long expected him there—it was on this
day that he determined to quit town in the succeeding morning; and full of the
magnanimous resolve, he mentioned it to a friend who came to call on him at
that moment.
“Ah, I see how it is,” said Mr.
Fitzallan, who had a great turn for raillery, and who was loth to lose a
companion whom he found so pleasant, “you are going to rusticate—the gallant
gay Lothario, the dashing Harry Elwyn is now to disappear; he is going to the
pastoral haunts, to the sylvan scenes of Elwyn; the treasured object of his
affection there ‘wastes her sweetness in the desart air;’ he sees the charming
form of Mary Ellis; he falls in with the designs of the first Mrs. Elwyn; he is
taken captive by her sweet simplicity—her sparkling beauty; she becomes the fortunate
foundling; he becomes a benedict—a married man; and
then—why then the curtain drops—the scene closes—Farewell, Harry,” said
Fitzallan, holding out his hand, in a tone half mournful, half bantering.
Henry reddened; Fitzallan had laid
an emphasis on the words “fortunate foundling;” his heart, his rebellious
heart, revolted from the idea of forming such a connexion, for was he not the
son, the legitimate son of his patron?—was he not
the lineal heir of the Elwyns? All the
beauty, all the virtues of Mary Ellis, were forgotten in this thought, and he
proudly, warmly averred that such an idea had never entered his imagination.
Fitzallan smiled at his warmth; the
two friends dined together; and heated with wine, and buoyant in spirits, they
went to the opera. It was the last evening of
Henry Elwyn’s stay in town; he thought the house had never looked so splendid;
the dancers had never before pleased him so much; the first song was
enchanting; the ballet was ecstatic. In a transport of delight, he turned his
head to address Fitzallan, when he saw two ladies near him, and his eye rested
on the bewitching countenance of Lauretta Montgomery.
The chasm which had elapsed since he
had last seen her was forgotten; instantaneously he was transported back to the
enchanted supper-table at Cheltenham; he again remembered the honied smile
which was playing on her lips; the eager anxiety with which he had waited for
words, which were to render him the most blest of human beings.
Lady Lauretta was with her daughter;
and her rank being well understood, he should now have an opportunity of
showing the sarcastic Fitzallan, that an higher object than a “fortunate
foundling” claimed the regard and the attentions of Henry Elwyn. Eagerly he
advanced to lady Lauretta, who, with her accustomed ease, and in her usual
figurative manner of speaking, told him that she “thought he had vanished for
ever from the regions of the earth.”
“But now that I have lighted on a
celestial hemisphere,” replied Henry, gaily, “oh, give me welcome!” and he
turned towards Lauretta, who affected to be constrained and distant, yet seemed
at the same time to be overwhelmed by embarrassing consciousness, as her eyes
dropt before his ardent gaze.
The evening passed rapidly; Henry
accounted for his hasty flight from Cheltenham; he talked of the pain which he
had suffered in the idea of so abrupt a desertion, and of the strange
appearance which his conduct must have worn to the lovely Miss Montgomery, and
the amiable lady Lauretta.
The young lady still adopted
something of reserve and diffidence in her manner; her mamma was flowery and
metaphorical; both ladies, however, contrived to make him understand that they
were to leave town in the morning, but neither of them seemed inclined to tell
him to what spot they meant to bend their course. How tantalizing—how—how
provokingly mortifying was this! had he then found the charming Lauretta only
to lose her again? could he have no opportunity of renewing his suit?—of
hearing that delightful avowal which she was once on the point of making to
him? He eagerly assisted the ladies to their carriage, and passionately
pressing the hand of Lauretta, he asked her to admit him in the morning, prior
to her departure; smiling she gave him her address; and returning with
Fitzallan to the tavern where they had dined, the morning dawned on them while
toasting to the health of the beauteous Lauretta Montgomery, in bumpers of
sparkling champaigne.
Fitzallan congratulated his friend
on his conquest, and declared, that under the mask of bashfulness, under the
semblance of wounded pride, and apparent displeasure at his long desertion, he
could perceive that the heart of Lauretta was firmly his.
The natural vanity of Henry inclined
him to believe it; every succeeding glass of the exhilarating liquor
strengthened him in this opinion, and he returned home in most elevated spirits.
Elwyn Hall and the humble Mary Ellis were entirely put to flight; he thought
not of his journey; his head was full of champaigne, his heart of Lauretta
Montgomery; he thought only of pursuing her wherever she might go. To feverish
and disturbed dreams, succeeded some hours of deep sleep, and Henry awoke at a
later hour than he had fixed to appear before the object of his admiration.
Hastily dressing himself, he lost not a minute in going to the house where Miss
Montgomery had directed him; alas! he was doomed to experience the severest
rebuff, for on making his inquiries, he was answered that both the ladies had
been gone for nearly an hour. His first idea was that of instant pursuit, but
the person of the house could afford him no clue as to the way which the
travellers had taken; all he could learn was, that they had left town, and that
they were gone into the country; and not in the best of tempers with Lauretta
Montgomery, neither with himself, he retraced his footsteps to his own
lodgings, with rather a slower pace than he had set out. Fitzallan soon joined
him, and laughed at his fallen and altered countenance; it was too sore a
subject for raillery; and to avoid the bantering of his friend, to dissipate
his own thoughts, and not knowing what else to do, Elwyn actually did make a
desperate effort, and left London that afternoon.
CHAP. V.
But from
these dames I turn, and as before,
What suits
not with my humour, hurry o’er.
PARTENOPEX
DE BLOIX.
ON the evening of the
following day, Henry Elwyn reached the Hall. He felt no little degree of
perturbation as he thought of the changes which had taken place since he had
last been there; he felt awkward at the idea of meeting Mary Ellis, for he had
certainly been strangely neglectful of her; “she was a good girl, and must have
met with some unpleasant trials since he had quitted her;” he feared to look in
her countenance for her opinion of his mother; but in his usual precipitate
manner he entered the house, and not letting the servant announce him, he
preceded him into the drawing-room. Mrs. Elwyn was there, seated in high
giggle, over a card-table, with Mrs. Buxton (the wife of an attorney), and Mrs.
and Miss Lumley, the apothecary’s widow and daughter, previously mentioned as
being residents at Norton, while Miss Lawson, with great apparent consequence,
was arranging patches at a little work-table; and Mary Ellis, with meek
complacency, received the work from her hands, and mechanically followed the
directions given her; her taper fingers dexterously plying the needle, while
her truant thoughts were reverting to times that were past, and to the
recollection of more pleasant hours.
Mrs. Elwyn had just picked up the
odd trick, and declared “it was very extraordinary—very much so indeed, with her hand, for she did not think to have made three tricks
for her part, hadn’t the cards played so monstrous lucky,” when she rose
astonished from her seat, to make a proper curtsey to a gentleman, and to
receive him with due politeness, not at the first moment recognising who it
was; but when she did, she cried out, “Oh! bless and preserve us all, if here
isn’t Mr. Henry himself!—who should have thought of seeing you, sir?—quite a
stranger—very so indeed!”
In the mean time, all the ladies
were put into some little trepidation. Mrs. Lumley pointed to her daughter to
hold up, while the young lady, throwing something between a toss and a fling towards
her mother, pretended to be deeply intent in adjusting the apology
for a tucker, which covered about half an inch, and left a wide
expanse without a shade. Mrs. Buxton
shuffled the cards with much dexterity, preparatory to her adversary’s next
deal; and Miss Lawson, perceiving that Henry having shaken hands with his
mother, had now approached the trembling sempstress, added yet more business
and consequence to her air, as she now contrived, and now cut out. Mary Ellis
had indeed been surprised at seeing Elwyn enter; but it was an agreeable
surprise; his return gave her great pleasure, and she received him with one of those
good-humoured smiles, which always found the way to his heart; and at this
moment Lauretta Montgomery was, in her turn, forgotten.
“And what, in the name of fortune,
are you about here, Mary?” asked he, taking up a handful of the patches which
Miss Lawson had just assorted, and throwing them into a mingled heap.
“Oh! my dear sir, for Heaven’s sake
take care what you do!” cried Miss Lawson, “you will absolutely ruin me!”
Henry begged ten thousand pardons,
assured Miss Lawson his intentions were quite harmless; and asking for Mr.
Elwyn, and promising Mrs. Elwyn to return to tea, he left the room.
Henry was perfectly acquainted with
the faces of the females who were thus snugly associated with his mother, but
was rather surprised, and not much gratified, at seeing their apparent
intimacy.
Miss Lawson laughed very much, and
joked with Mary on the mischief which had been done to her labours, and
declared that she should make the “naughty boy set all the patches in order
again himself.”
Mrs. Elwyn was asking the ladies all
round the table “whether they did not think Mr. Henry a very fine young man,
and very much grown?” and when she put the question to Miss Lumley, her mother
answered, rather quickly, for her, “Oh, poor girl, she is so shy, Mrs. Elwyn, that
I do suppose she would not have found out
whether he had come into the room upon his head or his heels.”
“Oh dear me! what then, I suppose
Miss Lumley is very shy—very so indeed. Well now, do you
know I should never have thought it,” said Mrs. Elwyn, while, as if to prove, or to disprove to
the correctness of her mother’s statement, Miss Lumley strode, with no very
feminine or timid air, to the glass, saying, as she twisted and twirled, and tried to turn an obstinate lock, “The deuce is in my hair, I
do really believe, for it never will sit
as I would have it.”
“Miss Lumley, when you have settled your curl, we should
be glad if you would lead,” said Mrs. Buxton.
“I am coming in a minute,” said the shy creature.
Miss Lawson was between thirty and
forty years of age; she had passed through life with successive and continued
hopes of marriage, which had not yet been accomplished; but even now she had
not relinquished them, as she was frequently heard to say, that from
thirty-five to forty-five in the life of woman, was the most fascinating
period, and that any woman who had a tolerable figure and address, might then do what she pleased with the other sex.
Now Miss Lawson’s figure was scarcely tolerable; but her address
(assurance would perhaps be as good a term) made up for it. She had the art of
expressing herself with fluency, and had caught by ear
a few of the opinions, and some of the phrases and sentiments of those persons
with whom she had occasionally mixed; ingenious enough in work, ready in
conversation, falling in with the habits of her superiors, and flattering them
by sliding into their opinions, she had mingled in society, and readily
accepted invitations which had been given, from the mixed and various motives
of good-nature, policy, convenience, family connexion, &c. &c. Her real
knowledge was very superficial; her mind was by no means cultivated, neither
her manners refined; but by great plausibility of manner, and quoting the words
of others, she passed for an agreeable woman with those who did not perceive
that her conversation was not all of a piece; that the high flown was often
joined to something below par; that her encomiums were exaggerated beyond all
the bounds of common sense, or the properties of language; and that she would
break into the same rapture on seeing a coloured ribbon, as on seeing a
first-rate man of war full rigged and sailed, and call both “beautiful!” If she
disliked the shape of a bonnet, she might probably have called it “awfully
vulgar!” and have expressed her approbation of the grand ruin of Tintern Abbey
(like another lady whom we have been told of), by calling it “a very genteel
place.” Positive and superlative were the only degrees of comparison which Miss
Lawson used; with her inferiors she
was positive, or with those whom she deemed
her equals; with her superiors she
dealt solely in superlatives; and her notes of admiration were thicker than we
find them in some modern publications. She knew every person mentioned in
conversation, and was intimately
acquainted with those who were distinguished by
rank, wealth, or talent. If an original idea was started, “it was very
singular, but she had been thinking to herself at that
moment;” if any thing was to be
explained to her, she understood it before the explanation was began; if any
thing to be related, she had heard it some time since, but did not think it
right to mention it, or was charged to secrecy; and then she knew the very best
way to work this, and the very best method to make that—oh she was the very
crack of the village, and certainly called a most agreeable charming creature
by all who knew her.
That familiarity which is naturally
attached to such self-important characters, had nothing attractive in it to
Mary Ellis; her own character was so widely different, that, like the retiring
mimosa, she felt herself recoil from an intimacy with Miss Lawson; but that
lady was not easily daunted, and “my dear,” and “Mary,” and “love,” were the
usual appellations of regard with which she addressed her; while to Mrs. Elwyn
she answered, “exactly so,” “perfectly correct,” “indeed it is,” “oh surely, my
dear ma’am,” “I perfectly coincide with you.” And could such marked respect and
approbation do otherwise than please Mrs. Elwyn, who, elevated to a height
which rendered her weak head rather dizzy, required a little encouragement to
enable her to sit steadily? And the marked air of deference with which Miss
Lawson waited for her decision on the combination of a patch, was a very
gratifying appeal to the judgment of this good lady; while Miss Lawson was
often thrown into a “luminous crisis”
when the patch was formed, and was never weary of reiterating, “oh, beautiful!
charming! simply elegant! what an agreeable diversity!—what a combination of
light and shade!—see how elegantly these colours are diversified!—well, this
must be the very mirror of the graces—I call this the very marrow of patchwork;
here’s a delicate combination—now you must look at it, my dearest Mary; is it
not sweet?”
Mary would perhaps have thought the marrow an awkward combination; but Miss Lawson’s raptures
were unbroken, and gave no time for comment on the side of her hearers, neither
for consideration on her own. Without any decided view, it was the fixed rule
of Miss Lawson to endeavour to attract the particular notice of every man she
met, and perceiving that Henry Elwyn had regarded Mary with the partiality, and
addressed her with the unstudied familiarity of an old acquaintance, she
pretended to be more intimate with her, and more partial to her, than she had
ever yet been; and drawing her chair close to hers, she waited, with no little
degree of impatience, for the re-appearance of the beau.
He returned as he promised to the
tea-table, having left Mr. Elwyn to his accustomed afternoon’s nap; but disgusted
with the girlish frivolity of Miss Lawson, and hurt at seeing the familiar
association of his mother with such a party, his pride was too much wounded to
render him a very agreeable acquisition to their society; and he threw himself
into a chair at a distance from the circle, and scarcely uttered a voluntary
word.
Mrs. Elwyn was the first to remark
his silence. “Why, Mr. Henry, what is the matter, sir? I believe you have left
your heart behind you now. Why, sir, you are very grave and solid—very so indeed;
fatigued with your journey, sir, I suppose?”
“No, ma’am,” answered Elwyn,
gravely.
“Come, ladies, can’t you tell us
something a little entertaining?—can’t you help us to a little news to
entertain Mr. Henry?—So, sir, we have got new neighbours, I find.”
“Have we, ma’am?” answered Elwyn,
with an indifferent air.
“Oh yes, sir” said Mrs. Buxton, who
now found a theme on which she could expatiate. “Salcombe Lodge is taken at
last; well, I never thought as Mr. Morland would have got his price; but these Indians
you see do not mind money any more than dirt.”
“I suppose not—I suppose not,” said
Mrs. Elwyn.
“What is the gentleman called that
has taken it?” said Mrs. Lumley; “I never can recollect his name.”
“Oh, general Halifax,” said Miss
Lawson; “he is well known; he lived in the East a great while, and has an
immense fortune.”
“A very sensible man, I dare say,”
said Mrs. Elwyn.
“At any rate he is an extreme
fascinating one,” said Miss Lawson, affecting a half sigh; “and he is very—very handsome, I can assure you, Sophia,” turning towards
Miss Lumley.
“You know him, I suppose, Miss
Lawson?” said the literal Mrs. Elwyn.
“Not absolutely acquainted,
my dear madam; but from my intimate knowledge of governor Purbeck and lady
Elizabeth, and of colonel Vetton and Mrs. ——, and of half a hundred more of the
great people that came from the East, I seem to claim a sort of intimacy with
the Halifaxes already; indeed, the general and myself now do every thing but
speak; we exchange very—what I call friendly looks, and I will venture to say,
he knows me very well by report; we look at one another, as much as to say, ‘we
are to be acquainted.’ The Lodge family
will be a most agreeable acquisition.”
“Mrs. Halifax never stirs out, I am
told,” said Mrs. Buxton.
“A very great invalid, I dare say,”
said Mrs. Elwyn.
“I don’t know as to that,” said Mrs.
Lumley; “they say she can eat, and drink, and sleep.”
“But law, mamma, they say her face
is as yellow as an orange.”
“And her back almost as round,” said Miss Lawson, in an under voice, which was meant
to be perfectly distinguishable to Henry Elwyn.
“A very agreeable, sensible lady, I
dare say,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
“I have been told she had a great
fortune,” said Mrs. Lumley.
“She looks
as if she had,” said Miss Sophia.
“She is considerably older than
Halifax,” said Miss Lawson; “I understand she was a mustee, or a creole, or
something, and the rich widow of a nabob, and that she was in ill-health when
the general married her; but she has held out some years already, it seems.”
“And if she eats, and drinks, and
sleeps, though her face may be the
colour of an orange, she may hold out some years longer,” said Mrs. Buxton.
“And I suppose they have a great
many servants, and live very genteel, and all that,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
“Princely, princely!” replied Miss
Lawson; “oh, I assure you Halifax has all that about him. These East Indians
know how to live; I must know, for
I have been a great deal amongst them;” then followed a long account of the
general’s equipage, retinue, and establishment, which was garnished by the
remarks of the different hearers and relaters.
Mrs. Elwyn declared her intention of
visiting at the Lodge, a declaration with which Henry was not much pleased, for
he did not like the idea of her exposing herself to the ridicule, or the modest
Mary to the unqualified admiration of an ostentations and voluptuous East
Indian.
“Wait a little till you hear
something about them, madam, till you find whether they are worth your notice,”
said Elwyn.
“Oh, I dare say they are very
sensible good kind of people, and you see Miss Lawson does
know something about them; and you find they live very genteel, and keep
several carriages.”
“Oh, they live in good style,” said
Miss Lawson, “certainly, very good style; but, as Mr. Henry Elwyn justly
observes, circumspection ought to be used in making an acquaintance; indeed I
was going to make the same remark myself.”
Miss Lawson had thus contrived in a
moment to slide into the inferred
sentiments of Henry Elwyn, and to be of the same opinion with him; she fancied
that he was particular in his notions on
these points, but it could not do her the least
harm to adopt this peculiarity for the time being; and she therefore most
gravely added, that connexions were much easier made than shaken off.
Mary had penetration enough to
remark the inconsistency of this lady’s sentiments, and her instantaneous
change of tone; she threw rather an arch, though it was a momentary glance,
towards Henry; he understood it; and gratified at this sly appeal, and amused
with Miss Lawson’s variability, he said—“We must not be fastidious; there is
something ill-natured and suspicious in withholding our friendship from a
family, till we have pryed about to discover the family tree, and the whole
line of their genealogy, and all the secret anecdotes of their ancestors.”
“Exactly so,” cried Miss Lawson; “I
was just going to make the same observation.”
“A very sensible remark, Mr. Henry,”
said Mrs. Elwyn; “don’t you think so, ladies?—very so indeed.”
“Intimacies with strangers have
frequently been productive of unpleasant consequences,” pursued Henry.
“How very just is that!” said Miss
Lawson; “my dear sir, we agree exactly.”
“We cannot disagree
madam,” said Henry, with a half bow, while the manner in which he spoke raised
a smile on the countenance of Mary.
Henry Elwyn was not sorry when the
party adjourned; Mrs. Elwyn then retreated in great apparent bustle, to issue
orders respecting the family arrangements. Mr. Elwyn was still in his elbow
chair, in the library, and was not to be disturbed; Mary Ellis had stolen out
of the room when the party were dispersing; Henry now sought her in the
accustomed apartment, and there he found her. She was leaning her head on her
hand, in a pensive posture, but started on seeing him, and welcomed him in her
accustomed manner.
“Mary,” cried he, and the eager
impetuosity of his manner proved the deep interest which he took in the
question, “dearest Mary, tell me, are you comfortable? are you happy?”
“Why would you ask the question, Mr.
Henry?—why should you doubt it?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! do not you learn to Mr. Henry me
too. I heard, Mary, that—that—the manners of my—the different society—indeed,
Mary, I think you cannot like the
society of these village gossips.”
“I am not fastidious—I have no right to be so,” answered Mary; “Mrs. Elwyn derives
amusement from their company; she is very kind and obliging to me, and I should
be very culpable, very presumptuous, if I were to adopt sentiments which were
inimical to hers, on such trifling and insignificant matters.”
Henry saw the good sense and the
delicacy of mind which had led Mary thus obliquely to praise his mother, at the
very moment when he longed, yet dreaded, to ask her opinion of her; he snatched
her hand to his eyes, saying—“Amiable, interesting girl, I don’t know any one
like you!”
Mary was surprised at his warmth;
his approbation gave her pleasure; she had merely uttered the genuine
sentiments of her heart; for great as was the difference between the last and
the present Mrs. Elwyn, yet as the present lady treated her with kindness and
good-nature, she was too candid not to acknowledge it to her son, and too
considerate not to wish that she might amuse herself in the manner which best
suited her taste and inclination.
“Teach me some of your
forbearance—your sweetness—your magnanimity, Mary,” cried Elwyn.
“We must try to teach ourselves in
these points,” said Mary; “and I feel myself so very unskilful, and so great a
novice, that I dare not attempt to teach another.”
“How can you bear the silly and low
tittle-tattle of the circle in which I just now found you?”
“We must not be fastidious, you
know,” said Mary, smiling; “I think these were your own words to Miss Lawson.”
“If any one has a right to be so, it
is you,” returned Elwyn, with animation, “for who are so eminently calculated
to enjoy the pleasures of a refined intercourse, of rational intelligent
conversation——”
“Me!” interrupted Mary, “me!
consider what you are saying, Harry; have I a right to be
fastidious? consider—consider for a moment, what was
Mary Ellis?—in what station was she found by
her esteemed protectress, and say, if you dare, that she has a right to choose
companions and society for those so much above her. Oh, Harry, you forget
yourself—you forget me!”
Henry had
forgotten himself; overcome by the contemplation of the mild graces, the
unobtrusive virtues of Mary, he had nearly given utterance to the warm
admiration with which his heart was overflowing; but she
had recalled him to recollection; he remembered the sarcastic conversation of
Fitzallan; he remembered the ridicule attached to his manner, when talking to
him of this fortunate foundling; a sudden change took place in his manner, a
sudden revulsion in his feelings; he reddened—he coloured—he bit his lips—he
turned away from Mary, and, after a minute’s silence, he said—“Have you seen
this general Halifax?”
“Never,” answered she.
“Seriously,” said he, “for to you,
Mary, I speak my real unqualified sentiments, I
think some caution should always be used in forming intimacies with strangers.
My mother has lived so long in retirement, that she may be called quite a
novice in the world; and Mr. Elwyn has so habituated himself to ease and
inactivity, that he scarcely exercises his understanding, unless he is obliged
to it. I believe, for once, I must assume
the office of mentor, and give my cautions with the imposing air
of worldly wisdom.”
The entrance of Mrs. Elwyn put an
end to the tête-à-tête.
For a female, and a young female, Mary Ellis had a very small share of vanity;
yet she could not help feeling gratified at the marked approbation which her
conduct and sentiments had drawn forth from Henry Elwyn. His return to the Hall
gave her undissembled satisfaction, for he had been the companion of her
infancy; he had participated in her pleasures, and had feelingly sympathized in
her sorrows, without indulging any romantic visions, or giving the reins to a
too sanguine imagination. She thought his regard seemed heightened, rather than
diminished by his late absence.
Mrs. Elwyn appeared very
good-humoured to her; the wishes of her son seemed to give the law to her
conduct, and his opinion to be the bias of her judgment. The indulgent fondness
of Mr. Elwyn for Henry knew no bounds.
“Life,” thought Mary, “would still
be invaluable, were it to be spent in contributing to the happiness, to the
welfare of Harry Elwyn.” But she suffered not herself to dwell on this idea;
she recalled her wandering thoughts, and she lost not the present good in vain anticipations.
The first three or four days of
Elwyn’s return were passed in the domestic circle; he watched Mary Ellis in her
occupations, admired the undeviating sweetness with which she attended to the
trifling and querrulous repetitions of his mother, and the unwearied patience
with which she assisted her in her favourite employment. The tranquil serenity
of the one formed a fine contrast to the bustling and hurrying importance of
the other; and though the insignificancy and weakness of his mother’s character
was thus displayed to his view, yet it ceased to wound him as acutely as
before, for he could turn with delighted admiration to the contemplation of
Mary Ellis.
Mr. Elwyn seemed to have made peace
with his conscience in the performance of his promise. Ellen was the mistress
of Elwyn Hall; his son was now called by his own name; and, having exerted
himself thus far, he relapsed into his usual indolence; and, save when he took
his daily food, or his accustomed potations, or when he smiled on Henry, or was
teazed by frequent repetition to answer some question of Mrs. Elwyn’s, he
seemed as totally abstracted from all passing occurrences, as if his faculties
had been entranced in sleep.
This total imbecility, this inert
torpidity, gave Henry the deepest concern; he had ever felt the liveliest
gratitude towards Mr. Elwyn, he now respected
him as a father—respected him notwithstanding the flagrant errors of his
conduct, and would willingly have drawn a veil over them
for ever. The unfortunate and guilty habit of intemperate enjoyment, which had
originated in an unquiet conscience, had now taken too firm a hold to be shaken
off. Henry observed the daily inroads which it was making on his corporeal as
well as his mental faculties; he saw, he lamented, but he was unable to prevent
it. Mrs. Elwyn was not so clear-sighted; her perceptions were not quick,
neither were her feelings painfully acute; she often talked of what Mr. Elwyn had been; what he was, appeared
only to strike her as the natural change from the meridian to the decline of
life: had she seen her husband staggering riotously into the room, she would
probably have called him “a little merry;” but when taking his accustomed naps,
or sitting in stupid reverie, she never imagined that he could be otherwise
than perfectly sober, though his faculties were then as completely besotted, as
if he had been exhilarated to the point which she would have termed “a little
merry.”
CHAP. VI.
Upon
the false Ausonian shore MOORE.
AFTER the dissipation
and confusion of the metropolis, the quiet calm of the Hall was not unpleasant
to Elwyn; but accustomed to use a great deal of exercise when in the country,
he frequently mounted his horse, and going out unattended in the morning, returned
only when the shades of evening were closing around him.
It was from one of these absences,
that Mary remarked the unusual animation of his manner at his return; with
great vivacity he rallied on the sedentary occupation which engaged so much of
her time, and assured her that no modern woman thought of taking a needle in
her hand.
“How would all my patches be sewn
together, if that were to be the case here? answer me that question, Mr.
Henry?”
But Mr. Henry was not in the humour
for answering questions, particularly from his mother; for having snatched up
Mary’s scissars from the table, he was most expertly amusing himself in cutting
Mrs. Elwyn’s prettiest patches into shreds.
“Why, dear me—bless us all—only to
think how mischievous you are this evening!” cried Mrs. Elwyn; “law bless me,
Mr. Henry, only to see what you have been
about! you have cut up my two best patches, the very ones which I ordained for the middle of the quilt.”
“There you see the folly of predestinating a patch, ma’am,” answered he, with careless
levity, cutting on, and humming an Italian song. “Do you
sing Italian, Mary?”
Mary lifted her eyes; they seemed to
ask him whether he had not forgotten himself.
“Ah, true, I think you never learnt
Italian—what delightful strains!”
“I do not hear them,” said Mrs.
Elwyn.
“I hear them
even now,” said Henry, “that is, in my mind’s ear,
madam.”
“I understand nothing at all about
it,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “but I think you seem very funny and comical to-night,
Mr. Henry—I wonder where you have been?”
Mary Ellis thought him neither funny
nor comical; she perceived by his flushed countenance and inflamed eyelids,
that he had taken more wine than he ought to have done; and as she conceived the gaiety of his manner to originate from
this cause, it had a very opposite effect upon hers; she felt graver, and more
inclined to be silent than usual; and she could scarcely command her feelings
to answer the raillery with which he incessantly assailed her. Evidently he had
been in company, and hearing music; whose then were the delightful strains
which had made such an impression on his fancy? Mary longed to know; she had
never before felt so curious about a matter of such little moment; but she did
not indulge her curiosity by asking one question. In an oblique way, Mrs. Elwyn
asked fifty, such as, “Where can you have been, I wonder?” and “I should like
to know what you have seen that has made you so merry?” but Henry did not
satisfy her, and Mary was left to conjecture.
The following morning Henry Elwyn was absent from the
breakfast-table; this was an unusual circumstance; many inquiries were made;
the answer was, that he had been gone out on horseback above an hour.
“Very extraordinary, very so indeed,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
The Italian strains were now in the mind’s ear of Mary; had they not been warbled from the lips
of Beauty? She half sighed as she handed the cream to Mr. Elwyn instead of the
sugar; but soon recollecting herself, she recovered her accustomed
self-possession.
“Well now, my dear Miss Mary,” said Mrs. Elwyn, “I
have ordered the carriage, and you and I will take our
ride now unknown to Mr. Henry; we’ll puzzle him this time.
This general What-is-it, and his lady, must think it very un-genteel and
unpolite in me, you see, who are what you may call the head
person here (and she bridled with no little assumption of consequence), if I do
not call upon them; from all accounts they are very sensible genteel people;
so, as I was telling Mr. Elwyn, we will go this very morning.”
“This morning, ma’am!” repeated Mary, “had you not
better—had you not——”
“Oh, no—I had better nothing at all,” said the lady,
with a decisive air; “I go this very
morning; Mr. Elwyn is not very well, he says, to go with me, so I shall make
your apologies to the general, my dear,” turning to him, “in a very genteel manner, and say you will take the very first
opportunity of waiting on him—that will be polite; and so, Miss Ellis, you will
be ready to go with me at twelve; ’tis but an hour’s ride, and then we shall
get there at one—and smarten yourself up, for I assure you I
shall make a point of shewing myself as Mrs. Elwyn.”
“Aye, do, do, Ellen,” said Mr. Elwyn, as he put a
piece of buttered muffin into his mouth; “if Harry had been here, he might have
gone with you.”
“Why, very true, so he might indeed, sir—he might
indeed; but you see he did not seem much inclined to visit these strangers; he
does not seem to like these foreigners somehow; but, for my
part, ’tis nothing to me at all; I would as leave go to see twenty of ’em as I
would one; I should behave all the same—very civil and genteel to them all, and
conduct myself as your wife should, my dear; I should show ’em I know how to
behave.”
It was not often that Mary Ellis felt herself inclined
to oppose the wishes of those around her, but on this occasion, she would
gladly have been excused from attending Mrs. Elwyn. Her repugnance to the visit
arose entirely from having heard Henry Elwyn express his sentiments on the
subject; it was plain that he wished to use caution, and to make inquiries,
before an intercourse was began with the new family; would he not think his
mother foolish and imprudent, thus to seize the hour of his absence to make the
visit?— would he not think that she disregarded
his opinion, and slighted his advice? but the decisive tone of Mrs. Elwyn, and
the quiet concurrence of her husband, had given Mary no alternative but an open
refusal; and as this would have been departing from the rule of conduct she had
prescribed to herself, as indeed it would have done no good (for Mrs. Elwyn
would then have gone alone), she sedulously tried to conceal her mortification,
and to attend that lady with an appearance of cheerfulness: but, alas! it
required some resolution to approach Mrs. Elwyn, who, seeking on this occasion
to show her own consequence, had so ill-assorted her dress, and so ill chosen
her colours, that she was far more like some farcical character in an
entertainment, than any thing in common, much
less genteel life. An elegant sarsnet
pelisse, shot with green (which had been made for the poor Clara, but which she
had not lived to put on), was put over a yellow silk gown, and a large crimson
scarf shawl, which, thrown over a person of an elegant shape and air, would
have given grace and relief by its folded drapery, was so huddled and bundled
on, that it quite disfigured her; a light blue silk bonnet (of the truest blue generally seen at elections), well ribboned and
crimped, was placed on her head; and neither a short nor a long, but a full and highly-stiffened veil, spread out like an umbrella,
and dilated with every waving breeze.
The sight of the pelisse alone would have overcome
poor Mary, for it would have recalled a thousand fond and painfully affecting
images to her memory; but the confusion of colours, and of covering, was so
great, that she did not immediately recognise it.
“Well, now I am ready, Miss Mary, and very smart, an’t
I?—this pelisse, you see, fits me to a nicety; so the last Mrs. Elwyn must have
been my exact size and shape. I had no occasion for my shawl, it being quite
warm to-day; but it is a very handsome one, and I thought it would be an
hundred pities not to show it; and how d’ye like my new blue bonnet? I think it
mighty becoming, and very genteel—very so indeed; and this here real lace veil, being so nicely starched, you see, sets away
from my face; I don’t like any thing mopping and hoodling,
and covering up my face, for I am not ashamed of my
face, Miss Mary; Mr. Elwyn used to call
it a very pretty face.”
The coach was at the door, and in the act of getting
in, Mrs. Elwyn said—“as you drive through Norton, stop at Miss Lawson’s.” The
coachman drove off. “Miss Lawson will like very well to go with us, I dare
say,” continued Mrs. Elwyn; “it will be but good-humoured to give her a lift,
you see; you know she has no carriage, and ’tis not
always fine weather for walking; she’s a very nice agreeable lady, and I am
sure very polite to me—she’ll be an agreeable acquisition to our party—very so
indeed; and knowing, as she says, so many of these here Indians, from east to
west, she’ll be quite free and ready with them.”
If Mary’s wish had been consulted, she would not have
particularly desired Miss Lawson to be of the party; but it was not for her to
make exceptions; Mrs. Elwyn had a right to do as she pleased.
The coach presently arrived at Norton, and Miss Lawson
was soon equipped, and showed her sense of the obligation conferred on her by
Mrs. Elwyn, in the exulting kiss of the hand with which she saluted the Lumleys
and Mrs. Buxton, as she rolled by their respective doors.
“And where is Mr. Henry Elwyn, my love?” asked Miss
Lawson, with a meaning air, as she addressed Mary; “how comes he not to attend
us on this occasion?”
“Why Mr. Henry is gone out, you see, and we do not
know where,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
“I wonder you do not
know, Miss Ellis,” said Miss Lawson, laying a stress on the monosyllable you; “I thought he told you every
thing.”
“But you find he does not,” answered Mary, rather
laconically.
“Why should you think he did, Miss Lawson?” asked Mrs.
Elwyn.
“Because it is natural, my dear madam, and because
every body can see with half an eye that Mr. Henry—well, well, I will say no
more; perhaps I may confuse the dear girl,” and she took Mary’s hand, with an
air of fond consideration.
“I do not think Miss Mary would have been at all
confused if you had said on, for there is nothing at all of that kind,” said Mrs. Elwyn, in a graver tone than usual; “my son Mr. Henry is, to be sure, a very fine genteel young
man, and every body can see as well as you, Miss Lawson, that go where he will,
all over the world, he has only to ask and to have.”
A painful feeling oppressed the heart of Mary;
unconsciously she let down the glass, and leant her head out of the window.
“Oh yes, that is very apparent,” replied Miss Lawson,
who instantaneously caught the tone of Mrs. Elwyn; “I declare, for my own part,
I don’t know a more truly fascinating young man; and then, my dear madam, when
we consider his great advantages in other respects, he may make a connexion any
where.”
“That is what I have just said,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “and
I dare say he will—I dare say he will.”
“The men know their own value now,” said Miss Lawson,
again addressing herself to Mary; but Mary’s head was still averted.
“Mr. Henry is very particular—very nice,” said his
mother, “very so indeed; perhaps he is a little too much so.”
“My dear madam, surely this is erring on the right
side.”
“May be it is,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “but now about these
gentlefolks at Salcombe Lodge; you see he did not seem much to approve of my
going; but I was determined, if only for curiosity sake, to go, and to show
myself as Mrs. Elwyn, of Elwyn Hall.”
“Very laudable, very proper, very praiseworthy,
surely,” said Miss Lawson. “Why, Miss Ellis, you are much engaged in looking
out at the prospect.”
“This lawn always strikes me as being very pretty,”
said Mary.
“And the house stands well,” said Miss Lawson;
“Morland was at an immense expence in raising this villa; I always said he
would overshoot the mark; however, it seems that he has got a good tenant now,
and I dare say a good price.”
Through a bold sweep, the coach now stopped at the
entrance of the Lodge; an universal agitation pervaded the frame of Mary as the
step was let down; a maccaroni footman stood at the portico kicking his heels,
and whistling a tune with great nonchalance, as he watched the party descending
from the carriage; he scarcely replied to Mrs. Elwyn’s question of whether the
general and Mrs. Halifax were at home, but with as indifferent an air as he had
worn at the door, he crossed the hall, and by his actions, gave the ladies to
understand that they might follow him. He opened the door of a large
breakfast-room; Venetian windows, even with the ground, were adorned with light
verandas, which were filled with plants, while the most costly and choicest
exotics were ranged within the windows, and perfumed the room with their
fragrance; two large and superb gilt Indian screens excluded the upper part of
the room from view; the man walked within them, but turning back, said, in a
low tone of voice—“Whom am I to announce?”
“Mrs. Elwyn, of Elwyn Hall,” replied the lady, with no
little degree of self-consequence, “Miss Lawson, and Miss Ellis.”
An exclamation of surprise was heard from behind the
screen, and the next moment our agitated Mary found herself within the magic
circle, and, could it be possible!—yes, the first object her eyes encountered
was Henry Elwyn!
A sumptuous and elegant dejeuné
was placed on a large table, and a party was formed round it, in the manner
which we shall describe: near the head of the table, on a Turkish settee,
reclined an elegant female, whose careless attitude and fashionable undress,
were calculated to display the fine symmetry of her gracefully-proportioned
form; a very well-looking and graceful man was presenting her a cup of tea: on
the other side of the table, and almost close to a fire of no common size, sat
a little homely and deformed woman, of saffron-coloured hue, who looked old
enough to be the mother of the whole company; she seemed very busy in taking
care of herself, and neither looked upwards, or turned to the right or the left
to make observations; yet at her right hand, lounging on the corner of a young
lady’s chair, with one arm thrown carelessly round its back, was Henry Elwyn; his
eyes were bent on her bewitching countenance with speaking admiration, as she
turned around and spoke to him with a smile of blandishment. A lady was pouring
out the tea at the bottom of the table, with modest and unimportant air; she
was not strikingly handsome, and the first bloom of youth was passed; and
conceiving by her employment, and by her being the only female who rose from
her seat, that she must be the lady of the house, Mrs. Elwyn advanced to her
with a low curtsey, saying—“Mrs. Halifax, I presume—I hope I have the pleasure
of seeing you quite well, madam?”
At the first sound of his mother’s voice, Henry Elwyn
started, confused and confounded.
“What did she say?” asked the little old woman of the
tea-maker, while the gentleman who had been the attendant of the fair recliner,
advanced with the air of a man who knew and practised the laws of politeness,
and gracefully bowed to the strangers.
Mrs. Elwyn, lifting up her hands and eyes in
astonishment, now exclaimed—“Why bless us all, if there isn’t Mr. Henry! why
only to think of it! In the name of fortune, how came you
here, sir?”
Henry scarcely answered, for the young lady pulling
him by the arm, said, in no very low whisper, “Do you know them?—they are very
queer-looking people—who are they?—do tell me who they are?”
Henry assumed some resolution, and with a tolerable
degree of composure, now introduced his mother (as Mrs. Elwyn), Miss Lawson,
and Mary Ellis, to the little lady (who was no less
a personage than Mrs. Halifax), to the gentleman, who was the master of the
house, and to the reclining lady and her fair daughter, whom our readers will,
ere this, have recognised for lady Lauretta and Miss Montgomery: Miss Letsom,
the tea-maker, was not left unnoticed in this introduction; and, as if seeing
and pitying the evident embarrassment of Mary Ellis, that lady placed a chair
for her, and very civilly offered her a cup of tea, which Mary as civilly
refused, without daring to raise her eyes, without daring to cast a glance at
Henry Elwyn.
There was a great deal of the courtly address and the
suavity of polite life in general Halifax—there was nothing of it in his lady;
she regarded Mrs. Elwyn and the party with as little complaisance as curiosity,
and seemed to leave her husband and Miss Letsom to do all the civilities for
her.
The general advanced to Mrs. Elwyn, thanked her for
the honour of her visit, and placing a chair for her close to his wife, he
said—“You had better get pretty near to Mrs. Halifax, that she may enjoy your
conversation, madam; unfortunately she is a little deaf.”
Mrs. Elwyn bustled on, with no little consequence, to
the place allotted for her, making Mr. Elwyn’s apologies for not having called
at the same time with herself, adding—“Had he known that Mr. Henry was making
you a visit, sir, he would, I dare say, have sent you this message by him.”
“Mr. Henry Elwyn stole a march upon us,” said Miss
Lawson; “that was not very fair,” turning on him one of her most agreeable
smiles.
“By the merest accident,” said Henry, “I yesterday
discovered that my amiable friends, lady Lauretta and Miss Montgomery, were
here on a visit to Mrs. Halifax; and the general (bowing to him) was so polite
and so pressing, that I could not resist the temptation of taking advantage of
his permission, and repeating my visit at an early hour this morning.”
“We languished for your presence, Elwyn,” said lady
Lauretta, “for it appeared an age since we had separated.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Henry, you ought to be much obliged to
that good lady for her kind compliments,” said Mrs. Elwyn; then raising her
voice rather shrilly in the ear of Mrs. Halifax, she said—“I hope you like your
new situation, ma’am? it is very pretty, and very tasty, and all very nice, and
very handsome, I’m sure, very so indeed—I say I hope you like England, ma’am?”
Mrs. Halifax laconically answered, “Indifferently.”
“I hope we shall be very good neighbours, ma’am, and
sociable and friendly together.”
“I seldom go out,” said Mrs. Halifax. “Child,”
addressing Miss Letsom, “what can
you have you been about? there is not the smallest taste of tea in the cup you
have given me.”
Miss Lawson meanwhile had got the ear of the general,
who, through politeness, was obliged to attend, though the reiterated yawnings
of lady Lauretta showed that she considered such attention a very great bore;
Miss Lawson, however, expatiated on the refined delights of elegant retirement,
and on the enjoyments of the metropolis, in the same breath; at one moment she
was in India, and the next in England; her volubility exceeded its usual bounds,
for she was willing to make a particular impression on the Montgomerys and on
the general, and to show them that she was better bred, and better informed,
than her “dear Mrs. Elwyn,” and that she was not so full of awkwardness and
confusion as her “interesting Mary.”
“Lauretta, child of my affection!” said lady Lauretta,
“Elwyn is expiring for harmony—do strike the harp in praise of Bragela.”
“Aye, pray do indulge us,” said Miss Lawson, turning
with a familiar air to Lauretta.
“Go to the upper window,” said lady Lauretta, “and let
thy floating sounds come trembling o’er mine ear!”
Lauretta gave her hand to Henry Elwyn, who led her
beyond the screen. They were no longer seen by the company; but the voice of
Miss Montgomery, as it ran through all the trills and turnings of scientific
melody, was heard, and the brilliancy of her execution, though not seen, was audibly acknowledged.
“Very fine, very fine indeed, madam,” said Mrs. Elwyn,
addressing herself at the conclusion of the first song to Mrs. Halifax.
“It is exquisite!” said Miss Lawson, “astonishing!—oh,
what heavenly strains! I hope they have not altogether ceased,” looking
pleasantly at lady Lauretta, as though she meant through her
interest to ask for a repetition of them; but lady Lauretta did not notice the
appeal, and the performance ended. The performer seemed to be engaged in an
interesting conversation with her companion, which their lowered voices, and
the obstruction of the screen, prevented from being distinguishable to the rest
of the company.
“Very pretty, madam, very so indeed,” said Mrs. Elwyn,
addressing Mrs. Halifax.
Mrs. Halifax turned round with a laconic “What?”
“I say music is very pretty, ma’am, very so indeed.”
“Yes, to those who can hear it,” said Mrs. Halifax;
“for my part, I don’t hear a single note now—’tis all in the piano—too much
in the piano for me.”
“Music, it is plain, is not Mrs. Halifax’s forte,” said the general.
“Very good, very good indeed,” said Miss Lawson; “oh,
what a delightful resource! in hearing such sounds,
one can forget all that is past, present, and to come!”
Mary Ellis had never sat in more painful restraint
than during the foregoing scene; her astonishment on finding Harry Elwyn at
Salcombe Lodge—the mortification and embarrassment which his reddening countenance
had displayed at their entrance—the easy indifference of lady Lauretta’s
manner—the abrupt rudeness of Mrs. Halifax—the fashionable politesse
of her husband—and the assured ease of Miss Montgomery, all contributed to
intimidate her, and to add to her natural diffidence; a thousand lowering and
vexatious ideas obtruded themselves on her mind; and she thought Mrs. Elwyn was
more tiresome, more silly, more underbred, than she had ever known her, and
that she would never conclude her visit.
“I don’t know that I ever saw that sort of music in my
life,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “with your permission, ma’am, I will go and look at
it.”
“I don’t know what you say,” said Mrs. Halifax; but
seeing Mrs. Elwyn rise from her seat, she said—“if you are going, good morning
to you.”
Mrs. Elwyn had already moved some paces, but catching
the words of Mrs. Halifax, she hastily turned round to say she was not going,
when her crimson shawl, entangling itself in one of the burnished ornaments of
the screen (and the lady pulling to extricate it with no little force), it fell
with a tremendous noise on the floor.
“Heavenly powers! is my Lauretta, is my beautiful
Lauretta hurt?” cried lady Lauretta, for the first time raising herself from
the couch.
“No, dearest, sweetest mamma!” cried Lauretta, while
Elwyn, assisted by Mary, had raised the screen.
“Do not trouble yourselves,” said the general; “we’ll
order it to be put back; it is quite warm enough; and then we shall be able to see Miss Montgomery, as well as hear
her.”
“I beg a thousand pardons indeed, sir,” said Mrs.
Elwyn; “I did not go to do it; it is all the fault of my shawl, and only see
how I have torn it—my spick and span new shawl too!—real India,
sir,” shewing it to the general, “which you, who have been used to them, no doubt
observed before.”
“What is all this
about?” asked Mrs. Halifax; “what are they putting back the screen for? we are
not going to dance; we shall all be froze to
death.”
“I am expiring with heat,” said lady Lauretta.
“It is very warm, as your ladyship observed,” said
Miss Lawson; then seizing the vacated seat of Mrs. Elwyn, she thought it proper
to say something to the lady of the house, and said—“I dare say you feel
yourself very chilly, ma’am? ours is a cold climate.”
“Well, young lady,” said Mrs. Elwyn, once more
advancing to the harp, “I hope I did not frighten you much? and I hope, Mr.
Henry—I hope, sir, I don’t interrupt you?”
“Oh, by no means,” said Lauretta, laughing.
“Well,” continued Mrs. Elwyn, handling the instrument,
touching all the gilded parts, and smoothing down the strings with her fingers,
“this is very fine, and very grand, very so indeed; this is worth seeing—I say,
Mr. Henry, this is worth seeing; a very pretty
sight, very much so indeed—and cost a good deal, I suppose; now, pray, what
might such a thing cost?”
“I don’t know,” said Lauretta, carelessly.
“No, no, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “but your
mamma does—I dare say my lady does?”
“Alas! alas! I
acknowledge my utter ignorance,” said lady Lauretta, shaking her head, “for of
what importance is the cost of such an
article, in comparison to its intrinsic worth? oh, play me something more—for
pity’s sake play on, loveliest of lovelies! for it will sooth my quivering
frame, which has not ceased to vibrate from the recent paroxysm of terror
caused by the fall of that tremendous veil.”
Lauretta touched the chords of the harp.
“Oh, it steals over my soul, like the sweet south wind
upon a bank of violets!” said lady Lauretta.
Suddenly stopping, Miss Montgomery said—“But that
young lady can play; she
must give us a song now;” and turning to Henry, she added—“You
must ask Miss Ellis to play.”
“No, no,” answered Elwyn, with quickness, “go on, pray
go on—I beseech you go on—I will not be cheated thus—she
cannot play—she does not know a note—pray, pray—I intreat you continue.”
Lauretta did continue;
she warbled an Italian air, the very air which Henry had been humming the
preceding evening. It evinced the power of her voice, and the facility of her
execution.
Mary felt the crimson rise to her cheek when Miss
Montgomery had asked her to play;
she was about to confess her total ignorance of the accomplishment, but the
crimson retreated from her cheek; it returned with warm tides to her throbbing
aching heart, as she heard the mortifying, the hasty manner in which Henry
Elwyn had answered for her, as she marked the eager, the impatient earnestness
with which he had urged the lovely Lauretta to proceed.
The song at length finished, amidst the thanks of Mrs.
Elwyn, the passionate encomiums of Henry, and the loud plaudits of Miss Lawson,
who was also got near Miss Montgomery, declaring the harp was always her
favourite instrument, &c. &c.
“Well, Mr. Henry,” said Mrs. Elwyn, “and now will you
attend us home? it is time for us to take our leave.”
“Oh, no, no; he must not go.”
“You must not quit us to-day, Elwyn,” said lady
Lauretta and general Halifax in a breath.
Henry bowed, with the gratified air of a man who put
no constraint on his inclinations in remaining; and Mrs. Elwyn sailed round to
make her parting congees, and severally to give her invitations to all the
party. To Mrs. Halifax she first addressed herself; her repelling “What?”
obliged Mrs. Elwyn to repeat what she had before said in a yet louder key.
“I don’t know that I shall stir
out of the house while I stay in the country; the general is to do as he
pleases,” answered the lady, in a very ungracious tone.
Lady Lauretta made a slight inclination of her head,
saying—“We must get our friend Elwyn to shew us the way.” Miss Montgomery
smiled. Miss Letsom, “seldom went out:” but general Halifax was more diffuse.
He said—“that he had no notion of standing upon ceremony in the country; that
he should take the earliest opportunity for calling on Mrs. Elwyn; and that he
felt highly indebted to Mrs. Elwyn for the obliging favour she had now
conferred on Mrs. Halifax.”
The gentlemen attended them to the door; and the
general, having assisted Mrs. Elwyn and Miss Lawson into the coach, Henry held
out his hand to Mary; but as if she had not observed him, she sprang unassisted
into the carriage, and returning the parting bow of general Halifax, it drove
away.
CHAP. VII.
Shall envy then torment your breast? MOORE.
BOTH Mrs. Elwyn and
Miss Lawson immediately broke forth—“Very genteel sensible people, very much so
indeed.”
“General Halifax, what an
insinuating man!”
“Mrs. Halifax, poor lady, a very
great invalid, you see.”
“Lady Lauretta, what a fascinating
creature!—Miss Montgomery, how lovely!”
“And that Miss Letsom, a very
civil-behaved lady.”
“Oh! my dear Mrs. Elwyn, one and all
of them; they are certainly most charming people! and as to Mr. Henry
Elwyn—well, I say nothing; but I think it requires
very little discernment. Well, ma’am, what say you? I do not wonder that he finds them quite magnetic: but, my dear Mary, how very
grave you are! don’t you think Miss Montgomery the loveliest of the lovelies,
as her sweet engaging mamma beautifully termed her?”
“I think her very pretty,” said
Mary.
“Pretty!” repeated Miss Lawson,
“nay, my dear Mary, she is beautiful!—she is angelic!—she has a most elegant
figure!—her countenance is surely enchanting!—and, if I am not mistaken, Mr.
Henry Elwyn thinks so.”
“Mr. Henry seems a great favourite
with them all, a very great one indeed,” said Mrs. Elwyn, drawing up with no
little appearance of satisfaction; “and don’t wonder at it, for he is really a
very fine young man, very so indeed; he will make many hearts ache, I dare say;
I only hope he won’t throw himself away in a hurry, you see, but take time to
look about him.”
“Oh, there is little fear of that,
ma’am,” answered Miss Lawson, “for men know their own value. What should you
think of Miss Montgomery for a wife for him?”
“Oh, I could
have no objection, I am sure, not in the least, to such a genteel young lady as
she is—and her mother, a lady of title too! people, you see, Miss Lawson, of
very great fashion!”
Mary Ellis was glad when they were
returned to the Hall; and released from the talkativeness of her companions,
she repaired to her own room. She felt angry with Henry Elwyn, out of temper
with herself, out of love with the whole world; she had seldom given way to
such unprofitable—to such useless ruminations; she thought of Lauretta
Montgomery; the dying strains of her voice yet trilled on her ear; she regretted
her own want of musical instruction; she almost accused her departed friend of
neglect, in not having taught her this accomplishment. Tears, bitter tears of
mortification, of vexation, trickled down her cheeks; but not long were they
suffered to flow from these feelings by our virtuous Mary; they were changed
into those of self-accusation and penitence; she severely reproached herself
for indulging such wayward emotions; she remembered what she was, and how
superior, how infinitely superior to any thing which she could have expected,
had been her instructions and her acquirements; she reverted to the sentiments
of her beloved protectress on this very subject. She had often said—“I prefer
the wildly sweet and untaught voice of my Mary, when singing a simple English
ballad, or lifting up itself in pious devotion in the evening hymn, to all the
affected trillings of the Italian school. I should injure the sweet simplicity
I admire, by giving her partial and superficial instruction; and, unless she
were to discover an extraordinary genius for music, and an extraordinary
capacity in learning, I should think that I was voluntarily trifling with a
large portion of her invaluable time.”—“How just, how proper were these
notions!” thought Mary; “to me, to me how utterly useless would such an acquisition have been!
for Miss Montgomery, for her—” Mary was
again relapsing, for a fresh accession of tears started to her eyes—“Oh, may
she be as amiable as she is accomplished!” thought she, “may she be as virtuous
as she is beautiful! for does it not appear that she is destined to be the wife
of Henry Elwyn, and will it not make Mary Ellis happy to know that he is so?”
This morning had made an entire
change in the hopes, in the wishes, in the thoughts of Mary, for though
scarcely known to herself, the affectionate manner of Henry towards her since
the decease of her first friend, had strengthened the partiality with which she
had beheld him from infancy; he had been all the world to her of late, the only
being who had felt, who had professed an interest for her; and there was
something so isolated and so forlorn in the idea of his making a connexion,
which would entirely estrange him, which would render him wholly indifferent to
her happiness—“No, not indifferent
to my happiness,” thought Mary; “why should I suspect it? for shall not I feel as anxiously interested for him, though
married—though far removed—though separated for ever from me, as though he were
still here—as though I daily saw him?”
In taking his usual ride on the
morning preceding the one we have been mentioning, Henry Elwyn had encountered
a party who attracted his attention. A gentleman was driving a landaulet; an
elegant-looking female sat by his side on the box, while another, no less
elegant, reclined in the open vehicle; two outriders followed. Supposing that
these were a party from Salcombe Lodge, he was riding on with a slight bow,
when an exclamation of surprise from the lady on the box almost entranced him
with pleasure, for he saw his adorable Lauretta Montgomery; an introduction
instantly took place between the gentlemen; and to the mutual surprise
expressed by the ladies and Henry on finding their vicinity to each other, he
was given to understand, that, till that moment, they had not the remotest idea
that they were so near to Elwyn Hall.
Elwyn gently chid Lauretta for
leaving London; she pretended to have waited for him till she had imagined he
must have forgotten the appointment; but mutual forgiveness was soon extended;
general Halifax insisted on his accompanying them to Salcombe Lodge, to spend
the day “en famille;” and from this visit we have
seen his return, and have remarked the unusual exhilaration of his spirits.
Having given his sentiments with
regard to visiting the Halifax family, in so very direct a manner on a
preceding occasion, and having acted now in such direct opposition to them,
Henry thought his conduct would wear a very inconsistent appearance to Mary
Ellis; and, strange as it may appear, he had seldom done any thing foolish,
imprudent, or inconsistent, but he had mentally asked himself what Mary Ellis
would have thought of it?
Thus, in the midst of his
impetuosity, his versatility, and his pride, this lord of the creation always
had a reference to the better judgment
of an humble and unaspiring female. “Besides,” thought Elwyn, “it would take so
much time to give a description of the Montgomerys, his mother would overwhelm
him with questions, she would be so eager to introduce herself, he should feel
mortified and humiliated at her uncouth manners, and awkward attempts at
civility;” in fact, he did not choose to mention where
he had been, though he was too much elated by the bewitching smiles of
Lauretta, and the wine he had taken, not to make it very evident that he had
made a very pleasant visit; and setting off the following morning to repeat it,
he was discovered in the manner we have related.
Independent of the particular
attraction which he found in contemplating the fascinating countenance of
Lauretta, Salcombe Lodge was a most pleasant lounge for such a young man as
Elwyn. The general was very agreeable, very well bred, and very fond of
company; his table was excellent, and ease was the characteristic of the house.
The deafness and taciturnity of Mrs. Halifax were no check to the conversation
or the relaxation of the guests, for perceiving that they did not operate upon
the host, and that, except as to the forms of politeness, he seemed to consider
her as a cypher, they took the tone of their behaviour from him, and amused
themselves as they liked, without the remotest reference to her.
The whole village of Norton was in
commotion upon the very unexpected intelligence which was now brought home by
Miss Lawson from Salcombe Lodge, and which she circulated with great avidity,
namely, that “Mr. Henry Elwyn was paying his addresses to Miss Montgomery, who
was a charming interesting girl, and formed for him; whose mother, lady
Lauretta Montgomery, decidedly the most elegant creature in the world, doated
on him, &c. &c. &c.”
All the world might, on this
subject, have thought with Miss Lawson; it was evident that Henry Elwyn paid
the most particular attention to Lauretta; it was as evident that his
attentions were well received; but as yet, though he had made many protestations
of love, and vows of eternal constancy, he had not, in direct terms, proposed
himself as a husband. Elwyn felt a strange repugnance at the idea of being a
married man; he doated, passionately doated on Lauretta. The thoughts of
beholding her the wife of another, would have driven him to distraction; his
intentions were certainly serious, his views were honourable, and the connexion
would be advantageous.
The morning when Lauretta quitted
London, when she quitted it without his seeing her, when he thought she had
purposely eluded his pursuit, that morning he would unhesitatingly have made
her his wife, to have secured her to himself; but now that she was within his
reach, that he daily contemplated her charms, and basked in the sunshine of her
smiles, he was contented to while away the sportive hours of present enjoyment,
without eagerly pressing for an union, though it would make the fair Lauretta
his for ever.
The visit of Mrs. Elwyn was returned
by the visiting part of the Lodge family, namely, the general, lady Lauretta
and her daughter; and from that day a brisk intercourse was maintained between
the two houses.
Mr. Elwyn was very polite in his
reception of the strangers; always an admirer of beauty, he viewed the lovely
Lauretta with evident marks of approbation: during the first interview, he
exerted himself sufficiently to throw off some of his usual lethargic manner;
but this could not last; and the master of the Hall, and the mistress of the
Lodge, were mutes in every party, except as to the
functions of eating and drinking, and then it must be allowed that they both
sustained active parts.
It was in vain that Mary Ellis tried
to view Miss Montgomery and her ladyship in a favourable light; fain would she
have joined in the encomiums which Mrs. Elwyn and Miss Lawson were never weary
of lavishing upon them; she frequently chid herself; she frequently asked
whether it was not prejudice, caprice, or envy, which prevented her from
distinguishing their excellencies as clearly as other people, and perhaps she
would unhesitatingly have given sentence against herself, if she had not
referred (as she delighted to do on every occasion) to the sentiments of her
lost friend—“Would she have approved the eccentric manners of lady Lauretta
Montgomery?—Who could doubt the tenderness, the affection of Mrs. Elwyn for
herself?—had it not equalled, if not exceeded, that of the most affectionate
parent, and yet had she ever
lavished on her those empassioned, those romantic epithets, which, poured out
as they were at all times, and in all companies, seemed to render their
sincerity very doubtful?—The studied, yet apparently
careless attitudes of lady Lauretta too, the loose costume of her dress, were
these in conformity with her situation? with that of a dignified and virtuous
widow?—Did the entire devotion of general Halifax (his neglect of his wife, his
attention to her), did her sufferance of his attention render him a character
which Mrs. Elwyn would have esteemed?” Mary could answer here undoubtingly in
the negative. “And Miss Montgomery, could such an ambition for display, such an
unbounded desire for admiration, such taste for coquetry, such a familiarity
with every man with whom she conversed, such a contempt for domestic
occupation, such an eager ear for flattery, could these have been thought in
cononance with the rules of virtue, modesty, and retiredness, which Mrs. Elwyn
had been used to term the best acquisitions of a young female? here also Mary
could answer by the same monosyllable; and feeling as she did for Henry Elwyn
the most partial regard, admiring his virtues, while she saw and lamented his
faults (faults which had their origin in the early indulgence of Mr. Elwyn, and
which had been strengthened by the natural bias of his own disposition), she
grieved at the idea of his forming a connexion, which had, in her estimation,
little prospect of affording him permanent happiness.
From frequently revolving on this
subject, and not having learnt the art of concealment, Mary Ellis, at each
succeeding interview, grew more reserved and constrained in the presence of
lady Lauretta and Miss Montgomery; the latter observed it; and imagining that
Mary was jealous of the attentions of Henry Elwyn towards her, she always
contrived to engross them entirely when Mary was present; more than once, the
expression of Elwyn’s countenance had given Lauretta a momentary feel of
uneasiness, for when she had uttered an equivocal expression, or given an
unusual license to her gaité de cœur, she had seen the
instantaneous turn of his eye cast towards Mary, as if to observe whether such
sentiments and such sprightliness met with her approbation. To make that
low-born girl an umpire of her conduct, was not to be borne; and Lauretta,
under the mask of levity and good-humour, had often contrived to make Mary
appear in an awkward light before Henry Elwyn, while in his absence, a cutting
expression, or a malicious sarcasm, taught our poor orphan to remember the vast
disparity between herself and the granddaughter of the earl of Levensdale; yet,
perhaps there was not much to boast of but the high-sounding name in this
alliance to nobility.
In early life, lady Lauretta had
formed a clandestine connexion with a young Scotchman, of the name of
Montgomery. Her ladyship had a small independence; her husband not a shilling.
The maledictions of the earl pursued the young couple; they embarked for India;
Montgomery got into a military capacity in that country, and died in a year or
two previous to the appearance of his widow at Cheltenham.
Lady Lauretta returned in the suite
of general and Mrs. Halifax, and her imposing air and manner completely
eclipsed her companion; and as we have seen, lady Lauretta’s camels, lady
Lauretta’s retinue, and lady Lauretta’s jewels, had made a considerable noise,
and had preceded her to Cheltenham.
With general Halifax lady Lauretta
had long been on the most intimate terms; having a large fortune, he was coming
to enjoy it in England, and to revel in Asiatic splendour on British shores.
Lady Lauretta’s finances were very limited; her manner of living had been very
extravagant; her taste for expence had been boundless; and her disregard of
every prudential maxim had kept her husband poor, and she had been obliged for
pecuniary assistance to general Halifax: but on arriving in England, she found
that a great change had taken place in her affairs; her father was dead, and,
dying without male issue, the title was extinct. His anger at her disobedience
had continued to his dying hour, and he had made a distant relative the sole heir
of his property. A maiden sister of lord Levensdale’s, however, feeling a
compassion for her grand-niece,
had bequeathed lady Lauretta an annuity during the life of her daughter; but in
the event of her ladyship’s surviving her daughter, this annuity was to drop
off also to the heir of lord Levensdale.
Montgomery’s family had been low,
but he had risen to the rank of a colonel; and the meanness of her father’s
origin was wholly forgotten by the fair Lauretta, who thought only of her
maternal GRAND-father, the earl of Levensdale.
Mary could almost laugh at the
entire change which Miss Lawson’s manner had undergone towards her; it was no
longer “dear Mary,” and “interesting girl,” but “child,” and “Miss Ellis;” she
was now frequently overlooked, while Miss Montgomery was appealed to on all
occasions; and even the flattery and obsequiousness of Miss Lawson appeared
grateful to the ear of Lauretta. To Mrs. Elwyn, Miss Lawson was still the most
civil of the civil, for she would adopt her sentiments to all parties with whom
it was her interest to accord; but the opinions of such an insignificant know-nothing girl as Mary Ellis, were not worth inquiring
into; and Mary’s would not have been very pleasing to
her, could she have looked into her bosom, at the moment when she had detected
the sly and mischievous manner in which she had joined Lauretta in ridiculing
some silly remarks of Mrs. Elwyn’s, and when her own encouragement had been the
origin of its utterance.
Miss Lawson was now a daily visitor
at Salcombe Lodge; she racked the whole vicinity for delicacies for Mrs.
Halifax; she admired the graceful attitudes of lady Lauretta, and diverted the
attention of Mrs. Halifax when the general appeared to be admiring them also;
and she did not intrude with her usual volubility on the têtes-à-tête
of Lauretta with Elwyn. Mrs. Halifax said—“She was a civil young woman enough,”
which was going much further than she usually did; lady Lauretta languished out
that “She had discernment;” and the general called “Lawson a kind, considerate
creature;” Lauretta said—“She was very good-natured;” and Miss Letsom was
silent, because she was never to think (much less speak) but when applied to.
Elated with her intimacy, and the
firm footing which she had established for herself in this “princely mansion,”
as she called the Lodge, Miss Lawson could scarcely tell whether she moved on
her head or her heels, as she daily perambulated from the Lodge to the Hall, or
the Hall to the Lodge.
The Lumleys and Mrs. Buxton now
seldom saw her, except when they met to play cards at the Hall; for though Mrs.
Elwyn liked the family at Salcombe Lodge very much indeed, and thought them all
very charming sensible people, yet she thought the Norton coterie very charming
also, and enjoyed a rubber of whist in an evening with them, and hearing their
gossips, rather more than the Eastern ease and
the Eastern metaphors of lady Lauretta, and the Italian airs and Italian graces
of her daughter. Mrs. Elwyn felt grand and fine with one party, but snug
and comfortable with the other; and however
she might fancy that she liked grandeur and finery, yet the simple Ellen Harley
was only at home in common life, and with the common amusements of common
minds.
CHAP. VIII.
Here nought
but candour reigns, indulgent ease,
Good-natured
lounging, sauntering up and down.
THOMSON’S
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.
THINGS continued in
this situation some weeks, and no incident had occurred worth relating. The
summer was rapidly passing by, and the weather was delightfully pleasant.
One evening Mary was returning from
a walk which she had been taking to the village of Norton, in order to visit
some poor pensioners of her late friend, who were still happy objects of her attention, and whom she sedulously tried to prevent from
feeling the extent of their loss; at the entrance of the park she was overtaken
by a gentleman on horseback, who was attended by a servant; on passing Mary, he
checked his horse, looked at her for an instant, and then said in a tone of
surprise—“If I am not greatly mistaken, I have the pleasure of seeing Miss
Montgomery?”
Mary turned her countenance upon
him, a countenance which, glowing with exercise, had never looked to more
advantage than at this moment, and answered—“Indeed, sir, you are greatly mistaken; my name is not Montgomery.”
“Ten thousand pardons!” exclaimed
the gentleman; “I never was more deceived. But now, madam, will you have the
goodness to inform me if Harry Elwyn is at home?”
Mary answered that he was at a house
in the vicinity, but would be at home in the evening: the stranger thanked her,
and rode on; and on her entering the house, she found him sitting with Mrs.
Elwyn, and was by her introduced to him with—“Miss Mary, this gentleman is an
intimate friend of Mr. Henry’s. This, you see, is Mr. Fitzallan—you have heard
of him often; and this, Mr. Fitzallan, is Miss Mary—this is Miss Mary Ellis,
sir.”
Fitzallan bowed, and again asked
pardon for his recent mistake. “It is evident,” said he, “that there must be a
very great likeness, for I never saw Miss Montgomery but once, and had not the
remotest idea of her being in this neighbourhood; but when I addressed you, I
could have sworn that I was speaking to that lady.”
“We were never thought alike before,
I believe,” said Mary, blushing.
“Never,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “but you
see likenesses strike people differently; for my part, I don’t see it; Miss
Montgomery, sir, is a very beautiful young lady—very pretty—very so indeed; for
that matter, Miss Mary is very well—yes, she is very well.”
“No matter, madam, I still retain my
opinion; the two ladies are certainly extremely alike as to height and figure;
that must be evident to every one; the expression of
the countenance may differ, and I think Miss Ellis is thinner than Miss
Montgomery; but surely the features are very similar?”
“Well, sir, you will have it so I
see,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “we’ll tell Mr. Henry about it when he comes home; he
will laugh, I dare say—yes, we will tell him about it.”
Fitzallan had promised to pay Henry
a visit, without specifying the time; and being at this period free from any
engagement, he had not thought it necessary to apprize him of his intention.
Henry Elwyn was rejoiced to see him; he had great pleasure in his conversation
and society; the presence of Fitzallan seemed to infuse general life into the
circle; he was animated, cheerful, and well-informed, well-looking, and
well-bred, the only son of a baronet, and heir to a large fortune.
Lauretta’s attractions were all
displayed; she ran for him through all her sweet smiles; she trilled through
all her witching airs; and Elwyn almost
accused her of coquetry—of lightness, when he saw and heard her; but again he
recollected the undeviating sweetness of her manners, which was displayed to
every one who came within the vortex of its benign influence; and he remembered
that if asked to sing, her right hand must forget its cunning, if she did not
sing melodiously. “Skilled in the mazes of her sex’s art,” Lauretta delighted
in raising the jealous fears of Henry:—“what right had he
to assume any authority over her conduct, when he had not yet made her a direct
offer of his hand?—might not the attentions of Mr. Fitzallan facilitate this
desirable event?”
The attentions of Mr. Fitzallan,
however, were not particular; he did not mean, nay more, he did not wish them
to be so; his manner towards Lauretta might often be translated into oblique
raillery, and implied sarcasm, rather than pointed compliment, or expressed
admiration; but Lauretta possessed a pleasant mode of translating, with respect
to herself, and had a consciousness of manner about her, which made the most
trivial and unimportant nothings addressed to her by a beau, appear of
interesting moment.
Two days after the arrival of
Fitzallan at the Hall, an invitation to dinner was received from Salcombe
Lodge, and accepted with due consequence by Mrs. Elwyn. Mary was included in
the invitation, and she dared not refuse, though she would much rather have
staid at home.
Mr. Elwyn exerted himself to appear
on this occasion, for Miss Lawson had whispered that the general had a turtle
just arrived from London; and the idea of this savoury viand, and of the old
Madeira (which had three times doubled the Cape), with which it would be qualified,
acted as a stimulus to his epicurean imagination.
Miss Lawson was now become an indispensable at Salcombe Lodge; therefore, as Henry and his
friend Fitzallan chose to walk, she got a lift in the coach from Mrs. Elwyn: as
they passed through the village, and the carriage overtaking Mrs. and Miss
Lumley, who were walking to the same place, Miss Lawson loudly vociferated from
the window as she passed them—“An’t you broiled to death?” and having asked the
question, she very consequentially drew in her head, and left her friends to walk and broil without
troubling herself for the answer.
The ladies at the Lodge were already
assembled in the drawing-room, lady Lauretta reclining negligently with her
back towards Mrs. Halifax, who, taking her pinch of snuff, seemed as perfectly
easy in her way, as was her elegant visitor in hers. Lauretta was reading at a
window, on a low seat, her feet extended on an ottoman, when the party made
their entrance; she partly raised her eyes from the book, partly bent her head,
and then resumed her studies; while Miss Letsom, who was engaged at her
netting, rose from her seat, very obligingly saw the company accommodated, and,
by her quiet attentions, tried to make up for the deficiency of those around
her.
“We are very early, I believe,
ma’am?” said Mrs. Elwyn, having bustled through her compliments, and now
thinking it right to address the mistress of the house—“But you know, as I said
to you, Mr. Elwyn, sir, said I, it is better to be too early than too late;
Mistress Halifax will be ready for us—and so you are, you see, ma’am.”
“I believe I am deafer than ever,”
said Mrs. Halifax, half applying her silver trumpet to her ear, yet with so
indifferent an air, as if she had said—“No matter whether I hear it or not.”
Mrs. Elwyn, however, was of a
contrary opinion, for she very leisurely repeated her speech verbatim, in a
louder key. Lady Lauretta shrunk back, as if her nerves were quite wounded by
the sound; and Miss Letsom, perceiving that her ladyship’s uneasiness, and the
cause of it, were both observed by Mary, tried to engage her in conversation. The circle was presently enlarged by the
entrance of the Lumleys and Mr. Munden; while Miss Lawson was renewing her
questions to these ladies concerning their broiling walk, Mr. Munden introduced
himself to the party.
He was a bachelor of some fortune in
the neighbourhood; a blunt man of fifty years of age, who assumed to himself
the privilege of saying what he liked, and living as he pleased; and who
fancied that nobody had a right to take umbrage at any thing he said, let him
be as rude as he pleased; he had some good qualities, but with so many
particularities, it cannot be supposed that he was a general favourite: he was
very uncertain with regard to his habits; sometimes he visited frequently,
sometimes he shut himself up entirely; if he saw any thing he disliked in any
house where he visited, he quitted it abruptly, and without giving any reason
for his conduct; he was very partial to the late Mrs. Elwyn, but after her
death he had never called at the Hall.
There was an unoffending good-nature
about Mr. Elwyn, which seemed to bespeak forbearance; and as he cordially,
though silently, held out his hand to Mr. Munden, he checked the sarcastic compliment of congratulation which was about to
issue from his lips; and surveying his countenance, he said—“How in the world
is it?—you are got much fatter, Elwyn; yet, hang me if I think you look the
better for it.” Then entirely passing over Mrs. Elwyn, he came to Mary Ellis,
and chucking her under the chin—“Why, child,” said he, “you
are shrunk into a skeleton?” then pinching her cheek, he said—“Where is the
rosy colour which I used to see here?” The action and the inquiry were both
calculated to bring it back to its wonted station. Mary recollected when she
had last seen Mr. Munden; tears were starting to her eyes; he moved off, and
addressing lady Lauretta, said—“Pray is not your ladyship afraid of losing the
use of your limbs, by always keeping them up in this manner? Upon my
conscience, I believe you lay in this very attitude the last time I saw you,
and that was a fortnight ago.”
“And shall be there the next, in all human probability,” said lady Lauretta,
languidly; “I have no energy, no elasticity left.”
“And never will, if you do not exert
yourself,” said Mr. Munden; “my life for it, if you would get up early of a
morning, walk a couple of miles before breakfast, and set yourself about some
employment, you would soon look, move, and sit, like a
rational being.”
Lady Lauretta closed her eyes, to
show her utter inattention.
“I am afraid the young gentlemen
will make you wait, ma’am,” said Mrs. Elwyn, applying herself to Mrs. Halifax’s
auricular assistant.
“What do you say?” asked the lady;
“oh, I understand you now; the general and your son are together; I did not
comprehend you at first.”
“Mrs. Elwyn did not speak of your young man, it seems, but of two who are coming from the
Hall,” said Mr. Munden, in a key which again threw all the nerves of lady
Lauretta into disorder.
“Oh, I believe I had forgot; I think
there is another besides, a Mr. Fitz— Fitz-something, I am sure I forget what.”
“Here comes the general, I’m sure,”
said Miss Lawson, “for I smell the otto of roses.”
“Arabian gales are not more sweet!”
said lady Lauretta, in a low voice.
The general entered, unfolding his
newly-scented handkerchief of finest cambric. He paid his compliments to all
his guests, in a most pleasing and courtier-like manner; just touched (or
pretended to touch) the tip of his wife’s finger, as he passed her, with an
“How are you, my love?” and then, not seeing a chair near him, he carelessly
threw himself on the arm of the sofa which supported lady Lauretta.
“Order dinner to be served when it
is ready,” said Mrs. Halifax to Miss Letsom.
“You forget our two beaux, my
dearest love,” said the general.
“Do as you are bid, child,” said
Mrs. Halifax, and Miss Letsom obeyed.
“Oh, the gentlemen will be here in a
minute,” said Miss Lawson.
“I dare say they will, I dare say
they will,” said Mrs. Elwyn.
Miss Montgomery was still sitting
with her book in her hand, and her back to the open window, which was even with
the ground; sometimes she adjusted a stray lock, sometimes her eyes fell on the
book: at the moment when Mrs. Elwyn spoke, the eyes of another also fell on the
book, and these lines were audibly repeated:—
“And ne’er did Grecian
chisel trace
A nymph, a naiad, or a
grace,
Of finer form, or
lovelier face!”
The three lines were spoken with
emphasis, and distinctly heard, before the “Oh!
Mr. Fitzallan, how could you frighten me so?” by Miss Montgomery, was answered
by the responsive scream of lady Lauretta, as she saw the start of her child.
The truant beaux walked into the
window, and followed Lauretta, who hastening to her mother, cried—“My angel,
beautiful mamma! say have I alarmed you?”
“No, child of my heart! best beloved
of my soul! for ‘shouldst thou sit upon my head and eyes, I shall rejoice, for
thou art gentle*!”
“Hang me though if I should rejoice
at any such thing,” said Mr. Munden.
“E’en the slight
harebell rais’d its head.
Elastic from her airy
tread,”
said Fitzallan.
“Ah, that is all very well in
poetry,” said Mr. Munden, “because poetry is a fiction altogether.”
“And lady Lauretta Montgomery was
speaking in blank verse, and that is poetry too, you know, sir,” said Miss
Lawson.
“And poetry, they say, madam, is
prose run mad,” said Munden.
“Mamma generally speaks in blank
verse,” said Lauretta.
“It suits the redundancy of her
imagination,” said the general, in a low voice.
“Then, ma’am,” said Mr. Munden, “as
I acknowledge myself to be a prosing old fellow, will you be so good when you
address me, to try to speak in prose, and then
perhaps I may have some chance of understanding you.”
“Lord! Mr. Munden,” said Miss
Lumley, “I do believe you thought lady Lauretta asked you
to sit upon her head.”
“Oh, by no means,” said Munden; “but
in general company, the conversation should, I think, be adapted to general
comprehension; I do not understand the tropes and figures of Eastern metaphor,
for my part.”
“But if you will have the goodness
to follow me,” said the general, “I hope we shall see something which we shall all of us be able to understand;” and he took the hand of
lady Lauretta to lead her to the dining-room. The guests followed in order;
and, according to the established custom of the house, general Halifax took the
head of the table, lady Lauretta gracing his right hand. Mrs. Halifax took her
wonted station at the side; and Miss Letsom, quietly occupied in carving for,
and assisting the company, filled the bottom seat.
The dinner passed as dinners usually
do; little conversation that could be so termed, much unmeaning politeness,
much apparent satisfaction, and much approbation of the good things, to which
the lady of the house did as much honour as any of the guests. Fitzallan and
Henry Elwyn were placed, one on each side of Lauretta; they shared her smiles
between them; and she was almost exclusively the object of their attention. It
was in vain that Miss Lumley lounged herself into various attitudes, and tried
to copy Miss Montgomery in every variation; the clumsy heaviness of her form
could not borrow the airy flexibility of her model; and what might charm in the
one, could not fail of disgusting in the other.
Miss Lawson finding that she was not
doomed to be the first in request with the beaux, adopted another plan, and
endeavoured to be the first in favour with the belles; she was most assiduously
attentive to lady Lauretta, declared and vowed (upon her honour too) that “poor
Mrs. Halifax ate nothing;” and as to her “dear Miss Montgomery, she looked so
wicked, that there was positively no bearing of her.”
The Lumleys and Mary, even Mrs.
Elwyn, were now excused from her attentions, and escaped her remarks, for they
were insignificant beings in comparison of the trio at Salcombe Lodge (Miss
Letsom, it seems, being left entirely out of the calculations of others, was
not reckoned upon by Miss Lawson); now and
then, indeed, valuing herself upon her superior knowledge, she would ask Mrs.
Lumley if she ever saw such as dish as that before? and whether she liked
another? and once she reminded Miss Lumley, “that her long walk had made her
look quite jaded.”
Glances of mortification and
ill-concealed contempt were exchanged between the mother and daughter, and they
seemed as plainly to say, as words could have made it appear, “Take care, Miss
Lawson, or perhaps you may be cut out at our next whist-party.”
Next to Miss Letsom, and at the
bottom of the table, Mary Ellis tried to feel herself at ease, and to console herself,
for the utter disregard of the rest of the company, in her good-natured
civility.
The behaviour of this lady naturally
excited her admiration, while she seemed too insignificant to be noticed by any
individual, except in the way of a question or command; she saw that every individual had a portion of her attention and
civility; and that the obligingness of her behaviour had nothing in it affected
or overstrained, but seemed naturally to proceed from the goodness of her
disposition. There was no assumption in her manner; there was nothing striking
in her appearance; she scarcely ventured on a remark; her answers were
generally confined to monosyllables; she obeyed the orders of Mrs. Halifax with
prompt cheerfulness, and bore her peevish chidings with undeviating patience.
“How would such conduct have been admired by my ever-lamented protectress!”
thought Mary; “how would she have applauded such an utter forgetfulness of
self!” While mentally making this remark, her soft eyes were fixed on the countenance
of Miss Letsom, as if she would discover whether it was to fortitude or to
insensibility, to servile dependence or to genuine humility, that she was to
impute her behaviour; but the transient flush which illumined her care-worn
countenance, as Mrs. Halifax said, in a discordant key—“Letsom, why, child, you
must be asleep, I think; you know I never
eat the part you have sent me,” proved that her feelings were not dead; and the
sweetness with which she addressed herself to Mary, evinced that she was equally
humble to all, and that she could be obliging to those who were powerless as
herself, and from whom no return was to be expected. Mary Ellis was prone to
behold every human being in a favourable light; she felt a sympathy for Miss
Letsom; she fancied that there was a similarity in their situations, and she
felt a kindred spark of emulation glow within her breast, as she hoped to
conduct herself with equal forbearance and propriety; but, ah! the truant
heart, the truant eyes of Mary frequently wandered towards that part of the
table where, in all the pride of conquest,
Henry Elwyn sat, and where, in all the pride of conscious
beauty, Lauretta listened to his conversation: in respect to
herself, the utter disregard, the almost contemptuous neglect of Miss Montgomery,
did not give her the smallest uneasiness; but was it not plain, that a woman
who could act with insolence to her own sex, who could reserve her smiles and
her agreeable qualities exclusively for the other, was it not plain that such a
woman was not formed either with a mind or temper calculated for domestic
happiness? But the sanguine, the enthusiastic Henry, saw in her perfection’s
self; he basked in her smiles, he lived only in her presence; and it was not in
the power of Mary Ellis, it was scarcely in
her wish to break the charm.
When the ladies returned to the
drawing-room, lady Lauretta resumed her usual situation; Mrs. Halifax was
assisted by Miss Letsom to her armed chair, where having had a pillow placed at
her back, and taken two pinches of snuff, she very leisurely composed herself
for her afternoon’s nap, saying—“Pray, good people, entertain yourselves;” and
the good people endeavoured to do as they were bidden.
Mrs. Elwyn proposed a walk round the
gardens; Lauretta affected not to hear; and Miss Lawson, choosing at this
juncture to pay her court to her, affected also to be equally deaf. The
Lumleys, however, did not think it decorous to be deaf to the proposition; and
Miss Letsom, looking at Mrs. Halifax, and seeing by her “sealed eyelids,” that
she might be spared, offered her arm to Mary Ellis, and followed Mrs. Elwyn and
the Lumleys. The door was scarcely closed, ere Lauretta said—“Who is that poor
girl whom the Elwyns hawk about?”
“Oh,” answered Miss Lawson, “she is
a protegée of the last
Mrs. Elwyn’s.”
“And has she descended to the
present, with the old clothes, and the bed-patches of her predecessor?”
Miss Lawson laughed and said—“How
wicked you are!”
“Oh, not at all; but one is sick of
seeing the various wardrobes, of hearing of the motley patches, and looking at that stationary
countenance, that immoveable form!”
“I have heard Miss Ellis thought
pretty,” said Miss Lawson.
“Pretty?—impossible ! she has no
action—no manner—no grace; has she, my beautiful mamma?”
“Star of the east! I have never let
my eyes light on her countenance; thy presence so completely engrosses my whole
of vision, that it has no vacancy for other objects.”
“My dearest, sweetest mamma!” said
Lauretta, clasping her hands and kissing the forehead of lady Lauretta.
“My angel girl!” whispered her
ladyship.
“What relation is this Miss Ellis to
the Elwyns?” asked Lauretta.
“Ellis,” repeated lady Lauretta, and
she half raised her head from the sofa.
“Ellis is the name by which she is known,” said the voluble Miss Lawson, glad to have
interested lady Lauretta, and delighted at being able to gratify the curiosity
of her “angel girl,” even though she decorated the story with a few additions
which had not truth for their basis.
The story which Mrs. Elwyn told of her adopting a child, whose parents were drowned at
sea during a storm at Brighton, was animadverted upon by the narrator, and she
put the question to her hearers, whether it was likely that Mrs. Elwyn would
have consented to separate the twin sisters, whether
it was probable that another lady should have
started up at the same moment to adopt the other, and that Mrs. Elwyn should
never be able to discover her name, or to get any clue by which to trace
her.—“With Mr. Elwyn,” continued Miss Lawson, “the
story passed current; he had his reasons for
not minutely investigating at that period,
for then it was that he first introduced his son to the Hall; we all know his story, poor man; all the world have made their comments
upon it; and while he has quietly borne the odium of that
world, Mrs. Elwyn was cried up as a prodigy, extolled as an angel, and her
adoption of this motherless child was applauded as
a sterling and disinterested act of charity—Had Mr. Elwyn’s heart been read, I believe—but he was an easy, quiet mortal.”
“I dare say it was her own child,” said Lauretta.
“Mrs. Elwyn certainly repeated her
visit to Brighton earlier than usual that summer,
and staid later; altogether it was a most
unaccountable history,” said Miss Lawson. “I was not at home when the infant was first introduced, but I confess, that I have
always been one of the unbelievers,
though at Norton, at that time, one
should have been thought worse than an
infidel to have doubted the story, or the
kidnapping of the other bantling. Mrs. Elwyn had bought
herself a name; but I am always inclined to judge from probabilities, rather
than possibilities.”
Lady Lauretta smiled—“Such an
incident,” said she, “would have been more likely to have happened under the
romantic influence of our eastern region, than in your colder climate.”
“Certainly,” said Miss Lawson; “your
ladyship sees I am persuaded how entirely fabulous the whole story must have
been. In order to wind up the catastrophe, and to render the finale complete,
these twin heroines ought to meet again—be
recognised by one another as sisters.”
“And be twin
stars of perfection!” said Lauretta, with a laugh.
“What a brilliant, what a lively
imagination you have got!” said Miss Lawson.
“Have I?” asked Lauretta, with an
air of would-be innocent simplicity, which was meant to conceal the feelings of
gratified vanity.
“At one time, and during the last Mrs. Elwyn’s life, a match was talked of between Mr.
Henry Elwyn and Mary Ellis.”
“That would
have been ridiculous enough,” said Lauretta, biting her lips.
“I confess I did not then think it probable, for
Henry Elwyn ought to have looked higher—now—” and the
retreating eyes of Lauretta conveyed the implication better than Miss Lawson
could have done it by concluding the sentence.
CHAP. IX.
“For still my heart
regards thy weal,
Warmly,
as it was wont to do.”
IN the mean time,
Mary Ellis and Miss Letsom had got very sociable; Mary found Miss Letsom very
sensible, well informed, and well behaved; but the natural diffidence of her
manner had been so encreased by her situation, that time was required to
develop her character; and it was in retirement, and in private conversation
like the present, that she was best seen and best known.
The virtues and the graces of our
Mary, too, like those of her companion, blossomed in the shade; she had talents
for conversation, but it was conversation where she could be free from
restraint, where she felt assured that the sentiments which she uttered would
be received with forbearance and consideration; she felt chilled and silenced
by the harsh manner of Mrs. Halifax, by the rude nonchalance
of Lauretta; but her heart expanded itself with modest warmth to meet the
encouraging kindness of Miss Letsom. It was seldom that Mary had passed so
pleasant an hour; but while pleased in each other’s society, they neither of
them forgot the attention due to Mrs. Elwyn, or to the Lumleys.
Freed from the shackles of a circle
to which she was unaccustomed, Mrs. Elwyn frisked about the gardens like a
child escaped from school; she admired every thing she saw, “declared that Miss
Montgomery was a most lovely, beautiful creature! very so indeed;” asked each
of the ladies over and over again, whether they did not think so too? and more than hinted that her partiality for Mr. Henry was very
apparent.
Mrs. Lumley found herself
necessitated to agree with Mrs. Elwyn, yet silently wondered at Mr. Henry’s taste, as she looked with the partiality of a
mother at the bold unmeaning stare of her tall daughter’s prominent eyes; and
Miss was mentally vowing that she had been a great
fool, to expose herself to such a scorching walk, to sit in buckram, to be
entirely overlooked by the men, and to finish with such a stupid saunter round
the garden. She felt that she had forcibly realized the words of the preacher;
and that the day which had dawned in vanity, was likely to close in vexation of
spirit.
Miss Letsom looked apprehensively at
her watch two or three times during the last quarter of an hour; she knew the
probable duration of Mrs. Halifax’s nap, and that she
should be in instant requisition on her first opening her eyes; that lady was
in the act of doing so when they entered the room, and said, in an hurried
tone—“Now, Letsom, you may ring; I am ready for my coffee.”
“We have had a pleasant walk, ma’am,
very so indeed,” said Mrs. Elwyn, applying her voice to the ear of Mrs.
Halifax; but she had not the art (though she had the wish) of rendering it
intelligible to that lady.
“Yes, yes,” answered she, “I have
had a pleasant nap enough; I suspect you have been doing the same; its very
natural; after making a good dinner, it refreshes one almost as much as a pinch
of snuff,” leisurely applying her finger and thumb to the snuff-box.—“Come,
Letsom, make haste with the coffee, child.”
Tea and coffee were both brought;
and while the room was lighting up with almost innumerable lights, Mary gently
slid to the tea-table, and assisted Miss Letsom.
Breaking from Miss Lawson, with
whom, till this moment, she had been deeply engaged, Miss Montgomery walked to
her harp, and leaning over it, she seemed to be invoking the spirit of harmony.
Lights were placed on each side of the instrument, and she appeared as if going
to strike the trembling strings, when the door opened, and the gentlemen
entered. Lauretta’s back was towards it, and it did not suit the rapt tenor of her soul to look with “vulgar ken” to see who
entered. With slow and heavy step, came Mr. Elwyn; he placed himself near the
tea-table; then entered Mr. Munden; he was followed by the others. Mr. Munden
stole towards Miss Montgomery, and placing one of his hands on each of her
shoulders, he said—“I did not know that you were acquainted with this
instrument.” Lauretta started, and frowningly turned round, as if she was not
used to so rough a salute. Mr. Munden started also, as he said—“’Pon honour,
madam, I ask your pardon; I wouldn’t have alarmed you for all the world, for we
all were witnesses of your
nervousness (as they call it) this morning; but I declare to you, that I took
you for that silent little girl, that I now see is snugly sitting at the corner
of the tea-table.” Lauretta half turned away, a great deal more disconcerted at
the mistake than the apology; a contemptuous silence was all the notice she
took of his speech. “Whew, whew!” said Mr. Munden, “hang me if I do not think
there is a great likeness between those two young ones—what say you, ma’am?”
turning to Mrs. Elwyn.
“I have heard the remark made
before, sir,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “Mr. Fitzallan remarked it.”
“Oh then it seems it is quite an old
story,” said Lauretta, colouring.
“How perfectly ridiculous!” said
Miss Lawson, in a whisper, and addressing herself to Lauretta. “Come, were you
not going to witch us with your charming melody?—perfection’s self!” for taking
the cue from lady Lauretta, and having grown into considerable importance with
herself, during her confidential communication in the afternoon, Miss Lawson
now thought it incumbent upon her to be orientally rhapsodic when addressing
herself to Lauretta.
“It appears there may be twin stars of perfection,” said Lauretta, sarcastically, and
almost pointingly. “You know I made that
remark before. And so you thought me like Miss—Miss—I forget her
name—I always do forget her name,” continued
Lauretta, addressing Fitzallan, and applying, as if to be helped out in the
name by Miss Lawson.
“Ellis,” said Miss Lawson.
“Ellis—aye, so it is.”
“Ellis,” repeated Mrs. Elwyn, “you
see, is something like Elwyn, but not quite; both syllables are not the same,
but both names begin with an E and an L.”
“Yes, I certainly thought there was
a likeness when I first had the pleasure of seeing Miss Ellis,” answered
Fitzallan.
Henry Elwyn was tired of the
discussion; he did not wish it to be continued; he saw that it did not please
Lauretta, that it confused Mary Ellis (though he had leaned on the back of her
chair as if to screen her from observation), and that if pursued, his mother
would still further expose herself; so hastily walking towards the harp, he
said, addressing himself to Lauretta—“Why tantalize us with assuming this
attitude? we are all ear.”
“Say rather all eye,”
said Lauretta, with cutting severity, and colouring as she darted an angry
glance towards the chair where sat Mary Ellis, and where Elwyn had been leaning
while he sipped his coffee.
This little trait of feminine
jealousy was calculated to gratify the vanity of such a man as Elwyn; his sober
judgment might have condemned it, but his judgment was not sober; he seized the
fair hand of Lauretta, and pressed it to his lips, as he asked her—“Why she was
so cruel?” He placed the music-book before her, and was opening to a favourite
song; half playfully, half fretfully, she resisted his entreaties. In the
scuffle, one of the wax-lights fell on the lap of Lauretta; her dress of
lightest, finest muslin, was in flames! she uttered a piercing scream, and flew
towards the sofa with the rapidity of lightning; with almost equal rapidity she
was followed by Henry and by Mary, but not till the screamings of lady Lauretta
were added to those of her daughter; and the flames were communicated from
Lauretta’s dress to the recumbent drapery of her ladyship. Elwyn eagerly tried
to extinguish them by wrapping the skirts of his coat round Lauretta, while
Mary, with great presence of mind, snatching up a shawl of camel’s hair, folded
it round the writhing form of her mother. All was confusion, hurry, and
apprehension. Mrs. Halifax kept crying out—“What are you all about there? are
you determined to burn down the house; I’m frightened out of my senses.”
The general not attending to his
lady, eagerly crowded round her guests; the flames were happily extinguished;
and, more frightened than hurt, lady Lauretta was conveyed to her apartment by
the general and Fitzallan. Lauretta was following her “dear angel mamma,” and
still screaming from unappeased terror as she leant on the arm of Mary, and was
about to receive the eagerly-proffered assistance of Henry on the other side,
when Mary perceiving that his hand was scorched, instantaneously relinquished
the care of Lauretta, as she caught his arm, and cried out—“Henry, dear Henry,
are you not hurt?”
The sudden inquiry, the earnest, yet
tender tone in which it was made, the natural action which had accompanied it,
spoke volumes to the heart of Elwyn; he saw for one moment only
Mary Ellis; he remembered only Mary Ellis, the gentle companion of his early
days; he answered—“No, Mary, dearest Mary, it is nothing—a mere trifle—do not
alarm yourself.”
Overpowered by the sudden revulsion
of her feelings, overpowered by her exertions, overpowered by the kind address
of Henry, abashed and confused at having had so many witnesses of her
behaviour, Mary was only recalled to herself by the lengthened screams of
Lauretta; again she offered her arm, but she now found herself superseded by
Miss Lawson; and Fitzallan having re-entered, had usurped the place which Elwyn
would have taken.
“You are a very good girl,” said Mr.
Munden, tapping the cheek of Mary; “you see the advantage of a little strength
of mind and self-possession—screaming and inaction are equally futile; it is
promptitude and decision which can alone be effective, in a situation like that
which has recently occurred—You had a good instructress, my girl.”
“I had the best,
sir,” whispered Mary, while tears rushed to her eyes.
Mr. Elwyn, roused to some appearance
of animation in the idea of Henry having met with an hurt, insisted on having
the coach ordered immediately, and on his taking a seat in it; Mrs. Elwyn was
of his opinion, but said—“She did not know what to say about Miss Lawson, who
was a civil obliging lady as could be met with.”
Henry begged he might be allowed to
walk home, assuring his father that he had received no material hurt; but he
was overruled; and Mrs. Elwyn said, that—“If he was to go out in the evening
air, he would most likely get an inflammation
to his hand, a mortification must then certainly
ensue, and perhaps it might not stop there.”
Mrs. Lumley remarked that it was a
beautiful evening, and may be now Miss Lawson
would have no dislike to a walk, as there was no fear of a
broil.
During the ride home, Henry Elwyn
was unusually silent and thoughtful, yet he answered the inquiries which were
made to him from time to time concerning his hand, with the utmost good-nature.
Initiated in the arts of healing by
her beloved friend, Mary was followed by Elwyn into her own little apartment,
and there, while attended by Mrs. Elwyn, who declared, that “it made her
shudder to look at it,” she made use of those applications which had been found
beneficial in such cases, and, with gentle caution, bound up his scorched hand;
while admiring her readiness, her activity, and her humanity, Elwyn looked at
her with eyes of speaking admiration, and thanked her with all the warmth of
gratitude.
Under the care of Mary, her patient
soon mended; by her advice, he wore his hand in a sling; and this gave him an
additional interest in the eyes of the fair Lauretta, especially when she
reflected that his hurt was acquired in her service.
CHAP. X.
“But
near thee I can never stay,
My
heart would soon again be there!”
THE story of the fire
had really been blazed abroad; Mary Ellis’s
natural emotion on seeing that her earliest friend had been hurt, was almost
construed into a declaration of love. Miss Lawson, who was not deficient in
discernment, had easily perceived that under the affectation of considering her
as an insignificant low-born girl, Miss Montgomery literally beheld and feared
Mary Ellis as a formidable rival; she had seen with what avidity the story of
her mysterious origin was received by this young lady, and that it had even the
power of partly raising lady Lauretta from her recumbent attitude, who had almost given it her attention.
To make herself pleasing to those
ladies, who were now greater in her estimation than those at Elwyn Hall, was
the first wish of Miss Lawson; she had nothing to alledge against her “dear
Mary,” her lately “sweet Mary Ellis,” only that there was a certain coldness
and reserve in her manners, which totally precluded her from imagining that she
was beheld with the same reciprocity of sentiment as that she had affected to
feel for her; and only that let her “sweet Mary” owe her origin to whom she
would, decidedly she could not boast of an earl for her grandfather—of a lady
Lauretta for her “beautiful mamma!”
To such frivolous motives, the wish
of gaining the favour of the Montgomerys, and desire of being reckoned of
importance by them, must we trace the eagerness with which Miss Lawson
recounted all that she had heard, and all that she had surmised
relative to Mary Ellis. When she had once felt her ground, she could proceed
with security; the likeness between Lauretta and Mary, which certainly must be
striking, as it had been generally remarked, was not received with satisfaction
either by the mother or daughter; and Miss Lawson knew
(from frequent and agonizing experience) that the burning of her gown was
nothing in comparison to the burnings of envy and jealousy, as she assisted in
supporting the lovely form of “her charming Lauretta” to her apartment.
Without directly making a confession
of her wounded feelings, Lauretta covertly acknowledged all that Miss Lawson
understood by implication; and the “affected heroism and self-command of Mary
Ellis” was ridiculed; “her forward declaration of tender interest for Elwyn,”
was as loudly contemned, “an interest which any woman of true delicacy would
have been careful how she displayed, even for her husband,
much less for one whose whole thoughts and hopes were centered in another.”
Lauretta sighed; perhaps her sigh
was a doubting one; at length she ventured to say—“I wonder if the Elwyns—the
old folks I mean—I wonder if they see the fondness of this girl for Elwyn.”
“Mr. Elwyn, you know, is, poor man,
next to a muscle, my dear Miss Montgomery, in regard to every thing but the
mere animal functions of eating and drinking.”
“And Mrs. Elwyn, having low vulgar
notions herself,” interposed Lauretta, “may possibly——”
“Oh no! she could not possibly
approve such a connexion for Mr. Henry; if
she has not seen the girl’s striking partiality yet,
she shall see it; I shall think it my duty to inform her, knowing, as I do—that is, believing—that
is, suspecting that the late Mrs. Elwyn’s orphan—you
understand me—I really think, my dearest Miss Montgomery, star of the east, as
the dear lady Lauretta sublimely calls you, I really think I ought in
conscience to tell Mrs. Elwyn, that she may caution, that she may guard Miss
Ellis against the sad prospect of an unrequited passion, for that every wish of
Henry Elwyn’s heart is centered in the fair Lauretta.”
“Do you think
so?” asked Lauretta, with an air meant to be incredulous.
“Nay, dearest Miss Montgomery, I
could swear it!”
Having now sufficient subject matter
for animadversion, with the consciousness that the further she proceeded the
firmer she rivetted her intimacy with the Montgomerys, Miss Lawson prevailed on
the whole village of Norton to believe that Miss Ellis was dying for love of
Mr. Henry Elwyn (for though a young lady may look, feel, and talk, as if in
redundant health, yet she is always accused of being dying for
love, as soon as she is suspected of a partiality for one of the
other sex).
It was some time before Miss Lawson
could make Mrs. Elwyn understand that there was any thing to be afraid of in
the cure which Miss Ellis was performing on the scorched hand of Henry Elwyn;
hints, inuendoes, and surmises, were scarcely understood by that good lady;
though rather against her prescribed mode in such cases, Miss Lawson was obliged
to be more explanatory, as she perceived that Mrs. Elwyn grew harder of
comprehension; she perceived too, that the “interesting Lauretta” was full of
doubts and fears, although she concealed them from every eye but hers; and that
Henry Elwyn was not so undeviating in his attendance at the Lodge as before the
accident, and, in fact, that she should “really be only doing her duty, in
putting poor Mrs. Elwyn on her guard;” so with
this most conscientious and friendly motive, she went to the Hall, and pretending
once more to be deeply engaged in the disposition of patches, she began her
most anxious and friendly inquiries after Mr. Henry Elwyn, and “wished that in
having one hurt cured, he might not get another.”
At a loss to understand the meaning
of this wish, Miss Lawson was reduced to an explanation: she said, that—“Where
a partiality was so very apparent on one side, and
where such frequent opportunities were afforded of displaying it, a return was
in the nature of things to be expected; and to be sure, Mr. Henry Elwyn was so
very obliging to every body, and so very insinuating in his manners, that any woman with a little vanity,” (here she looked rather
consciously, and fixed her eyes on a patch) “and not absolutely hideous in her
person,” (here she glanced her eyes towards the glass which stood between the
piers) “any woman,” continued she, “with a little vanity,
might easily fancy herself the object of his particular regard: for my part, I declare I never saw any thing in his behaviour
towards Miss Ellis which he may not have used towards me—but we are all apt to
think and believe what we hope; and if the mysteriousness of her birth was set
aside, and he really should come to
like her——”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Elwyn, rising
from her seat, and in her hurry letting her scissars fall off her lap on the
floor, “no, no, Miss Lawson, Mr. Henry Elwyn must look a good deal higher; he
must look a great deal higher, Miss Lawson,” and she tossed her head with an
air of consequence. “Miss Mary is very well in her way, very well in her
way—poor thing, she can help nothing at all of it; but Mr. Elwyn, but my son, I assure you, Miss Lawson, he has only to choose or
refuse.”
“So I say, my dear ma’am,” returned
Miss Lawson, “that is exactly what I say; why there is Mr. Henry Elwyn, said I,
the most elegant and handsome young man in this part of the world——”
“Or in any
part of the world,” interposed his mother; for the vanity which had once
superseded every other idea in the contemplation of her own
personal charms, had now devolved to her son; and to have his
beauty praised was at once her pride and her delight.
“Now is it likely,” continued Miss
Lawson, “that such a man will throw himself
away in such an unheard-of manner, especially when there are those who are his
equals in every respect—allied to quality?”
“Ah, I guess who you mean,” said
Mrs. Elwyn; “leave me alone for a guess—and I dare say it will be a match—I
think it will, Miss Lawson.”
“And as to poor Mary,” said Miss
Lawson, “she must wear the willow.”
“Indeed she is a very comfortable
well-behaved young girl,” said Mrs. Elwyn, “I can’t say but what she is—and so
you say she is in love with Mr. Henry?”
“Oh, ma’am, for mercy’s sake don’t
say it—don’t breathe a hint of the kind. I only said that it was observed, that
it was remarked, that it was partly suspected, that her evident interest the
other night at Salcombe Lodge, when she imagined that Mr. Henry Elwyn was
burnt—oh, for my own part, I think Mary Ellis a sweetly-interesting girl; and
if the last Mrs. Elwyn had told the truth at
first, and not put her on the world in such a ‘questionable shape——‘”
“I don’t at all wonder at her being
partial to Mr. Henry, he is a very nice young man,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “but,
however, that will never be, Miss Lawson.”
“My dearest madam, I know it; I only
thought that where opportunities of being together so frequent, and where the
tenderness on one side is so apparent, gratitude, feeling, sympathy, might
induce—you understand me, I dare say you understand me?”
“Oh, perfectly,” said Mrs. Elwyn;
“but I’m sure Mr. Elwyn would not approve of it, any more than myself—however,
it shall be my care—”
“Ah, there it is; my dear Mrs.
Elwyn, I do not presume to dictate to you—I know our sentiments are generally
in unison—I know that opposition in such cases is generally productive of
contrary effects to those which are wished; and if Mr. Henry Elwyn was to be
told that you disliked the idea of such a connexion, Heaven knows but he might,
for the first time, think of it.”
“Oh, I shall not say a syllable
about it; I know he has a partiality elsewhere,” nodding significantly: “as to
poor Miss Mary, she is not at all to be blamed; you know if she loves him, she
cannot help it; but I will be watchful and careful, Miss Lawson, and act with prudence;
I always act with prudence, you see—you see the care of a young woman is a
great charge; if I can help it, she shall have no opportunity of being alone
with him; for the future, I must attend to the doctoring of the hand—I am sure
I have enough to do, what with one thing and the other; but I do not mind it—I
don’t mind having my hands full of business—I like to be doing; there’s these
patches, I need not sew one of them, if I had not got a mind, for I have maids
enough that can work for me, and I might sit up with my hands before me all day
long, if I liked it; but I’m very active and observing, Miss Lawson, very so
indeed. To be sure, after all that you have told
me about Miss Mary’s being the child of the last Mrs. Elwyn—”
“Oh, my dear madam, pardon me there,
I did not tell you; give me leave to set you right; I only said, merely by way
of a hint, that it had been suggested by such and such persons, that the
circumstance of a certain person’s going to Brighton at those periods, looked
rather mysterious, and that it led to a supposition of such and such events
having taken place.”
“And I dare say they did too,” said
Mrs. Elwyn; “notwithstanding that I have heard so much of that certain person’s
goodness and virtue, you see I found out who you meant.”
“Your quickness of comprehension has
often struck me with astonishment, as I was saying but this very morning to
dear lady Lauretta, and my charming and amiable young friend her daughter;
never shall I forget the sweetly penetrating look which the dear Lauretta gave
me when she asked ‘whether I had seen Mr. Henry Elwyn?”
Miss Lawson returned to Salcombe
Lodge, better pleased with the success of her visit than she had herself
expected to have been; for as notwithstanding Mrs. Elwyn’s quickness of comprehension,
she had no method of making her comprehend but by speaking out
(as it is called), and as in this said speaking out there was great danger of
committing herself, if she was not speaking truth, she had
some few difficulties in her way, which she contrived to smooth over, as we
have partly seen, by calling back her words, and amending her evidence. Miss
Lawson, as we have had occasion previously to observe, had
discernment; she saw that the impetuous nature and proud spirit of Henry Elwyn
would take fire at the slightest imputation which should be attached to the
character of Mary Ellis, whom he regarded with a fraternal
affection, if it could not be called by a tenderer name; she saw too that his
spirit would instantly resist itself against the interference of maternal
authority, or even of maternal advice, with regard to his choice of a wife; and
Miss Lawson was heartily glad to have her communications finally sealed, with a
promise of silence and secrecy, but at the same time, of strict
observation on the behaviour of the parties.
To those who are unacquainted with
such characters as Miss Lawson, her taking so much trouble to so little purpose
may appear very much exaggerated and very unnatural; but where there is an
inordinate desire of raising our own consequence, and of gaining the favour of
those who move in a superior station, no pains are spared for the
accomplishment; and, in the present case, there was an additional motive, in
the modest charms and unobtrusive virtues of Mary Ellis. To have seen these
raised to the situation which they merited, would have been to see all the
envious and rebellious passions roused in the breast of Miss Lawson. She could
see Mr. Henry Elwyn married to Lauretta Montgomery, because she had a right to
expect as good, if not a better connexion; but to see him lift a low-born
orphan to his own sphere, and to be left in the distance herself, such a
contemplation was insupportable.
Mrs. Elwyn had promised that she
would be silent on the subject of Miss Lawson’s conversation to the parties
concerned; she kept her word; but in this poor lady’s character there was so
little delicacy, and so little depth, that her suspicions were open to the most
casual observers; she followed Mary Ellis about whenever Henry Elwyn was in the
house; she sedulously attended when Mary was using her applications to his
hand; and then her excuses were so shallow, and her real motives so obvious,
that poor Mary trembled with confusion and mortification at her coarse remarks;
while Elwyn, though hurt at his mother’s inuendoes, could scarcely help feeling
some degree of satisfaction (such is the innate vanity of that lordly creature
man) in attributing the embarrassment of the modest girl to the cause which his
mother had more than hinted.
There was a sensitive timidity about
Mary Ellis, which rendered her peculiarly susceptible of painful emotions; with
regard to Henry Elwyn, she would have acknowledged her affection for him to the
whole world; her most sanguine wishes were breathed for his happiness, and
these wishes were entirely disinterested; but to be suspected of an attachment
for him, which was to assume the name of love—to be suspected of nourishing an
unrequited passion, this wounded her delicacy—this hurt her maidenly
reserve—this probed her to the quick, and this made her appear
the very thing she would not be; for though she had a strong mind, and an
excellent understanding, she was so open and ingenuous in all her actions, and
in the expression of her sentiments, so truly feminine and so truly modest,
that she could not help feeling much mortification in finding herself a
particular object of observation; and on such an account to disclaim it, would
be almost to acknowledge it, as she had never heard Mrs. Elwyn give it
utterance; but to be followed about, be looked at wherever she came, to observe
the sly whisper of Mrs. Elwyn, and the more sly wink of Miss Lawson, to see the
latter lady place herself, with an air of sedulous
caution, in the seat next Henry Elwyn, all this was most mortifying and
humiliating; and the suspicions of
those around her were converted into certainties,
when they perceived the evident confusion with which she answered the most
common address of Henry Elwyn; a more painful situation, independent of any
serious distress, can scarcely be imagined, especially when we add that she had
more than once caught the pitying glance of Henry Elwyn as he had observed her
emotion, and that she had met the animating scrutiny of Fitzallan’s eye.
Publicity was soon given to Miss Lawson’s report; Elwyn was joked on the
subject of his conquests; and though he disclaimed them, with the gay air which
a young man of his stamp well knows how to assume, yet in his heart he felt
flattered and gratified.
Fitzallan had not been an
unobserving spectator of all that was going on; and returning with Henry from
one of their walks to Salcombe Lodge, he jokingly said—“For pity’s sake, tell
me, Elwyn, what are you going to do with these girls?”
“What girls?” asked Henry.
“Why that frivolous evasion of my
question?” said Fitzallan; “you know that I mean Lauretta Montgomery and Mary
Ellis—you know that they both love you, and
you know not which to choose.”
“Then you tell me what I do not know myself,” answered Henry, laughingly.
“This Mary Ellis is a sweet girl,”
said Fitzallan, “and spite of what I once said concerning a fortunate foundling, I think the man
would be fortunate who could make that foundling his; a man would have nothing to fear in uniting
himself to such a woman; there is a steadiness about her which disarms censure;
there is a gentleness which disarms anger; there is a softness which attracts
affection.”
“She is a good girl,” said Henry,
with warmth, “an excellent girl! she was educated by the first of women, and
her conduct is the best commentary on the character of her protectress; she
would ensure the happiness of her husband.”
“And why not ensure that of my
friend?” asked Fitzallan.
“And can you
ask?—you who have seen—you who have heard—who have listened to the syren
Lauretta?”
“Harry Elwyn,” said Fitzallan,
“spite of my rattle and my raillery, believe me when I tell you, that I have a
serious regard for you; the question now seems to be whether you will choose a
woman who will be your solace, your companion, your friend, your consoler, or
one who will be your pride, your pleasure, your ambition? There is something
dazzling, radiant, and imposing, in the elegant form, in the manner, in the
grace of Lauretta: there is something mild, modest, placid, almost heavenly, in
Mary Ellis.”
“I never thought of Mary Ellis as a
wife; I love her with sincerity; I would do any thing to promote her happiness;
but consider, Fitzallan (and the proudly rebellious blood glowed in his cheek
as he spoke), consider her low origin—consider the obscurity of her birth.”
“That is of very little consequence,
except in the eyes of the world,” returned Fitzallan, “and such a woman would
be all the world to you.”
“While such a woman as Lauretta
Montgomery would be able to give her husband eclat in the eyes of the whole
world.”
“Ah, my friend, I see which way you
bear—I see which side the scale turns; but beware, Elwyn, beware lest you
barter the Substance for the Shadow.”
“I have no intention of marrying at
all,” said Elwyn.
“Then you are acting very wrong—ungenerously by Mary Ellis, as every day you stay near her
may encrease her partiality (though, if I judge her rightly, she has strength
of mind and resolution to bear her up against the tenderness of her heart); cruelly are you acting by Miss Montgomery, for she thinks
you have serious intentions—her mother thinks so too. Can you resolve to
relinquish Lauretta?”
Elwyn paused a moment, then laying
his hand on his heart with emotion—“No,” said he, “I cannot resolve to do
that.”
“However you may decide, my dear
fellow,” said Fitzallan, with warmth, “you have my sincere wishes for your
happiness. I am about to quit you to-morrow; when next
we meet——”
“Aye, when next we meet, my fate may
be decided,” said Elwyn.
The lively pleasantry and sensible
remarks of Mr. Fitzallan, had forcibly impelled the esteem of the family at the
Hall. Mrs. Elwyn thanked him for his “very good company, and hoped he would
soon repeat his visit;” Mr. Elwyn shook him cordially by the hand; and Mary
held out hers with unaffected freedom as she bade him adieu; he pressed it with
fervour, and hurried away, followed by the good wishes of his friend, who, to
dissipate the ennui which was occasioned by the separation, hurried to Salcombe
Lodge. Lauretta was alone, all softness, all smiles; Fitzallan was not there to
share them with him, they were exclusively his own; securely seated in her
heart, he feared no rival, he dreaded no alteration in her sentiments, till she
mentioned her mother’s intention of quitting the Lodge the following day, and
trying the air of Malvern. “The general kindly attends us there, and afterwards
we shall probably proceed alone; but to what place we
shall bend our course, is yet uncertain.”
The intelligence was received as
Lauretta expected it would have been; Elwyn besought, entreated to be the “compagnon du voyage.”
Malvern was a public place; Lauretta
could not deny the request; general Halifax was quite pleased at the
arrangement; lady Lauretta said—“The presence of Elwyn would give a charm to the party, which it otherwise would have wanted;”
and the pleased and gratified Elwyn hasted to the Hall to make preparations for
the journey.
The next morning he took a
respectful leave of his father, and a good-humoured one of his mother; but as
he approached Mary, with “Well, my little doctress, Heaven bless and preserve
you!” an undefinable emotion agitated his frame; like electricity he seemed to
communicate it to Mary. The colour fled from her cheek—her lips quivered—her
hand trembled as it felt the pressure of his lips.
Henry left the house; Mary retired
to her apartment—she gave way to her feelings—she burst into tears. A fearful
presentiment filled her bosom; she seemed to be forsaken by her only friend, to
be once again an isolated and forlorn orphan. She anticipated trials and
sufferings for herself; she did not anticipate felicity
for Harry Elwyn—“Impetuous, headstrong, self-willed,” cried she, “his passions
suffered to master his reason and his judgment, how likely is he to make a
shipwreck of his happiness for ever!—Forbid it, Heaven!—forbid—preserve—and
bless him!”
END OF VOL. II.