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XXII.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ELDERLY LADY
AND GENTLEMAN.
THE CONFESSIONS
OF AN
ELDERLY LADY
GENTLEMAN.
BY THE
COUNTESS OE BLESSINGTON.
LONDON:
THOMAS HODGSON, 13, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1853.
THE CONFESSIONS
OP AX
ELDEELY LADY.
How interminably long the days are! Though broken
by repasts, visits, airings, and reading, still they creep on
with leaden feet. Heigh-ho 1 It was not thus in the
days of my youth. Then the hours seemed to have wings,
and flew away so rapidly that I often wished to retard
their flight. But everything is changed! The veiy
seasons are no longer the same; and then- productions
bear no more comparison with those that I remember,
than—what shall I say?—than the young persons,
misnamed beauties, in these degenerate days, do with
the lovely women who were my contemporaries. Yes,
the flowers have lost their fragrance, the fruit its flavour,
and the vegetables taste as if created by some chemical
process. . . The newspapers, too, partake the general
change; and are, for the most part, filled with the
movements of stupid lords and silly ladies; or the
speeches of some demagogue, placarded into notice by
the praise of one party and abuse of another. Parlia¬
mentary debates, instead of displaying the magniloquent
march of sonorous words that were wont to charm my
youthful ears, rendering each speech worthy of a place
in that excellent work, entitled " Enfield's Speaker," are
now reduced to colloquies, quite as familiar as if the
6
THE CONFESSIONS OF
debaters were seated round their tallies after dinner, and
had only their convivial guests, and not the nation, as
audience. To be sure, people did assert that Dr. Johnson
wrote the reported speeches, Tout so much the better, say
I; for they will stand as honourable records of the abilities
of my contemporaries, when the world no longer re¬
members the rumour of their Johnsonian parentage, and
will form an admirable contrast to the inflated common¬
places, or flimsy theories of the present time.
I have but one consolation for the degeneracy of the
age, and that consists in the conviction that few records
of it will descend to posterity. People seem to lose all
respect for the past; events succeed each other with such
velocity that the most remarkable one of a few years
gone by, is no more remembered than if centuries had
closed over it. The present race seem to think only of
the actual minute. They are prodigals, who give no
thought to their predecessors, and no care to their suc¬
cessors. People were not thus heartless in my youthful
days—but everything is changed I
The magazines, too, how they are. fallen off 1 No
longer do two interesting looking heads, ycleped, " A
tCte-a-tete," or "The fair deceiver and the enamoured
Philander," meet the gaze, initiating one into some
recent morqeau of amusing scandal. No—the portrait
of some would-be-beauty, or modern author, stares one
in the face, endeavouring to look handsome, or clever,
with all her or his might; but as it is not often that
artists succeed in bestowing either of these expressions
on their subjects, they are frequently as unkindly treated
by art as by nature.
Then the matter of these magazines—how infinitely
inferior are they to those of my youth! Pretentious
philosophical disquisitions on recent discoveries in science
—sketchy tales, with shadowy personages—crude re¬
views on as crude literary productions—poems guiltless
of thought—and a rechavffte of the events of the past
month, as insipid as rechauffees generally are.
The editors of the ephemeral productions to which I
allude, ambitious to contain in their pages some attractive
AX ELDERLY LADY. 7
article, and knowing the craving appetites of their readers
for personalities, dress up a forgotten anecdote, or obso¬
lete scandal, with the sauce piquant of inuendoes and
exaggerations; or else with tales professing to treat of
fashionable life, with characters that bear no more
resemblance to living ones, than do the figures on which
milliners and tailors display their garments for sale.
But their conclusions satisfy the crowd, who, unable to
penetrate the sanctuaries of aristocratic life, cannot judge
of the coarseness and want of truth of the pretended
representations.
The study of history I carefully eschew—for modern
historians are all would-be-philosophers; who, instead
of relating facts as they occurred, give us their version,
or rather perversions of them, always coloured by their
political prejudices or distorted to establish some theory,
and rendered obscure by cumbrous attempts to trace
effect from cause. They tell us not only what potentates,
heroes, and statesmen said, or are imagined to have said,
but also, not unfrequently, favour us with what they
thought; though they do not quite satisfy us as to the
authenticity of the sources whence they derived then-
information. Poetry I have been compelled to abandon
ever since Byron demoralized the public taste, by substi¬
tuting passion for sentiment, and originated a herd of
servile imitators of all his defects, but who possess not
one ray of the genius that redeemed them.
Dryden, Waller, Pope, were the poets read in my
youth. Their lofty thoughts came to us in as lofty
diction, like the beauties of that day, attired in their
court-dresses. Novels were then an agreeable resource.
Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa Harlowe—how often
have I dwelt on your pages, my sympathy excited and
my reason satisfied. Yes—Richardson's heroines were
not only women, but, with the exception of Pamela, they
were gentlewomen, a class that seems now to have
passed away from our modern novels, as wholly as they
have from society: a genus ycleped "ladies"^ being
substituted, which no more resembles their dignified
progenitors, than the flimsy draperies of the modem
8
THE CONFESSIONS OF
originals of these meretricious shadows, do the substantial
velvets and brocades in which my stately contemporaries
were attired.
Times are indeed sadly changed 1 Fashion, a nonde¬
script which, like Milton's allegorical personification of
death, has no definite shape, has now usurped the place
of decorum; and, like death, levels all distinctions.
This same fashion is a monstrous growth of these
degenerate days, which, like the idol of Juggernaut,
often crushes those who prostrate themselves before her
revolving wheel. It is the sworn foe to all that is good
and respectable; and encourages only the parvenus which
spring up beneath its unwholesome shade, as does the
fungus beneath that of some tree, whose deleterious
moisture gives it birth.
"Well I, at least, have not bowed down and worshipped
this colossal idol. I have not left the residence of my
ancestors, because fashion had proscribed its precincts,
to become the neighbour of some returned nabob, or
retired bill-broker, with no recommendation save his
ill-acquired wealth. I have not dismantled my mansion
of its cumbrous but richly carved furniture, to adopt, at
a later period, a composition in imitation of it. No—I
saw the rage for Grecian and Eoman decoration pass by,
as calmly as I have since seen them replaced by the
angular ameublement of the melo-dramatic Emperor of
the French; and have lived to witness the solid magnifi¬
cence of the fourteenth Louis, revived by those who are
as incapable of comprehending, as of emulating the
splendour and abilities of that dignified model for kings.
I smile at beholding the ill-executed imitations in the
mansions of my acquaintance, of the costly furniture
which, from mine, has never been displaced; while they
would gladly purchase back their ancestral possessions
from the brokers who have collected them to sell again
at more than thrice their original cost.
Yes, it is very satisfactory to my feelings to witness
the restoration of true taste in furniture, at least; almost
as much so as it was to see Louis XVIII. restored to
the throne of his forefathers, whence his less fortunate
AN ELDERLY LADY. ij
brother has been exiled. We have fallen upon evil days;
" the march of intellect,1' as they call it, has been in my
opinion a triumphal march over the prostrated privileges
of sovereigns, who dare no longer consider their subjects
as their unalienable property, nor govern by the good
old monarchical principle of " Je veux."
This is a melancholy and an unnatural state of things;
but I console myself with thinking that it cannot last,
though, alasl it bids fair to endure my time; conse¬
quently, I am somewhat disposed to adopt the philosophy
of the fifteenth Louis, and exclaim, " Apres nous le
deluge.''''
• I wish I had children, for I should, in that case, have
had now around me a third generation of scions from
the parent stem, who might have loved me, and whom I
might have loved; at all events, over whose destinies
my fortune would have given me an influence, and next
to loving, and being loved, is the pleasure of governing.
But this wearisome solitude, imposed by age and infirmi¬
ties, and uncheered by fond faces, or affectionate voices,
it is hard to bear. Nature has implanted in every breast
the yearning desire to be an object of sympathy and
affection to its fellow. The young feel it, but they feel
too the glad consciousness of possessing the power to ex¬
cite and repay the sentiment; while the old are too well
aware how unlovely is age, not to distrust the appearance
of an attachment they fear they are incapable of creating.
They become suspicious and peevish from this humiliating
self-knowledge, and consequently less worthy of the
affection for which they yearn.
Every one now writes, and the occupation may serve
to amuse me, even though its fruits fail to amuse others;
and thus I who love to live in the past, may borrow from
it the means of rendeiing the present less insupportable.
Shall I then take courage, make my confessions to the
public, and trust to it for absolution? It is an indulgent
monster after all, which swallows much that is bad.
Why, therefore, should I fear it? But who will read
the confessions of an old woman? and in an age when
everything old, except furniture, plate, and_wine, is
10
tHE CONFESSIONS OF
exploded? IPimporte, if those only wrote who were
sure of being read, we should have fewer authors; and
the shelves of libraries would not groan beneath the
weight of dusty tomes more voluminous than luminous.
Yes, I will write my memoirs.
" Did your ladyship speak?" asked that much enduring
woman, my dame de compagnie, one of the most uncom¬
panionable of that class of persons denominated com¬
panions. My conscience does sometimes reproach me
for sundry pettish reproofs, and petulant phoos and
pshaws, addressed to this modern Griselda, who " assents
to all I will, or do, or say," with a meekness very trying
to a temper like mine. She, however, is at least ten
years my junior, and will, in all human probability, live
to enjoy the comfortable provision I have secured her in
my will; thinking perhaps that she has well earned it,
by a twenty years' daily and hourly practice of that
difficult virtue—Patience.
Yes, I will write my confessions, and "nought extenu¬
ate, or set down aught in malice." As a proof of my
sincerity, I shall record my dialogue with my dame de
compagnie.
"Mrs. Yincent, ring the bell, if you please—-here, that
will do; you always ring it as if you imagined the ser¬
vants to be deaf."
"I beg your ladyship's pardon; but, if you will be
pleased to recollect, you, this morning, complained that
I rang the bell so gently that the servants never heard
the first pull."
"Pray don't ask me to be pleased to recollect; 1
never am pleased to recollect such puerile fiddle-faddle.
Your memory is so tenacious, that you can quote every
syllable I utter in the course of a week."
It will be perceived by the malicious reader, that in
my petulance, I was unconsciously comprising my own
conversation within the contemptuous epithet of fiddle-
faddle. But whether my unhappy companion was equally
acute, I cannot determine; for she wa3 far too well
disciplined to allow any indication of discovery to be
perceptible.
AN LLDEIiLY LADY.
11
"A^hy don't you ring the bell again? you see no one
has answered."
Enter John.
"And so, John, here has Mrs. Vincent been ringing
this la3t half hour. It really is too provoking that none
of you will answer the bell."
"Very sorry, indeed, your ladyship; but I only heard
the bell once."
"There, you are convinced, Mrs. Vincent; I always
tell you that you do not ring sufficiently loud; I wish
you would remember this another time. Let me consider,
what did I want? What did I require, Mrs. Vincent?"
"Indeed, madam, I do not know; your ladyship did
not inform me."
"There it is, you never remember what I want; it
really is enough to vex a saint."
" I'm sure, madam, I am very sorry,"
" So you always say, I hear nothing but ' I beg your
pardon,' and, ' I am very sorry,' all day long.—Place
the easy chair with an extra pillow before my writing-
desk, wheel the desk close to the window, and put a
tabouret for my feet. There, that will do. See that
the pens are good, the ink not too thick, and lay a quire
of foolscap wove paper on the desk; not that abominable
glazed paper which dazzles my eyes. I intend to write,
Mrs. Vincent, yes, to write a good deal, unless it should
fatigue me: so wipe my spectacles. You had better
remain in the room, to see that the fire does not go out.
You can read, if you like it; but mind you do not make
a noise in turning over the leaves, you know you have a
trick of doing so. And remember, too, you do not make
that disagreeable sound to which you are much addicted,
a sort of clearing of the trachea, which is extremely
trying to my nerves. There again, Mrs. Vincent, have
I not told you a thousand times not to give way to that
offensive habit of sighing? I cannot bear it."
" I beg your ladyship's pardon, I am very sor—"
"Ohl dear—Oh I dear, I never can say a word to
you, that you do not forthwith answer me with, ' I beg
your pardou, I am very sorry.' "
12
THE CONFESSIONS OF
" Indeed, madam—"
"Don't say another word, spare my nerves; you
know, or ought to know, that I detest explanations."
If my readers are not disgusted with this specimen of
my irritability and egotism, I will proceed with my task.
My first recollections point to Walsingham Castle,
where my happiest days were passed. Well do I
remember a certain dressing-room in it that breathed
the mingled odours of every fragrant flower, odours ever
since associated in my mind with the memory of that
chamber and its inmate. Reclined in an easy chair,
propped by pillows, a fragile form, draped in muslin of
a snowy whiteness, used to meet my gaze. A pale, but
beautiful face, with large lustrous eyes, whose tender
expression is even now remembered, used to welcome
me with smiles. A soft delicate hand used to smooth
my curls, and draw me fondly to her heart; and a low
sweet voice, that only uttered words of lore, used to
greet me. Never can I forget the warm tears that often
fell on my face and shoulders, when strained in the con¬
vulsive embrace of that lovely being.
"Why does mamma weep when she kisses me?"
demanded I, one day, of the upper nurse.
"You must not ask questions, Lady Arabella," was
the satisfactory reply; a reply that generally met all
the interrogatories I addressed to the pragmatical Mrs.
Sydenham.
Good Mrs. Mary, as I designated her assistant, was
less taciturn; and to my reiterated demand of why.
mamma wept? told me, with a deep sigh, and melancholy
shake of the head, that it was because mamma was
going to leave me, and was sorry.
" But she shan't go, if she does not like it," answered
I, with the wilfulness that even then characterised me;
" I won't let her go."
" Poor child," murmured good Mrs. Mary, and a tear
trembled in her eye.
The next time I entered the odorous dressing-room,
mamma appeared to me suffering more than usual. Papa
was sitting by her side, and held one of her hands in his.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
13
She embraced me fondly, and lie took me on his knee.
They looked at me, and then at each other, with an
expression so piteous, that it reminded me of good Mrs.
Mary's explanation of mamma's tears, and I uttered
imploringly, " Do not go away, dear sweet mamma,
stay with papa and Arabella."
She burst into a passion of tears, and my father too
became greatly agitated.
"Oh! yes," resumed I, "good Mrs. Mary told me
you wept because you were sorry to go away."
She sobbed in agony, and caught me to her breast,
and my father pressed us both in his arms.
I saw my mother no more in the fragrant dressing-
room ; but was afterwards taken a few times to her bed¬
room, whence my father seldom moved. She looked
paler than ever, and her voice was so low that it could
only whisper; still it uttered fond words, and sounded
sweetly in my ears. Every one moved so gently, and
spoke so softly in that room, that my steps only were
heard; the other persons glided about like shadows.
My father looked nearly as pallid as my mother, and
scarcely ever glanced from her; unless when he turned to
conceal the tears that were continuallyspringing to his eyes.
One day I was sent for, and found my mother sup¬
ported by pillows, and her eyes half closed. My father
had been reading aloud to her; and I heard her murmur,
" Thy will, not mine, be done, 0 Lord!"
He took me in his arms, and held me to her. She
pressed me faintly, but fondly; a few burning tears fell
on my face, and she pronounced, in accents broken by
the approach of death, a mother's last blessing. I, too,
wept, though, alas! I knew not then what bitter cause
I had for tears; and when my father offered to withdraw
me from her fond embrace, I clung passionately to her.
At this moment the clergyman was announced: she
relaxed her hold of me, and I was taken from the chamber
violently sobbing.
I remember that when I reached the door I looked
back, and caught her tearful eyes strained to see me to
the last. What agony was then in their expression!
14
THE CONCESSIONS OF
I novei' saw my mother again, for she died in two
hours after I was torn from her. To this early bereave¬
ment of the truest, tenderest friend that youth can ever
know, I attribute all the errors of my life.
The next day, and the following one, I asked re¬
peatedly to be taken to mamma. Mrs. Sydenham looked
grave, said it could not be; and good Mistress Mary
wept, and, though always affectionate to me, appeared
still more so, notwithstanding that Mrs. Sydenham more
than once reprimanded her, and sternly desired her not
to spoil me.
In a week after, I was dressed in black, and noticed
that all' the household was similarly clad. I objected to
this change in my dress, and said that mamma would
not like my ugly black frock, as she was only fond of
pretty white ones. This remark produced a few more
tears from good Mistress Mary, who was again rebuked
by Mrs. Sydenham, for being, as she termed it, always
whimpering. I had an instinctive dislike to the upper
nurse, and a preference to Mary, whose tears, though I
knew not their source, soothed me.
The next day, the sounds of many carriage-wheels,
and the champing of steeds, drew me to the window of
my nursery, which overlooked the court of the castle
I clapped my hands in childish glee, when I saw the
cortege, decked with nodding plumes, that moved slowly
and proudly along.
" Where are all these fine carriages going?" asked I,
" and why are so many of them black?"
" They are taking away your mamma," answered
Mary, as well as her tears and sobs would allow her.
I, too, began to weep, exclaiming that they should
not take my own dear, sweet mamma away; but the
cortege continued to advance, until the last nodding
plume vanished from my tearful sight, and I sank on the
bosom of good Mary, exhausted by my sorrow. How
silent was the whole castle 1 Not a sound was heard
save the tolling of the church-bell, that came booming
on the ear from the distance, or the chimes of the great
clock, as it marked the flight of time.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
15
The gloom chilled me, and yet it was in unison with
my feelings; for though too young to comprehend tbe
misfortune that had befallen me, a mysterious sympathy
seemed to render silence and sorrow congenial to me.
The following day my father sent for me. I found
him in the library, so pale and care-worn, that, young
as I was, the alteration in his appearance struck me
forcibly. He was clad in deep mourning, and his eyes
indicated that tears had lately been no strangers to
them.
I rushed into his arms, and wept as I hid my face in
his bosom, to which I fondly nestled, as I had been wont
to do to the maternal one. He dismissed the attendant;
and as he bent his head over mine, I felt his tears fall
on my hair and neck, and heard the deep sighs that
heaved his breast.
44 You weep, dear papa," said I, 44 because my own
sweet mamma is gone away. She, too, wept, for she
was sorry to leave you and me. Ho you remember,
papa, how she cried and kissed us both?"
He clasped me convulsively, called me his last, his
only comfort.
44 But won't dear mamma come back to us?" asked I.
44 No, my precious child, never; but we shall go to
her."
44 Oh 1 I am so glad; I hope, papa, it will be soon.
And shall we too go in that black coach, with all the
nodding feathers? and will the bells toll, as when dear
mamma went? How glad I shall be that day; and you,
papa, will you not be glad ?"
My poor father sobbed aloud, and I repeatedly kissed
his cheek.
44 Look here, my dear Arabella," said he, opening the
miniature case now before me, 44 do you know this face?"
44'Tis my own mamma; my dear, sweet mamma,"
answered I. 44 Ohl let me always have it to look at."
From this period, I spent a considerable portion of
every day with my father, who never failed to show me
the cherished miniature, or to talk to me of its dear and
lost original.
16
THE CONFESSIONS OF
A year elapsed before he left the solitude of Walsingham
Castle; during that epoch he made me comprehend that
my mother was dead. How well I recollect the feeling
of awe that crept through my young heart, as he ex¬
plained the nature of this tremendous but inevitable
passage to eternity. Yet, though awed, I loved to
dwell on the subject; and death, and a union with my
mother, henceforth became an association of ideas in my
mind, that robbed the one of its terrors, and softened
the regret entertained for the other.
My father, never of a robust constitution, began to
show symptoms of confirmed ill health, in less than a
year from the decease of my mother. So fervent had
been his attachment to her, that time, though it soothed
the bitterness of grief, could not obliterate her image, or
console him for her loss; and I believe, that had he been
childless, he would have hailed death as a release from
an existence which had lost all charm for him since she
had been torn from his arms.
It was solely for my sake that he submitted to a regime
the most abstemious, and to a system of medical care,
which condemned him to the most monotonous mode of
existence imaginable. I was his constant companion;
seated on a low tabouret, by his invalid chair or sofa, I
established all my toys in his library, built card houses
on his couch, accompanied him in all his airings, prattling
to him every thought that passed through my infant
mind, and never leaving him but with sorrow.
A fear that I inherited the malady of my mother, or
his own delicacy of constitution, operated continually on
his imagination, rendered morbidly apprehensive, by a
degree of sensibility rarely belonging to the male cha¬
racter, and nursed into existence by the loss he had
sustained, and the seclusion in which he lived.
Mrs. Sydenham had been discharged soon after my
mother's death, owing to some symptoms of dislike
displayed towards her by me; and good Mrs. Mary, in
consequence of the partiality I had evinced towards her,
was elevated to the place of upper nurse.
Various and minute were the questions put by my
AN ELDERLY LADY.
17
poor dear father to her, when she brought me every
morning to the library.
" How had I slept—had I eaten my breakfast with
appetite—had I been cheerful?" were interrogatories
daily made. My countenance was anxiously examined,
and my pulse felt, by the affectionate and nervous
valetudinarian; and a physician was in regular attend¬
ance, to report on the state of my health.
No wonder, then, that I soon began to discover that
I was an object of no little importance to the house; a
discovery almost always dangerous to the discoverer,
whether infant or adult. Consequently, I speedily dis¬
played some infallible proofs of my acquired knowledge,
by indulging in sundry caprices and petulancies not
peculiarly agreeable to good Mrs. Mary; and very
alarming to my poor father, whenr repeated to him, in
my nurse's phraseology, which thus represented my
ebullitions of ill humour: "Lady Arabella had been a
little uneasy all the morning. Her ladyship had made a
good breakfast, it was true, but she had refused to allow
her mouth to be washed after, which she, good Mrs.
Mary, was afraid was a sign of something feverish in the
habit. Her little ladyship had thrown by all her dolls—
in short, she had not been as cheerful as usual."
Well did I observe the anxiety this intelligence
occasioned my too indulgent parent; and my pride was
gratified by it. The bell was rung, Dr. Warminster,
the Halford of his day, sent for, and all good Mrs. Mary's
information detailed to him with scrupulous exactitude.
My pulse was felt, my tongue examined, my eyes
scrutinised; and after the termination of this profound
investigation, I was pronounced, ex cathedra, to be in a
state of perfect health.
" But, my dear doctor," asked my father, " how do
you account for her uneasiness? Do you not think it
must have proceeded from some incipient feverish excite¬
ment acting on the system, some nervous derangement—
eh, my good doctor?"
" I think, my dear lord," was the answer, " that your
little girl requires at this period a governess more than a
B
18
THE CONFESSIONS OF
physician; and advise, by all means, your lordship's
providing her with one, as soon as a person befitting the
situation can be found."
" A governess, doctor, you surprise me," replied my
father, " What can a governess have to do with the
symptoms of uneasiness I have related?"
" A good one may prevent a repetition of them, my
lord. The truth is, your daughter is now of an age to
stand in need of a more intellectual person than Mrs.
Mary; one who can control her temper and direct her
pursuits, as well as attend to her health."
" I assure you, doctor, that her temper is faultless,"
said my father, " and with regard to her pursuits, she is
as far advanced as most children of her age. She can
already spell several words, and is peculiarly intelligent."
" Her intelligence I admit," responded the doctor,
with a peculiar smile, " but her progress in learning I
think not very forward. Why, let me see, Lady Arabella
must be now eight years old; and I do not know a child
of that age that cannot read fluently, and speak two or
more languages."
How attentively I listened to this dialogue 1 and how
cordially did I dislike Doctor Warminster, who made so
light of my acquirements!
My poor father looked distressed, and half offended;
for I believe, that, judging from the precocious shrewd¬
ness of my observations, viewed through the flattering
medium of parental affection, he had hitherto considered
me a sort of prodigy. The truth is, that from never
having mingled with other children, and having lived
so continually with my father, my intellectual faculties
had attained a maturity disproportioned to my age and
acquirements. I could think long before I could read;
and now, that for the first time, I became aware that
children of my age were more advanced in education
than myself, my vanity was cruelly wounded; and I
determined, with that strong volition that even then
formed a peculiar characteristic of my nature, to forthwith
apply myself to study.
When Doctor Warminster withdrew, I approached
AN ELDERLY LADY. 19
my father, and looking in his face, asked him, in a
reproachful tone, why I had not been taught to read?
He appeared embarrassed, but tenderly embracing me,
said that my studies should forthwith commence.
" What is a governess?" demanded I.
" A lady, my dear," replied my father, " who under¬
takes to instinct children in all that it is necessary that
that they should know.
" Then let me have a governess directly, papa; how¬
ever she must be a nice, pretty governess, not an old
ugly woman like Mrs. Sydenham, but one who will teach
me to read very soon, and help me to build card-houses
on your sofa."
Never shall I forget the expression of perplexity which
my poor father's countenance exhibited at this request.
" Why, my child," answered he, "when you have a
governess, you must study your lessons with her in
another apartmentand he sighed deeply as he finished
the sentence.
" But I won't learn my lessons anywhere else but
here," rejoined I petulantly; "and my governess shall
teach me Acre/" And I burst into a paroxysm of
tears.
This exhibition of my temper convinced my poor
father of the justice of Doctor Warminster's observations,
relative to the necessity of having a governess for me.
But it did not suggest to him the prudence of checking
my wilfulness; for instead .of reprehending my peevish¬
ness, he fondly embraced and soothed me, promising
that I should have a nice governess; though he was less
explicit as to his intentions respecting her professional
duties, a point which I had determined on exacting
being performed in his presence in the library.
A few letters were next day addressed to the nearest
female relations of my father, stating his desire of pro¬
curing a governess for me. . I know not whether he
informed them that good looks were an indispensable
requisite in the lady who was to undertake the office;
but I do know that the half-dozen Mistresses and Misses
who came recommended by them, might have served as
20
THE CONFESSIONS OF
specimens of female ugliness. A glance at me, who
returned it by a look of undisguised disapproval of the
candidates, induced my father to dismiss each successively,
with a polite intimation that they should hear from him
in a few days.
Then came letters of remonstrance from the ladies who
had sent them; each being extremely surprised that her
protegee, Mrs. or Miss Tomkins or Thomson, had not
been engaged, as she was precisely the most suitable,
desirable, and appropriate person in existence. All these
letters, of course, my father was compelled to answer;
and the difficulty and anxiety of inventing plausible
excuses, which should be satisfactory to the patronesses,
and yet not unjust or offensive to the objects of their
recommendation, increased the nervous trepidation of the
poor invalid in no common degree.
I now began to think that a pretty governess was an
unattainable good; and in proportion to this belief,
became my impatient desire to possess so precious a
rarity. My father, with some hesitation "and embarrass¬
ment, informed Doctor Warminster of his wish to procure
a young lady as'governess; and added, that his poor
dear Arabella positively insisted that good looks should
distinguish the person to be selected for the situation.
I was present when this statement was made, and
could as little imagine why my poor father's pale cheek
became tinged with red, as I could divine why Doctor
Warminster first looked surprised, then smiled in a
peculiar way, and at length, rubbing his hands, and
positively chuckling outright, repeated:—
" A young and.pretty governess, my lord? why, bless
my soul, youth and beauty are so generally objected to
in teachers, that I am rather surprised—that is, I am
somewhat astonished that your lordship should consider
them as indispensable requisites."
My father's cheek became still more red, as he hesi¬
tatingly replied:—
"You mistake, my good doctor, it is not I, but my
daughter, who entertains this desire; and my poor
Arabella has been so accustomed to be indulged, that in
AN ELDERLY LADY.
21
a point on which she seems to have set her heart, I do
not wish that she should be thwarted."
" But your lordship is aware, that a young and pretty
woman living in the house of a single man, may give
rise to surmises injurious to her, and not agreeable to
her employer."
My father looked still more embarrassed, but he
falteringly replied:—
" My reputation, doctor, ought to be, I should hope,
a sufficient guarantee against all such surmises. No one
who knows me could suppose, that* I could so far forget
what is due to my only child, as to place an instructress
over her, of whose morals I had not the best opinion."
" I beg your lordship's pardon; I did not presume to
doubt your morals, nor those of the young lady, whoever
she may be, who is to fill the situation of governess to
Lady Arabella; I only alluded to what the world would
be likely to say on such a subject."
" I won't have an ugly governess, that I won't," said
I, bursting into tears, for I had conceived the impression
that Doctor Warminster was opposed to my having a
pretty one.
The doctor smiled spitefully, as I thought, and my
poor father wiped my eyes, and kissed my cheeks.
Encouraged by his caresses, I repeated: " I will have a
pretty governess 1 a very pretty governess! shan't I, dear
papa?"
As I thus vociferated, I looked triumphantly at the
doctor, who took his leave, promising to seek for the
sort of person " that would satisfy the fastidious taste of
Lady Arabella."
The following week brought a letter from the widow
of a beneficed clergyman on one of my father's estates,
detailing, that from her scanty income and large family,
she was anxious to place one of her daughters in some
family as governess, and entreating his lordship to exert
himself with his female relations to procure her a situa¬
tion. She added, that she hoped the youth of her
daughter would not be an insuperable objection, as she
was remarkably steady.
22
TIIE CONFESSIONS OF
" Why, this is the very thing," said my father.
"What, papa?" asked I.
" I think, my dear," answered he, " that I have at
last found you a governess."
" Oh, I am so glad, so very glad," and I clapped my
hands with joy; "is she very young, dear papa? and is
she very, very pretty?"
" Yes, very young, my dear," replied my father, "and
very good, I am sure; for her father was an exemplary
man, and her mother, I have heard, is an amiable
woman."
"But is she very pretty, papa?"
" I don't know, my love, for I have never seen her;
but, dear Arabella, remember what I have often told you,
that it is better to be good than pretty."
"But I will have her pretty and good too; for all
pretty people are good, and ugly people are bad and
cross."
" Indeed you are wrong, my child."
Doubtlessly he was proceeding to demonstrate my
error; but I interrupted him, by saying—
"No, indeed, papa, I am not wrong; don't you re¬
member how pretty, how very, very pretty my own dear
sweet mamma was, and you often told me no one was
ever so good?"
He pressed me to his breast, and a tear moistened my
cheek; but I had not yet finished my exordium, so
continued:—
" And you, dear papa, you are very pretty, and who
was ever so good?"
He kissed me again.
" But naughty Mrs. Sydenham, who was always cross
and disagreeable, she was ugly, very ugly, was she not,
papa? while good Mrs. Mary is pretty, though not so
pretty as I want my governess to be. Yes, all pretty
people are good, and ugly people are naughty, so I will
have a pretty governess."
The allusion to my mother, and perhaps the compliment
to himself, silenced, if they did not convince, my too
indulgent father; and he determined to write to Mrs.
AN ELDEBLY LADY.
23
Melville, to send up her daughter, as he wished to engage
a governess for his little girl. If Miss Melville suited,
she would be retained; and if not, a compensation would
be bestowed upon her for the trouble and expense of the
journey.
I counted the hours until an answer was received, and
shortly after Miss Melville, attended by her brother,
arrived. How my heart palpitated when she was an¬
nounced ! and how I longed to have the deep bonnet and
black veil, which, though turned back, still shaded her
face, removed, that I might ascertain if she was indeed
very pretty.
" Tell her to take off her bonnet, dear papa," whis¬
pered I.
" No, not now, my dear," said he, sotto voce.
The sound of her voice pleased me, it was low, soft,
and clear, and there was a timidity in her manner, that
prepossessed me in her favour.
My father kindly desired that her brother might remain
in the house, and ordered an apartment to be prepared
for him, and good Mrs. Mary was summoned to conduct
Miss Melville to hers.
" Let me go with her," said I, influenced by the
curiosity I experienced to behold her face; and taking
her hand, I led her up the grand staircase, though good
Mrs. Mary was for conducting her by the back stairs.
When we had entered the room prepared for her, I
scarcely allowed her to remove her gloves, before I en¬
treated her to take off her bonnet; nay, I began to untie
its strings myself, so impatient was I to examine her
face. An exclamation of delight escaped me as I beheld
it; for never did a more lovely one meet human gaze.
A profusion of chestnut-coloured silken ringlets shaded
a countenance of exquisite beauty, on which candour and
innocence had set their seal; and a figure, slight, but of
rounded symmetry, was revealed when the large cloak in
which it had been enveloped was removed.
Her beautiful face became suffused with blushes as I
exclaimed, clapping ray hands all the while:—
"0 yes, she is so pretty, so very, very pretty! Now,
24
THE CONFESSIONS OF
I have a nice pretty governess, I never will let her leave
mel" and I kissed her affectionately.
I thought, but perhaps it might be only fancy, that
. good Mrs. Mary did not seem so delighted with my new
governess as I expected she would be, for I had already
made up my mind that all who loved me should love her;
consequently, I resented this imagined slight to my new
favourite.
I left her, while she prepared to change her travelling
dress for another, and rushed frantic with joy to my
father, vehemently exclaiming: " Ohl dear papa, she is
so beautiful, so very, very beautiful, that I am sure she
must be good!"
I was disappointed by the air of indifference with
which this information was received, and was disposed
to reproach my father with his insensibility, but I ob¬
served that he looked more pale and languid than usual,
and therefore, from an instinct of affection, forbore.
Doctor Warminster coming in soon after, pronounced
that my father had caught a cold, and manifested a
feverish tendency; consequently commanded that he
should confine himself to his chamber for a day or two,
and see no one.
How I hated the doctor for this command, for I had
set my heart on astonishing my father by the beauty of
Miss Melville, and could not support, with common
patience, the idea of any postponement of the gratifi¬
cation of my impetuous wishes.
" Perhaps, my dear doctor, you would do me the
favour of seeing Miss Melville and her brother," said my
father. " You will, in a conversation with her, ascertain
whether she is capable of discharging the duties of the
situation which I wish her to fill; for, if otherwise, the
sooner she knows that she cannot retain it, the less
painful will be the loss of it to her."
" I won't have my pretty governess sent away,"
sobbed I, "I love Miss Melville, and I will have her
stay with me always."
My father gave a look of helpless languor to the
doctor, who in return shrugged up his shoulders, a
AN ELDERLY LADY.
25
favourite movement with him when not pleased, and left
the library to see Miss Melville and report progress.
" I know he won't like my pretty governess," said I;
" for he wanted me to have an ugly old cross one, I
know he did; and I don't like nasty, ugly Doctor
"Warminster, that I don't!"
" Really, my dear Arabella," replied my father, " you
are now unjust and unreasonable. Doctor Warminster
has been always kind and attentive, and you grieve me
when I see you thus obstinate and ungrateful."
" You grieve me," was the severest reproof I had
ever heard from my kind father's lips, and its power
over me was omnipotent. It immediately rendered me
docile; and, as I kissed him, I promised never again to
designate Doctor Warminster, as being "nasty" or
" uglytwo expressions which, my father observed,
were exceedingly unbecoming in the mouth of a young
lady.
I counted the minutes impatiently during the doctor's
absence. At the end of an hour, however, he returned,
and confirmed my report as to the appearance of Miss
Melville, by stating it to be, according to his guarded
phraseology, " peculiarly prepossessing. But what is
more important," continued he, " the young lady appears
sensible, modest, intelligent, and well educated, and,
notwithstanding her youth, I hope your lordship will
have reason to be satisfied with her. The brothex-, too,
is a well-mannered, gentlemanly person, who wishes to
enter the church, for which he has been brought up."
My father appeared highly gratified by this account,
while I, though greatly pleased at having my favourable
impressions relative to my pretty governess confii-med,
felt abashed at the consciousness of the injustice I had
rendered to Dr. Warminstei-.
The indisposition of my poor father pi-oved more serious
than even his physician had first appi-ehended. It con¬
fined him to his bedroom for above a fortnight, to which
I was prohibited moi-e than a daily visit of five minutes'
duration, perfect quiet being pronounced essential to his
recovery. But even in that limited space I forgot not
26
THE CONFESSIONS OF
to repeat the warmest praises of dear, good Miss Melville,
omitting the epithet " pretty," which she had requested
me never to apply to her.
" But you are pretty, prettier than any one," would I
say, in remonstrance to her request on this subject;
" and the truth should always be spoken, papa has often'
told me."
" We are all formed by the Almighty," would Miss
Melville answer, " it is His will that we should be plain
or otherwise, and we should never attach any importance
to the matter."
The fortnight of my father's illness being spent
entirely with my governess, enabled me to make a rapid
progress in learning. Her gentleness, and patient atten¬
tion, were assisted by my own anxious desire, and I was
delighted, when not at my lessons, to be read to by Miss
Melville. Though the time passed quickly and agreeably
in my new studies, still I longed for my dear father's
convalescence, that I might enjoy his society as well as
Miss Melville's, and that I might also witness his surprise
and pleasure at beholding her. He evinced, however,
no desire on this point; on the contrary, he had been
some days in the library, and had resumed his ordinary
routine of life, and yet he still postponed a compliance
with my oft reiterated request to see her.
What he refused to my entreaties, he at length yielded
to my tears; and it was agreed that Miss Melville should be
invited to the library that evening. I watched, anxiously
watched his countenance, as she entered the room.
But, to my great surprise and disappointment, I dis¬
covered no symptom of the rapturous admiration I had
childishly anticipated. His reception of her was polite,
nay, kind; and her timidity, which had no rustic
awkwardness in it, but evidently arose from native
modesty, rendered him still more affable to her.
Vain of the little I had already acquired, I now dis¬
played all my learning to my delighted father, who was
as surprised as gratified by my rapid progress.
Two hours fleeted quickly and happily away: Miss
Melville was requested to give a list of all the books
AN ELDEBLY LADY. 27
required for my scholastic pursuits, and politely offered
permission to use any works the library contained, for
her own perusal. She then lgft my father's presence,
evidently pleased with her reception; and my father
seemed no less so with her.
The next day, her brother was received by my father,
who, after a long conversation, found him so sensible
and well-informed, that he wrote a letter to his friend
the Bishop of , to recommend him for holy orders;
being fully determined to bestow on him a small living
in his gift.
This unlooked-for good fortune delighted Miss Melville,
who devoted every hour, and I may add, every thought,
to my improvement, which was as rapid as it was grati¬
fying to my father. Our evenings were always spent in
the library; where, in a short time, at my request, a
piano-forte was installed, from which Miss Melville drew
sounds that answer only to a master-hand. We soon
persuaded her to accompany them with her voice; and
it would be difficult to say, whether the father or daughter
listened with more pleasure to her dulcet tones.
Having heard my father desire Doctor Warminster to
look out for a gentleman to read to him, an hour or two
a day, his own sight being too weak to permit his
studying without pain, I entreated him to let Miss
Melville undertake this office. At first he declined, but
at length yielded, as he generally did, to my pertinacious
perseverance.
The flexibility and delicate sweetness of her voice,
the distinctness of her enunciation, and the correctness
of her style, at once surprised and charmed him. How
triumphant was I, at witnessing thi3 effect, though I
longed to be able to share this now task with her. Two
hours a day were henceforth devoted to this occupation.
The books selected had a reference to my studies.
History, travels, and belles lettres were perused. I soon
learned to point out, on the map, the different places
named in the books, and made no inconsiderable progress
in chronology. My mind expanded; every day marked
my improvement, and my father witnessed it with grati-
28
THE CONFESSIONS OF
tude and pleasure. His health, too, appeared to become
less delicate, now that he had a constant and cheerful
society, and music, which always soothed and cheered him.
Six months flew by, and found me each day more
fondly attached to Miss Melville. In her gentle ear was
poured every thought of my youthful mind, and on her
sympathy did I always count, and never in vain in all
my pleasures or pains, and the latter were but " few and
far between." The manner of my dear father towards
this charming young woman, was marked by a respectful
kindness that never varied, a kindness as remote from
familiarity as from hauteur. Hers towards him was the
deferential attention of a modest young woman, who
never presumed on his affability, but was anxious to
merit a continuance of it. Doctor "Warminster soon
became one of her warmest friends, and was never tired
of commending her to my father.
We were all happy, when a letter arrived, announcing
a visit from a maiden aunt of my father, who rarely
visited London, but who, when she came, took up her
abode at his mansion. Young as I was, I could perceive
that this announcement gave him pain; and when he
communicated it to Doctor Warminster, the good man
shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in a manner
that indicated quite as expressively as words could do,
that the expected arrival afforded him no satisfaction. I
had no recollection of the Lady Theodosia Conningsby,
but beholding the impression her intended visit conveyed,
I began to form a thousand fancies relative to her. I
observed that my father became thoughtful and nervous,
from the moment her intention of coming was announced
until she made her appearance; and this alteration in
him impressed me with no pleasurable anticipations with
regard to the cause of it.
Punctual to the hour she had named, Lady Theodosia
Conningsby's old-fashioned chariot, surmounted by capa¬
cious imperials, and high bonnet-cases, rolled to the door.
Two ancient servitors, in rich liveries, made in a fashion
as obsolete as that of the chariot, slowly descended from
the roomy dicky-box, and as slowly assisted their mistress
AN ELDERLY LADY. 29
to alight, who, followed by her female attendant, bearing
in her arms a lap-dog, entered the house.
When Miss Melville and I were summoned to the
library in the evening, we found Lady Theodosia seated
vis-a-vis to my father, in a large arm-chair. Her appear¬
ance was remarkably outree—her dress being that a-la-
mode, some half a century before. . She was tall and ex¬
tremely thin, her face long and meagre, her nose sharply
pointed, her lips thin and descending at the corners, and
her chin of inordinate length, and singularly protruded,
as if in search of a view of the rest of her face. But
her eyes! There is no possibility of rendering justice to
them. They were of a light greenish hue, and were so
obliquely placed in their sockets that when fixed on one
object, she seemed to be regarding some other in a
precisely contrary direction.
In short, her whole appearance would have been
considered grotesque, had not an expression of extreme
ill-nature and acerbity pervaded every portion of her
physiognomy, and the obliquity of her vision increased
this repulsive and sinister character.
" Give me leave to present to you Miss Melville,"
said my father politely—and Miss Melville curtsied to
Lady Theodosia, who vouchsafed not the slightest notice
in return.
" This is my daughter," continued my father, who had
not observed her ladyship's rudeness to my governess.
" Arabella, go and welcome Lady Theodosia."
I approached her with reluctance—and she pressed
her skinny and parched lips to my forehead. I was for
retreating after this salutation, but she sternly told me
to remain, that she might examine my face, and see
which of the family I most resembled. She drew forth
a pair of spectacles, carefully wiped them, placed them
astride her nose, and then deliberately surveyed me.
" I think, nephew, that she resembles my grandmother
very strongly—don't you agree with me? You, of
course, never saw the Duchess, but her portrait you must
remember. I was considered to bear a very striking
family likeness to her."
30
THE CONFESSIONS OF
My poor father, to whom I turned an appealing
glance, could with difficulty repress a smile that played
about his lips; and Miss Melville looked intently at the
carpet to avoid meeting my eyes.
" Arabella has the family nose," continued Lady
Theodosia, " yes, we all have that feature high and
prominent, a beauty peculiar to those of noble and
ancient race. The Bourbons all have it. Her eyes, too,
are exactly like those of my grandmother* Do you not
remember the portrait?"
" I confess the likeness does not strike me," replied
my father.
" Whom then do you think she resembles?" demanded
Lady Theodosia in an imperious tone.
" Her dear mother," replied my father—and his lip
trembled with emotion, as it never failed to do when she
was alluded to.
" I see not the slightest likeness," answered she, " on
the contrary, I think the child bears a most remarkable
family resemblance to our family," laying a peculiar
emphasis on the word our.
My father, who detested arguments, refrained from
dissenting. But this tacit admission of her opinion by
no means satisfied the pertinacious old lady.
" I perceive, nephew, that you do not agree with me,"
resumed she.
" I confess we differ," said my father, deprecatingly,
" but every eye, you know, varies in its perception on
those points."
" No, nephew, I can admit no such fallacy. The eyes
must be strange eyes indeed,"—and here she squinted
most abominably—" that do not discover that Arabella's
are as like those of her grandmother's portrait as it is
possible for eyes to be, and bear a strong resemblance to
mine."
"No they don't—do they, papa?" exclaimed I—all
my incipient vanity wounded by the assertion, and tears
starting to the lids of the libelled orbs. A beseeching
look from my father, and a terrified one from Miss
Melville, prevented me from finishing the sentence,
AN ELDERLY LADY. 31
which would have been extremely offensive to Lady
Theodosia.
" Upon my word, I cannot compliment the young
person who enacts the part of governess to your daughter
on her pupil's progress in politeness," said Lady Theodosia,
haughtily and bitterly. " Had you, nephew, engaged
Mistress Jefferson, whom I recommended, I think Lady
Arabella would have been guilty of no such instance of
ill-breeding as that to which I have been a digusted
witness."
Miss Melville's cheeks were suffused with blushes, and
my poor father felt scarcely less embarrassed at the
unfeeling rudeness of his callous and acrimonious aunt.
" May I inquire why you did not attend to my
recommendation, and to whom you are indebted for the
young person before me, whose extreme juvenility and
inexperience render her totally unfit for so grave and
important a task?"
Tears now stole down the fair cheeks of Miss Melville,
which 1 observing, immediately ran and embraced her,
begging her not to weep at anything that old cross
lady said.
" 'Pon my word, this is too bad, nephew," said my
aunt, angrily, " I never beheld such a spoilt and rude
child in my life as your daughter. But this comes of
having young governesses, who fancy themselves beauties
forsooth, and who are, perhaps, encouraged in the
erroneous belief by those who have the folly to employ
them."
" Really, Lady Theodosia, I must entreat," said my
father, agitated beyond measure, " that you will reserve
your strictures for another occasion."
" Will your lordship excuse my withdrawing?" said
Miss Melville, with that meekness that ever characterised
her.
" Pray, by all means let her go—I always think that
such persons are wholly out of their place when I see
them intruded into the society of their superiors," ob¬
served Lady Theodosia.
I followed Miss Melville from the library, leaving my
32
THE CONFESSIONS OF
poor dear nervous father to support, as best he might,
the continuation of his disagreeable aunt's discussion;
and tried all my efforts to sooth Miss Melville, who wept
bitterly at the rudeness to which she had been exposed.
When Dr. Warminster came next day, he found my
poor father confined to bed, and more indisposed than he
had lately been. Miss Melville had been summoned at
an early hour of the morning to Lady Theodosia's
dressing-room, whence a long lecture from her ladyship
sent her back—her cheeks crimsoned, and her eyes
bathed in tears. It was at this moment that Doctor
Warminster entered the school-room.
"Bless me, bless me, what is the matter?" asked the
good man, on beholding the agitation of my governess.
Sobs and tears were the only answer he received for five
or six minutes; but when he had taken from the family
medicine chest some sal volatile, and presented a glass of
water, into which he had poured a few drops of it, to
Miss Melville, she shortly became able to articulate.
" 0 doctor 1 you do not—cannot believe—the Breadful
reports which Lady Theodosia asserts are circulated
relative to mel"
" What reports? I know not even to what you refer;
and I dare be sworn they originated wholly and solely in
her ladyship's own brain, always prolific in ill-nature."
" She has said such cruel, cruel things to me, doctor 1"
and here the poor girl's tears streamed afresh. " Some
of them," and she blushed to her very temples, " I could
not repeat—they are too dreadful. She declares that
my residence beneath the roof of an unmarried man is a
gross violation of all decency, that my reputation is
destroyed for ever, and that I must leave the house. 0
doctor I my poor mother—my sisters—my brother—
what will they, what can they say, when they hear this
dreadful calumny? But they know I am innocent!" and
she wept bitterly. I heard no more, for I stole hastily
from the apartment, ran to that of my father, and
mounting on his bed, threw myself sobbing into his
arms, exclaiming—
" Papal papa! that nasty cross old lady has scolded
AN ELDERLY LADY.
33
poor dear Miss Melville, and made her cry, and said she
shall not live with you and me. Do, dear papa, send
that cross old lady away, and do not let my dear pretty
governess leave me!"
My tears gushed plentifully at the dread of losing
Miss Melville, and I declared with sobs that I could not
be happy, I could not live, without my own pretty, dear,
good governess. My poor father appeared greatly agi¬
tated, but Doctor Warminster, who now came to his
room, informed him that he had succeeded in soothing
the wounded feelings of Miss Melville.
" As your lordship is too much indisposed to bear
being harassed by any scene with this very troublesome
lady, who has deranged all the comfort of your house,
perhaps it would be as well for me to seek an interview
with her, and endeavour to make her sensible of the
mischief she has caused."
" How kind of you, my dear friend," replied my poor
father, " do pray see her, and let me know the result."
In half an hour the doctor returned more discomposed
than I thought he could ever have been rendered; for
he was habitually a calm, dispassionate man.
" By Jove, my lord," said he, " Lady Theodosia is a
perfect she-dragon 1 she maintains that Miss Melville
stands in a relation to your lordship which renders it
improper, nay, impossible to countenance her, or submit
to remaining beneath the same roof. She has told the
poor innocent young lady her opinion, and your lordship
may judge its effect. To talk reason to this obstinate
old lady is useless; she says that nothing but Miss
Melville's leaving the, house, and your placing some Mrs.
Jefferson in her place, can induce her to believe the young
lady not guilty."
"Good heavens! what shameful conduct!" observed
my father, "what is to be done?"
" Nothing that I know of," replied the doctor, " ex¬
cept to let the unmanageable old lady take herself off,
and then the house will again be restored to its usual
peace."
" I shall write her a few lines," resumed my father,
c
34
THE CONFESSIONS OF
" for it is impossible to let her entertain so erroneous an
opinion of Miss Melville."
The note was written—what its contents might be I
know not; but the result was that the old-fashioned
chariot conveyed its mistress and suite next day to the
house of another relation, and we were relieved from her
disagreeable presence.
A timidity, painful to witness, and impossible to dissi¬
pate, had now replaced Miss Melville's former gentle
gaiety, and easy yet respectful manners. In a few days,
my father received a letter from his aunt, and another
from the female relative with whom she had ta"ken up
her abode; and the evident discomposure their perusal
produced, proved that they were not of a conciliatory
character. But as he threw them indignantly into the
fire, as soon as read, I never had an opportunity of
judging whether the epistolary style of Lady Theodosia
was as offensive as the conversational.
In a very brief time after this occurrence, came Mrs.
Melville to reclaim her daughter. She, too, had been
written to by Lady Theodosia, and in terms of such
insulting reproach, relative to her daughter's supposed
position in my father's house, that she immediately thought
it necessary to come in person and remove her. My
father learned this intention, and the cause, with real
regret; but I wept in agony, and refused to be comforted.
The good Doctor Warminster endeavoured to reason Mrs.
Melville out of the scruples she entertained as to the pro¬
priety of leaving her daughter with me, though of the
perfect innocence of that daughter she never had a doubt;
but he could not prevail on her to alter her determination.
My kind and good father was lavish in his generosity
towards mother and daughter; who left the house lament¬
ing the necessity .of the measure.
Previous to their departure, and to console me for it, a
portrait was taken of Miss Melville. I have treasured it
ever since, and even now cannot regard it without an
affectionate recollection of the beautiful and amiable
original.
Never shall I forget the evening that followed her
AN ELDEELY LADY. 35
leaving the house, where her presence had so long diffused
cheerfulness. Her pianoforte stood silent, her accustomed
chair empty, and her sweet clear voice was no longer
heard reading aloud to my father, or gently and affection¬
ately checking my froward impatience. Incessant weep¬
ing brought on a violent headache, followed by fever,
during the paroxysms of which I continually demanded
Miss Melville, my own dear good pretty Miss Melville.
My father, who anxiously watched over me, listened to
my entreaties for my governess with sorrow, but promised,
if I would be calm, and do all that Dr. Warminster
required, that he would take me into the country a3 soon
as I became well, to see dear Miss Melville. This promise
cheered me, and from the moment it was made I began
to get better. I insisted on having her portrait on my
bed; how often was the miniature now before me
pressed to my feverish lips, and bathed with my tears—
and how often did I ask my father to repeat to me his
promise that as soon as I was able to travel, we should
go to the country to see Miss Melville.
In a fortnight more, we were on our route to Melford,
the village where her mother resided, attended by good
Doctor Warminster, who did not think me sufficiently
strong to forego his care. I could scarcely be kept quiet
at the inn, while the doctor went to announce our arrival,
and to request that Miss Melville should come to me.
The kind-hearted girl burst into tears when she saw
my altered face, on which my recent malady had left
visible traces; and my father was evidently touched with
this proof of her affection for me.
Days stole on, and found us still dwelling in the inn
at Melford, my health improving, and my poor father's
less suffering than usual. Every allusion to leaving Miss
Melvjlle again brought tears to my eyes, and an anxiety
that alarmed the fears of my father.
" What is to be done, my good doctor?" asked he one
day, after an exhibition of my grief at a reference to our
departure—" my child cannot be reasoned out of her
feelings in the present delicate state of her health. She
is my only comfort, my only hope, doctor, the last scion
36
THE CONFESSIONS OF
of the family stock; what is to be done? There is no
sacrifice I would not make to secure my poor Arabella
the society and care of this estimable young lady, but I
know not how to accomplish it."
" A mode has occurred to me, my lord," replied the
doctor, musingly, " it is a singular one, and I should
dread naming it to any person of your lordship's rank,
were I not acquainted with the engrossing affection you
entertain for your only child; and emboldened by the
phrase you lately used, that there was no sacrifice you
would not make to secure her the society of Miss Melville.
May I proceed, my lord?"
" Certainly, doctor, though I am totally at a loss to
imagine what sacrifice can secure the object we wish to
obtain."
" Your lordship is aware, but probably not to the full
extent, for the young lady in question, and her mother,
with that delicacy which characterises them, have con¬
cealed it as much as possible, of the injury inflicted on
their feelings, and on Miss Melville's reputation, by the
slanderous reports circulated relative to her position in
your lordship's family, by Lady Theodosia Conningsby."
" Yes, doctor, too well do I know it, for from my
female relations, whose protegees I have refused to accept
as governesses, have I received letters of recrimination,
caused by the evil reports to which you allude."
" Has it never occurred to your lordship, how Miss
Melville's presence beneath your roof might be secured
without a possibility of scandal—not as Miss Melville,
but as a married lady—in short, my lord, as Countess
of Walsingham!"
"Good God, doctor 1 you have taken me quite by
surprise. No, I never thought of such a possibility.
The affection I entertained for Arabella's mother, always
precluded the thought of giving her a successor in my
heart, or in my house. My health, too, is so extremely
delicate, as you are aware, that I stand more in need of
a nurse than of a wife."
" But why might not your lordship find the best of all
nurses in a wife ? and, surely, a more gentle and amiable
AN ELDERLY LADY.
37
companion could not be found than Miss Melville. I
observed how much her society solaced your solitude
when she was beneath your roof, and what a gloom her
absence occasioned. But in the present case, we are to
consider the happiness of your daughter, as you so will
it, even more than your own; and as that appears to
depend on the society of this young lady, it is for your
lordship to reflect whether you will, or will not, secure
this advantage for her, by the only means in your power."
The result of this conversation, which the good doctor
repeated to me many years after, was, that he was com¬
missioned by my father, to make proposals of marriage
to Miss Melville; who, much to her honour, though truly
grateful, was by no means dazzled by them: nay, only
yielded, at length, to the repeated representations of tho
doctor, that my health would, in its present delicate state,
inevitably fall a sacrifice to a separation from her, to whom
I was so fondly attached.
The marriage shortly after took place: and never had my
father cause to repent it; for Lady Walsingham devoted
her Whole time to the duties of her new situation, and
proved the truest, gentlest friend to him, and the most
affectionate guide and monitress to me.
We went abroad for some years, visited the South of
France and Italy; from the mild climate of which my
father's health derived considerable benefit. But his
wishes pointing to home, we returned to England, and
having spent some months at Walsingham Castle, we
took up our abode in London, that I might have the
advantage of masters in finishing my studies.
And now it was that the malignity of my father's
female relations manifested itself by every means in their
power. Cards from each of them were left at his door,
inscribed for me, lest, by any chance, the mistress of the
mansion should imagine them to be intended for her.
Lady Theodosia Conningsby had spared neither time nor
trouble in propagating the most injurious reports against
the wife of her nephew, who she everywhere represented
as an artful, designing young adventuress, who had first
seduced her poor, unhappy, weak-minded nephew, and
38
THE CONFESSIONS OF
then inveigled him into marriage. I was stated to be a
victim to the tyranny of my step-mother, and my father
was said to be the slave of her will.
The acquaintances to whom these falsehoods were
repeated, were not slow in giving them circulation. My
mother's family were apprised of them, and never having
ceased to feel the wound their pride had received, from
the selection of a governess as a successor to a scion of
their aristocratic race, they lent a ready credence to every
disadvantageous rumour relative to Lady Walsingham.
I became an object of general interest to the female
members of both families, who, during the period of my
father's widowhood, had never evinced the slightest
anxiety about me. Letters were written to my father by
them, requesting that I might be permitted to visit them
occasionally. He would have returned a haughty and
decided negative to such requests, for he felt indignant
at the implied insult offered to his excellent wife, but she
entreated so urgently that I might be suffered to go to
them, that he at length yielded to her wishes. The
good Dr. Warminster, too, advised a compliance, giving
for reason that a refusal would only serve as a confirma¬
tion to the evil reports in circulation.
Never shall I forget the first visit I paid. I was then
in my twelfth year, but from having always associated
only with persons arrived at maturity, my mind was more
formed than that of most children of that age. It was
to the Marchioness of Rocktower, the aunt of my mother,
that this first visit was paid; a cold, stately, formal being,
who looked as if she had been born an old lady, and never
had passed through the gradations of infancy or girlhood.
She kissed my forehead, examined my features, and pro¬
tested that she was glad to find I so strongly resembled
my poor dear mother—yes, I was a perfect Oranville,
there was no mistaking the family likeness. " How is it
that you are alone, my dear?" she then added.
" I wanted mamma to come with me," answered I;
" but she would not."
" Whatl do you call her mamma?"
" Ohl yes, ever since she has been Lady Walsingham."
AN ELDERLY LADY. 39
"I wonder they did not exact the epithet before,"
murmured she spitefully. " And have you no governess,
Arabella?"
" Mamma is my governess; she teaches me all my
lessons, except dancing, music, and drawing, and for these
I have masters."
I forgot to state, that the Marchioness had a lady
present at this interview, to whom she turned with signi¬
ficant glances at each of my responses to the queries put
to me; and who replied to them with an ominous shake
of the head, or a murmur between a sigh and a groan.
" And who stays with you while you take your lessons ?"
resumed Lady Rocktower.
" Mamma. I always have my masters early in the
morning, before papa is up, and mamma rises early to be
present."
The two ladies exchanged mournful glances and sighed
aloud.
" Poor child 1" ejaculated the Marchioness; and "Poor
child 1" echoed her companion.
"And who came with you in the carriage here; for
you surely were not suffered to come alone?"
" Mamma came with me to the door, and so I wished
her to come in! but she would not," answered I, artlessly.
"How mean! how unworthy! what a want of spirit!
to come to a door which she knows never shall be open
to her," broke forth the Marchioness.
"Yes, very mean, quite dreadful!" repeated the other
lady, piously casting up her eyes to the ceiling.
"Who is mean and dreadful?" asked I, with a strong
suspicion that these insulting terms, though totally
inapplicable, were by them meant to apply to Lady
Walsingham.
"You must not ask questions, my dear," replied the
Marchioness, " it is very rude and ill-bred to do so."
" Yes, very rude and ill-bred," repeated her echo.
"Are you very happy at home? Speak the truth,
you may tell vie; I am, you know, your own aunt, my
poor dear child."
" I always speak the truth," answered I, reddening
40
THE CONFESSIONS OF
with indignation. "Mamma taught me always to speak
the truth."
" It quite wounds my feelings, to hear her call that
person mamma," said Lady Rocktower. " Oh 1 if my
lost niece could have imagined it, she who loved him so
much! It is indeed dreadful to think of the selfishness
of men."
" Very drgadful!" repeated the other lady.
" But you have not told me whether you are happy at
home, my poor child," whined Lady Rocktower, with a
piteous face, and a dolorous tone of voice ; prematurely
prepared to condole on the confession of misery, which
her malice had imagined.
"Happy?" repeated I, "oh, ever so happy!"
" Poor child, she is told to say this," exclaimed Lady
Rocktower, in a voice that was meant to be a whisper,
but which, owing to her deafness, was louder than she
intended.
"Doubtless she is!" groaned her friend, again casting
her eyes up to the group of painted Cupids on the ceiling,
who seemed maliciously to smile at the antiquated dames
beneath.
"I was not told to say so," cried I, angrily; "I
always speak the truth—I am happy at home, and have
a fond kind papa and mamma;" and tears came into my
eyes.
The two ladies exchanged glances again, which glances
seemed to say that one of them had gone too far in her
comments.
" I only meant, my love, that all children, who have
had the misfortune to lose a mother, that is, an own, real
mother, cannot be so happy as—as if they had not lost
her," said my grand-aunt, trying with all her might to
look mournful.
"Yes, they cannot be so happy as if they had not lost
her," echoed the toady.
"But you, I suppose," resumed the Marchioness, "do
not at all remember your own mother; you, unhappy
child, were so young when she died. What a dreadful
blow that was to me!"
AN ELDEltLY LADY.
41
" A dreadful blow, indeed," groaned the echo.
" I wrote to offer to go to Walsingham Castle, to nurse
her during her last illness, though at that period I was
anxiously watching the progress of Mr. "Vernon's, the
celebrated oculist, treatment of the cataract in the eyes
of my poor dear Jacko; a treatment which, alas 1 termi¬
nated so fatally. The poor dear creature sank under it 1
That was, indeed, a heavy affliction."
" Yes, a very heavy affliction, indeed," responded the
parasite.
" Who was Jacko?" asked I.
"What! did you never hear your father speak of
Jacko?" demanded Lady Rocktower, in a tone of the
utmost surprise.
" Never," answered I.
" What hearts some people have I" groaned her lady¬
ship.
" What hearts, indeed 1" repeated her companion.
" Mrs. Lancaster, be so good as to bring me the
miniature of my niece; it is on the table in my dressing-
room; and bring, also, the portrait of my poor deal
Jacko, which is by it."
Mrs. Lancaster bustled off, with an activity really sur¬
prising for one of her years and unwieldly size; and
quickly returned with the picture.
" Look here, my dear," said Lady Rocktower, " this
is the portrait of your lovely lost mother. I dare say
you never saw her picture before."
" I have one just like this, in a locket," answered I,
" with mamma's hair at the back, and I see her portrait
every day in the library, and in the drawing-room."
" How unfeeling 1" interrupted Lady Rocktower, which
was, like all her phrases, echoed.
"And I have a large picture of her in my school¬
room,'' resumed I proudly, "which my second mamma
had hung up there for me."
" How artful!" murmured the Marchioness.
" How artful 1" reiterated Mrs. Lancaster.
"What is artful?" demanded I.
" You must not ask questions, it is very ill-bred to
42
THE CONFESSIONS OF
do so," was the reply of my grand-aunt, and, "Yes,
very ill-bred, indeed," was again murmured forth from
the lips of her companion. The portrait of Jacko was
not in the place where it was supposed to have been; and
I did not request Lady Rocktower to have it sought for,
lest I should be told that I was ill-bred.
At length, the carriage was announced; and I bade
farewell to my grand-aunt, leaving, probably, as unfavour¬
able an impression of me on her mind as mine retained
of her. I scarcely need add, that I received no more
invitations to visit her, for her curiosity had been satisfied
and her malevolence disappointed.
What a relief did it seem to throw myself into Lady
Walsingham's arms, which I did the moment I entered
the carriage.
" Oh I dear mamma, never send me to see that dis¬
agreeable old lady any more. I don't like her at all,
indeed I don't; nor that other fat old woman that repeats
every word Lady Rocktower says."
How affectionate were the tones, in which I was told
that I must never dislike any one, but more especially
my relations; and how firmly, but gently, was I checked
when I commenced repeating the questions that were
asked of me, and the comments that were so improperly
made in my presence. Young as I was, an impression
that Lady Rocktower disliked my stepmother, had taken
possession of my mind; and I resented it by entertaining
for her ladyship a similar sentiment.
My father, though he questioned me not, checked not
my communications relative to this visit, when mamma
was absent from the library; and embraced me fondly,
when he heard my artless remarks, all so indicative of
my grateful affection for Lady Walsingham.
" Who was Jacko, papa," asked I, " of whom Lady
Rocktower was so fond?"
" A huge monkey, and by far the most, detestable
animal I ever had the misfortune to come in contact
with," was the answer. " He once bit my hand severely,
because I prevented him from attacking you, when your
nurse took you to my aunt's; and she was highly indig-
AN ELDERLY LADY.
43
nant at my chastising him, seeming to think her monkey
of mnch more importance than my child."
This anecdote completed my dislike of her ladyship,
which not even the bequest of her fortune to me, some
ten years after, could eradicate.
When I visited the female relatives on the paternal
side, they all and each discovered that I was exceedingly
like my father's family. I was, as they asserted, a true
Walsingham, and not at all like my mother's family,
which they seemed to consider as a piece of singular
good fortune.
My father, having heard from me the observation
made by Lady Rocktower of the meanness, the unworthi¬
ness, of driving to a door that would never open to
receive the presumptuous loiterer on the outside of
it, fully understood its malice; and prohibited Lady
Walsingham from accompanying me on any of my future
visits. Her female attendant, a most respectable young-
person, far superior to the generality of fetnmes de chambre,
ever afterwards escorted me on these occasions; and
then I heard not a few comments 011 the insolence and
pride of some people, who so soon forget themselves,
that they forsooth were too fine to continue to enact the
parts, by the performance of which they had elevated
themselves from their original obscurity.
Never did I observe a single symptom of pique or
discontent evince itself in my amiable stepmother, at
the conduct of my father's relatives. The fulfilment of
her duties appeared to be the source whence her enjoy¬
ments were derived. The comfort of my father, and the
improvement and happiness of myself, were the constant
objects of her attention; and such was the sweetness of
her temper, and the winning gentleness and cheerfulness
of her manners, that her society diffused a general
happiness.
Time rolled on: and at the period I completed my
sixteenth year, nowhere could be found a family more
fondly united, or between the members of which a
better understanding invariably subsisted. Her brother
was the only member of her family who frequented our
'J4 THE CONFESSIONS OF
house; for she, with a delicate perception of my poor
father's dislike to an extensive circle of visiters, never
obtruded her relations upon him; though her correspond¬
ence with, and presents to them, were frequent.
A liberal provision had been made for them, by my
father on his marriage; and her brother, who was now
in possession of the living which had accrued to him
through the same source, was, I have stated, an occasional
inmate of our mansion, whenever his duties permitted
his absence from his flock. Nature never formed a finer
model of manly beauty than Frederick Melville, and the
heart was worthy of the shrine. His presence never
failed to bestow increased cheerfulness on our family
party. My father entertained a strong partiality for
him, which was displayed in many a costly gift dispatched
to the parsonage, as well as in the marked gratification
his society conferred. Lady Walsingham loved him, as
only a sister can love an only brother, ere she has
experienced a warmer and less pure attachment; and I
—loved him, with all the wild idolatry of a passionate
heart, now first awakened from its childish slumber, yet
still unconscious of the nature of the sentiment that
animated it.
Many are those of my sex, who might have passed the
first years of youth, without a knowledge of the passion
they more frequently imagine than feel, had they not
acquired its rudiments from female companions or the
perusal of novels; somewhat in the same manner as
hypochondriacs suppose themselves to experience the
diseases of which they either hear or read. The ephe¬
meral fancies young ladies dignify with the appellation
of love, no more resemble the real sentiment, than do
the imaginary maladies resemble those for which they
are mistaken: but the effects of both are equally dan¬
gerous. Many a girl has madly rushed into a marriage,
believing herself as madly in love, who has had to deplore
her infatuation through a long life of consequent penance;
and many a malade imaginaire has sank under the real
results of a supposed visionary disease.
Mine was not a precocious passion forced into life by
AN ELDERLY LADY.
45
such unhealthy or extraneous excitements. I had never
read of, or conversed on the subject, till long after its
■wild dreams haunted my pillow, and its engrossing
tenderness filled my heart. Well do I remember the
suffering I endured, when Frederick Melville first began
to replace the unceremonious familiarity with which he
had been wont to treat me, during my childhood, by a
more reserved and deferential manner. Filled with alarm,
I demanded of Lady Walsingham how I had offended
her brother, for he 110 longer behaved to me as formerly.
" Eemember, my dear Arabella, that you are no longer
a child," replied she; " and that therefore he would err
if he continued to treat you as one."
I felt a gleam of pleasure at this acknowledgment of
my being no longer a child. The truth was, I had never
been treated as one, consequently no change was visible
in the manners of those with whom I lived; hence, I
was not as sensible of my approach to womanhood as
those young persons are, who impatiently await their
emancipation from the nursery school-room, and its roast
mutton and rice-pudding dinners.
" I am sure," said I, and the tears filled my eyes,
" if people cease to like me, or to show their affection,
because I am no longer a child, I shall regret my infancy,
and wish to resume it. But you have not changed
your manner towards me, neither has my father; why
then should Mr. Melville? I am sure, dear mother,
though your good nature prompts you to conceal the
fact, that this change in his manner has occurred because
he no longer likes me as he did."
And my tears flowed afresh.
The anxiety Lady Walsingham's countenance displayed,
though she endeavoured to disguise it, convinced me that
my suspicions were well founded, and increased my sorrow,
in spite of all her efforts to reason me out of it.
When we met at dinner, I remarked that her eyes
bore evident traces of tears. Frederick too looked more
grave than I had ever seen him; and my poor father,
in general the least talkative of the little circle, was now
the most so. He proposed music in the evening, to
46
THE CONFESSIONS OF
which we assented, though little disposed; and I played
an accompaniment, while Lady Walsingham and her
brother sang one of my father's favourite duos. The
tones of his voice seemed to sink into my very soul;
low, plaintive, and full of rich melody, their deep pathos
excited anew the tenderness, already but too much
developed in my heart.
The sister and brother sang only sacred music, to
which they had been accustomed from infancy; and their
voices were in such perfect harmony, that even the most
fastidious critic would have listened to them with delight.
For me, no other voices ever possessed the same charm;
and I thought I had never heard them breathe forth
sounds of such exquisite and softened melancholy, as on
that memorable night. The duo ended, they paused to
hear the accustomed request to repeat it—a minute
elapsed—yet no word escaped the lips that had been
wont to applaud them.
" Hush 1 he sleeps," whispered my mother, gently
approaching with stealthy steps the easy chair in which
my father reclined; but no sooner had she reached it,
than a shriek of horror burst from her lips, and she fell
insensible at his feet.
We rushed to the spot—oh God! never shall I forget
the agony of that moment! Even now after the lapse of
more than half a century, the scene seems present to
my imagination.
My father, my dear, kind, indulgent father, was a
corse!—the vital spark was extinct for ever, and his
gentle spirit had passed away without a groan. Though
years, long years, have since elapsed, leaving many a
furrow on my brow, and inflicting many a pang ,on my
heart, that fearful evening has never been effaced from
my memory. Then was the golden veil of youth, that
had lent to life its brightness, first rudely rent asunder.
Then came, for the first time, the soul-harrowing con¬
viction of the uncertainty of life, and the brevity of its
blessings; a conviction that destroys the confidence in
happiness which forms so considerable a part of the
happiness itself. Alas! the dear object of so much
AN ELDERLY LADY. 47
affection was now a cold and lifeless corse! snatched
from us without a word of warning, without even a
farewell look. I could not at first believe the fatal truth,
No! he could not be gone for ever—he could not thus
have left us; and I clasped my arms around the neck
which they had so often entwined, and pressed my lips
to that dear face, calling him by every fond and tender
name to which my frantic affection could give utterance;
until, exhausted by my agony, I sank, powerless as an
infant, into the arms of my attendant, and lost, in
temporary insensibility, my sense of the overwhelming
affliction that had befallen me.
Never shall I forget the awaking from that sleep:
the dim, vague recollection of some terrible event, slowly
making itself understood to my bewildered mind; then,
the shudder of intense agony with which the fatal truth
stood revealed, and the unutterable pangs which it
renewed in me. No! such a lesson, though only one
among many of those which all must learn, can never
be effaced from the mind.
The shock had produced a nervous fever, under which
I languished for several days, totally helpless; yet, with
a full, an overpowering consciousness of the loss I had
experienced. Lady Walsingham never left my bedside.
Hers was the gentle hand that smoothed my pillow, and
gave the cooling beverage to my fevered lip; hers the
sweet voice that whispered mild entreaties to me to be
comforted, even while the tremulousness of its tones
betrayed how little she had acquired the difficult task of
conquering her own grief.
Doctor Warminster attended me through this malady
with an affectionate interest never surpassed; all the
friendship he had so long entertained for my lost parent,
seemed transferred to my stepmother and self; and our
chief source of consolation was derived from the assurance
he so frequently gave us, that the life of the dear
departed had been prolonged far beyond the doctor's
hopes, by the calm and cheerful mode in which it had
been passed, owing to the indefatigable care, and delicate
attentions, of all those around him.
48
THE CONFESSIONS OF
My poor father had a disease of one of the arteries of
the heart, which had declared itself soon after my birth;
and any sudden or violent emotion might have produced
a fatal result at any moment. This was the cause of
his sedentary existence, and had eventually terminated
it; but the awful fiat found him in readiness to meet it.
For years he knew, that though in the midst and zenith
of life, he might be instantaneously summoned to leave
it; and he prepared himself for the event with the calm¬
ness of a philosopher, and the resignation of a Christian.
Now it was that I first learned that an imprudent
disclosure of his disease, made to my poor mother by
Lady Theodosia Walsingham, shortly after her last
accouchement of a son, who lived but a few hours, had
given her such a shock as to lead to a total derangement
of health, which conducted her to the grave in a few
months. Dr. Warminster feared then, that the extreme
grief of my poor father would occasion his death. But
the dying entreaties of my mother, that he would not
give way to regret, but live for their child, triumphed
over the selfish indulgence of his sorrow; though he
never ceased to remember her, whose dread of losing
him had consigned her to an early grave.
He determined to do all that could prolong life for my
sake; and, contrary to a resolution formed over the
death-bed of my mother, never to give her a successor,
married to secure me the society of Miss Melville, when
he found it was considered essential to my happiness.
Never was a husband and father more sincerely mourned,
than was my dear parent; and never did a human being
more deserve to be lamented!
The first time I left my room after this sad catastrophe,
my mind softened by grief, and my frame weakened by
illness, I saw Frederick Melville. He, too, had deeply
shared the general regret, for he was truly attached to
his patron; and the awful suddenness of the blow
rendered it more painful. When he took my hand, his
own trembled; and the extreme palor of my face seemed
to shock him.
"You will not now be cold and distant to me,
AN ELDERLY LADY. 49
Frederick," said I, while tears streamed down my
cheeks, " when I have no longer any one but my mother
and you to love me?"
He pressed my hand gently, and assured me that he
had never felt otherwise than warmly interested in my
happiness, and that I wronged him if I doubted his
affectionate friendship. These words reassured me—for
how little does it require to nourish hope in a youthful
breast?—and the softened kindness of his manner, even
still more than his words, tranquillized my feelings.
My dear father had bequeathed a handsome compe¬
tency to each member of the Melville family, and a large
dower to Lady "YValsingham, who, with her brother, was
named my guardian. The unentailed estates, and per¬
sonal property to a large amount, were willed to me,
charged with provisions to the old servants, and a consider¬
able bequest to good Doctor Warminster. A thousand
vague hopes sprang up in my mind at finding I was
thus in a manner linked with Frederick Melville. I was
pleased at being, for more than four years, as it were,
dependent on him, and felt that I would gladly prolong
the dependence for life.
"You are now one of the richest heiresses in England,
my lady," said good Mrs. Mary to me one day, presuming
that her long services licensed her to be more communi¬
cative than English servants generally are. " Your
ladyship will marry some great rich lord, I am sure, and
perhaps I may see you a duchess."
" You will see no such thing, I can tell you," answered
I, angry even at the supposition. " I am already rich,
and of ancient family. Why, then, should I marry for
the ridiculous purpose of obtaining that winch I already
possess ? Why may I not marry to please myself, and
so make some one I love rich and distinguished?"
" Lord, my lady, sure your ladyship would never go
to demean yourself by marrying some one as is not
somebody. Every rich and grand lady likes to marry
some one than is richer and grander than herself, if
possible, for then she can be sure she is married for real
love; whereas, my lady, if she marries some one as is a
D
50
THE CONFESSIONS OF
hobody, she can never know but what he married her
only becmse she was a great and rich lady—and that
thought would be very vexatious to a woman's mind."
I stole a glance at the mirror opposite, and the face
I there beheld told me that I might hope to be loved for
myself, even though I was a rich heiress. I suppose
good Mrs. Mary, who wanted none of the sagacity of
her sex and class, guessed what was passing in my
mind, for she immediately added—
" To be sure, when ladies are hs handsome as your
ladyship, they will always be sure to have lovers in
plenty, even if they had no' fortune; but still, if I was
a great rich heiress, though ever so beautiful, I would be
afraid to marry a poor gentleman, from the notion that
afterwards the suspicion would be coming into my head
that my money had some share in making him propose
for me."
Mean and unworthy as this thought was, a thought
that never would have entered my head, had it not been
presented through the medium 6f Mrs. Mary, it now
made a disagreeable impression on me; and' I began to
think that to be " a great rich heiress," as Mary called
it, was not, after all, so desirable a position as I had
been disposed to think it. How much evil finds access
to youthful minds through conversing with servants;
the very best of whom are, by the want of education,
and the narrowness of their ideas, totally incapacitated
from communicating other than mean and selfish thoughts.
I norr began to look on myself as one who would be
an object of general attraction, and I became inflated
with pride;, but there was something so peculiarly
dignified, as well as gentle, in the manners of Lady
Walsingham and her brother, that no opportunity of
evincing this new defect offered. Nothing could exceed
the affectionate attention of my stepmother; it seemed
rather increased than diminished since the melancholy
change in our family; as if she would repay to his chikl
the debt of gratitude she owed to my hither.
The conduct of Frederick was uniformly kind, but still
there was a degree of reserve, if not coldness in it, that
AN ELDERLY LADY. tj j
was far from satisfactory to me. He had prolonged his
stay at the earnest desire of his sister, but the period now
drew near when he must return to his living, and I
counted the days in which I had yet to enjoy his society,
as those only count them who love for the first time.
Lady Walsingham had a portrait taken of him by an
eminent artist, who succeeded in rendering it an admirable
likeness. The morning on which it was sent home, that
desire to speak of the object of our affection, which is
one of the peculiar characteristics of the passion that had
obtained possession of my young heart, tempted me to
ask Mrs. Mary whether she had seen Mr. Melville's
picture.
" Yes, my lady, I have, and extremely like it is.
Mr. Melville is a very handsome gentleman, (and she
looked narrowly at me,) and much resembles Lady
Walsingham. I was sure her ladyship would have his
picture taken."
" Why so, Mistress Mary?" asked I.
" Oh, don't you remember, my lady, how her ladyship,
that is before she was her ladyship, or perhaps ever
expected to be, when she was going away back to her
mother's, had her picture taken, and left with your
ladyship?"
" Yes, I remember very well; it was I who made her
sit for it."
" Well, then, my lady, if that picture had not been
made, I think your ladyship would have got used to
Miss Melville's absence; you would not have had that
bad illness; my poor dear lord would not have taken you
down to the country, nor have married my lady. It all
came of that picture."
And here, good Mistress Mary put on a most lugubri¬
ous countenance, and sighed deeply.
" I shall always rejoice then at having had the picturo
made," answered I, more than half offended at the implied
censure Mistress Mary's observation and sigh conveyed.
" But what can all this gossiping of yours have to do
with Mr. Melville's portrait?"
" Why, your ladyship must be conscious that as the
52
THE CONFESSIONS OF
brother is as handsome as the sister, some rich young
lady may see the picture; perhaps, then, see him; then,
fall in love with and marry him, so that he may have as
much good luck as my Lady Walsingham had."
I felt my cheeks glow at this palpable insinuation; I
was angry with Mary for presuming to convey it, and
yet, unworthy as I was, I fancied that the portrait might
have been taken with an intention of keeping his image
before me. Strange as it may appear, I wished Frederick
Melville to love me, ay, passionately wished it; desired
too, that he would demand my hand; and yet I desired
to find in him that consciousness of the difference between
our positions, which should render his love so timid as to
require an act of heroic generosity on my part, to give
him the hand he fondly aspired to, but dared not demand.
A whole romance was formed in my head, though as yet
I had never perused one; but love is a magician that
can work strange marvels.
While these thoughts were passing in my mind, good
Mistress Mary was fidgetting about my dressing-table,
anxious to resume the subject which my abstraction had
interrupted.
" I would not be at all surprised, my lady," commenced
Mary, "if some rich heiress were to fall in love with
Mr. Melville, for he is indeed as handsome a gentleman
as ever I saw, (I felt better disposed towards her) and
so sensible and steady too. Well, all I hope is that if
such a thing should happen, it will take place before he
has ever been in love with anything else, for it's a cruel
thing, my lady, to have either man or woman crossed in
love. And though people may be tempted by grandeur
and riches to give up their first sweetheart, still they
must have an unhappy mind whenever they think of it;
and some persons do say, but, for God's sake, your lady¬
ship, don't go for to get me into trouble by repeating it
—they do say that Lady Walsingham broke the heart of
as handsome a young gentleman as any in Sussex, to
marry my poor dear lord."
"Is it possible?'' demanded I, forgetting in my
awakened curiosity the indecorum I was committing, iu
AN ELDERLY LADY. 53
thus questioning a servant relative to the -widow of my
father, the kindest, truest friend, save him, I ever knew.
"Oh! indeed, my lady, it's all true; I saw the young
gentleman myself when we were down staying at
Cuckfield, looking even then as pale as a sheet, and
Mrs. Bateman as keeps the George Inn, told me the
whole story."
" But, perhaps, Mary, Lady Walsingham never loved
the young gentleman you saw, though he was in love
with her."
" Lord bless your heart, my lady, the whole village
knew as how they were sweethearts, and engaged to be
married, and as loving as two turtle-doves. But when
Miss Melville come to Lonon, and seed this fine house,
and all the grandeur of being a lady, she took to
pleasing your ladyship so much that your little ladyship
couldn't abide nobody else; and pleased, too, his poor
dear lordship, as is no more, till he thought there was
no one like her. And then, when she pleased your lady¬
ship and his lordship, until neither of ye could live without
her, then she gets that beautiful picture taken, and off
she goes, guessing pretty well, I'll be sworn, that she'd
be soon sent for to come back. And so Mrs. Bateman
said, when I told her all about her pleasing my lord and
my little lady so much, and about the picture."
Mistress Mary's tongue, thus encouraged, ran on glibly,
and I was in no humour to check it. The truth is,
though I blush, old as I am, while making this avowal,
the artful tale, thus related, produced an impression
on me.
" And so, my lady," continued Mary, " Mrs. Bateman
says to me, ' Mistress Mary,' says she, ' it may be all
very well for Miss Melville to be made a countess, and
to walk in the coronation with a gold crown on her head,
side by side, cheek by jowl, as the saying is, with the
grandest in all England. But will that comfort her when
she knows the green grass is growing over the grave of
her true love, who died all for her marrying another.
Oh! Mistress Mary,' says Mrs. Bateman, '/ know what it
is to cross a first love, for all you would not think it now,
54
THE CONFESSIONS OF
because I'm so changed; but when Mister Bateman came
a courting to me, there was another lad, a widow's son,
with whom I had broken a tester, and taken many a
moonlight walk.'"
A summons from Lady Walsingham interrupted the
sequel of Mrs. Bateman's love story, to the evident dis¬
composure of its narrator, who appeared unconscious
how little interest the adventures of the hostess of the
George Inn excited in my mind.
" I sent for you, dear Arabella," said my stepmother,
" to consult you about a change I wish to be made in
Frederick's portrait. It looks too cold, too severe, and I
should like the expression to be softened. What do you
think?"
Trifling as was this appeal to me, it bore such a
curious coincidence with Mrs. Mary's observations and
surmises, that it struck me as being a convincing proof
of their justice; and I felt chilled, if not disgusted, by
this seeming cunning. Wayward and wicked that I was!
to allow the low suspicions of a menial to prejudice me
against one whose whole conduct towards me and my
father, ought to have left no room in my breast for aught
save implicit confidence and boundless gratitude! But
such is the inherent evil of some natures, that an ill-
founded assertion, even from an unworthy source, can
efface the remembrance of years of experienced goodness.
" You do not tell me what you think, Arabella," re¬
sumed Lady Walsingham, as I stood, lost in abstraction.
" I like the picture very well as it is at present,"
answered I, souaewhat coldly, " and your brother, as a
clergyman, ought not to look as gay as a fine gentleman."
" You mistake, my dear Arabella," rejoined Lady
Walsingham, " I do not wish the portrait to look gay;
that would not be in character with the profession of the
original; but a soft gravity, that is, a seriousness, devoid
of severity, would please me better."
" Did you ever see so handsome a young man as your
brother, mother?" asked I, urged by an instinct of irre¬
pressible curiosity, and I looked steadfastly and scrutini-
zingly in her face.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 55
She positively turned as pale as marble, faltered for a
moment, and then answered—
" Your interrogation is strange; but I did once know
a young man whom I thought quite as handsome," and
she sighed deeply.
"Who was he, may I inquire?" asked I.
" He was a neighbour of ours in Sussex," replied Lady
Walsingham, " but he is now no more."
The ashy paleness of her face ought to have silenced
my unfeeling curiosity, but it did not.
" When did he die, mother ?" again demanded I.
" The year I last left njy maternal home," was the
answer; and it was received by me as proof strong as
holy writ of the truth of all Mistress Mary's statement.
My stepmother was no longer the pure, the disinte¬
rested, high-minded woman I had from infancy imagined
her to be. She stood before me shorn of her beams, a
cold, calculating, ambitious person, rending asunder the
fond ties of love, to wed with one she only meanly and
selfishly preferred in consequence of his rank and fortune.
I saw in her the destroyer of him who loved her even
unto death, and the designing plotter, who was now bent
on accomplishing, for her brother, the same fortunate
destiny she had achieved for herself. At this moment
Frederick Melville entered, and, for the first time, I
beheld him without pleasure. My mind was soured, and
my imagination chilled, by the unworthy suspicions that
had taken possession of it. Not that I had determined
to resist his suit, whenever he might proffer it. Oh 1 no,
my affection was too rooted for such an effort of self-
control, though it was not sufficiently strong or noble to
resist suspicion. But I determined to torment the brother
and sister, for a brief space, and alarm their cupidity or
ambition, by the display of an indifference which I was
far from feeling; and, when I had sufficiently tortured
them, I would graciously extend the olive-branch, and
bestow on my terrified lover the hand I believed he was
passionately longing to possess, but durst not demand.
How strange is the human heart! here was I, a woman,
and a vain woman, too, who wculd have resented with
56 THE CONFESSIONS OF
anger any doubt expressed of the personal attractions I
believed mine, now acting as if my wealth and station
were my sole charms; yet wanting the self-respect or
dignity that ought under such a belief to have impelled
me to a totally different conduct.
When, however, Frederick Melville took his leave,
without having, by either a look or word, expressed any¬
thing more than a friendly interest towards me, I felt
deeply mortified; and unbidden tears, shed in the solitude
of my chamber, proved that though absent he was not
forgotten. How did I now blame myself, for having, as
I imagined, by my coldness restrained the expression of
Frederick's attachment. What would I not have given
for one more interview with him, in which I might, by
a renewal of former kindness, have elicited some symptom,
if not declaration of the attachment, of which I so ardently
longed to be assured; and which now, that it was with¬
held, appeared doubly essential to my happiness 1 How
often did I find my eyes dwelling involuntarily on the
portrait! and yet not half so frequently as my thoughts
reverted to the dear original. The chairs and sofas on
which I had seen him seated, the inanimate objects that
decorated the saloons which I had heard him commend,
all were now invested with a tender interest in my ima¬
gination. A rose, which he had presented to me many
months before, I had carefully preserved between the
leaves of a book; and never did a day elapse without my
looking at it, nay more, pressing.its faded and withered
leaves to my lips. Ah! none but woman's heart can
ever feel as mine did then, when in solitude and silence,
occupied solely by one dear image, I created a bright
world of mine own; nor dreamt that he who lent it all its
rainbow hues, would ere long shroud it in sadness and
gloom.
Lady Walsingham rarely mentioned her brother's name
to me, and when I introduced it, seemed more disposed
to change the topic than to expatiate on it. But even
this reserve on her part appeared, to my prejudiced mind,
as the effect of artifice; and I inwardly smiled at my
detection of it. Yet there were moments, too, when look-
AN ELDERLY LADY. 57
ing on her fair and open brow, where candour seemed to
have set its seal, that, struck with her resemblance to
Frederick, I longed to throw myself into her arms, and
confess how dear he was to me. But a sense of modesty,
that guardian angel of female youth, checked the impulse,
and sent me again to the solitude of my chamber; there,
to murmur his name, and breathe those sighs which are
half hope, half prayer, and which never yet emanated but
from a young female heart.
My frequent abstractions, and pensiveness, Lady
Walsingham attributed, or seemed to attribute, wholly
to regret for my dear father. She would dwell for hours
on his virtues, in commendation of which she was eloquent;
and even to my prejudiced mind, her praises earned con¬
viction of the sincerity that dictated them.
The seclusion in which we lived nourished the affection
that had usurped my breast—there it reigned despotic
sovereign; and though I deeply, truly mourned the dear
parent I had lost, I mourned not as those do who have
no engrossing passion to whisper hopes, which in spite of
tender regret for the past, can make the future bright and
cheering. There is no magician like Love—he had now
spread his witcheries around me, and I saw all through
the brilliant medium of his spells.
The year of mourning passed slowly away. "We had
now been some months without a visit from Frederick,
aud his sister continued the same system of reserve,
avoiding as much as possible all mention of him. This
system increased, instead of diminishing my attachment;
I became pensive and abstracted, my health began to
suffer, and Lady Walshingham consulted Doctor War¬
minster. He, good man, was inclined to attribute my
indisposition to the extreme seclusion in which we lived;
he advised more air, more exercise, more society, and
dwelt on the necessity of amusement being taken into
our scheme of cure. Cheerfully did my affectionate
stepmother enter into all his views, though solitude would
have been more congenial to her own taste. Still, I did
not become better; and the good doctor began to be
alarmed. I observed that Lady Walsingham and he had
58
THE CONFESSIONS OF
frequent consultations, and that she daily grew more
pensive. She gave up sitting in the room in which
Frederick's portrait was placed, though it had hitherto
been her favourite apartment; and this change I considered
as an unkindness, the motive of which I attributed to a
desire of still more exciting my attachment to him, by
thus seemingly opposing it.
One day, while Dr. Warminster was feeling my pulse,
he suddenly asked Lady Walsingham when her brother
was to be in town, f was conscious that my heart
throbbed at the question, and I suppose my pulse indicated
its effect; for the doctor looked more grave than ever, and
cast a significant glance at my stepmother, who answered
that she did not expect him soon. That night while
undressing, I observed that Mistress Mary seemed big
with some intelligence, which she only wanted a word of
encouragement to communicate. Latterly, a sense of
propriety had induced me to check her loquacity, by
abstaining from asking her any questions; but now
impelled by a vague curiosity, I led her to divulge the
news she was anxious to promulgate.
" And so your ladyship of course has heard as how
my lady's brother is soon to charge his condition?" said
Mary.
Now, strange as it may appear, this figure or phrase
of Mary's, of " changing condition," though a frequent
and favourite one with persons of her class, I had never
heard before; and imagined it to mean a change of posi¬
tion or residence.
" No, indeed," said I, " I have heard nothing on the
subject."
" Well, to be sure, how sly and secret some people
can be," resumed Mistress Mary. " Perhaps they think
that after all, he may be got to break his sweetheart's
heart, the same as others broke theirs; and be the cause
of their being sent to the grave, as that poor young gen¬
tleman in Sussex was. But he is a clergyman, and has
the fear of God before his eyes; and so will remain true
and constant to his sweetheart, of which I'm glad enough,
for though he is a very handsome and a very good young
AN ELDEl'iLY LADY. 59
gentleman, I would not like to see a great rich heiress,
and a lady of title too, demean herself by marrying a
poor parson."
"Why, what do you, what can you mean?" demanded
I impatiently.
" Nothing at all, your ladyship, but that the Rev. Mr.
Melville is agoing to be married to a Miss Latimer, a
great beauty they say, with whom he fell in love at
Cambridge."
I was so wholly unprepared for this intelligence, that
it fell on me like a painful shock. I neither screamed
nor fainted, though I felt nearly ready to drop from my
chair; but I became so deathly pale that Mistress Mary
grew alarmed, and poured out a glass of water, of which
I swallowed a portion, saying that I had a sudden spasm.
I dismissed Mary as soon as possible; for I longed to
be alone, that I might, free from the restraint of a wit¬
ness, give way to the agony that was destroying me.
Never shall I forget that nigbtl when the rich heiress,
the spoiled child of fortune, who thought she had only to
express a wish to have it instantly gratified, first dis¬
covered that she loved in vain; that he, on whom she
had lavished all the idolatry of her first affection, preferred
another, and would soon be lost to her for ever. Fearful
w;as the conflict in my mind, as through the long night
X counted hour after hour, sleep still refusing to visit my
tear-stained lids. I wept in intolerable anguish, the de¬
struction of all my air-built hopes, my fairy dreams of
happiness, my pride, my love, my delicacy, all rankling
beneath the deep wounds inflicted on them. And he, on
whom I doted, even while I thought, dreamt, but of him,
he was wholly occupied by another, totally regardless of
mel There was bitterness, there was agony in the
thought 1
Then came the reflection, that I had been deceived,
yes, deceived and duped; and I unjustly, ungratefully
condemned Lady Walsingham for not haviug told me of
her brother's love for another. Now were Mistress
Mary's insinuations explained; Lady Walsingham had
long known of her brother's attachment, and hoped to
60
THE CONFESSIONS OF
induce him to conquer it, and, like her, to sacrifice love
to ambition. How unworthy! and yet, while admitting
the unworthiness, I was weak enough to wish that her
endeavours and hopes had been crowned with success;
and that I, on any condition, had become the wife of him
I so fondly, passionately loved. Then came the humili¬
ating doubt of my own personal attractions; a doubt
fraught with tenfold chagrin to one who had hitherto
believed herself supremely handsome.
"Oh! why," exclaimed I, in a paroxysm of tears,
" why was I not born beautiful enough to attract, to win
him from my rival! "What avail my wealth, my station,
and all the boasted advantages I am said to possess,
when they could not attain for me the only heart I desire
to make mine; the only being on whom my eyes can
ever dwell with rapture 1''
My mind was in a piteous state, agitated by various
and contending emotions; one moment governed by
jealous rage, and the next subdued to melting softness
by the recollections of past days. Then came the unjust
belief, that I had been deceived, wronged, by my step¬
mother. She must have known that he loved another—
why then allow me to indulge the dangerous illusion that
he ever could be anything to me ?
How prone are we to blame others, when we ourselves
only are in fault. I really now felt angry with Lady
Walsingham, and visited on her the censure that could
only apply to myself. I thought of my dear lost father,
and my tears streamed afresh when I reflected that, had
he been spared to me, how would he have sympathised
in this my first and cruel disappointment; he, whose
indulgent fondness had ever shielded me from sorrow.
Now was it that the fatal system of indulgence, hitherto
so injudiciously pursued towards me, met its punishment;
for, in proportion to the .facility afforded to the gratifi¬
cation of my wishes up to this period, was the bitterness
with which this disappointment was endured.
The morning found me ill, mentally and physically ill.
My swollen eyes and pale cheek alarmed Mistress Mary,
and her report quickly brought my stepmother to my
AN ELDERLY LADY.
61
bod-side. To her anxious inquiries, she met only tears
and sullenness; but though evidently surprised at my
ungraciousness, it extorted no look or expression of anger
or impatience from her. Doctor Warminster was sent
for, and he, having administered a composing draught,
seated himself by my bedside, to watch its effects. His
gentleness soothed, while it rendered me ashamed of my
own petulance; and in answer to his repeated interroga¬
tories, I at length admitted that something had occurred
to give me pain.
" But why, my dear child, for so you must permit me
to call you, do you evince an unkindness to Lady Wal-
singham, so unusual, and, I must add, so unmerited?
This is not amiable, it is not grateful, towards one who
is so fondly, so sincerely devoted to you. If you were
acquainted with the total abnegation of self, the uncom¬
plaining patience, with which your stepmother has borne
the most cruel disappointment that can befal a female
heart, a disappointment where an affection of the tender-
est nature had existed, you would, I am sure, feel an
increased respect and regard for her; and avoid even the
semblance of ingratitude for the years of solicitude, and
never-ceasing attention, you have experienced from
her."
" If she have experienced a disappointment of the
heart," answered I, sullenly, " whose is the fault? Did
she not, with cold and calculating selfishness, break the
bonds that united her to the lover of her choice, in order
to become a countess, and to acquire the wealth in which
he was deficient?"
The good doctor's face assumed an expression of
severity, mingled with surprise, that somewhat moderated
the expression of my ill humour.
" Who can have been so wicked, and so unjust, as to
have invented this falsehood, to impose on your credulity?"
demanded he, indignantly.
"Was not Lady Walsingham engaged to marry a
young gentleman in Sussex? and did she not break
through her engagement, in order to wed my father? and
did not the poor young man die in consequence of the
62
THE CONFESSIONS OF
disappointment?" asked I, with the air of one who is
convinced of the truth of what she utters.
" It is true, she was engaged to marry a young gentle¬
man in Sussex, to whom her affections had been plighted.
But his mother, influenced by the evil and scandalous
reports circulated by Lady Theodosia Walsingham, insisted
on his breaking off the engagement; and though he, con¬
vinced of the innocence of Miss Melville, was willing, nay
anxious to brave the displeasure of his only parent, the
young lady, from a sense of duty, though fondly attached
to him, declined to become his wife. When your noble,
your generous father, with a view solely to your happiness,
made her through me the offer of his hand, she unequi¬
vocally declined it; until I urged that your health, nay,
perhaps your life, depended on her answer. She made
your worthy father acquainted with the real state of her
heart; and he honoured her the more for her candour,
while acknowledging that his own affections, except for
his child, were interred with the wife he had never ceased
to love and mourn. A consumption which was hereditary
in the family, had previously rendered all hope of the
recovery of her rejected lover vain; her acceptance of his
hand could not have retarded his death, and her union
with your excellent father did not expedite that melancholy
event. Lady Walsingham had no reserve with her noble
husband; he knew the deep disappointment she had
endured, and the regret she never ceased to feel for the
object of her youthful attachment. He was fully aware,
that not to ambition, but to affection for you, did he owe
the hand of Lady Walsingham; and he honoured and
esteemed her, for the exemplary manner in which, con¬
cealing every symptom of sorrow, she devoted her whole
thoughts, her whole time, to her husband and his child.
And this, Lady Arabella, is the person you could misjudge,
and of whom you could listen to false and evil reports
emanating from some malicious calumniator! I must con¬
fess, I am shocked by the ingratitude you have evinced."
So was I also; and ashamed, as well as shocked. How
did the conduct and motives of my amiable stepmother,
thus explained to me, make me blush for my own! And
AN ELDERLY LADY.
63
yet a latent feeling, a base suspicion, with regard to her
reasons for wishing to engage her brother to wed me, still
lurked in my mind. The good doctor saw that, though
penitent for having believed the tale against my step¬
mother, my dissatisfaction had not yet entirely subsided,
though I forebore to express it.
" I will now, Lady Arabella," continued he, " give you
another proof of the disinterested conduct of Lady Wal-
singham. "When your noble father, on your completing
your sixteenth year, aware of the precarious tenure of his
existence, and anxious to procure for you a protector,
imagined that Mr. Melville, from his personal and mental
qualifications, might not be an unsuitable husband for you,
signified his wishes to Lady Walsingham," (how I felt
my heart beat, and my cheeks blush, at this part of the
good doctor's discourse!) "her ladyship immediately
pointed out the disparity of station and fortune between
you and her brother; and urged your claims to a more
noble and brilliant alliance. Lord Walsingham, however,
who had studied the character of Mr. Melville, feeling
persuaded that your happiness might be more secure in
a union with him, than in a marriage with one of higher
birth and proportionate opulence, persevered in his desire
of the subject being proposed to Mr. Melville by his
sister. Well do I remember the deep regret with which
your good father learned that Mr. Melville's affections
were engaged to a young and portionless lady, the
daughter of a clergyman at Cambridge. This discovery
was made only the last day of your father's life; and Lady
Walsingham, seeing how much it disappointed her noble-
minded husband, wept for his sorrow; though she could
not do otherwise than respect the disinterestedness of her
brother, in adhering to his first choice, notwithstanding
the great temptation offered to him."
Now was the delicacy and prudence of my stepmother's
conduct entirely revealed, and the reserve of her brother
explained. And these were the persons whom I had
wronged by my mistrust! whom I had believed capable
of playing a game to secur<one and my fortune! How
unworthy did I appear in mine own eyes, though my sus-
64
THE CONFESSIONS OF
picions were happily, as I thought, known only to myself.
Mistress Mary, who had been the medium of infusing
them into my mind, lost a considerable portion of my
favour; for I in this instance acted with the injustice to
which so many are prone, that of avenging, on the instru¬
ment of their unworthy curiosity and suspicion, the blame
which they may have incurred, and almost solely deserve.
My vanity too was now less deeply mortified by discover¬
ing that Frederick Melville had lost his heart ere I had
attained an age to admit of my being a candidate for it.
How I longed to behold the woman who was capable of
inspiring a passion that could thus resist the temptation
that my poor dear father had held out. Then came the
thought, that my preference for Frederick Melville had
been detected by the fond eyes of my parent, and that it
was this detection which led to his offering him my hand.
Lady Walsingham, too, had observed the state of my
heart, and tried to wean it from its first attachment. My
soul was penetrated with a deep sense of the unbounded
love of the parent I had lost, and of the delicacy and
affection of her to whose care he had bequeathed me.
My sullenness and petulance melted away, like ice beneath
the sun, as I reflected on their goodness: and I was no
longer the rich heiress, who could command love and
condescend to reward it, but the orphan, who was dis¬
posed to be grateful for affection, and once more anxious
to merit it.
The doctor saw that a salutary change, had occurred
in me; and my gentle stepmother was soon made happy
by being permitted to lavish on me all the demonstrations
of that tenderness which she so truly felt. No word of
explanation ever passed between her and me, relative to
my disappointment with regard to her brother. With
womanly delicacy and tact, she avoided all semblance of
knowing my attachment, though the softness of her
manners indicated a sympathy that I was now thoroughly
capable of estimating. When I looked on her still beau¬
tiful but pensive face, and £ reflected how courageously
she had borne up against the destruction of her youthful
hopes of happiness, I was incited to vanquish the regret,
AN ELDERLY LADY.
65
that, in spite of my best resolves, still would prey on me.
Pride, the besetting sin of my nature, and the most
successful adversary that ever coped with love, came to
my aid, and assisted me, perhaps still more powerfully
than reason, in conquering my girlish passion. To con¬
tinue to love one whose «heart was given to another, was
mean, was unfeminine; and I half vanquished my weakness
in feeling it to be one.
Still I heard nothing of Frederick Melville's marriage.
Was it postponed from a fear of my not being able to
support it ? There was insult in the supposition; and I
determined to do all in my power to bring the nuptials to
a speedy conclusion.
Seated, one day, in the drawing-room appropriated to
Lady Walsingham, and in which hung the portrait of her
brother, I made a desperate effort, and asked her when
Frederick was to be married. She answered, hesitatingly,
that the precise time had never been named.
".Would it not be better, dear mother," said I, "that
the marriage took place at once? Theirs has been a long
attachment, and all who esteem them must desire to see
it rewarded. Would it not be kind to have a miniature
copy made of Frederick's portrait?" and I looked at it
with a steady gaze, " as a nuptial present to his betrothed:
and we, dear mother, must send suitable gifts to the
bride."
All this was said so quietly and naturally, that Lady
Walsingham saw not how much the effort cost me; but
pride instigated it; and what this despot commands, he
generally supplies his votaries with the power of execut¬
ing. Lady Walsingham had so little of this leaven of
fine natures in hers, that she now began to think that she
had been in error when she imagined that I had enter¬
tained more than a sentiment of friendship for her brother;
and I did all in my power to encourage the delusion.
She wrote, therefore, to advise Frederick to have the
marriage compfcted; and, at my request, invited the bride
elect and bridegroom to come to London, that the cere¬
mony might be celebrated beneath our roof. I busied
myself in preparing wedding gifts for the bride, and
E
66
THE CONFESSIONS OF
counted the hours until she arrived. I saw that Lady
Walsingham occasionally feared that I was playing a
part; but so skilfully did I enact it, that at length I
deceived even her.
Miss Latimer and her father arrived. How my heart
throbbed when I saw her enter! yet I had sufficient self-
control to conceal every symptom of agitation, if I could
not subdue the deep emotion. She was exquisitely
beautiful. A Madonna countenance, such as the divine
Eaphael loved to paint, in which softness and modesty
lent additional charms to features of the most delicate
proportions, and a complexion of unequalled brilliancy.
But why attempt to describe what a portrait of her,
painted at my request, so much better explains? Here
it is; yet lovely as is the picture, it did not render justice
to the fair original. No longer did I wonder that
Frederick Melville, for her sake, resisted the temptation
offered to him by my wealth: her beauty alone would have
justified his choice even to the most fastidious critic of
female loveliness; but her gentle sweetness of disposition,
and unassuming good sense, enhanced her personal
attractions.
When Frederick arrived, no symptom of emotion was
visible in the frank and cordial greeting which I gave
him; while he, imposed on by the easy cheerfulness of
my manner, resumed his ancient cordiality, and unreser¬
vedly manifested, in my presence, all the tenderness he
felt for his betrothed. The firm resolution to conceal and
vanquish an attachment, is an effectual step towards the
accomplishment of that difficult task: and the necessity
of witnessing the beloved object's demonstrations of
affection for another, though a painful, is a still more
efficacious remedy.
I accompanied Eliza Latimer to the altar, and heard
him I loved plight to her those vows which I once hoped
—ah! how vainly hoped—might have been pledged to
me; and though this effort cost me a pang, and a severe
one, I was repaid by the salutary effect which this termi¬
nation of all hope, this positive and eternal barrier
between us, produced. To bestow a thought or a -igli
AN ELDERLY LADY.
67
on him who was now, in the sight of God and man, and
by his own free will and choice, the husband of another,
would have been not only wicked, but mean; and I fear
pride, more than reason or religion, assisted my firm
resolve to subdue every trace of my ill-starred attachment.
The new married pair set off for one of my country-
seats, to spend the honey-moon; and left me, if not
happy, at least self-satisfied with the consciousness of
having well performed the difficult role I had imposed
on myself. My attachment to Lady Walsingham had
returned in all its pristine force. A secret sympathy
united us; and, though never expressed, its influence
was sensibly felt by both. It was perhaps this bond of
union that precluded her from discovering the great
defect of my character, which was an ungovernable pride;
or, at least, it might have prevented her from taking
sufficient pains to eradicate or soften it. Hers was too
meek a spirit to cope with mine: she shrank from
opposition, and was more prone to lament errors in those
she loved, or to avoid all Occasion of eliciting their display,
than to exert the necessary firmness for combating and
triumphing over them.
I soon saw this sole weakness in her otherwise faultless
character; and availed myself of my knowledge of it to
acquire an undisputed empire over her. An increased
delicacy of health, of which I had lately shown symptoms,
alarmed the sensitive affection of Lady Walsingham:
and Doctor Warminster, on being consulted, recom¬
mended that the effect of a milder climate should be
tried for the approaching winter. I eagerly acceded to
the proposal, and in a short time after, my stepmother
and I, attended by a numerous suite, left England for
Italy.
I pass over the* surprise and pleasure which our stay
in the French capital, during the first few weeks, afforded
me. I was of an age when every novelty charms; and
I was travelling with a person whose sole study was to
increase my stock of enjoyments.
While at Paris, we met, at the English ambassador's,
the Marquis of Clydesdale, a young man remarkable for
68
THE CONFESSIONS OF
personal attractions, and not less so for an amiability of
manner and general information, that rendered his society
peculiarly agreeable to, and universally sought after, by
his compatriots. An expression of seriousness, amounting
almost to melancholy, pervaded the countenance of Lord
Clydesdale, and, in my opinion, lent it an additional
interest; and an occasional pensiveness and abstraction
detracted not from this feeling. I found myself uncon¬
sciously comparing the countenance of Lord Clydesdale
with that of one still remembered, though no longer
loved; and I was compelled to own, that, for intellectual
expression, that of his lordship possessed the superiority.
The air noble and distingue, peculiar to, and only to be
acquired by good company, was strikingly conspicuous in
Lord Clydesdale; and gave a dignified ease to his move¬
ments, that impressed the beholders with a conviction
that he was no ordinary person.
We had met three or four times after our introduction,
and had only exchanged a few casual words of common¬
place civility; until one day at a dinner at the ambassador's,
happening to be placed next him at the table, we insen¬
sibly fell into conversation. We soon discovered that we
were about to spend the winter at the same place in
Italy; and this circumstance led to his giving me many
interesting details of that country, where he had already
sojourned some two or three years before. The origi¬
nality and justice of his remarks, and the unpretending
frankness and simplicity with which they were made,
impressed me highly in his favour. Perhaps they owed
something of then- charm to the handsome countenance,
and dignified bearing of him who uttered them; for my
youthful predilection for beauty still influenced me, more
than I was willing to admit, even to myself.
The next day saw the Marquis of Clydesdale a visitor
at our hotel; and each succeeding one marked the pro¬
gress of an intimacy that was gradually formed between
us. He lent me books, conducted Lady Walsingham
and myself to the studios of the difierent artists of merit,
and attached himself to us at the various soirees at
which we met.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 69
I soon became accustomed to his presence; nay, more,
when he was absent, I experienced a void in our circle,
that the society of no other man, however amiable, could
fill up. I found myself impatiently expecting his arrival,
at the hour he was in the habit of coming; and felt my
heart beat quicker as I recognised his well-known step,
or heard the tones of his voice. Those were happy days 1
In the course of life there is perhaps no epoch so delight¬
ful, as the first hours of a passion, budding into flower,
but not yet full blown; when hope silences the whispers
of doubt, and security has not destroyed the trembling
anxiety that lends to love its strong, its thrilling excite¬
ment. I hardly dared to ask myself whether I was
beloved; though I was conscious that my own heart had
received an impression that rendered a reciprocity of
sentiment essential to my peace. Happy in the present,
fearing to anticipate the future, I felt as if in a blissful
dream, from which I dreaded to awaken.
More than one nobleman, of my own country, had
sought to find favour in my eyes at Paris. It was in the
French capital that I first entered into general society;
for my extreme youth prior to the death of my dear
father, and the seclusion in which we had lived ever since
that melancholy event, had precluded my presentation at
court, or my introduction into the circles in which my
station and fortune entitled me to take a place. Con¬
sequently, until my arrival at Paris, I had no opportunity
of seeing or being seen.
My vanity was not a little gratified by observing that
I was the principal magnet of attraction, in the re-unions
to which all the English of distinction flocked. It re¬
quired some such balm, to sooth the mortification I had
experienced in my first preference; and though a thought
would sometimes intrude, that perhaps my wealth was
even more seductive, in the eyes of my admirers, than
myself, still my mirror showed me a face and figure that
might, even if unaccompanied by the powerful adjuncts
of broad lands and funded thousands, have captivated male
hearts. I remarked, and with pain, that as each suitor
approached to win attention, Lord Clydesdale gave way to
70
THE CONFESSIONS OF
them, with the air of a man who, having no intentions
himself, determined not to interfere with those of others.
How did this conduct, on his part, wound and pique
me! I discouraged my admirers, by such a decided and
marked indifference towards them, that they soon per¬
ceived how trifling was then chance of success, and
withdrew, leaving the field open to Lord Clydesdale, who
resumed his place by me, with an air of satisfaction, but
with no indication of any intention of maintaining it,
against any new pretender to my hand. The anxiety I
now experienced was far more poignant than that which
I had known, when Frederick Melville was the object of
my girlish flame. It was now I began to think that first
love, whatever may be said or sung of it, is not so
arbitrary or durable in its influence as young ladies
imagine; and that, however unromantic it may sound, a
second love is not inferior in the hopes, fears,"and tend¬
erness, to which it gives birth. It has only one deterio¬
ration, and that is the humiliating consciousness that it
may, like the former one, subside. Yet, even this con¬
sciousness, like that of the inevitable certainty of death,
sometimes produces little effect on the feeling, and as
little on the conduct of mortals.
The Due D'Entragues, a descendant of one of the
most ancient houses in France, and remarkable for good
looks, and a certain animation of manner and vivacity of
mind, peculiar to his countrymen, which, if it produce
not wit, at least resembles it so strongly as often to
impose on those who are not very competent judges, now
paid his court to me. Unlike my English suitors, he
was not to be checked by coldness, or disgusted by in¬
difference. The manifestations of both, which I was not
slow in making, as soon as I discovered that his attentions
meant more than mere politesse, were received by him as
proofs of the natural gaucherie of manner, universally
attributed to English ladies by foreigners. He was so
impressed with a belief of his own fascinations, that he
could not doubt their effect on me; and approached me
with the air of a man certain of success, but grateful to
the vanquished for the facility of his victory.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 71
I became provoked by this exhibition of self-com¬
placency and conceit, and redoubled the hauteur of my
manner. Lord Clydesdale, as was usual with him, re¬
signed his place by my side, whenever the Due approached;
and this conduct on his part confirmed the hopes of my
confident admirer. I became piqued and offended with
Lord Clydesdale, and, I fear, often permitted indications
of my displeasure to be visible; but they produced no
change in him, and he still continued to be a frequent,
nay, almost a daily visitor at our hotel.
One morning Lady Walsingham was surprised by a
letter from the Due D'Entragues, requesting an interview.
He came at the appointed hour; and,—in a pompous
speech, in which, notwithstanding la politesse Frangaise,
he allowed his sense of the honour he was conferring, to
be somewhat too evident,—formally demanded my hand.
Lady Walsingham referred him to me; and he entered
the saloon, where I was at work, congratulating himself
and me, on the agreeable circumstance of not having
encountered any resistance from Madame via Mere:—
" Mothers," he added, " being generally desirous of
preventing their daughters from forming matrimonial
engagements early in life, lest they should have their
seeming age increased by the circumstance of being
prematurely rendered grandmothers."
I blushed with anger, which he attributed to mauvaise
honte; and attempting to seize my hand, he poured forth
a rhapsody of compliments, a portion of which he meant
for me, but a far larger part for himself. I could scarcely
induce him to suppress his self-gratulations, in order that
I might explain to him how misplaced they were, at
least, as far as I was concerned: and the expression of
his countenance became perfectly ludicrous, as I explicitly
and haughtily gave him an unqualified refusal.
What I refuse to be a Duchesse, and of one of the most
ancient houses in France? He did not exactly say this,
but he implied something very like it. Why then had
my mother given her sanction? but, above all, why could
I, as a dutiful daughter, presume to reject the alliance
my mother had approved? Such a thing never had been
72
THE CONFESSIONS OF
heard of in France, where the hands of sons and daughters
are.disposed of by their parents, without even a reference
to the feelings of the parties most concerned.
It was an amusing scene to behold two people, under
our peculiar circumstances, defending the customs of their
separate countries; the lover, in the warmth of his defence
of the superior wisdom and propriety of his own national
institutions, for a time losing all sight of the violent
passion he pretended to experience. When, however, he
did recur to it, or rather when he resumed.a repetition of
the catalogue of the honours and advantages which I
might inherit as Madame la Duchesse D'Entragues—
among which, a tabouret at the chaste court of Louis XV.
was not omitted—I, in referring to Lady Walsingham,
accidentally mentioned the words Belle Mere.
" How!" demanded he eagerly, " is Madame la Com-
tesse de. Walsingham not your mother,—your own real
mother ?"
" Certainly not," replied I, "how could it be possible?
she is only twenty-live years old; and I shall soon be
eighteen."
" How very odd,'' said he, "yes, now that I remember,
though it never struck me before, Lady Walsingham is
not an old woman; ma foi, nor a plain one neither. Au
contraire, she is good looking: and only twenty-five, did
you not say? Cest Men drole that I never remarked
this before. Permit me to ask whether Madame la
Comtesse has a large fortune?"
I answered in the affirmative, and stated the amount
of her revenue, highly amused at observing the sudden
interest excited by my information in the Due's mind,
relative to one whom, according to his own confession,
he had scarcely even regarded during an acquaintance of
some weeks.
" I never comprehend your English money," observed
he, thoughtfully, " Six thousand pounds a year, I think
you said; how much is that in our money ? How many
thousand louis-d'or does it make ?"
" You are doubtless, Monsieur le Due, thinking of trans¬
ferring the honour meant for me to my stepmother."
AN ELDERLY LADY. J 3
" Another proof of my homage and tendresse for yon,"
replied he, bowing low, "when being so unfortunate as
to be rejected by the lovely daughter, I wish to become
in some way or other connected with her, by addressing
my suit to her amiable relative. Would that you had a
sister, charming Lady Arabella, who at all resembled
you, but who was less cruel;" (and he tried to look senti¬
mental) "but as, unfortunately, you have not, I must
hope for consolation with Madame votre Belle Mere."
Highly divdhed by the natural levity, and assumed
sentimentality of my ci-devant admirer, I asked him how
he possibly could have believed that Lady Walsingham
could have a daughter of my age.
To say the truth," answered- he, frankly and gaily,
" I never thought about the matter. I heard she was
your mother; and we Frenchmen, when once a lady, and
above all an English lady, has passed her teens, never
know whether she is twenty-four or forty-four; all from
your island are so fair and rosy. However, now that my
attention is called to the subject, I must admit that
Madame la Comtesse de Walsingham is Men, tres Men en
verite, but the beauty of Miladi Arabella so far eclipses
that of all other women, that I must be pardoned for
overlooking that of la belle mere. We forget the stars
when the moon is shining, and only remark them when
that bright orb is not visible."
The Due and I parted on more friendly terms than we
had ever met before. His gaiety and frivolity amused
me; and the perfect frankness with which he displayed
his equal indifference for her who had rejected him, and
for her to whom he was intending to be a suitor, had
something so irresistibly comic in it, that it was impossi¬
ble not to be entertained. When he was leaving the
room, I could not repress the desire of telling him that,
in case his suit was unsuccessful with my stepmother, I
knew an English lady at Paris who I thought would have
no objection to become Duchesse D'Entragues.
"Ah, mechante/" said he, smiling; but, on observing
the gravity I assumed, he returned, and continued:—
"Eh Men! should I be so unhappy as not to be ac-
74
THE CONFESSIONS OF
cepted by Madame la Comtessc, I "will remember your
aimable offer, charming Lady Arabella, and claim its
fulfilment; for, en verite, I admire your nation so much,
that I am determined to have an English wife."
The Due lost not a moment in laying his proposals at
the feet, as he gallantly expressed himself, of my step¬
mother, who was more surprised than gratified by this
transfer of his matrimonial intentions. She could scarcely
believe it possible that he could so speedily and unblush-
ingly avow a sentiment for her, that littl® more than an
hour before he had professed to entertain for me; and
he appeared to find it as difficult to comprehend that she
could refuse his suit; having flattered himself, from the
facility with which she, as he fancied, received his over¬
tures for me, that she thought him irresistible.
All the temptations held out to me were repeated to
her, with the additional one, of the possibility of her
rivalling the reigning favourite of that day at Versailles,
the celebrated Madame du Barry, and of acquiring an
almost regal influence at Court.
The delicacy of Lady "Walsingham precluded her from
informing me of this courtier-like inducement; but the
Due subsequently repeated it himself to some of my
friends, as a proof of the want of spirit and of ambition
of that low-bom Englishwoman. JBut, what could he
expect from the daughter of a priest—the offspring of
sacrilege? He had not, however, he added, known this
shocking circumstance until after he proposed, or never
would he have offered her his hand. It was only in such
an irreligious country as England that a. priest durst
acknowledge himself to be a father; or that the daughter
of such an impure source could find a husband.
The Due was in so perfect a state of ignorance of our
religion, customs, and manners, that he could not com¬
prehend that the ministers of our church were at liberty
to marry; hence he concluded Lady Walsingham to be
the offspring of sin and shame.
In two days after his rejection, the femme de chambre
of Lady Walsingham, a young Englishwoman of remark¬
able beauty, with tears and blushes, informed her mistress
AN ELDERLY LADY. 75
that the French Due was tormenting her with insulting
px-oposals and letters. He had accidentally beheld the
pretty Fanny; and, being disappointed in his offers to
the two ladies of the family, addressed less honourable,
but perhaps more sincere vows, to the maid. She gave
his letter to Lady Walsingham; and I begged it of her.
The following is a faithful transcript of it:—
" My pretty heart, you have charm me. I loaf you, and tink
you much too pretty to be von femme da chambre. If you will
loaf me, I vill make you von grande ladi. You shall have von
charmunt entresol, des bijoux, a femme de chambre, and a carriage,
and never notings to do but amuse yourself, and loaf your devoted
Le Due D'E.
" My valet de chambre vill bring me your ansire."
Vexed as we were at this unprincipled attempt to
corrupt the pretty and innocent Fanny, we could not
resist a smile at the delectable billet-doux, which made
no other impression on her to whom it was addressed
than indignation.
We quitted Paris in a few days, leaving the Due
D'Entragues to look out for new conquests, and to ridi¬
cule the want of taste of Englishwomen of all classes,
Lord Clydesdale remained at Paris but a short time after
our departure; and our next meeting was at Naples.
The pleasure exhibited in his countenance at our ren¬
contre, again awakened hope in my heart; whence it had
lately been nearly banished, from observing his avoidance
of everything like marked attention. Our brief separation
seemed to have thrown him off his guard; or, perhaps,
it might be, that knowing the environs of Naples, and
witnessing our desire to explore them, good nature
tempted him to offer himself as our cicerone. No day
passed in which we were not together; and each one
found me still more assured of the deep hold he possessed
over my affections, and less sanguine of that which I
longed to obtain over his.
There were so few English travellers at Naples, and
the Neapolitans mingled so little with them, save on
occasions of large balls, at which the English minister
had the privilege of presenting his compatriots, that our
76
THE CONFESSIONS OF
habitual circle was much more circumscribed that at
Paris. This seemed to gratify Lord Clydesdale, and
increased the intimacy between us. We seldom parted
at night without making an arrangement for some excur¬
sion for the following day; and time flew with a rapidity
known only to those whose hearts are filled by a passion,
which, in presence of its object, and surrounded by new
and exciting scenery, gives a tenfold power to the wings
of the hoary veteran.
The habitual pensiveness of Lord Clydesdale's manner
seemed gradually to disappear, and to be replaced by a
cheerfulness which, if it amounted not to gaiety, was
more attractive to me. I have remarked that the gene¬
rality of my sex prefer those of the other who are of a
grave and sentimental turn; provided always, that the
gravity proceeds not from dulness, but from a reflective
cast of mind, which increases their respect, while it adds
to the interest they experience. I have known a pale
face and a pensive manner make impressions on female
hearts that had successfully resisted the attacks of ruddy
countenances and exhilarating gaiety: the possessor of
these agremens being more calculated to amuse than
interest, are rarely remembered when absent. Women
seldom forget the man who makes them sigh; but rarely
recur to him who has excited their mirth, even though a
brilliant wit may have been displayed in his bon mots and
good stories. He, therefore, who would captivate the
fastidious taste of le beau sexe, must eschew too frequent
smiles, even though he may have fine teeth; and must
likewise avoid occasioning or promoting the exhibition of
those pearly ornaments in her he wishes to permanently
please.
The newly acquired cheerfulness of Lord Clydesdale,
however, gratified me beyond measure, because I attri¬
buted it to the effect of my presence on him: and I hailed
it as the harbinger of an explicit acknowledgment of my
power, and a demand for the hand I longed to give him;
the heart having already anticipated his solicitation.
While returning from the beautiful and romantic
island of Ischia, where we had sojourned for a few days,
AN ELDERLY LADY.
77
and gliding over a moonlit sea, smooth and polished, as
though it were a vast mirror spread out to reflect the
heavens, Lord Clydesdale first spoke to me of love.
Even now, though age has thrown its snow, not only on
my tresses but on my heart, that evening is remembered
nearly as vividly as if it had lately passed. Nay 1 What
do I say? Infinitely more vividly; for the events of
recent years seem to me more vague and indistinct than
those of my early youth. As we approach the grave,
our mother's breast, a second childhood is mercifully
granted us; and we retain only the impressions which
were stamped on the heart by the affections, while those
of reason fade from the brain. Nature engraved the
first, but experience formed the second. One is felt; the
other has only been thought.
Yes, even now, in mental vision, I behold with a clear¬
ness to which my dim eyes can no more assist me, the
dark blue unruffled sea of the unrivalled Bay of Naples,
with the glorious orb of light, and the thousand brilliant
stars reflected on its glassy bosom. I hear the stroke of the
oars, every movement of which sends forth a phosphoric
effulgence from the surface of the waters, like a glittering
sheet of molten silver. I hear the plaintive hymn of the
peasants returning in the market-boats from Naples; or
the gay barcarole of the fishermen, mingled with the
sounds of guitars and soft voices, that float past us. I
see the island of Procida in our rear, on the left, with
Cape Misenum; and on the right, the fairy island of
Nisida rising, like an enchanted castle at the touch of
some necromancer, from the bosom of the deep. Yes,
all the scenes are present to my imagination, with the
delicious reverie to which they gave birth, and the face
of him I loved, on which the beams of the moon shed a
light that increased the intellectual character of its
beauty.
We had been silent some time, each occupied, or rather
abstracted, and softened by the influence 6>f the balmy
air of that luxuriant climate, and the surrounding loveli¬
ness of nature. At length he spoke—■
" Such a night and such a scene as this are rarely
78
THE CONFESSIONS OF
granted to us of the cold and sunless north. There is
something soothing, calm, and holy in its influence; and
yet, though sweet and soothing, it is melancholy too."
His voice was low and musical, and his countenance
was in harmony with its tone; for it was mild, but
mournful.
" This repose and beauty of nature," resumed he,
" make one feel increased tenderness for those dear to us,
still spared, with whom we share the enjoyment; but it
also brings back the memory of those we have loved and
lost—with whom we can share it no more. Can you,
fair Arabella, who as yet have known only the cloudless
spring of life, comprehend that while mourning an object,
once inexpressibly dear, and still fondly remembered, the
heart may awaken to another attachment; may again
indulge emotions believed to be for ever departed; and
may dare to hope to meet sympathy where now all its
wishes point ? When I saw you, dear Arabella, I thought
I could never love again; I was so certain that my heart
was dead to that passion, and buried in the early grave
of her who first taught it to throb with tenderness, that
I fearlessly trusted myself in the dangerous ordeal of your
society. I found I was in error; such attractions have
proved their irresistible empire; and I love you truly,
tenderly. May I indulge a hope that you will be my
sweet consoler for past disappointment and sorrow; and
that you will teach this care-worn heart to forget all
but you ?"
He paused, and I was speechless from emotion. At
length, then the certainty of knowing myself beloved was
mine! a certainty that, previously to its existence, would,
I fancied, have conferred unutterable happiness upon me.
Did it now produce this effect? Alas! No! The
felicity such a conviction would have bestowed was de¬
stroyed by the mortifying fact of ascertaining that he had
loved another; that the bloom and freshness of a first
passion could never be mine; and that I inspired only a
second, perhaps a much less fervent affection than my
predecessor had excited, in the heart where I wished to
have reigned alone! Severe was my disappointment, as
AN ELDERLY LADY.
79
jealousy—ay, jealousy of the dead—shot its envenomed
arrows through my heart.
I could have wept in very bitterness; but shame,
womanly shame, checked this exposure of the secret
feelings of my soul; and silent and trembling I almost
feared to trust myself with words.
"You answer me not, dearest Arabella," resumed
Lord Clydesdale, his voice tremulous with emotion,
" have I then deceived myself in thinking that I might
hope to create an interest in that gentle heart?"
Tears involuntarily filled my eyes; I longed to, but
dared not tell him that my silence proceeded from no
want of the sentiment he desired to create—but, alas!
rather from an excess of it, which rendered me wretched
at the knowledge that he had loved before. A thought
of rejecting his suit, now that I found with what bitter
feelings an acceptance of it would be accompanied, crossed
my mind; but I turned affrighted from the contemplation
of banishing from my sight, the only being whose presence
was necessary to my happiness. No! I would accept
the portion of his heart that might still be mine—I would
deign to occupy a small niche in that temple, dedicated
to the worship of the dead. I, proud and haughty as I
was, would try to be satisfied with the ashes of a fire
which another had kindled; but even this humiliation
was less painful than to lose him altogether. These
thoughts passed rapidly through my mind. The misery
of years was compressed into the brief period which had
elapsed since his avowal of affection; and already my
heart had grown old in suffering. I gave him my hand,
for I could not speak; and he pressed it fondly to his
lips, while he murmured words of tenderness, which
soothed, though they did not satisfy, the demon jealousy
that was writhing within my tortured breast. Had any
one told me that I should thus feel when first assured of
his preference, how would I have denied the possibility!
Tears I might have believed would flow; for joy and
grief declare themselves by this dew of the heart: but I
would have asserted that mine would be tears of joyful
tenderness, of grateful, softened happiness. What were
80
THE CONFESSIONS OF
they now? The waters of bitterness, springing from a
fountain newly opened in the soul, and never again to be
sealed, except by death.
Before we separated on that eventful night, he asked
permission to inform Lady Walsingham that I had not
rejected him. The very terms he used softened me; for
they indicated that he had remarked, that my manner of
receiving his suit was more like a non-rejection than a
positive acceptance of it; a delicate and discerning
homage that gratified my sensitiveness.
Never did hermit or philosopher reflect more on the
disappointments that await the hopes of mortals, than
did I, through the long and sleepless night which followed
Lord Clydesdale's declaration of love: that declaration
which I fancied was to have conferred unmingled felicity.
As the whispered words of tenderness he had breathed in
my ear were recalled, the recollection that similar words
had been poured into the ear of another, came to torment
me. The soft glances of love with which he sought to
meet my eyes when urging his suit, had been often fixed
on another, perhaps a fairer and dearer face; and the
gentle pressure of his hand had often been felt by one
who had enjoyed all the bloom and freshness of his first
affections. Had he ceased to love her? that he had not
ceased to remember and mourn her, he had confessed;
and now my fond and fervent affection was to be repaid
by the comparatively cold and languid one of a disap¬
pointed and exhausted heart.
And yet there were moments in which my better
feelings prevailed—moments in which I pitied the sorrow
he had endured, and almost determined to sacrifice my
selfish regrets, and devote my life to his happiness. Yes,
I would be the soother of the traces left by past grief;
and the creator of new hopes, new blessings. I would
generously stifle my own disappointment in pity to his;
I would question him on all that he had endured, identify
myself by the force of my sympathy with his mournful
recollections of her he had lost; and teach him gently,
gradually, to forget her, in his devoted attachment to
me. How ardently did I long to hear every particular
AN ELDERLY LADY.
81
connected with his former passion. Was the object
beautiful?—How strange is the human heart! My
vanity led me to wish that she had been fair in no
ordinary degree; for there is something peculiarly humi¬
liating to a woman vain of her own pretensions to beauty,
in becoming the successor of a plain one, in the affections
of a husband. And yet I had a latent dread, that if she
had been as lovely as I was disposed to imagine her, the
recollections of her attractions might eclipse the reality
of mine. In short, my ill-governed mind was in such a
state of morbid excitement, that I scarcely knew what I
desired. Only one sentiment gtood prominently forth
above all others, and that was disappointment,—deep
and bitter disappointment, arising in the consciousness
that all the wild and fond illusions of love, which I
wished him whom I adored to have entertained for the
first and only time for me, he had already experienced.
Then came the thought, that I too had loved before;
and yet in this my second attachment, none of the fond
illusions that characterised the first were wanting.
There was some comfort in this recollection; until it
was followed by the painful one, that my first affection,
having been unpartaken by him who inspired it, had
never been cemented by the thousand nameless but
powerful associations that only a mutual tenderness can
bestow. Mine was nothing more than a mere girlish
fancy, never matured by sympathy, or rendered indelible
by reciprocity. I forgot in the excitement of the actual
present, all the sufferings of the less vivid past. The
waking dreams, sleepless nights, and tear-stained pillow,
were all forgotten; and the passion which, while it
existed, I had believed to have been as violent as
indestructible, was now considered to be nothing more
than an evanescent preference. Strange infatuation 1
the repetition of which has induced some mortals, with
susceptible feelings, to regard their hearts as plants,
that, though subject to the laws of nature in casting off
their leaves at certain periods, can always put forth fresh
shoots, and bloom again as genially as before. I even
excused the intensity of my present sentiments over
F
82
THE CONFESSIONS OF
those of my past, by the superiority of the object which
had given them birth. The graceful, the dignified Lord
Clydesdale, with his noble air and polished manners,
cast into shade the handsome person, but grave and
simple demeanour, of Frederick Melville. Nay, I now
wondered how I ever could have been captivated by him,
and smiled at my own delusion.
Such are some of the incongruities of that almost
inexplicable enigma—a woman's heart.
When Lady Walsingham congratulated me next day
on the prospect of happiness that now opened to me, and
expressed her warm approbation of my suitor, I could
scarcely restrain my tears; and I looked so little joyous
on the occasion, that she positively imagined she had
been in error, in supposing that Lord Clydesdale had
interested my feelings. Little did she know the tumult
to which my mind was a prey at that moment! for
though I had so often experienced her sympathizing
kindness, a latent sentiment, it might be vanity, or
shame, or both, prevented me from avowing my real
sentiments.
When Lord Clydesdale came, the increased tenderness
and animation of his manner re-assured me. The soli¬
citude with which he marked my pallid cheeks and
swollen eyes, was so apparent, that hope whispered that
love alone could have excited such interest. I longed,
yet feared, to question him of the past, when we were
alone. I dreaded to revive an image in his recollection,
which I desired, oh! how anxiously desired, might be
banished from it for ever; and yet the thought of her
whose memory I dreaded to recall, was so predominant
in mine, and filled me with such painful emotions, that
I felt that I could have no peace until he should have
reposed in my breast the mournful tale of his former
attachment. Often did the question hover on my lips;
and as often did it die away, without my being able to
frame words that would elicit his confidence without
betraying the secret jealousy which was torturing me.
There is a conscious unworthiness in jealousy, which, if
the victim be proud, makes her shrink from its exhibition.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 83
I felt this powerfully, and added to it, was the dread of
forfeiting his esteem, by the display of this egotistical
passion. I am now surprised when I reflect on the
^duplicity with which I affected a strong sympathy in his
regret for her he had lost; and still more surprised, when
I remember how completely he was the dupe of this
pretended sympathy. His love for me seemed positively
to have been increased tenfold, by the interest I evinced
in the fate of my predecessor. My generosity, so superior,
as he said, to that of the generality of females, delighted
him.
How Tittle did he know the heart of woman 1. For
though there may be many who might be gentle enough
to regret an unknown individual of their own sex, who.
is represented as having gone down young, beautiful, and
good, to an early grave, while yet love and hope would
fain have bound her to earth, few have sufficient self-
control to conquer her jealous emotions, while listening
to the recapitulation of the perfections of the lost one;
or the grief her loss had excited in the breast of the
object of her own affection. A man precludes a similar
confidence from the woman he loves, by openly displaying
his total want of sympathy, in any allusion to previous
attachments, even should a woman be so devoid of tact
as to make them; while we of the softer sex, though
pained to the heart by such disclosures, shrink from
checking them, though they are hoarded in the memory,
to bo often dwelt upon, but never without pain.
This peculiar dislike to the belief of a lover ever
having before experienced the tender passion, has been
often ascribed to vanity; but I believe it originates in
a delicacy less reprehensible, and consequently more
entitled to commiseration. Devoid of refinement and
delicacy must that woman be, who, having accepted a
suitor, entertains him with lamentations for, or descrip¬
tions of the one who preceded him : like the lady, who,
when married a second time, dwelt so fondly and per¬
petually on the merits of her poor dear first husband,
that she compelled his successor to declare, that however
much she might regret the defunct, he still more truly
84
THE CONFESSIONS OF
mourned his death. It is this indelicacy that led a man,
who knew human nature well, to assert that a man
should never marry a widow, however attractive, whose
first husband had not been hanged; as that ignominious
catastrophe furnished the only security for her not con¬
tinually reverting to him.
But to resume the thread of my narrative: no day
elapsed, that Lord Clydesdale did not inflict a jealous
pang on my heart, by some unconscious reference to
past times; until at last my apparent sympathy lured
him into a more explicit disclosure of his feelings; and
he related the story of his first love.
It was a simple one! but the intensity of his emotion
in repeating it, the warmth with which he dwelt on the
personal and mental charms of her he had lost, wounded
me to the soul. Yet, though writhing under the infliction,
I so skilfully concealed my sufferings, that he was the
dupe to my affected interest about one to whose death
alone, I owed his present affection. There is a great
though secret pleasure in talking of any former attach¬
ment, that has not been dissolved by circumstances
humiliating to vanity. Those broken by inconstancy
are seldom recurred to, because they are mortifying to
self-love. But to dwell on a love that ended but with
life, and to repeat incidents strongly indicative of the
force of the attachment of the deceased, is one of the
greatest, though apparently the least, egotistical gratifi¬
cations to which our amour propre can have recourse.
One can repeat how well she loved him, in a thousand
varied ways, without shocking the ears of the confidant
by his self-eulogiums; yet each of these examples of
the passion that has been felt for the narrator, may be
considered as indubitable proofs of his attractions and
merits.
Lord Clydesdale's first love was a young and fasci¬
nating creature, born with the germ of a disease that
seems ever to select the fairest objects for its prey.
Consumption, which, like the Pagans of old, adorns its
victims for the sacrifice, had rendered the beauty of the
youthful Lucinda Harcourt still more dazzlingly bright.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 85
The hectic of her cheek, the lustre of her eye, and the
deep vermilion of her lips, those sure and fatal symptoms
of the destroyer, which, like the canker-worm in the rose,
feeds on its core while the external petals still wear their
fresh hue, were considered by her lover as charms
peculiarly her own, and not as indications of incipient
disease. Even in relating her lingering illness, and
mournful death, he seemed unconscious that she fell a
prey to a malady hereditary in her family, and to which
her mother owed her death in the bloom of youth. No,
with the delusion inherent in mortals, which ever seeks,
even in misfortune, some salve from vanity, he attributed
the untimely death of the fair Lucinda to the unwonted
agitation produced by the excessive attachment, with
which he had inspired her youthful breast, and the
anxiety attending the period, previous to his formal
demand of her hand; for it appears that he had, though
deeply smitten, taken a considerable period to reflect,
before he proposed for her. He spoke in such panegyrics
of the transparency of her complexion, and the sylph-like
fragility of her form, that I almost longed to possess these
infallible symptoms of disease; as I dreaded his com¬
paring my healthful but less attractive bloom, and
rounded figure, with the evanescent charms he so raptu¬
rously described.
"Have you no picture of her?" asked I, trembling,
lest he should draw forth from his breast, a treasured
miniature carefully concealed from prying eyes.
" Yes," replied he, " I have an admirable resemblance
of her, which you shall see, and which has never left my
breast since I lost her, until you, fair and dear Arabella,
listened to my suit."
I involuntarily placed my hand within his, at this
acknowledgment; for I felt grateful for the delicacy of
the renunciation of the portrait. Nay, in consideration
of it, I almost forgave the warmth of his praises of her;
for, slight as the circumstance was, it made a great
impression on me.
The next day he brought the miniature, and though I
had been prepared to expect beauty of no ordinary kind,
86
TIIE CONFESSIONS OF
I confess that the extreme loveliness of the portrait
surprised—ay, and shall I own the truth?—displeased
me. If I had previously indulged a jealousy of the fair
Lucinda, what were my jealous pangs now, that I beheld
the radiant beauty of her face 1 The artist had caught
the almost seraphic expression of her countenance, that
fine and elevated expression, where the purity of the
angel seems to have already descended on the suffering
saint. It wanted only a halo round the head, to be one
of the best personifications of a martyred saint ascending
to heaven; and I, even /, could not repress the tear that
fell on the crystal that covered it, though the source
whence it sprang was not free from alloy.
This apparent sympathy, while it rendered me dearer
to Lord Clydesdale, lured him into a still more frequent
recurrence to the object of his first love. He judged
more favourably of me than I deserved, in imputing to
me a freedom from that envy and jealousy, from which
so few of my sex are exempt; and I had not courage to
risk the forfeiture of this good opinion, by acknowledging
how little it was merited. Had I avowed my weakness,
how much unhappiness should I not have escaped I But
no, pride, the most dangerous passion which can approach
love,- forbade it; and I yielded to its unwise suggestions.
It was agreed between Lord Clydesdale and myself,
that our marriage should not take place until our return
to England. But as we were considered affianced, we
spent the greater part of every day together; and each
day seemed to cement our mutual affection, as we drew
plans for the future, and built castles in the air. Life is
at best but a shadowy scene, some charm of which
vanishes every day; the actual enjoyments, few and far
between, often poisoned by untoward circumstances^ or
followed by painful regret. Are we not then wise, in
creating for ourselves the innocent pleasure of fancy-
building? where Hope, the syren, helps to erect the
structure, and almost cheats Eeason into believing the
possibility of its completion. Those were indeed blissful
days! when beneath the blue skies of genial Italy, and
wandering by the as blue waters of the Mediterranean
AN ELDERLY LADY.
87
sea that mirrored them, the balmy air of the delicious
climate of Naples, made its influence known by exhila¬
rating our spirits, and diffusing its softness over our
feelings. And yet the bliss was not unalloyed I When
was that of mortals ever so? though each believes himself
worthy of happiness, and likely, if not sure, to attain it.
The more tenderness Lord Clydesdale seemed to
evince, and the more warmth I myself experienced, the
more susceptible did I become of the assaults of the fiend
jealousy; each successive attack lacerating my heart
more cruelly. Every allusion to the lost Lucinda tortured
me;, and yet I had myself at the commencement encou¬
raged these allusions. Now that I believed myself
beloved, and felt with what passionate tenderness I repaid
the affection of Lord Clydesdale, a recurrence to his
former passion appeared an insult, and an injustice, that
I was disposed to resent with an anger that required the
exertion of all my reasoning powers to subdue.
At length I took courage, and asked him to let me
have the portrait of Lucinda. He looked surprised—
hesitated; and then demanded why I wished to possess
it? I acknowledged that I considered it so exquisitely
beautiful, that while it remained in his keeping I should
always dread his contemplation of it might elicit com¬
parisons highly disadvantageous to my own inferior
attractions. This avowal drew from him some of those
praises peculiar to love, which, however exaggerated,
are never unacceptable; and he yielded the portrait,
though with reluctance, on my solemn promise that it
should be carefully guarded and considered a sacred
deposit.
The possession of this long-coveted treasure soothed
and calmed the demon in my breast for many days; yet
each time I gazed on it, the angelic softness and beauty
of the countenance re-illumined the nearly extinguished
spark of jealousy in my mind. I have, after contem¬
plating it long and attentively, sought my mirror, and
tried to think the image it reflected was not so very far
inferior to this captivating picture, as jealousy whispered
it to be. But, alas! not all the suggestions of vanity
88
THE CONFESSIONS OF
could blind me to the immeasurable superiority of the
countenance of Lucinda, that dead rival, who in her
grave, as I fancied, still triumphed over me. It was
true, my finely chiselled features and the perfect oval of
my face might have contested with her the palm of
beauty; but the expression—Oh I how infinitely did mine
fall short of hers! I forgot in contemplating my own
countenance that the baleful passions of envy and jealousy
which pervaded my heart at that moment, lent their
disfiguring influence to my face. No wonder, then, that
I was conscious of the vast difference between a physiog¬
nomy, expressive only of a heavenly calm, and that in
which worldly and sinful feelings were delineated.
The sunshine produced by my lover's renunciation of
the portrait had made itself manifest many days; when,
one luckless evening, while seated on the balcony of the
palazzo we inhabited, and engaged in that dreamy, tender,
conversation into which lovers are prone to fall, on my
expressing some doubt of the depth and devotion of his
love, he passionately seized my hand, and exclaimed,
"Yes, adored Lucinda!—Arabella—I would say—"
" You need not complete the sentence," interrupted I,
coldly; "it is but natural that the name of the object
which is most dearly treasured in your memory should
sometimes escape from your lips."
" This is unjust and cruel, Arabella," said he, " you
know, or ought to know, how inexpressibly dear you are
to my heart, when all its feelings, all its regrets have
been bared to your view. "Why have you deceived me
by an apparent sympathy, if you could not bear with an
occasional, an involuntary recurrence to the past?"
The gentleness of his reproach, which had so much
more of sorrow than of anger in it* disarmed my displea¬
sure. I felt ashamed of my petulance, and had an
instinctive presentiment that by this selfish ebullition I
had forfeited some portion of his esteem.
"I should be unworthy of your affection, dearest
Arabella," resumed he, "were I capable of deceiving
you by asserting that I ever could banish the memory of
her who in life was so beloved. But that memory,
AN ELDERLY LADY. 89
mournful though it be, precludes not the fondest, truest
affection for you. Nay, you should consider the constancy
of my attachment to one in her grave, as a gage of that
which shall bind me to the only being on earth who
could console me for her loss."
I refused not the hand he now pressed to his lips; a
few kind words and gentle tears on my part marked our
renewed amity, and we parted that night as lovers part
after a reconciliation of their first misunderstanding; for
the harsh name of quarrel I could not give it.
But, though we met in fondness next day, and every
day for many weeks, confidence was banished between
us. The name of Lucinda, or any reference to her, never
escaped his lips; but this self-imposed silence and con¬
straint tortured me more than his former lavish praises
or tender regrets had ever done. The demon jealousy
whispered, that though the name was banished from his
lips, her image had become more tenaciously fixed in his
heart; and that an opinion of my selfishness and want of
self-control had led to this reserve and increased serious¬
ness on his part. This conviction haunted and goaded
me; yet I dared not trust myself to utter a word of it to
him. I feared to sink still lower in his estimation, or to
be hurried into some expression of harshness that might
lead to a serious misunderstanding, perhaps a rupture;
and such a result, even in moments of the greatest mental
excitement, I dared not contemplate, so warm and fervent
was my attachment to him.
How narrowly, and with what lynx eyes, did I examine
his countenance every day when we met. A shade of
sadness on his brow, or an involuntary sigh, angered
me; they were received as incontrovertible proofs that his
thoughts were on my dead rival.
Our tete-a-tetes were no longer marked by that out¬
pouring of the soul, that boundless confidence which had
formerly existed between us; and both were conscious of
this change, though anxious to conceal it from each other.
His conversation now referred wholly to the future; he
avoided all reference to his past life, as if it had been
stained by some crime of deep die; and I felt as if there
90
THE CONFESSIONS OF
was a gulf between us—that is, between our souls'
communion. The consciousness of this gulf having been
created by my own waywardness, added to the bitterness
of my feelingsI became silent and abstracted; and though
he was never ceasing in his attentions, the sense of our
mutual constraint now robbed them of their greatest
charm in my estimation.
It was at this period that Sir Augustus Fauconberg,
an intimate friend of Lord Clydesdale, arrived at Naples.
He established himself in the same hotel with him, and
was presented to us. He was one or two years senior to
Lord Clydesdale, and remarkably good-looking, accom¬
plished, and agreeable. His presence was a relief to us
all; for his vivacity, though finely tempered by good
breeding, never failed to enliven those with whom he
associated. A short time before, I should have considered
the presence of a stranger in our limited circle as an
unwelcome interruption to the frequent tete-a-tetes I
enjoyed with my affianced husband; for Lady Walsingham
devoted much of her time to feminine occupations, and
left us much alone; but now, those tete-a-tetes had lost
their chief attraction. The chain of love still bound us,
but the flowers that wreathed and concealed its links had,
one by one, withered and dropped off. Neither of us
wished for freedom, nor dared anticipate division, but all
the sweetness of love had departed; we were not happy
together, and yet we dreaded to try if we could support
separation.
One evening I had remarked, with anger blended with
sorrow, that Lord Clydesdale appeared to be more than
usually depressed. Instead of soothing him by kindness,
I maintained a sullen silence; and even when he bade us
adieu for the night, I returned not the pressure of his
hand, but suffered mine to remain cold and passive within
his grasp, as if it had been a lifeless substance.
My heart reproached me for this unkindness, during
the night; and I made good resolves for the coming day.
Indeed, so salutary were my reflections, that I determined
henceforth to conquer my waywardness; and by resuming
my former confiding tenderness, win back his.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 91
I longed, impatiently longed, for his visit; I counted
the hours that must intervene before the arrival of that
which usually brought him to our palazzo; and attired
myself with more than my accustomed care, that I might
appear more attractive in his eyes. I seemed to awake
from a disagreeable dream; and the recollection of my
own too frequent fits of silence and sullenness, to which
his forbearing gentleness, and constant affection, formed
a striking contrast, rose up to reproach me. Yes, I
would amply repay him for all my past suspicions and
unkindness, and never more give way to them. In this
frame of mind I left my chamber. My mirror told me
that never had I looked more attractive. I had attired
myself in his favourite colours, wore a bracelet and ring,
his gifts, and, with a throbbing heart, awaited his coming.
Hour after hour elapsed, and he appeared not; a
thousand vague forebodings of evil haunted me—I could
settle to no occupation, but kept continually walking on
the balcony that overlooked the street by which he must
approach, in order to catch a glance of him.
At length Lady Walsingham entered the saloon, and
observed that she had thought Lord Clydesdale was
there. When informed that I had not seen him, she
appeared really uneasy; for, though she then mentioned
not the report to me, she had that morning heard that
an epidemic disease had, during the last few days, been
making great ravages in the town; and, consequently,'
coupled his unusual absence with this startling intelligence.
A servant was instantly despatched to the hotel where
Lord Clydesdale resided, to inquire for him; and my
fears were excited, and Lady Walsingham's confirmed,
by the information that Lord Clydesdale had not left his
chamber that day.
" But here, my lady," said our servant, " is a letter
which the porter forgot to send your ladyship, and which
ought to have been delivered this morning."
To break the seal and devour the contents of this
billet, was the work of a moment. A few lines stated
that a slight imposition would confine the writer to his
apartment for that day, but that the next would see him
92
THE CONFESSIONS OF
at our palazzo. An air of constraint pervaded this note,
which I instantly attributed to his desire of concealing
the extent of his malady. My heart died within me as
the idea of his danger presented itself to my mind; and
ardently did I wish that I were his wife, that I might
have the privilege of watching over his sick couch, as
love only can watch. I magnified his danger until the
most painful images were conjured up to my terrified
imagination. I fancied him ill—dying—and I, though
his betrothed, precluded, by the usages of the world,
from alleviating his sufferings or receiving his last sigh.
How impatiently did I writhe under these bitter thoughts I
how execrate my own folly for ever having annoyed him
by my petulance, or wounded him by my selfish and
wayward jealousy I What resolutions, instigated by
" the late remorse of love," did I form, never again,
should it please Heaven to restore him to me, to give
him cause for reproach or chagrin. Yes, I would conquer
my own feelings, and attend solely to his. Though aware
how deeply, how tenderly I was devoted to him, I knew
not until the thought of his danger took possession of
me, how wholly, how passionately my soul doted upon
him.
I threw myself into a bergere, and covering my face
with my hands, wept in uncontrollable anguish, heedless
of the attempts at consolation made by my tender and
true friend Lady Walsingham. She was suggesting the
expediency of sending an English physician to Lord
Clydesdale, when the door of the apartment was thrown
open, and Sir Augustus Fauconberg entered.
"Tell me, I entreat you, tell me how he is?" I ex¬
claimed, reckless of betraying my tearful agitation. He
hesitated and looked aghast. This conduct verified my
fears.
"I am prepared for the worst," resumed I; "I see
his danger in your face; it is confirmed to me by your
hesitation. Let me, I implore you, hear it at once, or
this suspense will destroy me."
" I really do not comprehend," replied he, with a face
of astonishment. " Who is ill or in danger? for lam
AN ELDERLY LADY. 93
not aware that any individual in whom we take an
interest is in that predicament."
I viewed this speech as a good-natured subterfuge,
used to avoid declaring the real state of the case; and it
almost maddened me. Lady Walsingham, observing me
to be incapable of articulating another word, so over¬
powered was I by my feelings, here interposed; and stated
that we had heard that Lord Clydesdale was confined to
his chamber by indisposition.
" I assure you I was totally ignorant of it," answered
Sir Augustus; "but the truth is, I told Clydesdale last
night that I intended to proceed to Sorento to-day witli
some friends of mine, so that he believes me gone. They
changed their plans, and, as I had risen early, I have
been making an excursion in the environs. Still, I think
there must be some mistake, for I saw Clydesdale's valet-
de-chambre this morning, and he said nothing of the
circumstance."
" It is, nevertheless, I fear, but too true," replied
Lady Walsingham, "for Lady Arabella received a note
from Lord Clydesdale, which, though it makes light of
his indisposition, refers to it as the cause for not coming
here to-day."
" When did the note arive?" demanded Sir Augustus.
" Only a short time before you entered."
" And Lady Arabella has received no other note from
Clydesdale?"
" No other," answered I, still weeping.
" It is strange," resumed Sir Augustus, " for I saw
Clydesdale write you a note last evening, and heard him
give orders that it should be sent to your palazzo early
in the morning."
"And was he then in perfect health?" asked Lady
Walsingham.
" Most certainly," replied Fauconberg, " but rather
more serious than usual, which I attributed to the recol¬
lection that this day was the second anniversary of the
death of a person once dear to him; every recurrence to
whom his friends avoid, knowing the subject to be fraught
with pain to him."
94
THE CONFESSIONS OF
In an instant, my tears were dried, the burning blushes
of shame and anger that suffused my cheek seemed to
effect this operation; and the fiend jealousy awoke in my
breast, to renew the infliction of a thousand pangs. So,
while I, reckless of observation, exposed my love and
anguish, at the bare thought of his danger, to the gaze
of others, he having voluntarily excluded himself from
my presence, was weeping over the memory of another
love; and leaving me to endure all the alarm and
wretchedness which his acknowledgment pf indisposition
could not fail to excite. The subterluge too, of affecting
illness—it was unworthy—it was base! The whole
current of my feelings became changed. Such conduct
was not to be borne. No, I would, whatever the effort
might cost me, break with him for ever; and his friend,
Sir Augustus Fauconberg, who had been a spectator of
my weakness, when I believed him ill, should now be a
witness of the firmness with which I could eternally resign
him.
Such were the thoughts that flitted through my
troubled brain, making my temples throb, and my heart's
pulses beat in feverish excitement. I silenced every
whisper of love, every dictate of reason. Pride, un¬
governable pride, and indomitable jealousy, now took
entire possession of my heart, banishing every gentle
and feminine emotion. If, a short time before, while
suffering agonies at the bare notion of my lover's illness,
any one had told me that the assurance of his being well
could fail to convey to me the most ecstatic joy, I should
have pronounced the fulfilment of the prediction impos¬
sible. There is nothing to which I would not have
cheerfully submitted to have had this blissful assurance.
But now—it only gave me torture, and excited rage.
Such are the revolutions to which evil passions can lead
those who are so unfortunate as to submit to their
empire 1
I sought my chamber, and giving way to my wild and
wrathful impulse, seized a pen, and wrote to Lord
Clydesdale to declare that I considered our engagement
at an end. I stated that my determination was irrcvo-
AN ELDEKLY LADY. 95
cable, and that any attempt to change it would be as
unavailing as offensive to me.
I despatched this ill-judged and intemperate letter,
proud of this supposed conquest over self, this triumph
of my evil nature over my better. I would not wait for
a calmer moment, lest my heart might relent, and be dis¬
posed to pardon him who was still dear to it. No, while
mourning a dead mistress, he should have cause to grieve
for a living one; and I was obdurate enough to take a
malicious pleasure in thus overwhelming him with a new
affliction, while he was meditating on a former one.
I never reflected that the excuse of a slight indisposi¬
tion, urged by Lord Clydesdale to account for not coming
on that day, was only made to avoid offending me, by
candidly stating the true cause of his absence. . It was
my injustice, my petulance, that compelled him to have
recourse to this deception, a deception adopted only to
spare my weakness. I expected to receive a deprecating
answer to my angry renunciation of him, notwithstanding
my prohibition; nay more, I was not without hopes that
he would come to plead his cause in person. But, as
horn- after hour elapsed without bringing any tidings of
him, I began to tremble at heart, though I affected a
careless exterior, at the probable consequences of my
own folly.
Lady Walsingham, with that intuitive perception which
belongs exclusively to women, had penetrated the state
of my feelings. She deplored, but pitied their wilfulness;
and gently endeavoured to soothe them. She dwelt on
the compassion and forbearance due to the regrets of
those who mourn an object beloved, even though a
brighter prospect opens on the bereaved heart, by a new
attachment.
" But if the former object be still mourned," answered
I, " why should the mourner seek another love? Such
a course is being unfaithful to the dead, and unjust to the
living."
" You are yet too young, dear Arabella," replied Lady
Walsingham, " to have fathomed the secret recesses of
the human heart, in which the desire of happiness is
96
THE CONFESSIONS OF
indigenous and indestructible. If robbed of the object of
its affection, the grief that follows, though deep and
sometimes durable, is not eternal. The regret, which
during the first bitterness attending such a calamity, was
violent and engrossing, becomes by the operation of time
every day mitigated. The lover is conscious of this
gradual change, and at first shrinks from what he believes
to be an infirmity of his nature. He summons memory,
with all her potent spells, to awaken the grief that
slumbers; he dwells upon all the charms of the lost one,
recalls all her love; and imagination, excited by recollec¬
tion, supplies the place, and for a brief space, enacts the
part of grief. Gratitude aids this self-deception, which
is peculiar to fine natures; the lost are thought of,
talked of, and referred to, with tenderness, long after the
survivor is consoled for their loss: nay, he frequently
perseveres in premeditatedly offering this homage to the
manes of the departed, as an expiation for an involuntary
oblivion of them. You know not, and may you never
know, dear Arabella, the shame, the tender regret, and
self-reproach, with which a sensitive mind first becomes
sensible that it can be consoled for a loss, the regret for
which, when first experienced, was imagined to be eter¬
nal. But when the place once occupied by the departed,
is usurped by a new, perhaps a dearer object—for grief
increases the susceptibility, and tends to make the second
attachment more fond than the former—in proportion to
the sensitiveness of the feelings of the lover, will be the
recollections given to the dead; recollections that do not
rob the living of the slightest portion of his tenderness,
but which rather originate in his deep consciousness of
the force of his present attachment. He who devoted
not a pensive thought to the memory of a buried love,
will never be capable of fidelity to a living one. Such
regrets are not the offspring of sorrow: they are the
funereal flowers with which, while animated by hope of
happiness, the survivor decks the grave of one for whose
loss he is consoled."
My feelings became softened towards Lord Clydesdale,
as I listened to the mild reasoning of Lady Walsingham;
AN ELDERLADT, 97
and when she informed me that his friend Sir Augustus
Fauconberg had acknowledged to her, that he never
imagined Lord Clydesdale could have loved again, so
tenderly devoted had he been to his first attachment, and
so fondly was it repaid by its object, I severely blamed
my own wilfulness in having inflicted pain, where I
should have offered consolation. Oh, how I longed for
him to come, or write to deprecate the anger which was
now subdued, that I might convince him of my repent¬
ance and affection! Every noise in the anteroom made
my heart throb, every step that approached I hoped
might be his; and in this belief I have started from my
chair to meet him with an extended hand, and words of
love hovering on my lips.
Lady Walsingham, anxious to make an impression on
me, related all that Sir Augustus Fauconberg had told
her, of the personal charms, cultivated mind, and angelic
disposition of Lady Lucinda Harcourt. She dwelt on the
profound tenderness of this young and lovely creature for
her betrothed husband; and on the heavenly resignation
with which she prepared herself for another world, though
blessed with all that could render existence desirable.
She related the long and lingering illness, and the death¬
bed farewell of this fair being; and the overwhelming
affliction of her affianced husband, who fled from Eng¬
land, to seek in a strange land the power of supporting a
blow, that seemed to have for ever destroyed his earthly
hopes.
When she described the satisfaction experienced by
Fauconberg, at discovering from Lord Clydesdale that
his heart had yielded to a second attachment, in which
he looked forward to the enjoyment of the happiness he
had believed to have been lost to him for ever, I could
not restrain my tears; and as they flowed plenteously
down my cheeks, I felt that I had never loved Lord
Clydesdale so fondly as at that moment. Had he then
entered, yes, proud as I was, I would have confessed my
fault, and atoned for it, by every future effort to control
the waywardness of my nature and the petulance of my
.emper. Alas! such happiness was not in store for me.
a
98 THE CONFESSIONS OF
I had madly dashed the cup from my Hp: and it ivas
decreed that it should never more be offered I
But let me not anticipate my story. The long even¬
ing wore away, without bringing me any tidings of my
lover. How did I count the weary hours, on the dial of
that pendule, on which I had so often marked their rapid
flight, when, after a long visit he rose to depart, and I
disbelieved that the hour of separation was yet cornel
How often during that interminable evening had I re¬
solved to write to him, and seek a reconciliation; but
pride, and it may be, female reserve, prohibited this
concession. Though supported by the hope that the
morrow would see him at my feet, still my heart was
troubled that the sun should have gone down on our
anger, and that our estrangement should have endured a
single night.
Even now, though half a century has elapsed since that
night, I have not forgotten the tender remorse, the good
resolves, and the overflowing affection with which I dwelt
on his noble qualities, and my own unworthiness. For
the first time, my tears flowed for her who had preceded
me in his heart, as I pictured her to myself in all her
youth and beauty, in all her gentleness and love, descend¬
ing to the untimely grave, whence he could not save her.
All that I now experienced of affection for him, she had
felt; and in giving my tears to her memory, I seemed to
be shedding them for myself, such an identity did my
now altered feelings appear to create between our senti¬
ments. Yes, I would for the future partake his recollec¬
tions of her; her name should be a sacred bond of union
and sympathy between us. I would think of her as a
dear, a lost sister, and emulate him in guarding her sweet
memory from oblivion. With these gentle thoughts I
sank into slumber, and awoke to—despair.
Never did the sun shine with greater splendour, or on
a more lovely scene, than presented itself to my eyes, on
awaking the morning after my fatal letter to Lord Clydes¬
dale. I hailed the bright sky as an omen of reconcilia¬
tion—of happiness: and my spirits rose from the weight
that had oppressed them, as I joyfully anticipated an
AN ELDERLY LADY. 99
interview with him so clear to me. I had only completed
my toilet, when a letter, bearing a superscription in his
well-known writing, was presented to me, and I pressed
it to my lips before breaking the seal, so impressed was
I with the thought that it was to announce his visit.
Alas! I had only perused a few lines, when the fatal
truth stood revealed, and I was a desolate, a deserted
woman. Even while I was cheating myself with joyful
anticipations of our meeting, nay, chiding the tardy
moments that intervened, he, on whom my soul doated
with all the fervour of youthful love, was hurrying from
me with cruel haste! and now was many, many miles
distant. He no longer breathed the same air with me,—
and yet I was unconscious of this change!
0 prescience! vainly attributed to the sympathy of
affection, never more could I put faith in thee I when no
secret foreboding whispered me that he was flying from
me; when no perceptible alteration in my being warned
me that the most fatal hour of my life was at hand!
And he could leave me, without one word of adieu,
one last lingering look of love! Too, too well had he
obeyed my imperious, my fatal mandate to see me no
more. Why,—ohl why, had he not sought me?—one
word, one look, would have banished every harsh feeling
between us. But no, he accepted (nay, perhaps, had
eagerly desired) the first opportunity of breaking the bond
that united us. My peevishness and unreasonable jea¬
lousy had wearied and disgusted him; he foresaw that
our union could not tend to our mutual happiness, and he
burst the chain that my folly and wilfulness had rendered
so galling. Yes, the fault was wholly mine: and deeply,
incessantly did I expiate it, by a despair that tolled the
eternal knell of my departed hopes.
In bitterness of spirit, I turned from the bright sun,
whoso splendour but an hour before I had blessed as an
omen of happiness. Now its brilliancy was as a mockery
to the darkness that veiled my soul: I shut out its light,
and having secured myself from interruption, by locking
the door of my chamber, I gave way to the poignant
sorrow that filled my breast almost to suffocation, in a
100 THE CONFESSIONS OF
paroxysm of tears. I wept iii uncontrollable anguish
until the violence of my emotions had nearly subdued my
physical force. At some moments, forgetful of all but
my love and despair, I determined on pursuing him, on
seeking an explanation, and on beseeching him to let my
recent conduct pass into oblivion. Yes, I would tell him
all that I had suffered within the last twenty-four hours;
and all the atonement I had determined on making, for
the uneasiness I had caused him. Surely when he was
acquainted that my unreasonable jealousy was but the
effect of love, he would overlook, he would pardon the
folly and injustice into which it had hurried me.
Such were the thoughts that passed rapidly through
my mind, and, as they presented themselves, I rose from
the couch, on which in my despair I had thrown myself,
with the resolution of communicating my intention of
seeking him to Lady Walsingham. But then came the
suggestions of reason, of delicacy, of pride, to my aid;
and, shall I own it, those of the last mentioned passion
were the most potent in guiding my decision. How
could I announce to the modest, the dignified Lady
Walsingham, that, casting aside the, maidenly reserve
which befitted me, I was about to pursue a lover who
fled from me! No, this was impossible; I would not, I
could not, bring myself to such a degradation. But no
sooner had I decided on the utter impracticability of tbis
last delusive whisper of hope, than despair took posses¬
sion of my tortured heart, and I gave way to all its wild,
its unholy dictates, until reason reeled on her throne, and
my brain throbbed in agony.
I perused again and again my lover's epistle, its
gentleness touched me more than the strongest remon¬
strances could have done, and rendered the writer dearer
to me than ever. Here is the letter, which I have
carefully preserved, though some of the words it contains
were half effaced by my tears. It was long ere I could
read it unmoved, but time blunts the arrows of affliction,
or else it renders us more callous to their assaults.
<l This letter will be given to you, dear, too dear Arabella, when
I shall be many miles distant. You have commanded me to see
AN ELDERLY LADY.
10i
you no more, and I obey; my reluctance being only vanquished
by the belief, that such a step, painful as it is to me, will best
secure your future peace.
" When I saw you first, my heart was, as I imagined, dead to
love. Your beauty, your fascination, soon convinced me of my
error; but even when I discovered my weakness, I endeavoured to
steel myself against the entertainment of a second affection, lest
you, in all the pride of youth and beauty's first triumphs, should
reject the offering of a heart, that had already experienced for
another a deep, a true passion. But your gentleness, your apparent
pity, riveted the chains your charms had forged; and I placed my
happiness in your hands, and dared again to indulge hope for the
future. The consciousness of the strength of my new attachment,
induced me to reveal to its object the sorrows created by a former
one. I related them as the mariner, when safe in a haven of rest,
narrates to the person most dear to him the perils he has endured
when absent from her, and for which he looks to her for consolation.
I had no thought, no feeling concealed from you; and the extent
of my confidence must have assured you of that of my affection.
When mistress of every sentiment of my heart, judge of my bitter
disappointment at discovering that your manner towards me
became totally changed. Coldness and constraint usurped the
place of confidence and sympathy; and I found myself compelled
either to conceal the fond recollection of the dead, or to offend the
living object of my tenderness. Such was my attachment to you,
that I adopted the first alternative. I scrupulously avoided
speaking of the past; and this anxiety not to displease you, led
to a restraint that impaired, if it did not destroy, all the charm of
our intercourse. Day after day I marked your increasing coldness;
yet still I had not courage to depart, and by my absence rid you
of communion that seemed to importune, rather than gratify you.
You have broken the bond that united us: you, cruel Arabella,
have pronounced the sentence of separation, and I leave you with
every wound bleeding anew, opened by the hand that I once
thought had closed them for ever. Pardon this intrusion, which
you forbade; and may every happiness be yours.
" Clydesdale."
Lady Walsingham had frequently tried to gain
admittance to my chamber during the long hours that
had elapsed since I had shut myself in it; but I resisted
all her entreaties to open the door, until a late hour in
the evening, when, exhausted by the effects of mental
and bodily suffering, I allowed her to enter.
All the soothing attentions that an affectionate heart
and feeling mind could offer, were showered on me by
this amiable and most excellent woman; who bore the
102
THE CONFESSIONS OF
wayward petulance attendant on this my cruel and self-
incurred disappointment, with a gentleness and patience
that in some degree restored me to a sense of shame for
my want of self-control. I reposed in her sympathizing
breast all the circumstances which had led to the misun¬
derstanding with Lord Clydesdale, anticipating that she
would encourage the hope that still animated me by
whispering that he might return, and our union yet
take place. But she held out no such delusive pros¬
pect; she had seen enough of him to be convinced that
the step he had taken was the result of a belief, that,
however temporarily painful it might be, the separation
was necessary to our mutual peace; and that therefore his
determination would be immutable.
This conduct on the part of Lady Walsingham was as
wise as it was merciful. By destroying hope, she
disarmed love of its most potent ally: and after a few
weeks, I learned to reflect on my disappointment with
less bitterness; though, for years, it cast a cloud of
melancholy over the sunshine of my young life, and is
even still remembered with sadness. I tried to think
that Lord Clydesdale and I were unsuited to each other,
that our union could not have been productive of happi¬
ness ; but, alas! conscience whispered that he was
faultless, and that all the error was on my side.
Pride now reminded me, that, though with a bruised
heart and wounded spirit, I was still called on to enact a
part in the drama of life. I was a fair and wealthy
heiress, on whom all eyes were fixed; and must not
permit even the most insignificant of the herd who sought
my society, to imagine, that any one who had been
known to have worn my chains could throw them off.
Lord Clydesdale was universally considered to be my
devoted admirer, but had never been publicly acknowledged
as my accepted suitor; consequently, his departure was
not likely to lead to any surmises derogatory to my
dignity, unless I betrayed by any alteration in my general
demeanour, that it affected me. What sacrifices does
pride exact from her victims 1 sacrifices that less unworthy
motives had never obtained. Reason—nay, religion
AN ELDERLY LADY.
103
itself, have rarely had such influence in quelling grief, or
at least in checking its external symptoms, as has this
unbridled, this all-subduing passion. At its dictates the
tear is dried, the sob is stifled, the sigh is sent back, ere
half breathed, to the oppressed heart; the quiver of
agony is banished from the lip, nay it is forced into the
indication of a cheerful smile, and gaiety is assumed,
while the heart is pining in anguish, rendered more
intolerable by the mockery to which its wretched pwner
is compelled.
In obedience to this all-commanding power, I schooled
myself to appear more gay and careless than I had ever
been at any previous period. Yet often did I start at
the sound of my own laugh, to which my tortured breast
seemed to render funeral echoes, as even while the smile
played on my lip, my thoughts were far distant, want
dering with him whose image was never banished from
my heart. Frequently have I left a brilliant reunion,
where I seemed to constitute the magnet of attraction,
and retired to my solitary chamber to weep over the
recollection of the past. No, there is no slavery so
insupportable as that which we impose on ourselves, to
cheat those wrho perhaps care little for us, and for whom
we care not.
Many of the persons whose attentions Lord Clydesdale's
presence and assiduities had checked, now returned to
importune me with them. Among those whose preten¬
sions to please least annoyed, though they totally failed
to interest me, were II Prinoipa di Monte Rosso, and
his fidus Achates, II Duca di Carditella. Both these
nobles professod a chivalrous adoration for me, worthy
the days of romance, and displayed it a la Napolitain.
They sang duets beneath my balcony at night; their
boat followed mine in the evenings over the moonlit sea;
and the lava of Vesuvius, their native volcano, whose
flames their own for me professed to emulate, was
offered to me in every shape into which the ingenuity of
art could torture it, to remind me of their tendresse.
Such was their attention to my comfort, though that
was a word as unknown to their southern ears as the
104 THE CONFESSIONS OF
reality was to their habits, that on one occasion, when
Lady Walsingham observed that the butter provided by
our major-domo was of a very objectionable quality, II
Principe declared that the superintendent of his villa
sold the best butter in all the neighbourhood of Naples;
and recommended it so zealously that we knew not
precisely which he wished most to serve, his farmer or
myself. II Duca di Carditella frequently assured us that
the wine sold by the porter at his palazzo, and made
from the vines on his estate, was superior to all other,
and even urged our servant to give it a trial. I figured
to myself an English Duke puffing his own wine or
butter to engage purchasers, and, above all, to the lady
of his love; and could not resist smiling at the contrast
between such conduct and the sonorous and ancient
titles of the perpetrators. Whenever II Principe sighed,
and this was not seldom, II Duca echoed: each compli¬
ment that one offered at the shrine of my beauty, and
each profession of the profound sentiment which that
beauty had excited, wa3 repeated nearly verbatim by
the other, without the least apparent embarrassment to
either.
This modern Pylades and Orestes always came and
departed together; and their mutual harmony seemed in
no way impeded by the passion they professed to enter¬
tain for the same object. There was something so
singular in this brotherhood in love, that though it failed
to interest, it succeeded in sometimes amusing me.
One day when II Principe was calling all the saints in
the calender, even St. Januarius himself, to witness how
perfectly he adored me, and II Duca was strenuously
emulating him in his vows, I inquired, with as serious a
face as I could assume, how, in case I should, by any
possibility, (though I admitted not the probability of such
an event), prefer one to the other, the rejected suitor
could support the disappointment; or the accepted one
be so selfish as to enjoy a boon of which his brother in
love had been deprived.
"Let not such a reflection oppose a single obstacle
to your decision, charming lady," exclaimed both, nearly
AN ELDERLY LADY.
105
in the same words, "for we have sworn that he who
becomes your husband, shall select the other for your
cavalier servente."
Strange to say, neither of my admirers seemed to be
aware of having said aught that could either shock or
surprise me; and would have considered any expression
of such feelings on my part, as a proof of northern bar¬
barism and prejudice.
After visiting all the principal places of resort in Italy,
and passing above four years in that beautiful land, we
returned to our own country; with my notions of happi¬
ness considerably changed, and my hopes of attaining it,
ohl how infinitely diminished; and yet my heart beat
quicker too when I found myself again on my native
shore. I concluded that he who was so often and fondly
recalled to memory must be there, that we should in all
human probability meet: and what might not a meeting
accomplish between hearts that still loved? for, judging
his by my own, I concluded that I still occupied a place
in it. But, even should we not meet, was it not a
blessing to inhabit the same country, breathe the same
air, and know that a few hours might bring us together?
Those only who have truly loved will comprehend this
negative sort of happiness; but they will know that even
this is eagerly grasped at, and will appreciate its effects
on me.
I was now of age; and that important epoch was to
be marked by fetes and rejoicings at Walsingham Castle,
where I was to receive my neighbours, and feast my
tenantry and dependents. Previous to going there, Lady
Walsingham and I accepted an invitation to the rectory
of her brother, who, with his pretty wife and three rosy-
cheeked children, we found in the enjoyment of as much
happiness as, perhaps, was ever permitted to mortals. I
might also add as much health, if that advantage was not
an essential requisite in the other blessing, there being
no happiness without it. The fact was, the felicity
accorded to this excellent couple had been so wholly free
from anxiety, or any of the trials to which persons of
susceptible natures are liable, that the result had been an
106
THE CONFESSIONS OF
increase of embonpoint, to both; more indicative of rude
health than advantageous to beauty.
On looking at Frederick Melville, the once pale, inter¬
esting, but now lusty and fresh-coloured father of a
family, I could scarcely forbear a smile at the recollection
of my former girlish predilection for him. How inferior,
how immeasurably inferior was he to Lord Clydesdale, in
appearance as well as in manner. This alteration in his
looks, but still more, the total change in my own taste
and opinions, led me to reflect on the folly of permitting
girls to marry the first object that attracts their juvenile
fancy; without allowing a reasonable time to elapse,
in order that the stability of the sentiment may be
ascertained. How few young women would at twenty
select the admirer as a partner for life who might have
captivated them at seventeen? and how many of the
desperate passions, supposed to be eternal, would fade
away like a dream before the influence of reason, if sub¬
jected to the ordeal of a couple, or of even one year's
absence.
The happiness of Frederick Melville and his wife was
much too unimaginative and commonplace for my refined
notions. The ideal coloured every vision I formed of
domestic life, and entered into every scheme of enjoyment.
I shrank from the realities of actual existence to revel in
day dreams; and in the superabundance of my folly
recoiled from the possibility of ever finding myself reduced
to the level of Mrs. Melville, a homely, busy, but most
happy wife. Their daily occupations and simple pleasures
seemed insipid and tiresome to me. Their intellectual
recreations were limited to the utile, rather than to the
exalted and elegant in literature; and then' routine of
usefulness, and absence of high thought, the epithet with
which I dignified the sentiments engendered by study of
poetry and belles lettres, allowed the countenances of both
to wear an habitual expression of cheerfulness rather than
of sensibility.
In the vanity of self-imagined superiority, I fancied
my mind to be of a too elevated character t,o be content
with a blameless lot like theirs; erroneously believing the
AN ELDERLY LADY. 107
morbid fastidiousness of my ill-directed feelings to be an
indubitable proof of this supposed superiority, -when it
clearly indicated precisely the reverse: as the factitious
bodily force sometimes exhibited in delirium, is, by the
ignorant, mistaken for constitutional strength.
When, after a morning passed in the perusal of my
favourite authors, among whom the most romantic school
of poets were the preferred, I have found Mrs. Melville,
with health glowing on her cheek, and the vivacity it
inspires beaming in her eyes, returned from visiting the
poor, or superintending her domestic arrangements, I
have pitied her destiny, and almost despised the mind
that could be happy under it. The vigorous discharge
of actual duties, I was as indisposed to comprehend as
unwilling to perform; consequently, I undervalued those
who did both. Great sacrifices, I fancied, I should
heroically make; but the minor ones, which we are con¬
stantly called on to offer, and for which no praise is given,
appeared to me to be beneath my attention. It is thus
that too many people console themselves for leaving un¬
fulfilled the numerous duties, the discharge of which cheer
and sweeten life, while the great sacrifice they suppose
themselves ready to make, is perhaps never required.
To preside over a husband's household, attend to his
personal comforts, nurse his children, visit the poor, pray
with, and work for them, and receive him always with
joyful smiles, was, in my opinion, to become that most
uninteresting of all creatures, a homely housewife. Con¬
sequently, I deemed that it argued ill for the taste and
refinement df Frederick Melville, that his attachment to
his wife seemed to increase in proportion to her indefati¬
gable discharge of this dull and vulgar routine of duties.
I had figured the parsonage to myself as an old-
fashioned house, modernized into a simple but elegant
villa, with myrtles, woodbine, and roses, peeping into
each window. The furniture, light, tasteful, and luxurious
—-no splendour, but all that persons of refined habits
could require. The picture I formed comprised a small
but most comfortable drawing-room, opening into a con¬
servatory redolent of sweets—a library containing the
1 08 THE CONFESSIONS OF
choicest authors—a boudoir, with all its fairy elegancies,
and an iEolian harp placed in its window, to catch the
sighing of the night-breeze on its strings. I fancied all
the decorations peculiar to female taste, and all the
graceful implements indicative of feminine occupation.
Each apartment was to be filled with rare flowers, and
the presiding deity simply, but most becomingly attired,
was to languidly, but sweetly, do the honours of this
imaginary little paradise; repaying her husband for a
thousand nameless attentions—not by the bustling activity
of a housekeeper, but by the gentle smiles and soft words
peculiar to heroines in novels.
This was the picture my fancy had drawn of Addlethorp
Rectory; though the name had always jarred on my ear,
and suggested the necessity of bestowing on the spot a
more euphonious denomination. The married lovers
must, according to my notions, in the constant communion
of thought and study, have grown somewhat paler, and
more pensive—that palor arising from deep thought,
and that pensiveness which excess of happiness produces
on high-toned minds, by making them tremble for its
duration.
How, then, were my expectations disappointed by the
reality of Addlethorp Rectory and its owners 1 Instead
or a modernized villa, a square, red brick, mansion, met
my view. No myrtles, woodbine, or roses, peeped into
the windows; and the green boxes of mignonette which
supplied their places, odorous though they were, seemed
to me to be but a sorry substitute. The garden into
which the windows of the principal rooms opened, might
have satisfied even my fastidious taste; but those rooms
sadly shocked my notions of elegance and comfort—
shining oak panels, and book-cases to correspond, stowed
with volumes of no rich hues of binding, were its most
conspicuous features. No mirrors were to be seen, and
no silk draperies met tbe eye; but white dimity curtains,
with chairs, and a sofa that seemed to have been made
before the possibility of reclining in it had been taken
into consideration: for its form and texture defied such a
position. A work-table, on which was placed a basket
AN ELDERLY LADY. 109
well filled with nondescript pieces of linen, ycleped plain
work, and all the homely apparatus of a village semp¬
stress, lay by it.
To be sure, the room was scrupulously clean and
cheerful, and wanted nothing for positive use, though it
contained no article for mere ornament. Still, its rustic
plainness struck me as being disagreeable; and the in¬
creased plumpness and gaiety of its owners, shocked
my preconceived notions. The whole house and its
arrangement were equally plain and simple. Everything
was perfectly clean, but all of the cheapest texture and
most simple form. I could have fancied myself in the
dwelling of some primitive quaker, who disdained orna¬
ment or elegance: yet never had I beheld, in the most
splendid saloons, rich in all that unbounded wealth and
refined taste could lavish on them, such happy faces as
in the homely parlour of Addlethorp Rectory.
The conversation of the rector and hi3 wife was little
calculated to excite any interest in a mind teeming with
all the morbid sentiments that filled mine. To hear that
old Farmer Brookby's health was much amended; Dame
Gateby's leg not broken, as was supposed; and poor
Martha Dobson's case not so hopeless as was feared, only
excited in me ennui and disatisfaction, while this intelli¬
gence created in Mr. and Mrs. Melville the most lively
interest. The rapid progress which her pupils at the
charity school were making; the good qualities of the
curate and his wife; and thankfulness to Providence for
having placed her lot among such good people, were the
themes most frequently chosen by Mrs. Melville, while
she plied her needle; little aware how callous a listener
she had for her " short and simple annals of the poor;"
but to which Lady Walsingham lent no cold ear.
"I see no harp here," said I, one day, to Mrs.
Melville, during our short sejour in the parsonage—" 1
remember you excelled on that instrument."
"It is an expensive acquisition," replied she; "and
as I have a pianoforte, I thought it more prudent not to
purchase a hijrp. Besides, the truth is, I should not have
had time to practice; for what with my household avo-
110 THE CONFESSIONS OF
cations, my children, my school, my garden, and, though
last not least, my poor, I find little spare time for
nmsic."
" But does not all this daily recurrence of occupation
weary and depress you? I should soon sink under it, I
am sure."
"01 dear, no; on the contrary, it keeps me more
cheerful; for the consciousness of endeavouring to fulfil
one's duties, exhilarates the spirits."
" But do you not feel very solitary and dull, when
Mr. Melville is compelled to be absent?"
"It is true, I miss his presence very much at the hours
at which we are accustomed to meet; but I have so many
things to attend to, that I have not leisure to be dull.
Besides, I look forward with such delight to his return,
and have so many little preparations to make to welcome
him, that this occupation alone would sustain my cheer¬
fulness."
" May I, without being indiscreet, inquire in what
consist these preparations ?"
" In a thousand trifling things, which, though trifling,
nevertheless have a lively interest for those who are
fondly attached to each other."
Come, come, thought I to myself, all the romance of
love is not yet over. Here, amid all the duties, I shall
hear of some little schemes of pleasure, some delicate
attentions, such as placing fresh flowers in his room, or
surprising him with some unexpected little gift of affection.
Yes, yes, housewife as she is, she is still a woman at
heart, and has not forgotten all the sentiment of love.
" But you have not yet told me your preparations,"
resumed I.
"Well, then, to commence. Imprimis: I make some
new article of dress for him: shirts, cravats, bands,
gown, or in short, anything he may require; and which
I know he will wear with double pleasure as being made
by me. I teach the baby some new word, and the eldest
a hymn that he will like to hear. I copy out, in a large
hand, some of his sermons; prepare different little articles
of confectionary, to which he is partial, and endeavour,
AN ELDERLY LADY.
Ill
as well as I can, to supply his place to his parishioners—
thus occupied, time passes imperceptibly."
" But do your thoughts never revert to a more gay
life, to a more brilliant position?"
" Never, I assure you; who would not prefer happiness
to gaiety, and comfort to splendour? I possess both;
and most thankful am I for such inestimable blessings."
" It has occurred to me more than once since I have
been here, dear Mrs. Melville, that your dwelling might
be rendered more elegant—more worthy of its inmates."
"I am sorry you do not like Addlethorp Rectory, we
are very partial to it; and no wonder, we have been so
happy here"—and she looked around, as if shb loved
the very walls, and the clumsy tasteless furniture.
" You mistake me, dear Mrs. Melville; I do not dislike
your residence; I only wished it possessed more elegance
—more of those luxurious comforts that one sees in the
generality of houses. For instance, I would have the
red brick front that makes one hot to look at it, concealed
by parasitical plants. This apartment should be enlarged
by two projecting bay windows, opening into the garden.
That settee should give place to a comfortable lounger
sofa, well lined with eider-down pillows; two lergeres
should fill up the space occupied by yonder straight-
backed chairs, that forbid ease; a carpet of such an
ample pile, that no footstep could be heard to fall on it,
should replace this one, and a mirror or two should reflect
back the treasures of the garden. A sober-tinted silk
should form the curtains and covers of the chairs and
sofa, instead of that cold and cheerless looking white
dimity; and a few light and elegant tables and consoles
with richly bound books scattered over them, should give
the finish."
" The room would doubtless gain much by your pro¬
posed change of decoration, dear Lady Arabella; but
would it then be as suitable for the wife of a minister of
the gospel?"
" Do you then imagine that elegance is incompatible
with religion?"
"By no means; 1 only think that a clergyman and
112
THE CONFESSIONS OF
his wife should set the example of humility to those with
whom example has more effect than precept; and that
lessons on the advantages of that virtue from the pulpit,
might fail to make the desired impression, if the residence
of the preacher was known to abound in those luxuries
against an indulgence in which he warned his hearers.
But, independent of this motive, the expense of the
alterations you suggest would offer an insuperable objec¬
tion."
" I imagined that Mr. Melville's benefice brought in a
considerable revenue."
"So it does; one amply sufficient to gratify our simple
tastes,'enable us to ameliorate the condition of our poor
parishioners, and lay by a modest provision for our
children. But were we to indulge in the expensive
luxuries you propose, our means, ample as they are,
would be inadequate to these objects; and the fine things
you speak of would only serve to reproach us for the
sacrifice of our duties and principles, at the shrine of a
vanity which in us would be worldly and culpable. It
is very natural for Lady Arabella Walsingham, born and
nursed in the bosom of wealth and splendour, to think
the elegancies of life to which she has ever been accus¬
tomed essentially necessary to her personal comfort; but
for us, their absence is no privation."
" Chacun a son gout," thought I, by no means satis¬
fied with the result of my suggestions.
" But you have not told me," resumed I, " why you
do not conceal the red brick front of the house, by
parasitical plants?"
"Merely because they engender insects that fill the
rooms and annoy the children."
" What," thought I, " submit to behold that fiery-
looking front, staring one in the face, when it might be
concealed, because the plants breed insects that annoy
children; really this is being very considerate."
I knew not the heart of a mother; I was unworthy
of such a boon; and in my egotistical vanity, believed
myself, with all my overweening selfishness, superior to
the excellent person before me.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
113
I left Addlethorp Rectory without regret; and during
my journey to Walsingham Castle, listened silently to
Lady Walsingham's occasional comments on the happiness
of her brother and his family; a happiness so little suited
to my taste as to create no envy in my breast.
Every inn where we stopped to change horses during
the last day of our route poured forth its inmates to stare
at and welcome the owner of Walsingham Castle. At a
few miles' distance from it, a cavalcade of the tenantry,
headed by my steward, met me; and notwithstanding
my resistance, unharnessed the horses and drew the
carriage to my paternal home, amid the joyful acclama¬
tions of a vast concourse of people.
I had not seen this abode since my infancy, and
retained no recollection of it, consequently its feudal
splendour now struck me with delight. A flag emblazoned
with the Walsingham arms proudly floated from the
ramparts; the bells of three neighbouring churches tolled
merrily, and the wives and daughters of my tenantry,
attired in their Sunday clothes, stood curtsying to the
ground, while they offered bouquets of flowers, enough to
have filled at least a dozen carriages. A new sense of
my own importance was now added to my other vanities.
I looked proudly around me, acknowledging by dignified
bows the homage that was offered to me.
How easy it is for the rich to make themselves
beloved! A few gracious smiles had already won the
hearts of those good people, who rent the air with shouts
of applause. When I entered the hall I paused, overcome
with delight at the grandeur of its appearance. Coats
of mail, helmets, shields, and arms, crowned with the
armorial banners of the family, were ranged along its
lofty walls; and an oriel window of ancient stained glass,
through which the setting sun threw its bright rays,
diffused a variety of the most gorgeous hues over' the
polished steel of the armour, and the marble pavement
of the hall. Here were assembled the grey-headed
servitors of my father, with good Mistress Mary at their
head, all blessing and welcoming me to my home. I
fancied myself invested with an accession of height, as
H
114
THE CONFESSIONS OF
with a stately assumption of dignity that would not have
shamed La Dame Chatelaine of a melo-drama, I walked
through the long train of retainers, dispensing nods and
smiles around; and ascended the flight of marble steps
that led to the principal suite of state rooms.
Here new delight awaited me. Apartments of vast
proportions, furnished in a style of unrivalled magnificence,
the walls glowing with the most admirable productions
of the Italian school, met my view. I seemed to be some
heroine of romance, long banished, but at length restored
to her hereditary rights; and, as my glad eyes gleamed
around, I was ready to exclaim, " And all this is mine—.
really minel"
Yet, even at that moment when, inflated by pride
and vanity, I gloried in my possessions, memory recurred
to him whom I once hoped would have shared with me
the possession of this splendid castle; and I would have
almost resigned it to have had my hand placed in his,
and to have had a right to call him mine. Such were
the thoughts that flashed across my mind, as I slowly
paced through the enfilade of apartments, until I came
to one of less vast proportion, and of more modern
decoration. There hung the portraits of my father and
mother; and as my eyes fell on his mild and benevolent
face, which seemed to welcome me to my ancestral home,
a flood of gushing tears relieved the oppression that
impeded my breathing. This pensive and dear counte¬
nance reminded me, for the first time since I entered
the castle, of Lady Walsingham. I blushed crimson at
the recollection of this ungracious and egotistical proof
of my negligence; and, turning, I found her pale and
melancholy; her eyes, too, fixed on the portrait of him
who would have welcomed her more kindly than did the
daughter who owed so much to his widow. I pressed
Lady Walsingham to my heart in silence; and she as
mutely dried her tears, and returned my embrace.
" I have not yet bidden you welcome to our home,
dear mother," said I, " may it ever prove as happy a one
as he would have rendered it 1" and I looked on his portrait.
"When you have selected a lord for this castle, dear
AN ELDERLY LADY.
115
Arabella," replied she, 441 shall seek another home: until
then, your home shall be mine."
A suite of rooms had been, by my instructions, pre¬
pared for Lady Walsingham, filled with every object that
I thought likely to conduce to her comfort. Nothing
that taste or elegance could suggest was left undone by
the upholsterer that had taken my orders; nor was he
less attentive to those which related to my own apart¬
ments. All the classical decorations that I had ever
admired in Italy or praised in France, joined to the
exquisite neatness and comfort peculiar to England,
were here united; and, as I examined the details and
enjoyed the ensemble, I was not a little elated.
I stood before a vast mirror, half draped by the pale
blue silk hangings with rich silver fringes, that lined the
walls of my dressing-room; and, as I contemplated my
own image, vanity whispered, that even without the
immense wealth and high nobility which I possessed,
that form and face might Well aspire to captivate. As
I gazed on my mirror, I almost questioned the possibility
of any man whose heart was not already occupied,
resisting my powers of attraction; until memory reminded
me that he, whom alone I wished to fix, had thrown off
my chains the moment they pressed too heavily on him;
and this reflection checked the over-weening self-com¬
placency in which I was indulging.
I spent six months at Walsingham Castle; receiving
from and giving a succession of fetes to the whole
neighbourhood. I found myself an object of universal
attraction, and, as I make no doubt, of envy; though
the demonstrations of it were so skilfully concealed that
I was unconscious of the existence of the sentiment.
The young ladie3 all copied my dress, the most indispu¬
table proof of female admiration; and the elderly ones,
more especially those who had unmarried sons or nepheAvs,
plied me with all the delicate attentions and adroit flat¬
teries with which match-making dames assail wealthy
heiresses. Never, however, for a moment, did I now
doubt that my own personal claims to admiration were
not the cause of the homage I received,
116
THE CONFESSIONS OF
My vanity increased with the food continually adminis¬
tered to its craving appetite ; and, in proportion to this
increase, was my astonishment that Lord Clydesdale had
the self-control to free himself from my chains. Yet
the knowledge that he had done so, though it wounded
my amour propre, and still rankled at my heart, im¬
pressed me with a high opinion of his strength of mind,
rather than with any suspicion of my own weakness.
How I longed to meet him again, and once more to sub¬
jugate his heart; for it seemed a reproach to my powers
of captivation, that he could fly from me. Every object
that pleased, every point of view that charmed me, were
thought of with a reference to how he would approve
them. I associated his beloved image with every scene
around me; and almost cheated myself into believing
that we might yet be united.
It was this delusive hope that caused me to rejoice
when the time came for leaving Walsingham Castle;
believing that in the metropolis my encounter with Lord
Clydesdale was inevitable.
With a heart beating with joyful anticipations, I again
found myself in London; and those anticipations seemed
on the eve of being realized, when I read the announce¬
ment of Lord Clydesdale's arrival in town. When I
drove through the streets, I fancied every tall distin¬
guished looking man must be he. I looked for him in
vain at the opera; and never accepted an invitation
without expecting to meet him. Still, day after day
passed away, and I saw him not I
"Where could he be?" was a question I asked myself
every night, as, fatigued and dispirited, I sought my
couch; but the question was an enigma beyond my
power of solving.
Well has it been said, that "Hope deferred maketh
the heart sick;" mine was sick. But as my hope of
meeting Lord Clydesdale faded away, my desire to
encounter him became more ungovernable. It had now
grown to be the object of my daily thoughts—my nightly
dreams. A meeting must, as I fancied, inevitably lead
to a reconciliation, and a renewal of our engagement.
AN ELDERLY LADY. 117
One glance would explain all; and no false pride on my
part should prevent a perfect eclaircissement. Yes, I
would avow my faults, and atone for them; and all
would yet be well, could we but meet.
An invitation to dine at the Duchesse of Mellincourt's
had been accepted by Lady Walsingham and me. As the
day approached, I wished to find an excuse for declining
it, for my spirits were depressed by the continual disap¬
pointment of not seeing him, whom alone I wished to
behold. Two days previous to the dinner, I met the
Duchesse of Mellincourt at Lady Fotheringay's; when,
alluding to the dinner engagement, she mentioned that
Lord Clydesdale was to meet us at her house. I found
it difficult to repress the emotion this news excited; I
felt inclined to embrace her in the joy that filled my
heart; and I went home to indulge once more in dreams
of happiness, and to study a toilet that should set off
my person to the utmost advantage.
Never had I bestowed so much attention on this, to
most women, momentous subject. Long did I waver
between a robe of pale rose or cerulean blue; but at
length I decided that simple, but always elegant, white
should be the toilette, with delicate pink and silver bows
on the robe and in my hair, and pearls for my neck and
arms. I thought the time would never arrive, so slowly
did it seem to creep: I went to dress full two hours
before my usual period; repeatedly changed the arrange¬
ment of my hah', and indefatigably consulted my mirror,
to be assured that all was right.
We were among the first guests that arrived at the
Duchess's. I almost feared to raise my eyes, lest they
should too suddenly encounter him whom they languished
to behold. Guest after guest arrived, and as the groom
of the chambers announced each aristocratic name, I
listened with painful eagerness to hear his pronounced.
When at length the maitre d'hotel's notice que le diner
est servi summoned us to table, and that I saw the guests
seated, I looked anxiously to observe whether there was
a vacant place; and experienced a bitter sense of dis¬
appointment at finding every seat occupied. My joyful
118
THE CONFESSIONS OF
anticipation and recherche toilet were then all in vain;
he who occasioned the one, and to please whom the
other was studied and adopted, came not. I conld have
wept over this cruel disappointment, but pride came to
my aid; and while my heart wa3 tortured I forced a
smile to my lips, and compelled myself to answer the
commonplace questions addressed to me by the persons
around me.
Talk of Spartan stoicism, what is it compared to that
which a proud women is obliged to assume when in the
midst of society she finds herself "a cynosure for curious
eyes," with the painful consciousness, that were one tear
of those that are struggling to gush forth, suffered to be
visible, she would become the object, not of general
interest and sympathy, but of idle and malevolent curio¬
sity, and occasion countless faults and injurious rumours.
Of how many pangs does this knowledge quell every
external symptom, how many tears are suppressed and
sighs stifled, until in the privacy of her own chamber,
unseen by mortal eye, a free vent can be given to them.
And yet people call women weak and destitute of self-
control !
When dinner was nearly over, Lady Hallifax, who
sat opposite to me, observed to one of the party that
she expected to have met Lord Clydesdale.
"I saw him yesterday," continued she, "and he men¬
tioned that he was to dine here to-day. I told him that
he would meet Lady Walsingham and Lady Arabella,
who I knew were friends of his, for Lady Walsingham
had told me they knew him in Italy. But I must not
make either of you, ladies, blush by repeating the veiy
high eulogiums he bestowed upon both, and eulogiums
from Lord Clydesdale are not indiscriminately given, for
he is the most fastidious person possible."
"I received an excuse from him this morning," replied
the DucheSs of Mellincourt, "stating that he was suffer¬
ing under a violent headache."
"I fancy he is grown a little hypochondriacal of late,"
said Lady Ardenficld; "for he sent similar excuses to
Lady Mordaunt's and to Lord William Crofts, and I saw
AN ELDERLY LADY. 119
him the day after each dinner in apparently perfect
health."
How 1 writhed While listening to this statement; I
had dined at both the parties to which Lady Ardenfield
referred; and it now became obvious to me, that he had
absented himself from them, and also from the Duchess
of Mellincourt's, to avoid meeting me. Had I then become
an object of such distaste to him that he could not bear
to encounter me ? or did his reluctance proceed from a
dread of again exposing his heart to the poweT of my
fascinations? Need I tell my own sex which supposition
gained belief in my mind ? Yes; I now became convinced
that he still retained too tender a feeling towards me, to
admit of his trusting himself in my presence; and this
belief consoled me in some degree for the disappointment
occasioned by his absence. But then came the reflection,
that if thus carefully bent on avoiding me, how was I to
meet him? and my hopes became faint, and my spirits
again sank at the prospect of days passed in vain expec¬
tation, and nights as in vain regrets—I thought the
evening interminable. The commonplace observations
exchanged in the drawing-room, the lackadaisical compli¬
ments by the men, and the simpering complacency with
which they were received by the women, appeared to me
to be more than usually insipid. I offended more than
one of the satellites that hovered round me by my total
inattention to the petits soins; and had I not been an
heiress as well as a belle, might have risked losing my
popularity. But heiresses have been from time imme¬
morial privileged persons, and my abstraction and
brusquerie were therefore pronounced to be tres piquant,
and quite delightful when compared with the over-anxious
civilities of the portionless young ladies who abound in
every society.
Day after day, and week after week rolled away,
bringing with them the same dull round of engagements
that the upper circles misname amusements; and yet I
never caught even a passing glance of Lord Clydesdale-
still his image occupied ray thoughts by day, and my
dreams by night. I longed to question those acquainted
120 THE CONFESSIONS OF
with him, whether he was still in London; but I feared
to betray my emotion, even while making the demand,
and consequently refrained from inquiry. His pertinacity
in avoiding me, seemed only to have excited an increased
desire on my part to behold him again; and the facility
with which I accomplished every other object, rendered
my defeat in this, the dearest of all, more difficult to be
borne. I became daily more imperious, more capricious,
and unamiable. Yet this inequality of temper and
haughtiness of manner, deterred not a numerous train of
suitors from endeavouring to propitiate me. The perfect
indifference I manifested to all, inspired each individual
with hopes of rendering himself agreeable by submission
and perseverance; but, angered by their want of spirit and
tact, I severely tested them powers of forbearance.
It was, however, proof against all the trials to which I
subjected it; until unqualified rejections left them no room
for hope, and restored to me the peace which their im¬
portunities had ruffled.
Notwithstanding all my vanity, I shrewdly suspected
that my fortune had a greater influence over these pre¬
tenders to my hand, than the personal attractions, relative
to which they paid me such florid compliments. This
suspicion offended my amour propre; and I avenged its
humiliation by a contemptuous negligence of manner
towards my suitors that might, if it had been adopted by
Penelope of old, have enabled her to have sooner rid her¬
self of her more troublesome ones. But my Ulysses came
not to relieve me from mine; so I was compelled to dismiss
them in propria persona. When they discovered the
impartiality I displayed towards them, they unanimously
joined in decrying me. I was pronounced to be a proud,
capricious, and heartless woman, who never had, or never
could, love any creature but self 1 and whose fortune, large
as it was, would be insufficient to make amends for my
ill temper. Lady Walsingham and I lieard of their
revengeful strictures from many sources. She wished that
I could have behaved with more politeness to them; adding,
that it was always considered that the highest compliment
a man could pay to a woman, was to demand her hand.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
121
"Yes, my dear Lady Walsingham," have I answered,
" provided he does not demand also the large fortune that
appertains to that hand. A portionless demoiselle has
reason to consider it a compliment when a man solicits to
become her husband, because she must know that he can
have no pecuniary motive. But those needy aspirants
who seek to prop up their falling fortune by that of an
heiress, deserve no ceremony from her, and no pity from
others, when they are foiled in their mercenary specula¬
tions."
How infinitely high did Lord Clydesdale rise in my
estimation when I contrasted his conduct with theirs.
Alas 1 every man who tried to render himself agreeable to
me, lost even the claims he possessed to become so, when
judged by a comparison with him who was my beau-ideal
of perfection.
At length the season drew to a close, and it became
necessary to determine where the autumn and winter
should be passed. I should have proposed a return to
France and Italy, but that some spell seemed still to
attach me to the country that he inhabited. I therefore
determined to remain in England; and to pass the ensuing
months in a round of visits to the various houses to which
we were invited.
About this period, I began to remark the frequent
visits of Lord Westonville, a nobleman of an agreeable
exterior and gentlemanly manners, but of reserved habits.
He, among all the men who hovered round me, was the
only one who did not appear to offer homage, or make
any effort to conciliate my favour. This seeming indiffer¬
ence, while it gave me a better opinion of him, as
compared with my suitors, served also to excite a, certain
degree of interest or curiosity relative to him.
" What, then," thought I, on observing the frequency
of his calls, and " the lingering, coy delay" with which
he continued to prolong their duration, " he, too, like all
the others, aspires to please the rich heiress. Poor man!
he, too, will share their fate; and subject himself to the
mortification of a refusal, as soon as he has declared
himself in form."
122
THE CONFESSIONS OF
And jet there was something so amiable about him,
that malgre mj woman's vanity, I wished to spare him
the humiliation of a rejection, by preventing him from
placing himself in the position of receiving one. I there¬
fore increased the coldness of my manner towards him,
to the utmost extent to which politeness permits its
votaries to go.
Yet, strange to Say, his visits continued to be as
frequent as before; and, still more strange, he appeared
wholly regardless of my hauteur. He seemed perfectly
consoled for my taciturnity by the unaffected cheerfulness
of Lady Walsingham's conversation, and I concluded,
that discovering my distaste to his attentions, he had
transferred a portion of them towards her, for the purpose
of conciliating her influence in his favour. 1 smiled
internally, at anticipating the disappointment that awaited
him, and expected every day to hear my stepmother
commence a covert plan of attack, by praising the knight,
whose cause she seemed to encourage, if not espouse.
Still she said nothing; and my curiosity became moi'e
piqued. Unable to repress it, I one day remarked to her,
that Lord Westonville had now become the most constant
and assiduous of our visitors.
" I hope his presence is not disagreeable to you, my
dear Arabella," replied Lady Walsingham, looking some¬
what embarrassed.
" Ho, ho," thought I, " now I shall heat what I hate
so long been expecting. It is evident she wishes that I
should be favourably disposed towards him."
" Why, as to being disagreeable to me, ma cliere belle
mere," answered I, "as long as he chooses to confine his
attentions to mere friendship, I can have no objection to
his visits; but beyond that, I acknowledge that they
would not be acceptable."
" I rather feared so," said Lady Walsingham; "and
this fear has had great weight with me. Still I hoped,
that when better acquainted with Lord Westonville, who
is really an estimable man, you might have conquered
your repugnance. Your feelings, of course, my dear
Arabella, have the greatest weight with me."
an elderly lad*.
123
" In a case like the present they are doubtless of the
utmost importance," replied I.
" Am I then to conclude that such a union would be
painful to you?" asked Lady Walsingham; "because, in
that case, 1 would at once put an end to his hopes."
" Such a Union is quite out of the question, and the
sooner you tell him so, the better."
" But, surely some delicacy is due to his feelings; his
proposals have been so generous, so—"
" Really, my dear Lady Walsingham, I cannot discover
the generosity. Ladles with large fortunes of their own,
can seldom, if ever, experience any great generosity on
the part of their suitors."
" I perceive that your dislike to Lord Westonville is
insurmountable," said ma belle mere, " and therefore I
shall not accept his hand."
"Not accept his handl—good heavens, you astonish
me—I had no idea—you have taken me quite by sur¬
prise," replied I, totally forgetful, at the momeut, what
a silly figure I must make by avowing the error into
which my vanity had .plunged me. "Then Lord
Westonville's views are directed to youV
"I have only lately been aware of his.predilection,"
answered Lady Walsingham; "but I should never have
permitted his attentions, had I imagined that your feelings
were so repugnant to my accepting him. I never have
been, never can be, unmindful of all that I owe to you
and your excellent father," resumed she; "and ill would
it become me to bestow my hand on one who, however
irreproachable, had inspired you with a sentiment of
dislike, that might interrupt the harmony that has ever
subsisted between us, or prevent my acting as hitherto,
as your chaperon, companion, and friend."
When I looked at the beautiful woman before me, I
could hardly understand how I had been so blind to her
great personal attractions, of which habit alone could
have rendered me forgetful. My own overweening vanity
had also helped towards this obliviousness; and, truth
to say, the idea of her exciting admiration, or love, when
I was present, seemed to me to be as wholly out of the
124
THE CONFESSIONS OF
question as if she were old and ugly, instead of being
still young and beautiful.
I felt ashamed to avow the mistake into which my
egregious vanity had hurried me; and Lady Walsingham,
who was occupied with her own thoughts, appeared not
to have observed it. Making an effort to conceal my
embarrassment, I embraced her, and murmured something
about my repugnance being caused wholly by the dread
of parting from her.
" I expected that you would have felt this regret, my
dearest Arabella; indeed, I should have been hurt if you
had not. Yet, let me assure you that if my marriage was
to separate me from you, before yours had more naturally
led to this result, I should never have had courage to
contemplate such a measure. But, with so many suitors, it
is impossible that you should not select some one on whom
to bestow your hand; and when that hour arrives, my
continued residence beneath your roof would not be
necessary, and, certainly, would not be agreeable to your
husband."
Talk not to me of an event that is now never likely
to occur. You know the cruel disappointment my own
folly has occasioned me; a disappointment, the effects of
which have not yet ceased to be felt with bitterness.
But no more of that—I shall never marry. Yet I must
not, therefore, permit you to renounce a union that
secures you a protector and companion for life. No!
that would be too selfish."
" I had determined," resumed Lady Walsingham, " on
informing Lord Westonville that I should, with his per¬
mission, take a year to consider his proposals; not, how¬
ever, holding him bound to any engagement, though I
should deem myself excluded from entertaining any other
proposition of a similar nature during that period. If
his attachment be as sincere as I am willing to believe,
he will not object to so reasonable a plan; and within
that period my chaperonage for you, dear Arabella, may
be no longer necessary."
" I see by the smile on your lips, ma belle mere, that
you are incredulous with regard to my determination of
AN ELDERLY LADY.
125
leading a life of single blessedness. But time will prove
that this resolution is a firm one; and, en attendant, I do
not see why you should compel Lord Westonville to the
probation of a year, satisfied as you already are that he
is amiable, sensible, and suitable; in fact, to exhaust all
the panegyrical bles, unexceptiona&Ze. If his lordship will
condescend to pass a few months of every year at my
chateau, and receive me as a guest at his, I may still
enjoy all the advantages of your chaperonage, with the
addition and acquisition of his lordship's protection to
the belle Jille of his wife. I promise to be as amiable a
hostess as possible to him, and as little troublesome a
guest as may be. Do, pray, dear Lady Walsingham,
adopt my plan; it is much more reasonable than yours;
and I am sure Lord Westonville will thank me for the
suggestion."
People are always willing to follow advice when it
accords with their own wishes; Lady Walsingham's
pointed towards the counsel I gave, and it required only
a little perseverance on my part, and the display of Lord
Westonville's impatience, to determine her to yield.
The truth was, that being still in the bloom of life,
with a natural timidity of disposition which led her to
seek protection and companionship, it was not to be
wondered at, that, finding a man of high station, prepos¬
sessing appearance, cultivated mind, and agreeable man¬
ners, who preferred her to any of the reigning belles of
the day, with whom he could not have failed to have
found favour, she was disposed to accept his hand.
Time, that omnipotent effacer of eternal passions, had
obliterated the youthful one of ma belle mere; or, if not
wholly obliterated, had left only a pensive recollection of
it that could in no degree interfere with the duties or
happiness of a wedded state. Her position, even in the
lifetime of my dear father, had never been one of perfect
ease; for, though treated by him with consideration and
kindness, the absence of all warmer feelings towards her
in his heart must have made her continually sensible, that
to his love for me alone she owed the station to which
he had elevated her. This consciousness, operating on a
126
THE CONFESSIONS OF
very timid disposition, served to render her more like a
governess than a mistress of the house. Indeed, she
never acted as such, exercising no authority, and confin¬
ing herself to a scrupulous attention to my poor father's
personal comforts and my improvement.
After his death, she sank into the timid and retiring
companion, instead of assuming that influential dignity
to which, as my father's widow, she was entitled. It
was, consequently, but natural that she should listen with
complacency to the offer now made to her, the acceptance
of which would secure her a protector and companion for
life; and he who aspired to her hand being in every way
so unexceptionable a parti, that few women would have
rejected him, or have felt otherwise than flattered by his
preference.
Though no one could be more sensible of Lady Wal-
singham's merits and attractions than myself, still so
occupied had my mind lately been by the conviction of
my own supremacy, that I never expected that any man
could bestow aught more than the tribute of an evanes¬
cent admiration on her inferior charms, when he had an
opportunity of contemplating mine; and, consequently,
when I paused before the mirror, and complacently
gazed on the image it reflected, I confess that some pity,
as well as surprise, was mingled in the opinion I formed
of Lord Westonville's taste, or rather, according to my
notions, want of taste.
I began, in spite, however, of this egotistical delusion,
again for the first time to believe that my charms were
not so extremely irresistible as I had hitherto imagined
them to be; and this belief awakened some salutary
reflections in my mind. Would that I had encouraged
theml they might have saved me from some follies and
more regrets. But, like most vain people, I silenced the
admonitions of reason, and continued to cherish an over¬
weening self-admiration.
Fearing that I had revealed to my stepmother the
weakness of having supposed that I was the object of
Lord Westonville's preference, I anxiously watched to
discover to what extent she had detected me. But such
AN ELDEKLY LADY.
127
was the simplicity of mind, and singleness of heart, of
this excellent women, that I really believe the circum¬
stance had quite escaped her; or if it had not, her
manner conveyed no symptom of her having observed
it. A vain women would, have not only quickly dis¬
covered my mistake, but would have as quickly let me
see that she had made the discovery, by resenting the
implied slight to her attractions, and ridiculing the erro¬
neous estimate of my own.
But Lady Walsingham was not a vain women; and
consequently, had no incentive either to detect the, vanity
of others, or to reap a triumph for her own. How many
of our sex, who would otherwise have been estimable,
have had their noblest qualities sullied by this one, but
engrossing passion, which, "like Aaron's serpent, swal¬
lows up the rest;" rendering them eager to quarrel with
the vanity of every other human being, in order to
avenge the jealousy and exigeance of their own. How
often do we hear women exclaim, "I cannot support
Lady So and So, or Mrs. So and So, she is so intolerably
vain;" never recollecting that this anger furnishes the
most irrefragable proof, that they possess, in no ordinary
degree, the very quality they condemn; for it is an
indisputable fact, that only vain people wage war against
the vanity of others.
But to quit this digression," and return to my story.
It was agreed that the nuptials of Lord Westonville
with ma belle mere should be solemnized at Walsingham
Castle in three months; and that the intervening period
should be passed in a round of visits. When I beheld
the regret with which Lord Westonville quitted his
future bride the morning of our departure from London,
a sentiment almost amounting to envy took possession
of my mind. She was cared for, her absence was
lamented, and her presence desired; while I was, as it
were, alone in the world, necessary to no one, and left to
support, as best I might, t'he humiliating consciousness of
my insolated state.
Never, until Lady Walsingham's engagement with
Lord Westonville, had I imagined myself as otherwise
128 THE CONFESSIONS OF
than an enviable person. My position, my beauty and
fortune, and the crowd of admirers which these advan¬
tages drew around me, had induced me to believe that I
was the magnet of general attraction; and had only to
extend a gracious smile to any of my adorers in order to
behold him at my feet. But now my feelings were
changed. The homage and respectful tenderness I saw
lavished on Lady Walsingham by her accepted suitor, a
homage offered in as seemingly total an obliviousness of
my presence as if I were not in existence, wounded my
amour propre so extremely, that I was almost disposed
to look favourably upon some one of the individuals,
whose addresses I had so superciliously rejected but a
short time previously, in order to secure to myself a
similar devotion.
Such is the strange inconsistency of human nature,
verifying the truth of the lines of our inspired bard—•
"0, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness
through another's eyesl"
The first visit we paid, was to the seat of the Marquis
of Doncaster, in the eyes of whose fastidious Marchioness
I had been so fortunate as to find favour; a distinction
rarely accorded even to the most meritorious, and con¬
sequently sought with greater avidity by those who
valued it, as many other worthless objects are valued,
for its rarity.
The Marquis was a dull, pompous, but not an ill-tem¬
pered man. Naturally disposed to entertain a very high
opinion of himself and his possessions, this feeling had
been encouraged by the partner he had selected to share
them; until he had arrived at that happy, though not
unfrequent state of mind, in which people are so wholly
engrossed by self as to become totally oblivious of others,
except in relation to themselves. The Marchioness of
Doncaster never for a moment forgot that she was of
ancient descent, possessed immense wealth, and arrogated
great importance; neither was she disposed to permit
any one else to forget these distinctions. The slightest
symptom of a want of recollection on these points, pro¬
duced an increase of hauteur on her part, and not unsel-
AN ELDERLY LADY.
129
dom, a sententious diatribe on the respectful deference
which she considered to be her due.
Such is the weakness or meanness of the generality
of people, that she foynd no lack of persons willing to
propitiate her favour by a system of subserviency, that
served to render her still more dictatorial; falsely attri¬
buting to her own acknowledged superiority, that which
was but the proof of the unworthiness of her flatterers.
She and her lord lived in a state of complete illusion,
and this illusion constituted their happiness. They con¬
tinually quoted each other's opinions, as if they consi¬
dered them worthy of forming a code to regulate the
conduct of their acquaintance; but never were they kind
enough to defer, or refer to the sentiments of any other
person. If by chance some individual, not versed in the
peculiarities of the noble host and hostess, ventured to
state the on dits of some other magnet of the land, they
instantly drew up to the utmost extent of their stateli-
ness, and silenced the speaker by saying, "Lord Don-
caster and I am of a totally different opinion," or "the
Marchioness and I think otherwise."
These sentences were considered to be conclusive;
and, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, to admit
of no appeal. I was not a person likely to propitiate
the Marchioness by any undue deference to her opinions,
as I had long indulged in nearly as erroneous a belief in
the infallibility of my own; but the antiquity of my
family, or as she was pleased to term it, my illustrious
descent, aided perhaps by my large possessions, and an
occasional and unamiable display of fierte in my manner,
had won her regard.
To Lady Walsingham she was condescendingly polite;
but the condescension was so ostentatiously manifested,
as not unfrequently to render the politeness more dis¬
agreeable and offensive than the most studied negligence
would have been.
The house bore undeniable demonstrations of the
character of the owners—magnificence had banished
comfort; and the very chairs seemed to have been
designed with a reference to the peculiarities of the
x
130
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Marquis and the Marchioness; the backs being so
unusually perpendicular, that the slightest approach to
a reclining posture was rendered .impracticable. The
sofas were so far removed frorq the formal circle in
which the chairs were placed, that they were useless;
and these last were so cumbrous, that to move one of
them out of its accustomed station was a Herculean
task. The dimensions of the furniture were of Brobdig-
nagian proportions, totally defying any effort of ordinary
strength to displace them; and I have seen the Mar¬
chioness compelled to require the assistance of two of
her footmen to draw the ponderous fire-screen to protect
her visage from the effects of the fire.
The bed and dressing-rooms appropriated to visitors,
though containing all that wealth could place in them,
bid defiance to comfort, even still more obviously than
the saloons. No bergere or sofa on castors, to admit of
their being wheeled near the fire, were to be found in
them. Heavy carved and gilded ones were placed
formally against the walls of the vast apartments, from
which it would have required the strength of half-a-dozen
lacqueys to have removed them. The dressing-table,
with its accessories in massive silver, stood in the
centre; and at such a distance from the windows as to
preclude a clear view in the mirror of the countenance
of the person who used it. This circumstance, perhaps,
might account for the undue and unequal distribution of
rouge that was wont to appear on the cheeks of the
noble hostess; one of which was generally much more
florid than the other. Probably this circumstance, too,
might be cited in explanation of the occasional elevation
of one of her eyebrows; the black wax, that imparted to
them their raven hue, being not unfrequently placed
above, instead of on, the brow.
The first day of our arrival, the only guests assembled
to meet us were the rector of the parish, and the doctor,
with their respective wives. The appearance of both
these worthies might have served to convince even the
most incredulous person, of the superior advantages
enjoyed by him to whom was delegated the care of souls,
AN ELDERLY LADY.
131
over him to whom was intrusted the cure of bodies.
The reverend doctor was a man of extraordinary obesity
and rubicund countenance ; while the medical doctor
looked as if he had swallowed half the physic he had
prescribed for others, so thin was his frame and so pallid
his face. Their helpmates resembled their liege lords in
a remarkable degree, Mrs. Warburton being almost, as
fat as the reverend doctor, while Mrs. Hollingford looked
•in a state of advanced atrophy.
Never had I witnessed such extreme obsequiousness
as that exhibited by these four individuals to the Marquis
and Marchioness of Doncaster. They assented to every
observation uttered by either, generally adding, " your
ladyship is always right," or "your lordship is perfectly
correct." They did ample justice to the dinner, which
was more remarkable for its copiousness than for the
talents of the cook. The reverend doctor united the
fastidiousness of an epicure, in his entreaties for the most
delicate morsels, with the gluttony of the gourmand in the
rapidity with which he caused their disappearance;
while the M.D. positively devoured like a famished man,
determined to make the best use of his time.
"What is the news, Doctor Hollingford?" demanded
Lord Doncaster, when the removal of the soup and fish
allowed a few brief minutes of repose to that gentleman.
" No news, my Lord Marquis, the country never was
so dull; scarcely a patient amongst the gentry. But
among the poor, nothing but coughs and sore throats;
the apothecary of the county dispensary declares he
never furnished so much medicine before; and for my
part, I do nothing but ride all over the parish, and
write prescriptions."
" How very strange," said Lady Doncaster, " that
while the upper classes are so well, the lower ones should
be so unhealthy, notwithstanding they live in the same
climate. Such a circumstance justifies my hypothesis,
that the upper class are as superior in physical as they
are in mental powers to the lower orders."
" That's just what I say, your ladyship," observed
Mrs. Hollingford, "the wealthy are rarely ill. Now,
132
THE CONFESSIONS OF
there's Mr. Goldsworthy, the retired brewer, who is as
rich as a Jew, he has now been two whole years in the
parish, and never once sent for the doctor. Why, it's a
perfect shame! How does he think doctors are to live?"
A look of unutterable contempt from Lady Doncaster,
was all the notice taken of this remark; but the reverend
divine continued the subject, saying, " I don't quite
know what to make of this same Mr. Goldsworthy. He
has never been once to my church since he came hero,
which I hold to be very indecorous, and disrespectful
to me."
" The two sins of omission you have both related,
explains the cause of Mr. Goldsworthy's uninterrupted
health," replied the Marquis of Doncaster, with a species
of laugh vulgarly denominated a chuckle. " By not
going into your damp church, reverend sir, he escapes
cold; and by not sending for the doctor, he avoids the
necessity of taking physic. Eh, gentlemen, eh, eh, what
do you say to that?"
"Your lordship is so very droll;" uttered one, and,
" your lordship is pleased to banter," said the other.
At this moment, a portion of a glass of wine which
Dr. Warburton was gulping down rather too rapidly,
went wrong, and produced all the symptoms of strangu¬
lation. His rubicund face became of a dark purple hue,
hi3 eyes appeared starting from their orbits, and a con¬
vulsive noise was heard to issue from his throat. Doctor
Hollingford started from his seat, drew a case of lancets
from his pocket, and prepared to remove Dr. Warburton's
coat for the purpose of trying the effects of phlebotomy;
but Mrs. Warburton rushed to the defence of her husband,
and placing herself between him and the doctor, exclaimed
that he should not be bled. The mciitre d'hotel, more
judicious than the doctor or the suffering man's angry
wife, untied his cravat; and Mrs. Warburton, having
now succeeded in sending back the mortified and disap¬
pointed Dr. Hollingford to his seat, applied her finger
and thumb to the snuff-box which she took from her
husband's pocket, and conveyed a large pinch of the
pungent powder into his nostrils.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
133
" Have a care, madam, what you do," said the angry
and baffled doctor, " the consequences may be attended
with great danger; the already overcharged vessels of th»
head may not be capable of resisting the undue excite¬
ment of sternutation, at such a moment."
This reasonable remonstrance produced no other effect
on the enlightened Mrs. Warburton, than to induce her
to administer a still larger pinch of snuff to the nostrils
of her convulsed husband, who now, in addition to the
hiccup, began sneezing repeatedly and violently, sending
forth, at each effort, most unseemly aspersions over the
dishes. Lady Doncaster ordered the entrees within reach
of the undesirable irrigation to be forthwith removed; and
looked the very incarnation of dismay and anger at this
untimely interruption of the repast. Her lord seemed
more disposed to smile at than sympathize with Dr.
Warburton's painful situation, who still continued to
sneeze, though he, with one hand manfully resisted
his wife's efforts to force on him another pinch of
snuff.
Doctor Hollingford kept his eyes fixed on the reverend
divine with a glance of such intense curiosity, that I was
uncharitable enough to think, that he would not have
been sorry, had his prediction of the danger to which
Mrs. Warburton's treatment exposed the life of her
husband, been verified, and thus established a proof of
his prescience and skill. But he Avas doomed to be dis¬
appointed; for, after a quarter of an hour's suffering, Dr.
Warburton was restored to his usual state of composure.
But not so his wife; who, holding the snuff-box open,
while the doctor struggled against her administering
another pinch, his hand came in contact with the box,
and sent its contents into her eyes, as she in a recumbent
posture approached him. She bore not this accident
patiently, but uttered piercing cries, closing her eyes
tenaciously, as if to retain all the pungent powder that
they bad received. Dr. Hollingford again approached
her to oiler his advice, and again was repulsed, with less
of urbanity than decorum warranted.
" Yes, yes, you want to make a job of me," exclaimed
134
THE CONFESSIONS OF
the fat lady, " I know you do, but you shall have no feo
from me, I can tell you."
. " For the matter of that, ma'am," replied Mrs. Holling-
lord, " I'd have you to know that my husband, Dr.
Hollingford, is not a man to think of fees, when a fellow-
creature is in peril, as all the poor in the parish can
vouch. But some people are so very suspicious and
stingy, that it is difficult for other people to escape their
censures."
" If by some people you mean me, ma'am," answered
Mrs. Warburton, still wiping her eyes, and horribly dis¬
torting her countenance, " I can assure you that"—
" Ladies, I beg," said Lady Doncaster, " that you will
remember that Lady Walsingham, Lady Arabella Wal-
Bingham, Lord Doncaster, and myself, can feel very little
interest in your local differences, and therefore I request
that you will restrain the expression of them for a more
fitting occasion."
This was said with the Marchioness's most stern and
dignified air, and produced the desired effect; for Mrs.
Warburton "hoped her Ladyship would have the good¬
ness to excuse her warmth;" and Mrs. Hollingford humbly
"begged her Ladyship's pardon.''
Peace being restored, though it was evident that the
angry feelings of the ladies of the D.D. and M.D. were
by no means appeased, notwithstanding that a fear of
offending the noble* host and hostess induced them to
subdue every external symptom of irritation, Lady Don¬
caster announced that, by letters received that morning
from London, she was informed, that their friend Lord
Westonville was shortly to lead to the hymeneal altar,
the Lady Theodosia Fitz Hamilton.
" A very suitable and proper marriage," replied Lord
Doncaster, "unobjectionable in every point of view."
" Yes," said the Marchioness, " Lady Theodosia is a
most dignified and high-bred young woman; one who has
a proper consciousness of her own elevated position, and
who will never permit others to forget it."
" Lady Doncaster is in this instance, as in all others,
perfectly correct," observed the Marquis; " Lady Theo-
AN ELDERLY LADY.
135
dosia is precisely the model I should select to represent
the female aristocracy of England. No weak condescen¬
sion about her; no undignified desire to please."
" I am highly gratified by the match," resumed Lady
Doncaster, oracularly, " for, as my Lord observes, Lady
Theodosia is indeed a model for all women, and a union
with her must insure the happiness of Lord Westonville.''
" I am strongly disposed to disbelieve the report," said
I, somewhat maliciously.
" And pray why, Lady Arabella?" demanded Lady
Doncaster, with her most stately air.
Lady Walsingham cast an imploring glance at me;
but I could not resist adding, " Simply, because I happen
to know, that Lord Westonville has proposed to, and
been accepted by, another, and I think more eligible
person."
" But, you will excuse me, Lady Arabella, if I say,
that ladies are sometimes prone to insinuate that gentle¬
men have proposed to them, who never entertain any
such intention."
" In the present instance, there can be no mistake,"
replied I, " for Lord Westonville himself talked to mo
of his approaching nuptials with the lady to whom I
referred."
" You astonish me," answered the Marchioness, with
an expression that more plainly expressed, " you enrage
me."
"Yes, you really surprise me, as Lady Doncaster
justly observed," said her sapient lord; "and had you
not mentioned that you heard Lord Westonville himself
confirm his intention of wedding another lady, I should
hardly have permitted myself to credit the assertion; for
the Dowager Duchess of Wilmingham, who wrote the
other statement to Lady Doncaster, is extremely accurate
in the intelligence she conveys."
" I hope the lady in question is of ancient descent, for
I cannot bear the thought of a mesalliance; and I trust
she possesses the same dignified manners that characterise
Lady Theodosia?"
Poor Lady Walsingham blushed to her very temples;
136
TIIE CONFESSIONS OF
but luckily no one observed this betrayal of her keen
sense of the illiberal remark of her haughty hostess.
"The lady is of high rank," answered I, "and her
manners I have always considered very distinguished and
agreeable. To be sure, she does condescend to please;
and never fails to succeed."
" Then," retorted the hostess, angrily, " she must be,
in my opinion, deficient in the dignity that ought to
appertain to a high-born woman. I never could tolerate
the idea of a lady of rank so far forgetting what is due
to herself and sex, as to seek to obtain, by propitiation,
the homage and the suffrage which her station ought to
command."
" Lady Doncaster speaks my sentiments on this point,"
said her lord, looking pompously and half angrily; "I
must say, I never could tolerate the modern system which,
if it degenerates not into, vulgar familiarity, is at least too
much calculated to make people forget the line of demar¬
cation which should ever subsist between a lady of ancient
and noble lineage, and the mere pretenders to fashion;
who, by the influence of weath, force themselves into a
society they are so little fitted to adorn."
" Lord Doncaster's notions on this subject are well
worth attention and adoption,'' observed his lady wife,
smiling complacently on him.
" Your ladyship and his lordship's notions on all
subjects, must ever be worth attending to," remarked the
reverend doctor; "and happy are those who have an
opportunity of being edified by them."
" Happy, indeed," ejaculated Dr. Hollingford, in a
tone partaking of a, groan and a thanksgiving. " Why,
no later than yesterday, Sir Gregory Tomkinson observed
to me, that affairs would never go right until the Marquis
of Doncaster was at their head."
14 What signifies the opinion of a city knight?" retorted
Dr. Warburton, "when Sir John Haverstoke, one of the
most ancient baronets in England, ay, and a man pos¬
sessing a clear estate of twelve thousand pounds a year,
told me last Sunday, after church (for he makes it a
point never to omit attending divine worship), that his
AN ELDEKLY LADY.
137
lordship was the nobleman on whom all eyes were turned
to be prime minister."
" Though the opinions of Sir John Haverstoke are
certainly worth attending to, as representing those of the
landed interest in the county, still those of Sir Gregory
Tomkinson are not to be despised; for I have observed,
no more occasions than one, that he is a sensible and
discriminating man."
This speech was uttered by the noble host with an
affectation of humility and condescension that was highly
amusing; and the approval of Sir Gregory from so high
a quarter carried balm to the wound inflicted by Dr.
Warburton on the feelings of the worthy M.D.
"But, for my part," resumed Lord Doncaster, "nothing
would be more disagreeable to me than finding myself
compelled to accept office. Indeed, nothing short of a
royal command would induce me to do so; for, a3 Lady
Doncaster very properly observed, when we talked the
matter over, a person of my high rank and fortune can
gain no accession of dignity by holding office; and the
fatigue and trouble present an insuperable objection, as
I stated in a certain influential—indeed, I may say,
illustrious quarter, when certain propositions were more
than hinted at."
"Yes," said the Marchioness, "my lord and I are
placed in a position that precludes us from experiencing
the temptations of ambition; and I never could submit
to be, as prime minister's wife, compelled to receive a
heterogeneous mass of people, to whom it would be
necessary to enact the gracious."
The D.D. M.D. and their respective wives, looked
| with increased awe and reverence at the noble host and
hostess; but fortunately, a signal from the latter led us
to the drawing-room, and released us from the prosy
flatteries of the toad-eating doctors, and the self-compla¬
cent replies of the gratified host.
We found our sejour at Doncaster Castle so irksome
that we abridged it, and proceeded towards home,
judging by this specimen of country houses that our own
was preferable to any we might encounter.
138
THE CONFESSIONS OF
The eccentricities of our late host and hostess furnished
abundant subject for my ill-natured comments during
the first day of our route homewards; notwithstanding
that Lady Walsingham, with the kindness that always
characterised her, interposed the shield of her good
nature between their defects and the severity of my
animadversions. She censured the too prevalent habit
in guests of violating the right of hospitality, by criti¬
cising those infirmities which the confidence of friendship
has alone developed, and which in a less intimate inter¬
course would probably have never been revealed.
" But who, my dear Lady Walsingham, would offer
this hospitality, did they not intend to enliven the tcedium
vitce, by detecting the follies of their guests; the recapi¬
tulation of which, after their departure, serves as an
agreeable mode of varying the monotony of a country-
house existence? The guests are generally aware ot
this dissecting process, and repay it in kind. Now, I
dare be sworn that at this moment Lord and Lady
Doncaster are pitying 'that poor dear mild Lady Wal¬
singham, (who, though, to be sure, a leetle dull, is
nevertheless a very inoffensive good sort of a person) at
being compelled to live with that flippant imperious
Lady Arabella, who seems to think, forsooth, that because
she comes of an ancient lineage, and is an heiress, she is
superior to the rest of the world.' "
" How can you, Arabella, be so suspicious and satir¬
ical?"
" And how can you, ma chere belle mere, be so very
unsuspicious and good-natured?"
This was the mode in which Lady Walsingham's
reproofs were made and received. She was, in truth,
the very soul of womanly charity, ever ready to put the
most favourable construction on the actions of others,
and to require none for her own; for they were pure
and blameless as her soul. Yet, strange to say, it was
perhaps this unusual gentleness and benevolence in her,
that urged me to a not unfrequent practice of the contrary
qualities. Her extraordinary forbearance irritated me
at times; and led to my expressing opinions that were
AN ELDERLY LADY. 139
not always founded in justice. She judged the world by
the fair' model of human nature best known to herself,
while I drew my conclusions from the unfavourable
specimen of it offered in my own character. We were
both wrong; but her error was the more amiable.
On arriving at the Marquis of Granby Inn, at North¬
allerton, where we were to remain for the night, we
after a light repast sought our separate chambers.
After having dismissed my attendant, I recollected that
I had forgotten a book in the sitting-room to which I
attached a peculiar value, it having been the gift of
Lord Clydesdale. Fearful of its getting into other
hands, I seized a light, and was hurrying in search of
it, when my foot was caught in a rent of the stair-carpet,
and I was falling to the ground; but was saved by being
caught in the arms of a person who was ascending.
Flurried and rendered nervous by this accident, I
trembled so violently that the person who had arrested
my fall still supported me; fearful lest I should again be
exposed to a similar danger. I turned to thank him,
when—Oh ! . merciful Heaven !—I recognised in the
stranger him who for months and years had occupied
every thought, filled every dream, and was allied to
every hope of my doting heart I A passionate burst of
tears relieved me; and "Do I again see you, Clydesdale?
Dear—always dear Clydesdale 1" broke from my lips,
as clinging to him, and subdued by the surprise and joy
of seeing him, I wept on his bosom. " Cruel Clydesdale!
how could you fly from me? Ah! if you knew the days
of care, the nights without sleep, that I have passed
since you left mel"—And here my tears and sobs pre¬
cluded me from finishing the sentence.
All this scene passed on the public staircase of a
crowded inn; and that there were no witnesses of it
seems nothing short of a miracle. He trembled nearly
as much as I did, and bore me into the sitting-room to
which I had been proceeding when we met, and the
door of which stood open. When he had placed me on
a chair, I fixed my eyes fondly on his face—that face
which memory had so often and tenderly recalled to my
140
THE CONFESSIONS OF
mind. Its paleness and solemnity so shocked and
alarmed me, that, forgetful of the pride and delicacy of
my sex, and awake only to the dread of again losing
him, I passionately poured forth the confession of my
unchanged, my unchangeable love; the truth of which
the energy of my manner and the tears that bathed my
cheeks too Avell attested. He made many efforts to
interrupt me while I spoke, but I would not be checked.
The feelings so long pent up in my heart now burst
forth, and could not be repressed. What, then, was my
agony at discovering that his countenance became still
more pale and solemn as I proceeded!
" Is it, can it be, Clydesdale," I exclaimed in deep
humiliation, "that you no longer love me?"
" The position in which this fatal rencontre places
us," replied he, and he trembled while he spoke, " com¬
pels me to avow that, welcome as would once have
been the confession you have made me, dear Lady
Arabella, it now comes too late; for, I—I am the
husband of another."
Never shall I forget the overpowering agony of that
moment! how I wished it was the last of my existence!
He, even he, the traitor, seemed to feel for the misery
he had inflicted, but tho expression of pity on his coun¬
tenance nearly maddened me.
"Leave me! leave me, for ever," I passionately ex¬
claimed. "You shall be obeyed," answered he, with
sadness. " But do not let us part in unkindness. You
have not, believe me, a truer friend."
" Leave me," I again exclaimed, " unless you would
see me driven to some act of insanity."
He slowly left the room, and I—stole to my chamber,
to which my trembling limbs could scarcely bear me,
like a degraded and guilty creature, whose heart was
torn between the conflicting emotions of love and shame.
When I reflected that I had poured into the ear of the
husband of another, the mad, the immodest avowal of a
passion, which I could no longer entertain, or he recipro¬
cate, without guilt and infamy, the deepest sense of
humiliation took possession of my mind. I writhed in
AN ELDERLY LADY.
141
mental torture under this degrading consoiorsness of my
own folly; tears of agony flowed down my burning
cheeks; and I dreaded to meet the light of day, deserted
and despised as I now felt myself to be.
Jealousy also added its sharp pangs to those inflicted
by disappointed love and shame. He, whom alone I
ever really, truly loved, was now lavishing on another
those marks of affection which I once believed would be
mine, and mine only—nay, was perhaps, at that mo¬
ment, repeating to her my indelicate, my inexcusable
conduct.
When had he married, and how had it occurred, that
the intelligence of his nuptials had not reached my ears?
It was strange; it was unaccountable 11
Never shall I forget the anguish I endured that night.
Sleep deigned not to visit my pillow for even a few brief
moments; and 1 counted the weary hours as the clock
told them, wishing that each might be the last of an
existence now rendered hateful to me.
I arose when day had dawned, and endeavoured, by
the application of rose-water, to remove from my eyes
the redness occasioned by weeping. My temples throbbed
with pain, and my limb3 ached; yet, though severely
suffering from indisposition, I could still think of guard¬
ing appearances; and before my maid had entered my
chamber, I had succeeded in ameliorating, if not in
effacing the symptoms of my grief, sufficiently to make
the old excuse of "a severe headache" explain the cause
of my altered looks.
" There has been a new married couple in the house,
last night, my lady," said my femme de chambre, with
that craving desire to communicate intelligence peculiar
to her class. " The Marquis of Clydesdale and his bride.
They were married yesterday morning, your ladyship;
and are on the road to one of his lordship's fine country
seats. The bride is a great beauty, and is daughter to
the Duke of Biggleswade. I knew the lady's maid in my
last place, and she told me all about it after her ladyship
had gone to bed."
I dismissed Mrs. Tomlinson for a cup of strong coffee,
142
THE CONFESSIONS OF
anxious to abridge her communications, every word of
which inflicted a fresh pang; and trembling lest she
should prate of the love of the happy couple, which I had
not yet acquired sufficient fortitude to hear of, without
the risk of betraying emotions that might give rise to
suspicions of the state of my heart.
How strange, and oh I how much to be regretted, was
the coincidence of my finding myself in the same house
with Lord Clydesdale, and on such an occasion 1 Yet
this meeting was occasioned wholly by my own obstinacy,
in resisting the entreaties of my late host and hostess
to prolong my stay with them for another day. Had I
yielded, how much of humiliation had I been spared I
But it was fated that through life my wilfulness was to
draw down its own punishment.
How was I to act towards Lady Walsingham?
Should I confess my interview with my ci-devant lover,
and the mortifying position in which I had placed myself,
trusting to her affectionate sympathy for an alleviation
of the misery I was enduring? I longed to give a free
course to the pent tears, that were every moment strug¬
gling to start forth; and to weep on that gentle bosom
which had from early youth so often supported my aching
head, when pain or sorrow had assailed me.
But pride, ungovernable pride, forbade this indulgence,
and dictated a line of conduct which added to my cha¬
grin, by rendering deception and hypocrisy absolutely
necessary. Oh! the martyrdom of smiling when tears
are ready to gush forth; of talking on indifferent sub¬
jects, when all thoughts and feelings are concentrated on
a prohibited one; or of speaking on that one with an
assumed carelessness, to support the appearance of which
requires a self-control almost beyond the reach of woman.
Yet this was the conduct I adopted; for not even to
Lady Walsingham, dearly as I knew she loved me, and
implicitly as' I was aware that I might confide in her,
could my pride permit me to relate the truth, however
soothing might be the tender sympathy it could not fail
to awaken. No! I would affect a perfect indifference on
the subject of Lord Clydesdale's marriage; and whatever
AN ELDERLY LADY.
14?
the effort might cost me, no human being should discover
the agony I was enduring. It is thus that our own
defects, and there is not a more pernicious one in its
consequences than pride, adds new stings to the misfor¬
tunes that assail us. Disappointment loses half its
bitterness when it is confided to some affectionate friend
who listens with sympathy, and who shares if she cannot
alleviate the sting. Yet of this consolation did I deprive
myself, urged by that indomitable pride that had so often
led me astray; and which was the severest avenger of
the follies it had occasioned, by rendering me still more
deeply conscious of their humiliating effects.
When I met Lady Walsingham at breakfast, no word
of hers indicated her knowledge that Lord and Lady
Clydesdale had sojourned beneath the same roof with us
the night before—that they were in fact still beneath it.
I had risen much earlier than my accustomed hour,
anxious to quit the inn before those I so much wished to
avoid had left their chamber. But my evil destiny still
pursued me; for, while Lady Walsingham and I stood at
the window, impatiently waiting to hear our travelling
carriage announced, that of Lord Clydesdale drove up to
the door to receive its owners. To withdraw from the
window, would be to expose my secret feelings to Lady
Walsingham; and therefore I stood, with the semblance
of calmness, though my very heart throbbed with intense
pain. She made some excuse for absenting herself from
the room, and I thanked her for this delicate attention;
though I feared it indicated a knowledge of my weakness
that I had hoped she had not acquired. I was, conse¬
quently, left alone, and determined, whatever pain the
effort might cost me, to behold the wife of him, to whom
I had hoped to have stood in that near and dear relation.
I waited not long, for in a few minutes the bridegroom
led forth his bride, and assisted her to ascend the car¬
riage. There was an affectionate solicitude apparent in
the performance of even this trivial action, that indicated
a more than ordinary tenderness, and therefore inflicted
an acute pang on my heart. There was a time when 1
was the object of similar attentions from him; attentions
144
THE CONFESSIONS OF
performed with an earnestness of affection, more flattering
to her who received them than all that mere gallantry
ever suggested.
The person of Lady Clydesdale was tall and graceful,
and her face, of which, when she was seated in the car¬
riage I had a full view, was one of the most beautiful I
had ever beheld. Its surpassing loveliness too well
explained why mine was forgotten; and as I gazed on it
for the few minutes that intervened ere the servants
were ready to start, I fancied that I might have better
borne his marriage had the object of his selection been
less beautiful. Yet perhaps it was well for me that her
loveliness had made such a forcible impression on my
mind; for, from the moment I had beheld her, I never
could think of him without associating her image with
his. Hence, by slow degrees I learned to repress the
painful recollection of my unhappy disclosure, but not
until many a bitter thought and sleepless night had
expiated my folly.
Lady Walsingham never recurred to the subject: and
I, though anxious to display my affected indifference by
conversing on it with nonchalance, had not resolution
sufficient to name it. Her affectionate attentions to me
seemed to increase daily, and strange to say, not unfre-
quently occasioned me more of pain than pleasure, as I
fancied they originated in the pity excited by the contrast
of our respective prospects.
On arriving at Walsingham Castle, the neighbouring
nobility and gentry again flocked to visit me. Among
them was one, whom at my former sejour in the country
I had not seen, though his name was frequently mentioned.
Lord Wyndermere was then on the continent; and was
represented to me as a man of great personal attractions
and accomplishments, with a highly cultivated mind. His
father had been so extravagant as to leave his estate
heavily encumbered at his death; and his successor's
income was represented as being totally inadequate to the
support of his rank and station.
As a boy, Lord Wyndermere had been much beloved
in the neighbourhood, and was now always spoken of with
AN ELDERLY LADY.
145
respect and regard. He had only lately returned to
Wyndermere Abbey, a fine old seat about twenty miles
distant from mine, where he was residing with a very
limited establishment; but his society was universally
sought and appreciated in the circle in which I lived.
We soon met; and I found that report had not
exaggerated his merits. A thoughtfulness of manner,
amounting almost to pensiveness, distinguished him from
the common herd of young men, whose frivolity and
gaiety never appeared to greater disadvantage than when
contrasted with his mild seriousness. This gravity, so
unusual at his age, was generally attributed to the
straitened circumstances in which he found himself placed;
and it served to increase the interest he excited. His
poverty, and the dignified equanimity with which it was
bome, was a passport to my favour; which was the more
readily yielded to him, from his making no effort to
acquire it.
He was polite to all; but there was a reserve in his
very politeness that precluded familiarity; and to me he
was less attentive—though always scrupulously well-bred
—than to any other of the ladies who formed our society.
I am fully persuaded, that had Lord Wyndermere pos¬
sessed affluence, he would have only created a common¬
place sentiment of good will in my mind: but his high
birth and scanty means awakened a thousand of those
romantic and commiserating thoughts and feelings pecu¬
liar to women, which generally terminate in the creation
of a warm interest in their minds at least, if not in their
hearts.
I often detected him gazing on me, and observed, that
on such occasions, he seemed embarrassed, and avoided
looking at me again for some time. Though I was ready
to admit the superiority of Lord Wyndermere over most
part of the men of my acquaintance, I nevertheless
considered him immeasurably inferior to Lord Clydesdale;
and the consciousness of this inferiority, which never
forsook me, precluded me from entertaining any warmer
sentiments towards him than esteem and pity. Not¬
withstanding my indifference, after a month or two had
K
146
THE CONFESSIONS OF
elapsed, during which period we frequently met, I began
to be piqued as well as surprised, at discovering that lie
was more assiduous to any or every woman of our circle
than to myself. His attentions to them, however, never
exceeded that polite gallantry so universally adopted by
all gentlemen at that period; still to me, he was more
cold, more ceremonious, and avoided, rather than sought
occasions for conversing with me. Yet when I have
been talking to others, I have remarked, with a truly
feminine vigilance, that he invariably ceased speaking,
and listened with a deep interest. This inconsistency of
behaviour aroused a certain degree of curiosity in my
mind; and that woman is in danger in whom this senti¬
ment is awakened. Pity and curiosity are said to be
exclusive attributes of the female character; the first I
do believe to be a distinctive feature; but the second,
and less amiable quality, appertains equally to both sexes.
I will leave to casuists to determine which of the two
sexes are the more entirely influenced by it, while I
acknowledge that I was governed by both at this epoch;
even though the wound inflicted on my peace by the
late death-blow to its long-cherished hopes, still bled and
rankled.
Lord Westonville now came to claim his bride, and
for the first time of my life, I found myself de trop, though
in my own house. His brief separation from the object
of his affection served to increase his passion for her.
He had eyes only for her, was never happy when she
was not present; and notwithstanding his good breeding,
it was obvious that the presence of a third person was by
no means agreeable to him. He was anxious that the
honey-moon should be passed tete-a-tete; but how was
this natural wish to be accomplished without leaving me
unprotected? an indecorum not to be tolerated in the
good old times of etiquette and propriety to which I
refer.
I quickly discovered, by various nameless trifles, all
that was passing in the mind of my stepmother's future
husband; and the discoveiy awakened serious reflections
in my breast. If I thus felt the annoyance of being
AN ELDERLY LADY.
14Y
de trop in my own house, how much more unbearable
would it become when I found myself in his; and yet to
dwell without a chaperon was impossible. The few
female relatives who might have filled this onerous office
towards me, were all too personally disagreeable to me,
to admit of my submitting to their society.
What therefore was I to do, or where bestow my
person for even a few weeks, while ma belle mere was
enacting the part of bride? I was positively humiliated,
as all these puerile annoyances presented themselves to
my imagination: my dependent position galled my vanity,
and led to some sober reflections on the advantages of a
wedded life, which precluded the necessity of chaperons.
Sincere and warm as was my attachment to Lady
Walsingham, I could not at all tolerate the idea of forming
a tiers in her future domestic circle, with the conscious¬
ness that my presence would be an irksome restraint on
her lord. Then to find myself always a secondary object,
a continual witness to the homages offered to another.
No 1 it was not to be borne; and I almost " wished that
heaven had made me such a man." Yet not exactly
quite such a man, but in short some convenable parti,
whose presence would relieve me from all necessity of
chaperons; and whose devoted attentions would convince
me, that I too might be worshipped in my own temple.
While making these reflections, shall I confess that the
handsome but serious face of Lord Wyndermere more
than once occurred to my mind? He would not have
been an unsuitable husband; for though poor, he, it was
quite evident, was no fortune-hunter; and his family was
as ancient and noble as my own. It would have been
very desirable also, to prove to those in general, who
might suspect my former attachment to Lord Clydesdale,
and to that individual himself in particular, that it never
could have been of a serious character, by my so speedily
following his example in marrying. But it was useless
for me to think of this subject, as it was quite obvious
Lord Wyndermere had never bestowed a thought upon
it. „ Nevertheless, I did think of it occasionally, and
especially when the sighs and whispers of the doting
148
THE CONFESSIONS OV
Lord Westonville reminded me th.it my presence inter¬
rupted the impassioned eloquence of his conversation tc
his future bride.
One of the nearest of my neighbours was a very hand¬
some widow, a Mrs. Temple Clarendon, remarkable for the
fascination of her manners, and the exemplary propriety
of her conduct. Left a widow at twenty-two, with an
enormous jointure, the whole of which was to be forfeited
in case of her contracting a second marriage, she, now in
the fourth year of her widowhood, appeared to have
renounced all thoughts of matrimony, and was but lately
returned from the continent, where she had spent three
years. I quickly formed an intimacy with this lady:
congenial tastes and habits cemented it into friendship,
and I considered it as peculiarly fortunate, when, having
confided to her my embarrassment with regard to accom¬
panying ma belle mere on her honeymoon expedition, she
obviated the difficulty by kindly and warmly soliciting
me to take up my abode with her during the absence of
the future Lady Westonville.
I yielded a ready assent—Lord Westonville looked as
if he thought the plan an admirable one, though he feebly
uttered something about regretting the loss of my society;
and Lady Walsingham, though really loth to be separated
from me, acceded to a project that seemed to afford me
so much satisfaction.
The nuptials took place a few days after. The same
number of white favours, and the same quantity of bride¬
cake were distributed, as is customary on such occasions;
the same splendid dejeuner was partaken of, and the
quantum of tears shed. When this established portion
of the performance had been exhibited, the whole was
orthodoxly concluded by a new and tasteful equipage,
with postillions and outriders decked with wedding favours,
whirling the bride and bridegroom from the door.
I could not see her, who had been my kind and
attached companion for so many years, depart without
deep regret. It brought back to me the recollection of
the days of my youth, and of that fond father who was
in the grave. But Mrs. Temple Clarendon, who was
AN ELDERLY LADY. 149
present, soon cheered me by her attentions; and *by the
time we had reached her dwelling, my spirits were
restored to their wonted tone.
The next day, we dined at a neighbouring nobleman's,
and there we met Lord Wyndermere, and, to my no
slight annoyance, Sir Augustus Fauconberg, the friend
of Lord Clydesdale; he whose disclosure of the motive
of his friend's absence, on the anniversary of the death
of his first love, had led to our separation. He was
associated in my mind with one of the most painful
events of my life, an event which he, in a great measure,
caused; and, therefore, I disliked him. To this objection
to meeting him again was added the fear that he might
disclose my former engagement to Lord Clydesdale;
every reference to which I detested ever since he had
become the husband of another. I soon found that
Mrs. Temple Clarendon was an old acquaintance of his;
Lord Wyndermere also had met him on the continent;
and I felt anything but gratified when I heard her engage
both gentlemen to meet a party at her house the ensuing
day.
louring the evening I accompanied the Ladies Percival,
the daughters of our host, into a conservatory that
communicated with the suite of drawing-rooms, and into
which the windows of several of them opened. While
admiring some rare plants on the pyramidal stand,
which completely concealed me from those in the drawing-
room, J. heard Sir Augustus Fauconberg observe to Lord
Wyndermere, that I seemed to have quite surmounted
my attachment for Lord Clydesdale. Curiosity riveted
me to the spot; and, luckily, my companions were too
far distant to hear what was passing.
"Is it possible that Lady Arabella Walsingham ever
could have loved in vain?" exclaimed Lord Wyndermere.
"Why, not exactly that," replied Fauconberg, and I
hated him from that moment, "Clydesdale was very
much in love with her, and they were on the point of
being married; that is, they were affianced, and all that
sort of thing. But she took it into her imperious little
head, (and I can assure you a devilish proud head it is),
150
THE CONFESSION'S OF
that be'cause he had once loved before, and still retained
a mournful recollection of her he had loved, she, for¬
sooth, was ill-used; and so (can yon believe such folly?)
she wrote a haughty letter to poor Clydesdale, command¬
ing him to see her no more. You have no idea how
long and severely he suffered from this capricious conduct
of hers; for he was really attached to her, and she too,
X fancy, liked him extremely."
What were my feelings at hearing thisl
"How any man that Lady Arabella had once honoured
with her preference could think of, much less bestow his
hand on another, appears to me almost incredible; for
she is a women that once seen, can never be forgotten,"
said Lord Wyndermere.
"Hang me, if you are not a little smitten' yourself,"
replied Fauconberg. "Why not endeavour to render the
sentiment reciprocal? With her vast fortune, and your
encumbered one, it would be the very wisest plan in the
world."
I was all ear, and listened with intense anxiety to this
discourse.
" It is precisely because she has a vast fortune, and I
an eneumbered one, that I must never think of her. I
am too proud to become a suitor to the heiress, though I
could worship the woman, and—"
Here the Ladies Percival approached; and, fearful
that they might discover that I had been an eaves¬
dropper, I quietly joined them, and sauntered towards
another part of the conservatory.
This overheard conversation made a deep impression
on me. Now was the reserve of Lord Wyndermere
explained, and explained in a mapner most flattering to
my vanity, and creditable to his feelings. What pride
and delicacy did his sentiments evince! Handsome and
agreeable as I had hitherto considered him, he was now
invested with fresh attractions in my mind; and I felt
elated at the conquest I had achieved. Yes, his was
indeed a heart worth captivating; he could not even
imagine that I could love in vain, nor believe that a
person once preferred by me could ever think of another.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
151
These two concise and simple sentences contained a
compliment more gratifying to my amour propre than all
the eulogiums that ever had been poured into my ear;
and what woman forgets, or remains indifferent to the
man, who considers her irresistible?
Anxious to disprove the assertion of my former attach¬
ment to Lord Clydesdale, I now assumed a more than
ordinary gaiety. I referred with an air of perfect indif¬
ference to past scenes in Italy; had even resolution enough
to name Lord Clydesdale, and spoke of his marriage, as
if he had never stood in any other relation to me than a
mere common acquaintance. I stole a glance at Lord
Wyndermere, to observe what effect this seeming
indifference had on him; and was gratified by remarking
that his countenance betrayed a more than usual expression
of satisfaction.
From this evening, I found myself continually in the
society of my new admirer. Invited to the same houses,
we were drawn together without either of us having the
air of seeking any intercourse. By degrees, his reserve
wore away, and his looks and manner assumed more of
softness and tenderness towards me. Still, no word of
love was breathed; and I, to say the truth, began to fear
his objections to an heiress were indeed insurmountable.
It was not that I loved, or even fancied than I loved him;
for the depth and force of my former unhappy attachment
had been such as to convince me I should never love
again. But the peculiarity of my position, and my dislike
to finding myself en tiers with Lord and Lady Westonville,
led me to think with complacency of avoiding such a
dilemma by rewarding the romantic and disinterested
affection of Lord Wyndermere with my hand and
fortune.
Affairs stood in this position, when the absence of the
new married couple, which, from the arranged four weeks
of its duration, had grown into twice that length of time,
was drawing to a close: and I was thinking with no
pleasurable feelings, of enacting the part of witness to
their connubial felicity, when Mrs. Temple Clarendon
asked me whether I had observed how much smitten with
152
THE CONFESSIONS OF
me poor Lord Wyndermere was. I affected to doubt the
truth of the statement; and remarked that a man in love
was not likely to be so reserved and distant with the
object of it.
This led to an animated declaration, on her part, that
she had been aware of his violent and hopeless passion
from its commencement, which dated from the day he
beheld me for the first time. She eloquently painted his
despair at feeling an attachment which, from the difference
in our fortunes, must be a hopeless one; but which,
nevertheless, would terminate but with his existence.
His pride and delicacy opposed obstacles to his avowal of
his feelings, which a belief that they were not repugnant
to me could alone overcome; and she entreated, nay,
implored, that I would authorise her, who was the sincere
and disinterested friend of both Lord Wyndermere and
myself, to give him to understand that he was not dis¬
agreeable to me. The warmth and earnestness of her
pleading won on me; and, aided by the insidious foe
within my breast, vanity, led me to believe all that she
asserted. She particularly dwelt on the circumstance
of Lord Wyndermere's having hitherto never felt the
influence of the tender passion, a circumstance, above all
others, the most calculated to gratify my fastidious and
jealously-disposed mind; and, as memory reverted to the
pangs I had formerly endured from the knowledge of my
former suitor's prior attachment, I reflected with com¬
placency that in the present instance no such painful
reminiscences could ever wound me. I should be the
only idol ever worshipped in the shrine of his heart,—
that heart which proved its delicacy and refinement by
having so long resisted all the blandishments of female
attractions, reserving itself for me,—and me alone 1
The consequence of these reflections was, that I suffered
Mrs. Temple Clarendon to whisper hope to her friend;
and, in a few minutes after he was at my feet. But,
though he breathed vows, whose fervour were well
calculated to establish in my mind the conviction of his
love, he left me in doubt whether his pride did not still
oppose an insuperable barrier to our union. He described
AN ELDERLY LADY. J53
the humiliating position of a man dependent on a wife,
and always subject to the mortifying, the degrading
suspicion, of having been influenced to marry her by
mercenary motives. So eloquently and feelingly did he
speak on this subject, that it required no inconsiderable
encouragement on my part to reconcile him to the idea;
for, won by the passionate ardour of his manner, I was,
or fancied myself, touched by something approaching to
a sympathy with his sentiments.
In short, when Mrs. Temple Clarendon joined the
conference, and urged that, although an heiress, my
attractions were too prominent to admit a doubt of their
being the whole and sole charm in a lover's eyes, Lord
Wyndermere's scruples were vanquished; and I consented
to receive him as my accepted suitor. He was all grati¬
tude and rapture; and I indulged in that self-complacency
peculiar to vain people, when their amour propre has
been gratified, and their pride flattered by conferring an
obligation.
I returned to Walsingham Castle in time to receive
Lord and Lady Westonville; who, all smiles and happi¬
ness, offered a perfect picture of conjugal felicity. Never
had two months produced a more complete metamorphosis
on any human being, than in ma belle mere. The object
of unceasing attention and doting love, her presence con¬
ferring delight on her husband, and her slightest wish a
law, she had acquired a cheerfulness and self-confidence
that lent her new charms, without having lost any of that
winning gentleness which had always characterised her.
When, during the very first evening of our meeting, I
observed the all-engrossing attention she excited, and the
evident gene and constraint my presence imposed on her
husband, I inwardly rejoiced that in a short time her
chaperonage would no longer be required. She also,
sincerely as she was attached to me, had, during our
separation, learned too well to appreciate the comforts of
a home where she alone was worshipped, not to experience
a restraint at the prospect of becoming a permanent guest
in mine.
This state of their feelings, though both of them endea-
154
THE CONFESSIONS OF
voiired to conceal it, was thoroughly visible to my keen
perception; and I anticipated the satisfaction with which
they would hail their freedom from the wearying thraldom
of chciperonage. I was not disappointed. They listened
to my avowal of my engagement with evident pleasure,
approved my choice; and we all three appeared to become
more attached to each other, in the anticipation of our
mutual release.
The next day brought Mrs. Temple Clarendon, intent
on the momentous business of marriage settlements. She
had many suggestions to offer, all based on the absolute
necessity of taking measures to avoid wounding the pride
and delicacy of Lord Wyndermere's sentiments. His
poverty, she said, rendered him so susceptible, that 1
must place him in a state of perfect independence; and
that, without consultation or reference to him. I was as
ready to act on this suggestion as she was to offer it; but
I had only a life interest in my estates, they being strictly
entailed on any children I might have. The personal
property I was at liberty to bequeath; and I determined
on placing it at his disposal. My guardians offered many
objections to this scheme, but I was resolute; and the
more so, from observing the perfect disinterestedness of
my future husband. To be sure, had he even been dis¬
posed to study his own interest, he never could have more
effectually taken care of it than by trusting to our mutual
friend, Mrs Temple Clarendon; who was indefatigable in
her exertions and counsel on this subject.
In due time, the law's delays having been abridged
of half their tediousness, by the persevering endeavours
of Mrs. Temple Clarendon, I was led to the hymeneal
altar, nothing loth; but with no warmer sentiment
towards him on whom I bestowed my hand and fortune,
than an admiration of his personal attractions and a
sense of gratitude for his devoted attachment.
Months rolled on, his attention to me unremitting,
and my affection to him daily increasing, awakened into
life by the constant and impassioned demonstration of
his. I was now in that state in which ladies are said
to "wish to be who love their lords;" and I looked
AN ELDERLY LADY.
155
forward with feelings of new delight to the prospect of
becoming a mother: when, one day, Lord Wyndermere,
in returning from his accustomed ride, was thrown from
his horse, brought home senseless, and expired in a few
hours.
I will not dwell on the affliction into which this sad
event plunged me. For many weeks my life was in
imminent danger: and the hope of maternity deserted
me, now when such a blessing alone could have consoled
me for the bereavement I had sustained.
Those who have lost a husband, ere he had ceased to
be a lover, ere a frown had ever curved his brow, or a
harsh word escaped his lips, can alone imagine the grief
and desolation of my heart at this calamity. The very
circumstance of my belief in the passionate fervour of
his love, and the consciousness that mine was of a much
less warm character, being in fact only an affectionate
friendship founded on a grateful sense of his devotion to
me, added to the poignancy of my regret. I reproached
myself for having, previously to my acquaintance with
him, exhausted the energies of my heart in an attachment
to another, while he had reserved all the warmth of his
for me. The soothing attentions of Lady Westonvillc,
who, with her lord, had flown to me the moment that
intelligence of my bereavement had reached her, were
ineffectually used to console me. I encouraged rather
than attempted to subdue my grief; for an oblivion of
it appeared to me nothing short of an insult to the
memory of the dead. How I wished to have Mrs.
Temple Clarendon with me; she, who so highly esteemed
the dear departed, could better sympathize with my
regret than Lady Westonville, who had seen too little
of him to be aware of his merits. But unfortunately,
Mrs. Temple Clarendon was absent from England;
having made an excursion to the south of France two
months before for the benefit of her health, which had
lately been in a declining state.
I used to take a melancholy pleasure, when again
able to leave my chamber, in sitting for hours in the
dressing-room of my lost husband, in which I had
156
THE CONFESSIONS OF
ordered everything appertaining to his toilet and ward¬
robe to be left as when he inhabited it. The books he
had preserved and marked, the unfinished letters on his
table, were now become dear and precious mementos of
him in his eyes. Why was I so unfortunate as to be
deprived of this consolation, melancholy though it was?
and why did my evil stars conduct me to a discovery
that banished all soft regrets, and rendered me for the
rest of my existence, cold, suspicious, and unloving?
In an unlucky hour, my heart still filled with fond
remembrances of my husband, it occurred to me to open
his escrutoir, the key of which hung to the chain of his
watch, which now always rested on my table as a sacred
relic. Its drawers contained only a few letters of little
interest from friends; and the billets I had written to
him during the epoch that intervened from my acceptance
of him to our marriage. I bedewed them with my tears,
as I marked how carefully he had arranged and treasured
them; and my regret was renewed by this little proof
of affection. In replacing them, a burst of weeping led
me to incline my head on both arms on the desk part of
the escritoire; and in the action, I involuntarily pressed
a secret spring, which flew open, and discovered a cavity
in which were many letters and a large gold medallion.
An indescribable presentiment of evil seized me at the
sight; and I almost determined on closing the escritoire,
and never to examine the contents of the secret cavity.
Would that I had persevered in this resolution! but
curiosity, or a stronger motive prevailed, and I opened
the medallion.
Never shall I forget the feeling of that moment, when
the portrait of Mrs. Temple Clarendon, a most striking
resemblance, met my astonished gaze. No doubt of the
relation in which the original of the picture stood to him,
to whom such a gift was made, could exist; for a long
lock of hair, and an Italian inscription of the warmest
nature, but too clearly explained it.
The medallion fell from my trembling hands, and my
eyes involuntarily closed, as if to shut out the sight that
had thrust daggers to my heart. I shook with the vio-
AN ELDERLY LADY.
157
lence of my emotions, as my tortured brain recalled a
thousand circumstances, received by me as proofs of an
honourable friendship between my husband and Mrs.
Temple Clarendon, but to which the portrait and its
indelicate inscription now lent a totally different co¬
louring.
So then, I was their dupel their weak and credulous
dupe! and all my fond dreams of love and friendship
were destroyed for ever! Anger, violent and powerless
anger, arose like a whirlwind in my breast, blighting and
searing every soft and womanly feeling, and replacing the
tender sorrow that so lately usurped my thought, by a
jealous and impotent rage, that would have fain called
up the dead from his everlasting sleep, to wreak on him
some mighty vengeance.
Burning tears of passion chased the soft ones of grief
from my eyes. I vowed to punish the false and vicious
woman whose dupe I had been, by a public exposure of
her shame; and I was almost tempted to imprecate
curses on the memory of him, whose death I had so
lately mourned with anguish. The perusal of the letters
nearly maddened me, for the whole nefarious plot was
revealed in them. Lord Wyndermere had long been the
lover of Mrs. Temple Clarendon; but as the unhallowed
liaison had taken place on the continent, and appearances
were strictly guarded between them, it had never been
talked of in England. When it first occurred, it was
his intention to have married her, and with her large
fortune repair his decayed one; but on discovering the
clause by which, in case of her forming a second matri¬
monial alliance, she was to forfeit her wealth, he aban¬
doned all thought of adopting this course; especially as
she was as little desirous as himself to forge chains that
would reduce her from splendour to comparative indi¬
gence. She knew my wealth, had heard of the weakness
and vanity of my character, ai^l as their passion was no
longer in its first wild hey-day, they agreed to return to
England and concoct a plan to catch the heiress. How
well they had succeeded, my marriage, and the lavish
generosity I displayed towards my disinterested husband,
158
THE CONFESSIONS OF
has proved. Oh! how I loathed them, and despised
myself, as with burning cheeks, throbbing temples, and tor¬
tured heart, I perused the details of their artifice and guilt.
"I give you great credit," wrote this shameless
woman, " for your ready tact in taking advantage of Lady
Arabella's approach in the conservatoiy, when you were
conversing with Mr. Fauconberg. The few sentences
you uttered on that occasion, will lay the foundation of
the superstructure I mean to erect. Such are her vanity
and folly, that it only requires a tenth part of the address
we possess to secure her and her fortune. You must
enact the silent, despairing, but adoring lover, for a short
time, and success will inevitably crown our efforts. After
all she is handsome, and not a greater fool than nine-
tenths of the girls of her age; therefore, you are not so
much to be pitied as you would fain have me believe.
With regard to pecuniary matters, leave the arrangement
of all them to me; I can suggest what it would appear
mercenary and indelicate in you to propose. Your role
is, to affect a most romantic love, and a fierte with regard
to fortune, that will, aided by my advice, compel her to
display a lavish generosity."
Each, and all, of the letters, contained similar proofs
of dissimulation and wickedness. The correspondence,
subsequently to my ill-fated marriage, was carried on
between the guilty pair with even an increased warmth,
leaving no doubt of their continued criminality; for the
last letter received from this atrocious hypocrite, stated,
that he was wrong to blame her for going abroad, as,
had she longer remained in England, her increasing shape
must have excited suspicions destructive to that repu¬
tation which she had hitherto so successfully preserved
free from taint.
For many months, the rage and indignation to which
I was a constant prey, sensibly impaired my health; and
change of air and scene,having been prescribed for me,
I left England, attended by a numerous suite, and passed
many years in visiting Germany, Italy, and Sicily. My
invincible dislike to encountering Mrs. Temple Clarendon,
prevented me from returning to Walsingham Castle;
AN ELDERLY LADY. 159
for, although I had long abandoned all thoughts of making
her conduct known, I felt that I could not meet her
without betraying my contempt and dislike.
I kept up a constant correspondence with Lady Wes-
tonville, who became the mother of a large family, all of
•whom she lived long enough to see happily established:
and when, after twenty years' absence from my native
land, I returned to its shores, I experienced from her the
same affectionate friendship that had ever characterised
her conduct to me.
The death of Mrs. Temple Clarendon removed my
principal objection to returning to Walsingham Castle.
She died, as she had lived, maintaining, until the last, a
hypocritical decorum, that served to conceal her vices.
She bequeathed a considerable fortune to a young French
lady, whom she had, some twenty years before, adopted,
and. whom she represented as the orphan daughter of a
dear friend in the south of France; but whose remarkable
resemblance to Lord Wyndcrmere and herself, left no
doubt, on my mind at least, of the relation in which she
had stood to her.
Never shall I forget the feelings I experienced when,
after an absence of above twenty years, I returned to
Walsingham Castle; no longer the young and blooming
creature that had left it, but the staid, sober, and faded
woman of forty-five; retaining, alas 1 many of the faults
of my youth, but none of its elasticity of spirits or hopes.
I had not passed so many years of my life without
receiving several matrimonial overtures, but they had all
been imperiously rejected; for the deceptive conduct of
Lord Wyndermere had rendered me too suspicious, ever
again to expose myself to the chance of similar treatment.
And yet my heart still yearned for something to love;
some object to lean upon in my descent to old age, that
period in which woman most needs the support of
affection. But if, in the bloom of youth and beauty, I
had been sought only for my fortune, how could I hope,
as these advantages were fast disappearing, that I could
ever inspire the sentiment so essential to happiness?
Each year, as its flight stole away some personal attrac-
160 THE CONFESSIONS OF
tion, rendered me still more suspicious of tlio professions
of regard made to me; hence, I closed my heart to any
new attachment, though that heart pined for the blessing
of sympathy and affection.
Tt was a lovely summer's evening when I arrived at
Walsingham Castle. A crowd of aged domestics and
retainers pressed forward to welcome me; and the whole
scene so exactly resembled that which was presented to
me when, nearly a quarter of a century before, I first
visited the lovely spot, that I could almost fancy not more
than a year had elapsed since I last beheld it. The-
beauty of the scene, and the joy of those who welcomed
me, encouraged the illusion. My heart felt lighter than
for long years it had been wont to do; my step became
more elastic, as I again paced the halls of my paternal
mansion, and as I gazed on the well-known objects
around, now tinged by the glowing and golden beams of
the setting sun, some portion of my youth and its hopes
seemed restored to me.
I ascended to my chamber with nimbler feet than I
had long known; and threw myself into a bergere, de¬
lighted to find myself again in my ancestral home. The
hangings, the tasteful and elegant furniture, and orna¬
ments of my luxurious suite of apartments, had been
kept carefully covered, and now looked as well as in their
pristine freshness. All appeared so exactly as I had left
it, that I was tempted to doubt the possibility that four"
and-twenty years had indeed elapsed since I had last
beheld it.
I removed my bonnet and cloak, and approached the
mirror to arrange my cap, that mirror in which I had so
often, with pride and pleasure, contemplated my own
image,—an image which was still vividly fresh in my
recollection. But when my eyes fell on the one it now
reflected, I drew back affrighted, and all the consciousness
of my altered face for the first time seemed suddenly to
burst upon me. Tears fell from my eyes—yes, weak and
foolish as it now appears to me, I wept for my depai-ted
youth; and for the beauty of which the faithful mirror
too plainly assured me no remnant existed.
AN ELDERLY LADY.
161
Accustomed to see my face daily, the ravages that time
had made on it had never before struck me as now. My
feelings had grown cold, as my visage assumed the
wrinkles of age; and hitherto I had scarcely marked the
melancholy change in my aspect; or if I had remarked,
it occasioned me little regret. But now, when all around
me looking fresh and unchanged, as when first beheld,
brought back the past vividly before me, renewing for a
few brief moments the joyfulness of youth, I had been
insensibly beguiled into expecting to see in the mirror the
same bright face it had formerly reflected. These were
the feelings that made the sad alteration in my personal
aspect appal me; and I wondered how it had hitherto
caused me so little regret.
It was long ere I could conquer my repugnance to look
in that glass again; but vanity, which had driven me in
disgust away, again led me to consult it. It whispered
that the greater the change in my face, the greater was
the necessity for concealing or ameliorating its defects by
a studious attention to dress. Consequently I now
devoted a more than ordinary time to the duties of the
toilet; and in the course of a few months learned to
think, that with the aid of a little art judiciously applied,
I was still what might be called a fine woman.
A short time afterwards Lady Percival came to see
me: and pressed me to dine at her house.
" Yon will meet an old acquaintance," said she, "for
Lord Clydesdale is staying with us."
" Is he alone ?" asked I, in trepidation, my foolish
heart beating with a quicker pulsation.
" Yes," replied Lady Percival, " quite alone; ever since
he lost poor dear Lady Clydesdale, he comes to us every
year to spend a week or two."
" What, is Lady Clydesdale dead?" demanded I, in
an agitation that I thought I should never again experience.
" Is it possible that you did not know it?''.answered
she calmly.- " Why, she has been dead these five years;
and his only child, a daughter, has been married above a
year to the Duke of Warrenborough. Poor dear Lady
Clydesdale was a charming person; do you know, my
L
162
TIIE CONFESSIONS OF
dear friend, that many people considered her to bear a
striking likeness to you? It is very sad and solitary for
him to be compelled to live alone; for though no longer
young, he is still a very agreeable person."
How many thoughts and hopes did this communication
Awaken! lis, the only man I had ever really loved, was
again free; and a thousand tender recollections of our
former attachment floated through my mind, Us I reflected
on his solitary life, so resembling my own. Yes, we
might meet, might again feel some portion of that affec¬
tion which once filled our hearts; and though in youth
We had been separated, we might now form a union that
would enable tis to pass our old age together, released
from the loneless, cheerless solitude ill which we both
were placed*
Lady Pefcival, observing that I had not accepted her
invitation, renewed it, adding, "Do pray come, dear
Lady Wyndermerel Lord Clydesdale will be so dis¬
appointed if you do not; I told him I intended to ask
yon, and he said he should be very glad indeed to see
yon again,"
This sentence decided my acceptance of her invitation,
for it encouraged the fond hopes that were awakened in
my breast; and a thousand visions of happy days, past
and to come, floated in my imagination.
From the moment that Lady Percival left me, until
the hour, three days after, that saw me drive up to her
door, I thought of nothing, dreamt of nothing, bat my
interview with Lord Clydesdale. How would he look,
how address me, would he betray any agitation? were
questions continually occurring to me.
Never had I taken more pains with my dress than on
that momentous day. One robe was found to be too
grave, and another was thrown aside as not suiting my
complexion; half-a-dozen caps and as many tnrbans were
tried, before the one deemed the most becoming was
determined on; and I experienced no little portion of
embarrassment, when I observed the astonishment of my
femme de chambre, at this my unusual fastidiousness with
regard to my toilet. At length it was completed; and
AN ELDERLY LADY.
163
casting many a lingering glance at my mirror, I flattered
myself that few, if any, women of my age could have
looked better. If mine was no longer a figure or face
to captivate the young and unthinking, it might satisfy
the less scrupulous taste of the elderly and reflecting.
But above all, he who had seen the temple in its pristine
beauty, would not despise it now, though desecrated and
ravaged by the band of time.
As I reflected on the change wrought in my person
by time, that foe to beauty, the thought of how the
destroyer's touch might have operated on his occurred to
me. Was he very much altered? But no! age might
have taken from the graceful elasticity of his step, added
some of her furrows to his brow, and Ringed his dark
locks with its silvery hue, but it could not have destroyed
the noble and distinguished character of his manly beauty.
How my heart throbbed as I entered the library of
Lord PerciVal 1 I positively felt as if not more than
twenty summers had flown over my head; and dreaded,
yet wished to see Lord Clydesdale. After the usual
salutations bad passed, Lady Percivai led me to a large
easy chair; reclined in which, with one foot enveloped in
a fleecy stocking, and a velvet shoe that looked large
enough for an inhabitant of Brobdignag, was an old man
with a rubicund face, a head, the summit of which was
bald and shining, graced by a few straggling locks of
snowy white.
"This, dear Lady Wyndermere, is your old acquain¬
tance, Lord Clydesdale," whispered Lady Percivai.
I positively shrank back astonished and incredulous.
"Ah! I see you do not recognise me," and the vener¬
able-looking old gentleman before me, holding forth a
hand, on each of the fingers of which were unseemly
protuberances, ycleped chalk-stones. "I am such a
martyr to the gout, that I am unable to rise to receive
you, but it affords me great pleasure to see your ladyship
in such good health."
I could scarcely collect myself sufficiently to make a
suitable reply. All the air-built visions my fancy had
formed for the last few days were dashed to the earth,
164 THE CONFESSIONS OF
as I contemplated the infirm septagenarian before me,
and remembered that he was only some ten or twelve
years my senior; a circumstance which never occurred to
me as disadvantageous before. Not a trace of his former
personal attractions remained; nay, it would be difficult
to believe, judging from his present appearance, that any
had ever existed. It gave me, however, some satisfac¬
tion to observe, that he seemed surprised at my having
preserved so much of my former comeliness; and I will
own, that I was malicious enough, as Lord'Percival led
me to the dining-room, to which Lord Clydesdale was
slowly limping, supported by his valet de chambre and a
crutch, to affect a much more than ordinary quickness
of pace and ag^ty.
"And this," thought I, "is the man who has caused
me so many sighs, who has inflicted on me days of care,
and nights without sleep."
The thing seemed really preposterous, and I could have
smiled at my own illusions; illusions that might have
been indulged even to my last hour, had not one glance
at their object dispelled them for ever.
I took a spiteful pleasure in recounting, during dinner,
the long walks I affected to be in the daily habit of
taking; and attempted to avenge myself on the uncon¬
scious object of my resentment, for all the pain he had
ever inflicted, by now making him feel the disparity
between us. I caught his eye more than once fixed on
my face; and fancied that its expression indicated more of
surprise or envy, than of tender reminiscences. Perhaps
it was to punish me that he talked with evident pleasure
of the delights of being a grandpapa; the new interest it
excited when all others had nearly ceased, and the refuge
it afforded against that dreary and loveless solitude to
which childless old age was exposed.
This was the last day of my illusions; or of my being
enabled to enact the youthful.
To diminish the ungraceful expansion of my figure, I
had discarded two under draperies, in the shape of quilted
silk petticoats. This imprudent piece of coquetry exposed
me to a severe cold; from the effects of whicfy I never
AN ELDERLY LADY.
165
entirely recovered: and I now suffer from a weakness of
the limbs, that nearly precludes my moving without
assistance. The " childless, loveless " solitude to which,
alas! I find myself condemned, frequently reminds me of
Lord Clydesdale's remarks on such a fate: and I am
forced to admit that time would pass more happily in
caressing a race of dear chubby grandchildren, than in
the vain task of correcting the disagreeable personal
habits of my poor dame de compagnie. Ay, or than
even in committing these Confessions to paper, in the as
vain hope of being amused, or of amusing; in which last
disappointment I fear that my readers will only have too
much reason to sympathize with me.
THE CONFESSIONS
OP AN
ELDEKLY GENTLEMAN.
BY THE
COUNTESS OE BLESSINGTON.
THE CONFESSIONS
of an
ELDERLY GENTLEMAN,
"Who cares, or thinks, about Elderly Gentlemen?" me-
thinks I hear a young lady exclaim, as throwing down
this book with a disdainful ah", she demands of the shop¬
man at the library, " If there is nothing new?"
You mistake, fair lady, many are they who think of
little else than of Elderly Gentlemen; but, alasl these
are young wives impatient to enact the part of young
widows; heirs in a hurry to come into possession;
holders of post-obits; expectant legatees; and faithful
servants anxious to render the last duties to their dear
masters, and to receive the meed of their disinterested
services. This is an autobiographical-loving age: why,
then, should I not amuse myself, if not my readers, by
revealing the experience I have acquired, if it were only
for the purpose of establishing two facts, which many
young men seem to doubt; namely, that vanity is not
solely confined to women; and that all old gentlemen,
however improbable it may appear, were once young.
Perhaps I have also another, and less disinterested ob¬
ject in view—the discomfiture of time, that ruthless
enemy, which has lately begnn to press heavily on me.
I endeavoured to kill it in my youth, but now it has laid
me by the heels; for, in sober sadness, I am a victim to
170
THE CONFESSIONS OF
gout, unable to move from my easy chair, and conse¬
quently, more than ever sensible of the power of my
antagonist. A propos of gout: I wish the erudite
'Doctor,' who has helped me to beguile many a tedious
hour, by his recondite and 'right merie' lucubrations,
would favour the world, in his next volume, with an
etymological chapter on that malady; proving, for in¬
stance, as he might easily do, that it derives its cogno¬
men from the French word gout, which we translate by
taste; for who, without taste, ever had the gout? and
how few with, have ever escaped it I
*******
I have been many years absent from England, wander¬
ing in search of that yet undiscovered good, " a fine
climate;" which, like happiness, for ever eludes the pur¬
suer, though constantly holding out delusive prospects
of its attainment. The searchers of one, like those of
the other, are, in general, confined to the class who,
possessed of more wealth than wisdom, make unto them¬
selves an imaginary good; and then set out in a weary
chase of it.
Blase with that most fatiguing of all lives, a life of
pleasure, and suffering under its never-failing consequen¬
ces, a mind teeming with ennui, and a frame weakened
by luxurious indulgence, I determined to visit the con¬
tinent ; and traversed France, Italy, Portugal, and Spain,
in the vain belief, that a "mind diseased," and worn-
out constitution, were to be renovated by the magical
air of the south. What its effect might have been, I
have yet to learn; for, I have been nearly frozen by the
bise in the south of France; enervated almost to anni¬
hilation by the sirocco in Italy; reduced nearly to a
state of fusion in Sicily; and scorched into a cinder in
Spain and Portugal, without having yet discovered the
object of my search, a fine climate.
I returned to England after many long and weary
years of absence, rather worse in health than when I
left it; as the incursions made on my already debilitated
constitution, by undue heat, unlooked-for winds, and un¬
wholesome diet, instead of retarding, tended to advance,
AH ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
171
the effects of that cruel enemy, Time. Wine too sour
to admit of its copious use, food too insipid to induce
even a gourmand, much less an epicure, to commit an
excess, enforce the adoption of temperance on those who
are the most opposed to it; and this virtue, so seldom
practised at home, is the whole, the sole, advantage to
be derived from a continental residence. Tired of feed¬
ing on flour tortured into all the varied forms ycleped
macaroni, vermicelli, lasague, tortellini, parpadella, patta
di puglia, ravioli, and half a hundred other insipid dishes;
and of devouring beccaficos, thrushes, and blackbirds,
washed down by ungenerous liquids, misnamed wines, I
left the continent; my stomach weakened by unsub¬
stantial sustenance, and my skin seamed by the repeated
and vigorous attacks of those murderers of sleep, mos¬
quitoes and sand-flies, that so often destroyed mine, in
spite of all the futile aids of Russia-leather pillows, and
gauze curtains, entitled mosquito-nets; which last more
frequently serve to imprison your tormentor with you,
than to exclude him.
Returned, thank Heaven! to my native land, I re¬
signed myself a willing victim to all the luxuries it can
boast. I offered up whole hecatombs of turtle and veni¬
son to appease the wrath of my long restricted and much
injured appetite; and felt most sensibly that patriotic
sentiment so much lauded by poets and orators, denomi¬
nated love of country; which is only another term for the
love of its table and fireside. With what a gusto, as
the Italians say, did I indulge in old sherry, madeira
that had twice crossed the line, and claret such as one
never finds out of Great Britain! the thin and acid be¬
verage of the continent, known by the name of Bordeaux,
bearing as little affinity to that excellent wine, as lach-
ryma christi does to champagne. With how much more
pleasure did I contemplate an orchard in Herefordshire,
and the hop-grounds in Kent, than I had ever experi¬
enced in viewing the orange groves and vineyards of
southern climes; and a coal fire was hailed as an old
familiar friend is welcomed after a long absence. So
much was my amor patria? increased by a return to its
172
THE CONFESSIONS OF
comforts, that not even the opaque fog which presented
itself, like a dense curtain of pea soup, to my startled
sight, one morning in the November after my return,
could disgust or alarm me. I ordered lights, shut out
the day, and commanded an extra luxurious dinner. In
a few months I was hardly to be recognised, so great
was the change produced in my outward man. My
white face had become of a rich rubicund hue, making
the "erst pale, one red;" my lank person, which, on
arriving from the continent, resembled the portraits of
" the lean and slippered pantaloon," assumed a portly
protuberance; and my feet, those barometers of health,
gave indications that good living had produced its cer¬
tain effects, a severe fit of gout, which soon confined me
to the sofa, a re3ting-place whereunto I am now gene¬
rally condemned more than half the year.
Change of air having been prescribed for me, I lately
proceeded to this country seat of mine, which I have
not visited for twenty-five years; and, pour passer le
temps, as the French say, I have had the drawers of my
old escritoire brought to my easy chair, and have sought
amusement in examining their contents. What piles of
letters, in delicate handwriting, tied up with ribands of
as delicate die, met my pensive gaze; gentle ghosts of
departed pleasures and forgotten pains! What minia¬
tures of languishing blue-eyed blondes, and sparkling
piquantes brunettes! What long ringlets of hair of
every colour, from the lightest shade of auburne (mali¬
ciously called red) to the darkest hue of the raven's wing!
What rings, pins, and lockets, were scattered around,
with mottoes of eternal love and everlasting fidelity!
which eternal love and everlasting fidelity had rarely
withstood the ordeal of six months' intimacy. What
countless pairs of small white gloves 1 What heaps of
purses, the work of delicate fingers 1 What piles of fans,
the half-authorized thefts of ball-rooms, thefts so gently
rebuked and so languidly reclaimed! What knots of
riband grasped in the mazy dance! What girdles,
yielded with blushing, coy delay! with bouquets of faded
flowers enough to stock the hortus siccus of half the
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
173
botanists in England 1 and a profusion of seals, with
devices "each more tender than the other!
The past, with all its long forgotten pleasures and
pains, rose up to 'my imagination; recalled into life by
these gages d''amour, which had survived the passions
they were meant to foster; but which now so far fulfilled
their original destination, as to make their donors sud¬
denly and vividly present to my memory, as though they
had been summoned into a brief existence by the magical
wand of a necromancer. The loved—the changed—the
dead—stood before me in their pristine charms; and I
felt towards each, and all, some portion of long vanished
tenderness revive in my breast.—Beautiful sex! soothers
in our affliction, and best enliveners in our hours of
happiness, all that I have known of joy on earth, I owe
to your smiles, to your partiality!
This miniature represents my first love—not the object
of my crude, puerile fancy; for what stripling has ever
passed from fifteen to twenty, without having fancied
himself, at least half a dozen times, smitten with the
tender passion? What youth has ever been philosopher
enough to have resisted the charms of an attractive
nursery governess? or the younger sister, or daughter,
of the preceptor, under whose roof he studied lessons of
love and erudition at the same time?
No—this picture has nothing to do with such minor
phantasies. It represents her who engendered in me
the first rational sentiment of attachment I ever experi¬
enced, the first woman that led me to anticipate with
opleasurable feelings the holy state of wedlock, as a near,
and not as a perspective good, as a happiness to be
attained as speedily as possible, and not as a change of
life to be endured, as best it might be, at some remote
period. How vast is the difference, by the way, between
*a passion and a sentiment! The first may be excited
for an unworthy object, and in an unworthy mind; by
a silly girl for a sillier boy; but the second can only
be inspired by a pure woman, and entertained by an
honourable man. One of the many distinctions between
the two sexes is, that women feel love as a sentiment;
174 THE CONFESSIONS OP
while with men it is a passion: hence, it takes deepei
root, and is of longer duration, with them, than with us.
But, in proportion to our intellectual cultivation, tliis
peculiarity becomes less frequent; for imagination and
refinement once enlisted beneath the banners of love,
that becomes sentiment, which otherwise would have
been solely passion.
But, to return from this digression (and I warn tny
readers, if I should be so fortunate as to find any, that I
am given to digress), I now begin the narrative of my
first love, veryfying the words of the old French song—
" On en revient toujour?,
A ses premiers amours."
Louisa Sydney, the original of the miniature now
before me, was one of the fairest specimens of her sex
that nature ever formed. There are the eyes, blue as
heaven's own cerulean hue, and the cheek with its delicate
tint, resembling the leaf of a newly blown rose. There
are the long and silken tresses of lightest brown, that
wantoned over her finely rounded shoulders, descending
to a waist whose exquisite symmetry was unequalled.
Well do I remember, when one of those silken glossy
ringlets was severed from hei beautiful head, to fill the
locket now before me! Poor, dear Louisa 1 how she loved
me! There is something soothing and delightful in the
recollection of a pare-minded woman's affection; it is the
oasis in the desert of a worldly man's life, to which his
feelings turn for refreshment, when wearied with the
unhallowed passions of this work-o'day world. I would
not voluntarily relinquish the memory of Louisa's love for
all—all—what shall I say?—Alas! my all of enjoyment
is now so limited, that I have to resign; but that, and
much, much more, would I surrender, sooner than cart,
from the conviction that she loved me.
Louisa Sydney was not only beautiful, but she was
mild and gentle beyond description; yet her gentleness,
and amazing docility, had nothing of insipidity in them,
for they originated in a perfect freedom from selfishness,
that led her to yield her own wishes to those of the person
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
175
she loved, a Concession, not of reason but of volition.
She absolutely lived for those dear to her; and had more
pleasure in obeying their desires, than in gratifying her
own.
There was a sweet pensiveness in her nature, that
harmonized perfectly with the peculiar character of her
beauty.—-Hers was not a mind prone to gloom, but ot
that subdued and tender order, which, like a summer
twilight, in itself beautiful, disposes all to feel its mild
and soothing influence. One could not have told her,
with the slightest prospect of success, a ludicrous story,
a whimsical quibble, or any one of the various bad jokes,
with which the conversation of the generality of persons
is assisted in society. But she was one, to whom the
fairest flowers, the most imaginative poem, or the most
elevated work on practical holiness, would be felt to be
an appropriate offering. Strongly tinctured with romance,
the romance of youthful refinement, which is a natural
attribute of the best and purest of her sex, ere experience
has driven the illusions of early youth away, Louisa shrank
from the busy world, affrighted and stunned with its
turmoil; and opened her innocent heart to the contempla¬
tion of the charms of nature, and the adoration of the
God who created them.
What pictures we draw of the future!—love, not in
a cottage, because she knew my lot had rendered my
home a stately one, but she would have preferred a more
humble abode.
" A cottage," has she often said, " overgrown with
woodbine, jessamine, and roses, sheltered by a wood, with
a clear stream gliding in front of a garden, redolent with
flowers; this, dearest Harry, would be my choice."
" And our food, dearest," would I reply, in bantering
mood, " should be milk, honey, and curds, with new-
laid eggs, and simple fruits."
" Well, such food would amply content would
Louisa say, "but you men are always thinking of a good
dinner. Yet, would you all be better and happier, because
more healthy, if your diet was more simple; but you
'yearn for the flesh-pots,' the green fat of turtle, or the
176
THE CONFESSIONS OF
white muscle of venison, the racy juice of Spain's vines,
and the iced vintage of France. Ah, Harry, Harry—
"'These little things, disguise it how you can,
These little things are dear to little man!'"
Ye gods, what a twinge that wasl it seemed as if a
red-hot knitting-needle was shot through my foot; and
the exclamation it occasioned brought my blockhead of
a servant in, with—"If you please, sir, did you call?"
—Did I call? if I had, he would not have been so prompt
in his attendance; for, during the last twenty years, I
have remarked, that servants rarely come when one does
require them, and always when one does not. Oh I this
plaguy goutl how dependent it makes a man feel! for not
only does it "fill all his bones with aches, make him
roar," but it impresses him with the agreeable conviction,
that if a spark from the fire should by chance be attracted
towards his garments, he might be consumed at leisure,
unless some servant should arrive to his rescue. Ahl
why did I not marry? why not have secured to myself a
legitimate, a licensed nurse, whose duty, if not pleasure,
it would have been, to have watched the paroxysms of
this fearful malady, and to have noted the want of
philosophy with which they were endured? People are
always so philosophically stoical to the sufferings of their
near and dear relatives, and so ready to accuse them of
not bearing the ills to which flesh .is heir with becoming
equanimity.—Another twinge 1 — Oh 1 ye gods, what
martyrdom!
Psha, psha, at this rate my confession will never be
made. " Tant mieux," says my tired, if not tiresome
reader. Let me see, where was I? Poor, dear Louisa!
we thought not of gout in her day; no, no, nor of the
necessity of easy chairs, in which persons are most uneasily
placed; nor of sofas, reclined on which, a wretch suffers
more than on the bed of Procrustes. In her day, I only
remembered that I had feet for dancing.—Now, Lord
help me, when I look on my swollen and bandaged foot,
which resembles a bloated Esquimaux child, I can hardly
believe that I ever could have sported " on the light
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 177
fantastic toe," or " brushed the dew-drops from the grass,
at early morn." In Louisa's time, I as little contemplated
my present state of purgatory, as I then abandoned
myself to the indulgence which has entailed on me these
sufferings. The indulgences of the heart, then occupied
me more than those of the stomach: would that the
former had always constituted my enjoyment 1
But to resume Let me open this pacquet of letters,
written with a crow-quill. How delicate is the writing,
and the riband that holds them together, couleur de rose,
like the cheek of the fair writer when they were penned
-—that cheek—what is it now ? Poor, dear Louisa I
Here is the first letter she ever wrote me, for I see I
numbered them.
" I fear you will think me too lightly won, and blame
my imprudence in answering the note you placed in my
hand on leaving the hall. That note has told me all that
I longed to know, which I hoped, yet doubted. And yet
a feeling of remorse poisoned my enjoyment while reading
it; for, conscience whispered that I ought not to have
received it, and that in perusing it I violated the duty I
owe dear mamma. Every word of kindness from her
(and never does she speak to me save in kindness) seems
to reproach me for this duplicity. Do let me tell her;
or, better still, confess to her yourself, that you love me;
for there is something that looks like guilt in mystery,
which renders it abhorrent to me."
Poor dear Louisa 1
Here is No. 2.
" What a delightful picture you have drawn of our
future lifel But can you, dearest Harry, give up the
gay and brilliant world, which you have enjoyed with
such a zest, to retire to some sequestered home with me?
I rejoice that you like green fields, trees, flowers, and
birds, almost as much as I do." (Poor dear soul I I had
persuaded her, and myself too, that I was a perfect
jCorydon). " From my infancy I had felt delight in them,
178
the confessions of
and this sympathy in our tastes is a new link in the chain
of affection that binds us. I thought, but perhaps it was
only fancy, that you looked pale last night, and this
thought haunted my pillow." Poor Louisa, if she saw
me now, with this rubicund face I " I hone you are not
ill, dear Harry; or if ill, that you will not make light of
your indisposition. Now that you know the happiness
of another depends on you, you must be careful of your
health. It is by suggesting to me a similar reflection,
that dear good mamma makes me submit to a thousand
disagreeable remedies for colds caught, and antidotes
against catching them.
"Is it not even more culpable of me to write to you
clandestinely, than to receive your letters ?" (I had post¬
poned declaring in form to her mother, purposely that I
might enjoy the selfish gratification of triumphing over
Louisa's repugnance to the maintenance of our secret
correspondence). " Indeed, Harry, I must write to you
no more until mamma knows all; for she is too confid¬
ing and indulgent to be deceived by her child, on whom
she has lavished such unremitting care and affection. I
know not how I shall acquire courage to place this note
in your hand; there is something so unfeminine, so in¬
delicate in acting thus, and in the presence,, too, of the
dear parent I am deceiving, that I blush for myself. Uo
not, dearest Harry, think ill of me, that my attachment
to you has conquered the maidenly reserve of your
" Louisa."
Dear, gentle soul! I think I see her now, with that
deep, earnest look of tenderness with which I so often
caught her beautiful eyes fixed on my face; Why,
hang me, if I am not playing the woman, and weeping
for a poor, dear girl that has been in her grave these
forty years 1 Well, I did not think I had so much soft¬
ness left in my rugged nature; but if ever a girl merited
to be loved and lamented, it was Louisa Sydney.
I complied with her desire, and told her mother of
our attachment a week sooner than I had intended. The
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
179
good lady seemed nearly as much hurt as surprised,
that her daughter should have avowed a preference for
any man without having first consulted her; but a tear
and a kiss from Louisa, and a few civil speeches from
me, made our peace, and all was soon couleur de rose
again.
" Mr. Lyster," said Lady Sydney, " in confiding my
child to you, I give you that which is dearer to me than
life itself. Louisa's feelings are as delicate as is, alas!
her frame; neither are formed to resist even the breath
of unkindness. Watch over her happiness, be careful
of exposing her fragile health to any sudden changes of
temperature, and forget not that you have a precious,
but tender plant: she requires a never-ceasing care, but
will, amply reward you for it, if it please the Almighty
to spare her to you."
There was a solemnity in the fond mother's appeal
that threw a damp over my joy; but, when I saw the
bright rose blooming on the cheek of my betrothed,
and marked the lustre of her beautiful eyes, I attributed
Lady Sydney's warning to the anxiety of maternal
affection, and almost smiled at her thinking Louisa a
sickly plant. The natural docility of this lovely girl,
operated upon by her strong affection for my unworthy
self, gave me a most despotic empire over her; and I
had the weakness of being proud of displaying it even
to her mother. How often have I seen the cheek flush,
and a tear start into the eye of Lady Sydney, when, to
gratify some caprice of mine, her too gentle daughter
has neglected some wise precaution relative to her health,
which I deemed superfluous, though it was urged with
anxiety by the alarmed parent.
Louisa has reproached me for this conduct, saying,
" IIow can you, Harry, make me act, even in trifles,
contrary to mamma's advice? I cannot bear to see her
look distressed or apprehensive; though I believe there
is no cause, for I feel well, quite well, and so happy I"
How her soft lustrous eyes beamed on me with in¬
creased tenderness, as she referred to her happiness,
implying that I was its source.
180 THE CONFESSIONS OF
" It is my dear mother's excessive love for me that
makes her see danger where none exists; yet it is cruel,
it is ungrateful of me, not to avoid exciting her appre¬
hensions. I imagine myself in her place—and well can
I fancy how I should feel at seeing a stranger come and
usurp the authority, the love, all that had previously
been exclusively mine. To resign this empire over the
heart and conduct of an only child, must be a bitter
feeling until time has softened it. Why, then, take this
ungenerous pleasure, dear Harry, in putting your wishes
in competition with hers; knowing, as you too well do,
that I cannot resist following yours, though I am not
ungrateful enough not to suffer a painful sense of i-emorse
while disobeying hers."
When Louisa has thus spoken to me, I have tried to
laugh her out of her scruples, calling her mother's pre¬
cautions absurd, and her remedies the quackeries of an
old woman. Many were the stupid pleasantries, and bad
jokes, which I lavished on the subject; and derived an
idle and a guilty gratification from continually proposing
plans of amusement, in opposition to the watchful care of
Lady Sydney. It appeared to me that Louisa's affection
for me was most strongly displayed, when it led her to
thwart the counsel of one, whose slightest wish she had
hitherto joyfully obeyed; consequently my vanity and
selfishness (and I had, Heaven knows, an undue portion
of both), led me to indulge in this puerile, this unworthy
gratification, even at the expense of the feelings of the
creature dearest to me on earth.
Lady Sydney, however, bore all my guilty perversity
with exemplary patience. It was plain, that seeing the
extent of her daughter's attachment to me, she stifled
her own sentiments, rather than risk becoming a subject
of contention between us; and frequently yielded her
better, wiser judgment, in preference to wounding Louisa's
feelings, by disputing mine.
Yet, notwithstanding little altercations, or rather a
forced submission to my will, how happy was the period
that followed the acceptance of my proffered hand!
Though we met every day, and passed nearly the whole
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
181
of it together, still I insisted on Louisa's writing to me;
and now that onr engagement was ratified by her mother,
she poured forth, with the artless warmth of youthful
innocence, the expression of her sentiments. Ay, those
were happy days, yet I thought not so then, for I was
anticipating the still happier period when I should call
this angelic creature mine.—How often have I since
reproached myself for not having sufficiently prized them I
How often have I recalled each word and look of her,
whose every word and look gave me rapture. But such
is man, never content with the present, always looking
to the future, that mysterious future, whose secrets,
could he but divine them, would make the present appear
blissful.
I had no father to consult, a large fortune at my own
disposal, and, as parsimony was not then among my faults,
I gave Lady Sydney carte blanche for the marriage settle¬
ments. Title-deeds were placed in the hands of the
lawyers, those gentlemen, so blamed by impatient lovers,
and commended by prudent parents, whose disagreeable
duty apparently consists, not only in seeing that no error
be committed by contracting parties, but in discovering
that some oversight has taken place in the lives of their
defunct progenitors.
Jewels and carriages were ordered, our portraits were
exehanged, by which I became possessed of the beautiful
miniature now before me; all (except the long ringlet of
fair hair, and her letters) that remains to remind me of
as lovely and pure a creature as ever returned to that
heaven, from which, while on earth, she seemed an exile.
The days of courtship are proverbial for their brevity and
sweetness; mine passed with a velocity, that now appears
like the quick fleeting visions of sleep, though I then often
murmured at their slowness. " The tivelfth of next
month," have I often exclaimed, "oh! would to heaven
it were arrived (it was the period fixed on for our
marriage); how intolerably slow appears the progress of
time 1'' When I thus vented my impatience, Louisa
would rebuke me, and say it was wicked, it was ungrate¬
ful to Providence, as every hour seemed marked with
182
THE CONFESSIONS OF
happiness. Even now, I seem to see her angel face, and
to hear the low sweet voice, whose notes were music to
my ear, though forty long and dreary years have passed
over my head since she was laid in the grave.
We had agreed one evening to go on the water the
following day, and to dine at Richmond. Louisa looked
forward with almost childish pleasure to this excursion,
as she longed to be in the country again, even for a few
hours. I dispatched my groom with a letter to order
dinner to be prepared for us, and we talked over our party
with anticipations of delight.
The next morning, the weather was sultry and oppres¬
sive, quick shifting and opaque clouds threatened rain,
and Lady Sydney proposed the postponement of our
excursion to a more favourable day. I fancied I saw
disappointment in Louisa's sweet face, and this—but why
try to evade the avowal?—with the wilfulness that had
so frequently led me to oppose the prudent precautions of
Lady Sydney, I was now induced to overrule her objec¬
tions, and to insist on our going. Louisa joined her
entreaties, seeing the obstinacy with which I urged my
wishes; and we embarked at Whitehall stairs, in high
spirits, notwithstanding the alarmed glances with which,
from time to time, Lady Sydney regarded the overcast
sky.
We passed a delightful day, rambling in the beautiful
environs of Richmond; Louisa leaning on my arm, and
her dove-like eyes seeking sympathy in mine, at every
new feature of the enchanting landscape.
Who that has ever enjoyed the pure happiness of a
Walk, in a beautiful country, with the woman he loves,
can forget it in after years? Every word she uttered,
every change of her lovely face is remembered by me,
more freshly, ohl how much more freshly, than any
circumstance of my later life. IIow often have they been
recalled, and dwelt on, as only the words and looks of
her we have first loved ever are.
" When I feel as now, dear Harry," said Louisa, laying
her small white hand on my arm, " the vast goodness of
Providence in not leaving mo a single wish unsatisfied, I
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
183
have a sort of superstitions dread, a shrinking presenti¬
ment, that such happiness is too exquisite for this world,
and that it cannot endure. My very soul seems to imbibe
rapture from the glories of the sky and earth, and to
expand in love to the Creator, for endowing me with
this ecstatic feeling for his works. My eyes are gladdened
with the all-enchanting scene around us; and you, dearest,
are near me to share this happiness! Oh! who can
regard that blue sky, and the soft, yet vivid tints, of the
many coloured foliage, the verdant lawns, whence spring
a thousand odorous flowers, and that limpid river, whose
glassy water seems formed to mirror the lovely scenes on
its margin, without feeling an adoration for the Power
that created them? Yet, in the midst of the tender,
overflowing sense of gratitude with which such objects
inspire me, is mingled a sadness, as I reflect on the
uncertainty of life; and that, at a few hours' notice, we
may be summoned to quit this beauteous, joyous earth,
the blue and smiling skies, and those dearer to us—oh!
how much dearer! than earth or sky. Before I knew
you, my Harry, I often contemplated death, and never
with dread; but, now, I shrink from it with dismay; for
to leave you would be worse than death."
I chided her for these gloomy forebodings, but she
returned to them.
"I have frequently thought," continued she, "that we
do not talk of death sufficiently often. "What would be
said of the unkind friend, who knowing that a long and
inevitable journey must part him for years from some
dear, dear object, should neglect to speak of it to her; or
to leave her the memory that they had together made
preparations for it ? It is thus, Harry, that I would wish
for us, to think of that longer journey, that fearful and
bitter separation, death, that the survivor may have the
consolation, and a blessed one it is, of knowing that the
departed went not forth, without having often thought of,
mourned, and prepared for, the inevitable parting. Yet,
though I have dreaded death since I have known you, I
still think, that blessed are they who die young, ere yet
life has lost any of its charms, or that the eye has learned
184
THE CONFESSIONS OF
to look on nature without delight, or the heart to kindle
at its beauties without gratitude. I met these lines the
other day—
" '"Who dies in youth 'scapes many wretched hours.
And goes unschooled in truths long life must leam;
Truths that once known, each fair illusion flies,
Never again to cheat us into joy.
The early dead know not that love can die,
And yet the hearts, that cherished it, survive:
They think not smiling friendship can deceive,
Nor that the ties of blood by nature wrought,
Are weak as cords made of the ocean's foam,
Which e'en the first rude fitful blast can break;
Or like snow-wreaths that melt before the sun,
Dissolving till no trace is left behind.
No, to die early is to 'scape much pain,
And pass away, with all youth's gifts still with us,
Leaving a sweet though mournful memory
Of our young lives, to be for ever kept
In hearts that loved us while we tarried here.'
And, as I perused them, I felt that to die young is
better than to survive happiness."
There was something so sweet, though mournful, in
the tones of her voice, that thought I attempted to chide
her for thus dwelling on so painful a subject, I could not
banter her, as was my wonted custom whenever she was
more than usually pensive. Lady Sydney interrupted us,
by entreaties to return home; she saw storms and rain
menacing in every cloud that floated over our heads, yet
I lingered, in spite of her anxiety to embark, smiling at
her fears. The unusual exercise had heated, as well as
fatigued my gentle love; her mother, soon after we had
entered the boat, remarked that she appeared flushed; a
term I was inclined to cavil with, as I thought I had
never seen Louisa look so lovely before, the heightened
tint of her cheeks imparting an increased brilliancy to
her eyes.
We had only proceeded half way to London, when
the threatening clouds poured a deluge; and, in a few
minutes, Louisa was drenched by its torrents. How
did I now reproach myself for my obstinacy, in having
forced her mother to consent to this party 1 The alarmed
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
185
glances with which she examined her daughter's face,
seemed prophetic of some impending evil. I caught the
infectious fear, which not all the smiles of the fair objeet of
it could pacify; and with a bitter feeling of self-reproach,
I mentally promised that never again would I expose her
to a similar danger, by my wilfulness.
All the remedies used by the doting mother to avert
the consequences of this disastrous day, proved unavailing.
The next found Louisa in a fever, and her mother almost
distracted. I hardly dared to meet Lady Sydney, and
yet I could not bear to absent myself from her house. I
felt that to my perverseness all the misery now impending
over this late happy home was to be attributed; and, as
each day increased the danger, I prayed, with my very
soul humbled to the dust, and in a bitterness of spirit
rarely felt, and never to be described, that Louisa might
be spared. Her reason never left her for a moment; and
she soon became fully aware that her hours were numbered.
She entreated to be allowed to see me: and I was sum¬
moned to her chamber.
I found her reclined on a sofa; the hectic blush of
fever on her cheek, and her beautiful eyes sparkling with
an unearthly lustre. A tear dimmed their radiance as
she gazed on me; and her lip trembled with emotion,
as she placed her burning and already nearly transparent
hand within mine. Seeing that I was almost overwhelmed
by the agony of my feelings, she tried to regain composure,
and whispered to me—
"Remember, dearest, that our separation is not to be
eternal; for, though I cannot stay with you on earth,
you will, through the Divine mercy, come to me, where
no more partings are I die young, sin or sorrow have
not blighted me; I die beloved too, and is not this to
die happy? You will remember me, Harry, going down
to the grave in my youth, leaving behind me no one to
blame my life, and some dear, ohl how dear, objects
to mourn its brevity. Comfort my poor mother when I
am gone, and prove, dearest Ilarry, that you truly loved
me, by so regulating your life on earth, that we may be
united in heaven."
186
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Exhausted by the exertion of speaking, she fainted.
The physicians drove me from the chamber: and I never
saw my angelic Louisa again, until death had clasped her
in his cold embrace.
On the twelfth of July, —93, she breathed her last,
that day, which was to have seen our hands joined at
the altar; that day, whose tardy approach I had so often
impatiently longed for, and impiously blamed for its delay,
saw her a corse. Ohl Louisa, Sainted love of my youth,
the unwonted tears that fill these aged eyes prove that
years, long years, have not banished your cherished image
from my heart.
I have been recalled from the mournful past to the
dreary present, by the indiscreet entrance of my stupid
servant, who had to repeat his usual phrase of "Did you
call, sir?" twice, before I was aware of his presence.
The blockhead found me weeping passionately, and it
was one of the exclamations wrung from me by grief,
that he mistook for a call. His look of surprise and
pity angered me. "Go away, go away, and be -to
youl" was the uncourteous exclamation which drove him
and his pity away; and left me looking very foolish, and
feeling not a little ashamed at having been caught weeping
like a blubbering schoolboy. Hang the fellow! what will
he, what can he think, has occasioned my grief? He'll
be sure to imagine that my tears and exclamations were
wrung from me by pain. This is too vexatious; I would
not have even such a lout suppose that physical suffering
could wring a tear from me. And yet, if he knew that
his old gouty master has been weeping for a maiden who
has been more than forty years in her grave, it would
make the rascal laugh. Faith, there is something ludi¬
crous in my weakness, I must confess; yet, such was the
vividness with which memory brought back old thoughts
and feelings, that I forget I am an old man.
Nevertheless, there is a pleasure, though it is a very
melancholy one, in remembering the days of our youth,
those days when we could feel—mentally, I mean; for,
most assuredly, senility i3 not devoid of its physical
sensations, however its intellectual ones may be blunted.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
187
My regrets remind me of the old French Woman, who
said, "Ah! que je regrette ces hons vieux temps lorsque
fetois si malheureuse." Let me, then, prolong this
luxury of woe, by recurring again to my poor lost
Louisa. I could not bear that she should be consigned
to " the narrow house" without my once more looking
at that angel face. I watched an opportunity when her
heart-broken mother had been removed, in a state of
exhaustion, from the chamber of death, for I dared not
meet her there. I entered it with a heart bowed down
by sorrow, and trembling limbs that almost refused to
bear their wretched master.
It was early morn, a soft balmy summer's morn,
when all nature seemed to awaken with renovated
charms, while she, the fairest of nature's works, was
faded for ever. Though in London, the little garden
into which the windows of the room opened, seemed as
vernal and retired as if it belonged to the country.
This garden had been the favourite retreat of Louisa;
it was filled with plants and rare flowers, the greater
part of which had been raised by her own fair hands.
They were now in all their bloom, and redolent with
fragrance, the dew-drops sparkling on their leaves, while
she—oh, Godl how fearful was the contrast! I drew
near the bier, and looked on that still lovely face. How
cold, how marble-like, was its repose; yet so exquisitely
soft was the character of her beauty, that it more resem¬
bled sleep than death. While I gazed on that counte¬
nance which the cold, dark grave was so soon to hide
from me for ever, the birds which she had been accustomed
to feed came gaily chirping to the window; and even
ventured to pass the sill, chirping still more loudly, as if
to claim their wonted repast. The gaiety of their notes
almost maddened me; and I rose, like a maniac, to chase
them, and close the windows, which had been opened
when Lady Sydney had withdrawn. Again I turned to
gaze on that cold, pale face, which seemed to exert a
magical power over my senses.
" No, she cannot be gone from me for ever," said I.
" IIow could I bear existence without her? How think
188
THE CONFESSIONS OF
that hours, days, weeks, months, years, are to pass away,
and I never more to see her, who was the light of my
eyes, the joy of my heart! Oh! speak to me, angel of
my life! give me some sign that I am not all, all for¬
gotten 1"
While I apostrophized the beautiful statue before me,
whose Promethean spark was extinguished for ever, a
musical clock on the chimney-piece commenced playing
her favourite air, an air to which we had both often
listened in happy hours. I almost expected it would
awake her, so powerfully did its sound bring back the
past; and for the moment drive away the fearful reality
of the present. As I gazed on her face, a fly, a large
blue fly, fixed on her pale lip, and this awoke me to the
dreadful truth.
" What I is she already, even in my presence, to
become the prey of such as thou?" cried I, approaching
to drive away the odious insect. But it retained its
place until my hand came almost in contact with it; and
only fled when that hand fell on the lip it would have
saved from profanation. Its icy, rigid touch seemed to
freeze my blood; and she I loved—yes, loved to adoration,
became—oh, God! that I should have felt it—an object
of fear.
I rushed from the room in a state of distraction; and
a violent brain fever released me, for some weeks, from
the consciousness of suffering.
I never again saw Lady Sydney, for she left England
in a short time after her daughter's death: and died at
Nice, within six months of the period that consigned
Louisa to the grave. Before she quitted London she
addressed to me a mournful, but a kind letter, in which
she inclosed the following stanzas, which was found in
the desk of my lost and sainted love, and were the last
she ever wrote.
THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER.
Oh! lay ine not in the dark vault,
But let me rest my weary head
In some sequestered verdant spot,
Where the pale moon her beams can shod.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 189
1 love to think 'twill shine upon
The turf that soon will hide this breast,
When I, within the silent grave,
Have found forgetfulness and rest.
And let the flowers I loved so much
Be placed around my humble grave,
For, ah! in quitting this fair earth,
What pleased in life I still would crave.
And yet one other boon I'd ask,
Dear mother; when He comes, oh! tell
I dying bless'd him—now is past
The bitterness of death—farewell!
Heigh-ho! how melancholy I am—I did not think I
had so much feeling left in my heart; I thought it had
all centered in my toe, which has lately been the most
sensitive part about me. Bless me 1 what a rueful figure
the too faithful mirror opposite to me reflects! the eyes
nearly as red as the cheeks, and the nose redder than
either. And this is the face that poor dear Louisa
delighted to look on 1 She was right; it is better to die
young than to outlive all one loved, and all that rendered
one loveable. She went down to her grave in the bloom
of youth and beauty, a ready made angel, wanting only
the wings; and she yet exists in my fond memory as
she was, young, and oh, how lovely!—while I have
survived every vestige of good looks, and am almost
disposed to rejoice that she cannot behold the hideous
old man yonder mirror shows me.
How absurd it is to see a red-faced, fat, paunched
sexagenarian weeping! Faith, I'm ashamed of myself;
so, one glance more at that sweet, mild countenance, and
back that and her hair and letters go to their drawer, in
the old escritoire; there to romain until my jackanapes
of an heir consigns them to the flames, with, probably,
sundry laughs at his old uncle, whom he cannot fancy
ever having been other than such as he knew him, and
unmindful that a day will come when he too will be an
old man.
190
the confessions of
MY SECOND LOVE,
Well, I think X may venture to recount the story of my
second love, without the fear of becoming lachrymose.
No, no! Arabella Wilton, who was its object, never
brought a serious thought into my head, unless it was on
the folly of mankind in general, and mine in particular,
for being so easily made the dupes of such women.
In justice to my fidelity and sensibility, I ought to
state, that X sincerely mourned for my poor lost Louisa
during two long dreary years; and I was romantic enough
to believe that I never could love again; a belief that
most persons similarly situated are apt to indulge, until
experience proves its fallacy.
Here is the portrait of Arabella; the artist has caught
the half-imperious, yet winning expression of her spark¬
ling black eyes, which seemed to say, as plain as ever
such orbs could speak, " Resist me if you can." What
a profusion of raven tresses fall round that oval face!—
how rich is the sunny tint of her cheek, and the ripe
crimson of her lips; lips that never opened except to
smile or give utterance to some sprightly badinage, whose
malice, as the French call it, was forgiven in considera¬
tion of the beautiful mouth that originated it. Arabella
was the very opposite of the gentle Louisa; she com¬
manded, rather than won, her admirers into love, and
seemed so certain of then' hearts, and gave so little secu¬
rity of yielding hers in exchange, that she kept them
(and she had not a little battalion) in a perpetual state
of qui vive.
The sentiment, if such it might be called, that Arabella
inspired, was a much more common one than real affec¬
tion. Her admirers commenced with love for her, but
ended in love for themselves; as she was eminently skilled
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
191
iu wielding that powerful weapon, Vamour propre, and
by its judicious treatment rarely failed to gain an empire
over those she wished to influence. The equal encou¬
ragement she administered to all whom she desired to
enchain, rendered the chase of her heart as exciting as
—what shall I say—I have it—a fox-chase; if so homely
a simile may be allowed to be addressed to so dignified a
theme; and like that exciting amusement, vanity creating
the desire of surpassing all competitors, furnished the
chief charm of the pursuit. Scarcely a day, nay, an hour,
elapsed, that each candidate for her favour did not
imagine himself the preferred; and did not inwardly
smile at the vanity, of his slighted rivals, while she was
secretly laughing at them all, having predetermined to
wed the richest, whoever he might be. If I called and
found her with only her aunt, she never failed to amuse
me with piquant anecdotes illustrative of the betise of
Lord Henry, 01* pungent satire against Sir John; though
her attention to each of these worthies had excited my
jealousy the day before. Nay, so adroitly did she point
out all the ridiculous defects in their characters, manners,
and appearance, that she not only quieted my jealous
fears, but actually created in me a degree of commisera¬
tion for these unhappy wights; though, truth to say, I
was never more amused, or more inclined to admire
Arabella, than when she was using every weapon in the
armoury of her wit in attacking my rivals.
It never for one moment occurred to me, that her
hypocrisy, in thus ridiculing those whom she openly
encouraged, was reprehensible; or that, probably, she
was equally severe in her animadversions on me during
my absence. No: vanity, gratified vanity, prevented my
discovery of aught, except that she was charming, and
that I must be the preferred, or she would never have
thus selected me as the confidant of her real opinion of
her admirers. Nay, I am persuaded, that had my best
friend informed me that Arabella made me the object of
her ridicule, I should have disbelieved the assertion, and
attributed it to some little feeling of envy or jealousy on
die part of the narrator. Such is the confidence vanity
192
TIIE CONFESSIONS 01"
gives a man, not in the sincerity of his mistress, but in
the irresistible power of his own attractions. Lord Henry
and Sir John were, nevertheless, the only formidable
rivals among the train of her danglers; not that they
were superior in either mental or personal attractions to
the rest, but simply because they were richer. Lord
Henry had lately inherited a very large fortune from an
old bachelor uncle, and was consequently considered an
excellent parti; and Sir John was in possession of a
clear twenty thousand a-year, a possession which in those
days, no less than in these, rendered the possessor very
popular with all ladies who had to give, or were to be
given in marriage. Neither of these admirers had as yet
asked for Arabella's hand, save for a contre dance; and
she was skilfully playing them olF against each other and
me, in order to elicit a demand for her hand for life. Yet
this manoeuvre /, in my infinite wisdom, never once
suspected; but vain men (and I confess I was one) ever
■were, and will be, fools to the end of the chapter.
At this epoch, Lord Henry was called away by the
illness of his father, and Sir John had taken his departure
to attend the Newmarket meeting. The field was con¬
sequently left open to me, and I determined on making
the best use of my time to bring Arabella to a decision
in my favour before the return of my rivals. How de¬
lightful, thought I, to witness their mortification and
disappointment at my success; and with this laudable
motive—and I verily believe it was the predominant, if
not the sole one—I looked forward to proposing to enter
a state in which the whole happiness or misery of life
depends on the selection of the object with whom it is to
be shared, and the respect as well as affection entertained
for her. Yet, if all about to assume the holy tie of
matrimony were to analyse their motives for seeking it,
how few would find them stand the test of reason; or
how few dare to conjecture the probable duration of the
sentiment—if sentiment such fancies may be denominated
that led to it.
But a truce to moralizing, and back to my story. On
my next visit to Arabella, after the departure of Lord
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
193
Henry and Sir John, she received me with even more
than her usual kindness; congratulated me that I could
exist without attending Newmarket, protesting that she
held in horror the votaries of the turf, who, she said,
seldom possessed as much intelligence as the quadrupeds
on whom they betted thousands, and possessed infinitely
less sagacity than the bipeds in the shape of grooms, who
outwitted them. Severe animadversions on her absent
admirers, and implied compliments on my superiority,
encouraged me to make her the proposal of my hand. I
said all that it is customary to say on such occasions,
when a man is, or fancies that he is, enamoured; but,
while uttering these platitudes, I could not help thinking
how different had been my sensations when making a
similar declaration to my first love, my gentle, lost
Louisa. Nor could I avoid observing, how differently
the proposal was received. Here was no tremulous sen¬
sibility, no bashful timidity, no tears starting from the
downcast lid, and like a pearly dewdrop, stealing over a
cheek of rose. No, her grandmother, had she been
alive, could not have been more perfectly unembarrassed;
though, after the pause of a few moments, she affected (and
even I, infatuated as I was, yet saw it was affectation)
to look down, and murmur something about " the unex¬
pectedness of my proposal."
" Then, am I to understand that it is disagreeable to
you?" said I, piqued by her want of feeling.
"Disagreeable?" repeated the syren, "what a word 1"
and she placed her small white hand in mine, as she
turned away her head, to conceal, not her blushes, but
her want of them. I was fool enough to throw myself
on my knees before her; by Jove, at this moment, the
very thought of such an attitude gives me a twinge in
my foot. There again—what a horrible shooting pain—
and that blockhead, John, has let the time elapse for
bringing me my colchicum.—Here he comes at last—so,
that will do, sirrah 1
Well, let me remember, where was I when that
twinge put it all out of my head ?—oh 1 I have it—I was
jn my knees, kissing the little hand she abandoned to
N
194
THE CONFESSIONS OF
me, and her head averted, probably to hide a Smile of
either triumph or ridicule, when a loud voice in the ante¬
room (loud voices in anterooms are often convenient)
gave me notice that we were about to be interrupted. I
had only time to start on my legs, and look nearly as
unconcerned as—my lady-love, ere her bustling aunt
entered the apartment, to announce that a letter had just
reached her, requiring their immediate presence at Clif¬
ton, where a near relative was dangerously ill. She had
sent to order post-horses, and desired her niece to com¬
mence preparations for her journey. While Madame la
tarde retired to the anteroom to give orders to her femme
de charge, Arabella whispered me to write to her aunt,
to make my proposal in form.
" Why not make it now, and in person," said I,
" and declare our mutual affection and engagement?"
"Oh! no, 011 no account," replied the deceiver, "yoh
know not how precise and prudish my aunt is," (and that
I was utterly ignorant of these features of her character,
was very true, for I had never seen even the most remote
symptom of them in the old lady). " She would never
forgive us," pursued Arabella, " if she knew that you
had proposed to me before you had asked her permission;
' so pray don't commit me. Write her a formal proposal,
and name the settlements you intend to make; for, though
I, dear Henry, do not regard such matters, she, I blush
to say, regards little else (avarice being the besetting sin
of the old), and we must conciliate her."
There was something repugnant to my feelings in all
this cold, calculating policy: and yet, fool as I Was, I
attributed the confidence reposed in me by the niece,
relative to her aunt's mercenary disposition, to her affec¬
tion for me. Thus are we ever ready to be misled by
our vanity!
I left the house with reluctance; and no sooner reached
home than I obeyed Arabella's dictates, and wrote the
formal proposal; in which, after expressing, with all the
exaggeration of sentiment usual to the occasion, my
attachment to her niece, I offered settlements so liberal,
that not even the most mercenary aunt could have
an fetrafeLir gentleman. 195
objected to them. I waited impatiently for an answer;
for, though sure of Arabella's consent, I wished to have
it confirmed by the sattCtioii of one who stood in the light
of a parent and guardian *to her. But no answer came;
and when I dispatched my servant a second time to
demand one, he was informed that the ladies had left
town.
Day after day elapsed without bringing me the de¬
sired reply from the aunt, ithose silence seemed most
unaccountable. Various and painful were the reflections
it occasioned me, the prominent one being regret for
having made the offer; for I now began to feel that,
when no longer present to dazzle me by her beauty, or
to amuse me by her satirical sallies, Arabella's fascinations
were forgotten, and little or no semblance of passion in
my breast, reminded me that I had once fancied she was
dear to me. I almost wished that the aunt would refuse
her consent; though some little feeling of humiliation
as to what Lord Henry would say, or Sir John think of
me, as a rejected suitor, crossed my mind each time 1
indulged the vain hope.
At length, after many days of suspense, a letter was
brought me from Mrs. Spencer, apologizing for not having
sooner replied to me; but stating, that the imminent
danger of her relative had driven every thought, not
connected with him, out of her head; that as he was now
convalescent, she turned with pleasure to my proposal,
admitted the liberality of the settlement offered, and would
be in London in a day or two, when every preliminary
for the marriage could be finally arranged.
My feelings on reading this characteristic epistle were
anything but of a joyous nature. It was unaccompanied
by a single line, or even message from Arabella; indeed
h€r name did not even once occur in the letter, an Omission
that both offended and disgusted me.
They arrived in two days, and I almost got rid of my
doubts and fears when I saw Arabella, in increased beauty
and animation, meet my greetings with unrepressed
symptoms of complacency. The arrangements for our
marriage were put en train; but, with what different
196 THE CONFESSIONS OF
feelings did I enter into them, to those which influenced
me on the former occasion. Though I still admired
Arabella's beauty, and felt her fascination, yet the passion
she excited, if passion it might.be called, was of a nature
that reflected little honour on the inspired or inspirer.
It was unrefined by the tenderness that ever accompanies
real love, and unredeemed by the respect which hallows
that sentiment, and robs it of all grossierete. All thoughts
connected with my gentle Louisa, even in the heyday of
our love, were characterized by a purity that led me to
imagine her an angel, sent by mistake into this terrestrial
sphere, through whose guidance I might become worthy
of Heaven; but Arabella, I looked on as a woman fitted
only to chain a man to earth, by her blandishments and
personal charms. The two Cupids, Anteros and Eros,
described by the ancients as governing the pure and
impure passions of love, had presided over my two veiy
different attachments, and their effects on my mind had
been obvious. Louisa's influence would have purified my
heart where she might have reigned; whereas Arabella's
would but have sullied it.
It was at this period that the miniature, now before me,
became mine. I had expressed a desire to have a portrait
of my intended wife; but, observing that her aunt seemed
unaccountably disposed to postpone its being painted
until after our marriage, I, with the usual pertinacity of
my character, determined on having it finished forthwith;
and took her to one of the most celebrated of our artists
of that epoch, to whom I paid what was then considered
an extravagant price. My vanity was not a little mor¬
tified by observing that my future bride seemed much
more occupied by the preparations for her trousseau than
by the donor of it; and evinced a taste, or rather let me
say a passion, for jewels and Cashmeres, which indicated
that the organ of acquisitiveness was, as phrenologists
would say, very largely developed in her. I was con¬
tinually told by Mrs. Spencer of the magnificence of the
diamonds, and rare beauty of the emeralds presented by
all the men similarly situated with myself to their future
brides; Arabella observing that, for her part, she envied
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
197
not the diamonds of one, or the emeralds of another, bnt
she owned to the soft impeachment of liking rubies and
sapphires excessively, and almost looked with envy at
those presented by Sir Frederick Yandeleur to her friend,
Miss Meadows.
In short, I received many hints of what I was expected
to give, with as many disparaging observations on what
I had given; and I was weak enough to incur consi¬
derable expense to gratify the implied wishes of my future
wife.
Mrs. Spencer had removed to a villa at Richmond, to
which I daily bent my course. I was in the habit of
arriving there generally about three o'clock, and had,
constantly met on my route an extremely good-looking
young man, whose fashionable air and dress formed a
striking contrast with the wretched looking hack on which
he was mounted. I had so repeatedly encountered this
equestrian, that his face became familiar to me; and I
set it down in my mind, that he was some spoilt son,
returning from a daily visit to an exigent mother, or else
a lover, returning from a stolen interview with the sultana
of some Croesus in the city, during the absence of the
said rich, if not wise, men of the East. He seemed to
regard me with a certain air offierte and ill-humour that
was unaccountable in a total stranger, except by ima¬
gining that he had surmised my suspicions of his erratic
visits, and dreaded my being some busybody, who might
betray them.
I had been to Rundle and Bridges' one day, selecting
jewels, and had far exceeded the sum I intended to expend
there; incited to this extravagance, I frankly own, much
more by the broad hints of the aunt, and implied, rather
than expressed desires of her niece, than by any spon¬
taneous generosity. Lured by the beauty of the trinkets,
and their " appropriateness to each other," as the bowing
shopman observed, I was rash enough to conclude my
purchases by a necklace of rubies, set in diamonds,
requiring ear-rings, brooches, head ornaments, and brace¬
lets, en suite.
Thus, instead of the few hundreds I had intended to
198
THE CONFESSIONS OF
disbwa, 1 found, ou a hasty and reluctant retrospect of
my expenditure, that I must have dissipated some thou¬
sands; and I consequently returned from Ludgate-hill,
feejipg that species of self-dissatisfaction and ill-humour
which a man, who is not quite a fool, never fails to ex¬
perience when he has consciously committed a folly. In
this state of mind I entered my club to dine; when, not
wishing to encounter any of my acquaintances, I ensconced
myself in a corner of the large room, and had an Indian
screen, of vast dimensions, so placed, that I was isolated
from the general mass, and could not be seen by any
new-comers.
While I was discussing my solitary repast, I heard
voices, familiar to my ear, command dinner to be brought
to them at the table next to mine, and only divided from
me by the screen. When I recognised the tones of Lord
Henry and Sir John, for whose vicinity at that period I
felt no peculiar desire, I congratulated myself on the
precaution which had induced me to use this harrier.
"When did you come to town?" asked Lord Henry.
" I only arrived an hour ago," was the reply,
"I came late last night, and am on my way to
j^vonmore's."
" IJave you heard that our pretty friend, Arabella
Wilton, is going to be married? and to Lyster too?"
" Est-il possibleV
"Yes, positively to Lyster, whom we have heard her
abuse and ridicule a thousand times."
I felt my ears begin to tingle, and verified the truth
of the old proverb, " Listeners never hear good of them¬
selves."
" By-the-bye, you were a little smitten there, and at
one time I began to think you had serious intentions, as
they call it—Eh! Sir John?"
" Why, so Arabella took it into her wise head to fancy
too; but I was not quite so young as all that. No, no,
Arabella is a devilish nice girl to flirt with, but the last,
the very last, I would think of as a wife."
"Now, there I differ from you; for she is precisely
the sort of person I should think of as a wife."
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 199
"You don't say so?"
" Yes, J do; tut then it must ho as the wife of another»,
and, when she is so, X intend to her—on? of her most
assiduous admirers."
I felt my blood bpil with indignation; and was on the
point of discovering my proximity to the speakers, when
Sir John resumed.
"What a flat Lyster must be, to be gulled into
marrying her. I never thought they could have succeeded
in deceiving him to such an extent, though I saw they
were playing us off against the poor devil."
"Ohl by Jove, so did I too, and if our supposed
matrimonial projects led to this real one, I don't regret
it, for poor Arabella's sake; for she was most impatient
to change her name."
" Only think of the aunt's sending me Lyster's letter
of proposal."
" Capital, capita), the plot thickens; for she also sent
it to me-"
"You don't say so?"
" I swear she did; and what is more, I can give you
chapter and verse; for Lyster was so matter-of-fact in
detailing his readiness to make liberal settlements, and
liberal they certainly were, that I remember nearly the
words of his letter to Madame la tante."
"And what reason did the old she-fox assign for con¬
sulting you on the subject?"
"The old one, to be sure; of considering me as a
friend to the famijy."
" Exactly the same region she gave for consulting me."
" She stated to me that Arabella had a positive dislike
to Mr. Lyster, and she feared (mark the cunning of the
old woman) that this dislike to so unexceptionable a parti
originated in her having a preference elsewhere; and,
therefore, she had determined to ask my opinion whether
she ought to influence her niece to accept Lyster."
" In short, a round-about way of soliciting you to pro¬
pose for Arabella yourself. The exact sense of her letter
to me."
" I dare be sworn they were fac-similes. Madame la
200
THE CONFESSIONS OF
tante added, that her niece was by no means committed
with Mr. Lyster; for, that she had been so guarded when
he asked her (on observing her coldness) if his proposal
was disagreeable to her, as merely to repeat, with a
shudder, the word he had uttered—disagreeable."
Well did I recollect this circumstance, trifling as it
was; and overpowering were the sensations of anger and
mortified vanity that oppressed me on recalling it to
memory!
"Well," resumed Lord Henry, " so you wrote, as did
I, to advise by all means that Mr. Lyster should be
accepted?"
"Yes, precisely; for I thought it the most prudent
advice from 'a friend of the family'—ha I ha! ha!—for
the soul of me I can't help laughing 1"
"Hal ha! hal nor I neither. Both of us consulted,
and from the same motive."
" It's capital and worthy of the old lady, who has as
much cunning, and as little heart, as any dowager in the
purlieus of St. James's."
"I'll lay an even wager that we twain were not the
only single men consulted on the occasion."
" For my part, I should not wonder if the letters had
been circular: ha! ha!"
"And how simple Lyster must be; for while the aunt
was sending round his proposal to all the admirers of her
niece, he must have been impatiently waiting for her
answer."
" Luckless devil! howlpityhim;" (Oh! howlwrithed!)
"he has been atrociously taken#in: yet I am glad that
poor Arabella has at last secured a good establishment;
for, I confess, I have a faiblesse for her. Indeed, to say
the truth, I should have been ungrateful if I had not; for
I believe—in fact, I have reason to know, that the pre¬
ference to which the old aunt alluded, had more truth in
it than she imagined."
"So I suspect, too; for, without vanity, I may own,
that I believe the poor girl had a penchant for youi
humble servant."
"For you ?"
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
201
"Yes, for me. Is there anything so very extraordi¬
nary in her liking me, that you look so surprised and
incredulous?"
"Why, yes, there is something devilishly extraordinary;
for if I might credit Arabella's own assertion, her pen -
chant was quite in a different quarter.''
"You don't mean to say it was for youT'
"And what if I did? Is there anything more astonish¬
ing in her feeling a preference for me, than for youV
"/ merely suppose that she could not have & penchant
for us both at the same time; and I have had reason,
and very satisfactory reason too, to be satisfied that she
liked me."
"And I can swear that I have heard her ridicule you,
in your absence, until I have been compelled to take your
part; though she often made me laugh, the dear creature
did it so cleverly. Hal hal hal the recollection makes
me laugh even now."
"And I have heard her attack you with such acrimony
that even an enemy must have allowed that her portrait
of you was caricatured; and yet, there was so much
drollery in her manner of showing you up, that it was
impossible to resist laughing. Hal ha! ha!"
"Lord Henry, I beg to inform you that I allow no
man to laugh at my expense."
"Permit me to tell you, Sir John, that I ask no man's
permission to laugh when I am so disposed."
"Am I to consider that you mean to be personal?"*
"You are perfectly at liberty to consider what you
please."
"My friend shall call on you to-morrow morning, to
name a place for our meeting."
" I shall be quite ready to receive him."
And exit' Lord Henry, followed, in a few minutes, by
Sir John.
"And so," thought I, "here arn two vain fools about
to try to blow each other's brains out for a heartless
coquette; and a third, perhaps the greatest fool of the
three, was on the point of making her his wife. What
an escape have I had! No, no, never will I marry her.
202
THE CONFESSIONS OF
She may bring an action against me for breach of promise
—and she and her aunt are quite capable of such a pro¬
ceeding—but be united to her I never will. Ridicule
and abuse me, indeed! Oh, the hypocrite! And to
think of all the tender speeches and loving insinuations
she has lavished on me; the delicate flattery and implied
deference to my opinions! Oh! woman! woman! all
that has ever been said, written, or imagined against
you, is not half severe enough. You are all alike, worth¬
less apd designing,"
As I finished this wise and temperate soliloquy, writh¬
ing upder the wounds inflicted on my amour propre, the
gentle image of my lost Louisa seemed to reproach me
for this unmanly satire against her sex. A thousand
proofs of her angelic purity and sweet simplicity of
character, arose to my memory; and I felt ashamed of
my injustice in thus heaping obloquy on a whole sex
merely because I had possessed so little discrimination
as to have chosen one of the most unworthy of it.
I passed a sleepless night, yet I was relieved by think¬
ing I was now sayed from becoming the husband of
Arabella, I felt rebuked when I recollected how fre¬
quently the artful syren had excited my merriment by
her ridicule and abuse of her other admirers. We had
all been, as it now appeared, laughing at each other,
while she had been mocking us en masse; but, like vain
blockheads as we were, we never suspected that we
were each in turn alike the object of her ridicule: she
having had the perception to discover, that her most
certain mode of acquiring an influence over the minds of
her admirers, was to gratify their vanity by abusing their
competitors.
I set out, at an unusually early hour, for Richmond,
determined to come to an explanation with both aunt
and niece; and, shall I own it, anticipating, with a
childish pleasure, their rage and disappointment at my
breaking off the marriage. On arriving at the villa, I
was informed that Mrs. Spencer had not yet left her
chamber, and that Miss Wilton was in the garden. To
the garden then I hied me, anxious to overwhelm her
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 203
with the sarcastic reproaches J had conned over in my
mind.
While advancing along a gravel walk, divided by a
hedge from a sequestered lane, I heard the neighing and
tramping of a horse; and, on looking over the hedge, dis¬
covered the lean steed oh which I had so frequently encoun¬
tered the good-looking Unknown on the road to Richmond.
The poor animal was voraciously devouring the leaves of
the hedge, his bridle being fastened to the stem of an
old tree. A vague notion that the owner, who could not
be far off, was now holding a parley with my deceitful
mistress, instantly occurred to me, and seemed to account
for his frequent visits to Richmond. I moved on, with
stealthy steps, towards a small pavilion at the far end of
the garden, where I correctly concluded Arabella to be;
and whence I soon heard the sound of voices, as I con¬
cealed myself beneath the spreading branches of a large
laurestinas, close to the window. X will not attempt to
defend my listening, beoause I admit the action to be
on all occasions indefensible; but the impulse to it was
irresistible.
"Is it not enough," exclaimed Arabella, "that I am
compelled to marry a man who is hateful to me, while
my whole soul is devoted to you, but that you thus tor¬
ment me with your ill-founded jealousy?"
"How can I refrain from being jealous," was the
rejoinder, "when I know that yon will soon be another's?
Oh, Arabella! if I were indeed convinced that you hated
him, I should be Jess wretched,"
"How amiable and unselfish!" thought I. "He
wishes the woman he professes to love, to be that most
miserable of human beings, the wife of a man who is
hateful to her, that he, forsooth, may be less unhappy;
and he has the unblushing effrontery to avow the detes¬
table sentiment."
"How can you doubt my hating him?" asked my
syren, in a wheedling tone, "Can you look at him, and
then regard yourself in a mirror, without being convinced,
that no one who has eyes to see, or a heart to feel, could
204
THE CONFESSIONS OF
ever behold the one without disgust, or the other with¬
out admiration?"
"Oh, the cockatrice!" thought I; "and this after all
the flatteries she poured into my too credulous ear."
Listeners, beware, for ye are doomed never to hear
good of yourselves. So certain is the crime of listening
to carry its own punishment, that there is no positive pro¬
hibition against it: we are commanded not to commit
other sins, but this one draws down its own correction,
and wo be to him that infringes it.
The speech of Arabella, which, I acknowledge, en¬
raged me exceedingly, had a most soothing effect on my
rival; for I heard sundry kisses bestowed, as I hope,
for propriety's sake, on the hand of the fair flatterer.
"Yes," resumed she, "Lyster-is a perfect fright, and
so gauche, that positively he can neither sit, stand, nor
walk like anybody else."
Oh! the traiteress! how often had she commended
my air degage, and the manly' grace, as she styled it,
of my movements. After this, who ought ever to believe
in the honied adulation of a woman?
"Now, I must disagree with you, Arabella," replied
my rival (and I felt a sudden liking to him as I listened),
"Lyster is a devilish good-looking fellow (I thought as
much); one whom any woman whose affections were not
previously engaged, might fancy."
" Let us not talk or think of him, I entreat you," said
Arabella; "it is quite punishment enough for me to be
obliged to see and hear him half the day, without your
occupying the short time we are together in a conversa¬
tion respecting a person so wholly uninteresting. Have
I not refused Lord Henry and Sir John, to please you?
yet you will not be content, do what I will."
" Oh, Arabella! how can you expect me to be other¬
wise than discontented, than wretched, when I reflect
that your destiny depends not on me, and that another
will be the master of your fate. He may be harsh,
unkind; and I, who love, who adore you, cannot shield
yon from many hours of recrimination, when he discovers,
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
205
and discover he must, that in wedding him you gave
not your heart with your hand."
" Ohl leave all that to me to manage," said the crafty
creature. " He is so vain and so bete, that it requires no
artifice on my part to make him believe that I married
him from motives of pure preference. He is persuaded
of it: for what will not vanity like his believe ?"
" By flattery; yes, by deception and flattery—I see it
all, Arabella—you have acquired an empire over Lyster
by that well-known road to a man's heart, the making
him believe that you love him. Had you loved me you
would not, you could not, have been guilty of this decep¬
tion; and in thus deceiving him'you have" (and the poor
young man's voice trembled with emotion) "wounded me
to the soul."
" You really are the most wrong-headed person in the
world," said his deceitful companion. " Here am I,
ready to sacrifice myself to a rich marriage, to save you,
Edward, from a poor one; for, to marry a portionless girl
like me would be your ruin, and I love you too well,
ungrateful as you are, to bring this misery upon you.
When you come as a visitor to my house, and see me in
the possession of comforts and luxuries you could not
give me, you will rejoice in the prudence, ay, and gene¬
rosity too, that gave me courage to save you from a poor
and wretched home, for wretched all poverty-stricken
homes must be."
"And could you think my affection so light, Arabella,"
replied her lover, impatiently, "as to believe that I could
go to his house and see him in possession of the only
woman I ever loved? No! I am neither heartless nor
philosophical enough to bear this. Such a position would
drive me mad."
" Then, what am I to think, what am I to make of
you?"
" Not a villain! a mean, base villain, who betrays
hospitality, and consents that the woman he loves shall
pursue a conduct at once the most vile, deceitful, and
dishonourable 1" and he positively wept. His passionate
grief seemed to touch even the marble heart of his callous
206 the confessions of
mistress; for she gently asked him why he had ever ap¬
peared to agree to her wedding another.
" Can you ask me?" replied he. " I knew you to be
fond of luxury and display, which, alas! my limited for¬
tune could never bestow. I feared, trembled at the idea
of beholding you pining for the enjoyments I could not
afford; and it seemed to me less wretched to know you
in the full possession of them with another, than lament¬
ing their privation with me. It was for you, Arabella,
conscious as you are how fondly, how madly I dote on
you, to offer to share my poverty, and not for me to
compel you to it. Had you really loved me, this course
you would have pursued."
" But, I tell you, I do love you; and will prove my
truth by following your wishes, if you will but express
them," said Arabella, melted by his grief and tenderness.
"If you really do love me, why may not a modest
competence content yOu? I would have you break off
this hateful marriage, and accept love in a Cottage with
me. My grandmother would soon forgive our stolen
union, for she likes me so well that she would quickly
learn to like her who made my happiness. Bnt, alas f
even she, good and indulgent as she is, has often told me
that you were as little disposed to marry a poor man, as
your aunt could be to give you to such a husband,"
" It was very uncivil of your grandmother to say so,
and still more so of you to repeat it. Bnt, bless me
(touching a repeater I had given her a few days before),
how late it isl Lyster will be here almost immediately;
and if he should find you—"
"Your marriage with him would be broken off". Yes,
I will leave you, Arabella; and meet this unhappy man
whose wealth has won you from me. Oh I how I have
loathed his face of contentment, as I have passed him on
the road and thought that he was privileged to approach
you, while I must seek you by stealth, and leave you to
make room for him. I can bear this no longer, Arabella;
you see me now for the last time, unless yott accept me
for your husband."
And, so saying, he rushed from her presence, mounted
an elderly gentleman. 207
his lean steed, and wis heard galloping along with a
speed that indicated the troubled state of his mind.
"Poor Edward 1" exclaimed Arabella, "heigh-ho! I
wish he were rich, for I do like him better than I ever
liked any one else. And he, too, is the only one of all
my admirers who loves me for myself; the rest bnfc love
me for my flattery. Lord Henry, Sir John, ay, even this
dolt who is about to wed me, all haVe been fascinated,
not by ray beauty (and for this I loathed them), but by
my flattery. By this I have charmed, by this I have won
a husband. Poor Edward, it was not so with him; but
love in a cottage—I hate cottages-—and then (in a few
years) to see it filled with a set of little troublesome brats,
and hear them screaming for bread and butter! Ho,
no, these hands (looking at them) were never formed to
cut bread and butter, like Werter's Lolotte; or to make
pinafores, like good Mrs. Herbert, the wife of the half-pay
captain, in the little cottage down the lane."
" And yet they might be worse employed, fair lady,"
exclaimed I, Vaulting into the room.
Arabella uttered a faint shriek, turned to a deathlike
paleness, and then became suffused with the crimson
blushes of shame.
" I have witnessed your stolen interview with my
favoured rival; rival no longer, for here I resign all pre¬
tensions to your hand."
She attempted to utter some defence, but I was not in
a humour to listen to what lengths her duplicity and
desire for a rich husband might lead her; so, sans cere-,
monie, 1 interrupted her by saying, that what I had
witnessed and heard, had produced no change in my
previously formed resolution of breaking off the marriage.
She sank into a chair; and even I pitied her confusion
and chagrin, until I recollected her comments on my
" gattcherie," and the polite epithet of " a perfect fright,"
with which she had only a few minutes before honoured
me. I can noiO smile at the mortification my vanity then
suffered; but, at the time, it was no laughing matter with
me.
I left Arabella to her meditations, which, I dare be
208 the confessions of
sworn, were none of the most agreeable; and returned to
the house to seek an interview with her aunt. That
sapient lady met me, as was her wont, with smiles on her
lips, and soft words falling from them.
" Look here, dear Mr. Lyster," said she, holding out
an ecrin towards me, " did you ever see anything so
beautiful as these rubies set in diamonds ? Are they not
the very things for our beloved Arabella? How well
they would show in her dark hair; and how perfectly they
would suit the rich, warm tint of her cheeks and lips.
None but brilliant brunettes should ever wear rubies.
Are you not of my opinion ? and do you not think that
this parure seems made for our sweet Arabella ?"
I mastered myself sufficiently to assent with calmness
to her observations, when she immediately resumed;—
" Oh, I knew you would agree with me, our tastes are so
exactly alike. I was sure, my dear Mr. Lyster, you
would at once select this in preference to emeralds or
sapphires, which suit fade, blonde beauties better; but
for our sparkling Arabella, rubies and diamonds are the
thing. Yet, how grave you look;—bless mel what is
the matter? Perhaps, after all, you do not like rubies
and diamonds; and in that case, though (entre nous) I
know that our darling Arabella dotes on them, I am sure
she would prefer having only the ornaments which you
like, for she is the most tractable creature in the world,
as you must have observed. So, confess the truth, you
do not admire this parureV
" Why, the truth is," said I, taking a spiteful pleasure
in raising her expectations, that her disappointment
might be the greater, " I yesterday bought at Bundle
and Brydges', a parure of rubies and diamonds more
than twice the size of the one before me, and set in the
best taste"—alluding to the very purchase for which I
had been blaming myself, when I overheard the dialogue
between Lord Henry and Sir John.
"Oh! you dear, kind, generous creature, how good
of you! How delighted our sweet Arabella will be.
Have you brought it with you ? I am positively dying
with impatience to see it."
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
209
"Then, I fear, madam," replied I, with sternness, "that
your curiosity will never be gratified."
" Why, what a strange humour you are in, my dear
Mr. Lyster—nephew, I was going to call you; but I
shan't give you that affectionate appellation while you
are so odd and so cross. And why am I not to see
them, pray? Surely you do not intend to prevent my
associating with my sweet child, when she becomes your
wife ? No, you never could be so cruel." And the old
hypocrite laid her hand on my arm in her most fawning
manner.
" I have no intention, madam, of separating two
persons who seem so peculiarly formed for each other."
"Good creature! How kind of you, dear Mr. Lyster;
how happy you have made me; I felt so wretched at
the thoughts of our sweet Arabella's being taken from
me, for I have ever looked on her as if she were my own
child. How considerate of you not to separate us. I
am sure she will be delighted; and I shall be the happiest
person in the world to give up the cares and trouble of
an establishment of my own, which, at my advanced
age, and deprived of Arabella, would be insupportable.
Believe me, most cheerfully, nay, gladly, shall I avail
myself of your kind offer, and fix myself with you and
my affectionate child."
The old lady was so delighted at the thought of this
plan, that she made more than one attempt to embrace
her dear nephew, as she now called me, and it was some
minutes before I could silence her joyful loquacity;
during which time, I will candidly own, I had a malicious
pleasure in anticipating the bitter disappointment that
awaited her. When, at length, she had exhausted her
ejaculations of delight, I thus sternly addressed her:—
" When I declared my intention, madam, of not
separating you and your niece, I did not mean to ask
you to become a member of my family. I simply meant
to state, that I did not intend depriving you of the
advantage of her society, as I have determined on not
marrying her."
"Good heavens! what do I hear?" exclaimed Mrs.
a
210
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Spencer. "What do you, what can you mean, Mr.
Lyster? It is cruel" thus to try my feelings; you have
quite shocked me; I—I—am far from well."
And her changeful hue denoted the truth of the asser¬
tion.
" Let it suffice to say, madam, that I last evening
heard Lord Henry and Sir John declare the extraordinary
confidence you had reposed in them; that you had not
only Sent to each my letter of proposal to your niece,
but betrayed to them her more than indifference towards
me, and the very words in which she expressed herself,
when I made her the offer of my hand."
" How base, how unworthy of Lord Henry and Sir
John!" said Mrs. Spencer, forgetting all her usual craft,
in the surprise and irritation caused by this information.
" Never was there such shameful conduct."
" You are right, madam," replied I, " the conduct
practised on this occasion has been indeed shameful;
luckily for me, the discovery of it has not been too late."
" If you are so dishonourable as not to fulfil your
engagement," said the old lady, her cheeks glowing with
anger, and her eyes flashing fury, " be assured that I
will instruct my lawyer to commence proceedings against
you, for a breach of promise of marriage; for I have no
notion of letting my injured niece sit quietly down, a
victim to such monstrous conduct."
" I leave you, madam," replied I, " to pursue whatever
plan you deem most fitting, to redress her grievances,
and blazon forth to the world your own delichte part in
the Comedy of Errors; the denouement of which is not
precisely what you could have wished. However, as
comedies should always end in a marriage, let me advise
you to seek a substitute for your humble servant."
Then, bowing low to my intended aunt, I left her
presence for ever: and returned to London with a sense
of redeemed freedom that gave a lightness to my spirits,
to which they had been a stranger, ever since the ill-
omened hour of my proposal to Arabella.
Of all the presents that had found their way to the
villa, and they were not, " like angel visits, few and far
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 211
between," but many and costly, not one, except my
portrait, was ever returned. I retained that of Arabella;
not out of love, heaven knows, but because I wished to
preserve a memento of the folly of being caught by mere
beauty; and as it had cost me a considerable sum, I
thought myself privileged to keep it, as a specimen of art.
Lord Henry and Sir John fought a duel, the day after
their altercation at the Club, in which the first was
mortally wounded, and the latter consequently compelled
to fly to the continent.
In a week from the period of my last interview with
Arabella and her aunt, the newspapers were filled with
accounts of the elopement of the beautiful and fashionable
Miss Wilton with Lieutenant Rodney of the Guards. It
was stated that the young lady had been on the eve of
marriage with the rich Mr. L. of L. Park, but that Cupid
had triumphed over Plutus; and the disinterested beauty
had preferred love in a cottage with Lieut. Rodney, to
sharing the immense wealth of her rejected suitor, who
was said to wear the willow with all due sorrow.
The grandmother of the new Benedick showed to half-
a -dozen of her most intimate friends, the letter written
by him to announce to her, that his " adored Arabella
had broken through all her engagements with Mr. Lyster,
the rich Mr. Lyster, for him." The half-dozen intimate
friends repeated it, as in duty bound, to half a hundred
of their intimate friends, who sent it forth to the world
with all the additions that the imagination of each could
suggest. Arabella was pitied, praised, or blamed, by
turns; and I was represented as a heartless brute, who,
knowing that her affections were engaged to another, had,
aided by her mercenary aunt, tried to force this model of
disinterested love and constancy into a marriage.
Two years after her union, Arabella eloped with a
young nobleman remarkable for weak intellect and large
fortune; leaving her betrayed husband deeply embarrassed
by her extravagance, and with an infant daughter, to bear
through life the stigma entailed on her by a mother's
guilt. Subsequently to the event, I had it in my power
to render a signal service to Mr. Rodney; and it gratified
212 the confessions of
me to do so, as I had never forgotten his good-natured
defence of my person against the attack of his hypocritical
wife. This unprincipled woman was soon deserted by
her lover for some fairer face; and having dragged on a
miserable existence of sin and shame for a few years, died
unmourned, in poverty and disgrace.
MY THIRD LOVE.
The treatment I had experienced from the faithless
Arabella influenced my conduct long after I had ceased
to remember her, and its effects were baleful. Disgusted
with the thoughts of marriage, I turned my attention to
flirtations with married women, that most demoralizing
of all fashionable follies, if what so frequently leads to
crimes of a deep die may be so lightly named; and,
strange to say, rarely were my attentions repulsed, even
by those who would have shuddered at vice, could they
have beheld it devoid of the blandishments with which
sophistry, false sentiment, and meretricious refinement
delight to adorn it. No, women, whose principles might
successfully combat the assaults of vicious passion, too
frequently, by the levity with which they permit, if not
encourage flirtations, lead the world to form the most
injurious conclusions; and while their reputations are the
sport of scandal, console themselves with the futile
reasoning, that, as they have not incurred actual guilt,
they have nought with which they need to reproach
themselves.
This species of folly is unknown on the continent,
where, though the women are much less virtuous than
our own, a greater degree of external decorum, and
respect for appearances, exists. They, while too fre¬
quently violating virtue, pay it the homage of assuming
its outward decencies; a species of artifice which the great
majority of our females, satisfied with not outraging the
reality, totally disregard.
I know this assertion, as to the superior appearance of
outward decorum in continental ladies, will be cavilled
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
213
at; but the cavillers will be confined to those who have
not had personal opportunities of judging, and I beg it
may be remembered, I am referring to the semblance, and
not to the reality of virtue.
Will my readers forgive this digression? I warned
them, at the commencement of my confessions, that I
was given to digress; and, alas! age does not diminish
this failing. The truth is, I have much to say of all I
saw and experienced during the interval of my breaking
off with Arabella, and forming another attachment. Yet,
as the confession might compromise others, never shall
the veil, that covers the errors of those who smiled on
me, be removed by my hand: and never shall the grand¬
daughters of the present generation, have the blush of
shame brought to their cheeks by my recital of the failings
of their fair but frail grandmothers, many of whom
resembled the spear of Achilles, which if it made wounds,
was ready to heal them.
Let my readers then imagine, that two years were
passed in the vortex of fashion; that I was, by turns, a
victim or a dupe to the passions that mislead men in
that maze of folly; and that, such were its debasing effects,
I learned to view vice without disgust, and to consider
virtue a phantom.
It was at this period, that I first encountered the beauti¬
ful Lady Mary Vernon. Ay, there is her portrait; yet,
exquisitely lovely as it is, how far short does it fall of the
original, when I first beheld her. There are her soft, melan¬
choly eyes, that seemed as if they were only made to look
at the heavens, so sublime, yet chastened, is their expres¬
sion. There is her lofty and expansive forehead—never
had intellect a fairer throne—and those gently curved raven
brows, that lent such a character of pensiveness to her
face. How beautiful was the almost transparent paleness
of her cheek, the paleness of high thought, not disease.
Yes, Lady Mary's was a countenance, once seen never to
be forgotten: it was the face we picture to ourselves of a
saint, rather than that of an angel, for it denoted that
she had known suffering and sorrow; though purity shone
so conspicuously in its every lineament, that no one could
214
THE CONFESSIONS OF
behold her without a conviction that hers was a spotless
mind.
It was at the Duchess of D 's that I first met her;
and, though accustomed to see beauty in all its forms,
hers made such an impression on me, that I could scarcely
withdraw my eyes from her face. Lady 0. asked and
obtained permission to present me; and I approached her,
internally hoping, with my accustomed vanity, that I
might soon discover the art of thawing the frozen coldness
of her looks. Her voice was low, yet distinct and har¬
monious beyond any voice I had ever heard; and who is
insensible to this powerful attraction in a female? an
attraction that frequently atones for the want of all others.
She looked full in the face of the person she addressed,
with an expression of such calmness and purity, that the
most reckless libertine could not have hazarded a light
word, or indulged a gross thought in her presence. The
men approached her with an air of reverential deference;
and even the women, the most remarkable for their levity,
assumed a decorous reserve, as if rebuked by the dignified
modesty of her demeanour. Such was the respect with
which she soon inspired me, that I felt discomposed at
seeing some of my female acquaintances, whose purity I
had reason to doubt, address her; it seemed to me as if
the very atmosphere she breathed, ought not to have
been profaned by their presence.
I should have judged her manner to me as being cold
and reserved, beyond even the general reserve adopted
towards a stranger, had I not observed that it was
equally so to all the other men who addressed her, except
a certain old white-haired admiral, whose visage resembled
a frosted saffron-cake, to whom she extended, her hand,
with a cordiality that formed a striking contrast to her
coldness towards all the others of his sex. My female
acquaintances were not slow at discovering the profound
admiration with which Lady Mary inspired me; and
many and bitter were the sarcasms with which they
commented on it. One said, that she was a tiresome
prude, who threw a constraint over every circle into
which she came; another observed, that it was no wonder
AN ELDER LA OKttTLEMAN.
215
her husband avoided hey, for she was too good to he
agreeable; and a third remarked, that, notwithstanding
her extreme prudery and frigidity, she did not dislike
admiration. My respect fpr the ladies, who thus censured
Lady Mary, had long vanished, but now I positively
detested them.
Anxious to discover something of the history of my
idol, for, even already, she was enshrined as such in my
heart, I asked a dowager of my acquaintance, not more
esteemed for her frankness, though it sometimes degene¬
rated into hrusqueriv, than beloved for her gooduess of
heart, who was Lady Mary; adding, that it was strange
I had never heard of her before.
" It would have b,eeu more strange if you had," replied
she; ^for Lady Mary Vernon is not a woman who is
talked about. Nothing ean he said of her, except that
her mind and life are as faultless as her beauty; and such
women are seldom much discussed in society. She is the
daughter of the Duke of A. and the wife of Mr. Vernon,
one of the richest commoners in England."
" He may well he considered an object of envy in
possessing such a wife," said L
" So thinks not &e," resumed the dowager; "at least,
if we may judge by his conduct; for he totally neglects
this lovely creature, and bestows all his time, and, scan¬
dalous people say, most of his money too, on a certain
lady, whose had conduct is no longer apocryphal, though
she is still tolerated in society. But Mr. Vernon," con¬
tinued the old lady, "resembles most of you men, who
are more prone to admire a meretrioious heauty, with
whom you are perfectly at your ease, than a woman of
refinement and dignified manners; who neither flatters
your vanity by her words, nor permits you to mislead
the world into false conclusions by her actions. Llalf
your sex run after a woman, not because you individually
admire her, but because it gratifies your inordinate amour
propre, to appear preferred by one, who has a train o,
adorers; though this very circumstance ought to create
any sentiment but admiration, as it clearly implies au
unpardonable levity , if no worse, on the part of the lftdy.
216
THE CONFESSIONS OF
See Mrs. Mortimer, the woman Mr. Yernon prefers to
his wife,—for the fact is so well known, and the lady
takes so little pains to disguise it, that I may name her
without being considered censorious,—well, see this
woman enter a ball-room, or a rout, and she will excite
what is called a sensation. Men will crowd round and
follow her, the herd will believe that this public homage
is a proof of her charms, a belief in which the poor, weak,
vain woman will also indulge; while Lady Mary Yernon,
whose beauty admits not of a doubt, is neither tumul¬
tously surrounded nor ostentatiously followed by your
sex, for the best reason, no one dare presume to affect
familiarity with her. Yet many of you, and probably
her foolish husband amongst the number, conclude that
the followed lady must be the more captivating, and
urged by vanity, increase the crowd of her admirers."
I endeavoured to deprecate the severity of the dowager
against my sex; and then asked, how long Lady Mary
had been married, and if hers had been what is called a
love-match.
"Yes, quite a love-match on both sides; and it is said
that, though her husband's attachment survived not the
first year of their union, hers still exists in all its pristine
force."
" How strange," replied I, " that he could cease to
love a woman, whose personal attractions are, as your
ladyship affirms, near'y equalled by her mental ones."
" Not at all strange," she rejoined, "if one reflects on
the selfishness, the frivolity, and the imbecility of the
generality of our men of fashion. Attracted by the
beauty of a woman, as they are by that of a horse, a
picture, a statue, or any other object, the possession of
which is likely to excite the envy of their acquaintances,
•they eagerly seek to attain it. The novelty worn off,
what remains? Incapable of appreciating the mental
qualifications of their wives, or of feeling the thousand
nameless charms that exist in the sacred union of con¬
genial sentiments, and the endearing ties of habit, which
in well regulated minds and warm hearts, 'render the
wife dearer than the bride;' the heartless voluptuary of
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
217
modern days turns from the beauty he has won, to seek,
not a fairer, but a newer, face; leaving the disappointed,
and often wretched wife, to weep over his neglect, or to
resent it to her own undoing. His club, the gaming¬
table, Newmarket, and field-sports, occupy his time so
much, as to leave little, if any of it, to bestow on her he
had chosen, ' for better and for worse, in sickness and in
health:' and she has reason to be thankful if, in addition
to neglect, he does not give her the mortification of seeing
or hearing of his preference for another, that other, too
frequently, one of the most worthless of her sex."
" Is Lady Mary Vernon aware of her husband's liaison
with Mrs. Mortimer?" asked I.
" How could she remain ignorant of it;" replied the
brusque dowager, "with half a hundred kind friends to
irritate her lacerated heart by their insulting pity; or to
pique her pride by unavailing attempts to comfort her?
In all the trials of life, but more especially in trials of the
heart, be assured that there nothing like a friend for en¬
venoming the wounds. I am an old woman, Mr. Lyster,
have seen much, perhaps too much, of the world, and its
knowledge has convinced me, that no persons so closely
resemble enemies as friends; the only difference between
them isvthat the first injure without any attempt to im¬
pose on you by an assumption of good will; while the
second inflict a deeper injury, professing, like the surgeon
who probes his patient's wound, that it is for his good.
" No, poor Lady Mary has too many friends, to be
left in blissful ignorance of the evil doings of her husband.
—Anonymous letters, ' prating of his whereabouts,' were
poured in on her; she was advised by one friend to sepa¬
rate from him; by another, to divorce him; and by all,
to adopt some decided line of conduct that would make
him ashamed of himself. This last advice she has, 1
think, judiciously followed; while they, partly in disgust
at her forbearance, and still more at her rejection of their
interference, rail at her want of spirits, shrug their
shoulders, shake their heads, and now suffer her to pursue
her own course without further opposition, saying, that
for so tame-spirited a woman there is nothing to be done."
218
THE CONFESSIONS OF
''What then is the course that she has adopted?"
inquired I.
" The only course a sensible woman, who loves, and
wishes to reclaim her husband, can adopt,'' answered the
dowager. " She treats him with invariable gentleness;
makes him no reproaches, hides her tears, and welcomes
him to his home, whenever he returns to it.''
How well did this account of her conduct accord with
the mild and beautiful countenance of Lady Mary! I
almost loved my loquacious dowager for being able to
appreciate her, and listened with a breathless interest to
every word that fell from her lips.
" There, there, just entering the room, is Mr. Vernon,"
resumed Lady Glanmire; speak of the evil one, and he
appears.—How self-satisfied he looks; it positively makes
me angry to see himl"
My eyes followed the direction pointed out by Lady
G., and encountered a singularly handsome man. I
turned to observe Lady Mary, whose cheeks assumed as
deep a blush on seeing him, as probably his first decla¬
ration of love to her had elicited. He either did not, or
would not observe her; at least he betrayed no symptom
of recognition, but seemed sedulously searching for some
more attractive object. In a few minutes his counte¬
nance brightened, and he approached the celebrated Mrs.
Mortimer. I looked again at Lady Mary, and never
shall I forget the expression of her face. It had become
of a marble paleness; her brows were contracted, as if
some violent, hut subdued pang, tortured her; and her
lips were compressed, as if to restrain the utterance of
her anguish. I expected to see her faint; but I knew
not then what woman can bear; I knew not that fine
union of exquisite sensibility and modesty, which calls
up fortitude to guard both from exposure to the crowd.
Lady Mary looked the very personification of a martyr,
about to suffer in support of her faith, as she slowly re¬
tired from the room, to avoid seeing her husband lavish
on another, those attentions which he had long ceased to
bestow on her. How I hated him at the moment! and
how I despised the worthless woman, who seemed to
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
219
occupy all his thoughts. Heavens 1 what a contrast
did her meretricious beauty, and the coarse gaiety of her
manner, present to the classical loveliness, and dignified
demeanour of Lady Mary!
I sauntered up towards the sofa, on which Mrs, Mor¬
timer and her lover had seated themselves, evidently
as little restrained in their flirtation, by the presence
of the crowd around them, as if they had been alone.
For a flirtation, however, there is certainly no place like
a crowded rout. Oh I the things I have seen and heard
therein, without any one appearing either surprised or
shocked 1 Mrs. Mortimer was considered the Calypso, of
her day; but her charms being now considerably on the
wane, she tried to repair them, much on the same prin¬
ciple, and with the same effect, that experienced dealers
adopt in the restoration of old pictures. Still she was,
and particularly by candle-light, a fine, or what artists
call, a picturesque woman; and, from the peculiar cha¬
racter of her beauty, might have served as a good model
for a painter, wishing to portray the unchaste wife of
Potiphar. Her large, bold eyes met those of her lover,
for such it was plain he was, with an expression from
which I turned with loathing, and her ungloved hand
was suffered to rest in his, beneath the folds of her India
shawl, which was conveniently draped to conceal this
violation of decency. I felt my anger and indignation
excited by their undisguised and disgusting freedom of
manner, in presence of one of the most fashionable circles
in London; a circle in which their relative position seemed
to be as perfectly understood, as, I regret to add, per¬
fectly tolerated; and I left the apartment, sick at heart,
and out of humour with the world.
In the anteroom I found Lady Mary Vernon waiting
for her carriage, and, as the groom of the chambers at
that moment announced it, I offered my arm to conduct
her to it. For my soul I could not force my lips to utter
a single one of the commonplace phrases men address
to women on similar occasions; but, feeling her arm
tremble within mine, I ventured to observe, that I feared
she was ill.
220
THE CONFESSIONS OF
"Very slightly so," was the answer. "The sudden
transition from a heated room to the cold air, often pro¬
duces a nervous trembling of my frame that quickly
subsides."
I handed her to her carriage, and saw it drive off,
scarcely aware that I was standing uncovered at the
bottom of the steps at House, and only remem¬
bering that her arm had rested within mine, that my
hands had touched hers;—and never had the touch of
mortal produced such a sensation on man! No, none but
a pure-minded and chaste woman could excite such sen¬
sations. There was awe mingled with the passionate love,
the exquisite pleasure, that sent the blood tingling through
my veins; and I mentally vowed that no man should ever
have the arm of my wife within his, if wife I ever had.
I longed to press my lips on the sleeve on which her
beautiful hand had rested. I thought of her as some bright
vision; and the melting tones of her voice still sounded in
my ear. I felt something soft under my foot; and, on
looking, perceived that it was her bouquet, which had*
fallen as she entered her carriage. I snatched it up and
placed it in my breast, as if I had found the most pre¬
cious treasure, and was retreating to seek for my servant,
when I overheard a link-boy observe to another:—
" I say, Bill, that there fine gemman seems tarnation
fond of poseys. Did you see how he cotched up that
nosegay as the p'ale-faced lady let fall?"
"Yes, I seed it fast enough," replied Bill; "I suppose
as how he's her sweetheart; for them there quality folks
be mighty fond of love-making, bekase as how they
have nothing else in the world to do."
At this moment, the carriage of Mrs. Mortimer was
called, and I saw Mr. Vernon conduct her to it, and enter
it as if he were its master. Then, one of the two tall
footmen behind it, uttered an energetic "Home!" and I
observed the knowing winks and smiles, and heard the
ribald jests exchanged by the liveried gentry around, as
the profligate pair were whirled off to the mansion of the
husband she had betrayed and dishonoured.
I entered my house a changed man; every feeling,
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
221
every thought, having Lady Mary for its object. When
my eyes fell on different articles of virtu in my chamber,
given to me by other women, I turned from them with
disgust, to kiss, again and again, the bouquet of withered
flowers that she had touched; and I valued it, ohl how much
the more, when I recollected that she would not have given
it to any man on earth, save to her unworthy husband.
Were women but conscious of the estimation in which
even the slightest favour is held, when she who accords
it is known to be pure and virtuous, how cautious would
they be in granting a thousand little frivolous cadeaux
to which, though they attach no importance, others prefix
ideas that lead to very injurious conclusions. Could they,
too, but hear the conversations of their favourite beaux,
at the clubs they frequent, how would they blush and
tremble at the false, the often odious interpretations,
given to actions to which, if fairly judged, youthful im¬
prudence or levity could alone be attributed.
But, to return to the antipodes of levity, Lady Mary
and her faded bouquet. Perhaps some of my readers
will smile when I assert, that from that night I have
never met the mingled odours of the rose, jasmine, and
verbena, without their bringing the image of that lovely
woman to my memory, as vividly as though I had seen
her but a few hours before. How I loathed her husband
for slighting her 1 and yet, perhaps, I should have hated
him still more had he evinced for her, at least in my
presence, any marks of that passionate love which was
now consuming my heart.
A few days after my memorable interview with Lady
Mary, having sauntered into the fashionable jeweller's of
that day, to make a purchase, I saw some very splendid
diamonds, which one of the shopmen was placing in a
case. Observing that they had caught my eye, he civilly
laid the etui before me, and called my attention to a very
large sapphire, which formed the centre of one of the
bracelets belonging to the parure, and which, he said, he
considered to be the most perfect stone that had ever
passed through his hands. He added, that it had been
sold at a very high price; and, in order to show me the
222
THE CONFESSIONS OF
stone in its transparent setting, he touched secret
spring, when the gold plate at the back flying open, dis¬
covered a small enamel miniature of Mr. Vernon; the
resemblance being so striking as to leave no doubt of its
identity. The man had only closed the etui when the
original of the portrait entered, ordered the case to be
placed in his curricle, and drove off. I could not resist
the impulse that induced me to follow the route he had
taken; and I was only confirmed in the surmise I had
formed as to the destination of the jewels, when I saw
him stop at the door of Mrs. Mortimer, and send his
curricle to the next street, to wait his return.
The diamonds and sapphire of vast price, it was plain
then, were for his unworthy mistress, who, probably,,
only valued the miniature on account of its setting, and
only tolerated the donor for the sake of his gifts. How
strange appears to us the passion for jewels inherent in
women in all countries and times. The extent to which
it was indulged in Rome, is proved by Julius Caesar
having passed a law forbidding unmarried women to
wear them. One would suppose that a similar prohibition
'existed in England, inferring from the impatience the
generality of our young ladies evince to be married, and
the pleasure they take, when this perilous desideratum
has been attained, in displaying a profusion of jewels on
their persons. Nor are our matrons less addicted to this
expensive passion ; for were the Athenian ordination, by
which an unfaithful wife was prevented from wearing
jewels, carried into effect in our days, it would, I believe,
be the ruin of jewellers, but might be the saving of many
a man's purse, if not his honour. And yet, who knows
how far such a punishment might deter women from a
breach of virtue; vanity, their besetting sin, being .thus
instigated to preserve what hitherto it had assisted to
overthrow; for, there is much more of vanity than pas¬
sion, in nine-tenths of the liaisons that lead to a breach
of conjugal fidelity.
Three nights after the occurrence at the jeweller's
shop, I encountered Mrs. Mortimer at a ball, at Lady
Baskerville's; sparkling in the very parure I had seen,
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
223
and the well-known sapphire on her aim. Mr. Vernon,
too, was there; and the lady seemed to treat him with
more marked attention; the reward, as I thought, of the
costly present he had made her. Lady Mary Vernon was
also present, and looked, if possible, more beautiful than
before. She was attired in a robe of white satin open in
front, and falling in ample folds to her feet. The rich
blonde lace that trimmed the dress, was clasped by black
enamel ornaments, a la Sevigne, in the centre of each of
which sparkled a large diamond. The pointed stomacher,
which beautifully defined her delicate waist, was confined
by similar ornaments; and a necklace and ear-rings to
match, displayed the exquisite fairness of her skin. She
was with an elderly lady, of a very dignified mien, who
seemed wholly engrossed in a conversation with her;
apparently urging her to do something, which Lady Mary
declined, as I could see her wave her head, and make a
motion that indicated repugnance.
T passed behind the spot where they stood, and heard
the elderly lady say, in Italian, " Indeed, you are wrong
thus to shrink from their presence, when yours would
probably awaken them to the impropriety of their conduct,
by drawing on them the censure of the spectators of it."
" What, draw censure on my husband? no, not for
worlds I" replied Lady Mary; "I cannot, indeed I can¬
not, bear to encounter them."
And as she spoke, an increased paleness, and involun¬
tary shudder, betrayed how much even the idea of
adopting such a course affected her.
I approached, and made my bow; was received with
a less distant politeness than I had anticipated', though
still enough reserve and gravity remained, to check a
much more presuming man than I had ever been. It was
evident, that the respectful deference of my manner had
influenced the old lady in my favour, for she whispered
Lady Mary to present me to her. No sooner was my
name pronounced than she eagerly demanded if I was the
son of Lady Olivia Lyster? and on my replying in the
affirmative, she told me that my mother had been one of
her oldest and dearest friends, and that she felt highly
224
THE CONFESSIONS OF
gratified at making my acquaintance. I was elated at
this lucky chance, which seemed to hold forth a hope of
meeting Lady Mary more frequently; for I speedily dis¬
covered that Lady Delafield (my mother's friend) was her
aunt, and that they frequently saw each other.
Lsfdy D. became quite cordial in her manner towards
me; asked a thousand questions about Lyster Park,
where she had often been during my infancy; and treated
me, not as a new acquaintance, but as the son of an old
and dear friend. While replying to her interrogations, I
thought only of her charming niece, who seemed totally
abstracted, her beautiful eyes fixed on the door of the
room where she knew her husband to be. Mr. Mortimer
came up, and accosted Lady Mary with an air and man¬
ner, so totally devoid of any suspicion that his presence
was not agreeable to her, that I felt for him, when I
observed the haughty coldness with which Lady Delafield
returned his salutation.
" Where is Mrs. Mortimer?" asked the unconscious
husband, " I expected to find her with you."
The colour rose to the cheeks of Lady Mary at the
question, and there was an evident embarrassment in her
manner, as she answered that she had not seen her.
"Not seen hfer!" repeated Mr. Mortimer; "how very
odd; for she told me that she only came because she
promised to meet you."
"Very odd, indeed," said Lady Delafield, drily; "for,
I venture to say that my niece was wholly ignorant of
Mrs. Mortimer's intention of being here."
Lady Mary pressed the arm of her aunt, and gave her
an imploring look; while Mr. Mortimer betrayed such
evident symptoms of mingled surprise and displeasure, as
checked Lady Delafield's further observations. He looked
from the aunt to the niece; and his face flushed as he
observed the agitation and distress too clearly portrayed
in the countenance of the latter, to admit of his doubting
that some painful feelings were associated in her mind,
with the mention of his wife. He muttered something,
almost unintelligible, of his intention of seeking Mrs.
Mortimer, and hurried into the next room. I saw terror
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
225
impressed on the pallid face of Lady Mary; she whis¬
pered a few words to her aunt, who turned to me, and
requested that I would immediately seek Mr. Vernon, and
tell him that she required his presence. I was about to
say that I did not know Mr. Vernon, but Lady Mary
interrupted me by saying, " Do, pray go, and quickly—I
entreat you to goforgetting, in her alarm and agitation
the self-control and dignity of manner, for which she
was so remarkable.
On entering the next room, I discovered Mrs. Mortimer
dancing with Mr. Vernon; a circle was formed round the
dancers to observe her. Her movements were such as I
should never have tolerated in a wife, though they
elicited general applause; and as I saw her floating
through the mazy dance, I was reminded of the opinion
of Sallust, who, speaking of Sempronia, the mistress of
Catiline, says, " She dances with, more skill than be¬
comes a virtuous woman."
Mr. Vernon led his partner from the dance, to a sofa
elevated at the end of the room, and so placed, that the
persons seated on it could be seen from all sides of the
apartment. His assiduity was unremitting; he assisted
to place her India shawl over her shoulders to preserve
her from being chilled, and displayed all les petits soins
that a lover employs for the object of his affections,
attentions which were repaid by languishing looks of
tenderness and sweet smiles. I marked the glances ex¬
changed by the persons around them, in which were
plainly expressed the malicious pleasure that a detected
intrigue seldom fails to awaken.
While I endeavoured to make my way through the
crowd to the place where they were seated, I caught a
view of Mr. Mortimer; and never did I behold so fearful
an expression as that which his countenance presented.
Rage and jealousy strove for mastery, in the fiery glances
which he bent on them; and which convinced me that
never before had he suspected either the fidelity of his
wife or the perfidy of his friend. From a state of happy
security, he awoke at once to a conviction of their guilt;
and terrible were the pangs which that conviction brought
r
226
THE CONFESSIONS OF
him, if we might judge by its effects on his countenance.
While he stood eyeing the guilty pair, they, totally un¬
conscious of his presence, were exchanging looks of love
and whispers of tenderness; thus, adding fuel to the fire
that raged in the breast of the wronged and duped husband.
Fearful of some public esclandre, that could not fail to
wring the already tortured heart of Lady Mary, I con¬
quered my repugnance to address Mr. Vernon; and, ap¬
proaching him, stated that Lady Delafield requested to
see him immediately. The message seemed to annoy him
and his companion; they whispered, looked confused, and
after a few minutes' consultation he left her, promising to
return immediately.
I mingled in the crowd, still remaining near enough to
observe Mrs. Mortimer, and shortly after saw her husband
walk up to her. She perceived him not until he was at
her side; and, on recognising him, started as if she had
seen a spectre, changed colour, and immediately attempted
to envelope her person in the India shawl. But it re¬
sisted all her efforts to pass it over her stiffened sleeves;
and her exertions only exposed still more the brilliant dia¬
monds that encircled her arms. She was evidently strug¬
gling to acquire some portion of self-possession; and, after
the pause of a moment, turned to her husband and observed,
"Who ever should have thought of seeing you here?"
" Not you, I am persuaded," replied he, his lips trem¬
bling with suppressed emotion. " It is fortunate, how¬
ever, that I have come, as my unexpected presence gives
me an opportunity of admiring the rare and costly jewels
you wear, and which I now see for the first time."
She became as pale as death, and then blushed a deep red.
"Oh! the fact is," said she, "I hired them for this
night, as I was tired of always appearing in .the same
ornaments."
I could observe that her husband believed the asser¬
tion, for his features relaxed some portion of their rigid
expression. She, too, perceived that he was the dupe
of her falsehood, and, taking courage, she added, " I am
so glad you are come, for I was wishing to go home; I
feel tired and chilly."
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.* 227
As she thus spoke, her evil stars led her to endeavour
again to wrap the shawl around her; when, in the effort
to do so, one of the bracelets became unclasped and fell
to the ground. In the fall, the secret spring flew open,
discovering to the horrified gaze of her husband, who
had stooped to take it up, the miniature of Mr. Vernon.
"And this portrait, too, was doubtlessly hired for the
night," said he, fixing his petrifying glance on her face.
—" Come, leave this scene directly, madam; you and I
have a fearful reckoning to settle, and this is no place
for it."
She seemed overcome by terror and confusion, and
hesitated to obey his commands. He turned fiercely
towards her, seized her arm, drew it within his, and
dragged, rather than led her,, through the long suite of
rooms; I following to observe their movements. When
they reached the drawing-room, where I had left Lady
Mary and her aunt, a bustle and confusion among the
company impeded the progress of Mr. Mortimer. Lady
Mary Vernon had fainted; and, as is usual on such
occasions, a circle had formed round her, increasing the
heat and pressure, and consequently the illness for which
they affected to feel such sympathy. Lady Delafield
loudly entreated them to disperse, and on their doing so,
I beheld Lady Mary, as she reclined on an ottoman,
supported by the Duchess of B., Lady Delafield holding
to her nostrils one of-the many fiacons offered by the
surrounding groups of ladies. Lady Mary presented the
appearance of death; her eyes were closed, their long-
dark lashes throwing a more ghastly shade over the pale
cheeks beneath them: yet still, though bearing the sem¬
blance of death, her matchless beauty shone conspicuous,
being not obliterated, but wearing a new character; a
character that might have justified its being called the
holiness of beauty, so calm, so unearthly was its loveli¬
ness.
My heart sank within me while I gazed on that marble
face; and its striking resemblance to Louisa Sydney, as
I last saw her, made me shudder. At this moment,
Lady Delafield caught a view of Mrs. Mortimer, and gave
228
CONFESSIONS OF
her a look that must have spoken daggers to her, so
plainly did it say, " See what you have done."
The look was not lost on Mr. Mortimer; it seemed to
increase his rage, for he pulled his terrified wife along,
and descended the stairs, down which her trembling limbs
could hardly support her. They had only driven off a
moment, when Mr. Vernon returned from searching for
his servant in the crowd. I narrowly examined his
countenance, as he approached Lady Mary, who was still
in a state of insensibility; and never did I behold contri¬
tion and sorrow more clearly delineated, than in the look
he fixed on her pale but beautiful face.
" This man is not hardened in guilt, nor insensible to
its fearful effects on others," thought I, as I saw him
stoop to raise her tenderly from the sofa. The movement
recalled her to consciousness; her lips moved, she opened
her languid eyes, and fixed them on the face of her
husband, with an expression of such deep, such unutter¬
able tenderness, which, whatever might be its effect on
him, sank into my very soul; and made me feel that I
would sacrifice all I possessed, to have such a look fixed
on me by those melting eyes.
His affectionate assiduity seemed to restore her, and she
repaid it by faint smiles.
"Are you quite sure, clear aunt, that nothing dreadful
has occurred?" asked Lady Mary, when Mr. Vernon had
again left her, to see if the carriage was ready.
" Quite sure, my dear," replied Lady Delafield.
" Oh, what a relief! I was so alarmed by the terrible
expression of Mr. Mortimer's face, that the most fearful
presentiment rushed on my mind, and I felt as though I
had been dying."
"Hush, hush, my dear," said Lady Delafield, "you
were needlessly frightened. I am sorry that I suffered
hiin to know the truth, as it has made you ill; but he
must be well accustomed to the subterfuges of his worth¬
less wife, if, indeed, she thinks it necessary to use any
with him."
Mr. Vernon returned to support his wife to her car¬
riage ; and I beheld them drive off, with feelings little in
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
229
harmony with the scene of splendid festivity around me,
and more than ever in love with Lady Mary.
How strange is the human heart! The very tender¬
ness I had seen her display towards another seemed to
increase mine towards her. The freedom from all harsh¬
ness or reproach, with which she received his attentions,
elevated her character in my estimation; and made me
view her more as an angelic being, than as a woman.
The next day, at an early hour, business having called
me into the city, I was passing through Fleet Street,
when I heard my name pronounced by a female voice,
with an entreaty that I should enter the shop whence it
proceeded. I hesitated as to whether I should comply
with the request or not, when the shopman presented
himself at the door, and repeated it. On entering the
shop, I beheld a very respectable looking female, in a
state of great agitation, who immediately appealed to me,
to satisfy the owner of the shop as to her respectability.
In this person I recognised a Mrs. Tisdeal, who had lived
several years, as a sort of humble companion or upper
femme de chambre with my poor mother, and had been
a great favourite of hers, but of whom I had lost sight
for a long time.
"Oh, sir I" sobbed she, "you find me here charged
with theft. I have been employed to dispose of some
jewels of value: the owner wishes that her name should
not be divulged; and unless I disclose it, that she may
certify it was by her desire I offered her diamonds for
sale, the owner of this shop threatens to commit me to
prison, on suspicion that I have obtained them dishonestly.
You, Mr. Lyster, who have known me for so many years,
will, I am sure, answer for my character; but let me not
be forced to reveal the name I so much wish to conceal."
" Look here, sir," said the jeweller, opening the case,
and displaying its glittering contents: " these jewels are
of too great value to be entrusted to a servant."
I started with amazement, on recognising the magni¬
ficent parure worn by Lady Mary Yernon the night before,
which, being the first I had ever seen set in black enamel,
had made an impression on my memory.
230
THE CONFESSIONS OF
"Yes, Bir," resumed the jeweller, "these diamonds
are of extraordinary beauty, and appearances are very
much against this person. When I required a reference,
and asked the ordinary questions which a cautious and
reputable buyer, under such circumstances, ought to ask,
this woman betrayed evident symptoms of confusion, and
declined stating to whom the jewels belong, or her own
place of residence."
I assured the scrupulous shopkeeper, that I knew the
female present perfectly well, and could answer for her
honesty.
"Why, that's all very well, sir," said he; "but you'll
excuse me if I state, that I know no more of you than
of this woman. The affair is altogether very suspicious
—very suspicious, indeed. You happen, most opportunely,
to be passing my door, at the very moment I was going
to send for the police, to take this person into custody on
suspicion of robbery. She sees you, calls out to you
directly, you come in, and without asking her a single
question, as to how she came by the diamonds, offer to
be answerable for her honesty. You'll excuse me, sir;
but all this has a very odd appearance—a very odd
appearance, indeed. There, John," turning to one of
his shopmen; " go and call a couple of the police, for
it's my opinion we shall have two persons to commit,
instead of one."
" Why, what the devil 1" said I, getting angry; "you
surely cannot mean to suspect or commit meV
"You'll excuse me, sir," replied the imperturbable
jeweller, "but I mean to do both, unless you can forth¬
with satisfy me of your own respectability. This affair
looks very like a conspiracy, sir, very like indeed; and
your popping by so opportunely leads me to think that you
are nothing more or LeSs than a confederate of this person."
"What! suspect Mr. Lyster, of Lyster Park, one of
the richest gentlemen in the county of Nottinghamshire 1"
exclaimed Mrs. Tisdeal, in mingled amazement and in¬
dignation.
"And you, ma'am," said the jeweller, sneeringly,
"are probably one of the richest ladies in some other
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
231
county. No, no, I am an old bird, and not to be caught
■with chaff, as the saying goes; and so I won't take your
character for this gentleman, nor his for you."
" Let me speak to you alone, for a few minutes," said
Mrs. Tisdeal.
"Ay, ay," said the jeweller, "lay your heads together,
and make up a good story between you. See to the
door, Thomas."
"You will regret this conduct," said I, much excited
by his insulting suspicious, and the gross vulgarity with
which they were expressed.
Having retired to the far corner of the shop with the
agitated Mrs. Tisdeal, I told her in a low voice that I
recognised the jewels, having seen them the night before,
but that her secret was safe with me.
"Ohl sir," said she, "my lady has the most pressing
occasion for a large sum of money—not for herself, dear
angel lady—but for her husband. He is to know nothing
of the sale of the diamonds, for he would never consent to
it, and is to be led to believe that the money comes from
my lady's aunt. Oh, sir, if this jeweller was to discover
whence I come, he would go to Mr. Vernon's, and all
would be known; and the mortification would be so great
to her ladyship, that, rather than expose her to it, I
would suffer any indignity to myself."
"Well, I say, have you concocted your story?" asked
the jeweller, with an insolent sneer, suspicion having
rapidly grown into certainty.
"What is the value of these diamonds?'' demanded I.
"The value?" replied he; "why, more than you'll
ever come honestly by, I'm thinking."
"I ask you what is their value?" resumed I, making
an effort (and it required one) to master my rapidly in¬
creasing wrath.
"Well, then, their value is five thousand pounds,
though at the present time, with the scarcity of money
that exists, I doubt if they would fetch more than four
thousand five hundred."
"Give me pen, ink, and paper," asked I; a demand
he more than half reluctantly complied with.
232
THE CONFESSIONS OF
While I was writing a few lines to my bankers, Messrs.
Child and Co. John, his shopman, returned with two
policemen. They eyed me with looks filled with suspi¬
cion; and I overheard the sapient John remark that
"he was sure that I was an old offender, for rogue was
written in my face."
I wrote to request my bankers to send any one of the
clerks who knew me, with bank-notes to the amount of
five thousand pounds, to the shop of Mr. Thompson, No.
6, Fleet street, with as little delay as possible; and hav¬
ing promised Thomas, the less suspicious shopman, a
reward for his trouble, I despatched him, with my note,
to the bank.
During his absence, the jeweller seemed puzzled what
to think; poor Mrs. Tisdeal still trembled from the
alarm she had undergone; and the two policemen main¬
tained a demeanour of official gravity.
Thomas soon came back, out of breath from the speed
he had made, and announced that Mr. Smith, the head
clerk of the house, would soon wait on me.
This intelligence seemed to occasion the jeweller a con¬
siderable diminution of his self-complacency, and caused
him to assume a somewhat less disrespectful bearing to¬
wards me. Yet, he appeared disappointed at the proba¬
bility that, after all, I should turn out to be neither a
thief nor the confederate of a thief: and, vexed and
annoyed as I felt at the moment, I could not help ob¬
serving then, as subsequently I have frequently remarked,
that the generality of suspicious persons are more irri¬
tated than gratified, at discovering innocence in the
individual whom they had prejudged to have been
guilty.
His countenance became perfectly ludicrous when, not
the head clerk of the bank, but Mr. Child himself, entered
the shop; and, shaking me cordially by the hand, told me
that he was the bearer of the five thousand pounds,
because he was induced to infer, from the manner of the
bearer of my letter as well as it contents, that something
extraordinary had occurred.
While I explained to him the awkward predicament
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 233
in which the suspicions of Mr. Thompson had placed me,
it was comical to observe the countenance of that varlet.
He kept bowing to the ground, repeating—
"Indeed, sir, I'm sure, I would not for fifty pounds
that such a mistake had taken place. I hope, sir, you'll
excuse me; I am quite confounded, indeed, sir; I know
not what to say. Pray, Mr. Child, speak a word for
me; indeed I meant no offence; but we jewellers are
obliged to be so strict, so very particular, sir."
"Yes," interrupted I, "'and I happened so oppor¬
tunely to be passing your door,' and 'looked so like an
old offender'"—glancing at the now crestfallen John the
shopman; who, as he had emulated his master in suspi¬
cion half an hour before, now emulated him in humility,
and hung his head most sheepishly, at my thus repeating
his recent observations.
Mr. Child was really angry, and reprimanded the
knave of diamonds, for such he actually was, as he had
been in more than one scrape for having bought stolen
jewels, knowing, or at least having had cause to suspect,
that they were dishonestly obtained. He wished to re¬
establish his injured reputation in the present instance,
by displaying a more than ordinary degree of precaution;
so, poor Mrs. Tisdeal and I were the victims to his new¬
born scruples.
Mr. Child, finding that I had no carriage with me,
pressed me to let him send me his; but I refused, and
and having procured a hackney-coach, placed Mrs. Tis¬
deal in it, and seating myself by her side, ordered the
coachman to drive to the corner of Grosvenor Square.
I gave her the five thousand pounds, making her believe
that I wa3 glad of an opportunity of purchasing so fine
a set of diamonds, and that I considered them a bargain.
During our drive, she told me that she had now been
three years with Lady Mary Vernon; Lady Delafield,
having known her when with my mother, had recom¬
mended her to her niece, on the marriage of that lady.
She added, that during the first two years her situation
had been a happy one; but that now—and here ^he
Daused.
234
THE CONFESSION'S OF
I toM her that it was not a frivolous curiosity whjch
led me to inquire why she no longer was happy in Lady
Mary's establishment.
"Alas! sir, how can I feel happy, when I see my
lady, who is an angel, if ever an angel appeared on earth,
wretched? she, that used to be so buoyant and cheerful,
whose dear, sweet laugh used to gladden my ears, and
whose bright joyous looks were like sunshine to me.
All is now changed; my lady's voice is never heard,
except in accents so low and mournful that they make
me sad; her bright looks are faded, and when she tries
to smile, indeed, sir, it causes my heart to ache, her deep,
melancholy eyes, and pale cheeks, seem in such marked
contrast with the smile. She will sit for whole hours,
sir, with her head leaning on her hand; and though a
book lies open before her, she never turns over a page.
But, when she hears Mr. Vernon's step approaching, she
starts up, and strives to assume a cheerful face to wel¬
come him; and he—oh! sir, it angers me to see that he
does not, or will not, notice the sad change that has
come over her, she that used to be as fresh as a rose, and
as blithe as a lark."
"And what, my good Mrs. Tisdeal, do you think is
♦he cause of all this?"
" Indeed, sir, I fear that there is but too much cause;
for Mr. Vernon, who used to be the most attentive, nay,
the most doting husband in the world, has now become
careless, cold, and silent; absenting himself continually
from home, and when there, evidently impatient to quit
it. My lady receives anonymous letters continually,
sir; I know they are anonymous, because, when she opens
them, she colours, and throws them in the fire. I shall
never forget the first that came: she was in her dressing-
room, and I delivered it to her. While she was reading
it, I by chance looked in the large mirror near to which
she was standing, and her appearance terrified me; she
was as pale as death, sir; her eyes seemed to grow
larger, and her brow contracted as if she was suffering
an* intense agony. Her lips were compressed, and her
hand trembled so violently that she could scarcely hold
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
235
the letter. Ohi how I execrated the heartless, the
wicked person that could thus rudely tear the bandage
from her eyes, and plant a dagger in her heart 1 Surely,
sir, there are few actions so vile or so wicked as the
writing anonymous letters. I longed to throw myself at
her feet, but I dared not interfere; and though my heart
ached for her, I stole out of the room as if I had not
observed her agitation, and remained in the antechamber,
fearful of withdrawing further, lest she might require my
assistance.
" She did not ring for hours, but when I entered, was
quite calm, sir; though I could discover, by her blanched
cheek and heavy eyes, what was passing within her mind.
She has never been herself from that time; and each day
has seen her grow paler and more melancholy. Last
night, my lady returned from a ball to which Lady
Delafield had forced her to go. She came home attended
by her aunt; and Mr. Yeruon, who seemed most anxious
and alarmed, watehing over her, and holding her hand,
just as he used formerly to do. Ohl sir, it made me so
happy I But my lady's aunt kept hinting, and more than
hinting, that all her illness was his doing; and this vexed
him, and my lady too. Lady Delafield is an excellent
lady, but she does not understand how much mischief
may be done by reminding a husband of the consequences
of conduct he wishes to forget. One sweet smile and
kind word from the wife he has injured, would have a
better effect than all the lectures in the world; for men,
sir, are always proud and wilful when they have done
wrong, and must be allowed to have the triumph of
having come round to the light path themselves, without
having been schooled into it. I heartily wished Lady
Delafield away; and so, I am sure, did my lady and
Mr. Vernon. When she had gone, Mr. Vernon scarcely
waited for the door to close after her, when he ran up
and embraced my lady; and, indeed, sir, I saw the tears
stream from both their eyes, though I left the chamber
as quickly as I could.
"In an hour after, a letter was brought by Mrs.
Mortimer's footman, with directions that it should be
236
THE CONFESSIONS OF
delivered immediately, as it was of great consequence.
My heart misgave me when Mr. Vernon's valet asked
me to tell his master that he wanted to speak to him
immediately—I refused; and, would you believe it, sir,
the jackanapes became quite pert and saucy, said it was
as much as his place was worth to keep a note from
Mrs. Mortimer waiting, and that if I would not deliver
his message to his master, he should take it to the door
of my lady's room himself. Could gentlemen but know,
sir, how they debase themselves, even in the eyes of their
own servants, when they allow them to discover their
vices, how careful would they be, if not to amend, at
least to conceal them; for their menials must become
either the censors or assistants of them, and that they
should be either, is most degrading to a master. I trem¬
bled when I took the message, though I tried to look as
unconcerned as possible. The fact is, sir, all our servants
had been for some time passing their jokes and remarks
on Mr. Vernon's constant visits and letters to that lady;
and when her footman brought a note, he brought scandal
and evil reports also; consequently, I feared the letter
he now bore, might break up the good understanding
that I hoped was about to be re-established between my
lady and her husband. When I delivered the message,
Mr. Vernon grew as red as fire in the face, and my lady
turned as pale as marble. He went outside the door,
took the note from his servant, and without breaking the
seal, gave it into my lady's hands. She looked up in his
face—oh I such a look of love and confidence—and said,
'No, dearest, you must read it, I cannot, ought not, it
would be indelicate, unwomanly.'
"I left the room, but before the door closed, I heard
him exclaim, 'How like you, my own Mary, and how
unlike—' I heard no more. Early this morning, my
lady came to me, and placing the jewels, you have
brought, sir, in my hands, desired me to dispose of them
to the highest bidder, as she had immediate occasion for
the money. She told me to tell her (in case Mr Vernon
was present) that Lady Delafield had sent a letter and
parcel for her, that is, if I had disposed of the diamonds.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 237
I know it cannot be for herself that my lady requires the
money, for she is more prudent than any lady I ever
knew, and never incurs a debt; so it must be for Mr.
Vernon."
Various and contending were the emotions with which
I listened to Mrs. Tisdeal's prolix detail; jealousy was,
however, the predominant: and—shall I confess my
unworthiness ?—I was more than once tempted to return
the jewels and get back my money, sooner than it
should serve as a new bond of kindness between Lady
Mary and her weak-minded husband. But my better
nature triumphed. There were moments in which I felt
vexed at her so readily yielding him her pardon, and
accused her of weakness; however, a little reflection
showed her to me in all the purity and gentleness of a
pitying angel rejoicing over a repentant sinner, rather
than as an injured wife pardoning the errors of a reclaimed
husband. Thus, the nobleness of her disposition made
me more deeply enamoured of her, while it forbade every
hope of my passion ever meeting the least return.
" I left home, sir," resumed Mrs. Tisdeal, " at nine
o'clock, and called at three jewellers' before I entered the
shop where you rescued me. Oh, dearl how late it is 1"
casting her eyes up at a watchmaker's door, over which
a dial marked the hour of four. " How long my lady
will have thought my absence!"
I had been so engrossed by the communications Mrs.
Tisdeal had been making, that I had not reflected on the
impropriety of my being seen to drive up with her to
Lady Mary's residence; to which we were now rapidly
approaching, having entered Grosnevor Square. I had
just resolved that I would endeavour to conceal myself
while Mrs. Tisdeal descended, when a hackney-coach,
that preceded us, stopped at the very door to which we
were proceeding. The blinds were up, but the step was
in an instant let down, and Lord Percy, a friend of mine,
jumped out, evidently in a state of agitation, and hastily
entered the house, leaving the coach still waiting. Mrs.
Tisdeal called our coachman to let her descend; and he
was in the act of assisting her from the vehicle when
238
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Lord Percy returned from the hall, accompanied by half
a dozen servants, opened the coach-door, and, after two
or three minutes' delay, I beheld them bearing Mr.
Vernon, apparently dead, or dying, in their arms.
Horrorstruck at the sight, I jumped from my coach,
and followed them into the hall; when Percy recognising
me, whispered—
" This is a fearful business. Mortimer challenged poor
Vernon, who is, I fear, mortally wounded. Good God!
who is to break it to Lady Mary?"
They bore him into the library. Servants were dis¬
patched at every side for surgeons, and Mrs. Tisdeal
promised to keep Lady Mary in her dressing-room, in
ignorance of the fatal event, while I ran for Lady Dela-
field. I met her carriage entering the Square, stopped
it, and with all possible precaution told her what had
occurred. She made me get into the chariot and
accompany her to Lady Mary's, saying, that I might be
useful to her in her affliction; and I was too glad to be
near the object of my idolatry not to embrace eagerly
the offer. It was now that I felt for the first time
the holy, the purifying effects of real love. I would
have given a limb, nay, my life, to have saved that of
Mr. Vernon: ay, more, I would have supported the
sight of her I so passionately, so madly loved, lavishing
her caresses on him, sooner than know she was wretched.
His existence became to me, from this moment, of vital
importance, because on it I felt her happiness, her very
being depended; and every selfish sentiment faded away
before the thought of her sorrow and despair.
Lady Delafield hurried up stairs as quick as her aged
and trembling limbs could bear her, begging me to
remain in the house until she saw me again. The
servants showed me into a small anteroom that commu¬
nicated with the library; and there I could hear the
stifled groans of the wounded sufferer, as the surgeons
endeavoured to extract the ball from his side.
" I feel I am dying," uttered Mr. Vernon, "let me
see my wife."
There seemed to be some hesitation on the part of the
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
239
surgeons; but he again demanded ber presence, adding,
in a faint voice—
"It is useless to torture me; life is ebbing fast, and
all will soon be over."
In a few minutes, I heard Lady Mary enter the room
from a private staircase; when the ejaculation of " Oh?
my poor Mary!" from Mr. Vernon, told how deep must
have been that expression of anguish on her countenance
which thus caused him to lose, in bis pity for her, all
sense of his own sufferings.
" Pray, madam, be composed," said one of the
surgeons.
" Think not of me," replied she, in accents that made
me tremble; so profound, though subdued was the despair
they denoted.
"Leave us, leave us," said Mr. Vernon. "I have
much to say ere yet my strength totally fails me."
The surgeons left the library for an inner room; and
I then could hear the stifled sobs of the husband,
mingled with the low, sweet voice of the wife.
" You will be spared to me, my own love; the
Almighty is merciful," murmured Lady Mary.
"No: Mary, my blessed Mary, I feel that my wound
is mortal. I have deserved this punishment; yes, I own
that I have deserved it. How could I be so infatuated,
so madly infatuated, as to yield to her seductions, and
forget for a moment you, who have ever been an angel
to me?"
" Think not of this fatal subject now, dearest," replied
Lady Mary, " think only of our cordial, our happy
reconciliation of last night; when you abjured the only
error of which you had to accuse yourself."
"Yes, Mary, God be thanked 1 I waited not for a
death-bed to repent; for I then fully determined never
to see that woman again; and had life been spared me,
this resolution would have been faithfully sustained. My
folly, my guilt, have led to this fatal result; and I shall
be torn from you, my own Mary, just when I had re¬
awakened to a sense of all I owe you, without the power
of atoning for the ills I have inflicted. How precious
240
THE CONFESSIONS OF
appear now the days I have wasted! Oh, Maryl what
would I not give for a few months, a few weeks even, of
life to be spent with you 1 Her husband challenged me;
to refuse to meet him was impossible; and fondly as I
would now cling to existence, I would rather die by his
hand, than that he should have fallen by mine. I was
determined not to return his fire; for, I repeat, I would
not for worlds have his blood on my head. Will you
forgive me, my precious Mary, for talking of her ? But
too well do I know your generous, your pitying heart, to
doubt that you will pardon me. She is driven from her
home, dishonoured and an outcast; I am the cause of
all the evil that has befallen her, and it weighs heavily
On my mind. Promise me, that when I am gone, you
will bestow on her the means of existence."
"Doubt it not, dearest, all, everything shall be done;
but you will be spared to my prayers. Oh 1 do not say,
do not think otherwise."
"Alas! my Mary, how can I deceive you? I feel
that my hours are numbered; but let me conclude for
ever the painful subject on which we were speaking.
Even now, Mary, this wretched woman may be in want;
send to her, I entreat you, sufficient amply to screen her
from pecuniary difficulties. My friend Spencer will lend
me a few hundreds; for, as I told you last night, I have
squandered away such immense sums of late, that I have
scarcely any money left at my banker's."
" My aunt has placed a large sum at my disposal,
dearest love, and I shall send it to this unhappy woman
immediately."
"Bless you, bless you, Mary! I knew you would
cheerfully act as you are now doing."
The surgeons now returned to the library, and, after a
short, consultation, they had their patient moved to his
chamber, where an opiate was administered to him.
Soon after taking this medicine he fell into a slumber;
and then, and not till then, did his wretched wife betray
the first symptom of the dreadful effect produced on her
frame by the terrible shock she had received, for she
dropped from the chair into which she had sunk, in a deep
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
241
swoon. I heard the whispered ejaculations of the sur¬
geons as they assisted to bear her from the chamber, and
my heart died within me as I caught their observations
indicating her danger, while /, within a few paces of her,
dared not approach her. Never was the humanizing
power of sympathy more truly felt than by me at this
moment; I would have faced death, I do believe, in its
most fearful shape, to have seen her relieved from the
weight of-misery that oppressed her; and her sufferings
engrossed every thought, every feeling.
Hours seemed comprised in the minutes that elapsed
during her insensibility; and never did a doting mother
watch over an only child with more intense, more agoniz¬
ing anxiety, than I experienced while listening for some
sound to announce her return to consciousness. When
she recovered, Lady Delafield came to me; and, though
rarely overpowered by her feelings, she was so struck
with the expression of sorrow in my countenance, that
she took my hand kindly, and thanked me for the interest
I evinced in the affliction of her family. The compliments
she paid to my goodness of heart and disinterested kind¬
ness, were so unmerited, that I became confused. But
even my evident embarrassment was considered by the
excellent old lady as an additional proof of my goodness;
and she remarked how much I resembled my dear mother
at this moment, and how truly she prized my sympathy.
I hardly dared trust myself to inquire for Lady Mary;
but Lady Delafield informed me that her niece was now
much better, and was on her knees praying for strength
whence only it can be derived, to bear up against the trial
that awaited her. On recovering from her swoon, she
had insisted on the surgeons informing her of the real
state of her unfortunate husband. They wished to tem¬
porise with her; but she was inflexible; and they at
length admitted, that though he might live a few days,
nay, a few weeks, his death was inevitable, as the ball
nad entered a vital part, and could not be extracted.
" Pooi-, dear soul, she bore this fatal information with
wonderful fortitude," continued Lady Delafield. "After
a few minutes' conversation with her attendant, Mrs.
Ci
242
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Tisdeal, she seemed inspired with new energy, and im¬
posed a task on me that I cannot, ought not, to perform;
and yet, she declared, that unless it be executed she can
know no rest. Perhaps you, my dear Mr. Lyster, would
be my substitute on this disagreeable errand?"
I instantly offered to do anything she wished; and she
intrusted me with a small sealed packet to convey to Mrs.
Mortimer, who was staying incognita at a villa near
Fulham, and to deliver it into her own hands. I asked,
and obtained a ready consent to return to Grosvernor
Square as soon as I should have fulfilled my mission;
and again the old lady complimented me on my good
nature.
I proceeded to Fulham, and, after some difficulty,
succeeded in gaining admission to Mrs. Mortimer,
who received me with a mingled air of pride and
shame.
"I have waited on you, madam," said I, "by the
desire of Lady Delafield, to deliver this parcel."
Her cheeks became suffused with a deep crimson; and
with much agitation she tore open the envelope, from
which dropped the five thousand pounds I had given to
Mrs. Tisdeal, not three hours before.
"What does this mean, sir?" asked she, haughtily:
"there is not a line here," she continued, pointing to the
envelope, " to explain why, or from whom, this money
was sent."
" The parcel, madam, was confided by Lady Mary
Vernon to her aunt, to deliver to you; but that lady
feeling unequal to the task, intrusted it to me."
" Oh, then, I am to conclude, sir," said she, imperiously,
" that this money is sent me by the wife, as a bribe to
induce me to forego my claims on the husband. But she
little knows me, if she supposes that, disgraced as I am,
driven with ignominy from my home, owing to my ill-
starred attachment to Mr. Vernon, I will now resign him
for whom I have sacrificed so much. No, sirl take back
this money to Lady Mary. Mr. Vernon is too much a
man of honour to abandon the woman he has ruined; and
I" (here she burst into tears) "have paid too dearly for
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
243
his affection, to relinquish my claim to it now, when I
have nought left beside."
" Madam, you must make up your mind to this sacri¬
fice," replied I.
" Never, never, sir," interrupted she.
"Alas, madam, it no longer depends on your will. The
separation is inevitable."
" You do not mean to say that Tie is so weak, so yacil-
lating, as to consent to it?" demanded she, with anger
flashing from her eyes. " If so, his conduct is shameful,
and merits my Contempt."
" Mr. Vernon is at present, madam," resumed I, " en¬
titled to the pity of all; for he is on the bed of death, to
which his errors have untimely conducted him."
" On the bed of death!" shrieked Mrs. Mortimer; " he
who last night was in perfect health? No, you deceive
me: it is not—it cannot be so."
" He was mortally wounded in a duel this morning,"
said I.
" And by my husband's hand," interrupted she. " Ay,
reveal it all; leave nothing of the dreadful tale untold."
As she franticly uttered these words, she fell from her
chair in violent hysterics.
I rang for her attendant, and, from feelings of huma¬
nity, waited until the first violence of her emotions had
subsided. While sfie continued sobbing and shrieking,
her femme de chambre displayed the most extraordinary
nonchalance: performing the services that the position of
her mistress required, with a brusquerie, and an evident
want of good feeling, that shocked me. Something in
the countenance and whole air of this woman impressed
me with a most unfavourable opinion of her, which her
conduct towards Mrs. Mortimer served to confirm; and
I determined therefore not to leave that unhappy person
until she had recovered some degree of consciousness, not
wishing to trust either her or the bank-notes, which I had
picked upfromthe carpet, tq the tender mercy of her servant.
When Mrs. Mortimer had regained some portion of
composure, she dismissed her femme de chambre from the
room; who left it, with such undisguised impertinence of
244
THE CONFESSIONS OF
manner, that I pitied the fallen and unhappy woman, who
was helplessly exposed to this insolence.
"Are you sure, quite sure, that Mr. Vernon cannot
recover?" asked Mrs. Mortimer.
" The surgeons have so pronounced," replied I.
" And did Lady Mary know this fact, when she sent
the money?"
"Yes; she had been informed that there was no
hope."
"Oh, Godl oh, God! forgive mel" exclaimed Mrs.
Mortimer, bursting into a paroxysm of tears; " and this
—this is the woman I have so wronged, I have so tor¬
tured!"
I felt myself relent towards her, as I witnessed the
deep and salutary impression made on her by Lady Mary's
goodness. I spoke kindly to her, and succeeded, though
not without much difficulty, in inducing her to retain the
bank-notes; then, in the hope of affording an additional
mitigation to her sorrow, promised to inform her daily of
the state of Mr. Vernon.
" Oh, I am wretched and disgraced," sobbed she, while
I used my fruitless endeavours to sooth her. " It seems
strange and puerile to think of such a contemptible annoy¬
ance at this moment, weighed down as I am, by afflictions
so appalling; but my maid—she on whom I have liter¬
ally lavished money and presents—has so grossly insulted
me last night and this morning, that I shrink from en¬
countering, and have not courage to dismiss her."
I promised immediately to take this office on myself,
and to get my housekeeper to send her a femme de chambre,
in a few hours. Her gratitude was extreme, and proved
that she had still some good feeling left.
Never did I witness such concentrated rage and malice
as in Madame Claudine, for so she was named, when I
informed her, in an outer room, that her lady had no
longer occasion for her services.
"Not no occasion for my services," replied she in
broken English. "I should be very sorry to continue
dem to her now, dat she is exposee, and vat you call turn
out, from de house of Mons. Mortimer. It was all varv
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
245
well as long as Monsieur did please to shut his eyes, and
open his purse.—But now it is tout autre chose, all one
oder ting; and so I did tell her, last night, when we was
turn out, chassees de la maison, before I have de time to
finish my rober de whisk, in the steward's room, or eat
one morsel of supper malgre Mons. Pergault de cook have
prepare von salade d'Homer expres for me. And den ve
comes to dis dismal, damp, leetle hole, vidout never no
inaitre d'hotel, nor domestique for to speak to, except de
livery servant, vid whom a femme de chamhre de bonne
maison, like to me, cannot change de vords. I vould not
be surprise, if Mons. Henri, de valet de Mons. Mortimer,
vas to break his vord of honour, and refuse to marry me,
for coming off vid von who vill be the cause of having
all de establishment sent avay; von vicked voman who
never care for de domestiques, and only tink of herself!
She never have told me her secrets, more be de shame
for her, to try to deceive her femme de chamhre; but
she tink to blind my eyes, because she blind Mons. Morti¬
mer's eyes long time. But I am not so fool; for ve
femmes de chamhre see de lof affair at von grand distance,
before de oder persons tink der be any lof at all; and
den, ve vatch, and vatch, till ve do find out all, and I am
glad, because she tink to deceive me. Ve femmes de
chamhre have as much right to de secrets of notres
dames as to deir clothes, and ven de do keep von, or de
oder from us, ve expose dem."
I was so disgusted with the unblushing vice and
effrontery of this vile woman, that I told her to be silent,
in a tone so peremptory as to check her loquacity; and
from compassion to her guilty and unfortunate mistress,
I remained in the house until she had left it, insuring
her departure by a ready compliance with the extravagant,
and probably dishonest claims for wages, and sundry
articles, alleged to have been purchased for Mrs. Mor
timer's use.
I returned immediately to Grosvenor Square; and
found that Mr. Vernon seemed so much refreshed by the
few hours' repose he had enjoyed, that his physicians
thought it probable he might linger for some time. Lady
246
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Mary attended him unremittingly; and Lady Delafield
told me, with tears in her eyes, that she had never
witnessed anything so affecting as the efforts made by
both husband and wife, to conceal from each other the
anguish they were enduring. All the passionate tender¬
ness which Mr. Vernon had felt for Lady Mary, during
the first months of their union, seemed to revive in it3
pristine force, now that that union was on the verge of
being dissolved by death. His eyes seldom left her face;
and hers dwelt on his with an expression of unutterable
love. The thoughts of both were of that fearful separa¬
tion, which a few days, nay, a few hours, might see
accomplished, when the grave would eternally divide
them; yet neither trusted themselves to speak of what
ceaselessly occupied the reflections of both. Grief, the
truest, the deepest, alone filled the heart of the wife; for,
she had perpetrated no crime against affection, either of
omission or commission. But he was tortured by remorse,
and writhed in agony at the anticipation of that fearful
separation, to which his own guilty passions were con¬
ducting him. Now that the film had fallen from his
eyes, his career during the last few months appeared
before him in all its enormity; and the levity of character
which had led to his derelictions, having given place to
sober reflection, he seemed to awake as if from a frightful
dream, only to find himself, while trembling on the verge
of eternity, again in view of that happiness he had so
ruthlessly cast from his grasp.
It was edifying, it was beautiful, to see Lady Maiy
watching, with untired and untiring love, through the
tedious hours that rolled their course, by the conch of
her husband; touchingly reading, with a voice tremulous
from suppressed emotion, the sacred volume, to which we
turn in affliction, and never in vain. She lifted his
sinking heart from the abyss of despair to the prospect
of a future state; he listened as to the admonitions of an
angel, and. as this life faded from his view, he would talk
to her of the life to come, of which, alas! he had hitherto
thought so seldom, when they would be once more united,
never to part again.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
247
Grief and anxiety now began to make their ravages
felt on the already weakened constitution of Lady Mary.
Each revolving day saw her become more pale and
attenuated; her fine form lost all its roundness, and a
bright red spot on her cheek told that fever was spread¬
ing through her veins. Her aunt, whom I saw daily,
made me the confidant of all her fears, and they were of
the most sombre cast.
" I see it plainly, my dear Mr. Lyster," would she
say, "my poor Mary is fading away every hour, and he,
would you believe it? seems to regard her altered looks
with complacency. Ohl the selfishness of some people!
When in health, he slighted, nay, almost deserted her, for
another; and now, I believe, he would literally rejoice
were she to die with him. Why, he is as bad as the
savage despots, who, when expiring, ordain the deaths
of all their wives, favourite slaves, and animals, in order
that they may meet their masters in their imaginary
future world. It is too bad, much too bad; and me,
Mr. Lyster, what is to become of me, if I lose her? Who
is to watch by my sick couch, or to close my dying eyes;
and he the cause of all. Indeed, I can hardly command
enough Christian charity to forgive him, even though I
know he is on his death-bed."
"His conduct has been most culpable, I admit,"
replied I, " but I believe he has only been weak, and
not wicked."
" Don't try to palliate guilt with such subterfuges,
Mr. Lyster," said Lady Delafield. "The difference
between weakness and wickedness is much less than
people suppose; and the consequences are nearly always
the same. Weak men only want the temptation to
become wicked; they can resist no seduction, refuse no
enjoyment. They shrink from opposition, as children do
from punishment; and guilt ever finds them ready to
yield to its first assaults. A strong-minded man may
stoop to temptation, and recover from it; becoming
strengthened by the experience he has acquired, as iron
gains hardness by the fire that heats it. But a weak
man is only rendered weaker by each fall, and, like melted
248
THE CONFESSIONS OF
lead, takes any form that any one chooses to give him.
Lady Mary," continued the prolix old lady, "has sat up
with Mr. Vernon every night; not all my entreaties can
induce her to leave him, and it is only during the day
that she will consent to repose for an hour or two in the
chamber that joins his. While she sleeps, he writes,
and writes such gloomy things. Why, it was only this
morning that I found her almost suffocated with tears,
perusing these lines, which I took away, when she left
the room for a moment, seeing how they agitated her.
Read, Mr. Lyster, and you will agree with me, that he
must be indeed intensely selfish, thus to harrow up her
feelings, already too much wounded. He should not
have suffered her to see his gloomy production; such
conduct, I repeat, is wickedly selfish, and I hate selfish
people. I never was selfish, Mr. Lyster, never; and yet
the reward for my freedom from this besetting sin, will
be, to be left to bear up against the infirmities of age
alone, and to have my eyes closed by hireling hands.
Ohl it is too bad! much too bad! and I cannot bear
selfish people."
Poor old lady! and this energetic profession of disin¬
terestedness to me, while she was in the very act of
lamenting the probability of her privations in case of the
loss of her niece, and only apprehending the miserable
catastrophe in reference to her personal share in its
consequences.
THE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.
Dearest! I am going
To the dreary grave,
Not thy love, though mighty,
Can avail to save;
Ruthless Death has mark'd me
Soon to be his prey;
All my hours are number'd,
Brief must be my stay.
Yet, beloved! oh, weep not,
Every tear of thine
Turns my soul from heaven,
Making earth its shrine.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
Soon, this heart, now beating
Warm with love for thee,
All its throbbings ceasing,
Food for worms shall be:
Soon, this breast that pillow'd
Thy loved head in sleep,
Shall forget its sighing—
Thou wilt live and weep:
And these eyes fast fading,
Soon shall look their last;
Wilt thou gaze upon me
When their light hath past?
Ah! these lips so faltering,
Silent soon shall be,
Speak no accents tender,
Smile no more on thee:
The ear that loved the music
Of thy voice's tones,
Soon shall be insensate
To thy sighs and moans.
Thou wilt call me vainly,
In loud bitter, grief,
And its sad outpouring
Yield thee no relief.
Yet, thou'lt stay beside me
When life's spark has fled;
Thy fond heart will shrink not
From my dreary bed.
Words of love thou'lt falter
Ne'er to meet reply,
Nor from corse so pallid
Wilt thou turn thine eye.
One dear kiss but give me,
Ere I pass away,
'Tis the last sad token
Love from thee would pray.
Oh! yet grant one other:
Let this ring of thine,
Pledged before the altar
In exchange for mine,
Rest with me, the darkness
Of my grave to share,
Though the worm around it
Kiss thy shining hair.
Hush! a cloud comes o'er me,
Thee no more I see;
'Tis, oh God! our parting—
Blessings rest with thee!
250 the confessions of
Various were the wishes and hopes that passed through
my mind during the lingering illness of Mr. Vernon.
There were days when I longed, absolutely longed for his
death; because I considered that each hour added to his
suffering existence, abridged one from that of Lady
Mary. I pictured to myself that the first vehemence of
her grief at his decease being subdued, resignation
would follow, and lead to the recovery of her shattered
health. Time, the healer of even the deepest wounds of
grief, would, I fondly imagined, cicatrize, if not totally
efface, hers. Fool that I wasl I knew not how a woman
can love or mourn; and it was reserved for this pure
and lovely creature to instruct me. At other times,
when Lady Delafield has recounted to me the despair and
anguish of her niece, as her husband's approaching disso¬
lution seemed to draw nearer, I have prayed, fervently
prayed, that this life might be prolonged, even though it
offered an impassable barrier between her I doted on and
my hopes.
I had now become an habitue at Grosvenor Square,
where Lady Delafield had taken up her residence. She
saw, however, but little of her niece, who never left her
husband's chamber but when she sought her couch for an
hour's slumber. I felt an indescribable, though a melan¬
choly pleasure, in being thus almost an inmate in the
house of her I loved. Lady Delafield clung to me with
all the helplessness of age. I was the person to be con¬
sulted on all emergencies, and in whose patient ear all
her griefs were to be poured. Frequently did she
acknowledge her obligations to me, and say, that I was
necessary to her very existence; that, without me, she
could not have borne up against the troubles present and
prospective, that menaced her; and that she considered
me as one of her family. How has my foolish heart
beat with vague hopes, at hearing such words I They
engendered the delusive idea, that, at some remote period,
when informed by her aunt of my unceasing attentions,
I might be permitted, as a friend, to console Lady Mary;
and from friendship to love I fancied the distance not
insuperable.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
251
Thus, unworthy as I was, my kindness to her aged
relative, the friend of my dear mother, had its source
only in selfishness. It was true, that I hardly dared
imagine that I could ever become more than a friend to
Lady Mary; but to be even this, would be to be blessed
beyond all that I had ever yet experienced, and, as the
verse says,
""None -without Hope e'er loved the brightest fair,
For Love -will hope, when Eeason would despair."
So hope presented me indistinct, but delicious, visions,
never, never to be realized. I loved to sit on the chairs,
or recline on the sofa, which had been pressed by her;
all the objects in the rooms on which her eyes had ever
rested, possessed a charm for me: the very atmosphere
of the apartment seemed impregnated with a fragrance
that breathed of her; and I was only tranquil when
beneath her roof. I have felt abashed and humiliated
when Lady Delafield heaped commendations on my
domestic habits and sedentary tastes; and, above all, on
the disinterested devotion of my time and comfort to
her.
The good old lady little imagined that I was the slave
to an ungovernable and unhallowed passion, and that all
my attentions to her proceeded from selfish motives.
She talked incessantly of her niece; a subject on which
I could have listened for ever. She related a thousand
incidents connected with her infancy and girlhood, all
calculated to rivet still more closely the chain that bound
me to her. How have I writhed in the pangs of jeal¬
ousy, when she has dwelt, with prolixity, on the pas¬
sionate attachment of Lady Mary to her husband; and
how have I endeavoured to lead her to revert to the period
antecedent to her niece's knowledge of him. On one
occasion—I shall never forget it—she observed to me,
that she often thought I seemed formed for Lady Mary.
"We possessed," she said, "the same love of home and
quiet." I felt the blood rush to my very temples.
" And yet," continued she, "perhaps you might not have
liked each other; for similarity of tastes does not always
252
THE CONFESSIONS OF
beget affection. I remember, that when I asked Mary,
the day after you were nresented to me, if she did not
think you good looking," (how my heart throbbed),
"She replied that she had not observed you sufficiently
to judge."
How did this speech wound me! Never did vanity
receive a more severe check. Lady Delafield probably
observed my mortification, for she resumed:—
"The second time we met you, Mary assented to my
remark, that yours was a good countenance."
Then, she had remarked me; and my appearance had
not displeased her! Here was subject for joy; and Hope
once more spread its wings, and soared into the future.
Mr. Vernon had now lingered on for six weeks, six
blessed weekc, as his admirable wife called them; for,
during that period, she had taught him to look to another
world, for that happiness promised to the repentant
sinner. But the mandate had gone forth; death was
not to be cheated of his prey; and Mr. Vernon expired
in the arms of his wife, blessing her with his latest
breath.
Prepared, as we considered Lady Mary to be, for this
calamity, she soon sank under it; and a few weeks saw
her borne to the grave, that so lately received the mortal
remains of him she loved so well.
Though years, long years, have elapsed since I saw
her deposited in the tomb, my recollection of the appall¬
ing spectacle, is at this moment as vivid as though it
had occurred but yesterday. What I suffered, those
only can know, who, having centred all feelings, all hopes,
in one passion, behold the object of it snatched for ever
from their view. I mourned her long and deeply;—but
why dwell on this painful theme? She died, unknowing
that she left on earth a heart that would long bleed for
her loss; and I had not even the consolation of thinking
that she would have pitied the attachment she had
inspired.
Shortly after death, her aunt give me the following
verses, written by Lady Mary, a few days subsequent to
the interment of her husband.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
253
THE MOURNER.
I 'JAW thee when Death hover'cl nigh,
And set his seal upon thy brow;
I heard thy struggling groan and sigh,
Which e'en in mem'ry haunts me now.
I saw the lips, all pale and chill,
Where words of love were wont to dwell,
And felt a pang my bosom thrill,
That words can never, never tell.
And when the fearful strife was o'er,
When life had fled, and hope was gone,
I gazed on thy dear face once more—
That face which still I gaze upon.
I thought how soon the cold, dark grave
Would hide thee from my tearful eye,
And, frighted, shrank from life, to crave,
In that chill tomb with thee to lie.
I call'd thee by fond names of love,
Names that were wont to charm thine ear;
But nought the ear of Death could move,
And heedless fell each burning tear.
Tears fell in streams upon thy brow,
As my pale lips to thine were press'd;
But, ah! those lava showers had now
No power to break thy marble rest.
Within the coffin's narrow bound
Thy cold remains too soon were laid :
Ah! worse than death, was the harsh sound
The closing of that coffin made.
Why did I live beyond that hour
When " all the life of life is fled?"
Existence, fearful is thy power,
Who lingerest still, when Hope is dead!
When I had perused them, I could not refrain from
feeling, that it was better she had not been left to drag
on an existence which the loss of him she had so fondly-
loved, must have for ever embittered: and I ceased to
delude myself any longer with the hope, that a heart
254
THE CONFESSIONS OF
so devoted as hers had been, could ever have found con¬
solation in a second attachment.
Pity induced me to continue to poor Lady Delafield,
the attentions that a selfish motive first led me to pay
her. She survived her niece but a year; and, dying,
bequeathed to me the portrait now before me, which I
have preserved with a religious care. When I have
since heard some heartless coxcomb, or witless worldling,
prenounce women to be incapable of a lasting attach¬
ment, I have turned from them with scorn, to think of
Lady Mary Vernon; whose love neither neglect, unkind-
ness, nor even death itself could change, and who followed
the object of her attachment to the grave from which she
could not save him.
MY FOURTH LOVE.
What! (I fancy I hear some indignant fair one say), can
he again have loved ? and has the pure flame, kindled by
the beautiful and sainted Mary, been profaned by some
unworthy successor to her place, in his heart ?
?Alas! it was even so: the grief I thought indestructible,
passed away, like all other things in this sublunary world,
fading day by day, until nothing of it was left but a tender
melancholy, like the softened feeling that a summer's
twilight produces on the mind, or like the memory of
our youth, when that joyou3 season of life has long
departed. Lady Mary was not forgotten. Oh! no; but
she was regarded by me as a vision, beautiful, evanescent,
and indistinct, something to be recurred to in solitude and
in prayer, but too pure, too sacred for this work-o'-day
world. In a few months, I blush to say how, few, I
again mingled with the busy crowd; the time-killers, who
tremble at death, yet find that the frail and uncertain
tenure by which existence is held, passes not rapidly
enough, and therefore try to accelerate its speed by all
the means in their power. I again frequented my old
haunts, the clubs; was a regular equestrian in Hyde Park,
and looked in at most of the fashionable routs and balls
of the season.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
255
Mothers, aunts, and married sisters, honoured me with
no small portion of their attention. My fortune was
magnified into more than double its actual amount, and
I was looked on as that most coveted of all bipeds, a
marrying man, a good parti, or prize, in the lottery of
wedlock, which it behoved all prudent spinsters to endea¬
vour to secure. The lesson I had received from Arabella
Wilton, had made a forcible impression on my mind. I
was now prone to suspect that it was my fortune, and
not myself, that attracted the attentions I received; and
I turned with disgust from every unmarried woman who
said a civil thing, or extended a gracious smile to me,
viewing her as a designing spectatress, who was thinking
only of pin-money, jewels, and all the et ceteras that my
wealth could furnish. I hardly know which is the most
objectionable character of the two, the man whose vanity
misleads him into fancying that every woman who bestows
upon him a kind word or smile is . smitten with him; or
he, who suspects that his fortune gives him irresistible
claims on the attention of her sex. Vanity is a primitivo
weakness; but suspicion is a failing acquired by that
worldly wisdom, which few ever attained, except at the
price of this mean vice.
Having en intuitive fear of the interested motives of
unmarried women, I sought the society of those, who, if
less interested, were not less interesting—I mean the
married. And here, " I could a tale unfold."—But no,
let me forbear, and leave my bonnes fortunes to the
imagination of my readers.
At this period I was presented to Lady Elmscourt,
one of the reigning belles of the day, though as the French
would say, un peu passee. The time which had elapsed
since her diploma of beauty had been conferred upon her
seemed to have set upon it the stamp of universal concur¬
rence. Nobody could question the authenticity of charms,
acknowledged during twenty years; hence, her r eputation
for loveliness passed current, long after the attractions
that had acquired it, had lost their lustre.
My attention was drawn towards her, at the period to
which I am now recurring, not merely by her beautv,
256
THE CONFESSIONS OF
though that might have excused the thraldom of wiser
heads than mine, hut by a certain air of sentiment that
pervaded her countenance; and which, if it amounted not
quite to melancholy, possessed all the softness and charm,
which a gentle pensiveness never fails to lend a handsome
woman in the eyes of a man who has known a disappoint¬
ment of the heart. Lady Elmscourt, however, was even
then arrived at that age, when to guess the precise
number of lustres she had numbered, becomes a difficult
task; admirers always diminishing one, if not two, and
the world in general, and friends in particular, adding an
equal number.
She insinuated, or implied—for what well-bred woman
ever does more on such subjects?—that she was thirty-
three. This acknowledgment was made by references to
epochs, when she was, as she said, quite a child; or to
others, when she first came out. Her cheek had lost
none of its bloom, perhaps it had increased, rather than
diminished the brightness of its hue; for it wore a certain
fixed, though still a fine red, that never appears before
maturity has for some years replaced the delicate and
evanescent tints which belong only to youth.
Her eyes were as brilliant, but less pellucid than
formerly; her hair as glossy, but much less profuse in its
wavy tresses; and her rounded charms approached that
dreaded degree of embonpoint, which indicates the
motherly as well as the matronly character. Certain
slight lines, so slight as to be almost imperceptible,
around the eyes, and a protuberance of the skin beneath
them, furnished the envious with proofs that, as they
coarsely remarked, though she had la chair de poule, she
yet was no chicken. But imposing as was all this evi¬
dence, it failed to convince me that she was other than a
very beautiful and captivating woman, more especially in a
well lighted ball-room, or in the softened shade of her
own boudoir. It is only rendering justice to her taste
to add, that she seldom allowed the garish sun to shine
on her charms, or submitted herself, unveiled, to the dan¬
gerous ordeal of broad daylight.
Blessed with an indulgent husband, a large fortune,
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 257
and uninterrupted good health, what could be the cause
of the apparent melancholy of Lady Elmscourt? This
question I asked myself more than once; and its solution
not only piqued my curiosity, but excited my interest.
A little more discrimination on my part, might have
easily led to a discovery of the source of her chagrin.
But I was never remarkable for being quick-sighted to
the defects of a handsome woman; and in this precise
case was willing to invest with the enobling halo of sen¬
timent, a peculiarity which originated but in weakness of
mind. Lady Elmscourt was mourning over her departed
youth, and departing beauty; the gradual desertion of
which, few women are philosophical enough to behold
with resignation or equanimity. Nor can we blame this
regret, when we consider how much we foster their
vanity; and encourage the culpable notion, that youth
and the charm of person are their surest, if not best
claims on our attachment.
My acquaintance with Lady Elmscourt had ripened
into intimacy; each interview rendering me still more
the slave to her waning charms. I looked on them with
the same feelings with which we regard the setting sun—
a deep admiration for the brilliant, but fading beauty,
mingling with melancholy at the recollection, that its
loveliness is fleeting away, and will soon be irrevocably
lost.
We talked sentiment, that railroad to the heart;
agreed on the insufficiency of the pleasures of a frivolous,
or to use what might be called its synonyme, a fashionable
life, to fill up "the void left aching in the heart." In all
these conversations we tvere, of course, as incomprehen¬
sible and diffuse as sentimentalists usually are; retaining
only the impression, that we were superior to the herd
around us, and' that it was this superiority which ren¬
dered us unhappy, by unfitting us for a contact with
them.
Lady Elmscourt talked, as I thought, eloquently, of
the misery of uncongenial minds, misunderstood feelings,
and crushed sympathies. No definite accusation against
her liege lord was ever uttered, unless it were in the
Tt
258 THE CONFESSIONS OF
avowal, and it was made in bitterness of feeling, that he
had no taste for amatory poetry; laughed, ye3, positively
laughed, at Shenstone's charming pastorals; preferred
Dryden and Pope to the exquisite translations of the
Persian Hafiz; and had a detestation for French
romances. I confess that in my heart I felt a warmer sym¬
pathy with the literary taste of the husband, than with
that of the wife. But this dissimilarity of sentiment I
carefully concealed from her; leaving her, with the usual
hypocrisy of my sex, to imagine, that I considered all
who could differ with her in opinion as mere senseless
clods of earth, and herself a portion of its fine porce¬
lain, fit only to pass into delicate hands.
She talked of the misfortune of marrying while yet a
child; such, she more than insinuated, had been her fate;
and now (and here she looked unutterable things), while
her heart retained all its freshness, the lover of her youth
had degenerated into the husband. Life had lost all its
illusions; and she was—not happy.
When a woman acknowledges to an admirer that she
is not happy, there is but one course left for him to pur¬
sue, which is to swear that he is miserable, and that he
loves madly, hopelessly; taking most artful care that she
shall infer from his looks and tones, as well as from his
speech, that she is the object of this hopeless passion.
Women like to inspire hopeless passions; for even the
most mundane of the sweet sex, always retain some por¬
tion of the pristine romance of their characters; just as
flowers, though withered and faded, still retain some faint
remnant of their native perfume.
I had made some progress in a declaration of this
kind; exaggerating the admiration I felt for her into a
passion, worthy the hero of a French melodrame. During
this rhapsody she looked half pleased, half ashamed; just
as a woman, who is weak but not vicious, may be sup¬
posed to look, when she has by her own folly drawn on
herself the insult I was now offering; an insult which
every woman authorizes, when she is so unthinking and
indelicate, as to repose a questionable confiden^ in the
breast of a stranger. And here let me warn my female
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
259
readers, that such confidences are invariably considered
as direct advances on their parts,
I was in the midst of my passionate avowal of tender¬
ness, when the door was suddenly opened, and in walked
a very good-looking, gentlemanly, middle-aged man,
with a most prepossessing countenance. By-the-bye, I
have often, been struck by the extraordinary disparity of
appearance between men of a certain age, and their
better halves, who generally look like the elder daughters
or younger sisters of then- liege lords, though they are
nearly of the same age. The husband presents his bald
front, from which the locks that once adorned it have
long receded, growing " fine by degrees, and beautifully
less," until only a few lingering locks, of mingled hue,
remain; while the wife presents her head, shaded by
glossy ringlets, or silken braids, as profuse, nay more so,
than when she was indebted for such ornaments to nature,
and not to her coiffeur.
But to quit this digression, and resume my narrative.
Lady Elmscourt seemed for a moment embarrassed; and
no wonder, for there is something peculiarly annoying
to a well-bred woman, in being interrupted in the midst
of a love-scene. Quickly, however, recovering her pre¬
sence of mind, she presented me to the unconscious
intruder on her privacy, who was no other than- her
husband. After the usual civilities, he turned to her,
and said:—
"I am come, my love, to ask a favour of you. The
Duke of Ancaster has lent me his box at Covent Garden
for this evening, and I wish to take Emily to the play.
I know you dislike going; but will you let me be her
chaperon ?"
" Why, really," replied Lady Elmscourt, " I do not
approve of her frequenting theatres—I think the practice
of permitting young people to appear at such places,
highly reprehensible."
" But, my dear," said her lord, deprecatingly, "Emily
is not quite so young as all that. Why, let me see, sho
will be—"
" Oh 1 pray, say no more," interrupted Lady Elmscourt;
260
TIIE CONFESSIONS OF
" it' you have set your heart on taking her, and she desires
to go, I cannot refuse my consent; for I hate disappointing
young people."
" Why, my dear," rejoined her lord, " to hear you
speak, one would imagine Emily to be a child. You
forget how old she is; and that, in a short time, she
will be—"
" Well, well," again interrupted Lady Elfnscourt,
preventing him from finishing the sentence, " if you
really intend her to go, you had better ring the bell, and
have her told to hold herself in readiness."
I took my leave, fancying, as I gave a parting glance
to Lady Elmscourt, and marked the expression of dis¬
content which clouded her brow, that she looked at least
ten years older than when I entered her boudoir. Vanity
whispered that this discontent arose from her mortification
at my hearing that she had a daughter who was, as Lord
Elmscourt emphatically expressed it, no longer a child.
Still, however flattering might be the cause, its effects
on her countenance served to disenchant me exceedingly:
we men being so egregiously selfish, that we are more
disposed to find fault with, than to pity, the evils to
which we ourselves give rise. I once heard an acquaint¬
ance of mine lament that his wife looked extremely ugly,
when jealous; never reflecting that his conduct exposed
her to the passion, and its unembellishing transformation.
When I met Lady Elmscourt at a soiree, the evening
of the day alluded to, looking as blooming as ever, her
dark eyes sparkling with vivacity, and her rich red lips
opening with continual smiles, I forgot that I had thought
her un peu passee in the morning, and became more
assiduous than ever. The general admiration she excited
among the men, enhanced the power of her attractions
in my eyes, and perhaps really increased them; for a
coquettish woman, and she certainly was of that genus,
always looks more captivating when she sees that she is
admired. Never had Lady Elmscourt been more fasci¬
nating and encouraging—perhaps the words might pass
for synonymes — at least in the vocabulary of a vain
man. She smiled on me, as I fancied, with peculiar
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
261
sweetness; but, I dare be sworn, that half a dozen of
my contemporary coxcombs entertained the same impres¬
sion of the smile which she bestowed on them.
She asked me where I intended to pass the autumn;
a question which, with my usual fatuity, I considered to
denote a more than common interest in my movements;
consequently, my reply was the expression of a wish,
that wherever I might be, I trusted it would be at some
place which would admit of my sometimes enjoying the
happiness of her society. She looked rather embarrassed
at this speech, but not displeased; and I began to flatter
myself on the easy conquest I had achieved.
" Where do you pass the autumn ?" asked I, determined
to pursue the course our conversation had taken.
«we g0 Elmscourt Park in July, and shall be
stationary there for some time," replied Lady Elmscourt.
" Is not Elmscourt Park near Alnwick?" demanded I.
" Yes, within a few miles," was the answer.
" Then I shall certainly accept an invitation in your
neighbourhood, often pressed on me," said I, " and trust
I may hope to see you."
I threw into my looks and manner as much meaning
as I could, while making this speech; and she appeared,
if not pleased, at least not offended, by its freedom. She
wore a bouquet of flowers, which furnished me with an
opportunity of addressing to her one of the countless silly
compliments for which flowers supply the theme; and
which are as fade as are generally the objects that suggest
them. I declared my envy of the position of hers, and
my desire to possess them.
" You are really too bad, Mr. Lyster," said she, " and
I must not listen to you."
Now, when a lady tells a gentleman that, " he is too
bad," he is apt to construe her assertion into a sort of
avowal, that he is not bad enough; and, consequently, I
was preparing to repeat some of the numberless platitudes
which fashionable men utter to frivolous women, when
she broke from me, in affected alarm, and joined a group
who were conversing at a little distance. I followed her,
and caught her eyes, which avoided not the encounter of
262 the confessions of
mine; but met and sustained it with an earnest softness
which I should be sorry to see my wife, if I had one,
exhibit to any man.
When the soiree was over, I conducted her to her
carriage; her small hand shrank not from the pressure of
mine; nay, I thought, but it might be only fancy, that
hers returned it, as she placed in it the coveted bouquet.
How slight a circumstance can change the whole current
of our thoughts and feelings 1 As her carriage drove
away, I raised the flowers to my lips; their odour brought
back to memory the dropped bouquet of the lost, the
lovely Lady Mary, and all the sensations which I that
evening experienced.
" She," thought I, " would not have given me her
bouquet. Never could I have presumed to breath an
unhallowed vow in her chaste ear. Her eye would never
have met the gaze of mine with answering tenderness.
No! no 1 Mary was a pure, a spotless, as well as a lovely
woman!"
And, as these thoughts rushed through my mind, I
threw the bouquet from me with disdain; for its late
owner had lost so much by a comparison with the sainted
Lady Mary, that her power over my imagination was at
an end; and I scorned myself for having yielded to her
witchery. If women knew how much of their empire
they lose by weak or guilty concessions, policy would
supply the place of modesty; and men would not so
frequently be furnished with food for the encouragement
of dishonourable hopes, and the gratification of inordinate
vanity.
A gay supper party at my club, in the society of some
six or eight young roues, of fashionable notoriety, dispelled
the melancholy which my reminiscences of Lady Mary had
excited; and the frequent bumpers of champagne, aided
by the libertine Compliments lavished by my companions
on the personal attractions of Lady Elmscourt, revived
my admiration for her. Men are so weak as to be always
influenced by the admiration of other men for a woman:
aud many an embryo passion that might never have been
blown into a flame, and many a nearly extinct one, have
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
263
been rekindled by an accidental commendation of her of
whom we have hitherto either thought but slightly, or
have ceased to think with pleasure. A sure proof, this,
that vanity is, in most cases, the principal fascination in
the love affairs of men. Had my passion for Lady Elms-
court been a sincere one, I could not have borne to have
listened to the free, the libertine compliments, paid to
her person; but, as it was, they gratified my amour
propre, and piqued me to persevere in my attentions to her.
I commenced my route to her house on the next day,
with an unoccupied heart; but with a head filled with the
flattering eulogiums which my gay companions had
bestowed upon her beauty. They thought her a conquest
worthy of contesting, and that she evidently encouraged
my attentions; consequently, every word or glance of hers
was now remembered " as proof as strong as holy writ,"
of her tendresse for me; and, therefore, pour passer le
temps, I was willing to devote to her the idle hours that
had latterly hung heavy on my hands. To get rid of
them, and excite the envy and jealousy of my companions,
were desirable objects; objects which generally furnish
the chief motives in the liaisons which men of fashion
form. So, reflexion faite, as I have said, I bent my
course towards Lady Elmscourt's, the next day, at the
usual hour.
This interview, after the flirtation of the previous night,
must, I felt, lead to a definite understanding between us.
I had gone too far to recede; and her encouragement of
my advances had been too decided, to leave her an excuse
for repelling me. All this I thought over, without a
pulse beating quicker, or one illusion of love warming my
heart. I reflected on my position, and its probable results,
as calmly as if a liaison with a married woman was not
a crime, involving the parties in danger, sin, and shame,
and laying up sorrow and remorse for the future.
This indifference, perhaps, partially arose from having
witnessed the frequency of similar delinquencies in the
society in which I lived; and the feeling, or rather the
utter want of all feelings, which the man of fashion always
habitually exhibits in his liaisons.
264
THE CONCESSIONS OF
In passing through Grosvcnor Square, my attention
was excited by a shriek, if the most harmonious sound of
alarm, that ever met my cars, might be called by so un¬
musical an appellation. I turned, and observed a young
female endeavouring to disengage herself from a large
Newfoundland dog, that jumped on her with more ani¬
mation than violence, he evidently being in play. A
matronly looking lady was using her efforts to force the
dog away; but he pertinaciously continued to jump on
the young lady, to the discomfiture of her robe, as well
as of her person. To run to her rescue, and drive her
canine admirer away, was the work of a moment; but
her large bonnet became untied in the struggle, and fell
from her head, leaving exposed to my ardent gaze one
of the loveliest faces I ever beheld. She might have
served as a model for a Hebe; youth and health lending
all their charms to a countenance, marked by a perfect
regularity of features, joined to a matchless complexion.
Eyes blue, and, by her alarm, suffused with tears, con¬
vinced me, for the first time, of the truth of the old
poetical simile, which compared such eyes to " violets
bathed in dew;" lips like divided cherries, and cheeks
that shamed the rose, with hair of chestnut brown, emu¬
lating the tendrils of the vine, in its wavy spiral curls,
and the softness and gloss of the finest silk in its texture,
with gently curved brows, and long eye-lashes of the
darkest hue, completed the picture of the lovely creature
who stood before me.
I could have gazed on her for ever, but I was recalled
to a sense of propriety by the stern look of the elderly
lady; who having coldly thanked me, and arranged the
discomposed robe of the young beauty, led her off in
another direction.
I stood as if transfixed to the spot, gazing after them,
half, ay, more than half, tempted to follow the route they
had taken, but checked by the repelling looks of the
matron. Who could they be? I would have given
hundreds to have discovered; but, as I had left my groom
and horses at the top of Brook Street, I had no means
of tracing their abode, unless I chose to follow them
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
265
myself. I was, however, so near the house of Lady
Elmscourt, that I decided on entering, determined to
ascertain if she knew any of her youthful neighbours,
who answered to the description of my beautiful incognita.
She received me with her most winning smiles, yet
showing just as much feminine embarrassment, as was
requisite to remind me that she had not forgotten my
advances of the previous night, and, as I thought, to induce
a repetition of them. Nothing forces a man to commit
himself so much, as a woman's betraying that she expects
him so to do. I entered her house with every thought
fixed on another, and totally oblivious of the love speeches
I had so recently addressed to her; but her ostentatious
consciousness of her recollection of them, brought them
all vividly before me; and, like a fool, I now resumed
the same tone of tenderness. 'Twere idle to repeat my
fade compliments, and protestations of attachment; and
her sentimental temporizing, which found expression in
some such original and incoherent phrases as the follow¬
ing;—"It was wrong, yes, she knew it was very wrong
10 listen to me;" an opinion in which I perfectly coin¬
cided. " Friends we might be, and she hoped we always
should be; honour and virtue did not prohibit this; but
more than friends we never could be to each other. She
had duties to perform, duties of a wife and a mother;
and though she esteemed me" (ladies always esteem their
admirers), " I must talk to her no more of love."
Her repulses, if such they might be called, were so
gentle as to encourage rather than rebuke me; all that
she said being only what every woman, similarly situated,
thinks it convendble to say on these occasion; occasions
that had never occurred, had not their own levity and
coquetry induced them; for, no man, who is not a fool,
will ever hazard a declaration of love to a married woman,
who has not previously given him encouragement. She,
however, who has listened to an avowal of illicit passion,
even though she rejects it, has sullied the pristine purity of
her mind; and never was there more truth than in the line—
" He comes too near, who comes to he denied."
I was pouring forth my asseverations of passion when
266 THE CONFESSIONS OF
the door flew suddenly open, and my beautiful incoguita
stood before me, uttering—
" Oh 1 dear mother, pardon this abruptness, but I was
so frightened, and I feared some one might alarm you by
telling you of my panic."
At this moment, her eyes fell on my face; and a
beautiful blush proved her recognition of me.
" But this gentleman has doubtless informed you of
all," continued she, " for he it was who rescued me from
the dog."
I would willingly have laid down my life for the kind
look that accompanied this hurried speech, and the sweet
blush that preceded it; for I was already in love, yes,
positively in love with this charming creature, to whose
mother, five minutes before, I had been offering my vows.
At this moment, Lord Elmscourt entered the salon, and
having met in the anteroom the dame de compagnie,
who had witnessed the attack of the dog, she related the
circumstance to him, attaching more importance to it
than it deserved. He embraced his daughter, who having
pointed me out to him as her deliverer, he was vehement
in his expressions of thanks.
Lady Elmscourt seemed embarrassed, and not uncon¬
scious of my evident admiration of her daughter, near to
whose youthful charms hers sank into shade so completely,
as to be wholly eclipsed. That she loved her was evident;
but that she was anxious to keep her in the background,
was quite as apparent; and, to an unconcerned spectator,
which I, however, was not, it would have been an amusing
study to have observed, how much of the mother was
forgotten in the pretensions of the handsome woman,
jealous of a rival to her charms, even though that rival
was found in her own child.
"You had better retire to your room, my dear Emily,"
said Lady Elmscourt, " and repose yourself. You are
still agitated from your recent alarm."
" She must not, however, depart without thanking her
champion," said her father. " Go, my love, and shake
hands with Mi1. Lyster," and he led her towards me,
covered with blushes.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
267
She held out a hand—oh 1 what a hand 1 small, plump,
dimpled, and fair, as ever met the light. Not the dull,
dead white, produced by the constant use of almond-
paste, cold cream, and half a hundred other cosmetics;
not that opaque white which marks the generality of fine
ladies' hands, and indicates the want of circulation,
arising from—idleness. No, hers was so beautifully
and delicately tinted with a pale pink, that it looked like
the interior of a maiden blush-rose. This exquisite little
hand fluttered in mine, like a frightened bird in the grasp
of a rude school-boy; yet it lingered a moment there too,
while she bestowed on me one eloquent glance of grati¬
tude that spoke more than words; though they were not
wanting, as resuming some portion of her native dignity,
she gracefully and graciously uttered her thanks. Her
father then led her to the door, and I seized my hat, and
retreated; dreading to find myself, even for a moment,
alone with the mother, while every pulse of my heart
was beating for the daughter.
"I hope, Mr. Lyster," said Lord Elmscourt, "that
you have no engagement for to-morrow, and that you
will give us the pleasure of seeing you at dinner."
Though I had an engagement, I hesitated not to accept
his invitation, that I might again behold Lady Emily.
I left the house as much in love as if I had never expe¬
rienced the passion before; and, vain fool that I was.
ready as ever to believe, that the object of my passion
was already disposed to share it.
Love is, I think, like fever—one severe attack leaves
the patient subject to relapses through youth; and each
succeeding one renders him more weakened, and conse¬
quently, more exposed to future assaults.
I thought of Emily every hour through the rest of the
day, and naturally enough dreamt of her at night. I
counted the time with impatience until I could present
myself at Grosvenor Square; and at last ascended the
stairs of her father's mansion, agitated by hope and fear,
as each of these passions alternately suggested the chances
for or against my seeing her. I found Lord Elmscourt
268 the confessions of
in the drawing-room alone, and received a most cordial
welcome from him.
" I have been endeavouring," said he, " to prevail on
Lady Elmscourt to permit Emily to dine with us to-day,
as we have only yourself and two of our country neigh¬
bours, who have known her since her birth; but my
efforts have been unavailing. She will, however, join us
at dessert, which she always does when we are en petite
committee;'''' and he rubbed his hands joyfully, as if in
anticipation of the pleasure of seeing her.
He seemed to have an instinctive feeling that I had
taken a lively interest in her; and that her presence
would have been as agreeable to me as to him. Lady
Elmscourt entered the room, attired with even more than
usual care; but, in spite of the elegance and studied
effort of her toilet, it struck me that she looked more
fanee than I had ever observed' her to look before. I
remarked the strong resemblance between her and her
lovely daughter; a resemblance so disadvantageous to
Her ladyship, that it at once reminded the beholder of
that, which she evidently took much pains to make them
forget, namely, her age.
The two country neighbours were very similar to the
generality of that genus. They ate considerably, and
talked eternally of country affairs; of commons to be
inclosed, packs of hounds to be given up, and other, to
me, equally interesting topics. At last, one of them
remarked how exceedingly well her ladyship was looking,
" quite as well, indeed, as if she had not a grown
daughter to bring out."
This observation occasioned an increase of colour in
the cheek of Lady Elmscourt; but, I scarcely need add,
the blush contained more of anger than of pleasure.
They were continually referring to circumstances that
had formerly occurred; reminding Lady Elmscourt, that
such, or such an event, took place about seventeen years
ago, just after the period of Lady Emily's birth. Then,
one of them perfectly remembered the illumination in the
village of Elmscourt at that epoch; while the other quite as
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
269
vividly recollected, that, at the county ball the year before,
he had had the honour of opening the ball with her ladyship.
She was evidently discomposed at their mal-a-propos
reminiscences; and suffered under the infliction to which
her vanity and assumption of juvenility exposed her.
But her tormentors seemed totally unconscious that she
did not derive as much satisfaction as themselves, from
their diverting recollections of the past.
Dinner over, and the dessert placed on the table,
Lord Elmscourt desired the groom of the chambers to
inform Lady Emily that she was expected in the salle h
manger. I felt my heart beat quicker at this message,
and was conscious that I was exhibiting my discomposure,
as I caught the eye of Lady Elmscourt fixed on me, with,
as I thought, a scrutinizing glance.
The servant quickly returned, saying that Lady Emily
was not quite well, and had retired to bed. I fancied
that I perceived a smile of malicious triumph on Lady
Elmscourt's face, as she regarded me, noting, as I dare
be sworn she did, an expression of deep disappointment
on my countenance. Already a romance was composed
in my imagination: Emily, the beauteous Emily, was its
heroine, and my unworthy self its hero. The mother in
love with me, and suspicious of her daughter, complicated,
and gave interest to, the plot; my beloved and I were
to be exposed to all the machinations of jealousy; and
this prevention of Lady Emily's presence at the dessert,
was the first active step of the drama.
" Did you know that Emily was ill, my aear?" asked
the alarmed father. "It is very strange; for I saw her
a short time before I descended to the drawing-room,
and she appeared in perfect health. I must really go
and see what is the matter with her;" and apologizing
to us for his absence, he left the room.
The country neighbours seized that opportunity of
discussing the probability of an approaching dissolution
of parliament, a probability in those days as often antici¬
pated by the persons who desired it, as in these.
Lady Elmscourt, in a sotto voce, asked me if I did not
admire Lady Emily?
270
THE CONFESSIONS OF
The question embarrassed me, for I dared not say how
much I admired her; and a cold assent would have
appeared hypocritical. I was sure that Lady Elmscourt
was narrowly examining my countenance during the
interrogation; for, though I did not see that her eyes
were on me, yet I felt that they were; and this con¬
sciousness added to my confusion.
I was relieved by the entrance of Lord Elmscourt,
leading in triumph his lovely daughter, her eyes sparkling
with animation, and her cheeks blooming with the roses
of health; and the glad smile that played round her lips,
I took to be an unequivocal symptom of her pleasure at
seeing me. I could not forbear stealing a look at her
mother; and though it was but the glance of a moment,
I discovered dissatisfaction, nay, more than that merely
negative feeling, portrayed on her countenance; at least,
such was my uncharitable conclusion.
"Well, for once I have defeated the manoeuvres of
Mrs. Yilliers," said our host, rubbing his hands with an
air of great satisfaction. " I was sure Emily was not
ill; and equally sure that she was longing to be with us."
Lady Elmscourt positively blushed, an irrefragable
proof, as my vanity whispered, that the manoeuvre of
keeping Lady Emily from us, was hers, and not Mrs.
Yilliers'.
" Emily, here are your old friends, Sir John Belton
and Mr. Thorold; and your new friend, Mr. Lyster. They
are each and all glad to see you, I can answer for it; Mr.
Lyster especially, if, as I believe, it be true, that we
always like those whom we have served. I am not casuist
enough to know whether the obliged entertain the same
feeling, but I think too well of my Emily to suspect her
of ingratitude. So, I take for granted, that she is as glad
to see Mr. Lyster as he evidently is to see her."
I could not resist stealing a look at Lady Emily at
this observation, and was vain enough to be delighted at
perceiving her cheeks suffused with blushes. Her eyes,
too, were cast down with a pretty embarrassment, that
lent her new charms, and called forth a remark from the
obtuse Mr. Thorold,—" That he would lay a wager, there
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
271
was no ingratitude in Lady Emily's heart towards Mr.
Lyster." Having made this acute observation, he chuckled
with that peculiar laugh, to which country gentlemen of
a certain age, and who rarely quit their own country, are
prone.
I pitied the increased embarrassment of the beautiful
girl, which this silly speech had occasioned; and her
mother, too, seemed to dislike the tone the conversation
had taken; for her lynx eye had detected its effect on me.
"We all expected that Lady Emily would have been
presented at court this season," said Sir John Belton;
" and Lady Belton aud my daughters looked through all
the papers to see her name, and the description of her
dress."
" I thought young ladies were always presented when
they had completed their seventeenth year," interrupted
Mr. Thorold, " and Lady Emily entered her eighteenth
in April.
"Ah! Lady Elmscourt, how old our children make us
appear; but, ' weeds of grace grow apace,' as the old
verse says. Why, there is my eldest daughter, who is
two months younger than Lady Emily, and she has been
a wife these seven months; nay more, will soon be a
mother. Fancy that, my lady; every dog has his day,
as the old saying is. I shall soon be a grandfather; and
you, my lady, how will you like being a grandmother, eh?
And yet all this must happen very soon; for Lady Entily
is not one who will be left long on your hands. Will
she, Mr. Lyster? Apropos," (she did not say of what),
" Lord Belmont is expected home from Italy in August,
is he not?"
The lovely Emily was covered with blushes, but,
whether at the mention of marriage in general, or Lord
Belmont in particular, I could not discover. Her mother,
however, relieved her by rising from table and leaving
the room; Lord Elmscourt making no effort to detain
them, as he also was embarrassed by the blunt coarseness
of his stupid, but well meaning neighbour. I had a
presentiment that Emily would not eseape some unkind-
ness from her mother; and this fear, mingled with a
272
THE CONFESSIONS OF
vague dread of Lord Belmout and the apropos, haunted
ine during the long hour and a half that elapsed before
we were summoned to coffee in the drawing-room, where
Emily was—not.
Lady Elmscourt assumed an air of dignified coldness
towards me; for which I respected, and would have
thanked her, had I not been persuaded that jealousy and
dislike had usurped the softer, but more reprehensible
feeling, she appeared to have entertained for me the
previous day. How did I execrate the folly that urged
me to feign a passion I never felt. All the enormity of
my conduct stood exposed to my view. The immorality
of seeking to form a liaison with a married woman, now,
for the first time, appeared to me in its true colours,
ineffably wicked and sinful; and I became shocked at my
past conduct. All this renovation of my slumbering
morality, and for which I was so ready to give myself
credit, arose not from sober conviction of wrong, but
from selfishness alone. It had sprung into life in a few
hours, engendered by the captivation of Lady Emily;
and I at present, consequently, considered her mother's
former encouragement of my attentions highly culpable.
How severely I judged her now, who, only two days
before, I professed to love, and really did admire 1
Such is man; ever selfish, ever solely regardful of
his own gratification; glossing over the crimes that
administer to his pleasures, and condemning them with
unmitigated severity when they have ceased to be desir¬
able.
I had such a conviction of Lady Elmscourt's lingering
tendresse for me, that to continue my accustomed visits
to her would be impossible; for they must have led to
an explanation of my altered sentiments, painful to me,
and humiliating to her. To have assumed the manner
of a mere acquaintance, after the impassioned vows I had
made her, must have excited her anger; and to have
persevered in even the semblance of attachment to her,
I felt to be literally impracticable. Nothing remained
for me, therefore, but to absent myself from her house;
only calling occasionally, when I knew she was pot at
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
273
home, in order that the sudden cessation of my visits
might not give room for observations.*
I sauntered through Grosvenor Square frequently, in
the hope of meeting Lady Emily; but, alasl in vain:—
she never appeared. At length I began to despair of
seeing her again, when, one fine morning, wishing to try
a horse I was about to purchase, I rode into Hyde Park,
at, for me, an unusually early hour; and while galloping
up Constitution Hill, encountered Lady Emily and her
father, on horseback. The good Earl made me many
friendly reproaches for having absented myself from
Grosvenor Square; and Emily looked down and blushed,
while answering my inquiries about her health.
How exquisitely lovely she appeared! her riding-habit
displaying the perfect symmetry of her form, and the
breeze agitating the beautiful ringlets, which at one
moment shaded her delicate cheeks, and the next floated
on the air. Though a timid rider, she looked most grace¬
fully on horseback; and I gazed on her with a delight,
the demonstrations of which I felt it difficult to repress.
" Emily only commenced riding the day before yester¬
day," said her father, in answer to some remark of mine
—"I thought she looked pale of late, for want of
exercise."
My heart, beat quicker at this intelligence. Yes, it
must be so; her paleness was connected with my absence;
and, vain blockhead that I was 1 I set this down in my
mind a3 a certain proof that I had already made a deep
impression on her youthful heart.
" Ever since the day you rescued her from her canine
admirer," resumed Lord Elmscourt, " my wife has not
permitted her to walk in the square, lest a similar accident
might occur. There is nothing, after all, Mr. Lyster,
like a mother's love; and Emily's mother is always
uneasy when she is out of her sight."
Poor, good-natured man, thought I; little does he
imagine the real motive of this anxiety, which I pene¬
trated at once, and, with my usual sagacity, set down to
Lady Elmscourt's jealousy. Such quick perception does
vanity bestow on its slaves! One of the almost number-
s
274
THE CONFESSIONS OF
less advantages of goodness is, that it blinds its possessor
to many of those faults in others which could not fail to
be detected by the morally defective. A consciousness
of unworthiness renders people extremely quick-sighted
in discerning the vices of their neighbours; as persons
can easily discover in others the symptoms of those
diseases beneath which they themselves have suffered.
This freedom from suspicion, which is one of the attributes
of virtue, "is its own exceeding great reward;" and
constituted in Lord Elmscourt a source of perpetual
content, which the knowledge that grows of the tree of
evil might have for ever destroyed.
"Lady Elmscourt," continued he, "will only permit
Emily to ride before breakfast, as she dreads her being
exposed to the encounter of all the bold equestrians who
frequent the Park at a more fashionable hour; conse¬
quently, we finish our ride ere you fine gentlemen are
thinking of commencing your day."
An elderly acquaintance now joined Lord Elmscourt;
and this accession to our party gave me an opportunity
of conversing with his beautiful daughter. To the bashful
timidity of a child, arising from the seclusion in which
she had been immured, she joined the good sense and
refinement of a highly cultivated young woman; and
this rare mixture of infantine bashfulness and maidenly
dignity, added new lustre to her charms. If I loved her
before hearing the justness of her remarks, or being
acquainted with the propriety and delicacy of her senti¬
ments, of which every word she uttered gave proof, how
was my passion increased on discovering the superiority
of her mind, and the fascination-of her manners.
But even these feelings, highly wrought as they were,
were enhanced by the belief that she entertained for me
a more than common interest; a belief that can render a
woman, of even mediocre pretensions, attractive in the
eyes of all men.
I rode with them until we arrived at the door of her
father's mansion, and joyfully accepted an invitation to
dine with them at an early hour on the following day,
and afterwards accompany them to the theatre.
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 275
"Can you make up your mind to sit out play and
farce?" asked Lord Elmscourt; "for Emily likes to see
all the performances. We shall only be three in the box,
for Lady Elmscourt rarely enters a theatre; so, unless
you are a regular play-going person, you will probably
be bored by our long evening there."
The next morning found me galloping round the Park,
true as a needle to the pole; but the magnet that attracted
me was not there; and, again, I immediately accounted
for her absence, by attributing it to the jealousy of her
mother.
Punctual as lovers used to be forty years ago, I was
at Grosvenor Square at the appointed Lour. Lady
Elmscourt received me with cold politeness, her lord
with friendly warmth, and Lady Emily with blushing
kindness. I ventured to ask whether the latter had
pursued her equestrian exercise in the morning; and
detected, in the opposite mirror, a smile, which seemed
to me pregnant with malice, on the features of Lady
Elmscourt; while her lord replied—
" Oh! no, there is an end to our rides while wo stay
in London; for Lady Elmscourt has taken to early rising,
and drives out into the country with Emily, in an open
carriage, before breakfast.''
"So, here,'' thought I, "is convincing proof of tho
justice of my suspicions!" And a feeling of anger was
kindled in my breast at finding that the jealousy of the
coquettish mother would preclude me from any opportu¬
nity of seeing her charming daughter. At the theatre,
at least, however, I shall certainly have the pleasure of
conversing with her, untrammelled by the presence of
this female Argus, whispered Hope. Judge, then, of my
annoyance, gentle reader, when it was announced that
this object of all my apprehensions, this destroyer of all
my fondest desires and plans, intended to form one of the
party. I am sure my countenance betrayed my feelings
to the wily mother. I wished her—I will not say where—■
anywhere, however, rather than in our presence, an ever
vigilant and malicious spy on every word and look of
mine.
276 THE CONFESSIONS OF
At the theatre, Lady Elmscourt manoeuvred so skilfully,
that she placed herself between her daughter and me, so
that I could neither look at nor speak to her, without
exposing myself to the observation of mamma. I sat in
perfect purgatory; longing, yet not daring, to interchange
a word with the lovely girl, who evidently seemed to
observe the alteration in my manner from what it had
been the day before. How I hated, yes, positively
hated, Lady Elmscourt, for thus thwarting my wishes;
and yet, this was the very woman in whose ear, only a
few days before, I had breathed vows of love I Such
was my selfishness, that, though believing her still to
entertain more than a strong predilection for me, I pitied
not the mortification which my conduct was so calculated
to inflict on her. I thought not of her feelings, I thought
only of my own; nor blushed at my all-engrossing egotism.
Having heard Lord Elmscourt make an allusion to the
portraits of his wife and daughter, just finishing by a
celebrated artist of that day, I called, on the following
morning, at the studio of the painter, and saw two of
the most faultless resemblances I ever beheld. Having
praised them highly as works of art, I with much diffi¬
culty persuaded the artist to make me copies of both.
Heaven knows, I now felt little desire to possess that of
Lady Elmscourt 1 though ten days before, I should have
considered it a most desirable acquisition; but to prevent
the suspicions of the artist, I professed an equal desire
to acquire both. Thus it was that the miniatures now
before me became mine.
Lord Elmscourt had taken quite a fancy to me. We
never met in the street—for I dared not do more than
occasionally leave my card at his door—that he did not
reproach me for the unfrequency of my visits, and invite
me to dine with him. His invitations I had not self-
command enough to decline, as I was sure of seeing
Lady Emily at the dessert; who, as I have before stated,
invariably made her appearance with the fruit and flowers,
whose freshness she rivalled. The ceremonious civility,
but marked coldness of Lady Elmscourt, rendered, how¬
ever, a seat at her table peculiarly disagreeable; parti-
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
277
cularly to a person who felt that he deserved her bad
opinion. But what would I not have endured to have
the happiness of seeing her lovely daughter 1 on whom I
doted with a passion, such as youth and beauty like hers
alone could have inspired. Nor was I without hope that
she felt a decided preference for me; for when did the
vanity of man fail to whisper hope on such occasions?
All the blushing timidity arising from youthful inexpe¬
rience, and the- utter seclusion in which she had been
brought up, I considered as incontestable proof of an
incipient passion for me, which it only required time and
opportunity to cultivate into a strong attachment. If,
therefore, I ever experienced a dread of not winning this
charming creature, it arose in no doubt of her willingness
to be mine, but in a fear that her mother would never
consent to our union.
My hopes of happiness were raised almost to certainty,
when Lord Elmscourt gave me a pressing invitation to
visit them in the autumn, in the country. This I looked
on as a decided proof of encouragement of my attentions
to his daughter. I accepted it with joyful anticipations,
and longed for the moment that was to see me domiciled
beneath the same roof with Lady Emily. I had now
become accustomed to the cold ceremoniousness of the
mistress of the mansion; and could hardly be said to
enjoy existence out of the presence of her lovely daughter.
As the season drew to its close, Lord Elmscourt and
his family departed for their seat in Northumberland. I
found it difficult to support this short separation from
my soul's idol, and counted the hours until I was to
rejoin her. The day before that fixed for my departure
for Elmscourt Park, my horse in cantering over the
pavement placed his foot on a loose stone, and came to
the ground with such force as to cause me to sprain an
ankle, and dislocate my wrist. Never did accident occur
so inopportunely, and never was one borne with so little
patience!
My anxiety and ill-humour, I am persuaded, consider¬
ably retarded my recovery; but, at the end of five
intolerably tedious weeks, I set out for Northumberland.
278
THE CONFESSIONS OF
On arriving at Elmscourt Park, my joy at the prospect
of again beholding Lady Emily was indescribable. I
fancied myself not only a lover, but almost an accepted
one; for the kind letter written to me by Lord Elmscourt
to renew his invitation, contained a passage that confirmed
my vain hopes.
"Pray come to us as soon as you are able," wrote
the good-natured earl; " we are to have some very dear
friends here soon, with whom I am anxious to make you
acquainted."
What could this mean but that I was to be presented
to those dear friends as the suitor of his daughter? Yes,
it must be so; and my spirits rose in proportion to the
expectations this pavagraph excited.
The family had retired to dress for dinner when I
arrived, so that my first meeting with them was in the
library; where I found half a dozen guests assembled,
and Lady Emily looking more lovely than ever. Dolt
and idiot that I was, I fancied that in the evident
pleasure she evinced in welcoming me to her natal home,
there was mingled an embarrassment in her manner,
that could only arise from a conscious preference for me.
I was presented to the Marquis of Ambleside, and
his son the Earl of Belmont, the most strikingly handsome
young man I had ever seen; and had I not been assured
by my vanity, that Lady Emily's reception of me forbade
my entertaining a doubt of her partiality, I should have
been alarmed by the presence of one who might have
proved so dangerous a rival.
Lady Elmscourt seemed to have quite recovered her
former amiability of manner; and was looking so young
and handsome, that even near her daughter she must
have been admired by the most fastidious connoisseur in
beauty.
When dinner was announced, the Marqui3 of Amble¬
side conducted our hostess to the salle a manger. I
waited, expecting to see Lord Belmont offer his arm to
Lady Emily; but, to my surprise, as well as delight, her
father seized my hand, and desired me to lead her to
dinner. This I considered as an open acknowledgment
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
279
of my position as an accredited suitor; and I looked with
something of triumph towards Lord Belmont, expecting
to see him overwhelmed with mortification. But no
symptom of any such feeling appeared; and I wondered
at his insensibility, where such a prize as Lady Emily
was in question.
Seated next to this lovely creature, and now consider¬
ing myself in the light of an acknowledged lover, I devoted
the whole of my attentions to her during dinner. I was
in the highest possible spirits, and my gaiety seemed con¬
tagious, as all the party partook in it. I saw, or fancied
I saw, a malicious smile on the countenance of Lady
Elmscourt, as she observed the animation and self-
complacency of my manner; and, what a little piqued me,
occasionally detected looks of intelligence interchanged
by Lady Emily and Lord Belmont, indicative of the ex¬
istence of a more familiar intercourse between them, than
I wished my future bride to have with any man save me.
While I was meditating on the decorum, if not prudery,
which I should exact from my fair neighbour when I
should have a right to dictate to her, I was thunderstruck
by hearing the Marquis of Ambleside, in a voice too
clear and distinct to admit of a doubt of its correctness,
ask Lady Belmont to drink wine with him. I gazed
around to discover whether there was not some mistake,
01* to ascertain to whom this civility was addressed; but,
to my utter horror and dismay, saw his lordship's cold
formal eyes fixed on Lady Emily, who quietly assented
to his proposal, totally unconscious of my state of mind I
I felt the blood recede from my heart, and mount to
my temples. I feared I should fall from my chair, so
sudden and overpowering was the shock I had received.
But a glass of water revived me, and prevented any
exhibition of what was passing in my breast.
" Mr. Lyster, permit me to have the pleasure of
drinking wine with you," said Lord Belmont; "I know I
am your debtor, for having rescued Lady Belmont from
the boisterous attentions of a dog. Emily wrote me a full
account of the affair; and did ample justice, I assure you,
to the prowess of her preux chevalier, on the occasion."
280 the confessions of
How like a fool I felt at this moment 1 nor did the
arch glance, shot from the bright eyes of Lady Elmscourt,
assist to re-assure me.
When the ladies had left the room, and we had drawn
our chairs socially together, Lord Elmscourt asked me if
I was not surprised when I received his letter, announcing
the marriage of his daughter, which had been celebrated
a week before. This letter I missed, by having left
London the day it must have arrived there.
" The marriage was arranged two years ago," said
Lord Elmscourt, " when the young people fell in love.
We old folk thought them too young to be married; an
opinion to which Belmont was by no means disposed to
assent. As, however, we were obstinate, he was obliged
to submit; and took the opportunity of his probation to
make a long tour on the continent. He exacted a
promise that Emily should not be presented at court, or
go into society, until his return; a promise that her
mother, as you may remember, rigidly enforced. Belmont
only returned to claim'his bride three weeks ago; and
a happier pair it would be impossible to find."
Never did a man feel more wretched, or look more like
a fool than I did, through this interminable evening!
A thousand nameless little acts of tenderness were
mutually exhibited by the bride and bridegroom; and on
such occasions Lady Elmscourt looked at me with a smile,
which seemed to say, "Behold, vain fool, the proof of the
error into which your egregious vanity has led you."
The next day Sir John Belton arrived to spend a short
time at Elmscourt Park, when he renewed his acquaintance
with me, with that cordiality common to the now nearly
extinct race of country squires. Talking of our host and
the family, he observed—
" They are capital people; I know few such, and now,
that my lady is nearly cured of the only fault she ever
had—"
" And what may that be?" interrupted I, expecting to
hear something not creditable to her reputation.
"Why, Lord bless you, have you not found it out?
I thought you Londoners had been sharper. Well, then,
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
281
if the truth must be told, my lady's only fault was a
desire to remain, or at least to be considered, young, and
to be admired. This led her to be rather too civil to
every coxcomb who fancied himself her admirer, and
obtained the reputation of a coquette for a woman who,
in fact, never had an evil intention. A more affectionate
wife or mother does not exist; though she was addicted
to sentimentality, and to a love of exciting admiration."
I felt the blush of shame rise to my brow, at finding
how totally duped I had been by my vanity.
All the romance I had created in my imagination, of
a jealous mother and a persecuted daughter, enamoured
of me, fell to the ground. Neither of them had ever
possessed one particle of affection for me; the first only
encouraging my attentions out of love for admiration;
and the second only blushing and smiling, because
blushes and smiles were as natural to her as perfume is
to the rose.
Thus ended my fifth passion; and I left Elmscourt
Fark, a disappointed, a humiliated, but whether or not
a corrected man, the future will disclose.
282
the confessions of
MY SIXTH LOYE.
The lesson my vanity received at Elmscourt Park, ren¬
dered me cautious of again exposing myself to similar
punishment. Well and wisely has it been said, that love
soon dies when deprived of the nourishment of hope; but
no writer has touched on the velocity with which the
winged archer-boy sickens, when vanity has been wounded,
nor how rapidly he ceases to remember a flame connected
with associations mortifying to his amour propre. I
hated to think that Lady Elmscourt was merely a weak,
vain coquette, encouraging my admiration for the grati¬
fication of her vanity; repulsing my attentions more
gently than they deserved to be repulsed, when they
became too explicit for even her lax notions of propriety;
and not caring two straws about me individually.
Yes, I hated to think her merely a vain coquette,
instead of a wicked woman, attached to me by an unholy
passion, jealous of her own daughter, and manoeuvring
to prevent my winning that daughter. To remember her
was mortifying, and therefore I soon banished her from
my mind. The Lady Emily quickly shared the same
exile from my memory; for, how could I bear to recollect
that the downcast looks, rosy blushes, and sweet embar¬
rassment, I had so often marked with such self-compla¬
cency, were constitutional accessories to her beauty, and
had not the slightest reference to me; nay, that while I
dreamt my presence caused them, she was thinking
only of another, and that other her betrothed husband.
I plunged into every gaiety which presented itself, to
endeavour to mitigate the sense of humiliation which
rankled in my mind. From this period I became more
suspicious than ever of female attentions; turned with
AN ELDERLY tiENTLEMAN.
283
distaste from any approach to the sentimental in conver¬
sation ; grew almost angry if a young lady cast down her
eyes, or blushed, in my presence; though, fortunately
for my equanimity of temper, blushes were, even then, as
seldom seen in good company as now.
Chance took me to Cheltenham, which was, at that
period, a very different place to the luxurious town it is
to-day. While sauntering through the street, I there
met an old gentleman whom I had occasionally encoun¬
tered at the houses of several of our mutual friends; and
we renewed our acquaintance with somewhat of that
cordiality which Englishmen rarely experience; or, at
least, rarely demonstrate, except when they come into
contact in places with which they are not familiar.
He asked me to dine with him the next day, and I
discovered we-were inmates in the same caravanserai.
On returning to mine inn, having left Sir Thomas Villiers,
my old acquaintance, in the news-room, I encountered on
the stairs two ladies, who were descending. I drew
aside to make room for them, taking off my hat at the
same time; a politeness which they acknowledged by
slight curtsies, though they passed me instantly. I saw
that one of them was extremely handsome, and the other
tolerably good looking.
I retired to my chamber early that night, and, while
undressing, heard female voices in the next room; which
being divided from mine by a slight moveable panneled
partition only, allowed mo to hear every word of the
following dialogue:—
"No, you may say what you will, Eliza, but you cannot
persuade me that it can be agreeable to marry a man old
enough to be my father, who wears creaking boots and
a horrible wig. The very thought of it makes me ill."
" But, really, Miss Villiers—"
"Pray, don't Miss Villiers me. Dear Eliza, call me
Caroline, Cary, as papa does; anything but Miss, it is
so formal."
" Well, then, dear Caroline, surely Sir Henry Moreton
is not so very old; and he really is still a handsome man."
" Why, the very words you use, Eliza, prove he is no
284
THE CONFESSIONS OF
fit husband for me. Not so very old—humph 1 and still
a handsome man. Why may not I, a passable looking
girl, (though I say it myself, who ought not to say it),
with, heaven knows how many thousands to my fortune,
find a husband (and I am in no sucb hurry, either) who
is only half a dozen years older than myself? a disparity of
years which would make him of the mature age of twenty-
four, and neither too young to look after a wife, nor too
old to have a sympathy in her pleasures.'1
" But, perhaps he might not possess the large fortune
of Sir Henry—his fine seat in the country, his grand
mansion in town.''
" Pooh, pooh! a fig for each, and all. How provoking
it is of you, Eliza, not to remember that, having these
agremens of my own already, by marrying Sir Henry, I
only acquire duplicates of them; and who values dupli¬
cates?—incumbrances of which people always wish to
get rid. If I dislike my husband, shall I be less miser¬
able in a fine house than in a poor one? Will his large
fortune buy happiness? No, no; the creaking shoe3 and
the odious wig would be as unbearable, nay, perhaps
more so, encompassed by luxuries, than if I were com¬
pelled to pore upon them in some humble abode, where
poverty might blunt fastidiousness."
" But a3 your papa has set his heart on the match—"
" And as my papa's daughter has set her heart against
the match, what is to be done? I know papa only
marries me to Sir Henry, to secure some one to play chess
with him every night. Oh! you may laugh, but it is
true nevertheless."
" Why, how can you, dear Caroline, suspect so good
a father as yours, of being so selfish as to sacrifice his
only child for his own gratification?"
" But he does not see any sacrifice-in the affair. My
father has outlived even the memory of youthful feelings;
and therefore has no sympathy with them. . He thinks
that riches and chess form the happiness of life, because
they form his; and, consequently, that he is securing
mine, in giving my hand to Sir Henry. When I have
spoken to him on this subject, he has only shaken his
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
285
head and exclairbed, ' Ah! Caiy, you are a little fool,
you know not what is for your good; when you are as
old as I am, you will think as I do.' ' But, sir,' I have
replied, ' before that period arrives, a great many years
must elapse, and before the love of riches and chess comes,
one has occasion for some other'—' Love, you would say,'
he has rejoined, filling up the pause in my sentence; ' No,
no, Cary, love is all moonshine and stuff—never stands a
year's wear and tear. But money and chess are the
summa bona of life; one never gets tired of them.'' And
thus, probably, ends the conversation, of which this is a
specimen. How, therefore, reason with papa, when he
is sure to repeat over and over again the same argument?
Besides, whenever I have said something peculiarly
incontrovertible, he grows angry, tells nae not to be
undutiful, and again very politely assures me that I am
a little fool."
" I am certain, dear Caroline, that he loves you too
well, to persist in forcing you into this marriage, as soon
as he shall have discovered how exceedingly averse to it
you are."
" And I am certain, Eliza, that he loves his own
enjoyments too well, not to persist; convinced as he is,
that this marriage will secure them. He loves me just
enough to desire to retain me always near him; and loves
chess so inordinately, as to desire to retain Sir Henry
Moreton (who affords him a victory every night) per¬
petually with him. This hopeful marriage accomplishes
both these desirable ends; and, consequently, be assured,
he will never consent to its being broken off. Heigh ho 1
what a wretched prospect! Now, if Sir Henry was like
that handsome, gentlemanly man we met on the stairs
to-day—I wonder who he can be? Did you observe
what beautiful hair he displayed when he took off his
hat? He wore no wig, I can answer for it; and his
boots did not creak."
I had been hitherto amused, rather than interested, by
the dialogue, to which I could not avoid being a listener.
But at the mention of the " handsome, gentlemanly
man," my attention became riveted; and I instantly
286
THE CONFESSIONS OF
began to take a lively interest in the speaker, who had
so denominated me; for me I was positive it must be.
I immediately set down in my own mind that Caroline
must be the lovely girl I had seen on the stairs, and
Eliza, her companion; and, for once, I was not wrong in
my conjectures.
" What a pretty name is Caroline," thought I; "and
how I should like to be privileged to abridge it into
Cary. She who bears it is vivacious and clever. How
naive were her observations on her father, and how just
on other points. She is a charming person 1"
And here, reader, for the sixth time, my heart became
touched, ay, sensibly touched; and the wily god, Love,
for the nonce, found an entrance to it by the ears. Man!
man! wilt thou never be wise? Only two minutes before
the mention of "the handsome, gentlemanly man,"I had
set down Caroline as a pert, flippant, self-conceited girl;
but now she appeared a prodigy of talent and vivacity,
and I longed, ardently longed, to make her acquaintance.
The voices in the next room died away by degrees,
into monosyllables, ending in a kind good-night. Then
I, too, sought my pillow; my self-complacency increased,
to dream of the charming Caroline, who had administered
this soothing opiate.
I passed up and down stairs next day much more
frequently than my sorties from the house required; but
I met not her who occupied all my thoughts. The day
appeared unusually long, and I looked forward with dread
to a dull, drowsy tete-a-tete dinner with Sir Thomas Vil-
liers. But, imagine my surprise, my joyful surprise,
when, on entering his apartment, I discovered the two
ladies I had seen the day before on the stairs, who were
introduced to me as Miss Villiers, his daughter, and her
friend, Miss Percy. Not a single blush, or the slightest
symptom of embarrassment, marked Miss Villiers' recog¬
nition of me, as she gracefully curtsied in return to my
respectful salutation.
" How strange," thought I, "that the introduction to
' the handsome, gentlemanly looking man,' produces so
little effect on her. But, she is too clever, I suppose, to
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
287
be always blushing, like Lady Emily; and yet I should
have liked to have seen a little consciousness iu her
manner."
Nothing could be more agreeable than the dinner,
thanks to the animation and naive remarks of Miss
Yilliers; for her friend was a well-bred, but rather
taciturn, person, more given to enact a listener than a
talker; and Sir Thomas's conversation had no merit save
that of serving a3 a foil to the wit of his lovely daughter.
Miss Yilliers was singularly beautiful; a beauty that
consisted even more in expression than in features, though
hers were nearly faultless. Her eyes were of dark blue;
and might have been considered too dazzling, from their
constant flashing (no other word can I find to convey
their beaming vivacity), had they not been shaded by
lashes whose length and jetty hue softened their lustre.
Her nose was neither Roman nor Grecian, but, according
to my taste, much prettier than either of those classical
models; it was what the French call mignon, and un peu
retrousse. Her mouth was small, with full red lips, as
like Suckling's description of those of his mistress, as if
it had been written for them; and her teeth, those indis¬
pensable requisites to beauty, were matchless.
The only fault a hypercritical connoisseur in loveliness
could have detected in this charming face, was, that the
cheek-bones were rather too high and prominent, hinting
that their owner had either Irish or Scots blood in her
veins. But even this peculiarity added to the piquancy
of her countenance. Her hair was of the darkest shade
of brown, and her complexion of the most brilliant and
healthful tint. Never did I behold a face so captivating,
nor so lavishly endowed with an endless variety of ex¬
pression 1 Now sparkling with archness, and in the
following moment softly beaming with all the touching
innocence and amiability of a gentle child. But, if a
fault might have been discovered in her face, the most
fastidious critic would have vainly looked for one in her
figure, which was symmetry itself. Slight, yet beautifully
round, every movement betrayed some new grace 1 and
her hands and feet (those infallible indications of high
288 the confessions of
birth), were of such exquisite proportions that they would
have redeemed almost any personal defect, had such
existed.
I know not whether my female readers are aware of
the high place we men accord to delicately formed hands
and feet, among the indispensable-requisites to beauty;
but few, if any men, can be found who will not admit,
that no other charms can compensate for the want of
them.
To return, however, to the brilliant, the beautiful
Caroline, whose fairy feet and hands led to this digression;
there she sat, wielding, like an enchantress, her power
over us all. Her father tried to oppose the shield of his
dull commonplaces to the shafts of her playful wit, but,
as I need scarcely add, was foiled in the effort; while
Miss Percy and I yielded without a struggle to her
fascination.
" Do you play chess, Mr. Lyster?" asked Sir Thomas.
I replied in the negative, which drew forth a heavy sigh
from him, and an ejaculation expressive of his impatience
for the arrival of Sir Henry Moreton. Miss Yilliers
pouted her beautiful lips, and exchanged significant
glances with Miss Percy.
"I am quite at your service, sir," said the latter,
moving towards the table on which the chess:board
stood; while the poor girl's face wore an expression of
resignation worthy of a martyr.
" Well, well, Eliza, you are better than not having a
partner at all," growled the baronet; "though you do
play so confoundedly ill, that there is no pleasure in
conquering you. Now, Sir Henry Moreton is a first-rate
player, ay, a very first-rate player; and it requires the
exertion of all my skill and science to gain a victory over
him, night after night, as I do."
" How very odd it is," said Caroline, saucily, " that
Lord Montagu, who is considered so good a chess-player,
declared that he thought Sir Henry a very mediocre
performer."
"I should like to have heard his lordship assert this,"
retorted the angry father; "for I should soon have proved
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
289
to him the contrary. A very mediocre player, indeed!
Why, how can that be, when I, who have been playing
chess these forty years, and practice makes perfect, they
say, must play my best, ay, my very best, to conquer
him? Never repeat such nonsense to me, Cary. I
thought Lord Montagu had been a sensible man; but,
wow?, I have a very poor opinion of him. Go to the
pianoforte, and sing me one of my favourite songs to
compose me; for you have really ruffled my temper
by repeating to me Lord Montagu's silly, superficial
judgment."
Never did a voice more perfectly harmonize with a
face, than did that of Caroline with hers. She sang
admirably, and, what few women do, lost no portion of
her beauty while singing. No ungraceful distortion of
the features; no affected turnings-up of the eyes, marred
her fair countenance; whose varied, but natural expres¬
sion, eloquently evinced her sympathy with the sentiments
of her song. When she had finished, Sir Thomas
appealed to me, if Cary did not sing very well ? a
question, in replying to which, I committed no outrage
to the most scrupulous veracity in giving an unqualified
affirmative.
"Ay, ay, she owes that to me, entirely to me; I
prevented her screaming, like a pea-hen, and opening her
mouth to the extremity of her ears, as the ladies Mellicent
do; or turning up her eyes in imitation of a duck in
thunder, like the Misses Weston, whose singing is so
much admired. ' Cary,' said I, 'I won't have my eyes
offended, while my ears are pleased.'—Didn't I, Cary?—
And so, you see, if she sings well, she owes it all to me.
-—Why, bless me, Miss Percy, what can you be thinking
of? Dear me, dear me, you are enough to make a
parson swear. Oh! how I wish Sir Henry Moreton were
come! I never shall have a comfortable game until he
does."
The evening passed away delightfully, notwithstanding
the occasional grumbles and regrets of the baronet; and
I left him at eleven o'clock (the hour at which parties
now assemble, being then that which was fixed for their
T
290 THE CONFESSIONS OF
termination), more in love than I thought it possible I
ever should be again, and, perhaps, as much so as I had
ever been before; though the present passion partook not
of the elevated character which marked and dignified my
attachment to Lady Mary Vernon.
I anticipated with impatience the hearing myself again
talked over, in her chamber, by the lovely Caroline.
What would she say? "had the handsome gentlemanly
man, with the beautiful hair," improved on acquaintance
in her opinion? I longed to know; and again forgot
the impropriety of seeking to become a listener, in my
anxiety to learn her sentiments. As I was approaching
the door of the sleeping-room I had occupied the night
before, I was met by the curtsying chamber-maid, who
told me that some company having departed, she had
prepared a much better room for me at the other end of
the house, to which alt my things had been removed.
"And why did you do so without my orders?" said J,
with much more acerbity, than gallantly ought to have
permitted me to have used to one of the softer sex.
" I beg your pardon, sir; I'm sure, I'm very sorry,
sir, but mistress said you objected to that room, the day
as you corned; and that she promised you this here the
minute it was empty; so now, sir, all your things are
there."
, " Have them removed back again directly," said I,
angrily; though I perfectly remembered having found
fault with the apartment the day of my arrival, and the
landlady's having promised me another.
"I'm sure, sir, I'm very sorry, but Miss Villiers' maid
has got the room now, on purpose to be near her young
missus; and all the bandboxes and himperials belonging
to the ladies are now there; so, sir, it's impossible to
move your things back."
I assented to the truth of this representation with a
very bad grace, and took possession of my new and
comfortable chamber; deeply mortified with the change,
•which deprived me of hearing what the beautiful Caroline
thought of me now that we were acquainted.
I saw her every day, and each day became more
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
291
fascinated. Whether, however, her father perceived that
I was smitten, or dreaded I should become so, I know
not; but he soon took an opportunity of informing me,
that he was in daily expectation of the arrival of Sir
Henry Moreton, who was shortly to be married to his ■
daughter.
Though I was prepared for this intelligence, the con¬
firmation of it from his own lips gave me pain ; for I had
indulged hopes that the marriage was not irrevocably
fixed. To leave the lovely Caroline a victim to a man
she disliked, a man old enough to be her father, and with
creaking boots and a wig? "No! forbid it gallantry,
forbid it, love!" exclaimed I to myself, as I mentally
determined to make her the offer of my heart and hand,
and prove that " the handsome gentlemanly man " was
not ungrateful.
But, alas! the tide of true love never did run smooth;
while I was anticipating her bashful hearing of my suit,
which was to be pleaded the very first opportunity, and
her approval yielded with coy yet sweet delay, Sir Henry
Moreton arrived; a week at least before he was expected,
and to see her alone now became impossible. Sir Thomas
Villiers prevented my usual evening visit, the day that
his future son-in-law arrived, by telling me they had
business to arrange, marriage settlements to look over,
&c. &c.; but the next day he hoped that I would dine
wdth him.
I spent a solitary evening, miserable at the thought of
what the charming Caroline was undergoing; for, in¬
dependent of her original girlish dislike to the creaking
shoes and wig, I was morally certain she had now to
contend with an affection for " the handsome, gentlemanly
man;" whose attentions must have completed the conquest
which his appearance had awakened. Yes, if she wished,
and I had heard the soft wish flow from her rosy lips,
that Sir Henry Moreton resembled me, then surely my
attentions, which had been unremitting ever since the
hour I was presented to her, must have won her affections.
I was miserable, and I felt she must be miserable also;
for, never would her young and sensitive heart lose the
292
THE CONFESSIONS OK
impression I had made on it. Of the enduring character
of my own attachment I felt not quite so certain; for I
had more experience in love. But no man doubts the
depth or the durability of a passion he inspires; though
all men are sceptical as to the extent or the sincerity of
the attachments inspired by others of his own sex.
I presented myself at the usual dinner hour next day,
and was introduced in due form to Sir Henry Moreton.
He was a tall good-looking man, of about fifty: and I
was not in his company five minutes before the creaking
shoes and wig proved the accuracy of Caroline's descrip¬
tion ; though the latter was one of the most skilful
imitations of what the newspaper puff" advertisements
style " the greatest ornament, a fine head of hair." I
have remarked that people who wear creaking shoes or
boots, are precisely those who are the most addicted to
locomotion. Sir Henry walked up and down the room
perpetually; to lower the blind, to open a door, to close
one, or to place a chair. In short, he was ever in a
state of ceaseless restlessness, except when at table or at
chess.
Caroline's beautiful eyes were red and swollen with
weeping; and my passion for her was more than ever
increased by this proof of her sensibility. When the
ladies had withdrawn (and ardently did I long to accom¬
pany them), Sir Thomas announced to me, that the
marriage of his daughter was to take place early in the
ensuing week.
"We shall all proceed to Moreton Hall," continued
he, " where we shall remain some time."
" And where," said Sir Henry, " I shall be glad to
have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Lyster, whenever he can
make it convenient to pay us a visit."
They talked over their plans, scarcely making any
reference to the future Lady Moreton, who was included
in the we (how I detested the word!) with all the sang
froid imaginable. Sir Henry Moreton was a formal,
dull sort of man, answering precisely to the term, prig.
He seemed perfectly satisfied with himself on all points,
and next to himself, evidently estimated Sir Thomas
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 293
Villiers, whom he treated with that profound respect,
which middle-aged people affect towards those who are
their seniors; a line of conduct which they imagine, gives
them an air of juvenility. His conversation was a tissue
of truisms and commonplace remarks, delivered with an
air and an emphasis, clearly indicating that he himself
considered them well worthy of attention.
" And this," thought I, " is the companion with whom
the lovely Caroline is to pass her lifel Why, his looks
alone are sufficient to dullify the liveliest mind; and his
conversation to set asleep the most wakeful, such are its
soporific qualities."
When we joined the ladies, the two baronets imme¬
diately sat down to chess, a proceeding which seemed a
great relief to Caroline.
" Now, Mr. Lyster, if you wish to see a game scienti¬
fically contested," said Sir Thomas, " you have a good
opportunity; for, notwithstanding what a certain person,
who shall be nameless, has been pleased to assert, relative
to Sir Henry Moreton's being a mediocre player, I think
you will admit that, on the contrary, he is a first-rate one."
" I should be glad to know," replied Sir Henry, his
dark cheek reddening, " who the individual is, who has
so far betrayed his own ignorance of the game, as to
pronounce so erroneous an opinion?"
" That must be a secret," said Sir Thomas; " but the
person, as you justly state, only betrayed his own want
of knowledge of the game."
" One who can for hours contest a game with Sir
Thomas Villiers, can be no mediocre player, let me tell
the person, whoever he may be," resumed Sir Henry.
"That's precisely what I said, Sir Henry. You
remember, Mr. Lyster, these were nearly my words: and
surely Sir Harry, who has now been a chess player these
thirty years, must understand the game."
" I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas," replied the offended
baronet, " you are under a mistake as to the number ol
years; for, at the period to which you refer, I was but
a child, and consequently could not have been a chess¬
player."
294
THE CONFESSIONS OF
Caroline eould not resist a smile, in which I joined,
at this defence of his youth; but Sir Thomas, totally
unmindful of the juvenile pretensions of his son-in-law
elect, and only anxious to defend what be had once
advanced, quaintly repeated—
" Child, indeed I why, surely, Sir Harry, a man is no
child at twenty? and as you are now fifty, there was
nothing very wrong on my part, in stating that you had
been thirty years a chess-player. I have had ten years
the start of you, which accounts for my superiority, hut,
I will lay a wager that you will beat any player of your
own age in England, though you,cannot beat me."
Never was there a man more vexed at this plain
statement of his age, and in presence, too, of his future
wife, who numbered barely eighteen summers, than Sir
Henry. He grew red in the face, and made some false
moves in the game, while his bride elect could not
repress the smiles that played round her beautiful
mouth.
" Sing us something, Cary, my love," said Sir Thomas;
" I never can play well unless I hear your voice. And
you, Miss Percy, while Cary is singing, had you not
better come and look over our game? It will be a good
lesson, and enable you to fill Sir Henry's place, in case
of absence or illness, better than you have lately done.—
Cary, sing me 'Old Robin Grey;' that's my favourite
song. Don't you like 'Robin Grey,' Sir Henry?"
" I must always like whatever Miss Villiers may sing,"
replied Sir Henry; " but I confess ' Robin Grey' is not
a particular favourite of mine."
" And why not, pray?" asked the obtuse Sir Thomas.
"I should like to'know what fault you can find with either
the music or words? the first is melody itself, and the
second contains a whole code of morals; yes, Sir Henry,
and of the best morals.. Whj, what can be more dutiful,
than a youthful creature who marries a rich old man to
please her parents; and conquers her Love for a young
man, because she remembers the old husband was good
and kind to her? Now I like a moral in a song as well
as in a story, and I maintain that this song has one."
AN ELDEELY GENTLEMAN. 295
Even the quiet and silent Miss Percy seemed to feel
the awkward parallel that might be drawn between the
old husband of the song and the present candidate for
the matrimonial state. Caroline sighed, and I echoed
the sigh; while Sir Henry looked redder than ever, and
played, as Sir Thomas observed aloud, unusually ill.
" Come, Cary, give us the song," said her father, a
command quickly obeyed, and never was song more
admirably sung; though her voice occasionally trembled,
and its plaintive tones drew an expression of pensive
sympathy to the usually placid countenance of Miss Percy.
I sought, but sought in vain, an opportunity during
the evening, of revealing my passion to the fair object
of it. She continued seated at the pianoforte, which
was so near the chess-table, that I durst not hazard a
word; and I left, the room more in love than ever, and
with les3 hope of the successful issue of my attachment.
The next day, and the next, found Caroline with Sir
Henry Moreton always at her side, or hovering so near
her, that all private conversation with her was impossible.
I therefore determined to pour out my whole soul in a
letter to her, which I indited with all a lover's eloquence,
and, as I now think, but did not then, exaggeration.
Yet, how have it delivered to her? whom could I trust?
Sir Thomas was one of those old-fashioned masters of a
family, now nearly extinct, and even at the remote
period of which I write, beginning to be very scarce,
who ruled his house, his child, his servants, and all that
were his, with a despotic hand; allowing them little
freedom of thought, at least little freedom in the expression
of it, and still less freedom of action, and even refusing his
daughter the permission to peruse a letter until it had been
previously passed through the ordeal of his inspection.
All this rigid discipline I had casually discovered
during my short acquaintance with the family; so how
was I to evade this mental cordon sanataire, established
by tire old baronet? I had recourse to Miss Percy;
her placidity and gentleness led me to hope that she
would befriend an unhappy lover, and in a confidential
note to her, explaining my passion for her friend, I
296 the confessions of
entreated her to deliver the letter that contained an
avowal on which my happiness depended.
Miss Percy kept me not long in suspense; for, in half
an hour from the period of its being despatched, the
letter addressed to her friend was returned to me in an
envelope, containing a note, stating that she " regretted
I should have formed so erroneous an opinion of her
character and principles, as to suppose that she would
be the medium of a clandestine correspondence with the
daughter of her benefactor, and the affianced wife of his
friend."
I had scarcely finished the perusal of her billet, when
Sir Thomas Villiers entered my room. I concluded that
Miss Percy had betrayed me to him, and that he came
to accuse me. His first sentence confirmed my suspicion-
" So, so! you are a pretty fellow," said he.
" Ay, it is all known," thought I; " but I must put
the best face on it;" and accordingly drew up with what
I meant should be a dignified attitude.
" I say you are a pretty fellow," repeated Sir Thomas,
" here," pointing to a large envelope on the table, " i3
the paquet unopened, containing the London papers,
which I received this morning, and which I scarcely
gave myself time to glance over, before I sent them to
you, with a note, stating that I had not quite perused
them, and requesting you to return them as soon as
possible. Ay, here they are, note and all, unopened.
Why, what the devil can you be at? what have you
been thinking of?"
I made some blundering excuse, much relieved by
finding my secret was still one to him; and he told me
he wanted my assistance in a little matter. " I have
had my daughter's portrait painted here," continued he,
" by a very clever artist, who came to drink the waters.
I intend it as a gift to her future husband, an agreeable
surprise for the anniversary of his birth-day, which takes
place next month. I wish it to be set in a snuff-box,
and not being learned or skilled in the taste of those
sort of gim-cracks, I want you to select the pattern for
me, and superintend the execution. Will you undertake
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. 297
the commission, and don't mention a word about it to
any one here?"
So saying, he handed me the portrait, which was so
admirable a likeness of the fair original, that the sight of
of it occasioned me an emotion, I found it difficult to
conceaL
" Well, you'll have it done, won't you? there's a good
fellow," continued he; "so now, good-bye, I must be
off, for I have a thousand things to settle. Apropos of
settling, we have arranged that Caroline is to be married
the day after to-morrow, three days sooner than we
intended; but Sir Henry has got a letter from home,
saying that a county meeting is to take place, at which
he wishes to be present, and so we advance the ceremony,
that we may all set off together to Moreton Hall."
I know not how I looked, but I know how I felt, at
this intelligence; and I wonder that he observed not my
agitation. He did not remark it, however, for he left the
room, repeating his " good-bye, my dear fellow, I must
be gone, I have a thousand things to do, so good-bye,
good- bye."
I eagerly seized the portrait, pressed it to my lipa
again and again, and internally vowed that never should
it leave my possession.
" What 1" thought I, " shall the unfeeling clod for
whom it was destined, he who expedites his marriage
with the loveliest and most fascinating of her sex, merely
that he may attend a county meeting, shall he become
the possessor of this treasure? Nol forbid it, love!
happy, happy man, the beautiful original will be his! oh!
how unworthy is he of such a creature; but this portrait
never shall be his 1 I will have a copy made of it; a dull
father, and duller husband's eyes will not detect the
cheat; and this, this shall be mine, when she is lost to
me for ever!"
I tore myself from Cheltenham next day; I dared
not trust myself to see Caroline again, nor remain in the-
place when she was to approach the altar, to vow to
another that affection which I still believed to be all my
own. I fled, therefore, from my abode like a madman,
298
THE CONFESSIONS OF
passed through London, where I only remained long
enough to have a copy of the beautiful miniature made,
and confided to a jeweller for setting. But ere I departed
from the metropolis, I read in the papers, a pompous
account of the marriage of Miss Villiers, " only daughter
and sole heiress of Sir Thomas Villiers, Bart, of Conway
Castle, in Wales, to Sir Henry Moreton, Bart, of Moreton
Hall, in Gloucestershire, and Willesden Park, in Berks."
The papers added, in the usual newspaper phraseology,
" that the happy couple set out immediately after the
ceremony for Moreton Hall, where they were to spend
the honeymoon."
The conclusion of the paragraph maddened me. "Happy
couple," I repeated, in a rage, throwing the paper from
me, as I figured to myself the weeping, shrinking bride,
wishing that the handsome, gentlemanly-looking man had
been the substitute of him of the creaking boots and wig 1
Never have I since read a similar newspaper announce¬
ment, and they occur nearly every day, without a bitter
smile and doubt as to the reality of the happiness of the
"happy couple;" and, could all the motives and feelings
that influence the greater number of these individuals be
analyzed, how few would be considered entitled to the
appellation 1 But this dark conviction, by the young
and sanguine—and when was youth otherwise than
sanguine?—will, I know, be regarded as the jaundiced
picture of an old bachelor. Well, be it so; yet a day
will arrive when the young will become old, and see
objects through a less brilliant glass than they now
employ; and then, they will not consider the old bachelor's
opinion to be very cynical.
I pass over a lapse of ten years, employed in travelling
through Italy, Germany, Kussia, and Sweden. Time,
the best friend the unhappy know, though the one they
most frequently accuse, had done for me that which he
does for all, had healed the wounds of disappointed love;
though a fond recollection of the beautiful Caroline still
lived in the heart where she had reigned. I thought of
her often; fondly loved to gaze upon her portrait, and
still figured her to " my mind's eye," as fair, blooming,
AN ELDEELY GENTLEMAN. 299
and sylph-like, as when I had left her ten years before.
I never thought of her as a wife or a mother: the idea
would have been too painful; and we all have a wonderful
facility in banishing disagreeable ideas. No, Caroline,
the spirituelle, playful Caroline, could not he the mother
of boys and girls, to him of the squeaking boots and wig.
There was something monstrous and disgusting in the
notion, and so I never permitted myself to entertain it.
Taking up an old English newspaper one day, at an
inn in Russia, I looked over the list of births, marriages,
and deaths. The name of Sir Henry Moreton caught
mv eye; and while my heart beat quickly, and my hand
trembled, I read a detailed statement of the death of the
chess loving baronet. I looked anxiously at the date,
and found the paper was above a year old. And so,
Caroline, the lovely Caroline (my Caroline she might now
be), was free 1 There was joy, there was intoxication in
the thought; • and in a few hours, I was in my travelling
carriage, on my route to England.
I paused not, rested not, even for a day, until I reached
London. Some one else might forestall my happiness.
Beauty and talents like hers could not fail to command
admirers; and I trembled lest I should be too late in the
proposal I intended to make her.
I ascertained that she was in town, and immediately
called at her house, a stately'mansion in Hanover Square.
On being shown to the library, I found my old acquain¬
tance, Miss Percy, wearing the same demure aspect, but
not placid countenance, that I remembered at Cheltenham.
Alas I time had rudely dealt with her complexion, and
taken away all the roundness of her figure, which now
presented angles little in harmony with feminine grace.
Encircling her eyes were certain marks, known by the
vulgar appellation of crow's feet; and, descending from
her nostrils to her thin lips, were two muscles in such
alto relievo, as to display the anatomy of the movements
of her mouth. I was startled at beholding this change.
" Whatl" thought I, " if Caroline should be as wofully
altered as is her friend: if she, who was disposed to be
rather too sylph-like, should, from the unhappiness of an
300 THE CONFESSIONS OF
ill-assorted anion, have faded to a shadow, like the
creature before me! But no; I will not allow myself
to think such a cruel metamorphosis possible. She cannot
have lost her beauty, and must be still the lovely, the
fascinating Caroline."
All this passed in my mind while Miss Percy was
relating to me, that not only Sir Henry Moreton, but
Sir Thomas Villiers, had "sought that bourne whence
no traveller returns," having preceded his friend and
son-in-law by a year. Miss Percy put on what the
French call a figure d'occasion, a most lugubrious
countenance, while announcing these sad events.
" Lady Moreton had suffered severely," continued she;
" for never was there a happier wife."
I could have beaten her for saying so, though I wholly
doubted the fact; for how could such a girl as Caroline
be happy with the elderly gentleman with creaking boots
and a wig?
" Her ladyship is only now beginning to receive her
friends." added Miss Percy, " and is at this moment
engaged with her lawyer; but she will be here in a short
time."
Almost while she uttered these words, a large good-
looking woman entered the room, with a high colour,
and cheeks whose plumpness encroaching considerably
on the precincts of her eyes, caused them to appear
much smaller than suited the proportion accorded to the
lines of beauty. Her figure harmonized perfectly with
her face; and was one of those to whom the epithet " a
stout lady,'''' is always applied. She approached me,
while I stood in silent wonder, and in accents never
forgotten, exclaimed, "Ahl I see, Mr. Lyster, you do
not recognise me."
Ye gods! it was Caroline that now stood before me,
the once beautiful Caroline! But never had such a
transformation taken place in mortal. I was almost
petrified by the sight, and could scarcely command
sufficient presence of mind to go through the common
forms of politeness, by maintaining a conversation.
" Come, Mr. Lyster," said Lady Moreton, (again to
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
301
call the stout lady before me, ' Caroline,' would be
mockery), " come with me, that I may show you what
you, I am sure, as an old friend, will have pleasure in
seeing."
" What can she mean?" thought I, as I followed her
through the anteroom; "but, after seeing herself nothing
can shock or surprise me."
She opened the door of a large room, in the middle of
which stood two rocking-horses, mounted by a boy and
girl, two chubby, rosy-faced children, bearing a strong
resemblance to her ladyship; not as she formerly looked,
but as she at present appeared. Two other, and younger
children were toddling about the room with their nurses,
making no little noise; and at a table in the recess of
the window, sat the two elder scions of the family stock,
engaged at chess.
" There, Mr. Lyster, are my two eldest sons," said
Lady Moreton. " This is Sir Henry Moreton, and the
other is Sir Thomas Yilliers, to whom my poor father's
baronetcy devolved. Are they not strikingly like their
father and grandfather, Mr. Lyster?"
Never were seen two more extraordinary resemblances 1
and the gravity of their countenances, and the strict
attention they paid their game, completed all the features
of this wonderful similarity.
" They will play for whole hours together," continued
Lady Moreton, pensively; " and are never so happy as
when thus employed. Nothing affords me a greater
gratification than to watch them at such moments, Mr.
Lyster; for their occupation brings back to me the memory
of those dear, and lost to me for ever—" and she wiped
a tear, yes, positively, a real tear, from her eye.
" Come, Henry, my dear, come and speak *to this
gentleman," resumed his mother with a tremulous voice.
The boy approached me with measured steps, and a
formal air; and his shoes creaked so exactly as those of
his father used to do, that for a moment I looked at his
hair, expecting to see that he also wore a wig, so pre¬
cisely did he appear a miniature copy of the defunct
uaronet.
302 the confessions of
" It is strange," said Lady Moreton, " to what a degree
he has all the little personal peculiarities of his poor dear
father. I do not know, Mr. Lyster, whether you ever
observed that my dear Sir Henry's shoes always creaked?
At first I had a distaste to the sound; for I was, as you
may remember, a giddy, and perhaps an over fastidious
girl, about trifles. But one soon learns to approve all the
peculiarities of the father of one's children; and I now
have a pleasure, though it is not devoid of melancholy,
in hearing my boy's shoes creak like those of his father."
The good-natured mother was so perfectly in earnest,
that, hang me,, if I could smile at the pacnos of this
sentimentality; though, I confess, I lamented that the
young Sir Henry did not wear a wig, which would have
perfected the almost irresistibly ludicrous resemblance.
The mother kissed each and all of her progeny, with
true maternal tenderness; and I left her, perfectly cured
of my old flame, and smiling at the illusion I had for ten
years nourished, at the cost of sundry sighs and regrets.
In ten days after my first visit, I called again at
Hanover Square, in order that I might not appear uncivil
to Lady Moreton; for, I confess, all desire of "beholding
her had quite subsided; nay, the sight of her was dis¬
agreeable to me. Again, I found Miss Percy alone, who,
with her demure face looking still more demure, and her
formal manner looking still more formal, " hoped I had
forgiven her for returning my letter at Cheltenham; but,
her principles would not permit her to be a medium of a
clandestine correspondence."
" Oh, I quite forgiye you, Miss Percy," said I, " though
at the time it caused me much unhappiness, for I—(you
will pardon me for saying it, as, after so great a lapse of
time, it may be said without impropriety) I rather thought
I was not disagreeable to Miss Villiers."
" You certainly were not disagreeable to her," replied
Miss Percy, " for I have frequently heard her say she
thought you were very good-natured."
" But did she never say more than this, Miss Percy?''
I retorted, quickly driven off my guard; "did she not
once avow, ay, and to you, Miss Percy, when you were
AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.
303
urging her to gratify her father by marrying Sir Henry,
and she was objecting to his age, creaking shoes, and wig
—did she not then, I ask, confess that she wished I was
the substitute for Sir Henry?"
"Never, by my sacred word of honour!" rejoined Miss
Percy.
" She might not have precisely named me, but she
most clearly and distinctly meant me," I insisted.
" I do remember, Mr. Lyster, her objecting to the age,
the creaking shoes, and wig, yet never, never, making
any allusion to you. But how you can have imagined
this misconception, and, more strange still, how you can
have known our private conversation, astonishes me."
" Who, then, was meant by the ' gentlemanly looking
man' (I was ashamed to say handsome) you met on the
stairs, who took off his hat, and whose hair called forth
some flattering remark from your friend? I, Miss Percy,
met Miss Yilliers and you on the stairs that day; /took
off my hat, and therefore it was not preposterous to believe
that I was the person meant."
" Oh! now you remind me of the circumstances (though
how you came to know them is a mystery to me), I do
remember her alluding to a gentleman we met on the
stairs, the same day we met you; he was peculiarly good
looking, and Miss Villiers often reverted to his appear¬
ance. We met this same gentleman in London the
subsequent season, in society. Lady Moreton recognised
him; and I well recollect her saying to me, 'Eliza,
marriage makes a strange difference in people's feelings.
Do you remember my wishing that gentleman had been
the person chosen for my husband instead of Sir Henry;
ay, and my admiration of his hair? Now, Eliza, I would
not change my husband for the handsomest man that
nature ever formed; and the ivig of the father of my boy
is more attractive to me than the finest head of hair in
the world.' The gentleman was Lord Tyrconnell, Mr.
Lyster- I may tell you so now, as he is dead."
Well did I recollect seeing Lord Tyrconnell pass
through Cheltenham the very day to which she alluded.
He was the handsomest man of his time, and his hair
304 the confessions of
was remarkable for its luxuriance and beauty; yet, I
never suspected that the praises that sounded so sweet
to my ears, from the lips of the fair Caroline, could apply
to other than myself. Thus ended another illusion; the
destruction of which cost me perhaps as much mortifica¬
tion, as the change which, in defacing Lady Moreton's
charms, had terminated my attachment to her.
And now, gentle and courteous reader, having, by the
recital of my youthful flames, beguiled some hours that
might have been tedious to me, and, peradventure,
transferred the infliction to you, I cannot close without
offering my thanks for the patience that has conducted
you to my last love. Vale, then, and take with you the
good wishes of
An Elderly Gentleman.
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